When Tulsi Bloomed at the Lotus Feet
When my servants
Ask thee concerning Me
I am indeed
Close: I listen
To the prayer of every
Supplicant when he calleth on Me.
(The Quran: II: 186)
Karim Saab (67), shriveled and taciturn, sits every evening on the Cuddapah [in Andhra Pradesh, South India] black stone bench in front of his dormitory. His posture denotes uncertainty, even loneliness, like an autumn leaf about to be blown away by the wind. He waits there till the sunlight turns yellow and makes dull the hills around him. The mid-November mist fills the somnolent air in Anantapur [a district near Puttaparthi] with a chilled invisibility. As an inmate of the ‘home for the aged’ in this Andhra town, Karim Saab’s [a respectful way of addressing a senior person] life is uneventful. Nothing remarkable has come his way except that he has been a classmate of the one whom he calls “Sathya”— and whom the world now knows as Sathya Sai Baba.
Karim Saab informs this author that he knew Baba in primary school, six decades ago. Delight ripples over his tired features as he recalls those happy days. His simple faith in Allah rules out questions about the ways of divinity. Referring to these experiences as “jewels in the heart,” he feels grateful and is content with the chance he has had. “Even as children,” he tells the visitor, “we were certain that Baba was not like all of us, though He moved and played with us. Hazrat Mohammad Sahib must have been like this, and Lord Jesus Christ—Hazrat Ibraheem.”
When shown the photo of Baba, he grows reminiscent, “As a child He was tiny for His age—yes, the same generous mouth and those large black eyes, too, were there. They sparkled like pools at sunset. Once we were free— it was a drill period—and Baba led us to play in the open space in front of the school building. We re-fused, of course.”
“Why?” enquires the visitor.
“The ground was hard with sharp stones and gravel. We were poor, no shoes for us. We said so, but He wouldn’t listen. “Come,” He insisted, “See, see, I can run.” He started running over the crushed earth as if it was velvet. We hesitated, looking suspicious. And ah! Wonder of wonders! Before our wide eyes, it changed. Wherever His feet touched, a Tulsi [sacred basil] plant sprang up immediately, just like that!”
Karim Saab stops, breathing heavily as if he has been reliving the moment.
“Yes, we looked on,” he mused, “as He ran lightly over the ground patch by patch, it turned to glowing green. The whole place was covered with Tulsi that sent a faint welcome fragrance. Not the plant, but a low dense bushy type of growth. We ran to this carpet, rolled on it, stamped and wallowed in it till we were exhausted, and then we lay there, flat on our backs, panting for breath. The fresh aroma rose and covered us too, soothing like the touch of a warm blanket. Through its haziness we saw Him stand above us, hands folded behind, an unspeakable tenderness playing on His lips.”
Karim Saab suddenly stops, overwhelmed by the intensity of his recollections. When questioned further, he admits that he recalls that incredible event often. Now that the world has forgotten him, each evening he comes, sits on this bench and waits. Sometimes the newly sprouted Tulsi’s fragrance rises with the mists of the evening and enfolds him as an assurance. “How often does it happen?” comes the skeptical question.
He is reluctant. Not everything can be demanded by an intruder. Yet he remains polite. “Yes …. not very often,” he says softly, “but sometimes Tulsi comes from nowhere and fills the whole air. Then I do not exist, only Tulsi does.”
~Dr. Zeba Bashiruddin
Source: Sanathana Sarathi, November 1992
