With A Little Help From My Friends: Vaisakhi in Jackson, MS

The Golden Temple in Amritsar, Punjab, India

Prologue: A slightly different version of this piece will be running on my friend Rupinder Singh’s terrific blog, American Turban. As some extra preliminary info, Vaisakhi is a holiday celebrated in much of India. Historically, for Hindus and Buddhists it marked the beginning of a new year and the start of the harvest season. For Sikhs, it doubles as a celebration of the establishment of the Khalsa in 1699. The Khalsa is the initiated brotherhood (I say brotherhood, but it is a gender-neutral body) of Sikhs who observe several practices - called the 5 K’s, as each begins with the letter “k” in Punjabi: kesh (uncut hair), kanga (keeping a wooden comb on their person), kirpan (a sheathed blade), kachera (an undergarment that represents moral chastity), and the kara (a circular bracelet worn on the wrist, representing both God’s eternal nature and their own servitude to God).

Painting of the Khalsa, replete in their traditional navy and saffron garb.

 As a friend of (and now a certified advocate for) the Sikh community in the United States, I can say as a pure fact, bereft of any egoism, that I know far more about Sikhs and Sikhism than the average caucasian male. In the past four years, I became involved with the Sikh Coalition, a civil rights group dedicated to promoting and fighting for religious freedom. They were founded shortly after 9/11, when several instances of bias attacks against Sikhs took place. Their brown skin, beards, and turbans have frequently led unintelligent, bloodthirsty individuals to mistake them for Muslims.

Shortly after the horrific events of Oak Creek last August, where a white supremacist opened fire in a gurdwara (Sikh house of worship), a photo floated around that I ended up putting on my profile:

I mention this because on at least one occasion, when I have talked about my work with the Coalition, someone has said, “But the Sikhs are also not okay with violence against Muslims, right?” The answer is yes, followed (at least in my mind) with a “duh.”

Sikhism is a pluralistic system of belief. The founder of the Sikh faith, Guru Nanak, once said something to the effect that it is okay to be a Muslim, but to be a good Muslim, and that it is okay to be a Hindu, but to be a good Hindu. Here is a quote from Dr. Kazi Nurul Islam, in an article posted on the Sikh Chic website:

“To be a Sikh it is mandatory that he/she must respect and accept all other religions of the world and at the same time must protect, guard and allow the free-practice of the customs and rituals of others. The Guru Granth Sahib [Sikh religious scripture - ed.] teaches its followers to love all creation as God's own manifestation. Acceptance of all faiths, and interfaith tolerance and understanding are basic to the teachings of Guru Granth Sahib.

History of the Sikh tradition shows remarkable consistency in the pursuit of these ideals and in the defence of the right to free worship of peoples of all faiths.”

Guru Nanak (1469-1539)

Working with the Sikh Coalition since late 2009, I have worked as a media consultant, helping digitize and catalog a vast library of digital tapes, while also putting together a few videos for the Coalition’s YouTube page. In 2012, after almost going for it in 2011, I applied to the Coalition’s Advocate Academy program. Twelve of us gathered in Washington, DC for a week of training in learning how to engage political leaders, the media, and our communities to fight for the cause of civil rights. It is training I have happily taken with me into the real world, which in turn has made me a better citizen.

When Alexa and I were living in New York City, I made friends with a Sikh tabla player at our favorite Indian restaurant (and site of our first date), Taj Mahal. The friendship started with a passing utterance of “Sat sri akal” (a Sikh greeting, meaning “God is the ultimate truth”) from me as I put a five dollar bill in their tip jar. He smiled big and bowed as best he could while still playing a complex tin-tin-tal on his drum. On consequent visits, as we waited for our food, I would always face the musicians and get the nod/smile of recognition. I enjoyed the music, and I am certain he appreciated having a fan - who also happened to be a drummer.

In our travels (and we have been through eight states so far), we have seen Sikhs at the state history museum in Raleigh, North Carolina, on the street in Washington, DC, and - most unique of all - running a gas station on State Road 72 outside of Elberton, Georgia. If the utterance of “sat sri akal” evoked a smile in New York City, then one can easily imagine the stunned delight of hearing it in rural Georgia! Needless to say, it has proven to be an instant icebreaker and conversation starter in our encounters with Sikhs across the United States.

