Pilgrimage to India :: Part II

I had few goals for myself on this journey, as follows:

1. Get my mother and sister to the threshold of Meher Baba's tomb (Samadhi) at Meherabad.

2. Acquire some things for my beloved wife Lilly, which I knew she wanted.

3. In so far as possible, with Baba in the Samadhi, forgive my father for his suicide.

4. Visit the "Pumpkin House Orphanage" which friends and family in Georgia have been instrumental in founding.

5. See about building a house on Meherabad land, where I wish to retire one day Baba willing.

 The third point was something that had been brewing in me for a long time, and was brought home to me more recently during a weekend seminar with Don Stevens, a longtime close disciple (Mandali) of Baba's, during which we focused on the topic of Forgiveness. I had brought up my dilemma about not having my father present in my forgiveness process, and the hurdles this presented me with. In the end, I decided that I would simply do my best with Baba, and leave the results to Him. Thank you Don for insisting on the importance of forgiveness on so many levels, this has helped me greatly.

 On the way to Meherabad, I spotted a number of road-side flower-wallas, and suggested to mom and sister that we could get a nice garland to place on Baba's Samadhi, to which they agreed. I told our new driver, Kailash, that we wanted to stop at the next garland-walla, to which he also agreed. We found our garland and paid for it, and I noticed a little hungry puppy, which I fed with some of our butter-biscuits (a biscuit in India, and England, is a sort of cookie for us in America).

 Before long we were singing in at the old Meher Pilgrim Centre (which is now the Trust Pilgrim office), and then up to Meher Baba's blessed Samadhi with our garland, still fresh. This being Anne and Sarah's very first time visiting Baba in India, I wanted it to be as special as possible, so we entered the Samadhi together, three-as-one, holding a giant rose and jasmine garland. I stepped up on the left side and with one opposite me, and one at Baba's feet, we three laid the garland down lovingly with a soft, "Avatar Meher Baba Ki Jai."

I prostrated myself at Baba's blessed feet and said a few words to Him, I don't remember what, before leaving them to have their own experience with Baba. Emerging from the tomb, I got my Prasad, and sat down on the wooden bench where I have been sitting for almost twenty years now. As soon as they came out and there was no one else wanting to enter the tomb, I rose and entered the tomb again, this time alone. I believe it was on this second entry that I consciously formed the intention and gave my forgiveness to my father, Philipp, departed now since his suicide in 1985. I told Philipp, "I forgive you," and some other things, and asked Baba to help me, and him, in this process, as without Baba I feel that I am helpless to reach across the chasm of death. I was surprised that this forgiving was not difficult, it was not emotional, and totally undramatic. It just felt right, and timely, and good. I believe I shared more with Baba, and then when it was time, I got up again, and departed. Knowing me, I probably got on the line at the Samadhi a third time, but honestly, weeks after returning from India, I cannot remember that, so I will just say that time at Meherabad slowly slips away as the fragrance of the Master's sweet love overpowers the senses, and one realized that what is truly important is loving the Lord of Love, and most of what busies our minds in the West of truly meaningless.

 After the flight down from Delhi, then Baba's family home, Hazrat Babajan's tomb and now our arrival at Meherabad, you can bet we were totally spent. So, upon finding our rooms at the new Meher Pilgrim Retreat, I think mother and sister realized, "There is a God, and She is Horizontal."

 I told them, as lovingly as possible, that they are safe now, and that as I am also tired, I may or may not see them at breakfast in the morning (I have long felt that missing a meal in order to sleep a little is worth it)... And that tomorrow, Sunday, is a "Meherazad-day" and so I would be riding the special bus that takes Baba-lovers to Baba's home. In trying to explain all this to Sarah on the way to India, I said the easy way to remember the difference between Meherabad (where we slept at the centre) and Meherazad is this:

Meherabad = Baba's Tomb, as he is buried here with his close disciples (Mandali).
Meherazad = Baba's Room, as he lived the last years of his life there with his Mandali.

