FESTIVALS

By early October, 1977, the ashram was beginning to fill up, in anticipation of the nine-day festival dedicated to the Divine in its female aspects. Dasara or Navarathri is then followed by Vijaya Dashmi, the Day of Victory. A heaven-sent opportunity to observe a Hindu tradition presided over by one who encourages all of us to embrace our own faith fully. Christians, Jews, Jains, Buddhists, animists, humanists and the unaffiliated are all welcome to all festivals in Prashanthi Nilayam.

From the balcony outside my room in South Prashanthi, I had a panoramic view. In the foreground, from a pool with lotus flowers rose a great pillar symbolic of all world religions. Directly across from me was the Poornachandra Hall with a frieze just under its roof of the dancing Shiva. To my right, the mandir, or temple. To my left the blocks of flats called West Prashanthi. All this on a distant backdrop of hills lining the far horizon.

One morning before the Dasara festival, wild, triumphant music drew me out onto the balcony. I could not see the musicians, playing on the front verandah of the temple. Their joyous fanfares made perfect background music for the scene before me - crowds in colourful dress milling about as if they were extras in one of those Cecil B. De Mille biblical films.

Men in white wearing the scarves of volunteers were unrolling a large carpet in brilliant hues on the sand. When Baba himself appeared in the doorway of the Poornachandra Hall, I took from a distance my first photo of him. Then I watched while he walked slowly toward the temple, nodding to people in the crowd, blessing some, taking letters. My first festival was under way.

Afterward I wrote to my husband:

Prasanthi Nilayam, Oct. 15/77

Dear Paul,
         
We foreigners are now lodged in the High School during the nine-day festival. We had to vacate our VIP quarters for this occasion. It means a walk of about 10 min through part of the village, then countryside. A nice change, though abrupt ...

Many of us come here to find out what next, having reached some sort of impasse. A surprising number have no address, yet are far from hippies. We are not alone. I shouldn’t be surprised if, even if you are having difficulties, Baba’s grace is pouring on you.

Yesterday at 2 a.m. one of the girls in our dormitory was awake, and saw Baba in His orange robe. He came from near the windows, walked across the room and stood looking around at each of us for a full minute. She tried to wake someone up, but we were sound asleep. Then Baba came over near her, and she whispered, “Sai Ram!” and He disappeared.

Some of the foreign men were cleaning up the football field today, gathering up the banana leaf plates from a massive feeding of the poor yesterday. There must have been at least a thousand, sitting in orderly rows all across the field, while volunteers with buckets of food went down the rows, with Baba himself supervising and playing host.
Love, Helen

Prashanthi Nilayam, Oct. 25, 1977

Dear Paul,
We have gotten through the crowded, exciting, colourful Dasara festival. Moved to the High School, we foreigners felt rejected at first, until one of the girls, unable to sleep at night, saw Baba watching over us. The poor-feeding at the High School was very orderly, but not the distribution of clothing. That sounded like a riot. The grounds were a seething mass of people and the noise was indescribable. Standing sturdily on the porch were one male volunteer and his young son, all in white, each armed with a long stick, which they did not use. The hubbub died down just in time for us to get out to the afternoon meeting in the ashram.

At last I saw Baba materialize something - a gold chain and medallion for the priest’s wife, who presided over the ceremonies. Also earrings for an elderly holy man; He pierced the man’s ears as He put them in. He washed the statue of Shirdi Baba with ghee, milk, water and holy ash. This last came out of an empty jar held over the statue by Dr. Kasturi. When Baba put His hand in the upturned jar, ash flowed. When He took His hand away, the flow stopped. He also materialized the traditional nine gems just before throwing them into the sacrificial fire that burned on stage throughout the festival, all nine days of it.

On the tenth day, the Day of Victory, we foreign ladies wore the saris that Baba gave to us. Mine is deep violet, with gold embroidery around the hem and shoulder-covering part. They are made of fine cotton voile. He chose colours to suit each of us, and He teased me by fluttering His hand over the pink ones, while I silently begged Him, “Please, Swami, anything but pink. You know Paul doesn’t like to see me in that colour.” Then He threw this gorgeous purple sari in my lap, almost defiantly, as if to say, “Bet you never thought of that colour!”

Your Oct. 20 letter just came ...  Love, Helen