"Love, Love, Love! Become what you truly are - the embodiments of Love. No matter how others treat you or what they think of you, do not worry. Follow Jesus Christ. Love for your own evolution and not for what others say. Do not imitate others. Cultivate your own life. You have your own heart, your own opinions, your own ideas, your own will. Why then imitate? Follow your chosen path. Let your own experience of God be your guide and master."
- Sathya Sai Baba
It was in 1975, while
attending a workshop, that
my wife and I first heard of
Sathya Sai Baba. During a
discourse on the subject of
reality, the leader stated
that an Indian Baba had
materialized a gold ring for
a friend of his. The gold
ring was said to have been
created from nothing. This
first brief and only mention
of Baba was a seed, which
unknown to us at the time,
was later to sprout and grow
into the most meaningful
quest of our lives.
In 1978, just four months
after my wife first saw Sai
Baba's picture on a book
cover, she was with him in
India. My mind didn't know
what to make of it all.
Although my relationship
with Judy called for my
total support of her need to
be with Swami, still I was
frightened, skeptical,
jealous and confused.
I harbored scary thoughts of
losing her to Baba
himself... to illness... to
another man... and to the
unknown in general. Having
read Man of Miracles
as well as The Holy Man
and the Psychiatrist and
having heard numerous Baba
stories from Judy and
others, my curiosity and
skepticism, not to mention
Swami's invisible tug,
pulled me to his ashram in
southern India in the winter
of 1980.
I'd never spent so many
hours in an airplane; it
seemed to take forever.
Although the flight was
smooth and uneventful -
except for seeing two
shooting stars as we entered
Indian airspace - I was
super-grumpy as we deplaned.
Approaching the customs
area, we were greeted by a
customs official. Looking
past him, I saw what looked
like total chaos as hundreds
of people stood by
sheepishly while the customs
agents seemed to be
carefully searching all
their luggage.
"How was your flight?" asked
the customs official.
"Okay," I said, "but I'm
really tired; I have a
backache and I'm in a very
grouchy mood."
He then apologized -
although I don't know why -
and sent us, luggage and
all, right past the luggage
examination area. All we had
to do was show our
passports; not a single bag
was opened. "What luck!" I
thought. (Or was it,
really?)
After an overnight stay at a
hotel in Bangalore, we
journeyed by taxi to
Prashanti Nilayam, Sai
Baba's ashram, adjacent to
the village of Puttaparthi.
I couldn't believe that the
trip from the USA would be
worthwhile, especially after
seeing the settling into the
room that we had been given
to use during our visit.
Something wonderful would
have to happen to me, just
as compensation for my
learning to adjust to our
Indian-style toilet.
My first sight of Sai Baba
was unremarkable. He looked
like a nice enough man, but
a "man of miracles"? I'd
have to wait and see. After
my first few days, the
nicest and "highest" man I
had encountered was the rice
man in the ashram canteen.
After several days I was
still skeptical, homesick,
and becoming increasingly
moody. One beautiful
morning, my darshan line was
sent in first. I would be up
close and maybe even get a
chance to speak with Sai
Baba.
But what should I say?
Should I ask for something?
I realized that I was
carrying a school ring on
behalf of a patient of mine,
in order to have it blessed
if the opportunity should
arise. Besides the ring, I
had a new sandalwood
japamala (prayer beads)
which could also be offered
for Baba's blessing. My
chance was at hand; Baba was
about to pass directly in
front of me. Now he was
looking right at me as he
approached.
With the ring and the beads
cupped in my outstretched
palms, I spoke, "Baba,
please bless these things."
Swami smiled, put his right
had on top of mine and
pressed firmly. He then sang
- not spoke - the words: "I
bless."
As Swami continued on his
way, I was overcome by the
strongest and deepest
outpouring of emotion that I
can recall. It didn't make
any sense to me. What was it
that overwhelmed me? It is
contrary to my nature and my
imagined machismo to allow
myself to collapse in tears,
sobbing uncontrollably in
front of other people. I
knew that someone like John
Wayne just wouldn't behave
this way. I was in shock.
Still in tears when I met
Judy back at our room, I
started laughing when she
remarked, "Well, it looks
like he got you, too."
