The Guru’s Touch – Chapter 6. A Warm Welcome

“ONE TICKET TO BIRCHWOOD FALLS, New York, please.”

“Round trip or one-way?

“One-way.”

I paid for my ticket and Melanie followed me out to the parking lot of the station, where my bus was idling.

“It’s not too late to change your mind, Doug.” Melanie’s posture was bent and the corners of her mouth were turned down. “You could help me in the nursery. I would pay you, of course. Maybe you could take some courses at Tompkins Cortland Community College.”

I handed the bus driver my ticket and duffel bag to stow. “I’m sorry, Melanie, but my mind is made up. All I want to do for the rest of my life is serve the guru.”

My sister laughed ruefully and wiped the tears from her face with the back of her mitten. “Well, then I hope he has more luck getting you to shovel the snow than I did.”

Melanie and I hugged good-bye and I got on board, taking the first empty window seat.

The bus made a loud whooshing noise and pulled out of the station. I waved and a tearful Melanie waved back. The bus turned the corner and she was gone. A lump formed in my throat and my stomach knotted up. Am I making a terrible mistake? I asked myself.

This was the first time I had ever left town on my own, and I was anxious. What if I miss my connection in Binghamton? What if they lose my bag?

As the bus headed up State Street, the early morning sun stung my eyes. The engine groaned as the bus lunged into third gear. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. I could ask the driver to let me off the bus right now, before it’s too late. Despite my mounting anxiety, I knew that I wouldn’t do that. I had to be brave.

When I had told everyone at the center about my unexpected windfall, they were overjoyed. Menaka was positively giddy. The money meant that I could finally be with Baba and live in the ashram. Menaka immediately put me in touch with Alan. With his enthusiastic help, I booked a room at the ashram for the next six months—paid in advance. I was elated, of course, but I had some misgivings, too. I called Jeremy and Carrie to talk about them.

“What if nobody likes me in Birchwood Falls?” I had asked.

Carrie giggled. “That’s just your ego talking, Doug! It doesn’t matter whether others like you or not. Only Baba’s opinion matters, and he obviously wants you there. Why else would he have blessed you with all that money?”

My brother also laughed reassuringly. “Believe me, the ashram needs all the help it can get preparing for Baba’s visit. They’ll be thrilled to have you!”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought they might also be thrilled to have my money.

Even after the phone call, I still had my doubts about whether people would be friendly to me at the ashram. In any case, I was going where no one knew me. People there wouldn’t see me as the freak with two dead parents who had just flunked out of college. In the ashram, all that would matter was my devotion to the guru.

Melanie’s reaction to the news that I was planning on spending the rest of my life in the ashram had been, as expected, quite different from Jeremy’s. While I was packing, she came by my room with a warning.

“When we sell the house, I’m getting rid of everything you leave behind or I’m keeping it for myself,” she said, resting her fists on her hips. “I’m not paying for storage for you.”

An idle threat, I told myself. At the price Melanie was asking for the house, it wasn’t going to sell anytime soon. In any case, the only things I was leaving behind that I cared anything about were my bicycle and my record collection. But what did a swami need with a ten-speed and the complete works of Jethro Tull?

“Fine,” I said. “I’m becoming a renunciant. I have no use for material possessions.”

Melanie threw her head back and laughed. “No need for material possessions? Then why are you taking twenty thousand dollars in traveler’s checks with you?”

“I might need the money to go on tour with Baba. He could be heading to Europe or Australia before returning to India.” The other reason was that I didn’t want to run out of funds. The rest of my small fortune was locked away in a savings account. If I needed cash at any point, I could have the bank wire it to me.

Lucy also made her feelings known to me. “So, you’re going to shave your head, put on an orange dress, and dance in the park?” I didn’t dignify her question with a response. My spiritually unevolved sisters were pathetic.

My old high school friends’ reactions weren’t much better. Their suggestions about what to do with the money highlighted the difference between them and my new friends from Raja Yoga.

“I’d take all that money and go live in the Dominican Republic,” Stuart said. “The island’s crawling with beautiful girls and everything is dirt cheap. You could get high and lie on the beach all day long.”

