India has no shortage of Swamijis and Gurujis. They are of three kinds: (i) the truely enlightened, (ii) the entrepreneurial and who run a business and (iii) the simply unethical and disgusting type. I have observed them mostly from a distance, interacted with a few as I sought a better understanding of life. This is not a verdict on faith — faith, I have found, is stubborn and survives even its middlemen. It is simply the account of one seeker who learned, sometimes slowly, to tell the difference between the light and those who merely sell tickets to it.
I was born into a Havyak Brahmin family. My parents believed in religion and God, though they did not practise it with great rigour. My lineage, I am told, belonged to an ‘Archak’ tradition — that is, those who conducted poojas and rituals — which was, in essence, the very foundation of the Havyak way of life. It is natural, then, that I grew up in a household where the resonant chanting of Vedas and mantras was a common presence. They had a sweet melody that I enjoyed, even if I never quite understood what the words meant.
Pujaris (Purohits)
Whenever there was a function — a pooja, a marriage, or similar occasion — the Purohit would arrive before the other guests and was held in the highest regard by our family. Our household had a Purohit family we had been associated with for generations, the Kilingaar Purohits. There were two brothers in particular, Subhraya Bhattru and Keshava Bhattru, whom I respected deeply for their humility and knowledge. It is a different matter, of course, that while the Purohit performed the pooja in the room where God resided, hardly anyone sat with him to listen. Most were outside, talking about mundane things or playing cards.
I slowly began to feel that going through rituals without understanding them was rather meaningless. Yet I continued to participate — even in later stages of my life — primarily to avoid clashes with my elders and, above all, to avoid hurting the feelings of my family members. Interestingly, when I did participate in a pooja or ritual, I immersed myself in it with a curious mind, trying to decipher what each step might have meant to the early Vedic scholars who designed them. In retrospect, I believe this gave me an initiation into a form of meditation — a practice of calmness and inward reflection.
When my mother passed away, I stayed at our native place to complete the rituals as the elder son. The Purohit - Mahabala Bhattru - was a descendant of the same Kilingaar family of Purohits. I was fortunate that he had a soft corner for me, and despite recognising that I was not a blind practitioner of tradition, he patiently explained each step of the rituals without losing his composure — no small feat for a man managing both diabetes and high blood pressure. One day I asked him: ‘Why is one made to go through so many arduous rituals after someone’s death? And for more than twelve days at that?’ He confided in me: ‘Raghu, I do not know the full reason. But my guess is that it is one way of helping people come to terms with loss. Instead of being overcome with grief after losing someone, you are made to go through these back-breaking rituals. They make you so tired that you have no time to dwell on the loss, and by the end of the day you are so exhausted that sleep comes before you reach the bed.’ That was clear wisdom, and it made me think more along those lines, rather than simply criticising the rituals.
My father had made a request of me: ‘After my death, you must perform the rituals so that I may be at peace.’ I had deflected the conversation at the time, saying, ‘Why speak of it now?’ But when the time came, I made sure I participated in the after-rituals for my father, though I had given the main responsibility to my younger brother, Raja — who handled the logistics of money, food, and dana (a tradition of offering gifts to Brahmanas during such rituals), while I went through most of the ritual steps.
At one point during the proceedings, the young Pujari made a pointed and rather sly remark about the current practice of dana, implying that we were being too stingy. My brother was incensed and exchanged a few sharp words with the Pujari in front of everyone. I turned to Raja and said, ‘Do not say more. Once you have given someone the pedestal of Purohit, he must be respected until his work is done. Whatever he says or does reflects his own understanding. We must bear with it. The only real alternative is to decide beforehand whether he is the right person to guide your rituals.’ Raja was not pleased, but he held his tongue for the next few hours. My belief has always been this: once you ask someone to act as your Purohit, he performs the rituals on your behalf. Whatever he does is rooted in his own understanding. You bear with it — or you choose differently from the start.
I also attended the rituals of a relative after his sad passing. On the thirteenth day, a group of Purohits sang the ‘Veda Ghosha’, which I found genuinely pleasing. The main Pujari — again, a young man — then began his pravachan. He said many touching and true things about the departed soul. But then he took a turn that made me deeply uncomfortable, speaking at length about the importance of dana to Brahmins and suggesting that those who did not give generously would condemn the departed soul to suffering in the afterlife. It was manipulation, pure and simple. It saddened me that a young Purohit was no wiser, and perhaps even less honest, than the older generation I had known.
