Blog posts

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  Oct 07, 02:44 PM

  Jai's Blog - The Baba in the Stilt House

  

  Ah, India… The land of dreams, exaggerations, unbelievable stories and mythological figures; where the line between the ’spirit’ world and the ‘real’ world is very thin, indeed; where monkeys and elephants are Gods, and cows are the Great Mother; where the lilting song of a bamboo flute is the signal for a dip into divine ecstasy; where Lord Hanuman himself sneaks into your room and steals your fruit; where clanging bells endlessly announce the rising and setting of the sun; where God-like men and women walk the same dirt paths and drink chai from the same cracked cups as we do; where 250 year old ’sadhus’ with long winding dreadlocks periodically rejuvenate their bodies through herbs and rituals and vow never to touch their feet upon the Earth.

  Wait a minute! Two hundred and fifty years old? Never touch the Earth? That’s going a bit far, don’t you think?

  Thus begins the story of the Baba in the stilt house.

  I was traveling in India sometime in the mid ’70s, still floating in that cloud-like euphoria of semi-youth, searching for a deeper connection with my Guru, who had left his body in 1973. I had spent an amazing winter in West Bengal with the Bauls (see my earlier blogs), visited some breathtaking but slightly scary Tantric shrines out in the desert (picture a pile of carefully stacked, freshly oiled human skulls. Yikes!); and bathed in the ocean of pure essence in Sri Ramakrishna’s bedroom on the outskirts of Calcutta. But summer was approaching and Bengal was just getting way too hot. And the bedbugs were getting bigger and bigger and bigger!!!

  It was time to go north and settle down for a while in my Guru’s ashram in the holy town of Vrindavan, where 5000 years ago Lord Krishna danced with the Gopis, a dance that still continues to this day.

  Life in Vrindavan in the 1970s was quite idyllic, at times even heavenly. There were no cars and very little construction and every other house was a sacred temple. Medieval India. The songs and prayers that emanated from each little ‘mandir’ blended in the ethers becoming a kind of symphonic masterpiece of mantra; the sound of 1008 hearts being ripped open in desperate longing and ecstasy. Every day I would wander around, listening to Kirtan, sometimes joining in, drinking chai, eating milk sweets and napping. I wasn’t in the habit of going to see gurus at that time. I had my Baba Neem Karoli, I had my path; other ‘darshans’ and instructions were a distraction to me. I was sustained simply by the kirtans of this deeply sanctified place. But I did keep hearing about this ’sadhu’ named Deoria Baba, who, according to the legends, was hundreds of years old and was a practitioner of the ancient and very secret Kaya Kalpa rejuvenation techniques of Ayurveda. Every hundred years or so he walked into the river and emerged a while later as a young man! I was told that he lived in simple bamboo stilt houses and never came down to touch the earth. He would instruct his disciples from about ten feet up, his long dreadlocks dangling over the wooden railing. After seeing a picture of this Baba, I was quite intrigued. He looked like some kind of super thin aboriginal ape-man with eyes that pierced the veils of personality and separateness; like someone from outer space. And he was said to be one of the great ’siddhas’ of modern times. All this was very interesting to me, but most appealing of all was the fact that Deoria Baba highly revered my Guru, Neem Karoli Baba, and took any and all of Maharajji’s devotees under his wing.

  Well, it just so happened that Deoria Baba was camped quite near Vrindavan that spring, on the other side of the Yamuna river. So some friends and I decided to embark on a pilgrimage.

  Finding a boatman that hot, steamy day was a daunting task. Usually they swarmed the banks of the river looking for customers but somehow the shore was completely empty on this occasion. So we waited and waited, humming kittens and rock & roll songs under our breath all the while wondering what this renowned sadhu would say to us, disciples of another guru. Finally a boat appeared and we piled on. The Yamuna crossing isn’t a long journey in terms of time or miles, but there is a breath of transcendence and peace that seems to hover over the surface of the waters. Crossing the river, and even more so, bathing in it, are deeply transformative events, as Yamuna Devi blesses each and every one who takes the time to ask for Her grace. So as I disembarked on the other shore I had already entered into a kind of altered state. The pastel colors were sharper, the sand felt softer on my bare feet, the wind was so gentle in my long hippy hair… A short walk brought us up to a bamboo gate and a few sadhus lounging in the mid day sun. They asked us who we were and where we had come from, told us to wait and disappeared inside the ‘ashram.’ Time slowed. Silence descended. I could clearly here the beating of my heart and the internal repetition of my mantra. Suddenly the sadhus came running back, yelling at us: “Come, come, Baba wants to see you NOW!” We were ushered across a stretch of sand to a rather strange sight. There, crouched on a rickety old platform, propped up on stilts of sticks and branches, about ten or fifteen feet in the air, was a very old man, Father Time himself, his hand raised up in blessing. “You come from Baba Neem Karoli? Ashirbad, Ashirbad, Ashirbad (blessings, blessings, blessings). Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya!!!!! Ashirbad, Ashirbad.” He had us repeat that ancient mantra to Lord Vishnu over and over again, while his disciples piled fruits and sweets on us which I put in the front shirttails of my long handloomed ‘kurta.’ The atmosphere became completely other-worldly. I couldn’t feel my legs, my feet, my body. Chanting “Om Namo Bhagavate Vasudevaya” the ground beneath me seemed to float, as this strange old man completely readjusted my molecules. Waves of energy streamed from his open hand. Then, just as suddenly, he said “Jao!”, GO, just like Maharajji used to do, like an Indian would speak to the neighborhood dog begging at the lunch table for scraps. I stood up, lost my balance, dropped all of my fruits and sweets, stooped to pick them up, dropped them again and noticed a very funny twinkle in Deoria Baba’s eyes. How familiar he looked. And then he was gone, disappearing into the dark recesses of his space-ship-esque bamboo hut.