 In Persian Meherazad means Meher is Free (meaning unbound), whereas Meherabad means Meher is Flourishing. I wrote a whole paper about what the name Meher means, so I will not get into that here, except to say of course it is Baba's first name. To be honest, his given name was Merwan S. Irani, and the Meher Baba name was given to him by his early circle of disciples. Okay.

 A little food and much needed sleep for them, while I went to party that I had just been invited to, and danced on the rooftops, literally.

 Sunday
We rode the bus to Meherazad, which takes about 45 minutes, as the route passes through Ahmednagar, what was a small town which is growing steadily year by year. Also, it seems that with each passing year, the amount of time we have to visit there is cut down a bit. In the old days (1980s) we could go in the morning, then they would serve lunch there at Meherazad, some would lay down and nap here and there, and then we would have an afternoon session (in Mandali Hall with Eruch, or Mani, or on a special day with them both together)... no more.

 In the short time we did I have I had to work fast to get them a hug from dear Meherwan Jessawala (Eruch's saintly brother), then to Baba's Room, then to visit the remaining women Mandali, especially Arnavaz, whom I love dearly. Then I wanted them to see "Seclusion Hill" as Baba himself called it, to get a stone from there, and finally into Mandali Hall, so they could see where Baba sat. Wow! By the time we did all that the bus was loading up and ready to roll! Sarah and Arnavaz seemed to hit it off instantly, which was great.

I think it was Sunday night at dinner, back at Meherabad, that I met the group of Persian students that were studying in Pune, but had all come from Iran. In any case, they were delightful, and as I sat with them we shared about Persian poets, and culture, and I believe it was "Rose" that recited a few lines of Rumi, in Farsi (the Persian language), and I asked her to tell me the meaning in English. She said the lines were from a famous poem by Rumi which he spoke to his son, while he lay dying on his deathbed, and it was his last poem for his son (maybe his last poem period, I don't know).

 The title is literally, On the Deathbed, and I was deeply moved by it. I guess Rose was sufficiently aware of my sincere interest in Rumi and this poem, as the next day, Monday, she appeared standing before me, at the outdoor seating area of the centre dining area, holding out a piece of paper printed with a poem towards my receiving hands...

 Monday

As I read the poem in English I was deeply touched by Rose's care for me, that she would go through the trouble to find a computer, search on-line for this poem, and print it out for me. Then I saw that below the English text, in the lower right was the Farsi original from which the translation was made. This also made me happy, as I could refer to it later, if I had any questions on the meaning of the translation. I could easily tell that the translation was made by someone fluent in Farsi, but perhaps not an English poet themselves. I decided to work on it a little, to bring it into good English shape so that I could better appreciate what Rumi was sharing with his beloved son. Rose sat with me outside on a bench as we went over the English line by line, and when I questioned a word, she could refer to the Farsi herself and tell me the word Rumi used. I know a tiny bit of Farsi, and so I knew what Rumi meant in one case, as soon as I heard the word.

 Upon return the states, I decided I would re-write the poem, where needed, when I write my Journey to India story, so as to keep the majestic poetic nature of Rumi as intact as possible, while adhering to the meaning of the translation I was given. This poem follows now. If I have strayed from the Master's intended meaning, it is due to my ignorance, while if it is aligned with his intent, it is due to the Grace of my beloved Master, Meher Baba, and our Master Rumi:

On the Deathbed

Go, rest your head on a pillow now, and leave me alone.

Leave me in ruins, exhausted from this night journey,

in undulating waves of passion until the dawn.

Either stay with me, and be forgiving, or if you like be cruel and leave.

Run away from me, away from danger, find the path of safety far from my peril.

We have crawled into this corner of grief,

turning the water wheel with a waterfall of tears.

There is a murderous tyrant with a heart like black quartz, yet no one says, "Prepare to pay him the blood-money."

Faith in the King comes easily in lovely times,

but try to be faithful now and endure all this, pale lover.

There exits no cure for this anguish except to die.

Why should I say, "Cure this pain" knowing this?

In a dream last night, I saw an Ancient One in the Garden of Love,¹

Beckoning to me, saying softly, "Come here."

On this Path, Love is the precious emerald, the gorgeous green that banishes dragons...

Enough! I am losing myself.

