True Tales

For three years, 2002, 2003 & 2004 I participated, taught and was resident Life Coach at the Khalsa Women’s Training Camps at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. The setting against the magnificent cliffs and rock formations, under a sky that never failed, day or night, to entrance the spirit–well, it was a place that always rocked my spiritual socks! My husband, Hari Bhajan Singh, has his birthday in September, so in 2004 I decided to write him a letter every day from camp as a way of appreciating him and connecting in that way that only the written word can do. I have printed three of those letters below.

I’d also like to express my appreciation for the dedication and pure love that Sumpuran Kaur and Ravi Kaur gave to these camps and to the women who came there looking for a way to increase the light in their lives. The fun, the beauty, the transformation that took place in those few precious days changed us all in ways that will last a lifetime.

September 13, 2004

This morning a million stars greeted me as I went out the door at 4 a.m. A shooting star lanced the sky and sadhana began with the sweet sounds of Jap-Ji. My body is sore from a day of hiking and yoga. I am sleepy as I write this even though I took a two hour nap after sadhana. It feels good to be a little shaky in the knees, to know the heat outside my cozy room beats down on the dusty road. Yesterday it thundered and rained briefly right after our return from Castle Rock. A “walk” Ravi had said, but mostly uphill. God was merciful and sent clouds to cover us and a few raindrops to cool our sweating bodies. The theme of the camp is “challenge” and already it is bearing fruit.

I finished reading the book, Awareness that I told you about. I want to start reading it again and maybe a third time. Every word in it rings true to me and I so want to be free, to be aware—but deMello says even wanting is attachment, and I know it to be true. He talks about how brief life is, how it is only a flash and we spend it worrying and trying to control things and wanting always to be accepted and approved of by people. He says the only way to truly love is to not care about anyone—a strange paradox, but it makes sense. If we are always trying to curry favor or have set up a system to tell us who is “with” us and who is “against” us then we do not love. It has become a bargain, as the Siri Singh Sahib always tells us. We have to know our happiness does not depend on anybody or anything and that it comes from awareness—being in love with life, unconditionally.

After a hike. Everyone but me. I’m taking the picture.

The incredible vista! That’s Sumpuran Kaur shouting out.

September 14, 2004

This place has its way with you. The cliffs, the wind, the way the sun and clouds play throughout the day. I saw a doe and two fawns this evening walking back from the Siri Singh Sahib’s lecture (a video from Women’s Camp, 1987). They so peacefully and daintily strolled through the mown alfalfa field. A beautiful song bird showed up outside the window this morning while I was leading the workshop with the women and word has it that last night raccoons made it into the room we’re using for all our classes. They ate some plums and used the toilets for their drinking hole (their little muddy footprints on the toilet seat). There are rosy apples hanging from the trees along the roadway and a donkey named Jackson who lives alone in a field who greets us and looks for treats when we pass by. Every day the aspen grove turns more golden.

I walked the labyrinth this evening after dinner and before the video. There was not another soul around (well, one that I could see) and I remembered when we walked the labyrinth at Sycamore Hot Springs and how lovely that was. I wrote a poem afterwards that is still rough, but it’s for you.

GHOST RANCH, NEW MEXICO

Turn and slowly hinge into the evening sun, west to face
the ochre cliffs etched by wind and spectral memory,

crunching pebbles underfoot, chards of pinion, the zigzag
tread of boot and sandal. I walk the coils of your mind,

want to arrive at the center, crave completion, bear
an offering of blue and yellow flowers, a jagged stone

bound in string to lay at the sage-strewn altar. Returning,
I pivot again and again into a land where you and I

form a labyrinth—a place to depart from, a place to circle back.

September 15, 2004

I walked the high swaying bridge today on the ropes course. I went second so I could get it over with. Remember when we did it a few years ago and I was so afraid? I was worried that my legs would give out like they did then, when I climbed the rope ladder, but I did it. I climbed up the pole then walked across the bridge. I also belayed for the other women. We had a great day and I thought how proud you would have been of me—funny how it’s important for you to be proud of me for being more athletic. I think the jungle swinging in Costa Rica was also a big factor in my ability to trust I would make it.

I feel so alive and aware. Being with these wonderful women has been uplifting in so many ways. This group is small, but very committed. There are two women from Germany that I like very much and hope to see when we travel there again. I can see that if I was in a more “outdoorsy” community I would probably get out and exercise more.

I’ll be back in L.A. in two days, away from the Milky Way and shooting stars, the donkey, deer and silence. I’ll be back to you, the pups and our home. Tonight we sat around a campfire roasting marshmallows and making s’mores. We told ghost stories, laughed, got smoke in our eyes. I will be sad to leave, but when the women are gone and the energy no longer here it will not be the same. It is a transient moment, one to cherish, just as they all are.

  This is the suspension bridge. It’s not me up there, but I did do it!

Climbing up the pole and jumping for the trapeze. This one I did not do.

Ravi Kaur–with the greatest of ease. 

Belaying. Putting your life in the hands of your sisters was a powerful lesson in trust. And doing it for others was a responsibility we all wanted to partake of.

The triumphant gather at the base of "the wall." Proof that I was there (I did climb this monster), second from the right in the back row. It was a great day!

Oh I love the pictures of Hemkunt Sahib. Thank you. It’s so true that a picture is worth a thousand words! The photos brought back such vivid memories of my three trips to Hemkunt Sahib in the 1970’s.

[If any readers have pics from a Hemkunt Sahib yatra, please contact Siri Ved Kaur so we can include photos with this story.]

Well, it’s that time of year again. My youngest daughter, Sat Amrit, is off to India for her last year at Miri Piri Academy. Those who know me well, know that my 5 family members pretty much live in 5 different places. My eldest SKK in North Carolina, AK in Venice Beach, SAK finishing up at MPA, my husband 5 days a week in Bakersfield, and me, well I am in L.A. So, I never thought I would suffer from “empty nest syndrome,” since I am so used to having no one else home most of the time.

Wrong! Not because SAK is leaving mind you, but because it is her last year. This time next year she’s off to college. I can’t believe she’s grown up, and so fast. I have been the mother of a minor child for over 33 years, which is 3/5 of my life, and all of my adult life. The years have whirled by and I find myself surprised at the sense of both grieving and joy I feel as all of my fledglings have grown, and the youngest one is at last about to take wing.

A few years ago, at this same time of year, I wrote the poem below. Similar scenario this year, except she’s moved up to 3 duffels and the ticket was $1600.
 

