PART TWO
RAJ YOGA: THE SOULFUL SOVEREIGNTY OF THE DIVINE
Chapters
I am a yogi.
You are no longer Sikhs!
Mr. Eckhardt
Time to Move On
The Loud Knock
The Government Cheque
Yoga in the Canadian Woods
TV Yogi
The House of Yogi
Hunger’s Repast
The Artist and the Yogi
“Flower Power”
The Man in Blue
Plenty
The Yogi’s Dilemma
Stranded
“I am a restless man.”
The Jook Savages
The Visit
Bhabi
Cooking for HELP
East West Cultural
The Interview
The Yogi’s Detachment
I Ching in Ibeza
The First Public Lecture
A Liberated Man
The Contest
The Unexpected Lunch
The Priceless, Destiny-Writing Pencil
The Yogi and the Savages
Old Friends and New Students Meet
The Choice
New Beginnings
The Longtime Sun
The First Turban
Do Something!
The House on Phyllis Street
The Yogi’s Guru
The Hollywood Party
After the Party
The Price of Initiation
The Identity of the Master
The Room
Training the Teacher
Work Now, Be Appreciated Later
Solstice and the Fair
Solstice Frolics
Solstice Reverie
Lessons at the Free School
Returning Home
Sufi Sam
The Pearl of Purposefulness
Making the Festival
Onion Juice Purifies the Blood
American Dreams
At the ‘Bird’s Nest’
Old Friends Lost
The Bait
The ‘House of Shiva’
Teacher and Students
Tratakam Yoga
The Master of Coax
The 366th Day
Sunday Evenings
Seeing the Unseen
“Living Truth”
The Darkness Before the Dawn
The Peace-Giving Name
Sikh Vows
The Perfect Turban
To San Francisco
“Seven Centers, Three Methods”
The Kriya
Solstice Invitation
The Santa Clara Solstice
Solstice Yoga
The Visit of the Hopi Elders
Bossier’s Land
Trial by Fire
The Dedication of Guru Ram Das Ashram
The Ninth Day of Solstice
The Atlanta Pop Festival
The Holy Man Jam
The ‘Official’ Turban
The Grace of God
The Grand Host
Teaching at UCLA
Banana Bliss
Master of White Tantric Yoga
The Measure of the Breath Meditation
To India!
The Master of Delhi
Farewell to Gobind Sadan
The Sanctuary
On Tour!
Village Folk
The Cloud of Death
Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru
The Honest Police Inspector
Questions in Amritsar
Alamgir
Guru Amar Das
Amritsar
At Home in the Harimandar
The Offer
Baisakhi 1699
The Amrit Ceremony
Siri Singh Sahib
Return to America
I am a yogi.
September 13, 1968
Harbhajan Singh Yogi, now thirty-nine years of age, waited his turn in the line-up that had just disembarked at Toronto's international airport. In the queue were tourists, professionals, government people and hopeful immigrants. Gradually, Harbhajan's place in line moved up, as people were cleared at the front by the customs inspectors.
Having himself so recently been the chief customs officer at India's busiest airport, Harbhajan Singh savoured the sweet irony of his new status. Finally, the people in front of him were cleared and it was his turn to step forward and engage the officer at his desk. The inspector's eyes took in the papers placed in front of him.
"Your profession?"
"I am a yogi." Harbhajan Singh the former customs inspector had decided to make a break with his past. A new future required a new identity and this was it.
"Pardon me?"
"I am a yogi. You can say it is like a priest. I am a man of God."
"Do you plan to work here?"
"Yes. I have been offered a job at the university here as a teacher of yoga. You can see from the letter here."
"I see. What do you have with you?"
"Only this handbag. My luggage went missing in Amsterdam."
"Alright, then. Welcome to Canada."
The arrivals lounge was packed with people moving to and fro. You could hear French and English being spoken. There was a cluster of Czech refugees, just arrived, with their precious bundles and suitcases. At six foot two, Yogi Harbhajan Singh, towering over the milling crowd, looked for a familiar face. It was not there.
Yogi Harbhajan, master of patience, went within. An hour he waited, then reached into his pocket for the number of the man from the university who was to receive him. It was Friday afternoon, and he called the office of his sponsor. The secretary who picked up the phone had been expecting his call. She did not have good news. The professor had been involved in a serious traffic accident and died just the day before.
Harbhajan Singh thanked the secretary and offered his condolences. Hanging up the pay phone, he reflected on the briefness of life and the inscrutable course of destiny.
What was he to do now? His employment and all his plans were up in the air. His luggage, so carefully selected and packed, was gone forever. There was not even anyone to receive him at the airport.
At that moment, the Word of his Guru came to Harbhajan Singh. The lines were from Guru Nanak's Japji Sahib:
Kayti-aa dookh bhookh sad maar, ayeh bhi daat tayree daataar.
Band khalaasee bhaanai ho-i, hor aakh na sakai ko-i,
Jay ko khaa-ik aakhan paa-i, oho jaanai jaytee-aa mu-eh khaa-i,
Aapay jaanai aapay day-i, aakheh si bhi kayee kay-i,
Jis no bakhsay sifat saalaah, Naanak paatishaahe paatishaaho.
Whatever afflictions and deprivations might be, these too are your gifts, O Bountiful One!
Freedom from bondage comes only by your Will. Nothing more can be said.
Any fool who presumes to know better shall live to eat his words.
He himself knows and he himself gives. Only a few acknowledge this.
That one fortunate to sing the praises of the Lord, O Nanak is the King of kings!
"So," Harbhajan the Yogi thought, "it is Your gift. Thank you!" Just then he saw the diminutive Canadian masseuse he had known in Delhi. She had made the arrangements for him to teach at the university. The woman had heard the news of the professor's accident and come to the airport alone to receive Harbhajan. Together they took a taxi to her apartment home where she had an extra bedroom prepared for her tired guest.
Fall was in the air. Soon the leaves would be changing colour. The Canada geese would be flying south. The Canadian holidays, Thanksgiving and Hallowe'en were coming, and soon after, the snow would fly.
Yogi Harbhajan Singh had arrived in another hemisphere, very different to what he had been accustomed to. The inhabitants looked pale compared with the coffee-skinned people of Delhi. They spoke with a different accent, sometimes difficult for Harbhajan to understand. There were lots of cars here, but no rickshaws and far fewer people than back home.
There was a whole new world for Harbhajan Yogi to explore, but after a little dinner with his host and Kirtan Sohila to himself, it was time to put all this aside and rest for the coming adventure.
You are no longer Sikhs!
Harbhajan Singh had left India, but he had not left his people. Sikhs had lived on the west coast of Canada since 1897. The first Sikh had arrived in Toronto fifty-seven years later.
When Yogi Harbhajan arrived in Toronto, there were two Sikh congregations of about twenty-five people each. Every couple of weeks, they would come together at a community center to keep alive their spiritual traditions in this foreign land. It was clearly a struggle. Nearly all of the men had discarded their distinctive turbans and cut their long hair on the excuse that it was the only way they were going to find work in Canada.
When Harbhajan Singh arrived at the gathering in the community center at Eglinton and Avenue Road, the members of the congregation were hotly discussing whether or not the Gurdwara should, like a church, have chairs for the people to sit on. Harbhajan with his pink turban bowed to the Siri Guru Granth Sahib, and addressed his fellow Sikhs. He encouraged them to take pride in their own spiritual heritage, rather than mindlessly aping the customs of Westerners. Yogi Harbhajan Singh also advised them to discuss their problems and resolve their differences politely and respectfully when they were in the presence of the holy Granth Sahib.
On another occasion, Yogi Harbhajan was blunt and forceful. He confronted those who had been born in Sikh homes, but had disowned the heart of Sikhism when they settled overseas. They had forsaken the dynamic genius of Guru Nanak to live a shallow life of rituals, controversies and social observances. They had discarded a priceless pearl, to cling to a hollow, worthless shell.
"You are no longer Sikhs," Harbhajan Singh told the crowd of bare-faced immigrants. He singled out their self-serving leader, who had lived in Canada the longest, for some choice words of criticism.
After those scathing words, the erstwhile leader had run for cover and was nowhere to be found. Some members of the congregation approached Harbhajan Singh afterwards, hoping he might serve as the Gurdwara's president. He thanked them, but excused himself. Yogi Harbhajan explained that he needed to focus his energies elsewhere and preferred to remain from the Gurdwara's politics.
Mr. Eckhardt
As a new immigrant with an employment visa, Yogi Harbhajan was required to remain in touch with the government and report his progress. One morning, he visited the immigration office to inform the officials there of his situation at the university. Harbhajan was directed into an office to be interviewed.
A senior bureaucrat, Mr. Eckhardt was waiting for him. When Yogi Harbhajan produced a book of photos showing him in a number of yoga poses, the civil servant was impressed. Still, he quizzed Harbhajan, "What is the proof you are a yogi? I want the proof you are a yogi. Is it written on your forehead that you are a yogi?"
"I do not have to give proof. The very fact that you ask me three times, that you doubt that I am a yogi, is the answer in itself. You are in doubt, I am not. If I am not, it doesn't matter to me. If I am, it doesn't matter to you."
"I don't understand."
"What you don't understand, I understand."
"Will you just tell me what makes you believe you are a yogi?"
"My belief not to rebut you makes me a yogi, and your belief to rebut me and to corner me makes you an interviewer."
Finally, the government officer realized that this Harbhajan Singh he had been interviewing was indeed a yogi. Moreover, since a yogi was neither a physical education instructor nor a priest, though he shared some aspects of both, an entirely new category of immigrant was created to suit the qualifications of the newly arrived.
Time to Move On
Life could be interesting with a real Indian yogi in the house. Neighbours complained to his hostess that they could hear him chanting at the unearthly hour of 3 a.m.
Harbhajan Yogi could tell the woman who has offered him a place to stay was coming unhinged when he returned to her home one evening to find her sitting and fuming at him.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"The cottage cheese is gone!"
"The cottage cheese is not gone. It is eaten up," he replied.
"Who can have eaten it up?" shot back the woman whom Harbhajan and his wife had fed and respectfully treated as their guest for some four and a half years.
"Well, I ate it."
"You ate the whole cottage cheese?"
"No. My guests came and I just served them the cottage cheese."
An air of retaliation was palpable to the sensitive yogi. He had been valued by his guest at something less than a $1.29 tub of cottage cheese. Reciprocation for years of hospitality and sharing did not enter the picture for this furious woman. Only a week had passed, but it was clearly time to move from this place.
The Loud Knock
Yogi Harbhajan's first job in Canada was looking after a house. It seemed like a nice situation with a warm and comfortable space all to himself where he could relax.
At night, he put four or five blankets underneath and another four or five on top of himself and slept soundly. In the morning, Harbhajan woke up and meditated. Afterwards, he was very happy – happy to have meditated and happy also to have peace and quiet all to himself. Harbhajan Yogi returned to his cosy nest of blankets for a nap.
Abruptly at seven o'clock there was a loud knock and the doorbell rang. Harbhajan stirred awake and looked outside. He was shocked to see a policeman at the door. Opening the door, he asked, "Officer, what can I do for you?"
The police officer replied, "Nothing for me. Take your shovel and clean the sidewalk! There is a lot of snow in front of your house. Everybody is doing it and you are sleeping in."
"Oh, that is my responsibility? Okay." Harbhajan put away his blankets and found a shovel, then went outside to join all the neighbours in clearing the snow from the walkway.
While he hacked at the ice and chopped away at the snow, Yogi Harbhajan mused how every country comes with seasons and every house comes with responsibilities. He wished he should not be in Canada.
The Government Cheque
The Canadian government's file on Yogi Harbhajan Singh slowly made its way through the bureaucracy. So it was that one day he was directed to the government employment office at 222 Dundas Street West. There he met a friendly longhaired counsellor who told him the government had checked everything and agreed with Mr. Singh that, while he had been given a lucrative offer of employment at the university, now he was practically unemployed.
As a matter of routine, the young man continued, the unemployed yogi was to be issued weekly cheques of $150 until he could find work in his trained profession.
Harbhajan Singh Yogi was not interested. "No, I don't need this subsidy."
The counsellor replied, "You have to have it. If you don't accept this, my job will be gone."
Harbhajan Yogi ordered the young man, "Stamp my passport. Give me the cheque."
The counsellor complied and handed him the envelope with the first $150 cheque inside.
Harbhajan deliberately took the cheque out of the envelope, tore it in two, and returned it in the envelope.
The young man said, "I don't understand you, man!"
Harbhajan replied, "Now you speak my language: 'I don't understand you man.' Man, I have come here for a purpose. I will deny myself everything. Let the purpose solve my proposal and my projection."
"You speak a different language!"
"That's the way I speak. Have you seen my passport? Do you see the name on it? This name brought me here, not Canada. Not your parapsychology and hydrotherapy and supreme health investigation program. That was a tool. Now all that is gone, but one thing remains: Har Bhajan remains to do Har Bhajan. That's my identity. There is no other reality."
Yoga in the Canadian Woods
A student of Yogi Harbhajan's at the Canadian High Commission had given him the address of his son, who was about to begin studies at the University of Toronto's School of Architecture. One day, he dropped in at the student's basement apartment in the Rosedale district of Toronto. The young man was surprised and delighted at his exotic guest. He explained that he was just preparing to go north for his course and was already late.
"Wonderful! I'll go with you and you can show me your country."
"I'm afraid I only have a little motor scooter."
"No problem," said Harbhajan who well remembered travelling Amritsar with his wife and three children, all balanced on a motor scooter. "In India, we travel by motor scooter too."
So it was that the two of them, the skinny red-haired freshman and the turbaned yogi, set out in a cloud of blue smoke, dragging the muffler over every hump in the road.
About six hours later, they arrived at the sketching camp deep in the Canadian woods, near the village of Dorset. The student apologised to his supervisor for being late. He also explained that he had brought someone with him and that he had no idea what to do next.
After a discussion with the professor in charge, it was resolved that the yogi could stay until the first available ride back to Toronto presented itself. Since everyone needed either to be a student or on the staff, Yogi Harbhajan was enlisted as a member of the staff. The yogi's presence might, they concluded, after all be an asset on this artistic excursion. His assigned duty was to teach a yoga class to the students and faculty.
The next evening, after several hours of sketching in the woods, everyone gathered to find Yogi Harbhajan situated in lotus pose on a stage improvised with a few tables pushed together and covered with a cloth.
The Sikh yogi sat on the improvised stage, and began to explain the meaning of yoga to this gathering of budding architectural minds. Harbhajan the Yogi proceeded to share with them how through yoga a person could train their mind to relax. It was a form of self-hypnosis, he told them. Then, to prove his point, the master yogi lay down for one... two... three... four... five minutes, before at last sitting up and announcing to the students that he had just, before their very eyes, enjoyed a perfectly sound and refreshing sleep. Such was the power of yoga.
After the demonstration, someone came forward to share with the masterful man in the turban a problem he had been having. It was not insomnia. The man had a peptic ulcer. This too, the yogi assured him, could be treated with yoga, and he proceeded to tell him how.
TV Yogi
After a few days, everyone made their way back to Toronto. Yogi Harbhajan went to stay for a week with Ron Baird, a young sculptor and resident artist at the architecture school. They had a considerable meeting of minds, this Western artist with his curiosity about Eastern ways, and this yogi from the East seeking to transplant the wisdom of the orient to Western soil.
The yogi asked Ron how he might best make Canadians aware of the benefits of yoga. Ron replied that he should go on television. Surely if he went on television, Harbhajan would be able to clear up any misunderstandings people had about yoga. Everybody in Canada watched television.
The very next day, Ron received a call from his guest. Harbhajan had phoned to tell Ron to tune in to The Elwood Glover Show. There happened to be a last-minute cancellation on the interview program and now Yogi Harbhajan was going to be interviewed and broadcast coast to coast across Canada.
After his successful debut on television, Yogi Harbhajan began giving classes at downtown Toronto's YMCA. The classes grew. They would start with a handful of students. Those people would tell their friends. Then there would be twenty or thirty in a class. Students were struck by the magnetic yogi in the bright pink turban who wore his sandals even out into the snow.
Yogi Harbhajan appealed to people's basic desire for peace, health and empowerment. Soon, he was giving classes at three different YMCAs. As word spread, one or two hundred people were attending his classes.
The House of Yoga
An Australian woman named Rhonda Tulloch came regularly to Yogi Harbhajan's classes. She had been practicing yoga on her own for six years, and aspired to be a teacher in her own right. Together, they decided to establish a yoga center in Toronto. In November, "The House of Yoga" opened at 167 Church Street downtown, just a block from the city's busy main street.
After several invitations, at last a reporter for the “women’s section” of Canada's national paper came to visit. She wrote a complimentary piece on the new centre and the "high-voltage yogi" who taught there. Yogi Bhajan's picture supporting a student in an inverted pose appeared across the country on the front page of The Globe and Mail newspaper.
Patiently, the Guru's messenger did his work, proclaiming the possibilities inherent in a life dedicated to the love of spirit and empowered by the practice of kundalini yoga.
Hunger's Repast
Yogi Bhajan's next stopping off place was with relatives of his who lived in Toronto. They did not understand or appreciate what the Harbhajan Singh they had known in India was doing in Canada. Why wasn't he back in New Delhi with his wife, his family, his government job? They put him up in the basement in their home at 325 Hillsboro Avenue, a quiet residential street not far from the downtown. A plywood bed was hammered together to suit the dimensions of the Yogi’s large frame. But things were not easy.
His relatives would ask, "What do you want to do?"
The Yogi would reply, "Nothing."
"You don't want to earn money?"
"What money?"
"You are come here as an immigrant. You've got to make your life!"
"It's already made! It's set!"
"You are crazy!"
"Who made me crazy? Death or no death, health or no health, food or no food, I am not going to do a thing!"
"Learn something!"
"I have come here to teach. Why should I learn?"
"You've got to learn something!"
"Nothing!"
One day, the Yogi clashed with the woman of the house. She liked to complain that he always stayed out late and never came home on time for dinner.
"I hope I will be coming back soon," he said on his way out the door. To finance the new yoga centre, Yogi Bhajan was working as a bookkeeper during the day and as a janitor at night. Moreover, his evenings were increasingly filled with yoga classes, so he knew the chances of returning in less than twelve hours were not very good.
"Come at dinner time and don't come very late." she insisted.
When Yogi Bhajan had finally done his work, he was driven home by a student. There was no doubt that it was late. The door to the house was locked. It was cold and there was snow all around.
The student offered, "Can I take you to my house?"
"No, I can't do that," the Yogi declined.
They decided to doze in the driveway with the engine running and the car's heater on. Finally, at about eight o'clock the door was unlocked and Harbhajan Yogi entered the house. The first thing he did was to take a bath. Then he sat for a time and meditated. Afterwards, Harbhajan went to look for something to eat.
In the kitchen was a pot of his favorite dish. Black garbanzo daal had been prepared. Harbhajan eyed the delectable meal. He was hungry, and this was a wonderful kind of breakfast, like he used to have at home. But then he saw something that spoiled his mood and made his appetite vanish. A big piece of meat sat in the middle of the pot of curried beans. Harbhajan the Yogi understood right away that his relative had put that meat into the daal so he could not eat it.
Harbhajan Singh remembered well what respect he had received from these relations when he had been a servant of the Government of India. Now that he had set out in a humble way to be a servant of God, they despised and resented him. How false, he thought, were these worldly relations! What mocking cruelty they were capable of!
The Yogi contemplated the pot of curried black garbanzos. Three thoughts came to his mind. The first idea was that the piece of meat had been put over half of the dish, but half of it was untouched and pure, so he could eat that half. The second thought was that he could spoon out daal from the bottom of the pot. It should be alright, and he could eat that. The third thought was, "To hell with the whole thing! I can bless it by putting my kirpaan through it and eat it. What does it matter? I haven't eaten in three days!"
Then a fourth thought came to Yogi Bhajan's mind, "God has put this piece of meat here to let me know I am not supposed to eat it. It is also attachment." Harbhajan retired hungry to the place in the basement that had been relegated to him. He picked up his Gutka volume of Guru's Songs and allowed the pages to fall open to consult it, to see what Guru expected of him.
The Gutka spoke in the divine voice of the Tenth Master:
“Prabh joo to keh laaj hamaree.
Neel kanth na naaraa-in neel basan banvaree.
Rahaa-o.
Param purakh paramaysar su-aamee paavan paun ahaaree.
Maadhav mahaa jot madh mardan maan mukand muraaree.
Nirbikaar nirjur nindraa bin nirbikh nark nivaaree.
Kirpaa sindh kaal trai darsee kukrit pranaasan kaaree.
Dhanarpaan dhrit maan dharaadhar an bikaar asi dhaaree.
Hau mati mand charan sarnaagati kar geh layho ubaaree.“
"Dear Lord, You are the Preserver of my honor.
Blue-throated Shiva and the man-lion, Krishna, Dweller in waters and forests,
Pause and reflect.
Supreme Being, Supreme Lord and Master, living on air,
Sweet Lord, Great Light, Destroyer of the pride of Vishnu, Liberator, Vanquisher of demons,
Everlasting, Unaging, Unaffected by sensation, Unsleeping, Deliverer from hell,
Ocean of mercy, Seer of past, present and future, Eraser of the outcome of mindless actions,
Bearer of the celestial bow, Embodiment of patience, Support of the Earth,
Changeless, Wielder of the sword.
I of faulty mind seek the sanctuary of your Lotus Feet. Please take my hand and save me!”
(Raag Sorath – Shabad Hazaaray – 710)
The words so touched the Yogi's heart that his eyes began to tear up. After a time, Harbhajan realized his tears were flowing from his cheeks down onto his Gutka. Only then did he dab his eyes dry. Not wanting to spoil the pages, he took the opened Gutka and covered it with his only towel so his tears might dry. But the damage had been done. From then on, whenever Yogi Bhajan consulted that Gutka, it would always open to those same pages and the identical verse would present itself.
Harbhajan Singh sat in resignation, but he was not entirely resigned to starving like this. Another Verse of the Guru came to his mind:
"O mind, why do you scheme so, when the Lord Himself is providing your care?
From rocks and stones, He created living beings and before them He places their food."
Inwardly, Harbhajan was taunting his Guru, "So where is the food?"
It was not long before he could hear the ring of the phone upstairs, then a voice calling, "Hey Bhajan! Telayfo-nah! Telayfo-nah!"
Harbhajan climbed the stairs to take the call. On his way, he noticed that the daal with the meat in it had been thrown into the garbage. On the phone was a yoga student of his. She said, "Sir, where are you?"
"Where can I be? I am at home."
"I understand they didn't let you enter the house last night."
"Yeah, I slept in the car. It was pretty warm. No problem."
"Do you want to come out?"
"No. I don't feel good. My whole body has stiffened up. To be very honest, I have not eaten and I feel very weak."
"Food is no problem."
"Not for you. For me, as far as I am concerned, it is the only problem I am facing," Harbhajan replied.
"Oh, didn't you eat your donuts?"
"No, I told you that day I have given them up. You told me they are so bad. You are the one who lectured me, and I said I won't eat donuts from that day, but I don't know what to eat. You go out and you ask for bean soup and they say, 'Well, it is made with beef, and this is made with chicken and this is made with fish and this is made with this…' What you can eat?"
"Tell me where you want to eat."
"I just want to eat through the telephone. Do you understand?"
"I don't want to bring food to that house, but we have got some food. Can you make it to the yoga centre?"
"Another twenty-five cents on the subway?"
"Well, we have found something that will never, ever allow you to be hungry again."
"Alright, if this is the situation, I will come." Harbhajan could not help feeling that his prayers had just then been fulfilled. He dressed himself to go outside again and with his weakened, hungry steps made his way to the subway station and paid his last twenty-five cents as fare. Harbhajan Yogi felt cold, dehydrated and disoriented. It was difficult telling north from south. Perhaps, he thought, some carbon monoxide from his night in the car had gone to his brain. Arriving at his subway stop, Harbhajan barely could summon the energy to climb the stairs to street level and on to the yoga centre.
At the House of Yoga on Church Street, he found a number of students celebrating his arrival. And there was an array of nine large flattened boxes with chapatis they called "pizza" – all vegetarian and of nine different kinds. Some of the students had even brought Indian food from sympathetic families who had heard that Harbhajan was not being fed and was growing weak. There were about twenty dishes in all – a real feast by any standard!
Yogi Bhajan picked a large pizza and ate the whole thing himself. Having taunted his Guru just an hour earlier, now he gratefully accepted the bounty of the Preserver of his honor.
The Artist and the Yogi
Ron and the Yogi remained in touch through the following weeks and the changing of the seasons. One day, Ron confessed to Yogi Bhajan that his conscience had been troubling him ever since he had spent Thanksgiving with his family. The centrepiece of the feast were some Cornish hens his mother had gone to some trouble in preparing. Ron had been trying to give up eating meat, but after some initial hesitation, he had succumbed to the familiar pressures and joined the rest of his clanin gorging on the tasty flesh of the hapless hens. He shared his predicament with the Yogi and wondered aloud what he might have done.
Yogi Bhajan's response was a heaping helping of enlightened common sense. "In a case like this, it is one's duty to eat what one is served - then to go outside and throw it up!"
That Halloween, Ron and a few friends spent an evening carving faces into pumpkins to make the season's festive jack-o'-lanterns. The end-products were all singularly spooky and enchanted.
One, however, stood out from the rest. Like the others, it had a wide, infectious grin. Unlike the rest, it was marked by a large, discerning third eye in the middle of its brow.
Flower Power
Yogi Bhajan visited an innovative eighteen-story free school called "Rochdale College.” There, he had his first experience of the "flower power" culture - the paisley, tie-dyed, long-haired, half-crazed, half-enlightened movement toward love and peace and blissful nonconformity that was sweeping college campuses, providing creative expression for the pent-up idealism of a generation. LSD was its proclaimed avatar. Its creed was: "Turn on. Tune in. Drop out."
In a way, the eccentric-looking yogi fit in perfectly with all the other "groovy cats" in the building. Its upbeat culture disavowed superficial judgements based on appearances. It professed everyone's right to "do their own thing.”
Yet, Yogi Harbhajan Singh's enlightened point of view derived from a profound inner discipline, not from a flash of psychedelic euphoria. He was a man with a mission. He had a family of his own. He was twice the age of many of the hippies. All these things marked him apart from the "free love" generation.
The Man in Blue
One day, Yogi Bhajan was very hungry. He told a couple of his yoga students, "Let's not eat here. Let's go to the Gurdwara today and join their prayers, and eat langar. I'll show you how generous Sikhs are.
The Yogi had visited the Sikh services with some of his students before. Occasionally, two or three young students would go with him and sit and silently meditate as the Songs of Guru Nanak were recited or sung in the congregation. Sometimes there would be a piano for accompaniment.
This time, they just arrived in time to hear the last minute of kirtan. Then, after sitting through a boring speech, and after Ardaas was done and the Prashaad all given out, everyone sat in lines and was served the Guru's langar.
Just then, to everyone's surprise, a certain gentleman with a perfect blue turban came up to Yogi Harbhajan Singh, picked up his plate, and said, "Yogis have no right to join a Sikh langar." He took the plate and walked away.
Harbhajan's students offered him their own plates, but he told them, "No, you keep it." Instead of eating with everyone else, he just sat very calmly and quietly studying the fate of the people there.
After langar had been served, a kindly old woman came up to the Yogi and put a large plate of langar in front of him. He said, "No, you should not get in trouble for me."
She replied, "Some people have taken that guy and straightened him out. Please eat this, and give us your blessing."
When everyone had eaten, Yogi Harbhajan Singh got up to leave. Along the way, he met with the man in blue. Both his eyes had been blackened. It appeared as though he had been taken to the washroom and beaten up.
The Yogi asked, "Can I do anything for you?"
"I've had plenty."
"Thank you. You deserved what you got. You took that plate from me in front of my guests."
"Yeah, I felt I needed to do that."
"You think you are powerful, and you want to challenge me. Never mind what has been done to you. I will show you how to beat someone without leaving a mark on their body."
"You mean you know how to fight?"
"God, you just don't understand me. Some day..."
After some time had passed, God provided the Yogi with an opportunity. There was a games competition on a Sikh holiday. The main game was kabaddi, a Punjabi team wrestling sport.
Harbhajan Yogi joined the team opposing the other man. In the first round, he flattened him and carried him to his side of the field, where he threw him to the ground. Then, Harbhajan stretched out his hand to help the man up.
The man said, "I never knew you were so strong!"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "I may look lousy, but test me out. Put your money on the table, and I'll put mine. We will have an arm wrestle, you and I, and God will be the witness."
"Okay, just for once."
"No, three times." Harbhajan the Yogi wanted to make him understand it was not necessary for him to belittle other people. The man had a psychological problem, and the Yogi was doing all he could to help him. So, when they gripped each other's hands, Yogi Bhajan squeezed the other man's hand so hard that it turned blue. He had no strength left to even hold Harbhajan's hand, let alone resist.
Yogi Bhajan asked, "How many times do you want to go? One, two, three, four?"
"Well, I have lost the money..."
"You take the money and go. That was not my intention. I just wanted you to know that the way you use brute force has no human intelligence to it. And the way you act is without human courtesy." Surprisingly, that man was a university mathematics professor, an intellectually sophisticated being, but his behaviour was graceless and neurotic.
When Harbhajan Singh went to retrieve his shoes before returning home, he found they had been taken. To make his way home, the resourceful Yogi made shoes out of paper and glue, and then tied a string around each one.
Plenty
Since the time that he had begun to teach, some devoted students had started looking after the needs of this disciplined, and very determined yogi. He, who would not ask for food and who kept to a strictly vegetarian diet, was now being regularly treated to pizzas and other wholesome Canadian fare.
Often, there was more than enough. The remainder would go to the homeless people who gathered evenings in the nearby park. Sundays, one big pot of beans and another of rice would be cooked and distributed to the park people. Fifty to two hundred people would sit in rows on the park benches to be served this vegetarian banquet.
To be honest, not everyone was entirely satisfied with the yogi’s generosity. Once, a man inquired whether next time the Yogi's students might not also provide some wine with the feast.
These street people, who lived a sparse existence in the parks and hostels of Toronto, held a certain fascination for Harbhajan Singh. He studied and appreciated them. He noticed that many of them regularly gathered at a mission church downtown. They would finish their bottles of cheap wine outside, then go in and sing their inebriated hearts out.
Yogi Bhajan marvelled at the good humour of the pastor of this peculiar congregation. He had never seen anything like this in India. Moreover, the pastor shared with him an unexpected insight. When the collection plate came around, these simple-looking men were more generous than their well-outfitted suburban counterparts. When it came to matters of the spirit, these "winos" were prosperous indeed!
The Yogi's Dilemma
In November, on the occasion of Guru Nanak's birthday, Harbhajan Yogi drove to the Canadian capital of Ottawa with a couple of his students. After having a party and attending a reception, they were ready for the long drive back to Toronto. It was very early in the morning, but they were rested, so off they went.
Some hours later, as they approached the burgeoning city of nearly one million people, the Yogi suggested they have breakfast with a certain acquaintance. Everyone was hungry, and so it was agreed that the three would go there for breakfast.
It was a Saturday and their hostess was very happy to receive them. It was eleven o'clock. She could guess what was on the minds of the weary travellers. In no time, a delicious home-made breakfast was served.
As the guests enjoyed their late breakfast, their hostess asked them, "What is the next program?"
Harbhajan Yogi replied, "Just to relax here for a while, then take the car and go to London, Ontario in the evening. There is a lecture there. I have to go there."
"Can I go with you?"
"Fine."
After they had finished their meal, their hostess asked Harbhajan, "Can I speak to you for a minute, for heaven's sake?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
In another room, she asked him, "What did you do today?"
"What is wrong with you? What did I do?"
His hostess went on, "You know if you would have knocked, I would have opened the door. Instead, you came all the way up the drainpipe, through the window, pulled me out of bed, and took me to the shower. And then you disappeared the same way. If anybody would have seen you jumping over the wall and coming in, there would have been a lot of problems here. People don't do these things here."
"Which window?"
She took him to the window. "This window was open. You came in and you were going like this. I know you are a yogi. You can do these things, but please don't do it here! There are six people living in this house."
Harbhajan Yogi was astonished. "You are imagining things! I never came here."
But she was adamant. "No! Look, you are not supposed to tell a lie!"
"Wait a minute." The Yogi thought of a way out of his predicament. He called to his travelling companions. "At three thirty this morning, where were we?"
"We were driving between Ottawa and Toronto."
"While I was in the car, did I disappear?"
"No. You were there with us the whole time. I'm sure of it."
"Are you sure? Can you say it on oath? She says I came through the window. You say, two of you, that I was in the car. Now which one is true?"
Unfortunately, the Yogi's guest had read some odd things in books about yoga and the power of yogis. "No, no," she said. "A yogi can be in three places, four places, it doesn't matter. You were there and you were here too!"
Yogi Bhajan was shocked. Here he was being disbelieved by four mature adults! None of them would believe him. "Look, ladies and gentlemen, I'm not going to drive with you any more. You can go and disperse. I'll walk. I'll take the train. I'll just go to my house. You are the craziest people! I was driving with you and she was hallucinating, and now you are totally abandoning me!"
"No, no. You were with us," said the student, "but you were also with her."
Harbhajan Yogi summed up his feelings, "I worked for so many incarnations to get this human body, which holds the identity. I did it just to identify the Infinity which created it, and because of one hallucination, now you just have taken away from me the very basic right of being human. It is too much!"
Sometimes the misplaced faith of raw and inexperienced students could try even the patience of a Master.
Stranded
One day, Yogi Bhajan planned to set out again for London, Ontario with three of his students. It was about a three hour drive in the direction of Detroit, south-west of Toronto. Preparations were made, everyone loaded into the car, and they set off.
Half an hour out of Toronto, the car suddenly came to a halt on the side of the road.
"What happened?" asked Harbhajan.
"No gas," replied the embarrassed driver.
"You were reading empty as full?"
"That's right," was the sheepish reply.
They sat there for a time by the side of the road. Snow fell. Wind began to blow the snow in powerful gusts. A half hour passed. Snowdrifts settled around them. The car was being steadily submerged in an ocean of frosty whiteness.
"I am going to get out," Harbhajan Yogi finally announced.
"I don't think it is good," replied one of the passengers.
"What is good? We are going to die here? This car is going to be a refrigerator soon and this is going to be freezing section top level one. When they are going to find us we will be smiling here, and we will be dead. I have got to get out."
"It is very dangerous outside."
"Outside is God. In the car is death. I can't stay in!"
"What do you mean?"
"If I go out and snow falls on me and I freeze, then somebody will think there is a snowman. That's better. But if we sit in this car, nobody is going to look around. People might be thinking we are making love and parking and doing all that kind of stuff. I have to get out. Watch me! Something will happen."
The four of them got out of the car. They were not warmly dressed, so they all started exercising to keep their circulation going. The four exercised for a couple of hours, never wanting to stop because they knew if they stopped they would freeze, or at least catch frostbite.
Almost two hours later, Yogi Bhajan and his students were still exercising when a big gas truck pulled alongside their car, half-buried in the snow.
The trucker rolled down his window, "Hey man! You don't have gas? Why didn't you check at home?"
"I don't know. It's my trouble. The driver..."
"Who drives? Your driver? You are without gas? You are a rich man?"
"No, I am a poor man, but the car doesn't have gas."
"You mean you don't have money?"
"Had there been money, I think she would have got the gas."
"Oh, don't worry! Don't worry!"
The trucker got out and went to the back of his truck, disappearing for a minute in the frenzied snowstorm. Then he came back, trailing a hose behind him. He unscrewed the car's gas tank and let loose a flood of precious fuel.
Within a few seconds, the car's tank was overflowing and a noxious, highly flammable pool of gas had formed, swelling in every direction from the car. At last, the trucker managed to put a stop to the gushing stream of gasoline.
As their trucker friend disappeared into the blizzard again, returning the hose to its mount at the rear of the truck, Yogi Bhajan said to his student behind the wheel, "Dummy! Drive and run! God knows what will happen to this pool he has made."
The driver motioned to them from the window of his cab, and said, "Come here!"
Harbhajan Yogi said, "I'm sorry. I have to thank you."
The trucker said, "No. No. Don't thank me. Here's twenty dollars."
"What's this for?"
"Oh, you know. You don't have money. You have to eat."
"Did you ever give money to anybody?"
"No, no, no, no... I want to give it to you. I just want to give it to you."
"Don't give it to me. Give it to that girl who is driving."
The trucker got out once more, and headed to the driver's side of the car in the middle of the gas pond.
"Honey, here's twenty bucks!"
She replied, "No, no, no. We don't need money."
"Either show me twenty bucks, or take it!"
An embarrassing moment followed.
He smiled warmly, "Take it!"
Gratefully, she accepted the twenty dollars.
I am a restless man.
As the thousand, nine hundred and sixty-eighth year of the Christian Era drew to a close, the small community of East Indians in Toronto felt a deep sense of pride. Next November, they knew, would be Guru Nanak's five hundredth birthday celebration.
There was even talk of buying and renovating a building in the great Guru's name. The Yogi himself took the initiative by contributing a dollar. The rest of the community raised another seven thousand to buy and renovate a building, thereby creating the first Gurdwara in eastern Canada.
Yogi Bhajan had accomplished much during his brief stay in Toronto. He had given the science of yoga national publicity. He had co-founded a yoga centre. He had taught large classes at the House of Yoga, and at four YMCAs.
For everyone with eyes to see, Yogi Harbhajan Singh was a new, different kind of Sikh. He had shown himself to be out-going, self-confident, and deeply devoted to the form and spirit of his faith. The Yogi lived his religion and, rather than being sucked into the vortex of money-based Western culture, he had managed to successfully share the sacred teachings of the East with the people of a cosmopolitan North American city.
Yet, as he told those who wanted to know him, he was a restless man, a man with a mission and so much more to do. In December, when Harbhajan Yogi received an invitation and a ticket to Los Angeles to visit an acquaintance of his from New Delhi, the messenger from the Guru's House did not hesitate. His most regular student, named Terri, saw Harbhajan to the airport.
The Yogi took only a light travel bag and thirty-five dollars. It was Friday, and he planned to come back Monday after a couple of days' visit in Los Angeles. In fact, he would not be returning for weeks.
The Jook Savages
It had been twenty-one years since Harbhajan Singh witnessed the painful wrenching apart of his homeland at partition. His impressions as a youth, seeing tens of millions of people uprooted and homeless, the traumatic birth of two hostile republics from the humiliation of the colonial past, remained forever seared into his memory.
The country Harbhajan was to enter now as Yogi Bhajan was engaged in a gruesome partition of its own. America, the same country that one hundred years before had been consumed by a terrible civil war, was being torn apart by a war of generations.
In America, which called itself "the land of the brave and the home of the free,” twenty million young people had stood up to oppose its modern-day culture of militarism, materialism and mindless conformity – and to honor instead the gracious ideals of their country's founders. As their numbers swelled, they regularly filled the streets with their songs, their placards, their banners to demonstrate the courage of their beliefs. For their convictions, thousands of youths were regularly tear-gassed and water-cannoned. Thousands more were beaten and jailed. A precious few sanctified the movement by their martyred blood.
From their whitewashed citadels, governors and presidents, generals and chiefs of police issued orders demanding fear, submission, and obedience, but the outrageous spirit of revolution would not be browbeaten or cowed. The bold young activists did not fear, did not conform. Neither would they obey.
America was not the only Western country being wrenched apart by powerful new dreams and visions. The previous May, the youth of France had led their countrymen in a two-week insurrection against the moribund bureaucracy of the universities, the government, the state. Chanting "Power to the imagination!" they had been joined in a general strike by ten million workers. The president was so alarmed that he fled the country, taking refuge in neighbouring Germany.
Then, in August, the world's attention focussed on Prague and Bratislava, where the young at heart conspired to subvert the Marxist regime into something better, something freer, something with a human face – only to be faced by an invasion of tanks from neighbouring East Germany, Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, and the USSR. Tens of thousands left Czechoslovakia for Western Europe, Canada and the US.
Come October, five thousand students and unionists took to the streets in Mexico City to demonstrate for the independence of their universities, for democracy and social justice for all, only to be ruthlessly machine gunned by their army. Hundreds of protestors laid down their lives for what they believed. Hundreds more were beaten and jailed. Those who survived became a deeply radicalized force against the government.
While in Canada, Yogi Bhajan had seen little of this social unrest. But Canada served as an escape valve for some of America's most peaceful and conscientious aspirations. Tens of thousands of American men of military age were welcomed into "the true north strong and free" even as hawks in Washington tried to convince their countrymen that their war in Southeast Asia was both winnable and just. For its part, Canada had an independent Prime Minister and its own bands of strummers and singers and activists dedicated to peace and humanity and the end of war.
America had been in the throes of social upheaval for some time now. Starting in 1961, smart young kids from northern universities had joined forces with brave Afro-Americans in the South. Together, they had confronted the most uncivil scourge of racism. In 1963 they had forced the President's hand, making him set in motion far-reaching civil rights legislation.
Two years later saw the first "teach-in,” an open forum on the Vietnam War, at the University of Michigan. The participants were part of the best-educated generation in the country's history. Soon there were hundreds of teach-ins at campuses across the country and the first gathering of fifteen thousand demonstrators against the war in the nation's capital. On the other side of the country, in Oakland, several hundred students from the nearby University of California risked their lives standing on the railroad tracks to block trains of new inductees rolling into the city's large army base.
In that same city in 1967, Afro-American militants formed the Black Panther Party, replete with guns and cultural education and meals for impoverished ghetto children. In the spring and fall, there were anti-war protests in San Francisco and forty university campuses. In April, civil rights leader Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., led hundreds of thousands from New York's Central Park to the United Nations to demand the immediate withdrawal of American forces from Vietnam. In October, thirty thousand gathered in Washington for a peace rally and mock exorcism of the “dark spirits” ensconced among America’s military establishment in the Pentagon.
Even as the war intensified, the year of Yogi Bhajan's arrival was a particularly bloody one for activists, young and old, Black and White. In March, Martin Luther King was felled by a Caucasian sniper. The killing set off fiery riots in Afro-American ghettos in a dozen cities across the US. A couple of months later, in a hotel kitchen in Los Angeles, a second member of the Kennedy family, this one a presidential hopeful supported by millions of idealistic youth, was shot and killed. And in August, America was shocked to see hundreds of Chicago police tear gas and beat up demonstrators and journalists at the Democratic Party's national convention. Many witnesses called it a "police riot.”
Many of the young who left their families of birth and the society they no longer believed in, made their own tribes. They started over and created Edens in the form of intentional communities, open families, conspiratorial cells, ashrams and Jesus communes. A few advocated violent revolution. Some thought they might meditate the world into a better place. Many set out to "get high with a little help from their friends.”.
This generation that made their diet an important and distinctive part of their culture. Whole, unprocessed foods, organic produce, granola, yoghurt, sprouts, soy beans, brown rice, and tamari were high on the menu of these denizens of the “whole Earth.” Their music, sometimes loud and raunchy, but filled with real emotion and sometimes genuinely inspired, turned heads. Their elders, of course, didn't like it. The new music spread a message. The message usually was something to do with peace or love or freedom. Sometimes it was about hair.
"Darlin', give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair,
Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen,
Give me down to there hair, shoulder length or longer,
Here, baby, there, momma, ev'rywhere, daddy, daddy,
Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair.
Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it, my hair..."
(lyrics from Hair, the "American Tribal Love-Rock musical,” by Gerome Ragni and James Rado, 1967, EMI Music)
As the theme song of the 1967 Broadway musical proclaimed, hair was a proud symbol of this generation. Natural, sensual, energizing, unregulated, sexy, free… any way you looked at it, long hair was a defining characteristic of the 1960s revolution. Some called the young people "hippies.” Some called them "flower children.” To themselves, they were simply “freaks” or "longhairs" in a world of oppressive crew cuts.
The land of enchantment, known as "New Mexico", was home to a number of farming communes. Though homesteading was hard work, their members aimed toward self-sufficiency. They raised goats and chickens and grew their own foods organically. Women delivered their babies at home, just like pioneer mothers once did. Breast-feeding was making a comeback.
Everybody was a visionary at heart. Some respectfully visited the Hopi pueblos and reservations to learn from and participate in age-old aboriginal traditions. The members of the new tribes were digging deep, going back in time and across cultures to create new beginnings, a new way, a new society far from the siren song of greed and war and hate.
The Jook Savages had arrived in New Mexico from California in early 1968. They had left their city homes and settled in the mountain country, where land was cheap and the air still pure. The tribe of fifteen made a big adobe house in the village of Abiquiu their home. They lived all together, one room per family, with a kitchen and one communal room.
The members of the community felt they shouldered a responsibility to all Americans disaffected by the conventional way of doing things, the way that had resulted in such war and grief and injustice. In an effort to unify and provide leadership to the growing counterculture, the Jook Savages spread the word all that spring, that they would be hosting a gathering of all the tribes at Aspen Meadows in the Tesuque Indian reservation above Santa Fe, to celebrate the rite of Summer Solstice.
Hundreds of hopeful, long-haired, young people came together that June. It was a high-altitude “Human Be-In.” They made music and read poetry. They traded in tie-died and hand-sewn clothing, jewelery and peyote.
For ten days, they shared and prayed, sang and danced, got high and meditated. Then these visionaries and pioneers returned along winding highways, past billboards, motels, McDonalds, natural wonders, range lands, farm lands, missile ranges, industrial complexes, military bases, shopping centres, gas stations and suburban wastelands, finally to arrive at their homes and communes all along the West Coast, the Rockies, across the Midwest and east to New York.
That fall, the Savages put out a call for another festive gathering. This time, they planned to celebrate the occasion of the Winter Solstice, when the darkest day turns to light and the cycle of spring begins anew.
This time, however, the turnout was discouragingly sparse. The mountain meadows of northern New Mexico, so gaily flowered in June, were covered over with snow and raked with bitterly cold wind in December.
A feeling of despair hung over the heads of the members of that tribe in Abiquiu. The Jook Savages were painfully aware that the machinery of the dominant culture continued to focus a relentless onslaught of death and dismemberment against a courageous people across a Pacific ocean and to wage war on its young and disenfranchised. They realized also that their desperate efforts to usher in a new age of peaceful enlightenment had become dangerously bogged down.
One evening in January, according to an ancient Hopi custom, thirteen remaining Savages gathered around a fire in a tepee to form a sacred prayer circle. As the ritual progressed through the night, they remained conscious of the sparks and tiny particles of flaming debris caught in the updraft, and drawn out of the tent into the wide open sky.
In accord with that ancient custom, every little glowing thing was considered to be the soul of a being, now disembodied, yet unable to detach itself from its temporary home, the Earth. As each spark escaped the microcosm of the holy tepee, every member of that dedicated gathering empowered it with their collective prayer and blessing.
However, in the darkness of that night, a sacred tradition was violated. For some cosmic reason, one of the Savages rose and left that timeless rite. In spite of their prayers and best intentions, their circle, symbol of soulful continuity, was broken.
The following morning, the sorry group of Savages made an effort to reunite. Ultimately, it became clear to them that they had gone as far as they could by themselves. It was apparent that they needed a guide, someone capable of showing the way along the harrowing heights of spiritual leadership.
Lacking any particular direction, over the next couple of weeks, thirteen people set off in every direction.
The Visit
Los Angeles must have provided a very pleasant contrast to Toronto in the winter of 1968. The only snow to be seen was high above on the peaks of the coastal mountain range. In the city, palm trees waved their welcoming fronds.
Yogi Bhajan's old acquaintance and his wife had three daughters, a nice home in the suburbs, an office downtown, and an impressive new American car. He was a dentist to the stars and a wealthy, well-connected celebrity now in his own right. For him, this was the good life, and he did not mind telling his guest, "Nobody lives here without money."
Harbhajan replied, "I did not ask you to give me money. I'm just here Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Monday I'll be gone. Will you put me on the plane?"
"No. I don't want you to go."
"I don't want to stay." Somehow Yogi Bhajan stayed for a few more days.
As old friends, they talked about many things – old times, changing times, the inscrutable hand of destiny, Harbhajan Singh's urge to serve his Guru. Meaning well and wanting his friend to settle with him in America, Harbhajan's host returned to the subject he thought he knew best.
"You know, you have come to America and I want to tell you something."
"What is wrong in that? What is it you want to tell me?" Harbhajan replied.
"You have got to learn to drive."
"I know driving."
"No. No. No. Indian driving is no good."
"What is wrong with Indian driving?"
"Oh, they drive on the left side. Here we drive on the right side. There are freeways here and boulevards. There are traffic lights and traffic police. All those things you never used to find in India."
"Why do I have to drive?"
"Well, you've got to go somewhere sometime."
"No. I'll not go anywhere! I'll be taken everywhere."
"What do you mean, 'taken everywhere'? There are no servants here. Forget about your limousine and your drivers and all that."
"You forget about it! I was serving the government of India. I had a limousine. I had a driver. I had a car. I had a jeep. I had everything. You mean I am going to serve God and I am going to drive myself?"
"You are crazy!"
"Yes, I am crazy. Naturally, you should be crazy for that. It is worthwhile to be crazy."
Harbhajan Yogi smiled. His friend searched in his eyes. Was there really something crazy about his dear old friend? Maybe there was. Maybe for once it was good to be crazy.
The two old friends had a good laugh about the absurdity of it all.
Bhabi
The next morning, Harbhajan Singh the Yogi packed his bags for good and said, "I'm leaving, my friend."
"Don't go yet! What's the matter?"
"Things are not working out here. It is time I should go."
"Why? What went wrong?"
“I got up this morning to take a bath, I heard your wife abusing you. She was saying, 'He used to be a great officer. We were proud of his friendship. Everybody used to salute us because of him. Since he has come here, he sleeps on the floor, eats only a little, talks to nobody, and chants ‘Gur, gur, gur.’ He is a totally useless man! He is living in our guest room, not talking to anybody, and hopelessly taking up that space. You know, you are stupid! He is not the friend you think he is. You have been telling me, "He is my brother. I'm not going to let him go. He is a man of God. He'll bless us, blah, blah, blah...”’”
"Did you hear that?"
"The door was open. It was everywhere. Look, I don't want your wife to beat you up. I am leaving."
"No, don't go this way. Come back inside and meet my wife, and at least you can tell her you are leaving as a courtesy."
So, Harbhajan Singh, the Yogi, went back and faced his friend's wife. He said, "Bhabi, I am leaving."
"Why?"
"Because you are stupid."
"How can you tell me I am stupid?"
"Because you abused my brother this morning, saying I am unnecessarily taking up a space and eating food and doing nothing. I came for a purpose. You don't think that purpose is worthwhile, so I have to go."
"Why did you come?"
"Bhabi, you don't have a son. You have been praying all your life for one. I am here to pray that you will be blessed with a son, but now I don't think you deserve it, so I have to go."
"That's not so. You are trying to make me insecure."
"I am going today. Soon you will know whether I am right or wrong. Check it, if you really believe I am just trying to make you feel insecure so you will ask me to stay or to apologize to your husband. You should be satisfied within fifteen days. If I am wrong, you can come and slap my face!"
"We will see. You know, a lot of people come and visit us."
"That's why I am going. I am not going to see you again."
"Why?"
“When I drop somebody, not even God picks them up, and I never see them again. I am going. Best of luck!" Harbhajan picked up his bags and made his way to the door.
"Where are you going?" his old friend asked.
"I don't know."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"But you don't have a car."
"I know I don't have a car. I'm walking."
"Will you come in my car? I'll take you to the bus."
"I can't ride the bus. I have no money."
He really didn't have any idea where he was going - but his friend knew better than to argue with Harbhajan Singh once he had made up his mind. Putting on a brave face, he stepped out the door of the spacious, suburban home, and made his way down the long, prestigious driveway, past the immaculately-kept lawn, to the mysterious Unknown.
Just as he reached the bottom of the driveway, an enormous silver limousine pulled up beside him. The driver rolled down his window, "Where are you going?"
"I don't know where I'm going. Only my God and my Guru knows."
"Come on then, hop in!"
Cooking for HELP
Seeing his first vegetarian eatery in America was a moving spiritual experience for Yogi Bhajan. Located on 3rd Street near Los Angeles's Farmer's Market was the HELP Natural Foods Restaurant. In the carrot cake and brown rice, in the banana smoothies and freshly baked whole wheat bread, Yogi Bhajan recognized the new generation's idealism taking a practical and compassionate form.
Harbhajan the Yogi was so impressed that he offered to cook the soup of the day. When the owner realized his talented help had no place to live, he offered Yogi Bhajan a place in his own house in Hollywood.
As it turned out, Harbhajan's soup was a hit. A few days later, the owner asked him to make a daily curry, as well. His whole-hearted, innovative cooking became very popular at the restaurant. Yogi Bhajan's experience there gave him confidence. He thought, "If I can cook a curry and it can sell, let me cook God! It will sell too!"
The HELP restaurant served as a hub for the Los Angeles counterculture. Students, anti-war organizers, hippies, film people, musicians, and drop outs of all kinds liked to stop by and have a meal, or a cup of Mu Tea and maybe a scoop of honey-sweetened ice cream.
If there was ever a peace march or a psychedelic concert or a meditation lecture, an eye-catching poster would usually make its way there.
In this way, Yogi Bhajan came to know of the East West Cultural Center, and that the director of the center, a respected Sanskrit scholar was giving a talk there the next day, December 22. He was intrigued by the director's Indian name, and that she was a Western woman. For these and countless other reasons, Harbhajan made a point of going there.
East West Cultural
We do not actually know what the topic of the talk at the East West Cultural Center that Sunday was. We do know there may have been up to one hundred and twenty-five people in the audience because that is how many the auditorium at the center would seat. We also know a little about the speaker.
Dr. Judith Tyberg, the speaker, would have been sixty-six years old. Born to Danish parents in California, she was a respected figure in the California Eastern mystical scene. She knew and was known to Alan Watts and a host of Indian swamis, yogis and luminaries, many of whom came to her center in Los Angeles as guests.
Judith Tyberg had a Theosophical upbringing, thanks to her parents. From a young age, they had exposed their daughter to the teachings of karma, reincarnation and meditation. Dr. Tyberg graduated from, then taught at and held the post of Dean of Studies at, the Theosophical University in southern California. Her speciality was Sanskrit studies.
In 1947, at the age of forty-five, Judith had journeyed to the south of India on a spiritual quest. That quest took her to the ashram of the renowned teacher, Sri Aurobindo of Pondicherry. Dr. Tyberg was deeply moved and inspired by the sage's understanding of classical Indian spiritual teachings. Sri Aurobindo accepted Judith Tyberg as his student and gave her the name, "Jyotipriya, the Lover of Light.”
Dr. Tyberg returned to America in 1950, the year of Sri Aurobindo's passing. She established the first East West Cultural Center at the home of a friend. In 1955, she moved to the building at Ninth Street, near Vermont Avenue, complete with facilities for a library, a small school, several living quarters, and the auditorium in which she gave her talk on December 22nd.
After her talk, Dr. Tyberg and a small group of devotees went out to dinner. Yogi Bhajan was among them. It appears that he introduced himself to the director of the East West Cultural Center, and was asked to give a presentation at the center himself two weeks later.
Another member of the dinner party was Osu. Born in Minneapolis, she had moved to Los Angeles with her mother and brother in 1943. Osu had excelled academically and socially, graduating as Valedictorian from Hollywood High. She went on to study at the University of California.
Since her early twenties, Osu had studied various spiritual teachings in an effort to make sense of life's strange reasoning. Her reading had encompassed the Bhagavad Gita, Edgar Cayce, and P. D. Ouspensky. Osu had once hosted a talk by Meher Baba in her apartment in West Holly wood. She had also learned Sufi meditation from Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan. In the mid-1950s, Osu had lived for a year with her young son at the East West Cultural Center, which at the time had a school for children. From Dr. Tyberg, she learned Sanskrit and Indian religion and philosophy.
For years, Osu had attended lectures at the East West Cultural Center, the Vedanta Society and the Self Realization Fellowship in Los Angeles. Two years before, Osu had gone on a forty day quest to India, visiting the ashrams of Sri Aurobindo, and of Swami Chinmayananda in Mumbai and Sri Satya Sai Baba in Bangalore.
At the end of 1968, Osu was thirty-nine. She had seen a good deal of spirituality. Some of what she had seen had been wonderful and some of it had not. She was not looking for another teacher.
We do not know what was on the menu that evening. It hardly matters. Sometime in the course of the dinner, the tall beturbaned yogi leaned across the table toward Osu and told her, "Your son is in trouble, isn't he? I can help you."
Osu responded with shock and amazement. How could this stranger know about her son? Who was he, anyway? What business of his was it? These were the defensive reflexes that immediately shot through Osu's mind.
But what if this tall, striking Indian could help? What then? How could she live with herself if she did not at least try to find out? Thousands of thoughts riddled Osu's psyche in the passing of a moment. In the end, she took the phone number Yogi Bhajan proffered and agreed to call him.
After dinner, when the group had dispersed, Osu shared with Dr. Tyberg what the yogi had said. Osu also shared her misgivings. She did not trust this strange man with the secret knowledge. What was he after? Her best guess was that the man in the pink turban wanted to take over the center and she warned Dr. Tyberg to beware.
The Interview
On Christmas Day, Osu made the promised call to the yogi gentleman she had met. They arranged to meet again at the East West Cultural Center. It was on this occasion that Yogi Bhajan told Osu about his journey – his life in India, his original plan to teach at the University of Toronto, and his current situation in Los Angeles.
For her part, Osu told the yogi her life story. The yogi had been right. Her son was indeed in trouble. He had joined the United States Army. Now, the best she could tell, her son had attempted suicide, then gone missing from the army. In the course of their talk, Osu also told of all she had studied and learned from various teachers and supposed masters of meditation.
When he heard of the many things Osu had learned in her study of the spiritual path, Yogi Bhajan said to her, "You have been a student long enough. You should be a teacher." He went on to explain, "I have come to train teachers, not to gather disciples."
But Osu was sceptical. "Oh, sure, fat chance!" she thought to herself.
As they went on with their discussion, the yogi told Osu that he recognized she knew a lot, but he could help her piece everything together. Hearing those words, Osu thought to herself, "Who does he think he is?" Not so long ago, she had been conned out of house and home by a self-styled American spiritual teacher. Most of her experiences with swamis and yogis had left Osu feeling empty and disappointed, if not betrayed. Finally, she confronted the yogi, "How should I believe that you are not another useless person?"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "Well, I can't discuss it right now, but I feel like sometime you will sit with me and let me know."
And so their interview came to a close with Osu feeling rather testy, yet still vaguely hopeful some good might come of her connection with the yogi. It happened that he wanted to see a hermit teacher he had first met at the talk at the East West Center. Osu offered to drive him to his destination in the Hollywood Hills. They arranged to meet again the following day.
The next day, Yogi Bhajan and Osu continued their conversation at the East West Cultural Center. He started by telling her, "Give me the privilege to serve you so that all the wrong which has been done to you by these teachers, I can make it up to you."
He suggested they go to the library of the East West Cultural Center. There, Yogi Bhajan located a translation of Sikh verses and opened it for Osu to read. She was not interested. She had already studied the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, Buddhist scriptures, Taoist texts, the Koran, the New and Old Testaments – every known text of spiritual wisdom and philosophy. Now what was this? After reading a few lines, she said, "I'm not really interested," and politely gave the volume back to the yogi. He duly returned it to its place on the wall of books. The subject did not come up again for many months.
Osu told the yogi about health issues which had been making her life miserable. Having embarked on some radical fasting earlier in her life, she had acquired serious digestive difficulties, which had only become more serious year by year. At this time, she could not even drink a glass of water without feeling acute pain.
Yogi Bhajan recommended she take up a secret kriya he knew and practice it for forty days without missing a day. He showed her the technique. As for Osu's son, he assured her that nothing in the world was more powerful than the prayer of a mother for her son. On a little piece of paper, he wrote the words "Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru.” Yogi Bhajan told Osu that if she would chant this mantra powerfully from the navel point, all in one breath, for one hour daily before sunrise and pray for her son, he would be alright.
Osu objected, "What about all the other things I am doing?" She was already doing Sufi chanting, Hopi Indian mantra and Vedanta meditation.
Yogi Bhajan assured her, "Go ahead and do everything, but try this also."
That seemed reasonable to Osu, so that is exactly what she set out to do.
The Yogi's Detachment
One day, the old friend Yogi Bhajan had been staying with rang him up, "Yogi Bhajan, Bhabi is in trouble. She has a terrible pain."
He replied, "You are a doctor. Take her to the hospital."
"But what is the trouble?"
"She has to have an operation."
Some days passed. When Bhabi had recuperated and come home, she gave her husband's friend a call, "You were right. Can I apologize?"
"What for? I came to your house to give you a gift. Then I realized you were undeserving, so I walked out. No bad feelings."
"But you are my husband's dearest friend!"
"It is true," he replied. "I was your husband's dearest friend. You stood at the airport for four hours to receive me. When I came to your home, I ate the food, I felt the feelings. I knew that your entire prayer was for one son, and that you already had three daughters. I said to myself, 'I can twist the hand of God a little for her. She deserves it.' But when, in that ambrosial hour, you started abusing your husband, I couldn't help it. It was best not to stay in your house."
"How could you leave just like that?"
"Bhabi, you call me a 'yogi.' Opposites do not affect a yogi. Yogis may be the most rotten people on Earth, but there is one thing they have going. They are not attached."
I Ching in Ibiza
Meanwhile, in the faraway port of Rotterdam, the Netherlands, Thelma Oliver was on a journey of self-discovery. Having achieved a degree of fame on Broadway and in Hollywood, Thelma, who was African-American, wanted to find a way to make the lives of her people better. To do this, she wanted first to explore her ancestral roots in Africa, to better know herself.
Working on a ship going to Africa had seemed like a good idea, but it turned out that women were not allowed. Undeterred, Thelma hitchhiked through Belgium, through France, through Spain, to Ibiza Island at the Straits of Gibraltar, and finds that she cannot continue in this way to Africa either.
Thelma was not discouraged, but she did think whether perhaps the universe was giving her a message and she did consider briefly returning to New York City to fulfill some contractual obligations she had there. Seeking guidance, Thelma tossed a set of yarrow sticks for a reading of the I Ching. The sticks spoke to her: “Go West and meet a great man.”
Stuck in Ibiza, the next day, Thelma gave the sticks another reverential toss. “Go West and meet a great man,” they said to her. It seemed strange. The odds of receiving the same message twice in a row were remote given there were sixty-four possible readings.
The next day, hoping for an outcome more in alignment with her own predilections, Thelma consulted the I Ching a third time. Uncannily, it repeated its earlier advice: “Go West and meet a great man.”
In frustration, Thelma threw her yarrow sticks into a corner, thinking, “This I Ching is not working for me. I want to go South and East.”
The First Public Lecture
Despite the agonizing uncertainty surrounding her son, the following days passed quickly for Osu. Each day, she would rise extra early and apply herself whole-heartedly to the kriya and especially to the mantra Yogi Bhajan had given her. She would then pour her energies into her job as a waitress at the Beverly Hilton Hotel.
On the second morning of her meditation, Osu had such a great experience she could barely wait to phone the Yogi and tell him, "I don't have to do anything else. This is it!" And slowly, her digestion improved as well.
Those days before Yogi Bhajan's much anticipated talk at the Center on January 5, Dr. Tyberg and Osu came to know him better. Often, he would come by and cook lunch for Dr. Tyberg, whom he respectfully called "Ma.”
On one such day, Yogi Bhajan told Osu of a vision he had of a "3HO" organization. He went on to say that she would be the mother of the "Healthy, Happy, Holy Organization.”
This was just too much, too soon, for Osu to agree. The idea stretched her sorely tried credibility. The yogi was a stranger in America. He was a visitor with no legal status. The yogi's accent was so thick, how was he going to start an organization? When he said "vision,” it sounded like "wision.” His "H" sound like "etch.” These ideas exercised her keenly refined critical mind. Besides, Osu was still burdened with the worry of her missing son. "No thanks," she replied. "I've already raised my son. I don't want any more responsibility, and furthermore I don't like organizations."
As luck would have it, or perhaps it was through the love and sheer force of Osu's chanting, she received a call a couple of days later from her son. He was happy to report he had been "rescued" near San Francisco. Thankfully, the situation resolved itself even to the army's satisfaction.
Finally the day arrived for Yogi Bhajan's lecture at the East West Cultural Center. It was Sunday, January 5 in the evening. The audience who turned out to hear him speak was steeped in esotericism. They enjoyed the periodic visits of celebrated swamis who would come and dazzle them with their mystical terminology. The speakers would talk of "man and superman,” "Nescience" and "Omniscience,” "transcendental truth,” "Ananta,” "Parapurusha and Parabrahman,” and other important-sounding words and phrases.
Yogi Bhajan was different. He did not wear a saffron robe, but a shocking pink turban and a regular shirt and pants. He was a man and did not try to hide the fact. Instead of a shaven head, he had a bushy black beard. The yogi kept his Sanskrit to a minimum. He cut through the terminology and talked straight. He addressed the audience to empower, not to mystify them. The yogi provoked the intelligence of his listeners. He told them things they had never heard before.
Yogi Bhajan did not teach "Om.” He called it a polluted form of "Ong.” Whereas Ong resonated the palate, the sound Om didn't. Om, the Infinite, Absolute, he said, had no direct relationship with the creation. Moreover, in Sanskrit when "m" comes before "k,” it changes to "ng.” Therefore, when God is in relation to his creation "Kar,” Om becomes "Ongkar.”
Yogi Bhajan talked about real physical things, bodily things. No one had ever heard a swami talk about vibrating the palate with mantra, or the necessity of sitting with a straight spine, or the need of setting the navel, or the vital secretion of the glands. He talked about kundalini and nobody else ever taught kundalini yoga, not in the West.
Yogi Bhajan said the science of yoga teaches perfect control of the body, nerves and mind, so these three can be used under the guidance of the will. He seemed to know a good deal. The yogi concluded his talk by covering the classical "eight limbs" of yoga, the five do's and five don'ts, posture, breath control, exercise of the mind, concentration, meditation, and finally, the bliss of samadhi.
Yogi Bhajan finished by challenging his audience, "You are ultimately to act like a god. Time is short. The time is now. It is your birthright to be healthy, happy and holy. Kundalini yoga is a tool to help you manifest that birthright."
A Liberated Man
Yogi Bhajan was like a rolling stone. He never remained in one place very long before circumstances made it necessary for him to move on. Yogi Bhajan was happy staying at the home of the owner of the HELP restaurant. There was a quiet space where he could go each morning to practice his yoga and meditation.
Everything started to go wrong when the owner's girlfriend also started rising for early morning yoga with their guest. It was too much for her boyfriend to bear. Already he had been annoyed at the amount of time the yogi had been spending on the phone. He told Yogi Bhajan to find another place to live.
When they heard of this development, Osu and four other students agreed to pay ten dollars a month to meet the rent for an apartment across the street from the East West Cultural Center. This became Yogi Bhajan's new home.
Far from Toronto, and farther from New Delhi, Yogi Bhajan was establishing himself in this palm-fronded media capital. Mindful of his easy success with the media in Toronto, he phoned the Los Angeles office of TIME Magazine. The staff of the widely-read publication, however, gave him a cold reception. California was already home to a number of Eastern spiritual teachers, all of whom TIME, the glossy weekly with its roots deep in the American establishment, had dismissed as unnewsworthy. Yogi Bhajan, the great unknown quantity, vowed he would have nothing more to do with this magazine.
There was clearly a need for Yogi Bhajan to teach. Students were wanting to learn more after his introductory talk. Dr. Tyberg offered him the arts building at her center as a place he could teach classes Sunday afternoons. Osu and Yogi Bhajan together phoned the YMCAs around Los Angeles to ask about setting up classes there as well.
The YMCA at Alhambra, a nearby suburb of Los Angeles, responded favorably. A time and date were set for the first class. It was arranged that the sessions would cost $1.50 per student, and that half the money would go to the Y and half to Yogi Bhajan.
When Osu drove Yogi Bhajan to give his first class on the appointed day, they found a beautiful hall. The lectern had been decorated with flowers in his honor. But there was just one student who had come for the lesson.
The manager of the YMCA apologized, "Sir, I don't know what happened! We sent a notice out to our mailing list. I just don't know what happened." In fact, the wrong date had been given in the advertisement.
"Nothing has happened. I am going to teach the class."
The manager of the YMCA talked to people all the following week. He said, "We have got a yogi. He lectures to empty halls!" The manager aroused such a curiosity that by the next class, the room was packed. Everyone wanted to know what kind of a human being would teach a class to a virtually empty hall.
Over the weeks, people came from near and far to hear the yogi pour out his wisdom and empower them with a timeless technology of health, happiness and holiness that had been the secret preserve of Indian yogis until now. The teachings made sense. The yoga felt great. People brought their friends and the classes grew.
