After a while Babu Ram Prasad joined us, and he told us a story: Once they were all sitting with the Father of Guruji; many people were there, sitting on the dharries, and it was about ten p.m. At one moment he felt the necessity to go to a private place, so he got up and tried to open the door leading to the garden, which was locked.
Ciacciaji (the Father was called so by everybody, it means “uncle”) asked him:
“What are you doing?” He was always smiling and kind, but this time his voice was severe and abrupt.
Timidly I said: “I want to go to the garden latrine for I need to urinate.”
“Don’t go through this door, go inside,” he told him. I never went inside to use the private toilets of his family. But I did what I was told and went. There was amongst the Sannyasis one old man who was a very old follower. So he dared to ask Ciacciaji: “Now, you prevented Babu Ram from going outside this door, but what about us? Babu Ram is allowed to go inside, but we are not allowed. What will we do?”
Ciacciaji laughed and said: “Oh, it is only for this moment; later it will be all right.”
The old man asked: “Why?”
“Panditji, you will not understand,” laughed the Guru. “It is because they are sitting outside.”
“Who? They?” The old man wanted to know.
“Jinns are sitting outside.” And if he would have opened the door and seen them, he would have been frightened.
I said to Babu Ram that, as far as I know, Jinns are invisible; it is not at all sure that he would have seen them.
“They are invisible,” he answered, “but in the light of the Guru they become visible.” He was fanning himself for it was very hot, his legs drawn up on the chair like Bhai Sahib, then he added: “Those are great Gurus to whom even Jinns come for training.
They are appointed by God to serve all creation. There is no propaganda; no official initiation is needed for appointment. If God wants, people will be attracted and will come. If God wills so…. ”
This is for me, I thought. This sentence comes to him from God… and I remembered his words of a few months ago: “You must recognize me then, when I am not here anymore; I will come in many shapes.”
1st August
YESTERDAY ALL THE MALE MEMBERS of the family and disciples went to the Ganga to have their heads shaved, as it is the custom. I went too.
It was a cloudy, grey day; fresh wind was blowing. It was not raining. The Ganga was lovely. I never saw it so full. There is something about rivers, something so wide, so free… especially the Ganga, rolling along, grey, muddy water, swollen from the rains.
The wind was blowing from the river. It smelled good. It was not deep near the bathing ghat. I saw men wading through to the sand island, and the water was not even to their hips. On the ghat itself was the usual activity—temple bells ringing, bathers dipping themselves into the muddy water. I saw a boy filling a bottle with this water. It was quite grey. I would not drink this stuff even if it were thrice holy.
I drank it in Rishikesh though, but there it was different; there the Ganga came out of a narrow gorge, still limpid, green, and dancing over the boulders. But here… brr….
All the men sat in a sheltered place and had the barber working on them. I watched the activities of the ghat, looked at the river… it was so very lovely. Every river is lovely… but especially the Ganga… so large it is, with so many islands, and on the opposite shore, far away, one could see trees and houses. And the wind, the wind, of the wide distances, chasing low grey clouds, passing heavily, loaded with moisture. It is raining heavily in Dehra Dun and Hardwar: the Ganga is only a few inches below the danger level.
Beautiful, beautiful Ganga. But how many villages it can destroy, how many people it can kill….
I went home about ten a.m. Went to the doctor. My bladder is causing trouble. Went shopping. In the evening many people were sitting. The young Mohammedan from Bhopal was there, the grandson of the Grand Guru. He came out from the room where he stays with the cousin of Ravindra, and sat amongst us. Nobody spoke. Many were in Dhyana. He was in a high state, I could see it.
His eyes were open in Samadhi, like Guruji’s. And he kept looking at me with those eyes. I wondered if he was giving me something. There was a wonderful peace. I enjoyed this half hour.
This morning we went to the last ceremony at the Samadhi.
Meditation. Prasad. The atmosphere was perhaps the most charged I have ever experienced in this place. I repeated and repeated Lailahi, could not do anything else, could not stop it, could not think of anything else…. We went there by truck. It was raining intermittently. Low, grey clouds were sailing majestically. The air was fresh, and I was thinking that when I go from India, who knows if, and when, I will see his grave again.
