| JOURNEY TO BABALAND |
Stevan Orescan
My journeys to the East have once again brought me to rest upon the floor of a mud hut. I have
taken a room in the rear of a small sweet shop in one of the several villages within walking distance
from the Baba's summer ashram, residence and college in south India.
It is early evening. Many questions have gone through my mind this day as I waited from dawn to
noon to catch a glimpse of the magical god-man who is worshipped by literally millions of people
and regarded as the avatar of the age; God in human form. I watched as he materialized vibhutti,
the sacred ash, with the twirl of his hand and I saw and felt an energy that mesmerized a crowd of
several thousand into one prostrate organism of worship and adoration and I saw the electricity of
his aura and the truth and clearness of his message. I ask myself if this is all real or is my mind
playing tricks with me? Have I been hypnotized by a collective suggestion because I too would like
to see a savior lift us from the mess we've gotten ourselves into? If one person can do it, and be it,
then it's possible for all of us and is worth the effort and struggle.
Come on Baba, we really do want you to be the avatar of the age because the world desperately
needs one; show us that you are and connect us with your divinity so we too may become one with
you on the cosmic level as well as the physical; show us the way to tap into the source so we may
become a perfect channel for your work.
But alas, I have this other side of my nature that stands back and looks for hidden wires and
suspicious bulges in his robes; that rivet my eyes to his sleeve whenever he materializes anything.
These thoughts and feelings embarrass me in the midst of such ardent piety but they are a part of
that western rational mind I have been carrying for many years and I must in all honesty in my
endeavor to understand, heed them until they can be dispelled with some amount of certainty. One
hears many accounts, from Madam Blavatsky to Christ, but seeing them happen before your eyes
and accepting them is another matter. I am in a mild state of confusion and will follow him
tomorrow until I can make some sense of it all.
The whole atmosphere both in and around the village is palpable with a vibration of intense
lightness and joy and there is an openness between people I have not experienced before in India.
The vibration emanates from the ashram and energy center. Once inside its walls you are
bombarded even when the Baba is not on stage. You are, it seems, surrounded by molecules of
light and love; you see them, feel them and interact with them on multitudinous levels and
dimensions. It is physically draining; a one pointed meditation of the most sublime type that sends
energy blasting through you and in the aftermath of its burners leaves you exhausted; a psychedelic
experience of such feeling and force that only leaving the compound can turn off. And waiting for
the Baba to make his appearance creates such anxiety, tension and hair-trigger anticipation that you
feel ready to explode and tired feet and back dulls your sensitiveness to the ordinary. Then there is
the hope, the hope that he is what he says he is.
Mr. Jai, dear sweet man in the next room, a retired engineer now working for the ashram, has
such light shining from his eyes I am in awe and completely overwhelmed by his presence. Who is
the Baba? I ask him, and radiating from every pore he replies; Baba is whoever you want him to be
- saint, sinner, ordinary mortal - he is who your heart tells you he is, who your heart wants him to
be.
***
Waiting for the bus in the frantic city terminal after a night in a seedy hotel in the bazaar section of
the old city. I feel I am walking on hot razorblades and any moment the frail identity I cling to could
be abrogated with one false step. Can't seen to think about anything but the Baba since
experiencing his presence and trying to put those thoughts and feelings into an understandable frame
of reference is such a vain attempt at communicating the experience I am almost tempted to not
even try. I have been unable to view the world and its attendant activity in the same light as
previously for it is all like some strange surrealistic film, a vast dream or illusion that has been
created by the manipulation of my puny mind and one whose outcome I have no conscious control
over.
A cacophony of noise and confusion envelopes me as a growing crowd struggles to board the
ancient and gaudily painted bus that has arrived. Sweating bodies brush past squirming to stow
luggage and find seats and the garbled staccato of unfamiliar tongues pierces the morning air.
Hawkers, the continuous and monotonous din of toothless old men and young boys selling their
wares of sweets, fruit and tea; a beggar crawls down the isle with his empty cup, malformed limbs
providing the locomotion. A fingerless hand pushes its way through the bars of the bus window and
into my face as I write but I hardly miss a pen stroke; if I looked into his eyes my armor would be
demolished and I would have to give.
