THE RAJA YOGA CENTER was located just west of campus, in a three-story Queen Anne style mansion on Buffalo Street. Even before I saw the sign I could smell the sandalwood incense wafting from its open windows.
I looked for a place to lock up my bike and then heard a voice from behind me say, “You can bring it inside.” I turned to see a tall, thin, bespectacled man with serene, ice-blue eyes, impeccable posture, and a perfect haircut. He was dressed in a pale yellow cardigan, freshly pressed khaki pants, and casual dress shoes. He looked to be in his early thirties. “Robert Cargill,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Doug Greenbaum.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doug.” Robert’s grip was firm, and I was certain it said something good about his character.
“Are you sure it’s okay?” I asked, lifting my bike off the ground to carry it up the steps.
“Yes, of course. Let me help you.”
I leaned my bike against the wall in the entranceway, and then followed Robert into the lobby where others were gathered. Hanging on the wall was an enormous framed photograph of a saffron-robed Rudrananda, seated cross-legged on a large cushioned chair. The eyes in the picture were gazing at me and appeared to follow me around the room, just like the portrait on the cover of his book. Beneath the guru’s picture was an altar table with a hand bell and a stick of burning incense. Playing in the background was an audio recording of a man—Rudrananda, I assumed—sweetly chanting. His voice was mesmerizing and tugged at my heart. I could have listened to him for hours.
The people I saw in the room were of all ages, but nearly all of them were white. Some were dressed conservatively, like Robert, and others looked like hippies. Some of the women wore red dots painted on their foreheads. Nearly everyone held a folded woolen cloth in their arms. A makeshift boutique at the far end of the room displayed Rudrananda’s books, pictures, and audio cassettes, as well as an impressive selection of incense, prayer beads, Indian “Om” shawls, and yoga mats. An austere-looking woman with a frown on her face was tending the boutique. Wrapped in a pale green sari, she was in her late twenties, with tightly cropped dark hair and pocked skin.
Most of the people seemed to know each other and were smiling and talking cheerfully. With no one to talk to, I began to feel uneasy. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to come uninvited.
“You must be Doug!” beamed a sturdy young woman dressed in loose fitting white cotton, with a bright orange “Om” shawl draped around her shoulders. She had a red dot on her forehead, prayer beads around her neck, and wore a pendant with a photo of Rudrananda, his hand raised with an emphatic finger pointing upwards.
I extended my hand, but she gave me a big bear hug instead.
“How did you know who I was?”
“You look just like your brother!” she answered. “Shree Ram called to say you’d be coming to satsang.”
“Shree Ram?”
She smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I mean Jeremy! Shree Ram is your brother’s spiritual name. Baba gave it to him! Your sister-in-law’s spiritual name is Anshika. Mine is Menaka—I’m the center leader.”
I took a good look at Menaka Atkins. She was a Waspy-looking woman in her mid-twenties. She had long mousy hair, big glasses, and bright white teeth. She seemed positively giddy to meet me. Would I fuck her? I wondered, before I was able to catch myself.
Menaka motioned for a tall black man to join us. “Alan, I’d like you to meet Doug. He’s Shree Ram Greenbaum’s brother.”
“It’s good to finally meet you, Doug,” Alan said, shaking my hand firmly, just as Robert had. “I understand you’ve been through a really tough time. I’m sorry for your loss. Your brother told me about your mom. She seemed like a really fine lady.”
I was always clueless how to respond to comments like these. “Thank you very much,” I answered.
Alan Jones was no hippie, and I wondered why he didn’t have a spiritual name like my brother and the center leader. His hair was closely cropped like Robert’s, and he wore a tweed jacket with elbow patches, an olive green cardigan, and black slacks with dress shoes.
“Alan’s the manager at the Birchwood Falls ashram,” Menaka said proudly.
“Interim manager, really,” Alan corrected. “Doug, you’re a Cornell student, right?”
“Um, yes,” I answered, feeling like an imposter. Eager to change the subject, I asked Alan a question. “Why do some people who follow Rudrananda use their given names, while others go by Indian names?”
“In my case, my duties as an ashram manager require me to have a lot of contact with the world. For most of the people I deal with out there, my spiritual name— Ugrasena—is hard to say and remember. So I find it easier just to go by Alan.”
