The Mother Divine
Change Font Size 
By Sri Sri Sitaramdas Omkarnath

Pray what's the relationship between you and me? By what name should I call Thee? Tell me, do tell please. Why do you keep mum? Should I call Thee Master? Or Mate? Brother? Or Mother? Please answer please. As Guru you asked me to call you Rama, So have I been calling you all these years. I address you as ''Rama Rama." Of late however I often feel like calling you Mother. And indeed I address you sometimes as Mother and speak all manner of things. Dost Thou laugh at me? But I can't help. Is it wrong of me to call Thee Mother? After all you are Mother when determinate just as you are Father when indeterminate. When you are alone, nothing else is there. When You choose to create You make Yourself Mother as well as Father.

Oh, how sweet the hymn is! Say, oh say when I shall realize once and for all that Rama is my Mother, Father, Beloved, Master and Friend and indeed all my Treasure. When may it grow into a Conviction? Indeed I have none but Rama. Again and again does my Rama appear in human form to exterminate the Asuras. It is He who embodies the fourteen worlds—'bhuvanas' as they are called. It is You that exist as Consciousness comprehending countless crores of universe. You alone are there masquerading in various shapes. This obvious truth the mind forgets with the result that instead of seeing You in all things it finds them disparate and various—as men, cattle, goats, trees, leaves, creepers etc. What a pity! It won't see fact as fact but fancy all manner of silly stuff. Hence this incessant whirl of birth after birth with repeated change of dress and makeup and a perpetual wail and woe. Let me drop however.

Tell me why I have just casual glimpses of you but I cannot have you always. Pray why should clouds screen the heart and shut you  from my view ? Why, oh why is it that I find you fitfully but not permanently? I am what lam. For what merit of mine then do you appear now and then and for what demerit disappear betimes? How I entreat and implore. But you won't wink. The heart goes dry, not a tear starts to the eye. Oh what an anguish. But you can't imagine what a harrowing experience it is. Or you would never go into hiding and despoil me of all my possessions in that heartless manner and all for fun!
When yon withdraw, what an anguish of frustration gnaws in me! Nothing pleases; one simply fails to find interest in anything. And all one's stock of tall ideas— well, where are they fled ? One can't have even a faint touch. How distressing it is to be treated so shabbily! Still one feels that the pain however acute is after all covetable. If the heart aches, that is because you don't care to visit, you disdain to touch or even to speak. There is pleasure in that pain. It is the fruit of the accumulated austerities of many previous births. It is grace abounding. It is a fact of course - an undisputed fact that frustration from fame (or rather a want of fame) wealth, issue and kin is unalloyed painful. But the pang of frustration on your account is peace profound in spite of the pain it involves; it is ineffable bliss in spite of the torment it means. Even this frustration is covetable. Nothing on earth — as I have got to see — can ever lead to peace. As long as I am here, I have to go on suffering from the pangs of discontent. Only see that whenever you withdraw or depart, I may call you while I lie immersed in the sea of sorrow.    May I wait wistfully for you?

Do me a favour please: take me in and make me Thine own. There is tulsi grove nearly on all sides of this cottage. Yonder flows the Bhagirathi in rapt haste towards the sea. A boat or two glides by breaking the silence of the Night, crickets are chirping and many other insects are droning and buzzing. You are exceedingly fond — as I am told — of a tulsi grove. Wont you call once just to have a look at it? And when you visit, please make me Thine own, undetected by others: it's so still here, so beautifully secluded. If you don't absorb me I am done for. Lapses I have many, many are the misdeeds I've happened to commit. So I've little hope of ever being able to reach you with my own efforts. I beg therefore this favour of you: please absorb and assimilate me, make me Thine own, portion and parcel of Thine own Self.

*   From “Prapanna Pathik” Pratham Khanda (The Dedicated Pilgrim Part 1)