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> Influence of mystics, Pagal Baba and Masto

Pagal Baba was one of those remarkable men whom I am going to talk about. He was of the same category as Magga Baba. He was known just as Pagal Baba; pagal means "the mad." He came like a wind, always suddenly, and then disappeared as suddenly as he had come.
I did not discover him, he discovered me. By that I mean I was just swimming in the river when he passed by: he looked at me, I looked at him, and he jumped in the river and we swam together. I don't know how long we swam but I was not the one to say "enough." He was already an established saint. I had seen him before, but not so closely. At a gathering, doing bhajan and singing songs of God, I had seen him and had a certain feeling towards him, but I had kept it to myself. I had not even uttered a single word about it. There are things which are better kept in the heart; there they grow faster. That's the right soil.
At this time he was an old man; I was not more than twelve. Obviously he was the one to say, "Let us stop. I am feeling tired."
I said, "You could have told me any time and I would have stopped, but as far as I am concerned I am a fish in the river."
Yes, that's how I was known in my town. Who else swims six hours every morning from four till ten? glimps27

This man Pagal Baba will be referred to many times, for the simple reason that he introduced so many people to me. Whenever I mention them, Pagal Baba will have to be mentioned too. Through him a world opened up. He was far more valuable to me than any university, because he introduced me to all that is best in every possible field.
He used to come to my village just like a whirlwind and he would take hold of me. My parents could not say no to him; not even my Nani could say no to him. In fact, the moment I mentioned Pagal Baba they all said, "Then it's okay," because they knew that if they denied me, Pagal Baba would come and create a nuisance in the house. He could break things, he could beat people, and he was so respected that nobody would prevent him from doing any damage. So it was best for everybody to say, "Yes…if Pagal Baba wants to take you with him, you can go. And we know," they said, "that with Pagal Baba you will be safe."
My other relatives in the town used to tell my father, "You are not doing the right thing in sending your boy along with that insane man."
My father replied, "My boy is such that I am more worried about that old insane man than about him. You need not bother."
I traveled many places with Pagal Baba. He took me not only to great artists and musicians, but also to the great places. It was with him that I first saw the Taj Mahal, and the caves of Ellora and Ajantas. He was the man with whom I first saw the Himalayas. I owe him too much, and I have never even thanked him. I could not because he used to touch my feet. If I would ever say anything to him in thanks, he would immediately put his hand to his lips and say, "Just be quiet. Never mention your thankfulness. I am thankful to you, not you to me."
One night when we were alone I asked him, "Why are you thankful to me? I have not done anything for you and you have done many things for me, yet you don't even allow me to say thank you."
He said, "One day you will understand, but right now go to sleep and don't mention it again at all, never, never. When the time comes you will know." By the time I came to know it was too late, he was no more. I came to know, but too late.
If he had been alive perhaps it would have been too difficult for him to realize that I had come to know that once, in a past life, he had poisoned me. Although I had survived, he was now just trying to compensate; he was trying to efface it. He was doing everything in his power to be good to me—and he was always good to me, more than I ever deserved—but now I know why: he was trying to bring balance.
In the East they call it karma, the "theory of action." Whatever you do, remember, you will have to bring a balance again to things disturbed by your action. Now I know why he was so good to a child. He was trying, and he succeeded, to bring about balance. Once your actions are totally balanced you can then disappear. Only then can you stop the wheel. In fact, the wheel stops by itself, you don't even have to stop it. glimps29

