The Deluge of Love

Thursday, 24 March 2011 21:14

Written by Florencia Yael Matusovsky De Volder

The rain fell so hard on the fields that you couldn’t see anything in front of you: a sudden storm that catches you without an umbrella, nowhere to hide and watch it go by. Torrential rain. My light blue raincoat was drenched within seconds and my boots covered in mud. The wind howled and the waving trees shed their leaves. Hundreds of people were standing in the open air, nowhere to hide from the storm — one of the most ferocious I've ever seen.

It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life. I must have been only five or six.

It was one of two times I went to Buenos Aires to see Maharaji speak: one a sunny day and one stormy. Both took place during the 90s, although a few years apart. I've wondered about the exact time that it happened — which time it rained and how old I was then.

I'm a journalist now, and the most important questions have become what, when, where and how. My memories, however, are intertwined so inextricably with one another that I cannot say which came first, the chicken or the egg. I guess it isn't so important. All I remember clearly is that on both occasions the sun shone brightly — though in one the rain was so strong you could no longer see its light.

When you are a child, dates are unimportant — every day is a new day and it has the same value: a new day to play, have fun, smile and enjoy. That day was like that. That day everyone seemed ageless. They were smiling and laughing, whether caught in the rain or out in the sunshine.

I had come with my parents and, during the daytime, I played with other children under a huge white marquee. In the evening all the people gathered to hear him speak, tuning their purple radios to the same frequency. A lovely voice translated Maharaji's words and everyone listened quietly.

Back then I already liked listening to him. Some may say that I was too little to understand it… but you do not need to be old to understand. It’s normally older people that need to remember the happiness of youth.

I still remember the white wicker chair just centimeters away from the audience. We didn’t need big screens to see him back then. It was the first time that I got to see him in person, although I had known of him for quite a while.

At home there were loads of his videos — at times I would watch them with my mom and dad. I remember that he told beautiful stories. Even though he spoke English in the videos, I felt that I understood him perfectly.

In his presence the same feelings rush over me. Maharaji channels something incredibly magical that imbues me with happiness. Like that childhood happiness. I am 24 now, and I still smile and feel the same way during events as I did that time in Buenos Aires, in Escobar’s plot of land. Like that time in La Tierra del Amor.

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