Two posts ago, I described how my parents decided to take me to India in the hope that my narcolepsy might be cured at the samadhi shrine of Swami Muktananda. My mother had read that his presence remained active there after death, and that sincere prayer could bring about miraculous healing.

In the last post, I told the story of our journey from Bombay to Ganeshpuri — a chaotic, exhausting initiation into India. That journey ended with my mother and I arriving at the ashram gate without my father, after being separated when our taxi struck a cow near the village of Vajeshwari.

In India, cows are considered sacred, often associated with Shiva, and are allowed to roam freely. When the taxi hit the animal, a furious crowd gathered, and the driver was in real danger of being attacked. Somehow, he managed to calm the situation, repair the damaged wheel, and eventually continue the journey.

Meanwhile, my mother and I had been dropped at the ashram by kind strangers — and promptly refused entry.

With no passports, no luggage, and no way to prove who we were, we were made to sit outside the gates for several hours. By the time my father finally arrived with our belongings, we were exhausted, hungry, and soaked from the monsoon rain. Only then were we allowed inside.

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First Impressions

Crossing the threshold of the ashram felt like entering another world.

Everything was made of marble — white and green — from the pathways to the walls and ceilings. At the entrance, large signs in English and Hindi made it clear that this was not a place for casual visitors. It was a serious spiritual retreat, and anyone staying there was expected to fully participate in the daily schedule.

We were each given a small booklet with a photo of Muktananda on the front. Inside was the daily timetable and guidelines for life in the ashram. It became something we carried everywhere.

We were then taken to a large accommodation building called Mukteshwar. It housed hundreds of devotees, mostly in dormitory-style rooms. We were given a small family room — basic, functional, and a stark contrast to anything we were used to.

There were three wooden beds with no mattresses or pillows. The walls were cracked, and mould crept upward in places due to the monsoon humidity. The adjoining bathroom was little more than tiled floors and taps.

At that point, though, none of that really mattered. After everything we had been through, we were simply relieved to have arrived.

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Meeting Gurumayi

As we had learned from the Indian family who had driven my mother and I to the ashram gate, Swami Chidvilasananda — known as Gurumayi — had unexpectedly arrived and was holding an Intensive that very day.

My parents attended immediately. I stayed behind at first, content to read in our room. The Intensive was conducted in Hindi, and most of the attendees were Indian devotees, including the family who had helped my mother and I reach the ashram.

Later that day, I joined my parents for darshan.

Darshan is a central practice in many Indian traditions — simply sitting in the presence of a spiritual teacher is considered a blessing. We joined a long line of devotees slowly moving toward Gurumayi, who was seated on an elevated platform at the front of the large underground hall where the Intensive was being held.

When it was our turn, we performed pranam — kneeling and bowing with our heads touching the ground at her feet. As we did, she tapped each of us lightly on the head with a bundle of peacock feathers.

My parents spoke with her briefly. My mother explained why we had come — my condition, her hope for healing. My father handed over a large bag of letters from the Sydney ashram, along with a gift of chocolates, which were apparently a rare treat there.

We were then directed to sit.

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Shaktipat

Later, the hall fell silent for meditation.

After a period of chanting Om Namah Shivaya, the lights were dimmed and everyone settled into stillness. I lay down on the floor.

At some point, I became aware of movement — the soft swish of Gurumayi’s robes as she walked among the devotees. She was giving what is known in Siddha Yoga as shaktipat — the transmission of spiritual energy intended to awaken the kundalini within a person.

I heard her approach.

Then I felt the gentle touch of the peacock feathers on my head, followed by the pressure of her finger against my forehead, just above the brow.

And then she moved on.

I didn’t experience anything dramatic. No visions, no surges of energy — nothing like the powerful stories I would later hear from others.

But within the framework of the teaching, that didn’t matter. Whether you felt something or not, the transmission was said to have occurred.

At the time, with the guru physically present, touching my forehead, that idea felt believable.

Later, I would hear that shaktipat could occur simply by attending an Intensive — even without the guru being physically present at all.

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Looking back, that first day contained something of the entire path in miniature — faith, expectation, hardship, devotion, and the beginning of a long immersion into a world that would shape my life in ways I couldn’t yet understand.