Forget-Me-Nots

Birch and Pine Whisper His Name - A Tribute to Sri Sathya Sai Baba

Chapter 63

RETURN TO MUSKOKA

Looking out the window of my front parlour I see tall trees tossing in sunlight, and verdant grass. Many of the houses in our part of Gravenhurst are simple white clapboard, like ours, set back from the street, without a fence to separate one lawn from another. After many rootless years I appreciate this parklike setting, mid-way between the Equator and the North Pole.

Sometime in the 1880s this house began its existence as a rough cabin on the Sand Barrens at the edge of The Common, once a thick forest. A few towering trees remain to line our streets and preside over our gardens. Five minutes’ walk west along Winewood Avenue will take us to Lookout Park and its playground for grandchildren.

Just up an incline, granite cliffs overlook Lake Muskoka and its harbour for the steamship RMS “Segwun”. From any vantage point along the shoreline we can wave at her as she puffs past. Chances are she’ll see us and hoot gruffly back.

On a bright autumn evening last October, the roles were reversed. As the “Segwun”  steamed into port after a four-hour cruise, she saluted a family group waving wildly from the cliffs near the former prison camp. From the deck of the Royal Mail Ship, I waved back at my daughter, standing with friends and family on the rocky shore.

Once a year, early in August, we follow the road around the harbour, and turn in to the North Muldrew Lake Road. The annual Singsong on Pine Island is just a short boat ride away. Cousins and old friends meet over the same song collection in use for more than seventy-five years, adding new favourites, song by song, year by year. Uncle Jack’s memory lives in the voices of his descendants, as every summer the young families ask eagerly, “When’s the Sing Song this year?”

Muskoka has not lifted the spell it wove over me half a century ago. That spell I trace back to my nearest and dearest Friend. I believe it is thanks to him that I was born into a family where we appreciated the beauty of nature, music, poetry and painting. By his grace we were able to retreat to our cabins on pine-crowned islands in summers.

I am convinced that if it were not for Sathya Sai Baba, of India, I would not be here now, in this land of  “blue lake and rocky shore”. I firmly believe that this Friend has always been watching over me as director and stage-manager of my life’s play, then as prompter, counselor and coach - a loving presence that I have come to call upon at any time or place.

Except in certain Muskoka circles I tend to keep my belief in Sathya Sai Baba’s divinity confined to a self-made spiritual closet, as if his existence were supposed to be a secret. His portrait watches over our tiny entrance hall and can be seen by anyone. Few enquire who he is. 

Writing this book has reminded me of nearly forgotten blessings - like the incredible picture of my daughter that Sai Baba projected in a “innerview” of early 1982. At a period when Mary was a young, rebellious teenager in scowling “punk” array, it was all too hard to believe what Swami was showing me on His inner “television”, although the picture was clear enough - a smiling Mary with long, rich brown hair, her long white gown patterned with colourful sprays of meadow flowers. 

In October, 2002, I saw this picture unfold with my own eyes in woods near our home. In case I did not believe that evidence, a photograph reminds me daily, with my own witnessing face in the background.

Under a canopy of golden maple foliage, arm in arm with her beaming father, a radiant Mary in cream silk and white organdie walks along a woodland path toward her bridegroom, waiting on the knoll where they first met. Flowers like those in Swami’s vision are gathered into her bridal bouquet, and crown her long chestnut locks.

When I was in doubt about writing these memoirs, Sai Baba intervened, showing me in meditation a woodland path. We strolled along until he stopped to point out clusters of tiny blue flowers, low to the ground.  Looking closer, I recognized them as forget-me-nots.

Christmas at Brindavan, December, 1977

The ashram without the excitement of Baba’s physical presence was a restful place to be, and yet...  no one could be certain where Baba would celebrate Christmas. I hoped he would return to Prasanthi Nilayam, but He showed no signs of doing so. If I did not receive a cheque that could be cashed right away, I would miss Christmas with the Avatar. The family from Mayalsia who had befriended me before the Birthday returned to the ashram, full of stories about their experiences at Brindavan.