My father was always amazed whenever Pagal Baba would come and touch my feet. He himself would touch Pagal Baba's feet. It was really hilarious. And just to make the circle whole I would touch my father's feet. Pagal Baba would start laughing so loudly that everybody became silent as if something really great was happening—and my father would look embarrassed.
Pagal tried again and again to convince me that my future was to be a musician. I said "No," and when I say no, I mean no.
From my very childhood my no has been very clear, and I rarely use yes. That word yes is so precious, almost holy, that it should be used only in the presence of the divine, whether it is love or beauty, or right now…orange blossom on the gulmohar, so thick it is as if the whole tree is aflame. When anything reminds you of the sacred, then you can use the word yes—it is full of prayer. No simply means that I cut myself off from the proposed activity. And I have been a no-sayer; it was very difficult to get a yes out of me.
Seeing Pagal Baba, a man who was known to be enlightened, I recognized that he was unique even in those days. I did not know anything of what enlightenment is. I was in just the same position as I am now, again utterly unknowing. But his presence was luminous. You could recognize him among thousands.
He was the first man who took me to a Kumbha Mela. It takes place every twelve years in Prayag, and is the biggest gathering in the whole world. For Hindus Kumbha Mela is one of their life's cherished dreams. A Hindu thinks that if you have not been to a Kumbha Mela at least once, you have missed your life. That's what a Hindu thinks. The minimum count is one million people, the maximum is three million people.
It's the same with the Mohammedans. Unless you are a haji, unless you have been to Haj, to Mecca, you have missed. Haj means "journey to Mecca," where Mohammed lived and died. All over the world it is every Mohammedan's most precious dream; he has to go at least once to Mecca. The Hindu has to go to Prayag. These places are their Israels. The religions may look very different on the surface, but if you just scratch a little bit you will find the same rubbish; Hindu, Jew, Mohammedan, Christian, it does not matter.
But Kumbha Mela has a unique character. Just a gathering of three million people is in itself a rare experience. All the Hindu monks come there, and they are not a small minority. They number five hundred thousand, and they are very colorful people. You cannot imagine so many unique sects. You cannot believe that such people even exist, and they all gather there.
Pagal Baba took me to the first Kumbha Mela of my life. I was to attend once more, but this experience with Pagal Baba at the Kumbha Mela was immensely educating, because he took me to all the great, and the so-called great saints, and in front of them, and with thousands of people around, he would ask me, "Is this man a real saint?"
I would say, "No."
But Pagal Baba was also as stubborn as I am, he did not lose heart. He went on and on, taking me to every kind of saint possible, until I said to one man, "Yes."
Pagal Baba laughed and said, "I knew that you would recognize the true one. And this man"—he pointed to the man about whom I had said yes—"he is a realized one, not known to anybody."
The man was just sitting under a pipal tree, without any followers. Perhaps he was the loneliest man in that great crowd of three million people. Baba first touched my feet, then his feet.
The man said, "But where did you find this child? I never thought a child would be able to recognize me. I have hidden myself so perfectly. You can recognize me, that's okay, but how could he do it?"
Baba said, "That's the puzzle. That's why I touch his feet. You touch his feet right now." And who could have disobeyed that ninety-year-old man? He was so majestic. The man immediately touched my feet.
That's how Pagal Baba used to introduce me to all kinds of people. In this circle I am mostly talking of the musicians, because they were his love affair. He wanted me to become a musician, but I could not fulfill his desire because for me music, at the most, can only be an entertainment. I told him exactly in those same words, saying, "Pagal Baba, music is a much lower kind of meditation. I am not interested in it."
He said, "I know it is. I wanted to hear it from you. But music is a good step to go higher; no need to cling to it, or to remain on it. A step is a step to something else."
That's how I have used music in all my meditations, as a step to something—which is really "the music"—soundless. Nanak says, "Ek omkar sat nam: there is only one name of God, or of truth, and that is the soundless sound of aum." Perhaps meditation came out of music, or perhaps music is the mother of meditation. But music itself is not meditation. It can only indicate, or be a hint….
I was not going to become a musician. Pagal Baba knew it, but he was in love with music, and he wanted me to at least be acquainted with the best of the musicians; perhaps I may become attracted. He introduced me to so many musicians, it was even difficult to remember all their names. But a few names are very famous and known all over the world. glimps29

Pagal Baba has to be talked about only in an indirect way; that was the quality of the man. He was always in brackets, very invisible. He introduced me to many musicians, and I always asked him why. He said, "One day you will be a musician."
I said, "Pagal Baba, sometimes it seems people are right: you are mad. I am not going to be a musician.
He laughed and said, "I know that. Still I say you will be a musician."
Now, what to make of it? I have not become a musician, but in a way he was right. I have not played on musical instruments, but I have played on thousands of hearts. I have created a far deeper music than any instrument can—noninstrumental, nontechnical. glimps29

