Author: Mandala

It is around 1975 my wife and I met our beloved Swamiji when he was Dr. Usharbudh Arya, as a disciple of Swami Rama of Himalayas. Dr. Arya considered himself blessed as a disciple of a great master of our times.  During his short stay as a professor at the University of Minnesota, he received the highest reward from the University of Minnesota as an educator.

He was attracted to Swami Rama who influenced his life a great extent. Swami Rama could see Dr. Arya’s talent is more valuable in a global level than being confined at the University. Dr. Arya knew that he has found his true Guru with Swami Rama. They were bonded as Guru – disciple. Swami Rama, in his usual way, prepared his disciple to expose his talents as a great teacher and scholar. He gave him the Title of “Pandit”, which means a Scholar. All those who came to know him called him Panditji (Respected Pandit).

With his wife and four children to support, he ventured to leave his job at the University of Minnesota and start a new career as a teacher of spirituality and philosophy. He was taught by his father in India from his childhood. He learnt to recite Vedas and Upanishads from early childhood and give talks on spiritual subjects from the age of nine. Coming abroad, when he was in his twenties he completed a doctorate in language and literature from Holland. He was well prepared to teach with his vast knowledge of Sanskrit and English.

Initially he started teaching in the attic of his apartment. Once, when Swami Rama paid a visit to his class, he found the space in the attic was too small for some 90 students he was teaching at that time. Swamiji advised him to find a bigger place. Panditji took his advice and ventured out to find a bigger place, which he did by establishing The Meditation Center at 631 University Avenue in the year 1974. Classes were given in yoga and meditation. Panditji used to lecture during the week and taught classes.

Panditji can recite ancient scriptures and translate easily into English. There are topics in Indian Vedas and Upanishads that takes a great effort to understand. But for Panditji it comes naturally to explain the complex verses without any effort. He used to say that there are layers of meaning in Sanskrit verses that will take many words to explain. He knew all of them. The core of Panditji’s teaching is to realize inner self by meditating on it until one becomes one with it. When that happens one is in Samadhi and all thoughts disappear and body becomes one with the mind.

After moving to India in 1980, he took the vow of Swami from his beloved Guru, Shri Swami Rama. Swami Rama ordained him with Swami-hood under a new name, “Swami Veda Bharati”.

In 1980 Panditji left America to establish a center in India at Hrushikesh. It took a lot of effort to complete such a project. His dedication paid off and resulted in a beautiful spiritual enclave near the Ganges in Rishikesh, India. Swami Veda named it “Swami Rama Sadhaka Grama” (SRSG).

Being a Swami one gets rid of all his material possessions to the extent one renounces his family. He accepts all humans as his family and the universe as his home. He propagates his knowledge and message of universal truth. We are our consciousness that never dies. Only the body that contains it separates at the time of death.

Swami Veda never was attached to his body. He was a victim of several painful diseases. He went around the world with his frail body teaching the spirituality as has been taught be ancient Indian sages. He controlled his mind by silencing the mind. The last part of his life was spent in silence which led the way to liberation of his consciousness from his body.

We will miss him from among us as a mortal body. But his subtle consciousness will always be dwelling in the space, where he is in eternal peace.

There is a river in the sky that flows down into each and every one of us.  Sometimes a master appears and takes you by the hand like a small child straight into that stream. I believe that many of the spiritual children of Swami Veda Bharati and his master, H.H. Swami Rama, felt this.

Once when he was about to leave for his big trek through Asia and the West, Swami Veda, observed a few fretting faces and said so sweetly “I don’t know what all the fuss is about.  I never go anywhere.”

One of my Italian friends, upon hearing of Swami Veda’s departure from the body, expressed feelings of loss. Then she asked how I was, remembering how sad I could get when he went away for just a few days. I was always too attached to his physical form.

But this was different. After sitting by the body, I felt his presence even stronger than before. I felt happy. And I felt love for everyone, even people I had judged harshly for one thing or another. I was so happy to see them. Fluctuations of confusion, grief, sankalpa shakti (resolve) and peace followed for several days.

In the meantime, his presence filled the hall amongst children running and shouting, people talking or meditating, and quiet sobs of grief.  It made no difference.  He was here. Several people expressed this.

