The Guru’s Touch – Chapter 11. Initiation

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 to stand. From my vantage point on the steps to the lobby, I’d be able to see everything.

The guru’s flight had landed at JFK hours ago. Most of the people who had flown from India with him had already arrived at the ashram. When their buses had pulled up earlier, I’d been working in the lobby, hanging an enormous “Welcome home Baba!” banner. I watched through the windows as they filed out of the coaches. Some of the new arrivals were more of Baba’s orange-clad male and female swamis. Others were ordinary devotees who were returning home after spending time in Baba’s ashram in Ravipur. But most of them, Shivadas explained, were members of Baba’s entourage who traveled with the guru all over the world.

“How can you tell who the tour people are?” I asked.

Shivadas chuckled. “They’re the really good-looking ones in nice clothes.”
He was right. “Baba’s people,” as he referred to them, were not difficult to spot. They strode around the ashram with their shoulders back and their heads held high, giving orders to the year-round residents. I expected to see more Indians among them, but despite their Indian-sounding spiritual names, the vast majority of them were from Western countries and lily white—like the swamis. They exuded poise and self-confidence, and gave the impression that each of them had been specially chosen by Baba for a unique and important seva.

As we waited in the lobby for the guru to arrive, their faces were radiant with devotion and spiritual fervor, and they were dressed in a way that befitted their VIP status. The men wore stylish blazers, ties, and slacks, and the women were dressed in vibrantly colored saris of the finest silk. Among them was a group of teenaged girls and young women in their early twenties. They had flowers in their hair and were adorned with strings of pearls and golden jewelry. They were gathered just inside the sliding glass door in the lobby, positioned so that they’d be the first to greet Baba. They were in front of all the other tour people and VIPs, including the swamis and celebrities.

My breath hitched when I saw the angel Gopi among them. Her face glowed with serenity and love for the guru, and she was stunning in her jewels and elegant turquoise sari. The other girls were hugging her and showering her with kisses as though they had just been reunited with their best friend. Her radiance and beauty filled me with yearning. She was almost too painful to look at.

“Who are all those girls in saris near the entrance?” I asked Shivadas, cupping my hand around his ear and speaking loudly to make myself heard over the hubbub.

His eyes lit up. “Those are Baba’s princesses—darshan girls. They’re always up front and close to the guru, especially when he’s on the throne.”

“What’s darshan?”
He grinned. “That’s when all the devotees get a turn to bow down to the guru in person, and offer him a token of their gratitude.”

“What do the girls have to do with it?”

Shivadas’ mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. “I’m not sure actually,” he laughed. “They’re not too hard on the eyes though, are they?”

“How come so few of the people on tour with Baba are Indian?”

Shivadas shrugged and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it. Maybe they don’t like to travel.”

There was a squeal of feedback over the din of the crowd, and Shivadas went back to work. I turned to see Alan standing on top of one of the benches, struggling with the controls of a megaphone. A tall, well-groomed man with wet hair, dressed in a dark suit and shiny black shoes, was standing on the floor next to him. The man’s arms were folded and he was frowning.

“Jai Gurudev!” Alan said, his voice distorted by the megaphone.

“Jai Gurudev!” the crowd cheered.

“Welcome to Shree Brahmananda Ashram, everybody! I just received word that our beloved guru will be arriving shortly.”

The lobby erupted in applause and more calls of “Jai Gurudev!”

“I want to remind everyone that while we’re all excited to see Baba, we should be mindful—” Alan had more to say, but everybody was talking amongst themselves again and nobody was listening.

Irritated at Alan’s ineffectiveness, the man in the dark suit hopped up onto the bench, snatched the megaphone from Alan’s hand, and motioned for him to step down. After adjusting the controls, he addressed the devotees: “Quiet, everybody. Listen up!” The crowd was instantly silent and all eyes were on the frowning man. “Everybody needs to back a few feet away from the entrance.”

Even though everyone was happily complying with the frowning man’s instructions, ashram security sprang into action. Shivadas and the other security officers started herding everybody backward, knocking down an elderly man and a toddler in the process. Only the darshan girls, VIPs, and swamis were allowed to remain where they were.

“We need to keep a passage clear for Baba here,” the frowning man said, indicating with his hands the most direct path between the main entrance and the big gray curtain. His tone was harsh and the cranked-up volume of the megaphone distorted his voice. “Do not cross this line,” he warned, pointing to where security was laying down a strip of yellow tape. “I repeat, do not cross this line.”

