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3

 

and meeting him in London in the spring of 1932. During that time, I read what I could of his teachings in the various magazines from India, which also contained much that reflected the devotion of his followers there.

 

It proved to be a time also of mental and physical difficulty, as my health had eventually given way under the strain of over thirty years’ office work in a great city, leaving me faced with financial worries that threatened to swamp my home life as well.

 

Nevertheless, as the time approached, I became keener than ever to know all I could glean about this Sadguru. A friend, who had stayed at Meher Baba's Ashram in India, introduced me to him in the house where he (Meher Baba) first stayed in London. Many first impressions lose their keenness as time passes, but this meeting with Baba stands out dearer and clearer in my consciousness as my subsequent experiences enable me to appreciate more completely the significance of such a contact with him. Though I had met other Indian Teachers and conversed with those who remembered Vivekananda, Abdul Bahai, Tagore, I can see now how utterly unprepared I was to imbibe what Meher Baba's Love radiated!

 

Looking back, I see Meher Baba again, seated so quietly on a settee, that at first it might appear to the casual observer that he lacked energy. Yet there was something compelling in his posture, for the picture stands out like a cameo in my mind, pure, untrammeled by the world, completely poised, like a bird arrested momentarily in flight, in a world that reflects not the like anywhere.

 

This, my first meeting with the Master, was also the first with any of his Indian followers. Further contact with them helps one to interpret their quiet calm and attentive demeanor on that occasion.

 

What passed at that meeting seems trivial to relate, as the words form themselves in the mind in response to the impetus of memory awakened yet again by effort of will to re-live those moments afresh. I had felt that I wished to make Baba some offering as a greeting when meeting him for the first time. I knew that flowers were often given in his own country, but had little means for a suitable offering after a journey from the country which left little time before reaching the house. Almost impetuously, I stopped before a greengrocer and chose a few grapes—a mean enough offering truly, for the fruit was small and not attractive. In its little brown bag, it seemed meaner than ever, and quite unworthy, but I just poured my love into it by mental effort, for not yet had the wellsprings of love for Baba been opened in my heart, to flow spontaneously to him of their own force.

 

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