The curtain opens on a great drama

February. A mind-wrenching circular arrived from our office in Wichita. Baba is in jail in India. It states:

Though Baba was arrested on 29th December, we delayed to inform you in the hope that He would soon be released. But it’s taking time. Together with four workers, He is charged with conspiracy to murder. Of course it’s a frame- up manufactured by the CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation) to crush Ananda Marga. The ideas and activities of AM have always been a direct threat to public figures who hunger for personal power without concern to benefit the society….

The sole direct witness is Vishokananda, an ex-Dada who claims to have been one of the murderers. Instead of being in jail, however, he is free and enjoying luxurious living standards. His evidence is acceptable according to a fluke in Indian law which permits a criminal to testify against others, in which case he is called the Approver.

According to the discretion of the court, the Approver may be released and richly rewarded for his cooperation.

The four so-called murder victims found in a forest are unidentifiable. The post-mortem cannot even determine if they are male or female….

There is not one piece of authentic evidence in the case, and therefore our lawyers expect Baba and the co-accused to be acquitted very soon….

Baba is not only unperturbed by His incarceration. He was clearly prepared for it. When the police came to His house on the 29th to arrest Him. they proposed that they wait a few hours for Him to arrange His suitcases. He replied, “I was expecting you. and am already packed. Let us proceed without delay.”

Strange as it may sound, I am encouraged by this news. If the CBI is prepared to undergo such trouble to try to stop us. it proves Ananda Marga is doing excellent work. It goes without saying that the prosecution will eventually fail. This drama promises to be interesting.

All night all right

A few days ago, I read an inspirational book that mentioned the mind’s capacity to maintain the continuous repetition of mantra even while sleeping. Tonight while lying in my bed, I concentrated on my mantra as I fell asleep.

In the morning I had a wondrous experience. I had not the slightest of my normal tiredness on waking, and instead felt as if I was simply passing from one state of mind into another. I could distinctly recall the presence of my mantra all night, as if it was playing a witnessing role throughout all of my dreams. Because my awareness was identified with the mantra, I had watched my dreams as a kind of spectator.

I am beginning to tap into an entity of infinite perspectives.

You Have to Work For Your Realization

49

The Lord resorts to extreme measures

Another volunteer, Paul, has been working with me these last few weeks. Today he left for India to undergo training to become a Dada. I thought it was a mistake, and tried to tell him so, but he refused to listen or talk about it.

Paul has a wife and two small children who live in New York. He did not divorce his wife, but only left her for the sake of the spiritual work. I don’t like this. I even asked him directly once, “Paul, what about your wife and children? Are you thinking to communicate with them?” He gave me such a scowl that I dared not mention it again.

Throughout his stay here, his behavior was strange. He was almost always silent, and barely helped except physically. When he sat in meditation, he moved constantly, often groaning in psychic discomfort. Surely he is suppressing much. On the other hand, it does seem he loves our mission, and wants to do something noble with his life.

Two months later. I received a long-distance telephone call today from a government officer in Washington D.C. He said. “Do you know Mr. Paul Stockman?”

“Yes.”

“He wrote your name in his passport in case of accident, and, well, he’s had a serious one.”

“Where? What happened?”

“He was found unconscious, suffering from head wounds and a concussion in an alley in New Delhi. India.” “Oh God.”

“His wallet was gone, so we guess that he was attacked and robbed.” “What do you mean ‘we guess’? What does Paul say happened?” “He doesn’t remember what happened. In fact, ah, he doesn’t remember anything. The doctors say he has almost total amnesia.” “Wow! How…”

“And that’s why I’m calling you now. He’s in a hospital in New Delhi, and we would like to know if he has any family to whom he should return. It’s preferable he receive treatment near his own home.”

Luckily I happened to have his original address in New York City Including his wife’s name. I read it to the officer, and asked him to inform me when Paul arrives in New York, and in which hospital he’s staying.

You Have to Work For Your Realization

50

Five days later. Paul arrived in New York yesterday. I called him at the hospital. He’s still a bit weak, but said that small bits and pieces of his memory have returned so that he can vaguely remember me and his family. His voice, however, sounded different. He always used to speak in an artificially subdued manner. Today, though his voice was weak, it was, nevertheless clear and unrestrained, except due to the uncertainty of his memory.

The end of our talk was interesting.

“I’m thinking to go to India soon,” I said. “Maybe I can pass through New York on my way.” “Thafll be great!” he said. “Did your wife visit you yet?” “Yeah.”

“Are you thinking to return … to your home soon?”

“The doctors say I may be able to leave within a week or so.”

“You mean you’ll go home then?”

“Of course. Do you suggest any other place ?”

“No, no, that’ll be perfect.”

1 don’t think he caught my delighted surprise. Here was a guy who was so sincerely and forcefully running the wrong way, that the only means by which Baba could correct him was a knock on the head.

He’s the problem. He’s the solution

I’ve run out of money. When it’s happened before, I’ve always taken a short¬ term job: as a taxi driver, an accountant, a government census taker, a manufacturer of alfalfa sprouts, a Santa Claus handing candy to children in a department store.

But this time it’s different. We have two major social service programs which will collapse if I withdraw from them in order to earn money. First we are busy arranging a public concert to raise funds for the famine-stricken population of Bangladesh. 11 Second is a twice-weekly cooking class for poor people, to teach them how to prepare nutritious tasty food on a minimal budget.

11 This program turned out to be the largest outdoor-concert ever held in M ississippi until then.

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Travels with the Mystic Master

I’ve told my problem to nobody, except Baba, and to Him I said and say, “I am working for You only, offering everything for You. This yoga house is Yours, and these projects are Yours. I shall not jeopardize the projects by taking a job. If I don’t have money to pay for the center, it’s Your problem. Baba, not mine. If I end up in the street homeless, it’s okay for me; it might even be interesting.”

There’s no trouble getting food because I’m receiving government food stamps.

Three weeks later. The rent is due tomorrow, and I still don’t have the money. Baba, be careful. It’s Your loss not mine if I can’t pay the rent. That will be a good lesson for You.

Two days later. I suppose any moment the real estate company will call me, and ask for the rent. I’m ready to leave. The joke’s on You. Baba.

One day later. Today a letter arrived from Chris. Since he went to Eugene to study nine months ago. I’ve had no contact with him.

He writes: “Everyone at the university here was fed up with the movies arranged weekly by the University Cultural Affairs Office. So Larry and I began booking first-class films on our own. We charged our audiences a nominal fee, thinking only to recover our expenditure. Without expecting it, we pulled in some profit. When I was thinking what to do with this money, I suddenly thought of you. I’ve got a feeling you could put it to better use than anyone I know.”

Inside was a check for $210, exactly enough money for the next three months rent. As I walked to the real estate office I laughed. Good joke. Baba.

An ancient yogi makes trouble

Dadaji is here for his second visit. Again, plenty of people are attending the lectures and learning meditation.

One man, about 50 years old, came to our door, saying, “I saw the sign on your house: Ananda Marga Yoga Society. What does it mean?”

He had never heard of yoga. I took a few minutes to explain a little to him, and he immediately wanted to learn.

You Have to Work For Your Realization

52

“I think it’ll be better,” I said, “if you first attend a lecture and read some of our books. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“But this is my only chance. Tomorrow I go out of Jackson for one month. Please leave the risk to me.” Hesitantly, I agreed to schedule a meeting with Dadaji.

Immediately after his initiation he did long meditation—nearly one hour. Then he came to me and said, “I must see Dadaji again.”

“I’m sorry, Dadaji’s doing his own meditation now, so you’ll have to wait.” “But I have an appointment; I can’t wait. I’ve got a problem with the meditation. At least let me explain it to you.” “I’m not qualified to deal with these matters.” “Look, you’ve got to listen!” I shrugged my shoulders.

“From the first moment, my meditation was very pleasant. But after some time a tall bearded Indian dressed in white appeared in my mind.” He demonstrated the sitting position of the Indian which was a yoga posture for doing higher meditation.

He continued, “I was doing meditation on the mantra which I learned from Dadaji. But the Indian man in my mind was loudly repeating a different mantra.”

He told me the “different mantra”. It was strange and unknown to

me.

“A conflict rose in me,” he said. “I didn’t know which mantra to use. It created a heavy tension, which was painful. Finally I decided that since my meditation had led me to the vision of this Indian man, I should follow him. So I started repeating his mantra. Immediately I felt wonderful, as I’ve never felt before. Do you agree that I am doing the right thing?”

I did not agree. “In my opinion you should continue only with the mantra you learned from Dadaji. I believe this vision is coming from your distant past. Perhaps from past lives. But I’m not sure, so please telephone me tonight, and in the meantime I’ll ask Dadaji.”

Dadaji agreed with me, so when the man called, I suggested he continue to follow Dadaji’s instructions only.

Next day. The man I wrote about yesterday is a traveling salesman who sells equipment to farmers. Tonight he called again saying, “I’m finding the meditation experience too taxing. That Indian yogi still appears every time I sit and loudly chants his mantra. What should I do?”

“As we already told you, please keep on struggling.” Of course that was easy to say, but.

Next day. The salesman called again late tonight. He said. “As usual the yogi entered my meditation this evening. This time, however, it was absolutely hellish. He applied such a power on me that it seemed unbearable. Somehow I continued with my mantra. Just when I thought I would explode if I continued even one second longer, he exploded! His clothing, flesh, blood, even bones burst apart in every direction-nothing remained except a bright blissful luminosity. It was beautiful beyond words. I felt that all my worries and fears were gone. Did I merge in God?”

Two weeks later. The salesman called me again. He said, “I feel guided. Almost every farm I go to I find either the husband or the wife is particularly interested in meditation. And so I teach him or her the universal mantra 12 . Is it okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

Now I understand why this man had such difficulties in his meditation—to strengthen his mind for the work of reaching these farmers who would otherwise never come in contact with Ananda Marga.

N ew education techniques

All of my social service responsibilities were taken over today by a new volunteer who will soon replace me. On a whim I visited a local primary school to see if I could help in any way. By their shabby clothing it was obvious that the children were from poor families. Almost all of them were black. A secretary in the administrative office told me 1 was free to look around. As I walked through the hallways I heard children talking, laughing and yelling through every door.

‘■’The universal mantra is Baba Nam Kevalam

You Have to Work For Your Realization

When I entered a classroom for nine year-olds, I found nothing short of chaos. Not only were all the children busy in loud games of their own, ignoring the teacher, some were chasing others around the room, knocking over chairs, desks, whatever got in their way. Meanwhile, the teacher was sitting at her desk, reading something. I approached her.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “I wonder if there is any way I could help you.”

She looked up, surprised. “Well, that’s right kind of yo’all,” she said to me. “Alrightee, thank yo’all. I’ll just be on down to the lounge for a cup of coffee, and yo’all can take over the class.”

Before I could express my astonishment, she stood up and left the room. The students didn’t even notice.

I looked at all of them, sat down at the teacher’s desk, and closed my eyes. As I thought of Baba, an idea entered my head.

“Children!” I said loudly above all their racket.

Most of them spun around and shouted, “Yes!”

“Would you like to play a game?”

“Yes!”

“Okay. Come and sit down near to me.”

Immediately they all ran forward, pushing and knocking against each other, laughing and arguing over who could sit nearest to me. A desk was knocked down, and a new fist-fight erupted for a few moments.

“This is a very special game you never played before. Are you sure you want to do it?” “Yes!”

“But you have to be very different than usual to play it. Can you really do that?” “Yes!”

I dropped my voice low and said, “You’ll have to be very very quiet to play. I don’t think you can do that. Do you really think you can play this special game?”

“Yes!” they yelled in a whisper.

Two boys pushed each other. Pointing at them, I said, “You two can play a different game, it’s okay. You go over to that corner, and play your own game.”

You Have to Work For Your Realization

55

The two jumped up and ran to the far corner of the room. For about ten seconds they pushed each other. Then they sat down and looked at the rest of us.

“Now, I want you all to close your eyes for a moment.”

they all shut their eyes. Taking advantage of the situation, one boy pulled the ears of another boy, who turned around and pulled the pig-tails of a girl.

“Open your eyes,” I said. I directed the two pullers to go and play their game in the comer. Like the first two, they ran at full speed to the comer, were raucous for a few seconds, and then sat quietly looking at us.

“Now, this time when you close your eyes, I want you to imagine something that you like more than anything else in the world.”

Again they closed their eyes. No sound, no movement. Even the boys in the comer closed their eyes.

After about ten seconds I said, “Okay very good. Open your eyes. What did you see?”

“Chocolate cake!”

“Mary Sue!”

“A miniature electric train!”

Their answers went on until I heard “Presents around the Christmas tree!”

“Stop!” I said, holding up my hand. “You all did very nicely. Let’s take one of these: presents around the Christmas tree. I like that too. Have any of you seen snow?”

“Yes,” they all said.

“Mas anyone never seen snow?”

Silence. Even though Jackson is a hot place, I guess they’d all seen snow, at least on television.

“Okay, great. Now let’s all think about Christmas, boys and girls. Yes, close your eyes again. Good. Now imagine it’s really Christmas, and you’re sitting at home in front of the fireplace because it’s cold outside and it’s snowing. You feel nice and cozy by the fire, and you look out the window and see all that snow falling. And it’s so beautiful. Lots and lots of white white snow. Now your body becomes very small, and very light, and you float out the window, and you’re float

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ing in the snowflakes, and you feel so happy and light and white. And you go higher and higher in the beautiful snowflakes, and you’re all

alone. And then you see the sun shining. And you float toward the sun. It’s great, it’s fun, it’s beautiful. And you’re flying toward the sun, riding on the sun’s rays. And everywhere is light and light and more light. And your body is full of light. And your mind is full of light. And

you’re becoming a ray of light. And you mix with that light, and enjoy it. Ah, it’s so beautiful, and you feel better than ever in your life, and so quiet and peaceful and happy. And you feel that you love every¬ body. And you feel you’re a ray of love. It’s so beautiful. You’re so

beautiful and loving and love, only love, only love…”

Toward the end my voice became softer and softer until it faded

away. I meditated with them for about fifteen seconds. Then I opened my eyes. They were all pin-drop quiet, sitting with eyes closed, includ¬ ing the boys in the corner.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Very good. Open your eyes slowly.”

Most of them opened their eyes, though a few kept them closed. Their eyes glistened, and their faces shone.

“You’re very beautiful children,” I said. “You’re so full of love. I love you, and I’m sure God loves you too. And I’m sure you love ev¬ erybody. So … what do you like to say now?”

“I love everybody,” one boy said.

“Me too! Me too! I love everybody!” came a chorus of voices.

Just in that moment the teacher appeared at the door. Her eyes opened wide, and she raised her arms.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. As she walked in, the children looked at her, and started chitchatting lightly between themselves. She came up to me.

“How did you manage to get them like this?” Before I

could answer, the school bell rang. “Ask them.” I said.

Yesterday and today I went again to that school. The same teacher asked me to come to her classroom, saying that her children had been much quieter and nicer after my visit. But I told her I wanted to try other classrooms.

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Travels with the Mystic Master

I did more or less the same in two more classes with good results. But for today’s class I also taught them to sing Baba Nam Kevalam. It was even better, because there’s hardly anything kids like more than singing.

All the teachers in the school heard about these programs, and many of them requested me to come to their classrooms.

When I told them I’m leaving Mississippi this week, they were dis¬ appointed.

Don’t move!

As I began morning meditation, a thought crossed my mind: “I shall be inflexibly rigid. No matter what uneasiness I feel, I shall not move.”

Until today, each and every time I practiced meditation, I inevitably shifted my weight or my legs a few times. Though I knew I should not move, I never adhered strictly to the system.

This time, however, when itching asked for scratching, nervous tension demanded release, and pain shouted for relief—I did not give in. Though it was very difficult, I didn’t move even a fraction of an inch. Slowly, all the mental and physical chatter lessened, and finally ceased. My mind sunk deep into meditation, and I achieved a consciousness previously unknown to me.

A simple, effective technique: don’t move a muscle! Isn’t it odd that 1 didn’t try it before?

Instant bliss

On the Greyhound bus north. I’m traveling to Chicago. From Chicago I’ll go to India to meet Baba and try to find out whether or not I should become an acharya 13 . The Jackson center is now in the hands of another volunteer.

Chicago. One week later. My sister’s getting married this week. The ceremony will be at our house, and scores of near and distant family members are either here or on their way.

13 Acharya is the formal title of the teachers of Ananda M arga—the Dadas and Didis. Acharan means conduct. Acharya means one who teaches others through his or her personal conduct.

You Have to Work For Your Realization

58

Yesterday, two of my cousins and I went to a public meeting of an Indian spiritual movement just starting in America. The main attraction was the mother of the guru, together with the two leading teachers of the movement— all of whom are supposed to be living saints. The guru is still in India. The lecture had already started when we arrived. We slipped in at the back of the room, which was packed with about 200 people. The teacher who was lecturing turned toward me and stared. He kept his eyes fixed on me even while singing. But was he really looking at me? To find out, I moved to other sides of the hall. His eyes remained glued on me until the end—about one hour.

When the lecture finished, I was curious, to say the least. About ten disciples were there, and it seemed all had noticed the teacher staring at me. They also seemed to be wondering why. I requested an interview.

The teacher said to me, “We are leaving Chicago just now. Come to the airport, and we will talk there.”

Together with several disciples, my cousins and I drove to the airport. After checking in. the two teachers and the mother took me aside, alone.

“Who are you?” they asked.

“I’m going to India in a few days. I’m an Ananda Margi.”

They laughed uproariously. I was shocked.

“Oh, Ananda Marga! Violent, dangerous people! You must have nothing to do with them.”

I asked for the source of their malicious information. They spoke of various so-called scandals, but added nothing convincing.

Then they said, “Whether you believe in Ananda Marga doesn’t matter. The important fact is we give you Cosmic Knowledge instantly. You will see Light and hear Music.”

“Okay. Please give me the initiation here now,” I said.

“No, no. You meet us in Denver. We will hold big seminar there. You must join and then you receive initiation.”

“I’m going to India. Why should I change? How can I know if your Knowledge is correct or not?”

For twenty minutes they tried to persuade me.

At the end of that time, two sentences finally struck me: “We are opening doorway to God. You should at least try.” I couldn’t deny that.

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I immediately canceled my flight to India, and re-booked for Denver reasoning that I could always go to India later if their promises proved empty.

In the evening, I arrived home with my cousins. They were excited and I was inspired. Everyone was pleased when they heard that I would be staying in America. Only my father was frustrated.

“How could you change your mind so easily?” he asked. “Looks like your commitment was not so deep as you made it out to be.”

As the evening wore on, a strange feeling developed. Something was wrong, though I had no idea what. “What is it, God? How am I failing You?” I thought.

Confusion overtook me. Struggling to get free, the anxiety only increased. I asked Baba and God to save me. At last I fell asleep, fully prostrate, praying for guidance.

When I woke up this morning at 6:00 a.m., I was still lying in the same position. I had been dreaming and the meaning of the dream seemed unmistakably clear. Thrilled to the bone, I jumped up to phone Dada Birendra Lai. 14

I quickly told him about yesterday’s experience. Then I told him my dream:

“Dadaji, I was in India in a room with about forty or fifty people. Baba sat in the front, facing us and speaking. We all knew that Bindeshwari was in the next room. You know, the Bindeshwari who died and was brought back to life by Baba’s touch, and who now has miraculous psychic powers.”

“Yes, yes. I know him very well.”

“Well, we could hear many persons in that room being affected by Bindeshwari’s touch on their foreheads—they were shouting, sighing, and gasping as they entered into high states of consciousness. It seemed that each of us in the room with Baba was thinking, T wish I were there’,

14 At this time there were three Dadas, or acharyas, in the USA. One was a renunciate (Dada Yatishvarananda, the Dada who taught me meditation), and the other two were married. Dada Birendra Lai was a family man, employed in Chicago as an engineer. In the beginning years of Ananda M arga, all the acharyas were family people. The renunciate or monk system only came later. The two family acharyas were from the original group, and thus had long experience on the spiritual path. While maintaining his normal family responsibilities Dada Birendra also guided our Chicago meditation group. The third Dada, also married, lived and worked in Philadelphia.

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60

as we all looked at the wall separating us from ecstasy. Only Baba was unimpressed. He turned toward the wall and yelled through it, ‘Will you little children please be quiet!’ In that same moment I woke up.

“Doesn’t it show, Dadaji, that Baba doesn’t give much importance to such psychic phenomena? Surely it would be worse than a waste of time for me to go to Denver, just running after occult experience. I think I have to give myself to God, not try to get something for myself. Isn’t is so, Dada?”

“In 1955,” Dada replied, “one devotee said to Baba, We’ve received everything by Your grace. Baba. Why don’t you give bliss to everyone in the world right now? Why wait?’ He said, T have not come to give instant bliss. That would defeat the purpose of life. Your purpose is to realize love-for- everyone-and-everything. You have to work for that.’”

I canceled the ticket for Denver and re-booked for India. 15

Don’t thank me

On the way to India I spent one day in New York City. I arranged to meet Paul at a bus stop near his house. When I stepped off the bus. he was standing about 150 meters away. When he saw me, his face lit up with a big smile. In Mississippi I had never seen him smile even once. He ran toward me and we embraced.

The first thing he blurted out was, “You’ll never believe it! In the last days I’ve been strongly desiring to do meditation, but couldn’t remember my mantra, lust now as I saw you, I suddenly remembered it! Thank you. thank you. thank you!”

15 Though Bindeshwari did clinically die, according to yoga it is possible that he never actually died. Yoga says that death is a process in which ultimately both the nerve cells and fibers die. There are, however, some cases in which only the nerve fibers die, but the nerve cel Is continue to live. Doctors declare that person to be clinically dead. This might have been Bindeshwari’s situation.

Baba did several times demonstrate that a person whose nerve fibers were dead but nerve cells alive could be restored to life, a phenomenon which medical science has not yet understood.

Bindeshwari had some ability to raise the consciousness of others by his touch. It is a common occult power which is accessible to advanced spiritual aspirants. Though this same occult power was displayed by Baba innumerable times, He often explained the science behind it, together with the dangers inherent in misusing the power.

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Travels with the Mystic Master

Home

Sickness and depression: catalytic agents

New Delhi, India. May. The latest news regarding Baba’s court case is that there is no news. The strategy of the opposition is obviously to delay in the hope that over time Margis, Dadas and Didis will become frustrated, and gradually our mission will crumble. They cannot understand that such difficulties only make us stronger.

Weather is super hot. Fantastic mango milk shakes. Drank four in one go.

(Next day, on the train to Patna) … and became sick as a dog. I never experienced before such strong diarrhea and nausea. An Indian Dada with long black hair and a thick beard (like almost all Dadas) tried to help but there was little he could do.

Patna. I’ve been so sick that I could neither stand up nor sleep. It’s blistering hot. My head is totally spaced out. To top it off, nobody is allowed to meet Baba in the jail.

The fact that I cannot see Baba only adds to my depression and confusion. I’ve come to India to determine my life’s direction, perhaps to become a monk, but how will I manage to clear up anything without meeting my guru? Now many doubts arise.

Today during one of my half-unconscious periods a Dada said, “Pack your things and come with me. I will take you to the proper place.”

Home

62

Without thinking, I obeyed him. Later he introduced himself as Dada Svarupananda.

Now I am on a train heading for a place called Ananda Nagar.

A mystic land

Ananda Nagar, Purulia District. The journey lasted overnight dur¬ ing which I fell asleep for the first time in four days. This morning we arrived at a tiny station in the Indian countryside. No one got on or off except the two of us. One station attendant met us; otherwise there wasn’t a soul in sight. The station signboard said Pundag. My body is still very weak and it took all the effort I could muster to begin walk¬ ing over what seemed like an endless desert.

When we got down, Dada turned to me and said, “Welcome to Ananda Nagar. This is the most spiritual land in the world. Though our global camp office is in Patna, Ananda Nagar is the permanent central office of Ananda Marga.”

As I looked around me, the air broke in sparkling waves. Was it the heat waves, my delirium, or something mystical? No grass—just barren land, big and small rocks of all shapes strangely juxtaposed, and a few scattered, hardy trees.

After walking for some time, a long building appeared—crude, un-decorated, painted dirty white. A couple of small boys were hitting a dilapidated rag ball back and forth, using tree branches as bats.

“This is the primary school,” Dada said. “Most of the children are inside studying.”

We walked on until we came to a well. He pulled up a bucket.

“Drink this water,” he said. “It will help you to get your health back.”

I doubted it, but drank. The water seemed to contain the same spar kling quality as the air, full of… what? life? I looked inside the well. A few frogs jumped here and there at the bottom.

Farther on, a similar building came into view. “This is the high, school,” he said. Concrete steps led us to the second (and highest) floor. We entered a room furnished only with a primitive chair and a plain wooden table with some scattered papers on it.

“This is my room. You’ll stay here for a few days.”

Clearing the table, he covered it with a bed sheet. I lay down in the heat and fell asleep.

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Vanishing clouds

For the last two days I’ve rested, randomly walked short distances, ate rice and boiled vegetables, and drank plenty of well-water. I guess the frogs didn’t contribute anything harmful to the water because my health returned today.

This afternoon Dada Svarupananda and another Dada took me to a slightly distant spot within Ananda Nagar. We sat down under an old tree with a thick, weathered trunk.

We sang kiirtan for a short time and then started meditation. One minute, two minutes, three, four, five… the time passed, but not a single stray thought appeared to bother me. At last one thought bubbled up: “Ah … so that’s what concentration is!”

Perhaps two hours passed in nearly unbroken concentration. It was by far the deepest meditation I’ve ever experienced. The few moments of wandering thoughts contained some of my doubts about Ananda Marga and becoming a monk: the risk inherent in commitment, the condemnation by those who don’t understand, uncertainty about whether or not Ananda Marga is really a selfless, purely spiritual mission. But in the light of a suddenly opened mind these concerns appeared trivial. Like tiny wisps of clouds that disappear in the brilliant sun and blue sky, my doubts vanished.

When I finished meditation, I told the two Dadas about my experience.

They smiled warmly and said, “The area around this tree is a Tantra Piitha. Several highly developed Tantrics achieved liberation while doing meditation here. A strong vibration remains, which affects any person who meditates on this spot. There are seventy-eight such Tantra Piithas in Ananda Nagar.” 16

As I write now in the late night by lamplight, I feel changed. A few small doubts still linger, but I have hope that even without seeing Baba I may be able to reach the clear understanding I seek.

26 Tan means crudeness; tra means liberation. So Tantra means the practical science by which one gradually becomes free from crude consciousness. There is a short article introducing Tantra in the appendices.

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Travels with the Mystic Master

Transcendental core

Noontime. Walking together with two Dadas across a limitless sandy expanse of stray underbrush, without a building or a tree in sight. Grit crunching under our sandaled footsteps, echoing in our silence. The droning of a myriad unseen insects combining together to create the sound of endlessness. The sun particularly intense, penetrating my skull, frying my brain. Gradually my thoughts dissipated. Though my feet moved on, my mind slipped … swam … forgot… mindlessly walking without time… nothingness….

Suddenly I awoke from my numbness. Awake, yet without any bearings or reference points.

Where am I? I thought. Who are these two people? What year, what age is this? And who am I?

I looked at them and at the land around, but understood nothing. I struggled to find any association.

Then I felt my memory jar and gradually seem to return. These two with long black beards and swaying robes—holy men. This land-Palestine. This age—the age of Jewish and Christian patriarchs. I be- came calmer. A minute or so passed like this.

But who am I? I thought. I looked down at my clothing. Shocking! These strange clothes did not fit my memory. Again I was thrown into confusion.

Ah, yes, of course, I thought, as the idea of the real present returned. Ananda Nagar, India, two Dadas, I, an American… How strange…

I was amazed at the mistake into which I had momentarily slipped.

Yes, these Ananda Marga acharyas might as well be ancient reli¬ gious holy men….

A fresh understanding dawned. Another doubt was dislodged! I inhaled deeply in relief: by merging my life’s energies into Ananda Marga I was not leaving the religious heritage inherited at the moment of my birth. Rather I was returning to its spiritual essence, full of the original vitality which existed before the religious dogma seeped in and a/en-tually took over.

I am not turning away from my lineage. This Tantric path is the transcendental core from which every religion arises.

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Travels with the. Mystic Master

Message of an unknown Dada

I am in Benares today for the start of a three-day spiritual festival led by the venerable Dada Shivananda. In the absence of Baba, Shivanandaji is serving as His representative, and his discourses will channel Baba’s vibration. About 10.000 Margis are attending, and the energy is high.

It is also in this ancient spiritual city that we have our training centers for creating new acharyas. Our philosophy argues against the superstitious idol worship of Hinduism, but I agree with the Hindus that Benares has a singular atmosphere suitable for spiritual practices. Hindus believe that a bath in the Ganges River purifies them of sin, and causes them to rise to heaven at the time of death. We share no such belief but that does not stop us from enjoying meditation near the river bank, sometimes within smelling range of the cremation pyres. Surely that smell reminds us how precious every living moment is and how futile it is to fear death.

Though my experience in Ananda Nagar has freed me from most of my doubts, I still hesitate to pass over the threshold into a new life. If only I could have met Baba.

Two days later. Today was Dada Shivananda’s culminating discourse. When he concluded his talk a wave rolled through us all, generating sighs, shouts, shivering and other occult symptoms. A thrill shook the heart region of my chest and left me awed.

Afterward, the Margis dispersed—except one man who remained absorbed for several hours in deep meditation, indifferent to the brutally hot sun. Eventually another Margi held an umbrella over the man’s head, but it was too late. After he came out of his trance the man suffGI” ed from sunstroke, though he didn’t seem to care.

A few minutes after the discourse, while I was still strongly feeling its effect, an unknown Dada approached me and asked, “Why have you come to India?”

“I had two reasons. One was to meet Baba. So far that hasn’t been possible. Second, after meeting Him I hoped to decide whether or not I should go for wholetimer training.”

“You could not do the first. Why not go ahead with the second and start the training?” He did not wait for my reply, and quietly walked

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away. It was in this moment that I decided to at least visit the training center. Whether I will stay or not I don’t know.

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Benares training center. As I passed through the doorway one thought and one thought alone grabbed me and echoed through my mind: “I am home! At last I’ve come home!”

So it’s fixed. From today my life’s direction is clear.

The training center is a three-room building near the hub of the city. In one room the thirty-five trainees study, eat and sleep. The second room is for group meditation and class. Living conditions are extremely cramped. Many of us also sleep in the meditation room and outside. For bedding, each person has a single blanket spread directly on the cement floor. A third small room is for the two trainers. The “kitchen” is outside: a mud oven and an area of beaten earth for cutting vegetables and rolling flat-breads. There is no running water. The well in the courtyard is used for drawing water for all purposes—cooking, cleaning, bathing and toilet functions. The toilets are deep-dug, i.e. without flush system: one outhouse for all the trainees, while the other inside the house is generally used only by the trainers. The courtyard is a mere twelve by nine meters.

The sisters’ training center is in some other section of Benares. One of our trainers visits them daily to give classes.

Guidelines

Today I was handed a list of the conducts rules that we must follow as monks, such as:

• Practice meditation at least four times daily. One should not eat without having first done meditation.

• Practice asanas twice daily.

• Do not sleep on a soft bed.

• Leave all sorts of luxuries.

• Observe fasting at least four times every month. Fast without food or water from sunrise to sunrise on the prescribed days.

• Do not consume meat, fish, eggs, onion, garlic, mushroom, caffeinated beverages such as tea and coffee, cocoa, alcohol, cigarettes or other intoxicants.

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Travels with the. Mystic Master

• Silence should be maintained at least thirty minutes daily. During this time one should not read, write or similarly divert the mind.

• After completing the initial study of Ananda Marga philosophy, one should also try to study all other philosophies.

• One should practice forgiveness and magnanimity of mind.

• Keep aloof from criticizing, condemning or mudslinging. Avoid all sorts of groupism. Do not criticize any country.

• Keep free from hatred, anger and vanity—including vanity of culture.

• By becoming an ideal person, inspire others to become good.

• Attract others by your sacrificing nature.

• Try to remove the pain of others, and do not talk of your own trouble.

• Accept all sufferings as rewards.

…and literally hundreds more. Some of them are for all Margis, others only for renunciates.

For me they are not rules but guidelines for gradually achieving a saintly

life.

A different training than expected

Food is simple, but due to the cooking technique and lack of nutritional balance I am again thoroughly ill. The water is also surely unsuitable for me. Of course it doesn’t help that this is the hottest time of the year. We are eating basically only disk-shaped flat breads, skinless beans, white rice, and green chilies which burn my mouth. The cooking duty changes daily among the trainees. Most of them are impatient with the large amount of work involved in preparation, so they usually make the flat breads very thick and do not cook them completely, and frequently undercook the beans also. Sometimes we re¬ ceive “drumsticks” in our food collection from generous though poor vegetable venders. They are called drumsticks because they are mostly fiber. They are usually cooked together with the beans. We chew them to get what we can out of them, then spit them out. Besides the occasional potatoes and eggplants, we do not see other vegetables, and never any fruits, except lemon water and one small banana per trainee the morning after fasting. Because we fast without food or water four days per month, we each receive four bananas per month.

I am trying to overcome my continuous diarrhea by cleaning out my system. I’m staying away from rice and, on the suggestion of sev

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eral Indian trainees, eating large amounts of chilies. But it just seems to get worse. 17

When it rains we have to sleep on our sides because there is not enough space inside for all of us to sleep on our backs.

I’m afraid that my poor health and the difficult living conditions are affecting my state of mind. I’m so wrapped up in my own personal problems that I’m unable to relate nicely to the other trainees.

Our daily routine consists of meditation and kiirtan four times, yoga asanas twice, morning and afternoon classes, cooking and cleaning duties, and self- study. At present I am trying to memorize about 150 conduct rules, learn Prout 18 , memorize seventeen Sanskrit sayings which define the essence of Prout, and learn some basic Sanskrit and Bengali. This is proving difficult because my body is so weak that I’m usually oh the verge of sleep, and my knees are aching from sitting all day on the floor. There is only one chair in the classroom, and throughout the day a competition goes on to sit in it. I rarely win.

Nose noise and tasty talks

Last night I spoke to one of the trainers.

“Dadaji, my nose has been heavily blocked with mucus for several days now. It’s almost impossible for me to practice pranayama (alternate-nostril breathing meditation). What should I do?”

“You say almost impossible?”

“Yes.”

“That means it’s possible. So you should continue the pranayama regularly. Rather, the pranayama that you’ve been doing twice daily should from now be increased to four times daily.”

Today I followed his directive. Not only does the pranayama take me much longer than anyone else, and cause my head to spin, but the sound of my nose is extremely loud, and disturbs the other trainees

17 M uch later I came to know from Dadas that hot spices should be strictly avoided by the patient of diarrhea. The chilies were the worst thing I could have consumed. Of course they did succeed in cleaning me out—perhaps one or two thousand times. If I had eaten rice I might have been able to regain some sort of equilibrium. 18 Prout is an acronym which stands for the “Progressive Utilization Theory”. Propounded by Baba in 1959, Prout is a system which provides for the rational development and distribution of all of society’s material and mental resources. It is radically different from either capitalism or communism. See the appendix for an introduction to Prout.

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during meditation. 1 am thus compelled to practice meditation in the adjacent room.

My nose may remain blocked until I get out of here. The psychosocial gap separating me from the trainees has now been increased by a physical gap.

During lunch we were served the usual drumsticks, indigestible beans and thick, partially cooked flat breads. I sighed and murmured, “Yuck. Again.”

“You think it’s only tough for you.” said the brother sitting next to me. “Do you imagine that this sort of food and life style is normal for the rest of us? In my family home we had thin delicate breads fried in purified butter every day, vegetable dishes of many tasty kinds, fruits, yoghurt, hot milk, and various milk sweets. You think you’re so special.”

“No! I never said anything like that.”

But he had already turned away to talk with another person.

A trainee makes trouble

One of the Indian trainees, Santosh, is always happy and affectionate. Though most of the other brothers don’t speak to me, he often does. He plays at reading the lines in our hands, and likes to discuss our personal lives. Nevertheless I don’t like him much.

This afternoon we were all performing group meditation when yelling and scuffling suddenly erupted from the corridor. I jumped up to see two trainees forcefully slapping Santosh, while one of the trainers looked on. Santosh was screaming in Hindi, “Please let me go! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

I was shocked. Running forward, I grabbed the two trainees and tried to push them away.

The trainer touched me on the arm.

“Please don’t disturb now,” he said.

“But, how dare they? He’s our brother!” I said.

He pointed at an open suitcase on the floor, saying, “Do you recognize any of the papers there?”

As the beating and yelling continued, I looked at the suitcase which was full of notebooks, letters, envelopes and crumpled papers of all

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sorts. Suddenly I saw one crumpled envelope addressed to me. It was a letter from home which I had received, read and thrown away. I became even more confused and looked at the trainer.

“Santosh is a spy from the CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation),” he said. “Over the last few days he’s made a nice collection of interesting documents, including several diaries stolen from my office desk. Fortunately we discovered the matter just as he was about to go out with the suitcase.”

“But he’s a trainee, and wants to become an acharya. How could…?”

“Things are not always as they seem to be.”

“Anyway what can the CBI gain from our documents?”

“Nothing. We really have nothing to hide. But the CBI is aching to find something they can use to create trouble for us.”

The trainer catches my vibes

Accompanied by an Indian trainee, I went to the market area to change some of my travelers’ checks into rupees so I could make a donation to the training center. It was understood that I wouldn’t spend any of the money except for the cost of the rickshaw. But when we passed a fruit stall we could not restrain ourselves from enjoying a few bananas. Though most people would consider this of no consequence, for me it was tantamount to stealing, and I immediately felt guilty.

When we returned to the center the trainees were eating lunch, the usual tasteless gook. Looking at their pitiful condition, I felt sheepish, to say the least. I submitted the account to one of the trainers, Dada N, and covered up the expense for the bananas. After that I felt so glum that I could not join the meal, and walked around the building in a tortured state of mind for half an hour.

Finally I couldn’t take it any longer. I knocked at the door of the trainer who had not come out since I spoke to him.

“Yes. Come in.”

“Sir, I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

“What is it, my boy?”

“I have a mistake to admit, and I want to ask for punishment.” “Bananas,

huh?” “What! How could…?''

He only looked at me calmly, with a tinge of a smile.

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Travels with the Mystic Master

“Anyway, Dadaji, I feel very bad.” I half-heartedly added, “Can you please give me punishment?” I expected him to direct me to fast or something similar.

“I think you’ve had enough punishment already during the last half hour. Better that you just return to your studies.”

Going out, I wondered how the trainer could know. I asked the other trainee if he had mentioned our indulgence to anyone.

“Of course not,” he answered nonchalantly. “You think I’m an idiot?”

What for?

The same trainer called me into his office today. “Sit

down, my boy.”

I sat on a chair facing him. With his eyes half closed, he entered a semi¬ trance condition, pointed his two index fingers at me, and began rotating them in small circles. I felt a bit uncomfortable.

“There’s some problem with your knees, isn’t it?” he said in a distant voice. I nodded.

“Perhaps you had an accident or major operation on them when you were young?” He must have been seeing the colored auras around my knees since I was wearing pants as always.

“Yes. When I was sixteen years old a crazy doctor operated on my knees declaring that he would correct my bow-leggedness.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “You see.” He became silent. I felt even more uncomfortable.

“Alright, you can go now.”

I’ve never liked the blatant exhibition of occult power. There’s nothing miraculous in it, and usually it is misused merely to impress oth-

19 In 1974. I received a letter from a friend in India mentioning that this Dada left his acharyaship. My friend wrote: “I was shocked, considering that Dada N wrote the first two comprehensive books on Prout, and appeared so highly developed. But several workers told me that Dada N’sloss of confidence was surely a direct result of the misutilization of his personally gained powers. He remains a Margi, and intends to marry. It’s a pity. Though I respect the family path as spiritually equal to the way of the ren undate, for Dada N it is clearly unsuitable.

I wonder if he may remain in confusion for many years to come.”

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Going down

No word short of emaciated can describe my physical condition. I have nothing to hang onto except my bone-dry determination to follow my spiritual path and become an acharya. Meditation is extremely difficult; my mind wanders incessantly. What occupies my mind more during meditation—my spiritual ideal or the thought of ice cream-choco-late-crunchy granola cereal- peanut butter-fresh fruits-milk shake-a swim in the sea-a clean quiet room-and a soft bed? Though I try not to think of such things, they bombard me whenever I close my eyes.

I’ve never been so thoroughly depressed in my entire life. The diarrhea has become amoebic dysentery, my eyes have turned yellow due to hepatitis, and my nose is continuously blocked. The severe pain in my belly does not allow me to stand up straight or walk properly. Everyone else gets up at 4:30 each morning, but I get up at 3:30 to use the outhouse. This sometimes takes the full hour, and the effort leaves me soaked in perspiration. I’ve totally lost my sense of humor and as a result all the Indian trainees dislike me. There are only three other Westerners here—two Americans and one German. They are also sick, but not as bad as I. They are able to relate to the Indians to some extent, but I talk only to them. By and large, the Indian trainees believe that I am faking much of my sickness, so they are unsympathetic. The trainers, however, are concerned and send me to different doctors from time to time. None of the medicine helps.

Though I frequently fall asleep while studying, somehow I’ve learned enough of the course material to pass most of the tests of the first half of our syllabus. Among all the trainees, my knowledge of Sanskrit was the worst. Oddly enough, I was the only one to pass the Sanskrit exam this time. On the other hand, I thought that my understanding of Prout was better than anyone else’s, yet I was the only one to fail the Prout exam. The examiner, who visits once monthly, is a very senior Dada named Acharya Dasaratha. Obviously, he considers more than mere intellectual knowledge.

The second part of my training has begun. I have to learn the spiri-tual philosophy in depth, including the principles of many other ma

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jor spiritual and religious orders of the world, memorize and be able to explain the meaning of about 100 Sanskrit shlokas (aphorisms) related to Ananda Marga spiritual philosophy, memorize by sound only about 400 other Sanskrit shlokas, and be able to demonstrate and explain all the important yoga postures. The most difficult part is the 400 Sanskrit shlokas because I have no idea of their meaning, and will surely find it perfectly boring. 20

An Indian brother, Amitabha, is in charge of shopping and running errands in the city. Twice he’s accompanied me to see doctors. This morning, I was leaning against the well, waiting for someone to draw water for me, when Amitabha approached me with a worried look.

“You’re very sick, brother,” he said.

“What’s new in that?” I said.

“I thought you were faking it. But last night it was raining so I had to sleep near the latrine. Baba, I think you stepped on me or over me fifteen or twenty times rushing to pass stool. Come on, you better lie down and I’ll bring another doctor.”

“Doctors are useless. Besides, my nightly visits to the latrine have been going on for a long time. You simply didn’t know about it. I told you and everyone else that my system’s broken, but no one believed me.”

A crucial lesson

Today will surely prove a red-letter day in my personal history.

Just before the morning class started, I was still in bed, completely depressed. On his way to class, the trainer, Dada Japananda, stopped to talk to me.

“I think you are very ill this morning, no?”

“Yeah,” I moaned.

“Is it impossible for you to attend class?” “Yeah.”

“Then don’t worry. Rest now, and we will arrange the doctor later.” In fact, with a bit of pain I could have gotten up and joined the class. So it was a lie. I simply didn’t want to do anything.

20 Soon after I completed my training, the number of shlokas that had to be memorized by Westerners was sharply decreased, and translations were added.

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At the same time I felt guilty for not getting up. So I pulled myself near the classroom door. Lying on my stomach, unable to see into the room, I listened.

“You there,” the trainer said apparently to one of the brothers in the class. “Stand up. Tell what Sanskrit shloka you memorized since yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I did not leam any new shloka. " “What? Nonsense. Sit down. You.” he said to another trainee, “stand up. What shloka did you learn since yesterday.” “I’m sorry, sir. I also.”

“Stupid. Lazy fellow. Sit down. What about you?” he said to a third trainee.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“What is this! Are you all simply killing the time here? Anyone who learned any shloka since yesterday stand up now.”

Silence. Tension-filled, fear-laden silence. Surely no one stood up. Ten seconds passed. I leaned nearer the door, straining to catch what was happening.

Suddenly a huge banging sound startled and shocked me. Goose pimples rose in my skin. It was the fist of the trainer, which he had pounded a single time with great force on the classroom table.

“You worthless bloodsuckers! Worse than animals! At least animals make no claim to serving others. But you. you hypocrites, you pretend to have dedicated your lives to serving mankind! Bah! You rest nicely in this house, passing the time comfortably day by day, while your spiritual father lies suffering in a prison cell without even a fan or any other sort of normal comfort! While He undergoes penance to demonstrate the ideal sacrifice for society, you all couldn’t care less, bound up in your personal likes and dislikes! Hypocrites, parasites! I’ll have nothing to do with any of you. I won’t see your faces unless and until you change your ways!”

He stomped out of the classroom without noticing me still lying near the door.

I stood up immediately.

I have no right to be depressed, now or ever, I thought. How can I serve anyone, how can I expand myself, how can I do anything of any value if I am sad? From this moment I shall never again indulge in sorrow.