Gurujis
Over the years, I have observed many ‘god-men’ and Gurujis from a distance, and my conclusion has been that most of them exploit people’s psychological vulnerabilities rather than help them transcend those very vulnerabilities. One figure did seem different, at least initially. I attended a Stage 1 workshop of the Art of Living, designed by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. The teacher was a man who had resigned from a well-paying corporate job to teach the programme. I enjoyed the one-week workshop, primarily for certain meditative practices — particularly the Sudarshan Kriya.
Some years later, one of my students became a devoted follower of Sri Sri and chose to live permanently in the Bangalore ashram. He met me once and persuaded me to visit Sri Sri and extend an invitation for him to address students at BITS Pilani, where I was then serving as Director. After some initial hesitation, I agreed. The student arranged the meeting, and I arrived at the sprawling ashram campus a few minutes before the scheduled time.
I was made to wait for about forty-five minutes in a room full of other seekers, before being escorted to another room where Sri Sri was seated. Two others were brought in with me. Each of them approached Sri Sri with great reverence — touching his feet, declaring themselves fortunate for the personal audience, and thanking him profusely. I folded my hands from a respectful distance, introduced myself briefly, mentioned BITS, and handed over a formal letter requesting his visit to Pilani to address our students. His response was a single sentence: ‘I will come if Mr. Birla personally invites me.’ I was taken aback. After paying my respects, I left — hurt, disappointed, and deflated. Whatever regard I had once held for the Guruji evaporated in that moment. I did some further research, and I am now firmly of the view that he belongs to the same category as most of the others.
BITS Pilani was at one point running a course on Comparative Religion, and the then Vice Chancellor appointed an adjunct faculty member who happened to belong to the Krishna Consciousness movement and bore a name along the lines of ‘Guru Das.’ He used to meet me and was always respectful and deferential. I was courteous in return. He gifted me a book on his organisation’s interpretation of the Bhagavad Gita, telling me that very few copies existed and that I was fortunate to receive one. On reading portions of it, I found the interpretation entirely one-sided and intolerant of any questioning. I kept my interactions with him to a minimum and did not encourage the department to continue offering the course. A few years later, a former BITS student wrote to me describing how the Krishna Consciousness people had systematically brainwashed him when he enrolled for the course, drawn him into their belief system, and caused him considerable suffering before he finally broke free. He pleaded that the course not be offered again. By that point, we had already scaled it down considerably. The lesson was clear: once you engage deeply with such movements, the dogma has a way of absorbing you entirely.
Swamijis
BITS also had a Swamiji in its adjunct faculty — popularly known as ‘Be Happy Swami,’ or ‘Mouj Mein Raho Swamiji.’ He gave talks in a small auditorium, open to all who wished to attend. He spoke primarily about the Bhagavad Gita, but in a humorous and engaging manner. He did not push religious belief; instead, he focused on how one might lead a happier life by drawing on the spirit of the Gita and the Upanishads. I enjoyed his talks greatly and had several one-on-one conversations with him afterward. In time, his material became a little repetitive and I outgrew the lectures — but there were no negative associations. It was an honest, wholesome engagement.
Over the last two years, I have turned to reading more on Advaita philosophy, and I have found it profoundly illuminating. Through YouTube, I have been listening to lectures by two Swamijis of the Vedanta Society of New York and Northern California: Swami Sarvapriyananda and Swami Tattwamayananda. I have had no physical encounter with either of them, but I have come to respect them deeply for the lucidity and depth they bring to the Bhagavad Gita, the Mahabharata, and the Upanishads. Swami Sarvapriyananda can spend hours exploring just one or two verses, drawing out abstract ideas with remarkable engagement. Swami Tattwamayananda is more informal in style, but equally penetrating in his treatment of deeper meanings. I have no hesitation recommending their talks to anyone who wishes to genuinely understand Advaita philosophy.
In closing…
India has no shortage of Swamijis and Gurujis. Many run their spiritual enterprises as businesses, capitalising on human gullibility to build fame and accumulate wealth. Some of the so-called ‘god-men’ have crossed into outright unethical or morally reprehensible conduct.
I count myself fortunate not to have been ensnared by the wrong ones in my own search for wisdom. I hope you, the reader, use your intelligence and discernment to find the right guides — and to stay well clear of the wrong ones. After all, we are shaped, in no small part, by the people we choose to keep close.
Where the mind is closed, knowledge fades; where faith is blind, danger waits—but questions light the path.