When Hanuman Fell: A Story of Betrayal, Harassment, and Unexpected Grace

I met Michael (not his real name) on OkCupid eight years ago, and right from the start, I knew he wasn't a romantic partner. Something about our energy together was different - more like teacher and student, or perhaps old souls recognizing each other across time. We decided to be friends, and I offered to teach him massage since he mentioned having "healing hands" but not knowing how to use them.

He was a natural. Within weeks, Michael was trading massage sessions with me, his intuitive touch finding tension I'd carried for years. When he expressed interest in yoga, I welcomed him into my classes. He'd arrive early, carrying my instruments, bringing flowers for the altar, arranging bolsters with the kind of meticulous care that bordered on devotion. I started calling him Hanuman - the monkey deity who serves with unwavering loyalty in the Hindu tradition.

"Hanuman," I'd tease when he'd show up with flowers from his garden or insist on being my sherpa for workshops. He embraced the nickname completely, diving deep into the stories of his namesake deity. Soon he was studying the Ramayana, attending kirtan gatherings, his voice rising above the crowd in devotional songs that made my heart soar. Seva - service - became his spiritual practice.

For eight beautiful years, our friendship flourished. Even when he got married and stopped coming to regular classes, we continued our massage trades. I was genuinely happy for him, though I missed his presence in my daily practice. When the marriage ended several years later and he called about needing a place to live, I didn't hesitate. I had a spare room in my Sausalito apartment, and who better than trustworthy, spiritual Michael?

Those first months of living together felt like a gift. Every morning at dawn, we'd sit together and chant the Hanuman Chalisa - all forty verses praising the monkey deity's devotion and strength. Michael knew every word by heart while I followed along with the three verses I'd memorized, reciting the rest through reading the mantras. There was something profoundly healing about starting each day this way, our voices joining in ancient Sanskrit prayers.

We'd joke while cooking dinner, sing while doing dishes. The jovial spirit that had always characterized our friendship flourished in shared domestic space. I'd fall asleep hearing him practice kirtan in his room with incense wafting out, feeling grateful for this sacred friendship.

Then something shifted.

The first explosion came over some specks of dust on the dining table. Michael was standing in the kitchen, his face flushed with an anger I'd never seen, pointing at the dust for me to clean it.

"This is unacceptable," he said. "There's dust everywhere. This is my home too."

I stared at him, confused. In eight years of friendship, he'd never spoken to me with anything but warmth and gratitude. A week later, during my moon time when I was following the Ayurvedic tradition of rest during menstruation, he exploded again when I said I'd do the dishes in the morning.

"That's just an excuse," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're being lazy."

This time, my own anger flared. "Excuse me? You moved into MY house, and now you're going to boss me around?"

The explosions became regular. I began walking on eggshells in my own home. The morning chanting continued, but tension crackled underneath Michael's familiar melodies. Meanwhile, our rent kept climbing - for our apartment in non-rent-controlled Sausalito. I'd been saving to buy a house, and every month I stayed was money I couldn't put toward that dream.

When I finally told Michael I needed to move, he erupted. "You can't just uproot my life because you have some fantasy about homeownership," he shouted. "I have rights as a tenant."

That's when I started noticing other things. The smell of alcohol on his breath during our morning prayers. His eyes, sometimes glassy and unfocused. Weed smoke wafting out instead if incense. When I'd offered him the room, I'd been clear about this being a sober living situation, having maintained my home as a sanctuary from substances after my own earlier struggles.

Confronting him only brought more rage. He denied everything, accused me of being controlling, telling me he would kill my dog after our dogs got into a scuffle over food. The man who had once called me teacher now spoke to me like I was his enemy. After multiple times trying to reason with him and speak in a yogic way, he exclaimed "He wasn't a Yogi!"

I was contemplating whether to give my thirty days' notice, knowing Michael couldn't afford the rent alone despite his threats to squat. He moved out without proper notice and immediately began demanding his full deposit back. When I explained that deposits don't work that way - that there were damages, cleaning costs, breach of agreement - his demands turned to threats.

What followed was a year of harassment that shattered what remained of my heart.

Michael took me to court lying that my apartment was rat infested. I reached out to my friend Sarah (also not her name), a yogini who happened to be a lawyer. "We need to call on Durga," I said before our court hearing. "This is about right action now." Durga is the one who relieves us from our difficulties. If Michael had been my Hanuman, Sarah became my Durga - the fierce goddess who protects the innocent and destroys what causes harm.

The harassment escalated beyond legal papers. Michael showed up at by my studios, lurking nearby. One day, while I was leading a public class, he appeared inside the room to serve me papers. My students watched in confusion as this man I'd once called friend disrupted our sacred space with his anger and legal documents.