To give; is not our inability to give totally and unselfishly the dam that holds our divinity in bonds?
In my deepest heart of hearts I know this to be true; that we will never be a race of supermen or
enlightened souls until we can give with total trust and lack of fear. Only when we are ready and
willing to be crucified will we reach that purity of divine consciousness and oneness with God.
Our Tamil driver boards the bus, arranges fresh flowers over the dashboard pictures of the Baba
and starts the motor. The tinkle of finger cymbals and the timid but melodic singing of a young blind
man give way to crystal clear bhajans of devotion and soon nothing else can be heard as the roar of
the bus is drowned in songs of joy and praise.
This is a bus full of the Baba's devotees drunk on the ecstasy of their love for him; it is a tinseled
chariot winging its occupants to the Abode of Eternal peace; it is a rocket whizzing through the
black night; it is the dove of peace on its way to the olive branch. These are the rich and poor, the
healthy and sick, the young and old; they have all been touched by his wand, all been captured by
his love and wisdom. These are the rain drops going back into the sea; this is humanity rushing to
the bosom of super humanity. He has shown them that the other does truly exist; he has
transcended the limitations of the body and shown that man can indeed become one with the energy
of the universe. It is madness and I am caught up in it. I feel my doubt and uncertainty, those dark
shadows in the recesses of my mind being sucked from my rational system while my essence is
being drawn to the form of the funny little man in the orange robe. He is the form as we all are but
his power is greater because he has pierced the veil and dispelled the fury of the mind that manacles
us to the illusion of separateness; he has become one with the overlord of mind-at-large; his vision
has glimpsed the divine and he has remained behind to dance in its all pervading light..
And I too am wrapped in this boundless light and love and I feel the timelessness of the ages in my
every fiber; I am Him and He is me and now like two lovers we are rushing into each others arms
to be forever united again. No more will duality divide us for with one twirl of his hand he has
shattered the bastions of my ego and my unfulfilled heat aches no more... I am free!
Five hours later we arrive in the small dusty village of the winter ashram. I'm exhausted and aching
from the hard benches, hungry and out of tobacco. I go to a chai shop with two other westerners
and momentarily shelving our new found liberation indulge our parched appetites with strong drink
and smoke. After satisfying these necessities we go to the ashram accommodations office and
check in.
Sitting in the spacious temple courtyard inside the ashram walls with about a thousand other people
waiting for the Baba to make his entrance and give morning darshan-blessings to his devoted.
Bhagwan-Lord-as he is called by his followers, lives in a one room apartment on the second floor
of the temple; a large cream, pink and baby blue wedding cake structure covered in
statues and carvings of mythological and religious figures and symbols. The stairs from his
apartment become the focus of attention for all eyes and there is a hushed silence of expectancy as
each one strains to catch the first glimpse of the flashing orange robe.
Guards in white shirts and orange scarves can be seen in the periphery escorting people to seats,
seeing that shoes are not worn and generally keeping order. These are the palace guards and they
do their job well; oftentimes, it has been said, in a somewhat forceful manner, for when the crowds
have been large and unruly during festivals and birthday celebrations, physical restraint is sometimes
necessary and thus the guardians of the Lord are required to carry long wooden clubs to hold back
some of this more ardent lovers.
As we wait the same thought is passing through everyone’s mind: to get an interview, either group
or private, to be called into the sanctum sanctorum and feel his presence up close; to touch and be
touched by him; to look into his eyes and experience who he really is; and to maybe sit at the feet
of God himself. Someone told me when I arrived that one does not come unless the Baba has
called. Ok, Baba, here I am.
Since you have to get up quite early for a front row spot on the ground or do a lot of unpilgrimish
elbowing, I take a back seat by the wall which allows me more freedom to stand and follow him as
he makes his rounds. If he is omniscient as they claims and chooses those to be interviewed by
past actions and karma, I probably won’t be worthy enough for several more lifetimes. Five or six
times I’ve been in his presence and though I looked him straight in the eye he passed me by as if I
were just another blur in the crowd.