  So that’s the story of the Baba in the stilt house. Not much of a story, really. But when I reflect on the blessings that I’ve received over my life I can’t help but feel amazed and grateful. What did I do to deserve the ‘ashirbad’ of a prehistoric God-man? Not much! But still those blessings came. And I believe that they’re still coming. As long as I can stay just slightly open, just slightly quiet for a few teensy little moments, God’s ever-present grace can always be felt…

  

  PS. This is an excerpt from “By His Grace”. By Dada Mukherji, a long term devotee of Neem Karoli Baba.

  “Deoria Baba, himself a great saint, comes to Allahabad every year during the Magh Mela or the Kumbha Mela. A few years back he was here and some of his devotees who are well-known to us came to our house for satsang. They said that the night before they had been sitting around Deoria on the sand and someone came who said that he used to go to Neem Karoli Baba, but he is not there anymore, so he cannot go. Deoria Baba actually shouted at him, “WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? CAN SUCH A SAINT GO ANYWHERE? HE HAS DONE SUCH TRICKS MANY TIMES BEFORE! HE IS ALIVE, AND HE ALWAYS WILL BE ALIVE!”
• 

  Aug 26, 01:18 PM

  Jai's Blog - How Ganga Dhar and I became the first “official” International Bauls. Part One.

  Mid-60’s…. I was exploring so many new sounds, everything from Cecil Taylor’s wildly abstract piano compositions to Olivier Messiaen’s breathtaking bird-song-imbued hymns to the divine baby Jesus. All mixed up with the outer space guitar of Jimi Hendrix and the continually mind expanding songs of The Beatles. But what took hold of me most, of course, was Indian classical music. So I searched for as many albums as I could, listening, trying to understand, jamming along with my open-tuned electric guitar, pounding on my wah-wah pedal as the sitar or sarod seemed to go crazy. Of course, aided and abetted by a wide variety of heaven sent substances. Little did I know at that time what a dark road I would come to travel in the thrall of these same wondrous substances. But I’ve only just begun this story and I’m already digressing. (Addiction! A blog for another day!)
  
  Anyway, one day I was excavating the shelves at Folklore Records and came across a disc entitled “Street Singers Of India”, on the Nonesuch label. Street singers in India? Hmmm…. I thought Indian music was all about the palaces, the ancient ragas, the music of the spheres. Well, of course I had to check it out. So I brought this record home and put it on the turntable and had my mind and heart completely blown inside out. This was a rustic folk music, but with deep, complex melodies and churning, steaming rhythms. But, more than that, it was the sound of hearts being ripped open, of souls screaming for God.
  
  Reading the liner notes I learned that these singers were part of a sect of wandering mystical musician/minstrels called “The Bauls of Bengal”. There were many translations offered for the word ‘Baul’, but my favorites were ‘affected by the wind’; ‘Intoxicated with the longing for God’; ‘Drunk in the Divine presence’. Then and there I vowed to someday meet these ‘ divine madmen’.
  
  Well, several years passed (I’m attempting to make a VERY long story quite short) and one of my great inspirations, Bob Dylan, released his amazing back-to-basics album, “John Wesley Harding”. And there on the cover were two very strange looking men. Actually they looked just like the singers on my “Street Singers of India” album. Actually, they WERE the SAME singers as the ones on that album! The next year saw the release of “The Bauls At Big Pink”. My mysterious Bengalis were in Woodstock recording at the same house where Dylan and The Band recorded the basement tapes. This was getting a bit crazy. The Bauls of Bengal were in the United States hanging out with Dylan.
  
  
  More time passed and as I became more and more  absorbed in my studies with Ustad Ali Akbar Khan, this obsession with the Bauls shifted to the back burner. Then I embarked on my first trip to India and met my Guru, Baba Neem Karoli, had my whole being turned inside-out and became immersed in the amazing world of Indian Temple chanting, or Kirtan.
  