“Some Raja Yoga managers use the names that Baba gave them,” Menaka added. “It’s a matter of personal preference.”
Just then, the austere-looking woman who had been tending the boutique interrupted us, tapping the face of her watch. “Menaka, it’s time.”
Following the others into the meditation hall, I removed my shoes like everyone else. I hoped my socks didn’t stink. The hall was a large, high-ceilinged room, with beige wall-to-wall carpeting, picture windows, and a boarded-up fireplace. An altar holding another portrait of the guru stood at the front of the room. Next to the altar was a large television set and a video cassette player on a metal rolling stand cart, like the ones used in classrooms. As people filed in, they bowed before Rudrananda’s picture, spread their woolen cloths on the floor, and sat cross-legged on top of them. The men sat on one side of the room, the women on the other. Everybody faced the altar.
I found an empty spot toward the back of the hall. Just as I was about to sit, Menaka entered, smiling and waving a cloth at me. Taking care not to tread on anyone, she negotiated her way to where I was sitting.
“Sorry, I almost forgot,” she said, handing me the cloth. “You can pay for it later.” She gave me a laminated card containing a few texts in a foreign language transliterated into the Roman alphabet. I was taken aback. I wasn’t sure I wanted to buy anything. The woolen cloth was padded and had a silk border. I hoped it wasn’t too expensive. I only had a few dollars with me.
Returning to the front of the hall, Menaka took a seat behind a musical instrument that looked like a hand-operated pump organ. A young, athletic-looking man sat opposite her, behind a pair of hand drums that I thought were bongos.
“Jai Gurudev!” Menaka exclaimed.
The room responded: “Jai Gurudev!”
She smiled in my direction. “A warm welcome to everyone! Especially to those of you who are here for the first time,” she said with a wink.
Menaka played a few introductory notes on the harmonium and the room broke out in a chant based on the words of a poem by someone called “Guru Nanak.” The tabla player kept the beat, while others played along with finger cymbals and tambourines. I was immediately struck by the loveliness of the melody and wanted to join in, but it was hopeless. I tried reading the transliteration on the card that Menaka had given me, but the words were too difficult to pronounce. I studied the English translation instead:
As fragrance abides in the flower, as reflection is within the mirror, so does your Lord abide within you. Why search for Him without? The Guru is my ship to cross the ocean of worldliness. The Guru is my place of pilgrimage and sacred stream. Let no man live in delusion. Without a Guru none can cross over to the other shore!
When I had finished reading the lyrics of the chant on the card, I glanced around the room at the others. They were singing along joyfully with expressions of deep devotion and concentration on their faces. Some twisted and turned their bodies to the music and made odd gestures with their hands as they sang.
When the chant ended, everyone folded their hands in prayer and all eyes were on Rudrananda’s photo on the altar. I read along:
Guru Brahma Guru Vishnu
Guru Devo Maheshwara
Guru Sakshat Parambrahma
Tasmai Shri Gurave Namah
Guru is the creator; Guru is the sustainer; Guru is the destroyer; Guru is verily the Supreme Absolute. To that Guru we bow.
Dhyana Moolam Guru Murti.
Puja Moolam Gurur Padam,
Mantra Moolam Gurur Vakyam,
Moksha Moolam Guru Kripa
The Guru’s form is the root of meditation; the Guru’s feet are the root of worship; the Guru’s word is the root of Mantra; the Guru’s Grace is the root of liberation.
By the time I had read through the end of the translation, I began to wonder what the hell I was getting myself into. These people are all crazy! I thought, glancing around the room. It was wrong, I told myself, to worship another human being and to attribute that kind of power to him.
I wanted to bolt, but didn’t dare. Everyone I had met at the center had been so nice to me. I didn’t want to insult them, and I didn’t want Menaka or Alan to call Jeremy and tell him I had been rude and left in the middle of the program.
“We have a special treat tonight,” Menaka said. “Many of you know Alan from the Birchwood Falls ashram. He has a new video of Baba to show us.” There was a round of applause and Alan stood up to start the video. He seemed to be having difficulty getting the player to work, however, and Robert got up to help him. Just then, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a young man around my age. He was smirking.
“Get used to it,” he said. “Happens every time they try to show a video here.”
I nodded noncommittally. The guy looked like a freak: he had long, matted, yellow hair that fell past his shoulders, and a long, scraggly beard, which he braided under his chin. His small, deep-set eyes were gray, the color of gunmetal. His T-shirt and jeans were dirty, and he reeked of pot.