I returned by car with Ragunath Prasad and Poonam and some of the children.
This afternoon I have received the registered letter from H. with £40. Yesterday I got his photos. And also yesterday I felt suddenly that I was free. Those last photos of his—this wonderful face with the mysterious smile—I wanted to have them… they were my last important desire. Now I am free… what has remained? I am free to go, free as a bird belonging somewhere and nowhere, will do my duty and live so long as He wants me to live…. Sheikh, my Sheikh…
I look at this wonderful face of yours, and my heart is beating and beating…. Never again will I see those eyes open… never again…. When I was looking at this face, coming and going like a restless soul, trying to drink it all in… never to forget this lovely tender expression of the smile—then too, my heart was beating and beating in a maddening tocsin….
Sheikh, how sore I am…. Sheikh, my Sheikh… my gratitude will remain forever….
3rd August
THE MONEY IS HERE. I can leave in a few days.
With Mrs. Sharma in the morning we went to Samadhi. Again it was a grey day with heavy clouds and slight drizzle. And the peace was such, deep and dense, that one had the impression that one can cut it with a knife. How I prayed…. It is the fifth time that I go to Samadhi, and it is going to be the last time until I come back, because I am leaving Thursday, the 4th of August, two weeks after his death.
He died on Thursday too—it was the 21st ofJuly… everything went very quick. I knew it was he who wanted me to go, he who wanted me to be liberated from the difficult conditions. What’s the use of remaining? All the disciples congregate in the garden and are talking and talking. What’s the use?
Yesterday in Guruji’s garden I carried a heavy chair and fell down with it from the brick elevation on which he used to walk. Sprained my ankle and am a bit lame. Never mind, will be able to travel just the same, will bandage it tightly. The two Mohammedans come every day. I like them. They are very sincere. And the young one is very spiritual; one can feel it. One of the old disciples told us a story: Bhai Sahib’s father was asked by a newcomer to which caste he belonged. Even nowadays there are people in India who think that a Guru should be a Brahmin.
“I am,” said Ciacciaji, “a washerman and… ” he paused, “I am also a tailor and a dyer. As a washerman washes your garments and they become clean again, so I wash your hearts. Only to wash the clothes is easy, it does not take a long time; but to wash the hearts is difficult and it takes a long time….
“As the tailor takes your suit and turns it inside out, the clean, new parts outside and the worn inside, so I turn the hearts and make them like new.
“As a dyer takes your faded garment, dips it into the dye and it looks new and fresh, so I make your hearts fresh and as good as new.
So I am just a washerman, a tailor and a dyer….”
Somebody came to him and said: “You have given me so much.”
He replied: “Here is nobody to give and nobody to receive. The very fact that you came to me makes you entitled to get something.
And if I don’t give it to you, you will kick me with your boots till you get it. But it is not always the intention of the Almighty that help s
hould be given 100%. If it is done, people sometimes turn against you…. Some help is given, then they come back for more, and the rest is done by and by in Satsang. The iron is put into the magnetic field till it becomes a magnet. If it is taken out too quickly, it loses its magnetic property and becomes iron again. So it is with Satsang… time is needed…. “Remember, God is in all men, but all men are not in God,” he said on another occasion.
Somebody asked if Jinns can assume any shape they like.
“Yes,” was the answer, ”any shape at all. Beautiful or ugly, men or animal, any object, or flower, or plant… according to their wish at that moment. When they assume a human form, they are usually dressed in white, and the eyes are different… it is difficult to explain, but the eyes are not human. Also if they come to a Guru, the Guru never speaks to them. It is not necessary. He communicates with them by thought. If you notice something like that, it could be a Jinn.”
While he was speaking, I remembered an incident which happened quite a while ago. Many of us were sitting with Bhai Sahib that day, but one chair to my left stood empty. Much talk was going on and people kept coming and going. Then I noticed that a young man sat in the empty chair. He was poorly dressed in white dhoti and kurta, and I thought that he might be a villager or someone from the province. He sat awkwardly on the corner of the chair. I thought that he must be a newcomer, but what struck me was his eyes. They were wide, very dark, and had a strange expression. Perhaps he is not quite normal or a little unbalanced… I got this impression—some unbalanced people have this non-human expression in their eyes.
