Author: Balbir Mathur

Balbir was asked to contribute a reflection on the question, “Why Save Africa?” His reflection was published in a 2011 book titled “Hope for Africa.”

In the fall of 1982, I was invited to an Africa – America conference hosted by the government of Zimbabwe.

In the early 1980s, America was still fighting communism and our foreign policy regarding Africa was caught in a dichotomy. On the one hand, we were backing the South African government’s apartheid and, on the other hand, we had our eyes on the raw materials and markets of Africa. We didn’t want them to fall into the hands of communists, so we were wooing the newly- emerging African nations.

At that time, Nelson Mandela was still in prison and Robert Mugabe was an African hero.

The top echelon of African ambassadors and politicians was at the conference, along with their entourage. The American delegation included members of the State Department, high-level politicians, and businessmen. I remember names like Senator Nancy Kassebaum, Ambassador Andrew Young, Mayor Tom Bradley, and the colorful Anthony Lewis of the New York Times. But the one who stole the show was Thabo Mbeki, an exiled leader of the African National Congress of South Africa, who later became President after Nelson Mandela.

This was my first trip to the continent of Africa. When I landed in Harare, the capital of Zimbabwe, to me it represented all of Africa. After checking into my hotel, I was eager to explore “Africa,” so I hired a taxi and requested that the driver give me a tour of the city.

“What would you like to see?” he inquired.

“You’re the boss,” I said. “Show me everything.”

The driver showed me the best parts of the city, where the rich and powerful lived. After an hour or so, I asked him to show me where the poor lived. He turned around in total disbelief and told me that it was not a good idea. I could understand his reasoning. Racial tensions in Zimbabwe were very high, and this was not a good time for a foreigner to be cruising around all by himself. But I persisted in my request.

The poor slum area was not far away. It was obvious the taxi driver was not going to take me inside the slum, but I was grateful that I could at least view it from the outskirts. Small shacks with tin or thatched roofs—a symbol of poverty and slums throughout the world—were scattered all around. This was Sunday afternoon and people were sitting around in groups under shady trees or taking leisurely walks.

The scene was a stark contrast to the rich areas I had just visited. There I saw large, impressive British bungalows with manicured lawns. The homes of the Indian business community stood out because of the luxury cars in their driveways, most of which were gold Mercedes. However, there were practically no people on the streets.

Here, in the midst of poverty, there were people outside mingling with one another.

As we drove along a bumpy dirt road, I saw a woman selling mangoes. I expressed a desire to stop and buy some. Again, the taxi driver told me that it was not a good idea. He offered to deliver mangoes to me at my hotel. But to his dismay, I insisted.

The driver parked at the side of the road, and I walked across a patch of bare ground to where the mango seller sat, about ten yards away. Dressed in traditional clothing, she was sitting on the dirt under a tree with a couple dozen mangoes in front of her, a common sight in most developing countries.

By this time, the sight of a foreigner getting out of a taxi and walking towards the mango seller had attracted attention. Several bystanders crossed their arms and eyed me with suspicion, as if to say, “Who do you think you are?”

I threw a glance at the taxi driver. I could see nervousness on his face.

Once she realized I wanted to buy mangoes, the mango seller was delighted to have my business. As I paid her, she stood up and started to sing their traditional “thank-you” song. It was more than just a song—she clapped along and her whole body swayed in a rhythmic motion.

“Wait, wait, wait!” I pleaded in English, and I touched her arm to stop the action. “Please teach me.” She smiled and complied. I tried to repeat her words and motions. I was clumsy. My body was not as supple as her tall, slender body. I was totally butchering the words, and I was out of rhythm. She burst out laughing.

By this time, several bystanders had surrounded us. They all broke into a spontaneous act of mimicking the comical rendition of this clumsy foreigner. Soon we were all dancing and singing, but I was the one leading the butchered version of their traditional dance. While I was not good at imitating my teacher, the crowd was very good at imitating me. Everyone was laughing at me, and I was ham enough to lead them on.

I looked back at the taxi driver again. Now he was laughing his head off.

Finally, the mango seller grasped the hands of this stranger and looked straight into my eyes. She was perhaps in her mid-forties, but the lines in her face indicated that during those years she must have lived a long and hard life. I remember clearly the broad grin on her face and the gentleness and mirth in her eyes.

As the taxi driver and I drove off, I took one last look back at the mango seller from a distance. Everyone was gazing at the departing taxi.

Before that day, for me, Africa was a huge unknown continent. Statistics said it was the second-largest continent on Earth, more than three times the size of Europe. From that day onward, however, that mango seller became Africa for me.

xxx

Not long after that experience, I gave up my international consulting business and started Trees for Life. I have spent the past quarter-century of my life serving people like that mango seller. Thus, I can now better speak from the perspective of that mango seller than from the perspective of the elite “power brokers” like those who attended that conference in 1982.

Which brings me to the question in hand: “Why save Africa?”

From the perspective of the poor and disempowered, this question itself is an enigma. Their perspective is well-expressed in the wisdom of Lilla Watson, the Aboriginal academic and activist from Australia who said:

“If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time.
But if your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together.”

Remember the picture of our planet that the Apollo 8 astronauts took from the moon on December 24, 1968? That image forever changed how we look at our Earth. Before that, we could only see our Earth by looking down. Under our feet we saw this giant clod of brown dirt. But then we looked up, and saw this giant planet as a little blue sphere the size of a soccer ball—a heavenly body, floating serenely in space. And we fell in love.

Of this small heavenly body, Africa is 20 percent of the landmass. Imagine if one-fifth of our own body were on fire. Would we even stop to ask the question, “Why save that part when we still have 80 percent of our body left?”

Africa not only represents 20 percent of our landmass. It is also the place where the human species is supposed to have originated. It is where our roots are. Regardless of how big a tree might grow or how delicious its fruits might be, it cannot survive without its roots.

From the perspective of people like the mango seller—people with great pride and dignity—one has to question the question itself. The question of “saving” Africa misses the point. What people really want are opportunities—opportunities to help themselves, not to be “saved” by the rich and powerful.

Embedded within this question is also a great warning. For several centuries, “missionaries” in one guise or another have been trying to “save” Africa. Missionaries who were trying to save Africa were the forerunners of the slave trade. Now we want to save the people from the mess our “saving” created.

There is a well-known story of a child who sees a butterfly struggling to emerge from its cocoon. The tiny creature seems to be trapped, in great pain. So, the child “saves” the butterfly by removing the cocoon for it. But the child doesn’t realize that the butterfly’s struggle to free itself is essential to its development, strengthening and enlivening its newly transformed body. Robbed of that struggle, the butterfly is crippled and cannot fly, and it soon dies.

So, let me suggest that we not try to “save” Africa, or we will make a still bigger mess out of it. Instead, let us serve the people so they can manifest their own destiny.

Sometimes we can learn the most by turning a mirror on ourselves. There must be a reason why this question “Why save Africa?” is arising at this point in history. Perhaps, in our modern rush of technological progress, we have a sense that Africa could become our savior. As we place more and more value upon machine-like qualities like efficiency, speed, and physical power, these values are reflected in human tendencies to become more robot-like. Perhaps the spirit that shone forth in the song of the mango seller might be what saves us.

