Kitabı oku: «Babaji - Gateway to the Light»

Chapter 1
Calcutta

"Are you happy?", Babaji asked.

I had the window-seat, one row behind him, on a plane bound for Calcutta. The events of the last few hours had left me speechless, so all I could do was nod.

"Are you happy?", he repeated. His black eyes smiled as the world disappeared before me. As if in a dream, I observed Babaji take my hand, ease it through the gap between the seat and wall-panel and lay it on his shoulder. Gently I began to stroke his upper arm. Time passed. Silence within and silence around me.

Following an impulse I said, "Baba, please give me the ability to hear your voice within."

He turned and voiced a clear and emphatic "Yes!", then took off his turban and handed it to me. I was to keep it on my lap during the flight. Outside, clouds upon clouds fleeted by.

Also accompanying Babaji on the flight were five Indians, two of them with their wives, and an American. Babaji had been invited by one of his Calcutta devotees, a wealthy businessman, to come and perform a twelve-day yagna, a Vedic fire ritual, and after that to lead a pilgrimage to Puri. Anyone accompanying Babaji would be welcome.

Sitting there behind Babaji, my thoughts turned to the events of the previous day.

I had arrived in Delhi, following a decision which had not been easy to make. To travel to India a week earlier than originally planned meant I had to entrust the care of my two children to our young lodger during the day while my husband was away at work. I wasn't used to this. On the other hand, the possibility of being in the presence of Babaji longer proved too tempting to resist. Besides, the whole family would be joining me from Germany within a fortnight anyway.

Shortly some friends phoned at my hotel to say that Babaji was staying in Delhi and would fly to Calcutta the next day. They also warned me of the futility in asking for a seat on that plane. The Asian Gaines were finishing and millions would be trying to quit the city by all possible means.

A little later some devotees came by to pick me up and we set off for Janakpuri, where Babaji was staying. Delhi at eight o'clock in the morning and already teeming with people - the journey seemed endless. At long last we caught sight of the festive marquee specially erected for Babaji's visit and I slipped off my shoes to enter. Flower garlands everywhere and a mingling of fragrances that was overwhelming. I joined the long queue waiting to greet Babaji.

He was sitting slightly elevated watching over the crowd. His garments were a silky white, deepening the blackness of his shiny, curly hair. There was no mistaking it - his round face radiated infinite kindness and love. With a pounding heart and trembling knees, I made my way towards him. As I lay my head on his lap any thoughts left in my mind faded away, and a powerful wave of energy shot up through my feet, spine and out the crown of my head straight into Babaji's hands, which he had placed upon my head in a gesture of blessing. Free from all thoughts, feelings and attachments, I stood there face to face with Infinity. I don't know how long this lasted, for I had lost all sense of time. A finger poked me in the back and brought me back to that other reality - the person behind me in the queue also wanted to pay homage to Babaji.

"Where's your son?"

"In Germany."

"Why hasn't he come with you?"

"He has to attend school and is coming in December."

Babaji enquired which class he was in and then asked after my husband. He gave me a handful of pieces of fruit.

What harmony there was inside the marquee, I thought. The women sitting on the left, the men on the right. All thoughts and eyes focused on Babaji. The sounds of Indian instruments - harmonium, drums and cymbals, actually blended with the singing of the crowd. Babaji's seat looked like a golden sea of flowers with all the garlands of roses and marigolds that had been presented to him.

Finally Babaji stood up. A fire ceremony to honour the Divine was about to be performed in the host's garden. This ancient custom of exchanging - giving and taking - dates back to pre-Vedic times, when humanity still had close conscious contact with the Divine: it is through God's mercy that crops grow in the fields, so in return we thank God by giving back part of the harvest though sacrificial fire. The cycle of giving and receiving ensures continuous growth and prosperity.

The flames flared up when Babaji took his seat at the fire pit. He signalled that I move in behind him, and a contemplative silence fell over the entire gathering as the noise from the loudspeakers inside the tent died down. The dry wood crackled in the fire, interrupted only by the participants' call of "swaha" (I offer). With each "swaha" they cast a mixture of rice, frankincense, black sesame, flowers and nuts into the fire, and Babaji fed it with offerings of liquid ghee. Free of thoughts I gazed into the glow and listened to my inner being. There was deep peace. I was happy just to be there.

