# Anandamath (Aurobindo)/Part 1/Chapter 12

IT WAS after much tribulation that Mohendra and Kalyani met again. Kalyani flung herself down and wept, Mohendra wept even more than she. The weeping over, there was much ado of wiping the eyes, for as often as the eyes were wiped, the tears began to come again. But when at last the tears had ceased to come, the thought of food occurred to Kalyani. She asked Mohendra to partake of the food which the ascetic's followers had kept with her. In this time of famine there was no chance of ordinary food and vegetables, but whatever there was in the country, was to be had in plenty among the Children. That forest was inaccessible to ordinary men. Wherever there was a tree with fruit upon it, famishing men stripped it of what it bore, but none other than the Children had access to the fruit of the trees in this impenetrable wilderness. For this reason the ascetic's followers had been able to bring for Kalyani plenty of forest fruits and some milk. In the property of the Sannyasin were included a number of cows. At Kalyani's request, Mohendra first took some food, afterwards Kalyani sat apart and ate something of what he had left. She gave some of the milk to her child and kept the rest to feed her with again. Then both of them, overcome with sleep, took rest for a while. When they woke, they began to discuss where they should go next. "We left home" said Kalyani "in fear of danger and misfortune, but I now see there are greater dangers and misfortunes abroad than at home. Come then, let us return to our own house." That also was Mohendra's intention. It was his wish to keep Kalyani at home under the care of some suitable guardian and take upon himself this beautiful, pure and divine vow of service to the Mother. Therefore he gave his consent very readily. The husband and wife, rested from fatigue, took their daughter in their arms and set forth in the direction of Padchinha.
But what way led to Padchinha, they could not at all make out in that thick and difficult forest. They had thought that once they could find the way out of the wood, they would be able to find the road. But now they could not find the way out of the wood itself. After long wandering in the thickets, their circlings began to bring them round to the monastery once more, no way of exit could be found. In front of them they saw an unknown ascetic in the dress of a Vaishnav Gosain, who stood in the path and laughed at them. Mohendra, in some irritation, said to him, "What are you laughing at, Gosain?"
"How did you enter the forest?" asked the Gosain.
"Well, we have entered it, it does not matter how."
"Then, when you have entered, how is it you cannot get out again?" So saying, the ascetic resumed his laughter.
"Since you laugh," said Mohendra, much provoked, "I presume you can yourself get out?"
"Follow me," said the Vaishnav, "I will show you the way. You must undoubtedly have entered the forest in the company of some one of the ascetics. No one else knows the way either into or out of the forest."
On this Mohendra asked, "Are you one of the Children?"
"I am" answered the Vaishnav. "Come with me. It is to show you the way that I am standing here."
"What is your name?" asked Mohendra.
"My name" replied the Vaishnav "is Dhirananda Goswami."
Dhirananda proceeded in front,Mohendra and Kalyani followed. Dhirananda took them out of the forest by a very difficult path and again plunged back among the trees.
On leaving the forest one came after a little to a common with trees. To one side of it there was the highway running along the forest, and in one place a little river flowed out of the woodland with a murmuring sound. Its water was very clear, but dark like a thick cloud. On either bank beautiful dark-green trees of many kinds threw their shadow over the river and in their branches birds of different families sat and gave forth their various notes. Those notes too were sweet and mingled with the sweet cadence of the stream.With a similar harmony the shadow of the trees agreed and mingled with the colour of the stream. Kalyani sat under a tree on the bank and bade her husband sit near. Mohendra sat down, and she took her child from her husband's lap into her own. Kalyani held her husband's hand in hers and for some time sat in silence, then she asked, "Today I see that you are very melancholy. The calamity that was on us, we have escaped; why then are you so sad?"
Mohendra answered with a deep sigh, "I am no longer my own man, and what I am to do, I cannot understand."
"Why?" asked Kalyani.
"Hear what happened to me after I lost you," said Mohendra, and he gave a detailed account of all that had happened to him.