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I picked up my towel and walked in an almost normal gait to the well. For the first time since my troubles began I did not care about the pain in my stomach. Ignoring my weakness, I pulled up a bucket of water—something which over the last few weeks I had believed I couldn’t do. 21

A beggar’s life

Because of my positive mental outlook, my health has improved greatly. Though I still suffer from dysentery and hepatitis, most of the pain in my stomach is gone, and I can stand up comfortably. My sense of humor.hasn’t fully returned, but at least I’m able to be pleasant with the other trainees.

Until now I couldn’t do one part of the training due to my ill health: SPT 22 . The trainers were afraid I would collapse if I did. My feeling, however, was that the training would strengthen rather than weaken me. I argued again and again that merely pacing up and down our little courtyard was not enough for me. Yesterday they reluctantly consented, and today my SPT began.

I now use only two large pieces of white cotton for clothing. One I tie on like a loose skirt. The other piece, draped around my upper body, doubles as a bag for collecting vegetables whenever I go out begging. Deprived of soap, comb, toothbrush and paste, I use ash, dirt and water to clean my body, and twigs from the neem tree to clean my teeth. Perhaps the greatest difficulty is the lack of shoes or sandals, because the road is blistering hot.

Each morning I go from door to door, begging for vegetables and flour. I utter only four words: H ari aum tat sat, meaning “The original cosmic Word of God is That unchanging Truth”. I may speak these

21 Since that day, I have never known depression for more than a few minutes at a time.

I attribute this to the simple determination not to accept sorrow, combined with vari¬ ous Tantric practices which strengthen the mind. Of these practices, the most impor¬ tant is kiirtan. On the other hand, the devotional sorrow that one may feel in relation to God or guru can be a good thing.

22 Sadhana piitha training. Sadhana means spiritual effort, and piitha means a point which is spiritually charged (like the special meditation spots in Ananda Nagar). SPT is an exercise in poverty, silence and begging which each trainee undergoes for at least one week. The temporary identification with the poorest of the poor is in itself said to bean illuminating power point for spiritual realization.

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words three times to any person. If someone should repeatedly insist that I provide a justification, I may explain. But after that I may not accept any donation from him. Generally, two hours of begging is sufficient. From the money I receive, I buy a small clay cooking pot and a bit of cow dung for fuel. Whatever remains is turned over to the trainers. I cook only those foodstuffs which are directly donated.

Though the experience is difficult, I don’t care; I am pleased that I am finally allowed to do it.

A week later. Today was my final day of SPT. While taking off and burning my beggar’s dress, one thought pounded over and over in my brain: I must not forget the difficulties of our brothers and sisters who live like this. The work for society’s upliftment is meaningless unless those who are lowest rise up.

Besides this. I’m more confident now of being able to accept any difficulties I may undergo in the future due to human-made or natural catastrophes. Ironically, the exercise was exactly what my body needed. My diseases go on, but the walking has given me energy which I lacked the last two months. Because of the silence and simple life style, meditation is also stronger.

One strange element: though all SPT trainees complain that the streets burn their feet, I didn’t feel the slightest trouble.

I remember the incident of one brother who said to our guru, “Baba, I am weak. Please give me more power so that I may better do Your work.”

Baba replied, “There’s no need to ask. First use up whatever power you’ve got. Then you can be sure the Supreme Consciousness will grant you more. And when your tractor is so broken it can no longer be refueled. He will give you a new tractor.”

The force of sweetness

It was announced today that the four westerners plus a few other trainees will soon commence “field training”. We will leave the training center for about one week. Each of us will travel to a different city to hold lectures and meetings on meditation and yoga for the general public.

When I heard the news, the first thought to pop in my mind was. Finally, a chance to get some sweets! Though I know I should not think

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of such things, the idea of sweets keeps coming and coming. Truthfully, I’m not really trying to control my mind, because I enjoy thinking of the sweets. I wonder if such crude thinking is common for people undergoing intense yogic training.

My field training is in Mokamo, a city of about 100,000 people. It is a half¬ day’s train ride from Benares. Ananda Marga has a large group of active members here.

When I arrived at the station, I was met by the local Ananda Marga leader. His name is Madhusudan, which is an ancient name of Lord Krishna. Everyone calls him “Madhu” for short, which means “sweet” or “honey”. I found this an intriguing coincidence, considering my intense longing for sweets.

Before starting a tight schedule of lectures, Madhu wanted to introduce me to some of the leading Margis in the city. First he took me to the house of a high school teacher. As soon as we entered, the man jumped up and said, “I shan’t be a minute. Take rest please, and I’ll be right back.”

When he returned he was holding a small cardboard box, which he placed on the table in front of me. “Open it,” he said, “and please enjoy the contents.”

The box was full of burfi— expensive milk-sweets! I was so excited. Pretending to be calm, I first offered the sweets to the teacher and to Madhu. Madhu said, “Oh, no no no. These are just for you.” He added in a soft voice so that the teacher would not hear him, “And it is better that you eat them all, otherwise he may be offended.” I nodded, maintaining my composure, but I was internally thrilled and delighted. Within five minutes I finished the box— about a half kilogram.

After some short discussion, Madhu and I left for the house of another Margi, a police officer. When he saw us, he also stood up and asked us to wait a moment for him. Like the teacher, he returned with a cardboard box and opened it for me. It contained gulab jaman— slightly different but equally rich milk sweets. “Am I dreaming?” I thought. Again they refused to accept any for themselves, and I was compelled to eat everything. Now I felt totally satisfied.

We went to another Margi’s house and the same sequence of events! Another half kilogram of milk sweets. Too much! But again their cus

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tom forced me to finish it. “Baba, what are you doing to me?” Now I felt a bit ill, with a heavy stomach and a hyped-up, sugar-stimulated nervous system.

We went to another Margi’s house where I was offered my fourth box of milk sweets.

“I can’t possibly eat it,” I whispered to Madhu.

“But you must.” he hissed. “Don’t cause any embarrassment.” Strange how biting his tone seemed to be. almost heartless, as if he knew that I had been improperly desiring these sweets, and now must pay the price. But I hadn’t mentioned these thoughts to anyone.

Slowly I forced myself to eat those sweets also. I felt like vomiting.

After this visit, he insisted we go to another house, but I refused point- blank.

In the future, I must try to avoid concentrating on any crude desires. It seems that meditation causes their manifestation.

Logic beyond logic

The field training keeps me hectically busy, and I love it. The internal energy built up in Benares is finding its expression. Usually I give three or four lectures daily for different schools, clubs, and civic organizations. It seems like everyone in the city knows that I’m here, and they all want to see the westerner who teaches yoga. I’m not yet authorized to teach personalized meditation techniques, but I’ve been teaching the Baba Nam Kevalam mantra to crowds of up to 2000 people at a time.

I usually have very little advance notice of whom I’ll be speaking to, nor do I prepare my lectures. My talks are all spontaneous. Because some people attend more than one program, 1 also make sure each talk is unique.

Today I was brought to the main university. Before giving the lecture, the organizers ushered me into a meeting room in which there were about forty professors.

“Who’s the audience this time, Madhu?” 1 asked.

“You will be speaking to the combined faculty and students of three departments: logic, ethics and metaphysics.”

“I see.” At that time I was in such a flow that my intellect was barely functioning. I was slightly baffled trying to understand the meaning of

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each of these three words. ‘Logic’ was okay, ’ethics’ was half clear, but ‘metaphysics’ left me in a cloud.

I turned to converse with the professor sitting next to me. After a few minutes, I nonchalantly came to my real point.

“You know in the west,” I said, “many words carry different meaning than in India. Here at this university, what do you mean by the word ’metaphysics’?”

I grasped little of his complicated reply. But at least I memorized his words “those dimensions that transcend purely physical analysis.”

“Dadaji,” another professor inteijected, “all of us would like to know the title of your discourse today.” His voice was loud enough that everyone suddenly stopped their personal conversations to listen to my reply.

Without thinking, I said, “I will talk on ‘The Absolute and Eternal Relationship between Logic, Ethics and Metaphysics’.”

There was a gasp of many voices throughout the room.

“No one has ever spoken on such a topic here, Dadaji. It should be extremely interesting.”

Now I was occupied trying to deduce the meaning of my title. But before I could figure out even the slightest connection, the door opened, and one man announced, “Gentlemen, let us proceed to the lecture hall.”

The organizers brought me onto a stage. I faced about 500 students and teachers. One man spent five minutes lauding praises on me. During that time I tried to divine something of my subject, but could only draw a blank.

Then it was my turn to speak. From the moment I started, I had no idea what I was saying. The words I used were complex, and the sentence structures and relations between those sentences were even more complex. I was totally lost, but went on speaking enthusiastically. Several times the audience interrupted me with applause, though I didn’t know what they were appreciating. At the end, they gave me a long and loud standing ovation.

The main organizer told the audience, “When Dadaji first told the title of his lecture, many of us wondered what he would speak. I dare say that we are now fully satisfied with his explanation. Nevertheless, you are now welcome to ask questions.”

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One student stood up and asked something. God knows what he asked; it was far beyond my understanding.

“Instead of replying,” I said, “what would you think if here and now I were to teach you all something which will answer all the questions you have related to this topic?”

Everyone applauded. I taught them B aba Nam K evalam meditation.

Then I escaped.

Accelerating zeal

Benares training center. Each time we have group meditation, a different trainee leads it. Today was Vimal’s turn. He’s a very simple fellow, which, in his case, carries two meanings. On one side he’s devotional and affectionate, but on the other hand he often falls into trouble. Once, when Baba was passing on a road, Vimal threw himself in full prostration at Baba’s feet. Normally this might be an understandably humble or even spiritual act. But as rain had only just let up, Vimal rose to his feet covered with mud. While Baba pretended not to notice, Vimal’s face was illumined with a broad smile.

Today while leading the kiirtan, he gradually became more and more enthusiastic, jumping higher and wider, and thrusting his arms toward Baba’s photo. As he sang Sam’gacchadvam before meditation, he accented each word with heartfelt emotion. During the silent meditation, he was not so silent, uncontrollably blurting out “ah!” and “oh!” and “Baba!” with such explosive force that no one could help but be amused. Afterward, he could barely get through the singing of the G uru Puja, breaking into tears repeatedly.

At last came the point for him to lead us in the Supreme Command. 23 His emotions were so strong that he could not stop himself from leaping up, lifting his fist high in the air, and shouting with full fanaticism, “THE SUPREME COMMAND!” With these words, he

23 a) The ancient Sanskrit verse, sam ‘gacchadvam’, is sung before group meditation. It comes from the Rk Veda, composed about 15,000 years ago, and means—Let us move together, let us sing together, let us come to know our minds together, let us share like sages of the past, uniting ourselves in intention and mind, b) Guru Puja. performed after meditation, is more than a song—it is a spiritual practice by which one offers one’s strongest attachment or ego to the infinite Entity, and ultimately offers oneself, c) The Supreme Command was written by Baba. It contains the most essential guidelines for a spiritual life.

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collapsed on his back, falling upon some of us. Of course, we burst into laughter. But he did not hear our response. His eyes were closed, and he remained in super-consciousness (samadhi) for about two hours. Devotees each have their own unique way.

Passing by chance

Over the last weeks, my health has again crumbled, to the point that I can barely walk. But I never complain, and I accept the troubles as a help to solidify and increase my realization. Still it’s hard for me to joke—my mind needs much more expansion.

Studying is a tiring task. The 400 meaningless shlokas are the worst part. Ten days ago I passed both the Prout and spiritual philosophy examinations, but have yet to fully memorize the shlokas. Every time I look at them, my head spins. Sometimes I think I forget more than I remember.

Difficult as it is, the studying has its own merit—to discipline the mind even while feeling exhaustion and discomfort.

October. I really have no idea how I managed, but by cramming and by the Lord’s grace I learned enough shlokas to pass the exam. There were many I didn’t know, but by “chance” the examiner quizzed me mostly on the shlokas I had learned. Of course I will soon forget them, but it doesn’t matter—my concentration has been improved radically by the exercise.

The second phase of my training is completed. I will go to Patna for the third phase. Perhaps it’s just in time—for my health.

Pandemonium with a purpose

Though Ananda Marga’s permanent global office is in Ananda Nagar, the global camp office is presently in Patna—it is here that Baba lies in a poorly ventilated, inferior jail cell. Patna is a half-day’s bus ride away from the Nepal border. It is an ordinary congested Indian city filled with poverty, filth, and hidden mysticism.

How can I describe our global office? It is certainly not like the stereotyped image of a yoga school or spiritual center—beautiful, calm, immaculately clean, organized, disciplined class programs, healthy food

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shared collectively, everything moving according to fixed schedule, and a staff who reflect only profound inner peace. Rather, at first glance it appears to be the direct opposite. The three-story concrete building is overflowing with paper work, maintained in shabby, irregular files. Old office equipment in various stages of disrepair occupy much of what would otherwise be our living space. Scores of Dadas and Didis dressed in every shade of orange scurry about, struggling to fulfill unannounced, urgent social work targets. They say the number of workers increases to four or five hundred at the time of their monthly meetings—somehow everyone adjusts. In every room, nay. in every comer, different schedules are followed—many work throughout the night and get little, if any, sleep. Irregularity of meals due to the pressure of work is the norm rather than the exception—a common example of a hurried meal is peanuts, puffed rice and a banana.

Yet there is something wonderful here! One hears conversations and sees documents concerned with medical clinics, cheap kitchens, disaster relief, philosophical publications, cultural clubs, poor students’ book cooperatives, anti-exploitation movements. At any moment, in the midst of the apparent chaos, there is someone singing devotional songs, and someone else sunk in deep meditation. In between the pa-per work they practice their yoga postures. Their enthusiasm, their laughter, their disagreements, their unperturbed concentration amid constant distractions—it all clearly demonstrates the Tantric spirit, the zeal to fight against any difficulty for the upliftment of self and society. Who can enjoy this? Somehow I do.

Here is where I’ll finish training. I arrived today with another trainee who passed the second phase with me, a German named Praveda.

Our trainer is a highly elevated Dada. Some say he naturally exudes power to those who sit in meditation with him. Recently he completed a 40-day protest fast which was the first of its kind in Ananda Marga. A demonstration against the injustice of Baba’s incarceration, it gained widespread newspaper coverage, if nothing else.

Our coursework consists of copying and memorizing various notebooks concerned with our spiritual and organizational functions. The trainer will also give us regular classes.

Living conditions are slightly better than Benares. We two westerners are staying in an Ananda Marga students’ hostel 500 meters

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away from the global office, and living space is sufficient. We receive a small weekly allowance with which we purchase and prepare our meals. I guess I’ll be able to save money while still eating in a way which for me now seems luxurious. Today, for example, we breakfasted on tomatoes, puffed rice and yoghurt. I can’t help but feel it seems God-sent.

Invisible devotees

New Delhi. I am here to extend my Indian visa, and then I’ll go back to Patna. Ravindra and Sadhana, a devoted Margi couple, have invited me to stay in their house during my stay in Delhi. Ravindra is the head care-taker of the Delhi Zoo, so their house is in a quiet area near the Zoo.

Today I was alone in the house. While meditating in the small room which they keep solely for that purpose, I heard people singing kiirtan: Baba nam kevalam.

“What is this?” I thought. “Some other Margis have come?”

I broke my meditation, stood up, and walked out of the room in the direction of the kiirtan. But after taking a few steps outside the room I couldn’t hear the kiirtan anymore. I went outside the house. Only birds were singing.

“Strange,” I thought, and went back to resume my meditation. When I sat down, immediately my mind became concentrated.

A few minutes later I again heard people singing kiirtan.

“Maybe some Margis are playing a trick on me,” I thought. “But this time I’ll catch them!” I jumped up and ran toward the singing. But once more, the voices disappeared without a trace. Everything was perfectly peaceful.

Scratching my head, I went back to meditate. After a short while, the kiirtan appeared again.

“It must be inside my head,” I thought. Partially ignoring the kiirtan, and partially enjoying it, I went on with my meditation. The kiirtan also continued. Perhaps twenty or thirty minutes later I noticed it was no longer there.

A couple hours later, Ravindra and Sadhana came home.

“Were you comfortable in our house when we weren’t here?” asked Sadhana.

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“Yes,” I said. “But I had a peculiar experience in your meditation room. I heard people singing kiirtan again and again, but nobody was there.”

The two of them immediately started laughing.

“It’s a common experience in that room,” Ravindra said. “When our meditation is deep, we often hear that kiirtan. A few other Margis have heard it too.”

“Well then, at least it’s nothing to worry about,” I said. “Do you know the explanation?”

“Invisible devotees, I suppose,” said Sadhana.

Though we all laughed, I felt her idea was not far from the truth.

Baba exposes my secret

Patna. A Filipino Dada who was held in the same jail as Baba for the last nine months was released today.

He was standing in the comer of a large courtyard surrounded by several other workers and Margis. When he saw me approaching, he said, “You must be Dharmapala.”

I was surprised because we had never met.

“How do you know me?” I asked.

“Oh, Baba spoke of you many times.”

I became even more surprised.

“What did He say?”

“He said that it was good to see some nice American boys like you becoming acharya.”

“And did He say anything negative about me?”

“Well…once when He was talking about you, He said, ‘Unfortunately, that boy never does his asanas 24 in the evening time.’”

I was shocked. Though I accept that Baba is omniscient, I never expected He would notice and expose such mundane things about me even when I was not present. And I am sure absolutely no one could have noticed I was not doing my asanas because I always shift from room to room during the evening since coming to Patna.

I’ll never miss my asanas again, except when it is impossible to do them.

2i Asanas are physical yoga postures which purify the body, and to some extent also the mind, by harmonizing the glands, hormonal secretions, blood circulation and nerves.

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Apparent injustice

Over the last several days my trainer has been complaining to Praveda and me that his greatness is misunderstood by others, and that many Dadas are jealous of his spiritual accomplishments. It’s true that his behavior is apparently eccentric: suddenly inducing high states of meditation in some of the foreigners who sit near him, frequently secluding himself alone for many hours in a locked room, eating vast amounts of food, and being so moody that he changes his plans every day. He often denies us classes due to “mistakes” which we never committed. Nevertheless I believe he is highly elevated, and that each of his strange actions have some underlying benevolent hidden purpose.

The attack by the other Dadas has now gone to an extreme. They have long been requesting him to move away from the foreigners’ quarters, and stay in the main central office, but he has always refused. Today two workers picked up all his belongings, and transferred them to a room in the central office. He was adamant that he would not shift, and remained in his room which was empty of everything except the blanket on which he sat.

A few hours later they also physically carried him away.

I’m astonished at this injustice!

A decisive meeting

We have been regularly visiting our trainer in his new room. He continuously talks about the wrongs being done to him, how immature the other workers are, and how much they have yet to grow in their spiritual insight. Of course, I agree with him.

Tonight I heard that a small committee was discussing what punishment he should be given. I could not believe it and became angry when others told me it was suspected he has indulged in conduct which was wrong for an acharya. I felt it my duty to vouch for his innocence. The committee meeting was on the top floor of the four-story building. I ran up, anxious to arrive before it was too late. Panting, and after barely knocking, I opened the door. Another shock. Instead of three or four persons sitting there, about 50 or 60 orange-clothed Dadas turned their faces toward me. They were also surprised at my intrusion.

“Excuse me…ah, you’re having a meeting…”

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“Yes, of course it’s a meeting,” the gray-haired Dada standing in front said, gently smiling. “What do you like to say?”

“Ah…well…pardon me but I heard you were discussing the matter of my trainer.”

Laughter came from all sides of the room. I was frustrated and felt even more angry. How dare they take my trainer’s case as a joke?

“Go ahead,” the elderly Dada said, also chuckling, “and speak your mind.”

Determined to make my point. I blurted out, “I have been with him hours every day, and I am sure that these charges are all wrong. His character is pure and blemishless, and he couldn’t make such a mistake.”

The Dadas exploded with laughter. Some even rolled on the ground, laughing so hard. I was utterly confused by their response.

“Thank you very much,” said the grinning elderly Dada. “We will keep your opinion in mind.” The laughter increased, and I walked out of the room, more frustrated than ever.

An hour later all the workers came downstairs. One of them with whom I am close, came to me and said. “Brother, we were not talking about your trainer. That was a general finance meeting.”

Danger of the third stage

Two days later. In the early hours of the morning, while everyone was sleeping, my trainer left. No one knows where he’s gone, or at least no one says.

Ten days later. What a naive fool I’ve been. Today it was confirmed: three days ago my trainer left India. While departing, he announced his intention to get married. It seems that he’s been planning this move for a long time, having already arranged his passport and visa.

The Dada who had tried the most to help him commented to me, “Many times I told him not to engage in self-aggrandizement. He had such a bloated ego—he thought he knew more than anyone. In Tantra, such people either see their mistake, or they make even bigger blunders. For a short time he’ll be sky- high happy. But when he comes down on his feet again, he’ll feel he cheated himself. He won’t be content unless he does full-steam meditation and social service. That sort of

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lifestyle is a full-time commitment. It can’t be adjusted with a family. His only path is to be a monk.” 25

(Author’s afternote: Many persons come and go on the spiritual path. Even after a few years of effort some Margis may give up their

25 The fact that a senior Dada engaged in deception and violated his vows is no cause for doubting spiritual ideology. The way of Tantra is sometimes very difficult. The path cuts deeply through narrow-mindedness and selfishness. While self-realization and strength to serve the society grow ever greater, the consequences of making mistakes also grows. To continue moving past countless temptations and also past all one’s inevitable mistakes, the only saving grace is found in the humility cultured by devotion or love for Guru. That humility does not allow superiority or inferiority feelings to develop. By thinking T know myself. I shall never fall from my path’, aspirants fool themselves. They are in great danger because they depend upon ego. Whereas those who think—I know nothing, I only want to do what Guru or God wants me to do—they rise higher and higher after getting up from each fall. But these humble ones do not know they are higher. They know nothing.

The Tantric organization provides the structure for everyone to try their best, and allows aspirants to err again and again if they are willing to admit their mistakes and try to rectify themselves.

My trainer had entered the “third stage” of spiritual development at the time of his downfall. In the first stage one feels difficulty to concentrate, and also may be challenged by his or her family or friends. In the second stage, some concentration is achieved, and a little bit of bliss is experienced. Obstacles are more internal than external. In the third stage, one-pointed concentration enables the aspirant to achieve some occult power, but the mind is not yet merged in the infinite entity. I quote one of Baba’s writings:

“There is quick progress, no doubt, in this third stage, but there are strong possibilities of degradation also. At every step one must move with vigilance. In this stage the spiritual aspirants acquire some occult powers, but these powers may be dangerous after a certain progress. There is every chance of misuse or abuse of those occult powers as a result of which onedegenerates…. The spiritual path is as sharp as the razor’s edge, it is really inaccessible’ —so say the realized persons. Human beings will have to move on, but in this stage they cannot move a step forward unless and until they develop a high-grade conscience. For this they depend solely on the grace of the Supreme…. In this third stage, if there is devotion, one can easily move forward without any difficulty: but a person who has no devotion, whose heart is as dry as a desert, will find it impossible to progress.”

I n the fourth stage one’s mind becomes inextricably concentrated upon the Supreme Being. Then all psychic problems cease, and only external difficulties confront the aspirant. But there is no possibility of downfall because the thought of Guru is constantly present. Baba writes about this stage: “When a person attains an exalted state of spirituality, he or she can bring welfare to millions of people, and they can do so due to the grace of the Supreme C onsciousness.”

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spiritual practices. They may continue to accept Ananda Marga as an excellent way. but they do not have the strength to continue. What is the cause? Some believe our most important practice is meditation. Others think it is service. Still others think that the key lies in the balance between these two. And there are others who say that the only guarantee lies in following all the disciplines, though I do not know anyone who does that.

I noticed one vital point among the acharyas who gave up their acharyaship, and among the Margis who stopped practicing meditation—they all had one thing in common: they did not regularly practice kiirtan when they were alone. By meditation or by social work one may develop the ego of accomplishment or of failure. Whereas kiirtan, the singing and dancing to Baba nam kevalam, is free of egoistic ambition. It is a purely devotional practice. It is a dance of surrender to Guru and God.

My trainer hardly ever sang kiirtan. He used to say, “Only those who are weak-minded need kiirtan. My meditation is very powerful, so I don’t require such singing.”

But Baba says otherwise: “The nucleus of devotion is not to be found in the heart of the dry yogi. Rather it is located in the hearts of those who are practicing kiirtan. If you want to develop devotion, when you have 30 minutes time for spiritual practices, spend 20 minutes in kiirtan, and 10 minutes in meditation.”

Some say, “It’s alright to do kiirtan. But it should be natural and unforced. I do it whenever I feel like it.” I think that is a mistake. Kiirtan is the means to receive inspiration. So it is most beneficial to perform especially when one is depressed or otherwise not inspired. Silent meditation is a hundred times more valuable if it is begun with a clear and happy mind. That’s why kiirtan is a must before meditation, unless the environment does not permit it. If, after doing kiirtan for 10 minutes, you still do not feel uplifted, continue it. It may take 20 minutes, or even 30 minutes. But eventually it works because it reminds oneself again and again: there’s nothing to worry about—everything is only the expression of cosmic love.]

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The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus

Changing into something more comfortable

Patna. 1973. At last, my training is finished! That which was said to be impossible without meeting Baba finally happened: I’ve become an acharya. Of course simultaneous with being pleased at proving the impossible to be possible, I still carry in my breast the unfulfilled wish to be with Him physically. Well, never mind—the omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent Guru is in my heart. I don’t need to meet Him. Anyway, my feet have been itching to get on the road where I can get into some real service and spiritual adventures.

And where will that be? The answer also came today: Australia. Officially I’m already the “Melbourne Regional Secretary”. It comes as a bit of a surprise; I imagined my posting would be in Africa or Asia. But that’s fine with me. Anywhere will be a relief from this training which overtaxed my patience. It will simply be a different sort of challenge than I expected.

I should add that replacing my civilian clothes with an orange turban, and orange and white robes has given me inexpressible satisfaction. My robes automatically awaken within me a dynamic spiritual mood. They feel so natural. In comparison, my civilian clothes feel like a stage-costume, worn only to play a role in the “normal” social drama.

This uniform also serves as a symbol, which will constantly remind me to try to serve others spiritually and socially. At the same time it announces to others: Here is someone who wants to serve you. 26

“The orange color represents fire: the fire of sacrifice.

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Baba promises His support

Today Dada Ramananda, Baba’s personal assistant, told me a beautiful story. It happened about two years ago, before Baba was in jail. At that time, hundreds of thousands of people were suffering from floods. Baba sent Ramanandaji to serve the people. Dada had no resources, so he appealed to the Margis for support. They made a team which provided daily food for about 500 people. He felt those benefited were like a small drop in the ocean of suffering, and so he constantly worried about how to increase his service.

After a few days, a big spiritual function was held by Baba. Ramanandaji did not want to leave the suffering people, so he was the only Dada who did not attend. Baba sent someone to fetch Dada. He also informed His assistant, “Whenever Ramanandaji arrives, even if it is in the midnight, he must immediately come to me.”

When Ramanandaji came to the function, he was told to go to Baba’s room. He was nervous that Baba would be angry and punish him due to so little service.

On entering the room. Dada found Baba pacing back and forth. Baba spoke to him using a strict tone, “Don’t disturb me right now. You sit in the corner.” So Ramanandaji was put on his guard for an unpleasant experience.

When Baba sat down. He said to Dada, “Okay, now you call all the Margis and wholetimers who are near.”

Ramanandaji thought, “Baba will give me punishment in front of others.” Dada brought about ten people only.

Then Baba, who was wearing His undershirt, told Dada to bring His shirt. Apparently so that He could further formalize the punishment.

Baba said. “In my pocket is my wallet. Give it to me.”

Baba took out ten 100-rupee notes, saying, “Ramananda, this is my physical help for your relief work. I know what you were thinking. But you should not worry. Whoever serves suffering humanity without thought of getting the slightest personal return has my blessing, and will get everything needed for doing that service. It is my promise.”

Ramanandaji happily accepted the money, but did not use it, because he felt those notes were something very special, having come from Baba’s hand. He had never before (or after) seen Baba handling money. Anyway, from that moment, donations came in a large flow.

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and he increased the flood relief work such that many thousands were served every day.

[ Author’s note: Years later, I mentioned this incident to Ramanan-daji, and asked him if he still had the notes. He told me that when the accident happened in Bhopal causing the greatest leak of gas ever experienced in India, he went there and used that 1000 rupees to purchase the food for those people in the critical ward of the temporary hospital. All of them finally survived. Many of them believed they survived because the food had come from a monk. They never guessed the real explanation.]

Selfless determination

Calcutta. I was instructed to come to this so-called worst of cities to await my plane ticket to Sydney. It is a complicated place: overwhelming congestion, filth in almost every direction, noise, business, poverty, a smattering of modern technology, the desire for money, the desire for escape, the desire for development, and the desire to transcend it all. It’s good medicine for whatever remains of my spoiled suburban syndrome.

The house where I’m living is in South End Park, and it’s special because Baba often stayed here. I suppose it is also a little cleaner than the average, but it’s hard to say for sure, owing to the dim lighting, which I can’t say makes it any more quaint. Of course anywhere other than the training quarters is an upward move for me

During the afternoon I heard a faint knock. When I opened the door, I saw a Dada who I’d met once before. Thin and pale, he stood on the doorstep seemingly uncertain whether to enter or not.

“Well, come in,” I said, “and get out of the sun.”

Suddenly his knees crumbled, and he was lying at my feet.

“Dadaji!”

But he didn’t reply.

Shocked and confused, I ran inside the house to get help. I found a boy who had some sort of cleaning duty. Together we ran to the door.

“Dadaji, Dadaji,” the boy cried as he rubbed the Dada’s forehead, which was covered with sweat.

The Dada slightly opened his eyes, and then closed them again. Now I noticed he was still breathing, though irregularly.

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Together we carried him inside and I ran to get some water. By the time I came back, the Dada was sitting up. leaning against the wall.

“I must have fainted,” he said weakly. “I’ll go

find a doctor,” I said.

“No, don’t do that. I think it was just something I ate, or didn’t eat. Too much work to do today.” He struggled to stand up.

“Dadaji, you need a doctor. Please rest,” I said.

But he insisted, and in a few minutes he was gone.

I felt bad for him, inspired by him, and selfish all at the same time. Whether his behavior was right or wrong, I want to have the same selfless, determined spirit.

A little dirty money

The itch still remains to be on the move and working. On top of that, my financial situation is precarious. The office in Patna gave me only a train ticket to Calcutta and 150 rupees (about US$ 10). I wouldn’t feel so bad spending the money at a miserly pace, but for the feeling that I’m not being properly sociable. Everyday I buy only the exact amount of vegetables I need, then eat a modest, self-cooked meal alone, consciously ignoring most of the opportunities I have to share it with whoever else happens to be around. But if I share the little I’ve got, the money may not last until my ticket arrives. God knows when that will be. Of course. I’ve got to be practical, even if it looks a little greedy.

Today I was alone in the house. Everyone else was out participating in a demonstration to protest Baba’s imprisonment and the persecution of Ananda Marga. About two or three thousand Margis were there. I was instructed not to attend because I might be picked up and questioned by the police, and blacklisted from entering India.

A knock on the door (this time a solid knock). Two youths smiled at me. They were perhaps twenty years old.

The tall one said, “Namaskar. We are Margis. May we come in?”

“Of course,” I said, happy for the company. I took them into the main room, and we sat down on the floor (a foregone conclusion, there being no chairs in the house). We talked back and forth about our origins. They were from a nearby village.

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I asked them if they knew any devotional songs. They looked at each other, spoke between themselves in Bengali, and burst into a rhythmic song.

Then they asked me to sing something, which I did.

“Now, how about some meditation?” I said.

“Yes, meditation is good,” the tall boy said.

“Fine. I’ll go for half-bath first, and then you two can do half-bath.”

“Thank you.”

After about two minutes in the bathroom, I returned. “Ah, I’m very sorry,” the tall boy said, “but I think we have to leave now. We did not tell our mother that we would be away so long.” “Yes, and it looks like rain,” the other said. “Well, that’s too bad. Can’t you just stay for a short meditation?” “No, we’ve really got to go…”

As I stood up with them, I suddenly had a thought: “Maybe they aren’t really Margis, and they stole my money.”

We walked toward the door. I thought, “No, it’s impossible. The money is deep inside my bag in a secret place, and they’d never find it in such a short time.”

They left. The thought that they might have ripped me off kept nagging me. But I thought again and again, “I mustn’t be so cynical and negative.”

Finally, just to still my doubts, I checked my bag. My wallet was gone.

I ran to the door. Of course they were long gone, and untraceable.

“What a damn fool I am! What an ignoramus!” I sat down thoroughly befuddled, bemoaning my situation. What was I to do now?

The peculiar thing is that even in the midst of this crisis I kept thinking: “How intricately I calculated my food needs, hardly sharing a leaf of spinach with anyone—and now my little dirty money is all gone. Everyone could have nicely enjoyed together with me.”

On the plane to Hong Kong. In the last two days I’ve come to the conclusion that the robbery happened as another lesson to teach me to depend on Him rather than on my little self. Having no money, I was forced to depend on hand-outs.

Call it coincidence if you like, but yesterday my ticket to the Philippines arrived. There I will meet my higher authority—the Dada who

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will supervise my work in Australia. Without a penny in my pocket I boarded the plane. A businessman sitting next to me asked the meaning of my uniform, and that led into a long discussion about yoga.

At the end of the flight I mentioned to him that I had no money. Without any hesitation he gave me five dollars, which was much more than the stolen money. Having been poor so long, I was elated with the first donation I ever solicited.

Big task for a small boy?

Manila, Philippines. My posting is the South Pacific Sector 27 but I’ll stay in the Philippines for a few weeks because my Sectorial Secretary is here in Manila with temporary visa complications. As I am his only subordinate, it means I shall be working alone for some time in the South Pacific sector. If anyone were to say, “Sounds like a pretty big task for a new boy”—I would say, “I’m Baba’s boy. Big or small, it’s all the same for me.”

The dysentery which I caught almost one year ago in Benares is still ravaging my intestinal system. In an effort to clean it out. I’ll be eating only raw fruits and vegetables for at least a month or two.

Urgent and unurgent matters

I’ve been working during these three days with the Southeast Asia Sectorial Secretary, Dada Adveshananda. 28 Adveshanandaji is an interesting man. He doesn’t care for anything except maximum working speed, and that too he does with a smile. A man without a system. I suppose he even races through his dreams at night.

While walking through town today with him and two local full-timers 29 , I said, “Excuse me, Dadaji. Part of your turban is hanging out.”

I was running to keep up with him.

27 For organizational purposes, Ananda M arga divides the world into nine sectors. The South Pacific includes Australia, New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, and most of the South Pacific islands.

28 Southeast Asia Sector includes the Philippines, and the rest of Southeast Asia from Thailand down to the edge of the South Pacific Sector.

29 Local full-timers are volunteers who work full time for Ananda M arga, usually for a specified period of time, and who follow a yogic discipline during that period similar to that prescribed for acharyas

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“What’s that you say, my little one?” He seemed always to be thinking a hundred things at once, and one needed to be very direct to get through to him.

I repeated myself loudly in his ear.

" Acha, I got you,” he said. He turned to one of the full-timers, saying, “Ramdas, you’ve got a scissors with you, don’t you?”

We were still walking in top gear. Ramdas handed over the scissors. Adveshanandaji instantly cut off the protruding orange strip, and threw it in a garbage can as he passed. In the next moment he turned to the other full-timer to talk about an urgent matter.

You’re the program

I asked Ramdas today to tell me something about Adveshanandaji. He told me that Dada had worked most of his life in India. During a one-year stint in Europe, he traveled incessantly, often passing the nights sleeping in telephone booths. During that time he initiated into meditation more than 1000 people.

He arrived in the Philippines two years before. He openly stated several times, “My main work here is the creation of Dadas and Didis.”

One time he instructed a local full-timer to prepare to travel to a distant Philippine island to start Ananda Marga there. That full-timer spent more than a month earning sufficient money for the trip. With Dada’s permission, he went to his posting, taking two days to go there.

After arriving at the island, he found a telegram addressed to him: “Return to headquarters immediately. Adveshananda.”

The full-timer returned as quickly as possible. When he entered the Manila yoga house, he ran up to Adveshanandaji.

“Dadaji, I’m here!”

“Hmm. What?”

“Your telegram … so I came like lightning. What’s the program?”

“Ah, yes. You’re the program. Good work.”

“Dadaji, is there some urgent work for me or…?” But it was too late for further questions. Adveshanandaji had already turned to some other matter.

Ramdas added: “Recently that full-timer went to training to become a Dada, so I guess it worked. Dadaji breaks our attachments left and right.”

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 96

I asked for another example of Adveshanandaism.

Ramdas said, “One time about 600 Margis were collected together for an all- Philippines retreat. Two days into the program we were having a 24-hour kiirtan. About half-way through the kiirtan, Dada mounted the lecture stage, held up both of his hands and yelled, ‘Stop the kiirtan!’ Everyone was shocked, but we stopped.

“Adveshanandaji stood there visibly vibrated. He said, ‘Dharma Maha Samelan (DMS) will now be held!’ Everyone was even more shocked. Baba personally allocates His representative for this specially planned event. Of course no one had planned that this present program would be a DMS, and so, well, simply speaking, it could not be a DMS.

“But there stood Adveshanandaji, his eyes closed, his hands held up. The room became totally silent, everyone filled with excitement and expectation, as we awaited the ‘DMS’ speech.

“Instead of a speech, however, Adveshanandaji began speaking over and over, ‘Baba, Baba, Baba… 1 He became louder and louder, and super intense. Then we were all yelling ‘Baba! Baba!’ Several Margis collapsed in samadhi 30 . I never felt anything so strong in my life.

“I think about ten Margis volunteered to go for wholetimer train¬ ing after that.”

Baba starts fasting

April. Word came today that Baba has begun a protest fast over the lack of inquiry into the attempt on His life in the jail by Indira 1 Gandhi’s government. At present He is taking only two small glasses of orange juice per day. 31

30 Samadhi means a state of complete absorption. There are many kinds of samadhi depending on the psycho-spiritual level of the person. In the higher for ms of samadhi, one feels oneness with the Cosmic M ind, or an all-consuming devotion for God or Guru.

31 In February of 1973 the prison doctor administered Baba a strong dose of poison which he had passed off as a special “medicine”. Baba temporarily lost consciousness and when He awoke, He was blind, His brain seared with pain. This condition lasted for several days, after which He partially regained His sight. Baba’s vision remained somewhat impaired until the end of His life. The doctor, who was certainly hired for this nasty work by higher officials of the Indira Gandhi government, soon afterwards gave up his profession, but this did not save him from becoming permanently para¬ lyzed in the same hand by which he gave the poison to Baba.

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 97 An orchestrated accident

Sydney, Australia. Fresh, young, curious, clean—all are qualities of this relatively new country and its people. I arrived two days ago in this world which seems open-minded to the ideas of yoga and Tantra.

Ananda Marga is a new and small group here. There are a handful of Margis in each of several cities.

I know I’m going to enjoy this country.

Today a letter arrived from Ramdas. He writes:

Something terrible has happened. A small accident happened in the car in which Dada Adveshananda was riding. The driver requested Dada to wait alone in the car for an hour while he assisted the passengers to go home by other means.

Shortly afterward, a man approached Dada and asked him to leave the car.

“What’s it to you if I sit here?” said Dada. The man walked away silently.

After a few minutes he again came back and said, “Really, sir, I think you should move.”

“You’re a nonsense fellow,” Dada said. “Leave me alone.”

And again a few minutes later he came and said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. but…”

“Get out of here!” Dada yelled. “If you’re sorry to disturb me, then don’t disturb me.” The man left.

A few minutes later a big construction truck smashed into the car. Dadaji was thrown out of the car, and dragged underneath the truck.

It was awful. The construction people together with the ambulance people pulled him out of the wreck. He was unconscious and his legs were smashed. At least he did not die, though even for him it was a shock.

In M arch, Baba dictated a number of letters to the governor of Bihar state complaining about the attempted murder and demanding a judicial inquiry. When Baba received no reply He took the further step of writing the governor and many other officials, and informing them that He would noteat until His poisoning was properly investigated and there was an improvement in His living conditions and those of the other M argis in the prison who were being detained under conditions far below the minimally acceptable standard for political prisoners.

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He is still in the hospital but will probably be released in a wheelchair. The doctors say he may never be able to walk again, and he laughs at them. Yes, he’s already recovered his aplomb.

Most interesting, however, is Dada’s own self-analysis. He says, “Everyone was always telling me to slow down, and be a little systematic. But I wouldn’t listen. Baba Himself knew that even if He told me directly, I wouldn’t listen. This was the only way that I could leam my lesson. Ah. the grace of Guru is unfathomable.”

As to that man who tried to warn Dada, no one ever saw him again. Dadaji says, “It was surely Baba in another form, just trying one last time to constructively cure me of my egocentricity. In my case, however, there was no way except destruction.”

The dysentery is still with me. I’ve been following a fruits-only diet, and going to naturopaths, chiropractors, colon-therapists, and the like, but nothing works.

How I tolerate it, Lord only knows.

Psychic power attack

Brisbane. I’ve been invited to make a house-call tonight under peculiar circumstances. The residents are nine young men and women, a normal sort of communal living arrangement. It seems they are troubled by an “outside force.” They’ve already called upon a Christian priest and a Buddhist monk to help them but neither visit satisfied the group. The priest did an ineffective exorcism, and the Buddhist monk counseled them to “ignore the illusion.” Whatever the problem may be, it will at least be enjoyable to watch Baba solve it.

They were a normal group of kids in their late teens and early twenties, except that they all looked haggard and emotionally strained. Without exception, each had facial skin sag.

“Let’s come to the point,” I said. “Tell me the problem.”

They all started nervously speaking at once.

“Please, there’s nothing to get excited about. Every problem exists for a good reason.” I pointed to the boy who looked the least out of control, and asked him to explain.

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus

99

“Dadaji, all of us in this house are so tired. Every night for the last two months a Psychic Power attacks us between 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning.”

“It’s terrible!”

“I can’t take it another night.”

“You’ve got to help us!”

“What does the Psychic Power do?”

“I don’t know how to describe it exactly, but it seems to be more or less the same for all of us. We wake up with our minds racing, full of fear, imagining the worst things emerging from the shadows. Until now nothing much has happened externally, but our minds go nuts for about half an hour or an hour. Sometimes things fall off shelves, or the walls shake, or a door slams. Whether we sit down, lie down, talk or try to be silent, it doesn’t matter. We feel like we are going crazy. Then it stops. But who can sleep after that?”

After that they all chipped in little tidbits of experience, but the common nightly phenomena appeared to be approximately as the boy had described.

I closed my eyes, thought about Baba, and quickly understood what to do.

“I’m going to sleep in your house tonight,” I said. “When the Psychic Power hits, wake me up.”

“No need. It will wake you up before we get to you, Dadaji.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, we will do a meditation exercise together, and become one hundred percent positive. In that state of mind, no black force can have any effect. If your minds are weak, if you have fear, then bad people with a little bit of power can easily control you. But we will concentrate on the most beautiful and positive entity, the infinite entity: God.”

Then I explained the Baba Nam Kevalam mantra. We sang it together for a couple of minutes, and did one minute meditation.

“Tonight we will do it together as long as necessary.”

Soon after, we went to sleep—at least those of us who could sleep.

In the morning the rising sun woke me up. I went downstairs to the dining room, and found everyone there.

“What happened? Why didn’t you wake me up? Or didn’t the Psychic Power hit last night?”

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 100

“Oh, it hit all right,” one of them said. “But you were sleeping so nicely that we decided not to wake you up and to first try singing the mantra without you. And it worked, Dadaji!”

“Immediately!”

“Like a charm.”

“Yeah, the very moment we started singing, the Power disappeared. We were so happy that we continued singing for a long time, and then did meditation.”

“Very peaceful, beautiful.”

They were all smiling, the sun streaming in through an open window.

Suddenly there was a loud knocking on the door. We all jumped up and ran to see who it could be at such an early hour.

A lady was standing on the doorstep. She had long, uncombed black hair, deep shadows under her eyes, and a wrinkled black dress.

She pointed her finger at me, and said with spit coming out of her mouth, “I hate you!” Then she slammed the door shut as loud as she could.

Two of the boys opened the door and went after her. A minute later they came back. “She drove off in a car with no license plates.”

“Anyway, she won’t bother you anymore,” I said.

After the psychic power incident one month ago, I visited the house a couple times more. I explained our spiritual philosophy in a little detail so that they could understand the undefeatable power of God’s love. They all learned and regularly practiced meditation after that.

Today the boy who seemed least out of control entered our local full-timer training course.

I am convinced that the lady we saw was experimenting on this group of kids with some kind of psychic power, trying to take over their minds or something. At the moment that they all started singing Baba Nam Kevalam, her evil intentions probably reflected back on her with multiplied strength. She must have suffered badly that morning.

Water cure

Melbourne. Two weeks ago I was reading through Baba’s health book Yogic Cures & Natural Remedies to find a treatment for one

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Margi brother. How many scores of times had I looked at the chapters on digestive disorders? But this time one instruction made me pause: “The patient must drink small amounts of water as frequently as possible-totaling at least four to five liters per day.” I had tried everything to cure myself. Why hadn’t I tried following that simple directive?

