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Mateshwari’s song was the voice of those who had been hurt grievously, those from whom had been taken their loved ones, whose wounds filled the colour of roses, in whose hearts burnt fire instead of light.
Maaraa dayaare gair men mujh ko watan se door
Thou didst lay me down to sleep in a foreign land,
Far from my home.
Whose words are these? Who speaks of Death? It is the voice of Mateshwari–the voice of the Divine Shakti that left its heavenly abode and entered the world of the living in India.
Mateshwari’s mind went back to Mussoorie. She had resided in Mussoorie for over twenty years along with Shri Nathji. The relative isolation of the hills had been ideally suited for the children’s education. In the plains, where multi­tudes thronged for Shri Nathji’s benedictions, life would have been much too crowded for Mateshwari to pay as great an atten­tion to the children’s education as she wanted. Shri Nathji had preferred the solitude of the Himalayas, and Mussoorie had, by and large, proved beneficial for his health. Shri Nathji often used to say: No matter how ill I might be feeling at any time, I recover instantly the moment I come to Mussoorie. His arm had eventually healed itself in the hills.
Shri Nathji had also said: “There is a certain attraction in Mussoorie that brings people to it again and again. No matter where I may go, Mussoorie pulls me back to itself.”
Mateshwari appeared to see the vast stretch of the Himalayas, of which Mussoorie was a part, spreading out in all directions. Standing at Savitri Nivas, she would see the lights of Dehra Dun sparkle as if they were a reflection of the stars above. Except for the months of May and June, when the broad, spotlessly clean Mall Road would be filled with visitors from the plains of India, Mussoorie wore a barren, deserted look for the rest of the year. The damp, foggy weather of the monsoon season, and the continuous rain that made the tin-roofs rattle, the whis­tling of the wind on cold winter nights, the sound of jackals in valleys far away, had made life in Mussoorie very lonely.
Mateshwari saw herself standing by her window and looking down at the invisible, seething humanity of the plains. She had never liked Mussoorie. She was frequently ill there, and dangerously so. Within her heart, she knew that she would be leaving Shri Nathji and the children one day.
A reflection of this thought had entered into the children’s mind as well. Priya Nath would follow his mother around from room to room during the earlier days of his childhood, with this fear in his mind.
Time carried away with itself everything into oblivion. The halls of Savitri Nivas were never again to echo with the laughter of Mateshwari. The plane that took her away from India was one that took her away from her beloved homeland. It was Mateshwari riding on the wings of destiny knowing that, very soon, the part she had come to play upon the earth was to be over. It was already over in the country of her birth.