"I do not belong to any place. I am not attached to any name. I have no ‘mine’ or ‘thine’." ~ Satya Sai Baba
They wouldn’t let me stay at the ashram. Five years prior, in 1993, there had been a murder attempt, leading them to prohibit accommodations for anyone under 25. At 24, I was visibly annoyed. He had been visiting me in my dreams for years, and this was the greeting I get? I had flown across two oceans to Mumbai, taken an overnight train across the lonesome Sahyadri Mountains to Bangalore, and hopped a manic local bus traveling along the temple-studded Highway 44 to Puttaparthi, only to be turned away at the pearly gates of Satya Sai Baba’s ashram, Prasanthi Nilayam (the Abode of Divine Peace). Tired and bitter, I found a hotel a block away and settled in. It was a rough start to what would become a six-month stay in India.
I was 19 when I first heard about Sai Baba. I was in Petersburg, Alaska, working at the same fish factory as a young Indian-American man. We were friendly but hadn’t spoken much before he shared a dream he had the previous night. He asked if I’d heard of Satya Sai Baba, and I replied that I hadn’t. He explained that Satya Sai Baba was a famous guru in India, known as a miracle worker. In his dream, he was sitting at a table with Sai Baba, asking questions. At one point, Sai Baba pointed to the end of the table and said, “He can help you.” My friend looked toward the end of the table and saw me there, eating a bowl of spaghetti. The dream seemed significant to him. Of course, I was in my late teens, and he was close to my age. We were lost boys in Alaska, and such interactions weren’t unusual in my world in the early '90s. But it wasn’t long after that I began having my own dreams of Sai Baba.
In one dream, I found myself in a town full of mud, knee-deep as I tried to walk. Everything was grey and overcast, and I felt stuck. Suddenly, something gripped me under my arms and lifted me out of the mud, soaring high into the sky. I was gently set down on the edge of a cliff. When I turned around, I saw that it was Sai Baba, smiling at me. I then looked out over the town, realizing I was no longer in the mud but above the dark gray clouds. The skies were clear and blue, all thanks to him. The feeling in the dream was warm and loving, reminiscent of what ancient dreamers call a visitation dream, as opposed to what Tibetan yogis refer to as a Samsaric dream—a typical “went to work without any pants on” kind of dream.
In another dream, I found myself praying to Jesus. This wasn't something I often did, but I was reading Dante’s Divine Comedy at the time, which may have influenced me. I think I was experimenting with prayer. In the dream, as I prayed to Jesus, I heard a voice behind me say, “Why are you praying to him when I’m right here?” It was Sai Baba. I had a third dream that I can't fully remember, so I won’t elaborate, but it was equally significant in its quality and message. During those years, I began to see his unmistakable image more frequently. This piqued my curiosity, leading me to learn more about him through various books on gurus and by visiting the Sai Baba Center in San Francisco.
Once you see an image of Sai Baba, you can't forget him. He was an Indian man dressed in a long orange robe, with a big grin and an even larger fro of black hair. Legend has it that when he was 14, he was stung by a scorpion and lost consciousness for several hours. In the days that followed, his behavior became peculiar; he would quickly alternate between laughing and crying and began singing Sanskrit verses, a language he allegedly hadn't known before. His worried parents consulted doctors, priests, and exorcists, but to no avail. Less than three months later, he left home after reportedly materializing candy and flowers for his parents, declaring that he was the reincarnation of Shirdi Sai Baba, a spiritual figure known for his teachings on love and forgiveness. Shirdi Sai Baba died in 1918 in Shirdi, Maharashtra, India, where he spent most of his life. Satya Sai Baba was born in November 1926 in Puttaparthi, a small village in South India, about 500 miles from Shirdi.
Sathya Sai Baba at the age of 14, soon after proclaiming he was the reincarnation of Shirdi Sai Baba
It should be noted that near-death experiences or traumatic events—(perhaps induced by a severe scorpion sting?) —can lead to behavioral and belief changes similar to shamanic initiations. Common symptoms of these initiations include a deeper connection with nature and the interconnectedness of all things, enhanced intuitive abilities and emotional intelligence, and increased empathy for others, animals, and the Earth. Traumatic experiences can induce altered states of consciousness, sometimes unlocking memories or feelings that are usually inaccessible, including sensations of experiencing other lifetimes. While I can't say for certain that this is what happened to Satya Sai Baba, it's a fairly common theme in the realms of shamanism and the emergence of past life memories and psychic experiences.