I heard a sustained, high-pitched tone and turned back around to see color bars being displayed on the TV screen. Everyone clapped again and Menaka dimmed the lights.
The video began with a photo montage of Rudrananda set to Indian instrumental music. I was struck by how different the guru looked from picture to picture. In some, he had a full head of hair and a flowing beard. In others, his head and face were clean shaven. In one photo, Rudrananda wore a knitted red ski hat, dark sunglasses, and a bulky orange winter coat. In another, he was dressed in nothing but a long piece of cloth wrapped around his waist.
Some of the pictures were black and white, from the 1950s and early 1960s. They depicted a younger, dark-haired Rudrananda in different settings with a loincloth-clad Gurudev Brahmananda. In more recent pictures, a smiling Rudrananda appeared with various celebrities, including a Hollywood actress, the governor of California, an English rock legend, a famous athlete, and even an astronaut. In another group of photos, Rudrananda’s expression was more solemn and introspective. In one of them he carried a big stick and looked as fierce as a lion.
When the slideshow was over, the video faded to black. It then opened on a wide-angle shot of Rudrananda seated cross-legged on a throne, addressing an audience of hundreds of people, mostly white. He spoke in some Indian language and his words were translated by a radiant young Indian woman standing at his side.
“Everyone in this world is seeking the same thing: happiness. But what is the difference between happiness and true bliss? Mundane happiness has a cause and is temporary.” The guru’s voice was thin, but not unpleasant. It was rather sweet, rhythmic, and soothing. It had a distant, alien quality to it, as if it were being broadcast from another dimension. In contrast the translator’s voice was deep and powerful, her tone cool, detached, and vulnerable, all at the same time.
“For example, you miss a particular friend and are happy when you begin to see him again. But for how long are you happy with this friend? Only a short time. After a while, the same friend who made you happy begins to agitate you. Then you are only happy again when he goes away!” The audience in the video erupted in laughter and so did everyone in the room watching it.
“What kind of happiness is this? The sages call this mundane happiness because it has a cause. When the cause disappears, so does your happiness. Bliss, on the other hand, is your true nature and has no cause.
“In the pursuit of happiness you eat delicious food, drink the finest wines, and rub your bodies together. But any happiness or satisfaction you may experience as a result of indulging in these sense pleasures is extremely short-lived. The moment you satisfy one desire, another crops up in its place.
“But what happens when you go to bed at night? In the depths of sleep you finally attain peace. In sleep, there is no eating, no drinking, no entertainment, but when you wake up in the morning, you are refreshed and happy. This demonstrates that you can only find true bliss when the senses withdraw from the external world.
“Therefore, if you wish to attain happiness, you should direct your attention inside. Within, there is a vast ocean of peace. When you meditate, you enter into this ocean. You become immersed in it.”
As I listened to Rudrananda in the video, I felt a deep connection to him. It was as if he were reaching out through time and space and speaking directly to me.
When the video was over, Menaka led us in a twenty-minute meditation session. She began with instructions on the correct posture, how to breathe, and how to silently repeat the mantra “Om Namah Shivaya” to ourselves: once on the in-breath and once again on the out-breath.
I was incapable of meditating, and for me the session was a complete disaster: my mind raced even faster than usual. Every time I tried to empty it of thoughts, it filled up with them again a moment later. Menaka had said we would be meditating for twenty minutes, but for me it felt like twenty hours.
Om Namah Shivaya. Mmmm…meditating…I’m meditating…Om Namah Shivaya…umm…what is that sound? Is that a clock ticking? It’s incredibly annoying…can’t open my eyes and look around…people will know I’m not meditating…oh yeah, the mantra.
Before long, it was as though my mind had sprouted little wings and flown away. I forgot I was meditating and started thinking about meditation instead.
How is meditating different from getting high? I wondered. I thought about the last time I had smoked grass with Mike McFadden. Our favorite spot was in front of the Cornell University founder’s family mausoleum at Lake View Cemetery. I remembered how Mike had rolled a joint on top of a headstone while I looked around the immense graveyard built on the steepest part of East Hill. I was wishing my mother hadn’t been cremated. It upset me to think I would have nowhere to go to mourn her. Her ashes had been scattered to the wind. She was nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
Then it hit me: Shit! I’m not meditating—I’m thinking! Now, what was that mantra again? ‘Om Namah Shivaya?’ What did they say it meant? ‘I bow to Shiva.’ Shiva is the Hindu god of destruction—why worship a god of destruction? Sounds satanic. Satanic.
