AT THE CLINIC IN PRAGUE

 
The clinic in Prague was a small, one-story affair that had been lovingly created by Dr. Ned Burleson and his wife, Julia. It had been designed to treat a few individuals with non-emergency needs, and these severely injured accident victims were stretching it beyond its capacity.

We learned that both Baba's left arm and left leg had been broken. His beautiful aquiline nose was shattered, and there were painful injuries to his mouth. Dr. Burleson wrote later that when he treated Baba, "I was surprised to see an individual who was injured as badly as he was still smiling. I was also astounded to find that he did not speak a word or make any sound denoting discomfort . . . The most attractive quality of his personality the first day was the way he looked at me with those big brown eyes, as if her were reading my mind . . ."

Mehera and Elizabeth were put in beds in the only room available. Mehera had a concussion and a fractured skull. When I saw the x-rays of her head, it looked like smashed and shattered eggshell. Cracks radiated down into the sinus orbit, and her eyes were swollen like purple beets. But all we heard from her day and night was. "Arrey. Baba. Arrey. Baba" (Oh, Baba, Oh, Baba), over and over. Baba had allowed her to suffer physically and to share in his own suffering.

Meheru's injuries included a fractured right arm and several fractured fingers on her left hand. She couldn't pick up or handle anything.

Elizabeth had broken both her arms and her collarbone, so the doctors had encased her in a large cast that covered the top of her body, with her arms across her chest. She was an extraordinarily brave woman, so brave that she wouldn't even let the doctors touch her without first attending to Baba and the other women. She lay outside the operating room, saying, "I've already waited two hours, so don't let's be in a hurry about this!"

After they put the cast on her, she still suffered intense pain, so they brought in a specialist from Oklahoma City. Around the second or third day, he took off her cast and discovered she had many cracked ribs.

Twenty years earlier in New York, Elizabeth had been walking with Baba in a garden. He picked up a flower and gave it to her, saying she should keep it and remember the date — May 24. He told her that some time in the future it would have special meaning for her. Now she understood.

Baba had been placed on a cot in the doctor's private study. When we went in to see him, he placed a kerchief over his face, out of delicacy for our feelings, and showed us only his eyes. They seemed to me to be truly the eyes of the Christ. He wrote on his board, "You must understand that this was God's will and it will result in benefit to the whole world."

Baba's sister, Mani, had also been in the car, but she was the only one not seriously injured. She was still in pain, however, because she'd been thrown across the carpeting in the car and suffered scratches and friction burns up and down her legs, arms, and feet. This pain didn't compare to the emotional pain she was feeling. Mani was devastated that she hadn't been given the physical burden to bear that the others had. She cried bitterly. Although she was eager to help the others in any way she could, her remorse was so extreme that Baba finally said to her. "Mani, you can do your share by keeping silence," and he had her begin it later on the trip.

Although Dr. Burleson was doing everything he could to assist the group, his resources were limited. Baba was very uncomfortable on the cot in the doctor's office, so the mandali took turns sitting as a back rest for him, hours at a time. Dr. Burleson sent for more hospital beds from Oklahoma City and called in several specialists to examine the patients. Margaret Craske arrived the evening of the day we reached the clinic and helped exercise Baba's muscles. Kitty Davy stayed in the room with Mehera and Elizabeth and cared for them night and day.

None of those injured in the accident were capable of feeding or tending to themselves, so the rest of us took care of their needs. One day Baba asked me if I would do the laundry for them. I was grateful to help in any way I could.

I went to collect the laundry, which was piled up on the sidewalk outside, and found this enormous stack of bloodstained clothes. It seemed as if there was a mountain of them. I took them down to the local laundromat, where the equipment was so antiquated that the washing machines still utilized hand wringers. Fortunately, there were big tubs where I could deposit the laundry to soak. Since one of these batches was going to take about an hour, I decided to leave it soaking and dash back to the hospital to spoon-feed Meheru her lunch.

I told the supervisor that I needed to get back to the patients (everyone in Prague now referred to them as being "from the accident") but I would be back soon. When I did return, I found that the women in town had taken the clothes out for me and washed, dried, and folded them most beautifully. It was one of the many times that the people of little Prague showed us how large their hearts were.