Category: Uncategorized

Two months later: March 30, 1981

A loud thought woke me from my deep sleep: Write down what Dr. Sinha told you about President Reagan. The clock on my nightstand read 4 a.m. on the dot.

For a few minutes, I debated if I should get up but then decided to go back to sleep because I knew later in the day I had to drive to Pretty Prairie, Kansas, to attend a funeral.

The next time I was aware of time was when I checked my wristwatch as I turned from Interstate 54 to Kansas Highway 17 on my way to the funeral. It was exactly 1:30 in the afternoon. At that moment, I became aware that in my mind I was dictating to DeAnn Corbin, my assistant, what Sinha told me about the assassination attempt on President Reagan: “It will be like the leap of a dragon,” I caught myself saying.

It was almost 3 p.m. when I walked out of the United Methodist Church after Mr. Kelmet Holmes’ funeral. He was the father of Ken Holmes, my roommate and business partner for several years after I came to the United States. Ken and I were also best man for each other at our weddings. He’s like my brother, my family.

Outside, Bonnie Jo, Ken’s wife, was listening to the radio in her car. “Someone shot the President!” she exclaimed as she waved for me to join her. I was dumbstruck; an assassination attempt had been made on President Reagan’s life, just as Sinha predicted back in January. 

This was not just news for me. I was stunned. My perception of reality had been shattered.  A new dimension had opened, and I did not know what to do with it.

(The next day)

I awake with uneasy feelings about my meeting with Sinha last evening. I had gone to see him to gather material for my research project; however, during the entire encounter, I was answering questions about myself. Now, I am confronted with doubts—like, what was happening, and what was his motive? Uneasily, I wonder if I should go see him again, or would it be a waste of time?

By evening, I have made up my mind. Mother is not happy about my leaving her again. It is about 8:30 p.m. when I reach the crossing in Tagoretown where Sinha is located. I can see his outline. He is seated, visiting with four other people who are sitting cross-legged opposite him on the cement platform.

Again, the same question, “Kaun ho, bacha?” Who is there, child?

Hearing my answer, he responds warmly and provides elaborate introductions about the other four people. I am not very attentive and find my mind wandering. Then he takes 10 or 15 minutes introducing me, telling the others who I am, what I do in America, about the importance of my mother’s school, and even how far I walk every morning. He continues without paying attention to the others. I sense their boredom. They don’t really care. I have obviously interrupted some private consultation; they resent my being there.

At this point, Sinha starts to describe what I eat for breakfast. He is able to recall all the ingredients in the same order that I had told him, even the exact amounts of each ingredient. I find his memory extraordinary. I wonder if he does that just to impress me; however, I could not have summarized the essence of my lifestyle more accurately. But I am afraid that the evening will pass before I am able to elicit the information that I have come to gain.

My worst fears are realized. “Mr. Mathur, we hear that there is a substance that, if you put it on a pan, the cooking does not stick to the pan. Can you tell us about that?” he asks.

I now have to tell him all about Teflon. Dozens of questions follow, including the chemical composition of Teflon, which I do not know.

“How marvelous things are in America!” Sinha praises. “We cannot even think of all the development that has taken place there. How far ahead do you think America is in terms of material development?”

At the continuing questions, I quietly demur. “These people have come to meet with you. They really are not interested in what I have to say. They would rather hear you talk. In fact, I want to hear you talk.”

“Oh, no, on the contrary, these people live in this city. They can talk to me any day. You are a guest. You have come all the way from the other side of the world. We are all interested in knowing about your lifestyle.”

The other four nod their heads politely.

“Mr. Mathur, tell us what you eat for lunch.”

Oh, my lord! I think. Here we go again with another wasted night.

I have guessed correctly; these four gentlemen soon make an excuse and leave. I apologize for the interruption.

“Don’t apologize; they can come and visit me anytime.” Sinha interjects. The four drive off in their black Ambassador car. 

We continue to be interrupted during the evening by at least a half-dozen visitors. Sinha can distinguish from a distance who approaches, and he tells me about each visitor.

There is a pattern. Some visitors hesitate at a distance. To them he asks the familiar question, “Kaun ho, bacha?”

To all who have the slightest intention of staying, he is blunt and tells them, “Mr. Mathur has come from a great distance. He is an honored guest; please come back some other time.”

Sprinkled with frequent interruptions, our conversation continues. “Please,” I say, “my time is rather short. I have come to learn from your knowledge and experience. I want to know more about you. I won’t mind sharing my experiences some other time.”

“All right,” he says with a short laugh. “Since we now are acquainted with one another’s mission in life, we can explore together. Tell me who all you have met in connection with your research.

I tell him about Mr. Handa, whom I met in Ujjain, Gau Wale Guruji, Pandit Gyan Chand in New Delhi, and Rameshwar Das in Nainital.

Sinha is now lying down on a mat spread out on the cement platform. I realize it is quite late; even the lights in the nearby houses have gone to sleep. The city has come to a dead stop, and the dogs are trying to keep warm by barking.

I observe that his pace of speech has slowed; there is a more leisurely atmosphere all around. He recounts his meetings with various sages and mystics in Nepal and the Himalayas.

Then he casually states, “One of the sciences that I have mastered is that of astrology. Let me tell you something interesting. You see that bright star? That is Jupiter. When Jupiter comes in conjunction with Saturn—which is the star closest to it—that means there will be a change in the leader of the United States. These stars are also in conjunction with Dragonhead, which means danger will come unexpectedly, like the leap of a dragon. The odds are that in 1982, there could be a change of administration in the United States.”

“You don’t mean 1982. You mean 1980. There has been a change right now in the President. Ronald Reagan has just been elected,” I counter.

“No, I mean 1982,” he says with certainty.

“You mean Reagan will be killed?”

“There will be an attempt on his life, but he will survive. The leadership change will take place for reasons other than his death.”

“Have you received this information from Gorakhnathji?” I ask, looking at the statue to which he gives all credit.

“No, this is simply from the field of astrology.”

“It is hard for me to believe,” I said. “How could anyone prepare an astrological formulation several hundred years ago, which would predict danger to the life of a President of the United States in 1982?” I express my doubts. My voice is rebellious and cynical.

“Our ancient sages were very scientific,” he states. “They observed life and have recorded it over hundreds of years and found certain patterns. These patterns have been validated by events over the past several centuries and conveyed to us symbolically through the positioning of the stars.”

“But America was not part of the known world at that time. How could they predict anything about America?”

“To the western world, America may not have been discovered. But in our ancient literature, we find its constant mention.”

I still don’t understand. “Why would these two planets affect a particular nation? They know no national boundaries. Why is the effect not on the entire earth?”

“The effect is on the entire earth,” Sinha says. “But we have even more precise information. For example, it is common knowledge that the position of the sun and moon affect the ocean’s tides. This knowledge was deduced from past observations and then formulated into a theory. Once you accept this, it is not too difficult to understand that the sun and moon have other influences in addition to tidal movements. Similarly, planets and stars and their movements affect us in specific ways. Ancient scholars in India studied these effects, then formulated the theories that have been validated by time and events.”

Sinha goes on to describe in detail how certain events can be forecast. He names specific stars that symbolize various nations or regions and how their impact could be enhanced or diminished with the interaction of other stars. He points out the symbolic star for the United States. He gives me detailed information, which I try to commit to memory, but I find myself limited, primarily because I do not understand anything about astrology and the terms being used.

“I cannot digest all this,” I admit to Sinha. “Please tell me more about the change in administration in the U.S.”

“I think I have told you enough. Just watch the drama unfold,” he says.

I am taking in all this information with a rather large grain of salt. I am still not a believer in astrology and have serious doubts that the government or the presidency will change in the U.S. in 1982. 

 I choose to change the subject.

“Dr. Sinha, we have discussed several different subjects, but I still do not have any proven example of the powers that you receive from Gorakhanathji. Information on President Reagan is based on astrology and probability and is some time away. Would it be possible for me to witness the power now?”

