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Kondama Raju was happy indeed that this ‘grandson’ of his was called Sathya; for, he recollected the announcement in the Bhagavata Purana that, when Narayana was born on earth as Krishna, Brahma, the first of the Trinity, entered the divine presence and extolled the baby as Sathyasya Sathyam, Trisathyam, Sathyatmakam, Sathyaparam, Sathyavratam, Sathyanetram, and Sathyasya Yoni (The Truth of Truths, the Triple Truth, the Core of Truth, the Highest Truth, the Living Truth, the guide into Truth, and the Source of Truth). The grandfather had built for himself a ‘hermitage’, a small thatched hut besides the family home. Eashwaramma had to yield whenever her mother-in-law picked up the beauteous baby and carried him over to Kondama Raju. And Kondama Raju would ‘instal’ him in his puja and meditation room. “He never disturbed me in my prayers. His presence only helped to calm my mind and direct it to God,” the old man told me.

Women from neighbouring homes clustered around the captivating infant, cooing and caressing for hours. Very often, Eashwaramma would forget that some of these women belonged to castes that were ‘taboo’. Indeed, the baby’s hands reached out to these ‘mothers’, as if He wanted to leap into their arms; He would wail piteously, if He was not handed over to them; so, she was forced to suppress her qualms, whenever the child revealed that it did not have any. Dr. Jayalakshmi, serving in the Sathya Sai Hospital, Prasanthi Nilayam since twenty years, writes that she wished to know from Eashwaramma how charming Swami was, when He was a baby in arms. “I took with me a picture of Krishna drawn by a famous artist, depicting Him squatting beside a pot of butter and eating the contents. It was a big picture I had taken down from a calendar, on the wall of my room. Eashwaramma looked on it and said, ‘Yes! His face shone like this, like the Moon. He had the same, black, curly hair, His muscles were strong and well formed. His brows were different from Krishna’s. They met in the centre.’ Pointing to the jewels that Krishna wore, she heaved a sigh, ‘But, we were poor. We could not afford to give Him the jewels this child wears.’”

Subbamma, the wife of the Karnam, would pick the baby up and hug it to her breast. The baby gurgled in delight and she would carry Him off with her in triumph. Only one house lay between the home of the Rajus and that of the Karnam. The Karnam was of the Brahmin caste, to which, as custom dictated, all other castes paid ceremonial obeisance. He was the hereditary village accountant, in charge of land records and the collection of land tax on behalf of government. The Karnam along with the patel (also a Brahmin and hereditary authority over law and order) were the most powerful ‘dignitaries’ of the village. Subbamma was old and had no children of her own, and how could Eashwaramma’s compassionate heart say ‘no’ to her, when she wished to fondle Sathya? “This is a Brahmin child,” other women would twit, seeing the alacrity, with which Sathya let Himself be carried to her house. The more intuitive among the kinsmen, like Kondama Raju inferred that the child preferred the endearments of Subbamma, because theirs was a vegetarian household. Others, less sensitive, could only say that He delighted in crawling upon the wide, cool floors of that spacious, storeyed mansion! The child never burst into such spontaneous hilarity in His own home, as He did at Subbamma’s – and this inevitably led to Eashwaramma being called Devaki and Subbamma as Yashoda by the relatives of the astrologer. Eashwaramma, too, was delighted to see her baby the centre of everyone’s love and attention as He grew sweeter with every passing day.

There is an old devotee known as Shirdi Ma, for she was at Shirdi when Sai Baba was alive. She’s called Peddabottu, too, because of the impressive kumkum dot she wears on her brow. Shirdi Ma, in her reminiscence, says that she was always urging Eashwaramma to tell her a few miracles of Swami, when He was a child. Eashwaramma would parry the questions most of the time, saying that she never saw any or could not remember. But, one day, she revealed a profoundly moving experience, which she had kept secret for over thirty years, having been told not to speak of it.