If you are a cultured pearl, study something classical,

a history of the human condition, and never settle for

mediocre

poetry.

~ Rumi

 1. the phrase "ancient one" is a translation of the word "Pir"
which is a term rich with spiritual meaning, connoting a Saint, Sufi, or real Dervish.

It was not until I was on my return home from India, that I contemplated more deeply the way this poem came to me from Rose. I had not told her, or any of her Persian companions at the Baba centre, that I was in process of forgiving my father for his suicide more than twenty years previous. I never shared with anyone during the trip that this was going on, or that one of the most difficult aspects of my process was not being able to achieve any type of real closure as my father was so totally out of reach. And yet, here was a poem from Rumi to his own son, on his deathbed, and so many lines of this wondrous poetry remind me of my own father's poems and style. So, it was somewhere between India and home that it dawned upon me that Baba himself had found a way to let me know that he heard my prayer and was present as I forgave my father, and this was His Way of letting me know that He is with me in my process. Now, re-writing it in late December for this piece, I notice for the first time the line: "Either stay with me, and be forgiving, or if you like be cruel and leave." As I re-read this, I feel Baba's confirmation, His ways are vital and alive, and He is most present.

 Thank you Baba.

 After that, we three had a date to visit the Pumpkin House Orphange, run by Stella Manuel Pillai, an incredible Indian Catholic who was inspired my Mother Theresa. I had met Stella on a previous trip to India, before there were any children in the Orphanage, and it was still in the planning stages.

 I could write a-whole-nother-paper on the orphanage visit, so instead I will just put a photo here that I feel speaks more eloquently of the tremendous work that is being done there for the love of God, for these thirty two delightful little ones. 

DSCN0998

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Tuesday

There are three "Meherazad days" for the pilgrims, Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday... there may be others, but this much is certain. Since we had to fly on Thursday back to New Delhi, this was my last opportunity to visit Meherazad on this trip. I went without mom and sister, who managed to find their own way back to the Ahmednagar bazaar. On the bus I realized that I can't go to Meherazad, as I had made a date to meet with the builder at Meherabad, about a house that my friend Julie is trying to build there, with me as a potential future roommate. That is a long story, but what happened is that I decided to "strike a match" to that plan, and just try to call him and tell him that I will be back after Meherazad, which is more important to me. I hate to stand anyone up ever, yet I somehow manage to do this about once a year, totally unintentionally of course. I saw Gary Kleiner (the Meherabad Meister Supreme) on the bus, and asked him if I could make an emergency cell phone call to Sharad, about my spaced out plan to go to Meherazad at the same time as our appointment. We tried, multiple times, no service, or when we did connect, we had about three static-filled seconds to convey a complex message. Hopeless, as my friend Don Stevens would say.

 When I arrived at Mandali Hall, there were film cameras, and a seat set up for a speaker, which I guessed would be Tex Hightower, a close student of the famous ballet teacher Margaret Craske, who was a close Western disciple of Meher Baba's. Of course, Tex had a story of meeting Baba in Myrtle Beach in 1952, and the details are quite dramatic, to say the least. If you haven't heard his story, find him and ask him, you won't be disappointed!

 In any case, I sat there, next to sweet Devana Brown and we laughed a lot listening to Tex's amazing stories, his early life at Jacob's Pillow (See www.jacobspillow.org where he met Ms. Craske, as he refers to her)...  and on to the life ahead with Baba. I had my notebook with me, and took some notes. One of my favorite things Tex said was that he realized during this period of meeting Baba that, "Silence is not just the absence of sound, it is the presence of silence."  He also related that Kitty Davy said to him in Myrtle Beach in 1952, on Saturday (presumably just before he met Baba personally) "It doesn't matter how you take Baba, just take Him!"

 When he got to the part of the story where he ascended the steps to the "Lagoon Cabin" at the Meher Spiritual Center, with Baba awaiting him inside, and his divine experience within that small sacred place with the Divine Beloved, something inside me melted, like a fuse that blows, and I just started to weep, and weep. Devana reached a tissue back to me, and somehow that helped ground me, and bring me back from wherever I was with Baba. Wow.

