by Om Swami
A subtle change did start to come about. I often found myself at the intersection of time where the lines between the past, present and future blurred. It was like déjà vu but with one difference: I could see what the next moment would hold. Just as a flash of lightning illuminates the dark sky for a moment and you see everything around you in its full glory, these flashes of intuition revealed to me information about the person sitting before me that I simply didn’t know.
Sometimes, visitors would come for readings and I would know their questions even before they had started speaking. At times, I would be walking in the street and would get similar guidance about a complete stranger walking on the road. I wasn't just seeing people but seeing through them.
I wasn’t sure how to label this phenomenon. I called it intuition but there was a small problem with my intuition: it was wild and free. It ran its own course and I had no control over it. Even though it worked, I couldn’t call upon it with conviction or at will, nor replicate it whenever I wished. I wanted a more logical sequence, a degree of certainty. I needed my inner guide to answer my questions and not just give me random information about a stranger on the road, no matter how accurate that was.
In the meantime, word spread about my readings in astrology and more and more people started approaching me. Going to school, reading, meditating and meeting people made my schedule rather hectic and there was little time left to play. I didn't mind this because, being asthmatic, I could not engage much in physical sports. There were no inhalers back then, not until I turned fourteen anyway.
For four months every year, March–April and September–October, I was particularly sick. There was a high level of allergens during these months and the medication would take a while to ease my breathing. For long hours at night, I used to sit outside with my mother because lying down made breathing even more difficult. Resting in her lap under a moonlit sky, sometimes a dark sky, I used to look up and wonder about the vastness before me, the countless stars it held, some twinkling more than the others. The questions would come flooding back: Who made the universe? Why was I here and not on one of the other planets? Did people live on other planets too? Did God live on one of those distant stars? Where was God?
Minute by minute the hours would pass and my wheezing would finally subside by the morning. Only then would I manage to fall asleep. My father would pick me up and carry me back to my bed. Often, inhaling the air outside wouldn't work and he would rush with me to the hospital. I didn't mind going because spending a night at the hospital meant getting a day off from school. I would stay back at home and catch up on my reading or meditate. An injection in the hospital was a small price to pay for these delights.
I had learnt the basic Vedic chants from my astrology teacher, but he only specialized in astrology and didn't have the phonetic precision required in Vedic chanting. I felt it was essential to chant the Vedic hymns in the correct manner in order to continue my exploration and experimentation. It was not enough to just sit still and chant Om. I turned to my mother again, who knew a young but scholarly Brahmin called Pandit Surya Prakash Sharma. He had recently moved to our town.
Over the next few weeks, Panditji taught me the correct and rhythmic pronunciation of the core hymns from the Yajur Veda, one of the four Vedas. Verses from the Yajur Veda are used in the invocation of various forms of divine energies. Sanskrit, the language in which the Vedas are written, has the ability to take the mind into a trance-like state. This is chiefly because of the use of rhyme, rhythm and nasal sound across various meters. So, Panditji agreed to teach me Vedic chanting. My work with him, however, didn’t last very long.
Occasionally, people visited him for horoscope readings. Astrology was not his forte although his scholarly excellence in Vedic literature would have anyone believe that he was an expert in astrology too, for astrology was a Vedanga, Vedic branch, after all. One day, a man came to have his daughter’s horoscope matched. He had identified a suitable groom for her and wanted to ensure that the horoscopes of the two were compatible. Panditji calculated incorrectly and concluded that it was a flawless match.
The maximum possible ‘points’ you can score during the matching of horoscopes is thirty-six. Panditji’s total came to forty-three. He told the man that forty-three meant it was far better than the accepted thirty-six. I was alarmed. Though just twelve years old at this time, I corrected my teacher and informed him that this match yielded only twelve points, with two doshas, faults. It was actually a terrible match. The man was furious with me and shut me up, saying that Panditji was absolutely right and that such an excellent match was indeed possible because his own horoscope tallied at thirty-three points with his wife’s.
He was happy to believe Panditji’s incorrect interpretation since it gave him comfort and the permission to go ahead with solemnizing the alliance, something he so wished. This is what happens with most people: they are not in search of truth, they don’t want to know the truth; in fact, they are scared of the truth. They have an idea or belief that brings them solace and they merely want someone to validate it for them. They will run hither and thither until someone agrees with them.
'I can’t teach you,' Panditji said after the man left.
'Oh, what happened?' I didn’t realize he was upset with me.
'Who are you to correct me? You think you are some great astrologer?'
'I’m sorry, please forgive me. But if this man goes ahead and ties the nuptial knot based on the matching today, this marriage will be doomed. I was only trying to help.'
'I know. But you should not have corrected me in his presence. It was insulting and inappropriate.'
'I’m sorry, Panditji.'
'Don’t argue with me. I won't teach you anymore. Go elsewhere.' He added sarcastically, 'You are a Brahmin, a learned astrologer. You don’t need a teacher.'