On 21 December my cheque came through, and my adopted family invited me to return to Bangalore with them the following day, to stay at their hotel, a clean, simple and inexpensive one near the bus terminus. A few steps away was Bus 19, to take us to Whitefield for a fraction of the cost of a taxi. After a day of banking and other business, I was free to make the most of the “season to be jolly”.

There was no time or reason to get nostalgic about the Christmases I used to have when young, when Uncle Jack was still alive, and leading the family in those tuneful evenings with the Oxford Book of Carols. None of that crossed my mind as Bus 19 bowled along the crowded streets toward morning darshan at Brindavan on 24 December. 

At Swami’s ashram near Whitefield, the college for men boasted a magnificent new student residence, but offered no official accommodation for others. People stayed in hotels in Bangalore or rented rooms in private homes around the ashram and college. There was no canteen, or place to take a siesta between morning and afternoon darshans. Leery of the local eateries near Whitefield, as well as of the water, I confined my diet to curds and bananas, with one main meal at the Woodlands when possible. During the festive season, however, other possibilities materialized. 

Morning darshan of 24 December was truly blissful for us, and showed how lovingly efficient Swami can be. I wondered how He was going to be able to sign a picture for Paul, take my Christmas letter and bless a few trinkets. He did all of this, and more. I was able to touch His Foot, as did also my friend, Shanti, from Malaysia. People told us afterward that He held His Hand over each of us, blessing us as we touched His Feet.

After darshan, Shanti met some friends who invited us to spend the night in their rented rooms across from the main ashram gate. The invitation to a sleepover would have been irresistible, if I had not been very conscious of appearing on Christmas morning in a wilted cotton voile sari of the day before. This objection was quickly overruled by a majestic lady who decided she would lend me a green silk sari of her own for the festive day, and let no more be said.

Meanwhile I was to celebrate Christmas Eve with my new-found friends. After a delectable meal, we had a singsong of carols led by me and Hindi bhajans animated by two ladies with enchanting voices. Pausing for breath, we beamed around the circle at each other. This was apparently the moment that one of the ladies had been waiting for. “Do you know the song called ‘Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer’?”

South India in the late seventies was the last place where I expected that glowing nose to guide those drumming hoofbeats. I had to face up to it, and admit I did indeed know Rudolph, suppressing a private groan. “You do?! Oh, then please sing it for us.”

The ladies were all looking at me so expectantly that I obliged, with good grace. My audience enjoyed “Rudolph”, and so, to my amazement, did I. And that, dear grandchildren, is how, on Christmas Eve, 1977, Rudolph and I were as good as reconciled.

And a good thing too. Fifty years after hitting the top of the charts, the red-nosed reindeer shows no signs of retiring. My little grandson’s favourite video - and, by extension, my favourite baby-sitter - is none other than Rudolph.

After a night of snug sleeping, I felt rested, although we were lying on the floor like sardines; when one of us turned over, we all had to. I have only a dim memory of getting up for Nagarsankirtan, singing carols in the streets and waiting for Baba to appear on His balcony, as we sang: “Joy to the word, the Lord is come ...” I noted in my diary that a lady from Mexico saw a magnificent halo of light around Baba.

Back at my overnight hostess’s place, a glamorous green silk sari was ready for me. I had a quick bucket bath before putting it on, but scandalized the others by skipping what was apparently a ritual shampoo.  “It’s your feast, and you don’t start it off with clean hair?!”

I tried to shrug them off with a remark about dust from the road clinging to damp hair, but I could see they were disappointed in me. Then came the gifts - a miniature wooden shrine from my hostess, with a figure of Krishna in it. A necklace of gold and black beads, from Shanti, blessed by Baba the day before. On the way to darshan I bought a fine poster-sized photo combining Sai and Krishna, which I got Baba to bless for Mrs. Gupta, my hostess.

As we got ready for darshan, volunteers were taking down names on a list for Christmas supper with Baba. Was my name on it? No answer. Ask Swami, they suggested. Soon He came out of His residence behind the inner gates. When He arrived in front of me, I asked anxiously, “May I come to supper, Swami?”

