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Meeting the Great Master, Babaji

Almora, 3 April 1972

This morning we reached Almora, after another interminably long journey. It's a mountain town, at an altitude of about I800 metres, but the weather is not cold as it would be in the European mountains. The bazaar is filthy, the hotel squalid and it's really difficult for me to drink or eat anything in the small, dirty restaurants that are here. I did not expect to see such poverty, the poorly constructed wooden buildings rotting. Also the hotel is full of fleas, biting us all night; it is terrible.

The mornings are chilly and the water in the shower is freezing. It has all been a very great surprise to me because they had told me it was an idyllic place.

5 April 1972

We are now living in a house in the forest, rented by Shanti and his friends, the 'Rainbow Gypsies'. It is a much more pleasant place to be and the landscape around here is extremely beautiful. Nevertheless it's still uncomfortable and inconvenient; there is no running water, no electricity and no toilets. I have taken on the duty of cooking and washing up the pots and plates, because I feel it is good for me, but I find it extremely tiring doing everything squatting down on the earth the way the Indian people do. They have such agile and supple bodies and are used to working all their lives in this way. Although I admire them, trying to work like this makes me feel awkward and clumsy, but at this moment in time I feel I have to learn to do something for others and be of service.

The 'Rainbow Gypsies' are such lovely people and the two young American men from California who I met in Bombay are here as well with their girlfriends, together with a collection of other people from different parts of the world. Every morning Rosa, the young Italian woman, teaches us some yoga postures to help us become more supple: she moves like a dancer.

Most of the time our diet consists of rice and vegetables and we all eat together sitting on the floor. Shanti helps me a great deal, translating for me and patiently explaining all about the Indian tradition. He takes me around with him and I feel that he is a teacher for me. Daniel often sings some very moving songs accompanying himself on his guitar and I especially love the words of one song: 'We are One, for a universe of love.'

I am slowly getting used to this new rhythm of life and to the simple practical things that need to be done: cooking, washing clothes, cleaning, or just sitting to admire the majestic valley, the green hills and the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas in the distance. At night the weather turns cold and we all sleep together, close to each other on the floor of one room.

Shanti invites me to accompany him when he visits some of the Indian families he knows in Almora. He introduces me to them with pride, explaining that I am a doctor of philosophy and that my mother is a member of the Italian parliament; it seems that these things are very important in India.

When I see the village women walking along the streets in their long, green skirts, with bundles of grass on their heads, I feel strangely at home, as if I have already seen all this somewhere before.

10 April 1972

Shanti explains to me something of the complicated religious Indian pantheon, but adds that the science of yoga is something different again, it's the knowledge of oneself, an inner discovery. Today I accompanied him on a visit to Tara Devi, an elderly American lady, who has lived in Almora for the last twenty years.

She has invited us to go down-town with her to meet an Indian saint, Babaji, who is supposed to be the present incarnation of another famous yogi from the past, Hairakhan Baba. She tells us that Babaji has overcome death and rejuvenated His body, appearing to be about twenty when in reality He is one hundred and thirty years old. What is more, He exists without eating anything or sleeping: can this be true? I begin to be curious about Him. She says that Babaji had asked her to invite all of the Western people she knows in Almora to come and meet Him, because He is looking for someone amongst them who is His disciple from a previous life. Shanti makes a joke and suggests that maybe I am that person.

The other day, looking at the palms of my hands, he told me that I have the lines of a yogini, the same lines that he has, three united together, which signifies the union of heart and mind. He also said that he feels I am a person who may spend a long time in India, but who can tell if all this is true; sometimes I am very sceptical.

15 April 1972

Today we have been to Almora, to meet Babaji. There were some other Westerners present together with certain important spiritual teachers who live around here: Shunia Baba and Guru Lama, a Tibetan. I must confess that my first thought on seeing Him, with His long, black hair down onto His shoulders, made Him look like a hippie, someone very familiar, one of our tribe, a prophet, an angel of the new world sent here for us.

As soon as I entered the exceedingly crowded room I immediately noticed Him, seated on a raised dais, dressed in white, immobile like a statue. I was enchanted as I watched Him. He is extremely beautiful, radiant like an ancient Christ-like figure, very serious, severe, with sharp, dark, powerful, penetrating eyes. I started to look into His eyes and felt myself becoming hypnotized to such an extent that I began to be afraid of His power. Then suddenly I observed Him lowering His eyes, with such humility and an incredible tenderness. For two, maybe three hours I looked at Him continually, as if magnetized, just like the rest of the people in the room.

