Held Hostage by a Book

In 1977, while visiting my mother in Allahabad, India, I was invited to address a group of young people in Nawabgunj, a small village a few miles outside the city. I had been supporting their efforts to start a carpet weaving business, and I was meeting with them to find out how things were going.

Nawabgunj was a typical village on the side of a busy road. About two dozen young men, along with half-a-dozen adults, gathered under the shade of a large neem tree. The ground had been sprinkled with water to keep the dust from blowing. In mid-morning, when it was warm but not blazing, the ambience was perfect. 

I remember the event vividly for a special reason: at one point in my talk, I realized I was not addressing the group in Hindi, which was our common mother tongue, but in Dehati, the native village dialect. Words were flowing from me flawlessly. 

Even though I had spoken a few sentences of Dehati before, I could not effectively carry on a conversation. I was familiar with it because it was spoken by many people in that area, but we had been trained to speak proper Hindi. As children, any Dehati pronunciations in our speech were immediately corrected. Having lived in the United States for almost two decades, my Hindi was rusty, to say nothing of my Dehati.

When I became aware that I was speaking in perfect Dehati, I also became aware of another phenomenon. It felt as if someone else was talking through me, as if I were a mere puppet. The words had their own source, unbeknownst to me. The words were connecting with the audience, and they were spellbound. There was a sense of unreality. 

The talk was followed by a traditional vote of thanks, followed by a cup of chai and some local sweets, and then I got up to leave. As I was walking toward the car, a man approached me. He had been watching and listening from the porch of his small house nearby. He asked me if I had read Autobiography of a Yogi.

I was surprised by the question. I looked at him from head to toe. He was a man in his late 30s, dressed in a blue and burgundy checkered lungi (a wrap-around cloth) and a sleeveless, white t-shirt. His dark face was made even darker by the short stubble of his beard. His dark black hair was oiled and well combed. In the background, his wife was gazing at us with an infant in her arms.

“No,” I said in a bland voice, as I shook my head gently to emphasize my answer. 

He seemed puzzled. “But you were quoting that book word-for-word,” he argued. 

In reply, I simply shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “Maybe, so what?”

“Word for word,” he insisted. To be polite, a wan smile appeared on my face. It took a moment for him to collect himself before he said, “You should read that book.”

“I have no desire to read such a book,” I admonished him curtly, both of my hands digging deeper in my pockets.

“But, sir,” the man pleaded meekly. Vehemently, I shook my head in disgust as the driver opened the door of the black Ambassador car waiting for me. I was tired of people in America trying to convert me, and I had no patience for people trying to convert me in India either.

I took some deep breaths in the car and tried to cool my anger. I realized I had felt insulted by his suggestion. How dare this village man think that I would have anything to do with yogis? And then to suggest that I read one of the books written by a person who not only claims to be a yogi, but also has the conceit to write his own biography. It would be impossible for me to read such a book, I assured myself.

That was the last time I saw the man, but the story was not over. 

After a couple of days, this same man appeared on my mother’s doorstep and waited for me. After waiting for more than 90 minutes, he left—just moments before I came home. He left a copy of the book for me on the windowsill. His act created further resistance in me. 

I refused to take the book back with me to the United States. However, my mother made sure I packed it in my suitcase. “The man’s feelings would be hurt if he came back and found the book where he left it. You don’t want to hurt his feelings, do you?” she asked.

Someone far away must have had a mischievous smile when I gingerly opened the book out of boredom.

The sun had just set when the airport limo pulled in—precisely as I finished the last word in the book. At that split second, something became clear, as if a ray of light had dawned upon me. I realized I had been sent there, like a person held prisoner, just so I would read this book, since there was nothing else to do.

In those days, if you traveled from India directly to the U.S. you could take two large suitcases, and the airlines didn’t care how much they weighed. But if you stopped anywhere in between, you were only allowed 44 pounds of luggage. I had forgotten about this. I had two large bags that weighed close to a total of 100 pounds, and I knew I would be socked a huge sum for overage. 

Then an idea emerged to test my hypothesis. If I had been sent to Bahrain to force me to read this book, then the airline officials would not charge me. I smiled because I thought it was mischievous.

“Sir, you are way over the weight allowance,” the airline clerk said. 

“I know,” I said. Now the test.

The man closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, “Okay, please go and give a small tip to that man standing over there. He is very poor. You can take your luggage through without paying for it.”

I willingly tipped that man. 

“This is somebody sending me a message,” I said to myself. 

At the back of the book was contact information for readers who wanted to learn more about meditation and participate in weekly lessons. I enrolled in the training.

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