ENTRY 42 -- The Iron Sceptre

Asia » India » National Capital Territory » New Delhi
April 7th 1987

Published: January 27th 2006

Entry from the Travel Journal of Nigel Fox

ENTRY 42 -- The Iron Sceptre

It was the travel arrangements that proved to be the greatest difficulty: although Lahore and Delhi are not far from each other, I arrived three days behind schedule having met up a group of about one hundred Akalis in black turbans, who had marched from Amritsar. They had taken the vow at the Golden Temple that they would not commit a single act of violence, either by word or deed. Extraordinary!

My stomach was full of butterflies at the thought of meeting 'him'. My anxiety stemming from not knowing what I would say. Upon arrival, one of his nieces led me to him, telling me I could visit for 24 hours, but I must be like a fly on the wall. She kept 'smiling' and I asked why.

"Because we are all happy."

"Why?" I asked again.

"Because we are near 'Him'."

A State of Awe

I must admit to being overwhelmed upon my being introduced. Something came over me: In traditional Indian fashion, I touched his feet. "Pray do not do that," He said, "it is a humiliation to me". I got up, still in a state of awe. The room was practically unfurnished. My eyes focused on the presence before me. He was much smaller than I had imagined . . . and very unattractive physically: he had few teeth, spectacles perched on a large nose, and the most enormous ears I had ever seen.

My gaze was still transfixed on his hearing organs when he said, "Are you going to just stare or do you have something to say?" Then, lightly chuckling, he declared, "I'm all ears!"

Still I stood, dumbfounded, as he walked over to the spinning wheel and started to spin. Trying to put me at my ease he began to speak in a clear, strong voice above the sound of the wheel. "The salvation of India lies in the simple things: making one's own clothes, growing one's own food, constructing a simple dwelling in which to live. Western materialism and the machine age shall plunge India into poverty. In many ways European civilisation is like the woman who rides the beast spoken of in the Bible . . ."

He gently steered the conversation to my 'quest', never speaking of it directly. "The war with the prince of darkness is not over. Indeed, it has only begun. The allies have attempted to destroy evil with guns and bombs, but that only makes the darkness indestructible. To renounce power is the only way to find peace."

This I actually comprehended. His eyes twinkled with joy at my understanding: "It is only those who are listening for the sound of the trumpets who shall hear and understand. Only the elect shall . . . "

His words were broken by his niece Manu reminding him of a meeting with a Communist friend. In walked a rather rotund yet vigorous chap who could only be described as a zealot. I said nothing during the quite heated discussion, but found it fascinating. The great soul, sitting on the floor, explained that communism was not what he advocated. "Communism," he defined, "is when the poor rise up, take from the rich using violence, then share with those in need. What the Almighty wants is for the rich, out of the love of God, to share with those in need! A subtle difference, but an important one!"

A Man of Incredible Love

As the day progressed I could see a reflection of Christ — the Christ of the gospels who took the little children in his arms. As the crowds pressed in on him, he withdrew from time to time to renew his strength, much as Jesus did. His teachings, struck a familiar chord. During the time I spent with him I saw a man of incredible love. Only once did his anger flare. A little boy about four years of age began to entwine petals round the Messiah's feet and to suspend them from his toes. Bapu, looking down in horror, snapped angrily: "You must not do that. You only put flowers on the feet of the dead." When the little boy began to cry, Bapu's mood relaxed and he comforted the boy, saying, "You have just prepared me for . . ."

More visitors came. Some were blind, some were maimed; he prayed for them all. His heart wept when he heard of the horrors that had taken place over the past months. Some were angry. One visitor yelled at him, "Why don't you leave us? It would be better for us if you were exiled to the Himalayas!"

He stated sadly, "My Himalayas are here. I do what God commands; I am to seek my peace in disorder, calm in the storm, love where the hearts of many have grown cold . . . "

His words were cut short by a fit of coughing, but he refused to take the sulpha drugs his doctor prescribed. At about 9:30 p.m. his busy day came to an end. To me it seemed he was talking about his death as if it was immanent. He asked me to read to him the 23rd Psalm, a psalm of David. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; he maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no evil...

Who Knows what is going to Happen before Nightfall?

