((Originally posted to Mehere Chowk on November 13, 2013 -vshr))
Before getting into this blow-by-blow account, please read these previous posts for context if you have not already done so: FAREWELL TO BHAU (Trust via MULe), 26 Oct 13 – Bhauji's Funeral, 26 Oct 13, Riff the First
This event took place in a vortex of Divine Radience and spiritual transmission. From my point of view, it is not sufficient to simply focus on the Radience in and of itself, as if nothing were revealed by it and we were not changed by it, because that would be to trivialize it.
On that morning of 25 Oct 13, Shukravar, when Bhauji’s mortal remains were to arrive at Meherabad, I was kind of out of it because I had to pick up my laundry, so I wasn’t at the Samadhi to meet the ambulance that was bringing the departed from the hospital in Poona. By the time I got there, around 9:30, Bhau had been taken into the Samadhi and was not visible, and the Kalchuri women were in loud and painfully dramatic grief-stricken array, which increased when Bhau was eventually brought out and came to rest under the permanent roof in front of the Samadhi, among the Kalchuri family and those that they recognized as official Bhau associates, who had been allowed in that area.
Devotional songs and Aaratis began to be sung, and Bhau’s wife Rama broke down in tears and
loud wailing. She was finally led away, and as she passed behing the Ambulance, she wailed these clearly articulated words at the top of her lungs: “EVERYONE IS PRAYING FOR MEHERNATH.” It was shocking to hear this violation of stri dharma and the normal deportment of human beings at the wakes of their spouses, but what was most shocking to me is that it was in English, which is not Rama Mata’s mother tongue. This woman was exhausted and distraught. She could not have framed and uttered this statement in a language other than her mother tongue in that state apart from clear intention and pre-meditation. There are hundreds of things I could write about what this one sentence tells me about that entire family, but I choose to write only one: Rama Mata was simply wrong. No one was praying for Mehernath, including Rama herself. A prayer is addressed to your God in your mother tongue.
Damage contol by the Kalchuri family was swift. Rama was removed from the scene and did not reappear for the rest of the funeral, which lasted all day until after nightfall. She also did not appear at the commemorative event that the family held several days later in the Trust compound in Ahmednagar, which happens to be Rama’s and Mehernath’s home of record, which makes it unethical and stupid to keep Trust documents and records there, because it gives Mehernath exclusive and personal control over them. It is equally stupid and unethical to hold Trust meetings and other administrative funtions in the home of one Trustee, because it is not neutral turf with respect to the private interests of the Kalchuri family.
Returning to the story, after Rama’s disappearance fom the scene in front of the Samadhi, and much more singing and crying, Bhau was put back into the ambulance and taken to Mandali Hall at lower Meherabad. I had preceeded it and made a good guess about where the Indian men’s darshan queue would start, so I joined the beginning of it and was admitted in due course, immediately after those who had pride of place by being recognized as special Bhau people by the family.
As it fell out, I wound up being seated together with the closest members of Bhau’s inner circle, on the right of Meher Baba’s murti as you face it, which would be the east side of the Hall. The Kalchuri family was on the west side sitting on chairs. We were on the ground, and the musicians and singers were also on the same side with us. Heather Nadel, one of the Trustees, was in the center near Meher Baba’s murti.
Vibrationally, I have never seen or felt such a clear demonstration of the archetypal power of the Ashuric and Devonic Camps as was present in Mandali Hall on this occasion. The west side of the Hall was completely dominated by the negatistic emotional displays of the Kalchuris. Their grief was real and appropriate enough, but it was also mixed together with political and theatrical elements. The loudest and most dedicated of the wailers were being invited to sit on chairs with the Kalchuris. The abysmally grief-stricken faces of the women rarely demonstrated the mobility and flexibility of faces showing present emotion: most of the time these faces were hard fixed masks of ancestral and obligatory woe, which these women had learned to don as girls at funerals long ago. The occasional stacatto orders spit out of the corners of their mouths towards their underlings did nothing to mitigate this impression, nor did the velocity of the suppression of the furtive smiles which constantly tried to lift the corners of those deeply pious frowns.
On my side of the Hall, the emotional affect was exactly what it had always been during Bhauji’s life: love, and the bright attention resulting from love. There was some sadness, but it was mitigated by the certainty that Bhau’s long crucifixion by medical intervention was over, and that he was now enjoying eternal Divine Bliss. In fact, no one who really knew or understood Bhau could have wanted that crucifixion to continue. Only a sadistic pervert of galactic proportions could have wanted that.
At one point I looked back, and there was Mehernath, who had snuck in silently and seated himself immediately behind my back on my left side. He was dressed inappropriately in a light orange polo shirt, and playing with his cell phone. This behavior was designed to threaten me by implying that he was siccing his trogdolytes on me by cellphone. Alas, the designated eternal Kalchuri Poo-Bah since beginningless time had chosen to go on yet another fishing expedition about me, and once more, he was out of his depth. For one thing, he was away from his family and proper Camp (In Jyotish, this is called “in the house of an enemy.”) But never demeaned enough yours truly was just SO swakshetra (in my own place) sitting with people like Mother C, Mother P squared, and Mother Joy that I was able to do something that Devas are really good at: simply ignore bad company until it goes away. So I did that for something like a half an hour, and Motormouth finally complied. He left the Hall by the Devonic door and later re-entered by the Ashuric door and sat with his family, just like the good little boy that his father had always wanted him to be. Ashuras are like that; they always wind up doing what you want, and their entire problem with themselves is that they never figure how we do that to them. Never.
Meanwhile, Bhauji’s mortal remains were just pounding Divine Radiance all over the place, and on top of his personal transmission to me when I had met him early in October, this was frying me. So I left Mandali Hall at noon, and went home and crashed. Bhau was scheduled to be buried at 1600, so I did go back down the hill at that time, and was very pleased that Bhau’s arrival at the grave site was only a half hour late.
After the lowering of the coffin into the grave, there was a very long queue to throw roses and dirt down on it. This queue was being guarded by an especially wierd group of specially hired guards, wearing high black baseball-style caps worn high on their heads with the word “Shakti” (Power) written in big white capital letters across the front. These guys did stink of black power, and they weren’t really guards. They were buffoons. None of them would have lasted 30 seconds against a real assailant, and most of them looked like inept clones of Mehernath, strutting around with obscene paunches and constantly shucking and jinking back and forth via their cellphones. I had easily evaded their oversight to get a seat pretty near to the grave to get some photos, but I think my spirit guardians really did not want me standing in a queue for well over an hour, under the aegis of these blatant pieces of work. Absolutely not! I was also pretty tired again, already, so I split.
But later that evening towards nightfall, I decided that I really did finally want to throw something on Bhauji’s coffin, so I went back down to the grave site to see if that would be possible. Both the queue and the guards were gone, and workers were starting to fill up the gave with dirt trasnported in gamelas. Heather Nadel was there, and she intuited that this would be important to me, so she advised me to take a handful of dirt from the pile, and to throw it into a gamela headed for the grave, so I did that and found it strangely fulfilling. I think that dirt, impressed by the vibes of a by that time thoroughly altered yours truly, helped me to go ground all of Bhaji’s amazing transmission, a process that I have continued to engage right up to this very instant.
I have not yet begun to write about this funeral and its implications, but methinks the time has come, for the nonce, to write with the ancestral authors of our beautiful mother tongue:
Sufficient unto the Day is the Evil thereof.
Jai Jai Meher,