(Note: A "mast" is one who is God-Intoxicated according to the traditions of Hindu-Sufi religions. They wander about aimlessly unaware of the physical world around them, immersed in a sense of the panoramic presence of God. This story is a take-off on a book, "The Wayfarers", about Meher Baba and his mast ashram.
A quote from the book, "Wayfarers" (under "Types of Mast"):
"A jalali mast is always hot-tempered, abusive to others, and talks at random. He is restless, and beats those who come near him. He is almost always dressed in rags, and lives in an environment of filth and squalor. By day, he roams hither and thither, and at night, although he rarely sleeps, he lies down usually in a particular place. When awake, he prefers to recline in a half lying posture, and occasionally rests his head on one hand. He has a habit of constantly moving his fingers and toes to and fro, has a passion for tea, and is moderately fond of tobacco. He never asks for gifts except tea and tobacco. If given clothes, money and so forth, he at once throws them away; and although he will accept food when hungry, he may throw it away if not hungry. He is happy in crowded streets and bazaars, and sometimes enjoys the company of dogs. The presence of small children annoys him.
"A jamali mast is always mild-tempered and he never abuses or beats others. He often speaks in riddles, and often at random. At night, he almost always remains in a particular place, and by day rarely moves about, doing so when absolutely necessary. When a jamali mast sits down, he prefers to be on something raised from the ground, so that his legs dangle. He typically moves his fingers and hands most of the time, and occasionally makes signs with one or other of his fingers on the ground, on some convenient part of his body such as his thigh, or on any object to hand. He has a passion for tobacco, and is moderately fond of tea. He never asks for anything from anyone except tea and tobacco, but if given anything he keeps it. His favorite environment is a room, and he loves music."
These are just a few of the different types of mast. They are rather eclectic people with odd idiosyncrasies. They are considered to be holy men in India, though in this country they would undoubtedly be categorized as "catatonic" or "schizophrenic". The mast described here has some characteristics of both of the types described above.)
Far away in the remote recesses of space a single meteorite the size of a pebble travels on a rather important message from God in the Grand Central Processing Unit of the Universe. It is steadily heading towards a particular blue and green planet upon which resides some sapient bipeds with delusions of grandeur.
Mohammed Ali is working in a field near his home. It has been a long day and his wife and seven children are expecting him home any hour now. He picks and picks at innumerable weeds with his rusty hoe. No matter how many he kills off, even more pop up in their place the next day. It all seems so futile.
"O Allah, have mercy on me!" he wails up at the sky, as if praying for succorance would release him from this endless physical labor he is stuck in. "Verily, this world must be the Depths of Hell!"
Suddenly, the little meteorite knocks him right between the eyes. Mohammed Ali is dazed by this sudden intrusion from the heavens. He cries in pain, holding his forehead which is bleeding slightly. He is not a bit afraid as if the heavens opened up and answered his prayer/curse. He hopes he didn't bring the wrath of Allah upon him.
He sits down feeling somewhat dizzy. The landscape looks very odd all around him. He sees shades of brilliant bluish- purple surrounding the weeds; they look like the most lovely exotic flowers he has ever seen, and he wonders how he could have borne to kill them. He hears choruses of angels singing inside his head. They are singing about the Unity of All. Tingling Light fills his body, which feels like a New Body. Has he suddenly been transported to Paradise?
"Oh Allah! This is so beautiful! Verily, All You have created is so wonderful!" he whispers in awe.
Mohammed Ali drops his hoe and leaps away doing cartwheels across the field. He has become a mast without a ship. It happens.
(His wife goes off and marries the merchant she had been seeing on the side. She always thought Mohammed Ali was a ne'erdowell anyway.)
Mohammed Ali goes off and wanders for hundreds of miles on foot. He goes from village to village living on hand- outs. He does not sleep or eat very much. Every day he gazes at the sunrise and sunsets in utter amazement. His vision plunges into the vastness of the stars at night. A single flower entrances him for hours. He is not sure what has happened to him, but it sure is nice. He sees the Meaning of All.
"Allah be praised!" he whispers to himself over and over. "Allah is All-ah!" he repeats in ecstasy.
He finds a certain village in the high mountains which attracts him. It somehow has the right vibes to it. He decides to hang out there. He plops himself down on a remote crossroads and stays there. Days become months and months become years. Villagers consider themselves lucky to have an enlightened man like him there and bring him food, tea, and cigarettes. They bow down to him, hoping his influence will lead them into a better lifetime such as being born into America. He either accepts their gifts or throws them away according to his whims. Masts are weird and unpredictable.
An American journalist comes to visit him. He is doing an article on holy people in India. He is hoping he will sell it to Rolling Stone magazine, but if he can't, he'll try something like New Age Magazine. He has heard of this Mohammed Ali guy a couple of villages down the road, so he figures why not?
