You Have Not a Leg to Stand On Read Free Page B

accident a friend came rushing to our valley with a book she desperately wanted us to read. It was supposedly a true account of ‘miracles’ being performed by an Indian Guru called Satya Sai Baba. He had a group of devotees in Nairobi, who were quite adamant that he did perform miracles, raising from the dead was documented, so making someone walk again, would be a doddle.
    They helped us with all the contacts we’d need, and we were on our way to the Ashram in Bangalore in the next few days. There’ve been so many accounts and documentaries about India, you feel there’d be nothing new to say, but being there is quite different. There’s never any quiet, you feel as though you’re within a cauldron of people. The only peaceful things are the cows standing in the middle of the road. The cars never stop hooting, and they rush everywhere as though they’ll be late for the next stop. Our contact in Bangalore was a dizzy Princess called Princess Devi. She was also a faithful devotee of Sai Baba.
    The Ashram was relatively quiet and very well organised around the daily appearance of the man himself. The quadrangle he’d wander through was maybe a couple of acres, and the sea of people was divided into perfect squares by newly picked paths of bougainvillea petals. They were so thickly laid; his bare feet didn’t touch the bare earth. The men and women were in separate squares, all sitting cross-legged, and all bowed as he slowly passed through us. Every now and again he’d stop, put his hand out, palm down, over a fortunate favoured one. He would move it slowly in a circle and ash would fall out, into eager stretched out hands, and be eaten there and then.
    After some time of making the same exhausting, ritualistic journey every morning from the centre of Bangalore to Whitefields, the home of the Ashram, our Princess managed to elbow herself into a position on the edge of one of the squares, along a petalled path. So when the ‘Great Man’ happened to pass by, she threw herself in front of him and begged for an audience. He gave a small nod to a minion who contacted her later, and a privileged date was arranged. Much celebration ensued over the next few days. Parties were held at the Princess’s palace, a little cottage on the edge of her father’s little garden. Who was I going to give my wheelchair to when we left Bangalore? It would be a privilege for anyone else to sit in it. The state of elation really was quite infectious. Finally, the great day was upon us. Her father, the Maharaja, well, the brother of a deceased Maharaja, was persuaded to drive us himself, in his poor tired old Mercedes that had seen many a better day, to the meeting.
    The inner gates to the sanctum were solemnly opened by two devotees, dressed in the ubiquitous white cotton uniform, with praying hands together and a little bow, as we slowly swept by. Other ‘devotees’ greeted us at every turn, with praying hands together and a little bow, and finally entered a small anti-chamber with a dozen plastic chairs facing a gold painted armchair on a dais. After a few minutes of silence and nervously exchanged glances, the door opened and the little man appeared. He was no more than five foot four, with a long afro hairdo that formed a black halo around his head, and a smiling friendly face. He was dressed in a bright orange floor-length gown. He wandered in and tucked himself into the gold armchair. Our Princess was on her knees speaking to him in Hindi. He looked at me and threw me a gunmetal medal with his name on it, one of the many abilities attributed to him was to materialise all sorts of things there and then. There was a gasp from the Princess. He then added, ‘Complete cure.’ Our Princess couldn’t contain herself; she prostrated herself, full length on the floor in front of him. He then turned to my wife, and as a throwaway line said, ‘You are a wonderful woman and