While traveling across the southern states, we realized that Vaisakhi was right around the corner, and that we would be passing through Mississippi just in time for the holiday. As luck would have it, one of the Sikh Coalition’s advocates from 2011, Arvinder Singh Kang, hailed from Mississippi and had been a presence in the Magnolia State’s sangat (congregation). Although he has since moved to Vancouver, he got me in touch with a friend of his, Amrik. We exchanged contact info and Amrik gave me the address for the gurdwara in Jackson. Alexa and I learned that on Vaisakhi, the gurdwara would host a program put on by the children of the sangat, with more formal Vaisakhi celebrations to take place the following Sunday.

We arrived early at the gurdwara, where a curious and amicable lady from the sangat named Sophia introduced herself to us. I told her that I worked with the Sikh Coalition, and that we were passing through the area in time for the holiday. Sophia ushered us into the langar hall (where community meals are given after worship), where we enjoyed some chai, pakoras, and halwa. Halfway through our tea, Sophia came up to me with an older man from the sangat and made introductions. She asked if I would be interested in briefly speaking after the children’s program. I said I would be more than happy to.

I don’t know how true this statistic is, but throughout my childhood, adolescence, and now adulthood, I have heard time and again that public speaking is the one thing people fear more than death or illness. Coming from a background that includes acting, speech team, mock trial, and (more recently) academic conference presentations, an impromptu five minute speech about the Sikh Coalition, its recent achievements, and primary directives - things I have committed to memory - is something I could happily do, and without much panic.

The service itself ranged from the adorable to the powerful. In the adorable category were several toddlers who recited the mul mantar, which are the opening verses from the Guru Granth Sahib, a plain statement of Sikh beliefs in only one God (known as Waheguru, or “wonderful teacher”) and God’s many qualities. (There is no place to really put this, so I’ll just inject this little fact here: Waheguru is a gender-neutral term, meaning God is without gender. Indeed, there was a passage quoted that morning during the service that referred to God as “both our mother and our father.”)

In the category of the purely powerful was a group of young teens leading the sangat in kirtan, or hymns of praise. With the lyrics projected on a screen in Punjabi, transliterated Punjabi, and an English translation (something, Amrik told me, that is now a simple computer program used in gurdwaras), I saw the words of the kirtan dealt with not having a fear of death, and that good Sikhs should be happy to lay down their lives in defense of justice. I had chills down my spine as I recalled memories of Oak Creek, how I learned about it after a Sunday without any news, seeing tearful Sikhs on newspapers that dreary Monday morning. For one to assert they are not afraid of death, viewed in that light, was an overwhelmingly profound and poignant moment.

I was also reminded of our advocacy training in DC last summer, when the Sikh Coalition’s legal director Amardeep Singh, on our final day, rhetorically asked us why the Coalition fights so hard for its cause. He answered with a picture of his two beautiful little boys, one of whom, as Amar had learned that morning via text message, had just learned how to tie his own patka (a headdress used on younger males before they don turbans). Pointing at the picture, with tears in his eyes that were all too contagious, Amar said, “That’s why!”, adding that he wanted his sons to grow up in a better world than he did, free from bullying, harassment, and profiling.

These kids - and there had to have been at least forty of them - are proud Sikhs, proud of their heritage, proud of their identities, and proud of their community. When the young girl spoke in English about the “visitors from New York,” calling me “Mr. Alex,” (and here I was thinking “Professor DiBlasi” had a bizarre ring to it!) I walked up to the podium feeling that the most powerful message of the morning had already been given, that the forty pairs of young eyes right in front of me were more than enough of a message that the Sikh community - even in a place where one might not expect to see Sikhs, in Mississippi - was alive and well, and that its future was more than certain.

Several days later, I have already forgotten what I said. It was a little bit about the Sikh Coalition’s work in legal and educational initiatives - including Manbeena Kaur’s successful push in Texas to have Sikhism included in social studies curricula dealing with religious studies - before talking about the advocacy program. I told them what we do as advocates before urging the community to get involved.

With my parting words, one of the young boys sitting near the front shouted, “BOLE SO NIHAL!” (“whoever utters the following phrase shall be fulfilled”) and the sangat erupted with a collective, “SAT! SRI! AKAL!”, and this time it was me who was left beaming in stunned delight.

