I travelled by bus from Madras to Bangalore. Some friends in that city provided me with a car and I set off north along a country road to find the retreat of the wizard of Puttaparti. I was travelling alone with an Indian driver as Iris was not able to get away from her duties at the Theosophical Society Headquarters.

The way led out of Mysore State into Andhra Pradesh, mainly through barren open country pimpled here and there with outcrops of round stony hills. I did not even see a mention of Puttaparti on the signposts until we reached the last stretches of the hundred-mile journey.

Then we were on a road of broken rocks and loose sand, like a track for country carts. At one place it became a narrow alley, squeezing itself between the tumbled buildings of a lonely village. In other places the road sauntered across the sandy near-dry beds of rivers. Such crossings are fordable except in seasons of very heavy rain. But I was told that if the cunning rogues living nearby are in need of money they dig a deep ditch in the shallow water of the ford. Then they wait for cars to get stuck, and bargain for a high price to push them out.

Gone, however, are the days when visitors finished the Puttaparti journey by bullock-cart, or on foot across slushy fields of paddy. Despite the rugged road in the year of my first journey there - 1966 - cars and even big buses could negotiate the final obstacles and reach the ashram gates.

Sai Baba's retreat is beside the village of Puttaparti, which nestles in a narrow farming valley between pewter-coloured hills of bare rock. The valley, gentle green in the season of young crops, is remote and silent, untouched by the twentieth century. As I drove in through the gate the sun was setting, spreading a golden glow over the buildings. Most of them stood around the perimeter of the large compound, facing inwards towards a large white central building.

It was the time of the evening bhajan, that is, the singing of sacred songs and chants. I was informed that Sai Baba was with the crowd in the big hall which occupies most of the ground floor of the central building, and as apparently only he could say where I must sleep, I sat on my bedroll outside the hall and waited.

The rhythmic sounds of the singing deepened the peace of the evening hour. Dusk gathered, the lights came on gently, the haunting music continued. It seemed to seep through me, soothing my tired body, and calming my impatience, washing away my worries and anxieties.



Presently someone came and took me to the room Baba had allocated to me. It was in the small guesthouse, and was well furnished with its own private wash-room and a flush toilet. This was much better than I had been led to expect or dared to hope for.



One of the first people I met at the ashram was Mr. N. Kasturi, a retired History professor and College Principal of Mysore University. He was now the secretary of the ashram, editor of its monthly magazine, Sanathana Sarathi, and the writer of a book on Sai Baba's life. He had also translated into English many of Baba's public discourses which had been delivered in Telugu. These, published in several volumes, contain the miracle-man's spiritual teachings and give an idea of his mission and message.

On my first morning Mr. Kasturi arrived at the guesthouse with copies of all the books which had been printed in English.

"They are a present to you from Baba," he explained. Mr. Kasturi is not only a scholar, but a deeply religious man whose face glows with devotion and benevolence.

Now he told me something about the ashram. Its name is Prasanti Nilayam, meaning the "Abode of Great Peace". About seven hundred people live here permanently, while hundreds are coming and going all the time. The residents occupy the inward-facing terraced houses around the perimeter. The visitors occupy whatever space is available at the time perhaps a room in one of the large buildings, perhaps a spot of floor in one of the open sheds, perhaps a corner on the Post Office verandah, or at times of great festival crowds, the bare brown earth beneath a tree. People like myself, who have been softened by the creature comforts of western civilisation, Baba usually puts in the furnished guesthouse.



In the early morning I had heard strange but soothing sounds of Sanskrit chanting. Now I learned that it came from the school where boys and youths are studying the Vedas. They are not only learning to read the Sanskrit of these works but also to recite it by heart. They are being taught by pundits to chant the texts with the correct intonation and emphasis, as was done in India's ancient days. The reason for this is that the uplifting spiritual benefits of the Vedas come from the mantric effect of the sound as much as from the meaning of the words. That is what the ancient writers tell us, and having been subjected to some of the chanting myself I don't find it hard to believe them. There are very few schools like this one in India today; perhaps because it normally takes about seven years to learn one Veda, as Mr. Kasturi informed me, and there are four of them. Over twenty years to master the lot, and no commercial rewards to speak of at the end of it all! But Sai Baba seems determined, against the surging tide of materialism in modern India, to revive her ancient spiritual culture.

