Sujata Nahar

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(Sujata:) “I have been asked to say something about myself: who I am, what prompted me to share with you Mother's story, how I met Mother in the first place, and so on and so forth. …
         For now, suffice it to say that I am an elderly lady. But when I first met Mother I was just nine. Then, soon after, she took me under her wing. Up until 1973, when I was forty-eight years old, I lived securely with Mother, cocooned in the warmth of her love and affection. It is to the feast of Mother's love that you are invited.
         I was born in Calcutta in the house of my grandfather, P. C. Nahar. Though a lawyer by profession, it was his wide-ranging cultural activity that made him a well-known figure all over India. These activities embraced a variety of spheres: education, literature, collections of all kinds, from matchbox labels to sculptures. He was also a social reformer. But above all, he was a devout Jain. My father, P. S. Nahar, was his fifth child of nine. My father wanted his children — we were eight —to have a broader education. To that end we were taken to Santiniketan, the campus of poet Rabindranath Tagore's “Vishwabharati” (World University). Our family lived in the house of Tagore's eldest brother which our father had rented. Thus, our formative years were spent in a clean open air, and we imbibed the cultural and artistic atmosphere prevailing there under the influence of the poet himself, and others, like the great artist Nandalal Bose. As was to be expected, we children spent more than half our time monkeying up trees.”[1]


“As was the prevailing custom, exactly at the age of five I was initiated to the world of learning by writing the first letters of the Sanskrit alphabet. It was my father who taught me Bengali. Very soon I could read fluently. Then, instead of reading himself the Indian epics, as he used to do, he began asking me to read the books aloud to him. I never went to any school.”[2]


“Then my mother, S. K. Nahar, died. My father, who had built his world around her, suddenly found himself without a base. He was only thirty-four. Although pressured, he refused to remarry. No, he wanted another kind of life. As it was, from his childhood he had been greatly attracted to sadhus and sannyasins. So now he went in search of a Master, someone who could guide him to his inner life, who could reveal to him the purpose of his being on earth. He started travelling all over India.
         On his way down south, to the magnificent temple of Rameswaram, he halted at Pondicherry. …
         There, in the Ashram of Sri Aurobindo, my father met Mother. In Sri Aurobindo and Mother he found the Guides he was seeking. And, as is natural with fathers, he wanted his children also to meet Sri Aurobindo and Mother. That is how we brothers and sisters came into contact with Them. Finally, one by one, we chose to stay under the wing of Mother and Sri Aurobindo.”[3]


“Art and culture were not abstract ideas in Santiniketan in those days; their refinement — beauty in daily living — became ingrained in us. A clean living, clean thoughts and a clean body were an essential part of life. Good health. Cleanliness.
         That is why when I first saw the high cleanliness that was the Ashram's norm under Mother's care, I liked it very much. And I was charmed by the simple elegance of those houses all washed in pearl-grey.”[4]


“Mother was very fond of her brother and often told us stories from her childhood in which Matteo figured, naturally. I wonder if it was the sight of my brother Abhay and me that called up memories of her brother and herself? As she went to and fro from her boudoir to Pavitra's office, Mother constantly saw us in Pavitra's Laboratory, working together. Abhay may have been seventeen or eighteen and I was twenty months his junior. He loved mathematics, while I liked geometry. We attended the same class taken by Pavitra. We were a medley crowd learning mathematics — our ages ranged from the early teens to over thirty. My brother and I, the best of friends, worked together in harmony. Mother frequently stopped to see what we were making: bath salts for Sri Aurobindo or for her, unless it was pastilles; or creams and powders for different usages, or Blue Water for the eyes, and so on (all formulas courtesy Pavitra). More likely than not it was just a pretext for Mother to stand talking to us. Looking back it seems to me that the few minutes with us refreshed her no end. Anyway, our joy was indescribable. Hearing her voice Pavitra would come and join us.”[5]


“How many times have I stood before Mother, mutely, and she knew at once if I had any pain in my heart — which she would soothe away by her look; or if any problem was troubling my mind — the solution would be given along with peace. Yes, Mother ‘understands’.”[6]




  1. Mother's Chronicles, Volume 1: Mirra
  2. Ibid., Volume 2: Mirra the Artist
  3. Ibid., Volume 1: Mirra
  4. Ibid., Volume 2: Mirra the Artist
  5. Ibid., Volume 1: Mirra
  6. Ibid.



See also

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