Month: July 2015

An Account of the Jal-samādhi of Mahāmaṇḍaleśhvara Swami Veda Bharati, July 17th, 2015

Initially preparing to sit in the small yajñaśhālā and meditate a little bit before the final darśhan, as I approached the small building the sound of Vedic chanting lured me towards the meditation hall. The saṁnyāsis from Nirañjana akhara were bathing and preparing the body of Swami ji, serenaded by the eternal word and rhythm. No ladies allowed, so I stood around the corner, faced the distant hills in the east, and listened. An energetic “Haara Haara Mahaadev!” announced the completion of the rites. Seated on a palanquin, supported by more men than memory can recall, and completely covered in orange garb and flowers so that only his face was visible, Swami ji’s remains made their way around the corner and into public view. A chorus of “Kashi Vishwanatha Gange”, a popular pilgrimage song, was taken up for the short procession to the courtyard in front of the meditation hall, where Swami ji’s body would be installed for final darśhan.

Perhaps it was due to the bathing, or movement, or being taken out of the refrigerated case, or simply the fact that this was a body which had not breathed in three days, but finally Swami ji body really looked like a corpse. Beforehand, everyone was commenting on how it appeared as if he were sleeping and some even speculated about him just being in Samadhi. Now the true and final departure of Swami ji from his spent body was undeniable.  At first there were remarkably few on-lookers, let’s say two dozen or so. As time progressed, the loved ones and devotees increased, as did the energy. The air was humid and thick, thus every fluctuation was palpable. Three or four Brahmins again began the Vedic chanting with “swasti naḥ indro…” and other Shanti mantras, then the sequence of mantras each ending in “tan me manaḥ śhiva saṁkalpamastu”. One pandit kept on prodding them and rearranging them, urging them to chant louder and louder as if he was Savitṛ the impeller himself. Situated directly behind them, the power of their chanting mixed with the presence of Swami ji’s exquisite corpse overwhelmed me. Bliss and effervescence took my hands. Due to the arriving of important devotees and the shuffling of shawls to be offered and what-not, total stillness was impossible, although it was predominant. The immortality of the Word, reflected in its first progeny of the chandas (Vedas), brought to light the immortality of the Guru in the face of our Swami ji’s earthly remains. Atop those remains was a vibrant heap of roses which, due to the diffuse lighting conditions, seemed to be emitting their own deep-pink light. Behind Swami ji’s body were his closest disciples and other swamis, with resolute faces, a wall of orange, set against the verdant backdrop of the ashram’s grounds.  The scene in its entirety could not have demanded more presence. Waves of emotions, from the swells of sorrow to the crests of laughter, also added their own hues. Friends and disciples recognized each other, consoled each other, and rejoiced together in all Swami ji had given them.  In a final gesture of giving back, an amorphous crowd began to funnel into a line, so that all could offer rose petals at the Swami ji’s feet.  This was also the last opportunity for sākṣāt darśhan of the mūrti of swami ji. The signs of death being more pronounced now, this mūrti was a less familiar one, less bright and grandfatherly. Whether we liked it or not, we were being weaned off this vyakti, this individual manifestation of the universal Guru. From the heap of decaying human remains before us we were sent within to take refuge with the True Guru.

