THE KUNDALINI MEMOIRS OF A YOGI

I took some fresh air near the pine trees and then returned to the Yoga Bhavan. I thought in my mind that I must have imagined that one of the snake charmers was changing into a snake.

The charmers were on their way home and Yogi Ji was explaining to them, “When the path seems unclear, chant ‘Aum Shreem Hreem Kleem,’ and let it be your inner compass.”

The charmers were pleased, “Thank you, Yogi Ji,” one of them said. “You have given us a gift more precious than any riches.”

Before they left Yogi Ji presented them with a bowl made of woven silk and inside were a delicious collection of rice and pomegranate cakes.

As they departed, their footsteps fading down the mountain path, I

felt a sense of profound peace. In one morning, I had glimpsed the mysteries of the aura, the power of mantra, and the beauty of unexpected connections. I turned to Yogi Ji, who sat in serene meditation, and whispered, “Thank you, Yogi Ji, for teaching us not only about energy but about unity, connection, the pulse that links all beings.”

Yogi Ji opened his eyes and gave me a gentle smile. “Remember, Muni, Bushie—yoga is more than postures or breath. It is the art of weaving ourselves into the very fabric of existence, to feel one with the mountains, the rivers, the very essence of life. In this unity, we find peace.”

With a contented sigh, Bushie rolled onto his back, his tail flicking lazily. “Well, then, count me in!” he said, beaming. “I might just be the happiest snow leopard yogi in the whole Himalayas!”

Laughter filled the cave, mingling with the lingering notes of the charmers’ music, as the teachings of Yogi Ji settled deep into my heart. In the coming weeks life in the cave resumed its quiet rhythm. Yet, as spring approached, I sensed that a new chapter awaited. Yogi Ji was spending longer hours in meditation, often emerging with a quiet but intense look in his eyes. Bushie and I would watch him from the cave’s entrance, both sensing a subtle shift in the air, a new energy.

One morning, just as dawn broke over the distant peaks, Yogi Ji called me to sit beside him. The early light painted his face in gold, and I could see a gravity in his expression that I had not seen before. “Muni,” he began, his voice calm but filled with purpose, “you have grown much in these past years, but there comes a time when every seeker must evaluate his understanding – beyond the silence of the mountains.”

I looked at him, slightly confused, but he continued.

“I am sending you on a mission, Muni – diplomatic task to the kingdom of Shangri-La, far beyond our valley and situated deep within the Karakoram range. It is a country both close to us in spirit and yet far, caught in conflicts of its own. It is time for you to bring peace to a place where understanding has faltered.”

I felt my heart quicken. Shangri-La! I had only heard tales of the distant kingdom, whispered in the caves and valleys by travellers who had caught glimpses of its rare beauty and tranquillity. It was a place of mystery and myth, a land said to be hidden in clouds and surrounded by jagged, impenetrable peaks.

“Why me, Yogi Ji?” I asked hesitantly, feeling a mixture of honour and trepidation.

Yogi Ji looked into my eyes, his gaze steady and kind. “Because you have glimpsed both the depths of sorrow and the heights of divine beauty. The people of Shangri-La have lost their sense of inner peace, torn between external pressures and the desires of their rulers. You must help them remember the essence of their spirit.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder, a warm reassurance. “You will not be alone, Muni. I will be with you in spirit, and I have friends along your path who will guide you. But this journey is yours to make, your own test of wisdom and peace.”

Bushie let out a quiet purr, his icy-blue eyes watching me with a playful but knowing look. We spent the rest of the day preparing. Yogi Ji gave me a simple satchel containing a few essentials— dried herbs for strength, a journal for reflection, and a small, carved amulet he had worn himself for decades.

“This amulet is for protection,” he said, handing it to me. “It is also a reminder of our connection. When you feel alone, remember that you are never truly apart from those who love you.”

As dawn broke the next morning, I set out, the path winding down the mountainside, lit softly by the golden morning light. The journey was long and arduous, and as I descended from the familiar peaks, I entered landscapes I had only heard about in stories, thick, ancient forests, emerald rivers coursing through steep valleys, and endless stretches of barren rocks that seemed to stretch on forever.