The ashram also has its own canteen where I had been invited to have my meals, but I was told that as I was Baba's guest I must not pay. The accommodation was also free and I had been given a set of free books! It seemed I was not allowed to pay for anything. But perhaps I could make a donation at the end of my stay, as one does at most ashrams in India. This point I queried with Mr. Kasturi.

"No," he said emphatically, "Baba will not accept donations. He never takes money from anyone."

"He seems to have some wealthy followers," I replied, "Perhaps they give financial help to the ashram."

"No," Mr. Kasturi smiled. "But don't take my word for it; ask them yourself. Many will he arriving in the next few days for Sivaratri."

"What's that?" I queried.

He explained that it was the great annual festival to the god Siva, that many thousands came to Prasanti Nilayam for it, and that during the festival Baba always performed two great miracles in public.

I decided then and there to wait for the festival Of Sivaratri (Siva's night) and see the miracles. In the meantime I would read Sai Baba's story as written by N. Kasturi, talk to his followers, and get close to the great man himself whenever I possibly could. Kasturi gave me hope that I might be called for an interview fairly soon, although Baba was very busy.

During the next few days, in fact, I was fortunate in being invited to several group interviews. For these a dozen people gather in one of the interview rooms at either end of the bhajan hall, or "prayer hall" as it is sometimes called. Sai Baba sits either on the one chair, or else on the floor - depending, it seems, on his whim - and the people sit cross-legged on the floor, fanning out in a rough circle about him. On each occasion I managed to get as close as possible to him and sat to his right within a couple of feet of the hand that performs the magic.

These group interviews usually begin with some talk on spiritual subjects. Baba invites someone to ask a question; then in the answer he expounds on such matters as the meaning and purpose of life, Man's true nature, and the way he should strive to live in order to reach the goal. The teachings are always clear, vivid, and intensely practical.

Towards the end of each meeting, if some people have personal problems, he may take them into another room one by one or in family groups. But never a meeting went by without Baba producing at least one item besides the vibhuti he always produces, with his theurgic hand-wave. Pendants, chains, rings, necklaces and other objects I have watched him pluck from the air in this way and then give to some delighted individual.

He apparently knew my suspicions of him were not yet dispelled, because he still pulled his loose cuffless sleeve up before taking an object from nowhere. But on one occasion he did not need to raise the sleeve above suspicion. It was a very hot day and he was wearing a robe with short sleeves that came only to the elbow. Now, as if he would exorcise, once and for all, the sceptical spirit within me, he let his right hand lie open, palm upward, on the arm of the chair within a few inches of my eyes. If I had been a palmist, I might have read the lines and mounds on the small palm and slim graceful fingers. I could certainly be quite sure that no items, however small, were concealed there.

Then he lifted his hand from where it lay, and began to circle it in the air about eighteen inches from my face. One moment the hand was empty, the next it was holding something big that protruded brightly on either side of his fist. He shook this out to reveal a long necklace of coloured stones. It was what the Indians call a jappamala which, like the Christian rosary, is used for prayers. Its regulation size is one hundred and eight stones or beads. There, was nowhere in three-dimensional space that a conjurer could have hidden such a bulky object and produced it under these circumstances. Baba gave it to a grey-haired lady on his immediate left. When he placed it around her neck, she was so overcome that her eyes filled with tears and she went down on her knees to touch his feet.

Every day now saw the crowd swelling. The buildings were all full and people were beginning to spread their beds under the trees. In this gathering tide of dark-faced, white-robed Indians I was the only western male. Bob Raymer having returned to his home in California. Among the ladies there were only two pale faces left ochre-robed Nirmalananda and Gabriela Steyer.