Upon the walls of the Initiation Room of the ashram is a beautifully illuminated manuscript of the Iṣā Upaniṣad, which all fits on one leaf. Remembering this, I pulled out a pocket edition of Mantrapuṣpa while I stood in the back of the line. Surrounded by so much grief, a crutch was needed to center, and I found exactly such a crutch in a very simple verse, “Tatra ko mohaḥ kaḥ śhoka ekatvamanupaśhyataḥ?” (Of that person beholding Unity [abiding in the universal Self] what delusion, what grief [may arise]?) Even if we personally don’t merge with that Unity so often, just the thought of Swami ji’s complete merger with it was enough to bring joy. People like to say this about great spiritual personalities, but metaphysically it must be true of everyone: what was beloved and dear in them never departs from this world, because it is the very foundation of this world. This is, of course, one of the great teachings of the Kaṭhopaniṣad. The Self is that which is most beloved in the husband, mother, teacher, child, etc. Keeping such universal teachings in mind, teachings pronounced again and again by Swami ji, I bided my time in the line. Eventually it came and I gathered rose petals from the platter, cupping them in my hands. In my head I recited “akhaṇḍamaṇḍalākāram…” once then switched my focus to pure aesthetic absorption. I tried to observe his face in as much detail as I could in the brief time I was allotted. His skin was greying, his puffy cheeks drooping and eyelids sunken far back into the eye sockets. I wondered what his eyes looked like beneath those flaps of skin. In the weeks before his passing, several times I had noticed this look of being totally trapped, in those otherwise beautiful, expressive, and sparkly eyes. His nose and lips betrayed the most signs of decay, but it was still quite minimal. While undeniably transformed, this was still the face that had shown me so many wise and kind glances, and removed so much doubt from my troubled mind. Conscious of this period of grace, I sprinkled the rose petals on top of the large mound of them in his lap, got on my knees, and bowed my head to the ground releasing a flood of gratitude.

Rejoining the nebulous crowd, about 20 more minutes went by of offerings, then a few brief speeches were made before the procession would resume. Short and bittersweet, the words of the Ashram’s new pramukh, Swami Ritavan ji, well captured the spirit of Swami ji, “We are all beings of light . . .stars in the sky of consciousness . . . [and remember] tat tvam asi.” As Swami ji’s body was lifted, it moved again with the rhythm of the Vedas. Flowers and rice were thrown and that colorful mass of sacred remains slowly moved above the sea of heads, along the jasmine vines which cover the main building.  We followed it off the ashram grounds, along a narrow passage next to a mango grove. Air humid and rich with tropical fragrances marked another transition in the events of the day. Being forced to go through a narrow and somewhat enclosed passage before emerging with Swami ji’s remains for the outside world to behold, mirrored the process of birth. Swami ji himself said, “Death is not a process apart from being born and living; it is included in birth and life.”(Introduction, Meditation and the Art of Dying).  Shortly after the sylvan canal, Swami ji’s body was loaded onto a very utilitarian truck which was temporarily bedecked with marigolds and mango leaves to hide its prosaic character. With a great heave the body was lifted up way above the crowd. It was as if Swami ji was looking out over us one last time.  For a brief moment I was genuinely convinced that his eyes were open, that he was really watching us. Settled in the truck, he was increasingly obscured from view by the select few who were to ride with him to Haridwar.  The remainder of us loaded on to some busses and private vehicles to make the three-quarters of an hour’s journey to his final resting place, in the Holy Ganga, the river of knowledge and the Sun.

The bus ride was rather meditative, very few people spoke at all. Once we arrived in a dirt lot along a high embankment, we quickly disembarked and our eyes sought out our departed guide. The mass of rose and orange in front of that otherwise pedestrian truck was not hard to miss. Now Swami ji was being serenaded by a very different tune, that of a brass band which I usually associate with wedding processions, and we all made our way up the embankment behind him. After reaching the top of this dyke, amid an otherwise flat floodplains, the Ganges and some nearby hills came into view. We walked for about one-fourth of a kilometer, before descending along a precarious concrete slope to an even more disjointed collection of concrete blocks descending into the waters. It was still a serene and clean spot along the Ganges. Hundreds of family members, devotees, local babas, and the elites of the Nirañjana Akhara gathered atop these asymmetrical blocks. Some stayed on the concrete slope behind, which in all likelihood offered the best view of the last rites. On the other side of the river, some cows and cow herders, in their respective clusters, looked on from afar. A bird of prey with broad wings soared above. I made my way down to the banks of the Ganga, as far down as I could. Perched precariously between two concrete blocks, I watched with some of the ashram staff anxiously awaiting the submergence. Relying on live commentary from those with a view, it seems an abhishek with milk, curds, and the like took place on Swami ji’s body before it was put in a wooden box. Some of the excess malas and ornaments were discarded and they flowed past us. The current was quite strong with many eddies and the sounds of churning waters were the main accompaniment now. Several rounds of loud prayers followed by “Haara Haara Maaha Dev!” took place, but none yet was announcing the main event. The live coverage continued, ‘now they’ve put him in the box’, ‘now they’re putting stones in’, ‘now they’re closing it’. Finally the familiar sound of hammering nails became audible above the drone of the river. The box was tied with twine-like string. A bamboo stick was dipped into the rushing river, perhaps to check the depths. Red powder was poured into the restless stream, creating a temporary crimson highlight in the murky waters. All the mounting anticipation was on the verge of release. A final cry “Namaḥ Pārvatī pataye, hāra hāra Mahā Deeeev!” and the crate containing the mortal remains of an immortal master was launched into the Ganga with two bamboo poles. Making a modest splash, water filled the slits through which the outline of his form could be clearly seen. After being carried a few meters by the strong current, Swami ji’s body was permanently re-united with the depths.