Yesterday as I was walking up the stairs to my room a man stopped me and asked if I had a good
seat for the darshan that was about to begin and if I did not he would make on available. I was
tired and thinking of not going this time but a new surge of energy pushed me up the stairs. After a
quick wash and change into my new white pyjamas I returned and was solemnly ushered into a
front row spot on the ground. This is it, I thought, and my heart soared; he has recognized me and
sent word through an intermediary and I am to interviewed and appreciated for the wonderful
person I really am.
All kinds of fantasies went through my head and as the tension mounted, ideas and thoughts
tumbled forth from my whirling brain as I thought what I would say and do when we were finally
face to face; godman of India and avatar of the age and me, unacknowledged mini-god from
America. We will come together and walk hand and hand for the salvation of humanity and the
love and devotion to that sacred breath that blows so gently through all us clothed in mortal flesh
will be that thread of Brahman that hinds us inextricably and forever together.
The temple courtyard is bathed in silence and waves of shimmering energy can be seen in the air
exploding in their intensity and reforming again; a kaleidoscope of atomic glitter; the life and death
dance of Shiva and Shakti; the creation of a trillion worlds before my eyes, their instant destruction
in a blink. The time grows nearer and when the moment is upon us, almost on cue, when all sound
and motion has ceased, a flash of orange is suddenly seen in the doorway and before us all he
stands, dazzling in all his splendor, electric halo of hair surrounding his large head and smiling face.
Gliding to the center of the courtyard he stops; a car pulls up and waving to the crowd he enters
and drives off and out the ashram gate. As the dust settles so do a thousand fantasies.
******
My eyes have been filled with tears many times this week. I have just witnessed a feeding of the
village beggars by some well meaning, middle class Indians who came onto the main street with
large brass cauldrons filled with thick rice gruel, calling together all the wretched to fill their bowls.
Once the word was out they came in droves using pots, pans, shirts, hats and ragged saris; bent
and emaciated men and women with rheumy eyes and fly-covered sores, teenage mothers with
suckling infants, children abused by a lifetime of empty stomachs, death masks etched on their
already aged and mournful faces, all mutilated by the past karma they neither know or understand
but destined to follow in the footsteps of their kind until they expiate their unknown misdeeds.
When I asked a Brahmin restaurant owner why the Baba didn’t feed the beggars, he replied that
Baba did not want to upset the nature of things, for it was the nature of these people to be beggars
and if they were to be fed by the ashram everyday they would not have the opportunity to live out
their karma and thus be denied the chance to proceed up the steps to their allotted destiny and
eventual liberation.
I asked many people the question, “Who is this Baba?" and the answers were as varied as the
people. Many did not approve of his magic but all were of the opinion that he was a good man
who had come to spread love and wisdom to a spiritually hungry world.
I asked a village shop owner why the Baba was so fat and he patter his stomach and said with a
smile, “Baba is fat-like Ganesh - because he is successful, and like all successful men he enjoys the
fruits of his success”.
A wrinkled, ochre robed sadhu who tended the Shiva Lingam Temple outside the village said, “He
is Bhagwan, he is Shiva, my master”.
An Indian banking student studying in London said, ”He is my God, he is Krishna,’ and went on
to relate how the Baba had granted his wish and arranged for his schooling
overseas. A Brahmin businessman said,” He is the sun and moon, he is the divine
will who came down to save me from greed and sleeping pills.”
A highly educated woman claiming to know the Baba since childhood said that when he was a
boy he would often go to the cemetery to talk to the suicide spirits and it is they who give him the
objects he materializes by way of teleportation.
A cloth merchant winked and said there were two of him and that was why he could be in so
many places at once.
I have run the gamut of emotions since my arrival and I still come back to confusion. The more I
try to figure him out the more clouded my mind becomes. I will be glad to get back to the city.
The mental and emotional input I have experienced these last two weeks has left me so drained and
exhausted I must get back to some normal activity; my mind is continually reaching out for
completion and only work will put it to rest.
I would like to think him divine and pure but his fondness for silk robes and his wide girth indicate
something different from my idea of a pure and holy being. I would like to think him as humble but
his gilded throne and obvious enjoyment of adoration, pomp and showmanship leave an empty spot
inside that his presence or words do not fill. And I would like to think him a doer of good works
but the educational complex he is building suggests a fundamentalist conditioning process I have a
vague but uncomfortable feeling about.
