
The work in Gurgaon was going well; it was Pune now that needed energy. Swamiji had been away from India for almost a year. During that time, more land had been acquired and an architect was hired to design the new community. No one could live on the land, though; it was too raw. There were a few simple buildings, but no roads, electricity, or water.
So six apartments, including one for Swamiji, were rented in a brand new building in the city of Pune, about an hour from the land. Half the people from Gurgaon moved there. Swamiji would keep Guru Kripa and divide his time between the two locations.
He moved into his apartment just before the New Year. The next day he gave the first of what would be weekly satsangs. “I didn’t come here to rest,” he said. He had a little more editing to do on The New Path; then he wanted to record it as an audio book, and also make some programs for the internet based on the Gita commentary.
One of the devotees in Pune, Vijay Girard, was a professional videographer. With great ingenuity, and many sheets of pink foam, he turned the living room of his apartment into a sound-proof recording studio. In the middle of January, Swamiji finished editing The New Path. The next morning he started recording it.
I came to visit a few weeks later and was there for the last few days of recording, including the chapter about Master’s passing. Time shifted. India was forgotten. It was March 7, 1952. We were with Swamiji at the Biltmore Hotel, listening to Master’s final words and the long sigh as his body fell to the floor in Mahasamadhi.
Several times Swamiji had to stop reading to wipe the tears from his eyes and clear the tears from his voice. “Perhaps someone else will have to read this chapter,” he said. “I am not sure I can.” Slowly, with many pauses, he made it through.
Swamiji had been in Pune for several weeks, but all his time had been spent editing or recording. Now he invited all seventeen of the ashram residents out to dinner at a local restaurant where he’d been told they served the best masala dosa [thin pancake with spicy filling]. Several people suggested an alternative; that place was known as a student hang-out—not the atmosphere Swamiji usually chose. But he insisted. Seating was in a large outdoor area, crowded with students and young families. It was a noisy, happy atmosphere, and we fit right in.
Swamiji was getting a feel for the city, and he liked what he saw. Pune is a center for higher education, filled with young people from all over India and around the world.
When he wrote Hope for a Better World, Swamiji thought the book could help start a revolution among young people. Right after the American edition was published, he set up a lecture at Brown University in Rhode Island, where he himself had gone to college. Everything conspired to spoil the event, even the weather: after weeks of sunshine, suddenly it started pouring rain. “Divine Mother told me it wasn’t the right time to launch the movement,” he said afterward.
Now the book had come out in India, and Swamiji suggested using it for classes and lectures in the many colleges and universities in Pune. “From here we could inspire a youth movement of Self-realization that could transform India.”
***
Master sometimes referred to the previous—or subsequent—incarnations of various well known historical figures. One of his more startling revelations was that he himself had been William the Conqueror. “I was raised in the English system of education,” Swamiji said, “in which William was one of history’s great villains. The English are very patriotic, and they don’t look kindly on being conquered! It was no small adjustment to accept that, in fact, William was my own Guru.”
Swamiji researched the life of William the Conqueror and discovered many historical facts that supported this untraditional view. William went to Mass every day. All his closest friends were saints. In an age when kings took as many concubines as they wanted, he was completely faithful to his wife.
Many who were with Master in this incarnation, were also with him then. Swamiji felt he had been William’s youngest son, Henry. When his father died, Henry received a large quantity of silver, but the kingdoms of France and England were given to his two, older brothers. When Henry lamented to his dying father, “What good is silver without any land to spend it on?” William whispered to him, “Be patient. In time all that your brothers now possess will be yours.”
The prophecy proved true. One brother died; the other turned out to be both treacherous and incompetent. In the end, Henry ruled both kingdoms. The thirty-year reign of King Henry I was one of the most creative, prosperous, and peaceful in English history. As King, he devoted himself to organizing and securing everything his father had sought to accomplish. Henry was William’s true heir.
With Swamiji’s encouragement, Catherine Kairavi, an Ananda member, spent many years researching and writing a history of William and Henry from the perspective of reincarnation. There were many parallels between the lives of William and Master, and Henry and Swamiji. In February, when he went on vacation to Goa, Swamiji took Catherine’s manuscript with him. Over the next several months, he worked with her to edit and then publish Two Souls, Four Lives.
