SBOI-SELECTIONS 1: MAN OF MIRACLES

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-"Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction. Lord Byron"-"I first heard the

name Satya Sai Baba from a wandering yogi. He had not himself met this holy man,

he said, nor been to his ashram at a village called Puttaparti. This, he had

heard, was a difficult place to reach, being in the wilds of the interior: one

had to do the last part of the journey by bullock cart or on foot over rough

tracks. Still, the Swami was no doubt worth the effort, the yogi thought, if I

had time and was interested in phenomena. He was known to have siddhis, to be a

great miracle-worker. "What kind of miracle"? I asked. "Well, it's said that he

can, for instance, produce objects from nowhere. Of course, there are other men

to be found who have some of the siddhis: they can do a few supernormal feats,

but from reports Sai Baba's powers are much greater. And he performs miracles

frequently. Anyone can see them." Such talk certainly aroused my interest and

curiosity. I had heard (who has not?) that India was the crucible of

wonder-workers. I had read of the great adepts, occultists, saints, of the past

who knew Nature's inner laws. But I half doubted their actual reality. And even

if they did once exist, could they still be around? This, I thought, might be

my great chance to find out if the fantastic tales that have come out of India

belong to the realm of fact or fiction. I decided that I must see Satya Sai

Baba as soon as convenient. Later, when I heard that his followers regarded him

as a reincarnation of Sai Baba of Shirdi, my desire to meet him became even

stronger. But the bullock-cart safari into the interior of south India would

have to wait a little while. It sounded more than arduous, and we had recently

discovered on our northern journey that ordinary travel in India saps one's

vitality. On our return, we were glad to recuperate for a time in the tranquil

tree-filled Theosophical Estate. One day several months after our return a

young pale-faced woman wearing the ochre-robe of a monk came on a visit to the

Theosophical Headquarters. She was introduced to us by a mutual friend as

Nirmalananda, and we took her to our sitting room for morning coffee. She told

us that she was an American from Hollywood, an odd place of origin for an

ascetic, we thought. "Nirmalananda", she said, was the Hindu name given her by

Swami Sivananda when he initiated her into the monastic life. After he had died

she left his ashram at Rishikesh and became a follower of Satya Sai Baba. At

Puttaparti she had witnessed many wonderful miracles. Now Sai Baba was on a

visit to Madras and she was one of a small party of disciples he had brought

with him. This seemed to be our golden opportunity. Iris was not feeling well

enough to come, but Nirmalananda conducted me to the place where Sai Baba was

staying. It was a pleasant house, standing behind lawns and flower gardens.

Later I learned that it was the home of Mr. G. Venkateshwara Rao, the mica

magnate who was also a devotee of Sai Baba. The lawns and pathways in front of

the house were covered with people sitting quietly cross-legged on the ground -

white-clad men to one side and women in saris like bright-coloured flowers to

the other. There were hundreds of them, obviously waiting for a sight of the

great man. Nirmalananda led me through the crowd to the front verandah and

there introduced me to a pleasant, red-haired American named Bob Raymer. "I

think Sai Baba has finished interviews for the morning, but I'll go and find

out," he said. He took me into a small sitting-room and left me there.

Nirmalananda had already gone off somewhere. In the room were only two Indian

men, both standing and apparently waiting for someone. I also stood waiting.

After a few minutes the door from the interior of the house opened and there

entered a man the like of whom I have never seen before nor since. He was

slight and short. He wore a red silk robe that fell in a straight line from

shoulders to feet. His hair stood up from his head in a big circular mop, jet

black, crinkly, to the roots like wool, and seemingly vibrant with life. His

skin was light brown but seemed darker because of the thick beard which, though

closely shaven, still showed black through the skin. His eyes were dark, soft

and luminous, and his face beamed with some inner joy. I had never seen a

photograph of Sai Baba. Could this be he? I had expected someone tall and

stately with a long black beard, and dressed in white robes. I had a

preconceived image of what a great yogi or master should be like perhaps

derived from early theosophical descriptions of the Masters. He came swiftly

and gracefully across the carpet towards me, showing white, even teeth in a

friendly smile. "Are you the man from Australia?" he asked. "Yes." I replied.

