Stopped In Our Tracks

It was the night of September 13, 1992, Yercaud. The world didn't know yet that U.G. is staying in an abandoned house in a remote area, in Yercaud, India. Can anyone imagine a better heaven on earth than Switzerland? What can one say about the fact that U.G. now fixed his residence in this country in Yercaud near Salem, abandoning in one moment his 28-year-long association with Switzerland and the garden-like valleys of the Alps in Gstaad-Saanen? It is not because he lacks the economic means to satisfy his needs in Switzerland. When he consents to stay, there are innumerable friends who can arrange for royal comforts in a moment's notice. Then why is he coming to Yercaud? What's there for him on this mountain? He could at least stay in Bangalore. No, apparently there is no place for him there either.

The day before arriving in Yercaud, the visage U.G. manifested in Poornakutee (our residence in Bangalore) reminded one of Shiva at the scene of Daksha's sacrifice. All things which belonged to U.G. in Poornakutee were moved to Yercaud. Things collected over many years—files, photos, video and audio tapes—all of them were moved at U.G.'s insistence. He caused a bonfire in my heart: I used to cherish these objects every day, considering them to be U.G.'s archives. He trampled ruthlessly on my devotion. He sold the benches and almirahs in my own presence. He scattered everything without giving me a moment's time to realize what was going on.

It's all over. Nothing is left for me. All my dreams are shattered. Will Bangalore remain only a past nightmare? Why? Why is this happening?

It's useless to try to find the meaning behind U.G.'s actions. It is perhaps his intention not to leave for later generations even a trace of his coming into this world. Nothing must remain. U.G. is very clear that no one will benefit from collecting memorabilia and keepsakes pertaining to him.

In a Doordarshan interview with U.G., Deepak Vohra asks him: "U.G., I have one final question: How do you imagine the world should remember you after five hundred years?" U.G.'s reply is unique in world history: "I will feel blessed if the world burns away with my body all the memories and memorabilia pertaining to me."

U.G., you are your own equal. There has been and will be no one like you in this world. As I was sitting in the living room of the building in Yercaud, my mind became restless and chaotic. My mind was dreading that something untoward will surely happen. There was a heavy wind blowing outside the bungalow. It was penetrating through the closed door spaces and striking my spine. Murty, U.G.'s handyman, was kindling the fires in the fireplace. Murty had let go of his entire Bangalore life and had dedicated himself to U.G.'s service.

U.G. was sitting leaning against the wall. Whenever the fire glowed in the fireplace, U.G.'s face glowed red with it. Other friends in the room—the Major, Prabhakar and Suguna, my wife—all sat scattered on the floor with arms around their legs. Everyone looked pale. Mahesh sat on my right side leaning against the wall and looking pitifully at me. The scene looked like Yama's court ready for a trial. In the middle of it I sat with closed eyes like a sacrificial goat at the altar.

"Why can't Chandrasekhar understand? An ashram-like atmosphere can't grow around me," roared U.G. Mahesh sat up collecting himself. "Neither my tapes nor books nor letters must be in anyone's control. I am going to return all those photos to those who have taken them. Nothing must remain after me. I won't let even Chandrasekhar know where I am and what I am doing. It's all over. After Valentine's death, everything is disintegrating."

A flame flared in the fireplace when some of the kindling caught fire. A loud crackling sound of a piece of firewood. U.G.'s white clothing. U.G.'s body shone like a flame covered with snow.

Mahesh said after a little while, "U.G. I couldn't have written your biography if Chandrasekhar had not collected all of the correspondence and kept it in one place. That was necessary."

"Who benefits from those biographies? I said this before. Autobiographies are pure lies. And biographies are double lies. O.K. you wrote something. But what is he doing? Why should he collect all these? To burn them with me when I die?" U.G.'s eyes were showering coals on me. The fire in the fireplace seemed cooler. There was a conflagration in myself. There was an oven in my heart. Mahesh looked like an executioner from Yama. My body trembled when I realized why this soldier holding a drawn sword and waiting for a wink of the eye from the master had come from Bombay.

