Mukti De Coux: Foreward to the german edition of

David Godman: Nothing Ever Happened, Volume III.

‘Nothing Ever Happened’ is an extraordinary title for a book that tells a thousand
and one stories! Thanks to his great talent as a journalist and writer, David
Godman has kept this paradox very much alive.

In February 1999, Ganga Mira was invited to give satsang1 in Tiruvannamalai2 on

the rooftop of a guesthouse located near to the ashram3 of Ramana Maharishi4,
H.W.L. Poonja’s5 Master. There was a beautiful view of Arunachala6. I had
accompanied her and as I started to go down the stairs a tall man came up to me
and said:

-I wanted to see if you had escaped the ‘Poonja’ nose! I can see that fortunately
you have your mother’s!

My first meeting with David Godman was filled with humour which I enjoyed
very much. He asked me if I would be happy to talk about the years I’d spent
with Papaji, my father. He invited me to his house; we sat on the terrace and I
answered his questions.

Poonjaji had an extremely charismatic and powerful presence. His personality

was paradoxical, exuberant and sober. This was making his life and his lightning
responses in satsang unpredictable. By his actions and words, he would pull the
carpet out from under our feet, leaving us without any reference to hold on to.

We could never rest. Nothing was guaranteed! His unexplainable behavior defied
all images and judgments. Spiritual and moralistic concepts were swept away.
Was he not always saying: “Don’t land anywhere!”? His life was a real teaching.

I have often been asked one question:

Was Papaji your father or your Master?

1 Meetings in Truth.

2 Town in the state of Tamil Nadu, South India.

3 Monastery.

4 Ramana Maharishi (1879-1950) was a Master of Advaita from Tamil Nadu, South
India.

5 H.W.L. Poonja is also called Poonjaji, Master, Papaji.

6 A sacred mountain that Ramana Maharishi considered has his Master.

1
The real question is: Did you also inherit the desire to free yourself? Have you
been able to look beyond the simple father-daughter relationship to see the
incontestable greatness of the Master?
The search can never be imposed on anyone. There is no ground for fanaticism
or conversion. Unlike religion, this indication leaves one naked from any belief.
In my case though, for as long as I can remember, and for better or worse, I had
been searching for something other than what this phenomenal world could
offer. So, to this question, I reply:

Yes! He was my father! I was his little princess. He was so loving and tender. He
nearly never got angry with me and he enjoyed my mischievousness. We laughed
a lot together. We were so close, so intimate, especially the first ten years of my
life. I adored and admired him.

Yes! He was my Master. For me, satsang came out of all his pores and was
present in each moment of our daily life and around every conversation,
observation and anecdote. He incited me to meditate and to report on what I
was experiencing. I sat on his lap while he was giving satsang. And often in the
evening, he would tell me passionate stories about the Indian Gods and interpret
their symbolic meaning. When I reached adolescence, the Master often replaced
the father with one who uncompromisingly broke my concepts and ideals while
destroying even the foundations of my identity, this “I”, this unquestioned body-
mind entity which we identify with. I admit that it wasn’t always easy, but today
I give thanks for each ordeal and my gratitude towards this man, this undisputed
Master, is complete.

So, he has been both, my father and my Master. As he was unpredictable, when I
was looking for the father, the Master would appear in front of me, and when I
was expecting the guidance of the Master, it was the father who was answering
my question. These two aspects of him were so entangled that it was impossible
to dissociate them.

He often said that he had had a worldly family while marrying young and
fathering two children, but with Ganga Mira he had accomplished his desire to
form a spiritual family where each member would dedicate his life to the search
of the Self.

On the 5th May 1993, he wrote to me, “You are different. Who is your father, who
is your mother? Can every child be that lucky to have this Grace? What a unique
family: Mukti, Meera7, Papa and Mimi8”.

This is thus the story of the family that he wanted to create. It is the very human
story of H.W.L. Poonja, a man liberated from history, free of all notions.

7 Ganga Mira’s name at that time.

8 Ganga Mira’s mother, Cornelia du Marais, Durga

2
As David described so well in ‘Nothing Ever Happened’, H.W.L. Poonja and Ganga
Mira met in 1968 in Rishikesh at the bank of the Ganga, in circumstances well
worthy of Indian mythology. I won’t elaborate on this, but I’ll mention certain
episodes.

Geneviève De Coux9 was born in 1947, in Namur, Belgium. She spent an idyllic
childhood in the Belgian Congo where her grand-parents owned a coffee
plantation. Her father, Antoine De Coux, was a magistrate and her mother,
Cornélia du Marais, was a painter, writer and poet. In 1960, the year of the
Congo’s independence, the family had to forgo everything and exile to Belgium.
The lost paradise.

Geneviève found herself in Brussels. This radical change of scenery stoked the
fire of her ontological search. Holidays were often spent at her mother’s windmill
in Sintra, Portugal.

On the Eve of her third year exams at the U.L.B. Brussels University, while
studying her philosophy paper, she stumbled upon a saying of Socrates which hit
her straight in the heart: “Know thyself”. Realizing that this was precisely what
she had always been looking for, she instantly dropped her studies and set out
for India by road in search of a living Buddha.

