Test of Faith

A pungent stick of incense burns in the living room as the sun sets over this La Palma home. Dinner is almost ready as Rakesh Patel prepares for arti. The Long Beach pharmacist lights the divo flames on the little lamp and passes it to his 7-year-old daughter, Shatabdi.

With her little hands, she takes the lamp, steps before the family’s home shrine and begins waving the flames. She chants loudly and sweetly to Lord Swaminarayan.

“Jay Sadguru Swami Prabhu Jay Sadguru Swami Sahajanand Dayalu. . . .”

Her 13-year-old brother, Yogi, rings a bell to the rhythm. Her mother, Jayshri, runs in from the kitchen when she sees they have started arti without her. Soon, the family is chanting, clapping, smoke swirling above their heads, eyes closed, immersed in prayer.

For devotees of the Swaminarayan religion, arti is one of the rituals that shape daily life. Behind closed doors, thousands of followers of this Hindu faith live and breathe Swaminarayan. Their faith saturates almost every aspect of their lives--from the golden U and vermilion dot known as tilak and chandlo that men apply to their foreheads during morning puja to the flames and devotional songs chanted before dinner.

Here in Southern California, where sin and temptation pervade so many aspects of life, droves of Indian immigrants are embracing the puritanical lifestyle mandated by the Swaminarayan faith as a way of preserving culture and protecting their children from what they perceive to be the evils of Western society.

Every weekend, their immense devotion is on display as hundreds converge on the temple in Whittier. After resting shoes in the shelves at the entrance, they pad into a cavernous hall. The worn carpet becomes hidden under the bare feet of worshipers lost in prayer in this holy place. The temple, or mandir, is filled with hundreds of women wrapped in silk saris cooking samosas in the kitchen, teenagers learning Gujarati and Sanskrit in the bungalows, and the beat of the tabla drum coming from the back room.

Fueled by immigration and a fear of losing touch with Indian culture, the Swaminarayans have emerged as one of the fastest-growing and dynamic Hindu sects in the U.S.

Central to the faith is intense devotion to a spiritual leader and guru, Pramukh Swami Maharaj, a 78-year-old man believed to be the manifestation of God on Earth. Under his guidance, monumental temples are rising in Houston, San Antonio, Toronto and Miami, as Swaminarayans put their mark on the religious landscape of America. The newest mandir, a $15-million project in Chicago, will be dedicated by Pramukh Swami in October.

Locally, however, the sect has faced opposition and misunderstanding. Searching for a place to build a $50-million temple complex of Bulgarian marble, the group believed it had discovered the perfect 5 1/2-acre site, on Beach Boulevard in Buena Park. But to the group’s shock, the plan was rejected last year by local officials, who refused to change zoning. At the public meeting last November, one Buena Park resident criticized the temple as “out of character with our city.”

But City Council member Jack Mauller says the issue came down to money. “That piece of land is a prime location in the city for a shopping center or hotel. Those are all tax-based businesses,” says Mauller. (Though Swaminarayans proposed building a hotel as part of the project, city officials say their religious restrictions would discourage tourists.)

“A lot of things were said by residents, and I’m not proud of some of the things they said,” says Mauller. “But it was decided that project was not correct for the location. It’s the right of the community to decide what they want and where they want it.”

Swaminarayans were stumped. Were they victims of racism? Religious discrimination? Cultural misunderstanding?

Bharatsingh Zala, president of the temple, maintains that the city acted “out of ignorance and prejudice. We were not given an opportunity to explain the project or ourselves. If they really understood what we brought to the community, they would have welcomed us.”

Just when their hopes for the new temple were dimmest, Swaminarayans received news that lifted their spirits.

He is coming! Swami is coming to Los Angeles!

And when he arrives--tentatively on Sept. 7--blessings will come, that much they are certain of. Many hope that his visit will work a miracle . . . and that somehow their temple will rise among the strip malls of Orange County.

Contradictions of the Faith

To some, the Swaminarayan way might seem contradictory. Extensive community outreach is coupled with the group’s isolation from “wayward” Western society. Followers use multimedia displays and the Internet extensively to uphold ancient Hindu philosophy. The swami and his disciples embrace a life of poverty while followers are praised for wealth and financial success.

On the street, Swaminarayans fade into the immigrant fabric of their new land. Their most cherished trait--purity within--cannot be seen: Purity of body means a strict vegetarian diet prohibiting even onions and garlic, believed to stimulate impulses toward anger and sex. Purity of mind means no television, drugs or alcohol--wicked poisons in the home. Purity in relations means no dating before marriage and the separation of men and women during worship.

Indian immigrants, such as Indu Mehta, adopted this discipline as a way of instilling moral values in their children. “Religion has given me peace of mind,” says Mehta, the 50-year-old mother of two girls and head of the temple women’s wing. “Our friends say we no longer enjoy life. They just don’t know the amount of happiness and peace that comes from this temple.”