I arrived late for darshan this morning, just as the Baba was starting to make his rounds of the
courtyard, and almost came face to face with him as I entered the gate. He didn’t even see me
though I was dressed differently this morning and my late entrance could not help but be noticed - it
was by everyone else. Does my skepticism and ego show that much? Am I being taught some kind
lesson?
I sent all my concentration and energy into his head and eyes as I followed him around the yard
not the least bit timidly. The crowd between us was only three or four deep as I moved around the
perimeter of the men’s section - ladies and gents separated for prevention of lustful distractions -
and watched with an almost perverse attention as he blessed incense, prayer beads and photos of
himself; touched heads; collected notes and letters; materialized vibhutti with the graceful twirl of
his right hand; chewed beetle nut and smiled and talked to his devoted. But nay, without a glance
he once again passed me by, and since this is my last day here it is unlikely I will get an interview
and must satisfy my yearnings second hand with people who have been more privileged than I.
An old acquaintance from the states that I ran into was called twice for an interview in one day, an
intelligent and no-nonsense person; Montessori teacher, stockbroker with both feet, as one might
say, on the ground. He told me there was no question that the baba was God. It was the happiest
moment of his life as the Baba touched, cajoled, materialized prayer beads and imparted profound
wisdom to him and his lady friend. Much to my disappointment he did not tell me what the
profound wisdom was.
After finishing a large dinner of rice and all the little tasty dishes that go with it I sat on the open-air
porch of the Brahmin restaurant across the road from the ashram main gate. Between me and the
ashram wall a continuous stream of beggars paraded by with empty cups hoping for a few scraps to
be thrown their way by the contented diners.
Earlier I had been informed by a government meteorologist that the art of materialization could be
learned by studying the Panini sutras if one had the necessary will-power and that was how the
Baba had obtained his powers. Why does he then not materialize food for these people, I ask? He
himself says that worship and love for the divine should start at home with the family and yet his
own family, the people from the very village he grew up in starve on the doorstep of his palatial
ashram. One of the baba’s Mercedes Benzes could feed and clothe his village for a year or help
finance a village industry so they might do it themselves. And if more beggars came - which they
probably would - then it might take two or even ten Mercedes which would be no mean feat for
someone who has the power to turn the unlimited stuff of the universe into matter, be it trinkets,
rupees or food.
Why does he bother titillating the egos of fat Americans with toys and cheap pictures of himself?
Is this the limit of his powers? And spectacular though these acts may be to the masses of
spiritually despondent who hunger for understanding and a protective wing under which they might
seek shelter, they will not cure the ills or change the world in any appreciable way.
***
It is 3AM and the early morning dampness sends a chill through me as I sit on an old wooden
bench outside the bus station and write by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp.
The town is quiet save for the occasional coughs and groans from the ghostly shrouded figures
sleeping in the dirt under the protective shadow of the ashram wall. A diamond sky and soothing
calm pervade the darkness and I feel rested and grounded to mother earth. I have been in the fires
of purification and now I am going back into the world to test the temper of the steel. I feel strong
and ready to go into battle for I know that what I leave behind prepares me for what lies ahead.
A simple saint he is not; more like a Hindu Father Divine. “I have arrived,” he says, and
sprinkles sacred ash from his helicopter. But his words of wisdom and message of love are there if
one is able to look past the fun he has and hear them. He is a master; maybe not The Master of all
Masters, but a master nevertheless, and the ways of masters we can not always understand.
He is God because he has realized he is God. He is God because we are all God. We are all the
twinkling stars and smiling flowers he says and some of us twinkle and smile more than others. If
nothing else can be said with certainty that one fact remains; he does twinkle and smile more than
most.
I look up and see myself surrounded by five old beggar ladies rubbing the sleep from their eyes
with one hand and stretching their empty cans out to me with the other. They are beautiful,
toothless old hags with warts and ragged saris and I cannot help but smile and love them as they
start to sway back and forth to the rhythm of their feeble croaking, singing bhajans to me and
tapping their scrawny, ring-laden toes.
The bus has started and it’s time to go. I throw my bundle aboard and turn to say goodbye. Our
eyes and hearts are locked into one at this moment and I see and feel the beauty of their sadness.