One day I received a telegram from a friend in Allahabad saying that my mother had been paralyzed. I called Treva and told her I needed to get to India immediately. 

On such short notice, I knew the price of an airline ticket would be very expensive. I called my brother-in-law in Denver and asked if he could find me a reasonably-priced ticket. 

A few hours later, he called to say he had found me a seat on a Gulf Airlines flight and that it had the requirement that I stay in India for 21 days. Then I called a cousin in New Delhi to help get me a train ticket from New Delhi to Allahabad—which he did. Early the next morning, I was on my way to India.

Once I reached New Delhi, I went directly from the airport to the train station. It was June, and temperatures were around 115 degrees Fahrenheit, so I was grateful that my cousin had been able to get me a berth in an air-conditioned coach on such short notice. 

Upon reaching Allahabad, I found that my mother was not actually paralyzed. She had an accident in which she tripped over the telephone cord. X-rays revealed that her fall had caused a hair-line spinal fracture. Since no cast could be applied, she had to lie very still for weeks.

My friend, who had sent the telegram, was a pharmacist who spoke no English. So, in his concern and rush to get this important information to me, the telegram had read simply: “Mother paralyzed. Come immediately.”    

Of course, I was grateful that my mother was not paralyzed, but because of the extreme heat, it was the worst time of year to be bedridden. Her house was not air-conditioned, and she had to lie in one position under the ceiling fan. I stayed with my mother for almost two weeks, with my bed also under the fan, within inches of hers. She moaned and groaned continuously, and through those cries I could feel her pain, but there was nothing I could do. 

Sleeping directly under the fan gave me a runny nose and flu-like symptoms. Lying there helplessly with nothing to do, my mind began to ruminate. Treva and I had spent all our savings during the last several years to kick-start Trees for Life; however, very few donations were coming, and we were receiving no salary. I worried that, if this continued, either I would have to abandon the vision of Trees for Life or Treva would have to leave me to fend for herself and our children. Both options were abhorrent to me.

While I realized how fortunate my mother was to have a staff of several people to take care of her and to have children who could come home back to help, I, on the other hand, was experiencing fears about what the future held for my family. 

An internal voice chided me, Now that you have started Trees for Life, you have spent your family’s savings. When you grow old, you will not have a home. Your wife and children will abandon you. You will end up with no money, no family, no friends. You are like a drunk who has spent all of the family’s money on booze.

Like a broken record, the voice tormented me relentlessly. There was no hiding place. I felt as if a demon was speaking. I was experiencing how this same voice must have spoken to Jesus when he was being taken to the cross. I was like a vanquished warrior whose giant opponent stood over me with a naked sword against my neck. My fear was intense; my depression severe. I felt as if I might be losing my mind.

I had Trees for Life work to do in New Delhi so, after the time with my mother, I went to my aunt’s home in New Delhi. Within the first hour of my arrival, my aunt received a call from a friend, Dr. Dewan, who inquired when next I would be coming to India. He was surprised to learn I had just arrived and invited me to go with him to the Himalayas for five days. Instantly, I accepted the offer. 

My aunt was furious. She had picked up on the lack of energy in my gait and said, “You need rest before you go back home.” Then she ordered, “You call Dr. Dewan at once and cancel your trip.”

“OK,” I reluctantly agreed. “I will call him in a few minutes.” Several times I sat next to the telephone with the full intention of calling Dr. Dewan, but each time I decided to wait to call him when I had more energy. I never did get enough “oomph” to call him back. Two days later, I was on my way to the Himalayas with Dr. Dewan. 

Unbeknownst to me, Dr. Dewan had invited three others on the trip so there were six of us, including the driver, plus all our luggage in a small car. There was not an inch of space to spare, which made the drive very uncomfortable. 

It was a long journey. We started early each morning and traveled most of the day, going from one small town to the next. At night, Dr. Dewan had arranged lodging at various stops along our route. It was a grueling trip, and I was totally exhausted. 

Over the course of the journey, I became deeply troubled seeing the mass cutting of trees on the mountains and the dynamite blasting of the Himalayas for highway construction. It was reported that silt rushing through the mountains from heavy flooding was forming an island in the Gulf of Bangladesh. 

With my state of depression, concern for my mother, travel discomfort, and flu-like symptoms, I felt as if someone had driven a dagger into my heart and was now twisting the blade. 

On the fourth night, we stopped at a guest house, where we were provided with buckets of hot and cold water for bathing. 

When everyone went to bed, I retired to my large bedroom. The guest house had been built in the colonial days and had high ceilings to keep the rooms cool in the summer. In keeping with my daily practice, I sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor to meditate. I must have been in meditation for an hour when I sensed a presence in the room. There was no click of the doorknob, nor any sound; just a sense that I was no longer alone. 

I did not want to alarm whatever was in the room, but my curiosity was aroused. Slowly, I began to open my eyes. The first thing I saw was a black ball rising from the floor. As it rose toward the high ceiling, I realized the black ball was the hair on the head of a golden figure whose shoulders and then upper torso were emerging.  Light emanated from this Presence and filled the entire room.

By this time, my eyes were wide open. I sat transfixed in a  state of total awe.

At the same time, I had a sense of recognition. I realized this was the Spirit of the Himalayas. Then, the golden figure looked at me and said, “This is all my will.” 

I immediately understood that the Spirit meant that the cutting of the trees and dynamiting of the mountains was not human folly, but the mountain’s will. It was part of a bigger design of Nature, and humans were merely her tools. Nature has its own mind that humans can’t grasp, because our egos blind us. We want to say we are greater than Nature, but we are doing the will of something much larger than us. The same ego that blinds us allows Nature to use us. 

I realized these words were not being spoken, but were being conveyed directly to my mind. It was as if the mountain had the key to my mind and had unlocked it. 

Then the figure conveyed another message: “Courage is knowing the price of your acts and willingly paying it.” 

The Spirit not only knew my concerns about the destruction of the mountains, it also knew my financial and family concerns. In one stroke, it told me that was the price I would have to pay. The question I was asked: “Was I willing to pay the price for what I felt I had to do with my life?”

I felt the Spirit’s message land in my heart. My immediate response was, “Yes, yes, yes!” I felt as if I had made that decision a long time ago and now was being asked to reaffirm my commitment to myself. 

What would or could happen to me in the future was no longer of concern. When one accepts the price of commitment, it moves you forward, despite all fears.

Throughout this experience, the Spirit remained still, showing no emotion about my decision. 

As I reconfirmed my commitment to myself, the image melted into thin air. 

This whole experience was like a soothing balm. I felt very light, like I was floating. I got up and went to bed. 

The next thing I knew, there was a knock on the door and the attendant was bringing me some morning tea. I was thoroughly refreshed.

Note from Balbir: Several months ago, I shared the story of my mother’s “Confession” about her promise to a holy man before my birth. Now I want to share the related events that took place in the months and years after Mother told me her story. But first let’s revisit mother’s “Confession.”

Confession

Winter 1988

“I have a confession to make.” 

