Evolution of love

JAI MAA ANANDAMAYI

It was considered indelicate to portray a revered figure as subject to ageing without recourse to retouching. Preferably, the face of the holy, even in a photograph, should be depicted like an icon, transubstantiated. Whereas, as in the Zen precedent of the famous Ten Ox-Herding Pictures, which represent sequent steps on the path to enlightenment, I would portray the highest attainable state of grace not as a quasi-divine being but as someone who is nothing special.
Here, in fact, was my solution: I would adapt the methods of contemporary photojournalism for purposes of visual anti-hagiography. I would proceed with as much tact and patience as I could muster, seeking the revelatory moment when that quality of nothing special was revealed in the split second of my open shutter.
Pure paradox! This would be a project made possible by a combination of Anandamayi's quicksilver grace and the cheeky efficiency of a good camera. From the start I noticed how fast was the tempo of her movements, how rapid her changes in facial expression, how swift her gestures, how quick her powers of observation. The camera seemed to me a thoroughly sympathetic instrument for registering the subtle interplay between the fleeting and that, which never changes.
The sacred art of the past employs stillness, permanence, immobility, hieratic gesture, and stylised and abstracted features in the depiction of exalted spiritual beings. To achieve transcendence of mundane appearances, sacred art of all epochs and all cultures also depended upon the artist's ability to depart as far as possible from any factual resemblance to natural appearances. For instance, the sublime beings carved from the living rock of India's ancient cave sanctuaries do not counterfeit the look of mere mortals - they are divine by reason of their distance from the facts of material reality.
Was I, by freezing action with fast shutter speeds, committing sacrilege in a holy place, or was I pushing the limits of the optical to evoke that which lies beyond time? Anandamayi did not curb my immoderate zeal; one of her most persistent leitmotifs was the need for skill in action. She tolerated my close attendance with intrusive apparatus for days at a time spanning a period of four years. So, with equal generosity, did many of her followers, who no doubt had better things to do than fuss over my needs.
What was I trying to do? First, I was trying to be truthful to experience. A friend of mine, the veteran educator Sanjiva Kao, compared Anandamayi's mind to an extraordinarily sensitive photographic plate. "She contacts the world around her without the mediation or interpretation of a busy mind. This mind carries an absence of independent activity of its own, but generates a clear mirror for the reflection of Truth. The photographic plate records without distortion the physical and psychic events occurring around it. Anandamayi possesses an extraordinary gift of remembering people she has met despite the ceaseless and numberless parade of faces which passes daily in front of her eyes." Here was my model in a dual sense: on the one hand, a paragon of that "I am a camera" truthfulness I sought to emulate; on the other, a photographer's "model" whom I could record from every angle. By a series of decisive moments, recorded by ultra-efficient lens and film, at the very quick of life, I would move in close to this hypersensitive person as she in turn moved out to meet me. In that conjunction of reciprocal awareness, a third reality would come into being, an image escaped from the trammels of time recording an occurrence powerful enough to eclipse my own intrusive ego.
As things turned out, this proved to be a hard apprenticeship: sessions involved intense visual concentration and, often as not, ended with no picture being taken, due either to the press of devotees or insufficient light. Almost all the best moments with Anandamayi occurred at night or in deep shade, when it was not possible to use a camera. Besides, her attention was so acute that she seemed at times to anticipate my every move, however discreet, permitting me to use my camera only briefly - no verbal refusal was ever given, just ingenious evasion - and at her own moment of choice! There was, often, no mistaking those occasions when photography was deemed unacceptable. At other times, compliance was tacit and the work proceeded without mishap. My most important requisite, I soon discovered, was my own heart. Nothing worked if I was not focused heart and soul upon my task - there would simply be no way through and I would be blocked. Only when my emotional temperature was sufficiently high, or sufficiently cool, so it seemed, did she pick up the correct signal and make way for me. Here was a lesson in a new kind of concentration. Photography became my sadhana spiritual exercise, as meditation and yoga were the sadhana of my fellow ashram inmates. It was my path to Truth.
The ashram garden was like the wings of a theater; people made their entrances and exits through its screen of foliage to the handsome terrace over the Ganges. Here I watched many scenes of breathtaking beauty. It was indeed a kind of stage, but for the performance of sacred drama; it never had even the slightest touch of theatricality about it though, nor were the players given to strutting the boards", as my figure of speech might suggest.
The marvelous thing about this terrace stage was the fact that every action, which took place there, sprang from the inner motivation of all who walked upon it. The performances were not according to a script in an assumed and predetermined role, but a spontaneous participation in divine lila.
Like iron filings attracted by a magnet, everyone was drawn into the ineluctable patterns of a current whose force was holistically greater than the sum of its parts. The location high above the sacred waters, the magical light which is so distinctive a charm of this ancient city, the pulsations of the kirtan singers circling close to Anandamayi - all contributed to the enchantment. The retinue of women who seemed to accompany her wherever she went looked exactly as one would imagine the Greek Chorus looked -and no doubt had a kindred function.
Here on the terrace people would gather for Mataji's darshan blessing by presence during her promenades. Very early in the morning, when the mist created the effect of a lace veil in the still air between parapet and river, she might stroll for a while, heavily wrapped in a shawl. Nobody could tell when she would come out of her room; when at last she did so, all eyes would be upon her, following her every movement in a contemplative vigil. It was lovely to watch the people come and go, some prostrating themselves at Mataji's feet; sometimes she gave an exquisite response, her hands folded delicately in ever-changing mudras, at other times she would become absorbed with a supplicant in brief counselling.
I soon noticed the complete absence of regimentation - no serried ranks or rows of obedient congregation, no processions no massed lines of followers performing synchronized rituals at the command of intoning priests. The only activity organised in patterns was the chanting of hymns, particularly a fine arati hymn, evensong verses composed for Anandamayi's people. There were many occasions, especially during festivals, when the music provided an insistent and compelling rhythmical pulse to quicken the spirit and carry people to the border of rapture. More usually; nama kirtan was an opportunity to generate ardour. I can still, 40 years on, feel a tingle in my spine when I recall the haunting voice of Pushpa, a gifted young woman, as she repeatedly called out the name of a deity - a wonderfully archaic sound, like a maenad shrilling in the sacred wood. Now and then Anandamayi would sing - inimitably - in a sweet, youthful, transparent way. The mood was relaxed, but also poignant.