35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

‘I AM ALWAYS WITH YOU’
went could not have varied more. One day John Lennon and Yoko
Ono were sitting in the sand with the rest of us, next day it was the
president of India, a producer of the James Bond films, the
photographer David Bailey, or some high-ranking Italian politician.
Yet there was only one star in that small world, and he seemed
unimpressed by those who walked tall in the world beyond, often
paying more attention to some ragged group of peasants who had
walked miles for his blessing than to those who had arrived in airconditioned
limousines. Ignored, John and Yoko left in a huff. Indira
Gandhi apparently cried when Baba refused to meet her privately.
Sathya Sai continued to ignore me, so I settled into the ashram’s
routine, increasingly enjoying the tranquil, pastoral life of the village
around it and my walks in that elegant countryside. I also enjoyed
observing the devotees more than emulating them. Fast friendships
were formed. Some have continued half a lifetime, some turned
inexplicably into bitter enmities.
I returned to my rented cell from a typically fruitless meditation
session one morning as the Klieg light sun rose above the hills yet
again and shadows slid like deadly serpents from rocks and scrub.
Pacing down the winding path toward me strode a fearful sight. A
young blond man, close to seven feet tall, with a vast, flowing beard
and two yards of hair coiled into a turret above his head. Powerfully
muscular and certainly not fat, he possessed a belly like a witches’
cauldron, bulging over a faded orange loincloth that barely contained
a set of male equipment a stallion would have envied. In one hand
he grasped a massive trident, like Neptune’s but swathed in dangling
coloured ribbons that held little stones and carved talismans; in the
other was a kamandalam, a sadhu’s begging bowl carved from wood.
Despite these features, what I first noticed was the necklace of nine
human skulls hanging from his neck. It was fairly noticeable. The
clacking noise he made as he strode forcefully through pebbles and
dust was caused not by crania knocking together, however, but by
wooden sandals, the kind held on only by a mushroom-shaped peg
clasped between the toes. They are often made of sandalwood –
hence the name.
‘Bum-bum bolo!’ he roared at me.
‘Sai Ram!’ seemed a better response than ‘Top o’ the mornin’ to
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