Yet I did not feel like a foreigner: I felt that I was among brothers, and was completely happy. One could hardly be otherwise with brotherly love shining in every face and inspiring every word and action. Any stranger was your acquaintance in minutes and your close friend within an hour, anxious to help you in every way and eager to tell you about the wonderful things that Sai Baba had done for him or some members of his family.



I soon found that the followers were from all parts of India and from all classes of society - princes, businessmen, doctors, lawyers, judges, civil servants, scientists, soldiers, clerks and tradesmen. Filling the guesthouse there were, in the ladies suite, the Maharani of Sandur, her daughter and Nanda, Princess of Kutch. Among the men were the Kumaraja (Prince) of Venkatagiri, the Kumaraja of Sandur, Mr. G. Venkateshwara Rao, the mica magnate, and myself.

These people were all quite rich so, remembering Mr. Kasturi's challenge, I questioned them as well as other wealthy followers about money donations to Sai Baba. From all of them, and later from many others, I had the same answer. They would, they said, love to help support Baba's ashram with funds, but he would never accept any money from them. Nor did he take any donations from anyone they knew.

I thought what a fertile field was here for those religious leaders and their organisations always on the look-out for funds - not only the wealthy nucleus, anxious to give, but the huge numbers that congregate at Baba's discourses, sometimes up to two hundred thousand. What a collection could be raised from such crowds by a good rousing evangelist! But Sai Baba refuses to take a paise. How then does he get the money he needs? To this question they smile, as if to say, "How does Baba do anything? He is a mystery we can't solve." Anyway it soon became quite clear that whatever the motive for his miracles it was not money.

Everyone I spoke to had at least one and usually many more miracles to tell me from his own experience. My notebooks began to swell with fantastic stories, many of which I could never hope to verify. But there were others which could be cross-checked and verified in a number of ways. Apart from the materialisation phenomena of the type that I had already seen there were tales involving almost every kind of miracle found in the historic and spiritual records of the fantastic. Among them were the healing miracles - the curing of many kinds of diseases, some deep-seated and chronic, some considered incurable by medical opinion.



At the ashram there is a small hospital with two doctors on the staff, and occasional helpers from outside. The two full-time workers are the Medical Superintendent, Dr. B. Sitaramiah, and his assistant, Dr. N. Jayalakshmi, a woman doctor. The Superintendent told me that when Sai Baba asked him some years ago to take charge of the hospital he had already retired from practice, and felt disinclined to take the responsibility. But Baba said that the doctor would be only a figure-head, and that he himself would do the healing. Then Dr. Sitaramiah, who was a devotee, had no more fears about the job. And that was the way it had been.

"Apart from the routine treatments, I have had Baba's directions always," he told me. "And there have been many cures of cases that were quite incurable by any known medical treatment. From the scientific point of view the cures are quite inexplicable."

For my benefit he went into several case histories in full detail, showing me X-ray photographs, records of medical diagnosis, and any other documents that were relevant. Below are a few sample cases to indicate some of the diseases Baba has treated at the ashram. They also show that he has, as he puts it, "different prescriptions for different patients".



A woman devotee from Mangalore was suffering from tuberculosis. There was bleeding and X-rays showed a cavity of the right lung. Medical opinion was that the disease was probably curable but that effective treatment would take about two years. Instead of undergoing the prescribed treatment, she came to Prasanti Nilayam. Sai Baba gave her vibhuti from his hand, and she was put in the hospital. About a week later, when I visited the hospital myself, she was still there convalescing. But all symptoms of the tuberculosis had gone, the doctors assured me. She had been cured in a week instead of two years.



A young man living in Bombay, but recently returned from Switzerland, was suffering from internal trouble which doctors in both Europe and Bombay had diagnosed as cancer. He was not a devotee of Sai Baba, but a friend had urged him to go to Prasanti Nilayam. In desperation he went and stayed, not in the hospital, but in a building near the canteen. There he waited and prayed to Baba for help.