  But when it came time for my second trip to India, after Maharajji had left his body, my friend Ganga Dhar and I made a commitment to find the Bauls and learn from them. Ganga Dhar is one of my oldest friends. We met at Reed College in 1969, and dropped out together a bit later when we found the Music and Religion departments not fulfilling our mystical teenage requirements. I failed all of my classes and GD squeaked through by handing in his High School term paper. So it was off to Bengal for us, with no knowledge of Bengali, very little money and no connections whatsoever in the Baul subculture.
  
  Somewhere along the way we became disconnected and I found myself walking alone around the dusty lanes of the little town of Shantiniketan, wondering how to find these illusive minstrels. I remember it was quite a warm day, heavy, dry, quiet. I sat down to rest at a small chai shop and as I was sipping the sweet milky tea I heard the sound of a drum, and a string drone, and shakers, and bells and very beautiful albeit quite out of tune singing. Expecting to see a band of five or six musicians, I looked up and saw a simple old man wearing a multi-colored patchwork robe and dirty orange turban dancing down the street. The drum was attached to his belt, the bells and shakers were on his ankles and he was holding the one string ektara high above his head as he sang his wild ecstatic songs. Wow! This old guy was the real thing! A mystic Bengali Baul. So, like the spiritual detective I was, I stealthily followed him down the path and he pretended not to see me. Somewhere along the way I met up again with Ganga Dhar, who joined our little parade. Pretty soon we arrived at a large tent in the middle of nowhere, festooned with lights dangling precariously above a stage filled with about twenty five villagers singing and dancing. Granny was playing kartals. Mommy was nursing her little ones. Kids were laughing and chanting the refrain of the songs. And to my total beyond-the-beyond surprise, standing in the middle of the stage with his hands thrown up in the air singing at the top of his voice, was the man from the cover of “John Wesley Harding”, whose name was Lakshman Das Baul!!!!!!!!!! (That one is worth a lot of exclamation points, don’t you think?).
  
  I sat down and listened, my heart pounding, my legs trembling. The music was SOOOO beautiful, so earthy and rustic and at the same time so heavenly and filled with such longing. Tears were streaming down my face. I felt home again.
  
  After the performance I went up to this singer and introduced myself. He seemed so genuinely happy to meet me, exclaiming over and over “Do you have LSD?” I think it may have been all the English that he knew. Sadly, I had none, but we quickly became friends and my journey to the center of the Baul world had begun…….
  
  Stay tuned for part two of the story.
• 

  Jul 23, 02:10 PM

  Jai's Blog - July 23, 2009

  Guru’s Grace

   

  A tale of berries and bananas…

   

  Since time immemorial it’s been the custom in India, when visiting a holy person or shrine, to bring an offering. This can be fruit, sweets, flowers, incense, even money, and it signifies an offering of one’s heart and soul, of one’s very being, to the great heart of all. ‘Not my will but thy will be done.’

   

  In December, 1971, I was in the ancient village of Vrindavan, where Radharani and Her sweet cowherd boy, Krishna, had enacted their divine romance many centuries before and, if you believe Vedic legend, are still enacting it to this very day. It was the first of many trips to India. I was 19 and totally dazzled to be in this splendorous world of devotion and mystery. Every other house was a temple resonant with ecstatic chanting; brightly adorned cows walked the streets; smiling Sadhus turning their japa beads offered blessings to all visitors; monkeys jumped from tree to tree; there were no cars and thus no pollution; it was medieval India in its full glory…

   

  And most importantly, I had just met my Guru, Neem Karoli Baba. Of course, at that point I didn’t really know that he was my Guru. That awareness, along with the knowledge that I really know absolutely nothing of the true Guru/disciple relationship, came to me much later. But I did know that there was nowhere else I wanted to be. Maharajji had cast his net around my spirit, and pulled this confused young boy to his dusty, cracked lotus feet.

   

  I was in the habit of stopping by the fruit stand on my way to Maharajji’s ashram and getting something nice and juicy to offer. Maharajji never seemed to pay much attention to these offerings, laughingly distributing the fruits and sweets to everyone sitting around him. So I didn’t put much thought into my meager purchases. But one day I spied something new, glistening on the fruit seller’s multicolored table top - a small pile of long, pale green berries, with the shape of blackberries but the color of grapes. They looked delicious! So I bought a small bag and went back to my room to wash them. After carefully extracting every shred of dirt I placed them back in the bag and started on my walk to the temple. But wait a minute! The bag was made out of thin paper and the bottom fell out. All of these precious berries fell in the dust. Oh no! I was getting late and didn’t want to miss darshan. So I went back to the guesthouse and once again washed each berry individually and lovingly laid them out on a clean towel to dry. But then I realized I didn’t have another bag. This was really turning into a major drama for me. So I rushed back to the fruit seller and begged another bag from him, ran back to my room, packed up the berries and raced to the Hanuman temple that was Maharajji’s ashram. Whew!!!!!