The Sikh Coalition 2012 Advocates:
Front row, L to R: Deepak Ahluwalia (TX), Poonam Singh (NY), Harleen Kaur (MI), Jusleen Sodhi (OH), Harjit Kaur (CA), Simranjit Gill (CA)
Back row, L to R: Winty Singh (CA), me, Shawn Tucker (GA), Parwaz Sra (CA), Ranjanpreet Nagra (CA), Lori Way (IN)

Baby You're A Rich Man: Charleston, SC

With its prim palmettos and old money mentality, Charleston is a city clinging to the antebellum world for dear life. Its Civil War wounds are still as fresh as the day the battles ended, which leaves the average tourist with a slightly awkward feeling. And while its memorials are less apologetic than we might like, Charleston remains one of the last, authentic time capsules of the Old South. It has some of the most stunning architecture and flora in the United States. Below is a photo essay, depicting our visit to Charleston. Enjoy!

The home of 7th U.S. Vice President John C. Calhoun. His mansion is still the largest home in Charleston.

A fancy way of saying "Get the hell out of here!"

Circular Congregational Church in downtown Charleston.

We went on a nighttime ghost tour. This alley used to hold duels and bullet holes can still be found in the bricks. I SWEAR that orb in the back is a ghost!

This Town Is A Sealed Tuna Sandwich: Myrtle Beach, SC

We arrived in Myrtle Beach, eager to fall into the rat trap of vacationing families and students celebrating spring break in a town where everyone, even the most conservative housewife, is off their leash, downing their second strawberry daiquiri and swallowing mountains of fudge until they drop into a diabetic coma. Shocking for its lack of culture and scruples, Myrtle Beach is a place that is as vulgar as it is excessive, Atlantic City minus gambling but with a moral code only existing in the American South.

Our first impression was a sign dictating we had arrived in Myrtle Beach, hometown of Vanna White, America’s silent bimbo. It’s hard to believe a town of 27,000 hasn’t produced someone more noteworthy. But then again, maybe not.

Along with an exorbitant number of outrageous miniature golf locations that spit simulated fire and port-o-potty blue water as you drive past, strip clubs freckle Kings Highway, the town’s main artery, artfully named things like “Secrets”. Ditch the kids, tell your wife you’re going golfing, and come here for a lap dance from a 19-year-old with fake tits and platinum extensions. She’ll never know! You are, after all, footing the bill for this family getaway. You deserve some fun, too!

Myrtle Beach is filled with activities for families where the parents hate their children, mini golf, laser tag, bowling. While the kids scream and chase each other in a soda-and-pizza fueled frenzy, the parents sit back and complain about how they just wish they hadn’t had “that last one,” avoiding their names as though they don’t exist if but for a brief hour.

Every place in Myrtle Beach is aching to take you somewhere else: Hawaiian Rumble Golf, Texas Steakhouse, Cancun Lagoon, New York Deli, Japanese Hibachi. They want you to forget that you’re seven feet deep in a pit and transport you somewhere else. When a town has no discernible culture of its own, the “culture” must be imported. Tourists lap up the ability to circle the world in a single weekend. It’s the closest they’ll ever get to some of those places, not for the lack of funds but instead for their own aversions to adventure. Leaving their resort in Myrtle Beach to check out the local shopping is enough for them.

Other than hundreds of fast food joints, the only places to dine are all-you-can-eat seafood buffets where lines of vacationers form to stack their plates and fill their gullets with crab legs and other assorted items for $24.99. Every aisle is clogged by a mother, pausing to ask her ten-year-old child if they want each item. “Do you want this? Do you want this?” The kid only ever wants chicken fingers and french fries, not oysters Rockefeller. Probably should have just gone to McDonald’s. It would have been way cheaper.

Besides roasting by the seaside, the only other activity in Myrtle Beach is shopping, available at one of the areas five massive malls. Two such complexes, Broadway at the Beach and Barefoot Landing, are situated on docks across what used to be swamps and forestry. Natural habitats for local wildlife have been replaced by Joe’s Crab Shack and Senor Frogs, habitats for a different kind of beast. Every store sells the exact same thing, t-shirts, baseball hats, shot glasses, and Christmas ornaments, all etched with “Myrtle Beach”. An employee at a store that sold Def Leppard t-shirts accidentally let it slip that stores in such complexes are required to sell at least a few items that say “Myrtle Beach” on them. Another store that falsely advertised as selling vintage items and antiques instead sold t-shirts with pro-gun, anti-Obama messages on them, (One Big-Ass Mistake America). When we saw one that joked about rape by a police officer, we scrambled for the door, holding back dry heaves.

