Outside was the cage in which Baba stayed for over a year. Nearby was the little room of the Mast Mohammed, one of the "Five Favorites."* He seemed happy to see us, and took our small gifts of bananas, chocolate and cigarettes eagerly. The ground between the stones of his porch was dug out from picking "deesh." When asked about Baba, he replied, "Dada in Poona-Hai." Adi pointed out his flat feet, acquired when he stood motionless for so many months, caught up in “The Point of Enchantment" between the 3rd and 4th Planes. Through Baba's grace he is now on the 5th Plane. His eyes are full of the child-like happiness of the true Mast.
It was mid-afternoon as we crossed the railroad tracks and started up the hill to the women's ashram. Because my leg hurt I turned back; then I felt Baba urging me on. And I did get a ride near the very top. Mansari and two other Eastern women greeted us with namaskars at the gate, and warm cries of recognition for Elizabeth Patterson, Kitty Davy and the other "old-timers."
We climbed up into the second-storey dormitory, absolutely bare now, but with a fine view of the surrounding countryside. On the porch down-stairs, wonderful Baba-things were laid out for us to see, and touch reverently. His very old patched brown jacket, His chapals or leather sandals, a white "birthday coat" with bands of gold embroidery, and a "crown" to match, all hand-made by Mehera and the girls. There were other birthday "crowns," embroidered slippers and garlands. From here we ventured westward to Baba's own sleeping cabin, which none was allowed to enter; past the row of seven tiny meditation cells dated "1928," to Baba's future tomb topped by the symbols of the four great religions . . .the cross, the crescent, the torch, and the Hindu cupola. We took off our foot-gear and filed in one by one to walk around the narrow ledge above the crypt. The walls above were painted with solemn figures by Helen Dahm. My thought was, "O how happy I am My Beloved is still alive! And this tomb will never hold Him!"
Outside again, I wandered down the hillside, (where a shepherd had left his flock to come and stare at all the visitors), to the graves of Baba's father and mother, Nonny Gayley, Rano's mother, Norina Matchabelli and Nadine Tolstoy. Someone had told me Baba had said Norina was already reincarnated as a little Indian boy — one of those in the line for darshan at the Sahavas. I think this fact of our dear Norina returning so soon to serve her beloved Master was one of my deepest impressions of the Sahavas. How quickly the Master spins the Wheel of Birth and Death
*See p. 43, "The Wayfarers."