Who knows, perhaps Amma had blessed each and every article on the stalls. Teddy bears, incense, tawdry over-priced saris, dreadful carvings of gods and goddesses, bottles of olive oil from Amma’s organic farm in Spain, lavender bags and handknitted socks, jewellery, scarves and suchlike were reverently fingered by the largely Spanish crowd. The sports pit, designed for indoor basketball and other games, was festive with bunting, sound systems, video screens and banners and heaving with shoppers eager to part with their euros. The Palau d’ Esports was enormous, seating 4-5,000, and filled up so quickly that soon it became difficult to move around. France is far more manicured and picturesque, whereas Granollers and its environs was a dispiriting little town thrown together with functional apartment blocks and dusty streets that brought eastern Europe to mind. Going over to the industrialized part of northern Spain from France is always a shock. Several other persons of my acquaintance were also driving there sensible people for the most part, but who keep photos of ever-smiling Amma in their living rooms, and I wanted to discover what the fuss was about. Not that I was seeking to be convinced by the cuddly Amma’s supernatural powers, but simply out of vulgar curiosity and for entertainment Sundays in French Catalan villages can be tedious.
Last Christmas, some friends- old timers of energy hugs- were driving from the French side of the Pyrenees to a suburb of Barcelona, in order to ensure their annual fix, and I decided to tag along. “Never let me go…” “30 seconds is all I give. After a lot more hanging about (I waited 6 and a half hours) comes the ultimate prize: a fleeting encounter with the female avatar of Krishna- some say Kali- from Kerala, Mata Sri Amritanandamayi. Next, they are chivvied by harassed looking volunteers in the direction of the sacred arena. High-spirited hopefuls, pursuing spiritual rather than retail therapy, snake around several blocks until they arrive at the stadium doors where they are handed a pink numbered ticket (mine was J10). Amma’s darshaners are innocent of any sense of irony when they queue for hours, starting their dawn vigils in the manner of a Harrods New Year Sale. (I‘ve made up the term “darshaner”, derived from Darshan which means taking a blessing in person from a superior Being- though it can be used snidely, visiting a self-important friend, “Hello, hello, we’ve come to take your darshan”).
Forget the Maharishi and his relatively modest assets these days galaxies of avatars in the form of Gurus, Babas and Mas (mothers) protected by their vast entourages circle the globe (First Class naturally), generously supporting and comforting the emotionally hungry, from Japan and Brazil to France and Austria.Īmma the “hugging guru” can easily fill stadiums and sports halls with her darshaners and darshanees.
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