These are the Divine Mothers and theirs is the pain of the world. I squeeze each of the
outstretched hands and bow in reverence. Farewell, O Mothers….we shall meet again.
taken a room in the rear of a small sweet shop in one of the several villages within walking distance
from the Baba's summer ashram, residence and college in south India.
It is early evening. Many questions have gone through my mind this day as I waited from dawn to
noon to catch a glimpse of the magical god-man who is worshipped by literally millions of people
and regarded as the avatar of the age; God in human form. I watched as he materialized vibhutti,
the sacred ash, with the twirl of his hand and I saw and felt an energy that mesmerized a crowd of
several thousand into one prostrate organism of worship and adoration and I saw the electricity of
his aura and the truth and clearness of his message. I ask myself if this is all real or is my mind
playing tricks with me? Have I been hypnotized by a collective suggestion because I too would like
to see a savior lift us from the mess we've gotten ourselves into? If one person can do it, and be it,
then it's possible for all of us and is worth the effort and struggle.
Come on Baba, we really do want you to be the avatar of the age because the world desperately
needs one; show us that you are and connect us with your divinity so we too may become one with
you on the cosmic level as well as the physical; show us the way to tap into the source so we may
become a perfect channel for your work.
But alas, I have this other side of my nature that stands back and looks for hidden wires and
suspicious bulges in his robes; that rivet my eyes to his sleeve whenever he materializes anything.
These thoughts and feelings embarrass me in the midst of such ardent piety but they are a part of
that western rational mind I have been carrying for many years and I must in all honesty in my
endeavor to understand, heed them until they can be dispelled with some amount of certainty. One
hears many accounts, from Madam Blavatsky to Christ, but seeing them happen before your eyes
and accepting them is another matter. I am in a mild state of confusion and will follow him
tomorrow until I can make some sense of it all.
The whole atmosphere both in and around the village is palpable with a vibration of intense
lightness and joy and there is an openness between people I have not experienced before in India.
The vibration emanates from the ashram and energy center. Once inside its walls you are
bombarded even when the Baba is not on stage. You are, it seems, surrounded by molecules of
light and love; you see them, feel them and interact with them on multitudinous levels and
dimensions. It is physically draining; a one pointed meditation of the most sublime type that sends
energy blasting through you and in the aftermath of its burners leaves you exhausted; a psychedelic
experience of such feeling and force that only leaving the compound can turn off. And waiting for
the Baba to make his appearance creates such anxiety, tension and hair-trigger anticipation that you
feel ready to explode and tired feet and back dulls your sensitiveness to the ordinary. Then there is
the hope, the hope that he is what he says he is.
Mr. Jai, dear sweet man in the next room, a retired engineer now working for the ashram, has
such light shining from his eyes I am in awe and completely overwhelmed by his presence. Who is
the Baba? I ask him, and radiating from every pore he replies; Baba is whoever you want him to be
- saint, sinner, ordinary mortal - he is who your heart tells you he is, who your heart wants him to
be.
***
Waiting for the bus in the frantic city terminal after a night in a seedy hotel in the bazaar section of
the old city. I feel I am walking on hot razorblades and any moment the frail identity I cling to could
be abrogated with one false step. Can't seen to think about anything but the Baba since
experiencing his presence and trying to put those thoughts and feelings into an understandable frame
of reference is such a vain attempt at communicating the experience I am almost tempted to not
even try. I have been unable to view the world and its attendant activity in the same light as
previously for it is all like some strange surrealistic film, a vast dream or illusion that has been
created by the manipulation of my puny mind and one whose outcome I have no conscious control
over.
A cacophony of noise and confusion envelopes me as a growing crowd struggles to board the
ancient and gaudily painted bus that has arrived. Sweating bodies brush past squirming to stow
luggage and find seats and the garbled staccato of unfamiliar tongues pierces the morning air.
Hawkers, the continuous and monotonous din of toothless old men and young boys selling their
wares of sweets, fruit and tea; a beggar crawls down the isle with his empty cup, malformed limbs
providing the locomotion. A fingerless hand pushes its way through the bars of the bus window and
into my face as I write but I hardly miss a pen stroke; if I looked into his eyes my armor would be
demolished and I would have to give.
To give; is not our inability to give totally and unselfishly the dam that holds our divinity in bonds?