Days later, I arrived in the lowlands, and a new world unfolded before me. Here, the air was warmer, scented with the fragrance of blossoms and spices unfamiliar to me. The people were different too—traders, monks, farmers, and travelers from distant lands, each bearing tales of their own.

Yet all eyes seemed to recognise me as a stranger, and I could feel the weight of the responsibility that Yogi Ji had given me.

After many days, I finally approached Shangri-La.

The kingdom was nestled in a valley surrounded by jagged peaks, its villages scattered along the banks of a sparkling, turquoise lake.

White stupa shrines dotted the hillsides, their prayer flags dancing in the wind, and yet an air of tension hung heavy over the landscape. At the city gates, I was greeted by two stern-looking guards who led me through winding alleys to the main palace. Inside, I was ushered into a grand hall, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries depicting the kingdom’s history.

Seated at the far end of the hall was the ruler of Shangri-La, King Norbu, a man with an imposing presence and eyes that seemed to hold a storm within.

The king motioned for me to approach. “You come from the Himalayan caves, from Yogi Ji’s sacred lineage?” he asked, his voice low but filled with curiosity.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” I replied, respectfully. “I am Muni, a disciple of Yogi Ji, and I come with a message of peace and understanding, hoping to assist however I can.”

The king’s expression softened slightly, but there was still a guardedness in his eyes. “Our kingdom has known peace for centuries,” he said slowly, “but recently, unrest has crept into our lands. The neighbouring states press upon us, eager for our resources, and even within our own walls, voices of discontent have grown. It is as though our people have forgotten the harmony that once bound us.”

I listened carefully, understanding the weight of the king’s words. “Then perhaps, Your Majesty,” I said gently. “The mission I am tasked with is not only diplomatic but also one of remembrance. To help your people reconnect with their essence, to remind them of the balance that resides within.”

The king nodded slowly; his gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right, Muni. There is an ancient temple in the hills, a place of meditation and healing. It has fallen into disrepair, but it was once the heart of our kingdom’s spirit. If you can revive this sacred place, perhaps it will awaken the memories of peace among our people.” He motioned for his advisor to guide me, and I set out once again, this time accompanied by a small group of monks who had been charged with tending to the temple. The temple lay nestled in a hidden valley, a structure built of stone and wood, worn with time but still carrying an aura of tranquillity. We worked for days, clearing the weeds, restoring the carved pillars, and placing fresh offerings at the altar. I could feel the energy of the place come alive again, as though the temple itself was breathing with us, waiting to be awakened.

In the evenings, I led the monks in meditative practices Yogi Ji had taught me. Together, we practiced Nadi Shodhana Pranayama or channel clearing breath, to balance our inner energies, breathing through alternate nostrils to calm our minds and bring clarity to our hearts.

Slowly, I saw the monks grow more grounded, more at peace. The tensions in their faces softened, and an atmosphere of unity began to blossom.

One evening I had the pleasure of another audience with the king. The king led me to the Hall of Echoes, a serene chamber in his Himalayan palace. “Muni, I see that you are a traveller on a mission of diplomacy and understanding.”

I gently nodded and sat down cross legged before the wise king. The flicker of oil lamps reflected the ancient symbols carved into the stone walls. The king’s gaze lingered on his expression, both solemn and kind. The king spoke, “You have journeyed far, Muni, and your spirit is open. I sense you are ready to carry more than messages between rulers. What I shall share with you is a treasure—not of gold or jewels, but of wisdom. It is an ancient mantra, one that carries the essence of compassion and balance.”

Two guards entered carrying two bowls of warm milk. I took a sip, as did the king. It was sweet and warm.

“Here take this” said the king handing me some ground cinnamon. I sprinkled it over the milk and sipped happily.

I listened carefully…….

The Kundalini Memoirs of a Yogi To be continued, in the next issue of YOGA Magazine…