He was having falling-outs with others in our spiritual community too - confrontations, burned bridges, gentle souls backing away from his increasingly erratic behavior. Our elderly neighbor became another target of his rage. He'd rev his car engine, making gestures like he might run her over.

Meanwhile, something unexpected was happening. The harassment and skyrocketing Bay Area rent had forced me to consider leaving - something I'd been too scared to do on my own. Three hours away in the Sierra Nevada foothills, I could actually afford to buy a house. Michael, in his destructive spiral, had become the catalyst I needed to make the leap.

The legal battle ended with right action prevailing - I won the case. But the harassment continued even after I moved. Michael would continue to taunt me and all I could do was ignore him.

Finally, I'd had enough. In front of another man from our neighborhood - Michael had moved in with and had befriended - I confronted him with a shaking but clear voice: "This ends now. I will not be harassed anymore. You need to leave me alone."

Something in my tone must have gotten through, it was a Full moon afterall. After that, he finally stopped. But the damage to my heart felt irreparable.

For months, I carried the weight of betrayal and loss. Every weekend, driving three hours each way to teach my remaining Bay Area classes, I'd pass familiar places and remember who we used to be. The sight of Sausalito's hills would bring tears.

Then, a year after the harassment ended, I found myself called to something new. Teachers I respected were offering a 40-day satsang focused on the Hanuman Chalisa - the very prayer Michael and I had shared every morning during those beautiful months. I almost didn't sign up. The wound was still there, the association too painful. But something deeper urged me forward.

"Get a new journal for this journey," the teachers instructed. I'd recently bought clothing online that came with a free journal still in packaging. When I unwrapped it on the first day, my breath caught. Printed on the cover: "Be Your Own Hero." Hanuman is a hero.

Every morning, I joined the online satsang, learning more verses, diving deeper into stories of devotion and service. I had a new friend staying with me for a couple months while she was in transition from the fires of Topanga to find a place in Nevada City. She had been in the round before anadi could hear her bells chiming softly in the background. The practice was transforming something deep inside me. Each verse about Hanuman's devotion to Ram and Sita, each story of miracles and unwavering service, was healing layers of hurt I didn't even know I carried.

As Ram Dass always said, "Suffering is grace." I was beginning to understand this at a cellular level.

The final day of the 40-day satsang happened to coincide with my decision to stop commuting to the Bay Area altogether. After this day, I would no longer teach those weekend classes, no longer make the six-hour round trip that kept me tethered to my old life. It felt symbolic - ending the spiritual practice that had brought Michael and me together on the same day I was finally, fully letting go of the geographic space where our friendship had lived and died.

Driving to Sausalito for my last class, I saw him.

Michael was walking his dog just blocks from my old studio, looking more peaceful and healthy from when I had seem his last.

Instead of the familiar surge of anger or hurt, something extraordinary happened. A wave of forgiveness washed over me so completely it took my breath away. All I could see was love.

I saw that he had been my catalyst - the difficult teacher who forced me out of comfort and into growth. I saw him disguised as what Neem Karoli Baba might call a divine messenger, bringing exactly the challenge I needed to step into my power, find my true home, deepen my practice in ways I never could have imagined.

Even through the immense suffering, I wanted to stop the car and ask if he wanted to sing the Hanuman Chalisa with me one more time. After forty days of practice, I almost knew it by heart now.

Ram Dass used to say that suffering is like sandpaper to the soul - it smooths away what doesn't serve until only love remains. Michael gave me the gift of that sandpaper, even if he didn't mean to. Through his actions, I learned about boundaries and self-respect. Through his harassment, I discovered my own fierce protector energy. Through his catalyst presence, I found my way home to myself.

I pray that he's doing better now. Despite everything, I still see him in the light of love - not as the perfect devotee I once thought he was, but as the flawed, struggling, perfectly human soul who helped shape my spiritual journey in ways I'm still discovering.

Sometimes our greatest teachers come disguised as our greatest challenges. Sometimes Hanuman appears not as the perfect servant, but as the chaotic force that pushes us toward our own heroic journey.

As a Westerner, I never understood the "Guru" concept - I never wanted a Guru. But the Guru is the one who removes darkness, and through experiences like this, I've come to believe that Neem Karoli Baba is indeed my Guru now. If you're curious about how he magically appeared and revealed himself to me, check out my other blog post "Bhakti, Shakti & Synchronicity."

In my new home in the foothills, I chant the Hanuman Chalisa most mornings. My voice is stronger now, carrying the melody alone but not lonely. I know almost all forty verses by heart. And in the silence that follows each prayer, I offer gratitude - for the friendship that was, for the lesson that hurt, and for the grace that transforms everything into love.