On reaching the Himalayan foot-hills, she led a meditative and ascetic life by the
Ganges, in Rishikesh, waiting to meet her Master. The locals soon began to call
her Mira like the princess who relinquished all for the love of Krishna.

Time passed by and the sage who would help her in her quest didn’t appear.
Dropping all hopes, she moved for some months into a cave, where she lived like
a sadhu10. Her passport visa had expired and she was running out of money. She
decided to spend her last rupees at a chai shop11 to drink a good cup of tea.
While sitting down reading a book of poetry by Kabir12, she was approached by a
tall, impressive Indian. Looking at the book in her hands, he kindly told her that if
she needed any help he could be found every morning beside the Ganga, at the
Ram Joola beach. She respectfully refused his offer and returned to her cave.
Two nights later, in her dream, the face of this man suddenly appeared to her.
Was he The Master for whom she had been waiting for so long? At five in the
morning, she went to look for him. He was at the meeting point and started to

9 Ganga Mira’s official name.

10 Brahmins, after having completed their dharma or duty of family life, and
marrying their children, have the choice of renouncing everything and becoming
ascetics.

11 Place where people drink tea.

12 Kabir (1398-1440/1448?), Indian poet and philosopher that Poonjaji enjoyed very
much.

3
laugh when he saw her coming. She sat down in front of him and had an
incredible experience of awakening.

The following day he disappeared without leaving a trace. He had just turned his
back on his family responsibilities to live the life of a sadhu. Ganga Mira was in
ecstasy and desperate at the same time. She had found and lost her Master. She
had neither a name nor an address. She decided to wait for him under the very
tree where they had met and spent there eight months meditating. People
started to consider her a saint.

He eventually miraculously reappeared. From that moment on they stayed

together beside the Ganga living as Master and disciple. They walked and
laughed a lot. Every daily event was a living teaching and pretext for a profound
reflection that coloured their life with sacredness, magic and laughter.

A couple of months later, in Vrindavan, the town of Krishna and Radha they
became lovers. Poonjaji decided that they should marry and when they returned
to the Ganga, they made their vow to each other in the sacred river.

He later brought her to Lucknow to introduce her to his parents Parmanand and
Yamuna Devi, commonly named Pitaji and Mataji. They immediately adored
Ganga Mira, which for a family of pure Brahmins13, descendants of the great rishi14
Shandilia and originating from the mythical Saraswati River, was quite
extraordinary! Parmanand had only wanted to be served by her15. On his
deathbed, he had even said to his son:

-Always keep Meera in your heart!

Mataji had revealed to Ganga Mira that in her son’s astrological chart, it was
predicted that he would marry a young yogini from the West and my mother was
therefore welcomed as a daughter.

When they were in Lucknow, Poonjaji and Ganga Mira were often staying in a
house called “Vrindavan”. One afternoon of October 1969, Ganga Mira was
having a nap. Suddenly she woke up with a start! A man wearing a brown
cassock was touching her feet while looking at her intensely with his magnificent
blue eyes. She immediately recognized him. Saint Francis! Saint Francis of Assisi!
An immense and divine fear took hold of her and with the hairs on her neck
standing on end and her heart beating to bursting point, she ran straight to her
Master’s room.

13 Members of the priestly caste, the highest in the Hindu society.

14 Sage.

15 For the question of purity, Brahmins normally don’t accept food from non-
Brahmins.

4
-Master! Master! I’m scared! I’ve seen Saint Francis! It’s him, I’m sure! Yet it’s
not possible! He’s been dead for hundreds of years! I don’t know what’s true
and what isn’t any more. I’m going mad!

-Saint Francis?

-Yes, I saw him! He was as real as you!

-You jumped into another state of consciousness where the saints of the past live.
I have often had visions of Krishna and other saints.

This explanation calmed her down.

In 1971, a few disciples who Poonjaji had met here and there during their walks
invited him to give satsang in several European countries. It was the first time
that he was traveling outside India. After a visit to Germany, Poonjaji and Ganga
Mira went to Belgium where they stayed with her family at Wépion beside the
river Meuse. Cornélia du Marais and Christian, her mother and brother, became
Poonjaji’s disciples and were renamed Durga and Satish. They followed him on
several of his trips.

They then travelled to Switzerland and Italy …Assisi! The place of Saint Francis
and Saint Claire.

They wandered about the town. Poonjaji recognized each stone and path and had
a very strong mystical experience. In a vision, he saw that he had been Saint
Francis, that Ganga Mira had been Saint Claire and that they had taken birth
again in order to love each other carnally. A great and sacred joy overtook them
both and once back in the hotel they laughed so much that their neighbors
couldn’t sleep and the banging on their wall made them laugh even more!

I was conceived that night. After all, hadn’t Saint Francis visited Ganga Mira in a
vision some years back? Was it to announce my coming?

They continued their nomadic life to Austria, back to Germany and finally to
Spain.

On arriving in Barcelona, Poonjaji’s visa was about to expire and he would have
soon to go back alone to India. The day before his departure Ganga Mira was
troubled.

-I think I’m pregnant! Should we keep the baby?

