Babaji - Gateway to the Light. Gertraud Reichel

nothing more. He never spoke much anyhow, only what was necessary. I asked him, "Please, have you anything to say to my mother?" He seemed to withdraw his consciousness from the immediate world and remained still and concentrated. Then he his eyes beamed at me and he replied "Send her my blessings!"

      I felt sure Babaji had just been with my mother's soul.

      ***

      Calcutta. I did not see any sign of my luggage until I arrived at my host's place. This large residence, enormous by European standards, was on the tenth floor of a skyscraper. It comprised two levels, an open terraced roof, a complex of rooms and a sort of reception hall and gallery where more than 500 people could assemble. The suitcases and bags of those accompanying Babaji had been left in a room whose floor was now an expanse of covered mattresses. This is where we were to stay. As I unrolled my sleeping bag, seven room-mates arrived, one after another, all male. Sri Muniraj, of whom Babaji has said is no longer subject to the law of death and rebirth, and Sri Shastriji were among them. No sign of the two wives of the flight group. Anticipating a likely snoring concert, I rummaged for my earplugs. The prospect of another sleepless night was unbearable. I was utterly exhausted. No wonder, after a day with Babaji without rest, following a sleepless night on the plane from Germany and only a four-hour break at my friend's house, not to mention the time difference and jet lag!

      The ride to this place had been rather peculiar, somewhat like a car chase. I didn't have a clue about Babaji's arrangements in Calcutta; where he was going to stay and where I might find accommodation. Somebody at the airport had hastily whispered to me that I needn't bother about my luggage and then vanished into the teeming crowd before I could say a word Babaji himself had been welcomed reverently with garlands and then whisked away in a car by his hosts. Next I caught a glimpse of the rest of the flight party careering off in another vehicle. The crowds and confusion were unbelievable! I jumped into the car of another devotee and asked him to follow Babaji; my chances of being reunited with my luggage and finding accommodation were best wherever Babaji might be.

      Babaji didn't go straight to his lodgings; he paid visits to several families en route. Despite the impenetrable traffic, we managed to keep up with his car all the way and at long last we arrived at the tall building – our final destination. This time the usual fuss and incessant activity involved with huge crowds was missing instead a leaden silence prevailed as Babaji and his companions entered the house. I waited in the entrance hall, hesitating to go inside. I looked at some photographs of a woman and a yogi I didn't recognise, who were worshipped by the people of the house. Later I learned that the yogi, Sita Ram Dass, was very famous in these parts and had millions of devotees here in Calcutta and all over the world. He felt his time of death was near and had prayed for weeks to Babaji to grant him a last darshan (audience). He was actually here in the house now. Babaji, knowing the exact moment of the man's death, went to him to give him solace. He sat at the edge of the yogi's bed and gave him water from the Gautama Ganga, the holy river in Haidakhan, and three tulsi leaves.

      Shortly after receiving Babaji's visit, Sita Ram Dass died. A few days later during a public darshan, Babaji announced that the great yogi's spirit had merged with the soul of Sri Muniraj. Everybody was asked to bow before Sri Muniraj and to shout "Sita Ram Dass Omkar".

      ***

      That first night in Calcutta all my fears were relentlessly realised. The idea of getting some sleep was utterly absurd. There was all this talking until midnight; the naked lightbulb bombarded its restless glare through the room; at one o'clock, just as a wholesome stillness was developing, the snoring concert started up and had me fleeing the room it was so unbearable. Out on the terrace any new hope of sleep was demolished by the high-pitched descent of a million starved mosquitoes. Even thunderous snoring was better than that!

      For the next twelve days it seemed all of Calcutta had come to see Babaji. Our hosts had put an advertisement, complete with photo, in the newspaper. From early afternoon till late at night, people in their thousands came squeezing into the hall, offering him flowers and sweets, receiving his blessings and streaming out again. Outside on the streets they waited in dense hot crowds eventually to form into a never-ending queue. I found a place to sit inside the hall and put my full attention on Babaji. Nothing could distract me. Through my eyes I absorbed him, drawing his appearance into my soul. I wanted to hold on forever to the image of a good father, loving and caring. Softly I tuned into the singing and wondered what made people come to Babaji. It was obvious that not all of them were driven by spiritual aspirations, more perhaps by curiosity.

      I considered this a while, and then an explanation came, in the typical manner in which Babaji often answers questions. I saw that a seed starts the sprouting process the moment it is watered. The urge to grow spurs its longing for more water. If the seed is receiving and absorbing more nourishment, it prospers and bears fruit. If it is lacking, the seed fades and withers. And so it is with humans.

      I only had eyes for Babaji. I didn't need to talk to anybody but could be alone with myself and my thoughts. Apparently some gossip had started up among some Indians about my sharing the same room with so many men. Well, I couldn't be bothered.

      Shastriji only appeared in our room during the day, spending the time quietly reading his holy books and keeping to himself. He spent the nights in Babaji's room. Sri Muniraj had his bed on the opposite side of the room and when he was not with Babaji he also read holy books, mainly the 'Haidakhandi Sapta Sad', Prayers in Honour of the Divine Mother. Now and then he smiled at me encouragingly and enquired about my well-being. I was still having trouble sleeping, but this state changed the minute Babaji entered the room and stood quietly for a few seconds by my bed. In the nights that followed I slept deeply and dreamlessly.

      ***

      As at Haidakhan, the mornings began with a ceremony which never failed to deeply move me, not since the first time I experienced it: between four and five in the morning Babaji gave chandan on the forehead to everybody who had been granted his permission. Chandan is a mixture of sandalwood powder and camphor and Babaji applied it with his fingers, usually in three horizontal or vertical strokes. A red dot consisting of pulverised kum-kum flowers marks the eyebrow-chakra, the spiritual third eye. The chandan is cooling and purifying and its yellow colour represents wisdom, while the red colour symbolises love.

      Those short moments of encountering Babaji face to face when he applied chandan were very dear to me. Sometimes they were the only times a devotee could be so close to him. And each time it was a different experience. He might smile one day or appear aloof the next. In a roguish mood he might paint an extra dot on the ears, or on the lines around the eyes, or teasingly pinch an arm or ear, each gesture having some meaning or other.

      After chandan we had the opportunity to meditate or to drink hot chai (tea with pepper, ginger, milk and sugar) out on the terraced roof where we were treated to the splendours of dawn breaking over Calcutta. Here we could witness this city come alive: people beginning to stir in their back gardens; cows wobbling about drowsily along street pavements; palm trees stretching and swaying to the feel of a fresh breeze coming up from the sea.

      Most impressive of all was aarati, the ceremony of offering the light, celebrated morning and evening in front of Babaji. Our host and his family gathered before Babaji to do the honours. Religious hymns were chanted by everyone and bells were rung as Babaji's feet were washed and anointed and the smell of rosewater and heena perfume soon permeated the hall. A necklace of wooden beads and flower garlands were put round his neck and round his wrists. Specially prepared delicacies, such as barfis, were offered to him, as were nuts and fruits. Babaji took some of the offerings and distributed the rest to the crowd. He gave necklaces, blessed by his touch, to various people. These and other blessed items were always highly desired and esteemed by devotees. Some visitors were overloaded with gifts from Babaji, while others were given nothing. This difference evoked diverse emotional reactions.

      The basis on which he distributed presents varied, depending on the individual. A person who did not expect anything often received gifts abundantly; another who asked for more, thinking he or she was being unjustly treated, received nothing. Babaji might overwhelm some people with presents or attention until they started to get thoughts of being someone special. He would then suddenly stop doing this. Abruptly, from one day to the next, he seemed not to