The Master in 1955

1. The Background

The spiritual heritage of western man has come down to us in a very distorted form. The full truth was revealed by Jesus the Nazarene, building on a long preparatory period including the work of the great Jewish Prophets and his own Guru, John the Baptist; but the life impulse passed on by him remained in the East, embodied in men little known to us except under such labels as “Ebionites”, “Gnostics”, etc., and eventually disappeared as such merging with the Islamic sufi tradition. The Christianity that was carried to the Western world had a very different emphasis and direction than the original teachings of Jesus.

The truth was not entirely forgotten, of course; many of the writings and biographies of the greatest Christian Saints, catholic and orthodox, reveal the depth of their inner experience and genuine love for God , not to mention the huge compendium of esoteric knowledge contained in the Jewish Kabbalah and the lives of the great Hasidic Master's; and here and there, in the stories of the Holy grail and especially in the writings of the great Lutheran mystic Jacob Boehme, we get glimpses of the highest teaching of all. But as the world moved into the modern era, the West sank deeper and deeper into the darkness of materialism, chauvinism and intellectual arrogance, sowing seeds that are now bearing fruit; and the accessibility of genuine spirituality became almost non-existent.

Finally, after a long preparatory period, during which the basic ideas of mysticism, this time in their Indian form, were reintroduced into the main stream of Western thought, the most powerful seed of all was sown: in 1911 an initiate of Baba Sawan Singh Ji came to America and initiated a Port Angeles, Washington, dentist named Dr. H.M. Brock. thus the history of the Master's path in the West was begun.

Dr. Brock now passed on, served his Master for many years as his representative in the West, and after Baba Sawan Singh Ji left his body, he served the present Master in the same capacity. His long lifetime of devotion to the Saints reached a climax in 1955 when, at the age of 83, he met a Master in the flesh for the first time. here are his own comments:

It was in the year 1910 or1911 that Mr. Kher Singh Sasmas came to us and told us of the then living Master – Sawan Singh. We were given the initiation by Mr. Sasmas under the direction of the Master. In our correspondence I at one time asked the Master, “In case he passed on before I did, would I know who the new Master would be?” and he said I would.

So I was quite satisfied when Mr. Khanna put me in touch with Sant Kirpal Singh.

In India there is a background of thousands of years of recognizing the spiritually enlightened ones, while to us in this country the coming of such a one is new and of great importance, and we hope to have the Master back again at an early date. In Sant Kirpal Singh, I think everyone recognizes the unbounded spirit of love that permeates him and everything he does, regardless of who or what people are or may have been.

During Baba Sawan Singh’s lifetime, the work in India grew at a tremendous rate, but the number of initiates over here remained very small. With the advent of the ministry of the present Master, the pace began to increase, and through the devoted labors of Mr. T.S. Khanna, Mrs. Dona Kelley, Mrs. Gordon Hughes, Dr. Brock, and others, regular centers were established and Satsang was held in Washington, Louisville, and other places. Thus the ground was prepared for the arrival of the living Master in person in may, 1955.

America then was very different than it is now. In many ways a more pleasure place, since many of the seeds that have since born bitter fruit were still lying dormant, spiritually it was a desert. Nevertheless, the Master had compassion on us all and came anyway, thus blessing even those – such as the present writer – who were totally ignorant of his presence, even though they may have moved about within a few blocks of him. And so the Gospel of truth that had been revealed to the West by Jesus the Nazarene and then forgotten and ignored, was brought back to us by the living Christ of our time. Basing what he said squarely on the Bible, the Master gave talks that must have seemed revolutionary to his listeners. One such talk is included in this issue; to understand its true significance, we must bear in mind the complete newness of what he was saying to the minds of his audience.

The impact of the Master on those who were ready to receive him was nothing less than stunning. Shortly after the tour, a small book AS THEY SAW THE MASTER,, containing brief accounts of the experiences of the number of western disciples with him, was published. Here is an extract form the testimony of Walter Paul Baptist, one of the few authentic American yogis, which gives some indication of the extent of the grace that was being poured out.

