Take It to Delhi

THE EVER-SO-SUBTLE relationship between the guru and the devotee is much dependent upon faith. The deeper the faith and trust the devotee has in the guru, the more readily are spiritual qualities awakened in the devotee through the guru.

In the spiritual literature, the true surrender is spoken of as the surrender that is no surrender. That is, one opens—through faith and trust—to a method such as a guru only when such faith resonates with truth at the depths of one’s being. Then there is a readiness for such opening. If one is still rooted only in intellect or emotion, any act of surrender is but another act of ego and can, based on misjudgment, lead to horrendous consequences. So one cannot choose to surrender to the guru. But when the devotee and the guru have met at the depths of being, then such surrender is not actually surrender to another person but, rather, surrender to one’s own God-nature.

There is a story concerning surrender told by Maharajji’s devotees about another saint, Sombari Maharaj, very highly regarded by Maharajji, who had lived at an earlier time.

It seems that he gave one of his devotees two potatoes and instructed him to eat both of them. The instructions were very firm. The man went down near the stream and began eating one of the potatoes. Shortly thereafter a very poor old man came along and begged for the other potato, saying, “You have food and I have none.” The devotee could not refuse and so he gave the second potato away. When he returned, Sombari Maharaj abused him roundly for not doing what he had been told. The harangue ended in, “So it was not your bhagya (more than luck, perhaps destiny) to take the second potato.” Later the man became very successful in the world but not successful in his final spiritual efforts in life—for that was the second potato.

Such a story, which seems to pit charity against surrender to the guru, is a hard teaching indeed. However, we must learn finally to surrender self-conscious charity in order to become charity itself.

Some of the stories concerning the total faith and resulting surrender of the Indian devotees around Maharajji are awesome indeed, and some of their failures of faith are equally awesome. Maharajji didn’t make it any easier for any of us devotees, because he continually sowed seeds of doubt about himself to undercut any flickering faith we might be developing. Still, we watched as our doubts became consumed into an ever-deepening trust. He seemed to be leading us to the realization, once expressed by Ramana Maharshi, that “God, Guru, and Self are One.” Thus we found that trust and opening to Maharajji led us only to a deeper part of our own beings and a deeper faith in ourselves.

MAHARAJJI SOWS SEEDS OF DOUBT

I recall once bringing to Maharajji a new Westerner, someone I liked and whom I wanted to be impressed by Maharajji—that is, I wanted Maharajji to do his “tricks.” Maharajji looked at him and said, “You come from Canada?”

“No, Maharajji. I come from the United States.”

Maharajji nodded as if he had now placed him and said, “You have three sisters.”

“No, Maharajji, I’m an only child.”

By this time I was getting very uncomfortable. But Maharajji kept it up, questioning him incorrectly about his journey and his work and then dismissing us. The fellow looked at me as he left, and said, with slight pity, “I’m sure your guru is very nice.” He never returned. (R.D.)

We were in Delhi in the fall of 1972 at the home of the inspector general of forestry in India, a longtime devotee of Maharajji. Many people were coming and going, among them a woman with a slightly haughty air. When she arrived she pranammed to Maharajji and then said, “You remember me; we met at so-and-so’s house.”

Maharajji: “Eh (What)?” looking confused.

Woman: “Oh, Maharajji, you said this and that. You must remember.”

Maharajji: “Kya (What)?”

The woman was miffed because she had come with important friends and was clearly trying to impress them. Finally she and her party left. Maharajji sat up immediately and told us about the woman’s father, grandfather, marital situation, and biography.

Maharajji said to a nineteen-year-old boy who had come with his family, “You failed, you failed.”

“No, Maharajji! I didn’t fail! I got a second.”

“You failed. Do you think a second is any good?”

Then Maharajji added, “No, you didn’t fail, you got a first, but you don’t deserve it. You are failing because you are arguing too much with your father and mother instead of studying, and you don’t deserve it, but you got a first. But from now on, you must study.”

Maharajji was very fierce. Mrs. Soni, whose friends these were, was very embarrassed because she knew the results had already been published in the newspaper and that the boy had received a second and that these were final results. The embarrassment of your guru making a mistake (seemingly) is torture. The family all thought that Maharajji was a nice man, but the boy himself was condescending about him. Mr. Soni sent a driver to take the boy and his parents home, and when the driver returned he had a note saying that the impossible had happened: Four exam papers had been recalled and the boy’s paper had been regraded—he had received a first.

Maharajji once said to me, “A very high woman who loves you much is coming to India.” I thought about that and became more and more confused, for the only high woman I knew who loved me was Caroline, the woman with whom I’d been living prior to coming to India, and she certainly was not planning such a trip. There was nobody else. What could this mean? Was Maharajji fallible? Had he simply made a mistake? It was not until 1970 that the matter was cleared up, when Caroline admitted that she had in fact traveled to India while I was there in 1968 but had visited temples to study architecture and hadn’t wanted to bother me. (R.D.)