The main entrance door slid open automatically and a handsome young man with light brown hair in a button-down shirt, khaki pants, and Birkenstock sandals came in. He was carrying a pair of Indian drums called tablas. I recognized him. His name was Poonish Davidson and he worked in the kitchen. He was around my age and had already traveled to India with Baba and had spent a year in the Ravipur ashram. He was accompanied by an attractive young woman wrapped in an elegant purple and green sari. She was carrying a basket full of tambourines and tiny cymbals. A moment later, the door slid open again and Kriyadevi Friedman and Jake from the video department walked through. Kriyadevi was still on crutches and was wearing a frumpy, shapeless, red and white polka dot dress. Her plaster leg cast was now covered with messages and drawings. Jake was dressed in a navy blue coat with gold buttons, tan slacks, and a dark red tie, and was carrying a harmonium. They were met by the frowning man, who showed Kriyadevi and Poonish where to set up near the entrance. The young woman carrying the basket of musical instruments distributed them to the princesses, and then took her place among them. Kriyadevi sounded a note on the harmonium. Then she and Poonish led everyone in a chant of “Om Guru Om.” In no time, the devotees were clapping hands and singing.

While everybody else chanted ecstatically, Shivadas and the other security guards looked grim. Despite the fact that no one had yet set foot over the line of yellow tape on the floor, they obsessively monitored the crowd and pounced on anyone who came within an inch of the line, demanding they move to the back of the lobby. The frowning man who had taken the megaphone away from Alan also looked agitated. He darted from one end of the lobby to the other, barking commands into a walkie-talkie.

With everyone else I clapped my hands and sang at the top of my lungs:

“Om Guru, Om Guru, Om Gurudev! Jai Guru, Jai Guru, Jai Gurudev!”

There were shrieks of excitement when a sleek black limousine pulled up just outside the ashram main entrance. It was followed by a smaller black town car and van. The chant got louder and picked up speed. Arms were lifted heavenward. Tears of devotion streamed down frenzied faces.

A tall thin man in a chauffeur’s uniform jumped out of the limo and scrambled to the other side to open the door. I couldn’t believe I was about to see Baba in the flesh.
And there he was: the creator of the universe in human form.

God was shorter than I thought he’d be. Even though it was quite a warm day for the end of March, he was bundled up as if he were on a visit to the North Pole. Over his orange silks he wore a bulky, bright red down jacket. His head was covered by a knitted orange woolen ski hat, and around his neck was a matching scarf. He was followed out of the limo by the siblings, Suresh and Anjali.

The chant reached a crescendo. Baba Rudrananda entered the building, flanked by his two young Indian disciples. With a wave of his hand, he motioned for the musicians to stop playing. Within a few seconds, the chanting ended. Rudrananda greeted the devotees with folded hands and the call, “Jai Gurudev!”

“Jai Gurudev!” cheered the crowd. Then there was silence, as if everyone in the lobby were holding their breath in anticipation of what the guru might do next.

After entering the building and greeting his devotees, Baba approached the darshan girls to offer his blessing. They swooned and beamed smiles at him. When he reached Gopi, he lingered to chat with her. They were soon joined by an older, gray-haired couple. The physical resemblance between Gopi and the couple was strong, and I figured they must be her parents.

“We’re so grateful to you, Baba, for taking such good care of our little girl,” said the man who I assumed was Gopi’s father. When the conversation was finished, the angel’s mother knelt down to touch the guru’s feet.

Already deviating from the path anticipated for him by security and indicated by the yellow tape on the floor, Baba approached the musicians and stopped in front of Kriyadevi, who was now standing up and leaning on her crutches.

“Aapake pair ko kya hua?” Baba said.

“What happened to your leg?” Anjali translated.

“I slipped on the ice, Baba.”

Anjali translated Kriyadevi’s answer for Baba. The guru responded in the same Indian language. “You should chant when you chant, eat when you, eat, and walk when you walk,” Baba’s translator said. “Like this, you will not have accidents.” Everyone within earshot burst out laughing and Kriyadevi blushed.

“What is all this writing on your plaster?”
“These are messages from my friends wishing me well, Baba,” Kriyadevi said. Everyone laughed again. The conversation struck me as funny too: Baba was like a superior being from another planet who was trying to make sense of our primitive customs.

“Aacha, aacha!” Baba said.

“Good, good,” Anjali translated. The guru said something else to Anjali while making a writing motion with his hand. Then she turned to face Alan and Gajendra, who were standing nearby.

“He needs something to write on this,” Anjali said, pointing at Kriyadevi’s cast.

A look of comprehension flashed across Alan’s face. He shot up the steps past me in the direction of the manager’s office, pushing people out of his way as he ran.

Baba turned his attention to Sylvia Preston and the other celebrities who were assembled near the entrance. The guru was all smiles, and so were his famous devotees.

Directing his gaze toward the upper lobby now, I felt as though Baba were staring directly at me. Just then, Alan dashed by me again on his way back to the lower lobby. He was out of breath. When he was once again in front of Baba, he extended a hand containing a marker. The guru took it and then turned his attention to Kriyadevi’s broken leg. Removing the cap from the marker and handing it to Suresh to hold, Baba bent over and scribbled something in bold red ink on Kriyadevi’s cast. When he finished, the crowd erupted in applause. A blushing Kriyadevi beamed a smile of pure delight and reverently folded her hands.

“What does it say? What does it say?” a woman asked from the back of the crowd.

