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Winter 2007 / Reader Submission    I was in Jaffna, Sri Lanka in
1974, and it was a very hot day. I was sitting at Bawa
Muhaiyaddeen’s bedside. He was very old, and his Ashram was made
up his bed with a variety of animals—goats, peacocks, dogs, cats
and a deer Bawa would sing and pray. Bawa’s day consisted mostly
of sitting on his bed was respected as a living saint, people
attributed many happenings in their lives to him—both good and
bad.  One day a fellow came in shaking with rage and hatred. He
pulled out a short machete, the kind that one uses to cut
bamboo. I understood that some tragedy had befallen his family,
and he was blaming Bawa. I was close to him, close enough that I
could have sucker-punched him.  was to watch and not engage.
Bawa attributed all beauty, goodness, wonder nature of
consciousness as the pathway to human realization.  Now he
opened his arms fully wide, h