Back in Pune, after his vacation, Swamiji completely rewrote Do It NOW! The expanded, and much improved version demanded a more dignified title: Living Wisely, Living Well.
The last weekend in February was the Bhoomi Puja—a ceremony to bless the new community land Devotees came from all over India and a few from Europe and America. About 150 people, including some villagers from the surrounding area, gathered with Swamiji under a large mango tree. He led a fire ceremony, chanted mantras, tossed rose petals, and buried holy objects, before laying a ceremonial cornerstone for Ananda’s first community in India.
Building a world brotherhood colony had gained special urgency—the week before the Bhoomi Puja, a vicious terrorist attack in Mumbai had rocked the country and shocked the world. “I feel Master wants great things to happen in India,” Swamiji said.
As always, leading up to the event, his body suffered. Swamiji was weak, his balance so precarious that he took two, hard falls. Usually, once activities started, his energy would return. This time, though he carried on bravely, Swamiji was exhausted throughout. “Only when it was all finished,” he said, “did my energy return. I felt as if I had done nothing all weekend except rest.”
On his birthday this year, Swamiji would turn eighty-three, the age when both his father and mother had died. His horoscope, and also a reading from Brighu, predicted that this would be his last birthday. Only an astrologer in Goa said otherwise.
At first, that astrologer did not impress us as being particularly astute; but when he said Swamiji would live into his nineties, he became wise and all-knowing in our eyes! We rejoiced, but Swamiji did not. It was all in good fun. Still, the prospect of living another decade in that body was not a cheerful one for him—although he was quick to add, “I will continue as long as Master wills.”
After the experience of the Bhoomi Puja and his unusual fatigue throughout, Swamiji wrote to a few us, “I wonder whether my rather intense desire to be finished with this incarnation isn’t also a test of Satan. I think I should be leaving that ending to Master, and not intrude my own desire—even for liberation.”
***
If this was going to be Swamiji’s last birthday, I wanted to spend it with him. So I returned to India a few days before May 19. He was in Gurgaon, on his way to Italy. Life was easier at Guru Kripa; everything in Pune was still being worked out, even where to buy food. Their apartments were in the only finished building in what was otherwise a construction zone. The driveway was a quarter mile of rough, unpaved road. With the pain in his back, and often in his hips, going in or out was a real tapasya for Swamiji.
The devotees in Gurgaon were thrilled to have him back, even for a short time. The night I arrived, Swamiji gave a satsang for the whole community. In keeping with the longstanding Ananda tradition, he read a P. G. Wodehouse story. The British humorist is well known and much loved in India. Afterward, he showed a short video that Pushpa Rainbow had sent of the tulips blooming at Crystal Hermitage—exquisite photographs, with a soundtrack of Swamiji’s music. In his presence, listening to the music and looking at the flowers, I felt like I was in the astral world. Swamiji then invited people to ask questions.
“With all the difficulties you’ve had in your life, do you feel it has been worth it?”
“What difficulties?” Swamiji said. From the outside, his life looked like one challenge after another, but that is not how he experienced it.
“How, then, do you keep the consciousness of God when going through tests?”
“What tests?” Swamiji said. “A test is just the opportunity to dissolve another delusion. So-called tests are the doorway to freedom, something to rejoice in, not to fear. Once you have overcome a delusion, it disappears completely, as if it never existed.”
“How can we keep Ananda spiritually strong into the future, especially after you are gone?”
“Love God. Love God in one another. Be loyal to Master. Try to do his will. I’ll always be in your hearts, encouraging you. The work I’ve done has all been to help you.”
Someone asked about the music he had written for children. Swamiji said, “You have to see it from their point of view. When I was in school, we had to sing the verse, ‘Climb, climb Sunshine Mountain, faces all aglow.’ A child does not think of his face as ‘all aglow.’ He thinks of it as covered with sweat from the effort to climb Sunshine Mountain!
“Children should not be subjected to songs and activities that will be an embarrassment to them later. They should be given things that reflect, on a child’s level, truths that will inspire them throughout their lives.”

