Neem Karoli Baba

In the summer of 1967, a young American named Ram Dass—then still Richard Alpert, recently fired Harvard professor—sat before an elderly Indian sadhu wrapped in a blanket. The guru looked at him with eyes that seemed to see everything, then casually mentioned Alpert's mother, who had died the previous year. He described her death from spleen illness, her final months of suffering, the last words Alpert had spoken to her—details the young American had told no one in India. "She's all right now," the old man said simply. "She's happy." In that moment, something in the Western seeker's carefully constructed identity shattered. He had found Neem Karoli Baba, the guru who would become a bridge between ancient Hindu devotional practice and a generation of Western spiritual seekers, yet who himself remained almost entirely unknown to the broader Indian public.

Brief Chronology

Neem Karoli Baba (also known as Maharaj-ji) was born Lakshmi Narayan Sharma around 1900 in a village near Akbarpur, Uttar Pradesh, into a Brahmin family. He left home in his early twenties, wandering as a sadhu for years before settling near the village of Neeb Karori (from which his name derives) around 1958. He established a series of ashrams and temples across northern India—at Kainchi, Vrindavan, Rishikesh, and elsewhere—though he never stayed long in any one place. His teaching period intensified in the 1960s and early 1970s, when he attracted both Indian devotees and a small but influential group of Westerners. He took mahasamadhi on September 11, 1973, in Vrindavan, reportedly willing his own death after telling attendants he was "going to America"—where several of his Western students were at that moment experiencing spontaneous visions of him.

The Wandering Years

Almost nothing certain is known about Neem Karoli Baba's early life, and he actively discouraged questions about his past. The few stories that survive come filtered through devotees' memories, often contradictory, always hagiographic. He was born into a well-off Brahmin family, received some education, married young, and had children. Then, in his twenties, he simply left. Not in dramatic renunciation, not after a spiritual crisis that anyone recorded—he just walked away from conventional life and began wandering.

For perhaps two decades, he moved through northern India as a sadhu, sleeping under trees, begging food, practicing austerities that left no written record. Some stories place him in the Himalayas during these years. Others have him wandering from temple to temple, occasionally staying with other sadhus, mostly alone. He never spoke of these years in any detail. When asked about his spiritual practices or how he attained realization, he would deflect with humor or simply change the subject. "I don't know anything," he would say, or "Hanuman did everything."

The first concrete story that survives comes from around 1958, when he was already in his fifties or sixties. A railway official found him sitting in a first-class compartment without a ticket and ordered him off the train at the small station of Neeb Karori. The sadhu got off without protest. The train tried to leave but wouldn't move. The engine worked fine; the wheels simply wouldn't turn. After some time, someone suggested bringing the sadhu back. When he reboarded, the train immediately started. The railway official, shaken, asked what he wanted. "A temple to Hanuman," the sadhu said, pointing to a spot near the station. The official built it. The sadhu became known as the Baba of Neeb Karori—Neem Karoli Baba.

Whether this story happened exactly as told matters less than what it reveals: from the beginning, Maharaj-ji's presence had a quality that disrupted normal functioning and pointed toward something beyond ordinary causation. He didn't perform miracles to prove anything; they simply seemed to happen around him, as natural as breathing.

The Blanket-Wrapped Presence

What struck people first about Neem Karoli Baba was his ordinariness. He looked like countless other elderly sadhus in India—wrapped in a blanket (usually plaid), sitting on a wooden bench (his takhat), often with his hand tucked into his blanket. He had no impressive beard, no elaborate robes, no commanding physical presence. He was short, somewhat heavy in his later years, with a round face that could shift in moments from childlike playfulness to devastating intensity to complete vacancy, as if no one was home at all.

He rarely gave formal teachings. Instead, he would sit on his takhat surrounded by devotees, sometimes for hours, sometimes for minutes before suddenly leaving. He might feed people—he was obsessed with feeding people—or he might ignore them completely. He could be tender beyond measure, calling devotees "my child" and stroking their heads, or he could be harsh, even cruel, driving people away with insults or indifference. There was no predicting which Maharaj-ji would appear.

His daily routine, if it could be called that, was chaos. He might wake at 3 AM or sleep until noon. He might stay at an ashram for weeks or leave after an hour. He traveled constantly between his various ashrams and temples, often with no warning, sometimes taking devotees with him, sometimes slipping away alone. He would arrive at someone's house unannounced, eat everything in their kitchen, and leave. He attended weddings, funerals, and festivals, but also disappeared for days with no explanation.

