Baba Poetry Page

Makes children of us all, in awe of You.

It was full of the divine mischief

That was first hatched

By the mischievous chicken.

Your mother, Shireenmai, had her hands full.

(An octopus would have had

Its arms full with You.)

She struggled to keep a hold of You,

Tethering You with her sari,

As we, too, must struggle

To hold fast to Your daaman.

Once, she found You playing

With a cobra in Your crib!

What a perfect playmate:

Only it could match Your wiliness.

Then there was the time

You were seen in the street,

Stranded on an island of naiveté

In a sea of stampeding water buffalo.

A well-spring of relief rose in all

When You were found safe and sound,

Guarded by the haunches of

One holy, immovable cow.

Can we imagine what else You did

Behind Shireenmai’s back?

Tumble on top of the roof

Of Your Pumpkin House?

Juggle hot coals in the air?

Yet the five Perfect Masters,

Holding maya at bay,

Kept You out of harm’s way.

For You had yet to begin Your mission

Of awakening in our hearts

A most awesome love for God.

Soon You began to blossom

So were You drawn to Your next master,

Narayan Maharaj, the perfect prince of Kedgaon.

From his darbar You went to Tajuddin Baba,

Who was so marvelously mad for God

That he was committed to an asylum.

(Should we all be so lucky someday.)

Your penultimate master was Sai Baba,

The Qutub-e-Irshad or spiritual hierarchy’s head.

He proclaimed You to be “Parvardigar,”

For You do verily preserve and protect us all.

As Babajan gave You infinite bliss,

So did Sai Baba give You infinite power.

Your last term as a Master’s apprentice

Was served With Upasni Maharaj, the “King of the Yogis.”

He threw at You a stone, the grossest of objects,

Which hit Your forehead with cosmic force,

Revealing to You Dnyan or Infinite Knowledge.

But it would take seven long years

Of active struggle with Maharaj

Before You could maintain the state

Of being both man and God.

It was then and only then

That the angels’ chorus could sing:

The God-Man’s advent has begun;

Come and rejoice under His bright sun!

Draw near to His life’s royal stage;

All hail the Avatar of the Age!

Many had already surrendered themselves to You,

As Your circle assembled around its Center.

School chums and new ones,

They made up Your mandali,

Luminaries whose service and devotion to You

Will forever light the Path of Love.

They thronged to Your hut at Kasba Peth,

And later to Your father’s toddy shop,

Which stood on the threshold of

Your own inner wine shop, o Saki.

You took Your men on many a tour,

As spiritual wayfarers they were for sure:

To Persia, Quetta, and Karachi You went.

Like a general marshaling his mighty forces,

You marched Your men from Poona to Bombay.

Brave holy warriors, they were engaged in

The greater jihad, which is waged in

The heart against one’s own lower self.

At Bombay, You established Manzil-e-Meem,

House of the Master, the training ground used

To instill the strict spiritual discipline

Needed to defeat the “hydra-headed ego.”

There fire flashed in the eyes

Of a strong, young Lion whose mere touch

Could move aside the largest man.

Nevertheless, You would always apply

A soothing balm of sweet words

And looks on every wounded ego,

Thus shortening the pendulum’s swing

Between duality’s polar opposites.

New rules were posted regularly

In the early, formative years of Your ashram,

Including ones that said Your men

Had to wake at four and follow this

With a cold bath and an hour’s repetition

Of one of God’s hallowed names.

Among the things You prohibited

Were eating meat and eggs, touching women,

Reading and writing material outside the ashram,

And acknowledging past acquaintances.

In this furnace known as Manzil-e-Meem,

Your men passed through the fire

Of a most stringent discipleship.

Yet at the same time, these flames were

Fanned by the bellows of Your aspirants’ effort and

Tempered by the promise of Your masterful praise.

This furnace forged Your men into

Shining swords of adamantine obedience,

Which You would use to slash through

Maya’s woven web of pain and pleasure,

Transforming them through spiritual alchemy

Into the instruments of their own salvation!

