Gods and Godmen of India (11 page)
24/11/1985
T
hat is how Sathya Sai Baba has been described by one of his foreign devotees. He has undoubtedly much the largest following than any other man or woman claiming divinity. Last week when he came to Delhi for a few days many roads had floral arches with the word
Swagatam
painted on large boards. Thousands of volunteers wearing blue scarves round their necks were on duty to direct busloads of men and women who came to have his
darshan.
Traffic had to be diverted from congested roads leading to the venue of his meetings and residence. If there is one man who can draw larger crowds than Atal Behari Vajpayee without aficionados rounding up villagers, loading them on trucks and buses to transport them to meeting grounds, it is Sathya Sai Baba. Why?
Not being a believer I am not sure of the answer. The Indian soil is very productive of prophets and messiahs. We have always had men and women claiming to be incarnations of God, or even god Himself in human form. What would be regarded a sheer blasphemy treated with ridicule by Christians or a sentence of death in Islam is acclaimed by Hindus, Buddhists, Jains and Sikhs as an avatar. So we have many
Bhagwans
(Gods), Swamis (Lords), Rishis (sages), Maharishis (great sages),
Acharyas
(teachers),
Sants
(saints) and Gurus with large followings.
Why that is so is explained by Peter Brent in his
Godmen of India:
“In the West we are free to work for the approval of those we love and respect and whom we would like to love and respect us. Not so the Indians For Indians, particularly those of the middle classes there are only two directions they can go to prove that they can love and be loved. One is towards homosexuality, the other towards the Godmen – the two not being mutually exclusive.” Brent concedes that the Guru-disciple relationship is more than “frustrated sexuality or the psychological wounds inflicted by authoritarian fathers.”
He goes on to explode the assumption that the Guru is the Indian version of a psychoanalyst. The Guru is not a doctor but a teacher, he nurtures spiritual aspersions not psychological problems. If anyone is to be put on a shrink’s couch it is not the godman but his followers who look upon him as God to find out what is missing in their lives which they hope to fulfil by associating with their chosen godman. It is not producing
vibhuti
(sacred ash), materializing watches and medallions from the air or regurgitating
sivalingas
– all such tricks can be performed by magicians and cannot stand the test of scientific scrutiny. The devotees’ faith has more solid foundations. They have unquestionable belief that their guru can do no wrong.
Twenty years ago when an American disciple published a book,
Lord of the Air,
accusing Sai of sexual deviation, the book disappeared from the market in a few days. When I questioned a lady disciple who spent most of the year at the Sai Baba’s ashram at Puttaparthi, she jumped on me like an angry tigress and said, “I have not heard of the book; I don’t want to read such rubbish; I do not wish to discuss it with people like you.” Four years ago when some young men forcibly entered the Sai Baba’s personal quarters, there was a shoot-out and some lives were lost. The matter was hushed up.
I believe Sathya Sai Baba is a very good man with enormous charisma. He has built schools, colleges and hospitals. He is also a patron of music and dance. Many other godmen and women have also built educational institutions and clinics. What is unique about Sai is the calibre of his Indian followers. He had the educationist Dr V.K. Gokak and the scientist Dr Bhagwantham on his board of trustees. Today he has Bhagwati, retired Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, as chairman. Among his disciples are my friend Nani Palkhivala, former President Shankar Dayal Sharma, former Prime Minister Narasimha Rao and dozens of Chief Ministers and Governors, Ministers of the Central Government and other eminent men and women. In no other country will you find so many people with such blind, unquestioning faith in another human being. Why?
20/3/99
I
t is not very easy to explain why one is drawn towards people with whom one has nothing in common and repelled by others who share one’s values and interests. Despite my oft-proclaimed allergy to godmen I go out of my way to meet some if they happen to be in the vicinity. In so doing I have got to know some of them well enough to have affection for them, There is very little communication between us but, as they say, the vibes and the chemistry are good. For me no visit to Jaipur is complete without a call at Hathroi Fort to see Shradha Mata. I can’t make anything of her Tantric jargon but love to hear her berate me as a self-opinionated ass. It is the same with Swami Muktanand of Ganeshpuri and Dadaji. Neither of them speak much Hindustani or English, they give me no
diksha
or
prasad
but even a few moments with them are exhilarating.