An amused Anjali called back to her: “Baba signed his name!”

This was followed by more applause.

Moving on, Baba made his way in my direction, toward the upper lobby. Shivadas and another guard rushed ahead of the guru in order to clear a path for him. This was unnecessary, however, as everyone was happy to step out of Baba’s way without being asked. As the guru drew nearer, I had the strong impression that he was headed straight for me. I held my breath as he came within inches of where I stood. Then, when he was right in front of me, he suddenly stopped.

The spiritual force he radiated was undeniable. I felt every particle in my body pulsate, as though I were standing next to an immensely powerful electromagnet. Looking deeply into my eyes, he reached for my hand and took it in his, squeezing it tenderly. I felt completely naked and exposed before him, as though his gaze penetrated the armor of my individual identity and he could see directly into my innermost being.

“Ahh, how are you?” the guru said to me in English. I melted.

My head fell back and I closed my eyes. Tears welled up behind my eyelids and began to stream down my face. I knew then and there that I would be eternally grateful to the guru for this tremendous act of compassion. I’d never doubt him again.

Baba let go of my hand, smiled lovingly at me, and then patted me on the back. Then he turned around and headed back in the direction of his apartment. When he reached the entrance, he turned around and waved one last time to his adoring followers.

“Jai Gurudev!” the guru exclaimed, folding his hands in salutation.

“Jai Gurudev!” the devotees roared in response.

Then he disappeared behind the long gray curtain.

*

With the guru in residence, the energy in the ashram ramped up to a higher level. Every evening, Baba gave talks and greeted visitors. He also made unexpected public appearances nearly every day. It was not usual to see him outside on the grounds taking his dogs for a walk, or riding through the ashram gardens on a golf cart, with a few close disciples sprinting behind him to keep up.

I noticed he was usually accompanied by the same small circle of people. Anjali, Baba’s Indian translator, went with him almost everywhere, and so did her younger brother, Suresh. Baba would often show up halfway through the morning recitation of the Guru Gita to see who was in attendance. You never knew when Baba might suddenly emerge from behind the long gray curtain in the lobby.

I wasn’t the only devotee to spend their breaks from seva and chanting by hanging out near the entrance of his apartment in the hope of crossing paths with him. When I did, I kept wishing he’d stop to speak to me again, like he had on the day of his arrival. But he never seemed to notice me. After a couple of weeks around the guru, I was beginning to think my brief exchange with him was a once-in-a-lifetime event.

I reached the top of the ramp connecting the basement to the lobby, and a familiar voice called out to me: “Doug! Over here!” I turned to see my brother and his wife waiting in line at the reception. They were up from the City to see Baba and take the first weekend shaktipat retreat of the season. Carrie was waving and smiling at me. I rushed over to them and my sister-in-law gave me a big hug and squealed with joy. Jeremy, as always, was more understated in his display of affection. He embraced me politely and gave me a perfunctory pat on the back.

“There’s a free bunk where I am,” I said. “You should ask them to assign you to my room.”

Jeremy took a step back. “We already requested one of the bungalows across the street for married couples. We always stay there.”

Carrie giggled and squealed again. “Excited for your big day tomorrow, Doug?”

“I sure am!”

My brother squished his eyebrows together. “What big day?”

Carrie playfully socked Jeremy in the arm. “Tomorrow is Doug’s diksha day, silly! He’s going to receive shaktipat from Baba.”

I tingled all over just thinking about it.

Jeremy’s mouth fell open a little. Then he smiled. “Oh, that’s right! You’ve been in the ashram for so long now, I totally forgot you only just met Baba.”

“After tomorrow, nothing will ever be the same for you,” said Carrie, looking more serious now. “The entity known as Douglas Greenbaum will cease to exist.”

I was excited to be taking the shaktipat retreat because, after months of waiting, my kundalini would finally be awakened. But I was also looking forward to it for another reason, one I kept to myself: anyone taking the weekend retreat was excused from seva. Since coming to the ashram two and a half months earlier, this would be my first break from work.

After seva, I met up with Jeremy and Carrie in the cafeteria for dinner. I told them all about my life in the ashram over the past months. Then, as my brother and his wife exchanged awestruck glances, I told them all about how Baba, on the day of his arrival, had crossed the lobby for the sole purpose of greeting me. I wondered if they’d heard those rumors about Baba and the people close to him. But I didn’t ask them about it.

Instead I asked, “If you’ve already received shaktipat, why do you keeping coming to the retreats?”

My brother and his wife laughed. “You can never have too much shakti!” Jeremy answered. “Only a fraction of the people here for the retreat are attending it for the first time.”

Jeremy and Carrie again told me how envious they were—how lucky I was to be able to live in the ashram and to be with Baba. “Life in the world is mundane and joyless,” Carrie said, slumping forward in her chair.

“Isn’t your internship interesting?” I asked my brother. “You’re finally a doctor.”

Jeremy shrugged half-heartedly. “Sure. But what Carrie and I are really looking forward to are the weekends we’ll be spending here with Baba this summer.”

