One of my earliest memories of Meherabad is of Baba flying a kite. I was perhaps five years old. Baba was still talking, and what you could see of Meherabad was mainly the old military barracks and water tank.

Whenever Mother and I came from Poona to be with Baba, we would get down from the train at Ahmednagar station and come by “tonga” (horse carriage) to Meherabad. As soon as we reached there, I would jump down and run off to find Baba. Seeing Him, I would race as fast as I could with my little legs to get to Him. Baba would pick me up, hug me, and play with me.

At the time of this story, when we arrived at Meherabad, I looked and looked for Baba but couldn’t find Him. At last I saw Him way in the distance, standing in the wide open grounds of Meherabad, His beautiful hair and white sadra flowing in the wind.

Baba was flying a kite. The only person around Him was Padri, standing a little behind Baba, holding the “firkee” (a long wooden reel on which kite string is wound). The firkee was revolving incredibly fast between Padri’s hands, as he kept releasing more and more string for Baba’s kite. “Whrrrr…,” went the reel, spinning faster and faster.

The string was also racing through Baba’s hands. As Baba let out more and more string, the kite climbed higher and higher, till it looked like a little red bird way up in the heavens. It was so high that its string made a perfect arch as it met Baba’s hand.

Baba looked down at me. “You want to fly it?” He asked.

“Oh, yes!” I said. I’d always envied my brother Adi flying kites with his friends in Poona, but I never got to fly one by myself.

“Here, hold it,” Baba said, handing me the string. I held it tightly with both hands. As I clung to it, I was swaying with the force of the wind and the incredible pull of the arched string. After a few moments, Baba took over again. I was most elated and showed off to the others how I had flown Baba’s kite.

When I grew older, I realized that Baba alone had been flying the kite, while He made me believe I was doing it. Behind my hands were His hands holding the string, unseen by me. While I seemed to be steering the kite as it moved this way and that, it was really Baba who was controlling it all the time.

It continues to be like that. One thinks, “I’m doing this. I’m in charge of that.” But silently in the background, it is really Baba who is doing it. Baba alone is in charge – always.