Total shock

October 22. The most shocking experience of my life occurred today.

At 3 AM, Dada Artapremananda woke me up and called me into his office where he had been sleeping alone. His eyes bulged, his body shivered continuously, and his skin was pale. He looked as if he had gone mad.

He started weeping and shaking furiously. I put my hand on his shoulder to try to comfort him.

“It’s impossible! I can’t believe it, and I don’t accept it.”

“No, this is ridiculous. Baba couldn’t have died. He said He would stay until His work was done. It must be something else. I am going to call Calcutta.”

After a few minutes I was able to get through. Dada Bhaveshananda answered.

“What happened?” I said.

His voice was sober, slow and somewhat shaking, “It seems… Baba left.”

“What do you mean seems?”

“The life force is gone for some hours now. No pulse. Nothing.”

“Perhaps He’s in samadhi or some special state. Maybe He will come out of it after some time.”

“Well, we hope so. But… I don’t think so.”

I tried to think of something else to say, but my mind went blank. I passed the phone to Artapremanandaji, and he spoke briefly in Hindi. Then he hung up.

He turned to me, saying, “What should we do?”

“Well, I simply don’t believe Baba’s died,” I said, almost calmly. “But in any case, something extraordinary’s happened, so I want to go to India immediately.”

“Now we should tell the other Dadas.”

“Oh, I can’t talk anymore.” “It’s okay. I’ll tell them.”

I woke up the others and brought them in the room. I felt very cold, but otherwise almost normal. After speaking a few words of introduction to prepare their minds, I said, “They’re all telling that Baba has died.”

No one said a word. But all four of them stared at me eerily. Their faces all wore strange expressions, and they edged closer toward me.

“There’s no explanation,” I said. “And personally, I just don’t believe it.”

They could hardly speak. I don’t know why, but I think they immediately accepted it as true. Without saying a word, Moksanandaji got up, took his jacket, and walked out of the house.

The others wandered aimlessly or sat and stared at the walls.

I was sure there was more to the story. Unworried, I took a shower, entered the meditation room, and sang kiirtan as if it were an ordinary day. No one joined me.

At 9 AM I phoned our travel agent and booked tickets for Artapremanandaji and myself. By 10:00 we were out the door and on our way to the airport.

Sitting in the plane, I was still feeling relatively normal when Artapremanandaji turned to me and said, “I just remembered some thing Bhaveshananda told me which I didn’t tell you. They’ve already put Baba’s body on the ice.”

His words hit me like a sledgehammer. “What? But then … He must really be … Oh, God, no! Oh, no! Then He’s really dead!”

I turned my face away. At this point I can’t clearly remember what happened, except that I went mad.

A million ideas and visions passed through me. I thought of every possibility of what it meant for Baba and for me.

I wept at my loss, wept at the world’s loss, worried for Baba, blamed Him, felt as lonely as a boat lost at sea, burned in my physical heart, felt guilty, felt rejected, felt insane.

I even thought of leaving Ananda Marga. Why should I stay without Baba?

Our mission was not yet finished, and we would never be able to complete it without Him.

After about an hour, I regained my composure. It was just a test. He knew what He was doing, as He had always known. There must be a great purpose behind it.

Though I never imagined He would do such a thing, I had to accept it. Though it was intolerable, I had to tolerate it. I would have to go ahead, and I steeled my mind for the task.

I forced it to be positive, if not happy.

Throughout this time I hadn’t spoken to Artapremanandaji. At this point I turned toward him, saying, “I’m okay now.” He nodded his head.

When we reached Bangkok, we called Japan. Only a few minutes before, Moksanandaji had returned. After receiving the news, he had strayed through the streets of Tokyo for fifteen hours.

Yesterday I received an emergency visa from the Indian embassy in Thailand. After discussing the matter with a few workers, it was decided that all Didis and Dadas could come. We phoned Japan, Taiwan, Korea and Hong Kong.

Today at 2 AM, while standing in the line for the immigration check in Delhi, I befriended a Japanese tourist and translated all the procedures for him.

Just after receiving my entry stamp, an elderly official in civil clothes directed me to the side of the room.