Well the shopping is finally done.
La Peer Beauty Supply - $154.37 for shampoo, crème rinse,
bath gel, lip smoothie and body oil.
Shoe Pavilion - $163.89 for two pairs of sneakers
and polishable black shoes
Walgreen’s - $54.37 for body lotion, face masque, antibacterial
wipe packets, 3 pairs flip flops (3 pairs for $12!) and
a few items missed at Office Max
Office Max - $224.86 on notebooks, pens, art supplies, scissors,
paper, pencils, erasers, organizers, blank CDs
Consulate General of India - $125 for student visa including Fed-Ex
Ross - $229 for t-shirts, jeans, cute purse
(she must have), more shoes…
Target - Over $1100 on three separate trips for thong underwear,
bikini underwear, bikini swim suits, bras, camisoles, jeans, socks,
pajamas, towels, bed linens, and a world of supplies
every teenage girl needs for 9 months.
One mother fretting over all this spending and then
thinking what the hell, I’m so in debt anyway, what’s another $2000
One father napping in the bedroom seemingly oblivious to all
the shopping, labeling, packing, organizing,
and diminishing available credit.
Ten more days until
one fifteen-year-old daughter dons her backpack, loads her two duffels,
and departs for boarding school in
Amritsar on a Lufthansa 747 (Round trip ticket, $1350).  

Getting to India always seemed to be at least a minor struggle for those that I knew who had gone and it was the same for me. We (my wife Sat Inder Kaur and I) decided late that there was enough money in our budget for both of us to go on the 1980 yatra. As a result, I was two weeks or so later than her in passport submission and ticketing. Our trip left from New York’s JFK International. My flight was set for the day after the main group. Worst of all, by the time we got to New York City I still had no visa. 

After saying goodbye, along with Yogiji, to the rest of the yatra, I returned to NYC and the Indian consulate to see what the solution to my problem might be. Dealing with the Indian bureaucratic system was certainly a job for a saint, a position to which I had not yet risen. All I received from the various clerks and secretaries were blank stares and upraised shoulders.

I stood nearly helpless at the consulate’s “visa” desk. The idea that I might not get to India was another strain that my aspiring sainthood could not bear.  So, like any other red blooded New Yorker, even though I was in a turban and bana, I donned my true colors, those of the “ugly American,” and simply barged around the back of the desk and into the office without asking and began going through the piles (literally piles) of files stored there in no discernible order.

And, as if validating all my poor behavior, I found it! My approved passport, right there almost at the bottom of one pile! Now, able to become a little more polite and apologetic I backed out of the consulate assured of getting to India.

ABOVE: OUR 1980 YATRA GROUP IN BABA NIHAL SINGH’S VILLAGE.

While the rest of the journey was not a blur:

• My first physical sighting of the Golden Temple from the window of a taxicab found my heart beating almost outside my ribcage (Like some love-struck cartoon character, I thought I might faint dead away.);
• I was immediately stricken ill after visiting the Harimandir Sahib with a disease that was later diagnosed as amoebic dysentery…quite vile in its earliest stages and almost as vile in its allopathic cure;
• A visit to the location where Guru Teg Bahadur meditated for 30 plus years where I was engulfed in the meditative power of the place;

• The walk up to Hemkunt Sahib and the dip in the ice encrusted pool where the water felt warm, spa-like and enriching; and finally,
• My team’s loss in their first World Series appearance. (Sorry about the sports interjection!);

PHOTOS ABOVE AND BELOW - BY MANJIT SINGH, L.A.

ABOVE: KESHGAR SAHIB (ANANDPUR SAHIB)

BELOW: YATRA GROUP IN AMRITSAR, ATOP NANAK NIVAS.

I was, however, most struck by our time in Anandpur Sahib. (I should mention that my favorite English language song was “Flowers in the Rain.” The verse that always got to me was “many did they run away and many did they hide…” I knew, I just knew I was one of those poor cowardly Sikhs who had hidden from Guru Gobind Singh’s call. I was not able to give my head and a feeling of shame overcame me each time I sang it.) So my visit to Keshgarsahib was to be a place I might make up for that shame in some small way with a prayer, an apology, an offering, I knew not what exactly but I knew it would be there.

As I shuffled slowly up to bow before the Guru Granth Sahib, in the company of my fellow pilgrims and Baba Nihal Singh and his troop of Nihung Singhs, I began to formulate my prayer. Or at least I tried. But nothing came, my mind was a complete and total and utter blank. At all the other places we had visited and prayed, and at which we had bowed and sung, I was able to stumble out, in my mind and heart, at least a small prayer for healing or upliftment, or a wish for a return, or thanks, or something to acknowledge the grace and strength of the moment. But here, in my home, where the Siri Singh Sahib said I would be reborn, there was nothing, nothing I could say to apologize to my Guru. I felt almost panicky. What prayer could I offer?  What could I say, or promise or resolve? …there was nothing.

My turn came and my mind was still a blank, an ecstatic blank, but still blank. How could I waste this marvelous chance to bow my head in the holy place and not speak to my Guru, not utter a prayer of some kind!!! As my offering fluttered down to the pile of rupee notes and I closed my eyes and kissed the floor there, I was, it seems, suspended within the coolness of the marble and the voices of the sadh sangat. And then the words came. They were not of course mine. They came from outside of me, to pierce my heart and soul. They were in English but I recognized the voice of my Guru: “You shall never desert me.” That was all. Just five words that would complete the yatra for me. I have never forgotten them.

This is what happened to me a few years ago which I will always treasure and cherish.

During mid 90’s for a short period British Airways Flights to Delhi used to operate from Gatwick instead of Heathrow. We planned a trip to India and our flight to Delhi was scheduled to leave Gatwick around 10pm. We had to leave home for London Gatwick early evening giving us ample time to travel and check in. Normal time for my evening prayers (Rehraas) used to be around 6pm and due to our traveling arrangements I asked for forgiveness and started Rehraas before 3 in the afternoon. During my recitation of the Paath (prayers) I had this amazing experience which I would like to share.

During the prayer I heard the holy voice saying “So, you are worried again.”

To which I replied with respect, “Babaji (My Guru Sahib Sattguru Nanak ji) you are aware, I am traveling on a standby ticket and do not know whether I am going to get on the plane or not.”

Holy Voice: “All right, if we do get you on the flight, then what would you do for us?”

Now I started calculating my abilities and resources to fulfill any demands by the Babaji and after a pause and calculated thought I replied: “Babaji you know about my abilities better than I do."

Babaji: “Fine, Give us five pounds when you get to Delhi.”

Relieved, and still calculating I asked: “But Babaji, where and how can I give you five pounds?”

Now after a pause I was shown Gurudwara (Sikh Temple) Bangla Sahib and on the left hand side, near the flower stalls below the marble steps, I saw an old man in typical Sikh farmer’s clothes and noticeably he had very weak knees and had difficulties in standing too long.

I obediently looked and agreed to deliver the promise…. All of a sudden I found myself sitting down at my house with Gutka (Prayer book) in my hand and started wondering whether I had fallen asleep during Rehraas Sahib, but the experience was so fresh and with such profound impact that it was hard to ignore.

