There is something strange about inviting people into your home when you are on the path.
You think you are giving them a place to sleep. But somewhere along the way, you realize they have brought something into your home that you could never have arranged yourself.
A little magic. A little grace. A little more of the Guru.
That is what happened when three Gopis came to stay with us.
Our house was already full. Every corner had been accounted for. There was barely room for another person. And yet, when one of them said, “I’ll sleep in the living room,” something in me simply said, Why not? As though the house had been waiting for them. And perhaps it had.
Because that weekend became one of those stretches of time that later feels impossible to explain.
Saturday: Several Lifetimes in One Day
Kriya. The cathedral. A video. Seva. Strings and Stillness. Satsang. Calls. Registrations.
We ended the day with 110 registrations and a kind of exhaustion that sits somewhere between physical tiredness and being completely alive.
The next evening, I received a call. I was told I would be part of the group picking up Gurudev from Philadelphia.
And something inside me stopped.
Because I had already told Gurudev: If you want me to spend time with you, then so be it. I had not asked for an opportunity. I had simply offered myself to seva. And suddenly, the opportunity appeared.
So I did what any completely rational person would do. I rearranged my workday, climbed into a car with the Gopis, and drove to Philadelphia to pick up my Guru.
On the way, I kept thinking: What will I say to him?
Maybe I will tell him I am an architect. Maybe I will tell him about the project I am working on.
Maybe I will tell him that my mother is one of his biggest devotees — and that, in many ways, she is the reason I am here.
I had a whole conversation with my Guru planned in my head.
And then we arrived. Gurudev got into the car. And I said almost nothing. I sat in the wrong seat — of course I did — the seat from which I could see only the back of his chair.
I am not a strategist. Not even remotely. But perhaps that is one of the things Gurudev knows about me. He solves the problems I don’t know how to solve.
The next day, I had another chance. And another. And another. Each time, I thought: I’ll tell him now. But he was tired. Or there was too much happening. Or I didn’t want to disturb him. So the words remained inside me — even the beautiful, carefully written letter I had brought, still sitting in my bag.
Preparing His Seat
At the cathedral the next morning, I found myself preparing his room. And something happened while doing Guru Puja.
I began chanting: Asanam samarpayami. Vastram samarpayami.
And suddenly I wasn’t chanting words from a puja anymore. I was actually doing them. I was preparing his seat. Cleaning his room. Arranging his flowers. Preparing the water. Preparing the space in which he would sit.
The words became physical. And I began to cry.
Because sometimes grace is not something you see. Sometimes it is simply the privilege of being allowed to do something small for someone you love.
That evening, at the cathedral, I was placed somewhere on the side — not where I wanted to be. I had imagined standing at the entrance, welcoming people I had helped bring into the room.
And then, suddenly, someone came running over: “There is nobody from your team covering this section. Go!”
So I went. And suddenly I was standing exactly where I had wanted to stand.
People I knew began walking through the doors. People I had called. People I had spoken to.
People whose journeys had somehow intersected with mine. And I wasn’t ushering anymore.
I was welcoming them home.
Come. You’re supposed to be here. This is your place.
And then Gurudev came. The meditation was deeper than anything I could remember. And then, almost as quickly as it had begun, the evening was over.
But I wasn’t ready for the story to end.
The Letter, the Elevator, the Wave
The next morning there was a volunteer gathering at the hotel. I had one thing on my mind: I am going to see Gurudev.
This time, I had prepared. The letter was in my pocket — not buried in my bag, not somewhere I couldn’t reach. In my pocket. Accessible. I had even scripted what I wanted to tell him.
And then, of course, nothing went according to plan.
We were already running late. Then we took the wrong lane coming out of the Lincoln Tunnel, and somehow we ended up going back through the tunnel. Back. Into. The tunnel.
I watched the minutes disappear. My heart sank. I had perhaps forty minutes to get there.
Now there was no way.
And yet, somewhere in the middle of that frustration, something inside me became strangely quiet. This is meant to happen. I don’t know why I thought that. But I did.
We finally arrived. I ran upstairs. And the first thing I heard was: “You’re so late. Darshan is already over.”
My heart dropped. I had missed it. Again.
