My name is Swami Arjunananda, a name given to me after I became a monk. Though I was born Arjun Sharma. I'm 44 years old. But I want to take you back to 2021, the year everything changed.
A time when I was still a devoted Hindu monk, living a life I believed would lead me to moksha, the liberation from the cycle of rebirth. That life feels so far away now, but it's where my journey to Jesus began.
I lived in a small ashram in Bloomington, a quiet city in Indiana with green hills, wide streets, and the sound of church bells ringing on Sundays. I had come to the US from India ten years earlier at the age of thirty years old, to serve the Indian community here.
I was a sannyasi, a monk who had renounced the world, my family, my possessions, my desires to seek the divine.
An individual in Sanyasa is known as a sannyasi (male) or sannyasini (female) in Hinduism.
My ashram was a modest house painted white with a small garden where we grew tulsi plants sacred to Vishnu. Inside we had a prayer room with statues of Vishnu and Krishna, their faces serene, decorated with garlands of marigolds.
The air was always heavy with the scent of sandalwood incense and the sound of mantras filled the space as my disciples and I chanted together.
I led a group of ten (10) disciples, mostly Indian immigrants who missed traditions of home and a few American converts curious about Hinduism.
We'd wake up at 4:00 a.m. every day, the sky still dark, and gather in the prayer room for puja, our worship ritual. I'd light a ghee lamp, its flame flickering softly, and offer flowers and water to Vishnu statue while chanting the Vishnu Sahasranama hymn of his 1,000 names. My voice would blend with my disciples, the words like a river flowing the room. Narayana, Govinda, Madhava. After puja, I'd teach them meditation and yoga, guiding them to meditation and yoga, guiding them to focus on their breath, to seek the divine within.
On special days like ekadashi, we'd fast, eating only fruits or nothing at all to purify our bodies and minds.
I had taken my vows as a sannyasi when I was twenty-five (25) years old, back in India in a small village near Varanasi. Varanasi is a city in Uttar Pradesh, India, located on the banks of the Ganges River.
I left my family, my parents, my younger sister and gave up everything to follow the path of Vishnu. I shaved my head, wore saffron robes and promised to live a life of discipline, meditation and devotion.
My guru, a wise old man named Swami Ramanandanda told me,"Arjun, you are now Arjunananda. Bliss of Arjun, seek moksha. liberation from samsara, the cycle of birth and death. Vishnu will guide you."
I believed him with all my heart. I spent years meditating by the Ganges river, its waters holy to us and studying the Bhagavad Gita where Krishna, an avatar of Vishnu, teaches about duty and devotion.
I felt I was on the right path that I was close to the divine. But when I came to Indiana, things started to feel different. Bloomington was so far from the Ganges, from the temples of India, from the life I knew.
Here I saw churches everywhere, their crosses shining in the sun, and heard Christmas carols in the winter, songs about a baby named Jesus. I'd see families walking to church on Sundays, their faces with joy, and I'd wonder what they found there. But I dismissed it.
To me, Jesus was just another deity like Vishnu or Shiva, one of many paths to the divine. I believed in the Hindu teaching all paths lead to Brahman, the Ultimate Reality.
I'd tell my disciples,"Focus on Vishnu. He is our way to moksha." They'd nod, their hands folded in prayer, but I could see some of were curious about the Christian culture around us.
One of my disciples, Ravi, was a 22-year-old who had grown up in Indiana. His parents were Indian, but he was born here, and he knew more about American life than I did.
He'd sometimes talk about his Christian friends, how they prayed to Jesus, and felt a peace he didn't understand.
One day we were sitting in the garden after a yoga session, the air cool with the scent of Tulsi, and Ravi said , " Swami Ji , my friend Jane invited me to her church for Easter. She said Jesus died and back to life. Is that true?"
I smiled adjusting my saffron robe and said, "Every religion has its stories. We focus on Vishnu, focus on Krishna. They are our truth."
But his question stayed with me like a small seed in my mind and I started to wonder about this Jesus.
Despite my devotion, I felt an emptiness growing inside me. I'd meditate for hours, sitting cross-legged on a mat in the prayer room, my eyes closed, chanting Om Namo Narayanaya, a mantra to Vishnu. I'd try to feel his presence, to see his divine form. Blue skin, four arms, holding a conch and a discus. But I felt nothing, just silence. I'd fast for days, my stomach empty, my body weak, hoping to purify myself, to get closer to moksha. But the peace I sought never came.
