Rohit Sharma
Part 1: Lights, Camera… No Action
Rajiv Malhotra sat on the creaky plastic chair in the audition hall, clutching his dog-eared script like it was the last lifeline of his career. Around him, twenty other “aspiring actors” waited, all with the same tired eyes, fake smiles, and desperate hopes. The casting assistant shouted names like a schoolteacher calling attendance. Every time the door opened, Rajiv prayed it would be him who got picked, and every time it wasn’t, he sank deeper into his chair.
When his turn finally came, he stood before three people who didn’t even look up from their phones. His line was simple: “Inspector saab, mujhe kuchh nahin pata.” He gave it drama, trembling lips, eyes moist with imaginary tears. The panel barely nodded. One of them muttered, “Next.” That was it. No feedback, no chance, nothing. He had just auditioned to play a thief in a B-grade crime serial, and he hadn’t even qualified for that.
Outside, in the glaring Mumbai sun, Rajiv kicked an empty Pepsi can across the pavement. His landlord had already given him a warning: “Rajiv bhai, rent do ya room chhodo.” His savings were down to three digits. Acting was supposed to be his dream, but the dream had turned into a slow nightmare.
As he trudged back to his rented one-room flat in Andheri, he thought of calling his parents in Lucknow. But he knew what they’d say: “Beta, sarkari naukri doondho. Acting se pet nahi bharta.” He threw his phone on the bed, lay flat on the mattress, and stared at the ceiling fan rotating like the cruel wheel of fate.
The next morning, he tried to distract himself by scrolling through Instagram. Half his feed was filled with actors he once knew, now posting selfies with directors, flaunting gym bodies, or sharing spiritual quotes. One post made him pause: “Yoga with Guru Prakash – Transform Your Life!” The picture showed a man in saffron robes twisting himself into a pretzel while smiling like Buddha himself. The comments were full of devotees: “Blessed to be in your class, Guruji,” “Feeling the energy,” “Miracle healer!” Rajiv almost laughed.
An idea flickered. If this random fellow could get thousands of likes by sitting cross-legged and chanting gibberish, why couldn’t he? Rajiv was an actor. Pretending was his only skill. Maybe he didn’t need to play a thief on TV. Maybe he could play a guru in real life.
By evening, he had raided the local costume shop and emerged with a cheap saffron kurta, some fake rudraksha beads, and a bright red scarf. He practiced in front of the cracked mirror: lowering his voice to a solemn baritone, joining his hands, and saying, “Om shanti, mere shishyaon.” The mirror stared back, unimpressed, but Rajiv grinned. For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.
The next morning, he marched to the neighborhood park at 6 a.m. The regulars were there: aunties power-walking in pairs, uncles stretching like reluctant cranes, and children cycling noisily. Rajiv spread a faded yoga mat under a banyan tree, sat down, closed his eyes, and began chanting, “Ommm… shantiii…” His voice was loud enough to attract stares. One gossip-loving aunty, Mrs. Chatterjee, slowed down near him, curious.
“Guruji…?” she asked hesitantly.
Rajiv peeked with one eye, then quickly composed himself. “Yes, mataji. The universe guided me here.”
Mrs. Chatterjee gasped, impressed. She was the type who lived for drama. “Universe! Arrey, waah. Do you… teach yoga?”
Rajiv coughed, pretending humility. “I don’t teach. I share. Those who are meant to receive, receive.”
By next morning, three aunties sat cross-legged before him, waiting eagerly. Rajiv panicked but quickly improvised. He made them breathe in loudly, breathe out noisily, and stretch their arms skyward. He gave the poses fancy names: “Celestial Wi-Fi Connection,” “ATM Withdrawal Asana,” “Petrol Price Rising Pose.” The aunties giggled but obeyed, convinced this was some modern mystical yoga.
Mrs. Chatterjee clapped her hands. “Wah Guruji! My back already feels lighter!” Another aunty whispered, “Can I bring my daughter tomorrow?” Rajiv nodded gravely, as if granting a cosmic blessing.
That night, Rajiv returned home with a strange exhilaration. His rent problem hadn’t vanished, but at least he wasn’t invisible anymore. People listened, people followed, people called him “Guruji.” He smiled to himself in the mirror, adjusting the fake beads.
Rajiv Malhotra, failed actor, had just landed the biggest role of his life.
Part 2: The First Disciple
By the third morning, Rajiv was no longer just another man in saffron clothes pretending to meditate under a banyan tree. A small crowd had formed around him—mostly middle-aged women with curious eyes and restless tongues, always ready for a new story to carry back to their housing societies. At the center of this group was the undisputed queen of gossip, Mrs. Chatterjee.
She had lived in the neighborhood for twenty years, and in that time had become both the official news anchor and unofficial troublemaker of the colony. She knew who was fighting with whom, which daughter-in-law had skipped cooking to order biryani, and which uncle secretly dyed his hair every month. For her, discovering “Guru Rajananda” in the park was bigger than winning the lottery.
That morning, she arrived early, draped in her brightest purple saree, carrying a notebook as if she were attending an academic lecture. She sat down cross-legged with surprising agility for her age and folded her hands. “Guruji,” she said solemnly, “I am your shishya.”