In my deepest heart of hearts I know this to be true; that we will never be a race of supermen or
enlightened souls until we can give with total trust and lack of fear. Only when we are ready and
willing to be crucified will we reach that purity of divine consciousness and oneness with God.
Our Tamil driver boards the bus, arranges fresh flowers over the dashboard pictures of the Baba
and starts the motor. The tinkle of finger cymbals and the timid but melodic singing of a young blind
man give way to crystal clear bhajans of devotion and soon nothing else can be heard as the roar of
the bus is drowned in songs of joy and praise.
This is a bus full of the Baba's devotees drunk on the ecstasy of their love for him; it is a tinseled
chariot winging its occupants to the Abode of Eternal peace; it is a rocket whizzing through the
black night; it is the dove of peace on its way to the olive branch. These are the rich and poor, the
healthy and sick, the young and old; they have all been touched by his wand, all been captured by
his love and wisdom. These are the rain drops going back into the sea; this is humanity rushing to
the bosom of super humanity. He has shown them that the other does truly exist; he has
transcended the limitations of the body and shown that man can indeed become one with the energy
of the universe. It is madness and I am caught up in it. I feel my doubt and uncertainty, those dark
shadows in the recesses of my mind being sucked from my rational system while my essence is
being drawn to the form of the funny little man in the orange robe. He is the form as we all are but
his power is greater because he has pierced the veil and dispelled the fury of the mind that manacles
us to the illusion of separateness; he has become one with the overlord of mind-at-large; his vision
has glimpsed the divine and he has remained behind to dance in its all pervading light..
And I too am wrapped in this boundless light and love and I feel the timelessness of the ages in my
every fiber; I am Him and He is me and now like two lovers we are rushing into each others arms
to be forever united again. No more will duality divide us for with one twirl of his hand he has
shattered the bastions of my ego and my unfulfilled heat aches no more... I am free!
Five hours later we arrive in the small dusty village of the winter ashram. I'm exhausted and aching
from the hard benches, hungry and out of tobacco. I go to a chai shop with two other westerners
and momentarily shelving our new found liberation indulge our parched appetites with strong drink
and smoke. After satisfying these necessities we go to the ashram accommodations office and
check in.
Sitting in the spacious temple courtyard inside the ashram walls with about a thousand other people
waiting for the Baba to make his entrance and give morning darshan-blessings to his devoted.
Bhagwan-Lord-as he is called by his followers, lives in a one room apartment on the second floor
of the temple; a large cream, pink and baby blue wedding cake structure covered in
statues and carvings of mythological and religious figures and symbols. The stairs from his
apartment become the focus of attention for all eyes and there is a hushed silence of expectancy as
each one strains to catch the first glimpse of the flashing orange robe.
Guards in white shirts and orange scarves can be seen in the periphery escorting people to seats,
seeing that shoes are not worn and generally keeping order. These are the palace guards and they
do their job well; oftentimes, it has been said, in a somewhat forceful manner, for when the crowds
have been large and unruly during festivals and birthday celebrations, physical restraint is sometimes
necessary and thus the guardians of the Lord are required to carry long wooden clubs to hold back
some of this more ardent lovers.
As we wait the same thought is passing through everyone’s mind: to get an interview, either group
or private, to be called into the sanctum sanctorum and feel his presence up close; to touch and be
touched by him; to look into his eyes and experience who he really is; and to maybe sit at the feet
of God himself. Someone told me when I arrived that one does not come unless the Baba has
called. Ok, Baba, here I am.
Since you have to get up quite early for a front row spot on the ground or do a lot of unpilgrimish
elbowing, I take a back seat by the wall which allows me more freedom to stand and follow him as
he makes his rounds. If he is omniscient as they claims and chooses those to be interviewed by
past actions and karma, I probably won’t be worthy enough for several more lifetimes. Five or six
times I’ve been in his presence and though I looked him straight in the eye he passed me by as if I
were just another blur in the crowd.
Yesterday as I was walking up the stairs to my room a man stopped me and asked if I had a good
seat for the darshan that was about to begin and if I did not he would make on available. I was
tired and thinking of not going this time but a new surge of energy pushed me up the stairs. After a
quick wash and change into my new white pyjamas I returned and was solemnly ushered into a
front row spot on the ground. This is it, I thought, and my heart soared; he has recognized me and
sent word through an intermediary and I am to interviewed and appreciated for the wonderful
person I really am.