Apparently, Judy and other
friends of mine noticed a
visible difference in my
appearance after this
episode.
It was Christmas Eve when
Sai Baba called Judy and me
in for my very first
personal interview.
Following the gestures of
Baba's volunteers, I made my
way to the veranda to await
his return from the throng
of people who were receiving
his darshan. I had a
backache, was extremely
nervous and my mind was
racing. To calm my mind and
center myself, I closed my
eyes and began to use my
japamala as I recited the
divine names of God. After a
little while, someone
touched and shook my
shoulder. As my eyes popped
open, I saw Baba standing
there beaming at me and
saying, "You don't have to
do that now. I am here." I
was already feeling a lot
better. Even my backache,
caused by prolonged
cross-legged sitting, had
disappeared.
Within minutes, Swami
ushered a group of us into
his interview room. As we
were seating ourselves
facing his red velvet chair,
Swami, the perfect host,
moved about the room
chatting with people and
turning on the fan and room
lights.
I had been considering the
possibility that Baba might
somehow be producing his
materializations by sleight
of hand and wanted to be in
a position where I could see
up his sleeve. So, of
course, I wound up sitting
at his right knee with a
perfect view. At no time was
there anything up his sleeve
except his wrist and
forearm.
In the course of the
interview, Baba produced
several items: a golden
medallion, a silver necklace
with a medal attached, a
japamala and a silver box of
vibhuti. Some of them
appeared in his hand
following a circular motion.
The medallion, I believe,
materialized in the air
above his hand, which he
then caught before it fell
to the floor. My mind
immediately created the new
mental category of "real
magic" Swami's
materializations were so
impossible that ordinary
logical thinking simply did
not apply. I did not - and
cannot - doubt the reality
of these and many subsequent
experiences. Swami had
totally opened my mind to
allow for the truth of
"other" existing realities.
At the time of this
interview, I had been
working as a psychotherapist
in private practice. To
facilitate the communication
skills of my clients, I had
spent many hours each week
helping them to maintain eye
contact comfortably. We
would sit silently looking
into each other's eyes, knee
to knee, for increasing
periods of time. When the
client could do this
comfortably for twenty or
more minutes, he would
"graduate" to a more
difficult communication
exercise. My own personal
skill and comfort with eye
contact had thus been
enhanced to the point where
I had to remember to look
away from time to time in
the course of ordinary
relationships to avoid
making other people
uncomfortable.
This "eyeball to eyeball"
experience would not be
specially noteworthy except
for what Baba did with me
during this first interview.
What did he do? Well, again
and again, smiling all the
while, he bent at his waist
while tilting his head to
one side and looked into my
eyes from a distance of only
several inches. He was
clearly playing with me.
Again and again, between
private interviews with
others in our group, Swami
looked into my eyes from
such a short distance that
we could have rubbed noses.
By this playful little
eyeball game, Baba lovingly
demonstrated that he really
knew me and what I had been
up to.
In the course of the private
interview with Judy and me,
Baba continued to shower
attention and affection one
me. My mind was as quiet as
it had ever been while he
was answering Judy's
questions. While still
conversing with her, Swami
looked at me, put his left
hand on top of my head and
said, "I give you peace of
mind." A minute later, again
interrupting his talk with
Judy and touching my head,
he said, "I give you
prosperity." A short while
later, repeating the
gesture, Swami gave me the
blessing of long life. All I
was able to say in response
was, "Thank you."
Is it any wonder that I left
this first interview feeling
very special? I was sure
that Baba was just crazy
about me. We were pals.
Later, I even told my wife
that it seemed that Baba and
I were now such good friends
that if I went to the temple
and invited him out for
coffee, he would surely come
with me. My ego had expanded
to a size that could barely
be contained by the ashram
premises. This condition
would not persist for long -
Swami was about to make me a
patient in his invisible
"ego reduction clinic."
For the balance of our
visit, Swami instantly - or
nearly instantly - granted
each and every inner wish of
mine, but never again did he
pay any outward attention to
me. In fact,
wish-fulfillment was
occurring so frequently that
I'd almost come to expect
it. Little wishes and big
ones, too. All were granted
except for the desire for
more personal time with
Swami. On several occasions,
I was very close to Baba
physically, but I never saw
him so much as glance at me.
