Death of a Guru

Rabi Maharaj

Description

Rabi R. Maharaj came from a long line of Brahmin priests and gurus and trained as a yogi. He meditated for many hours each day, but gradually disillusionment set in. He describes Hindu life and custom, vividly and honestly tracing his difficult search for meaning and his struggle to choose between Hinduism and Christianity.At a time when Eastern mysticism, religion, and philosophy fascinate many in the West, Maharaj offers fresh and important insights from the perspective of his own experience."A unique revelation of the inward struggles of a Hindu and the ultimate triumph over death that he discovered. I found it challenging and inspiring. Must reading."-Hal Lindsey

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie

Informations

• Publié par: Harvest House Publishers
• Date de parution: 01 juin 1984
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780736934862
• Langue: English

Extrait

Wonderful , copyright 1924. Renewed 1952 by Lillenas Publishing Co. Used by permission.
In order to help preserve the privacy and well-being of persons mentioned in this book, the names of some individuals and places have been changed.
DEATH OF A GURU
Copyright © 1977, 1984 by Rabindranath R. Maharaj Published by Harvest House Publishers Eugene, Oregon 97402 (Formerly published under the title Escape into the Light )
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 84-81212
ISBN 978-0-89081-434-5 (pbk.) ISBN 978-0-7369-3486-2 (eBook)
All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to you, the reader.
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
1. A Brahmin’s Roots
2. Death of an Avatar
3. Ashes on the Ganges
4. Karma and Destiny
5. Pundit Ji
6. Young Guru
7. Shiva and I
8. Holy Cow!
9. Rich Man, Poor Man
10. The Unknown God
11. "And That Thou Art!"
12. Guru Puja
13. Karma and Grace
14. Enlightenment!
15. Death of a Guru
16. A New Beginning
17. Reunion and Farewell
18. Where East Meets West
19. Dying We Live
20. New Life
Epilogue
Glossary
Prologue
It could hardly be said that my arrest on that blustery morning in November 1975, as I sought to cross the border from Pakistan into India, came as a complete surprise. The risk had been well understood, but my mission was of such importance that hesitation was unthinkable. And now it would do no good to worry over what could turn out to be just a short delay . . . or the inevitable that I had half-feared.
I had been told to wait outside while my papers were being examined. During the ten minutes that I paced slowly back and forth in front of the austere border station under the cool gaze of several guards, I began to suspect what was coming. The longer I waited the more certain I became.
Preoccupied with my thoughts, I hardly noticed the officer approach me. "You are Rabindranath Maharaj?" he asked, comparing the photograph on my passport with my bearded features. Why the beard? he seemed to be thinking. Or perhaps it was, Of course, a beard!
"Yes, I am." I smiled pleasantly. It was a natural reaction, one which my friends expected and often commented upon. Yes, Rabi was such an amiable fellow. Even at a time like this , I thought. But I wasn’t smiling inside.
"Come with me!" He turned abruptly and motioned for me to follow.
Inside the low frame building I was ordered into a back room, where several other uniformed officials with grim expressions awaited me. It was there, away from the eyes of the few tourists who were passing the border with little delay in both directions, that I heard those chilling though half-expected words, "You are under arrest!" As though for the first time I became aware of how cold and hard the revolvers looked that each of the men surrounding me was wearing.
"Why are you spying for the Indian government?" The question came from the senior officer sitting behind the desk.
"But I’m not!" I protested.
"And you think we’ll believe that, don’t you," he said with a sarcastic laugh. "Did you really imagine we’d let you leave the country?"
Of course I was an Indian, and Indians didn’t travel in Pakistan not ordinarily, at least. Millions of them had fled this hostile land after it had come under Muslim control as a result of Partition, and thousands had been brutally slaughtered even as they tried to escape. On the other side of the border, Hindus had butchered thousands of Muslims as millions fled India for this haven carved out for them by the British as their last act before surrendering control of this vast portion of their dwindling empire. Since Partition there had been numerous border clashes between Indian and Pakistani troops; and India’s recent intervention in the war between East and West Pakistan, resulting in the independence of Bangladesh, would never be forgiven or forgotten. No Indian in his right mind would enter such hostile territory unless he had a very special mission. That was what my interrogators were thinking and in fact they were correct.