Rajiv almost coughed. He hadn’t expected anyone to declare such loyalty so quickly. He cleared his throat, straightened his fake rudraksha beads, and lowered his voice. “Mataji, disciples are not chosen by me. They are sent by the universe.”
Mrs. Chatterjee gasped. “Hai re, universe sent me! Arrey, what luck! You know, Guruji, my BP has been high since last week. Can your yoga cure it?”
Rajiv hesitated. He had no idea about blood pressure except what he had seen in medical ads. Still, he raised one hand dramatically. “Mataji, yoga does not cure. Yoga awakens the inner doctor within you.”
The aunties around her clapped as though he had delivered a profound truth. Rajiv nearly laughed, but he quickly masked it with a saintly smile.
Mrs. Chatterjee was thrilled. “I must tell everyone in my building. My neighbor Mrs. Ghosh always shows off about her expensive ayurvedic doctor. Hah! Now I have my own Guruji.”
The next day, she brought three friends. The day after, five. Soon, the patch of grass under the banyan tree looked like a morning darbar, with Rajiv on his mat like a modern-day rishi and the aunties lined up before him as though awaiting salvation.
He improvised relentlessly. “Today we will practice Laughing Detox.” He forced everyone to laugh loudly for five minutes until the joggers in the park stopped to stare. “This removes all negativity,” he declared. Another day, he made them wave their arms wildly while chanting, “I release my tension, I release my pension.” The aunties cheered and flung their hands like schoolchildren in a dance class.
Mrs. Chatterjee, of course, was his biggest advocate. She brought ladoos for him, touched his feet dramatically every morning, and began calling him “Maharaj” instead of “Guruji.” When someone doubted his methods, she silenced them with tales of her “miraculous recovery.”
“My BP machine shows better numbers now!” she announced to everyone. “See? Guruji’s ATM Withdrawal Asana works!” Never mind that her son had quietly reduced her salt intake. For her, the credit belonged entirely to Rajiv.
Rajiv, meanwhile, started noticing the advantages. Aunties slipped small donations into a steel box he had placed discreetly near the banyan tree. A fifty here, a hundred there—soon it added up to enough to pay for groceries. For the first time in months, he wasn’t calculating every last rupee.
But there was also a challenge. The aunties didn’t just come for yoga—they came for drama. After class, they surrounded him with endless questions.
“Guruji, will my daughter finally get married?”
“Guruji, my neighbor keeps stealing my newspaper—what mantra should I chant?”
“Guruji, can yoga stop my husband from snoring?”
Rajiv smiled serenely and invented answers. “Mataji, for snoring, sleep in north-east direction. Energy flows better.” For the marriage problem, he said, “Tie a red ribbon around your gas cylinder. Love will ignite.” The aunties nodded in awe, scribbling in their notebooks.
Word spread fast. Within a week, Rajiv had become a minor celebrity in the colony. Strangers whispered as he walked past: “That’s the new Guruji.” Even the chaiwala near the park asked him for blessings with his tea.
Yet, deep inside, Rajiv was amused at how easy it was. He had spent years struggling to impress directors who never looked up from their phones. And here, with no script, no lights, no camera, just a saffron kurta and some nonsense lines, he had an audience hanging on his every word.
One evening, as he counted the day’s donations in his flat, Rajiv laughed aloud. “I should’ve become a guru years ago. Acting in serials is harder than fooling aunties.”
But fate had more plans. Because just when Rajiv thought he could handle these morning gatherings forever, a new disciple entered the picture—one who wouldn’t be as easy to fool as Mrs. Chatterjee.
Part 3: The Teen Tornado
The banyan tree had become Rajiv’s stage, and every morning his audience of aunties arrived like devoted fans, eager to laugh, stretch, gossip, and donate a few crumpled notes into his steel box. Rajiv was beginning to feel like a star—not in the world of films, but in the strange, saffron-colored world he had created for himself.
But on the seventh morning, his perfect little empire trembled. It arrived in the form of one skinny, restless, perpetually frowning teenager named Aditya.
He was Mrs. Chatterjee’s grandson, home for summer vacation. She dragged him along, holding his wrist like a police constable dragging a thief. “You must join, beta. Guruji will change your life!”
Aditya pulled his earbuds out, rolled his eyes, and groaned. “Naani, please. I don’t need yoga. I have the gym.”
Rajiv, sitting cross-legged on his mat, raised an eyebrow. Teenagers were dangerous. They questioned everything, they mocked everything. And worst of all—they had social media.
Mrs. Chatterjee pushed Aditya onto the mat. “Sit straight, beta! Stop slouching in front of Guruji.”
Aditya folded his arms. “So, what miracle are you selling today, Guruji?” His tone dripped with sarcasm.
Rajiv smiled serenely, though inside his brain was scrambling for a strategy. He decided to gamble. “Today, my child, we learn the most powerful pose—Instagramasana.”
The aunties gasped. Aditya blinked. “What?”
Rajiv rose dramatically, balancing on one leg, arms spread like a starfish. “This pose connects your soul to the universe—and gets you more likes on Instagram.”
The aunties clapped and giggled. Aditya laughed despite himself. “Okay, that’s actually funny.” He pulled out his phone. “Wait, do that again, I’ll post it.”