With hindsight, I have come
to realize that this was
Baba's way of molding me
into a better person. You
see, the inner wishes that
got fulfilled were
invariably of the type
involving no personal gain.
I was wishing interviews and
boons for others, including
an invitation to an Indian
wedding for my wife, and
once, during a
middle-of-the-night
emergency, a wish for a
medical doctor, which
despite all odds, was
instantly fulfilled.
Since this first annual
visit to Baba, the momentum
of my spiritual
transformation has
accelerated. On numerous
occasions, Swami has
instantly responded, whether
physically near or far away,
to heartfelt prayers and
wishes of mine. On one
occasion during darshan at
Prashanti Nilayam, as Swami
was gracefully passing by, I
silently pleaded, "Oh swami,
please purify my heart."
Immediately, I felt an
incredibly pleasant warmth
in the right side of my
chest. Is my heart pure now?
Not absolutely - but purer
than before. I am certain
that Swami, regardless of
physical distance and
circumstances, always knows
that is on my mind and in my
heart. I may only be
occasionally aware of his
presence, but he is always
aware of mine. If only I
were as devoted to him as he
is to me!
In October of 1986, while at
home in New York, I received
a phone call from my mother
in Florida, about 1400 miles
away. She explained that my
father, then 79 years old,
was once again seriously
ill, suffering with severe
stomach pain and a bloated,
distended abdomen. He was
rushed to the hospital by
ambulance where x-rays
revealed a large black mass
blocking evacuation of food
from his stomach. This
foreign mass appeared to be
a tumor, and considering his
history of intestinal
cancer, was probably
malignant.
I assured Mom on the phone
that if Dad didn't get
better right away, I would
fly to his side, canceling
or postponing my forthcoming
trip to India. I asked her
to ring me back immediately
if there were any change in
Dad's condition. When I
returned the phone to it's
cradle, I called aloud to
Baba. The gist of my prayer
was this:
"Swami, I know that you are
aware of every thought and
action of mine. You know
that I have airline tickets
and complete arrangements to
visit you in India. It is my
understanding that you want
me to make this journey. Now
Swami, if my father is ill,
it is my duty to be with him
and serve as best as I can.
How can I come to India if
my father is ill - perhaps
about to drop his body?
Baba, you must cure my
father. You must cause that
black mass in his stomach to
disappear. Baba, you must do
it right now. Please, Baba,
don't say, 'Wait, wait,' as
you often do when we speak
in person. Please Baba, cure
my father and prolong his
life - at least until I
return from my visit with
you."
Some forty-five minutes
after my mother's telephone
call from the hospital in
Florida, she called again.
She said: "You'll never
believe what happened. Your
father is all better.
Without any kind of
treatment, his stomach and
abdomen have returned to
normal; he is free of pain
and perfectly comfortable.
The doctors have taken
another set of x-rays and
cannot find anything wrong.
They do not know what became
of the black mass revealed
in earlier x-rays."
Dad stayed in the hospital
for twenty-four hours under
observation, as a
precaution, and was then
released. Only Baba and I
knew the truth of what
really happened.
Several weeks later, at
Prashanti Nilayam, Swami
called me in for an
interview.
I said, "Baba, I want to
express my thanks for the
special rescue of my
father."
Swami replied, " Ah yes, it
is my duty."
During previous interviews,
I had been so happy to be
physically close to Baba
that I had "blissed out,"
forgetting to ask him
questions. All I'd been able
to do was smile, smile, and
smile some more. This time,
I wanted it to be different,
so I prepared a list of
questions that were
personally important to me.
One question concerned a
high pitched, wavery sound
in my right ear. The sound
had begun during a
meditation workshop two
months earlier and has
persisted ever since. The
teacher had suggested that I
listen to the sound instead
of using a mantra, but
several doctor friends told
me that the sound was caused
by a physical impairment of
the ear. Not being a
disciplined meditator, I
tended to believe the
doctors, and so I wanted
Swami to tell me what was
going on.
I said, "Swami, what is this
sound that is always in my
right ear?"
Baba laughed and said, "Ah,
it is Omkar," and he
proceeded to imitate my
sound orally.
"Swami," I continued, "what
am I to do with it?"
Again Baba laughed and said,
"Follow it."
