But Masto was known, and the prime minister called him first, and told Morarji Desai to wait. That was an insult, unintended on the part of Jawaharlal, but Morarji perhaps has not forgotten it even to this day. He may not remember the young boy, but he must be able to remember Masto. Masto was very impressive, in every way.
We went in, and it was not just for five minutes; it took us exactly one hour and thirty minutes. And Morarji Desai had to wait. Now, that was too much for him. It was his appointment, and somebody else, a sannyasin with a young boy entered before him…and then he had to wait for ninety minutes!
And for the first time in my life I was surprised, because I was not there to meet a poet, but a politician. I met a poet.
Jawaharlal was not a politician. Alas, he could not succeed in bringing his dreams to reality. But whether one says “alas” or “aha,” a poet is always a failure. Even in his poetry he is a failure. To be a failure is his destiny, because he longs for the stars. He cannot be satisfied with the small, the finite. He wants to have the whole sky in his hands.
I was completely taken aback. Even Jawaharlal could see it, and he said, “What happened? The boy looks as if he has had a shock.”
Masto, without even looking at me, said, “I know that boy. That’s why I have brought him to you. In fact if it had been in my power, I would have taken you to him.”
Now it was the turn for Jawaharlal to be taken aback…but he was a man of tremendous culture. He looked at me again, so that he could measure the meaning of Masto’s words. For a moment we looked into each other’s eyes, and we both laughed. And his laughter was not that of an old man, it was still that of a child. He was immensely beautiful, and when I say this, I mean it, because I have seen thousands of beautiful people; but I can say without hesitation, that he was the most beautiful of them all, and not only in his body.
It is strange; we talked of poetry, and Morarji was waiting outside. We talked of meditation, and Morarji was waiting outside. I can still see the scene – he must have been fuming. In fact that day decided and sealed our enmity. Not from my side, of course; I have nothing against him. All his concerns are just stupid, not worth being against. Yes, once in a while he is good to laugh at. That’s what I have done with his name, and his urine therapy – drinking your own urine. He was in America preaching it. Nobody asks whether he drinks his own, or somebody else’s, because when a person drinks urine he is already out of his senses, so that now he could drink anything – what to say of somebody else’s urine. And he was teaching there, sermonizing.
That day he became an enemy to me, but on my part at least, it was unknowingly. It was just because he had to wait for one and a half hours. He must have come to know who I was from the secretary, perhaps asking, “Who is that boy? And why is he being introduced to the prime minister? What is the purpose of it? And why is Masta Baba taking an interest in him?”