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Influence of the mystic, Magga Baba
I have been in contact with many esoteric groups. I have known
many persons who are still alive who belong to some group. I have
known many keys which were delivered by authentic teachers. But
no key of the old tradition is enough...
I have known so many esoteric groups - in this life and before.
I have been in contact with many esoteric groups, but I cannot
tell you their whereabouts. I cannot tell you their names, because
that is not permitted. And it is of no use really. But I can tell
you that they still exist, they still try to help. gate08
On this pilgrimage I have met many more remarkable men than Gurdjieff
recounts in his book Meetings with Remarkable Men. By and by,
as and when it happens, I will talk about them. Today I can talk
about one of those remarkable men.
His real name is not known, nor his real age, but he was called
"Magga Baba." Magga simply means "big cup."
He always used to keep his magga, his cup, in his hand. He used
it for everything - for his tea, his milk, his food, for the money
people gave him, or whatsoever the moment demanded. All he possessed
was his magga and that is why he was known as Magga Baba. Baba
is a respectful word. It simply means grandfather, your father's
father. In Hindi your mother's father is nana, your father's father
is baba.
Magga Baba was certainly one of the most remarkable men that
may ever have lived on this planet. He was really one of the chosen
ones. You can count him with Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tzu. I know nothing
about his childhood or his parents. Nobody knows from where he
came - one day suddenly he appeared in the town.
He did not speak. People persisted in asking questions of all
kinds. He either remained silent, or if they nagged too much he
started shouting gibberish, rubbish, just meaningless sounds.
Those poor people thought he was speaking in a language that perhaps
they didn't understand. He was not using language at all. He was
just making sounds. For example, "Higgalal hoo hoo hoo guloo
higga hee hee." Then he would wait and again ask, "Hee
hee hee?" It seemed as if he was asking, "Have you understood?"
And the poor people would say, "Yes, Baba, yes."
Then he would show his magga and make the sign. This sign in India
means money. It comes from the old days when there were real gold
and silver coins. People used to check whether it was real gold
or not by throwing the coin to the ground and listening to its
sound. Real gold has its own sound, and nobody can fake it. So
Magga Baba would show his magga with one hand and with the other
give the sign for money, meaning, "If you have understood
then give something to me." And people would give.
I would laugh myself to tears because he had not said anything.
But he was not greedy for money. He would take from one person
and give it to another. His magga was always empty. Once in a
while there would be something in it, but rarely. It was a passage:
money would come into it and go; food would come into it and go;
and it always remained empty. He was always cleaning it. I have
seen him morning, evening and afternoon, always cleaning it.
I want to confess to you - 'you' means the world - that I was
the only person to whom he used to speak, but only in privacy,
when nobody else was present. I would go to him deep in the night,
perhaps two o'clock in the morning, because that was the most
likely time to find him alone. He would be hugged up in his old
blanket, on a winter's night, by the side of a fire. I would sit
at his side for a while. I never disturbed him; that was the one
reason why he loved me. Once in a while it would happen that he
would turn on his side, open his eyes and see me sitting there
and start talking of his own accord.
He was not a Hindi-speaking person, so people thought it was
difficult to communicate with him, but that is not true. He was
certainly not a Hindi-oriented person, but he knew not only Hindi
but many other languages too. Of course he knew the language of
silence the most; he remained silent almost all his life. In the
day he would not speak to anybody, but in the night he would speak
to me, only when I was alone. It was such a blessing to hear his
few words.
Magga Baba never said anything about his own life, but he said
many things about life. He was the first man who told me, "Life
is more than what it appears to be. Don't judge by its appearances
but go deep down into the valleys where the roots of life are."
He would suddenly speak, and suddenly he would be silent. That
was his way. There was no way to persuade him to speak: either
he spoke or not. He would not answer any questions, and the conversations
between us two were an absolute secret. Nobody knew about it.
This is for the first time that I am saying it.
