I BADE FAREWELL TO THE haven of peace at Mcleod Ganja. I would never forget the joy and kindness I received there, but I felt driven to experience more of the holy places of India, to expose myself to even more practices and traditions in hopes that my destiny would indeed reveal itself.
From Pathankot, I took the train south into the state of Haryana, disembarking in Kurukestra, the place where the Bhagavad Gita was first spoken and one of the holiest places in India. As I left the station, lugging my bag of spiritual books, I could hear from a nearby temple the Sanskrit verses of the Bhagavad Gita being recited through a crackling speaker.
Here, I immersed myself in reading the words Krishna spoke to his disciple Arjuna who was about to shrink from his calling in the face of insurmountable obstacles. The Gita had been spoken on a battlefield because life itself is a battle, where evil perpetually attacks good and our sacred ideals are destined to be tested. We would all be confronted by grave dangers and fearsome demons within and without. There was much to be gained from facing these aggressors with integrity and faith. Krishna’s timeless call culminated in the practice of selfless devotion, determination, and spiritual absorption as the means to access a power beyond our own to overcome all fear—the power of God’s love.
In that sanctified place, the Bhagavad Gita’s message penetrated me so deeply that I felt as if Krishna were personally speaking to me on each page. I read several chapters every day, poring over my little Gita Press copy of the Bhagavad Gita, which was printed on cheap paper and bound in a white cardboard cover. I had read many spiritual texts in my travels, but none struck me as so highly practical.
Reading the Bhagavad Gita under the very banyan tree where Krishna originally spoke to Arjuna, I was struck by how powerfully it revealed the science of self-realization beyond sectarian or historical boundaries. It elucidated such intricacies as, how the soul is related to God, how that changeless soul is affected by material nature, how karma (the natural law of action and reaction) affects all of us, and how the imperceptible influence of time acts on creation. As a lonesome wanderer seeking truth, where danger, temptation, and fear could pounce on me at any moment, I found solace and direction in these immortal words. In Kuruksetra, the Bhagavad Gita became my handbook on how to live.
After a few days I left Haryana, and while I was traveling on a train winding through the Indian plains, we stopped for some time at a station. There I witnessed an ugly event. I saw a teenager being slandered and beaten by his employer on the platform. The teenager neither raised a finger nor said a word and was quickly dragged away. I asked a nearby college student what was happening. Shaking his head, he replied, “Because he was born in a lower caste, he’s like a slave. Likely, he will not be given opportunities for a proper education or to marry anyone outside his suppressed caste and he will work slave labor for life. I know. I’m from a similar background, but I’m lucky. The government is fighting against these injustices and most educated, cultured, or socially minded people are battling against it as well. But it is still quite deeply ingrained in the minds of many.” He explained to me that this caste system was actually a gross perversion of an ancient scriptural teaching, the vedic varnashram, which teaches that, just as the human body has a head, arms, belly, and legs, and each limb is meant to perform its function for the benefit of the whole body, in the social body, one is taught to accept responsibilities for the social and spiritual benefit of oneself as well as everyone in society according to one’s natural inclinations and skills. The Vedic varnashram was meant to encourage, empower, and unify everyone. “However,” he concluded, “this concoction of caste by birth and exploitation of the lower castes has corrupted a beautiful system.”
My thoughts traveled back to the suppression of racial and religious minorities in America and Europe, and I reflected sadly on how the tendency to cultivate superiority and exploit others takes many guises, expressing itself in society, politics, philosophy, or even religion. It was becoming increasingly clear to me that I needed to follow a particular path if I wanted to truly know God, but I worried that such a choice could lead to narrow-mindedness. Attracted as I was to one of the most important religions in India, it heartened me that nothing in the true Hindu philosophy supported suppression of human beings on the basis of one’s race, caste, sex, or birth, and that among saintly people, I had not witnessed any of this kind of prejudice.
In the beautiful Kulu Valley, in the state of Himachal Pradesh, I wandered through miles of pristine nature. I felt so close to God in natural settings. Two days before, upon seeing a single photo-poster plastered on a railway station wall, I jumped on a truck to Kulu. One day, while drinking in the fresh pine scent of the Himalayan air, I came upon a traveler from Colorado whom I had met previously in Iran. Back then, he had been on his way to India to study Tibetan Buddhism. “How has your quest gone?” I inquired.
Entering into a trancelike state, his eyes rolled upward. “God has incarnated.” His eyelids fluttered and voice quivered, “I was blinded by the Divine Light by the mere touch of his finger. Rushes of ecstasy thrilled my limbs. Divine music filled my ears. I smelled ambrosia and tasted nectar. You must go immediately. The Lord of the universe has descended to earth.”
Like a doctor giving medicine to a dying patient, he insisted, “The culmination of your long journey to India is waiting in Hardwar. Go now brother, do not delay. The Supreme Lord will soon travel abroad.”
Intrigued, I journeyed south to the ashram in Hardwar. Entering the temple, I was puzzled by a large photo on an altar. It was the young guru, wearing a crown and peacock feather, playing a flute, and standing in the pose of Krishna. But he looked very different from the painting of Krishna I had purchased in Delhi. As my friend from Colorado had done, his disciples approached me and swooned. “The merciful Lord has come in the past as Rama and Krishna, now he has come again. When Guru Maharajji bestows ‘the knowledge,’ he opens your divine eye and you will know him as the Lord of the universe.” As Guru Maharajji would soon be leaving for his first trip abroad, his disciples hurried me onto a bus to New Delhi.
