A rain of grace

For about one year, access to Baba has much more limited.

Previously, Baba’s door was usually open during meetings and reporting sessions. Those who couldn’t fit inside His room would stand outside, looking in.

During this past year, however He has allowed the door to stay open only once or twice a day. At all other times, we have had to communicate with Him by yelling under His door.

In one way it is humorous; in another it’s painful.

Humorous? Well, take the moments when He becomes angry (which are not infrequent).

Atonement is required for those workers who fall short of their targets or for any number of other logical or illogical reasons.

In such cases, the General Secretary should beat the worker with a stick but hits any notebook or book that the “guilty” Dada holds, while that Dada makes crying and sighing sounds.

Pretending to be tormented by the whipping, the Dada yells “Oh, Baba!,” “I shall improve,” “We’ll open an orphanage within one week” etc.

Baba sometimes shouts back: “Does he repent, GS?,” “Scoundrel!,” “How does he intend to rectify the situation?,” and so on.

Commonly, however, He remains silent while the drama proceeds at a Tantric pace. If the excitement fades away, He may pipe up, “Eh, GS? What does that nonsense fellow have to say for himself?”

A few days ago, I saw Dada Asiimananda (Central Farm secretary, one of our most elevated and respected monks) sitting alone outside Baba’s door. While Baba was shouting a long series of directives under the door, Dada would occasionally reply through that same crack, “Yes, Baba!,” while he was busy consuming a snack.

He had obviously adapted to the pressure. He had also found a way to adjust with being so busy that he had no time for a meal.

Personally I feel nostalgic for those days when the beating was genuine.

It generated a perceivable tension, a smellable fear, which hung in the air—and that added to the seriousness of our work. I suppose Baba now wants our motivation to depend less and less on external pressure. We must derive our inspiration from our hearts, while feeling the pressure of our conscience.

Nowadays the non-Central workers, like me, are usually invited to come near Baba’s door only a few minutes a day, and occasionally to enter. So I am constantly seeking to find new justifications for being near His door.

For example: “I must speak to my Central departmental secretary,” or “I was told by so-and-so to wait here —What?—No, I don’t know why.” At other times, like today, I run out of excuses and resort only to melancholic contemplation.

My eyes becoming watery and doe-like and I mutely turn them on any Dada who challenges me for violating protocol. Though these Dadas have great responsibilities, they are still fundamentally devotees, so the doe-eyes often silence them.

It was 1:30 p.m., and for some unknown cause most workers were away from the Cosmic nucleus. Even those who were present had slipped away for lunch. Only one other Dada, Ganadevanandaji, remained with me outside the closed door.

When Baba rang His call-bell, His personal assistant, Dada Keshavananda, ran from his office, opened the door, popped his head in, and said, “Yes, Baba.”

Baba said nothing. The other Dada and I, crouched at the feet of Keshavanandaji, had a clear view of Him resting on His side, facing us. He appeared to be sleeping. He’s so beautiful, I thought, like the tiniest baby.

“Yes, Baba!” Keshavanandaji said again. When no reply came, he slowly and noiselessly shut the door.

“You two should not be here,” he whispered.

“Ah … but, Dada … couldn’t you? … just this time? …” My eyes watered, Ganadevanandaji’s mouth quivered, and we each held one of Dada’s hands.

Though it was one of our best performances to date, he shook his head. “No, no, I can’t allow it. You know the system.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, with expressions of heart-wrenching anguish, we began edging backwards, away from the Cosmic Door. Keshavanandaji stood his ground, waiting to see that we would really leave.

When we were just on the verge of leaving, the sound of the call-bell cut the air. Keshavanandaji reopened Baba’s Door. “Yes, Baba?”

By this time we were again huddled at the Doorway, staring into the king’s chamber. His position was the same, His innocent face a bare two meters away from us. Again Keshavanandaji called, again no response, again without a sound he shut the mystic entrance.

He turned on us, “You shameless fellows!” he yelled in a whisper. We smiled glumly, not showing our teeth, mentally pleading for mercy.

“No. Out. Out!”

Our heads and shoulders bent, feet dragging like lead, we tortoised our way toward the stairway. Step by step, inch by inch, slowly, slowly- dreading to face-the other world….

And then again! Saved by the bell. “What is this?” Keshavanandaji muttered. In a? flash we were nestled behind his feet as he opened the gateway to paradise.

“Baba, kill " he said loudly. There He lay, more peaceful than ever, unresponsive to Dada’s worn-out query. Dada turned his eyes toward heaven, then looked at us. “Alright. Call me the moment that Baba wakes up. I don’t know what His game is today.” He walked away, leaving the Door open!

Baba, thank you.. . I thought. Hardly believing our luck, but under¬ standing “His game”, we sat down comfortably. Of course, His game was that we should have his uninterrupted darshan—to see Him without the slightest distraction of reports or talks or background chatter, without even the slightest movement or change inside the room. We gazed at His face, at His hands, at His body—and entered into an indescribable, transcendent dimension. My ego-centered mind drifted away, replaced by a long peaceful wave of tranquillity. Deeper, deeper, I became lost in the thought of Him; nothing remained of me.

After what seemed like measureless time, something stirred within me, like a thin, almost invisible shadow. A feeling arose, increased and surged upward from my stomach, tearing at my heart. Tears flowed in a steady stream, my mouth grimaced uncontrollably, my body shook, and my mind screamed, Baba! Baba! Meanwhile, He lay there, yet un¬ moving—affecting me more by His silence than by anything He might say or do. Every muscle, every nerve tensed, as waves of emotion wracked my being. I struggled not to shout, not to move, and not to faint. My feelings rushed like tidal waves; the blood throbbed against my temples; and my brain—what words should I use?—my brain swooned, demanded relief…. I could not think, but I knew, / am with Baba, have been so forever, and will be so forever.

“Okay, Dadas,” a soft voice said. “You’ve been here almost 2 hours.”

I looked upland saw Keshavanandaji. He smiled tenderly, knowingly.

I didn’t resist. As I got up, my legs trembled, unable to hold my weight. I held onto the wall. Ganadevanandaji also stood up. Baba, who all this while had faced us unmoving, now rolled over to His other side, turning away from us. It was a perfect ending as Keshavanandaji gently closed the Cosmic Gate.

Once downstairs and outside, we looked at each other. What did he experience? we each thought. But neither of us asked nor spoke. We only smiled, and arm-in-arm walked silently down the road toward the coconut-water man.