Personal Contact

Two days later. This morning I was so late for my Aeroflot flight to Moscow that the plane had to be delayed a few minutes only for me.

There was so much to take care of before I left. I had to be either responsible and late, or irresponsible and on-time.

The man who sat beside me was the same Indian man who had disturbed my meditation 2 days ago.

Surely he was a member of the CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation in India) with instructions to follow me.

How could he be foolish enough to reserve a seat next to mine?

Personal contact

After waiting seven years, seven minutes was agony.

30 workers lined up in the corridor. Some gossiped or hummed a tune.

But not a sound could pass my lips; nothing could enter my mind except the thought of You; my heart wept, jumped, ached…

“Parampita Baba ki jai! Victory to Baba!" Suddenly-there You were!

You gave me a passing glance. I was stunned. I didn’t need that, but You gave it.

Dada Ramananda, Baba’s personal assistant said: ‘Those who have not yet had Personal Contact, come here."

“What is your name, my boy?”

“Dharmapala, Baba.”

“And what is your posting?”

“Regional Secretary of Stockholm and Oslo Regions, Baba.”

“Acha. You know you made some mistakes in your past.”

“Yes, Baba.”

Now, surely You would go into detail about my personal history.

But no. It was not to be. A few minutes passed, some more words about correcting myself, about becoming a model for others. Threatened punishment with Your stick, the stick whistling through the air, and stopping just before touching me. An oath. Formalities—all formalities.

Finished. Again I lay at Your feet, and then left.

I had waited seven years for You to ask me my name and my posting? My heart sank. I am nothing special to Baba, I thought. The blood rushed to my head. Did I only imagine His greatness all these years?

Dumbfounded. I stood again outside Your door, but this time there was doubt. Doubt—ugly and dark.

But I had little time to brood. Ramanandaji went inside Your room, then came out quickly and said, “Personal Contact is finished today. Get ready for darshan.”

Darshan-to see: a time when all were invited to see You, or be seen by You. We all rushed up to the roof.

Already about 200 people were sitting there. Following no one’s example, I moved to the front, and sat immediately in front of Your sofa.

Why had You talked like that to me? I felt cheated. Okay my work has been for humanity. But it was also to please You. And You didn’t care. I’m just another piece from Your toolbox.

You came and sat down. We danced kiirtan in front of You.

Still I’ll try to please You. Baba.

We danced, we sang, we sat down, and You began speaking.

And then, what? You looked deep within me. Your eyes twinkled. Your lips turned in a smile, You put Your hand to my face. You gently pinched my cheek, saying, “Yes, yes. And what do you say, my little boy?” I was speechless, smiling back. You lightly slapped my face lovingly.

Ecstasy!

I am special to Him! He loves me!

If my smile had been any bigger, my face would have broken.

You went on talking. Glancing at me again and again. And again You pinched me and lightly slapped me.

Though hundreds of others were there, we might as well have been alone. This time You were personal to the extreme. Oh, Baba!

You left. Again I was baffled, but this time it was sweet chaos. Why do You play such games? Clearly You love me. But in the Personal Contact itself. You said nothing interesting, and did nothing memorable. Afterward, only afterward. You were so loving, beyond my imagination. Why?

Slowly I began to understand. Personal Contact is spiritual. Purely spiritual.

It doesn’t matter what happens experientially. Experience is not spiritual, it is mental. You did what You wanted during the Personal Contact. It will have exactly the proper unique effect on me, unrelated to either understanding or misunderstanding.

And I know—You want me to tell others that Personal Contact is purely spiritual. Not to expect anything. You will do only what is necessary to deepen our consciousness, which is beyond any objective phenomena. My head spins. My samskaras rise up, dance, and accelerate to the speed of life.

You—Tantra Gum—You care only for that spirituality.

And You pinched me. You slapped me—why?—just to please me. You already did what You wanted—and then You did what I wanted.