During our journey to Gatwick my wife mentioned that the flight was overbooked and our chances were very slim, but I did not mention my experience during Rehraas to her. At the airport we awaited till 0930pm and then airline staff informed us that the flight to Delhi had been closed without any standby passengers being taken. Hearing that, I started thinking about my experience earlier during Rehraas Sahib and was almost coming to a conclusion that what I experienced was a dream.

Now coming back to the real world I realized we had wasted more than an hour after the flight was declared closed still planning different routes and approaches to Delhi. We thought of coming back to Heathrow and trying to fly via Bombay instead. All the other standby passengers had left by then.

All of a sudden we heard an announcement stating, “If there are any passengers still waiting for Delhi flight please contact BA customer services.” After enquiries we found out that the 747 scheduled for Delhi developed a fault in its rudder and had to be replaced with another Boeing 747 which carries more passengers and less cargo, hence we had the chance. I was shocked and elated after boarding the new Jumbo 747 to Delhi. During the flight I told my wife exactly what I had experienced during the prayers. We drove straight to Gurudwara Bangla Sahib after landing at Delhi.

We were approached by various people asking for alms but none matched the description of the man I was shown during my prayers in London. I waited for a while at the spot I was shown but family was getting anxious to get home quickly. I left Gurudwara Sahib with regrets and a five pound note still in my top pocket.

Whilst in Delhi on every visit to Bangla Sahib I used to stand waiting for the magic moment of meeting the special one at the foot steps next to flower stall but it was not happening. I was not prepared to deliver it to anyone but the chosen one. My belief was getting even stronger considering that if Almighty can swap the airplane to accommodate us despite all the odds at London Gatwick then I must wait for the special soul to appear. 

Now it was the last day in Delhi and we were scheduled to return by an early morning flight. Like other days I went to the same spot waiting and started saying to Babaji, “Oh Almighty please guide me, you fulfilled your promise and kindly help me to fulfill mine. Please guide me, what shall I do?  Should I put promised money in a charity box or give it to Kar Seva (building fund)?”

I looked around, but nothing happened. I asked my wife to proceed to the Gurudwara Sahib as I wanted to wait a while longer. As she started climbing up the marble steps, I looked towards the Gurudwara and with tearful eyes begged again. At that point some one touched my shoulder and said, “Baabuji…” I turned around and saw what I had been waiting all along to see. Shocked and tearful I touched his knees and wrapped him with my arms and shouted towards my wife and told her I found him.

I asked where he was all this time. Smilingly He replied “ASSI TEY SAADH SANGAT WICH HEE VASDEY HAAN, SAADH SANGAT DEY BHAROSEY TEY HEE HAAN.” (We reside among the Holy Congregation/Saadh Sangat. We are here because of Holy Congregation/Saadh Sangat). I honestly had blank thoughts and did not know what to say or ask, and just kept on staring at him. We both kept smiling at each other without saying words and unaware of the looks and curiosity of the people around us. I kept my hands on his weak knees. He did say few words which made me feel very blissful and floating at the time, and I forgot them very soon after.

I gave him the promised money, without looking at it he again mentioned “ASSI TEY SAADH SANGAT WICH HI VASDEY HAAN”. (We reside among the Holy Congregation/Saadh Sangat). Few minutes later he asked if he could go and we started climbing marble steps and he turned towards the sarovar (water pool). I saw him climbing down the steps and as I turned towards my wife to explain how relieved and elated I felt, I looked again. Within the blink of an eye, he had gone.

But I hope and pray never to forget the special bond between faith and prayer.

Summer Solstice Yatra 1979

Our cars, packed and piled with camping gear, finally pulled away from the curb on Preuss Road. We were off!  It had been a hectic day of going to work, followed by last minute shopping, packing, locating camping gear, and meeting with our fellow travelers for the 15-hour or so drive to the Jemez Mountains of New Mexico for Summer Solstice Sadhana. We had planned to meet, pack up the cars and be on the road by 7:00 PM. It was Friday night, and we calculated that by driving straight through we would get up to the Solstice site late in the morning of the next day, with plenty of time to set up our tents and participate in the day’s events. Yet, delay after unexplainable and frustrating delay put off our departure until almost 11:00 PM.

We sat around Sat Anand Kaur’s and Harkirat Singh’s kitchen table, snacking and chatting excitedly about Solstice and plans for our drive ahead, trying not to get negative about the person who was late and thus holding up our departure. I commented lightly, and others agreed, that it felt so odd with all the delays and leaving so late, that perhaps the universe was setting us up for something in a certain time and space. At last all our co-travelers were present, packed, and set to depart.

It was a dark cloudless night. Looking up, I noticed that the stars seemed more visible than usual, peering through the layers of reflected city lights and atmosphere, beckoning us to get going!

Karta Singh (center) flanked by Siri Gurmukh S (L) and I can’t remember name of man on R. Is that Babaji in the background?

Our small caravan consisted of two well-packed vehicles. Sat Anand Kaur, Akal Kaur and Karta Singh, all striking in their nihang style of dress, drove together in Sat Anand’s Volvo wagon. Recently inspired through their Amrit vows, and influenced by their studies with Bhai Mohinder Singh (who taught kirtan and gatka for several months in Los Angeles) they wore full bana, with gleaming steel chakras (circular swords) and khandas (double edged swords) on their damaala style turbans, navy blue cotton cholas, with shiny kirpans at their sides. Little Hargobind Singh, Sat Anand Kaur’s two-year-old son, was already asleep, nestled comfortably on the floor in the back seat.

At home in the back of our van.

Siri Ved Singh and I had packed our white Ford Econoline van with all our gear and made the large back area a cozy spot for our five-year-old daughter Sat Kartar Kaur, and our fellow travelers, my closest friend Siri Bhrosa Kaur, her nine-year-old daughter Sat Hari Kaur, and her friend, Siri Krishna Kaur. Sleeping bags, foam pads, duffels, pillows and blankets all layered…. so those riding in the back could find a cozy corner to curl up and try to get some sleep during the long journey ahead.

We planned to change drivers every two hours. This way we would all get at least some sleep and be pretty alert for driving. After a couple of hours, it was time for a switch, and both cars pulled over somewhere in the Mojave Desert. We chatted a bit, checked on the kids, and were on our way again. Now it was my turn to drive the Volvo.

As we neared Kingman, Arizona I was finding it harder and harder to keep my eyes open and signaled to the other car to pull over. Akal Kaur volunteered to take over my spot, but wanted some coffee to help her stay awake. So we pulled over to a truck stop on the east end of Kingman. While she was inside getting her coffee, I got back in the van with my family. Akal Kaur, newly charged with caffeine, jumped behind the wheel of the Volvo.

