After lunch, Alan introduced me to Mukti at the reception desk, which was now open. Then he left me to my own devices. Mukti was a woman in her late thirties with deep, dark circles under her eyes and a sagging face. Her teeth were crooked and stained, and her hair, which she wore in a tight bun on the top of her head, was an unattractive mixture of yellow and gray.
I filled out the accommodation form and left the departure date blank. When I was finished, Mukti snatched the paper away from me and carefully read what I had put down.
“How long are you staying?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “Indefinitely?”
“You’ll need to pay at least a month’s room and board up front.”
I swallowed hard. “But I already sent the ashram a check for six months in advance. I arranged it with Alan.”
Mukti sauntered through the open doorway of an office behind her, and came back thirty seconds later with another sheet of paper.
“So you have,” she said handing me a receipt for twenty-four hundred dollars. “It’s nonrefundable, you know.”
I nodded my assent.
Mukti reached into a drawer under the counter and pulled out a plastic badge holder and a blank name card that said “Raja Yoga Mission of America” with the Mission’s official insignia: a combination of a geometric flower, a Sanskrit “Om” symbol, and something resembling a Greek caduceus.
“Spiritual name?”
“I don’t have one—yet.”
Mukti wrote “Doug” on the card with a black sharpie, inserted it into the holder, applied a little round green sticker to the upper left-hand corner, and handed it to me.
“Wear this at all times,” she said.
I undid the pin on the back of the badge and attached it to my shirt. Mukti turned around to take a key from a panel on the wall.
“You’re in Shiva Shayanagrih,” she said. Then she gave me a pamphlet entitled “Ashram Rules.”
“What’s Shiva Shayanagrih?”
Mukti narrowed her eyes and tapped her fingernails against the counter. “‘Shayanagrih’ means dormitory. Shiva Shayanagrih is where the men sleep.”
I slung my bag over my shoulder and was about to leave in search of my dorm room when Mukti spoke again. “Make sure you read that,” she said, pointing to the “Ashram Rules” pamphlet I was holding.
“Of course. Thank you.”
“Oh, and Doug—the seva desk closes at three.”
Massive windows in the lobby framed a view of the snow-shrouded ashram grounds. But the wall on the far end of the lobby was cloaked behind a long gray curtain. I thought about taking a peek behind, but didn’t want to be seen poking my nose where it didn’t belong.
I knocked before using my key to open the door to my room, in case its occupants hadn’t been informed that they would be getting a new roommate. There was no answer. Inside I was greeted by sunshine blazing through a picture window and the strong smell of recently burnt incense. The room was sparsely furnished, with three crudely-fashioned pine bunk beds, a couple of plywood dressers, and bright orange shag carpeting. I found it hard to believe that I was standing in what was once a room in a luxury resort. Only two of the lower bunks were made up, which meant I had only one roommate. Above each bed, a small shelf was built into the wall. The shelf above one of the made-up beds served as an altar to Baba and Gurudev Brahmananda. The puja altar and a thin line of ash from a half-burnt stick of incense were the only signs that I had a roommate. The room was immaculate. Claiming the free bed and empty shelf, I unpacked my pictures of the gurus and set up my own altar.
I took a leak in the bathroom and noticed another sign of life: a bag of toiletries hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. I wondered what it would be like to share the bathroom with five other men. Once Baba arrived there would be few vacancies in the dormitories. I would have to get dressed and undressed every day in front of all those strangers. I would have absolutely no privacy. A wave of homesickness hit. I have to be strong, I told myself.
Before unpacking the rest of my things, I sat down on the bed and studied the booklet on Ashram Rules that Mukti had given me.
All guests are required to follow the entire ashram daily schedule. Participation in all meditation sessions, chants, and public programs is required.
SEVA
Seva (selfless service) is an essential part of ashram life and provides an opportunity for you to participate in the daily chores and maintenance of the ashram. Guests are required to perform at least three hours of seva per day.
INTOXICANTS
Smoking, the consumption of alcohol, and the use of drugs are strictly prohibited.
MALE/FEMALE
Ashramites and visitors are expected to observe celibacy. Expressions of affection such as hugging and kissing are forbidden.
Men and women must sit in their respective gender-designated areas of the meditation hall and temples.
