Just Like You
by Chris Mohr
Personal Recollections By Sat Chit Ananda
No one has ever touched my life more deeply than Papaji. I have read other accounts of meetings with Papaji, and each one is different. Here is one more to add to the collection.
I was born in 1953 into a Catholic family. By the time I took my First Communion, I was regularly having visions of the Holy Spirit, a presence of inutterable peace Who appeared to me as a cleansing white light, bringing deep quiet into my heart, especially while receiving the Eucharist. For years I assumed that everyone was having these kinds of experiences in church. My grandfather and I used to go to church together every morning while I was visiting him; he was definitely having such experiences and more. He was an obstetrician who was locally famous for his healing abilities, never losing a baby, and even healing cancer by simply moving in with a terminal patient at the hospital where he worked and keeping quiet vigil for weeks on end until the cancer went away.
When I was thirteen, a kid threw some peas against the wall in our junior high school cafeteria. The principal of the school came in, yelled at all of us, and randomly singled out one of my best friends to humiliate in front of the other 300 students. It was a relatively minor event, but I realized that there was no appealing this injustice, and even more, that everything people were saying and doing around me was a complete lie. That night, I thought, then I must find the truth, no matter how long it takes, no matter what I have to do, no matter what I have to give up. I heard a voice say, "If you want the truth, you'll have to give up your parents." I said OK almost immediately. The next night the voice said, "If you want the truth, you'll have to give up everything you're learning in school." I hesitated for a while, but after a few days, I said, OK. A week later the voice said, "If you want the truth, you'll have to give up your country." I agonized over this one for a month, for I believed in America very strongly. Finally I said OK. The voice returned. "If you want the truth, you'll have to give up God." I broke into a cold sweat, worrying that this voice might be the voice of Satan. How could I possibly give up God? I agonized for six months over this, and finally decided my desire for truth was supreme. One night, as I was falling asleep, I said OK one final time. I knew in that moment that I would find the truth somehow, someway, someday. I was certain of two things: the truth existed, and when I saw it I would recognize it. I was pretty sure I would be extremely happy when I found it, but I said even if the truth is miserable and horrifying, that's OK as long as I find it. I was also pretty sure the truth would be unbelievably simple, but again I said, if the truth is unimaginably complex, so be it. Whatever it is, it is.
The next day a girl at my junior high school who liked to read spiritual books asked me, "Who Are You?" "I'm Chris Mohr, you know that." "Yes, but who are you really? Are you your body? Are you your thoughts? Are you your emotions? Who are you?" She explained in more detail that she discovered she is like the layers of an onion. Strip away the layers of personality and the body and in the middle you get... nothing. This was very depressing to her. I dismissed the entire line of inquiry and went on with my life.
I spent a lot of time alone in the woods behind my house, walking or sitting quietly. One day I was overwhelmed with the realization that I had never been happy. From the forest I heard a voice inviting me to stay right here, not to move at all, for the happiness I seek is right here. I interpreted that to mean that I would have to literally live in the woods, freezing every winter, etc., so my terror got the better of me and I quickly went back home. But I started wondering, what would happiness look like? Is anyone happy? Such a person would surely be perfect? What is a perfect person? I asked my friend, and she had no idea. I asked a lot of people, for years thereafter, have you ever met a perfect person? Would such a person have zits? Would they be happy? Peaceful? Smart? Can such a person exist? This line of questioning brought me a fair amount of ridicule and among my more serious friends an admission that they had never met such a person and have no idea what it would be like to meet such a person.
By the time I was seventeen I had become a pacifist anarchist and an atheist. The "giving up everything" had occurred just as the voice said, but I was miserable. I got politically active but never found any peace there. At the age of eighteen, I had a vast vision of countless millions of souls joined by love as one. It was to be the first of many visions I would have for the rest of my life. I also entered Primal Therapy, sensing that clearing out childhood wounds would make me more open to receive the truth. I would ask my therapists if they thought I could find the truth in this way, and every one of them saw my desire for truth as a kind of sickness I had to heal. I would always say, no, I'm neurotic and I admit it, but this is different.