The people congregating in these malls are worthy of a zoo exhibit. We saw a woman so red she could have been choking and resembling a stewed tomato more than a human female, plopped on a bench, chain smoking and laughing. A gang of bikers watched as one of their own slithered on a mechanical bull, cheering with each slow gyration and clapping when she finally collapsed into the plush pit. Co-eds on spring break flitted from bar to bar in tutus, plastic tiaras, and lensless horn-rimmed glasses, mouthing the words to “I Want It That Way” and sucking neon green liquor from oversized syringes. They don’t mind that every man old enough to be their father is ogling them as they pass, fantasizing about what they look like beneath the tutu. It’s why they came, and why they’re wearing the tutu in the first place.

The waterways surrounding the outdoor shopping malls are filled with hundreds of enormous catfish, fed by tourists from the dock pellets purchased in a kiosk for 25 cents and the occasional loogie and cigarette butt. The animals swarm the docks, swollen, their mouths puckering as they lunge for specks of food. Even the gesture of a fist over the water, regardless of whether or not it holds food, causes them to stir.

The fish are no different than the people, crowding the docks, begging to be fed and entertained. And God forbid someone should intervene. On a trip to Myrtle Beach in 2004, Alex’s brother Eric made a joke to him about how funny it would be to pop a girl’s balloon with a cigar, a move from The Three Stooges. Her bald, squat grandfather heard the aside and threatened to kick his ass. No one interrupts a Myrtle Beach vacation dad’s good time.

With the spring breakers bellowing Weezer’s “Say It Ain’t So,” humping the air with each syllable of the chorus, we abandoned the over-pomped truck stop that is Myrtle Beach, stopping to feed the catfish one last handful of food.

The Seeker: The Meher Spiritual Center, North Myrtle Beach, SC

Meher Baba, 1894-1969

“God exists. If you are convinced of God’s existence, then it rests with you to seek Him, to see Him, and to realize Him. Do not search for God outside of you. God can only be found within you, for His only abode is the heart.” – Meher Baba

As a precursor, it deserves mention that religion has always been a very private subject for both of us. We were respectively raised in Protestant and Jewish households, and the precepts, philosophies, and practices never gelled with us, despite having a baptism and a bat mitzvah. For Alexa, she did not like the idea of paying an annual membership for a synagogue. She found it to be a social club born out of materialism and half-hearted practices. As a proud feminist, she also took (and still takes) a lot of issue with the treatment of women in the more conservative sects of Judaism.

For me, I found the Christianity that was taught to me in my youth was served with a side of fire and brimstone. It is worth interjecting that this skewed, fear-oriented view was not from my parents, but by a series of whack-job Sunday school teachers and a few weeks at church camps throughout my childhood. We were taught the art of “apologetics,” the notion of being able to argue in favor of Christianity in what we were told would be a Godless world. And yet, with most of the United States having a church on every corner, with chicken patties being used to let the world know that you’re not a fan of the gays, and the continued existence of political figures whose philosophy of the world was last updated in the Bronze Age, I keep wondering just where in America is there this Godless society?

The last thing I’ll go into (at least for now – you’ll have to wait for the book to get more) is that most – and I say “most” because there are exceptions to this rule – Christian thought teaches that it is creeds, not deeds, that grants one access to the Kingdom of Heaven. All one needs to do is recognize that Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah, and that he died for mankind’s sins. With that logic, think of all the vile figures throughout history who could have had a deathbed conversion: Hitler, Stalin, Attila the Hun, Pol Pot, Mr. Hooper from Sesame Street – all of these people, despite living lives driven by hatred, bloodlust, and greed, would be in Heaven.

Now, for people who lived good lives but simply were not followers of Jesus, consider these names: Mahatma Gandhi, Golda Meir, Confucius, Lao Tzu, and the Buddha. By the logic adopted by fundamentalist Christian thought, these people are in Hell. This never sat well with me, and hopefully not for you, either. As a kid, when I asked what would happen to people living in the bush of the Kalahari, I was assured that they would be saved…because “they didn’t learn about Jesus.”