Carrie’s eyes lit up suddenly and her mouth formed an “o” shape like she had forgotten something. “And satsang at the Manhattan ashram with Swami Satyananda, of course!”

Jeremy agreed. “Oh yeah, Satyananda is great. He’s one of Baba’s most highly evolved swamis. He’s got tremendous shakti. He’s here in Birchwood Falls this weekend and will be the master of ceremonies for the retreat.”

“You should visit us in the City sometime,” Carrie said. “We’ll introduce you.”

I smiled and told them I was looking forward to it. But inwardly I thought about how absurd they sounded: Who would ever leave Baba and the ashram for even a second?

On the morning of the first day of the retreat, the line to get into the meditation hall stretched all the way past the cafeteria and back into the lobby. Young, impeccably dressed male and female ushers—members of Baba’s tour staff—showed the retreatants to their places. I had hoped to be given a seat up front, near Baba’s throne. Jeremy had urged me to get in line as early as possible. And I did, as soon as the Guru Gita ended. But the closest spots were reserved for Baba’s swamis, darshan girls, and VIPs. I was shown to a place on the men’s side in the second tier of the vast, dimly-lit hall.

As we waited for the rest of the retreatants to be seated, a recording of Baba chanting the Om Namah Shivaya mantra played softly over the loudspeakers. The air in the room was fragrant with Nag Champa incense and the carpet smelled faintly of a citrusy perfume. I couldn’t help feeling envious of the people who had places reserved for them up front near Baba’s throne. This is my first shaktipat retreat, I thought. Shouldn’t I get to sit at the guru’s feet? I’d been observing the tour people closely over the week since the guru’s arrival. Not only did they get to sit up front during the programs and chants, but they also had special accommodations in the main building next to Baba’s house. They didn’t keep regular seva hours; at any time of the day or night I’d see them dart in and out of the ashram offices with clipboards in hand, or disappear behind the long gray curtain at the end of the lower lobby. Whenever they spoke to each other, it was in hushed tones, as though they were discussing something urgent and confidential. I wondered how I could become one of them.

After everyone was seated, the doors to the hall were closed and Satyananda—Jeremy and Carrie’s swami from the Manhattan ashram—addressed the retreatants. He was tall and lanky, with a pleasant face and a shaven, oval-shaped head. His voice was calm and soothing. As he spoke, he frequently paused to let his words sink in. Listening to him, I found myself disconnecting from my body and my surroundings, letting go of my petty concerns about how close to the guru I sat, and preparing myself mentally to receive initiation.

“According to the Yoga Upanishads,” Satyananda began, “kundalini, the ‘serpent power,’ lies coiled and sleeping at the base of the spine in an ordinary person. Once awakened, it purifies the subtle body and eventually bestows a state of divine union with God. While many systems of yoga focus on awakening this power through meditation, breathing exercises, and chanting, only a fully realized master of Raja Yoga has the power to effortlessly awaken it for you through shaktipat. And only a perfected master, like Baba, can control the kundalini once it is activated.”

As the swami described what I was about to experience, I got the chills, and goosebumps formed all over my skin.“The process of kundalini awakening affects everyone differently. The divine energy courses through the body and removes physiological, mental, and emotional blockages that stand in the way of enlightenment. Some may find themselves spontaneously performing yogic postures or hand gestures, called mudras. They might recite mantras or make strange sounds. Breathing patterns may change. Some may also see lights, have visions, or hear inner music. These reactions to the shakti are called kriyas. They are a natural part of the purification process and should not be feared.”

Feelings of tremendous gratitude to God for having led me to Baba rose up inside of me. I realized that all the pain and suffering I’d been through was for a reason. Without it, I may never have developed a yearning to know the Supreme Self, and would’ve been doomed to an empty, meaningless existence. Instead of living in a holy place like the ashram, I’d be running after sense pleasures, knowing only dissatisfaction. Now, thanks to Baba, I was about to hit the spiritual jackpot.

After Satyananda’s introduction, the lights were dimmed, and the swami took a seat behind an empty spot on the men’s side, directly beneath the guru’s throne. Kriyadevi played a sustained note on the harmonium, then led us in a slow recitation of Om Namah Shivaya. Despite my best efforts to focus, I kept opening my eyes to see if Baba had joined us yet, if he was sitting on his throne. Finally, I gave up trying to get into the chant and kept a watchful eye for the guru’s entrance. Just when I thought he’d never come, everyone around me began to straighten their meditation posture. Light pierced the darkness from a door opening in the back of the hall. I immediately recognized Baba’s distinctive silhouette and confident stride. Two figures followed closely behind him. Anjali and Suresh.