Rajiv froze. He hadn’t planned for this. But he repeated the pose anyway, adding a mysterious chant: “Om… filter-gram… selfie-shakti…”
Aditya recorded, added a silly caption—“Meet my Naani’s new yoga guru. Insta pose = Insta peace.”—and uploaded it.
By evening, the video had three hundred likes. By next morning, a thousand. By the end of the week, it had crossed five thousand views. Comments poured in: “Lol, I need this guru in my life.” “Where can I join this class?” “Best yoga ever, hahahaha.”
Rajiv’s steel box was heavier than ever. Aunties brought extra friends. Joggers stopped to click photos. A milkman even left his cycle unattended just to watch Guruji demonstrate “Protein Shake Mudra,” which was nothing more than shaking an invisible bottle while humming “Om whey, Om whey.”
Aditya smirked every morning. “Guruji, you’re a meme now.”
Rajiv pretended to look offended. “Child, the universe spreads wisdom in mysterious ways.” But inside, he was thrilled. For once in his life, he was trending.
Still, the teen wasn’t an easy disciple. He challenged Rajiv constantly.
“Guruji, can yoga give me six-pack abs?”
Rajiv replied gravely, “Yes. But first, you must master the sacred discipline of not eating pani puri for forty days.”
The aunties gasped at such sacrifice. Aditya groaned. “That’s impossible.”
Another morning, Aditya asked, “Guruji, why do you wear beads that look like they came from Fashion Street?”
Rajiv didn’t blink. “Child, enlightenment is always on sale.” The aunties clapped as though he had delivered another great truth.
But behind his sarcasm, Aditya was enjoying himself. He recorded every new “pose” and shared them online: Netflix Meditation (lying flat with palms on the remote), Traffic Jam Breathing (deep sighs with both hands on an imaginary steering wheel), and Exam Result Relaxation (closing eyes while muttering, “Sab theek hoga”). Each video spread like wildfire among his school friends.
Soon, strangers began showing up at the park, holding phones, eager to capture their own content with the famous “Guruji.” Rajiv was bewildered, but he rolled with it. If there was one thing an actor knew, it was how to perform when the camera was on.
Mrs. Chatterjee, of course, basked in the glory. “See, I told you all, my Guruji is special. Even my grandson has become his follower!”
Aditya muttered, “Follower, maybe. Believer? Never.” But when his friends called him “the kid who discovered the funniest guru in Mumbai,” his chest puffed a little.
One morning, Rajiv noticed two men in formal shirts standing near the banyan tree. They weren’t aunties, they weren’t joggers. They were reporters with cameras.
“Sir, we’re from City Express. Can we cover your yoga sessions? You’ve gone viral online.”
Rajiv’s heart skipped. Viral. Reporters. Fame. He adjusted his scarf, smiled his saintly smile, and said, “Of course, but remember—this is not yoga. This is a journey of souls.”
The next day, his face was in the newspaper: “Modern Guru Redefines Yoga for a Digital Age.” The photo showed him balancing on one leg with Aditya in the background laughing.
Rajiv stared at the paper in disbelief. The failed actor had finally become famous—not for a film, but for fake yoga.
But fame is a hungry beast. And Rajiv had no idea that with every viral post, he was attracting not just aunties and teens, but eyes far more powerful—and dangerous.
Part 4: The Politician Joins
The banyan tree that once sheltered sleepy sparrows had now turned into a circus tent of sorts. Every morning, Rajiv—now firmly “Guru Rajananda”—performed to a growing crowd. Aunties laughed, teenagers filmed, joggers stopped mid-run, and milkmen leaned on their cycles just to catch a glimpse of the viral guru.
But with popularity comes attention. And with attention, sooner or later, comes politics.
It happened one Tuesday morning when a convoy of SUVs rolled up near the park. A dozen men in white kurtas spilled out, clearing the path like bodyguards in a movie. The joggers froze, the aunties whispered, and Rajiv’s heart skipped a beat. Out stepped Mr. Rakesh Sharma, local MLA, notorious for both corruption and charisma. His photos were plastered on every lamppost during elections, usually with folded hands and a forced smile.
Mrs. Chatterjee squealed, “Arrey, Guruji, the neta has come to your class!”
Rajiv swallowed. He had handled aunties, teenagers, and reporters, but a politician was a different breed. They were dangerous, unpredictable, and always surrounded by cameras.
Mr. Sharma walked straight to Rajiv, palms pressed together. “Guruji,” he boomed in a voice designed for microphones, “bless me.”
Rajiv hesitated, then raised his hand in a dramatic blessing pose. “The universe has brought you here, child.”
The politician beamed. “Yes, yes, the universe. I have heard much about your modern yoga. My secretary says you are viral on the internet. I need purity. I need strength. And…”—he lowered his voice, though loudly enough for everyone to hear—“…I need good publicity.”
The crowd chuckled. Rajiv’s saintly smile did not waver, though inside he was panicking. A politician in his class meant cameras, microphones, headlines. One wrong word and he could be exposed. But one right move, and he could soar higher than he ever dreamed.
So Rajiv gestured to the mat. “Please, child, join us in the Cosmic Wi-Fi Connection.”