Male and female dormitories are separate. Men are not allowed in women’s rooms and vice versa.
DRESS CODE
Clothing must be modest. Shorts, miniskirts, and tight-fitting or revealing clothing are not permitted.
SILENCE
Guests are asked to observe silence in the cafeteria during meals. Gossip and frivolous conversation are forbidden at all times.
Lights out is at ten-thirty P.M.
When I had finished reading the rules, I faced the altar above my bed and folded my hands in prayer. Please Baba, help me adjust quickly to my new life in your home. Make me a model ashramite.
The seva desk was across from the reception area, and it was tended by Sita Perkins, a plump, pale-faced, large-breasted woman with a bright smile. She had straight dirty-blonde hair and a pitted complexion.
“Welcome to the ashram, Doug!”
“How did you know my name?”
Sita pointed to the badge pinned to my shirt and let out a guffaw. “It’s on your name tag, silly!”
“So it is!” My face tingled with embarrassment. Sita was wearing a name tag too. But instead of a green sticker above her name like mine, she had an orange one.
“I have the perfect seva for you, Doug. You’ll be working with Madhu Arnold in Housing. He can show you the ropes. He’s an old-timer.” Sita explained that she was not only in charge of assigning seva to ashram guests, but that she also managed the Housing Department. I would be answering directly to her.
“Are there a lot of guests in the ashram?” I asked.
“Not this time of year. Actually, you’re the only one.” Something caught Sita’s eye and she waved. “Oh, here comes Madhu.”
Lumbering toward us, with his hands in his pockets and his head hung low, was a deeply tanned young man around my age, with a muscular build and a mop of dark brown hair.
“I thought you said he was an old-timer.”
Sita laughed. “I meant he’s an old-timer in Raja Yoga, silly! His mom has been a devotee of Baba since the first world tour.”
“Hand me the screw gun,” said Madhu from the other side of the bunk bed we were assembling. Actually, Madhu was doing most of the assembly. My job was to lug whatever hardware I could carry by myself up from the basement.
I rummaged through the toolbox and found a couple of instruments that might qualify as a screw gun.
“Which one is it?”
“Boy, you weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t handy.”
“Sorry,” I said handing him what I thought might be the screw gun. “I grew up without a father.”
“So did I,” Madhu said. “He wasn’t into Baba.” Then he laughed when he noticed what I had passed to him. “That, my friend, is a glue gun.”
I handed him a different gadget. “Where’s your mom now?”
“Yeah, that’s the right one,” Madhu said. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.” The drill made a loud, whirring sound and the screw squeaked as Madhu drove it into a two-by-four, attaching it to a bed platform.
“My mom?” he said, putting the screw gun down and standing up to wipe his brow with the back of his sleeve. “She’s still in India with Baba. I came back early to take the GED.”
“You went to high school in India?”
Madhu chuckled. “Yeah, sort of. But not with Indian kids or anything. Some of the people around Baba used to be teachers. I guess you could say I was home schooled, like all the kids who are raised in the ashram.”
Madhu told me he had grown up traveling all over the world with Baba. I was in awe of him. “After you get your high school diploma, are you going to go back to India or travel with Baba?”
“Neither,” he said, with a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve given enough of my life to the Mission. I have big plans. Gonna move out to L.A. Take some acting classes. Maybe do some modeling. I’ve always wanted to be an actor.” Madhu put the screw gun down and glanced at his watch. “Quitting time.”
I was shocked, but tried not to let Madhu see it. The way I saw it, here was someone who had practically been born into Raja Yoga, but wanted to throw it all away to pursue an acting career. I couldn’t think of anything more antithetical to the spiritual path.
“What happens now?” I asked.
Madhu shrugged. “Dinner’s at six-fifteen,” he answered. Then his forehead wrinkled in thought. “There’s an arati in the temple in a few minutes, but almost nobody goes.”
We passed through the lobby on our way to return the toolbox to Sita’s office, and I asked Madhu what was on the other side of the long gray curtain I had noticed earlier.
“Oh, that’s Baba’s House.”
I gasped and reverently looked back over my shoulder at the curtain.
“Have you ever been inside?” I asked.
“Lots of times. But never when Baba was actually in the ashram. Once I even got to meditate in his bathroom with my mom.”
