Lessons With the Teacher and the Teachings

 

Then-Swami Nitya is standing at the blackboard in the front of a classroom. His slender, elegant fingers hold a piece of chalk and without effort he draws a perfect circle on the board. This particular memory in my mind is from a class he taught at Sonoma State University in 1974 but really it could be from so many places. A circle to show what inclusive unity was, a circle to delineate inside and outside, to highlight the magic circle, as he termed it, of intimate relationships. Whatever the reference, what stands out is the ease and perfect execution each time he drew a circle. Effortless and entrancing.

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Another early teaching memory is from Guru’s first Gita class in Portland. He was illustrating how we have a central focus of our lives and though we go outward for many interactions and activities, we always return to that inner focus. Guru pulled a tissue from a box—I am here in my core—then I move out to talk and act with others, then I return to the tissue in my hand, then out again. All a never ceasing movement of consciousness. Guru Nitya was such a natural, accomplished teacher you often forgot he was in the role of instructor. It might be a small phrase, a prayer, a funny story, in each occasion he was so natural, assured in what he knew and understood, that you almost missed the skill and the profound intelligence behind everything.

 

Guru could be a chameleon and change to the audience. Once for a wild, raucous crowd in Sydney he too become exaggerated, funny, combative and very enlightening. At other gatherings his role would be restrained and gentle, sometimes elusive. He could be the critic, the reminder of what you were seeking, at times harsh and unforgiving. And he could be the fellow seeker in awe of the wonder of hidden splendor. Each time the style adapted to the best way to connect with people. Always, however, remaining his own true self.   

 

When we were traveling together Guru Nitya mostly let me wander as I wished, I was required only for planned events—morning classes, meditations, dictations of his readings. I have many memories of wandering in strange cities and places but always coming back to being quiet with him. A few times there were warnings to not do something, sometimes a surprise. Other times just a gentle suggestion. In Rishikesh he specifically told me types of sannyasis to avoid, and at the Aurobindo Ashram when he saw I was upset about something, he said, “Oh that isn’t for you, just forget it.”  His teachings in each of these situations was to rebalance my understanding—or more correctly, misunderstanding—to smooth out the exaggerations of my reactions.

 

In person and in letters, Guru might say something, then add, “Perhaps you will remember this in ten years and it might make more sense.” Those words always came back with added significance. The most memorable is when I was angry about something and Nitya just remarked, almost as an aside, “Someday you might see there isn’t so much to defend.” Ah, yes, a life-long lesson! Another occasion is when I asked him, during a Portland visit, if we were still close, how he felt. He looked at me and replied, “Do I ever think of my mother? No, we are one. Do I ever think of my right arm? No, it is just part of me, and you and I are always together like that.” What better answer could there have been? I am a bit mortified to even recount this interchange of my small-minded questions but Nitya’s response was so apt it needs to be shared.  

 

Or the teaching could come in the form of a pointed little story. The one that comes often to mind is when Guru replied to me in a letter, at a time when I was first teaching and struggling with both that and a whole world of distraction. He gently described a butterfly in a room trying to get out by the window but fighting with a curtain. He mused whether it was worthwhile to help the butterfly fly out or whether it was of no use at all. I remember bursting into tears when I read that letter.

 

In Ooty there are cement chairs and stools placed in a circle, near some over-hanging trees. Nitya would sit in the circle, wrapped often in a shawl or blanket or both, and listen to questions or discourse on some idea or event. There is no specific memory of topics but a profound sense of wisdom sharing, of which I feel so lucky to have been a participant. This happened often, not only in Ooty. There is or was an enormous old mango tree at the Gurukula in Varkala, and one time many of us sat in its shade, on the sandy ground, listening to Guru speak, and the timelessness of that occasion is still alive in me—centuries, millennia of students listening to a wisdom discourse. How lucky we were to touch that. How many of those people are now no longer here with us? Madhavan, Edda Walker—and others not heard from again. This occasion felt like an echo from my first India trip when Nitya and I were staying at Somanahalli Gurukula. One evening at twilight, Nitya and John Spiers were outside sitting in chairs and Jean Pierre and I and some young French travelers sat at their feet listening to the conversation as night came on and various sounds rose from the wilds around us.

 

There are so many words to bring up, so much advice, so many lessons. Yet the most profound of all Guru’s teachings came in silence. I would ask a question, one I thought desperately needed an immediate answer. Silence, no reply. Or we would sit together and simply sink into the quiet of ourselves. No words were ever said. I remember saying goodbye to Guru after the Puja at Bainbridge in 1984 when I was very pregnant, and as we left he just looked at me with an undecipherable look. I wondered, What was that? What could it mean? In a month the tragedy of our son’s difficult birth and young death answered those questions. I could still see that intense look of knowing consolation from Guru, trying to impart strength and insight to me.

 

My last goodbye, in person, was in 1996 after a few weeks of staying with Nitya in Ooty. The night before I left, I went out to sit at the edge of the eucalyptus trees, near where the samadhi shrine is now. I sank into a deep meditation and was there a long time. When I came in, Jyothi asked, “Where were you? We were looking for you, you missed dinner.” Guru just said to Jyothi to bring me some dinner at his desk. We sat there without ever saying anything as I ate. I felt that Guru was simply sitting and being with me in a very profound state. The next morning when I left, again silence. He brought his hands up in quiet benediction.

 

I had a dream about Nitya a few years ago and I could feel him there, almost in my vision. I couldn’t quite see him so kept turning, trying to catch a glimpse of him personally. Each time he would move just out of sight. I’d try again. No success. It was then I saw Nitya not as a person but as a bridge arched over a little river, and I realized that is exactly what he is—a bridge to an ancient teaching we would never access or understand without his help. “I am your bridge, walk over. It’s not me as a person, I am a bridge to something beautiful.”  

 

My last letter from Nitya arrived a few days after his death. It was short. At the end where he usually wrote, “As ever, love and blessings,” this time the ending was simply, “As Ever.” And as ever, Guru Nitya’s teachings continue to instruct and guide me—through letters, through remembered suggestions, through his amazing commentaries and studies, through humor and sweetness, through an infinitude of silence.