On my second visit to India in 1971 I had met Maharajji at Allahabad. After a few days he sent us on to Delhi. As we were leaving, Maharajji said to me very quietly, “I’ll meet you in Vrindaban.” He didn’t specify when, and I didn’t ask. After all, if he said he’d see me in Vrindaban, then he’d see me in Vrindaban.

We spent about a week in Delhi and then decided to go on a pilgrimage of Shiva temples in the south. This trip would take us through Vrindaban, where we could see Maharajji and get his blessings.

We left Delhi and stayed the night in Mathura, preparatory to seeing Maharajji in Vrindaban the next day. With much fruit and many flowers we arrived at the temple in the early morning. The pujari explained that Maharajji wasn’t there and it was not known when he would arrive. Even knowing of Maharajji’s notorious reputation for unpredictability, I was disappointed, for he had said, “I’ll meet you in Vrindaban.” And I knew that by the time we returned from the south sometime in April, Maharajji would, in all likelihood, be up in the mountains, since the plains in which Vrindaban was located would already be turning unpleasantly hot. What could he have meant?

At the temple that morning I was sitting listening to some old women carrying on the continuous chant of “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama” that was heard there from early morning until late evening. A small bird flew overhead and dropped a piece of straw, which landed on my lap. Perhaps that was Maharajji and he was giving me a gift. Or perhaps I was once again just grasping at straws.

After offering the fruit and flowers before the murti of Hanuman, we went on our way, and at the end of the pilgrimage we proceeded north. On the journey a great dialogue took place as to the route we should follow: If we were to go to the mountains to Nainital there was a direct route; but to go via Vrindaban was more circuitous, requiring an extra day. We were now well into April, and most likely Maharajji would be in the hills. But then, he had said he would see me in Vrindaban, and I could still taste that disappointment when we didn’t find him there on the way south. I was in favor of going directly to the mountains, but I was outvoted and we went on toward Vrindaban.

Again we spent the night at Mathura and the next morning brought fruit and flowers, though this time in slightly less abundance, because our expectations of finding him were weak indeed. We dallied in the marketplace to enjoy freshly squeezed fruit juices and finally, at about eight-thirty, headed for the temple. When we arrived it seemed ominously deserted. We parked before the main gate and went in. The pujari met us. After we pranammed to him we asked if Maharajji was here.

“Oh, no,” he answered, “Maharajji hasn’t been here for weeks. He’s probably up in the mountains now. He’s not here.” Our collective heart sank, but we offered the fruit and flowers to Hanuman, and after no more than five minutes in the temple we hastened back to the car, thinking that if we drove without stopping we could be in Nainital by evening. Just as we were closing the car doors, a small Fiat sedan raced down the road and stopped next to us. The driver looked vaguely familiar, and next to him sat Maharajji, who got out of the car and walked into the temple without taking any notice of us.

We rushed over to the car to find Gurudatt Sharma, Maharajji’s frequent traveling companion, sitting in the back. Sharmaji is usually friendly but quite tight-lipped about Maharajji’s business, but we did manage to extract from him that they had been in a distant city the previous evening. At 2:00 in the morning, Maharajji had awakened him and the driver and said, “Come on. We must hurry. We have to be in Vrindaban.” They had driven all night and arrived in Agra at about 7:00 A.M. Then Maharajji said, “We still have some time. We can visit so-and-so.” And after a short visit, again Maharajji rushed them on to Vrindaban. After all, he said he’d see me in Vrindaban. (R.D.)

THE FAITH OF THE DEVOTEES

I don’t go to other saints, since I have got Maharajji. I don’t need anyone.

If you remember Maharajji, nothing bad can happen to you. If you forget him, you may have fear.

Maharajji was in a car and they came to a bridge. Coming the other way were these oxen pulling carts of sugar cane, completely blocking the bridge. The driver slowed up, but Maharajji said, “Why are you slowing up?”

The driver replied, “Well Maharajji, I can’t go through.”

Maharajji told him, “Go!” The driver protested, and Maharajji replied, “Close your eyes and go!” So the driver closed his eyes and pushed on the gas, and when he opened his eyes there they were, on the other side.

Whoever came near him, he graced. If you had pure faith, he’d do whatever you needed.

It was he who forced the faith upon me, not me who gathered it.

Shiv Singh was to go home from Kainchi one afternoon, but Maharajji said not to go. The next day he again told him not to go, and again the third day. “Dada, what should I do?” asked Shiv Singh. “I have a contract outstanding for an apple orchard. It’s very competitive. There is one lakh of rupees involved. If I do not go, I won’t get the orchard.” For five or six days Maharajji kept him in Kainchi. Shiv Singh again spoke to Dada: “Now the contract is lost,” but he did not have the courage to tell this to Maharajji.