One night he had a dream in which, someone visited him, carrying a shining knife. When he awoke that was all he could remember, he told Dr. Sitaramiah and others, the vague visitor and the clear bright knife. Perhaps it was not really a dream. To the canteen manager who took him breakfast in the morning he showed a large, mysterious blood-stain on his sheet. Had Baba performed an operation while he slept? Such strange things had been known before. Anyway, all signs and symptoms of the cancer had vanished. It was about a year after this experience that I wrote to the young man to enquire if the cancer cure had been complete. His reply came from Switzerland where he had returned to his job. He was in sound health and not a day passed, he said, in which he did not think of Sai Baba and offer a heart-felt prayer of gratitude for his miraculous cure.



A 58-year old man, suffering from hyperpyrexia, was brought into the hospital. He had at another hospital been under treatment for fever and dysentery for about two months without relief. At the ashram hospital various treatments were tried by the doctors - quinine, penicillin, chloromycetin - but all to no avail. The patient's temperature kept above 103 degrees; he was delirious, and his general condition worsened. He lost consciousness and there seemed to be no hope of his recovery.

Then Sai Baba came to the hospital to see him. Taking vibhuti from the air in his usual way, he smeared it on the forehead and put some in the mouth of the unconscious man. Within a short time the temperature began to drop, the patient regained consciousness, and his condition improved rapidly. Soon he was back to normal with no signs of the dysentery. When strong, enough he was discharged from hospital.



A cripple, unable to walk, stand or even sit, was brought to the ashram. This man, a wealthy coffee planter from the Mysore State, was about 50 years of age, and for the last twenty of those years, he had suffered from severe rheumatoid arthritis. He had been through a variety of medical treatments without any success. And now, in addition to his other troubles, he had a damaged kidney which was not functioning. His temperature stayed around 103 to 104 degrees. At Prasanti Nilayam hospital he refused any orthodox medical treatment, saying that he had complete faith in the power of Sai Baba to cure him. On this occasion Baba waved his hand to produce a small bottle of liquid medicine and, prescribed two drops to be taken daily in water. Fifteen days after the treatment began the planter could walk with the help of a stick. Now Baba gave him a mantra to repeat as he walked daily a certain number of times around the prayer hall. Within a month he was walking without the help of a stick. Furthermore there was no more trouble from the kidney, it was functioning normally again.

Before returning to his plantation, he tried to express his deep gratitude to Sai Baba. But the latter replied: "Don't thank me. It was your own faith that cured you."

I asked Dr. Sitaramiah if the cure had been permanent or if, perhaps, the troubles had returned.

"It seemed to be permanent. I heard a long time afterwards that the planter was still quite fit and well," he said.



In the months ahead I was to meet many people who had themselves experienced dramatic and miraculous cures of serious, sometimes deadly diseases and, others who could bear witness to such fantastic healings among members of their families or friends. A good proportion of these were well-known leading citizens of their communities, they have permitted me to use their names, and their cases will be described in later chapters.

But now at Prasanti Nilayam Dr. Sitaramiah informed me that Sai Baba's own temperature was up over the hundred mark. The doctor had been checking it each morning as he always did at this time of the year, with Baba's permission. The high temperature was a sign of the approaching miracle that takes place annually at the Sivaratri festivals, the doctor explained.

I awaited this event with eagerness, having heard devotees descriptions of the miracles performed on previous occasions. And yet I felt a little sceptical as there was to my knowledge nothing like it in the chronicles of miraculous phenomena.

In 1966 the Mahasivaratri Festival, generally known simply as Sivaratri, took place on February 18th. As I walked back from breakfast at the canteen that morning I had to step carefully between groups of visitors camping on the ground. All the buildings were full, all the space under trees was occupied, and now people were making their temporary residences anywhere on the open ground: comfort is of no concern to the Indians on such occasions.

I joined the crowd standing in front of the Mandir, the big central building. Thousands were waiting for Sai Baba to show himself on the balcony and give his morning blessings. Presently the small red figure with the dome of black hair appeared. He lifted his arm in blessing, rather listlessly for him, I thought, and returned quickly to his room. I had the impression that he was not well. Then Dr. Sitaramiah, who had just come down from seeing him informed me that Baba's temperature was 104 degrees.

