Meetings with Yogis
By Prem Prakash

A Teaching on Pride

When I was younger, I was a student at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. My girlfriend at that time and I took a summer bicycle trip through New England. When we got to Vermont, I thought the State was so beautiful that I dropped out of school, waved goodbye when the girlfriend went back to Philadelphia, and borrowed $400 from my grandfather so I could settle in Burlington.

I was only in town for a few days when, being a big fan of libraries, I was strolling through the library at the University of Vermont. I noticed a poster announcing a yogi scheduled to give a presentation on campus. I looked at my watch and found the talk was to begin in about 15 minutes. I was amazed at my good luck and thought to myself, “I think I’m really going to like it here in Vermont.”

The yogi’s name was Dr. Ramamurti Mishra, later to become Swami Brahmananda Saraswati. Dr. Mishra was the founder of the Yoga Society of New York, Ananda Ashram, and the Yoga Society of San Francisco. He gave a discourse and concluded by asking for questions from those in attendance. I raised my hand and asked a question which I thought to be earnest, but the yogi apparently recognized an underlying arrogance.

He called me up to the front of the room and asked if I could sit in the half-lotus posture. I did so, and he praised me. Then he asked if I could sit in the full lotus. I took this posture, trying to appear humble in front of the group, but actually feeling quite proud of my ability. He next instructed me to grasp my hair, which I did. Finally, he asked me to pull myself up off the ground. Obviously I was unable to do so and everyone, including me, had a good laugh. It only took a few more words for Dr. Mishra to clarify how subtle pride interferes with the need of the student to recognize his own limitations.



Bridge Over Troubled Water

    At one point I was practicing Surat-Shabd yoga, the yoga of inner sound and light, under the direction of Sant Darshan Singh. One morning I was thinking of the guru, and pondering how a guru is like an oasis of sanity in a crazy world. The Simon and Garfunkle song, “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” came to my mind as an apt metaphor, and I spent the morning happily humming the tune and thinking of value of a spiritual teacher.

    Later that day, my girlfriend at that time and I went for a hike in central Vermont. I believe it was early November, the day brisk without being too cold. We wore light clothing and didn’t bother with food as we were only going for a day hike of a couple miles.

    Somehow, we got terribly lost. We must have missed a trail somewhere and ended up wandering around for hours. Dusk began to fall and we were starting to get chilly. It looked like we were going to have to spend the night outside. We weren’t going to die from exposure, but it certainly was going to be cold and uncomfortable. Just as we were giving up and getting ready to settle under a tree, I decided I would climb one more hill and see if there were any signs of life.

    Sure enough, I spotted some lights in the distance, and we bushwhacked our way to a rural house. We knocked on the door and a man answered. He was not altogether pleased to see a couple of scruffy strangers. “Whaddya’ want?” He demanded more than asked.

    I explained that we were lost, and I told him where we had parked. He told us we were some 8-10 miles by road back to the truck. I looked at him pleadingly and asked if he could possibly give us a lift. “Nope,” he grunted.

    I said, “I have about $15 back in my truck. If you give us a ride I’ll give it all to you, and if you want I’ll send you a check later for any additional amount.”

    He stared us down hard and responded, “Hop in my truck.”

    We got in his truck, and he told us to keep our muddy boots from getting anything dirty. We started down the dark road and he turned on the truck radio. Out of the speakers came the familiar voice of Paul Simon, “Like a bridge over troubled waters….”

    The fellow dropped us off safely and he didn’t accept any payment.




Shakti Feet

    Ambika and I were traveling with Shree Ma and Swami Satyananda Saraswati of the Devi Mandir in Napa, Calif.  Shree Ma is one of the most amazing human beings I have ever met. She is a tiny Bengali woman who, when fully wet, hauls about 90 lbs. on a 5 ft. and not many inches frame. Yet she emanates a power that makes her feel like she is a giant.

    One time, Shree Ma asked me to give her a foot rub.  In Indian spiritual traditions it is considered an honor for the student to massage the teacher’s feet. Regardless of custom, Shree Ma was relatively older, probably in her 60’s, and I loved her a lot, so I was happy to do something to make her feel good.

    I got a towel and some nice oil, and she placed her feet on my lap. At that point I was astonished at how petite she really was. Her feet were so tiny they looked like they belonged on a little girl. Her ankles were about the size of my wrists, I could practically wrap a hand around them.

    I began to massage her feet. She smiled and said, “Rub harder.”

    “Sure, Ma,” I answered, and I applied some more pressure.

    A minute or two later she said, “Use more force.”

    I was concerned with her request, so I said, “Ma, to tell you the truth, I’m afraid I might hurt you.”

    In response, she said, “Go like this,” holding up her fist with the knuckle of the middle finger protruding, “and use all your might.”

    I asked, “Are you sure?”

    “Do it,” she said.

