Mouni Baba of Khamakya: The Forest Dweller

On the forested hills far from the city crowds I spy a saffron flag fluttering on a bamboo pole tied high up a tree. I knew this marked a yogi's dwelling in the thick forest. I revved my Bajaj Chetak up the mountain road leading to the Khamakya Temple. I moved around the temple like a zombie. The filth and stench of dried blood mixed with smell of fresh flowers and incense didn't affect me. I meditated in the open hall way near the main altar un-disturbed by the evening crowds. When I came out of my reverie it was already pitch dark as the Sun sets early in Assam. I wandered aimlessly around the temple just following the crowd. Then a sharp tingling sensation inside my brain surely a call.
I walked swiftly to my scooter and rode further up the hill. I slowed down and stopped next to a narrow and steep footpath leading down into the forest. I stood there hesitating a bit is it ok. A chill ran down my spine and a sudden jerk. I didn't care any more, no fear touched me. I rushed down the footpath in the dark. The tree crickets had reached a feverish pitch. I walked about half an hour  in the dark forest . Just then a flicker of  light and a movement in the distance. I had reached a point of no return. The safety of my scooter was far up hill. There was only a prayer in my heart.
I had reached an alcove in front of a mountain cave. There sat a master and a few chellas in silence. They had brought flowers and fruits and incense sticks as offering. I felt ashamed as I had come empty handed.
The master beckoned me to sit, his eyes glimmering bright in the light of a hurricane lantern. I tried to gauge the age of this forest master but could not fix anything definite. He was well built and had Nepali features. I offered pranam by falling fully on the ground as was the custom in South India. That is when the deep silence of the encounter touched me.
The master gestured to me to sit and poured chai into an old tea cup. He tenderly offered me the chai with a deep love. I had felt this simple love only with my maternal grandmother. This triggered such strong emotions that I was almost in tears. I tried to speak but no words came from my lips. It was just a song from the heart.
I looked at my companions. A rich North Indian from the trading community in pant and shirt. The other four were simple village folk two men and women. The trader was the first to address me he said, 'This is Mouni Baba'. No further talks were needed just a soul communion.
Next week I returned to the same spot when it was still bright in the late afternoon. I carried fruits as an offering for the master. He welcomed like an old friend and made me sit on a stone in front of his cave. He moved his hand like a plane and pointed to me. I was dumb struck he was telling me that I was a pilot! That's when I let go all interpretations of his jesters or facial expressions only to hear the clear voice of the silence. It was a dissection of my spiritual efforts. The struggles and pitfalls that had been my life. It was a clear mirror reflecting my soul. I was ashamed and scared to face the reality. The warm presence consoled me. I had been lost in my dream when the master tapped my arm and offered me a cup of hot chai. It was already dark and my familiar group had joined in.
The master never spoke for he was the Mouni Baba of the Khamakya Hill. I did visit many more times to dance in the song of silence that never failed to touch the soul.