As he made his way down the middle aisle that separated the men’s side from the women’s, all eyes were on Baba. Before sitting down, he honored his own guru by lowering his head and folding his hands in prayer beneath the enormous photograph of Brahmananda hanging above his throne. After the guru took his seat, a sharply-dressed young man seated up front jumped up from behind an audio mixer to adjust a stand next to the throne, so that a microphone was positioned directly under the guru’s mouth. His voice amplified now, Baba led us in another few rounds of the mantra. When the chanting had come to an end, the hall was thick with silence. Once again I tried to meditate. Within a few moments, my efforts were interrupted by the gentle sound of Anjali’s voice over the sound system:

“Baba will give the touch now.”

Despite my best efforts to turn my attention inward and rid my mind of distracting thoughts, it was impossible to ignore what was going on around me. The deep stillness in the hall was quickly replaced by a cacophony of bizarre vocalizations, weeping, and hysterical laughter. People all around me broke into repetitive body spasms, as if half the retreatants had suddenly been afflicted with Tourette’s syndrome. I knew there was nothing wrong with them, of course. Like Satyananda said, they were experiencing kriyas.

Unable to meditate, I peeked at Baba as he gave initiation. Wending his way up and down the rows of meditators, he bopped each one on the head with his wand of peacock feathers. Occasionally he’d hover over someone and pinch the bridge of their nose, or stroke their face. One person would begin shaking and jerking and making strange sounds, followed by others in their immediate vicinity responding in kind. In this way, Baba’s shakti spread out from him in waves throughout the entire assembly.

Looking around the hall as discreetly as possible, I could make out the silhouettes of people getting into what looked like hatha yoga postures or making strange hand gestures, exactly in the way Satyananda had described. Some people’s breathing became affected; a man next to me suddenly exhaled powerfully, and then began breathing in and out forcefully, as though he were hyperventilating. I could hear others doing the same thing all over the hall.

As Baba drew nearer I detected a strong, heady fragrance like sweet hay. It became increasingly powerful as the whooshing sound of Baba’s wand striking the heads of other retreatants grew louder. The next thing I knew, Baba was touching the man seated behind me.

Whack! The feathers come down on my head. Baba’s grassy scent fills my nostrils. Whack, whack! The feathers again come down on my head. Baba seizes the top of my nose, just below the bridge, and shakes my head from side to side. One of his fingers presses firmly into my forehead, in the space between my eyebrows. I exhale forcefully. Baba moves on to the next devotee. I feel intense heat, and then a piercing sensation at the base of my spine. It’s as if a fuse has been lit and a small flame travels up my spine, triggering tiny explosions along the way. First at the root of my sex organ. Then a burst of energy at my navel. A moment later, there is heat and a sensation of popping in my solar plexus. The flame continues its way up my back until it feels like a bomb is detonated in my chest. My heart is blown wide open. More popping at my throat, and lastly, a burst of energy in the space between my eyebrows, where Baba touched me with his hand. Searing heat radiates throughout my entire body, followed by wave after wave of ecstasy. The muscles in my arms and legs are twitching, and a tiny blue light appears behind my closed eyelids, hovering for a while before fading away.

On one level, I am aware that I am seated in meditation. I feel the usual ache in my legs and the pressure of my butt against the floor. I am cognizant of the weeping, laughing, and strange sounds around me, of Baba’s fragrance lingering in the air, but there is a shift in my awareness: I, the perceiver, am also the perceived. I hear, but I am also the sound. I smell, but I am also the fragrance. The distinction between subject and object, inner and outer, experiencer and what is experienced has been dissolved. I have entered into a state of non-dual awareness, which feels familiar and without beginning. My mind is quiet, void of thought. All that remains is luminous, blissful awareness.

A long sustained note on the harmonium signaled the end of the meditation session. Seated on his throne again, Baba led us in a few rounds of Om Namah Shivaya and the lights in the hall gradually came back on. Although the meditation session was over—I wasn’t even sure how long it had been—one hour? Two?—my mind remained still, deeply peaceful. I looked down: the muscles in my arms and legs were still twitching with the movements of the kundalini-shakti.

Baba began to speak in Hindi and, although I didn’t understand him, I was mesmerized by the musical rise and fall of his voice, the odd circular motions of his hands, and his frequent, seemingly random gestures.

“All who received the touch this morning have been initiated into the path of supreme Raja Yoga,” translated Anjali. I had come to think of Anjali’s voice as Baba’s “English voice,” and the sound of it moved me deeply. “Some of you may have been given a glimpse of the supreme truth, but there is still much work to be done. Do not fall into the trap of imagining that you are already enlightened. Now that your kundalini has been awakened, the guru will continue to guide it on its upward journey through the sushumna nadi, until it has completely purified both the subtle and physical bodies and opened all seven chakras. This will culminate in the opening of the sahasrara chakra at the crown of the head. When this occurs, the disciple attains nirvikalpa samadhi—complete absorption of the individual consciousness into the godhead. In this state, nothing remains but pure awareness, and nothing detracts from its wholeness and perfection. The disciple becomes unshakably established in the knowledge of his true identity as the supreme Self, and is thereby liberated, attaining a permanent and uninterrupted state of bliss and freedom from suffering.”