“Swami was nine months old at the time,” Eashwaramma said, “I can remember the whole incident fresh and clear. I had just bathed and dressed Him, and applied on His eyes cooling collyrium – I applied vibhuti from the Shiva temple and a dot of kumkum from the Sathyamma temple on His brow. I put Him in the cradle, gave it a swing, and turned to the hearth, where the milk had come to the boil. Suddenly, I heard Him cry. I was surprised for, believe me, He had never cried, since birth, for any reason, hunger, or pain, or discomfort. I picked Him up and placed Him on my lap, He stopped the wail. I saw a halo of brilliant light all around Him, a circle of radiance surrounding Him. But, the light did not hurt me, it was so cool, though so bright and near, I sat still, lost in delight. It was there a long time, before it faded slowly away. I closed my eyes and probably lost awareness of everything around, until my mother-in-law came to me and I awoke. The child was apparently asleep. She asked me what had happened and I told her about the halo that I could see, even then, in clear outline. She put her finger on her lips and said, ‘Don’t tell anyone of this. They wouldn’t understand. They would spread all kinds of tales.’ I think she told grandfather, for he asked me about it later.”

Sathya, clothed in signs and wonders, performed the preliminary exercises of crawling on hands and knees, of hobbling uncertainly from one pair of outstretched elderly hands to another, of stepping over doorsills, of running few paces, of uttering the first, monosyllabic endearments.

His first, uncertain lisps seemed far sweeter to those, who heard them, than that of their own children.

Peddabottu was able to persuade Eashwaramma to relate a few tales of Swami’s childhood. One day, the two of them were busy at an indoor game of squares with seashells as pawns. Eashwaramma said, “You extol Him as Narayana and as Krishna. But, I found Him a special Krishna, who gave me a special kind of worry, for He was never like other boys. He never asked for any particular food or clothes. A bundle of clothes would be brought from Hindupur or Anantapur and one of the grown-ups, father or grandfather, would call the boys in the family, asking each one to choose for himself. But, Sathya always sat aloof, until the others had made their choice and then, He would take whatever was left behind, rejected by the others. He never seemed to have any desire or wish of His own, but His face would light up with a beam, when He saw the other children happy. When we asked Him what He wanted, a smile was the only reply. I would hug Him close and try to get Him to confide His wish to me. ‘Sathyam, tell me what You want. I will give it to You,’ I would say. ‘I do not need anything,’ was His only answer. ‘Whatever you give Me, I will accept. That is enough for Me. I will not choose.’” His utter ‘unconcernedness’ grieved her. “If only He would be choosier, more assertive,” she would pine, while the elders would comfort her with the assurance that such indifference would not last long!

Another grouse Eashwaramma had was the solemnity Sathya assumed, when He was inside the house. He was all laughter and fun outside the house, hopping, skipping, and jumping with the other children, playing on the bed of the Chitravati and singing bhajans for hours with them. But, when He was coaxed by her to get home, He would make Himself grave and heavy. “This was something I could not understand,” Eashwaramma said, “How were we different? What made Him so deeply sober and serious? I began at last to wonder, whether the label ‘Brahmagnyani’ the elders had stuck on him and which I had thought a mockery, was indeed a tribute after all.”

“Sathya had begun to attract the attention and admiration of everyone in the village and I began to fear the evil eye of envy and hatred. I tried to counteract it with the usual, symbolic rites of weeping, washing, and burning away the evil from Him. But, when He saw me busy at this, He would run off, saying, ‘What can anyone’s eyes do to Me?’” The reply, audacious and authoritative, evokes once again the age-old words of Krishna to His foster mother Yashoda. When reprimanded for putting a little sand into His mouth, the divine Child replied, “Do not believe mistakenly that I am a mere child, mischievous and mad!” When a stranger asked Krishna His name, He answered, “Which of My many names shall I tell you?” Sathya reminded Eashwaramma of Krishna many times a day, and she longed for Him to stay in this role all days and nights

Sathya, it was obvious, loved being outdoors, gazing at the hills, the stars, and the sky in silent happiness. But, as He grew older, playing out on the streets with other children, His predilections became a real problem, for in between hide and seek and blind man’s buff, every passing cow and buffalo had to receive a loving pat from His warm hand. The warning that they were vicious made no impression on Him. He would wail, when pulled away and had to be hauled and deposited before His mother.