U.G. said again, "Why do you write letters to everyone informing them that I am here? Why do you hesitate to say 'I don't know where U.G. is,' to anyone who asks for me? The other day Julie called me on the phone in Bangalore. I told her, 'There is no place here for even Chandrasekhar and Suguna. What makes you think that I will let you stay?'"

God, what is going to happen? You dragged me here to show me this terrible form? It's all going—all my hidden fears, endless deluded hopes, colorful dreams, the beautiful dreams I had made up about my future—all of them were being shattered. They were all burning away. It was not U.G. in front of me. It was an active volcano on fire. Near it were solid rocks melting like lumps of wax. The tears in my eyes were evaporating before they trickled down.

"Chandrasekhar is the cause of all these miseries," U.G.'s voice sounded like thunder in the sky.

Far away, the bells of the Convent of Carmel rang, as if they were warning me, "These are your last moments, get ready." The crime I had committed knowingly or unwittingly, the emotions that had been mingled with my blood, the flaw of considering U.G. as my own, that he was my life outside of me, my subliminal hope of becoming the high priest for the temple of U.G.'s teaching—all passed through my mind clearly.

The criminal in me drooped his head. "Whatever has been going on so far cannot continue any more. It must all end here and now. This moment." The swing of his hand gathered strength and his resounding voice shook the bungalow. The executioner's sword flashed in the light of the dying fire.

"Here, now, this moment. It has to end now, Chandrasekhar!" Mahesh's howl mingled with my death scream.

Slowly the fire in the fireplace died down. The flames that shone red settled down in the ashes. The sky for once breathed in relief. The assembly came to a close. All the witnesses exited as though they were innocent. U.G. went into his room leaving me to my fate. My mind had never known such a terrible onslaught. Although I lay on my bed, I could not sleep. A series of thoughts whirled around like snakes in my mental snake pit. I got up from my bed and walked outside. Blackie, the dog, saw me and crawled around me wagging her tail. What had happened that night? How come the world was still sleeping so peacefully? To whom should I tell of my turmoil and my internal struggle? Why was I bothered about all this? Who is this U.G.? Who am I? What is the connection between us? True, what is he to me? What am I to myself?

I was walking to the edge of an abyss in the dark. I could see, four thousand feet below, the city of Salem flickering with lights, as though the sky had with all its stars collapsed on the ground.

I asked U.G. on the night of my arrival in Yercaud: "Why doesn't the truth of your words apply in our lives? Our minds can see reason and consent to the logic, but we lag behind in carrying it out in action. Why is that?" U.G.'s answer blasted my brains: "because you are afraid of losing me if those words work. Because of that fear you try to use those words securely, as gloves on your hands, to protect yourselves."

Those words of U.G.'s whirled around in my head, "You are afraid of losing me," and I felt as though they were mocking me.

It's true: U.G. is my life, my everything. Who is it that still lives after losing U.G.? I? Who am I? I have no alternative: I must solve this puzzle.

U.G. is no one to me. There is this connection, this blunt bond that entangles me, and unless this is broken, I am not free. U.G. and I—the memories I have treasured so much, the memories which I thought were special to both of us, my countless experiences—if U.G. himself is nothing to me, why should I bother with them? Why should I hoard them? For whom? Never. I should expel all of them. I should tear myself, break myself open, destroy myself, plunder all my memory treasures which I had so carefully hoarded, and scatter them to the dust and the wind. I must stand alone, helpless as a destitute without a past, while all these memories are shamelessly crushed under the feet of every village pig.

The sacrifice has started, the serpent sacrifice of Janamejaya. All the serpents, the thought-serpents that have been hiding inside my head, in my blood and in every nerve of mine, must all be dropped into this sacrificial fire. There is no protection for any of them. All of them must be consumed. All my memories must assume the form of letters and be offered in the sacrifice of this book.

I don't know how long I stood outside that night, by the side of the abyss, in the dark, under that tree. Utter silence around me. An abyss inside of me and an abyss outside. Utter darkness all around.

"Is this all there is to my life?" The question arose in me all of a sudden. "If you let that question arise, then you have no scope to live." No sooner I had heard this than all the darkness disappeared. A cloud curtain crossed the abyss touching me softly.