Tuesday, 14th July, 2015

1 or 1:30 a.m. to 3 a.m.

Bhola Shankar Dabral was there along with Suresh, Tejaswini, Medhawati, Surendra, Swami Ritavan and Dr. Prabhu when he left the body. Bhola later kindly shared these words. “I would not say he passed away…. He entered into samadhi…. I have seen Swamiji taking his pranas upwards….  Normally they travel out downward, but for yogis they travel upwards and … all the way through the crown chakra and then they leave the body.” Later he added “there was the sound– a pulling sound. Yogis pull the vayus up to the crown so that they leave from there. The bed was tilted up and he was sitting straight as if in meditation….We were not expecting [him to leave the body] because we had seen him many times this way….like going into a very dark tunnel. This is a metaphor. When you go into a dark tunnel, you walk slowly and gently because you don’t know what’s there….We don’t know the exact time he left the body. We were all massaging him….until the doctors came and later the ambulance.”

6:45 a.m.

The phone rings. It’s Adhikari. “Please come to the Meditation Hall. We are gathering for prayers for Swamiji.” I go and no one is there. A handful of people are in the small fire hut chanting the Mahamrityunjaya mantra for him.

7:40 a.m.

When the offerings are complete, while seated around Agni, the fire of eternal witness, people learn that Swamiji has left the body.

7:50 a.m.

We are told that Swamiji’s body will arrive at the Meditation Hall in 10 minutes from HIHT, where he was taken by ambulance at 3 a.m. to administer tests and later to confirm his physical departure.

About 8 a.m.

Several men carry Swamiji’s body in and place him on a table in front of the altar. A short while later he is shifted. For the next few days, the body lies in a refrigerated metal box with plexiglass sides and top.

Some people are crying, some are in disbelief. There is a range of emotions from equanimity to gratitude to profound grief. Some of us are floating between confusion and prayer.

Several priests arrive to commence the akhanda japa of the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita and others join in. This continues until 3:30 a.m., Friday, 17th July when swamis from the Niranjani Akhara order, the Mahamandaleshwara order to which Swami Veda belongs, subsequently arrive.

I look at the body of the man whom I knew since 1970 as Dr. Usharbudh Arya, and later as Swami Veda Bharati.  I feel sure that he is alive and in samadhi and might sit up at any time. He often looks like this when he is resting. I later learn that several others shared this certainty. For me it lasted about 5 hours, for Surendra, 3 days.

Who is it who is alive?

“He who understands also loves, notices, sees … The more knowledge is inherent in a thing, the greater the love.… Anyone who imagines that all fruits ripen at the same time as the strawberries knows nothing about grapes.”     — Paracelsus

One woman from another tradition told me that before her guru left the body, he told her to take her children to be initiated by Swami Veda Bharati. She did so. After her guru left the body she and her family came to SRSG. Swami Veda spoke with her. She asked how she could find her guru who had left the body, and how she could keep the deep connection with her guru alive. Swamiji closed his eyes in meditation and when he opened them he said something like “We don’t die. We are still present. We remain with you. But you do not have the eyes to see. The only way to keep the connection with your guru is to purify your antah karana, the subtle body, through mantra and meditation.”

Directly after speaking with this woman, I saw Pandit Dabral and asked him “how does one purify the antah karana?”

What he said echoed the words of Dr. Arya, Swami Veda and Swami Rama over the decades and reflects things we have been taught over the years in the Himalayan Tradition and many other traditions–the importance of the yamas and the niyamas and of smriti, mindfulness.

Here is part of what he said. “One’s overall behavior should be directed with the intent, a sankalpa, to connect with the guru….You must learn to observe everything—your speaking, your walking, your talking, your eating….Only then can mantra and meditation be helpful.”

I ask “So you have to create a behavior that reflects and invites the guru’s presence?”

“Yes,” he said.

After Swamiji left the body, his face appeared to change each day until the akhara swamis prepared the body for jal (water) samadhi on the 4th day.

These are my impressions which a few others also observed.

Day 1: The face was that of samadhi. He often looked like this lately. Some of us believed that he might sit up at any moment and begin to speak in that resonant, sonorous voice.

