If Truth Be Told: A Monk's Memoir

by Om Swami

  Finally, I couldn’t wait any further, and decided that I was going to see Baba at his ashram. The next morning, I put a set of clothes and some toiletries into a small polythene bag and left for Baba’s village. I left late so I could buy his favourite sweets, paan and newspaper. It was just past 11 a.m. when I got there. I almost ran from the autorickshaw to his cottage for I couldn't wait to see him. Entering his room, I prostrated before him and placed the offerings by his feet.

  I thought Baba would be happy to see me again. He, however, spoke to me as if he had no recollection of our earlier meeting and no idea that I had been waiting at the ashram in Varanasi. I was as bewildered as I was disappointed, but shrugged aside my feelings, thinking that this was perhaps Baba’s way of testing me. After a little while, he said, 'Alright, let’s talk today.'

  He asked me about my education and background. He was delighted to hear that I ran a software company and other businesses, and that I had lived in various countries. But, above all, he was particularly pleased to know that I spoke English and that I had received my higher education abroad. Subsequently, he would tell anyone who came to visit that I was an MBA from Australia.

  I requested Baba to grant me permission to stay back at the ashram and serve him. He didn’t respond right away. I sat quietly near him. After a while, a girl entered the room. He told her that I wanted to be his disciple, and asked her if she was comfortable with this. She nodded and they spoke to each other in Bhojpuri, the local language, which I couldn’t understand. After that, Baba told me I could stay back. I let the autorickshaw go.

  This girl, Nikki, used to look after Baba and cook for him. He only ate food that had been cooked by a kumari, and no one else was allowed to partake of that food. It was probably linked to his tantric practice. He treated her like his own daughter. I was introduced to the other people living in the ashram. There was Nikki, of course, who used to stay with Baba in his room. Her brother used to come and sleep there because Baba, as a matter of principle, never stayed alone with Nikki. He always made it a point that someone else be there. Then there was Shesh Muni, a disciple, who was two years older than Baba. Baba’s driver, who everyone called Pandey Driver, also lived there. His full name—I was one of the rare few to ask him—was Hari Om Pandey.

  At the time I arrived, about ten construction workers had taken up temporary residence on the premises as Baba had commenced the construction of a third building, a degree college for girls. Baba asked me to go and rest in the nearby hut. 'Ji, Baba,' I said at his instruction. These were the words I uttered most often with Baba. No matter how absurd the instruction, if it came from his mouth, I simply said ‘Ji, Baba’. And I only ever spoke if he wanted a response from me; for the rest of the time, I remained silent. I wanted to be a real disciple in every way, giving him all I had: my body, heart, mind and soul, as well as my financial resources.

  The holy books state that there are only two types of conversations that occur between a guru and his disciple: a guru asks, and the disciple answers: or, a disciple asks and the guru may choose to answer. There is never any debate between a guru and his disciple, there is no room for answering back. This is the Eastern culture, which I respected and valued. The hut Baba had directed me to was crumbling and badly in need of repair, and cobwebs covered the walls. A thin mattress lay in a corner. As soon as I unfolded it, spiders and other insects scurried out. It was full of dust; in fact, it seemed as if it was made from dust.

  Pandey Driver arrived a few minutes later with a water pipe and hosed the place down. I requested him to shake the mattress vigorously to get rid of the dust as I was asthmatic. He obliged, but the mattress remained dusty. I covered my face and gave it another shake. The dust got to me anyway. I took a couple of puffs of the inhaler to recover and sat down to rest. In the afternoon, Baba sent a message for me to have something to eat in Shesh Muni’s room.

  Shesh Muni’s room was made with unplastered bricks and had a tin roof. A dirty basket containing potatoes lay in a corner, while old metal and plastic containers had been placed on the shelf that lined the walls. Rats, big and fearless, were jumping freely on these jars and boxes in broad daylight. God knows what was in them, for Shesh Muni only ever ate a specific type of lentil with potatoes. He was a heart patient, so there was absolutely no oil in his meals. There were no spices or chillies either; in fact, there was just no flavour or taste in his food.

