A spiritual seeker practiced complex tantric meditation involving breathing, visualizations, and mantras until meeting his guru Neem Karoli Baba in India. During meditation at a Buddhist stupa, he experienced an inner vision of his guru's voice repeating "Ram"—God's name—which erased all prior practices from his memory. From that moment, his practice became simple: japa, the repetition of God's name using mala beads. He argues that in this age of difficulty, divine name repetition is the most accessible and intimate spiritual path, combining singing in kirtan with quiet, private repetition that deepens the heart's conversation with the Divine.
What drew you to complex spiritual practices before meeting your guru?
Before traveling to India in 1971, the speaker was deeply immersed in tantric meditation—a sophisticated system that required intensive study and discipline. He was nineteen years old and felt considerable pride in learning such an intricate practice. The tantric path he followed involved multiple layers: breathing exercises (pranayama), visualizations of the chakra system, specific mantras for each energy center, corresponding colors, and geometric shapes. Each chakra had its own prescribed sound, visualization, and energetic quality.
He describes his approach with characteristic honesty: he worked hard at the meditation, putting in tremendous effort and willpower. The complexity itself seemed valuable—a sign of his commitment to the spiritual path. Like many young practitioners, he equated difficulty with depth. The structure and intellectual rigor of the system appealed to him; there was always something more to learn, more to master, more to perfect.
What happened during the meditation at the Buddhist stupa?
After arriving in India and settling in a village house with friends, the speaker had a transformative experience at Saroth, a stupa (Buddhist temple) located between Sarnath—where Buddha gave his first teachings—and Benares, the sacred city of Lord Shiva. One early morning at 4 a.m., a friend invited him to meditate while eating hashish candy and climbing the stupa to watch the sunrise. Despite his commitment to clarity at that time, he accepted.
During the meditation, he experienced what he describes as an internal "sonic explosion" like an atomic bomb, followed by an amplified voice—as if heard through a hundred Marshall amplifiers at maximum volume. The voice was his guru Neem Karoli Baba's, repeating one word over and over: "Ram, ram, ram, ram, ram." With each repetition, he felt something extraordinary occurring: the complexity of all his prior practices—the mantras, colors, visualizations, breathing techniques—was being erased, as if chalk being wiped from a blackboard.
"From that moment on I couldn't even remember any of the other stuff," he recalls. The detailed tantric system that had occupied years of study simply vanished from his consciousness. He was left with one thing: the name Ram, divine repetition in its simplest form. This wasn't intellectual forgetting; it was a complete dissolution of his previous practice architecture, replaced by something utterly plain.
Why is God's name repetition the heart of the practice?
The speaker's guru Neem Karoli Baba taught that "with the name of Ram, the Impossible becomes possible. Everything is possible with God's name." This teaching became the foundation for what followed. Since that morning at the stupa, the speaker has built his entire spiritual life around japa—the repetition of God's name. He sings it during kirtan (congregational chanting), uses mala beads to count repetitions, and maintains the practice through daily life.
He has been using mala beads for over forty years, carrying them everywhere: while watching movies, watching television, sitting with family, throughout all moments. The beads have become inseparable from his being. The practice itself is deceptively simple: taking a name of God—Ram, Krishna, Durga, or any divine name—and repeating it with focused attention.
He acknowledges that different spiritual traditions emphasize different divine names. The Hare Krishna movement repeats "Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare / Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare." Shaiva traditions might focus on Shiva. Islamic devotion centers on "La ilaha illallah." Yet he points to a shared teaching among many contemplative traditions: "Whatever name you choose, God's name is God itself. God's name contains the complete, complete completeness of the Divine."
Why is this practice suited to the current age?
Many teachers, he notes, describe the present era as "Kali Yuga"—the age of darkness and difficulty. This is not a pessimistic label but a diagnostic one. One need only observe the world to recognize challenges: personal struggles, global hardship, collective suffering. Even those whose individual lives are relatively sweet find themselves living in a world full of difficulties. Into this context, many spiritual teachers recommend divine name repetition as the most accessible practice for this age.
