radhasoami. 187
figure 8
Seated on a platform raised high above a giant canopied area at Beas,
Maharaj Charan Singh reads mail from followers worldwide while
devotees assemble below to take his darshan. Photo by John Hawley.
The people around me were transfixed, overwhelmed by the presence of the Satguru
who to a satsangiis God made flesh, divine made human. This was darshan, “viewing,”
in its most intense form. There were tears of emotion running down the cheek of the
middle-aged man sitting next to me, merging with drops of saliva dribbling out of the
corner of his mouth, and I had the distinct feeling that my neighbors were visually
feasting on Maharajji’s face. Meanwhile, there was movement on the stage as a frail old
Sikh appeared and sat on one side, where a second microphone had been strategically
placed. Untying the knots of a bundle wrapped in a red muslin, he took out a thick
tome—the Adi Granth—and peered nearsightedly at the pages, which he riffled
through rapidly till he came to the page he was looking for. Replacing the open book
on the book rack in front and crossing his arms across his chest, the old panthi settled
back, slowly rocking on his haunches as he too waited for the darshan to end.
Maharajji cleared his throat, a rasping sound instantaneously amplified into a
thunderous rumble by the loudspeakers, and as if he were only awaiting this signal,
the panthi started singing a poem by Guru Amar Das from the Adi Granth. His
voice was indescribably appealing, full of wise tranquillity and spirited longing at
the same time, both old and childlike at once, melodious and yet somehow also con-
veying that it was unmindful of such criteria as timbre and melody. He sang a short