Three flutists, all of them introduced to me by Pagal Baba: one man, Hariprasad Chaurasia, from north India where they play a different kind of flute music; another from Bengal, Pannalal Ghosh—he again plays a different kind of flute, very male, very loud and overpowering. Sachdeva's flute is almost silent, feminine, just the opposite of Pannalal Ghosh. glimps28

Hariprasad is my choice as far as these flutists are concerned. His flute has the beauty of both the others and yet is neither like that of Pannalal Ghosh—too loud and bombastic—nor so sharp that it cuts and hurts you. It is soft like a breeze, a cool breeze on a summer's night. It is like the moon; the light is there but not hot, cool. You can feel the coolness of it.
Hariprasad must be considered the greatest flutist ever born, but he is not very famous. He cannot be, he is very humble. To be famous you have to be aggressive. To be famous you have to fight in the ambitious world. He has not fought, and he is the last man to fight to be recognized.
But Hariprasad was recognized by men like Pagal Baba. Pagal Baba also recognized a few others whom I will describe later on, because they too came into my life through him.
It is a strange thing: Hariprasad was not at all known to me till Pagal Baba introduced him to me, and then he became so interested that he used to come to Pagal Baba just to visit me. One day Pagal Baba jokingly said to him, "Now you don't come for me. You know it, I know it, and the person for whom you come knows it."
I laughed, Hariprasad laughed and said, "Baba you are right."
I said, "I knew Baba was going to mention it sooner or later." And this was the beauty of the man. He brought many people to me, but prevented me from even thanking him. He said only one thing to me: "I have only done my duty. I ask just one favor: when I die, will you give the fire at my funeral?"
In India, it is thought to be of great importance. If a man is without a son he suffers his whole life, because who will give the fire at his funeral? It is called "giving the fire."
When he asked me, I said, "Baba, I have my own father, and he will be angry—and I don't know about your family; perhaps you have a son…."
He said, "Don't be bothered about anything, either about your father or about my family. This is my decision."
I had never seen him in that kind of mood. I knew then that his end was very close. He was not able to waste time even discussing it.
I said, "Okay, no argument. I will give you the fire. It does not matter whether my father objects or your family objects. I don't know your family."
By chance Pagal Baba died in my own village. But perhaps he arranged it—I think he arranged it. And when I started his funeral by giving fire to it, my father said, "What are you doing? This can be done only by the eldest son."
I said, "Dada, let me do it. I have promised him. And as far as you are concerned, I will not be able to do it; my younger brother will do it. In fact, he is your eldest son, not me. I am of no use to the family, and will never be. In fact, I will always prove to be a nuisance to the family. My younger brother, second to me, will give you the fire, and he will take care of the family."…
…I told my father, "Pagal Baba asked me and I have promised him, so I have to give the fire. As far as your death is concerned, don't be worried, my younger brother will be there. I will also be present, but not as your son."
I don't know why I said this, and what he might have thought, but it proved true. I was present when he died. In fact I had called him to live with me, just so that I did not have to go up to the town where he lived. I never wanted to go there again after my grandmother's death. That was another promise. I have to fulfill so many promises, but up to now I have successfully fulfilled a major part of them. There are only a few promises which remain to be fulfilled. glimps30

I had promised Pagal Baba to get a master's degree….
Somehow Pagal Baba got the idea that unless you had a master's degree, a postgraduate degree, you would not be able to get a good job.
I said, "Baba, do you think I will ever desire a job?"
He laughed and said, "I know you will not desire it, but just in case. I am just an old man, and I think of all the worst things possible." You have heard the proverb, "Hope for the best, but expect the worst." He added something more to it. Baba said, "Prepare for the worst too. It should not be met unprepared; otherwise, how are you going to face it?" glimps34