Again, there are many exceptions. My dad has said many times he finds Jesus to be, as he says, “a way, but not the way.” A friend of mine who has extensively studied Orthodox Christianity has said all are saved by God’s grace. However, in my experience, most of the people around me stuck to very strict and conservative views regarding salvation. They were good Christians who went to church every Sunday, but spent the rest of the week on their asses, doing nothing to make their corner of the world a better place, but because of their simple profession of faith, were saved.

I left Christianity in 2006, with a few skeptical “you’ll be back” remarks from people, and I can only hope they have stopped tapping their toes and glancing at their watches, because it’s getting late and there are mosquitoes out. I’m lucky to have parents who are understanding and appreciative of my search for Truth. I cannot imagine what it is like for people who do not have that level of support. In the time since then, Alexa and I have both investigated and read about other religions and belief systems, from the different sects of Judaism to the Baha’i Faith to Sikhism, and it is with the umbrella of Hindu thought (and it is a big umbrella) that we have both found a philosophical view of the world that we both like.

My interest in Meher Baba, like I am sure is the case for at least a small segment of people, came by way of Pete Townshend. In the late 1960’s, Townshend developed a deeply spiritual side, abandoning the psychedelic temptations of the period and injecting Baba’s philosophies into his songwriting. Baba’s influence helped inspire Tommy, where the deaf, mute, and blind title character represents mankind: blind and deaf towards God-consciousness, and consequently unable to express themselves. Upon the shattering of a mirror, itself an image of vanity and egoism, Tommy becomes aware. Naturally, like many messianic figures of the past, Tommy ends up rejected and forsaken by his own followers.

For the indirect influence on Tommy, Baba is credited in the album’s sleeve as “Avatar.” I have no doubt that this small nod led more inquisitive minds in 1969 to discover more about this fellow with a strange name, a name that two years later would partially comprise the title of “Baba O’Riley.” (The latter half is a wink to Terry Riley, whose piece A Rainbow In Curved Air inspired the synthesized ostinatos that make up the song’s intro.)

It certainly brought me to him, and, if you’ll beg our indulgence (as individuals who, until now, have kept discussions of religion limited to interested and/or like-minded people), we loved what we found, and find his ideas interesting enough to share with our audience.

Baba, with the symbols of (clockwise, from the top) Zoroastrianism, Islam, Judaism, Christianity, Buddhism, and Hinduism surrounding him.

Meher Baba, born Merwan Sheriar Irani in 1894, grew up in a Zoroastrian family, attended a Christian school, and studied under both Sufi and Hindu mystics. This religious training from a number of different backgrounds inspired Baba’s divine message. His early followers called him Meher Baba, which means “compassionate father.” At a time where the caste system was still a powerful force in Indian society, Baba opened a school that welcomed people of all backgrounds. His championing of equality among caste, religion, race, and even sexuality in 1920’s India was remarkably progressive. Baba eventually declared himself to be the Avatar – or earthly manifestation of God – of the modern era, a lineage that included Zoroaster, Moses, Jesus, Krishna, Rama, Mohammed, and the Buddha.

It cannot be stressed enough – he even says it twice in his Universal Message – that Baba did not declare the foundation of a new religion. In fact, the direct quote follows:

“I have come not to teach but to awaken. Understand, therefore, that I lay down no precepts.”

Baba taught a philosophy of love, stating many times throughout his speeches, screeds, and lessons that love is the key to finding God. Loving your enemy is one of Jesus’ most powerful (and yet oft-overlooked) teachings, while the concept of recognizing the presence of God in everyone is regarded as one of the keys to breaking the cycle of rebirth in Hinduism, Jainism, and Sikhism. Looking at your worst enemy – be it a personal enemy, a political figure, or even a coke-addled celebrity making the headlines yet again – and acknowledging that there still exists in them, however much they cloak it, the same divine presence that dwells within you and your loved ones, is a Sisyphean task. However, that is the challenge: love everyone, with no exceptions.

Baba also gave us this proverb, not Bobby McFerrin.

Baba proposed this philosophy as one that is compatible with all systems of thought, with his own ideas merely highlighting the precepts of other religions. Because of his philosophy being easily adaptable for different religions, I find him very similar to the Buddha. Although the Buddha’s philosophy has since had an “ism” affixed to it, I still have yet to encounter a Buddhist who does not quickly state that their belief is not a religion, but a philosophy, one that can exist with or without the acknowledgment of a god-figure.