My mother’s statement startled me. I was in India visiting my mother, who was not in good health. She was perched on the side of her wooden bed, and her body was gently swaying forward and back. I looked up from where I was sitting and found her eyes focused directly on me.

I was startled because I had never heard any such words from her in all my 54 years. Before she could say anything more, my mind started racing, imagining what she might have to share. Was she suffering from some serious ailment? Had my father committed some grievous mistake? Had she been conned out of all her savings? Or, perhaps I was not my father’s child? Such fearful thoughts raced through my mind.

I was speechless, my lips pursed, wondering what Pandora’s box she was about to open. I looked up at her again and saw a twinkle in her eyes aimed at some distant place. I could not decipher the mystery of her expression.

Then, with a gentle smile, she began her story: “My first child, Sharda, died in my arms at the age of ten months.”

Another shock. This was the first time she had ever spoken to me about the death of her first child. Twice, when I was a boy, I had tried to ask her about it. Both times she had laughed it off, avoiding the question. I had figured that her feelings were too deep for her to bear speaking about it. Now I sat in stunned silence as she continued.

“It was pneumonia, and my baby’s chest was throbbing heavily as I held her to my breast. There was no treatment for pneumonia at that time. I sobbed helplessly as she took her last breath. A new mother at 22, I cried day and night for my precious child that I had wanted so desperately.

“I became extremely depressed, as I had lost the most important thing in my life—my very reason for living. Worried for me, my mother took me to a distant city to see an ascetic holy man who was known for helping women who wanted to have children.

“The elderly holy man was dressed only in a loincloth and was sitting on a small platform beneath a large tree in front of his straw hut. In front of him was a small fire that was almost burned out. There were about 50 people sitting in front of the man in total silence. My mother and I quietly sat down at the back of the group.

“After some time, the holy man beckoned me to come forward. As I stood before him, with folded hands, I bowed deeply. He took a pinch of cold ash and put it in my mouth as a blessing. Then he said, ‘Celebrate, because you will have a son. He will rise above worldly affairs.’ 

“I said to the holy man, ‘I will dedicate my son to you.’ Then, I reverently walked backward away from him until he was out of my sight.”

A slightly bemused expression came into her face: “I have no idea what moved me so much in that moment that I would dedicate you to him.” After a pause, she continued, “Not too long after that, you were born. When I first took you in my arms and looked at you, I was filled with a heavenly joy! But I was also reminded of the sacred vow I had made to that holy man. I was afraid if I took you back to him for dedication, you might also give up everything, including your own mother. I became terrified of losing you. I had already lost one child—I could not bear the thought of losing you also. I wanted you to grow up in our family, get married, and have children and grandchildren. I wanted to see you prosper, not become like that naked ascetic who had blessed me.

“But I had made a sacred vow and knew that I had to keep it. I decided that, come what may, I would fulfill my obligation when you were one month old. But when that time came, I postponed it and said I would take you when you were one year old. At each of your birthdays, I was reminded of my vow, but still my fears were so strong that I postponed it until the next year, again and again.

“Now I am 78 years old, and this is my only unfulfilled promise. I want you to go and present yourself to that holy man for his blessing.”

A hushed silence fell over the two of us. Finally, I asked, “What was the name of this man?”

“I do not remember,” she said.

“Which city had you gone to?” I asked.

“Hoshiarpur,” she replied.

“Which part of Hoshiarpur did he live in?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “My mother took me. I just remember that we walked several miles from the railroad station.”

“Mom,” I responded in frustration, “that was 55 years ago, and you have no idea what his name was or where he lived in Hoshiarpur! Most likely that man has been gone for many years. How do you suppose I will be able to present myself to him?”

“Yes, I know!” she said, a smile crossing her lips. She must have realized how ludicrous her request sounded. “He will be gone, but there must be someone connected to him. Perhaps one of his disciples! Y-y-you know what I mean,” she stammered.

I held my bowed head with both hands. “Mom, it’s too late to do anything about it now,” I protested. “We have no name, no address, and no way to even start the search!”

Now she was laughing boisterously, and the mood had changed. But still she was insistent. “There will be someone.… one of your friends—and you have many. Ask Sinha!”

“Mom,” I said, “I would sound so silly!” My face was contorted in a grimace, and I shook my head vehemently. 

“I beg you to try,” she said. Looking back now, that conversation with my mother feels a bit ironic. Neither of us realized it at that moment, but perhaps we both knew it on some level: my search had actually begun a long time before that. I had not been searching for that man, of course, because I did not know about him. But I had been searching, without knowing what I was looking for, or why.

 Confession II

 Question for Dr. Sinha

Winter 1988

I went to see Dr. Sinha a few days after my mother’s “confession” about her promise to the holy man. During my conversation with Sinha, I brought up the subject of my mother’s confession and that she had been scared to take me to the holy man because she worried that I might become a renunciant, like him. I was there to ask Dr. Sinha’s help in locating the holy man’s main disciple.

Before I could finish my thought, Dr. Sinha interrupted, “But you’ve already met him.”

I asked, “When and where?” 

His brow furrowed and his eyes looked piercingly at me. “Think about it. You have already met him.” He was scolding me, yet I had no idea how he expected me to know this one man out of the hundreds I had met.

I asked again and added, “I can’t remember.” 

Animatedly, he tapped his finger on his head and said with exasperation, “Think about it, and you will remember.”

Clearly, he was not going to give me the answer. It was up to me to figure it out.

Confession III

Promise Fulfilled

A number of years later, after my mother had passed away. I was awakened very early one morning with an “aha!” realization. The image was clear. This is what came to me:

I was in Allahabad in January of 1981 and had gone to visit an old friend. As I reached his house, he was just getting ready to leave. His chauffeur was outside, waiting by the car. My friend said he was going to the Magh Mela, the yearly Hindu festival, to deliver some food provisions to a holy man and asked if I’d like to accompany him. The Mela campgrounds were just a short distance away, and this would give us a chance to chat, so I went along.

After delivering the provisions at the saint’s camp, my friend and I walked back to the car. I was getting into the car when I felt a deliberate poke to my back. I turned around quickly and was surprised to see a boy about 10 years old.

“Yes,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

He pointed to a man lying on the sand near the saint’s camp.

“Yes, what about it?” I asked.

Shyly, the boy said, “That man is calling you.”

Now, for the first time, I really saw the man. He was nearly 100 feet away. His head was resting on the cloth bundle that contained his possessions. He was knowingly looking in my direction.

Again, the boy repeated, “That man is calling you.”

Somewhat begrudgingly, I began to walk toward the man, leaving my friend to wait at the car. When I reached him, we silently looked each other over from head to toe.

In his resting position, he looked average in height, maybe in his 50’s. He had a bandana covering his head. His skin was deeply tanned from exposure to the sun. From his clothing and features, I felt he had traveled quite a distance. His face was solemn. I could not decipher any expressions.

He got up, reached inside his bundle and pulled out something. “This is for you,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.” The man handed me something that looked like a piece of old, stiff leather. “This is only for you. Eat it. Share it with no one.”

As I took the object from him, I realized it was a piece of dried fruit, and immediately I wondered how full of germs it might be. Germs or no germs, I instantly placed the old piece of fruit in my mouth and ate it purposefully. When I started eating, he nodded his head knowingly.