When Master Kirpal Singh came to our vicinity, we noted and accepted him at first as a really healthy ideal type of spiritual stature and character. Then one day I looked into his eyes, and within that instant, I reviewed all that I knew and had a glimpse of the more that he was. The depths of his eyes as he exposed himself to me on three or four occasions are with me, even in my meditations. One night, in a room with him, I was aware of his body breathing very fast and then suddenly I could detect no breath. Suddenly through me ran a feeling that I was in the presence of death. The strange thing that time was that I also felt this from Bibi Hardevi, who was sitting in posture covered from head to toe with a light blanket about eight feet form the foot of the Master's bed. A fear ran thru me, penetrating deeply into my awareness. I wondered, what had I gotten myself into? Then, the illuminating thought came thru me that here I was in the midst of what I had been practicing to masterfully attain. At this moment thru me, like an avalanche and flood my whole being was absorbed in the same intense condition of divine Love. This love is so intensely dynamic and ecstatic and overwhelming that it cannot even be compared to the love that we feel for those we love. And in me, every part of me, I was again torn apart into a nothingness, and I was swept up into the most complete surrender, saying with the greatest feeling within and thru myself, “Father! What have I done! Forgive me for not recognizing you!” I kept saying uncontrollably within myself, “I love thee Father I love thee Father” – over and over. but to me at that time (and as now) when I said Father, it meant God, and when I said God, it meant Kirpal Singh. All these names were one and the same.

But the highlight of the book, and the account that gives the most insight into the day-to-day reality of what must be the single most important even of our era – as far as we in the West are concerned – is the detailed report of the late Dr. Ann Martin of Nashville, Tennessee, the major part of which follows.

THE EDITOR.

2. Nine Days with living Master

Dr. Martin begins her article with a long account of her search of Truth, culminating with her contact with the Master's teaching. Asking the Master by correspondence for Initiation, he told her to meet him in person in Louisville during his stay there. We pick up her account at that point.

In Louisville she (the writer) took a room at a hotel, and contacted someone whose address had been given her. She was told to go direct to the house where the Master was in residence, which she did. As she walked up on the porch, a man met her saying the Master was busy at the moment, but would see her soon, and asked her to have a seat and wait there. She sat down in a swing, and she doesn’t mind telling you that her thoughts were beginning to pile up on her. All at once, as she sat there on this strange porch, in this strange town, amid people whom she had never seen or met before, she began berating herself. Her thoughts went on a rampage, and she asked herself, half angrily, what was she doing there? Had she suddenly taken leave of her senses, to leave home on a mission of this sort, when she knew that every attempt she’d ever made fell flat? What did she expect to find here?

About this time she glanced up, and walking towards her was a God man. she was first stunned by the sheer beauty of the person approaching her. His gleaming white finely woven garments, his bearing his eyes, his smile, his very expression of all embracing understanding and love seemed to swamp her. It swept over her like a sudden storm of inexpressible Joy! Before she could get close enough to put her hand in his, she know her search was ended!

There are no words adequate to use in describing one’s first meeting with the Master. All the joys one can conjure up in one’s mind vanish when compared to the actual joy that is there. Words are of no use here at all, they fall like spent bullets, when one tries to tell of his feelings when he first comes face to face with the great Beloved Master. Every thing seemed to come to a complete standstill for the writer. She felt bathed in the purest holy light imaginable, and Earth – even time itself – seemed no more. All she can remember of this meeting is that she got up out of the swing and met the Master. She heard herself say, “oh! You are the Master!” any other words, if there were, she does not recall. There must have been other words, but her heart suddenly was so full of joy and gladness that she could hardly stand it, for she felt surely it would burst within her for the joy that was her for the joy that was hers at this sacred moment in her life.

Shortly afterwards she went back to her hotel with instructions to be back early in the morning for Initiation. After Initiation, which the writer knows was her real birth into the Kingdom of Heaven, the Master asked her where she was staying, and when she recovered from a surprise that busy as he was, he could be concerned with a single individual, she told him she was staying at the Brown hotel. He asked her to come to his place and stay, but she demurred, saying she was complete stranger there and felt she might intrude. The man who first met her and told her to wait for the Master quickly stepped to her side and said: “it is a great honor that the Master has asked you to stay under his roof! Do not refuse him.” I immediately sent for my bags and remained in the Master's house the balance of my time up there.