And then what? Some flocked to the Ganga for the dual purpose of purification and cool relief from the burdensome heat. Some stood around in awe and disbelief that this was it. All the ritual and grandeur helped fill the void, but could not do so entirely. His body was gone, released to the elements from which it came. Never again would we behold it, nor he us through those eyes. While the latter fact had been the case for several days, now that he was completely gone it was even more undeniable. The wisest among us quickly turned their backs and headed back up the embankment. In time all followed suit.

About halfway through the ride back to the ashram, a light rain began. As we approached the ashram it grew stronger and stronger, sheets of water were crashing down. By the time we pulled in the ashram gate, an umbrella would have been a useless defense against such torrents. Temporary waterfalls formed along terraces and between the temples. A group of young girls, four or five of them, were rejoicing in the rain. Some spinning with their hands in the air, another sitting as if a monk in deep meditation under a waterfall, all engrossed in laughter.  Their happiness was infectious. If the bliss of Samadhi was not enough to dispel grief, certainly this embodiment of līlā, the magical aspect of pravṛtti (manifestation), was. Even a man extremely affected by Swami ji’s passing, smiled from ear to ear as he passed these young kumaris. Swami ji himself would have done the same.

It’s a custom after Hindu funerals that one bathe upon returning home from the cremation ground (or in this case, the river). A Sāhdaka at the ashram, commenting on the rain, said that arrangements had been made for everyone to follow this practice, whether they were aware of it or not. Instead of going directly back to my room, I went instead to the rooftop, where several inches of rainwater had already gathered. Letting my hair down for the first time in months, it was soon saturated and the soothing waters rolled down my scalp. Surveying the ashram, which is but a small portion of Swami ji’s life’s work, there was nothing but hope that work, the dharma, will continue. Through such loss and regeneration, new bodies are added to the common effort, as oil is added to an unceasing flame.  Through this perfectly timed torrential rain, unlike any other of the season, arose also the faith that the new effort would not be without guidance. From within and without, the Guru is always present.

My mom passed away in 1990.  Sometimes I think of all the things that have happened in the 25 years since she left.  If she could come back and see everything, she would be in shock trying to take in all the differences.  The concept of impermanence can be seen very clearly when you contemplate this.  The term expresses the Buddhist notion that all of existence, without exception, is in a constant state of flux.  If you live long enough, the large amount of ongoing change becomes very clear.  She would notice right away that in 1990 I was single and now I am married.  Many other obvious changes come to mind.  For example, I can walk by a house in my neighborhood and see that in the last 25 years several different people have lived there.  At one time I was good friends with the occupants and now someone is living there who wouldn’t know me from a complete stranger.  Another example is how my job has changed since I entered Minneapolis Public Schools in 1985.  When I started, class schedules were made by hand and the School Counselor kept track of the number of students in each class by using tally marks on a piece of paper.  Thirty years later, all the information is entered, organized, and saved on a computer.  These things are a small reminder of how everything continues to change and evolve.

