by Karen Jonson
At last, I had found a logical explanation for why we are born into our particular circumstances. I could finally see justice in the world. We aren’t just born once and subsequently thrust into heaven or hell for all eternity. We are born uncountable times, and each life is dictated by our past actions. As we sow, so shall we reap.
My grandmother’s sister once called me an “old soul.” This was an unusual comment from a strict Christian, but I had always felt the heaviness of having lived many lives. It was not a Shirley MacLaine kind of thing—I didn’t claim to have been a princess or a warrior or Buddha in my past lives. It was more like a Groundhog’s Day type repetitiveness: I felt a weariness in my soul, as though I had made the same mistakes over and over and never learned my lessons. I felt that spiritually, for innumerable lifetimes, I had been endlessly taking one step forward and two steps backward.
Now I was exhausted from my endless journey in this world. I wanted the cycle of life and death to be over, preferably with my soul residing permanently in the divine world, never to darken the doorstep of the material world again. I was desperate to find the path that would accelerate my transcendence into the divine realm.
Could a Hindu guru hold the key?
6
Intense Longing
A Trip to Texas
MY LONGING TO MEET Swamiji came over me suddenly and powerfully three months after I heard Prabhakari speak.
I had been attending satsang regularly for only a few weeks in late 1991, when the center manager announced the organization’s annual Fall Intensive would be held in early October at its new U.S. ashram—called Barsana Dham—in Austin, Texas. The event was for “life members” only, but new people could attend the three final days of the two-week event. I stopped listening after the word “Intensive.” I was attracted to the path, but, at that moment, didn’t feel ready for a gathering with such a severe-sounding title.
The couple who ran the Seattle center, Carla and Michael, went for the entire two-week program. Later, Michael told me how rewarding it was to spend time there and “do service for the guru.” I had no idea what he was talking about. In their absence, local devotees stood in for them at the satsang meetings. When I arrived at the center, I was greeted by a young Western woman named Christi. Dressed in a pretty pastel sari, she said she had just returned from a week at the Intensive. Up to that point, I had not asked any of the devotees about the guru. But I was growing increasingly curious. I asked her a few questions.
“What is he like in person?”
She lit up, smiled broadly, and gushed: “He’s wonderful!
“Is he tall or short?”
“He’s on the short side, but seems larger than life when you are with him.”
“Is he funny or serious?”
“He can be both. Sometimes he’s funny, and quiet and reserved at other times.”
I had never heard anyone describe another person with such love and tenderness. Noting her happiness as she talked about her guru made me a little jealous. It also awakened in me the desire to meet him personally.
One night after satsang, while carpooling home with another devotee, Richard, I decided to find out if he was as smitten with the guru as Christi was. I asked him question after question until finally he said, “You understand he’s a God-realized saint, don’t you? He has the power to grace souls and make them divine.”
His words startled me. I had not heard the word “saint” uttered since the day Prabhakari told me everyone needs a living saint to find God. I considered the enormity of this reality on the drive home across Lake Washington. What Richard was telling me basically was this man was equivalent to God—and we had a rare opportunity to know God in human form. I was entranced. I was eager to share my newfound understanding with Roy. I told him with complete conviction: “You’ve got to get on board before it’s too late and you’re trapped here in this world forever.”
His eyes narrowed to slivers as he grimaced and said, “I was worried this would happen.”
I recoiled at his skepticism and realized he was a lost cause. He would never join me on my spiritual journey, no matter how profound. At that moment, I began to emotionally distance myself from him. He had been my best friend and the only person who truly cared about me. But I was not going to allow him to be an albatross around my neck and hold me down now that I had finally found the true path to God. I was going to embrace this religion fully, with or without Roy.
I learned the guru was staying at his new ashram in Austin until late December, before returning to India for several months. Deciding I had to meet him before he left the U.S., I booked a trip to Austin for five days in early December 1991.
I suffered from occasional bouts of agoraphobia, and the thought of flying so far from home terrified me. But the thought of missing my chance to meet the guru scared me even more. I conquered my fears with the hope this could be a soul-changing trip if Swamiji really was a saint. To divert my mind and tamp down my panic on the flight from Seattle to Austin, I listened to one tape over and over. It was the soundtrack to Godspell. One song in particular calmed me: By My Side. The lyrics spoke to my belief that I was going to meet a living saint who could heal my wounded life and direct me on the surest path to God. I cried softly every time the singer sang about asking Jesus where he was going and begging him to “please take me with you.”
As far as I was concerned, this was the only request I had of the saint I was about to meet: Take me with you to the divine world.
7
Meeting Swamiji
The Guru’s Darshan
ALTHOUGH I DESIRED TO KNOW him, I was petrified at the thought of actually meeting Swamiji.
I could not even imagine the moment I would see him for the first time. What would happen? Would I feel a rush of bliss? Would I faint? I had no idea what to expect. I arrived in Austin after a long flight and hired a cab to take me to the Barsana Dham Ashram, located about twenty-three miles from the city’s old airport. We reached the ashram’s front gates at about dinnertime. A semi-paved road wound through the property, passing fields and oak trees and a few run-down houses, finally ending at a two-story white limestone building.