There was incriminating evidence against me, so they implied, but it wasn’t spelled out. That was part of the game and I well knew there could be no defense against whatever accusations they made. My last name told these men that I was a member of the highest Hindu caste; and with such hostility between India and Pakistan, that fact alone was sufficient to support the charge. After all, what else would any Indian especially a Brahmin be doing in Pakistan except spying?
I had heard stories enough to know that I could expect no trial, no due process of law. In actual fact I was not a spy, although my mission in Pakistan, which had been completed successfully, would no doubt be considered just as hostile as espionage if it were known. Looking from one grim face to the other, seeing their rejection of my denials, I felt a sudden wave of hopelessness. This would surely be the last day of my life . . . and there was so much work yet undone.
There would be no news item, no formal announcement of my execution. I would simply disappear without a trace, and my mother waiting for me near Bombay, whom I had not seen for years, would never know what had happened or why. After a few official inquiries by my own government, and equally formal denials by the Pakistanis, I would soon be forgotten, one more casualty in that secret war that is never reported by the news media.
As I waited alone, under close guard, for the arrival from Lahore of the man they called the Chief he wanted to interrogate me personally I thought of one slim possibility for obtaining my release. It would involve convincing these hardened police of something they would find nearly impossible to believe. I had to give it a try, at least. Perhaps the very strangeness of the tale would be in my favor. Perhaps the Chief would see that it was all too unbelievable to be a lie.
To be understood, the incredible story would have to be told from the very beginning, going back to my early childhood in Trinidad.
1
A Brahmin’s Roots
No matter how fulfilling life becomes, there are always certain regrets when one looks back. My deepest sense of loss involves my father, Chandrabhan Ragbir Sharma Mahabir Maharaj. How I wish he were still alive! Nor does the fact that this extraordinary man died so young and under such mysterious circumstances entirely explain my regret. So much that is even more remarkable has happened since then. I often wonder what it would be like to share it all with him, and what his reaction would be.
To share it with him! We never shared anything in our lives. Because of the vows he had taken before I was born, not once did he ever speak to me or pay me the slightest heed. Just two words from him would have made me unspeakably happy. More than anything else in the whole world I wanted to hear him say, "Rabi! Son!" Just once. But he never did.
For eight long years he uttered not a word, not even a whispered confidence to my mother. The trancelike state which he had achieved through Yoga used to be considered extremely peculiar and even a form of insanity to those unacquainted with Eastern mysticism. However, "altered states of consciousness" have gained a new acceptance in the West, beginning with drug experiments in scientific laboratories and moving out into society until millions have now experienced this "alternate reality." Millions more have entered what is now called "higher consciousness" through hypnotherapy, autosuggestion, guided imagery, and various forms of Yoga popularized in the West, from TM to "centering" and visualization. Moreover, there is a growing acceptance of the validity of psychic phenomena in the scientific community, which has changed the former skepticism of materialistically oriented Western society into a new openness to the occult.
We Indians, however, have known for thousands of years that there is real power in Yoga. My father proved it. He was the ultimate exemplar in real life of what the Yogis and gurus, now famous in Europe and America, teach. He lived what they talk about, as few men ever have.
"Why is Father that way?" I would ask my mother when I was still too young to understand.
"He is someone very special the greatest man you could have for a father," she would reply, always patient with my persistent questions and puzzled expression. "He is seeking the true Self that lies within us all, the One Being, of which there is no other. And that’s what you are too, Rabi."
With little understanding at first, nevertheless I soon came to believe that he had made the noblest of all choices. Mother often assured me of that, and so did many others. They said that Buddha’s Great Renunciation hardly compared with my father’s. When I was old enough to search the sacred writings I agreed. My father’s renunciation had been complete precipitously so, within days of his marriage. Had it occurred any sooner, I would not have been born.
Though I accepted the idea that a higher choice caused my father never to speak to me, his only child, I could not deny the gnawing emptiness, the intense longing, the peculiarly uncomfortable hunger that I learned to live with, even to ignore, but never conquered. Resentment, however, would have been unthinkable. To a Hindu, the Bhagavad-Gita is t