In 1947, when he was 20 years old, Sai Baba wrote the following in a letter to his brother: “I have a ‘task’: to foster all mankind and ensure for all of them lives full of bliss (ananda). I have a ‘vow’: to lead all who stray away from the straight path again into goodness and save them. I am attached to a ‘work’ that I love: to remove the sufferings of the poor and grant them what they lack.” He seemed to live up to this vow for the rest of his life.
Several notable stories about Sai Baba resonated with me. He was known for his dream visitations, a detail I only learned about long after having my own experiences. This added a layer of mystery and validation to my sense that these dreams were more than ordinary. Additionally, Sai Baba was famous for performing miracles, particularly manifestations. One of the most well-known aspects of this was his ability to produce vibhuti, a sacred ash made from burnt holy items and believed to have healing properties. He was also known for manifesting various trinkets, such as rings, bracelets, and watches. These manifestations occurred in front of crowds, resembling a magician’s sleight of hand, which led many detractors to accuse him of trickery. Despite these allegations of fraud, his devotees eagerly sought to be blessed with one of his sacred gifts. While I was skeptical of the trinket tricks, the significance of my few dreams compelled me not to dismiss him entirely, and I became determined to find my way to him. By that time, I began to imagine that meeting him would be revelatory, as if some profound insight awaited me. I suppose it was, but not in the way I expected.
Feeling better the morning after my arrival in Puttaparthi, I ventured back to the ashram, hoping to finally catch a glimpse of Sai Baba. He performed darshan twice daily—a Hindu practice of seeing and being seen by a divine figure—and I aimed to attend. I joined the end of a long line, where security barked at the hopeful pilgrims as we slowly passed through a metal detector, a necessary but jarring measure adopted after the recent murder attempt.
Once free from the shouting attendants, I stepped into the ashram’s main temple, Sai Kulwant, a spacious hall with elegant marble floors and Sai Baba’s golden throne. A crowd of hundreds sat on the floor in anticipation, representing all walks of life and various socioeconomic backgrounds. Devotees from across India filled the space, some clad in expensive clothing, others in simple white kurta-pajamas or modest pastel sarees, and some appeared to be wearing their only set of clothes. There was also a considerable number of Westerners, many dressed in traditional Indian attire like kurta-pajamas and sarees.
I found this irksome. Not only was I not the only Westerner (every white traveler’s not-so-secret fantasy when exploring Asia for the first time is to be the only one), but they seemed to be playing dress-up—never mind that I was wearing a vaguely Indian-style button-down and a wool shawl. What I found especially nauseating was overhearing some of these Westerners call each other names like Siddhartha, Lakshmi, and Parvati after popular deities. It wasn’t just the cultural appropriation that bothered me; these Westerners engaging in full cosplay were diminishing the authenticity of the place, at least as I saw it. In other words, they were messing up my fantasy while forcing me to look in the mirror—and I didn’t like what I saw.
Finally, the room settled down, and the music began. It was a rich instrumental bhajan, a devotional song, with what sounded like a hundred harmoniums building to a crescendo as the crowd became charged with the intense anticipation of Sai Baba’s arrival. The music grew louder, and doves were released from somewhere—at least, they seemed to be. And there he was, stepping gently as if gliding across the marble floor, clad in his long orange robe, with a backlight creating a halo effect around his magnificent mane of hair. It was Satya Sai Baba. He walked deliberately across the floor, smiling and taking in the crowd.
Everywhere, people eagerly waved their prayers and petitions scribbled on rolled-up pieces of paper, hoping he would take them and grant them relief. He accepted a few before exiting the way he had come. It couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes.
That night, I went to bed feeling disappointed—disappointed in it all. From being denied accommodation at the ashram to the aggressive security attendants, from the pitiful Westerners to the metal detectors, from the ridiculous pageantry to the golden throne. And the doves! I wasn’t certain they were released, but they did seem to materialize from nowhere, flying through the temple at the peak of the music’s crescendo. It all felt excessive, like a cheap trick. I lay there stewing over it until I finally fell asleep and slipped into a dream.
