At the Feet of A Himalaya Master (Remembering Swami Rama) volume 2

Swami Rama

Rs 250/=
Prologue:- Now I will begin my stories about Swami Rama as requested and assure you that this is not meant to be an ego trip but a true and honest sharing of an unprepared student on the path of preparation. I don’t know how else to put it. Except for a few instances, I will usually refer to any other person(s) involved in these events anonymously, as I do not want to overly personalize these treasured stories and experiences. One of the most attractive things I have experienced over the years is the fact that being on this path and in this tradition allows one to be completely free of competition. In the Beginning:- I grew up in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. When I was in high school, I had neither the intention nor the ambition to go to college. I was a below-average student, being more involved in sports and government than in academic. I worked nights, weekends and holidays at many jobs to help my mom keep our family together. We were five siblings: an older brother and sister, me and a younger brother and sister. Our father died when I was 10 years old. We had nothing but our house, which the state of Iowa let us keep as long as we lived in it. Later it was sold to pay back taxes. After my high school graduation, I was invited to the Iowa State Teachers College by the football coach for late summer tryouts. Earlier that summer, I had broken bones in my left hand in a work accident. When I went up for football practice, I fractured my hand again. After that the doctors recommended that I lay off sports for a while to allow it to heal properly. Love at First Sight:- When I first met Swamiji in 1971, I was drawn to him as a moth to a flame. The group to students who were studying with Swamiji at the time had rented an old two-story farmhouse in Barrington, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago. A friend urged me to look into their classes, which I did. Without understanding why, I started to attend classes there. I had no idea who Swami Rama was and did not know anything about him. In fact I had never met anyone from India. All I knew was that some incomprehensible force was pulling me there. At the rear of the farmhouse was a small, screened-in porch, which was used as an entryway. Everyone entered the house from the unpaved driveway and barnyard. They removed their shoes, and walked through the kitchen to get to the downstairs area, which had polished wooden floors and few internal walls. The walls had been removed to create a large open space for classes. I entered the back porch of the house and noticed that there were a number of shoes on the floor by the door; so I also removed my shoes and placed them there.