   

  The darshan that afternoon was very short, with everyone basically filing by Maharajji one by one, bowing and moving on. I remember the day very clearly. The sun was bright but a cool breeze was blowing, carrying the sounds of kirtan in it’s soft embrace. Maharajji was sitting on a wooden table off to the side of the ashram over where the cars were often parked, not in his usual spot in the middle of the back courtyard. He had a dreamy, distant kind of expression on his face. When my turn came to bow I offered him the bag of berries which had caused me so much anguish. Baba looked at them, tore open the bag and spread the berries out on his blanket, exclaiming in Hindi, “Berries!” With a big smile he looked at me and slowly, with great relish, he ate every berry in the bag. I had never seen him do anything like this before. And as each tasty morsel disappeared past his lips I felt myself get lighter and lighter, dreamier and dreamier. Perhaps it was true what I had read about the true great ones, that they could devour one’s karma like a piece of candy. When at last I bowed to touch Maharajji’s feet he gave me two bananas and hit me on the head repeatedly before saying “Jao,” which is Hindi for ‘go,’ ‘leave,’ ‘get out of here!’

   

  Now here’s when things began to get a little strange…

   

  After slowly eating one of the bananas, luxuriating in it’s sweetness, I began my walk back home to the guesthouse where I was staying at the time. My feet barely seemed to touch the ground as my mind soared with the aching strains of chanting coming from the temple. “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare.” Tears filled my eyes as I walked down the dusty path. There was a small ashram next to Maharajji’s where an old Baba lived with his pet elephant. I’d never met the resident sadhu but had been told that Maharajji liked him very much. I had, however, seen his elephant many times as I passed by. He was a small skinny little fellow with big languid eyes, tiny tusks and a long swinging trunk. That day when I stopped to say “hi,” the elephant looked longingly at my remaining banana and seemed to beg me to share it with him. My heart was already melting from the experiences of the morning so of course I handed my banana to my new animal friend. He scooped up the banana in his trunk and ate it in a blink of an eye and then smiled at me. And then stretched his trunk out to the side like a flute. And then crossed one leg over the other. And then tilted his body to the left. Oh my goodness gracious!!!!! He had transformed into Krishna Himself, playing His divine flute!!!! My whole being trembled with this vision. Had I gone totally crazy? Or had Maharajji opened the eye of my heart to enable me to see God everywhere? Only he really knows. But as I bowed down and put my forehead in the blessed dirt of Vrindavan, I promised myself never to forget that day; the day when simply washing a pile of berries brought me to the feet of the Lord…

   

  Peace,

   

  Jai
• 

  Jun 23, 02:06 PM

  Jai's Blog - June 23, 2009

  I first heard Ustad Ali Akbar Khan perform live when I was a freshman at Reed College in Portland, Oregon in the autumn of 1969. I’d listened to his music a lot by then, sometimes jamming along on the guitar, but I hadn’t yet had the chance to attend a performance. So, being a good hippy kid, I prepared myself by taking a large dose of mescaline, my drug of choice in those early years. Sitting in the front row, I was totally mesmerized by the music but it was when the concert was finally over that the fireworks really started for me. People were walking around, talking, mingling, discussing tomorrow’s classes, and I sat there in awe, wondering why everyone had gotten up. The music was still happening!!!!!!! The raga, the tala, it was all continuing but I was the only one who noticed. In fact, the sound of talking WAS the raga and the clumping of feet WAS the tala. I was witnessing a divine performance of the music of the spheres, the very song of life! Of course we all have had transcendental drug experiences, but how many of them actually last past the first rays of dawn? This one is still with me. Ali Akbar Khan had brought me to the realm of pure sound, where music touches God, where music IS God. And in that moment he changed the course of my life.

   

  Three months later, much to the anguish of my parents, I had dropped out of Reed and was in the beginning class at the Ali Akbar College Of Music in San Rafael, California. My guitar and banjo were given an extended vacation in the hall closet and I had purchased my first Sarod. Since that time, up till the present, I’ve been an on-again-off-again student of the master, who we call Khansahib, or sometimes simply Baba. At times I was obsessive, practicing many hours a day, driven with the ambition to be ‘great’. But more often than not I was a terrible student, okay at attendance but totally lazy when it came to practicing. Still Khansahib gave freely. He told me just to come and absorb. He offered me discounts. He encouraged me in every way to become a true musician - serious, caring, respectful, soulful. He said over and over again that music was medicine, that music brought us into the closest communion with God.

