really don't have to testify; but when you realize it, you can't believe that Baba could take such care, more, even, than a mother could care for her child.

Baba made many points not by speaking about them but through his actions. There was a girl, Lakshmi, who often helped Mehera cook Baba's food. Now in India those in the lower castes wear longer sleeves: the longer the sleeve, the lower the caste. Lakshmi was a very sweet girl. We had lady followers of Baba coming up the hill to visit; and Baba used to give them prasad from his food. But these women had seen Lakshmi cook food. Baba didn't say "Caste doesn't make any difference," but they saw that the food was cooked by a lower-caste girl; Baba had touched it so they had to take it.

When Baba gave prasad from the food cooked by that lower caste woman perhaps he lifted them up in some way. Anyone who had eyes could understand immediately what Baba wanted to teach: that we could take Baba's prasad no matter who had cooked it. This was a small thing but a very great teaching, I believe.

In 1939-45, Baba said one by one we would have to leave; he talked about it long before and said we didn't realize what wonderful times we had now. Sometimes we found it difficult also. But there would be a time when only a few would stay near him and many of us would be going away, that is, not be living in his ashram anymore. I always thought it would be others that would have to go, not I. I was sure I'd stay the rest of my life with Baba. One day I thought, now I can obey, now I can be humble, I think now I can please Baba. Before, I always found I was doing something wrong, putting my foot in it somehow, not obeying, or thinking something that was a little absurd. But now I had this inner feeling that I can obey, I can be humble, which is very difficult for us Europeans. It is easier for Easterners to be humble, but perhaps for us old Europeans, thinking that we know everything, it's very hard. Then the next day Baba called me and said, "You have to go with Donkin* to Bombay and you have to arrange for your going home." So I had my answer. If only I'd thought I was very bad, or I needed a lot of Baba’s help! — (and I still need it). But it was only for a moment that I thought I could do it. Of course, how could we do it unless we were perfect, but Baba wanted me to realize that the moment that I had the feeling of really wanting to obey him, then said, "You can go."

So I had to go with Donkin to Bombay; he had all the connections. In Bombay because we had finished our work and the train would leave many hours later, Don and I went to the cinema. We used to go with Baba to Sarosh Cinema, so we thought why couldn't we have some fun in Bombay and go? When we came back Baba said, "Have you done anything?" and I said, "Yes, we walked in Bombay and Donkin flew to Delhi as he was a major in the army and when he came back with all the papers properly signed, we returned." So Baba said, "Then what else did you do?" Well, we both didn’t say anything we didn't think of the cinema. Then Baba asked us straight out, "What about the cinema?" Then we said, "Yes, Baba, we saw this lovely film." Baba replied, "So that's what you do as soon as you are sent on an errand, as soon as you're free and on the loose, you go to the cinema!" That spoiled the whole nice time we had in Bombay. We couldn't find a hotel so we had stayed in the Green Hotel (an extension of the Taj Mahal Hotel), we had nice food and so on in a worldly way, but it was all spoiled afterwards because we felt so terrible that we had gone to the cinema without Baba taking us. Thereafter the cinema was not interesting to us anymore.

Usually when you travel in India you stay with Baba devotees. But when the day came, Baba said to me "No, now you leave tomorrow — you are not going to stay with any of my devotees, you're not even to contact them,— you go to a hotel." I said, "Yes, Baba." For me Baba came first, not the devotees, though they were very sweet and nice but Baba was the main thing in my life. So I told Baba I would do it. I added, "But Baba, you haven't given me any rules yet. To everyone who has left, you have given rules, either not to eat meat, not to get married, or to do a certain work, or not to do it, and so

*Dr. William Donkin, author of The Wayfarers