Maharajji finally chastised him: “You have left home for so many days. You must go and do some work.” Maharajji made Shiv Singh feel guilty for loitering. He left and four days later he returned, happy. In the interim, there had been a hailstorm: Some damages had brought the price of the orchard down to half the original price, and Shiv Singh had bought it.

If you have any needs, don’t ask man for help; ask directly to Maharajji. Maharajji will do everything.

IF YOU HAVE ENOUGH FAITH, YOU CAN GIVE UP MONEY AND POSSESSIONS.

On a train she took to come for a visit, my sister-in-law spoke of Maharajji to the women sitting near her. One south Indian woman got very excited and insisted on coming home with her to meet him. She was a very mysterious, high-society lady. She behaved as though she were one of our family and would even go into my wife’s room and take her good saris to give away to other women. The woman stayed with us some seven days, but still Maharajji had not come, so she went to Kainchi. When Maharajji finally came to our house, she was with him. The Nainital devotees and also the Lucknow ones where she had visited all complained how she had moved in on them and given away their valuables. Maharajji asked why I had allowed her to stay at my house. I said that Maharajji had sent her. Whoever Maharajji sends is welcome in my home; I cannot turn away Maharajji’s guests. Maharajji denied sending her. I countered, “How could she have come without your knowledge?” (How could she? Maharajji knows everything, it is his house. Of course he had sent her!)

This Maharajji did not deny but countered instead with, “But she gave away your valuable things!”

I replied, “They could not have been so valuable, so necessary, if we no longer have them. They must have been useless things, or we would still have them—is that not true?” Maharajji remained silent. What could he say? The other devotees were surprised that Maharajji acknowledged that he is aware of and responsible for all such things.

Once there was a departmental exam in my office. I was forty-three years old and felt that I was too old to try, because I didn’t want to fail in front of my family. The first paper I did halfheartedly and spoiled it. Maharajji was not here. When I returned from the examination, Siddhi Ma was standing on the porch of Dada’s house, and I knew Maharajji had come. I went in to see him and put pen and pencil at his feet. Maharajji said, “Are you appearing for the examination?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll pass.”

Before the second exam, Hubba and Maharajji were on the roof. I told them I was appearing in a second exam. I was weeping. “Why are you weeping?” Maharajji asked.

“I am afraid of failing.”

Maharajji sat us down and said, “You’ll pass.”

Then Hubba said, “Go. Have faith.”

But in the exam there were five questions and I spoiled four and a half. After the third paper I saw Maharajji. He asked me how well I had done. “Immensely good,” I lied. I thought, “How is it possible that I can lie to him?” Three months later the results came down and I had gotten through.

A man had an abscess on his eye that even surgery couldn’t cure, but he later told Maharajji, “When I read the Chandipath (a book of mantras about the Mother), the eye healed on its own.”

Maharajji acted with disbelief, saying to the Mothers and everybody, “Do you believe that he just read the Chandipath and the abscess healed? Do you believe that? Is that possible? Could that have happened? Ma, what do you think?”

Again and again over the years, Maharajji has taught me to have faith that he will guide me through my own heart. I need only listen to that higher intuitive sense. That’s when I feel him the most. Here is an example of how he taught me this:

Among the sadhus in Vrindaban was a handsome young sadhu who spoke some English and who had befriended many of Maharajji’s Western devotees. He would take them on pilgrimages around the town, showing them out-of-the-way temples and special holy places. In the evenings the Westerners sometimes joined him for chanting.

I was invited time and again, but I felt no desire to participate; being near Maharajji each day was enough for me. The rest of the time I was content to wander about and think of him and what had transpired during the visit that day.

But this young sadhu kept sending messages inviting me to the gatherings, which I kept declining. One evening a Westerner arrived bringing a leaf plate full of food that the sadhu had sent to me. This attention made me uncomfortable. I felt distrustful of his motives, and simultaneously I felt distrustful of my own motives in distrusting him. Perhaps I was inwardly competitive with him.

Soon afterward we were all told to go to Allahabad, a city some two hundred miles distant. There we were housed in a devotee’s home, and each day we visited Maharajji, who was staying at Dada’s home about a mile away. On one occasion three of us arrived at Dada’s home in a rickshaw. The house was surrounded by a fence with a gate and outside the fence was a single tree. As we drove up, sitting under the tree was the young sadhu from Vrindaban. The two Westerners who were fond of him jumped off the rickshaw, ran up, and pranammed to him. After I had paid the rickshaw, I came up to the gate. At this moment the sadhu rose and we bowed to one another. I couldn’t understand why he was sitting outside the gate. If he had come to see Maharajji why wasn’t he inside with the many others? Perhaps he was of a sect that could not enter a home. Or perhaps he needed to be invited in. Now that he had stood, was I supposed to invite him in? I couldn’t very well ignore him, go in, and leave him there. And yet something in my heart—that same discomfort I had had about him back in Vrindaban—held me back from inviting him. My distrust of his purity made it impossible for me to bring him to Maharajji.