She had never wanted to have a family and had sacrificed everything for this
search. In a flash she foresaw all the difficulties that were awaiting her. Their life
would never be the same with responsibilities of education and school…

He looked at her tenderly and said:

5
-Oh! A little Meera16!

She understood that she should keep the baby. Poonjaji reassured her and said
that he would arrange for the birth to take place in Lucknow.

Ganga Mira returned to Belgium and applied for a visa for India. It didn’t arrive
in time, so I was born in Brussels on the 29th August 1972. My mother called me
Ramani after Ramana Maharshi. At the age of one month we flew to India. My
father was waiting for us at Delhi Airport and as he took me in his arms he
named me Mukti “Liberation” and so Mukti it was.

He took us to Lucknow to introduce me to his mother, Mataji. She immediately

made a Punjabi17 ritual with matches to see of whom I was the reincarnation.
The oracle apparently gave evidence that I was the reincarnation of her late
husband. My father however never spoke to me about my reincarnations. In
reality, he didn’t believe in past life nor in karma18 even though he was
sometimes visited by visions. He saw that Ganga Mira had been his sister in the
desert and also his daughter who had died very young in Tiruvannamalai and
that she had to been born again to live a physical and spiritual love with him.
Who knows? Perhaps that’s why Ganga Mira immediately recognized Ramana’s
little room when she entered there for the first time in 1995! Anyway it’s a crazy
family story, with me being the reincarnation of his father and my mum being his
deceased daughter!

After Lucknow, we went to Varanasi where my mother plunged me into the

freezing Ganga crying:

-Jay Gange!

-What are you doing? Master said to her in great surprise. Are you mad?

-But the Ganga is sacred! She retorted.

My father called these years ‘the golden years of his life’. My parents had a
marvellous relationship, full of harmony, respect and joy. I never saw a fight nor
did I feel tensions. My mother had an unconditional love for her Master to whom
she was totally devoted. My father adored in her the beautiful woman and the
disciple burning in the fire for Freedom. He was sometimes very romantic and
would write such beautiful love letters. In the last years of his life, he would tell
her: “The entire world came to me, but I came to you. Never forget it!”, “When
you are not here, to whom can I really speak?” The passion for Truth united
them. They shared the same devotion, the same tender and amused attention

16 Meera was the name Papaji called Ganga Mira.

17 From the state of Punjab, in the North of India, from where H.W.L. Poonja comes
from.

18 Law of actions and reactions.

6
towards me. Like any parent, they would see all qualities in me and I made them
very proud. My father always found my silly tricks hilarious! Our family was an
island of peace and happiness.

Satsang was always present in our daily life. Around every little anecdote there
was always an outstanding comment that led us to the truth of things. It was an
ascetic life, staying in ashram rooms and going for long walks that took up a good
part of the day and on which he sometimes carried me on his shoulders. There
were baths in the Ganga, encounters with animals, shopping at the market,
meetings with seekers and visits to temples where my father loved to tell me
stories about the gods which I loved as he was an incredible story teller.

Despite his love for the gods however he neither believed in them nor practiced
rituals. He never wanted an ashram19 nor celebrated religious feasts nor sang
bhajans20. Later, in Lucknow he adored making people sing in public who were
not natural singers. He himself didn’t have a good singing voice. He also enjoyed
bringing together several doctors with different opinions who would end up
fighting each other! What a funny circus! In this I recognize him well! Already
when I was still a small child he loved to play tricks on his disciples and we
would laugh together. He was never unkind but any opportunity to laugh was
appreciated!

In 1974, we went back to Europe. We spent a lot of time in France and lived six
months in Portugal at my grandmother’s windmill that Poonjaji had renamed
“Diamond Stupa Ashram”. Durga’s strong and direct character amused him and
he often said that she was his fellow companion on the way. She considered him
to be her Master and had total admiration for his upadesha21. Our days were
spent walking in the nearby fields which I enjoyed a lot. Unfortunately, I was sent
for the first time to the small village school during the daily satsangs. I was so
frustrated that I put my uniform on the wrong way round in defiance and when I
got home I hit my dad. Luckily it amused him!

My father meditated with me and asked me to explain what my experiences

were. He liked telling the following anecdote. In France, while a disciple was
meditating, I went up to her and touched her heart with my little hand.

-My Papa is here!

Then I touched her head and said:

-He’s not there!

19 Monastery.

20 Sacred songs.

21 Teaching.

7
In his youth Poonjaji had been a Krishna bhakta22 and I could still see it in the
love for Krishna that he transmitted to me. In the houses we stayed in there
were often little ritual altars and I would frequently sit on them and play with the
gods as if they were dolls. For me the gods were alive and were my friends.

The following event that my father was very fond of happened in 1975 when I
was three years old. We used to spend time in Londa where some of his disciples
had a house that they offered to him each time he was in the area. Poonjaji had
been a mining engineer and because he had found minerals in that region, the
government had built a railway line and little by little a small village had
developed in which he had some very faithful disciples. I loved this little village
right in the jungle not far from the rice fields. As always we went for long walks
and I played with the village dogs. My father named one “Furious Doggy”! It was
a particularly angry looking dog and was my favorite! One evening my parents
couldn’t find me anywhere in the house and looked everywhere for me, in vain.
They then took torches and set out to search the jungle nearby. They finally saw
me. I had gone for a walk alone with three big dogs!

