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In the summer of 1980 or 1981, Treva and I were at a Holiday Inn in Lexington, Kentucky, and there was a museum of horse racing out on Highway 75.

We were leaving that afternoon and had some time to spare before our flight, and we decided to visit the museum. It was a quick taxi ride, not more than a few miles. 

Later, after touring the exhibit, we decided to walk back to the hotel. There was a road that seemed to be parallel to the highway that would lead us back to our hotel. The road, however, meandered in another direction, and we must have walked three or four miles before we realized that we were far away from the hotel.

I became nervous about missing the flight. Now, we were on a totally back-country road in the middle of the woods in Kentucky, with no taxis, and cell phones did not exist at that time, so there was no way to contact anyone.  

Finally, we came to a country road, and I thought our hotel might be due west from that point. Treva and I were hot and tired, so I suggested that we stop there under the shade of a large tree and see if somebody would come by. We both knew it could be an hour or a day—we just didn’t know. 

After a half-hour or so I heard a car coming down the road from the east. I stood on the shoulder and stuck my thumb out in hopes of getting a ride. The driver saw me from a distance and the car gained speed, increasing the gush of dust behind. You could see from a distance that it was a blue-gray Lincoln Continental with a large radio antenna. As the car drove past me, the driver gave me a dirty look. He was obviously a man of wealth and must not have approved of hitch-hikers. He zoomed by. After another 10 or 15 minutes, the same car came back, and again he revved-up the engine and flew by us in the other direction.  

Well, I had picked up hitch-hikers all my life, and I knew that they often wait four, five, or six hours for a ride. By this time, Treva was very tired; we knew we would ultimately make it, but we were beginning to prepare ourselves for missing the flight.

Another 15 or 20 minutes passed, before we heard another car coming down the road. This car was rattling along and making a clankety-clank, clankety-clank, clankety-clank noise as it approached. It sounded like a car a newly-wed couple might drive away from the chapel with cans dragging from the bumper. 

As this car neared, it began to slow down and it stopped right in front of us. I opened the door and told the man I was looking for the Holiday Inn. He motioned for us to get in the front seat. His car was full of junk, and he had to toss material from the front seat to the back—which was already overflowing with stuff—just to make room for us.

We introduced ourselves and he nodded—he was a young man in his twenties. His manner made it evident that he was a man of few words, almost shy, and even though he was glad to give us a ride, he was not eager to talk. We were perhaps a couple of miles away from our hotel, which he covered within the next five to ten minutes.

This otherwise insignificant incident ended up becoming a guiding light in my life. As situations arose, I always had the mental image of those two cars, and I asked myself, “Am I the man inside that Lincoln Continental or that Clankety-Clank car?” For me, one was protecting his wealth and would not help his fellow beings, and the other was willing to share whatever little he had.

The second man was not concerned about me. He hardly noticed me or Treva. We could have been anyone. He was not trying to impress us either. He was not ashamed that he had very little money and practically nothing to safeguard. But he knew who he was. He had to help a stranger standing in the heat on a country road.  

Even though I can’t see his face, I see that character every day in the people that I meet. Again, it’s not about money. It’s about being willing to give someone a ride. Some people are ready and some are not. I have met many wealthy people who are ready to help.

People have asked me what my religion is, and I’ve responded, “If someone is in a ditch, would you lend a hand, or not?” If that person says, “Yes, I will,” then that person and I belong to the same religion. That is my religion.

February 2020

I got up from my chair and said, “I’ll be back in a minute.” Chandni also started to get up from her chair and said, “Let me take you there.”

I had just arrived in New Delhi, and my cousin Chandni had invited me for lunch at their country club, popularly called “The Golf Club.” We were sitting under a large tent which had been erected for people to enjoy lunch outside during the cool winter months. Chandni knew of my macular degeneration and inability to navigate my way properly.

“No, no!” I protested. “I will find my way, thank you.”