We stood there facing each other and I was transfixed by indecision. Then suddenly an Indian man emerged from the house and with much honor and delight welcomed the sadhu and took him inside. Immediately I concluded that this sadhu was indeed pure and that my reticence was my own impurity, and so I skulked into the house and sat in the front room, heavy-heartedly singing with the others. The sadhu was nowhere to be seen. Shortly afterward I saw him among the singers and then I didn’t see him anymore. My own heart was heavy with guilt for allowing my own competitiveness or whatever it was to parade through me as an intuitive reflection about another’s impurity.

Then I was called back to the kitchen area, where Maharajji sat surrounded by Indian devotees. I fell at his feet and he hit me on the head and said to the Indians, “Ram Dass speaks well, he’s a good lecturer, but he doesn’t understand people.” These words were translated and I realized that Maharajji was not going to let the scene that had taken place outside pass unnoticed. I could only agree with him and wallow more and more in my guilt and feelings of impurity. Again and again Maharajji repeated the same statement, that though I could speak well I was no judge of other people. Everyone agreed and looked at me with loving pity. I agreed again and again, most wholeheartedly. Finally, when Maharajji had milked the moment for all it was worth, he said, “Yes, he does not understand people. He would have brought that sadhu inside. And that man is not pure—he wants things of his devotees.” And with that he gave me a fierce hit on the head and laughed delightedly. My head spun, and through the clouds of guilt, self-doubt, and self-pity, suddenly came the brilliant sun of comprehension. Maharajji was, in his inimitable way, telling me that this time I had been right. He was teaching me to trust my heart. (R.D.)

THE SURRENDER OF THE DEVOTEES

Maharajji used to quote from the Ramayana, where Ram says to a devotee, “Friend, why are you worried? Surrender by my power all thoughts to me, and all your priorities will determine themselves.” He quoted this the day he left Nainital for the last time.

An important man came to see Maharajji but kept checking his watch because he had a meeting with a minister of finance. Maharajji kept delaying him and the man grew more and more nervous. Finally, when he would undoubtedly be late, Maharajji let him go, and the man rushed to the place only to find that his meeting had been postponed.

Usually when Maharajji stayed at my house for seven or eight days, other devotees would also be there, but this night there were none present. It was midnight, and I was tired, but Maharajji still wanted to talk so I was pressing his feet. Then he started to snore. I thought he was asleep and I decided to go to my bed. I quietly started to get up, when out of his snoring he said, “Suraj, where are you going?” So I sat down again. Again and again, the same thing happened. Finally, I determined not to go to sleep but to stay all night. At that moment, Maharajji said, “Suraj, go and sleep.”

I was once in the state of mind that I was going to do whatever Maharajji said, as a sadhana. Instant obedience to his word! At the time I was living up the hill behind Kainchi. Since it was twenty minutes straight up to a small village there, I always had to leave darshan early so I could get up before dark when the snakes come out. Once we were all sitting around Maharajji, in a wonderful, loving darshan. The bus had not yet come. And Maharajji turned to me and told me, “Jao.” Here I was in strict obedience, yet it was still light; all the others were still there, and he was telling me to go immediately up the mountain. I was very slow to leave that afternoon, and he was watching my struggles with twinkling amusement.

At Dada’s house Maharajji was telling us all to go to different places. Sitting in front of me was Vishwambar, with whom I’d been spending a great deal of traveling time, even prior to coming to India. Maharajji told Vishwambar to go to Benares. I didn’t want to go there because I wanted to spend some time alone. But when I came up, Maharajji said, “Go to Benares.”

I said, “Couldn’t I please go to Ayodhya?”

He said, “No, go to Benares.” I was so foolish that I thought I could still go to Ayodhya, even though he specifically told me not to. I went to the train station and got a ticket on the Faizabad Express, which goes to Ayodhya. I rationalized that since it is kind of a triangle, I could go to Benares by way of Ayodhya. I got the ticket for the train that was to come in on track 10 at 3:00 P.M. I went to track 10 in plenty of time, but when, by 4:00 P.M., no train had come, I decided to question somebody. The conductor said that the Faizabad Express had come in on track 8 today; it had been announced in Hindi, which I don’t speak. So I’d missed the train.

Just as I was standing there wondering what to do next, a train pulled in behind me. I turned around to look at it and saw, on the side of the cars, “Benares Express.” So I went to Benares. Now Benares is a pretty big place, with lots of hotels, but I went to a cheap one recommended by a friend and checked in, and as I sat in my room, I heard someone singing the Chalisa (hymn to Hanuman). It turned out to be Vishwambar. So I surrendered to that, and we spent a week together, during which we were very close.

We were in Delhi at a party held at the home of the Sonis, who were old devotees of Maharajji. Mr. Soni was the head of the forestry department of India, and the party had not only devotees but people from the government and family members as well. It was an old-style cocktail party, and Mrs. Soni was passing a tray of canapes. As she came up to me, she said, “I had a dream the other night and I woke up from it and knew that Maharajji wanted me to tell you something.”