Day 2: The face was that of sankalpa shakti incarnate, a noble face of great majesty, as if to say “I have not left, have not given up and never will. It said “Tan me manaha shiva sankalpam astu!”

Day 3: This was the face of a humble man.

Of course, all of these 3 faces– that of a man in samadhi, that of sankalpa shakti, and that of a humble man were faces of Swami Veda that we saw over the years. And let us not forget so many more faces that he reflected back to us while we called him “alive.”

I must say that my definition of “alive” has changed—and let’s see how long I remember this:

It is not a body who is alive—ever— I now believe. I say this not from my own high experience but from a change in what I believe after witnessing the body and not-body over those 3 days. Many of us have experienced this through the grace of the One who takes us by the hand, a small child, as if to say “And now you stay out of the street when the cars are coming!”

The street, of course, is never who or what is coming at us. The street is all those pesky habits of thought, word and deed. These obstacles are also the treasures—the stepping stones to transcending our own selfsame obstacles.

In addition, I have no idea how all these mysteries of matter and consciousness work though I believe that one who abides in the pure consciousness knows– knows itself, knows “the dance” and knows who truly is alive.

He spoke very little to me the last 12 years. I ask myself if the face he so often showed me these last weeks before or after upstairs meditations with him–but certainly not always—was the face of my own storm clouds brewing. Was he trying to mirror back to me my old proclivities, a nebulous confusion, the miasma of vasanas which consciously or unconsciously I chose and sustained in thought, word and action lifetime after lifetime? Perhaps.

Once in the 1970’s Dr. Arya said that Vyasa’s commentary on Yoga Sutra 2.15 compared indulging in one pleasure in order to avoid the sting of another pain to running from the path of a scorpion only to be bitten by a snake from behind. The translation Swami Veda gives is:

“The seeker of pleasures addicted to…sense objects falls in the great mire of sorrows, like someone [running] in fear of a scorpion [and] is bitten by a venomous snake.”

[Swami Veda Bharati, Yoga Sutra, Sadhana-Pada. 2.15. Vyasa-bhashya commentary, p. 192, Yoga-Sutras of Patañjali with the exposition of Vyasa: A translation and commentary, Volume II.]

I am sure of one thing. I know him little. Like so many of us, his wise guidance, vast patience, immeasurable peace and all-enveloping love have changed the course of our lives and that of our families.

I often thought or imagined he was checking in on me and I wanted to say “Please, please, please, don’t mind me. I will be fine!”

How could anyone be such a spiritual father to so many and know how his countless children were doing from a distance? Was it the primordial Mother/Father he dwelled in who knew?

How could anyone abide in stark vairagya, utter dispassion, to watch and wait while the child found his or her way?

It was as if he was Helpless Love. Yet in the early days, Dr. Arya was even more like a mother running to hold an injured child. Once he told us that his master scolded him for doing this, saying that he, Swami Rama, was working with someone and that they were so close to— (I don’t remember close-to-what—changing? A fresh way?  Of leaving an old pattern behind?—I don’t know) —and then Dr. Arya would come along and I don’t-know-what. I was not privy to these conversations, spoken or quietly understood in the one-mind that master-and-disciple are, where there was no separation between master and disciple– not two, only one.

I believe that he or Swami Rama had the ability to show the body as he wished –even if he no longer was “in the body” because I saw these distinctly different faces on day 1, day 2 and day 3. Of course, all of these 3 faces– that of a man in samadhi, that of a man who is sankalpa shakti itself, and that of a humble man–were faces we saw when we were with him. And let us not forget so many more faces that he reflected back to us while we called him “alive.”

Wednesday, 1:40 a.m., 15th July, 2015

The room is quiet.  The continual procession has diminished. Sitting close by the body, I observe the perfect brow, feather-soft like a baby’s and the wisps of hair at the crown.  The distinctive nose, strong and noble.  I flutter between eyes open and approaching meditation.

Is he still conscious to the degree that he could animate the body, I wonder?  But why would anyone pour so much energy and focus into revivifying a broken tool when he can teach without the body?

