Oh Earthly God: A Master of Love, Deception or Both?By George Balgobin My grandma is a true stickler. In the days I remember growing up, innocent statements would quickly turn into syntactical lessons. I would say, “I’m going down to Josh’s house.” I quickly learned to master the essential truths of life that North was up, South was down and East and West were over and across. Though she operates with her prickly pear exterior flush against the inaccuracies of the world, she is a woman of great composure, and those who know her realize any abrasion she offers is born of good intention. And yet, despite all the corrections and criticisms she issues and levels, one must give pause in considering the belief in life she holds most dear: God is 4’11”, has an impressive afro, lives in India and dresses almost exclusively in full length orange robes. He has even made things out of thin air for her. Singing songs in Sanskrit and Hindi to smiling pictures of Sri Sathya Sai Baba has been a part of my life since I can remember, and from what I understand, has a good deal to do with why I am alive today—my mom and dad met on a trip orchestrated by my grandmother to see this guru in India. My grandmother is a short, starchy woman of slender proportion but fearful tenacity. She was born in Pikeville, Kentucky in the 1920s. Depression era, rural living sowed a strong sense of determination and resourcefulness into her. But it was her penchant for a good debate that earned her a scholarship to college. From there she was propelled out into the world, and off to New York City, no less. Her husband was a freshly minted veteran of World War II, and they established a life for themselves in the lower part of the upper crust, complete with the latest hairstyles and a fairly high incidence of heart disease. After her marriage soured and she had long since relocated to Miami with my mother, she felt led to answer the spiritual void in her life. An interest in hatha yoga triggered a series of connections to several people instrumental in introducing her to the personage she would later exalt as Lord. So it seems, many years before my birth, Baba was fixed to cross my path. My earliest impressions of him are passive statements of circumstance, the way someone feels growing up going to church, but never quite walking the road to Damascus himself. Still, the stories of raising people from the dead, the objects I was told he manifested, and the sheer repetition of his name in my life were enough to cement a good deal of flexibility towards Baba when it came to my cynicism of all things Providential. When I was in Puttaparthi a few years ago it looked just as dusty and haphazard as most Indian villages I had seen, brimming with more life than it could hold. Arriving at the birthplace of the “Lord of Lords” certainly lent credence to the idea that the path to God is filled with many obstacles. The bus stop used to reach the holy village resembles a large gas station canopy with grass worn strips, plied by buses in a constant state of loading and unloading passengers to and from undisclosed locations. The stop is home to ticket booths, the rankled voices of chai sellers, and waves of wandering children. Most people speak English, everyone has a different answer for which bus goes to Puttaparthi. The road to Baba’s residence is rolling and mostly unpaved. The retired schoolbus I finally took began full and slowly shook empty as people were deposited at various outcroppings of houses along the way. Somewhat closer to Puttaparthi, the great silhouette of Baba’s hospital took control of the landscape. I had heard many times from my grandmother about this and other charitable acts of Baba’s, his free schools and colleges, but hadn’t expected the visage of Mt. Sinai to rise up amidst the cattle. The image of the hospital telescoped out of view among the myriad agricultural stretches and mud stuccoed huts clopped down upon the flatter, greener points on the horizon. By the time I reached Puttaparthi, I was thoroughly reminded of the primeval existences that circle Baba’s residence like a moat. The ashram itself is magnificent, especially in contrast to the ramshackle guesthouses and carpet shops that flank the main residence. The streets are cluttered and you can’t really walk for more than half a block without being accosted by a runner from one of the local vendors entreating you to come look at his “uncle’s” shop and have a cup of chai. Inside these stores, you realize the peddlers of Puttaparthi are much more advanced in their selling techniques than the “No buying, just looking” pitch you might hear elsewhere. Baba’s presence here means a steady stream of foreign, usually wealthy, and ‘Eastern’ minded patrons for the town’s merchants. Once inside the ashram gates, however, the atmosphere becomes serene and firmly ascetic, even if the funeral parlor pastels of the main hall seem out of place. Baba claims he’s the avatar of the age—or God on Earth, and though he is often compared to Jesus, Baba regards himself as more essential than Jesus, all seeing and all knowing. His message is traditionally humble, if a little sophomoric, and he leaves little to argue over with sayings such as “Help ever, hurt never.” However, what separates Baba in the eyes of his followers from anyone else offering warmed over pan-spiritualism is that Baba doesn’t just speak about miracles, he delivers them. At thirteen years old, it came to him that he was the reincarnation of Shirdi Sai Baba, a previous Indian guru, and that he had both telepathic and telekinetic powers. It is these talents—the ability to materialize luxury items and know people’s thoughts—that have enabled him to build an empire of devotees over 60 million strong. At 76 years old, as far as gurus go, Baba is a stellar success and his pronouncement that one can still be a Christian, Muslim, Jew or member of any other religion while worshipping him as well, is at its very best a grand unifying gesture, or at its worst good marketing to the West. In the main hall, mostly Indian faces shuffle back and forth carrying out the administration of the Baba complex. I imagine what this place must be like for my grandmother. One week she is playing tennis at the Surf Club and jockeying with members of Miami Beach’s social register, the next she is robed in a sari and sitting on the pavement at 4.30am waiting to form the line that files in to see Baba. This Indian being of slight stature is her explanation for the world; he’s how she has dealt with any trouble that has come into her life. It is not only that Baba gives her divine revelation, but that he lives on Earth. She knows him, she’s touched him, and she is certain that within his gates is where heaven touches earth. Baba emerges from his quarters several times a day and strolls around a covered pavilion where seated devotees await, thrusting letters toward him and stretching their necks to catch his eye in hopes of getting an interview. Really, though Baba speaks of selflessness and patience a good deal, most folks’ actions seem to say it’s all about the interview. I did not get an interview while I was there, though I tell myself it is difficult to compete against groups of foreigners who spread banners across themselves saying, “Sai Devotees all the way from Finland.” In practice, this type of advertising does work, as does knowing the right people in Baba’s inner circle who oversee everything from security to sweeping. It strikes me as strange that coming from Finland or having a friend who does the books for the Almighty might brighten your chances of meeting God. The devotees will tell you that these people traveled a long way, or echo the now infamous ‘who are we to question Baba.’ To anyone willing to use a discerning eye, Baba’s preferences for devotees he calls in for interviews are known, even if they’re not talked about. Though Western devotees make up only a smattering of the faces in the throngs clamoring to see him, he usually veers right towards them. And out of that group, he seems to focus on the men, and not only that, but young men in particular. Some say he has an affinity for blond hair. My grandma has been in numerous interviews with Baba, some in group form, some one-on-one. Both my parents have also been called in to see him. Judging from what I have heard, Baba tends to speak with the vagueness of a fortune teller, or if you’re talking to my grandma, the prescience of a prophet. But words seem to captivate people less than the miracles and manifestations that keep Baba at the summit of the landscape of Indian holy men. Grandma has a japamala (Hindu rosary) and a medallion he made for her. Other knick-knacks, like her trusty packet of vhibuti—perfumed ashes made from cow dung—she deems important enough to carry with her at all times. Baba manifests rings and pendants, as well as other not to be sniffed at items such as Swiss watches, though he hasn’t made any of these in recent times after India imposed a tariff on them. Like magic, Baba will wave his downturned hand around in a circle and when he flips him palm over a trinket will be there. These items are usually given out during the interview, but when I was there I saw him materialize a ring for a man 5 feet away from me. He had me fooled, but I don’t really know how people get out from chained metal boxes underwater either. As it were, several of these public displays caught on videotape by unwitting Sai devotees have been analyzed by people who analyze these things and shown to be sleight-of-hand mischief. And more and more, the Baba empire is beginning to show its cracks. Growing numbers of former devotees have stepped forward with claims of having seen Baba pull things out from under a pillow or having their jewelry examined later and being told not only that it is fake, but that it’s the signature model of Sai Baba’s put-ons. All this trickery would be one thing, if it weren’t for charges that Baba is also a serial child molester and an accomplice to murder. My father told me a story about his experience with Baba just a few months before I made my way over to Asia. He was in his 20s and had heard about Baba through my grandmother. He had been staying at the ashram for a few weeks, when Baba finally called him in for an interview. In the curtained room, Baba asked him to unzip his pants. With his famous wave of the hand, Baba produced some oil, and administered it to my father’s pubic area. Equally perplexing, Baba addressed him in Hindi even though my father, an ethnic Indian, spoke only English from birth. My father has always been a purveyor of the ‘all things will pass’ attitude, and to tell the truth, I didn’t even really consider it all that odd when I heard about the incident because the mystique around Baba is so great, and so thoroughly ingrained. What I learned from the reports of other ex-devotees from around the world was that this ‘oiling of the genitals’ ritual is more of a testing method Baba uses to judge how receptive boys are to further sexual relations. After the first boy came forward with these claims, new reports from disaffected devotees have not stopped accumulating. While all the stories shine a less-than-divine light on Baba, a few make the stomach churn, like charges of anal sex with a 7 year old or the recounting of Baba’s holy groans as he leads a teenage boy to his netherworld. I didn’t hear those accounts when I was in India—I trust I would have never entered the ashram had I known what goes on beyond the veil. However, what I did hear one evening from a keen Muslim carpet peddler was enough to write my ticket for the next day’s 5am bus. Baba maintains a college in Puttaparthi which offers excellent education to students from all around India—Baba takes only the best and hand picks the final choices himself. This college, many students now charge, is fertile ground Baba uses to slake his lust. In 1993, five ex-students penetrated the royal residence at the ashram in an attempt to assassinate him. They were caught in the Baba bedroom, and some reports place Baba cowering for help in the bathroom. Nonetheless, they killed two of his bodyguards, but were subsequently trapped and apprehended by the police. This is as far as any good devotee will go in telling the story. The carpet merchant explained to me that after the police interrogated the boys, four of the five were executed on the spot without trial. A new 800 page book even claims that Baba’s men and not the police did the killing. I wonder what could make students who were receiving high quality education for free want to kill the man that made it so. When I ask my grandma about this and other Baba accusations, she gives me as tough a line as she’s ever going to let me hear. “You mean that crap?” Or when she’s being more diplomatic, she tells me that the people who say these things must have had a bad experience with Baba. Indeed, this is the standard line being given out by the higher ups today in the worldwide Baba organization—You should only trust your own experience with Baba. It’s hard for me to feel what grandma’s experience has been; Baba’s been her god for over 30 years and the closest friendships she has are Sai inspired. It is a path that has given her direction, and sharpened her certitude. I doubt her confidence would be so strong otherwise. Baba says, “There is only one religion, the religion of Love; There is only one language; the language of the Heart; There is only one God, He is Omnipresent.” My grandmother thinks of these words as the underpinnings of her life, and the man who speaks them, her creator. She is a woman normally possessed with a keen sense of scrutiny, but Baba is not up for debate. “Where is the evil in the free schooling, and hospitals and food for the hungry?” she asks. I am jocular in response, but in truth, I don’t have a good answer for her question. There is nothing I can say that undoes the charity he has done, or the essentials of his message. I study her voice reacting with disappointment and her conviction being reinforced by strife. “Can’t you find something productive to do with yourself?” My response is long and inarticulate. There is nothing eloquent about the language of destruction. |
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