“Certainly, I understand. You want to have information on which you can hang your hat,” he smiles.

“Exactly.”

Putting his umbrella in front of him and pausing briefly, he says, “OK, I will ask the Light to take me to your house. Would you like me to go to your house in America or here in Allahabad?”

“To make it a little more difficult and interesting, let’s go to my house in America.”

“I see your wife wearing a long garment, maybe a long skirt.”

I try to project. It is 10:30 p.m. in Allahabad, approximately noon in Wichita. I cannot think of Treva wearing a long skirt during the day.

“The color of the skirt or garment is khaki,” Sinha says. 

I do not remember Treva having a khaki skirt, but I have been away from home for more than two months and it is possible that she may have bought a skirt, although khaki seems an unusual color for her to buy.

“Is your wife older than you?” he asks.

“No.”

“How old is she?”

“She is 40.”

“Is there another older woman, maybe your wife’s mother who stays with you?”

“No.”

“Is your wife having tooth pain in her gums?”

“Could be; I have been away for more than two months.”

“No, I mean for a long time, for more than two months. Is there some woman in the house who is related to you but has been sickly or not keeping good health for some time?” he continues.

“No.”

“Please, help me. I may be in the wrong house. Is there anyone you know who is having tooth pain?” Sinha asks.

“Yes, my mother.”

“OK then, the Light took me to your house in Allahabad instead of to America. I see an elderly woman whose teeth are not in her mouth; she has had some gum pain. Now, let us proceed to your house in America.”

After a few seconds’ pause, Sinha continues, “I see a room, which I think is your living room. The room seems to have wooden walls. Is there a room like that?”

“Yes, our family room.”

“There is unusual furniture, wooden furniture.” Sinha describes what sounds like the wooden furniture from Afghanistan in my office. I tell him that.

 “That is true; I am in your office. On October 17, you will have a branch office. Yes, I can see it. Allow for a change in time between here and there. The event will take place on October 17, and in case it is a non-work day or weekend, its impact may be felt a day or so earlier or later. This is a sample of the power you wanted to research. You can verify it on October 17, 1981.”

There is silence for a few minutes and then Sinha continues. “Now I am in your house in America. I see your daughter changing schools in the next few months. Is that correct?”

“Yes, she will, after summer.”

Again, silence for a short period, and then he says, “There will actually be a choice. The school on the west is closer, but rowdier. The school on the south is farther away, but more peaceful and orderly.”

I did not know of any such choice, but I did not wish to contradict him, so I let it go.

“I see a new vehicle of some sort at your house. Have you already bought one or are you planning to buy one?”

“We recently bought a car.”

“What color is it — green?” He wonders aloud. Then he continues with a firmer voice, All right, I see competition in several colors. I see yellow, dark brown, green, and one other color which is neither black nor white.”

“Silver,” I help out.

“That is right. It has a black interior and the seats of the car have both vertical and horizontal ribs running through the fabric covering them.”

I cannot remember any vertical or horizontal lines running through the upholstery and tell him so.

Also, there is a black horizontal line running across the side of the car,” Sinha continues.

“No, it is chrome,” I challenge.

“Could be,” he said, “but I see black. There is a round part of the car that has this type of design on it.” He draws a design in the air with his finger.

“It must be small; I do not remember any such part.”

“No, it is a big part. Could it be the steering wheel?” Sinha inquires.

“No, the steering wheel does not look like that,” I say.

“Well, I am seeing something like that; perhaps you can check it when you get back. It does not make that much difference. Do you have any questions you want to ask?”

“No.” I find my mind to be blank.

The sampling of power is over. It is almost 11 p.m. Our topic of discussion changes to meditation and the various techniques of achieving the meditative state. Sinha is quite articulate and knowledgeable about the subject.

“What technique shall I follow?” I inquire. 

“That is putting the cart before the horse. Lose yourself entirely in the presence of the Almighty God and techniques will follow naturally.”

This subject of meditation is of great interest to me. Within the last 12 months, I have started to meditate regularly. One might think that this would bring some peace to my mind, but instead I am filled with doubts. Doubts are a weak word; it is like a major struggle that is brewing within me. Am I doing the right thing? I have a young family and I am losing interest in my profession as a business consultant. What am I doing here? Why am I meddling with these psychic powers? Crossing such a Rubicon is prohibited, perhaps with good reason. Am I falling into that trap myself? 

All these years, I have taken pride in the fact that I have a scientific frame of mind. I examine things, I look for formulas, I look at the essence of all I experience. I reject long-held ideas if they do not prove to be scientifically correct. Yet, in this case, I am being drawn to an area like a moth toward the flame of a candle. The element of reason within me is rebelling. I feel like an automobile being driven at maximum speed, all while the brakes are being applied. My struggles are both at the macro and micro levels. I am following the Kriya tradition of meditation. Is that right for me? Is there some other tradition that I should be following? Is there another teacher that I should go to? I feel I cannot share these struggles with anyone, including Sinha. Who knows, he may take advantage of my state of mind. I feel vulnerable. 

Sinha continues with a one-way discourse. Even though he never mentions it, all of Sinha’s statements address my doubts. All of his statements imply that I am on the right path. I feel as if he has zeroed in on my heartbeat, and he is trying to sooth the tide within me. It is a pleasant experience.

It is 1:30 in the morning when I reach home. Mother grunts from her bed to indicate her dissatisfaction. 

The next morning over a cup of delicious chai, mother wants to know all about my experiences. I discover that she was wearing a khaki petticoat to bed the night before. Her teeth were out because she removes them at night. She has been having pain in her gums recently.

When I reach Wichita in February and Treva picks me up at the airport, the first thing I notice are the hubcaps on the car. The design of the hubcaps is exactly what Sinha had described. 

Treva informs me that she has been trying to persuade our daughter, Tara, to attend an alternative school, which is located in the south part of town. I had not known that there could be a choice.

We did seriously consider yellow, dark brown, and dark green cars before buying a silver car.

The stripe on the silver car we purchased is black, not chrome as I had thought. My office is wood paneled. And, just as Sinha had predicted, I soon moved into a new office.

January 1981
Allahabad, India

I am not very adept at small talk, and at times I feel handicapped by this. This is one of those occasions.

I have come to be with my mother for a few days in Allahabad. Raghav, a young friend, has come over to visit. I find myself with mixed feelings on such occasions. I am glad to see old friends, but what does one talk about after exchanging pleasantries and inquiring about one other’s health, family, and career?

After the formalities are covered and in order to continue the conversation, which is lagging, Raghav asks, “Bhai Sahib (elder brother), how is your research coming along?” Raghav is referring to research I am doing into the psychic powers that some people in India possess. I am interviewing and recording the experiences of many people who are known to have such powers.

This opening naturally provides us with some conversational grist. After listening to the synopsis of some of my experiences, Raghav wonders if I have met Dr. Sinha. I know who he is talking about. A couple of years ago, my good friend Paloo told me about him but refused to take me to see him, saying he was a Tantric, a dangerous man. 

“Oh, no,” Raghav protests, “He is not dangerous. I have taken classes under him at the university, and you will enjoy meeting him. He will provide material for your research.”

I look at Raghav’s face, which is glowing with sincerity and enthusiasm. I don’t need a second invitation. I ask Raghav if it would be possible to go to see Dr. Sinha yet this evening. A look at his watch shows 7:30 p.m., and it is already quite dark outside.

I propose that we go by bicycle, but Raghav rejects the idea because, in his opinion, it is too dark. My mother, who has been patiently listening to this conversation, interjects that it is too late to go visiting.

Allahabad is principally an educational center, well known for its university, and it’s also a legal center because the State High Court is located there. After dark, Allahabad simply shuts down.

“Oh, it isn’t too late to see Dr. Sinha,” Raghav counters with enthusiasm. “He is only available at night under a tree. He does not see any one during the day. Let me see if I can borrow my brother’s scooter.”