We hit the road again, Siri Bhrosa Kaur driving and I in shotgun, both of us assuming the Volvo was right behind us. Siri Ved Singh was happy in the rear with the kids, finally getting a chance to sleep and was out like a light within a few minutes.

The sun was just starting to rise, golden orange and pink hues first peeking from behind the distant mountain tops, and then spreading its soft warm light out across the desert sky; the air still chill, crisp and clear.  Siri Bhrosa and I were chatting away, anticipating Solstice, commenting on the incredible beauty of the scenery, soaking it all up, and then, finally, we noticed that the Volvo was not behind us.

Thinking we may have sped ahead or that they might have somehow been delayed, we pulled over to let them catch up. We waited. As each minute went by, each second seemed longer, and we felt a sense of dread creep into our hearts. We noticed that really no cars at all were behind us, just one or two coming by every so often. We turned and looked at each other and agreed: we’d better go back and see what was going on.

We had not driven long when we came to a massive jam of cars, backed up as far as we could see. A semi-truck slowly approached from the opposite direction. As it passed by. Siri Bhrosa waved and called out the window, asking, "What’s happened? Why is the traffic all backed up like this? Our friends our missing…”

He called back, “What kind of car were they driving?”

We answered, “A yellow Volvo station wagon.” He gave us a distressed, panicked, and helpless look, and without another word drove on. Siri Bhrosa steered the van on to the shoulder of the road to bypass the line up of cars and sped ahead.

And there we saw, stretched and twisted across the entire highway, a 16-wheel semi truck on its side. There were police cars, an ambulance, and standers-by scattered everywhere, cars being rerouted around on the shoulder, cars everywhere. At this point, our already dreamlike frame of mind went to surreal. Everything turned into images, flashes, disbelief, horror, incomprehension… “Is that the car?! O my God, that’s their car. Where is the top?  O my God, O my God.”

Siri Bhrosa and I jumped out of the van, leaving Siri Ved Singh with the kids, and ran to the Volvo. The top, windows and all, had been completely sheared off by the head-on impact with the truck.¹ And there was Sat Anand Kaur, crumpled and limp, lying across the back seat, unconscious, barely a breath of life, crushed by the force of the impact. I was struck by the image of her kirpan, held in her hand.

The rescuers were trying to lift her out of the car and onto a stretcher. “Do you know these people?” one young man asked. 

“Yes, they are our friends, we are traveling with them. Where is the baby!?” And then I saw Hargobind in the arms of a rescuer, passing him to Siri Bhrosa, so he could continue to help with removing the others from the car.

I glanced at the front of the car, where Akal Kaur and Karta Singh had been seated. But all I remember seeing is a blur of color. I didn’t see Akal Kaur or Karta Singh. Perhaps mercifully. Or, perhaps I did see and completely blocked it from memory. I did not even think of or remember them, for what I could see right before me in the back seat was so all-encompassing.

I ran over to the van to tell Siri Ved Singh to take the kids and follow us in the ambulance to the hospital. Siri Bhrosa and I climbed into the ambulance and they brought in Sat Anand. Hargobind was still crying, but safe. All I saw was Sat Anand… Sat Anand. There was only one paramedic in the ambulance with us; the others were still trying to extricate Karta and Akal from the car. He couldn’t have been much older than me (I was 26) and I could tell by the slightly panicked look on his face that he knew there was no hope to save Sat Anand. But still, he asked Siri Bhrosa and I to help with CPR, counting, pumping, giving oxygen, all a blur, the siren screaming, sounding oddly far off in the distance, the ambulance flying at what seemed warp speed, so, so fast, yet utterly out of time… eight miles to the hospital in what seemed like seconds. And then there was a moment, a shift in energy, a last most faint whisper of breath, and in that instant we knew she was gone, and we uttered Wahe Guru Wahe Guru Wahe Guru.

We arrived at Kingman Medical Center, and they rushed her into the ER, still trying to revive her, to pull her back, without success. Little Hargobind, although seriously injured with broken bones and a ruptured spleen, was going to make it and be OK.

Remembering the others, I asked the nurses, “When will the next ambulance come?”

 “They are bringing the man. They are still trying to get the woman out.” I had a distinct feeling they were not telling all they knew.

In what seemed like a few minutes, they brought in Karta Singh and the truck driver. The truck driver was groaning as they rushed him by. His legs soaked in blood. But I learned that blood, like crying, is a good sign. He was alive and would survive. But Karta, I only saw him briefly, his body in jerking spasms, was taken behind a curtain for immediate care. It didn’t look, or sound, good. Siri Bhrosa Kaur, having identified herself as an RN, went in to observe and help.

I went to the nurses’ station and asked if I could use the phone to call Los Angeles. They said yes, but for long distance it would have to be collect. I was thinking of Yogiji and how he must know of this. I dialed the number for Guru Ram Das Ashram (at that time, the sevadar could transfer calls to Yogiji, who lived in the back), but the sevadar refused the call, saying he could not accept collect calls. Frantic and adamant, I insisted, “You must accept this call. This is an emergency! You have to accept this call. I have to talk to Yogiji!”

I heard some muffled voices and In the very next instant I heard Yogiji’s beloved voice, and he said, “Who is this? What has happened?” and my heart melted and I felt I was safe, and his voice, just the sound of his beloved voice, brought me some ease.

Trembling, I replied, “Sir, this is Siri Ved Kaur. There has been a terrible, terrible accident. Sat Anand, Sat Anand Kaur is gone. She’s gone, Sir.”

“Who else is there with you?”

“Siri Bhrosa is with me, Siri Ved has all the children. But I think Akal Kaur might be gone (at that moment a nurse confirmed it with a nod), yes, Sir, Akal, she is gone too, and Karta Singh, we don’t know about Karta. Hargobind is hurt, but he is going to be OK.”

I don’t remember the remainder of our conversation, only the strengthening and loving resonance of his voice as he said, “Remember God.”²

With nothing remaining for us to do in the ER, Siri Bhrosa and I joined Siri Ved Singh and the children in the waiting area. We sat in a circle on the brightly colored vinyl-covered chairs, in shock and in dream, and began to chant to Guru Ram Das… Guru Guru Wahe Guru Guru Ram Das Guru, Guru Guru Wahe Guru Guru Ram Das Guru…

Later that morning we were joined by Kirpal Singh (Akal Kaur’s husband) and Harkirat Singh (Sat Anand Kaur’s husband). They had taken the first flight to Phoenix, and then Ravi Taj Singh, a pilot living in the Phoenix area, flew them to Kingman in a Cessna. It felt good to have them join us. It was odd, because we were acting happy and smiling, but we weren’t happy. We were all in so much shock. The nurses who saw us greet Kirpal, looked at us and then at each other, amazed that at a time like this we could smile, and that we could sit with our children and pray and chant, and not shed a tear. And, to this day, I have still not shed a tear.³

My memories become a blur after that. We all checked into a motel with a pool so the kids could swim and play. There were phone calls to home, to Espanola…. Harkirat and Kirpal making immediate funeral arrangements, Harkirat at his son’s bedside. Others driving to solstice, having heard of the tragedy, came and also stayed at the motel. There were maybe 10 or 15 total. Was it Saturday? Sunday? How did the time pass? I do not know.

