A Blessed Presence

I have a hard time describing my aunt. She was a nun, female monk, an ascetic but none of that truly describes her. The correct word is in Hindi - sanyasini - one who relinquishes all material comforts for a spiritual world, all being key.

This is her remarkable story.

Her name was Mina Sen, just like our granddaughter. At home she was called Ranu. Many in our family, including her mother, called her Ranuma, “mother” Ranu.

Born in 1915, she preceded her younger brother, Kalyan, by five years and her youngest brother, Dilip, my father, by a decade. Their father was a civil surgeon, the chief medical officer of a district. He had both clinical and administrative responsibilities and traveled frequently. Her mother was a homemaker and an educated woman. By all accounts, she was a force of nature, a matriarch with a temper to boot. There was an expectation that Ranuma and her brothers would be educated like the parents.

My father told us stories of Ranuma being a gentle and quiet presence with a sharp sense of humor. She was a loving and responsible daughter and sister. After graduating from college, Ranuma became a Montessori teacher, one of a handful at that time in India, circa 1935. In a nursery school at home, she taught children, including Uncle Kalyan’s son, Amit.

Ranuma left home before my brother, Amit’s sister and I arrived in the family. Since Amit had spent his early years with her, I asked him to describe what she was like. His description fits a person born ready for a spiritual life: Ranuma was enigmatic, not self-indulgent, abstemious, plainly dressed and did not have emotional highs and lows. Like her siblings she was affectionate, but a bit distant.

Life was progressing well in the household until the topic of marriage came up. Ranuma refused despite her mother’s insistence at first and entreaties later. Through these difficult conversations, her spiritual awakening became apparent to those closest to her.

Ranuma’s father used to travel a lot, to remote parts of his district to ensure proper medical assistance was being provided to the residents. On one of these trips, Ranuma accompanied him and chanced upon an ashram in Hata, a village near Jamshedpur. This ashram was run by a female ascetic. Her name was Jogeshwari Ma, known as Mataji which means respected mother. She was a direct disciple of Ramakrishna Paramhansa, a Hindu spiritual leader who taught about the unity of all religions and many paths leading to one God. He pursued oneness with the divine with extraordinary devotion and perseverance. His life and teachings would become the guiding force in Ranuma’s journey.

Upon meeting Mataji, whatever reservations Ranuma had about a spiritual life disappeared. Here was a shining example of a woman who had left home to pursue a path few women adopted at the time. In Mataji’s presence, Ranuma’s resolve strengthened and around 1954-55 she made the decision to leave home for the ascetic life. This timeframe is my best estimate based on old photos, anecdotes from my family and consultation with cousins.

My parents told us stories of how my grandmother begged Ranuma not to leave home. Her father was more accepting of her decision than her mother who was devastated at the thought of losing daily contact with her. Despite her mother’s grief, Ranuma was firm. To make the transition palatable to her mother, she made two promises: she would come home periodically and would return home before the end of her own life.

She spent time learning from Mataji who initiated her into the Ramakrishna order. After that Ranuma spent time in a small door-less hut with sparse resources in the jungles in Chauhar Pahar, an area replete with tigers. Ranuma was fearless. Neither wild animals nor the lack of nourishment deterred her. She practiced rigorous meditation in complete solitude.

Ranuma was a petite woman with a body mass index likely in the teens. While mere mortals would succumb to disease in such a state, she thrived in divine bliss until age 70. She ate like a child, rested on the floor on a thin jute mat and meditated at night while the world slept.

Once she found purpose, she went forward with such remarkable devotion and discipline that her family turned from despair to supporting her in ways Ranuma allowed.

After years in the wilderness of Chauhar Pahar, Ranuma went to Vrindavan where she continued to practice meditation. When Mataji passed away, her disciples asked Ranuma to take the reins of the ashram. She returned to Hata and continued with her spiritual routine. Now she had the added responsibility of helping the poor, destitute and homeless in ways that she could.

Her disciples recount many stories that indicate Ranuma was no ordinary soul. She knew things about them even before they told her. They observed how she served with little food, hardly any sleep and superhuman dedication. Some said a glow emanated from her when she meditated and that she did not wince when throngs of mosquitoes descended on her during deep meditation. Anybody who has spent any time in the tropics knows this requires nothing short of divinity.

She was resolute in her belief about women’s spiritual empowerment and said that society at-large could not thrive without the spiritual awakening of women. She encouraged people by saying that those who believed in God were already on a spiritual path whether or not they showed rigor in their religious practice.

The ashram in Hata was in a serene and idyllic setting. It was a two-room thatched hut with a large tree and a well in the back. A brook meandered nearby in lush greenery. I visited Ranuma in the ashram twice. My father used to say that Ranuma should choose when to come home and we should not burden her or the ashram with our material and gastronomic needs.

Our great luck was that my grandmother lived with us and I got to spend time with Ranuma when she occasionally visited to keep her first promise. She asked about our studies and friends and made us laugh with her observations. The last extended interaction I had with her was during my wedding. While my parents were consumed with wedding-related responsibilities, Ranuma quietly took over the religious duties of the household and the care of my grandmother. During this visit, she met Tarun and blessed us both on our new adventures.

After the wedding I headed off to the US and went back to India four years later. A few days before I returned to the States, Ranuma came home unexpectedly. She was critically ill with malignant malaria, the severest form of the disease. She had cerebral complications and it was too late for treatment. Seven months earlier, she had told a disciple that she had achieved what she wanted to and had no further desires in her spiritual quest. I suspect she had finally given permission to the mosquitoes to impact her physical self. My doctor father could do nothing for her except keeping her comfortable in the room next to their mother’s. In this last heroic act, Ranuma kept her second promise. She came back to her mother at the end of her life.

My parents were with Ranuma as she breathed her last on April 1, 1985. Her aged mother sang songs and hymns about being one with God while she held my hands and cried as any mother would on losing a child. Soon afterwards, she told us she felt immensely blessed to have had Ranuma as a daughter. I will never forget the resilience shown by mother and daughter in these final days. My grandmother lived for another five years but never lamented Ranuma’s departure. She had already entrusted her to God many decades earlier.

My favorite memory of Ranuma is sitting by her and admiring her sharp features and matted hair. She was literally skin and bones but the happiest person in our lives. While my parents told funny stories or reminisced about the past or our wrongdoings, she cracked a gentle smile now and then. I have no doubt that her spirituality propelled our family on our personal journeys. Ranuma never judged us or proselytized. Despite our efforts, none in the family came close to the strength of her faith and the intensity of her devotion.

I have wanted to write about Ranuma for a long time. Life intervened and then all who knew her closely in the family passed away, including my brother who was a treasure trove of familial history. Tarun recently chanced on articles written by Ranuma’s closest disciples. These are in formal and difficult Bengali. Tarun could have read them to me, but I needed to read these myself to truly understand her life through the lens of those who spent years with her in the spiritual context. Even though I speak Bengali, such sophisticated language contains many words with challenging consonant clusters. Thanks to Tarun for pushing me through the tough spots. This tribute to Ranuma is made possible by these writings and memories of my cousins.

The more I learn about her, the more I remain humbled that she was ours. May her great-grand-niece and her namesake be guided by her life. May our many paths lead to solace in her presence. May this time away from her be a brief hiatus in our continuing story.

This is a rare photo of Ranuma. Her smile elicits gentleness and patience, her demeanor tells a tale of simplicity, the sepia tone points to memories that will remain deeply embedded in our hearts and her gaze signals that an enormous strength lies dormant within us if only we are able to tap into it.