In the evening after the tour of the desolate land at Bird Village, my thought was: We like the land, but are the changes that will follow also the will of the land?
The next day I announced that I would have to ask permission from the land before proceeding.
“What would it take to get permission?” they asked.
“I have to fast and meditate in silence on the land for five days and five nights,” I told them.
The people from Bird Village would not agree to any of it. They were adamant. Later, one of the men took me aside and explained to me that they had recently killed a cobra in the same place where I planned to meditate. He stretched his hands above his head to tell me that the cobra was six feet long.
“That means I must go ask the widow of the cobra if it’s OK that we come,” I said. “This is their land. We cannot just go kill them on their own land and expect to succeed. Unless we have that permission, I cannot proceed. We have to be in tune with nature.”
Finally, the villagers consented on the condition that, since snakes do not like to crawl over sand, the people would put a six-foot wide, thick ring of sand around the space where I would meditate, and one of the villagers would keep watch over me as long as I was there.
For the next five days and five nights, I meditated in a partially-finished room with brick walls that were not yet plastered. There were no windows or doors. It was a small medical dispensary under construction by my doctor friend in Des Moines. One person took the responsibility to bring me a simple fare of rice and lentils once a day.
The temperature was above 115 degrees, but it felt much higher in the confines of the small brick room. It was like being in an oven. I could not wear any clothes, except for my underwear. The sun came out early in the morning and even the nights were hot.
On my last night, feeling the need to stretch my legs, I ventured out around 10 p.m. I was dressed only in my underwear because it was still extremely hot. I did not expect anyone to see me at that late hour. Since time and distance were of no concern, I must have walked quite a long way. At one place, I saw two villagers sitting in the dark outside their straw hut.
“Who is that?” I overheard one of them asking. He was obviously surprised to see a stranger at that hour of the night.
“He’s an American Baba,” the other man responded.
In the total darkness and from a distance, I was struck by that one word, Baba. To these villagers, that meant a holy person. Why are they considering me a holy person?
I realized that the fact I was there for five days and five nights in that intense heat had something to do with it. They had intuited that, as an American, I must have many comforts—clothes, shoes, air conditioning, television, and cars. Yet, I had given up all of that to be there with them.
Selfless sacrifice is what makes a person holy! The thought struck me as a thunderbolt. Other insights followed in quick succession:
· People follow holy people because they inspire through their selflessness.
· Fundamental change takes place in human behavior because of inspiration, not information.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I cried to myself, looking up at the sky. The land had given me permission. The cobra’s spouse had given me the secret. I tried to digest the formula and repeat it so that I would not forget the insight.
Development is about inspiration, not information!
Heart over brain.
I was having the Eureka experience of Archimedes. I was ready to commit myself to that God-forsaken 40 acres.
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