Raghav jumps up and leaves before my mother can intervene. I appreciate her perspective. I am visiting her only for a few days in Allahabad, and she would like to have me around her. Moreover, she is not happy because I am getting in touch with people with psychic powers; a dangerous thing in her opinion.

In a short time, Raghav returns, and we are soon on our way to visit Dr. Sinha – if he can be found. “He is not always there,” Raghav tells me.

The wind starts to chill my hands that are grasping the seat of the scooter behind Raghav. I am glad to be dressed warmly in several layers of clothing, although this warmth does not dissipate the spooky chill I feel at the thought of meeting a “Tantric.” I have heard several stories that such people can perform extraordinary healings and mental and spiritual feats. Because of such these abilities, most people are afraid of them. I have never been in touch with them.

Raghav finds the tree where Dr. Sinha meets people on the southwest corner of a street in Tagoretown, a section of Allahabad. Under the tree, there is a cement platform some 15 feet square. On the platform a small temple about four feet tall has been constructed. On the left side, close to where we stand, there seems to be a small bush. The only source of light is a single street lamp some 30 yards behind us. It is the first time Raghav has been here. He is not quite sure of the place. Suddenly, there is a stir in the bush.

“Kaun ho, bacha,” (Who are you, child?) comes a voice from the bush. The voice startles both Raghav and me. All this talk about Tantrics has prepared me to be spooked.

Dr. Sinha is indeed there, sitting with two open black umbrellas over him that we had mistaken for a bush. Raghav introduces himself, and there is instant recognition in Sinha’s voice for this former student.

“Who have you brought with you, child?”

Raghav introduces me. There is an enthusiastic welcome. I am surprised at the firmness and energy of his voice. It contradicts the mental image I have built of the person I was about to meet. He asks us to be seated on the cement platform a few feet away from him.

My eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and, while it is hard to get an accurate picture, I can see Sinha more clearly. He is wearing a saffron-colored robe (saffron indicates holiness). He is obviously wearing some warm garments under the robe and is sitting on a woolen blanket. The two umbrellas provide protection from the elements. Short and stocky, maybe 5’5”, probably weighing 165 lbs, I guess his age to be somewhere in his mid-50s. His beard is mostly white.

Briefly, I describe the research project I am engaging in and my purpose for being here.  He listens intently and, when I finish, he states that, as the host, he will introduce himself first and then he would like to know more about me.

His full name is Keshav Chandra Sinha. He is a Reader (between Lecturer and full Professor) of Hindi Literature at Allahabad University. He has two PhD’s, one in Hindi and the other in Bengali—two of the thirteen major languages in India. He has done thorough research on Gorakhnath, an ancient Hindu saint who formed the Nath sect. Sinha is fluent in Chinese and has done studies in astrology. As a homeopathic doctor he prescribes medicines. He relates several cases that have been cured due to his homeopathic prescriptions. “But the cure,” he states, “does not come from me.” He folds his hands and bows towards the little temple under the tree and says, “It is HE who cures.” Sinha continues, saying he is only a messenger who delivers the appropriate prescriptions.

 He tells me of various places he has visited in India, Nepal, Tibet, and the Himalayan mountains, where he has met sages and seers, some even 500 years old. Such saints shun contact with people. By grace of a mystic contact with some unknown source, he has acquired the ability to see through time and space.

“This is not my power; I am merely a channel.” Again, he folds his hands and bows toward the statue in the temple. “It is HIS grace, HIS Message, HIS power,” and he bows again.

Fees are charged for the transmission of messages, and Dr. Sinha is quick to explain that the money received is all spent for good purposes as directed by the worshiped one—Gorakhnathji. Sinha says he has no need for the money because he has a good income from his teaching job at the university. The money is charged to fend off inconsiderate people who otherwise would be bothering him with trifling matters.

He talks without pausing to think. All this information is fascinating and pertinent to my research and is conveyed in a half-hour, nonstop monologue. His energy pours out with his words, making it impossible to miss his dynamic force. He is not modest about himself, yet there is no vanity. It is as if he is describing someone else to a large audience from a rostrum. He lists all these accomplishments, but the accomplishments are not his, only Gorakhanathji’s—his loyalty is complete.

I had not expected such an elaborate self-introduction, and I am a little perplexed and feel a need to digest all this information.

Abruptly, Sinha focuses his attention on me. “Now,” he commands, “Mr. Mathur, please tell me about yourself.”

In contrast, I give him a brief summary about myself. I feel self-conscious as I talk, but Sinha knows how to make people feel comfortable. He inquires about my parents, about my mother’s school, and quizzes me in-depth about my family, business, and hobbies.

He pays complete attention; no detail is lost. He is amazingly interested and enthusiastic.

“What do you do first thing in the morning?” he inquires.

“I am normally up at 5 a.m. and I go for a walk,” I say.

“But don’t you get mugged? We hear that it is not safe to walk the streets in America.” Sinha tries to suppress his laughter as he asks me the question.

I explain that such conditions exist only in a few places and where I live it is quite safe.

“It must be pretty dark at 5 a.m. How do you avoid the traffic on the street?” Sinha is curious.

With my response that I wear a fluorescent vest, I must now explain: what types of materials are used to make it glow, what other uses are there for that type of cloth, how much does the vest cost? 

I am barraged with detailed questions.

“Does it snow there? Do you go walking even in the snow? How about rain? How hot does it get? What do you wear? What type of shoes? How long does it take for you to cover the distance? Is it a fixed route? What do you do after your walk?”

“I meditate.”

“For how long?” he inquires.

“Forty-five minutes or so.”

“What do you do after that?”

“I have breakfast.”

“What do you eat?”

“A mixture of things boiled in milk.”

“What are they, the things you put in your milk?”

“12 ounces water, 5 tablespoons of powdered milk, 5 raisins, 3 almonds, 1 cardamom, 1 date, 1 fig, 2 tablespoons oatmeal, 1 tablespoon cornmeal,1 tablespoon bran, 1 teaspoon wheat germ, 3 grams fresh ginger, 1 banana, and 3 slices of apple.”

“What is oatmeal and wheat germ?”

I explain wheat germ but don’t know what oatmeal is in Hindi. 

“How did you come to this mixture?”

I kept adding things I liked.”

“So nutritious,” he said.  “How lucky you are that you have all those things available to you, and that you can afford them. We, in India, could not do that. How do you cook it?”

“I cook it for four minutes in the microwave.”

“What is a microwave? How does it work? What all can you cook in it? Does it make foods all taste the same? How do you calculate how long to cook things?”

It takes me half an hour to explain all about microwave ovens. I am getting impatient. Almost two hours have gone by, and we have spent three quarters of that time discussing me. We have not even touched on the subject that I came to discuss. 

As if in response to my impatience, the sky suddenly opens up and it starts to rain. I had not noticed that there were any clouds in the sky.

“Child, you must go home. It is cold and you should not get wet. Your mother will be waiting for you.”

Raghav and I get on the motor scooter and rush towards home. In a few hundred yards, the showers stop as suddenly as they started.

Once, on a cold December night, I went to see my good friend, Dr. Sinha. I had dressed in several layers of warm clothing because I knew I would be sitting for several hours in the dark and cold on a cement platform under the canopy of a tree. Sinha greeted me with an abrupt question:

“Mr. Mathur, tonight you have to answer one question for me: What is your prayer?” 

Even though this question had come out of the blue, I was used to Dr. Sinha and his style. The fact that, for months, we had been thousands of miles apart and had not communicated with each other did not make any difference. Most meetings started with no formal greetings, as if we had been in communication all that time.

He expanded on his question: “Each one of us has a special prayer, which represents the core of one’s Self. That is the central experience we seek in this life. Generally, one is not aware of this central core, and thus, the necessary experiences pass us by. What a waste of valuable learning possibilities.

Mr. Mathur, are you aware of your core prayer?”

I nodded my head to indicate that his question was relevant, and I was willing to play his game.