But you do not have to live a long time to get first hand insight into the idea of impermanence.  All you have to do is sit quietly and watch the march of thoughts that travel through the highway of the mind.  I read recently that each person has between 12,000-50,000 different thoughts each day.  Whatever the number of thoughts actually is, it is clear to anyone who has practiced meditation that many, many thoughts come and go.   Most flow through very quickly.  Once in a while, I have noticed that a thought will arise that sticks around for days, weeks, or longer.  This type of thought usually has a strong emotional component. How long it sticks around depends on my reaction to it.  I try to fully acknowledge it.  If I can maintain my composure, and don’t grasp at it or push it away, then eventually it loses the intensity.  What I have found to also be of great help is if I can find a way to feel gratitude for the thought. I give thanks that it is helping remind to get back to the task at hand, go deeper inside, and increase the level of concentration.  Learning to love the things that bother you the most feels like an act of real emotional purification.  I then continue to relax the body, slow the breath, and bring my attention back to the mantra and/or movement of the breath.  When this process is followed, no matter how intense the thought, it will always start to loosen its grip. Gradually it begins to dissipate, and eventually disappears completely. It gives me comfort to know that because of the quality of impermanence, no matter how fierce a thought is, it will recede over time.

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Editor’s Note

Daniel Hertz (E-RYT 500) is an award winning teacher and counselor in the Minneapolis Public Schools and is on the faculty of The Meditation Center. He is the author of two Yoga-Meditation related books that benefit SRIVERM, the school in the remote Himalayas founded by Swami Hari.  Please see www.DanielHertzBooks.wordpress.com  for more information.

In an intuition, I sensed that I’d meet a man who would lead me to my true self. Then I met you, and I knew you were that man. The first time I saw you I loved you. Never before had I experienced feelings like that for anyone. Looking at how grounded you were, how much integrity you had, such vast wisdom you imparted, I didn’t want to leave. But how could I stay? So I made my way home, the whole way craving to return to your feet.

It seemed like forever before I was fortunate to come into your presence again. I traveled to India and met you again there, and deepened my love for you. You imparted your first guidance to me, and I felt the sting and simultaneous sweetness of it. When you came to California the next year, I asked for and received initiation and became your student.

Beloved teacher, it meant the world to me to learn from you, to listen to you, to serve you. I felt so lucky any time I was in your presence. The learning was constant, as was the fun.

So many years passed in this way. Years that were treasures.

Your always fragile body ever became more fragile. Yet somehow, miraculously, you continued teaching. Teaching and guiding were like the air you breathed, and those who came into your orbit were truly fortunate.

Oh beloved Swamiji, you’ve been in my thoughts and heart every day. You were in my dreams, in my inner-whisperings. Your guidance, teachings, love uplifted me and enabled me to reach beyond my imagined limits and to taste the sweetness of service.

During the last two years, it was painful to see how your body fell to new lows of weakness and ill-health, and at the same time, I was amazed at your ability to keep going in the service of Gurudeva. You were always inspired and inspiring. Your strength kindled within my heart a desire to serve.

Now you’ve sprouted wings of light and have flown from this material world. I mourn the loss of the person I knew as my friend, teacher, and guide. At the same time, I am grateful that I had the great fortune to have a teacher such as you.

Dear guide of light, it is my wish to follow your way, and serve your mission. I pray for strength to do so.

Pranaams and love, Mokshadava

For the last many years I have been in Rishikesh every spring. However, in 2014 I hesitated to travel to India. The reasons were primarily financial, but including a trip to India in my complicated plans for that particular summer would have also meant that I would be away from home for quite a long time. I had to be at my son’s wedding in the Philippines at the end of March and then with my husband’s family in England at the end of June. Flying back and forth from the States to Asia and then to Europe was out of the question – I had no money for more than one expensive ticket. The only option was to stay in India between the wedding and England for about three months.