Baba went on to explain that the guru had bestowed his grace upon us, but that it was now up to us to put forth effort. He emphasized that a daily practice of meditation, chanting, devotion, and service to the guru was absolutely essential to keep the shakti— the awakened kundalini—active within us. He warned us not to weaken the guru’s gift through negative actions, such as keeping bad company and idle gossip.
“But above all, you must not squander your vital energy, rubbing your bodies together like beasts in heat,” Baba said, wrinkling his nose and frowning. “The sexual fluid produced in the physical body is another form of the divine kundalini-shakti. It must be conserved.”

As I listened to Baba’s talk, I felt as though I were still in a state of meditation. My awareness was detached from both the sensations in my physical body and the mental processes of my own mind, as though I were a witness. This person called “Doug” only existed on the periphery of my consciousness. It was as though my sense of Self had expanded to encompass everyone and everything around me. Looking around at other devotees, I felt as though I were in a hall of mirrors. Everyone—even Baba—was simply a reflection of my innermost being.

Baba drew his talk to a close, and at one point he seemed to be staring in my direction: “Some disciples receive shaktipat and make swift progress on the path. Others are initiated but cannot evolve because of their pride and inability to follow the guru’s commands. The worst of these is the intellectual. The intellectual believes he knows everything and has nothing to learn from a guru. He is unable to receive initiation. On the other hand, even if a disciple is a wretched sinner, if he has a pure heart and obeys his master faithfully, he will attain everything.”

Baba’s remark about intellectuals stung. My chest tightened and I suddenly felt too hot. My consciousness contracted until my sense of individuality reasserted itself. First Baba had said that everyone who was present today, without exception, had received shaktipat. Now he was saying that intellectuals were unable to receive initiation. Was Baba talking about me? I wondered. Am I an intellectual? I felt my chest tighten. I hated the idea that Baba might disapprove of me.

Unable now to focus on what Baba was saying, I tried to remember the experience of receiving the touch. I had definitely felt the kundalini awaken within me, travel up my spine, and pierce my lower three chakras. My experience matched Baba’s description of the process, as well as other accounts I’d read of kundalini awakening.

Baba ended his talk with a prayer to Gurudev Brahmananda. Uncrossing his legs, he leaned forward and smiled lovingly at Gopi. She blushed and beamed an adoring smile back at him. As Baba stood up to leave, Suresh and Anjali also rose to follow him. But with a wave of his hand, the guru motioned for them to sit back down.

Baba made his way up the center aisle. Everyone stood up, folded their hands in prayer, and bowed their heads in his direction. At the exit, a tall man in a white cowboy hat and a leather jacket seemed to be waiting for him. I expected to see security spring into action any second, to pull him out of the guru’s way, but they never came. Instead, Baba greeted the eccentrically dressed man with an affectionate pat on the back. The man opened the door for Baba, and they left the hall together.

That man bothered me. He’s obviously someone close to the guru, I thought. Why doesn’t Baba tell him to take off that stupid hat?

After a short break, Satyananda announced that the next part of the program was for sharing—a time when anyone who wanted to talk about what they had experienced during the meditation session was invited to stand up and speak. As the retreatants took turns sharing, a darshan girl and one of the male ushers ran between them with cordless microphones. A chubby middle-aged man in the back of the hall raised his hand and shared that after Baba had tapped him on the head with the peacock feathers, he saw golden-white light, and became completely absorbed in it. “The light spread out from my body and filled the entire hall.”

A young woman dressed like a hippie told of hearing bells and having had a vision of Christ, who then changed form into Lord Krishna, and then again into Gurudev Brahmananda.

“I saw flashes of blue light, followed by a feeling of deep peace,” a man in a lime green sweat suit said.

Satyananda nodded approvingly. “All of these—classic examples of kundalini awakening.”

An older Asian woman shared: “I had an experience of deep inner peace and a feeling of being enveloped in Baba’s love.” Then she broke into tears and sat down again.

Another man who looked like a college professor spoke of Sanskrit letters appearing before him and forming syllables, which he could simultaneously see and hear.

A large, buxom lady took the microphone. “I had a vision of myself in a previous life, as a member of Baba’s court in his incarnation as a maharaja.”

As I listened to these people share their stories of kundalini awakening, I was disappointed that my own experience hadn’t been as dramatic. I began to doubt whether I had actually received shaktipat. But then a person spoke of having seen a tiny blue light, exactly like the one I’d seen, and Satyananda’s explanation reassured me.

“You have had a vision of the supra-causal body—what Baba calls the ‘radiant blue pearl,’” the swami said. “Baba says that despite its minute size, the blue pearl contains the entire cosmos latent within it.”

When the sharing session was over, Satyananda thanked all those who had spoken and announced that it was time for lunch. He reminded everyone to observe silence in the cafeteria, in order to help retain what we had received from Baba.