Since then I’ve been drinking a little water, up to half a cup at a time, about every fifteen or twenty minutes, except during and just after meals. And—Lord have mercy on this body!—it looks like my old friend Dysentery has finally left me.

By now my intestines are probably completely shot. I have absolutely no appetite so I make sure my meals are separated by at least four to five hours.

All in all, my health problems have challenged my practice of con-tentedness. If I can maintain contentedness while I’m this sick, I guess I can maintain it just about anytime, anywhere. Is this part of the meaning of Ananda Marga, the “path of bliss”? Thnt no matter what happens, good or bad, it helps spiritual development?

An itchy test cum education

Four months later. Sydney. 1974. One week ago in New Zealand, I visited my higher authority, Dada Sumitananda. At the time, a little eczema appeared on my nose. He suggested that I fast on herbal teas and pure fruit juices for a few days to clear out the excess toxins. The fast would give the toxins a chance to come out.

Well, they sure did come out—like a parade on Madison Avenue. Now my whole body is covered with the eczema. It itches terribly. Though I look terrible, I continue my normal touring, and also continue the fast.

Two weeks later. Brisbane. The eczema has become worse. It’s now a thick brown cake, cracked and oozing pus. I have to change my clothes at least twice a day. Though I try my best not to scratch, the itch is so great that I unknowingly claw myself. I wear gloves to control my hands during sleep. Sometimes, however, I wake up to find that I’ve unconsciously taken off the gloves and had a good scratch.

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 102

Doctors are of no use. From today I’ve stopped even the teas and juices, and now drink only mineral water. Anyway, I don’t have any hunger.

Still my lecture tour continues. I don’t know what the public thinks, because I don’t talk about my condition, and neither do they. In any case, there are still plenty of new people asking to learn meditation and yoga.

It’s all so bizarre.

Three days later. Yesterday, a group of Margis invited me for a day’s outing to a lake. While I was telling stories to the Margis, a drunk suddenly interrupted us, saying, “Man. ah you a Yoogy?”

One brother answered him. “Yes, he is.”

“Then how’s come’s you’s got all that gook all over yur body? Wha kind o’ Yoogy’s got sooo yecchy? Huh? How’s you goin explaain?”

“It’s a test I’m undergoing to strengthen my mind.”

Everybody was silent. The drunk stared at me like his eyes were going to pop out.

“Well I like dat,” he finally said. Coming over to me, he shook my hand, again exclaiming, “I like dat!” Then he walked away with a cheery jaunt.

The Margis also liked dat.

Ten days later. Adelaide. About a week ago the eczema started to get a little better. But the progress was so slow that I finally lost faith, even in the water fast. After one month of fasting I gave it up and started to eat fruits. Within two days I became 50% better. I’m astonished. How could eating help me more than fasting?

One possible answer is that the elimination of toxins was halted when my system switched gears in order to digest food. But a more likely reason, I feel, is that my mind no longer required such an intense disease—enough was enough.

For nearly three months I’ve eaten only fruits and raw vegetables. Still, the eczema did not become more than 75% better. A few days ago I hit another “enough-is-enough” point. I started eating bread,

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cooked foods, sweets—everything. Within two days my skin was completely clear (though I still have no appetite).

Thanks, Baba, for the education in nutrition, fasting and mind-games. 32

[ Author’s aftemote: An Indian Margi, Chandra Prakash of Patna, told me a similar story, which he had rarely mentioned to anyone else. In 1983 and 1984, at the age of 34, he started feeling a constant pain in his intestines. Whenever he ate even the smallest amount of food, he vomited. Thus he was compelled to stop eating. Finally, for a period of four months, he drank only fruit juices and a little milk. In the third month he underwent medical analysis. The doctor told him that he had intestinal tuberculosis and prescribed medicine. After fifteen days of treatment, Chandra Prakash could no longer stand the intense reaction produced by the medicine. He went to another doctor who told him that the diagnosis of the first doctor was wrong, and that in fact the sickness was cancer of the colon. He said that an operation would have to be performed within three days, and sent the patient to the appropriate section of the hospital. But the doctor in that section told Chandra Prakash that he would have to wait six days before they could perform the operation. In the meantime, further tests were conducted. On the fifth day, Dada Shraddhananda (who became president of Ananda Marga in 1990) arrived at Chandra Prakash’s house unexpectedly and said, “Somehow I felt you were in trouble, so I came.” When Dadaji heard that an operation was intended for the following day, he said, “No. You must not undergo that operation. If you do, it will kill you. In fact you have no real illness. You should only have faith in Baba, and you will be cured.” Accordingly, Chandra Prakash did not go to the hospital. Some days later he heard that the last tests had been inconclusive. A few days after that, he went to Ananda Nagar to attend the semi-annual spiritual festival with Baba. At the end of

32 Besides teaching yoga and meditation throughout the entire period of these fluctuations in my health and appearance, I also helped to organize our first service projects in Australia - a permanent soup kitchen for derelicts, two full-time non-profit food cooperatives, and a kindergarten according to Baba’s neo-humanistic education system. The kindergarten was registered with the Sydney city government under the name” Sunrise School”.

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 104

the festival, as usual. Baba gave a blessing which begins, “May everyone be happy, may everyone be free of illness….” In the middle of the blessing Chandra Prakash stood up angrily and said. “What You say. Baba! I have been suffering for two years, and You say everyone should be healthy!” Without waiting for the end of the session, he stamped out of the hall and marched over to a food- stall. He purchased six plates of pakora (deep fried potatoes and flour), a plate of milk-sweets, and finished it off with a glass of tea. He then walked back into the hall and announced to his father how he had broken his four months of fasting. The old man was shocked. A few minutes later, Chandra Prakash ran out of the hall again, this time to vomit. After vomiting, he entered the hall again and announced that he was cured. From that moment he was never again troubled by the slightest digestive ailment.]

No need to trouble Him

Hobart. Today I delivered a general introductory lecture to the staff and students of a local high school—over 2000 people. While waiting in a separate room beforehand, I was shivering due to the chilly weather (it’s winter here) and also due to my nervousness before the talk. As usual I thought about Baba in order to calm myself.

Then a thought occurred. “Why am I troubling Baba to calm my mind? I should simply think of Baba, give my mind to Baba, let Him speak through me, and not care what He does to me.” I continued to think of Him. but without asking for anything except to be His channel.

I was alone. The vice-principal came to fetch me. Though I was perceptibly shaking, she said nothing. Then I stood before the audience, still shivering. I was determined not to ask Him for anything except the proper words. Throughout the speech I trembled like a song-bird.

Afterward, while returning to the yoga house, a full-timer who was sitting in the audience said to me, “Dada it was an excellent lecture. But there’s one thing I don’t understand…”

Now I was sure that he would criticize me for shivering.

“How could you be so perfectly calm in front of thousands of people?”

I was surprised. “Perhaps we each perceive the infinite Entity only in the way which is suitable for our own evolution. So there’s nothing to worry about.”

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He was satisfied with my answer, even though I meant something different than he understood.

The aura of His love

Perth. Today I gave a lecture to the Parapsychology Club of Perth. When I stood up in front of the audience, I had no idea what I was going to speak about. As usual I thought, “Baba, Baba, Baba…” The flow came, and I began to speak.

After the formal program was over, several people came up to meet me. One lady said, “Dada, before your lecture I was enjoying just looking at you. You had a beautiful blue aura all around your body, like I’ve never seen before. Of course you know that such blue means cosmic love.”

I casually shrugged my shoulders.

“But in the few seconds just before you started to speak, the blue light suddenly became so bright that I couldn’t tolerate it. I closed my eyes but the aura was still there. Could I ask what you were thinking about at that moment?” “I was thinking about my Guru,”

Anandamurtiji…the essence of love.

Auckland, New Zealand. I have a new posting: Wellington Regional Secretary, responsible for New Zealand. The nature of the people here seems as gentle as the sheep for which this land is so famous.

Baba admits a fraction of His knowledge

Christchurch. A newsletter arrived from India today explaining the latest developments in Baba’s court case. Here is an excerpt:

“The judge asked Baba one of his usual questions: Tn what language will you address the court?’ (In India there are forty major languages, so it is often necessary to arrange translation.) Baba replied, ‘As I know over 200 languages, I can speak in whatever language the court prefers.’ The judge was shocked by Baba’s answer, and could not speak. After waiting a few moments. Baba politely offered, ‘Perhaps it will be most convenient for the court if I speak in English: strict Oxford English.’ The judge readily agreed.”

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 106

Though Baba’s statement was surprising, I believe it was modest. Many workers declare that He surely knows all languages. I speculate that His not admitting this vast knowledge is in accordance with His long-standing habit never to directly refer to His own omniscience. Nevertheless He spoke the truth because He said “over 200 languages.”

Nelson. There are some signs that I may soon be transferred to another region. In that light I am happy that before my going, we have succeeded to open the Nelson Sunrise Pre-school. Twelve children are already attending.

An all-violins orchestra

Nandi, Fiji Islands. 1975. Today I’m reminded of Milarepa, the great Tibetan yogi. His guru. Marpa, ordered him to wander continuously through the mountains, never staying in any place more than three days.

We Dadas are not much different. Not only do we constantly travel from city to city, but our postings can change at any moment. One day we are in New Zealand, the next—who knows? Fortunately, I enjoy this sort of life.

My posting is now Suva Regional Secretary, responsible for the Fiji Islands.

Lataoka. At night the mosquitoes are thick as pea soup. Whenever we do evening meditation I have to keep my entire body covered, including a light cloth over my head.

This evening, however, during group meditation, I became fed up with the cloth on my face. It was one problem or the other. For once, why not let the mosquitoes have their way?

After taking the firm determination not to move, I took the cloth off my head.

One mosquito landed on my nose and took his dinner. He called his friends, and they made it a party. “Hey everyone, no charge! Banquet on the nose,” they whined. They didn’t seem interested in any other part of my face.

My nose began to itch tremendously. But I refused to move. My mind flew back and forth between my meditation and the festival on my nose. The violins rose toward a crescendo, while the itch turned

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into a downright pain. I felt like a hundred party-goers in tuxedoes and black evening gowns were dancing on my pink beak.

My mantra was striking like a hammer in my head, while the pain turned into a constant throb. The human snout converted into a vibrating vermin paradise. For all I knew, it might have been flickering between red and blue like an electric clown-nose. The throbbing became so intense, tears came out of my eyes.

Suddenly two things happened simultaneously. My nose turned numb, and my concentration dropped deep within. I became oblivious—not only to my nose but to everything except the meditation.

When the meditation ended, I turned around to give a talk to everyone there.

“Oh, Dada! What happened to you?,” they exclaimed, shocked.

My nose had doubled in size.

I laughed and proceeded with the talk. 33

Tropical fever

An epidemic is sweeping the island. Now Dinkar (our local full-timer) has caught it. The symptoms are high fever and acute body pain. Many have died, and everyone requires hospitalization for at least a couple of weeks. I suggested to Dinkar that he try to cure it in a yogic way. From today he will follow a fruits-only diet, and practice certain yoga postures. Otherwise he is resting in our hut.

In only five days Dinkar was cured. I believe it could have been quicker except that he broke his diet once by eating a few biscuits. In any case, the Margis and other friends are very surprised he could overcome the disease without medicine and in such a short time.

Nandi. Now I’ve got the sickness! Today I ate only papaya. Though bed¬ rest is recommended, I am practicing yoga postures in double quantity, and keeping up with all my normal work. Of course I keep my face far away from anyone else’s to avoid contaminating them. Being

23 19 years later: The most interesting thing is that for many years after that not a single mosquito bit me on my face. In the last few years perhaps four or five mosquitoes have nibbled my face a little, but none have yet dared to prick my nose.

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 108

continually on the move makes me sometimes feel very weak, but at least it keep my mind high.

Two days later. Lataoka. Yesterday I stopped eating and only drank lemon- water. And today I observed full fast without water. I almost fainted several times while working but my mind was unaffected. Tonight the fever left me. Though I am still weak, I am sure the virus is out of my system.

One of the Margis is a newspaper editor, and he wanted to print an article about my overcoming the disease in only three days. I told him I didn’t want any publicity until my residence visa was secured.

Indira Gandhi plays her role in the cosmic drama

27 June. Recently there have been ominous developments in India. Two weeks ago the High Court in Allahabad found Prime Minister Indira Gandhi guilty of election fraud. Because it was just a matter of time before she would have been impeached and lost her Prime Ministership, yesterday she declared a federal state of emergency. Martial law was imposed. I fear the worst.

4 July. Today I received a phone call from Sydney. Yesterday Ananda Marga was banned in India. Mrs Gandhi declared twenty-six organizations to be illegal. Of these, one was Ananda Marga and twelve others were organizations directly and indirectly related to Ananda Marga, such as Renaissance Universal (a club for intellectuals) and various Prout groups. It seems that all of our institutions in India were closed, and that all of our Dadas, Didis and well-known Margis have been arrested. Our Central Office is being shifted to Katmandu, Nepal, with an assistant Central Office in Denver, USA.

My own reaction is mixed. On one hand I’m horrified. Many of my brothers and sisters may have to suffer severely. Perhaps some will even die before this episode is finished. But at the same time I feel the banning was inevitable, and will eventually turn to our advantage. Surely it is a part of Baba’s planning. Ananda Marga is a revolutionary movement, albeit a peaceful one and the corrupt will not give up their power without a fight.

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Furthermore, Tantrics must be able to undergo any sort of trial. And nothing teaches better than direct experience.

That’s why I remain not only optimistic, but am, indeed, positively inspired by these events.

Money: a mere game for Him

Nandi. No matter what happens in India, our normal work everywhere else must continue.

Whenever Dinkar and I run out of money here, we are unable to look to the Margis for assistance because most of them are very poor. So we resort to taking the rounds of the shops, requesting donations. The shopkeepers usually each give a dollar or so.

Today when we entered the city center, imagining how our piggy bank would soon be bulging, a shopkeeper approached and said:

“Please don’t mind my words. Haven’t you noticed that many of the merchants have started to avoid you?”

“Do you mean…?”

“Yes,” he said, “they’re tired of giving you donations.”

I thanked him, and he left us.

Both Dinkar and I were stunned.

“The last thing we want to do is offend them,” he said.

“Sure. From this moment we won’t ask a dime from them.”

“Then how will we exist?”

“That’s Baba’s problem. We just have to do the work.”

There was an uneasy silence between us. Then I exasperated Dinkar further by saying, “And today’s the day we have to send our monthly five dollars to the sectorial office in Sydney. It’s our duty, and no matter what our own situation, we must send the money.”

“But we’ll then be really stranded!” he said.

“From my side I’m going to send $2.50,” I said.

“Well… I tnink we better save my $2.50 for emergencies,” he said.

“Suit yourself.”

Half an hour later when we got to the post office he had changed his mind and we sent the whole five dollars.

We have $4.20 remaining which we’ve decided to use only on bus fares and other organizational expenses. And there is no food in our little hut, isolated halfway between Nandi and Lataoka.

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 110

Two days later. Having not eaten since yesterday noon, we visited our only relatively wealthy supporter, Senator Sharma. He was kind enough to donate large sacks of rice and potatoes.

Four days later. In our hut in the countryside between Nandi and Lataoka. I was working on an article for our first newsletter when Dinkar interrupted me. “Dadaji, do you expect the money to simply fall from the sky?” He was feeling desperate, with only $2.60 in the cigar box.

“Maybe. It’s up to Baba how He wants to solve this problem. I’m not worried.” The truth was, I was also getting pretty tired of our starchy diet. When would this test end?

Ten minutes passed as we worked in silence. My mind drifted to Baba. Suddenly a thought entered: Sell advertising in the newsletter.

I told Dinkar. He was skeptical. I said, “It was not my idea. I’m sure Baba put this thought in my head, so I’m sure it will work.”

Within five minutes we made the plan: first we’ll quickly finish and print ten sample copies. These will be shown to prospective advertisers. The ads will be in their own separate section at the end. Dinkar can also draw illustrations upon order. We’ll tell our clients that five hundred copies will be printed.

Five days later. Baba’s advertising scheme was successful far beyond our expectations. We made enough money to fully support us for the next few months and even pay for our plane tickets back to New Zealand when our visas expire.

We have the duty to work as sincerely as possible. And He has the duty to provide the means for getting it done. Sometimes with a dab of extra whipped cream on top!

My will against His

Wellington. Our visas expired in Fiji, so we are back in New Zealand.

We are receiving reports verifying that all of our workers and outstanding Margis in India are either in jail or in hiding. I continue my work, confident that everything will happen according to His wish.

The Master of Testing, Caring and Hocus-Pocus 111

Christchurch. On the bus today I thought, “What is the use of working like this unless I can see Baba? If I can’t see Him in India, then I’ve got to make Him come here… I’ll fast until He comes to me. I know He’s got the mystic power, and if He wants to use it, He can easily do so.” So I stopped eating or drinking from that moment. If I die or get sick it’s His fault. I have every right to see Him.

But I will continue all my normal work, and not tell anyone. If my higher authority comes to know, he might order me to stop the fast, and I would be compelled to comply.

Nelson. The first day was a normal fast. But the second day was heavy. Today, my third day, the body seems to have adjusted a bit, and it’s not so bad. Of course I’m damn thirsty. Anyway it’s no problem for me. Let the suffering come, let sickness come—it will just speed up His coming to me.

Auckland. Fifth day of the fast. Baba’s very clever. The more I want to suffer, the more He protects me. Five days now without water or food. Some people would have died by now but I don’t feel bad at all. It’s impossible.

Though my body’s okay, my mind is wild with thirst. I’ve been having uncontrollable visions of waterfalls during meditation.

What’s He doing? Why doesn’t He come?

Anyway I’ll fast to death if He refuses me. That will teach Him nicely not to play with me.

Due to my traveling, nobody knows I’ve been fasting so long. Everywhere I go, the Margis think that I’m doing only a one or two-day fast.

Wellington. Eight days now. You’ll be in big trouble. Lord, if I die. It will cause all sorts of complications here, and I don’t care. You’re to blame.

You have to come and see me.

But there’s one problem: I’m not suffering enough. Though my head constantly hurts and all the parts of my body have shrunk, I still don’t feel anywhere near to death. Actually it’s a bit of a drag. Just at the time that 1 don’t want protection, that Trickster is somehow fortifying me.

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But I’ll out-trick Him in the end.

Next day. I was wrong. He’s the master in hocus-pocus. Of course.

The full-timer answered the doorbell this morning. The person at the door said, “Namaskar. I don’t know why, but I suddenly got a strong feeling from Baba to fly here for a surprise inspection.” He laughed and entered the room where I was sitting.

It was my higher authority who had been in Australia for the last nine months. On seeing me, he was shocked. He immediately understood that my state of mind and body were far from normal.

“So … my Lord … you’re the cause. You must be the reason why He told me to come here.” His voice was sharp. “What are you doing to yourself?”

I smiled without replying.

“You’re doing long fasting, aren’t you?”

My shiny, shrunken head nodded.

“How many days already?”

“Eight,” I said.

“With or without water?”

“Without,” I smiled.

“Baba! You’re crazy. You could’ve died. What’s the purpose of this?”

“That’s my own matter.”

“Buddha fasted 40 days, and he still couldn’t get realization. You idiot. You won’t get anything except very sick.” He asked me to please stop. I refused. Then, as I feared, he formally ordered me to break the fast.

I didn’t get exactly what I wanted. But I did confirm for the umpteenth time that He does have omniscience, and He does have power, but He uses it as He sees fit. Not according to our wishes or demands.

And I did find out that this body has the capacity to fast without water much longer and much more easily than I expected. Contrary to Dada’s forecast about my getting sick, I feel completely healthy—better than in a long time. This may be useful information for the future when different catastrophes hit our little planet, and we cannot get the food or water we think we need. Even then, those of us who have sufficient mental power can continue serving humanity.

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The violins test a new (already strong) Margi

Tonga Island. My responsibility in the South Pacific Sector is coming to an end; I will be transferred to another sector. It’s not yet clear which one. In the meantime I’ve been directed to travel through the South Pacific islands, ending up in Hawaii, where I will be sent a ticket to Denver. Since the Emergency began in India, Denver has been functioning as our temporary Central Headquarters #2.

Two days ago I arrived in Tonga, which is less touched by “civilization” than any other place I’ve visited. I’m staying in a thatched hut with a family of thirteen. Usually one member of each large family has a job. The rest enjoy their simple life at his expense.

And enjoy they do. Many of the adults are child-like, playing games all day. They have no sense of personal property. If anyone leaves a bicycle outside a shop, he can expect a new caretaker will assume responsibility for it by the time he comes out of the shop. If a car is parked for a few minutes without a guard, all of its removable parts will be efficiently removed by the time the driver returns.

Almost every evening they ceremoniously pass around a coconut shell filled with a slightly intoxicating liquor made from a root like cassava. The ceremony gradually breaks down as singing, dancing and other sorts of pleasures take over. Their songs are sung in four or five part harmonies, the dances are rhythmically perfect, and as to the other pleasures—well, that’s when I always go for a stroll.

Though the people are simple, some are interested in meditation. I’ve initiated a few, and have been watching to see their sincerity.

Late in the afternoon I went to the beach to meditate with one of the new initiates, a nineteen year old. During our meditation, the sun set. Mosquitoes came upon us in huge swarms. Though tolerating their attack, I briefly opened my eyes to see how my friend was doing. His nearly bare body was now clothed with a layer of mosquitoes, yet he sat stock-still. We remained another half hour.

As we left the place, I asked him, “How was your meditation?”

“S’was allrait. S’was verry good.”

“What about the mosquitoes?”

“Dem was sommmm probalam. B’ God was greater.”

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The king pushes his weight around

Today being Sunday, I went to church. I had heard the king regularly attends a particular church, so I chose that one, hoping to get an eyeful. Until then, the closest I’d got to him was the sound of his daily motorcade, that is, the sound of scores of car horns blaring. Wherever he passes, the people make the same comment: “Da kiin’s gonna i’spect ‘is pigfaarm!” Then they roll on the ground with laughter.

I was able to get a front row seat, immediately below the royal balcony. Shortly before the service started I got my eyeful alright. He’s renowned as the fattest king in the world, well over 400 pounds. He was so big it seemed he could not support his own weight. While walking and huffing and puffing, he was assisted on either side by attendants.

Though the king is obviously a devout Christian, I’m sure he allowed his eyes and mind to wander sufficiently to notice me last Sunday. The proof lies in my receiving today an official notification that I must leave this island within twenty-four hours. The only explanation, according to all the informed people with whom I’ve spoken, is that the king does not want any religion except Christianity propagated in his land. Needless to say, though I’m not teaching religion, my turban and orange uniform do create a sectarian appearance.

He’s a clever one. He waited all week to have the notice delivered to me at 6:00 p.m. today. It is Friday, and all government offices are closed tomorrow so I’ll have no opportunity to appeal within the allotted time limit.

All of my new friends are outraged. For the first time I see them in something other than a joking mood. But they also are helpless. The king is known to be a stubborn man, and no one knows what to do. Out of desperation, a radio interview was arranged for me tonight, to publicize the injustice of the leave-order.

The disc jockey himself was upset with the king, and gave me a full hour on the air. But when the program finished, he shrugged his shoulders, then embraced me and wished me well in my travels.

A nice Vice

Western Samoa. While traveling to teach meditation and yoga, I never stay in hotels. If I have no place to stay, I remain in a congested public

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spot, and wait for a sympathetic person to offer me a spot in his house to spend the night. Even if someone wants to donate money for a hotel room, I gratefully refuse. One way or another, I eventually meet a noble person, and it invariably leads not only to a comer on the floor for my blanket, but also to someone keenly interested in spiritual development. And he or she usually introduces me to others with similar interests. My real purpose, which is not to eat and sleep, is thus automatically fulfilled.

Facing such a predicament here, I took my stand in the midst of a busy crowd in the central marketplace. After two hours a young lady approached me. She was about twenty years old.

“Sir, is there any way I can help you?” she asked. The quality of her English showed she was well educated.

“I am a teacher of meditation and yoga,” I said. “I want to meet people who are interested to learn, and, as I’ve just arrived, I also have no place to stay.” Usually I come right to the point.

“My father has always been interested in such things. Let me introduce you to him I’m sure he’ll also offer you a room.”

She led me to her car. So she was not only educated, but also at least a little wealthy.

Her house was so big I could not see where it ended. Walking past the servants and through several rooms, we reached the library, where a large, bulky man sat reading. He looked up as she entered and smiled. When he saw me, his smile broadened.

“I’ve brought you a yogi, Daddy,” she said.

He rose and offered his hand, “1 am thrilled to meet you, sir. I’ve been waiting for your visit.”

Introductions were made. Among other things, he mentioned that only two years ago he had completed his term as the Vice-president of Western Samoa.

These three days were packed with engagements. My host introduced me to scores of the country’s upper-echelon who were keen to learn yoga. Most of them had health problems, for which I prescribed yoga asanas and appropriate diets. Some of them, including my host, are already improving.

The most exciting programs often come last and then end prematurely. Today I received a telegram ordering me to leave immediately for Denver, from where I shall travel to my next posting: Europe.

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chapter 7

Determination

Dedication personified

Stockholm, Sweden. 1976. My new posting is Regional Secretary for both Stockholm and Oslo Regions, otherwise known as Scandinavia (Finland, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, Iceland and Greelland). It is already clear to me that the people here are more gentle than North Americans, Indians and Australians. In my experience, only New Zealanders compare. The Scandinavians are also extremely open-minded and interested in anything new.

I have four full-timers in my office here in Stockholm to assist me with my work.

I don’t think I’ve ever met a person as sincere as Suresh, one of my full- timers. Whatever he does, he does wholeheartedly, with full concentration. Since I introduced the daily schedule for the full-timers in the office, he has followed it strictly—to the minute. While doing yoga asanas, he carefully refers to the clock, and when the allotted time is finished, even if he has not, completed his exercises or the final deep relaxation, he jumps up, puts on his clothes and begins the next scheduled work. Likewise, at the end of meal time, even if half of his food is still on the plate, he gets up from the table. With work, meditation, sleep or any activity, he maintains the same punctuality. Needless to say, it was beginning to get on everyone’s nerves.

A couple of days ago I walked into the bathroom while Suresh was taking a bath. He had his clock there also. When the scheduled time was up for bathing he put on his clothes even though he hadn’t dried himself yet. I think there remained a bit of unrinsed soap on him as well.

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“Suresh,” I said, “the schedule need not be followed exactly to the letter. It should rather serve as a guideline, which maybe adjusted in minor ways throughout the day to suit the needs of our work or meditation.”

“Really, Dadaji?” As he stood there, soaking wet, staring at me for several seconds. I felt like he was inputting this new attitude into his brain, deleting the erroneous elements of the old one.

“I understand clearly.” he said.

From that very moment his timing has became, well, perfect. Yes, I can say ‘perfect’ because his schedule adjusts with everyone, without wasting any time. Quite amazing!

Suresh continues to amaze me. Since I first arrived, he’s done everything with complete concentration and seriousness. Never laughing, never showing any mood. If he makes any mistake, including mental mistakes unknown to the rest of us, he punishes himself by doing fifty or a hundred tic-tics (stand-and- squats while holding ones ears), or by pressing his forehead to the floor. 34 I’ve been wondering what I could do to encourage him to be more human. Yesterday, unable to think of anything more subtle, I just told him bluntly , “Suresh, you needn’t be so serious all the time. It’s good to laugh sometime.”

“Really, Dada?” Again staring, re-programming.

“Humor and happiness” I continued, “often help us to communicate, help us to be in His flow.”

A pause. Then he started to laugh. “Ha, ha, ha! I got your point, Dadaji.”

From that moment he’s become a thoroughly pleasant, smiling person.

A unique devotee. Who’s helping?

Oslo, Norway. I’m surprised that there are hundreds of homeless or otherwise impoverished people in this wealthy country. The Margis

34 “Tic-tics” have a wonderful place in the history of Ananda Marga. If any Dada or Didi committed a mistake, they would often be instructed by Baba to perform some number of tic- tics in front of H im. At such a time, He sometimes commented, “This rectification exercise will not only exhaust your negative reactive momenta, it will alsc be good for your health.” Later, when Baba began correcting the mistakes of M argis they too could enjoy this novel method of recovering one’s mental balance.

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organized a weekly soup kitchen. The very first day, a few of the recipients actually danced with joy to receive the vegetarian food from us.

Copenhagen, Denmark. For the last three weeks, sister Kunti, a full-timer, has been searching single-mindedly for a suitable house to rent for our yoga center. This morning, though disheartened by her on-going failure, she set out to try again.

She took a bus into the city. After a few minutes, an old lady boarded, walked directly to Kunti, and sat down next to her. The lady’s face was full of both wrinkles and tenderness.

“Nowadays many young people are misusing their energy,” she said. “I am happy to see that you are a different type.”

She spoke in Norwegian, which is Kunti’s mother language. It was odd, even bizarre. How could she know that Kunti was from Norway when Kunti had not yet spoken a word?

“The task is elephantine,” the old lady continued. “The speed must be accelerated. Don’t you also think so. my dear?”

As the woman stared in Kunti’s face, a transformation occurred inside the bus—it seemed to billow like a river. Instead of waves of water, however, the air itself and the colors around were rippling, vibrating. An unidentifiable mixture of sound waves inundated the atmosphere. Kunti could no longer comprehend what was happening. She also joined the sea of vibrations.

At last the lady said, “And I think you are looking for something. Isn’t it, my dear?” The bus stopped. “Perhaps you will find it here. Let’s get down.”

Her ankles barely able to support her legs, Kunti stepped outside with the lady. Without speaking a word, the lady, smiling sweetly, pointed at the building. Still lost in the cosmic current, Kunti entered the building.

“Is there a flat to rent here?” asked Kunti.

“Yes,” said the manager. “But how did you know? The ad has not yet appeared.”

“Ah. one moment, please,” Kunti said. She walked back outside. The old lady was gone, never to be seen again. The flat was perfect, and we took it.

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Rendering possible the impossible

Oslo. Vishvabandhu and Sulocana, a married couple, have worked like mad people to start a public food cooperative. Obliged to quickly pay off the loan they took for the project, speed was compulsory—in planning, renting, construction, ordering, and publicity. Within a mere month they did everything. Today the shop opened in the center of the business district. It looks beautiful.

Vishvabandhu said these words at the ribbon-cutting ceremony: “Tantric spirit made the impossible possible again.”

Considering that they hadn’t a drop of experience in this line, I agreed fully with his statement.

The United Nations gets a taste of Tantric resolve

Stockholm. Yesterday, just as I arrived in Lulea, Karan phoned me from my Stockholm headquarters. “Dada, you won’t believe this!” he said. “Suresh is publicly threatening to commit self-immolation within one week unless the government requests the United Nations to discuss Baba’s case and Gandhi’s banning of Ananda Marga! He’s going to bum himself to death!”

“What are you talking about? Let me speak to him.”

“Gladly, except that he’s in hiding. He made his announcement by telephone to the government and the media. He called me also, but refused to tell from where.”

After asking many questions and receiving few clear replies from Karan, it was obvious that I had to return to Stockholm immediately. Just as I hung up the phone, it rang again: a reporter from the local newspaper.

“Sir, do you think Stan Eklofs threat is real or simply drama?”

“I’m believe it’s real. It fits with his all-or-nothing attitude. That’s why it’s so urgent to take all possible steps to stop him.”

“Do you have any idea why he’s taking such a desperate step? Is he alone in this escapade?”

“Two or three weeks ago Mr Sarkar specifically suggested that Ananda Marga’s case be presented to the United Nations. I suppose that when no one took the initiative, Stan decided to act. Though I understand and of course agree with his sentiment, his strategy is wrong and horrifying.”

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After completing the interview, I set out for the station. Lulea is in the far north of Sweden, an overnight train journey to Stockholm. When I reached my office this morning, Karan greeted me, “Dadaji, a big article together with a photo has already appeared on the front page of the Lulea paper. The phone is ringing off the hook with reporters— they’re impatient to meet you.”

“There’s no time for that yet.” Throwing my overcoat on the chair, I sat down at the phone to begin the work of trying to—trying to what? save a life? Yes…but surely life or death was in Baba’s hands, not mine. “Alright, Lord, use me as You see fit,” I thought.

An hour later 1 was at the office of the United Nations.

“This is a totally unprecedented affair,” said the chief representative, Mr Johanson, a typically polite and self-composed Swede. “How can you expect the Swedish nation to agree to present the case of a convicted murderer to the United Nations because of a suicide threat? It will be better that you convince Mr Eklof of the futility of his undertaking.”

“I don’t think he’ll back down, sir. It is his nature. He’s totally sincere and ready to sacrifice everything for what he believes in.”

“I understand. But you are asking for something impossible.”

“I’m not asking for anything, sir. This is Stan’s demand, not mine. I’m simply concerned that you understand his determination. I don’t want him to die a needless death. You have the power to rescue him.”

“Sweden cannot condone an act which boils down to terrorism— albeit in this case the victim and the terrorist are one and the same.”

“I don’t agree with his tactics either, but his purpose is not destruction of the state or any other kind of violence. He only wants justice; that the case of a great and persecuted humanist be rationally presented to a global peace-making organization.”

“But his method…”

“Sir, can’t you at least discuss the matter with your staff?”

“Discussion itself is not impossible… But at the same time you must try to contact Mr Eklof and persuade him not to immolate himself.”

“It goes without question that I’ll do everything I can to stop him. But I know him too well, so I have more hope in your efforts. By the way, you know I don’t have his phone number…”

“I’ll make a formal request to two or three leading radio stations to repeatedly air your request for Mr Eklof to call you,” he said.

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We fixed an appointment to meet again the next day.

This evening all three stations frequently announced: “This is an urgent message for Stan Eklof, the man in hiding who has threatened to immolate himself if the case of his convicted Indian guru, PR Sarkar, is not presented by the Swedish nation to the United Nations: Mr Eklof please telephone your headquarters in Stockholm immediately.”

Next day. Suresh called this morning. “Where

are you?” “I can’t say, Dadaji.”

“It’s a wonder that nobody’s recognized you. Your photo was shown on TV.”

“Ha, ha! I guessed no one would notice me.”

I told him about the inflexibility of the United Nations’ representative. Then I requested him to compromise, to give the authorities more time and to return to press his demand in a respectful manner.

“Sorry, Dadaji. I’m committed to this path.”

“But…”

“Let His will be done! I’m more than ready to die if it’s needed. Rather I’m expecting to die.”

I continued trying to convince him to alter his stand, but it was no use.

“Alright, Suresh. I understand your position. I’ll try my best to persuade the UN people.”

“Don’t worry, Dadaji. Everything is Baba. It’s all His drama.” I asked him

to call me regularly, and hung up.

This afternoon I met again with Johanson. “Did Mr Eklof agree to give up his desperate gamble?” I told him of Suresh’s unyielding attitude, then added, “And from your side, Mr Johanson, is there any news?” “Well…I…you see…”

“I understand. You did not even talk about it with your staff, right?” “Not exactly…”

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“Mr Johanson, very little time remains. If Stan kills himself due to our negligence, we won’t be able to sleep peacefully for the rest of our lives.”

“But he has no right to try to force the government’s hand like this!” Was Johanson losing a bit of that typical Swede imperturbability?

“At least you can try to discuss it with your staff. I’ve been trying. What about you? Besides, who can say what’s really proper and improper in this immoral world? You cannot imagine the extreme suffering of Mr Sarkar and our hundreds of workers who are inside of abominable Indian prisons. And all completely unjust.”

“That’s not the point! Mr Eklof is trying to blackmail us.”

“Perhaps the term is correct. If so, it’s a minuscule crime compared with what the Indian government has been doing to us. Anyway, let’s leave this aside. Our task is to overcome this impasse. Please, I’m begging you to at least discuss it with your staff. Can you do that, Mr Johanson?”

He paused. “Alright…I’ll do it…How many days do we have left?” “Four.” In fact five days remained, but I thought it better to keep an extra day in my hand.

We agreed to meet again the next day.

This evening Karan spoke with Suresh’s parents. They are sick with worry. We invited Mr Eklof to accompany us to tomorrow’s meeting.

Next day. “I have an offer to make,” said Johanson. “Please tell Stan that if he calls off his threat to self-immolate, then we are prepared to discuss with him the possibility of presenting Mr Sarkar’s case to the United Nations. Of course there are many complex details that need to be clarified before we can make a final decision as to whether or not it fits the protocol of the UN.”

“I understand you.” I said, “and appreciate your proposition…”

“Good—it’s the most we can do…”

“…but unfortunately I doubt Stan will accept it.”

There was an uneasy pause. Then Suresh’s gray-haired father started speaking in Swedish to Johanson. Karan, who had until now been translating for Mr Eklof, now translated for me. “He says that it’s a fine proposal, and surely Stan will have to reconcile himself to the fact that

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the Swedish government is stretching its rules to the limit on his behalf. He’s very thankful to Mr Johanson.”

“I agree with you, Mr Eklof,” I said. “What both of you say is rational and correct. But, please excuse me for saying this, Stan is prepared to immolate himself for this issue. He is certain to want something definite before relenting.”

“He must understand this is the absolute maximum the government can offer,” Johanson said. “Now his fate rests with you, Dada. You have to convince him.”

I shrugged my shoulders and sighed, saying, “I’ll do my best.”

After leaving the UN office, we took a taxi together with Suresh’s father. On the way, he suddenly exploded. “Who’s side are you on?” he yelled. “I think you prefer my son’s death to the reasonable option given by Johanson! You are the cause of all this horror! You don’t really care about Stan!” He went on screaming similar things, giving me no chance to reply, until at last he broke down weeping into his hands.

Karan and I grimaced in pain. He gently rubbed Mr Eklof s back. We drove in silence, except for the sound of the old man’s sobs.

The taxi arrived at his house. Just before he got out, I said, “Please believe me, Mr Eklof. I love Stan deeply.”

Mr Eklof s face showed exhaustion. He gave a weak smile, turned and walked toward his house.

I felt awful. I felt so bad for Mr Eklof that I had physical pain in my heart.

Later Suresh called again. “You people are working so hard. And I’m here in hiding, carefree and enjoying my meditation. Dadaji, I hope these days are not too tiring for you all. Rest assured that I’m happy, happier than ever.”

“But you know, Suresh, if you don’t accept the government’s offer, you may be doomed. They insist this is the limit.”

“I understand, Dadaji. I expected it might be like this from the moment / first announced my resolution. If I die, it will provide just the right sort of shock to humanity.”

“Suresh, you can do infinitely more for humanity if you go on living and serving.”

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“I don’t know, Dadaji, and I don’t care. I feel deeply that I’m doing exactly what Baba wants. I’m receiving His immeasurable grace every moment. The entire cosmos seems to be His smile, especially when I do meditation. So I have no doubt.”

“If you think like that, then what are we to do?”

“What you are already doing is perfect. Please continue your efforts, unattached to their results. In the end it will happen according to His whim.”

“Suresh…”

“I know it’s harder for you all than for me, but I shall accept no compromise.”

Next day. “Damn it,” said Johanson, “he’s asking for the impossible.”

“I know,” I said. “He’s fully prepared to die.”

“Can’t you provide any further lead as to where Eklof might be? Our investigators say they’ve already checked every imaginable link, and nothing remains except to search every house in the country.”

“No. No further clue. And I already told you that finding him is immaterial. Wherever you might keep him, however you try to restrain him, you’ll never dissuade him from his resolution. I tell you, there’s no other way. The only real solution is for Sweden to present Mr Sarkar’s case to the United Nations.”

He didn’t reply. We sat in silence for one or two minutes.

“Sir, that’s enough for this morning. If possible, please be in your office this afternoon, as I may need to call you.”

Johanson did call this afternoon, and completely astonished me.

After hanging up, I waited impatiently for Suresh to phone. Thirty minutes later the phone rang. It was him.

“The Swedish government’s decided to put Baba’s case to the UN!” I blurted out. “Can you believe it, Suresh? Congratulations!”

“Tato Baba, tato dharma. Tato dharma, tato jaya,” he said quietly and calmly. “Where there is Baba, there is righteousness. And where there is righteousness, there is victory.”

“I want to see you as soon as possible, Suresh. We should meet Mr Johanson also. Which is closer for you—our office or the UN office?”

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“I can meet you in the lobby of the UN office,” he said. “It’s only a few minutes walk from where I am now.”

“You crafty fellow! Exactly where have you been staying?”

“In the apartment of an old friend. By ‘old’ I mean he’s more than 80 years old. And he never reads the newspaper or listens to the radio news. I told him my house is being painted. Ha, ha!”

Before I left, Karan called Suresh’s father. When he heard the news, he burst out, “Oh, thank God! Thank God!” He cried a bit, and then said, “Please accept my apology for what I said in the taxi yesterday. Without your efforts I think my son would have died.”

After waiting for ten minutes or so in the UN office lobby, I began to feel a bit nervous. Suresh should have arrived before me.

Another man had also been standing there for a long time. Might he have seen Suresh? I approached him. He smiled.

“For God’s sake, it’s you, Suresh!”

He ripped off his false mustache, took off his bogus spectacles, and burst out laughing. We embraced each other, weeping like babies.

His invisible hand

Oslo. Talk about no experience. It’s one thing to start a food cooperative; but it’s an entirely different ball game to open a public printing press without the slightest knowledge. There lies the faith of the devotees. Bhagirath and Arjuna are confident that their enterprise will be successful. Isn’t it wonderful that all of our projects offer on-the-job training? And most of them do so without any trainer! Unless you count the Supreme Trainer.

Copenhagen. Soup kitchen opened for poor people.

Stockholm. Service projects are multiplying like rabbits. Today Akashi opened a health-food cooperative. It has an atmosphere that could be created only by such a refined lady.

I haven’t physically seen Baba yet. Neither have most of the Margis. Still, I know Him intimately and so do most of the Margis. Part of that

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comes from kiirtan and meditation, but honestly I think that it’s mostly through service that we really get to enjoy His company. I see Baba in my work, in the eyes of the people I meet, in the constant helpful ‘co-incidences’ that occur every day. in the struggles that test me and help me grow. After all. what else do I have? Though He insists on depriving me of His physical presence, I still have the right to demand that He shows Himself to me in my daily life. Of course, I would forego all that in a moment in exchange for letting me just once have His personal contact.

An embassy becomes a guerrilla theater

Copenhagen. Due to the imposition of martial law in India, Baba’s case, which was already a travesty of justice, has turned into an unambiguous farce. Not a single witness from Ananda Marga’s side was permitted to testify. By kangaroo-court. Baba has now been declared guilty of all charges. At first the judge declared the sentence to be the death penalty. Later, fearing Baba might be seen in the same light as Socrates or Christ, he changed his mind, and converted the sentence to life imprisonment. In a way this alteration allows us to feel a certain sort of comfort . 35

My spiritual father is unquestionably suffering while fasting for years in a cell devoid of all conveniences. At the same time, thousands of my Indian brothers and sisters must also be undergoing daily agony in scores of other prisons as they refuse to give up their commitment to Ananda Marga’s cause . 36

In the face of this horror, however, I remain calm, even inspired. Though it may seem heartless, I’m convinced Baba is causing the whole drama to take place according to His plan. Sometimes great suffering is necessary though it is difficult to accept and even more difficult to live through. Despite the horror, despite the difficulties, I have faith that everything will turn out for the best.

Rather than give into despair or anger, it is far better to keep a cool mind, and actively protest the conditions in order to help the public

35 A few years later, both hands of this judge became permanently paralyzed.

36 Two years later a book was published entitled Tales of Torture, which documented scores of cases of Dadas, Didis and Margis who were severely tormented physically and mentally by the jail officers. The twenty-two months of emergency in India were notorious for innumerable human rights violations.

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to become more conscious. For Margis, the norm these days are public demonstrations, letter-writing campaigns, and meetings with influential figures throughout the world. Even though respected and sometimes famous individuals and organizations have investigated our cases, and have objected in detail to the flagrant injustices taking place, the Indian authorities remain unaffected. The Canadian representative of the International Commission of Jurists made a lengthy report spelling out how appalled he is by the bias against Ananda Marga. And a high-ranking Queen’s Counsel from England pointed out over 200 loopholes in the prosecution’s position in Baba’s case. We have unquestionable evidence that the Foreign Office in Delhi sent several anti-Ananda Marga information packets to Indian ambassadors and embassy staffs of the world. The embassies have been instructed to distribute these packets to government officials in their respective countries so that Ananda Marga’s development may be impeded. Accordingly, we continue to protest every way that we can.

Today we had a special meeting.

We informed a reporter of the biggest Danish daily newspaper of our intentions. Seven of us gathered this morning at the Indian embassy. The reporter also came, but he refused to come inside with us. He said he would get the news after we came out.

It was chilly weather, so we were all dressed in full length coats. The first Margi entered alone, and began reading an Indian newspaper in the reception room. After a few minutes, a second Margi went inside and studied the visa application forms. Gradually, one by one, the rest of us entered and engaged ourselves in inconspicuous behavior. The usual staff were there, together with a handful of other people.

