is ill, extremely thin, small in stature and clean-shaven, lying on a bed. He has languid eyes and from him there emanates an incredible love. I'm deeply moved and would like to give him a present. The only thing that I have which is precious to me is a silver bracelet and so I give it to him. Although it is not possible to communicate with \ him directly, we exchange looks and waves of love pass between us. Perhaps he will die soon because they say he cannot be cured.
2 April 1972
Today we've been to the bazaar to buy material. It is here in the shops that everything comes to a virtual standstill, where you sit, drink tea, chat and tell your life story. Eventually the shopkeepers pull out all the merchandise they have for sale, spread it out and in the end you buy something. The women are never seen in the shops, only the men who sit cross-legged or stretch out on large white beds. It seems as if time stands still for them, as if they are not really waiting for clients but simply living, almost in a state of meditation.
We went to eat in a luxury restaurant in the grand style of the maharajas, waited on as if we were important people. It's incredible to observe the great humility of the Indian servants, who completely identify with the sense of service. I am embarrassed, I feel like an old colonialist, one who is privileged. I think I would rather stay with the poor Indians in their own homes.
* * *
Meeting the Great Master, Babaji
Almora, 3 April 1972
This morning we reached Almora, after another interminably long journey. It's a mountain town, at an altitude of about I800 metres, but the weather is not cold as it would be in the European mountains. The bazaar is filthy, the hotel squalid and it's really difficult for me to drink or eat anything in the small, dirty restaurants that are here. I did not expect to see such poverty, the poorly constructed wooden buildings rotting. Also the hotel is full of fleas, biting us all night; it is terrible.
The mornings are chilly and the water in the shower is freezing. It has all been a very great surprise to me because they had told me it was an idyllic place.
5 April 1972
We are now living in a house in the forest, rented by Shanti and his friends, the 'Rainbow Gypsies'. It is a much more pleasant place to be and the landscape around here is extremely beautiful. Nevertheless it's still uncomfortable and inconvenient; there is no running water, no electricity and no toilets. I have taken on the duty of cooking and washing up the pots and plates, because I feel it is good for me, but I find it extremely tiring doing everything squatting down on the earth the way the Indian people do. They have such agile and supple bodies and are used to working all their lives in this way. Although I admire them, trying to work like this makes me feel awkward and clumsy, but at this moment in time I feel I have to learn to do something for others and be of service.
The 'Rainbow Gypsies' are such lovely people and the two young American men from California who I met in Bombay are here as well with their girlfriends, together with a collection of other people from different parts of the world. Every morning Rosa, the young Italian woman, teaches us some yoga postures to help us become more supple: she moves like a dancer.
Most of the time our diet consists of rice and vegetables and we all eat together sitting on the floor. Shanti helps me a great deal, translating for me and patiently explaining all about the Indian tradition. He takes me around with him and I feel that he is a teacher for me. Daniel often sings some very moving songs accompanying himself on his guitar and I especially love the words of one song: 'We are One, for a universe of love.'
I am slowly getting used to this new rhythm of life and to the simple practical things that need to be done: cooking, washing clothes, cleaning, or just sitting to admire the majestic valley, the green hills and the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas in the distance. At night the weather turns cold and we all sleep together, close to each other on the floor of one room.
Shanti invites me to accompany him when he visits some of the Indian families he knows in Almora. He introduces me to them with pride, explaining that I am a doctor of philosophy and that my mother is a member of the Italian parliament; it seems that these things are very important in India.
When I see the village women walking along the streets in their long, green skirts, with bundles of grass on their heads, I feel strangely at home, as if I have already seen all this somewhere before.
10 April 1972
Shanti explains to me something of the complicated religious Indian pantheon, but adds that the science of yoga is something different again, it's the knowledge of oneself, an inner discovery. Today I accompanied him on a visit to Tara Devi, an elderly American lady, who has lived in Almora for the last twenty years.
She has invited us to go down-town with her to meet an Indian saint, Babaji, who is supposed to be the present incarnation of another famous yogi from the past, Hairakhan Baba. She tells us that Babaji has overcome death and rejuvenated His body, appearing to be about twenty when in reality He is one hundred and thirty years old. What is more, He exists without eating anything or sleeping: can this be true? I begin to be curious about Him. She says that Babaji had asked her to invite all of the Western people she knows in Almora to come and meet Him, because He is looking for someone amongst them who is His disciple from a previous life. Shanti makes a joke and suggests that maybe I am that person.
The other day, looking at the palms of my hands, he told me that I have the lines of a yogini, the same lines that he has, three united together, which signifies the union of heart and mind. He also said that he feels I am a person who may spend a long time in India, but who can tell if all this is true; sometimes I am very sceptical.
15 April 1972
Today we have been to Almora, to meet Babaji. There were some other Westerners present together with certain important spiritual teachers who live around here: Shunia Baba and Guru Lama, a Tibetan. I must confess that my first thought on seeing Him, with His long, black hair down onto His shoulders, made Him look like a hippie, someone very familiar, one of our tribe, a prophet, an angel of the new world sent here for us.
As soon as I entered the exceedingly crowded room I immediately noticed Him, seated on a raised dais, dressed in white, immobile like a statue. I was enchanted as I watched Him. He is extremely beautiful, radiant like an ancient Christ-like figure, very serious, severe, with sharp, dark, powerful, penetrating eyes. I started to look into His eyes and felt myself becoming hypnotized to such an extent that I began to be afraid of His power. Then suddenly I observed Him lowering His eyes, with such humility and an incredible tenderness. For two, maybe three hours I looked at Him continually, as if magnetized, just like the rest of the people in the room.
Many of those present continued singing religious songs the whole time without any interruption, accompanied by the Indian harmonium and hand cymbals. At one point people began to stand in a queue in order to pranam, to bow down at His feet. Every time a person bowed to Him, Babaji raised His hand in blessing, slightly smiling with compassion. I didn't feel that I wanted to go and pranam to Him, I just sat there staring at His beautiful, perfect form, absolutely still, as if He is not even breathing, like a statue. He doesn't speak, doesn't move, He just looks into everybody's eyes. I have the uneasy feeling that He can read my thoughts, see what I'm thinking, see into my mind, as if He is capable of telepathic communication with me. Silently I spoke to Him inside my heart: 'Please give me the truth.'
Later on, Babaji stood up to leave in order to
