The Beggar: Part I

In 1989, I was at the Kumbh Mela to lead a Trees for Life campaign to distribute 300,000 guava saplings as prasad (communion) to the pilgrims. However, I had an inner feeling, an undercurrent, that I was there for something more. It was a familiar feeling of restlessness and unease that took place when I left for a long trip, knowing I would not see my wife and children for a long time. It was a mixture of anticipation and anxiety, as if I were at an important gathering but not fully dressed. 

On January 20, 1989, the auspicious day when the sun transitioned into Capricorn, the prayer beads I had worn around my neck for several years broke and scattered all over the floor. They had become an important part of me, yet I felt detached. This to me was an omen that a new phase of my life was about to begin.

I couldn’t sleep the first night at the Mela, so I gave up around 11 p.m., got out of my straw bed on the sand floor, put on several layers of warm clothes, and went for a walk. I was aware that the time had come for new challenges. I needed courage. From every speck of sand my feet touched, I begged for that courage. 

At midnight, the most auspicious hour, I bathed in the frigid waters at the Sangam—the juncture where the Ganges and Yamuna rivers meet. Then I walked for hours on the sandy banks of the Ganges. Around 10 in the morning, I saw four men singing devotional songs. They were seated on the sand and in front of them was a white piece of cloth with a small copper bowl. The passing visitors had thrown a handful of rice and lentils in the bowl for them. There were also a few coins scattered on the cloth. The men looked very poor. The love and pathos in their voices tugged at my heart. I squatted on the sand beside them and joined in their singing. Without a word, one of the men handed me a pair of cymbals, and soon I was in rhythm with them. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

Occasionally, I would open my eyes to see someone drop a coin in the beggars’ bowl or a foreign tourist taking pictures of the scene—me, dressed in Western clothes, with a heavy top coat and cap, sitting beside those four men who wore barely anything.

I was disappointed when, after a couple of hours, the men wanted their cymbals back because they were leaving. I had just begun to understand the heartbeat of the beggars. From their sustained passion, it was obvious that a deep vein of devotion ran in their hearts. No one could sing like that for a few coins. It was an expression of their love. They were really not begging for coins—like me, they too were acquiring courage. 

The Mela crowd, numbering in the millions, had started to thicken. Silently, I begged for courage from each one I passed. Soon people, sights, and noises all became one big blur and I was oblivious to everything around me. I crossed a pontoon bridge on the Ganges River to reach an island that had formed in the middle of the river. During winter, the water level goes down in the river and natural islands are formed. There, a tent city had been set up for the duration of the festival. Our Trees for Life team was camped on the island. 

Immediately after crossing the bridge, I noticed a long row of lepers squatting on the side of the river, begging—not an uncommon sight at the Mela. As I started to walk by, my feet froze near one person. I had almost passed him when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lying on the sand covered with a blanket. He looked like any other leper. Near his covered head sat three Hindu renunciant monks, called sadhus, in their saffron clothes and their long, matted hair. A woman in saffron clothes was sitting in front of the leper. My immediate thought was that the leper under the blanket had suffered a heart attack, and these people were attending to him.

I stood there for several minutes. While everything around me was muted, this scene was in perfect focus. I noticed the brown-and off-white plaid blanket on top of the person who was lying down. For some reason, the blanket riveted my attention. I realized the people around him were sitting quietly, without any movement. I became aware that I, too, was standing absolutely still. A reverential mood permeated the atmosphere. I felt my heart soften, tender to the slightest touch. My eyes were moist and my body seemed to have frozen.

Quietly, the woman got up, unfolded the blanket she was sitting on and spread it out just enough for two people. She motioned for me to come and join her. As I sat to her left, I noticed she was the only one in the group sitting on a blanket. The three sadhus were seated on the sand.

The moment I sat down, one of the sadhus started to speak. Although he spoke in Hindi, my mother tongue, I could not understand what he was saying. I only remember that his voice was melodious, and I was becoming very drowsy. I tried hard to keep my eyes open, but I could not. I assumed this was the result of my not having had enough sleep the night before. As soon as the sadhu stopped speaking, I found myself wide awake—my drowsiness had suddenly evaporated. I was now sure that the sadhu must be one with extraordinary spiritual powers. I had experienced the same drowsiness in the presence of Devraha Baba, the 350-year-old saint, whose powers were legendary in India.

