One afternoon a small group was sitting around Baba when Adi Arjani, another Pakistani, came into the room with his family after having eaten lunch. As was Baba's practice, He asked Adi whether they had eaten well, then asked him what they had for lunch. Among other dishes, Adi mentioned chicken curry. At this time in India, particularly, chicken was not an everyday dish, but something served on special occasions.

"So you had chicken," Baba said. Then asked others what they had eaten, but He didn't comment further.

The next afternoon Baba again asked the Arjanis the same question, and again they had eaten chicken.

"Again?" Baba asked.

And the third afternoon the scene was repeated. Baba asked the Arjanis what they had eaten, and once more, chicken had been a part of the meal.

"Chicken again? Do you like it so much that you have it every day?" Baba asked.

Adi Arjani explained that since they were on vacation, they were having chicken as a special treat.

This discussion of chicken went on for a few more days. Then one day Baba said, "You Pakistanis, you're gluttons. Are you crazy, eating chicken every day?" And he told the Arjanis that they shouldn't eat chicken any more. But that was not the end of it. One by one, Baba asked everyone in the small group sitting in Mandali Hall at that time if they ate chicken, and if they did, He told them to stop. When it was Adi Dubash's turn, Baba said, "No chicken for you." Every time Baba gestured no, He also made a gesture of corking a bottle.

I was sitting with the women, and I was afraid Baba's eyes would be on me next. I was most relieved when He changed the subject to something else, as I loved chicken and knew I would be very sorry if I couldn't have it. But after some time, He turned to me and asked, "Is it all right" — He knew how I loved chicken, and He asked the question with such compassion — "if you also don't eat chicken?" The Beloved always knows what is going on in our hearts and minds.

"It's all right, Baba," I said.

"Good. Then I would like you not to eat chicken." Now my bottle was corked, too. Merwan was now the only one in the room who had not been given this order. Baba asked us if he ate chicken, and we told Him that Merwan ate it only on special occasions.

"All right, never mind," Baba said, and the conversation turned to something else. Merwan thought he had been spared. But in a few minutes Baba again turned to us and asked if it would be all right if Merwan didn't eat chicken either. Of course, we agreed, but then Baba Himself said, "Never mind, he's only a child." This time Merwan was certain that he wouldn't be given the order. But in a few minutes, Baba once again told us it would be best if Merwan didn't eat chicken. So that was the end of chicken for all of us.

Since that time I have not intentionally eaten chicken. In the beginning we blundered a few times, but no chicken means no chicken. Once someone served us soup, and we ate it without thinking. Afterwards, when dinner arrived, it was chicken pillao, and I instantly became suspicious and asked the hostess what was in the soup. She knew that we had Baba's order not to eat chicken.

"Oh, Rhoda," she said with concern, "that soup had chicken in it." Then, with great compassion in her voice, she asked, "What now?"

I said, "Nothing you or I can do now — I've already eaten it. But it's all right." And silently I asked Baba's forgiveness for breaking the order.

Another time someone offered us sandwiches, but the moment I put that first morsel in my mouth, I realized what it was. Without swallowing I asked what was in the sandwich. When the answer came, I went outside and took it out of my mouth. Perhaps three or four times I have inadvertently broken Baba's simple order, but I have never done so knowingly.

Now Adi and I have become veterans where chicken is concerned. Most of our friends know about our order not to eat it, and they tell us before the food is put on the table. But even a simple thing like this teaches us to be alert and also to remember Baba.