Once when You were in Ahmednagar,

You walked with Your usual sprightly steps

Down a deserted country road,

Only to stop suddenly under a neem tree.

At this place, merged time and space,

As You marked the future spot of

Hearth and home and work and rest.

You named this spot Meherabad, and here

Compassion flourished as almost nowhere else.

You were an ideal exemplar of the selfless servant,

As You established a free hospital and dispensary,

An ashram for lepers, whom You bathed

Until they were free of the stains from our ignorance,

And an ashram for the poor, whom You clothed and fed

Until they could forget our cold indifference.

Always on the go, You cleaned latrines and engaged

In Your mandali’s work yoga of grinding grain.

Among Your other endeavors at Meherabad,

You opened a free school for boys

Who were taught the ways of the world,

As well as the ways of the spirit,

Including the three R’s of Zoroaster:

Right thoughts, right words, and right deeds.

Some took to You like a long-lost lover,

Rising at midnight to remember You.

You were to move these tender buds

Into the nursery of the Prem Ashram.

Basking in the rays of Your glory,

Watered by their own sobs and throbs,

Soon these seedlings sprouted into

Fledgling masters or chota (little) Babas.

Now let us hope and pray

That we all find one day

Their courage and strength to dare

To soar on the wings of Meher.

As you completed much of your Universal Work,

The understanding of which lies far beyond our ken,

Your servitude showed the way to mastery,

Giving spiritual and material aid to so many

At Meherabad, the model community for the New Humanity!

O blessed Avatar Meher Baba,

Our loving mother and compassionate father,

You would often gather ‘round Your children,

As the shepherd Jesus would His flock,

And enfold them in Your oceanic embrace

And enthrall them with Your resplendent smile.

If the scenes surrounding these love-gifts given

Between generous master and grateful disciple

Had all been captured in photographs,

Those pictures could fill every known album!

To expedite things, here are some highlights

Of those storied and mostly silent exchanges of love.

Once at a beach in Bombay, You came upon a man

Whose wife had run away with his best friend.

Drowning in maya, his dream a nightmare,

He was to end his days in the water’s cool waves.

Yet Your nazar sees all, so You can let none fall.

As only God could love, You

Came up to him and buoyed his spirits

With hopeful words and a warm smile.

This man, Chanji, later became one of

The faithful few who served You so well.

Similarly, You raised Krishna Nair up

From the dregs of life’s cup

To make Him Your very own.

About to throw his life away over a cliff in Bombay,

Your image appeared to Him

In an angelic vision, and he soon came to You.

Then there was the time You told Eruch

To find a person in desperate need

And give him a bundle of rupees.

When such a one was found and given the money,

He said, “Had you come tomorrow, I would

Not have been here. I planned to kill myself today.”

O Baba, who can fathom the depths of Your mercy?

Who can find the lustrous Pearl hidden there?

None but the lover who dives deep within.

Later, after Your first trip

To lay Your cables in the West,

You said You had most enjoyed

Visiting a home for the aged and ailing.

You went to lead Your devotees onto real darshan,

Yet You stayed to give solace

To those souls who needed it most.

At the end of Your second Western trip,

Your tears touched Kimco’s letters

As You pined for their company,

And Your love-song echoed amongst their hearts.

But all was not rosy in the heart’s secret garden:

Much to Mehera’s dismay,

Colonel Irani was the main purveyor

Of a swarthy stew of opposition.

Vigorously stirring a cauldron of lies,

He caused some to doubt Your divinity.

Yet You ate this stew as if it were sweetmeat,

Going so far as to say Colonel Irani’s name

Should be placed on the monument

Dedicated to Your lovers’ memory.

When asked why this should be so,

With a wink and a nod to the play of God

You said, “He always thought of Me.”

Then there is the case of K.J. Dastur.