Pagal Baba in his last days was always a little bit worried. I could see it, although he had not said anything, nor had anybody else mentioned it. Perhaps nobody else was even aware that he was worried. It was certainly not about his illness, old age, or his oncoming death; those were absolutely immaterial to the man.
One night, when I was alone with him, I asked him. In fact, I had to wake him up in the middle of the night, because it was so difficult to find a moment when there was nobody else with him.
He said to me, "It must be something of great importance; otherwise you would not have awakened me. What's the matter?"
I said, "That's the question. I have been watching you—I feel a little shadow of worry around you. It has never been there before. Your aura has always been so clear, just like a bright sun, but now I see a little shadow. It cannot be death."
He laughed and said, "Yes, the shadow is there, and it is not death, that too is true. My concern is, I am waiting for a man so that I can hand over my responsibility for you to him. I am worried because he has not come yet. If I die it will be impossible for you to be able to find him."
I said, "If I really need somebody, I will find him. But I don't need anybody. You relax before death comes. I don't want to be the cause of this shadow. You should die as brilliantly radiant as you have lived."
He said, "It is not possible…. But I know the man will come—I am worrying unnecessarily. He is a man of his word; he has promised to reach me before I die."
I asked him, "How does he know when you are going to die?"
He laughed and said, "That is why I want you to be introduced to him. You are very young and I would like someone like me just to be around you." He said, "In fact, this is an old convention, that if a child is ever going to become awakened, then at least three awakened people should recognize him at an early age."
I said, "Baba, this is all nonsense. Nobody can prevent me from awakening."
He said, "I know, but I am an old, conventional man, so please, particularly at the time of my death, don't say anything against convention."
I said, "Okay, for your sake I will keep absolutely silent. I will not say anything, because whatsoever I say is somehow going to be against convention, tradition."
He said, "I am not saying that you should be silent, but just feel what I am feeling. I am an old man. I have nobody in the world for whom I care, except you. I don't know why, or how, you became so close to me. I want somebody in my place so you don't miss me."
I said, "Baba, nobody can replace you, but I promise you that I will try hard not to miss you."
But the man arrived the next morning.
The first awakened man who recognized me was Magga Baba. The second was Pagal Baba, and the third was more strange than even I could have imagined. Even Pagal Baba was not so mad. The man was called Masta Baba.
Baba is a respectful word; it simply means "the grandfather." But anybody who is recognized by the people as someone enlightened is also called Baba, because he is really the oldest man in the community. He may not be actually; he may be just a young man, but he has to be called Baba, the grandfather.
Masta Baba was superb, just superb, and just the way I like a man to be. He was exactly as if made for me. We became friends even before Pagal Baba introduced us.
I was standing outside the house. I don't know why I was standing there; at least now I can't remember the purpose, it was so long ago. Perhaps I was also waiting, because Pagal Baba had said the man would keep his word; he would come. And I was certainly curious like any child. I was a child, and I have remained a child in spite of everything else. Perhaps I was waiting, or pretending to do something else but actually waiting for the man, and looking up the road—and there he was! I had not expected him to arrive this way! He came running!
He was not very old, no more than thirty-five, just at the peak of his youth. He was a tall man, very thin, with beautiful long hair and a beautiful beard.
I asked him, "Are you Masta Baba?"
He was a little taken aback and said, "How did you know my name?"
I said, "There is nothing mysterious in it. Pagal Baba has been waiting for you; naturally he mentioned your name. But you are really the man I myself would have chosen to be with. You are as mad as Pagal Baba must have been when he was young. Perhaps you are just the young Pagal Baba come back again."
He said, "You seem to be madder than me. Where is Pagal Baba anyway?"
I showed him the way, and entered behind him. He touched the feet of Pagal Baba, who then said, "This is my last day, and Masto"—that was the way he used to call him—"I was waiting for you, and getting a little worried."
Masto replied, "Why? Death is nothing to you."
Baba replied, "Of course death is nothing to me, but look behind you. That boy means much to me; perhaps he will be able to do what I wanted to and could not. You touch his feet. I have been waiting so that I could introduce you to him."
Masta Baba looked into my eyes…and he was the only real man out of the many whom Pagal Baba had introduced to me and told to touch my feet.
It had become almost a cliche. Everybody knew that if you go to Pagal Baba you will have to touch the feet of that boy who is a nuisance in every possible way. And you have to touch his feet—what absurdity! But Pagal Baba is mad. This man, Masto, was certainly different. With tears in his eyes and folded hands he said, "From this moment onwards you will be my Pagal Baba. He is leaving his body, but he will live on as you."
I don't know how much time passed, because he would not let go of my feet. He was crying. His beautiful hair was spread all over the ground. Again and again I told him, "Masta Baba, it is enough."
He said, "Unless you call me Masto, I will not leave your feet."
Now, 'Masto' is a term used only by an older man to a child. How could I call him Masto? But there was no way out. I had to. Even Pagal Baba said, "Don't wait, call him Masto, so that I can die without any shadow around me."
Naturally, in such a situation I had to call him Masto. The moment I used the name, Masto said, "Say it thrice."
In the East, that too is a convention. Unless you say a thing thrice it does not mean much. So three times I said, "Masto, Masto, Masto. Now will you please leave my feet?" And I laughed, Pagal Baba laughed, Masto laughed—and that laughter from all three joined us together into something which is unbreakable.