A female devotee in a long skirt, cotton blouse, and sweater greeted me at the door. She led me to a large room at the end of the building with several bunk beds. This was where I would be sleeping. After I dropped off my suitcases, she escorted me through a hallway at the center of the building into a cavernous dining hall. Following her lead, I picked up a metal plate and bowl and helped myself to dal, rice, and carrots, which were served from large pots along a serving line between the dining room and the kitchen.
The woman sat down with me at one of several long rectangular folding tables that filled the room. I chatted with her, both excited and nervous to be in such an unusual place. She explained the ashram’s daily schedule.
“Morning satsang is at 7:30 a.m., breakfast is at 8:30, Swamiji’s breakfast is at 9:00 a.m…” She rattled off the day’s schedule. But I was confused by the exacting routine.
As I was finishing my meal, she looked out of a window and smiled. I followed her gaze, and there, just on the other side of a pane of glass, was a short man with a potbelly in flowing bright orange clothing, flanked by two Western women wearing orange saris and sweaters.
“There’s Swamiji,” she said as he entered the dining hall through a side door.
“What do I do?” I whispered self-consciously.
“Just smile,” she said reassuringly.
All the diners stopped what they were doing to watch Swamiji in silence as he bustled through the room with his preachers in tow following close behind. He walked down a hallway and disappeared up a flight of stairs. I later learned he spent the majority of his time in his bedroom on the second floor.
I experienced no shockwave of rapture or heated rush of bliss. Just curiosity. I was disappointed, but assumed my lack of devotional thrill to be due to something missing inside me. I assumed I wa
s not devotionally elevated enough to appreciate his divinity.
The next time I saw him was at the evening satsang program, held in a long, narrow room located on the second floor of the stone building. After the first chant and a videotaped speech, we started singing the evening’s second chant. About ten minutes into the music, Swamiji entered the room from a side door. He walked straight to the front and climbed up onto a single-bed positioned next to an ornately decorated altar. The same two women in orange who’d been with him earlier followed him through the door. One of them carried a garland of fresh flowers, which she placed around his neck after he sat down. Both women sat down on a small carpet in the front row, where other preachers were already seated.
As Swamiji took his seat, everyone in the room bowed from their sitting positions, most touching their foreheads to the floor. Called pranam, bowing is a form of showing respect to an individual, especially a spiritual leader. I’d soon learn that the devotees pranamed every time he entered or exited a room.
Swamiji sat quietly on his elevated platform, leaning back on several pillows with his arms resting on two identical tube-shaped pillows. We watched him intently as he sat in silence. (Viewing the guru is called “having his darshan.” Darshan literally means an auspicious viewing of a guru or diety, who blesses those viewing him or her.) After a few minutes, hi made a small gesture and everyone rose in unison for the arti ceremony—a traditional Hindu ceremony that includes singing a prayer while waving a decorated small tray with candles in a circular motion in front of a photo or statue of a diety. Then the arti tray was offered to everyone. People waved their hands over the flame and then touch their foreheads to receive a blessing. Then small plates of nuts and fruit, called prashad, were offered to the deities and distributed to everyone.
After the arti, we sat on the floor staring up at the guru, who sat quietly on his couch. After about five minutes, Swamiji rose from his couch and walked out of the room
As he departed, I pranamed to him along with everyone else.
8
It’s the Guru’s World
Learning the Ropes
DURING MY FIVE DAYS in the ashram, there were many hours of boredom.
Apart from morning and evening satsang, and the three daily meals served in the community dining hall, there were few activities to keep ashram guests occupied. I had heard devotees often did physical seva (work) while at the ashram, such as gardening, cleaning, or other tasks. But since it was nearly winter and raining while I was there, not much was going on. The only seva to be done was in the kitchen. So, in the afternoons, I would chop vegetables to help prepare the simple vegetarian meals served to everyone at dinner.
Most of the devotees who lived in the ashram at that time worked in their own home businesses or in a business operated on the ashram property, owned by a devotee from California. A few people had jobs in town and a few were “on staff,” including two accountants and a kitchen manager. So I hardly saw anyone during normal business hours.
To pass the time, I took long walks around the large, undeveloped property. It was mostly flat, but featured one prominent hill on the back side, which had formerly been called Friday Mountain, but was renamed Barsana Hill by Swamiji. A dirt path curved up the hill to the top, which offered a view of the 200-acre ashram property and beyond. A small creek meandered through the property, more or less bisecting it. It had been called Onion Creek, but Swamiji had renamed it “Kalindi River.” These names, as well as the name of the ashram itself, were from places in India he said were exceptionally holy.