-What are you doing here alone in the forest? My father asked me.

-I’m looking for Krishna! I replied.

I recall an anecdote. I was almost six years old and, for my father, education and
therefore school was very important. He was becoming worried about our
future. So far, our nomadic life had been easy but if I went to school I would have
to stay for a long time in the same place and that would become a problem for
the life we led together. Although my parents had taken their vows of marriage
in the Ganga, nothing was official and Poonjaji was still legally married to his first
wife who had been chosen by his parents when he was only eighteen year’s old23.
They had two children, Surendra and Surendri, who were older than my mother!
Hindus were monogamous and at that time divorce was non-existent. So for
these legal reasons neither could my father settle in Europe nor could my mother
live in India. At one point he thought of settling in Australia but it would have
been a complicated procedure.

My parents were looking for the best solution for our family future when my
father’s visa ran out. He soon took the plane from Paris to Delhi. At that time we
didn’t know that our life together was about to end. The golden years were over.
It was a real drama. Samsara! How you hold us in your grasp! My dad was my
hero, my pillar of strength and I loved him so much. How could I live without
him? My strong and joyful personality withdrew inside. This separation
however, although very difficult to bear, was only physical. My father’s presence
was so imposing that it was untouched by the geographical distance between us.
We wrote to each other very often and he told my mother to be patient. There
would be a solution and he liked the idea that I would be brought up in the West.

22 A devotee.

23 Arranged marriages.

8
A year went by and the solution never came. Ganga Mira had never worked and
found it difficult to bring up a child on her own in a big city like Brussels.
Circumstances brought her to move to Venezuela where we lived for three years.
I did part of my primary studies in Spanish at the village school. We had a little
house in a beautiful natural park full of tropical plants at two thousand metres
altitude overlooking the ocean on the horizon.

Each summer we travelled to India to see my father, and then it was as if there
had never been a separation. My parents were together again and we were as
close as ever. Our daily life seemed unchanged and each time we enjoyed
beautiful months together.

In 1981, Ganga Mira decided to leave Venezuela and return to live in Belgium
near to her father. Before making this big life change we spent a few months in
India. My father waited for us in Lucknow at my half-brother’s house. Surendra
lived there with his wife Usha, his three children, Indu, Sanjay, Jaya and his
mother. Surendri, my half–sister and her two sons, Deepankar and Divya, came
to visit us as well and for two weeks we all lived together in harmony.

Afterwards, my parents and I left for Rishikesh where we stayed in a lovely

ashram24. I would bring baby frogs into our room and let them hop happily
around.

Again, we spent our days walking between Ram Joola and Phool Chatti and
bathing in the Ganga. We would also often visit Parmarth Ashram. There were
statues of gods and saints, including the Swami Ram Tirtha (1873-1906), my
great uncle who was a sage, poet and mathematician. My dad would tell me
stories about them. And that’s what I also did when I recently stayed there with
my children, Arun and Satyâ.

We then went to Hardwar, a place I adored. Our room had a big terrace directly
on to the Ganga and at the bottom of the stairs there was a private ghat25 where
we could bathe undisturbed. Poonjaji could spend hours on this terrace
contemplating the Ganga and when we took a bath on the opposite bank, he
would watch us and we would wave at each other. The terrace was often visited
by a family of monkeys and I would ask my dad to catch the babies which he
tried but each time a big male monkey would appear and we would take refuge
behind the mosquito door and make faces at him! The door was so thin that
when the big monkey who felt insulted, tried to get in we were afraid that he
might succeed!

One day there was a nest of orange wasps on the terrace. My dad told me that
when he was small he attached a piece of string to the wasp’s waist and went for
a walk with her as if she was a balloon. He then literally brought the story to life

24 Monastery.

25 Banks of a sacred river or pond covered with steps.

9
by handing me a string to hold which was attached to a wasp flying above my
head! My mum exclaimed:

-Poor wasp! Untie her!

I let go and the poor thing flew away trailing her string!

We also used to give sugar to the ants. My father loved observing insects and the
animal world in general. I think we visited all the zoos in India and Europe and
notably the Albino gorilla in Barcelona’s zoo.

Occasionally we would go to the market. My parents would walk next to me to

prevent me from seeing the multitude of colorful objects that were for sale. I was
captivated and wanted to buy everything including small statues of the gods
dressed in their clothes and flashy green plastic parrots. Everything was colorful
and attractive ! After the market we would drink a good lassi26 or a sugar cane
juice, eat a roasted corn on the cob with lime and salt, and a jelabi or a bharfi27 for
dessert. We would sometimes continue to Harki Pauri by crossing the bridge and
reaching a romantic little island on which the sadhus28 had made their refuge. We
would sit down beside the Ganga and take a bath with the water buffalos. When I
recently returned there with my mother and my children, I was horrified to see
how much everything had changed.

Some days we would also walk on the Kankal side towards the ashram of Ananda
Mayi Ma, a great saint whom we had the opportunity to meet.

After Hardwar we went to Bombay, to the home of some of Poonjaji’s faithful

disciples. He gave satsang and as usual I sat on his lap and was busy either
listening or playing. One day I called out to him to tell him something:

-Papa!