The village urchins were a mischievous lot then, as now. They never can tolerate the extraordinary, whether it be in personal cleanliness, or clean speech and behaviour. Their favourite strategy to prune the unusual down to the common level is to tease and ridicule. Swinging a hen held upside down, kicking a dog to make it squeal, or twisting the tail of a bullock – they found these acts were certain to yield them the fun of making Sathya miserable. Eashwaramma threatened to spank them, but this only added to the entertainment. Nor was Sathya happy at the thought of their being punished. He never complained about what they did to Him, or revealed names. He seemed totally devoid of vengeance, or haste, or even dislike.

It became clear before long to Eashwaramma that Sathya was outstandingly bright. His arguments were invincible and His process of reasoning faster and straighter than that of any adult. His feelings delved deeper and lasted longer. His words were more soft and sweet than those of any child she knew. No wonder, He was soon named the ‘guru’ by the village. And, Eashwaramma was automatically identified as the mother of the guru, as someone special, and the women would bow reverently and touch her feet, when they chanced to meet her at the well, or at the temples of Sathyabhama or Gopalakrishna, Shiva or Hanuman.

Putting a child in the primary school was more out of a desire to keep Him safe, when outside the home, than out of eagerness to make Him learn. But, Sathya was creating problems. He gave away rugs and blankets to His classmates, who sat with chattering teeth when the days grew cold. Every hungry chum was brought home by Sathya, to be fed on milk and curd and cookies.

All too soon, Sathya was seven years old, ready for the elementary school at Bukkapatnam, three miles away. Eashwaramma was surprised, when the year rolled quickly by. It was only last Dasara it seemed, that He was being rocked in His cradle. Now, she had to dress Him in a neat, white shirt and knickers, apply vibhuti on His broad forehead with the deep-red kumkum dot between the thick eyebrows, pack His mid-day meal of sankati (rice and ragi flour, boiled together) and chutney, and watch Him sling the bag over His shoulder, calling out, “Ma, I’m off!” while she stood tearfully at the door.

A trek to Bukkapatnam meant long hours away from home. Sathya went to School at about half past eight in the morning, after a hurried breakfast and reached home only just before sunset. His cousins, who went to school with Him, resented His immaculate cleanliness; He stood high above the herd. They waited, until they crossed the borders of the village. Then, they fell on Him, while wading through the river-bed, and dragged Sathya along by the feet, until the clothes Eashwaramma had carefully washed and pressed were more crumpled and sodden than their own. Eashwaramma could never get Sathya to tell on the culprits. When dusk fell, Sathya sat in the light of oil lamps, flickering in the niches on the walls, narrating tales of school and the journey to and fro. Unlike other boys, however, He seldom spoke of the lessons He was taught. He spoke, instead, of what He taught the boys of His class and, amazingly, even the teachers, who ventured to teach Him. An excited bunch of children related the ‘lesson’ that was taught by Him to teacher Kondappa.

Kondappa was dictating notes, which every pupil had to take down in his exercise book; he found that Sathyanarayana Raju was the only boy, who did not. Naturally, he was incensed; he felt insulted. He asked Sathya, why He was refusing to follow the others. The reply he got was that the boy did not feel any need! He could answer questions on the subject, to which the notes were related. That was great provocation, Kondappa confessed to me, years later, when I met him at Anantapur. He narrated the events that ensued – the chair that stuck to him, the humiliation and hullabaloo. I had occasion to hear the story from Swami Himself and I amassed enough courage to tell Him that, being a teacher myself, I could not quite appreciate the tragedy that happened to the poor teacher. Baba said that, He had no intention to insult or injure. “It just happened, for the time had come to make a louder announcement that I was not just a human child.”

But, the story disturbed Eashwaramma and the Ratnakaram family very much.

Eashwaramma dragged Sathya out of the grain store, where He was, while His mischief was being related. “You will be forced to leave this school and You won’t be able to join any other,” she warned. “You will grow into a good-for-nothing clod, fit only to drive cattle!” She was filled with fear that the impertinence of her son would bring down the wrath of the people, among whom they lived. But, soon she heard that not only His school-mates, but even the teachers, including Kondappa, were lionising Him, in spite of, or perhaps precisely because of these very incidents. Kondappa even wove a garland of verses, adoring Sathya as a divine child and had it printed for distribution.