At that time, the main part of the ashram property was just a muddy enclave with a few dilapidated buildings housing approximately thirty people, including several children. The two-story limestone building and the small houses in which the devotees lived were clustered together in the front section of the property, not far from RR 1826, which cuts through the Texas Hill Country southwest of Austin. No one seemed to mind the pioneer-like hardships, because they were all focused on one thing—the guru. They talked about him all the time, quoting his teachings and displaying his photographs in their homes. They stared at him adoringly whenever he was present, and continually asked him personal questions about their devotions, lives, and work.
We saw Swamiji several times a day. At the end of the morning and evening satsang meetings he would either sit quietly on his raised platform as we sat on the floor gazing up at him, or he would chat casually with various devotees. Most of his devotees also sat with him during his morning and evening meals each day at 9:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m. Each darshan (viewing time) typically lasted fifteen to thirty minutes.
Swamiji’s actions dictated the mood at these times. Few addressed him directly without being spoken to first. When the guru did speak, he was a gifted storyteller and mimic. However, he could also be quite gruff when displeased, even with something quite minor. I witnessed his temper for the first time one morning when a devotee was removing his folding tray table after his breakfast. When she accidentally tilted the table, tipping stray food particles onto his bed, he scowled at her clumsiness and abruptly pushed the table upright. Her face turned red as she put the table away, apologizing softly and dropping her head in shame.
During these tense incidents, everyone would hang their heads and wait for the moment to pass. In addition to the main times for his darshan, there were also impromptu glimpses of the guru—if you were lucky enough to be around. Swamiji’s habitual activities included several daily golf cart rides around his property. He always had at least one orange sari-clad woman with him. His main companion was Vishwambhari Devi (originally named Ranjana Ben), a short Indian woman who was about my age. Her duties included cooking his meals, washing his clothes, and being on call to attend to any other physical needs he might have. In those days, she traveled with him on his many trips between the U.S. and India.
During my visit to the ashram, all four female preachers (at that time) were also in residence. More than once I saw Swamiji driving his golf cart around with all five women squeezed onto the front and back seats. Often he would accelerate suddenly, causing the cart to rocket forward and the women to scream in giddy delight. Any devotees in the vicinity of this scene would gaze after them. Watching them, I felt an odd mixture of happiness at witnessing the scene and jealousy at not being one of the lucky few to join him on his thrill rides.
I received his direct attention twice during my visit, and in those moments I understood why people were addicted to him. Although I didn’t feel any thrill of divine love, I did feel bathed in the warm glow of his charismatic personality. The first occasion was during my first morning in satsang. From his cushioned platform, he suddenly started asking me questions.
“What’s your name?”
“Karen,” I replied nervously. Suddenly, I could feel every eye in the room looking at me.
“Where are you from?”
“Seattle.” I began to perspire from nerves despite the chill in the room.
“Oh, rain country,” he responded and chuckled. Everyone giggled.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“What do you write?”
“Mostly articles and marketing materials.”
“Oh.” He nodded.
We all stared at him intently, awaiting his next utterance. But he sat quietly for a few more minutes, our exchange clearly over. I left the prayer hall feeling elated to have been singled out and validated by him as a new devotee.
Later that day, I was once again the object of his attention. This time, I choked under the pressure. When he started his morning meal I was not there yet. He told one of the female devotees to “go get the new girl.” She bolted into the dorm room and told me in a rush that Swamiji wanted me at his meal.
I quickly followed her to his room, to find everyone sitting on the floor around his bed. He was sitting cross-legged, learning forward over a folding tray that held several small plates of food. As he ate, he was chattering a
bout something and the devotees were laughing. He looked up at me as I bowed to him. He picked up a piece of bread from his plate and held it toward me. I looked at him, unsure what to do. Another devotee quietly indicated for me to take it from him. I leaned forward and took the piece of bread from his hand. I felt many eyes on me and self-consciously started nibbling on it. As a natural wallflower, I was embarrassed by the special attention.
Then he picked up a samosa—a fried vegetable dumpling—from another plate and tossed it to me. I caught it just in time. With both hands filled with food, I was even more embarrassed. The envy among the devotees was palpable. Out of sheer nervousness, I asked the woman next to me if she wanted a bite of the samosa. She took the dumpling and, to my shock, ate the whole thing.
I later learned it was considered an extreme grace for the guru to give a devotee food directly from his plate. Eating the guru’s leftover food, called prasad, is among the more cherished experiences in a devotee’s life. Internally I kicked myself for my lack of knowledge about the significance and was horrified I had missed a chance to benefit from his intended grace, which was disturbed by the woman who took advantage of my naiveté.
Despite my awkward and confusing experiences in the ashram, by the time I packed my bags to leave, I believed Swamiji was a true saint—and I would gain entrance into the divine world by faithfully following his directions.
9
Swami Dearest
Hooked on the Guru
WHEN THE STUDENT IS READY, the teacher appears.
I took this oft-quoted expression to heart after meeting Swamiji. I felt more than ready for my spiritual teacher to appear in my life—and I wanted him to know how happy I was that I had finally found him. As soon as I returned home, I wrote him the first of many letters.