Leela Dhanak, a convert from Madras, echoed Mehta. “If I was not in the faith, I would probably be sitting in a bar, drinking beer, watching TV, wasting my life,” she says. “Instead, I have learned to control my desires through my guru. He gives me food for the soul.”

Many college-age members of the faith have to contend with the criticism of peers, who mock their conservative culture and beliefs. Darshika Vaghashia, a UC San Diego student whose friends call her “Pinki,” says the barbs come not from Americans, but from other Indians.

“There have been Westernized Indians who have commented on my clothes and told me I don’t need to do that anymore because I’m in America,” she says. “These are Indians who think watching Hindu films is culture, and then they look at me and say I’m old-fashioned, and I’m just like, ‘Get a life!’ ”

By Indian standards, the Swaminarayan faith is fairly new, 219 years old compared with the origins of Hinduism, which date back to 1000 BC. The sect’s founder, Lord Swaminarayan, was born in 1781 in the village of Chhapaiya in north India. At 11, he renounced his home and embarked on a seven-year pilgrimage on foot across India until he settled in Gujarat, on the west coast. There, he became known as a social reformer and established the faith.

The mantle of Lord Swaminarayan was then bestowed upon a succession of leaders. In 1907, a faction known by the acronym BAPS splintered from the sect, and it is this group that the Whittier Swaminarayans are part of. Their current spiritual leader was anointed in 1971. Under his leadership, the breakaway BAPS group has grown so fast that an entry in next year’s Guinness Book of World Records will recognize the swami for consecrating 355 temples in 11 countries during his tenure.

Today, the sect counts more than a million members worldwide, including 25,000 in the U.S. and Canada. The largest Swaminarayan temple in the country, in Edison, N.J., serves as U.S. headquarters for the group. In Whittier, anywhere from 600 to 800 members attend temple each Sunday; lavish monthly festivals draw up to 3,000.

Foreigners to Followers

The group’s establishment in this country can be traced to passage of the Immigration Act of 1965, which gave preference to skilled foreigners. Thousands of well-educated professional Indians--mainly from the Gujarati region--emigrated, seeking jobs in medicine, computer science and business. The Swaminarayans who settled in Southern California soon began holding gatherings in devotees’ homes. By 1982, the congregation had outgrown living room space and purchased a building for $340,000 on Pellissier Road in Whittier, where it remains today.

The temple is uninspiring, a warehouse-style building in the middle of a suburban tract. Inside, however, the aura of Swaminarayan permeates the senses. Dressed in crisp whites, the temple priest, Rajandran Trivedi, tends to the marble images of Radha, Krishna, Hanuman and Ganesha. In the corner, a life-size statue of Lord Swaminarayan sits resplendent on a throne.

Here, too, are the sadhus, or saints. Unlike Christian saints, these are ascetics in unstitched saffron robes who have renounced their families to devote their lives to Swaminarayan. Among the vows taken are poverty and absolute celibacy, which forbids them from touching, talking or even looking at women (although women are allowed to hear their lectures). The Whittier temple has two saints assigned to teaching and counseling followers. One, Kevalyamurti Swami, born and raised in Dallas, is the sect’s first U.S.-born saint.

In the middle of the wide carpeted space is a low divider separating the sexes. Upon entering, men prostrate themselves before the deities, lying on their stomach with arms outstretched, in total surrender to God.

Although women make up 60% of the movement, Swaminarayans require the separation of sexes during worship. Women are barred from holding leadership positions and may not speak to the saints or the swami. Nor may they enter the temple during menstruation. Because such rules are not common among other Hindu sects, the religion has been criticized by some as sexist.

Swaminarayan women see things differently. Jyotsna Shah, a volunteer teacher at the temple, points to Lord Swaminarayan, who helped elevate women’s status. During his life, he worked to eradicate the practice of sati, immolation of widows on the funeral pyres of their husbands. He also spoke out against female infanticide in which newborn baby girls were drowned in a pot of milk.

Says Indu Mehta: “Our guru is making sure we don’t suffer unwanted advances of men. Look at what happened to Jimmy Swaggart. That’s what happens when you put men and women together.”

One early Sunday morning, groups of women had already arrived at the temple to begin preparing food for the more than 600 devotees who would come for prayer, religion classes and dinner. Families begin filtering into the temple by 3 p.m. when the place really starts to cook. Jyotsna Shah, a certified public accountant and teacher at the temple, drove from Encino with her 9-year-old son, Neil. Entering a classroom, she floated in as if walking on air, her long, lime green scarf waving behind her in the breeze.

“Jai Swaminarayan,” she greeted the ladies with a big smile.

Like many of the members, Shah devotes almost all her free time volunteering for the temple. In each Swaminarayan community, there is a highly organized volunteer corps responsible for upkeep of the temple and the ambitious community projects.