For the first 45 years of my life, I was not aware of my central prayer. After a mystical experience, I became aware of it.

 “I have only one prayer that I repeat all day long. I have even found myself repeating the same prayer in my sleep,” I said slowly, enunciating each word.

Sinha was focused like a cat following its prey.

“My prayer is: Thine, not mine, will be done,” I said.

Sinha got up and started to dance, his hands spread out like a bird’s wings. “Ah, what a delight, what a delight, Mr. Mathur! No wonder we are such good friends! My prayer is similar to yours. Mine is Saint Paul’s prayer: Yes, yes, yes, Father! Always, Yes!”

Sinha kept repeating his central prayer for me to grasp it. And he kept on dancing. I could not help but start laughing. Here was a learned university professor, several years my senior, dressed in multiple layers of warm clothing and heavy woolen head gear, dancing. Even the rajai (quilt) that was covering him from the frigid air was gently swinging, creating a pattern of its own. The only source of light was the distant moon. He was like a bird wooing its mate, and he was certainly not dancing to entertain me. He was, perhaps, a million miles away. His eyes were dilated and emanating love.

***

Some of the unusual experiences I had in India in the late 1970’s created an urge in me to research how some people in India have such extraordinary powers to read other people’s minds. I was like a PhD student going after his thesis. I felt I had to debunk myths, expose charlatans, and find the kernels of truth, if any.  It was a Western study of the East.

On this journey, I met a man in my hometown where my mother was still living. I took an instant liking to him and we became friends. Soon after our first meeting, my mother predicted that I had met my teacher. I took offense to that assertion. I was not looking for a teacher; it was to be objective research.

However, in hindsight, my mother proved to be right.

The upcoming stories are some of my experiences during my decade-long relationship with my teacher and how they transformed me.

The following includes a story about Mr. Sharma that took place many years before the Beggar stories and My Boat is Called Surrender. This was in the very early days of Trees for Life.

One day while in Allahabad, I had a hunch that I should visit Mr. Sharma. It was totally irrational because the temperature was 112 degrees Fahrenheit. Nonetheless, I followed my intuition and rode my bike 10 miles to his house. My arrival woke him from his afternoon rest. He was surprised and excited to see me. From his bed, he reached up and held my arm in welcome.

“Mitra (my friend), I have been most eager to see you but did not know how to get hold of you.”

I asked, “Why so eager?”

Mr. Sharma sat up on his bed and said, “I have been wanting to tell you about an experience I had.” 

He paused while his nephew brought us each a cool lassi (yogurt drink). Mr. Sharma then began his story, as I sipped on the delicious drink. 

“One afternoon while I was in meditation, I heard two people talking. I thought that my radio had somehow suddenly turned on. With my eyes still closed, I reached back to shut off the radio where the sound was coming from.

“Unable to locate the dial, I realized no radio was there. In fact, there was no radio in the room. Then I remembered that I did not even own a radio. But I could still hear two people talking, and the sounds were coming from that spot. I was baffled. I concentrated on the sounds. The voices were familiar. Then I realized that it was you talking with your friend, Dr. Sinha. 

“The moment I recognized who the two people were, the sound disappeared, as if someone had turned off the channel.” Mr. Sharma slammed his right fist onto his open left palm to demonstrate the point.

“It was as if I had been caught eavesdropping,” he said.

Mr. Sharma was very intrigued with this experience and wanted to experiment to see if he and I could connect in a similar way when I returned to the U.S. I agreed, and we decided to attempt to connect with each other on Guru Purnima (a special day when a disciple connects with and pays homage to his spiritual teacher). Mr. Sharma was the president of all pandas in India and presumed himself to be my guru and me to be his disciple. I always simply considered him my friend.

We agreed to sit in meditation on the appointed day for three hours at exactly the same time, which translated to 2 p.m. Central Standard Time for me in Wichita, Kansas.

A problem arose in my schedule for Guru Purnima. A close relative and his new wife arrived from Pennsylvania the night before. I was delighted to see them but greatly disappointed that I would not be able to keep my psychic date with Mr. Sharma.

However, a little before lunch our friends asked if we would be terribly upset if they went to have lunch with another friend and meet us again for dinner later. I could not have planned it better.

I soon reached the church that had donated space for the Trees for Life office. My daily practice was to go into the empty church sanctuary to meditate for half-an-hour before lunch. I would sit cross-legged on the floor at the front of the sanctuary, where there was a large stained-glass picture of Jesus Christ.

On this Saturday, in the empty church, I took my usual position and began to pray, “Jesus, I am in your house. You come to me in the guise of my Guru today. I bow to you and seek guidance from you. Melt me, mold me in any way that you so desire. You know me and my needs better than I do. I only know the needs that are of this world, but you know what my soul needs. So please take charge and mold me any way that you see fit. I surrender to you with all my heart. Thine, not mine, shall be done.”

Soon, I felt I was in meditation.

I was brought back to this reality by a shrill scream that filled the sanctuary.

Slowly, I turned around to see a terrified teenage boy standing at the door with mouth wide open, his hands and body frozen in fear. As I looked at him, he ran out of the sanctuary as fast as he could, filling the hallway with his fearful cries. 

Quickly, he returned with his mother. This Vietnamese mother and son were part of the church cleaning crew. Trying to reassure them, I smiled. The mother gave her son a “You stupid!” look and then explained to me that he thought he had seen a dead body in the sanctuary. The teenager looked back at her sheepishly.

It was almost 5 p.m., and I realized I had completed my three-hour meditation. As my meditation ended, internally I heard an age-old chant, Shradha bhakti baraho, santan ki sewa. I sat there for some time absorbing the sounds of this Hindu prayer.

Literally, the meaning of the prayer is: “Oh, God, increase my reverence and devotion so that I may serve all beings.”

But the meaning that was coming to me was: I am to serve my God by serving all beings with reverence and devotion.

Months later when I was back in Allahabad, Mr. Sharma told me that he did meditate for three hours on Guru Purnima but felt no connection.

Obviously, we had dialed different channels. I had connected to a channel that was meant for me. The message: I am to serve my God by serving all beings with reverence and devotion was no longer a prayer; I knew it was my marching orders.

Sharma and I continued to meet for our early morning trips to the Sangam. He started to treat me with a newfound respect. No longer would he try to enlighten me with his stories. Now, he would ask me questions on various subjects. On many such trips, local Trees for Life volunteers would go along, and Sharma would tell them about me with great affection.

One morning on the boat, an elderly friend confessed that even though he had lived all his life in Allahabad, he had never had the courage to take a dip in the Ganges or take a boat ride. He was deathly afraid of water. He had come this time, he said, because he knew nothing would happen to him since Mr. Mathur was with him. 

Sharma started to laugh out loud. “How mistaken you are, Sir, about these people of God,” he said. “Once, a holy man was traveling on a boat when a storm came up. The boat filled with water and was in danger of capsizing. Everyone rushed to empty the boat of water, except for this holy man, who started to put water back in the boat with his bare hands. When the storm finally subsided and the drenched and exhausted people sat down, this man started to take the remaining water out of the boat with his hands. One person quizzed him about his strange actions. The saint replied, “During the storm, God wanted the water in the boat, so I was fulfilling his wish. Now he does not want any water in the boat, so I am taking it out.”

Sharma could not stop laughing as he said, “Shrimanji (honored Sir), if you were drowning, everyone would try to help you, except Mr. Mathur, who would be trying to put you under!”

*****

Some years later, on another boat ride down the Yamuna River, Sharma announced, “Time for you to be initiated.” The statement came out of the blue, without any preparation or background. He was looking straight at me. 

“The message has arrived several times, and that is why I am approaching you. I have also talked with others, and they agree.”

I had a vague idea of what he was talking about, as well as the message and people. But I did not say anything. I just smiled. The matter was dropped. 