A good example is Swamiji’s song Move, All You Mountains. Children, and adults, too, sing it enthusiastically, with gestures that emphasize the meaning:
Move, all you mountains that stand in my way,
Nothing can stop my progress!
Tall trees, fall aside!
Every bramble I slash with the sword of freedom.
The mood shifted completely with the next question, “How did you feel when Master died?”
“That is a very personal question,” Swamiji said, and for a long moment he was silent. Then, very quietly he answered: “It was heartbreaking.”
***
Swamiji often told people in India that he wouldn’t be in his body much longer. If they wanted his help in building the work, now was the time to act. Like many of his age, he recommended against getting old—“but nobody listens.” On the physical plane, he described himself as “an accident waiting to happen.” He remembered fondly his youthful independence, but was grateful that his friends hovered around, determined to prevent that accident from happening. Rarely was he allowed even to get up from a chair, and never to go up or down stairs, without help.
The older Swamiji got, the more childlike his face became. You could see that he was an old man, but his consciousness transformed his physical vehicle into something beyond age or definition. In many ways, his face looked the same as it did in photographs of him as a young boy. Most of the time now, no matter where he was or what was going on around him, his expression was the same—pure, calm bliss.
Seeing in Swamiji the fruit of a life lived for God made us eager to follow in his footsteps—even if those footsteps were slower and shakier than they had been in the past.
“So many people, as they age, become bitter about life,” he said. “I don’t understand. What is there to be bitter about? Don’t they see that life is nothing but bliss? Whenever I’m in a crowd, I look around and see God expressing in so many ways. It is such a delight. Sometimes I feel so much bliss, I don’t know what to do with myself! And this is nothing, because it is still contained by the body. What a glorious destiny awaits us!”
***
Early on the morning of his birthday, an Indian devotee brought in many bouquets of flowers which she placed all over the house. Then, with rose petals, she made designs on the floor, in the doorways, and in the corners of the rooms downstairs. When Swamiji emerged from his bedroom, it already felt like a celebration.
The main event was in the evening, at a nearby community center. Someone had gifted Swamiji with a new outfit made of luminous orange silk, trimmed in gold thread. Much fancier than anything he would have chosen for himself. Sitting in his living room, it seemed a bit over the top, but when he walked into the hall, where several hundred people stood in reverent silence to greet him, the luminous silk seemed a natural extension of his inner light.
Choir music is not indigenous to Indian culture, but by now, many had learned to enjoy Ananda’s way of singing. Some had even joined the choir. A short concert ended with a solo by Swamiji, Life Flows On Like A River. The song is written for a bass, and until recently it was out of his range. Most people’s voices thin as they age, but Swamiji’s got deeper, and richer. “Now I can hit the lowest note on the piano,” he said. Someone had to stand next to him to help keep his body upright, but the voice that came from his frail frame was as beautiful as ever.
In the Indian way, there were several speakers before Swamiji, thanking and praising him for the great work he was doing. When it was his turn, all signs of weakness disappeared. For an hour, the audience was mesmerized by his wisdom and bliss. He described the creative materialism of the United States—dedicated to making money, but in a giving, not a taking way. America is the only country in history that has given millions of dollars to rebuild countries it has defeated in war—the very countries that started the war in the first place. This uplifted attitude, even toward the material world, makes for an ideal partnership between India and the United States.
***
The next evening, while sitting in his living room with a few friends, “Suddenly everything went black,” as he described it later. Perhaps he had had a mild stroke. Miriam helped get him upstairs to his bed. The next morning, Swamiji was extremely weak, his speech somewhat garbled, his memory poor. He was scheduled to fly to Europe in a few hours, so Miriam assumed it was the usual difficulties that preceded every important event or transition. This was worse than usual, but experience had taught her that the best treatment was to go forward as planned.
It was a very hot day, well over a hundred degrees. At the airport, the air conditioning stopped working and it was even hotter inside. We assumed the plane would be cooler, and boarded as soon as we could. But that system, too, had stopped working. We sat on the tarmac for an hour while officials debated whether or not to let the plane fly. Finally they decided the only solution was to get to a cooler zone, and we took off.