People address him as “His Holiness.” Some resent this title, yet even this is not good enough for one so holy as he. For those of us who have met him and sat at his blessed feet know that he is most holy. He does not ask that he be so addressed, but he will not deny one the privilege to address him what one wishes. One evening, he was invited into a beloved disciples home and cookies and lemonade were served as refreshment. The dear little hostess did not offer the Master a cookie, and the writer suggested that she do so. “but I thought he would eat only foods prepared at his own residence.” She said apologetically, but held the tray of cookies towards him, and with the most beautiful smile ever to grace a human face, he said, “Is it your wish that I take one?” “Oh yes, Master”, she said. And he took a cookie and ate it. such is the Master. His kindness envelops you like a cloak. He is the most benevolent, the most gracious, the most humble, yet the greatest personality, ever to walk on this earth. 

The writer was so deeply impressed with the fact that no matter how many people happened to be at his residence where he held satsang every day, they were always fed at meal time, and there was always a crowd . . .no one was allowed to go away hungry or unfed. It was a miracle, no less. To have crowds coming and going, all the time, as was the case here, and to be completely cognizant of every one’s comfort and dwell being. It is a task for a large equipped ménage, but not so here. two or the three at the most keep a smooth –running household and all were supplied food regularly. The writer recalls that several times she was busy somewhere off in a corner by herself, forgetful of food itself, but she was always sought out and called in to eat. Even those who were quietly out doing secretarial work or meditating were not overlooked.

Aware of the fact that she was partaking of food and lodging without paying, the writer attempted to do something about it. she decided that she would go every day and bring in a basket of groceries. Mr. Khanna, the Master representative, met her and went and brought and she said, “some gracious.” He reprimanded her severely, yet very gently and sweetly. “this sort of thing is not done in the Master's house. He provides everything! All is free, free as the air you breath! Do not do this again, please.” “but I feel I should pay a little something,” she remonstrated. “the Master does not accept gifts or money from anyone! He gives, he does not take,” the man said, and so the writer obeyed, with untold wonder growing in heir heart. There was nothing to pay. No one to whom anything could be paid. There was no one to take any money. The writer tried vainly to reimburse someone for the days she spent there, and to no vial. And when Mr. Khanna told her of the man who had sent a check for $5,000, that the Master returned to the sender because he does not accept his gifts, she understood what he was trying to tell her. “the Master is not interested in money or gifts. All he is interested in is your soul, and that you do the things that he teaches you to do,” said Mr. Kahanna, and the writer turned the away with the wonder of things growing and growing in her heart. In these days of fee and money grabbing and stress and turmoil, here was one who did not love money, who is only interested in your soul and your happiness and well-being! Strange things these, - almost too much for one to believe, and the writer doubts if she could have believed all these things had she not witnessed them with her own eyes and ears, and experienced them in her own life.

Wherever the Master went, carloads of people followed him. I mean those of us who would not be parted from him, who clung close to his beloved side, and there were many of us who would not stay a moment longer than necessary out of his blessed presence. Did this bother him? No, his patience never seemed to run out. if the writer got a little impatient, his loving eyes would seek her out and one look into them made her want to fall at his feet for forgiveness. His eyes sought you out, not to correct you, or to chide you, but to lend you aid in you own little struggles, which he knew were going on inside his beloved ones nearby.

The writer recalls with vibrant memories of the many wonderful things about her beloved Master that are impossible to put on paper. His complete indifference to people’s shortcomings. The time he always had for all who came to him. His graciousness in granting audiences to all who asked for interviews. There were times when the writer herself felt chagrined at her inflated ego, taking up the Master’s precious time by insisting on pouring out a gushing stream of her own importance and discoveries, etc., and never giving the gentle, love-filled eyes of her beloved Master as he sat patiently through some person’s verbal catalog of all he’d read and found and concluded about religion, listening, giving complete audience as though he were the only other man in the world beside himself. Did the Master try to deflate one’s ego? He did not. People would come and take up the Master’s time, not to listen to him, but to talk about themselves. Yet the beloved Master always had time to attend to them. And this disciple saw the true greatness of her Master in all these things.

