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detached from the main house. Although cool with its heavy cement construction and bare floor, it was more than comfortable—and mar- velously quiet and private. A small electric heater stood at the foot of and between two large, overstuffed beds. I was happy to find fresh grapefruit, tea and toast frequently delivered to my room by pleasing housekeepers. Sohan Lal smiled broadly when talking about his favorite grapefruits, knowing that they were a real delicacy in Delhi at this time. He was a great host, genuinely happy when I was happy, especially pleased when showing me a glowing account of him and his hospitality in James Michener’s book, The Voice of Asia (pp. 270-277). Michener had visited Sohan Lal some years back and described him as “a brilliant, darting, handsome hummingbird of a man.”
The Mahashivarathri observance at Sai Baba’s ashram had been glorious, although it drained me to the quick: 36 straight hours without eating or sleeping, one day after traveling 40 hours from the U.S. to India. I was exhausted and hobbling—I thought I would die on the spot. But, oh, what a marvelous way to die! The holy surroundings were especially charged and vibrant with the worship of thousands of devotees, all willing to forego eating and sleeping to keep this special vigil. And then there was Baba’s extraordinary presence and his two breathtaking public miracles: the Vibuthi Abheshekam and the creation of the Shiva Lingam. I would recount these events in detail in my talk in just a few minutes. I knew that this holy event was a very special communication from God to man, direct and potent with meaning—no doubt an historic event, to be cherished and revered by countless people in the future.
The day after my arrival I called Dr. Masserman and arranged to meet him for dinner that evening at the Ashoka Hotel. Also expected were Dr. Schwab, chairman of the Department of Psychiatry at the University of Louisville in Kentucky and co-director of this trip, the chairman of the Psychiatric Society in Delhi, the tour guide, and wives.
I showed up at 8 p.m. on the dot. The Ashoka Hotel is one of Delhi’s finest: long extended driveway lined with tourist buses, doormen dressed in regal red uniforms and turbans, an open reception and lobby area of wood and marble two to three stories high; fine statues, paintings, sparkling artwork—and the hustle and bustle of an international array of visitors from many lands.
I wonder what’s in store, I thought, as I walked down the wide