Eye of the Hurricane

Embarking on an unreal dream

Stockholm. April 1979. The Mainz office called today. Baba’s trip is definitely on! He will be coming together with an entourage of 10 or so Dadas, Didis and Margis.

They say He’ll stay for a month, touring Switzerland, Germany, Sweden, Holland, Spain, France, and Italy. As chief secretary of the Volunteers Service Department I’ll be in charge of Baba’s security and many other aspects of the program. Dada Karunananda and I will be the main organizers.

From today my main duty is to get ready for the tour. Somehow the whole thing still feels unreal to me. Like a dream.

Lyon, France. May. Baba was scheduled to arrive one week from today but so far He and two other Dadas still do not have their passports. After all our planning we are still not sure if they will come or not. This is typical of course. Eleventh hour dramas are Fhs invariable style.

Though my mind leaves everything up to Him, my stomach sings a different tune. It often heaves like a volcano about to erupt.

Frankfurt, Germany. Today Dada Kamnananda phoned with news that Baba’s party has left Calcutta for Bombay and were out of touch; there was still no official word about their program.

“So are they coming to Switzerland or not?” I asked.

“I guess so, but, but…”

“There’s nothing sure.”

“Right.”

“What about the Central Office?”

“They also don’t know what’s going on. But dare we tell that to the Margis? If maximum Margis are to meet Baba in Geneva they need to start traveling now.”

“Yet another cosmic clash. Thanks, Baba.”

For a few seconds neither of us spoke as we weighed the alternatives.

“We’ve got to announce that Baba’s definitely coming,” I said. “Right.”

“It’s the only practical thing to do. If we’re wrong, that’s His problem.” “Yah,” said Karunanandaji, “and maybe about 1000 Margis’ problem too…”

“Anyway, if we guessed right, nobody will ever know.” “And if we guessed wrong, I’ll say it was your fault,” he said, laughing. “Thanks.” Though I didn’t know whether or not he was really joking, I also laughed. Why not?

" I always keep my word"

Geneva, Switzerland. 6 May. Hundreds of Margi brothers and sisters swarmed throughout the Geneva airport today, seething with anticipation, their paper-thin patience stretched taut, waiting for a man who was not only the center of their lives, but who most had never yet even seen. Some sang devotional songs, some danced, while others gossiped but there was no way to disguise the tension.

Three brothers scaled a wall up to a large window sill, and stared through the window looking onto the runway. Even those sitting in meditation contributed to the electrifying anxiety.

For the umpteenth time I rehearsed the security.

“Volunteers, attennnntion!” I yelled.

Sixteen uniformed cadets-eight brothers and eight sisters in two perfect lines—snapped their backbones straight and thumped their staffs on the floor. Though some could barely speak English, all clearly understood the martial commands.

None of them, however, understood one thing: perhaps Baba was not coming. I caught Karunanandaji’s eye, which flickered as he cast a thin grin in my direction. He could still afford to smile.

If Baba was coming today, the plane now arriving was the only possible flight. I stood toward the back of my volunteers, confident that at least these 16 would play their role properly if He came. But would He?

“Baba Nam Kevalam!” screamed one of the Margis hanging on the window viewing the runway. “He’s here!”

Those sitting in meditation jumped up. as everyone (including the general public) pushed toward the door of the customs and immigration area.

“You fool!” yelled another Margi on the window. “That isn’t Baba.”

A painful groan issued from scores of lips.

Waiting … now only silence from those up on the window … the door from the customs area opened, and two passengers came out… then a few more … still no Baba…

An Indian dressed in white and wearing glasses came out—a brief hesitation as many thought, “Is that Him?”, and then—“Baba, Baba, Baba!” all were yelling, all were running, all were excited to the breaking point—it was Him!

At the top of my voice I shouted, “Volunteers, attennnntion”! but it was no use. I was wrong—the cadre did not obey, and instead added to the melee, wildly mshing toward their gum. And there I was, standing near the back of the hall, while the hundreds of Margis zeroed in on the man I was supposed to protect. What an idiot I was! I tried to push my way forward, but others were equally desperate. Madness, pure madness.

For a split second I could see Baba smiling through the crowd, standing next to several Dadas and Margis who had come with Him from India. Then the stampede hit. Oh God, what were they doing to Him? Adrenaline pumped through my veins. I elbowed my way between two Margis, then more, pushing myself forward.

In the front, near Baba, I saw a strange windmill of hands and feet rapidly breaking the air, deterring the Margis. Baba Nam! It was Dada Ramananda, Baba’s personal assistant, jumping left and right, forcefully rebuffing the Margis, thrusting them away from Baba.

Then somehow I was there next to Him. I couldn’t believe He was still smiling, as calm as the eye of a hurricane. I joined Ramanandaji, driving the Margis away, clearing a path for Baba to walk to a chair, next to Karunanandaji.

He walked slowly, majestically. In any case, He couldn’t have walked rapidly, because His legs were still not fully recovered from the years of suffering in the prison. Karunanandaji had a smile like a cherub.

Baba sat. At last the sixteen volunteers recovered their senses and took their pre-planned places.

Baba then spoke His first words, “You see, I have kept my word. Two years ago I promised to visit Switzerland at the first opportunity I would get. Now I have come. I always keep my word.”

Several brothers and sisters came forward wearing colorful uniforms specifically for performing yogic dances.

Baba leaned toward Karunanandaji and said, “The color of the uniforms is not proper. You must take care. Even if an ant dies a premature death, the entire balance of the Cosmos is affected.”

“Next time it will be perfect, Baba,” Karunanandaji said.

I smiled. It was Baba in true form.

Paradise and the invisible wall

Fiesch, Switzerland. About 700 Margis are present in this scenic mini¬village of chateaus and meeting halls, surrounded by mountains, pine trees, and green grass, graced by a shining sun, and bathed in pure air. It seems idyllic, especially when I think that Baba is also here. The program will last one week, then we travel to other cities.

In the light of this paradisical atmosphere, one aspect of the Margis’ behavior certainly appears odd—at least by normal social standards. Their mad desire to touch Him has continued unabated since the time He arrived in the airport. This tense situation has at least one good result—it compels the security team to be on their toes. While accompanying Baba in and out of the hall, the volunteers, both brothers and sisters, hold their sticks horizontally, creating a sort of mobile protective fence around Him. Baba Himself seems to enjoy this frantic game. He sometimes pauses in His walk to smile at certain Margis or offer a few encouraging words. In those times the enthusiasm of the Margis grows higher, and the volunteers hold onto each others’ sticks, further reinforcing the fence. In some cases the onslaught is so severe that I also have to join in the defense squad, straining against the shoving and pulling.

Though I am particularly vigilant to see that Baba’s movement is undisturbed, I wonder whether our efforts at security are so necessary. I observe repeatedly whenever we are not swift enough to stop some movement of hands or feet or a rebounding stick in Baba’s direction, there is an invisible wall that protects Him. allowing Him to be totally unconcerned with the chaos only inches away from Him.