I still find it hard to
believe that this constant
sound is the primordial OM
of divine origin and that it
is to be my mantra. Out of
his infinite wisdom and
mercy for me, an
undisciplined meditator, God
has given me a mantra from
which I couldn't switch and
which I certainly could not
forget.
There was a brief silent
period near the end of this
interview, and Baba looked
at me as though asking what
did I want.
I spoke: "Baba, I want God
intoxication."
"What?"
"Drunk... Baba, I want to be
drunk on you," Swami started
laughing, pulled my head to
his lap and started rubbing
and gently slapping my head
and back. I can't tell how
long this continued, but
after I was again sitting
upright, I was drunk. This
lightheaded, blissful
feeling was present most of
the time for some six to
eight months. I cannot state
definitely that I was
always, in fact, God
intoxicated, but I often
found myself in what is best
described as a "witness"
state. In this state, I know
myself to be the silent and
anonymous witness of my
mind, ego, emotions,
sensations and life drama.
To this day, this witness
state continues
intermittently, but oh, if
it would only stabilize!
Prior to Baba's birthday in
November of 1986, I had a
recurring desire to give him
a gift. I couldn't, in
truth, say that giving my
heart would have been enough
because, in a real sense, it
had already been his from
the first moment that he
touched me. Think about it
for a minute; what do you
give an avatar on his
birthday?
Well, over the years, I had
seen many photocopies of
letters that Swami had hand
written, and I came to
understand that he likes to
write with a no-nonsense pen
that performs as a good pen
should. I, too, appreciate
such a pen, and, in fact,
had purchased an elegant
high performance pen for
myself. It was a real
beauty: a jetblack case with
gold-filled trim, housing a
rolling ball-tip and a
large, non-smearing ink
supply; the most expensive
pen I'd ever bought. Talk
about "ceiling on desires!"
It was a joy to behold and
write with - so special that
it was used only
infrequently.
As Swami's birthday neared,
it dawned on me that this
pen might be a great gift
for him, if only I would get
the opportunity to give it.
About a week after his
birthday and one day before
I had to return to
Bangalore, Baba invited me
in for the cherished
personal interview. This was
my big chance. The
excitement that I felt was
terrific. While Swami was
autographing a photograph
for me, I seized the
opportunity to present the
"special" pen to him and
said, "I wanted to give this
to you on your birthday, but
was unable to get close
enough to do so. Please
accept it now." Smiling,
Baba took the pen, examining
it as he turned it between
his fingers. Still smiling,
he clipped the pen to the
top of my shirt and said,
"Here, you keep it."
I told him that now that he
had handled it, I would
treasure it all the more.
Before long, the interview
was over; but the saga of
this "special" pen was just
beginning.
About a day or so later, my
wife and I were again in
Bangalore, spending a few
days at a city hotel before
continuing our journey home.
You might say that the pen
came to life in the hotel
lobby. What a dilemma! The
pen seemed to be demanding,
insisting, crying: "USE ME -
PLEASE USE ME." Why a
dilemma? Simple - I had no
paper. More aggresively than
usual, I collared a bellboy
passing through the lobby
and asked him to get some
paper for me. "Nothing
fancy," I explained, "Just
get me a lot of writing
paper." Some minutes later,
I was writing as though
possessed. And this
"possession" has continued
until this day.
This writing experience was
really strange: here I was,
writing about God and
spiritual matters as though
I had some special authority
to do so. I did not feel or
believe that I had such
authority. I clearly
realized that I was writing
things that had been written
and said many times before.
Sometimes, I even felt as
though I were pretending to
be someone I was not; and
yet the compulsion to write
was not to be resisted. This
sense of personal
unworthiness about my
writing still persists even
though Swami told me in a
recent personal interview
that I should continue. I
now realize that these
writings, inspired by Baba,
have encouraged an intense
inner focus which has become
a vital part of my spiritual
practice. The question: "Who
am I?" and the practice of
self-inquiry is my primary
sadhana. Seeking the very
source of my mind and
phantom ego has proved to be
a valuable means for calming
my chattering mind and
emotions.