In the meantime, I also took up mountain hiking, and on the hundreds of solo hikes to various summits, I would often have visionary experiences. Typically they were what different religions would describe as their "supreme" experiences. Jesus would come to me and offer me a place in the Kingdom of Heaven, and I would say no thank you. An eagle would soar over my head, and suddenly I would fly as him, seeing through his super-sharp eyes and becoming his consciousness. I would see meta-forms, like the pentacle, and feel their powers. The Virgin Mary would appear to me and teach me humility and love when I got too arrogant. One time I was inquiring about form and formlessness as I walked and Swami Muktananda said: "Let me show you how beautiful forms can be." I saw this magnificent blue-purple gem, out of which flowed all the other forms of the universe. I later found out that this was the Blue Pearl, which his disciples were told was the goal of all their meditations.
All of these experiences were great, and I am grateful for them to this day. But I noticed that no matter how shattering and magnificent the visions, I always returned from my hikes and fell right back into suffering. Nothing seemed to touch that. And for some mysterious reason, I always ultimately said No to all of them. The No was not a rejection of the grace or the experience, but an inability to fully embrace any of these experiences as the final Truth I so deeply yearned for. By 1993, the visions had become so easy to attain and so magnificent and seemingly so worthless, that I fell into deep despair. My wife and I were having troubles in our marriage, but I was even more upset with the realization that every experience I had ever had, every vision, every revelation, all was filtered through my own needs and distortions. My mantra had always been to trust only my own experience and eventually it would get me to the truth, but by this time I realized that every experience had a huge filter over it, and there was no way I could put this filter aside and behold the unvarnished truth.
I had reluctantly visited one guru in my life for a single evening, but in general I was convinced that the guru scene was one of total psychological dependency and sickness, a selling out of one's power and discernment, and in most cases a breeding ground of corruption. So it was with extreme skepticism that I listened to my wife's glowing accounts of her first meetings with Gangaji in the late summer of 1993. One day, I was driving with her to Boulder from our home an hour away in south Denver. My plan was to drop Karen off and visit a friend, but my plans fell through, so grumbling and complaining I went in to see Gangaji. When she walked in the door I felt even more contempt as I watched people look at her with such "undeserved" love. I had to admit the meditation time was one of deep quiet, and as she started to talk that day my jaw just dropped. For the first time, I felt I was in the presence of one who embodied truth. I came back the next day, canceling everything, just to make sure that I was really experiencing what I thought I was experiencing. I had the same experience the next day, a deep, joyous Yes resounding through me. I raised my hand and told her, "I have been dreaming about you since I was a teenager. I see in you the truth I have always been looking for." She smiled, said "Welcome," and looked me with such love that I almost died in my seat. I could not bear that look.
On the third day of satsang with Gangaji, I got very interested in the pictures of the two men that always surrounded her. On that day she also talked about death and meeting death, and I was shaken to my core. In spite of my occasional volunteer work at nursing homes, hospices and hospitals I had always avoided the fact of my own mortality. This terror of death took over my entire consciousness. That night I had a dream about Papaji, whom I knew only as a picture in Gangaji's satsangs. He appeared as a tiger, licking his lips gleefully and preparing to eat me as he joyously chased me through the streets. I ran in terror. When I told Gangaji about this dream, she held up the picture of Papaji and said, "Here is your tiger." She explained that he was her master and in that moment I recognized that he was my master as well. I wondered about going all the way to India, a country I had less than no interest in visiting. I didn't have much money and I knew it would create an even greater strain on my marriage. But almost immediately I got a letter from United Airlines telling me I had accumulated enough Frequent Flyer miles over the years to fly anywhere in the world for free. I took it as a sign and booked a flight to India for March 1994, six months ahead.
Things got white-hot by that time. Every night I'd wake up about 2 am and hold a picture of Ramana in my hands. Burning tears would stream down my face and I'd go back to bed around 4am. One time, Ramana said, "My child, every attachment is but a container for suffering." There was this realization that everything I wanted to hold onto was going to be swept away by this force called Death, and that there was no way out of suffering except through total surrender to Death itself.