Along with the Alhambra class, Yogi Bhajan was soon teaching at the YMCA in North Valley and at Claremont College. In all, there were three classes six days a week, plus the Sunday afternoon class at the East West Cultural Center.
One time, the yogi arrived at the Alhambra YMCA to find his students all sitting on the steps outside the building because the classroom was being painted, and therefore unusable. Undaunted, Yogi Bhajan gave one of his best lectures.
"What is a liberated man? And what is the reason we suffer in the hands of time?
"Man has two sides. One is a carefree side. The other is a careless side. When man lives in his carefree side, he is guided by his divine faculty. When he lives in his careless side, he is guided by his animal force. It is not the carelessness of breaking a glass or accidentally throwing away something you meant to keep. Materially, we are considered careless when we are unable to discharge our material responsibilities, but in reality, we are truly careless when we lose our divine personality - when that "something" which is very precious, beyond value, is lost just for passion.
"Emotion and passion are the two buyers of our spiritual personality. If you analyse this thought, you will realize that such a bargain is too costly. For what are we trading our spiritual Self?
"This world of ours is a temporary phase of life. It is not permanent, but we always associate ourselves with it as if we belong to it and it belongs to us. Subconsciously, behind every action, is the desire to be recognized. But if you classify your desire for recognition and the way you try to be recognized, you will find that you want recognition without maturity. You want to be recognized as a mature being, but you have not developed the mature attitude of a carefree being.
"The only carefree being is that person who is free from negativity. He is liberated. It is a cosmic law that such a person is never short of anything. A carefree man doesn't know any misery. He may be humble, but that doesn't mean he is miserable. Ever wise, he sails through time undisturbed. He does not need any correction at the hands of time. His smooth behaviour and calmness of personality are the signs that he is a liberated being. In a nutshell, he is the happiest person ever on the earth.
"This does not mean you should be barred from having worldly goods. Matter is media. It cannot be created and it cannot be destroyed. Similarly, emotion and involvement in desire are also media, but their satisfaction is temporary, not everlasting. If you understand how the addiction to liquor begins, you will understand the theory of involvement.
"This is how it works. A man who does not drink comes under pressure and doesn't know what to do. He goes to the house of a friend for consolation, for man is a social animal, and by having someone participate in his grief, he feels relieved. The friend offers whiskey for a soothing effect and the man is persuaded to take a drink. The alcohol goes into the body. and does its chemical action. It soothes the nerves and energizes the energy centers so the man's attitude relaxes and he becomes flexible.
"It is only a temporary relief, but the memory of that first taste sticks in his mind. He can never ever regain the smoothness of that first taste of liquor, but for the lust of that taste, and to recapture that experience, people become habitual drinkers - alcoholics. They believe that the best way to escape from the pressures of life is to continue drinking and thus drinking becomes a need of the body. Similarly, when you involve yourself in any mode of life, you are going into a channel where you will go on and on, and you can never come back to the point from which you originally started.
"When we forget our original basis of action and become involved, we become a slave. It has been seen in our entire concept of life that we are fifteen percent slaves to routine, to habit. Man must have certain habits without which his life cannot go on. But he can attain liberation by changing the character of these minimum required habits.
"There are two kinds of habits: promoting habits and demoting habits. Demoting habits make you unhappy physically, mentally and spiritually. Promoting habits make you happy physically, mentally and spiritually. In your life, if you have all the habits which are promoting habits, you will end up as a liberated, divine person. If you have demoting habits, you will end up as a physical wreck, mentally insane and/or spiritually defunct.
"Habit is a must of your personality and mind. For that period when you are acting under a demoting habit, you are totally in the negative personality. It is also a fact that if you get into any one negative habit, you will automatically attract its four sister habits, for they love to stay together. These five demoting habits of behavior and attitude are: greed, anger, lust, attachment and negative ego. When one sister enters the house, she calls the others to join. Each habit is supported on two tripods: 1) physical, mental and spiritual, and 2) past, present and future.
"There are two guiding instincts in man. He is either improving his future or blocking his future improvement. If you are conscious of this and have an honest and sincere urge to improve your future, you will always have promoting habits. Oh man, if you are to care not even for God, at least care for the future. When you care enough for your future to have promoting habits, you will become a liberated person.
"A liberated person is always a happy person. He does not lack in any material comfort. He does not know any power on earth which can insult him. He lives in grace in this world and when he leaves this body he is respected for generations to follow.
"Everyone can be like that. Yesterday's greatest sinner can be a saint this minute. The only thing required is a decision: 'Am I to guard my future and choose to be a liberated person, or am I to block my future and go by the material-physical aspect of the world?'
"For any person who blocks his future, it is a guaranteed fact that he suffers in the future. Any person who takes advantage of the "now" causing someone else's loss, blocks his future. Anyone who takes advantage of the "now" invites trouble from Mr. Future.
"Maintain a positive attitude with promoting habits for forty days, and you can change your destiny. This psychological concept of human behaviour is a pattern which can guide you to that goal which is described in our scriptures as paradise.
"In the self, one has to sow the seeds of divine vibrations and with the power of these vibrations one has to dwell in the ultimate which is a truth, a reality and an ever-living primal force. This primal force has been named "God" by Christians, "Paramatman" by Hindus, and "Allah" by Muslims. Some name has been given it by all, but the universal consciousness of this universal spirit has one name, that is Truth, so we call it "Sat" and we remember it as Sat Nam. Sat, in the language of the gods, Sanskrit, means truth. Nam means name. So without dispute we can say that universal consciousness, that universal spirit, that creative force in us has a universal name and that is Sat Nam.
"All those who want to liberate themselves and seek to dwell in the ultimate must cleanse their physical selves and direct their mental self towards Sat Nam, the being of beings. One who dwells on the vibrations of this Holy Nam – Sat Nam – in the prime hours of the day before dawn when the channels for vibrations are very clean and clear, will realize the concept of a liberated being through the grace of this beej mantra (seed vibration) which awakens the goddess of awareness in a being. He then lives as a liberated man on this earth."
That priceless talk was later transcribed and entitled "A Liberated Man." Tens of thousands of copies were printed and served as an introductory brochure.
The Contest
A handful of students came together not only to study with, but also to look after the needs of their teacher. He had touched their hearts, and they wanted to help him in any way they could. But this yogi was very particular. His students observed that he would rather go hungry than ask for something. As well as washing his clothes and paying his rent, they made sure that he had food to eat.
Looking after the Yogi Bhajan was also a chance to learn. He had a gift of teaching. His time was mostly free and he enjoyed talking and teaching and sharing what he knew. One time, Osu and a student named Anne spent a whole night enthralled by the yogi's knowledge and wisdom.
It was 3 am when Yogi Bhajan pointed out that the time to meditate had arrived. He challenged the two of them, "Whoever shall chant the loudest, shall be the strongest!"
Off they went… "Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru… Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam SiriWha Guru… Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam SiriWha Guru…" They chanted the mantra over and over again at the top of their lungs.
After a few minutes, someone hammered loudly on the wall from next door to try and make them stop. Anne quit, but Osu kept right on chanting.
It was no contest. Yogi Bhajan smiled. Osu had persisted, and she had been the loudest.
The Unexpected Lunch
It was a holiday Monday, George Washington's Birthday. Dr. Tyberg had locked the kitchen at the East West Cultural Centre where Yogi Bhajan took his meals and left for the day, absent-mindedly taking the key with her. Knowing this, and knowing the food stores for miles around would be closed that day, Mario, the student who was supposed to look after Yogi Bhajan's needs that day, asked, "Yogi Bhajan, do you ever fast?"
"No, I never fast. I don't believe in fasting."
"So what do you do when you have to fast?'
"I eat one meal a day and observe a monodiet. That is the maximum I think, according to scriptural value, should be the fast. Anything beyond that is not my concern."
"But today you have to fast."
"What do you mean 'Today you have to fast'?"
"Today the kitchen is closed. The outside is locked. There is nothing I can do. The lock is a bolt lock and we can't break it. We can't get inside. I know you don't go to any restaurant to eat because you don't eat meat and you think they mix meat into everything. I don't know what to do, but I feel guilty because I am supposed to provide for you. On George Washington's Birthday no shop opens around here and I don't have a car to go miles and find some food."
"Mario, you sit and relax!"
"What is there to relax? I can't give you food!"
"You do not know the tradition of my Guru. In his house, over ten thousand people we feed every day. And for the sake of that, I will get a good meal today."
"How?"
"Because the human has failed, God will act. And if the human has failed and God is going to act and Guru is going to supervise it, it is going to be fine."
Mario was skeptical. "Well, well, well… You people are like that. It is your thing."
Yogi Bhajan replied, "Do me a favor. When the food comes, don't eat by yourself. Wake me up. I am going to go to sleep."
It was about 12:30. Yogi Bhajan felt tired and lay down for a nap.
Two hours passed, and the doorbell rang. Yogi Bhajan called out, "Mario, open the door! Food has arrived."
"How do you know? How do you know?"
"Go, go!" Yogi Bhajan urged him, "Food has arrived."
Mario opened the door and there was Mrs. Haeckel, a student of Yogi Bhajan's, her arms filled with a feast. No one asked any questions. Both Yogi Bhajan and Mario had a healthy appetite, and the smell and sight of delicious rice and beans and enchiladas and a date cake for desert was hardly a stimulus for conversation.
When Mario and Yogi Bhajan had been fully satisfied, Yogi Bhajan asked their provider, "What made you bring this food?"
"Today is George Washington's birthday. I didn't buy any groceries last week, so I had nothing at home to eat today. I called a Spanish family restaurant and asked if they could give me a meal. They said, 'We are closed, but if you come, we will serve you.' When I ate there, I was very happy and I thought that you would like this kind of food. So I asked if I could take out for one holy man. They said 'Fine.' I thought you are never alone. There are usually two or three people. So I brought food for two or three people."
Although he did not press the point, Yogi Bhajan had been right. God had acted on his behalf and Guru had supervised – and it had been a very fine meal indeed!
The Priceless, Destiny-Writing Pencil
Due to the great response to his first talk, Dr. Tyberg arranged for Yogi Bhajan to give a second public lecture. They agreed to a fifty-fifty split of the income. About three hundred dollars came in, so afterwards she very neatly counted one hundred and fifty dollars, and put it in an envelope for her sometimes enigmatic lecturer.
She said, "Yogi Bhajan, I am very pleased today, and this is your share."
As Yogi Bhajan picked up the envelope, she said, "I want to be further honored. I want to take you to a restaurant nearby and feed you."
"Okay. Why not? Come on. Let's go!"
On their way was a sightless black man standing on the sidewalk. He pleaded to them, "I'm not a beggar. I have family, but I don't have eyes. There is nothing going for me, but there must be something going for you. I have nothing to offer except these writing pencils. If you buy these pencils, perhaps out of this I can feed my family."
Yogi Bhajan was touched. He took the envelope with his lecture money inside and put it in the blind man's hand, saying, "I am buying one pencil for it." He took one pencil.
Out of the corners of his trained eyes, Harbhajan the Yogi could see the aura of his host take on the characteristics of a California firestorm. To himself, he said, "O my God! I don't know what I'm going to eat now."
They entered the nearby Ontra Cafeteria on Vermont Avenue and picked out what they wanted to eat. His hostess reached for her purse to pay for their meal, then stopped short. Knowing her guest's shirt had no pocket, and that he had given away all his money, she turned to him and said, "Yogi, you pay for it!"
He asked, "How much is the total bill?"
She added it up and said, "Three dollars and thirty cents for you, and two dollars and so many cents for that and three dollars… Alright... nine dollars and something."
Out of his turban, Yogi Bhajan pulled a ten dollar bill, and gave it to her. He thought that would settle things, but it did not. As they sat down and started eating, Dr. Tyberg said to him, "You know that man asks for money every day. You need money. You don't have money. You gave him all that money. One hundred and fifty dollars to one man for one pencil!"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "My dear lady, I needed this pencil very badly."
"What for?"
"With this pencil my destiny will be re-written. This pencil will write endless zeros which I don't have. I'm only a one at this time. I needed this pencil. You don't understand it."
"What is to be written?"
"It is going to be written that I shall be written on the surface of this planet earth. I'll tell this story to people, and because of that, you will be remembered. That is what is going to be written. Because of this act of mine and this anger of yours, I'll tell the story to people that will keep you alive. Otherwise, you are worth nothing. You do not understand. I paid nothing for that pencil."
"Write something with it!"
On the back of the bill, he wrote, "I am, I am," and gave it to her. He said to her, "This pencil will not stop writing whatever I want to write, but it is I who have to write it."
"You Indians are so philosophical. We don't understand you at all. I was in India for ten years. I learned Sanskrit. I did my Masters in it. Still you people come and puzzle us!"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "No, you are such a puzzle that we are puzzled as to how to solve it. We didn't come here for anything. Don't try to act like a superior American. Ten, twenty, two hundred years ago, you were rotting somewhere and you were kicked out. I got kicked out of my country to do a certain job. Everybody comes here to do something."
"Yeah, I understand it..."
The Yogi and the Savages
Meanwhile, the Savages, flower children, children of the soul of the land, their destinies dispersed in thirteen directions, reassembled in the urban landscape of Los Angeles. Destiny called them together one evening in a house they had all known. They shared news as they always did. One of them told the others of a bearded, turbaned man from India they had heard was teaching kundalini yoga at the East West Cultural Center. It sounded unusual. It sounded interesting. It sounded like the best thing going.
Though they were in Los Angeles now, the Savages were still very much the New Mexican communards. The bus they piled into the next day for the trip to the center had teepee poles tied down on top and a steer skull mounted on the grill. The Savages themselves were brightly adorned with feathers, beads and embroidery. Witnessing the arrival of his newest students, Bhajan, a yogi through and through, never batted an eye.
Over the weeks, more and more young people came out for the yogi's classes. The streets were lined with their distinctive psychedelic vans. And soon the big classroom at the East West Cultural Center was full.
Yogi Bhajan gave his students vigorous, empowering exercises and worked them hard. The Master taught them to engage their navels with breath of fire. He revealed to them the healing and rejuvenating physiology of the root lock. He worked the hearts of his students. He worked their lungs. He worked their brains. He worked their nervous systems, their glands, their electromagnetic fields. There was hardly a part of them that the Yogi did not engage to make it more flexible, stronger, more radiant, more alive. Then, at the end of each class, Yogi Bhajan would have them all relax, blissfully on the floor.
Yogi Bhajan enriched the minds of his students with timeless yogic understanding. Sometimes he would make them laugh at the comical inconsistencies of life. Sometimes he would lift them high with stories of great sages and saints who had gone before. He would share with them the purpose of life, the joy of life, and the ideal of human perseverance and sacrifice. He would speak of God within and the futility of seeking God anywhere else.
"After meditating at the lotus feet of my Master, who has granted me liberation from the time cycle and the cycle of karma, oh my sweet student teacher of the day, I disclose to you the secret of the Naam. If you care to listen to me this day and you will practice, you will be liberated like me.
"I have seen the God. It is a light equal to millions and billions of rays of sunlight. It is the cosmic energy which is the brightest of the bright, and most beautiful of the beautiful. Nothing beyond this can be said. It is the greatest of the great. When the Master, through his blessing, blesses you, you will realize this within you.
"Out of the four yugs which the scriptures described, one was Sat Yug, the Age of Truth or Golden Age. Then came Treta Yug, when the truth was three quarters full and it was the Silver Age. After this, came the Doapar Yug, when the truth was half revealed. Thereafter, came the Kal Yug, when the truth is one quarter. This yug is known as the Dark Age, Age of Steel or Machine Age.
"The duration of each is respectively 1,728,000, 1,296,000, 864,000, and 432,000 human years, a ratio of 4, 3, 2, 1. This ratio is found to prevail in many sacred computations. These four yugas together make 4,320,000 Earth years of what is called Maha Yug or Great Age.
"In Sat Yug, the Age of Innocence or Truth, man was one with the divine and he realized the vibration which this cosmic energy created to make prakriti and man meditated on the Naam "Ong" – the vibration of the divine. After this, came Treta Yug, when the power of the truth came to three quarters, the being became weak and he recited the Naam "Sohang.” Through this vibration, he acknowledged his identity with the divine, which means "I am you.” Thereafter came the Doapar Age, when truth was weakened to half and man recited "Ong Namo Narayana.” He worshipped the God in the form. We are now in the Steel Age, Age of Machine which is represented by a circle, which is the wheel of creation.
"It works with the power of another wheel which runs it. Constant vibrations from the wheel of cosmic energy give power of life movement to this wheel of creation. Now, my sweet love, you draw one circle like the wheel and put another circle like a wheel over it, and it will make the figure eight, which according to the science of numerology represents infinity turns sideways.
"There are twenty-six vertebrae in your spinal column. Two plus six equals eight, therefore said the Master, 'Whosoever in this Machine Age will meditate and recite this mantra which will be to the glory of the Lord and will have eight vibrations, will open the lock of ignorance and darkness. And this will liberate the being and unite him with the divine.'
"Thus, the Master meditated and became one with the Lord and gave the mantra, 'Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru,' which has eight vibrations and describes the Glory of the Lord. Thus said the Master, 'In the time period, two and a half hours before the rising of the sun, when the channels are most clear, if the mantra is sung in sweet harmony, you will be with the Lord. This will open the solar plexus, which in turn will charge the solar centres. They will get connected with the cosmic energy and thus man will be liberated from the time cycle of karmas, and those who will meditate on this mantra in silence will charge their solar centres and be one with the divine.'
“That is why, with the blessing of my Master, I speak to you of why we should meditate and recite this mantra. All mantras are good. They are all for the awakening of the divine, but this mantra is effective and is the mantra for this time, so my lovely student, at the will of my Master I teach you the greatest divine key which has eight levers. And this key can open the lock of the time which is eight in figure. Therefore, when this mantra is sung in the neck lock, at the point where praana and apaana meet sushmana, this vibration opens the lock, and thus one becomes one with the divine.
“The Master of the time gave me this mantra, and in turn, meditating at his lotus feet, I to you disclose this secret of the divine today for the uplift of humanity and those who will follow it will be liberated and be one with the divine."
Old Friends and New Students Meet
Yogi Bhajan one day phoned a friend of his whom he had not seen for many years. Shamsher Singh Babra had left India in 1953 and was now in Georgetown, outside the American capital. Yogi Bhajan told his old acquaintance he would be visiting in a few days, much to Shamsher's delight.
The days passed and Harbhajan the Yogi arrived in Washington. Shamsher Singh told his friend that he had arranged for a number of mutual friends to come visit the following afternoon. Yogi Harbhajan offered that he was starting a movement in the United States to lead the youth to true living, and that a few Americans might also come.
The next day, the kitchen in Shamsher's house was scented with the delicious aroma of pakoras. The missus had prepared tea and vegetable fritters for about fifteen. Their Indian friends numbered eight, and she expected four or five young Americans.
The afternoon went as planned with the arrival of the Harbhajan's old friends, Americans now, all with their stories to tell. And then after an hour or so of renewing acquaintances, one by one, there arrived a virtual parade of flower children. They were in their teens, the same age as Shamsher and Harbhajan when they had gone to school together in India. One by one they came, twenty or thirty young women and men, barefoot and with folded hands, each bearing a rose for the Master. After they had deposited their floral offering in front of the teacher from the Golden Temple, they sat down on the floor.
Poor Shamsher's wife was at a loss. In no time, the thoughtful and generous hostess had run out of pakoras. Only tea was left to be served.
But this was no time for anxious thoughts. Before Harbhajan's astonished friends, there was a real spiritual joy as the flower children drank the intoxicating atmosphere of that special time and place and listened carefully as the Master spoke to them words of God and Guru and the challenging times to come.
The Choice
Returning to Los Angeles, a dichotomy was building in Yogi Bhajan's classes at the East West Cultural Center. While the Master talked of unitary wholes and cosmic oneness, his class was increasingly made up of two different and conflicting cultures: the one anchored in a smug aloofness borne of superficial study of esoteric philosophy and knowledge of ancient texts; the other, chaotic and energetic and committed to a creating a new world, iridescent and bright, an era of peace and justice and truth.
The Jook Savages' wild looks and their ignorance of the finer points of social etiquette did not endear them to the regular patrons of the East West Center. Dr. Tyberg was also concerned about the effect the hippies might have on the children who came to her school at the center.
For their part, the Savages did not appreciate the sophisticated ambience of the East West Cultural Center. Nor did they share the upper middle age aspirations of the ladies. Unfortunately for the regular patrons of the center, the youthful freaks thoroughly enjoyed the yogi's inspiration and came regularly for his classes. As word spread among their friends, every week there were more psychedelic painted Volkswagen vans full of hairy hippies.
The big room where Yogi Bhajan conducted his classes was becoming uncomfortably crowded for the ladies. Week by week, the tensions grew.
Dr. Tyberg decided to speak with the yogi at the end of one of his classes. It was April of 1969. The ladies looked forward to having the handsome yogi to themselves again. Surely, they thought, he would understand. They had been generous to him. Dr. Tyberg, whom he called "Ma,” had offered to sponsor his becoming a U.S. citizen. Osu and Dr. Tyberg were his closest associates in Los Angeles. The yogi had made his home just across from the East West Cultural Center. Surely, he would help them get rid of all these unruly outcastes of society.
The Savages were not altogether surprised at this development. After all, their own parents had rejected them. Most of the older generation had turned its back on the flower children. They had despised them and called them "dirty hippies.”
Then something unexpected happened. Like a lion roused in all his glory, the yogi turned on the not so gentle ladies. His eyes at once piercing and tender and warm, and with a gesture encompassing all the youths in that room and flower children everywhere, Yogi Bhajan pronounced, "These are my people. These are the people I came to teach, and I will go with them."
New Beginnings
Yogi Bhajan left the East West Cultural Center with the hippies and Osu as well, never to return. For her part, Dr. Tyberg took back her offer to sponsor him to become a U.S. citizen. Under the circumstances, the unshakable yogi said to Osu that she should pray and that by the end of the day "with Guru's grace” he would find a new sponsor.
The Yogi's classes would not end, but continue. One of his students very much enjoyed and appreciated the kundalini yoga classes and offered to do what he could to help.
Jules Buccieri owned an antique furniture store located five miles away, on the Beverly Hills side of town. Jules said that each day when his store at 8802 Melrose Avenue closed at 6 p.m., the students could take his antiques outdoors so Yogi Bhajan could give his class inside. It was a generous and ingenious offer, and his teacher accepted.
Jules Buccieri was well connected among the rich and famous in Los Angeles. He catered to the tastes of some of Los Angeles's social elite. It was said that he had decorated Barbra Streisand's mansion. Jules also took upon himself the job of finding someone new to vouch for his teacher becoming a citizen in the U.S., and, sure enough, by the end of the day, a new sponsor was found.
The new sponsor was a pop star who shared the billing in the Los Angeles's nightclub scene with another hot local act called the Doors. His name was Johnny Rivers. He had a number of popular hits to his name. Johnny Rivers also had his own record label. He was currently producing a vocal group he had named "The Fifth Dimension.”
As it happens, that group had just recorded a song from the hit Broadway musical Hair. The song was "Aquarius." It was rocketing to the top of the Billboard chart that spring and would remain at number one for most of April and May. "Aquarius" was playing everywhere in North America, Europe, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and the army garrisons of South Korea, Japan, Guam and South Vietnam. Hippies and housewives, businesspeople and soldiers were all grooving to the new beat, the hopeful theme of Aquarius.
"When the moon is in the seventh house
And Jupiter aligns with Mars,
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars.
This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
The Age of Aquarius
Aquarius! Aquarius!
Harmony and understanding
Sympathy and trust abounding
No more falsehoods or derisions
Golden living dreams of visions
Mystic crystal revelation
And the mind's true liberation...
Aquarius! Aquarius!"
(Lyrics from Hair, the "American Tribal Love-Rock musical, by Gerome Ragni and James Rado, EMI Music 1967)
Now with the classes at the antique store, the Yogi and his students began a new routine. Each day, everything from beds and cabinets to the most delicate antiques was carefully shuttled out of Jules' store. And after each class, the students - happy, relaxed and carefree - meticulously carried it all back to where it had been. Once they had finished, the store would be just as it had been before. Only the students would be transformed.
Their teacher called himself "a postman." What he was delivering was a whole new way of breathing, thinking, relating, and living on Mother Earth. The students' bodies, minds and spirits would be set alight with each new class, by the Yogi's talk, by their exertion, by the deep relaxation to the soulful sounds of the Yogi's gong. Each day, his dedicated students found themselves recharged and renewed by the transformative art of their masterful guide and teacher.
The Longtime Sun
There is no denying the power of music. From early on, the Savages from New Mexico contributed a song with old Celtic roots to the yogi's new classes. They had known it as a part of "A Very Cellular Song" and it had been performed by The Incredible String Band from England. The song went:
May the longtime sun shine upon you,
All love surround you,
And the pure light within you guide your way on…
It was originally sung as a round, again and again. Yogi Bhajan loved their song and asked his students to sing it at the end of every class, with a long Sat Nam at the end.
The First Turban
Gerry Pond lived in Jules's antique shop. A tall, charming, guitarist and song-writer, he had shared concert billings with the Grateful Dead in San Francisco in 1966. When the FBI opened a file on him in their aggressive campaign to intimidate, jail, even kill leaders of the youthful movement for peace and social renewal, he left America and studied in the Mexican wilderness with a shaman.
That shaman had eventually sent him to find and study with a "Great One.” Now, having searched, Gerry felt he had indeed found and was learning from such a one.
However, it was not easy. One day, the Master asked Gerry where he worked. His student proudly answered that he didn't work. Hippies knew that work was for slaves. Gerry didn't work. He was a musician.
Yogi Bhajan was not so pleased with his student's hippie logic. "That's very well, Sonny, but you need to learn to work too. If you want to understand the teachings, you'll have to understand the students. Most students aren't musicians. They work. They have jobs."
Yogi Bhajan laughed and turned to Jules. "Hire this music man on the spot," he said, and the next day Gerry the musician began dutifully sanding and painting Jules's precious antiques.
It was dusty, dirty work and Gerry seemed to collect all that dust and dirt in his dark mop of unruly hair. It was tough: the ego of the pop musician tied up in his uncut, long hair pitted against the rigours of his new work. Finally, Gerry intuitively managed to wrap a scarf around his head enough times to capture all his curls into one well-mannered clump. That helped a lot.
One day, as Gerry was rapt in his work, a voice boomed from behind him, "What is that?"
Gerry turned at once and replied, "It's my turban, sir!"
"Why you're doing that?" probed his teacher.
"To be like you," said a voice, "I want to have what you have." Even Gerry was surprised at what he was saying.
"Wow!" said Yogi Bhajan with a big smile, "For you to cap an ego like that, it's really something. Let's see what it brings."
Do Something!
When I lie down in my bed, I can’t sleep. I say, “Yogi Bhajan, they love you so much, and like a nut, you are sleeping! What for are you sleeping on this bed? Don’t they need you? Are they not supposed to progress? Then, if they are supposed to progress more, what are you, boy, doing here? Get up and do something! Help them in some way or another. If you do nothing, at least sit there. Even your presence is enough pressure to put them on the alert. Write them a letter, do something!”
This is known as, if I may not even write you a letter, I may not even come, but the very thought that I have thought about you, does connect me subconsciously to that factor and that area. And that is known as “communion of the mental projectivity with the heart,” because there is a positive vibration.
The House on Phyllis Street
After a few weeks of Yogi Bhajan commuting to his classes at Melrose from his apartment across from the East West Cultural Center, Jules Buccieri invited his teacher to move into his house on Phyllis Street in West Hollywood with him. Yogi Bhajan arrived with a few dedicated students. Circumstances soon tested the dedication of those students.
There were no finances and no plan other than to teach and practise the teachings and just keep going. Money was very tight and living was not easy, but high spirits, endless service and lots of yoga carried the day. One of the students had been expert at scrounging food and making ends meet when she had lived as a Jook's Savage in New Mexico. She took charge of the kitchen and feeding Yogi Bhajan and a regular stream of guests.
Yogi Bhajan persevered with his one checkered shirt and pink turban. He hardly slept. Whenever he dozed, he would wake up saying "Waheguru!"
Each morning, Yogi Bhajan rose early and showered before settling down to read aloud from his "holy book.” There, he half-chanted, half-sang for two and a half hours, while a handful of students silently meditated around him.
A wonderful smell like Christmas baking soon was wafting out of the kitchen, like some delectable incense. Yogi Bhajan had given Osu his recipe for "Yogi Tea" – ginger and cardamom, black pepper and cloves and cinnamon, with milk and honey to taste. Everyone who dropped by was given a cup of the wonderful healing beverage, and the recipe was passed on and on, eventually around the world.
He could never remember the name of the woman in the kitchen who served everyone so selflessly. The Yogi said her name had no relation to her and instead he gave her a new name. Closing his eyes, Yogi Bhajan said when he thought of his student he saw the Ganges River, Mother of India, feeding the masses, healing and flowing the length of the entire country, so he called her " Ganga," the Indian name for that river goddess. He also gave her his own name, adopting her as his spiritual daughter, and thus she became “Ganga Bhajan Kaur.”
Yogi Bhajan was not above learning from his students. Far from it! In his later days, he would say he had learned how to be a Sikh from them. Ganga always wore natural white cotton clothes. Her attire was simple. It was graceful. Yogi Bhajan took note and soon he was wearing Indian-style white tunics and churidas pants. His turban colour changed from vibrant pink to simple white. In a couple of years, he would lecture on the virtues of wearing natural white cotton, but in 1969 it was just a new phase, a conscious transition.
Students, seekers, and lovers of higher awareness began to appear from far and wide for Yogi Bhajan's daily classes at Melrose Avenue at ten a.m. and eight p.m. They were greeted, " Sat Nam!" - God is Truth!
When students came to classes, they would often have no money, but Yogi Bhajan had a strict policy that no one could attend class without paying.. It was a clash of cultures. Some students would be verbally abusive. The Bible said that money was the root of all evil, and these kids were believing it.
To help bridge the gap in values between his tradition and those of his students who shunned money as a medium of exchange, Yogi Bhajan would scatter coins here and there in the yard outside. When anyone came without money, the person responsible for registering the classes would direct them to go outside so they too could have the dignity of paying something. "If you come empty-handed, you go empty-handed" was Yogi Bhajan's saying.
Even this did not make everyone happy. While some collected more money than they paid for the class, others resented having to pay anything. One disgruntled hippie complained out loud, "So you think you are a big dude leaving money outside?"
With a great deal of love and patience and a seemingly endless stream of yogic know-how, Yogi Bhajan worked to heal and build his students, these American "diamonds-in-the-rough.” With just the right combination of sweetness, firmness and exquisite timing, he plied his precious trade. Mostly he offered them suggestions and encouragement, rather than directives or outright criticisms.
Yogi Bhajan took a personal interest in the lives of his students. When Osu became sick, he visited her and made her usual breakfast of scrambled eggs, although he himself never ate eggs, and would soon be teaching his students to avoid them. Once, he told her that her hair needed cutting, though he never cut his hair and soon would openly teach the importance of keeping it. Such was Yogi Bhajan's ability to identify with others. Eventually he gave Osu a fitting new name: "Shakti Parwha Kaur" - the princess of the flow of eternal power.
One day, a student came to Yogi Bhajan, tearful at having lost her pet dog. Out of kindness, he told the young woman where to find her furry, missing friend.
The news travelled quickly. All of a sudden, hundreds of people were calling to tell the man they considered the Saint Anthony of the West Coast about the objects, pets and people that had vanished from their lives.
The Yogi's Guru
On April the thirteenth, Yogi Bhajan introduced his students to a special day called "Baisakhi.” Baisakhi was the birthday of Guru Nanak, the "Guru for the Aquarian Age.” Yogi Bhajan had someone borrow a book from the university and draw a picture of Guru Nanak from it, since he could not find any in Los Angeles.
The Yogi introduced everyone to the term "Sikh,” meaning student. He shared with them the Sikh principles of living in the world with grace, kindness, courage and distinction. In that visionary talk, he also told them about the sacred Siri Guru Granth Sahib, "the Word as Guru.”
Many of Yogi Bhajan's student were brought up Catholic. Many came from Jewish homes. No one was interested in taking up another religion. Everyone had had enough of formalities and creeds and ritual obligations. In a world of war and injustice, the religions they knew did not seem to make a bit of difference, but they listened intently to their teacher's heartfelt sentiments.
Shakti’s Story
Shakti Parwha Kaur served Yogi Bhajan selflessly as his first American student and flag-bearer. Married at eighteen, a mother at twenty, divorced at twenty-two, her service and the yoga taught by Yogi Bhajan contributed to her healing.
Back in the days when he gave private classes, the Master once told her to lie down in corpse pose, breathing long and deep. And then he left the room and did not come back for forty-five minutes. The effects of that one class would stay with her from that day on.
Shakti Parwha was not terribly good with postures. Even with Yogi Bhajan’s help, she could not lift her lower back to come into wheel pose. Cat-cow, however, she could do, so the Master would encourage the class, saying, “If Shakti can do it, anybody can do it.”
Shakti Parwha Kaur knew stress before the word was widely recognized as a human condition. She was also hypoglycemic and premenopausal. Often, she would burst into tears for no apparent reason.
Whenever Shakti became upset, he would advise her, “Relax! Heavens are not going to fall.” When she showed him a minute-to-minute itinerary she had composed for her day, he would often counter, “The One who rotates the Earth for you, don’t you think He can take care of your routine?”
One night when Shakt Parwha phoned the Master upset about one thing or another, he advised her, “Get Peace Lagoon and start reading Jaap Sahib.” She started reading and calmed down almost immediately.
He said, “You should read Jaap Sahib every day.” That Bani was known for its capacity to inspire self-regulation, strength, courage, and a state of grace.
She said, “Okay.” But the next day she called him and said, “I don’t like Jaap Sahib very much. Can I read Japji instead?”
“Fine.” Little did she know that when a student disagrees with a spiritual teacher’s advice, they just tell them to do what they want.
A few days later, Shakti had a change of heart, “Well, since you recommended Jaap Sahib, I guess I’ll read it.”
For the first five years, Yogi Bhajan never offered Shakti Parwha Kaur a word of criticism. His patience and kindness, together with his life-giving teachings, gave her the support she needed to heal from within.
The Hollywood Party
Jules with his many Hollywood connections took a personal interest in the mission of the yogi he now shared his home with. Jules told his yogi guest that he could make him a star. He could be on television. He could be famous. According to Jules, it was just a matter of meaning the right people and making the right connections.
Yogi Bhajan did not like the scheme being presented to him. He did not want to be famous right away. He was perfectly content doing what he was doing, building a solid foundation of consistent, humble efforts. He did not need the egos of stars or their money. India too had its stars. He was not enamoured of them or their superficial reality.
Finally, the teacher gave in to the sincere entreaties of his student and Jules arranged for a celebrity party in Yogi Bhajan's honor at someone's mansion in Beverly Hills.
Then the evening came and Yogi Bhajan went to see what this was all about. He had never attended this kind of party before. Soon, corks were popping, noses were sniffing, and the smell of marijuana filled the air. There were whole, roasted pigs and lots and lots of other delicacies.
By nine o'clock, Yogi Bhajan noticed the hands of many of the other guests beginning to reach and grope inside each another's clothing. It was apparent that the drugs and alcohol had diminished whatever inhibitions the guests might have had, and that developments were on a roll, rolling downhill fast.
What was a yogi to do? No sooner had he asked himself this question than the answer became obvious: he would meditate! Taking a chair to a corner of the room, Yogi Bhajan began sitting facing away from the rowdy guests, blissfully indifferent to the mundane details of the party's lascivious goings-on.
After some time had passed, Jules came by and interrupted the Yogi's meditation. His enthusiasm was unbounded. "I am going to make you the greatest yogi of the planet!"
"Look, I don't believe the planet is worth anything," replied Yogi Bhajan. "I have come here to talk to some people, person to person, and uplift and tell them they have a soul and tell them they have a mind and tell them they can be happy and tell them they can contain the contentment in themselves, tell them their future… I have a lot of good schemes, but what is this going on?"
"Yogi, you don't understand. We are going to spend $50-60,000 tonight on this party!"
"You pigs! You are going to eat all that yourselves and drink all that yourself. What do I have to do? I am sitting for the last three hours on this corner chair. Nobody has even come to me and you are telling me this is a party in my honor!"
"They all talk about you. They all know about you, but they do not know how to come to you."
"Fine. What am I supposed to do? Sit here? That's all?"
"Yeah. Your grace is working."
"No, no. You don't understand. My grace is not working today. My grace is being worked to death. I don't understand what grace means here. Everybody is drunk and…"
"You don't understand! This is Hollywood and champagne is flowing tonight."
Jules left Yogi Bhajan and arranged for the hostess, who had taken some yoga classes, to introduce the guest of honor. She gathered everyone's attention, as much attention as there was to be gathered under the circumstances, and introduced Yogi Bhajan, but it was no use. People were too drunk or high to remember his name. Many could hardly recall their own.
As graciously as he could, the Yogi retired to his quiet chair in the corner, perhaps to meditate. After a few minutes, a lady in a flowing gown came by. It looked like she wanted to make conversation, but she was drunk and high and all she managed to do was insult the Master, again and again.
With his impeccable manners and unbounding restraint, he sat and listened and smiled.. At last, Harbhajan the Yogi saw an opportunity, stood up, and walked to the door.
At the door, someone asked him, "Are you going?"
He replied, "No, I am just slipping out for fresh air."
"Are you coming back in?"
"Never!"
"Is something wrong?"
"Nothing."
"But has something gone wrong?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
"I am suffocating! It is very wrong. It is gone very wrong." And the Yogi stepped outside and delighted in the pure night air, the first time in hours he could fill his well-developed lungs with oxygen without the miasma of others' alcoholic breath.
After the Party
The next morning, Jules and Yogi Bhajan met again. Jules said, "Yogi Bhajan, what you have done? You have totally blown it!"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "Blown it? I haven't blown anything. What 'blown it'?"
"Did you know that" - and Jules named a famous actress - "…was at the party?!”
"Look, I am not going to work in movies! What is this actress so-and-so? And what is this 'I will be a great yogi'? Man, if I had been there half an hour more, I would have been dead! You are talking 'blown it'. I think I have saved myself 100% by walking out!"
"You walked all the way?"
"No, I got a lift along the way. I know how to raise now this thumb and I told somebody, 'I am a lost person and that is my address and there is at nine hundred, at big tall building. From there, I can find my house.' So they took me there and dropped me and 'Good-bye!' and 'Thank you!' Look, I am not going to go to these parties for a million dollars apiece! It is not possible. It is not my kind of bag. It is not my cup. Period."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I will prefer to hang myself than to go for this kind of introduction!"
The phone rang. It was the woman who had sat and spoken with him at the party. "Did I insult you yesterday? Did you feel it?"
"No, I didn't feel it. I was numb. I do not know what to feel. I didn't feel and I was pretty numb and I don't think you did insult me. I think you did what you did."
"I didn't mean to. I was just told that you were sitting alone and I wanted to communicate."
"Yes. I am very grateful that you came and gave me the company and did communicate with me. It is alright."
But it was not going to be alright. The woman cursed at Yogi Bhajan and practically screamed through the phone, "You are putting me off! Why don't you open your heart?"
"You have to understand that I do not understand that I have in any way felt anything and I think that you are trying to make me feel today, and I don't think I can feel today, but I am very grateful you have told me how Americans live. This is a part of their culture. I'll work on it."
"Good... good... good... I am glad you learned something, you Indian pig!" The line went dead.
Yogi Bhajan reflected on the essence of that abusive communication. He felt the frustration, the rage, the humiliation. He felt it all. What could he do for these people?
There and then, out of a deep sense of concern born of compassion, he made up his mind to teach Americans how to talk from the heart, not from the head, not from the ego of their money and their structure, but from their light, being human, and from their delight, being creatures of God.
The Price of Initiation
Despite Yogi Bhajan's best intentions, the word spread through the Hollywood hills that a charismatic teacher had come from India. Chauffeur-driven cars and limos began to pull up in front of the yoga center before class. "Personal assistants" would come and lay out expansive towels for their celebrated employers to exercise on. If he went to the washroom, Yogi Bhajan would find $100 bills on the mat where he sat to conduct the class. The yoga master had unwillingly become a part of the Hollywood social circuit: from film shoot to yoga class to cocktail party to oblivion.
A number of women of wealth and social status were also attracted to Yogi Bhajan's classes. They wanted the enchanted yogi to give them initiation of the sort they had read about in their books on mysticism.
Yogi Bhajan refused them all, saying he was teaching this yoga openly and publicly. There would be no secret initiations. "Sat Nam,” meaning Truth Personified, was the mantra. It did not depend on any one personality. Those who wanted to practise it, needed to initiate themselves.
The ladies wondered at the elusive yogi. What was he really after? What was he doing in Los Angeles? What was his price, anyway?
One balmy day after class, one of the women, wealthier and more self-assured than the rest, looked directly into the Master's eyes and made him an offer she thought he could not refuse: eighteen million dollars, plus an estate in Malibu with a big house, a nice car, and maintenance provided. To have all that, Yogi Bhajan only needed to put his hand on her head and pronounce that he had initiated her.
The Master answered the determined woman as he had answered those who had asked before. There would be no private or public initiation. Quoting scripture and invoking reason, Yogi Bhajan tried to make his American students understand there was no easy way to enlightenment.
The woman could not hear the Master's words. As he spoke, she sat and became visibly angrier and angrier. When she opened her mouth to reply, her words were hot and bitter. "I'll take all that money to slander you and get you out of the United States faster than you think."
The Master spoke calmly and coolly, "Lady, I have not come to the United States to have bucks here. Someone who brought me will take me away. Neither you brought me, nor you…"
"Why not?"
"Did you write me a letter inviting me here?"
"No."
"So that ends the matter. Don't be upset. No problem."
A week later, the same woman came after class and sat down before the Yogi. She thought she was being reasonable. "Why don't you accept my money? I want to give it to you out of love."
"Look. You have to understand something. If I am a man and you tell me to get pregnant, tell me how will I get pregnant? Explain it to me. You don't understand big language. I will explain to you in human language. I am a male, right? Can you believe that I can be pregnant?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"You are not capable of being pregnant."
"I am not capable of initiating anybody. I can't initiate you because I am not capable. Period. It's not in my genes. It's not in my process. I don't want to come from India to America and cheat Americans. I am not here for that purpose. Period. I don't need your money, and I don't need your land, and I don't need your house, and I don't need you!"
"What do you want?" She was starting to lose her composure. Her voice was turning harsh and shrill.
"I want somebody who can initiate himself."
"How?"
"I'll tell you…"
"I don't want to learn that!"
"Then that's it! You don't want to learn. I am willing to tell you. If you don't want to learn, don't learn! Please don't yell at me. Because if I initiate you, you won't initiate yourself. You got it? And so long as God gave you identity and you don't initiate yourself, then it is not possible that you can progress. Ego is the biggest disease, but there is a solution in the ego. The ego solution is to initiate with your own ego your own self and don't accept any other initiation."
The Identity of the Master
Yogi Bhajan's openness and love, his purity of intention and sheer innocence, drew people of all sorts and personalities. The rich thought he was one of them because he acted rich. The Master spoke and moved with the flare and self-confidence of the truly rich.
The celebrities thought he was one of theirs because of his good looks and charm. Words never failed him. In fact, the Yogi's charm was genuine, unpretentious and unrehearsed. He was a grand actor in a grand role on a universal stage, and he lived his part with grace and magnanimity.
The hippies, too, considered Yogi Bhajan one of their own. Was he not a rebel against the establishment, like them? Did he not teach them yoga to get them high naturally? Wasn't he a counter-culture prophet with his message of peace and love and the Aquarian Age?
The members of each group, each in their way, liked to claim Yogi Bhajan for themselves. They talked to the Yogi as though he were one of them. He could be enigmatic and hard to fathom, but ultimately he belonged to them. And Yogi Bhajan accepted all this, up to a point.
Meanwhile, Jules continued to plan and scheme wealth and fame for his yogi guest. He regularly brought celebrities and trendy people to meet Yogi Bhajan.
Jules the celebrity maven loved to surround himself with the "hip" and trendy crowd, but could not bear the discipline and "uptightness" of one of the yogi's students. "I can make you a star, but you've got to get rid of this woman because she just doesn't make it. She alienates all the people I bring to you."
"I cannot possibly do that," replied the yogi in Yogi Bhajan, "I have promised this woman who has been misled and misused by spiritual teachers that I would not do that. For the sake of the reputation of the spiritual teacher and of all spiritual teachers, I must be true to her. And if she is my only one student, then that is how it is, but I won't abandon her."
The life of the Yogi in Los Angeles was a bed of tribulation. People came and people went. Some came to try the yogi. Some came to seduce him. Some tried to threaten the yogi. Some came to challenge him. Some wanted to own him. Failing that, they would slander him.
"Womanizer!" "Black magician!" "Smuggler!" "Anti-Christ!" These were some of the names Yogi Bhajan was called, but none could buy or coerce him.
In the midst of all the turmoil, Ganga prayed in the kitchen of the Phyllis Ashram to know who this man really was. In reply, she came to see the teacher she was serving as the channel and the answer to the prayer of her generation.
The Room
Yogi Bhajan was once invited to a function at the home of a couple who had been attending his classes. They had a large home and about three hundred people came to the event. The hostess gave her special guest a tour of their mansion. She took pride in her home and explained how it was always humming with activity of one kind or another.
Without checking himself, Yogi Bhajan ominously said, “Oh oh…” then quickly changed his tone, “That’s nice. Anyway…”
Later on, when we were sitting alone and everyone was gone, the hostess asked, “Yogi, I don’t know… When I was talking to you about something that was bothering me, you said, ‘Oh oh… It’s alright.’”
Yogi Bhajan replied, “No, no. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
His hostess and student persisted, “Well, there must be something. Are you avoiding saying something?”
The Master replied, “Yeah, I am avoiding saying something. I have learned not to say a lot of things. That’s called ‘control of mind.’ I’m not going to say anything.”
She continued, “Please. You are my guest. You have already said something.”
Yogi Bhajan insisted, “Well, it was a slip of tongue. It was not very important.”
She said, “I don’t know what you mean by that. How do you like my house?”
He said, “I like your house very much and I love that small, little room which is very sunny. I like it.”
She said, “Yeah, once in a while, when I really want to be alone and meditate, I want to go there.”
He said, “Don’t worry. You are going to be there all the time now. That is what I am not saying.”
She said, “What do you mean?”
He said, “I don’t know what I mean, but you have taken me through all the rooms of this house and I see you there fixed and I don’t know what it means. What I am seeing is this whole house, this seventeen-bedroom house with nineteen bathrooms and all these grounds and everything, and I am wondering how you are going to end up just in that room.”
His student said, “Do you see something further?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “No, just a secret. I don’t think I can do anything.”
In the course of time, Yogi Bhajan’s student was involved in a serious accident. Coming to hear of it, Yogi Bhajan tagged a student and together they went to visit.
As it happened, it had been decided that the best place for the woman’s recuperation would be the sunny room in her house and that is where they found her. Seeing her, Yogi Bhajan said, “Wow! Wonderful! That’s great!”
His hostess said, “This is the second time you have said that. Now what does that mean?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “Not much. I am very happy.”
She said, “What?”
He said, “What has happened is, physical damage is not much, pain is not much, but the prospect to achieve solitary, conscious meditation which you are going to go through is already set up. It is going to happen.”
Twenty days later, her husband found Yogi Bhajan. In a great hurry, he said, “My wife wants you right now. Please get in my car and let’s go!”
Yogi Bhajan asked, “What did she say?”
He said, “Well, she said, ‘Bring Yogi! I have a very short time.’”
Yogi Bhajan said, “Yeah, she has a short time. That I know. Let’s go…” Putting a shawl around himself, he set out.
When he arrived at his student’s bedside, she laughed and said, “Ha! You made it!”
Knowingly, Yogi Bhajan replied, “So you made it!”
As she closed her eyes, he said, “Good-bye!”
In shock, her husband looked at Yogi Bhajan. He was a successful man with a beautiful house, servants, wealth, reputation, status, authority. He said, “What! Who made what?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “She is gone. Don’t you see? Gone.”
He said, “Where?”
The Master said, “Home.”
The man said, “Are you crazy?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “No.”
“You mean my wife is dead?”
He said, “No, she is alive. She is with God. These are the bones, the flesh. That’s the jail. That’s the dungeon. That’s the ribcage. She has left them behind for you.”
“Oh Yogi, I am in pain! What are you saying?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “I am not saying anything. I am just telling you what happened. Look, she is gone! ‘She made it!’ she told me. I said it too.”
“Oh God! My wife is dead.”
Harbhajan Singh said, “Your wife is not dead. She is alive. She is with God. You are not accepting it. You never accepted your life as a gift. You accepted her as a property. You thought you had a hold, a household. You thought she is your wife. You had a hold over it. No, you didn’t have a hold. God had the hold. You are not God. Now she has made it home. She has left, and in this earthly home she has left for you her earthly form.”
Training the Teacher
In those days, Shakti Parwha Kaur served an indispensable role as driver, interpreter and host to Yogi Bhajan. He did not mind that she often took the wrong turn and made them lost and late for appointments. The Yogi was always relaxed and accepting of his first Los Angeles student.
He plied her with questions. "What is the difference between a 'boulevard' and a 'freeway'?" "A tomayto and a tomahto?" More particularly, he wanted to know what made Americans the way they were. Those long drives served as valuable lessons in American culture.
Yogi Bhajan emphasized to his students that he had come to create teachers and not to gather disciples. It was only natural then, that when he began to travel out of town, he would have others teach his Los Angeles classes. Two of his most regular students, Shakti Parwha Kaur and Wallace, were assigned to cover for the Master.
Shakti's most memorable experience from her first class came when she instructed the students to exhale powerfully – and was nearly knocked backwards by the force of all those yogis exhaling at once!
Wallace's experience was somewhat different. All the classes at the YMCAs were cancelled afterwards. Up to that point, Wallace had been one of his best students. He had a good discipline and was developing his yogic powers.
Afterwards, Yogi Bhajan asked his student for his version of events. "What is wrong with you?"
Wallace told of his encounter with an unhappy student at the class he had come to teach. "She told me I am a Negro. 'How can you represent the Yogi?' she said." Wallace happened to be Afro-American.
"So what?"
"Well, I told her 'I am a Yogi.' She said I was not. I wanted to prove it to her."
"Prove what? You have nothing to prove. God approves and proves for a teacher. We don't do a thing."
In his desire to prove himself, Wallace had summoned his powers and said, "Rise, rise…" thereby lifting the terrified woman off the floor, three feet into the air. Unfortunately, he forgot the mantra to bring her down safely and she fell from that height, breaking her leg.
Work Now, Be Appreciated Later
It was late spring now, going into summer. Change was in the air. Yogi Bhajan gave an order to his students which was sure to effect change in their lives. First, he told them all about the health-giving properties of garlic. Then he said that all his students should eat several cloves of the potent vegetable every day.
As expected, all that garlic proved very detoxifying to his students. It also impacted terribly on the social life of all the socialites and film star.. Within days, they and their personal assistants were no longer to be seen. Yogi Bhajan afterwards said to his remaining students, “See! Didn’t I tell you that garlic is purifying?”
Jules Buccieri continued to wish fame and riches on his mysterious guest.
"Do you want to make money or not?" insisted Jules.
"My friend," Yogi Bhajan replied, "I have an honors degree in economics. I know what money is. Money is what money does. And I have enough money to do what I have to do. I don't need more."
"Well, what's wrong if there is more?"
"Then there is an audit and there is trouble. All I want is as much as I need to have."
"There is something wrong with you!"
"Yes, one thing. I don't want to be appreciated now. I want to be appreciated a little later."
"Why?"
"You don't know the basic human psychology. Those who work now are appreciated later. Those who waste time in being appreciated now cannot work, and then there is nothing to appreciate. It is a simple psychology. Whosoever wants to be appreciated, has to really work now, and then that creative work will get you appreciated. But if you start getting appreciated now, you will not have any time. You will waste all that time in being appreciated."
For all of Jules's best intentions, their two minds could never meet. Soon thereafter, he moved to another house and left the Phyllis Ashram to Yogi Bhajan.
The Solstice and the Fair
Outside, trees were blossoming, and warm breezes skimming off the pacific blue. The Savages were growing restless. Dreams of inner valleys and holy mountain headlands danced in their brains. The Savages shared their visions of ancient, sacred solstices with their yogi friend.
Preparations were made, and by May it was certain that Yogi Bhajan would come to New Mexico, to the coming Summer Solstice celebration. The next month, about fifty people set out in a motorised caravan from the "city of angels," up and over the coastal San Gabriel range, across the Arizona desert, toward the San Juan highlands of northern New Mexico.
When one of the cars gave out under the stress of the trip through the desert, it was left on the side of the highway, and its passengers given space in the remaining vehicles. Yogi Bhajan had taught the highly individuated Americans that the journey to Universal Consciousness led through "group consciousness,” the sharing and caring for the needs of others. And so it was.
At last, the parade of brightly coloured Volkswagen vans and an assortment of cars and buses arrived at their destination: the Tesuque Indian Reservation, a few miles to the north of Santa Fe. Many others had already arrived at the reservation. All in all, a couple of hundred hippies and "Whole-Earthers" came in from all over New Mexico and the surrounding area. This was the second summer solstice gathering – a "Gathering of the Tribes" as it was called, and there was reunion in the air. Everywhere, there was music, laughter, and celebration.
Tepees, including a large one for Yogi Bhajan, were set up around the Aspen Meadows site. At night, his tent served as a gathering place and a place for all kinds of visionary discussion and deliberations. This was where an invitation to help with a planned "music and art fair" in upstate New York was discussed. Some of the solstice folk had been contacted and told the event was going to last from August 15 to 18, and it was going to be held outdoors. For this, the organizers needed responsible people who had actually slept under the sky. They were to serve as the leaders and caregivers of the many thousands of young people expected to converge at a large alfalfa meadow on a dairy farm outside of Woodstock, New York.
In the end, it was decided that some of the Jook Savages would go along with communards from the nearby Hog Farm and New Buffalo community to set up the free stage, medical tents, free-food kitchen, and other facilities, and otherwise help out at the "Aquarian exposition." It would only be appropriate to bring some kundalini yoga. Tom Law, one of the Savages, would teach at the fair.
Solstice Frolics
Early morning in the San Juan Mountains was beautiful, peaceful, starlit. Bright and early, Yogi Bhajan would rise to shower and prepare for meditation. It was like the pristine forests of the Himalayas - except that when he came back, the Yogi found his tent taken over by couplings of amorous flower children.
"Hell is happening!" cried the Yogi, and Shakti Parwha Kaur rushed over to shoo away the morning romantics and clear the way for Yogi Bhajan's morning meditation.
For some of Yogi Bhajan's hippy students, sexual promiscuity came without a blush or second thought. As he was teaching the cat-cow exercise during his first class in a virgin meadow, a young man mounted a woman from behind and initiated intercourse. By the time Yogi Bhajan had arrived to ask, “What are you doing?” it was all over. His student shrugged to say, “She didn't mind it.”
The most exciting part of the Solstice was the "Great Bus Race" – eight roaring psychedelic-painted buses careening along a track just wide enough for three or four of them, across the Aspen Meadow and back again.
One bus sliced through a tent, whose occupants had just come outside to investigate the racket. The race rumbled past Yogi Bhajan, who offered a bow and a smile as the buses and their attendant cloud of New Mexico dust narrowly passed by. Two of the buses stalled along the way, creating an obstacle course for those behind.
It was all uproarious, noisy, chaotic fun, but on the final downhill stretch to the finish, one child stood helplessly transfixed in the middle of the track at the sight of the herd of roaring steel quickly bearing down – until someone heroically leapt out of the crowd, grabbed, and rolled the scared youngster to safety just as the buses roared by.
For some of the campers, the highlight was the weddings Yogi Bhajan conducted.. He had encouraged couples to commit to lasting relationships. In his words, "Marriage is the carriage to infinity."
So persuasive was his argument that Tom and Lisa Law, and Dawson and Karen Hayward, together with six other couples decided to tie the knot then and there. Lacking any other provisions, Yogi Bhajan had a fire made in a pit, then had the brides and grooms vow their lifelong fidelity and circle the fire, hand in hand, thereby beginning a tradition of solstice marriages.
Solstice Reverie
For his part, Yogi Bhajan was taken up by a reverie on the irrepressible course of destiny. He recalled the astrologer who, barely eighteen months before had predicted he would one day be famous, that places where he had gone to the bathroom would become temples, and that the summer solstice would find him sitting on a high place teaching Eastern wisdom to Westerners.
Harbhajan remembered how he and his wife had joked on the roof of their Nizamuddin home during the warm Delhi nights. He had pictured the Palam airport being closed for some big emergency. All the Westerners would then congregate in the transit lounge and he would sit on a bar and tell them something spiritual to calm them down.
"Does that sound right? What do you think, Bibiji?"
"That sounds about right to me." They had enjoyed a laugh at the expense of the astrologer, taking in the apparent absurdity of the prediction.
"After all, they are not going to come to the Humayun graveyard to learn yoga from me and I cannot go to some academy to lecture. I am a uniformed officer."
It was not long before the hand of destiny began to take Yogi Bhajan's life in an altogether unexpected direction. First came the report that the Soviet government was looking for a yogi to participate in its research institute in Tashkent. Then, within a few days, came the opportunity of teaching in Toronto. The Canadian ambassador had been sympathetic and most helpful.
"Resign, and come to Canada," he had said. And he did.
Yogi Bhajan's days in Toronto had passed like a dream. All the classes, the people, the interviews, the cold, the hunger, the strange food, everything. Through it all, he had sung to himself,
"One day, the day shall come when all the glory will be Thine. They will say it is yours and I shall deny 'not mine.' Gobinday Mukanday, Udhaaray Apaaray, Hariang Kariang, Nirnaamay Akaamay…" Verses and verses, he used to make up just to keep his spirits up, to keep his focus, and pass the time.
Then he had come to visit his old friend in America, and gone on to teach first at the East West Cultural Center, then at the YMCAs and Jules's antique shop.
And now he was in the ancient land of New Mexico. It was the day of the longest sunlight and shortest night. Harbhajan Singh the yogi was in a small canyon with his students. They had made a sizable mound of earth and stone, and covered it with a Hopi blanket for him to sit on. This is where he had taught his first class.
Thinking about it, Yogi Harbhajan was amazed at how accurate the astrologer had been in his prediction. Only he had been off by about twelve hours as he had not properly accounted for the time difference between India and America.
Lessons at the Free School
After the final "Longtime sun…" had been sung at the Solstice site, Yogi Bhajan was invited to visit the Free School in nearby Santa Fe. True to its name, the school charged no fees. Its curriculum was also free and wide-ranging. Free schools typically taught everything from Zen meditation to macramé, from political consciousness-raising to natural child birth.
The true spirit of education at the FreeSchool touched the Master's heart and he agreed to stay for a week and give a number of classes of his own. One lesson he gave was a demonstration of 108 yoga poses, captured for posterity by Lisa Law's unerring camera.
The following lesson was given on June 24th and taken down by Shakti Parwha Kaur's serviceful pen and paper.
"Ong Namo Guru Dayv Namo"
First, Yogi Bhajan had his students sit on their heels and lock their hands together, their arms stretched out straight in front. Then he told them to inhale and move their arms up and down three times in a pumping motion, and exhale. They repeated this sequence for three minutes. Next, the Master told them to continue the exercise, but pumping the arms up and down ten times per breath. This exercise, he told them as they worked their arms up and down, works on the thyroid and parathyroid.
Next, Yogi Bhajan had his students lie down and lock their hands behind their neck, lift their left leg up two feet off the ground with the toes pointed and begin deep breathing. After one minute, he had them change sides, then repeat on the other side, change sides again and repeat.
After that, the Master had the young men and women in his class sit up in easy pose. Praanayam - breathing exercises - were next. First, with the right thumb on the right nostril, slowly and deeply inhaling and exhaling through the left nostril. After two minutes, they were instructed to place their right forefinger on their left nostril and continue the long and deep breath through the right nostril. The next variation called on them to make a "U" of the right thumb and forefinger, and begin to inhale through the right nostril and exhale through the left. After a time, they then reversed the flow and began Breath of Fire, inhaling through the left nostril and exhaling through the right. Then, to completely open the praanic channels, the students continued the Breath of Fire, but reversed the flow of the breath once more.
The students were young, energetic and strong-headed, but the Yogi had a remedy for their wanton energies: from the navel, open the heart! From sitting, he had them lie on their back with their legs straight, heels together, toes pointed forward, hands beside the thighs. So far, easy. Then the voice of the Yogi commanded with unmistakable love and authority, "Lift up your heels six inches, lift your head up to look at the toes, and begin Breath of Fire. Do your best, then rest and try again immediately." It was the hardest exercise many of them had ever imagined. Fifteen minutes.
At last, the Master instructed, "Pull the knees into the chest! Wrap your arms around your shins and put your nose between the knees. Begin Breath of Fire."
And after another while, Yogi Bhajan then told his yogis in training to sit up and bend forward, catch a hold of their toes and begin long, deep breathing.
Finally, the Master had them lie on their back and lift their heads up twelve inches, stretching their arms forward, parallel to the ground, with their feet remaining on the ground. Breath of Fire. This exercise, he instructed, would give perfect eyesight.
By this time, even the strongest in his class were exhausted from their exertions. At the perfect moment, Yogi Bhajan directed everyone to lie on their back as he began to play the gong. The gong resonated louder as the Master directed everyone to relax and lift their mental body three feet above their physical body and remain floating there.
Gone with stress. Gone with Earth. Gone with time. Gone with troubles. Gone, gone, gone with the cosmic roar of the gong. Gone.
All too soon, the Master summoned everyone back and told them to roll their hands and feet and to rock on their spines, then to sit in easy pose with their hands in gyan mudra and chant: "Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru" - There is One God. Truth is His Name. Great is His Indescribable Wisdom!
And so it was! And so it is!
Returning Home
From New Mexico and the Summer Solstice, the yoga students returned to their homes, scattered across the warring American nation, recharged and with a sense of common purpose. Many of them came to realize that it was their destiny to teach, to inspire, and to sacrifice so that a new age of peace might be born out of the old.
Encouraged by Yogi Bhajan, they dedicated themselves to the service of humanity and the Aquarian ideals of truth, justice and soulful well-being. Having learned a little, they set out to teach much to the many.
Sufi Sam
That summer, Yogi Bhajan made the acquaintance of a much-loved teacher of the Sufi way. Their first meeting was at a celebration in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco under unusual circumstances. As it happened, a man of Bangladeshi origin took some sort of exception to Yogi Bhajan. So much so, that he launched into an unbroken tirade of abuse at the top of his voice.
About a thousand people had just finished participating in “dances of universal peace,” led by Murshid Samuel L. Lewis, popularly called "Sufi Sam", when Yogi Bhajan had arrived with a following of students. No one knew what to make of the intruder. Harbhajan the Yogi, for his part, simply stood his ground, an impassive tower of calm resolve.
A student of the Sufi master managed to penetrate the crowd surrounding the Yogi and his maligner, to tell Yogi Bhajan, "Murshid Samuel L. Lewis is here and would like to greet you in love and unity."
This finally broke the impasse. Yogi Bhajan proceeded to walk across a field to where Murshid rose to greet him most affectionately. Yogi Bhajan responded in kind and introduced his haranguer as "Ahmaddiya.” The maligner was becoming increasingly upset, since his quarry was slipping away.
While it did not seem possible to silence the stranger, Murshid masterfully began to say some things about the grades of ego as taught in the Ahmaddiya school of Islamic thought.
The slanderer retorted, "Those things mean nothing to me!"
Murshid turned and asked permission from Yogi Bhajan to speak up for him and to take this man on directly. This did not please the Ahmaddiya very much, but Yogi Bhajan seemed to give his consent.
The man renewed his abusive attacks. At this, Murshid turned to Yogi Bhajan and said, "I didn't know how great you were!"
With each statement the man made, Murshid became more effusive in his praise, as if, instead of slander, the man were heaping praises on him.
The attack continued. Murshid's laudations became all the more exaggerated.
The maligner would not stop his stream of abuse. Murshid then dropped to his knees and bowed at the Yogi's feet, repeating "I didn't know how great you are!"
The abuser began to become progressively more befuddled. At last, in complete exasperation, he turned his scorn directly on Murshid. But by now he was so tongue-tied, all he could say scream was, "You are a jackass!"
Without a moment's hesitation, Murshid rose up on all fours and began to bray!
This proved to be more than their friend could take, as he turned and stomped away.
Murshid then stood up and took his place beside Yogi Bhajan, and they had a long discussion of mutual goals and mutual visions, trading stories on into the day. It was the beginning of a deep friendship that was to last until "Sufi Sam" left this temporary place in January of 1971.
The Pearl of Purposefulness
In those early days, a few students would come to the make-do yoga ashram at Jules's house to answer the phone. They would volunteer to do that job for four or five hour shifts.
Once a lady came to help out. After four hours, someone was supposed to replace her, but no one came by. Four more hours passed. Still no one came, and another four hours went by.
Finally, Yogi Bhajan looked at her and said, "Don't you think you are being over-detained? I don't think anybody's coming, so why don't you go?"
She looked back at him and said, "How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"You really work!"
"Yes, I do."
"How do you do it? I've been watching you for the last twelve hours. You are just constantly doing one thing or another!"
"I don't understand you. What did you think I was doing?"
"Answering telephone calls and doing this and that and the other thing. You do so many things around here that it's hard even to believe!"
"But it's not me that's doing it. I am doing nothing! I'm just a shell. But in this humble shell there lives a purpose. Imagine a Mexican jumping bean! In that bean, there's a little thing which makes it jump. It's exactly the same way for me. There's no difference."
Some years before, Yogi Bhajan had realized that a life without a purpose has hardly any more value than an empty shell. He had come to know that the spirit of service and dedication is to a human life what a priceless pearl is to an ordinary oyster. Without that precious pearl, the oyster is just another piece of flesh in a shell. It has no special use and is of no particular value.
With his tireless sense of mission and personal care and attention to the many details of his craft, the Master was all the while remembering the exquisite pearl of purposefulness.
Making the Festival
Back in New Mexico, the Hog Farmers received $1,700 from the festival organizers to gather as many people as possible and get them to the festival site in upstate New York. In all, eighty-five Hog Farmers, Jook Savages, New Buffalo people, and fifteen Hopis set out to the appointed destination in upper New York state. Some drove in buses packed with supplies. The rest gathered a few days later at the Albuquerque International Airport and boarded a special American Airlines jet to New York's Kennedy Airport.
From the airport, Tom and Lisa Law and the rest of the crew were whisked off to a languid resort on White Lake, which was stirring with business for a change. There, they connected with those who had come by bus, who by now had assembled a kitchen to feed them all.
There was nine days left to assemble the free stage, medical tents, free-food kitchen, serving booths, information tents, and special tents for those needing respite from too many people, too much rain, too much stimulation. It was going to belike Solstice, only bigger and louder - a lot louder.
While most of the crew set to work assembling the site, Lisa Law, six months pregnant with her second child, set off for New York City, with a truck and a driver to pick up supplies for the free kitchen. On her shopping list were big, stainless steel bowls and pots, cleavers and a giant onion cutter, 1,200 pounds of bulgar wheat and rolled oats, cases of currants and wheat germ, kegs of soy sauce and honey, and 130,000 paper plates and spoons and forks. Lisa also picked up a jade Buddha in Chinatown "for good luck and to keep the kitchen crew happy and healthy and blessed."
Onion Juice Purifies the Blood
Wherever he went, Yogi Bhajan sought out people known or claimed to be spiritual. This led him to meet with Swami Satchidanda in Malibu, California. His Hindu friend was fourteen years older. He had been in America teaching yoga since being invited by pop artist Peter Max in 1966. The Swami was on his way to inaugurate the festival in New York state. No doubt, the two yogis compared notes on the strange customs of the natives.
Strange as they were, Yogi Bhajan did his best to appreciate their customs and even their lingo. Sometimes he would himself say something was "far out." He learned the meaning of "spaced out" and "laying a trip" and a lot of other hippie slang, and he used it too. It helped bridge the culture gap, the generation gap between them.
Some of the students had no inhibitions at all. After all, Yogi Bhajan lived among them and hardly made any distinctions. To many longhairs, the Master was just the "cool cat." When there were picnics, they were known to pick food from Yogi Bhajan's plate without a second thought. As far as they were concerned, he was simply one of them.
Yogi Bhajan encouraged his students to rise bright and early each day. "Early to bed and early to rise..." he would say. His basic prescription for self-liberation was to rise two and a half hours before sunrise and chant "Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru" - There is One God. Truth is His Name. Great is His Indescribable Wisdom!"