Many of those present continued singing religious songs the whole time without any interruption, accompanied by the Indian harmonium and hand cymbals. At one point people began to stand in a queue in order to pranam, to bow down at His feet. Every time a person bowed to Him, Babaji raised His hand in blessing, slightly smiling with compassion. I didn't feel that I wanted to go and pranam to Him, I just sat there staring at His beautiful, perfect form, absolutely still, as if He is not even breathing, like a statue. He doesn't speak, doesn't move, He just looks into everybody's eyes. I have the uneasy feeling that He can read my thoughts, see what I'm thinking, see into my mind, as if He is capable of telepathic communication with me. Silently I spoke to Him inside my heart: 'Please give me the truth.'

Later on, Babaji stood up to leave in order to go to His room. He moves in a fascinating way, like a panther, swift, powerful, precise, with long, slender, brown legs and bare-footed. They called Shanti and myself into the room where He was and with a little reluctance I hesitantly pranamed to Him for the first time. Babaji asked which country I came from and gave me a radiant smile; I felt as if I had received a severe electrical shock, as if struck by a wave of luminous light, and a voice inside me told me that I would see Him again.

I went back to the house where we were staying, deeply affected by this encounter. Even Shanti, who has already met many gurus, also noticed the especial beauty and purity of this Being.

16 April 1972

Last night I had a dream. I was in a dark, deep forest and suddenly Babaji appeared, emerging out of an intense light, surrounded by some disciples. He walked with the help of a stick and He told me: 'I am your guru.'

'What will You teach me?' I asked Him and He replied: 'To wash dishes well.'

I woke up deeply impressed because His message is very clear to me: the importance of learning to accomplish simple, humble tasks, useful to other people. In the past, in the life of our community in Milan, we were continually faced with this problem, nobody wanted to do the washing-up or carry out the simple jobs. People always left dirty plates and other things lying around, out of selfishness, laziness or egotism. I know that it is necessary for me to work through these problems. When I told Shanti about my dream he proposed that I go and visit Babaji where He lives, at His ashram in Hairakhan, and to speak to Tara Devi about it.

Babaji 1972

23 April 1972

We saw Tara Devi, the American woman, and asked her if we could join her on her trip to Hairakhan. She looked me up and down and told me I needed to dress a little better and not to wear these hippie clothes; she added that she doesn't even know if women are welcomed by Babaji in His ashram, since He is a brahmachari, a celibate. Shanti also told me I must be especially careful with my female energy, because the Indian people can easily become hostile and would even kill a woman trying to seduce a brahmachari Baba. I am so surprised by this kind of talk, because to be quite honest sex is the last thing to come into my mind in the presence of somebody like Babaji.

Hairakhan, 26 April 1972

We reached Hairakhan yesterday after an exceedingly long walk and I am exhausted. There were five of us who travelled from Almora, Shanti and myself, a Danish man, an American, Tara Devi and also her Indian cook. We reached a certain point on the road and then began walking through the jungle. The journey seemed to go on for ever. We walked for six hours, barefoot on the hot stones, continuously criss-crossing the Gautam Ganga river, an interminable distance, carrying our luggage on our heads. On more than one occasion I thought that I'd not be able to make it, and because I'm afraid of feeling the cold I had also insisted on carrying a quilt on my head as well.

The jungle here is really charming, the water in the river so pure and transparent one can drink it. Then all of a sudden we caught a glimpse of a white temple on the top of a hill, Hairakhan, a small village, looking as if it belonged in a fairy tale. When we came closer to the temple, we saw Babaji dressed in white coming down the steep steps to welcome us. With great embarrassment I found myself to be the first in line. Babaji took me up the steps with Him and then around the temple in a circle, ringing all the bells. I had the impression I was enacting an ancient, forgotten ritual. Using Shanti as interpreter He asked me if I was a hippie and I answered, 'Yes,' with a certain pride. Then He wanted to know if I smoked dope and when I nodded He told me that here in Hairakhan it was strictly prohibited.

A few minutes later we were approached by an old sadhu called Prem Baba, who took me with him to smoke some hashish and he gave me something strange to eat as well. I sat on the outside wall feeling quite stoned, looking out onto the valley. It is a magnificent place, the landscape archaic and mysterious, the hills covered in terraces, fertile, green with crops and in the background the mountains are covered with pine trees. The movement of the river running through the valley sounds like an exquisite melody and a huge bodhi tree arching its branches down towards the sound completes the scene.

Everybody lives in the open under the trees, the only buildings are the temple and one small hut where Babaji lives, which is open on all sides and has a ceremonial fire-pit at its centre.