We learned that Karta was going to be transferred to a better hospital in Phoenix (where he passed away about two weeks later)⁴. Hargobind was still in the hospital, and would be transported to Cedars Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles in a few days. All that was left to do was to take care of the remains of our sisters.

In the afternoon Siri Bhrosa and I went to the funeral home to prepare the bodies of Sat Anand and Akal for the cremation to be performed later that evening. The mortician directed us to a door and said the bodies were in there. With a bucket of yogurt, towels, and fresh bana to dress them in, we entered the room. Cold, sterile, inhuman, stark, white. Two tables, two draped bodies, two souls watching.

Harkirat Singh joined us and as he stood to the side, reading the holy banis, with a pained voice, tears in his eyes, the voice of the Guru filled the room, vibrated off the walls, and penetrated our hearts.

We removed the draping sheets and saw before us profoundly empty shells. Clothing torn and stained. The top of Akal Kaur’s head gone, simply gone. Skull empty. A plastic bag of what remains they could find. Pieces of bone piercing through skin. Small puncture wounds, probably from glass, everywhere. Bones so crushed that, to lift a limb, it took all of our four hands. Vacant shells. Spirit filled room. We bathed the broken bodies of our sisters in yogurt, talking little, only as needed, praying, feeling the absolute presence of God. Nothing was subtle. Everything was absolute. It was a seamless, emotionless, and incredibly meditative experience. Knowing death intimately, and feeling the profound sacredness of that space. And as we deftly bathed and turned the bodies, gently and with love cleansing their wounds, smoothing their hair, dressing them in their beautiful white bana with all their K’s, and finally wrapping the bodies in white sheets, saying a final prayer, Siri Bhrosa Kaur and I also tied the knot in a bond of sisterhood that had already been weaving itself for many lifetimes.

That evening the small chapel filled with traveling friends and family flown in, maybe fifteen or twenty people in all. Sitting in dark wooden pews, we read from Peace Lagoon and then Pritpal Singh, Harkirat’s brother, said the Ardas. No instruments, no music. Perhaps we chanted. Some chose to stay for the cremation. We left, and went back to the motel for a long and deep sleep.

That night I fell into a dream. The dream was nothing but a black endless void. There was no color, no light, no image… only the sound of Akal Kaur’s voice, clear and pure, speaking to me, “We are OK. We are happy. Don’t worry. We want to come back again as Khalsa.” And that was all.⁵

In back: Siri Krishna K, Sat Kartar K, and Sat Hari Kaur. Front: Siri Ved K and Siri Bhrosa Kaur. This shot is taken after Solstice down at Ladies Camp. Check out those turbans (in the below photo too)!

The next morning we packed up the van and the kids and all of our scattered belongings and left the motel, continuing on our yatra to Summer Solstice. The Siri Singh Sahib had told us we should come to see him as soon as we got to Espanola. We arrived at the Ranch just before sunset and were shown into his living room. We touched his feet and sat down close by, feeling the love, the stares of others there, all trying to comprehend what had happened, and what we must be going through. He said little. He looked at us, I am sure most keenly at our auras, and sent us on our way, saying we must get up to the Solstice site as soon as possible, and keep the silence.

I was so grateful for that silence, to not have to answer questions, tell the story, deal with anything, but just be in the protective umbrella of Guru Ram Das on that holy land, healing, meditating, walking the long dusty path to our tent, coming back up the hill, practicing sacred White Tantric Yoga, all in a dream, all in grace, in Guru’s protection. That Solstice, the following eight weeks of women’s camp, and the return home… all were like a dream to me.

Gurdwara at Summer Solstice, held under the "Tantric Shelter".

My only other recollection of that summer is from KWTC: I was at a handgun course taught by a retired military man. The 20 or so participants were sitting on a set of small bleachers, or perhaps it was a little hill. He was talking about the power of a gunshot, the damage it can do, being a bit graphic, and asked how many of us had seen the body of someone who had suffered a violent death. No one raised a hand, not even I.

Ever since, when I recall this event, I think of Siri Bhrosa and I so innocently enjoying our drive together, coming around the curve of a mountainside and seeing the glorious sunrise reaching out to all corners of the distant sky… our pulling over and waiting, and waiting, and then finally turning back to search for our companions. And how, in those few minutes we transitioned from joy, to fear, to shock, dealt with it, and were changed forever.

^1.   Later it was surmised that after taking the wheel, Akal had likely gotten on the highway going in the wrong direction. Realizing her mistake, she turned around, speeding to catch up to us. For many miles the highway had been divided, but in this long stretch east of Kingman, it was a two-lane highway; one lane each direction. When passing a car, with speed estimated by police at 80 mph, she struck the semi truck head on. This stretch of highway, long known to the locals as an accident hazard, has since been changed to a divided highway.

^2.   I learned later that at the time of my call to the sevadar, Yogiji had just stepped outside the ashram to leave for the airport, on his way to New Mexico. Sensing something wrong, he had taken the phone from the sevadar. Harkirat Singh just happened to be at the ashram to bid farewell to him, and thus was immediately informed of the loss of his wife, Sat Anand Kaur, and the miraculous survival of his son, Hargobind Singh.

^3.   Note from Shakti Parwha Kaur: You may not have shed a tear during or after your experience of the violent deaths, but reading your story brought tears to my eyes more than once. … Let me share with you a short postscript to that day, because I was standing in front of Guru Ram Das Ashram when the call came through, and I remember being shocked at the way in which the Siri Singh Sahib told Harkirat what had happened. He simply stated it as fact — no emotion — just a stark fact, "Your wife has been killed in an accident." Then he took him (and several of us went along) into the back, to the living room of the ashram. I cannot recall exactly what was said, but I do remember being on the sidewalk when he so matter-of-factly told Harkirat his wife was dead. I guess life and death are viewed more objectively when one is a master. 

^4.   Karta Singh had severe spinal cord injuries and never regained consciousness. Yogiji told us that Karta Singh had a choice to make whether to live as a quadriplegic or to leave this world. It took him two weeks in a coma to make that decision, and then he was gone.

^5.   A few days later I heard that Yogiji had said Akal Kaur and Sat Anand Kaur wanted to come back and be born to Sikh families. He asked all the thousand people at Solstice to chant for them the long Akaaaaaal, so that they could let go of this earth, pass through the blue ethers, and merge blissfully with the Infinite.

And, lastly, I am actually not certain if this was in 1978 or 1979. 