Then one of us gave the signal. In a flash, we all jumped up, pulled signs from under our coats and launched into a long series of chants, like “Out with martial law!”, “Arrest Indira Gandhi!”, “Free Baba now!’’, “Release political prisoners!”, “Ananda Marga demands justice!” and so on.

The staff was shocked. The lady employees began screaming at the top of their lungs. Some dove under tables. Clearly they thought they were under some sort of attack — perhaps that our continuous chants were the prelude to a spray of machine gun bullets or something. They screamed non-stop. I was really sorry for them, but I knew they would

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recover within a few minutes. Well, to be honest, while one side of my brain was in pain, feeling compassion for these hapless souls, the other side, excuse me for saying, felt like laughing. I wonder if God often feels something similar when He views our melodramas.

In the midst of this, the Indian ambassador himself appeared at the top of the stairs. I feared for his eyes which looked like they might dislodge themselves from their sockets. Before that could happen, however, he and two or three of his aids galloped down the stairs and with a roar, started raining their fists on our innocent bodies. One of the Margis deftly pulled out a camera, and snapped it again and again. When their attack failed to stop our parade, the ambassador flew into a rage at our camera-man, and tried his level best to expose the film by seizing the camera and throwing it to the floor. Though we were quite civil, I should even say polite (considering his discourtesy) in fulfilling our task, he pushed Kunti toward the door, utilizing every drop of the adrenaline which was pumping through his bloodstream. Perhaps worrying that some harm might be done to the door, a male staff member opened it, and the ambassador succeeded in tossing Kunti out. The reporter was standing there. Catching just the right moment, he snapped a photo.

I am sure that the ambassador must have rejoiced to see the photo on the front page of the newspaper this evening. His face wore a frozen vicious scowl while he was thrusting Kunti onto the sidewalk. Of course, she had on her best expression of childlike astonishment at his uncouth behavior. The article was perfect, nicely detailing the injustice perpetrated by the Indian government on Baba and Ananda Marga.

One day when the unscrupulous Gandhi regime has its downfall, the embassy staff may even feel thankful to us.

Fate twisting

Verona, Italy. All the Dadas and Didis of Berlin Sector are gathered here for several days of meetings. A visitor is also here: my father. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I left home over four years ago. These past few days we’ve taken every chance we could to get away from the others and talk.

Today I initiated him into meditation. We were sitting on a blanket, under a bright sky, getting ready to begin when he started laughing.

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“What makes you laugh in this serious moment?”

He swallowed his mirth and said. “I’m sorry, sonny boy. But the irony is too much. In all truth, I admit I came here to convince you to give up this life, and return to America. But here I am, perched like a holy Hindu, about to acquire the esoteric knowledge from you. I thought I would convince you, but instead, you’ve convinced me.”

Scandinavian zeal

1977. During this period I have been initiating up to 200 persons monthly. An immense amount of new service projects also started, including three free kitchens, a touring art exhibit, a touring drama group, yoga classes in three prisons, two kindergartens, a herb farm, and regular publication of two magazines.

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CHAPTER 8

Personal Contact

Indira and her emergency both finish

March 1977. Indira Gandhi’s “emergency” in India ended today! She over¬ estimated her popularity. She permitted elections to be held and lost by the biggest landslide in Indian history, receiving only a few percent of the vote. Already reports are coming in that all our workers and Margis are being released from jail because Ananda Marga is legal again. They tried to crush us, but our movement has only been strengthened through facing and overcoming their persecution.

Now it only remains for Baba and a few specially accused workers to be released. With the new Janata Party government in power I am hopeful that their cases will soon come up for appeal.

I remember something very interesting. Over two years ago, Baba issued a warning from prison: “After six months a crisis will occur in India. All Margi families should store sufficient cereals and basic necessities to weather a period of two years.”

At the time we all thought He meant an earthquake or war was coming. Six months later Indira Gandhi announced the emergency, and most of the fathers in Margi households throughout India were thrown in jail. The Margi mothers and children were left to fend for themselves. Thanks to Baba’s warning, however, most of them had stored sufficient food for this period, which turned out to last for nearly two years. 37

37 Another story was later told by Brij Bihari through Dada Pranavatmakananda. It happened in 1971, when Brij was Baba’s attendant during the short time that Baba was in the hospital. Whileentering thebathroom, with thedoor still half open, Baba

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Reykjavik, Iceland. Rainjan and Vimala have opened a health food cooperative. This country hardly knows the expression “health food”, and our shop is the first of its kind. Nevertheless, even on its first day, the shop was already full of customers.

The bones of the immoralists will shake

Patna, India. This is now the third time that I’ve been to India since becoming an acharya. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of Margis have visited Baba in Bankipur Prison. 38 Only five or six Dadas from around the world, including me, are on a special prison black-list which does not permit us to enter His cell. Though I’ve applied many times for visiting privileges, the prison authorities always refuse. Twice I’ve met with the prison superintendent, only to receive the same reply.

For some reason we select few are considered dangerous. It’s surely due to the misinformation that commonly fills secret police files. One of our Norwegian Margis was able to gain access to Interpol’s files through the help of a relative who works in Norway’s undercover agent section. When he checked my name he found numerous false statements, including one declaring that I am sending $5000 every month by bank transfer to a revolutionary fund in America. The fact is that I’ve never sent even one penny to America.

Today I decided to appeal directly to the Governor of the State of Bihar. When I arrived at the State Office, I explained that I was a Margi seeking an interview with the Governor.

“The Governor is now out,” the receptionist said, “but I’ll see if you can meet the Vice-Governor.”

She left and came back after a few minutes.

“I’m sorry. Sir. The Vice-Governor is too busy today.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“It won’t be possible,” she said.

nonchalantly said, " I n 1975 our organization will face a severe crisis. Even if you travel miles and miles, you will not meet anyone who will admit to being a M argi. It will be one of the most testing periods of the M arga.’ 1 Without further comment He closed the door. Brij mentioned the episode to several other workers and M argis then, but no one knew what to make of it. 3a Though Ananda M arga was by now legal and again functioning in India, Baba’s case was still not resolved. The new J anata government ordered the courts to retry all cases decided during Gandhi’s rule of martial law. This process was, of course, taking time.

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“Alright, I can wait a few days. Just set the time.” “I’m sorry, sir. Please don’t mind, but he just doesn’t want to meet you.”

I thanked her and walked out. After waiting outside for fifteen minutes, I walked in again. While the receptionist was diverted by another person, I walked by her unannounced.

Because I moved with seeming confidence through the halls of the building, no one questioned me. Having no idea where his office was, I entered one corridor after another until I finally found the proper door. Several people were sitting on a bench, waiting. I joined them without a word.

A few minutes passed, and then the door opened. Someone came out. Before the door closed, I stood up and walked inside.

It was a big room, decorated in rich aristocratic fashion. The Vice- Governor was sitting alone at his desk.

He was clearly surprised to receive a visitor without prior notification.

“How can I help you, sir?” Perhaps because I was a foreigner his tone was respectful.

“I am sorry to disturb you.” I said softly. “I am a Margi seeking permission to visit my Guru, Shri P.R. Sarkar, who is presently in Bankipur Jail.”

He started shaking slightly.

“You should follow the normal channels with the prison authorities,” he said.

“I have already exhausted those. That’s why I came to you.”

“Only the Governor himself can deal with your case. He’s in Delhi, so you can contact him there, please. Thank you, and good bye.”

“In this situation, sir,” I said, “it is you that should call him. Besides, I have information indicating that you have full power in his absence to take such minor decisions.”

“I cannot tolerate your indiscretions,” he said, trembling a bit more. “I absolutely will not make any such decision on your behalf. So please leave.” He pushed twice or thrice a button on his desk.

“Sir, I remind you of the law of karma,” I said. “For every action there is a resulting reaction. So you should be very careful in your dealings regarding Shri Sarkar.”

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Now he was shaking with abandon. “Get out! Get out!” Though he pushed repeatedly on the button, no one disturbed our pleasant conversation.

“Are you familiar, sir, with Ananda Marga’s philosophy and dynamic social work? I think not, and I believe they demand your attention.”

By now he was unable to think rationally. Rather, he was sweating, shivering and madly swatting the button.

The door opened with a bang. Two men rushed in.

“Grab him! Grab him!” the Vice-Governor yelled.

I was standing still, but they jumped on me like I was wild coyote, each one grasping an arm of my dangerous body.

“Take him out! Take him away!”

In a few minutes the three of us arrived at the nearby police station. I sat down while my two captors talked with the police for a minute and then left.

“You’re under arrest,” a policeman said.

“What’s the charge?”

They talked between themselves. Then the same man, clearly the officer in¬ charge said, “We don’t know.”

“Well, if you can’t tell me, then I’ll just be leaving.” I stood up. “No, please,

sir. Wait. We shortly find out charge.” One man went out the door.

After ten minutes he came back, saying, “You charged with attacking Vice- Governor. "

“That’s unmitigated poppycock.” I know that Indians who are uneducated bow their heads to such language. “I didn’t even touch him. I’m going.” I moved toward the door.

“Wait, please wait, sir!” Again the man ran out.

On returning, he said, “Vice-Governor changed charge to threatening attack.”

“Tommyrot and claptrap,” I said. “I was merely discussing philosophy with him. I can’t waste any more time here.” Again I started to leave.

“Wait, sir! Just a minute, please!” They

talked among themselves.

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The officer in-charge gave me a feeble smile. “Charges dropped, sir. Please no mention anyone.”

Just after returning to our Central Office, I ran into three Margi brothers on their way for a visit with Baba. Without mentioning what had just happened to me, I asked them to please pass my namaskar 39 to Him.

Later, coming out of the jail, they told me their story.

They took the trouble to express my regards to Baba, and on doing so, Baba Himself namaskared with His hands, and then said,

“Hmm. Dharmapala… Just see, just see. Though my boys and my girls are not yet perfectly following 16 Points, the immoralists are afraid of them, and literally shake in fear. 40

“But when my boys and my girls really adhere to 76 Points” He continued, “the bones of the immoralists will shake. You understand?”

He jabbed at His own thigh, smiling broadly, saying, “The very bone will shake.”

Samadhi or not?

Having gone to all possible lengths to gain permission from the authorities to meet Baba, I set upon a new plan, a violent one. This time I was determined that nothing would stop me.

Taking permission from the guards, I entered the office of the prison warden. I was well known to him due to my numerous attempts in the past to gain permission. He politely invited me to be seated. One other man was also sitting there.

“I want to tell you, sir,” I said, “that this week I met the Vice-Gover-nor, and he also refused my request to meet Baba. So I’ve decided that if your response to my last-ditch request is negative, then I shall physically thrust you people aside and enter His cell by brute force.” I knew that Baba’s cell was only a few meters away, and that no locked door stood in-between. Out of respect they never locked the door of His cell.

“Sir, sir, you must not think such things. You know I am deeply sorry that I cannot allow you to enter. I would lose my job. I, too, am a devotee of Baba, so please believe me about my limitations.”

39 Namaskar is a hand gesture which means” I respect the divinity within you with my mind and heart”.

40 16 Points is a summary of the most important practices suggested for all M argis.

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“How can you say you’re devoted to Baba? If it were so, then you wouldn’t be afraid to take such a minor risk. You know my heart is breaking to see Him.”

“We here know all too well about Baba’s power and omniscience. But I am helpless due to my duty.”

“This is just a load of nonsense. I am going to break through now.” I started to get up.

“Wait! You don’t understand our realization of Baba.” He turned to the other man. “Doctor, please tell this gentleman about the experience you had the other day.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Usually, I attend Baba every morning at 11:00. But three days ago I was busy all morning and had to delay my visit until 3:00 in the afternoon. When I approached the cell, I got a shock. Baba was sitting in meditation, but He was not sitting on the cot. He was floating about three feet above it! I couldn’t believe my eyes. All my thoughts disappeared, and I stood there, simply staring at him. How much time passed I don’t know. But I slowly became aware that His face was changing. He had become Lord Shiva! Trembling with fear, I ran back to this office.”

“I can attest that he was shaking like a leaf when he dashed in here that day,” said the warden. “I thought he was having an epileptic fit.”

“Well, I don’t care for your explanations or your experiences,” I said. “If you won’t give me permission to enter Baba’s room, then I shall proceed there in my own way.”

lust as I started to rise again, a third man entered the room. The warden turned to me, saying, “Please! Wait at least a moment while I speak to this officer.”

While the warden was occupied, I closed my eyes. Without the slightest effort I dropped into deep meditation. Losing awareness of surroundings, I saw Baba smiling sweetly. He was holding me in His lap. Stroking my head repeatedly, He said, “My dear Dharmapala. There is a very good reason why I am not allowing you to meet Me … a very good reason.”

I became lost in His smile… His voice… the feeling of His soft hand. The next thing I knew, I heard a voice saying, “He’s in samadhi .” I thought, “Who is that? And who is he talking about?” Gradually I remembered where I was. Ah, it’s the warden speaking … speaking about me, I thought.

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I parted my lips, thinking I would say, “No, I’m not in samadhi” But instead of these words, only incoherent mumbles issued from my mouth. I opened my eyes, and tears fell out.

“Wait until you come into normal mood,” the warden said softly. He looked at me with a new gentleness.

A few moments passed while the warden was speaking to the third man. I stood up, and all three of them clearly became apprehensive— on their guard as to what I would do.

“Please reconsider…” the warden started saying to me.

I cut him off by doing namaskar with my hands, and said in a breaking, feathery voice, “It’s…alright…now.”

Almost simultaneously, all three of them dropped their jaws in surprise. They were speechless as I walked out of the office into the outer courtyard.

There in the sunlight stood Baba’s personal assistant together with another Dada. They knew of my intention to somehow get into Baba’s cell today. On seeing my shining, tearful face, they exclaimed, “You’ve seen Baba!”

I didn’t know whether to say “yes” or “no.”

Transcending drugs

Huskvarna, Sweden. Our first three residents moved into our new rehabilitation project today. They are all drug addicts. The city government has given us a free lease on the building with an understanding that we would establish a halfway-house for drug addicts.

We only accept young men who demonstrate an interest to improve themselves. In that case, it is not overly difficult to cure them. Our staff joins them in practicing meditation to gain inspiration and will-power, vegetarianism and fasting to eliminate body toxins, yoga postures to balance the hormones, and social work to provide a sense of personal value. The system appears sound, but the most important ingredient is loving care. Enforcing external discipline has little worth in itself.

A few years ago one of our workers first demonstrated this process by curing some heroin-addicts in Berlin.

Playing with danger — an unsolved riddle

This is my first visit to Bergen, Norway. Last night I stayed in the flat of a brother named Trond, a friend of a friend. He turned out to be

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a bit ‘different’. It was late when I arrived and he was keen to go to bed, so he showed me a couch where I could sleep. Since I never sleep on a soft bed, I instead arranged my blankets on the floor in the comer of his bedroom.

I was sleeping deeply with a cover pulled over my head when something woke me up.

What is this ? I thought. I felt a pressure on my leg, but could not identify its source. Instantly I regained full alertness. Now I was both curious and anxious.

The pressure was relieved, only to be felt again a moment later on my waist.

The oddest thing! I thought. Is it that fellow up to no good? Then, the pressure still against my waist, a second unstable pressure came directly on top of my body.

There’s no mistaking it—surely it’s a person. At first he was walking around me, and now he’s walking on top of me! Whoever it was must not have been expecting anybody to be lying on the floor.

Though it may be my host simply sleep-walking, I thought, it’s more likely a thief moving in the dark. He took another step, this time on my shoulder. I lay there, unmoving, and thought out a quick plan.

Now! I thought, my heartbeat quickening. Quick as a flash, I sat up. simultaneously thrusting the blanket off.

“Uhh!” he exclaimed, clearly shocked that he had been walking on a person. He bucked off of me. I saw his eyes widen in fright as he ran toward the door. Without losing a second, I grabbed my pocket knife from my nearby shoulder bag and dashed after him into the adjacent room.

Our scuffle created quite a noise. My host sat up in his bed. “Hey! What’s this? What’re you doing?”

Instead of replying, I shouted to the thief in the most threatening tone I could muster, “Come out! I know you’re here!” I couldn’t see anyone in the darkness.

“What?” Trond yelled. “Who is it?”

I turned on the light and looked all around. Nobody. But there were only the two rooms. And there was no way he could have gone out the door of the flat.

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“It’s a thief, or something!” I said to Trond who was still sitting in bed.

Holding the knife tightly in my fist, I threw aside the curtains, the chairs, tables, everything the thief might use for cover. Nothing. Nobody.

I was dumbfounded. By now Trond had come into the room. I told him in detail what had happened.

“Do you have any explanation?” I said.

“No. It’s pretty strange. Maybe you imagined it all.”

“Impossible. After feeling his first step, I was wide awake.”

“Odd…”

“What? Did you ever experience something like this before?” “No, no.

Surely not.”

With nothing further to speak about, we awkwardly went back to our respective sleeping places. A few minutes passed.

“Ah, Dada,” he said softly. “In fact something out of the ordinary did happen to me a few nights ago.”

“Tell me.”

“I was fast asleep when I was awakened by someone pressing my body in different places. I threw my blanket off, and saw someone jump away and run into the other room.”

“But that’s exactly what happened to me!”

“Well…I…I don’t know…”

“What do you think it was?”

“No, no, no…”

“What?”

“No. Nothing to speak about. Let’s go to sleep.” He

refused to talk any more.

This morning, while I was doing meditation, Trond left the house.

After meditation I walked into the second room and looked around. Middle- class conservative furniture…a small orderly collection of books…a few slightly gaudy decorative items…and—wait a moment—I looked at the titles of his books: History of the Occult, Science of Magic, Psychic Power Unleashed, Hitler and the Spear of Destiny, Dictionary of Necromancy, and many more titles referring to the black arts. What kind of a person…?

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Surely the fellow was dabbling in occult power. That might explain last night’s phenomena. The being who walked on me last night was not human, not even physical. That’s why he could disappear when I chased him.

It seems my host may have developed some psychic power, though it’s clear he was not in control of that power. He, too, was affected by it. On one hand he didn’t want to talk about it, but on the other hand he wanted help.

Because he did not confide in me, however, and because I have to leave today, it will have to remain an unsolved riddle—at least for now. I could help him, but only if he asks.

Unfortunately there must be countless other people like him, playing with dangerous powers, hardly knowing what they are doing, learning a few spells and concentration techniques and materializing latent forces from their subconscious minds before they have the morality, purity and mental strength to control themselves. What to do? Nothing, except to continue to develop spiritual and social qualities. At the proper time society will need and demand the expression of such God-centered qualities.

Within or without?

Stockholm. After walking alone this afternoon up a small hill rising above the buildings and highways of the city, I sat in a natural boulder garden. Surrounded by urban chaos, this site offered itself as a Tantric oasis. Inspired, I resolved not to budge a muscle during meditation.

About half an hour later, it began to drizzle.

A test, I thought. / shall not move.

The rain grew stronger, until it became a heavy downpour.

I can change my clothes anytime, I thought, but not my mind.

It lasted five or ten minutes, then stopped completely. Again I became aware of the distant sound of cars creating their usual but eerie cosmic wind tunnel effect in my brain. Otherwise the only other sound was the mournful crowing of nearby birds.

My concentration increased until I was no longer conscious of my wetness.

After some time a new, high pitched sound appeared far away, perhaps a kilometer or so. Was it a dog barking faintly? Then a little

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louder—yes, a dog. Somehow that dog seemed to have something to do with me from the moment I heard it. The barking became still louder. I supposed it was coming toward me.

Even if it attacks me, I won’t stir.

Closer and closer the unfriendly bark came. Why? I could not guess. Then it was on my hill, yelping.

He is going to attack. I don’t care. It’s a test. If I’m hurt or killed, it’s Your problem. Baba.

The dog was now almost on me. His barking was so loud and vicious that it hurt my eardrums. He was so near to my face that I could feel the heat of his breath, and its stink also. I sat bolt upright, unmov-ing. My mind flickered back and forth between the thought of my meditation and that of the dog.

A few seconds later, the noise ceased. A pause. Then I heard his feet, as he turned and walked away from me.

Not allowing myself to wonder how or why it happened, my concentration dived inward. I enjoyed the rest of meditation.

When I opened my eyes I looked at my watch. One hour and twenty minutes. I started to rise to my feet, and, what? How could it be? There wasn’t a drop of rainwater to be seen. Everything was bone dry, including my clothing.

Could it be the rain was a figment of my imagination? And the dog also?

I laughed and walked down the hill.

Orebro, Sweden. Every time I receive a circular, a letter, or, like today, a phone call with news from India, I experience the same feelings. First my heart flutters with hope for a positive verdict, then a sinking feeling comes when I find out that there’s been no real progress. Then the agony of longing for Him increases until it becomes a sharp pain in my heart, my face gets hot and a few sighs escape. Finally, I tell myself that there’s nothing to worry about, that He knows exactly what He’s doing, and that it’s all just a drama with so many ups and downs that it only seems like it will never finish, yet it will in fact one day surely come to a happy ending. Then I mentally prostrate to Him, leave everything to Him, and grimly turn back to His work. After a few minutes I’m back to normal, encouraging others, smiling and working with as much zeal as I can muster.

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Unknown to everyone, my normality also includes a constant dull pressure at the back of my skull and in the core of my heart where I bury my yearning to see Him.

Work while working, meditate while meditating

Stockholm. 1978. A few days ago, Dada Krtashivananda arrived from India, full of news. Subconsciously I prepared myself to go through my usual sequence of hope, disappointment and frustration. This time I never made it past hope. Baba’s case is on a steadily rising list of cases to be heard by the court. Something concrete should happen anytime soon. Even as I write this I still feel that nervous flutter of anticipation in my heart.

He was also full of stories. I’ll mention two of them.

The first happened many years ago during a meeting with the margiis:

BABA: Do you all want to hear the Cosmic Sound?

MARGIIS (about twenty): Yes, yes, Baba!

BABA: Do deep meditation now. (After a few minutes silence Baba asked one Margii) What did you hear?

MARGII: I heard the sound of the A um, Baba.

BABA (pointing to others): And you … and you?

OTHER MARGIIS: Yes, Baba … and I… and I…

(One by one, each Margii says he or she heard the cosmic sound A um.)

BABA (pointing to Krtashivanandaji): And what about you, little boy?

KRTASHIVANANDA: I’m sorry, Baba, I didn’t hear anything special.

BABA: Yes. Now you alone, do dhyana (higher meditation). (After a minute) Well, then?

KRTASHIVANANDA: I’m sorry. Baba. I still could not hear anything.

BABA: I told you to do dhyana. Instead, you are thinking of your missionary work. When doing meditation you should not think of work. Now do meditation again. (After another minute) Hmmm?

KRTASHIVANANDA: Yes, Baba. At last I heard the Aum.

BABA: Just see. Just see.

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The other story began with a meeting in which Baba assured all the workers that He would never allow any of them to starve. He promised they would receive at least one meal daily. So, no need to worry.

Krtashivanandaji wanted to secretly test Baba. During a walking journey which took seven days, he maintained silence. He neither carried any food, nor asked anyone. Once each day, however, a different stranger approached him and asked if he needed food. He accepted without saying anything. This happened every day except once—fasting day.

June. Some real news today: Baba’s case has started. The prosecution is presenting its evidence now. Of course, the defense’s arguments will follow.

I can hardly stop thinking about Baba. My mind rolls uncontrollably between states of expectation, anxiety, awe (of His cosmic strategy), a desperate craving to see Him, and, occasionally, little flashes of fear.

It’s Baba’s problem

I called my higher authority today and told him, “Dada, ten of the eleven full- timers in my region want to go for acharya training.” “Very good.”

“So I am planning to send all of them to acharya training this week.” “All

of them?” “Yes. Why not?”

“Are you crazy? If you empty your region of full-timers, all of the work will collapse. Just send two for now. Then perhaps each month you can send another.”

“Look, if Baba wants to help, there’s an local full-timer training session coming up in July. Besides, I thought our most important work is wholetimer creation.”

“That’s right but…”

“And if I delay in sending some of them, they may lose their inspiration.”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“If any problem comes to the region, it’s Baba’s problem. He has to take care. I am sending all these brothers and sisters for Him.”

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“You idiot! I won’t permit you to send them all at once.”

“Dada, excuse me for asking, but is that your suggestion or is that your order?” I asked.

“Well, of course it is not my order. But you’re absolutely not to do it. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

I knew that he couldn’t give such an order because creating new wholetimers is our first priority. In this case, I am technically free to make my own decision. Certainly he is right from the standpoint of normal logic. Perhaps I am a fool, but it will be a fine Tantric test for Baba to take care of His own work. I’ll send them all to the Sweden acharya training center as quickly as possible.

July. News from Patna: The defense has started presenting their arguments.

Only You know. Baba, what will happen, what You’ve planned. But I’m sure part of Your plan is to make me mad for You.

Timmern, Germany. The only full-timer left in my region is Dhruvadev, who doesn’t want to become an acharya. As expected, my higher authority was furious. Baba, You have to help.

Today, the new Berlin Sector full-timer training session started here. I am the trainer together with another Dada. It’s a one-month program, and the biggest we’ve ever held. Ninety Margiis are attending. Thirty of them are from Scandinavia. Of course, most of the trainees are only here for the experience. Let’s see how many He inspires to become real full-timers.

Free at last!

Today’s news!!!! What news!!!! It’s the happiest day of my life!!!! Baba is released!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After seven years of imprisonment and over five years of fasting, He is vindicated, absolved of guilt.

The true criminal is Indira Gandhi’s administration. By using deceit, bribery, corruption, intimidation, torture, defamation—what to speak of a total ban against Ananda Marga and imprisonment of all Margiis and workers—Mrs Gandhi and her cohorts have tried their best

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to finish off Baba and Ananda Marga but they have failed miserably. History will document all the steps that the forces of Nature will take against the real sinners. We need do nothing against them, nor can we hate them. Though they are full of negativity, they too are unwitting tools of God’s play.

My beautiful Baba. I still have not physically seen Him. They say He’s withered, emaciated—maintained only by His psycho-spiritual power. Now His fast will finish, and He will surely regain His robust constitution. Clouds cannot long overcast the sun.

And I will see Him at last!!! Like Him, I have also waited these seven years.

(Yes, I’ll go to India. But first I have to finish the local full-timer training session which is going perfectly.)

Guidance from afar

Timmern. 8 August. I’ve been tortured by asthma for many nights. Deep within. I don’t mind. It’s an interesting test. But it’s my duty to try to cure it. so I have experimented with many remedies. Yesterday I even began a cure recommended by our local Margii doctor Sukumar in which I must twice daily cleanse my intestines by drinking my urine. I did it yesterday but found it so repulsive that I discontinued it today. Baba Himself would have to instruct me to undergo this treatment before I would take it up again.

Ten days later. A circular arrived from India, highlighting many new points given by Baba. For me, the most interesting one is that He criticizes Indian Prime Minister Moraji Desai’s daily health-habit of drinking his own urine. Desai often openly declares its curative value. Baba, however, says urine is the most crude substance one can ingest.

The circular is dated 9 August. This means He directly caught my thought, “Baba You have to personally instruct me if You want me to resume this cure.” But instead of telling me to resume it. He forbid it.

Of course there’s no way that news of my experiment could have been conveyed to Calcutta.

[Author’s note: About two years later, I had an experience which paralleled the above one. It also happened in Germany:

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“About two weeks ago the Dadas and Didis came from all over the sector for RDS. To break the tension one evening, a few of us went to a movie. Once there, it was certainly our duty to maximally enjoy ourselves, and eliminate the greatest possible tension. Accordingly, we laughed our heads off.

Little did we know that the local district secretary of Ananda Marga was also present in the same theater. The next day he complained to our higher authority that ‘The Dadas’ behavior was unsuitable for acharyas.’

Today a circular came from India with a few new conduct rules from Baba, including: ‘Acharyas must not go to public movie theaters.’

Without going into details. I’m one hundred percent sure that no one reported our pleasurable evening at the movies to India. Considering that the circular was dated the day afterwards, I believe this is yet another instance of Baba’s sticking His adorably ethereal nose into our personal lives. Having an all-knowing guru has both its advantages and disadvantages.”!

Full-timer training ended today. Congratulations. Baba! You inspired ten of the thirty trainees from Scandinavia to become full-tim-ers-exactly filling the gap created when the previous ones left to becoming acharyas.

Another perfect work by the Mystic Sculptor.

Ten for ten! His blessing is clear: He likes, no. He loves this kind of noble risk.

Before leaving for India, I will place all the new full-timers in the field.

Yes: my flight is booked for India, and this time I will see You. Nothing can stop our meeting now….Unless You play some last minute nasty trick. Don’t You dare do that. Baba! Not this time, please.

Having fun with a bad man

Copenhagen. After we finished kiirtan and began group meditation this evening, I felt something evil in the air. Though I had never stood up during group meditation before, today I made an exception. I quietly walked into the front room which serves as our cooperative restaurant and community center. Mainjula was sitting there.

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“Did anything strange happen just now, Mainjula?” I whispered. “No,

Dada…”

“Have you been completely alone?”

“Well, a man came in. He looked around for a couple of minutes, and left just before you came in.” “Who was he?”

“I don’t know his name. He was Indian and has been here a few times before. He has a mustache, and…”

“I know,” I interrupted. “I’ve seen him several times recently. He’s thin, has a sharp chin, and beady eyes which he shifts around as he speaks. He expresses an exaggerated interest in meditation and yoga though he’s never tried to learn.”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“What was he doing just now?”

“Nothing.”

“He must be a very bad man. His very vibration strongly disturbed my meditation. If you ever see him again, please tell me.”

Two days later. This morning I was so late for my Aeroflot flight to Moscow that the plane had to be delayed a few minutes only for me. Who could believe that I would be late for a flight that was taking me directly to Baba. But there was so much to take care of before I left. I had to be either responsible and late, or irresponsible and on-time. Does He always have to make such last minute dramas?

Once they rushed me aboard, the stewardess escorted me directly to my seat.

With all the hurry, I didn’t notice the passenger sitting next to me until I had already put on my seat belt—it was the same Indian man who had disturbed my meditation two days ago. I was astonished, but immediately understood the connection. Surely he was a member of the CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation in India) with instructions to follow me. How could he be foolish enough to reserve a seat next to mine?

D amn, I thought. Is this yet another of Baba’s tricks to keep me from seeing Him?

“Nice to see you again,” he said with a derisive smirk on his face.

“Where are you going?” I asked politely.

“To Dethi, of course.”

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“What takes you to Delhi?”

“To meet my family. And where are you going?” He was still wearing the same arrogant grin. Confident that I was also going to Delhi, he no longer had anything to hide—in contrast to these last days during which he had shadowed me in Copenhagen.

“To Dacca,” I said bluntly, staring at him. The look on his face abruptly turned to bewilderment when he realized that he had miscalculated.

“And though I appreciate your recent concern for my security,” I continued, “I can’t figure out what you hope to find out from me. Nevertheless, you’ll have to excuse me because my curiosity is less than my repulsion for this kind of game.”

I stood up and moved to another seat. Something tells me this man may soon lose his job. But it’s not my duty to look after his security.

Personal contact

Calcutta. Oh, Lord, my heart pounded as I waited for You upstairs in the Jodhpur Park office. Would You be like my dreams? Would You smile as I’d imagined? How would You treat me? What would You say? They said You would come soon-now, what delays You? After waiting seven years, seven minutes was agony.

Thirty workers lined up in the corridor. Some gossiped or hummed a tune. But not a sound could pass my lips; nothing could enter my mind except the thought of You; my heart wept, jumped, ached…

“Parampita Baba ki jai! Victory to Baba!” Suddenly-there You were! Alive. Breathing. Walking towards me. Not a vision or a dream this time. You took over my eyes, my mind. Every muscle, every nerve leaned toward You as You moved down the silent row. Oh, God! That for which I was bom-fulfilled. If, in that moment I had died, and fallen at Your feet I would have been satisfied.

You gave me a passing glance. You saw me. I was stunned. I didn’t need that, but You gave it. Everything which follows in my life will be like toys for an infant already suckling its mother’s breast.

You walked into Your room. The door closed. I remained-a puppet with a head full of sawdust.

Then excitement, voices echoing meajun A essly down the corridor, one sound pierced through the din: ‘Those who have not yet had Per-

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sonal Contact, come here.” I drifted toward Dada Ramananda, Baba’s personal assistant. Only Indian workers and full-timers were around him.

“What, you?” he said to me. “You haven’t had Personal Contact yet?”

“No, Dadaji.”

“All these years?” Without another word he turned sharply, opened Baba’s door, and went in.

Within seconds he reappeared, grabbed my shoulders, and shoved me through the door. “Go in!” I stumbled, and caught myself while the door shut behind me.

I looked up. You sat alone on Your bed, smiling. I threw myself at Your feet, extending my arms until I was an arrow piercing the target.

“Sit up, my boy.” You spoke to me! Was I dreaming? Tears began to flow from my eyes. Oh, what would You say now? I had waited seven years—Baba!

“What is your name, my boy?” What—was this a joke? You knew not only my name, but everything, everything about me, more than I knew about myself.

I smiled and said. “Dharmapala, Baba.” How silly.

“And what is your posting?”

Oh, come to the point. Baba, I thought. Talk to me personally, not like someone You never met!

Again I smiled. “Regional Secretary of Stockholm and Oslo Regions, Baba.”

“Acha. You know you made some mistakes in your past.”

I smiled, saying, “Yes, Baba.” Now, surely You would go into detail about my personal history.

But no. It was not to be. A few minutes passed, some more words about correcting myself, about becoming a model for others. Threatened punishment with Your stick, the stick whistling through the air, and stopping just before touching me. An oath. Formalities—all formalities.

Finished. Again I lay at Your feet, and then left.

I had waited seven years for You to ask me my name and my posting? My heart sank. I am nothing special to Baba, I thought. The blood rushed to my head. Did I only imagine His greatness all these years?

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Dumbfounded. I stood again outside Your door, but this time there was doubt. Doubt—ugly and dark.

But I had little time to brood. Ramanandaji went inside Your room, then came out quickly and said, “Personal Contact is finished today. Get ready for darshan.”

Darshan-to see: a time when all were invited to see You, or be seen by You. We all rushed up to the roof.

Already about 200 people were sitting there. Following no one’s example, I moved to the front, and sat immediately in front of Your sofa.

Why had You talked like that to me? I felt cheated. Okay my work has been for humanity. But it was also to please You. And You didn’t care. I’m just another piece from Your toolbox.

You came and sat down. We danced kiirtan in front of You.

Still I’ll try to please You. Baba.

We danced, we sang, we sat down, and You began speaking.

And then, what? You looked deep within me. Your eyes twinkled. Your lips turned in a smile, You put Your hand to my face. You gently pinched my cheek, saying, “Yes, yes. And what do you say, my little boy?” I was speechless, smiling back. You lightly slapped my face lovingly.

Ecstasy!

I am special to Him! He loves me!

If my smile had been any bigger, my face would have broken.

You went on talking. Glancing at me again and again. And again You pinched me and lightly slapped me.

Though hundreds of others were there, we might as well have been alone. This time You were personal to the extreme. Oh, Baba!

You left. Again I was baffled, but this time it was sweet chaos. Why do You play such games? Clearly You love me. But in the Personal Contact itself. You said nothing interesting, and did nothing memorable. Afterward, only afterward. You were so loving, beyond my imagination. Why?

Slowly I began to understand. Personal Contact is spiritual. Purely spiritual. It doesn’t matter what happens experientially. Experience is not spiritual, it is mental. You did what You wanted during the Personal Contact. It will have exactly the proper unique effect on me, unrelated to either understanding or misunderstanding.

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And I know—You want me to tell others that Personal Contact is purely spiritual. Not to expect anything. You will do only what is necessary to deepen our consciousness, which is beyond any objective phenomena. My head spins. My samskaras rise up, dance, and accelerate to the speed of life.

You—Tantra Gum—You care only for that spirituality.

And You pinched me. You slapped me—why?—just to please me. You already did what You wanted—and then You did what I wanted.

You clever One. I… love … You. 41

His magic stick

It seems that all of history’s great Tantrics had to undergo either great suffering or great austerities. Buddha lived as an ascetic and later fasted for forty days. Krishna was born in jail and persecuted throughout much of his life. Jesus embraced poverty, was tormented throughout the years of his missionary work, and underwent the harshest torture on the cross. 7000 years ago, the first known Tantric guru, Shiva, had the habit of thrashing his leading disciples with a burning stick.

Baba is no different. After seven years in prison, a poisoning that would have killed anyone else, and more than five years of fasting. He has picked up the work of building His mission and running the organization as if He had merely gone out for a walk, and like Shiva He is a fierce disciplinarian.

[Author note: Before I explain about today’s reporting session with Baba, I want to write a little introductory material. Two or three years

41 The diary refers to samskara. For every action there is a reaction. Until the reaction occurs, the unexpressed reaction awaits expression. This unexpressed reaction is termed samskara. Sooner or later it must be expressed. Every thought is also an action, and is like a seed sown in the mind, changing the mind from its original equilibrium. A reaction is needed to return to that equilibrium. When the mind’s balance is disturbed, an opposite expression of an equivalent quantity of energy is thus required. If there is a delay in time,” equivalent quantity’ 1 takes that into account, and often requires a greater suffering or pleasure in order to balance the original disturbance. It is something like interest accrued in a bank account over time. Due to psychic suppression or repression, a person may have difficulty expressing samskaras. One may have mental blocks or fear. This causes a slowing down of spiritual development. Such blocks are to some extent inevitable in every person because of our human weaknesses. Because the very presence of Baba caused a strong stir in everyone’s mind, M argis and workers always experienced an increase in the speed of expression of their samskaras just after seeing Baba. This was especially true when one had personal contact.

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before I joined Ananda Marga, I began reading spiritual books. One of the first was the biography of Milarepa, the most famous Tantric in the history of Tibet. Milarepa’s guru, Marpa, severely tested him even before giving him initiation. The guru alternated between ignoring him, treating him brutally, and making fun of him. Milarepa was ordered to build a house of stones. This back-breaking work took him many months. When he completed it, the guru ridiculed him, and told him to build it again in a different way and in a different spot. This happened six times. Besides treating Milarepa severely, the gum even pre¬ tended to be dmnk. Finally Milarepa’s despair overcame him. Fie left his gum and went to another teacher. A few days later he realized his mistake, returned to his gum, begged forgiveness, and pleaded for the initiation. The gum replied, “If only you had built one more house, your ego would have shmnk to the proper size. You would have burned most of your karma. After initiation you would have achieved liberation within a short time. Now I am forced to give you initiation, but you will have to practice meditation and austerities for many years to get your self-realization.”

For the next years, Milarepa lived in below-freezing conditions without clothing, ate no food except nettle soup, and practiced long meditation in lonely mountain caves. During this time, his gum died. Milarepa persisted until he achieved his goal. Fie then gradually created a large school of disciples. In his later life, though he underwent painful diseases which were said to be beyond the endurance of normal human beings, he was always in a blissful mood.

From that young age I understood the spiritual path gradually demands greater and greater commitment. The goal is reached only if one is prepared to sacrifice everything for God.

Tantric scriptures specify that a hue gum’s relationship with a disciple must swing according to need from strictness and strong punishment to intimacy and affection.

There are similarities to this concept in many traditions having elements of Tantra. Both Chinese and Japanese Zen owe their origins directly to Tantra. One of the most renown Zen masters. Linji Yixuan (in Japanese: Rinzai), who lived in the 9th century, was famous for using anger to awaken his disciples. He said, “Sometimes a shout is like the precious sword of the Diamond King; sometimes a shout is

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like a golden-haired lion that creeps forward in a crouch; sometimes a shout is like a lure stick with a tuft of grass dangling on the end; sometimes a shout is not used as a shout at all.”

Ekido was a particularly severe teacher. His pupils feared him. One of them on duty, striking the gong to tell the time of day. missed his beats when his eye was attracted by a beautiful girl passing the temple gate. At that moment Ekido, who was directly behind him, hit him with a stick and the shock happened to kill him. Ekido’s attitude remained absolutely unchanged by this incident. After this took place, he was able to produce under his guidance more than ten enlightened successors, a very unusual number.

Of course, I do not condone such a killing, and rather consider that it may have been due to Ekido’s carelessness. I simply mention it to demonstrate that harshness from the side of the teacher is a normal technique, and does not necessarily indicate a loss of control. As far as I know. Baba’s punishments never produced any permanent harm.

Yet another example concerns the master Inzan, who showed no distinction to his disciple Gisho on account of her sex. He scolded her like a thunderstorm. He cuffed her to awaken her inner nature. After her enlightenment, Inzan wrote a poem in her honor:

This nun studied thirteen years under my guidance.

In the evening she considered the deepest koans.

In the morning she was wrapped in other koans.

The Chinese nun Tetsuma surpassed all before her.

And since Mujaku none has been so genuine as this Gisho!

Yet there are many more gates for her to pass through.

She should receive still more blows from my iron fist.

Now I turn back to Baba. There are many stories about His reporting sessions, the countless displays of His spiritual power and love, and the punishment He metes out to His workers. A reporting session with Baba is always something extraordinary. For those who never experienced it, no words can adequately describe it. From the organizational standpoint, it serves as an occasion for Baba to examine our work output, and give guidance for improvements. More significantly, it is a time for us to be close to our guru, and for Him to stir into our hearts

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whatever spiritual ingredients we need. Part of His method for doing this involves stimulating different emotions in us, like shame, fear, love, anger, anxiety and compassion. His techniques for doing this change constantly and continuously. All of our work targets are difficult and often impossible, thus giving Baba plenty of opportunity to isolate the real causes for our failures. And those causes are always psychic weaknesses. In one way or another, by subtle indirect methods, He brings out these weaknesses, and then helps us to overcome them.

I want to add something more still about Baba’s incomparable ability to alternatively love and scold us. For this purpose I take the liberty to quote from an article by Dada Sarveshvarananda, a previous General Secretary. He writes:

Baba was as strong as thunder in dealing with evil or immoral actions on the one hand, and as tender as a flower bud in dealing with righteous or moral actions on the other. Actually, I never felt Baba’s anger was in any sense like that of an ordinary person. Usually if someone loses his temper, his blood pressure rises, his face turns red and he loses all mental equilibrium. But Baba was always in control of Himself. He would show anger and displeasure to make us realize our faults and goad us on towards inner and outer perfection. I always felt that He was playing a role with His anger for us because, in the next moment. He could be light-hearted again — laughing and making us laugh…. Truly, we were not so unnerved by His anger as one might expect. Even though that anger blew through us like a devastating storm, we knew that soothing rainfall was sure to follow. The severity of the prolonged reproofs and condemnation we had to face during our reporting sessions, pierced through our minds like arrows and made us completely heartbroken. We would then be hopelessly rejected. But when the reporting was over, He would change completely. He would call us and shower loving caresses and sweet, calming words on us. This love, this affection, was so sublime and touching that all the humiliation, dejection and agonies we were experiencing a moment before were instantly gone. … Baba once said to me, “No matter how high a position a person attains, he or she will always need a strict guardian to answer to for his or her deeds — good or bad — who will give him or her proper guidance in life’s journey. That guardian will

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also be a perennial source of inspiration. That is why I have a responsibility to be very strict in my discipline and duties. But it is not my real nature. My responsibilty compels me, against my wish, to be harsh with you.” Infinite affection was His real nature. What we saw in the way of anger and fury was nothing but a camouflage to an inner ocean of love and affection for all….

Further, here’s a story of Dada Tapeshvarananda:

In 1984 I was a Central worker. During a few days that the General Secretary was absent, I had the duty to give most of the reports to Baba. In the collective sessions. Baba gave me terrible punishment, as if the whole blame of the organization’s defects was mine.

After one punishment I felt so wounded, both physically and mentally, that I wanted to distance myself from Him. I decided I would-not sing Prabhat Samgiit, and that I would do only organizational work, since that was all He seemed to care about.

So that night when Baba returned from fieldwalk, I intentionally avoided Him. and was not there for singing together with everyone else. I heard that Baba asked, “Where is Tapeshvarananda?”

Someone answered, “Baba, he was just here, but maybe he is busy somewhere.”

After eating His dinner. He called me. I could not avoid, and had to go to His room. I did not look at Baba, and kept my eyes down while I answered His questions.

He asked, “How did you like that song I gave yesterday, Tumi amar dhyaner dhyeyol Did you learn it?” I was silent.

“You cannot remember?”

“No, Baba, I did not learn it.”

“Whatever you remember, even one or two lines, you sing.” Then I could not control my tears, and started crying. I said, “Baba, I did not learn the song, I cannot remember any line.” “Why?” I could not reply.

He said. “You see, I understand, you may feel that I only punish you. I only torture you. But you don’t understand that when I am punishing you. my inner intention is not to torture you. but to purify you. You may feel externally that it is torture, that it is humiliation. But spiritual purification comes after suffering, torture and humiliation.

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“The main enemy on the spiritual path is ego, and ego can be powedered only through these three processes of suffering, torture and humiliation. You may feel bad, but you don’t know how happy I am when I see that you are successfully passing all these sufferings and tortures, because bliss and the supreme Ananda comes only after that. Ultimately in the spiritual world, nothing is suffering. There is only you moving toward the spiritual bliss.