Food was central to his presence. He ate enormous amounts—devotees reported him consuming enough food for several people at a sitting—yet he never seemed to gain weight beyond his comfortable roundness. More importantly, he constantly fed others. "Eat, eat!" was perhaps his most common instruction. He would pile food on people's plates, insist they take more, become genuinely distressed if someone wasn't eating enough. This wasn't just hospitality; it was transmission. Through the simple act of feeding, he was giving something else—love, blessing, presence itself.

His relationship with his body was peculiar. He seemed barely aware of it most of the time, yet he was also remarkably healthy for someone who lived with such apparent disregard for normal self-care. He slept little, ate irregularly, and spent hours sitting in uncomfortable positions. In his final years, he developed diabetes and heart problems, but even then he continued his erratic schedule until the very end. When he died, it was as if he simply decided to leave—telling attendants he was going, lying down, and departing.

The Heart of Devotion

Neem Karoli Baba's spiritual identity was inseparable from Hanuman, the monkey god of the Ramayana who embodies perfect devotion to Ram. Maharaj-ji didn't just worship Hanuman; he seemed to be Hanuman, or perhaps Hanuman worked through him—the distinction was never clear. His temples were Hanuman temples. His constant instruction was "Ram, Ram, Ram"—the repetition of God's name. When asked about his own spiritual attainment, he would say, "Hanuman did it all."

This wasn't metaphor. Devotees reported that when Maharaj-ji spoke of Hanuman, his entire being changed. The playful old man would become something else—ancient, powerful, utterly devoted. He would weep at the mention of Ram's name. He would become angry if someone showed disrespect to Hanuman. Once, when a devotee casually mentioned that Hanuman was "just a monkey," Maharaj-ji's face darkened with such fury that the person fled in terror.

Yet his devotion wasn't the formal, ritualized bhakti of temple Hinduism. He rarely performed elaborate pujas. He didn't insist on traditional observances. Instead, his devotion was immediate, personal, and all-consuming. "Love everyone, serve everyone, remember God"—this was his teaching, repeated in various forms but always coming back to these essentials. Not love as sentiment but love as action. Not service as duty but service as worship. Not remembering God as theological exercise but as constant awareness of presence.

He taught primarily through his own being. When he looked at someone with complete attention, they felt seen in a way they had never experienced—not judged, not analyzed, but simply held in awareness that was itself love. When he fed someone, the food became prasad, blessed offering. When he told someone to go somewhere or do something, it wasn't a command but a transmission of what was already true, what they needed to discover.

His relationship with his devotees was intensely personal yet completely impersonal. He knew intimate details of their lives—their thoughts, their struggles, their secrets—yet he seemed to have no personal investment in them. He could be devastatingly present one moment and completely absent the next. He would call someone close, shower them with attention, then ignore them for months. This wasn't cruelty; it was teaching. He was showing them that his love wasn't dependent on their presence, their behavior, or their devotion. It simply was.

The Western Connection

In the late 1960s, something unprecedented happened: young Americans began finding their way to Neem Karoli Baba. They came through various routes—some following the hippie trail to India, some sent by other teachers, some drawn by mysterious synchronicities. Ram Dass (Richard Alpert) arrived in 1967, sent by a young American sadhu named Bhagavan Das. Others followed: Krishna Das (Jeffrey Kagel), who would become a renowned kirtan singer; Larry Brilliant, who would lead the WHO's smallpox eradication program; Daniel Goleman, future author of Emotional Intelligence; numerous others who would carry Maharaj-ji's influence into Western psychology, medicine, music, and spirituality.

Maharaj-ji's interaction with these Westerners was different from his relationship with Indian devotees, yet fundamentally the same. He seemed to understand their cultural context intuitively, even though he spoke no English and had never left India. He knew about their drug experiences—Ram Dass famously tried to give him LSD, and Maharaj-ji took an enormous dose with no apparent effect, saying "It's useful, but it's not the true samadhi." He understood their psychological struggles, their distance from traditional religion, their hunger for direct experience.

With the Westerners, he was often more explicit in his teaching, perhaps because they lacked the cultural context that Indian devotees absorbed naturally. He told Ram Dass to "love everyone and tell the truth." He instructed Krishna Das to sing, to use music as a path to God. He sent Larry Brilliant to work on smallpox eradication, making service to humanity a spiritual practice. Yet even with them, his primary teaching was his presence—the demonstration that enlightenment wasn't about achieving some special state but about being completely present, completely loving, completely ordinary and completely extraordinary at once.

The Westerners struggled with the guru-devotee relationship in ways Indian devotees generally didn't. They wanted to understand, to analyze, to maintain some independence. Maharaj-ji worked with this, sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully. He would disappear when they became too attached. He would show up in their dreams or visions when they tried to leave. He demonstrated that the relationship wasn't about dependency but about transmission—he was showing them their own true nature, not making them dependent on his.