I'd lie on my mat at night, the ashram quiet, except for the sound of crickets outside, and I'd whisper, "Vishnu, why don't I feel you? Am I not pure enough? Am I not doing enough? I'd see my disciples looking to me for guidance, calling me SwamiJi , a title of respect, and I'd feel like a fraud. How could I lead them to moksha I couldn't find it myself?
I started to feel like an outsider in Indiana. I'd walk through Bloomington, my saffron robes bright against the gray streets, and people would stare. Some people smiled, others whispered, "What's he doing here?" I'd go to the grocery store to buy rice and lentils for the ashram, and I'd hear Christian music playing, songs about Jesus's love. I'd see crosses on necklaces, on car stickers, on church signs. It was so different from India where temples and statues of Vishnu were everywhere. I felt alone even with my disciples around me.
I think about my family back in India, wondering if they were proud of me, if I was honouring their sacrifices by becoming a monk. But the emptiness in my heart grew, and I didn't know how to fill it. I didn't know then that something was about to happen, something that would change everything I believed.
It was a warm day in the summer of 2021, and I was leading a 7-day meditation retreat at the ashram. My disciples and I had been fasting, eating only a little fruit each day to purify our bodies and minds. We wanted to deepen our connection to Vishnu to seek his divine vision. The retreat was intense. Hours of meditation, chanting and silence with no distractions. By the seventh day, I felt weak, my body trembling from hunger and exhaustion.
But I was determined to push through. I wanted to see Vishnu, to feel his presence, to know I was on right path to moksha.
We gathered in the prayer room that morning, the air thick with the scent of incense, the statues of Vishnu and Krishna glowing in the light of the ghee lamps. My disciples sat in a around me, their eyes closed, their hands resting on their knees, palms up. Isat in the center, cross-legged on a mat, my saffron robe loose around me, my beads in my hand. I led them in a chant, Om namo naranaya. My voice steady at first, then growing softer as I felt my strength fading. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath, trying to empty my mind to reach the divine. I pictured Vishnu in in my heart. His blue skin, his gentle smile, his forearms holding the conch, the discus, the mace, and the lotus.
I whispered, "Vishnu, show yourself to me, Let me feel your peace." But as the hours passed, my body started to out. My head felt heavy, my mouth dry, my heart racing.
I tried to keep chanting, but my voice faltered and I felt a sharp pain in my chest. opened my eyes, my vision blurry, and saw my disciples still meditating, their faces calm. I didn't want to alarm them, so I stayed quiet, but the pain grew worse like a fire burning inside me. I tried to stand to get some water, but my legs wouldn't move.
I fell forward, my hands hitting the floor and I heard Ravi shout, "SwamiJi shout," My disciples rushed to me, their voices full of panic, but I couldn't respond.
My heart stopped and everything went dark. I heard Ravi's voice far away saying, "Call 911! He's not breathing."
Another disciple, an older woman named Priya, started chanting, "Vishnu, save him."
I thought this is it. I'm dying. Vishnu, have I failed you?
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't in the prayer room anymore.