In his travels, Baba wished to establish a base of operations in the West. He had several requirements for an ideal spiritual center: a pleasant year-round climate, near both fresh and salty waters (there is a gorgeous lake on the premises), virgin soil, sustainable land, and that the land should be given from the heart. After a few efforts to obtain land in California, Baba’s American devotees were able to secure a patch of land in Myrtle Beach.

In the time since the founding of the Meher Spiritual Center in 1952, Myrtle Beach has become a cesspool. It is a melded shit-pot of food, family-friendly entertainment with the occasional strip club, and goods that solely exist to say that not only did you go to Myrtle Beach, you have a t-shirt, golf visor, pair of flip-flops, and thong underwear to prove it! One boutique we stumbled upon at Barefoot Landing that specialized in Eastern religious items sold – don’t laugh – statues of Ganesh and Buddha with MYRTLE BEACH, SC emblazoned across the base. (They also sold bongs, too, so take from that what you will.)

The state of Myrtle Beach, as a sort of Redneck Riviera, only serves to make the continued existence of the Baba Center a powerful testament to both his message and his legacy. Nestled between a Wal-Mart and a housing development, just down the road from a resort that boasts being a “plantation” (a word that conjures up a very different image for us Yanks), and across the street from a massive shopping mall with a Hooters in the parking lot, the Baba Center is a 500-acre haven away from the sensory overload and neon decadence that litters Myrtle Beach’s main drag.

First-time visitors receive a guided tour. Our group was all people within our age bracket, mostly college students, and our tour guide Ambika had been a devotee of Baba since 1989 – as long as Alexa has been alive. Noting my necklace, which features a picture of Shiva in meditation, the three of us talked about Hinduism for a few minutes near the lake. Ambika was her adopted name, one of the many names attributed to Parvati, Shiva’s consort. Ambika means “dear mother,” a fitting name for our guide.

We had an interesting moment when Ambika introduced us to the groundskeeper. At one point, when Ambika mentioned again that Baba’s philosophy could work for anyone of any faith, the groundskeeper (unfortunately, his name eluded us at the time of this writing) added, “Or no faith at all,” adding that what makes Baba so great is his teachings in and of themselves do not make up a religion. Ambika then said, “At least we hope it stays that way.”

Most followers of a philosophical or religious leader seek to elevate that individual to religious figurehead status as soon as they have passed away. This is most likely what happened to Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, a reformer of the Hindu faith whose philosophy spawned an “ism,” one frequently regarded as an independent religion rather than an intricate web of philosophies and guides for good living. It was refreshing to see that despite Baba’s charisma, even 44 years after his passing, the people most dedicated to preserving his legacy do not want to see his teaching become an “ism.”

At the Center’s library, we thumbed through a massive book of photographs of Baba throughout his life. We saw a very kind and loving man, warmly embracing and feeding lepers, smiling with groups of followers, and playing with animals, including his dog Cracker, baby lambs, and a capuchin monkey.

Another striking feature about Baba, something the librarian pointed out as well, was his seemingly shifting affect. En route to France, the mustachioed Baba, wearing a beret, looked like a Frenchman. In a photo taken while fasting in India, Baba looked like an emaciated holy man. Wearing an all-white suit among the likes of Tallulah Bankhead in Hollywood, with his mane of long hair, Baba looked like a handsome film star. These photographs served as proof of sorts of his universal appeal, in that he could almost miraculously match with his surroundings.

Baba in Hollywood in 1932, with Tallulah Bankhead.

As Ambika parted ways with us with a round of hugs, Alexa bid her a “Jai Baba,” the greeting shared among Baba’s devotees, while she told me, “Say hello to Shiva for me.” Walking to the barn where Baba gave many of his lectures, Alexa and I both felt a presence, something not entirely tangible, but something that followed us out to the beach, back through the center, and even stuck with us as we pulled out onto North Kings Highway and once more gazed upon the Hooters.

Baba in the 1920's.

“I have come to sow the seed of love in your hearts, so that, in spite of all superficial diversity, which your life in illusion must experience and endure, the feeling of Oneness through love is brought about amongst all nations, creeds, sects, and castes of the world.” – Meher Baba

The Meher Spiritual Center online.

Sheriar Books, just up Kings Highway from the Center.

Meher Baba's Wikipedia page.

Meher Baba's Discourses.

My review of Pete Townshend's Baba-centric solo album, Who Came First, at Woman Around Town.