   

  But, perhaps more importantly, Khansahib welcomed me and many others into his family and his home. I taught electric guitar to his son, Alam, now a masterful Sarod player, and spoke with Baba about all the problems of my life. We drank whiskey together and he regaled me with stories of his most amazing life. I worked with him closely on two recordings, learning so much in the process. However, it wasn’t always super easy to hang out and relax with Khansahib. He seemed to have one foot firmly planted in the other world, and one foot rather uncomfortably planted in this one. And he accepted nothing less than total honesty and ‘realness’. Still, his conversations were always inspiring and enlightening, sometimes funny and sometimes deeply moving. And he constantly reminded us and guided us on the profound spiritual path of music. When my parents died one after the other in the ’90s, Baba guided and counseled me through some simple but ancient rituals to help with their passage and my own grief. And when it came to ‘girl trouble’, well, he was a master and a comedian as well. All of his students laugh and talk about Khansahib’s ability to insult and complain to us, sometimes so severely that we had to laugh just to keep from crying. And when we laughed, that stern face of his broke into a grin and we felt his love once again. He just kept asking us to practice. To do our sadhana. To treat the raga like our beloved. To try to play and sing in tune…

   

  Well, several days ago, when my family and I were in Frankfurt, Germany on the way home from a wonderful trip to India I received an email that Baba had died the night before, just hours after giving a final lesson to the friends, students and family members gathered around him. He died as he had lived, sharing his treasures with all who came to him. I know the news of his passing has spread around the world by now, but I still find it hard to believe. Yesterday was spent at a beautiful memorial service and a very sweet, gentle wake, filled with tears and and laughter. But I just cant seem to get used to the fact that he’s not around, that I cant go to class, that I cant stop by and visit. I can only imagine what his family must be feeling now. Yet, as Zakir Hussein said at the memorial, Khansahib was finally through with the suffering of his body and was “up there giving a concert for God, who must surely be marveling at the truly wondrous job He’d done in creating this great, great man, this miracle of music.”

   

  much love,

   

  Jai
• 

  May 15, 02:05 PM

  Jai's Blog - May 15, 2009

  When I was a young teenager just beginning to explore the ’spiritual path’ I was more than willing to believe anything anyone told me. In fact I was thirsty for any words that would take me outside of myself, away from the Jai I knew and turn me into a bigger, better, and preferably blonder version of myself. I thought meditation, chanting, and holding my breath for as long as humanly possible would quickly obliterate the being I disliked so much and transform him (me!) into a golden orb of power and love. A god among men… I’m not sure, but it kind of seems like this was a very convoluted mixture of deep past life memories as a yogi in India and equally deep childhood traumas and wounds. So of course when a guru came forward with a written guarantee of enlightenment THIS LIFETIME if I just followed some very simple steps I positively leaped at the opportunity. Wow!!!!! I believed every word and ‘signed’ the contract.

   

  Well, needless to say, this didn’t quite work out as planned and pretty soon I was wondering around India at the ripe old age of nineteen with no agenda, no guru and no worries. “Been there done that” is what I thought about the whole subject of gurus…

   

  A few days later I stepped into a spiritual bookstore in New Delhi and began to browse the shelves that seemed to contain every book ever written about Yoga, Hinduism, Bhatia, Shanty, Shiva, Java, Mantra, Mantra, and Tanta. The bookseller gave me concise descriptions about each and every one until I finally asked him in awe how he had had the time to read all of these books. “That is the amazing thing” he laughed, “I haven’t read a single bloody one of them!” Oh boy, I thought, only in India…

   

  Anyway, this bookseller must have been Lord Hanuman in disguise because he then proceeded to guide me to a hotel in the heart of town where Ram Dass was teaching, which led me to the glorious medieval village of Vrindavan where Krishna played with His Gopis, which led me to my guru, Baba Neem Karoli… (This is definitely making a long story very short!)

   

  Anyway, I started this out by talking about beliefs. My guru never demanded that we ‘believe’ anything, just that we “love people and feed them” and always tell the truth. He never gave lectures or discourses but he asked us to give him our anger and to try not to worry, because he would always be with us. And he told us to sing God’s names. And when we were done singing to sing more, and more, and more…

   

  We westerners laughed, joking that Maharajji was just trying to keep us out of trouble, get us out of his hair for a while. But inwardly each one of us could feel the subtle and not so subtle transformation-taking place.

   

  Little by little, as our hearts began to heal, Maharajji’s ‘instructions’ began to occur on their own. And for myself this process has continued, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, as I’ve made my rather stumbling way through the back alleys of my life.

   

  About fifteen years ago, over twenty years after Maharajji had left his body, I was in South India visiting my spiritual mother, who was taking care of Maharajji’s ashrams since his death. Though she herself is a being of great saintliness, she prefers to stay somewhat hidden from the public eye. So for now I’ll simply call her Ma. Anyway, one morning Ma said to me through an interpreter “Hurry up, Jai. Pack a small bag. We’re going to Rameshwaram!” Rameshwaram is an island off of the southern tip of India. Though very small, it is considered an extremely powerful place of pilgrimage, as it was here that Lord Ramachandra worshipped Lord Shiva after destroying the demon armies and the evil ten-headed king, Ravana. It was also from these soft sandy shores that the great monkey Hanuman made His death-defying leap across the ocean to bring Rama’s ring to His beloved Sita, imprisoned in Ravana’s blood-stained gardens. AND it was also a sixteen-hour train ride in a third class non-AC cattle car sleeping on a hard, vermin infested bench…. Oh well, my mother asked me to come and I was honored.

