His Hands and Feet Are Everywhere
“Baba! Do You hear the bhajans [sacred hymns] we do at home every day?”
“My dear fellow! Wherever My name is, My form is there also. I do listen to your bhajans every day. I like them.”
“But why is it that I have never seen You there, listening, on any single day?”
“Ah! You cannot see Me with these eyes. Even Arjuna [from the epic Mahabharata] saw only through the special jnana-netra [eye of wisdom] that he was blessed with.”
“How then, Baba, are we to realize that you are sarvantaryami (the inner motive force of everything) and Sarva-vyapi (immanent everywhere)?”
“You cannot realize it now. But, I shall prove to you that I am present everywhere.”
“That is indeed my good fortune. Tell me, Swami!”
“Four months ago, when it was raining so terribly one evening that no one dared move about, and you were very sad and downcast that the person who was bringing flowers to offer to Me did not arrive as usual, who was it, can you tell me, that came to your door with those flowers? It was I Myself! Is this proof enough?”
It was pouring, pouring as if the sky had sprung a leak. No living thing dared move out of doors. There was a terrible storm and the trees swayed in terror, bhajan had to start at 7 p.m. at home, but the flowers had not come. The person who brought it for us daily without fail was evidently caught in the rain and could not proceed. How could we start our daily bhajan without decorating Baba’s picture to our heart’s content? We waited… hoped… became anxious… sad… desperate… and downcast.
We prayed, and we nearly shed tears. Then we saw a figure coming toward our door, along the swollen street, across the swirling pools. The flowers? Yes. The flower-seller had not disappointed us, after all. He had sent them through this frail looking, smiling young man! We snatched the garlands from his hand and rushed in, for it was already late.
Next day, when the regular man came, we inquired why he had sent a substitute and how he secured him. Poor fellow he did not know anything. He was apologizing to us… Who then could that frail young man be? He did not even stay long enough for us to pay him!
Now Baba had told us. Ah! What supreme grace! The Lord brings flowers for His own puja [prayers] and enjoys the joy of His bhaktas [devotees] when they decorate Him with them.
We fell at His holy feet and shed tears of gratitude and joy.
~Sri. B. M. Rao, Madras
Source: Sanathana Sarathi, May 1964