Back in New Delhi, hundreds of Guru Maharajji’s disciples crowded the ashram grounds waiting to get a glimpse of him. I sat in a corner and watched. An elderly disciple struck up a conversation with me and then introduced me to a group of mahatmas, a title for those empowered to bestow Guru Maharajji’s “knowledge.” The mahatmas decided that I must meet Sri Mataji, the holy mother of their Lord. She sat on a cushion surrounded by admirers who whisked her with yak tail fans and listened to her every word. To my surprise, she decided that I must have a private audience with her son before he departed, so a mahatma escorted me to his room. Guru Maharajji was a boy of only thirteen years old, slightly pudgy with hair neatly parted on the side. He introduced himself as Prem Rawat and explained that he was the successor of his father Sri Hansji Maharaja. From amid the bustle of disciples, Guru Maharajji brought me to a rooftop for a private meeting. There, away from the crowd, we paced together back and forth while he asked many questions about my life and described his forthcoming trip, his first abroad. When he asked if I desired to take initiation into the “knowledge,” I explained to him, as I had to previous teachers, that I was careful about making such a commitment. As we conversed on the rooftop, the crowds below anxiously awaited him. Just then a mahatma poked his head onto the roof and announced that the time had come to leave for the airport. Guru Maharajji quickened his step. “I must go. If ever you decide to receive the knowledge,” he said, “you may come to me personally in India, America, or London.” With thousands looking on, we came down the stairs. I stepped to the sidelines as Guru Maharajji, with much fanfare, blessed his flock and departed by car. Watching from the background, I was grateful for his attention and believed he could be an accomplished yogi, perhaps from a past life, but when I looked inside myself, there was no inclination to accept him as Krishna, the Supreme Lord of the universe. “Who God is,” I thought, “is a serious subject, not to be taken lightly.”
During the course of my travels, I had become quite attached to the spiritual books I carried. I had gradually gathered a small library in a cloth bag. Except for this heavy bag of books, my only possession was a begging bowl and a branch used as a walking stick. Many times I considered reducing the weight of this burden, but every time I looked through the books, trying to decide which ones to give away, I found I could not part with a single one. Among them were the Bhagavad Gita, Bible, Upanishads, Autobiography of a Yogi, books on Buddhism, one by Shankaracarya, and the Krishna book personally given by Srila Prabhupada. Because each was special to me and I worried I might never find it again, I lugged this bag of books wherever I went, often exhausted from the load. Now, near Connaught Circus in New Delhi, I set the books down on a street corner. Auto rickshaws zoomed by spewing trails of black diesel smoke. Cars jammed the street, each trying to squeeze ahead of the other. Bicycle rickshaws, handcarts, and ox-driven bullocks moseyed by, while battered trucks blared their horns and blasted out clouds of carbon monoxide. Amid it all I waited for the traffic light to turn green.
Suddenly, a man stormed at me, grabbed the back of my neck with a vice grip and stuck a metal stick into the hole of my ear. He gouged me deeply, scratching away painfully. I shivered. Who is this man? What was he doing? Would he puncture my eardrum? He kept gouging and I was totally under his control, afraid to move. Next, he released my neck, yanked the metal out from my ear, and held it up for me to see. Attached to his stick was a big lump of earwax. I was delighted, as I could hear better than I had in years, at least in one ear. He then demanded one rupee as the price to clean the other ear. But I had nothing. He bargained but to no avail, leaving me with a dirty ear. I couldn’t believe it. I had no idea how filthy my ear had been until I felt what it was like to have it clean, especially compared to the other one. With a rueful smile, I drew a parallel to the spiritual journey. Perhaps, I thought:
The dirty wax of egotism accumulated in the heart prevents us from clearly hearing the Lord’s voice within. A guru, with the stick of knowledge, cleans our hearts. It’s really ugly to see what may come out, but by following patiently, we keep cleaning.
Another lesson I took from this experience was this:
Sometimes the Lord gives us a free sample of religious experience, but for more, we must pay a price with the currency of sincere dedication to the process of cleansing.
My hearing was now like an unbalanced stereo system. I knew I had cleansing still to do, and on many levels. I waited on the street corner until the traffic light turned green, but when I reached down to lift my bag of books—it was gone. I was frantic. I searched the four directions, running here and there, asking everybody around, but to no avail. I had to come to grips with the reality that my books had been stolen. Standing on that corner, I lamented.
These precious books enlightened me with knowledge and inspiration. They were an irreplaceable treasure in my life. I received them from the benevolent hands of my teachers. My precious wealth has been ripped away.
Terribly sad, hopeless of their recovery, I walked away.
After taking a few steps, I became aware of how easy it had become to walk. The heavy burden that had troubled me for so long, the bag of books, was gone. Just as suddenly as I had felt despair, I felt liberated. Almost skipping, I reflected:
The nature of the mind is to interpret nonessentials essential. The mind creates artificial needs, believing it cannot live without them. In this way we carry a great burden of attachments throughout our life. Attachment is itself a great burden on our minds. We may never understand the extent of the burden till, like my books or the earwax, we’re free of it. But if we find joy within, we can live a simple life, free of endless complications.
I had begun to develop an attachment to finding the right path and teacher by my own will. Paradoxically, I now understood that in order to truly find what I was seeking, I needed to be detached and sincere. Whatever obstacles I was to encounter along the way would serve, I hoped, to bring me to ultimate freedom.