Three of us traveling with Swamiji upgraded to business class so we could be closer to him. At this stage of his life, he always flew first class. All through the ordeal, Swamiji’s expression never changed—pure, calm bliss.
We were on our way to Lugano, Switzerland, where we would meet others from Assisi for a few days of vacation. Even though he was very weak, Swamiji insisted on going through with the plan. The first night in Lugano, I was alone with him in his hotel room, doing what I could to make him more comfortable.
He began to talk about Ananda around the world, the communities, the main departments, who was in charge, what kind of work they were doing. He remembered everyone—although sometimes I had to remind him of their names. After a few moments of this discussion I said, “Are you asking me, if you die now, will Ananda be okay?”
“Yes,” he said.
“The answer is, unequivocally, ‘We will be fine.’ You have trained us well. You can go whenever Master calls you.”
I was prepared for Swamiji to leave his body, but thought that a hotel room in Switzerland, with me as the only witness, was an unlikely way for him to exit. Miriam said later, though, that he could easily have died that night from any one of several causes.
His blood had become so thin that his arms were covered with purple bruises. If he fell—which he often did—he could die from internal bleeding. After a few days, when I expressed relief that the bruises had begun to fade, Swamiji said, “I have given this body to Divine Mother. She may do with it whatever She wishes.”
Most of the vacation we spent with Swamiji in his hotel room. When we did go out, he needed a wheelchair and four strong devotees to carry him up and down the many stairs. Lugano is a hilly town, not designed for those who can’t walk. It was profoundly moving to see four men clustered around his wheelchair, with Swamiji in the middle, smiling blissfully.
He had planned to fly from Lugano to Assisi, but Miriam was concerned that the change in air pressure would adversely affect his heart. “So will the long drive,” Swamiji said wryly. Still, all day in the car was deemed the better choice. When we got back to Seva Kutir, no one felt comfortable leaving Swamiji alone. So day and night, for the next week, one of us was always with him.
I was there on June 6, late in the afternoon, when he woke up from a nap. I went into his bedroom to help him get up. Guests were coming and he wanted to change out of his pajamas. From his closet, I selected a beautiful, blue, silk shirt. He was too weak to do up the buttons himself. As I dressed him, I made light conversation. “This indigo blue is so exquisite. You should change the swami color from orange to blue.”
To my surprise, he answered seriously, “I’m thinking of doing just that.”
I helped Swamiji onto the couch in the living room, then went back to tidy the bedroom. When I returned a few moments later, he was lying on his back, completely still, staring at the ceiling, with his hands resting on his heart. I thought he was dead. Then, to my immense relief, he spoke.
“I’m thinking of creating a new swami order,” he said, and began to describe the principles on which it would be based. “Renunciation focuses too much on what you are giving up. The orange color represents fire burning up our attachments. In this age, it is more appropriate to think about what we aspire to become: Christ consciousness. The color should be blue.”
Then he said, “This is what Satan has been trying to stop.”
We talked for a while, then he got up, went to his desk, and began writing the first chapter of what became A Renunciate Order for the New Age. Less than an hour before, he was too weak to button his own shirt. Now he was founding a new swami order, and writing a book about it. That evening he called a meeting of community leaders to talk about launching a revolution for renunciates.
Since almost everyone in the room was married, Shivani asked, “Do couples have to separate in order to be swamis in this new order?”
“I don’t see any reason why you would have to do that,” Swamiji said. “In Dwapara Yuga, rigid separation between ordinary and spiritual life is less necessary. Lahiri Mahasaya was married, as were most of the ancient rishis.” Married couples being swamis together would be one of the distinguishing features of this new order.
Later Swamiji explained what had happened during the few moments he was alone in the living room. “I entered a state of intense bliss. I told Divine Mother, ‘I’m ready to go, and I am happy to stay, if You have more work for me to do here.’ It didn’t matter at all to me. When I came out of that state, I began to get well. It seems God has extended my life in order to do this work. It was a miracle healing.”