A disciple admonished me:

-Why are you calling him Papa? He’s not “your” father! He’s everyone’s father!

He was right because it’s a known fact that from 1990 the disciples called him
Papaji. But for me, his little daughter, the world collapsed. Why did he say that to
me? I was furious! My natural right to being my father’s daughter was taken
away from me! It was too much! I realized for the first time that some didn’t
know who I was and I sensed a sort of taboo.

26 Drink made out of buffalo milk.

27 Indian sweets.

28 Wandering ascetics.

10
From there we went to Londa. The house on the edge of the jungle had an
extraordinary library of sacred Indian books in a small room connected to the
living room. I loved to contemplate the beautiful illustrations of the gods and
one day when I was alone I cut out all the images! As I thought that the house
was offered I had presumed I could do anything I liked. I proudly showed them to
my parents.

-Quick! Put all the books back as if nothing has happened! My silliness never
failed to make him laugh. I have always kept these pictures and even today they
are still in a file in my desk!

There was one day however that my father got angry with me. It was very
memorable because it was so rare. In this same library there was an altar with
Krishna on it. I had always adored Krishna but suddenly, I looked at the statue. It
seemed emptied of any divine essence. Proud of my discovery I said to him:

-After all these gods are made of nothing but stone!

My father became mad with rage, and it took me years to understand his fury.
Why didn’t he understand my fundamental discovery since he taught that no
beliefs should be entertained? It was a form of koan29! I understood later that he
didn’t want me to replace one belief by another: to believe in god or not to
believe in god is just one or the other of two sides of the same coin that is the
mind. It’s only when it returns to its source that one is in peace and not by
keeping different viewpoints. True devotion is the absence of thinking and is
better than replacing one belief by another. For a little girl of nine years old
however, all this was too much to comprehend.

I remember a funny scene when we were walking in the jungle along the railway
track and my mother decided that we should all express ourselves. We had to
scream as loud as possible! My dad hardly dared to make a sound but she
screamed louder and louder until at the end we were all three shouting merrily!

Back in Belgium a new life was waiting. It was difficult to adapt to the capital, life
in a flat, the greyness, the cold, a strict school and the absence of my father.

My father had recommended me to meditate every day and to speak English. I

collected his letters and in a small notebook I wrote down some of his words
such as “Vomit the past!”, “All is illusion”, “All is mind, “You are already what you
are”… I started to write poems that pointed to an ontological search.

One funny event that I remember is that my school gave us a form to fill in during
the class for some kind of register and we had to reply to numerous questions:

Father’s first name: Master

Father’s date of birth: 1910
Mother’s date of birth: 1947

29 Sentence that destabilizes the mind.

11
Father’s profession: Sage

For me these facts were very natural but little by little I began to realize that in
the society they weren’t at all! My father was the same age as my maternal
grandfather, my maternal grandmother Durga was ten years younger than my
father, my mother was younger than the two kids he’d had with his first wife and
I was younger than his five grandchildren! How could I explain to my school
friends that my parents didn’t live together but that they still loved each other
and that they were ritually married but that it hadn’t been official which
explained why I used my mother’s name? Children asked me questions that
sometimes put me in an awkward situation. From then on, I decided to be
discreet about my life.

Every year my father promised us to come but it didn’t happen. My mother didn’t
have the money for us to go to India and quite some years went by. As she didn’t
benefit from any financial support, she had to take small jobs so that we could
survive this period. For both of us it was a hard time and our monastic life only
increased our fire for something else. This existence seemed absurd and grey
like the color of the clouds that formed a roof over Belgium. It was fortunately
also interrupted by wonderful sunny holidays in Sintra, Portugal, at my
grandmother’s windmill near to the Atlantic Ocean.

During all this time the exchange of letters with my father lessened the
geographical distance between us. His letters carried great love and great
teaching.

In 1986, my mother had saved some money and decided we should go to India.
It was about time! I was turning 14 years old.

We arrived in Delhi. My father was waiting for us at my half-sister’s home. I got

such a shock when I saw him! He looked so much older and I hardly recognized
him. He too must have been surprised seeing me because he had left a little girl
only to find a young lady whom he didn’t know how to approach. He was
sometimes very tender and other times very cold and strict. In India the
relationship between parents and children changes at adolescence and one
doesn’t show one’s affection anymore. Rules and barriers are preventing the
natural flow of love. He had enjoyed my childhood mischief but now I had to
behave like a well brought up young woman and that didn’t fit at all with my
rebellious character!

I also didn’t know that in Lucknow, six months previously, my father had almost
died. He told us that one night he felt that death was coming so he sat on his bed
propped up with cushions in a lotus position and faced the wall. In this position if
death came he would not be found in a degrading posture. He had always lived as
a yogi and would die as a yogi! This story moved me and showed me what
strength of character he had!

Death didn’t come to him then and, in fact, a new life began. It was no more a
personal life but it was given to others. It was no more a life respecting his

12
preferences but entirely dedicated to a “teaching” that would benefit the whole
world. It was a life in which we no longer had a place.

A short time later, a young American yoga teacher who had a few disciples came
to see him in Lucknow. He had had a big experience of enlightenment. Poonjaji
liked him and treated him like a spiritual son.