On another occasion Papaji appeared to me and said, "Don't wait to come to India! Wake up right now!" Then Ramana began to appear in the form he took in his last days on earth, his body ravaged by cancer. At first I woke up almost screaming in terror as he approached my in that deeply diseased state. Finally, one day, he approached me, cancer and all, and I was able not to flee, and he said, "Come. Rest with me." A deep peace fell over me for a while, but the terror of death returned, and before long I was back in my nightly crying sessions,
Fear of physical death was a big part of this burning, but alongside it was a deepening into the realization that every experience I ever had was "tainted" by me. My needs, my bravado, my visions, my fears. "I" could never find the truth, no matter how much I wanted it, because "I" was there to sort through, filter and distort every experience that came my way. Because Papaji was visiting me almost nightly in my dreams, I was able to fall into a deep trust I had never known before. Because I trusted him, it was possible to fall even deeper into this despair. Without Papaji's presence that despair would have been unbearable, and I would have spent the rest of my life devising more strategies to avoid it.
Gangaji was enormously helpful during this period and was very happy to hear that I would be seeing Papaji soon. I was having her help in the waking state, and the help of Papaji and Ramana in the sleeping state. As the time neared to travel to India to see him, I realized I was such a mass of suffering and ego, I could not bear to be in his presence at all. I considered canceling the trip, but instead, I decided to visit Gangaji one last time. In the spring of 1994, I flew to Kathmandu first, where Gangaji was holding satsangs. There I saw the burning ghats for the first time, and the sight and smell of burning corpses brought my terror of death to an even greater intensity. One night Papaji came to me again in a dream, and he was looking very sick. "I will be leaving my body soon, but I will see you first." I told Gangaji about this dream, and as she read my letter I was engulfed in absolute despair. I have no idea what she said that day. Other members of the sangha helped me back to my hotel room and held a quiet vigil by me as I wept bitterly for seven hours. Everything: my life, my ego, my hopes, my visions, all of it collapsed into this bleak, terrible black hole of utter despair. It was the end of experience as I had ever known it, an implosion of ego. Whenever any resistance came up I thought of Gangaji, of Papaji, of Ramana, and this deep trust guided me deeper and deeper into this profound hopelessness. Sometime around midnight, the crying stopped. There were no visions, no choirs of angels. Just a stopping like I had never known. The next day I told Gangaji about it and called it a field of love, but even that didn't ring true. It really was nothing at all. Normal sensations continued, but thoughts were processed almost unconsciously, like breathing, the heartbeat, and other automatic functions of the body. There were no desires but no joy either. No misery but no peace. It was time to see Papaji.
A few days later I was at Papaji's feet for the first time, and I spoke of this emptiness, this quiet. He took off his glasses, looked at me and said, "Yes, I am very happy." A smile broke out over his face. That smile filled all of consciousness. Love was pouring itself into the emptiness. No visions, no angels, no cosmic experiences to report, just the truth of Love itself pouring itself into Love. Finally I could say yes. This empty vessel was filled in an instant, then overflowing with this Love, and I knew in that moment that Papaji was my eternal Master. With that single glance the entire purpose of my life was fulfilled. I am always deeply grateful to Gangaji for her support and help, and even more grateful for the way she kept pointing me to Papaji. She knew who my Master was and pushed me out the door to see him for myself. It's so mysterious, for Gangaji did so much to strip away the deceit, the lies, the machinations of ego, and yet in that one moment with Papaji, all the Love and gratitude and devotion poured towards him for the rest of my life.
It's impossible to describe my subsequent meetings with Papaji. Suffering definitely returned into my life, and fairly quickly. For a while I denied this, and my wife found my arrogance to be insufferable. In a dream I asked Papaji if I should leave my wife and move to Lucknow, and he looked at me very sternly and said, "You are not to move one inch from your present life!" Not long after that, there was a breakdown of the unrealistic expectations of what marriage was supposed to "give" me, and as Karen has said, "I don't know what Papaji did for him, but he sure is easier to live with."
A month after that, Papaji appeared in yet another dream, with a wry grin on his face. "Chris, why didn't you ever ask for a name when you were with me?" "I don't know," I replied. "It seemed unnecessary and it didn't have much to do with the real reason I came to see you." "Then I must force a name on you," he said and wrote out the word Sat Chit Ananda (Truth-Awareness-Bliss) on a piece of paper. I held it skeptically and asked, "Isn;t that the name of some famous swami?" "So you think that because some guru has that name that you are not Sat Chit Ananda?" He laughed hysterically and vanished. I had been through enough humiliation and ego deflation not to trust this dream, and I told no one about it, not even Karen, for ten months. When I returned to see Papaji in 1995, I recounted the dream in a letter and asked him, "What was the meaning of this dream. I am afraid of arrogance so I have not talked about this dream to anyone." His answer completely confused me. At first he said, no one can have the name of Sat Chit Ananda, for that which is Sat Chit Ananda cannot know its own name. Then he said, "This name I have given you, you have earned over many lifetimes. As for the arrogance, do not worry, for the cyclone will come and blow the arrogance off your plate, and the pigs will be very happy to eat it."
