Download - Mandhata Global

ways the same: a simple shrug, eyes lifted upwards, palm open to
the Heavens, and the words, “It’s all God’s blessing.”
I would like to tell a story of my own. Unlike Pujya Swamiji’s, my
story is not a parable meant to teach a lesson. It is a true — word
for word, detail for detail — portrait of the man behind the words
on the next pages.
I came to Rishikesh in 1996 as a tourist. I was 25 years old, on a
three month vacation from my Ph.D. program in California. How I
met Pujya Swamiji and moved into Parmarth Niketan is another
story, a beautiful example of God’s divine plan. For now, it will
suffice to say that I was there, alone, and planning to stay approximately
one week. During my first two days at the ashram, on the
banks of Gangaji, in Pujya Swamiji’s presence, my entire being
was transformed (and this transformation has not stopped yet). I
was overflowing with joy, bliss and a serenity I never knew. At
Ganga Aarti, the world would disappear into the blazing fire, into
the depth of the voices as they sang, into the setting sun as it bounced
off the waters, into the pervasive peace of Pujya Swamiji’s presence.
So, the second day, I went to Pujya Swamiji. We sat in his meeting
room, alone —he a 45 year old renunciant, and I a 25 year old
American girl who could barely see straight I was so filled with
ecstasy. “Swamiji,” I said. “I feel so incredibly blessed to be here,
to have met you, to be able to spend this time on the banks of the
Ganges. I feel like you have given me so much. Is there anything
I can give you, anything I can do for you?”
had been warned in America to “stay away from Indian gurus.” I
was not connected to anyone Pujya Swamiji knew; I was simply an
American girl who was staying alone in the ashram for less than a
week. And, most importantly, He knew that I did not have the
innate Indian understanding of what a saint is and should be.
Pujya Swamiji looked at me, the light streaming in through the windows,
casting a brilliant halo around His head. “Anything?” he
asked. The voices inside my head screamed, “No, you’re crazy!”
Yet, those voices remained lost inside my head; the voice that actually
flowed from my heart to my mouth said, “Yes. Anything.”
Pujya Swamiji paused. “You promise?” He asked, staring directly
at me as though this were the most serious question in the world. I
felt that I would pass out from the intensity of the hold His eyes had
on me. Every word I had ever heard in my Psychology of Mind
Control classes, every story I had ever read about Indian gurus
surrounded by naked women and fancy cars, and every rational
thought I could have were swimming in my brain, filling it with fear.
“Don’t promise,” the voices pleaded. I could hear my mother —
on the opposite end of the world — saying “Just get up and walk
out.”
Yet, the two feet between my brain and my heart served as a beautiful
barrier, for these words did not even touch my heart. My heart
was calm and still, and filled with a sense of security that I had
never known. “I promise,” I said, knowing that I truly would give
this man — whom I had known for two days and who was old
enough to be my father — anything He asked for.
A voice in my head that had spent 25 years being indoctrinated by
The intensity of His gaze lifted and His face broke into the lightest,
the West yelled at me: “What are you saying?” After all, there we
purest smile I had ever seen. “Okay, then, three things,” He said,
were, alone in his office. I had only known Him for two days, and I
and even though the divine smile continued to emanate from his
DROPS DROPS OF OF NECTAR NECTAR NECTAR . 18 DROPS DROPS OF OF OF NECTAR NECTAR NECTAR . 19