When a Book Opened a Door

~ MMC 2.0

A Quiet Conversation Between the Living and the Loved.

It was my friend Vasu who first told me about The Autobiography of a Yogi. He would quote little pieces from it during our conversations—especially whenever I wrote or spoke about my mother. More than once, he said, “You know, Mohan… the way you write, it feels like you’re trying to reach someone who isn’t entirely gone.”

Because of him, I went and bought the book a year ago.

And then did what most of us do with books that arrive at exactly the right moment: placed it on the shelf with reverence, fully intending to read it “someday.”
Someday, of course, being that magical date when time expands, motivation aligns, and Netflix conveniently stops releasing new shows.

But as it turns out, “someday” has its own sense of humour. It finally arrived a couple of weeks before.

Vasu and I had one of our short catch-ups, and somewhere in the middle of our conversation, he brought the book up again—especially mentioning Chapter 43, “The Resurrection of Sri Yukteswar.”

Later that evening, I finally picked it up. And it felt as though the book had been sitting there all along, arms crossed, waiting patiently for me to stop procrastinating and show up.

I was halfway through when I stopped—mid-page, mid-breath. Yogananda was speaking of souls… not as vanished or unreachable figures, but as beings who simply continue in quieter places. He wrote about how consciousness moves on, how love isn’t severed by the body’s absence, and how connections can still be felt if one listens with something gentler than ears.

And that’s when the familiar tug arrived.
A soft, almost shy thought.

My mother.

Not the idea of her. Not the mosaics pieced together from relatives’ memories. Not the tales my aunt narrated. Not even the fragments from my older cousins, who always began with, “You know, your mother was the kind of person who…”

All those versions are precious. They’re all I’ve had for years.

But as I read that chapter, I felt something I’d never quite allowed myself to feel before: the ache of wanting to know her beyond those second-hand silhouettes.
The ache of wanting to meet the woman she was before she ever became the mother I barely got to know.
Her laughter. Her quirks. The inner weather of her mind. What she feared. What she loved. What she dreamed of on quiet afternoons.

When she passed away, I was far too young to understand that I would spend the rest of my life gathering her piece by piece, like a puzzle whose original picture I never saw.

For years, I accepted that the only way to know her would be through other people’s eyes.

But that day, sitting with Yogananda’s book open in my hands, a different idea brushed gently against me. The book spoke of the soul as something that doesn’t vanish, but shifts—into subtler dimensions, waiting for us to reach out with something deeper than words.

A simple thought rose:
What if some connections don’t end?
What if they just change their doorway?

Not in a thunder-and-lightning way (though that would’ve made a great story title).
Just… in that quiet space between breaths.

Something like a presence.
Something like recognition.
Something like: “Ask what you want to know. I’m listening.”

It wasn’t a voice. It wasn’t a vision.
Just a feeling that somewhere, somehow, she hadn’t gone as far as I’d always imagined.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe knowing a person isn’t only about the stories others tell us. Maybe it’s also about what rises within us when we think of them—the instincts we carry, the traits we inherit, the unexpected sense of comfort that appears out of nowhere, like a soft nod from a place just beyond our sight.

Since that day, I’ve started asking her small questions. Not out loud. Not in any ritualistic way. Just in the mind’s inner room, where thoughts wander freely.

“What were you like when nobody was watching?”
“What made you laugh at yourself?”
“What scared you?”
“What did you hope I’d become?”

Sometimes the answers come as a feeling.
Sometimes as a memory someone once shared but that suddenly makes new sense.
And sometimes as silence—one that teaches its own kind of truth.

I don’t know if these conversations reach her.
But I know they reach me.

And perhaps Vasu was right all along.
Maybe this is how the pain softens.
Maybe this is how a mother you barely knew finds her way back to you—
one quiet question at a time.

Author’s Note
Thank you for reading.
This reflection isn’t from my memoir—it belongs to a different corner of my writing life, where thoughts, memories, and what-ifs wander freely. My memoir is told through the eyes of the boy I once was; this piece is simply one of the many quiet musings that continue to shape the man I became.