The day after our arrival in Delhi, the American and a few of his students came
for tea. We then all left together for Hardwar where we stayed in our favorite
dharamsala30 with its terrace overlooking the Ganges. The American’s group
stayed in the tourist bungalow opposite us on the other side of the river. They
came to visit us every day and we went for walks together. Spontaneously their
questions provoked enlightening responses from the Master. I was fully into
adolescence and sometimes rebellious. The American, finding me cumbersome
couldn’t understand why Ganga Mira hadn’t left me in Belgium. At that moment I
realized that he didn’t know that I was his Master’s daughter. I kept silent.

In those days many carried the concept of celibacy and thought that a free being
could no longer have desires nor maintain physical relationships. They believed
that he had to be sattvic31, pure, disincarnated, detached, ethically
irreproachable. He had to be a saint. Yes, sainthood was the undoubted sign to
recognize a liberated one. What a difficult concept to drop! A free being is not a
spiritual superman. He appears as a normal human being with good and bad
sides. We are all the Self and whether or not ignorance leaves, the creation will
always manifest in its duality, as it always has been. There is therefore no
change, no sign, and no special behavior that will show if someone is free or not.
The disciples who had this false concept of purity left their Master as soon as
they saw that Ganga Mira was his wife and I Mukti was his daughter, furious and
disappointed that he wasn’t the embodiment of their utopian ideal of perfection.
After this, Papaji decided to be discreet about our family ties and this sometimes
put me through awkward situations that caused suffering. This taboo made me
doubtful about the Master and, thus, about his teaching. I had to renounce my
own identity, my birthright to be his daughter, to be somebody. What a “let go”
he expected from me! It was almost inhuman.

A Spanish swami32 and two South Indian disciples came to visit us. One was thin
and the other fat so we nicknamed them Laurel and Hardy! There were some
beautiful satsangs. Their hearts opened and their devotion was so touching that
it made me cry. I saw that my father was a perfect Master although some of his
actions seemed “imperfect”. I had to give up all archetypes including ethics and
sainthood if it was Peace that I was looking for. Peace is here when no idea or
ideal is entertained. This new vision allowed me to transcend the controversial

30 Guest house for pilgrims.

31 Pur, the highest of the 3 gunas or qualities.

32 Monk.

13
behavior of my father and to recognize the greatness of the Master’s indication. I
had to sacrifice who I was in life to be able to realize who I am in reality.

One year later, my mother and I went for a short trip to Amsterdam. I was fifteen
at that time. On the way back in the train, my mind stopped. Suddenly I
understood, not mentally like before but really, what my father had indicated all
these years. I was at the source of everything and infinite revelations sprang out
of me uncontrollably. I went from exaltation to the fear of death and panic of
going mad. I didn’t sleep for a whole month because of the force of this
experience. School continued and I had to pretend to act in a normal way which,
no doubt, saved me. Luckily Ganga Mira, who had already had similar
experiences, could guide me. We called my father to tell him of my glimpse. He
told me that I was very young to have such an experience and he didn’t give me
any advice. Soon afterwards I received a letter telling me how happy he was and
that being the daughter of parents like my mother and him I had nothing to do
and that I was already free! He also wrote that I should not be afraid of death as
it is just a thought borrowed from others. He announced that he was going to
send me disciples! That was surely the last thing I wanted!

From then on life seemed absurd and the nonsense of existence was present in
each gesture and action. I couldn’t find any interest in the activity of those
around me. I wrote many poems and wrote down my spiritual experiences while
searching and searching. The ontological quest bore into me and everyday I
shared my discoveries with my mother and grandmother. The same passion had
always tied the three of us together and satsang was omnipresent in our lives.

We spent our summers either in India to see my father in Hardwar or in Portugal

at Durga’s windmill.

In 1990, my father, this unstoppable nomad, was getting older. He decided to

settle down in Lucknow. A new era started. Osho33 passed away and an
uninterrupted flow of sannyas34 came to see the one they named Papaji. He
became famous.

In 1991, I began to study History of Art and Archaeology at U.L.B., Brussels

University. My dad was very proud of me.

In 1992, Ganga Mira went to Lucknow to see Papaji. When she came back to
Belgium, I decided to visit him as well. It was the first time that I would be going
to see my father alone. He came to pick me up at the Lucknow airport. We were
both very happy and moved to see each other again. He took me to his new house
where he lived with several disciples. That was a new experience for me as up
until then we had always lived together as a family and the students would come

33 Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh or Osho (1931-1990) was a spiritual leader who’s

ashram is in Pune.

34 Monks, Osho’s disciples.

14
either for satsang, for tea or for a walk with us. A new way of being with my
father was thus imposed on me. I slept in his room and he gave me the bed next
to his which apparently was a privilege that some could not bear! The disciple’s
jealousy hit me unexpectedly. I was young, hardly 20, and unprepared for it!
When it was time to eat my father sat me down next to him and to my immense
surprise a woman threw herself on the ground screaming, crying and banging
the floor with her fists saying that I was sitting in her place and that it wasn’t
mine! Now, with distance I find this scene hilarious! I felt like in a movie. As
inherited by birth, I had never been proud of being the Master’s daughter but I
started to understand that it was considered to be a privileged position and was
therefore envied. So far, I had led a simple life without scheming court behaviour
and I watched all of it with total incomprehension. To calm the atmosphere I got
up, gave her my seat and went to sit at the end of the table!