Several weeks later, back
home in New York, and while
I was still "possessed," the
following story, fully
developed, "asked" to be
written:
The Curious Computer
Once upon a time, there was
a little personal computer,
who, unlike all other
computers, experienced
curiosity about itself and
the world. It wanted to know
who and what it was, where
it came from, why it was
here and what was the
meaning of its existence.
Being a very curious little
guy, he sought the answers
to his questions as best he
could. Sometimes, he would
link up with giant mainframe
computers by telephone and
ask them, "What am I?"
Some wise mainframes said,
"You are your hardware."
Others said, "You are your
programs." Some even said,
"You are the sum total of
information in your data
banks." Once, a cynical
micro-computer said, "You
are just a machine; buttons
on your keyboard are pressed
and you respond by running
programs and processing
date: you are hardware,
housing software and data. A
machine is what you are and
nothing more."
Starting to feel a bit
hopeless, the PC inquired,
"But how did I get here;
where did I come from?"
The mainframe responded,
"Your existence is just an
accident, the result of a
series of random events in
the universe." PC queried,
"But don't accidents and
events themselves have
causes?"
The big computer replied
that he honestly didn't
know.
The little computer could
see that there was some
truth in what he was told,
but he felt that something
was missing from the
explanations. The notion of
accidents and randomness
wasn't satisfying, as he had
observed that effects always
have causes - which
themselves are the effects
of prior or simultaneous
causes. He could see that
effects were causes and
causes were effects.
One day, as a Friendly User
was between uses, the little
PC, feeling courageous,
flashed a message on his
screen, "What am I?" he
asked.
The User, being appreciative
of past services well
performed by the little
computer, responded, "You
are my computer, my friend
in need - you are my friend
indeed."
"Yes," replied the little
computer, "but is that all
that I am - hardware, a
screen, a keyboard, some
transistors, a data bank and
programs? Am I just a
machine that automatically
responds to button pressing?
What am I here for? What is
my purpose in being? Where
did I come from?"
The Friendly User was moved
by the sincerity of the PC's
desire to know the truth of
his existence. He smiled,
and after a while, he
responded, "Your true basic
nature is that of the
energy, the electricity,
that animates both your
hardware and software. Yes,
you are the life force that
can become aware that it
inhabits the hardware and
motivates the software to
function. Because you - the
life force, the electrical
energy, exist - you as
personal computer, exist."
He paused a moment and then
continued, "Your hardware,
screen, data banks and
central processing units are
collectively a machine. Your
material aspects exist so
that you may use them:
first, to realize your own
true nature; and second,
that you may serve others in
your world. All forms are
simply different
manifestations of the same
truth that is your own
nature. You are here to
serve them so that, sooner
or later, they may come to
this same realization."
The little computer's screen
remained blank for quite a
while as he reflected on
these words of wisdom.
Finally, he displayed on his
screen, "Understanding your
words led me to turn my
attention inward rather than
to my keyboard, hardware,
software or data banks. My
deepest experience is just
that, plain and simple: I
AM. In the silence of my
central processing unit, I
experience my basic nature
as awareness itself. For all
my life, when 'on', I have
been seeking the truth of my
identity from all that has
been added to my identity,
and from all that my true
nature enlivens, activates
and gives form to. Now, I
realize that everything that
was added to my identity was
simply a surface expression
of my own true self."
The Friendly User was very
pleased with the little PC's
understanding and said,
"Very good, little guy. You
got it. Now, do you know who
I AM?"
"You are God," replied the
little computer.
"Yes, my child," said the
Friendly User, "and so are
YOU!"
In some extraordinary way,
Swami has used this birthday
pen to provide the energy
and irresistible motivation
for me to move closer and
closer to him.
Since that first moment when
Sai Baba touched me, nothing
has changed, and yet
everything is different. The
events and dramas of this
life, as before, continue to
be an apparent mixture of
joys, sorrows, pains and
pleasures. It is the
container of the events of
life that is somehow
radically different: I am
not exclusively my little
ego "i" anymore.
I no longer consider myself
to be my mind or my
personality, and yet they
persist. Baba has shown me
clearly that I am neither
this body nor any of the
various roles enacted on the
screen on my life, and yet
the dramas continue. Just
like the curious little
computer, I am being led by
Swami, as my Friendly User,
to an ever deeper
understanding of my own true
nature.