THE KUNDALINI MEMOIRS OF A YOGA

We returned to Yoga Bhavan in silence. My mind was distant, wrapped in a mist of memories from the temple. I could not forget her— the glow of Ruhi’s form, the ethereal beauty of her spirit as she was finally released. The sight of her had struck something within me, and now that she was gone, I felt hollow, like a light had been extinguished.

Days passed, and I felt myself spiralling deeper into a quiet sadness. I hardly ate, hardly spoke. The cave, once filled with the comforting scent of burning herbs and the soft echoes of Yogi Ji’s chants, felt empty. I could not shake the vision of Ruhi. I yearned to feel that sense of divine beauty and love again, and my heart ached with a strange longing I could not understand.

Yogi Ji noticed, of course. One evening, as I sat by the fire, lost in my thoughts, he joined me, a quiet warmth in his gaze. “Muni,” he said gently. “You look tired. The path of release we walked with Ruhi was powerful, and sometimes the heart holds onto what it needs to release. Do you feel this, too?”

I nodded, my voice barely a whisper. “Yes, Yogi Ji. It is as if I left a piece of myself back in that temple. Her face… it was like seeing love itself. I feel… empty without that vision.”

He nodded knowingly, his eyes softening. “What you experienced was a glimpse of divine beauty, Muni—a beauty that is, in truth, all around us. It is easy to lose ourselves in it, to let the attachment weigh down the spirit. This is a part of the journey many seekers face. But you, Muni, must come back to yourself, to your own heart.”

Despite his comforting words, the ache only grew. Soon, my sadness began to seep into my body, and I became feverish, weak. Bushie, the snow leopard who always brought a touch of cheer to our cave, sensed my state, and lay beside me, nuzzling me with gentle affection.

One evening, when I was shivering with fever, Bushie’s worried eyes met Yogi Ji’s.

“Is there nothing we can do?” Bushie asked, his voice unusually solemn. “He looks worse each day! See Yogi Ji – this, your student, cannot even control himself – let alone teach anyone else!”

Yogi Ji placed a hand on my forehead, frowning slightly. “The fever is from his heart’s longing,” he said softly. “But we will care for him. Muni, it is time for rest and healing.” He motioned to Bushie. “Bring me the holy tulsi and the shankhapushpi leaves. We will make him a tea to cool the fever and calm his mind.” As Bushie dashed off, Yogi Ji murmured to me. “Tulsi is a sacred plant. It is said to calm the spirit and purify the body, while shankhapushpi helps to bring clarity to the mind. Combined, they can ease both the heart’s ache and the fever.” He brewed a strong tea of tulsi and shankhapushpi and sat by my side, gently urging me to drink. As I sipped, he began a soft Chant, the Maha Mrityunjaya Mantra, his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket: “Om Tryambakam Yajamahe Sugandhim Pushtivardhanam Urvarukamiva Bandhanan Mrityor Mukshiya Maamritat.”

As he repeated the mantra, I felt my breath deepen, as if each word drew me back from the abyss of my sorrow. Over the following days, Yogi Ji continued to care for me, but the ache in my heart lingered. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ruhi’s face— radiant, serene, untouchable. It was as though my soul had brushed against something eternal, and now, the ordinary world seemed pale, almost lifeless.

One morning, I awoke to find Yogi Ji seated beside me, a deep concern etched in his gentle features. Bushie lay curled up by my side, his fur comforting against the cold cave floor, his eyes watchful. “Muni,” Yogi Ji murmured softly, “I can see that your spirit is burdened by this memory of beauty. But know this, even beauty can become a trap if we cling to it too tightly.” He touched my shoulder lightly. “We must learn to see beauty as a reflection of the divine all around us, rather than a possession we wish to hold .”

I tried to smile, but the effort drained me. “I understand, Yogi Ji, but it’s as though I’ve glimpsed something so profound, so… perfect. And now it’s gone, leaving me hollow.”

Yogi Ji investigated the distance, his expression grave. “This emptiness, Muni, is part of the soul’s purification. But you cannot walk this path alone.” With a quiet but powerful intention, Yogi Ji closed his eyes and began chanting a mantra unfamiliar to me. His voice reverberated through the cave, ancient syllables carrying a weight I could feel vibrating within my bones. The air shifted, growing thicker and warmer, as though it were filled with unseen energy.

Suddenly, a figure materialised at the mouth of the cave—a figure clad in deep red and gold robes, his presence both serene and imposing. The man’s eyes were wise and clear, his face weathered with age but radiant with compassion.

“Yogi Ji,” I whispered, “who is he?”