After the havan Babaji said "Comer, took the hand of an elderly Indian woman and mine as well and led us to a car which drove us to the homes of several families whom Babaji had promised to visit. Full of reverence they welcomed him and in time gathered around telling him of their problems. A wedding had to be arranged, a sick person needed healing. Many asked for his advice in spiritual and worldly matters, as often as possible. Babaji listened attentively. He never seemed to tire and his patience and kindness were unlimited.

Once again we were driving through the streets of Delhi.

"Have you got a plane ticket and a reservation for Calcutta?", he asked me in the car.

"No." I had not realized that Babaji wanted to fly to Calcutta.

"Well, that's it then, you'll have to stay here", the Indian lady translated.

"Oh no, please take me with you!"

"What for?", he asked with a teasing grin.

So he knew that I wanted to accompany him. If it were his wish also, then it would all happen, I thought, in spite of the circumstances. Trusting in Babaji's omnipotence, I did not waste time trying to reserve a seat or buy a ticket.

We were now at the next home where we would stay for the night. Babaji was seated in a splendid armchair. The colour television was on and very soon everyone present was caught up in a sports programme. Lost in the games, Babaji became for them only a part of the background. I sat on the floor beside him, my hand resting on his feet. He seemed to envelop all of us; everything. Despite the noise coming from the television, I felt an inner peace, a harmony which was unique. Now and then our glances met and I was amazed how anybody could get so easily distracted by one of life's illusions - in this case, sports -, so unimportant compared to the wondrous fact that the divine was actually physically present in the room!

Early next morning I was at the airport, clutching a hurriedly packed travel bag. I had no trouble buying a ticket but when I asked for a seat on the next plane to Calcutta, the airport official told me there was no chance at all - 280 passengers were on the waiting list already. And all later flights were fully booked. It would be at least two or three days before I could hope to get a seat. This news didn't perturb me. I let it be. I felt sure Babaji would somehow take me with him. It was only a matter of waiting.

Meanwhile Babaji had arrived at the airport. A large crowd gathered round him as he took a seat in the departure lounge like a normal tourist. More and more people had converged yet somehow I managed to get through and reach him, the ticket clenched in my hand. I caught his brief glance and saw him quickly instruct one of the Indians to go book a seat on the plane. After a while the man came back without success. Twice again this same order was carried out — again to no avail. Still, it failed to shake my confidence.

Finally the flight was called. Babaji moved to the departure gate. With a smile he took my ticket and gave it to another Indian and signalled that I follow this man. Lugging my bag we approached the Indian Airlines desk which had already shut down. Behind the counter was a mass of bodies shouting and gesticulating in utter confusion. My companion merged swiftly into the melee and reemerged with not one boarding card but five!

Back at the departure gate Babaji was waiting with Sri Muniraj, his closest disciple, and the venerable Sri Shastriji, a Sanskrit scholar and priest who had served Babaji for years. Wearing a red turban and yellow silk robes with a brocade vest, dazzling in all colours, Babaji looked like a prince from the Thousand and One Nights. He wore anything offered to him with a pure heart. Here, standing in front of us, was a true ruler, free from all limitations and as unencumbered as a child. A mighty, unmistakable force radiated from him. Great, majestic, all-powerful was he, the centre of the world. Some travellers in the hall, aware of his presence, asked who he was.

"A Mahavatari", was the answer.

Many came and kneeled before him and touched his feet, according to Indian custom, and Babaji softly held his hand in the gesture of blessing.

He told me to buy toffees at the kiosk and have them distributed among the crowd. I was to give an offering in thanks for what I had just received. The divine law of reciprocal maintenance was to be fulfilled. As there is no inhaling without exhaling so there can be no taking without giving.

Now I was sitting behind Babaji on the plane. How peculiar that the seats we had been assigned at the last minute were grouped together around Babaji. Only the American flying with us had to swap his seat with another passenger's.

Calcutta was now sweeping in beneath us - this magic flight was about to end. After landing Babaji would not have time for my questions. Therefore I had to take the chance now. A friend had requested me to give him a letter. I also had some personal questions. Experience from previous visits had taught me to ask such questions of the worldly mind at the beginning of my time with Babaji before the influence of his presence changed that mind and made such ideas appear trivial and groundless. On returning to the real world however I would find that they became important questions again.