“It is crazy to hang around for three months in India,” my son told me, “especially if this year you are not going to trek in the Himalayas as usual. What are you going to do in Rishikesh for three whole months?”
I argued that this particular year I really needed to go to India for two reasons. In the first place, the person I call my teacher, whom I had found only recently, was not in perfect health. The time I had spent with him a year before was so powerful that I did not want to miss the opportunity to spend one more summer with him. Nor, secondly, did I want him to be disappointed and think that, like many western tourists, I had a good time in his ashram, and then I went back home and forgot all about the tasks he gave me and the promises I made. For I took those tasks and those promises very seriously, and I wanted him to know that.

“I have the chance to be with a very special teacher,” I insisted, trying to justify a long trip and a long absence from home.

“If it is not this teacher you will find another one,” said my other son. “There are many teachers in the world.”

“Are there many teachers in the world?” thought I to myself. “What is a teacher? What is a Master? A Guru?”

In my world, built upon the fundamental value of diversity of any kind – religious, cultural, ethnic, or racial,  I should admit that there are many teachers as there are many paths to spiritual development and many methods to achieving the same spiritual goals. Nevertheless, I had to disagree with what some of the people close to me were telling me – that I could always find another teacher. Such statements made me contemplate the question why I believed that this one particular man was the only living teacher I could have.

I am not a fanatic. Just the opposite – fanaticism has always scared me to death and I have run away from anything in my life that looked remotely like fanaticism. Nor have I ever been overexcited by people, teachings, places, or relationships. By nature, I am a philosopher, an analyst. I tend to look carefully at everything that comes my way and to make my choices slowly. Excitement is not my mode of existence.

I was fortunate to have the profound spiritual teachings of a real Master as the solid basis of my entire life, the teachings of a Master known as Beinsa Douno. This meant that I was content with my views and with my life; that I was not in search of another kind of guidance, and that I was definitely not jumping from fascination with one esoteric school of thought to fascination with another. However, all this did not mean that I had stopped learning. My character, my upbringing, and the teachings of my Master formed me as a person who worships studying, learning, and teaching – most particularly of human thought and of our perception of spirituality. I never stopped learning about different philosophical and religious traditions, nor have I stopped looking for ways to develop on deeper spiritual levels. But the idea that I never had a living teacher had not even come to my mind in the past. I never thought of Beinsa Douno in terms of a living or a non-living Master. His presence in my life was simply a reality. Only once in a while, when I was very young and I was trekking in the mountains through the places where the Master used to camp with his disciples in the summer, I felt sad that I had not been there to share those precious moments with him.

In my days, the communist regime in Bulgaria had strictly prohibited the followers of Beinsa Douno from camping and from getting together anywhere in the Bulgarian mountains. Thus, I had no experience of listening to the living words of this teacher, of spending time in a retreat with him, or of being guided in my practices. Later in my life, I learned that a direct disciple could play the role of a living teacher, and I was glad that I had had at least that experience. I was taught by a direct disciple indeed. Instead of having what people today call retreats, I was spending many hours every week, almost every day, with this exceptional person, whose love for his Master allowed him to achieve the highest possible degree of immediacy in conveying Beinsa Douno’s teachings, views, practical advice, and deep esoteric understanding of many spiritual questions. Did I then have a living teacher?

I asked myself this question only recently, in India. Eventually, after having been on what people call a spiritual path for over forty years, I had found my living teacher – unexpectedly, as a complete surprise, without searching for one. When I found him, in one of the most beautiful places I have known, in the Center for the Study of the Himalayan Yoga Tradition, the Swami Rama Sadhaka Grama in Rishikesh, this man had just given his vow of five years of silence.

“So how does he teach you?” asked my husband when I told him briefly about that.

This was the question that made me ask myself what a teacher really was. My husband’s question, I believe, is at the core of the understanding of the phenomenon of a spiritual teacher or a Guru, as they say in India. If there is anything taught and anything learned, then there must be a teacher and there must be a disciple. The greatness of the teacher does not depend, I think, on anything else but the greatness of the thing taught. When or where the teacher lives may not matter much. How that teacher lives, however, matters – because it is relevant to the thing taught. The one remaining question then is how the thing is taught.

