Fire of Transformation. Gora Devi

'Yes,' with a certain pride. Then He wanted to know if I smoked dope and when I nodded He told me that here in Hairakhan it was strictly prohibited.

      A few minutes later we were approached by an old sadhu called Prem Baba, who took me with him to smoke some hashish and he gave me something strange to eat as well. I sat on the outside wall feeling quite stoned, looking out onto the valley. It is a magnificent place, the landscape archaic and mysterious, the hills covered in terraces, fertile, green with crops and in the background the mountains are covered with pine trees. The movement of the river running through the valley sounds like an exquisite melody and a huge bodhi tree arching its branches down towards the sound completes the scene.

      Everybody lives in the open under the trees, the only buildings are the temple and one small hut where Babaji lives, which is open on all sides and has a ceremonial fire-pit at its centre.

      While I remained sitting on the perimeter wall, absorbed in my contemplation, Babaji came near me and taking a stone He drew the shape of a small temple on the ground, telling me just one word: 'Dio', God. I felt very embarrassed, since I am still quite an atheist and the idea of God remains difficult for me to accept. Babaji motioned for me to sit with Him in His hut, His dhuni, and said to me in English: 'God is love.' The concept of love is maybe easier for me to accept. His eyes were deep and shining, luminous and He gave me an orange and some nuts to eat. In the evening the people gave us chapatis and a large quantity of halva, a delicious sweetmeat, to eat for our meal.

      The temple in Hairakhan

       27 April 1972

      Yesterday afternoon some of the Indian people wanted to serve us tea, but Babaji shouted that tea is poison and is not permitted in the temple.

      I find myself looking at Him all the time, but there remain doubts in my mind and I analyse all His movements, largely because He seldom speaks. He has a magnetic energy, such perfect beauty and Shanti teases me, suggesting that I am merely attracted by His physical presence, but it's not that at all: I feel overcome by a powerful psychic wave, a vibrating light. Sometimes I am afraid of being hypnotized, at other times I receive a deep, exquisite energy within my heart that is overwhelming.

      Today, while we were sitting in the dhuni around the sacred fire, some of the village women arrived to visit Babaji. They are very colourful, wearing long, green skirts like myself and when they saw me they laughed. Babaji told them that my name is Lalli, which means 'little girl'. He asked me how old I was, I said twenty-six and He told me that I looked about fifteen.

      In the evening, what I witnessed during the ceremony in the temple made a lasting impression on me. Babaji sat motionless, dressed in white, like an exquisite statue, while an Indian man began to sing and lifted a lighted lamp towards His face, which assumed a mysterious radiance. While praying in this way by waving the lamp the man started to cry and I could tell that he felt the presence of a Divine Being. Shanti has also been greatly moved by what he has seen, even if he tells me that I have to be careful not to be led astray by all these rituals.

      Prem Baba, the old sadhu, invited us to sit with him around another fire, so that we could all sing together the mantra dedicated to Shiva, 'Om Namah Shivaya', and Shanti laughed at me, commenting that I have so easily become caught in the enchantment of the place. Some of the women were cooking chapatis, Indian bread, on a small improvised fire in the open and everything felt very simple and pure. Tonight we sleep within the temple area, looking up at the dark, tropical sky.

       28 April 1972

      This morning they woke us up at four o'clock, virtually still night-time. The air was chilly and I went down to bathe in the river. As I descended the steps I met Babaji, already coming back up. I jumped into the river, immersing myself in the cold water, under the bright stars. Later on I sat in a corner of the temple, thinking that I would like to continue being part of this magical story and follow Babaji, but that I would never dare to ask Him; just a few minutes later Babaji called me over to Him and asked me if I wanted to come with Him on a trip to Vrindavan, an extremely ancient city sacred to Lord Krishna. I am more than happy to go, even if I do feel scared about being all on my own and travelling alone, leaving behind Shanti and my friends. First though I must return to Almora to collect my money and my passport. Shanti is a little perplexed by my enthusiasm for Babaji, but I am really fascinated by Him and start thinking that maybe He is my guru.

      * * *

      Vrindavan

       Haldwani, 4 May 1972

      I am waiting for the train that will take me to Vrindavan. It's the first time I am travelling alone in India, but I have noticed that in the main Indian people are kind and willing to help those of us travelling in their country.

      On leaving Almora this morning I observed myself walking barefoot down the road lined with pine trees, dressed in white, carrying a bundle of clothes on my head, all that I have; I possess very little money and no return ticket. For the very first time I really feel alone, 'on the road' in India, going to a guru. It feels like a dream.

       Vrindavan, 6 May 1972

      I am in Vrindavan and the city is charming, a remarkable place, reminiscent of an image from the pages of a fable. I arrived yesterday by train, which stopped continually on the journey here. Then I travelled by rickshaw through the small streets of the city, nothing less than a vision of paradise to me, remote but somehow known already from some past existence. The houses are all old-fashioned and artistically decorated, with tiny, narrow streets and small, colourful shops selling fruits, sweets and clothes. The people are joyful here, always greeting me with big smiles. Everywhere there are exceedingly ancient temples, thousands of years old, resounding with songs and Sanskrit prayers. Many sadhus, saints and women dressed in white walk around the city in a continual state of prayer, everything existing in an atmosphere that seems timeless.

      When I entered Babaji's temple, I caught sight of Him immediately, seated on His dais, dressed in white, always so beautiful, unreal, etheric, radiant. He called an Indian man over and told me to accompany him to the bazaar to drink a large glass of milk taken from a huge terracotta vessel. I am amazed to be in such a wonderful place and I don't feel afraid any more, I feel secure, embraced by Babaji's love and the warmth of the people around me.

      In the evening, when I sit in the temple, the Indian women and the children come up close to me and appraise me with great curiosity. They look at me, touch me, they caress me, admire me: to them I am the woman with a white skin and they make me feel very beautiful. Babaji called me over and told me that my name is Kali, the warrioress, the Black Goddess, but then immediately afterwards He changed His mind and said with tenderness: 'No, your name is Gora Devi,' which means, they told me later, the White Goddess.

      I am particularly moved by the music and the songs, by Babaji's splendour and the devotion of the Indian people. They stand in a long queue holding garlands of flowers in their hands as an offering, then place them around His neck before they pranam to Him and receive a gesture from Him, a smile, a word or some prasad, blessed food.

      I also stand in line and I feel extremely emotional just by coming in close proximity to Him. An energy of great intensity emanates from Him and I experience an incredible sensation, sensing as well that He can read all my thoughts. His eyes are magnetic, shining, full of love, strength and knowledge. I never become tired of looking at Him and notice that everybody else does the same. For two or three hours Babaji continues to sit virtually motionless. He doesn't speak, doesn't do anything, He just makes Himself visible for us to contemplate and adore; He gives darshan, which Indian people explain to me as being a vision of the Divine in a human form.

      The impact of this experience touches everybody in an intimate way; I can see it in people's eyes and from the energy in the temple. People sing continuously, sometimes Babaji's mantra, 'Om Namah Shivaya', sometimes other devotional songs, until late in the evening.

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