Sometimes he had his students sing his Guru's Words, "Jis neech ko koee na jaaneh, Naam japat oho chau kunt maaneh - O that mean, mean man, he sins and sins again and again, but if he chants the Name of the Lord, the four corners of the world will bow down to him!"
Yogi Bhajan advised his yoga students of the need of the times. He reminded them of the fate of previous civilizations consumed by the use of intoxicants. India had been ruined by marijuana. China had been laid waste by opium. Alcohol had wrecked the great Roman empire. Peyote had spoiled the civilization of the pharaohs. America, still in its infancy, had all four.
One afternoon, while Yogi Bhajan was visiting at Shakti Parwha Kaur's West Hollywood apartment, she noticed him suddenly close his eyes and draw deep within. After a couple of minutes silence, the phone rang. It was Tom Law from the Woodstock festival. There was a problem. Someone had put LSD in the drinking water and not everyone was having a nice trip.
The Yogi knew just what to do: Massage onion juice on the soles of the feet until they come down from their trip. Bitter onion juice serves to purify the blood.
American Dreams
Yogi Bhajan was a discerning student of the human condition. Again and again, he found himself amazed by the social conventions of California society. In the India he had known, people cherished long-term, nurturing relationships. They had families and belonged to communities. Here, he saw that many Americans lived alone. Families in California's trendy social scene were sadly riven by separation and divorce.
Yogi Bhajan recognized that many of the people he met were also driven by a blinding, impersonal ambition. Relationships, so far as they existed, were often mutually exploitative.
Yogi Bhajan went to the movies. There, he saw the cutting edge of America's social drama, with its full complement of gratuitous sex and violence. On the streets of Los Angeles, he marvelled at the gaudy, bubble-like quality of the American dream gone sour: its endless supermarkets and stretch limousines, its vast car parks and spiralling freeways, its smoky bars and shiny skyscrapers, its topless clubs, pornography, casual sex and bottomless morality.
At the ‘Bird’s Nest’
In Orlando, Florida, John Twombly was preparing for a visit of his teacher, Yogi Bhajan, whom he had met at a music festival. Yogi Bhajan was to come to Florida for the first time to teach some kundalini yoga classes. There was a problem however. John was living with his parents still, and his parents did not appreciate his new, yogic lifestyle. At dinner with his students, Diane and Harry Bird, it was decided that it would be best if Yogi Bhajan stayed at their house. A few days later, it was agreed that Yogi Bhajan and his tour secretary, together with John, would be staying at the Bird’s comfortable house on Oakmont Lane.
Wherever Yogi Bhajan went, his students were also sure to turn up. So it was that a bus dubbed “Road Hog” arrived with members of the Hog Farm commune. A couple of dozen other guests also arrived from here and there. As Yogi Bhajan did not have a regular schedule in those days, over the several days he stayed, he spent much of the time between classes on the living room couch and visiting with anyone who was around.
Harry and Diane provided what hospitality they could. As there were only three bedrooms, the Birds and their two young children cozied up in one, while their special house guest slept in another and his tour secretary on the floor. The Hog Farmers stayed in bunks in their Road Hog, while the twenty-odd others slept wherever they could, side by side throughout the house, on the back porch and the pool deck.
Mornings, the swimming pool was used for bathing. Several holes were dug with shovels to serve as latrines, as there was only one toilet in the house and it ended up being plugged. Someone, wanting to be a good yogi guest, had tried unsuccessfully to flush their bag, or bags, of drugs down the drain.
On another occasion, Yogi Bhajan was invited to teach in Miami. In those days, whenever he received a paid fare, Yogi Bhajan would travel just about anywhere to teach classes. When he and his tour secretary arrived in Miami, they were very surprised to find their hostess making inappropriate advances. When Yogi Bhajan told her that he was only interested in teaching, their hostess insisted they get out of her vehicle, then sped away, leaving them stranded at the roadside. Fortunately, the two of them had just enough money for a bus ticket to Orlando, where Harry picked the weary travellers up from the bus station for a few days of rest with the Bird family, which the Master had dubbed the “Bird’s Nest.”
Old Friends Lost
In those days, Harbhajan Singh, the Yogi, saw little of his old friends from India, now living in Los Angeles. They wondered what he was doing with all those young Americans. Rumours back in Delhi were not any more inspiring.
What was the former customs inspector up to? The status-conscious immigrant community considered their old friend had no qualifications for success in their adopted homeland. Why, he had no job, no car - Harbhajan Singh couldn't even drive! What was he doing? Had he lost his mind? To their minds, Harbhajan Singh's prospects looked very bleak indeed.
The Bait
The ashram at 9006 Phyllis Avenue in LA, was a hive of activity with people working, people visiting, and people just passing by. The Master took inspiration from the dollar bill with its motto: "In God We Trust" – but dollar bills were not in abundance. Yogi Bhajan and a few volunteers who did the correspondence and other office work, took turns using a well-worn blanket to catch a couple of hours sleep. They affectionately called it the "holy blanket."
The kitchen of the Phyllis Ashram could be a very busy place indeed. Daily, Ganga engaged in the alchemy of making something from nothing to feed the guests. The need for groceries was so great that one devoted student sold her cherished record collection to stock the kitchen with food.
Ganga had once complained to Yogi Bhajan that she would have preferred to leave the kitchen, wear a pretty nice dress, and join the guests in the living room. He advised her that if she just chanted and cooked and did the dishes, she would wash her karmas away. And that is what Ganga did.
The people who came to see Yogi Bhajan would come with all sorts of motivations. Some wanted guidance. Some wanted gratification. Some were confused and didn't really know what they wanted. And then, there were "yogi hunters" who also wanted his time and attention.
On one occasion, Yogi Bhajan interrupted a woman who had come with a proposition for him, "I would like to ask you a question."
She said, "What?"
He replied, "Are you a hooker?"
"Huh? How can you say that?"
"I don't know what it means to you, but I am just asking in simple English… I speak English English. I am not American."
"What do you mean by 'hooker'?"
"You know the fish? You take the fish, you take the reel and you put that hook? And one who puts that hook is called "hooker."
"Well, in this country, they call a prostitute a ‘hooker.’”
"No, you are not a prostitute! Prostitutes are very honorable, so you are not a prostitute. A prostitute is honorable. I have all respect for a prostitute. You know, they sell themselves, they charge the money, they give you in return, and that's it. It's a business. They sell their body. You give them money. It's very 'unfairly fair' I call it.
“But these hookers, God knows where they first are going to stick that thing into you, and then how long you are going to do like that, you know. You know what I mean? And when are they going to put you in a bag and how you are going to be treated? I mean, you can't predict anything! By 'hooker,' exactly I mean that."
"Do you know how many million dollars I want to give to you.?"
"I definitely know that I am a man in a very shallow pond, okay? But I am not willing to take your bait."
Yogi Bhajan was a learned man. In his learning, he was very well aware that the greatest consciousness and divinity and morality and strength and power of a man is knowing the bait. An ordinary man thinks he has the power to bite, not knowing that once he bites he may never bite again. A yogi, therefore, knows he should never bite. He should read between the lines and find the bait... and let it stink.
The ‘House of Shiva’
Yogi Bhajan met a young lady outside the Phyllis Ashram. It was an unusually quiet day. The student who usually came to answer the phone and do the secretarial work was dozing, and there was no one around.
Yogi Bhajan recognized the woman. He had seen her coming and going from one of the houses across the street. They introduced themselves. She said she worked for a company that arranged hospitality and accommodations for Hollywood's many actors and performers. It sounded like a reasonable occupation.
The lady invited her yogi neighbour to visit across the street where she worked. Inside were apartments, where apparently the denizens of the Hollywood scene might spend a night or catch a few hours rest between shootings. It was clean and tidy. It also looked fairly ordinary from the outside.
Everything seemed reasonable enough. Then, this hospitable woman asked, "Do you worship Shiva, in India I mean?"
"Many people worship Shiva. He is a God of gods."
"I mean how do people worship Shiva?"
"People chant mantras. They practise yoga. They bring garlands to the temple. People have many ways of dedicating themselves to Lord Shiva in their love and meditation."
"You know, many of our clients are really into Shiva. We have a room in the house next door which we call our "pooja" room. Would you like to see?"
It seemed a little odd. Shiva, the great ascetic, with devotees in this harem of Western superficiality.
But when Yogi Bhajan saw the room, he began to understand. The pooja room was adorned with a large image of the dancing Shiva and a solid Shiva "lingam.” There were flowers too, and candles, and many other, smaller lingams. These, his hostess informed Yogi Bhajan had been formed with plaster of Paris from the members of her clientele. She named some of them. They were all well-known on the American entertainment scene.
Since the young woman had first mentioned the name of Shiva, Yogi Bhajan had sensed they was something terribly wrong here, and when later on his hostess directed her oddly familiar gaze into his, he recognized that it had become rather late, and that he had better be returning to his work at the ashram, in the name of Shiva, for the sake of the Indian God's reputation, and for the sake of this and every fallen angel.
Teacher and Students
About this time, Jules arranged for the garage with its antiques to be renovated, the better to serve as a place for Yogi Bhajan's classes. Classes were bustling. About eighty students regularly came out for the evening class. Some also came for the class in the morning.
Shakti Parwha Kaur would drop into the Phyllis Ashram every day from her morning job at the Beverly Wiltshire Hotel coffee shop. She was the only member of the growing family with a regular job at that point. Shakti supported the ashram in more ways than one.
Of course, Yogi Bhajan had his own way of showing concern. One day, he told his student not to park her car in front of her Santa Monica apartment. Instead, Shakti moved it and parked in front of the ashram, half a block away. The next day, when Shakti looked out into the street in front of her home, she found her neighbour's car demolished exactly where her car would have been.
Another time, Shakti scalded her foot in a cup of hot tea. Yogi Bhajan sent a woman student over and told her to put salve on it. After spending a fitful night, Shakti awoke to find her foot as good as new.
"I can't believe it!" she exclaimed all that day. By late afternoon, the foot was as red and ornery as the night before. Such, apparently, was the power of disbelief!
In those days, there was a definite push to empower and rebuild from within these drop-outs from the American nightmare. Yogi Bhajan's often repeated formula was "Sadhana, Aradhana, Prabhupati" - Self-Mastery through self-discipline. The great mantra of the Aquarian Age, was "Keep up!" he told his students. "Keep up and you will be kept up!" he would say with a fierce smile.
The Master declared, "I have not come to gather disciples. I have come to create teachers ten times greater than myself!" He also told them, "If you want to know a thing, read that. If you want to understand a thing, write that. If you want to master a thing, teach that!" By October, students had been sent to establish ashrams in Berkeley, Washington, D.C. and Orlando, Florida.
In early December, Yogi Bhajan and his tour secretary went to Washington, D.C., his second visit there, this time to support the founding of an Ashram at 1704 Q Street NW.
When a reporter from a local paper came to cover the event, the Master instructed him, "God is vibration. The divinity in you is in control of the breath... Kundalini means to uncoil the coiled energy within a human being which will raise his consciousness so a person will not have any negativity."
Yogi Bhajan kept in touch with his teachers, wherever they were, and in more ways than one. On one occasion, he was heard to pause in the middle of a class to caution a student-teacher, "No John, not this way!"
At that time, John Twombly was teaching a yoga class thousands of miles away in Florida.
Tratakam Yoga
In his classes, Yogi Bhajan gave exercises for all different purposes: to strengthen, to heal, to remedy, to balance. Tratakam yoga is a branch of yoga which focuses on the eyes. Traditionally, yogis have gazed at the early phase of the sun’s rise on the horizon to strengthen their vision. Yogis have also meditated on the flame of candle, the tip of their nose, the point between their eyebrows, and a picture of their spiritual teacher.
Over the first months of the Master’s teaching, he gave numerous exercises for good eyesight. Yogi Bhajan spoke of the importance of taking care of the eyes and hinted at a relationship between eyesight and personality.
Eventually, Yogi Bhajan introduced his students to a simple black and white photo of himself to gaze on in order to enter a meditative state. About it, he said, “Not all pictures do anything. However weird that particular picture is – sometimes you don’t like it – but that’s the only picture that works. All other pictures can do nothing. That’s the only one. What should I do? Now, I know some people complain to me, ‘Yogiji, your other pictures are more beautiful,’ but I say, ‘I can’t help it. Sometimes non-beautiful things are required too.’”
The Master of Coax
Yogi Bhajan was a true "fisher of men" – a teacher finding his students, a master recognizing, building and inspiring mastery often where none else could see it. Even his best students could be less than willing to embrace their spiritual destiny.
Michael Fowlis was a graduate student in mathematics at the University of California. For some time, Michael had been dreaming he was going to meet someone special, someone that would change his life. But feeling quite comfortable with his life and not wishing to change a thing, Michael had virtually locked himself in his office and refused to go out.
That was until a student came in and gave Michael a newspaper with a picture of Yogi Bhajan indicating he would give a lecture on kundalini yoga just across the street in half an hour. This was too much of a coincidence to let go by. Michael finally relented and left his office to take in the class.
Michael Fowlis had already learned hatha yoga and thought he was becoming very accomplished with his poses. He had also learned to meditate already. Lastly, Michael considered himself to be a very good academic. In all events, Michael thought he would be sure to come up with some good questions to ask the yogi after the lecture. Though he had never learned anything about kundalini yoga, he went to the class feeling quite self-assured.
The experience with the yogi turned out to be much more engaging, much more inspiring, and entirely different from anything Michael had ever done. He sensed a new relationship to his body, to energy, and to the joy of life itself. Michael loved the feeling and it loved him back.
After the class, he went before Yogi Bhajan to ask some intelligent questions he had thought of. Michael would never have a chance to ask those questions.
The Master leveled his student with a barrage of accusation, "You idiot, you're late! I've been coming out here for three months. I hate the smog. I don't like traveling. Why are you such a non-intuitive klutz that you didn't show up on time? Look, I don't have time to fool around with your nonsense! Are you coming with me or not?"
For a few moments, Michael stood aghast before this heavily accented yogi. Then, his body relaxed. A far-off memory arose and began penetrating his conscious awareness. "This is my teacher," it said, "I've been with him for lifetimes." As the fog lifted in his brain, Michael's tongue became animated with that dawning realization. It replied, "Uhh, yeah."
"Okay, come. Have a Coke!" said the Master.
"I don't drink Cokes."
"You do now."
Michael Fowlis had just found his spiritual teacher. The next day, he was teaching his first kundalini yoga class.
The 366th Day
On January 6th, 1970, Yogi Bhajan had entered his second year of teaching kundalini yoga in America. The date passed uneventfully, which was actually a relief to the Yoga Master. He had been warned there was a curse on anyone who openly shared the sacred, and till then secret, technology of kundalini yoga. Whoever defied the restriction was supposed to die before the coming of the second year.
On his 366th day of teaching, Yogi Bhajan remarked to his student, Gerry Pond, "I knew that was a load of nonsense. I am who I am, and that is that!"
There had been no curse, or if there had been, it had proven ineffectual in the face of the love and devotion of this special yogi.
Sunday Evenings
Lawton Bozeman had grown up in Orlando, Florida and was almost nineteen. He had met Yogi Bhajan in Orlando, then made his way to Los Angeles in January of 1970 to connect with the source of the teachings.
Lawton took a train to Phoenix. Then his hitch-hiking luck served him well. Arriving in Los Angeles at 11 p.m., with no idea where he was, the driver dropped him just two blocks from the Phyllis Ashram.
Once there, Lawton settled into the rigorous daily routine that had evolved. It started each morning, rising at 2:30 am for a shower and an hour of kundalini yoga, followed by two and a half hours of the "long" chant: Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru till daybreak. Then there would be a morning class and an evening class, with occasional yoga through the day, just for fun.
During one memorable class, Yogi Bhajan directed everyone to do stretch pose, the excruciating exercise done lying on the back with the feet just six inches off the floor, then casually left the room of struggling students to greet and converse with the mailman at the front door.
Sunday evenings were special occasions for music, food and celebration, when guitars would come out and students would remain after until well after class. Lawton and Gerry Pond others would open their musical hearts, creating all kinds of Sat Nam tunes and music - rocking, rolling, joyful and inspiring.
When classes were not going on, a core of volunteers at the Ashram – Mark Lamm, Craig and Diana Schnurr – was busy compiling community news, exercises, recipes, teachings, stories of Guru Nanak, wisdom from the Guru, quotes from Yogi Bhajan, and organic gardening information for a newsletter. Their inspired creation was fittingly called "Beads of Truth," each issue a bead on a string of growing self-awareness.
Beautifully illustrated and designed, and starting with just eight pages, a new issue was mailed out each month to inform and inspire Kundalini Yogis across America.
Seeing the Unseen
Alan Weiss was a good observer. The young man was particularly interested in watching Yogi Bhajan, his teacher, and his mysterious ways. Weiss also had an interest in the ways of the human body which would one day lead him to become an accomplished cardiologist.
It came to Alan’s awareness that Yogi Bhajan had phoned a member of the Los Angeles community and told her she was pregnant, an observation she denied, saying it was impossible since she had had her period a week earlier. After a passage of time, it turned out that what the Master had said had been true.
After seeing Yogi Bhajan make this kind of observation many times, Alan approached the Master and asked how he did it. Yogi Bhajan explained that when he sees two auras in one body, he knows there is a pregnancy.
“Living Truth”
Twice a day, Yogi Bhajan would challenge his students at the Phyllis Ashram with inspiring stories, as well as hard truths and unpleasant wisdom, so they might grow in grace and glory as spiritual teachers.
It is a great privilege to understand the life, but every understanding has to be lived, and the greatest understanding is that every life has to be lived very normally, but has to be lived in higher consciousness.
It is a kind of joke that we run on a path to know the truth. The reality is that we all are aware of it. None is unaware about truth, but to live up to the truth by our own self-projection is what is normally difficult for us. Talking on truth, having a library on it is all an easy thing, but molding yourself a way of life where you live with such a standard that there should be no ego that you are a different being than a normal human being, that's a very important point.
We find a little bit of truth and then start living like it is really something. Then we find a little bit more truth, then we raise our chair up there. We do not live like normal beings, and that is where our weakness lies, and that is where our progress stops completely. Each one of us has to acquire the maximum of the light around us, but he has to live as a more humble being than the beings around him. That will give him a push to reach the higher consciousness.
By knowing yoga postures, what can you do? I have got two albums and we got them snapped in one hour, and I went through like a snake and did all one hundred and eight postures. There it is, but what does that mean?
Does it mean that I have just become God, that I am one with God, and that I have got total fulfillment of mind and nothing wrong can happen to me? I know all the kriyas. Does that mean that I am free from karma? I have mastery over all praanayam. Is that a surety that now the god of death can't come near me? Nothing. I have to keep myself always guarded against my own weakness and I have to live more humbly, lest I may become trapped in my own ego.
We have written letters to all teachers, we have told them that kundalini yoga is a practical thing, it is a knowledge of the human beings. It is not a talking matter.
By these exercises, what can be accomplished in one thousand years, does get accomplished in one thousand minutes. The ratio is very fast. What happens normally to us is when we achieve something little, we go crazy. We think we are great, then we fall in the trap of different things. We get involved in certain things, thinking that is the destination, but that is not. Many more things are on the way…
Remember one thing. I don't want to bug you on this issue, but if up to this day you have never learned to respect yourself, forget it! You're not going to reach any God, whatever you say. You will always be run by the cycle of time. A man who does not know what assessment he has of himself and how great he is, and what he is, what do you mean?
What about the Supreme Lord in you who is the light within yourself? The beauty, the quietness, the calmness can be achieved on the face of that grace which you can achieve as the outcome which they call God's light. It only comes when one learns to meditate on himself and feel the flow of the divine light within himself.
These yoga sutras and yoga are not a joke. It is not an art to convert a Christian into Hinduism. It is a science and a factual realization for the uplift and for the awareness of the man. We are not here to convert people or to do that kind of stuff. There are already so many religions, there's no fun in making twenty more.
Purifying yourself will give you a help. Purifying yourself will give you a happiness. By meditating on yourself, you will be rid of greed and lust. Your behavior will become sweet and you will trust others, and others will trust you. And all you have to do is you have to meditate on yourself. You have to consider yourself as a pure channel of the Universal Spirit.
Now what trip is this? Have I said, Do this, do that…?
No mantra. Nothing of the sort. Simply sit down calmly and bring your mind energy on one point: that you are a pure channel. It may not happen in the very first moment, but you keep on doing it. It is your sadhana, the beej mantra, Sat Nam, I am Truth, I am Truth, I am Truth.
Those people who condemn themselves are the worst people. When God has made you as his projection, and you - because you have been given a free will - vibrate negative toward you, do you think you do a favor toward him? Are you aware of that?
And now sit down this morning and think how many times you have condemned yourself. By condemning yourself, you are condemning God.
You might not have chanted that much. By thinking, "I am this, I am that..." you don't do anything but invite sickness.
The best way to be clean and pure is to meditate on the self constantly and feel that you are very pure and you are a channel of the Creator. Do it for three days and see what result you will find. See what beauty will come to your face...
May the longtime sun shine upon you, all love surround you, and the pure light within you guide your way on... Saaaaaaat Nam
May your eye see the pure light of God, your ear hear nothing but the name of God, your tongue speak nothing but the glory of God. Then, if you are not a living god, there is no God! Sat Nam.
The Darkness Before the Dawn
"It's been a long time comin'.
It's gonna be a long time gone.
And it appears to be a long,
Appears to be a long,
Appears to be a long
Time, yes, a long, long, long, long time before the dawn…"
(from: A Long Time Gone [1969] by David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Graham Nash and Neil Young)
The Yogi Bhajan story simply cannot be told without referring to the world in which he lived. Ganga was probably not the only one who saw in "the Yogi" the answer to the prayers of a generation, but the challenge for us now, fifty years later, is to comprehend the spirit and substance of those times. Much of what happened then may be difficult for us today, in our current world of hyper-connectivity and point-and-click activism, to believe.
The euphoria of the Woodstock festival was not to last very long. While the album and the movie of the event were being put together, history continued on its unswerving course. Sometimes it marched to drums of war, sometimes to the chants of protestors, sometimes as a dirge to the dead… marching, ever marching on.
This was America at war, and to a large extent, it was at war with itself. It was Yogi Bhajan's gift to be able to see this and, day by day, to minister to its casualties, to garner new volunteers, and to train his gentle forces for a long march toward peace, freedom and humanity.
War was breaking out all over. The palpable frustration of the young and the bold boiled over into the streets. In Chicago, began a show trial of some of the younger generation's most inspired and provocative political activists. Outside the court, demonstrations grew, and on October 8, three hundred young people outfitted with helmets, goggles, cushioned jackets, chains, pipes, and clubs stunned the country by smashing cars and windows in the wealthy Gold Coast neighborhood, charging right into a formation of two thousand riot police.
By the next weekend, hundreds of thousands of the young at heart peacefully marched on Washington and campuses and state capitols across the nation demonstrating their opposition to the government's undeclared war across the sea in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. In November, a group of American Indian activists struck a blow against the empire by seizing and holding the rocky island of Alcatraz, formerly a federal prison, off the California coast. It was a strike for Red Power, the growing movement for justice for America’s indigenous peoples. Three days later, a reporter broke the story of the massacre of 109 civilians by scared and stupefied American troops in the Vietnamese village of My Lai two months earlier. Come December, fourteen Chicago police took their revenge on the fearless and proud Black Panthers by raiding an apartment and shooting dead two members while they slept.
Outside of sanctuaries where health, happiness and holiness were the regimen of the day, even the flower children were losing their innocence. Too many drugs, too many fake hippies, too much hippy capitalism were grating the tender psyches of psychedelic crowd. And then there were the bad hippies. Before Woodstock was over, a coven of drug-crazed killers had been arrested for the widely-publicized murders of a pregnant actress and several others at their rural California digs.
On December 6, came the great Anti-Woodstock: the Altamont Free Concert, near San Francisco. Instead of the Hog Farmers, the organizers enlisted the infamous Hell's Angels biker gang to help at the festival. The event was full of bad vibes from the beginning, and did not end without a near riot of the hundreds of thousands who had come out, and the Angels’ murder of a young spectator while the Rolling Stones hooted the dark lyrics of "Sympathy for the Devil" into the night.
For many, John Lennon and Yoko Ono served as voices of reason in that tumultuous time. Their days of bedding in for peace at hotel rooms in Amsterdam and Montreal back in June had struck an incredulous chord around the world. Why indeed couldn't people just make love, not war? At year's end, they hired billboards around the world to say: "War Is Over If You Want It – Happy Christmas from John and Yoko." Lennon could be innocent and sweet, but was also capable of bitter and world-weary, as in "Working Class Hero," Lennon's hit from the fall. His big hit, apart from the Beatles, was "Instant Karma."
Things moved quickly. A Senator from Wisconsin called on students to fight environmental degradation with the same intensity that they opposed war. The first "Earth Day" was scheduled for April 22, 1970, and preparations were going well. Meanwhile, three hundred hard-core activists held a council in Flint, Michigan and decided to continue their efforts to fight “the System” from underground. The FBI's most wanted list would soon be expanded from "Ten Most Wanted" to Sixteen. Half were wanted by the police for crimes against the state. Army recruiting centers, government buildings and banks were favored targets for destruction. According to a U.S. Department of Treasury survey, in 1970, every week saw an average of forty-two politically motivated bombings or acts of arson.
Outside the court houses, the intergenerational war in America was partly a war of symbols. To be young with hair over your ears would mark you for suspicion from the police if you happened to be a male. In the U.S. South, it might put you put in jail with a free haircut. If you ate granola, it was a dead giveaway that you also smoked pot. Granola was hippie food, and hippies smoked pot. In those days, it was irreversible logic and usually true. Hippies ate other things too: sprouts and wheat germ, yogurt and whole wheat bread, brown rice and tamari, tofu and tahini. That the foods were healthy was one thing. That they challenged the status quo made them insurrectionary and potentially dangerous.
The revolution had its own music. The soft, plaintive sounds of the mid-1960s, with the likes of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez and Peter-Paul-and-Mary and The Beatles, was mixed with the more strident sounds of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, the Who, the Rolling Stones, Crosby-Stills-Nash-and-Young and the MC5. Then there was also Ravi Shankar, in a class of his own.
Hippie reading encompassed much that was practical and quite a lot that was purely visionary. The Whole Earth Catalogue, first issued in 1968, provided all the information you ever needed to set up a homestead and survive on your own. The lilting verses of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet appealed to romantics. Acidheads liked The Politics of Ecstasy by Timothy Leary, who proclaimed LSD to be the avatar of our times. Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five was a favorite of many for its take on the absurdity of war. Political radicals preferred Abby Hoffman’s Steal This Book!
Broadcast media also played a role. Dissenting views and appearances were mostly excluded from the television networks, excepting when CBS's news anchor Walter Cronkite would offer the kids a sympathetic word or when, once a week on select stations, the long-haired musical group, The Monkees would appear on their popular show. Mostly it was on FM radio that you would hear the longhair music, the serious stuff, the longer cuts. Shorter three-minute versions aired on AM.
Where the hippies really flourished was in print. Hundreds of weekly journals opened up with the Liberation News Service, a radical Reuters, linking them all together. Out West, there was the Los Angeles Free Press, the San Francisco Oracle and the Berkeley Barb. Atlanta had The Great Speckled Bird, Austin its Rag, and there was the Chicago Seed, and the Village Voice in Greenwich Village. Even Easley, South Carolina had its Aquarian Times. Up north, there was Vancouver's Georgia Straight, Prairie Fire in Regina, the Octopus in Ottawa and the Harbinger in Toronto. Over in Europe, Amsterdam had its Om and London its Oz, and there were many, many others.
People created the fervent, the movement, the demonstrations, the ashrams, the yoga classes, the free schools, the free concerts, the free kitchens – and the underground media reported it, mythologized it, and nurtured it by giving it other people's attention.
The Peace-Giving Name
It is a quantum age realization that nothing exists in isolation. Even for those of Yogi Bhajan's students who immersed themselves completely in their new lifestyle, violence from outside occasionally intruded on their peaceful reality.
In April 1970, when a gathering of the Master's devotees assembled at the arrivals terminal of the Washington airport, chanting softly in anticipation of his coming, the airport police thought they were demonstrators and forced them to leave.
Once the Master arrived, he stayed for a week, teaching classes and encouraging the local Kundalini Yogis in their efforts. Yogi Bhajan also took time to visit with a Congressmen, assuring him that not all America's longhaired young were violent insurrectionists.
On a quiet Tuesday evening, Yogi Bhajan and his students found their way to a small lecture room at the American University. The Master delivered a talk on the power of Sat Nam and the dawning age of heightened awareness. But just as he finished his presentation and the questions drew to a close, the sound of shattering glass resonated up the hallway.
There, in the main auditorium, anarchist Jerry Rubin had just given a talk of his own, inciting his student audience to destroy the System, beginning with the very building they were in. There was a distinct smell of smoke as the rioters torched the place.
In the room with the Master, someone picked up a guitar and the peaceful Yogis spontaneously began chanting to ride out the pandemonium. They continued and continued, until police and firemen arrived to guide them safely outside. The evening provided everyone with a poignant reminder of the polarised state of the American union – and the remedy of chanting the Name.
Sikh Vows
Lawton Boseman and Richard Lasser lived together and regularly took Yogi Bhajan's classes. It was April 19, celebrated as Baisakhi Day, and the two of them were going to the Sikh Study Circle on Vermont Avenue. Yogi Bhajan had told them it was a special day, and they were going to go see what it was all about.
As they made their way, Richard told Lawton that he was going to become a Sikh that day.
"Why are you going to do that?" asked Lawton.
"Because my teacher is a Sikh and I want to be like him," replied his friend.
"Okay, I'll do it too."
When Lawton and Richard arrived at the Sikh Study Circle, they announced their intention to the people they found there. These Sikhs from India had never before seen a non-Sikh who wanted to become a Sikh. They were stumped. What should they do? One of them phoned to ask Yogi Bhajan what he thought should be done. He advised them that all they needed to do was simply give these young people to Siri Guru Granth Sahib. There was no need to tell them anything. The young men would know what they needed to do.
A simple ceremony was improvised. Two men from the congregation graciously offered the steel karas from their wrists so that these new Sikhs might have them to wear. The youths stood before the Guru and the congregation.
In front of the assembled Sikhs, most of whom had cut their hair and shaven their beards in an effort to "Americanize,” the president spoke, somewhat awkwardly, to the two sparkly-eyed Americans, "Well, you've got the beard and the turban. I guess you know what to do."
The Perfect Turban
There might be a great deal of pride among these new Sikhs. There could also be light-hearted comedic moments.
One Sikh said to the other, "Yogi Bhajan showed me how to tie a turban."
The other said, "Yeah?'
The first Sikh, "Yes, and I tied it myself and it's perfect."
For a moment, it was perfect, but perhaps the ego of the wearer spoiled the perfect alignment of the folds and creases of the turban because just at that moment, the frontal layer of the turban unravelled and fell comically from the crown and into the face of the first Sikh – to the quiet delight and amusement of the other.
To San Francisco
A good day's drive north of Los Angeles lay San Francisco, hub of the alternative culture. By 1970, that culture had peaked and was in sordid decline, but what a ride it had been! In 1964, the nearby University of California at Berkeley had served as the lively center of the student-driven Free Speech Movement. The summer of 1967 was dubbed “the summer of love." Psychedelics were pure and cheap then, and the innocent and idealistic were arriving in droves, sometimes with flowers in their hair. This was the time of Allen Ginsberg and Richard Brautigan, poetry in the parks, and psychedelic Human Be-ins.
San Francisco was politically aware and decidedly dissident. The city rivalled New York for the size of its peace marches. Nearby Oakland was the headquarters of the Black Panther party. Berkeley was a constant hotbed of discontent.
Buddhists and Sufis, hippies and Alan Watts configured the alternative spiritual landscape of the city of the Golden Gate Bridge. The music could be hard and loud or just gently psychedelic. This was the home the Fillmore Auditorium, the biggest rock palace in the world, but by now, especially after the Altamont festival disaster, things were going down. There was more drugs and less art, less free-spirited expressionism and more party line. God - the joyful Trickster - was on the run.
The day after Earth Day, Yogi Bhajan set out north to give a week of classes in San Francisco, at the University of California at Berkeley and the Sausalito Community Center. He was hosted there by Steve and Leigh Samuels, his teachers in the Bay area, whom he had just married at the previous Summer Solstice in New Mexico. As well as giving classes, Yogi Bhajan performed another wedding during his tour.
In Yogi Bhajan's classes, he covered laya yoga, mantra yoga, mool bandh and maha bandh, the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, and gave vigorous exercises for transmuting sexual energy. Yogi Bhajan counselled his student teachers against fanaticism and judging others. He also encouraged them to think before speaking and to be humble. These are some of the other things the Master said:
"Sadhana is never do what is ‘right for you.’ Always do what is right…
"I fully understand people do not like discipline and everyone wants something else, but out of the lot, maybe somebody can make it. Teaching en masse is so that some few may come forward and be the leaders of the public when the hard times come…
"When an individual doesn't keep up their sadhana, the teacher suffers. That is the reason why others do not teach kundalini yoga. The teacher becomes the center of an energy complex and he pays the toll for the fault of his students…
"If you are ever to hold yourself back from negative acts, do it while you are young. What credit goes to the aged toothless wolf who cries out that he is a vegetarian now?"
“Seven Centers, Three Methods”
As Yogi Bhajan taught – prolifically – others recorded and transcribed his notes to share with others. Sometimes they would be published and sent around in the 3HO newsletter.
Over the years, Yogi Bhajan would refine his message and change his emphasis, but from early on he was a straight-talking teacher who would brook no nonsense. If his English wasn't flowery, his words carried weight. And that is why they were so cherished.
There are six nerve centers in the body. They are all in the spine. They each have a projected center, which are: first is in the rectum, second projected center is the sex organ. Third is where rectum and sex organ you pull. That joint is the third center of consciousness. Fourth is the center of the two nipples. Fifth is the neck. Sixth is when between the two eyes you draw a triangle.
What a man is? Do these centers have some co-relationship with the man? Yes. A person whose consciousness dwells in the rectum is a faggot or a lesbian. He will never have a straight sex relationship.
A person whose center of consciousness is the second center of consciousness, he will be a sex maniac and a sadist. He will enjoy giving pain in sex.
Third center of consciousness is the third point. We call it the mool bandh. Here that person can't overcome his greediness, he may try his level best. Somehow he will like to get others' things. They may be useful to him or not. No problem.
Fourth center of consciousness is the heart center of consciousness where equality, service, love starts.
Fifth center of consciousness where nipples and throat form a triangle, a man gets knowledge. He may talk – his words may not be a flowery English – but words will have that heaviness of consciousness they will go straight into the heart.
Sixth center of consciousness is man can know around him everything. He may use it or not. Because the pituitary gland gives the greatest intuition, that man can foresee into the time, and what he sees is the correct thing.
The last center of consciousness, which is the highest center, is a person becomes most humble. Extreme humility if you will find in a man, his center of consciousness is highest center because his ego becomes universal ego. Then that person has no pain and no pleasure. What he says, happens. And that is the highest center of consciousness.
With long, deep meditation, one can first know where his consciousness is and it can be seen and judged by assessment how my environments are and what is the most thing I need in my life. One can know about it. Now, knowing does not make any difference.
Can you pull it up and change gears in such a way that you can come out of it? There are three ways: Having a faith and looking to your God or to your minister and trying to act on what he says.
The second method is long meditation to transcend oneself. One knows one's weakness. One goes to the root of this weakness and one has to fight them and thus eliminate them, and then he has to come out of it.
The third position is one should make his energy, his nerves, so positively sound that his mind may not think of anything which is negative and thus he may pull himself out. These are the techniques known to the world.
The Kriya
Yogi Bhajan was entrusted with the secret knowledge of the timeless sages of India. This he knew, and as needed, he would openly dispense that life-giving, consciousness-raising know-how. Over time, his students and others also came to know of the potency of these techniques. Most accepted them gratefully as the teacher allowed.
One day, a student of Yogi Bhajan's, attractive and well-mannered, spoke to him. They had been sitting for a time when she said, “Sir, I have a very humble request. If you will grant it to me, I will be your slave. You can put me in that bottle.”
Ordinarily, as a religious man, Yogi Bhajan would have said, “Oh, fine. What can I do for you?” But his intuition told him to answer otherwise, “Wait a minute. What is it?”
“I would like to have a promise first,” coyly she replied.
“What can a mortal promise? There is no such thing as a promise. If you trust me, tell me what you want.”
“I went to India...” she replied.
“I know.”
“In India, somebody told me, 'If you want to learn this kriya, ask a man who has gone to America. His name is Bhajan Yogi. He can teach you. He is the only one on this planet who knows.'”
“That is true.”
“I want to learn that.”
“What for?”
“Isn't it a good thing to learn?”
“No, it is a most rotten thing to learn because this is one thing which is very powerful, and it should be with people who know how to keep it.”
“Have you not learned it?”
“Yes, but I have never used it.”
“I won't use it either.”
“Forget it! I never asked my teacher to teach it. He taught me. He gave it to me. He trusted me. And you are asking for it. I will never teach you that.”
The pretty woman said, “Hell hath no fury like the wrath of a woman scorned!”
“That is for men. Yogis drink it.”
The outcome of their exchange that day was that the woman published and distributed rude, negative, slanderous pamphlets ostensibly about Yogi Bhajan. The pamphlets were so provocative that many people would turn up at Harbhajan Singh's classes just to see who he was. Classes grew tremendously with all these curious people.
One day, the woman returned and asked Yogi Bhajan, “Are you not afraid of all this publicity?”
Yogi Bhajan replied to her, “What is my publicity? What is my purpose in life? I am not afraid of publicity, nor afraid of people. I am only afraid of God and Guru. Let me be true to there, to go home. I want to be true there. I want to tell him, 'Look at what all they did to me, but I never forgot you.' That is all I need. I do not need you and I am not afraid of your publicity. You do your best. Leave the rest to God.”
Yogi Bhajan then said to the woman, “If I had thought of just being comfortable, I would have chosen that path long ago. I was offered the presidency of a trust where there was so much money that you don't know what to do with it. I refused. I had my own thing to do and wanted to do it the way it was to be done. What does it matter?”
Solstice Invitation
The 60s were over. While the four Beatles disbanded in bitterness and U.S. campuses erupted in demonstrations at the news U.S. troops had invaded Cambodia, as AM radio broadcast the saccharine sounds of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and "Let It Be," Yogi Bhajan was making plans for a dawning Aquarian Age.
The coming summer solstice was foremost in his mind. In the May issue of Beads of Truth, the monthly newsletter, the Master put out an invitation for children of the Aquarian Age to come out for the event.
May 15, 1970
3HO Family
United States of America
Dear ones,
SAT NAM! Greetings to all the 3HO family and the entire community. The day is drawing near for the celebration of the Summer Solstice, June 21st, in Santa Fe, New Mexico. This day is the day when the yearly cycle reaches its peak of expansion, when the flow of energy is at its height, when we experience the year's longest day and shortest night, and the annual day of unity (Yoga) for children of the Aquarian Age.
Each of you must notify and alert all the community to prepare and depart in caravans for the Maharaj Ashram, Route 4, Box 88D, Santa Fe (Phone, 505: 983-1913). Coordinate yourselves and all be together in a unit as a family. Each one must notify the community by sending the message through the local underground radio stations and newspapers, and let the word be spread, so that all may unite to experience and create the purest vibrations, to gather the energy and be united for the uplift of humanity.
Make preparations to advise all your people that they will be sleeping outdoors and should be prepared for very, very cold nights (35-45 degrees) and very hot days (up to 85 degrees). They should come equipped with food and utensils for cooking and eating, and a good suggestion is to bring plenty of brown rice and soy sauce. Also be sure to carry water containers.
I may also request you to take up a special collection for this Summer Solstice to be sent to 3HO Headquarters to help us to cover this time when there will be less classes and more expenses for traveling.
God bless you all, and His wisdom continue to prevail through you, each and every one. It will be a great day when we all can meet in Santa Fe for this beautiful celebration of the Aquarian Age.
Humbly yours,
Yogi Bhajan
........................................……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Santa Fe has instructed us to plan to arrive after the 10th of June at Santa Clara Canyon and to bring plastic tarps in case of rain. Caravans will be departing from Los Angeles on June 10th. See MAP of campsite on a following page. SAT NAM
The Santa Clara Solstice
Some would say this was the first truly 3HO solstice. This time, there would be no psychedelic bus race, hardly any psychedelics, and less nudity and casual sex. In contrast with previous events, kundalini yoga would be the main event and Yogi Bhajan the master of ceremonies. This was also the first solstice with a price attached: all of $5!
On the evening of June 10, after a yoga class and prayer with Yogi Bhajan, a caravan of ten cars set out in pilgrimage from Los Angeles for the Solstice site. Picking up two more cars of yogis at the Nanak Dwara Ashram in Scottsdale, Arizona, the entourage arrived at the Santa Clara Canyon on June 13.
The Santa Clara Canyon where everyone gathered was located on an Indian reservation. This idyllic location in a pine forest was an outcome of the longstanding rapport between the original tribes of New Mexico and the new longhaired tribes from the cities. It was endowed with a clear mountain stream, meadows of long sweetgrass, and tall, beautiful pine trees. The place was high enough in the mountains that there was a dusting of snow when everyone awoke that first morning. The weather varied considerably with frost at night and blazing sun during the day, punctuated by occasional hail and rain and gusts of wind. One day, a rare, triple rainbow decorated the sky above.
In that pristine environment, a routine was established. Mornings, teachers from various centers offered classes. In the evenings, Yogi Bhajan would teach.
Solstice Yoga
Notes by Shakti Parwha Kaur:
Sit on your heels, arms in the air with the fingers locked together and the first finger up. Inhale and exhale deeply for two minutes.
Men chant "Ong" (Creator), women chant "Sohung" (I am Thou). After five minutes, relax for two minutes.
Assume the previous position and begin breath of fire for three minutes.
Do sat kriya, pulling the navel on "Sat" and relaxing on "Nam" for three minutes.
Stretch your legs out in front of you and bring your head to your knees for two minutes with normal breathing.
Spread the legs apart. Hold your heels. Breathe easy for one minute.
Sit in easy pose, legs crossed, spine straight, with the palms joined at the center of the chest. Chant: "Ek Ong Kar, Sat Nam, Siri Wha Guru..." (June 16, 1970)
The Visit of the Hopi Elders
At that time, a delegation of Hopi Indian medicine men, very old men with long white hair, came to visit. Yogi Bhajan received them all with respect and they returned his consideration.
The elders had come to share their tradition with the great yogi, just as many of his students had learned from the Hopis. As they sat together, the ancient seers told Yogi Bhajan of huge gatherings of spiritual people that had taken place for a hundred thousand years. They described how the heroes and leaders of those times would gather from all over the Americas and across the Bering Strait to celebrate and sanctify the "One Unified Supreme Spirit." That spirit existed in everyone. By gathering together in this way, they believed the spirit would manifest more clearly.
According to the Hopi elders, these gatherings occurred every one hundred and eight years. In this way, everyone who attended would have heard about the event from someone who had experienced the last meeting. The last gathering had taken place over two thousand years ago. At that time, it was decided that the forces of destruction and violence, disharmony and perversion were increasing so forcefully that their sacred traditions needed to be protected and kept from the onslaught of that darkness. The Hopi tribe was elected to be the keeper of the “One Unified Supreme Spirit.”
The Hopi elders went on to say that, according to their sacred tradition, just before the darkness reached its height, a white-clothed warrior would come from the East and create an army of warriors dressed in white who would rise up and protect the “One Unified Supreme Spirit.” This would be the final battle between good and evil. The Hopi elders continued that they had come to give the sacred duty of keeping and protecting the “One Unified Supreme Spirit” to Yogi Bhajan since they had determined he was the Warrior in White of their prophesy.
After the exchange, there was a sweat lodge ceremony to seal the bond between the two tribes, the one ancient and Western, the other newly from the East. Many of Yogi Bhajan's students participated, although they did not know what to make of the visit of the ancient shamen. The Master, however, was clearly affected by their teachings. A great responsibility had been placed on his shoulders and soon, and from an unexpected direction, trial and adversity would begin to make itself felt.
Bossiere's Land
Because of their history together in New Mexico among the Hopi and Pueblo tribes, the hippies had enjoyed the tribes’ cooperation through the late 60s. Now, however, the situation at the canyon was becoming strained. The natives found the nude bathing of the hippies in their stream offensive. They were also particular that any fire was a sacred fire which required a ceremony to be lit, and that non-natives not light any campfires whatsoever.
Seeing that Yogi Bhajan and his students were about to be evicted from the reservation, a friendly Métis by the name of Robert Bossiere offered them the use of his arid acreage nearby. That night, he joined with the heads of all the ashrams in a teepee to bless and pray for the sacred mountain they were about to leave. They meditated all night.
On the morning of June 18, all the goods and people were accounted for and neatly packed into a caravan of sixty-four vehicles on the dirt road at the entrance to the site. Once everything was in readiness, Yogi Bhajan took up his position as traffic cop in the middle of the main road and, swinging a large shawl over his head, began to urge the drivers onto the highway. "Go, go, go!" he shouted as they pulled out and gained speed and traction on the asphalt.
It was a fine exercise moving in unison, but the best was yet to come. When the second-last vehicle had pulled out and turned right to follow the others, Yogi Bhajan commandeered the final one – an under-powered Saab with Dawson, the head of the nearby Espanola ashram. With unswerving faith, the Master urged his doubting charioteer to enter the opposing lane of the narrow highway and to speed ahead - to pass one, two, three, four of the vehicles on the right. Over rises and around blind curves and bends they went, Dawson's face and hands sweating on the wheel. Then eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen - minute by minute, second by precarious second… twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four – and onward… fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three – until at last they had miraculously passed the whole column and taken the lead position at the head of the caravan.
Finally, the new site loomed up ahead, past the landmark Camel Rock. There it was: a patch of dry unremarkable riverbed, a piece of the tawny semi-desert stretching out from the side of the road. The column paused and the vehicles made their way, one by one off the road and down a steep, crumbly embankment.
For those who stuck with the Yogi, there would be no possibility of going back, no thought of it even. It didn't matter that there were no facilities, no water, not even a way out. For the next days, this would be their home. Somehow things would work themselves out. For now, they were there, and that was all that mattered.
The Trial by Fire
The stay on the Bossier land would turn out to be a trial by fire. Scorching in the daylight and numbingly cold at night, the yogis persevered as best they could. It was hardest for the mothers with young children. For water, they beat the sand at the bottom of a riverbed and soaked up water in their towels for their children to drink.
In consideration of the change, Yogi Bhajan suggested everyone change their diet, which had been brown rice and soya sauce, to watermelon during the day and rice in the evening. Classes continued in the cool of morning and evening. As the chill night air set in, the campers reveled in creating large bonfires.
For two days, the yogis survived in the heat and cold on that shadeless, shelterless land next to the highway while much of New Mexico drove by and watched. They must have looked like the pitiful victims of some terrible miscalculation. What were they doing – women, men and children – in that horrible heat?
There was an election going on. Robert Bossiere ran a well-known restaurant not far away and was of one mind with Yogi Bhajan. They both recognized the need to do public relations for the yogis in the sand. The arrival of the man who would possibly become governor provided a great opportunity to clear up any misunderstanding of who they were and exactly what they were up to. It was important that they not be associated with any kind of insurrection, crime, or illegal substances.
So it was that Bruce King, who would indeed become the next governor of New Mexico, was given a tour of the Solstice site. King, Bossiere and Yogi Bhajan were all gentlemen and men of the world. A respectful camaraderie grew out of their meeting, though the candidate for governor did not think the yogis in the sand would survive a month in his state.
Then came the highway patrol. Their chief had heard that possibly dangerous revolutionaries had set up a survival camp. The officers were sent to keep an eye on them. This was the beginning of a daily campaign of pressure and intimidation. The yogis were accused of breaking a fence, harassed for lighting fires at night in the riverbed, and for any imaginable infraction.
Word about the apparently hapless hippies also made its way to the mayor's office. He took pity on the poor strangers and disagreed with the police. "They are spiritual people," the mayor said, "and I will not let them die of thirst." He dispatched a tanker filled with water to the yogis in the sand.
Soon thereafter, someone started sending truckloads of watermelons. The big melons were a welcome sight for their thirst-quenching and nutritive value. Yogi Bhajan was quick to spoil the flavor of sweet melons, however. He brought around a bucket of ground black pepper and scooped generous amounts onto everyone's melons. Black pepper purified the blood, he said, and eliminated gas from the huge quantities of melon so readily consumed.
The melons also served another function. Some of the campers used the shells as head covers to deflect the scorching rays of the solstice sun.
The Dedication of Guru Ram Das Ashram
In Los Angeles, while the Solstice sadhana went on, that special day in the yearly solar cycle was celebrated in yet another way. The converted garage next to Jules Buccieri's antique shop at 8802 Melrose Avenue received a spiritual name. At Yogi Bhajan's instruction, the building with its high wooden rafters, hallowed over the previous months by the presence, hard efforts and blissful experiences of many seekers, was named "Guru Ram Das Ashram."
Yogi Bhajan was a thankful and thoughtful teacher. He remembered well that night in Amritsar when he was but a boy and his father the doctor had despaired of relieving his fever and saving his tender life. It was Guru Ram Das who had appeared to Harbhajan in a dream and offered his remedy. And when, as a grown man, Harbhajan Singh had been bedeviled by his reliance on psychic powers, it had been Guru Ram Das who in the course of four and a half years of nightly washing the floors of the Golden Temple, had lifted the spell of Harbhajan's ego and made him whole.
It was only fitting then that the place where the Guru's messenger taught and inspired others should be named after the fourth Master in the holy Sikh lineage, the Lord of grace and miracles.
Gerry Pond, who had contributed significantly to the renovation and upkeep of the designated ashram, returned from the Solstice in New Mexico just in time to share his music and the latest inspirations of Yogi Bhajan. Twenty-five people in all gathered to herald the dawn of that solstice morning in song and dedication.
Richard Lasser, whom Yogi Bhajan had just renamed "Baba Singh" consecrated the event with the reading of hymns of Guru Ram Das translated into English. At last, Gerry hung the beautifully-made wood and art metal sign over the door, and everyone celebrated heartily with a feast for body, mind, and soul.
The Ninth Day of Solstice
By the ninth day of Summer Solstice, it was time for the marriages. With Yogi Bhajan's encouragement, fourteen couples came forward to take vows, Ganga and her husband-to-be Larry Wentick being among them.
This time, the ceremony was different from the previous year. Yogi Bhajan's Sikh heritage was more in evidence. A Sikh prayer book known as "Gutka" provided the centerpiece around which the couples ceremoniously walked, hand in hand. The vows, composed by Guru Ram Das, were recited in poetic English for all to understand.
It was a clear blue New Mexico day, perfect for the wedding. The celebration continued with chanting and dancing while Yogi Bhajan beat a drum. Four couples who had been married at the previous Solstice were honored. Wedding cake was served.
As so often happens in that area of the mountains, the weather changed suddenly. In no time, a storm blew in, then a violent rainfall, and for a few minutes the dry riverbed became a gushing torrent.
Then, just as quickly, the skies cleared, the torrent subsided, cactuses reached out their delicate blossoms, and the riverbed became almost as it was before.
The Solstice celebration was over. Robert Boissiere invited everyone to return next year, but “in greater numbers.” All that remained were the farewells and finding a way out of the sand trap they had put themselves in.
Lawton scouted the riverbed for a mile before locating a possible outlet onto the highway. A small business that sold stones for paving was located there. Having obtained the owner's permission, the gaily-colored caravan of sand sadhus snaked its way along the riverbed and, to the stone seller's quiet astonishment, up the embankment, back to the world of pavement and long distances home.
The Atlanta Pop Festival
Lawton, for his part, had a special mission. After his weeks in Los Angeles with Yogi Bhajan, he had decided that if his teacher wanted him to be a teacher, then he would indeed be a teacher.
Having grown up in Florida, Lawton made his way to nearby Georgia. With him, he had ten dollars Ganga had given him, plus two pants and three shirts for his yogi wardrobe.
The Grace of Guru Ram Das seemed to favor Lawton, who had driven to Solstice with Baba Singh and now had a ride in a VW van with a man and woman going to Atlanta. There was going to be a big rock festival an hour's drive south of the city and Yogi Bhajan was to give a talk there.
Within a few days, Yogi Bhajan arrived. He was brought to a motel that had been rented out by the organizers of the rock festival. Lawton went out to see his teacher and take in what he could.
Lawton had a number of memorable experiences. One day, his teacher was on the second floor balcony of the motel with his all hair down. Lawton could see how regal and majestic Yogi Bhajan looked with his mane full of hair. Around him, were the hippie organizers with newly uncropped hair peeking over their ears or just touching their shoulders. They were clearly in awe of the yogi in their midst, the yogi whose hair had never seen the cutting edge of a razor or a pair of scissors.
Another time, Lawton marveled at how the Master conducted himself in his busy motel room. A mirror over a sink was a prominent fixture of the furnishings, but in all the hours he sat with Yogi Bhajan, Lawton never once saw him even glancing into the looking glass. Like a spiritual sun, the Master shone consistently and selflessly. In his self-assurance, he never bothered to ponder or doubt his physical reflection.
Finally, on July 3rd came the start of the three-day festival. Estimates of the size of the crowd varied between 200,000 and 600,000. The weather was sweltering, in excess of 100 degrees Fahrenheit. They had come to hear their favorite bands. Thirty-six groups were to play over the July 4 Independence Day weekend, including The Jimi Hendrix Experience, The Allman Brothers Band, and B. B. King.
It was evening. The massive crowd was loud. Yogi Bhajan's job was to take the stage and engage the young people's spirits, to give a blessing of sorts to that raw and restless Aquarian convention.
To the raucous multitude, the Yogi spoke, “It is not possible by hooting and shooting you are going to get everything. You are the future of the United States of America and nobody is going to take everything from you. You are to be peaceful…”
The ruckus persisted. This was not the laid-back, Woodstock festival. This was a summer evening in Georgia and almost everyone was drunk or high on something.
“You are to be great. And you have to do one thing. Peace within your heart will lead you to have everything you need. But be peaceful, calm, and absolutely quiet. They will give you what they call themselves to be. And today is their day. Tomorrow is our day. Sat Nam.”
Yogi Bhajan had arranged for other luminaries to speak later in the festival. Robert Bossiere had come from New Mexico to represent the American Indian spiritual tradition. Yogi Bhajan's friend, Swami Satchidananda, also joined him there, along with Christopher Hills of the World Yoga Society, Dadaji of the Ananda Marga, Swami Vishnu Devananda of the Sivananda Ashram, and Yogi Amrit Desai.
When their time came, each one of them took a few minutes to share their message, as the throng mostly politely listened. After everyone else had spoken, Yogi Bhajan took to the stage again. In simple words, he shared his dream of an Aquarian nation, healthy, happy and holy. Soon the entire crowd was on its feet, energetically waving their arms, making "peace signs,” swaying back and forth, chanting "Peace, Love, Peace, Love..."
Afterwards, Baba Singh asked Yogi Bhajan, "Sir, you've got to explain to me how you did what you did. You basically said the same things, in the same tone of voice, as the others. With your accent, you are even harder to understand than all those other people! So how was it that you could accomplish what you accomplished?"
Yogi Bhajan answered in a word, "Sadhana. A person who does sadhana every day has a power that nobody can match."
After the festival, Lawton stayed on. He made himself at home in the apartment of the festival organizer which was available with the final month's rent paid. Lawton the teacher moved in with some new yoga students and, by the Grace of Guru Ram Das, Harbhajan Singh Puri Ashram was begun.
The Holy Man Jam
From the festival, Yogi Bhajan journeyed to New York City. Already, there were a couple of Sat Nam outposts in the state. Lynn Anderson was teaching near Woodstock. On Staten Island, lived Steve and Susie Burns, newly married by Yogi Bhajan at Summer Solstice.
During his visit, Yogi Bhajan met a young man named Alan Oken whom he came to know had a gift for astrology. The Master took a liking to the unassuming fellow and said to him, "Come to Colorado with me and you will leave an astrologer. Do not charge any money. Take everyone who comes and read them for twenty minutes." Yogi Bhajan was inviting Alan to a week-long "holy man jam" he was organizing in Boulder, Colorado.
Outdoors at the quadrangle of the University of Colorado, some three thousand seekers converged in July to listen to the wisdom of the East. Yogi Bhajan and Swami Satchidananda joined together again, along with Steven Gaskin of San Francisco, a Buddhist named Bill Quan-roshi, Yogi Bhajan's student Tom Law, and another teacher. For seven days, they spoke on every topic imaginable… enlightenment, karma, death, and the wonder of life.
As for Alan, he followed the Master's counsel and taught astrology every morning to a crowd that grew through the day from three hundred to three thousand people. From noon to 5 pm each day, he read horoscopes. Yogi Bhajan had set up a special tent for him and through the week grateful people filled it with offerings of breads, bowls, beads, crystals and other gifts. In the evening, Alan would go out into the crowd, give away his gifts, and make many friends.
By the end of the week, Alan Oken had done two hundred readings and taught thousands of students. He was an astrologer now.
The ‘Official’ Turban
While on his tour, Yogi Bhajan received a desperate call from a student. He had been stopped by the police for some minor traffic infraction. Seeing his long hair, the police had automatically locked him in the local jail.
The usual routine was that any inmate with hair over his ears would have his head forcibly trimmed. This, Yogi Bhajan's student did not want. He protested that he was a Sikh and that Sikhs never cut their hair. The judge was not convinced. He had never heard of a Sikh.
On receiving the call, Yogi Bhajan had a letter typed up certifying his student was indeed a Sikh and that Sikhs could not be deprived of their long, unshorn hair. He had the letter notarized and himself arrived at the court house. Yogi Bhajan also brought a long towel and instructed his student to wrap it around his head like a turban. After paying a small fine, the student was free to go with his crown of hair intact.
The Grace of God
Back home in Los Angeles, Yogi Bhajan started to speak on a new subject in his talks – the essential grace of womankind. "When the born of a woman acts with respect to a woman, there will be peace on Earth," he said.
Those were heady days for America's women. The 70s' women's liberation movement was just taking form. Women were finding strength in sisterhood, and dignity in their struggle for rights equivalent to those enjoyed by men.
Yogi Bhajan's perspective differed from the typical feminist view. He saw women as the moral fiber of a nation. While some feminists celebrated the high-paying jobs of women in bars and brothels and their inherent right to those jobs, Yogi Bhajan deplored the moral climate that permitted someone's mother, daughter or sister to be so demeaned and objectified. Just two blocks from his home on Phyllis Avenue, billboards advertised the strip clubs and bars of Sunset Strip. It revolted his conscience as a decent man born of a graceful and morally impressive mother.
So it was that on September 22, 1970, Yogi Bhajan began a movement for the upliftment of America's largest exploited underclass, its women. With candles in hand, his graceful students numbering only a couple of dozen, but impressive in the courage of their convictions, filed in procession past the nude bars and porn showcases of San Francisco's red light district. Together, they chanted, "We are the Grace of God!"
Yogi Bhajan called this new development the "Grace of God Movement for the Women of America," soon the "Grace of God Movement for the Women of the World." To his students, he said, "When a man falls, an individual falls. But when a woman falls, an entire generation is lost. You are the grace of the individual. You are the grace of the town. You are the grace of the nation. You are the grace of the world!
"The world starts with you, and it ends with you. Therefore, you should never be cheap. When you cannot handle what you are, you become cheap. The crown of grace, divinity and dignity should be on your head, and it should not create a headache for you.
"Therefore, you have to be trained. You have to train your emotions. You have to train yourself. And you have to go one way. There is one way to One God for woman: selfless, dignified and graceful behavior. Dignity and divinity are your birthright.
"The only solution a woman has is in her own depth. The only tragedy a woman has is in her own shallowness. I fully understand how terrible the past was. I fully understand how I can blame my past. I fully understand that I can mess and enmesh myself in the past. But, after all, I have a chance and a very short chance, to be my own future also. Similarly, each woman should remember that she has her own future, and that future can only be achieved if she becomes her own future."
Yogi Bhajan believed emphatically in the ability of an individual to sculpt and reform their habits and personality by changing their self-concept and the habitual patterns of their mind. To this end, he gave his students the Grace of God meditation:
“Lie on the back, fully relaxing your face and body. Inhale deeply, hold the breath in and silently repeat ten times, ‘I am Grace of God.’ Exhale all the breath out. Hold the breath out and silently repeat ten times, ‘I am Grace of God.’ Continue breathing and repeating the mantra in this manner for a total of five inhalations and five exhalations.
“After the cycle is completed, relax your breath, and with eyes still closed, come sitting up into easy pose. Bring your right index finger curled under your thumb, the other three fingers straight, palm up, wrist resting on the knee, elbow straight. The left hand is held up by the left shoulder as if taking an oath. The breath should be relaxed.
“Tense one finger of the left hand at a time, keeping the other fingers straight, but relaxed. Repeat aloud, ‘I am Grace of God,’ five times. Continue this sequence with all the fingers and thumb of that hand, meditating on the inherent energy in each – the little finger: Mercury, power of communication; the ring finger: Sun/Venus, physical health, grace and beauty; the middle finger: Saturn, patience, transforming emotion to devotion, responsibility; the index finger: Jupiter, wisdom and expansion and the thumb: positive ego.
“When both parts of the meditation are completed, lower the left hand and relax for a few minutes.”
The Grand Host
Yogi Bhajan could be many things to many people. He could be puzzling or positively inscrutable. He could seem foreign, or just strange. He could appear to be aloof and absolutely detached. And for those who made the effort to really watch and observe him, the Master might be lovingly serviceful, profoundly engaged, and totally in command of his circumstances.
Because of his meditative practice, Yogi Bhajan's thinking tended toward originality. He did not think inside anybody's box. He did not care for boxes at all. It meant that, from time to time, his actions might be completely unexpected, boyishly charming, and utterly disarming.
One day, Yogi Bhajan was invited to some rich person's house somewhere around Los Angeles. Inside the copious mansion, the master commenced a tour on his own. Methodically, he inspected every floor, opened every door along the way and looked inside. His hosts tagged along at a respectful distance, quietly mystified. What was their guest looking for?
Finally, the Master made his way to the kitchen of the grand house. Opening the refrigerator, satisfaction gleamed in his eyes and the magnanimity of his spirit took expression in his first words, "May I serve you something?"
Teaching at UCLA
The fall of 1970 was a tumultuous time in America. It saw the passing of iconic figures of the youth culture in musicians Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, both 27 years old, through drug overdoses. It also witnessed the dramatic spiriting away of LSD-guru Timothy Leary from a California prison to safe haven in Algeria. Demonstrations, arrests, bombings, wiretaps, infiltrations, and all kinds of disruptive tactics and behaviors were coming to a destructive crescendo.
While there were many who advocated the destruction of established authority, Yogi Bhajan instead created a new, alternative organization with a dynamic teaching and outward social expression. He was not at all opposed to applying to the United States government for a federal tax exemption – which the 3HO Foundation was granted at the end of the year.
Another significant development of that year was the introduction of an accredited course in Kundalini Yoga at the University of California at Los Angeles (UCLA). Yogi Bhajan was invited to teach by Dr. Anthony Brunse, the Head of Research and acting Chief of Staff for Sepulveda Veteran’s Administration Hospital. One of the main purposes of the course was to inspire doctors to be healers also.. Classes were given twice a week in the Adult Education Division of the university. The historic first class was given on November eleventh.
The Master began the class, "Dear ones, there are no barriers between man and man. The only barrier is lack of awareness. As you open up inside, the outside will open up to you. There cannot be a vacuum in space. As you open up, the outside will open up to you to bring a balance.
"There are people interested in different theories on the powers of yogis and how this can happen. Some have doubts about it. Some have knowledge about it. All spiritual teachers have come here to create disciples. Let us do something different.
"There are thirty-three books in this country that have dedicated one or two chapters to kundalini yoga, warning Western people not to practice it. Actually, the warning is not to practice it without a teacher. The other half of the sentence, nobody has read.
"It is not true that it requires incarnations to become God-conscious. When you concentrate your mental energy on your Self, you are in a state of meditation. And the result of that meditative act is your attitude. Structure within is the same as structure without.
"Why study kundalini yoga? Man has an inborn, infinite urge to be united with the Supreme Consciousness. This urge exists in us. Our subconscious mind is aware of our reality, but our conscious mind is an imprint of our environment. When you consciously tune the subconscious mind into the Supreme Consciousness, you will see the Unseen and know the Unknown.
"The books we have given you are How to Know God – the Patanjali Yoga Sutras (with commentaries by Swami Prabhavananda and Christopher Isherwood) and Yoga by Ernest Wood. They will give you some written statement about what this world of yoga is about, and they will tell you something about kundalini, but they will not give you the methods.
"This has been kept secret for many reasons, some authentic and some not. The authentic reason is that if you give this knowledge out and you cannot with your psychic body control the wrong use of it, it can put you into rough circumstances. But if a man has practiced and has a mastery of it himself, then there is no limitation of time or distance, and everybody can practice it to reach to that awareness without any search, caution or danger. What appears in those books is nullified. We have worked before coming here one and a half years, and 50,000 to 60,000 people have practiced it. The results have been nothing but positive.
"Kundalini comes from the Sanskrit word "kundal" which is very romantically the curl in the hair of the beloved. Kundalini refers to that coil. Serpent has nothing to do with it. The serpent in India is known as awareness or wisdom. This animal also sits in a coiled position. That is where the term "serpent power" comes from.
"Kundalini is that divine power, that Adi Shakti, that Creative Force coiled within us. To uncoil that coiled energy is called "kundalini yoga.” One who teaches it is called a "Yogi," and one who learns it is called a "Sikh" or "student." As all rivers flow into the ocean, all purposes of a spiritual nature are to raise this awareness within you. All worship, consciously or unconsciously, leads to this end.
"When your prayer is not answered, it is because you are not tuned into it. You have not put in your plug. You are muttering. Your sound current is not relating to the Supreme Sound Current. Otherwise, your every prayer has to be answered.
"Once you know the art of one-pointedness of mind, you know everything. To control the mind, you have to have a hook. When you use the will of the mind, it is called "raja yoga," and when you use the breath, it is called "kundalini yoga."
"Using mind over mind is a difficult process. Breath is more practical. It is a 100% guaranteed process. Why is it not taught? Because breath is the pranic energy that leads to the universal energy and one who controls it also has to be in it.
"If through any method you can relate to your soul within this body within this lifetime, then duality, whether of God or not, will go. Coming from New York, you can stop five or six times and change flights. But there are also services that will take you directly to Los Angeles, and that is what kundalini yoga is.
"I felt it is a necessity to teach people this hidden science. Honestly, I broke a cosmic law for which I have been infinitely rewarded. The law was: the person who will teach this science indiscriminately without first testing his students, shall not see the next sun. In other words, by this last birthday of mine, I should not have been alive..."
Banana Bliss
Yogi Bhajan loved to transform his students inside and out. From the inside, he encouraged them to deeply engage the breath of life and to practice invigorating praanayam. He also instilled the virtues of mental and verbal hygiene – watching what you think and say. Of course, underlying all this was a vigorous regimen of rising early, showering with cold water, exercising for an hour, then meditating for two and a half hours. This was the regular routine.
To speed up his students' progress, Yogi Bhajan gave them the banana fast. From the new moon to the full moon, three bananas three times a day, preceded by a cup of freshly-squeezed orange juice in the morning, and accompanied through the day by water and Yogi Tea. This was the banana diet.
Those who engaged in it, purified their bodies, strengthened their nervous systems, and gave their overworked digestive systems a rest. Participants also were known to become light-headed, perhaps a little grumpy, lose weight, have psychedelic flashbacks, and be sorely tempted by their favorite foods. By the eighth day, even foods you did not ordinarily care for, might exude otherworldly fascination.
Some banana fasters were more fastidious than others. Some, in an unguarded moment, might include a couple of slices of "heavenly" banana bread into their routine and wake up the next morning with “rocks” in their stomach. Some fasters kept up until they chanced upon banana cream pie – and then they just went bananas. For others, it was the irresistible allure of banana ice cream.
Those great yogis who survived their regimen to the fullness of the moon had another challenging prospect before them. Their insides had by now become so delicate from their ultralight and simple fare, that to have french fries right away would do irreparable damage to their digestive organs. The fasters were called on to endure a month-long restorative voyage across a sea of soupy mung beans and rice with turmeric and lots of green vegetables, supplemented by fresh fruits, bananas even, and Yogi Tea.
With all the talk of that humble fruit, sweet and easy to eat, there were even recipes in the 3HO Newsletter for banana pakoras and banana curries. Taking the movement to its natural conclusion, the yogis at the center in San Rafael, in a moment of mellow-yellow satori, named their home "Banana Ananda Ashram." The name stuck for a few days, until someone in the Los Angeles Ashram heard of it, and a more dignified name was found instead.