“Do you know why I asked you about that song? The last line says, ‘I am weeping. Is that what You want? If that gives You pleasure, then I will go on weeping only for You.”’

So after this big build-up about Baba’s stricness, let’s turn to what really happened today:J

I had heard stories about reporting sessions before Baba, the punishment He metes out to his workers and the countless displays of His spiritual power and love; today I had my first real taste during a session with the education department.

The drama went as follows:

GENERAL SECRETARY [GS]: How many schools were started last month in your region?

RANCHI REGIONAL SECRETARY. Three, Dada.

BABA: Why only three? How many of your diocese secretaries are present here?

REG. SECY.: Four, Baba.

BABA (frowning and squinting): Then why not four schools? Nonsense, rascal. Who is the worker that didn’t start a school?

DIOCESE SECRETARY (stepping forward uneasily): Myself, Baba.

BABA: Is there any justification for such gross inefficiency?

DIO. SECY, (stammering): I try…tried my my best. Baba.

BABA: Tried! Stupid. One does or does not do. To sincerely try is to do. So no need to keep the word try in your dictionary. Ranchi regional secretary, come forward! (The reg. secy, steps in front of Baba.) Due to your inadequate supervision, this jewel-of-a-boy’s potentiality was not fully utilized. Hands up! (The reg. secy, lifts both arms straight up.) Animal! Only eating and sleeping! (Baba hits His stick against his side. The reg. secy, jumps up involuntarily.) Wasting your time and

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misguiding your workers.(Baba beats a him bit more, as the reg. secy, mutters “Baba Baba” and leaps from side to side.)

DIO. SECY, (moving closer to Baba): No, don’t beat him, Baba! It’s my fault.

BABA (pausing with the stick and speaking in a calm, dignified manner): No. it’s not your fault. It is due to your supervisor. (He turns to the reg. secy, and strikes him again.) Idiot, lazy fellow!

REG. SECY, (speaking to the dio. secy.): Say something concrete!

DIO. SECY.: Baba, I’ll start a school within one month.

BABA (hits the reg. secy, again): One month! One month! Do you think that the suffering humanity can wait for such listlessness and lethargy?

DIO. SECY.: One week. Baba! I’ll start the school within one week! BABA (halting with the stick): Did you hear what the boy said, GS? GENERAL SECY: Yes, Baba. He said he will start a school in one week.

BABA (taking out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from His brow): Yes, take a note. If a school is not started within one week, then further measures will be required.

REG. SECY.: Baba, I will properly supervise him.

BABA: Yesss…

Surely most people would be horrified to see such a display of anger and force. But I was full of inspiration. Here was a man-making guru, capable of molding His disciples for the benefit of society.

After leaving the room, the RS joked and laughed, his face suffused with joy, though the marks of the stick were still visible. It made me even more curious to know the inner effect of His stick.

Later I got a chance to ask one senior worker how everyone tolerated Baba’s abuse. He said. “We know from Tantra’s long tradition that the guru has the responsibility to uplift his disciple from animal-life to warrior-life to divine- life. To achieve this, the guru’s behavior will have to fluctuate between extremely bitter and extremely sweet. And it varies for each disciple.

“More importantly. Baba instructed us how to deal with subordinate workers. He said that for every ten parts of strictness we use, we must give at least eleven parts of love. In His case I feel like all the

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strictness He employs cannot compare with His boundless love. Baba’s existence is only for us. He does nothing for Himself. It doesn’t matter if someone else believes I’m right or wrong about Baba, because that’s my daily experience. That’s why no amount of severe punishment can shake my relationship with Him.”

After the Dada left I remembered a story I had heard about Swami Shivananda. One of his disciples once asked him a question, “Guruji, your teaching is beautiful for all of us who are practicing yoga and meditation. Your mission also benefits thousands of sick people who come to our medical clinics. But what about the rest of the human society, the millions and billions who suffer from poverty, ignorance and injustice? Can you not do something for them? Can you not please guide us to help the entire society?”

Shivanandaji answered, “We must only help the rest of suffering humanity indirectly. To serve them directly would require a vast organization which would crumble under its own weight. My workers would quarrel with each other and destroy whatever was created. No, I am not the man to do that work.”

I believe that Baba’s greatest contribution to history is the creation of a Tantric organization to serve the entire human society, an organization based on renunciate workers. Because renunciates prefer to live outside of normal social disciplines, the subtlest psychology is required in training us. More importantly, we have to overcome our petty differences. We have to move together as one great family. For this purpose. Baba belittles our egos by chastising us, and encourages our souls to unfold by loving us.

Awakening latent qualities

I did not have to wait long for my own personal experience. Today I, too, felt the touch of His stick. BABA: What is your post?

ME: Regional Secretary, Stockholm and Oslo Regions, Baba.

BABA: How many new kindergartens or primary schools did you open in the last one month?

ME (feeling very proud): Two kindergartens. Baba.

BABA: And in that same period how many permanent welfare centers did you start?

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ME: Ah, none. Baba.

BABA: Do you think the number is adequate? ME:

No, Baba.

BABA: Are you proud of your work? ME:

No, Baba.

BABA: Should we all praise you? ME: No,

Baba. You should punish me.

BABA: Yes, you deserve punishment. Hands up! (I raise my hands. Baba strikes me on my right side. I am surprised by the intensity of the pain and jump slightly.) Are you properly utilizing your time as a worker?

ME: No, Baba. (As He goes on hitting, I involuntarily think. Baba loves me. He is doing this only because He cares for me. Both my mind and body settle down as I look into His eyes. Instead of reflecting anger, those eyes are compassionate.) I will do better, Baba, much better.

BABA: What does he say, GS?

GENERAL SECRETARY: He says he will do much better. Baba. BABA (switching over to hitting me on my left side): This reply is not sufficient.

ME (Though the pain is real, I feel my mind diving deeper into Him.): I shall work every second of every minute, Baba. (More blows) I will not think for my own petty self. I will become an ideal man.

BABA (turning the edges of His mouth upward, His cheeks dimpling): GS, he does want to be a good boy. Yes. (Waving His stick toward the side of the room) Go, stand there on the side.

I went and joined the Dadas who had already received treatment. Amazingly, the intense pain was almost completely gone. Rather, I was feeling overwhelmed with the strong desire to serve humanity to my utmost capacity. And my affection for Baba was so strong that it seemed to be physically pressing out against my breast.

Right, not wrong

Mahindra used to serve as one of Baba’s bodyguards. When he heard that I had just begun to experience the stick, he told me a story from the time that Baba was in jail:

My old friend, Awadhanath Prasad begged me to arrange a meeting with Baba. He told me he had done something bad with a lady who

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worked in fields under his supervision. He had committed other sins too.

When we entered His cell, Baba immediately yelled at Awadha- nath, “Why did you come? Animal, pig!”

“I came due to Mahindra.”

“Mahindra, why did you bring this nasty boy?”

“Baba, please help him.”

“Bring me my stick.”

I looked around cell but I couldn’t find Baba’s stick, so I borrowed the constable’s and gave it to Baba. Right there in front of prison guards, Baba beat Awadhanath. Then He told him to rub his nose on floor, which he did until it bled.

Afterward, when we went outside, the CID [Central Intelligence Department! wanted Awadhanath to file a case against Baba for beat-ing him but he refused. “He is my guru! What He did was right, not wrong!”

After that he became a completely pure and exemplary man. He now spends all his spare time doing social service.

Power comes from difficulties

Margiis and workers are present from all over the world. Just think! When Baba was arrested in December, 1971, there were Margiis in only five countries. Now, seven years later, Ananda Marga is active in over eighty countries.

The Tantric guru and his disciples always gain power from their difficulties. Every effort made by the Gandhi regime to destroy Ananda Marga eventually resulted in strengthening our mission.

This reminds me of two statements Baba made while still in prison. The first was during the emergency rule, when He was convicted by a kangaroo court and sentenced to life imprisonment. In that seemingly darkest of moments. He turned to His attorney, smiled, and wrote on His message board: “Now the tables will turn.” 42 Soon after, Indira Gandhi lost her power, and our workers and Baba were vindicated.

The other occurred at the end of the emergency, when the ban against Ananda Marga was lifted and our workers were released from

42 For many months during His imprisonment, due to the after-effects of his poisoning, Baba was unable to speak; H e communicated by writing.

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jail. Many of them had undergone great suffering. This was especially true of those who the authorities had physically and psychically punished in an effort to obtain written denunciations of Ananda Marga. Baba’s comment at that time was “The workers have passed through the blazing crucible. Their iron has been forged into steel. Previously they (Gandhi and others) believed Ananda Marga to be a dangerous baby snake. Now, thanks to them, it has become a fully grown snake.”

Stockholm. After working as the Scandinavian regional secretary for nearly three years, I have now been transferred. My posting is to a section which previously did not exist outside of India: Volunteers Service Department or SD. Today I begin my duties as the European Chief Secretary of SD. The programs of SD include physical social services for the needy, survival training, security, relevant higher philosophy, and training in basic service-skills such as first aid. Among the means for providing this training are weekend SD camps, which also encourage collective discipline and unity through group exercises. In addi¬ tion to all of this is a sub-section called Spiritualists’ Sports and Adventures Club.

I think I’m going to enjoy this new job.

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CHAPTER 9

Kapalika Meditation

Avadhuta

Calcutta. Today I was informed that Baba is considering my application to become an avadhuta. 43 What is the meaning of avadhuta! Ancient scriptures give the following differing descriptions:

• Avadhutas and avadhutikas have given up lust for worldly things; their speech is simple and straightforward, and they always live in the present.

• Though their bodies may be smeared with dust, their minds are always pure. Even if they do not care much for meditation or concentration, they are always in the state of Cosmic Thought.

43 Since becoming acharya, I had been working as a brahmacarii, i.e. a monk who teaches the six basic lessons of meditation. I had not yet learned a higher Tantric meditation, called kapalika , which is taught only by Baba directly. This meditation is performed in a graveyard or cremation ground between the hours of midnight and 3:00 AM , at least once monthly during the time of the new moon. The eerie, death-shrouded atmosphere helps to manifest one’s latent fears and baser instincts while the lonely silence encourages deep concentration. By this practice, the aspirant rapidly gains control over the lower self. At this time, Baba also gives the initiation which follows the brahmacarii stage, called avadhuta (or avadhutika for Didis). In Ananda M arga, the brahmacarii wears an orange shirt, orange turban, and a white lungi (sarong) or pants, while the avadhuta wears an orange turban, orange shirt and orange lungi. The uniform is a compromise with the pressing need of modern society for such workers: historically an avadhuta was a naked yogi covered only by ashes, unattached to pleasure and pain, and rarely, if ever, was seen in society.

In India, the word Kapalika is much misunderstood. M any people believe it refers to black- magic left-hand Tantrics who appear totally wild: drinking wine, eating human flesh, engaging in sexual rituals, and so on. It is nothing other than an injustice to the Tantric tradition when people act in thisway and claim to bekapalikas.

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• They have given up thoughts concerned with solid, liquid, luminous, aerial or ethereal factors. They do not fear death, nor are they controlled by the darkness of ego.

• They are free from all worldly fetters. Their lives are pure from beginning, middle, to end. They always remain in the state of bliss.

• They have no attachment, even for such qualities as patience and courage. They worship neither Shiva (Consciousness) nor Shakta (Primal Energy), but remain absorbed in the ideation of Brahma (infinite God), like a second Maheshvara (a name of Shiva, father of Tantra).

During the seven years of Baba’s imprisonment no worker became avadhuta because the initiation required privacy. Furthermore, in the seven thousand years since Shiva founded the Tantric cult no non-Asian has learned the kapalika practice. Thus something special, something new, is in the works.

The test

Four of the candidates being considered by Ftim are non-Indian. He called us individually into His room. We were told that He would test our readiness for the kapalika training.

It was different than any test I’ve undergone. I’ll explain only part of it.

He called me first. As with Personal Contact, I was alone with Him. But whereas before He sat in a comfortable unassuming posture, this time He was erect, permeated by an intense transcendentality (how else to describe that mood?). As He spoke, the images He described became as real as the room itself.

“You are in the cremation ground in the dead of the night…” He said, a fire burning in His eyes, “everything hides behind a blanket of darkness … vultures flap their wings… a muggy breeze shivers your spine… from some unknown comer echoes ‘hooot… hooot… hooot’—will you be afraid?”

“No, Baba.”

“Very good,” He brought His solemn face close to mine. “And if you plunge deep, deep down into silence … only leaves minutely rustling in the breath of shadows … your heart beats slowly … slowly … slowly … when suddenly! what hey? scores of faces, nay, skulls are all upon you! raining like arrows on your head! scowling, grating their teeth, hissing, wailing!—will you be afraid?”

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“No, Baba.”

“Very good. But, then, how will my boy react if I tell him to take off his clothes and move in the streets without inhibition? Will he do it?” “Yes, Baba.”

“Then, go and do it. Now.”

Immediately without a flick of hesitation, I stood up and started for the door. As my hand reached the door handle. He said, “Stop!” I turned and faced Him.

“Very good. Very good. Now tell me … how many blades are in that fan?”

In that moment nothing could have been more strange than such a common question! I looked up at the ceiling-fan—the blades turned lazily, barely merging into each other. I tried to count them.

“I think…there maybe three. Baba.”

“You think, or you know?”

“I…I…think, Baba.”

“The answer is wrong. You should have said. Baba, may I turn the fan off so that I can properly count the blades?’”

I laughed, while He smiled broadly. The “test” was finished.

He placed His hand on my head, then I embraced Him, and reluctantly left, an extraordinary energy vibrating through every vertebrae of my spine.

Next day. We four were given the thick “Senior Acharya Diary” today and told to copy it. After doing so, we must pass the senior acharya exam, another prerequisite before receiving kapalika initiation. For various reasons the time is short, so there’s no time for sleep until the copying is finished. Then we will have to cram for the exam.

Two days later. It was 4:00 a.m., and we were immersed in the endless copying. Dada J dropped his pen, and still mindlessly went on writing with his finger. A little later when he fell off his chair, his shocked expression made us split our sides laughing.

Two days later. I am in the biggest hurry, because I, alone among the four, must attend a workers’ meeting in Delhi on the 11th. Before that I must pass the exam, which covers not only the material in the

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diary (which I finally finished copying today), but also all the material in Baba’s book Yogic Treatment, and advanced spiritual and social philosophy. I started taking the test today, but the examiner failed me right away because I had not memorized any of the Sanskrit shlokas in the diary. There are forty shlokas, each having at least four lines. I wonder how I can manage it.

Next day. So far I have only been able to memorize seven shlokas. So I failed again. My mind seems blocked. Perhaps it’s due to exhaustion.

Next day. This morning my mind inexplicably shifted into cosmic gear. Within forty minutes I had memorized the remaining thirty-three shlokas. I was amazed, having never before experienced this sort of phenomenal mental power.

The examiner, however, didn’t seem surprised. After passing me on the shlokas, he went on to the other subjects, and one by one I passed them.

In the evening. Dada Tadbhavananda (a senior worker) who was scheduled to fly with me to Delhi came to the room and spoke to the examiner.

“You’ve got to pass this boy quickly or we’ll miss our flight.”

“Don’t try to pressure me,” said the examiner nonchalantly. “Now finally let’s turn to C aryacarya. " u

“What!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know we’d be examined on Caryacarya. How about just forgetting it, Dadaji?” I hadn’t studied the book at all.

“I won’t make exceptions for anyone.”

Suddenly the electricity went out.

“Someone find some candles,” the examiner said.

We all searched around, but couldn’t find any.

“Hey, you’ve got to pass him now!” said Tadbhavanandaji to the examiner.

“Nothing doing.”

A few minutes passed, and still no candle appeared. “For God’s sake,” yelled Tadbhavanandaji, “we’ve got to leave this minute for the airport!”

44 Caryacarya isa book on social and spiritual functions

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“Alright…” said the examiner, grudgingly. “Give me your diary.”

I gave him the book and heard him scratch his signature in the dark.

A few seconds later the electricity came on again, just as suddenly as it had gone out. Our eyes blinked in the bright light.

" Victory to Baba!” roared Tadbhavanandaji. “Baba’s grace. The taxi’s waiting!”

Yes, it was a novel sort of grace that made the lights fail instead of me.

A special kind of attention

Delhi. Although it was only two months since I last saw Baba, it seemed like two eons. I had an extreme desire to see Him again. Because there were only about fifteen persons this morning when He walked into the room to give His talk, it seemed almost a private audience.

He sat in the chair which was immediately in front of me. We all sat on the floor looking up at Him expectantly. He gazed at each of us before speaking, with one exception: me.

B aba, look at me, I thought. But He did not.

Instead He started speaking. Usually while speaking He rarely looks at anyone. But this morning He smilingly turned His face right and left, melting each heart with His affectionate and highly personal glances.

But He didn’t look at me.

Why? I thought. Did I do something wrong?

Although He spoke in English, I was so perturbed by His behavior that I couldn’t understand a single word. His tender, doe-like eyes rested momentarily on each and every face, but when He turned His gaze toward the center, He either lowered or raised His eyes just when He was about to look at me.

I Ve done some horrible sin, I thought. The anxiety made my head warm.

Perhaps… perhaps it was those harsh words to my office secretary? No, no—that wasn’t very serious. Perhaps it was because I ate sweets unnecessarily? Ah, but He hardly cares for that…

It went on and on: everyone thrilling to the play of His eyes, His refusing to look at me, and my speculations continuing to bubble, heating my spine, tensing my body. What great offense had I committed in these last two months? My thoughts tripped over each other, trying to find the answer. Though the air wasn’t hot, and everyone was comfortable in the fan’s breeze, I was sweating and shaking, feeling hotter and

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more confused with each passing moment. My thinking galloped at such a pace that it went out of control. My head burned and my heart ached as I stared at this indifferent Baba, tears coming out of my eyes, wondering, wondering.

Suddenly a single thought burst out through the forest of confusion (and these were the exact words): That H e ignores me is in itself a special kind of attention.

Before the meaning of this sentence could even register in my brain, Baba interrupted His speech, sharply swiveled His head around, turned His face directly toward mine, and smiled. I distinctly heard Him say, “Yes,” though His lips didn’t form the word. He kept His eyes glued on mine for a long moment—perhaps five or ten seconds.

Gradually the significance of His message sunk into me, and I smiled back, mentally telling Him. Oh it’s beautiful, Baba. Thank you. By the time He resumed His speech, my soul was swimming in relief and joy.

After Baba left the room, several of the workers and Margis who noticed what had happened came to me, and asked, “Why did Baba treat you like that today?”

I told them what I had experienced, then added, “As to why I was graced with this lesson today, I don’t know. But I hope to remember forever that when I’rn feeling alone and neglected, even then, especially then. He is giving me exactly what I need.”

Dada Shraddhananda’s dry smile

During an official workers’ meeting at which Baba was not present, a serious discussion was held concerning the twenty-eight departments of “Ananda Marga General”. Eventually we came to Tribal & Backward People’s Welfare Section (TBPW).

One Dada from Berlin Sector said, “In my sector there are very few countries having tribal people. Yet we receive general targets from Center applicable for all regions. How are we to respond to TBPW targets in those countries without tribal people?”

There was silence as the workers from Center were thinking what to reply. Then the eldest worker of our mission, Dada Shraddhananda (about 70 years old), said in a dry voice, “In those countries where there are no tribal and backward people, the first work of the TBPW section will be to create tribal and backward people.”

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In that sober atmosphere, it took a few moments for us to catch his point. Then we all roared with laughter. 45

Wise, wiser, wisest

Patna. After completing the Delhi workers’ meeting. Baba traveled to Patna, and we four followed Him. We are still waiting for confirmation on the kapalika training. Meanwhile, we are attending the workers’ meetings with Baba.

During such meetings. Baba commonly singles out one worker for scoldings. Although the targeted worker gains the greatest benefit, we all gain some psychic profit by witnessing these scenes. After all, it is His duty to help us diminish our complexes of fear, shame, inferiority, superiority and so on.

The past few days it was usually Dada T who received His tongue-lashings. (Though T is a senior worker, and recognized as one of our best, he nevertheless becomes as nervous as anyone when bearing the brunt of Baba’s “venom”. This in itself I find amazing, because outside of such sessions, T is a superbly confident man—how skillful Baba is in drawing out our deepest hidden instincts.) In front of about sixty workers, T was instructed to give his work- done report. Fully expecting to be rebuked somehow, he was uneasy even before starting to speak.

He stood on Baba’s left side, reading aloud. “Ah … Baba … today the tri¬ offices were increased by seven… rather… yesterday there were 186 block-level tri-offices … and today there are 194, ah … excuse me 192 … and regarding bi¬ offices …”

45 This entry is included to give a glimpse into a lesser known aspect of Dada Shraddha-nanda, who later became Ananda M arga president in 1990. He once told me that Baba personally taught him many things on the science of humor, and that he was thinking to compose a booklet on the subject. Over the years, I occasionally asked him when he would write that booklet, but he never had time.

Some months ago, 1 again asked him about writing that booklet, but he avoided responding.

I nstead he switched the subject by saying,” I once met a man living in a very cold region north of I ndia. I was curious about his daily lifestyle, so I asked him about his usual time of prayer, what sort of clothes people there commonly wore, what sort of food he ate, what times he rose in the morning and retired in the evening, and so on. When I asked him when he usually took his bath, he replied, ‘I usually take my bath in M ay or J une.” 1

Anyway, if he would ever grab a few hours to make a draft of the booklet, I would offer to edit it.

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Baba squinted His eyes, contorted his upper lip, scratched His head, and, looking to His right at His personal assistant, said in a high nasal tone, “What’s this? What does he have for a head? What say you? Does he have a brick for a head? Doesn’t he know how to speak?”

Dada T was sweating profusely.

Closing His eyes, Baba motioned at him using a limp left index linger, and said, “Go on. Go on. Don’t waste the time of all these fine gentlemen here.”

I was sitting immediately in front of Baba, about two feet from Him. It may sound cruel, but I was thoroughly enjoying the drama. In any case, it was for our development.

“Ah … well… regarding bi-offices,” said T, “in 10,337 blocks there were 178 covered today … ah … rather yesterday … bringing the percentage to 2% … and today…”

Baba yawned politely but conspicuously, then gave a wink and a smile toward the workers on His right.

“… and today… there is an increase of seven, bringing the percentage to 2% … what? … yes, it’s still 2% …”

Baba creased His cheeks into dimples as if He would smile, but frowned simultaneously—incongruous and thus humorous for us—turned toward T and said bitingly, “Arraay, read your report correctly. You are wiser enough.”

Immediately I thought, “Wiser? Baba should have said. ‘You are wise enough’.”

Like a rubber band snapping back. He turned His face to the front and thmst it into mine, saying, “Wiser—not wise. Wiser than you!” He had caught my thought precisely!

I exploded into laughter and could not stop laughing for several seconds. Two Dadas tried to restrain me, but Baba clenched His teeth together, turned the corners of His lips into a tight smile, jutted His chin out and nodded knowingly at me, making the whole scene all the more jocular.

He affects us. He helps us. He loves us with even the slightest moves He makes, and with each word He speaks.

Seeing God

We are staying at the home of an Indian lawyer, Ranjan Dwivedi, and his American wife Parashakti, both of whom are great devotees of

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Baba. Early this morning, Parashakti told us the Baba-dream she had last night.

“I was sitting in an auditorium in the middle of an audience, and just next to me sat Baba. On the stage, different spiritual groups were demonstrating their techniques of meditation.

“The man representing the first group closed his eyes and began meditating. Within moments, his body was vibrating, rotating in circles, and making slight jumping movements. At the same time he made grunting sounds.

“I turned to Baba, and said. Baba, why can’t we experience that with our meditation?’ He didn’t reply, but only smiled at me with a glint in His eyes.

“The next man began meditating, and soon he was levitating high above the table on which he had been sitting.

“I looked at Baba and complained, ‘Baba, that never happens to us in our meditation.’ Again, no response except a glint in His eyes.

“The third man breathed rapidly, shook violently, and fell backward, banging his head on the table. He lay there in a trance. Several persons carefully picked him up and carried him through the aisle of the audience, moving toward the exit. Before they could take more than two or three steps, the man awoke, sat up and exclaimed, “I’ve seen God! I’ve seen God!”

“I said to Baba, ‘This is too much, Baba. Why can’t we have such visions?’

“As the group carrying the man passed by us, he was still saying, T’ve seen God! I’ve seen God!’ Then his eyes suddenly lit up brightly as he said, ‘And there He is!’ He pointed at Baba, again saying, ‘There He is!’

“That’s when I woke up. Well, Dadas, what do you think of that?” she said.

We smiled glintingly.

While Baba was in jail, Parashakti met Him many times. She had also spoken to most of the other visiting Margis and workers. We asked her to tell us about some of the extraordinary incidents that occurred during those visits. One of the stories went like this:

A Margi from Africa was in a visiting group. He had an intense desire to hear Baba speak his native language, Swahili. Baba talked in

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turn with each of the Margis present in His cell. When he came to this brother and asked a question, the brother replied in standard Swahili. Baba said, “Eh? What did you say?” The brother had to change his reply into English. After more conversation with everyone. Baba asked him another question, and he again replied in Swahili. Again Baba feigned not to understand. Finally, when the guards announced that the time was finished and everyone was offering their respects to Baba, the Margi approached Baba with folded hands, begging, “Please, Baba say something in Swahili!” Baba smiled at him and said in that brother’s exact local dialect of Swahili, “I am a stupid person. How can I speak in Swahili?”

Mental yo-yo

Yesterday morning the General Secretary told us, “Wait at the Dwivedi’s house. It is likely Baba will call you for kapalika initiation today.” Today was the last possible day remaining for us to learn the kapalika, because it requires at least three days practice after initiation, and we must leave for Europe in four days.

We did nothing but wait all day. The clock struck 7:00 p.m. Soon Baba’s evening darshan (spiritual talk) would start, and if we went on waiting we would miss that also. We put on our turbans and were preparing to leave just as a motorcycle roared up the driveway.

“Where have you good-for-nothings been?” yelled Dada Ramananda. Baba’s personal assistant. “Baba has been requesting to see you since 5:00! Nonsense! Now it’s too late.” And he was off before we could even comment.

Of all the injustices! We had simply followed the order of the General Secretary, and now were being severely penalized.

“What shall we do now?” asked one Dada. “Go to Baba’s darshan?”

“Baba’s darshan is every night,” said another. “But as long as there’s the slightest chance that Baba might teach us kapalika, I think we should still try.” We all agreed and set out for His house.

Just as we arrived at Baba’s house. He came out of His door, walking toward the car. We ran up to Him, and did prostration at His feet.

“Oh it’s those scoundrels. I waited for them since 5:00. They wasted my valuable time. The buggers.” The car-door slammed, and He drove away.

“At this rate we’ll never receive initiation,” said one Dada.

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“It’s just His game,” I replied. “He’ll play it however He likes. There’s no value in being anxious.” I can’t explain why, but I did not care when or whether we might learn the kapalika. If He wanted to teach me I wanted to learn— otherwise not.

We were still talking in this vein when again we heard the sound of His car.

“Strange!” someone said. “The darshan’s over so quickly.”

The car parked, and Baba stepped out. He spoke in Bengali to those with Him. As He came a little nearer to us. though He pretended not to be speaking to us four. He changed to English and said, “A completely unacceptable arrangement. Due to this carelessness the darshan had to be canceled! A most pitiable condition. A shame and a sham.” The others walked with their heads down, playing the embarrassed role.

When He was close enough, we again did prostration, and He said, “What, these boys are still here?” Our hopes lifted…

“Have they not done enough harm?” …and then shattered. “I waited for them since 5:00, and they didn’t even have the common courtesy to respond to my call. Wasting my time. Nonsense, nonsense.”

We were still laying there when He entered the house.

“We’ve got no chance,” said one Dada.

“On the contrary,” said another, “He may have canceled the darshan and disappointed 700 or 800 people just so He would have time to teach us.”

A minute later we were called into Baba’s room. He lay on His bed, being massaged by a local family-acharya.

After we did our prostrations, Baba began to speak in a serious tone. “I summoned you boys here for the purpose of telling you I won’t be able to teach you the kapalika since you were so undisciplined not to come at the scheduled time.”

Now up, now down—He was playing our minds like yo-yos. There was an awkward silence as we hesitated between leaving and … and what? I struggled hard to think how to get us out of this quandary.

One Dada spoke slowly, “Ah … Baba, excuse me …”

Baba sat up slightly, as if He were waiting for this, saying, “Yes, yes, what do you want to say?”

“Ah … I don’t mean to put anyone else in trouble, but we were instructed to wait in Ranjan Dwivedi’s house until a messenger conveyed your call. No one came until 7:00.”

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Now even Baba looked hopeful, saying, “Yes, it may be, it may be. Perhaps Ramanandaji was so busy that the matter passed him by.” He turned to the acharya massaging His feet, and asked, “What do you think? Shall I believe them and instruct them the kapalika?”

Coming out of a deep concentration on the right foot, the acharya, eyes misted by his mood, said. “My thought. Baba? Oh, I think you should not teach them.”

I was shocked. Though I highly respect this Dada, at that moment I felt like grabbing him by the shirt, shaking him hard and yelling, “What kind of stupidity are you speaking?” But I did nothing. Meanwhile, he calmly scrutinized us.

“Perhaps you are correct,” Baba said. “Perhaps. But we should be sure. Hold the big toe of my right foot.”

The acharya complied.

“Now what do you think?” Baba asked.

“They are telling the truth. Baba.”

“Alright,” He said. “I accept your judgment.” He turned to us. “But you boys here, are you interested to learn?”

We gave the obvious reply. He dismissed the acharya from the room and we got down to business.

As to the initiation itself, there is little to say—it is secret. I can only comment that for the next two hours that room, for me, became transmuted into the infinite macrocosm saturated with mystic potency, outside of which nothing existed.

Baba told us that during the initial three days’ practice we would burn 50% of our reactive momenta concerned with fear, shame and hatred; after which we would have to work on the remaining half—which explains why those who learn kapalika appear undeniably brighter from the very first week

We performed our first kapalika meditation at midnight. When we came back, Dada Ramananda was waiting for us. According to Baba’s instruction, he gave us our new names. I am now called Acharya Dharmavedananda Avadhuta. Veda means “deep knowledge”. So, as Baba later told me, Dharmavedananda means “he who attains the supreme beatitude through deep knowledge of the path of righteousness.”

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Empowered

I become a different man

Ydrefors, Sweden, 1979. Today I took up my temporary duties here as acharya trainer. 46 Dada Dhrtibodhananda has been reposted back to India. His replacement will come “as soon as possible”—but exactly who that will be and when is unclear. In the meantime, I am to keep the ship afloat.

We have two buildings, five minutes walk apart from each other, which separately house the sisters and brothers—about forty trainees total, mostly from Europe, North America and South America. We are deep in a lonely but beautiful forest in southern Sweden, idyllic for meditation and self¬ development.

Just after I arrived, I was sitting with Dada Dhrtibodhananda, and a senior avadhuta, Dada K. There was a knock on the door and a German trainee entered, looking sad and confused.

“Excuse me, Dadas… I want to go home,” he said. “I for my mother worry…”

“Yes, alright…,” began Dhrtibodhanandaji.

“Sorry for interrupting you,” I said softly, “but now I am the trainer, so I’ll have to handle the matter.” I turned to the trainee. “Please wait outside, and I’ll call you. I came only five minutes ago, so I need a bit of time.”

He went out and shut the door.

46 At that time there were four such centers in the world: Benares, Nepal, the Philippines and Sweden. The Sweden program had been started several years before by Dada Dhrtibodhananda. The training center in Nepal has since been closed and new ones opened in Africa and India.

“Don’t imagine that there’s any way that brother can become an acharya,” said Dada K. “Better to release him immediately. This talk of his mother is just an excuse; he knows very well that the organization is ready to look after her needs. He simply feels insecure.”

“Yes, he’s been depressed for days now,” said Dhrtibodhanandaji, “I’m sure he’s finished.”

“I respect you both highly,” I said. “But whether I like it or not, Baba has now entrusted me with this duty. So I shall see for myself when I speak to him.”

“Try if it pleases you,” said Dada K, “but there’s no hope.”

I was feeling different than I had ever felt in my life. The change was both odd and sudden. From the moment I’d arrived, there had been a kind of buzzing in my brain, though my perception was sharp, abnormally sharp. (As I write these words, it is now late night, and the buzzing continues. For the first time in my life I feel in total command of myself, able to follow perfectly all our disciplines, both physical and mental. It is clear that He has directly empowered me with the capacity to properly guide these trainees. I am a different man now.)

We continued speaking for half an hour, then I left the room to deal with the German brother. He was sitting on a bench with his head between his knees. I had met him several times before. I remembered that he was sometimes high-strung and at other times very calm—an independent type, with a character of his own.

I put my hand on his back and said in a low voice, “Brother…”

He raised his head. His eyes were red, and tears were streaming down his face.

“Dadaji, please … let me leave….” His voice choked.

“I won’t stop you from going. But…” My head was empty. Abruptly a thought appeared. “But first consider one simple question: will Baba be happy if you leave?”

He stared at me. After a moment, his crying stopped, and he said, “No, He wouldn’t like it.”

“Then, what do you really want to do? Do you want to please Him. or do you want to do something else?”

“Of course I want to please Him.”

“Then, how about staying another few days? You can leave anytime, but once you’re gone it’s difficult to come back.”

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“Okay,” he said, sitting straight. “I’ll stay. At least for a few days.” 47

The Problem-Maker is also the Solution-Giver

Circumstances compelled the two Dadas to leave rather hastily so I was unable to get a comprehensive picture of the trainees or the training center.

I called in the office secretary and asked him how much money we had in the account.

“I’m sorry, Dada. I don’t have any money.”

“What do you mean? Is there no money here?”

“Well, if you don’t have any, and I don’t have any, then maybe there isn’t any,” he said grinning. A typical response of a devotee—to smile in the face of a giant problem.

“Yeah, well, thanks,” I said. “Please leave me for a while so I can think.”

I sat alone looking at the walls of my room. But I didn’t feel alone. My head was still buzzing pleasantly, and I had the uncanny feeling that I was inside Baba’s breast. I felt pure, unafraid, and sure that He would solve any and every problem.

This room’s messy, I thought. Before thinking of anything, I should clean it up.

After working for an hour, I opened a cupboard. It was full of the trainees’ legal documents and other personal effects. While putting these in order I came upon a wallet stuffed with 700 Swedish kroner. There was no identification.

Could this be Baba’s little help1 1 thought.

I questioned the trainees but no one knew its owner.

Thanks. But of course that’s only a start.

Two days later. This morning a Norwegian brother approached me. “Dadaji, I need your advice. A few weeks ago the postman delivered 4000 kroner to me. But when he wrote up the account, instead of subtracting the amount, he added it. So, I now hold a credit for 8000 kroner. What should I do?”

47 The proof of this pudding lies not only in the fact that he later became acharya, but that presently, i.e., more than ten years later, as an avadhuta, he is a top-class worker named Dada Vijaksarananda.

I started laughing and he joined me, guffawing with gusto.

“Usually I would inform the post office of their mistake,” I said. “But in this case we better not make it too hard for Baba to help us tide over our little crisis. If they want to give the money. I’m willing to temporarily accept it — and pay it back to the post office later. If such an act causes me to undergo some negative reaction for the benefit of the training center — so be it.”

And so our piggy-bank became full.

Three days later. “Dadaji,” said an American trainee, “I never expected a tax rebate from last year, but today 9000 kroner arrived for me. Please take it for the training center.”

A bit excessive grace. Baba, but… what’s that You say? … no, it’s no problem, no problem. We’ll be glad to accept it… (After all, you never know if tomorrow He’ll enjoy Himself thoroughly by smashing our car or something like that.)

Tantric cows

Every time I walk between the brothers’ and sisters’ training centers, I get a supra-aesthetic thrill from the landscape. On one side of the street is a dense forest, packed with eerie vibes. On the other side, adjacent to the brothers’ house, is a large cow pasture, which is dotted with giant boulders of interesting shapes that I can only label Tantric. I feel so happy here.

The cows, too, are special. Whenever the brothers sing kiirtan, all twenty cows mosey over toward our house and crowd themselves in the tiny corner of the pasture which is closest to the meditation room. There they remain chewing their cuds for the duration of each kiirtan, even daily akhanda kiirtan. 48

,s Akhanda means long. Akhanda kiirtan is always performed in multiples of three hours, for example 3, 6, 9, 12, or 24 hours. There is no limit to how long it continues. The dancers participate according to their interest, or in some cases certain groups are assigned certain times. Generally, everyone who participates becomes greatly inspired by the end of akhanda kiirtan. It is common that new meditators who have never been able to concentrate effectively will come to know for the first time what a tranquil mind feels like during long kiirtan. Even physical problems and difficult mental problems are often mysteriously overcome through the immense positive energy generated by akhanda kiirtan.

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Thought becomes matter

Today while eating lunch in my room, I opened my closet to get some com chips but unfortunately they were finished. I wish I had some more chips, I thought. Immediately there was a knock at the door. “Come in.”

“Dadaji, I just came back from collection (of donations from the food shops in nearby towns), and I thought you might like these.” He held out ten bags of com chips.

Next day. While resting in my room today, I was thinking. The scene here is perfect. Not only am I content in being able to foliow yogic discipline and morality in detail—also my meditation is first-class, I get more than enough spiritual company, time for studying and discussing philosophy, excitement and drama (at least one or two of the trainees face some sort of personal crisis daily), maximum kiirtan, a beautiful environment, and excellent food. There must be something I’m missing here… for example, there must be some food I’m not getting… well, it’s true there’s no dried fruits.

Then I left for the sisters’ house to give a class. As I walked in their door, a visitor, Didi Ananda Prajina greeted me.

“Dada, I expected to go to India, but my plans have changed. I was going to bring this with me to give to some Didis, but now I’d like to give it to you.”

She handed me a three kilogram bag of raisins.

Next day. Tonight, before going out to do my kapalika meditation, I thought that it would be nice to eat something a little special to prepare for tomorrow’s fasting. Of course there was nothing but the usual stuff. Then I went to the graveyard together with trainee Dhyanesh.

When we came back, it was 1:30 a.m. Everyone was sleeping except Dhyanesh and I. Again I had the same thought. It would be nice to have something a little special, but….

Immediately Dhyanesh said. “Dadaji, would you like to have something a little special?”

I laughed. But instead of telling him the cause of my reaction, I said, “Sure. But I suppose there’s nothing but the usual stuff.”

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He raised his eyebrows, saying, “Well, I was on collection today. Perhaps you’d like to see what I saved in a cupboard in the kitchen.”

He ran off, only to come back a minute later with a honey-dew melon and two packages of vanilla eclairs covered in whipped cream.

“Only at this time of the year do the Swedes make these special cream cakes,” he said.

Two days later. Between breakfast and lunch on the day after fasting I usually drink a lot of water. Just before leaving my room to go to the sister’s house for class this morning, I thought, They never offer me more than one glass of lemon-water. Rather than ask for more, I thought it would be better to drink some extra water before I left. When I arrived at their house, I took my seat. In front of me, where they had always placed one cup of lemon-water, there were two cups. I was shocked.

I pointed at the cups, mumbling, “Two … there’s two….”

It wasn’t just a matter of two cups—rather, it was my sudden realization that any slightest whim I’d had over the last few days had been immediately fulfilled.

“What’s the matter. Dadaji?” said one sister. “I thought perhaps one glass of lemon-water was not enough for you, so there’s also a glass of fresh apple juice.”

“No, no. It’s good,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

That’s what I said. But what I thought was: Occult power. The power to Immediately get whatever I desire. I must not use it. From this moment on, as long as I am trainer, I shall not permit myself to wish for anything. Occult powers are a dangerous temptation on the spiritual path. While the Avidya Tantrics (black magicians) aim for such powers, we Vidya Tantrics steer clear of them. Our goal is only to serve God. 49

49 Avidya istheextroversial or centrifugal force causing attraction for external objects: it leads to ignorance or illusion. Avidya Tantra consists of practices designed for the attainment of occult powers. Vidya is the introversial or centripetal force which causes attraction to the Supreme Nucleus: it leads to knowledge, understanding or correct perception. Vidya Tantra consists of practices which help the aspirant surrender to God, and ultimately become one with God. Vidya Tantra says: M orality is the base, intuition the means, and life divine the goal.

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Grace in the form of pain

Over the last few days I have kept my mind free from the slightest unnecessary wish. But today another problem arose. Shortly before a 24-hour kiirtan was to finish, I was standing in my room. From nowhere, and without any apparent cause, a sharp pain stabbed within my stomach.

I sat down, but the pain continued. I laid down, but it grew worse.

Since I had to end the 24 hour kiirtan. I reluctantly left my room to join the trainees. When we sat for collective meditation I pulled myself into the corner where no one would see me sitting in agony with my knees doubled against my chest. My suffering only increased.

Worst of all, at the end of the meditation I would have to give an inspirational talk. How could I manage?

The moment came to speak, and as soon as I began, the pain instantly disappeared. I told spiritual and humorous stories for forty-five minutes. Everyone, including me. thoroughly enjoyed it.

The very moment I finished speaking, however, the pain returned with increased intensity. It was so bad I couldn’t eat.

Now it is night as I write. The pain is still present, though slightly decreased. I hope it will be gone by tomorrow.

Two weeks later. The pain in my stomach did not finish the next day, nor the next nor the next. Today, it left as unexpectedly as it came. I did not tell anyone, except the trainee who assists me, and I instructed him not to mention it to others. It was not the sort of trouble which could be cured by medicine or treatment. Rather it was a test I had to undergo as a result of successfully controlling myself in this ideal spiritual environment.

The clearest indication of this was the fact that every time I had a class to give, or an important meeting to attend, the pain ceased.

No height is too high

Dada Dhruvananda, the new trainer, arrived today. Together with a charge hand-over, I gave him an account with more than 10,000 kroner. Though the mental condition of most of the trainees had been uneasy when I first arrived, it now seemed that everyone was happy.

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“How could you manage so well?” he asked.

“Baba did everything. I did nothing.” As 1 said this, I felt something sneak back inside me from my previous normal flawed self. I checked for the buzzing in my head, but could not find it.

Now, having resumed my previous duty, I am again an ordinary monk.

No Tantric aspirant should think that high spiritual states are beyond his or her reach. Whatever is needed, He gives us. Though it comes only by His grace, and not by our own efforts, we must constantly strive for perfection— otherwise we would be unsuitable to serve as His channels.

There is word that Baba may soon travel outside of India. They say He will come to Europe and nowhere else. I don’t know whether or not to believe it. It seems too good to be true.

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chapter 11

Eye oftheHurricane

Embarking on an unreal dream

Stockholm. April 1979. The Mainz office called today. Baba’s trip is definitely on! He will be coming together with an entourage of 10 or so Dadas, Didis and Margis. They say He’ll stay for a month, touring Switzerland, Germany, Sweden, Holland, Spain, France, and Italy. As chief secretary of the Volunteers Service Department I’ll be in charge of Baba’s security and many other aspects of the program. Dada Karunananda and I will be the main organizers.

From today my main duty is to get ready for the tour. Somehow the whole thing still feels unreal to me. Like a dream.

Lyon, France. May. Baba was scheduled to arrive one week from today but so far He and two other Dadas still do not have their passports. After all our planning we are still not sure if they will come or not. This is typical of course. Eleventh hour dramas are Fhs invariable style.

Though my mind leaves everything up to Him, my stomach sings a different tune. It often heaves like a volcano about to erupt.

Frankfurt, Germany. Today Dada Kamnananda phoned with news that Baba’s party has left Calcutta for Bombay and were out of touch; there was still no official word about their program.

“So are they coming to Switzerland or not?” I asked.

“I guess so, but, but…”

“There’s nothing sure.”

“Right.”

“What about the Central Office?”

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“They also don’t know what’s going on. But dare we tell that to the Margis? If maximum Margis are to meet Baba in Geneva they need to start traveling now.”

“Yet another cosmic clash. Thanks, Baba.”

For a few seconds neither of us spoke as we weighed the alternatives.

“We’ve got to announce that Baba’s definitely coming,” I said. “Right.”

“It’s the only practical thing to do. If we’re wrong, that’s His problem.” “Yah,” said Karunanandaji, “and maybe about 1000 Margis’ problem too…”

“Anyway, if we guessed right, nobody will ever know.” “And if we guessed wrong, I’ll say it was your fault,” he said, laughing. “Thanks.” Though I didn’t know whether or not he was really joking, I also laughed. Why not?

" I always keep my word”

Geneva, Switzerland. 6 May. Hundreds of Margi brothers and sisters swarmed throughout the Geneva airport today, seething with anticipation, their paper-thin patience stretched taut, waiting for a man who was not only the center of their lives, but who most had never yet even seen. Some sang devotional songs, some danced, while others gossiped but there was no way to disguise the tension. Three brothers scaled a wall up to a large window sill, and stared through the window looking onto the runway. Even those sitting in meditation contributed to the electrifying anxiety.

For the umpteenth time I rehearsed the security.

“Volunteers, attennnntion!” I yelled.

Sixteen uniformed cadets-eight brothers and eight sisters in two perfect lines—snapped their backbones straight and thumped their staffs on the floor. Though some could barely speak English, all clearly understood the martial commands.

