In 1947 the British Government, under pressure from the Muslims, decided that after independence India would be partitioned. The areas with a Muslim majority would form the new state of Pakistan; the leftover territory would be the new, independent India. In the Northwest, the bor­der ran roughly north-south and was located to the east of Lahore. This meant that my family would find themselves in Pakistan after independence, which was scheduled to occur in August. In the months preceding independence many Muslims from India migrated to the embryonic state of Pakistan. At the same time, many Hindus who were liv­ing in areas that would be in Pakistan left to live in India. Feelings ran high in both communities. Hindus trying to leave Pakistan were attacked, robbed and even killed by Muslims, while Muslims trying to leave India were sub­jected to the same treatment by Hindus. The violence esca­lated to the point where whole trainloads of Hindus leav­ing Pakistan were hijacked and gunned down by Muslims, while, in the other direction, Hindus were attacking trains of fleeing Muslims, and murdering all the occupants. I knew nothing about all this because I never bothered to read newspapers or listen to the radio.

In July 1947, a month before independence, Devaraja Mudaliar approached me and asked me which part of the Punjab I came from. When I told him that I came from a town about 200 miles to the west of Labore, he informed me about the forthcoming partition, stressing that my family and my father’s house were going to end up in Pakistan.

‘Where are all the members of your family at the mo­ment?’ he asked.

‘So far as I know,’ I answered, for I didn’t have much contact with them, ‘they are still all in my home town. None of them is living in a place which will be in India.’

‘Then why don’t you go and fetch them?’ he asked. ‘It is not safe for them to stay there.’ He told me about the massacres that were going on and insisted that it was my duty to look after my family by taking them to a safe place. He even suggested that I bring them to Tiruvannamalai.

‘I’m not going,’ I told him. ‘I cannot leave the company of the Maharshi.’ This was not an excuse; I felt it was quite literally true. I had reached a stage in my relationship with the Maharshi where I loved him so much, I couldn’t take my eyes off him or contemplate the thought of going to the other end of the country for an indefinite period.

That day, as we accompanied the Maharshi on his eve­ning walk outside the ashram, Devaraja Mudaliar turned to him and said, ‘Poonja’s family seems to be stranded in Western Punjab. He doesn’t want to go there. Nor does he seem interested in trying to get them out. Independence is less than a month away. If he does not go now, it may be too late.’

The Maharshi agreed with him that my place was with my family. He told me, ‘There will be a lot of trouble in the area you come from. Why don’t you go there at once? Why don’t you go and bring your family out?’

Though this amounted to an order, I was still hesitant. Ever since the day the Maharshi had shown me who I am, I had felt great love for him and great attachment to him. I genuinely felt that I didn’t have any relationship in the world other than the one I had with him. My attitude was, ‘I feel so much gratitude towards this man who has re­moved my fears, shown me the light and removed the darkness from my mind, I can’t have any relationship any more except with him’. I attempted to explain my position to the Maharshi.

‘That old life was only a dream,’ I said. ‘I dreamed I had a wife and a family. When I met you, you ended my dream. I have no family any more, I only have you.’

The Maharshi countered by saying, ‘But if you know that your family is a dream, what difference does it make if you remain in that dream and do your duty? Why are you afraid of going if it is only a dream?’

I then explained the main reason for my reluctance to go. ‘I am far too attached to your physical form. I cannot leave you. I love you so much I cannot take my eyes off you. How can I leave?”I am with you wherever you are,’ was his answer. From the way he spoke to me I could see that he was deter­mined that I should go. His last statement was, in effect, a benediction for my forthcoming trip and for my future life in general.

I immediately understood the deep significance of his remark. The ‘I’ which was my Master’s real nature was also my own inner reality. How could I ever be away from that ‘I’? It was my own Self, and both my Master and I knew that nothing else existed.

I accepted his decision. I prostrated before him and for the first and only time in my life I touched his feet as an act of veneration, love and respect. He didn’t normally let any­one touch his feet, but this was a special occasion and he made no objection. Before I rose I collected some of the dust from beneath his feet and put it in my pocket to keep as a sacred memento. I also asked for his blessings because I had an intuition that this was our final parting. I some­how knew I would never see him again.