I was standing on the banks of a polluted Ganges river. The water dark and murky, swirling with the stench of decay, like rotting leaves and dead fish. and I felt a chill run through me. Even though the ground beneath my feet was hot, like burning sand. All around me, I saw countless figures. Their faces twisted in agony, crying out in pain. They were suffering souls trapped in the cycle of samsara, the endless wheel of birth and death. I saw some reborn as animals, a dog with broken legs, a bird with torn wings, others as humans in poverty, their bodies thin, their eyes empty. Each life was more miserable than the last, weighed down by the invisible chains of their karma, the actions of their past lives. I felt my own karma pulling me down, a heavy weight on my chest, like a stone pressing me into the cycle, reborn over and over, suffering in each life, never reaching moksha. In one life, I was a starving child, my stomach swollen, crying for food that never came. In another, I was a lonely old man sitting in a dark hut, my body aching, my heart full of regret. In every life I was searching for liberation, chanting mantras, meditating, offering prayers to Vishnu. But I never found it. I saw myself as a monk in this life. Sitting in the ashram, my face tired, my eyes empty, still trapped in the same cycle. I realized my spiritual practices, my meditation, my fasting, my devotion to Vishnu hadn't freed me. They had only kept me in this endless cycle of pain. A wheel that never stopped turning. I fell to my knees, the hot ground burning my skin, tears streaming down my face. I cried out, "Vishnu, why am I here? I've given my life to you. I've renounced everything. My family, my desires, my world. Why am I still suffering?" But there was no answer. Just the sound of the suffering souls around me, their cries echoing in my ears. I saw my disciples at my funeral, their faces pale, chanting mantras over my body in the ashram. Ravi was there, his hands folded in prayer, whispering, "SwamiJi, may you find moksha. Priya was crying, her voice breaking as she chanted, "Om namo narayanaya. But I knew they were trapped too. Destined to suffer in the same cycle. Reborn again and again. Never finding the peace they sought. I felt a deep despair. A darkness I'd never known. Believing all my efforts had been for nothing. That I'd never escape samsara. That l'd never find the divine. I thought about my life.
All the years I'd spent seeking Vishnu. I remembered my childhood in India running through the fields near my village. My mother calling me to the temple to pray. I remembered my guru Swami Ramanandanda his eyes kind but stern telling me to renounce the world to seek moksha. I remembered the Ganges river, its waters holy where I'd meditated for hours hoping to feel Vishnu's presence.
But now standing on this polluted version of the Ganges, I felt only fear and emptiness. I saw my disciples faces, their trust in me, their hope that l'd lead them to liberation. And I felt like I'd failed them. I whispered, I'm sorry, Vishnu. I'm sorry, my disciples. I don't know the way."
I thought I'd be trapped in this cycle forever, suffering with no end. My soul lost in the darkness of samsara.
But then something changed. A bright light appeared in the distance, cutting through the darkness like a star in the night sky. It grew closer, pushing the murky water away, and the suffering souls grew quieter, fading into a soft hum. The air cleared, and I felt a warmth, not burning like the ground, but gentle like a mother's touch. Ilooked up, my heart racing, and felt a spark of hope. Something I hadn't felt in this terrible place. I didn't know what was coming, but I knew it was something different, something that might save me from this nightmare. I was still on the banks of that polluted Ganges River, my heart heavy with despair, the cries of the suffering souls echoing around me. I thought I'd be trapped in the cycle of samsara forever, reborn in endless lives of pain, never reaching moksha.
But then that bright light in the distance grew closer, cutting through the darkness, and the murky water of the Ganges started to change. It turned clear and pure, sparkling like a river of glass, reflecting the light in a thousand colors. The air cleared, the stench of decay replaced by a sweet scent like jasmine flowers, and the cries of the suffering souls faded into silence. I felt a warmth, gentle and loving, wrapping around me, making me feel safe for the first time in that terrible place. The light came closer and I saw a man walking across the Ganges, his feet touching the water but not sinking, the river glowing beneath him. He was glowing like the sun, his presence radiant and peaceful, and I felt a Warmth in my heart I'd never known. His clothes were white, shining like the purest light, and his face was full of love and power. I thought he looked like Krishna, an avatar of Vishnu with his divine glow. But then I saw his hands. There were scars, marks where nails had been, and a wound in his side like he'd been pierced. I knew then who he was, even though l'd never believed in him before.
He was Jesus.
I fell to my knees, trembling, feeling so small in his presence. I thought this can't be right. Jesus is just another deity, not the ultimate truth. I'm supposed to see Vishnu. But Jesus spoke, his voice gentle but strong, like the sound of a river flowing over rocks.
He said,"I am the eternal one you've been seeking, Arjun. I am the way, the truth, and life. There is no cycle of rebirth, no endless suffering. I am the one true God and I hold the keys to life and death. "
His words hit me like a wave, washing away my fear. And I couldn't look away from him. I felt like he saw everything, my emptiness, my struggles, my devotion, and he still loved me. Jesus stepped closer, the water rippling beneath him, and took my hand. The dark place disappeared, and we were in a beautiful realm. a heavenly place l'd never imagined. The ground was like gold, shining under a sky of endless light.
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