“Yes, yes. Go! Quickly.” He waved us toward the inner gate. It was an interview! Next thing we knew, there were about fifty of us gathered in a large room inside, about to witness a wedding.

As soon as the bride arrived dressed in the traditional red bridal silk, looking properly pale, Baba gave her a green wedding sari to wear. She was whisked away to put on this treasure, which brought out her blonde loveliness even better than had the original bright red silk. While we were waiting for the bride to change her outfit, Baba appointed a young Indian lady as His interpreter.

Now, this is something that has mystified me ever since. I wish someone else who was there would verify for me what earthly language Baba was using, in addition to the Language of the Heart. To me, He seemed to be speaking in English, which the lady paraphrased into different words, still in English. She got the meaning exactly right. I was puzzled, but too intent on following the message to analyze anything. I assumed that Baba was giving the lady a trial run at translating because she was shy, and needed practice in standing up in front of people beside the Avatar.

I am no longer sure that is what happened. I would not be the first person to hear Baba’s message in my native tongue while He was delivering it in quite another language. He is reported to have spoken to a couple in Hindi and been heard in Oriya by a companion who spoke no Hindi. The late Ron Lang reported understanding in perfect English a discourse of Baba, only to discover afterward that it had been in a local language of India.

The only other person that I know of who has reported on this wedding and discourse has given its date as the day after Christmas, 1977. But that is a minor detail, and could have been a typing error. The rest of the account tallies perfectly with what I remember.

Baba materialized a gold pendant set with pearls and rubies for the groom to put around the neck of the bride. Pearls, he said, are calm and gentle, like the woman, while rubies are full of strong emotion, like the man. Mix the colours red and white, and you get pink, the colour of love. A couple must seek understanding, rather than mere adjustment, face challenges together. When he has a problem, she will think, “We have a problem,” and when she is sad or happy, he will share in her feelings. Milk and sugar mixed together make one gentle taste which is better than either one separately.

In the midst of Swami’s discourse, a child at the back of the room began to whimper. Baba took a banana from the bowl of fruit at His side, and tossed it over our heads to the mother, who pacified her infant with sweet mouthfuls. He had to do this twice during the course of the large group interview - for that is what it was. With each banana, Baby calmed down.

We sang carols and bhajans, Swami singing one in English. Then we wished each other “Merry Christmas” and Swami invited us all to supper - or tea, he added, for the Australians.

On Christmas evening, 1977, we crowded into a large hall in the student residence for Christmas supper, a divinely delicious meal which Swami barely touched. We gazed in awe at the mighty evergreen, all alight and delightfully decorated, while Swami gave a short discourse on the spirit of Christmas. Paul’s letter, written the following day, reflects that message.

Sometimes I wonder if Christmas is not more a pagan than a Christian feast. The orgies of the commercialization of the month of December are taking away all the sacredness of the celebrations of Christ’s birthday. It is a time to do something special, and I have certainly appreciated better some of the TV programmes than the orgies of food! ... We also had a Provençal Christmas and the Messiah, and a Suzuki violin programme. But I am not telling you this so you could feel you have missed something, because I believe where you are you miss nothing. In other words, we have all the materialistic desires and wants and comforts, but lack the Principal!....

I loved your letter to Mary and the picture of yourself in the shrine overlooking the beautiful River Chittravati. Well, if all the dreams and visions I have had are not the product of a sick imagination and subconscious, I strongly suspect that the Chitravati is my “Beautiful Valley” and the shrine is the cave where we were both of us before going to the provincial park [in my dream]. Strange, isn’t it? Is there somewhere around you a Bus 19? That was in a dream of mine too. And what about a kind of stair in the rock going down from the top of a hill?...

I have been asked many times what you were doing now, and always answer you will tell all about your work when you come back. Mary knows very well how to keep her mouth shut about you and Sai Baba!

I love to know you are at Prasanthi and think often about it. Love, Paul