"I suppose it has something to do with the Siva lingam forming inside him. It's a great mystery," the doctor declared.

Baba, however, carried on throughout the day as if there was nothing the matter with him. I saw him walking around distributing packets of sacred ash to the crowds sitting on the ground waiting for it, and waiting also for the chance of touching the edge of his robe. Then during the morning the first of the day's two public miracles was performed. It took place in a large open-sided shed where thousands could sit on the floor packed close together in a manner achieved only by tinned sardines and Indian crowds. Fortunately I was sitting near the stage among a bunch of photographers where a little more elbow-room had been allowed. Here is my diary entry on what took place that morning:

"On the stage is a large silver statue of Sai Baba of Shirdi in his characteristic sitting posture. Mr. Kasturi takes up a small wooden urn, about a foot in height, and filled with vibhuti. This he holds above the head of the silver statue, and lets the ash pour over the figure until the urn is empty. He shakes it well to make sure that the last grains have fallen out, then continues to hold it above the statue with its open top downwards.

"Now Sai Baba thrusts his arm as far as the elbow into the vessel and makes a churning motion with his arm, as women did when making butter in the old days. Immediately the ash begins to flow again from the vessel and continues to do so in a copious stream until he takes his arm out. Then the flow of ash stops. Next he puts his other arm in and twirls that around. The ash streams out over the statue again. This process goes on, Baba using alternate arms, ash pouring from the empty vessel while his hand is in it, and stopping immediately he takes it out. Finally Shirdi Sai is buried in a great mound of ash - much more than the vessel could possibly have held. Now the urn is placed on the floor: the miraculous, ceremonial ash bath is over.

'There is a joyous, elevated atmosphere all around; Mr. Kasturi's face is more radiant than ever, Baba's movements and manner are the acme of unselfconscious grace. It's all wonderful, yet having watched him pull handfuls of ash out of the empty air I am not so greatly surprised to see him stir it in large quantities from an empty pot.'.

But the big climax of the day was to come, and many people talked to me about it. They told me that every year one or more Siva lingams have materialised in Baba's body at this sacred period. He ejects the lingams through his mouth for all to observe. They are always hard, being made of crystal clear or coloured stone and sometimes of metals like gold or silver.

"Are you sure he does not pop them in his mouth just before he goes on stage, and then eject them again at the right moment?" I asked.

My hearers looked at me with amusement and pity. One of them said: "He talks and sings for a long time before the lingam comes out, and it's always much too big to hold in the mouth while speaking. Last year it was so large that he had to use his fingers to pull it out through his lips, and it stretched them so that the sides of his mouth bled." Another added: "There were nine one year. Each was about an inch and a half in height. Imagine holding all those in your mouth while you talked for nearly an hour!"

Well, I thought, even if he does bring these things up from somewhere inside him, what is the point of it? Certainly it's a most miraculous phenomenon, but has it any significance? What is a Siva lingam anyway?



To this question I had a number of answers from the people at the ashram, but it seemed to me that the most satisfactory explanation of the Siva lingam I had heard to date was the one given by Dr.I.K. Taimni at the Theosophical Society's School of the Wisdom at Advar. I could only recall this vaguely, but later when 1 returned to Adyar, I looked up my notes. Briefly this is what he taught.

The Siva lingam belongs to the class of "natural" Hindu symbols, which are usually mathematical in form. Such symbols are called "natural" because they not only represent a reality, but to some extent are the actual vehicles of the power within that reality. The lingam is an ellipsoid. It symbolises Siva-Shakti; that is, the primary polarity principle of positive and negative forces. On this principle of opposites the whole universe is founded.

Why is an ellipsoid used to symbolise the polarity principle? Dr. Taimni explains it in this way. The ultimate reality, the Absolute or Brahman or God, or whatever we care to term it, has no polarity, no pairs of opposites: all principles are balanced and harmonised within it. Therefore, the ultimate reality is represented by the most perfect mathematical figure, the sphere.