Master of White Tantric Yoga
The loving storm of Sat Nam energy spread out from its calm center in the "City of Angels," Los Angeles, raining blessings of health, happiness and holiness all around the United States. Besides San Rafael and Sausalito, Santa Fe and the nation's capital, Orlando and Atlanta, Staten Island and Woodstock, teachers were setting up new centers in Hartford, Honolulu and Houston, Detroit and Birmingham in Michigan, Portland and Seattle, Philadelphia and Phoenix.
As the Aquarian vision and 3HO lifestyle spread through America, the Master made plans to take an entourage of his students to the homeland of the Gurus, the birthplace of the Khalsa.
Students were promised nineteen hours a day ofsadhana in India. It was not a prospect that daunted anyone. After all, they were young and energetic and they had heard "There is no liberation without labor."
The pilgrimage was the culmination of several months of energized activity. Ganga remembered back to a day in March 1971, how after that morning sadhana Yogi Bhajan had said something about a shift that had just taken place. It did not make sense to her at the time, but that was the morning Lama Lilan Po had departed his physical body and passed the mantle of "Mahan Tantric" to her teacher. When Yogi Bhajan was a teen, he had studied with the lama under Sant Hazara Singh. From that morning on, Ganga had noticed the phone seemed to hardly stop ringing and the pace of life at the Phyllis Ashram picked up about threefold.
Since Yogi Bhajan's becoming Master of White Tantric Yoga, he would, from time to time give extraordinary courses that engaged the cosmic forces of Shakti and Shaktiman – the feminine and masculine energies. It was in October, at one of these events, that Thelma Oliver first encountered Yogi Bhajan.
Thelma had been on a long journey across time and continents. A couple of years before, she had been a successful performer on Broadway, but she had tired of the routine of drawing applause from audiences. In her heart Thelma had wanted to find a way of making some real and lasting contribution to her African American community. That quest had taken her to West Africa, where she had explored and traveled for more than a year. It had also consistently pointed Thelma in the direction of yoga. Before arriving at the Phoenix White Tantric Yoga course, she had taken classes in Kundalini Yoga in Boulder and Santa Fe.
This Phoenix course was ten days long – ten days of meditation in some tantric juxtaposition, usually face-to-face or back-to-back, with a partner of the opposite gender. During those ten days, Yogi Bhajan instructed his students to eat only fruits – apples and oranges, pears and bananas, dates and avocados – that grew four and a half feet above the ground. This was so they might benefit from the naturally elevating energies of these foods.
In Phoenix, Yogi Bhajan spoke passionately of his plan to return to India with some of his students at the end of the year. He also gave a few personal words of guidance to Thelma, words that would profoundly change her sense of destiny. Although she was still recovering from her year in Africa, Thelma knew she too must go to India with the Master.
Some days later, Thelma went to Los Angeles and sought out Yogi Bhajan at the Phyllis Avenue Ashram. She brought an offering and expected the Master might bless her and tell her about her life. Instead, he fixed Thelma in his gaze and told her she must teach in her community and she must begin right away. Thelma objected that she had only just started to learn this yoga herself. How was she going to teach it? An argument ensued, but the Master insisted, “Your community needs you. Do you agree to teach?”
Thelma was incredulous, but finally she did.
As she walked out of the house on Phyllis Avenue, Thelma said to herself, "What have I just done? I hardly know anything about this yoga. How am I going to teach my community?" But something inside her was fixed and resolute as the North Star. Thelma's mother had taught her that a person's word is their bond. Having agreed with the Yogi, she knew there was no way out.
After a couple of days' putting it off, Thelma contacted a friend who ran an acting school. She asked if she might teach the acting students a yoga class – and they agreed.
Thelma wanted very much to channel the inspiration of Yogi Bhajan in her first yoga class. The worst thing she could imagine was to be tongue-tied and stage-struck. To help out, Thelma brought a small photo of Yogi Bhajan in a frame with her and placed it behind her on the teacher's bench, right at the base of her spine before she chanted "Ong Namo..."
The class was easy. Thelma was amazed at the guidance she gave her students. Everything just flowed. Thelma knew intuitively that the Master was working through her. Her friend asked Thelma if she would teach two classes of this yoga each week.
With pride and delight, she called Yogi Bhajan afterwards to tell him. He congratulated his student and told her to meet him the next day at the Gurdwara in Los Angeles, where the birthday of Guru Nanak was to be celebrated.
The following day, Thelma was sitting in the Gurdwara daydreaming when she heard a booming voice calling her name again and again. “Why would someone be calling her name?” she thought. When Thelma recognized Yogi Bhajan's voice, she rushed to see him.
The Master had another proposition for his student, and he forcefully presented it to her: "From now on you will be Krishna. Do you agree? You will change your name legally. You will be my Black Krishna. Do you agree? You will change your name. Do you agree?"
Clouds of doubt and misgiving that had been lingering many lifetimes suddenly cleared away. The student agreed. Through the bond of her sacred word, she became no longer Thelma, but emerged anew as Black Krishna.
It was not long before Black Krishna, brimming with confidence, was teaching eighteen Kundalini Yoga classes a week. As the date for departure to India approached, she became concerned for her responsibility to her students and came to the Master for his advice. What should she do?
Yogi Bhajan replied, "You will go to India as my personal attendant. Do you agree?" And she did agree.
The Measure of the Breath Meditation
With only a few days to go before the big pilgrimage to India, Yogi Bhajan continued to teach his classes with undiminished fire and dedication. On December 15, he gave a special practice for those of his students who would remain to practice during the three months he would be away.
"You are all sitting in this room, you and me. There is no purpose in sitting hiding. That is the first laugh in meditation. But once you set yourself in the surrounding, you have to forget the surrounding first. And then you will proceed on instruction, and then you will grow and grow and grow.
"These ‘body pains’ are not actually body pains. They are a mental adjustment. Nerves resist, muscles resist, body resists, parts resist, intellect resists... All these guys who you feel are your friends, the moment you want to join with your Supreme Consciousness, they become your opponents. It takes one minute and they turn their back on you and hurt, hurt, hurt.
“Every dirty thought will come when you are meditating. Every distraction, every worldly work you will remember only when you are meditating. All these things will happen to you in meditating time and that is how you can understand who is your friend and who is your enemy.
"Spine straight, hands in this position. I will repeat physically, you will repeat mentally these same thoughts:
"O Giver of the praana and apaana, O Lord of the lords, I can only request Thee to fill me and this cup of my desires, open up my heart so that I can dedicate these few minutes to Thee. O Supreme, O Infinite Love, O my Lord of lords, O my Great Self, today with utmost humble self and with earnest heart, I beg out of Thee with these two folded hands. Fill and answer my only one desire. Give me these few minutes so that I can dedicate myself unto Thee, O my Creator, O my Dear One, Sweet One, O Beautiful Lord, O Bountiful Lord. Please answer me, O my Protector. Protect me at this time so that I can unite with Thee. O Most Beautiful of the beautiful, Most Desirable of the desirable, O Most Charming of the charming, O my Whole Self, now blend my higher self with my lower self and be united. It will be a union of hell and heaven. And once that can be consciously known to me, I'll be a living god. Supreme is thy Flow, supreme is thy Energy and that Supreme Energy is ever filling my cup which shall ever constantly be extended this minute unto my dedication. I dedicate myself physically, mentally, and spiritually through my guide of this hour and shall lead on the path of truth to join my infinite love and my ultimate desire.
"With this – inhale deep, hold this breath – in me is filled this breath of life, in me is filled with divine energy, in me is the living God. My temple is the house of the Lord Creator. May the light inside, may the energy inside, may the life inside – it is a union, it is a union with him. It is an automatic course of way in which I am dwelling. May this union be ever-dwelling, all negatives leave me. Exhale. Inhale.
"Life Force, come in me and dwell in me. Fill me, fill me, each pore of me, every part of me until I know every part of my life, until I know every part of my body unto my every feeling of mind, until I know every situation in which I am, soundness of mind, to each part of my relevant body may this breath go, this messenger of life from my God Creator. May it fill me ever, ever. I hug it. I kiss it. I love it. It is mine. It is mine. It is mine. It is mine, ever mine. O negativity, leave me. Exhale. Inhale.
"O come, O gods, fill me up. O gods of Life, O gods of Force, O gods of Energy, O gods of Truth, O gods Positive, my Life-giver, O my Beauty-giver, O Charming gods, Lord Beautiful, Thy message is sweet. Thy Sweetness, thy Soundings, I feel Thee all in me, in my body filled up with all that great love. In me lives, lives, lives on in me through God. I am filled up and filled up. Fill more, fill more and fill me up. Fill more and fill me up. Go away, dark forces! Leave me alone. O listen now. I am filling up my soul. I am filling up myself with God divine that early morning. When there is none around me, me and my Lord when we intercourse, on the course of truth at that union, we are all united, at that union there is nothing but the ring of truth, that truth. It is in me now. It is ever in me. I fill myself with that truth and I exclude all that is known as weakness. Exhale.
"At this moment, slowly and calmly turn your neck and fix your chin. Keep your hands where they are and lift your neck. I do that myself to be a complete surrender to the Universal Spirit, that Great Spirit which surrounds me and fills me with love.
"The breath of life, it must go in by inches. Breath shall go by inches and it shall come down also by inches. Breath does not obey you. You must make it to obey you. Without that, the negative person will never let you do your sadhana. That is the law of the universe. I cannot change it, you cannot change it, but it is the Divine Will in us which can change everything.
"This little breath will measure itself, inch by inch. It will go in and also it will also come out, inch by inch. You will keep on doing it without letting yourself go while the demons will hover over your consciousness more strongly than ever you have felt it. You'll feel their presence and your mind will revolt. At that time, you will transcend and be with your higher consciousness."
Yogi Bhajan chanted for a time, as everyone listened, then he continued his talk, "This is the breath measured by inches. Don't create sound, no sound. There should be no hardship to the body, but the breath should be resisted.
"All the gods and goddesses, saints and prophets have been invoked to bless you. All you have to do in return is measure your breath. Measure your life stream. If you can do that, there is nothing on this Earth which cannot happen at your command. Your dedication to your Guru will help you and your ego will not bother you. Your desire to grow and become great will make you overcome the pain and the energy will bring you the total awareness.
"This triple action at this moment, it is a rare moment in your life and style. Dedicate your total life to it. Days do not come back again. Perhaps this honest effort may be sufficient to take you across. The art is to measure your breath. Be at the command of your breath.
"There is so much heat in the room at this time that you can sweat to death if you measure your breath. It will open up all the circulatory system, take away all the dirt out of your body, and give you a new life. And extreme flood of praana will flow into your nostrils if you take them by measurement.
"Meditate on yourself through this sadhana. Again and again, put your entire attention, concentration on your breath please. Measure its entry in and measure its exit out. This today what you are going to earn and learn, you might have learned in a few months.
"How beautiful you are, my words do not explain that. How beautiful you will be if you can perfectly do it! No words on the Earth can explain that. We're working on you with your Supreme Higher Consciousness, that part of you which is God. And go through it. It will help you many times. It will wash away the many future events which are negative which are going to pounce on you. It will clear your way and destiny. It will make you superior among human beings. No work ever goes unpaid and no effort is without fruit. Work through this physical pressure and you will have a mastery of the body."
Yogi Bhajan led the class, "May the longtime sun shine upon you, all love surround you and the pure light within you guide your way on, guide your way on, guide your way on... Saaaaat Nam”
And he prayed on everyone's behalf, "Cosmos, the Cause of all causes, O Creator, create those involvements in their hearts that they can seek Thee and be with Thee forever. Make it possible that this union may be a blissful and sound opportunity for our health and happiness. May we be the givers, not the takers. May we love without lust. May we serve without notice. May we walk in brotherhood and always look to our higher self. May thy blessings and they mercy make us united, so that truth may prevail and there be peace on the Earth. Sat Nam."
To India!
Just about any of Yogi Bhajan's students who could afford it, booked tickets to come along to India. Shakti Parwha Kaur sent money ahead to cover the group's accommodations in Delhi. She and Baba Singh would stay behind and keep the Los Angeles classes going.
Coming along were Krishna and Ganga and her new husband Larry Wentick. John Twombly, who had started the Baba Siri Chand Ashram in Orlando was coming. Jim Baker, who owned and ran The Source restaurant where Ganga worked was coming too. A crew of students of Sufi Sam filming a movie about spiritual teachers had also bought their tickets. There was Alan Weiss, planning to go to medical school in New York, Mark Vosko from Detroit, and Richard Buhler, who would soon after start a publishing house called "Brotherhood of Life" in Albuquerque, and about seventy others.
Arrangements were made. Some students had the money. Some borrowed it. Some received it as a gift. Everyone who could afford to go, came aboard.
In the end, eighty-five Sat Nam-ers decided to join with Yogi Bhajan on a magical pilgrimage departing December 27 via Air India from New York and arriving two days later at Delhi's Palam Airport. They were to remain there for nearly three months, returning on the equinox day, March 21.
The Master of Delhi
If America was not your home in 1970, it might have seemed very fast, exciting and energizing, albeit lonely and unfamiliar. If you made it to America, you would have felt that in some sense you had really "made it," for America was the cultural hub of the universe – the centre of global entertainment, finance, innovation, space exploration, democracy and those really big bombs.
If India was not your home, on first visiting it might have seemed chaotic, archaic, beautiful, very poor, dignified, and occasionally very rich. India was, and is still, the hub of a different civilization, a different perspective, and a certain sense of timelessness. Some people coming to India thinking it is not their home are surprised to realize after a time of awakening familiarity, that Mata Bhaarat is, and has always been, their mother.
When the entourage disembarked from the Air India plane where they had spent the last day and a half, they were already disoriented by jet lag, having traversed at least eleven time zones.
Once they had gathered their luggage, they set out in a pair of belching diesel buses for their pre-arranged accommodations at the Gobind Sadan ashram.
Gobind Sadan should have been familiar to some of the eighty-five as it was home to the illustrious teacher Yogi Bhajan referred to as "Maharaj-ji" or "my Master.” The teacher's photo adorned Yogi Bhajan's altar. The important Santa Fe ashram where Dawson and Karen Hayward managed things was named Maharaj Ashram after Yogi Bhajan's teacher. While it was true that Harbhajan Singh had learned from many men of God, this was a special relationship. Some said it was this master who had sent him to America.
The Americans were exhausted and excited both. Outside their buses, there were monkeys frolicking overhead in the trees, cows sauntering through the streets, and a group of dark, wiry men in identical green shorts and white undershirts jogging in formation. There were trees the likes of which they had never seen before, and birds; and all around them, crowds of determined people going places – men in tunics, women in saris, and polite children on their way to school. As the buses belched forward in the endless, honking traffic, the Americans could see that they were in a big city, vast, expansive, the size of Chicago or Los Angeles.
Eventually, the two buses stopped on the top of a barren, windswept hill. Yogi Bhajan spoke with the drivers. After a time, it became clear even to those who understood not a word of Hindi, that something was not right. Yogi Bhajan made sure everyone was settled, then set off on a mission.
A couple of hours later, when Yogi Bhajan returned, he had with him the makings of a number of large army-style tents. And a couple of hours after that, once the tents had been pitched, some cheerful volunteers arrived with a wonderfully aromatic cargo. The hungry Americans were asked to sit in rows and their turbaned friends plied them with warm chapatis and daal and rice pudding. It was their first meal in India and it was delicious.
Yogi Bhajan did not spend much time with his students on the hill. He had business to attend to. Bibiji and his children Ranbir Singh, Kulbir Singh and Kamaljit Kaur were anxious to see him. And there was some problem he needed to attend to. Money had been sent ahead for their accommodations, but Harbhajan Singh was told it had never arrived. Moreover, a bag with everyone’s passports had mysteriously disappeared.
It was not long before thirteen-year-old Ranbir had joined the Americans and was clowning with the best of them. Otherwise, everyone settled in to their new routine in the tents in that exotic new environment, waiting for something, they were not sure what exactly.
One day, Yogi Bhajan returned with Maharaj-ji. Before the students, his Master unsheathed a sword and began to use it to stir a narrow steel cylinder of water as he chanted over it. After a few minutes, Maharaj-ji offered the enchanted water to the students standing and watching nearby. He told them, and Yogi Bhajan translated, that not a drop should touch the ground.
Alan Weiss and another young man by turns drank from the cylinder. They could immediately feel something. Drinking that water brought on an experience of great clarity and extraordinary intensity unlike anything they had ever felt before. Alan would afterwards say this had been a turning point in his life.
Afterwards, in the confines of Gobind Sadan, Yogi Bhajan and his teacher sat and talked. What exactly transpired between them we can never know. But we do know that somewhere in that meeting of spirits, there was a falling out.
In their conversation, when Maharaj-ji mentioned that he gave substantial money to the political party, Harbhajan Singh challenged him, “What for?”
The man called “Maharaj-ji” replied, “So they don’t scratch me.”
Yogi-ji said, “Wait a minute! You do so much and you are afraid to be scratched?”
He replied, “Yeah, who wants that? So I give them money to get rid of them.”
A discussion ensued about the Sikh view of spiritual and political power. Harbhajan Singh insisted that a spiritual authority should never fear the power of mere politicians. It was a surprise to him, that a man he had considered a saint paid off politicians to keep in their good graces.
As the days passed, Yogi Bhajan’s came to know that Virsa Singh’s assistant, Nirlep Kaur had been trying to convince his students that he was using them, and that they should bow at Virsa Singh’s feet and accept him as their spiritual teacher. For the Americans, however, this was out of the question. Yogi Bhajan had always encouraged their self-reliance, self-respect, and self-initiative. He had never initiated them or told them to bow before him and they were not going to bow themselves at anybody’s feet.
Yogi Bhajan was also told, but would not consent, to submit his American students to this teacher. Harbhajan Singh asserted that he had not come to India to hand his students over to Virsa Singh. Rather, it was his intention to introduce them to the riches of his Sikh heritage, personified for him in the holy personage of Guru Ram Das.
The Master of Delhi taunted his student, "You say you talk to Guru Ram Das.”
Yogi Bhajan replied, “I do.”
“You think you believe in Guru Ram Das.”
“I do.”
“He is your personal Guru.”
“He is.”
“Siri Guru Granth Sahib is your Guru.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you talk about Guru Ram Das?”
“That’s what I feel. I went to Harimandar Sahib. I washed the floors for four and a half years, and Guru blessed me. That’s it. I was a yogi. I could stop rain. I could do weird things to people.”
“If Guru Ram Das is your Guru, he should have given you his personal mantra. Every Guru gives his disciple their mantra. What is the mantra Guru Ram Das gave you?"
Yogi Bhajan had to admit he had no mantra other than “Wahe Guru,” the Guru Mantra of all Sikhs, but he trusted Guru Ram Das to give him a mantra in his hour of need.
Farewell to Gobind Sadan
Gobind Sadan was no longer a suitable home for Yogi Bhajan and his students. Luckily, he was able to contact his old friend, the one who had looked after the monetary needs of Bibiji and his family all the time he was away in America. That friend offered Yogi Bhajan his mango farm not far from Delhi to camp in. When he heard that the Americans’ money had been stolen, he returned with a large pillowcase full of money.
Yogi Bhajan told him, “It’s so much money!”
His friend replied, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Thank you very much. I will return it when I come back to India.”
“No. We stole it. We gave it.”
“You didn’t steal it. You are a friend. These people stole it.”
“These people, these people, we people, all people… The people who have come from America to India are the guests of India and your money has been stolen and you have not filed a complaint and you don’t want to do any nonsense, so here is the money.”
It turned out, the money was more than what had been stolen from them. From that day on, that was Yogi Bhajan’s pillow.
So it was that the Americans pulled up their tents and prepared to take their buses to the outskirts of Delhi. Before leaving, another fortunate thing happened. One of the travellers found everyone’s passports in a bag under a bush. After that, Harbhajan Singh advised everyone to hold onto their passports.
A rupture between a spiritual guide and his student is not a small thing. When Martin Luther broke with the Pope, there were wars and persecutions for a hundred years. Where schisms and leaders and the fortunes of the faithful are concerned, it can be dangerous for everyone concerned.
The word at Gobind Sadan was that Harbhajan Singh the Yogi Baba had become a disloyal student, that America had been too much for him, that the maya of the West gone to his head and he had turned his back on Virsa Singh.
Yogi Bhajan was aware of the danger of the changing situation. The police were informed and armed guards arrived at the mango farm to provide protection.
The Sanctuary
The mango grove turned out to be a blessed and peaceful sanctuary. On the property was a simple wooden building that could hold everyone who came out for sadhana. Sometimes, Yogi Bhajan would join his students there in the early morning hours.
In the designated sadhana building, Black Krishna had created a simple altar with a nice cloth and candles and a picture of Guru Ram Das. But there was a problem. For a couple days in a row, Krishna would come and find the all candles melted and the altar cloth burnt to ashes. Strangely, the picture of Guru Ram Das remained intact and not even singed.
Krishna was perplexed. She took every precaution to prevent it happening again. The candles were not lit. And each time it happened, she told Yogi Bhajan about it and apologized profusely.
After the second time, Harbhajan Yogi’s curiosity was piqued, and he decided to meditate by the altar along with Krishna. After a time, he saw a beautiful thing.
There was a man on a horse, less that five and half feet tall, in the perfect image of Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Sikh Master – but without a head. Where the head might have been, was a large flame.
Yogi Bhajan spoke to the flaming vision, "Guruji, what is this? There is no head."
The vision replied, "Hard times will come on you. Dharma will spread, but I will have to return these seeds which you have brought with you from across the ocean. Follow me, and I will carry you safely across. And then we will see what Khalsa will be."
After that, the altar never caught on fire again.
The days passed with plenty of scheduled yoga and meditation. Yogi Bhajan would often give classes in the sadhana building. Sometimes, everyone would pile into the buses to attend various events nearby. Life was easy in the mango orchard and still rather novel for the Americans. Yogi Bhajan made sure there was plenty of good Indian food, though the mango trees all around them would not be in fruit until the summer.
On January 15, 1971, Yogi Bhajan told the students who had gathered for sadhana that two friends had died and their spirits needed to be freed from the pull of this world. The one was a student who had committed suicide. The other was Murshid Samuel L. Lewis, known as "Sufi Sam,” who had befriended Yogi Bhajan at the Golden Gate Park in San Francisco in the summer of 1969. The American Sufi teacher had slipped and fallen on the steps of his San Francisco home before dawn a couple of weeks earlier and suffered a severe concussion. Murshid had just left his body in the hospital where he had spent his final days.
Yogi Bhajan went on to teach his students how to liberate a soul once it had become detached from its body. He told them to meditate within and chant "Akaal" - and meditate they did.
As they all chanted, Yogi Bhajan's students could see two shimmering sparks of light. It seemed as though their chanting was propelling them, making them subtle and blue and bright. As they watched, one of the lights became bluer and purer, but for all their efforts, the other was drawn to some kind of brown stuff. They chanted and chanted until one was completely merged with the blue ether, while the other had taken the path to be born again on Earth.
On Tour!
After a few days of this routine, Yogi Bhajan told everyone to prepare to leave the next day. The mango grove and their occasional excursions nearby had been nice, but it seemed all of India awaited beyond, so it was with some eagerness that the students took their seats aboard the buses for the next stage of their tour of the Guru's homeland.
As they drove along with their police escort, the Americans looked out on the countryside – green and fertile, and much as it had been for thousands of years. There were large fields of towering sugar cane and golden wheat interspersed by farmers with their tractors, and occasional women, children, and water buffalo.
The first stop was a village an hour's drive away. It was as good a place as any for Yogi Bhajan's students to learn the finer points of Punjabi hospitality.
With Yogi Bhajan to interpret, his students followed along. Because of their absolute unfamiliarity with the surroundings and their inability to speak or understand, the Americans would be doing a lot of following in the weeks to come. This routine did not come naturally. There were still hippies and trippers among them. For many, the tagging along and doing what they were told - more than the dysentery and more than the crude toilet facilities - was the most difficult part of the trip.
The locals came in from their fields and houses, anywhere they may have been, and soon it seemed the whole community, leather-skinned elders and tiny babes in arms, wives and mothers, fathers and sons, uncles and aunts, just everybody was there to take in this new sensation from abroad. The word "Am-ree-kan" (American) passed from ear to ear.
The sense of wonder was mutual. After all, the Americans had to varying degrees cut their family ties when they had joined the great Aquarian conspiracy. Their families, communes and ashrams were young and hardly multi-generational. Yet, here before their eyes were generations of people of the Earth, uncomplicated folk with a natural wisdom, arrayed before them in four generations.
After a few words between Yogi Bhajan and a couple of the older men, everyone proceeded down the dirt road to the largest building of the community. Outside was a flag of orange with an insignia none of the students could make out. It was the Gurdwara. Inside they squeezed, the nearly one hundred pilgrims and their five hundred hosts, though quite a number of the women would soon take their leave. This was an occasion for a grand community meal in the Sikh tradition, and they would make themselves busy preparing it.
At the back of the building was a canopy and beneath it a wooden edifice, covered with shiny cloth. An attendant behind was ceremoniously waving a yak's hair fan. In front, on the edifice and under the cloth, some of Yogi Bhajan's students understood was the present Guru of all Sikhs, the Word as Guru, Siri Guru Granth Sahib.
One of the elders stood up beside the Siri Guru and delivered an obviously emotional address of welcome. Then Harbhajan Singh went up and spoke for some time himself. His booming voice filled the hall for an hour or so, punctuated now and again as he plied his sense of humour, with chuckles of amusement, or by loud choruses of acclaim. Lastly, the eighty-five Americans squeezed onto and over the stage behind where Yogi Bhajan had spoken.
Raising their voices, Yogi Bhajan’s students began to sing together with him: “Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru” the mantra they had been chanting as their sadhana in the early morning hours, the mantra he had taught them in his first classes in America. And they chanted and chanted, much to the delight of the villagers.
After perhaps an hour of their chanting, all would rise and there would be a prayer. Then Siri Guru Granth Sahib would ceremoniously be opened and some words read from it. Next came time for the sweet, delicious Prashaad, passed from a shining bowl to the cupped hands of everyone. After that, everyone would sit in rows as the soul food of the Sikhs, their Guru-ka-langar of chapatis and daal and curry was served.
This was a routine that would repeat itself many times in the course of the yatra. Inevitably, some on both sides of the linguistic and cultural divide would make an effort to reach across. Smiles and gestures were exchanged to and fro, especially as the serviceful men with buckets of tasty daal and curry and stacks of chapatis moved up and down the rows gauging the needs of their guests. The pantomime between servers and those being served might go something like this:
"Eat!" The server smiles and gestures with a ladle.
"Okay." The served smiles and nods their head.
"Have some more." A different server smiles and gestures.
"Alright." The served smiles and leans back as though to allow space for the ladle.
"Take some more." The server smiles and gestures again.
"This is delicious!" The served smiles broadly and rubs her/his belly.
"Have more." Another server smiles broadly.
"Okay, but just a little..." The served acts pensive and motions with her/his thumb and forefinger.
"Have another!" The first server holds out a freshly made chapati and smiles.
"Maybe." The served looks pensive, but smiles.
"Just one more." A server smiles and motions with their forefinger in the air.
"I don't think I can eat any more." The served blows out their cheeks and holds her/his stomach with both hands.
"You must have another!" One of the servers smiles broadly and gestures with his ladle.
"Uhhh..." The served presses their hands together at their heart centre, smiles, makes direct eye contact, and shakes her/his head from side to side.
The hearty Punjabis were always concerned their skinny American visitors had enough to eat. The two children in the entourage were special objects of attention. As was their custom, legions of well-meaning Punjabi grandmothers came by to affectionately pinch their cheeks.
Then, as day turned to night, arrangements were made, often on the Gurdwara floor, but sometimes in neighbour's houses, for everyone to sleep. Usually the evening would end somewhere under a cozy quilt with a warm glass of sweet buffalo milk. Then off to dreamland till the early morning...
Village Folk
Yogi Bhajan took his students to the heart of Punjab where life still went on much as it had in the time of Guru Nanak. Yogi Bhajan, once a villager himself, shared his home and his country and its history with his students as they went from village to village and town to town.
Everywhere, there was history. There were stories to be told, landmarks to decipher, things to celebrate, introductions to be made. At one little village, Yogi Bhajan pointed out a short, blue-clad Nihung, a member of a warrior clan dating to Guru Gobind Singh. Yogi Bhajan told everyone that the man was a great saint, and that they should shake his hand and get to know him. And so, as much as the limitations of language and their short stay allowed, they got to know him.
Sometimes the congregations in the Gurdwaras were too stunned by the sight of the Americans. When the looks and whispers became too much, the tour master would forcefully inform the Sangat that if they would not chant along with their guests from afar, they should bow to the Guru and exit the temple, as there was a crowd outside hoping to find a place inside.
One day, Yogi Bhajan told Jim Baker, who owned the restaurant in Los Angeles where Ganga worked, "Wait till you get to the next village. See how the people receive you."
Sure enough, when the entourage disembarked from their buses, the locals there seemed to be especially in awe of Jim. The villagers were generally respectful of their visitors from the West, but for some reason they congregated around him in a most humble and devotional attitude. Yogi Bhajan explained that Jim reminded the people there of a Sufi saint who had lived with them and looked exactly like him.
One time, Krishna and Devorah found themselves on the balconies of two opposing buildings. What did they do? Why chanted, of course! They chanted to and fro, line to line, back and forth in beautiful melodic style.
Guru Nanak had said that chanting was the great presiding power of this age, and so they chanted in fulfilment of his word. For those who heard it, their spontaneous performance was one of the high points of the tour they would remember for years to come.
The Cloud of Death
The royal city of Patiala loomed up ahead, an ancient city with a real maharaja, a carryover from centuries past. It had an old fort and a palace, a museum and several Gurdwaras. There was much to see and appreciate. But when the buses pulled up to their latest way station, the occupants were sore and cramped. For many of them, their first and only thoughts were to shower and rest their bodies.
As it happened, there was a scheduled event, a plan to attend a Gurdwara in Patiala. The Yogi was going. Who would accompany him? Though they were tired, about twenty students roused themselves and followed in the train of the Master.
As they crossed the courtyard outside the Gurdwara, an uneasy feeling came over Ganga. The closer they came, the stronger her sense of foreboding. She caught Yogi Bhajan's attention and stopped beside him, saying, "Sir, don't take another step. I see the black cloud of death hanging over that Gurdwara. We can't go in there because they're going to kill us!"
Harbhajan Singh looked for a moment into Ganga's terrified eyes and calmly assured her, "Ganga, a Sikh never shirks from death," and continued walking toward their engagement at the Gurdwara.
Ganga's mind went into hyperdrive. Her insecurity screamed loud: "A Sikh! What are you talking about? I'm an American! I'm not walking to my death! Do you think I'm a fool?"
But when she saw her teacher going ahead with calm assurance, Ganga thought again: "I have to go with him. I don't have any choice. I am this man's daughter. If he is going, I have to go. If he has the courage to go, I have to go with him."
One by one, Yogi Bhajan and his twenty students went inside, bowed before Siri Guru Granth Sahib, and seated themselves as a group in the congregation, but not for long. Within a few minutes, a small group of men entered and, from the back of the Gurdwara, began to shout at the congregation. Everyone turned. Some shouted back. Then there was more shouting, all in Punjabi utterly incomprehensible to Yogi Bhajan's students, except that it seemed abusive and dangerous. It felt like the beginning of a riot.
Yogi Bhajan was completely aware and had already surrendered himself to what was going to happen. As a yogi, he closed his eyes, drew his attention deep within, and became motionless. For their part, his students formed a protective ring around their master, with their faces to the danger outside, and began to chant their protective mantra out loud.
The angry people gathered like a storm around the Americans and their teacher. They encircled them, waving sticks and shouting, shouting and screaming, waving their sticks threateningly in the air. Like a thunderstorm, they broke all around them, thundering and crashing, their faces angry and contorted, while in the centre of the storm, the Yogi meditated and his students chanted bravely, defiantly, around him.
Yogi Bhajan meditated, and the group of men shouted, but they did not, or perhaps they could not, approach the ring of the Master's students, roused in love and prepared to sacrifice.
Eventually, the storm passed and the angry people, like clouds, seemed to blow away. Having spent their fury, they turned and vanished.
Some people from the temple management remained and tried to console the Americans. One who spoke English, assured them that everything was safe and they could go now.
Ganga spoke for the group. She was not about to be consoled. The subtleties of who was who and why things had turned out so violently escaped her. She refused to trust anyone she did not know. Ganga insisted the police come and provide an escort.
When the police arrived about a half hour later, everyone was still chanting and Yogi Bhajan still deep inside his physical shell. Finally, when the chanting stopped and he came to life, there were tears in his eyes.
The head policeman remarked, "You are a yogi, and you are crying? But they've all run away. There's no problem!"
The policeman could not have understood. Yogi Bhajan was crying tears of love, tears of thankfulness, tears of humility. “These children don’t deserve this,” he said.
In his own country where he had lived for thirty-nine years, where he had been a government officer and could count hundreds of friends, when an attack was made on his life, who had stood by him? Those who belonged to him. In his heart, he knew then that he belonged to these American students.
Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru
Yogi Bhajan had not had a ready answer for Virsa Singh, but three weeks later, at 3:30 in the morning, in a village outside Amritsar, when his personal attendant, Krishna came to rouse him with a foot massage according to their routine, he was not under the covers, but already sitting and awake. Her teacher told her that Guru Ram Das had been with him the whole night, that he had received the Guru Mantra from him, and that it would keep them safe.
It was a dark, moonless night and the street was dotted with potholes, so Yogi Bhajan held each others’ hands and chanted the mantra for the first time as they navigated their way the three blocks to the school here they were to have morning sadhana. "Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru," they softly chanted as one voice in the darkness.
Arriving at the school, everyone pitched in to put the desks and chairs to the sides so there would be room to exercise and meditate – and exercise and meditate they did.
Afterwards, the people of the village lined up on a concrete pavement to see Harbhajan Singh, this Sikh Yogi from America. Everyone had a problem, it seemed. After speaking with each person, he would direct them to Black Krishna, seated outside on the grass. She was to chant the mantra he had just received with each one. She and Yogi Bhajan were just within eyeshot of each other, and he would direct her to chant fifteen minutes with this person, twenty minutes with this one, and so on though the morning.
Later on, Yogi Bhajan described how he came to spend the night in the awesome presence of Guru Ram Das. It had begun with his chanting "Wahe Guru, Wahe Guru, Wahe Guru" in the way to which he was accustomed. Slowly, as Yogi Bhajan chanted, he had become aware of a change in the sounds his mouth was uttering. First, he felt the change. Then, the heard the actual sounds and he understood that he had been given what he had prayed for. Guru Ram Das had given him his Guru mantra.
After a time, he was surprised to find that there was a pure light in that room, and that a human being was sitting there in the very visible form of Guru Ram Das. The great Guru spoke, "At this time you need the protection of a mantra. The people who are following you are not ripe. Chant this: "Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru."You do not want to claim anything as your own achievement, and you don't want to take the blame either. Let the claim be mine and let me also take the blame. Now say this mantra."
Yogi Bhajan shared with all his students the mantra he had thus received. It was chanted on the buses from then on. Black Krishna, for her part, hardly ever seemed to stop chanting.
The Honest Police Inspector
In a certain Punjabi village along the way, Yogi Bhajan had been assigned to stay in a school and a sewadar was assigned to bring him warm water, so he could have a tub bath in the morning. While taking his bath, Yogi Bhajan asked him, "What do you do?"
The gentleman replied, "I was a police inspector."
"What happened?"
"I was an honest police inspector."
"Then what happened?"
"You know what happens to honest police inspectors."
"I don't understand."
"They dismissed me. They wanted me to do something. I told them it was impossible, so they took their vendetta. They just charged me with disobedience this and that. Nobody listened. I am out!"
"Okay, Mister Police Inspector, what do you want to do now?"
"I don't want to do anything. I just want to serve some people. I am in too much pain and I am too much in anger. I feel great injustice has been done to me. I feel there is no place in this world for a righteous man."
"No. There is. How righteous do you feel I am?”
"I don't know. But I feel very comfortable with you."
"Hey, I'll give you my Mantra!"
"What is it?"
"Sit down and repeat 'Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru'. Just say it."
"What will it do?"
"A fool asks what a mantra can do. It doesn't do anything! Just sit down and don't worry about it."
They would not see each other again until three years had passed.
Questions in Amritsar
After their close encounter with death, the tour continued. Out of concern for their security, there were frequent detours and changes of plan, but still they soldiered on.
As Yogi Bhajan and his students continued their way in the east of Punjab, further to the west, in the holy city of Amritsar, some people in the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee (S.G.P.C.), the body that governed the religious affairs of the Sikhs, discussed reports they had been hearing about a former government officer and a number of American youth touring the countryside. It sounded very odd.
Who was this man? And why would any officer of the Indian Civil Service just quit and go to America? Some said he had left his family in Delhi. Some said he was associated with Gobind Sadan. But what was he doing with all these Americans?
Punjab was a rural, clannish and insular culture. It was also a border region. In 1965, it had been the front for a war between hostile neighbours India and Pakistan and in a few months it would be so again. There was a history of being suspicious of outsiders, and good grounds for it too. They could be spies, foreign agents, troublemakers, communists. Who knew?
Most young Americans who came to India and Pakistan and Nepal were easy enough to figure out. They came for the cheap and readily available hashish and marijuana. But why was this group touring Punjabi villages?
Some foreigners came for spiritual enlightenment. Why weren't these Americans further north at Dharamsala with the Tibetan Buddhists, or in the sadhu culture of Rishikesh and Benares to the east? Why were they in Punjab, and why were they following a Sardar?
The committee members decided the situation was too odd to simply ignore. Besides, the group seemed to be slowly making its way closer to Amritsar, the city of the sacred Harimandar, the Golden Temple. A couple of S.G.P.C. men were assigned to go east, find the group, and figure out what they were up to.
If there were grounds to be suspicious, there would still be time to stop them, one way or another, before they disturbed the holy ambiance of the city of Amritsar.
Alamgir
When the agents of the S.G.P.C. found them, Yogi Bhajan and his students were at Gurdwara Alamgir, a few kilometers from the industrial city of Ludhiana. This Gurdwara was bigger than most of the Sikh temples they had seen. It had been enlarged just a couple of years before.
The story of this holy place, which Yogi Bhajan shared with his students, dated back to the terrible days when Guru Gobind Singh was a fugitive from the Mughal Empire. After the Khalsa had been forced to evacuate the fort of Anandpur, a pair of Muslim brothers who used to sell the Guru fine horses, came to hear of his lonely plight. Ghani Khan and Nabi Khan set out and found Guru Gobind Singh. Meeting him, they offered the Master their help. Dying some cloth offered by a devotee a suitable blue, Ghani Khan and Nabi Khan dressed the Guru as a Muslim holy man. While the Mughal army scoured the countryside, the two carried the object of the army’s manhunt on the road disguised in a palanquin.
It was at the place of the present day Gurdwara that the tenth Master had dismissed Ghani Khan and Nabi Khan after giving them a letter of commendation that would be treasured by their family for generations. Guru Gobind Singh proceeded from there on a horse provided by an old Sikh named Bhai Nauda who lived nearby.
As the agents from Amritsar approached, they found the Americans sitting outside the Gurdwara. Yogi Bhajan's students were chanting. The agents watched and listened from a respectful distance. They could make out the words: "Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru." The men had never heard this chant before.
As the sun passed overhead, the agents began to tire. The Americans, sitting or sprawling on the grass, continued to chant. Hours passed and the men from the S.G.P.C. grew in amazement. The devotion of these students of this Harbhajan Singh surpassed anything they had imagined. They telephoned Amritsar to tell of their humbling experience. So far as they could see, there was no threat from these Western devotees of Guru Ram Das.
Guru Amar Das
The tour continued on with Yogi Bhajan serving as teacher, story teller, and guide. One big pilgrimage place had a very large well with a decorative dome overhead. Guru Ram Das's spiritual guide, Guru Amar Das, the third Master, had arranged for the well to be built with 84 steps leading down to the water. He said that anyone who chanted Guru Nanak's cosmic poem, the Japji Sahib once on each of the steps, then took a dip in the water after each recitation, would be freed from the bondage of 8.4 million lifetimes. That sadhana would take hours and hours, but it seemed there were always people there faithfully reciting on the marble steps and dipping in the chill waters below.
Nearby was a large marble hall dating back to the third Master's time. According to the history of the place, the Emperor of Mughal India, Akbar, came there once to meet with the Guru. The emperor was an open-minded ruler, sympathetic to the Sikhs. When Guru Amar Das heard of his arrival, he sent word that before meeting, Emperor Akbar must eat "langar" - the common meal – with everyone. This defied the tradition of that day, that kings were superior to common people, their subjects. It hinted bravely of a new tradition when all humanity should be recognized as one.
The good emperor seated himself among people of all ranks and religions, men and women, farmers and tradesmen. That day, the only food available was rice and a seasoning of salt. After partaking of the langar, the ruler remarked at how delicious it had tasted. "There must be some special ingredient," he said. The only special ingredients were the love of the Sikhs and the grace of the Creator.
Another Gurdwara marked a place where Guru Amar Das had secluded himself for several days in meditation. On the door of the brick building, he had written a notice that anyone who entered the door and disturbed his meditation would no longer be a disciple of his.
After looking far and wide for several days, Baba Budha, one of the Guru's eldest and most respectful devotees finally found the place with Guru Amar Das inside. But what could he do? Baba Budha's great longing to be reunited with his Master gave him but one choice. Brick by brick, he burrowed his way through the wall, until he was inside. After that, all was forgiven, and the Guru joined his Sikhs once more.
Amritsar
Day by day, as the entourage neared Amritsar, the excitement increased. It seemed to exude from Yogi Bhajan and everyone was feeling it. Controversy also dogged the group, some of it fed by Virsa Singh and Nirlep Kaur. Punjabis at all stations of society found difficulty in understanding why American young people would live drugless, chaste lives while following a Sardar. To fight the cynicism and sheer incredulity of his countrymen and women, Harbhajan Singh spent much of each day talking to old friends, common people, religious people, anybody he met, to assure them of his purity of intentions and the spiritual dedication of his students.
Mindful of the problems they had encountered in Delhi, Yogi Bhajan left most of his entourage at a village a short distance from Amritsar and went ahead to secure the situation. Once in Amritsar, Harbhajan Singh naturally made his way directly to the Harimandar Sahib, the fourth Guru’s resplendent house, to offer his homage. In the holy city, his concerns were dispelled. Guru Ram Das, it seemed, would personally host the much-maligned group of Americans.
Returning from the Guru’s house to the village where he had left his students, Harbhajan Singh told everyone to embark for the holy city. At his word, their buses began to make their way through the sundry traffic of bicycle rickshaws and brightly-painted trucks, and cars and cows and dogs, bearing right, steering left, weaving left and right, honking regularly, the final distance toward the holy city.
There was no downtown of looming skyscrapers ahead. Rather, Amritsar was manifestly humble and close to the Earth. Early in their century-long reign here, the British had erected a tall clock tower to try and literally overshadow the Harimandar or "Golden Temple.” The people of Amritsar had demolished the tower in 1945 and thereby restored the city's respectful modesty.
For nearly four hundred years, the gracious town of pilgrims had grown – under Mughal rajas and Afghan invaders. The Sikh maharaja, Ranjit Singh, had made his summer palace here. During the British period, it had been the site of large demonstrations and a massacre of a thousand innocents, the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. After independence, it had been at the centre of protests and demonstrations to gain for the Sikhs their promised Punjabi-speaking state.
Parts of Amritsar remained much as they had been for centuries. The original buildings, noticeable by their smaller bricks, dated from the days when Guru Ram Das himself had held court on the banks of the fabulous pool excavated to hold the Harimandar at its centre. It was here that Guru Ram Das disguised himself at night and set out for the last pilgrim station before the entrance into the beginnings of the town of Amritsar. Incognito, he would wash and bandage the feet of the pilgrims, then return to his duties as Guru in the day.
This was the city of Guru Arjun, the fourth Guru's son, who completed the temple and compiled the priceless Shabad Guru to be installed as a jewel therein. It was from here that he left for Lahore to be tried and painfully put to death. And it was here that his son, the sixth Guru, Hargobind Sahib erected the Akal Takhat, the Immortal Throne, higher than the throne of the emperor, a deliberate affront to his bigoted authority.
Twice, the Harimandar had been blown up in the 1700’s, its holy pool filled with the corpses of innocent cattle. And twice it had been restored.
In the dark days when it was a crime to even say "Guru,” intrepid Sikhs would take the chance of being painfully put to death just to take a quick dip in the waters of the holy Harimandar. It was here the legendary Baba Deep Singh came with his volunteers to liberate the temple, continuing the fight though his head was severed from his neck. And in peaceful days that followed, the Harimandar was embellished with marble and filigree and a crown of precious gold by Maharaja Ranjit Singh.
Harimandar Sahib was set like a jewel in the very centre of the city, amidst the maze of alleys and laneways designed to hinder invading armies. Visitors' first sight of the famous temple came through the high archways of the entrance, the Darshan Deori. There it glistened beautifully, majestically, a gilded vision in the golden sun.
At Home in the Harimandar
Amritsar opened its heart to the American pilgrims. The people of Amritsar showed themselves to be gracious and warmly hospitable, curious and self-consciously discreet. They engaged the Westerners, some of them habitually turbaned now, at every turn. A number of the students were becoming adept at joining their hands in greeting and offering the customary “Sat Siri Akaal!”
For the newly-arrived Americans, Amritsar was an ancient city, a new continent to be discovered, a mystery to be uncovered. Each neighborhood brimmed with history. There were seemingly endless relics and artifacts, gates and Gurdwaras. And for those with even a little to spend, there were shops with fabulous sweets, outdoor stands with unheard-of fruits, and bazaars arrayed with all kinds of exotica.
The gem at the heart of Amritsar was the sacred temple of marble covered in gold, the Harimandar Sahib. After washing their feet below the large multi-domed entranceway, pilgrims descended a wide arcade of stairs and entered the holy site. Before them lay a vast, gleaming spectacle: white of marble, blue of sky and waters, gleaming gold of the domes of the Harimandar. Far to the left and far to the right, ran a broad, rectangular marble walkway arranged in intricate geometric patterns.
The walkway itself was completely surrounded by the outer building of the Golden Temple complex, comprised of the Sikh Museum and countless rooms for individual prayers and meditation, with domed entranceways on two sides. Inside the walkway's perimeter, the waters of the temple beckoned pilgrims to immerse themselves, to bathe and soak up the healing energies of that place, as devotees had done for centuries. Then, over the sparkling waters, a walkway with brass handrails offered pilgrims access to the brilliant temple, the foremost of Gurdwaras, resplendent in its surroundings.
Inlaid with semi-precious stones formed into innumerable intricate designs and motifs, the Harimandar had been constructed by Guru Arjun as a holy seat for the most inspiring poetry of his time and place, the utterly transformative Shabd Guru. And there, seated beneath a precious canopy, on a gold throne with attendants all around, the Living Word, Siri Guru Granth Sahib, held court from the very early morning until late at night, as thousands arrived from far and near to offer their respects.
Yogi Bhajan had already advised his students of the miraculous power of this place, and how just a few years before his destiny had been forever changed washing the floors of the holy Harimandar. He had described it as the nucleus of powerful spiritual center, where heaven met the earth to create a cosmic harmony. There was only one other place like it in all the world - in the heart of the true seeker, the Sikh.
As impressed as they were by the sheer splendor of the Harimandar or “Golden Temple,” with its majestic ambience, its sacred pool, its serene marble promenade, and all the beautifully fashioned shrines and memorials of variegated marble, semi-precious stones and gold, all of it resounding to the delightful sounds of Gurbani kirtan and exuding the delectable fragrance of the Guru's Prashaad, there was something still more amazing that captured the imaginations of the new arrivals. It was the people of Amritsar.
Here, for the first time, these Westerners saw people of all ages, sizes and economic situations working all hours of the day and night doing "kar sewa" - sweeping and washing the parikarma, serving water to the thirsty, making and serving langar, and doing any of a hundred other duties - all with the enthusiasm of Americans going to a party!
Then, after the sewadars had done their part, they would have Prashaad, sit, meditate, pray, then go their way looking perfectly contented, relaxed and fulfilled. Many of the Americans who had grown up around people who worked begrudgingly, compulsively, or solely for money, were in shock. Clearly, for all their "first world" pretensions, there was something they had been missing.
The Offer
In Amritsar, Yogi Bhajan reconnected with some of his friends and associates from when he had been posted there. He would visit their houses with his Western students, who were acclaimed as celebrities now, speaking a foreign language (English) and yet chanting in the Guru's tongue. Yogi Bhajan was also met by Giani Mohinder Singh, a gracious and humble man who happened to be the Secretary of the S.G.P.C., the organization that administered most of the Gurdwaras in Punjab.
Mohinder Singh had taken an interest in the case of Harbhajan Singh and his entourage. Now that they had met, he did everything in his power to accommodate and serve them. The S.G.P.C. was a buzz with the arrival of the Westerners. Some members did not like the idea of hippies from America
taking up their religion. Others took a more accepting view. Giani Mohinder Singh was instrumental in representing the Sikh Yogis in their discussions.
Finally, it was decided that if these Westerners really wanted to embrace the Sikh way of life, they should be given an opportunity to be baptised into the Order of Khalsa. And what better place to be initiated than in the most holy city of Amritsar? This was a genuine offer. It was also a way of silencing the S.G.P.C. hardliners who believed American hippie freaks would never agree to take up the hardy discipline of the order of saint-soldiers.
When Yogi Bhajan explained what was being offered to his students, many of them were very keen. Their hearts had been opened and their souls touched by the spiritual richness, the sheer human splendor, and the warm-hearted devotion they had witnessed since arriving in the Guru's Land. They had been amazed at the humble service and endless hospitality extended to them. These longhaired Americans in Punjab had realized for themselves much of what they wished for their troubled society back home.
Not everyone, however, was so eager to give up their freedom to do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, a cherished American tradition. For them, this was more of a tour than a pilgrimage, and nobody was going to make them join any kind of religion.
Baisakhi 1699
The Amrit ceremony dated back many years to the days when the Mughal empire had cruelly dominated India's religious landscape. Guru Gobind Rai, tenth of the Sikh Masters, had seen his father, Guru Tegh Bahadur dedicate his last days to the cause of freedom of worship. The ninth Guru had courted arrest and gone to Delhi on behalf of the Hindu priests of Kashmir. In the capital he and three of his disciples had been cruelly tortured and put to death, remaining true to their faith to their last breath.
Twenty-four years later, when the Guru was a man of thirty-three, he called his followers together in the fortified town of Anandpur in the Himalayan foothills for the spring festival of Baisakhi. There, he challenged his Sikhs to come forward and give him their head. Only five responded to the Master's order. One by one, they came to him and were beheaded in a nearby tent. The Guru's sword bore the blood of his dear disciples. Tens of thousands who witnessed the events were stunned by what they saw.
After a time, Guru Gobind Rai re-emerged from the tent with his five disciples alive and in tow. Somehow, their severed heads had been rejoined with their bodies and they had been restored to life. The Master had proudly dressed them with beautiful saffron turbans and tunics. He then introduced them to the amazed multitude as his “five beloveds,” for they had passed his most difficult test. Their devotion had surpassed their fear of death. While Guru Nanak, the first Master, through Guru Tegh Bahadur, the ninth, had each found only one disciple worthy of the crown of guruship, Guru Gobind Rai was about to anoint five worthy Sikhs as his equals in the holy Order of Khalsa.
The Guru set to work stirring a steel bowl of water with a double-edged sword as he chanted and infused that water with superhuman courage and strength. Then his wife, Sahib Devan, came by and contributed sugary sweets to the roiling nectar. This was to make those who partook of it sweet and humble as well.
At last, after reciting a number of Hymns, Guru Gobind Rai had his disciples sit in veeraasan on one heel with the opposite knee against their chest as he infused them with the spiritually charged water, the Amrit. In their eyes, in their mouth and on the crown of their head, they thirstily received the nectar. From that day forward, the five men were given the royal “Singh” as a last name, as women would receive the name “Kaur.” Some days later, the Master requested the five to honor him with the same baptism, and he became known as Guru Gobind Singh, the Master who himself became a disciple.
From that day forward, the Khalsa grew in strength and numbers. One by one, it conquered the bigotry of the caste system, the oppression of the Mughals, the greed of Afghan invaders, the smug rule of the British and the duplicity of India's modern-day rulers.
The Amrit Ceremony
So it was that, early one morning, Krishna and Ganga and Larry Wentink, Mark Vosko and Alan Weiss, John Twombly, Richard Buhler, Sandy Cohen, and about thirty others, including a couple of youngsters, came together before the Akal Takhat building, across the waters from the Harimandar. The first musical strains of the ragees at the mother temple would have just begun to waft through the darkness.
There they met with Yogi Bhajan, who instructed them, “My job finishes here. From now onward, you will take these steps alone, because Amrit is an initiation in which I cannot participate. This is a direct relation between you, Guru, and God. It can never be repeated by anybody else. It is a direct relationship. It is not my relationship with you and your relationship with me. Now, you guys go up and you take the Amrit. I have done my job to bring you to the bottom step of Akal Takhat.”
Yogi Bhajan's students then filed up the winding stairs to the roof of the historic Akal Takhat, where they and two Punjabi gentlemen who had come for the same reason, waited for the ceremony to begin. They were met by a saintly old Khalsa and five other men adorned with saffron-coloured turbans and tunics who would perform the ceremony. To some in that gathering it seemed odd that Yogi Bhajan, who had seen them through so much, should not be there. Perhaps having not heard his words, they expected him to arrive at any moment, but he did not arrive.
The Head Priest of the Akal Takhat, Singh Sahib Sadhu Singh Bhaura, had officiated over hundreds of ceremonies like this. For many years, he had served as a missionary near the border with Nepal, where it was Hindus who would come to join the casteless fold of Khalsa. First of all, a little of the tradition of the Khalsa was explained to the group through an interpreter. Then the vows were enumerated: they were to rise each morning and meditate on the Name of God; they were never to take intoxicants; they were not to commit adultery; they were never to eat meat butchered in the custom of halal; they were to keep their bodies intact, never cutting their hair; they were to wear a steel bracelet, cotton undershorts with a drawstring, a wooden comb and a small sword of self-defence.
Over the centuries, many thousands had since put aside their egotism and dedicated their lives to purity and piety through this very ceremony, but that morning it proved difficult for some of those gathered on the roof of the historic shrine to accept everything wholly and without reservation.
For years, it had been the practice of these rebels and outcasts to distrust every known convention and authority in order to find their own truth. They had turned their back on the American nightmare of war and greed and exploitation and deception, with a hope of realizing the high ideals of that country’s founding. Along the way, they had had only themselves to rely on – their own integrity, their own judgment, and their own word. They had also learned to trust their Yogi friend and teacher as well, but these vows sounded new and strange to them.
Several candidates took exception to some of the vows required for joining the Order of Khalsa and they spoke up.
“What if I have been working all night or have been sick and cannot stay awake to meditate in the early morning hours?” “I know the vow says I won't take alcohol, but what if there is alcohol in a medicinal tincture that I must take to recover my health?” “What if I promise today to wear my undershorts all the time, but tomorrow I want to join in a sweat lodge ceremony with my Hopi Indian brothers where you are supposed to be completely naked?” “I never want to cut my hair, but what if I need to go for surgery one day and the doctor says they need to shave the skin where they want to operate?”
And so, after these objections and conditions had been aired and responded to, the ceremony was about to begin. Just then, someone asked about a big pile of new turbans for all the men who wanted to become Khalsa to wear. “What about the women?” they asked. “Aren't we going to have turbans like our brothers?”
The kindly old Khalsa in charge of the ceremony was stumped. He had never seen women demanding their own turbans at an Amrit ceremony or even heard of such a thing. Normally, everyone was just happy to go along, grateful to take part in the ceremony. People did not raise objections. Besides, all the shops would be closed at this hour of the morning. Where could they obtain turbans for the women participating in the ceremony? The jathedar came down the stairs to speak with Harbhajan Singh.
“What is going on upstairs? You come and check on them!”
Harbhajan Singh replied, “It is not my problem. I was to bring them up to the doorsteps. After that, they are their own body. They have come to you to get the Amrit. Give them or not, that is your problem.”
“Won’t you come up?”
“No.”
“But we don’t have turbans for the ladies!”
“Get them!”
There was a lull of about half an hour as the Amrit candidates chanted and someone hurried to the Harimandar to obtain sufficient Siropas, short saffron turbans... and finally the initiation ceremony began.
By the time they were all done, the sun was above the horizon and there were forty-two beaming Khalsa transformed and a little exhausted. They all lined up on the steps on the Akal Takhat with the sun in their eyes, and with Yogi Bhajan and a number of well-wishers, and posed for the probing eyes of posterity.
Siri Singh Sahib
News of the initiation swept through Amritsar, and especially the S.G.P.C., like a storm. Westerners had actually taken vows to live as Khalsa. Afterwards, they had been invited to sing on the marble walkway outside the Harimandar. Krishna Kaur, Mark Singh, and a number of others had sung the Guru’s Words to the surprise and amazement of the pilgrims to that place.
Some critics took consolation from the fact that not quite half of Yogi Bhajan's entourage had taken Amrit. The truth was that nearly half of those who had come to Amritsar with Harbhajan Singh had taken part in the ceremony atop Akal Takhat. This in itself was history.
It was not the first time Westerners had been accepted into the fold of Khalsa. In the previous two centuries, a few Englishmen in India had been known to “go native” and take up local customs and religions. But never had so many come to join the Order of the Khalsa. Besides, these new Khalsa were from America. America was known as a melting pot of assimilation and up to that time had been a graveyard for Khalsa aspirations. Most Sikh immigrants shed their turbans and beards before stepping on American soil.
How had Harbhajan Singh done it? Was it a miracle? Was this the beginning of a wave of conversion to the Sikh faith? How should the S.G.P.C. respond to this altogether unexpected turn of events? These and more questions filled the air.
Harbhajan Singh Yogi was invited to meet with senior Sikh officials as they discussed the unfolding course of events. Giani Mohinder Singh was there, as was Sant Chanan Singh, who had served as President of the S.G.P.C. since 1962. He was a brave and dedicated soul who had been jailed eleven years earlier during the peaceful movement to make the Indian government deliver on its promise of a Punjabi-speaking state. There too was Sant Fateh Singh, the head of the Sikh political party, the Akali Dal. He also had served the Sikhs in a brave and exemplary way over the years.
At one point in the meeting, Sant Fateh Singh indicated that Yogi Bhajan ought to be presented with a symbolic sword of honor, a "Siri Sahib", at the Akal Takhat, and that he ought to be called by the title “Singh Sahib,” even as the head priests of the holiest shrines of the Sikhs were known.
His longtime friend and collaborator, Sant Chanan Singh replied, “What do you mean? This one Harbhajan Singh will create many Singh Sahibs! We are presenting him with a Siri Sahib, so let us call him “Siri Singh Sahib”!”
So it was that on March 3, 1971, Yogi Harbhajan Singh was presented with a ceremonial Siri Sahib. In an official letter signed and dated five days later, S.G.P.C. Secretary Giani Mahinder Singh, authorized Harbhajan Singh “to act as a Minister of Divinity and to perform marriage ceremonies according to Sikh rites.” It also empowered the designated Siri Singh Sahib “to initiate and perform the Amrit ceremony, according to Sikh rites, initiating individuals into Sikh Dharma and further to appoint such initiated Sikhs as Ministers of Divinity.” A new chapter of Sikh history characterized by a renewed, expansive vision was beginning to unfold.
Return to America
With their return to America scheduled in two weeks, the tour group of yogis and Sikhs made the most of their remaining days in India. Because of the danger of another attack by the thugs of Yogi Bhajan's former teacher, security had become a daily consideration. Still, there were Gurdwaras to visit, places to go, people who wanted to see them. Wherever they went, they travelled with their police escort.
Remarkably, on every occasion, Yogi Bhajan spoke as “we Americans.” He told the people of India, “America is not a country of sex and sensuality. America will create those great potent people who will not only be teaching God realization, but they will achieve God realization.” Not everyone he spoke to liked to hear this, but Yogi Bhajan was not one to care.
The Americans were the focus of a good deal of attention. One gentleman even offered to Yogi Bhajan that he should like to marry one of his healthy, happy, holy entourage. Yogi Bhajan approached Devorah and, with her agreement, a Sikh wedding ceremony was quickly arranged.
Sadly, the marriage only lasted a couple of days. It was long enough for those who wished Yogi Bhajan harm to foist the question of the legality of the marriage. The union of an American and an Indian citizen, was quite a rarity in those days. Yogi Bhajan's arrest and detention emerged as a real possibility.
The seed of other difficulties also took root when Ralph, a student of Yogi Bhajan's arrived in India late for the tour. Ralph innocently made his way to Gobind Sadan in Delhi, where he was adopted by Virsa Singh as his prize American disciple. After a few years at Gobind Sadan, Ralph Singh would become an outspoken representative, fluent in Punjabi and English, of the Delhi Baba.
Yogi Bhajan gathered his students together and cautioned them of the difficulties still ahead, “Look folks, we have come to visit the house of Guru. We shall go back. Chant 'Guru Guru Wahe Guru Guru Ram Das Guru'.You came to this country on my faith, right? I came on my Guru’s faith, right? Now we know at this time we are alone and there is a possibility that they will attack us to kill us. One thing if you keep on chanting, nothing will happen to us.”
Someone asked, “How, Yogiji?”
“I don't know. All I know is we are innocent. Something will happen that nothing will happen to us. We'll get out of this whole cloud. I know the time is hard. I know we are in a problem. I know we are encircled by police for our life protection. I know we cannot go on the town. I understand all that, but dear ones, keep on chanting. Everything will vanish.”
Then Yogi Bhajan prayed, “Lord, I do not know. I came to Thy house. I brought these people to Thy house. They don't know who you are. They have never seen you. They have come on sheer faith. It is a divine faith. And if you will not maintain the divine faith, tomorrow nobody will come to the House of Guru Ram Das. Period. You should hear it very clearly too. I don't care if you have a house of gold and marble. I don't care. I know you have. I have love for you. But these people are new. They are here. They have enjoyed. It was a height of bliss and pleasantness when we were with you. Now the clouds have come. In your house we have been honored. In five hundred years of Indian history, they have never respected any foreigners with that respect they have given us. God bless you. Thank you for taking care of the children.”
Soon, everyone was chanting together, “Guru Guru Waahay Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru…” They chanted as they made ready to board their bus. They chanted as they took their seats on their buses. They chanted as they rode through the flatlands of Haryana, toward Delhi. When they disembarked several hours later for a call of nature, still they were chanting.
Yogi Bhajan walked a discrete distance away to perform his personal business behind a rock or tree. He met a farmer sitting there tending his field. The man looked up and said, “Are you a Yogi?”
Yogi Bhajan naturally answered, “Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
Yogi Bhajan began to explain their planned itinerary. The farmer piped up, “Don’t go.”
“Why?”
“Two hours before, about twenty gunmen were sitting here to attack you and your group. Are you with the Americans?”
“Yuh.”
“Then don’t go this way,” said the farmer, pointing.
“Which way did they go?”
“They went this way!”
“What do you suggest?”
“Just go a mile, and then one road cuts through. You go that way and you will be okay.”
On the road to the Delhi airport, the bus was stopped by Tarlochan Singh, longtime friend of Yogi Bhajan’s, who was well-connected with the Indian government. They had a conference together in Tarlochan Singh’s car. After some conversation in Punjabi, Yogi Bhajan turned around from the front seat and said to Krishna Kaur and his tour secretary, seated in back, “I am going to have to stay here because they are planning to arrest me when I get to the airport. You have a choice: to go ahead and go ahead with the group or stay. It is totally up to you.”
Although their visas were due to expire on that day, there was no question in Krishna Kaur's mind. “If you stay, I stay. When I left LA, you said I was going to be your attendant and that would be my privilege and responsibility forever, and so until I get back to LA, I'm here.”
His tour secretary concurred, “I'm staying also.”
The three followed Tarlochan Singh to his house. There followed hours of intense telephone conversations and activity as efforts were made to clear a way for their departure.
While he was there, Harbhajan Singh had an unusual vision. The tenth Sikh Master, Guru Gobind Singh, appeared before him on a horse, but the Guru was strangely headless. Yogi Bhajan said jokingly, "Why are you riding this horse without your head?"
From within the neck, a bright flame emerged, and a voice spoke, "Hard times will come on you. Dharma will spread, but I have to return these seeds you have brought with you from across the ocean. Follow me and I will carry you safely across, and then we will see what Khalsa shall be."
On the day they were to leave, Yogi Bhajan called together the group of those who were returning, although a few were planning on staying behind for a time. He said, “Look, if we are honest and if our God and Guru are with us, on the twentieth of March I'll be speaking in San Francisco at that conference where I have been invited by the AMA and all that stuff. But if we are not righteous and if I have earned any bad karma, I'll be left. Then it is up to you sons to like me or dislike me. But if you can leave, as many as you can should try to leave.”
Finally, by the end of the day, things were settled and Yogi Bhajan and his two stalwarts flew off to Bombay (Mumbai) to join the rest of the entourage for the journey home. Krishna Kaur, for her part, chanted to Guru Ram Das at the airport and all the way to England on the plane. When they stopped over in a hotel in London, she was still chanting lest anything go wrong.
Yogi Bhajan’s tour secretary was beyond keeping up. She was exhausted and needed to be hospitalized. She would remain in England for a couple of weeks. Yogi Bhajan too showed some of the strain of the journey, the betrayal of his former teacher, the separation from his family, and all the other tribulations. Gray hairs had begun to show themselves in Yogi Bhajan's beard.
During their day-long stay in London, Yogi Bhajan gave a yoga class at the ashram his students, Vic and Debbie Briggs, had begun at 34A Saint Stephen's Gardens. Vic had played bass guitar in a group called The Animals and Debbie was a former actress. The Indians affectionately called him “Vikram.”
Yogi Bhajan also went out to meet with some people he knew there from his days in India. Seated among them, there was an Englishwoman who fancied herself a Sikh and was encouraged in her delusion by the immigrant community. In typical style, Yogi Bhajan poked gaping holes in the notion that one could be a Sikh without living the lifestyle.
In the course of his discussion with the Sikhs living in England, the subject of Yogi Bhajan's former teacher, the Delhi Baba, came up. After some intense conversation, Yogi Bhajan switched to English, “When I left India, he was an angel. When I came back to India, he was a demon!”
The class, the feasts, the kirtan, the meetings over, Yogi Bhajan and his students boarded their plane for New York and the final leg back from India.
Eight hours later, the airplane carrying them descended from the clouds, hurtled along the runway and came to a halt outside the big terminal building of John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. Outside, two big police cars with sniffer dogs awaited everyone.
When Yogi Bhajan looked outside and saw them, he protested to God, “No, this is not divine! We are not carrying any marijuana and we can't go through this process. We are not going to remove our pants and get sniffed! No, No! O God, you saved us from bullets. O Guru, you saved us from that tragedy. Now we are back and what are you going to do with us here? God, no! You can't betray these people. They came on a yatra. They came to visit the holy places. They can be shot, they can be fired at, and they can be sniffed by the dogs. No problem. But at this time, we are not being exposed. You are being exposed. Protect Thyself!”
Yogi Bhajan went into an altered state of consciousness. All he could say and think was “No, no, no...”
Having an Indian passport, Harbhajan Singh was separated from the rest of the group. Yogi Bhajan gave his passport to the customs officer. The officer said something and all Yogi Bhajan could say in reply was “No, no, no.”
“Where is your baggage?”
“No, no, no.”
“Take it away.” Then the officer wanted to go through Krishna Kaur's baggage.
Yogi Bhajan continued, as though in an ecstasy, “No, no, no.”
“Alright. This is no offense.”
In a few minutes, everyone was clear. No one was detained or searched. It was a minor miracle.
At this stage, everyone from the East Coast of the United States separated and Yogi Bhajan continued on to California with the remainder of his students. Another long flight above the clouds, and they were there.
Baba Singh brought some coconut water to the airport for his Master. Yogi Bhajan was still in a trance.
“Is this San Francisco? No, how can it be? Where are we?”
“Sir, it is Los Angeles.”
“No, how can it be Los Angeles?”
“The aircraft was so scheduled that it came into Los Angeles, and then you are going to San Francisco in one hour, forty-five minutes. We received a phone call and so we came here.”
Finally, it felt as though a pall were lifting. The travellers had been protected in so many ways and now they were safe and home again to continue their adventure with the spirit of Sat Nam in America.
Part Three - The Majesty of Khalsa
RAJ YOGA: THE SOULFUL SOVEREIGNTY OF THE DIVINE
Chapters
I am a yogi.
