Vijay, was a simple man, or rather it's what he made the world believe. Apart from his childhood fear of auto-rickshaw stands, he was a fearless guy who would not shirk away from risks. He was a man with a nose for opportunity sharper than a bloodhound's. He smelled gold in the chaos of Russia's upheaval back when Soviet Union had collapsed and The State of Russia struggled to stand on its own legs like a man who had one too many vodka shots.
Goa became his playground, a place where rubles turned into rupees with alarming speed. He brought in the neo-rich Russians and the not-so-rich Russian damsels in distress in ship loads as migrants to Goa in the guise of tourism, a human trafficking enterprise fronted by a travel agency office. Real estate, black markets, even vodka-sanitizer during the pandemic – Vijay was the king of this peculiar kingdom. But like all good parties, even the Russian ruble bonanza had to end. Pandemic was the bad ass villain, who changed the world order with a snap of its fingers, or was it with a jab of the spikes?
So, Vijay did what any self-respecting capitalist-turned-spiritual-leader would do: he reinvented himself. Gone was the shrewd businessman; in his place was Baba Vijayananda Cheruppadi Thiruvadi Swamikal, a name so grand, it practically demanded a bow. His ashram? More like a five-star resort with a side order of enlightenment. Think meditation halls, world-class spas, and a bar that would make a smuggler blush.
"Baba Vijay" was a complex man. One minute, he’d be waxing lyrical about the nature of the universe; the next, he'd be demanding to know why the Wi-Fi was so slow. All this while ogling at Olga, his Russian Ashram Manager. His teachings were a bizarre cocktail of Sanskrit, Malayalam, and words he claimed were Japanese but sounded suspiciously like made-up gibberish. And yet, people flocked to him. Some for enlightenment, others for the Ayurvedic massages, and a surprising number for the tan.
His epiphany came during a particularly intense whiskey tasting session. After a dram so potent it could have knocked out a rhino, Baba announced, "I am the universe, and the universe loves whiskey." From that moment, the ashram became a temple to the amber nectar. Meditation cushions were replaced with whiskey stones, and the mantra became, "Om, whisky, Om."
Then came the great awakening. Or, more accurately, the great hangover. After a particularly epic bender, Baba woke up in a hospital bed surrounded by beeping machines. The doctor, a woman with a look that could wilt a cactus, informed him he’d had a near-death experience.
As he lay there, ogling at the doctor and contemplating the irony of a spiritual guru being saved by modern medicine, a realization hit him like a thunderbolt. This whole spiritual guru thing was a sham, a gilded cage of his own making. He was a businessman at heart, a connoisseur of fine spirits, not a messiah.
So, Baba Vijay, the whiskey-loving guru, reinvented himself once more. This time, as the Whisky Whisperer. His ashram became a cozy pub, and his followers, a merry band of whiskey aficionados. And while he still had a soft spot for the single malts, he was developing a surprising taste for craft beer.
The moral of the story? Sometimes, the greatest spiritual journey is the one that leads you back to the bar.