The American is shocked to see a rather filthy disreputable looking creature sitting down at a crossroads from which he has not moved in years. It doesn't appear that he has bathed or changed his clothes in that long either. He stinks of shit and urine; apparently, he doesn't even get up to take care of primal body functions. He makes the obligatory bows of obeisance to this character, repressing his urge to just turn and run. The first thing Mohammed Ali says to him:
"Hey, richie rich American! You got any American dollars?"
He gives him a ten dollar bill. Mohammed Ali immediately proceeds to sneeze into it like a handkerchief. Next he asks:
"I bet you got cigarettes. You wanna give me cigarettes?"
Apparently this was part of the ritual. He gives him a pack of Winstons.
Mohammed Ali luxuriously lights up a Winston. "Ah, very good. Winstons taste good like a cigarette should. Very good American cigarettes.
"Hey, I like that camera! Very nice camera you have! May I look at it?"
The journalist hands it to him. Mohammed Ali examines it from all sides admiring it, then suddenly smashes it in front of him.
"You...." the American represses what he wants to say. "I want you to know that camera is worth a lot of American dollars."
"You mean you can exchange it for lots of hankies?" Mohammed Ali laughs. "Or maybe you can wipe ass with it?"
"You goddamned fucker!"
"Careful, careful what you say around me. I holy man, you know. Look at this," he points at remains of camera in front of him. "Metal. Very pretty metal. So beautiful!" He gazes at it like a baby seeing the blue sky for the first time.
Oh well, he has insurance to cover the camera. This might be an interesting story. He surreptitiously turns on his tape recorder for the interview. No way he was going to give him that.
"That's not going to do you much good, but you can try. What you come all this way for, American?"
"Well, I'd kind of like to know what it's like for you. What's it like to be an enlightened man (which the journalist highly doubted) and know the meaning of life?"
Mohammed Ali doesn't answer, but starts digging around in the ground in front of him. Finally, he pulls out a crystalline pebble and held it to the sun. "Look at this, American, that's meaning of life. That's God, man!" The journalist could see nothing very spectacular about it.
Then he pulls out a piece of dung he finds. "Aha! This is God, too, American." The journalist was coming to the conclusion this guy is clinically insane; he'd probably be locked up in more advanced countries.
"See this, American?" He points to what is obviously an erection between his legs under his loincloth. "That is God!"
Then he points at a lovely veiled Indian woman passing by. "That's God, too!" He bursts out into boisterous laughter. The journalist notices he has hardly any teeth left in his mouth.
Jesus, he couldn't take this to some new age magazine! They'd shit in their pants over this! This did not fit their image of the clean yogi with the immaculate lifestyle at all!
"Awww, too much for you, eh? Let me show you something." Mohammed Ali points a finger at the American between the eyes. The journalist suddenly experiences an electrical shock between his eyes and feels like he has momentarily imbibed a hit of L.S.D. He runs around screaming as if blinded. The whole world and his very identity seems unreal to him.
"Bang! Bang! Got you, American! I think you not ready for this stuff, pal. You better cover something more worldly now like rock stars and horse shows."
Now the journalist does give in to his original impulse to run. Later on, upon playing back his recording to verify what he'd heard, he just hears a lot of white noise with mysterious spacy choruses of celestial voices in the background. He starts wondering if he hallucinated the whole thing. Later, he decides to get out of journalism and becomes a plumber, joining some kind of weekend Zen group on the side.
Mohammed Ali remains where he is. He has no incentive to move anywhere else but where he is, because where he is is everywhere. He can see the whole universe in a single grain of sand. Without going into a library, he knows all the knowledge in all the books that had ever been written or ever will be written.
Yet something is still missing. Although he is surrounded by the Glories of God, he yearns to be God. It is like standing on a high cliff and gazing down into a Vast Abyss. He simply cannot get himself to make the Leap, because to make the Leap, he has to leave the last vestiges of his ego behind. Somebody has to come along and give him a push.
One day, he is visited by a rather peculiar man who has sought him out. This man observes silence for reasons of his own and communicates by gestures or on an alphabet board. He has a knowing gleam in his eyes and when Mohammed Ali looks into them, he realizes he has met his match. Here is someone who knows even more than he does. He weeps.
Pointing to letters on the alphabet board, the man communicates to him:
"You have become submerged in a Great River to which all streams flow. I can show you the Way to a Vast Infinite Ocean into which all Great Rivers flow."
They spend the night communicating without words things that cannot be put into words. By dawn, Mohammed Ali no longer has an ego. He is One.
The man bathes him for the first time in ten years and feeds him and takes care of his needs, then guides him to a special ashram where there are other lost masts like him. Mohammed Ali meekly comes along like sheep to the slaughterhouse.
He realizes he has a special mission to the human species on another level of being. He must be like a Sun that imparts the Light of Wisdom. It is for this reason the man found him. It is often a painful task, due to the ignorance of the human species, but someone has to do it.
Meher Baba wanders throughout India collecting masts...
It is all for his special Mast Circus...
Short masts, tall masts, fat masts, skinny masts, clean masts, filthy masts...
Anything for the Show...
And to the masts...
It doesn't matter at all...
To the masts...
It is All One.