Chapter 33: Session 33
Baba was always against manners, and the people who believe in manners. That’s why he loved me, that’s why he loved Masto. And when he was looking for a man who could take care of me, naturally, he could not have found a better man than Masto.
Masto proved himself more than Baba could ever have thought. He did so much for me that even to say it hurts. It is something so private that it should not be said, so private that one should not even say it while one is alone.
I was just saying to Gudia, “Tell Devageet never to leave his notebooks in this Noah’s Ark” - because last night the devil was typing from his notebooks. You will not believe it. In fact, I could not believe it when I first heard the story. Gudia said there was no light from the window. I wondered and said to myself, “They have gone mad or what? Typing without a light?”
Gudia looked in the room and said, “This is really something! The machine is making a noise exactly like a typewriter.”
Not only that, every once in a while it stopped, as if the typist was looking at the notebook, then again typing. Gudia asked Asheesh, “What could be the matter?”
He told her, “Nothing much, just the filter on the air conditioner has gathered too much dust and that makes such a noise.” But exactly like a typewriter.? I loved the story anyway, and I tell you to keep your notebooks away from the devil. He can even type without a typewriter, without a light.
The devil is always a perfectionist. He cannot be otherwise, it is part of his very function. Typing without a typewriter - in the dark? And I know Devageet would not leave his notebooks anywhere. But the devil can even type without notebooks too. He can read your minds. So don’t bring your minds in, at least when you are working on my words. Don’t bring your minds in, otherwise you open the door to the devil.
Masto was the best choice that Baba could have made. I cannot in any way conceive of a better man. Not only was he a meditator.of course he was, otherwise there would have been no communion possible between him and me. And meditation simply means not being a mind, at least for the time you are meditating.
But that was not all, he was many more things. He was a beautiful singer, but he never sang for the public. We both used to laugh at the phrase, “the public.” It consists of only the most retarded children. It is a wonder how they manage to gather at a place at a certain appointed time. I cannot explain it. Masto said he could not explain it either. It just cannot be explained.
He never sang for the public, but only for a very few people who loved him, and they had to promise never to talk about it. His voice was really “his master’s voice.” Perhaps he was not singing, but only allowing “the existence” - that’s the only proper word that I can use. He was allowing existence to flow through him. He was not preventing; that was his merit.