To me, his face today reflects absolute sankalpa shakti. It is hard to believe but I am not the only one who observed this. On Day 2 of viewing the body he is the perfect embodiment of the Shiva Sankalpam Astu, one of two sangha-wide practices that he gave in 2013.  Om Kham Brahma is the other practice.

I think for a moment I see breath, lots of it.  But it is smoke from the incense on the other side of the see-through box which holds the body.  Next to it sits a flame-filled brass chalice.

How can a mind like his or the all-enveloping heart that he is simply cease? Swamiji, I never wanted enlightenment.  I, a thimble, wanted to know the ocean, this oceanic being that you are.  Yet the longer I have known you the more clear it has become that, in fact, I know very little of you. I think that to know you I would have to rise to your level in the way that you and your master coalesce.

I don’t know what a body is.  It does not contain him.  In a fleeting moment I realize that this is true of all of us.

Swami Veda has left the body yet his presence fills the room.

He shines in the faces of one another.

Once when I was a young woman in my 20’s I looked up and saw Swami Rama’s body huge and spread out against the evening sky.  I had not thought about that for years.  Then one summer day in Rishikesh, on the other side of the world, I stumbled and broke my knee.  Most people had just left SRSG for the summer, including my son.  I was sitting on a hospital stretcher at HIHT dressed in a skimpy hospital gown, my flesh spilling out for all to see. Then I remembered that night so many years ago, when, unbidden, Swami Rama filled the sky above me.

“Where are you now?” I thought. The very next moment Dr. Kathy McKeehan came bustling up the hall towards me saying in her inimitably jolly way “Hey, Joanne! What are you doing there, lady!?” I will never forget how she appeared to be the Guru’s agent, beaming at me with that huge smile. Yes, he was there and she was proof of it.

The days surrounding the Mahasamadhi of Swami Veda reminded me of how we sometimes see the guru in one another. It has been a profound experience to be among gurubhai at this time. People have come from all over India and the world these last few days.

The Guru reflected in every face

I wanted to hear other people’s thoughts at this important time. The evening satsangs are discussed later in this article.

First, I turned to Tejas, his close assistant for many years, to tell me something about him. Medha spoke later but her words and those of others will be covered in another article.

“The thing is,” Tejas said, “he behaved in such a way that one would not perceive him to be anything than ordinary.  He would lift up any one, no matter their status, spirituality, religion or age and once he had accepted them, it would be a perpetual connection – he is a rock.  For example, he would just out of the blue say call such and such a person and find out how they are.  Or a new person would just appear who had no clue about meditation but they felt so loved that they would just sit for one hour’s meditation without a twitch.”

Then I asked her what made her want to give up everything and come work with him around the clock. She said:

“There were a lot of moments for me.  Initially he asked me to travel with him – and the immediate thought was ‘I am not qualified to do such a job.’  Of course I did travel and continued to do so for many years.

“A significant moment was when he was very ill and I felt I just had to be a part of the team that would serve him as long as was needed.  So I wound up my place to be with him long term.”

When asked if there was anything more she wanted to add, she replied:

“He travelled the three levels of consciousness from the earthly to the higher realms so easily and quickly.  It was amazing to see this. Soon after the lecture he would be giving some very practical instruction.”

Thursday, 16th July, 2015

Thursday felt like a wet wool blanket. The air was so hot and thick and wet, if you could cut water, you could cut this air. The overcast air grew more dense by noon. Then the still air began to move until finally strong winds rustled the trees.

The chanting of the Shrimad Bhagavad Gita continued. Many people came to pay their respects. Some meditated. Surendra, his faithful assistant and cook, had not left the hall from the very beginning but briefly. Bhola Shankar Dabral was an abiding presence as were Medhawati and Tejaswini, his assistants, as well as ashram residents, close friends and family. Many people left flower petals and prayers on the see-through casket.

Beloveds from every habitable continent kept arriving to be near the body in the last moments before the body was submerged in the Ganges River. We were told that our last opportunity to sit with the body would be 3:30 a.m., Friday when the Niranjani Akhara swamis would to prepare the body for Jal Samadhi – immersion in a sacred water – not a cremation.

Friday, 17th July, 2015

3:30 a.m.