Then came the good news that Sathya was declared the best student at the examination, held at Penukonda for the children of the Taluk. The people of Bukkapatnam arranged a procession through the town, in honour of the prodigy. Eashwaramma was proud and delighted, but also a little afraid of the envy of others. When Sathya was brought home, she swung coconuts all around Him and broke them, and waved burning camphor before Him to avert the ‘evil eye’

Sathya never had a moment’s rest, at home or at school. There was always a cluster of boys at His heels, wherever He roamed, in the hills and valleys, or on the vast sand bed of Chitravati. When the children returned home and dispersed, each household was thrilled to hear the tales they told. One day, the story was of a big piece of candy that each of them had got from Sathya. On another day, He had transformed a dozen frogs into swallows that flew away from the basket, into which they had dropped them. One day, He taught them a song in praise of Panduranga, the deity at Pandharpur in Maharashtra state, and encouraged them to dance to the tune. Another day, He spoke of the underlings of heaven, who were there to obey His summons and carry out His orders.

The friends and neighbours of the Ratnakaram Rajus predicted that Sathya would be rusticated from school. The incident of the ‘chair’ was undoubtedly very ominous. When I heard of this for the first time, I was not surprised, for the Avatar cannot tolerate meaningless restrictions and tinsel teachings. It knows no horizon circumscribing it. The Gospel of Thomas has this to say of Jesus at School. “But, Jesus looked upon Zacchaeus the teacher and saith unto him, ‘Thou knowest not the Alpha, according to its nature. How canst thou teach others the Beta, thou hypocrite? First, if thou knowest it, teach the Alpha and then, will we believe thee concerning the Beta.’ Then, began He to confound the mouth of the teacher, concerning the first letter and he could not prevail to answer Him.” And Jesus elaborated the mystery, which the letter ‘A’ enfolds. (The Lord has declared in the Bhagavad Gita that He is the letter A of the alphabet.) He confounds Zacchaeus as Sathya often did, telling him, “Hear! O, Teacher! The ordinance of the first letter and pay heed to this, how that it hath lines and a middle mark, common to both, going apart, coming together, raised upon high, dancing, of three signs, like in kind, balanced, equal in measure.” Sathya spoke more softly and less enigmatically, and so, the Bukkapatnam teacher responded more reverentially.

Puttaparthi was Gokulam, for Sathya was there. The old name of the village had been Gollapalli, the Cowherd Hamlet. “It is this name that must have drawn Krishna to be born again on Earth. How else can I explain the strange things the boy did?” Eashwaramma asked me and related a story of His early years.

“It was one evening, during the Uttara monsoon. The sky grew dark and menacing.Venkappa was building a house, then and there was a large kiln of wet brick, waiting to be baked. The logs of wood were readied, but the fire could be lit only the next morning, for the day was inauspicious. Now, there would be a downpour and all those bricks reduced to a huge, misshapen mound of clay.

Something had to be done quickly. Luckily, there was a helpful neighbour. Cover the bricks with bundles of dry sugar cane leaves, he told Venkappa. Where were we to get that? He suggested a friend of his living on the eastern bank of the Chitravati, who could be persuaded to give these leaves. A long line of men, women, and children ran over the sands in desperate hurry. Swami, too, joined, the last in the line of volunteers. But, when He got to the middle of the river bed, He suddenly called out for everyone to stop. ‘Venkappa!’ He said. ‘Vanaradu!’ ‘The rains will not come.

And the clouds scattered, the day brightened, the threat was over! A few quiet words, a small palm silhouetted against the dark sky for a moment and up above, in far space, the wind, the clouds, and the rain obeyed! Everyone turned back home with no bundle of leaves, for they had the young Lord of the Elements in their midst.”

Eashwaramma concluded her story triumphantly and turned to watch my face with eager satisfaction. I did not disappoint her. “This Krishna has saved this Gokulam by lifting a single finger!” I said.

