If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir Read Online Free
Author: Om Swami
slay demons, create miracles, grant boons and help those who prayed to him. He could fly, he could appear and disappear at will, he could shift shapes … he could do anything he wished. And every story I read, I assumed to be true. I started building my world around God, with God, in God. I wanted to see him, I wanted to talk to him. I didn't like him being invisible. Perhaps God had appeared before people in ancient times, and maybe it was no longer possible to see him. An incident, however, changed my perception.
One evening when I came back into the house after playing outside, I saw my mother sitting by the altar reading a thick book. I threw my arms around her and kissed her.
'What are you reading, Mummy?'
' Ramcharitmanas . The story of Lord Rama.'
'Haven't you finished it yet? You are always reading this book.'
She laughed. 'This is our holy book, son, this is about God. Each time I read it, I receive something new.'
'Is Lord Rama God?'
'Yes.'
'Then what about Lord Shiva and Lord Krishna?' I pointed to the two pictures at the altar.
'They are all God, the same God, just different names, different forms.'
'Where is he then? Why can't I see him in real life?'
'He is everywhere. Those pure of heart see him, those who worship him see him.'
'But you worship him. Why don't you see him?'
'My worship is not the purest. Sometimes, I have to tell a lie and God doesn't like lying. Only those who always speak the truth see him.'
'Why do you have to lie sometimes, Mummy? And can I see him too?'
'Yes, why not?' And she narrated the story of the five-year-old prince, Dhurva, who went to the woods to pray to Lord Vishnu and saw a manifestation of the Divine form. I shivered.
'Can I read this book as well?'
'Of course, I'll read it with you.'
'No. Don't read it with me. Only help me if I get stuck.'
That day, she was reading the Uttar Kand, the last chapter of the Ramcharitmanas , and I glanced at the page she was on. She told me that it was the ‘Rudrashtakam’, a eulogy to Lord Shiva. It was written in simple Sanskrit. Since Hindi and Sanskrit shared the same script, I began reading. After some sentences, I got stuck at a long word: ‘saffurna-mauli-kalolini-charuganga’. My mother helped me with the pronunciation and told me that it meant ‘from the matted locks on Shiva's head gushes forth the beautiful Ganga’.
I didn't know what the eulogy meant but the rhythm and the sound drew me in. I felt different, as if something had melted within me. From devouring candies to being awake well past my bedtime, I had experienced various kinds of childish delights and felt good on many occasions, but this was a different feeling altogether. This was not a wave of happiness that rose and ebbed but the gentle flow of a river, a river of strange joy. It seemed to me that I had just experienced God. For the first time, I sensed that it was possible to see him.
I used to sleep with my mother and demanded a story every night. She knew countless legends from various scriptures. That night, she narrated the story of Krishna and his childhood friend, Sudama. Krishna loved him deeply and granted the poverty-stricken Sudama material comforts in the blink of an eye. Moved by the beautiful story, I slept with thoughts of God and with the conviction that he did exist.
A fair-complexioned Shiva with a slightly bluish throat appeared in my dream that night. His face was exquisite, his nose sharp and his lips pink and full; silver earrings hung from long ears. Matted locks were tied in a knot on top of his head and his broad shoulders glistened with drops of water, as if he had just come from the snowy Himalayas and the snowflakes had melted on his skin. In one of those drops of water, I saw my own reflection. He gazed at me with soft, loving eyes.
'I've come to see you,' he said.
'Oh, you are Lord Shiva. You must meet my mother.’
He smiled and stroked my head tenderly, his fingers long and slender.
'I've only come for
One evening when I came back into the house after playing outside, I saw my mother sitting by the altar reading a thick book. I threw my arms around her and kissed her.
'What are you reading, Mummy?'
' Ramcharitmanas . The story of Lord Rama.'
'Haven't you finished it yet? You are always reading this book.'
She laughed. 'This is our holy book, son, this is about God. Each time I read it, I receive something new.'
'Is Lord Rama God?'
'Yes.'
'Then what about Lord Shiva and Lord Krishna?' I pointed to the two pictures at the altar.
'They are all God, the same God, just different names, different forms.'
'Where is he then? Why can't I see him in real life?'
'He is everywhere. Those pure of heart see him, those who worship him see him.'
'But you worship him. Why don't you see him?'
'My worship is not the purest. Sometimes, I have to tell a lie and God doesn't like lying. Only those who always speak the truth see him.'
'Why do you have to lie sometimes, Mummy? And can I see him too?'
'Yes, why not?' And she narrated the story of the five-year-old prince, Dhurva, who went to the woods to pray to Lord Vishnu and saw a manifestation of the Divine form. I shivered.
'Can I read this book as well?'
'Of course, I'll read it with you.'
'No. Don't read it with me. Only help me if I get stuck.'
That day, she was reading the Uttar Kand, the last chapter of the Ramcharitmanas , and I glanced at the page she was on. She told me that it was the ‘Rudrashtakam’, a eulogy to Lord Shiva. It was written in simple Sanskrit. Since Hindi and Sanskrit shared the same script, I began reading. After some sentences, I got stuck at a long word: ‘saffurna-mauli-kalolini-charuganga’. My mother helped me with the pronunciation and told me that it meant ‘from the matted locks on Shiva's head gushes forth the beautiful Ganga’.
I didn't know what the eulogy meant but the rhythm and the sound drew me in. I felt different, as if something had melted within me. From devouring candies to being awake well past my bedtime, I had experienced various kinds of childish delights and felt good on many occasions, but this was a different feeling altogether. This was not a wave of happiness that rose and ebbed but the gentle flow of a river, a river of strange joy. It seemed to me that I had just experienced God. For the first time, I sensed that it was possible to see him.
I used to sleep with my mother and demanded a story every night. She knew countless legends from various scriptures. That night, she narrated the story of Krishna and his childhood friend, Sudama. Krishna loved him deeply and granted the poverty-stricken Sudama material comforts in the blink of an eye. Moved by the beautiful story, I slept with thoughts of God and with the conviction that he did exist.
A fair-complexioned Shiva with a slightly bluish throat appeared in my dream that night. His face was exquisite, his nose sharp and his lips pink and full; silver earrings hung from long ears. Matted locks were tied in a knot on top of his head and his broad shoulders glistened with drops of water, as if he had just come from the snowy Himalayas and the snowflakes had melted on his skin. In one of those drops of water, I saw my own reflection. He gazed at me with soft, loving eyes.
'I've come to see you,' he said.
'Oh, you are Lord Shiva. You must meet my mother.’
He smiled and stroked my head tenderly, his fingers long and slender.
'I've only come for
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