There were many more anecdotes of this type. They gave me the opportunity to
reflect on why people go to see a Master. There can be, among other causes,
dissatisfaction coming from the ontological question of why we are born and the
unavoidability of our death, desperation due to psychological problems and the
search for well-being or the need for a paternal or maternal figure. Some seek the
Master’s indication and others his love or attention. So, for many different
reasons, disciples find themselves at the feet of the Master and form a sangha or
spiritual community which is a mini society where all human tendencies are
being displayed.

Poonjaji often told the story about a king who opened the gates of his palace to
all the subjects of his realm. The festivities were sumptuous and although each
one was certain that he would greet the king, once inside the palace gates they
got lost in the heavenly gardens, wandering between extraordinary flowers,
perfumes and captivated by beautiful men and women, delicious food and more.
Pleasures and desires. When the night fell, no-one had taken the time to see the
king. Yet to the one who had gone to see him he would have given his kingdom!

It is the same around a Master next to whom all tendencies get very intense. We
saw that around Osho! There were even poisonings! Some forget why they are
there and get lost in intrigue, manipulation, jealousy, the fight for power,
position, politics and profits. For them it is about who is the closest to the Master,
forgetting that they had come for peace and freedom. I began to understand how
the world worked. In certain letters that he wrote to me he complained about it:
“Why do these people come to see me? What do they want from me? You must
help me like Kamali35 and only let in those who really have fire for the search.”

It seemed that, in the opinion of some disciples, I was only considered as the
biological daughter of their Master and, therefore less worthy of his love than
them. To erase my desire for freedom has been one of the ways they used to
dismiss me. In the jungle of spiritual concepts, detachment is a profound belief.

35 One day, Kamali, holding a sabre, was staying at the entrance door of the satsang
hall of Kabir, the poet, her father. She told the disciples that only the ones who were
ready to have their head chopped of were allowed to enter. No one passed the test.

15
So, in this way, the family was the first thing to which one had to turn his back to.
Consequently, the Master’s biological family had not to be taken into
consideration. His real family was the “spiritual” one. Was it not only from the
concept “I” taken for the body-mind that one had to get detached from?

I decided to cut short my stay and my father said goodbye to me on the doorstep.
He was very emotional as was I. Nobody could prevent the love we had for each
other.

-This house will always be yours! He told me.

I never saw him again.

My return to the West was difficult. These events had caused me a profound
depression, intensifying my desire to free myself. The ontological search became
my only life guard. I saw that these obstacles had to be overcome. They were
tests on the “path”. The quest often takes mysterious shapes.

One day, my father told my mother that as he was old and I was young, he had
little time to help me in my quest to freedom. This explained the tough situations
that he put me through which would hasten my journey.

I wrote a lot, finished my university studies and obtained my master’s degree

with the highest distinction. My father was filled with admiration. We continued
our epistolary exchanges. In his letters, he wrote to me that I was the bridge
between the East and the West. He often asked me when I was going to help him
in his great job and told me that I was born to be free and that one day I would sit
on his seat and speak.

Leaving my mother in Brussels, I went for one year to French Guyana where I
was carrying out archeological excavations in the Amazonian forest. My father,
being older now was having health problems which we were not aware of. His
state became critical and he was eventually transported to hospital. It’s only
when he was dying that someone phoned my mother. It was the 6th September
1997.

This event was enormous. Ganga Mira was devastated. She knew that she could
never surrender to a Master again. The extreme urgency of this situation gave
her the fire for freedom. It was time to put into practice what he had taught her
for thirty years! It had to be now or never! She sat down and closed her eyes.
“Don’t land anywhere!” In a split second, the “I” disintegrated from where it
springs and she radically realised and surrendered completely to what she really
is.

She immediately called me….

-Your dad… Her voice was choking.

-He’s not well? We must see him! We must take the first flight! I replied.

16
-He is already dead! She answered.

In a flash all my references disappeared. There hadn’t been one single day in my
life when I hadn’t thought about him and now he was no longer there….

-Let us go to the cremation!

-We won’t have time to get there!

For a long time I regretted not to have been able to see him one last time. I did
my own puja for him. Every day I picked beautiful flowers and sat in silence
beside his photo.

In the same month, two earthquakes destroyed the Papal Basilica of Saint Francis
of Assisi.

A short time later I caught a flight to Belgium. A disciple from Lucknow came to
visit us with a parcel.

-It’s your inheritance! He solemnly told me.

My heart was beating very fast. My hands were trembling. I opened the parcel:
an old pair of my father’s socks.

My inheritance is spiritual. Obviously, it was his indication that he wanted to

leave to me and not a pile of bricks!

During a whole year after his death, my father visited me every night. The
dreams were so alive and full of love and teaching. They washed away my wound
of not being able to ever see him again.