Then he went to the Indians and began talking to them in Telugu. Presently I

saw him wave his hand in the air, palm downwards in small circles, just as in

childhood we used to wave our hands when pretending to perform some abracadabra

magic. When he turned the palm up it was full of fluffy ash, and he divided this

among the two men. One of them could not contain his feelings; he began to sob.

Sai Baba patted him on the shoulders and back, and spoke to him soothingly like

a mother. I did not understand at the time that these were what are called

bhakti tears - tears of overwhelming joy, gratitude and love. Later I heard

that Baba had cured this man's son of some terrible disease, but as I did not

check the story, I cannot vouch for it. After a while the small figure turned

to me again. Standing close in front of me, he began circling his hand again.

This time I noticed he pulled his loose-fitting sleeve almost up to the elbow.

Much later I learned the reason for this. In my mind was the suspicion that he

might be doing conjuring tricks like a stage magician, perhaps bringing the ash

out of his sleeve. Baba has no difficulty in reading minds and knew my

suspicions. So he pulled his sleeve high to allay them. When the mound of

powdery ash appeared suddenly in his palm, he tipped it into mine. For a moment

I stood there wondering what to do with it. Then a voice to my left said, "Eat

it, it's good for your health." This was Bob Raymer who had just returned to

the room. I had never expected to eat ash and enjoy it, but this brand was

fragrant and quite pleasant to the taste. Baba stood there watching me.

Half-way through the strange snack I said to him: "May I take some of this to

my wife? She is not very well.Bring her here tomorrow at five o'clock," he

replied, and then he was gone. The next afternoon found Iris and myself at the

same house. In the entrance we met Gabriela Steyer of Switzerland, one of the

small western contingent in Baba's travelling party. She, very friendly and

sympathetic, led us to an upstairs room where about a score of women, most of

them Indian and all in saris, sat cross-legged on the carpet. We sat down near

them and Gabriela began to tell us about some of the miracles she had seen at

Puttaparti. Taking out my notebook I asked her for the full address of the

ashram and directions on how to get there. But at that moment Bob Raymer's

wife, Markell, came up and said that Baba was on his way, and that I should go

and sit on the other side of the room, the men's proper territory. The males

now filled their area of the floor but I found myself a place by the wall. I

noticed that Bob Raymer and I were the only two white faces in the group of

men. Suddenly Sai Baba appeared in the doorway. Today his robe was old-gold in

colour, but like the red one it fell from shoulder to floor in a simple line

with no pockets, appendages or folds. All his robes are of this same style.

They fasten right up to the neck with two gold studs - the only jewellery he

ever wears - and the loose sleeves come to the wrist or elbow, depending

perhaps on the temperature. Under the robe he wears a dhoti (a cloth tied

around the waist and reaching the ankles like a skirt) and this has no pockets

in it either. I now know these things for sure because, later on when we were

staying at a guesthouse with Sai Baba, my wife used sometimes to iron his robes

and dhotis in our room. So although sceptics without examining the matter

properly have said (and will doubtless say again) that he conceals the things

he produces miraculously somewhere in his robe, I know beyond doubt that this

is quite wrong and quite impossible. From the doorway Baba pointed his finger

at me and said, "Did you bring your wife?" I was pleased that he had

remembered. He took us both into another room and talked to Iris about her

health. He seemed to know just what was wrong with her and the basic causes of

the trouble. He gave her much advice and then with his hand-wave produced from

the air some medicinal ash for her to eat. I was, standing close by keenly

watching the production because I still doubted that it was genuine magic. Now

he turned to me, smiled, pulled his sleeve up to his elbow, and waved his hand

under my nose. As he turned the palm up I expected to see the usual ash, but I

was wrong. Lying in the middle of his hand was a little photograph of his head

with the full address of his ashram. The photo had a freshly-glazed look as if

straight from a photographic laboratory. He handed it to me saying: "You've

been asking for my address. Here it is. Keep it in your wallet.May I may we

- come there sometime?" I managed to ask. "Yes, of course. Whenever you wish.