Much to my delight, I was invited to spend the night. The end of January in Delhi is colder than most of us would imagine: his frail body was shivering from the chill. "Relax; anxiety complex not allowed" he said as re-read the first four verses of the first book of Kings. Moments later he was asleep.

It was 3:30 a.m. when I felt him tweak my ear. He was well rested and ready for prayer. (Although perturbed when he found out that the person who normally leads the prayers had overslept.) His mood shifted to impatience and fret when his secretary failed to appear. "I do not like these signs," he repeated to me several times. He seemed oppressed by what the day would bring. Asking Manu to chant an old Gujarati hymn, he was brought to a sense of peace. Pensively, he said, "Who knows what is going to happen before nightfall?"

At the sound of Manu's lovely clear soprano, I, too, was filled with a wonderful peace. Then, sensing him looking directly at me, I turned. Quietly he reflected, "You have been asking questions about me. What do you think?"

"I believe . . . " My hesitation embarrassed me.

"What do you believe?"

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I paused for a moment, then answered, carefully, "I believe you are the Light of the World, of which the Bible speaks."

At that moment Manu again interrupted us. With her was a Sikh woman of middle age whose child was severely retarded and deformed from an arrested apoplexy. The little boy was dressed in a shabby white kurta qamiz and was no more than five years old. The mother who was wearing a tiny wreath of white flowers said, "Beloved Teacher, please pray for my son."

The Mahatma took the pathetic little creature in his arms, then looked over at me and smiled. "You are hoping I shall heal this little child as you want a miracle. You find his affliction offensive; yet in the eyes of our Father in Heaven he is already perfect: he has a heart that shall be forever pure.

An Ultimatum

After Bapu finished blessing the child, the thankful mother left us alone. He summed up his message to the world: "Love God and love one another . . . really two sides of the same coin, for you cannot love God without loving your neighbour."

My disappointment at his lack of originality was obvious.

He spoke sternly, "Harry, I have nothing new to offer the world. My message is as old as the hills. It has been proclaimed by Abraham through to the Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon them. The time has come when we must live this message in our everyday lives. Truthfully, this age of violence and war is coming to an end."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Humanity has been given an ultimatum, only they do not realise it quite yet."

"What are you saying?" I asked, in a redundant, confused manner.

"In a few years, Russia, China - even India and Pakistan - shall have atomic weapons. Indeed, most of the countries of the world shall be able to make such bombs before the end of the millennium."

As his words sank in, I realised that such weapons of destruction could easily destroy the entire world. Never in history had any nation developed a weapon and refrained from using it.

"So you see, Harry, God has given mankind an ultimatum. As always, it is so subtle that for a while it may go unnoticed. Yet humanity has now only two choices: non-violence or non-existence."

I sat, in shock and bewilderment. An 'iron sceptre'.

"Have faith. Does not your Bible say that such weapons would only be used once? Don't despair, remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible but in the end, they always fall -- think of it . . . always. And already the elect are here. At this moment in the United States of America there is one who someday shall be known as the greatest king in that country's history . . . "

"You mean 'President,' " I interrupted.

He chuckled at his mistake. "Evil will be bound and non-violence shall continue to grow during the third millennium. You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.”

"How can you dare to make such pronouncements!" I had always believed that God was at times visible in great human souls; formlessness, taking the form of man. Was I before a being of this order? My words had again been cut short by his terrible fit of coughing. Catching sight of some lozenges prescribed by his doctor, I tried to give him one.

He refused, saying, "I assure you I do not want to kill 'brother ass'." (St Francis's term for the body) "He is in God's safe keeping. Harry, you want a 'sign', do you not? If I die of a fast or disease or even a pimple, it shall be your duty to tell the world that I was a false prophet. However, if somebody shoots at me and I receive his bullet on my bare chest with God's name on my lips, only then should you say I was truly the Mahatma."

There was a moment of awed silence as his words sank in. This was broken by his niece reminding him of his meeting with Patal. "You are late," chided Manu.

"Why did you not call me earlier?" he questioned, staring at his Ingersoll 'Mickey Mouse' watch given him by a Mrs Naidu. Then he turned to me and said, "I have always been a fan of Mickey Mouse. I think it is his ears . . . . "