After 15 minutes or so, the man lying under the blanket uncovered his head. Even though I could see only his face, I was somehow sure he was wearing nothing under the blanket. His face was dark and had a healthy, robust glow. His head was clean-shaven. His eyes were shining and yet blank. He turned his head and looked at me for several minutes. There was absolutely no expression of interest on his face.

“I am the one who recognized him,” the woman said. Her tone of voice and mannerisms reminded me of someone I knew. I tried hard to remember who it was. She kept talking. There was something frivolous and playful in her manner, which was interfering with my reverential mood.

“Maharajji (the Master) can speak in any language,” she said. The woman named a few Indian languages and some foreign languages—Japanese, English, French, and Portuguese.

I then remembered who she reminded me of—it was a lady in Wichita who used to embarrass her children and visitors by asking the children to perform on a piano. It was uncanny how the two women had the same tone of voice and mannerisms.

I was uncomfortable with the woman’s chatter, and I felt that she was probably interfering with the reverential mood of the other sadhus. As if to apologize for her and to seek their indulgence, I turned to them. They were no longer there. Only a moment ago, one of them had been speaking. I wondered what had happened to them. I looked at the sand where they had been sitting but saw no footprints or any other trace that they had been there.

*****

I should have been surprised or shocked at the sadhus sudden “disappearance,” but I was not. I witnessed the event as if I were simply taking inventory.

“Really, what language would you like the Master to speak?” the woman insisted.

Remembering that the other sadhu had just spoken in Hindi, a language that I knew so well–and yet had not understood–I responded, “English will do, thank you.”

The woman’s actions and questions continued to irritate me. I wished that she were not there. The man did not speak. He lay on his back, gazing at the sky. After a while, I thought I detected a faint smile on his face. He rolled to his left side to face me. In his look, there seemed to be a gentle question.

What transpired in the next two hours is still unclear to me, though I have searched my mind to remember. What I have been able to recollect is only a mere shadow of the event, but something significant took place.

“I want to still my mind,” I said. 

Even though I had just requested him to speak in English, for some reason my question was in Hindi.

“Practice,” he said in perfect English. His voice was deep and gentle.

There was a silence, as if he wanted the words to sink in and take effect. Then, gently and in a very calm voice, he gave examples of how practice makes perfect. He gave examples of modern-day sports and music figures. That surprised me. How would a person like this know those names and their accomplishments? He said that only through the grace of God is one put on the spiritual path. After that, one needs to grace himself with practice. Practice is one thing under our control. Practice, alone, makes perfection.

“What should I practice, Sir?” I inquired.

“The goal of all methods is to teach us discrimination. Practice discrimination,” he said.

“What is discrimination?” I asked.

“Discrimination is the ability to separate the real from the unreal, or the illusion,” he answered. “Only by constant practice are we able to achieve such discrimination. Once we have experienced Reality, there is no going back, and illusion loses its hold.” 

“Sir, I am so imperfect, I need your blessings,” I said. “I need your help to practice. Give me one tool today. I come to you as a beggar. I am more than a beggar; truly, I am a thief …” 

By this time, I was choked with emotion.

Without a word, I moved over and took his feet from under the blanket, put them on my lap, and started to massage them. His feet were big and heavy, the soles thick and cracked. As I touched his feet, a slight current passed through my body. 

“Blessings are always there,” he said.

After a few minutes, he added, “Stand in the Ganges sometime for one hour and concentrate on your desire, and it will be fulfilled. Do it when the water is warm. Do not punish your body.” 

It was as if he knew about my early morning dip in the ice-cold waters of the Sangam. 

“Prepare your body for the task in gentle increments.”

The fact that I was massaging his feet did not in any way affect his demeanor. He did not seem to notice. I was sure it made no difference to him. I was also sure I was doing it for my sake rather than his. I was the beggar. A thief trying to steal a blessing.