I knew I had to leave, but I was in such a state of awe that I could not turn my back to him. I walked backward all the way to the car. As my friend and I were pulling away, I looked back and could still feel the man’s gaze.

As I clearly recalled this event of long ago while lying in bed, I raised my hands toward the sky, looked up and said, “Mother, I DID fulfill your promise!” I felt a burden lift. Vibrations started to flow. A feeling of ecstasy enveloped me.

I was sorry that Dr. Sinha was no longer alive, and I could not receive his confirmation that this was, indeed, the man he had encouraged me to remember. Now, it did not make any difference. The pieces of the puzzle had moved themselves into place. I was satisfied.

Unexpectedly, a feeling of remorse then came over me. Why couldn’t I have recognized who that man was when we met? If I had, I at least would have touched his feet and sat with him for a long time as a sign of my respect. Then the realization came that none of us can comprehend the mystery of all the things that are happening around us. There was no place for guilt. And once again, a feeling of awe surrounded me.

As I was writing this story, I remembered that I had met this holy man the same week I first met Dr. Sinha.

Reference: “What is Your Prayer, Mr. Mathur?”

On one of my trips to Allahabad, when I went to see Dr. Sinha, I had barely sat down on the cement platform when he said, “Mr. Mathur, we have been communicating both in person and in spirit. But now time is short. We must conserve time and not communicate in person. We must practice. You must not come to see me.” 

I had gone there with great enthusiasm and expectation, but an immediate feeling of deep sadness overtook me. There was no confusion. I knew he was talking about his departure from this earth. I did not know how to react or what to say. Immediately, I got up and left.

Returning home in the darkness of the night, I realized that during our decade-long friendship, this was the first time he had thus commanded me. I realized it was not an abrupt statement, but that he must have practiced it for a long time to make it the least painful for me. I was heartbroken.

*****

Several months later, when I was in Allahabad, I had an irrepressible urge to see Dr. Sinha. I tried to change my mind, even within a few yards of where he was seated, but I couldn’t help myself.

“You have broken our agreement, Mr. Mathur,” Sinha said angrily. “If you have something to say, just say it without stepping off your bicycle. You must leave immediately.” 

 I looked at him with a heavy heart and said, “I just came to say to you: Yes, Yes, Yes, Father! Always, yes!” Then I pedaled away, without waiting for any answer and without looking back. 

*****

Soon after that last trip, I learned that my friend, Dr. Sinha, had died.

June 1986

In the years since the Shadow Self experience with Dr. Sinha in 1981, I have been waiting for the moment when my next teacher would invite me for another lesson or provide another view or confirmation of what I experienced. I have spoken with a few knowledgeable people who I hoped might guide me in finding someone with a similar experience. Several told me they had heard of others with similar experiences, but they had yet to meet them. These knowledgeable people would look at me in amazement and ask me to tell them more about my experience. They said that I had, indeed, been fortunate to experience the Chaya Parush, the Shadow Self. 

One day Norman Krause, one of my spiritual teachers, asked me if I knew what that experience was supposed to have taught me. “Did what you were supposed to learn come to you intuitively?” he inquired. I professed ignorance, feeling that I could not articulate my relationship with my shadows in two different dimensions.

I have often looked up at the sky, knowing that a part of me is there. When I am walking, I know that it, too, is walking. I cannot comprehend the vastness of its size, energy, or capabilities. How little I know about my own reality. I wonder if I go for a walk because it is going for a walk, or if it is the other way around. I have often called upon it to guide me in times of stress. In moments of depression, I have asked it to quit having a nasty disposition because this affects me too. At other times, I talk to it, sharing the glory of the beautiful sunsets and other wonderful sights. I know I have a friend somewhere out there.

I have also acquired an appreciation for my little, dark, earthly shadow that I had previously ignored. I wonder now if I eat because that little shadow of mine is hungry. Perhaps my little shadow eats, and I merely mimic the act. In the deepest darkness, I know that the little shadow is alive and with me. I ask it to come alive in my dreams and guide me. In the privacy of my walks, I have danced jigs with my little companion. My dog playfully barks and jumps on me. I wonder if he knows.

I now feel as if each act of mine is part of an intricate chain; any lack of attention on my part can affect an infinite process. It has brought a new perspective on responsibility.

*****

On this visit to Allahabad, I was determined to find some answers to the Shadow Self mystery.

I knew the Peepal tree at the temple where the Shadow Self experience had taken place had seen my Shadow Self experience years ago with Dr. Sinha. I decided to ask the tree to help me understand more.

People in the area regard this Peepal tree as a holy tree, claiming that this particular tree embodies a holy soul. Dr. Sinha calls the spirit of the tree Baba and admits that his guidance comes through it.

I intuitively knew that Dr. Sinha would not be under the tree the evening I visited it. There was a group of retired people who met there every day. I sat down on the other end of the platform. They did not ask me who I was, and I did not interfere with them. Soon they all left. I waited for a while and then spread my blanket and lay down. Several regular visitors came one at a time to worship at the temple. As usual, they would come, say a moment of quiet prayer, and leave.

Then a man rode up on a bicycle, mistaking me at first for Dr. Sinha. We were soon in deep conversation. He had gone to school with Dr. Sinha and was now a practicing lawyer. He relayed several stories from Hindu mythology, one of them of particular interest to me that day. He related how Tulsidas, a famous Hindu writer, had acquired his enlightenment from a tree.

After telling me the stories, he expressed his curiosity as to what I was doing there by myself. It was around 10 p.m., and he was concerned for my safety. Several times he suggested that I leave. I told him that soon I would go.

After he left, I lay down on my blanket and gazed at the stars. I did not wish to attract the attention of any passerby. After a while, the traffic stopped and there was total silence. I sat up and began to meditate. I must have been in meditation for half-an-hour or 45 minutes when I became restless. I felt more comfortable with my eyes open.

I sat there in quietness, mentally conversing with the tree. “Oh, Baba, you, too, witnessed my Shadow Self. Enlighten me; tell me more about it. I am not about to leave you until you tell me more. People will come in the morning and still find me here. It will be embarrassing for you. Please tell me.”

It was now late at night. I was not getting any answers.Then I felt an inner urge to walk around the temple. As I went around the tree, I bowed and put my forehead on the trunk, repeating my query. There was a twinge, a peculiar sensation between my eyebrows, at the bridge of my nose. It was as if data were being installed at high speed into a computer disc. There was no question in my mind that the tree had spoken to me, but I did not know how to decipher the message.

I stood in reverence for several minutes, tingling from the surge of the experience. The time had come for me to leave. The tree had given the answer; I now had to find an interpreter. I needed to see Dr. Sinha.

*****

The next evening around 8 p.m., I took a cotton blanket, pillow, flashlight, mosquito repellent, and some writing materials and packed them on the back of a borrowed bicycle.

“Where are you going?” my mother, half asleep, inquired from her bed. She slept in the courtyard in the summer, and I could not avoid her.

“Just to get some fresh air.” I tried to sound casual.

“I bet you are going to visit Dr. Sinha,” she said.

“I plan to stop there also.” 

“Don’t be late.”