   

  In those days I had been re-reading the Ramayana and finding many deep truths and spiritual messages in the ancient words of Tulsidas. But where earlier, when I had actually been sitting at the feet of my guru, I had basked in the living reality of the story, now I found myself relating to it almost psychologically, as a glorious tale of archetypes, a grand enlightened mythology, but surely not literally “true”. All this changed very rapidly when we landed on the shores of the holy island. First Ma took me and my fellow travelers (mostly Indians with perhaps two other Westerners) to an old broken down ruin a little ways outside of the town. Seagulls were swooping down around the rubble looking for treats as a few elderly pilgrims made their rounds, mumbling prayers, turning ‘japa’ beads. “This was Bibhishan’s palace” Ma said with a slight glance in my direction. My inner world trembled and I knew that something ‘strange’ was beginning to happen to me. Bibhishan, Ravana’s brother, a demon who loved God with all his heart and soul, who stopped Ravana from killing Hanuman and who was coronated by Rama Himself as the new King of Lanka. One of Shri Ramachandra’s eternal companions. The energy in those old stones was palpable…

   

  Next Ma took us to a dirty pool of old brackish water and, sitting down on the ‘ghat,’ said that this was where Lakshman, Rama’s brother used to bathe. She added that Maharajji, who was once called Lakshman Das, used to take his baths here as well. Then to the forest where Mother Sita worshipped the snake goddess. Then to the point high up in the hills where Rama made His battle plans. And finally to a very large indentation in the ground carefully tended by a seemingly ageless ‘pujari’ who was lighting incense and singing prayers. “What’s this about”, I wondered. Ma seemed to hear my thoughts. “This is Hanuman’s own footprint! You know, the force of His leap was so great that the very mountain upon which we are standing was smashed into the earth, that all the animals, even the mighty elephants, fled for their lives, and that all the trees and plants and flowers were pulled across the sea behind Him like the tail of a giant comet!” My heart was pounding in my chest. Archetype? Myth? No, I thought, this was true history, a divine ‘lila’ that occurred for the salvation of all. I felt it and knew it with my whole being. Tears sprung from my eyes.

   

  Truly, this was one of the most wonder-filled and awe inspiring journeys of my whole life. But I must be honest and say that that inner knowledge, that TOTAL belief, seems to wax and wane inside of me. Sometimes as I sing I SOOOOO much feel the presence of Radha and Krishna, or Shiva, or Hanuman, and at other times my songs are taking me deep into the caverns of my own heart, my soul. And you know what? It really doesn’t matter that much to me at all. I understand that my mind is a limited mechanism and that the spirit within can only comprehend the miraculous realm of the spirit. One time, at our winter Kirtan Camp in Guatemala, a woman said she was having trouble because she was an atheist and we were spending all of our time singing to this blue god and that four-armed goddess. I laughed inwardly and wondered what on Earth she was doing there! But we talked for a while about the practice of Kirtan, how healing it is, how heart expanding and joyful it can be. And I remembered something I had read once in a novel about a rabbi in Israel after World War Two. He simply could not believe in a God who would allow the Holocaust, but he “still believed in the power of prayer”. In some ways this makes no sense, because who answers the prayers? But on another level it acknowledges an alternate world where our thoughts, conditionings and comprehension are really very small. Beliefs? I suppose they have some value. But for me the heart is much more important. How can I keep my heart open? How can I tell the truth? How can I be a good daddy and a good husband? Well, Maharajji told us to sing God’s name and to feed people. Couldn’t be more simple, could it?

   

  much love,

   

  Jai
• 

  Apr 28, 09:02 AM

  Jai's Blog - April 28, 2009

  A friend asked me this evening why don’t I do some kind of ceremony before leading a kirtan. I thought about this for a while and said why would I want to do a ceremony before the ceremony? For me the kirtan IS the ceremony, the invocation, the dance of feelings, the Great Cosmic Drama of Devotion!

   

  He also asked me what I thought about the Bhakti movement in the west. I said I didn’t really think about it at all. There was silence on the other end of the line…. Clearly I needed to say more. Bhakti is about a deep, intimate relationship with God, not a ‘movement’. It’s enough for me to just try and nurture my own heart of devotion, one day at a time. And this is what I hope and pray for others.

   

  Back to that first question about the ceremony. I do perform a small puja at home every evening, but its so simple and so quiet, and I love it.  But if we’re talking about CEREMONY, well, I have a story to tell…

   

  About twenty years ago I was in India, visiting my Guru’s ashram in the Himalayas. After a few very quiet weeks I got the inspiration to make a pilgrimage to Badrinath, way up in the mountains, thirteen miles from the Tibetan border. Badrinath is one of the four main pilgrimages places of the ancient Vaishnav path, established by Adi Shankara in the ninth century. As I was packing the car, making sure I had enough blankets, sweaters and hats to not freeze to death on the journey, my Indian mother came running up to me with a package. “Here Jai, please take this blanket and this thermos of milk to Bhagavati Mai, a great woman sadhu who makes her home up in Badrinath on the banks of the Alaknanda river. When I asked how would I found her, Ma simply smiled and said “Maharaj-ji will guide you”.