That day, I was quietly eating my lunch, when a German guy came over and said, "You know that Papaji did not give you the name of Sat Chit Ananda because he did not write the name on a piece of paper and hand it to you." "That's one interpretation I've considered," I said. Angrily, he retorted"No, it is not an interpretation, it is a fact!" Then he stormed out. A woman came over and said, "That was wonderful how Papaji gave you the name Sat Chit Ananda.." "I'm not sure if he did or not," I replied. And so it went for several days. "You're the guy who named yourself Sat Chit Ananda," another woman snapped. "Of course he gave you the name," another guy said. "It's a great honor to be given that name. He's never given that name out to anyone else before." Finally someone said, "You should ask him if your name is Sat Chit Ananda." "I already have," I replied, "And his answer was a lot better than a simple yes or no."
In the meantime, I kept attending satsangs. I always had a strong preference for the satsangs where Papaji answered the questions posed to him by people in their letters. I hated it when musicians would take over for the whole day, which often happened. One day, in deep disappointment, I sat through yet another day of singing and dancing girls. But one ten-year-old girl, whom I had met with her mother before, was dancing and throwing flowers. She didn't seem to care much one way or another about Papaji, and I didn't like her all that much. But when she tossed a bunch of flower petals onto Papaji rather absentmindedly, I fell deeply into Love and sensed that this Love was about to annihilate me. At the end of the dancing Papaji walked by me without even looking at me, but in that moment I felt a huge electrical current run through me, bottom to top, out my fingers as well as the top of my head. I started going into uncontrollable seizures. It felt as if lightning bolts were running up my body and shooting out of me. I thought, "Oh my God, this is going to kill me." But the last thought I had was, "This is happening in Master's presence. Trust Papaji." The experiences I had had with Primal Therapy in past years may have helped me allow me to surrender to my body going completely out of control. The trust of Papaji was even more helpful. In that moment the whole universe collapsed. People around me said my body went limp. I had no sensations, no me, no love, no experience, not even empty space. It was a kind of nothingness no mind could possibly describe. After maybe fifteen minutes, the first thought returned. "I..." and the universe reorganized itself... "have to return some pictures to my friend." It was like a kind of Big Bang where all the universe reconstituted itself so "I" could return pictures to "my friend." I did that, then sat in awe and speechless stupefication until the next day's satsang. I felt like there was nothing left to do but just die into this emptiness. And there was Papaji, dispensing humorous marital advice to a couple, laughing, freely giving his love to all of us, scolding some of us. This, from a person who lives in this profound no-mind I was given a chance to visit for a short time! I could not possibly put together these two events, and it forever remains a mystery to me.
As I was heading to satsang on one of my last days there that year, a rickshaw driver plowed into my bike and threw me into the ditch. I landed in the gravel and straight into a very large pile of fresh cowshit. I came to satsang covered in shit and got help from another member of the sangha. I had to go to the doctor's office to clean my wounds and get antibiotics. It was a nightmare, fresh cuts being exposed to Indian cowshit after I had been so careful to boil my water and avoid infection at all cost! To my great disappointment, the next day's satsang was canceled due to a wedding Papaji was speaking at. I endured all the Hindu rituals, choked on the indoor fires that were burning for the ceremony, and was generally feeling sad to be leaving my beloved Papaji. Suddenly Papaji interrupted the ritual and said: "I must talk to Sat Chit Ananda before he leaves." He interrupted the ceremony a second time and said the same thing ten minutes later. Other devotees assured me I was there and would see him after the ceremony. I went into the back room afterwards, having no idea what to expect. "You are going back to Boulder soon?" "Yes Master, I leave tonight." "Here, give this package to Kamal the next time you see him." That was it! All the drama around the name was resolved in that moment. The bestowal of names is not about any of us personally, but to be in a roomful of people with names that point us all to peace, to truth, to happiness, to freedom, to the sweetness of the Self... this is powerful indeed.