“Why in his bathroom?”
“Cause it’s full of shakti,” he said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Duh!”
I couldn’t help wondering why Baba’s bathroom would contain more shakti than the rest of his house. But Madhu had been in Raja Yoga most of his life. I was sure he knew what he was talking about.
I bundled up and followed Akhandananda and a small group of ashramites to the small Gurudev Brahmananda temple for the evening arati ritual. The path had been carefully shoveled and meticulously cleared of ice. The moment I set foot in the temple, I was struck by the deep silence within its walls. A powerful energy pervaded the space, and my mind became still.
Before me was a life-size bronze statue of Gurudev Brahmananda seated in the lotus position on a raised platform. I gazed up at the statue in awe. In most of the photographs of Baba’s guru I had seen, he was clothed in a simple loincloth, but the statue of him here was attired in a turban, fine silk and brocade, and adorned with garlands of fragrant flowers.
“This is not a mere statue, my boy,” Akhandananda whispered, handing me a laminated card with a translation and transliteration of the chant. “Statues and photographs of great beings and saints are alive. They are infused with consciousness. Gurudev knows you’re here.”
I regarded the statue of Brahmananda. His eyes were open, yet they did not appear to be staring back at me the way Baba’s pictures did. Gurudev’s gaze was directed within.
After taking off their coat and shoes, each person helped themselves to a percussion instrument from a wicker basket near the entrance. Akhandananda prepared a tray of offerings and lit the large multi-tiered arati lamp. On the far side of the temple, a rotund, middle-aged man with small eyes, a pug nose, and salt-and-pepper hair wheeled a large drum on its side into the center of the temple, in front of Gurudev’s statue. The rest of us stood in silence waiting for the ritual to begin.
At precisely five forty-five P.M., Akhandananda raised the arati lamp with his right hand and began to wave it in large clockwise circles in front of the statue, while ringing a hand bell with his left. At the same time, the rest of the temple broke into sound: a tall, athletic-looking man in an aquamarine-colored sweat suit blew into a conch shell, the pot-bellied man beat his big drum, and everybody else shook or struck their musical instruments. Boom, boom, boom—clang, clang, clang—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—rattle, rattle, rattle. I was the only one in the temple not making any noise. The hypnotic motion of Akhandananda’s flaming lamp and the rhythmic cacophony of the instruments seemed to go on for ages. I glanced around the temple at the others. All were staring blankly at the statue as they participated in the ritual. Suddenly they reminded me of zombies, and my mood darkened. All the muscles in my body tensed up and, despite the low temperature in the temple, I began to perspire.
While the chants back in Ithaca felt strange at first, they had helped to tame my restless mind and I eventually got used to them. But now I was overcome with fear and doubt. I felt a heaviness in my gut and my insides began to quiver. Unlike the other rituals, this one seemed occult and spooky. The ashramites around me did not look like they were in a state of meditation. They looked like they had entered into a trance. I began to panic, wondering what I had gotten myself into. For the first time in my life, I thought about the Jewish proscription against idol worship. It was taboo in my culture, even if one wasn’t religious. I felt ashamed. I was a bad Jew.
I eyed the door and wondered if I could get back to my room, pack my bag, call a taxi, and escape to the bus station before the chant was over and anyone had a chance to notice I was gone.
The drumming and the clashing of cymbals came to an abrupt halt, and the worshippers set their instruments down on the carpeted floor. With folded hands they slowly recited a prayer in Sanskrit. Its melody was melancholic and haunting:
Arati avadhut
Jai Jai
Arati avadhuta…
I tried to follow along but the chanting did little to calm me down. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay, I kept telling myself. I just needed to make it to the end of the ritual. Then I could slip away after dinner.
I glanced down at the English translation:
Hail Hail! I wave lights to you, O Brahmananda
You are the divine lord, present in human form.
You are Manik Prabhu. You are Akkalkot Swami.
You are Sai Baba of Shirdi.
In Kali Yuga you became Gurudev Brahmananda of Ravipur.
In this way you have incarnated yourself for the upliftment of your devotees.
