Anandamayi Ma: This body tells of one sovereign remedy for all ills – God. Trust in Him, depend on Him, accept whatever happens as His dispensation, regard what you do as His service, keep satsang, think of God with every breath, and live in His Presence. Leave all your burdens in His hands and He will see to everything, there will be no more problems.
Everything is His doing. He alone is. Your sole duty is to remember this at all times. So long as the sense of “me” and “mine” remains, there is bound to be sorrow and want in the life of an individual. “Nothing has happened” – to be able to understand this is very fortunate. If you can understand that nothing has happened, you have indeed been blessed with inner vision. The one who has created this world is everywhere. Rely on Him in all matters.
I’m trying to find a particular story where Ansndamayima speaks to a grieving mother who has lost her daughter.
My son Shaun passed on on Feb. 20, 2026. I very much would like to remember whst Ma said to her sbout her loss.
One need only recall that touching incident recounted by Anil Ganguly—an ardent admirer from Calcutta. In 1943, a terrible tragedy befell the family of Professor Haridas Pakrashi and his wife, Punyamayi, of Lucknow: their only daughter—sixteen-year-old Dhira—passed away prematurely. The parents’ grief was boundless.
Punyamayi’s heart was shattered to pieces. “She would sit up all night beside the empty bed of her late daughter… in anguish and despair.” But one night—some time after Dhira’s death—Punyamayi saw, as if in a waking vision, the image of a young woman sitting on the bed. The young woman bore a striking resemblance to her daughter, yet she was dressed in an unusual manner: she was wearing a white sari.
I could not see her face very clearly, but I noticed that her luxuriant hair was gathered in a bun atop her head. The very next night, I had an identical vision, which vanished after about half an hour. And although the lights were not on, the room was sufficiently illuminated by the outdoor lighting that I could make out Dhira quite easily. The contours of the face were indistinct and did not exactly match Dhira’s features, yet I had the distinct feeling that my beloved daughter was with me. For three months, she continued to appear before me at the same time each night, vanishing every time after half an hour had passed.
My heart fluttered with joy at the sight of Dhira, even though, outwardly, she did not appear to be a replica of my daughter. A friend of mine, after I had recounted this experience to him, concluded that my description fit the image of Anandamayi Ma of Dhaka remarkably well. “Who is this Anandamayi Ma?” I asked. “And why would she come to my home here in Lucknow?” I felt an overwhelming urge to meet her. The opportunity to see her arose several years later, when Ma happened to be visiting Lucknow. I went to the place where Ma’s arrival was awaited… I was struck by the sight of a woman in a white sari, her jet-black hair gathered in a bun atop her head. I did not doubt for a single moment that it was she. It was she—precisely she—whom I had seen sitting on Dhira’s bed: not in a dream, but while fully awake; not just once, but night after night for three whole months. Only back then, I had mistaken her for Dhira.
Ma, seated on a raised platform, spotted me from a distance and beckoned me to approach. I walked over to her and immediately burst into tears. Ma comforted and soothed me. I remained seated at her feet, uttering not a word, as tears simply streamed down my cheeks. About an hour passed in this way. The heavy burden weighing upon my heart lifted completely, vanishing as if it had never been there. I asked Ma for permission to go home, to which she replied: “Come back tomorrow at five o’clock in the morning—the most auspicious time for devout Hindus—and sing for me.” “I haven’t sung since my daughter passed away,” I replied. But Ma would not accept my refusal. She said: “The Mother (Punyamayi) shall sing to the Daughter, and the Daughter (Ma) shall listen and sing back to her.” And so it came to pass that the very next morning, I had another meeting with Ma, and I sang for her. And Ma sang, too—though what she sang was entirely different from my own song. She chanted: *He Bhagavan* (“Oh, Lord”)… Her singing moved me to the very core. That encounter transformed my outlook on life… The bitterness of losing Dhira lost its sting; it no longer felt so acute. I know that Ma is with me.