Realizing that it was a matter of dignity for me, Chandni settled back in her chair and said, “Go inside and ask the receptionist, and he will give you directions to the restroom.”

The man at the reception desk said, “Sir, take a left, then a right, then a left again.”

The light was dim inside the club, and with my macular degeneration and shaded glasses, the light seemed dimmer than it really was. When I made the first left turn, the light got dimmer. When I turned right, the light was dimmer yet. I started to feel nervous, realizing that I would not be able to tell the difference between the men’s room door and the women’s. I could just imagine the reaction in the ladies’ room if I walked through the wrong door!

My nervousness turned into panic as I made the final left turn, because the light there was even dimmer. To me, it was practically dark. Then, with a great sense of relief, I saw the form of a gentleman about 30 or 40 feet ahead, walking toward me. I pointed to my eyes and said, “Sir, I cannot see properly. Could you tell me which one is the men’s bathroom?” He did not reply. I thought perhaps he didn’t understand me. So, when we were maybe 10 feet apart, I asked again, “Sir, which one is the men’s bathroom? I cannot see properly.” But still there was no answer. I was irritated. But I rationalized immediately: perhaps he is hard of hearing.

We kept walking towards each other. When we were face-to-face, almost a foot apart, I asked one more time, my tone now showing my irritation. No answer. I had asked three times, and no answer. I thought, if this guy isn’t deaf, he’s pretty rude!

Finally, we stood nose-to-nose. And then I realized I was talking to myself in a mirror at the end of the long hallway. I entered the bathroom, taken aback. It was a strange feeling, knowing I had been annoyed with a stranger who turned out to be me. I was glad there was no one else in the bathroom as I broke into gales of laughter!

It was a cold day in April, 1987, and I was driving north on I-35 from Wichita to Des Moines, Iowa. The temperature must have been in the 20s, and the wind was strong and gusty. The trees were swaying and cars were moving side-to-side on the highway. Even a few minutes outside was bone-chilling.

About 10 miles north of Liberty, Missouri I saw a man walking on the side of the highway. I stopped to give him a ride. Slowly and steadily he walked toward my car; there was a broad grin on his unshaven face. 

He informed me that he had been walking for the past eight hours—since midnight. He was grateful for the ride, even though he was now only eight miles from his destination.

I had barely dropped him off when I saw another person seeking a ride. He turned out to be a clean-cut, tall, handsome person in his late 20s. His name was Bob. He had driven to Texas to see his girlfriend, ran out of money, sold his car, and was returning to Minnesota. He had walked for six hours that day before getting this ride.

He told me that he had grown up on a farm in Minnesota and had always thought that he would be a farmer. Now, since farming was dead, he was trying to find himself. Not knowing what he wanted to do in life, he signed up to go to Vietnam, where he served as a medic. He was now suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Invariably, he told me, he woke up with the same nightmare: His unit arrives at a Vietnamese village where American soldiers have been injured. He rushes to a badly injured patient in need of immediate medical attention. He opens his bag and finds it empty. Then he hears the shrieks of the patient, which wakes him up in cold sweat, realizing that he was the one shrieking. “I can no longer go to sleep during the night, concentrate on anything and form any relationships. That was the reason things did not work out with my girlfriend,” Bob told me.

Bob continued to share some aspects of his life as our car sliced through the cold wind on the plains of northern Missouri. He told me that this was the first time he had hitchhiked. He had never given rides to hitchhikers himself, but this experience had taught him to be far more generous in the future. He repeated that statement several times as if to make sure he would never forget it. This trip had been an eye-opener for him.

In my mind’s eye, I tried to imagine how, racing along in his heated car, listening to the loud noise of rock music and engrossed in worldly thoughts, Bob must have always flown past the hitchhiking “miserable lot.” I wondered if he had ever given them a second thought.

I glanced at Bob. His face was solemn. I felt I had a sense of how he might be feeling. I also seemed to have a sense of how different his feelings would be from only a few weeks ago, when he drove on that very highway toward Texas. He might have said of someone with his thumbs up, “These are lazy bums.”