None of them, however, understood one thing: perhaps Baba was not coming. I caught Karunanandaji’s eye, which flickered as he cast a thin grin in my direction. He could still afford to smile.

If Baba was coming today, the plane now arriving was the only possible flight. I stood toward the back of my volunteers, confident that

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at least these sixteen would play their role properly if He came. But would He?

“Baba Nam Kevalam!” screamed one of the Margis hanging on the window viewing the runway. “He’s here!”

Those sitting in meditation jumped up. as everyone (including the general public) pushed toward the door of the customs and immigration area.

“You fool!” yelled another Margi on the window. “That isn’t Baba.”

A painful groan issued from scores of lips.

Waiting … now only silence from those up on the window … the door from the customs area opened, and two passengers came out… then a few more … still no Baba…

An Indian dressed in white and wearing glasses came out—a brief hesitation as many thought, “Is that Him?”, and then—“Baba, Baba, Baba!” all were yelling, all were running, all were excited to the breaking point—it was Him!

At the top of my voice I shouted, “Volunteers, attennnntion”! but it was no use. I was wrong—the cadre did not obey, and instead added to the melee, wildly mshing toward their gum. And there I was, standing near the back of the hall, while the hundreds of Margis zeroed in on the man I was supposed to protect. What an idiot I was! I tried to push my way forward, but others were equally desperate. Madness, pure madness.

For a split second I could see Baba smiling through the crowd, standing next to several Dadas and Margis who had come with Him from India. Then the stampede hit. Oh God, what were they doing to Him? Adrenaline pumped through my veins. I elbowed my way between two Margis, then more, pushing myself forward.

In the front, near Baba, I saw a strange windmill of hands and feet rapidly breaking the air, deterring the Margis. Baba Nam! It was Dada Ramananda, Baba’s personal assistant, jumping left and right, forcefully rebuffing the Margis, thrusting them away from Baba.

Then somehow I was there next to Him. I couldn’t believe He was still smiling, as calm as the eye of a hurricane. I joined Ramanandaji, driving the Margis away, clearing a path for Baba to walk to a chair, next to Karunanandaji.

He walked slowly, majestically. In any case, He couldn’t have walked rapidly, because His legs were still not fully recovered from the years of suffering in the prison. Karunanandaji had a smile like a cherub.

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Baba sat. At last the sixteen volunteers recovered their senses and took their pre-planned places.

Baba then spoke His first words, “You see, I have kept my word. Two years ago I promised to visit Switzerland at the first opportunity I would get. Now I have come. I always keep my word.”

Several brothers and sisters came forward wearing colorful uniforms specifically for performing yogic dances.

Baba leaned toward Karunanandaji and said, “The color of the uniforms is not proper. You must take care. Even if an ant dies a premature death, the entire balance of the Cosmos is affected.”

“Next time it will be perfect, Baba,” Karunanandaji said.

I smiled. It was Baba in true form.

Paradise and the invisible wall

Fiesch, Switzerland. About 700 Margis are present in this scenic mini¬ village of chateaus and meeting halls, surrounded by mountains, pine trees, and green grass, graced by a shining sun, and bathed in pure air. It seems idyllic, especially when I think that Baba is also here. The program will last one week, then we travel to other cities.

In the light of this paradisical atmosphere, one aspect of the Margis’ behavior certainly appears odd—at least by normal social standards. Their mad desire to touch Him has continued unabated since the time He arrived in the airport. This tense situation has at least one good result—it compels the security team to be on their toes. While accompanying Baba in and out of the hall, the volunteers, both brothers and sisters, hold their sticks horizontally, creating a sort of mobile protective fence around Him. Baba Himself seems to enjoy this frantic game. He sometimes pauses in His walk to smile at certain Margis or offer a few encouraging words. In those times the enthusiasm of the Margis grows higher, and the volunteers hold onto each others’ sticks, further reinforcing the fence. In some cases the onslaught is so severe that I also have to join in the defense squad, straining against the shoving and pulling. Though I am particularly vigilant to see that Baba’s movement is undisturbed, I wonder whether our efforts at security are so necessary. I observe repeatedly whenever we are not swift enough to stop some movement of hands or feet or a rebounding stick in Baba’s direction, there is an invisible wall that protects Him. allowing Him to be totally unconcerned with the chaos only inches away from Him.

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Daily dramas

By now I’ve settled into a regular daily schedule: an early morning meeting with the security volunteers, checking meal arrangements for Baba and the Margis, organizing the Personal Contacts of different Margis with Baba, checking the program in the main hall, seeing to the security at the houses of Margis/workers/Baba, etc. The greatest meticulousness is demanded in the security for Baba’s twice daily field walks and darshans. My own meditation time is abnormally short, but I don’t care because I see Guru directly many hours a day. As for eating, there’s even less time, but the Didis in Baba’s kitchen usually save two or three big spoonfuls of prasad 50 for me which more than suf¬ fices. Having almost nothing else to eat, I have near-perfect conditions for gauging the phenomenal power of prasad.

Today while driving to the field walk I listened to the following conversation between Baba and Bodhishvar, who is a leading Swiss Margi:

BABA (pointing to a vineyard): Bodhishvar, what kind of grapes are those? BODHISHVAR: I’m sorry, Baba, I don’t know. BABA: Well, are they red grapes or white grapes? BODHISHVAR: They are white grapes, Baba. BABA: Are they good for making wine? BODHISHVAR (smiling): I don’t know. Baba. BABA (speaking gently): Why don’t you know? You should know everything. Yes, they are excellent for making wine. Their name is (a Ger

50 Food touched by a spiritually elevated person is called prasad , In the physical contact of any two entities some energy is always exchanged. This is especially so between human beings because their consciousness is easily altered by environmental circumstances. The effect ismore noticeable when one of the parties is the guru, whose only purpose it to uplift the minds of others. If the guru touches an object which is afterward touched by his disciples, they derive benefit. Food is the most powerful prasad because the disciple ingests it and metabolizes much of its energy. Prasad can also be created by keeping it for a certain length of time in the middle of a kiirtan/meditation program. Though prasad is well-known and accepted among yogis, it is only recently that scientific experiments began to verify its effects. These experiments, however, now come under the category of microvita medicine rather than prasad. Generally microvita research is performed with simple water. Later in this book the idea of microvita is elaborated. By the way, the opposite of prasad is easily recognized. The reader may also have felt it—when a cook is angry or depressed, the diners may become uneasy or sick after eating that food.

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man name I don’t remember). They are grown primarily in (about four or five areas with German and French names that I don’t remember). They have a specially sweet taste, as opposed to (about three or four types of other grapes that I also didn’t know). Is it not a fact, Bodhishvar?

BODHISHVAR: Well, I’m not an expert like you, Baba.

BABA: No, no. Your Baba knows nothing. (Looking at me also) You boys are the ones who must know everything. What do you say?

(In reply, we simply smiled as charmingly as we could.)

Every day I choose three or four brothers to enjoy the field walk with Baba. The sisters often protest but I am under instructions from Ramanandaji and other Dadas to only permit brothers according to the Indian system. The sisters have requested that their desire be expressed to Baba many times, but the Dadas refuse, considering such a change impossible. It’s my opinion Baba prefers that new initiatives come from our side, rather than by His direct suggestion, so He has had to manage this problem in His own unique way…

Today, halfway through the field walk. He was resting in a chair with a few brothers by His feet (the security and myself remained standing). I thought everyone was entranced by the talk, but then Baba turned to Bodhishvar, saying, “Bodhishvar, you are feeling sad about something.”

“Yes, Baba.”

“What is it? Say, say.”

“Baba…”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“It’s my wife, Anchala….”

“Yes, don’t hesitate,” Baba said. “Say what’s on your mind.”

“Well, Baba … every day I go with You for field walk, and she cries and cries. Baba, because she also wants to go … Can’t she also come?”

Without the slightest hesitation, Baba said, “Why not? 1 ‘, and beamed as if He were just waiting for this question.

Ramanandaji and I immediately looked at each other with a mixed expression of surprise and delight.

“Thank you, Baba!” said Bodhishvar.

Later we met with the Didis and set up a new system where the number of sisters would equal the number of brothers on field walk. We also made plans to add sister volunteers to the security arrangements.

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Hiding His knowledge

This morning, on the way to the field walk, I asked Abaniish of Norway, who until five days ago had never before seen Baba, “Brother, what do you think of Baba now?”

“It’s funny,” he said. “I don’t know why… He hasn’t done anything at all special… He looks and acts just like a sweet old man… I don’t know why, but I love Him.” He gave a big smile like a child. “I feel… I feel love for Him—just like a father. No, even more than for my father.”

“It’s a normal reaction,” I said. “Absolutely normal.”

We drove high into the snow covered Alps. While walking. Baba said, “Life on our planet started in these Alps. At that time the surroundings were very hot. Life began only up in the mountains at zero degrees centrigrade—the necessary temperature for the process to start.”

After walking in silence for a few moments, Dada Abhidevananda asked, “Baba, is it possible that life came to the earth from another planet?”

“Why not? Why not? According to my opinion, life came from the planet Mars. Today Mars is a dying planet.”

Later He commented that the first human civilization was also in the Alps.

We returned to the cars and started back. Just after turning a corner, we saw several uniformed persons putting away a big parabolic-shaped machine. One of the Margis in my car, an engineer, said. “That’s a sound-detection device used over long distances by the secret police to pick up conversations.”

Another Margi added, “Do you think it’s possible that Baba specifically intended that interplanetary talk to be overheard by them?”

During evening darshan, after a devotional song, one brother suddenly stood up in the middle of the crowd. In the otherwise silent room, his words in Italian had a shocking effect. Before he could complete even one sentence, Dada Japananda rose, pointed his finger at the man, and told him forcefully to sit down. Obediently the man collapsed to the floor. I recognized him. It was Parimal from Parma. He was previously a brilliant physicist, tragically struck by a disease which had neces

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sitated an operation on his brain. Since then he had turned abnormal, to say the least.

In the momentary excitement. Baba looked at Dada Ramananda and me. (Ramanandaji was sitting next to Baba, while I was standing. After the security fiasco at the airport, I had decided to remain close to Baba whenever He was out of His room, directly rather than indirectly supervising the volunteers - though admittedly I took this decision not solely out of consideration for security.) He looked at us and asked, “What is it? What’s happening?”

“Nothing, Baba,” Ramanandaji said. “The man is crazy.”

“What do you mean ‘crazy’?” Baba said. “Let him come to the front. Come on, my boy,” He said, waving Parimal forward.

As he hobbled forward, everyone could see his balding, deformed skull. He launched excitedly into an Italian soliloquy.

Now this will be interesting, I thought. Since Baba knows all the world’s languages, we should be able to see first hand how H e replies to a tongue that He hadn’t been exposed to before. All the Margis leaned forward similarly watching for Baba’s IMtiOfl,

But it was not to be as we hoped. Instead, Baba spoke to the Dada posted in Italy: “Japasiddhananda, give me the translation in English.”

Though everyone was silent, many looked disappointed. They may have been thinking. Was it only fiction, this story that Baba knows all languages?

Japasiddhanandaji started the translation, “Baba, he says the title of his story is titled Baba with the Baby on the Farm.”

Parimal appeared inspired as he spoke, enthusiastically dramatizing his discourse. I observed that some of the Germans and Dutch looked disillusioned, seeing Baba’s apparent dependence on the translation.

But the Italians and those who understood Italian (including me) could not help but notice that each time Parimal spoke a humorous line. Baba smiled before the translation was delivered.

[Author’s note: Some months later when I visited Parma, Italy, I found a changed Parimal. Previous to this experience with Baba, he had been in a near¬ constant state of confusion. While I was in Parma, however, I saw that he was still excited about Baba—that he was always talking about Baba. Instead of being in a state of confusion, I felt he was in a spiritual state. A few months after that he died.]

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DMC night

This morning, during the daily meeting of our thirty-five security cadres, I had the uncomfortable task of asking for a volunteer to stay and guard Baba’s house during the DMC speech and varabhaya mudra . 51

“Whoever sacrifices himself for the welfare of others is guaranteed Baba’s special grace,” I said. “I know you’ve all come here looking forward to the DMC speech. Nevertheless, I’m sure at least one of you will selflessly relinquish his rights for the sake of the others.”

My words met only silence. No one moved. A few seconds passed, and then one brother stepped forward. It was a young Margi from Ireland.

“Thank you, Sundara,” I said. Honestly, I felt sorry for the lad.

Usually on DMC day Baba holds a special meeting of avadhutas to discuss some interesting matters and to bless us. This evening the answer to one question was, for me, especially imbued with mystical significance.

By then twenty minutes of the meeting had passed and the air was electric.

“Each avadhuta has a singularly extraordinary role to play,” He said. He paused and then asked, “What is the purpose of the avadhuta?”

We could not answer. We could not even speak.

He gave His own reply, slowly: “The purpose of an avadhuta… is … to exist.”

As all the nuances of this statement gradually sunk into my heart, my spine shivered, then shook strongly.

51 DMC\s an abbreviation for Dharma Mahachakra. Mafia means “great,” and “dharma-chakra” means group meditation, so DM C literally means “the great group meditation.” It consisted of a series of formal darshans by Baba over a few days. On the last evening of the gathering, Baba would end His discourse with a special mudra, His varabhaya mudra. " Vara” means boon, and “abhaya” means fearlessness due to feeling completely protected. So “Varabhaya” can be said to mean " blessing of fearlessness, or blessing with protection and without fear,” and mudra means “meaningful hand gesture.” This was the greatest attraction to Dharma Mahachakras. Almost everyone felt their consciousness expand dramatically as an immediate result of this mudra, and M argis often became absorbed in the supreme state, losing awareness of the external world or experiencing ecstatic bliss.

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Immediately before Baba gives the daily darshan speech, kaoshiki is demonstrated by a few sisters, and then both kaoshiki and tandava by a few brothers. 52

Because it was DMC night I felt something special in the air. Nevertheless, the announcement in the dark surpassed my expectation: “Tonight’s tandava will be performed by one hundred brothers!” Within a single shocking moment one hundred torches burst in flames—the dancers leapt high in the eerie light, chanting BABA NAM KEVALAM at ear-splitting volume.

Guru’s lips curled slightly in pleasure. His eyes burned, and His body shifted into a powerful pose. Soon after, in that mood, He gave the DMC speech.

Late at night, standing outside Baba’s house, I heard fragments of several Margis’ discussions about the DMC.

“Never before was my mind so concentrated”… “I thought my head would break, it throbbed so strongly”… “Well, I felt nothing, but somehow was still inspired” … “He was beautiful” … “These things are too subtle to be analyzed” … and so on.

Just before I went inside, Amita, a middle-aged lady from Norway, said, “And none of you saw it?”

“What?” they said in chorus.

“I was sure everyone saw it…” she said.

“Saw what?”

“The smoke coming out of His hands during the mudra. It completely filled the hall.”

52 Kaoshikii is a yogic dance which helps cure over thirty diseases, while generally exercising and energizing the body, it is especially beneficial to women, but also valuable for men. Tandava, a powerful jumping dance, stimulates the male hormones—it should not be done by women. It was invented by Shiva 7000 years ago. Statues and paintings of Shiva often depict him in this dancing pose. Tandava is the only yogic exercise which stimulates all the body’s glands. It even invigorates the brain. Shiva encouraged his warriors to perform tandava because it also helped in rousing their courage. A skull or a snake is held in the left hand while dancing to symbolize death. In the right hand a dagger or burning torch is held to symbolize life. The dance is a struggle between life and death, between dynamicity and staticity. Of course, life is the victor. Baba once said, " You should learn it in a disciplined way. Tandava represents life and vitality. Tantra is a cult of life, it is not a cult of death. Y ou should be strong—physically, mentally and spiritually. Lord Shiva says that all your expressions, all your manifestations must be based on present tense. So Tandava is the starting phase of Tantra.”

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Sacrifice paid back 100 times

Today is our last day in Switzerland. Baba consented to hold a special meeting with the brothers and sisters who had worked as security volunteers throughout the week.

All stood at attention, forming a perfect line, facing Baba. I stood in the front together with the Didi in charge of the sister volunteers. One brother came forward and garlanded Baba with a wreath made of green pine needles.

“I regret to have troubled you all,” Baba said. “You sacrificed your comforts. You nobly sacrificed your time for the sake of assisting me and serving your Margi brothers and sisters. For this I humbly thank you.”

He spoke a bit more, then slowly walked over to the line. As he passed each cadet, He looked into their faces. At the end of the line He came to Sundara. Baba removed the wreath from His own neck, placed it on Sundara, and then patted the top of his head. At that moment the blood rushed to Sundara’s face, and he looked so high that I would not have been surprised if he had collapsed in spiritual ecstasy. I think he remained standing only out of a sense of duty.

Afterward Sundara said, “When Baba touched me, it was the highlight of my life. He paid me back a hundred times over for missing DMC.”

Revealing His knowledge

Geneva airport. Once we entered the doorway of the immigration hall, we were at last free from the emotional mass of Margis. There were fourteen of us, eleven from India, plus economist and best-selling author Ravi Batra, Karunanandaji and myself. While waiting, Baba sat in a chair. I stood next to Him.

From nowhere, several Italian Margis appeared. Without formality, they abruptly sat on the floor at Baba’s feet, smiling with full gusto.

One of them named Vikranta stood up, saying, “Baba, can we sing You a song?”

“You are most welcome,” He said.

Though the melody was sweet, I could hardly follow the meaning— which I thought strange in light of my grasp of Italian. I understood only that it was a love song.

Vikranta stood up again, “Baba, I want to explain the meaning in English. The dialect is from Venice; it’s different from normal Italian.”

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Ah, so that’s why I couldn’t understand it, I thought. As Vikranta gave the translation, he visibly savored every moment with Baba.

Baba’s eyes turned misty. He said, “Your song was ambrosial. The translation was likewise excellent. E XCellent. But would you mind if I were to add a little something to your interpretation?”

“Oh, please. Baba, yes, yes!” They were excited.

Then Baba translated the song again, completely, line by line, giving detailed and charming explanations for the difference between His version and that of Vikranta.

The plane was called. As we walked away, leaving behind the tearful-eyed Venetian devotees, I thought of the difference between this experience and the one a few days ago with Parimal.

Berlin wall and the swastika

West Berlin. Our field walk today took us to the infamous Berlin wall which divides Western democracy from Eastern communism.

Baba stopped, looked at it, and said, “This wall symbolizes the brutal suppression by Communism of human liberties. It is a kind of artificial madness. In the near future you will all see this wall crumble piece by piece, stone by stone. East and West Germany will be united as one.”

Then He added, “In 1941, Germany came under the influence of a star called Magha, a bad star. Magna causes disruption and breaks into pieces the object on which its projection falls. Now its effect is finishing, and soon a good time is coming.”

After that He explained the swastika. He said the literal meaning of swastika is “a condition of goodness which will continue to exist.” Thus it means victory. He drew our swastika, which He said is positive. Then He drew the reverse swastika, and said it is negative. He warned us never to use the negative swastika because it brings complete annihilation. The Nazis mixed these two swastikas, often using the negative one.

Conscious sleep

Timmern, West Germany. About 200 Margis are collected for Baba’s three- day program in Timmern. 5 ’ The vibration has always been high here but Baba’s presence has raised it another level altogether.

53 Timmern is a small village near Braunschweig where we have our local full-timer training center.

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Several Dadas and Margis were enjoying the talk with Baba in His room— until a high pitched sound from the hallway disturbed us.

What in G od’s name is that ? I wondered.

It grew louder and clearer. “Baba! Baba! Baba!”

Bodhishvar from Switzerland stood up. “Baba, that’s my wife!”

Shaking His head in the Indian style of agreeing, Baba said, “Yes, she has a small problem. But there’s no need to worry. Go out,” he told him, “and softly uttering your guru mantra, hold the thumb of your right hand against her ajina chakra (on the forehead), rotating it slightly back and forth for a few seconds.”

After Bodhishvar left the room. Baba said to us, “The explanation for her behavior is simple. In her past life she committed an action which terribly disturbed her mind. Now she is desperate for any kind of contact she can have with me. Though Bodhishvar will succeed in assuaging her this time, her intense yearning will express itself again when given the opportunity.”

In that moment the screaming ceased.

Afterward, I heard that Anchala not only became immediately quiet when Bodhishvar placed his thumb on her forehead, she also closed her eyes and entered a meditative state.

In the night, after all were sleeping, Ramanandaji called me and another Dada to Baba’s room. Just as He was falling asleep we started to massage Him. We were silent, deeply enjoying an experience which transcends description. After about two hours the other Dada left me alone with Baba.

At one point, when Baba had been snoring continuously (it was more of a soft purr than a snore). He suddenly broke His snore, turned toward me and said, “What time is it?”

“3:30, Baba.”

“Accha,” He said 54 , and immediately started snoring again.

It seems, I thought, that only Baba’s body is sleeping, while His mind is fully conscious.

I continued the massage, thinking about this. About twenty minutes later, just as I was thinking. Is His mind really a wake? I wish H e

54 Accha means “ okay’ 1 and is common to many of the Indian languages.

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would give me some confirmation…, He again suddenly broke His snore, turned toward me, and said. “Who’s there?”

I smiled, saying, “Dharmavedananda, Baba.” “Accha,” He said. His eyes twinkled at me as He chuckled softly. Within a moment He returned to His snoring. A ccha, I thought.

[Author’s note: Years later. Baba’s adopted son, Kinshukji, commented to me: “Though Baba lies down and closes His eyes, He, of course, never really sleeps. Rather, whenever He appears to sleep for an extended period of time, we all become cautious. We know that He’s actually making plans. Usually, immediately after that supposed sleep. He introduces new, complex working schemes for us.“J

Devotees get their way

Everyone was talking about it: “We’ve got to convince Baba to hold DMC.” “If our devotion is strong enough. He’ll have to give DMC.” “Timmern is the best place for DMC, so why not?”

Perhaps Baba had started it all when He commented this morning, “Our Timmern program is like a mini-Fiesch.”

Whatever the cause, the excitement was so contagious that no one could avoid it.

As we came out for His evening field walk, the Margis crowded both sides of the sidewalk, leaning as close to Him as the security volunteers permitted. Like a faithful shield. I was close on His heels.

Baba was shining, immaculate in His white dress. In a clear voice that everyone could hear. He said, “It seems a fine night for DMC…” As the Margis yelled " Victory to Baba!” and other exclamations of pleasure in reaction to Baba’s words. He continued speaking in an undertone that only I could hear: “…they say.”

I turned toward the Margis, thinking to clear up the misunderstanding, but they were so excited they would not have heard me. In the same moment, I saw it was Baba’s play.

During the field walk. Baba’s mood was different than I’d ever seen. He was normally very loquacious during his walks. Tonight, for the first time. He walked in silence.

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Our footsteps echoed in the air, the wind providing the only audible background to our thoughts. Without the distraction of speech, we sank deep into a spiritual mood.

Halfway through the walk, Baba pointed at some distant tall trees, colorless in the faint night light, waving like feather-fans in the wind. “See the Cosmic Wave,” He said slowly. It was His one and only sentence.

It was a unique field walk, which in a way I enjoyed more than any other.

When we returned, we entered the darshan hall. I was shocked. It was fully decorated in DMC style, with flowers, leaves, colored papers, a new colorful cover for Baba’s couch, and a special ornamental arrangement behind the couch. The Margis were singing devotional songs in full-throated fervor.

Even before the speech began, it was clear that Baba was in a special state of mind. His demeanor was unusually dignified and transcendental.

When He spoke His first words, “The subject of tonight’s discourse will be…”, I saw some of the more senior workers cast glances at each other, recognizing His common opening for a DMC speech.

The Margis shivered with excitement throughout the talk, as if an electric current was running among them. I waited for Him to give the varabhaya mudra (gesture of blessing).

He never gave it. Personally I didn’t care, but I wondered how the Margis would react. Had they not all day nurtured an expectation which He had not fulfilled?

Someone asked Him for permission to perform G uru Puja . 55 He agreed— surprisingly, as this was usually performed only after DMC.

I alone accompanied Baba downstairs to His room. When He entered the room, He said to me, “Go back up and tell everyone that tonight’s speech was not DMC, but DMS-Dharma Maha Sammelan. DMS has the same psycho¬ spiritual effect as DMC, but the varabhaya mudra is not shown.” Just see. Guru has to follow His own system; while at the same time the devotees have their way to compel Him to follow their own desires. Of course they can only force Him up to a certain point. 56

55 Guru Puja is a mantra sung together with gestures in which the devotee offers his/her ego attachments to the guru.

56 Afterward I came to know that the last, and perhaps only time that Baba had person¬ ally held a DM S was in 1962 in Begusarai, Bihar, India. So it is clear that Baba consid-

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When I went upstairs, I found all the Margis in an exuberant state, singing songs and dancing kiirtan. I climbed on the stage, took the microphone, and told everyone that I had a message from Baba. After a minute or two they calmed down and I repeated Baba’s words.

They didn’t care—no one seemed to be affected by my announcement. As soon as I finished speaking they immediately resumed their celebration— singing and dancing in spiritual ecstasy.

The sixth point

Baba’s darshan topic tonight was Shiva’s Seven Secrets of Success.

At its conclusion, I took Baba downstairs, saw Him into His room, and then entered Ramanandaji’s room, just next to Baba’s. In a few moments I was joined by three or four other Dadas. One sister brought in a huge bowl of round milk-sweets, a small fraction of what had been prepared in honor of Baba’s last darshan in Timmem. I sat alone, thinking of Baba, and eating slowly.

After eating two of these extremely tasty balls, I was lying on my side, looking at the bowl, contemplating whether or not to eat a third one. In that very moment, I saw the handle of the door turn and in walked Baba! He was dressed in the simple white undershirt and green lungi that He wears only in the privacy of His own room. He walked over to me. I sat up, smiling. With a sly grin on His face, He said to me, “And remember … the sixth point is a very difficult point to follow.” Without giving me a chance to reply, He turned and left the room as suddenly as He had entered.

I lay on the floor, laughing—Shiva’s sixth secret of success was control over food.

Freedom’s limit

This morning, just before our departure from Timmem, Baba called a meeting of Dadas and Didis. After beautifully reciting a few poems of India’s greatest poet, Rabindranath Tagore, He asked each of us to express something of how we were feeling at the moment. One Dada mentioned how sad everyone felt having to leave Timmem. Baba replied by telling a story:

ered this Timmern program something special. While Baba was in jail, a few avadhutashad the duty to conduct DM S. Si nee Baba’s passing, DM Ss have been conducted only by the President.

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“A great sage Kanva lived alone in a forest. He loved to help people. So he often took it upon himself to go to the town, find sick and helpless people, and bring them back to his hermitage to care for them until they recovered. He was well known for this generosity. One day a mother came to Kanva and left her baby girl. Shakuntala, under the saint’s benevolent care. Kanva raised Shakuntala until she was old enough to be married. At this time King Dushyanta arrived, and claimed Shakuntala as his queen. As she was preparing to leave, Kanva found himself gripped with feelings of despair. He thought, ‘I am a renunciate and a yogi. I should be free from the emotions of affection.’”

Baba asked, “Why was he having these feelings? Although he was a sage, he was living in the world, and thus bound by the relative factor. Now all of you boys and girls are doing meditation to be free of bondages. Being here in the world, however, it is impossible to deny bondage.”

Baba’s way of speaking was so gentle that everyone wept. A deer devotee

Hannover, West Germany. While driving today, an odd event occurred. I was in the car just behind Baba’s. As the road passed through a field of chest- high grass, I saw a deer suddenly emerge next to Baba’s car. For about 200 meters it ran alongside of the car. To do this it had to run at a great speed, while at the same time jumping high in the air with each step in order to get through the tall grass. At the end of that 200 meters, the car turned and the deer followed, continuing to run with Baba for another 150 or 200 meters. Then the car accelerated greatly, and the deer fell back, unable to keep up.

Baba’s nephew, Paltu, was in that car. Afterward I said to him,

“Did you notice that deer?”

“Of course.”

“And did Baba comment anything about it?”

“Not directly. But He was surely thinking about it. For several minutes He had been discussing German architecture, when, without warning, He began to talk about animals. I could not understand why He had changed the topic. And then He was talking specifically of deers. The speech on deers must have been going on for half-a-minute when that deer appeared. All of us in the car stared at it, except Baba, who

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went on speaking without turning His face in the animal’s direction. I wanted to ask Him about it, but He gave me no scope to speak.”

Will we ever know the cause of this unquestionably mystical event?

In the light of today’s experience and also Baba’s story about Kanva and Shakuntala I am reminded of an old mythological tale. A saint was alone in the forest performing austere spiritual practices. He had detached himself from all worldly affairs, and was approaching his entry through the gates of liberation when he discovered an orphaned baby doe. Compassion compelled him to rescue and then care for the creature. As months turned into years, the doe grew into a deer, and without recognizing the change in his mind, the saint gradually developed a deep attachment for the animal. One day the deer accidentally jumped off a cliff, falling to its death. The saint’s heart was tom. A few days later his final moment also came and his last thought was of his beloved deer. Accordingly, he could not gain liberation, and instead was reborn as a deer, which passed most of its life in the company of yogis.

Perhaps the story is not so fictional after all.

Revolutionary change

Yesterday, after leaving the cars, we approached a road having no sidewalk.

I said to Baba, “In Germany, Baba, since the cars drive on the right side of the road, it is better we walk on the left, into the traffic, so we can see any danger before it comes.”

Like a child. Baba complied.

This morning a similar situation arose. Again I started to explain where we should walk.

Baba interrupted me, saying, “I am an excellent student. If I hear anything, even once. I remember it forever. I clearly remember each and every perception since the moment of my birth. So, thank you—no need to repeat yesterday’s lesson.”

This afternoon Baba was speaking about society. “As long as there is animality in man. there will be war. War is the blackest spot on human character. Fight is the essence of life, but war is something brutal…. You may expect some change in collective psychology from after the year 1980, and a revolutionary change by the year 2000.”

Travels with the Mystic Master Heaven in hell

Rotterdam, Netherlands. A light rain was falling this evening as our entourage approached the apartment building which houses our three-story Rotterdam yoga center. While still standing on the street, momentarily waiting for the local Margi to come forward to unlock the door. Baba muttered something which undoubtedly was meant only for my ears.

He said softly, almost unnoticeably, “What hell is this?” It was not the sort of question to which one tries to reply, so I was left wondering about His meaning.

Next day. I believe I now know a little of the meaning of Baba’s rhetorical question yesterday. To begin with, the stairways in this house are winding, narrow, and insufficiently lit. As the two snake-like streams of Margis continuously ascend and descend, they unavoidably press against each other. Though about one hundred of us squeeze and adjust in inappropriately small rooms and hallways, no one minds. There is too much excitement in Baba’s presence for anyone to care about such matters.

Nevertheless I am constantly reminded of the spiraling passageways entering and departing from the different levels of Dante’s hell.

Then there was the water. It stopped in Baba’s bathroom. Since He did not complain, it was only discovered when a Margi cleaned His room. For a man who bathes three or four times daily, this was a great inconvenience. Yet He politely tolerated it.

After the water was repaired, He commented, “This is the first time in my life that I had to use a bathroom without water.”

His silent patience with the clumsiness of our arrangements deeply affected

me.

Today Baba mentioned that tandava (Shiva’s dance) should be done with proper paraphernalia. In the left hand there should be either be a skull or a snake to represent the force of destruction or death. The right hand holds a dagger or burning torch to represent the power of discrimination or life. He specifically added that the snake should be a living, poisonous snake. We took this as a cue. Two hours later Melvin was purchased—a beautiful, healthy, poisonous snake.

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The next darshan proceeded smoothly until it was time for the brothers to perform tandava. Viirabhadra (whose name means “the bravest face of God”) jumped fiercely up and down and side to side. In his left hand, Melvin violently twisted and spit. Some Margis were thrilled while others were horrified as they watched the snake bite Viirabhadra’s hand again and again. Rather than holding the snake just below the head as he should have, he was holding Melvin in the middle. Blood began to drip from his hand. Still the dance continued, the room reverberated to the chant of 6 aba Nam Kevalam and the rhythmic thump- ing of the dancers’ feet. Meanwhile Baba entered one of His powerful Tantric moods. He looked on with a calm intensity. The snake must have bit Viirabhadra thirty or forty times; blood flowed like water dripping from a tap.

At last the chanting stopped and the dancers halted. Though Baba’s words, “Very good. Very good,” were normal, His voice was deep and penetrating. Afterward He said nothing about the snake, but we were sure He was pleased. I was concerned for Viirabhadra, but he was inspired to the depths of his being. Fortunately the snake’s poison sacks had been removed.

I shall carry the snake with us everywhere from now on. The blood was a wonderful touch, but as Tantra has nothing to do with masochism, I will instruct the dancers to hold our undulating friend by the neck during the dance in order to avoid its fangs.

On field walk one sister asked Baba, “We have so many complexes like fear, shame and so on. How can we get rid of them?” Baba said, “Shall I tell you the secret? Kiirtan.”

Next day. Since most of the volunteers here are totally inexperienced, I personally had to stand guard-duty just outside the door to Baba’s room while He was giving Personal Contact. Anchala (the wife of Bodhishvara) was hovering around the door, clearly agonized over the impossibility of her entering Baba’s

57

room/

At one point I had to use the upstairs bathroom so I requested another Dada to cover for me. A few minutes later I heard a loud yell, followed by continuous shrieking. The sound came from downstairs. Alarmed, I sprinted forward. The screech became louder. Someone ap

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peared at the top of the stairs, running toward me. It was Anchala! And the scream “Baba! Baba!” was coming from her. She dashed past me.

Confused, I went down to Baba’s room. Immediately several workers jumped on me saying, “You fool! You idiot! How could you be so incompetent?” and so on.

“Stop, stop!” I said. “I don’t know what this is all about. What happened?”

“Playing innocent, huh? As if you don’t know that Anchala forced her way into Baba’s room!”

“What?” I was shocked. I turned toward the Dada to whom I had passed my duty.

“I’m sorry. She was too fast…or, rather, I never expected…”

“Just tell me what happened.”

“The brother who was receiving Personal Contact finished, and came out. I… I wasn’t paying proper attention.” “Obviously.”

“Suddenly I heard Baba yelling—so loud that I think my hair stood on end. He shouted, ‘GET OUT OF HERE!’ I turned to look through the open door and saw Anchala still lying there fully prostrate with her head and outstretched arms under Baba’s bed. She jumped up like a rabbit hearing a shotgun, and ran out.”

“I saw the rest,” I said.

Could this be the last episode in the “Escapades Of Anchala”? Lingua franca

Amsterdam airport. The corridors in this airport seemed exceptionally long. Yet Baba avoided using the moving sidewalks and escalators.

I asked Dada Ramananda if there was any special reason that Baba walked up the stairs rather than using the escalator? .

“He said that escalators make people lazy,” Ramanandaji replied.

While waiting for our plane. Baba told me to sit next to Him. We discussed several subjects. One of these concerned some hearsay about which I had wondered.

“Baba, is it true that You will make a world language in the future?”

57 Until this date, Baba had never given Personal Contact to a woman. It was only some months later that He started Personal Contact for women in small groups.

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“A language suitable for all citizens of this globe will be constituted, yes,” He said.

“Then is it any use for us to learn Esperanto ?” 58

“There is no need to study Esperanto, because the global language we make will be superior. It will be convenient for all peoples. You see, the founders of Esperanto, though well-intentioned, committed two major errors. First, it is based primarily on European language roots. Asians and others thus feel it burdensome to learn. Second, it was propagated mostly among the intellectual community.

“Our lingua franca, on the other hand, will have its roots both in both Occidental and Oriental languages, including Sanskrit. No one will feel difficulty to assimilate it. It will first be popularized among famous leading personalities, so its spread around the world will prove relatively easy.”

The key to our hearts

Stockholm, Sweden. Since that first chaotic experience of Baba’s arrival in Geneva when the security went haywire, our other airport arrivals have been relatively calm and orderly—that is, until Sweden. A few hours drive south of Stockholm lies the only wholetimer training center outside of India and Nepal. Considering that these young men and women trainees pass all their time in the depths of a serene forest ashram, who could imagine that they would go so berserk when they saw Baba? My security forces were completely unprepared for the wild and rapid advance they made toward Him, shouting, “Baba! Baba! Baba!” Again Dada Ramananda went into action, his whirling arms creating a mean defense. But this time it was far from enough. It looked like Baba would be swamped in the mad rush of His devotees. Suddenly, as if on cue, though indeed it was totally spontaneous, all the workers in the entourage encircled Baba, joining hands. Only by a fierce muscular effort were we able to keep Him from being swamped. His smile was particularly maddening for these trainees, most of whom had never physically seen Baba even though they had already fully dedicated their lives for His mission.

58 Esperanto is a language made by philologists, who hoped it would serve as the language for international communication.

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Two days later. To a normal mind. Baba’s actions often seem illogical. But there is a purpose behind every word He speaks, every flicker in His eyes, every tilt of His head. What is the explanation behind His odd conduct here in Sweden? Due to the presence of the trainees, the devotional wave has been high—yet Baba has refused to give darshan for three days. Every morning and every evening their hearts pound with anticipation, only to fall into frustration and despair each time Baba fails to appear.

Finally this evening, at the time of His last scheduled darshan. He directed His car to drive to the big hall where all the Margis sat. Their happiness when they saw Him enter was so strong that many of them wept uncontrollably.

He keeps the key for releasing our devotional longing by constantly varying His behavior in unexpected manners, and by secretly and silently touching our hearts, even when we are totally away from His physical presence.

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CHAPTER 12

As Per System

“It’s a miracle”

Valencia, Spain. Because Ananda Marga began here only two years back, our local organization is not yet strong. There is no large yoga house. Our living quarters and program facilities had to be arranged in a Catholic church on the outskirts of the city.

We arrived in the late evening. Without any experienced local group to help, the arrangements were particularly taxing for me. Baba demands maximum speed. He instructed me that all workers were to meet in His room in one hour. Besides passing along this order, I also had to see to the general security, the kitchen, the program plans, the darshan room, and the workers’ rooms—not to mention dealing with the stream of workers and volunteers who bombarded me with questions about their respective responsibilities.

In the absence of properly experienced security volunteers, I was forced to post a guard at Baba’s door who was, well shall we say, more occupied with spiritual than practical concerns.

It was almost time for the workers’ meeting when a ruckus occurred. Running to Baba’s room, I saw one of the priests stalking out, swearing to God in Spanish, and saying that he would call the police; he wouldn’t be restricted within his own quarters. He was at least a bit drunk. The guard looked on helplessly. I glanced into Baba’s room. He was sitting calmly, unperturbed by the intrusion. When He saw me He instructed me to call the workers to His room immediately.

Within a few minutes everyone arrived. He said to us, “It is the duty of the guest to ensure the host’s comfort in every possible way. Our presence causes some inconvenience to our host. As gentlemen

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we are to fulfill our duty in the proper way. We should therefore leave this place immediately. We should not stay here another moment.” He turned to me and said, “Please thank the priests for allowing us to be here for this hour.”

I was dumbfounded. It would be difficult enough to find facilities on short notice for such a large group—but add to that Baba’s special needs: a room with an attached bath, a nearby room for His personal assistant, a call-bell, space for darshan, a kitchen for Him plus a kitchen for the workers, etc. The challenge was mind-boggling. And it was evening.

Another priest appeared. The drunkard had been only a subordinate; this was the head-priest. I told him we were leaving, and conveyed Baba’s thanks as directed. He pressed his palms together and said in Spanish, “Please, please excuse this great disturbance! Father Carlos was out of his senses. I request you to stay on!”

Hopefully, I passed his words back to Baba. He replied, “Again you must thank him, but we have to leave.”

0, Baba… how could You? Ithought. How in the world will we immediately find another place?

Baba was already packed. He started walking with Ramanandaji toward His car. It was late night. My mind turned blank in bewilderment.

Just at that moment the Dada appeared who had made the original arrangements to stay at the church. “Perhaps I know a house which will be adequate. Your car and Baba’s should follow mine.”

I was astounded. “But how is it possible?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

After a half hour’s drive we arrived at a suburban duplex. Dada led the way upstairs. We entered the room which would serve as His bedroom … then the attached bathroom … looked at the call-bell… the adjacent room for Ramanandaji… the darshan hall, which was adequate, albeit small…

Baba turned to us. saying with a smile, “It’s a miracle that you could get it ready so quickly.”

Afterward I asked that Dada, “What’s the secret?”

“Only a mistake,” he replied. “I first booked the duplex for our program, and even prepared the call-bell. Then the church became available, so I left this place. In my haste, I simply forgot about it and neglected to cancel it.

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“No, no, that’s not the secret,” he added. “The secret is that both problems and solutions have the same source .” 59

Typical intricacies

Notes of all Baba’s talks during field walks have been taken by Dr. Patak, but this morning the doctor could not come so I was requested to do the note¬ taking. Though Baba always speaks informally while walking, I tried my best to transcribe word for word. So these notes are special because of their relative completeness. They cover three days. These three days’ talks were more or less typical of His “usual” style, that is if it can be said that He has a usual style . 60 Notes from the first field walk follow:

“Why do oranges grow here?” He asked. No one answered. “It is because of the Mediterranean climate. The flora and fauna are Mediterranean here. The sweet scents here are also due to Mediterranean climate. Roses and sweet peas are only scenting in the north. It may be that there are some medicinal herbs growing here because the climate is so hot. All of them belong to the Calendula family, having yellow flowers….

“The name of a small stone or pebble in old Latin is rockin. Similarly a small man is mankin in English.”

He requested us to search for a particular herb. It was difficult for Him to look for it because His vision was impaired by the poisoning in prison. One Dada picked up a leafy plant. “Is this it, Baba?”

59 The next day Baba mentioned that something similar had happened to Him twice before in India. On one of those occasions, He was brought to the home of an ex¬ tremely wealthy man. As He entered the house, the owner himself was cooking food for Baba. Baba refused to stay, however, saying the man had earned all of his money by immoral means.

60 J ust near the time of publication, I saw a manuscript for another soon-to-be printed book called " Shri PR Sarkar on History—a Guidebook for Future Historians”. It is based on notes compiled by Acharya Ragunath during the field walks of Baba’s two-month tour of northeast India in 1984. Those informal talks were even more complex and academic than the ones He gave in Europe. By the word “informal” I do not mean talks which were given without prior research or systematic preparation—because Baba gave all of His talks without the slightest preparation. The only characteristic of His so-called formal speeches was in His method of giving a series of speeches on related subjects over a period of days, weeks or months. On the other hand, His informal talks followed no rule.

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“No. this is not the herb which I requested. Nevertheless, this also is a valuable herb. It cures liver problems, dysentery, and other digestive ailments.”

He told the herb’s name in old Latin, Sanskrit, Russian, modern Latin, old Hebrew, and several other languages. One Spanish sister then asked, “And in Spanish, Baba?” He looked at her, laughed, and told its name in—Arabic! I knew that the motivation of this sister was only to test Baba.

Baba’s bedroom and the darshan room are on the second floor. The weather is hot, so the windows are left open.

Throughout the entire darshan we could hear the singing of Baba Nam Kevalam coming from the street outside. After Baba finished darshan and was returning to His room, He asked us, “Who was that singing?”

Bodhishvar stepped forward. “It was my wife Anchala and four other sisters.”

“Huh, what do you say?”

“It is their way of protesting, Baba. Only brothers can receive Personal Contact from You. They feel that sisters also should be able to receive Personal Contact.”

Baba’s face suddenly lost its softness. “No one has the right to make demands on me regarding Personal Contact. It is my personal matter. Neither can the organization dictate to me, nor can any individual or individuals force me to give Personal Contact except as I so please.” He raised His voice slightly. “Do they have any idea of the inner meaning of Personal Contact? I assure you, they cannot understand it. There is good reason why I give Personal Contact to some and not to others. Do you know that Shri Aurobindo gave such Personal Contact only one time in his life? And that too was while he was standing on a balcony, and the individual was down below. No, they do not and cannot understand the significance of Personal Contact.”

Without waiting for any reply from our side, He turned and walked into His room. Just as we were wondering what to say to each other, the door opened and Baba reappeared.

“Tell those five ladies that they are henceforth permanently expelled from the organization. This is my strict order. No one should make any representation on their behalf. If any Dada or Didi appeals for

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them, then that very Dada or that very Didi will likewise be expelled.” Again He disappeared.

We were shocked. Bodhishvar said, “Oh, no!” Others said. “It is too extreme!” “How could He do this?” Yet there was nothing to do but accept it. He left no room for any sort of initiative from our side.

The girls were still singing kiirtan. Someone approached them, and they stopped singing, keen and hopeful to hear Baba’s comment. When they heard His order, they swooned and wept pitifully.

How could Baba be so cruel?

For the rest of the day and much of the night the five of them sat silently on the steps outside.

“The old Atlantis is now underwater except for parts of Spain, Portugal, Ireland and Iceland.”

Baba suddenly stopped walking, and asked, “What was that?”

I directed my torch light at our feet. Due to the dark I had not seen it, but a small animal had run in front of Baba and now sat in front of Him.

I said, “A small mouse. Baba. No. A shrew.”