In the luxury of hindsight I am able to appreciate unfolding and intertwining patterns of experience in my life. Each segment seems to be a prelude and preparation for the next. I am forever fascinated by the great tapestry of which we are all a part. Here’s a bit of what led up to that first yoga class I wrote about in “The Yogi, the Savages, and Amazing Grace.” 

I grew up in Newport Beach, California surrounded by the sea. As a child I played and boated upon the beautiful Pacific Ocean and as a teenager learned to surf. Surfing became my first religion for it was where I worshipped and experienced God as Nature. I believe it was there that I prepared for my later years of “riding the cosmic waves” of yoga, meditation and Gurbani Kirtan. The metaphor has served me well, for in order to find the center, the heart, or the “eye of the needle” whether in the sea, in life or in kirtan, or in the healing practice I once had, I can only do so through a certain type of intelligent surrender. An educated mind inspired by intuition is an elegant tool. Yet in the those times when my mind is directed by ego I fall out of that subtle place of equipoise and Grace as demonstrated by falling off a surf board or falling out of faith. Each carries immediate and unpleasant repercussions. I have learned, of course, that the juice truly is in the journey. So here is a bit more about mine.

I was reluctant to go back so far into the “hippie” years, but after seeing several documentaries on PBS about those heady times, I realized it has been 40 years since the “Summer of Love.” Although it seems so far in the past particularly since the present with Summer Solstice and White Tantric Yoga is such a powerful realization of those glimmers of hope we could only peek at in our dream of the Aquarian Age, lo those forty years ago. 

I began my travels the day I graduated from high school in 1962. Although Southern California was an idyllic location that thousands were streaming into, I was propelled from its beauty in search of something deeper. From the earliest sixties a longing for a world beyond this one began to resonate within me and my journey became one of seeking the truth. Although the truth was as yet undefined, I knew I would know it when I found it.

Decades before I’d ever heard of a hukam, I took one from a directory that listed all the colleges and universities in the United States. I wanted to test what I then called “fate” and see if indeed it did exist. I decided I would close my eyes, open a page, point, and when I opened my eyes go the college that “fate” had designed for me. So I did, and I did.

I went to a small college in the mountains of Western North Carolina where I pursued all aspects of the arts, cultural anthropology and metaphysical studies in the hope of gaining entrance into a realm I knew existed but could not find on the sunny, happy, partying beaches of Southern California. Although I was not alone in this pursuit it was the early sixties those of us on this path walked had not yet found each other and were still finding the path out of ourselves.

ABOVE: Palenque, as it is today, a well-groomed tourist destination.

Restless to travel, I left college after two years and went to Mexico City to study Flamenco dancing. In one of my journeys through Mexico I went to the Yucatan Peninsula where I had my first real metaphysical experience at Palenque, a Mayan ruin that had recently come to attention among archeologists but not yet the general public.

I was traveling with two archeological photographers at the time and we arrived at night after several days journey from Mexico City by car with no maps or frame of reference other than what we could gain from local stops along the way. We had no idea what to expect and being too excited to sleep, hung in our hammocks imagining what the day might bring. Finally, at dawn as the jungle mists lifted like curtains upon time, three distinct and overgrown pyramids were revealed. With a long slow inhale of breath we watched as though ours were the first eyes to fall upon Palenque since it had fallen asleep centuries ago. The silence was as opulent as the jungle it was set in. It was a place to listen rather than speak, so in acknowledged silence we each were drawn to our “own” pyramid. I was drawn to the far left structure.

After climbing the outside steps I found a kind of anteroom near the top with a descending staircase into what could have been an inner chamber. I decided to stay in the antechamber, which still held a view of the jungle’s canopy, and the ability to make a quick escape if need be. There were plenty of snakes, jaguar and other creatures whose world we were invading and whose wrath I had no intention of awakening. Adventure is one thing, fool heartedness is quite another. So after checking to make sure no wild creature was about to pounce I settled down, became as quiet as I knew how, and waited for Nature to reveal her secrets.

ABOVE: Another view of Palenque. 

After some time, as I was studying the walls, another veil seemed to lift, a veil of perception. I began to distinguish several carvings on the thickly covered inner walls, but one in particular caught my attention. A figure that resembled those I had seen of Shiva. I was astonished that so ancient a people, oceans away, could have possibly traveled the seas to India to exchange mythological symbols. It was only years later that I learned of the collective unconscious as described by Carl Jung and the works of Joseph Campbell who explained how shared symbols can come about. At the time, however, I had read none of these things, yet it was as though a gong was struck within my mind and another dimension of insight was opened. The resonance of revelation that there was indeed a connection between cultures, between times and between lives had an experiential profundity that altered the trajectory of my life.

As anyone who has been in the jungle can attest, it grows with an almost carnivorous voracity. So it was in this environment that the cycle of life seemed to further reveal itself through the lush vines that were growing up the stones as though they were consuming them. And in a sense they were. I could imagine the vines as fingers of the hands of the masons that had quarried and carved the large stones centuries ago.  Masons whose lives had long past, and whose bodies were returned to base elements, mingled with the earth, fertilizing the soil that now gave rise to the vines which in turn seemed to reclaim the stones back into the earth from whence they had come. I saw the march of the entire Mayan civilization into and out of its classic existence, and further realized that the journey has been repeated over and over, throughout centuries, cultures and continents.  Certainly not an original thought, but at the time it was for me. I trust and treasure such revelations that have come to me experientially and for which my mind has not been prepped academically or altered chemically.

For me this was a pure vision and as such was the affirmation I sought that the invisible world did indeed exist. And that it could be made visible when I walked with a heart open by intention, in a manner so as to leave no footprints, with eyes softened by the subtle and with ears attuned to silence. What I have come to learn about these visions is that they are personal and have been like a prelude to a symphony, or the amrit vela of a day. 

That is why in 1965, when the first of the “lost tribe” spontaneously began to wander into Golden Gate Park in San Francisco and meet each other for the first time, the reunion was so ecstatic.  At that early point, there had been no press coverage, no flyers, not even word of mouth to make an announcement. Yet souls gathered. The people who showed up in those early days did so through their intuition, the soul’s silent language. This was the basis for the trust among ourselves and what was unfolding within and between us. We loved sharing our ideals in the beauty of Nature, exploring our belief in a power greater than our own and delving into timeless and sacred wisdom. We were looking for a greater truth and we cleared our lives and our minds to receive it.

The tragedy of these times was that without a true teacher, without a strong discipline our ecstatic reunion soon deteriorated into Dionysian dissipation and our lofty vision was corrupted before it even had a chance to take root. I cannot adequately express the sorrow I felt at this loss. Some of us took to the hills to try and lead a more pure life in harmony with Nature. I was with a small group comprised of six couples that moved to Northern New Mexico to try and carry on the dream of our generation.