The writer would have thought nothing of it had the Master said, “I am too busy. The man must get rid of his own importance before I talk with him. I cannot waste precious time on him,” and she was surprised that this did not happen, for the Master truly was very busy always. A man once showed up when the Master was extremely busy and this disciple thought, surely now the Master will tell him he is too busy, and she watched the Master’s face for perhaps a fleeting shadow denoting his displeasure, for this was surely an intrusion. You see, she was taking dictation from the Master to assist in the heavy correspondence, but as though his own favorite or most beloved son demanded a moment of his time, he gently laid down his pencil, weighted his mail so it would not blow away, excused himself (we were sitting out in the garden among the trees) and followed the man to a distant nook of the garden, and there they sat fore over an hour. From time to time the writer glanced up from her work to see the man’s hand flailing the air, and to hear his voice droning on and on. It is the greatest lesson in patience and humility ever taught.

As the writer looks back over those eventful days of her life, the things that seems to stand out the most in it all is that the Master seemed to be love itself, love personified. His absolute magnificence, as he moved about among us, is indescribable. His graciousness, his impartiality, towards us all alike was something unheard of. You knew when he looked at you that he was seeing another child of God, no matter how you may feel about yourself. He did not look at you, nor Jane, or Mary, or John, nor Bill, for personality means nothing to him. But he looked at you as though he were looking at a child of God ...

No tongue can tell, no words can express, the absolute serenity and peace that was and is the writers because of her short association with the great Master.

One day a trip was suddenly planned we piled into cars and there was quite a parade of us, all our cars keeping close together. We were to visit the Hermits Tunnel, a place on a mountain side that had been blown out of solid rock for a railroad tunnel, and then finally abandoned for some reason. The man now owning the place invited the Master to visit his place, which really was unique. It was here that the writer saw the Master in a different setting. The summer was hot, and the lowlands seemed to sizzle with the dry heat, but up there it was cool and pleasant. We were all more or less like children’s, tramping all over the place, so glad to escape the heat, but up there it was cool and pleasant. We were all more or less like children, tramping all over the place, so glad to escape the heat and rush of things, and the beloved Master seemed to enjoy the fun as much as the rest of us.

In fact, this writer cannot recall one instant that the beloved Master's face was not at all bathed in a most pleasant, happy, peaceful expression. He was always like a proud, loving, happy Father with an adored and adoring family about him all the time, and the constant sweetness of his expressions of all-embracing love is Beyond human description ...

Of course, everyone wanted to make the Master most comfortable, but he would have none of it. He found himself in a place to sit down with the rest of us, and became one with our pleasure and sweetness that day. someone handed him a bottle of soft drink and asked him if he would hold it while she took his photograph. He smilingly obliged. I should say he happily obliged, because there was not the least bit of condescension about him. Whatever he did to make another happy was done in all love and humility, and he always considered the desires of others where he himself was concerned/

The writer was never critical, but there she was the apex of her whole life, she felt, and naturally she was on the alert for the least fault or imperfection to show up. Too much in her was at stake. She was too much to lay at the feet of just anyone. Could she be blamed for being watchful and careful? Was there any discord about his Godman? About him maybe a little, but in him? Never! Like a beautiful, calm, white lily he was there in his own serenity and peace; no matter what swirled at his blessed feet, He was perfect. The world troubled him not. He knew those ready for him would find him, and so his calm spread over all about him like a mantle. No wonder people flocked about him. No wonder they followed him in crowds wherever he went. The writer recalls with much pleasure a trip the Master made to local firm (on business). We all followed him. Carloads of us. It would be impossible to tell how many there were, but the writer recalls that someone had to get out and direct the parking of all the cars. We trooped into the store with this illustrious, this magnificently white-garbed, tall and exceedingly handsome man at the lead, and we just stood around quietly waiting for him to complete his business, only to follow him out and back to his residence. We did this simply because we could not be separated from him even that long. Such was our love and adoration for him. And in all this, not one time did the writer catch a glimpse of impatience and displeasure. Nothing but perfection was as natural as the radiance to the sun itself. But how can it ever be described? One may as well try to describe the perfection of the sun, or to watch for the very sun to make a mistake or to prove itself unworthy.