“I’d start my own business,” Mike said. “A personal computer in every home, all linked together in a worldwide network. I’ve got a thousand ideas!”

“A hundred and twenty thousand dollars won’t get you very far if you don’t invest it wisely,” Eddie said. “If I were you, I’d get my shit together and go back to school.”

My worldly friends were all deluded, of course. None of them understood the value and true purpose of their precious human existence. I truly thought they were doomed to wander in spiritual ignorance for countless lifetimes.

Elisabeth Jensen was no exception. She was home from Smith for winter break, and we went out for Mexican food to catch up. I had already told her a bit about the guru and Raja Yoga over the phone, but she didn’t know I was leaving for the ashram. She was dressed in one of her signature, tight-fitting turtleneck sweaters, and it was all I could do to stop myself from staring at her breasts. I prayed to Baba to rid my mind of impure thoughts.

“You may or may not ever see me again,” I said, taking a bite of my vegetarian tostada. Elisabeth was having steak fajitas.

She pursed her lips. “What’s that supposed to mean, Doug?”

“I’m embarking on a spiritual journey.”

She smirked. “You mean like Larry Darrell?”

“Who’s Larry Darrell?”

“He’s the protagonist in The Razor’s Edge. By Somerset Maugham?”

“Never read it.”

“Don’t bother,” she laughed, “it sucked. Anyway, tell me about your spiritual quest.”

“I’m seeking the ultimate goal of all transmigrating beings.”

Elisabeth cut into a thick, juicy strip of meat. “I’m listening.”

“The realization that God dwells within us as us.”
She popped the piece of steak into her mouth and chewed it thoroughly before replying. “Sounds like you realize that already. You sound pretty convinced.”

“Well, I grasp it intellectually, of course. But God-realization is a transcendental experience.”

Elisabeth pressed her lips into a hard line.

My mind raced, searching for a better answer. I remembered something I’d heard Baba say in a video, and repeated it verbatim: “The ultimate reality of our true nature cannot be grasped through the conceptual mind, nor can it be explained to the uninitiated.”

“So, I take it you’re one of the initiated.”

“I will be after I meet Baba,” I answered, trying to stop picturing her naked. “I intend to take an initiation retreat during which the guru will bestow shaktipat.”

Elisabeth cleared her throat. “Shaktipat?”

“The awakening of my kundalini and initiation into the path of Raja Yoga.”
“I see,” Elisabeth said, sipping her Coke. “They charge money for that, I take it?”

I was at a loss. Then I again remembered something I had read in one of Baba’s books: “Anything of true value requires an exchange of energy. Only when we are ready to give, are we truly able to receive.”

Elisabeth’s eyes twinkled and she snorted. “I like that!”

Is she laughing at me? I wondered. My face felt hot.

“So this Swami Rudra character—”

“Swami Rudrananda,” I corrected.

“He sounds like he has it pretty good. I mean, he has lots of followers who will do anything for him—travels all over the world—”

“Baba’s also ready to do anything for his devotees,” I countered. I had never actually heard anyone at the center say that, but I was sure it must be true.

“Does he fly first class?” Elisabeth asked, stabbing a strip of steak with her fork. “I’ll bet he flies first class.”

I tensed up. “What are you inferring?”

Elisabeth wrinkled her nose. “Implying. I’m implying that he’s taking you and all his other followers for the proverbial ride. Like that other Indian guru out west—what’s his name—‘Rajneesh’ or something—the one with a hundred Rolls-Royces.”

I had no idea what so-called “guru” she was talking about, and felt put on the spot. Suddenly I was thirsty. I gulped down some ice water. “Baba’s motivations are completely altruistic.”

“How do you know that, Doug? I mean, you’ve never even met this man. Don’t you think you’re taking a lot on faith?”

I was beginning to wonder if Elisabeth had changed her mind about becoming a psychologist. She didn’t sound very supportive.

“First of all, my brother and his wife have met Baba and I trust their good judgment. I’ve also read a lot of his books and I’ve been studying Hindu philosophy. In any case, faith is what it’s all about, Elisabeth. A truly spiritual person understands that.”