That very day Pagal Baba died. But Masto did not stay, although I told him that death was very close.
He said, "For me now, you are the one. Whenever I need to, I will come to you. He is going to die anyway; in fact, to tell you the truth, he should have died three days ago. He has been hanging around just for you, so that he could introduce me to you. And it is not only for you, it is for me too."
I asked Pagal Baba before he died, "Why did you look so happy after Masta Baba had come here?"
He said, "Just a conventional mind, forgive me."
He was such a nice old man. To ask forgiveness, at the age of ninety, from a boy, and with so much love….
I said, "I am not asking why you waited for him. The question is not about you or him. He is a beautiful man, and worth waiting for. I am asking why you worried so much."
He said, "Again let me ask you not to argue at this moment. It is not that I am against argument, as you know. I particularly love the way you argue, and the strange turns you give to your arguments, but this is not the time. There is no time really. I am living on borrowed time. I can tell you only one thing: I am happy that he came, and happy that you both became friendly and loving as I wanted you to. Perhaps one day you will see the truth of this old, traditional idea."
The idea is that unless three enlightened people recognize a child as a future buddha, it is almost impossible for him to become one. Pagal Baba, you were right. Now I can see it is not just a convention. To recognize somebody as enlightened is to help him immeasurably. Particularly if a man like Pagal Baba recognizes you and touches your feet—or a man like Masto.
I continued to call him Masto because Pagal Baba had said, "Never call him Masta Baba again; he will be offended. I used to call him Masto, and from now on you have to do the same." And it was really a sight!—a child calling him, who was respected by hundreds of people, "Masto." And not only that, he would immediately do whatever I said to him.
Once, just as an example…. He was delivering a talk. I stood up and said, "Masto, stop immediately!" He was in the middle of a sentence. He did not even complete it; he stopped. People urged him to please finish what he was saying. He would not even answer. He pointed towards me. I had to go to the microphone and tell the people to please go to their homes, the lecture was over, and Masto had been taken into my custody.
He laughed hilariously, and touched my feet. And his way of touching my feet…. Thousands of people must have touched my feet, but he had a way of his own, just unique. He touched my feet almost—how to say it—as if he were confronting God himself. And he always became just tears, and his long hair…. I had such a job helping him to sit up again.
I would say, "Masto, enough! Enough is enough." But who was there to listen? He was crying, singing, or chanting a mantra. I had to wait until he had finished. Sometimes I was sitting there for even half an hour, just to say to him, "It is enough." But I could only say it when he had finished. After all, I too have some manners. I could not just say, "Stop!" or "Leave my feet!" when they were in his hands.
In fact I never wanted him to leave them, but I had other things to do, and so did he. It is a practical world, and although I am very impractical, as far as others are concerned, I am not; I am always pragmatic and practical. When I could get a single moment in which to interrupt, I would say, "Masto, stop. Enough. You are crying your eyes out, and your hair—I will have to wash it. It is becoming dirty in the mud."
You know the Indian dust: it is omnipresent, everywhere, particularly in a village. Everything is dusty. Even people's faces look dusty. What can they do? How many times can they wash?…
I told Masto, "I will have to wash your hair." And I used to wash his hair. It was so beautiful, and I always love anything beautiful. This man Masto, about whom Pagal Baba worried so much, was the third enlightened man. He wanted three enlightened men to touch the feet of a small unenlightened boy, and he managed.
Madmen have their own ways. He managed perfectly. He even persuaded the enlightened ones to touch the feet of a boy who was certainly not enlightened.
I asked him, "Don't you think this is a little violent?"
He said, "Not at all. The present has to be offered to the future. And if an enlightened person cannot see into the future, he is not enlightened. It is not just a crazy man's idea," he said, "but one of the most ancient and respected ideas."
Buddha, even when he was only twenty-four hours old, was visited by an enlightened man, who cried and touched the feet of the child….
These three people are the most important that I have ever met, and I don't think I am going to meet anybody who will be more important than those three. I have met other enlightened people too, after my enlightenment, but that is another story.
I have met my own disciples after they became enlightened; that too is a different story. But to be recognized when I was just a small child, and everybody else was against me, was a strange fate. My family was always against me. I exclude my father, my mother, my brothers—but it was a big family. They were all against me, for a simple reason—and I can understand them, they were right in a way—that I was behaving like a madman, and they were concerned.
Everybody in that small town was complaining against me to my poor father. I must say that he had infinite patience. He would listen to everybody. It was almost a twenty-four-hour job. Each day—day in, day out, sometimes even in the middle of the night—somebody would come, because I had done something which should not have been done. And I was doing only things which should not be done. In fact, I wondered how I knew which were the things which should not be done, because not even by accident did I do anything which should have been done.
Once I asked Pagal Baba, "Perhaps you can explain it to me. I could understand if fifty percent of the things I did were wrong, and fifty percent were right, but with me it is always one hundred percent wrong. How do I manage it? Can you explain it to me?"
Pagal Baba laughed and said, "You manage perfectly. That is the way to do things. And don't be bothered what others say; you go on in your own way. Listen to all the complaints, and if you are punished, enjoy."
I really did enjoy it, I must say—even the punishment. My father stopped punishing me the moment he found out that I enjoyed it. glimps31