She knew me well. She knew that I was heading straight for Dr. Sinha and that I would be late. Since I had been told not to be late, she would have a perfect reason to scold me in the morning. At 50, I was still a little boy to her.

I had come to visit her while she was convalescing. Rightfully so, she wanted me to be near her even while she was asleep. The presence of house servants in the house was not satisfying to her; she wanted my presence.

It had been a sweltering day. I had gone for an early morning walk, but after seven o’clock in the morning, it was too hot to venture outside. Hot dust blew all day. I perspired while right under the ceiling fan in the house. 

Even in summer, 8 o’clock at night is pitch dark in Allahabad. If I were home in Wichita, there would still be sunlight at that time, and I would perhaps be working in my garden. Here, it was sleeping time. I was not ready to sleep and needed to go outside.

In Allahabad the streetlights are scant and the potholes large and plentiful. I am always amazed that I can still navigate around those potholes after 30 years in America. The starlight is enough in such darkness.

The sky was clear and flat like a sheet, the moon was nowhere to be seen. The stars were at their best, showing off, luring Indra, the angel of rain. As Indra is tempted to go out to see the glory of the stars, his thundering chariot will churn the slumbering clouds. Then there will be rain—a monsoon. The stars had again taken pity on their children on Earth.

I winked at the twinkling stars. We have been friends since time immemorial. I remembered it was on a night exactly like this that I had first encountered the Shadow Self mystery.

*****

When I arrived at the platform, I found Dr. Sinha furiously fanning himself with a hand fan to keep cool.

He was eager to see me, and before I could bring up the Shadow Self–the subject that was foremost on my mind–Dr. Sinha began a discourse on the subject of “I and Self.” I was more than fascinated because I had spent much of the day debating with myself on that very topic. It was evident to me from the power and energy coming through Dr. Sinha that the message was coming from somewhere else. It was as if wherever that message was coming from had also been present during my debate all day long. 

Dr. Sinha began, “All of us spend so much time and energy fighting or improving our circumstances that we have no time or energy left for what we are supposed to learn and experience on earth. It drains all our creativity. Our first task is to learn the art of coming to terms with our circumstances. Once we have done that, then we are ready to live. Then we can become aware of ourselves and use our energies in the task that we are here for.”

He continued, “Nature is very precise and exacting. One is in a particular set of circumstances not because of any accident. Those are the ideal circumstances in which we can learn. We must never think in terms of changing our circumstances. We have to think in terms of doing our best under those circumstances.”

The formula for that, he said, was simple: thanksgiving. We must learn to give thanks for each and every set of circumstances we are presented with. This thanksgiving must be very sincere, to the point of devotional intoxication.

“Our lives are full of struggle,” he said, “but the struggle is not with outside circumstances. Our struggle is within us. There is an ‘I’ and a ‘Self.’ The struggle is within these two. There is not one ‘I’ that can be easily subdued. There are many ‘I’s, like a multi-headed serpent whose heads grow back as fast as they are cut off. The heart of the serpent has to be destroyed.

He continued at length by sharing stories and parables from Hindu mythology. The message soon became deep and complicated, beyond my immediate comprehension. I tried not to focus on it and understand it; instead, I tried to absorb it for understanding at a later date. In the process, my mind seemed to go blank.

This continued for several hours. Then Dr. Sinha became silent, and I realized he had fallen into deep sleep. I sat there in perfect silence, not making any movement, so as not to wake him. I wanted to be aware of the energies around me. During that time, I started to feel the same tingling sensation that I had felt the day before when in contact with the Peepal tree.

Finally, the heat or mosquitoes must have awakened Dr. Sinha, for he started to fan himself and realized that it was late at night.

“Mr. Mathur, it is late, we both need to go home. Ask me one final question, if you have any.”

I was ready. “Dr. Sinha, as you may remember, five years ago you showed me my Shadow Self. It has always posed a mystery for me. I need some further explanation.”

That provoked immediate and loud laughter that made his belly jump up and down. It sounded unusually loud in the silence of deep night. He started to fan himself rapidly.

His voice was abnormally gentle and calm as he finally spoke. “All of this talk tonight was in answer to your question. You have had the privilege of experiencing your Self. On that day, years ago, you saw the projection of your Self and the Light entered within you. From that day on, the real battle started within you. The only thing you can do now is to completely surrender to the will of the Self. You have no choice, anyway. Someday you will see the same Self again, but it will be within you, not outside.

“So, this has been a mystery to you all this time!” And he started to laugh again. There was a gentleness of understanding in that laughter. It was as if he were sharing the joy of my discovery. I looked into his eyes. Love was pouring out.

February 23, 1983

On my next visit to Dr. Sinha, I take my mother and the same friends who previously went with us. This time we take enough pillows and blankets to sit comfortably on the cement platform without getting too cold. 

Before going there, I decide to plan some sort of experiment to scientifically prove the skill and powers I have had the opportunity to witness in Sinha. I think of various experiments that could be conducted. One method would be to have a psychic in the U.S. communicate with Sinha without the aid of modern means, such as mail or telephone. I think of Michelle, a young psychic I know.

Once again, it is an interesting meeting. Sinha tells lots of entertaining stories and keeps his audience spellbound for several hours. During a lull in the conversation, I ask if he could tell me something about the psychic I am considering for the experiment.

Without hesitation he starts, “She grew up with a single parent. I see her mother is not alive. She is very attached to an elderly lady and places trust in her,” he says, pausing between each statement. “This young girl at this time is very concerned about her future. 

“Do you wish to know anything specific about this young lady?” he inquires.

“No,” I reply.

There is a brief period of silence and Sinha closes his eyes. It is obvious that he is seeing something and is soon going to speak.

“Mathur Sahib,” he finally says, “Why do you ask me about such things? You are wasting your energy as well as mine. You have important things to accomplish.You came to me as a non-believer. I was deputized to point out to you that in HIM all things are possible. In HIM time and space do not exist. Time and space are a delusion of our minds.

“I have given you these demonstrations to hook your curiosity and thus your faith. These demonstrations have no value in themselves. It is also my job to make sure that you do not get stuck in this delusion. You must proceed forward. All your note taking and sharing of information is of no ultimate value. How does it help you if I tell you what may happen a year from now, or how this young lady looks, or what she does? I can see everything about her in front of me. Most things I cannot tell you. You have to enlighten yourself.

“When you have been illuminated, then others will automatically know. You will not have to tell them. When you are in darkness, you can only spread darkness.

“I have read your notes. They are shallow. You have caught only a glimpse of the outside, which is mere delusion. I have given you information on many different levels, but you have caught only the superficial aspects. You have a long journey ahead of you. You are only in kindergarten.”

Sinha’s lips are tight and quivering with anger, his tone harsh and his message cruelly piercing. Why does he not convey this message to me in private? Why does he have to deflate me in front of my family? I feel cheated. No one speaks. It is up to me alone to break the silence.

“Dr. Sinha, I understand what you say, and it may surprise you, but I understand my shallowness. I am a novice in this field. I do not yet understand the rules of the game. Generalities are too subtle for me at this time.

“What do you think has to be my very next step to proceed forward?” I ask.