Yogi Ji smiled, his eyes twinkling with a quiet reverence. “This, Muni, is Lama Tenzen, a friend from lifetimes ago. He has come to help guide you through this darkness.” The lama approached me, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. “Muni,” he said, his voice soft but strong, “the beauty you seek is within you, yet your heart has mistaken it for something external. Let us bring your spirit back into harmony.” Lama Tenzen reached into a small pouch tied around his waist and withdrew a delicate, shining powder—a blend of Tibetan medicine. “This is made from precious metals— gold, silver, and a rare herb that grows only in the highest Himalayan peaks. In Tibet, it is known to restore balance to the mind and spirit.”

He mixed a small portion of the powder with warm water and held it to my lips. “Drink, and feel the healing power of the mountains within you.” I drank the mixture, feeling a warmth spread through my body, a grounding sensation that seemed to pull me back from the depths of my longing. My fevered body began to cool, and a calmness replaced the restless ache that had plagued me.

Yogi Ji then sat beside me; his gaze f illed with compassion. “Now, Muni, we will work to release this attachment fully. Breathe with me—deeply, with awareness.” He instructed me in a breathing practice – Anulom Viloma Pranayama, the alternate-nostril breathing. He closed one of his nostrils with his thumb, inhaling deeply through the other, and then alternated. I followed, my breaths unsteady at first but gradually growing steady.

“Through this breath, Muni,” he said gently, “you balance the left and right energies in your body, helping the mind f ind peace. With each inhale, breathe in the strength of the mountains. With each exhale, let go of the attachment, of the image you cling to.”

We continued the practice until I felt a profound stillness settle within. Lama Tenzen then guided me in another technique known as the Bhramari Pranayama, the humming bee breath. Placing my fingers on my forehead and closing my ears with my thumbs, I inhaled deeply and hummed on the exhale, letting the vibration fill my head and chest.

“This vibration,” Lama Tenzen explained, “is a sound of the universe, a reminder of the unity within all things. Each hum is a way of coming back to yourself, to the truth that resides within.”

The deep hum resonated within me, vibrating through every cell in my body, easing the pain that clung to my heart. I felt an inexplicable lightness, as though the weight of Ruhi’s memory was dissolving into the air around me. Bushie, sensing the change, gently nuzzled my hand, his cool fur soothing against my fevered skin. “You’re coming back to us, Muni,” he whispered with a glint of relief in his eyes. “Yogi Ji and I missed you.”

The next day, as I sipped on another herbal concoction prepared by Yogi Ji—this time a blend of ashwagandha for strength and Brahmi for mental clarity. I found myself more present, more rooted in the here and now. Lama Tenzen watched me, his gaze steady and serene.“Now, Muni,” he said, “let us move beyond these thoughts, beyond the mind itself. I will teach you a mudra—a hand gesture—to support your journey. This is Gyan Mudra, the gesture of knowledge.”

He brought his thumb and forefinger together, forming a circle, while the other fingers remained straight.“Place your hands in this mudra on your knees while you meditate,” he instructed. “It will help to quiet the restless mind, to connect you to a deeper wisdom. And as you meditate, focus on the Maha Mrityunjaya Mantra that Yogi Ji chanted. Let its sound be an anchor.”

I followed his guidance, bringing my hands into Gyan Mudra and reciting the mantra silently. Gradually, my mind grew quiet, and a profound peace settled within me, replacing the longing that had once seemed unbearable.

Days passed, and with the guidance of Yogi Ji, Lama Tenzen, and Bushie, I regained my strength. The memory of Ruhi, once sharp and painful, softened into something beautiful yet distant,

a reminder of the divine beauty that resides not only in others but also within.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, Lama Tenzen prepared to leave. He placed a hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes with a gentle smile. “Muni, remember that beauty is fleeting in form but eternal in essence. When you feel lost, turn within. There, you will find what you truly seek .”

Yogi Ji nodded in agreement; his eyes filled with pride. “The journey is long, Muni, but you have taken a great step. Remember that every experience, even painful ones, are steps along the path to wisdom.”

I watched Lama Tenzen disappear into the mist, his red and gold robes blending into the twilight. Bushie nestled beside me, and I sat with Yogi Ji, gazing at the stars above, feeling a deep gratitude fill my heart.

For the first time since I left the temple, I felt whole again. And in the silence, with only the soft rhythm of my breath, I realised that the beauty I had seen in Ruhi was not lost, it was now a part of me, guiding me forward.

Kundalini – Memoirs of a Yogi, to be continued in next month’s YOGA Magazine …..