Prasad
Jul 10th, 2007 by SatSimran Kaur
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.
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.











The blind walk came to an end, and all the lines (with 11 people in a line, there were probably around 80 or more lines) assembled outside the tantric shelter. Within a few minutes, we were all back on our mats, ready to listen to the Siri Singh Sahib’s last words for the course. Then… the dancing began. This was around 7 pm, and it continued for almost 4 hours.
That’s Hari Karm Kaur and me just above, and on the right are Mahani and her quite happy and precious little daughter.
On the way to Summer Solstice 1973, my German travel partner and I stopped in New Mexico at Spence Hot Springs, a hillside dotted with pools of hot mineral water. I thought we were the only ones there in the wild Jemez mountain forest until I heard voices. It was like finding Waldo – the way we all blended in with the vegetation and rocks.
It was our third year of a father/son camping trip. Sat Sangeet was six years-old and we were venturing farther from home than the previous two trips which were in the Angeles Crest Forest, only a few miles from Los Angeles. This time we were going up north to the Sierra’s, to Tioga Pass, the highest paved passage over the Sierra’s at over 9000 feet. We loaded up our Toyota pick-up we had named “Ralph” (just where that name came from escapes me now) with our new 2-man domed tent, sleeping bags, cooking utensils, gas stove and food which included mung beans and rice, buckwheat pancake mix, Wha Guru Chews, and some of those not-so-yummy freeze dried dinners.
I have many memories of the Phyllis house as well as its genesis. Shakti may have already told it all but here’s a bit from my end starting with what I know of Toronto to California. That part is culled from my memory of what YogiJi used to say when I met him in March of 1969 in Los Angeles. After his Toronto experience he was invited by Dr. Marwha to come for a weekend to Los Angeles. Once here he stayed. Next he was somehow invited by the ladies of the East/West Cultural Center where I believe he began to teach his first yoga classes. Again, Shakti would know best as she was there a bit before I was. At that point he had a tiny little studio apartment near the Center around Vermont, I think.
Over the years of being in the presence of Yogi Bhajan I have seen his amazing facility with language and emotion to reflect the consciousness of whomever he is teaching at that moment. I remember being the object of his intense "fire" energy many years ago when my marriage was going through a difficult period and I just couldn’t get it through my thick skull that my husband needed me right then to come through for him. He minced no words (words I won’t repeat here) and made it very clear that I needed to wake up and act with compassion and commitment or there would be great loss for all concerned.
Shakti Parwha Kaur Khalsa is one of the original “True Talers” going back to 2002 when we first started writing our stories. Known as the “mother of 3HO,” Shakti is also my very long time friend, neighbor, confidant, support, and constant inspiration for keeping up… I don’t think she has ever missed a day of sadhana since she first woke her neighbors at 4:00 in the morning with her powerful long Ek Ong Kars back in 1969.