staying in Delhi and would fly to Calcutta the next day. They also warned me of the futility in asking for a seat on that plane. The Asian Gaines were finishing and millions would be trying to quit the city by all possible means.
A little later some devotees came by to pick me up and we set off for Janakpuri, where Babaji was staying. Delhi at eight o'clock in the morning and already teeming with people - the journey seemed endless. At long last we caught sight of the festive marquee specially erected for Babaji's visit and I slipped off my shoes to enter. Flower garlands everywhere and a mingling of fragrances that was overwhelming. I joined the long queue waiting to greet Babaji.
He was sitting slightly elevated watching over the crowd. His garments were a silky white, deepening the blackness of his shiny, curly hair. There was no mistaking it - his round face radiated infinite kindness and love. With a pounding heart and trembling knees, I made my way towards him. As I lay my head on his lap any thoughts left in my mind faded away, and a powerful wave of energy shot up through my feet, spine and out the crown of my head straight into Babaji's hands, which he had placed upon my head in a gesture of blessing. Free from all thoughts, feelings and attachments, I stood there face to face with Infinity. I don't know how long this lasted, for I had lost all sense of time. A finger poked me in the back and brought me back to that other reality - the person behind me in the queue also wanted to pay homage to Babaji.
"Where's your son?"
"In Germany."
"Why hasn't he come with you?"
"He has to attend school and is coming in December."
Babaji enquired which class he was in and then asked after my husband. He gave me a handful of pieces of fruit.
What harmony there was inside the marquee, I thought. The women sitting on the left, the men on the right. All thoughts and eyes focused on Babaji. The sounds of Indian instruments - harmonium, drums and cymbals, actually blended with the singing of the crowd. Babaji's seat looked like a golden sea of flowers with all the garlands of roses and marigolds that had been presented to him.
Finally Babaji stood up. A fire ceremony to honour the Divine was about to be performed in the host's garden. This ancient custom of exchanging - giving and taking - dates back to pre-Vedic times, when humanity still had close conscious contact with the Divine: it is through God's mercy that crops grow in the fields, so in return we thank God by giving back part of the harvest though sacrificial fire. The cycle of giving and receiving ensures continuous growth and prosperity.
The flames flared up when Babaji took his seat at the fire pit. He signalled that I move in behind him, and a contemplative silence fell over the entire gathering as the noise from the loudspeakers inside the tent died down. The dry wood crackled in the fire, interrupted only by the participants' call of "swaha" (I offer). With each "swaha" they cast a mixture of rice, frankincense, black sesame, flowers and nuts into the fire, and Babaji fed it with offerings of liquid ghee. Free of thoughts I gazed into the glow and listened to my inner being. There was deep peace. I was happy just to be there.
After the havan Babaji said "Comer, took the hand of an elderly Indian woman and mine as well and led us to a car which drove us to the homes of several families whom Babaji had promised to visit. Full of reverence they welcomed him and in time gathered around telling him of their problems. A wedding had to be arranged, a sick person needed healing. Many asked for his advice in spiritual and worldly matters, as often as possible. Babaji listened attentively. He never seemed to tire and his patience and kindness were unlimited.
Once again we were driving through the streets of Delhi.
"Have you got a plane ticket and a reservation for Calcutta?", he asked me in the car.
"No." I had not realized that Babaji wanted to fly to Calcutta.
"Well, that's it then, you'll have to stay here", the Indian lady translated.
"Oh no, please take me with you!"
"What for?", he asked with a teasing grin.
So he knew that I wanted to accompany him. If it were his wish also, then it would all happen, I thought, in spite of the circumstances. Trusting in Babaji's omnipotence, I did not waste time trying to reserve a seat or buy a ticket.
We were now at the next home where we would stay for the night. Babaji was seated in a splendid armchair. The colour television was on and very soon everyone present was caught up in a sports programme. Lost in the games, Babaji became for them only a part of the background. I sat on the floor beside him, my hand resting on his feet. He seemed to envelop all of us; everything. Despite the noise coming from the television, I felt an inner peace, a harmony which was unique. Now and then our glances met and I was amazed how anybody could get so easily distracted by one of life's illusions - in this case, sports -, so unimportant compared to the wondrous fact that the divine was actually physically present in the room!
Early next morning I was at the airport, clutching a hurriedly packed travel bag. I had no trouble buying a ticket but when I asked for a seat on the next plane to Calcutta, the airport official told me there was no chance at all - 280 passengers were on the waiting list already. And all later flights were fully booked. It would be at least two or three days before I could hope to get a seat. This news didn't perturb me. I let it be. I felt sure Babaji would somehow take me with him. It was only a matter of waiting.
Meanwhile Babaji had arrived at the airport. A large crowd gathered round him as he took a seat in the departure lounge like a normal tourist. More and more people had converged yet somehow I managed to get through and reach him, the ticket clenched in my hand. I caught his brief glance and saw him quickly instruct one of the Indians to go book a seat on the plane. After a while the man came back without success. Twice again this same order was carried out — again to no avail. Still, it failed to shake my confidence.
Finally the flight was called. Babaji moved to the departure gate. With a smile he took my ticket and gave it to another Indian and signalled that I follow this man. Lugging my bag we approached the Indian Airlines desk which had already shut down. Behind the counter was a mass of bodies shouting and gesticulating in utter confusion. My companion merged swiftly into the melee and reemerged with not one boarding card but five!
Back at the departure gate Babaji was waiting with Sri Muniraj, his closest disciple, and the venerable Sri Shastriji, a Sanskrit scholar and priest who had served Babaji for years. Wearing a red turban and yellow silk robes with a brocade vest, dazzling in all colours, Babaji looked like a prince from the Thousand and One Nights. He wore anything offered to him with a pure heart. Here, standing in front of us, was a true ruler, free from all limitations and as unencumbered as a child. A mighty, unmistakable force radiated from him. Great, majestic, all-powerful was he, the centre of the world. Some travellers in the hall, aware of his presence, asked who he was.
"A Mahavatari", was the answer.
Many came and kneeled before him and touched his feet, according to Indian custom, and Babaji softly held his hand in the gesture of blessing.
He told me to buy toffees at the kiosk and have them distributed among the crowd. I was to give an offering in thanks for what I had just received. The divine law of reciprocal maintenance was to be fulfilled. As there is no inhaling without exhaling so there can be no taking without giving.
Now I was sitting behind Babaji on the plane. How peculiar that the seats we had been assigned at the last minute were grouped together around Babaji. Only the American flying with us had to swap his seat with another passenger's.
Calcutta was now sweeping in beneath us - this magic flight was about