And there it was: the sight of a corrupt politician standing on one leg, arms out like a confused crane, chanting “Om… network strong ho…” while his bodyguards tried not to laugh. The aunties giggled behind their saris, Aditya recorded everything gleefully, and Rajiv thought, This is better than any film scene I ever auditioned for.
Within hours, the photos were online: “MLA Sharma practices viral yoga with Guru Rajananda.” News channels replayed the video of him wobbling in Instagramasana. Panelists debated whether this was “a new wave of spirituality” or “a joke on real traditions.”
For Mr. Sharma, it was perfect. “See,” he told reporters, “I am a man of the people. I do yoga with common citizens.” For Rajiv, it was even better. Donations doubled. New followers tripled. The asana names became hashtags trending across Twitter.
But politicians never join anything quietly. Soon, Sharma insisted on personal sessions. His car would arrive at odd hours, and Rajiv would be summoned to teach yoga at his bungalow. The living room turned into a mini-stage. Rajiv demonstrated Traffic Jam Breathing while Sharma’s assistants clapped dutifully.
One evening, Sharma leaned closer. “Guruji, you must bless my upcoming project. I am inaugurating a flyover. Can you chant something in Sanskrit to make it sound holy?”
Rajiv broke into a sweat. Sanskrit? He barely knew enough to say “Om.” But he nodded gravely. “Yes, child, I shall compose a mantra for concrete prosperity.”
The next morning, Sharma’s men delivered an envelope stuffed with cash. Rajiv stared at it in disbelief. His rent was secure for months. His fridge could finally be full. For once, he didn’t have to count coins at the grocery store.
Yet, with money came anxiety. He lay awake at night, imagining headlines: “Fake Guru Exposed—Failed Actor Behind Yoga Scam.” He pictured police barging into his flat, reporters chasing him through the lanes of Andheri, aunties hurling insults.
But then he remembered the morning applause, the steel box heavy with notes, the cameras flashing. He whispered to himself, “Rajiv Malhotra failed as an actor. But Guru Rajananda? He’s a star.”
Back at the park, the atmosphere grew wilder. Sharma sometimes brought his supporters, who cheered at every pose as though it were an election rally. The aunties puffed with pride: “Our Guruji is now the politician’s guru also!” Joggers muttered jealously: “This park was for fitness, now it’s a circus.”
Aditya, meanwhile, thrived on the chaos. His videos now got tens of thousands of views. One clip of Sharma falling flat while attempting “Protein Shake Mudra” became pure meme gold. Teenagers shared it with captions like “Politics shaken, not stirred.”
Rajiv tried to act serene, but inside he felt the storm building. He had started with a mat under a tree, and now he was being dragged into politics, media, money, and power. The performance was bigger than anything he had ever imagined.
And he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to.
Because once a politician joins your class, the entire city eventually follows. And once the city follows, the whole country starts watching.
Rajiv was no longer just Guruji of the colony. He was on the path to becoming Guruji of the headlines.
Part 5: Chaos in the Ashram
Rajiv’s mornings at the banyan tree had turned into something he could no longer control. What began as a quiet improvisation for a handful of aunties had transformed into a daily mela. The park overflowed with curious onlookers, selfie-seekers, and the occasional TV crew setting up tripods to capture “India’s funniest modern guru.”
But now, Mr. Sharma, the politician, insisted that such greatness needed a proper base. “Guruji, you cannot keep blessing people under a tree like some street magician,” he declared one morning after wobbling through Instagramasana. “You must have an ashram.”
Rajiv’s eyes widened. “Ashram? But…”
“Leave the arrangements to me,” Sharma said grandly, wiping sweat with a towel that two bodyguards immediately folded as though it were sacred cloth. “I will rent you a hall. The people deserve a roof over their heads when they learn yoga.”
Within days, Rajiv found himself in possession of a dingy community hall on the edge of the neighborhood. The walls were peeling, the fans creaked like dying buffaloes, and the smell of old paint and damp mats filled the air. Yet, when Sharma’s men hung a banner reading “Ashram of Guru Rajananda – Yoga for the Modern Age,” it suddenly looked official.
The aunties arrived with plastic chairs, arranging them in neat rows. Aditya brought fairy lights and a Bluetooth speaker for background chants. Sharma sent a photographer to capture “divine moments.” Rajiv stood at the front, adjusting his scarf, wondering how his life had spiraled from failed auditions to running an ashram.
But running an ashram came with new headaches. Disciples weren’t satisfied with silly poses anymore. They wanted miracles.
Mrs. Chatterjee raised her hand first. “Guruji, my BP is better, but can you also tell me who will win the cricket World Cup? I want to bet early.”
Rajiv blinked. “Mataji, yoga does not predict cricket. Yoga predicts… peace.”
She pouted but nodded, scribbling anyway as though he had said something profound.
Then another aunty piped up. “Guruji, my neighbor always parks in front of my gate. Can you curse him with a flat tyre?”
Rajiv forced a smile. “Child, yoga does not curse. Yoga… redirects energy. Next time, park your scooter across his car. Energy will flow.”
The crowd clapped as though he had given the Bhagavad Gita in one line.
Aditya, of course, wanted results too. “Guruji, I’ve been doing your Protein Shake Mudra for a week. Where are my abs? All I got is shoulder pain.”