During the 1992 Los Angeles riots, Swaminarayans helped clean the city and set up free medical camps for the injured. After the Northridge earthquake in 1994, temple members distributed food, water and diapers. With doctors from the congregation, the temple regularly organizes health fairs and blood drives. Plans for their future temple include a free medical clinic that would be open to the public.

“The more I volunteer,” Shah explains, “the more blessings I receive.”

Discovering a ‘Guiding Light’

The day begins with puja, the Hindu prayer ritual.

Anoop Gandecha, a 37-year-old videographer, rises from bed in his Chino Hills apartment about 7. He sits before his home shrine for about 15 minutes, reading from Scriptures and chanting “Swaminarayan, Swaminarayan, Swaminarayan.” “You feel like you have a guiding light with you all day,” he says.

Gandecha had been a Swaminarayan devotee in his native Kenya. His wife, Hazmita, also from Kenya, adopted the religion after they married in 1986. Four years later after winning the “immigrant lottery,” they moved to the U.S. with their newborn son, Bhauik. In Los Angeles, they became concerned that Bhauik would grow up knowing little about his Indian identity.

“If you ask us how we found the temple, I guess you could say our son led us there,” says Anoop Gandecha. “You can see why parents go there. They’re looking for an outlet for their kids, a safe haven, a sanctuary.”

Like most immigrants, Indians struggle to transmit language, religion and culture to children who are eager to assimilate. But where other groups may be losing the battle against Westernization, this one has wrapped its children in a Swaminarayan cocoon. And it keeps them there by making some concessions: At the Whittier temple, prayers, songs and rituals are conducted in Gujarati, but discussions by teenagers are in English. And many of the new American temples have added sports centers, especially basketball courts, to their plans to satisfy American youth culture.

Hazmita explains delicately that educating her son on morality is difficult in a youth culture defined by bellybuttons and Britney Spears. “I’m not criticizing any religion or culture,” she says. “We just felt the temple would be the best place for our son to learn those things.”

The strict teachings of the faith are the main reason the religion is growing so quickly, says Raymond B. Williams, a professor of religion at Wabash College in Indiana, who has been studying the Swaminarayans for the past 20 years.

“In coming to the United States, they often wonder whether they’ve gained the whole world, and lost their children,” says Williams, author of the upcoming book, “An Introduction to Swaminarayan Hinduism” (Cambridge University Press).

From the time Indian children take their first steps, they are fed religious teachings. Some come to believe that without the temple they would have become drunks or drug addicts “with other American kids,” in the words of one high school student.

Many of the younger boys idolize the saints at the temple. Several, like 10-year-old Bhauik, say they want to become saints when they grow up.

What about leaving his family forever?

Bhauik hesitates, looks at his mother and is suddenly torn.

“Yeah, that would be hard.”

Young men wishing to become saints need written permission from parents before the swami initiates them. Asked if they could give up their son, Hazmita and Anoop say they have not yet discussed that.

“Of course, we would be pleased if he became a saint,” says Anoop, beaming with pride.

Hazmita quickly adds: “And if he got married. That would be fine, too. Whatever he decides. We’re not going to pressure him.”

The Power of the Swami

Among his devotees, the swami has many nicknames--Swamishri, or even more affectionately, Swamibapa--and his image is everywhere.

At Rakesh Patel’s La Palma home, a life-size framed photo of the swami stands beside the family’s home shrine. In the kitchen, small magnets of his face dot the refrigerator.

“When you see him, there’s a strong feeling inside your whole body,” says Roma Patel, who met him in Whittier in 1990. “It makes you feel peaceful and puts your life in perspective.

A grandfatherly man, the swami’s saffron robe covers a chubby belly. He has no home and travels widely despite bypass surgery in 1998. His movements are tracked and monitored closely at https://www.swaminarayan.org. Today, for example, he is scheduled to leave Washington, D.C., for Philadelphia.

So great is their anticipation of his visit that followers here have spent hours writing his name on tiny grains of puffed rice. Writing and writing, on millions of little grains, until there is enough rice to be strung around Swami’s neck for an incredible welcome garland.

In addition to a temple, plans for the Swaminarayan’s 100,000-square-foot complex call for an assembly hall, sports facilities, a school and health clinic--and would be the most lavish in the country.

For many Swaminarayans, gaining approval from Buena Park would symbolize success and acceptance in their adopted land.

Temple spokesman Rakesh Patel, who attended the public meeting when the project was rejected, says the group did not realize that the issue would be decided that night and felt ambushed. City officials say no vote was taken at the meeting; the council simply decided not to consider zoning changes that would allow a religious building on the site.

“It made us all angry,” says Patel. “I wanted to file a discrimination suit with the ACLU, but our guru said no. We are supposed to be peaceful.”

Until Swami says otherwise, they plan to keep fighting for the Buena Park site, hoping the city will come to understand them better.

Pinki Vaghashia, meanwhile, prays that when Swamibapa comes on Sept. 7, there will be a miracle. “I feel like we’ve disappointed him by not getting Buena Park. But I keep thinking his coming might bring something good.”