I had been sure that by the end of the evening Elisabeth would want to meet Baba too, but she was as closed-minded as Melanie. Sick of being put on the defensive, I changed the subject. I talked to her about the money I had inherited from Harvey and how unexpected it was.

Elisabeth sat up straight and smiled. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“What doesn’t surprise you? That Harvey had all that money?”

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t surprise me that you were his favorite person and that he wanted to leave you all his money. You’re a very special person, Doug, even if you can’t see it right now.”

I bristled. Haven’t I just spent the last thirty minutes telling her how “special” Baba is? I’m Baba’s disciple; that makes me special too. Then I thought about what Elisabeth had said about my being Harvey’s “favorite person.” Maybe I was. I had happy memories of all the moments my cousin and I had spent hiking, identifying fossils, and visiting museums together. I hadn’t minded listening to his same old stories about the Native Americans of the Finger Lakes region every time he came to visit. I had done those things with him because I enjoyed them, but also because I got an emotional lift out of feeling generous. I just didn’t realize it at the time.

Elisabeth asked for the check. “So you’re leaving. Your mind is made up?”
“Yes, I’m going to the Birchwood Falls ashram to help with the advance work. Afterwards, I’d like to travel with Baba and eventually return with him to India.”

Elisabeth formed a steeple with her fingers and looked pensive for a moment before speaking. “The more I think about it, the more I agree that maybe some mindless work for you is just what the doctor would order right now.”

“Mindless?”

Narrowing her eyes, she leaned forward and took my hand in hers. My body flooded with warmth. “Doug, you’ve been through hell. Anyone who doesn’t understand that is completely insensitive.” She obviously wants me, I told myself.

I tried to pay the check, but Elisabeth insisted on splitting it with me. Then I followed her out the door of the restaurant and onto the street.

“Take good care of yourself at the ashram. Don’t let anyone take advantage of that good heart of yours.”

I had to make my move. It was now or never. My last chance to get laid before taking the vows of a swami. I leaned in to kiss her.

Elisabeth jerked her head back and raised a hand in front of her mouth to block me. “What are you doing?” she said, her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.

Heat rushed to my face and my skin tingled. I felt like an idiot. “I—um—I—”

“I thought you were all spiritual now?” Elisabeth’s eyes twinkled and she let out a bark of laughter. “Men! You’re all the same!”

*

THE BUS PULLED INTO the Greyhound station in Binghamton. My connection for Birchwood Falls was across the street at the Short Line terminal. Even though I had a thirty-minute wait, as soon the driver retrieved my bag from the hold, I made a run for it. I was completely inexperienced at traveling. I was afraid the bus might leave early without me.

The official name of Baba’s American headquarters in Birchwood Falls was Shree Brahmananda Ashram, after Baba’s own guru. It was located in the Catskill Mountain region of upstate New York, better known to my family as the “Borscht Belt.” Up until the early 1970s, the area had been a popular vacation spot for New York City Jews and was home to numerous upscale kosher resorts. The Raja Yoga Mission in New York had first opened an ashram in a converted brownstone in Greenwich Village. Soon afterward, the Manhattan ashram had proved too small to accommodate the droves of devotees and curiosity seekers who had started coming to see Baba. Almost immediately, the Mission began searching for a larger property Upstate. At the same time, the once flourishing resorts of the “Jewish Alps” were beginning to resemble ghost towns; many of the formerly splendid hotels in the area had closed down and fallen into disrepair. In 1977, the Mission was able to purchase the rundown Danziger Hotel for a pittance. Extensive renovations were begun and devotees started flooding in from all across the globe to volunteer their labor and expertise. Within the space of only a few months, the old Borscht Belt resort was transformed into a “Meditation Mecca.” The ballroom was converted into a meditation hall that could seat up to a thousand, its eighteen-hole golf course was transformed into lush gardens, and its Olympic-size swimming pool was filled in and an ornate temple to Baba’s guru and a fountain were erected in its place.

I got off the bus in Birchwood Falls and took a taxi to the ashram.

“I’m going to Shree Gurudev Brahmananda Ashram,” I told the driver. I was about to give him the address, but he already knew where it was.

