[What a joy to host Sri M at our local Awakin Circle yesterday.  Below is the remarkable story he opened with, about his own past life.]

Here is a story my master told me as I sat with him in a quiet spot on the banks of the river Bhagirathi as it wound its way down the Himalayas. I think it would be relevant to say it now, before we go to the next chapter of this journey, but I would like to repeat what the master said to me, "Draw your own conclusions from the story I am going to tell you but don't be in a hurry to do so."

"Behind the famous temple of Badrinath, the sacred Himalayan shrine, which stands 13,000 feet above sea level, there exist a few large and small caves perched on top of nearly inaccessible cliffs. The temple is open to pilgrims only during the summer months. The rest of the year, the whole area is snow-bound. Even the Namboodiri priests from Kerala who have been officiating as priests since the time of Shankaracharya (a saint who renovated the temple hundreds of years ago and was himself from Kerala) go down to the village of Joshi Mutt and wait for the next pilgrim season. Only a few extraordinary beings continue to live and meditate in the caves even during winter.

A hundred years ago, one such extraordinary yogi sat in one of the caves, bare bodied except for his cotton loin cloth, absorbed in deep meditation on his inner self. He was fair and handsome with flowing black hair and a black beard, and while his eyes were closed, a peaceful smile lit his face as he enjoyed the inner joy of soul communion. This young yogi, who was just nineteen, came from a distinguished family of Vedic scholars from the holy city of Varanasi.

His ancestors had been disciples of a legendary yogi called Sri Guru Babaji, who it is believed has maintained his physical body in a youthful condition for many hundreds of years, even to this day.

This young man's father, himself a disciple of Babaji, had handed over his son to the great yogi at the tender age of nine. Since then he had wandered with his teacher (who had no fixed abode), the length and breadth of the Himalayas. A year ago, at the age of eighteen, he had graduated to the level of an independent yogi and since then had been wandering alone amongst the snow covered peaks of Kedar and Badri.

While our young yogi sat perfectly still in the yogic state called Samadhi, a strange drama was unfolding before his closed eyes. Clawing his way up the steep, rocky ledge, an old man of the kind rarely seen in those parts pulled himself up on to the flat rock in front of the cave. His dirty green turban and soiled robe now almost torn to shreds, the rosary around his neck and his hennaed beard clearly indicated that he was a Muslim fakir.

There were cuts and bruises all over his arms, legs and other exposed parts of his body and blood oozed from his wounds. Cold and hungry, he was on the verge of collapsing, but as soon as his eyes fell upon the young yogi sitting in the cave, the pained expression on his face was replaced by a smile which expanded into hysteric laughter. "Praise be to Allah," he cried and with a deep sigh, forgetting all his pain and suffering, he moved towards the still meditating yogi and fell prostrate. He then did something no Hindu would ever dream of doing to a yogi — he hugged him.

The yogi, crudely shaken out of his trance, opened his eyes and shook off the old man who was dinging to his body. He blew his nose to dear the stench that came from the travel worn and bleeding body of the strange creature and shouted in anger, "How dare you? Keep away from me." Anger, that powerful poison that is sometimes difficult to control even for rishis, had entered this young yogi's heart.

"Please, Sir," pleaded the fakir, "Give me a chance to tell you my story." "Go away," said the yogi, "I need to have a dip in the Alakananda and resume my meditation. Your kind of person, a meat eating barbarian, has no place here. Get lost."

The fakir would not give up. "Please listen to me, 0 great y ogi,l am a Sufi and am the chief disciple of a great Sufi master of the Naqshabandiya order. Just before my master passed away, six months ago, he told me, 'Friend, you have now reached the level of spiritual attainment that I was able to take you to. I am leaving my body soon and there is no Sufi master at this point who is willing to guide you to the next and higher level. But don't worry. There lives a young Himalayan yogi near Badri in the Himalayas. Find him and seek his help.' You are the one he referred to and you alone can save me now.
"For two months, I have suffered incalculable travails and misfortunes before finding you. I might drop dead due to exhaustion, but just accept me as your disciple and my soul will depart in peace. Please I beg you."