The moon rolls over clouds & tenetment roofs
The sun sinks down an airshaft
We are at the bottom in dirt
Master brings us up thru radio singsongs clothesline wash
We are stars clinging to the sky concentrating on Light

The Snake Charmer

A Story by Tracy Leddy

Indeed, everyone agreed he was a most unusual snake charmer. He carried no baskets of trained cobras with him as he traveled up and down the world and would accept no money for his performance, yet he seemed able to charm away more snakes than anyone else. No one knew where he came from or where he had been; no one could predict when he would arrive or disappear. He came when he was called, he told someone once, merrily, and that’s all.

And he was a strange-looking fellow, too; thin and tall and very dark. He wore a ragged woolen cloak that had once been white and a tattered turban that had suffered a similar fate. His shoes were long and pointed; one sole was partly separated from the rest of the shoe and it made a curious flapping sound, almost like birds wings, when ever he took a step. When he wasn’t playing his flute he was smiling like a small child. People everywhere loved to see him coming; once they saw him they completely forgot all about his odd appearance and only listened to his music which was unlike any other music in the world.

Few people ever really noticed his deep-set eyes under the black curls and tattered turban but those who did never forgot them. I shall tell you about three who saw.

I happened that the snake charmer arrived one summer’s day in a small mountain village that nestled into a steep hillside just under another range of mountains. It was a surprisingly fertile place and very peaceful; the people there lived in considerable harmony and were generally kind to strangers.

As word of his coming passed quickly from house to house, the villagers began to gather to hear the snake charmer play. The women left their sweeping and washing; the men left their scythes and carts, their dreams and papers and came out of the fields and shops to listen. As he made his way slowly up the steep and narrow cobbled street, the music he played sounded so sweetly upon his listeners ears that old men in tea shops found themselves weeping and little children stood motionless at their games.

Two old women sat knitting in the sunlight by the side of the road. One had been complaining very bitterly for the hundredth time about her nearest neighbor but the sound of the approaching procession interrupted her gossip. When she looked up, the snake charmer was standing before her and staring straight into her eyes. His music grew sweeter and sweeter still; there were voices in it now and they seemed to be calling to the women form somewhere very far away. With a joy and terror she had never known, the old women stuffed her knitting into the bib of her long black apron and scrambled to her feet. As soon as she stood up, snakes began to appear from under her hair and from beneath her tongue, little ones swiftly moving, black and livid green.

For just moments they were visible to the horrified villagers and the old women and then they were wriggling into the charmers pocket and gone. The snake charmer took his flute out of his mouth and smiled at the old women. Unable to resist, she in turn looked steadily back into his eyes. But she saw no ordinary eyes with iris and pupil; she saw only Light, the most brilliant light she had ever seen, far brighter than the sun and much warmer. As she continued staring, she felt that warmth envelop her, fill her down to the inside of her wrinkled old toes. Silently she bowed her head. 

Suddenly she was moved to look up; she caught sight of her neighbor’s face in the husband and wondering crowd. She burst into tears and pushed her way through the villagers until she could embrace the other women. I’m a wretched old crone,” she sobbed, “Forgive me, sister, I’ll never speak ill of you again.” The other women was too surprised to answer but she felt some of her neighbor’s inexplicable warmth and sat down with her and comforted her.

The snake charmer put his flute to his lips and walked on. 