On the way to the ashram I saw many dilapidated homes and buildings. But as we drew closer to my destination, I also saw clusters of newer-looking bungalows and structures with what looked like hotel signs written entirely in Hebrew. A group of teenaged Jewish boys with side curls in black hats and long black coats was in the driveway of a building that looked like a schoolhouse. They were boarding a yellow school bus with Hebrew lettering on the side. I admired their obvious commitment to their faith, but thought they were misguided. I believed I was blessed to have found a genuine shaktipat guru and to be on a true path to enlightenment.

The driver remained silent the entire trip. I wondered if he realized how lucky he was to live in such close proximity to Baba’s ashram.

We turned a corner and passed several acres of grounds surrounded by barbed wire. I was breathless; in the distance I could see a sprawling complex of buildings that I recognized as Baba’s ashram, from the many pictures I had seen of it in Raja Path Magazine. The gate to the complex was open and the driver turned into a circular driveway in front of what must have been the main building. A sign above the entrance read “Shree Brahmananda Ashram.” Tears stung my eyes. I was home at last.

I paid the driver and gave him a big tip. He took the money without comment and popped the trunk open from the dashboard. I got out, grabbed my bag from the trunk, and slammed it shut. Then the driver sped off without so much as a “thank you.”
Suddenly, I felt weak in the knees and dizzy. I’m stranded, I thought. What if I don’t like it here? What if the people here changed their mind and I won’t be allowed to stay? Where will I go?

I approached the ashram’s big glass sliding doors and they opened automatically. As soon as I had crossed the threshold, I felt lighter. On the wall across from the entrance was an enormous photo of a smiling Baba. A sign just beneath it read, “See God in Everyone.” Over the sound system, a recording of Baba sweetly reciting the Om Namah Shivaya mantra was accompanied by the light, soothing, almost hypnotic strains of an ektara. It was as though I had entered a higher realm—a celestial space station. I was overcome with gratitude to the guru for bringing me here.

The ashram lobby was vast, immaculate, and fragrant with a mixture of burning incense, flowers, and basmati rice. The lower part of the lobby was lined with benches, all of which were empty. Up a few steps, at the far end of the lobby, some people were going about their business, including a man vacuuming in front of what looked like a reception area. His gaze was cast downward at the wall-to-wall carpeting he was cleaning. The expression on his face was vacant, as if the repetitive motion required by his chore and the unrelenting drone of the vacuum had sent him into a trance. Mounting the steps to the upper lobby, I could now see through the open doors of an enormous cafeteria, with many rows of tables and chairs that looked like they might have originally served in a high school cafeteria. A group of ashramites were setting up a serving line of industrial-size pots. The tantalizing aromas of exotic spices from the kitchen were making me hungry. In the lobby, a line was forming outside the doors to the cafeteria. Luckily, I had arrived just in time for lunch, but I wasn’t sure I could eat without checking in first.

I approached the reception area. A sign on the counter said: “Closed.” I glanced back at the ashramites waiting in line for lunch. None of them were draped in “Om Namah Shivaya” shawls or loose fitting cotton clothing like most of the people who attended satsang back home at the center in Ithaca. A couple of men in their early thirties with sawdust in their hair were wearing paint-speckled overalls. Behind them, a contingent of women in their twenties and thirties were drably dressed in boxy blouses and long frumpy skirts. A preadolescent boy and an athletic-looking woman in a pullover top and stretch pants descended a narrow flight of stairs off the dining room, each with what looked like school books under their arms. As I stood in the lobby scratching my head, no one gave me a second look. Can’t any of these people see me? I thought. Why hasn’t anyone greeted me yet?

I lingered a little longer in front of the closed reception area, hoping someone would come to my aid. As I waited, I studied the faces of the ashramites converging on the cafeteria. They were of diverse ethnic backgrounds, ages, shapes, and sizes, but I didn’t see a single Indian. Some were beautiful, others were homely, but they all glowed with discipline, focus, and devotion to the guru.