Those of us who are yet in the Meditation Hall leave the hall as the Niranjani Akhara swamis are about to arrive to prepare the body for immersion in Ma Ganga. Certain rules are rigorously followed and indicate specific sacred, secret procedures. One of the protocols is that large jaggery chapatis with ghee on both sides are placed in a pouch which goes over the shoulder of the body before it is placed in a slatted sandalwood box and surrendered to the water. This was precisely what Swamiji ordered for his last meal, and it was a most unusual request for him to make. Bhola pointed out the significance of this in his satsang sharing.

8:30 – 10 a.m. – 2 p.m.

The physical body of Swami Veda Bharati is now in a seated position, the face covered  with holy ash and elevated a bit as the Mahamrityunjaya Mantra and other prayers are chanted and, one by one, people approach the body offering flowers.

Jal Mahasamadhi: Water Burial

Shortly after 10 a.m. Swami Veda’s body is lifted onto a palanquin in procession to the gate as people follow, showering the body with rose petals. There are buses and cars to Haridwar for all who wish to follow the procession to Haridwar.

Upon arrival, we proceed on foot in the bright Indian sun along a path to Neela-Dhara Ghat, Dhyana Sthal. Many people walk down the slope to Ma Ganga. The sun is hot and bright but there is a gentle breeze that softens the heat. The ghat is quiet. People have come from nearby and all over India and the world to bid farewell. There are not many other people there other than the Mahamandaleshwara swamis. I had expected an unwieldy crowd with plenty of noise and confusion. This was not the case.

One person later quietly told a few of us that she wondered if the man with a very strong gaze standing next to her at the ghat might have been Swami Veda’s guru in a human form unknown to us. Also someone showed me a photo of Swami Veda’s last rites in Haridwar at the ghat. There is the faintest suggestion of a person off to the right—almost an aura—of a person. To me, the barely visible suggestion of a person struck me as uncannily like that of Swami Veda in form and ambience. But it was unclear. This would be no surprise as some have said that Swami Rama attended his own last rites, but in the form of another mysterious person.

While the prayers and highly prescribed rituals done by the water go on for perhaps 30 minutes, some of us are watching from the cliff above. I have brought my small cane stool and, perched there, note down what I can see and absorb. There are two devotees of Swami Rama nearby, Ms. Asha Nagaich of Kanpur and her guru brother Mr. Mahesh Kumar from HIHT. As it turns out, Maheshji remembered me from when I lived at the Himalayan Institute in Honesdale, Swami Rama’s main US ashram when Swami Rama was in the body. Swami Rama had told Mahesh to quit his post in Chicago and return to India to head up the construction of HIHT, Swami Rama’s hospital city. I feel comfortable asking them questions and blessed that they are there to clarify important points, of which I know so little.

“What is the box made of that the body has been placed in?” I ask.

Maheshji explains in Hindi while Ashaji translates that it is a sandalwood box with slats so that the fish can go in and out and eat the bodily remains. Stones are placed in the box so that it is fully submerged and is less likely to bounce around and break up against the rocks. They explain that the box and the body will eventually break up and go back to nature. Then Mahesh says that Swami Rama told him years ago that some yogis take jal samadhi. Rather than cremation they are submerged in the Ganges. This is because with such holy beings their bodies are dense with mantras and these vibrations become a part of the water. Those who bathe there will be imbued with those deep vibrations.

They also tell me that Chandi Devi is at her holy mount directly across from this ghat. We can see it. This is the place where Swami Rama’s father met Swami Rama’s future guru, Bengali Baba, who then taught Swami Rama’s father. Someone nearby pipes up that, no, Chandi Devi Temple is not that old. Mahesh and Asha explain that the edifice may not have been there, but that the sacred ground there is well known from ancient times and has long been a place for holy seekers. Swami Rama’s father asked Bengali Baba what he could give him in return for his teachings. Bengali Baba answered that he could give him his son, to which Swami Rama’s father replied that they had no son and that they were too old to have a child. Bengali Baba assured him that it would be no problem. Within a year, Swami Rama was born.

With hands raised to the heavens and shouts of ‘Hara Hara Mahadev’ the body of Swami Veda Bharati was released to Ma Ganga.

