Brotherhood Dharma, Destiny and the American Dream by Deepak Chopra, Sanjiv Chopra Page B

first moment I had an inkling of what a famous phrase in Indian spirituality means: ocean of bliss. Many people have had a similar experience.
    The secret is what to do after the presence leaves you. I wasn’t concerned with that at sixteen. It just felt as though Mother Mary’s love came over me. The air grew sweeter, and I felt safe and cared for. Because a well-loved child grows up with the same things, it might feel more intense to have them emanate in a holy place, but there is no epiphany. The contrast isn’t strong enough, perhaps? I didn’t shrug off my experience, which lingered for quite a while, but the road to Damascus didn’t stretch out before me, either.
    On rare occasions my uncle Sohan Lal came to town. He was a traveling salesman who sold field hockey equipment, a Western game that India excelled at. No doubt he took the job because he was mad for sports. But Sohan Lal felt a strong attraction to saints, as I’ve mentioned, constantly finding obscure s adhus, yogis, and holy men in general. As he traveled the country, he would seek out the local saint and sit at his feet. Sometimes he would listen to the wisdom imparted by the saint, but mostly Sohan Lal wanted Darshan. This is the blessing that comes simply from setting eyes on a saint (the root of darshan is “to see” or “to view”). One time, however, the blessing went much further.
    As he recounted it, Sohan Lal was visiting one of the huge congregations of holy men known as a Mela, where tens of thousands of spectators crowd the banks of a holy river to see spiritual luminaries—a meet and greet with God, so to speak. Remarkable encounters often occur at these events, and one happened to Sohan Lal. He met a yogi sitting in lotus position under a canopy.
    “I know that you are a fervent seeker of God,” the yogi said. “Tell me what your heart desires at this very moment.”
    “At this very moment?” Sohan Lal replied, flustered. “I want some barfi.”
    Barfi is the most common kind of candy in northern India; it can be bought from street vendors for next to nothing. The yogi held up a fist, unfolded it, and handed my uncle a fresh piece of pistachio barfi, which he had apparently manifested out of thin air on the spot.
    Whenever he recounted this incident—which all of us children believed without question—Sohan Lal would shake his head sadly.
    “I could have asked for enlightenment or a million rupees at least. But what could I do? All I wanted at that moment was barfi.”
    The day did arrive for the recruitment pitch. At St. Columba’s the older boys went to the poorest sections of Delhi to hand out milk to the children. We mixed powdered milk with water and delivered it in a big truck. The kids met us with smiles, and we played with them throughout. It was more fun than charity work.
    One day Father Steinmeyer—Irish like all the rest despite his German name—asked me what I was reading. Without television, reading was a big part of my life. When I told him that I was immersed in P. G. Wodehouse, the good father frowned.
    “Kid’s stuff. I thought you were more grown up than that.”
    I hung my head. Even a gentle reproof from a teacher sank in. By the lights of a St. Columba’s boy, I had a right to feel ashamed for being so frivolous. Indian education was primarily by rote. At sixteen I could recite whole scenes from Shakespeare, not just one or two speeches. I had memorized long stretches of Tennyson and other Romantic poets.
    Father Steinmeyer looked over at the four boys who were on the milk truck that day—me, another Hindu boy, a Sindi, and a Parsi.
    “Have you ever thought about taking Jesus as your lord and savior?” he asked quietly.
    We all shrugged and said no in embarrassed mumbles. It was the simple truth. The priest said nothing more. He turned back to the impoverished waifs crowding around us holding out their cups formore. As a pitch to young converts, this one was barely halfhearted. The wily