I touched his feet and walked out of his life. We had both hurt each other: I had hurt his ego and he had hurt my dream. I decided I didn’t need hymns and astrology; I would go my own way. Over the next few months, I studied major texts on yoga, tantra and mantras for guidance, and concentrated on my meditation. My sadhana yielded some results in the form of an even sharper intuition, better memory and some visions and hallucinations, but these gains were nowhere near what esoteric literature promised.
Treatises on mantra science made remarkable, even unreal, claims. From flying in the air to the physical manifestation of objects, these books said all was possible. It's not that I was particularly interested in these powers but they were like milestones on the path. When you passed them, you knew you were headed in the right direction. This time around, I couldn’t find anyone to help me—no saint, teacher, priest or astrologer. I even started to think there was little or no truth to these texts on mantra science. Until, one day, when a dream woke me up to another reality. A sadhu, tall, bearded and robed in black, appeared in the dream.
’Keep going, son,’ he said.
'Is there any truth to mantras?'
‘Spiritual practice and doubt are like light and darkness. They don't go together. Have faith.’
'I'm not getting any results.'
‘Continue with patience and discipline.’
'I've got no one to guide me.'
‘I'll visit you before midday today.’
'Please, I want to ask you some questions now.'
But the sadhu disappeared. I woke up, calm and restless all at once. I could not ignore this dream; it was so real and vivid. I ran to my mother who was already up and about although it was still dark outside. She had lit the morning lamp at the altar and was offering prayers to the deities.
'I don't think I should go to the school today,' I interrupted her.
'You’re up early. Oh, you've come here without taking a bath?'
Ignoring what she said, I sat down next to her.
'I had a dream, and I think I should stay at home today.'
'Why? Don't be scared.'
'I'm not scared. I saw a sadhu baba in a
dream. He said he would visit me today.'
'You must go to school, Amit. Besides, dreams are not real.'
'What are you saying? When I had the dream of Lord Shiva, you said it was real. You said dreams were real. I'm sitting at the altar, Mummy, you know I won't lie to you. It was a real dream. I must stay at home because he said he would come today. I promise I’ll study during the day.'
'What will I tell your father?'
'Please, please. Tell him anything. He'll believe you.'
'See, you asked me the other day why I lie. This is why I have to lie sometimes!'
We negotiated with each other. Finally, she allowed me to take the day off. Somehow, she managed to convince my father.
Later that morning, I was alone at home. At around 10 a.m., someone knocked at the door. I rushed open it. Standing before me was a sadhu in black robes, matted locks tied at the back of his head and a beard that reached his chest. I offered him alms but he said he had only come to see me. He didn’t mention anything about my dream though. He put his hand into his jhola and pulled out something. Handing it to me, he told me it was a siyar singhi.
A siyar singhi is a little lump that grows on a jackal’s body. After it becomes the size of a betel nut, it sheds on its own. There are many tantric applications of a singhi, provided a good tantrik knows how to consecrate it well. It is used to fulfil material goals, cure diseases and hypnotize or mesmerize people. It can also be used in black magic to inflict harm or injury. If you put a genuine singhi in vermilion powder, the hair on it continues to grow steadily and you have to add to the vermilion powder every few weeks to keep it effective. Even though it is a dead lump, it consumes the powder.
'This object is amogha, foolproof. I’ve come to give it to you,' he said, and briefly explained how I was to use it.
Then, I asked, 'Why am I not getting any siddhi?'
‘Because you are not focusing on the ultimate goal but hankering after petty attainments. If you get hold of the sun, you'll get light automatically.’
He reiterated the instructions for the use of the singhi and prepared to leave. I wanted to ask him so many questions but his overwhelming and charismatic presence left me speechless. All I could do was prostrate in reverence. He blessed me and went his way.
There was a lady who used to come to our house daily to do the household chores. She was more like a family member and we called her ‘Masi’. My mother did treat her like a loved one. That was an incredible quality about my mother: she was always giving. I never saw her express any hatred, jealousy or anger. She never shouted at us or even raised her voice.
Masi had two sons; the elder one was seven years old and had been suffering from leprosy since birth. I decided to use the singhi on the child. Over the next week, I prepared the singhi for application by consecrating it with a mantra, vermilion powder and black mustard seeds in the manner I had been told. On a certain Sunday, I gave Masi the sacred object, explaining that she should make an opening in her son’s pillow and then insert it. After that, the opening had to be sewn up.
'Leave it in for forty days and make sure that no one else knows about it, not even your husband,' I said.
Her son began a miraculous recovery within the first week and was completely cured of his leprosy by the third week. The sadhu had told me I was allowed to use this singhi only once, and then it was to be immersed in a river or stream. At the end of the prescribed period, I asked Masi to return it to me. She went home and opened up the pillow but there was no singhi to be found.
There could be four explanations for this. One, she took it out but didn’t tell me. This was hard to believe as she would not put her son in danger by distorting a tantric talisman. Two, someone else had removed it. Three, it had fallen out. These two options were unlikely because no one else knew about the singhi and it had been carefully sewn into the stuffing of the pillow. Four, it disappeared on its own. I never figured out where it went but it doesn’t matter. The fact remains that the boy was cured in a matter of a few days when all other treatments had failed for years. His condition didn’t recur.