A few days later, he said that, intuitively, he had felt May would be a critical time for him, that his incarnation might end, just as Brighu had predicted. Having made it through that period, he expected to go on and live a “long life”—or at least a few more years.
When one of the devotees expressed her delight, Swamiji was kindly, but stern in his response. “I know extending my life will benefit others, but I am not doing it for others. I am doing it for Master.”
Once Swamiji was asked, “Do you serve God or do you serve people?” He responded, “I serve God—in people.”
***
Ananda Edizione had a new distributor who was very enthusiastic about our books. Swamiji went to Florence to meet some of their key executives. He was staying in a hotel, and at 3:00 a.m. woke up with a profound inspiration. Usually hotel rooms put some stationary in a drawer, but the only paper he could find was a doily under a glass, one side already covered with someone else’s writing. So in tiny script he wrote:
“The more bliss I feel in myself, the more I find everyone around me utterly lovable. How vastly varied are the ways of approaching the same bliss! Every being on earth has his own, unique way of seeking it! No one can be stereotyped! And the stereotyped beliefs of religion are perhaps the worst. Everyone on earth approaches God in his own special way, though perhaps his way be, at present, very lumpy and bumpy indeed.”
When he shared this revelation a few months later he said, “The bliss comes in waves. Sometimes I feel such love; other times, it is more a mental affirmation. But increasingly, it is spontaneous. How wonderful it is to serve God.”
***
Italians love surprises and were preparing one for Swamiji. Jayadev Jaerschky had put together a book of aphorisms taken from Swamiji’s lectures. All were colorful similes which he found by doing a computer search around the word like. The book had been translated into Italian, designed, typeset, and was about to be printed—all without Swamiji knowing it was in the works.
At the last minute, a few days after Swamiji’s miracle healing, Jayadev began to wonder if the finished book would be a happy surprise. So he sent Swamiji the English version. When he saw it, Swamiji said emphatically, “As long as I am alive, nothing should be published in my name without my seeing it first.”
That night, which was Sunday, we went into town for pizza to celebrate Swamiji’s miracle healing—but without Swamiji. His celebration was to be alone “without a keeper” for the first time in many days. It was 10:00 p.m., and we were still lingering at the restaurant, when Swamiji called me. When you come back, he said, please stop by, no matter how late it is. When I walked into his living room an hour later, he was sitting in a comfortable armchair, a small writing board on his lap, with the manuscript of Jayadev’s book in front of him. He was editing by hand and wanted me to enter the changes into the computer.
For the next five days, starting with almost twenty-four hours of continuous work, Swamiji edited the book. “I had to do it all at once, or I would forget what I had written and repeat myself. It was difficult to edit. Each aphorism was just a few sentences, unique in vibration and content, unrelated to what came before or after. I couldn’t get into a rhythm like I can with a book. Fortunately, inspiration carried it. I never had to stop to think or reason. I would put down a word without knowing what the next word would be, but when I needed it, it was there.”
Swamiji edited faster than I could type, so I was also hard at work, early in the morning and late at night. On Friday, he had to drive to Rome for the launch of Religion in the New Age the next day. By the time we reached the hotel, the book was done. He wanted to print copies of the manuscript as a gift to his friends. It turned out that making an actual book was easier and cheaper, since the cover and basic design had already been done for the now-canceled surprise. By noon on Saturday, he had one hundred copies of Like a Ray of Light, his 101st book—and fastest ever from final edit to book in hand.
Swamiji had a suite at the end of a hall in the hotel. Our rooms were mostly on the same corridor. Given his recent health crisis, it was thought prudent to have Lila cook for him, rather than risking restaurant meals, with all the salt, sugar, and other unknowns. She borrowed some appliances, which she set up in to her hotel room, and also used the kitchen of a friend who lived nearby.
The year before, when Swamiji launched Revelations of Christ, he didn’t mince words: “The days of institutional religion are over.” Religion in the New Age continued the same theme. On national television he declared, “Religion is not about the Catholic Church or any other church. It is about the individual and God.”
Teatro Valle is one of the most prestigious venues in Rome. Many people ask to use it; only a few are accepted. We had friends in high places, so this launch, too, was held there.