We walked the kilometer or two to the buses and cars. It was hot and sunny outside. Shortly after we were all in the vehicles heading back a huge downpour began and continued for nearly an hour. Some people commented that it felt like a miracle that the weather was fine until we were safely tucked in vehicles for the return and then a deluge began.

8 – 9 p.m., Friday – Sunday, 17th – 19th July, 2015

The Guru is the embodiment of all the Devatas.
— The Bhagavatam Purana

This is the quote Jagat selected to begin the first of several successive evening satsangs. He explained that it was traditional for students to gather together and share their stories about the master when a master left the body. Here is just one of  the precious gems that people freely shared. Hopefully, more will come later.

Bhola

Bhola gave some very mysterious accounts from his time with Swami Veda and unexpected appearances of Swami Rama. Then he spoke about Swamiji’s ­entering into samadhi which has appeared earlier in this article.

He talked about signs that Swamiji gave that he was leaving: the jaggery-filled chapatis, smeared with ghee on both sides that, oddly, Swamiji had just that evening asked Surendra to make for his evening meal, which turned out to be his last—something he very rarely requested– and how we later learned when the swamis from Swamiji’s Mahamandaleshwara order told Surendra to make the same rotis to go with the deceased into Ma Ganga. This is a part of the strict protocol of immersing the body in Ma Ganga in that order of monks.

Bhola also said “The 2nd very important thing that happened … that night is that he had given initiation to a girl who came all the way from Saudi Arabia … in the Arabic language and gave her a Muslim ….  Swamiji straight away said ‘I will initiate.’ He didn’t say ‘come tomorrow or prepare yourself’ [which is the norm here]….He said NOW.  So these two incidents show that he had actually decided to leave and given clear indications.”

“He once told … many people, ‘there are 2 people whom I write the most nasty letters.  One of them is Swami Ritavan and the 2nd is Bhola Shankar.’  So I have received so many nasty letters from Swamiji.  When I reflect back now, they are actually lessons.  I might have been upset, I might have gotten mad…. but when I look back and reflect …they are actually lessons.”

Then he shared some mysterious incidents with us. “Normally when you see Swamiji he is very gentle. When he walks he … walks [very gently.], he … [speaks] very gently.  His whole personality is very, very gentle.  But I have seen him 2 times very sharp, very tall, very….. What to say? Like Swami Rama.”

“The first incident is in 1999. We were preparing for Kumba Mela and … he said, ‘Let’s go to Allahabad.’ Then [we went] from Allahabad … to Varanasi …[where] he said, ‘You know there is  a shrine here somewhere between Varanasi and Allahabad.… I would like to visit that shrine.’ I was with him and nobody else so I said ‘OK Swamiji’.”

“I arranged a cab. In those days Swamiji used to travel at night, so we started … at around 10:30 [p.m.]….  I had had a very busy [previous]day and was very tired but [we went].” It turned out that they had to drive through a dense, dark jungle with no lights and very isolated[but for the wild animals of the jungle].”

Bhola continued. “Suddenly Swamiji said ‘stop the car, stop the car.’  I was half asleep….  He said ‘my sugar is getting low. OK, open my bag’ …. he had 2 suitcases.  So in the middle of the road, totally dark…I requested the driver put the vehicle lights on and I opened the suitcase, [but]there was nothing which …[could] …increase …[Swamiji’s] sugar level.  So I … panicked….I [grabbed the] …2nd suitcase. I took out everything. Finally I found something which … [he] always … [took] with him … [for] sugar-related problems.  So he took it and he said, ‘OK now … [put everything back] the way I have packed’ and it was a difficult task.  [It was the] middle of the night, [we were] all alone….  But I managed to pack.  Then he said

‘OK, let’s leave.’ [At] around … [midnight] we reached the shrine called Vindhyavasini. At Vindhyavasini, again you have to go through a dark forest…. [Suddenly Swamiji said …] ‘stop the car.’

“I thought what next!?  He said … ‘we have to go five kilometers….We will walk from here.’

“[I said] ‘Swamiji, it is the middle of the night in the forest.’ I said ‘Swamiji, no no.  We will not go.’