“Yes?”

And then looking at me with her dark beautiful eyes, and speaking in a manner and tone that was completely out of context of the cocktail party, she said, with the deepest intensity, “You know, Maharajji demands complete surrender.” A moment later, as if waking from a dream, she sweetly asked, “Won’t you have one of those canapes? They are especially good.” And she moved away. (R.D.)

We were up in the mountains visiting with Maharajji at Kainchi. The eight-year-old VW bus was doing yeoman’s service each day, moving the Western devotees from Nainital down the mountain to Kainchi each morning and back up each evening. Soon there were too many for the VW and some had to go by public bus, but still twenty or so managed to squeeze in the VW or on the rack on top, and, as VWs do, it smiled gamely and did its thing. But one day, just at the town of Bhowali, the VW stopped. It wouldn’t start again. So we left it there and the next day told Maharajji. And he said, “Take it to Delhi.” All the way to Delhi, a hundred and ninety miles away? That seemed absurd to me. Couldn’t someone local fix it? All he would say was, “Take it to Delhi.”

That evening back in Nainital I spoke to the Sah family who owned the hotel. They knew of a mechanic, and I arranged for him to go and see the car. A day later he looked at it but could not start it. So again I told Maharajji and again he reiterated, “Take it to Delhi.” Then I told him that in Almora, thirty miles away, was a German economic project and they used VWs and had a service man. Maybe I could get him to come over. Maharajji said, “Take it to Delhi.”

I wrote to people in Almora asking them to contact the German repair center, and after letters back and forth that took the better part of two weeks, it became clear that no incentive would get the mechanic to come to Bhowali and that they weren’t even interested in looking at it if I got it to Almora. I told Maharajji all this, and you can imagine his response: “Take it to Delhi.”

So again I went back to the mechanic in Nainital and again he went to look. This time he got it running and drove it up to Nainital, but on the outskirts of town it stopped and he could not get it going again. Enthusiastically, I reported this progress to Maharajji, but his instructions had not changed.

It was now more than four weeks since the breakdown and it became evident that the Nainital mechanic just couldn’t fix the car. Since there was nothing else to do, it was decided to “take it to Delhi.” A truck was rented, complete with Sikh drivers, and the car was loaded aboard. With Krishna Das as passenger, they left for Delhi. Krishna Das told hair-raising tales of the journey—of the drinking and of moving the VW from one truck to another, and so forth—but finally it got to the repair man at Delhi. The VW was rolled off the truck and the repair man walked over, opened the engine compartment, took one look, connected one wire, and the car started and ran perfectly.

After that the term that came to be synonymous with my lack of surrender was, “Take it to Delhi.” (R.D.)

THE KARM-UPPANCE OF NOT SURRENDERING

JUST AS ONE tells a child not to do something even when the consequences of the act are all too obvious, so Maharajji would warn or instruct people about this or that. But as the child insists on doing the act and one watches the inevitable effects that follow the cause, so Maharajji’s devotees would often ignore his words and Maharajji would watch … and allow. Now and then he would say, “I told you so.”

Once Maharajji upbraided a man who had just come to visit a friend at the temple, telling him to take food in his truck and go home immediately. The man’s feelings were hurt because he thought Maharajji was insulting him. It was late at night so he slept in his truck outside the temple. When he got home, he found that his house had been robbed during the night.

When Maharajji and a party of devotees were staying in the holy town of Chitrakut for a month, he took them one day to the hut of a sadhu who lived on minute quantities of a rare jungle root. He never ate food. Maharajji asked the sadhu for a piece of the root, and the sadhu offered a tiny piece. Maharajji shouted, “Don’t be so stingy. Give more. I know you’ve got more.” The sadhu gave two large pieces of the precious root. Maharajji broke these into many small pieces and gave a little piece to each devotee except one, whom he told that the root would do him great harm. The devotee pleaded for just a tiny piece of what was now Maharajji’s prasad, so Maharajji relented and gave him a piece.

That same evening, Maharajji and his devotees sang kirtan: “Sri Ram Jai Ram, Jai Jai Ram.” Maharajji sang the loudest. The devotee who had been warned not to eat the root became violently ill, left the party, and went to his room. After a short time, Maharajji came to the devotee’s room, pulled him to his feet, and brought him back to the kirtan. He again felt sick and returned to his room. Maharajji again came and brought him back. The kirtan went on until the early hours of the morning. By this time, most of the devotees had fallen asleep, but Maharajji continued to sing. Finally Maharajji allowed the sick devotee to return to his room and fall asleep. When he awoke, he found Maharajji sitting beside the bed. “Are you all right now? I told you not to eat the root. When I was sick, you slept all night; when you were sick, I stayed up all night praying.”