    I thought to myself that this was going to be very interesting. I took my knuckle and pushed into her little foot. I kept pushing harder into her flesh, waiting for her to wince. I was eventually using so much strength I actually began to sweat. Dear reader, if I pushed into your foot that hard with my knuckle, I don’t care how big you are, I promise you would jump! Shree Maa leaned back on her chair, smiled and closed her eyes. “Ah,” she said, “that’s very good.”




Love That Never Leaves

    Baba Hari Dass is my yoga guru, the yogi who gave me my name and permission to teach. Back when I was studying intensely with him, I only saw him once a year, at a Labor Day retreat outside of Toronto. The rest of the year I was doing my yoga and meditation on my own. My only contact with him during this time was when I wrote to him once every 3-4 months. His response was always just a terse, “keep practicing,” so I really looked forward to spending the retreat time with him.

    Over the years, I had developed quite an emotional attachment to Babaji. He was the major figure in my life, and our relationship was the most important that I held. The retreat was in someways the highlight of the year for me. I cherished the time to communicate with him more intimately, and I appreciated the chance to practice before him and receive his guidance. What I didn’t appreciate, however, was that the guru’s job is not to have an emotionally dependent student, it is to have the student become free.

    One year, I arrived at the retreat thrilled to see Babaji, but he ignored me all day. Likewise, on the second day he ignored me. On the third day he also acted like I wasn’t there, which might even have been hard because I was teaching at the retreat. When he also ignored me for the remainder of the retreat I was pretty much freaking-out emotionally.

    Finally, the retreat was over. It was time for me to drive back home, not to see him for another whole year. I was disappointed and a little angry about the way he acted towards me. Mostly, though, I was sad and hurt.

    I figured I should at least say goodbye to Babaji, and I can still remember the scene where I approached him. He was sitting with a group of about a dozen people, and it seemed like everyone was joking and laughing. I came towards him from the rear, and leaning over his right shoulder, I said, “Babaji, I came to say good-bye. I have to leave now.” He didn’t even look up. He took his arm and waved it in my face, as if pushing away a pesty insect. If body language spoke English, that arm would have said, “Get lost.”

    I sulked away, shocked and discouraged. I was amazed that he would be so darn rude. I loved him so much. How could he act this way towards me? I was really heartbroken.

    Just then, a 5 year-old girl who was at the retreat with her parents came running up to me. I had played with her a bit, so I thought it sweet of her to say goodbye. She did not, however, simply offer a little girls’ farewell. She threw herself on me, wrapping her arms around me, and sobbing with a voice that seemed to come from heaven, she cried, “Oh, Prem Prakash, I love you. I love you so much. I will never leave you. I will never forget you. I will love you forever.” Again and again she professed her love, crying until my shirt was wet with her tears.

By the time she walked away and left me to continue to my car, I was dazed and emotionally charged. Her outburst, her language, and her whole demeanor were nothing one could expect from a child. I felt like that guy in the Bob Dylan song -- I knew something was happening but I wasn’t sure what it was.

By the time I drove away from the retreat, however, I was convinced I knew what had happened.  I wonder if you’d think me silly if I told you I believe those words of undying love did not come from the little girl, they came through her?


A Sweet and Wild Story

When Ambika and I got married, we flew to Grenada to honeymoon in the Caribbean. On the plane, a flight attendant approached me and asked if I was Prem Prakash. I told her I was, and she introduced herself as a yogini who was a devotee of Karunamayi Ma, an Indian woman that many consider a modern-day saint. She had picked up on my yogic name and decided to say hello. We had a delightful conversation. So much so, that Ambika and I decided when we returned from our honeymoon we would try and meet the woman’s teacher, Karunamayi.

Later, after returning home, we received an invitation from some friends of ours to celebrate Halloween in Woodstock, NY. These folks were part of an artists’ collective and they put on something called “The Phurst Church of Phun.” It was an extravaganza of silliness, partying, and music.

We went to Woodstock and had a blast. The main stage was usually occupied by very talented musicians in one grouping or another, all wailing away to a dancing crowd. During the set breaks, the microphones were left on and people were welcome to come onto the stage and sing, tell a story, joke around, whatever. It was a loose and fun scene.

At one point, I felt inspired to go to the mic and chant some Sanskrit mantras. I eventually began to repeat, over and over, the extremely potent mantra, “Ma,” which, in most every tongue means “mother.” In yoga, the Ma mantra is highly revered, as it is an invocation and evocation of the Divine Mother, the Goddess of all energy. I was in an elevated state and I felt like a small child, on the edge of my known universe, calling out into the Great Mystery of Life for my eternal Mother. “Ma, ma, ma ma….”

Make a long story short, we soon after learned that Karunamayi would be coming to Woodstock. Ambika and I went to meet her and, wouldn’t you know, we found her in the same hall in which the Phurst Church event was held, sitting on a chair on the very same stage where I was calling out for Ma.

Ambika and I have gone to see Karunamayi every year in Woodstock to receive her teachings and blessings. Our son Jahnu has received her blessing every year of his life. We feel so close to her, as if she has been present with us when we were feeling sweet on our honeymoon, and when we were feeling wild, dancing and chanting.