I see more of Dadaji than others. I am closest to him but I understand him the least. When I met him first many years ago in the home of the actor Abhi Bhattacharya I was spellbound by his sparkling hypnotic eyes and explained away the objects he materialized out of the air as due to my drugged perception. The post-hypnotic effect was at times very prolonged. He had planted in my mind that whenever I recalled him, I would smell the aroma of the
padmagandha
with which he dowsed me (he does it by running his fragrance-free fingers on your head and back). And so I do. What makes Dadaji more enigmatic is that while he denounces all godmen, gurus,
bhagwans,
maharishis, swamis and sadhus, his innumerable admirers worship him almost as their deity. These include scientists (Linus Pauling, three-time Nobel laureate being one), heads of renowned universities, Supreme Court judges, senior executives and luminaries of just about every learned profession.
“Ham to parha-likha kuch nahin hai,"
says Dadaji in his Bengali-accented Hindi and then proceeds to expound the Vedanta. “The
Dharamakshetra
and
Kurukshetra
that the Gita speaks of is your body; the Pandavas and Kurus are the forces of good and evil battling within you. All that really matters is a person’s character – not his wealth or eminence in society. My job is to guide people to build their character. I have nothing to give except the
maha naam.
Don’t be misled by all these charlatans who pass of as
Bhagwans
and
Jagadgurus.
How can mortals, on whose carrion vultures will peck at, be gods?” And so on.
I nod my head in agreement because there is nothing he says that I disagree with. I bring the dialogue down to earth: “Dadaji, tell me why are people scared of dying and death?”
He realizes I am talking about myself and looks perturbed: “Aren’t you in good health?”
“Very! Disgustingly healthy. Only my mind is obsessed with death. Please help me to get over this morbid obsession.”
He grabs me by my shoulders and draws me towards him almost knocking the turban off my head. With his fingers he traces patterns down my spinal cord and runs them through my beard. A shiver runs down my body and the aroma of a thousand
agarbattis
envelops me. “From now on you will not think of death,” he commands. I nod my head, touch his feet and take my leave. I thread my way through the throng of admirers, locate my chappals out of the hundreds of pairs and walk away with a jaunty step. Dadaji has made me
mukt
of deathphobia. In the evening I find myself wrong about dying and death.
26/6/82
A
nn Mills, an American disciple of Dadaji, in her book
Look Within: Inspirations of Love
gives a touching account of her first meeting with Dadaji:
“In 1979 I first heard about Dadaji from a friend, and in 1982 met him at the airport in Bombay, when he arrived from Calcutta. Upon disembarking, someone placed a lovely garland of colourful flowers around Dadaji’s neck. I was standing behind the crowd of people who had come to greet him. He walked over to me with a beautiful smile, and as our eyes met, took the garland off and placed it gently around my neck. No words were spoken. None could describe the moment fully.’
I met Dadaji many times in Bombay and Delhi through his chief disciple Abhi Bhattacharya, the film star. At our first meeting in Bombay he performed a few magic tricks. He materialized a watch of Japanese make and put it on my wrist. Then he put his hand on the watch and murmured some mantra. The watch which had borne the legend ‘citizen: Made in Japan’ was now imprinted with the words: ‘Given to Khushwant Singh by Dadaji’. He materialized a bottle of Scotch with a label bearing the message ‘Made in the Universe. Given by Dadaji to K. Singh.’
He gave me a colour picture of Shri Satyanarain and asked me to pray to it (
Mahanaam
– the great name.) He ran his fingers in my beard and my entire body became suffused with fragrance –
Pudmagandha.
Then he sat back on his bed and lit a cigarette. He was a heavy smoker.
Dadaji was an incredibly handsome man: tall, strongly built, charismatic and magnetic eyes. His speech was a jumble of Bengali and Hindi. He spoke very little English. I pieced together his past from Bhattacharya with whom I kept up correspondence till the end of his life.