I started walking toward the elevator. And then Gurudev appeared. He glided past me.
Walked into the elevator. And just as the doors were closing, he turned. Looked directly at me. And I waved.
He waved back. The most beautiful, grandfatherly wave. And smiled.
The doors closed. And my heart blossomed.
“He Wants to Meet You”
I took the next elevator upstairs, still hoping for Darshan. And then someone came to me and said: “I told Gurudev what you’re doing. He knows you’re an architect. He wants to meet you.”
Half my work was done. I had spent all that time scripting what I would say. And Gurudev had already arranged the introduction. Of course he had.
I was told he was eating, so we could eat. I took two bites. Then they called us.
This is how it is with Gurudev. You think you know what is happening. And then suddenly, you don’t.
I went into the room. There were perhaps eight of us. One by one, we were introduced. And then: “Gurudev, Buvana is an architect.”
He looked at me. “Architect?”
And suddenly, there I was. I told him about the architecture work I was doing, about the pilot. I asked for his blessing. And he said: “Blessed. Blessed.”
Then I noticed the beautiful shawl he was wearing — an angavastram. And, because apparently I cannot stop myself from speaking Tamil to Gurudev, I said something about it.
He looked down at it. And smiled.
And then I realized: I need a photograph. So I went and stood next to him. He looked at me with that playful expression. And somehow, in those few minutes, everything I had been trying so hard to make happen simply happened.
Then came the letter. It was still in my hand. Even now, I couldn’t quite bring myself to give it to him. My hand was only twenty-five percent extended. He reached seventy-five percent of the way. And took it from me.
And in that instant, something released. It felt like a ten-ton weight had lifted from my heart. It’s your problem now. I had given it to him. And I walked out lighter. Floating.
A few minutes later, someone handed me a bouquet. “These are Gurudev’s flowers for you.” And I laughed. Because this had happened so many times. I give him flowers. He gives them back. He gives me flowers. I keep them. I have somehow become his flower girl. Literally his flower girl. And perhaps that is exactly what I am — someone who keeps bringing flowers to the Guru, someone who keeps trying to give something, and keeps discovering that the Guru gives back much more.
By then, I thought: My heart is full. What more could I possibly need?
Boston: A House With No Gatekeepers
And then the Gopis who were staying with me said: You have to come to Boston.
I was unsure. I was tired. I had work. I had already received so much. But somehow, they convinced me. And at 6:30 the next morning, we left.
We didn’t even know exactly where we were going. We had chai in the car. Guru stories began — one story became another, and another. The autumn landscape moved past the windows, but we barely saw it. We were too busy talking about the Guru. At one point, we realized we didn’t even have the address. We had decided to go before we knew where we were going. Somehow, the address appeared. Of course it did.
Somewhere along the way, I realized something: I had spent so much of my life thinking that intimate moments with the Guru belonged to another era — the old-timers, the people whose stories I had heard, the people who had known him when the circle was small. I used to think: That was a different time. It’s no longer possible. The sangha is too big now.
And then we arrived at a house in New Hampshire. We walked in. No gatekeepers. No ceremony. Just a handful of people.
Ten minutes later, Gurudev walked across the lawn. There were perhaps ten or fifteen of us. He came into the sunroom. He looked at the vegetables growing in the garden. He opened the covers of the food that had been prepared. He blessed the food. And then he went upstairs to rest.
Fifteen minutes later, he came back down. “Let’s meditate.”
And suddenly I was sitting three feet away from my Guru. Ten people in a room. The dream I had thought belonged to another lifetime was happening in mine. It felt like my dream. I couldn’t believe what was happening.
I didn’t need him to say anything to me. I didn’t need a photograph. I didn’t need a blessing. I didn’t need anything. Just being there was enough.
And then, when he went upstairs again, something told me not to follow like the others. So I stepped back. Five steps. And waited, looking up at the landing.
He appeared. And as he walked toward his room, he kept looking at me. And waving. That beautiful, grandfatherly wave. And I waved back. And somehow my heart became even fuller.
The Veshti
Then came the most unexpected seva of all. Someone appeared and asked if I knew how to iron. I said yes. She handed me a pile of freshly laundered clothes. And then I realized what I was holding: Gurudev’s veshti. His angavastram. Six yards of white cotton with a beautiful blue zari border.