Late one night at the Kumbha Mela in Allahabad, Maharajji was in his tent giving darshan. The next day was the most auspicious time of the decade to bathe in the Sangam. Maharajji’s devotee, a police official, was placed in charge of security and crowd-control for the millions of people. This night he was with Maharajji, when suddenly Maharajji got up and said, “Let’s go.” Late at night they drove Maharajji to the train station, where they waited for a west-bound train to come. The policeman and others tried to persuade Maharajji to stay for the auspicious day. Maharajji said he wouldn’t and told them to be very careful the next day, for there was going to be a catastrophe.

Maharajji left and the people returned, having taken his words lightly. That morning at 4:00 AM at the Sangam, thousands of people were thronging to bathe at the special moment. A parade of naga babas (naked sadhus) was going in when the masses of people in the back started surging forward and the people in front were blocked by the parade barriers. Many were killed and hurt in the stampede.

Once in Lucknow, Maharajji suggested that several devotees accompany him to visit someone who lived in another part of the city. Maharajji suggested that they walk, and immediately they set off; but at the first corner the devotees sighted a horse and carriage and suggested that they ride. Maharajji refused, saying, “I won’t sit on it.” The devotees insisted, arguing that there was no other conveyance available and that their destination was far away. Maharajji relented and sat on the seat facing the back; the driver and the two devotees sat in the front.

The moment the horse was prodded to start, it jumped up on its hind legs, lifting the front of the carriage. Since Maharajji was in the back he easily stepped off onto the road. The horse continued to rear and kick, nearly turning the carriage over and terrorizing the passengers in the front seat. Maharajji said to them, “I told you that we shouldn’t sit on this tonga. You wanted to get on. Now do you want to get off?”

I had the good fortune to encounter Maharajji at Ganj in June 1963. When he inquired about me, I told him that I was coming from Rishikesh and was on my way to Vrindaban. Then he said, “Your Gurudev (guru) is sporting verily like the Lord of Vrindaban himself. But he will be stopping all that soon. You take your guru to be the Lord himself, don’t you? Go back now.” And he arranged money for my journey, but I didn’t quite understand. Only after several days did I learn about the illness of my holy master from an English daily. Immediately I rushed back to Rishikesh, and within a fortnight of my arrival, Gurudev attained mahasamadhi (died). I later had occasion to meet Maharajji, and he asked me whether I had gotten back to the ashram in time. And I gratefully said yes.

HR, who had developed cataracts on his eyes, went to see Ananda Mayee Ma, who told him that he should go to Aligarh to have them operated on. But when he saw Maharajji in Lucknow, he was told to go to Sitapur and have the operation there. HR followed Ma’s instructions, had the operation, and lost his sight in both eyes. Afterward he would still come to visit Maharajji, who would say, “Why did you go to Aligarh when I told you to go to Sitapur?”

At the time of my wedding, I came to Maharajji and he asked me how I would proceed there. I told him by bus, but he countered, “No, take the train.” I was stubborn, for there was a wedding party and all the plans had been made, so I refused. Then Maharajji asked me for the bus route. He requested that I change the route and stay overnight and tell him exactly the time I would leave in the morning. I did as he said in following these plans, but still I went by bus. During the bus trip, the bus rolled over twice, and though there were loose metal trunks rolling around inside, no one was hurt. We all had to climb out the driver’s window. When we returned, Maharajji sent a jeep and welcomed us.

One devotee said, “If you are in the presence of a saint, it is very difficult. If you disobey him, there is definite suffering.”

I recall one day being with Maharajji when he was told that someone had used his name to raise money for a school that was not a pure venture, soliciting the money without Maharajji’s permission. His reaction was vividly burned into my consciousness and has given rise many times since to images or nightmares. He said, “I shan’t do anything to him. But for what he has done he will whirl around the universe for aeons.”

A man who had served Maharajji became arrogant and humiliated some of Maharajji’s devotees. Maharajji was so angry he just sat there huffing and making growling sounds like a monkey. He called the man into his office, and the next thing people saw was this large man being thrown out the door, landing five feet away on a stone. The devotee failed to appear to do arti, as he had done previously. The next day, Maharajji was out on the road when a car passed with the man and wife inside. She pranammed but he wouldn’t look. It is said that Maharajji commented sadly, “He will never come back to me.” Later the man took to drink.

A hunter had made fun of Maharajji to his friends, saying that he could get some meat for the baba, though he knew that he was vegetarian. Later, when the hunter’s friends became devotees of Maharajji, the hunter tried to see Maharajji. But for five years he never was able to be at the right place at the right time, although his wife and children had had darshan. Finally one of the Mothers who stayed with Maharajji interceded, and Maharajji said, “All right.” Then he was able to find Maharajji.

Many years ago, at one annual mela in the village of Neeb Karori, a baba got angry and cursed Maharajji. Maharajji had showed him up by pouring a continuous stream of milk from a lota. The following year a cyclone came to the village as a result of the baba’s curse, and every year after there was a storm. But the villagers knew that if they took Maharajji’s name, nothing bad would happen. Maharajji, it is said, had cursed this baba: “God will punish you by cutting your tongue in pieces.” A few years later, he was found dead in Farrukhabad with his tongue cut.

