GRIEF AND SORROW are humanity’s heritage – the lot of lesser people but the glory of the great. It all depends on why the grief operates: for ‘I’ or for ‘Thou’, for small seekings or for great goals.

From Sri Ramakrishna’s own account we learn about his vision of Sita (the divine spouse of Rama) and how she bequeathed to him her ‘smile’. The proof of that we witness in his photographed countenance. But no less, she bequeathed her ‘grief’ also, the grief of a pure, forgiving and forbearing heart – she whose life was a saga of sublime sorrow. And we see Ramakrishna too shedding tears profusely and powerfully, whether it was for God or man.

To Ramakrishna God was specially the ‘Mother’, and for the Mother’s vision he wept copiously like a separated child, sore at heart. “O Mother, where art thou?” was his constant cry. As each day passed and the shadows of evening deepened, the shadow of sorrow would begin to grip him. The ringing of the temple bells for vespers would start a wringing of his heart. Another day was gone and he had not seen Mother yet. In his agony he would often rub his face against the ground. He became mad for Her. How could Mother resist such importunities She had to reveal Herself to him in all Her grace and glory.

No wonder Ramakrishna knew and taught the power of true tears.

His own personal needs or troubles caused him no concern, much less grief. The only concern of his life was to love God and sing His glories and to share God’s love with others. Even when he was in the grip of the terrible cancer which proved fatal, he was not grieving; actually those last days were days of great inner bliss for him. It was then that a well-wisher pointed out that Ramakrishna could use his yogic powers and could cure himself by concentrating his mind on the affected part. Sharp came the reply: “What do you say! This mind has been given up to God once for all. How can I withdraw it from Him and turn it on this worthless body?”

But where the needs of others and their sufferings were concerned, he was all concern and sorrow.

Sorrow stirred him in its different dimensions and several shapes.

Akshay, his dearly beloved and handsome nephew passed away prematurely. Ramakrishna relates how sometime after the event grief hit him. He felt a racking pain at the loss, as if somebody were squeezing his heart like a wet towel. (This is typical of the way he often described the intensity of his feeling). More important to us are his reflections on the experience. “I wondered and thought that Mother was teaching me a lesson. I was not much concerned with my body even, much less with a nephew. But if such was my pain at his bereavement, how much more must be the grief of the householders at the loss of their near and dear ones!”

Yes, his heart throbbed with sympathy, with empathy. And then, in 1868, Mathur Babu (the then proprietor of the Dakshineshwar temple property) took him on a pilgrimage to Benaras and other holy places. On the way, in a village near Deoghar, something arrested his attention – the wretched condition of the people. He was so moved that he began to press Mathur to feed and clothe them. Practical Mathur protested that it would cost a lot of money and as such would hit the pilgrimage itself. But Ramakrishna would not relent. In tears and anguish he declared that he would rather give up the pilgrimage itself and remain with those helpless people. And remain he did; just sat down with them. Mathur had no alternative but to get the needed supplies form Calcutta at much expense; and only after they were offered to these ‘gods in distress’ did Ramakrishna resume the ‘pilgrimage’.

Tremendous, again, was his longing to share his various spiritual experiences with pure souls, and through such to transmit his message to the world at large. “During the day-time I somehow managed to control it... But when the day came to a close, I could not curb my feelings.”  The vesper bells would again summon him to his sublime sorrow. Climbing to the roof-top he would cry out at the top of his voice. “Come, my boys! Oh where are you? I cannot bear to live without you!” “A mother never longs so intensely for the sight of her child, nor a friend for his companion, nor a lover for his sweet-heart, as I did for them!”

Those pure-souled boys did come.  Among them all, there was one who was the focus of Ramakrishna’s attention, love and regard. That was Narendra, the future Swami Vivekananda. When he came, Ramakrishna rushed to him and unburdened his heart, amid sobs: “How could you be so unkind as to keep me waiting so long... I am panting to unburden my mind to one who can appreciate my innermost experiences... I know you are that ancient sage Nara, Narayana’s Incarnation, born on earth to remove the misery of mankind.

If Narendra failed to come to Dakshineswar for a few days, he would weep and pray to the Divine Mother, “Blessed Mother, I cannot live without seeing him.” “For six months I suffered excruciating agony for him... I loved the other young devotees too, but it was nothing in comparison with what I felt for Narendra. “So much was the longing that when Narendra failed to turn up for a while, Ramakrishna himself went in search of him. And for the sake of this special person, he was prepared to undergo any difficulty or even humiliation. “O My Naren, do you not know,” he once declared to that disciple who was then in great distress but too proud to beseech help, “that I would do anything for you; that for you I would even go about begging from door to door?”

A most touching proof of the supreme trust and regard he had for Narendra and others we witness in an incident which took place during Ramakrishna’s last illness at the Cossipore garden-house.

The householder devotees took care of the monetary needs and the young men, the future monks, attended to the personal needs and nursing of their Master. Due to lack of time as well as experience they could not pay much attention to keeping accounts. When, however, the monthly bills began to mount, some of the donors grew sensitive and started demanding a clear accounting. They   were not satisfied with one statement because of some ‘discrepancy’, even though it was only microscopic. Sensing trouble from their looks, Ramakrishna called the young me and forbade them to accept money any more under such conditions. He would rather live wherever Narendra and the other boys would take him, remaining satisfied with what they got by begging. Fortunately the extreme step did not become actually necessary due to the intervention of the great dramatist-devotee Girish Ghosh. He just tore the account book into pieces, and undertook to meet all expenses himself.