Sathya became the hero, who was admired and feared, loved (and suspected). Eashwaramma, too, was caught in the whirlpool of affection and amazement, suspense and caution. Often, she spent her days in prayer, seeking divine intervention to turn Sathya into just a normal, Puttaparthi boy, with perhaps a wee bit more intelligence and sense of direction. She could see in Him the potentials of a poet, a singer, a dancer, and a playwright, a director. She found that Sathya was attracting the ‘evil eye’, for she attributed all illness of His to His ability to demonstrate the impossible as possible. She protested vehemently, when her daughters spread the news that Sathya could dance even better, the very intricate item a child-artiste had demonstrated, during a drama performed in Bukkapatnam. But, she herself was so lost in Sathya’s skill that she wept aloud, witnessing His being ‘tortured’ in a play He took part in

The father simmered in silent helplessness over this amazing child of his, but it was Eashwaramma, who had to bear the brunt of Sathya’s vagaries. His crusading spirit was ever alert. He would not let any ill alone. The nine-year old Sathya was daring enough to write audacious limericks and lilts against – believe it or not? – the Hitlerian moustache, paraded by none other than the Karnam, the husband of His ‘foster mother’, Subbamma. Sathya taught His friends a parody to be sung before the man’s house, until that dignitary was forced to wipe the anaemic stubble off his face. Poor Eashwaramma had no need to explain to Subbamma that the boy was incorrigible, she transferred the task of putting some worldly wisdom in the boy’s head to Subbamma herself. But, Subbamma was only too glad that the
guru was busy teaching. She laughed the panic away from the head of Eashwaramma. “Let Him be what He is. He knows what is best!” she advised.

Very soon, Eashwaramma had to reprimand Sathya for hurting, through His poetic pricks, the sensitive skin of the seigniors of the village. Sathya made up a ten-line lampoon about the ingratitude meted out to the men, who toil in sun and rain to grow rice for the rich to revel in conspicuous luxury. When the lines were sung by the urchins, as they followed the cattle to the pastures, tempers were frayed and inquiries were set on foot. The elders wondered how the Ratnakara could host this spark of revolution in His little head. They suspected that some sinister force was working through Him; Subbamma asked Him to disclose who had composed the lines. They spoke of the iniquities of the caste system, as it had degenerated into a medium of agony for the toilers. Sathya however could not be cajoled into silence. He had come to condemn and correct. It was His world and He stuck to His rights. Eashwaramma and Subbamma had to wring their hands and wish Him well.

Another day, about noon, a liveried chauffeur set all the birds of the village screaming; he came striding along the crooked roads, in search of the ‘wonder boy’, who created Vibhuti. The boy was discovered at last, squatting on a veranda, relating stories to a band of chums. The children scuttled to save their skins, but Sathya stood His ground. The man wanted from Sathya a few grains of the miraculous ash, to cure the engine of his jeep, stranded on the road along the eastern bank of the river, leading to Anantapur Town from the jungles amidst the mountains. “The Saheb is waiting; he is very angry.” Sathya was led by the hefty intruder to the incapacitated vehicle. A few boys followed them. He saw the Saheb seated inside, triumphantly stroking the ears of a dead tiger. Sathya started with a “fie”. “This tiger did no harm to you. Why have you sought it out in the jungle, where it was bringing up three tender cubs and shot it dead? I willed the jeep to stop. Go back and collect the orphans, and present them to a zoo. And do not shoot and kill anymore, for sheer pleasure and pride. Take a camera instead; that will make you a greater hero. Go!” And, the engine purred and the driver took the vehicle back. Reprimanding a white man, an Englishman with a topee and gun, stopping his jeep and denying him what he asked – the father nearly fainted. He had frightening visions of policemen and lock-ups.

Sathya’s elder brother, Seshama Raju was the brain of the family. He had jogged triumphantly through all his exams, to earn the degree of Vidwan in Telugu language and literature. But, although the saint-poets of classical Telugu literature have written ecstatically on ‘Leela divine’, when it came to interpreting Sathya’s behaviour, Seshama Raju could only agree with his father’s conclusion that he was ‘possessed’ by a clever spirit from the nether worlds! In the thirties and forties of this century, pedagogy had, as the only instrument of instruction, the cane and the child psychology they knew imparted but one lesson, “Spare the rod, spoil the child.” Seshama Raju, who had finished a course in teacher-training and was appointed at the High School at Uravakonda, Serpent Hill, sixty miles away, took Sathya along with him, determined to extinguish the freaks of fantasy that marked Him out as
peculiarly problematic.

Questions

1. Which picture did Dr.Jayalakshmi show to Eashwaramma and ask about Swami’s childhood
miracles?

2. When it was about to rain on Venkappa’s under-construction house, what did Swami say?