If the centre or the one focal point of the sphere divides itself into two we get the ellipsoid. So this figure gives a symbolic representation of the primary pair of opposites out of the original harmonious one. And from this first duality comes all manifestation, all creation, all the multiplicity of things in the universe. The lingam is therefore the basic form lying at the root of all creation, as "Om" is the basic sound.

To put the matter in Hindu terms: from the one Brahman emerges Siva-Shakti, the father and mother of all that is. We must note in this connection that Siva is not only an aspect of the Triune Godhead - the destruction-regeneration aspect - he is also the highest God, the father of all the gods, the cosmic logos.

Like all the gods of Hindu thought, Siva has his consort, Shakti, or female aspect. And whereas the male or positive aspect represents consciousness, the female or negative aspect symbolises power. Both are necessary for creation or manifestation in the planes of matter.

It is significant too that the ellipsoidal or lingam form, which symbolises the Siva-Shakti principle, plays a fundamental part in the structure and working of the universe. It lies, for instance, at the base of all matter within the atom where the electrons apparently move in elliptical courses around the central nucleus. Again, at the solar level, we find the planets describing not circular but elliptical orbits around the sun.

Some people have considered the lingam to be a mere sex symbol. But sex is only one of the many manifestations of the Siva-Shakti principle inherent in the lingam. The principle is demonstrated in all the pairs of opposites, and nothing can exist in this phenomenal universe without its opposite or contrast. In fact, the concept of opposites is basic to our very thinking at this level of consciousness; we cannot know light without darkness, and so on. So to, say that Man's worship of this symbol is derived entirely from primitive phallic worship is to take a false view. The lingam has a more profound and significant connotation. The word itself in Sanskrit simply means a symbol or emblem, which in itself suggests that it is a basic, primary symbol. In fact, representing in concrete form the fundamental principle and power of creation, it is considered the highest object of worship on the physical plane, and as it has a true mathematical relationship to the reality it symbolises, it can bring the worshippers en rapport with that reality. Just how it does this, Dr. Taimni points out, is a mystery which can only be resolved and understood by one's inner realisation.

Nevertheless, it is claimed that this sacred ellipsoid of stone or metal does have the occult property of creating a channel between Man and the divine power on the inner plane it represents. Through such a channel many blessings, benefits and auspicious conditions, will flow to the worshippers. But the mystic link must be established by someone with the necessary understanding of the principles, and knowledge of the forms of the ritual required.

Would thirty thousand people travel many arduous miles to see Sai Baba produce an ordinary stone from his interior - miraculous though it may be? I doubt it. But the stone expected that evening, the lingam, is not ordinary. It lies at the very heart of India's ancient spiritual culture.

Shadows were lengthening, but the afternoon was still quite hot when I made my way from the guesthouse to the small rotunda called the Shanti Vedika where the event was to take place. The building stands some distance in front of the Mandir and is rather like the open bandstands in parks of western cities. It is circular with an elevated floor, a low fence, and narrow pillars supporting the roof.

Not only were the big unwalled sheds along one side choked with spectators, but the wide grounds stretching from the central rotunda to the perimeter of the ashram were a solid mass of sitting figures. I was led by a guide through this silent forest of heads, along a coir-matted lane between the women to my right and the men on my left. I wondered if there was a square yard anywhere on which I might sit.

Near the Shanti Vedika a space had been reserved for officials, the closest disciples, photographers and a few people with tape recorders. Being a pale-faced foreigner I was courteously placed there. But even this privileged enclosure became so packed that I began to wonder if I would ever be able to vary my cramping cross-legged posture. If I was to be there for over three hours, as predicted, my legs would probably set permanently in the position and I would have to be carried out.

At six o'clock Sai Baba, accompanied by a small group of disciples, came onto the Shanti Vedika and soon after that the speeches began. Several men spoke but I remember most clearly one speaker, a leading Sanskrit scholar of southern India, Surya Prakasa Sastri. Not that I understood what he said, for he spoke entirely in the ancient tongue of the Vedas but there was something appealing in his lined, scholarly, benign face and his cloak of heavenly blue.