“He said ‘no, no, we will walk.’  So the driver went and then our walk [in the middle of the night in the middle of the jungle] started.  That was the first time I had seen a different Swamiji.  He was walking very straight and was unlike … [the Swami Veda I knew] and I was very puzzled. Then he started talking.  Do you know what he said?”

“[He said]… ‘you know all this forest, all this area, used to be my kingdom. I used to be the King of this place.’

“I thought to myself ‘Swamiji, give me a break. What are you talking?’ And then he started talking.  He started actually describing [that] there … [had been] a city and he …[had been the] King and I was … walking [very swiftly] trying to match his pace.  So finally we reached the destination.  Nobody was there.”

Someone in the audience asks “What is the name of the shrine?”

…Bholaji says, “The shrine is a Shakti peetam, one of the Shakti peets [ a place of divine power where a part of Shiva’s consort’s body fell as Shiva began the Dance of Destruction.] There are 51 shakti peetams across India and that is the most powerful Shakti peetam.  So we reached the shrine and nobody was there.  It was totally dark, so he said you know this shrine has now changed, it used to be this way.  This murti, this [sacred form of the divine] was placed here [pointing to a different place]….I was listening and listening and he said I would like to sit here and sit in meditation for 4 hours.  So he sat in meditation for 4 hours. 4 hours!”

Someone in the group asks, “In the middle of the night was the shrine opened ?”

Bhola Shankar says “The shrine was not closed. The Garba griha [the inner sanctum of the temple] was closed, but the [temple courtyard] area was open.  So we sat in that space, I sat in front of him trying to meditate or pretending to meditate looking at him … and at around 4, 4:30 a.m. he opened his eyes and then he changed!

“‘You know, now we have to go,’ he said. ‘It is so late and … [now we]  have to walk [back].’… there …were many stairs and while coming back, he took my help to come down.  But while going up … [his back] was so straight [and I had to work hard to keep up with him, he moved so fast.]   That was one incident I cannot forget.

“The second one was… [at the] Kumba mela in the year 2001.… [Swami Veda was] a mahamandaleswar. Every mahamandaleswar has to take a bath [in the sacred river] at a particular time…and his time slot … [was] 4:30 a.m. and there …[was] a [sizeable] distance you have to cover in a particular time so that  you reach there at 4:30 and take your dip and come back. Otherwise your turn is gone because the 2nd akhanda [mahamadaleshwar monk] will come and will not allow you to take … [your holy dip]. [Because he was a mahamandaleshwar, he had to take off all his clothes and, totally naked, he had to go in the river….  So a lot of people witnessed this….We started [at] around 3:30 a.m. from the camp [where] we were staying and from the camp to the place where we … [had]to take our bath [there was] some distance so we …[had] to go with the procession [with Swamiji up on a palanquin].  So we reached.  He was sitting … [on this] throne kind of arrangement, he was sitting on top, we were walking, [and] finally we reached the place.  There I … [saw a different Swamiji!  He used to …need help in getting his clothes off.  But he [quickly] took off everything and jumped into the Ganges. Different, very different! And then he disappeared!  He disappeared! Swami Ritavan, then known as Pandit Ananta, … my brother [and I] all…[searched frantically] for him and then we decided to take our …[Ganga dip] because time was running [out]…. [So]… we took our bath and when we came out, he was standing there … [fully dressed]!  [During] the time he took [his] bath and … [dressed again]… he totally disappeared and nobody was there with him so he did everything by himself.  Very … [unusual].  So these two incidents [will] never ever [be] forgotten.

“You know Bhagabandev rightly said he used to give 10 tasks at once.  I was with him travelling to Bombay, so from Delhi we left by flight and reached Bombay.  He had a program in Bombay. So we reached around 3 o clock. In Delhi I … [spent] the whole night working with him and in the morning we took a flight to reach Bombay. We were residing at Satyanarayana Iyengar’s house. We reached [there] and he said ‘Are you prepared?’  I said ‘OK, Swamiji,’ but I could not manage to see him. He asked me to send a few emails immediately. Then he went to sleep.  I decided to have tea since this was in the night and after one and a half hours he said ‘Did you finish that work?’ and … [I said] ‘Swamiji I have only started.’ I had only bathed and had tea.’