After what felt like an eternity, the chant was over. Before leaving, everyone bowed down before the statue of Brahmananda. Swami Akhandananda waited by the exit and offered everyone a few drops of liquid from a vial, which they received in the palms of their hands. Some drank the liquid, others rubbed it into their hair.
“What is it?” I asked the swami.
“Prasad. Rosewater. First it’s offered to the guru, and then it’s distributed to his devotees in his name. Consider it a gift from Baba.”
I held out my hand and waited for Akhandananda to pour a few drops into it.
The swami wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. “The left hand is impure. Never ever accept prasad with your left hand, young man.” He put the vial down on a small wooden table next to him. “Like so.” The swami cupped both hands, placing his right in his left, and held them out as if he were about to receive the prasad himself.
I held my hands the way Akhandananda had showed me, and he poured a few drops of rosewater into them.
I didn’t drink the rosewater, but rubbed my wet hand into my hair. Maybe I’ve been brainwashed, I thought. Maybe I have joined a cult after all.
I stood outside next to the temple, shivering and watching the others return to the main building in silence. I looked up at the night sky and its countless stars. Am I truly looking up at my own reflection, as Baba teaches? Is my small wretched sense of self merely an illusion? Does my true Self encompass the entire universe? I wanted to find out. I needed to give the ashram and Baba a chance. I would wait to see how I felt in the morning. If I still felt the same way, I would call Melanie to come take me back to Ithaca.
Suddenly, I felt a strong urge to talk to my sister. Just to check in and to hear her voice. I remembered seeing a bank of payphones down on the basement level. I took a ramp opposite the reception desk that led downstairs. On my way to the payphones, I passed the ashram bookstore. It was closed, but through the windows I could see some lights still on and shifting shadows in a back room. It was almost dinner time, but somebody was still hard at work doing seva.
The store had huge selection of spiritual books, pictures of the guru, and Raja Yoga paraphernalia. On the wall was an enormous framed photograph of Baba. In the picture his face was kind and gentle, and he was staring right back at me with tremendous compassion. I was deeply moved. I remembered that I loved Baba and he loved me. How could I have doubted him, even for a second?
I squeezed into the cramped phone booth, sat down, inserted a quarter, and made my call.
Lucy answered after the second ring: “Doug? Um, how are you? Are you at the monastery yet?”
“Ashram. Yes—I am. Is Melanie there?”
“Doug, what’s wrong?” Melanie asked nervously. “Where are you?”
“Everything’s fine. I’m in Birchwood Falls.”
“Do you have everything you need? Did they feed you? Do you need me to send you anything?”
As I assured Melanie that everything was alright, an ethereal-looking girl with long blonde hair walked past my phone booth and peered in at me through the glass. She smiled at me before disappearing from view. I was breathless. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
“If you’re not happy there and want to come home,” Melanie said, “I have plenty of connections. I’m sure I could help find you a job. No pressure to go back to school right now.”
I could hear my sister, but I wasn’t listening to her. All I could think about was the angel who had just smiled at me.
The corridor was dimly lit and I had only caught a glimpse of her, but she was magnificent: she had dimples, an upturned nose, and full sensuous lips. There was also something unusual about her eyes that I couldn’t pin down. She hadn’t lingered long enough for me even to make out what color they were. She was slender, but not too skinny, and the pair of jeans she was wearing were just a tad too tight for the ashram dress code. I guessed she was around my age and height. I was in love.
As Melanie rambled on about my options, I realized that I had allowed my mind to fly away from me. It was occupied with impure thoughts. I stopped myself from thinking about the angel and returned my attention to the conversation I was supposed to be having with my sister.
“—and if you feel like it,” Melanie was saying, “you could enroll in a couple of courses at TC3.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyhow, do you want to take down his number?”
“Whose number?”
“The financial advisor.”
I didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about. “Sure, give it to me.”
Melanie recited the number and I pretended to write it down. “272-3167. Thanks! Got it!”
“Doug, remember, your money should be making money.”
I got off the phone with my sister and promised to check in with her again in a few days. I made a mental note to invent something about the financial advisor the next time I spoke to her.
