SANTA CRUZ MEMORIES

 
When Mother and I came to visit Baba in Santa Cruz, a suburb of Bombay, I was almost eight years old. And yet, my memory of this visit is limited to a kaleidoscope of scenes stored in my mind.

You'll see what I mean. Just hold my hand and come with me into this beautiful home in Santa Cruz. It belongs to a rich man who has invited Baba to please stay there. Baba has accepted.

You'll agree that it is a magical place, with mirrors everywhere, mirrors in golden frames. When we step into the large hall, we see that the floor is of rich marble. There are also marble statues in the corners. Then there's this gorgeous crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. And spread in the centre of the hall is a thick and beautiful carpet, no doubt Persian.

We don't enter the other rooms, so we don't know what they are like. But as we step out onto one of the balconies upstairs, I hear one of you say, "Why, this is just like a royal box at the London opera!" Yes, dear, I agree.

As we look down, I tell you how Mother and I stood on this balcony sixty-five years ago, watching the horse carriages and people go by on the streets below. It must have been a festive occasion for the Catholics, because the ladies walking by to church were obviously dressed in brand new shoes and dresses and hats. Mother was very interested.

All very nice, you say, but what's the point of my story? Well, what I really want to share with you is the most precious diamond among my Santa Cruz memories. All I've described above serves only as a setting for this central gem.

With sparkling clarity I remember Baba squatting on that carpet in the hall of His rich devotee's home. A couple of His disciples sat nearby -- I don't remember who they were. All I remember is me, squatting beside Him, helping Him make matchboxes. Yes, matchboxes! There was a pile of unfinished matchboxes before Him, next to a little hill of loose match-sticks — thousands and thousands of matchsticks from what I could see!!

I helped Baba paste picture-labels onto the empty matchboxes and then helped Him fill them with matchsticks. You had to do it just so — pack them tight and evenly, with the match-heads all on one side. You had to really concentrate, and the work was slow going for the ones around Him. Not for Baba! His slim and beautiful fingers moved swiftly like butterfly wings, as He worked with those matches.

I didn't know why they were being made, these matchboxes, or for whom. But, in the course of time, I was to get two insights that explained certain things in my life.

Firstly, as to why I developed a sudden passion for collecting empty matchboxes in later years at school. It dawned on me that making matchboxes with Baba in Santa Cruz as a child had given birth to this passion of mine for collecting matchboxes later on.

I collected hundreds of them, their labels bearing all kinds of pictures: Radha-Krishna, Sita-Ram, a red rose, a cock, a bullock cart, a white horse, and lots more. I swapped popular film posters with my friends for used matchboxes from their kitchens.

Secondly, I was able to see Baba's act of filling those empty boxes with matches in quite a different light. From Baba's casual remarks over the years we had come to know that every act of His, however small, produced a universal effect. Being universal, whatever Baba did was universal and unlimited.

So, while Baba was packing those thousands of match-sticks into empty matchboxes, was it a symbolic act? Was He passing on the light of His Love to thousands of hearts chosen to be His candles? Knowing some of the ways of His working, my answer is "Yes!"