I ate with Jeremy and Carrie. No one spoke. The only sounds we heard were the clink of utensils against cafeteria trays, and the sliding of chairs across the floor. By the looks of mild frustration on their faces, I could tell they were as eager to hear about my kundalini awakening as I was to talk about it. But for now we had to make do with smiles and knowing looks.

After lunch, I went back to my room for some alone time before the program resumed. As I lay in bed staring up at the plywood platform of the upper bunk, I tuned out my roommates and silently repeated the Om Namah Shivaya mantra to myself. Instead of letting my mind get caught up in thinking, I tried to be aware of my thoughts as ripples in consciousness. Before long I noticed a sporadic quivering in different muscles all over my body. The guru’s shakti was doing its work.

Swami Paramananda was a slender, austere-looking woman in her mid-thirties. She had shortly-cropped light brown hair and small, dark eyes, and spoke with an British accent. She was the spiritual director of Baba’s London ashram, but would be in residence here in Birchwood Falls for the duration of the guru’s visit. On Sunday morning, she gave the first talk of the day. The subject was devotion.

“The relationship between the guru and his disciple is sacred,” the swami began. “A true disciple considers the guru to be God in human form. According to the Guru Gita, devotion to the guru is the highest virtue. Those whose minds are impure or unfit are unable to understand or experience it.

“The seeker becomes receptive to the master’s grace only after he’s surrendered at the lotus feet of the guru. This kind of self-surrender means that the disciple no longer has any will other than that of his guru. His only wish is to please the guru through his thought, speech, and deeds. Knowing that everything the master does is for the seeker’s welfare, the seeker should serve him with humility and complete obedience. Above all, the disciple must never find fault with the guru.

“The master works tirelessly to help the disciple overcome his ego and attain liberation. For this reason, the disciple is forever indebted to the guru.”

In the afternoon we again meditated with Baba, but he didn’t give the touch. Although I didn’t feel explosions of energy in my spine, or see any lights, I slipped effortlessly into meditation as soon as the lights were dimmed. Gone, for now, were the distracting thoughts and restlessness that had previously plagued me.

Before the end of the weekend, everyone who was registered for the retreat was given the chance to approach Baba and receive his blessing. Suresh spoke a few words directed at those who were meeting the guru for the first time: “Whenever one receives the darshan of a great saint, one should always make a symbolic offering.” He explained that a dakshina stand had been set up at the back of the cafeteria, where they sold fruit and small bouquets of flowers that we could lay at Baba’s feet. “Remember, whatever is given to the guru will be returned to the gift-bearer ten-fold in the form of good karma.”

I looked around for Jeremy, hoping he’d introduce me to Baba. I found him on the way to the dakshina stand in the cafeteria.

“It’s better if you meet Baba yourself,” he said, furrowing his brow. My brother’s words stung. They felt like a rejection. Why wouldn’t he want to introduce me to the guru? I’d heard countless stories about devotees who’d brought friends and relatives up to meet Baba. I began to wonder if Jeremy was ashamed of me for some reason.

We ran into Carrie, who was on her way back from the dakshina stand. Carrying a pineapple and a mango, she grimaced when she saw me. “Doug! I’m sorry I didn’t think to get you something to give Baba. We’ll wait for you while you buy something.”

“It’s okay,” Jeremy said, tugging on her arm to head back in the direction of the hall. “We’ll meet up after darshan to say good-bye.”

“Yeah, it’s no problem,” I said, gesturing for them to go ahead without me. “I want to meet Baba on my own.”

At the dakshina stand, there was a huge selection of fruit and flower bouquets. Prices ranged from two dollars for an apple to fifty dollars for an elaborate floral arrangement. “What do you recommend?” I asked the man behind the counter.

He scratched his nose and glanced behind him at the impressive display. “A lot of devotees give coconuts,” he answered.

“Why?”

Before the man could respond, a familiar voice behind me answered for him. “With a coconut, we’re symbolically asking the guru to break the hard shell of our ego to get at the sweetness within.”

I turned around and was face to face with Paramananda, the female swami who had given the talk that morning. She seemed to be sizing me up with her small, dark eyes. I thanked her for the explanation, but decided on the fifty-dollar bouquet. Since I was just beginning my relationship with the guru, I wanted him to know I was ready to offer everything of myself to him, that I would hold nothing back.

The darshan line snaked its way from Baba’s throne all the way out of the hall, through the corridor, and into the lobby. The word was they were allowing everyone at the ashram for Baba’s darshan, not only those who were registered for the retreat. I marveled at the guru’s generosity. Bright, reedy Indian instrumental music played over the sound system. As I inched my way closer, I felt a fluttering in my stomach. Will Baba make eye contact with me? I wondered. Will he speak to me?

By the time I was about thirty feet from Baba’s throne, the line was four abreast. Everyone who went before him placed an offering in one of the large wicker baskets at his feet, and then bowed down. Instead of giving fruit or flowers, some people placed empty bottles of alcohol, bottles of pills, or packs of cigarettes in the baskets. (I later found out that this was a way of asking the guru to rid them of their various addictions.) While the guru ignored some people, and had lengthy conversations with others, everyone who went before him received, at the very least, a loving tap on the head from his wand of peacock feathers. I drew nearer and my heart beat faster.

