He’s dead now; he died very young, when he was only thirty-five years old. But before he died he told me about A Course in Miracles. Or maybe he even gave me the book (actually, the set of 3 books). I can’t remember for sure. All I know is that he was the one who arranged for me to come into possession of the book that changed my life.
Or rather, he was the one who arranged for me to come into possession of the book that could change my life, that might change my life, if only I could believe it. Fortunately I don’t have to understand it, because no one can understand A Course in Miracles, not really. But I do have to believe it; if that book is going to work for me, I have to believe what it says.
Nanda Kumar wasn’t a student of that book himself. I don’t think he ever read it, or read very much of it anyway. His wife was the one that was into it; she was into it in a very, very big way, or so I remember.
Her name was Gabby; that’s what everyone called her. It was short for “Gabrielle.” She was a young German woman who met Nanda, a Telugu Indian, in Tokyo Japan. They met sometime in the early 1980s, I think, which was when I knew them too.
It seemed as if I met them completely by chance, but according to A Course in Miracles, there is no such thing as chance. “No one is where he is by accident,” the Course says, “and chance plays no part in the plan.”
And that’s what I’m feeling tonight, as I write these words: I’m feeling that no one is where he is by accident, and chance plays no part in the plan.
I’ve never felt that way before. Why? Because I wasn’t ready to feel that way, obviously. Nothing can possibly happen for you until you’re ready for it to happen. And that brings me back to the subject of Nanda Kumar.