A memory of Elisabeth Jensen popped into my head. We were in seventh grade and she was telling me she was a Wiccan. She offered to cast a spell on one of my enemies. Was that what this was? Some kind of Wiccan shit?
Fuck! I’m thinking again! I needed to double down. At this rate, it would take me a thousand lifetimes to reach enlightenment. Om Namah Shivaya. Om Namah Shivaya. Om Namah Shivaya.
How long has it been? Om Namah Shivaya. Who’s thinking? Om Namah Shivaya. I’m thinking. Om Namah Shivay. Who am I? Om Namah Shivaya. Maybe there is no thinker, only thoughts. Om Namah Shivaya. Hasn’t it been twenty minutes yet? I’m hungry? My legs hurt. Who’s that snoring?
Just when I thought I couldn’t endure one more second of sitting still with my eyes closed, an alarm beeped and Menaka played a sustained note on the harmonium. We chanted a few rounds of the mantra together, and the program came to an end.
Everyone was very quiet. No one said a word until they were outside the meditation hall and had put their shoes back on. They weren’t just quiet because they weren’t saying anything; I had the impression that their minds were quiet. And despite how agitated I had felt during my first attempt at meditation, my mind was quiet, too. I experienced an unfamiliar internal stillness.
Menaka looked at me expectantly when we had both returned to the lobby. “So, how was it? Did you enjoy the video of Baba?”
“Amazing,” I answered, surprised by my own enthusiasm. “What language was the swami speaking?
“Baba’s native language is Gujarati, but he was speaking in Marathi—the language of Maharashtra State, where Baba’s ashram is located. Mostly he speaks in Hindi, though—it depends on his audience.”
“And who was that beautiful Indian woman translating for him?”
Menaka’s eyes twinkled. “Everybody asks that. That’s Anjali Bhandary. She’s known Baba her whole life and has traveled all over the world with him. Her parents were devotees of Gurudev Brahmananda before Baba succeeded him.”
Most of the people who had come to the program were leaving. I noticed the freak who had been sitting behind me in the meditation hall was heading out the door. He was still barefoot. I was also about to leave when Menaka brought me a cup of tea. It was spicy with a lot of milk and sugar already added to it. She said that in India they called it “chai.” Back then the word sounded exotic.
“By the way, did you want to pay for the asana now?” Menaka asked.
At first I didn’t know what she was talking about. Then I realized she was referring to the woolen cloth she had given me to sit on during the program, which was now folded up neatly under my arm. “Oh, yeah,” I answered. My face flushed with embarrassment. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to afford it. “How much is it?”
“Twenty-five.”
I swallowed. That was a lot! My allowance was only ten dollars a week. “Can I pay for it next time?”
“Of course!” Menaka beamed. “Hold on.” She left me for a moment to get something from the boutique. “Here, this is for you,” she said, handing me a small photograph of Baba. The guru’s face was solemn in the picture. He was dressed in red silks with a matching red ski hat, and seated on a plush armchair with two large black dogs prone at his feet.
“How much is this?” I asked, feeling embarrassed. I didn’t want Menaka to think I was cheap.
“Don’t worry about it!” she laughed. “It’s a gift!”
I looked at the photo again. Baba gazed back at me with deep compassion in his eyes. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
Menaka invited me to sit down with her in the kitchen for another cup of chai, and offered me a piece of carrot cake. Robert and Alan joined us. Robert, it turned out, lived above the center and owned the building. Menaka and Lakshmi Dunn—the austere-looking woman who tended the boutique—lived there with him.
“How did you first find out about Baba?” I asked Menaka.
Menaka had heard about Baba three years before, from a college friend of hers who lived at his new ashram in the Catskill Mountains and invited the future Menaka to come hear Baba speak. Birchwood Falls was about a three-hour drive from Ithaca and she had arrived a little late for the afternoon program. By the time she arrived, the hall—a converted hotel ballroom—was already almost full. Menaka’s friend, however, had made sure a spot was reserved for her only a few feet from the guru’s throne.
