Krishnaji: An Impressionistic Sketch

Krishnaji: An Impressionistic

Sketch

The morning mists lie softly over the grounds; the grey huts peep through the white veils; the trees and shrubs are silver-clad; and the rosy-fingered dawn touches the eastern sky with its mellow warmth. The last trills of the awakened birds are silent; the glimmer of the Morning Star is faintly visible; the tall palm trees are silhouetted against the steel-grey sky, and there is silence everywhere.

Soon the day is aglow with silvery whiteness and the mists are fast disappearing; the veiled objects are taking definite shape and form. The green patches of the shrubs, the grey thatched huts, the dark-green foliage of the plants, the multi-coloured dresses of bright-eyed boys and girls, who move swiftly hither and thither on some joyous errand, all take on a festal appearance.

There is stir of life now where a moment ago was stillness. The laughter of happy children rings through the noisy shouts of the boys, and the girls' songs make the air melodious. The morning is fresh and cool, and the camp-ground is alive with young servers and helpers, who assume their respective posts and duties.

The venerable, white-haired President of the Theosophical Society, the wisest, the noblest and the gentlest of women, who for over eighty years loved and laboured with a heart young, fresh and free, a mind keen, alert and clear, and a body as vital, energetic and active as the youngest member in the colony, lies now in a room upstairs the Headquarters building, bed-ridden with a malignant illness, attended lovingly by the gentle-mannered Jinarajadasa and white-robed Miss Wilson, two devoted pupils and comrades.

Further up in a spacious storeyed-room, spotlessly clean, elegantly furnished with just a simple, plain mat, a white diwan, a couple of pictures and a statue of the Buddha, Krishnaji is talking animatedly to his friends. The eastern breeze blows gently over from the river; the song of a boat-man, silhouetted, like a bronze statue, against the pink flushed sky is faintly heard.

The hum of Adyar activities is audible beneath the calmness and serenity of the place. The quietness of Adyar life is seeming and apparent like the stillness of a huge Mother-Wheel in a Power House. Though the outer atmosphere is calm and quiet, the inner activities are dynamic and incessant. Adyar is a self-contained colony; its residents are pioneers in various kinds of activities. It is an international centre and, therefore, of cosmopolitan character; a place of experiment of a great ideal. Men and women, Hindu and Christian, British and Indian, youth and age try to live–Brotherhood. The mental atmosphere is conducive to, and the physical surroundings are helpful for, such a purpose.

Adyar is a beauty-spot. The river and the sea, the groves and the gardens, the paths and the buildings enhance its natural beauty. Life here is free and unfettered. Adyar activities are worldwide and cover all kinds of human endeavour, politics, education, art, science and religion.

The annual Theosophical Conventions and Star Camps are gatherings of great interest. Adyar becomes a miniature world, and the life becomes thrilling and fascinating. There is a joyous expectancy everywhere. Soon the hooting of the horns of taxis and buses, the rattling noise of the jutkas, the tramp of pedestrians and the shouts of cartmen, announce the arrival of pilgrims from distant parts of the world—young and old, men and women of all types and classes, in pairs, in groups and in bus-loads.

The quiet nestling village of Adyar is miraculously transformed into a miniature city, with bazaars and, restaurants, shops and saloons, and people of varying castes, colours and creeds. A sturdy American woman comes jostling along with a slenderly-built Indian girl, happy in each other’s company; the dark-eyed Brahmana girl of the South welcomes in joyous rapture her fair Zoroastrian friend from Bombay; Indian boys and Australian girls wander leisurely in happy comradeship under the magic-shadows of the palm-groves. Strong-limbed boys and warm-blooded girls play and swim in the sea and run about the sands; age and youth move freely here and there, bent on their own business.

Men attired in singular fashions and styles, greet each other in friendly welcome and feel happy to be ‘home’ again. "Ah, you have come!" "And so, you are again," "How nice to see you here," "What a delightful place to camp!" you hear at every turn. You feel a sense of international solidarity about these conventions and camps, and though a more exalted ideal and a deeper affinity bind them together at these gatherings, yet in the very effort to reach a higher ideal in life, the lesser one is realised.

The delegates gather under the cool shade of over-spreading trees, through which the fugitive light plays hide and seek among the branches and leaves. A thousand eager expectant faces turn in the direction of a singularly simple platform–a plain chowki covered with a printed cotton cloth–under the shadow of a heavily branched bamboo tree. There Krishnaji gives his most inspiring and soul-stirring morning talks, on the Way to Life, to the Understanding of Life, to the Self-realization of Life.

The vibrant, radiant youthful figure of the Teacher is all tremulous and aflame with a consuming desire to awaken the Life In his hearers. The frail body quivers in extreme sensitiveness; the dark eyes are aglow with an inward spiritual splendour. His mind is alert and keen to understand the difficulties of his listeners, and there is a wonderful love radiating from his every gesture and movement. The poised head, the chiselled profile, the attuned body, the uplifted finger and the serene smile, as he sits cross-legged on the dais and answers the questions of his audience, make as profound an impression as his challenging thoughts and utterances. No oratorical flourishes, no attempt at forensic skill, no endeavour to flatter or amuse, no desire to wound or to play upon one's feelings. His words, like a mountain stream, leap from crag to crag, and one gets easily lost in their lyric cadence.

Clad in immaculate white garments of a cotton kurtha, a dhotie and, a chudder, with a naturalness as simple and innocent as a child’s, a graciousness as tender and true as a bride's, and a sweetness as fresh and spontaneous as a flower’s, Krishnaji fascinates one and all. What a vision of Life Splendid is that delicate, sensitive, pure and beautiful physical form of Krishnaji! What radiant energy in that all consuming Flame of Life, which enkindles one and all! How naturally simple, how tenderly graceful, and yet how strong and compelling is the life that has flowered into perfection!

Have you ever seen an Himalayan peak, serene, calm, pure, majestic and beautiful, lit by the golden rays of the rising sun on an early spring morning, towering high up above the mass of rolling clouds and glistening glaciers? That is Krishnaji, as he stands on the raised dais to read out his poems or deliver his short evening discourses, his face lit up with a golden glow from the brightly burning camp fire. On all sides are intensely agitated and mentally bewildered faces, men and women, listening attentively with attuned body and mind. The night slowly spreads its dark wings; the deepening gloom is relieved by a star-lit sky; the crescent moon hangs low on the horizon. The fire shoots heavenwards with crackling sparks and licking tongues of flame. There is stillness everywhere without and an inner silence within. A great calmness broods over the place.

The melodious Voice of the Liberated One calls to humanity to rediscover its divinity. It is a call from Life to Life–a call to Freedom, to Liberation, to Truth, to Reality. It is a challenge to all dead forms, dying faiths and decaying superstitions–a challenge to creeds, dogmas, systems, philosophies, rituals and ceremonies. It is the Voice of the Master Singer, the Supreme Artist, calling to each one to be creatively great, to be true artists in life, to be individually unique. It is the call of the Flame to the spark to re-light itself and become the Flame:

"O Friend,
Thou canst not bind Truth.
It is as the air,
Free, limitless,
Indestructible,
Immeasurable.
It hath no dwelling place,
Neither temple nor altar.
It is of no one God,
However zealous be His worshipper.
Canst thou tell
From what single flower
The bee gathereth the sweet honey?
O Friend,
Leave heresy to the heretic,
Religion to the orthodox;
But gather Truth
From the dust of thine experience."