Even for the Poorest of the Poor

Calcutta, 1988. This morning, I left my notebook in the reporting hall just outside Baba’s room. Side-stepping the security guard, I ran back up the stairs.

When I was about to burst into the room, I had a shock—Baba Himself was sitting there with three workers. I slammed to a halt on the stairway, and pulled back just enough to see, but not be easily seen.

Within a moment, I guessed their purpose: Baba had composed a new song and He wanted them to record it.

This was a sight extraordinaire, a private matter seen by few. I held my breath, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed.

Though they spoke in Bengali, I caught the gist.

“I’ve composed a new song,” Baba said. “Do you want to hear it?” He sat in His big chair, they at His feet.

They turned to each other saying, “I don’t want to hear it. Do you?” “No, not me.” “Another time, Baba.” They giggled like children playing with their father. He also laughed.

“Well, I’ll sing it anyway,” He said.

“No, no, Baba!”

He put His finger to His lips to silence them, and began singing only one sound: “Na na na na na na na na na….”

After He finished, He asked, “How do you like the melody?”

They looked at each other, smiling. “Not very good.” “I wouldn’t say one of Your best.” “Don’t You have anything better?”

Then He sang the words. At the time, I felt He was like a mountain spring—effortlessly and naturally singing without hesitation or thought. His voice was different than I had imagined, different from His speakmg voice (which is slightly nasal). He played with His voice like an instrument, perfect control—mellow, unstrained and pleasing. He had no written notes.

They feverishly scribbled as He sang, trying to write every word. 89

When He finished, there were no wisecracks. They were moved by the song, moved almost to tears. He waved His hand, and they began singing. At first their voices didn’t perfectly reflect the melody-each sang in his own way.

But as they continued, the differences diminished, and they fell into the true tune.

At this moment, the cook was walking by the stairs. Seeing me, he came close, whispered “go away,” and shooed me away with his hand. I had no choice but to leave. I walked down the stairs. A few seconds later, the coast clear, I silently came back up.

Now Baba explained their mistakes, while they buried their faces in their notes, correcting them. Again the three of them sang, as baba nodded in approval. Even though I didn’t clearly understand the song’s meaning, by the time they came to the final notes, I, too, felt their ecstasy.

They did prostration, and I knew I’d better get moving to avoid more detection. As I dashed out the main door, the security guard raised his eyebrows but didn’t try to stop me. I looked back and saw the three workers walk into General Secretary’s room, where I knew they would make a rough tape-recording of the song to ensure the melody would not be forgotten. Later it would be recorded it again by a skilled singer with instrumental backing. 90

The Krishna connection

Tokyo. “One of the gurus of the H are Krishna movement is in Japan now,” said Dada Ravindranath. It was ten o’clock in the morning. “Do you want to go together with me to see him?”

“I’ve already had plenty of contact with that religion,” I said. “You go without me.”

89 All of Baba’s dictation and darshans similarly appeared spontaneous yet perfect. He dictated as much as possible for His books— several hoursa day. Heeven dictated while shaving. Afterward, when reviewing manuscripts, He only corrected the mistakes of the transcribers, and never needed to alter any of H is own words.

90 Several times a day Baba called these or other workers to record His new songs, even in the dead of the night. He summoned them whenever inspiration struck Him. Each song was profound and beautiful. Here I will give just one example. It is the rough translation Of song #1494: (continued on next page)

One of my closest friends joined Hare Krishna nearly twenty years ago when we were in college. At that time he and I shared an apartment, and were practicing another yoga technique. We planned to become teachers of that technique and open a school in Portland. When he shifted over to worshipping Krishna, he tried his best to convince me to do likewise. A few months later I found Ananda Marga, and we lost track of each other. After that. I encountered the Krishna group in a few other places, but never asked about my friend.

In the afternoon, while Ravindranathji was at the Krishna temple, I took a shower. As usual. I was singing Baba Nam Kevalam. I suddenly had a vision of my old friend’s face, and a thought clearly passed through my mind: H e is their guru now.

When Ravindranathji returned, I told him about my vision and asked him to describe the guru.

“It’ll be easier if I show you their magazine,” he said, “because the guru’s picture is there.”

He opened it to a full page color photo—not only was it my old friend, but the facial expression was precisely as I had visualized while taking my shower.

Without informing my name in advance, I went to the temple today. After their ceremonies, during which the devotees garlanded my friend, he turned toward me, walked over and we embraced each other.

“After hardly thinking about you in years,” he said, “somehow this morning I remembered you. and thought you might come.”

We had a lot to talk about.

I n the fragrant breeze and sweet garden of my mind Come silently, Oh Lord of my heart.

Noonewill know, I will meditate on You in mymind.

Y our silent movements will beimperceivable.

I n the depths of my thoughts I made a garland,

And have coated each and every petal with sandalwood paste. Sitting in contemplation, I have forgotten to sleep.

Celebrating Your arrival, my mind shivers.

Incense, lampsand decorations are not needed.

M y mind strives to merge with the Cosmic M ind.

In meditation, in mantra, in joy, in enchanting rage, in tunes of love I paint myself with Y our colors.

Before his departure from Tokyo, I once more visited my friend, the Hare Krishna guru. After doing Hare Krishna kiirtan together, we sat down to eat. The conversation turned to the books we had given each other three days ago.

“I read your guru’s book, Namami Krishna Sundaram” he said. “For him to write such things, he would have had to have most intimate knowledge of Krishna’s pastimes and Krishna’s thoughts. In fact, he would have had to be Krishna in a past life!”

“Perhaps,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “It would be interesting, wouldn’t it? But then, who am I to know such a thing? Unfortunately, He doesn’t talk much about His past, what to speak of His past lives.”