“The atmosphere in the ashram was incredibly powerful,” Menaka said. “The feeling of being in a space with hundreds of other people, all chanting and meditating together in the presence of a living and breathing saint — it was amazing.”
Robert and Alan both nodded and smiled in agreement.
“The subject of Baba’s talk that afternoon was love. He spoke about how we’re all looking for it, but never in the right places. I had just broken up with a boyfriend at the time, so as you can imagine, Baba’s words resonated very deeply with me. I began to sob uncontrollably and at one point Baba looked over in my direction and our eyes met. The love in his eyes was overwhelming, and I melted on the spot.
“When it was time to go up and meet Baba, my friend brought me to the front of the line because she knew I had a three-hour drive back to Ithaca after the program. When she introduced me, Baba tapped me lightly on my head with his wand of peacock feathers and held it there for a moment. Then, for some inexplicable reason, I began to cry. So Baba asked me, ‘Why are you so sad?’ And I told him: ‘I’m not sad, Baba. I’m just very happy to meet you.’ Baba’s eyes lit up and he began to laugh. Then he took me in his arms and gave me a big hug and asked his assistant to go get something for him. A few moments later, the assistant came back with a beautiful bracelet. And Baba gave it to me.”
Menaka pointed to an elegant golden hoop around her wrist.
“After my encounter with Baba, I was overcome with emotion, but didn’t notice anything unusual until I was in my car driving back to Ithaca. I began to notice that all the colors around me were incredibly intense. The hills and trees—even the other cars on the road—seemed to be scintillating with energy. Wave after wave of ecstasy passed through me and I felt as though I were one with everything around me on a molecular level.”
I was blown away by Menaka’s story. “Do you think you received shaktipat when you met Baba that first time?”
“Yes, I do, Doug.”
Robert, who along with Alan had been listening quietly to Menaka share her story, turned to me. “A shaktipat guru can awaken the kundalini in anyone with a mere thought, look, word, or touch.”
“When Baba is in America, he offers weekend shaktipat retreats during which you’re guaranteed to receive it,” Alan said.
I was sold. As soon as I got home I was going to call Jeremy and tell him that I definitely wanted to meet Baba when he was back in New York, and that I wanted to take the shaktipat retreat.
I said my goodbyes to Menaka, Robert, and Alan. They told me how much they had enjoyed meeting me and that they hoped to see me again soon. When I went to the door to leave, I noticed that my bike was gone.
“I put your bike outside,” Lakshmi said curtly. “Baba’s house is sacred space. Visitors are not allowed to bring their bikes into the building.”
I felt searing heat in my face. I was mortified for having broken the rules. I glanced over at Robert, hoping he would tell Lakshmi that he had been the one to insist that I bring it inside. Unfortunately, Robert was now standing in a corner finishing a piece of carrot cake.
Despite the awkward end to the evening, I was elated. As I rode home, I thought about the new friends I had made, and the video of Baba. I was excited that in a few months I would have a chance to meet him and take a shaktipat retreat. But I also felt disappointed. Why didn’t Jeremy and Carrie bring me to meet Baba while he was still in New York State?
When I got home I called my brother and told him all about my evening at the center and how much I was looking forward to meeting Baba in the spring. My spirits sank, however, when he told me how much a shaktipat retreat cost: two hundred dollars. This was a fortune to me back then. It would have taken me almost two years to save that much money, even if I never spent a dime of my allowance.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jeremy said. “I’m starting as an intern at NYU Medical Center in the spring and will be earning decent money. I’ll pay for it.”
As I lay in bed that night, I thought about what Baba had said in the video about people finding happiness in their sleep. I tried to recall a time I had ever woken up feeling particularly happy, but I couldn’t. Usually I just felt sad.
As an experiment, I silently repeated the mantra “Om Namah Shivaya” and waited for sleep to take me.
Om Namah Shivaya on the in-breath. Om Namah Shivaya as I exhaled. I had never consciously tried to articulate a thought inside my own mind before. The process fascinated me. I “listened” more attentively to the inner sound of the mantra I was forming in my head: Om Namah Shivaya. Om Namah Shivaya. Om Namah Shivaya…
*
WHEN I WOKE UP in the morning I felt much lighter than usual. What is this unfamiliar feeling? I asked myself. Then I realized what it was: I felt happy.