Women came to have their children blessed. Jagan Nathji was talking to me, and when I happened to look at the chair, it was empty. There was nothing unusual about it; many people came and went; one could not notice everything. I think it must have been two days later that I saw the same young man seated in the same place. This time I was a little puzzled, because I was looking in this direction a moment ago and there was nobody there. And nobody came through the gate; at least I saw no one. The young man spoke to nobody and kept looking at Bhai Sahib. Bhai Sahib was talking, explaining something.
Strange, I thought. He is so polite to every newcomer; this young man is a stranger, but Bhai Sahib took no notice of him, neither the first time when he was here, nor this time. It was unusual. I began to wonder if I should speak to him, to show some friendliness, was reflecting if he understands English. I looked at him, his strange wide dark eyes, then I looked at Bhai Sahib; shall I speak to him? I thought.
Bhai Sahib looked directly at me and there was a warning in his eyes. I lowered mine and the next moment I saw the poet coming through the gate. Bhai Sahib began to talk to him. I turned my head and the chair was empty. This time I was surprised. He certainly did not go out through the garden gate, and being clearly a stranger he could not go into the inner courtyard; it was private; Guruji’s family never received strangers; they were rather reserved. But still even then, I soon dismissed it from my thoughts, attributing it to some lapse of my attention. I knew by now that my mind did not work well at all.
I told this story to the assembled disciples, asking if that could have been a jinn.
“Most certainly yes,” said the disciple who was explaining about the Jinns a moment ago. “The whole appearance which you describe is typical of a Jinn who came to get something from Bhai Sahib.
That’s why his warning look to you not to talk to him.”
3rd August
I PACKED MANY THINGS. Yesterday had lunch with Sharma. Spent a serene morning. Guruji’s garden is so full of people and so much talk is going on… useless talk… I will be going. It is so terribly hot.
What is the use of staying here without you, my Sheikh? I miss your presence so much… what are all those people to me… talk, talk, talk.
And my heart is empty and sore… I don’t grieve, oh no, but I miss you so much….
4th August
WHEN I WOKE UP THIS MORNING there was a great sweetness within my heart. As soon as I opened my eyes, I began my jap. And this sweetness is still with me….
I said goodbye to his family. The brother told me that in a week or two all will be swept away. And nothing will remain of the troubles, and I should note each day in my diary, for many things will happen.
We will see if he is right. Yesterday afternoon I sat in the front room and talked to the wife and Durghesh. The wife is changed: much thinner, and the sorrow ennobled her; her eyes are completely different. His light was in her eyes, and his tenderness. And I listened to the hum of the fan, the hum I know so well… this fan was in my flat, when I was the first time with him from ‘61 to ‘63. It witnessed all my agonies, my troubles and sometimes deep despair…. The sound of it was with me when I sat alone in the darkened room; they were playing cards in the next room. And I looked outside through the chik into the garden I know so well… the mango tree… the guava shrub… the lime tree so fragrant with blossoms or laden with green or yellow limes… the brick fence behind it, the neighboring bungalow just showing on the other side. Goodbye, it is all in the past already. From now on, great changes will be for me, a life of fire in the world. But at first there will be the silence of the mountains….
Later Mrs. Sharma came. I left her talking to the women and went with Ravindra and the brother-in-law to see the marble stone for the grave. Snow-white marble, my Sheikh, for your grave…. When I come back, I will see it. It will be ready in two months, so they say; let’s make it three, for we are in India and everything is slow….
And my heart was so full of HIM, His Infiniteness… Iailahi…for ever… forever, my dear Sheikh. Such is the longing that it is unbearable… but it is easier for me now… there is peace. The terrible tension I felt in his presence is no more….
85 Love and Faith Become One
6th August, 1966
LEFT ON THE 4TH OF AUGUST at about 2:30. Had a good journey.