It was about eight-thirty, powerful electric lights illuminating the group on the platform, when Sai Baba rose to his feet. First he sang a sacred song in his sweet celestial voice that touches the heart. Then he began his discourse, speaking as always on such public occasions in the Telugu tongue. The thirty thousand or so people were as one, expectant and utterly silent, except when Baba told a funny story or made a joke. Then a ripple of laughter would pass over the star-lit field of faces. On the platform Mr. Kasturi was busy making notes of the address which would be published later, in both Telugu and English.

Sai Baba's eloquence had been flowing in a steady stream for some half-hour when suddenly his voice broke. He tried again but only a husky squeak came. Bhajan leaders among the devotees, knowing what was happening, immediately gave voice to a well-known holy song and then the great crowd joined in.

Baba sat down and drank from a flask of water. Several times he tried to sing, but it was impossible. Now he began to show signs of real pain. He twisted and turned, placed his hand on his chest, buried his head in his hands, plucked at his hair. Then he sipped some more water and tried to smile reassuringly at the crowd.

The singing continued fervently, as if to support and help Baba through this period of pain. Some men around me were weeping unashamedly and I myself felt a flow of tenderness towards the man suffering there before us. I could not grasp the full significance of the event that caused the agony, nor perhaps could most of the great crowd watching, but to understand a thing with the mind is one matter and to feel its meaning in the bones and blood is another. Inwardly I felt that I was sitting at the very heart of something profoundly significant to mankind.

But another cautious, rational part of me was not even convinced that a genuine miracle would indeed take place, let alone a spiritually important one. So, instead of blurring my eyes with the tears of sympathy, I kept them fixed on Baba's mouth; my whole attention was glued to that point so that I would not miss the exit of the lingam - if in fact it would come from there.

After about twenty minutes or so of watching Baba's mouth while he writhed and smiled and made attempts to sing, I was rewarded. I saw a flash of green light shoot from his mouth and with it an object which he caught in his hands, cupped below. Immediately he held the object high between his thumb and forefinger so that all could see it. A breath of profound joy passed through the crowd. It was a beautiful green lingam, and certainly much bigger than any ordinary man could bring up through his throat.

Sai Baba placed it on the top of a large torch so that the light shone through its glowing emerald-like translucency. Then, leaving it there, he retired from the scene.

Sunderlal Gandhi, a young volunteer guide for the festival, who had become my friend, took me out of the crowd. My legs felt like knotted spaghetti but they carried me to the guesthouse. Every time I awoke during the night I could hear the crowd still chanting and singing around the illuminated Siva lingam, and when I came down at daybreak the people were just dispersing. Among them I met Gabriela Steyer who told me that most of the great gathering had remained for the night-long worship of this symbol of the highest divinity, which had formed miraculously in the body of their leader.

Siva is the God of yogis, the one who helps man to conquer his lower nature and rise above it into his true divine nature. To make this transition the mind must first be mastered. Mind is said to be somehow related to the moon, and it is believed that there is an astronomically favourable time when the moon is right for success in man's efforts to transcend his mind. It is at this most favourable time, in February, that the great Sivaratri is held. But at Prasanti Nilayam this lunar festival is doubly auspicious; not only are the celestial conditions correct, but the miraculously-produced physical symbol of Siva is there before all eyes, a glowing focus for the supreme effort of meditation. It is interesting and appropriate to note here that in the Uttara Gita Lord Krishna says that lingam is from the word lina which means to unite. This is because the lingam makes possible the union of the lower self with the higher self and with God - with Jivatma and Paramatra.

Later the Raja of Venkatagiri, a pious Sai Baba devotee with a good knowledge of orthodox Hinduism, told me that it was essential for regular and correct pujas, or ritualistic worship, to be performed for such a sacred symbol. And as few people could carry these out, most of the Sai Baba lingams were de-materialised: that is, they went back to the realm of the unmanifest from whence they had come. Several other devotees supported his opinion.