The serving line opened and the ashramites working it began to chant “Shree Ram, Jai Ram,” one of the thousand Hindu names for God. Their singing was slow and melancholy. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought they were chanting a funeral dirge. Just then I noticed a grim-looking man with a shaved head joining the lunch line. He wore orange robes and, like the guru, he had a dot of bright red powder between his eyebrows. Unlike the guru, he was white and, I assumed, American. He was short and stout, with only the suggestion of a neck. Despite an almost grotesque quality about the man, he exuded an air of confidence through impeccable posture and the relaxed manner in which he held his hands behind his back. He looked like he was in his late fifties or early sixties. The orange robes identified him as one of Baba’s swamis. That’s what I’m going to look like someday! I told myself.

As more and more people took their places in line, I felt increasingly like an outsider. I was about to ask the grumpy-looking swami if it would be okay if I ate lunch before checking in, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned. Alan Jones was standing behind me beaming a smile. “Welcome, stranger.” He reached for my hand and shook it firmly. “I saw your name on the list of new arrivals today.” Alan was dressed as smartly as ever, in a burgundy turtleneck sweater and charcoal slacks. Hanging from his belt was a large ring of keys and a walkie-talkie. He looked important.

“I wanted to check in, but the reception desk is closed.”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Come, let’s have lunch.” With his arm around my shoulder, Alan led me over to the lunch line and stopped to introduce me to the stern-looking man in orange robes. “Swamiji, this is Doug.”

The swami’s eyes lit up. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure!” His voice was warm and vaguely flirtatious, incongruous with his solemn countenance.

“Doug, this is Swami Akhandananda. He’s one of Baba’s senior swamis.”

I folded my hands together and lowered my head, in the manner I had seen Indians greet Gandhi in the movie starring Ben Kingsley.

The swami giggled. “Puh-lease! Save your awe and reverence for Baba. I’m very happy to meet you, young Mr. Greenbaum.” He knew my last name. I understood that Alan must have told him about me.

Alan gave me an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder.

“Something tells me you’re of the Jewish persuasion,” the swami said with a comedic gleam in his eyes. “Am I mistaken?”

“I’m of Jewish heritage, yes.” My mouth felt dry, and I was getting hot in my winter coat. I wanted to take it off, but I was already carrying a duffle bag and my knapsack.

As if reading my thoughts, the swami glanced down at my bag. “Alan, why don’t you take Douglas’ bag and coat and put them in your office until he can get settled after lunch.”

Alan nodded deferentially and reached for my bag. I removed my coat and handed it to him, and he left me alone in line with the swami. Then he disappeared behind a door next to the reception area that said “Manager.”

The swami leaned close, as though he were about to tell me a secret. “I’m an Osmotic Jew, myself,” he said softly.

“I beg your pardon, Swamiji?”

“You’ve heard of Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews, haven’t you?” He gave me the once-over.

I nodded.

“Judging by your last name, I assume that you’re of Ashkenazi descent.”

“That’s right,” I said. “But what’s an Osmotic Jew?” I was beginning to think the swami was pulling my leg—I had never heard of an Osmotic Jew before, and Akhandananda didn’t look Jewish.

The swami’s face broke into a childlike grin. “After twenty years in Beverly Hills, I’m a Jew by osmosis!” The swami covered his mouth and giggled. I laughed too. I was beginning to like this character.

After Alan returned from the reception area, we entered the cafeteria and I found myself in front of a high stack of hard plastic cafeteria trays. I took one and also grabbed a fork and knife, and then made my way down the serving line. A moderate helping of each prepared dish was carefully ladled into the most appropriate size and shape compartment in my tray. These included a spicy tofu dish, a scoop of brown rice, a wholesome grain and vegetable mixture, plain yogurt, and an apple.

I followed Akhandananda and Alan to a table and glanced around the room. Some of the ashramites sat alone, eating mindfully. Others sat together making lively conversation. Toward the back of the hall, couples sat with small kids. I marveled at the children’s extraordinarily good karma. I could imagine how pure and highly evolved they must have been to be born into Raja Yoga and live in one of Baba’s ashrams.

As soon as we sat down, I began to devour my food. The swami watched me eat with wide eyes and parted lips. “Everyone’s entitled to seconds, you know,” he giggled. “And you, young man, need fattening up!”

