Although this book often reads like a fast-paced adventure story, it is the true account of a nineteen-year-old American (the son of a Beverly Hills pediatric surgeon) who in the late 1960s, after experimenting with drugs, sex, and political activism, set off for India in search of the truth. He arrived with twenty dollars in his pocket and, enchanted by the extraordinary world he found there, explored the country until he stumbled into the presence of Hari Puri Baba, a yogi in the ancient tradition of the Renunciates of the Ten Names. Hari Puri proceeded to shave the young stranger’s head and initiate him into his order. Now called Rampuri, the young man embarked on a discipleship unlike anything he had ever imagined. He had to learn Hindi and Sanskrit, overcome opposition as an outsider, and deal with the battle that raged within him as he attempted to reconcile the Western view of India with the reality of its culture and beliefs. Despite overwhelming odds and the mysterious death of his guru, he stayed the course and has remained in India to this day. As Rampuri reveals the teachings he received and describes the rituals and pilgrimages in which he participated, it becomes clear that this is an unprecedented telling of one man’s sacred initiation and training and a must-read for any serious seeker. “This book will entertain and enlighten you. A bold journey that explores the true intersections of Eastern and Western thought.” —Deepak Chopra, author of The Book of Secrets “Rampuri’s search has carried him into the very depths of one of the great ancient wisdom lineages of India. He has gone where very few Westerners have gone.” —Krishna Das, “Chant Master of American Yoga” ( New York Times ) “An authentic and fascinating account of a Western yogi who has made India his home for his body and his spirit. Baba is bound to challenge your view of reality and the spiritual life. It is not just the story of a personal quest but of a journey beyond the Western civilization mind-set to the real India of the yogis, where the limitations of both our cultural ideas and our egos are continually exposed. An adventure into a different kind of reality.” —David Frawley, author of Yoga and Ayurveda and Yoga and the Sacred Fire and director of the American Institute of Vedic Studies Rampuri was born in Chicago and grew up in Beverly Hills. In 1969 he traveled overland to India, where he has lived ever since. In 1970 he met Hari Puri Baba, who became his guru and initiated him, the first foreigner, into Juna Akhara, the ancient order of the Renunciates of the Ten Names. In 1984 he established Hari Puri Ashram in Hardwar, North India, where he continues his practice of the Yoga tradition. He can be found on the Internet at www.rampuri.com. 1 THE THREE-DECKED STEAMSHIP HAD BEEN FOLLOWING the contour of the palm-lined Indian coastline since sunrise, weaving its way through flotillas of fishing boats and other small ships until it reached Bombay. The voyage from Karachi was the final leg of a six-month overland journey that had taken me from Amsterdam to what would become my new home. A deck-class ticket bought you a place on the ship, but not a seat, berth, or cabin. You were on your own when it came to claiming a piece of the deck, usually the size of your straw mat or blanket. The two upper decks soon became a multicolored sea of bedding and people. When I first came aboard, Sigi, a young German, led me to a remote corner of the deck, where I could smell incense and there was a kasbah partitioned with pastel silks into passageways and small camps. This, apparently, was the foreigners' quarter. We were pilgrims, refugees, children of the revolution! We came from North America, South America, Asia, the Middle East, and every country in Europe. We had encountered one another at every stop along the way—Istanbul, Ankara, Konya, Tabriz, Tehran, Mashad, Herat, Kandahar, Kabul, Peshawar, Karachi—individuals, groups, and clans, all making the great pilgrimage. Where to? We were on our way home, moving toward the Light, or so we believed. "Watch out for thieves," my new friend warned, as we put down our mats at the edge of the little colony. "It's usually the French. One of us must guard our belongings at all times." "Pardon," said an orange-robed European with flowing black locks, accompanied by several young women. He resembled one of the Three Musketeers, except for his pointed Aladdin slippers. "You are going to India for the first time?" he asked, introducing himself as Cartouche. "May we join you?" "What kinda name . . . ," I started. "Egyptian," he said, "from my father's side. My mother is French." In what appeared to be flawless Urdu, he instructed the Pakistani coolie where to put each bag, argued over the price, said something that made the man laugh, and then paid him. "We wanted to share this journey with spiritual people," Cartouche said, as he explained why they had moved from the Italian section