Superphysics
The curtain opens on a great drama
7 minutes • 1421 words
Table of contents
February. A mind-wrenching circular arrived from our office in Wichita. Baba is in jail in India. It states:
Baba was arrested on 29th December. But we delayed to inform you in the hope that He would soon be released. But it’s taking time. Together with four workers, He is charged with conspiracy to murder. Of course it’s a frame- up manufactured by the CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation) to crush Ananda Marga. The ideas and activities of AM have always been a direct threat to public figures who hunger for personal power without concern to benefit the society….
The sole direct witness is Vishokananda, an ex-Dada who claims to have been one of the murderers. Instead of being in jail, however, he is free and living luxuriously.
His evidence is acceptable according to a fluke in Indian law which permits a criminal to testify against others, in which case he is called the Approver.
According to the discretion of the court, the Approver may be released and richly rewarded for his cooperation.
The four so-called murder victims found in a forest are unidentifiable. The post-mortem cannot even determine if they are male or female..
There is not one piece of authentic evidence in the case, and therefore our lawyers expect Baba and the co-accused to be acquitted very soon..
Baba is not only unperturbed by His incarceration. He was clearly prepared for it. When the police came to His house on the 29th to arrest Him they told Him to arrange His suitcases. He replied, “I was expecting you. and am already packed. Let us proceed without delay.”
Strange as it may sound, I am encouraged by this news. If the CBI is prepared to undergo such trouble to try to stop us. it proves Ananda Marga is doing excellent work. The prosecution will eventually fail. This drama promises to be interesting.
Lucid Dreaming
A few days ago, I read an inspirational book that mentioned the mind’s capacity to maintain the continuous repetition of mantra even while sleeping. Tonight while lying in my bed, I concentrated on my mantra as I fell asleep.
In the morning I had a wondrous experience. I had not the slightest of my normal tiredness on waking, and instead felt as if I was simply passing from one state of mind into another. I could distinctly recall the presence of my mantra all night, as if it was playing a witnessing role throughout all of my dreams.
Because my awareness was identified with the mantra, I had watched my dreams as a kind of spectator.
I am beginning to tap into an entity of infinite perspectives.
The Lord resorts to extreme measures
A volunteer Paul has been working with me these last few weeks. Today he left for India to undergo training to become a Dada. I thought it was a mistake, and tried to tell him so, but he refused to listen or talk about it.
Paul has a wife and two small children who live in New York. He did not divorce his wife, but only left her for the sake of the spiritual work. I don’t like this.
I even asked him directly once, “Paul, what about your wife and children?
Are you thinking to communicate with them?” He gave me such a scowl that I dared not mention it again.
Throughout his stay here, his behavior was strange. He was almost always silent, and barely helped except physically. When he sat in meditation, he moved constantly, often groaning in psychic discomfort.
Surely he is suppressing much. On the other hand, it does seem he loves our mission, and wants to do something noble with his life.
Two months later. I received a long-distance telephone call today from a government officer in Washington D.C. He said. “Do you know Mr. Paul Stockman?”
“Yes.”
“He wrote your name in his passport in case of accident, and, well, he’s had a serious one.”
“Where? What happened?”
“He was found unconscious, suffering from head wounds and a concussion in an alley in New Delhi. India.” “Oh God.”
“His wallet was gone, so we guess that he was attacked and robbed.” “What do you mean ‘we guess’? What does Paul say happened?” “He doesn’t remember what happened. In fact, ah, he doesn’t remember anything. The doctors say he has almost total amnesia.” “Wow! How…”
“And that’s why I’m calling you now. He’s in a hospital in New Delhi, and we would like to know if he has any family to whom he should return. It’s preferable he receive treatment near his own home.”
Luckily I happened to have his original address in New York City including his wife’s name. I read it to the officer, and asked him to inform me when Paul arrives in New York, and in which hospital he’s staying.
Five days later. Paul arrived in New York yesterday. I called him at the hospital. He’s still a bit weak, but said that small bits and pieces of his memory have returned so that he can vaguely remember me and his family. His voice, however, sounded different. He always used to speak in an artificially subdued manner. Today, though his voice was weak, it was, nevertheless clear and unrestrained, except due to the uncertainty of his memory.
The end of our talk was interesting.
“I’m thinking to go to India soon,” I said. “Maybe I can pass through New York on my way.” “Thafll be great!” he said. “Did your wife visit you yet?” “Yeah.”
“Are you thinking to return … to your home soon?”
“The doctors say I may be able to leave within a week or so.”
“You mean you’ll go home then?”
“Of course. Do you suggest any other place ?”
“No, no, that’ll be perfect.”
1 don’t think he caught my delighted surprise. Here was a guy who was so sincerely and forcefully running the wrong way, that the only means by which Baba could correct him was a knock on the head.
He’s the problem. He’s the solution
I’ve run out of money. When it’s happened before, I’ve always taken a short-term job: as a taxi driver, an accountant, a government census taker, a manufacturer of alfalfa sprouts, a Santa Claus handing candy to children in a department store.
But this time it’s different. We have two major social service programs which will collapse if I withdraw from them in order to earn money. First we are busy arranging a public concert to raise funds for the famine-stricken population of Bangladesh.
Second is a twice-weekly cooking class for poor people, to teach them how to prepare nutritious tasty food on a minimal budget.
This program turned out to be the largest outdoor-concert ever held in M ississippi until then.
I’ve told my problem to nobody, except Baba, and to Him I said and say, “I am working for You only, offering everything for You. This yoga house is Yours, and these projects are Yours. I shall not jeopardize the projects by taking a job.
If I don’t have money to pay for the center, it’s Your problem. Baba, not mine. If I end up in the street homeless, it’s okay for me; it might even be interesting.”
There’s no trouble getting food because I’m receiving government food stamps.
Three weeks later. The rent is due tomorrow, and I still don’t have the money. Baba, be careful. It’s Your loss not mine if I can’t pay the rent. That will be a good lesson for You.
Two days later. I suppose any moment the real estate company will call me, and ask for the rent. I’m ready to leave. The joke’s on You. Baba.
One day later. Today a letter arrived from Chris. Since he went to Eugene to study nine months ago. I’ve had no contact with him.
He writes: “Everyone at the university here was fed up with the movies arranged weekly by the University Cultural Affairs Office. So Larry and I began booking first-class films on our own. We charged our audiences a nominal fee, thinking only to recover our expenditure. Without expecting it, we pulled in some profit. When I was thinking what to do with this money, I suddenly thought of you. I’ve got a feeling you could put it to better use than anyone I know.”
Inside was a check for $210, exactly enough money for the next 3 months rent. As I walked to the real estate office I laughed. Good joke. Baba.