I have heard many great speakers, and he was just a poor man,
but his words were pure honey, so sweet and nourishing, and so
pregnant with meaning. "But," he told me, "you
are not to tell anybody that I have been speaking to you until
I die, because many people think I am deaf. It is good for me
that they think so. Many think that I am mad - that is even better
as far as I am concerned. Many who are very intellectual try to
figure out what I say, and it is just gibberish. I wonder, when
I hear the meaning that they have derived from it. I say to myself,
'My God! If these people are the intellectuals, the professors,
the pundits, the scholars, then what about the poor crowd? I had
not said anything, yet they have made up so many things out of
nothing, just like soap bubbles.'"
For some reason, or maybe for no reason at all, he loved me.
I have had the fortune to be loved by many strange people. Magga
Baba is the first on my list.
The whole day he was surrounded by people. He was really a free
man, yet not even free to move a single inch because people were
holding on to him. They would put him into a rickshaw and take
him away wherever they wanted. Of course he would not say no,
because he was pretending to be either deaf or dumb or mad. And
he never uttered any word that could be found in any dictionary.
Obviously he could not say yes or no; he would simply go.
Once or twice he was stolen. He disappeared for months because
people from another town had stolen him. When the police found
him and asked him whether he wanted to return, of course he did
his thing again. He said some nonsense, "Yuddle fuddle shuddle...."
The police said, "This man is mad. What are we going to
write in our reports: 'Yuddle fuddle shuddle'? What does it mean?
Can anyone make any sense out of it?" So he remained there
until he was stolen back again by a crowd from the original town.
That was my town where I was living soon after the death of my
grandfather.
I visited him almost every night without fail, under his neem
tree, where he used to sleep and live. Even when I was sick and
my grandmother would not allow me to go out, even then, during
the night when she was asleep, I would escape. But I had to go;
Magga Baba had to be visited at least once each day. He was a
kind of spiritual nourishment.
He helped me tremendously although he never gave any directions
except by his very being. Just by his very presence he triggered
unknown forces in me, unknown to me. I am most grateful to this
man Magga Baba, and the greatest blessing of all was that I, a
small child, was the only one to whom he used to speak. Those
moments of privacy, knowing that he spoke to no one else in the
whole world, were tremendously strengthening, vitalizing.
If sometimes I would go to him and somebody else was present,
he would do something so terrible that the other person would
escape. For example he would throw things, or jump, or dance like
a madman, in the middle of the night. Anybody was bound to become
afraid - after all, you have a wife, children, and a job, and
this man seems to be just mad; he could do anything. Then, when
the person had gone, we would both laugh together. I have never
laughed like that with anybody else, and I don't think it is going
to happen again in this lifetime...and I don't have any other
life. The wheel has stopped. Yes, it is running a little bit,
but that is only past momentum; no new energy is being fed into
it.
Magga Baba was so beautiful that I have not seen any other man
who can be put by his side. He was just like a Roman sculpture,
just perfect - even more perfect than any sculpture can be, because
he was alive, so full of life I mean. I don't know whether it
is possible to meet a man like Magga Baba again, and I don't want
to either because one Magga Baba is enough, more than enough.
He was so satisfying - and who cares for repetition? And I know
perfectly, one cannot be higher than that. glimps15
To me Magga Baba was important, but if I had to choose between
my Nani and him I would still choose my Nani. Although she was
not enlightened then and Magga Baba was, sometimes an unenlightened
person is so beautiful that one would choose them, even though
the enlightened one is available as an alternative.
Of course if I could choose both I would. Or, if I had a choice
of two among the whole world of millions of people, then I would
have them both. Magga Baba on the outside...he wouldn't enter
my grandmother's house; he would remain outside under his neem
tree. And of course my Nani could not sit at the side of Magga
Baba. "That fellow!" she used to call him. "That
fellow! Forget about him and never go close to him. Even when
you just pass by him, always take a shower." She was always
afraid he had lice, because nobody had ever seen him take a bath.
Perhaps she was right: he had never taken a bath as long as
I had known him. They could not exist together, that too is true.
Coexistence could not be possible in this case - but we could
always make arrangements. Magga Baba could always be under the
neem tree outside in the courtyard, and Nani could be the queen
in the house. And I could have the love of them both, without
having to choose this or that. I hate "either/or." glimps15
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