Vis­it­ing an old age home on a spe­cial occasion has been a prac­tice in­stilled in me by my mother ever since I was a teenager. She in­sisted that any joy­ous occasion must be cel­e­brated with mem­bers of the nearby old age home first, be­fore cel­e­brat­ing it with friends. It was dur­ing one of my birth­day vis­its that I met Babaji in the old age home. A tall and a fit gen­tle­man, wear­ing a crisp, white cot­ton kurta-py­jama with a flow­ing white beard and a neat tur­ban, he stood with folded hands when I met him for the first time. Since I was a reg­u­lar, my eyes never missed out a new face. But his face couldn’t have been missed be­cause he looked...