High up in the misty hills of Mount Nirvana Heights, where the air is thin and the Wi-Fi signal thinner, reigned the illustrious Swami Gajrangi Om. Draped in saffron robes that swirled like clouds at dawn and sporting a turban that looked suspiciously like a yoga mat rolled into a crown, Swamiji was the uncontested maestro of spiritual flamboyance. What made him so popular? 

A master’s degree in ‘Cosmic Stretching and Enlightenment’ from the mysterious ‘University of Universal Om’ – a degree so secretive that not even his most devoted disciples had glimpsed it. But what truly set Swamiji apart – aside from his ability to manifest enlightenment somewhere between two first-class international flights – was his nearly mystical addiction to designer labels. Silk scarves picked up in Paris with price tags discreetly left dangling, velvet slippers embroidered by Milanese artisans who charge by the square inch, and an ever-expanding wardrobe that seemed less about renunciation and more about runway shows. If spiritual renunciation looked like living in a five-star suite in a different country each week, Swamiji was already halfway to nirvana.

Swami Gajrangi Om was more than a guru; he was a phenomenon. Daily, thousands of followers journeyed through winding mountain trails to his expansive ashram, packed with chanting devotees waving hand-painted banners declaring: “Om Gajrangi Om, Enlighten Us!” There was a palpable buzz – both of hope and mosquito wings – in the air.

His admirers weren’t just locals and weekend spiritual seekers; millions of fervent NRIs worshipped him from afar. They attended his live-streamed aartis from luxury condos scattered across continents, sitting comfortably in ergonomic chairs, sipping exotic herbal teas and occasionally donating astronomical sums for “global karma balance initiatives.” Yet, oddly, few dared relocate to the ashram itself, mumbling about “climate, comfort and career,” and preferring to keep their spiritual commitments wifi-strong but geographically distant.

Part of Swami Gajrangi Om’s cosmic allure was not just his supposed spiritual powers but his unmistakable self-admiration. The Swami adored posing for photographs – often several dozen a day – and reportedly kept a secret shrine of his own framed portraits inside his ashram. Despite preaching austerity, he favoured lavish, designer saffron robes embroidered with gold thread, sparkling turbans and bespoke sandals that seemed more suited for red carpets than meditation mats. His calendar carefully curated more appearances outside the ashram than peaceful hours within it, jet-setting to glamorous cities, gracing glittering gala dinners, and most importantly, hobnobbing with influential world leaders. 

The gossip about these encounters was amazing. A devoted follower whispered reverently, “He spends afternoons strategising with the silver-haired leader of a vast northern country.” Another declared, “He shares spiritual coffee breaks with the leader of that sunny island nation famous for kangaroos and passionate rugby fans.” And a third swore, “I once saw a photo of him next to the former orange-faced president of a sprawling Western country obsessed with golf and tweeting. 

At weekly satsangs, his speeches swirled in a haze of incomprehensible yet enthralling gibberish. “Through my pinky toe’s chakra alignment,” he proclaimed, striking a balance pose almost like a flamingo, “I channel the infinite prana of the cosmos to bend reality itself.” He promised followers he could, with a single snap of his fingers, “elevate his motherland to superpower status overnight” – a declaration repeated so often it became a mantra to his followers.

And then there were his miraculous practical solutions to people’s woes. To fend off rising prices, Swami advised devotees to “meditate vigorously with clenched fists while chanting ‘Om-Budget-Balance’” – a ritual reputed to bring prosperity, or at least peace of mind. When COVID-19 threatened the ashram, it wasn’t mundane lockdowns or masks that saved the day but an elaborate ceremony involving thunderous clapping, wild plate-banging, and Swami fiercely uttering “Go back, virus! Go back!” while performing a fearsome war-dance. 

Remarkably, not a single case surfaced in the ashram, exactly as predicted, cementing his miracle-worker status.

All was serene in the ashram until a nosy journalist arrived – not to expose the Swami, but rather to promote his latest miraculous skill: making currencies disappear with a snap of his fingers. However, captivated by the swirling talk of the Swami’s exotic and mysterious qualification, the journalist could no longer resist the burning question that hung in the air: where, exactly, was the famed “Master’s Degree in Cosmic Stretching and Enlightenment”? 

Unlike ordinary graduates who proudly frame their certificates for all to see, Swami Gajrangi Om insisted his diploma was a sacred cosmic secret, beyond mortal eyes. When pressed courageously, the Swami’s response descended like a solemn mantra: “Dear child, the degree is not a parchment bounded by earthly hands; it is etched into the eternal ether, woven through the vibrations of the cosmos, and sealed by the silences of a thousand sun salutations. To reveal it would shatter the fragile veil separating mortals from divine truth.”

For the loyal bhakts, this was gospel. They proclaimed, “He frames our hearts, not certificates!” Another argued, “Paper degrees are for the unenlightened. Our Swami transcends earthly documentation.” Some even compared hiding the diploma to sacred divine mysteries or ancient cosmic censorship, elevating the absence of proof to proof itself.

But the news got out of the ashram, thanks to the journalist. And the Swami imposed a blanket ban on all journalists. However, public curiosity swelled. Doubt whispered questions: why would a real degree be hidden? Were the glowing testimonials genuine or conceived in cosmic marketing? 

Inevitably, the saga reached the courtroom. The proceedings unfolded less like legal battles and more like a spiritual circus. Swami’s legal team flexed arguments as intricate as yoga poses: “Degrees are like yogic breath – felt but unseen,” one counsel intoned serenely. Another warned that revealing the diploma would unleash a black hole in spiritual space-time and might shatter the courtroom itself. Against this, prosecutors deadpanned that any real credential worthy of its cosmic salt would be proudly framed and displayed, not hidden like a half-baked secret recipe.

Adding surreal flavour, devoted bhakts testified at length with poetic assurances: “I once saw Swami lift a coconut with his pinky toe – what more proof do you need?” asked one. Another chimed, “The diploma exists in auras, cosmic dances, and mystical vibrations beyond mortal comprehension.” 

There were even claims that merely glimpsing the diploma would induce enlightenment; hence, disclosure was ethically forbidden.

The learned judge, barely concealing amusement and admiration, delivered the final verdict: while this cosmic degree may be of public interest, it was emphatically not in the public interest to disclose it. The certificate, he declared, was “like an invisible sacred yoga mat – best kept folded and secret, lest the world face enlightenment overload.” The ruling was met with a mix of chuckles, bewilderment and a resigned nod of spiritual acceptance.

Post-verdict, life at Mount Nirvana Heights unfolded with the same surreal charm. The Swami remained atop his lotus pedestal, occasionally promising devotees that the elusive diploma would reveal itself “when the moon and sun perform synchronised sun salutations.” His global followers proudly clicked on the “like” button from their air-conditioned sanctuaries, secure in faith, though subtly wondering why their traffic jams and bills remained stubbornly untransformed.

In the end, the secret diploma is as elusive as the Swami’s actual ability to touch his toes – yet that is precisely its mystical power. When proof is invisible, doubt morphs into devotion.

The author’s credentials remain confidential, as secretive as the Swami’s degree; whispers say a doctorate in celestial satire.

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