The smile on my face was forced, and for me that was a sign of how far I had come. Ordinarily, I would have aggressively debated the need for any initiation—of all things, not religion, and especially not the one into which I was born. That was taken for granted; my birthright. I was proud that I was able to keep that hostility in check.

But there was also an air of smugness in my smile.

I was remembering two past initiations. One, when I was four years old and was initiated on the banks of a sacred lake in Kashmir. I have few memories of that ritual, only that my head was shaved clean and my hair immersed in the waters as a thanksgiving by my parents. It was a pleasant experience.

The other memory was of an initiation during my two years of sickness in the early 1980s. It was as if that initiation took place in a dream, or rather, a trance-like state. I was at some distant place. It was dark and I could not see. But because of muted sounds and vague outlines that merged in darkness, I could tell that there were other people present. I was aware that even though I could not see others, they could see me. 

Someone was instructing me, but it was in a foreign language, and I could not comprehend anything. I felt no need to understand. The sounds were melodious, chant-like, soothing. A sense of assurance and safety permeated the air. I was handed something, which seemed like a scroll. I felt these people were postmen, and I was being initiated as a postman.

I was led to a body of water. I was on the shore of a small river. Soon we came to a small boat. Without hesitation, I stepped on board. I felt as if I had been on it before. I was ready, even though I did not know for what.

I heard a stern voice telling me the boat was called “Surrender.” This sound was sharp and piercing. Someone handed me two oars. Confidently, I put those oars in iron rings on the sides of the boat. It was a familiar act. I was an oarsman. The same stern voice told me that the oars were “Thankfulness” and “Forgiveness.” 

I looked up to where the sound was coming from. There was nothing—no people, no sounds and no shore. Gentle light seemed to be intermingling with the darkness. It was a beautiful sight. The boat was now floating, bobbing up and down on waves. It seemed like a large body of water with no end in sight. I knew my task was to cross this vast sea of water without knowing where I was going.

I have no idea when or where this initiation took place, or if it was a figment of my imagination, yet I have strong memories of that event. People have appeared in my dreams who I believe were part of the group. Others I have met in flesh and blood who I feel were part of the gathering that day, even though I could not see them. I am sure the initiation took place in some part of my vast, unfathomable reality.

*****

Later that week, after recalling these memories, I went to see my friend, Dr. Sinha. He started to tell me stories of how he had been initiated in various traditions and how he had gained from each and every one.

I had not brought up the subject, but was not surprised that he did. Sinha had the knack for knowing what was on my mind, and he would start answering a question without it being asked. In his stories, he covered the point that everyone holds a different piece of the puzzle. 

“We need to be open to all traditions,” I remarked at one point. 

“One needs to experience,” Sinha stressed. “You cannot just experience it from the outside. You have to enter into the house. That takes self-assurance and confidence.”

I spent the entire evening with Sinha, without ever mentioning Sharma’s invitation for initiation.

The next morning when I saw Sharma, I told him that I was ready for the initiation. A pronounced smile instantly lit his face, and he promised to organize it on the forthcoming Monday morning—an auspicious day.

The feeling that I had already been initiated was the reason for my smugness when we journeyed down the Yamuna River that beautiful morning. It was also something I did not believe I had the permission to tell anyone, including Sharma.

*****

On Sunday I fasted, and early Monday morning I reached Mankameshwar Temple an hour or so before the appointed time. Sharma reached there at the appointed time, and we both waited for priests whom he had especially retained to come and perform the initiation service.

The four priests showed up in their formal ceremonial clothes. The priests represented the four directions—north, south, east and west—and they took their respective seats, sitting cross-legged around the Shivalingam statue. It took the priests a few short moments to set up all the formal arrangements, including incense and a fire near the center. Then, without any notice, they broke out in chanting as they performed the rituals of a Havan (fire purification ritual). 

As the person to be initiated, I was expecting to be formally invited to be seated for initiation. The priests were not even aware who I was. I felt slighted. I decided to disassociate myself and, since I was there, to be just an observer. I stood there, resting my back on one of the temple’s pillars.

Soon I started to experience continuous waves of vibrations in my body. It was as if I were connected to an electrical source at the top of my head, and electricity was flowing down through my body.

My eyes started to close involuntarily, and my back, which was resting on the pillar, started to straighten up. To hold my balance, I stretched my legs out a little farther and stood erect. My body was literally vibrating. I did not want that flow to be disrupted. The pace of the chanting increased in speed and volume and with it the intensity of the vibrations. 

I could feel that the vibrations were coming from somewhere beyond my understanding and were being received by the Shivalingam statue, and from there the vibrations were being transferred to me. It was as if the source and the Shivalingam and I were in alignment. It was all one and the same. 

I could feel the warmth of tears flowing down my cheeks, and my hands were folded in awe and worship as I kept repeating, “I believe, I believe, I believe.”

It was not an intellectual belief or a dogma that was being reconfirmed. It was something much, much deeper. As the mantras were being recited, the Shivalingam became a channel to connect me with something beyond myself. It was as if I were no longer alone.

I felt that I was not chanting those words, it was the vibration itself. 

“Is our universe vibrating with this chant?” … my intellect took over, and I opened my eyes for a brief moment.

Pilgrims were coming and going, busy with their own worship, and hardly anyone was paying attention to us. Sharma was looking at me intently, smiling. 

The instant the chanting was completed, the vibrations stopped.

Sharma congratulated me for being initiated and introduced me to the priests as they were ready to leave. I gave them an offering and bowed reverentially.

As I bowed, I realized that for the first time in my life, I was bowing to Hindu priests with reverence. I had been born a Hindu, but I had just experienced Hinduism, and I was in awe. The rituals that I had held in disdain were real. They were not mere hocus-pocus, ancient superstitions for the illiterate and poor, as I had thought.

I had become a believer.

The day after meeting the Master, I began a five-day fast. This was my second time doing a long fast. My first fast was for six days in the early 1980’s, during my two-year illness, when I was practically immobilized. This time I was full of energy, moving from one village to another, overseeing, exhorting, and trying to inspire people to plant fruit trees. My mother’s house was full of Trees for Life volunteers and the house was buzzing.

I did not tell anyone I was fasting. I just made myself absent at mealtimes, and when food was offered, I declined by saying I had an upset stomach and would eat later. No one noticed except my mother who, on the third day of my fast, said to me, “Son, I do not know what you are seeking, but I am guessing it is some Shakti (power) that you seek. I know you will get whatever you are seeking, and I bless you; however, I do have one thought that I would like to share with you.”

I nodded my head in agreement. 

“Do not eat anyone else’s juttha (leftovers from their plate).” 

My first reaction was to ask for an explanation, but her look stopped me. She had dreamy eyes, as if looking at some distant object. I surmised that she would not be able to intellectualize what she had told me; I would need to ponder and meditate upon this subject.

I promised her that I would abide by her advice. We both sat there in long silence.

A few days later, I was awakened with the meaning of her statement staring straight at me: Food meant thoughts, ideas. Follow your own star. 

Quietly, I thanked my mother once again and got up to be absorbed in the whirlwind of the day’s activities.

*****

A couple of days after I broke my fast, Mr. Sharma invited me to join him in the evening to meet some of his friends. By the time I arrived, eight to ten people were already gathered on the second-floor balcony. Sharma introduced his friends, some of the most senior Hindu priests in Allahabad. It is not uncommon for the guests to be an hour or two late for such occasions, but they were all informed that I would be there at 5 p.m. sharp, so everyone was there waiting for me.

Guests were served ice-chilled Thandai, a sweet drink made of almond milk. All drinks, except mine, were spiked with bhang, an ingredient in hemp-leaf paste. Bhang was the priests’ drink of choice; what they considered the “drink of the angels.” I chided them for not offering me any. 

Soon it was dark and getting cooler. We were invited inside to a room that had been arranged for this meeting. There was a traditional double-decked aasana (guru’s seat). The base was a takht, a hardwood single-bed-sized platform, which was covered with a white sheet, and over it was placed a chouki, a smaller platform covered with a decorative carpet and a big round pillow for back support.