A Crazy Story

This story really deserves a forewarning, as it may only seem plausible to someone with experience with the Grateful Dead, with Name Karoli Baba, or for those of you with a very highly developed sense of humor. So proceed on your own….

When I was in high school and college, I went to some 50 Grateful Dead concerts. It’s hard to describe what the Dead meant to many of us back then, “back in the day.” It was, well, quite an experience. Anyway, since there doesn’t seem to be any known cure, I still remain a Deadhead.

For those of you who are not familiar with Neem Karoli Baba, he was an Indian yogi who left our world in 1973. During his lifetime he performed extraordinary acts of service, and many, many miracles. His influence on the Western yoga movement cannot be overstated, but it is often overlooked because he was so immune to fame. His influence on me is immense, and my yogi guru, Baba Hari Dass, lived with him for many years, as they built temples together. Neem Karoli Baba had a very fun-loving and mischievous nature. He was known to make powerful and profound appearances in people’s lives in very unexpected and humorous ways.

One summer day, I got a phone call from a friend, asking me if I wanted to see the Grateful Dead in concert that night at the Saratoga Springs Performing Arts Center. I hadn’t seen the Dead in many years, a period of time in which I had been very seriously practicing yoga. During that time, I had not only been away from the rock n’ roll world, I was waking up every morning well before sunrise to meditate, I did not drink a drop of alcohol, had any caffeine, used any illegal herbs, and my sex life was also, um, restrained. It was a strict time in my life. But, the invitation was for a Grateful Dead concert, so I said, “Sure, why not?”

Before we left, though, I became somewhat concerned. I had been leading a rather Apollonian life, and the Grateful Dead environment was much more licentious and Dionysian. I remember I said a little inner prayer to Neem Karoli Baba that went something like, “I’m not really sure what I’m getting into. I’m trusting you to guide me and give me some clear indications of how to handle the situation with all the drugs and stuff.”

On the drive to the concert, my friend and I weren’t concerned about our lack of tickets. I remembered the Dead scene as a gentle place where hippies would give away free tickets, and people were happy to share whatever else they had. Little did I know, during my period of rock n’ roll seclusion, that the Grateful Dead had become a big showbiz success. The Center set a record for selling more than 40,000 tickets, and there were thousands and thousands of others trying to sneak in. It quickly became apparent that there were no tickets to be graciously handed away, nor were there any for sale.

I was fairly unattached, not even really caring if I saw the concert. At one point, my attention was drawn to a young woman, barefoot, wearing a thin summer dress, who I somehow felt I knew. This knowing wasn’t a social familiarity, however, more like the feeling of seeing someone from a half-forgotten dream.

I walked towards her, figuring I’d say hello, but she was walking away and in the immense crowd I did not get close to her until we were right before the ticket takers. The situation here was unpleasant, with people trying to sneak in, and beefy security guards physically tackling those who attempted to rush in without a ticket or jump the chain link fences.

The girl, however, sauntered towards the turnstiles, with me right behind her. Then, we both just walked in, with no one asking us for tickets. It’s hard to convey how astonishing this was, because all around us there was yelling and fighting, tickets being scrutinized for counterfeits, and bribes being offered. The space the two of us were in, however, was as quiet and still as a forest pond.

There’s more. After the first set of the concert, during the intermission, I was hanging around and a young couple walked up to me and asked if I would like to share an herbal enhancement with them. It had been a long time since my last indulgence, but it seemed like such an spontaneous and benevolent offer that I accepted. Well, years without makes a person pretty darn sensitive, if you know what I mean. I was all set for the music to start back up.

When the music began I was very much enjoying myself, dancing and mingling. Then I noticed an odd looking, heavy-set young woman. While most of the people were dressed in loose, flowing, colorful clothing, this girl was wearing an ostentatious cowgirl outfit. She came complete with mini-skirt, cowgirl boots, studded western vest, and she was toped with a beehive hairdo. She looked like she stepped out of Central Casting.

Stranger, she seemed to be following me around. At first I though it was my imagination, but repeatedly I would be dancing, then turn to find her right up next to me. She was just so outlandish and out of place, and seemingly so intent on me, I felt like I was in some Twilight Zone episode that could be titled “Close Encounters of the Weird Kind.”

Finally, I was dancing and she positioned herself right in front of me. There was no way of avoiding her. It was so awfully bizarre that I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, into my mind popped the craziest thought – “This girl is Neem Karoli Baba.” It was a statement, question, and revelation all wrapped into one idea. And before I had a chance to process this nutty notion, the girl stared straight into my eyes, smiled, nodded her head up and down, then turned and walked away, not to be seen again.

Perhaps the silliest part of this story is that when I tell it to people familiar with Neem Karoli Baba and/or the Grateful Dead, they often bob their heads understandingly, as if this massively ridiculous tale makes perfect sense.