(8 Jan '03)
8 Jan 2003,Sivakasi
Last night in Sivakasi, on Her way to the stage, Amma made Her way through the crowd with a brilliant smile; Her pure white sari shining just as brightly.
When She left the stage over nine hours later, the shoulder of her sari was stained a dark rust-red—the residue of Her children’s tears, bindis, make-up—left by the thousands of Her children who had spent a moment in Her arms. But while Her sari was stained, Her smile was still shining as brightly as it had so many hours before, when She first stepped from the car.
This is of course not limited to last night in Sivakasi; it is true whether Amma sits for six hours or twenty hours, whether She is Delhi or Dallas, Paris or Tokyo. And this is one of the things that anyone who watches Amma give darshan will surely notice: Her smile never leaves Her for long. She may shed tears, feeling the anguish of Her children as She listens to their sorrows.
Or Her face may take on a serious cast as She listens to a devotee explaining His or Her problems, and advises them on the best way to proceed. But Her smile will always return.
Even in the midst of scolding a brahmachari who failed to carry out his or her duty responsibly, or discussing spiritual topics or important details regarding the management of Her charitable activities, a smile will frequently steal across Her face. Even when She is being pushed and pulled from every direction as She makes Her way through throngs of devotees, one can see Her eyes lit by a genuine smile. Watching this, one feels that Her smile—the most obvious symbol of Her love, Her knowledge, and the bliss which is Her permanent home—is the substratum of all Her other moods.
“Love is the face of God. The smile that blossoms on an innocent face is the most beautiful thing in the world.” — Amma