As people entered the room, they quietly squatted on the cotton floor mat in front of the guru’s seat. I happened to be the last person to enter the room. As I started to sit on the floor near the door, Sharma took me by the arm and pointed toward the aasana. 

I did not know there was going to be a discourse. When I saw the arrangement of the room, I presumed Sharma would be seated there because he was the president of the priests, not only in Allahabad, but in all of India. 

I refused, but Sharma insisted. I struck a compromise by sitting on the lower rung of the aasana. Sharma gave me a one-line introduction: “Here is the personality we are all gathered to meet.” 

The invitation to talk caught me by surprise. Over and above that, I had just received one of the weakest possible introductions. I sat there for several minutes in silence, with my eyes closed to collect myself. Then, very briefly and calmly, I shared my personal background, something that should have been done by the person introducing me. I gave a brief history of Trees for Life. It was no different than what I might say during a luncheon talk at the local Rotary or Lions Club.

Sharma was disappointed. He had obviously expected me to relate my mysterious experience at Sangam. I balked, as there was nothing to tell. Sharma told them a sketch of the events, as he had experienced them. It was evident that he had told them this story already, which was why they were there. I was expected to fill in the blanks, but I merely shook my head and did not oblige.

Sharma spoke again. “He met this eminence, but he did not recognize him and became tongue-tied. He did not have the necessary background. He could have had a darshan, but he came out empty-handed.”

The silence was broken by a person who said, “Here we are, hereditary priests for many generations. We serve Ganga Maiya (Mother Ganges) every day. And here is a man who walks in and has this experience. I, too, am envious.” His voice was firm and steady, filled with emotion. He looked at Sharma with rebuke in his eyes. I recognized him as one of the priests Sharma had invited me to eat with when he said I was part of their circle 12 years ago.

Another priest said, “We can only say our guest was tongue-tied because we have not had that experience. Such an experience has to be beyond thought and words.”

“Such experiences cannot be articulated,” added another. “The fact that he cannot speak about it even today, does that mean he is tongue-tied?”

“It is the result of penance over several lives,” said yet another priest.

An elderly priest, who had been silent up to this time, said, “The fact that he did not take the aasana shows he does not recognize who he is. He will have to recognize who he is. Many people are waiting.”

Another person said, “Who says he did not have a darshan? That experience was the darshan any one of us would die for.”

The subject moved to whom I might have met. 

“Babaji, of course,” said the priest who had earlier spoken of jealousy. He was referring to Mahavatar Babaji, the Yogi-Christ of modern India.

One or two heads nodded in agreement, but most of the others said nothing. I sat in silence, staring at the ground. I was not interested in encouraging or participating in this discussion.

“Indeed, indeed, how many of us would have dared to massage a leper’s feet?” Sharma asked. Silence followed. One quick glance told me: the very idea was preposterous to these Hindu priests who prided themselves on their purity. 

Soon Sharma nodded to his family members, who were standing just outside the door listening. The men brought in prasad–blessed food–on small metal plates. It consisted of panjeeri (an Indian sweet dish made with cream of wheat, sugar, butter, and dry fruit) along with pieces of fresh fruit. It was followed by a cup of chai.

Later that evening, as I carefully steered my scooter through the busy, narrow streets of Allahabad, I was reminded of my first day in kindergarten. My main memory was of the teacher playing “tail the cat” with the class. One child would be blindfolded and would try to attach a tail made of cloth to a paper cut-out of a cat displayed on the blackboard. I refused to go back to that school the next day. I was not going to school to learn to put a tail on a cat. I wanted serious learning. I knew what I wanted, and that was not it. As a result, I was admitted to a Montessori school, which set me on a lifelong journey to learn all I could, and of which, I have very good memories. 

The circle of people at Sharma’s house had somehow brought back memories of the school I refused to attend.

Mr. Sharma arrived shortly after me at the camp. “I have been running,” he said. “I knew you would be here, and I did not want to keep you waiting.”

I said, “I met an incredible man just a few minutes ago.”

“How did you find him?” he asked.

“Absolute serendipity,” I said. “I ran into him among the lepers.”

“What did he say?” Sharma asked, without looking at me. 

“I hardly remember anything he said,” I told him. “I cried most of the time. Besides, what he said was not of much importance. His presence was what affected me.”

Sharma reached over and held my hands. “Friend, I would certainly like to meet him.” His eyes reflected the greed of a gambler, and his touch expressed urgency.

“Then let’s go,” I said with enthusiasm. “It’s only a 10-minute walk from here.”

“Wait. Tell me once again how you felt when you were with him.” Sharma’s eyes were piercing. He was deadly serious. 

I reflected for a moment to get in tune with my feelings and to be able to tell him exactly as it was. “My heart was tender, and I felt like crying most of the time,” I finally said.

“Then let us go immediately. But he will not be there.” Sharma sounded dejected.

“Why do you say that? I met him only a few minutes ago,” I replied.

“Let’s see,” Sharma said dryly.

As we raced along the banks of the Ganges to find the mysterious person I had just encountered, Sharma was holding on to his dhoti, breathlessly relating this story:

“Some 100 years ago, the King of Gaya, a small kingdom in Bihar, in north India, came to the Kumbh Mela. Though he was well known as a good king, few knew that he was an accomplished yogi with tremendous spiritual powers. The king met a sadhu at the Kumbh Mela, who gave him some spiritual guidance.”

In Indian tradition, Sharma related the story in a colorful and elaborate way. He told details of the king’s life so I could almost picture it. But to me it seemed mundane. There had to be more to the story. Most people who come to the Kumbh Mela meet some sort of sadhu. Several hundred thousand sadhus attend. A few are genuine, while most are suspect. What was the big deal about this King of Gaya meeting a sadhu at the Kumbh Mela? What was the point of the story? I wondered this to myself but did not ask as we raced along the river’s edge. I was out of breath and in no mood to encourage any talk.

“Where is he?” Sharma kept asking as we rushed along. Bridge No. 4 turned out to be farther away than I remembered. It was more than a mile from Sharma’s camp. Somehow, it had seemed just around the corner.

Confusion was written all over my face when we reached the bridge. There was no such man there. Neither was there a long row of lepers. The bridge was there, just as I had left it a very short time ago. So was the police watchtower with the Trees for Life banner. The same policeman was on duty.

“It cannot be,” I exclaimed, in a whispering voice.

Sharma did not ask me for an explanation and did not seem to need one. 

The whole scene had changed. The riverbank did not have a six-foot clay drop as I had remembered. It was a gradual, sandy slope all the way into the river. It was a beach on which there were dozens of wooden platforms where pilgrims were changing clothes before and after their dip. The whole shore was teeming with men, women, and children. There were no lepers anywhere. I could not believe my eyes.

“It’s not possible, but let’s see if I am mistaken about the bridge number.” My face was red with embarrassment.

Sharma and I started running again, crossing all the bridges up to bridge No. 1, which seemed like a very long distance, but to no avail. Nowhere was there anything like the scene I had experienced just a short while ago. It was baffling.

“It had to be bridge No. 4,” I said to Sharma.

We went back. This time we were not rushing. We walked slowly. We were merely trying to confirm what we already knew. I was hoping for a miracle; but it was not to be. 

“The scene has totally changed,” I finally admitted to Sharma. “It’s as if I were not at the same Kumbh Mela.” 

Sharma nodded in agreement, as if he knew. 

“You were pretty sure he would not be there. What made you so sure?” I inquired.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you the reason for the story about the King of Gaya and the sadhu he met.” Sharma’s eyes were lit up and he was animated. For a moment, the dejection left him. “The king had an almost identical experience to yours. I knew who you had met,” Sharma said.

“How did you know?” I inquired. “I shared very little with you. In fact, there was very little to be said.”

“Such Masters do not tell people about themselves,” Sharma said. “Most of them go to great lengths to hide their identity. But there is one telltale sign: when one is in the presence of such Masters, the heart becomes tender and one feels like crying.” Sharma’s two hands were squeezing some imaginary heart as if it were a sponge.