“He said ‘OK, now there is a pile of work’ and … he wanted me to finish by evening.  Many tasks at once! But all these … [have] given me a great lesson which I …[could not have received ] from anybody.  Nobody [else] can teach me and I am still learning and I believe he will guide me.  One week ago, probably 10 days ago, he said ‘You are not serious’.

“I said ‘No, no, Swamiji, I am serious’ and then Swamiji … [said to me] ‘You do not understand. I don’t have time.’”

“’No, Swamiji,’ I said. ‘I am serious.’

“‘No, you are not serious.’

“‘OK, Swamiji.’”

“‘See, I have so much work and you are not serious,’ so I asked him ‘How much time do you have?’ and he said ‘2, maximum 2.5 years– not more than that,” but I never knew that actually not 2 years, 2 days or 2 months.  He … [had] given some indication, some sort of ‘You become serious, dedicate yourself’ and the last 2 days he used to say ‘I would like to work like Swami Rama, like Modi.’  He was a huge admirer of Modi –everything quick and fast. So we will try and we are still in the learning process. We still make mistakes but he will guide us and we will manage to do something in his service and do the assigned tasks successfully.”

Others spoke at evening satsang, but there is not room to convey everything. It was wonderful. Medhawati, Swami Ritavan, John Sellinger, Surendra, Bhagbandev, Swami Radha, Stomy Arya Persaud, Angi Arya, Ramprakash, Jagat and I and many more spoke of their profound experiences with Swami Veda. In fact, the evening satsangs are continuing here where we share our Swamiji stories.

Many who could not come have written. Lama Doboom Tulku wrote:

Dear Joanne,Thank you for writing…. I am in California right now. I was informed by Swami Ritavan Bharati about the sad news. However, I know it is an occasion of Swamiji’s thought merging into Dharma Dhatu and so no occasion for mourning or lamenting. Yet I feel a deep personal loss especially because I have been thinking of visiting the ashram with a hope to get an opportunity to see him again in the first week of August after my return from US.On 16th July, I am organising a Ganachakra offering here which will be dedicated to Revered Swamiji’s memory.With prayers,Lama Doboom Tulku

Flying Home

These last 10 years, like many who knew him, I often missed Swami Veda deeply, even though he was usually just a short walk away. He was fully available on a subtle level and spoke to each and every new participant at our Silence, Shavasana and Yoga nidra workshop from 22nd March – 5th April 2015. After that, he spent a lot of time with ashramites and guests in silent meditation each day. Often after these meditations he spoke to newcomers who came to bathe in his sacred peace.

These daily morning and evening hour-long meditations upstairs with Swami Veda felt like the most important part of each day for many of us. On occasion, he was too ill to join us physically but you could feel him there nonetheless. Now we still sit there and the presence is strong. Swami Ritavan Bharati, whom Swami Veda named as Ashrama Pramukha, is with us and I am so grateful for this. His depth of calm and compassion reverberate the love and unshakeable peace of Swami Veda.

Here is a poem I wrote for Swami Veda a few years ago when, after working with him 15 or 20 hours a day for two years, I rarely saw him.

Flying Home

The sound of a thousand swans’ wings overhead:
The shawl of your love
You wrap us all tight in.

All I ask is that, one day,
Perhaps snow flurries of lifetimes from now,
Long after the flame
Of your breath in the room
Goes out,

That, finally, after the long Sahara,

I know how much you loved
Each and every one of us
Like a long awaited, only child,
And never told.

You told us a thousand times: A true secret can never be told.
I am old now with nothing to give—

What can I give?

All I ask is that, one day, I know

How many times a heartbeat
You broke yourself like bread for morning tea

And still, I looked for your love

Like an abandoned child

With eyes shut.

When will I know what it really means to love?
When will it be enough

To rest in the vast
Horizon of your love,
That small curl of a smile,

Where worlds open, shut, and open again
A blink of Shesha’s eye?

from a begging beggar, nothing more,
With love, from Joanne

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I would like to express abundant thanks to Krutika and Anagha Ranganath and their father who transcribed the talks given by gurubhai on the third night of the satsang with so much love and at very short notice. Without their kind assistance, some of the gems that were shared would be lost.

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!