I went home and continued to have dreams and visions where Papaji came to visit me. The most dramatic was in 1996. I had planned another trip to see him that March, but our business was going bankrupt and Karen and I were trying to start up a new one. Almost at the last minute, I had to cancel, realizing there was no way I could leave Karen alone to try to cope with our failing business at that time. As I was driving my car and weeping, realizing I would not get to see Papaji that year, I noticed someone was sitting in the car next to me. It was Papaji. He was wearing his seat belt and shoulder strap! "Sat Chit Ananda, where do you think I am?" Then he burst out laughing and disappeared just as the light turned green.
In March 1997, our new wedding chapel business was doing well, and I was able fly to Lucknow to see Papaji for one last time. A relative was suffering from cancer, which brought back another round of Fear of Death. I asked him about in a letter: "When I die, where will I go? When you die, where will you go? Who are you? Who am I?" To answer the last questions he took off his glasses, looked at me and said, "What do you understand when I tell you that I am That?" After a pause, he said, "You must ask yourself the question Who Am I, and with a name like Sat Chit Ananda, it should not be difficult to get the answer." I went asked and asked, then near the end of my visit I suddenly got giddy. I Am That! I Am That! I laughed and giggled, and wrote him a letter telling him of this experience. "So, do you have any questions now?" "No, Master, no questions." "Mind is questioning. For you to have no questions means you must be in no-mind, and this I doubt. You must ask and ask and ask until no mind remains. Mind is doubt." Then he sent me back to my seat.
I was shattered, confused. That afternoon he saw me walking on the street and invited me into his van. We rode around together with a couple other devotees from his house for two hours. When we went back to his house he said, "So are you staying or leaving?" I thought he was asking if I was leaving for Colorado and I said, "Yes, I am, leaving on Tuesday." "Lots of pretty girls in Colorado, yes?" And he laughed.
For the next week or so I visited his house every day. Eighty people would pack into his living room every evening for dinner. Lines of people would approach him, bow and take their places. Almost every time I approached him, he would not let me bow. On several occasions he invited me to sit at his table. The first time this happened I was gripped with terror. Sitting beside him, I realized that his mind did not exist. At all. Not just quiet. No mind. I was in both awe and terror of that presence. I also literally felt that if he chose to, he could take one look at me and physically kill me. There was no movement on his part towards such a demonstration of his powers, but the fact the such a power seemed to exist there shook me to my core.
On my last full day in Lucknow, Papaji was too sick to host satsang. He had a temperature of 104 degrees. I was burning with another kind of fever and went to his house. In a letter I said, "Beloved Master Papaji, Yes, I am going back to Denver soon, and there will be lots of pretty brides there asking me to marry them to the pretty boys they have found. But there is one question I must ask you. Will you always be there so I may lay all of my questions at your feet, wherever you or I may be located?" Sick though he was, he gave me a huge smile and said. "Yes." Knowing he would probably not allow me to bow before him, I kissed his forehead, he smiled, and I sat down. A few minutes later, as he was preparing to leave, he fell unconscious. Two devotees caught him, and began to pretty much carry him to his bedroom. He laughed and laughed, and I was pretty sure I would never see him alive again.
In the late summer of 1997, Princess Diana died in a car crash. I was never interested in her life, but her death touched me deeply. At that time I was hosting satsang in the Federal prisons. John Sherman was still serving time in Florence Colorado. I came in and he said, "How are you?" I lied and said "Fine." Suddenly the picture of Papaji I was setting up flew out of my hands and shattered onto the floor. That night I dreamed that Papaji was in a black car, the one that Diana had just died in. The next night I dreamed I went to India and could not find him at all. I panicked, and told Karen I wanted to cancel everything and go to Lucknow. I got a call from a friend who said Papaji was dying the day I was trying to get plane tickets. That Saturday, at five minutes to noon, I checked my voice mail and found out Papaji had died. At noon I was scheduled to officiate at a wedding. I was crying uncontrollably in my office, and I thought, "I can't do this! Papaji, help me!" I composed myself just enough to walk out there, still certain I would break down completely during the wedding. I forced myself to look up at the bride who was walking down the aisle, but instead of the bride, I saw Papaji, radiantly smiling, walking down the aisle in a gorgeous white wedding dress. I gasped. He looked at me and said "Don't give rise to a single thought." At first I thought, I can't do this, I'll destroy this wedding, then the last thought I had was, Trust Papaji. Everything went blank, much like it did in Lucknow but this time without the dramatic seizures. The next thing I remembered, the father of the groom was warmly shaking my hand, telling me it was the most beautiful wedding he had ever seen!
