Excerpt from "Mystic by Default", James Swartz autobiography

One afternoon, during siesta, in a terribly exalted state of God consciousness I was walking around the gardens telling the beads. The sun was extremely hot so I decided to go to a refreshment stand in the park next to the ashram for a cold drink. The grounds were deserted — ”Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun” — so I made my way down the path to the park where I sat in the shade sipping a Limca, a carcinogenic version of lime soda. I returned about fifteen minutes later apparently unobserved.

The next day, Sunday, during satsang in the temple, which was large enough to accommodate the weekend crowd from Bombay, a man asked fo ran explanation of the concept of ego.

"Ego is the need to be different, to think you're special," said the Swami, looking pointedly at me. Suddenly I felt the sinking sensation that accompanies the knowledge that you are about to be royally exposed, vainly hoping he would not humiliate me in front of the crowd. I had tasted the lash before and took it like a man, but this attack was notable for its ferocity. And to this day, though there was truth in it, I do not think it was fair. There was something personal in it, something that signaled a change.

I was not unaware of my ego and its arrogant tendencies. I would have suffered almost anything to rid myself of it once and for all, but that is not how it is. Ego is a superimposition on the self, a false personality built up over lifetimes, a carefully constructed edifice of fear and desire designed to protect oneself from the aggressions and cruelties of the world. No spiritual dynamite can reduce it to rubble in a matter of seconds. And if it is reduced to rubble, it miraculously reconstitutes itself. Unlike an atrophied limb, it cannot be surgically removed but has to be patiently dismantled thought by thought over a long time.

"Ram thinks he's special," he said with great scorn as two hundred and fifty heads turned in my direction. "He thinks he's beyond the rules. He's convinced he's not a human being. He dresses up like a yogi and prances off in the middle of the afternoon to the teashop with his mala conspicuously twirling. He wants the world to know he's spiritual. "In fact I was just thirsty and certain no one was about. He paused to let it sink in. I sat still, completely detached, listening carefully, discounting his anger.

"Just who do you think you are?" he said rhetorically with scathing contempt. "You think you're God's gift to the human race. You believe there has never been anyone as wonderful as you. Your idea is that the world should beat a path to your feet and worship you! What nonsense!Spirituality's not about building ego, it's about destroying ego. You were a big sinner and now you fancy yourself as a saint and you want the world to recognize you."

He paused to let it sink in and continued, "You're nobody. You're nothing. You know how you should be thinking? You should think that you're a doormat! A doormat! Do you hear?”He was shouting at the top of his voice."You should let the world walk over you every minute of the day, wipe its feet on you, grind you into the dirt. This is not spirituality. You think you're so clever, so wonderful, but you're wrong. You're nothing but a doormat, do you understand! A doormat!”

I nodded. The storm abated and he continued talking in a calm voice.I should have been devastated but, oddly, I felt quite good. Not, I think, because his point was well taken, which it was more or less, or because the barrage of energy lifted me higher, which it did, but because I realized he was projecting, sharing his personal solution to the ego problem. He had a similar kind of ego and kept it in check by serving the world — doormat sadhana, if you will. It was a good lesson.

But it was the beginning of the end of our relationship and my spiritual quest. The change was inevitable because I had learned the fundamentals of self-inquiry so I did not need to be there any more. Secondly, there was no danger that I would ever go back to the old way of life. And finally, I think he felt uncomfortable that I was getting to know him a little too well on the relative plane.

I do not say this because I fancy myself a profoundly insightful person, but simply because I was probably the only non-attached person who consistently observed him every day in every situation from dawn till dusk. Most saw him in tightly regimented public situations, the classes or the satsangs, or in short interviews. In addition, the Indian guru-disciple relationship is practiced across a wide gulf of respect, superstition, fear and need.

The guru is a kind of absolute monarch, always partly concealed in a cloud of mystery. So you are never dealing with a real person. He was by his own admission, ‘an institution.’ This is not to say that there was not a real person there, but that that person was faithfully serving the teaching tradition and could not afford to be a normal person. It would have been too confusing. So, some things that he probably needed to look at were not getting looked at because of his position. It is always the case when you are so involved in the world.

I was not looking for weaknesses or inconsistencies, but my mind was open so I saw everything. I am not suggesting he had anything to conceal. He was not an uncultured small-minded guru chasing power, wealth, fame or pleasure. He was a very classy, dignified guy. But, odd as it sounds, I think the intense awareness I focused on him brought up things he was ill prepared to deal with.

One day, a month or so before the end, I was sitting in class in an extraordinary state. The body was automatically assuming complex yogic postures, the mind was so radiant with consciousness it was subtly affecting the other students. Gradually, in response to the energy the students in my vicinity moved away until there was a noticeable ring of empty space around me.

I think they must have unconsciously felt someone was spying on them.Such is the power of consciousness. I came out of my absorption for a minute and noticed that the Swami was looking at me in an unkind way, as if I had consciously done something to mess with the classroom energy, about which he was very possessive. At the same time I had the sense that he was drawn to me, perhaps momentarily envious? Whatever it was, I understood that I did not belong there any more; I was simply becoming too powerful.

I say ‘momentarily envious’ because I think seeing me like that, more a god than a human being, must have called attention to the negative side of his own situation. His karma as a famous jet-setting mahatma put such heavy demands on his mind that it often pulled him down, making him cranky and irritable, sometimes downright unpleasant. His body was not well and required a good deal of mental energy to sustain, energy he probably should have invested elsewhere. My body was young and strong, an asset, not a liability. He was an upper caste Hindu born around the turn of the last century in a terribly conservative culture who followed sannyassi dharma, the rules of renunciation, strictly.

I was free to do what I wanted, as if I were a ghost, transparent and unreal, unaffected by physical reality. I did not have to lift a finger and I spoke infrequently. I could fly and soar in the transcendental sky, dissolve into the emptiness and experiment all day long as I saw fit. While he squandered his capital at an alarming rate helping others, I husbanded mine, selfishly investing it in pure meditation.

And finally, he had to live with the knowledge that he was nearing the end of his incarnation, whereas I was being reborn into a brand new life.Maybe my speculations are off the mark, but my perception was accurate; our relationship was starting to become all too human. No doubt I was fulfilling him in a very deep way, but I was also starting to be a problem.Yet when the time came to deliver the coup de grace, he played his part with consummate class, like the truly great man he was.