I found myself in an empty movie theater, and to my great amusement, there was Sai Baba on the big screen doing an Elvis impersonation. He had his characteristic frizzy hair but was dressed in Elvis’s classic 1970s rhinestoned, sequined jumpsuit, performing the infamous gyrations and pelvic thrusts. I sat there, ostensibly alone in the theater, laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all when I heard someone laughing behind me. I turned around to find Sai Baba, in his usual attire, eating popcorn and laughing along with me. Mid-laugh, he looked at me with a loving smile and said, “Is this better for you?” Then I woke up.
Satya Sai Baba at 19 years old, five years after beginning his mission
Upon waking, I immediately grasped what was shown to me. I was a 24-year-old American who had just arrived in India, having never traveled outside my country (aside from a month in Jamaica). I found myself judging and criticizing everything around me, questioning whether things were distasteful or cheap, real or fake, authentic or cosplay. I looked down on Sai Baba’s presentation, a man in his 70s who had been serving humanity since he was 14 and had earned the devotion of millions worldwide. He was a philanthropist who built free hospitals for the poor and funded regular food distribution to the hungry. Yet, I was focused on his doves and possible sleight-of-hand tricks. I realized he was presenting himself and his teachings in a way that would resonate with the minds and hearts of his Indian devotees. In that moment, I recognized how limited my perspective was and how much I still had to learn. I understood that for my own growth—and to avoid becoming an arrogant cultural elitist—it was essential to maintain an awareness of “not knowing,” to reserve judgment, and to adopt what Zen Buddhists call a beginner’s mind in my approach to nearly everything.
It was still dark when I woke up. In the afterglow of my dream, I made my way to the ashram, following the sound of singing coming from the main temple. About a dozen people—men and women—were gathered there, wrapped in their shawls. I had mine, too, as it was late November and the mornings could be chilly. I sat on the marble floor, crossed my legs, and attempted to meditate. I was awestruck by the miracle of being in that extraordinary place, finally experiencing a culture that had captivated my imagination since I read Siddhartha at sixteen.
When the sun rose, I began exploring the ashram and saw everything in a new light. The vibrant colors of the temples and statues made my heart dance—marigold and crimson, lush greens with brilliant blues. The scent of incense filled the air with notes of sandalwood, jasmine, frankincense, and rose. I noticed a woman praying with such devotion that her image remains vivid in my mind when I think of bhakti yoga, the path to God and self-realization through devotion, surrender, and love. I felt a growing compassion and empathy for the Westerners around me, all trying their best to sort themselves out—they were, after all, just like me.
That afternoon, before leaving the ashram, I sat down for a meal in the cafeteria and stumbled upon a somewhat serendipitous encounter. I struck up a light conversation with two men at the table. To my delight, I discovered that the man sitting across from me was Isaac Tigrett, one of the founders of Hard Rock Cafe and a long-time devotee. More notably, the man next to me had worked on the film Kramer vs. Kramer. My memory suggests it was the director, Robert Benton, though I haven't been able to confirm this. Dustin Hoffman, one of the film's stars, was an open admirer of Sai Baba and may have introduced this man, or vice versa. In any case, Kramer vs. Kramer holds a special place in my heart. After my parents divorced when I was four, my mom took me to see the film in hopes it would help me understand what had happened to our family and reassure me that it wasn't my fault. Even at such a young age, I remember sitting in the theater with my mom, somber as a four-year-old can be, desperately trying to grasp the film's meaning. I shared my story with this man and thanked him for his work.
That night, I went to bed awestruck by the day's events. Things were looking up after all, but I still had a small concern. As grateful as I was for my epiphany about reserving judgment, it felt like walking a tightrope. I wanted to be more open, but I knew there had to be room for discernment. I wanted to practice humility without compromising critical thinking. It was a tricky balance, but fortunately, I had another six months in India to practice.
Thank you for reading!
I wasn't aware of all your experiences when you were in India. This was very interesting and insightful. It was a great read.
I can’t wait for next week-the balance you mentioned is something I’ve always found difficult to achieve!