Jai Shree Ganesha Jai Shree Laxsmi Ma Ki Jai.
Namaste my Chelas, My Laxman Das from L.A. wrote me this on my private line. I was just so very proud of him and my other chelas that I had to put it out there for all of you. This is what it is all about. This is what we are doing here on earth. I can only thank you all from the bottom of my heart. Love Ma.
Laxman Das you have to keep writing it down. It is a legacy for our satsang in years to come. I love you. :Love Ma
Jai Ganesha Jai Laxsmi Ma Ki Jai
Under the Bridges and on the Streets
Its a Saturday, and its bright and breezy with a touch of the
cool of Autumn. Los Angeles, October 31st, 1998. Big sprawling city, gigantic with every ethnicity of people, a city of immigrants like no other and like any city, this one too has a large proportion of homeless. Our car is packed with bagged lunches: a deli sandwich with cold cuts and cheese, homemade brownies, packets of mustard, Mayo, salt, pepper and a napkin. Cases of cold lemonade are stacked in the back of the car. Stapled on the outside of the bags are bright red cards with the words Ma loves Me in English, and in Spanish Ma Me Ama. Jyoti, and myself in shotgun, or runner position travel downtown on Beverly Blvd. Driving slowly as other cars pass us in frustration we spot what looks like a large bundle of soiled clothes on a bus bench. Are you hungry I asked, as I approach a large black woman who seems to be napping under a large umbrella. Oh, child, the Lord sent you. I sure am. She takes the lunch and the drink and smiles. I notice a silver anklet around one ankle as it reflects the sun into my eyes. I say good-bye then run back to the car. We come over a bridge then duck down under it, where I leave a lunch near the head of a sleeping man who is tucked up under the beam of the bridge. As we come back up the ramp, a familiar figure is sleeping against a steel fence. His name is James. I marvel at the softness of his hands as we shake, then I realize he is probably younger than me, though he wear the years of the street on his face. We talk as friends, for he is always in this spot every month that we come by. Here and there on the way downtown we pull up short as a barely recognizable form takes shape on the curbside, behind a tree, coming out of an alleyway. They don’t take up space, and for the most part you have to look hard to notice them. I wonder about this and thank Ma for showing me how to serve her people. No where is my Ma more than on the streets of L.A.. Now we cross the Los Angeles Bridge and drop down into another world. Its gray and black with row after row of train tracks, warehouses, and fenced in overgrown vacant lots, banked up against the dry bed of the river. Pulling up against a fenced-in underpass, I toot the horn. Looking at this area beneath the tall expansion pre-war bridge one cant imagine that anyone could live here and yet, looking closer, I notice that the fence has been pried open enough for someone to slip in. Is anyone hungry I yell, hearing my voice echo under the structure. Peering into the darkness I spot a figure sleeping on a filthy mattress. I lower my voice as to not to wake him and leave a couple of lunches just inside the fence. When I straighten up and turn back towards the car, there is
beautiful black woman dressed in a turquoise skirt and a gold knit top. There is something surreal about this for not only didnt I hear her approaching, but as I move towards her I can smell her perfume and notice that her clothes have very little if any dirt on them. She has a beautiful smile as she accepts the food and takes two more portions for friends that are coming back. Thank you so much, and God bless you, she murmurs softly. I observe her maneuvering her way through the fence with the grace of a dancer, and watch as the darkness swallows her up. All is quiet, and yet not twenty feet away there is at least six to ten people who are living out a portion of their lives under a bridge. Moving along the river we stop under the next bridge. I know many live under this structure as I can see the makeshift tents and lean-tos. Would you like something to eat? I ask a man approaching me. He is tall and carries his pride on his strong upright shoulders. What do you have?, he asks simply. A deli sandwich and some cold soda. Ill get the others he says, taking one bag from me. Grandma, he shouts towards a grayish tent. More people come running as I hand out the bags of food. A very tall black woman in a kind of ceremonial head dress looks at me, speaking softly like a mother to a child she says: Youre a good man. Do you have a couple more for my two daughters? I give her two more and behind me is a young man with a smile that reveals only one tooth. Can I have one, and did you give the folks that live down there some? Hes pointing at the direction we had just come from. This is their community. I ask the tall woman about a woman called Jazz who is sometimes here. Shes gone today, but I suspect shell turn up soon. Oh, Ma I feel you moving around here, as I turn quickly to see a shadow go behind a pillar. I am in peace as I feel her moving through me, urging me to ask again if everyone has received a lunch. Wait for me, I hear behind me as we start to pull away. Here comes a man in his bare feet, walking over gravel and broken glass with the biggest smile on his face. I heard you, I smile back at him. Theres plenty to go around. We pull away and Im thinking about how to get warm clothes for this group for the upcoming winter. Cutting down Alameda and 4th, behind the warehouses of Little Tokyo I notice a figure far off walking, leaning into the buildings shadows. We park the car and I get out and wait for him. Are you hungry I asked holding the food out to him. He approaches me. A man, a boy really with thick eyebrows and a wiry form. His pants are way to big for him, as the belt appears to be wrapped around him twice. A thick extra large shirt is tucked in partially. Our hands touch for a moment, then he takes his right hand and gives me the blessing of Allah: fingers to his forehead and lips then to me. He hasnt said a word, but I feel his blessing like no others before him. I watch him tear open the bag and begin to eat the sandwich as he crosses the curb and continues his way up the road. He waves at us as we pull away, and we wave back. In this moment I am amazed and humbled by how God takes care of his poor. Their wishes are heard before they are even voiced, and he, searching them out in the alleys, under the bridges and tucked beneath the skyscrapers, provides. I feel that I will go on doing this forever, as each is fed, some names are given, somenot, but all are accounted for, as the Mother takes care of her own, and indeed these people mean more to her than anyone will ever know.
love your son……..Laxman Das