We stood in silence for several minutes. I was surveying the scene in disbelief, trying to understand what I had experienced or, in my ignorance, what I had missed. Where had I been during those two hours? I had not hallucinated. There was no question in my mind about that. Besides, it had happened only a short while ago. Bridge No. 4 was just as I had left it, yet everything else was different. Suddenly, the very sense of surety seemed to have left me. The whole thing could have happened a century or a millennium ago. I was not sure of anything.

“I do not understand,” I said. “Thousands of people must have passed by the Master today. Did all of them have such an experience?”

Sharma shook his head, trying to figure out a way to explain this to me. “Yes and no. Each one would have felt the tenderness in his heart, but only a few would have recognized it.”

“Who would recognize the Master and why?” I asked.

“It is a matter of the Master’s grace,” Sharma said. “Only when the Master wishes his identity to be known can he be recognized. We do know one thing: this phenomenon generally happens when the heart has been purified to a large degree.”

Sharma smiled benignly at me. “Our Rishis (seers) have maintained that 26 thoughts flow through our mind every minute. The mind tends to attach itself to each thought. As a result, many times each day our mind makes different resolutions but is not able to keep any of them. The mind is fickle.

“By the grace of Mother Ganges, you made a sanklap (pledge) to plant trees. You have been able to focus on that single mission. That is a very remarkable feat. Seers tell us that focusing on one idea for a great length of time is one of the ways to still our mind. You have been practicing.” Sharma’s eyes were dancing with mischief. Knowing his powers, I was pretty sure that he knew of the conversation I’d had with the Master.

“Who did I meet?” I inquired.

“No one knows. Only you will come to know. This is a very sacred place and a sacred time. We believe that at this time all the Devtas come to the Sangam, even Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh. The cumulative power of the devotees creates miracles here. God responds to the call of the devotee. A Master responded to our call.”

“What does it signify?” I asked.

“In one way, it was a reward for your work,” Sharma said. Then he shook his head vigorously and said, “That is not a good statement. There are no rewards on this path. It was a prasad (communion).”

Sharma continued. “This happening occurred to indicate to you the stage of your development. It was like a signpost, telling you where you are on your journey. What you do or do not do with it will depend upon you.”

There was a brief pause. Sharma was collecting his thoughts. “It was as if you met a lawyer who could have interceded on your behalf. He would have arranged a darshan (beholding of a deity) for you. But you did not recognize him, and you became tongue-tied.” He lowered his head and shook it side to side, expressing his disappointment.

“How did you know I had met such an eminence? You were pretty sure from the first moment I told you about him,” I pleaded in earnestness.

“An unmistakable glow in your eyes told me,” Sharma said, with the same confidence I had seen in him when, 12 years ago, he had told me I was a member of the same circle to which he belonged.

“How were you so sure that I belonged to the same circle as you, when we met at the last Kumbh Mela?” I asked.

“I did not know,” Sharma said honestly. “Swami Murkhanandji told me. After you left the tent, he told me who you were and to get hold of you. That is why, if you remember, I came running after you.”

“What did Swamiji say?” I was curious.

“Swamiji did not have to say anything. He nodded at me and that confirmed what I had already suspected.”

After another period of silence, Sharma put his hands on my shoulder. His touch indicated it was time to go.

“Mitra (dear friend),” he said, “only one or two such Masters ever come to the Kumbh Mela, and…” Sharma repeated his disappointing head motion. However, this time, his jaw muscles were tight and his nostrils were spread wide, making his eyes a narrow slit. He did not finish the sentence. He did not have to. It was evident that, in his opinion, I had missed my chance.

I found myself looking straight into Sharma’s eyes. His eyes were red and had a peculiar look. It was a mixture of love, admiration and cold anger.

In 1989, I was at the Kumbh Mela to lead a Trees for Life campaign to distribute 300,000 guava saplings as prasad (communion) to the pilgrims. However, I had an inner feeling, an undercurrent, that I was there for something more. It was a familiar feeling of restlessness and unease that took place when I left for a long trip, knowing I would not see my wife and children for a long time. It was a mixture of anticipation and anxiety, as if I were at an important gathering but not fully dressed. 

On January 20, 1989, the auspicious day when the sun transitioned into Capricorn, the prayer beads I had worn around my neck for several years broke and scattered all over the floor. They had become an important part of me, yet I felt detached. This to me was an omen that a new phase of my life was about to begin.

I couldn’t sleep the first night at the Mela, so I gave up around 11 p.m., got out of my straw bed on the sand floor, put on several layers of warm clothes, and went for a walk. I was aware that the time had come for new challenges. I needed courage. From every speck of sand my feet touched, I begged for that courage. 

At midnight, the most auspicious hour, I bathed in the frigid waters at the Sangam—the juncture where the Ganges and Yamuna rivers meet. Then I walked for hours on the sandy banks of the Ganges. Around 10 in the morning, I saw four men singing devotional songs. They were seated on the sand and in front of them was a white piece of cloth with a small copper bowl. The passing visitors had thrown a handful of rice and lentils in the bowl for them. There were also a few coins scattered on the cloth. The men looked very poor. The love and pathos in their voices tugged at my heart. I squatted on the sand beside them and joined in their singing. Without a word, one of the men handed me a pair of cymbals, and soon I was in rhythm with them. Tears rolled down my cheeks.

Occasionally, I would open my eyes to see someone drop a coin in the beggars’ bowl or a foreign tourist taking pictures of the scene—me, dressed in Western clothes, with a heavy top coat and cap, sitting beside those four men who wore barely anything.

I was disappointed when, after a couple of hours, the men wanted their cymbals back because they were leaving. I had just begun to understand the heartbeat of the beggars. From their sustained passion, it was obvious that a deep vein of devotion ran in their hearts. No one could sing like that for a few coins. It was an expression of their love. They were really not begging for coins—like me, they too were acquiring courage. 

The Mela crowd, numbering in the millions, had started to thicken. Silently, I begged for courage from each one I passed. Soon people, sights, and noises all became one big blur and I was oblivious to everything around me. I crossed a pontoon bridge on the Ganges River to reach an island that had formed in the middle of the river. During winter, the water level goes down in the river and natural islands are formed. There, a tent city had been set up for the duration of the festival. Our Trees for Life team was camped on the island. 

Immediately after crossing the bridge, I noticed a long row of lepers squatting on the side of the river, begging—not an uncommon sight at the Mela. As I started to walk by, my feet froze near one person. I had almost passed him when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lying on the sand covered with a blanket. He looked like any other leper. Near his covered head sat three Hindu renunciant monks, called sadhus, in their saffron clothes and their long, matted hair. A woman in saffron clothes was sitting in front of the leper. My immediate thought was that the leper under the blanket had suffered a heart attack, and these people were attending to him.

I stood there for several minutes. While everything around me was muted, this scene was in perfect focus. I noticed the brown-and off-white plaid blanket on top of the person who was lying down. For some reason, the blanket riveted my attention. I realized the people around him were sitting quietly, without any movement. I became aware that I, too, was standing absolutely still. A reverential mood permeated the atmosphere. I felt my heart soften, tender to the slightest touch. My eyes were moist and my body seemed to have frozen.

Quietly, the woman got up, unfolded the blanket she was sitting on and spread it out just enough for two people. She motioned for me to come and join her. As I sat to her left, I noticed she was the only one in the group sitting on a blanket. The three sadhus were seated on the sand.

The moment I sat down, one of the sadhus started to speak. Although he spoke in Hindi, my mother tongue, I could not understand what he was saying. I only remember that his voice was melodious, and I was becoming very drowsy. I tried hard to keep my eyes open, but I could not. I assumed this was the result of my not having had enough sleep the night before. As soon as the sadhu stopped speaking, I found myself wide awake—my drowsiness had suddenly evaporated. I was now sure that the sadhu must be one with extraordinary spiritual powers. I had experienced the same drowsiness in the presence of Devraha Baba, the 350-year-old saint, whose powers were legendary in India.