Bob also must have justified his attitude toward the hitchhikers in the name of security. Do we worship security rather than God? Do we sacrifice our humanity on the altar of safety? Do we fly past the reality of life like blind robots?

As we passed the exit to the small town of Bethany, we saw another person wanting a ride. 

“Would it be OK with you, if we take him also?” I inquired.

Bob nodded his head to give his approval and, as we pulled over, he briskly opened the door to the passenger side and jumped out to help the stranger squeeze his duffle bag in the rear seat.

I was struck with the similarity of Bob’s duffle bag and that of the newcomer. I think Bob was also impressed, for he immediately proceeded to tell the new addition to our traveling crew that he, too, was a hitchhiker and asked him how long he had been waiting for a ride.

The newcomer’s name was Bill. He had received a ride up to Bethany the night before. He had been waiting for four hours on the highway to get a ride. Interesting combination, I thought: eight hours, six hours and now four hours.

Bill continued to tell his story. He had been in a small town in Tennessee when the police arrested him for hitchhiking and locked him up for the weekend. It was the first such experience for him, “being thrown in with cockroaches and all,” he explained.

Upon reaching Bethany, Bill had called the police to find out if he could get some shelter at the Salvation Army. The police officer suggested he spend the night at a local laundromat run by an elderly couple who would not mind. The police officer apologized that there was no other shelter in their small town and told Bill that he wished that the town had some budget to put him up in the motel for the night.

In the morning, the owner of the laundromat woke him up saying, “Son, time to wake up.” Plus he gave Bill a dollar for a cup of coffee.

Upon hearing the story, I felt my eyes had moistened and I had to wipe my nose. I was touched beyond words. Treva had sent a couple of sandwiches and a couple of pieces of fruit with me. I asked Bill to hand me the sack from the back of the car. I offered it to Bill and Bob, who ate in silence until Bob said, “Best meal I have ever had.”

Then he turned around and said to Bill, “I have met more interesting people on this trip as a hitchhiker than I had met all my life on the farm. This trip has been an eye-opener for me.”

On my way back home a couple of days later, I made a point to stop in Bethany. I wanted to meet the owner of the laundromat. Fortunately, he was there when I arrived. He was fixing a machine near the door and saw me drive up. Reverentially, I stood there in silence, for I was in the presence of my hero.

“Car trouble?” he inquired with a broad smile on his face. I simply shook my head to say “no.”

“If you have no troubles, then you won’t stick around here too long.” He said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

I wished I did not have to say anything. I was there simply to touch him. Words stopped in my throat and I could not speak. I tried, but the emotions were choking me. Anticipating that he may not be there, I had written a small note for the owner. And sure enough, this was the time for me to hand over the note.

The old man, dressed in khaki trousers, a jacket, and a baseball cap, looked down with piercing eyes through his lenses of bifocals and read the note quickly. He had nothing to say, as he handed the note back to me. I stood there and looked at him. He sensed my discomfort and tried to make some small talk. “Yes, I remember that young man. He was a good person. Glad he got a ride.”

The interview was over. Neither of us had anything more to say. I extended my right hand and we shook hands. His grip was firm and strong. I handed the note back to him and, as I turned around to leave, I saw that he did not know what to do with it..

As I started back toward the highway, I thought to myself that I had just met The Man and hoped that I would one day meet him again when I, too, am old—perhaps in some inner part of myself.

Soon there was a road sign, reminding me that I was in Bethany. “How appropriate,” I gently whispered to myself.

One day in 1979, I was traveling on Highway 75 from Richmond to Louisville, Kentucky. On the way, I took a short break in the town of London. I struck up a conversation with a man named John, a retiree and widower. Talking with strangers is one of my favorite things to do. That’s why I never used maps. I preferred asking for directions, because I met all kinds of people that way. This was true no matter where my business travels took me. 

I told John I would be traveling through London again and would love to have lunch with him. He invited me to stay with him and said he would show me around.