Traveled in the second-class ladies compartment and could lie down all night. One woman with her children was in the compartment, but they slept all night and got out at four a.m. We arrived in Katgodam about seven. As soon as it became light I sat at the window and looked at the landscape. Approaching Katgodam it assumed already the northern aspect. The light was different, the haze in the air. I remember that I noticed that for the first time when I went to Dehra Dun six years ago.
Then I saw the first hills, the first ramparts of the Himalayas, the foothills which roll on for thousands of miles. How lovely they were, here right before my eyes in the northeast, the sun rising in pale gold and the grey sky behind them…. I never imagined that I will see them again, ever…. I thought that I will go back to England on completion of my training. It never occurred to me that I may see the mountains, because there was no desire to do so. But all is different now.
In Katgodam I had to wait more than two hours for the departure of the bus. And the old Mercedes bus (they seem to be all Mercedes buses in the hills, made in India, and so old that it is a miracle that they don’t fall to pieces at every sharp turning they have to negotiate), climbed and climbed, cracking and moaning with every joint, wobbling along a very good road, if one considers how difficult the upkeep of roads is in the mountains. Landslides, avalanches, monsoon—they see to it that at certain times of the year the road is either damaged or completely destroyed. I partly remembered this road to Almora. Little bridges, pine forests, downs and dales and hills seen from different angles due to the sharp turnings all the way, every hundred yards or so.
The serpentine road seemed never to end, but at one p.m. we reached Almora. After a short interval we continued for another three hours, and about four or shortly afterwards we reached Kausani. Nobody spoke English and I had a job to make myself understood as to what I wanted. Finally they somehow managed to understand and implied that I should see Sarala Devi, Sarala Ban, as she is called here. Ban stands for “Banji” which means elder sister. I understood that she is English and that she lives on top of the
hill about one mile away. At first I tried to tell them that they should send a man, and tell her that I am here, but then I saw that it was not a practical proposition, as they did not understand me, and God knows when the man would go and when he would return, so I said to the coolie: “Let’s go!” Leaving my luggage behind in the tavern, we went up the hill. I noticed that climbing up a steep goat-path was unusually difficult for me. I really got weak in all those months of sweating. Was very breathless, could hardly keep pace with the man, and had to stop several times. At last we arrived at a group of houses and bungalows. While the man tried without success to persuade a little girl to call Mem Sahib, I went to the windows of the largest building where I saw somebody moving around. In a large room which obviously was an office, with many windows forming a large bay, was sitting a most extraordinary looking person. She was dressed in a short-sleeved, rough, hand-woven kurta and a kind of salvaar (baggy trousers) which, as I later saw, fitted badly and was really far too short. She sat crosslegged on a small carpet; a low table stood before her on which she was writing letters in Hindi, but this I saw later. A young man was seated at the typewriter in the background, also on the floor, a low table before him, Indian fashion. She had a kind, very intelligent face of pink complexion. She was old, and small of stature. Her hair was hanging down in a plait made to look longer with a band as many Indian women do. I saw that I was before an outstanding personality.
I told her that I have written, but she said that she had received nothing. The address Prof. Batnagar gave me, Sarvadaya Center, was not a correct one; if he would have said Gandhiji Ashram, everybody would have known what was meant; but as it did not mean anything to the postmaster, the letter was lost. Standing at the open window and talking to her for a while, I became more and more impressed by her unusual ways. In the meantime she suggested that I could sleep in the room above the cow-shed; the inmate of the Ashram to whom it belongs is at the moment in Delhi. We went there after the keys had been found. It was a delightful little room, all wood and glass windows. It was in the pine forest. So the coolie brought the luggage which was left down in the village literally at everybody’s mercy—it was dumped in the tavern at the bus stop. This is the lovely part in this country of contradictions: one can do a thing like this and get away with it, amidst a huge crowd of onlookers and plenty of little boys standing around. I remember also that once in Dehra Dun I left all my belongings at the bus station amongst a milling crowd of coolies, children and people waiting for the buses going to various destinations: “My responsibility,” said the employee who sold me the ticket at the bus office and disappeared closing the door.
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