Sai Baba Of India - Selections from Man of Miracles

"Truth is always strange, stranger than fiction. Lord Byron"
"I first heard the name Satya Sai Baba from a wandering yogi. He had not himself met this holy man, he said, nor been to his ashram at a village called Puttaparti. This, he had heard, was a difficult place to reach, being in the wilds of the interior: one had to do the last part of the journey by bullock cart or on foot over rough tracks. Still, the Swami was no doubt worth the effort, the yogi thought, if I had time and was interested in phenomena. He was known to have siddhis, to be a great miracle-worker.

"What kind of miracle"? I asked.

"Well, it's said that he can, for instance, produce objects from nowhere. Of course, there are other men to be found who have some of the siddhis: they can do a few supernormal feats, but from reports Sai Baba's powers are much greater. And he performs miracles frequently. Anyone can see them."

Such talk certainly aroused my interest and curiosity. I had heard (who has not?) that India was the crucible of wonder-workers. I had read of the great adepts, occultists, saints, of the past who knew Nature's inner laws. But I half doubted their actual reality. And even if they did once exist, could they still be around?

This, I thought, might be my great chance to find out if the fantastic tales that have come out of India belong to the realm of fact or fiction. I decided that I must see Satya Sai Baba as soon as convenient. Later, when I heard that his followers regarded him as a reincarnation of Sai Baba of Shirdi, my desire to meet him became even stronger.

But the bullock-cart safari into the interior of south India would have to wait a little while. It sounded more than arduous, and we had recently discovered on our northern journey that ordinary travel in India saps one's vitality. On our return, we were glad to recuperate for a time in the tranquil tree-filled Theosophical Estate.

One day several months after our return a young pale-faced woman wearing the ochre-robe of a monk came on a visit to the Theosophical Headquarters. She was introduced to us by a mutual friend as Nirmalananda, and we took her to our sitting room for morning coffee. She told us that she was an American from Hollywood, an odd place of origin for an ascetic, we thought. "Nirmalananda", she said, was the Hindu name given her by Swami Sivananda when he initiated her into the monastic life. After he had died she left his ashram at Rishikesh and became a follower of Satya Sai Baba. At Puttaparti she had witnessed many wonderful miracles. Now Sai Baba was on a visit to Madras and she was one of a small party of disciples he had brought with him.

This seemed to be our golden opportunity. Iris was not feeling well enough to come, but Nirmalananda conducted me to the place where Sai Baba was staying. It was a pleasant house, standing behind lawns and flower gardens. Later I learned that it was the home of Mr. G. Venkateshwara Rao, the mica magnate who was also a devotee of Sai Baba. The lawns and pathways in front of the house were covered with people sitting quietly cross-legged on the ground - white-clad men to one side and women in saris like bright-coloured flowers to the other. There were hundreds of them, obviously waiting for a sight of the great man.

Nirmalananda led me through the crowd to the front verandah and there introduced me to a pleasant, red-haired American named Bob Raymer.

"I think Sai Baba has finished interviews for the morning, but I'll go and find out," he said.

He took me into a small sitting-room and left me there. Nirmalananda had already gone off somewhere. In the room were only two Indian men, both standing and apparently waiting for someone. I also stood waiting.

After a few minutes the door from the interior of the house opened and there entered a man the like of whom I have never seen before nor since. He was slight and short. He wore a red silk robe that fell in a straight line from shoulders to feet. His hair stood up from his head in a big circular mop, jet black, crinkly, to the roots like wool, and seemingly vibrant with life. His skin was light brown but seemed darker because of the thick beard which, though closely shaven, still showed black through the skin. His eyes were dark, soft and luminous, and his face beamed with some inner joy.

I had never seen a photograph of Sai Baba. Could this be he? I had expected someone tall and stately with a long black beard, and dressed in white robes. I had a preconceived image of what a great yogi or master should be like perhaps derived from early theosophical descriptions of the Masters.

He came swiftly and gracefully across the carpet towards me, showing white, even teeth in a friendly smile.

"Are you the man from Australia?" he asked.

"Yes." I replied.

Then he went to the Indians and began talking to them in Telugu. Presently I saw him wave his hand in the air, palm downwards in small circles, just as in childhood we used to wave our hands when pretending to perform some abracadabra magic.

When he turned the palm up it was full of fluffy ash, and he divided this among the two men. One of them could not contain his feelings; he began to sob. Sai Baba patted him on the shoulders and back, and spoke to him soothingly like a mother. I did not understand at the time that these were what are called bhakti tears - tears of overwhelming joy, gratitude and love. Later I heard that Baba had cured this man's son of some terrible disease, but as I did not check the story, I cannot vouch for it.

After a while the small figure turned to me again. Standing close in front of me, he began circling his hand again. This time I noticed he pulled his loose-fitting sleeve almost up to the elbow. Much later I learned the reason for this. In my mind was the suspicion that he might be doing conjuring tricks like a stage magician, perhaps bringing the ash out of his sleeve. Baba has no difficulty in reading minds and knew my suspicions. So he pulled his sleeve high to allay them.

When the mound of powdery ash appeared suddenly in his palm, he tipped it into mine. For a moment I stood there wondering what to do with it. Then a voice to my left said, "Eat it, it's good for your health." This was Bob Raymer who had just returned to the room.

I had never expected to eat ash and enjoy it, but this brand was fragrant and quite pleasant to the taste. Baba stood there watching me. Half-way through the strange snack I said to him:

"May I take some of this to my wife? She is not very well."

"Bring her here tomorrow at five o'clock," he replied, and then he was gone.