“You must cleanse yourself first,” Sinha replies. “You must diligently cleanse yourself of all impurities before you can be initiated in HIS spirit. If your container is contaminated, then you shall contaminate the pure gift. It is no use receiving pure milk in a contaminated cup.

“In the West you are in a rush. You want quick results. You want to shorten the process of cleansing. It is like having a container full of cow dung from which you have scraped the top, and you have filled it with ice cream. It tastes good in the beginning but soon you have to throw it away. But ice cream in a clean cup you can enjoy to the very last bite.”

“How do I cleanse myself?” I inquire.

“For each person the procedure is different. But in your case, you need to experience silence. Only through silence will you experience the music of your inner soul and that is the music you need to play. 

“In the so-called ‘modern world,’ they do not understand the power of sound. Your lives are so filled with sounds and words—empty, meaningless sounds. You must shake off all that. Then only shall you be impregnated with HIS power, and every word of yours shall resonate with power. Until then your words are empty, like the sounds of a toy gun.

“Your words will carry HIS power after you have maintained silence for 40 days. Do it diligently and with all your might, because many people, including that lady with the American Indian past (Olive Garvey), are waiting for you to become aware of yourself. Don’t hold up the train.”

Suddenly, Sinha is back in his jovial mood. He tells many more stories to lighten the mood and cheer everyone up. Then finally he looks at my mother and says, “Respected mother, throughout this evening you have not said a single word. May we have the benefit of your wisdom? Please mother.”

Mother, who is never afraid to speak her mind and never minces words, speaks out in a calm and clear voice, “Tonight I shall go home with a heavy heart.”

“Why so, respected mother? We all honor you. You have blessed this place by your arrival. If I have said anything to arouse your resentment, then I have committed a sin and I seek your forgiveness. Please give me a chance to explain. What may have inadvertently caused your anguish?”

Mother replies in her stately manner, “You have asked my son to maintain a silence of 40 days. He is a family man with a lovely wife and children. If he pursues the path that you recommend, his wife will abandon him.”

“No, mother, no,” Sinha protests. “As no one can run a marathon the very first day, Balbir will have to condition himself in stages. It will happen over a period of time. Mother, there are people who live right next door to me who are not aware of my existence, yet your son has come all the way from America, and he pulls his friends in the middle of cold nights to come and visit me. He has even brought a saintly lady like you. It is my good fortune. On your son shines HIS light. No harm can befall him. I can guarantee you that his wife shall not abandon him.”

We leave Sinha at about 1 a.m. and mother admonishes me. She is as serious as I have ever seen her. She says, “Do not follow that advice. It would be a shame if your wife were to ever leave you.”

It has been quite some time since I last saw Dr. Sinha. Approaching the cement platform, where I expect to find him, I notice a change. The street, once in pitch darkness, is now lighted with fluorescent streetlights. It is not as dark and foreboding as it used to be, but some of the charm and mystique of the place has been lost.

Dr. Sinha is as glad to see me, as I am to see him. I sense a bond of deep friendship that has developed between us through the years. This relationship has even matured over the past several months while we have not seen one another. We exchange pleasantries. He seems in a particularly relaxed mood today.

I have brought a digital wristwatch for him as a gift. I have also brought copies of some of my travel logs and my notes on conversations with him. He accepts them politely and asks if I have the instructions on how to use the watch, which I unfortunately misplaced and could not find. Then he asks about the price of the watch. I should have known . . . asking the price is a cultural difference between India and the U.S.

He lies down flat on his back and gazes at the stars above. The stars are shining brilliantly in a clear sky. There is a brief silence, and then he asks, “Mr. Mathur, tell me, do you believe in God?”

A long silence follows on my part. Perhaps he expects a quick and affirmative answer, for he repeats the question with a measure of impatience.

“This is a profound question you have asked,” I say. “Let me frame my answer in my own mind, so that it is correct and describes my belief rather than a quick yes or no answer, which really will not tell you much.”

My mind starts to race at what seems like a million miles an hour. No one that I can recall has ever asked me this question in such a straightforward manner and with such intensity. A part of me wants to cry out and in an unequivocal, loud voice shout, “YES!” But there is another part of me that says that a “yes” would mean the negation of all that I have stood for since my teenage days.

As a child, there was no doubt in my mind about the existence of God. God existed just as the sun, moon, air, or trees. God existed just like the distant land of America. God existed because everyone around me believed in that existence. There was no reason for doubt. God was a source of joy for me . . . beautiful festivals, all the gifts we received, and an expression of deepest reverence in me.

Then, between the ages of 10 and 13, I witnessed the horrible religious strife in India. As a child, I lived through the bloody massacre in which almost a million people were killed and more than 15 million Hindus and Muslims were displaced—all in the name of religion. Each group thought that its religion was superior. Each thought that they were the chosen ones and that God had spoken only to them, that all others were deluded, misguided, or lost. The more orthodox persons were in their religious beliefs, the more rigid their views and the less open to experiences outside their narrow realm.

That one could kill in the name of God created revulsion in my mind to all so-called “religions.” Trying to get to the crux of things, I realized that perhaps there was a fallacy with the concept of God itself. That was where all these problems started. To no two people did the word “God” mean the same thing.

So, I erased the word “God” from my vocabulary. One could be kind, gentle, and compassionate without having the source of all this in the word “God.” To me the word “God” had become the source of demagoguery, superstition, reactionary philosophy, and an age of darkness for humankind.

I had started to follow western materialism. I could identify with the statement, “Religion is the opium of the masses.” I read western philosophy while earning my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in political science. I was convinced that if humankind were to be saved, the only solution was the eradication of all religion and religious institutions. Organized religion was the curse of humankind, and I was ready to pay any cost for its eradication.

India was the worst. Everyone was religious—even my educated parents. I had vigorous arguments with my father, who could not comprehend the source of my doubts. Even the communists in India were religious. They were among the most orthodox; only the name of their God was different. Nothing was outside the realm of religion in my country.  

All art was nothing but homage to God; architecture was found only in temples and statues; music was only the chanting of hymns; all literature was a repetition of the epics. All stories were religious. Politics, morals, customs, traditions, and even love-making were the domain of religion. It confounded me that the people of India could not see that the source of all their backwardness lay in religion. And the source was in the word “God.”

To me, humans were insensitive and cruel to humans. They pretended to be compassionate to animals as compensation, but really they were not. They could not afford to be, because they were mired in the struggle for their own survival. Could they not see that compassion was a property of those who could afford it? To me, the Indians had missed the point; they had to learn to chase machinery, not God.

I wanted to learn the art of enslaving machinery from the very best. That is what brought me to the United States. I was overjoyed, for here were people who had enslaved the machine, pioneers of a new and vivid path the rest of the world could follow. Here was the salvation I was seeking. I became an avid student.

The more I studied, the more I realized that enslaving the machine comes at a heavy price. In the process, humans tend to become machines and lose their humanity. They need to tether themselves to something stronger in order not to be swept away. They have to rise above the five senses to experience humanity and find a meaning in the enslavement of machinery. This experience beyond the five senses is what some called God. Thus, the word God took on a new meaning for me. I started to focus more and more on the realm beyond the five senses.

