Fwd: Sai Spiritual Showers - 11th Issue

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When my servants

ask thee concerning Me, I am indeed close: I listen to the prayer of every

suppliant when he calleth on Me. (The Quran II :

186)

Karim Sab, (67) shriveled and

taciturn, sits every evening on the cuddapah black-stone bench in front of

his dormitory. His posture denotes uncertainty, even loneliness, like an

autumn-leaf about to be wind-blown; and he waits there till the sunlight

turns yellow and makes dull the hills around him. The mid-November mist

fills the somnolent air in Anantapur with a chilled invisibility.

As an inmate of the Home for the

Aged in this Andhra town, Karim Sab's life is uneventful. Nothing

remarkable has come his way except that he has been a classmate of the one

whom he calls " Sathya " — and whom the world now knows as

SATHYA SAI BABA.

Karim Sab informs this author

that he has known BABA in the primary school, six decades ago. Delight

ripples over his tired features as he recalls those happy days. His simple

faith in Allah rules out questions about the ways of divinity. Calling

these experiences as " jewels in the heart " he feels grateful and

is content for the chance he has had.

" Even as children, " he

tells the visitor, " we were certain that Baba was not like all of us,

though He moved and played with us. Hazrat Mohammad Sahib must have been

like this. And Lord Jesus Christ—Hazrat Ibraheem. "

When shown the photo of Baba he

grows reminiscent: " As a child He was tiny for His age—yes, the

same generous mouth and those large black eyes too were there. They

sparkled like pools at sunset. Once we were free— it was a drill

period—and Baba led us to play in the open space in front of the

school building. We refused, of course. "

" Why? " enquires the

visitor.

" The ground was hard with

sharp stones and gravel. We were poor, no shoes for us. We said so, but He

wouldn’t listen. " Come " He insisted, " See, see, I can

run. " He started running over the crushed earth as if it was velvet.

We hesitated looking suspiciously. And ah! wonder of wonders! Before our

wide eyes it changed. Wherever His feet touched, a Tulsi plant sprang up

immediately, just like that. "

Karim Sab stops, breathing

heavily as if he has been reliving the moment.

" Yes, we looked on, "

he mused, " as He ran lightly on the ground patch by patch, it turned

to glowing green. The whole place was covered with Tulsi that sent a faint

welcome smell! No, not the plant, but a low dense bushy type of growth. We

ran to this carpet, rolled on it, stamped and wallowed till we were

exhausted, and then we lay there, flat on our backs, panting for breath.

The fresh aroma rose and covered us too, soothing like the touch of a warm

blanket. Through its haziness we saw Him stand above us, hands folded

behind, an unspeakable tenderness playing on lips. "

Karim Sab suddenly stops,

overwhelmed by the intensity of his recollections. When questioned further

he admits that he recalls that incredible event often. Now that the world

has forgotten him, each evening he comes, sits on this bench and waits.

Sometimes the newly sprouted Tulsi's smell rises with the mists of the

evening and enfolds him as an assurance, fervid yet cordial. " How

often it happens?” comes the skeptical question.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He is reluctant. Not everything

can be demanded by an intruder. Yet he remains polite. " Yes .... not

very often, " he says softly, " but yes Tulsi comes from nowhere

and fills the whole air. Then I am not, only Tulsi Is. "

Grateful and happy, my friend

visited the priest and received the stolen rings.

—Prof. Zeba

Bashiruddin (extracted from Sanathana Sarathi Nov

1992)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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