   

  So twelve hours of driving over tiny curved roads, overlooking thousand mile drops into the vast, rocky cliffs below, japa mala turning ‘RAM RAM RAM RAM RAM RAM”, taxi driver falling asleep at the wheel, making wrong turns…. OH MY GOD!!! Would I make it there alive???? Well, it turned out that the driver’s drowsy wrong turns actually saved us from a snowy avalanche and a slow, freezing death! Wow, was someone looking out for me? After a sleepless night in an icy and extremely ‘rustic’ guesthouse we hit the road again, and as the morning sun rose above the great Himalayas we arrived in holy Badrinath.

   

  After settling into my hotel room I began the daunting task of finding out where I could find Bhagavati Mai. After all, I had an important package to deliver. One by one, the people who I asked simply pointed their fingers to the jagged cliffs above the raging waters of the Alaknanda. There in the distance was a figure sitting in stillness, wrapped up in a very high tech looking ‘space blanket’ (remember them?), reading from a large golden-brown book, which was propped up, on the rocks. Every few minutes another sadhu would step up to this figure and gingerly turn the page of the book. As the day grew warmer, that same sadhu gradually removed layer after layer of blankets, finally revealing an elderly but statuesque woman with short grey hair wearing what appeared to be a used burlap sack as her only garment. As unassuming in appearance as this woman was, her energy seemed to permeate the village, sitting in total stillness, without moving, ALL DAY LONG!!!! From a distance I began to feel my mind and my heart become more and more inwardly focused. Her PRESENCE was like a soul magnet, awakening the deep heart call of all who walked within the shadow of those rocky ledges.

   

  Finally, after many long hours, the sun began to set. And now began the breathtaking scene that became permanently imprinted in my consciousness. With the help of her attendants, Bhagavati Mai stood up and lit a very large ‘aarti’ lamp, with gigantic flames shooting up into the night sky. Dusk happens very quickly up in the mountains and very soon just the traces of a blood red sun were dancing between the fingers of fire as Bhagavati Mai slowly turned in circles offering her reverence and light to all the mountains, rivers, Gods and Goddesses of the Himalayan range. This is where words fail me. The colors, the high pitched sound of her voice, the chill of the night winds, the whirling flames from her lamp, the awe inspiring spiritual energy of this great being. Cecil B. deMille couldn’t have even dreamed of anything more spectacular. I stood by the side of the road and as she passed I extended my hand and gave her Ma’s package. Bhagavati Mai looked into my eyes; rather she looked THROUGH my eyes, and kept singing in her strange alien-like voice. Perhaps she was singing the Srimad Bhagavatam, for this is what she had been reading all day out on her hard and lofty perch. Then she was gone, into the night…

   

  Now this was a ceremony!

   

  The next day I rather timidly went to visit this sadhu in her ashram, an old run down little shack on the side of the road. She welcomed me like a long lost son and wept at the wondrous gift I had brought, a blanket and some milk. Then through her tears she cried that the gates of the great temple of Badrinath would be locked until her dearest friend, Siddhi Ma, came to visit. We sang and sang for the rest of that day and night, eating sweet cream of wheat and drinking strong chai and calling to the spirits of eternal love and liberation.

   

  much love,

   

  Jai
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  Apr 14, 09:06 AM

  Jai's Blog - April 14, 2009

  Most people in the United States experience a huge wave of anxiety this evening, with the dreaded tax monster demanding his dinner tomorrow. For me this day has quite a different meaning. Partially, I suppose, because I’m ALWAYS late doing my taxes, but mostly because today is the birthday of my teacher and mentor, Ustad Ali Akbar Khan. I met Khansahib (as we call him) 40 years ago and began studying with him almost immediately thereafter. My first area of concentration was instrumental music, specifically the 25 stringed Sarod, but later my attention shifted to Indian vocal music. As an 18 year old new student I was fanatical in my practice schedule. However, I’m embarrassed to say that over the years, I’ve become a very inconsistent and totally undisciplined disciple, sometimes preferring John Lennon to Raga Yeman! But never once in all these years have I taken Khansahib or his teachings for granted. His unbelievable dedication to his students and to the great ocean of MUSIC has been breathtaking, and the amount of people he’s touched and influenced is beyond count. I really can’t imagine my life without having met and studied with this great man. If I could sum up in one sentence (which is actually impossible) what he’s given me, I’d have to say a deep reverence and awe for music, not just Indian music, but all music, as a way of life and as a way of touching the infinite. Music as spiritual salvation. Intonation as the mystical inner quest.

