INTRODUCTION

“The spiritual history of India is so great that it’s almost beyond description,” Swami Kripalu told us once. “Even now, in India’s sad state, there are still samskaras, or impressions, from this past glory.  One of these customs is that a person may adopt the clothes of a swami and be taken care of by society.  Today in India there are hundreds of thousands of sadhus and they are all fed, clothed, and housed by Indian society, even by the poorest of the poor. 

Naturally, some abuse this system.  But India believes that saints are the gems of the country, and just as it takes tons of coal to produce one diamond, it takes tons of sadhus to produce one true saint.  India believes this is worthwhile.  One sun in the sky is enough.  It is enough for the entire world.”

Swami Kripalu, or Bapuji, as we called him, could have been talking about himself when he spoke those words, although he would have burst into laughter at the thought.  Born in 1913 to devote Hindu parents in the western state of Gujarat, his life was destined to end early at the age of 19, in total despair, crushed under the wheels of a train in suicide had not fate intervened.  That night, while he was sobbing and saying his final prayers in a small temple in Bombay close to the railroad tracks, a Mahatma, a great soul, wearing only a loincloth, came silently into the temple and touched the sobbing youth on the shoulder and said,

“Son.”*

He uttered the word with such sweetness and love that Bapuji accepted him that evening as his guru and dedicated his life to him, and so began the spiritual training and spiritual ascent of one of India’s greatest saints and greatest spiritual treasures.  His full story is told in two beautiful books, Pilgrim of Love by Atma Jo-Ann Levitt, and Infinite Grace, The Story of My Spiritual Lineage, by Swami Rajarsi Muni.

In 1977, at the age of 64, after practicing kundalini yoga for 28 years, 10 hours a day, Bapuji stunned his huge spiritual family in India by saying he was leaving for America, for three months, promising to be back.  When we heard the news at the Kripalu Yoga Ashram in Sumneytown, Pennsylvania where he would be staying, we began the frenetic preparations for his visit.  Finally, on May 20^th, 1977, we drove to Kennedy Airport in New York to welcome him to the United States.

            Bapuji came into our waiting room first and there was a flurry of activity to make sure he was comfortable on the soft chair we had prepared for him.  Then he reached for his slate and wrote us a message:

            “My Dear Grandchildren.  I am extremely pleased to meet you all.  At present I am in such a critical stage of yoga sadhana that I cannot travel even two miles.  Yet, I have come to you, traveling thousands of miles by plane.  That is the miracle of your pure love.”

He smiled sweetly, unfazed by the long exhausting flight from India, his face loose and alive, the picture of a doting grandfather.  But then he looked my way and suddenly a movie ignited inside my forehead, in color, and I became aware of his immense spiritual power.  The pictures came quickly.  It was a scene from my childhood.  I was 14 years old.  I had just broken my left arm in gym class.  During the operation, much to my surprise, I had floated above my body near the ceiling over the operating table and watched the doctor straighten out my arm.  He straightened it by pulling it in two different directions at once, and then casually talked about his golf game. “Well, it looks like I’ll miss my tee time!” He laughed.

I was confused and terrified.  I didn’t know if I was alive or dead.  Then a bald headed man in an orange robe came to me. “Don’t be afraid,” he said, in thought, not words, and all fear vanished.  As he floated away, I tried to follow.  “No,”he said with compassion, “You can’t come.  But I’ll see you again when you start yoga.”  I had never heard of the word yoga before and soon forgot the incident.

And now here he was again, the same bald headed man in an orange robe!  I tried to check my tears. “You can’t cry like this in front of everyone!”  But then I looked around and everyone else was crying, too, so I just kept crying.

Two days later, in a dream, there was an explosion at the base of my spine.  It blew me 50 feet into the air where I floated giddy with bliss.  Then a voice said, “Look down.”  I looked down and saw my body going through one yoga posture after another with effortless grace.  Then the voice said.  “When the prana in the body of the seeker is awakened, all postures happen automatically.”

That’s how I met Bapuji.  My meeting, though unique to me, was no more dramatic than anyone else’s who met him.  Invariably he hid his spiritual power.  He was totally content to be just our grandfather.  On his first Father’s Day with us, he said,“I love you so much that I just want to pick you all up and place you on my lap!”

Bapuji stayed with us for four years.  He loved it here.  He found peace and solitude at Muktidam, the house in the woods above our ashram in Sumneytown where he did the final four years of his beloved yoga sadhana.** 

            During the first three months of his stay, he broke his silence and spoke to us twice a day.  Except for formal birthday discourses, he spoke spontaneously on a wide range of spiritual topics.  His talks were full of stories!  He couldn’t speak on any subject without telling a story!  He was a playwright in India and loved drama and often would change his voice to fit the characters in the story, and then he would laugh and cry along with us as he told the story.  Once he laughed so hard he fell over!  And it was at one of his own stories!

            This book is a collection of the stories he told us.  I’ve collected all I could find, 102.  If you live at the Kripalu Center, or if you visit the Kripalu Center, or if you’re a Kripalu Yoga teacher, or if you’re simply curious about his life, know that Swami Kripalu was a great man.  He was full of joy and compassion.  He had and still has, immense spiritual power, and if you open your heart to him while you read these stories, perhaps he will come to you.

As insignificant as I often feel in the grand scheme of things, Bapuji still comes to me.  The last time he appeared was a year ago when I was collecting these stories.  One evening I was saying japa, mantra repetition using beads.  My mind was distracted and I quit early.  That night Bapuji came to me in a dream.  He floated in from the left, his arms motionless as he moved.  I could only see his upper body.  He was youthful and radiant. He placed my mala beads in my hand and then he placed his hand over mine and showed me how to do japa again, patiently one bead at a time with great love.  Then he smiled and wagged his head from side to side and floated away. 

            I awoke with a start and burst into tears. 

            “Remember me!  Remember me!  Don’t forget me!”  I burbled and sobbed out loud, not caring anymore if anyone heard me.  But all was silent in the room, just the darkness of the night, and I knew better than to try and follow him, although that was all I wanted to do and all I will ever want to do.

With love to all,  John M.

*See story #30, How I Meet My Gurudev.

**Muktidam is now a shrine and is open to visitors.