Rajiv nodded gravely. “Abs arrive not in a week, but in a weak moment of faith. Continue.”
The hall erupted with laughter. Someone even shouted, “Wah Guruji, kya dialogue hai!” Rajiv winced inwardly. He had tried to be serious, but it came out like a filmi punchline.
And then came the worst request. Sharma himself leaned forward, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear. “Guruji, my rival MLA is spreading rumors. I need you to give me a mantra to silence him forever.”
Rajiv nearly dropped his beads. How was he supposed to silence politicians with yoga? But Sharma’s expectant face glared at him. Rajiv raised his hand theatrically. “Child, chant Om Shut-up Namaha twenty-one times before every rally. Your rival’s words will turn into dust.”
The crowd howled with laughter. Sharma, surprisingly, grinned too. “Wah Guruji! Powerful mantra. I will try this.”
The next day, Sharma was on TV shouting “Om Shut-up Namaha” at a rally while his followers clapped. Rajiv buried his face in his hands.
Meanwhile, the ashram turned chaotic. People arrived not just for yoga, but with bizarre demands:
- A shopkeeper wanted higher sales.
- A student wanted leaked exam questions.
- A housewife wanted her husband to stop watching cricket.
- A man even asked if yoga could increase his WhatsApp forward reach.
Rajiv invented answers at lightning speed, mixing random advice with spiritual jargon. “Plant tulsi in the kitchen. Energy will rise.” “Delete Facebook and meditate on TikTok for clarity.” “For exams, chant Om syllabus samaptam while eating almonds.”
Every answer got applause. Every nonsense line got written down like scripture. Rajiv felt like a magician pulling endless rabbits out of a hat—but the hat was getting heavier every day.
And then came the donations. Sharma arranged a box at the hall entrance labeled “Offerings to Guruji.” People dropped cash, fruits, sweets, even a pressure cooker. Rajiv stared at the pile one evening, wondering if he had accidentally opened a general store.
Yet beneath the comedy, he felt a growing unease. The ashram was no longer just a joke; it was becoming an institution. Strangers touched his feet with tears in their eyes. Local papers wrote headlines like “Guru Rajananda Brings Peace to the Colony.” Aditya’s videos crossed a hundred thousand views. Sharma kept calling him to events, using him as a mascot for “purity.”
At night, Rajiv lay in bed, the ceiling fan spinning above like a slow question mark. Was he still acting, or had the role swallowed him whole?
But every morning, when he entered the ashram and saw the crowd waiting, clapping, chanting, he couldn’t resist. He straightened his scarf, deepened his voice, and delivered another round of nonsense.
Because whether he liked it or not, Guru Rajananda had become the role of a lifetime.
And the world was demanding an encore.
Part 6: The Guru’s Dilemma
Rajiv Malhotra—failed actor, accidental guru—sat cross-legged on a cushion in his ashram while thirty pairs of eyes stared at him like he was a Netflix series they couldn’t stop bingeing. On the wall behind him hung a banner with his smiling face and the words: “Guru Rajananda – Awakening Through Modern Yoga.” He had never felt so trapped in his own performance.
The morning session had barely begun when Mrs. Chatterjee raised her hand. “Guruji, you told me to chant Om Shut-up Namaha to keep away negativity. But now my neighbor thinks I’m insulting her! She shouted at me yesterday.”
Rajiv coughed, buying time. “Mataji, the mantra does not work unless whispered into the heart. You must chant silently from now.”
She nodded gravely, as if this revelation explained everything.
Then Aditya piped up from the back, holding his phone like a weapon. “Guruji, my followers on Insta want a new pose. Yesterday’s Netflix Meditation has already gone viral. What’s next?”
Rajiv blinked. He hadn’t prepared. He glanced around and spotted a man wiping sweat with a handkerchief. Inspiration struck. Rising dramatically, Rajiv clutched his imaginary phone, pretended to swipe furiously, and sighed loudly.
“This,” he announced, “is Swiggy Asana—ordering food for the soul.”
The class roared with laughter. Aditya recorded, uploaded, and within hours the video was racing across social media with captions like “Finally, the only yoga I can do!”
Rajiv smiled for the crowd, but inside his chest tightened. The lies were multiplying faster than he could invent them. Every day required new poses, new wisdom, new miracles. He had become a factory of nonsense—and the demand was endless.
That evening, Sharma the politician summoned him to the bungalow. “Guruji, I must launch a new cleanliness campaign. The opposition is mocking me. I need a yoga that makes me look pure.”
Rajiv nearly groaned. “Child, purity is not shown, it is felt.”
Sharma frowned. “Nonsense. It must be shown. Tomorrow morning, in front of the cameras, you will bless me with your new pose. Something grand. Something memorable.”
Rajiv bowed with fake serenity, while his brain screamed: How long can I keep this circus running?
Back in his flat, he opened the envelope of cash Sharma had given. He stared at the neat bundle of notes. Money had never been this easy. No auditions, no humiliations, no rejections. Just beads, saffron, and absurdity.
But then his phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number:
“Stop fooling people. Real yoga is not your comedy. Soon everyone will know who you really are.”
Rajiv froze. His fingers trembled as he read the message again. Someone knew. Someone was watching.