The speaker is careful not to prescribe his own path to others. "I would never ever, not for a minute, suggest to anyone else that I know what is the best spiritual practice for them," he states clearly. Yet he acknowledges that many teachers across traditions point to name repetition as the simplest, most direct way to access the Divine in times of collective turbulence.
For himself, he admits frankly: "I don't have very good concentration. I don't have very good commitment. I don't have very good consistency." Yet japa works for him precisely because it does not require perfection or heroic discipline. It meets him where he is. The practice doesn't demand that he become someone other than who he is; it offers presence with what is.
What is the difference between kirtan and japa?
The speaker practices the divine name in two distinct modes, each with its own power. Kirtan is congregational singing of God's names—"an amazing expansion of our hearts," he calls it. When voices join together in singing divine names, something opens in the group consciousness. There is joy, resonance, mutual uplift. Kirtan is public, communal, exuberant.
Japa, by contrast, is quiet repetition, most often done alone with mala beads. He describes japa as "like the whisper conversation with our beloved." When the head is bowed and one is speaking the name quietly, again and again, it becomes "the most intimate moment." Japa is private, interior, tender. It is the conversation between the individual consciousness and the Divine that no one else needs to witness.
Together, these two practices cover the full spectrum of devotion: the expansive communal heart and the secret, whispered intimacy with the Beloved. Both are expressions of the same impulse—reaching toward the Divine through repetition of the sacred name.
What does japa mean?
Japa simply means "repetition"—specifically, the repetition of a divine name or mantra. In the speaker's practice, it means sitting quietly, holding mala beads (a string of 108 beads used for counting), and repeating a chosen name of God, often Ram, with each bead representing one full repetition. The practice spans from formal meditation to informal repetition woven throughout the day—while moving through the world, in moments of difficulty, in moments of ease.
The power of japa lies in its utter simplicity. There is nothing to achieve, nothing to visualize perfectly, no complex system to master. There is only sound, intention, and repetition. The mind, which is naturally restless and prone to distraction, is given something simple to return to, again and again. Over time, the name becomes not something we say but something we are, a frequency to which we naturally attune.
Why does he advocate so strongly for this practice?
The speaker declares himself "a big advocate of japa"—and his advocacy is rooted not in ideology but in lived experience. When complexity fell away at the stupa that morning, something essential remained: the efficacy of the name itself. Decades of daily practice have only deepened his conviction that divine name repetition is not a stepping stone to something else, but itself the complete path.
Moreover, his teaching reflects a shift from spiritual striving to spiritual surrender. The complex tantric path required him to be the actor, the one doing the practice with full willpower and concentration. Japa invites a different posture: opening to what the name itself does, trusting that "with God's name, the Impossible becomes possible." The work is not to achieve some state but to yield to the presence already contained in the sacred sound.
Finally, he advocates for japa because it honors the real conditions of human life. Being a father, a husband, moving through the ordinary challenges of family and work—these are not distractions from spiritual practice but the practice itself. Japa fits seamlessly into life as it actually is, needing no special conditions, no retreat, no perfect circumstances. A person on a bus, in a hospital, at a desk can repeat the name. A person watching a movie or sitting with friends can move beads through their fingers. The practice does not require that one become extraordinary; it works through ordinariness.
Where to go from here?
For those drawn to deepen their own connection with divine name repetition, the first step is simply to choose a name that resonates—Ram, Krishna, Durga, Allah, Jesus, or any sacred name that calls to your heart. If mala beads appeal to you, obtain a string of 108 beads and begin counting repetitions, aiming for a consistent daily practice even if it is brief. If sitting quietly feels foreign, begin with kirtan—seek out congregational singing in your tradition or online. The kirtan will open the heart, and from that opening, quieter forms of repetition may naturally emerge.
For those already practicing complex spiritual disciplines, the speaker's experience offers a gentle question: What if simplicity itself is the point? Not simplicity as a lack, but simplicity as a distillation to the essential. The guru's gift was not to add more layers but to strip away all layers and leave only the name. That may be the deepest teaching here: that sometimes the practice becomes clearer not when we add more, but when we have the courage to release what does not serve.
