Baba Hari Dass is my yoga guru, the yogi who gave me my name and permission to teach. Back when I was studying intensely with him, I only saw him once a year, at a Labor Day retreat outside of Toronto. The rest of the year I was doing my yoga and meditation on my own. My only contact with him during this time was when I wrote to him once every 3-4 months. His response was always just a terse, “keep practicing,” so I really looked forward to spending the retreat time with him.
Over the years, I had developed quite an emotional attachment to Babaji. He was the major figure in my life, and our relationship was the most important that I held. The retreat was in some ways the highlight of the year for me. I cherished the time to communicate with him more intimately, and I appreciated the chance to practice before him and receive his guidance. What I didn’t appreciate, however, was that the guru’s job is not to have an emotionally dependent student, it is to have the student become free.
One year, I arrived at the retreat thrilled to see Babaji, but he ignored me all day. Likewise, on the second day, he ignored me. On the third day, he also acted like I wasn’t there, which might even have been hard because I was teaching at the retreat. When he also ignored me for the remainder of the retreat I was pretty much freaking-out emotionally.
Finally, the retreat was over. It was time for me to drive back home, not to see him for another whole year. I was disappointed and a little angry about the way he acted towards me. Mostly, though, I was sad and hurt.
I figured I should at least say goodbye to Babaji, and I can still remember the scene where I approached him. He was sitting with a group of about a dozen people, and it seemed like everyone was joking and laughing. I came towards him from the rear, and leaning over his right shoulder, I said, “Babaji, I came to say good-bye. I have to leave now.”
He didn’t even look up. He took his arm and waved it in my face as if pushing away a pesty insect. If body language spoke English, that arm would have said, “Get lost.”
I sulked away, shocked, and discouraged. I was amazed that he would be so darn rude. I loved him so much. How could he act this way towards me? I was really heartbroken.
Just then, a 5-year-old girl who was at the retreat with her parents came running up to me. I had played with her a bit, so I thought it sweet of her to say goodbye. She did not, however, simply offer a little girl’s farewell. She threw herself on me, wrapping her arms around me, and sobbing with a voice that seemed to come from heaven, she cried, “Oh, Prem Prakash, I love you. I love you so much. I will never leave you. I will never forget you. I will love you forever.” Again and again, she professed her love, crying until my shirt was wet with her tears.
By the time she walked away and left me to continue to my car, I was dazed and emotionally charged. Her outburst, her language, and her whole demeanor were nothing one could expect from a child. I felt like that guy in the Bob Dylan song — I knew something was happening but I wasn’t sure what it was.
By the time I drove away from the retreat, however, I was convinced I knew what had happened. I wonder if you’d think me silly if I told you I believe those words of undying love did not come from the little girl, they came through her?