He paced the room, beads rattling in his hand. Was it another guru? A jealous yoga teacher? Or one of the reporters sniffing around? His mind spun like the ceiling fan above him.
The next morning, he forced his calm mask back on. The ashram was packed. Sharma had even brought a news crew to film his “purity yoga.” Rajiv invented a new move on the spot—stretching both arms outward while chanting, “Om broom swachh bharat.” Cameras flashed, Sharma beamed, and the disciples clapped like trained seals.
But Rajiv could feel the noose tightening. Every invented mantra, every fake asana, every promise added another weight on his chest.
After class, Mrs. Chatterjee cornered him. “Guruji, my daughter’s marriage is not happening. Can you please… adjust the stars?”
Rajiv smiled weakly. “Mataji, the stars are like auto-rickshaws. They sometimes refuse, but eventually they stop. Patience.”
She touched his feet in gratitude, while he nearly fainted from the absurdity.
Later, as he sat alone in the ashram, staring at the peeling paint, the truth hit him. He had wanted to act in films. Now he was acting every second of his life. The role was bigger than cinema, the stage wider, the audience louder—but the danger sharper.
One slip, one exposed lie, and everything would collapse.
And yet, despite the fear, Rajiv couldn’t stop. The applause was addictive. The donations, intoxicating. The attention, irresistible. He told himself it was temporary, just until he found another acting job. But deep down, he knew the truth:
Rajiv Malhotra had vanished. Only Guru Rajananda remained.
Part 7: Social Media Madness
The ashram was overflowing, but the real explosion wasn’t happening within its crumbling walls. It was happening on screens—millions of them.
Aditya’s short clips of Rajiv’s bizarre yoga had gone from silly jokes among teenagers to nationwide memes. Instagramasana, Protein Shake Mudra, Traffic Jam Breathing—they were everywhere. College kids mocked them in hostel rooms, office workers imitated them in lunch breaks, and even news anchors chuckled while trying “Netflix Meditation” live on TV.
Rajiv scrolled through his phone one night, eyes wide. Twitter threads debated whether he was a genius or a fraud. Facebook aunties flooded comment sections with folded-hand emojis. YouTube compilations titled “Top 10 Funniest Guru Rajananda Poses” had hundreds of thousands of views.
He wasn’t just a neighborhood curiosity anymore. He was a national sensation.
And social media had no mercy. Every day demanded a new trend. Aditya turned into Rajiv’s unofficial manager. “Guruji, today we need something fresh. My followers are bored. Maybe… yoga for online shopping stress?”
Rajiv rubbed his temples. “Child, the universe cannot work on deadlines.”
“Universe can wait,” Aditya shot back. “But Instagram can’t.”
So Rajiv improvised again. He pretended to hold ten shopping bags, staggered around, then collapsed on his mat. “This,” he declared, gasping, “is Flipkartasana—the posture of excessive discounts.”
Aditya doubled over with laughter. The video went viral overnight. Brands began tagging him in posts. One fitness influencer even copied his pose, claiming it was “the future of yoga.”
Rajiv barely had time to breathe before invitations poured in. Bollywood stars wanted him at their parties. A stand-up comic invited him on stage as a surprise act. Even a shampoo company emailed Aditya, asking if Guruji would endorse their “Herbal Calm” product.
Rajiv stared at the email. “Endorse? I am not a cricketer!”
Aditya grinned. “You’re bigger than a cricketer right now. You’re content.”
And content he became. Every move, every nonsense chant, every exaggerated blessing was clipped, shared, memed, remixed. His face was on mugs, T-shirts, even WhatsApp stickers. Someone made a filter that let users put a fake saffron scarf on their selfies with the caption “Blessed by Guruji.”
The aunties in his ashram swelled with pride. “Our Guruji is now global!” Mrs. Chatterjee announced. “My cousin in New Jersey forwarded his video!”
Even Sharma, the politician, basked in reflected glory. He boasted at rallies: “I practice yoga with the famous Guru Rajananda! Look, the whole world follows him!” His PR team cut montages of him wobbling through poses to rousing background music.
Rajiv, meanwhile, was trapped in a whirlpool. Fame had finally found him, but it wasn’t the kind he had once dreamed of. Not as a hero in films, not as a respected actor, but as a viral joke in saffron clothes.
Every morning before class, he sat alone on his mat, staring at his phone. His face stared back from dozens of trending hashtags. Some praised him, some mocked him, some called him a fraud. But all of them kept watching.
He told himself: This is acting too. Just a bigger audience. Just a stranger script.
But the pressure was relentless. Fans mobbed him at chai stalls, begging for selfies. Reporters followed him home, shoving microphones in his face. A Bollywood choreographer even offered to choreograph an “Item Asana Dance” for a film.
Rajiv laughed nervously and declined, but inside he wondered: Have I become a clown instead of a guru? Or both?
And then came the twist he hadn’t expected—foreign media. One evening, Aditya barged into his flat, phone in hand. “Guruji! BBC just posted your video! They called you ‘India’s Meme Guru.’”
Rajiv blinked at the screen. There he was, wobbling in Instagramasana, subtitles translating his nonsense chant into English: “Ohm, selfie energy strong.”
His stomach churned. Meme Guru. Not wise, not divine. Meme.