Several of my new-found friends saw the lingam at close quarters on the morning after its production. There was a good deal of talk about this and comparisons were made with other specimens produced in previous years. I asked what had happened to them all and was told that some were given to very devout devotees, but others - well, no one knew.

Nevertheless, I know for a fact that some are given to devotees. Over a year later a very sincere follower of Sai Baba showed me a beautiful Siva lingam which had come from Baba's body, and which he had presented to her. She carried it about with her, carefully wrapped in a cloth, and would let nobody touch it.

"Don't you have to perform regular pujas to it?" I asked her.
"Yes," she replied, "Baba told me just what to do and I do it. But I don't know why he gave it to me: I'm not worthy of it." But I could feel that she was. And Baba, who sees to the deep heart of all his devotees, knows who is worthy.

I was able to inspect the 1966 Siva lingam at close quarters a couple of days after it was produced. I had at Prasanti Nilayam gone with a small group of people into the Mandir for one of the much-coveted private interviews with Sai Baba. We were ushered into a downstairs room. After a few minutes Baba came in and placed the lingam on the window-ledge for everyone present to inspect. It was of emerald green colour, as it had appeared in the artificial light on the night of its emergence. Mr. Kasturi, who had been present on the platform of the Shanti Vedika when it was produced, thus described it later in print: "An emerald lingam, three inches high and fixed on a pedestal five inches broad that had formed itself in him (Baba), emerged from his mouth to the unspeakable joy and relief of the huge gathering " When I saw it standing on the window-ledge, I did not realise that its big pedestal had also emerged from Baba's mouth, but I estimated the size as about what Kasturi stated later.

After we had all had a good look at the lingam, but without touching it; Baba sat down on a chair and we sat on the floor around the walls. I was on the floor to his right, as close as possible.

For a while he chatted in what seemed a light and easy manner. He asked people individually what they wanted from him and laughed at some of the responses. He was rather like a mother with her children, happy to give them the things they wanted, anxious to bring them joy, but hoping that they would learn to want the more important things of life, the treasures of the spirit.

Suddenly, turning to me he said in a teasing manner, "If I give you something, you will probably lose it?"

"No, Baba - no, I won't," I protested.



Pulling up his sleeve he stirred the air with his hand about on a level with my eyes; I could see under as well as over it, yet I saw nothing there until he turned the hand up and a large shining ring had appeared in his palm. It seemed to be of silver and gold; but he told me later that the silvery-looking metal was panchaloha, the sacred alloy of which many temple idols are made.

Fascinated, I held out my hand for the gift but he laughed and passed it in the opposite direction. It went around the circle, each person inspecting it, most of them holding it reverently to their foreheads before passing it on. When it had returned to Baba he placed it on my third finger. It fitted exactly.

I felt quite overwhelmed, and even more so when I saw that the figure embossed in gold on the panchaloha was Sai Baba of Shirdi. I had never told Satya Sai or any of his followers about my deep affection for that old saint. Was it then something that he could read in my mind?

Soon after that he began taking us separately into another room so that we could ask him private questions. When my turn came he talked to me about my personal life and health. He seemed to be not only father and mother but the very essence of parenthood itself, the archetype of all fathers and mothers. It was as if a warm beam of love came from him and entered into the depth of my being, melting my very bones. This I felt must be the pure high love which in Sanskrit is called prema, the love that has no hidden selfish motive, the love that is simply a spontaneous expression of the highest, the divinity, in man.

My wonderful inner experience matched up with what several devotees had already told me about their own personal contacts with the universal yet individualised Baba prema. So, one way and another, by the end of my first visit to the "Abode of Great Peace" I began, to understand that, whatever this miracle-man might be, he was not just a clever conjurer. Nor was he a "street magician" with a limited repertoire of psychic tricks for extracting a few rupees from the passing crowd.

Sai Baba did not belong to either of these well-known categories. What was he then? That remained a deep mystery, perhaps unfathomable but anyway a challenge.