The grief poured out of me for two years. I was in tears almost every day. Once, Papaji appeared to me in a vision and said, "My dear Sat Chit Ananda, do you miss my body? I don't miss my body!" And he gave me that inimitable laugh. It was true. His body was no fun to be in those last couple years; it's as if he stayed a little longer in answer to our begging him not to go.
I had many, many more visions with him, but the grief was very slow in passing. Others in the sangha were much more blissful about Papaji, but after two years, slowly and gradually, I began to feel myself resting in His heart more and more.
I used to have a certain contempt for people who wasted their time asking Papaji trivial questions. So I avoided asking him about anything but the most "important" things, like Who Am I. I took a certain pride in this until 2001, when I had a very vivid dream of Karen and I riding bicycles together. A car ran over one of us. It wasn't clear who it ran over, but in the dream I could hear the bones crunching under the car. I knew it was a premonition, not just a scary dream, and I got very quiet and said, "I choose not to experience this fate. Papaji, help me." I saw His face, radiant in its love, and knew all would be well. The next day, Karen and I were riding our bikes when a car ran a stoplight and missed Karen by an inch. She was swearing like a longshoreman, and tears of joy were streaming down my face. "What are you so happy about?" she snapped. I told her about the dream and she wasn't mad anymore. I learned from that experience that I had been holding back my "personal" life from this gift, keeping it apart from Papaji by never inviting him into my day-to-day concerns.
I could go on and on telling stories about Papaji. I have never met anyone like him. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed. No one has ever humbled me in quite the same way as Papaji, and no one has ever brought my mind to a stop except Papaji. Sitting in satsang with him, it was as if a tractor beam locked onto my mind and brought it to a screeching halt.
Suffering and ego attachments are not gone, but the gift of Papaji's grace continues to make the suffering more and more transparent. It's just not possible to believe that suffering is the monolithic, unchanging condition of my life. Suffering arises and it's time for surrender, time to get quiet, again and again. Every day I thank Papaji for ever having walked this earth. When ego and suffering return, I know it is because I have turned my gaze away from Him. Again and again, I fall short of the grace he offers me. I say that because for all the shattering power of the experience of seeing him, and for all the dramatic preparation that occurred before that meeting, there was not a total collapse of the ego into no-mind. I often experience suffering as proof of my unworthiness to ever have even seen Papaji. But he opened his doors and welcomed in a lot of unworthy people, so the question of worthiness dissolves in his embrace. I know that whatever the condition of my ego, when I am loving Him a peace comes over me, and the flailings of ego and the evaluations of my worthiness are like flecks of dust floating through the vast cosmos.
People who share my former belief that gurus create psychological dependency and the like have asked me what it means to have a guru. I have seen Papaji tell people which kind of camera to buy, because that is what they asked him. And so the dependency issues certainly come up, in me and in many other people. But the guru's true gift to me is twofold. First, when I realized that everything I experience is through the veil of ego, some force guided me at that moment to the presence of a person who was free of ego. I had to borrow Papaji's eyes to see the truth, because frankly, I was blind. The realization that everything I experience is veiled by ego is the greatest truth I could possibly experience on my own. Discovering that I could no more trust my own experience than the experience of other people, that it was all one giant veil, was profoundly humbling. In the presence of Papaji, it was possible to trust utterly a presence that I could see was completely clear of egoic distortions, and see as he sees, a stillness that surpasses all experience and understanding.
Secondly, Papaji has taught me Love. I cannot stop this Love. It pours out of me into the emptiness of his being every day. No matter what is going on, in or out of suffering, free of or gripped by fear, I am loving Papaji. I can't stop. This love fills my heart with gratitude. Papaji tells me to Keep Quiet, and if my mind just won't abide by that command, at least my heart can be given over to this love. The more I love him, the more I love all, the more I am touched by the vast peace that is him, who is my own heart.
I can't say that I was able to fully receive the gift Papaji offered me. I can't begin to understand it. But nothing will ever be the same again. If the Mystery surpasses my understanding, I am left only with loving the Mystery that is Papaji.
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