Swamiji spoke for nearly an hour—all in Italian, of course. I don’t speak the language, but since I know the teachings, usually I catch enough words to get the general idea of what he is saying. I sat spellbound through the whole talk, and only at the end realized that I had absolutely no idea what he had said. Intellectually, communication was zero. On the level of vibration, I had received it all.
The next night we returned to Teatro Valle for The Peace Treaty, the first time it would be performed outside of Ananda. The theme of the play is cooperation among different clans, so it was fitting that the cast included actors from four different spiritual communities. One positive side effect of the legal attack had been to connect us with other groups in Italy facing the same issues.
The directors were two, professional actors from Ananda; one also took a leading role. A Reiki community and a Sai Baba group each contributed a few actors. The rest of the cast was either from Ananda or Damanhur, a community in northern Italy devoted to the arts. One of the lead characters is a dancer; in this performance, the part was played by a professional ballerina from Damanhur. Her exquisite dancing took the whole play to a new level.
Afterward, cast and crew joined Swamiji for dinner at a nearby restaurant. Just a few weeks earlier in Lugano, we had to push Swamiji in a wheelchair. Now he was strong enough to walk on his own, without even a cane. There were cheers, congratulations, and many expressions of heartfelt gratitude from Swamiji for an outstanding world premiere.
Two weeks later, he went to Milan for a second launch of Religion in the New Age. All five hundred seats were filled, with people standing in the back. He began the evening by singing Children of God, and ended it with Love Is a Magician. The message of his talk was simple, frequently interrupted by applause, and a few standing ovations: Religion is not a church, a dogma, or anything outside yourself. Your religion is your relationship with God.
***
At the end of June, Swamiji returned to Ananda Village in time for the community’s 40th anniversary celebration. When it was over, he started recording 108, ten-minute videos, based on the Gita commentary, to be posted on the internet. After that, he recorded fifty-two, half-hour programs, also on the Gita, to air weekly on Indian television. The dining room of Crystal Hermitage was converted into a recording studio, and the community was invited to sit in on the twice-a-day sessions.
Master had declared that millions would find God through his commentary on the Bhagavad Gita. Swamiji hoped these programs would draw some of those millions to the book. Divine Mother had extended his life, and he intended to serve Master with every minute he had left.
In September, Swamiji went to Los Angeles, this time to launch The New Path: My Life with Paramhansa Yogananda. Ananda’s influence was spreading in Southern California—we now had six meditation groups—but much more was needed. Swamiji hoped the event, and the book itself, would strengthen our work there.
The launch was held at the Ford Amphitheatre, an outdoor venue originally built for plays about Christ. There were twelve hundred seats and it was almost full. Swamiji was introduced by Michael Beckwith, the leader of the Agape International Spiritual Center in Los Angeles. The book Two Souls, Four Lives had just been published; Swamiji asked Catherine Kairavi to speak briefly about it.
The next day, Swamiji gave Sunday service at a chapel at Forest Lawn, near Master’s crypt. Many of the two hundred people who came for the service, afterwards stood in line for a long time to greet Swamiji personally, and receive his blessing.
“Whenever I go to Los Angeles,” Swamiji said. “Behind all the traffic, noise, and busyness, I feel an ancient spiritual power. Master called it the Benares of the West. I understand why.”
***
In October, Swamiji went back to Italy. A film crew came to Assisi to do a documentary about him. It was an Italian crew, but they asked him to speak in English, so the film would have a wider audience. The director was a disciple who had come to Master through Swamiji. He thought it would take seven days to get the interviews he needed, but Swamiji did everything in three—without any retakes. Seeing how beautifully he performed on camera, the director talked to Swamiji about making a feature film of The New Path.
A month later, another director, also a disciple, came to talk to Swamiji; he wanted to make a movie about Master. They spent many hours together, and developed a tentative plot. In order to have Swamiji in the movie, the story of Master would be told through a series of flashbacks.
The next day, after the director left, Swamiji lay down to take a nap, but couldn’t sleep—his mind was flooded with ideas for a movie script. “I had never even seen a movie script,” Swamiji said later, “but in two weeks, I had written one. Every word of it was given to me by God.”
