Yogananda's Invisible Hand

(Left: The Gupta Bungalow)








Saturday morning found Bharat Gupta going through the same routine as every other day of the week. The fact that it was the weekend was irrelevant for the Suzuki auto and cycle dealer. He was not shy of hard work and, in fact, seemed to take comfort in keeping close tabs on the company he and has brother, Vinod, started from the ground up. Dressed in his pressed yellow linen shirt and light cotton pants, Bharat and I shared breakfast across the round dining table once again. The consummate host, he repeatedly asked if I wanted more while instructing his servants in Hindi to serve me first.

Not more than twenty feet from the home, people scavage through rubbish for leftovers and work all day in the sweltering muggy heat for less than 50 rupees each day (equivalent to approx $1). This is India. Poverty lives right to the edges of great wealth. Many of the servants in the Gupta household have been with the Guptas for thirty years. This was a good gig and they had few alternatives, if any. Although nearing the age of retirement, they had no 401(k) plan or social security check heading their way. Either they work or their children have to support them, assuming their children can afford to do so. People make do here, mostly because they have to and also because they don’t have many alternatives.

Feeling at home in my new routine after just a few days, after breakfast I waited in the courtyard for Roopa’s driver to take me to the yoga class at Simran and Shubi’s condo in the “Serenity Heights” Bldg B. The two-story condo was beautifully appointed with tan marble floors, beautiful handcrafted furniture and original artwork from Japan decorated the walls. This was a palace in the sky by Indian standards. And again, as with the Gupta family bungalow a few kilometers away, the condo was perched over wealth and poverty.

Views from the condo included massive glass buildings commonly seen in business parks around the U.S., however were two striking differences, the first being that there was no company name or sign anywhere on or near the building identifying what company operated inside. What happened behind those mirrored windows? And why was there no signage on the building? Simran explained it to me with one simple sentence, “Those are America’s call centers”. JP Morgan Chase, HDFC bank, AOL, Dell and several other US and a few British companies had made their anonymous claim to real estate just across the street from the Gupta condo.

Fascinated by the fact that I had probably called phone lines answered in those very buildings, I made a mental note to get a glimpse of them at night when I would be able to see past the reflective windows. The second difference between these clusters of mirrored buildings and similar business centers in Amercia was the thousands of people living in makeshift homes directly across the street. There was no buffer, no zoning, no apparent planning, just families with children living in trash with no plumbing, electricity or even a front door.

Putting my awe of the dramatic socio-economic scape aside, I joined Roopa and Shameem upstairs on the yoga mat waiting for me on the floor near the family in-house temple. Shameem, my new favorite yoga instructor, worked on a headstand pose with me demonstrating it herself with ease. I struggled with many of the poses, but enjoyed her focused attention and correction.

After class, we headed downstairs where once again, Roopa explained that divinity had its hand in my trip. She rattled off all the apparent “coincidences” and spirit at play in the upcoming week, “I spoke to a friend this morning, and she told me Sri Sri Shankar is going to do a puja and satsanga in Delhi tomorrow.” Immediately I was thrilled, but then realized, “what the heck is a puja?” and “do I want to be satsanga’d?” and who is “Sri Sri blankar”? I didn’t want to appear a complete novice so I inquired first as to the person to whom she referred as “Sri Sri”. Roopa explained that he was one of the few true “gurus” alive on the planet. And on Sunday, he was going to perform a puja and satsanga for Shivrati in Delhi. Oh I see, that explains it . . . not.

Still dazed and confused I returned to the comfort of her enthusiasm and the knowledge that she had assumed the task of personally overseeing my well-being while in India. Thus far, she had done an outstanding job, but my mind was beginning to spin with the new program. And there was still more good spiritual tidings from Roopa’s lips, “They are giving a talk and meditation at the Paramahansa Yogananda center today in downtown Bombay. Isn’t that a coincidence?” That did seem fortuitous. After all, it was Paramahansa’s book that forged a bond with Roopa. Now, a disciple of Paramahansa was giving a lecture at 5 p.m.. In spite of the almost 2 hours of traffic we would fight in both directions, Roopa was determined.

But there was still more to Roopa’s master plan seemingly coming to her as a vision the previous night. On our way to Paramahansa’s lecture, we would detour to the Ayushakti Ayruved Health Center where Dr. Pankaj Naram would diagnose my state of being using the ancient method of pulse reading. Dr. Naram has given many lectures in the U.S. and performed pulse reading for celebrities worldwide, the Dalai Lama included. My curiosity peaked, we pushed our way through the usual traffic congestion in the mid-day heat like a snail on the pavement under a magnifying glass.

At first take from the dirt road outside, the center appeared to be a small roadside café with a few rooms on top. As with many things here, it is difficult to judge what lay inside by the façade. On Roopa’s heels, I walked up the smooth concrete steps of the Keralan style (Southern State of India, usually open air) building into the tranquil ayurveda café where groups of three and four people mingled with tea cups in hand seated at small café style tables. Without delay, we headed upstairs to the actual clinic where I was handed a patient information form. This struck me as odd as I was not ill, but trusting Roopa’s direction, I completed it without question and Roopa forked over 150 rupees ($3 US) for my patient fee, apparently “pulse reading” was not on the list for covered services by Blue Cross.

After a twenty minute wait, we were let in to see a stand-in for Dr. Naram as the good doctor was working in Bangalore. Dr. Meetha was to be my pulse reader. Petite, in her mid-fifties and wearing a light purple sari with a bindi between her eyebrows, Dr. Meetha wore clear black rimmed glasses over her dark eyes which pierced into my soul. Immediately, she reached for my right wrist, strategically placing three of her fingers on my veins already bulging from the heat. She maintained an expressionless face and continued to talk as she held her fingers in position. I was waiting for her to finish talking so she could get to the reading, but then unceremoniously she announced that I had “high pitta and vatta”. Uh oh doc, let’s get down to it, “Am I going to live?”

The answer was yes of course, at least for the moment, but that didn’t stop the steely doctor from writing a prescription for ayruvedic pharmaceuticals to cure my fiery condition. Already burdened with acidopholus, grapefruit seed extract and apple cider vinegar pills from home, any additional pills would have to pay their own way to get into my bag. We thanked the doc and headed for the exit to rendezvous with our fateful Yogananda lecture across the city.

Thirty minutes late to the lecture, we were ushered into the theatre where an older and wise looking man in an orange robe, seated in lotus position on stage, was speaking gently into a microphone adjusted for his seated height. The theatre was serene, all eyes focused on the stage, a nice respite from the hustle and bustle of the streets outside. My enthusiasm was slightly dashed when just ten steps into the theatre I realized that the lecture was being delivered in Hindi.

We remained in our third row seats for the rest of the lecture as Roopa occasionally leaned over and whispered a few key translations in my curious ears. What was he saying? Does he know the secret to life that I will never know because I don't know Hindi? Is he imparting some long lost wisdom that when heard alters people’s life path? Roopa tried to put some of these questions to rest when we were back in the car headed home. The answer is within and all the information is there for the taking for those who choose to be conscious.