The word, both spoken and written, is a powerful mediator. From my first Master I learned mostly by reading the transcribed shorthand records of lectures he had given at the time and by listening to one of his direct disciples. Was that only an intellectual path of learning? I would say no – it was not. In the environment where I learned about these teachings, where there were constantly house raids for incriminated books, where we had to hide every time we were more than two like-minded people gathered in one place, where I was afraid to share my views with anyone, including with the members of my own family, I believe that in that environment there was a lot of spiritual practice involved, in addition to the intellectual comprehension of the texts. I was constantly put to the test and I had to practice what I studied in order to preserve not only my convictions but my normal daily life. And now my living teacher in India was silent.

Of course, my teacher in India had written many scholarly books — on the Yoga Sutras, on meditation, and on many other spiritual topics. In the first year of his silence, he also gave a whole course, using computer technology. I had not attended that course but I read several of his books. Was I supposed to tell my husband that my teacher, who keeps his silence vow, was teaching through a computer? Or that he was teaching me through his books – a method I was quite well acquainted with? I knew that something would be wrong with such an answer. It simply would not have been true. It took me some time to realize what my answer should be.

A year earlier, after I had shared with Swami Veda the brief history of my spiritual development, he made an incredible gesture, a gesture on a grand scale that only a real Master could make. Among many other things, I had mentioned to him that I have not had a living Master and that I have not been initiated. It had never crossed my mind that I could be initiated, nor that Swami Veda could become my teacher. In some way, however, a Master, when that person is a real Master, knows what a seeker thinks or feels, what s/he lacks, desires, or dreams of. Consciously or subconsciously, I have always been content with the fact that I have not been initiated in any particular tradition. To me, this was something for another life. That thought, however, did make me sad. Deep down, I was always dreaming of that mystical experience of being in the presence of a Master – here and now. Most of all, I had been dreaming of sharing, through initiation, that universal all-embracing love that brings us all together, the love that some call God. Swami Veda, being a Master, knew that. He must have felt how much I needed such experience and how much it would mean to me. And he decided to make a sacrifice. He broke his silence once – to initiate me. He did this for me, a nobody – someone who came to him from nowhere, someone who was going to leave and who might never come back again. Or perhaps he made a sacrifice for a human being that was in real need?

How do I explain what Swami Veda’s sacrifice taught me? Have I been ready to sacrifice that much for anyone except maybe for my children? What have I been ready to sacrifice? How was I making sacrifices? Why? For whom? Did I expect anything in return when I made a sacrifice? Did I have any second thoughts? What were my reasons to compromise with anything? Would I have done anything like that for someone who might even forget what I had done for them? There are so many more questions I have been asking myself, that arose in my mind because of the extraordinary act of Swami Veda.

In the year following my initiation I did come back to Rishikesh. I wanted to spend most of the time around Swami ji in the Sadhaka Grama, the village of seekers. In the first place, I needed to be in the presence of my teacher. To be in the presence of a Master is a mystical experience which I am not able to explain, but I knew I badly needed that experience again. Around Swami ji I felt as if I was in a space of pure Good. It was as if I had another version of me, a modified version, an extension or a squared me – with bigger lungs and cleaner and clearer thoughts, healthier, calmer, more peaceful, more loving, and certainly more forgiving. I also knew that Swami ji expected me to return. I did not want him to think even for a moment that I would disappoint him. How often do we all say to our friends that we will call them and we do not? That we will be in touch and we are not? That we will see them soon, and then we let years pass, until we even forget when we saw them last?

Did I learn to keep my word? Or did I learn to care? Or to feel the obligation of someone who was on the receiving end?

I have a niece who works as a mountain guide. She told me once that all the people in her groups who have had trouble during treks and needed help, ended up hating her and complaining about her at the end.

“They could not look me in the eye,” she said. “People often hate those who help them because they hate being seen when they are weak. Their big fat Ego stands in the way of simple gratitude.”