After 15 minutes or so, the man lying under the blanket uncovered his head. Even though I could see only his face, I was somehow sure he was wearing nothing under the blanket. His face was dark and had a healthy, robust glow. His head was clean-shaven. His eyes were shining and yet blank. He turned his head and looked at me for several minutes. There was absolutely no expression of interest on his face.

“I am the one who recognized him,” the woman said. Her tone of voice and mannerisms reminded me of someone I knew. I tried hard to remember who it was. She kept talking. There was something frivolous and playful in her manner, which was interfering with my reverential mood.

“Maharajji (the Master) can speak in any language,” she said. The woman named a few Indian languages and some foreign languages—Japanese, English, French, and Portuguese.

I then remembered who she reminded me of—it was a lady in Wichita who used to embarrass her children and visitors by asking the children to perform on a piano. It was uncanny how the two women had the same tone of voice and mannerisms.

I was uncomfortable with the woman’s chatter, and I felt that she was probably interfering with the reverential mood of the other sadhus. As if to apologize for her and to seek their indulgence, I turned to them. They were no longer there. Only a moment ago, one of them had been speaking. I wondered what had happened to them. I looked at the sand where they had been sitting but saw no footprints or any other trace that they had been there.

*****

I should have been surprised or shocked at the sadhus sudden “disappearance,” but I was not. I witnessed the event as if I were simply taking inventory.

“Really, what language would you like the Master to speak?” the woman insisted.

Remembering that the other sadhu had just spoken in Hindi, a language that I knew so well–and yet had not understood–I responded, “English will do, thank you.”

The woman’s actions and questions continued to irritate me. I wished that she were not there. The man did not speak. He lay on his back, gazing at the sky. After a while, I thought I detected a faint smile on his face. He rolled to his left side to face me. In his look, there seemed to be a gentle question.

What transpired in the next two hours is still unclear to me, though I have searched my mind to remember. What I have been able to recollect is only a mere shadow of the event, but something significant took place.

“I want to still my mind,” I said. 

Even though I had just requested him to speak in English, for some reason my question was in Hindi.

“Practice,” he said in perfect English. His voice was deep and gentle.

There was a silence, as if he wanted the words to sink in and take effect. Then, gently and in a very calm voice, he gave examples of how practice makes perfect. He gave examples of modern-day sports and music figures. That surprised me. How would a person like this know those names and their accomplishments? He said that only through the grace of God is one put on the spiritual path. After that, one needs to grace himself with practice. Practice is one thing under our control. Practice, alone, makes perfection.

“What should I practice, Sir?” I inquired.

“The goal of all methods is to teach us discrimination. Practice discrimination,” he said.

“What is discrimination?” I asked.

“Discrimination is the ability to separate the real from the unreal, or the illusion,” he answered. “Only by constant practice are we able to achieve such discrimination. Once we have experienced Reality, there is no going back, and illusion loses its hold.” 

“Sir, I am so imperfect, I need your blessings,” I said. “I need your help to practice. Give me one tool today. I come to you as a beggar. I am more than a beggar; truly, I am a thief …” 

By this time, I was choked with emotion.

Without a word, I moved over and took his feet from under the blanket, put them on my lap, and started to massage them. His feet were big and heavy, the soles thick and cracked. As I touched his feet, a slight current passed through my body. 

“Blessings are always there,” he said.

After a few minutes, he added, “Stand in the Ganges sometime for one hour and concentrate on your desire, and it will be fulfilled. Do it when the water is warm. Do not punish your body.” 

It was as if he knew about my early morning dip in the ice-cold waters of the Sangam. 

“Prepare your body for the task in gentle increments.”

The fact that I was massaging his feet did not in any way affect his demeanor. He did not seem to notice. I was sure it made no difference to him. I was also sure I was doing it for my sake rather than his. I was the beggar. A thief trying to steal a blessing.

By this time, the current from his body that had come as a slight touch was now coming in waves, ceaselessly—wave after wave, varying in intensity and power. It was like a crescendo of music in which my body was vibrating as a musical instrument. I felt like a hollow reed through which wind was flowing, vibrating the reed.

The voice of the woman jolted me. She was laughing. “Look at that guy. If only he knew how many blessings he is getting right now. His mind is already still,” she said, referring to me.

It seemed as if I went under a spell the moment I started to massage his feet. I thought I had been fully awake the whole time and aware of what was going on, but I have no recollection of anything that happened from that moment until the woman began to speak. 

I vaguely remember him talking to her. I think he spoke of the virtues and power of love. He said that of all the virtues in the world, love is the most important. Love is like the sun. Before it, all the lights of all the candles fade. Love is the driving force that we call God. 

It seemed that I had been at the Master’s feet only a moment when the laughter of the woman brought me back to earth. But from the position of the sun, I figured I had been there for more than an hour. I gently put his feet down and stood up.

“I should leave,” I said to the woman. “I have already taken too much of your time and have interfered with your dialogue with the Master.”

“If you wish to leave, that is fine,” the woman said with a laugh. “But do it for your own sake. Do not use me as a pretext.” She had a pained look on her face, as if I had already failed my first test.

I realized then that I did not wish to leave. There was an awkward pause before I sat down again with the woman. While I had been massaging the Master’s feet, she must have moved, because now there was room on her right side on the blanket. There must be some significance to that, I thought.

“Master, I need your help,” I said.

He laughed. “I am not a Master. I am a journeyman like you. We are all journeying toward the same goal—that is to become one with God. Practice will make you perfect. Practice.”

“Let us practice together,” the woman said, as she straightened her back to sit in the meditation position. I joined her. I reached for my meditation beads but remembered the string had broken the night before.

I must have entered a deep state of meditation quickly. Later, the pain in my knees made me realize I had been sitting for quite some time. My legs were asleep, but despite the physical discomfort, I felt an immense sense of joy. I looked at the Master. He had covered his face with the blanket again. I looked at the woman, who was no longer in meditation.

“Well done,” she smiled back, as if in appreciation.

I did not want to leave. I was determined to visit the Master each day I was at the Mela. I would stay at the Mela as long as the Master was there. I wanted to bring all my friends to meet him.

I remembered I was supposed to see Mr. Sharma that afternoon, and the position of the sun told me it was time. Since I first met Mr. Sharma at the Mela 12 years earlier, we had become good friends.

I memorized the place where the Master was located. It was immediately to the left of bridge No. 4, where the lepers were. On the exit point of the bridge, there was a police watchtower. The watchtower held a large, white Trees for Life banner announcing the distribution of the trees. It would be very easy to remember the location. The face of the policeman on the tower was clearly visible, and I looked at him intently to remember him.

Within a few feet of the Master’s back was the river Ganges, below which was a six-foot drop-off. It was a rugged, dark clay formation that takes place after the river erodes the riverbanks. I realized before I started meditation that I had seen a dark-skinned sadhu standing waist deep in the river in a worship-like position. He was still there more than an hour later. I marveled at his endurance. From my dip earlier that morning, I knew how cold the water was.

“Time for me to leave,” I said gently to the woman. “This time I take responsibility for myself and leave of my own accord.”

She smiled back in understanding. There was no emotion or reaction from the Master. I stood up and reached over to touch my forehead to the Master’s feet. Again, there was no reaction.

“Sir, may I know who I have had the honor to be with today?” I inquired. He looked at me. For the first time, there was a benign smile on his face. I felt I was in the presence of compassion itself.

“I am,” he said simply.

There was no accent in the voice. It was as if the words hung free in the air—as if the sounds had touched my ears without ever being uttered by him. I had no other questions and left.

I made sure I could remember how to get back to the Master’s place. All my senses were alert, noticing even minor details. I heard another set of beggars chanting. The music was melodious, but I did not stop.

I was eager to get to Sharma’s camp.

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.