Tandon Ismita - Om Swami: As We Know Him

OM SWAMI

As We Know Him

ISMITA TANDON
AND
SWAMI VIDYANANDA OM

brahmnanda paramasukhada kevala jnamrti

dvandvtta gaganasadiha tattvamasydilakhyam I

eka nitya vimalamachala sarvadhskhibhta

bhvtta triguarahita sadguru ta nammi II

I bow down before my guru who is

Full of transcendental love, bliss and wisdom,

Vast as the sky, realized, beyond duality,

One and only, unmovable, the eternal witness,

And beyond the three modes of material nature.

Contents

If they could peep inside a moment of my life

Theyd find only you

Flowing like water from one moment to another

Separate to the world

You are the beautiful Moon

I am a bird ordinary

In the dark you dazzle

The sky turns a midnight blue

Little more than a silhouette I call out to you

In grace youve bestowed

A magic so sweet

That a bird may bring the Moon to its knees

Such is your splendour

Your glory, your grace, O moon-faced Lord

May this bird remain forever bowed

Ismita Tandon

J ust as the lid of a kettle flutters when the warmth builds up inside, I cannot help but share with you that my whole being is bubbling with the life, love and happiness that is Swamis grace.

At one time, not too long ago, my belief in miracles, spiritual power and grace was limited to an acceptance that they may exist. My life was firmly rooted in the material world. After meeting Swami, everything I held to be true about life its very meaning was challenged, it was reduced to dust. Soon, I had to admit that the universe guarded many mysteries far beyond the scope of my rational mind.

Some of the events described in this book may challenge your own beliefs, and there may even be parts herein that seem quite unbelievable. Thats fine. It is natural that you draw your own conclusions as you read. But once you experience His presence for yourself, your view will change forever. That I can promise you.

In any event, this book is not based on second-hand stories or hearsay. In these pages are first-hand accounts of Swamis miracles, the likes of which Swami Vidyananda and I have witnessed on countless occasions. My personal spiritual awakening under Swamis tutelage is detailed in the first half of the book, and I recount here whatever my limited awareness could capture of the time spent in His presence. The second half is Swami Vidyanandas account of his spiritual realization with Swami, after a lifetime of searching.

I hope that you may come to know Swami through our words. His greatness, you may discover here, lies in His simplicity, in not a word uttered in vain or an action performed without care. For Swami is beyond the labels of master or saint. He is the very embodiment of Gods love.

If you think that my view is biased toward Swami, then let me confess: it is. Whatever Swami may be to others, He is my everything in the three worlds. He is the Divine that dwells in my heart. Perhaps if you were to witness the sheer power of His omniscience and His divine benevolence, you would feel likewise.

In Swamis Service Eternally,

Ismita

W e mess up our lives, sometimes life messes it up for us, and the road home seems hazier than ever. You may even find, as I did, that you are not simply lost. You have been searching, craving direction for most of your life.

I had just walked out of a seven-year marriage. Outwardly, there seemed to be nothing greatly wrong with my life. My husband was a good man; I had known him since my teens and loved him very deeply. But try as I may, I felt little for him. As time passed, the empty space between us filled with an unutterable loneliness, a sadness that I could no longer contain.

Like most childhoods, mine was a mixed affair a farrago of good and not-so-good memories. Growing up in the shadow of Papas drinking problem was challenging, to say the very least. Our home was at turns filled with love and laughter and screaming and howling and sometimes, all of these at once. He was a colonel in the army. Having served for long durations on the border combating terrorism, losing his own men and seeing innocent civilians die had affected him deeply. The worst part, he would sometimes say, was to put down young terrorists who were barely out of their teens.

For nights on end, he would keep tossing and turning in his bed recalling those encounters, calling out strange names and file numbers in the dark. Drinking was his way of coping in this world. And yet, he was as kind and loving as ever. His nation and his family these were the only two things he cared about deeply. I grew to be a rebellious child; pampered and wilful. I thought it was my right to have everything that would make my life easy. The easier my life became, though, the unhappier I became.

As I was trying to settle down in my marriage, my father passed away. I had a deep but troubled bond with him; we were close, yet his battle with alcohol had scarred my heart irreversibly. In many ways, his struggles with alcoholism had rubbed off on everyone at home. I stifled my grief and pain at his death, and tried to move on.

If only it were so simple. Even though I went sailing with my husband a number of times, the emptiness of my life began to consume me from within. I tried to occupy myself: I wrote poetry, wrote fiction and got published; but the sense of purposelessness only grew more intense.

With time, the tiny chink in my heart became a deep gash. Unable to bear the pain, I separated from my husband and went to stay with my mother, who lived with my brother and his lovely wife. My marriage ended amicably.

Two years passed slowly a turbulent two years in which I made more mistakes, some of which I could barely forgive. The more I tried to get a grip on life, the more I slithered on its roundabouts. And then the worst of my fears materialized. My mother was perfectly fine one day and then, almost suddenly, I was attending her cremation. I felt that it wasnt just my mother, but my whole world, on that pyre, burning.

Mamma had suffered a silent heart attack, and her kidneys had buckled. She had held us all together for so long and so bravely that her fall was inevitable. She was placed on dialysis and given six months to live. She only lived for six agonizing weeks. Many evenings I drove back from the hospital, crying out loud in the confines of my car, bawling like a mad woman as I rolled along the busy city streets. I had never been more afraid in my life. My mother had been my very strength, and now she would be no more.

There were countless days after her passing when I didnt feel like waking up. It was not just the pain of losing my mother that afflicted me it was also fear: stark, naked fear of what was to become of me. I had no savings. I had a couple of books published in my name, but nothing more. I had come home to Mamma, thinking that, somehow, life would just work itself out. It didnt. I was more alone than ever. There were days my mind was darker than a dungeon and quieter than the silence death leaves behind. It thrived on darkness, shutting out every source of light, every switch, every comforting thought. It hibernated in nothingness, not always desolate, merely wanting to not want anything or anyone. It was content in its discontentment.

Even then it was not as if I was in any state to take charge of my life. Everything seemed to pile up, one thing on top of another. The loss of my mother, my failed marriage and words unspoken and feelings unexpressed for my father it was simply too much for me to bear. I felt that my mind was beginning to disintegrate, and I struggled to piece together my thoughts. I would brush my teeth in the morning, and five minutes later I would have absolutely no recollection of it.