Though by no means a dastard,

He was once beheld Your splendor,

But then began to rail against You.

Rather than condemn his wayward ways,

Incredibly You gave him money to help him

Sail through his dire straits.

As happened to fun-loving Krishna,

Arrows of insult were shot at You,

And yet You returned them not in kind

But with arrows of kindness and caring.

For You said that opposition against You

Only increased the tension of the bow

Whence Your life’s work shot forth.

Now who can forget that

Dream-like night in Portofino?

Surrounded by Your close ones

While looking regal in a royal blue coat,

You were serenaded by the light of the moon,

Which was heard to lovingly croon,

“O…Baba…my…darling…Baba,

I shine but to spread the light of Your name.”

May we sing to You tonight

And every night, echoing the moonlight.

As some of Your lovers were here and some there,

Like a slave You were inwardly summoned

Around the world many times over.

Yet in the end isn’t it true,

That East is East and West is West?

Perhaps that is the common thought

But not when the two came together as one

At Your epic East-West Gathering.

Neither caste nor creed nor color of skin

Nor birthplace nor purse-size nor worldly din,

Could keep Your lovers from expressing

The underlying unity of all humanity.

Your love-glance fell on them like summer rain,

While You swept Your arms to Your chest,

Bringing upon Yourself the burdens

Laid down at Your lotus feet.

You said You opened a window in Your heart;

Well I say to us, "Hold up the sash

And enjoy the magnificent view!"

One last episode of Love’s delight

Is when Krishna Mast met You on the road.

Like a babe and mother racing to each other,

Together you flew, and together you fell,

Rolling…loving…longing.

Rolling wildly in the dust,

As a twister on the plain...

Loving madly Your light,

As a moth does the flame...

Longing deeply for union,

As a thief out for gain...

Together you showed us

What pleasure lies in love’s pain.

All of these moments are jewels

In the crown of Your Godhood,

Petals in the rose of Your Love—

A flower whose fragrance wafts

Gently o’er our slumbering souls

In waves of wondrous rapture!

O Baba, Your infinite, heart-mending love for us

Led to Your infinite, heart-rending suffering for us.

No one in the entire universe

Suffers like You, Beloved Baba,

And therein lies Your greatness, You said,

As You suffer for the sake of love.

Since You possess Universal Mind,

You bear the weight of every mind’s suffering.

At times, Your lovers begged to share in

Your suffering to relieve You of Your pain.

Hoping it’s not too late, we wish the same.

For if Your pleasure is our comfort,

Then Your suffering is our defeat.

Although we can live according to Your wish,

And thereby lighten Your infinite load,

The pain You felt while in the body

Was horribly real and irreversible.

Your two catastrophic car accidents

Shattered first the left side

And then the right of Your fair frame.

In America, You broke Your arm in two places,

Your leg, your nose, and had your gums punctured.

In India, You broke Your pelvis, Your leg,

And severed the skin of Your tongue.

What more can our God do for us,

We who are not worthy of Him?

Yet there was so much more

That You did endure for us.

Your heroic fasts were first for Your circle,

And then for us, to slow the slithering of lust

In our lives and to end our anger eruptions,

As well as to show us how to do so for ourselves.

Cumulatively, the length of Your fasts

Tallies year upon brutal year.

The longest lasted over five and half months:

Done on a flask-full (minus one-half)

Of coffee per day in Your crypt,

It helped to sanctify the site of your Samadhi

As the seat of Your omnipotent power

For the next seven hundred or more years.

Your mast tours were equally exhausting:

You seemed to travel well over a million miles

Under the scorching sun and through flooded fields,

With little or no time for rest or relaxation.

All this so that You could contact

Your child-like masts, with their must-have love,

In order to clean these prisms of the planes

Who illumine our world

With God’s grace-full rainbow.

Now what can one say in the wake of

Your near forty-four years of golden silence?

The mouth tries to speak, but the tongue is still.

All words are naught; all thought is nil.