Neither of them speak much Hindustani or English, they give me no diksha or prasad but even a few moments with them are exhilarating.
I see more of Dadaji than others. I am closest to him but I understand him the least. When I met him first many years ago in the home of the actor Abhi Bhattacharya I was spellbound by his sparkling hypnotic eyes and explained away the objects he materialized out of the air as due to my drugged perception. The post-hypnotic effect was at times very prolonged. He had planted in my mind that whenever I recalled him, I would smell the aroma of the padmagandha with which he dowsed me (he does it by running his fragrance-free fingers on your head and back). And so I do. What makes Dadaji more enigmatic is that while he denounces all godmen, gurus, bhagwans, maharishis, swamis and sadhus, his innumerable admirers worship him almost as their deity. These include scientists (Linus Pauling, three-time Nobel laureate being one), heads of renowned universities, Supreme Court judges, senior executives and luminaries of just about every learned profession. “Ham to parha-likha kuch nahin hai," says Dadaji in his Bengali-accented Hindi and then proceeds to expound the Vedanta. “The Dharamakshetra and Kurukshetra that the Gita speaks of is your body; the Pandavas and Kurus are the forces of good and evil battling within you. All that really matters is a person’s character – not his wealth or eminence in society. My job is to guide people to build their character. I have nothing to give except the maha naam. Don’t be misled by all these charlatans who pass of as Bhagwans and Jagadgurus. How can mortals, on whose carrion vultures will peck at, be gods?” And so on.
I nod my head in agreement because there is nothing he says that I disagree with. I bring the dialogue down to earth: “Dadaji, tell me why are people scared of dying and death?”
He realizes I am talking about myself and looks perturbed: “Aren’t you in good health?”
“Very! Disgustingly healthy. Only my mind is obsessed with death. Please help me to get over this morbid obsession.”
He grabs me by my shoulders and draws me towards him almost knocking the turban off my head. With his fingers he traces patterns down my spinal cord and runs them through my beard. A shiver runs down my body and the aroma of a thousand agarbattis envelops me. “From now on you will not think of death,” he commands. I nod my head, touch his feet and take my leave. I thread my way through the throng of admirers, locate my chappals out of the hundreds of pairs and walk away with a jaunty step. Dadaji has made me mukt of deathphobia. In the evening I find myself wrong about dying and death.
26/6/82
All the Universe is My Ashram
A nn Mills, an American disciple of Dadaji, in her book Look Within: Inspirations of Love gives a touching account of her first meeting with Dadaji:
“In 1979 I first heard about Dadaji from a friend, and in 1982 met him at the airport in Bombay, when he arrived from Calcutta. Upon disembarking, someone placed a lovely garland of colourful flowers around Dadaji’s neck. I was standing behind the crowd of people who had come to greet him. He walked over to me with a beautiful smile, and as our eyes met, took the garland off and placed it gently around my neck. No words were spoken. None could describe the moment fully.’
I met Dadaji many times in Bombay and Delhi through his chief disciple Abhi Bhattacharya, the film star. At our first meeting in Bombay he performed a few magic tricks. He materialized a watch of Japanese make and put it on my wrist. Then he put his hand on the watch and murmured some mantra. The watch which had borne the legend ‘citizen: Made in Japan’ was now imprinted with the words: ‘Given to Khushwant Singh by Dadaji’. He materialized a bottle of Scotch with a label bearing the message ‘Made in the Universe. Given by Dadaji to K. Singh.’
He gave me a colour picture of Shri
I see more of Dadaji than others. I am closest to him but I understand him the least. When I met him first many years ago in the home of the actor Abhi Bhattacharya I was spellbound by his sparkling hypnotic eyes and explained away the objects he materialized out of the air as due to my drugged perception. The post-hypnotic effect was at times very prolonged. He had planted in my mind that whenever I recalled him, I would smell the aroma of the padmagandha with which he dowsed me (he does it by running his fragrance-free fingers on your head and back). And so I do. What makes Dadaji more enigmatic is that while he denounces all godmen, gurus, bhagwans, maharishis, swamis and sadhus, his innumerable admirers worship him almost as their deity. These include scientists (Linus Pauling, three-time Nobel laureate being one), heads of renowned universities, Supreme Court judges, senior executives and luminaries of just about every learned profession. “Ham to parha-likha kuch nahin hai," says Dadaji in his Bengali-accented Hindi and then proceeds to expound the Vedanta. “The Dharamakshetra and Kurukshetra that the Gita speaks of is your body; the Pandavas and Kurus are the forces of good and evil battling within you. All that really matters is a person’s character – not his wealth or eminence in society. My job is to guide people to build their character. I have nothing to give except the maha naam. Don’t be misled by all these charlatans who pass of as Bhagwans and Jagadgurus. How can mortals, on whose carrion vultures will peck at, be gods?” And so on.
I nod my head in agreement because there is nothing he says that I disagree with. I bring the dialogue down to earth: “Dadaji, tell me why are people scared of dying and death?”
He realizes I am talking about myself and looks perturbed: “Aren’t you in good health?”
“Very! Disgustingly healthy. Only my mind is obsessed with death. Please help me to get over this morbid obsession.”
He grabs me by my shoulders and draws me towards him almost knocking the turban off my head. With his fingers he traces patterns down my spinal cord and runs them through my beard. A shiver runs down my body and the aroma of a thousand agarbattis envelops me. “From now on you will not think of death,” he commands. I nod my head, touch his feet and take my leave. I thread my way through the throng of admirers, locate my chappals out of the hundreds of pairs and walk away with a jaunty step. Dadaji has made me mukt of deathphobia. In the evening I find myself wrong about dying and death.
26/6/82
All the Universe is My Ashram
A nn Mills, an American disciple of Dadaji, in her book Look Within: Inspirations of Love gives a touching account of her first meeting with Dadaji:
“In 1979 I first heard about Dadaji from a friend, and in 1982 met him at the airport in Bombay, when he arrived from Calcutta. Upon disembarking, someone placed a lovely garland of colourful flowers around Dadaji’s neck. I was standing behind the crowd of people who had come to greet him. He walked over to me with a beautiful smile, and as our eyes met, took the garland off and placed it gently around my neck. No words were spoken. None could describe the moment fully.’
I met Dadaji many times in Bombay and Delhi through his chief disciple Abhi Bhattacharya, the film star. At our first meeting in Bombay he performed a few magic tricks. He materialized a watch of Japanese make and put it on my wrist. Then he put his hand on the watch and murmured some mantra. The watch which had borne the legend ‘citizen: Made in Japan’ was now imprinted with the words: ‘Given to Khushwant Singh by Dadaji’. He materialized a bottle of Scotch with a label bearing the message ‘Made in the Universe. Given by Dadaji to K. Singh.’
He gave me a colour picture of Shri
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