And here I was with Dr. Sinha because of that.

But the word God has a different connotation for most people than it has for me. That was the reason for my hesitation in saying “yes” or “no” to Dr. Sinha’s question.

After what seems like a long wait, Dr. Sinha inquires again. “It is a simple question: Do you, or do you not, believe in God?”

“The question is indeed simple, but my answer is complex. I do not know how to articulate my feelings. That is the problem,” I say, telling him about the silence with which Gautam Buddha had handled the same question.

“But you are not Buddha, and you do not have his wisdom,” Dr. Sinha says impatiently. “Buddha could convey messages of deep significance through his silence; you have not reached that point. Your silence is caused by your confusion. I insist that you verbalize your statement, rather than play Buddha with me.”

I am at a loss for words, and silence follows again.

Impatience is getting the better of Dr. Sinha. “Mr. Mathur, you will not be able to leave this place until you have wrestled with this question and can answer me. This is the crux of our relationship. Do you realize that the sole reason you come to me is so that I can solidify your faith in God?”

“How can you solidify my faith in God when I cannot even comprehend and define what God is? And, if I can comprehend and define God, then how can it be God?” I inquire.

“God is, indeed, incomprehensible and indefinable. We, as human beings, have very limited capabilities to experience and understand. We have very limited knowledge. Of what we think we know best, we really know very little. That is the nature of things. The irony is that in order to experience something, first you must believe in it.”  

Dr. Sinha’s mood is now calm, and he continues, “Mr. Mathur, before you went to America you had not seen the country, and you did not know as much about the country as you do now. You could not know about it if you did not travel there, and you could not travel there if you did not have faith that the country existed. Your faith was based on the fact that others had traveled before you.

“You have not totally experienced all aspects of America, as no one has ever experienced the totality of God. But yet America is a reality to you. We all experience God all the time, even though we know that we cannot experience God in totality.  

“Without faith there can be no experience. Faith is the life-force. At least from one perspective, faith is God and God is faith. But playing word games will not lead you anywhere. In order to make use of that life-force, you have to make it personal and concrete. Your concept of God will constantly change with your increasing experience but, first, you must have faith in your capability to have that experience. I have given you a few demonstrations that all is possible within God. These demonstrations are merely to widen your horizons.

“When you have faith, Mr. Mathur, there will be no dichotomy; and when there is no dichotomy, then you will have experiences of which you will have no comprehension. Then your silence will have a different meaning, and the question I asked you will not even be asked.”

February 1983

At my next meeting with Dr. Sinha, we are alone. Our conversation includes many topics and continues for more than four hours when, suddenly, I feel that I have slipped into a stage of emptiness. Up to this time, our meeting has been rather energetic and vibrant. Suddenly, I am in a different dimension.

This is not the first time I am experiencing a blankness of mind. I have experienced such episodes in the presence of spiritually-advanced people half-a-dozen times. During those periods, I felt I had vigorous discussions with those Masters but could not recall the content, except for a feeling of satisfaction. This is one of those occasions.

It is that familiar sensation—a feeling of my mind going blank—like being in a void. Then, gradually, a face emerges. I recognize this person, but for the life of me, I cannot think of her name. I barely know her. I try to remember but to no avail. The presence of the image is not under my control. My mind is not in charge; yet, curiously enough, I am totally aware of myself and my circumstances.

Then, out of the blue, I feel as if someone drops a name into my lap. Immediately, I know who the person is. A feeling of ecstasy envelopes me.

Up to this time, I have been intellectually aware that all of our thoughts really are not our own but now, for the first time and in slow motion, I experience how thoughts are dropped into our minds. It is a phenomenon, a feeling that is hard to relate. Perhaps it is like the feeling a child might have upon taking his or her first step.

I have no idea how long it lasts—perhaps just a moment—but it is a beautiful feeling.

When I am once again back in this reality, Dr. Sinha is lying flat on his back on the cement platform with his head resting comfortably on his saffron tote bag. His hands are crossed behind his head, left leg pulled up, with the right leg crossed over it.

Dr. Sinha looks at me kindly. Neither of us feel any urgency to speak. I do not want to break the calm; it is too good.

Eventually, I say, “Tell me something about Olive Garvey.” 

This is the name that has been dropped in.

“How do you spell the name?”

“O-L-I-V-E  G-A-R-V-E-Y.” I slowly spell each letter.

“Oh, you mean Oleevee,” he says in his thick Indian accent.

“No, I mean Olive,” I repeat.

“Never mind the pronunciation,” he says and continues without a break. 

“Four years ago, she received some disturbing or shocking news. It was as if the husband of her daughter died or the relationship with one of her children or grandchildren was shattered. It was a great sadness to her.”

It is rather interesting because I have not told him if Olive Garvey was male or female and Sinha, living in Allahabad and not being familiar with American names, would have no way of knowing. Yet, he continues with complete confidence, as if he knows that the name belongs to a woman.

“She has pain in the leg and waist at times, like arthritis or sciatic pain. She has to use a cane to walk. She is connected with a business; she is in fact the owner of that business. It is a large business. She has her own empire.” He was laughing. “There is a reservoir of water near her house or place of business. I see someone extracting fruit juice near where she is.”

My mind skips to Wichita. It must be about 3 p.m. in Wichita, and I have no idea where Mrs. Garvey might be or whether someone near her would be extracting juice from a fruit. It seems like a useless tidbit of information.

“She lives toward the southeast of where you live.” I have not told him that Mrs. Garvey even lives in Wichita. “Is her eldest child a girl?” he inquires.

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” I tell him.

“It is so,” he continues with confidence.

“During winter she goes to her house in the South where it is warmer—like Florida. Is this correct?” he inquires.  

Again, I profess my ignorance as I reply, “She is rich enough to afford a house anyplace she wants.” This is the first bit of information regarding Mrs. Garvey that I blurt out.

“She is not only rich, she is very social-minded,” Sinha adds. “She is an ancient soul who is spiritually advanced.” His voice becomes hushed in reverence. “She understands that money is energy, and she gives a considerable amount to charity. She supports a hospital, a church, educational institutions, and cultural activities.”

Mrs. Garvey’s charities are legendary, and I am very familiar with those activities from the newspaper and with my sympathetic association with her Center for the Improvement of Human Functioning. I nod my head in agreement. This is the first information that I positively confirm.

However, Dr. Sinha does not need my confirmation and he continues, “This lady is a very dynamic person. She is not very tall. She is not only full of energy, but she also has profound insights. She understands that one has a mission on this earth, and she is quick in action.

“Whenever she gets impatient with people or situations, her face becomes flushed. She is not necessarily angry at that time. She has a great amount of self-control.”

At this point, Dr. Sinha mimics Mrs. Garvey’s expression, and I can almost see her face. Previously, I had seen Dr. Sinha do a similar, precise mimicking of the expressions of my father-in-law and mother-in-law.

“She has some sort of ailment connected with blood, like blood pressure. She is OK now,” he continues.

“She is not very fair in color, being more reddish or wheat-colored. She is not fat. Before her marriage, she had another friend. Her husband died more than seven years ago.”

I interrupt, “He died much longer ago than that.”  

