The Awakening of Diya Sharma

“Yogamaharishi’s house,” extolled Sunil almost reverentially, and then he apologized. “No cars allowed.” Jala told me that Yogamaharishi was a Hindu word meaning great yogi or guru in Sanskrit, and guru meant teacher. An armed guard saluted as I stepped out of the car, and he pushed the heavy gate open. Inside, a stooped old man wearing a threadbare longhi, a straight piece of cotton material tied around the waist and reaching to the ground, moved amid the cloud of dust he created as he vigorously swept the driveway with a broom of dried grasses. Almost as soon as I moved, I stopped again, struck by the overwhelming beauty of the snow-covered peaks of the Himalayas in the far distance. They towered over the nearer hills, dramatic peaks haloed with pellucid light. They seemed to be suspended, glittering and pristine, and after a while, my eyes returned reluctantly to the reality of the sand driveway. Suddenly, awareness flared of the vision I saw in the hospital from where, inadvertently, my impetus for this visit to India arose. These very mountains were of my childhood yearning. Why had I waited so many years to come to this place, guarded and protected by the mountain buttresses of my imagination? What exactly did my heart know at the sight of them? There was no mistaking Maharishi, standing amidst a group of solemn men dressed in white. Some in the group were his age, which looked to be in the seventies or even older, some were younger, and they paused between the driveway and the gate of what appeared to be an inner courtyard enclosing a large wooden building. They regarded me with curiosity mixed with indifference. My journalistic instincts were triggered. Feeling alienated and alone, I shuddered inwardly. Did I belong anywhere in this Eastern world? Someone else hovered near the group—a tall Indian man dressed unlike the others in a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt and denim shorts. He lifted a nonchalant arm and waved. I waved back. He carried himself with Western self-assurance; maybe I would meet him soon and prove my surmise correct. Pausing with one hand on the gate, Maharishi looked searchingly at me, drawing my attention back to him. He wore a long, immaculate white kurta—a collarless Indian shirt—over wide, white trousers. Open sandals adorned his thin feet. In his other hand, the beads of his mala slid effortlessly and deliberately through his slender, elegant fingers. His gaze seemed to penetrate my being and warmed to life many layers of an inner self until that moment had been dormant. Quickly, I lowered my eyes, the force of his energy overwhelming with the same gaze as in his photograph on Sofia’s studio altar that had captivated and scared me months earlier. In his presence, I struggled for breath. Sofia had told me this was a great man with siddhis—spiritual powers. Simply to be in the field of his energetic magnetism opened unknown levels of awareness; excitement, anxiety, and confusion churned in me. No one, nothing, unsettled me like this. Something shifted in my inner world . . . terror, and a sense of standing on the brink of a great, unknown precipice. The unexpected desire to prostrate myself full length in the sand driveway and touch Maharishi’s feet swelled in me. Instead, I gazed at his face again, bringing my palms together in front of my heart and under my chin, but he was already moving through the gate. “Namaste. Welcome Diya, my child.” Maharishi’s voice was deeply resonant as he looked back at me and spoke each word slowly, lovingly, in the dry, cool air. “Diya, Diyaji, your name is auspicious, but you know what it means.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar. He sounded like my father. Was this the same voice I had heard in my head in the hospital? Unnerving. Nodding, inarticulate, I breathed desperately like a woman abandoning all restraint in love. What could this mean? Why had I come? “I do know what my name means in Hindi,” I whispered. Maharishi’s voice gave my name heightened significance. Now, his face was clearly visible. He was elderly, white hair cropped at his shoulders, white beard full but neatly trimmed, and his face and body almost hatchet thin. His dark, deep-set eyes were softly luminous, and they smiled as he opened the gate. Maharishi disappeared through the gate, and at the abrupt loss of his presence, I felt cold, as if I were in the Atlantic Ocean in winter. His presence radiated such heat and desire that when he left, I was bereft. Considering this state, together with my urge moments earlier to sink to my knees and prostrate myself at his feet, I asked myself again with rising hysteria, What is happening to me? After five minutes at the ashram, my inner being swirled in choppy eddies. Maybe I should return to the taxi and drive back to Bagdogra airport. The familiar, known world tugged at me to return—standing at the threshold to this new world seemed perilous, too risky. Unaware of my turmoil, one of the boys patted my arm and ushered me towards the office, one building in a row of small bungalows. His gesture returned me to the physical reality of the ashram setting. Aside from the sand driveway, all the paths were of light-gray concrete and abundantly lined with large and small flowerpots spilling over with flowers, creeping vines, leafy plants, and an indelible concoction of scents. Large and small colorful butterflies were omnipresent. Meticulously tended green lawn grew between the paths. The rundown appearance of the outside wall in no way prepared me for the tranquil beauty and sanctuary inside the ashram. Clutching at a windowsill, I steadied myself. My balance was threatened by the altitude, flight, taxi ride, observation of the Himalayas, my extraordinary reaction to Maharishi, and the profusion of floral sights and scents. Taking a few deep breaths to compose myself, I followed the youths into the office. Once inside, the receptionist greeted me and thrust a large guest book toward me half filled with names and addresses. I asked myself, Are these people interested visitors or seekers? A boy was directed to take my luggage and lead me to my lodgings. The receptionist reminded me to appear at the ashram at seven the next morning for the first meditation session of the day, adding, “Maharishi welcomes all visitors for this session.”