All kinds of fantasies went through my head and as the tension mounted, ideas and thoughts
tumbled forth from my whirling brain as I thought what I would say and do when we were finally
face to face; godman of India and avatar of the age and me, unacknowledged mini-god from
America. We will come together and walk hand and hand for the salvation of humanity and the
love and devotion to that sacred breath that blows so gently through all us clothed in mortal flesh
will be that thread of Brahman that hinds us inextricably and forever together.
The temple courtyard is bathed in silence and waves of shimmering energy can be seen in the air
exploding in their intensity and reforming again; a kaleidoscope of atomic glitter; the life and death
dance of Shiva and Shakti; the creation of a trillion worlds before my eyes, their instant destruction
in a blink. The time grows nearer and when the moment is upon us, almost on cue, when all sound
and motion has ceased, a flash of orange is suddenly seen in the doorway and before us all he
stands, dazzling in all his splendor, electric halo of hair surrounding his large head and smiling face.
Gliding to the center of the courtyard he stops; a car pulls up and waving to the crowd he enters
and drives off and out the ashram gate. As the dust settles so do a thousand fantasies.
******
My eyes have been filled with tears many times this week. I have just witnessed a feeding of the
village beggars by some well meaning, middle class Indians who came onto the main street with
large brass cauldrons filled with thick rice gruel, calling together all the wretched to fill their bowls.
Once the word was out they came in droves using pots, pans, shirts, hats and ragged saris; bent
and emaciated men and women with rheumy eyes and fly-covered sores, teenage mothers with
suckling infants, children abused by a lifetime of empty stomachs, death masks etched on their
already aged and mournful faces, all mutilated by the past karma they neither know or understand
but destined to follow in the footsteps of their kind until they expiate their unknown misdeeds.
When I asked a Brahmin restaurant owner why the Baba didn’t feed the beggars, he replied that
Baba did not want to upset the nature of things, for it was the nature of these people to be beggars
and if they were to be fed by the ashram everyday they would not have the opportunity to live out
their karma and thus be denied the chance to proceed up the steps to their allotted destiny and
eventual liberation.
I asked many people the question, “Who is this Baba?" and the answers were as varied as the
people. Many did not approve of his magic but all were of the opinion that he was a good man
who had come to spread love and wisdom to a spiritually hungry world.
I asked a village shop owner why the Baba was so fat and he patter his stomach and said with a
smile, “Baba is fat-like Ganesh - because he is successful, and like all successful men he enjoys the
fruits of his success”.
A wrinkled, ochre robed sadhu who tended the Shiva Lingam Temple outside the village said, “He
is Bhagwan, he is Shiva, my master”.
An Indian banking student studying in London said, ”He is my God, he is Krishna,’ and went on
to relate how the Baba had granted his wish and arranged for his schooling
overseas. A Brahmin businessman said,” He is the sun and moon, he is the divine
will who came down to save me from greed and sleeping pills.”
A highly educated woman claiming to know the Baba since childhood said that when he was a
boy he would often go to the cemetery to talk to the suicide spirits and it is they who give him the
objects he materializes by way of teleportation.
A cloth merchant winked and said there were two of him and that was why he could be in so
many places at once.
I have run the gamut of emotions since my arrival and I still come back to confusion. The more I
try to figure him out the more clouded my mind becomes. I will be glad to get back to the city.
The mental and emotional input I have experienced these last two weeks has left me so drained and
exhausted I must get back to some normal activity; my mind is continually reaching out for
completion and only work will put it to rest.
I would like to think him divine and pure but his fondness for silk robes and his wide girth indicate
something different from my idea of a pure and holy being. I would like to think him as humble but
his gilded throne and obvious enjoyment of adoration, pomp and showmanship leave an empty spot
inside that his presence or words do not fill. And I would like to think him a doer of good works
but the educational complex he is building suggests a fundamentalist conditioning process I have a
vague but uncomfortable feeling about.
