I am not this, consumed by flame;
I am not that, washed in water;
I am not that which drew air,
nor am I that which walked upon the earth.
I am the earth, I am the air and I am the water.
I am the fire.
All that which is impermanent, I leave behind.
Svaha svaha, svaha, it is no more mine.
My father is dead. I watched it happen, as he performed his own funeral service on the banks of the Ganges. I have heard that Sanskrit (Hindu) phrase, svaha, idam na mam: I make this sincere offering: it is no more mine, over and over again, my entire life. It is said with every offering given on the altar, into a consecrated fire or sacred river. In my family, it is said with humor and resignation, over opportunities or items lost. Svaha: our mental shrug: Oh, well, it’s gone. I may as well let it go.
That ceremony transformed my father, my Tata (daddy), into something else: a Swami, beyond definitions of family, gender, religion. He began a journey away from me and mine, and sought a life of service. Swamis were not a mystery to me; I grew up with Baba, a guru who initiated me into our tradition when I was six years old. I felt lucky, even as a kid, to know him. He made a family of everyone who needed one. He made the world magical.
When I was nineteen, my dad, struggling with diabetes and a heart condition, was given a last chance by the doctors: a triple by-pass. This was back in the days when heart surgery was a thing of fear and miracles. In the voice that lulled me to sleep as a child with countless guided relaxations (oh, how I relished being able to make him yell when I was a teenager!) he told me that his life was coming to an end, one way or another. He wished to survive, but if he did, it would not be as it was. It was time. He would begin the process of transition towards Swamihood. My mother would care for him after surgery. They would live together as brother and sister for a time. They would part eventually, husband and wife no longer. Not divorce, he stressed, as though I didn’t know. He would renounce his former life, his family.
Our father was leaving us for God.
It seemed natural that this was happening. When he said that he would need his children’s formal blessing, I was startled, as if he was asking our permission to stay out late. I must have talked about it with my siblings, my friends, but I have no recollection. I don’t remember feeling rejected or abandoned. It was actually kind of exciting, as if he had won The Nobel Prize or something. Tata was ours, but never only ours. We always shared him with so much, his books, his disciples and his mission. Much was shared with us in return.
Watching him chant his own funeral prayers was another thing. His familiar voice rising and falling, rising and falling as he sang the ancient hymns. I remember sitting in the mild mountain sun, catching my brother’s eye, and thinking, our father is dying.
I am grateful for the Swami who rose from that pyre, although it took awhile to sort things out. What do I call him? (settled on “Tata Swami”) How do I introduce myself? I can’t say “I’m his daughter” anymore, can I? Or can I? There were a few awkward years where no-one was sure how to behave, what was acceptable. This was new territory for all of us. I avoided him.
My relationship with Swami Veda Bharati is very different now, but that’s to be expected, I’m not a teenager anymore. I got over my joy of being able to make him raise his voice. Instead I have found pride, solace and inspiration in watching him become. My father had always been a teacher, but a Swami is something more. And he has become more to me than a father. I look forward to the few times a year that I see him, long nights when we sit up and talk. We have an ongoing debate: Are things as they always have been, or does the world really change? We argue but also laugh a lot. He still loves to tell jokes, most of them based on awful and elaborate multi-lingual puns. Through Swami Veda, I have finally gotten to know my dad.
No matter what paths I walk, they are extensions of an ancient tradition. I believe the teachings of the mountain sages, teachings repeated in many traditions. Teachings spoken by priests and shamans and druids, wisdom based on experience of living: Know thyself. Let go of what limits you. Respect others. Swami Veda has brought that to countless people. He has acquired the weighty title of Mahamandaleshwara, a Swami among Swamis, and has been involved in global interfaith and reconciliation work that proves, as he puts it, the human urge towards peace. I may only see him a few times a year, but when I am really in trouble, it’s his phone that rings in the night, where ever he is. When I sit down to meditate, it is his voice in my head…relaaax your shoulders…breathe deeply, slooowly, smoooothly. The echo of the father I let go.
I don’t think it will be so easy to let Swami Veda go, which is ironic. Not today or tomorrow, not in the next six months, but, holy or not, he is going to die, to make that final life change. I have seen it, under the mountain sun. This time, I am afraid. When Baba died, I knew there was no-one who could replace him; but we had Swami Veda. I had Swami Veda. When he is gone, who is left? Who will be there for me? And I find when I ask that question, I have trouble meeting my own eyes; for who is left is looking back at me. You skirt around it in your own way; for me it comes down, bluntly, to selfishness. I want mine, my life, my choices, my freedom. I wanted my father. I want the illusion of owning my life…even if I know it’s an illusion. But I am a child of our tradition; I am my father’s daughter.
The voice in my head has become my own. There is no “one” who will take over, who will be Our Father. Who will be mine. It is exhausting to fight your own truth; I imagine it must be a great relief to finally, totally, just be yourself. I understand why traditions of self-knowledge are not so popular. Revelation can be very disruptive. Compassion is extremely hard work. Surrender takes pain and practice. But our voices are useless if we don’t share them. I grow tired of the bondage of mine.