 I stumbled out of Mandali Hall and on to the bus... the trip went fast for some reason, and as I made my way towards the pilgrim retreat, there was a worker holding a sign that there was a phone call for me. I knew it was my missed date. I called him and we agreed to meet immediately. He showed me the land Julie had purchased, and the construction site for the JessicaFlint home, and the other lots and who we could expect to move there, etc. I asked a lot of practical questions, took a lot of notes, and all in all, I accomplished what I needed to for this building project... and then was happy to move on to another part of the day.

 We had a date to have tea with Amrit and Dara, a most special couple, and kin to Baba and so we delighted to share some time with them at their new home at Meherabad.

 We went from there directly to see Christine and Martin, to whom I had been introduced by Don on a previous visit. They also had moved to Meherabad, and we were happy to wind down the evening with a glass of actual wine. Thank you dear friends.

 I believe this was the night that one of Rose's friends, a stunningly graceful and vibrant fellow named Neema played for us on his Daff, a sort of drum with a metal beaded thing that resonates at another level, giving it a sound of terrific depth. While playing he would sing in Farsi, different lines from the poets, or Masters, and the whole effect was actually quite intoxicating. I loved listening to him.

Wednesday

This was our last day at Meherabad. I know at least two things happened, because I wrote them down (and dated them)!  I had gone to the morning arti, when Baba's lovers not only bow down to Baba, and surrender themselves to Him, but they delight in singing their hearts out to Baba on the porch in front of his grave. That morning, my old friend Elaine sang a ghazal that Meher Baba had composed himself, and so I was tremendously happy at hearing my Divine Master's words, and when I saw her again at breakfast, I asked if I could please copy down the translation which she had read out before singing it to Baba... She agreed, and here is a version of Baba's ghazal, based on what Elaine allowed me to copy from her sacred notebook.

 The ghazal has no title:

Baba Big AncientOne

When in my heart I saw the form of my Beloved,

Wherever my glance fell I only saw God Almighty.

He is that matchless one that appears in matchless forms.

I myself saw that unknown one manifested in thousands of forms.

Not only this entire material world,

but my honor and my religion I sacrifice to Thee.

My heart and the richest blood in my body, my very soul and the life of my soul,

And everything else within me I scatter at Your Feet.

I believe it was early this afternoon when I bumped into dear Eric Solibakke, an American poet who lives in Oslo, Norway, and now also Meherabad. I love this man! He makes my wearing purple pants look like a pin striped suit. His colorful attire, and soulful countenance makes my day brighter whenever I come into his gentle contact. We spoke about many things that afternoon, including the Perfect Master of Greece, the role of intuition, and many other uplifting subjects. Later, he also handed me a printed paper, this one contained Baba's holy words from a discourse that reminded Eric of our conversation regarding intuition. I record here below what Eric printed for me, as it is a pivotal part of that discourse, The Place of Occultism in the Spiritual Life: Part II (6^th edition) p.97-98. Compare this to what Baba's ghazal says above, it is fascinating how everything is interlinked:

"Once the aspirant has the bliss of the darshana of a Master, that sight gets carved on his mind, and even when he is unable to establish frequent personal contact, his mind turns to the Master again and again in an effort to understand His significance.

"This process of establishing mental contact with the Master is essentially different from merely imaginative revival of past incidents. In the ordinary play of imagination, the recall of past incidents is not necessarily animated by a definite purpose, whereas in establishing mental contact there is a definite purpose. Owing to the directive power of purpose, imagination ceases to be a mere revolving of ideas and reaches out to the Master through the inner planes and establishes contact with him.

"Such mental contact with the Master is often as fruitful and effective as his physical darshana. The inward repetition of such mental contacts is like constructing a channel between Master and aspirant, who becomes thereby the recipient of the grace, love and light which are constantly flowing from the Master in spite of the apparent distance between them. Thus, the help of the Master goes out not only to those who happen to be in his physical presence but also to others who establish mental contact with him."

After such a full and rich day, I had to end it with a visit to Baba's blessed Samadhi, our last chance before an early morning departure. What can be said about the love that flows between the lover and the Beloved?

"Things that are real are given and received in silence."