That night, sleep refused to come. He tossed, turned, stared at the ceiling fan, and whispered, “Rajiv, what have you done?”
But at dawn, when he returned to the ashram, the crowd was larger than ever. Cameras flashed, aunties cheered, teens shouted requests: “Guruji, do TikTokasana!” He sighed, straightened his scarf, and raised his hands.
The show had to go on.
Even if he was laughing on the outside and crumbling on the inside.
Part 8: The Exposure Threat
Rajiv had grown used to waking up to headlines. Some days it was “Guruji’s New Pose Wins the Internet.” Other days it was “Politician Joins Meme Guru for Morning Session.” But one morning, as he sipped his watery tea in the balcony, the newspaper nearly slipped from his trembling hands.
The headline screamed: “Is Guru Rajananda a Fraud? Real Yoga Masters Speak Out.”
Below it, a photo of Rajiv grinning in Netflix Meditation. And alongside, quotes from stern-looking yoga teachers. “This is an insult to tradition.” “He is fooling the public.” “Yoga is not comedy.”
Rajiv’s chest tightened. He had feared this moment ever since the first viral clip. Now it had arrived.
Aditya burst in, phone buzzing with notifications. “Guruji, the internet’s on fire! Hashtags everywhere—#FakeGuru, #FraudAsana, #ShutDownTheCircus. Some people are furious. But others are defending you. It’s like a war.”
Rajiv buried his face in his hands. “Child, the universe is testing me.”
The test only grew harder. That evening, Sharma summoned him to his bungalow. The politician’s smile was tight, his eyes sharper than usual. “Guruji, this article… dangerous. My rivals are laughing. They say I follow a joker, not a guru. You must fix this.”
Rajiv swallowed. “Child, the universe cannot be fixed like a broken chair.”
Sharma leaned closer. “Do not joke with me. If you are exposed, I am exposed. And I do not forgive easily.” His voice dropped, steel beneath the silk. “Be careful, Guruji.”
Rajiv nodded, sweat prickling his neck. The performance had never felt so deadly.
Two days later, the threat sharpened further. During his morning session, while Rajiv was leading the crowd in Flipkartasana, a voice boomed from the back:
“This is not yoga! This is nonsense!”
The crowd turned. A tall man in spotless white entered, beard flowing, eyes blazing with indignation. He introduced himself as Swami Kripananda, a respected teacher from a renowned yoga institute. Cameras swiveled, reporters whispered, aunties gasped.
“You insult our heritage!” the Swami thundered. “You make comedy of sacred practice! Who gave you the right?”
Rajiv’s knees wobbled. He opened his mouth, but nothing came. Aditya quickly raised his phone, whispering, “Guruji, say something wise. Anything.”
Rajiv forced a smile. “Swamiji, I do not insult yoga. I… modernize it. I make people laugh. And laughter is also yoga, is it not?”
The crowd clapped uncertainly. The Swami glared. “This is circus, not yoga. I challenge you—debate me, live, tomorrow on TV.”
The reporters erupted. A guru showdown. Meme versus tradition. Comedy versus discipline.
Rajiv staggered home, beads slipping through his trembling fingers. A debate? On TV? Against a real master? He would be torn apart.
That night, his phone buzzed again. The same unknown number.
“This is your end. Tomorrow the world will see the truth.”
Rajiv tossed the phone aside, pacing like a trapped animal. The applause, the fame, the donations—they all felt like shackles now. He wanted to run, to vanish, to buy a ticket back to Lucknow and hide forever.
But then Aditya cornered him. “Guruji, listen. The internet doesn’t care about truth. It cares about entertainment. Make them laugh tomorrow, and you win.”
Rajiv stared at the boy. Was that all he was? Entertainment? A meme with beads?
The ceiling fan spun above him, mocking. The guru who couldn’t sleep. The actor who couldn’t stop acting.
Tomorrow, everything would change. Either the mask would shatter, or it would harden into something permanent.
And Rajiv wasn’t sure which was worse.
Part 9: The Guru Showdown
The studio lights were blinding, hotter than any spotlight Rajiv had ever stood under in his failed acting career. A row of cameras pointed at him, red lights glowing, ready to broadcast his humiliation to millions. Across from him sat Swami Kripananda, stiff-backed, eyes burning with righteous fury. Between them, at a glossy desk, the anchor smiled like a vulture smelling fresh prey.
“Welcome to Truth Tonight,” the anchor purred. “This evening, we bring you the battle shaking India—The Meme Guru versus the Traditional Master.”
The audience clapped. Rajiv forced a saintly smile, though sweat trickled down his back. His scarf itched, his beads dug into his neck, but he kept his palms pressed together.
The anchor turned to Swami Kripananda. “Swamiji, you claim Guru Rajananda insults yoga. Why?”
The Swami’s voice thundered. “Because yoga is not joke! It is discipline, sacrifice, thousands of years of tradition. And what does this man teach? Flipkartasana? Traffic Jam Breathing? Netflix Meditation? He is clown, not guru.”
The audience gasped. Rajiv’s cheeks burned. He wanted to rip off the beads, shout that he was an actor, that it was all a performance. But then the anchor turned to him. “Guruji, your response?”
