I don't submit this as "writing," but as a memory for a special soul. Please join me for this personal journey... * * * * * * Some weeks back, my dear friend Chandra took me to a homeless shelter here in Chicago. It was one of those missions built from a single unbroken hall, dark and stifling from the lack of sun and ventilation, and with that cloistered feel you get from places which seem untouched by the outside world. It was terribly managed, no one in attendance; and felt terribly and inexcusably inhuman. There were a handful residents curled on mattresses, and a woman in a sari in back. Chandra whispered: "It's her. She's the one from home..." 'Home' was Calcutta, where Chandra did service for many years. She knew this woman from her Mission... We went to the woman. "Rani," said Chandra: "This is Mark. He's done service too..." "Narayan namo," Rani whispered ("I bow to the divinity in you"). I returned the greeting and kissed her hand. Rani kissed mine back. "She came here on the final trip of her life," said Chandra, "she wanted to see her sister before she passed." "Did she see her?" I asked. "No. Her sister died the week before she came." "God, I'm sorry," I whispered. "No, no" said Chandra: "She came all this way without speaking to her sister. [Whispering:] She's fine with that! The journey was for Love: She truly believes her sister knew she was here..." Rani patted her heart as if to say, "yes..." * * * * * * Rani was 90, her skin a sheath of velvety gold, her hair a radiant black--it must've looked this way when she was 20--and her eyes, two bowls of fire. She was paper-thin but intensely present. Her voice was like a Mozart aria, her gestures like a dancer's, and her smile like a gleeful child's. "May I speak with Mark alone?" Rani said. Chandra tended to others... "It may seem forward," said Rani, "but I feel as if I know you!" Then, for the next 3 hours, Rani held my hand and told stories of growing up in the villages of India where you saw the cycles of life and death "coming and going like blades of grass or like the stars..." She quoted scriptures, tales, her beloved Bhagavad Gita, and many beautiful songs. I'd known many Indians who'd brought the sumptuous dance of their tradition to life, but none had done it like this: Rani spoke as one ready to pass, elated that at last she could leave this body and move to a better place, and was in bliss at entering "the eternal pageant of my people". "My body has passed its time," she whispered: "It's time to go to new pastures. Look: I embrace it with all my soul! I'm not afraid!" She threw out her arms and her lockets clattered like a chorus of small bells. She was poor, but her lockets were hand-carved, the pictures hand-painted, her scarves made with hand-drawn mandalas and paisleys, and there was a sense of sacredness to her attire, like this was the art of the soul where value wasn't determined by cost but by inner-radiance. She smelled of jasmine and lavender; and her arms--waving perilously because she could barely move them anymore--seemed like branches of an old oak waving in the wind. "That's not easy," she said, lowering her arms. "I must catch my breath..." Then--eyes closed--she told the tale from the ancient plains of India where Krishna begged the forces of the world to cease battle and recognize that we're 'all one'. She sang the famous words, "the soul is never born, nor does it die...it is birthless, eternal, imperishable, timeless..." She sang them like they were her wedding songs... Finally, Rani said, "I want to speak with Chandra. Could you leave us?" I wished Rani safe passage, and she smiled, "I'm already where I want to be." "Where's that?" I said. "Heaven..." I stood at the door while she and Rani held hands, both of them lit in the darkness like a late Rembrandt--all golds and deep reds, glowing from several sticks of incense and a beautiful old candle which had oozed its wax all over the table and floor...They spoke inaudibly, heads bobbing and foreheads rubbing, and I realized: This was a sacred moment. It was inviolable and unshakable and exquisitely private; a holy of holies between two connected souls; and I thought, 'if I never see Chandra again, this is how I'd like to remember her: connecting heart-to-heart, revering age, sharing dearly, and never once wavering from the bond of unspeakable intimacy'. Rani died a week later in Calcutta. She was cremated on the shores of the Ganges. Chandra wrote: "The flames were orange, and lit up the night like the sun! Oh, you should've seen it..." I should add: To some Hindus, this is a supreme blessing. It's life transformed into pure blinding light... * * * * * * The following day, Chandra flew back to India. Standing at the curb, she suddenly grabbed me and wept: "Please don't let go," she pleaded: "Please..." She wept uncontrollably. I hugged as intensely as I could, because I knew from her grasp that this was from her very depths, a baring of everything in her, which she wanted me to 'have', a gift of a life of holding the souls of others; that she was afraid she wouldn't be able to carry it much longer and wanted me to give it to others. It was a lifetime of seeing the depths of countless souls and being overwhelmed at the pageant of their lives; and a lifetime of witnessing that each life was greater than the sum of its parts and that each was tinged with what we used to call "the whispers of eternity"....It was her heart, so overflowing that it was gushing like a fountain, a heart that needed to break and pour itself into her closest friend, without words, without labels as if to say: "This is my life, please cherish it". Beyond that, it was her earthly life, which--unbeknownst to me--was about to end: a deep and final imparting of something inviolable and sacred. She wept so hard her whole body shook; her hands dug into my arms; and, when she finished, she spoke one other word--just one--then kissed me on my heart, and left. I couldn't move. On crawling into a taxi, she smiled at the driver and said: "Hello, sweet soul..." That was my friend Chandra... * * * * * * Weeks later, I got an email: Your beloved Chandra died today. She died in a Himalayan village. They say it was because she couldn't get help: But we knew. She was exhausted. She died of living too many lives. She passed with 'I love you' on her lips to everyone present; and dictated this letter to you... I cannot print the letter, but in it she said: "Remember our little agreement..." Our 'agreement'? Her one last word, while hugging me, was, "Impart!" Why? The yogic teachers said: Na datvyam, na datvyam, na datvyam. It means: Do not impart, do not impart, do not impart... Why? Share the Mysteries cautiously, they said: Never treat them like 'everyday talk'... Why, then, did Chandra say otherwise? To say: "Sing the mysteries to the world, friends! Gush them until they shake the oceans, let them rush from your lips like waterfalls and rivers..." What was the agreement? That I tell one tale every birthday that captured her love and passion. She agreed to do the same for me... Chandra passed on August 27th this year. She was born on September 24th (yesterday). She was 59 years old: I never dreamt I'd be the one to tell the tale; and never, never, so early in her life... In her memory, I offer this story to the Light in everyone. May it inspire much intimacy in all of your lives, and much love... With much peace, Mark