Masto took care of me more efficiently than Pagal Baba could ever have done. First, Baba was really the madman. Secondly, he would come only once in a while like a whirlwind to visit me, then disappear. This is not the way to take care. Once I even told him, saying, "Baba, you talk so much about how you are taking care of this child, but before you say it again, I must be heard."
He laughed and said, "I understand, you need not say it, but I will pass you on to the right hands. I am not really capable of taking care of you. Can you understand that I am ninety years old? It is time for me to leave the body. I am hanging around just to find the right person for you. Once I have found him I can relax into death."
I never knew then that he was really serious, but that's what he did. He handed over his charge to Masto, and died laughing. That was the last thing he did.
Zarathustra may have laughed when he was born…nobody is a witness, but he must have laughed; his whole life indicated towards it. It was that laughter which caught the attention of one of the most intelligent men in the West, Friedrich Nietzsche. But Pagal Baba really laughed as he died, before we could ask why. We could not have asked the question anyway. He was not a philosopher, and he would not have answered even if he had lived. But what a way to die! And remember, it was not just a smile. I really mean a laughter.
Everybody there looked at each other thinking, "What's the matter?"—until he laughed so loudly that everybody thought that up till then he had been only mildly mad, but now he had gone to the extreme. They all left. Naturally, nobody laughs when one is born, just as part of etiquette; and nobody laughs at death, again just nothing but a mannerism. Both are British.
Baba was always against manners and the people who believe in manners. That's why he loved me, that's why he loved Masto. And when he was looking for a man who could take care of me, naturally, he could not have found a better man than Masto.
Masto proved himself more than Baba could ever have thought. He did so much for me that even to say it hurts. It is something so private that it should not be said, so private that one should not even say it while one is alone. glimps33