  There was a single bed in the room, which had a couple of bare mattresses; there was no bed sheet. The pillow was truly soiled, as if it had never been washed. A bunch of keys, a few really old pens without caps and some coins lay next to the pillow. An old table fan was making a disturbingly loud racket.

  One corner was adorned with a more modern item: a gas stove, but it turned out no one was allowed to use it except in an emergency. They cooked food on a kerosene stove instead. I had a vague memory of seeing a stove like that when I was three or four years old. When you pump it to release the kerosene, it makes a great deal of noise. Then you have to light it. Shesh Muni would later lose a part of his luxuriant white beard while lighting that stove. Unsurprisingly, the brick floor was rather dirty.

  A couple of days after I arrived, I discovered that Baba was getting his cottage renovated. It had two rooms, a washroom, a kitchen and a small lobby. Apparently, he was short of funds. Worried about minor expenses, he had decided to compromise on the renovation. I ventured to tell Baba that he had practised austerities all his life, and there was no longer any need to do so. I suggested getting an air conditioner for his room. When he said he didn’t have the money, I told him I would buy one for him. He informed me that the power outages there lasted longer than the hours when there was power, so the air conditioner would be of little use. I offered to buy a power generator. He asked me who would pay for the diesel to run the generator, and I said I could cover it from the monthly stipend my company paid me.

  Baba liked my offer, and gave me the permission to pay for the widgets, fixtures and all. He also asked me to get fancy lights and two small chandeliers for the two rooms. I wanted to serve my guru in every possible way; had he asked me to sever my head and put it at his feet, I would have done it without a thought.

  Baba asked about my savings, and the amount of money I had in the bank. I told him the truth. I also explained that I had technically given all my money away when I left; the reason some money remained in my account was that some people had not cashed their cheques, probably due to their love and concern for me.

  The next day, the plan to buy the air conditioner and other items was put into action. Baba sent for a man called Ranjay Pandey. He turned out to be a noble man who would play an important role for me later. Ranjay brought his SUV to pick me up. A couple of other people joined us, as Baba wanted them to accompany me. He stated that I was quite naive and the shopkeepers would rip me off. I simply said, 'Ji, Baba.'

  Baba was quite pleased to see the AC, power generator and fixtures for his cottage, but nothing could be installed until the renovation was complete. Thus he asked me to supervise and speed up the renovation of the cottage. I did so willingly, though it was a challenge. Even while the work was going on, I had to walk barefoot on the floor, which was covered with cement, sand, dust and other construction materials. Although he wasn't living there and the place was under construction, this was his home and no one was allowed to enter with shoes on.

  I cleaned my feet daily, but it was the same story the next day. My heels cracked really badly, and blood would ooze out. Unable to bear the pain, I once visited the construction site with my flip-flops on, but it turned out to be a bad idea as everyone thought I was being arrogant. Nikki complained to Baba though he didn't say anything to me.

  I didn't mind the discomforts at the ashram because I was there for my sadhana, and saw them as ways to serve my guru. Was my devotion towards Baba so weak that I would crumble at the simple task of handling his construction or walking barefoot? Wasn't I supposed to rise above the slavery
of my body? Hadn’t I spent the first thirty years of my life mainly looking after my body? A lack of food or of the absence of respect was a small price to pay for learning the secrets of sadhana.

  Anything that pushed me beyond what I was used to enduring would take me to a new level, I thought. But I was desperate to immerse myself in meditation so I could see Mother Divine and experience samadhi. I was looking up to Baba to guide me, to direct me, but it was rather hard to even get a private audience with him because Nikki was always around. She used to study in Baba's school but since he owned the school, the rules were relaxed for her. Any private time I got with him was the best part of my day.

  On one of these rare occasions, I asked him, 'Baba, I really want to see God. It's possible, right Baba?’

  'What isn't possible with penance? Mother Divine is waiting with open arms for her child's loving call.'

  I was moved to tears. I wanted to see Mother Divine, I wanted to play in her lap.

  'Baba, I'll be eternally grateful if you can share with me any experiences you’ve had with the Divine.’

  He chuckled and began narrating an incident. I listened with rapt attention.

