Okay. This noise that you are making is enough to make anybody say okay. Thank you. Now I can really say okay.
I was just listening again, not to Hari Prasad Chaurasia, but another flutist. In India the flute has two dimensions: one, the Southern; the other, the Northern. Hari Prasad Chaurasia was a Northern flutist; I was listening to the polar opposite, the Southern.
This man too was introduced to me by the same man, Pagal Baba. When he introduced me he said to the musician, “You may not understand why I’m introducing you to this boy; at least right now you will not understand, but perhaps one day, God willing, you may.”
This man plays the same flute but in a totally different way. The Southern flute is far more penetrating, piercing to be exact. It enters and stirs something in your very marrow. The Northern flute is tremendously beautiful but a little flat – just as Northern India is flat.
The man looked at me, puzzled. He thought for a moment, then said, “Baba, if you are introducing me to him then there must be something I cannot understand. That is my mediocrity, and I am immensely grateful that you are so loving to me that you not only introduce me to the present, but even to the future.”
I have only heard him a few times because we never became directly connected – it remained via Pagal Baba. The flutist used to visit him. If by chance I was there, then of course he said hello to me. Baba always laughed and said, “Touch his feet, you fool! ‘ Hello’ is not the way to greet this boy.”
He did it reluctantly, and I could see his reluctance, that’s why I am not mentioning his name. He is still alive and may feel offended, because it was not out of love for me that he touched my feet, but because Pagal Baba ordered him. He had to touch my feet.
I laughed and said, “Baba, can I hit this man?”
He said, “Of course.”
And can you imagine it – as he was touching my feet, I slapped his face!
This reminds me of the letter Devageet wrote to me. I knew that he would cry and weep. I knew. How did I know even before he had written to me? Even if he hadn’t written to me I would have known. I know my people. I know those who love me, whether they say it or not. And what really touched me were his words – “You can hit me as much as you want, that does not hurt; what hurts is that when I am not giggling you say, ‘Devageet, don’t try to deceive me….’ This hurts. It is the apparent injustice of it that hurts.” This is the word he used. Gudia, I think these are the words – apparent injustice. Am I right, Gudia?
Okay, because Gudia had to read the letter to me.