Masta Baba…I will call him only Masto, because that's the way he wanted me to call him. I always called him Masto, although reluctantly, and I told him to remember it. Also, Pagal Baba had said to me, "If he wants to be called Masto by you, just as I call him, then don't create misery for him in any way. From the moment I die you will take my place for him."
And that day Pagal Baba died, and I had to call him Masto. I was not more than twelve years old, and Masto was at least thirty-five, or maybe more. It is difficult for a twelve-year-old boy to judge exactly, and thirty-five is a most deceptive age; the person could be thirty or forty, it all depends on his genetics. glimps32

Alas, I cannot show you Masto. His whole body was beautiful. One could not believe that he had not come from the world of the gods. In India there are many beautiful stories. One of them from the Rigveda, is that of Pururva and Uruvashi.
Uruvashi is a goddess who becomes fed up with all the pleasures of paradise. I love the story because it is so true. If you have all the pleasures, how long can you endure them? One is bound to become bored. The story must have been written by someone who knew….
It is one of the beautiful stories that I have always loved.
Masto must have been a god born in this world. That's the only way to say how beautiful he was. And it was not only the beauty of the body, which certainly was beautiful. I am not against the body, I am all for it. I loved his body. I used to touch his face, and he would say, "Why do you touch my face with closed eyes?"
I said, "You are so beautiful, and I don't want to see anything else that may perhaps disturb me, so I keep my eyes closed…so I can dream you as beautiful as you are."
Do you note my words?—"so I can dream you as beautiful as you are. I want you to be my dream." But it was not only his body which was beautiful, nor his hair—I have never seen such beautiful hair, particularly on a man's head. I used to touch and play with his hair, and he would laugh.
Once he said, "This is something. Baba was mad, and now he has given me a master who is even madder. He told me that you would take his place, so I cannot prevent you from doing anything. Even if you cut off my head, I will be ready and willing for it."
I said, "Don't be afraid, I will not cut even a hair. As far as your head is concerned, Baba has done the job already. Only the hair is left." Then we both laughed. This happened many times, in many ways.
But he was beautiful, bodily, and psychologically too. Whenever I was in need, without asking, so as not to offend me, he would leave money in my pockets during the night. You know that I don't have any pockets. Do you know the story of how I lost my pockets? It was Masto. He used to put money, gold, anything that he could manage, into my pockets. Finally I dropped the very idea of having pockets; it tempts people. Either they cut your pocket open and become pickpockets, or very rarely, with a man like me, they become a person like Masto.
He would wait until I went to sleep. Once in a while I would pretend, as if I was asleep. I would even have to snore to convince him—then I would catch him red-handed, his hand in my pocket. I said, "Masto! Is this the way of a sage?" And we both laughed.
Finally I dropped the idea of having pockets. I am the only person in the world who needs no pockets at all. In a way it is good, because nobody can cut open my pockets. It is also good that I don't have to carry any weight. Somebody else can always do it. I don't need to. I have not needed pockets for years; somebody has always managed for me….
But Masto looked like a god who had come to earth. I loved him—without any reason of course, because love cannot have any reason. I still love him. glimps32

Masto was the best choice that Baba could have made. I cannot in any way conceive of a better man. Not only was he a meditator…of course he was; otherwise there would have been no communion possible between him and me. And meditation simply means not being a mind, at least for the time you are meditating.
But that was not all; he was many more things. He was a beautiful singer, but he never sang for the public. We both used to laugh at the phrase, "the public." It consists of only the most retarded children. It is a wonder how they manage to gather at a place at a certain appointed time. I cannot explain it. Masto said he could not explain it either. It just cannot be explained.
He never sang for the public, but only for a very few people who loved him, and they had to promise never to talk about it. His voice was really "his master's voice." Perhaps he was not singing, but only allowing the existence—that's the only proper word that I can use—he was allowing existence to flow through him. He was not preventing; that was his merit.
He was also a talented sitar player, but again, I have never seen him playing before a crowd. Often I was the only one present when he played, and he would tell me to lock the door, saying, "Please lock the door, and whatsoever happens, don't open it until I am dead." And he knew that if I wanted to open the door I would have to kill him first, and then open it. I would keep my promise. But his music was such…. He was not known to the world: the world missed.
He said, "These things are so intimate that it is prostitution to play before a crowd." That was his exact word, 'prostitution'. He was really a philosopher, a thinker, and very logical, not like me. With Pagal Baba I had only one thing in common: that was the madness. Masto had many things in common with him. Pagal Baba was interested in many things. I certainly could not be a representative of Pagal Baba, but Masto was. I cannot be anybody's representative whosoever.
Masto did so much for me in every way that I could not believe how Baba had known that he would be the right person. And I was a child and needed much direction—and not an easy child either. Unless I was convinced I would not move an inch. In fact I would move back a little just to be safe. glimps33

You will be surprised to know that Masto played many instruments. He was really a versatile genius, a very fertile mind, and he could make anything beautiful out of anything. He painted and as meaninglessly as even Picasso could not do, and as beautifully as certainly Picasso could not do. But he simply destroyed his paintings saying, "I don't want to leave any footprints on the sands of time." glimps35

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