I was terrified. I could hear my husband’s voice in my head, reminding me of all the clothes I had burned while ironing.
But there I was. Ironing my Guru’s clothes. Slowly. Carefully. One layer at a time. Making sure I didn’t touch the border. Making sure I didn’t burn anything. And all I could think was: Gurudev, I want you to look your best. You always look your best. Let me do this well.
It took two hours. And while I was doing it, those words from Guru Puja came back to me: Vastram samarpayami. I had sung those words in the cathedral. And now, somehow, I was living them. The Guru had taken a Sanskrit verse and turned it into an experience. He had taken something I thought I was offering him and somehow made it a gift to me.
By then, I was completely in bliss. The Gopis and I felt like three little Gopis living inside a dream. We had spent the whole day pampered by our beloved Guru — and somehow, all day long, he had been giving us things to do. Giving us seva. Giving us proximity. Giving us these tiny, impossible moments. As if all we had to do was keep saying yes.
Midnight Seva
That night, after the event, we were hungry. It was late. Very late. And when we met our fellow Gopi in the street, he looked at us and asked: “Do you want to focus on food, or do you want to focus on Gurudev?”
We looked at each other. Like two puppies. Guru.
So we got into the car. He gave us protein bars. And we kept chasing our Guru. It took almost two hours to get back.
For a moment, we hesitated. It was someone’s home. It was midnight. Were we really going to walk into someone else’s house and start doing dishes?
Then we remembered: We are here for seva.
So we walked in. And there was work to do. We washed dishes. Cleaned. Helped. And one of the Gopis got the chance to clean Gurudev’s silver thali. It was divine grace.
We had spent the entire day being pampered by the Guru. And now, at midnight, we were washing dishes. But somehow, it all felt like the same thing. Seva. Presence. Love. Being available.
By the time we finally went to bed, the day felt like it had contained three lifetimes. And yet there was still another day. And another Darshan.
Goodbye
Eventually, it was time to say goodbye. We chased the Guru all the way to his departure. And in the car afterward, it was almost absurd — one person doing Sudarshan Kriya, one doing three-stage pranayama, one eating, one navigating, one driving. We missed the exit three times. There was full drama. And yet somehow, we got there.
We said goodbye with full hearts. The Gopis and I took a bus back through a Northeastern storm. And I remember thinking: This is crazy. And then another thought came: When you chase the Guru, the Guru protects you.
We made it home safely. We even managed to get everyone where they needed to go.
What I Understood
I came home to warm food that had been lovingly prepared. The next morning there was chai and poha. There was ice cream. There were more Guru stories. There was a final view of the New York skyline. And then the Gopi left.
And suddenly the house was quiet.
I came home and played By Your Grace. And something broke open. I cried. And cried. And cried. Not from sadness. From recognition. From the strange, overwhelming feeling that all these tiny moments had been saying the same thing: I am here. I have always been here.
And I understood something. I had spent the entire journey thinking I was chasing the Guru. Chasing the car. Chasing the Darshan. Chasing the next opportunity. Chasing Boston. Chasing the next moment.
But perhaps I wasn’t chasing Him at all. Perhaps He was leading me. Perhaps that is what grace looks like.
Not fireworks. Not miracles announced with trumpets.
Sometimes it is a wrong seat in a car. Sometimes it is a wrong turn through the Lincoln Tunnel. Sometimes it is a letter you cannot quite hand over. Sometimes it is an elevator door closing just as you wave goodbye. Sometimes it is ten people meditating in a sunroom. Sometimes it is a six-yard veshti spread across an ironing board. Sometimes it is a flower. Sometimes it is two Gopis saying: Come. Let’s go.
And sometimes it is simply the quiet realization, after everything is over: I didn’t arrange any of this. I only said yes. And that was enough.
Because perhaps the deepest seva is not what I do for the Guru. It is allowing myself to be available for what the Guru wants to do through me.
That night, my Jai Gurudev was different. It was no longer just a chant. It felt like an answer. A thank you. A surrender. A homecoming.
– Bhuvana Murali