On my next trip to Richmond, I called John. He repeated his invitation for me to stay with him. Since he lived on a farm about 10 miles from town and had a rural route number for his address, he offered to meet me in London and lead me to his farm—especially since I would be arriving after dark. We agreed to meet at the entrance of a bridge near the Long John Silver’s restaurant on the outskirts of town. I carefully jotted down the instructions and repeated them to him. 

I reached the bridge 10 minutes early. John was not there yet. Half-an-hour passed and still no John. I crossed the bridge. No John. I rechecked the written instructions; I was at the designated place. I made half-a-dozen calls from the restaurant to his home. The phone just rang endlessly. This was a time when there were no cell phones or even answering machines. 

Growing tired of listening to the same news repeated on the radio for the umpteenth time, I said to my rental car, “The universe knows where John lives. You listen to the universe and take me there.” I patted the steering wheel as if the car were a trusted horse. And we started. 

Immediately, upon crossing the bridge, we were on a dirt road with no street lights. It was a moonless, pitch-black night. Driving along the curvy, hilly roads, the car seemed to be flying by intersections and forks in the road. While my eyes were watching the road, the rest of my body seemed to be acutely tuned in to the automobile itself. It was the only thing connecting me to the universe at that time. I could feel the slightest bump and hear the slightest sound. Most notable of all, my fingertips were throbbing. There was some kind of electricity between my fingers and the steering wheel. They were communicating in a code I could not comprehend. I just knew that my task was to be in tune and steer the car as promptly as possible. There could be no delay between the signals and my action. It had to be simultaneous. There were no thoughts or doubts. It was as if I were caught inside a spellbinding, fast-paced movie, and multitudes were watching.

After about 20 minutes of curves, twists and turns in the dark, the automobile lights suddenly turned off and the car came to an abrupt stop. I tried to restart the car several times, but to no avail. The electrical system had died. Panic struck me. I was in the middle of a dark road somewhere in Kentucky, and I had no idea where I was. Even though I had not seen a single car since I started this journey, I could imagine a truck barreling down that country road and mowing me down before it realized it had hit something. The car was dead, beyond hope. 

My logic kicked in: What on earth possessed me to make such a stupid decision? Why was I trying to meet a stranger anyway? I was waiting exactly where he told me to wait for him. Why didn’t I just continue driving to Richmond when John didn’t show up? If I really wanted to meet him, why didn’t I check into a motel for the night and call John in the morning? I had counted on stopping to ask a few people at some local stores or gas stations and continuing my journey if I couldn’t find John. A rental car failing in the middle of a country road was not in the equation! But now I was stuck. I couldn’t get out and walk, because the area was known for having rattlesnakes. How would I ever explain this stupidity to anyone? My mind was racing.

After a few minutes–which seemed like an eternity–the sky suddenly lit up. The source of the light was directly above the car. It felt like floodlights. The shadows were moving, as if something were hovering above the car. There was no sound. Was a flying saucer hovering over the car? My mind was playing tricks! I don’t know if it was the suddenness of the lights or the expectation of some terror that caused me to voluntarily shut my eyes. After a few long seconds, I cautiously opened them. 

It took another few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I could see that on my right was a house, barely two or three feet from the car. That close. What if I had run right into the house?! The source of the light was not a flying saucer, but a bright light over the house. The lamp was swaying with the breeze, casting moving shadows. The door to the house was open ever so slightly, and I could tell someone was peeking out. I imagined a hillbilly farmer with a double-barreled shotgun aimed straight at me. One wrong move and the gun would go off.

I tried to find the handle to roll down my window, but my nervous hands could not locate it. I opened the car door, just a little bit, and apologized to the homeowner for inconveniencing them in the middle of the night. I said I was lost and trying to find the house of my friend John. 

In response, I heard a deep southern drawl: “I’ll be damned.” Soon the lights in the whole house went on, and a figure appeared behind the screen door. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt and pajama bottoms. His beer belly was accentuated, peeking out below his undershirt. No gun was in his hands.