   

  But Khansahib has also been a friend and mentor on many other levels. When both my parents died, one after the other, he guided me through some simple, ancient and somewhat humorous rituals to help me in my grieving process. When I had ‘girl problems’ he laughed and reminded me of what was important in life. And when I had a baby after so many years of not wanting one, he welcomed little Ezra Gopal into his vast musical family. There was even a time when I taught electric guitar (Jimi Hendrix!!!) to his son Alam.

   

  All of this makes me feel rather bittersweet today because Khansahib is quite ill and weak and very sad as his life begins it’s final chapter.

   

  I just wish I could give back to him one hundredth of what he’s given to me, to hug him and tell him how loved he is. And perhaps even to sing him a lullaby…. But in my heart I touch his feet again and again, and every time I pick up an instrument or open my voice to sing, I pray that I am honoring and loving him in the way he deserves.

   

  much love,

   

  Jai
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  Apr 01, 09:07 AM

  Jai's Blog - April 1, 2009

  I’ve spent a lot of hours, days and weeks of my life looking back at my childhood and trying to reconstruct, remember and somehow heal the reverberations of abuse and trauma. I used to think that the only legacy I got from my mother was one of alcoholism and self hatred. And still my Guru would tell us: “Mother is higher than God!” I couldn’t put it together.

   

  But there was one thing that my mother used to do for me that became imbedded into my core because of it’s simplicity and sweetness. Whenever I had a tummy ache, which was often, she would gently rub circles on my belly and sing: “Noodles and strudels and lots of little poodles”. She was, of course, a dog lover. And a Jewish one, hence the strudel.

   

  Tonight as I was putting my little boy to sleep, I had a strange and moving experience. After we read some books and told some giggly stories, I turned the light off and said goodnight. Then, with a voice so soft I had to lean in to hear, Ezra asked for “noodles and strudels”. With all my ‘Rams’ and ‘Krishnas’ and ‘Shivas’ he wanted noodles and strudels….. I felt my mother so strongly in the room and I felt her love and her gifts to me and writing about it now I have tears in my eyes.

   

  What does this mean? I don’t really know, except maybe love is way bigger and stronger and longer lasting than the damage done by ignorance and fear. Maharaj-ji said “The only thing that’s important is how much you love God!”. And when asked “What is the best form to worship God?”, He answered simply: “Every form”.

   

  much love,

   

  Jai
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  Mar 25, 09:08 AM

  Jai's Blog - March 25, 2009

  Hmmmmm…… Like so many of us, I’m always thinking about this and that and the other thing. Sometimes a little bit profound and more often than not totally mundane. Then why is it that when I’m given the assignment (by myself!) to write a blog for my new website, I cant think of ANYTHING to say? Oh well, sometimes simply pushing myself to sit down and do something ~ music, yoga, writing ~ just opens up the gates… So here goes. Of course being a two finger typist doesn’t inspire too much.

   

  I’m super excited about the fact that my new CD, “Thunder Love” comes out in two days. What a journey this CD has been. They’re all pretty deep birthing processes, but somehow this one has been even more intense. Certainly it took quite a bit longer to make than all of my other albums, but there’s more to it. I think it’s that “Thunder Love” is a much more vulnerable work than anything I’ve ever done. Sure, I’ve always worn my sloppy emotions pretty much on my sleeve and all over my shirt through the medium of my voice and my music, but this time I’m actually singing in English!!!!! Talking about feelings, dreams, fears….. (Uh Oh! That mean inner critic is screaming!) I guess it’s the first time in my life where I actually feel safe enough to do something really scary. Love songs. Sweetness, nakedness…. “Fun with fear!”. That’s what we say in Kirtan Camp….I really hope you all like it and love it.

   

  But as thrilled as I am with the CD release, I have to confess that I’m WAY more excited about my son’s fourth birthday coming up at the end of this week. Four amazing, heart exploding years of laughter, tears, sleeplessness, intense joy. I’m still so surprised and thankful that Ezra Gopal has entered our lives…. Nubia and I sometimes look at each other and just cant believe it. Challenges, of course, but oh the blessings………

   

  Back to the story (that’s what Ezra says when I get sidetracked)….. On March 7th I led a Kirtan at Laughing Lotus in San Francisco accompanied by Ben Leinbach and Radhanath Das on percussion and Manose on Bansuri flute. It was totally rocking. The walls were pulsing and the floors were throbbing! Quite to my surprise, Lou Judson and his beloved, Colleen, who were running the sound, also recorded and mixed the night. So I’m offering a special treat to all of you Kirtan devotees: a free 30 minute download of Rama Bolo from Laughing Lotus Yoga Studio in San Francisco, March 7th, 2009.

   

  Here’s the link…… Enjoy.

   

  Ok. My first blog. Nothing too amazing, but it’s a start. Happy spring to one and all!

   

  much love,

   

  Jai