You are no longer Sikhs!
Mr. Eckhardt
Time to Move On
The Loud Knock
The Government Cheque
Yoga in the Canadian Woods
TV Yogi
The House of Yogi
Hunger’s Repast
The Artist and the Yogi
“Flower Power”
The Man in Blue
Plenty
The Yogi’s Dilemma
Stranded
“I am a restless man.”
The Jook Savages
The Visit
Bhabi
Cooking for HELP
East West Cultural
The Interview
The Yogi’s Detachment
I Ching in Ibeza
The First Public Lecture
A Liberated Man
The Contest
The Unexpected Lunch
The Priceless, Destiny-Writing Pencil
The Yogi and the Savages
Old Friends and New Students Meet
The Choice
New Beginnings
The Longtime Sun
The First Turban
Do Something!
The House on Phyllis Street
The Yogi’s Guru
The Hollywood Party
After the Party
The Price of Initiation
The Identity of the Master
The Room
Training the Teacher
Work Now, Be Appreciated Later
Solstice and the Fair
Solstice Frolics
Solstice Reverie
Lessons at the Free School
Returning Home
Sufi Sam
The Pearl of Purposefulness
Making the Festival
Onion Juice Purifies the Blood
American Dreams
At the ‘Bird’s Nest’
Old Friends Lost
The Bait
The ‘House of Shiva’
Teacher and Students
Tratakam Yoga
The Master of Coax
The 366th Day
Sunday Evenings
Seeing the Unseen
“Living Truth”
The Darkness Before the Dawn
The Peace-Giving Name
Sikh Vows
The Perfect Turban
To San Francisco
“Seven Centers, Three Methods”
The Kriya
Solstice Invitation
The Santa Clara Solstice
Solstice Yoga
The Visit of the Hopi Elders
Bossier’s Land
Trial by Fire
The Dedication of Guru Ram Das Ashram
The Ninth Day of Solstice
The Atlanta Pop Festival
The Holy Man Jam
The ‘Official’ Turban
The Grace of God
The Grand Host
Teaching at UCLA
Banana Bliss
Master of White Tantric Yoga
The Measure of the Breath Meditation
To India!
The Master of Delhi
Farewell to Gobind Sadan
The Sanctuary
On Tour!
Village Folk
The Cloud of Death
Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru
The Honest Police Inspector
Questions in Amritsar
Alamgir
Guru Amar Das
Amritsar
At Home in the Harimandar
The Offer
Baisakhi 1699
The Amrit Ceremony
Siri Singh Sahib
Return to America
I am a yogi.
September 13, 1968
Harbhajan Singh Yogi, now thirty-nine years of age, waited his turn in the line-up that had just disembarked at Toronto's international airport. In the queue were tourists, professionals, government people and hopeful immigrants. Gradually, Harbhajan's place in line moved up, as people were cleared at the front by the customs inspectors.
Having himself so recently been the chief customs officer at India's busiest airport, Harbhajan Singh savoured the sweet irony of his new status. Finally, the people in front of him were cleared and it was his turn to step forward and engage the officer at his desk. The inspector's eyes took in the papers placed in front of him.
"Your profession?"
"I am a yogi." Harbhajan Singh the former customs inspector had decided to make a break with his past. A new future required a new identity and this was it.
"Pardon me?"
"I am a yogi. You can say it is like a priest. I am a man of God."
"Do you plan to work here?"
"Yes. I have been offered a job at the university here as a teacher of yoga. You can see from the letter here."
"I see. What do you have with you?"
"Only this handbag. My luggage went missing in Amsterdam."
"Alright, then. Welcome to Canada."
The arrivals lounge was packed with people moving to and fro. You could hear French and English being spoken. There was a cluster of Czech refugees, just arrived, with their precious bundles and suitcases. At six foot two, Yogi Harbhajan Singh, towering over the milling crowd, looked for a familiar face. It was not there.
Yogi Harbhajan, master of patience, went within. An hour he waited, then reached into his pocket for the number of the man from the university who was to receive him. It was Friday afternoon, and he called the office of his sponsor. The secretary who picked up the phone had been expecting his call. She did not have good news. The professor had been involved in a serious traffic accident and died just the day before.
Harbhajan Singh thanked the secretary and offered his condolences. Hanging up the pay phone, he reflected on the briefness of life and the inscrutable course of destiny.
What was he to do now? His employment and all his plans were up in the air. His luggage, so carefully selected and packed, was gone forever. There was not even anyone to receive him at the airport.
At that moment, the Word of his Guru came to Harbhajan Singh. The lines were from Guru Nanak's Japji Sahib:
Kayti-aa dookh bhookh sad maar, ayeh bhi daat tayree daataar.
Band khalaasee bhaanai ho-i, hor aakh na sakai ko-i,
Jay ko khaa-ik aakhan paa-i, oho jaanai jaytee-aa mu-eh khaa-i,
Aapay jaanai aapay day-i, aakheh si bhi kayee kay-i,
Jis no bakhsay sifat saalaah, Naanak paatishaahe paatishaaho.
Whatever afflictions and deprivations might be, these too are your gifts, O Bountiful One!
Freedom from bondage comes only by your Will. Nothing more can be said.
Any fool who presumes to know better shall live to eat his words.
He himself knows and he himself gives. Only a few acknowledge this.
That one fortunate to sing the praises of the Lord, O Nanak is the King of kings!
"So," Harbhajan the Yogi thought, "it is Your gift. Thank you!" Just then he saw the diminutive Canadian masseuse he had known in Delhi. She had made the arrangements for him to teach at the university. The woman had heard the news of the professor's accident and come to the airport alone to receive Harbhajan. Together they took a taxi to her apartment home where she had an extra bedroom prepared for her tired guest.
Fall was in the air. Soon the leaves would be changing colour. The Canada geese would be flying south. The Canadian holidays, Thanksgiving and Hallowe'en were coming, and soon after, the snow would fly.
Yogi Harbhajan Singh had arrived in another hemisphere, very different to what he had been accustomed to. The inhabitants looked pale compared with the coffee-skinned people of Delhi. They spoke with a different accent, sometimes difficult for Harbhajan to understand. There were lots of cars here, but no rickshaws and far fewer people than back home.
There was a whole new world for Harbhajan Yogi to explore, but after a little dinner with his host and Kirtan Sohila to himself, it was time to put all this aside and rest for the coming adventure.
You are no longer Sikhs!
Harbhajan Singh had left India, but he had not left his people. Sikhs had lived on the west coast of Canada since 1897. The first Sikh had arrived in Toronto fifty-seven years later.
When Yogi Harbhajan arrived in Toronto, there were two Sikh congregations of about twenty-five people each. Every couple of weeks, they would come together at a community center to keep alive their spiritual traditions in this foreign land. It was clearly a struggle. Nearly all of the men had discarded their distinctive turbans and cut their long hair on the excuse that it was the only way they were going to find work in Canada.
When Harbhajan Singh arrived at the gathering in the community center at Eglinton and Avenue Road, the members of the congregation were hotly discussing whether or not the Gurdwara should, like a church, have chairs for the people to sit on. Harbhajan with his pink turban bowed to the Siri Guru Granth Sahib, and addressed his fellow Sikhs. He encouraged them to take pride in their own spiritual heritage, rather than mindlessly aping the customs of Westerners. Yogi Harbhajan Singh also advised them to discuss their problems and resolve their differences politely and respectfully when they were in the presence of the holy Granth Sahib.
On another occasion, Yogi Harbhajan was blunt and forceful. He confronted those who had been born in Sikh homes, but had disowned the heart of Sikhism when they settled overseas. They had forsaken the dynamic genius of Guru Nanak to live a shallow life of rituals, controversies and social observances. They had discarded a priceless pearl, to cling to a hollow, worthless shell.
"You are no longer Sikhs," Harbhajan Singh told the crowd of bare-faced immigrants. He singled out their self-serving leader, who had lived in Canada the longest, for some choice words of criticism.
After those scathing words, the erstwhile leader had run for cover and was nowhere to be found. Some members of the congregation approached Harbhajan Singh afterwards, hoping he might serve as the Gurdwara's president. He thanked them, but excused himself. Yogi Harbhajan explained that he needed to focus his energies elsewhere and preferred to remain from the Gurdwara's politics.
Mr. Eckhardt
As a new immigrant with an employment visa, Yogi Harbhajan was required to remain in touch with the government and report his progress. One morning, he visited the immigration office to inform the officials there of his situation at the university. Harbhajan was directed into an office to be interviewed.
A senior bureaucrat, Mr. Eckhardt was waiting for him. When Yogi Harbhajan produced a book of photos showing him in a number of yoga poses, the civil servant was impressed. Still, he quizzed Harbhajan, "What is the proof you are a yogi? I want the proof you are a yogi. Is it written on your forehead that you are a yogi?"
"I do not have to give proof. The very fact that you ask me three times, that you doubt that I am a yogi, is the answer in itself. You are in doubt, I am not. If I am not, it doesn't matter to me. If I am, it doesn't matter to you."
"I don't understand."
"What you don't understand, I understand."
"Will you just tell me what makes you believe you are a yogi?"
"My belief not to rebut you makes me a yogi, and your belief to rebut me and to corner me makes you an interviewer."
Finally, the government officer realized that this Harbhajan Singh he had been interviewing was indeed a yogi. Moreover, since a yogi was neither a physical education instructor nor a priest, though he shared some aspects of both, an entirely new category of immigrant was created to suit the qualifications of the newly arrived.
Time to Move On
Life could be interesting with a real Indian yogi in the house. Neighbours complained to his hostess that they could hear him chanting at the unearthly hour of 3 a.m.
Harbhajan Yogi could tell the woman who has offered him a place to stay was coming unhinged when he returned to her home one evening to find her sitting and fuming at him.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"The cottage cheese is gone!"
"The cottage cheese is not gone. It is eaten up," he replied.
"Who can have eaten it up?" shot back the woman whom Harbhajan and his wife had fed and respectfully treated as their guest for some four and a half years.
"Well, I ate it."
"You ate the whole cottage cheese?"
"No. My guests came and I just served them the cottage cheese."
An air of retaliation was palpable to the sensitive yogi. He had been valued by his guest at something less than a $1.29 tub of cottage cheese. Reciprocation for years of hospitality and sharing did not enter the picture for this furious woman. Only a week had passed, but it was clearly time to move from this place.
The Loud Knock
Yogi Harbhajan's first job in Canada was looking after a house. It seemed like a nice situation with a warm and comfortable space all to himself where he could relax.
At night, he put four or five blankets underneath and another four or five on top of himself and slept soundly. In the morning, Harbhajan woke up and meditated. Afterwards, he was very happy – happy to have meditated and happy also to have peace and quiet all to himself. Harbhajan Yogi returned to his cosy nest of blankets for a nap.
Abruptly at seven o'clock there was a loud knock and the doorbell rang. Harbhajan stirred awake and looked outside. He was shocked to see a policeman at the door. Opening the door, he asked, "Officer, what can I do for you?"
The police officer replied, "Nothing for me. Take your shovel and clean the sidewalk! There is a lot of snow in front of your house. Everybody is doing it and you are sleeping in."
"Oh, that is my responsibility? Okay." Harbhajan put away his blankets and found a shovel, then went outside to join all the neighbours in clearing the snow from the walkway.
While he hacked at the ice and chopped away at the snow, Yogi Harbhajan mused how every country comes with seasons and every house comes with responsibilities. He wished he should not be in Canada.
The Government Cheque
The Canadian government's file on Yogi Harbhajan Singh slowly made its way through the bureaucracy. So it was that one day he was directed to the government employment office at 222 Dundas Street West. There he met a friendly longhaired counsellor who told him the government had checked everything and agreed with Mr. Singh that, while he had been given a lucrative offer of employment at the university, now he was practically unemployed.
As a matter of routine, the young man continued, the unemployed yogi was to be issued weekly cheques of $150 until he could find work in his trained profession.
Harbhajan Singh Yogi was not interested. "No, I don't need this subsidy."
The counsellor replied, "You have to have it. If you don't accept this, my job will be gone."
Harbhajan Yogi ordered the young man, "Stamp my passport. Give me the cheque."
The counsellor complied and handed him the envelope with the first $150 cheque inside.
Harbhajan deliberately took the cheque out of the envelope, tore it in two, and returned it in the envelope.
The young man said, "I don't understand you, man!"
Harbhajan replied, "Now you speak my language: 'I don't understand you man.' Man, I have come here for a purpose. I will deny myself everything. Let the purpose solve my proposal and my projection."
"You speak a different language!"
"That's the way I speak. Have you seen my passport? Do you see the name on it? This name brought me here, not Canada. Not your parapsychology and hydrotherapy and supreme health investigation program. That was a tool. Now all that is gone, but one thing remains: Har Bhajan remains to do Har Bhajan. That's my identity. There is no other reality."
Yoga in the Canadian Woods
A student of Yogi Harbhajan's at the Canadian High Commission had given him the address of his son, who was about to begin studies at the University of Toronto's School of Architecture. One day, he dropped in at the student's basement apartment in the Rosedale district of Toronto. The young man was surprised and delighted at his exotic guest. He explained that he was just preparing to go north for his course and was already late.
"Wonderful! I'll go with you and you can show me your country."
"I'm afraid I only have a little motor scooter."
"No problem," said Harbhajan who well remembered travelling Amritsar with his wife and three children, all balanced on a motor scooter. "In India, we travel by motor scooter too."
So it was that the two of them, the skinny red-haired freshman and the turbaned yogi, set out in a cloud of blue smoke, dragging the muffler over every hump in the road.
About six hours later, they arrived at the sketching camp deep in the Canadian woods, near the village of Dorset. The student apologised to his supervisor for being late. He also explained that he had brought someone with him and that he had no idea what to do next.
After a discussion with the professor in charge, it was resolved that the yogi could stay until the first available ride back to Toronto presented itself. Since everyone needed either to be a student or on the staff, Yogi Harbhajan was enlisted as a member of the staff. The yogi's presence might, they concluded, after all be an asset on this artistic excursion. His assigned duty was to teach a yoga class to the students and faculty.
The next evening, after several hours of sketching in the woods, everyone gathered to find Yogi Harbhajan situated in lotus pose on a stage improvised with a few tables pushed together and covered with a cloth.
The Sikh yogi sat on the improvised stage, and began to explain the meaning of yoga to this gathering of budding architectural minds. Harbhajan the Yogi proceeded to share with them how through yoga a person could train their mind to relax. It was a form of self-hypnosis, he told them. Then, to prove his point, the master yogi lay down for one... two... three... four... five minutes, before at last sitting up and announcing to the students that he had just, before their very eyes, enjoyed a perfectly sound and refreshing sleep. Such was the power of yoga.
After the demonstration, someone came forward to share with the masterful man in the turban a problem he had been having. It was not insomnia. The man had a peptic ulcer. This too, the yogi assured him, could be treated with yoga, and he proceeded to tell him how.
TV Yogi
After a few days, everyone made their way back to Toronto. Yogi Harbhajan went to stay for a week with Ron Baird, a young sculptor and resident artist at the architecture school. They had a considerable meeting of minds, this Western artist with his curiosity about Eastern ways, and this yogi from the East seeking to transplant the wisdom of the orient to Western soil.
The yogi asked Ron how he might best make Canadians aware of the benefits of yoga. Ron replied that he should go on television. Surely if he went on television, Harbhajan would be able to clear up any misunderstandings people had about yoga. Everybody in Canada watched television.
The very next day, Ron received a call from his guest. Harbhajan had phoned to tell Ron to tune in to The Elwood Glover Show. There happened to be a last-minute cancellation on the interview program and now Yogi Harbhajan was going to be interviewed and broadcast coast to coast across Canada.
After his successful debut on television, Yogi Harbhajan began giving classes at downtown Toronto's YMCA. The classes grew. They would start with a handful of students. Those people would tell their friends. Then there would be twenty or thirty in a class. Students were struck by the magnetic yogi in the bright pink turban who wore his sandals even out into the snow.
Yogi Harbhajan appealed to people's basic desire for peace, health and empowerment. Soon, he was giving classes at three different YMCAs. As word spread, one or two hundred people were attending his classes.
The House of Yoga
An Australian woman named Rhonda Tulloch came regularly to Yogi Harbhajan's classes. She had been practicing yoga on her own for six years, and aspired to be a teacher in her own right. Together, they decided to establish a yoga center in Toronto. In November, "The House of Yoga" opened at 167 Church Street downtown, just a block from the city's busy main street.
After several invitations, at last a reporter for the “women’s section” of Canada's national paper came to visit. She wrote a complimentary piece on the new centre and the "high-voltage yogi" who taught there. Yogi Bhajan's picture supporting a student in an inverted pose appeared across the country on the front page of The Globe and Mail newspaper.
Patiently, the Guru's messenger did his work, proclaiming the possibilities inherent in a life dedicated to the love of spirit and empowered by the practice of kundalini yoga.
Hunger's Repast
Yogi Bhajan's next stopping off place was with relatives of his who lived in Toronto. They did not understand or appreciate what the Harbhajan Singh they had known in India was doing in Canada. Why wasn't he back in New Delhi with his wife, his family, his government job? They put him up in the basement in their home at 325 Hillsboro Avenue, a quiet residential street not far from the downtown. A plywood bed was hammered together to suit the dimensions of the Yogi’s large frame. But things were not easy.
His relatives would ask, "What do you want to do?"
The Yogi would reply, "Nothing."
"You don't want to earn money?"
"What money?"
"You are come here as an immigrant. You've got to make your life!"
"It's already made! It's set!"
"You are crazy!"
"Who made me crazy? Death or no death, health or no health, food or no food, I am not going to do a thing!"
"Learn something!"
"I have come here to teach. Why should I learn?"
"You've got to learn something!"
"Nothing!"
One day, the Yogi clashed with the woman of the house. She liked to complain that he always stayed out late and never came home on time for dinner.
"I hope I will be coming back soon," he said on his way out the door. To finance the new yoga centre, Yogi Bhajan was working as a bookkeeper during the day and as a janitor at night. Moreover, his evenings were increasingly filled with yoga classes, so he knew the chances of returning in less than twelve hours were not very good.
"Come at dinner time and don't come very late." she insisted.
When Yogi Bhajan had finally done his work, he was driven home by a student. There was no doubt that it was late. The door to the house was locked. It was cold and there was snow all around.
The student offered, "Can I take you to my house?"
"No, I can't do that," the Yogi declined.
They decided to doze in the driveway with the engine running and the car's heater on. Finally, at about eight o'clock the door was unlocked and Harbhajan Yogi entered the house. The first thing he did was to take a bath. Then he sat for a time and meditated. Afterwards, Harbhajan went to look for something to eat.
In the kitchen was a pot of his favorite dish. Black garbanzo daal had been prepared. Harbhajan eyed the delectable meal. He was hungry, and this was a wonderful kind of breakfast, like he used to have at home. But then he saw something that spoiled his mood and made his appetite vanish. A big piece of meat sat in the middle of the pot of curried beans. Harbhajan the Yogi understood right away that his relative had put that meat into the daal so he could not eat it.
Harbhajan Singh remembered well what respect he had received from these relations when he had been a servant of the Government of India. Now that he had set out in a humble way to be a servant of God, they despised and resented him. How false, he thought, were these worldly relations! What mocking cruelty they were capable of!
The Yogi contemplated the pot of curried black garbanzos. Three thoughts came to his mind. The first idea was that the piece of meat had been put over half of the dish, but half of it was untouched and pure, so he could eat that half. The second thought was that he could spoon out daal from the bottom of the pot. It should be alright, and he could eat that. The third thought was, "To hell with the whole thing! I can bless it by putting my kirpaan through it and eat it. What does it matter? I haven't eaten in three days!"
Then a fourth thought came to Yogi Bhajan's mind, "God has put this piece of meat here to let me know I am not supposed to eat it. It is also attachment." Harbhajan retired hungry to the place in the basement that had been relegated to him. He picked up his Gutka volume of Guru's Songs and allowed the pages to fall open to consult it, to see what Guru expected of him.
The Gutka spoke in the divine voice of the Tenth Master:
“Prabh joo to keh laaj hamaree.
Neel kanth na naaraa-in neel basan banvaree.
Rahaa-o.
Param purakh paramaysar su-aamee paavan paun ahaaree.
Maadhav mahaa jot madh mardan maan mukand muraaree.
Nirbikaar nirjur nindraa bin nirbikh nark nivaaree.
Kirpaa sindh kaal trai darsee kukrit pranaasan kaaree.
Dhanarpaan dhrit maan dharaadhar an bikaar asi dhaaree.
Hau mati mand charan sarnaagati kar geh layho ubaaree.“
"Dear Lord, You are the Preserver of my honor.
Blue-throated Shiva and the man-lion, Krishna, Dweller in waters and forests,
Pause and reflect.
Supreme Being, Supreme Lord and Master, living on air,
Sweet Lord, Great Light, Destroyer of the pride of Vishnu, Liberator, Vanquisher of demons,
Everlasting, Unaging, Unaffected by sensation, Unsleeping, Deliverer from hell,
Ocean of mercy, Seer of past, present and future, Eraser of the outcome of mindless actions,
Bearer of the celestial bow, Embodiment of patience, Support of the Earth,
Changeless, Wielder of the sword.
I of faulty mind seek the sanctuary of your Lotus Feet. Please take my hand and save me!”
(Raag Sorath – Shabad Hazaaray – 710)
The words so touched the Yogi's heart that his eyes began to tear up. After a time, Harbhajan realized his tears were flowing from his cheeks down onto his Gutka. Only then did he dab his eyes dry. Not wanting to spoil the pages, he took the opened Gutka and covered it with his only towel so his tears might dry. But the damage had been done. From then on, whenever Yogi Bhajan consulted that Gutka, it would always open to those same pages and the identical verse would present itself.
Harbhajan Singh sat in resignation, but he was not entirely resigned to starving like this. Another Verse of the Guru came to his mind:
"O mind, why do you scheme so, when the Lord Himself is providing your care?
From rocks and stones, He created living beings and before them He places their food."
Inwardly, Harbhajan was taunting his Guru, "So where is the food?"
It was not long before he could hear the ring of the phone upstairs, then a voice calling, "Hey Bhajan! Telayfo-nah! Telayfo-nah!"
Harbhajan climbed the stairs to take the call. On his way, he noticed that the daal with the meat in it had been thrown into the garbage. On the phone was a yoga student of his. She said, "Sir, where are you?"
"Where can I be? I am at home."
"I understand they didn't let you enter the house last night."
"Yeah, I slept in the car. It was pretty warm. No problem."
"Do you want to come out?"
"No. I don't feel good. My whole body has stiffened up. To be very honest, I have not eaten and I feel very weak."
"Food is no problem."
"Not for you. For me, as far as I am concerned, it is the only problem I am facing," Harbhajan replied.
"Oh, didn't you eat your donuts?"
"No, I told you that day I have given them up. You told me they are so bad. You are the one who lectured me, and I said I won't eat donuts from that day, but I don't know what to eat. You go out and you ask for bean soup and they say, 'Well, it is made with beef, and this is made with chicken and this is made with fish and this is made with this…' What you can eat?"
"Tell me where you want to eat."
"I just want to eat through the telephone. Do you understand?"
"I don't want to bring food to that house, but we have got some food. Can you make it to the yoga centre?"
"Another twenty-five cents on the subway?"
"Well, we have found something that will never, ever allow you to be hungry again."
"Alright, if this is the situation, I will come." Harbhajan could not help feeling that his prayers had just then been fulfilled. He dressed himself to go outside again and with his weakened, hungry steps made his way to the subway station and paid his last twenty-five cents as fare. Harbhajan Yogi felt cold, dehydrated and disoriented. It was difficult telling north from south. Perhaps, he thought, some carbon monoxide from his night in the car had gone to his brain. Arriving at his subway stop, Harbhajan barely could summon the energy to climb the stairs to street level and on to the yoga centre.
At the House of Yoga on Church Street, he found a number of students celebrating his arrival. And there was an array of nine large flattened boxes with chapatis they called "pizza" – all vegetarian and of nine different kinds. Some of the students had even brought Indian food from sympathetic families who had heard that Harbhajan was not being fed and was growing weak. There were about twenty dishes in all – a real feast by any standard!
Yogi Bhajan picked a large pizza and ate the whole thing himself. Having taunted his Guru just an hour earlier, now he gratefully accepted the bounty of the Preserver of his honor.
The Artist and the Yogi
Ron and the Yogi remained in touch through the following weeks and the changing of the seasons. One day, Ron confessed to Yogi Bhajan that his conscience had been troubling him ever since he had spent Thanksgiving with his family. The centrepiece of the feast were some Cornish hens his mother had gone to some trouble in preparing. Ron had been trying to give up eating meat, but after some initial hesitation, he had succumbed to the familiar pressures and joined the rest of his clanin gorging on the tasty flesh of the hapless hens. He shared his predicament with the Yogi and wondered aloud what he might have done.
Yogi Bhajan's response was a heaping helping of enlightened common sense. "In a case like this, it is one's duty to eat what one is served - then to go outside and throw it up!"
That Halloween, Ron and a few friends spent an evening carving faces into pumpkins to make the season's festive jack-o'-lanterns. The end-products were all singularly spooky and enchanted.
One, however, stood out from the rest. Like the others, it had a wide, infectious grin. Unlike the rest, it was marked by a large, discerning third eye in the middle of its brow.
Flower Power
Yogi Bhajan visited an innovative eighteen-story free school called "Rochdale College.” There, he had his first experience of the "flower power" culture - the paisley, tie-dyed, long-haired, half-crazed, half-enlightened movement toward love and peace and blissful nonconformity that was sweeping college campuses, providing creative expression for the pent-up idealism of a generation. LSD was its proclaimed avatar. Its creed was: "Turn on. Tune in. Drop out."
In a way, the eccentric-looking yogi fit in perfectly with all the other "groovy cats" in the building. Its upbeat culture disavowed superficial judgements based on appearances. It professed everyone's right to "do their own thing.”
Yet, Yogi Harbhajan Singh's enlightened point of view derived from a profound inner discipline, not from a flash of psychedelic euphoria. He was a man with a mission. He had a family of his own. He was twice the age of many of the hippies. All these things marked him apart from the "free love" generation.
The Man in Blue
One day, Yogi Bhajan was very hungry. He told a couple of his yoga students, "Let's not eat here. Let's go to the Gurdwara today and join their prayers, and eat langar. I'll show you how generous Sikhs are.
The Yogi had visited the Sikh services with some of his students before. Occasionally, two or three young students would go with him and sit and silently meditate as the Songs of Guru Nanak were recited or sung in the congregation. Sometimes there would be a piano for accompaniment.
This time, they just arrived in time to hear the last minute of kirtan. Then, after sitting through a boring speech, and after Ardaas was done and the Prashaad all given out, everyone sat in lines and was served the Guru's langar.
Just then, to everyone's surprise, a certain gentleman with a perfect blue turban came up to Yogi Harbhajan Singh, picked up his plate, and said, "Yogis have no right to join a Sikh langar." He took the plate and walked away.
Harbhajan's students offered him their own plates, but he told them, "No, you keep it." Instead of eating with everyone else, he just sat very calmly and quietly studying the fate of the people there.
After langar had been served, a kindly old woman came up to the Yogi and put a large plate of langar in front of him. He said, "No, you should not get in trouble for me."
She replied, "Some people have taken that guy and straightened him out. Please eat this, and give us your blessing."
When everyone had eaten, Yogi Harbhajan Singh got up to leave. Along the way, he met with the man in blue. Both his eyes had been blackened. It appeared as though he had been taken to the washroom and beaten up.
The Yogi asked, "Can I do anything for you?"
"I've had plenty."
"Thank you. You deserved what you got. You took that plate from me in front of my guests."
"Yeah, I felt I needed to do that."
"You think you are powerful, and you want to challenge me. Never mind what has been done to you. I will show you how to beat someone without leaving a mark on their body."
"You mean you know how to fight?"
"God, you just don't understand me. Some day..."
After some time had passed, God provided the Yogi with an opportunity. There was a games competition on a Sikh holiday. The main game was kabaddi, a Punjabi team wrestling sport.
Harbhajan Yogi joined the team opposing the other man. In the first round, he flattened him and carried him to his side of the field, where he threw him to the ground. Then, Harbhajan stretched out his hand to help the man up.
The man said, "I never knew you were so strong!"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "I may look lousy, but test me out. Put your money on the table, and I'll put mine. We will have an arm wrestle, you and I, and God will be the witness."
"Okay, just for once."
"No, three times." Harbhajan the Yogi wanted to make him understand it was not necessary for him to belittle other people. The man had a psychological problem, and the Yogi was doing all he could to help him. So, when they gripped each other's hands, Yogi Bhajan squeezed the other man's hand so hard that it turned blue. He had no strength left to even hold Harbhajan's hand, let alone resist.
Yogi Bhajan asked, "How many times do you want to go? One, two, three, four?"
"Well, I have lost the money..."
"You take the money and go. That was not my intention. I just wanted you to know that the way you use brute force has no human intelligence to it. And the way you act is without human courtesy." Surprisingly, that man was a university mathematics professor, an intellectually sophisticated being, but his behaviour was graceless and neurotic.
When Harbhajan Singh went to retrieve his shoes before returning home, he found they had been taken. To make his way home, the resourceful Yogi made shoes out of paper and glue, and then tied a string around each one.
Plenty
Since the time that he had begun to teach, some devoted students had started looking after the needs of this disciplined, and very determined yogi. He, who would not ask for food and who kept to a strictly vegetarian diet, was now being regularly treated to pizzas and other wholesome Canadian fare.
Often, there was more than enough. The remainder would go to the homeless people who gathered evenings in the nearby park. Sundays, one big pot of beans and another of rice would be cooked and distributed to the park people. Fifty to two hundred people would sit in rows on the park benches to be served this vegetarian banquet.
To be honest, not everyone was entirely satisfied with the yogi’s generosity. Once, a man inquired whether next time the Yogi's students might not also provide some wine with the feast.
These street people, who lived a sparse existence in the parks and hostels of Toronto, held a certain fascination for Harbhajan Singh. He studied and appreciated them. He noticed that many of them regularly gathered at a mission church downtown. They would finish their bottles of cheap wine outside, then go in and sing their inebriated hearts out.
Yogi Bhajan marvelled at the good humour of the pastor of this peculiar congregation. He had never seen anything like this in India. Moreover, the pastor shared with him an unexpected insight. When the collection plate came around, these simple-looking men were more generous than their well-outfitted suburban counterparts. When it came to matters of the spirit, these "winos" were prosperous indeed!
The Yogi's Dilemma
In November, on the occasion of Guru Nanak's birthday, Harbhajan Yogi drove to the Canadian capital of Ottawa with a couple of his students. After having a party and attending a reception, they were ready for the long drive back to Toronto. It was very early in the morning, but they were rested, so off they went.
Some hours later, as they approached the burgeoning city of nearly one million people, the Yogi suggested they have breakfast with a certain acquaintance. Everyone was hungry, and so it was agreed that the three would go there for breakfast.
It was a Saturday and their hostess was very happy to receive them. It was eleven o'clock. She could guess what was on the minds of the weary travellers. In no time, a delicious home-made breakfast was served.
As the guests enjoyed their late breakfast, their hostess asked them, "What is the next program?"
Harbhajan Yogi replied, "Just to relax here for a while, then take the car and go to London, Ontario in the evening. There is a lecture there. I have to go there."
"Can I go with you?"
"Fine."
After they had finished their meal, their hostess asked Harbhajan, "Can I speak to you for a minute, for heaven's sake?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
In another room, she asked him, "What did you do today?"
"What is wrong with you? What did I do?"
His hostess went on, "You know if you would have knocked, I would have opened the door. Instead, you came all the way up the drainpipe, through the window, pulled me out of bed, and took me to the shower. And then you disappeared the same way. If anybody would have seen you jumping over the wall and coming in, there would have been a lot of problems here. People don't do these things here."
"Which window?"
She took him to the window. "This window was open. You came in and you were going like this. I know you are a yogi. You can do these things, but please don't do it here! There are six people living in this house."
Harbhajan Yogi was astonished. "You are imagining things! I never came here."
But she was adamant. "No! Look, you are not supposed to tell a lie!"
"Wait a minute." The Yogi thought of a way out of his predicament. He called to his travelling companions. "At three thirty this morning, where were we?"
"We were driving between Ottawa and Toronto."
"While I was in the car, did I disappear?"
"No. You were there with us the whole time. I'm sure of it."
"Are you sure? Can you say it on oath? She says I came through the window. You say, two of you, that I was in the car. Now which one is true?"
Unfortunately, the Yogi's guest had read some odd things in books about yoga and the power of yogis. "No, no," she said. "A yogi can be in three places, four places, it doesn't matter. You were there and you were here too!"
Yogi Bhajan was shocked. Here he was being disbelieved by four mature adults! None of them would believe him. "Look, ladies and gentlemen, I'm not going to drive with you any more. You can go and disperse. I'll walk. I'll take the train. I'll just go to my house. You are the craziest people! I was driving with you and she was hallucinating, and now you are totally abandoning me!"
"No, no. You were with us," said the student, "but you were also with her."
Harbhajan Yogi summed up his feelings, "I worked for so many incarnations to get this human body, which holds the identity. I did it just to identify the Infinity which created it, and because of one hallucination, now you just have taken away from me the very basic right of being human. It is too much!"
Sometimes the misplaced faith of raw and inexperienced students could try even the patience of a Master.
Stranded
One day, Yogi Bhajan planned to set out again for London, Ontario with three of his students. It was about a three hour drive in the direction of Detroit, south-west of Toronto. Preparations were made, everyone loaded into the car, and they set off.
Half an hour out of Toronto, the car suddenly came to a halt on the side of the road.
"What happened?" asked Harbhajan.
"No gas," replied the embarrassed driver.
"You were reading empty as full?"
"That's right," was the sheepish reply.
They sat there for a time by the side of the road. Snow fell. Wind began to blow the snow in powerful gusts. A half hour passed. Snowdrifts settled around them. The car was being steadily submerged in an ocean of frosty whiteness.
"I am going to get out," Harbhajan Yogi finally announced.
"I don't think it is good," replied one of the passengers.
"What is good? We are going to die here? This car is going to be a refrigerator soon and this is going to be freezing section top level one. When they are going to find us we will be smiling here, and we will be dead. I have got to get out."
"It is very dangerous outside."
"Outside is God. In the car is death. I can't stay in!"
"What do you mean?"
"If I go out and snow falls on me and I freeze, then somebody will think there is a snowman. That's better. But if we sit in this car, nobody is going to look around. People might be thinking we are making love and parking and doing all that kind of stuff. I have to get out. Watch me! Something will happen."
The four of them got out of the car. They were not warmly dressed, so they all started exercising to keep their circulation going. The four exercised for a couple of hours, never wanting to stop because they knew if they stopped they would freeze, or at least catch frostbite.
Almost two hours later, Yogi Bhajan and his students were still exercising when a big gas truck pulled alongside their car, half-buried in the snow.
The trucker rolled down his window, "Hey man! You don't have gas? Why didn't you check at home?"
"I don't know. It's my trouble. The driver..."
"Who drives? Your driver? You are without gas? You are a rich man?"
"No, I am a poor man, but the car doesn't have gas."
"You mean you don't have money?"
"Had there been money, I think she would have got the gas."
"Oh, don't worry! Don't worry!"
The trucker got out and went to the back of his truck, disappearing for a minute in the frenzied snowstorm. Then he came back, trailing a hose behind him. He unscrewed the car's gas tank and let loose a flood of precious fuel.
Within a few seconds, the car's tank was overflowing and a noxious, highly flammable pool of gas had formed, swelling in every direction from the car. At last, the trucker managed to put a stop to the gushing stream of gasoline.
As their trucker friend disappeared into the blizzard again, returning the hose to its mount at the rear of the truck, Yogi Bhajan said to his student behind the wheel, "Dummy! Drive and run! God knows what will happen to this pool he has made."
The driver motioned to them from the window of his cab, and said, "Come here!"
Harbhajan Yogi said, "I'm sorry. I have to thank you."
The trucker said, "No. No. Don't thank me. Here's twenty dollars."
"What's this for?"
"Oh, you know. You don't have money. You have to eat."
"Did you ever give money to anybody?"
"No, no, no, no... I want to give it to you. I just want to give it to you."
"Don't give it to me. Give it to that girl who is driving."
The trucker got out once more, and headed to the driver's side of the car in the middle of the gas pond.
"Honey, here's twenty bucks!"
She replied, "No, no, no. We don't need money."
"Either show me twenty bucks, or take it!"
An embarrassing moment followed.
He smiled warmly, "Take it!"
Gratefully, she accepted the twenty dollars.
I am a restless man.
As the thousand, nine hundred and sixty-eighth year of the Christian Era drew to a close, the small community of East Indians in Toronto felt a deep sense of pride. Next November, they knew, would be Guru Nanak's five hundredth birthday celebration.
There was even talk of buying and renovating a building in the great Guru's name. The Yogi himself took the initiative by contributing a dollar. The rest of the community raised another seven thousand to buy and renovate a building, thereby creating the first Gurdwara in eastern Canada.
Yogi Bhajan had accomplished much during his brief stay in Toronto. He had given the science of yoga national publicity. He had co-founded a yoga centre. He had taught large classes at the House of Yoga, and at four YMCAs.
For everyone with eyes to see, Yogi Harbhajan Singh was a new, different kind of Sikh. He had shown himself to be out-going, self-confident, and deeply devoted to the form and spirit of his faith. The Yogi lived his religion and, rather than being sucked into the vortex of money-based Western culture, he had managed to successfully share the sacred teachings of the East with the people of a cosmopolitan North American city.
Yet, as he told those who wanted to know him, he was a restless man, a man with a mission and so much more to do. In December, when Harbhajan Yogi received an invitation and a ticket to Los Angeles to visit an acquaintance of his from New Delhi, the messenger from the Guru's House did not hesitate. His most regular student, named Terri, saw Harbhajan to the airport.
The Yogi took only a light travel bag and thirty-five dollars. It was Friday, and he planned to come back Monday after a couple of days' visit in Los Angeles. In fact, he would not be returning for weeks.
The Jook Savages
It had been twenty-one years since Harbhajan Singh witnessed the painful wrenching apart of his homeland at partition. His impressions as a youth, seeing tens of millions of people uprooted and homeless, the traumatic birth of two hostile republics from the humiliation of the colonial past, remained forever seared into his memory.
The country Harbhajan was to enter now as Yogi Bhajan was engaged in a gruesome partition of its own. America, the same country that one hundred years before had been consumed by a terrible civil war, was being torn apart by a war of generations.
In America, which called itself "the land of the brave and the home of the free,” twenty million young people had stood up to oppose its modern-day culture of militarism, materialism and mindless conformity – and to honor instead the gracious ideals of their country's founders. As their numbers swelled, they regularly filled the streets with their songs, their placards, their banners to demonstrate the courage of their beliefs. For their convictions, thousands of youths were regularly tear-gassed and water-cannoned. Thousands more were beaten and jailed. A precious few sanctified the movement by their martyred blood.
From their whitewashed citadels, governors and presidents, generals and chiefs of police issued orders demanding fear, submission, and obedience, but the outrageous spirit of revolution would not be browbeaten or cowed. The bold young activists did not fear, did not conform. Neither would they obey.
America was not the only Western country being wrenched apart by powerful new dreams and visions. The previous May, the youth of France had led their countrymen in a two-week insurrection against the moribund bureaucracy of the universities, the government, the state. Chanting "Power to the imagination!" they had been joined in a general strike by ten million workers. The president was so alarmed that he fled the country, taking refuge in neighbouring Germany.
Then, in August, the world's attention focussed on Prague and Bratislava, where the young at heart conspired to subvert the Marxist regime into something better, something freer, something with a human face – only to be faced by an invasion of tanks from neighbouring East Germany, Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, and the USSR. Tens of thousands left Czechoslovakia for Western Europe, Canada and the US.
Come October, five thousand students and unionists took to the streets in Mexico City to demonstrate for the independence of their universities, for democracy and social justice for all, only to be ruthlessly machine gunned by their army. Hundreds of protestors laid down their lives for what they believed. Hundreds more were beaten and jailed. Those who survived became a deeply radicalized force against the government.
While in Canada, Yogi Bhajan had seen little of this social unrest. But Canada served as an escape valve for some of America's most peaceful and conscientious aspirations. Tens of thousands of American men of military age were welcomed into "the true north strong and free" even as hawks in Washington tried to convince their countrymen that their war in Southeast Asia was both winnable and just. For its part, Canada had an independent Prime Minister and its own bands of strummers and singers and activists dedicated to peace and humanity and the end of war.
America had been in the throes of social upheaval for some time now. Starting in 1961, smart young kids from northern universities had joined forces with brave Afro-Americans in the South. Together, they had confronted the most uncivil scourge of racism. In 1963 they had forced the President's hand, making him set in motion far-reaching civil rights legislation.
Two years later saw the first "teach-in,” an open forum on the Vietnam War, at the University of Michigan. The participants were part of the best-educated generation in the country's history. Soon there were hundreds of teach-ins at campuses across the country and the first gathering of fifteen thousand demonstrators against the war in the nation's capital. On the other side of the country, in Oakland, several hundred students from the nearby University of California risked their lives standing on the railroad tracks to block trains of new inductees rolling into the city's large army base.
In that same city in 1967, Afro-American militants formed the Black Panther Party, replete with guns and cultural education and meals for impoverished ghetto children. In the spring and fall, there were anti-war protests in San Francisco and forty university campuses. In April, civil rights leader Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., led hundreds of thousands from New York's Central Park to the United Nations to demand the immediate withdrawal of American forces from Vietnam. In October, thirty thousand gathered in Washington for a peace rally and mock exorcism of the “dark spirits” ensconced among America’s military establishment in the Pentagon.
Even as the war intensified, the year of Yogi Bhajan's arrival was a particularly bloody one for activists, young and old, Black and White. In March, Martin Luther King was felled by a Caucasian sniper. The killing set off fiery riots in Afro-American ghettos in a dozen cities across the US. A couple of months later, in a hotel kitchen in Los Angeles, a second member of the Kennedy family, this one a presidential hopeful supported by millions of idealistic youth, was shot and killed. And in August, America was shocked to see hundreds of Chicago police tear gas and beat up demonstrators and journalists at the Democratic Party's national convention. Many witnesses called it a "police riot.”
Many of the young who left their families of birth and the society they no longer believed in, made their own tribes. They started over and created Edens in the form of intentional communities, open families, conspiratorial cells, ashrams and Jesus communes. A few advocated violent revolution. Some thought they might meditate the world into a better place. Many set out to "get high with a little help from their friends.”.
This generation that made their diet an important and distinctive part of their culture. Whole, unprocessed foods, organic produce, granola, yoghurt, sprouts, soy beans, brown rice, and tamari were high on the menu of these denizens of the “whole Earth.” Their music, sometimes loud and raunchy, but filled with real emotion and sometimes genuinely inspired, turned heads. Their elders, of course, didn't like it. The new music spread a message. The message usually was something to do with peace or love or freedom. Sometimes it was about hair.
"Darlin', give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair,
Shining, gleaming, steaming, flaxen, waxen,
Give me down to there hair, shoulder length or longer,
Here, baby, there, momma, ev'rywhere, daddy, daddy,
Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair.
Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it, my hair..."
(lyrics from Hair, the "American Tribal Love-Rock musical,” by Gerome Ragni and James Rado, 1967, EMI Music)
As the theme song of the 1967 Broadway musical proclaimed, hair was a proud symbol of this generation. Natural, sensual, energizing, unregulated, sexy, free… any way you looked at it, long hair was a defining characteristic of the 1960s revolution. Some called the young people "hippies.” Some called them "flower children.” To themselves, they were simply “freaks” or "longhairs" in a world of oppressive crew cuts.
The land of enchantment, known as "New Mexico", was home to a number of farming communes. Though homesteading was hard work, their members aimed toward self-sufficiency. They raised goats and chickens and grew their own foods organically. Women delivered their babies at home, just like pioneer mothers once did. Breast-feeding was making a comeback.
Everybody was a visionary at heart. Some respectfully visited the Hopi pueblos and reservations to learn from and participate in age-old aboriginal traditions. The members of the new tribes were digging deep, going back in time and across cultures to create new beginnings, a new way, a new society far from the siren song of greed and war and hate.
The Jook Savages had arrived in New Mexico from California in early 1968. They had left their city homes and settled in the mountain country, where land was cheap and the air still pure. The tribe of fifteen made a big adobe house in the village of Abiquiu their home. They lived all together, one room per family, with a kitchen and one communal room.
The members of the community felt they shouldered a responsibility to all Americans disaffected by the conventional way of doing things, the way that had resulted in such war and grief and injustice. In an effort to unify and provide leadership to the growing counterculture, the Jook Savages spread the word all that spring, that they would be hosting a gathering of all the tribes at Aspen Meadows in the Tesuque Indian reservation above Santa Fe, to celebrate the rite of Summer Solstice.
Hundreds of hopeful, long-haired, young people came together that June. It was a high-altitude “Human Be-In.” They made music and read poetry. They traded in tie-died and hand-sewn clothing, jewelery and peyote.
For ten days, they shared and prayed, sang and danced, got high and meditated. Then these visionaries and pioneers returned along winding highways, past billboards, motels, McDonalds, natural wonders, range lands, farm lands, missile ranges, industrial complexes, military bases, shopping centres, gas stations and suburban wastelands, finally to arrive at their homes and communes all along the West Coast, the Rockies, across the Midwest and east to New York.
That fall, the Savages put out a call for another festive gathering. This time, they planned to celebrate the occasion of the Winter Solstice, when the darkest day turns to light and the cycle of spring begins anew.
This time, however, the turnout was discouragingly sparse. The mountain meadows of northern New Mexico, so gaily flowered in June, were covered over with snow and raked with bitterly cold wind in December.
A feeling of despair hung over the heads of the members of that tribe in Abiquiu. The Jook Savages were painfully aware that the machinery of the dominant culture continued to focus a relentless onslaught of death and dismemberment against a courageous people across a Pacific ocean and to wage war on its young and disenfranchised. They realized also that their desperate efforts to usher in a new age of peaceful enlightenment had become dangerously bogged down.
One evening in January, according to an ancient Hopi custom, thirteen remaining Savages gathered around a fire in a tepee to form a sacred prayer circle. As the ritual progressed through the night, they remained conscious of the sparks and tiny particles of flaming debris caught in the updraft, and drawn out of the tent into the wide open sky.
In accord with that ancient custom, every little glowing thing was considered to be the soul of a being, now disembodied, yet unable to detach itself from its temporary home, the Earth. As each spark escaped the microcosm of the holy tepee, every member of that dedicated gathering empowered it with their collective prayer and blessing.
However, in the darkness of that night, a sacred tradition was violated. For some cosmic reason, one of the Savages rose and left that timeless rite. In spite of their prayers and best intentions, their circle, symbol of soulful continuity, was broken.
The following morning, the sorry group of Savages made an effort to reunite. Ultimately, it became clear to them that they had gone as far as they could by themselves. It was apparent that they needed a guide, someone capable of showing the way along the harrowing heights of spiritual leadership.
Lacking any particular direction, over the next couple of weeks, thirteen people set off in every direction.
The Visit
Los Angeles must have provided a very pleasant contrast to Toronto in the winter of 1968. The only snow to be seen was high above on the peaks of the coastal mountain range. In the city, palm trees waved their welcoming fronds.
Yogi Bhajan's old acquaintance and his wife had three daughters, a nice home in the suburbs, an office downtown, and an impressive new American car. He was a dentist to the stars and a wealthy, well-connected celebrity now in his own right. For him, this was the good life, and he did not mind telling his guest, "Nobody lives here without money."
Harbhajan replied, "I did not ask you to give me money. I'm just here Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Monday I'll be gone. Will you put me on the plane?"
"No. I don't want you to go."
"I don't want to stay." Somehow Yogi Bhajan stayed for a few more days.
As old friends, they talked about many things – old times, changing times, the inscrutable hand of destiny, Harbhajan Singh's urge to serve his Guru. Meaning well and wanting his friend to settle with him in America, Harbhajan's host returned to the subject he thought he knew best.
"You know, you have come to America and I want to tell you something."
"What is wrong in that? What is it you want to tell me?" Harbhajan replied.
"You have got to learn to drive."
"I know driving."
"No. No. No. Indian driving is no good."
"What is wrong with Indian driving?"
"Oh, they drive on the left side. Here we drive on the right side. There are freeways here and boulevards. There are traffic lights and traffic police. All those things you never used to find in India."
"Why do I have to drive?"
"Well, you've got to go somewhere sometime."
"No. I'll not go anywhere! I'll be taken everywhere."
"What do you mean, 'taken everywhere'? There are no servants here. Forget about your limousine and your drivers and all that."
"You forget about it! I was serving the government of India. I had a limousine. I had a driver. I had a car. I had a jeep. I had everything. You mean I am going to serve God and I am going to drive myself?"
"You are crazy!"
"Yes, I am crazy. Naturally, you should be crazy for that. It is worthwhile to be crazy."
Harbhajan Yogi smiled. His friend searched in his eyes. Was there really something crazy about his dear old friend? Maybe there was. Maybe for once it was good to be crazy.
The two old friends had a good laugh about the absurdity of it all.
Bhabi
The next morning, Harbhajan Singh the Yogi packed his bags for good and said, "I'm leaving, my friend."
"Don't go yet! What's the matter?"
"Things are not working out here. It is time I should go."
"Why? What went wrong?"
“I got up this morning to take a bath, I heard your wife abusing you. She was saying, 'He used to be a great officer. We were proud of his friendship. Everybody used to salute us because of him. Since he has come here, he sleeps on the floor, eats only a little, talks to nobody, and chants ‘Gur, gur, gur.’ He is a totally useless man! He is living in our guest room, not talking to anybody, and hopelessly taking up that space. You know, you are stupid! He is not the friend you think he is. You have been telling me, "He is my brother. I'm not going to let him go. He is a man of God. He'll bless us, blah, blah, blah...”’”
"Did you hear that?"
"The door was open. It was everywhere. Look, I don't want your wife to beat you up. I am leaving."
"No, don't go this way. Come back inside and meet my wife, and at least you can tell her you are leaving as a courtesy."
So, Harbhajan Singh, the Yogi, went back and faced his friend's wife. He said, "Bhabi, I am leaving."
"Why?"
"Because you are stupid."
"How can you tell me I am stupid?"
"Because you abused my brother this morning, saying I am unnecessarily taking up a space and eating food and doing nothing. I came for a purpose. You don't think that purpose is worthwhile, so I have to go."
"Why did you come?"
"Bhabi, you don't have a son. You have been praying all your life for one. I am here to pray that you will be blessed with a son, but now I don't think you deserve it, so I have to go."
"That's not so. You are trying to make me insecure."
"I am going today. Soon you will know whether I am right or wrong. Check it, if you really believe I am just trying to make you feel insecure so you will ask me to stay or to apologize to your husband. You should be satisfied within fifteen days. If I am wrong, you can come and slap my face!"
"We will see. You know, a lot of people come and visit us."
"That's why I am going. I am not going to see you again."
"Why?"
“When I drop somebody, not even God picks them up, and I never see them again. I am going. Best of luck!" Harbhajan picked up his bags and made his way to the door.
"Where are you going?" his old friend asked.
"I don't know."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know."
"But you don't have a car."
"I know I don't have a car. I'm walking."
"Will you come in my car? I'll take you to the bus."
"I can't ride the bus. I have no money."
He really didn't have any idea where he was going - but his friend knew better than to argue with Harbhajan Singh once he had made up his mind. Putting on a brave face, he stepped out the door of the spacious, suburban home, and made his way down the long, prestigious driveway, past the immaculately-kept lawn, to the mysterious Unknown.
Just as he reached the bottom of the driveway, an enormous silver limousine pulled up beside him. The driver rolled down his window, "Where are you going?"
"I don't know where I'm going. Only my God and my Guru knows."
"Come on then, hop in!"
Cooking for HELP
Seeing his first vegetarian eatery in America was a moving spiritual experience for Yogi Bhajan. Located on 3rd Street near Los Angeles's Farmer's Market was the HELP Natural Foods Restaurant. In the carrot cake and brown rice, in the banana smoothies and freshly baked whole wheat bread, Yogi Bhajan recognized the new generation's idealism taking a practical and compassionate form.
Harbhajan the Yogi was so impressed that he offered to cook the soup of the day. When the owner realized his talented help had no place to live, he offered Yogi Bhajan a place in his own house in Hollywood.
As it turned out, Harbhajan's soup was a hit. A few days later, the owner asked him to make a daily curry, as well. His whole-hearted, innovative cooking became very popular at the restaurant. Yogi Bhajan's experience there gave him confidence. He thought, "If I can cook a curry and it can sell, let me cook God! It will sell too!"
The HELP restaurant served as a hub for the Los Angeles counterculture. Students, anti-war organizers, hippies, film people, musicians, and drop outs of all kinds liked to stop by and have a meal, or a cup of Mu Tea and maybe a scoop of honey-sweetened ice cream.
If there was ever a peace march or a psychedelic concert or a meditation lecture, an eye-catching poster would usually make its way there.
In this way, Yogi Bhajan came to know of the East West Cultural Center, and that the director of the center, a respected Sanskrit scholar was giving a talk there the next day, December 22. He was intrigued by the director's Indian name, and that she was a Western woman. For these and countless other reasons, Harbhajan made a point of going there.
East West Cultural
We do not actually know what the topic of the talk at the East West Cultural Center that Sunday was. We do know there may have been up to one hundred and twenty-five people in the audience because that is how many the auditorium at the center would seat. We also know a little about the speaker.
Dr. Judith Tyberg, the speaker, would have been sixty-six years old. Born to Danish parents in California, she was a respected figure in the California Eastern mystical scene. She knew and was known to Alan Watts and a host of Indian swamis, yogis and luminaries, many of whom came to her center in Los Angeles as guests.
Judith Tyberg had a Theosophical upbringing, thanks to her parents. From a young age, they had exposed their daughter to the teachings of karma, reincarnation and meditation. Dr. Tyberg graduated from, then taught at and held the post of Dean of Studies at, the Theosophical University in southern California. Her speciality was Sanskrit studies.
In 1947, at the age of forty-five, Judith had journeyed to the south of India on a spiritual quest. That quest took her to the ashram of the renowned teacher, Sri Aurobindo of Pondicherry. Dr. Tyberg was deeply moved and inspired by the sage's understanding of classical Indian spiritual teachings. Sri Aurobindo accepted Judith Tyberg as his student and gave her the name, "Jyotipriya, the Lover of Light.”
Dr. Tyberg returned to America in 1950, the year of Sri Aurobindo's passing. She established the first East West Cultural Center at the home of a friend. In 1955, she moved to the building at Ninth Street, near Vermont Avenue, complete with facilities for a library, a small school, several living quarters, and the auditorium in which she gave her talk on December 22nd.
After her talk, Dr. Tyberg and a small group of devotees went out to dinner. Yogi Bhajan was among them. It appears that he introduced himself to the director of the East West Cultural Center, and was asked to give a presentation at the center himself two weeks later.
Another member of the dinner party was Osu. Born in Minneapolis, she had moved to Los Angeles with her mother and brother in 1943. Osu had excelled academically and socially, graduating as Valedictorian from Hollywood High. She went on to study at the University of California.
Since her early twenties, Osu had studied various spiritual teachings in an effort to make sense of life's strange reasoning. Her reading had encompassed the Bhagavad Gita, Edgar Cayce, and P. D. Ouspensky. Osu had once hosted a talk by Meher Baba in her apartment in West Holly wood. She had also learned Sufi meditation from Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan. In the mid-1950s, Osu had lived for a year with her young son at the East West Cultural Center, which at the time had a school for children. From Dr. Tyberg, she learned Sanskrit and Indian religion and philosophy.
For years, Osu had attended lectures at the East West Cultural Center, the Vedanta Society and the Self Realization Fellowship in Los Angeles. Two years before, Osu had gone on a forty day quest to India, visiting the ashrams of Sri Aurobindo, and of Swami Chinmayananda in Mumbai and Sri Satya Sai Baba in Bangalore.
At the end of 1968, Osu was thirty-nine. She had seen a good deal of spirituality. Some of what she had seen had been wonderful and some of it had not. She was not looking for another teacher.
We do not know what was on the menu that evening. It hardly matters. Sometime in the course of the dinner, the tall beturbaned yogi leaned across the table toward Osu and told her, "Your son is in trouble, isn't he? I can help you."
Osu responded with shock and amazement. How could this stranger know about her son? Who was he, anyway? What business of his was it? These were the defensive reflexes that immediately shot through Osu's mind.
But what if this tall, striking Indian could help? What then? How could she live with herself if she did not at least try to find out? Thousands of thoughts riddled Osu's psyche in the passing of a moment. In the end, she took the phone number Yogi Bhajan proffered and agreed to call him.
After dinner, when the group had dispersed, Osu shared with Dr. Tyberg what the yogi had said. Osu also shared her misgivings. She did not trust this strange man with the secret knowledge. What was he after? Her best guess was that the man in the pink turban wanted to take over the center and she warned Dr. Tyberg to beware.
The Interview
On Christmas Day, Osu made the promised call to the yogi gentleman she had met. They arranged to meet again at the East West Cultural Center. It was on this occasion that Yogi Bhajan told Osu about his journey – his life in India, his original plan to teach at the University of Toronto, and his current situation in Los Angeles.
For her part, Osu told the yogi her life story. The yogi had been right. Her son was indeed in trouble. He had joined the United States Army. Now, the best she could tell, her son had attempted suicide, then gone missing from the army. In the course of their talk, Osu also told of all she had studied and learned from various teachers and supposed masters of meditation.
When he heard of the many things Osu had learned in her study of the spiritual path, Yogi Bhajan said to her, "You have been a student long enough. You should be a teacher." He went on to explain, "I have come to train teachers, not to gather disciples."
But Osu was sceptical. "Oh, sure, fat chance!" she thought to herself.
As they went on with their discussion, the yogi told Osu that he recognized she knew a lot, but he could help her piece everything together. Hearing those words, Osu thought to herself, "Who does he think he is?" Not so long ago, she had been conned out of house and home by a self-styled American spiritual teacher. Most of her experiences with swamis and yogis had left Osu feeling empty and disappointed, if not betrayed. Finally, she confronted the yogi, "How should I believe that you are not another useless person?"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "Well, I can't discuss it right now, but I feel like sometime you will sit with me and let me know."
And so their interview came to a close with Osu feeling rather testy, yet still vaguely hopeful some good might come of her connection with the yogi. It happened that he wanted to see a hermit teacher he had first met at the talk at the East West Center. Osu offered to drive him to his destination in the Hollywood Hills. They arranged to meet again the following day.
The next day, Yogi Bhajan and Osu continued their conversation at the East West Cultural Center. He started by telling her, "Give me the privilege to serve you so that all the wrong which has been done to you by these teachers, I can make it up to you."
He suggested they go to the library of the East West Cultural Center. There, Yogi Bhajan located a translation of Sikh verses and opened it for Osu to read. She was not interested. She had already studied the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, Buddhist scriptures, Taoist texts, the Koran, the New and Old Testaments – every known text of spiritual wisdom and philosophy. Now what was this? After reading a few lines, she said, "I'm not really interested," and politely gave the volume back to the yogi. He duly returned it to its place on the wall of books. The subject did not come up again for many months.
Osu told the yogi about health issues which had been making her life miserable. Having embarked on some radical fasting earlier in her life, she had acquired serious digestive difficulties, which had only become more serious year by year. At this time, she could not even drink a glass of water without feeling acute pain.
Yogi Bhajan recommended she take up a secret kriya he knew and practice it for forty days without missing a day. He showed her the technique. As for Osu's son, he assured her that nothing in the world was more powerful than the prayer of a mother for her son. On a little piece of paper, he wrote the words "Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru.” Yogi Bhajan told Osu that if she would chant this mantra powerfully from the navel point, all in one breath, for one hour daily before sunrise and pray for her son, he would be alright.
Osu objected, "What about all the other things I am doing?" She was already doing Sufi chanting, Hopi Indian mantra and Vedanta meditation.
Yogi Bhajan assured her, "Go ahead and do everything, but try this also."
That seemed reasonable to Osu, so that is exactly what she set out to do.
The Yogi's Detachment
One day, the old friend Yogi Bhajan had been staying with rang him up, "Yogi Bhajan, Bhabi is in trouble. She has a terrible pain."
He replied, "You are a doctor. Take her to the hospital."
"But what is the trouble?"
"She has to have an operation."
Some days passed. When Bhabi had recuperated and come home, she gave her husband's friend a call, "You were right. Can I apologize?"
"What for? I came to your house to give you a gift. Then I realized you were undeserving, so I walked out. No bad feelings."
"But you are my husband's dearest friend!"
"It is true," he replied. "I was your husband's dearest friend. You stood at the airport for four hours to receive me. When I came to your home, I ate the food, I felt the feelings. I knew that your entire prayer was for one son, and that you already had three daughters. I said to myself, 'I can twist the hand of God a little for her. She deserves it.' But when, in that ambrosial hour, you started abusing your husband, I couldn't help it. It was best not to stay in your house."
"How could you leave just like that?"
"Bhabi, you call me a 'yogi.' Opposites do not affect a yogi. Yogis may be the most rotten people on Earth, but there is one thing they have going. They are not attached."
I Ching in Ibiza
Meanwhile, in the faraway port of Rotterdam, the Netherlands, Thelma Oliver was on a journey of self-discovery. Having achieved a degree of fame on Broadway and in Hollywood, Thelma, who was African-American, wanted to find a way to make the lives of her people better. To do this, she wanted first to explore her ancestral roots in Africa, to better know herself.
Working on a ship going to Africa had seemed like a good idea, but it turned out that women were not allowed. Undeterred, Thelma hitchhiked through Belgium, through France, through Spain, to Ibiza Island at the Straits of Gibraltar, and finds that she cannot continue in this way to Africa either.
Thelma was not discouraged, but she did think whether perhaps the universe was giving her a message and she did consider briefly returning to New York City to fulfill some contractual obligations she had there. Seeking guidance, Thelma tossed a set of yarrow sticks for a reading of the I Ching. The sticks spoke to her: “Go West and meet a great man.”
Stuck in Ibiza, the next day, Thelma gave the sticks another reverential toss. “Go West and meet a great man,” they said to her. It seemed strange. The odds of receiving the same message twice in a row were remote given there were sixty-four possible readings.
The next day, hoping for an outcome more in alignment with her own predilections, Thelma consulted the I Ching a third time. Uncannily, it repeated its earlier advice: “Go West and meet a great man.”
In frustration, Thelma threw her yarrow sticks into a corner, thinking, “This I Ching is not working for me. I want to go South and East.”
The First Public Lecture
Despite the agonizing uncertainty surrounding her son, the following days passed quickly for Osu. Each day, she would rise extra early and apply herself whole-heartedly to the kriya and especially to the mantra Yogi Bhajan had given her. She would then pour her energies into her job as a waitress at the Beverly Hilton Hotel.
On the second morning of her meditation, Osu had such a great experience she could barely wait to phone the Yogi and tell him, "I don't have to do anything else. This is it!" And slowly, her digestion improved as well.
Those days before Yogi Bhajan's much anticipated talk at the Center on January 5, Dr. Tyberg and Osu came to know him better. Often, he would come by and cook lunch for Dr. Tyberg, whom he respectfully called "Ma.”
On one such day, Yogi Bhajan told Osu of a vision he had of a "3HO" organization. He went on to say that she would be the mother of the "Healthy, Happy, Holy Organization.”
This was just too much, too soon, for Osu to agree. The idea stretched her sorely tried credibility. The yogi was a stranger in America. He was a visitor with no legal status. The yogi's accent was so thick, how was he going to start an organization? When he said "vision,” it sounded like "wision.” His "H" sound like "etch.” These ideas exercised her keenly refined critical mind. Besides, Osu was still burdened with the worry of her missing son. "No thanks," she replied. "I've already raised my son. I don't want any more responsibility, and furthermore I don't like organizations."
As luck would have it, or perhaps it was through the love and sheer force of Osu's chanting, she received a call a couple of days later from her son. He was happy to report he had been "rescued" near San Francisco. Thankfully, the situation resolved itself even to the army's satisfaction.
Finally the day arrived for Yogi Bhajan's lecture at the East West Cultural Center. It was Sunday, January 5 in the evening. The audience who turned out to hear him speak was steeped in esotericism. They enjoyed the periodic visits of celebrated swamis who would come and dazzle them with their mystical terminology. The speakers would talk of "man and superman,” "Nescience" and "Omniscience,” "transcendental truth,” "Ananta,” "Parapurusha and Parabrahman,” and other important-sounding words and phrases.
Yogi Bhajan was different. He did not wear a saffron robe, but a shocking pink turban and a regular shirt and pants. He was a man and did not try to hide the fact. Instead of a shaven head, he had a bushy black beard. The yogi kept his Sanskrit to a minimum. He cut through the terminology and talked straight. He addressed the audience to empower, not to mystify them. The yogi provoked the intelligence of his listeners. He told them things they had never heard before.
Yogi Bhajan did not teach "Om.” He called it a polluted form of "Ong.” Whereas Ong resonated the palate, the sound Om didn't. Om, the Infinite, Absolute, he said, had no direct relationship with the creation. Moreover, in Sanskrit when "m" comes before "k,” it changes to "ng.” Therefore, when God is in relation to his creation "Kar,” Om becomes "Ongkar.”
Yogi Bhajan talked about real physical things, bodily things. No one had ever heard a swami talk about vibrating the palate with mantra, or the necessity of sitting with a straight spine, or the need of setting the navel, or the vital secretion of the glands. He talked about kundalini and nobody else ever taught kundalini yoga, not in the West.
Yogi Bhajan said the science of yoga teaches perfect control of the body, nerves and mind, so these three can be used under the guidance of the will. He seemed to know a good deal. The yogi concluded his talk by covering the classical "eight limbs" of yoga, the five do's and five don'ts, posture, breath control, exercise of the mind, concentration, meditation, and finally, the bliss of samadhi.
Yogi Bhajan finished by challenging his audience, "You are ultimately to act like a god. Time is short. The time is now. It is your birthright to be healthy, happy and holy. Kundalini yoga is a tool to help you manifest that birthright."
A Liberated Man
Yogi Bhajan was like a rolling stone. He never remained in one place very long before circumstances made it necessary for him to move on. Yogi Bhajan was happy staying at the home of the owner of the HELP restaurant. There was a quiet space where he could go each morning to practice his yoga and meditation.
Everything started to go wrong when the owner's girlfriend also started rising for early morning yoga with their guest. It was too much for her boyfriend to bear. Already he had been annoyed at the amount of time the yogi had been spending on the phone. He told Yogi Bhajan to find another place to live.
When they heard of this development, Osu and four other students agreed to pay ten dollars a month to meet the rent for an apartment across the street from the East West Cultural Center. This became Yogi Bhajan's new home.
Far from Toronto, and farther from New Delhi, Yogi Bhajan was establishing himself in this palm-fronded media capital. Mindful of his easy success with the media in Toronto, he phoned the Los Angeles office of TIME Magazine. The staff of the widely-read publication, however, gave him a cold reception. California was already home to a number of Eastern spiritual teachers, all of whom TIME, the glossy weekly with its roots deep in the American establishment, had dismissed as unnewsworthy. Yogi Bhajan, the great unknown quantity, vowed he would have nothing more to do with this magazine.
There was clearly a need for Yogi Bhajan to teach. Students were wanting to learn more after his introductory talk. Dr. Tyberg offered him the arts building at her center as a place he could teach classes Sunday afternoons. Osu and Yogi Bhajan together phoned the YMCAs around Los Angeles to ask about setting up classes there as well.
The YMCA at Alhambra, a nearby suburb of Los Angeles, responded favorably. A time and date were set for the first class. It was arranged that the sessions would cost $1.50 per student, and that half the money would go to the Y and half to Yogi Bhajan.
When Osu drove Yogi Bhajan to give his first class on the appointed day, they found a beautiful hall. The lectern had been decorated with flowers in his honor. But there was just one student who had come for the lesson.
The manager of the YMCA apologized, "Sir, I don't know what happened! We sent a notice out to our mailing list. I just don't know what happened." In fact, the wrong date had been given in the advertisement.
"Nothing has happened. I am going to teach the class."
The manager of the YMCA talked to people all the following week. He said, "We have got a yogi. He lectures to empty halls!" The manager aroused such a curiosity that by the next class, the room was packed. Everyone wanted to know what kind of a human being would teach a class to a virtually empty hall.
Over the weeks, people came from near and far to hear the yogi pour out his wisdom and empower them with a timeless technology of health, happiness and holiness that had been the secret preserve of Indian yogis until now. The teachings made sense. The yoga felt great. People brought their friends and the classes grew.
