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Story Of My Life by Sri. Vethathiri Maharishi - CHAPTER- 3 My Parents

778 views · Published 10 October 2017 · 5:49 · Indexed 6 November 2026

Channel: Krish Murali Eswar · 2017 · Education

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CHAPTER - 3
                           MY PARENTS
 Both my parents were selfless social workers.
 If anyone was ill in any part of our village, my Father 
invariably went there, and rendered all the help he could. 
He was well versed in the art of diagnosing diseases by 
feeling the pulse. He had no stock of medicines with him. 
But he was an expert in treating ailments, using herbs. With 
indigenous materials he prepared highly efficacious 
potions, powders and collyria. The patients got well; but he 
never accepted payment for the treatment he gave.
        My father was truthful to a fault. Never once did he 
stretch the truth in all his life. Nor did he ever hurt people's 
Feelings. Using harsh words was foreign to the way he was 
made. To the very end he remained a model of perfection 
with regard to the qualities of head and heart, purity of 
conduct, and geniality.He lived like this right up to sixty 
three.
        Mother was his exact counterpart. She mothered the 
village as a whole. There was no wedding or childbirth or 
other occasion in any house there, in which she did not play 
a most beneficient role. She was famous for her deftness 
as a midwife, and for her success in treating sick children. 
Her services too were always rendered free.
 Both my parents were tireless workers. I am proud it
was given to me to be born as the son of people inspired
by the loftiest ideals of service and sacrifice. I cannot keep back the tears of joy that well up at once of their own
back the tears of joy that well up at once of their own
accord if I think of them.
   I am aftraid I cannot fully express in words the extent
of their affection for me. At that tender age I did not even
know that it was affection that made them behave as they
did. They were never tired of gazing at me. Seeing their
faces wreathed in smiles, I too would smile in return. That
served as a signal for them to seep me off my feet, and give
me a hug. These little incidents have remained etched in my
memory.
   Till the age of five, my mother insisted on feeding me
herself. She would carry me about, divert my attention,
pointing to a cock or crow or lizard, and put food into my
mouth with her free hand. Other animals, like an elephant,
monkey, bear or tiger she would conjure up by means of
stories.
   One of these, the story of Gajendra Moksham, or
Deliverance of the Elephant King, was an undisputed
favourite with me. It held a special fascination for me.
Listening to it, I was always sure to over eat.
   "There is a lake. A crocodile lies in wait, with its
mouth agape. A big elephant is on his way there, for a drink.
The crocodile grips him by the leg with powerful jaws. The
   Elephant trumpets in pain and despair, calling on God the
Almighty to save him. Lord Vishnu comes rushing. He is
seen there, in the sky, bearing His conch and His all con
quering Disc. His gesture is eloquent of His deep
compassion."
   Could I forget at that tender age such graphically
imagined scenes as these?
   I kept asking questions because I was besieged by
doubts. As between these two creatures, all my pity and
tenderness were only for the elephant. "Why did the ele-
phant come to this particular lake, mummy?" I ask. "Why
did not people hit the crocodile and drive it away? Was
there no other watering place for the poor elephant to go
to" Had he no father or mother to care for him at all?" And
so on.
   Each tiny morsel of food was well timed. It
accompanied each answer to my questions, which helped to
send the food down. Mother always had a specific quantity
 of food in view. Once I had finished that, the stories and
the dramatic scenes would cease. As for me, this particular
drama by the side of the lake kept re-enacting itself endlessly! 
I was to arrive at my own conclusion regarding this story when I was seven. 
That I shall relate in due course.
            

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