Baba laughed. I felt that Baba knew exactly who that shrew had been in a past life, and that the shrew had wanted Baba to touch it, or even kill it by stepping on it. Though He refused to do so, I felt He still blessed it. We side¬ stepped the shrew and walked on.

“Dharmavedananda, what is the name of this sea?”

“Mediterranean, Baba.”

“Why is it called that?”

“It means middle-earth, Baba.”

“And is it the middle of the earth?”

“It depends how you look,” I said, “since the earth is pear-shaped.”

“Can there be a middle?” “No, I don’t think so, Baba.”

“Yes. There can be no middle. But the ancient people thought this was the middle of the earth because for them the earth was only Semitic and Alpine. There are big waves. Why is that? The Arabian Sea does not have big waves.”

“Because the Mediterranean is deep. Baba?” “No. Because it is shallow.”

Next day. Notes from this morning’s walk: “This hillock is not an ordinary place. What is the direction of the sea? Is it not east?”

“Yes, Baba,” replied a Spanish Margi.

“I remember one old story,” Baba said. “In the Medieval stage when the Romans—this means over 2000 years ago—when the Roman empire was on its pinnacle of glory, they came here crossing the Mediterranean on the east to conquer Iberia. A fierce battle was fought.”

He pointed to a concrete slab about 150 meters away. “Perhaps this is the place, and that monument commemorates the battle.”

“Strengthen yourselves in north Africa. We will attack from Spain with love. But we shall say to them we are not your born enemies. They will say, ‘We hate you.’ We will say, ‘We love you.’

“From Gibraltar move southward. Gibraltar is actually Spain, but it was given to England as part of a dowry. Historically, ethnologically, culturally and economically Gibraltar is a part of Spain. Now, know a little history. Here also the Romans attacked Iberia in the B.C. period. But at that time there was little difference between Italy and Iberia. The Iberian language is also a part of the Latin language, which died out 500 years ago. (I am not sure He said ‘500’ years ago.) Regarding Oriental-demi Latin and Occidental-demi Latin: 1300 to 1400 years ago Oriental-demi Latin became French and Italian; Occidental- demi Latin became Portuguese and Spanish. Portuguese is just like a dialect. Spanish and Portuguese people each may think. The other is speaking a dialect of my language.’

In the future, Spanish and Portuguese will come closer together and both will be benefited for proper development. Forget the last 700 years of history—they come from the same stock. The old land of Basque, i.e. Spain and Portugal, were a single people….

“Roman pirates came from that part. What is the meaning of pirates? Sea robbers.”

Fie started talking about agriculture. “What are the main vegetables here?”

I missed writing a few vegetables that Fie said. Then Fie continued “…potatoes, beans, brinjals, and onion of white color or gray color? Garlic has no seed. But in the case of onion, the seed or root will work. This land is of what sort?”

No one knew.

“You are cultivators and you do not know? The land is green, and thus fit for cultivation of vegetables and fruits of Mediterranean culture.”

One Margi said, “Baba, do you know that here they use more organic and natural fertilizers than artificial?”

“I know the entire agricultural history of Spain.

“Sweet lemons can grow on the rocky soil here, not oranges. What is the difference between the two? The skin and grain of the orange are loose. But you cannot easily remove the skin of the lemon. Amongst lemons are sweet lemons as big as oranges, which can be conveniently grown on rocky soil. The lower portion (He pointed downhill) is suitable for oranges. Up here is good for sweet lemon.

“Is the ground black or a bit red? It is latterite, a bit red—looking like brick. There is much calcium in it. It is suitable for sweet lemons and grapes. Vineyards are good in the hill area because of the latterite soil. Is this area more engaged in agriculture or horticulture? Horticulture. You may get proper saplings from Israel of sweet lemons. Are there any pineapples grown here?”

“No, Baba,” someone said.

“Pineapples may also be successfully grown here in the summer season. The winter variety may not grow well here because pineapples can not stand chilly climate. There is a ready market for these fruits in north Europe. Now they are imported from far away. In the winter also you can grow them in glass houses. This is particularly applicable in southern and eastern Spain, and southern Portugal—taking advantage of the fine weather during the summer.”

Later in the morning, Baba announced that the expulsion of 3 of the sisters was withdrawn, and that they should be accepted back unconditionally.

Anchala and one other sister were, however, “to remain indefinitely outside of Ananda Marga.” Hearing this, Anchala fell into deep despair. She and the other sister cried loudly, and tears fell profusely from their eyes.

Just before evening darshan. Baba asked Ramanandaji, “Have those girls properly learned their lesson?”

“Yes, Baba. They will never again repeat such a mistake. And everyone else clearly understands that Personal Contact is your personal affair.”

“Yesss. Then the sentence against the last two is also to be lifted. They may again rejoin the organization, if they so wish.”

This evening the five protesters were all on their best behavior: sweet and polite to their utmost. Their eyes shone like those of small girls.

[Author’s note: Many years later I heard of an incident witnessed by Dada Yatishvarananda. It occurred in India preceding the time when Baba started to give Personal Contact to women in small groups. All the members of one family were devoted Margis. The daughter was adamant that she must get Personal Contact from Baba. She sat outside Baba’s room performing long meditation. Dada said he never saw any Indian sister with such determination and fighting spirit. Several brothers were called for Personal Contact. Of course she was not called. She continued doing meditation. The Personal Contacts finished, and it was announced that all should proceed for Baba’s darshan in the adjacent hall. Though everyone else left, she refused to go for darshan, and instead continued meditation. In the darshan Baba said, “For Parama Purusha [Cosmic Consciousness] boys and girls are exactly the same. In the case of Personal Contact, however, I give it to the boys directly. For the girls I use a different style.”

At that moment, everyone heard the sister scream “Baba!” Her parents jumped up and ran out of the hall, anxious for their daughter. They found her lying on the floor, with a blissful expression on her face. Not knowing what to do, they again entered the hall.

Baba said, “Social conditions compel me to use this style when dealing with the girls. When she regains normal awareness, you should massage the joints of her body, and then give her hot milk to drink.”

A few hours later, Dada Yatishvarananda asked her what she had experienced. She said, “I was very angry with Baba. Due to anger I became fully concentrated in thinking about Him. Suddenly my mind soared out of this world, and through the Cosmos. I saw all the stars and galaxies, and finally entered into ecstasy beyond description. I became one with Baba. So I don’t want Personal Contact anymore.”]

Next day. Valencia airport. My note-taking continued even without request:

While waiting for the flight, Baba said, “The Bay of Basque was originally a part of Atlantis —that’s why it is so shallow. Wherever the sea is shallow, there are big waves. The Pacific Ocean is very deep—in some places more than six miles deep—and the waves are small in size. The man who knows little talks tall.

“There should be cultural, geological, zoological and other surveys around the coast of Iberia, because some new clues may be found about Atlantis. But that is only feasible if Iberia gets economic help for the survey from such an organization as the UNO, because it requires huge expenditure, and Spain is too poor. Physically I come here for the first time, but mentally I have been here before.

“Just after taking a hot drink, you must not take a cold drink. But the reverse can be done. The former disturbs the nervous system—the nerve fibers cannot tolerate the change. So, rules should be followed in each and every sphere of life. Since the time I left the military department in (1940-something), I am not wearing socks. It is my system. If I use socks then my head will be heated. If I take onion I will feel feverish. Garlic likewise makes me sick.

Everything must be done as per system. I did not feel any difficulty while I was barefoot in the snow in Switzerland—rather my feet were hot. Create a system. I did not take any food for 5 years, 4 months and 2 days—and I did not feel any difficulty. When the special medical team came from Delhi, the doctor said, ‘Baba’s heart is stronger than ours.’ There was no shortage of memory, nor problem with the brain. My memory is perfect since I was a one-day-old baby. I remember everything. All of this is by your grace, by your mercy.

“For philological surveys, you will have to go to remote villages to study the vocabulary used by them. Tape-record their intonation. If you go northward from London, you will hear different intonations.”

He spoke the words lake and gold in about ten different British intonations proceeding upward from London.

“You will have to go to villages, undergoing the pain of such travel-books will not help much. You will have to study the rocks, the underground and above-ground water. Study the language of the bulls—the bovine language. A farmer of south India uses a particular commanding tone to bulls. The tone used by farmers in England and Scotland is different. The bulls understand only the language of their own comer.”

Baba demonstrated the difference between the tones used in north and south India.

“There are twenty-two pronunciations of the letter ‘a’ in English, five in Spanish, and two in French. You will have to go deep into the source of intonation. So philology is not an easy subject.

“There are many special customs in Spain. For example, bull fighting. In Latin bull is torus. Only in Spanish exists the word tor ear, which means bull¬ fighting. One constellation of the zodiac is Taurus or bull. The first is Aries, which means sheep. The second is Taurus.

“If I get sufficient time, I may do something to help the cultural life of Iberia through Renaissance Artists’ and Writers’ Association. Due to the Ananda Marga organization I hardly get any time. You may form Renaissance Universal clubs—it has immense possibilities. And we should try to do something regarding the capacity of the vocal chords, through which we express our feelings. The scope of talking is less than that of feeling. If you are stuck with one pin, you say ‘Oh!’ If you are stuck with two pins, you also say ‘Oh!’ Language fails to express the difference. And if one finger is cut, then too you say ‘Oh!’ Feeling is far deeper than expression. Similarly, one tear drop may come in the case of both one or two pins. So tears do not exactly express the feelings either. Tears are physical, ‘Oh!’ is verbal—such points also come within the range of philology.”

Baba explained the names of some Margis present.

“Liilananda means the bliss that Parama Purusha [Cosmic Consciousness] feels when He creates this universe. When He does not create anything He enjoys bliss within Himself and is called Nityananda. Liilavatii means the energy which dances along the movement of creation. The vital energy used in pleasing the Lord is called A rjuna….

“In 1969, when I first went to Manila, they sang Spanish songs. There, all educated people know Spanish. Before World War I, Spanish was the official language. After that the Philippines came under America and the official language became English. Most of the Margis know some Spanish. Our Filipino acharyas have been posted in South America because they know Spanish.

“Something has to be done now about Esperanto . Before Esperanto is established, our people should learn at least broken English as a universal link language. It is a necessity. Esperanto had immense pos¬ sibilities, but there were no big supporters….

“Are there any special arrangements to study Indology or Egyptology or Sinology in Spanish universities?”

One Margi answered. “Maybe in Madrid. Baba. But these things are better to study in Germany.”

“In Munich there are several branches of humanities. The first link was studied by Max Mueller. He studied Vedic and modern Sanskrit. In his time he was an authority.”

On the plane. Even here my notes continued, trying to catch Baba word-for- word.

“The same style of octave is followed in Spain as in the Far East and China. Here the music contains a blending of oriental and occidental tunes. Music is not of standard European style….

“For Iberia, the past was bright, the present is cloudy, and the future is full of sunshine. I love the people here very much.”

In relation to the priest who lost his temper while we were in the monastery. He said, “A man in missionary service should try to keep his brain cool.”

215 Travels with the Mystic Master

Doctor Pathak commented that the Spanish word salida is close to the Bengali word chalo.

Baba joked, “In an English class (in India), the teacher said, ‘If you wish to pronounce cholera with a hard “ch” sound, then Ch-olera chale!” [meaning Go away cholera!]

“The name of the old mixture of Spanish and Portuguese was called the Iberian language. Even today, some of the Spanish dialects vary more from standard Spanish than from Portuguese. If the European Common Market system were extended to all countries of Europe, then Spain and Portugal would both be benefited.”

As Baba spoke this sentence I wrote benefitted in my notebook.

Though He could not see what I had written, He said, “Dharmaved-ananda, what is the spelling of benefited!”

“B-E-N-E-F-I-T-T-E-D,” I said.

“No. Though the rule is that a short sound gets a double consonant, this is an exception, and there is only one ’t’. There was a man named Rainjan Chateijee who had an MA in English, and was very proud of himself. Shailapati was not proud. Rainjan spelled benefited with two ’t’s, and Shailapati questioned him. But Rainjan was sure of himself.

“Shailapati said, ‘Okay. You can spell benefited with two ’t’s because lately in Bankipur there has been a number of incidents of dacoity. So two ’t’s is good for security.”

(Afterwards I looked through my notebook and found this to be my only careless spelling mistake in twenty pages of notes. Just see how nicely Baba caught me.)

He continued, “English replaced French to lead the world because: A) It has the flexibility to accept words of other languages like raja and jungle. B) Its grammar is more simple than that of French. The verbs do not change according to the number and gender of the nominative case. And the nominative does not change according to the gender. C) Book-French and people’s-French vary with each other. So what should be taken as the standard?

“See how English ate up Scottish, Welsh and Irish. By the same reasoning, Hindi is not popular throughout India due to its grammatical complication.”

(This ends my detailed notes from three days of His informal talks.)

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Nothing beyond infinity

Lyon, France. Though we have a yoga house here, the Margis deemed it unfit for Baba’s stay. Instead, they arranged a hotel suite for Him.

Baba hammered His words into Dada Ramananda. “Have I come here to stay in a hotel? Am I a bag of luggage to be stored away between darshans? Nonsense!” He steamed. “You are the culprit here. You approved the schedule and all the facilities. See to our shifting to the jagriti (yoga house) immediately. I shall not unpack my bag here.”

I felt bad because it was not really Ramanandaji’s fault.

“But, Baba, there is no attached bath for you there. It will be highly inconvenient.”

“It will be highly inconvenient, highly inconvenient,” He mimicked in a high falsetto. “I am not here for a vacation! I am here to work and be with the Margis. If we are not out of here in five minutes…” and His voice trailed off into a mumble.

It was a fact that there was no attached bathroom for Him in the yoga house. Setting up a portable toilet next to His room solved part of the problem. For bathing, however, He had to walk through almost all the other rooms to reach the bathroom near the front door. Margis and workers were of course sitting everywhere. Considering that He takes a full bath at least three times a day, this was indeed an inconvenience. Yet Baba’s mood could not have been sweeter.

Two days later. The Didi in charge of His kitchen handed me a basket this morning containing three thermos jugs—water, juice and milk. Because I was extremely busy preparing for the field walk, I passed the basket to one of the security volunteers, and requested him to bring it to the car.

During the field walk. Baba drank nothing. After returning. He requested milk. Moments later, a distraught Ramanandaji came to me. “What did you do to the milk?” “Nothing. What’s the matter?”

“When I offered a cup of it to Baba, He smelled it and said. ‘It’s gone sour.’ I’ve seen this sort of thing before. It happens only when the food or drink for Baba is handled carelessly—disrespectfully.”

“But I think Didi, myself and the guard were all meticulous.”

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“It was a great problem. When Baba refused the milk, I suggested that another cup would be prepared. But He said. It will violate our time schedule. So leave it.’ This is very, very bad. That’s why I want to find the cause. You have to check it and report to me within thirty minutes.”

Unable to imagine the cause, I spoke to Didi and the guard, but both claimed their behavior had been proper. I sat down to think. A minute later, the guard came back, saying,

“Dada, do you think that anything might have happened because of where I put the basket?”

“What? Didn’t you carry it directly out to the car after I gave it to you?”

“Yes, but no, well in fact, as I was bringing it out the door, I remembered my hat. I put the basket down near the door, and ran back to fetch my hat. But it was only a minute, Dadaji.”

“Show me exactly where you put it.”

He pointed to the dusty area packed with everyone’s shoes.

I understood, and went to Ramanandaji.

“This is surely the explanation,” He said.

“Will you tell Baba?”

“What for? He knows everything. Rather He caused this incident to happen just to teach you.”

During the darshan, Baba said, “Suppose that a gentleman is undergoing fasting and secretly in a closed room he takes chocolate. The man says to himself, ‘No one will know! Nobody will know!”’

At this moment one brother abruptly exclaimed, “Oh Baba!”

Baba continued, “Not so—his unit cognition will know that I’ve taken chocolate, and similarly the Cosmic Father will also know that in a particular room that unit body takes chocolate secretly. That unit body is still thinking, ‘The fact that I took chocolate on fasting day is not known to anybody.’ It’s known to everybody, nothing is secret.

“Now suppose Anchala is thinking like this: ‘This night I will not join general darshan and I will sing Baba Nam Kevalam just on the footpath.’ But Anchala’s thought waves will be known to the Supreme Father also. The Supreme Father says, ‘Ohh! Anchala is thinking like this. Issue a banning order saying Anchala won’t be allowed to attend general darshan.’ Nothing is secret.”

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Afterward I asked the brother why he had reacted so suddenly to Baba’s words about chocolate.

“Because He described what happened to me and the exact words I was thinking on the last fasting day.”

Following the darshan, Baba said, “Everything in this universe is the mental creation of the Supreme progenitor. As long as His mind is there, you are within His mind. He cannot say, ‘Get out, get out of here! I don’t want to see your face!’ He cannot say this. Because in that case you can ask Him, ‘Oh Lord, You say, “Get out!”, then where am I to go? It would be within Your mind.” 1

Now Anchala said, “Oh!”

Baba looked at her, continuing, ‘“And, Lord, if You say, “Get out! Go beyond the periphery of My mind”, then certainly. Oh Lord, You are not infinite. Because there is something beyond Your mind. So just to maintain the prestige and dignity of Your name. You are to tolerate what I do and what I think. And that’s why it is Your duty to guide me. Iam Your son, I am Your daughter. I am to do according to Your dictates.’”

Just before evening darshan, several Indian avadhutas and I were together in Baba’s room when He said, “I am now going to tell a story. But I prefer to speak in Bengali. If I were to tell it in English, it would lose some of its charm and much of its humor. Do you mind, Dharmavedananda?”

“No, no. Baba, of course I don’t mind.”

“Good. Afterward, Vijayananda will translate the story for you.”

I did get the translation, and will explain below. But during the talk I had my own experience.

Baba was in a chair, while we sat on the floor at His feet. He was served a large glass of lemon-water. A cloth napkin was tucked under His chin, which made Him look a bit child-like. Since I did not understand much of what He said, I paid attention only to His physical actions. As He spoke. He gradually brought the glass closer and closer to His mouth. Just as He was about to drink. He said something which made the Dadas laugh. He also laughed and brought the glass back down without drinking. Continuing. He again moved the lemon- water

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toward His mouth and just as He was about to drink, He came to another funny line and, laughing with everyone. He again brought the drink down. He did this repeatedly, which made me laugh every time. At the end of the story, the Dadas were laughing so hard that some of them were rolling on the floor holding their sides. At last He brought the glass to His lips and, giving me a wink, drank the entire contents.

As to the story (keep in mind that this translated version is missing many of the subtle Bengali nuances and all of His body-language), it concerned His army days before India’s independence from Great Britain. Since Baba was a corporal, the privates in His platoon frequently complained to Him about their selfish sergeant. The food the privates got was very poor, while the sergeant a e well and never shared a crumb with them.

One day. Baba said to the sergeant, “Sir, I know this jungle area well. I passed part of my youth nearby. I want to advise you about a most important point.”

“Yes, go ahead,” the sergeant said. “I’m all ears.”

“There are dangerous jackals roaming here. They are capable of killing a man and taking him for supper.”

Opening his eyes wide, the sergeant said, “Then what shall we do? Are there any precautions we can take?”

“Generally these jackals attack in the middle of the night. Before attacking, however, they make a slight coughing sound. If we hear that sound, we must not alert the animal to our presence by moving. Do you understand?”

“Corporal Sarkar, I depend on you to get us through this region alive.”

“Don’t worry. Sir. For maximum security, it will be best that I sleep in your tent.”

“By all means, please do so.”

That night Baba slept next to the sergeant. About 3:00 in the morning, Baba woke him up, and whispered, “Listen.” “What is it?” exclaimed the anxious sergeant. “Shhhh, quiet,” He said. A soft cough could be heard. “Is it…?”

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“Yes, it’s surely a jackal,He whispered.

“Oh God! In the Name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit…”

“Quiet,” hissed Baba.

Another sound was heard.

“I say! What’s that?” said the sergeant. “It seems he’s entered my supply tent!”

“Shhh, quiet, Sir, please.”

Then a clicking sound.

“By God, I think he’s getting right into my tiffin box!” “Sir. you’ll give us away,” whispered Baba. “What ho! I can hear the rustle of my bag of channa chura (spicy snack)!”

“Do keep quiet. Sir.”

“I say! It sounds like he’s taking my satchel of dried fruits and nuts!” “Sir, please.”

“Oh Lord, I’m sure that’s the sandesh (milk sweets)!”

“You’ll get us killed, Sir.”

“Oh heaven save me, the cakes!”

Baba grabbed his shoulders, whispering, “Get a hold of yourself, Sir! You’ve absolutely got to hush up. Don’t even move.”

The sergeant lay there, unmoving. But his eyes were filled with horror hearing the sounds from the supply tent. At last, there was silence. Ten seconds, twenty seconds…

The sergeant jumped up, saying, “He must be gone! I’ll just see…” He ran

out.

“Oh, Mother Mary!” he yelled from the supply tent. “That jackal’s taken every last drop of my eatables! God damn him!”

Baba walked in, saying, “Sir, really. How can you care for such a small matter, when here we stand alive?”

“Oh damn, damn, damn. You’re right, but…” and mumbling beneath his breath he went back to his tent.

Baba looked in, saying, “Sir, better I survey around, to ensure the creature’s really gone.”

“Very well,” sighed the sergeant.

Then Baba went to the privates’ tent to join them in their well-deserved feast.

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During the darshan Baba said. “In the prehistoric world, on this globe of ours, the first language that was spoken was about six million years ago. The language came, but the intellectual standard was very poor. At that time even the forefathers of present human society, those apes and proto-apes, were not here. Modern humans came about one million years ago. They had language but at that time their intellectual standard was also very poor. As the intellectual standard was low, the vocabulary was also very poor. Even amongst the developed species of apes, the vocabulary is about 600 words. And in the most undeveloped species of humans, the vocabulary is a little more than 900. Whereas in the modern French language, the vocabulary is more than 4 lakhs, i.e. 400.000.”

Next day. It was 9:00 a.m. I was in the workers’ room, resting on my back with my eyes closed. Nearly a month had passed, and now only three days remained of His program in Berlin Sector. I was exhausted. Thoroughly and totally. Having had minimal sleep, minimal meditation, minimal food, and maximum stress during this period, I thought, H 0 W can I continue for another three days? I love Baba and even love this work, but it’s too much. Would that this were the last day. I’m sooo tired. I’m too tired to even move my hand. I can’t even move a muscle. Nothing can possibly make me move now.

Just in that moment someone said, “Baba!”

The room rippled with excitement and surprise. Suddenly realizing that Baba had entered, I jumped straight to my feet within a fraction of a second.

Baba walked up to me. He gave me that mischievous smile which shows His dimples but not His teeth. Though He said nothing, I distinctly caught His thought: Nothing can possibly make you move, huh?

The great good of deportation

Milano airport, Italy. June 4. There were thirteen of us in Baba’s entourage. We passed through immigration procedures normally; all the passports were stamped for entry into Italy.

Just as we were beginning the customs check, an official ran up to us. “Please! I’m sorry, please let me have your passports again!”

Without the slightest idea of the cause of this abnormal treatment, we collected our passports and gave them to him. We walked back with

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him to the immigration area, and watched, horrified, as he stamped all the passports again. Over the entry permits he stamped ‘CANCELED.’ He gave no explanation and requested us to sit down.

All of us were running in different directions, talking to any and every officer that we could find, trying to get an explanation, and reverse this shocking mistreatment. I felt especially responsible because I was the only one of the group who could speak Italian.

After a few minutes of this pandemonium, I suddenly became aware that Baba was acting in a way I had never seen before. He was sitting alone, looking at nobody, and turning both forefingers and one foot in small circles—surely mudras to manipulate the circumstances. The action was similar to that I’ve seen done by other Tantrics who were tapping some occult power (Afterward I tried to imitate the movements, but could not). I understood that He was in full control of what was happening, and wanted it to proceed exactly as it was. Knowing that nothing I could do would affect His plan, I straightway sat down next to Him. Under the influence of His energy, I became calm and meditative.

After another hour, we were led to a shuttle bus. Everyone was talking excitedly, except for me. I stood next to Baba who appeared completely serene. We got on a plane and flew back to France. At no point did any official offer an explanation for our deportation.

When we arrived back at the Lyon airport, I telephoned the yoga house. Only one Dada and three full-timers were there. All the other Margis had either gone home or were traveling to Italy for Baba’s program. Of course that Dada was shocked, but he arranged three cars to fetch us.

While waiting for the cars, I stood next to Baba, offering what little security I could provide.

Ignoring my intention. He said, “Sit down, Dharmavedananda.”

Like a small boy, I happily put my stick down and sat next to Him. As He turned to speak to me. He accidentally brushed His hand against my shoulder and said. “Oh, pardon me.”

I laughed and said. “You’re welcome to do it again. Baba.”

He smiled. I was happy, together with my Baba, oblivious of whatever complications we were undergoing.

“Tell me, Dharmavedananda, what is the great good which will come out of this deportation.”

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I was surprised at his question. I thought for a moment and then replied, “I don’t really know. Baba. But I suppose the hundreds of devotees who were waiting for You in the Milano airport are now frustrated and disappointed. They’ll surely feel very bitter toward their own government, and they will better understand how corrupt their system is. As a result, they’ll be much more encouraged to work hard for the establishment of a society guided by spiritual morality.”

He said, “Yes, you understand a little something.”

The cars arrived. Baba entered one car and I entered another. For the first time in several hours I was separated from Him. For the first time, I started to think in a normal way.

As we drove down the highway toward the yoga house, I turned gloomy. My mind sank deep within itself, and in that moment I remembered the thought I’d had in the morning while lying on the floor: H OW can I continue another three days? Would that this were the last day. Oh. why did I think such a stupid thing? Now here it was happening according to my idiotic wish. His flight to Bombay was already fixed for the evening.

I was so sad that I started to weep softly. I thought. Baba, I miss you already. Then I thought. Please, You have to give me one last chance to be alone with You again. Please, when You call someone to massage You, let it be me. This thought ran on uncontrollably until we arrived at the yoga house.

As we entered, the place seemed deserted compared with how it had been when we left that morning. Already most of the decorations had been taken down, and in every corner lay the remains of a yet uncompleted cleaning effort.

Baba entered His room. I sat on the floor alone, alone with my sorrow. After a few minutes He came out and went for His bath.

When He returned to His room, I continued to sit alone, sure that He would soon summon me.

Ramanandaji came out, saying, “Karunanandaji, Baba is calling you for massage.”

What was this? I was so much into my own world that I never considered He might call another worker. I became distraught and dismayed.

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A moment later though, Karunanandaji opened the door and rushed out saying, “Dharmavedanandaji, Baba is calling for you to come also. The electric fan is not working for some strange reason, so you should fan Him with, with…“He didn’t know what to use as a fan.

I grabbed a newspaper, ran into His room, and started fanning Him with it. Meanwhile, Kamnanandaji also came back to do the massage. Baba was in a blissful state. I was now as high as I had been down a few moments before.

At first Baba was in a quiet mood. He began speaking about the suffering He and His mission had undergone from the very time of His childhood. But His voice carried no resentment. It had all been necessary and ultimately good.

Then He returned to the present. “What is the cause of this deportation?”

“I believe the Indian government fed bad information about Ananda Marga to the Italian government,” Karunanandaji said.

“Well, it may be, it may be,” Baba said with eyes half-closed. Then He opened His eyes and said, “But it may be a religious institution.” He told the exact name of that institution.

We were both surprised. Though He said “it may be a religious institution,” we understood Him to mean that it definitely was that institution.

“You see those priests,” He said, “they teach the people to think, ‘I am a sinner, I am a sinner. Lord, save me, I am a sinner.’ Thus they infuse inferiority complex. Even if one is not a sinner, praying like this, identifying with sin, he or she will become a sinner. Today’s young people don’t like this approach.

“Whereas Ananda Marga gives a revolutionary call to the youth. We say that everyone should think, “I am the son or I am the daught er of the Supreme Father. Lord, no matter what I’ve done. You have to take me on Your lap.’”

He was silent for a few moments. Then He sat up, looking serious and said. “Why do they fear us?”

By His word they, we understood He was no longer talking of any single religious institution, but rather of all the people and groups that fear Ananda Marga. The question was rhetorical, so we didn’t try to answer.

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“They fear us because we are better than the Hindus in philosophy…

better than the Christians in social service …

better than the Jews in orthodoxy …

better than the Buddhists in morality …

better than the Moslems in social equality …

better than the Jains in asceticism …

and better than the Communists in mobility. That’s why they fear us.”

In the evening some of the local Margis came. As usual, a large procession formed, accompanying Baba to the airport. But this time He was not traveling on another leg of the journey. He was leaving us.

I was so involved in the arrangements that it again slipped my mind that the final moment was approaching. I remained busy until Baba began the passport check. Though I was not flying, I somehow managed to enter the passengers- only area.

I walked next to Baba in silence. As each moment passed, I became more heavy-hearted. Finally, He and the others entered the gate to board the plane. I forced myself to smile at Him. He smiled back and gave a slight wave of His hand. Then He turned the comer and was out of sight.

I walked some distance to where I could be alone and cried.

Next day. In the mid-morning, completely exhausted from the tour, I sprawled out on the floor and fell asleep. Dada Vedaprajinananda told me afterward,

“When I walked by what I thought was a near-mindless Dharmaved- ananda. I was surprised to hear you talking in your sleep. You called out. ‘Where can we take Baba tonight for fieldwalk?’

“Just for fun I decided to answer you and said. We can take Him along the Rhone River,’ thinking that would be the end of it.

“But, still sleeping, you replied, ‘No, we can’t take Him there. He was there yesterday!’”

Today Dada Kamnananda told me, “When we were still in the Milano airport, but it was clear that all our efforts would go nowhere and that we would surely be deported, I asked Baba: ‘Baba, they don’t

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allow us. What we should do?’ Baba said, What can we do? We will go back.’ Then He put His hand on His nephew Paltu’s shoulder. He weS a bit tired and said, “There’s nothing wrong with the people of Italy. There is something wrong with the government.’ I said, ‘Baba, I’m so sorry. We could have organized better for You.’ But Baba said to me. What did you say? Sorry? Why sorry? You should never be sorry. When I was leaving Bombay I decided that I would give thirty-five discourses during this tour. The thirty-fifth discourse was completed last night in Lyon. So I knew that I would not be able to speak further in Verona. Still I came here up to Milano airport. And I am going back from here. There is some reason why I came and why I am going back.”’

Confirmation of Baba’s ‘guess’

Two weeks later. Mainz, West Germany. The news from Italy: Today brother Markendeya and a few other Italian Margis completed their efforts to find out the cause of the deportation of Baba’s tour group. At an early stage of their investigation they were able to confirm that the original request for the deportation had indeed come from somewhere inside the religious institution named by Baba.

The official in that institution who conveyed the request to the Italian government told them he had only performed his duty, and did not know the reason. He was ordered to do so by a higher religious official. The Margis then met that higher official. He directed them to an even higher officer from whom he had received his order. This upward relay continued until they were led to an inner circle around the supreme authority. At this point they were told by the very highest official they met. “I am sorry. I am not permitted to give you any more information regarding the source or the reasoning behind this process

Travels with the Mystic Master

CHAPTER 13

Vi sal ess Travel

Increasing bliss, increasing struggle

Verona, Italy. August. New news! What a wonderful surprise. Baba will be coming to Europe again! And after such a short gap. Maybe He will come often. Wouldn’t that be a delightful dream!

Of course, knowing Baba, the struggle I experienced during His first visit will only be greater this time. So goes the path of bliss.

He is scheduled to come first to Greece with a complete entourage on September 19th. This time it will be a ten day program. Tonight I already started calling all over the continent to begin preparations. I even had to call Iceland.

Hannover. 16 September. Another of His sudden games: at 3:00 in the morning I received a call that the timetable for Baba’s European tour had been pushed forward, and that He is to arrive in Athens the day after tomorrow. Three hours later I was on a southbound train together with two other Dadas.

I almost feel like saying, “This is too much.” But I won’t because He knows what He’s doing.

Next day. Athens, Greece. When we arrived at the station this morning, we were met by a new Greek Margi. “Namaskar, Dadas!”

“Namaskar. What’s your name, brother?” “I Giriish!

Trip good?”

“It was okay. Traveling is a big part of our life, you know.” “Yah hah!”

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“Giriish, you must be excited that Baba is coming.”

‘Baba! Oh Baba! Was beautiful!”

“Yes, it’ll be beautiful. I guess you’ve never seen Baba before, Giriish?”

“Oh Baba! Was so beautiful!”

“Yes. Is His coming still fixed as planned?”

“Yes! Coming! Yesterday! Beautiful!”

“Not yesterday, Giriish. The word is tomorrow.”

“Coming yesterday! Coming yesterday!”

We ran to the station telephone, and called the yoga house. It was true: Baba came and left yesterday! How could this be?

We walked to the yoga house, still hoping there was a misunderstanding. There we met Dada Shaktinath.

“Yesterday the phone rang,” said Shaktinath. “The party said, ‘I am Dada Ramananda, and we are here with Baba in the airport.’ I said, ‘Yeah, sure. Who is this really?’ He said, ‘Believe me, I’m Ramananda. We came a little early.’ I was shocked, but I ran to the airport with two Greek Margis. I was the only Dada here. I was excited, but also worried: nothing was prepared yet. Not even their visas.

“By the time we got there, Baba and all the Dadas and the Didi and Margis in His group were outside the airport waiting for us.

“After we paid our respects to Baba, I asked, ‘No trouble with the visas?’

“‘No, no trouble,’ Dada Ramananda said. We didn’t get any visas.’

“‘What? How did you get out of the airport?’

“I still wonder that myself,’ Dada Ramananda said. ‘I had hoped you brothers could arrange something for us. But Baba took the initiative. We were waiting inside the immigration building when He walked out one door and waved for us to join Him. I guess we never would have been able to get the visas. Without Baba’s lead we couldn’t have entered Greece.’

“Then we took Baba to the yoga house. Though nothing had been properly arranged yet, He didn’t seem to mind. He was very affectionate. After a few milutes, Dada Ramananda told me that Baba would like to bathe and rest. The yoga house was not suitable so then we went to Jayanta’s house. Though everything was hodge-podge. Baba’s mood was perfect, and so was the darshan in the evening. Early this morning they all left for Egypt.”

Travels with the Mystic Master

We three Dadas were completely frustrated. We went to the beach for a swim. It was my first leisure-break in months.

When I arrived back at the yoga house, I received a phone call from Dada Karunananda.

“Baba will be arriving in Iceland tomorrow evening from Cairo. You should immediately fly there.”

“What? It’s not possible! Are you sure?”

“What can I say? Ramanandaji called me just now with that information. I’ve booked my flight to arrive in Reykjavik this evening. Don’t be late.”

“But I’ve only got about $200, and the flight will surely cost more than $ 1000 .”

“That’s your problem.”

When I told the other Dadas, they had a good laugh.

“There’s no money among the Margis here,” said Shaktinath. “This is one of the poorest units in Europe.”

“There’s no time and there’s no way you’ll make it,” another Dada said.

“We’ll see,” I said.

After about twenty phone calls, and the usual incredible coincidences, I jumped in a taxi. It was thirty minutes before the departure of the only appropriate flight. Brother Sandiip met me at the airport. As he handed me the money, he said, smiling, “For me is too much, Dada. But I love Baba.”

“Yeah. So do I,” I said, thanking him with a hug.

Reykjavik, Iceland. We were rushing like mad to get everything ready in time for Baba’s arrival when the phone rang. It was Dada Ramananda.

There would be a change, he said. They would arrive the day after tomorrow.

The phone almost slipped from my hand as I thought about the part of my fare that was “wasted”—I could have gone by train at least as far as Copenhagen, and saved about $500. Well, I suppose this was a good exercise for developing surrender in Sandiip. And in me.

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Two days later. Even though we had two days to prepare, we were still anxiously making last minute arrangements when the phone rang. It was Ramanandaji.

“There’s been another change,” he said. “We will come tomorrow.”

[Author’s note: I later heard the story behind Baba’s delay. That morning, Baba and His entourage were in transit at the Copenhagen airport. Without visas, they could not come out to meet the Margis. By the goodwill of the immigration authorities, however, a special exception was granted, and the Margis were able to enter the transit area to enjoy His darshan for two hours.

The plane took off for Reykjavik. But after thirty minutes in the air, the captain announced that difficult weather conditions had suddenly developed. The flight was diverted to Oslo.

In my opinion the highest kiirtans of Europe are found in Oslo. I had wondered why Baba chose not to visit there.

Of course, the group had no visas to enter Norway. All the Dadas expected to either stay in the transit hall, or otherwise follow the instructions of the airlines. Baba, however, was of a different mind. Without consulting any of them. He headed for immigration. One of the workers said, “Baba, excuse me, we have no visas for Norway, so it will be of no use to go through immigration. We might try to speak to the highest authority here.” But Baba paid no attention. He simply stood in the passport line. Their protests unheard, the others also fell into line. When they saw the officer stamping an entry permit in Baba’s passport everyone was astonished. They could hardly suppress their laughter as one by one they were all similarly admitted into Norway.

Just after the last Dada’s passport was stamped, however, the officer seemed to wake up.

“Wait a moment,” he said. “Let me see your passport again. … What’s this? There’s no Norwegian visa! No no, this is very bad. All of you Indians, give me your passports back.”

“Ah, but we have friends here in Oslo,” said Dada Ramananda. “Before you cancel the visas, allow us first to call our friends. Perhaps this can be straightened out.”

“This is highly irregular,” said the officer. “Wait here.”

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A higher official was approached, telephone calls were made, and several unbelieving, shocked Margis came to the airport. As the negotiations proceeded. Baba sat with the Margis and gave a mini-darshan. Eventually it was decided that Baba, Ramanandaji, and Didi Ananda Prajina would be permitted to enter Norway. The others would have to stay in a hotel arranged by the airlines.

The exuberant Margis and their three guests drove to the house of two Margi couples: Manohar and Jyotsna, and Abaniish and Hansa. When Baba entered the bedroom where He was to stay, the bed was still unmade from the previous night. It seemed He could not have cared less and was in good humor.

That evening scores of Margis packed into the little house. Though the facilities were unsuitable for Baba to give darshan, the air was full of excitement and devotion.

The next morning Baba returned to the airport. In the airport itself He gave darshan for one hour, thus fully satisfying everyone. (Even the Dadas who had stayed in the hotel were satisfied, having convinced the airline officials to grant them free of charge “a few short” international phone calls.]

Spiritual motivation only

Baba fixed Iceland as the site for the only DMC program in Europe during His tour. Iceland is perhaps the most difficult point for European Margis to reach. And it is certainly not considered a resort island. Moreover, there are fewer Margis in Iceland than in most other European countries. Though He hasn’t explained the reason, we guess that there must be a spiritual cause. Certainly there is something distinctive about this island of the midnight sun. Some mystics have written that Iceland is one of the earth’s highest energy centers. Though I feel they may be right, I don’t really know. But at least Baba did say this island is one of the few portions of the ancient land of Atlantis which is still above water.

This reminded me of a story about Baba from some years back. A rich Margi had a personal problem and desired Baba’s help. When he was admitted for personal contact, he secretly carried with him a substantial quantity of gold, thinking to offer it to Baba. When he entered Guru’s room, he was shocked. Rather than sitting on His bed as usual,

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Baba was sitting on a huge pile of gold coins. Baba said. “Do you think your riches mean anything to me?” The values of the common person and a Tantric guru are quite different.

Upon returning from field walk Ramanandaji noticed some blood on Baba’s foot when he was taking off Baba’s shoes.

“Baba, what is this? When did You get injured?”

“It has been troubling me for several days.”

“But Baba, You didn’t mention it before.”

Baba did not reply. Ramanandaji picked up the shoe and looked inside. He found a nail protruding from the sole.

“Baba, look at this nail! Why didn’t You tell me? We could have fixed it or gotten new shoes.”

He smiled. “I did not want to disturb you.”

“So You destroyed Your foot! Oh, look at it! There must have been so much pain. Now You disturb me anyway! You should have told me the moment the problem came!”

Still smiling. He said. “Recently I absorbed a large quantity of samskaras while giving personal contacts. 61 It was necessary that Prakriti 62 express at least a little something in the balance. If I had informed you of the nail in my shoe, you surely would have eliminated my discomfiture. But then Prakriti would have had to devise another form of compensation.”

Secret connection

A dozen workers were in Baba’s bedroom today, laughing our heads off at His jokes.

At one point. He looked at Dada Rudreshvarananda, who is French by birth, and started speaking in his mother tongue. Though the rest of us understood next to nothing, Rudreshvaranandaji was so tickled by Baba’s French mirth, that he literally rolled on the floor in laughter. Later I came to know that Baba was making absurd comparisons be

61 Here Baba refers to the fact that during personal contact He relieves disciples of certain samskaras, (reactive momenta or unexpressed reactions) which most impede the individual’s spiritual development.

62 Prakriti is commonly defined as “Nature.” More precisely it is the operational prin¬ ciple causing Cosmic Consciousness to express itself.

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tween the objects and the people in the room. This French session went on for perhaps ten minutes.

Afterward I asked Rudreshvaranandaji, “How was Baba’s French pronunciation?”

“Better than my own. Baba spoke with a perfect Paris accent, whereas I was raised far outside of Paris. I think even His vocabulary exceeds mine.”

“But how could He know so much French?”

“He surely has a secret direct connection with the Cosmic Funny Bone,” Rudreshvaranandaji replied.

Lost in His shoes

Today was DMC day, and brother Jyotishvar from America had an interesting experience to recount afterwards.

“I arrived in Iceland three weeks before DMC. Together with a few others, I worked everyday to prepare for the great event. We worked hard painting, cleaning, organizing, and furnishing Baba’s quarters. Although it was fun to do, few people seemed interested in the project, and I wondered if there would be much of a turnout for the DMC. However, as the day of Baba’s arrival drew near, Margis began to appear.

When the Dadas arrived, they began asking for a volunteer to guard Baba’s house during the DMC (which of course meant missing the DMC), but strangely enough no one was the least bit interested. Even after Baba’s arrival, no one could be persuaded to take the duty. Dada Dharmavedananda. the security in-charge for Europe, asked me to do it. I adamantly refused. I had been working on Baba’s house for weeks with little support of the local Margis, and was frustrated that everyone was coming at the last minute to see Baba and was not willing to do any service. Ultimately the Central Dada said I would have to take the duty since I had already attended several DMCs. I was very upset, and even tried to hire some black-belts from the nearby karate school to guard instead of me. But all to no avail.

By DMC time, I was crazy with anger. I was fighting with everyone. When the last person left for the program, the silence became unbearable. I was consumed with anger and loneliness, and paced back and forth outside Baba’s room like a caged tiger. Finally the pain became intolerable, and I burst into Baba’s room.

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Even though I had helped put the room together, I was stunned by what I saw there. The room and all the furnishings were pure white— with the exception of the orange lines of a very large pratik (Ananda Marga symbol) that hung from the wall, several orange objects that Baba likes to have on his night table, and one orange rose in a clear vase. The room smelled strongly like perfume, though I doubt any actual perfume was used. The vibration was so thick you could cut it with a knife. I approached the bed and smelled Baba’s pillow; it had a powerful perfume-like smell. Then I noticed one item in the room which was not white or orange: Baba’s shoes!

I sat on the floor in front of His shoes in meditation position and stared at them. They were black Indian slippers with pointed toes and were very well worn on the inside. I wondered, “How did Baba leave the house with no shoes on?”

Then temptation struck, and I put my hands in those shoes and closed my eyes. Needless to say, I began to have a very strange experir ence. It was disturbed after a few moments, however, by a commotion outside. I hurried to see what was going on, which was the least I could do considering I was supposed to be guarding the house. I was shocked to find all the Margis returning after what could not have been more than ten minutes! What had happened? Then Baba’s car pulled up as the Margis crowded into the house shouting slogans. Had Baba refused to give DMC; why was he back so soon?

Baba got out of the car and walked toward His room where I was now standing dazed and confused, trying to look official without much success. lust as he got to His door, he stopped and turned around. The crowd became very quiet, and Baba said only this: “I think everyone enjoyed the program?”

“So he did give the DMC!” I thought. “I must have been lost a long time in His shoes.”

Then with the Margis still in a hush, all eyes glued on Baba, He turned His head to the left and, face to face, he looked into my eyes and smiled a melting smile that said: “You thought you could do something without Baba knowing?”

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The game called money

Late yesterday afternoon Baba asked us, “By what route are we traveling to Frankfurt tomorrow?”

Dada Karunananda replied, “We will fly via London, Baba.”

“What? Nonsense! Change the flight! The United Kingdom refused my visa application, so I shall not visit there.”

“But. Baba,” Karunanandaji pleaded, “we will only pass in transit.”

“It doesn’t matter! I won’t even touch my toe on that land. It is my fixed policy not to visit any country which rejects my visa application unless and until that country’s government formally invites me.’’ 63

When we left the room, several of us held a quick meeting.

“The tickets will have to be rebooked via Copenhagen,” Karunanandaji said. “By that route the additional cost for eleven tickets will be about $5000. Where are we going to get that kind of money by tomorrow morning? Our account is already finished.”

There were plenty of intelligent ideas between us:

“Anybody know any millionaires?”

“We could ask the government.”

“Are the banks still open for negotiating a loan?”