It is no wonder that to his beloved Narendra. Sri Ramakrishna passed on his spiritual ‘powers’ and the responsibility for looking after the future Ramakrishna Order. No less did he bequeath to this spiritual heir his sublime sorrow for suffering humanity; and Narendra proved fully worthy of this priceless inheritance. As Swami Vivekananda, he admonished us. “Feel from the heart... Love opens the most impossible gates... Do you feel that millions and millions of the descendants of gods and sages have become next-door neighbours to brutes? Does it make you restless? Does it make you sleepless?” He revealed to us. “Well... this is the school of misery, which is also the school for great souls and prophets for the cultivation of sympathy...”.

Source: 'Profiles in Greatness' by Swami Sastrananda, Published by Sri Ramakrishna Math, Mylapore, Chennai (Year 1987).

One day Swami Vivekananda went for a walk with Hollister on Mr. Leggett’s private and well-kept ninehole golf course. Seeing a small flag at a distance, Swamiji, not knowing the game, asked, “Why that flag flutters there?” Hollister explained the procedure and went to get a club and ball in order to demonstrate it. Returning, he told Swamiji that par for that particular hole was four, and seven or eight for beginners.

Swamiji Smiled. “I will make you a bet,” he said. “I shall put the ball in the hole with one stroke.” Hollister produced fifty cents, Swamiji took a dollar from his pocket. At this point Mr. Leggett appeared and asked what these two were plotting. Being told, he informed Swamiji that what he proposed was impossibility even for good players. “What is your bet?” Swamiji said. Mr. Leggett took a ten dollar bill from his wallet, and the bet was made. Swamiji told Hollister to stand by the hole — not too close. Hollister took his position; Swamiji pulled up the sleeves of his robe, looked intently at the flag, and swung at the ball. It entered the hole.

When Mr. Leggett was able to speak, he said, “Has your yoga got something to do with it, Swami?”

“I don’t use yoga for so trifling a thing,” Swamiji replied. “What I did I will tell you in two sentences. First, I measured the distance by sight, and I know the strength of my biceps. Second, I told my mind that I would be richer by ten dollars and a half. And then I Swung.”

Source: Insights into Vedanta

Once pride entered into the heart of Arjuna, the beloved friend of Sri Krishna. Arjuna thought that none equalled him in love and devotion to his Lord and Friend. The omniscient Lord, Sri Krishna, reading the heart of His friend, took him one day for a walk. They had not proceeded far when Arjuna saw a strange Brahmana eating dry grass as food, but nevertheless had a sword dangling at his side. Arjuna at once knew him to be a holy and pious devotee of Vishnu, one whose highest religious duty was to injure no being. As even grass has life, he would not eat it green but sustained his life by eating it dry and lifeless. Yet he carried a sword. Arjuna, wondering at the incongruity, turned towards the Lord and said: ‘How is this? Here is a man who has renounced all ideas of injuring any living being, down to the meanest blade of grass; yet he carries with him a sword, the symbol of death and hatred!’ The Lord said, ‘You had better ask the man yourself’. Arjuna then went up to the Brahmana and said: ‘Sir, you injure no living being, and you live upon dry grass. Why even do you carry this sharp sword?’

The Brahmana said: ‘It is to punish four persons if I chance to meet them’.

Arjuna: ‘Who are they?’

The Brahmana said: ‘The first wretch Narada.

Arjuna: ‘Why, what has he done?’

The Brahmana replied: ‘Why, look at the audacity of that fellow; he is perpetually keeping my Lord awake with his songs and music. He has no consideration whatsoever for the comfort of the Lord. Day and night, in and out of season, he disturbs the peace of the Lord by his prayers and praises.

Arjuna: ‘Who is the second person?’

The Brahmana: ‘The impudent Draupadi.’

Arjuna: ‘What is her fault?’

The Brahmana: ‘Look at the inconsiderate audacity of the woman! She was so rash as to call my beloved Lord just at the moment He was going to dine. He had to give up His dinner and go to the Kamyaka Vana to save the Pandavas from the curse of Durvasa. And her presumption went so far that she even caused my beloved Lord to eat the impure remnant of her own food.’

Arjuna: ‘Who is the third?’

The Brahmana: ‘It is the heartless Prahlada. He was so cruel that he did not hesitate for a moment to ask my Lord to enter the boiling cauldron of oil, to be trodden under the heavy feet of the elephants and to break through an adamantine pillar.’

Arjuna: ‘Who is the fourth?’

The Brahmana: ‘The wretch Arjuna.’

Arjuna: ‘Why, what fault has he committed?’

The Brahmana: ‘Look, at his felony. He made my beloved Lord take the mean office of a charioteer of his car in the great war of Kurukshetra.’

Arjuna was amazed at the depth of the poor brahmana’s devotion and love, and from that moment his pride vanished, and he gave up thinking that he was the best devotee of the Lord.

Source: Tales and Parables of Sri Ramakrishna

One night a fisherman went into a garden and cast his net into the lake in order to steal some fish. The owner heard him and surrounded him with his servants. They brought lighted torches and began to search for him. In the mean time the fisherman smeared his body with ashes and sat under a tree, pretending to be a holy man. The owner and his men searched a great deal but could not find the thief. All they saw was a holy man covered with ashes, meditating under a tree. The next day the news spread in the neighbourhood that a great sage was staying in the garden. People gathered there and saluted him with offerings of fruits, flowers, and sweets. Many also offered silver and copper coins. "How strange!" thought the fisherman, 'I am not a genuine holy man, and still people show such devotion to me. I shall certainly realize God if I become a true sadhu. There is no doubt about it.'