“You’ve come for the funeral, haven’t you?” he said.

“What funeral?”

“You know very well. The Anand Marg funeral.” “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Listen. I’m an old man. I’ve seen you in Calcutta. I know you’re a Margi.”

“Sir, I’ve never been to Calcutta.”

“I don’t want to disturb your program. If you admit the truth to me, I will allow you to go ahead for the funeral. Why should I trouble you at a moment like this? But if you persist in this drama, I will have you deported. Now, please confirm that you are an Anand Margi.”

“A what? Look, it’s very late. I’m tired, and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He turned toward another official and directed the Japanese man to be pulled out of the line, suspecting him also to be a Margi. I would have laughed internally, but I wasn’t in great humor.

For God’s sake, I was enough troubled, and now on top of it, I was going to get deported.

Surely they would find out the truth because my suitcase contained my orange uniform, and Ananda Marga books and documents. I had never before been stopped like this, except in Calcutta, so I hadn’t taken any precautions.

He asked questions for another half hour. I desperately clung to my story that I didn’t know Ananda Marga, and was following nobody and nothing except my own nose. He didn’t believe a single word. Meanwhile, the Japanese fellow was questioned by someone else.

At last the old man turned to an assistant, saying, “Go check his luggage for any Anand Marg related items.”

As I hopelessly handed over the luggage key, I thought, Baba, if You get me out of this one, then I’ll accept You’re still active, even without Your physical body.

About 10 minutes later, the assistant returned. He shook his head.

“I can’t believe it,” said the officer in Hindi. “Are you sure there’s nothing?”

“Nothing,” said the assistant, shrugging his shoulders.

The officer scowled. He stared into my eyes. I looked back nonchalantly, hardly believing my luck. “I’m sure you’re a Margi,” he said. “But… you’re free to go now.”

“Thanks a lot,” I grunted. Then I thought, Baba, You’re still with me! How did You manage it?

1 picked up my luggage, and walked to the green channel.

“Do you have anything to declare?” asked a custom’s official.

“Only a small cheap camera,” I said.

“Show it to me,” he said.

Opening my suitcase, I shuffled my orange clothes and other possessions around. The camera wasn’t there, and neither was a box of empty cassette tapes. So that was it! The assistant knew I’d never expose his theft.

“Sorry,” I said. “Forgot I left it in Thailand.”

As the official waved me through, I looked back and saw the poor Japanese man sweating under the old man’s investigation.

Losing my center

Calcutta. Thousands of Margis are here, eyes glazed or filled with tears.

Because I had already adjusted myself during the plane flight with Artapremanandaji, I felt calm. I stood in a long line waiting to enter Baba’s house to see His body.

Next to me stood Cintamani, a Margi from Norway. He was particularly lucky, even inspired. After not going to India for about ten years, something had pushed him to come here one month ago. He was blessed to experience Baba in the last weeks of His life.

We were calmly talking together when suddenly, unexpectandy, a surge of feeling rose from my chest, and before I knew what I was doing, I was sobbing. As my knees gave way, Cintamani held me up.

“It’s okay, Dadaji, it’s okay,” he said.

Now I’d lost my center. Nothing could console me. I dragged myself toward the house, crying continuously.

When I entered the door, I saw Him. His face was peaceful, beautiful. Immediately I felt alright. He knew what He was doing. I accepted it fully.

After leaving the room, I went to the back of the line. I waited, and again entered; again stared at Him. Again and again I made the circuit.

It was my last chance to see Him, so why should I do anything else?

A few hours later, a Dada approached me and asked me if I wanted to run the video camera inside Baba’s house.

I accepted, knowing that while it wouldn’t be enjoyable, it was a way to keep busy, and remain inside Baba’s room at the same time.

I filmed thousands of Margis as they shuffled around the body. Each face was unique, but each was filled with anguish. Occasionally, someone collapsed, screaming in agony.

Some workers and Margis who I highly respected, lost all control, and acted with unconscious abandon.

As for me, at first I believed I had regained my composure. But again and again, I lost it, and wept bitterly.

I filmed many brothers and sisters that I hadn’t seen in years. It was not the time, however, to say hello.