You Are One of Us 

It was during the early weeks of 1977 in Allahabad, while gearing up for the start of the Kumbh Mela, that I was introduced to a prominent Hindu priest. He was one of the pandas—one branch of the vast and varied pantheon of Hindu priests. The pandas specialize in conducting religious rites at the sacred riverbanks in India. This man was the head of the pandas in Allahabad. 

In those days, I was hostile toward all organized religions. In my opinion, they were the main culprits in keeping mankind in the dark ages, prisoners of an irrational world in which humans killed in the name of God. My dislike was especially intense toward the pandas, who I considered to be the ultimate disseminators of superstition and ignorance among the poor people of India. 

As a nonbeliever playing devil’s advocate, I challenged the priest on the superstitious, unscientific beliefs of Hinduism. But it was friendly sparring and, during our discussion, we became friends. 

The subject of mantras came up, and I dismissively referred to them as “hocus-pocus.” He told me his cousin, Narayan Prasad Sharma, was a very learned man and the president of all the pandas in India. He said Sharma could lead me to a Swami, a revered teacher, who would explain the magic of mantras. 

Within an hour of that conversation, the priest and I were walking on the banks of the Ganges when we happened to run into Sharma. It seemed an uncanny coincidence. At the priest’s prodding, I told Sharma I wanted to understand the importance of mantras. Sharma looked at me with disdain and growled, “You Westerners! You always want to understand everything.”

It was an inauspicious start. The three of us walked on together in silence. I knew exactly what Sharma meant about Westerners, but I could not understand what was wrong with my attitude. I resented his statement.

My priest friend tried to intervene on my behalf. “Mr. Mathur is a Hindu and is quite knowledgeable. Otherwise, I would not have brought him to meet you.”

Sharma waved the air with his hands to indicate that it was of no use. “He still has a Western frame of reference,” he said curtly.

The priest gave me a quiet look, begging me for patience even though the cause seemed hopeless. I was in no mood to defend myself and kept silent. I had things to accomplish and had no time to deal with the arrogance of Hindus. It seemed my priest friend had sidetracked me by introducing me to Sharma. I had no business wasting time with these people.

“Hinduism is not an intellectual exercise,” Sharma said. “It is an experience. Only through a combination of faith, love, devotion and feeling can Hinduism be known. You Westerners try to understand it intellectually, which is impossible. It will not be of any use for you to meet the Swami.”

It was not a pleasure to have met Sharma. 

Surprisingly, a few days later, our paths happened to cross again in the midst of the millions of people who had assembled at the Kumbh Mela. I was surprised when, out of the blue, Sharma spoke to me. He spoke calmly, automatically, and without looking at me—as if he were just talking to the air. “Swamiji has not arrived yet. Come back the day after tomorrow. He should be here then.” And with that, he walked on. I wondered if he had forgotten his hostility toward Westerners. 

Two days later, I went to see Sharma at his camp on the banks of the Ganges River. He was away on an errand, so I had to wait. Upon his return, he told me Swamiji had fallen sick but would be at the camp in the next few days.

I checked back at Sharma’s camp several times over the coming days. Finally, I was ushered into the presence of Swami Murkhanand (literally, “The Stupid One”). The meeting lasted about ten minutes. I did not have any questions, and the Swami had very little to say. I wondered why I had spent so much effort in order to meet him. 

I left the Swami’s tent, put on my shoes, and had gone only a few steps when Sharma came rushing after me. I was in no mood to see him again.

“Come join us for a meal,” he said. His tone was friendly and inviting.

“I’m not hungry,” I said curtly. I was feeling silly for having spent so much time in such a meaningless pursuit. I did not wish to waste any more time. But Sharma insisted. He took me by my arm and led me to another tent, where food was offered. While waiting to be served, I reminded myself that in India one does not eat such meals because of hunger. It is an act of communion—an act of love.

I sat on a cotton blanket, which had been spread on the sand for my comfort. The food was served on a disposable dish made of dried leaves, which was placed on the sand in front of me. Six or seven other men had joined us in the tent, but I was the only one served food. All eyes were upon me, as if I were an object of curiosity.

“Why am I the only one being served?” I asked.

Sharma explained, “It is not time for us to eat, but it is important that you not leave the premises without eating.” He and another man kept up the conversation with small talk as I ate. After some time, Sharma said, “It is now beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are one of us.” 

His statement hit me just at the moment my mouth was full of rice and daal (lentils). “Who the hell are we?” I said as I burst out laughing. I had to cover my mouth to make sure I did not spray him with food. These pandas were the last people on earth with whom I would ever want to be identified.

“You will experience who we are,” Sharma said. “It cannot be explained. We are brothers, because we are from the same circle.” He looked at me intently and drew a circle in the sand. As he spoke, his voice carried the full passion of some deep conviction, and his body swayed in gentle rhythm with each word. Even the circle he drew in the sand was deep and emphatic.

*****

It was three years later when I saw Sharma again. One day, on sheer impulse, I showed up at his home. It was a blazing hot afternoon. We sat in his dark, cool room, and he served sweet lassi (a yogurt drink). While he inquired as to where I had been all this time, he also was somehow not surprised to see me. After that, each time I was in Allahabad, we would see one another.

Sharma took a dip in the Ganges each morning, and I began accompanying him. I would get up at 4 a.m. and ride my moped to the Mankameshwar Temple on the banks of the Yamuna River. At about the same time, Jagdish, a young oarsman, would dock Sharma’s personal boat and row us down the river to the Sangam, where the Yamuna and Ganges merge together. It is believed that a secret river, Saraswati, also merges with these rivers at the same point, so the Sangam is one of the most sacred destinations for Hindu pilgrimage. After our dip at Sangam, Jagdish would row us back up the Yamuna River to the temple. All this would take about two hours. 

It was Sharma’s custom not to speak during the entire trip to Sangam; he would meditate with his eyes closed. On the return trip, he would mumble devotional songs to himself, sounds barely loud enough for his own ears, and he would be totally absorbed. 

Knowing my time with him was short, however, he would break his regimen so that we could talk, but on one condition—we could talk only of God. I would ask him about Hindu mythology, He was an encyclopedia of stories, which he would relate with great gusto.

A strong and affectionate bond began to develop between us.