Not everyone who met Maharajji was “opened” or “awakened” at the initial visit. Many came, enjoyed a pleasant visit, and left apparently unaffected. They seemed to have “no business” with Maharajji, that is, they were either unready to be touched so deeply, or the vehicle of the guru or this particular guru was not their way.
Then there were those who while experiencing no dramatic “zap,” yet responded to some subtle thread that drew them back to Maharajji again and again – I was astonished to watch the way in which tough people would melt as they stayed around him.
For many of us who were either dramatically opened initially or subtly drawn, the desire that became uppermost in our lives was to be with Maharajji. We had become “devotees,” for when we were with him we were experiencing being “at home” in the heart of God. Little wonder that his presence became so addictive and that we would leave home and go to any lengths to be with this spiritual pied piper who was teaching us to dance and play in the fields of the Lord.
But to assume that just because you wished to be with Maharajji, you could be, did not take into account the nature of this man’s behavior. He moved about unpredictably. And whenever he stayed in any one place for even a few days, people would arrive in a continuous stream from morning till night. Some came barefoot with naked babies from nearby farms; others came by jet and taxi.
I was standing in the front yard of a humble house in a little village in the hills when Maharajji arrived unexpectedly. I was told to remain outside, so I had the opportunity to watch the people come. They seemed to appear almost out of nowhere, arriving from all directions. They were running, some of the women wiping the flour from their hands on their aprons, others carrying their babies half dressed. The men had left their shops unattended. Some were pulling flowers from the trees as they came to have something to offer . . . But they came with an expectancy, with a joy, with a reverence, that could not be mistaken…
– Ram Dass