The next afternoon found Iris and myself at the same house. In the entrance we met Gabriela Steyer of Switzerland, one of the small western contingent in Baba's travelling party. She, very friendly and sympathetic, led us to an upstairs room where about a score of women, most of them Indian and all in saris, sat cross-legged on the carpet.

We sat down near them and Gabriela began to tell us about some of the miracles she had seen at Puttaparti. Taking out my notebook I asked her for the full address of the ashram and directions on how to get there. But at that moment Bob Raymer's wife, Markell, came up and said that Baba was on his way, and that I should go and sit on the other side of the room, the men's proper territory. The males now filled their area of the floor but I found myself a place by the wall. I noticed that Bob Raymer and I were the only two white faces in the group of men.

Suddenly Sai Baba appeared in the doorway. Today his robe was old-gold in colour, but like the red one it fell from shoulder to floor in a simple line with no pockets, appendages or folds. All his robes are of this same style. They fasten right up to the neck with two gold studs - the only jewellery he ever wears - and the loose sleeves come to the wrist or elbow, depending perhaps on the temperature. Under the robe he wears a dhoti (a cloth tied around the waist and reaching the ankles like a skirt) and this has no pockets in it either. I now know these things for sure because, later on when we were staying at a guesthouse with Sai Baba, my wife used sometimes to iron his robes and dhotis in our room. So although sceptics without examining the matter properly have said (and will doubtless say again) that he conceals the things he produces miraculously somewhere in his robe, I know beyond doubt that this is quite wrong and quite impossible.

From the doorway Baba pointed his finger at me and said, "Did you bring your wife?" I was pleased that he had remembered. He took us both into another room and talked to Iris about her health. He seemed to know just what was wrong with her and the basic causes of the trouble. He gave her much advice and then with his hand-wave produced from the air some medicinal ash for her to eat.

I was, standing close by keenly watching the production because I still doubted that it was genuine magic. Now he turned to me, smiled, pulled his sleeve up to his elbow, and waved his hand under my nose. As he turned the palm up I expected to see the usual ash, but I was wrong. Lying in the middle of his hand was a little photograph of his head with the full address of his ashram. The photo had a freshly-glazed look as if straight from a photographic laboratory. He handed it to me saying: "You've been asking for my address. Here it is. Keep it in your wallet."

"May I may we - come there sometime?" I managed to ask.

"Yes, of course. Whenever you wish. It's your home."

Since that day I have seen many wonderful and rare things produced by the wave of his small brown hand, but I still carry in my wallet that little photograph which came out of "nowhere" in answer to a question in my mind. There were no ordinary means of his knowing that I had asked Gabriela for the address.

After our interview Sai Baba gave a discourse to the people assembled in the room and later, as we went home, we saw him walking among the people in the gardens. Many of them tried to touch his robe or his feet. He spoke to some and "produced" something for others - usually ash, I think.

This constant production of ash, or vibhuti as it is called, seemed to have a special significance. It made me think of Sai Baba of Shirdi and the fire he always kept burning to produce the udhi which he gave to his followers for curing their ailments, and for other purposes. Now it was as if Satya Sai, who perhaps really was his reincarnation, could produce this ash from a fire that burned in a dimension beyond the range of our mortal eyes.

Ash is a spiritual symbol and has been used as such by many religions, including the Christian. Like all symbols it has different levels of meaning. An obvious one is that it reminds us of the transitory nature of all Earthly things and the mortality of man's body. It is meant to lead our thoughts to the eternal beyond the transitory, to our own immortal selves beyond the little mound of ash or dust to which our bodies will some day be reduced. For the Hindus ash is specially sacred to the God Siva, or that aspect of the Godhead concerned with the destruction of all material forms. Destruction is considered a divine attribute because only through destruction can there be a regeneration, a rebirth of new forms through which life can flow more freely, more fully, more vitally.

During the next few days we talked a good deal about our strange experience. Apart from his miraculous abilities, Sai Baba had a powerful effect. He seemed to lift us up to some high level where there were no more worries. We became larger than life, and the usual difficulties and conflicts of the mundane world were far off, unreal. There seemed to be an aura of happiness around us. Iris mentioned that she could not stop herself smiling for hours after Baba had talked to her.

As for the miracles themselves - well, as time went on I began to ask myself if I had really seen them. It all seemed so unlikely, so far outside the commonplace everyday order of things. It is very difficult for the mind, trained in logic and the physical sciences and believing implicitly in the rational order of the universe, to accept the reality of such apparently irrational phenomena. Even after seeing such miracles it is difficult to believe in them.

So a doubt hung in my mind like a morning mist. Was I, after all, fooled? Was it, after all, just a clever sleight-of-hand? Going over the facts and conditions carefully I failed to see how this could be so. Ash would be a difficult if not impossible thing to hold in the palm of a hand waving in circles, wide open and turned downwards. And how could he bring it out of a pocket or a sleeve, even if he had pockets, which he did not and even if the cuffless sleeve was down to the wrist, rather than pulled up nearly to the elbow, as it often was.

But perhaps there was some way in which he could have done the things I saw by brilliant conjuring. Perhaps his apparent mind-reading and his inside knowledge of one's personal problems were no more than clever guessing.

Inwardly I felt from the elevating splendour of his presence that he was not an impostor. But I could not be absolutely sure: I could not be quite certain that I had met a man of truly supernormal powers, that I had witnessed genuine miracles. No, I could not feel sure until I had investigated further. I would have to observe such phenomena many times under many different circumstances and conditions. I would have to get to know the miracle-man himself, learn his character, his background, his life, and the kind of people who followed him. And I certainly would have to visit that ashram in Puttaparti."
Source:Howard Murphet's Man of Miracles