It's your home." Since that day I have seen many wonderful and rare things

produced by the wave of his small brown hand, but I still carry in my wallet

that little photograph which came out of "nowhere" in answer to a question in

my mind. There were no ordinary means of his knowing that I had asked Gabriela

for the address. After our interview Sai Baba gave a discourse to the people

assembled in the room and later, as we went home, we saw him walking among the

people in the gardens. Many of them tried to touch his robe or his feet. He

spoke to some and "produced" something for others - usually ash, I think. This

constant production of ash, or vibhuti as it is called, seemed to have a

special significance. It made me think of Sai Baba of Shirdi and the fire he

always kept burning to produce the udhi which he gave to his followers for

curing their ailments, and for other purposes. Now it was as if Satya Sai, who

perhaps really was his reincarnation, could produce this ash from a fire that

burned in a dimension beyond the range of our mortal eyes. Ash is a spiritual

symbol and has been used as such by many religions, including the Christian.

Like all symbols it has different levels of meaning. An obvious one is that it

reminds us of the transitory nature of all Earthly things and the mortality of

man's body. It is meant to lead our thoughts to the eternal beyond the

transitory, to our own immortal selves beyond the little mound of ash or dust

to which our bodies will some day be reduced. For the Hindus ash is specially

sacred to the God Siva, or that aspect of the Godhead concerned with the

destruction of all material forms. Destruction is considered a divine attribute

because only through destruction can there be a regeneration, a rebirth of new

forms through which life can flow more freely, more fully, more vitally. During

the next few days we talked a good deal about our strange experience. Apart from

his miraculous abilities, Sai Baba had a powerful effect. He seemed to lift us

up to some high level where there were no more worries. We became larger than

life, and the usual difficulties and conflicts of the mundane world were far

off, unreal. There seemed to be an aura of happiness around us. Iris mentioned

that she could not stop herself smiling for hours after Baba had talked to her.

As for the miracles themselves - well, as time went on I began to ask myself if

I had really seen them. It all seemed so unlikely, so far outside the

commonplace everyday order of things. It is very difficult for the mind,

trained in logic and the physical sciences and believing implicitly in the

rational order of the universe, to accept the reality of such apparently

irrational phenomena. Even after seeing such miracles it is difficult to

believe in them. So a doubt hung in my mind like a morning mist. Was I, after

all, fooled? Was it, after all, just a clever sleight-of-hand? Going over the

facts and conditions carefully I failed to see how this could be so. Ash would

be a difficult if not impossible thing to hold in the palm of a hand waving in

circles, wide open and turned downwards. And how could he bring it out of a

pocket or a sleeve, even if he had pockets, which he did not and even if the

cuffless sleeve was down to the wrist, rather than pulled up nearly to the

elbow, as it often was. But perhaps there was some way in which he could have

done the things I saw by brilliant conjuring. Perhaps his apparent mind-reading

and his inside knowledge of one's personal problems were no more than clever

guessing. Inwardly I felt from the elevating splendour of his presence that he

was not an impostor. But I could not be absolutely sure: I could not be quite

certain that I had met a man of truly supernormal powers, that I had witnessed

genuine miracles. No, I could not feel sure until I had investigated further. I

would have to observe such phenomena many times under many different

circumstances and conditions. I would have to get to know the miracle-man

himself, learn his character, his background, his life, and the kind of people

who followed him. And I certainly would have to visit that ashram in

Puttaparti." Source:Howard Murphet's Man of Miracles

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