Along with the Alhambra class, Yogi Bhajan was soon teaching at the YMCA in North Valley and at Claremont College. In all, there were three classes six days a week, plus the Sunday afternoon class at the East West Cultural Center.
One time, the yogi arrived at the Alhambra YMCA to find his students all sitting on the steps outside the building because the classroom was being painted, and therefore unusable. Undaunted, Yogi Bhajan gave one of his best lectures.
"What is a liberated man? And what is the reason we suffer in the hands of time?
"Man has two sides. One is a carefree side. The other is a careless side. When man lives in his carefree side, he is guided by his divine faculty. When he lives in his careless side, he is guided by his animal force. It is not the carelessness of breaking a glass or accidentally throwing away something you meant to keep. Materially, we are considered careless when we are unable to discharge our material responsibilities, but in reality, we are truly careless when we lose our divine personality - when that "something" which is very precious, beyond value, is lost just for passion.
"Emotion and passion are the two buyers of our spiritual personality. If you analyse this thought, you will realize that such a bargain is too costly. For what are we trading our spiritual Self?
"This world of ours is a temporary phase of life. It is not permanent, but we always associate ourselves with it as if we belong to it and it belongs to us. Subconsciously, behind every action, is the desire to be recognized. But if you classify your desire for recognition and the way you try to be recognized, you will find that you want recognition without maturity. You want to be recognized as a mature being, but you have not developed the mature attitude of a carefree being.
"The only carefree being is that person who is free from negativity. He is liberated. It is a cosmic law that such a person is never short of anything. A carefree man doesn't know any misery. He may be humble, but that doesn't mean he is miserable. Ever wise, he sails through time undisturbed. He does not need any correction at the hands of time. His smooth behaviour and calmness of personality are the signs that he is a liberated being. In a nutshell, he is the happiest person ever on the earth.
"This does not mean you should be barred from having worldly goods. Matter is media. It cannot be created and it cannot be destroyed. Similarly, emotion and involvement in desire are also media, but their satisfaction is temporary, not everlasting. If you understand how the addiction to liquor begins, you will understand the theory of involvement.
"This is how it works. A man who does not drink comes under pressure and doesn't know what to do. He goes to the house of a friend for consolation, for man is a social animal, and by having someone participate in his grief, he feels relieved. The friend offers whiskey for a soothing effect and the man is persuaded to take a drink. The alcohol goes into the body. and does its chemical action. It soothes the nerves and energizes the energy centers so the man's attitude relaxes and he becomes flexible.
"It is only a temporary relief, but the memory of that first taste sticks in his mind. He can never ever regain the smoothness of that first taste of liquor, but for the lust of that taste, and to recapture that experience, people become habitual drinkers - alcoholics. They believe that the best way to escape from the pressures of life is to continue drinking and thus drinking becomes a need of the body. Similarly, when you involve yourself in any mode of life, you are going into a channel where you will go on and on, and you can never come back to the point from which you originally started.
"When we forget our original basis of action and become involved, we become a slave. It has been seen in our entire concept of life that we are fifteen percent slaves to routine, to habit. Man must have certain habits without which his life cannot go on. But he can attain liberation by changing the character of these minimum required habits.
"There are two kinds of habits: promoting habits and demoting habits. Demoting habits make you unhappy physically, mentally and spiritually. Promoting habits make you happy physically, mentally and spiritually. In your life, if you have all the habits which are promoting habits, you will end up as a liberated, divine person. If you have demoting habits, you will end up as a physical wreck, mentally insane and/or spiritually defunct.
"Habit is a must of your personality and mind. For that period when you are acting under a demoting habit, you are totally in the negative personality. It is also a fact that if you get into any one negative habit, you will automatically attract its four sister habits, for they love to stay together. These five demoting habits of behavior and attitude are: greed, anger, lust, attachment and negative ego. When one sister enters the house, she calls the others to join. Each habit is supported on two tripods: 1) physical, mental and spiritual, and 2) past, present and future.
"There are two guiding instincts in man. He is either improving his future or blocking his future improvement. If you are conscious of this and have an honest and sincere urge to improve your future, you will always have promoting habits. Oh man, if you are to care not even for God, at least care for the future. When you care enough for your future to have promoting habits, you will become a liberated person.
"A liberated person is always a happy person. He does not lack in any material comfort. He does not know any power on earth which can insult him. He lives in grace in this world and when he leaves this body he is respected for generations to follow.
"Everyone can be like that. Yesterday's greatest sinner can be a saint this minute. The only thing required is a decision: 'Am I to guard my future and choose to be a liberated person, or am I to block my future and go by the material-physical aspect of the world?'
"For any person who blocks his future, it is a guaranteed fact that he suffers in the future. Any person who takes advantage of the "now" causing someone else's loss, blocks his future. Anyone who takes advantage of the "now" invites trouble from Mr. Future.
"Maintain a positive attitude with promoting habits for forty days, and you can change your destiny. This psychological concept of human behaviour is a pattern which can guide you to that goal which is described in our scriptures as paradise.
"In the self, one has to sow the seeds of divine vibrations and with the power of these vibrations one has to dwell in the ultimate which is a truth, a reality and an ever-living primal force. This primal force has been named "God" by Christians, "Paramatman" by Hindus, and "Allah" by Muslims. Some name has been given it by all, but the universal consciousness of this universal spirit has one name, that is Truth, so we call it "Sat" and we remember it as Sat Nam. Sat, in the language of the gods, Sanskrit, means truth. Nam means name. So without dispute we can say that universal consciousness, that universal spirit, that creative force in us has a universal name and that is Sat Nam.
"All those who want to liberate themselves and seek to dwell in the ultimate must cleanse their physical selves and direct their mental self towards Sat Nam, the being of beings. One who dwells on the vibrations of this Holy Nam – Sat Nam – in the prime hours of the day before dawn when the channels for vibrations are very clean and clear, will realize the concept of a liberated being through the grace of this beej mantra (seed vibration) which awakens the goddess of awareness in a being. He then lives as a liberated man on this earth."
That priceless talk was later transcribed and entitled "A Liberated Man." Tens of thousands of copies were printed and served as an introductory brochure.
The Contest
A handful of students came together not only to study with, but also to look after the needs of their teacher. He had touched their hearts, and they wanted to help him in any way they could. But this yogi was very particular. His students observed that he would rather go hungry than ask for something. As well as washing his clothes and paying his rent, they made sure that he had food to eat.
Looking after the Yogi Bhajan was also a chance to learn. He had a gift of teaching. His time was mostly free and he enjoyed talking and teaching and sharing what he knew. One time, Osu and a student named Anne spent a whole night enthralled by the yogi's knowledge and wisdom.
It was 3 am when Yogi Bhajan pointed out that the time to meditate had arrived. He challenged the two of them, "Whoever shall chant the loudest, shall be the strongest!"
Off they went… "Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru… Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam SiriWha Guru… Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam SiriWha Guru…" They chanted the mantra over and over again at the top of their lungs.
After a few minutes, someone hammered loudly on the wall from next door to try and make them stop. Anne quit, but Osu kept right on chanting.
It was no contest. Yogi Bhajan smiled. Osu had persisted, and she had been the loudest.
The Unexpected Lunch
It was a holiday Monday, George Washington's Birthday. Dr. Tyberg had locked the kitchen at the East West Cultural Centre where Yogi Bhajan took his meals and left for the day, absent-mindedly taking the key with her. Knowing this, and knowing the food stores for miles around would be closed that day, Mario, the student who was supposed to look after Yogi Bhajan's needs that day, asked, "Yogi Bhajan, do you ever fast?"
"No, I never fast. I don't believe in fasting."
"So what do you do when you have to fast?'
"I eat one meal a day and observe a monodiet. That is the maximum I think, according to scriptural value, should be the fast. Anything beyond that is not my concern."
"But today you have to fast."
"What do you mean 'Today you have to fast'?"
"Today the kitchen is closed. The outside is locked. There is nothing I can do. The lock is a bolt lock and we can't break it. We can't get inside. I know you don't go to any restaurant to eat because you don't eat meat and you think they mix meat into everything. I don't know what to do, but I feel guilty because I am supposed to provide for you. On George Washington's Birthday no shop opens around here and I don't have a car to go miles and find some food."
"Mario, you sit and relax!"
"What is there to relax? I can't give you food!"
"You do not know the tradition of my Guru. In his house, over ten thousand people we feed every day. And for the sake of that, I will get a good meal today."
"How?"
"Because the human has failed, God will act. And if the human has failed and God is going to act and Guru is going to supervise it, it is going to be fine."
Mario was skeptical. "Well, well, well… You people are like that. It is your thing."
Yogi Bhajan replied, "Do me a favor. When the food comes, don't eat by yourself. Wake me up. I am going to go to sleep."
It was about 12:30. Yogi Bhajan felt tired and lay down for a nap.
Two hours passed, and the doorbell rang. Yogi Bhajan called out, "Mario, open the door! Food has arrived."
"How do you know? How do you know?"
"Go, go!" Yogi Bhajan urged him, "Food has arrived."
Mario opened the door and there was Mrs. Haeckel, a student of Yogi Bhajan's, her arms filled with a feast. No one asked any questions. Both Yogi Bhajan and Mario had a healthy appetite, and the smell and sight of delicious rice and beans and enchiladas and a date cake for desert was hardly a stimulus for conversation.
When Mario and Yogi Bhajan had been fully satisfied, Yogi Bhajan asked their provider, "What made you bring this food?"
"Today is George Washington's birthday. I didn't buy any groceries last week, so I had nothing at home to eat today. I called a Spanish family restaurant and asked if they could give me a meal. They said, 'We are closed, but if you come, we will serve you.' When I ate there, I was very happy and I thought that you would like this kind of food. So I asked if I could take out for one holy man. They said 'Fine.' I thought you are never alone. There are usually two or three people. So I brought food for two or three people."
Although he did not press the point, Yogi Bhajan had been right. God had acted on his behalf and Guru had supervised – and it had been a very fine meal indeed!
The Priceless, Destiny-Writing Pencil
Due to the great response to his first talk, Dr. Tyberg arranged for Yogi Bhajan to give a second public lecture. They agreed to a fifty-fifty split of the income. About three hundred dollars came in, so afterwards she very neatly counted one hundred and fifty dollars, and put it in an envelope for her sometimes enigmatic lecturer.
She said, "Yogi Bhajan, I am very pleased today, and this is your share."
As Yogi Bhajan picked up the envelope, she said, "I want to be further honored. I want to take you to a restaurant nearby and feed you."
"Okay. Why not? Come on. Let's go!"
On their way was a sightless black man standing on the sidewalk. He pleaded to them, "I'm not a beggar. I have family, but I don't have eyes. There is nothing going for me, but there must be something going for you. I have nothing to offer except these writing pencils. If you buy these pencils, perhaps out of this I can feed my family."
Yogi Bhajan was touched. He took the envelope with his lecture money inside and put it in the blind man's hand, saying, "I am buying one pencil for it." He took one pencil.
Out of the corners of his trained eyes, Harbhajan the Yogi could see the aura of his host take on the characteristics of a California firestorm. To himself, he said, "O my God! I don't know what I'm going to eat now."
They entered the nearby Ontra Cafeteria on Vermont Avenue and picked out what they wanted to eat. His hostess reached for her purse to pay for their meal, then stopped short. Knowing her guest's shirt had no pocket, and that he had given away all his money, she turned to him and said, "Yogi, you pay for it!"
He asked, "How much is the total bill?"
She added it up and said, "Three dollars and thirty cents for you, and two dollars and so many cents for that and three dollars… Alright... nine dollars and something."
Out of his turban, Yogi Bhajan pulled a ten dollar bill, and gave it to her. He thought that would settle things, but it did not. As they sat down and started eating, Dr. Tyberg said to him, "You know that man asks for money every day. You need money. You don't have money. You gave him all that money. One hundred and fifty dollars to one man for one pencil!"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "My dear lady, I needed this pencil very badly."
"What for?"
"With this pencil my destiny will be re-written. This pencil will write endless zeros which I don't have. I'm only a one at this time. I needed this pencil. You don't understand it."
"What is to be written?"
"It is going to be written that I shall be written on the surface of this planet earth. I'll tell this story to people, and because of that, you will be remembered. That is what is going to be written. Because of this act of mine and this anger of yours, I'll tell the story to people that will keep you alive. Otherwise, you are worth nothing. You do not understand. I paid nothing for that pencil."
"Write something with it!"
On the back of the bill, he wrote, "I am, I am," and gave it to her. He said to her, "This pencil will not stop writing whatever I want to write, but it is I who have to write it."
"You Indians are so philosophical. We don't understand you at all. I was in India for ten years. I learned Sanskrit. I did my Masters in it. Still you people come and puzzle us!"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "No, you are such a puzzle that we are puzzled as to how to solve it. We didn't come here for anything. Don't try to act like a superior American. Ten, twenty, two hundred years ago, you were rotting somewhere and you were kicked out. I got kicked out of my country to do a certain job. Everybody comes here to do something."
"Yeah, I understand it..."
The Yogi and the Savages
Meanwhile, the Savages, flower children, children of the soul of the land, their destinies dispersed in thirteen directions, reassembled in the urban landscape of Los Angeles. Destiny called them together one evening in a house they had all known. They shared news as they always did. One of them told the others of a bearded, turbaned man from India they had heard was teaching kundalini yoga at the East West Cultural Center. It sounded unusual. It sounded interesting. It sounded like the best thing going.
Though they were in Los Angeles now, the Savages were still very much the New Mexican communards. The bus they piled into the next day for the trip to the center had teepee poles tied down on top and a steer skull mounted on the grill. The Savages themselves were brightly adorned with feathers, beads and embroidery. Witnessing the arrival of his newest students, Bhajan, a yogi through and through, never batted an eye.
Over the weeks, more and more young people came out for the yogi's classes. The streets were lined with their distinctive psychedelic vans. And soon the big classroom at the East West Cultural Center was full.
Yogi Bhajan gave his students vigorous, empowering exercises and worked them hard. The Master taught them to engage their navels with breath of fire. He revealed to them the healing and rejuvenating physiology of the root lock. He worked the hearts of his students. He worked their lungs. He worked their brains. He worked their nervous systems, their glands, their electromagnetic fields. There was hardly a part of them that the Yogi did not engage to make it more flexible, stronger, more radiant, more alive. Then, at the end of each class, Yogi Bhajan would have them all relax, blissfully on the floor.
Yogi Bhajan enriched the minds of his students with timeless yogic understanding. Sometimes he would make them laugh at the comical inconsistencies of life. Sometimes he would lift them high with stories of great sages and saints who had gone before. He would share with them the purpose of life, the joy of life, and the ideal of human perseverance and sacrifice. He would speak of God within and the futility of seeking God anywhere else.
"After meditating at the lotus feet of my Master, who has granted me liberation from the time cycle and the cycle of karma, oh my sweet student teacher of the day, I disclose to you the secret of the Naam. If you care to listen to me this day and you will practice, you will be liberated like me.
"I have seen the God. It is a light equal to millions and billions of rays of sunlight. It is the cosmic energy which is the brightest of the bright, and most beautiful of the beautiful. Nothing beyond this can be said. It is the greatest of the great. When the Master, through his blessing, blesses you, you will realize this within you.
"Out of the four yugs which the scriptures described, one was Sat Yug, the Age of Truth or Golden Age. Then came Treta Yug, when the truth was three quarters full and it was the Silver Age. After this, came the Doapar Yug, when the truth was half revealed. Thereafter, came the Kal Yug, when the truth is one quarter. This yug is known as the Dark Age, Age of Steel or Machine Age.
"The duration of each is respectively 1,728,000, 1,296,000, 864,000, and 432,000 human years, a ratio of 4, 3, 2, 1. This ratio is found to prevail in many sacred computations. These four yugas together make 4,320,000 Earth years of what is called Maha Yug or Great Age.
"In Sat Yug, the Age of Innocence or Truth, man was one with the divine and he realized the vibration which this cosmic energy created to make prakriti and man meditated on the Naam "Ong" – the vibration of the divine. After this, came Treta Yug, when the power of the truth came to three quarters, the being became weak and he recited the Naam "Sohang.” Through this vibration, he acknowledged his identity with the divine, which means "I am you.” Thereafter came the Doapar Age, when truth was weakened to half and man recited "Ong Namo Narayana.” He worshipped the God in the form. We are now in the Steel Age, Age of Machine which is represented by a circle, which is the wheel of creation.
"It works with the power of another wheel which runs it. Constant vibrations from the wheel of cosmic energy give power of life movement to this wheel of creation. Now, my sweet love, you draw one circle like the wheel and put another circle like a wheel over it, and it will make the figure eight, which according to the science of numerology represents infinity turns sideways.
"There are twenty-six vertebrae in your spinal column. Two plus six equals eight, therefore said the Master, 'Whosoever in this Machine Age will meditate and recite this mantra which will be to the glory of the Lord and will have eight vibrations, will open the lock of ignorance and darkness. And this will liberate the being and unite him with the divine.'
"Thus, the Master meditated and became one with the Lord and gave the mantra, 'Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru,' which has eight vibrations and describes the Glory of the Lord. Thus said the Master, 'In the time period, two and a half hours before the rising of the sun, when the channels are most clear, if the mantra is sung in sweet harmony, you will be with the Lord. This will open the solar plexus, which in turn will charge the solar centres. They will get connected with the cosmic energy and thus man will be liberated from the time cycle of karmas, and those who will meditate on this mantra in silence will charge their solar centres and be one with the divine.'
“That is why, with the blessing of my Master, I speak to you of why we should meditate and recite this mantra. All mantras are good. They are all for the awakening of the divine, but this mantra is effective and is the mantra for this time, so my lovely student, at the will of my Master I teach you the greatest divine key which has eight levers. And this key can open the lock of the time which is eight in figure. Therefore, when this mantra is sung in the neck lock, at the point where praana and apaana meet sushmana, this vibration opens the lock, and thus one becomes one with the divine.
“The Master of the time gave me this mantra, and in turn, meditating at his lotus feet, I to you disclose this secret of the divine today for the uplift of humanity and those who will follow it will be liberated and be one with the divine."
Old Friends and New Students Meet
Yogi Bhajan one day phoned a friend of his whom he had not seen for many years. Shamsher Singh Babra had left India in 1953 and was now in Georgetown, outside the American capital. Yogi Bhajan told his old acquaintance he would be visiting in a few days, much to Shamsher's delight.
The days passed and Harbhajan the Yogi arrived in Washington. Shamsher Singh told his friend that he had arranged for a number of mutual friends to come visit the following afternoon. Yogi Harbhajan offered that he was starting a movement in the United States to lead the youth to true living, and that a few Americans might also come.
The next day, the kitchen in Shamsher's house was scented with the delicious aroma of pakoras. The missus had prepared tea and vegetable fritters for about fifteen. Their Indian friends numbered eight, and she expected four or five young Americans.
The afternoon went as planned with the arrival of the Harbhajan's old friends, Americans now, all with their stories to tell. And then after an hour or so of renewing acquaintances, one by one, there arrived a virtual parade of flower children. They were in their teens, the same age as Shamsher and Harbhajan when they had gone to school together in India. One by one they came, twenty or thirty young women and men, barefoot and with folded hands, each bearing a rose for the Master. After they had deposited their floral offering in front of the teacher from the Golden Temple, they sat down on the floor.
Poor Shamsher's wife was at a loss. In no time, the thoughtful and generous hostess had run out of pakoras. Only tea was left to be served.
But this was no time for anxious thoughts. Before Harbhajan's astonished friends, there was a real spiritual joy as the flower children drank the intoxicating atmosphere of that special time and place and listened carefully as the Master spoke to them words of God and Guru and the challenging times to come.
The Choice
Returning to Los Angeles, a dichotomy was building in Yogi Bhajan's classes at the East West Cultural Center. While the Master talked of unitary wholes and cosmic oneness, his class was increasingly made up of two different and conflicting cultures: the one anchored in a smug aloofness borne of superficial study of esoteric philosophy and knowledge of ancient texts; the other, chaotic and energetic and committed to a creating a new world, iridescent and bright, an era of peace and justice and truth.
The Jook Savages' wild looks and their ignorance of the finer points of social etiquette did not endear them to the regular patrons of the East West Center. Dr. Tyberg was also concerned about the effect the hippies might have on the children who came to her school at the center.
For their part, the Savages did not appreciate the sophisticated ambience of the East West Cultural Center. Nor did they share the upper middle age aspirations of the ladies. Unfortunately for the regular patrons of the center, the youthful freaks thoroughly enjoyed the yogi's inspiration and came regularly for his classes. As word spread among their friends, every week there were more psychedelic painted Volkswagen vans full of hairy hippies.
The big room where Yogi Bhajan conducted his classes was becoming uncomfortably crowded for the ladies. Week by week, the tensions grew.
Dr. Tyberg decided to speak with the yogi at the end of one of his classes. It was April of 1969. The ladies looked forward to having the handsome yogi to themselves again. Surely, they thought, he would understand. They had been generous to him. Dr. Tyberg, whom he called "Ma,” had offered to sponsor his becoming a U.S. citizen. Osu and Dr. Tyberg were his closest associates in Los Angeles. The yogi had made his home just across from the East West Cultural Center. Surely, he would help them get rid of all these unruly outcastes of society.
The Savages were not altogether surprised at this development. After all, their own parents had rejected them. Most of the older generation had turned its back on the flower children. They had despised them and called them "dirty hippies.”
Then something unexpected happened. Like a lion roused in all his glory, the yogi turned on the not so gentle ladies. His eyes at once piercing and tender and warm, and with a gesture encompassing all the youths in that room and flower children everywhere, Yogi Bhajan pronounced, "These are my people. These are the people I came to teach, and I will go with them."
New Beginnings
Yogi Bhajan left the East West Cultural Center with the hippies and Osu as well, never to return. For her part, Dr. Tyberg took back her offer to sponsor him to become a U.S. citizen. Under the circumstances, the unshakable yogi said to Osu that she should pray and that by the end of the day "with Guru's grace” he would find a new sponsor.
The Yogi's classes would not end, but continue. One of his students very much enjoyed and appreciated the kundalini yoga classes and offered to do what he could to help.
Jules Buccieri owned an antique furniture store located five miles away, on the Beverly Hills side of town. Jules said that each day when his store at 8802 Melrose Avenue closed at 6 p.m., the students could take his antiques outdoors so Yogi Bhajan could give his class inside. It was a generous and ingenious offer, and his teacher accepted.
Jules Buccieri was well connected among the rich and famous in Los Angeles. He catered to the tastes of some of Los Angeles's social elite. It was said that he had decorated Barbra Streisand's mansion. Jules also took upon himself the job of finding someone new to vouch for his teacher becoming a citizen in the U.S., and, sure enough, by the end of the day, a new sponsor was found.
The new sponsor was a pop star who shared the billing in the Los Angeles's nightclub scene with another hot local act called the Doors. His name was Johnny Rivers. He had a number of popular hits to his name. Johnny Rivers also had his own record label. He was currently producing a vocal group he had named "The Fifth Dimension.”
As it happens, that group had just recorded a song from the hit Broadway musical Hair. The song was "Aquarius." It was rocketing to the top of the Billboard chart that spring and would remain at number one for most of April and May. "Aquarius" was playing everywhere in North America, Europe, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, and the army garrisons of South Korea, Japan, Guam and South Vietnam. Hippies and housewives, businesspeople and soldiers were all grooving to the new beat, the hopeful theme of Aquarius.
"When the moon is in the seventh house
And Jupiter aligns with Mars,
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars.
This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
The Age of Aquarius
Aquarius! Aquarius!
Harmony and understanding
Sympathy and trust abounding
No more falsehoods or derisions
Golden living dreams of visions
Mystic crystal revelation
And the mind's true liberation...
Aquarius! Aquarius!"
(Lyrics from Hair, the "American Tribal Love-Rock musical, by Gerome Ragni and James Rado, EMI Music 1967)
Now with the classes at the antique store, the Yogi and his students began a new routine. Each day, everything from beds and cabinets to the most delicate antiques was carefully shuttled out of Jules' store. And after each class, the students - happy, relaxed and carefree - meticulously carried it all back to where it had been. Once they had finished, the store would be just as it had been before. Only the students would be transformed.
Their teacher called himself "a postman." What he was delivering was a whole new way of breathing, thinking, relating, and living on Mother Earth. The students' bodies, minds and spirits would be set alight with each new class, by the Yogi's talk, by their exertion, by the deep relaxation to the soulful sounds of the Yogi's gong. Each day, his dedicated students found themselves recharged and renewed by the transformative art of their masterful guide and teacher.
The Longtime Sun
There is no denying the power of music. From early on, the Savages from New Mexico contributed a song with old Celtic roots to the yogi's new classes. They had known it as a part of "A Very Cellular Song" and it had been performed by The Incredible String Band from England. The song went:
May the longtime sun shine upon you,
All love surround you,
And the pure light within you guide your way on…
It was originally sung as a round, again and again. Yogi Bhajan loved their song and asked his students to sing it at the end of every class, with a long Sat Nam at the end.
The First Turban
Gerry Pond lived in Jules's antique shop. A tall, charming, guitarist and song-writer, he had shared concert billings with the Grateful Dead in San Francisco in 1966. When the FBI opened a file on him in their aggressive campaign to intimidate, jail, even kill leaders of the youthful movement for peace and social renewal, he left America and studied in the Mexican wilderness with a shaman.
That shaman had eventually sent him to find and study with a "Great One.” Now, having searched, Gerry felt he had indeed found and was learning from such a one.
However, it was not easy. One day, the Master asked Gerry where he worked. His student proudly answered that he didn't work. Hippies knew that work was for slaves. Gerry didn't work. He was a musician.
Yogi Bhajan was not so pleased with his student's hippie logic. "That's very well, Sonny, but you need to learn to work too. If you want to understand the teachings, you'll have to understand the students. Most students aren't musicians. They work. They have jobs."
Yogi Bhajan laughed and turned to Jules. "Hire this music man on the spot," he said, and the next day Gerry the musician began dutifully sanding and painting Jules's precious antiques.
It was dusty, dirty work and Gerry seemed to collect all that dust and dirt in his dark mop of unruly hair. It was tough: the ego of the pop musician tied up in his uncut, long hair pitted against the rigours of his new work. Finally, Gerry intuitively managed to wrap a scarf around his head enough times to capture all his curls into one well-mannered clump. That helped a lot.
One day, as Gerry was rapt in his work, a voice boomed from behind him, "What is that?"
Gerry turned at once and replied, "It's my turban, sir!"
"Why you're doing that?" probed his teacher.
"To be like you," said a voice, "I want to have what you have." Even Gerry was surprised at what he was saying.
"Wow!" said Yogi Bhajan with a big smile, "For you to cap an ego like that, it's really something. Let's see what it brings."
Do Something!
When I lie down in my bed, I can’t sleep. I say, “Yogi Bhajan, they love you so much, and like a nut, you are sleeping! What for are you sleeping on this bed? Don’t they need you? Are they not supposed to progress? Then, if they are supposed to progress more, what are you, boy, doing here? Get up and do something! Help them in some way or another. If you do nothing, at least sit there. Even your presence is enough pressure to put them on the alert. Write them a letter, do something!”
This is known as, if I may not even write you a letter, I may not even come, but the very thought that I have thought about you, does connect me subconsciously to that factor and that area. And that is known as “communion of the mental projectivity with the heart,” because there is a positive vibration.
The House on Phyllis Street
After a few weeks of Yogi Bhajan commuting to his classes at Melrose from his apartment across from the East West Cultural Center, Jules Buccieri invited his teacher to move into his house on Phyllis Street in West Hollywood with him. Yogi Bhajan arrived with a few dedicated students. Circumstances soon tested the dedication of those students.
There were no finances and no plan other than to teach and practise the teachings and just keep going. Money was very tight and living was not easy, but high spirits, endless service and lots of yoga carried the day. One of the students had been expert at scrounging food and making ends meet when she had lived as a Jook's Savage in New Mexico. She took charge of the kitchen and feeding Yogi Bhajan and a regular stream of guests.
Yogi Bhajan persevered with his one checkered shirt and pink turban. He hardly slept. Whenever he dozed, he would wake up saying "Waheguru!"
Each morning, Yogi Bhajan rose early and showered before settling down to read aloud from his "holy book.” There, he half-chanted, half-sang for two and a half hours, while a handful of students silently meditated around him.
A wonderful smell like Christmas baking soon was wafting out of the kitchen, like some delectable incense. Yogi Bhajan had given Osu his recipe for "Yogi Tea" – ginger and cardamom, black pepper and cloves and cinnamon, with milk and honey to taste. Everyone who dropped by was given a cup of the wonderful healing beverage, and the recipe was passed on and on, eventually around the world.
He could never remember the name of the woman in the kitchen who served everyone so selflessly. The Yogi said her name had no relation to her and instead he gave her a new name. Closing his eyes, Yogi Bhajan said when he thought of his student he saw the Ganges River, Mother of India, feeding the masses, healing and flowing the length of the entire country, so he called her " Ganga," the Indian name for that river goddess. He also gave her his own name, adopting her as his spiritual daughter, and thus she became “Ganga Bhajan Kaur.”
Yogi Bhajan was not above learning from his students. Far from it! In his later days, he would say he had learned how to be a Sikh from them. Ganga always wore natural white cotton clothes. Her attire was simple. It was graceful. Yogi Bhajan took note and soon he was wearing Indian-style white tunics and churidas pants. His turban colour changed from vibrant pink to simple white. In a couple of years, he would lecture on the virtues of wearing natural white cotton, but in 1969 it was just a new phase, a conscious transition.
Students, seekers, and lovers of higher awareness began to appear from far and wide for Yogi Bhajan's daily classes at Melrose Avenue at ten a.m. and eight p.m. They were greeted, " Sat Nam!" - God is Truth!
When students came to classes, they would often have no money, but Yogi Bhajan had a strict policy that no one could attend class without paying.. It was a clash of cultures. Some students would be verbally abusive. The Bible said that money was the root of all evil, and these kids were believing it.
To help bridge the gap in values between his tradition and those of his students who shunned money as a medium of exchange, Yogi Bhajan would scatter coins here and there in the yard outside. When anyone came without money, the person responsible for registering the classes would direct them to go outside so they too could have the dignity of paying something. "If you come empty-handed, you go empty-handed" was Yogi Bhajan's saying.
Even this did not make everyone happy. While some collected more money than they paid for the class, others resented having to pay anything. One disgruntled hippie complained out loud, "So you think you are a big dude leaving money outside?"
With a great deal of love and patience and a seemingly endless stream of yogic know-how, Yogi Bhajan worked to heal and build his students, these American "diamonds-in-the-rough.” With just the right combination of sweetness, firmness and exquisite timing, he plied his precious trade. Mostly he offered them suggestions and encouragement, rather than directives or outright criticisms.
Yogi Bhajan took a personal interest in the lives of his students. When Osu became sick, he visited her and made her usual breakfast of scrambled eggs, although he himself never ate eggs, and would soon be teaching his students to avoid them. Once, he told her that her hair needed cutting, though he never cut his hair and soon would openly teach the importance of keeping it. Such was Yogi Bhajan's ability to identify with others. Eventually he gave Osu a fitting new name: "Shakti Parwha Kaur" - the princess of the flow of eternal power.
One day, a student came to Yogi Bhajan, tearful at having lost her pet dog. Out of kindness, he told the young woman where to find her furry, missing friend.
The news travelled quickly. All of a sudden, hundreds of people were calling to tell the man they considered the Saint Anthony of the West Coast about the objects, pets and people that had vanished from their lives.
The Yogi's Guru
On April the thirteenth, Yogi Bhajan introduced his students to a special day called "Baisakhi.” Baisakhi was the birthday of Guru Nanak, the "Guru for the Aquarian Age.” Yogi Bhajan had someone borrow a book from the university and draw a picture of Guru Nanak from it, since he could not find any in Los Angeles.
The Yogi introduced everyone to the term "Sikh,” meaning student. He shared with them the Sikh principles of living in the world with grace, kindness, courage and distinction. In that visionary talk, he also told them about the sacred Siri Guru Granth Sahib, "the Word as Guru.”
Many of Yogi Bhajan's student were brought up Catholic. Many came from Jewish homes. No one was interested in taking up another religion. Everyone had had enough of formalities and creeds and ritual obligations. In a world of war and injustice, the religions they knew did not seem to make a bit of difference, but they listened intently to their teacher's heartfelt sentiments.
Shakti’s Story
Shakti Parwha Kaur served Yogi Bhajan selflessly as his first American student and flag-bearer. Married at eighteen, a mother at twenty, divorced at twenty-two, her service and the yoga taught by Yogi Bhajan contributed to her healing.
Back in the days when he gave private classes, the Master once told her to lie down in corpse pose, breathing long and deep. And then he left the room and did not come back for forty-five minutes. The effects of that one class would stay with her from that day on.
Shakti Parwha was not terribly good with postures. Even with Yogi Bhajan’s help, she could not lift her lower back to come into wheel pose. Cat-cow, however, she could do, so the Master would encourage the class, saying, “If Shakti can do it, anybody can do it.”
Shakti Parwha Kaur knew stress before the word was widely recognized as a human condition. She was also hypoglycemic and premenopausal. Often, she would burst into tears for no apparent reason.
Whenever Shakti became upset, he would advise her, “Relax! Heavens are not going to fall.” When she showed him a minute-to-minute itinerary she had composed for her day, he would often counter, “The One who rotates the Earth for you, don’t you think He can take care of your routine?”
One night when Shakt Parwha phoned the Master upset about one thing or another, he advised her, “Get Peace Lagoon and start reading Jaap Sahib.” She started reading and calmed down almost immediately.
He said, “You should read Jaap Sahib every day.” That Bani was known for its capacity to inspire self-regulation, strength, courage, and a state of grace.
She said, “Okay.” But the next day she called him and said, “I don’t like Jaap Sahib very much. Can I read Japji instead?”
“Fine.” Little did she know that when a student disagrees with a spiritual teacher’s advice, they just tell them to do what they want.
A few days later, Shakti had a change of heart, “Well, since you recommended Jaap Sahib, I guess I’ll read it.”
For the first five years, Yogi Bhajan never offered Shakti Parwha Kaur a word of criticism. His patience and kindness, together with his life-giving teachings, gave her the support she needed to heal from within.
The Hollywood Party
Jules with his many Hollywood connections took a personal interest in the mission of the yogi he now shared his home with. Jules told his yogi guest that he could make him a star. He could be on television. He could be famous. According to Jules, it was just a matter of meaning the right people and making the right connections.
Yogi Bhajan did not like the scheme being presented to him. He did not want to be famous right away. He was perfectly content doing what he was doing, building a solid foundation of consistent, humble efforts. He did not need the egos of stars or their money. India too had its stars. He was not enamoured of them or their superficial reality.
Finally, the teacher gave in to the sincere entreaties of his student and Jules arranged for a celebrity party in Yogi Bhajan's honor at someone's mansion in Beverly Hills.
Then the evening came and Yogi Bhajan went to see what this was all about. He had never attended this kind of party before. Soon, corks were popping, noses were sniffing, and the smell of marijuana filled the air. There were whole, roasted pigs and lots and lots of other delicacies.
By nine o'clock, Yogi Bhajan noticed the hands of many of the other guests beginning to reach and grope inside each another's clothing. It was apparent that the drugs and alcohol had diminished whatever inhibitions the guests might have had, and that developments were on a roll, rolling downhill fast.
What was a yogi to do? No sooner had he asked himself this question than the answer became obvious: he would meditate! Taking a chair to a corner of the room, Yogi Bhajan began sitting facing away from the rowdy guests, blissfully indifferent to the mundane details of the party's lascivious goings-on.
After some time had passed, Jules came by and interrupted the Yogi's meditation. His enthusiasm was unbounded. "I am going to make you the greatest yogi of the planet!"
"Look, I don't believe the planet is worth anything," replied Yogi Bhajan. "I have come here to talk to some people, person to person, and uplift and tell them they have a soul and tell them they have a mind and tell them they can be happy and tell them they can contain the contentment in themselves, tell them their future… I have a lot of good schemes, but what is this going on?"
"Yogi, you don't understand. We are going to spend $50-60,000 tonight on this party!"
"You pigs! You are going to eat all that yourselves and drink all that yourself. What do I have to do? I am sitting for the last three hours on this corner chair. Nobody has even come to me and you are telling me this is a party in my honor!"
"They all talk about you. They all know about you, but they do not know how to come to you."
"Fine. What am I supposed to do? Sit here? That's all?"
"Yeah. Your grace is working."
"No, no. You don't understand. My grace is not working today. My grace is being worked to death. I don't understand what grace means here. Everybody is drunk and…"
"You don't understand! This is Hollywood and champagne is flowing tonight."
Jules left Yogi Bhajan and arranged for the hostess, who had taken some yoga classes, to introduce the guest of honor. She gathered everyone's attention, as much attention as there was to be gathered under the circumstances, and introduced Yogi Bhajan, but it was no use. People were too drunk or high to remember his name. Many could hardly recall their own.
As graciously as he could, the Yogi retired to his quiet chair in the corner, perhaps to meditate. After a few minutes, a lady in a flowing gown came by. It looked like she wanted to make conversation, but she was drunk and high and all she managed to do was insult the Master, again and again.
With his impeccable manners and unbounding restraint, he sat and listened and smiled.. At last, Harbhajan the Yogi saw an opportunity, stood up, and walked to the door.
At the door, someone asked him, "Are you going?"
He replied, "No, I am just slipping out for fresh air."
"Are you coming back in?"
"Never!"
"Is something wrong?"
"Nothing."
"But has something gone wrong?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
"I am suffocating! It is very wrong. It is gone very wrong." And the Yogi stepped outside and delighted in the pure night air, the first time in hours he could fill his well-developed lungs with oxygen without the miasma of others' alcoholic breath.
After the Party
The next morning, Jules and Yogi Bhajan met again. Jules said, "Yogi Bhajan, what you have done? You have totally blown it!"
Yogi Bhajan replied, "Blown it? I haven't blown anything. What 'blown it'?"
"Did you know that" - and Jules named a famous actress - "…was at the party?!”
"Look, I am not going to work in movies! What is this actress so-and-so? And what is this 'I will be a great yogi'? Man, if I had been there half an hour more, I would have been dead! You are talking 'blown it'. I think I have saved myself 100% by walking out!"
"You walked all the way?"
"No, I got a lift along the way. I know how to raise now this thumb and I told somebody, 'I am a lost person and that is my address and there is at nine hundred, at big tall building. From there, I can find my house.' So they took me there and dropped me and 'Good-bye!' and 'Thank you!' Look, I am not going to go to these parties for a million dollars apiece! It is not possible. It is not my kind of bag. It is not my cup. Period."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I will prefer to hang myself than to go for this kind of introduction!"
The phone rang. It was the woman who had sat and spoken with him at the party. "Did I insult you yesterday? Did you feel it?"
"No, I didn't feel it. I was numb. I do not know what to feel. I didn't feel and I was pretty numb and I don't think you did insult me. I think you did what you did."
"I didn't mean to. I was just told that you were sitting alone and I wanted to communicate."
"Yes. I am very grateful that you came and gave me the company and did communicate with me. It is alright."
But it was not going to be alright. The woman cursed at Yogi Bhajan and practically screamed through the phone, "You are putting me off! Why don't you open your heart?"
"You have to understand that I do not understand that I have in any way felt anything and I think that you are trying to make me feel today, and I don't think I can feel today, but I am very grateful you have told me how Americans live. This is a part of their culture. I'll work on it."
"Good... good... good... I am glad you learned something, you Indian pig!" The line went dead.
Yogi Bhajan reflected on the essence of that abusive communication. He felt the frustration, the rage, the humiliation. He felt it all. What could he do for these people?
There and then, out of a deep sense of concern born of compassion, he made up his mind to teach Americans how to talk from the heart, not from the head, not from the ego of their money and their structure, but from their light, being human, and from their delight, being creatures of God.
The Price of Initiation
Despite Yogi Bhajan's best intentions, the word spread through the Hollywood hills that a charismatic teacher had come from India. Chauffeur-driven cars and limos began to pull up in front of the yoga center before class. "Personal assistants" would come and lay out expansive towels for their celebrated employers to exercise on. If he went to the washroom, Yogi Bhajan would find $100 bills on the mat where he sat to conduct the class. The yoga master had unwillingly become a part of the Hollywood social circuit: from film shoot to yoga class to cocktail party to oblivion.
A number of women of wealth and social status were also attracted to Yogi Bhajan's classes. They wanted the enchanted yogi to give them initiation of the sort they had read about in their books on mysticism.
Yogi Bhajan refused them all, saying he was teaching this yoga openly and publicly. There would be no secret initiations. "Sat Nam,” meaning Truth Personified, was the mantra. It did not depend on any one personality. Those who wanted to practise it, needed to initiate themselves.
The ladies wondered at the elusive yogi. What was he really after? What was he doing in Los Angeles? What was his price, anyway?
One balmy day after class, one of the women, wealthier and more self-assured than the rest, looked directly into the Master's eyes and made him an offer she thought he could not refuse: eighteen million dollars, plus an estate in Malibu with a big house, a nice car, and maintenance provided. To have all that, Yogi Bhajan only needed to put his hand on her head and pronounce that he had initiated her.
The Master answered the determined woman as he had answered those who had asked before. There would be no private or public initiation. Quoting scripture and invoking reason, Yogi Bhajan tried to make his American students understand there was no easy way to enlightenment.
The woman could not hear the Master's words. As he spoke, she sat and became visibly angrier and angrier. When she opened her mouth to reply, her words were hot and bitter. "I'll take all that money to slander you and get you out of the United States faster than you think."
The Master spoke calmly and coolly, "Lady, I have not come to the United States to have bucks here. Someone who brought me will take me away. Neither you brought me, nor you…"
"Why not?"
"Did you write me a letter inviting me here?"
"No."
"So that ends the matter. Don't be upset. No problem."
A week later, the same woman came after class and sat down before the Yogi. She thought she was being reasonable. "Why don't you accept my money? I want to give it to you out of love."
"Look. You have to understand something. If I am a man and you tell me to get pregnant, tell me how will I get pregnant? Explain it to me. You don't understand big language. I will explain to you in human language. I am a male, right? Can you believe that I can be pregnant?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"You are not capable of being pregnant."
"I am not capable of initiating anybody. I can't initiate you because I am not capable. Period. It's not in my genes. It's not in my process. I don't want to come from India to America and cheat Americans. I am not here for that purpose. Period. I don't need your money, and I don't need your land, and I don't need your house, and I don't need you!"
"What do you want?" She was starting to lose her composure. Her voice was turning harsh and shrill.
"I want somebody who can initiate himself."
"How?"
"I'll tell you…"
"I don't want to learn that!"
"Then that's it! You don't want to learn. I am willing to tell you. If you don't want to learn, don't learn! Please don't yell at me. Because if I initiate you, you won't initiate yourself. You got it? And so long as God gave you identity and you don't initiate yourself, then it is not possible that you can progress. Ego is the biggest disease, but there is a solution in the ego. The ego solution is to initiate with your own ego your own self and don't accept any other initiation."
The Identity of the Master
Yogi Bhajan's openness and love, his purity of intention and sheer innocence, drew people of all sorts and personalities. The rich thought he was one of them because he acted rich. The Master spoke and moved with the flare and self-confidence of the truly rich.
The celebrities thought he was one of theirs because of his good looks and charm. Words never failed him. In fact, the Yogi's charm was genuine, unpretentious and unrehearsed. He was a grand actor in a grand role on a universal stage, and he lived his part with grace and magnanimity.
The hippies, too, considered Yogi Bhajan one of their own. Was he not a rebel against the establishment, like them? Did he not teach them yoga to get them high naturally? Wasn't he a counter-culture prophet with his message of peace and love and the Aquarian Age?
The members of each group, each in their way, liked to claim Yogi Bhajan for themselves. They talked to the Yogi as though he were one of them. He could be enigmatic and hard to fathom, but ultimately he belonged to them. And Yogi Bhajan accepted all this, up to a point.
Meanwhile, Jules continued to plan and scheme wealth and fame for his yogi guest. He regularly brought celebrities and trendy people to meet Yogi Bhajan.
Jules the celebrity maven loved to surround himself with the "hip" and trendy crowd, but could not bear the discipline and "uptightness" of one of the yogi's students. "I can make you a star, but you've got to get rid of this woman because she just doesn't make it. She alienates all the people I bring to you."
"I cannot possibly do that," replied the yogi in Yogi Bhajan, "I have promised this woman who has been misled and misused by spiritual teachers that I would not do that. For the sake of the reputation of the spiritual teacher and of all spiritual teachers, I must be true to her. And if she is my only one student, then that is how it is, but I won't abandon her."
The life of the Yogi in Los Angeles was a bed of tribulation. People came and people went. Some came to try the yogi. Some came to seduce him. Some tried to threaten the yogi. Some came to challenge him. Some wanted to own him. Failing that, they would slander him.
"Womanizer!" "Black magician!" "Smuggler!" "Anti-Christ!" These were some of the names Yogi Bhajan was called, but none could buy or coerce him.
In the midst of all the turmoil, Ganga prayed in the kitchen of the Phyllis Ashram to know who this man really was. In reply, she came to see the teacher she was serving as the channel and the answer to the prayer of her generation.
The Room
Yogi Bhajan was once invited to a function at the home of a couple who had been attending his classes. They had a large home and about three hundred people came to the event. The hostess gave her special guest a tour of their mansion. She took pride in her home and explained how it was always humming with activity of one kind or another.
Without checking himself, Yogi Bhajan ominously said, “Oh oh…” then quickly changed his tone, “That’s nice. Anyway…”
Later on, when we were sitting alone and everyone was gone, the hostess asked, “Yogi, I don’t know… When I was talking to you about something that was bothering me, you said, ‘Oh oh… It’s alright.’”
Yogi Bhajan replied, “No, no. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
His hostess and student persisted, “Well, there must be something. Are you avoiding saying something?”
The Master replied, “Yeah, I am avoiding saying something. I have learned not to say a lot of things. That’s called ‘control of mind.’ I’m not going to say anything.”
She continued, “Please. You are my guest. You have already said something.”
Yogi Bhajan insisted, “Well, it was a slip of tongue. It was not very important.”
She said, “I don’t know what you mean by that. How do you like my house?”
He said, “I like your house very much and I love that small, little room which is very sunny. I like it.”
She said, “Yeah, once in a while, when I really want to be alone and meditate, I want to go there.”
He said, “Don’t worry. You are going to be there all the time now. That is what I am not saying.”
She said, “What do you mean?”
He said, “I don’t know what I mean, but you have taken me through all the rooms of this house and I see you there fixed and I don’t know what it means. What I am seeing is this whole house, this seventeen-bedroom house with nineteen bathrooms and all these grounds and everything, and I am wondering how you are going to end up just in that room.”
His student said, “Do you see something further?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “No, just a secret. I don’t think I can do anything.”
In the course of time, Yogi Bhajan’s student was involved in a serious accident. Coming to hear of it, Yogi Bhajan tagged a student and together they went to visit.
As it happened, it had been decided that the best place for the woman’s recuperation would be the sunny room in her house and that is where they found her. Seeing her, Yogi Bhajan said, “Wow! Wonderful! That’s great!”
His hostess said, “This is the second time you have said that. Now what does that mean?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “Not much. I am very happy.”
She said, “What?”
He said, “What has happened is, physical damage is not much, pain is not much, but the prospect to achieve solitary, conscious meditation which you are going to go through is already set up. It is going to happen.”
Twenty days later, her husband found Yogi Bhajan. In a great hurry, he said, “My wife wants you right now. Please get in my car and let’s go!”
Yogi Bhajan asked, “What did she say?”
He said, “Well, she said, ‘Bring Yogi! I have a very short time.’”
Yogi Bhajan said, “Yeah, she has a short time. That I know. Let’s go…” Putting a shawl around himself, he set out.
When he arrived at his student’s bedside, she laughed and said, “Ha! You made it!”
Knowingly, Yogi Bhajan replied, “So you made it!”
As she closed her eyes, he said, “Good-bye!”
In shock, her husband looked at Yogi Bhajan. He was a successful man with a beautiful house, servants, wealth, reputation, status, authority. He said, “What! Who made what?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “She is gone. Don’t you see? Gone.”
He said, “Where?”
The Master said, “Home.”
The man said, “Are you crazy?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “No.”
“You mean my wife is dead?”
He said, “No, she is alive. She is with God. These are the bones, the flesh. That’s the jail. That’s the dungeon. That’s the ribcage. She has left them behind for you.”
“Oh Yogi, I am in pain! What are you saying?”
Yogi Bhajan said, “I am not saying anything. I am just telling you what happened. Look, she is gone! ‘She made it!’ she told me. I said it too.”
“Oh God! My wife is dead.”
Harbhajan Singh said, “Your wife is not dead. She is alive. She is with God. You are not accepting it. You never accepted your life as a gift. You accepted her as a property. You thought you had a hold, a household. You thought she is your wife. You had a hold over it. No, you didn’t have a hold. God had the hold. You are not God. Now she has made it home. She has left, and in this earthly home she has left for you her earthly form.”
Training the Teacher
In those days, Shakti Parwha Kaur served an indispensable role as driver, interpreter and host to Yogi Bhajan. He did not mind that she often took the wrong turn and made them lost and late for appointments. The Yogi was always relaxed and accepting of his first Los Angeles student.
He plied her with questions. "What is the difference between a 'boulevard' and a 'freeway'?" "A tomayto and a tomahto?" More particularly, he wanted to know what made Americans the way they were. Those long drives served as valuable lessons in American culture.
Yogi Bhajan emphasized to his students that he had come to create teachers and not to gather disciples. It was only natural then, that when he began to travel out of town, he would have others teach his Los Angeles classes. Two of his most regular students, Shakti Parwha Kaur and Wallace, were assigned to cover for the Master.
Shakti's most memorable experience from her first class came when she instructed the students to exhale powerfully – and was nearly knocked backwards by the force of all those yogis exhaling at once!
Wallace's experience was somewhat different. All the classes at the YMCAs were cancelled afterwards. Up to that point, Wallace had been one of his best students. He had a good discipline and was developing his yogic powers.
Afterwards, Yogi Bhajan asked his student for his version of events. "What is wrong with you?"
Wallace told of his encounter with an unhappy student at the class he had come to teach. "She told me I am a Negro. 'How can you represent the Yogi?' she said." Wallace happened to be Afro-American.
"So what?"
"Well, I told her 'I am a Yogi.' She said I was not. I wanted to prove it to her."
"Prove what? You have nothing to prove. God approves and proves for a teacher. We don't do a thing."
In his desire to prove himself, Wallace had summoned his powers and said, "Rise, rise…" thereby lifting the terrified woman off the floor, three feet into the air. Unfortunately, he forgot the mantra to bring her down safely and she fell from that height, breaking her leg.
Work Now, Be Appreciated Later
It was late spring now, going into summer. Change was in the air. Yogi Bhajan gave an order to his students which was sure to effect change in their lives. First, he told them all about the health-giving properties of garlic. Then he said that all his students should eat several cloves of the potent vegetable every day.
As expected, all that garlic proved very detoxifying to his students. It also impacted terribly on the social life of all the socialites and film star.. Within days, they and their personal assistants were no longer to be seen. Yogi Bhajan afterwards said to his remaining students, “See! Didn’t I tell you that garlic is purifying?”
Jules Buccieri continued to wish fame and riches on his mysterious guest.
"Do you want to make money or not?" insisted Jules.
"My friend," Yogi Bhajan replied, "I have an honors degree in economics. I know what money is. Money is what money does. And I have enough money to do what I have to do. I don't need more."
"Well, what's wrong if there is more?"
"Then there is an audit and there is trouble. All I want is as much as I need to have."
"There is something wrong with you!"
"Yes, one thing. I don't want to be appreciated now. I want to be appreciated a little later."
"Why?"
"You don't know the basic human psychology. Those who work now are appreciated later. Those who waste time in being appreciated now cannot work, and then there is nothing to appreciate. It is a simple psychology. Whosoever wants to be appreciated, has to really work now, and then that creative work will get you appreciated. But if you start getting appreciated now, you will not have any time. You will waste all that time in being appreciated."
For all of Jules's best intentions, their two minds could never meet. Soon thereafter, he moved to another house and left the Phyllis Ashram to Yogi Bhajan.
The Solstice and the Fair
Outside, trees were blossoming, and warm breezes skimming off the pacific blue. The Savages were growing restless. Dreams of inner valleys and holy mountain headlands danced in their brains. The Savages shared their visions of ancient, sacred solstices with their yogi friend.
Preparations were made, and by May it was certain that Yogi Bhajan would come to New Mexico, to the coming Summer Solstice celebration. The next month, about fifty people set out in a motorised caravan from the "city of angels," up and over the coastal San Gabriel range, across the Arizona desert, toward the San Juan highlands of northern New Mexico.
When one of the cars gave out under the stress of the trip through the desert, it was left on the side of the highway, and its passengers given space in the remaining vehicles. Yogi Bhajan had taught the highly individuated Americans that the journey to Universal Consciousness led through "group consciousness,” the sharing and caring for the needs of others. And so it was.
At last, the parade of brightly coloured Volkswagen vans and an assortment of cars and buses arrived at their destination: the Tesuque Indian Reservation, a few miles to the north of Santa Fe. Many others had already arrived at the reservation. All in all, a couple of hundred hippies and "Whole-Earthers" came in from all over New Mexico and the surrounding area. This was the second summer solstice gathering – a "Gathering of the Tribes" as it was called, and there was reunion in the air. Everywhere, there was music, laughter, and celebration.
Tepees, including a large one for Yogi Bhajan, were set up around the Aspen Meadows site. At night, his tent served as a gathering place and a place for all kinds of visionary discussion and deliberations. This was where an invitation to help with a planned "music and art fair" in upstate New York was discussed. Some of the solstice folk had been contacted and told the event was going to last from August 15 to 18, and it was going to be held outdoors. For this, the organizers needed responsible people who had actually slept under the sky. They were to serve as the leaders and caregivers of the many thousands of young people expected to converge at a large alfalfa meadow on a dairy farm outside of Woodstock, New York.
In the end, it was decided that some of the Jook Savages would go along with communards from the nearby Hog Farm and New Buffalo community to set up the free stage, medical tents, free-food kitchen, and other facilities, and otherwise help out at the "Aquarian exposition." It would only be appropriate to bring some kundalini yoga. Tom Law, one of the Savages, would teach at the fair.
Solstice Frolics
Early morning in the San Juan Mountains was beautiful, peaceful, starlit. Bright and early, Yogi Bhajan would rise to shower and prepare for meditation. It was like the pristine forests of the Himalayas - except that when he came back, the Yogi found his tent taken over by couplings of amorous flower children.
"Hell is happening!" cried the Yogi, and Shakti Parwha Kaur rushed over to shoo away the morning romantics and clear the way for Yogi Bhajan's morning meditation.
For some of Yogi Bhajan's hippy students, sexual promiscuity came without a blush or second thought. As he was teaching the cat-cow exercise during his first class in a virgin meadow, a young man mounted a woman from behind and initiated intercourse. By the time Yogi Bhajan had arrived to ask, “What are you doing?” it was all over. His student shrugged to say, “She didn't mind it.”
The most exciting part of the Solstice was the "Great Bus Race" – eight roaring psychedelic-painted buses careening along a track just wide enough for three or four of them, across the Aspen Meadow and back again.
One bus sliced through a tent, whose occupants had just come outside to investigate the racket. The race rumbled past Yogi Bhajan, who offered a bow and a smile as the buses and their attendant cloud of New Mexico dust narrowly passed by. Two of the buses stalled along the way, creating an obstacle course for those behind.
It was all uproarious, noisy, chaotic fun, but on the final downhill stretch to the finish, one child stood helplessly transfixed in the middle of the track at the sight of the herd of roaring steel quickly bearing down – until someone heroically leapt out of the crowd, grabbed, and rolled the scared youngster to safety just as the buses roared by.
For some of the campers, the highlight was the weddings Yogi Bhajan conducted.. He had encouraged couples to commit to lasting relationships. In his words, "Marriage is the carriage to infinity."
So persuasive was his argument that Tom and Lisa Law, and Dawson and Karen Hayward, together with six other couples decided to tie the knot then and there. Lacking any other provisions, Yogi Bhajan had a fire made in a pit, then had the brides and grooms vow their lifelong fidelity and circle the fire, hand in hand, thereby beginning a tradition of solstice marriages.
Solstice Reverie
For his part, Yogi Bhajan was taken up by a reverie on the irrepressible course of destiny. He recalled the astrologer who, barely eighteen months before had predicted he would one day be famous, that places where he had gone to the bathroom would become temples, and that the summer solstice would find him sitting on a high place teaching Eastern wisdom to Westerners.
Harbhajan remembered how he and his wife had joked on the roof of their Nizamuddin home during the warm Delhi nights. He had pictured the Palam airport being closed for some big emergency. All the Westerners would then congregate in the transit lounge and he would sit on a bar and tell them something spiritual to calm them down.
"Does that sound right? What do you think, Bibiji?"
"That sounds about right to me." They had enjoyed a laugh at the expense of the astrologer, taking in the apparent absurdity of the prediction.
"After all, they are not going to come to the Humayun graveyard to learn yoga from me and I cannot go to some academy to lecture. I am a uniformed officer."
It was not long before the hand of destiny began to take Yogi Bhajan's life in an altogether unexpected direction. First came the report that the Soviet government was looking for a yogi to participate in its research institute in Tashkent. Then, within a few days, came the opportunity of teaching in Toronto. The Canadian ambassador had been sympathetic and most helpful.
"Resign, and come to Canada," he had said. And he did.
Yogi Bhajan's days in Toronto had passed like a dream. All the classes, the people, the interviews, the cold, the hunger, the strange food, everything. Through it all, he had sung to himself,
"One day, the day shall come when all the glory will be Thine. They will say it is yours and I shall deny 'not mine.' Gobinday Mukanday, Udhaaray Apaaray, Hariang Kariang, Nirnaamay Akaamay…" Verses and verses, he used to make up just to keep his spirits up, to keep his focus, and pass the time.
Then he had come to visit his old friend in America, and gone on to teach first at the East West Cultural Center, then at the YMCAs and Jules's antique shop.
And now he was in the ancient land of New Mexico. It was the day of the longest sunlight and shortest night. Harbhajan Singh the yogi was in a small canyon with his students. They had made a sizable mound of earth and stone, and covered it with a Hopi blanket for him to sit on. This is where he had taught his first class.
Thinking about it, Yogi Harbhajan was amazed at how accurate the astrologer had been in his prediction. Only he had been off by about twelve hours as he had not properly accounted for the time difference between India and America.
Lessons at the Free School
After the final "Longtime sun…" had been sung at the Solstice site, Yogi Bhajan was invited to visit the Free School in nearby Santa Fe. True to its name, the school charged no fees. Its curriculum was also free and wide-ranging. Free schools typically taught everything from Zen meditation to macramé, from political consciousness-raising to natural child birth.
The true spirit of education at the FreeSchool touched the Master's heart and he agreed to stay for a week and give a number of classes of his own. One lesson he gave was a demonstration of 108 yoga poses, captured for posterity by Lisa Law's unerring camera.
The following lesson was given on June 24th and taken down by Shakti Parwha Kaur's serviceful pen and paper.
"Ong Namo Guru Dayv Namo"
First, Yogi Bhajan had his students sit on their heels and lock their hands together, their arms stretched out straight in front. Then he told them to inhale and move their arms up and down three times in a pumping motion, and exhale. They repeated this sequence for three minutes. Next, the Master told them to continue the exercise, but pumping the arms up and down ten times per breath. This exercise, he told them as they worked their arms up and down, works on the thyroid and parathyroid.
Next, Yogi Bhajan had his students lie down and lock their hands behind their neck, lift their left leg up two feet off the ground with the toes pointed and begin deep breathing. After one minute, he had them change sides, then repeat on the other side, change sides again and repeat.
After that, the Master had the young men and women in his class sit up in easy pose. Praanayam - breathing exercises - were next. First, with the right thumb on the right nostril, slowly and deeply inhaling and exhaling through the left nostril. After two minutes, they were instructed to place their right forefinger on their left nostril and continue the long and deep breath through the right nostril. The next variation called on them to make a "U" of the right thumb and forefinger, and begin to inhale through the right nostril and exhale through the left. After a time, they then reversed the flow and began Breath of Fire, inhaling through the left nostril and exhaling through the right. Then, to completely open the praanic channels, the students continued the Breath of Fire, but reversed the flow of the breath once more.
The students were young, energetic and strong-headed, but the Yogi had a remedy for their wanton energies: from the navel, open the heart! From sitting, he had them lie on their back with their legs straight, heels together, toes pointed forward, hands beside the thighs. So far, easy. Then the voice of the Yogi commanded with unmistakable love and authority, "Lift up your heels six inches, lift your head up to look at the toes, and begin Breath of Fire. Do your best, then rest and try again immediately." It was the hardest exercise many of them had ever imagined. Fifteen minutes.
At last, the Master instructed, "Pull the knees into the chest! Wrap your arms around your shins and put your nose between the knees. Begin Breath of Fire."
And after another while, Yogi Bhajan then told his yogis in training to sit up and bend forward, catch a hold of their toes and begin long, deep breathing.
Finally, the Master had them lie on their back and lift their heads up twelve inches, stretching their arms forward, parallel to the ground, with their feet remaining on the ground. Breath of Fire. This exercise, he instructed, would give perfect eyesight.
By this time, even the strongest in his class were exhausted from their exertions. At the perfect moment, Yogi Bhajan directed everyone to lie on their back as he began to play the gong. The gong resonated louder as the Master directed everyone to relax and lift their mental body three feet above their physical body and remain floating there.
Gone with stress. Gone with Earth. Gone with time. Gone with troubles. Gone, gone, gone with the cosmic roar of the gong. Gone.
All too soon, the Master summoned everyone back and told them to roll their hands and feet and to rock on their spines, then to sit in easy pose with their hands in gyan mudra and chant: "Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru" - There is One God. Truth is His Name. Great is His Indescribable Wisdom!
And so it was! And so it is!
Returning Home
From New Mexico and the Summer Solstice, the yoga students returned to their homes, scattered across the warring American nation, recharged and with a sense of common purpose. Many of them came to realize that it was their destiny to teach, to inspire, and to sacrifice so that a new age of peace might be born out of the old.
Encouraged by Yogi Bhajan, they dedicated themselves to the service of humanity and the Aquarian ideals of truth, justice and soulful well-being. Having learned a little, they set out to teach much to the many.
Sufi Sam
That summer, Yogi Bhajan made the acquaintance of a much-loved teacher of the Sufi way. Their first meeting was at a celebration in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco under unusual circumstances. As it happened, a man of Bangladeshi origin took some sort of exception to Yogi Bhajan. So much so, that he launched into an unbroken tirade of abuse at the top of his voice.
About a thousand people had just finished participating in “dances of universal peace,” led by Murshid Samuel L. Lewis, popularly called "Sufi Sam", when Yogi Bhajan had arrived with a following of students. No one knew what to make of the intruder. Harbhajan the Yogi, for his part, simply stood his ground, an impassive tower of calm resolve.
A student of the Sufi master managed to penetrate the crowd surrounding the Yogi and his maligner, to tell Yogi Bhajan, "Murshid Samuel L. Lewis is here and would like to greet you in love and unity."
This finally broke the impasse. Yogi Bhajan proceeded to walk across a field to where Murshid rose to greet him most affectionately. Yogi Bhajan responded in kind and introduced his haranguer as "Ahmaddiya.” The maligner was becoming increasingly upset, since his quarry was slipping away.
While it did not seem possible to silence the stranger, Murshid masterfully began to say some things about the grades of ego as taught in the Ahmaddiya school of Islamic thought.
The slanderer retorted, "Those things mean nothing to me!"
Murshid turned and asked permission from Yogi Bhajan to speak up for him and to take this man on directly. This did not please the Ahmaddiya very much, but Yogi Bhajan seemed to give his consent.
The man renewed his abusive attacks. At this, Murshid turned to Yogi Bhajan and said, "I didn't know how great you were!"
With each statement the man made, Murshid became more effusive in his praise, as if, instead of slander, the man were heaping praises on him.
The attack continued. Murshid's laudations became all the more exaggerated.
The maligner would not stop his stream of abuse. Murshid then dropped to his knees and bowed at the Yogi's feet, repeating "I didn't know how great you are!"
The abuser began to become progressively more befuddled. At last, in complete exasperation, he turned his scorn directly on Murshid. But by now he was so tongue-tied, all he could say scream was, "You are a jackass!"
Without a moment's hesitation, Murshid rose up on all fours and began to bray!
This proved to be more than their friend could take, as he turned and stomped away.
Murshid then stood up and took his place beside Yogi Bhajan, and they had a long discussion of mutual goals and mutual visions, trading stories on into the day. It was the beginning of a deep friendship that was to last until "Sufi Sam" left this temporary place in January of 1971.
The Pearl of Purposefulness
In those early days, a few students would come to the make-do yoga ashram at Jules's house to answer the phone. They would volunteer to do that job for four or five hour shifts.
Once a lady came to help out. After four hours, someone was supposed to replace her, but no one came by. Four more hours passed. Still no one came, and another four hours went by.
Finally, Yogi Bhajan looked at her and said, "Don't you think you are being over-detained? I don't think anybody's coming, so why don't you go?"
She looked back at him and said, "How do you do it?"
"Do what?"
"You really work!"
"Yes, I do."
"How do you do it? I've been watching you for the last twelve hours. You are just constantly doing one thing or another!"
"I don't understand you. What did you think I was doing?"
"Answering telephone calls and doing this and that and the other thing. You do so many things around here that it's hard even to believe!"
"But it's not me that's doing it. I am doing nothing! I'm just a shell. But in this humble shell there lives a purpose. Imagine a Mexican jumping bean! In that bean, there's a little thing which makes it jump. It's exactly the same way for me. There's no difference."
Some years before, Yogi Bhajan had realized that a life without a purpose has hardly any more value than an empty shell. He had come to know that the spirit of service and dedication is to a human life what a priceless pearl is to an ordinary oyster. Without that precious pearl, the oyster is just another piece of flesh in a shell. It has no special use and is of no particular value.
With his tireless sense of mission and personal care and attention to the many details of his craft, the Master was all the while remembering the exquisite pearl of purposefulness.
Making the Festival
Back in New Mexico, the Hog Farmers received $1,700 from the festival organizers to gather as many people as possible and get them to the festival site in upstate New York. In all, eighty-five Hog Farmers, Jook Savages, New Buffalo people, and fifteen Hopis set out to the appointed destination in upper New York state. Some drove in buses packed with supplies. The rest gathered a few days later at the Albuquerque International Airport and boarded a special American Airlines jet to New York's Kennedy Airport.
From the airport, Tom and Lisa Law and the rest of the crew were whisked off to a languid resort on White Lake, which was stirring with business for a change. There, they connected with those who had come by bus, who by now had assembled a kitchen to feed them all.
There was nine days left to assemble the free stage, medical tents, free-food kitchen, serving booths, information tents, and special tents for those needing respite from too many people, too much rain, too much stimulation. It was going to belike Solstice, only bigger and louder - a lot louder.
While most of the crew set to work assembling the site, Lisa Law, six months pregnant with her second child, set off for New York City, with a truck and a driver to pick up supplies for the free kitchen. On her shopping list were big, stainless steel bowls and pots, cleavers and a giant onion cutter, 1,200 pounds of bulgar wheat and rolled oats, cases of currants and wheat germ, kegs of soy sauce and honey, and 130,000 paper plates and spoons and forks. Lisa also picked up a jade Buddha in Chinatown "for good luck and to keep the kitchen crew happy and healthy and blessed."
Onion Juice Purifies the Blood
Wherever he went, Yogi Bhajan sought out people known or claimed to be spiritual. This led him to meet with Swami Satchidanda in Malibu, California. His Hindu friend was fourteen years older. He had been in America teaching yoga since being invited by pop artist Peter Max in 1966. The Swami was on his way to inaugurate the festival in New York state. No doubt, the two yogis compared notes on the strange customs of the natives.
Strange as they were, Yogi Bhajan did his best to appreciate their customs and even their lingo. Sometimes he would himself say something was "far out." He learned the meaning of "spaced out" and "laying a trip" and a lot of other hippie slang, and he used it too. It helped bridge the culture gap, the generation gap between them.
Some of the students had no inhibitions at all. After all, Yogi Bhajan lived among them and hardly made any distinctions. To many longhairs, the Master was just the "cool cat." When there were picnics, they were known to pick food from Yogi Bhajan's plate without a second thought. As far as they were concerned, he was simply one of them.
Yogi Bhajan encouraged his students to rise bright and early each day. "Early to bed and early to rise..." he would say. His basic prescription for self-liberation was to rise two and a half hours before sunrise and chant "Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru" - There is One God. Truth is His Name. Great is His Indescribable Wisdom!"