While I remained sitting on the perimeter wall, absorbed in my contemplation, Babaji came near me and taking a stone He drew the shape of a small temple on the ground, telling me just one word: 'Dio', God. I felt very embarrassed, since I am still quite an atheist and the idea of God remains difficult for me to accept. Babaji motioned for me to sit with Him in His hut, His dhuni, and said to me in English: 'God is love.' The concept of love is maybe easier for me to accept. His eyes were deep and shining, luminous and He gave me an orange and some nuts to eat. In the evening the people gave us chapatis and a large quantity of halva, a delicious sweetmeat, to eat for our meal.

The temple in Hairakhan

27 April 1972

Yesterday afternoon some of the Indian people wanted to serve us tea, but Babaji shouted that tea is poison and is not permitted in the temple.

I find myself looking at Him all the time, but there remain doubts in my mind and I analyse all His movements, largely because He seldom speaks. He has a magnetic energy, such perfect beauty and Shanti teases me, suggesting that I am merely attracted by His physical presence, but it's not that at all: I feel overcome by a powerful psychic wave, a vibrating light. Sometimes I am afraid of being hypnotized, at other times I receive a deep, exquisite energy within my heart that is overwhelming.

Today, while we were sitting in the dhuni around the sacred fire, some of the village women arrived to visit Babaji. They are very colourful, wearing long, green skirts like myself and when they saw me they laughed. Babaji told them that my name is Lalli, which means 'little girl'. He asked me how old I was, I said twenty-six and He told me that I looked about fifteen.

In the evening, what I witnessed during the ceremony in the temple made a lasting impression on me. Babaji sat motionless, dressed in white, like an exquisite statue, while an Indian man began to sing and lifted a lighted lamp towards His face, which assumed a mysterious radiance. While praying in this way by waving the lamp the man started to cry and I could tell that he felt the presence of a Divine Being. Shanti has also been greatly moved by what he has seen, even if he tells me that I have to be careful not to be led astray by all these rituals.

Prem Baba, the old sadhu, invited us to sit with him around another fire, so that we could all sing together the mantra dedicated to Shiva, 'Om Namah Shivaya', and Shanti laughed at me, commenting that I have so easily become caught in the enchantment of the place. Some of the women were cooking chapatis, Indian bread, on a small improvised fire in the open and everything felt very simple and pure. Tonight we sleep within the temple area, looking up at the dark, tropical sky.

28 April 1972

This morning they woke us up at four o'clock, virtually still night-time. The air was chilly and I went down to bathe in the river. As I descended the steps I met Babaji, already coming back up. I jumped into the river, immersing myself in the cold water, under the bright stars. Later on I sat in a corner of the temple, thinking that I would like to continue being part of this magical story and follow Babaji, but that I would never dare to ask Him; just a few minutes later Babaji called me over to Him and asked me if I wanted to come with Him on a trip to Vrindavan, an extremely ancient city sacred to Lord Krishna. I am more than happy to go, even if I do feel scared about being all on my own and travelling alone, leaving behind Shanti and my friends. First though I must return to Almora to collect my money and my passport. Shanti is a little perplexed by my enthusiasm for Babaji, but I am really fascinated by Him and start thinking that maybe He is my guru.

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Vrindavan

Haldwani, 4 May 1972

I am waiting for the train that will take me to Vrindavan. It's the first time I am travelling alone in India, but I have noticed that in the main Indian people are kind and willing to help those of us travelling in their country.

On leaving Almora this morning I observed myself walking barefoot down the road lined with pine trees, dressed in white, carrying a bundle of clothes on my head, all that I have; I possess very little money and no return ticket. For the very first time I really feel alone, 'on the road' in India, going to a guru. It feels like a dream.

Vrindavan, 6 May 1972

I am in Vrindavan and the city is charming, a remarkable place, reminiscent of an image from the pages of a fable. I arrived yesterday by train, which stopped continually on the journey here. Then I travelled by rickshaw through the small streets of the city, nothing less than a vision of paradise to me, remote but somehow known already from some past existence. The houses are all old-fashioned and artistically decorated, with tiny, narrow streets and small, colourful shops selling fruits, sweets and clothes. The people are joyful here, always greeting me with big smiles. Everywhere there are exceedingly ancient temples, thousands of years old, resounding with songs and Sanskrit prayers. Many sadhus, saints and women dressed in white walk around the city in a continual state of prayer, everything existing in an atmosphere that seems timeless.

When I entered Babaji's temple, I caught sight of Him immediately, seated on His dais, dressed in white, always so beautiful, unreal, etheric, radiant. He called an Indian man over and told me to accompany him to the bazaar to drink a large glass of milk taken from a huge terracotta vessel. I am amazed to be in such a wonderful place and I don't feel afraid any more, I feel secure, embraced by Babaji's love and the warmth of the people around me.