One day at Neeb Karori a man came to Maharajji complaining that he had no son. He promised to have a temple built and a well dug, and Maharajji indicated that God’s blessings were with him. After the birth of a son the man did nothing. Maharajji commented, “What do I have to do with this matter?” Soon after, this man’s house burned to the ground, destroying all his possessions and money.

An old man in a town where Maharajji had been staying had become blind. People were talking to Maharajji about healing, and Maharajji said, “Samarth Guru Ram Das cured his mother from blindness, but there are no saints like that anymore.” Then Maharajji asked for a pomegranate, had it squeezed, and drank the juice. He then put his blanket over his face and they saw that underneath there was blood coming out of both his eyes. Maharajji told the blind man that if God restored his sight he should retire from business and devote his life to spiritual pursuits. The man’s vision was restored shortly afterwards.

The doctor came and examined the eyes and said, “This is impossible! Who did this?” They told him it was Maharajji and the doctor rushed to the railway station to find him. Maharajji was already aboard the carriage and the doctor jumped on and pranammed, and Maharajji kept saying, “This is the doctor who cured the man’s blindness. He is a very good doctor, a very good doctor.” But after three or four months, the old man couldn’t resist and went back to work and almost immediately lost his vision again.

A large number of Westerners were being housed in an empty house belonging to one of the Indian devotees. We filled it with our bodies from wall to wall. Each day we would make our way to Dada’s house where Maharajji was staying; there we visited with him and were lavishly fed with meals, many sweets, and much tea. But then Maharajji stopped seeing us. Each day we would go to Dada’s house and be fed; but without Maharajji’s darshan, it lost the source of the appeal. Although I loved being with him, I didn’t mind so much for myself but there were many Westerners who had just recently arrived, and a number of them had not yet even met Maharajji. Day after day they waited, following us from house to house, but I could see that soon they would tire of this game and leave. However, there was nothing I could do.

Then one day I was called to Maharajji’s room and told, “Ram Dass, commander-in-chief, don’t bring anyone here tomorrow until six at night.” I had my orders, and when we returned to our quarters I announced that we would not go to Maharajji the next day until six. The next evening all the new people and most of the old devotees arrived, as ordered, at six. We found that some of the old devotees had ignored my instructions and arrived at four. These people had been fed; but more important, they had had a long visit with Maharajji. And when we arrived at six, though we were fed, we were not allowed to visit him.

Late that evening I was again called in to see Maharajji. This time he seemed angry with me and said, “Ram Dass, today people came at four. Tomorrow I don’t want anyone to come until six.” Again when we returned to our quarters I made his wishes known, specifically making them clear to those who had ignored me.

The next day it was worse. Not only did the original miscreants go at four, but now the mutiny was spreading, and other old devotees joined them. At six I arrived with the new devotees, who still assumed that my orders were to be honored, and a few of the old devotees who were sticking with me. And again we were faced with the same situation. The group that went at four got a long darshan with Maharajji and we got none. I was beginning to get angry.

The next day no such instruction was forthcoming, and we all came early but we were kept singing in the living room while Maharajji stayed with the Indian devotees in the kitchen. After some time a message came that Maharajji would see the women, and they all rushed out of the room to have his darshan. After some time, during which we were to continue singing, a message came that half of the men were to come for darshan. Of course, all wanted to go, but the meek and the righteous and some of the newer people remained behind with me, weakly carrying on the singing while we jealously listened to the laughter and talking in the other room.

Then the message came that Maharajji would not see anyone else that evening. And I became furious at this arbitrariness. That some of the new devotees who were kind enough to wait should not have darshan seemed grossly unfair, and I sought out Dada and expressed my perturbation. My anger was not masked, and Dada said, “I think you’d better tell Maharajji yourself.”

“I will,” I said.

Dada went into Maharajji’s room and soon I was called in. There were only the three of us. Maharajji looked at me and asked, “Kya?”

I knew of course that he knew what was in my mind, and I was in no mood for games, so I said, “Maharajji, you know my heart.” But he wouldn’t be deterred from having me explain, and he just reiterated, “Kya?”

I said, “Maharajji, you aren’t being fair.” And I proceeded to tell him of these new devotees who couldn’t see him. When I finished my explanation I sat back on my haunches, waiting. I guess I felt I deserved an explanation and was waiting for one. After all, Maharajji wasn’t living up to the rules in my guru guidebook.

He looked at me quizzically, looked at Dada as if he didn’t understand, then he reached forward and gave a yank at my beard and said, “Ah, Ram Dass is angry.” That was all. And then he looked directly into my eyes and we held the gaze.

