While in Vienna, Baba was often treated to musical performances by European disciples during the various functions which he presided over, and he always gave the greatest attention and appreciation to them, whether it was a nerve-wracking fifteen-minute gong solo, an out-of-tune little ditty twittered by a young child, or an oratorio belted out by a Walkyrian opera singer.

At one such event, a Gipsy violin player had once leapt on stage, uninvited, and, dancing around Baba's couch, had serenaded him with all the love and tenderness he could squeeze out of his simple heart and battered old fiddle. The hundreds of disciples assembled in the hall were breathless and petrified at his audacity and breach of decorum. But Baba played with him, gently waving his hands in the air to the rhythm of the soulful tune. It was a magic moment. We all watched, transfixed, as we experienced the master player gently pulling the bow of his love across the strings of our hearts, through the hands of his Gipsy companion. Krishna enchanted his companions with his flute-playing, but here the Lord was revealing Himself as the divine conductor!

Afterwards, whenever the Gipsy player came to the group meditations at the ashram, Baba would always ask him if he had brought his violin and request him to play a tune, before the beginning of the meditation. Strangely enough, although I knew him to have an extensive repertoire, the fiddler always played the same two tunes on these occasions: the Gipsy tune he had sprung on Baba at the function, and a song composed by Gurudev "Calmly search God in the fontanel." Baba always sang along the latter with the greatest joy, over and over, encouraging us all to join in.

Such was Baba's love for music, wherever he went in the world. To him, music was a direct expression of the Holy Sound, and he revered it as such, provided that it was played with sincerity, sweetness, and devotion.

Maybe the Bard, whom Baba often quoted, alluded to a similar truth when he wrote,

The man that hath no music in himself

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.

- William Shakespeare