By this time, the current from his body that had come as a slight touch was now coming in waves, ceaselessly—wave after wave, varying in intensity and power. It was like a crescendo of music in which my body was vibrating as a musical instrument. I felt like a hollow reed through which wind was flowing, vibrating the reed.

The voice of the woman jolted me. She was laughing. “Look at that guy. If only he knew how many blessings he is getting right now. His mind is already still,” she said, referring to me.

It seemed as if I went under a spell the moment I started to massage his feet. I thought I had been fully awake the whole time and aware of what was going on, but I have no recollection of anything that happened from that moment until the woman began to speak. 

I vaguely remember him talking to her. I think he spoke of the virtues and power of love. He said that of all the virtues in the world, love is the most important. Love is like the sun. Before it, all the lights of all the candles fade. Love is the driving force that we call God. 

It seemed that I had been at the Master’s feet only a moment when the laughter of the woman brought me back to earth. But from the position of the sun, I figured I had been there for more than an hour. I gently put his feet down and stood up.

“I should leave,” I said to the woman. “I have already taken too much of your time and have interfered with your dialogue with the Master.”

“If you wish to leave, that is fine,” the woman said with a laugh. “But do it for your own sake. Do not use me as a pretext.” She had a pained look on her face, as if I had already failed my first test.

I realized then that I did not wish to leave. There was an awkward pause before I sat down again with the woman. While I had been massaging the Master’s feet, she must have moved, because now there was room on her right side on the blanket. There must be some significance to that, I thought.

“Master, I need your help,” I said.

He laughed. “I am not a Master. I am a journeyman like you. We are all journeying toward the same goal—that is to become one with God. Practice will make you perfect. Practice.”

“Let us practice together,” the woman said, as she straightened her back to sit in the meditation position. I joined her. I reached for my meditation beads but remembered the string had broken the night before.

I must have entered a deep state of meditation quickly. Later, the pain in my knees made me realize I had been sitting for quite some time. My legs were asleep, but despite the physical discomfort, I felt an immense sense of joy. I looked at the Master. He had covered his face with the blanket again. I looked at the woman, who was no longer in meditation.

“Well done,” she smiled back, as if in appreciation.

I did not want to leave. I was determined to visit the Master each day I was at the Mela. I would stay at the Mela as long as the Master was there. I wanted to bring all my friends to meet him.

I remembered I was supposed to see Mr. Sharma that afternoon, and the position of the sun told me it was time. Since I first met Mr. Sharma at the Mela 12 years earlier, we had become good friends.

I memorized the place where the Master was located. It was immediately to the left of bridge No. 4, where the lepers were. On the exit point of the bridge, there was a police watchtower. The watchtower held a large, white Trees for Life banner announcing the distribution of the trees. It would be very easy to remember the location. The face of the policeman on the tower was clearly visible, and I looked at him intently to remember him.

Within a few feet of the Master’s back was the river Ganges, below which was a six-foot drop-off. It was a rugged, dark clay formation that takes place after the river erodes the riverbanks. I realized before I started meditation that I had seen a dark-skinned sadhu standing waist deep in the river in a worship-like position. He was still there more than an hour later. I marveled at his endurance. From my dip earlier that morning, I knew how cold the water was.

“Time for me to leave,” I said gently to the woman. “This time I take responsibility for myself and leave of my own accord.”

She smiled back in understanding. There was no emotion or reaction from the Master. I stood up and reached over to touch my forehead to the Master’s feet. Again, there was no reaction.

“Sir, may I know who I have had the honor to be with today?” I inquired. He looked at me. For the first time, there was a benign smile on his face. I felt I was in the presence of compassion itself.

“I am,” he said simply.

There was no accent in the voice. It was as if the words hung free in the air—as if the sounds had touched my ears without ever being uttered by him. I had no other questions and left.

I made sure I could remember how to get back to the Master’s place. All my senses were alert, noticing even minor details. I heard another set of beggars chanting. The music was melodious, but I did not stop.

I was eager to get to Sharma’s camp.