“We could ask Baba what to do.”

“Look,” one of us said, “Baba never tolerates any talk of money-problems. Besides, if Fie creates a problem, Fie also has a solution waiting to be found.”

Though not a single good option had arisen, we remained optimistic. A few minutes later while I was talking with an older Margi sister, a brother named Alexander, whom I had initiated just three days before, interrupted us.

63 Even at this time some countries were still confused by the Indian government’s negative propaganda about Ananda M arga. Such countries refused visa applications of any known member of Ananda M arga. Three years later I personally met a British immigration officer. He told me, “It’s quite true that our government’s policy was previously to refuse entry of any foreign national who was known to be a member of Ananda M arga. Due to recent revisions in our information, however, the policy has been revised. Restriction on entry by Ananda M arga members no longer applies.” The British government eventually became so positive that our London kindergarten received appreciation letters from government-affiliated bodies and received government grants.

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“It sounds like you have a big financial problem, Dadaji.”

“Well, yes, but you shouldn’t be worried about it. I’m sure we’ll solve it somehow.” I didn’t want this new Margi to be bothered by our problem. But he was persistent.

“How much do you need?” he asked.

“It’s okay. You needn’t be concerned.”

“Just tell me, Dada.”

“Ah, about $5000.”

“Well… that’s a coincidence. I just sold my house for $15,000. I made the budget for spending $ 10,000, and was wondering what I would do with the other $5,000. Now I know.”

I objected, but he insisted.

As we were leaving this morning, Alexander flashed a big smile and said, “I feel like Baba created this problem just so I wouldn’t use my extra money in selfish pleasures.”

I wasn’t sleeping!

According to what others later told me, on the flight to Frankfurt two Didis were sitting in front of Baba. Looking back, one of them laughed. She elbowed the other, who also turned around and burst out laughing. Baba’s curiosity aroused. He also glanced back over His shoulder. And there I sat. Due to exhaustion I had fallen asleep during meditation. My head was tilted back and my mouth was wide open. That mouth has an immense capacity to stretch itself. (When I was a child, some of my friends called me Snake-jaw). Baba also grinned.

One Dada said. “How about pouring some water in?”

A Margi next to me, Mr Rathi, said. “I can deposit a cardamom seed.”

Baba said. “Let’s put a rasogula in his mouth.” 64

Rathiji dropped a cardamom seed in my mouth. Rudely awakened, I sat up sharply and said, “I wasn’t sleeping! I was meditating.”

Everyone exploded with laughter, including Baba.

Ever grateful

Frankfurt airport. Because Germany was not in the original tour plan, no visas had been arranged. This time Baba did not try to slip through Immigration. Instead. He suggested we approach the authorities to grant

M Rasogula isa popular Indian milk-sweet.

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an exception. Though an application seemed unlikely to succeed, the guru suggested it, so we proceeded. The authorities in the airport immediately transferred our request to a higher government body. While waiting for the reply, they kindly arranged a VIP lounge for Baba’s rest.

We wanted to provide a snack for Baba. Unfortunately there were no cooking facilities so we were forced to order from the catering service. I was anxious about how He would react to a commercial food item. I offered Him some blueberry yogurt and Baba commenced to eat it directly from the plastic container.

“It’s excellent,” He commented after the first spoonful.

“Mighty tasty,” He added while eating more.

“I’ve never dined on such a succulent yogurt,” He said, polishing it off completely. He smiled at me.

This was one of the few times I ever saw Baba eat more than a few mouthfuls of a food item. I had never seen Him finish anything before. He always left most of His meal for the Margis to enjoy as prasad.

I felt that He ate all the yogurt just to please me.

At the end of the meal we received the news that the visa applications were granted.

The customs officer who stamped our passports said. “You are very lucky people. Exceptional treatment.”

Baba replied something to the effect that it was not luck. Rather it was an indication of the good nature and open-mindedness of the German people. At last He said. “I shall be ever grateful to the German nation.”

Double-blessing

Frankfurt. During the morning field walk. Baba said to me, “Perhaps my next trip in Europe will cover four places. Because I want you to remember these places, I am giving you a code, Dharmaveda-nanda: DDNN. Finland ends in D, Greenland ends in D, Lisbon ends in N, Dublin ends in N. Will you remember?”

“Yes, Baba,” I said. “But why did You select these places?”

“These four will later prove to be hot-points of Prout.” 65

65 Though Baba never again came to Europe, this experience had two values., Besides indicating the places where Prout may want to concentrate in the future, Baba also showed me that codification is one of the easiest systems to use for memorization. I used this system innumerable times since then.

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At the end of Baba’s informal morning darshan. He permitted collective guru puja to be sung (offering of the ego through singing mantra with gestures). He usually allows it only at the most important programs like DMC, so we were happily surprised.

During His afternoon field walk in a huge park. Baba suddenly requested that we change direction. This was the first time in my experience He had ever altered our route. I became upset because about 150 Margis were waiting for Baba in a pre-planned spot. Dada Ramananda and some other senior Dadas were with them. Hoping to avert a major disappointment, I requested a guard to run ahead and inform them of the change.

Alas, it was too late. By the time we arrived at our new destination, only about forty Margis had been quick enough or clever enough to find us. The senior Dadas also had not arrived. Surrounded by sweet-smelling flowers, and in the absence of the usual officialdom. Baba gave a beautiful darshan. At the end one brother requested that we be allowed to do guru puja.

“It was already performed this morning,” Baba replied smiling.

“Yes, Baba, but may we please do it again?”

Baba became a little serious, and said, “Once is enough.”

“Please, Baba.”

Baba looked around. If Ramanandaji had been there, he would surely have stopped the Margis from pressing Baba. I understood that Baba did not want the puja to be done, but I would be endlessly condemned by these Margis if I interfered now.

Perhaps Baba’s position was similar to mine, in that He did not want to be remembered afterward as being stingy. Or perhaps He foresaw the inevitability of this scene, and for that reason had changed our course to avoid the larger cast of characters. Or had He all along planned a double-blessing? In any case, He finally gave a silent nod, and we began singing.

During the puja, Baba’s usual practice is to return our offerings with certain hand-gestures. This time, however, the gestures were different than any I had ever seen. Unfortunately most of the Margis had their eyes closed, and did not see this special display. But it is my habit never to close my eyes in Baba’s presence.

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Baker’s dough

September 27. This morning before the start of reporting, four of us slipped into Baba’s room.

“May we?” someone asked Baba.

He gave a wave of His hand, and we all started to massage Him; one on His right arm, one on His left arm, the third on His right leg, and the last on His left leg. As the other workers filed in for the meeting, we four continued ploughing into His flesh.

I remember in particular Dada Sarvabodhananda smiling broadly, showing his charming teeth the entire time, his fingers almost dancing on Baba’s right arm.

At one point. Baba said, “I feel just like baker’s dough.”

Everyone laughed. But we carried on with our kneading.

Is His apparent pleasure sometimes not real pleasure, but rather just a means to allow us to increase our relationship with Him?

Failure becomes success

Other than laughing at His joke, I hardly smiled during that massage.

I was feeling melancholy; this was the last day of Baba’s tour. Most of the time in Iceland, and here in Germany, I had been busy arranging security, darshans, field walks, transportation etc etc. Though I was often with Baba, it was usually together with other Margis and workers. I wanted to be alone with Him.

That’s why today I decided to stay near His room as much as possible, to catch whatever chance might come—even if it meant neglecting my duty.

Most of the morning and afternoon I was present just outside His door, which was almost always open, permitting me to see Him. As the hours went by, however, I was slowly consumed with an awkward feeling. On one hand I wanted to be alone with Him, but couldn’t manage it. On the other hand I was disregarding my duties and had no idea what problems might be arising.

Finally it was time for the last field walk. I hoped it had been organized properly without my supervision. But when I accompanied Baba outside I found a complete mess. Not only were minor details out of order—even a car and several guards were missing. I moved into

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high gear to make emergency arrangements, hoping that Baba would not notice the chaos. Of course He had to notice—it was obvious to everyone. Today’s lack of arrangement was a singular fiasco.

Yet He criticized nothing. In this worst of circumstances. He pretended everything was normal. He was even kind to me.

Was He generous because I was already despondent over His imminent departure? Perhaps. But one thing surely contributed to His magnanimity: He understood that I was deeply affected by the failure; and that I was determined never again to neglect my duty for the sake of a personal desire—no matter how sublime that desire might be.

On the outside, failure. On the inside, success. Every mistake can be so— should be so. But when it’s your mistake, it’s not too wise to tell anybody about your inner success.

If you want to eat more

Frankfurt airport. After we checked in we found out that our flight was delayed. I sat with Baba, undisturbed by anyone else. In the wake of both my incompetence and my realization, He fulfilled my wish to be alone with Him. At one point in the conversation, He began speaking in a light-hearted manner.

“Regarding Dr Pathak,” He said, referring to the Margi who sat out of earshot, “though he is retired, back in India he owned an important clinic. Now he believes he is my doctor.” Baba used such a tone that it sounded ludicrous. We laughed together, like two happy peas in a pod.

“In fact, I am his doctor, though he does not know it. I told him a few days ago, ‘You see, doctor, we shall soon be leaving Europe, and going to South America. Here in Europe we may find the best cheeses in the world. There, however, cheese is in scarcity. So during our sojourn here, you should consume maximum cheese.’ He followed my prescription to the letter. Now he is suffering from belly-ache, due to an overdose of cheese.

“Can you see all the food protruding from his bulging shopping bag? He said he is collecting souvenirs to present his family in India. But we know better.”

He paused and stopped smiling. As my chuckling died away. He said, “Remember: if you want to eat more, eat less.”

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The flight was called. We stood up to walk toward the gate. “Where are Dadas J and N?” Baba asked. I ran here and there to look for them, but couldn’t find them anywhere.

Baba was getting worked up over their irresponsibility. He turned to Didi Ananda Karuna and said, “When they appear, you should give them a piece of your mind.” Then He said to one Dada, “You must tell them that they are not monks but monkeys.” And to another Dada, “You are to make such a hubbub that they never forget this august moment.”

Though Baba looked angry, we all enjoyed it. I went to the airlines desk, and arranged for an announcement of the two miscreants’ names. A few minutes later they appeared, running. I rushed to meet them and asked, “What delayed you? Baba is furious.”

They grinned sheepishly. “We were looking for white chocolate.” With a flourish and a show of victory, they whipped several bars out of their handbags for me to see.

I accompanied them to the gate, where Baba and the others were already walking toward the shuttle-bus, leaving me behind. As those last two Dadas boarded, I could see everyone playing their roles, fiendishly attacking the hapless pair. The vehicle started moving. Baba wagged His finger at them, and shouted loud enough to make the bus momentarily swerve.

A few seconds before the bus disappeared from sight. Baba broke His scolding just in time to turn toward me. He smiled, and His eyes twinkled as He gave me a small wave of His hand.

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CHAPTER 14

Become an Ideal Person

Better not trouble Cosmic Mind

Wales, United Kingdom. 1980. Today at the breakfast table, I commented to some Margis, “Perhaps I have a special blessing from Baba. In the nine years I’ve been working for Ananda Marga, I’ve never missed a train, bus or plane. Even when I arrive at the station late, the trains and buses in those cases are also late.”

“What’s the explanation for this, Dada?” a sister asked.

“Well, it’s surely not my own power. If I weren’t working for dharma (righteousness). I’d miss the bus just like anybody else. Simply speaking, the Cosmic Force protects those who serve It.”

“How about some more apple pie, Dadaji?” she said.

“Sure, thanks.”

“But, Dada,” my host, Karun said, “there’s no time for more pie now. Your train for Liverpool leaves in just twenty minutes.”

“No problem,” I said. I ate the pie at a leisurely pace.

We left after about ten minutes. Since we were late, Karun drove me by motorcycle as fast as he could. Still, we arrived one minute past the scheduled departure time. We sat down on the platform to wait for the late train.

Five minutes passed in pleasant conversation. Then as one lady walked by, I asked, “Excuse me, do you know how late the train to Liverpool is?”

“It’s not late,” she said. “It came on time and left on time.” “What?” I was shocked. “How can that be?” “I think it’s not unreasonable, sir.” she said, and started to walk away.

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“Dada, there’s always a first time, you know,” said Karan. “I told you not to eat that pie.”

“No!” I said, jumping up. “There must be a way. Excuse me again,” I said, running after the same lady, “but do you know any other way to Liverpool? I’ve got to be there by 6:00 this evening for a lecture.”

“Well, my husband sometimes takes a morning bus to Liverpool. But that’s surely left by now.”

“We have to try!” I said. “Where does it go from?”

“It leaves about seven kilometers from here. Straight down that road. But I tell you, it’s already too late.”

“Thanks! Let’s go, Karan!”

I pulled Karan onto the motorcycle. Even as we rode off, he protested at the futility of it. “I tell you, that pie did you in, Dada,” he said. “Apple pie yanked you off the path of D harma!”

About three kilometers down the road, we spotted a bus on the side of the road. “Stop the bike!” I yelled.

I ran to the bus. and leapt inside.

“Is this bus going to Liverpool?” I asked.

The driver had his head underneath the steering wheel, and was trying to see something. “Don’t bother me, buddy.”

“Please, just tell me, are you going to Liverpool?”

“We will, damn it, if this bus ever gets going again.”

I laughed and said. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will start soon.”

lust as I said that, he turned the key and the engine roared.

As the bus drove off, I stuck my head out the window. “Thanks for the pie!”

Karun yelled at me, “You lucky stiff!”

Ten days later. Oslo, Norway. I was busy until late last evening, reviewing the meditation lessons of a few Margis. Abaniish knocked on my door.

“You’re going to miss your train to Stockholm, Dada,” he said. “I never

miss. Don’t worry.”

By and by, I got ready. Once in the car, Abaniish drove like mad. When we arrived at the station, Abaniish and the other Margis jumped out and ran. I walked. “Dada, hurry up!”

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“Baba will take care,” I replied.

But just as the platform came in sight, the train pulled away.

I stood there flabbergasted.

“Dada, why didn’t you run?” Abaniish said.

“There’s no time for talk now,” I said. “Where’s the next stop?”

“Well, Lillestrom,” he said. “But it’s too far away. It’d be out of the question to try and catch up with the train.”

“I don’t care!” I said. “We’ve got to make it.”

I ran toward the car. Abaniish laughed, and came after me slowly. When he finally got to the car, he said. “There’s no way, Dada. Just admit you missed it.”

But I insisted, so reluctantly he drove. All the way to Lillestrom he kept saying, “This is crazy. It’s impossible! We’re just wasting our time.” But I pushed him to drive faster.

Twenty-five minutes later, as we came near the Lillestrom station, we saw the train also approaching. “I can’t believe it!” Abaniish said. “It’s like a movie!”

As the car screeched in, I threw the door open, sprinted to the train, and jumped in, out of breath. Then, anti-climactically, the train remained there for a few minutes. The Margis jogged up, clapping their hands.

“Congratulations, Dada,” Abaniish said. “Any parting remarks for the fans?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Though we Dadas may not have to worry about catching our trains, it’s still better to arrive early.”

Due to their laughter, perhaps they didn’t hear me add. “I got your message. Baba. Twice in ten days is enough.”

A great force behind your work

Reykjavik. I am staying with a family whose daughter works on the American military base. Yesterday, when I asked her how I could enter the base, she shrugged her shoulders and said. “It’s impossible, Dada. Unless you’ve got special permission.”

“Then how do you get in?”

“I take the staff bus.”

This morning at 7:00 I donned civilian clothes and walked alone to an unmarked bus-stop. When the bus came, I boarded; no one asked for either identification or fare. I suppose the driver and employees were too sleepy to notice me.

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The bus cleared the check-point at the main gate of the military complex. Inside the base, it made a number of stops, dropped off passengers, and negotiated two more security posts. At its final stop, deep within this strange land within a strange land (treeless Iceland itself reminds me of nothing short of the moon), I stepped down.

I looked around, wondering where I might find my destination. Picking the area where the buildings were packed together most densely, I maneuvered between jeeps, top brass and sentries. Perhaps because I walked as if I knew where I was going, no one questioned me.

When I had sufficiently penetrated the maze of match-box wooden structures and concrete cubes, the moment for my biggest gamble arrived. I approached a passing officer.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“I’m a bit lost. Can you tell me where the anti-insurgency training section is?” I asked, wondering if there was any such place. “Who did you want to meet there?” he asked. Beautiful! “The chief training officer,” I said.

“The man dealing with that material has an office not far from here. Let me have a look at your pass to make sure you won’t have any problems accessing the area.”

Without hesitation, simply depending on Baba, I said, “I don’t have any pass.”

“What? Then how did you get onto the base?”

“I just walked here, and no one stopped me.”

“Astonishing! I’ve never heard of such a thing before! Excuse me, sir, but can I know your purpose?”

“I’m a social worker, and I have an interest in developing a course to discipline my staff. I think there’s much to learn from military discipline.”

He looked at me intently. “Excuse me for saying, sir, but you look a bit like Jesus Christ.”

“Many people say that…”

“You entered without a pass! I can’t get over it. Well, perhaps there’s a special force behind your work. Let’s go to my office. I’ll issue you a pass myself.”

After completing the formalities, he telephoned the training section and arranged a jeep to take me there. When I got down from the jeep, a soldier met me, saying, “Come this way, sir.”

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He led me to the office of a man introduced as a two-star general.

“Sir, in what way can I be of service to you?” the general asked

“I’m responsible for training social workers,” I said. “In my experience I’ve found two qualities missing in many of our cadre. One you’ll surely appreciate, and the other, well I don’t know. First, I want my men to be systematic and to move together as a disciplined work force. I want to help them kill whatever tendencies they have toward disorder. Each of them should develop the ability to both lead and follow. Secondly, though I’m not sure you’ll like this. I’d like them to acquire some of the qualities of the American army’s enemy: the guerrilla warriors.” He stared at me, giving me no inkling of his feelings. “As you know better than I, the revolutionary army’s make-up is different from that of regular troops suited for conventional warfare. Regular troops are usually drafted or primarily interested in the economic and social benefits of working in the army. Guerrilla soldiers, on the other hand, receive minimal pay. They mix with the general population, breathing in and out the problems of the common people. They face constant temptation to give up their fight and return to the security of normal life. So they must be fully aware, ideological, self- willed, creative and, above all, inspired.”

“I’m impressed, Mr … uh, sorry, what was your name again?”

“Jackson.”

“… Mr Jackson. Really impressed, both with your straight-forwardness and with your sincere intentions. And I do understand. Yes, indeed I do. You’ve put your finger on one of the labyrinthine problems of the military forces—how to encourage fighting zeal and individual initiative, while at the same time maintaining strict lines of order and discipline. Yes, I’m sympathetic and will try my best to help you. Yours is a truly novel approach to social work. Can you wait here a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

When he came back, he had a two-foot pile of books in his hands. We spoke a bit more, he praised me again, and ordered a jeep to return me to the main gate. From there I took a taxi. Once inside the cab I started looking through the titles of the books he had given me.

Great! I thought. Books on discipline, morale, understanding guerrilla warfare, physical training, collective psychology—perfect. But what’s

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this? He must have become over-enthusiastic when I said I wanted to help our cadres kill their undisciplined habits—he included a book titled Rifle Training.

What spoils ecstasy

Fredrikstad, Norway. I am guiding an adventure-camp here. Last night I had a dream:

I was sitting on the floor in the front of a large auditorium. A few thousand Margis were present for Baba’s darshan. In the midst of His speech. He turned His face directly into mine and spoke to me.

His sweet words acted like an exotic aphrodisiac, making me lose my head. I found myself throwing my arms around His neck. Baba was a magnet of love, and I an iron doll. I was so strongly attracted to Him that I unintentionally pulled Flim off the stage, and we began to roll on the floor in a tighter and tighter embrace. My face was buried in His and I could see nothing. A burning- bright white spiritual fire coursed through me. I was consumed by a feeling beyond all the joy and sorrow I had ever known.

In the midst of this ecstasy, a whispering thought entered my mind: What will all the people think?

Embarrassed, I slightly withdrew my face from His. But I still saw nothing, because He had caused the lights to turn off. We were in complete darkness, and no one could see us anyway.

Still feeling Him in my arms, I thought. What a fool I was to worry about the thoughts of others!

In that intense bitter-sweetness I awoke. For a long while I lay there— awed.

Every problem is no problem

Birmingham, England. It was the Sunday night of a weekend seminar. Dada Sudiipta approached me around midnight, just as I was about to go to sleep.

“Sorry, Dharmavedananda. I forgot to give you this letter from Dada Japananda.”

Dada Japananda, one of my higher authorities, was in dire financial need for his work in Africa, and was begging me to bring to India some assistance for him. It was a great clash for me, since I didn’t have

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any extra funds and was scheduled to leave for India the following Wednesday. If I had received the letter in proper time, I might have requested donations from some of the Margis at the retreat.

Now everybody must be asleep, I thought, and early tomorrow morning most of them will leave. I won’t have any chance. What am I to do? Baba, any ideas?

Suddenly I saw the face of an Irish brother who was attending the retreat: Sundara.

M ust be my own imagination, I thought. H e’s just a poor student.

But the image persisted so I walked down the hall. I found all the rooms dark; everyone was asleep. Except… in the last room a light was on. I looked in. Someone was reading with his back to the door. As I walked up to him, he turned to face me.

“Good evening, Dadaji.” It was Sundara. I felt like I was dreaming.

“Sorry to disturb you, brother.”

“No, no problem, Dada. What is it?”

“Well, I doubt you can help, but, you see, a Dada needs financial help for his work.”

“How much does he need, Dada?”

“About four hundred pounds.”

“Well, I just received the check from my summer job, but it’s back in Cork— in Ireland.”

Within a few minutes everything was fixed. He agreed to wire the money to me in London on Tuesday.

No higher purpose

Back in Calcutta. When I arrived at the workers’ meeting today, the General Secretary approached me.

“What’s this, Dharmavedananda? You’re here again?” he asked. “Who gave you permission to attend the workers’ meeting? You know only Sectorial Secretaries are to come.”

I had wondered when he would notice that I had come to every workers’ meeting over the last few months. I pulled a paper from my shoulder bag. “Please, read this Dada.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s a photocopy of a circular you sent out eight months ago. See point #17, please.”

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He read aloud: “All chief secretaries of every trade from all sectors are to attend senior workers’ meeting every two months. Hmmm … But not a single other chief secretary of any other sector paid attention to this item. It was a technical point dictated by Baba.”

“And?”

“Well… but… everyone understands such a directive is not to be taken seriously unless it is repeated. And… well… Dharmavedananda, isn’t it expensive for you to come to India every two months?”

“Sure it’s expensive. But what do I care if it gives me the chance to see Baba? Somehow He always arranges the money for me. Are you saying I shouldn’t come? Are you going to approach Baba to change the order?”

“No no.” He smiled. Then patting me on the cheek, he said, “Very clever,” and walked away.

As long as I’m the Service Department chief secretary I shall attend every workers’ meeting unless and until I’m specifically ordered to stop. As long as duty does not conflict, what purpose is higher than to be with the guru?

Useless fellow, useless stick

“Your work is far below the mark!” Baba yelled at one of the senior workers of Delhi Sector. “Give some justification, stupid!”

Usually this Dada was sharp and active. But today he was silent in front of Baba, grinning like a five year old boy just complimented by his father. His turban was lop-sided, he stood off balance, and in general looked—what can I say?—he looked drunk.

“Idiot fellow!” Baba continued. “Only two schools opened under your supervision over the last two months! Don’t you deserve punishment?”

Baba readied His stick.

“Say, say! Have you become a mute animal? Nonsense, do-nothing donkey!”

Normally, anyone undergoing such treatment from Baba becomes fearful, or at least sober. But this Dada’s eyes only glittered as he innocently stared at Baba. At first we were all a bit uneasy, waiting for Baba’s stick to come down with a whirring slap. Now the scene took on a comic note. This Dada was clearly in another world, enjoying Baba immensely.

“Foolish fellow. Useless fellow. Leave him to his dream.” We all smiled.

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In the next moment. Baba was castigating another worker who trembled under His onslaught.

Innovation approval

Today I approached Dada P, an old worker, with a difficult question regarding my meditation. I had discovered a new innovation in my technique, and wondered if it was right. Dada gave no clear reply, but essentially discouraged me. Somehow I wasn’t satisfied.

A few hours later we were having darshan with Baba on the roof-about two hundred Margis were there. During part of the kiirtan, Baba was sitting with His face down. Without intending it, I suddenly and spontaneously thought, Baba, if I should use this new method in my meditation please look up now.

In that exact instant. He broke His downward stare, looked up at me, and gazed into my eyes for about twenty seconds. Then, without looking in any other direction, He again cast His eyes down.

Could anything be clearer? Without telling anyone, I continued using the technique with full inspiration.

Greatest hindrance to universalism

Five of us were sitting together with Baba in His room late last night when the electricity failed. Someone lit a candle. Baba spoke of mystical matters, and then of the future. At one point He asked us a question, “When the spiritual- moralists gain power, when they are in a position to directly influence the society, what is the first major initiative they should implement ?”

We speculated for a few minutes but our guesses were all unsatisfactory. Baba answered His own question. “The first and foremost change they should execute is the elimination of the passport and visa system. This system is the greatest hindrance to the establishment of universal kinship.”

Making ideal humans

In today’s reporting session all the district in-charges of the north area of the Indian Sector were present.

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A district in-charge who was about thirty-five years old stood in the front. Baba asked him, “Do you know you are suffering from tuberculosis?”

“Yes, Baba.”

“Did you seek diagnosis and treatment by a medical doctor?” “Yes, Baba.”

“And did it help?” “No, Baba.”

“Why didn’t you take the help of any Dada?” The

Margi looked down and was silent.

“And why do you still secretly continue your nasty habit with that lady?”

Baba’s words sent a shock through the room. The Margi quickly shuffled his feet and simultaneously sighed. He was so embarrassed that he looked ready to die.

“Do you think Baba cannot see?”

“No, Baba … Baba knows everything.”

“Do you deserve punishment.”

“Yes, Baba.”

“Take off your shirt. Yes. Now come closer.”

Baba raised His stick in the air and brought it down with a snapping sound below the ribs on the right side of the man. Once, twice, three times. The Margi winced slightly.

“Turn in the other direction.”

He beat him now thrice on the left side.

“If you correct yourself, and reinvest that misutilized energy in social work, you will become a new man. An ideal man. What do you say?”

He stood up a little straighter and said, “Baba, I will be an ideal man.”

“Eh, what did you say?”

In a forceful voice he said, “Baba, I will be an ideal man!” “Have you all

heard his words?” We all said, “Yes, Baba.”

“GS Dada, take my stick. Now, touch it to his chest. Yes, and twist it back and forth.”

As the General Secretary turned the stick, the man suddenly took a deep and long breath.

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“Now do the same at the opposite point of his back.”

Again the Margi took a strong breath.

“How do you feel now, my boy?”

“I feel very good, Baba!”

“Have you had any x-rays taken?”

“Yes, Baba.”

“Tomorrow go to the hospital and have another x-ray made. You will see that your disease is now 80% cured. It will soon become completely cured if you strictly follow the Sixteen Points (of physical, mental and spiritual health). What do you say?”

“I will be the ideal son of Baba!”

“Yesss.” Baba gave a slight wave of His hand.

After paying his respect, the Margi stepped back into his place.

Without further ado, as if nothing had happened, Baba continued the reporting session.

Tonight as I sit here writing, I think back that after reporting we all left for lunch and hardly a further word was spoken about the incident. This sort of experience with Baba is so common that it no longer draws our wonder. For us it is no miracle—it is simply one of Baba’s ways to increase our commitment to Sixteen Points and guru. And for that Margi, well, who can say why he attracted Baba’s grace?

The world is the mind

Goteborg, Sweden. This morning, while taking the ferry from Alborg, Denmark, I read one of the Don Juan books by Carlos Castaneda. Though I have some doubt about how completely factual his books are. they at least partially reflect the mystic teachings of the native Mexicans. Those teachings have something in common with Tantra, and I suppose they are derived from the ancient Tantra. I became absorbed in his idea that each person’s perception of the world is simply a projection of that person’s own mind—so absorbed that I did not notice the clock as the ship approached land. Only when I looked up from the book and saw the passengers jammed near the exit did I recall the short time I had to reach the train station after the ship’s docking. If I waited for all the passengers to leave before me, I would surely miss my connection.

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With my mind still engrossed in the book’s idea, that everything I see is the projection of my own thought — I stood up and walked toward the back of the crowd of waiting passengers. At least one thousand people were there. Though I neither spoke nor made the slightest gesture, the impatient packed crowd divided for me. They did so keeping their backs to me. It was unnatural—like the Red Sea parting for Moses. I was able to move forward without hindrance. Just as I arrived at the gate of the ship, it opened, and, without breaking my stride, I was the first to walk off. It was like a movie or a dream. I made the train just in the nick of time.

The experience was a minor one. But it’s philosophical implications have been following me and rippling my thought-waves ever since that sunny day in California. 1

“This refers to the experience in 1969 in Chapter 2. in the entry entitled " No Outside”.

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CHAPTER 15

Lord Shiva Never Did It

The one and only answer

Verona. 1981. According to Tantra, there are no accidents. Life is a series of incidents, each with its own cause and meaning.

When I first attempted to analyze the causes behind my mistakes, my injuries and the injustices inflicted upon me, I accepted the usual explanation: “Wrong thoughts and wrong actions beget painful reactions.” And for those who practice meditation, the interval between cause and effect is usually short.

As a spiritualist. I’ve learned to see every problem as an opportunity for growth. I’ve learned to stop what I’m doing when I make any mistake and focus on the source of the error within me.

Over the last few months my analysis deepened. Behind every personal difficulty, I found not only some previous mistake, but more importantly I found the absence of Cosmic ideation. Whenever I forgot Guru or God for more than a few moments, I hurt someone or hurt myself.

During these last months, every time I made even the slightest mistake, I noticed 1 had forgotten my mantra. 67 Each mistake helped alert me to my uncontrolled ego-centered thoughts.

So, what happened today? While busy in the yoga center, running from one activity to another, I was joyously singing Baba Nam Kevalam. At one point, I dashed into the bathroom to wash a few clothes. After

7 The constant internal repetition of one’s personal mantra is one of the essenti al Tantric practices, it helps to calm the mind of the aspirant and eventually helps to ensconce him or her in continuous Cosmic ideation.

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wetting and soaping my clothes, while still singing, I started pounding my soaped shirt in the sink. I didn’t know that the sink had not yet been fully installed. Suddenly, it tipped over and fell on the floor. As the basin broke, a big piece dove into my bare foot.

The noise alarmed two or three of the Margis, who thrust the door open. They found me lying on the floor, stunned. Blood gushed out of my foot.

The cause of my shock was not, however, what it appeared. While they fussed over my injury, I hardly paid attention to it. Rather, I muttered, “I can’t understand…” I couldn’t grasp how I could make such a blunder even though I was singing Baba Nam Kevalam. Suffering may happen while one is in Cosmic ideation, but careless mistakes cannot.

It doesn’t figure… I thought.

Then a flash. I jumped up, almost slipping in the pool of blood. “I’ve got it!” I blurted out. The Margis’ eyes bulged as they stared at me, thinking I’d gone nuts. Crazy or not, I had the answer: Though I’d chanted spiritual words, 1 hadn’t been aware of their meaning. It had only been a jolly tune for me, without any feeling. My thoughts had simply raced, immersed in me—only me.

A psychic implosion! Feeling alone is the key to harmony. Actions and words may be sublime, but if the feeling behind them moves in another direction, there’s no value. Though many times I heard or read such philosophy, this simple careless accident was the clear proof.

No need to engage in complex psychological interpersonal mind-games. No need to fret over conflicts between a thousand do’s and don’ts. Only remember: Him. The one and only Answer.

Even at the hospital, as the doctor completed sewing the stitches, I contemplated His grace. When the moment of truth arrived, i.e. the time for paying the bill, I said, “Considering that I’m a monk, any discount?”

The doctor paused, then said, “I hope you learned a lesson from this accident. Will you be more careful next time ?”

“Definitely, Baba,” I said. I felt like Baba was speaking through the doctor.

“Okay,” he said, smiling. “It’s free, sir.”

I looked at what shall surely remain a nasty scar, and thought, “My little beauty, may you serve as a constant reminder, like a string permanently tied on my finger.”

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The thing of church

Warsaw, Poland. I am the first worker to visit this country. Though I’ve been here only a few days, I received the following surprising comment from a newly interested person: “I like Ananda Marga very much, Dada. And I’m sure many Poles will have the same feeling as me. I predict that within a few years, thousands of people will be practicing meditation in this country.” Indeed, their interest in parapsychology is far beyond what I imagined before coming here.

Nevertheless, the common person’s knowledge of spiritual terminology appears shockingly limited. A typical communication-hitch occurred last evening when I spoke with a few young people. The concept of G od arose in my talk.

“What G od is?” one of them asked.

“Well, how do you define it?” I replied.

“I have idea not. I know this word not.”

I was surprised. His English was not perfect, but at least he should have known the word.

“Does anyone here understand the word G od?”

They all shook their heads.

“Gocf is the endless energy, the beginning, the end, the purpose, the mind of our minds. All the religions talk about God….”

“Oh!” One of them interrupted me. “The thing of church, you mean?”

“Well, that’s one way of defining it.” I said, laughing. It was

both very funny and very unfunny.

Budapest, Hungary. Last night I wanted to go to a graveyard to do my kapalika meditation. The young artist who was my host guided me to the nearest cemetery, and left me there unceremoniously a little after midnight.

When I entered, I was astonished to see tombstone upon tombstone. There were so many thousands of them that they leaned against each other. They careened in every conceivable direction, bordered by waist-high grass. Even in the daytime I would have found it difficult to make my way to the center of the tangle. Many stones were cracked or covered by moss. Even for an experienced graveyarder like me, it was spooky on this cloud-covered night.

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Since I was keen to withdraw my mind from these surroundings, my concentration peaked more quickly than usual.

In the morning, during a Spartan breakfast, I asked, “Are all the graveyards in Hungary so small and crowded like the one I went to last night?”

“Oh, that one is special,” the artist said. “It was for Jews.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Was?”

“When Jews couldn’t move their homes.”

He meant the ghetto.

“They couldn’t go outside their area, but they still had babies. They still died. More and more and more. And no place to go.” “And now where are they?” “A lot went to Israel. And a lot died. A lot.”

Cosmic confidence

Belgrade, Yugoslavia. After a successful three-week tour in Poland, Hungary and Czechoslovakia, I arrived last night in a communist country where I can wear my uniform. I breathe a relative freedom here in Yugoslavia which was absent in those other regimes which suffer under the heavy hand of their Overlord. There, I find the people believe in socialist theory, but despise the dictatorial presence of the Soviet army, and the strangle-hold maintained by the Soviets over their education, international trade, spirituality, culture and mass media.

My decision to risk wearing my uniform in Yugoslavia was influenced by a comment Baba made some time ago, that Tito’s government would not obstruct Ananda Marga.

I stepped out of the train in Belgrade without an address or phone number. As usual in this situation, I went to a crowded section of the city, arriving around 11:00 p.m.

No doubt I was an eye-catcher. Many people stopped to inquire if I needed anything, but no one had any extra space in which I could stay. Several people offered to pay for a hotel room, but I politely refused.

One of the couples spoke to me in fluent English. “We wish we could help you. It’s so late, and soon no one will be here. But we have no room.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “At the right moment someone will come along. I’m dead sure. Really don’t worry. It’s just a tiny test for me.” As they walked away, they looked back anxiously.

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Five minutes later, they returned. The young lady said, “Your extraordinary confidence inspired us. So we came back.”

“We decided to stand here until you find a lodging,” the man said. “We’ll also help you in asking people passing by.”

“Thanks,” I said.

As we stood there waiting for the right person, they asked about meditation and yoga. Eventually one of their friends came. Fie had a spare room, and we all went there. By the end of the evening we already had the base for our new meditation unit.

And so it goes. Everywhere.

The great analysis

Calcutta. August 2. Since June, for the first time in Ananda Marga’s history. Baba has been calling all workers and Margis from all sectors to Calcutta. I arrived today. In total, several thousand people have come or will come.

The program is called dharma samiksha. Samiksha means “analysis”, so dharma samiksha means “analysis of one’s adherence to the right path.” During dharma samiksha, Margis and workers stand one-by-one in front of Baba, and He comments on their good and bad behavior. The Sixteen Points for physical, mental and spiritual development is especially relevant to this analysis. I was allowed to stay in the room continuously, so I had the opportunity to witness many cases.

Brother J from the Netherlands, who I’ve known for two years, stepped forward. Baba sat on His couch, looking over His shoulder at the wall. 68

GENERAL SECRETARY (GS): What is his name and posting? DADA

FROM EUROPE: He is J, district in-charge from Holland. GS: Who is

your acharya? J: Dada Maetreya.

GS: What work did you do over the last six months? J (nervously): I arranged nine initiations, opened one People’s Night School, and started one Spiritualists’ Sports and Adventurers’ Club.

“Baba rarely looks directly at anyone. When He does, we feel a special energy or shakti. Indeed a single glance from Him is often enough to satisfy any M argi who may have traveled thousands of miles to meet Him.

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GS: Acha. Are you following 16 Points strictly? J: Yes.

GS: How about your meditation?

J: Yes, Dada.

GS: How about fasting?

J: Yes, Dada.

BABA: GS, ask him about food.

GS: Are you taking only sentient food? 69 J: Yes, Dada.

BABA: Eh? What did he say?

GS: He said “yes’’. Baba. You are not taking any static food? 70 J: No, Dada.

BABA (turning to look just over J’s head): Eh? What nonsense are you speaking?

J: No, no. Baba. Only sentient food.

BABA (slightly angry): Tell the truth!

J: No, Baba, I… ah … oh. Baba…

BABA: Do you deserve punishment?

J: Yes…

BABA: Stretch out your palm. (J holds his right hand palm-up in front of Baba.) How many shall I give you?

J: Ah… ah …

BABA: 10, 20, 30…?

J: 20, Baba. (Using His stick. Baba strikes J’s open palm ten times.)

BABA: Stretch out your left palm. (J does so, and Baba strikes it ten times also.) You must never again intentionally harm your body. Do you understand? J: Yes, Baba.

[Baba then explained a number of points to J about improving his meditation and service activities.)

BABA: Now stand straight. (He sweeps His eyes from J’s feet to head, and down again.) Vijayananda, make a note.

DADA VUAYANANDA: Hah, Baba. 71

69

Sentient food isfood which isgood for both bodyand mind.

70 Static food isfood which is harmful for either body or mind. Hah means” yes”.

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BABA: Karmasana, Gomukhasana….[and some other yoga postures I forget.] (Speaking to J:) Afterward learn them from Vijayananda. Now come close, my boy. (J approaches Baba, who opens His arms, and then embraces J, taking him on His lap.)

J: Oh, Baba! (He starts weeping.)

ANOTHER DAD A (after a lapse of a few moments, speaking softly): Come, come…

(J leaves Baba’s lap. He lies on the floor in front of Baba, hands stretched out toward Him in the traditional position of respect to the guru. After a few seconds, he gets up, and moves toward the door.)

GS: Next.

After a few more dharma samikshas, we all left Baba’s room. Brother J

approached me. “Dadaji, may I speak to you?” “Of course.”

“I have to tell someone, or I’ll burst.” “My ears

are open.”

“When Baba pressed me, I denied eating any bad food. I was just too embarrassed to tell the truth in front of all the Dadas and Margis there. As for Baba, I knew that He knew, and also that He understood why I was lying, and even I’m sure He did not mind, because He knows our inner motivation. But, well. I’ve got to tell someone.”

“Go ahead,” I said, “I’m your brother.”

“Well, three weeks ago, I was feeling so much clash. I was fed up with everything that was happening to me. Out of an impulse, I went to a take-out restaurant and purchased a box of fried shellfish. I ate them alone in the yoga house. Afterward I felt so bad I vomited.”

I laughed loudly.

His eyes opened wide, and he said, “Dada, how can you laugh? What I did is very bad.”

“Perhaps, but it’s not the end of the world. We’ve seen mistakes a hundred times worse.”

“Really?”

“Of course. And anybody who’s spent much time around Baba gets used to it. This is Tantra. Up a lot and down a little, up a lot and down a little…”

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Compelled to help

Yesterday Dada Parameshvarananda arrived from the Philippines for dharma samiksha. He had been suffering from leukemia for a number of months. The doctors had declared it incurable, though they did not say how much longer he would live.

Three days ago, on the day of his planned departure for India, he fainted and did not recover for several hours. By that time, his office secretary had canceled the flight reservation. When he regained consciousness, Dada became angry at his secretary. “Why did you cancel my flight? You should have forced me to wake up, and put me on the plane. I’d rather die in India than here.”

He flew the next day to Calcutta, suffering all the way. Though he had never asked Baba for anything before, this time he could not help but think. “Please, Baba, help this body.”

From the Calcutta airport, he took a taxi alone. When he arrived at the Central Office, he found Baba’s Personal Assistant. Dada Ramananda, standing at the gate.

“Baba told me to wait for you here and bring you to His room.”

“But how did He know I was coming just now?”

“In the same way He knows everything,” replied Ramanandaji, helping him upstairs.

Dada entered Baba’s room and prostrated.

“How are you?” Baba asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Baba. I’m fine.” Thinking that Baba knows all, he saw no reason to express his problems.

“Yes. Yes. Very good,” said Baba. “Now I’m busy, so I will see you again later.”

Today it was Manila Sector’s turn for general reporting. Paramesh- varanandaji came forward.

“Yesterday,” Baba said. “I asked this boy how he felt. He told me fine, even though this fool will die within 24 hours. He has a disease which is so advanced that it cannot be cured, and will kill him by tomorrow. (Turning His face toward Parameshvaranandaji. He continued) Stupid, idiot, why didn’t you tell me long ago about your prob

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lem? If you had told me even six months ago, I could have simply prescribed certain yogic postures and diet to cure the problem. Now, scoundrel, you are going to die.”

“Baba, please save him,” “Give him another chance,” said a few workers.

For a moment. Baba sat in silence. “It is true that he has given his everything for my mission. He never cared for himself, only thinking for me. So … Iam compelled to help him. In this case, medical science is incapable, impotent. The only means of assistance is spiritual power. Alright. I will save him from the jaws of death.”

Baba began lightly touching Dada with His stick. He gradually tapped it on every part of his body. At the same time, He narrated Dada’s long medical history; how he had suffered from typhoid fever, another time from mild tuberculosis, and so on. Afterward, Paramesh-varanandaji told me that some of the diseases Baba mentioned he had forgotten, but all were 100% correct.

“I always took care of him, though he didn’t know it,” Baba said. “In natural ways, I saved his life repeatedly. But this time, his irresponsibility is excessive and extreme.”

Baba held His stick against Dada’s chest. For forty minutes, Baba pressed the stick, not moving it from that spot. Dada later said that at that time such power entered him that he felt he could easily cross mountains.

“Now I have purified his body. I withdrew all the cancer cells. He was scheduled to die within 24 hours. But his time has been extended. Within ten days he will recover all of his previous strength.” 72

Even Lord Shiva Never Did It

Today Baba mentioned that dharma samiksha is a one-time affair. D harma samiksha on such a grand scale was never done before by any spiritual master, and Baba will not do it again. He is showing a little bit of His meticulous guardianship and a little bit of His intimate knowledge of each and every Margi, personally and specifically, one by one. He said, “7000 years ago. Lord Shiva thought to conduct such a program, but never did it.”

72 From that moment, Parameshvaranandaji started feeling much better. Ten days later, doctors declared him fully cured.

I wonder: why never before? And, even more curiously, why never again? Is it because Baba did not come to prove Himself to the world, but rather only to get His work done?

Yes, even Lord Shiva never did it. This sentence expressing Baba’s uniqueness could be applied to much more than dharma samiksha. I think of 5000 songs…an organization of both renunciates and family people in almost every country of the world…the Prout movement…the systematization of Tantrathe mixture of intense spiritual practice with social action…His detailed guidance in many diverse fields…. Unfathomable.

Treat him very well

One of the Margis receiving dharma samiksha today was Rajpal, an Indian. At one stage of the analysis. Baba said. “You have a question for me, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Baba,” he said. “About my son…”

Though in that moment, Baba did not give him time to continue, he afterward explained to us that he intended to ask about the cause and cure of his son’s attitude toward him. Almost since the boy’s birth, the son had scorned and mistreated his father. It was Rajpal’s greatest worry, because he dearly loved his son.

Even though the boy began practicing meditation at the age of 14, he still expressed disgust toward his father.

The problem was not a public one, and therefore Baba could not have heard of it. Nevertheless He said. “I know. I know everything. The world is mysterious. That which happens today may be the result of events occurring long ago. In your present life itself you will find the cause of your present trouble.

Many years ago you took a 500 rupee loan from an old man who was not wealthy. But you did not repay that loan, even when the old man was sick. Do you remember?”

“Ah … yes … Baba.”

“That old man was very angry at you. and he finally died still feeling angry at you. He was reborn as your son. So your son hates you. Otherwise his behavior is gentle toward everyone else. Now what shall you do?”

“I don’t know. Baba.”