Rajiv inhaled slowly. He remembered Aditya’s words: The internet doesn’t care about truth. It cares about entertainment.
So he rose from his chair, spread his arms, and said in his deepest baritone: “Swamiji is correct. I am a clown. But tell me—when people laugh, does their stress not vanish? When aunties giggle, when teenagers share memes, when tired men smile after traffic—what is that, if not yoga?”
The audience erupted in applause. The anchor’s eyebrows shot up. Even the Swami blinked.
Rajiv pressed on. “Traditional yoga brings health. My yoga brings happiness. Is the world not in need of both?”
Aditya, watching from backstage, pumped his fist. Twitter exploded with clips within minutes. Hashtags like #LaughterIsYoga and #MemeGuruSpeaks trended. Memes of Rajiv standing with arms wide, captions reading “When you admit you’re a clown but the world still claps.”
The Swami tried to fight back. “This is mockery! Yoga is not circus!”
Rajiv bowed slightly. “Swamiji, circus also heals. Children laugh, families bond. Is that not divine?”
The audience clapped louder. Someone even shouted, “Wah Guruji!”
The anchor leaned forward, smelling drama. “So, Guruji, you admit your yoga is fake?”
Rajiv hesitated. His heart pounded. This was the moment. Confess, and it could all collapse. Or embrace the mask, and it might never come off.
He smiled slowly. “Fake or real, ask the people. If their hearts are lighter, if their days are brighter—then what does it matter?”
The studio erupted. Some cheered, some booed, but everyone shouted. The anchor grinned, sensing a ratings jackpot.
By the next morning, clips of the debate flooded every platform. Headlines split like battle lines:
“Meme Guru Destroys Traditional Swami with Wit.”
“Fraud Admits He Is a Clown, Still Wins Applause.”
“Comedy as Yoga? India Divided Over Viral Guru.”
Rajiv scrolled endlessly, dizzy. Half the country mocked him, half adored him. But all of them watched him.
Back at the ashram, the disciples greeted him like a returning hero. Mrs. Chatterjee threw flowers at his feet. Aditya shoved his phone in Rajiv’s face. “Guruji, you’ve gone global! Even Americans are tweeting—‘Wish we had a meme guru instead of therapists.’”
Rajiv forced a smile, but inside he felt hollow. He hadn’t won or lost. He had simply tightened the mask until it fused with his skin.
For the first time, he wondered: What if I can never take it off?
Part 10: The Accidental Legend
Rajiv Malhotra, once a failed actor hunting for side roles as corpse number three in crime shows, now couldn’t step outside without someone thrusting a phone at his face shouting, “Guruji, one selfie!” His viral debate with Swami Kripananda had sealed it—he wasn’t just a meme anymore, he was a movement.
Every day the ashram swelled beyond capacity. Housewives, teenagers, students bunking college, even office-goers sneaking in late for work—they all squeezed in to watch the man in saffron invent new absurdities. Aditya had stopped even asking for ideas; he simply pressed record and waited. Whatever Rajiv did—stretching, sneezing, sipping chai—became the next “asana.”
Brands lined up too. An energy drink wanted him to demonstrate “Red Bull Breathing.” A mattress company begged him to endorse “Sleepasana.” Even a politician from Delhi invited him to bless a campaign, promising to build a “National Meme Yoga Day.”
Rajiv, sitting cross-legged on his mattress at night, stared at the bundles of cash piling up in his cupboard. He had food, fame, followers. More than he had ever dreamed of. And yet, a strange emptiness gnawed at him.
Because he knew the truth. He wasn’t Guru Rajananda, healer of souls. He was Rajiv Malhotra, actor, liar, clown. And every cheer, every flower at his feet, every donation in the box—wasn’t it all built on nothing?
The final twist came unexpectedly. One morning, during a live session streamed to thousands online, Mrs. Chatterjee, his first disciple, stood up. Her voice quivered. “Guruji… I don’t know if your yoga is real or fake. But after coming here, I laugh every day. My knees still hurt, my BP still fluctuates, my neighbor still steals my newspaper… but I am happy. Isn’t that enough?”
The crowd fell silent. Rajiv froze. His throat tightened. He wanted to confess, to tear the scarf from his neck, to shout: I am not a guru! I am just an actor pretending!
But when he looked at her face—bright with belief, softened by laughter—he couldn’t. He raised his hand instead. “Mataji, laughter is the highest yoga. If you are happy, the universe is happy.”
The crowd erupted in cheers. Aditya’s camera captured the moment. Within hours, hashtags like #LaughterIsYoga trended worldwide. Celebrities tweeted support. Psychologists debated whether “meme yoga” could actually reduce stress. Even Swami Kripananda, cornered in another TV debate, grudgingly admitted, “If people find peace in his nonsense, who am I to stop them?”
Rajiv sat in the ashram that evening, alone, beads in hand. The chants of his disciples still echoed in his ears. He whispered to himself, “Rajiv Malhotra failed as an actor. But Guru Rajananda… Guru Rajananda became a legend.”
And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if that was victory or defeat.
The world would remember him not as a hero, not as a fraud, not even as a guru—but as the man who accidentally invented laughter yoga for the digital age.
And perhaps, Rajiv thought with a tired smile, maybe that was enough.
The End