17 thoughts on “When a Book Opened a Door”

  1. Dear Mohan,

    Glad that the information in that book is guiding an internal alignment that will hopefully bring sustainable peace and comfort.

    In reality it is a higher force prodding you operating through me – to urge you take these next steps; aren’t we all just channels for the cosmos to execute its grand plan?

    Best regards

    Vasu

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply

    1. Thank you, Vasu. 😊
      You were indeed the right messenger at the right moment, and I’m grateful that your nudge finally pushed me toward the book.

      Whether it’s the cosmos working through you or just your good instinct as a friend, I’m glad it reached me when it did.🙏🏻

      Like

  2. A thoughtful and beautifully expressed reflection. You’ve captured the quiet evolution of grief and the idea that connection can continue in more subtle forms. This piece offers both insight and comfort — thank you for sharing it.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply

    1. The idea that connection continues in quieter, subtler ways has always stayed with me, especially that line from Autobiography of a Yogi about how love doesn’t end, it simply shifts its expression. It felt fitting to echo that in the story.

      Grief keeps evolving, gently reshaping itself as we do, and I’m grateful that you felt both the insight and the comfort I hoped to convey.
      Thank you for reading with such sensitivity.🙏🏻

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Your words don’t just tell a story — they hold it, gently, like something sacred.
    This felt less like reading and more like witnessing a doorway open between worlds.
    The way you described memory, longing, and the invisible thread between the living and the loved… it lingers.
    Some connections don’t fade — they simply change form, waiting for us to listen with the heart instead of the ear.
    Thank you for writing what so many feel but never find language for.

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply

    1. Thank you so much for these beautiful words.🙏🏻
      It means more than I can say that the story reached you in this way. Some memories really do feel like they’re living just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment or the right reader to give them shape.

      I’m grateful you felt that connection, and even more grateful that you took the time to share it with such depth and kindness. 💛🙏🏻

      Liked by 1 person

    2. Thank you so much for your kind and generous words. It means a lot to know that my thoughts resonated with you so beautifully. Your warmth adds brightness to the conversation, and I truly appreciate the positivity you share. Wishing you a wonderful Thursday as well—filled with joy, clarity, and moments that feel gentle and meaningful.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. I got goose bumps while reading your post. First of all even I have been gifted the book you referred but still waiting for me to read. Your experience of conversations with soul are truly amazing. Nice post MMC2.0 I had long backlog of posts but can’t miss your post cause they are special 🙏

    Liked by 2 people

    Reply

    1. Thank you so much, your words truly mean a lot.🙏🏻
      It’s funny how some books sit on our shelves for the longest time and suddenly step forward at the right moment. That’s exactly what happened to me too.

      As for those “conversations,” I think they’re less about speaking to souls and more about listening to the quiet corners of our own hearts… the places we often ignore. If this post gave you even a small nudge to pick up the book or explore those inner conversations for yourself, I’m really glad.

      And thank you for always reading my posts even with a backlog. That’s something I don’t take lightly at all. 🙏💛

      Liked by 2 people

    2. My pleasure. I am truly wanting to pick up the book now. I am currently studying Buddhism, I will pick that book immediately after I finish current one. Your posts are exclusive so I enjoy reading them. 😊

      Liked by 1 person

    3. I’m really glad the story nudged you toward picking up the book.

      Enjoy your current Buddhist studies. That’s a beautiful journey in itself. And I’m touched you find my posts worth your time. Truly appreciate it. 😊🙏🏻

      Liked by 1 person

  5. This is so touching and beautiful. What a gentle reminder that love and connection never fully leave us, they just shift. Your words made me feel the presence of those we miss.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    1. Thank you so much for these kind words. 🙏🏻You’re right. Love doesn’t disappear, it just changes its form, and every now and then it brushes past us in ways we can’t quite explain.

      I truly appreciate you taking the time to read and share this. 🙏🏻

      Liked by 1 person

    2. Absolutely, love never truly leaves us, it just finds new ways to touch our hearts. 🙏🏻 So glad we could share this moment.

      Liked by 1 person

Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts. Share your perspective in the comments below and let’s keep the conversation going!