"I know nothing about your master or the Sufis as you call them. I have received no such instructions, and moreover, I don't accept disciples," said the young yogi still angry. "Now move out of my way and don't delay me from having my bath in the Alakananda and resume the meditation that you so rudely interrupted. Get out!"

"Alright, 0 great yogi," said the fakir, "if that is your final word, I don't wish to stay alive anymore. My life's only dream has been shattered. I shall jump into the river and take my life. May the Supreme Lord of the Universe guide me."

"Do what you want," said the yogi firmly, "but I can do nothing for you. You are lucky that, in my anger, I did not curse you. Go your way and let me go my way."

The fakir bade farewell by prostrating at the yogi's feet and with tears in his eyes, made his way to the river that flowed several feet below. With a prayer on his lips and seeking guidance from the Supreme Being, he plunged into the swirling waters and ended his life.

The young yogi, confident that he had done the right thing and having no remorse whatsoever, climbed down to a lovely spot on the banks of the river and, chanting the appropriate mantras for purification, had a dip in the extremely cold waters of the sacred river. He came out of the water and rubbed himself dry with the only towel that he possessed. Sitting on a rock, he thanked the sacred river for purifying his body and mind and was about to start his climb to the cave when he heard the familiar sweet voice of his master calling him, "Madhu!"

From behind a rocky ledge appeared his great master Babaji. It looked as if the darkness of the approaching dusk was suddenly lit by his glowing presence. Tall, fair with an almost European complexion, Babaji had long flowing brown hair and very little facial hair. He looked around sixteen years of age. The well-built unadorned muscular body was bare except for a white loin cloth. He was bare foot, and walked with great grace and dignity.

His large, meditative eyes fell on his young disciple Madhu. "What a terrible thing you have done my boy," he said softly.

Instantly, the gravity of what he had done a few minutes ago, hit him like lightning. "Babaji" was all he could utter before breaking into tears and prostrating at his feet.

"Control yourself my boy, and come. Let us climb up to your cave." They climbed up swiftly, reached the cave, and sat down facing each other. "Haven't I always told you to think before you speak about what you are going to say, to whom, and under what circumstances? You could have had a little more patience and listened carefully to what the old man was trying to say. Is a holy man judged by his outward appearance? Like my great disciple Kabir said, would you give more importance to the scabbard than to the sword? You have hurt and pained a great devotee of the Lord. All the fruits of your many years of austerities, you have destroyed in a flash. A minute of kindness is more precious than a hundred years of intense austerities. You have to compensate for it."

By then the young disciple had controlled himself and become calm. "Whatever you say, my Master, I am prepared to do," he said. "As for the fakir;" said Babaji, "I shall take care of his spiritual needs. You have arrested your spiritual progress by your arrogant behaviour and the only way to get back on track is to go through the same or similar pain and privation that the fakir went through. Prepare to do the last kriya of total 'khechari mudra' and let your prana exit through the 'ajna' centre. We shall then guide your soul to be born in such circumstances that you go through pain similar to that suffered by the poor man. Do it now."

"Your wish has always been a command for me, Babaji, and I will do so immediately, but I have a last wish."

"Express it my son," said Babaji.

His voice breaking with deep emotion, and hands clasped in prayer, the young disciple said, "Master, I love you with all my heart. Promise that you will not let go of me, that you will keep track of me and not let me be carried away by the whirlpool of worldly thoughts and concerns. I beg you to please promise me that you will watch over me and bring me back to your blessed feet."

"That, I promise," said the great teacher, tender compassion tangibly flowing from his glittering eyes, "My foremost disciple, Maheshwarnath, whom you have not met, shall come to you quite early in your next life. He shall be your guide. At some point in your future life, you will also see me and talk to me as you are doing now. But now, you must hurry. for this is the right time to go."

By then, the sun had set and the beautiful silvery moon parted the clouds to bear witness to the sacred play that was being enacted. The young disciple, with tears in his eyes, prostrated once more at his guardian's feet. Babaji stretched forth his right hand, placed it on his head, blessed him and instantly merged into the night. Madhu, now alone, adopted the lotus posture, took a few deep breaths, performed the 'khechari mudra' that forcibly stops the breathing process, and concentrating on the centre between the eyebrows, shook off his body.