The script was based on The New Path, starting with Swamiji’s search for meaning, then becoming more about Master, the same as the book. To give it dramatic tension, the story begins with a desperate mother whose son, Joseph, plans to commit suicide. Life has no meaning; why continue? The mother brings her son to Swamiji in the hope of changing his mind. The movie was called The Answer.
Swamiji often spoke of a war of ideas happening on the causal plane. A snippet of dialogue from the script shows how that plays out in this world.
Swamiji, speaking to Joseph, says, “Warfare isn’t only fought with material weapons: armies beating armies. It is a war of opposing ideas. Wars on earth are intermittent, but the war of ideas goes on continuously. You yourself have fallen victim to one set of ideas. You are contemplating suicide because you have lost faith in life’s meaning. No one has threatened you. You aren’t in any danger. Yet you are desperate enough to think of killing yourself because certain ideas have persuaded you there is nothing worth living for.”
“But what if those ideas are true?” Joseph asks. And the rest of the story follows.
***
Work on A Renunciate Order for the New Age had been interrupted by the many events of the summer. Now Swamiji concentrated on finishing the book. The order itself was a reformation of what Adi Shankaracharya created centuries ago. That sage had organized for Kali Yuga; Swamiji was reorganizing for Dwapara.
Swamiji had come to believe that Shankaracharya was a previous incarnation of Master. “Some of the stories Master told me about him were not the sort of thing history could have recorded. I believe he was telling me his own experiences.” Reforming the order, then, was one more act of service to his Guru. Naya means new, so Swamiji called it the Nayaswami Order.
Even before he left America, Swamiji had discarded the traditional orange and begun to wear blue for formal occasions. He had a robe made according to his design: a long tunic over loose trousers, dolman sleeve, plain neckline, no buttons. Simplicity was the guideline.
In Assisi, Swamiji was invited to speak at a Peace Conference. A Catholic priest, who had met him before, noticed the new monastic habit and asked about the change. When Swamiji said he was starting a new order, the priest asked, “How many members are there?” Swamiji answered, “So far, one. Me.”
On November 23, Swamiji conducted the first initiation of the Nayaswami Order. In the traditional Swami Order, the approval of one swami was enough for a person to take sannyas—the vow as a swami. In the Nayaswami Order, three swamis had to approve before sannyas could be given. Swamiji asked a few of us to come from the United States and India to be initiated by him.
Usually for an event in the temple, Swamiji sat on the dais in front of the altar; the congregation sat in straight rows facing the altar. Now he arranged the chairs in concentric circles. He sat closest to the altar, but at floor level with everyone else, with a picture of Master on one side and Babaji on the other. Each group of initiates sat together according to the vow they were taking: Tyaga for married renunciates; Brahmacharya for single monks and nuns; Nayaswami as the final vow. Those witnessing the ceremony, but not participating, sat in rows behind the initiates. In the center of the circle, there was a large metal bowl for a fire.
First those taking the Tyaga vow knelt before Swamiji, repeated their vow, and received from him a blessing, and a scarf in the appropriate color. That night it was turquoise, but later it was changed to white. Then those taking the Brahmacharya vow followed the same ritual. Their scarves were yellow.
When it was time for the Nayaswami vow, the fire was lit and the initiates sat in a circle facing the flames. Between each line of the vow, Swamiji paused, and each initiate put a spoonful of ghee into the fire. Ghee is purified butter, symbolizing the pure aspiration of the heart. When the vow was complete, the initiates made a full prostration in front of the fire; then, one by one, went to Swamiji to receive his blessing, and a blue scarf. Fifty-four people took initiation, twenty-two as nayaswamis.
Later, Swamiji added a fourth vow, Tirthaka—Pilgrim—for single people not wanting a monastic life, and for couples who were raising children, or hoped someday to have them. “Children require a more personal relationship than is appropriate for a Tyaga,” Swamiji said. “And you never know what your child’s karma will be. It isn’t right for parents to make a commitment that might conflict with their duty to their children.”