Sometimes he had his students sing his Guru's Words, "Jis neech ko koee na jaaneh, Naam japat oho chau kunt maaneh - O that mean, mean man, he sins and sins again and again, but if he chants the Name of the Lord, the four corners of the world will bow down to him!"
Yogi Bhajan advised his yoga students of the need of the times. He reminded them of the fate of previous civilizations consumed by the use of intoxicants. India had been ruined by marijuana. China had been laid waste by opium. Alcohol had wrecked the great Roman empire. Peyote had spoiled the civilization of the pharaohs. America, still in its infancy, had all four.
One afternoon, while Yogi Bhajan was visiting at Shakti Parwha Kaur's West Hollywood apartment, she noticed him suddenly close his eyes and draw deep within. After a couple of minutes silence, the phone rang. It was Tom Law from the Woodstock festival. There was a problem. Someone had put LSD in the drinking water and not everyone was having a nice trip.
The Yogi knew just what to do: Massage onion juice on the soles of the feet until they come down from their trip. Bitter onion juice serves to purify the blood.
American Dreams
Yogi Bhajan was a discerning student of the human condition. Again and again, he found himself amazed by the social conventions of California society. In the India he had known, people cherished long-term, nurturing relationships. They had families and belonged to communities. Here, he saw that many Americans lived alone. Families in California's trendy social scene were sadly riven by separation and divorce.
Yogi Bhajan recognized that many of the people he met were also driven by a blinding, impersonal ambition. Relationships, so far as they existed, were often mutually exploitative.
Yogi Bhajan went to the movies. There, he saw the cutting edge of America's social drama, with its full complement of gratuitous sex and violence. On the streets of Los Angeles, he marvelled at the gaudy, bubble-like quality of the American dream gone sour: its endless supermarkets and stretch limousines, its vast car parks and spiralling freeways, its smoky bars and shiny skyscrapers, its topless clubs, pornography, casual sex and bottomless morality.
At the ‘Bird’s Nest’
In Orlando, Florida, John Twombly was preparing for a visit of his teacher, Yogi Bhajan, whom he had met at a music festival. Yogi Bhajan was to come to Florida for the first time to teach some kundalini yoga classes. There was a problem however. John was living with his parents still, and his parents did not appreciate his new, yogic lifestyle. At dinner with his students, Diane and Harry Bird, it was decided that it would be best if Yogi Bhajan stayed at their house. A few days later, it was agreed that Yogi Bhajan and his tour secretary, together with John, would be staying at the Bird’s comfortable house on Oakmont Lane.
Wherever Yogi Bhajan went, his students were also sure to turn up. So it was that a bus dubbed “Road Hog” arrived with members of the Hog Farm commune. A couple of dozen other guests also arrived from here and there. As Yogi Bhajan did not have a regular schedule in those days, over the several days he stayed, he spent much of the time between classes on the living room couch and visiting with anyone who was around.
Harry and Diane provided what hospitality they could. As there were only three bedrooms, the Birds and their two young children cozied up in one, while their special house guest slept in another and his tour secretary on the floor. The Hog Farmers stayed in bunks in their Road Hog, while the twenty-odd others slept wherever they could, side by side throughout the house, on the back porch and the pool deck.
Mornings, the swimming pool was used for bathing. Several holes were dug with shovels to serve as latrines, as there was only one toilet in the house and it ended up being plugged. Someone, wanting to be a good yogi guest, had tried unsuccessfully to flush their bag, or bags, of drugs down the drain.
On another occasion, Yogi Bhajan was invited to teach in Miami. In those days, whenever he received a paid fare, Yogi Bhajan would travel just about anywhere to teach classes. When he and his tour secretary arrived in Miami, they were very surprised to find their hostess making inappropriate advances. When Yogi Bhajan told her that he was only interested in teaching, their hostess insisted they get out of her vehicle, then sped away, leaving them stranded at the roadside. Fortunately, the two of them had just enough money for a bus ticket to Orlando, where Harry picked the weary travellers up from the bus station for a few days of rest with the Bird family, which the Master had dubbed the “Bird’s Nest.”
Old Friends Lost
In those days, Harbhajan Singh, the Yogi, saw little of his old friends from India, now living in Los Angeles. They wondered what he was doing with all those young Americans. Rumours back in Delhi were not any more inspiring.
What was the former customs inspector up to? The status-conscious immigrant community considered their old friend had no qualifications for success in their adopted homeland. Why, he had no job, no car - Harbhajan Singh couldn't even drive! What was he doing? Had he lost his mind? To their minds, Harbhajan Singh's prospects looked very bleak indeed.
The Bait
The ashram at 9006 Phyllis Avenue in LA, was a hive of activity with people working, people visiting, and people just passing by. The Master took inspiration from the dollar bill with its motto: "In God We Trust" – but dollar bills were not in abundance. Yogi Bhajan and a few volunteers who did the correspondence and other office work, took turns using a well-worn blanket to catch a couple of hours sleep. They affectionately called it the "holy blanket."
The kitchen of the Phyllis Ashram could be a very busy place indeed. Daily, Ganga engaged in the alchemy of making something from nothing to feed the guests. The need for groceries was so great that one devoted student sold her cherished record collection to stock the kitchen with food.
Ganga had once complained to Yogi Bhajan that she would have preferred to leave the kitchen, wear a pretty nice dress, and join the guests in the living room. He advised her that if she just chanted and cooked and did the dishes, she would wash her karmas away. And that is what Ganga did.
The people who came to see Yogi Bhajan would come with all sorts of motivations. Some wanted guidance. Some wanted gratification. Some were confused and didn't really know what they wanted. And then, there were "yogi hunters" who also wanted his time and attention.
On one occasion, Yogi Bhajan interrupted a woman who had come with a proposition for him, "I would like to ask you a question."
She said, "What?"
He replied, "Are you a hooker?"
"Huh? How can you say that?"
"I don't know what it means to you, but I am just asking in simple English… I speak English English. I am not American."
"What do you mean by 'hooker'?"
"You know the fish? You take the fish, you take the reel and you put that hook? And one who puts that hook is called "hooker."
"Well, in this country, they call a prostitute a ‘hooker.’”
"No, you are not a prostitute! Prostitutes are very honorable, so you are not a prostitute. A prostitute is honorable. I have all respect for a prostitute. You know, they sell themselves, they charge the money, they give you in return, and that's it. It's a business. They sell their body. You give them money. It's very 'unfairly fair' I call it.
“But these hookers, God knows where they first are going to stick that thing into you, and then how long you are going to do like that, you know. You know what I mean? And when are they going to put you in a bag and how you are going to be treated? I mean, you can't predict anything! By 'hooker,' exactly I mean that."
"Do you know how many million dollars I want to give to you.?"
"I definitely know that I am a man in a very shallow pond, okay? But I am not willing to take your bait."
Yogi Bhajan was a learned man. In his learning, he was very well aware that the greatest consciousness and divinity and morality and strength and power of a man is knowing the bait. An ordinary man thinks he has the power to bite, not knowing that once he bites he may never bite again. A yogi, therefore, knows he should never bite. He should read between the lines and find the bait... and let it stink.
The ‘House of Shiva’
Yogi Bhajan met a young lady outside the Phyllis Ashram. It was an unusually quiet day. The student who usually came to answer the phone and do the secretarial work was dozing, and there was no one around.
Yogi Bhajan recognized the woman. He had seen her coming and going from one of the houses across the street. They introduced themselves. She said she worked for a company that arranged hospitality and accommodations for Hollywood's many actors and performers. It sounded like a reasonable occupation.
The lady invited her yogi neighbour to visit across the street where she worked. Inside were apartments, where apparently the denizens of the Hollywood scene might spend a night or catch a few hours rest between shootings. It was clean and tidy. It also looked fairly ordinary from the outside.
Everything seemed reasonable enough. Then, this hospitable woman asked, "Do you worship Shiva, in India I mean?"
"Many people worship Shiva. He is a God of gods."
"I mean how do people worship Shiva?"
"People chant mantras. They practise yoga. They bring garlands to the temple. People have many ways of dedicating themselves to Lord Shiva in their love and meditation."
"You know, many of our clients are really into Shiva. We have a room in the house next door which we call our "pooja" room. Would you like to see?"
It seemed a little odd. Shiva, the great ascetic, with devotees in this harem of Western superficiality.
But when Yogi Bhajan saw the room, he began to understand. The pooja room was adorned with a large image of the dancing Shiva and a solid Shiva "lingam.” There were flowers too, and candles, and many other, smaller lingams. These, his hostess informed Yogi Bhajan had been formed with plaster of Paris from the members of her clientele. She named some of them. They were all well-known on the American entertainment scene.
Since the young woman had first mentioned the name of Shiva, Yogi Bhajan had sensed they was something terribly wrong here, and when later on his hostess directed her oddly familiar gaze into his, he recognized that it had become rather late, and that he had better be returning to his work at the ashram, in the name of Shiva, for the sake of the Indian God's reputation, and for the sake of this and every fallen angel.
Teacher and Students
About this time, Jules arranged for the garage with its antiques to be renovated, the better to serve as a place for Yogi Bhajan's classes. Classes were bustling. About eighty students regularly came out for the evening class. Some also came for the class in the morning.
Shakti Parwha Kaur would drop into the Phyllis Ashram every day from her morning job at the Beverly Wiltshire Hotel coffee shop. She was the only member of the growing family with a regular job at that point. Shakti supported the ashram in more ways than one.
Of course, Yogi Bhajan had his own way of showing concern. One day, he told his student not to park her car in front of her Santa Monica apartment. Instead, Shakti moved it and parked in front of the ashram, half a block away. The next day, when Shakti looked out into the street in front of her home, she found her neighbour's car demolished exactly where her car would have been.
Another time, Shakti scalded her foot in a cup of hot tea. Yogi Bhajan sent a woman student over and told her to put salve on it. After spending a fitful night, Shakti awoke to find her foot as good as new.
"I can't believe it!" she exclaimed all that day. By late afternoon, the foot was as red and ornery as the night before. Such, apparently, was the power of disbelief!
In those days, there was a definite push to empower and rebuild from within these drop-outs from the American nightmare. Yogi Bhajan's often repeated formula was "Sadhana, Aradhana, Prabhupati" - Self-Mastery through self-discipline. The great mantra of the Aquarian Age, was "Keep up!" he told his students. "Keep up and you will be kept up!" he would say with a fierce smile.
The Master declared, "I have not come to gather disciples. I have come to create teachers ten times greater than myself!" He also told them, "If you want to know a thing, read that. If you want to understand a thing, write that. If you want to master a thing, teach that!" By October, students had been sent to establish ashrams in Berkeley, Washington, D.C. and Orlando, Florida.
In early December, Yogi Bhajan and his tour secretary went to Washington, D.C., his second visit there, this time to support the founding of an Ashram at 1704 Q Street NW.
When a reporter from a local paper came to cover the event, the Master instructed him, "God is vibration. The divinity in you is in control of the breath... Kundalini means to uncoil the coiled energy within a human being which will raise his consciousness so a person will not have any negativity."
Yogi Bhajan kept in touch with his teachers, wherever they were, and in more ways than one. On one occasion, he was heard to pause in the middle of a class to caution a student-teacher, "No John, not this way!"
At that time, John Twombly was teaching a yoga class thousands of miles away in Florida.
Tratakam Yoga
In his classes, Yogi Bhajan gave exercises for all different purposes: to strengthen, to heal, to remedy, to balance. Tratakam yoga is a branch of yoga which focuses on the eyes. Traditionally, yogis have gazed at the early phase of the sun’s rise on the horizon to strengthen their vision. Yogis have also meditated on the flame of candle, the tip of their nose, the point between their eyebrows, and a picture of their spiritual teacher.
Over the first months of the Master’s teaching, he gave numerous exercises for good eyesight. Yogi Bhajan spoke of the importance of taking care of the eyes and hinted at a relationship between eyesight and personality.
Eventually, Yogi Bhajan introduced his students to a simple black and white photo of himself to gaze on in order to enter a meditative state. About it, he said, “Not all pictures do anything. However weird that particular picture is – sometimes you don’t like it – but that’s the only picture that works. All other pictures can do nothing. That’s the only one. What should I do? Now, I know some people complain to me, ‘Yogiji, your other pictures are more beautiful,’ but I say, ‘I can’t help it. Sometimes non-beautiful things are required too.’”
The Master of Coax
Yogi Bhajan was a true "fisher of men" – a teacher finding his students, a master recognizing, building and inspiring mastery often where none else could see it. Even his best students could be less than willing to embrace their spiritual destiny.
Michael Fowlis was a graduate student in mathematics at the University of California. For some time, Michael had been dreaming he was going to meet someone special, someone that would change his life. But feeling quite comfortable with his life and not wishing to change a thing, Michael had virtually locked himself in his office and refused to go out.
That was until a student came in and gave Michael a newspaper with a picture of Yogi Bhajan indicating he would give a lecture on kundalini yoga just across the street in half an hour. This was too much of a coincidence to let go by. Michael finally relented and left his office to take in the class.
Michael Fowlis had already learned hatha yoga and thought he was becoming very accomplished with his poses. He had also learned to meditate already. Lastly, Michael considered himself to be a very good academic. In all events, Michael thought he would be sure to come up with some good questions to ask the yogi after the lecture. Though he had never learned anything about kundalini yoga, he went to the class feeling quite self-assured.
The experience with the yogi turned out to be much more engaging, much more inspiring, and entirely different from anything Michael had ever done. He sensed a new relationship to his body, to energy, and to the joy of life itself. Michael loved the feeling and it loved him back.
After the class, he went before Yogi Bhajan to ask some intelligent questions he had thought of. Michael would never have a chance to ask those questions.
The Master leveled his student with a barrage of accusation, "You idiot, you're late! I've been coming out here for three months. I hate the smog. I don't like traveling. Why are you such a non-intuitive klutz that you didn't show up on time? Look, I don't have time to fool around with your nonsense! Are you coming with me or not?"
For a few moments, Michael stood aghast before this heavily accented yogi. Then, his body relaxed. A far-off memory arose and began penetrating his conscious awareness. "This is my teacher," it said, "I've been with him for lifetimes." As the fog lifted in his brain, Michael's tongue became animated with that dawning realization. It replied, "Uhh, yeah."
"Okay, come. Have a Coke!" said the Master.
"I don't drink Cokes."
"You do now."
Michael Fowlis had just found his spiritual teacher. The next day, he was teaching his first kundalini yoga class.
The 366th Day
On January 6th, 1970, Yogi Bhajan had entered his second year of teaching kundalini yoga in America. The date passed uneventfully, which was actually a relief to the Yoga Master. He had been warned there was a curse on anyone who openly shared the sacred, and till then secret, technology of kundalini yoga. Whoever defied the restriction was supposed to die before the coming of the second year.
On his 366th day of teaching, Yogi Bhajan remarked to his student, Gerry Pond, "I knew that was a load of nonsense. I am who I am, and that is that!"
There had been no curse, or if there had been, it had proven ineffectual in the face of the love and devotion of this special yogi.
Sunday Evenings
Lawton Bozeman had grown up in Orlando, Florida and was almost nineteen. He had met Yogi Bhajan in Orlando, then made his way to Los Angeles in January of 1970 to connect with the source of the teachings.
Lawton took a train to Phoenix. Then his hitch-hiking luck served him well. Arriving in Los Angeles at 11 p.m., with no idea where he was, the driver dropped him just two blocks from the Phyllis Ashram.
Once there, Lawton settled into the rigorous daily routine that had evolved. It started each morning, rising at 2:30 am for a shower and an hour of kundalini yoga, followed by two and a half hours of the "long" chant: Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru till daybreak. Then there would be a morning class and an evening class, with occasional yoga through the day, just for fun.
During one memorable class, Yogi Bhajan directed everyone to do stretch pose, the excruciating exercise done lying on the back with the feet just six inches off the floor, then casually left the room of struggling students to greet and converse with the mailman at the front door.
Sunday evenings were special occasions for music, food and celebration, when guitars would come out and students would remain after until well after class. Lawton and Gerry Pond others would open their musical hearts, creating all kinds of Sat Nam tunes and music - rocking, rolling, joyful and inspiring.
When classes were not going on, a core of volunteers at the Ashram – Mark Lamm, Craig and Diana Schnurr – was busy compiling community news, exercises, recipes, teachings, stories of Guru Nanak, wisdom from the Guru, quotes from Yogi Bhajan, and organic gardening information for a newsletter. Their inspired creation was fittingly called "Beads of Truth," each issue a bead on a string of growing self-awareness.
Beautifully illustrated and designed, and starting with just eight pages, a new issue was mailed out each month to inform and inspire Kundalini Yogis across America.
Seeing the Unseen
Alan Weiss was a good observer. The young man was particularly interested in watching Yogi Bhajan, his teacher, and his mysterious ways. Weiss also had an interest in the ways of the human body which would one day lead him to become an accomplished cardiologist.
It came to Alan’s awareness that Yogi Bhajan had phoned a member of the Los Angeles community and told her she was pregnant, an observation she denied, saying it was impossible since she had had her period a week earlier. After a passage of time, it turned out that what the Master had said had been true.
After seeing Yogi Bhajan make this kind of observation many times, Alan approached the Master and asked how he did it. Yogi Bhajan explained that when he sees two auras in one body, he knows there is a pregnancy.
“Living Truth”
Twice a day, Yogi Bhajan would challenge his students at the Phyllis Ashram with inspiring stories, as well as hard truths and unpleasant wisdom, so they might grow in grace and glory as spiritual teachers.
It is a great privilege to understand the life, but every understanding has to be lived, and the greatest understanding is that every life has to be lived very normally, but has to be lived in higher consciousness.
It is a kind of joke that we run on a path to know the truth. The reality is that we all are aware of it. None is unaware about truth, but to live up to the truth by our own self-projection is what is normally difficult for us. Talking on truth, having a library on it is all an easy thing, but molding yourself a way of life where you live with such a standard that there should be no ego that you are a different being than a normal human being, that's a very important point.
We find a little bit of truth and then start living like it is really something. Then we find a little bit more truth, then we raise our chair up there. We do not live like normal beings, and that is where our weakness lies, and that is where our progress stops completely. Each one of us has to acquire the maximum of the light around us, but he has to live as a more humble being than the beings around him. That will give him a push to reach the higher consciousness.
By knowing yoga postures, what can you do? I have got two albums and we got them snapped in one hour, and I went through like a snake and did all one hundred and eight postures. There it is, but what does that mean?
Does it mean that I have just become God, that I am one with God, and that I have got total fulfillment of mind and nothing wrong can happen to me? I know all the kriyas. Does that mean that I am free from karma? I have mastery over all praanayam. Is that a surety that now the god of death can't come near me? Nothing. I have to keep myself always guarded against my own weakness and I have to live more humbly, lest I may become trapped in my own ego.
We have written letters to all teachers, we have told them that kundalini yoga is a practical thing, it is a knowledge of the human beings. It is not a talking matter.
By these exercises, what can be accomplished in one thousand years, does get accomplished in one thousand minutes. The ratio is very fast. What happens normally to us is when we achieve something little, we go crazy. We think we are great, then we fall in the trap of different things. We get involved in certain things, thinking that is the destination, but that is not. Many more things are on the way…
Remember one thing. I don't want to bug you on this issue, but if up to this day you have never learned to respect yourself, forget it! You're not going to reach any God, whatever you say. You will always be run by the cycle of time. A man who does not know what assessment he has of himself and how great he is, and what he is, what do you mean?
What about the Supreme Lord in you who is the light within yourself? The beauty, the quietness, the calmness can be achieved on the face of that grace which you can achieve as the outcome which they call God's light. It only comes when one learns to meditate on himself and feel the flow of the divine light within himself.
These yoga sutras and yoga are not a joke. It is not an art to convert a Christian into Hinduism. It is a science and a factual realization for the uplift and for the awareness of the man. We are not here to convert people or to do that kind of stuff. There are already so many religions, there's no fun in making twenty more.
Purifying yourself will give you a help. Purifying yourself will give you a happiness. By meditating on yourself, you will be rid of greed and lust. Your behavior will become sweet and you will trust others, and others will trust you. And all you have to do is you have to meditate on yourself. You have to consider yourself as a pure channel of the Universal Spirit.
Now what trip is this? Have I said, Do this, do that…?
No mantra. Nothing of the sort. Simply sit down calmly and bring your mind energy on one point: that you are a pure channel. It may not happen in the very first moment, but you keep on doing it. It is your sadhana, the beej mantra, Sat Nam, I am Truth, I am Truth, I am Truth.
Those people who condemn themselves are the worst people. When God has made you as his projection, and you - because you have been given a free will - vibrate negative toward you, do you think you do a favor toward him? Are you aware of that?
And now sit down this morning and think how many times you have condemned yourself. By condemning yourself, you are condemning God.
You might not have chanted that much. By thinking, "I am this, I am that..." you don't do anything but invite sickness.
The best way to be clean and pure is to meditate on the self constantly and feel that you are very pure and you are a channel of the Creator. Do it for three days and see what result you will find. See what beauty will come to your face...
May the longtime sun shine upon you, all love surround you, and the pure light within you guide your way on... Saaaaaaat Nam
May your eye see the pure light of God, your ear hear nothing but the name of God, your tongue speak nothing but the glory of God. Then, if you are not a living god, there is no God! Sat Nam.
The Darkness Before the Dawn
"It's been a long time comin'.
It's gonna be a long time gone.
And it appears to be a long,
Appears to be a long,
Appears to be a long
Time, yes, a long, long, long, long time before the dawn…"
(from: A Long Time Gone [1969] by David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Graham Nash and Neil Young)
The Yogi Bhajan story simply cannot be told without referring to the world in which he lived. Ganga was probably not the only one who saw in "the Yogi" the answer to the prayers of a generation, but the challenge for us now, fifty years later, is to comprehend the spirit and substance of those times. Much of what happened then may be difficult for us today, in our current world of hyper-connectivity and point-and-click activism, to believe.
The euphoria of the Woodstock festival was not to last very long. While the album and the movie of the event were being put together, history continued on its unswerving course. Sometimes it marched to drums of war, sometimes to the chants of protestors, sometimes as a dirge to the dead… marching, ever marching on.
This was America at war, and to a large extent, it was at war with itself. It was Yogi Bhajan's gift to be able to see this and, day by day, to minister to its casualties, to garner new volunteers, and to train his gentle forces for a long march toward peace, freedom and humanity.
War was breaking out all over. The palpable frustration of the young and the bold boiled over into the streets. In Chicago, began a show trial of some of the younger generation's most inspired and provocative political activists. Outside the court, demonstrations grew, and on October 8, three hundred young people outfitted with helmets, goggles, cushioned jackets, chains, pipes, and clubs stunned the country by smashing cars and windows in the wealthy Gold Coast neighborhood, charging right into a formation of two thousand riot police.
By the next weekend, hundreds of thousands of the young at heart peacefully marched on Washington and campuses and state capitols across the nation demonstrating their opposition to the government's undeclared war across the sea in Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. In November, a group of American Indian activists struck a blow against the empire by seizing and holding the rocky island of Alcatraz, formerly a federal prison, off the California coast. It was a strike for Red Power, the growing movement for justice for America’s indigenous peoples. Three days later, a reporter broke the story of the massacre of 109 civilians by scared and stupefied American troops in the Vietnamese village of My Lai two months earlier. Come December, fourteen Chicago police took their revenge on the fearless and proud Black Panthers by raiding an apartment and shooting dead two members while they slept.
Outside of sanctuaries where health, happiness and holiness were the regimen of the day, even the flower children were losing their innocence. Too many drugs, too many fake hippies, too much hippy capitalism were grating the tender psyches of psychedelic crowd. And then there were the bad hippies. Before Woodstock was over, a coven of drug-crazed killers had been arrested for the widely-publicized murders of a pregnant actress and several others at their rural California digs.
On December 6, came the great Anti-Woodstock: the Altamont Free Concert, near San Francisco. Instead of the Hog Farmers, the organizers enlisted the infamous Hell's Angels biker gang to help at the festival. The event was full of bad vibes from the beginning, and did not end without a near riot of the hundreds of thousands who had come out, and the Angels’ murder of a young spectator while the Rolling Stones hooted the dark lyrics of "Sympathy for the Devil" into the night.
For many, John Lennon and Yoko Ono served as voices of reason in that tumultuous time. Their days of bedding in for peace at hotel rooms in Amsterdam and Montreal back in June had struck an incredulous chord around the world. Why indeed couldn't people just make love, not war? At year's end, they hired billboards around the world to say: "War Is Over If You Want It – Happy Christmas from John and Yoko." Lennon could be innocent and sweet, but was also capable of bitter and world-weary, as in "Working Class Hero," Lennon's hit from the fall. His big hit, apart from the Beatles, was "Instant Karma."
Things moved quickly. A Senator from Wisconsin called on students to fight environmental degradation with the same intensity that they opposed war. The first "Earth Day" was scheduled for April 22, 1970, and preparations were going well. Meanwhile, three hundred hard-core activists held a council in Flint, Michigan and decided to continue their efforts to fight “the System” from underground. The FBI's most wanted list would soon be expanded from "Ten Most Wanted" to Sixteen. Half were wanted by the police for crimes against the state. Army recruiting centers, government buildings and banks were favored targets for destruction. According to a U.S. Department of Treasury survey, in 1970, every week saw an average of forty-two politically motivated bombings or acts of arson.
Outside the court houses, the intergenerational war in America was partly a war of symbols. To be young with hair over your ears would mark you for suspicion from the police if you happened to be a male. In the U.S. South, it might put you put in jail with a free haircut. If you ate granola, it was a dead giveaway that you also smoked pot. Granola was hippie food, and hippies smoked pot. In those days, it was irreversible logic and usually true. Hippies ate other things too: sprouts and wheat germ, yogurt and whole wheat bread, brown rice and tamari, tofu and tahini. That the foods were healthy was one thing. That they challenged the status quo made them insurrectionary and potentially dangerous.
The revolution had its own music. The soft, plaintive sounds of the mid-1960s, with the likes of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez and Peter-Paul-and-Mary and The Beatles, was mixed with the more strident sounds of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, the Who, the Rolling Stones, Crosby-Stills-Nash-and-Young and the MC5. Then there was also Ravi Shankar, in a class of his own.
Hippie reading encompassed much that was practical and quite a lot that was purely visionary. The Whole Earth Catalogue, first issued in 1968, provided all the information you ever needed to set up a homestead and survive on your own. The lilting verses of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet appealed to romantics. Acidheads liked The Politics of Ecstasy by Timothy Leary, who proclaimed LSD to be the avatar of our times. Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five was a favorite of many for its take on the absurdity of war. Political radicals preferred Abby Hoffman’s Steal This Book!
Broadcast media also played a role. Dissenting views and appearances were mostly excluded from the television networks, excepting when CBS's news anchor Walter Cronkite would offer the kids a sympathetic word or when, once a week on select stations, the long-haired musical group, The Monkees would appear on their popular show. Mostly it was on FM radio that you would hear the longhair music, the serious stuff, the longer cuts. Shorter three-minute versions aired on AM.
Where the hippies really flourished was in print. Hundreds of weekly journals opened up with the Liberation News Service, a radical Reuters, linking them all together. Out West, there was the Los Angeles Free Press, the San Francisco Oracle and the Berkeley Barb. Atlanta had The Great Speckled Bird, Austin its Rag, and there was the Chicago Seed, and the Village Voice in Greenwich Village. Even Easley, South Carolina had its Aquarian Times. Up north, there was Vancouver's Georgia Straight, Prairie Fire in Regina, the Octopus in Ottawa and the Harbinger in Toronto. Over in Europe, Amsterdam had its Om and London its Oz, and there were many, many others.
People created the fervent, the movement, the demonstrations, the ashrams, the yoga classes, the free schools, the free concerts, the free kitchens – and the underground media reported it, mythologized it, and nurtured it by giving it other people's attention.
The Peace-Giving Name
It is a quantum age realization that nothing exists in isolation. Even for those of Yogi Bhajan's students who immersed themselves completely in their new lifestyle, violence from outside occasionally intruded on their peaceful reality.
In April 1970, when a gathering of the Master's devotees assembled at the arrivals terminal of the Washington airport, chanting softly in anticipation of his coming, the airport police thought they were demonstrators and forced them to leave.
Once the Master arrived, he stayed for a week, teaching classes and encouraging the local Kundalini Yogis in their efforts. Yogi Bhajan also took time to visit with a Congressmen, assuring him that not all America's longhaired young were violent insurrectionists.
On a quiet Tuesday evening, Yogi Bhajan and his students found their way to a small lecture room at the American University. The Master delivered a talk on the power of Sat Nam and the dawning age of heightened awareness. But just as he finished his presentation and the questions drew to a close, the sound of shattering glass resonated up the hallway.
There, in the main auditorium, anarchist Jerry Rubin had just given a talk of his own, inciting his student audience to destroy the System, beginning with the very building they were in. There was a distinct smell of smoke as the rioters torched the place.
In the room with the Master, someone picked up a guitar and the peaceful Yogis spontaneously began chanting to ride out the pandemonium. They continued and continued, until police and firemen arrived to guide them safely outside. The evening provided everyone with a poignant reminder of the polarised state of the American union – and the remedy of chanting the Name.
Sikh Vows
Lawton Boseman and Richard Lasser lived together and regularly took Yogi Bhajan's classes. It was April 19, celebrated as Baisakhi Day, and the two of them were going to the Sikh Study Circle on Vermont Avenue. Yogi Bhajan had told them it was a special day, and they were going to go see what it was all about.
As they made their way, Richard told Lawton that he was going to become a Sikh that day.
"Why are you going to do that?" asked Lawton.
"Because my teacher is a Sikh and I want to be like him," replied his friend.
"Okay, I'll do it too."
When Lawton and Richard arrived at the Sikh Study Circle, they announced their intention to the people they found there. These Sikhs from India had never before seen a non-Sikh who wanted to become a Sikh. They were stumped. What should they do? One of them phoned to ask Yogi Bhajan what he thought should be done. He advised them that all they needed to do was simply give these young people to Siri Guru Granth Sahib. There was no need to tell them anything. The young men would know what they needed to do.
A simple ceremony was improvised. Two men from the congregation graciously offered the steel karas from their wrists so that these new Sikhs might have them to wear. The youths stood before the Guru and the congregation.
In front of the assembled Sikhs, most of whom had cut their hair and shaven their beards in an effort to "Americanize,” the president spoke, somewhat awkwardly, to the two sparkly-eyed Americans, "Well, you've got the beard and the turban. I guess you know what to do."
The Perfect Turban
There might be a great deal of pride among these new Sikhs. There could also be light-hearted comedic moments.
One Sikh said to the other, "Yogi Bhajan showed me how to tie a turban."
The other said, "Yeah?'
The first Sikh, "Yes, and I tied it myself and it's perfect."
For a moment, it was perfect, but perhaps the ego of the wearer spoiled the perfect alignment of the folds and creases of the turban because just at that moment, the frontal layer of the turban unravelled and fell comically from the crown and into the face of the first Sikh – to the quiet delight and amusement of the other.
To San Francisco
A good day's drive north of Los Angeles lay San Francisco, hub of the alternative culture. By 1970, that culture had peaked and was in sordid decline, but what a ride it had been! In 1964, the nearby University of California at Berkeley had served as the lively center of the student-driven Free Speech Movement. The summer of 1967 was dubbed “the summer of love." Psychedelics were pure and cheap then, and the innocent and idealistic were arriving in droves, sometimes with flowers in their hair. This was the time of Allen Ginsberg and Richard Brautigan, poetry in the parks, and psychedelic Human Be-ins.
San Francisco was politically aware and decidedly dissident. The city rivalled New York for the size of its peace marches. Nearby Oakland was the headquarters of the Black Panther party. Berkeley was a constant hotbed of discontent.
Buddhists and Sufis, hippies and Alan Watts configured the alternative spiritual landscape of the city of the Golden Gate Bridge. The music could be hard and loud or just gently psychedelic. This was the home the Fillmore Auditorium, the biggest rock palace in the world, but by now, especially after the Altamont festival disaster, things were going down. There was more drugs and less art, less free-spirited expressionism and more party line. God - the joyful Trickster - was on the run.
The day after Earth Day, Yogi Bhajan set out north to give a week of classes in San Francisco, at the University of California at Berkeley and the Sausalito Community Center. He was hosted there by Steve and Leigh Samuels, his teachers in the Bay area, whom he had just married at the previous Summer Solstice in New Mexico. As well as giving classes, Yogi Bhajan performed another wedding during his tour.
In Yogi Bhajan's classes, he covered laya yoga, mantra yoga, mool bandh and maha bandh, the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali, and gave vigorous exercises for transmuting sexual energy. Yogi Bhajan counselled his student teachers against fanaticism and judging others. He also encouraged them to think before speaking and to be humble. These are some of the other things the Master said:
"Sadhana is never do what is ‘right for you.’ Always do what is right…
"I fully understand people do not like discipline and everyone wants something else, but out of the lot, maybe somebody can make it. Teaching en masse is so that some few may come forward and be the leaders of the public when the hard times come…
"When an individual doesn't keep up their sadhana, the teacher suffers. That is the reason why others do not teach kundalini yoga. The teacher becomes the center of an energy complex and he pays the toll for the fault of his students…
"If you are ever to hold yourself back from negative acts, do it while you are young. What credit goes to the aged toothless wolf who cries out that he is a vegetarian now?"
“Seven Centers, Three Methods”
As Yogi Bhajan taught – prolifically – others recorded and transcribed his notes to share with others. Sometimes they would be published and sent around in the 3HO newsletter.
Over the years, Yogi Bhajan would refine his message and change his emphasis, but from early on he was a straight-talking teacher who would brook no nonsense. If his English wasn't flowery, his words carried weight. And that is why they were so cherished.
There are six nerve centers in the body. They are all in the spine. They each have a projected center, which are: first is in the rectum, second projected center is the sex organ. Third is where rectum and sex organ you pull. That joint is the third center of consciousness. Fourth is the center of the two nipples. Fifth is the neck. Sixth is when between the two eyes you draw a triangle.
What a man is? Do these centers have some co-relationship with the man? Yes. A person whose consciousness dwells in the rectum is a faggot or a lesbian. He will never have a straight sex relationship.
A person whose center of consciousness is the second center of consciousness, he will be a sex maniac and a sadist. He will enjoy giving pain in sex.
Third center of consciousness is the third point. We call it the mool bandh. Here that person can't overcome his greediness, he may try his level best. Somehow he will like to get others' things. They may be useful to him or not. No problem.
Fourth center of consciousness is the heart center of consciousness where equality, service, love starts.
Fifth center of consciousness where nipples and throat form a triangle, a man gets knowledge. He may talk – his words may not be a flowery English – but words will have that heaviness of consciousness they will go straight into the heart.
Sixth center of consciousness is man can know around him everything. He may use it or not. Because the pituitary gland gives the greatest intuition, that man can foresee into the time, and what he sees is the correct thing.
The last center of consciousness, which is the highest center, is a person becomes most humble. Extreme humility if you will find in a man, his center of consciousness is highest center because his ego becomes universal ego. Then that person has no pain and no pleasure. What he says, happens. And that is the highest center of consciousness.
With long, deep meditation, one can first know where his consciousness is and it can be seen and judged by assessment how my environments are and what is the most thing I need in my life. One can know about it. Now, knowing does not make any difference.
Can you pull it up and change gears in such a way that you can come out of it? There are three ways: Having a faith and looking to your God or to your minister and trying to act on what he says.
The second method is long meditation to transcend oneself. One knows one's weakness. One goes to the root of this weakness and one has to fight them and thus eliminate them, and then he has to come out of it.
The third position is one should make his energy, his nerves, so positively sound that his mind may not think of anything which is negative and thus he may pull himself out. These are the techniques known to the world.
The Kriya
Yogi Bhajan was entrusted with the secret knowledge of the timeless sages of India. This he knew, and as needed, he would openly dispense that life-giving, consciousness-raising know-how. Over time, his students and others also came to know of the potency of these techniques. Most accepted them gratefully as the teacher allowed.
One day, a student of Yogi Bhajan's, attractive and well-mannered, spoke to him. They had been sitting for a time when she said, “Sir, I have a very humble request. If you will grant it to me, I will be your slave. You can put me in that bottle.”
Ordinarily, as a religious man, Yogi Bhajan would have said, “Oh, fine. What can I do for you?” But his intuition told him to answer otherwise, “Wait a minute. What is it?”
“I would like to have a promise first,” coyly she replied.
“What can a mortal promise? There is no such thing as a promise. If you trust me, tell me what you want.”
“I went to India...” she replied.
“I know.”
“In India, somebody told me, 'If you want to learn this kriya, ask a man who has gone to America. His name is Bhajan Yogi. He can teach you. He is the only one on this planet who knows.'”
“That is true.”
“I want to learn that.”
“What for?”
“Isn't it a good thing to learn?”
“No, it is a most rotten thing to learn because this is one thing which is very powerful, and it should be with people who know how to keep it.”
“Have you not learned it?”
“Yes, but I have never used it.”
“I won't use it either.”
“Forget it! I never asked my teacher to teach it. He taught me. He gave it to me. He trusted me. And you are asking for it. I will never teach you that.”
The pretty woman said, “Hell hath no fury like the wrath of a woman scorned!”
“That is for men. Yogis drink it.”
The outcome of their exchange that day was that the woman published and distributed rude, negative, slanderous pamphlets ostensibly about Yogi Bhajan. The pamphlets were so provocative that many people would turn up at Harbhajan Singh's classes just to see who he was. Classes grew tremendously with all these curious people.
One day, the woman returned and asked Yogi Bhajan, “Are you not afraid of all this publicity?”
Yogi Bhajan replied to her, “What is my publicity? What is my purpose in life? I am not afraid of publicity, nor afraid of people. I am only afraid of God and Guru. Let me be true to there, to go home. I want to be true there. I want to tell him, 'Look at what all they did to me, but I never forgot you.' That is all I need. I do not need you and I am not afraid of your publicity. You do your best. Leave the rest to God.”
Yogi Bhajan then said to the woman, “If I had thought of just being comfortable, I would have chosen that path long ago. I was offered the presidency of a trust where there was so much money that you don't know what to do with it. I refused. I had my own thing to do and wanted to do it the way it was to be done. What does it matter?”
Solstice Invitation
The 60s were over. While the four Beatles disbanded in bitterness and U.S. campuses erupted in demonstrations at the news U.S. troops had invaded Cambodia, as AM radio broadcast the saccharine sounds of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and "Let It Be," Yogi Bhajan was making plans for a dawning Aquarian Age.
The coming summer solstice was foremost in his mind. In the May issue of Beads of Truth, the monthly newsletter, the Master put out an invitation for children of the Aquarian Age to come out for the event.
May 15, 1970
3HO Family
United States of America
Dear ones,
SAT NAM! Greetings to all the 3HO family and the entire community. The day is drawing near for the celebration of the Summer Solstice, June 21st, in Santa Fe, New Mexico. This day is the day when the yearly cycle reaches its peak of expansion, when the flow of energy is at its height, when we experience the year's longest day and shortest night, and the annual day of unity (Yoga) for children of the Aquarian Age.
Each of you must notify and alert all the community to prepare and depart in caravans for the Maharaj Ashram, Route 4, Box 88D, Santa Fe (Phone, 505: 983-1913). Coordinate yourselves and all be together in a unit as a family. Each one must notify the community by sending the message through the local underground radio stations and newspapers, and let the word be spread, so that all may unite to experience and create the purest vibrations, to gather the energy and be united for the uplift of humanity.
Make preparations to advise all your people that they will be sleeping outdoors and should be prepared for very, very cold nights (35-45 degrees) and very hot days (up to 85 degrees). They should come equipped with food and utensils for cooking and eating, and a good suggestion is to bring plenty of brown rice and soy sauce. Also be sure to carry water containers.
I may also request you to take up a special collection for this Summer Solstice to be sent to 3HO Headquarters to help us to cover this time when there will be less classes and more expenses for traveling.
God bless you all, and His wisdom continue to prevail through you, each and every one. It will be a great day when we all can meet in Santa Fe for this beautiful celebration of the Aquarian Age.
Humbly yours,
Yogi Bhajan
........................................……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
Santa Fe has instructed us to plan to arrive after the 10th of June at Santa Clara Canyon and to bring plastic tarps in case of rain. Caravans will be departing from Los Angeles on June 10th. See MAP of campsite on a following page. SAT NAM
The Santa Clara Solstice
Some would say this was the first truly 3HO solstice. This time, there would be no psychedelic bus race, hardly any psychedelics, and less nudity and casual sex. In contrast with previous events, kundalini yoga would be the main event and Yogi Bhajan the master of ceremonies. This was also the first solstice with a price attached: all of $5!
On the evening of June 10, after a yoga class and prayer with Yogi Bhajan, a caravan of ten cars set out in pilgrimage from Los Angeles for the Solstice site. Picking up two more cars of yogis at the Nanak Dwara Ashram in Scottsdale, Arizona, the entourage arrived at the Santa Clara Canyon on June 13.
The Santa Clara Canyon where everyone gathered was located on an Indian reservation. This idyllic location in a pine forest was an outcome of the longstanding rapport between the original tribes of New Mexico and the new longhaired tribes from the cities. It was endowed with a clear mountain stream, meadows of long sweetgrass, and tall, beautiful pine trees. The place was high enough in the mountains that there was a dusting of snow when everyone awoke that first morning. The weather varied considerably with frost at night and blazing sun during the day, punctuated by occasional hail and rain and gusts of wind. One day, a rare, triple rainbow decorated the sky above.
In that pristine environment, a routine was established. Mornings, teachers from various centers offered classes. In the evenings, Yogi Bhajan would teach.
Solstice Yoga
Notes by Shakti Parwha Kaur:
Sit on your heels, arms in the air with the fingers locked together and the first finger up. Inhale and exhale deeply for two minutes.
Men chant "Ong" (Creator), women chant "Sohung" (I am Thou). After five minutes, relax for two minutes.
Assume the previous position and begin breath of fire for three minutes.
Do sat kriya, pulling the navel on "Sat" and relaxing on "Nam" for three minutes.
Stretch your legs out in front of you and bring your head to your knees for two minutes with normal breathing.
Spread the legs apart. Hold your heels. Breathe easy for one minute.
Sit in easy pose, legs crossed, spine straight, with the palms joined at the center of the chest. Chant: "Ek Ong Kar, Sat Nam, Siri Wha Guru..." (June 16, 1970)
The Visit of the Hopi Elders
At that time, a delegation of Hopi Indian medicine men, very old men with long white hair, came to visit. Yogi Bhajan received them all with respect and they returned his consideration.
The elders had come to share their tradition with the great yogi, just as many of his students had learned from the Hopis. As they sat together, the ancient seers told Yogi Bhajan of huge gatherings of spiritual people that had taken place for a hundred thousand years. They described how the heroes and leaders of those times would gather from all over the Americas and across the Bering Strait to celebrate and sanctify the "One Unified Supreme Spirit." That spirit existed in everyone. By gathering together in this way, they believed the spirit would manifest more clearly.
According to the Hopi elders, these gatherings occurred every one hundred and eight years. In this way, everyone who attended would have heard about the event from someone who had experienced the last meeting. The last gathering had taken place over two thousand years ago. At that time, it was decided that the forces of destruction and violence, disharmony and perversion were increasing so forcefully that their sacred traditions needed to be protected and kept from the onslaught of that darkness. The Hopi tribe was elected to be the keeper of the “One Unified Supreme Spirit.”
The Hopi elders went on to say that, according to their sacred tradition, just before the darkness reached its height, a white-clothed warrior would come from the East and create an army of warriors dressed in white who would rise up and protect the “One Unified Supreme Spirit.” This would be the final battle between good and evil. The Hopi elders continued that they had come to give the sacred duty of keeping and protecting the “One Unified Supreme Spirit” to Yogi Bhajan since they had determined he was the Warrior in White of their prophesy.
After the exchange, there was a sweat lodge ceremony to seal the bond between the two tribes, the one ancient and Western, the other newly from the East. Many of Yogi Bhajan's students participated, although they did not know what to make of the visit of the ancient shamen. The Master, however, was clearly affected by their teachings. A great responsibility had been placed on his shoulders and soon, and from an unexpected direction, trial and adversity would begin to make itself felt.
Bossiere's Land
Because of their history together in New Mexico among the Hopi and Pueblo tribes, the hippies had enjoyed the tribes’ cooperation through the late 60s. Now, however, the situation at the canyon was becoming strained. The natives found the nude bathing of the hippies in their stream offensive. They were also particular that any fire was a sacred fire which required a ceremony to be lit, and that non-natives not light any campfires whatsoever.
Seeing that Yogi Bhajan and his students were about to be evicted from the reservation, a friendly Métis by the name of Robert Bossiere offered them the use of his arid acreage nearby. That night, he joined with the heads of all the ashrams in a teepee to bless and pray for the sacred mountain they were about to leave. They meditated all night.
On the morning of June 18, all the goods and people were accounted for and neatly packed into a caravan of sixty-four vehicles on the dirt road at the entrance to the site. Once everything was in readiness, Yogi Bhajan took up his position as traffic cop in the middle of the main road and, swinging a large shawl over his head, began to urge the drivers onto the highway. "Go, go, go!" he shouted as they pulled out and gained speed and traction on the asphalt.
It was a fine exercise moving in unison, but the best was yet to come. When the second-last vehicle had pulled out and turned right to follow the others, Yogi Bhajan commandeered the final one – an under-powered Saab with Dawson, the head of the nearby Espanola ashram. With unswerving faith, the Master urged his doubting charioteer to enter the opposing lane of the narrow highway and to speed ahead - to pass one, two, three, four of the vehicles on the right. Over rises and around blind curves and bends they went, Dawson's face and hands sweating on the wheel. Then eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen - minute by minute, second by precarious second… twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four – and onward… fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three – until at last they had miraculously passed the whole column and taken the lead position at the head of the caravan.
Finally, the new site loomed up ahead, past the landmark Camel Rock. There it was: a patch of dry unremarkable riverbed, a piece of the tawny semi-desert stretching out from the side of the road. The column paused and the vehicles made their way, one by one off the road and down a steep, crumbly embankment.
For those who stuck with the Yogi, there would be no possibility of going back, no thought of it even. It didn't matter that there were no facilities, no water, not even a way out. For the next days, this would be their home. Somehow things would work themselves out. For now, they were there, and that was all that mattered.
The Trial by Fire
The stay on the Bossier land would turn out to be a trial by fire. Scorching in the daylight and numbingly cold at night, the yogis persevered as best they could. It was hardest for the mothers with young children. For water, they beat the sand at the bottom of a riverbed and soaked up water in their towels for their children to drink.
In consideration of the change, Yogi Bhajan suggested everyone change their diet, which had been brown rice and soya sauce, to watermelon during the day and rice in the evening. Classes continued in the cool of morning and evening. As the chill night air set in, the campers reveled in creating large bonfires.
For two days, the yogis survived in the heat and cold on that shadeless, shelterless land next to the highway while much of New Mexico drove by and watched. They must have looked like the pitiful victims of some terrible miscalculation. What were they doing – women, men and children – in that horrible heat?
There was an election going on. Robert Bossiere ran a well-known restaurant not far away and was of one mind with Yogi Bhajan. They both recognized the need to do public relations for the yogis in the sand. The arrival of the man who would possibly become governor provided a great opportunity to clear up any misunderstanding of who they were and exactly what they were up to. It was important that they not be associated with any kind of insurrection, crime, or illegal substances.
So it was that Bruce King, who would indeed become the next governor of New Mexico, was given a tour of the Solstice site. King, Bossiere and Yogi Bhajan were all gentlemen and men of the world. A respectful camaraderie grew out of their meeting, though the candidate for governor did not think the yogis in the sand would survive a month in his state.
Then came the highway patrol. Their chief had heard that possibly dangerous revolutionaries had set up a survival camp. The officers were sent to keep an eye on them. This was the beginning of a daily campaign of pressure and intimidation. The yogis were accused of breaking a fence, harassed for lighting fires at night in the riverbed, and for any imaginable infraction.
Word about the apparently hapless hippies also made its way to the mayor's office. He took pity on the poor strangers and disagreed with the police. "They are spiritual people," the mayor said, "and I will not let them die of thirst." He dispatched a tanker filled with water to the yogis in the sand.
Soon thereafter, someone started sending truckloads of watermelons. The big melons were a welcome sight for their thirst-quenching and nutritive value. Yogi Bhajan was quick to spoil the flavor of sweet melons, however. He brought around a bucket of ground black pepper and scooped generous amounts onto everyone's melons. Black pepper purified the blood, he said, and eliminated gas from the huge quantities of melon so readily consumed.
The melons also served another function. Some of the campers used the shells as head covers to deflect the scorching rays of the solstice sun.
The Dedication of Guru Ram Das Ashram
In Los Angeles, while the Solstice sadhana went on, that special day in the yearly solar cycle was celebrated in yet another way. The converted garage next to Jules Buccieri's antique shop at 8802 Melrose Avenue received a spiritual name. At Yogi Bhajan's instruction, the building with its high wooden rafters, hallowed over the previous months by the presence, hard efforts and blissful experiences of many seekers, was named "Guru Ram Das Ashram."
Yogi Bhajan was a thankful and thoughtful teacher. He remembered well that night in Amritsar when he was but a boy and his father the doctor had despaired of relieving his fever and saving his tender life. It was Guru Ram Das who had appeared to Harbhajan in a dream and offered his remedy. And when, as a grown man, Harbhajan Singh had been bedeviled by his reliance on psychic powers, it had been Guru Ram Das who in the course of four and a half years of nightly washing the floors of the Golden Temple, had lifted the spell of Harbhajan's ego and made him whole.
It was only fitting then that the place where the Guru's messenger taught and inspired others should be named after the fourth Master in the holy Sikh lineage, the Lord of grace and miracles.
Gerry Pond, who had contributed significantly to the renovation and upkeep of the designated ashram, returned from the Solstice in New Mexico just in time to share his music and the latest inspirations of Yogi Bhajan. Twenty-five people in all gathered to herald the dawn of that solstice morning in song and dedication.
Richard Lasser, whom Yogi Bhajan had just renamed "Baba Singh" consecrated the event with the reading of hymns of Guru Ram Das translated into English. At last, Gerry hung the beautifully-made wood and art metal sign over the door, and everyone celebrated heartily with a feast for body, mind, and soul.
The Ninth Day of Solstice
By the ninth day of Summer Solstice, it was time for the marriages. With Yogi Bhajan's encouragement, fourteen couples came forward to take vows, Ganga and her husband-to-be Larry Wentick being among them.
This time, the ceremony was different from the previous year. Yogi Bhajan's Sikh heritage was more in evidence. A Sikh prayer book known as "Gutka" provided the centerpiece around which the couples ceremoniously walked, hand in hand. The vows, composed by Guru Ram Das, were recited in poetic English for all to understand.
It was a clear blue New Mexico day, perfect for the wedding. The celebration continued with chanting and dancing while Yogi Bhajan beat a drum. Four couples who had been married at the previous Solstice were honored. Wedding cake was served.
As so often happens in that area of the mountains, the weather changed suddenly. In no time, a storm blew in, then a violent rainfall, and for a few minutes the dry riverbed became a gushing torrent.
Then, just as quickly, the skies cleared, the torrent subsided, cactuses reached out their delicate blossoms, and the riverbed became almost as it was before.
The Solstice celebration was over. Robert Boissiere invited everyone to return next year, but “in greater numbers.” All that remained were the farewells and finding a way out of the sand trap they had put themselves in.
Lawton scouted the riverbed for a mile before locating a possible outlet onto the highway. A small business that sold stones for paving was located there. Having obtained the owner's permission, the gaily-colored caravan of sand sadhus snaked its way along the riverbed and, to the stone seller's quiet astonishment, up the embankment, back to the world of pavement and long distances home.
The Atlanta Pop Festival
Lawton, for his part, had a special mission. After his weeks in Los Angeles with Yogi Bhajan, he had decided that if his teacher wanted him to be a teacher, then he would indeed be a teacher.
Having grown up in Florida, Lawton made his way to nearby Georgia. With him, he had ten dollars Ganga had given him, plus two pants and three shirts for his yogi wardrobe.
The Grace of Guru Ram Das seemed to favor Lawton, who had driven to Solstice with Baba Singh and now had a ride in a VW van with a man and woman going to Atlanta. There was going to be a big rock festival an hour's drive south of the city and Yogi Bhajan was to give a talk there.
Within a few days, Yogi Bhajan arrived. He was brought to a motel that had been rented out by the organizers of the rock festival. Lawton went out to see his teacher and take in what he could.
Lawton had a number of memorable experiences. One day, his teacher was on the second floor balcony of the motel with his all hair down. Lawton could see how regal and majestic Yogi Bhajan looked with his mane full of hair. Around him, were the hippie organizers with newly uncropped hair peeking over their ears or just touching their shoulders. They were clearly in awe of the yogi in their midst, the yogi whose hair had never seen the cutting edge of a razor or a pair of scissors.
Another time, Lawton marveled at how the Master conducted himself in his busy motel room. A mirror over a sink was a prominent fixture of the furnishings, but in all the hours he sat with Yogi Bhajan, Lawton never once saw him even glancing into the looking glass. Like a spiritual sun, the Master shone consistently and selflessly. In his self-assurance, he never bothered to ponder or doubt his physical reflection.
Finally, on July 3rd came the start of the three-day festival. Estimates of the size of the crowd varied between 200,000 and 600,000. The weather was sweltering, in excess of 100 degrees Fahrenheit. They had come to hear their favorite bands. Thirty-six groups were to play over the July 4 Independence Day weekend, including The Jimi Hendrix Experience, The Allman Brothers Band, and B. B. King.
It was evening. The massive crowd was loud. Yogi Bhajan's job was to take the stage and engage the young people's spirits, to give a blessing of sorts to that raw and restless Aquarian convention.
To the raucous multitude, the Yogi spoke, “It is not possible by hooting and shooting you are going to get everything. You are the future of the United States of America and nobody is going to take everything from you. You are to be peaceful…”
The ruckus persisted. This was not the laid-back, Woodstock festival. This was a summer evening in Georgia and almost everyone was drunk or high on something.
“You are to be great. And you have to do one thing. Peace within your heart will lead you to have everything you need. But be peaceful, calm, and absolutely quiet. They will give you what they call themselves to be. And today is their day. Tomorrow is our day. Sat Nam.”
Yogi Bhajan had arranged for other luminaries to speak later in the festival. Robert Bossiere had come from New Mexico to represent the American Indian spiritual tradition. Yogi Bhajan's friend, Swami Satchidananda, also joined him there, along with Christopher Hills of the World Yoga Society, Dadaji of the Ananda Marga, Swami Vishnu Devananda of the Sivananda Ashram, and Yogi Amrit Desai.
When their time came, each one of them took a few minutes to share their message, as the throng mostly politely listened. After everyone else had spoken, Yogi Bhajan took to the stage again. In simple words, he shared his dream of an Aquarian nation, healthy, happy and holy. Soon the entire crowd was on its feet, energetically waving their arms, making "peace signs,” swaying back and forth, chanting "Peace, Love, Peace, Love..."
Afterwards, Baba Singh asked Yogi Bhajan, "Sir, you've got to explain to me how you did what you did. You basically said the same things, in the same tone of voice, as the others. With your accent, you are even harder to understand than all those other people! So how was it that you could accomplish what you accomplished?"
Yogi Bhajan answered in a word, "Sadhana. A person who does sadhana every day has a power that nobody can match."
After the festival, Lawton stayed on. He made himself at home in the apartment of the festival organizer which was available with the final month's rent paid. Lawton the teacher moved in with some new yoga students and, by the Grace of Guru Ram Das, Harbhajan Singh Puri Ashram was begun.
The Holy Man Jam
From the festival, Yogi Bhajan journeyed to New York City. Already, there were a couple of Sat Nam outposts in the state. Lynn Anderson was teaching near Woodstock. On Staten Island, lived Steve and Susie Burns, newly married by Yogi Bhajan at Summer Solstice.
During his visit, Yogi Bhajan met a young man named Alan Oken whom he came to know had a gift for astrology. The Master took a liking to the unassuming fellow and said to him, "Come to Colorado with me and you will leave an astrologer. Do not charge any money. Take everyone who comes and read them for twenty minutes." Yogi Bhajan was inviting Alan to a week-long "holy man jam" he was organizing in Boulder, Colorado.
Outdoors at the quadrangle of the University of Colorado, some three thousand seekers converged in July to listen to the wisdom of the East. Yogi Bhajan and Swami Satchidananda joined together again, along with Steven Gaskin of San Francisco, a Buddhist named Bill Quan-roshi, Yogi Bhajan's student Tom Law, and another teacher. For seven days, they spoke on every topic imaginable… enlightenment, karma, death, and the wonder of life.
As for Alan, he followed the Master's counsel and taught astrology every morning to a crowd that grew through the day from three hundred to three thousand people. From noon to 5 pm each day, he read horoscopes. Yogi Bhajan had set up a special tent for him and through the week grateful people filled it with offerings of breads, bowls, beads, crystals and other gifts. In the evening, Alan would go out into the crowd, give away his gifts, and make many friends.
By the end of the week, Alan Oken had done two hundred readings and taught thousands of students. He was an astrologer now.
The ‘Official’ Turban
While on his tour, Yogi Bhajan received a desperate call from a student. He had been stopped by the police for some minor traffic infraction. Seeing his long hair, the police had automatically locked him in the local jail.
The usual routine was that any inmate with hair over his ears would have his head forcibly trimmed. This, Yogi Bhajan's student did not want. He protested that he was a Sikh and that Sikhs never cut their hair. The judge was not convinced. He had never heard of a Sikh.
On receiving the call, Yogi Bhajan had a letter typed up certifying his student was indeed a Sikh and that Sikhs could not be deprived of their long, unshorn hair. He had the letter notarized and himself arrived at the court house. Yogi Bhajan also brought a long towel and instructed his student to wrap it around his head like a turban. After paying a small fine, the student was free to go with his crown of hair intact.
The Grace of God
Back home in Los Angeles, Yogi Bhajan started to speak on a new subject in his talks – the essential grace of womankind. "When the born of a woman acts with respect to a woman, there will be peace on Earth," he said.
Those were heady days for America's women. The 70s' women's liberation movement was just taking form. Women were finding strength in sisterhood, and dignity in their struggle for rights equivalent to those enjoyed by men.
Yogi Bhajan's perspective differed from the typical feminist view. He saw women as the moral fiber of a nation. While some feminists celebrated the high-paying jobs of women in bars and brothels and their inherent right to those jobs, Yogi Bhajan deplored the moral climate that permitted someone's mother, daughter or sister to be so demeaned and objectified. Just two blocks from his home on Phyllis Avenue, billboards advertised the strip clubs and bars of Sunset Strip. It revolted his conscience as a decent man born of a graceful and morally impressive mother.
So it was that on September 22, 1970, Yogi Bhajan began a movement for the upliftment of America's largest exploited underclass, its women. With candles in hand, his graceful students numbering only a couple of dozen, but impressive in the courage of their convictions, filed in procession past the nude bars and porn showcases of San Francisco's red light district. Together, they chanted, "We are the Grace of God!"
Yogi Bhajan called this new development the "Grace of God Movement for the Women of America," soon the "Grace of God Movement for the Women of the World." To his students, he said, "When a man falls, an individual falls. But when a woman falls, an entire generation is lost. You are the grace of the individual. You are the grace of the town. You are the grace of the nation. You are the grace of the world!
"The world starts with you, and it ends with you. Therefore, you should never be cheap. When you cannot handle what you are, you become cheap. The crown of grace, divinity and dignity should be on your head, and it should not create a headache for you.
"Therefore, you have to be trained. You have to train your emotions. You have to train yourself. And you have to go one way. There is one way to One God for woman: selfless, dignified and graceful behavior. Dignity and divinity are your birthright.
"The only solution a woman has is in her own depth. The only tragedy a woman has is in her own shallowness. I fully understand how terrible the past was. I fully understand how I can blame my past. I fully understand that I can mess and enmesh myself in the past. But, after all, I have a chance and a very short chance, to be my own future also. Similarly, each woman should remember that she has her own future, and that future can only be achieved if she becomes her own future."
Yogi Bhajan believed emphatically in the ability of an individual to sculpt and reform their habits and personality by changing their self-concept and the habitual patterns of their mind. To this end, he gave his students the Grace of God meditation:
“Lie on the back, fully relaxing your face and body. Inhale deeply, hold the breath in and silently repeat ten times, ‘I am Grace of God.’ Exhale all the breath out. Hold the breath out and silently repeat ten times, ‘I am Grace of God.’ Continue breathing and repeating the mantra in this manner for a total of five inhalations and five exhalations.
“After the cycle is completed, relax your breath, and with eyes still closed, come sitting up into easy pose. Bring your right index finger curled under your thumb, the other three fingers straight, palm up, wrist resting on the knee, elbow straight. The left hand is held up by the left shoulder as if taking an oath. The breath should be relaxed.
“Tense one finger of the left hand at a time, keeping the other fingers straight, but relaxed. Repeat aloud, ‘I am Grace of God,’ five times. Continue this sequence with all the fingers and thumb of that hand, meditating on the inherent energy in each – the little finger: Mercury, power of communication; the ring finger: Sun/Venus, physical health, grace and beauty; the middle finger: Saturn, patience, transforming emotion to devotion, responsibility; the index finger: Jupiter, wisdom and expansion and the thumb: positive ego.
“When both parts of the meditation are completed, lower the left hand and relax for a few minutes.”
The Grand Host
Yogi Bhajan could be many things to many people. He could be puzzling or positively inscrutable. He could seem foreign, or just strange. He could appear to be aloof and absolutely detached. And for those who made the effort to really watch and observe him, the Master might be lovingly serviceful, profoundly engaged, and totally in command of his circumstances.
Because of his meditative practice, Yogi Bhajan's thinking tended toward originality. He did not think inside anybody's box. He did not care for boxes at all. It meant that, from time to time, his actions might be completely unexpected, boyishly charming, and utterly disarming.
One day, Yogi Bhajan was invited to some rich person's house somewhere around Los Angeles. Inside the copious mansion, the master commenced a tour on his own. Methodically, he inspected every floor, opened every door along the way and looked inside. His hosts tagged along at a respectful distance, quietly mystified. What was their guest looking for?
Finally, the Master made his way to the kitchen of the grand house. Opening the refrigerator, satisfaction gleamed in his eyes and the magnanimity of his spirit took expression in his first words, "May I serve you something?"
Teaching at UCLA
The fall of 1970 was a tumultuous time in America. It saw the passing of iconic figures of the youth culture in musicians Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin, both 27 years old, through drug overdoses. It also witnessed the dramatic spiriting away of LSD-guru Timothy Leary from a California prison to safe haven in Algeria. Demonstrations, arrests, bombings, wiretaps, infiltrations, and all kinds of disruptive tactics and behaviors were coming to a destructive crescendo.
While there were many who advocated the destruction of established authority, Yogi Bhajan instead created a new, alternative organization with a dynamic teaching and outward social expression. He was not at all opposed to applying to the United States government for a federal tax exemption – which the 3HO Foundation was granted at the end of the year.
Another significant development of that year was the introduction of an accredited course in Kundalini Yoga at the University of California at Los Angeles (UCLA). Yogi Bhajan was invited to teach by Dr. Anthony Brunse, the Head of Research and acting Chief of Staff for Sepulveda Veteran’s Administration Hospital. One of the main purposes of the course was to inspire doctors to be healers also.. Classes were given twice a week in the Adult Education Division of the university. The historic first class was given on November eleventh.
The Master began the class, "Dear ones, there are no barriers between man and man. The only barrier is lack of awareness. As you open up inside, the outside will open up to you. There cannot be a vacuum in space. As you open up, the outside will open up to you to bring a balance.
"There are people interested in different theories on the powers of yogis and how this can happen. Some have doubts about it. Some have knowledge about it. All spiritual teachers have come here to create disciples. Let us do something different.
"There are thirty-three books in this country that have dedicated one or two chapters to kundalini yoga, warning Western people not to practice it. Actually, the warning is not to practice it without a teacher. The other half of the sentence, nobody has read.
"It is not true that it requires incarnations to become God-conscious. When you concentrate your mental energy on your Self, you are in a state of meditation. And the result of that meditative act is your attitude. Structure within is the same as structure without.
"Why study kundalini yoga? Man has an inborn, infinite urge to be united with the Supreme Consciousness. This urge exists in us. Our subconscious mind is aware of our reality, but our conscious mind is an imprint of our environment. When you consciously tune the subconscious mind into the Supreme Consciousness, you will see the Unseen and know the Unknown.
"The books we have given you are How to Know God – the Patanjali Yoga Sutras (with commentaries by Swami Prabhavananda and Christopher Isherwood) and Yoga by Ernest Wood. They will give you some written statement about what this world of yoga is about, and they will tell you something about kundalini, but they will not give you the methods.
"This has been kept secret for many reasons, some authentic and some not. The authentic reason is that if you give this knowledge out and you cannot with your psychic body control the wrong use of it, it can put you into rough circumstances. But if a man has practiced and has a mastery of it himself, then there is no limitation of time or distance, and everybody can practice it to reach to that awareness without any search, caution or danger. What appears in those books is nullified. We have worked before coming here one and a half years, and 50,000 to 60,000 people have practiced it. The results have been nothing but positive.
"Kundalini comes from the Sanskrit word "kundal" which is very romantically the curl in the hair of the beloved. Kundalini refers to that coil. Serpent has nothing to do with it. The serpent in India is known as awareness or wisdom. This animal also sits in a coiled position. That is where the term "serpent power" comes from.
"Kundalini is that divine power, that Adi Shakti, that Creative Force coiled within us. To uncoil that coiled energy is called "kundalini yoga.” One who teaches it is called a "Yogi," and one who learns it is called a "Sikh" or "student." As all rivers flow into the ocean, all purposes of a spiritual nature are to raise this awareness within you. All worship, consciously or unconsciously, leads to this end.
"When your prayer is not answered, it is because you are not tuned into it. You have not put in your plug. You are muttering. Your sound current is not relating to the Supreme Sound Current. Otherwise, your every prayer has to be answered.
"Once you know the art of one-pointedness of mind, you know everything. To control the mind, you have to have a hook. When you use the will of the mind, it is called "raja yoga," and when you use the breath, it is called "kundalini yoga."
"Using mind over mind is a difficult process. Breath is more practical. It is a 100% guaranteed process. Why is it not taught? Because breath is the pranic energy that leads to the universal energy and one who controls it also has to be in it.
"If through any method you can relate to your soul within this body within this lifetime, then duality, whether of God or not, will go. Coming from New York, you can stop five or six times and change flights. But there are also services that will take you directly to Los Angeles, and that is what kundalini yoga is.
"I felt it is a necessity to teach people this hidden science. Honestly, I broke a cosmic law for which I have been infinitely rewarded. The law was: the person who will teach this science indiscriminately without first testing his students, shall not see the next sun. In other words, by this last birthday of mine, I should not have been alive..."
Banana Bliss
Yogi Bhajan loved to transform his students inside and out. From the inside, he encouraged them to deeply engage the breath of life and to practice invigorating praanayam. He also instilled the virtues of mental and verbal hygiene – watching what you think and say. Of course, underlying all this was a vigorous regimen of rising early, showering with cold water, exercising for an hour, then meditating for two and a half hours. This was the regular routine.
To speed up his students' progress, Yogi Bhajan gave them the banana fast. From the new moon to the full moon, three bananas three times a day, preceded by a cup of freshly-squeezed orange juice in the morning, and accompanied through the day by water and Yogi Tea. This was the banana diet.
Those who engaged in it, purified their bodies, strengthened their nervous systems, and gave their overworked digestive systems a rest. Participants also were known to become light-headed, perhaps a little grumpy, lose weight, have psychedelic flashbacks, and be sorely tempted by their favorite foods. By the eighth day, even foods you did not ordinarily care for, might exude otherworldly fascination.
Some banana fasters were more fastidious than others. Some, in an unguarded moment, might include a couple of slices of "heavenly" banana bread into their routine and wake up the next morning with “rocks” in their stomach. Some fasters kept up until they chanced upon banana cream pie – and then they just went bananas. For others, it was the irresistible allure of banana ice cream.
Those great yogis who survived their regimen to the fullness of the moon had another challenging prospect before them. Their insides had by now become so delicate from their ultralight and simple fare, that to have french fries right away would do irreparable damage to their digestive organs. The fasters were called on to endure a month-long restorative voyage across a sea of soupy mung beans and rice with turmeric and lots of green vegetables, supplemented by fresh fruits, bananas even, and Yogi Tea.
With all the talk of that humble fruit, sweet and easy to eat, there were even recipes in the 3HO Newsletter for banana pakoras and banana curries. Taking the movement to its natural conclusion, the yogis at the center in San Rafael, in a moment of mellow-yellow satori, named their home "Banana Ananda Ashram." The name stuck for a few days, until someone in the Los Angeles Ashram heard of it, and a more dignified name was found instead.