Akhandananda and Alan spoke about ashram business for a while, and then the swami turned his attention back to me and told me a little bit about his life before Raja Yoga. “When I first met Baba I was an unmitigated hedonist, I’m afraid,” he said with a far-away, misty look in his eyes. Then he sighed, shook his head, and smiled a little. “Looking for love in all the wrong places…”

“What did you do before?” I asked. “For a living?”

The swami laughed heartily. “Physician to the stars, my boy!”

“Swamiji’s patients included some of Hollywood’s biggest names,” Alan said.

“That’s right,” Akhandananda said. “But my life changed forever the day I met Baba.”

I loved hearing Baba stories. “What happened?”

“One of my patients, who shall remain nameless,” the swami said, winking, “brought me up on the darshan line to meet Baba. The look the guru gave me was so penetrating, my entire sense of individuality melted away in an instant. All that remained was an ocean of love. At that moment I knew the only thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life was to learn how to swim in that ocean. I also knew that Baba was the man to teach me. After the program, I went home and I sat down to close my eyes for what I thought was five minutes. When I opened them again and checked my watch, it turned out that I had been in a deep state of meditation for three hours!”

Alan closed his eyes and nodded his head. “Jai Gurudev!”

“Jai Gurudev!” Akhandananda responded. I made a mental note to join in the next time anyone said that.

I asked Akhandananda what the word darshan meant and he explained that it was “the opportunity to be in the presence of a great saint.” He spoke about his past medical career and I thought of Jeremy. “Swamiji, my brother’s finishing medical school now. Do you think he’s wasting his time?”

“The life of a renunciant is not for everyone, my boy.”

Alan agreed. “Besides, Baba needs doctors for The Mission.”

I had seen Alan a few times at the Ithaca center, but had never heard how he had gotten into Raja Yoga. He shared his story with me.

“I met Baba in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1974. When I went before him on the darshan line, Baba looked me in the eye and said: ‘I’ve been waiting for you. At last you’ve come.’ He tapped me lightly on the head with his wand of peacock feathers, and then he told me: ‘We’re going to do great things together.’”

Alan’s story gave me the chills. “Then what happened?”

The manager shook his head. “Baba didn’t speak to me again for five years!” He and Akhandananda burst out laughing and I laughed with them, though I wasn’t sure why.

“Why didn’t he speak to you?” I asked. My question prompted more laughter from Alan and the swami, and they exchanged knowing glances.

Alan Shrugged. “I guess you could say that was just Baba’s way of working on my huge ego.”

“The guru builds the disciple up, so that he can knock him down,” Akhandananda explained. “Now look at him. Alan’s the manager of this ashram—Baba’s American headquarters.”

A flush crept across Alan’s cheeks. “Interim manager, technically.”
“He’s also a swami candidate,” Akhandananda added.

I felt a rush of excitement. “You’re going to be a swami?”

If Alan can do it, so can I!

“If that’s Baba’s will,” Alan answered, raising his hands in front of himself.

The swami and Alan were still eating long after I had finished. Akhandananda looked down at my empty tray. “You like our ashram food, I see. Go on, Douglas. Help yourself to seconds.”

“Yeah, go get some more to eat,” Alan smiled. “You’re going to be doing a lot of seva around here and need your strength!”

When I returned to the food line only one server remained. He was a short, thin man with dark hair and cold eyes. I guessed he was in his early twenties. He was dressed in high-waisted blue jeans and a tattered red plaid flannel shirt. I held my tray out to him and he looked me up and down, then squinted at me through thick-rimmed glasses. “Name tag?”

“I beg your pardon?”

The young man glared at me disapprovingly and tapped his breast pocket. “Where’s your name tag?”

“I don’t have one yet.”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Then I can’t serve you.”

I glanced down at the man’s shirt. He wasn’t wearing one either. The young man folded his arms in front of his chest and looked away. I glanced around the cafeteria. Nobody had one.

“You served me before. I’m just coming back for seconds.”

“You’ve got to have a name tag.”

“But Swamiji said it was okay.”

“Fortunately, Swamiji isn’t in charge of the serving line.”

Strange, I thought. But rather than make a big deal about it, I just rejoined the swami and Alan at the table, explaining that I wasn’t hungry.