The day after the initiation, the nayaswamis gathered in Swamiji’s living room to talk about the new order. We examined the habit and made several modifications. Swamiji wanted a cowl. When others objected, saying, “That is the past. We should look to the future,” the cowl was eliminated. To most questions, though, whether about the habit or other aspects of renunciation, even when Swamiji offered an opinion, he ended by saying, “Do as you feel.”
He wanted us to understand: Being a nayaswami is between you and God. Look to your heart for the answers.
All but one of the nayaswamis were long-time members of Ananda. The single exception was a lifelong nun who had recently left her order in disillusionment over the lack of true spirituality. It pleased Swamiji that, from the start, the Nayaswami Order was seen as valid for renunciates of all paths.
***
A few days after the initiation, Swamiji left for a pilgrimage to Medjugorje, a little village in Bosnia-Herzegovina. In 1981, the Virgin Mary appeared to six children there, and has continued to appear to most of them every month, or even every day, since then. “I always want to go to places where the Divine Mother aspect of God is especially manifested,” Swamiji said.
His companions were Miriam, and a close friend, Nandini Cerri, who had been to Medjugorje before and could smooth the way. Nandini has a gift—actually, a genius—for making friends and opening doors, which proved a great blessing.
“I know Catholics think of Mary as having been only the mother of Jesus,” Swamiji wrote later. “At Medjugorje, however, the Madonna has repeatedly told the visionaries that all humanity are Her children, and that She is above all sectarian differences, even between religion and religion. Before the birth of either Mary or Jesus, was there no Mother? Of course there was! And at Medjugorje, She makes it very clear that that is who She really is.”
On the second day of every month, the Madonna appears to the visionary, Mirjana. In good weather, She appears at the top of what is now called Apparition Hill. When it rains, She comes to Mirjana in the living room of her home. On those days, almost everyone who comes to witness the vision has to stand outside.
When that day came, it was raining. Nandini arranged for Swamiji to sit in the living room, just a few feet from Mirjana. He wore his blue nayaswami robe; everyone called him Padre—Father.
“I had my eyes closed throughout,” Swamiji said afterward. “The feeling of bliss was so great, it wouldn’t have mattered where they put me.”
The next day, as was her custom, Mirjana held a gathering outside her home. She gave a short talk, and then led some traditional prayers and other practices. Most people had to stand outside the fence surrounding the house, but thanks to Nandini, Swamiji was in the courtyard. Mirjana walked directly to him and shook his hand.
“I found her extremely clear-minded and intelligent—really a joy to listen to,” Swamiji said. He participated in the Catholic practices she led, but inwardly “I translated some of them into our way of thinking. When people recited, ‘Pray for us sinners,’ I substituted the words, ‘Pray for us, who love You.’ Why keep on affirming our sinfulness?”
When it stopped raining, they made a pilgrimage up Apparition Hill. It was far too steep and rocky for Swamiji to climb, so he was carried up in a special chair by men from Cenacolo, a place that helps former drug addicts transform their lives. At each station of the cross, the men carefully set down the chair so Swamiji could pray, and they could do the rosary. At the end, they asked this Padre in blue to bless them.
The highlight of the visit, Swamiji wrote later, was meeting another visionary, Vicka, and her husband Mario. The Madonna appears to Vicka every day. She spends most of her time in Zagreb, but just happened to be in Medjugorje for one day. Nandini arranged the meeting.
“Vicka spent quite a bit of time with us, and was extremely loving,” Swamiji said. “Her husband, Mario, asked me privately for a blessing. Both of them were an inspiration to be with.” Afterward, Miriam said, whenever Swamiji mentioned Vicka’s name, his eyes would fill with tears. “She feels like an old friend,” he said.
“I asked Vicka if she would ask the Divine Mother for me whether there was anything more I could do for Her in this life. I’ve been serving Her for over sixty-one years, and have done nearly everything I can think of in this service. Vicka promised to ask that question. So far, I’ve heard no outward answer from her, but I returned from Medjugorje with what I feel is Divine Mother’s answer: ‘Love me ever more deeply, in your heart.’
“And sometimes, even more so since my visit there, I feel so much bliss in my heart that I find it difficult to bear.”