The Last Apparition

he one abiding image on the road to the Prashanti Nilayam complex in Puttaparthi, where Sai Baba’s body was placed before his funeral, was of devotees from all over lugging their strolleys. The last mile for the final darshan had to be covered by foot since no vehicles were allowed. So, on a two-lane road, with not even a tree for shelter, people walked and walked, resisting even a short break. Even on reaching their destination, they had to stand in a kilometre-long queue before entering the Sai Kulwant Hall to get a last glimpse of their lord.

In the crowd, there were the young, the old and the infirm, the lettered and the unlettered, the class distinctions evident from the clothes. The poor had greater choice when it came to food and water. Charity stores supplied water and food packets, and they had no inhibitions accepting their offerings. It was the relatively well-heeled who were at a loss on what to do: where to stay the night, where to drop their luggage and, importantly, where to leave their footwear before entering the hall, because it looked nearly impossible to recover them from the mounds already collecting outside the ashram complex.

Even inside the hall, the barricades and the entry points marked out a clear hierarchy. The poor were hurried through the darshan. They got only a fleeting glimpse of their guru—two seconds to be precise. The face and the body, kept in a glass case, was not very visible, but the VVIPs making their entry and circumambulating the body were a clear spectacle. That was the game being played at the media stand, roughly 50 feet away from the centre. Who arrived and who was scheduled to arrive next was the running commentary on mobile phones.

The volunteers dressed in white were doing a good job, though. They were all wired to speak the same language: “Baba has not left us, he is here amidst us. Someone like the baba can’t die. Death is for mortals.”