Kalyani said, "I too have suffered greatly and gone through many misadventures. It will be of no advantage to you to hear it. I cannot say how I managed to sleep in such exceeding misadventure, but today in the early hours of the morning I fell asleep, and in my sleep I saw a dream. I saw—I cannot say by what force of previous good works I went there,—but I saw myself in a region of wonder, where there was no solid Earth, but only light, a very soft sweet light as if of a cool lustre broken by clouds. There was no human being there, only luminous forms, no noise, only a sound as if of sweet song and music at a great distance. Myriads of flowers seemed to be ever newly in bloom, for the scent of them was there, jasmines of many kinds and other sweet-smelling blossoms. There in a place high over all, the cynosure of all, one seemed to be sitting, like a dark blue hill that has grown bright as fire and burns softly from within. A great fiery crown was on his head, his arms seemed to be four. Those who sat at either side of him, I could not recognize, but I think they were women in their forms, but so full of beauty, light and fragrance that every time I gazed in that direction, my senses were perplexed, I could not fix my gaze nor see who they were. In front of the Four-Armed another woman's form seemed to be standing. She too was luminous, but surrounded by clouds so that the light could not well manifest itself; it could only be dimly realised that one in the form of a woman wept, one full of heart's distress, one worn and thin, but beautiful exceedingly. It seemed to me that a soft fragrant wind carried me along, pushing me as with waves, till it brought me to the foot of the Four-Armed's throne. It seemed to me that the worn and cloud-besieged woman pointed to me and said, 'This is she, for whose sake Mohendra will not come to my bosom.' Then there was a sound like the sweet clear music of a flute; it seemed that the Four-Armed said to me, 'Leave your husband and come to Me. This is your Mother, your husband will serve her; but if you stay at your husband's side, that service cannot be given. Come away to Me.' I wept and said, 'How shall I come, leaving my husband?' Then the flutelike voice came again, 'I am husband, father, mother, son, daughter; come to Me.' I do not remember what I said. Then I woke." Kalyani spoke and was again silent.
Mohendra also, astonished, amazed, alarmed, kept silence. Overhead the doyel began its clamour, the papia flooded heaven with its voice, the call of the cuckoo set the regions echoing, the bhringaraj made the grove quiver with its sweet cry. At their feet the stream murmured softly between its banks. The wind carried to them the soft fragrance of the woodland flowers. In places bits of sunlight glittered on the waves of the rivulet. Somewhere palm-leaves rustled in the slow wind. Far off a blue range of mountains met the eye. For a long time they remained silent in delight. Then Kalyani again asked, "What are you thinking?"
"I am thinking what I should do. The dream is nothing but a thought of fear, it is born of itself in the mind and of itself it disappears,—a bubble from the waking life. Come, let us go home."
"Go where God bids you," said Kalyani and put her child in her husband's lap.
Mohendra took his daughter in his lap and said, "And you,—where will you go?"
Kalyani, covering her eyes with her hands and pressing her forehead between them, answered, "I too will go where God has bid me."
Mohendra started and said, "Where is that? How will you go?"
Kalyani showed him the small box of poison.
Mohendra said in astonishment, "What, you will take poison?"
"I meant to take it, but—" Kalyani became silent and began to think. Mohendra kept his gaze on her face and every moment seemed to him a year, but when he saw that she did not complete her unfinished words, he asked, "But what? What were you going to say?"
"I meant to take it, but leaving you behind, leaving Sukumari behind, I have no wish to go to Paradise itself. I will not die."
With the words Kalyani set down the box on the earth. Then the two began to talk of the past and future and became absorbed in their talk. Taking advantage of their absorption the child in her play took up the box of poison. Neither of them observed it.
Sukumari thought, "This is a very fine toy." She held it in her left hand and slapped it well with her right, put it in her right, and slapped it with her left. Then she began pulling at it with both hands. As a result the box opened and the pill fell out.
Sukumari saw the little pill fall on her father's cloth and took it for another toy. She threw the box away and pounced on the pill.
How it was that Sukumari had not put the box into her mouth, it is hard to say, but she made no delay in respect of the pill. "Eat it as soon as you get it;"—Sukumari crammed the pill into her mouth. At that moment her mother's attention was attracted to her.
"What has she eaten? What has she eaten?" cried Kalyani, and she thrust her finger into the child's mouth. Then both saw that the box of poison was lying empty. Then Sukumari, thinking that here was another game, clenched her teeth,—only a few had just come out,—and smiled in her mother's face. By this time the taste of the poison-pill must have begun to feel bitter in the mouth, for a little after she loosened the clench of her teeth of herself and Kalyani took out the pill and threw it away. The child began to cry.
The pill fell on the ground. Kalyani dipped the loose end of her robe in the stream and poured the water into her daughter's mouth. In a tone of pitiful anxiety she asked Mohendra, "Has a little of it gone down her throat?"