Core Teachings

The Simplicity of Love

Neem Karoli Baba's fundamental teaching was almost absurdly simple: love everyone, serve everyone, remember God. Not as three separate practices but as one movement. Love wasn't an emotion to cultivate but the natural expression of seeing truly. Service wasn't charity but recognition that serving another was serving God. Remembering God wasn't mental effort but awareness of what was always already present.

He demonstrated this through his own being. When he looked at someone—really looked—they felt loved in a way that had nothing to do with their worthiness or behavior. This wasn't personal affection; it was recognition of the divine in human form. He loved the saint and the scoundrel with the same quality of attention. He fed the rich and the poor with the same care. This wasn't moral teaching; it was transmission of a way of seeing.

"Love everyone and tell the truth" was his instruction to Ram Dass, and it contained his entire teaching. Love everyone—not just the lovable, not just those who love you back, but everyone, because everyone is God in form. Tell the truth—not as moral imperative but as natural expression of seeing clearly. When you see truly, you can't help but love. When you love truly, you can't help but speak truth.

The Name as Practice

"Ram, Ram, Ram"—the repetition of God's name was Maharaj-ji's primary practice instruction. Not as mantra in the formal sense, not as technique to achieve some state, but as constant remembering. The name and the named were not separate. To say "Ram" was to invoke presence itself.

He didn't teach elaborate meditation techniques. He didn't give complex visualizations. He simply said: remember God. Say the name. Keep saying it. Let it become as natural as breathing. When you're happy, say Ram. When you're suffering, say Ram. When you're confused, say Ram. The name itself would do the work.

This was bhakti yoga stripped to its essence. Not the elaborate devotional practices of temple Hinduism, but the direct path of remembering. The name was a thread connecting the devotee to the divine, and Maharaj-ji's instruction was simply: don't let go of the thread. Everything else would follow.

Service as Worship

Maharaj-ji's emphasis on seva (selfless service) wasn't about accumulating merit or fulfilling duty. It was about recognizing that serving another human being was serving God directly. When he sent Larry Brilliant to work on smallpox eradication, he wasn't sending him to do good works; he was giving him a path to realization through service.

He built temples and ashrams, but he also built hospitals and schools. He fed thousands of people, not as charity but as worship. When devotees asked what practice they should do, he often told them simply to serve—feed people, help the sick, care for the poor. Not as preparation for spiritual practice but as the practice itself.

This teaching was particularly powerful for Westerners who had been taught that spirituality meant withdrawing from the world. Maharaj-ji showed that engagement and service could be as much a path to God as meditation and renunciation. The key was the quality of attention—serving with awareness that you were serving God in human form.

The Guru as Mirror

Though Neem Karoli Baba rarely spoke explicitly about the guru-disciple relationship, his entire teaching method demonstrated its essence. He wasn't trying to make devotees dependent on him; he was showing them their own true nature. When he looked at someone with complete love, he was showing them how God sees them. When he knew their thoughts, he was demonstrating that consciousness is not private. When he appeared in their dreams or visions, he was revealing that separation is illusion.

The relationship wasn't about worship or obedience in the conventional sense. It was about transmission—the direct pointing to what was always already true. Maharaj-ji would often say "I don't know anything" or "Hanuman does everything," deflecting attention from his personal identity. He was teaching that the guru is not a person but a function—the function of awakening recognition.

This is why he could be so unpredictable, so apparently inconsistent. He wasn't following a teaching plan; he was responding to what each person needed in each moment. Sometimes that meant tenderness, sometimes harshness. Sometimes presence, sometimes absence. The teaching was in the totality of the relationship, not in any particular interaction.

Legacy and Living Relevance

Neem Karoli Baba's direct influence during his lifetime was relatively small—a few ashrams in northern India, several hundred Indian devotees, a handful of Westerners. Yet in the decades since his death, his presence has grown exponentially, particularly in the West. Ram Dass's book Be Here Now (1971) introduced millions to Maharaj-ji's teaching. Krishna Das's kirtan music has brought his devotional approach to thousands of yoga studios and meditation centers. His Western devotees have carried his influence into psychology, medicine, technology, and social service.

The temples and ashrams he established continue to function, serving thousands of people daily with food, medical care, and education. The Kainchi Dham ashram, where he spent much time in his later years, has become a pilgrimage site, particularly for Westerners seeking connection to his presence. His Indian devotees maintain the traditional practices—daily arati, kirtan, and feeding programs—while his Western students have adapted his teaching to contemporary contexts.

