When I was in my early twenties, I spent entirely too much time and money in one falafel joint in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I ate the food, hung out with friends, and did my homework all with a side of delicious, delicious hummus. One afternoon, a gorgeous, slim woman about my age wearing an outfit of white muslin and a white turban struck up a conversation with me about my very bright workout apparel. (It was the 2000s, and incredibly bright velour was top fashion.) She was so lovely and complimentary, and we hit it off right away.
Somewhere in the conversation the impressively-dressed woman invited me to a yoga class that she taught not too far from the restaurant. Her invitation was something like: “It’s pay what you want, don’t worry about it. Very chill, very relaxed environment.” We exchanged phone numbers (again, this was the ’00s) and made plans to meet up. Honestly, I was flattered. She was basically an ethereal goddess, and she was asking me, a soccer player with zero sense of style to go do yoga? The cool girl workout? Obviously, I was going.
When I arrived at the studio, I was entranced. It smelled heavenly, unlike the gym I frequented that smelled of body spray and Lysol. The studio was blessed with a ton of natural lighting, but where the light didn’t hit, small lamps with gauzy shades made the difference. Everyone had their own mat, many of which were of a knitted material, and there were turbans, so many turbans. I wasn’t as culturally literate as I am now, so a sea of white women in turbans felt more eccentric than offensive.
For the next 90 minutes, I learned a bit about the practice of Kundalini yoga. They marketed it as a step towards my true self. A way to connect with my chakras and come fully into alignment. The woman I met at the falafel shop transformed from fun 20-something to spiritual guide, showering me with guidance and love. It was alluring, so much so that I returned about a half-dozen times in my desire to fit in before I realized that: a) I really suck at yoga, and b) this woman was starting to give me the ick.
Imagine my surprise when I started scrolling Max for a new cult documentary to watch and the first one suggested was Breath of Fire, a new docuseries all about Kundalini yoga and its charismatic leaders. Obviously, I tuned in.
Yogi Bhajan popularized Kundalini yoga in the U.S.
Kundalini yoga is an ancient tradition, and it was introduced to Americans by controversial figure Yogi Bhajan, whose real name was Harbhajan Singh Khalsa Yogiji. Bhajan was born Harbhajan Singh Puri in 1929 in a region of India that is now a part of Pakistan.
Beginning his career as a customs inspector, Bhajan moved to the United States in the 1960s and began his business empire. He eventually founded dozens of companies including a $1 billion-plus private security firm that guards places of high interest including Army bases. This business seems at odds with the alignment of a man who also founded Yogi Tea, known for their chill blends and peaceful, pithy sayings on the tea tags, but Bhajan was, at his core, a capitalist. Even his yogic practice had strong foundations as a profit-making enterprise. He opened studios, connected the vegetarian beliefs he espoused to his teachers and students to a natural food brand he created, and spun all of these profits into lucrative real estate deals.
Being such a public figure put Bhajan in the spotlight, a place he knew well as a former television executive. He drew criticism for how he represented his religion and how he handled disputes in business. In the early 2000s, multiple former Kundalini practitioners came forward with accusations of sexual assault and rape. Yet, during his lifetime, he met with two popes, numerous government heads, and countless celebrities. Many of his businesses still exist and thrive to this day despite his death in 2004, which was mourned by many. The governor of New Mexico, where he resided, even ordered flags to be flown at half-staff.
Guru Jagat was Yogi Bhajan’s protégé—or maybe just a phony
The focus of Breath of Fire is Katie Briggs, aka Guru Jagat, who The Guardian described as the “Elizabeth Holmes of Yoga.” Briggs was raised in Colorado by her mother, who exposed Briggs early on to new-age principals and different styles of spiritual practice. Dropping out of college in her 20s, Briggs moved to Los Angeles and, in 2013, opened the Ra Ma Institute in Venice, California, where she taught classes, purporting to teach followers how to tap into their energies, make themselves stronger, and ultimately, manifest the life they view for themselves though the power of meditation, yoga, and belief.
Briggs was a controversial figure, dubbing herself Guru Jagat, and claiming a spiritual heritage from Bhajan that’s up for much debate. She was a sparkling social media personality with a “give no effs” attitude that drew people in. She had the aura of someone who was a genuine good time and could help you have a good time as well. Under her leadership, her studios flourished and celebrities came by the dozen, but at some point along the way, things got a bit darker for Guru Jagat.
In the years during the pandemic, Guru Jagat began spouting conspiracy theories about chemtrails causing COVID-19 and fell deep into QAnon territory. She was accused of mishandling funds and abusing her employees. In many ways, Briggs followed a similar path of controversy as her predecessor, and that’s what ultimately led to the creation of the documentary. In 2021, Guru Jagat died at the age of 41. Her untimely death left behind a mixed historical record and several still-thriving yoga studios.
The practice of Kundalini yoga in America is still largely tied to Yogi Bhajan, but there is a growing movement to educate practitioners about the original form and divorce itself from the legacy of leaders like Bhajan and Guru Jagat. The effort seeks to return Kundalini to its spiritual and physical roots, untangling the net created by Bhajan. The Ra Ma Institute still exists in several areas and maintains its spiritual lineage with Guru Jagat.
Watching the docuseries I couldn’t help but wonder where the woman I met in the falafel shop is today. To my knowledge, it was not Guru Jagat. I don’t remember the woman’s name this many years later, and I don’t believe the guru spent time in the Brooklyn studios. But the woman who brought me in had the same energy Guru Jagat exuded, and I can see how that could be seductive to people looking for guidance—or hell, just looking for good, fun yoga. By all accounts, Guru Jagat and Yogi Bhajan had that evocative energy that thrives on attention and power, and sometimes that’s powerfully dangerous, even if it makes for great television.
Cat Bowen has been a journalist for well over a decade, writing everything from stroller reviews to longform feminist articles. She can be seen on Best Products, Romper, Bustle, and more. She has a personal love of all things Biography and higher education as evidenced by the fact that she just can’t stop going back to school, with one of her latest degrees having a special interest in biography writing.