It is the worst that comes first to a parent's mind,—the greater the love, the greater the fear. Mohendra had not seen how large the pill was before, but now, after taking the pill into his hand and scrutinising it for some time, he said, "I think she has sucked in a good deal of it."
Necessarily, Kalyani adopted Mohendra's belief. For a long time she too held the pill in her hand and examined it. Meanwhile the child, owing to the little she had swallowed, became a little indisposed; she grew restless, cried, at last grew a little dull and feeble. Then Kalyani said to her husband, "What more? Sukumari has gone the way God called me to go. I too must follow her."
And with the words Kalyani put the pill into her mouth and in a moment had swallowed it.
Mohendra cried out, "What have you done, Kalyani, what have you done?"
Kalyani returned no answer, but taking the dust of her husband's feet on her head, only said, "Lord and Master, words will only multiply words. I take farewell."
But Mohendra cried out again, "Kalyani, what have you done?" and began to weep aloud. Then Kalyani said in a very soft voice, "I have done well. You might otherwise neglect the work given you by Heaven for the sake of so worthless a thing as a woman. See, I was transgressing a divine command, therefore my child has been taken from me. If I disregarded it farther, you too might go."
Mohendra replied with tears, "I could have kept you somewhere and come back,—when our work had been accomplished, I could have again been happy with you. Kalyani, my all! Why have you done this thing? You have cut from me the hand by whose strength I could have held the sword. What am I without you?"
"Where could you have taken me? Where is there any place? Mother, father, friends, all in this terrible time of calamity have perished. In whose house is there any place for us, where is the road we can travel, where will you take me? I am a burden hanging on your neck. I have done well to die. Give me this blessing that when I have gone to that luminous world, I may again see you." With the words Kalyani again took the dust of her husband's feet and placed it on her head. Mohendra made no reply, but once more began to weep. Kalyani again spoke;—her voice was very soft, very sweet, very tender, as she again said, "Consider who has the strength to transgress what God has willed. He has laid his command on me to go; could I stay, if I would? If I had not died of my own will, inevitably someone else would have slain me. I do well to die. Perform with your whole strength the vow you have undertaken, it will create a force of well-doing by which I shall attain heaven and both of us together will enjoy celestial bliss to all eternity."
Meanwhile the little girl threw up the milk she had drunk and recovered,—the small amount of poison that she had swallowed, was not fatal. But at that time Mohendra's mind was not turned in that direction. He put his daughter in Kalyani's lap and closely embracing both of them began to weep incessantly. Then it seemed that in the midst of the forest a soft yet thunder-deep sound arose,—
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu! O Gopal, O Govinda, O Mukunda, O Shauri!"
By that time the poison had begun to act on Kalyani, her consciousness was being somewhat taken from her; in her half-unconscious condition she seemed to herself to hear the words ringing out in the marvellous flutelike voice she had heard in the Vaikuntha of her dream.
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu! O Gopal, O Govinda, O Mukunda, O Shauri!"
Then Kalyani in her semi-unconsciousness began to sing in a voice sweeter than any Apsara's,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
She cried to Mohendra, "Say,
'O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!'"
Deeply moved by the sweet voice that rose from the forest and the sweet voice of Kalyani and in the grief of his heart thinking "God is my only helper," Mohendra called aloud,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
Then from all sides the sound arose,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
Then it seemed as if the very birds in the trees were singing,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
It seemed as if the murmurs of the river repeated,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
Then Mohendra, forgetting his grief and affliction and full of ecstasy, sang in one voice with Kalyani,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
From the forest the cry seemed to rise in chorus with their song,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
Kalyani's voice became fainter and fainter, but still she cried,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
Then by degrees her voice grew hushed, no sound came from her lips, her eyes closed, her body grew cold, and Mohendra understood that Kalyani had departed to Vaikuntha with the cry of "O Hari, O Murari" on her lips. Then Mohendra began to call out loudly like one frantic, making the forest quiver, startling the birds and beasts,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
At that time one came and, embracing him closely, began to call with him in a voice as loud as his,
"O Hari, O Murari, O foe of Kaitabh and Madhu!"
Then in that glory of the Infinite, in that boundless forest, before the body of her who now travelled the eternal way, the two sang the name of Eternal God. The birds and beasts were voiceless, the earth full of a miraculous beauty,—the fitting temple for this highest anthem. Satyananda sat down with Mohendra in his arms.