Glancing around, I saw Robert Cargill from Ithaca seated all the way up front, directly behind the swamis. I was surprised to see him sitting among the VIPs. No one had ever mentioned to me that he held such a prominent position in Baba’s mission. Front and center on the women’s side, I couldn’t help but notice the angel Gopi. She was sitting at Baba’s feet, next to Anjali on the dais that held Baba’s throne. Behind them were the other princesses, Baba’s female swamis, and the actress Sylvia Preston, along with other VIPs.

As far as I could tell, Gopi’s seva was to monitor the baskets of offerings. As soon as one began to overflow, she’d replace it with an empty one, taking the full baskets through a side door near the throne. Meanwhile, Anjali’s job, other than as translator, was to assist Baba. She determined whether anyone lingering before the guru should be encouraged to move on, or whether it was appropriate for them to crouch nearby until the guru was ready to speak to them.

There was only one row of devotees ahead of me in line now, and I was close enough to detect the sweet, grassy fragrance I’d smelled the day before, when Baba had given me the touch. The guru’s field of energy was palpable and the kundalini energy that he’d awakened within me stirred in response. When it was time to receive his blessing, I bowed down before him and placed the large flower arrangement I had purchased on the platform next to one of the baskets. I felt a soft tap on the back of my head, and felt a faint popping sensation in my navel, heart, and throat. As I stood back up, I was face to face with the guru. My mind stopped. He was gazing directly into my eyes. Then he said something in an Indian language, which Anjali translated: “It’s not enough for the guru to forgive you. You must forgive yourself.”

I wanted to say something, but was unable to speak. All I could do was stand there in total amazement. This was further confirmation that Baba knew everything about me. He was aware of the guilt I was struggling with over my mother’s death, and had heard my prayers for forgiveness. At the same time, he was acknowledging that he had already forgiven me. Then the guru spoke again: “You are a good boy. Very pure.”

The next thing I knew, I was sobbing uncontrollably. Baba’s eyes widened and a gentle smile spread across his lips. He held out his arms. I leaned forward and Baba wrapped his arms around me, giving me a powerful hug. A torrent of tears streamed down my face and onto the guru’s shoulder. I felt as though the guru was absorbing all my pent-up grief and trauma.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Baba released me from his embrace. But he continued staring into my eyes with an amused expression on his face. One of the male ushers rushed over to him with a cloth, presumably to wipe the tears I’d left on his shoulder. But the guru shooed him away. He said something to Anjali, which she didn’t translate. Then they were both looking at me and smiling. I felt naked in front of the guru like this. He knew everything about me and could read my thoughts.
Baba wiggled his head from side to side. Then he motioned for me to crouch down next to Anjali, and the darshan line started moving again. “What is your given name?” she asked, turning to me.

“Douglas.”

“Baba is giving you the spiritual name ‘Deependra.’”

Baba’s face lit up as he glanced in my direction. “Deependra,” he repeated, as if pleased with his choice. “Very good name.”

I bowed my head and thanked him. I returned to my place in the hall, where I continued to observe the guru and the darshan line from afar. Within seconds, I saw Anjali speak to Gopi, hand her something, and then point in my direction. A moment later, the angel was hurrying toward me. By the time she reached me she was out of breath.

“Baba wants you to have this,” she said with a glowing smile. She knelt down and handed me a small, yellow card. Printed on one side was the name Baba had just given me: “Deependra.” On the other side was written: “Lord of Light.”

I looked at the girl kneeling in front of me, and thanked her. Then I noticed her eyes. They were like two precious jewels. Her left eye was sapphire blue, and her right eye was emerald green. Their beauty took my breath away and I was drawn in by them, unable to stop staring.

“Don’t feel like you have to use it,” she said. “Not everyone goes by their spiritual name around Baba.” Gopi flashed her beautiful, wholesome smile at me again. Then she brushed a few strands of hair from her eyes, exposing the smooth, soft underside of her wrist. With her long, flowing hair, green silk sari, and golden jewelry, she looked like she was only visiting the Earth from a celestial realm.

I thanked Gopi again, and she returned to her place on the dais at Baba’s feet.

In that moment I felt more loved than I’d ever felt at any time during my life. It was as if Baba had looked into my soul, had seen the real me, and had accepted me for who I was. He was aware of how I had caused my mother’s death and the agonizing guilt I felt because of it. And he had forgiven me. With his divine power, he had reached into my heart and untied the knots that had been keeping me in emotional bondage.

The time had come for me to forgive myself. Through his command, he had empowered me to do it. I closed my eyes, folded my hands, and prayed: With Baba’s blessing, I hereby forgive myself for all the grief and misery I caused my mother. Then, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I sat up straight and opened my eyes.
I knew that from then on I would, of course, go by the spiritual name with which the guru had chosen to bless me. Douglas was dead.