One (continued)
I was born at the Shishu Mangal Hospital of the Ramakrishna Mission, under the blessings of Thakur Sri Ramakrishna. Even after my birth, my mother—whom I lovingly call Ma—and I remained in the hospital for five or six days, a precaution the doctors deemed necessary for my fragile beginning. Ma later told me that I had spent most of that time in a deep, undisturbed sleep, as if the world had held its breath, letting me rest in a quiet cocoon of beginnings. Yet, even in slumber, my tiny hands would rise above my head on their own.
Observing this, the nurse in charge said to ma, “Sister, your child sleeps with both hands raised in the pose of Sri Gauranga. Surely, even in sleep, he is immersed in the consciousness of past lives. Perhaps, unnoticed, he chants the holy names of Hari. You should name him Gauranga.”
Yet this suggestion was soon set aside. How could Ma, a teacher of Bengali, name her dark-complexioned son Gauranga? Thus began the long deliberation over my naming. But the matter found little progress with my father—whom I lovingly call Baba. At first glance, with a quiet certainty that left no room for argument, he declared, “My son’s name shall be Tarashis. He is born under the blessings of Goddess Mother Tara. What better name could there be? Even the incarnation of Shiva Himself—Sri Sri Bamakhyapa—had once said, 'A child named after the Mother Tara will prosper in every aspect of life. Tara Herself will protect him from all perils, guide him through every trial, grant him success in his great endeavors, and, at the end, lead him to the realm of immortality.'
He paused for a moment, as though his words were weaving a divine destiny. “This child shall be named Tarashis,” he declared, his eyes gleaming with the fire of vision. “In the sacred vow of world welfare that I have now embraced, he too shall one day take part—not only for his own liberation, but for the welfare of the world and all living beings. Therefore, his name shall forever remain united with that of Ma Tara—a sacred thread binding him to the path of devotion and service to humanity.”
Thus, I was named Tarashis. Whereas other children are given nicknames in addition to their formal names, my Baba permitted none. He said, “There is only one Ma Tara, radiant and eternal, yet She manifests in countless forms throughout the boundless universe. For the soul whose name is linked with Hers, no other name is needed.” Thus all other names had dissolved into silence, leaving only the sacred echo of ‘Tarashis’—a name that vibrated with surrender, devotion, and the boundless grace of Ma Tara.
Baba had kept his word. From that sacred day, I was known to all as Tarashis—the child consecrated in the name of the Divine Mother. And in the days that followed, the prophecy ripened into truth, for Mahakal Himself bore witness to the destiny hidden within that name.
According to sacred tradition, a boy’s first rite of impurity—the Atur—is performed on the twenty-first day after birth. So it was with me. And when that brief shadow had passed, she came—a sannyasini, serene and radiant, her presence as gentle as moonlight on still water. It seemed as though purity itself had returned, not through ritual, but through her silent grace.
At that time, my maternal house was in Chakraberia Kolkata. There resided my maternal grandfather, Shri Manoranjan Mukhopadhyay, whom I fondly called Dadabhai. Beside him was my grandmother, Smt. Asharani Mukhopadhyay, known to me as Didima, whose gentle presence radiated warmth and care. My eldest maternal uncle, Shri Bishwanath Mukhopadhyay, or Baromama as I called him, was the steadfast pillar of the household—serious and hardworking, yet with a heart full of quiet affection. His younger brother, Shri Shivnath Mukhopadhyay, whom I knew as Chhotomama, was calm, solemn, and nearly silent, wrapped in a stillness that seemed to hold thoughts meant only for himself. And then there was my maternal aunt, Smt. Rina Mukhopadhyay, simply Masi to me, who filled the house with her tender care.
My mother was also there during her pregnancy, and I was brought from the hospital to that house. In the upper room of the Chakraberia residence, I was laid on a cot near the window. Mother later told me that I spent most of that time asleep. If I did wake, my astonished eyes would gaze intently at the world beyond the window, as if I were quietly trying to acquaint myself with this new world.