This dream for a better world is something we were cognizant of and committed to. We were vegetarians, took sweat lodges, fasted, did yoga from a book, studied with the Hopi and whatever indigenous shaman we could find. We had read that in order to attain God consciousness one had to go from individual consciousness through group consciousness. We tried very sincerely to create a group consciousness amongst ourselves but ultimately we could not overcome our egos, as much as we tried. We realized we needed a teacher, and we had read in Autobiography of a Yogi “when the student is ready the teacher appears.” We sincerely tried to prepare ourselves. Our last day together we fasted, we prayed and we held one last sacred peyote meeting with the intention of calling our teacher to us.

Peyote is a bitter desert cactus button used by shaman to further an initiate’s vision quest or to liberate souls stuck in limbo. My understanding of the way we were taught was to gather in a circle around a fire and sit for the night tending the fire and drumming. Through the rhythm of the drums and the light of the fire souls could find their way to the fire, be purified by it, then rise with the smoke through the hole in the center of the kiva or teepee into the great beyond. We were probably mixing media and disciplines, but that was what I understood it to be. One thing you never were supposed to do was break the circle. It would be like breaking a White Tantric Yoga line.

Sadly, throughout the night it became obvious we could not hold the energy and people began to leave the circle. By pre-dawn’s light only one other and myself remained. We both had tears rolling down our face with yet another heartbreak at our failure to keep our generation’s dream of the ideal alive. When I walked out of the teepee I saw hundreds of souls, like little candles, stilled in their march toward us. Called by the peyote for their liberation, but unable to enter the fire because we could not hold the circle. I felt as though I had betrayed a nation of innocents. I fell on my knees and vowed to dedicate the rest of my life to liberating the souls we had called, whatever the cost. Souls whose hope had been awakened and who had come with faith yet were now more saddened than if they had never been called.

Later that morning the six couples that comprised the Juke Savages said goodbye and took off in six different directions; some to Woodstock, some to Minnesota, some to Oaxaca, some to Northern California, some to Los Angeles. The man I had been living with for over two years decided at that moment to break up with me and within an hour everyone was gone and I was standing in the Abiqui house by myself. At that point in time we’d been living so far off the grid I had only the one dress I was wearing, a sleeping bag, a green woolen shawl from Mexico, a bamboo flute I had made and a copy of the I Ching. It would be hard to describe how totally desolate I felt.

I walked out into the desert, fell on my knees yet again and pleaded, “God, whatever your name is, you know who you are. I’m asking with all of my being for your help now.” Almost immediately I intuitively “heard” a voice and “saw” a face that said, “Come to L.A.”

I said, “What, are you kidding me? L.A. is Sodom and Gomorrah. This desert is the most truthful and real thing I’ve ever found.”

The “Voice” responded, “Well, you don’t have to come, but what you’re looking for is here.”

With nothing to lose I walked down an arroyo that turned into a dirt road that turned into a two-lane highway with an old pump gas station. Just as I was walking up to it a big hippie school bus pulled up and they asked where I was going. I told them L.A. and they invited me to hop on and that they would give me a ride. That’s how things happened in those days. I was pretty close to a total melt down and the only thing that kept me together was reading the I Ching constantly. I read one hexagram after and pretty much had it memorized by the time we reached L.A. It has served as a great source of grounding and wisdom ever since.

After a week on the road, we pulled up to a big house in the Hollywood Hills called “The Castle” and found “coincidently” gathered there all of the Juke Savages who one week before had gone off in different directions thinking we would never see each other again. Amazing were the tales of how each of us ended up there even though we thought we were going elsewhere.

The next morning we all went to “The Yogi’s” yoga class and discovered that indeed, “when the student is ready the teacher appears.” And oh my, what a teacher! It was there in that first yoga class, when I closed my eyes, I got the big neon sign and crashing cymbals announcing, “THIS IS IT!” The thing I’d been looking for all my life. I still didn’t know what to call it but knew it by its nature and how it so fully impacted me. When I opened my eyes and saw this big, dark, scary man yelling at us I thought, “He doesn’t look like a holy man, he can’t be our teacher.” Yet as soon as I closed my eyes the truth was clear. The inner/outer sight contrast was also a big indication for me of where the truth lies.

In those early days, for those of us who wanted to walk a spiritual path, the way was rarely convenient, certainly not conventional, and often foreign to popular conceptions. I sometimes wonder where we found the courage. But then I remember that we were young, we had nothing left to lose, and our teacher had immeasurable spiritual strength and moral courage.

As a postscript, I came to him in March of 1969 and by the time we took him to New Mexico for a hippie Summer Solstice three months later, he had already taught us several mantras. One amrit vela in Tesuque I went outside and climbed on a big rock and started chanting long “Ek Ong Kar” and within an hour all those souls from the Peyote meeting three months before came and were liberated through the light of the Nam.

So if you wonder why I believed in Yogi Ji so thoroughly it’s because of my experience of the truth and power of what he taught. How many prayers were answered and visions fulfilled. The most profound of things I saw him do was hold the space and ground the energy for what was left of my generation. I experienced him rebuilding, rebirthing and delivering us to the divinity and dignity we sought but could never have found on our own. It was impossible not to fall in love with him as a father and as a teacher, but he always remained a nation unto himself and directed us back to ourselves and to God, which ultimately, is what we had come for. Meanwhile, we rejoiced and continue to rejoice in this tribe of the golden chord. 

When I was a young man, I went to a World’s Fair in Montreal, Canada. The fair seemed to be a representation of everything that was best in the world. It was beautiful. From the exposition, I took away some wonderful impressions, including the motto of the fair, by a French writer: “To be a man, is to feel that through one’s life one has made a contribution to the world.”

While I continued with my regular schooling, I devoted a good deal of my time to researching the subject of making a contribution to the world. How does one do it? I read the words of great minds, the classics of Plato and Plotinus, Freud and Jung, Russell and Orwell, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, Marx and Engels, Kafka and Camus. I even found a couple of books on Tibetan Buddhism which influenced me deeply.

At sixteen, confirmed in my rebellious ways, vegetarian for a couple of years now and without a haircut for a whole year, I left home to join “the Movement”. Perhaps I was influenced by the fact that a great yogi had lived not so far away in Toronto and must have passed by the highway near my town on his way to the capital and back. Perhaps his expansive magnetic field had touched my own. All I can say is that I was very restless in those days and very hopeful that I might indeed make some sort of contribution. But how?

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As the kirtan resumes after the Ardas and Hukum at the Golden Temple this morning (which I watch on television in my bedroom in Bangalore), I notice one of the sevadars handing out Prasad to those sitting behind the ragis. In all the times I have had my television tuned to this early morning tradition, this is the first time I ever remember seeing Prasad being distributed.