This encounter with the holy man created more questions than answers. Who was the sadhu? How did he manifest in my dream? Why did he choose me for the singhi? How had he attained knowledge of the occult? Despite the questions, I was awestruck at the experience I had had. And the sadhu had appeared at a time when I really needed divine intervention to give me hope and show me the way forward. This incident served to renew my faith in God.
I began to diligently practise the tantric method in my sadhana. Whenever I heard there was a saint or tantrik in town, I made it a point to visit him or her. At first, they wouldn't take me seriously because I was just a ‘child’. But, as I sat there and spoke about my own sadhana, my understanding of astrology, the Vedas and other literature, the look in their eyes would change. They would then give me a proper audience, sharing their own experiences and giving me tips on what I could do differently. However, most of them had no clue about the actual practice or challenges of sadhana. Their knowledge was purely bookish. The genuine sadhaks were in a minority, one in a hundred, but they gave me enough fuel to keep my fire going.
I slipped away at every opportunity to meditate in isolated places, did many yajnas, fire offerings, chanted various mantras and performed sadhanas of yakshinis, yoginis, apsaras and devis, who were all different forms of the tantric feminine energy. But there were virtually no results. No god or celestial being appeared. I began creating my own spiritual practice, borrowing rituals from various sadhanas and using different ingredients and mantras in a way I thought would work for me.
During the month of Kartik (from mid-October to mid-November), I visited a deserted area where a flower called the mandara pushpa grew. I would pluck 108 flowers, come home, make a garland of the flowers and chant over it. Then I’d put it in the fridge. The following morning, I would a yajna and then go to the Shiva temple to offer the garland to the Shivalingam. This tantric sadhana was supposed to bestow the practitioner with a vision of Shiva. I followed this practice annually for three years from the age of twelve but there were no tangible results.
The frustrating part was that I didn't know where I was going wrong, and there was no one to show me the path. My family members certainly couldn't help me. In fact, they didn't even know what I was up to. They had no idea of the parallel existence of my mystical world or of my deep interest in the occult. They often thought I was in the library when I was actually busy conducting a shastrartha, scriptural colloquy, with some saint or discussing my sadhana with a tantrik. My mother knew of my inclinations but was unaware of the details. Her unconditional support of my quest was a great blessing for me though.
My frustration began to give way to despair. If God existed, why didn’t he appear before me? If the scriptures were right, if tantra had any substance, why wasn’t I getting the desired outcome? Where was I failing? Though powerful dreams and visions continued and even guided me along my path, I wasn't convinced. I wanted a physical manifestation, real proof that could stand my test of truth.
Gradually, it dawned upon me that I had embarked on a lonely and difficult journey towards self-realization. It would require great tenacity, discipline and time if I wanted to succeed. No matter what spiritual practice I followed, how I did it or how long I did it, there were no guarantees for me. Moving from ephemeral pleasures to a state of constant joy, rising from worldly emotions and being able to live in a state of eternal bliss was going to be a very personal affair. I was my best friend and worst enemy on this journey. I had to create my own way, for the weeds of time had long covered the divine path trod by the ancient sages.
3
Stocks and God
The more time I spent in sadhana, the more critical I became of astrology. While astrology merely focused on the twelve signs of the zodiac and the nine planets, my sadhana exposed me to the existence of a vast and infinite inner world. I was beginning to see how I—and everyone around me�
��was an exact replica of the universe. If there were numerous stars in the universe, the macrocosm, there were countless cells in my body, the microcosm. If there were a sun and moon beyond, there was a solar and lunar channel of breathing within. If there was 70 per cent water on the earth, there was also 70 per cent water in my body.
When innumerable planets, which twinkled like the mysterious stars, were visible even to the naked eye, how was I to believe that only nine planets were affecting everyone's lives? And even with these nine planets that astrology considered, I found it odd that Earth was not included. Two planets, Rahu and Ketu, didn't even exist in the solar system, and the moon had the status of a planet when it was really just a satellite. I couldn’t come to terms with the notion that Mars, which was millions of miles away, had the ability to influence my life while the very planet that sustained me, where I lived, had no place in the astrological chart.
I felt it was silly to spend time figuring out what the planets had in store for me rather than focusing on my own actions and their consequences. Instead of creating my own destiny, I was looking up to inanimate revolving balls in the universe to steer me. Nevertheless, I continued to practise astrology because my income from the readings paid for my books and other expenses.
However, I stopped recommending stones and amulets for people to wear for I no longer believed in these remedies. I tried to tell people that they ought to take control of their lives and it was fine to be guided by astrological charts but it was not prudent to live by its predictions. Yet, they wanted to hear that the planets were the cause of their problems, not their own choices. My view was simple: if you keep doing what you've been doing, you'll keep getting what you've been getting.
It is human nature to think that we are merely the subjects and that someone else, perhaps God, is calling the shots. It is convenient to believe that we are being punished or rewarded by divine forces. The truth is that our future is determined by the choices we make today, and today is resting on the choices we made yesterday.