  'I used to be big and strong and regularly participated in wrestling competitions. Once, when I was around nineteen years old, we were three sadhus travelling to a different village to take part in a wrestling competition. On the way, we stopped by the riverside and took out our lunch. From a distance, we saw a tall sadhu coming our way, walking briskly but gracefully. His face glowed.

  ‘I joked with him saying, “What's the rush, Maharaj? Are you running for alms? Come, I'll feed you.”

  ‘This angered him and he chastised me saying, “You have become a sadhu but you don't possess any of the traits of a sadhu.”

  ‘I teased him again and said, "Really? So you tell me what a sadhu is supposed to be like?"

  ‘He asked me to follow him if I really wanted to know. I took one of the bicycles, and told my companions that I would see them later at the competition venue. The sadhu took me to a cremation ground. There was a small temple there with an idol of the Goddess. He had me sit in front of the idol. “Now you will be able to see with your own eyes.” He closed the door and it became dark inside. Lighting a lamp, he began to chant a cryptic mantra. After he finished, he said, "I'll wait for you outside.” He left, shutting the door behind him.

  'A few seconds later, the idol began to dance. It was a stone idol and seeing it dance made me really scared. I was sweating in fear and, if it wasn't a temple, I would have easily wet my loincloth. I stood up but the idol didn't stop dancing. I also began to hear strange sounds—the howling of jackals and dogs, flowing water, thundering clouds—and I was terrified. I sat down again, but the energy continued to become more intense and unbearable. I could not take it anymore and sprang up. Without bowing, I flung the door open. Outside, the mahatma was waiting. "So? What did you see?" he asked.

  ‘The arrogant fool that I was, I didn't want to admit that I had been humbled. "I saw nothing," I said. “Get lost, you pig, your face shows you are lying,” said the sadhu.

  ‘Falling at his feet, I asked for his forgiveness and requested him to accept me as his disciple. By lying, however, I had lost him. "I can't teach someone like you, you'd better get out of here,” he said.

  ‘I went to the cremation ground several times after that, but never found him again. I sat in that temple at night, during the day, with the door open, with the door closed, but the idol did not dance again, nor did those sounds ever return.'

  Baba became quiet after that. I bowed before him in gratitude for the experience he had shared with me. I wanted to ask questions about sadhana, but I had not the courage to break the sublime silence.

  'I'm here, Bauji.' Nikki's arrival brought an end to our conversation. Two devotees from the village also arrived and started pressing his legs, which was something he really enjoyed. It was now afternoon, and he always napped in the afternoons. He signalled to me to leave.

  Daily, Baba asked me if I was actually serious about taking sanyasa diksha. ‘I became a sadhu because my teacher used to beat me at school and my father used to beat me at home. I ran away at the age of nine. I'm curious as to why you want to renounce? You’re educated, healthy, young and good-looking. It doesn't make sense.'

  I smiled at his compliments. 'Because I want to see God, Baba. I'm not interested in material life.'

  'That's fine, but I don't believe that your mother is okay with your decision.'

  'No one knows where I am presently. But I had always told my mother that I would go away for my sadhana one day.'

  'Guru, I won't initiate you till I speak to your mother.' Sometimes, he affectionately called me ‘guru’.

  One morning, I recall it was 31 March, Baba asked me to call my mother. This was not something I wanted to do but I couldn't refuse him. My mother was in Canada with my brother at the time. I called the house from Baba's phone and Ma picked up. She was overwhelmed to hear my voice. I told her I was alright and that my guru wanted to speak to her.

  Baba said to her, 'Yes, my daughter, he has approached me for sanyasa. Should I make him a mahatma?'

  'Babaji,' said my mother, 'He's been like this since early childhood. Please bless him so he becomes such a great soul that I may say to the whole world, “I'm the mother of a mahatma.” ’

  Baba uttered some words of blessing and put the phone down. He was over the moon. 'I'm happy today that your mother has blessed and approved of your sadhana. Now, I'll certainly initiate you on the path of renunciation.' This was the last time I spoke to my mother during the course of my sadhana.