What remains most vital in Maharaj-ji's teaching is its radical simplicity. In an era of complex spiritual technologies and elaborate practices, his instruction to "love everyone, serve everyone, remember God" cuts through to the essential. His demonstration that enlightenment doesn't require withdrawal from the world but can be lived in the midst of ordinary life—feeding people, building hospitals, showing up for weddings and funerals—offers a model of engaged spirituality that resonates with contemporary seekers.

His emphasis on bhakti—devotional love—as a complete path provides an alternative to the meditation-focused approaches that dominate Western Buddhism and much of contemporary yoga. For people who find their hearts more naturally open than their minds quiet, Maharaj-ji's path of devotion offers a way forward. His teaching that service itself is spiritual practice has inspired countless projects combining social action with spiritual development.

The practice of kirtan—devotional chanting—has become one of the most accessible entry points to his teaching. Through Krishna Das and other musicians, the simple repetition of sacred names that Maharaj-ji emphasized has reached people who might never read a spiritual book or sit for meditation. The practice requires no belief, no understanding of Sanskrit, no particular religious affiliation—just willingness to sing and open the heart.

Yet questions arise about how Maharaj-ji's teaching has been received and transmitted. The guru-devotee relationship he embodied was rooted in a specific cultural context that doesn't translate seamlessly to the West. The intense personal devotion he inspired in his students can become problematic when directed toward living teachers who lack his apparent realization. The stories of his miracles and omniscience, while inspiring to devotees, can create expectations that set up both teachers and students for disappointment or worse.

The hagiographic tendency in how his life is remembered—the emphasis on supernatural events, the reluctance to acknowledge any human limitations—can obscure the more radical aspects of his teaching. He was teaching a way of being, not asking people to believe in miracles. His instruction was to love and serve, not to seek supernatural experiences. When the focus shifts to the miraculous, the simple profundity of his actual teaching can be lost.

There's also the question of what gets emphasized and what gets overlooked. Maharaj-ji's teaching was deeply rooted in Hindu devotional tradition—the worship of Ram and Hanuman, the practice of puja and kirtan, the framework of guru-disciple relationship. When this teaching is extracted from its cultural context and presented as universal spirituality, something essential may be lost. Yet when it's presented as requiring adoption of Hindu cultural forms, it may be inaccessible to those who could benefit from its essence.

For sincere practitioners drawn to Maharaj-ji's path, the challenge is to receive the transmission without getting caught in either devotional inflation or cultural appropriation. His teaching points to something real—the possibility of living with an open heart, of serving without agenda, of remembering the divine in the midst of ordinary life. These aren't Hindu teachings; they're human possibilities that he demonstrated with particular clarity. The question is how to practice them authentically while respecting their source.

Teachings in Their Own Words

"Love everyone, serve everyone, remember God." His most frequent instruction, given to Ram Dass and repeated in various forms to countless devotees.

"The best form to worship God is every form." When asked about which deity or practice was superior.

"It's better to see God in everything than to try to figure it out." Responding to philosophical questions about the nature of reality.

"Don't throw anyone out of your heart." His instruction on how to practice love in the face of difficulty or conflict.

"I don't know anything. Hanuman does everything." His typical response when devotees attributed powers or knowledge to him.

"Feed people. That's the best thing you can do." His constant emphasis on the spiritual practice of serving food to others.

The Gift of Presence

What Neem Karoli Baba offered, and what remains available through his teaching, is a demonstration that enlightenment isn't exotic or distant but can be lived in the midst of ordinary human life. He wasn't trying to be special or to create a following. He was simply being what he was—completely present, completely loving, completely ordinary and completely extraordinary at once. His teaching wasn't in his words, which were few and simple, but in his presence, which was inexhaustible.

For those drawn to the path of devotion, to the opening of the heart rather than the quieting of the mind, Maharaj-ji's example shows what's possible. Love isn't something to achieve but something to allow. Service isn't preparation for spiritual life but spiritual life itself. The divine isn't somewhere else, waiting to be found, but here, in every face, every moment, every simple act of feeding or caring or showing up.

The question his life poses to contemporary seekers is not whether to believe in his miracles or adopt his cultural forms, but whether to take seriously his simple instruction: love everyone, serve everyone, remember God. In a world of complex spiritual technologies and elaborate practices, this teaching remains radically simple and radically challenging. It asks nothing less than everything—the willingness to keep the heart open, to serve without agenda, to remember what's real in the midst of what's passing. That teaching, like Maharaj-ji himself, remains present for those ready to receive it.