It is here that I must introduce Dadabhai and Didima. Both were disciples of the Namavatar Sitaramdas Omkarnathji, and both practiced the mantras imparted by their Guru with unwavering diligence. Dadabhai was associated with P.G. Hospital, and though he rose in the sacred stillness of Brahmamuhurta to chant his Guru-given mantra and study the Gita, the relentless demands of worldly duties often kept him from fully immersing himself in the luminous presence of a Guru. Yet Didima, through steadfast devotion and silent, ceaseless practice, compensated for this absence. She sought the company of her Guru whenever possible and attended satsangs or Bhagavat recitations wherever they were held nearby, letting her heart dwell perpetually in the orbit of divine guidance.
There, she listened with an undisturbed heart each word, each note of sacred sound sank gently into her being, quietly transforming her. Over time, the light of their wisdom began to shine through her every action and every breath of her daily life.
It was at such a Bhagbat satsang that she met Sandhya Devi, and the two became inseparable friends. Henceforth, I called her Sandhya Didima, and she showered affection upon me, as though I was her own grandchild.
Sandhya Didima’s Guruma was a revered sannyasini of the spiritual world, one who had devoted many years to intense sadhana in Nepal and maintained an ashram in Patna. By chance, she had come to Kolkata on some errand. Knowing my didima's heart—ever devoted to the company and service of saints—Sandhya Didima spoke with quiet certainty, “I shall bring my Guruma to your house one day.” The words hung in the air like a gentle promise, as if destiny itself had quietly spoken.
My didima, however, spoke with gentle concern, “But we are still observing ritual impurity. Our elder daughter has just delivered our first grandchild. The atur’s impurity will end on the twenty-first day—that is, June 26. You should come only after that.”
Sandhya didima replied, “But she will return to her Patna ashram the very next day. Will she then have time to visit your house?”
Sandhya didima conveyed this to her guruma. She replied, “What does it matter? If the ritual impurity ends that day, I shall go to their house then. And I shall also see the newborn child.”
True to her word, Sandhya didima’s guruma arrived at my maternal house on the appointed day, after the atur’s impurity had passed. Ma later told me she had a gentle and serene presence, her head completely shaved, wearing ochre robes, with a veil of the same cloth over her head.
Ma recounted the scene: that day was bathed in rain. Having just given me my atur bath, she laid me on the designated cot in the upper room. As soon as I was placed there, I raised my hands above my head and immersed myself in the worship of the goddess of sleep. At that very moment, Sandhya Didima and her Guruma arrived, escorted by my own didima to the upper room. Seeing me lying there, Guruma lifted me in her arms. For a minute or so, she gazed at my face, then looked toward my didima and said, “Asha, this grandchild of yours was not born to be a householder.”
Hearing this, didima was deeply perturbed. Though herself a practitioner of the spiritual path and devoted to the company of sages, the idea that her grandchild would not lead a householder’s life seemed unsettling. Yet she could not contradict the Guruma without showing disrespect. So she said calmly, “What do you mean? He is the beloved child of my eldest daughter. Should he not be destined for a householder’s life, my daughter would feel great grief.”
Guruma smiled gently. “I have seen what is written on his forehead. I spoke only what I saw. He is not for worldly life; he is for us. Do not fear—this child will not abandon household duties to grieve his mother. He will live in the household, yet his heart will be that of a renunciate.” Saying this, she showered me with great affection. Ma later told me that my sleep had been broken by her tender care. Normally, if anyone disturbed my sleep, I would cry in protest—but in her arms, I did not weep. Instead, a gentle smile bloomed upon my lips.
Even today, when I sit in meditation, retracing the memories of those lost days, the image of an unknown elderly sannyasini often rises before my eyes. Perhaps she was Sandhya Didima’s Guruma. Why my lips had formed that faint smile at her presence that day—after forty-three years, I cannot say. Was there some connection with a past life, or had my inner deity given me a premonition that one day I too must tread her path? At that time, I lacked the physical ability to offer formal salutations. Was that gentle smile my silent offering of homage to that exalted sannyasini? My intellect has never answered, yet my heart perhaps has—within the question itself.
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