Did I learn from my teacher to feel genuinely grateful for the help he offered, for his spiritual support? I think I did, but I don’t know how exactly. Swami ji never requested anything. A Master has the authority to require just about anything on the spiritual level – action, behavior, attention. But Swami ji was silent, and I was thousands of miles away – at the other end of the world. There were several e-mail exchanges between us during that year. I was far from India, but I learned endless lessons through each one of them. When I returned eventually, in the summer of 2014, gradually I started to realize what the teaching process between me and Swami ji was.

Swami ji learned that I was able to afford staying in the ashram only for a few days. He learned it directly from me, as well as from another remarkable person who was part of his spiritual family, someone who wanted to help me and who probably always wants to help – the publisher of the monthly journal Ahimsin, Carolyn Hume. Surely, Swami ji knew I needed to be around him and, despite the fact that he was ill and he was in silence, he found the time and the strength to make arrangements for me. I was invited to stay in the Sadhaka Grama as long as I wished and to pay as much as I could afford. Many of my big dreams have been fulfilled in this life – not without my effort, and yet – how many people can say that they have lived their dreams?  Studying and practicing in the SRSG and being around Swami ji was the fulfillment of one of my dreams. I was feeling blessed.

Before I moved to the village of seekers, I was staying, as usual, with my old friend Siddhartha Krishna in the Omkarananda Ganga Sadan. Swami ji had written to me that he was going deeper and deeper into silence but that he was still sitting with the whole community during the evening meditation for about an hour. This, in his words, was his only contact with the outside world at the moment. So, every evening, I was taking a rickshaw from the other end of Rishikesh to go to the Sadhaka Grama for the meditation.

We always gathered in the main hall – twenty, maybe thirty people. I was so happy that I could sit there, in the presence of Swami Veda. I could actually share this hour of meditation with him and all the people who lived in the ashram and to whom being together in meditation was a necessary part of life.  I knew this was the closest contact I was going to have with Swami ji – this summer and maybe ever.

One evening I arrived in the ashram too early. I was sitting on a bench in front of the meditation hall, waiting for people to start gathering. A small group appeared, walking slowly toward me from the other corner of the building. One of them was pushing a wheel chair. Swami ji was being brought to the meditation hall. I jumped on my feet and stepped back so that I was not in the way. Swami ji looked straight at me, tilted his head toward his left shoulder, as he often used to do, and smiled. His face was shining, as if illuminated. His smile was wide, happy, and gentle. I put my hands together in front of my chest, as if for a prayer, and I closed my eyes for a second.

“Thank you, thank you for everything, for letting me come, for being here with me, for seeing you, for everything…,” I thought.

I opened my eyes. There was more I wanted to express, much more. I now spontaneously crossed my arms in front of my heart as if I was embracing all my feelings for my teacher, all my admiration, all my respect, all my gratitude, in fact all my deep love that filled my heart.

“Thank you for this experience of love,” I thought.

Swami ji lifted his right hand from his lap and put it over his heart – still illuminated in a smile. For a brief moment we were face to face with each other, both smiling, and both embracing each other in our hearts. I was illuminated too, I thought. What was the light that covered me? Swami ji’s love for his disciples, for me, for all human beings? Not only. It was not only the love for anything or anyone. It was that love that is a state of being. And for a brief moment in my life, Swami ji had taken me along to that state. I had felt, experienced, and realized it, and there was no power in the world which could ever take it from me. I may not be able to get back to that state on my own, but I can dream of it and aim at it. I knew then, that even on the days when darkness may envelop my thoughts, when fear and despair may prevail, I could close my eyes and move up into the light of Swami ji’s embrace of love.

It never crossed my mind to utter a word. Can words express what happened in that moment? I cannot find those words perhaps, but I know that what happened that evening was going to stay with me in this and in many other worlds.

The presence of a real Master is a mystical experience. The presence of a silent Master, who can teach you in his silence, is a blessing and an unending source of life and love. If we can only learn!