The Beggar: Part III

The day after meeting the Master, I began a five-day fast. This was my second time doing a long fast. My first fast was for six days in the early 1980’s, during my two-year illness, when I was practically immobilized. This time I was full of energy, moving from one village to another, overseeing, exhorting, and trying to inspire people to plant fruit trees. My mother’s house was full of Trees for Life volunteers and the house was buzzing.

I did not tell anyone I was fasting. I just made myself absent at mealtimes, and when food was offered, I declined by saying I had an upset stomach and would eat later. No one noticed except my mother who, on the third day of my fast, said to me, “Son, I do not know what you are seeking, but I am guessing it is some Shakti (power) that you seek. I know you will get whatever you are seeking, and I bless you; however, I do have one thought that I would like to share with you.”

I nodded my head in agreement. 

“Do not eat anyone else’s juttha (leftovers from their plate).” 

My first reaction was to ask for an explanation, but her look stopped me. She had dreamy eyes, as if looking at some distant object. I surmised that she would not be able to intellectualize what she had told me; I would need to ponder and meditate upon this subject.

I promised her that I would abide by her advice. We both sat there in long silence.

A few days later, I was awakened with the meaning of her statement staring straight at me: Food meant thoughts, ideas. Follow your own star. 

Quietly, I thanked my mother once again and got up to be absorbed in the whirlwind of the day’s activities.

*****

A couple of days after I broke my fast, Mr. Sharma invited me to join him in the evening to meet some of his friends. By the time I arrived, eight to ten people were already gathered on the second-floor balcony. Sharma introduced his friends, some of the most senior Hindu priests in Allahabad. It is not uncommon for the guests to be an hour or two late for such occasions, but they were all informed that I would be there at 5 p.m. sharp, so everyone was there waiting for me.

Guests were served ice-chilled Thandai, a sweet drink made of almond milk. All drinks, except mine, were spiked with bhang, an ingredient in hemp-leaf paste. Bhang was the priests’ drink of choice; what they considered the “drink of the angels.” I chided them for not offering me any. 

Soon it was dark and getting cooler. We were invited inside to a room that had been arranged for this meeting. There was a traditional double-decked aasana (guru’s seat). The base was a takht, a hardwood single-bed-sized platform, which was covered with a white sheet, and over it was placed a chouki, a smaller platform covered with a decorative carpet and a big round pillow for back support.

As people entered the room, they quietly squatted on the cotton floor mat in front of the guru’s seat. I happened to be the last person to enter the room. As I started to sit on the floor near the door, Sharma took me by the arm and pointed toward the aasana. 

I did not know there was going to be a discourse. When I saw the arrangement of the room, I presumed Sharma would be seated there because he was the president of the priests, not only in Allahabad, but in all of India. 

I refused, but Sharma insisted. I struck a compromise by sitting on the lower rung of the aasana. Sharma gave me a one-line introduction: “Here is the personality we are all gathered to meet.” 

The invitation to talk caught me by surprise. Over and above that, I had just received one of the weakest possible introductions. I sat there for several minutes in silence, with my eyes closed to collect myself. Then, very briefly and calmly, I shared my personal background, something that should have been done by the person introducing me. I gave a brief history of Trees for Life. It was no different than what I might say during a luncheon talk at the local Rotary or Lions Club.

Sharma was disappointed. He had obviously expected me to relate my mysterious experience at Sangam. I balked, as there was nothing to tell. Sharma told them a sketch of the events, as he had experienced them. It was evident that he had told them this story already, which was why they were there. I was expected to fill in the blanks, but I merely shook my head and did not oblige.

Sharma spoke again. “He met this eminence, but he did not recognize him and became tongue-tied. He did not have the necessary background. He could have had a darshan, but he came out empty-handed.”

The silence was broken by a person who said, “Here we are, hereditary priests for many generations. We serve Ganga Maiya (Mother Ganges) every day. And here is a man who walks in and has this experience. I, too, am envious.” His voice was firm and steady, filled with emotion. He looked at Sharma with rebuke in his eyes. I recognized him as one of the priests Sharma had invited me to eat with when he said I was part of their circle 12 years ago.

Another priest said, “We can only say our guest was tongue-tied because we have not had that experience. Such an experience has to be beyond thought and words.”

“Such experiences cannot be articulated,” added another. “The fact that he cannot speak about it even today, does that mean he is tongue-tied?”

“It is the result of penance over several lives,” said yet another priest.

An elderly priest, who had been silent up to this time, said, “The fact that he did not take the aasana shows he does not recognize who he is. He will have to recognize who he is. Many people are waiting.”

Another person said, “Who says he did not have a darshan? That experience was the darshan any one of us would die for.”

The subject moved to whom I might have met. 

“Babaji, of course,” said the priest who had earlier spoken of jealousy. He was referring to Mahavatar Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of modern India.

One or two heads nodded in agreement, but most of the others said nothing. I sat in silence, staring at the ground. I was not interested in encouraging or participating in this discussion.

“Indeed, indeed, how many of us would have dared to massage a leper’s feet?” Sharma asked. Silence followed. One quick glance told me: the very idea was preposterous to these Hindu priests who prided themselves on their purity. 

Soon Sharma nodded to his family members, who were standing just outside the door listening. The men brought in prasad–blessed food–on small metal plates. It consisted of panjeeri (an Indian sweet dish made with cream of wheat, sugar, butter, and dry fruit) along with pieces of fresh fruit. It was followed by a cup of chai.

Later that evening, as I carefully steered my scooter through the busy, narrow streets of Allahabad, I was reminded of my first day in kindergarten. My main memory was of the teacher playing “tail the cat” with the class. One child would be blindfolded and would try to attach a tail made of cloth to a paper cut-out of a cat displayed on the blackboard. I refused to go back to that school the next day. I was not going to school to learn to put a tail on a cat. I wanted serious learning. I knew what I wanted, and that was not it. As a result, I was admitted to a Montessori school, which set me on a lifelong journey to learn all I could, and of which, I have very good memories. 

The circle of people at Sharma’s house had somehow brought back memories of the school I refused to attend.