In the evening, when I sit in the temple, the Indian women and the children come up close to me and appraise me with great curiosity. They look at me, touch me, they caress me, admire me: to them I am the woman with a white skin and they make me feel very beautiful. Babaji called me over and told me that my name is Kali, the warrioress, the Black Goddess, but then immediately afterwards He changed His mind and said with tenderness: 'No, your name is Gora Devi,' which means, they told me later, the White Goddess.

I am particularly moved by the music and the songs, by Babaji's splendour and the devotion of the Indian people. They stand in a long queue holding garlands of flowers in their hands as an offering, then place them around His neck before they pranam to Him and receive a gesture from Him, a smile, a word or some prasad, blessed food.

I also stand in line and I feel extremely emotional just by coming in close proximity to Him. An energy of great intensity emanates from Him and I experience an incredible sensation, sensing as well that He can read all my thoughts. His eyes are magnetic, shining, full of love, strength and knowledge. I never become tired of looking at Him and notice that everybody else does the same. For two or three hours Babaji continues to sit virtually motionless. He doesn't speak, doesn't do anything, He just makes Himself visible for us to contemplate and adore; He gives darshan, which Indian people explain to me as being a vision of the Divine in a human form.

The impact of this experience touches everybody in an intimate way; I can see it in people's eyes and from the energy in the temple. People sing continuously, sometimes Babaji's mantra, 'Om Namah Shivaya', sometimes other devotional songs, until late in the evening.

At night we sleep on the roof of a small building constructed next to the temple, lying on a straw mat, the place surrounded by monkeys. It is still dark when we are woken up at four o'clock in the morning as devotional chants begin resounding from all of the temples in the city, more than seven hundred of them. After a shower I meditate in a corner for a short while, then we go to the temple for the aarati, morning prayers. We wait with trepidation for Babaji's arrival, for Him to emerge from His room and be seated on the modest dais prepared for Him. The temple is extremely clean, full of flowers and smelling of sweet incense.

We don't have breakfast or dinner, only a large lunch, as well as pieces of halva and fruit that are distributed during the day. Some people continue singing until late in the morning, other people work, either cleaning, washing, cooking or carrying drinking water from the well that is situated in the square opposite the temple. Babaji often speaks with individual people, just a few words here and there, very quietly, softly. After lunch everybody has a short afternoon nap and at about five o'clock we bathe and meet again in the temple, in order to clean and prepare everything for the evening worship.

In the afternoon many people choose to go to the river to bathe, in the Jamuna, a river sacred to Lord Krishna. In the evening the aarati ceremony is performed again and afterwards people sing until late in the night, beautiful, sweet songs. I don't understand the meaning of the words, but I surrender to the melody, to the feeling of a divine dimension.

It's tremendously difficult for me to adjust to the daily routine and to the strict discipline, to the Indian capacity for hard work, particularly because the weather is extremely hot and it makes me feel tired. The month of May is torrid in India, an especially oppressive time of the year and I often escape to the bazaar to find something cool to drink, even if I know that Babaji doesn't approve of it.

Babaji - '...dressed in white, always so beautiful, unreal, etheric, radiant.'

15 May 1972

I am beginning to find it difficult to withstand the way of life here. The daily routine is tiring, monotonous and some of the young Indian men are very brusque and treat me badly, they don't allow me to work with them and they treat me as if I am a stranger. Babaji always fascinates me, but even He keeps me at a distance, is unapproachable. It is almost impossible to communicate with anybody, since I don't know Hindi and can speak only a few words of English.

In this intense heat I always feel thirsty but the water from the well is tepid and a little salty; it does not quench my thirst. When I bathe in the river, which is cloudy and muddy, it leaves me with a strange sensation and I don't really feel clean after washing. In the morning I have to wait in a queue for an interminable length of time in order to be able to take a shower in the guest­house. In the evening in the temple, everybody is sweating, the temperature rises to more than 40 degrees centigrade, it's sweltering but Babaji seems totally indifferent, not sweating Himself.

In Vrindavan there are hundreds of ageing widows all dressed in white saris, who live all together in various temples. They pray continuously, accompanied by the sound of small cymbals and other instruments. Some of the old women are extremely poor, their saris white-grey, and they ask for alms. It reminds me of a scene from Dante's Purgatory. People explain to me that in India a widow cannot marry a second time; she has to renounce the world, she loses her home, her possessions and spends the rest of her life in prayer. It seems extremely cruel to me and ironically I remember the women's liberation movement in the West. I start to feel restless and a strong sense of nostalgia arises in me to see my Western friends again in Delhi; I ask Babaji if I can go away for a while and He allows me to leave.

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