September 1, 1972

Today, Parvati and Gaumati, you both came to my birthday celebration. It was you who made it festive, but you did not know—right then, at that very moment, while there was singing and storytelling in this room, while I was laughing, I was, in truth, leaving this place. The current of time surged within my mind, it touched me, and I traveled—not toward the future, but into the past.

Now it is past midnight, perhaps two o’clock—I am standing on the veranda—from here, I cannot see the full sky, only half of the Saptarshi constellation gazes at me like an eternal question. Questions, questions, questions—why have these questions, after so many ages, come to me again tonight? Why did such an incident occur in my life, one that was never necessary? I see now, it has neither a beginning nor an end.

The stars in the sky are bright, witnesses to so many human agonies. My whole mind is drawn to that sky—I feel as if I am not here, and yet I am here! Can I go anywhere from here—this is my familiar world. In the bedroom, my husband sleeps peacefully. How utterly assured he is about me, though he does not know me fully, yet how deeply he loves me, how much he trusts me! I am his everything. His world revolves around me, and yet he is not my everything—surely, in some way, he knows this, but it brings him no resentment; nor do I feel any. My life is, in every way, full to the brim. Whatever I had to give to this household, I feel I have given; the glory of love, I feel I have known that too, its miraculous, upward offering mingled with reverence and worship for my Guru, has fulfilled me. Yet, since yesterday, why has the flavor of my life changed? What a terrible dissatisfaction, like the hem of a barren desert spreading over my lush, beautiful world! I know that beneath it, everything remains as it was. Still, in his subconscious, I am real—and upstairs, near my parents’ bed, my grandson sleeps; when he comes down tomorrow morning, his soft little hands will embrace me just as always—my world remains tender, vibrant, green. Yet why does molten lava flow over all this, why do I feel the heat of its breath upon my face? No, not lava—perhaps molten gold—it is not something to be cast away, for there is joy in it, it has its own worth. I know, this will not turn to ash, for “when all is ashes, what remains”—this is that remainder.

Yet for two days now, what pain, what terrible pain I have been feeling. What kind of pain? Like when, “gazing upon beauty, hearing sweet sounds,” the mind grows restless, and one remembers friendships from other births—“the heart grows eager, though the creature is happy”—is it that kind of pain? No, not even that, for this is not a story of another