It’s interesting to observe what happens after the death of a Master or when
Buddha, Jesus and other such beings depart. Their life becomes an hagiography,
legends and myths are created. From their simple indications, religions are built
and dissensions are formed. I have seen it with my own eyes. Their story is
deformed to create History, this mala36 of lies and omissions! Their real message
becomes concealed.

Over the years that follow the guide’s death, some tendencies crystallize. The
Master has such an intimate connection with each seeker that it eventually leads
some of them to think that he or she is the unique spiritual son or daughter to
whom he left his ultimate teachings. The archetype of the chosen one is a big
trap. This entitled some of his “successors” to build ashrams and temples, save
the planet or raise it spiritually, wear white or become spiritual leaders with
marketing brilliance and who only stay in five star hotels while asking fortunes
for their satsangs. All this in the name of Papaji, who, for his entire life, simply

36 Necklace.

17
said: “You are that which you are already, there is nothing to change, no practice
nor beliefs to follow and no stones to erect. Just don’t go into the mind”.

On a small scale all that could be seen with humour or bitterness, disgust or
acceptance, but looking at things globally, from an eagle’s viewpoint, everything
is perfect, each one is at the right place, everything and everyone is the Self.

Soon after Papaji’s death, Ganga Mira was asked to give satsangs. In 1998 we
went to Tiruvannamalai. The Lucknow sangha disciples welcomed my mother
and still today many of them live nearby and regularly come to her satsangs. For
the following years, she was invited in many different countries around the
world. Didn’t her Master foretell her that he would give her his Lucknow family,
that she would inspire the whole world? Didn’t he tell her that he would come to
her one day with the robe and bowl and prostrate at her feet?

I can say that I had two Masters, my father and my mother. My total
dissatisfaction of this existence led me to search for something else, to have
glimpses, revelations and to solve different koans. Over the years, I have been
obsessed with some of these questions: What did Ramana Maharshi mean by
illusion? Is enlightenment a state to attain? Everything is mind! Was Sat-Chit–
Ananda37 still a belief? What did Ramana’s “I-I” mean? I began the long job of
Neti Neti38, effacing beliefs one after the other. It was a systematic
demystification of thoughts that brought me to perceive that the “demystifier”,
the “I” was a thought as well. At that moment, I realised, in a flash, that
something is always present, independent of experiences and demystifications
and that this “something” is myself.

Who one really is, one is already, so this is not to be attained. There is no
teaching, no practice and no path to follow. The indications given in satsang are
not dogmas or new beliefs to be acquired. No! These are arrows that are aimed at
destabilizing the seeker’s mind. H.W.L. Poonja was the Master of non-teaching
and his unexpected responses freed the seeker of any reference. To the one who
identifies himself as “I”, the body-mind entity and to all the events that are
attached to it, the Master says “Nothing Ever Happened”! To the one who, in an
instant, a “finger snap” as he liked to convey it, perceives that in fact he is
nobody, and that no happening has ever taken place but identifies with these
spiritual revelations, the guide will say: “Everything happens”! This isn’t a play
on words but a living way to help the seeker to get rid of his platforms and mind
markers while inciting him to let go if even for only an instant, so that the Self
can reveal ItSelf. There’s nothing to do, nothing to learn. The message is very
simple. The seeker is urged not to go along with the first thought “I” which is the
creator of all thoughts. “I” appears and the world appears. Does the world exist
without “I”? Without “I”, there is nothing to say, nothing to think about, nowhere
to land. It is for this reason that Papaji advised people to keep quiet, and he often
said:

37 Truth, Knowledge, Bliss.

38 Not this, not that.

18
-You aren’t a bag of rice to be tossed from one place to another!

I live beside the Atlantic Ocean in Portugal with my mother and my two children
Arun39 and Satyâ40. My grandmother Durga also spent her last years with us. A
short time before her death she revealed to us that she had at last seen that the
“I” was just a thought and after a last and timeless glance and in deep peace, she
died in our arms. Her ultimate word was “OM”.

Ganga Mira gives satsang throughout the year. My children often attend and sit
for a few minutes. I took them to Tiruvannamalai, at the feet of Ramana
Maharishi, to Lucknow and to the Ganges. I wanted to show them the places
where I lived with their grandfather Papaji. It was an extraordinary pilgrimage
that made them ask many ontological questions. I think that my father would be
very happy to see his grandchildren following his footsteps.

Still today, Papaji touches the heart of those who are thirsty for Freedom. His
simple, precious and uncompromising indications drive the seekers back to what
they always are. Satsang benefits the world. This is what he always wanted. It’s a
unique happening where “Nothing Ever Happened”!

My father passed away, the Master lives.

My gratitude to him is infinite.

Papaji Ki Jay!

OM

Mukti Decoux Poonja

Mukti De Coux: Foreward to the german edition of:

1998 David Godman: Nothing Ever Happened, Volume III.
Boulder, Colorado: Avadhuta Foundation.

Translated into german by Kalindi Magdalena Miles:

2019 David Godman. PAPAJI. Nichts ist jemals geschehen. Band III.
Übersetzt von Kalindi Magdalena Miles.
Vorwort: Mukti De Coux Poonja 11-46.
Saunstof: advaitaMedia GmbH.

39 Arunachala, the mountain of Ramana Maharishi.

40 Reality.

19