Sri M

Sri M.


"Prabhu!!!" I strangely exclaimed inside my head as I was flipping through the pages of his first book, "Apprenticed to a Himalayan Master." "Who is this guy?" I thought. I wasn't halfway the book yet. "Prabhu..prabhu.." I would catch myself surprisingly whispering to myself every now and then advancing through the book.
I went to the extent of finding the audacity to sort of just "close my eyes" and write him an e-mail asking about it, as if my insignificant question is even worth his time, while he takes care of hundreds of thousands of his devotees,along with his massive projects of creating free schools, building free medical clinics and reforestation in the villages of India especially in Madanapalle. Ignored it was, expectedly.
The last time I heard that word was when the ISKCON group camped at our home over the hills when they were doing their "padayatra" here in the Philippines, along with their gargantuan Indian white bull when I was about 13 years old.


With my bloated sense of entitlement, I thought, let me ask him in person then. In the pics below, is me offering a gift of my very first Sri Guru/Mahavatar Babaji oil painting to him. I sure was nervous about it, not certain if the painting was even recognizable to him or maybe I got the face all wrong. He was a direct disciple of the Mahavatar in his previous life and physically met him again on this one, so I know he has surely have seen him and not only in a sketch on a most blessed and well-loved book, the "Autobiography of a Yogi". "Will he even accept it?" I feared.
There was a trace of seriousness as he unwrapped the gift. At that point, time and space seemed to have been suspended in the air. Both my thoughts and my body were frozen in the sanctity of the moment. The rest is private information for the strangest of reasons.
When the satsang started at the beginning of the program, there was silence. He simply ran his eyes on the small group of people in front of him. "Who is that?" he asked with a nod upwards. No one could decipher who he meant, because tracing his eyes he is only looking on top of our heads. His voice was increasingly getting louder and sterner. I again took the audacity to point to myself, even if he was only looking close to our direction on top of our heads. "NO! The one sitting right beside you! How hard is it to understand a simple question?! " he looked obviously agitated now.


"She is my daughter." I matter-of-factly replied trying to hide my petrified self from having just been yelled at. There was a pause and he said nothing after that.
Soon, he started the satsang officially by asking who wants to ask anything. No one raised their hands. So of course, I did. Who wants to miss the chance of having a conversation with the guru after all? He was disappointed with the men who were quiet. I can't even remember what my question was, but he spent a lot of time expounding on it, and even returning to that question again.
After that we went to his meditation room called the Babaji room where he allows people to enter, and his pillow where he meditates is there too. Swoosh! Upon sitting on the floor, I felt transported straight into a dark cave in the Himalayas where the Silence could almost be smelled and tasted. What is this place? I thought. Whatever it was, we felt deep peace and a sense of home.
He told me to e-mail him, and had I met Mohanji before that, I probably would have learned by then that you don't tell a guru about anything. But I didn't know that, so my bad. My ego did not even know it is there. Pure unconsciousness, my cup was more than just full. I blew it again just as I blew it even on a bigger scale when we were granted a private darshan by Shibendu Lahiri at Lahiri Mahasaya's residence in Banaras. I had a roaring of a lion, and not just a scream at that time. I was a useless arrogant brat, and up to now have no clue why they even allowed me to meet them. Not my business to know, I suppose.
This is perhaps the most challenging article to write, as I had to rewrite and re-save several paragraphs in detail, and it just disappears on the screen. Whatever is saved, can be shared I suppose. Otherwise, I might accidentally delete this post anytime.
My pranaams to my prabhu. I hope he decides to meet this useless frog of myself again in this lifetime.

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