As the camera focuses on the section where the ragis sit, I see the tall, lean back of the sevadar, and the movement of his back and upper arm as he reaches with his right hand into the dull, well used steel bowl which is carefully balanced on his left arm. Each movement recalls the grace of a ballet dancer, a rhythm with each serving of Prasad that he delivers into the waiting hands of the faithful. I cannot see the bowl, or the people being served, or his hands giving, or theirs receiving.

With each movement of his arm, the vivid smell, texture and taste of the Prasad stimulates my memory, imagination, longing or all of it. I know that the Prasad is very soft and very hot and fresh, and perhaps some ghee might even be separated from the rest of the Prasad which would smart with a light burning feeling each time he dips his fingers in this sweet, blessed mixture. I could further imagine the texture, which is very soft and smooth. 

As I continue to watch, I begin to taste the Prasad. I slowly allow the taste to penetrate each taste bud and the sweetness and blessing washes over me in a way I don’t think has ever happened, even when I was physically present to receive it. This is the most conscious I ever have been of accepting the blessing of this sweet mixture, and suddenly all imagination and memory is replaced by a longing for a taste of that blessed Prasad, which has blessed so much of my life.

The light in Amritsar comes early in the morning in July and this morning the day is breaking with a beautifully defined, thickly clouded sky, all in a golden glow, and streaked with the pink of an unseen sun. The reflection of the sky gives a golden glow to the water in the Sarovar.

The sweetness of the Prasad is equally matched by the sweetness of this morning’s kirtan.  The devoted and faithful walk confidently with short sleeved cotton clothes and bodies relaxed, not having to fend off the damp, cold of the winter mornings. There are many people and many sitting around the tank on the Parkarma. The expanse of the Sarovar offers a cool respite to the hot, close quarters of homes in the nearby surrounding area and allows the devotees to be able to fully enjoy the Amrit Vela.

My longing becomes coupled with gratitude – gratitude for the times spent in the Golden Temple and gratitude to be able to call up the memories evoked by seeing it this morning. Surprisingly, but maybe not, my longing becomes stronger, and I know that until I once again touch my head on the cold marble of the parkarma and to the entry way into the Golden Temple itself, and kneel on the red carpet and bow to my Guru, my gratitude for what has been and the blessings that I have received will have to sustain me.

 (Written in the Amrit Vela, Tuesday, July 10 in Bangalore India)

It was 1974. Guruka Kaur and I had recently arrived in Columbus Ohio from Brooklyn, New York to serve as the ashram directors here. The ashram was a beautiful old Victorian house near the OSU campus. It had solid copper gutters and a slate roof. There were still gas lines in the walls from the original gas lighting fixtures and bits of coal dust residue still seeped out under the baseboards left there from years of heating the house with a coal furnace. The large living room on the first floor was our sadhana room and beautiful Gurdwara. Guruganesha Singh (now from Herndon) had visited recently and had taken it upon himself to paint the red brick facade of the house gold on the bottom half and white on the top half to resemble the Golden Temple.

The phone rang in the middle of the night. I looked at the clock and it was about 1 AM.  I thought, “Who would call this late? It must be Yogi Ji.” I answered the phone, “Sat Nam!” It was Lehri Singh calling from Washington D.C. He said, “Bhai Sahib Dyal Singh was just killed in an automobile accident. It happened in Indiana. Gurubandha Singh was driving Bhai Sahib cross country from California to New York where he was scheduled to take a plane to India to go to the Golden Temple. The car went off the road. Bhai Sahib was lying down asleep in the back seat and he was ejected from the window, struck a tree and his neck was broken instantly. We need five ministers for the funeral ceremony, can you come?” “When?” I asked. “Right now.”

Guruka Kaur and I rose up, showered and started the drive west, chanting our morning sadhana together in the car as we drove. It took several hours to arrive in the small Indiana town where the ceremony was to take place. We met with Lehri and the others in a motel room. Bhai Sahib’s body was already at the funeral home. “Okay, what do we need to do?” I asked. “We need to wash Bhai Sahib’s body and clean it with yoghurt. Could you go get some yoghurt and bring it back here? Then we’ll go over to the funeral home for the ceremony.” I headed off in the early morning light to look for yoghurt.  We were in a small town. I went from store to store only to discover that no one had even heard of “plain” yoghurt. The little cups of strawberry and blueberry yoghurt were just beginning to make their way into the stores. I found a pay phone and called the hotel telling Lehri the story. Although I could imagine seeing Bhai Sahib covered in blueberry yoghurt, this was clearly not what we were supposed to do. “Can you find any buttermilk?” Lehri asked. Sure enough I found that… the odd kind that had little yellow flecks of some unidentified substance all through it. But it was the best we could do under the circumstances and I headed back to the hotel with a quart carton in hand.

Lehri scrounged around in his car and found a quart glass juice bottle. He soaked it in hot water in the sink and painstakingly scraped off the label and then poured the buttermilk into the bottle and screwed the cap back on. Wrapping the bottle in a white hotel towel we headed off to the funeral home. “When we get there, let me do the talking” Lehri said.

At the funeral home, Lehri explained to the undertaker with great solemnity that we were ministers and that we were going to perform the Sikh funeral rites on Bhai Sahib’s body. Showing the bottle in the towel to the undertaker, he said, “as part of the ritual we need to wash the body with this special sacred lotion.” “Ah… looks like buttermilk to me” said the undertaker.

Bhai Sahib’s body was on a stainless steel gurney in a back room. We lovingly washed the body with a washcloth and then washed and rinsed his beautiful black hair. We dressed him in his five K’s and prepared to recite the banis.

At 29, I had never seen a dead body before. And looking at the body of my beloved brother, so young and beautiful, I had but a single thought. “Bhai Sahib’s not here. This is an empty shell… the house where he used to live.  It’s not Bhai Sahib.”

We begin to read the banis together and as a panj, when one of us faltered in our reading, someone else’s voice filled in the gaps. As I read, slowly and haltingly, I was suddenly flooded with gratitude to this young boy whose body lay before us on the gurney. His spirit, his enthusiasm, his unswerving devotion and patience had brought all of us to recite the Guru’s words for the first time. It was he who had encouraged us, taught us and shown us by his own example the power of the Gurbani.

Then I heard Bhai Sahib chuckle. The sound came clearly and distinctly from the ceiling in the corner of the room.  I looked up and there was Bhai Sahib Ji smiling. He said, “Your pronunciation is getting better. Keep up” and then, in a flash, he was gone. My heart smiled.

Later on I remember Yogi Bhajan saying, with tears rolling down his cheeks, that God had picked the most beautiful flower from his garden.  He also said that when the car went off the road, Bhai Sahib was not in his body.  He told us that he was already at the Golden Temple with all the Gurus and in complete bliss, and I realized that he had come back just to encourage us one last time.