After breakfast I hurried back to change in my room. My roommate was in the bathroom. I didn’t hear the shower running and wondered if he might be using the spoon he kept on top of the toilet tank for something. On the dresser next to his bunk was a large ring of keys and a walkie-talkie. Just as I started to take off my sweatpants, the walkie-talkie squawked and made me jump. “Come in Shivadas. This is Mukti. Do you read me?” I changed into my clothes and the walkie-talkie squawked again. “Come in Shivadas. Do you read me?...
The following morning, instead of reporting to Sita at the seva desk, I went directly to the basement and the Audiovisual department. I was warmly greeted by Jake Gooding, the department head, who was expecting me. Jake was a tall, soft-spoken man in his late forties, with kind eyes and graying hair. “Your mission, young man, is to fast-forward and to rewind all the video and audio tapes in the library.” “What’s the point of that?” I asked. Then I remembered that questioning one’s seva assignments in the ashram was frowned upon. Jake smiled good-naturedly and took a large video...
There was a constant drumming in my chest. I felt like dancing. I couldn’t stand still for more than a second. Baba’s limousine would be pulling into the driveway of the ashram any minute. Throngs of devotees had gathered in the lower lobby and were trying to get as close to the door as possible, hoping to catch a glimpse of Baba when he made his big entrance. My roommate Shivadas and several other men wearing security badges and clasping walkie-talkies were working to keep them at bay. I’d finished seva early, and had already staked out a good place...
“Good morning, Deependra,” came a voice from behind me. I was tying my shoelaces in the alcove outside the hall after the Guru Gita. I turned around to see the neckless swami, Akhandananda, smiling down at me. That’s me. I’m Deependra. Lord of Light! The swami was the first to address me by my new name. Akhandananda walked me down the long corridor that stretched between the meditation hall and the cafeteria. Soft, golden sunlight filtered through the trees outside and in through the large picture windows of the passageway. I felt deeply peaceful, at one with nature and the...
“Do you have your passport with you?” Gajendra asked. He was sitting behind the desk that once belonged to Alan. I was suddenly seized by anxiety. I didn’t have a passport. I didn’t even know how to get one. Gajendra narrowed his eyes. “You do have a valid passport, don’t you?” I confessed that I didn’t. “Better get one quick!” he growled. “You’ll need time to apply for a visa.” I didn’t care for Gajendra, and I was a little afraid of him. I missed Alan. I had looked up to him. He had been on track to become a...
I helped Gajendra unload the shipping container from one of the ashram pickup trucks that had followed us down to the airport. Gajendra told me to check it under my own name. It contained “essential supplies” for the Ravipur ashram that were unavailable in India. “Won’t the airline people be suspicious that I’m taking so much stuff to India? What do I tell them?” “They probably won’t ask you anything,” he said, closing the tailgate with a loud clank. “If they do, just say personal effects. You’ll tell customs the same thing when you get to Bombay.” I began to...
The rain had stopped, but the ground was wet and muddy. Leaving our luggage in the hands of the Indian boys, I followed the rest of the group through the gate into a narrow antechamber. It led to a small temple, an office, and a glistening outdoor marble courtyard, where dozens of Western and hundreds of Indian devotees had gathered, closed umbrellas in hand. Garlands of tiny white star-shaped flowers hung everywhere, decorating the square and the buildings surrounding it. All these years later, I can still smell their heavenly fragrance—the sweet, intoxicating scent of jasmine. Some of the men...
Housekeeping was located in a small, stand-alone building located between the courtyard and Prasad. Rohini Brinkerhoff, the supervisor, was an older German woman with pale blue eyes, a full jaw, and closely-cropped silver hair. She was from Düsseldorf and spoke with a thick German accent which took me a few days to get used to. Rohini took a step back and looked me over from head to toe, as though she weren’t sure if I were real or just a figment of her imagination. “Mein koodness! Only eighteen years old und you haffe already found zee guru! I did not...
By the end of September, as Maharashtra entered the post-monsoon season, the rain started to let up. Thanks to the change in my seva assignment, and skipping the evening chant, I was getting to bed earlier and waking up later, and I didn’t feel exhausted all the time. Even though I was still lonely and homesick sometimes, I had gotten used to my simple routine in Ravipur. The only thing I missed about the Birchwood Falls ashram were the regular evening programs with Baba. Although Baba held darshan in the courtyard almost every day, he had only given a handful...
For me, it is not plot that is compelling, it is good writing, and Robert Schneider’s novel, The Guru’s Touch, is a beautifully crafted story. It is in many ways a page-turner, which is not to say that it is an “easy read” or that it lacks depth. Rather, it is a story in which the characters come to matter greatly to the reader, and the reader wants to know more. But characters come to matter only because of the writing with which they are created. The reader must marvel at Schneider’s writing. I found myself re-reading passages asking myself,...