My friend had been a governor in Maharishi's Transcendental Meditation movement. She later came to Babaji and felt painfully split between him and Christianity. Now she was following her heart's path as Babaji had advised and was using what seemed to her the essential parts from each of these three influences.

Handing him the letter, I asked Babaji, "Is the way she is taking now the right one for her?"

Babaji held the envelope in one hand, looked at it, and without moving, stared quietly for some moments into the distance. Then he turned round and repeated several times, "Is right, ... is right!"

In the short silence it seemed as though Babaji was visiting my friend on a causal or spiritual level, reading her like an open book.

I had noticed this behaviour before in Haidakhan, Babaji's ashram in the foothills of the Himalayas. My mother had given me a small gift to take to him. He accepted it, thanked me and said nothing more. He never spoke much anyhow, only what was necessary. I asked him, "Please, have you anything to say to my mother?" He seemed to withdraw his consciousness from the immediate world and remained still and concentrated. Then he his eyes beamed at me and he replied "Send her my blessings!"

I felt sure Babaji had just been with my mother's soul.

***

Calcutta. I did not see any sign of my luggage until I arrived at my host's place. This large residence, enormous by European standards, was on the tenth floor of a skyscraper. It comprised two levels, an open terraced roof, a complex of rooms and a sort of reception hall and gallery where more than 500 people could assemble. The suitcases and bags of those accompanying Babaji had been left in a room whose floor was now an expanse of covered mattresses. This is where we were to stay. As I unrolled my sleeping bag, seven room-mates arrived, one after another, all male. Sri Muniraj, of whom Babaji has said is no longer subject to the law of death and rebirth, and Sri Shastriji were among them. No sign of the two wives of the flight group. Anticipating a likely snoring concert, I rummaged for my earplugs. The prospect of another sleepless night was unbearable. I was utterly exhausted. No wonder, after a day with Babaji without rest, following a sleepless night on the plane from Germany and only a four-hour break at my friend's house, not to mention the time difference and jet lag!

The ride to this place had been rather peculiar, somewhat like a car chase. I didn't have a clue about Babaji's arrangements in Calcutta; where he was going to stay and where I might find accommodation. Somebody at the airport had hastily whispered to me that I needn't bother about my luggage and then vanished into the teeming crowd before I could say a word Babaji himself had been welcomed reverently with garlands and then whisked away in a car by his hosts. Next I caught a glimpse of the rest of the flight party careering off in another vehicle. The crowds and confusion were unbelievable! I jumped into the car of another devotee and asked him to follow Babaji; my chances of being reunited with my luggage and finding accommodation were best wherever Babaji might be.

Babaji didn't go straight to his lodgings; he paid visits to several families en route. Despite the impenetrable traffic, we managed to keep up with his car all the way and at long last we arrived at the tall building – our final destination. This time the usual fuss and incessant activity involved with huge crowds was missing instead a leaden silence prevailed as Babaji and his companions entered the house. I waited in the entrance hall, hesitating to go inside. I looked at some photographs of a woman and a yogi I didn't recognise, who were worshipped by the people of the house. Later I learned that the yogi, Sita Ram Dass, was very famous in these parts and had millions of devotees here in Calcutta and all over the world. He felt his time of death was near and had prayed for weeks to Babaji to grant him a last darshan (audience). He was actually here in the house now. Babaji, knowing the exact moment of the man's death, went to him to give him solace. He sat at the edge of the yogi's bed and gave him water from the Gautama Ganga, the holy river in Haidakhan, and three tulsi leaves.

Shortly after receiving Babaji's visit, Sita Ram Dass died. A few days later during a public darshan, Babaji announced that the great yogi's spirit had merged with the soul of Sri Muniraj. Everybody was asked to bow before Sri Muniraj and to shout "Sita Ram Dass Omkar".

***

That first night in Calcutta all my fears were relentlessly realised. The idea of getting some sleep was utterly absurd. There was all this talking until midnight; the naked lightbulb bombarded its restless glare through the room; at one o'clock, just as a wholesome stillness was developing, the snoring concert started up and had me fleeing the room it was so unbearable. Out on the terrace any new hope of sleep was demolished by the high-pitched descent of a million starved mosquitoes. Even thunderous snoring was better than that!