Master of White Tantric Yoga
The loving storm of Sat Nam energy spread out from its calm center in the "City of Angels," Los Angeles, raining blessings of health, happiness and holiness all around the United States. Besides San Rafael and Sausalito, Santa Fe and the nation's capital, Orlando and Atlanta, Staten Island and Woodstock, teachers were setting up new centers in Hartford, Honolulu and Houston, Detroit and Birmingham in Michigan, Portland and Seattle, Philadelphia and Phoenix.
As the Aquarian vision and 3HO lifestyle spread through America, the Master made plans to take an entourage of his students to the homeland of the Gurus, the birthplace of the Khalsa.
Students were promised nineteen hours a day ofsadhana in India. It was not a prospect that daunted anyone. After all, they were young and energetic and they had heard "There is no liberation without labor."
The pilgrimage was the culmination of several months of energized activity. Ganga remembered back to a day in March 1971, how after that morning sadhana Yogi Bhajan had said something about a shift that had just taken place. It did not make sense to her at the time, but that was the morning Lama Lilan Po had departed his physical body and passed the mantle of "Mahan Tantric" to her teacher. When Yogi Bhajan was a teen, he had studied with the lama under Sant Hazara Singh. From that morning on, Ganga had noticed the phone seemed to hardly stop ringing and the pace of life at the Phyllis Ashram picked up about threefold.
Since Yogi Bhajan's becoming Master of White Tantric Yoga, he would, from time to time give extraordinary courses that engaged the cosmic forces of Shakti and Shaktiman – the feminine and masculine energies. It was in October, at one of these events, that Thelma Oliver first encountered Yogi Bhajan.
Thelma had been on a long journey across time and continents. A couple of years before, she had been a successful performer on Broadway, but she had tired of the routine of drawing applause from audiences. In her heart Thelma had wanted to find a way of making some real and lasting contribution to her African American community. That quest had taken her to West Africa, where she had explored and traveled for more than a year. It had also consistently pointed Thelma in the direction of yoga. Before arriving at the Phoenix White Tantric Yoga course, she had taken classes in Kundalini Yoga in Boulder and Santa Fe.
This Phoenix course was ten days long – ten days of meditation in some tantric juxtaposition, usually face-to-face or back-to-back, with a partner of the opposite gender. During those ten days, Yogi Bhajan instructed his students to eat only fruits – apples and oranges, pears and bananas, dates and avocados – that grew four and a half feet above the ground. This was so they might benefit from the naturally elevating energies of these foods.
In Phoenix, Yogi Bhajan spoke passionately of his plan to return to India with some of his students at the end of the year. He also gave a few personal words of guidance to Thelma, words that would profoundly change her sense of destiny. Although she was still recovering from her year in Africa, Thelma knew she too must go to India with the Master.
Some days later, Thelma went to Los Angeles and sought out Yogi Bhajan at the Phyllis Avenue Ashram. She brought an offering and expected the Master might bless her and tell her about her life. Instead, he fixed Thelma in his gaze and told her she must teach in her community and she must begin right away. Thelma objected that she had only just started to learn this yoga herself. How was she going to teach it? An argument ensued, but the Master insisted, “Your community needs you. Do you agree to teach?”
Thelma was incredulous, but finally she did.
As she walked out of the house on Phyllis Avenue, Thelma said to herself, "What have I just done? I hardly know anything about this yoga. How am I going to teach my community?" But something inside her was fixed and resolute as the North Star. Thelma's mother had taught her that a person's word is their bond. Having agreed with the Yogi, she knew there was no way out.
After a couple of days' putting it off, Thelma contacted a friend who ran an acting school. She asked if she might teach the acting students a yoga class – and they agreed.
Thelma wanted very much to channel the inspiration of Yogi Bhajan in her first yoga class. The worst thing she could imagine was to be tongue-tied and stage-struck. To help out, Thelma brought a small photo of Yogi Bhajan in a frame with her and placed it behind her on the teacher's bench, right at the base of her spine before she chanted "Ong Namo..."
The class was easy. Thelma was amazed at the guidance she gave her students. Everything just flowed. Thelma knew intuitively that the Master was working through her. Her friend asked Thelma if she would teach two classes of this yoga each week.
With pride and delight, she called Yogi Bhajan afterwards to tell him. He congratulated his student and told her to meet him the next day at the Gurdwara in Los Angeles, where the birthday of Guru Nanak was to be celebrated.
The following day, Thelma was sitting in the Gurdwara daydreaming when she heard a booming voice calling her name again and again. “Why would someone be calling her name?” she thought. When Thelma recognized Yogi Bhajan's voice, she rushed to see him.
The Master had another proposition for his student, and he forcefully presented it to her: "From now on you will be Krishna. Do you agree? You will change your name legally. You will be my Black Krishna. Do you agree? You will change your name. Do you agree?"
Clouds of doubt and misgiving that had been lingering many lifetimes suddenly cleared away. The student agreed. Through the bond of her sacred word, she became no longer Thelma, but emerged anew as Black Krishna.
It was not long before Black Krishna, brimming with confidence, was teaching eighteen Kundalini Yoga classes a week. As the date for departure to India approached, she became concerned for her responsibility to her students and came to the Master for his advice. What should she do?
Yogi Bhajan replied, "You will go to India as my personal attendant. Do you agree?" And she did agree.
The Measure of the Breath Meditation
With only a few days to go before the big pilgrimage to India, Yogi Bhajan continued to teach his classes with undiminished fire and dedication. On December 15, he gave a special practice for those of his students who would remain to practice during the three months he would be away.
"You are all sitting in this room, you and me. There is no purpose in sitting hiding. That is the first laugh in meditation. But once you set yourself in the surrounding, you have to forget the surrounding first. And then you will proceed on instruction, and then you will grow and grow and grow.
"These ‘body pains’ are not actually body pains. They are a mental adjustment. Nerves resist, muscles resist, body resists, parts resist, intellect resists... All these guys who you feel are your friends, the moment you want to join with your Supreme Consciousness, they become your opponents. It takes one minute and they turn their back on you and hurt, hurt, hurt.
“Every dirty thought will come when you are meditating. Every distraction, every worldly work you will remember only when you are meditating. All these things will happen to you in meditating time and that is how you can understand who is your friend and who is your enemy.
"Spine straight, hands in this position. I will repeat physically, you will repeat mentally these same thoughts:
"O Giver of the praana and apaana, O Lord of the lords, I can only request Thee to fill me and this cup of my desires, open up my heart so that I can dedicate these few minutes to Thee. O Supreme, O Infinite Love, O my Lord of lords, O my Great Self, today with utmost humble self and with earnest heart, I beg out of Thee with these two folded hands. Fill and answer my only one desire. Give me these few minutes so that I can dedicate myself unto Thee, O my Creator, O my Dear One, Sweet One, O Beautiful Lord, O Bountiful Lord. Please answer me, O my Protector. Protect me at this time so that I can unite with Thee. O Most Beautiful of the beautiful, Most Desirable of the desirable, O Most Charming of the charming, O my Whole Self, now blend my higher self with my lower self and be united. It will be a union of hell and heaven. And once that can be consciously known to me, I'll be a living god. Supreme is thy Flow, supreme is thy Energy and that Supreme Energy is ever filling my cup which shall ever constantly be extended this minute unto my dedication. I dedicate myself physically, mentally, and spiritually through my guide of this hour and shall lead on the path of truth to join my infinite love and my ultimate desire.
"With this – inhale deep, hold this breath – in me is filled this breath of life, in me is filled with divine energy, in me is the living God. My temple is the house of the Lord Creator. May the light inside, may the energy inside, may the life inside – it is a union, it is a union with him. It is an automatic course of way in which I am dwelling. May this union be ever-dwelling, all negatives leave me. Exhale. Inhale.
"Life Force, come in me and dwell in me. Fill me, fill me, each pore of me, every part of me until I know every part of my life, until I know every part of my body unto my every feeling of mind, until I know every situation in which I am, soundness of mind, to each part of my relevant body may this breath go, this messenger of life from my God Creator. May it fill me ever, ever. I hug it. I kiss it. I love it. It is mine. It is mine. It is mine. It is mine, ever mine. O negativity, leave me. Exhale. Inhale.
"O come, O gods, fill me up. O gods of Life, O gods of Force, O gods of Energy, O gods of Truth, O gods Positive, my Life-giver, O my Beauty-giver, O Charming gods, Lord Beautiful, Thy message is sweet. Thy Sweetness, thy Soundings, I feel Thee all in me, in my body filled up with all that great love. In me lives, lives, lives on in me through God. I am filled up and filled up. Fill more, fill more and fill me up. Fill more and fill me up. Go away, dark forces! Leave me alone. O listen now. I am filling up my soul. I am filling up myself with God divine that early morning. When there is none around me, me and my Lord when we intercourse, on the course of truth at that union, we are all united, at that union there is nothing but the ring of truth, that truth. It is in me now. It is ever in me. I fill myself with that truth and I exclude all that is known as weakness. Exhale.
"At this moment, slowly and calmly turn your neck and fix your chin. Keep your hands where they are and lift your neck. I do that myself to be a complete surrender to the Universal Spirit, that Great Spirit which surrounds me and fills me with love.
"The breath of life, it must go in by inches. Breath shall go by inches and it shall come down also by inches. Breath does not obey you. You must make it to obey you. Without that, the negative person will never let you do your sadhana. That is the law of the universe. I cannot change it, you cannot change it, but it is the Divine Will in us which can change everything.
"This little breath will measure itself, inch by inch. It will go in and also it will also come out, inch by inch. You will keep on doing it without letting yourself go while the demons will hover over your consciousness more strongly than ever you have felt it. You'll feel their presence and your mind will revolt. At that time, you will transcend and be with your higher consciousness."
Yogi Bhajan chanted for a time, as everyone listened, then he continued his talk, "This is the breath measured by inches. Don't create sound, no sound. There should be no hardship to the body, but the breath should be resisted.
"All the gods and goddesses, saints and prophets have been invoked to bless you. All you have to do in return is measure your breath. Measure your life stream. If you can do that, there is nothing on this Earth which cannot happen at your command. Your dedication to your Guru will help you and your ego will not bother you. Your desire to grow and become great will make you overcome the pain and the energy will bring you the total awareness.
"This triple action at this moment, it is a rare moment in your life and style. Dedicate your total life to it. Days do not come back again. Perhaps this honest effort may be sufficient to take you across. The art is to measure your breath. Be at the command of your breath.
"There is so much heat in the room at this time that you can sweat to death if you measure your breath. It will open up all the circulatory system, take away all the dirt out of your body, and give you a new life. And extreme flood of praana will flow into your nostrils if you take them by measurement.
"Meditate on yourself through this sadhana. Again and again, put your entire attention, concentration on your breath please. Measure its entry in and measure its exit out. This today what you are going to earn and learn, you might have learned in a few months.
"How beautiful you are, my words do not explain that. How beautiful you will be if you can perfectly do it! No words on the Earth can explain that. We're working on you with your Supreme Higher Consciousness, that part of you which is God. And go through it. It will help you many times. It will wash away the many future events which are negative which are going to pounce on you. It will clear your way and destiny. It will make you superior among human beings. No work ever goes unpaid and no effort is without fruit. Work through this physical pressure and you will have a mastery of the body."
Yogi Bhajan led the class, "May the longtime sun shine upon you, all love surround you and the pure light within you guide your way on, guide your way on, guide your way on... Saaaaat Nam”
And he prayed on everyone's behalf, "Cosmos, the Cause of all causes, O Creator, create those involvements in their hearts that they can seek Thee and be with Thee forever. Make it possible that this union may be a blissful and sound opportunity for our health and happiness. May we be the givers, not the takers. May we love without lust. May we serve without notice. May we walk in brotherhood and always look to our higher self. May thy blessings and they mercy make us united, so that truth may prevail and there be peace on the Earth. Sat Nam."
To India!
Just about any of Yogi Bhajan's students who could afford it, booked tickets to come along to India. Shakti Parwha Kaur sent money ahead to cover the group's accommodations in Delhi. She and Baba Singh would stay behind and keep the Los Angeles classes going.
Coming along were Krishna and Ganga and her new husband Larry Wentick. John Twombly, who had started the Baba Siri Chand Ashram in Orlando was coming. Jim Baker, who owned and ran The Source restaurant where Ganga worked was coming too. A crew of students of Sufi Sam filming a movie about spiritual teachers had also bought their tickets. There was Alan Weiss, planning to go to medical school in New York, Mark Vosko from Detroit, and Richard Buhler, who would soon after start a publishing house called "Brotherhood of Life" in Albuquerque, and about seventy others.
Arrangements were made. Some students had the money. Some borrowed it. Some received it as a gift. Everyone who could afford to go, came aboard.
In the end, eighty-five Sat Nam-ers decided to join with Yogi Bhajan on a magical pilgrimage departing December 27 via Air India from New York and arriving two days later at Delhi's Palam Airport. They were to remain there for nearly three months, returning on the equinox day, March 21.
The Master of Delhi
If America was not your home in 1970, it might have seemed very fast, exciting and energizing, albeit lonely and unfamiliar. If you made it to America, you would have felt that in some sense you had really "made it," for America was the cultural hub of the universe – the centre of global entertainment, finance, innovation, space exploration, democracy and those really big bombs.
If India was not your home, on first visiting it might have seemed chaotic, archaic, beautiful, very poor, dignified, and occasionally very rich. India was, and is still, the hub of a different civilization, a different perspective, and a certain sense of timelessness. Some people coming to India thinking it is not their home are surprised to realize after a time of awakening familiarity, that Mata Bhaarat is, and has always been, their mother.
When the entourage disembarked from the Air India plane where they had spent the last day and a half, they were already disoriented by jet lag, having traversed at least eleven time zones.
Once they had gathered their luggage, they set out in a pair of belching diesel buses for their pre-arranged accommodations at the Gobind Sadan ashram.
Gobind Sadan should have been familiar to some of the eighty-five as it was home to the illustrious teacher Yogi Bhajan referred to as "Maharaj-ji" or "my Master.” The teacher's photo adorned Yogi Bhajan's altar. The important Santa Fe ashram where Dawson and Karen Hayward managed things was named Maharaj Ashram after Yogi Bhajan's teacher. While it was true that Harbhajan Singh had learned from many men of God, this was a special relationship. Some said it was this master who had sent him to America.
The Americans were exhausted and excited both. Outside their buses, there were monkeys frolicking overhead in the trees, cows sauntering through the streets, and a group of dark, wiry men in identical green shorts and white undershirts jogging in formation. There were trees the likes of which they had never seen before, and birds; and all around them, crowds of determined people going places – men in tunics, women in saris, and polite children on their way to school. As the buses belched forward in the endless, honking traffic, the Americans could see that they were in a big city, vast, expansive, the size of Chicago or Los Angeles.
Eventually, the two buses stopped on the top of a barren, windswept hill. Yogi Bhajan spoke with the drivers. After a time, it became clear even to those who understood not a word of Hindi, that something was not right. Yogi Bhajan made sure everyone was settled, then set off on a mission.
A couple of hours later, when Yogi Bhajan returned, he had with him the makings of a number of large army-style tents. And a couple of hours after that, once the tents had been pitched, some cheerful volunteers arrived with a wonderfully aromatic cargo. The hungry Americans were asked to sit in rows and their turbaned friends plied them with warm chapatis and daal and rice pudding. It was their first meal in India and it was delicious.
Yogi Bhajan did not spend much time with his students on the hill. He had business to attend to. Bibiji and his children Ranbir Singh, Kulbir Singh and Kamaljit Kaur were anxious to see him. And there was some problem he needed to attend to. Money had been sent ahead for their accommodations, but Harbhajan Singh was told it had never arrived. Moreover, a bag with everyone’s passports had mysteriously disappeared.
It was not long before thirteen-year-old Ranbir had joined the Americans and was clowning with the best of them. Otherwise, everyone settled in to their new routine in the tents in that exotic new environment, waiting for something, they were not sure what exactly.
One day, Yogi Bhajan returned with Maharaj-ji. Before the students, his Master unsheathed a sword and began to use it to stir a narrow steel cylinder of water as he chanted over it. After a few minutes, Maharaj-ji offered the enchanted water to the students standing and watching nearby. He told them, and Yogi Bhajan translated, that not a drop should touch the ground.
Alan Weiss and another young man by turns drank from the cylinder. They could immediately feel something. Drinking that water brought on an experience of great clarity and extraordinary intensity unlike anything they had ever felt before. Alan would afterwards say this had been a turning point in his life.
Afterwards, in the confines of Gobind Sadan, Yogi Bhajan and his teacher sat and talked. What exactly transpired between them we can never know. But we do know that somewhere in that meeting of spirits, there was a falling out.
In their conversation, when Maharaj-ji mentioned that he gave substantial money to the political party, Harbhajan Singh challenged him, “What for?”
The man called “Maharaj-ji” replied, “So they don’t scratch me.”
Yogi-ji said, “Wait a minute! You do so much and you are afraid to be scratched?”
He replied, “Yeah, who wants that? So I give them money to get rid of them.”
A discussion ensued about the Sikh view of spiritual and political power. Harbhajan Singh insisted that a spiritual authority should never fear the power of mere politicians. It was a surprise to him, that a man he had considered a saint paid off politicians to keep in their good graces.
As the days passed, Yogi Bhajan’s came to know that Virsa Singh’s assistant, Nirlep Kaur had been trying to convince his students that he was using them, and that they should bow at Virsa Singh’s feet and accept him as their spiritual teacher. For the Americans, however, this was out of the question. Yogi Bhajan had always encouraged their self-reliance, self-respect, and self-initiative. He had never initiated them or told them to bow before him and they were not going to bow themselves at anybody’s feet.
Yogi Bhajan was also told, but would not consent, to submit his American students to this teacher. Harbhajan Singh asserted that he had not come to India to hand his students over to Virsa Singh. Rather, it was his intention to introduce them to the riches of his Sikh heritage, personified for him in the holy personage of Guru Ram Das.
The Master of Delhi taunted his student, "You say you talk to Guru Ram Das.”
Yogi Bhajan replied, “I do.”
“You think you believe in Guru Ram Das.”
“I do.”
“He is your personal Guru.”
“He is.”
“Siri Guru Granth Sahib is your Guru.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you talk about Guru Ram Das?”
“That’s what I feel. I went to Harimandar Sahib. I washed the floors for four and a half years, and Guru blessed me. That’s it. I was a yogi. I could stop rain. I could do weird things to people.”
“If Guru Ram Das is your Guru, he should have given you his personal mantra. Every Guru gives his disciple their mantra. What is the mantra Guru Ram Das gave you?"
Yogi Bhajan had to admit he had no mantra other than “Wahe Guru,” the Guru Mantra of all Sikhs, but he trusted Guru Ram Das to give him a mantra in his hour of need.
Farewell to Gobind Sadan
Gobind Sadan was no longer a suitable home for Yogi Bhajan and his students. Luckily, he was able to contact his old friend, the one who had looked after the monetary needs of Bibiji and his family all the time he was away in America. That friend offered Yogi Bhajan his mango farm not far from Delhi to camp in. When he heard that the Americans’ money had been stolen, he returned with a large pillowcase full of money.
Yogi Bhajan told him, “It’s so much money!”
His friend replied, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Thank you very much. I will return it when I come back to India.”
“No. We stole it. We gave it.”
“You didn’t steal it. You are a friend. These people stole it.”
“These people, these people, we people, all people… The people who have come from America to India are the guests of India and your money has been stolen and you have not filed a complaint and you don’t want to do any nonsense, so here is the money.”
It turned out, the money was more than what had been stolen from them. From that day on, that was Yogi Bhajan’s pillow.
So it was that the Americans pulled up their tents and prepared to take their buses to the outskirts of Delhi. Before leaving, another fortunate thing happened. One of the travellers found everyone’s passports in a bag under a bush. After that, Harbhajan Singh advised everyone to hold onto their passports.
A rupture between a spiritual guide and his student is not a small thing. When Martin Luther broke with the Pope, there were wars and persecutions for a hundred years. Where schisms and leaders and the fortunes of the faithful are concerned, it can be dangerous for everyone concerned.
The word at Gobind Sadan was that Harbhajan Singh the Yogi Baba had become a disloyal student, that America had been too much for him, that the maya of the West gone to his head and he had turned his back on Virsa Singh.
Yogi Bhajan was aware of the danger of the changing situation. The police were informed and armed guards arrived at the mango farm to provide protection.
The Sanctuary
The mango grove turned out to be a blessed and peaceful sanctuary. On the property was a simple wooden building that could hold everyone who came out for sadhana. Sometimes, Yogi Bhajan would join his students there in the early morning hours.
In the designated sadhana building, Black Krishna had created a simple altar with a nice cloth and candles and a picture of Guru Ram Das. But there was a problem. For a couple days in a row, Krishna would come and find the all candles melted and the altar cloth burnt to ashes. Strangely, the picture of Guru Ram Das remained intact and not even singed.
Krishna was perplexed. She took every precaution to prevent it happening again. The candles were not lit. And each time it happened, she told Yogi Bhajan about it and apologized profusely.
After the second time, Harbhajan Yogi’s curiosity was piqued, and he decided to meditate by the altar along with Krishna. After a time, he saw a beautiful thing.
There was a man on a horse, less that five and half feet tall, in the perfect image of Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth Sikh Master – but without a head. Where the head might have been, was a large flame.
Yogi Bhajan spoke to the flaming vision, "Guruji, what is this? There is no head."
The vision replied, "Hard times will come on you. Dharma will spread, but I will have to return these seeds which you have brought with you from across the ocean. Follow me, and I will carry you safely across. And then we will see what Khalsa will be."
After that, the altar never caught on fire again.
The days passed with plenty of scheduled yoga and meditation. Yogi Bhajan would often give classes in the sadhana building. Sometimes, everyone would pile into the buses to attend various events nearby. Life was easy in the mango orchard and still rather novel for the Americans. Yogi Bhajan made sure there was plenty of good Indian food, though the mango trees all around them would not be in fruit until the summer.
On January 15, 1971, Yogi Bhajan told the students who had gathered for sadhana that two friends had died and their spirits needed to be freed from the pull of this world. The one was a student who had committed suicide. The other was Murshid Samuel L. Lewis, known as "Sufi Sam,” who had befriended Yogi Bhajan at the Golden Gate Park in San Francisco in the summer of 1969. The American Sufi teacher had slipped and fallen on the steps of his San Francisco home before dawn a couple of weeks earlier and suffered a severe concussion. Murshid had just left his body in the hospital where he had spent his final days.
Yogi Bhajan went on to teach his students how to liberate a soul once it had become detached from its body. He told them to meditate within and chant "Akaal" - and meditate they did.
As they all chanted, Yogi Bhajan's students could see two shimmering sparks of light. It seemed as though their chanting was propelling them, making them subtle and blue and bright. As they watched, one of the lights became bluer and purer, but for all their efforts, the other was drawn to some kind of brown stuff. They chanted and chanted until one was completely merged with the blue ether, while the other had taken the path to be born again on Earth.
On Tour!
After a few days of this routine, Yogi Bhajan told everyone to prepare to leave the next day. The mango grove and their occasional excursions nearby had been nice, but it seemed all of India awaited beyond, so it was with some eagerness that the students took their seats aboard the buses for the next stage of their tour of the Guru's homeland.
As they drove along with their police escort, the Americans looked out on the countryside – green and fertile, and much as it had been for thousands of years. There were large fields of towering sugar cane and golden wheat interspersed by farmers with their tractors, and occasional women, children, and water buffalo.
The first stop was a village an hour's drive away. It was as good a place as any for Yogi Bhajan's students to learn the finer points of Punjabi hospitality.
With Yogi Bhajan to interpret, his students followed along. Because of their absolute unfamiliarity with the surroundings and their inability to speak or understand, the Americans would be doing a lot of following in the weeks to come. This routine did not come naturally. There were still hippies and trippers among them. For many, the tagging along and doing what they were told - more than the dysentery and more than the crude toilet facilities - was the most difficult part of the trip.
The locals came in from their fields and houses, anywhere they may have been, and soon it seemed the whole community, leather-skinned elders and tiny babes in arms, wives and mothers, fathers and sons, uncles and aunts, just everybody was there to take in this new sensation from abroad. The word "Am-ree-kan" (American) passed from ear to ear.
The sense of wonder was mutual. After all, the Americans had to varying degrees cut their family ties when they had joined the great Aquarian conspiracy. Their families, communes and ashrams were young and hardly multi-generational. Yet, here before their eyes were generations of people of the Earth, uncomplicated folk with a natural wisdom, arrayed before them in four generations.
After a few words between Yogi Bhajan and a couple of the older men, everyone proceeded down the dirt road to the largest building of the community. Outside was a flag of orange with an insignia none of the students could make out. It was the Gurdwara. Inside they squeezed, the nearly one hundred pilgrims and their five hundred hosts, though quite a number of the women would soon take their leave. This was an occasion for a grand community meal in the Sikh tradition, and they would make themselves busy preparing it.
At the back of the building was a canopy and beneath it a wooden edifice, covered with shiny cloth. An attendant behind was ceremoniously waving a yak's hair fan. In front, on the edifice and under the cloth, some of Yogi Bhajan's students understood was the present Guru of all Sikhs, the Word as Guru, Siri Guru Granth Sahib.
One of the elders stood up beside the Siri Guru and delivered an obviously emotional address of welcome. Then Harbhajan Singh went up and spoke for some time himself. His booming voice filled the hall for an hour or so, punctuated now and again as he plied his sense of humour, with chuckles of amusement, or by loud choruses of acclaim. Lastly, the eighty-five Americans squeezed onto and over the stage behind where Yogi Bhajan had spoken.
Raising their voices, Yogi Bhajan’s students began to sing together with him: “Ek Ong Kar Sat Nam Siri Wha Guru” the mantra they had been chanting as their sadhana in the early morning hours, the mantra he had taught them in his first classes in America. And they chanted and chanted, much to the delight of the villagers.
After perhaps an hour of their chanting, all would rise and there would be a prayer. Then Siri Guru Granth Sahib would ceremoniously be opened and some words read from it. Next came time for the sweet, delicious Prashaad, passed from a shining bowl to the cupped hands of everyone. After that, everyone would sit in rows as the soul food of the Sikhs, their Guru-ka-langar of chapatis and daal and curry was served.
This was a routine that would repeat itself many times in the course of the yatra. Inevitably, some on both sides of the linguistic and cultural divide would make an effort to reach across. Smiles and gestures were exchanged to and fro, especially as the serviceful men with buckets of tasty daal and curry and stacks of chapatis moved up and down the rows gauging the needs of their guests. The pantomime between servers and those being served might go something like this:
"Eat!" The server smiles and gestures with a ladle.
"Okay." The served smiles and nods their head.
"Have some more." A different server smiles and gestures.
"Alright." The served smiles and leans back as though to allow space for the ladle.
"Take some more." The server smiles and gestures again.
"This is delicious!" The served smiles broadly and rubs her/his belly.
"Have more." Another server smiles broadly.
"Okay, but just a little..." The served acts pensive and motions with her/his thumb and forefinger.
"Have another!" The first server holds out a freshly made chapati and smiles.
"Maybe." The served looks pensive, but smiles.
"Just one more." A server smiles and motions with their forefinger in the air.
"I don't think I can eat any more." The served blows out their cheeks and holds her/his stomach with both hands.
"You must have another!" One of the servers smiles broadly and gestures with his ladle.
"Uhhh..." The served presses their hands together at their heart centre, smiles, makes direct eye contact, and shakes her/his head from side to side.
The hearty Punjabis were always concerned their skinny American visitors had enough to eat. The two children in the entourage were special objects of attention. As was their custom, legions of well-meaning Punjabi grandmothers came by to affectionately pinch their cheeks.
Then, as day turned to night, arrangements were made, often on the Gurdwara floor, but sometimes in neighbour's houses, for everyone to sleep. Usually the evening would end somewhere under a cozy quilt with a warm glass of sweet buffalo milk. Then off to dreamland till the early morning...
Village Folk
Yogi Bhajan took his students to the heart of Punjab where life still went on much as it had in the time of Guru Nanak. Yogi Bhajan, once a villager himself, shared his home and his country and its history with his students as they went from village to village and town to town.
Everywhere, there was history. There were stories to be told, landmarks to decipher, things to celebrate, introductions to be made. At one little village, Yogi Bhajan pointed out a short, blue-clad Nihung, a member of a warrior clan dating to Guru Gobind Singh. Yogi Bhajan told everyone that the man was a great saint, and that they should shake his hand and get to know him. And so, as much as the limitations of language and their short stay allowed, they got to know him.
Sometimes the congregations in the Gurdwaras were too stunned by the sight of the Americans. When the looks and whispers became too much, the tour master would forcefully inform the Sangat that if they would not chant along with their guests from afar, they should bow to the Guru and exit the temple, as there was a crowd outside hoping to find a place inside.
One day, Yogi Bhajan told Jim Baker, who owned the restaurant in Los Angeles where Ganga worked, "Wait till you get to the next village. See how the people receive you."
Sure enough, when the entourage disembarked from their buses, the locals there seemed to be especially in awe of Jim. The villagers were generally respectful of their visitors from the West, but for some reason they congregated around him in a most humble and devotional attitude. Yogi Bhajan explained that Jim reminded the people there of a Sufi saint who had lived with them and looked exactly like him.
One time, Krishna and Devorah found themselves on the balconies of two opposing buildings. What did they do? Why chanted, of course! They chanted to and fro, line to line, back and forth in beautiful melodic style.
Guru Nanak had said that chanting was the great presiding power of this age, and so they chanted in fulfilment of his word. For those who heard it, their spontaneous performance was one of the high points of the tour they would remember for years to come.
The Cloud of Death
The royal city of Patiala loomed up ahead, an ancient city with a real maharaja, a carryover from centuries past. It had an old fort and a palace, a museum and several Gurdwaras. There was much to see and appreciate. But when the buses pulled up to their latest way station, the occupants were sore and cramped. For many of them, their first and only thoughts were to shower and rest their bodies.
As it happened, there was a scheduled event, a plan to attend a Gurdwara in Patiala. The Yogi was going. Who would accompany him? Though they were tired, about twenty students roused themselves and followed in the train of the Master.
As they crossed the courtyard outside the Gurdwara, an uneasy feeling came over Ganga. The closer they came, the stronger her sense of foreboding. She caught Yogi Bhajan's attention and stopped beside him, saying, "Sir, don't take another step. I see the black cloud of death hanging over that Gurdwara. We can't go in there because they're going to kill us!"
Harbhajan Singh looked for a moment into Ganga's terrified eyes and calmly assured her, "Ganga, a Sikh never shirks from death," and continued walking toward their engagement at the Gurdwara.
Ganga's mind went into hyperdrive. Her insecurity screamed loud: "A Sikh! What are you talking about? I'm an American! I'm not walking to my death! Do you think I'm a fool?"
But when she saw her teacher going ahead with calm assurance, Ganga thought again: "I have to go with him. I don't have any choice. I am this man's daughter. If he is going, I have to go. If he has the courage to go, I have to go with him."
One by one, Yogi Bhajan and his twenty students went inside, bowed before Siri Guru Granth Sahib, and seated themselves as a group in the congregation, but not for long. Within a few minutes, a small group of men entered and, from the back of the Gurdwara, began to shout at the congregation. Everyone turned. Some shouted back. Then there was more shouting, all in Punjabi utterly incomprehensible to Yogi Bhajan's students, except that it seemed abusive and dangerous. It felt like the beginning of a riot.
Yogi Bhajan was completely aware and had already surrendered himself to what was going to happen. As a yogi, he closed his eyes, drew his attention deep within, and became motionless. For their part, his students formed a protective ring around their master, with their faces to the danger outside, and began to chant their protective mantra out loud.
The angry people gathered like a storm around the Americans and their teacher. They encircled them, waving sticks and shouting, shouting and screaming, waving their sticks threateningly in the air. Like a thunderstorm, they broke all around them, thundering and crashing, their faces angry and contorted, while in the centre of the storm, the Yogi meditated and his students chanted bravely, defiantly, around him.
Yogi Bhajan meditated, and the group of men shouted, but they did not, or perhaps they could not, approach the ring of the Master's students, roused in love and prepared to sacrifice.
Eventually, the storm passed and the angry people, like clouds, seemed to blow away. Having spent their fury, they turned and vanished.
Some people from the temple management remained and tried to console the Americans. One who spoke English, assured them that everything was safe and they could go now.
Ganga spoke for the group. She was not about to be consoled. The subtleties of who was who and why things had turned out so violently escaped her. She refused to trust anyone she did not know. Ganga insisted the police come and provide an escort.
When the police arrived about a half hour later, everyone was still chanting and Yogi Bhajan still deep inside his physical shell. Finally, when the chanting stopped and he came to life, there were tears in his eyes.
The head policeman remarked, "You are a yogi, and you are crying? But they've all run away. There's no problem!"
The policeman could not have understood. Yogi Bhajan was crying tears of love, tears of thankfulness, tears of humility. “These children don’t deserve this,” he said.
In his own country where he had lived for thirty-nine years, where he had been a government officer and could count hundreds of friends, when an attack was made on his life, who had stood by him? Those who belonged to him. In his heart, he knew then that he belonged to these American students.
Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru
Yogi Bhajan had not had a ready answer for Virsa Singh, but three weeks later, at 3:30 in the morning, in a village outside Amritsar, when his personal attendant, Krishna came to rouse him with a foot massage according to their routine, he was not under the covers, but already sitting and awake. Her teacher told her that Guru Ram Das had been with him the whole night, that he had received the Guru Mantra from him, and that it would keep them safe.
It was a dark, moonless night and the street was dotted with potholes, so Yogi Bhajan held each others’ hands and chanted the mantra for the first time as they navigated their way the three blocks to the school here they were to have morning sadhana. "Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru," they softly chanted as one voice in the darkness.
Arriving at the school, everyone pitched in to put the desks and chairs to the sides so there would be room to exercise and meditate – and exercise and meditate they did.
Afterwards, the people of the village lined up on a concrete pavement to see Harbhajan Singh, this Sikh Yogi from America. Everyone had a problem, it seemed. After speaking with each person, he would direct them to Black Krishna, seated outside on the grass. She was to chant the mantra he had just received with each one. She and Yogi Bhajan were just within eyeshot of each other, and he would direct her to chant fifteen minutes with this person, twenty minutes with this one, and so on though the morning.
Later on, Yogi Bhajan described how he came to spend the night in the awesome presence of Guru Ram Das. It had begun with his chanting "Wahe Guru, Wahe Guru, Wahe Guru" in the way to which he was accustomed. Slowly, as Yogi Bhajan chanted, he had become aware of a change in the sounds his mouth was uttering. First, he felt the change. Then, the heard the actual sounds and he understood that he had been given what he had prayed for. Guru Ram Das had given him his Guru mantra.
After a time, he was surprised to find that there was a pure light in that room, and that a human being was sitting there in the very visible form of Guru Ram Das. The great Guru spoke, "At this time you need the protection of a mantra. The people who are following you are not ripe. Chant this: "Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru."You do not want to claim anything as your own achievement, and you don't want to take the blame either. Let the claim be mine and let me also take the blame. Now say this mantra."
Yogi Bhajan shared with all his students the mantra he had thus received. It was chanted on the buses from then on. Black Krishna, for her part, hardly ever seemed to stop chanting.
The Honest Police Inspector
In a certain Punjabi village along the way, Yogi Bhajan had been assigned to stay in a school and a sewadar was assigned to bring him warm water, so he could have a tub bath in the morning. While taking his bath, Yogi Bhajan asked him, "What do you do?"
The gentleman replied, "I was a police inspector."
"What happened?"
"I was an honest police inspector."
"Then what happened?"
"You know what happens to honest police inspectors."
"I don't understand."
"They dismissed me. They wanted me to do something. I told them it was impossible, so they took their vendetta. They just charged me with disobedience this and that. Nobody listened. I am out!"
"Okay, Mister Police Inspector, what do you want to do now?"
"I don't want to do anything. I just want to serve some people. I am in too much pain and I am too much in anger. I feel great injustice has been done to me. I feel there is no place in this world for a righteous man."
"No. There is. How righteous do you feel I am?”
"I don't know. But I feel very comfortable with you."
"Hey, I'll give you my Mantra!"
"What is it?"
"Sit down and repeat 'Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru'. Just say it."
"What will it do?"
"A fool asks what a mantra can do. It doesn't do anything! Just sit down and don't worry about it."
They would not see each other again until three years had passed.
Questions in Amritsar
After their close encounter with death, the tour continued. Out of concern for their security, there were frequent detours and changes of plan, but still they soldiered on.
As Yogi Bhajan and his students continued their way in the east of Punjab, further to the west, in the holy city of Amritsar, some people in the Shiromani Gurdwara Parbandhak Committee (S.G.P.C.), the body that governed the religious affairs of the Sikhs, discussed reports they had been hearing about a former government officer and a number of American youth touring the countryside. It sounded very odd.
Who was this man? And why would any officer of the Indian Civil Service just quit and go to America? Some said he had left his family in Delhi. Some said he was associated with Gobind Sadan. But what was he doing with all these Americans?
Punjab was a rural, clannish and insular culture. It was also a border region. In 1965, it had been the front for a war between hostile neighbours India and Pakistan and in a few months it would be so again. There was a history of being suspicious of outsiders, and good grounds for it too. They could be spies, foreign agents, troublemakers, communists. Who knew?
Most young Americans who came to India and Pakistan and Nepal were easy enough to figure out. They came for the cheap and readily available hashish and marijuana. But why was this group touring Punjabi villages?
Some foreigners came for spiritual enlightenment. Why weren't these Americans further north at Dharamsala with the Tibetan Buddhists, or in the sadhu culture of Rishikesh and Benares to the east? Why were they in Punjab, and why were they following a Sardar?
The committee members decided the situation was too odd to simply ignore. Besides, the group seemed to be slowly making its way closer to Amritsar, the city of the sacred Harimandar, the Golden Temple. A couple of S.G.P.C. men were assigned to go east, find the group, and figure out what they were up to.
If there were grounds to be suspicious, there would still be time to stop them, one way or another, before they disturbed the holy ambiance of the city of Amritsar.
Alamgir
When the agents of the S.G.P.C. found them, Yogi Bhajan and his students were at Gurdwara Alamgir, a few kilometers from the industrial city of Ludhiana. This Gurdwara was bigger than most of the Sikh temples they had seen. It had been enlarged just a couple of years before.
The story of this holy place, which Yogi Bhajan shared with his students, dated back to the terrible days when Guru Gobind Singh was a fugitive from the Mughal Empire. After the Khalsa had been forced to evacuate the fort of Anandpur, a pair of Muslim brothers who used to sell the Guru fine horses, came to hear of his lonely plight. Ghani Khan and Nabi Khan set out and found Guru Gobind Singh. Meeting him, they offered the Master their help. Dying some cloth offered by a devotee a suitable blue, Ghani Khan and Nabi Khan dressed the Guru as a Muslim holy man. While the Mughal army scoured the countryside, the two carried the object of the army’s manhunt on the road disguised in a palanquin.
It was at the place of the present day Gurdwara that the tenth Master had dismissed Ghani Khan and Nabi Khan after giving them a letter of commendation that would be treasured by their family for generations. Guru Gobind Singh proceeded from there on a horse provided by an old Sikh named Bhai Nauda who lived nearby.
As the agents from Amritsar approached, they found the Americans sitting outside the Gurdwara. Yogi Bhajan's students were chanting. The agents watched and listened from a respectful distance. They could make out the words: "Guru Guru Wahe Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru." The men had never heard this chant before.
As the sun passed overhead, the agents began to tire. The Americans, sitting or sprawling on the grass, continued to chant. Hours passed and the men from the S.G.P.C. grew in amazement. The devotion of these students of this Harbhajan Singh surpassed anything they had imagined. They telephoned Amritsar to tell of their humbling experience. So far as they could see, there was no threat from these Western devotees of Guru Ram Das.
Guru Amar Das
The tour continued on with Yogi Bhajan serving as teacher, story teller, and guide. One big pilgrimage place had a very large well with a decorative dome overhead. Guru Ram Das's spiritual guide, Guru Amar Das, the third Master, had arranged for the well to be built with 84 steps leading down to the water. He said that anyone who chanted Guru Nanak's cosmic poem, the Japji Sahib once on each of the steps, then took a dip in the water after each recitation, would be freed from the bondage of 8.4 million lifetimes. That sadhana would take hours and hours, but it seemed there were always people there faithfully reciting on the marble steps and dipping in the chill waters below.
Nearby was a large marble hall dating back to the third Master's time. According to the history of the place, the Emperor of Mughal India, Akbar, came there once to meet with the Guru. The emperor was an open-minded ruler, sympathetic to the Sikhs. When Guru Amar Das heard of his arrival, he sent word that before meeting, Emperor Akbar must eat "langar" - the common meal – with everyone. This defied the tradition of that day, that kings were superior to common people, their subjects. It hinted bravely of a new tradition when all humanity should be recognized as one.
The good emperor seated himself among people of all ranks and religions, men and women, farmers and tradesmen. That day, the only food available was rice and a seasoning of salt. After partaking of the langar, the ruler remarked at how delicious it had tasted. "There must be some special ingredient," he said. The only special ingredients were the love of the Sikhs and the grace of the Creator.
Another Gurdwara marked a place where Guru Amar Das had secluded himself for several days in meditation. On the door of the brick building, he had written a notice that anyone who entered the door and disturbed his meditation would no longer be a disciple of his.
After looking far and wide for several days, Baba Budha, one of the Guru's eldest and most respectful devotees finally found the place with Guru Amar Das inside. But what could he do? Baba Budha's great longing to be reunited with his Master gave him but one choice. Brick by brick, he burrowed his way through the wall, until he was inside. After that, all was forgiven, and the Guru joined his Sikhs once more.
Amritsar
Day by day, as the entourage neared Amritsar, the excitement increased. It seemed to exude from Yogi Bhajan and everyone was feeling it. Controversy also dogged the group, some of it fed by Virsa Singh and Nirlep Kaur. Punjabis at all stations of society found difficulty in understanding why American young people would live drugless, chaste lives while following a Sardar. To fight the cynicism and sheer incredulity of his countrymen and women, Harbhajan Singh spent much of each day talking to old friends, common people, religious people, anybody he met, to assure them of his purity of intentions and the spiritual dedication of his students.
Mindful of the problems they had encountered in Delhi, Yogi Bhajan left most of his entourage at a village a short distance from Amritsar and went ahead to secure the situation. Once in Amritsar, Harbhajan Singh naturally made his way directly to the Harimandar Sahib, the fourth Guru’s resplendent house, to offer his homage. In the holy city, his concerns were dispelled. Guru Ram Das, it seemed, would personally host the much-maligned group of Americans.
Returning from the Guru’s house to the village where he had left his students, Harbhajan Singh told everyone to embark for the holy city. At his word, their buses began to make their way through the sundry traffic of bicycle rickshaws and brightly-painted trucks, and cars and cows and dogs, bearing right, steering left, weaving left and right, honking regularly, the final distance toward the holy city.
There was no downtown of looming skyscrapers ahead. Rather, Amritsar was manifestly humble and close to the Earth. Early in their century-long reign here, the British had erected a tall clock tower to try and literally overshadow the Harimandar or "Golden Temple.” The people of Amritsar had demolished the tower in 1945 and thereby restored the city's respectful modesty.
For nearly four hundred years, the gracious town of pilgrims had grown – under Mughal rajas and Afghan invaders. The Sikh maharaja, Ranjit Singh, had made his summer palace here. During the British period, it had been the site of large demonstrations and a massacre of a thousand innocents, the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. After independence, it had been at the centre of protests and demonstrations to gain for the Sikhs their promised Punjabi-speaking state.
Parts of Amritsar remained much as they had been for centuries. The original buildings, noticeable by their smaller bricks, dated from the days when Guru Ram Das himself had held court on the banks of the fabulous pool excavated to hold the Harimandar at its centre. It was here that Guru Ram Das disguised himself at night and set out for the last pilgrim station before the entrance into the beginnings of the town of Amritsar. Incognito, he would wash and bandage the feet of the pilgrims, then return to his duties as Guru in the day.
This was the city of Guru Arjun, the fourth Guru's son, who completed the temple and compiled the priceless Shabad Guru to be installed as a jewel therein. It was from here that he left for Lahore to be tried and painfully put to death. And it was here that his son, the sixth Guru, Hargobind Sahib erected the Akal Takhat, the Immortal Throne, higher than the throne of the emperor, a deliberate affront to his bigoted authority.
Twice, the Harimandar had been blown up in the 1700’s, its holy pool filled with the corpses of innocent cattle. And twice it had been restored.
In the dark days when it was a crime to even say "Guru,” intrepid Sikhs would take the chance of being painfully put to death just to take a quick dip in the waters of the holy Harimandar. It was here the legendary Baba Deep Singh came with his volunteers to liberate the temple, continuing the fight though his head was severed from his neck. And in peaceful days that followed, the Harimandar was embellished with marble and filigree and a crown of precious gold by Maharaja Ranjit Singh.
Harimandar Sahib was set like a jewel in the very centre of the city, amidst the maze of alleys and laneways designed to hinder invading armies. Visitors' first sight of the famous temple came through the high archways of the entrance, the Darshan Deori. There it glistened beautifully, majestically, a gilded vision in the golden sun.
At Home in the Harimandar
Amritsar opened its heart to the American pilgrims. The people of Amritsar showed themselves to be gracious and warmly hospitable, curious and self-consciously discreet. They engaged the Westerners, some of them habitually turbaned now, at every turn. A number of the students were becoming adept at joining their hands in greeting and offering the customary “Sat Siri Akaal!”
For the newly-arrived Americans, Amritsar was an ancient city, a new continent to be discovered, a mystery to be uncovered. Each neighborhood brimmed with history. There were seemingly endless relics and artifacts, gates and Gurdwaras. And for those with even a little to spend, there were shops with fabulous sweets, outdoor stands with unheard-of fruits, and bazaars arrayed with all kinds of exotica.
The gem at the heart of Amritsar was the sacred temple of marble covered in gold, the Harimandar Sahib. After washing their feet below the large multi-domed entranceway, pilgrims descended a wide arcade of stairs and entered the holy site. Before them lay a vast, gleaming spectacle: white of marble, blue of sky and waters, gleaming gold of the domes of the Harimandar. Far to the left and far to the right, ran a broad, rectangular marble walkway arranged in intricate geometric patterns.
The walkway itself was completely surrounded by the outer building of the Golden Temple complex, comprised of the Sikh Museum and countless rooms for individual prayers and meditation, with domed entranceways on two sides. Inside the walkway's perimeter, the waters of the temple beckoned pilgrims to immerse themselves, to bathe and soak up the healing energies of that place, as devotees had done for centuries. Then, over the sparkling waters, a walkway with brass handrails offered pilgrims access to the brilliant temple, the foremost of Gurdwaras, resplendent in its surroundings.
Inlaid with semi-precious stones formed into innumerable intricate designs and motifs, the Harimandar had been constructed by Guru Arjun as a holy seat for the most inspiring poetry of his time and place, the utterly transformative Shabd Guru. And there, seated beneath a precious canopy, on a gold throne with attendants all around, the Living Word, Siri Guru Granth Sahib, held court from the very early morning until late at night, as thousands arrived from far and near to offer their respects.
Yogi Bhajan had already advised his students of the miraculous power of this place, and how just a few years before his destiny had been forever changed washing the floors of the holy Harimandar. He had described it as the nucleus of powerful spiritual center, where heaven met the earth to create a cosmic harmony. There was only one other place like it in all the world - in the heart of the true seeker, the Sikh.
As impressed as they were by the sheer splendor of the Harimandar or “Golden Temple,” with its majestic ambience, its sacred pool, its serene marble promenade, and all the beautifully fashioned shrines and memorials of variegated marble, semi-precious stones and gold, all of it resounding to the delightful sounds of Gurbani kirtan and exuding the delectable fragrance of the Guru's Prashaad, there was something still more amazing that captured the imaginations of the new arrivals. It was the people of Amritsar.
Here, for the first time, these Westerners saw people of all ages, sizes and economic situations working all hours of the day and night doing "kar sewa" - sweeping and washing the parikarma, serving water to the thirsty, making and serving langar, and doing any of a hundred other duties - all with the enthusiasm of Americans going to a party!
Then, after the sewadars had done their part, they would have Prashaad, sit, meditate, pray, then go their way looking perfectly contented, relaxed and fulfilled. Many of the Americans who had grown up around people who worked begrudgingly, compulsively, or solely for money, were in shock. Clearly, for all their "first world" pretensions, there was something they had been missing.
The Offer
In Amritsar, Yogi Bhajan reconnected with some of his friends and associates from when he had been posted there. He would visit their houses with his Western students, who were acclaimed as celebrities now, speaking a foreign language (English) and yet chanting in the Guru's tongue. Yogi Bhajan was also met by Giani Mohinder Singh, a gracious and humble man who happened to be the Secretary of the S.G.P.C., the organization that administered most of the Gurdwaras in Punjab.
Mohinder Singh had taken an interest in the case of Harbhajan Singh and his entourage. Now that they had met, he did everything in his power to accommodate and serve them. The S.G.P.C. was a buzz with the arrival of the Westerners. Some members did not like the idea of hippies from America
taking up their religion. Others took a more accepting view. Giani Mohinder Singh was instrumental in representing the Sikh Yogis in their discussions.
Finally, it was decided that if these Westerners really wanted to embrace the Sikh way of life, they should be given an opportunity to be baptised into the Order of Khalsa. And what better place to be initiated than in the most holy city of Amritsar? This was a genuine offer. It was also a way of silencing the S.G.P.C. hardliners who believed American hippie freaks would never agree to take up the hardy discipline of the order of saint-soldiers.
When Yogi Bhajan explained what was being offered to his students, many of them were very keen. Their hearts had been opened and their souls touched by the spiritual richness, the sheer human splendor, and the warm-hearted devotion they had witnessed since arriving in the Guru's Land. They had been amazed at the humble service and endless hospitality extended to them. These longhaired Americans in Punjab had realized for themselves much of what they wished for their troubled society back home.
Not everyone, however, was so eager to give up their freedom to do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, a cherished American tradition. For them, this was more of a tour than a pilgrimage, and nobody was going to make them join any kind of religion.
Baisakhi 1699
The Amrit ceremony dated back many years to the days when the Mughal empire had cruelly dominated India's religious landscape. Guru Gobind Rai, tenth of the Sikh Masters, had seen his father, Guru Tegh Bahadur dedicate his last days to the cause of freedom of worship. The ninth Guru had courted arrest and gone to Delhi on behalf of the Hindu priests of Kashmir. In the capital he and three of his disciples had been cruelly tortured and put to death, remaining true to their faith to their last breath.
Twenty-four years later, when the Guru was a man of thirty-three, he called his followers together in the fortified town of Anandpur in the Himalayan foothills for the spring festival of Baisakhi. There, he challenged his Sikhs to come forward and give him their head. Only five responded to the Master's order. One by one, they came to him and were beheaded in a nearby tent. The Guru's sword bore the blood of his dear disciples. Tens of thousands who witnessed the events were stunned by what they saw.
After a time, Guru Gobind Rai re-emerged from the tent with his five disciples alive and in tow. Somehow, their severed heads had been rejoined with their bodies and they had been restored to life. The Master had proudly dressed them with beautiful saffron turbans and tunics. He then introduced them to the amazed multitude as his “five beloveds,” for they had passed his most difficult test. Their devotion had surpassed their fear of death. While Guru Nanak, the first Master, through Guru Tegh Bahadur, the ninth, had each found only one disciple worthy of the crown of guruship, Guru Gobind Rai was about to anoint five worthy Sikhs as his equals in the holy Order of Khalsa.
The Guru set to work stirring a steel bowl of water with a double-edged sword as he chanted and infused that water with superhuman courage and strength. Then his wife, Sahib Devan, came by and contributed sugary sweets to the roiling nectar. This was to make those who partook of it sweet and humble as well.
At last, after reciting a number of Hymns, Guru Gobind Rai had his disciples sit in veeraasan on one heel with the opposite knee against their chest as he infused them with the spiritually charged water, the Amrit. In their eyes, in their mouth and on the crown of their head, they thirstily received the nectar. From that day forward, the five men were given the royal “Singh” as a last name, as women would receive the name “Kaur.” Some days later, the Master requested the five to honor him with the same baptism, and he became known as Guru Gobind Singh, the Master who himself became a disciple.
From that day forward, the Khalsa grew in strength and numbers. One by one, it conquered the bigotry of the caste system, the oppression of the Mughals, the greed of Afghan invaders, the smug rule of the British and the duplicity of India's modern-day rulers.
The Amrit Ceremony
So it was that, early one morning, Krishna and Ganga and Larry Wentink, Mark Vosko and Alan Weiss, John Twombly, Richard Buhler, Sandy Cohen, and about thirty others, including a couple of youngsters, came together before the Akal Takhat building, across the waters from the Harimandar. The first musical strains of the ragees at the mother temple would have just begun to waft through the darkness.
There they met with Yogi Bhajan, who instructed them, “My job finishes here. From now onward, you will take these steps alone, because Amrit is an initiation in which I cannot participate. This is a direct relation between you, Guru, and God. It can never be repeated by anybody else. It is a direct relationship. It is not my relationship with you and your relationship with me. Now, you guys go up and you take the Amrit. I have done my job to bring you to the bottom step of Akal Takhat.”
Yogi Bhajan's students then filed up the winding stairs to the roof of the historic Akal Takhat, where they and two Punjabi gentlemen who had come for the same reason, waited for the ceremony to begin. They were met by a saintly old Khalsa and five other men adorned with saffron-coloured turbans and tunics who would perform the ceremony. To some in that gathering it seemed odd that Yogi Bhajan, who had seen them through so much, should not be there. Perhaps having not heard his words, they expected him to arrive at any moment, but he did not arrive.
The Head Priest of the Akal Takhat, Singh Sahib Sadhu Singh Bhaura, had officiated over hundreds of ceremonies like this. For many years, he had served as a missionary near the border with Nepal, where it was Hindus who would come to join the casteless fold of Khalsa. First of all, a little of the tradition of the Khalsa was explained to the group through an interpreter. Then the vows were enumerated: they were to rise each morning and meditate on the Name of God; they were never to take intoxicants; they were not to commit adultery; they were never to eat meat butchered in the custom of halal; they were to keep their bodies intact, never cutting their hair; they were to wear a steel bracelet, cotton undershorts with a drawstring, a wooden comb and a small sword of self-defence.
Over the centuries, many thousands had since put aside their egotism and dedicated their lives to purity and piety through this very ceremony, but that morning it proved difficult for some of those gathered on the roof of the historic shrine to accept everything wholly and without reservation.
For years, it had been the practice of these rebels and outcasts to distrust every known convention and authority in order to find their own truth. They had turned their back on the American nightmare of war and greed and exploitation and deception, with a hope of realizing the high ideals of that country’s founding. Along the way, they had had only themselves to rely on – their own integrity, their own judgment, and their own word. They had also learned to trust their Yogi friend and teacher as well, but these vows sounded new and strange to them.
Several candidates took exception to some of the vows required for joining the Order of Khalsa and they spoke up.
“What if I have been working all night or have been sick and cannot stay awake to meditate in the early morning hours?” “I know the vow says I won't take alcohol, but what if there is alcohol in a medicinal tincture that I must take to recover my health?” “What if I promise today to wear my undershorts all the time, but tomorrow I want to join in a sweat lodge ceremony with my Hopi Indian brothers where you are supposed to be completely naked?” “I never want to cut my hair, but what if I need to go for surgery one day and the doctor says they need to shave the skin where they want to operate?”
And so, after these objections and conditions had been aired and responded to, the ceremony was about to begin. Just then, someone asked about a big pile of new turbans for all the men who wanted to become Khalsa to wear. “What about the women?” they asked. “Aren't we going to have turbans like our brothers?”
The kindly old Khalsa in charge of the ceremony was stumped. He had never seen women demanding their own turbans at an Amrit ceremony or even heard of such a thing. Normally, everyone was just happy to go along, grateful to take part in the ceremony. People did not raise objections. Besides, all the shops would be closed at this hour of the morning. Where could they obtain turbans for the women participating in the ceremony? The jathedar came down the stairs to speak with Harbhajan Singh.
“What is going on upstairs? You come and check on them!”
Harbhajan Singh replied, “It is not my problem. I was to bring them up to the doorsteps. After that, they are their own body. They have come to you to get the Amrit. Give them or not, that is your problem.”
“Won’t you come up?”
“No.”
“But we don’t have turbans for the ladies!”
“Get them!”
There was a lull of about half an hour as the Amrit candidates chanted and someone hurried to the Harimandar to obtain sufficient Siropas, short saffron turbans... and finally the initiation ceremony began.
By the time they were all done, the sun was above the horizon and there were forty-two beaming Khalsa transformed and a little exhausted. They all lined up on the steps on the Akal Takhat with the sun in their eyes, and with Yogi Bhajan and a number of well-wishers, and posed for the probing eyes of posterity.
Siri Singh Sahib
News of the initiation swept through Amritsar, and especially the S.G.P.C., like a storm. Westerners had actually taken vows to live as Khalsa. Afterwards, they had been invited to sing on the marble walkway outside the Harimandar. Krishna Kaur, Mark Singh, and a number of others had sung the Guru’s Words to the surprise and amazement of the pilgrims to that place.
Some critics took consolation from the fact that not quite half of Yogi Bhajan's entourage had taken Amrit. The truth was that nearly half of those who had come to Amritsar with Harbhajan Singh had taken part in the ceremony atop Akal Takhat. This in itself was history.
It was not the first time Westerners had been accepted into the fold of Khalsa. In the previous two centuries, a few Englishmen in India had been known to “go native” and take up local customs and religions. But never had so many come to join the Order of the Khalsa. Besides, these new Khalsa were from America. America was known as a melting pot of assimilation and up to that time had been a graveyard for Khalsa aspirations. Most Sikh immigrants shed their turbans and beards before stepping on American soil.
How had Harbhajan Singh done it? Was it a miracle? Was this the beginning of a wave of conversion to the Sikh faith? How should the S.G.P.C. respond to this altogether unexpected turn of events? These and more questions filled the air.
Harbhajan Singh Yogi was invited to meet with senior Sikh officials as they discussed the unfolding course of events. Giani Mohinder Singh was there, as was Sant Chanan Singh, who had served as President of the S.G.P.C. since 1962. He was a brave and dedicated soul who had been jailed eleven years earlier during the peaceful movement to make the Indian government deliver on its promise of a Punjabi-speaking state. There too was Sant Fateh Singh, the head of the Sikh political party, the Akali Dal. He also had served the Sikhs in a brave and exemplary way over the years.
At one point in the meeting, Sant Fateh Singh indicated that Yogi Bhajan ought to be presented with a symbolic sword of honor, a "Siri Sahib", at the Akal Takhat, and that he ought to be called by the title “Singh Sahib,” even as the head priests of the holiest shrines of the Sikhs were known.
His longtime friend and collaborator, Sant Chanan Singh replied, “What do you mean? This one Harbhajan Singh will create many Singh Sahibs! We are presenting him with a Siri Sahib, so let us call him “Siri Singh Sahib”!”
So it was that on March 3, 1971, Yogi Harbhajan Singh was presented with a ceremonial Siri Sahib. In an official letter signed and dated five days later, S.G.P.C. Secretary Giani Mahinder Singh, authorized Harbhajan Singh “to act as a Minister of Divinity and to perform marriage ceremonies according to Sikh rites.” It also empowered the designated Siri Singh Sahib “to initiate and perform the Amrit ceremony, according to Sikh rites, initiating individuals into Sikh Dharma and further to appoint such initiated Sikhs as Ministers of Divinity.” A new chapter of Sikh history characterized by a renewed, expansive vision was beginning to unfold.
Return to America
With their return to America scheduled in two weeks, the tour group of yogis and Sikhs made the most of their remaining days in India. Because of the danger of another attack by the thugs of Yogi Bhajan's former teacher, security had become a daily consideration. Still, there were Gurdwaras to visit, places to go, people who wanted to see them. Wherever they went, they travelled with their police escort.
Remarkably, on every occasion, Yogi Bhajan spoke as “we Americans.” He told the people of India, “America is not a country of sex and sensuality. America will create those great potent people who will not only be teaching God realization, but they will achieve God realization.” Not everyone he spoke to liked to hear this, but Yogi Bhajan was not one to care.
The Americans were the focus of a good deal of attention. One gentleman even offered to Yogi Bhajan that he should like to marry one of his healthy, happy, holy entourage. Yogi Bhajan approached Devorah and, with her agreement, a Sikh wedding ceremony was quickly arranged.
Sadly, the marriage only lasted a couple of days. It was long enough for those who wished Yogi Bhajan harm to foist the question of the legality of the marriage. The union of an American and an Indian citizen, was quite a rarity in those days. Yogi Bhajan's arrest and detention emerged as a real possibility.
The seed of other difficulties also took root when Ralph, a student of Yogi Bhajan's arrived in India late for the tour. Ralph innocently made his way to Gobind Sadan in Delhi, where he was adopted by Virsa Singh as his prize American disciple. After a few years at Gobind Sadan, Ralph Singh would become an outspoken representative, fluent in Punjabi and English, of the Delhi Baba.
Yogi Bhajan gathered his students together and cautioned them of the difficulties still ahead, “Look folks, we have come to visit the house of Guru. We shall go back. Chant 'Guru Guru Wahe Guru Guru Ram Das Guru'.You came to this country on my faith, right? I came on my Guru’s faith, right? Now we know at this time we are alone and there is a possibility that they will attack us to kill us. One thing if you keep on chanting, nothing will happen to us.”
Someone asked, “How, Yogiji?”
“I don't know. All I know is we are innocent. Something will happen that nothing will happen to us. We'll get out of this whole cloud. I know the time is hard. I know we are in a problem. I know we are encircled by police for our life protection. I know we cannot go on the town. I understand all that, but dear ones, keep on chanting. Everything will vanish.”
Then Yogi Bhajan prayed, “Lord, I do not know. I came to Thy house. I brought these people to Thy house. They don't know who you are. They have never seen you. They have come on sheer faith. It is a divine faith. And if you will not maintain the divine faith, tomorrow nobody will come to the House of Guru Ram Das. Period. You should hear it very clearly too. I don't care if you have a house of gold and marble. I don't care. I know you have. I have love for you. But these people are new. They are here. They have enjoyed. It was a height of bliss and pleasantness when we were with you. Now the clouds have come. In your house we have been honored. In five hundred years of Indian history, they have never respected any foreigners with that respect they have given us. God bless you. Thank you for taking care of the children.”
Soon, everyone was chanting together, “Guru Guru Waahay Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru…” They chanted as they made ready to board their bus. They chanted as they took their seats on their buses. They chanted as they rode through the flatlands of Haryana, toward Delhi. When they disembarked several hours later for a call of nature, still they were chanting.
Yogi Bhajan walked a discrete distance away to perform his personal business behind a rock or tree. He met a farmer sitting there tending his field. The man looked up and said, “Are you a Yogi?”
Yogi Bhajan naturally answered, “Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
Yogi Bhajan began to explain their planned itinerary. The farmer piped up, “Don’t go.”
“Why?”
“Two hours before, about twenty gunmen were sitting here to attack you and your group. Are you with the Americans?”
“Yuh.”
“Then don’t go this way,” said the farmer, pointing.
“Which way did they go?”
“They went this way!”
“What do you suggest?”
“Just go a mile, and then one road cuts through. You go that way and you will be okay.”
On the road to the Delhi airport, the bus was stopped by Tarlochan Singh, longtime friend of Yogi Bhajan’s, who was well-connected with the Indian government. They had a conference together in Tarlochan Singh’s car. After some conversation in Punjabi, Yogi Bhajan turned around from the front seat and said to Krishna Kaur and his tour secretary, seated in back, “I am going to have to stay here because they are planning to arrest me when I get to the airport. You have a choice: to go ahead and go ahead with the group or stay. It is totally up to you.”
Although their visas were due to expire on that day, there was no question in Krishna Kaur's mind. “If you stay, I stay. When I left LA, you said I was going to be your attendant and that would be my privilege and responsibility forever, and so until I get back to LA, I'm here.”
His tour secretary concurred, “I'm staying also.”
The three followed Tarlochan Singh to his house. There followed hours of intense telephone conversations and activity as efforts were made to clear a way for their departure.
While he was there, Harbhajan Singh had an unusual vision. The tenth Sikh Master, Guru Gobind Singh, appeared before him on a horse, but the Guru was strangely headless. Yogi Bhajan said jokingly, "Why are you riding this horse without your head?"
From within the neck, a bright flame emerged, and a voice spoke, "Hard times will come on you. Dharma will spread, but I have to return these seeds you have brought with you from across the ocean. Follow me and I will carry you safely across, and then we will see what Khalsa shall be."
On the day they were to leave, Yogi Bhajan called together the group of those who were returning, although a few were planning on staying behind for a time. He said, “Look, if we are honest and if our God and Guru are with us, on the twentieth of March I'll be speaking in San Francisco at that conference where I have been invited by the AMA and all that stuff. But if we are not righteous and if I have earned any bad karma, I'll be left. Then it is up to you sons to like me or dislike me. But if you can leave, as many as you can should try to leave.”
Finally, by the end of the day, things were settled and Yogi Bhajan and his two stalwarts flew off to Bombay (Mumbai) to join the rest of the entourage for the journey home. Krishna Kaur, for her part, chanted to Guru Ram Das at the airport and all the way to England on the plane. When they stopped over in a hotel in London, she was still chanting lest anything go wrong.
Yogi Bhajan’s tour secretary was beyond keeping up. She was exhausted and needed to be hospitalized. She would remain in England for a couple of weeks. Yogi Bhajan too showed some of the strain of the journey, the betrayal of his former teacher, the separation from his family, and all the other tribulations. Gray hairs had begun to show themselves in Yogi Bhajan's beard.
During their day-long stay in London, Yogi Bhajan gave a yoga class at the ashram his students, Vic and Debbie Briggs, had begun at 34A Saint Stephen's Gardens. Vic had played bass guitar in a group called The Animals and Debbie was a former actress. The Indians affectionately called him “Vikram.”
Yogi Bhajan also went out to meet with some people he knew there from his days in India. Seated among them, there was an Englishwoman who fancied herself a Sikh and was encouraged in her delusion by the immigrant community. In typical style, Yogi Bhajan poked gaping holes in the notion that one could be a Sikh without living the lifestyle.
In the course of his discussion with the Sikhs living in England, the subject of Yogi Bhajan's former teacher, the Delhi Baba, came up. After some intense conversation, Yogi Bhajan switched to English, “When I left India, he was an angel. When I came back to India, he was a demon!”
The class, the feasts, the kirtan, the meetings over, Yogi Bhajan and his students boarded their plane for New York and the final leg back from India.
Eight hours later, the airplane carrying them descended from the clouds, hurtled along the runway and came to a halt outside the big terminal building of John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. Outside, two big police cars with sniffer dogs awaited everyone.
When Yogi Bhajan looked outside and saw them, he protested to God, “No, this is not divine! We are not carrying any marijuana and we can't go through this process. We are not going to remove our pants and get sniffed! No, No! O God, you saved us from bullets. O Guru, you saved us from that tragedy. Now we are back and what are you going to do with us here? God, no! You can't betray these people. They came on a yatra. They came to visit the holy places. They can be shot, they can be fired at, and they can be sniffed by the dogs. No problem. But at this time, we are not being exposed. You are being exposed. Protect Thyself!”
Yogi Bhajan went into an altered state of consciousness. All he could say and think was “No, no, no...”
Having an Indian passport, Harbhajan Singh was separated from the rest of the group. Yogi Bhajan gave his passport to the customs officer. The officer said something and all Yogi Bhajan could say in reply was “No, no, no.”
“Where is your baggage?”
“No, no, no.”
“Take it away.” Then the officer wanted to go through Krishna Kaur's baggage.
Yogi Bhajan continued, as though in an ecstasy, “No, no, no.”
“Alright. This is no offense.”
In a few minutes, everyone was clear. No one was detained or searched. It was a minor miracle.
At this stage, everyone from the East Coast of the United States separated and Yogi Bhajan continued on to California with the remainder of his students. Another long flight above the clouds, and they were there.
Baba Singh brought some coconut water to the airport for his Master. Yogi Bhajan was still in a trance.
“Is this San Francisco? No, how can it be? Where are we?”
“Sir, it is Los Angeles.”
“No, how can it be Los Angeles?”
“The aircraft was so scheduled that it came into Los Angeles, and then you are going to San Francisco in one hour, forty-five minutes. We received a phone call and so we came here.”
Finally, it felt as though a pall were lifting. The travellers had been protected in so many ways and now they were safe and home again to continue their adventure with the spirit of Sat Nam in America.
Part Three - The Majesty of Khalsa
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