Further along the road stood an abandoned temple and beside it, a house with a very beautifully decorated façade. The doors were of sandalwood, richly carved and the walls were painted with lions and peacocks. It belonged to the wealthiest man in the village, a widower whose only daughter had looked after his household for many years. As the snake charmer stepped lightly along the cobblestones, one shoe flapping like birds wings, the daughter’s shrill voice could be heard above the music scolding the servants at their tasks as usual. She was a proud girl who would have been beautiful had she not been so lonely and dissatisfied with her life.

In a moment of domestic silence, the snake charmer’s music struck her ears for the first time. it was merry and joyful and spoke of great happiness to come. Felling curiously drawn to it, the girl stood our on the balcony in all her fine clothes to watch the snake charmer pass by. But when he came abreast of the house, instead of continuing on his way he stopped and, playing with all his heart, he started straight up at her. The girl hung over the balcony to hear the music more clearly and suddenly she was astonished to hear a hissing sound all around her. All her jewelry, earrings necklace, bracelets and bangles had turned into tiny snakes, white ones and brilliant red and gold ones. She and the villagers watched, thunderstruck, as they all slithered over the pierced balustrade and into the snake charmer’s pockets where they were seen no more.

The snake charmer took his flute out of is mouth and smiled up at the rich man’s daughter. Strangely relieved and happy for the first time in her life, she looked back steadily into the snake charmer’s eyes. She saw no ordinary eyes with iris and pupil; she saw only stars in a clear night sky, stars more brilliant than any she had ever seen from her Father’s roof. And, like the old woman, she too was suddenly filled with warmth from her shining black hair to her sandaled feet. “I must go and help them in the kitchen,” she said to herself, “perhaps I have been too harsh with them. Perhaps they don’t understand what it is I want them to do.” And she danced down the stairs and out in to the garden to pick flowers for her Father’s table at lunch.

Crowed followed Missing ... dwelling near the edge of the village, a tapping, shuffling sound could be heard coming from a flight of stone tairs inside. The snake charmer stopped once more and stood quietly by the door, playing and playing, his long fingers quick as butter flies on his hollow flute. The tune was sad now, at once chanting and pleading and full of promises of great joy.

After a few minutes a pale young boy stumbled out of the doorway. One of his legs was withered and he learned upon a crudely –made crutch. A murmur of approval burbled through the cored for the boy was well –known in the village. He had a good heart and spent most of his time playing with the little children. He never complained about his withered leg or about his absent mother; he had done his best to look after his old Father until he died, just a few weeks before. And more than one of the villager had remarked on the still distant look that often crossed his face. He limped straight toward the snake charmer and fell at his feet. “I have been waiting for so long,” he said, weeping, “I thought you would never come.”

The snake charmer stopped playing. He stooped down and lifted the boy gently to his feet with one strong brown arm. “catch hold of my cloak,” he again the snake charmer began to play.

A man stood on his roof waving a stick at some monkeys in a banyan tree next to his house. “they are stealing my guavas,” he grumbled to the bystanders and then, as the strain of the snake missing ... floated back to him, he missing ... roof top, the ripe green fruits bulging from their mouths. But not the crippled boy. He had eyes only for the snake charmer and ears only for his music. He held on tightly to the snake charmer’s cloak and followed him right out of the village.

The crowd watched the boy limp off with the snake charmer and many are sure they saw the crutch disappear, black and wriggling, into the snake charmer’s pocket and the boy’s stride become steadier and steadier as they walked along into the mists.

High up in the mountain the snake charmer stopped to rest. He turned to look the boy full in the face. The boy stared back straight into his eyes. At first he could see only the bluest of skies, but as he looked deeper inside them, he could see the snake charmer himself sitting in a ring of fire, playing his flute. 
“Do you want to see more?” asked the snake charmer with a smile. “Oh yes!” answered the boy without hesitation.
And the snake charmer began to grow. He grew and grew until at last he blotted out the entire landscape, the mountain, the valley and the sky and always he played, bending closer and closer to the enraptured boy. Then the music became a wind pulled and pulled at the boy until finally he found himself deep, deep inside the snake charmer’s flute and walking joyfully toward the snake charmer in the ring of fire who would play for him forever.

Missing ...

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