I know I am not this that walks, breathes, which someday will be washed and burned. I hope that I will have the strength to look at this life I have hoarded so selfishly and be able to someday say, with relief, svaha, it is no more mine. And then live it.
This is such a beautiful piece. It pains me to see the revelations within, that at some point, I too will lose a teacher, a guru. And what is left is me, I must go on bringing others into our spiritual traditions and linage.
It also makes us face the truths of loss. Svaha, it is no longer mine.
What a beautiful story. It reminded me of my journey with Dr. Arya and then Swami Veda, and brought tears to my eyes. Thank you for evoking this emotion in my and reminding me of the love and flow we are all part of.
Namaste.
Thank you for articulating this, Saumya.
We’ve all been gifted with such amazing information, teachers and truths.
Wow Saumya Didi,
This beautiful article brought tears to my eyes. It really shook me in a deep way I could hear your voice as I was reading. After reading this, the words come to mind are emotional, inspirational, spiritual.
You’ve an lyric sense of self and life. What a joy it is to read your reflections. They conjure images of birth by fire. Your gifts, your voice aren’t withheld. They consume all. They help many. And for that, I’m grateful.
Dear Saumya
This is so so beautiful….I have tears in my eyes. I have somehow, from the time I met Swami Veda Bharati (only last year) for the first time seen my father in him and what you have shared is so special. I pray and pray for his good health and hope the inevitable doesn’t happen for the longest time possible…he is now a father to many many people.
Cara Saumya,
Writing from Hungary with SVB at our workshops in Budapest. I read your beautiful piece from the perspective of one facing that transition, looking through your eyes to wonder what will it be like for those I love to see me offer it all into the flames. I fear hurting them, abandoning them, fear that my own ego is in it too much. I just got a Fathers’ Day call yesterday from a young man, not my biological child, who has become my son. They all reassure me about it and seem to understand that it is an opening into even greater love. And I can feel this happening to the degree that I find family everywhere I go now. May it always be so.
Your post captured my eye immediately, as I have just walked through the doors of my father’s unexpected death a week and a half ago. My mother died 18 years ago, and though I am only in my mid-30s, I have now passed both my parents over into the life beyond. I am grieving. I am sad. The pain has only just begun, for this loss. But I am also keenly aware of how his essence lives near me still. You have experienced a profound transition already in your life, and yes, there is another to come. May it be a time filled with as much grace, curiosity, and ease as you describe from the first.
So sorry for your loss, Jennifer. Saumya’s beautiful essay reminded me, also, of the loss, a year ago, of my remaining parent, my mother, although I was fortunate in that it was a gradual, peaceful, and not-unexpected passing. But, yes, life changes completely. And, yes, the departed still lives in us. I wish you strength and comfort in this hard walk we all must take.
Dear Jennifer & Michael,
I am very moved that my story touched you. Although I can imagine losing a parent to permanence, I also imagine that the reality is very different…although I gave up my dad, I have yet to face that final transition. I am so sorry for your losses, and grateful to you for sharing them with me.
Best,
Saumya
My dear Soamya,
I, too, have tears in my eyes. You have shown me the face of your tataswami. Now I know what he looks like and what he was and is and will be no more but his life’s teachings will pass from generation to generation. I am a bible reading christian who has come to truths that make life really easy knowing I can trust in my God of the scriptures. God’s words slowly but surely change my heart’s desires. I have left my birth family spiritually, so I too am dead to my old way of life. Love, mum (nani)
Dear mum,
It meant a lot to me that my story resonated for you within your own faith. In the end we all have so much in common on our journeys. Thank you.
Saumya–Beautifully written with such love and articulate expression–definitely the daughter
Beautiful expression of growing up with a Swami. I remember when he made the surgery decision, I remember the attic days, I remember the joy of opening the center, I remember how long it took to feel that 718 4th street was ours; his imprint was strong. I remember choking on the incense at pujas, I remember his resigned acceptance of the fact that anyone with father issues was going to mirror it on him sometimes. I remember the careful guidance he gave me, even though he knew before I did that I was not of this tradition. He initiated me, he taught me, and he gave me a Buddhist name.
His intelligence and compassion were extraordinary; he had his share of human failings, mild ones, mind you, and he shared them with us, with humor, to teach us not to take anyone, especially ourselves, with too much seriousness.
Swami Veda was an intuitive teacher. Every page of my notebooks, which I have kept to this day, is filled with ideas and facts and even terms that prepared me to be a better Buddhist. I rejoice in the karmas that gave me the opportunity to be prepared by such a teacher. I often quote him, to this day.
When Swami Veda attended an interfaith service a few years ago I had the opportunity to kneel at his feet and thank him. He touched hundreds of thousands of lives in his long life; both directly and indirectly. After all, he started teaching at age 14!
Dear Saumya, Your story brought tears. Especially after I watch the whole procession from Rishikesh to Hardwar via Skype.My husband was there in person as Swami Veda was known to his family since he was 6yrs old in Guyana.My heart goes out to Bahen Lalita and all the children.
So beautiful.
Thank for sharing. Hari Om