  He began to sing a song in Bhojpuri that I didn't understand, and Nikki started laughing. Some schoolteachers came into the room and my guru turned to them. 'Today, I spoke to his mother.' Baba related his conversation and then quoted a verse from the Ramcharitmanas:

  'Putravati jubati jag soi, raghupati bhakt jasu sut hoi.

  Nataru bhanj bali baad biyani, ram bimukh sut te hit jaani’

  (Many mothers give birth to sons, but a real mother is the one whose son devotes his life to a good cause. Otherwise, her going through the labour pain is a waste. A woman who expects welfare from a selfish son is better off being barren).

  'Sarvananda. Swami Sarvananda.' He gave me the name right there.

  I prostrated before him.

  'I'll make you a siddha,' he added.

  I folded my hands and said, 'Ji, Baba.'

  'You already have everything, you just have to travel a little bit. You are born with it.'

  I felt deeply humbled.

  My date of initiation, however, was postponed a couple of times. Finally, on 11 April, Baba initiated me. My head was shaved, and I dropped my old clothes. I was given a set of robes and a loincloth, my secret mantra and the new name but, most of all, I was given the privilege of taking a pledge only a sanyasi was allowed: 'I hereby renounce the transient material world, and enter into the life of a renunciant.'

  Like butter melts on a hot plate, those words melted something within me. Just as dew drops vanish upon the emergence of the sun, the chattering mind disappeared, and a feeling of great calm engulfed me. I felt like a tree after a heavy rain: new and vivified. Suddenly, I knew the purpose of my life, of this birth; there were no more confusions within. The light of the blessings of my gurus, the lineage of siddhas to which I belonged now, had dissipated the darkness of my vikara, negative tendencies.

  All I needed now was a vision of God, the Supreme Soul. I craved to see a manifestation of the eternal essence, but craving did not equal preparedness. I thought I was ready but the Goddess had a different view. She knew I had a long way to go, and she was right.

  10

  Ji, Baba

  The day after my diksha, Baba was sitting on the floor in his room, dressed in his black robes. He was wearing the tripundra, religious mark with three horizontal lines and a small red dot, on his forehead, and his beautiful, matted locks hung down
to the floor.

  The door opened, and the construction workers came in. They wanted their outstanding wages. A disagreement ensued between Baba and the men over the wages, and he suddenly started hurling abuses at them. I had never seen a sadhu swear and watched, horrified, as the abuses became more graphic and intense. Trembling in fear, the workers quickly got up and left. I was confused. I didn't know what was more appropriate: to leave when I wasn't asked to or to sit while my guru was furious.

  Just then, Nikki entered the room with a cup of tea for Baba, and I was relieved. She sat near him while he drank his tea quietly. Then he asked me to leave the room. I went out and sat near in the shade of a young tree. I couldn't get back to normal though. I never thought that my guru, my siddha, even knew such words, let alone utter them in rage. I was besieged by doubt. I wondered what I was doing there, and if I was in the right place. Had I made a mistake?

  I couldn't understand what Baba had actually accomplished in his sixty-five years of sadhana if he could still get angry like that, like any ordinary person. Immediately, I felt guilty for having such thoughts. The holy books state that a disciple must have absolute obedience for his guru. I told myself that he must have had his reasons for behaving the way he did. Perhaps it was a test for me. I chastised myself for doubting my guru.

  'Bauji is calling you.' I looked up to see Nikki standing there. I went back into Baba’s room and sat down near him.

  'Don't worry about today's incident,' Baba said. 'Some people can only be sorted out with a stick. I'm an old man and I can't change myself now. Just don't be near me when I get angry because it can get very nasty,' he said, before dismissing me.

  I came back to sit under the tree, my mind in a whirl. Although I was shocked, I didn't think any less of Baba; he had been a sadhu for more than sixty-five years, while I was just thirty years old. I didn't feel qualified enough to judge him. And where was my surrender if I doubted him? Besides, he hadn't invited me or asked me to become his disciple. It was a choice I had made and I expected myself to take responsibility for my choices. I also told myself that I needed to move beyond my judgements and conditioning. Rather than imposing my idea of how my guru should be, I had to learn to accept him as he was, and to live the way he wanted me to.