I arrived late for darshan this morning, just as the Baba was starting to make his rounds of the
courtyard, and almost came face to face with him as I entered the gate. He didn’t even see me
though I was dressed differently this morning and my late entrance could not help but be noticed - it
was by everyone else. Does my skepticism and ego show that much? Am I being taught some kind
lesson?
I sent all my concentration and energy into his head and eyes as I followed him around the yard
not the least bit timidly. The crowd between us was only three or four deep as I moved around the
perimeter of the men’s section - ladies and gents separated for prevention of lustful distractions -
and watched with an almost perverse attention as he blessed incense, prayer beads and photos of
himself; touched heads; collected notes and letters; materialized vibhutti with the graceful twirl of
his right hand; chewed beetle nut and smiled and talked to his devoted. But nay, without a glance
he once again passed me by, and since this is my last day here it is unlikely I will get an interview
and must satisfy my yearnings second hand with people who have been more privileged than I.
An old acquaintance from the states that I ran into was called twice for an interview in one day, an
intelligent and no-nonsense person; Montessori teacher, stockbroker with both feet, as one might
say, on the ground. He told me there was no question that the baba was God. It was the happiest
moment of his life as the Baba touched, cajoled, materialized prayer beads and imparted profound
wisdom to him and his lady friend. Much to my disappointment he did not tell me what the
profound wisdom was.
After finishing a large dinner of rice and all the little tasty dishes that go with it I sat on the open-air
porch of the Brahmin restaurant across the road from the ashram main gate. Between me and the
ashram wall a continuous stream of beggars paraded by with empty cups hoping for a few scraps to
be thrown their way by the contented diners.
Earlier I had been informed by a government meteorologist that the art of materialization could be
learned by studying the Panini sutras if one had the necessary will-power and that was how the
Baba had obtained his powers. Why does he then not materialize food for these people, I ask? He
himself says that worship and love for the divine should start at home with the family and yet his
own family, the people from the very village he grew up in starve on the doorstep of his palatial
ashram. One of the baba’s Mercedes Benzes could feed and clothe his village for a year or help
finance a village industry so they might do it themselves. And if more beggars came - which they
probably would - then it might take two or even ten Mercedes which would be no mean feat for
someone who has the power to turn the unlimited stuff of the universe into matter, be it trinkets,
rupees or food.
Why does he bother titillating the egos of fat Americans with toys and cheap pictures of himself?
Is this the limit of his powers? And spectacular though these acts may be to the masses of
spiritually despondent who hunger for understanding and a protective wing under which they might
seek shelter, they will not cure the ills or change the world in any appreciable way.
***
It is 3AM and the early morning dampness sends a chill through me as I sit on an old wooden
bench outside the bus station and write by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp.
The town is quiet save for the occasional coughs and groans from the ghostly shrouded figures
sleeping in the dirt under the protective shadow of the ashram wall. A diamond sky and soothing
calm pervade the darkness and I feel rested and grounded to mother earth. I have been in the fires
of purification and now I am going back into the world to test the temper of the steel. I feel strong
and ready to go into battle for I know that what I leave behind prepares me for what lies ahead.
A simple saint he is not; more like a Hindu Father Divine. “I have arrived,” he says, and
sprinkles sacred ash from his helicopter. But his words of wisdom and message of love are there if
one is able to look past the fun he has and hear them. He is a master; maybe not The Master of all
Masters, but a master nevertheless, and the ways of masters we can not always understand.
He is God because he has realized he is God. He is God because we are all God. We are all the
twinkling stars and smiling flowers he says and some of us twinkle and smile more than others. If
nothing else can be said with certainty that one fact remains; he does twinkle and smile more than
most.
I look up and see myself surrounded by five old beggar ladies rubbing the sleep from their eyes
with one hand and stretching their empty cans out to me with the other. They are beautiful,
toothless old hags with warts and ragged saris and I cannot help but smile and love them as they
start to sway back and forth to the rhythm of their feeble croaking, singing bhajans to me and
tapping their scrawny, ring-laden toes.
The bus has started and it’s time to go. I throw my bundle aboard and turn to say goodbye. Our
eyes and hearts are locked into one at this moment and I see and feel the beauty of their sadness.
These are the Divine Mothers and theirs is the pain of the world. I squeeze each of the
outstretched hands and bow in reverence. Farewell, O Mothers….we shall meet again.
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