I stepped out into the corridor and heard the angel’s voice through the closed door of another phone booth. I hovered for a moment to eavesdrop. “Hi, Mom, it’s Gopi! Yes, I just arrived an hour ago. No, the roads were okay—”
I knew from the readings I had done since coming to Raja Yoga that the name Gopi referred to a group of cow-herding girls in the Bhagavata Purana famous for their unconditional devotion to Lord Krishna. Baba must have given the angel the name because of her profound devotion to the guru. Gopi—a beautiful name for a beautiful girl!
As I waited in line for dinner, all I could think about was the angel Gopi. The crisis of faith I had experienced in the Gurudev Brahmananda temple had ended abruptly. I was definitely staying.
The evening meal was much lighter than what had been offered at lunch: a bowl of bland vegetable soup, two slices of whole wheat bread, and a pat of butter. I thought the petty dictator in charge of the serving line might give me a hard time again, but since I now had a name tag I was as good as invisible to him.
I searched for a table and spotted Madhu sitting with a couple of other young people on the far end. I was about to join him when someone called out to me. “Douglas, over here!” I turned to see Akhandananda beckoning to me. He was seated with Alan again.
“So, how was your first day at the ashram?”
“Wonderful,” I answered, briefly remembering the unpleasantness I had earlier experienced in the temple, before putting it out of my mind.
Alan gave me a thumbs up and a tight-lipped smile. “And you haven’t even been to the hall yet.”
“The hall?” I asked.
“The meditation hall,” Alan said. “The devotees did a beautiful job converting the old ball room. It seats a thousand people. You’ll see it tomorrow. The Guru Gita is at six-thirty.”
The swami raised his eyebrows. “And meditation is at five-thirty, Douglas.” Then he turned to Alan. “You too, Mr. Manager.”
Alan chuckled and blushed a little. “Yes, Swamiji.”
Akhandananda carefully brought a scalding hot spoonful of soup close to his mouth and blew. “We want you to feel at home in the guru’s house, Douglas.” The swami’s tone was gentle and soothing. “If you have any questions or problems, you can always come to either Alan or me, you know that, don’t you?”
Alan nodded in agreement. “That’s right.”
“I appreciate that very much, Swamiji, Alan.”
Akhandananda’s eyebrows pulled down in concentration and he lowered his head so that his almost nonexistent neck vanished. “You’ve undergone such a great deal of hardship and tragedy in your short life.” The swami put his spoon down and reached for my forearm and gave it a light squeeze. Then he gazed deeply into my eyes. “But you know, too much good karma can be an obstacle on the spiritual path.”
I was confused. “How could that be?”
“Baba says that shaktipat can only occur when a person’s negative and positive karmas are balanced. If we have too much good karma, we’re too busy enjoying our lives for it ever to occur to us to go looking for the guru. If we have too much bad karma, we are mired in misery and never think to seek him either.”
My mind froze. “I find that a little difficult to grasp, Swamiji.”
Alan let out a deep laugh and slapped his knee.
Akhandananda abruptly stopped eating with his spoon halfway to his mouth and looked at Alan in disbelief. “It’s absolutely true, I assure you.”
Alan raised his hands in the air. “I know, I know, Swamiji,” he said, still laughing. “It’s just the look on Doug’s face is priceless.”
The swami’s expression remained earnest and he gave me another one of his penetrating looks. “You’re a perfect example of what I’m talking about, Douglas. In your short life you’ve suffered tremendous loss and tragedy, but you’ve also been extremely fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” I asked, scratching the back of my head.
“Why, yes. Don’t forget the money you just inherited from your uncle.”
“Cousin,” I corrected. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t mentioned my inheritance to the swami. I realized that Alan must have told him everything about me. I glanced over at Alan, who was now staring into his bowl of soup.
“But how could meeting Baba and getting shaktipat be the result of anything but good karma?” I asked.
The swami’s face lit up. “My dear boy, ultimate truth transcends all our concepts of how things should or shouldn’t be.”
Alan looked up and nodded in agreement. “Don’t worry, man. You’ll get it eventually. The guru will see to that. Baba’s shakti is relentless.” He got up and gave me a pat on the back. “Gentleman, have a blessed evening.”
I waited until Akhandananda had finished eating and risen to his feet before getting up myself.
“Douglas, Douglas!” scolded the swami, furrowing his brow and frowning. “You’re far too young to be carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. Stand tall! You look like the Hunchback of Notre-Dame when you slouch.”