“Who is this?” he shouted. It was obvious the old man was confused. Perplexed might be a better word. Quickly and loudly, I said my name and where I was from, and I repeated what I was doing there.

“Is that Maatoor?” he shouted back. 

I confirmed.

It took me a few moments to realize I was talking to John, himself! I had only seen him once before and did not recognize him in his night clothes. John walked the few steps over to me. He was unsteady, almost in shock. My body was also a bundle of nerves, and my legs were shaking. When we walked in his front door, the first thing I did was to look at the large grandfather clock in the room. It was exactly 10:20 p.m.

John and I exchanged our stories. As luck would have it, there were two bridges in London, and we had each waited at a different bridge.

“Ah, so you ended up taking the back roads,” John explained. 

He had just returned home, changed his clothes, and had barely tucked himself in bed when he heard someone drive up. Of all the people in the world, he could not imagine it was me finding my way to his house. He was incredulous, asking me over and over again how I got there. “Just luck,” was all I could tell him. Any attempt at an explanation would have spooked John for the rest of his life. 

The sun was pretty high in the sky when I woke up the next morning. John had already laid out breakfast on his kitchen table. After a leisurely breakfast, we went outside. I had not told John that my car had died. I made up some excuse so I could go and try to start the car. It started right up, as if nothing had happened.

“Just leave it there,” John shouted. “It’s OK there.” I knew it was.

John lived in a small, single-story cottage at the top of a hill. Both the inside and outside of his house were orderly and neat. The panoramic view down the hill was picturesque. Or perhaps my eyes were seeing things differently after the experience of the night before. Everything looked so fresh. My nerves had settled, and I felt totally at peace.

Then I saw the long, winding road up from the bottom of the hill and the sharp turn into his private driveway. I could not believe that, in the dark of night, the car had made those intricate choices. In fact, I didn’t even remember being on that road. To make sure my eyes were seeing correctly, I looked at the long, uphill road and the driveway over and over again. I was awestruck.

Standing on top of that hill, I had a feeling I was in some magic land and had just experienced pure magic. There was no other word for it. Gentle vibrations started to pass through my body, and a thought entered my mind: “The experience was the journey.”

The thought blended with the purity and gentleness of the breeze on top of the hill. I could not capture it, analyze it, or share it with anyone else. I could only experience it. At that moment, everything seemed familiar. A strong sense of déjà vu took over. It was as if I had driven those back roads many times. It became obvious that the car had not driven me. I had accidently connected to some kind of knowing. 

What that experience in Kentucky taught me was that my journey was not from point A to point B. It was to be in that space where our common déjà vu exists. For lack of words, I have called that space our psyche. But in my mind, I perceive it as the space where the Earth and Heaven meet.

I didn’t know it then, but my experience finding my way to John’s house would be a reference point for me over and over in the future: When the lights went off, it was not a time to panic but to realize, This is the place.

Mystics use the lotus flower as a symbol of their mission in life. The lotus flower is born in slimy sludge and deep darkness. With all the power at its command, and with single-mindedness, the lotus rises above its surroundings to enjoy the sunshine. 

The darkness is symbolic of the world we live in, and the sunlight is symbolic of where we are aspiring to go.

The lotus reminds the mystic that his or her task is to rise above darkness, without changing the darkness itself. Consider what would happen to the lotus if the murky water were to become pure and clean.

For eons, the nature of the stars has not changed. Air still performs the same function it did thousands of years ago. The birds still chirp, the sun rises and sets. Similarly, from our short perspective, human nature has basically not changed. Avarice is not new and not peculiar to this age. Thinking that it is new would be like imagining the sun had started to rise only in this age of ours and only in the United States.

For a lotus flower, the effort to rise is a personal one. It is not dependent on what others do or do not do. Similarly, a mystic does not wish to change the world in which she lives. He or she welcomes and loves the world as it is, and makes a supreme personal effort to rise above it.

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.