For the next twelve days it seemed all of Calcutta had come to see Babaji. Our hosts had put an advertisement, complete with photo, in the newspaper. From early afternoon till late at night, people in their thousands came squeezing into the hall, offering him flowers and sweets, receiving his blessings and streaming out again. Outside on the streets they waited in dense hot crowds eventually to form into a never-ending queue. I found a place to sit inside the hall and put my full attention on Babaji. Nothing could distract me. Through my eyes I absorbed him, drawing his appearance into my soul. I wanted to hold on forever to the image of a good father, loving and caring. Softly I tuned into the singing and wondered what made people come to Babaji. It was obvious that not all of them were driven by spiritual aspirations, more perhaps by curiosity.

I considered this a while, and then an explanation came, in the typical manner in which Babaji often answers questions. I saw that a seed starts the sprouting process the moment it is watered. The urge to grow spurs its longing for more water. If the seed is receiving and absorbing more nourishment, it prospers and bears fruit. If it is lacking, the seed fades and withers. And so it is with humans.

I only had eyes for Babaji. I didn't need to talk to anybody but could be alone with myself and my thoughts. Apparently some gossip had started up among some Indians about my sharing the same room with so many men. Well, I couldn't be bothered.

Shastriji only appeared in our room during the day, spending the time quietly reading his holy books and keeping to himself. He spent the nights in Babaji's room. Sri Muniraj had his bed on the opposite side of the room and when he was not with Babaji he also read holy books, mainly the 'Haidakhandi Sapta Sad', Prayers in Honour of the Divine Mother. Now and then he smiled at me encouragingly and enquired about my well-being. I was still having trouble sleeping, but this state changed the minute Babaji entered the room and stood quietly for a few seconds by my bed. In the nights that followed I slept deeply and dreamlessly.

***

As at Haidakhan, the mornings began with a ceremony which never failed to deeply move me, not since the first time I experienced it: between four and five in the morning Babaji gave chandan on the forehead to everybody who had been granted his permission. Chandan is a mixture of sandalwood powder and camphor and Babaji applied it with his fingers, usually in three horizontal or vertical strokes. A red dot consisting of pulverised kum-kum flowers marks the eyebrow-chakra, the spiritual third eye. The chandan is cooling and purifying and its yellow colour represents wisdom, while the red colour symbolises love.

Those short moments of encountering Babaji face to face when he applied chandan were very dear to me. Sometimes they were the only times a devotee could be so close to him. And each time it was a different experience. He might smile one day or appear aloof the next. In a roguish mood he might paint an extra dot on the ears, or on the lines around the eyes, or teasingly pinch an arm or ear, each gesture having some meaning or other.

After chandan we had the opportunity to meditate or to drink hot chai (tea with pepper, ginger, milk and sugar) out on the terraced roof where we were treated to the splendours of dawn breaking over Calcutta. Here we could witness this city come alive: people beginning to stir in their back gardens; cows wobbling about drowsily along street pavements; palm trees stretching and swaying to the feel of a fresh breeze coming up from the sea.

Most impressive of all was aarati, the ceremony of offering the light, celebrated morning and evening in front of Babaji. Our host and his family gathered before Babaji to do the honours. Religious hymns were chanted by everyone and bells were rung as Babaji's feet were washed and anointed and the smell of rosewater and heena perfume soon permeated the hall. A necklace of wooden beads and flower garlands were put round his neck and round his wrists. Specially prepared delicacies, such as barfis, were offered to him, as were nuts and fruits. Babaji took some of the offerings and distributed the rest to the crowd. He gave necklaces, blessed by his touch, to various people. These and other blessed items were always highly desired and esteemed by devotees. Some visitors were overloaded with gifts from Babaji, while others were given nothing. This difference evoked diverse emotional reactions.

The basis on which he distributed presents varied, depending on the individual. A person who did not expect anything often received gifts abundantly; another who asked for more, thinking he or she was being unjustly treated, received nothing. Babaji might overwhelm some people with presents or attention until they started to get thoughts of being someone special. He would then suddenly stop doing this. Abruptly, from one day to the next, he seemed not to care for them any more until they became aware of and corrected their attitude. Unconscious and primitive emotions and false ideas of self, like low self-esteem, were brought to the surface and transformed by this treatment.

Years ago during my second visit to Babaji, I also went through a painful experience when confronted with underlying jealousy. Never before had I experienced its force so strongly; this was new and strange. I thought I was going to explode. It erupted like a volcano, burnt itself out and hasn't returned since.

