I’m not the best gujju, I prefer dhokla to khaman.

But I am willing to concede that in my experience, khaman is more transformative.

I remember the late Swami Pratyagbodhananda. Swamiji took his samadhi in 2020.

Most of the time I’d meet Swamiji at Arsha Vidya Gurukulum. The ashram out where you wouldn’t expect it. Sailorsburg, PA where right across the property there’s this big lot that used to host weekend fleamarkets.

The ashram was founded by Pujya Swami Dayanada Saraswati. All the cabins the kids would stay in during the summer camps and the fields we played in. The bookstore where I read the Panchatantra stories. The buildings where classes were held. Not lectures, but discussions where the adults didn’t speak down to us.

The yagya shala right across the main building. That primary mandir has the prayer hall with a murthi that the priests perform the daily pujas for. Across the hall is the washrooms and double doors leading the cafeteria.

The cafeteria is a powerful place. Pratyagbodhanandaji would always tell me stories of visiting my grandparents in Valsad.

The home was no stranger to sants, Gurudev said to open up your homes so they did.

If I want to flex, they gave up their home Pramukh Swami Maharaj when the Prana Pratishtha was happening for their mandir nearby.

But we’re not here to talk about global figures. We’re here to talk about a man from Surat who’s master had sent him across the world.

Swamiji would always mention one thing. Ba’s khaman, gher-no-kavanu. I do not know a man who has more fond memories of the squishy yellow cake.

It wasn’t the scriptures, or the Vedanta, or the Advaita philosophy that he wanted to share with me. It was the fact that my grandparents, grandmother specifically was able to remind him of home and his journey took him far away from it.

I grew up on a lot of insisting that the institutions must stand if Dharma is to survive. I don’t see it, what I see is that as long as the people carry it forward, it lives.