“‘Seven years’ is a phrase of time; it is a manner of speech. ‘Over seven years’ is like saying, ‘quite some time ago,’” Sinha explains.

“She has pain in her stomach. She has some skin disease on her feet. I see maroon, yellow, or green colors where she is. I see half-white colors. I see shining iron or aluminum railings. I see a clock on the wall with a wooden frame and large, shining numbers.

I see a tall man in a pin-striped suit with grayish hair, over age 50. You have met this man twice. He will help you.”

Then he asks if I have any specific questions regarding Mrs. Garvey. I do not, but I ask another question instead.

“I have no reason to bring up Mrs. Garvey’s name. A while ago I felt as if someone totally outside of me planted her face and name before me. I had no reason to think of her. We hardly know each other. Of all the people I know, no other name would come, only her name comes to mind. Why?”

“Why do you feel you do not know each other?” Sinha asks. 

“Because we are mere acquaintances; we really don’t know each other.”

“We are aware of such a small spectrum of our lives,” Dr. Sinha says. “You both have known each other for eons. You are just not aware. You are now becoming aware.”

“Aware of what?”

“Aware of what your soul must do to express itself.”

“How does she come into the picture?”

“Laws of nature are such. Milk needs a little bit of starter to become yogurt or it shall sour; the yogurt needs the milk in order to grow. A bridge needs the two sides of the river.”

“Well, what is it that we are supposed to do together?” I ask.

Dr. Sinha starts to laugh. He is laughing heartily, and his stomach is jumping up and down.

“You both know well what you have to do. I am merely a messenger, a postman. You have to read the message.”

“How do I become aware?”

“Only HE can make you aware. HIS awareness is all awareness, and through HIS awareness you become aware of everything.”

*****

Postscript

A few months later, I saw Olive Garvey on the first floor of the Garvey Building in Wichita. We exchanged greetings and were soon joined by George Trombold, who worked for her son, Willard. George complimented her profusely on the recognition she had received at the University of Kansas. Mrs. Garvey became a little uncomfortable, and her face became red. She had exactly the same expression that Dr. Sinha had mimicked. I had never seen that expression on her face before. The similarity of expressions was unnerving.

Almost 30 years later, in February 2011, Doug and Janet Webb arranged a meeting for the three of us to meet with their friends Jean Garvey, Olive Garvey’s daughter-in-law, and Olive’s granddaughter, Ann Garvey, to help verify some of Dr. Sinha’s statements.

Jean and Ann delighted in talking about the colorful life of Olive Garvey and especially enjoyed discussing her charitable activities. They noted that one of her most passionate endeavors was the Center for the Improvement of Human Functioning, now known as the Riordan Clinic, which is famous for the fruit-juice drinks that Dr. Sinha saw in his vision. The Clinic also is located near water.

Not surprisingly, Dr. Sinha was correct on virtually every count. Jean and Ann confirmed that, in 1980, Olive became estranged from one of her grandchildren and this separation caused her great anguish. 

They also stated that Olive Garvey did suffer from arthritis, did live in the southeast part of town, spent her winters in the southwestern United States, and that her oldest child was a girl—Ruth.

Olive’s daughter and granddaughter also confirmed wall colors and office furnishings that Dr. Sinha had described. 

In addition, they believed that the tall man in a pin-striped suit with grayish hair was Bob Page, a long-time financial advisor who thought of Olive as his mother.

February 1983

I am in Allahabad on a brief stay with my mother. She has been critical of my visits to my friend, Dr. Sinha, so one evening I decide to take her along. Accompanying us are my friends, Paloo, Vimal, Vimal’s wife Sudha, and Vimal’s Uncle, Prem.

Dr. Sinha thoroughly charms everyone with some very precise information and interesting parables. It is a remarkable meeting, and they all lose their suspicions regarding him.

The next night I go alone and reach the temple platform at about 8:30 p.m. Before long, a young man in his 30s arrives, introducing himself as a disciple of Dr. Sinha. I shall call him “Hari.” Dr. Sinha starts to ask him questions regarding world events, and a sort of duet starts on predictions from earthquakes in China to massacres in 1984 in a Muslim country. I feel as if Dr. Sinha is showing off his disciple.

Gradually, Dr. Sinha changes the subject to me and my wife and asks his student to answer questions about us. Hari was exactly on target.

Then Sinha changes the subject to himself, asking the student various questions. This continues for quite a while and, at one point (half-jokingly), Sinha asks when he, Sinha, will have some financial gains. A range of times when such a windfall could be expected is predicted. No, that is not enough; Sinha wants an exact date and time.

Hari tries to avoid the issue and changes the subject; however, Sinha does not let him off the hook. He doggedly pursues the question. Hari is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and I feel embarrassed because it came as a surprise to me that money was of such importance. After a while, Hari leaves in a polite huff.

After Hari is out of earshot, Dr. Sinha explains, “I need money like I need a hole in the head. Hari has an extremely capable mind, as you have seen today, but he has reached a plateau in his development.

“When we are that good, we get kudos from the public, which feeds our ego and our development stops.” He continues, “Our goal is to express the nature of our soul on this earth, not to seek glory in other people’s eyes, which is a delusion.

“Delusion saps us of our need to make a relentless effort to do our best. Hari is capable of predicting exact dates and times, but he has slackened his effort. I have told him and reminded him of this. As his teacher, it is my duty to wake him from his slumber. This public display of his need to go further was important for him. I had to create this scenario to jolt his ego. Mathur Sahib, I hope you did not mind being a prop for these theatrics.”

This is a lesson for me in the master/disciple relationship. I am not quite sure at this point if Hari is the student and I am the prop or if it is the other way around. There is a period of silence. The point is well made, and it needs to soak into my consciousness.

June 4, 1981

There is again a brief silence and our conversation starts to drift.

“Dr. Sinha,” I ask, “Is this phenomenon that I have experienced here subject to scientific investigation?”

“Certainly,” he says, without any hesitation. “It is all scientific. It is all following natural laws. How would you confirm it scientifically?”

“I was thinking of setting up a panel of well-recognized authorities, who are knowledgeable about such subjects, and having them meet some place in the United States at a given time. I will not know how many or who these people are. You and I will sit here, and you can describe to me who these people are, and we shall fully record your statement.”

“Not only who those people are,” Sinha adds, with great enthusiasm, “but also about their attitudes, tastes, habits, relatives, and work habits. To the Light, there is no secret!”

“Well, can we then arrange such a test?”

“You have to remember, you are not testing me. You seek confirmation of the powers of the Light. The Light must say, yes or no. If the Light thinks that the time is right, then the permission may be granted. As a messenger, I have no objections.”

“OK then, I will set up the program and clear it with you before I come back to India. 

“I have one other question: What have we really experienced here? How would you explain it?”

Sinha responds,“When you are in tune with God, you are living in eternity. There are no constraints of time and space.”

*****

Postscript

Three weeks later: June 25, 1981

DeAnn, my secretary, and Treva, my wife, confirm all the facts that Dr. Sinha had told about them. Indira, my sister, did travel back to the U.S. with me … and carried a brown bag. One prediction did not come true: I traveled on June 10th as originally scheduled.