sai ram!

"sai ram!" says a voice, urgently, from somewhere near my right thigh.  "sai ram!" the voice insists, now accompanied by the thwack-thwack of tiny beads against an equally tiny drumhead.  i am still 45k away from puttaparthy, but this busstop toddler can already tell that there is only one reason why this western lady is trying to buy crackers in the redgray, rockstrewn furnace that is southeast andhra pradesh: sai baba.

sri sethya sai baba, so the legend goes, is the reincarnation of a well-known sage and a living avatar of god on earth.  after showing uncommon precocity and compassion as a child, he announced Himself to the world at age 14, and in the intervening years he has spread an inspiring message centered around love, service, and the divine presence.  physically, baba is about five feet tall with a dark corona of fluffy hair. he's often clad entirely in sunny orange and, these days, appears in a wheeled red velveteen chair (he's past 80).  corporocratically, his ashram is a funky place.  it's massive, to begin: a self-contained complex with blocks upon blocks of segregated male and female dorms, three canteens (western, north indian and south indian, also segregated by sex), various snack setups, a shopping mall (women only in the morning, men only in the evening, except on sundays when the order is reversed and women can't buy anything from saturday at 11:00 am until sunday at 3:00 pm), innumerable administrative buildings of unknown function, a library, a museum, a meditation nook, temples to various hindu deities, and of course the giant chandeliered darshan pavilion.  and probably other stuff that i never managed to locate. 

"sai ram!"  i walk in through the pedestrian gate and submit to bag-and body-search, and luckily produce my dupatta when asked -- dress code for women is basically to cover yourself from neck to ankle including a scarf as large as possible worn as smotheringly as possible.  inside, the courtyard teems with folk, most of the men in white shirt and trousers, most of the women in richly colored saris and salwar kameez; mostly indian everyone, but with a healthy dose of westerners (russian, usually) and japanese folk thrown in.  most are toting cushions.  the line at the accommodation window is typically indian, more cluster than string, but i notice the ladies' Q and elbow aside some menfolk, to learn that foreigners' accommodation is handled in block N8, which is "over there" meaning somewhere in the next mile to my right.

"sai ram!" says the kindly-looking old dude in block N8.  two dull red tufts of hair wave softly from his ears like antennae.  he hands me a form, i fill it out, he sends me to room N8A10.  "sai ram!" says the greybeard behind the glass window of A10.  a faint trickle of cool air seeps out from behind his barricade and caresses my hand.  ah.  no wonder he's so cheerful: his side is airconditioned.  "you are alone?" he inquires doubtfully.  yes.  after a few what-is-she-thinking shakes of the head, he assigns me to a bed in dorm A.  his companiondoes a little throat clearing, "sssrrmmm.  aren't those russians with the sores all over their arms in dorm A?"  "hrm," replies greybeard, and assigns me to dorm B. 

dorm B is also full of russians, although (i check, surreptitiously) none have visible skin lesions.  "sai ram!" says a sprawling, pantsless blond, eyeing me curiously.  her corner of the dorm is set up like a long-term fiefdom, with laundry drying from a string, a fluffy pink disney comforter, a library of baba books.  she is visibly shocked when i tell her i am only here for one night. 

"sai ram!" says the lady at the entrance to the women's south indian food canteen, looking at my hand to make sure i have food coupons before entering.  food is incredibly cheap at the south indian canteen (a chai is two rupees, approximately three cents), but none of it can be had without coupons, which are sold a few blocks away.  "sai ram!"  snarls a bespectacled matron at the chai station.  "sai ram!  line!  line!" and she pushes a clump of thirsty newcomers backwards until something like a string forms by the chai.  it is the first time i have seen anyone enforce an orderly queue in india, and it works until the snarly lady gets her own chai and leaves. 

"sai ram!" says the girl at the entrance to the darshan hall, nodding at my person, earrings jingling.  i wonder what item of contraband i could be accidentally carrying into the hall.  my shoes are communing with the shoes of the rest of the world in a vast and dirty orgy next to the wall; my electronic items are semi-safely stowed in my daypack in dorm B, trusting that the good deeds of baba's lady followers include renouncing theft; my water bottle stands guard over my pillow.  "sai ram," says the girl again, and reaches for my midriff to pat me down.  i'm clean: no wires, no flowers, no notebook, no pen, no food. 

"sai ram!" a harsh whisper from one of the skinny girls apparently in charge of security arrangments keeps the walking pathways clear.  the floor of the darshan hall is an ocean of women, their black braids like sea serpents twitching this way and that as they turn from neighbor to neighbor, chattering.  older ladies are in white plastic chairs at the sides of the hall, a few foresightful ladies camped out in order to snag backrest seats in front of various columns, and i am at the way back wall with the breeze on my neck and some elevation.  smooth vedic chanting rolls out of the sound system, so precise they don't even seem to breathe; baba appears, and we are all blessed.  i am transfixed.

"sai ram, dog!" at the front entrance to the western canteen at dinnertime, a lady coos and throws scraps to a cute stray retriever lurking around the building for just this type of handout.  its a slimy sort of lasagne, definitely not anything i can eat, but judging by the lushness of this guy's coat, he's seen this oily friend before and it will suit him fine.  this despite many, many signs, including signs/rules specifically set forth by baba, requesting devotees to refrain from feeding stray dogs.  the same signs request that devotees refrain from feeding beggars,or giving money or handouts of any kind; these types of signs are pretty scrupulously followed by devotees, but not by beggars or kids:  "sai ram..." a soft, wheedling voice from somewhere near my left thigh materializes as i stand in line for a fresh young coconut, nature's gatorade.  "ten rupee?  coco-nut?"  this little boy has huge liquid eyes and very soft fingers on my forearm.  "... sai ram ..." he breathes. even softer.  breakin' the rules, breakin' the rules.  a massive shooting star flares its part-parabola over the palm trees.

"sai ram!" a russian whisper in the dark as i creep back to dorm B.  i'm only here for one night, and traveling super-light, so the plan is to sleep in my clothes, dupatta scarf for a pillow.  which sounds, now, incredibly icky sticky, but then again so does touching skin to the bare mattress pad.  "sai ram ..." the whisper again, and it is one of my dorm-mates, gesturing towards me and shaking a white sheet.  definitely blessed.  i touch hand to heart, believing, and sleep.