During those moments I saw clearly my predicament. Maharajji had not acted “rationally” or at any rate “fairly,” and he wasn’t apologizing for it, either. I had a choice. I could get up and walk out of the room and leave him, in which case I would be left with my righteousness—but no guru. Or I could surrender to his irrationality and unfairness, knowing that he knew and I didn’t. I bowed down, touched my head to his feet, and surrendered again. (R.D.)

VISA KARMA

FOR THE WESTERNERS, the play with Maharajji frequently focused around matters of visas and permits. As guests in a country already burdened with millions of hungry people, we low-budget spiritual seekers were not the most desirable component of the tourist population. So we spent significant amounts of time every three months in out-of-the-way villages and cities, ferreting out friendly immigration officials who would extend our visas.

Maharajji was a court of last resort, who, if the chips were down, might send us to some devotee somewhere, perhaps a police chief in one city or a government minister in Delhi, and mysteriously the visa extension would appear … usually. But sometimes Maharajji would send a devotee here or there and nothing would seem to work. Maharajji would thus seem totally ineffectual when pitted against the stony resistance of the visa department, and the devotee would be shipped back to America or else off to Nepal to reenter India at a later date.

The visa dance just seemed to enhance the doubt and confusion as to the relative powers of the worldly versus the spiritual kings. Most of us saw it, however, as more of Maharajji’s playing with our clinging and as one more situation in which we had to learn to surrender.

When I asked him what to do about getting a visa, he first told me to go to Kanpur. Then he said, “No, don’t go to Kanpur. Go to Mathura. No, go to Lucknow.” He told me three different places to go in about two minutes. Then he said, “It doesn’t matter where you go, because they’re going to throw you out anyway”—which, of course, they did.

Once I became worried about my visa and started to press Maharajji. He was in the “office” and Dada and I were talking to him through the window. I kept asking, “Where shall I go? It’s almost expired. Where shall I go? What shall I do?” Maharajji wouldn’t tell me anything, but while I was pressing him, he just put his head in his hands. Dada could see what was happening and he whispered to me, “Get out of here. Leave right now or he may send you back to America. Get away from the window.”

Later, of course, it all worked out—one of those miracle stories of just catching the train as it was pulling out on the last day of my visa; being told at the visa office it was impossible to renew; my bursting into tears; and the officer saying, “There’s one thing I can do.” I stayed on in India for two years. As the Tao Te Ching says, “In action, watch the timing.”

When I came to Maharajji I had overstayed my visa three months. But everything just flowed. I didn’t have any problems at all with the visa office.

It was time once again to apply for a permit for a six-month extension for the VW bus. The first six-month permit that I had obtained, the previous spring, had been a week-and-a-half’s worth of hassle and had cost hundreds of dollars. Now the VW was tired, and so was I, and I wanted just to give it to the Indian government. But Maharajji would not hear of it. Rubbing my nose in my material attachments, he kept insisting that the permit should be extended. So I found myself fighting with the ministry of finance to keep a car that I didn’t even want. And explaining to them that I was doing it under orders of my guru found me few sympathetic listeners. The permit extension, which normally might be expected to take a few days, took almost three weeks. It required no less than twenty-three signatures, the final one being that of the minister of finance himself. That meant a member of the prime minister’s cabinet had to sign personally to allow me to keep one battered 1964 VW bus for six more months. Of course, this was in addition to the duty that had to be paid, which by now equaled the value of the car.

During the first few days, I used reasoning and firmness and “justifiable anger” as the tools to make the system spit out the permit extension. But none of that worked. Once, after getting up and storming out of an office with an exit speech about “no way to treat a guest in your country,” I went back to my hotel and realized that by blowing up I had just lost a point, because there was no way around that particular office. So the next day I had to go back and apologize.

And so it went. Once, the person whose signature was needed was attending his nephew’s wedding for a few days; at other times the application paper had been misplaced, or they couldn’t agree on the tax, or I needed two independent assessments of the value of the car …. It was necessary to go to the offices each day or the application would get lost in the bowels of that huge bureaucratic monster already totally constipated with folders and papers ominously piled from floor to ceiling. There was no way to leave Delhi.

What a teaching about possessions! No matter how convenient the car might be, it certainly wasn’t worth all this … car-ma. I could hear Maharajji laughing at my “pile of bricks.”

There was, however, an interesting serendipitous teaching in all this. While we waited for the clearance for the car we were staying at a delightfully rundown, semi-hippie hotel. At first we lived out of our backpacks, expecting each day to be free to leave Delhi and get back to a “holy place.” But as the days went on in this exasperating process, we began to settle in. More and more Westerners passing through Delhi found their way to our room until, each day, there would be a satsang of thirty or more of us, and we would chant and meditate and talk about the spirit. Soon people were bringing Indian bedspreads as wall hangings, and pictures and fruit. The wife of the owner of the hotel was even preparing ghee for our puja lamps. Finally we were so much in the spirit that it no longer mattered if we ever left Delhi. And at this point, my visa application was filed, the permit for the car came through, and we were free to leave for Vrindaban (R.D.)