Amiya Roy Chowdhury, who later came to be known as Dadaji, was born in village Fultali now in Bangladesh sometime between 1906 and 1912. He was a precocious child given to argument with wandering holy men.
Once, he confronted an ash-smeared sadhu and asked him: “Is this the means of finding God?” Another time, he grabbed the scrotum of a
nanga
sadhu and asked him “How does this nudity help you?”
He left his home and wandered round places of pilgrimage exhorting yogi and holy men to return to their homes, work, marry and beget children. For some years he worked with All India Radio, Calcutta, as a singer-artiste. He was jailed during the freedom movement. He married and had a son and a daughter. Once he was arrested on a false charge of forging a will. No one was willing to give evidence against him. The charge was withdrawn and he was honourably acquitted.
Dadaji delivered no sermons, wrote no books, and refused to set up an ashram. “All the universe is my ashram,” he said. He travelled round the world talking to small groups. He resented attempts to deify him.
He denounced renunciation and celibacy: “Celibacy does not mean not using sexual organs. It means to be in Him. What does sexual intercourse mirror? Absorption, relishing the taste of His Love.”
As I said before, I got to know Dadaji quite well. I am mortified to read in Mills’ little book that he died three years ago on June 7, 1992. I did not read of his passing away in any newspaper; Abhi Bhattacharya was not there to tell me about it. But every time I recall Dadaji, a faint aroma of
Padmagandha
envelops me.
6/24/95
The Pandit and the Sadhvi: the Legend of Shraddha Mata
I
was aggrieved to hear of Shraddha Mata’s death a few weeks ago in Jaipur. I got to know her some fifteen years ago and called on her at the Hathroi Fort whenever I went to Jaipur. Each meeting was for me a memorable one; I became genuinely fond of her. However, it was the first encounter with her which remains imprinted on my mind.
Like many others, I had read about her in M.O. Mathai’s memories of his days with Pandit Nehru. According to Mathai, Panditji had a liaison with Shraddha Mata and fathered an illegitimate child who was born in a Catholic hospital in south India. Shraddha Mata later abandoned the child and returned to Uttar Pradesh to resume her mission as a tantrik sadhvi.
It was Maneka Gandhi’s mother, Amteshwar Anand, who told me that if I wanted to meet Shraddha Mata I should go to the Nigambodh Ghat cremation ground. Several corpses were burning with a few mourners sitting here and there. I asked the timber dealer who supplied wood for cremations for Shraddha Mata’s dwelling. He pointed to a platform surrounded by gunny sacks at one end of the ground. I made my way there and saw an elderly lady in a saffron kurta-dhoti sitting cross-legged on a wooden
takhtposh
counting the beads of her rosary.
“Kaun hai?
(Who is it?)” she shouted.
“Aap ke darshan karne aaya hoon
(I have come to have your
darshan)"
I replied.
“Darshan to karne aaya hai, tera naam bhi to hai koi?
(You have come for
darshan,
but don’t you have a name?)”
I mentioned my name. “Are you the same fellow who was editor of
The Illustrated Weekly of India?"
I admitted I was. She exploded:
“Jhootha kahin ka!
(You are a liar!)
Darshan parshan, nahin.
You want to know more about what that
haramzada
Mathai has written about me. It is all a pack of lies.”
“But you met Panditji many times,” I ventured.
“Yes, many times. He wrote many letters to me. If he had married again, he would certainly have married me. I put him in his place. I told him
“Yeh
my dear
nahin chalega
(addressing me as my dear in his letters won’t do). You are a Brahmin, I am a Kshatriya. How can there be anything more than friendship between us?”
“How is it that Indiraji does not know anything about you?”
“Bewakoof? Koi aisi baat apne beti ko batata hai?
(Fool, will any father tell his daughter such things?)”
I was cut to size. When she beckoned to me to sit down on the floor, my feet touched her wooden sandals.
“Sadhvi ke khadaon ko pair lagaata hai! Tameez nahin hai?
(You touch the sandals of a sadhvi! Don’t you have any manners?)”