Life

One hundred twenty miles northeast of the sweltering bustle of Bombay lies Nasik. It is a town of pilgrimage whose altitude of 2,000 feet makes it a relative haven from the oppressive humidity of Bombay.

The year is 1983. A man reclines bare-chested on a bed in a small upper room. He is in his late sixties and a full white beard adds a misleadingly comfortable benevolence to his face. The relaxed alertness of his demeanor has been won by hard years of asceticism and hardship; the lines of that hardship are hidden under the beard. To watch him sitting easily, greeting those who come to meet him, is to feel oneself in the court of a king, yet a king who knows no separation or difference from his court.

Inside his room sit a dozen visitors, men on one side, women on the other. His bed backs onto the wall and he greets visitors propped up on a cushion with legs outstretched. Although only in his late sixties, his years lie heavily on his body, now greatly reduced by his long years of asceticism and the illnesses that pursue him relentlessly. Even now, his body has the potential of great strength and testifies to a previous practice of hatha yoga and other physical exercise. His muscular legs give witness to miles of arduous foot travel. His chest is powerful and his stomach pregnant with kumbak and spiritual power. He wears thick-lensed glasses which shield luminous eyes animated with an indefinable certainty. Immediately next to his chair is a table on which sits a bronze statue of the 18-armed Divine Mother; next to Her sit Hanuman and Dattatreya. Underneath, a brass cobra rises from a Shiva Lingam. The central position of his puja is occupied by a large statue of his guru. Close at hand are two favorite companions: Kum Kum, which he applies to the foreheads of visitors with the blessing "AMBA Mata Ki Jai!” (victory to the Divine Mother) and a steel tin of chewing tobacco; a wad is almost always in his mouth, pushed up on one side of his cheek.

He is totally at ease with himself and others, his expression a fluid, moving kaleidoscope of joy, love, laughter, mischief, or anger, depending on his mood. In this court, the only law is love, which vibrates tangibly in the room. He bears the ochre cloth of a monk (Swami) and the name 'Prakashananda,' meaning the joy of the light of awareness. Visitors, however, address him as Babaji, meaning father, or as Swamiji.

Every day he meets people, holding court with many, each of whom comes for a different reason. One person comes to ask for a blessing or remedy for ill health, another to increase his wealth, others to ask for a child or perhaps for spiritual instruction. Some come only because they love Swamiji. They simply sit and watch the courtroom drama unfold scene by scene. Outside are the sounds of rickshaws, cycle bells, and the shouts of children playing. The Muslim call to prayer is heard close by. There is a mosque a hundred yards away and a Christian church next door. In contrast to the clamor outside, there is an almost womb-like stillness in the room that envelops visitors like a warm, benevolent cocoon. An almost tangible lightness and sweetness permeate the air. A fan swishes the hot air around the room.

Suddenly a lady and young girl who is her sister-in-law enter the room and sit straight in front of Swamiji's chair in urgent supplication. They have obviously come for something. Almost immediately two things happen before a word is exchanged. The door behind them opens and an old-time disciple enters the room with a tiffin carrier in hand containing cooked food for Swamiji. In the same instant the telephone rings summoning Swamiji into the next room. It is the head of a major government department in Bombay informing Swamiji how happy he is that his son's marriage date is definite.

Swamiji re-enters the room having answered the call. He looks inquiringly at the two women. The elder speaks.

"Swamiji, my sister-in-law here has not been able to find a marriage suit despite every effort,” she laments.

Swamiji's reply is instantaneous.

“God will give! There is no doubt about it. This tiffin carrier and the phone call are your answer."

His attitude is one of total certainty that as God's universe is perfect, the unusual sequence of these events within life itself have replied to the question.

The women's faces at first register hesitation and then finally total delight. Moreover, a dawning understanding that somehow the phone call represents affirmation to the question and the tiffin carrier represents the blessing of plenty. They too have been inadvertently drawn for a moment into viewing the world from a totally different perspective - the perspective of a jnani, for whom the universe unfolds itself with perfect simplicity second by second, revealing its secrets to those with the eyes to see. The women get up to leave and in parting, the older woman, thinking that fortune is smiling, turns back, hoping for another miracle.

"Swamiji, my legs are paining and I can't walk properly!” Swamiji replies with humor and compassion.

"Neither can I, mother! What to do?”