Kapalika Meditation

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.

Who could believe that I would be late for a flight that was taking me directly to Baba. But there was so much to take care of before I left. I had to be either responsible and late, or irresponsible and on-time. Does He always have to make such last minute dramas?

Once they rushed me aboard, the stewardess escorted me directly to my seat.

With all the hurry, I didn’t notice the passenger sitting next to me until I had already put on my seat belt—it was the same Indian man who had disturbed my meditation two days ago. I was astonished, but immediately understood the connection. 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?

Damn, I thought. Is this yet another of Baba’s tricks to keep me from seeing Him?

“Nice to see you again,” he said with a derisive smirk on his face.

“Where are you going?” I asked politely.

“To Delhi, of course.”

“What takes you to Delhi?”

“To meet my family. And where are you going?” He was still wearing the same arrogant grin. Confident that I was also going to Delhi, he no longer had anything to hide—in contrast to these last days during which he had shadowed me in Copenhagen.

“To Dacca,” I said bluntly, staring at him. The look on his face abruptly turned to bewilderment when he realized that he had miscalculated.

“And though I appreciate your recent concern for my security,” I continued, “I can’t figure out what you hope to find out from me. Nevertheless, you’ll have to excuse me because my curiosity is less than my repulsion for this kind of game.”

I stood up and moved to another seat. Something tells me this man may soon lose his job. But it’s not my duty to look after his security.

Personal contact

Calcutta. Oh, Lord, my heart pounded as I waited for You upstairs in the Jodhpur Park office. Would You be like my dreams? Would You smile as I’d imagined? How would You treat me? What would You say? They said You would come soon-now, what delays You? After waiting seven years, seven minutes was agony.

Thirty 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! Alive. Breathing. Walking towards me. Not a vision or a dream this time. You took over my eyes, my mind. Every muscle, every nerve leaned toward You as You moved down the silent row. Oh, God! That for which I was bom-fulfilled. If, in that moment I had died, and fallen at Your feet I would have been satisfied.

You gave me a passing glance. You saw me. I was stunned. I didn’t need that, but You gave it. Everything which follows in my life will be like toys for an infant already suckling its mother’s breast.

You walked into Your room. The door closed. I remained-a puppet with a head full of sawdust.

Then excitement, voices echoing meajun A essly down the corridor, one sound pierced through the din: ‘Those who have not yet had Personal Contact, come here." I drifted toward Dada Ramananda, Baba’s personal assistant.

Only Indian workers and full-timers were around him.

“What, you?” he said to me. “You haven’t had Personal Contact yet?”

“No, Dadaji.”

“All these years?” Without another word he turned sharply, opened Baba’s door, and went in.

Within seconds he reappeared, grabbed my shoulders, and shoved me through the door. “Go in!” I stumbled, and caught myself while the door shut behind me.

I looked up. You sat alone on Your bed, smiling. I threw myself at Your feet, extending my arms until I was an arrow piercing the target.

“Sit up, my boy.” You spoke to me! Was I dreaming? Tears began to flow from my eyes. Oh, what would You say now? I had waited seven years—Baba!

“What is your name, my boy?” What—was this a joke? You knew not only my name, but everything, everything about me, more than I knew about myself.

I smiled and said. “Dharmapala, Baba.” How silly.

“And what is your posting?”

Oh, come to the point. Baba, I thought. Talk to me personally, not like someone You never met!

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

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

I smiled, saying, “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.

You clever One. I… love … You. 41