Issue 32 - June 2014

[Guru Fatha Singh Khalsa]

Farewell to Gobind Sadan

Yogi Bhajan went to see Maharaj-ji the next day in order to share his good fortune in the mantra he had received from Guru Ram Das, but the Master of Gobind Sadan was suddenly cold and dismissive.  He no longer seemed to care about this promising student of his who had gone to America.  A divide had arisen, a divergence of destinies that meant these two godmen would never meet again.

Gobind Sadan was no longer a suitable home for Yogi Bhajan and his students.  Luckily, Yogiji was able to contact his old Jain 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.  So it was that the troop of eighty-four Americans pulled up their tents and took their buses to the outskirts of Delhi.

A rupture between a spiritual guide and his student is not a minor thing.  When Martin Luther broke with the Pope, there were wars and presecutions for a hundred years.  Where schisms and leaders and the fortunes of the faithful are concerned, it can be a dangerous thing.

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 Maharaj-ji. 

Yogiji was aware of the danger of the changing situation.  The police were informed and armed guards arrived at the mango farm to provide protection.  Yogi Bhajan also shared with his students the protective mantra Guru Ram Das had given him.  Soon, they were all chanting, "Guru Guru Wahay Guru, Guru Ram Das Guru" daily.  Occasionally, they would find the police were chanting too.

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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, Yogiji 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, Yogiji'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 eight-four Americans.  Yogiji 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 needing to be freed from the pull of this world.  The one was a student named Baba Sat who had started a center on Staten Island, New York and then for some reason committed suicide.  The other was Murshid Samuel L. Lewis, known as "Sufi Sam", who had befriended Yogiji 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 abandoned 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 more pure, 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.

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On Tour!

After a time, 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 on board 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 fair 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 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 Yogiji's students to learn the finer points of Punjabi hospitality. 

With Yogiji 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" 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 two 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 Yogiji'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 Yogi Bhajan 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-four Americans squeezed onto and over the tiny stage behind where Yogiji had spoken. 

A number of them had rehearsed one song, the only Punjabi song they knew, and now everyone sang it out loud, "Bhaja mana mayray, Haree kaa Naam.  Bhaja mana mayray, Haree kaa Naam.  Haree kaa Na-am, Sa-at Na-am.  Haree kaa Na-am, Sa-at Naam.  O my mind, meditate on the Naam.  O my mind, meditate on the Naam.  Go-od's Na-ame is Sat Na-am.  Go-od's Na-ame is Sat Naam..."  And over and over again, they sang 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 dahl 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 dahl 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 express something like this:

"Eat!" (The server smiles and gestures with a ladle.)

"Okay." (The served smiles and nods 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 baked 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 have 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 pink cheeks.   

Then, as day turned to night, arrangements would be 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 shuniya till the early morning...

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