My husband, young son and I had travelled to Chilianaula to attend Navaratri. A new temple was to be inaugurated at the ashram, located where one could marvel at the vista of the Himalayas. Many people had arrived to celebrate with our beloved gum Babaji the nine-day festival in honour of the Divine Mother. There was great beauty around us: the ceremony itself held under a large, colourful marquee which shielded the congregation from the hot noonday sun; and the snow-covered Himalayan peaks glistening in a luminous, clear, blue sky. Babaji blessed us all as we came to him in turn. He cuddled our five-year-old son and paid lots of attention to my husband, to whom he had assigned the job of standing close beside him and acting as guard and crowd controller.

After every darshan my husband would show me what Babaji had given him. A small silver box; a long silk cloth, a round smoothly polished onyx stone, a beige silk shirt and so on. At first I was pleased for him and his relaxed way of receiving these gifts. Then I got really upset. Apart from the usual prasad such as sweets, fruit or nuts, which Babaji gave us all, I hadn't been given a thing. It was obvious that Babaji preferred my husband to me. I was terrified realising I was enraged with jealousy.

It didn't make sense. I was devoted to my husband. How could I become jealous of a person with whom I was so intimately connected? I should be sharing in his glory. I didn't understand myself any more. Such intense jealousy was alien to me. Then, when my husband turned up in a long silk garment with a turban on his head looking just like an Indian raja, it was all too much for me. And when he told me how he came to have the turban, I could hardly contain my tears.

Apparently, Babaji had hurried out of the tent calling my husband to follow him and had headed down the garden path straight into his room. Among all the gifts from devotees neatly stacked in the little room was a pile of folded garments and lengths of rich fabrics. Babaji glided his hand over the folds until it came to a long piece of material with a small, delicate pattern.

"Turban from Rajasthan!", he said.

He told my husband to go to Shastriji and have him wind the turban round his head in the proper way. Babaji then returned to the area where the festival was taking place.

The Indian out suited my husband; being tall and slim, he carried it off well and looked quite distinguished. His blonde beard and fine features plus turban lent him an air of majesty. I struggled with my feelings. They had no right to confuse and upset my balance, but they did so and with surprising intensity. I felt ashamed of myself How could I face Babaji with such emotions? I refused to go to darshan and walked away instead, toward a clearing in the midst of a wood of fir trees. There I sat feeling flat and drained. I knew that only Babaji could help me with such a conflict and I implored him inwardly for his support. I asked him to take away from me forever this emotion which had overwhelmed me and which I did not want. An abyss opened up before me. Forgotten was the Babaji of my first visit to Haidakhan when he had put a most precious gift on my wrist, a bracelet. Not precious for its material value but for its spiritual wealth, for a bracelet symbolises connectedness, being tied together. I sat there with a bitter heart for a long while and returned to that place several times until I felt a change in my state.

The time came when I could face Babaji again. When he laid his hands on my head and looked into my eyes he nodded, and I knew the struggle was over. From that second on I was able to share my husband's joy. And this not only applied to him, but also to others. Whenever I became aware that somebody was receiving a present, be it large or small I sensed their delight by way of energy flowing along my spine. Moreover, the issue became increasingly unimportant as the process of inner growth and transformation and the strengthening of my inner connection to Babaji grew more important.

After three years of apprenticeship, however, I was once again overwhelmed by the same craving "I want to have!". I thought I had been healed of such intense urges after the last experience, but it occurred again while on a journey through South India.

We were staying at Baroda in the state of Gujarat. It was a refreshingly cool afternoon and Babaji was sitting on a swing in the garden at a disciple's family home. Gently he moved to and fro while people sat on the lawn beside him. One after the other, a line of people moved forward to bow and offer gifts. I was one of those sitting watching the colourful spectacle. Babaji had nonchalantly thrown an exquisite yellow saree over his shoulders. It had been offered to him during aarati, and I kept staring at this gorgeous thing hoping that he might pass it on to me. Thoughts started to race through my mind. Yellow, the colour of wisdom. Who'll be the lucky one to get it? Will it be me? For the life of me, I had no way of stopping this torrent of thoughts.

Suddenly I heard my name being called. It was Babaji calling me. I stood up and moved towards him; the heat of shame and embarrassment surged through my body. ft didn't take much guessing as to why he had nominated me. When I reached him, he grabbed the saree from his shoulders and flung it violently into my limp arms. I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up forever when I realised what his gesture meant.