Stalking God

My Unorthodox Search for Something to Believe In


By Anjali Kumar

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Anjali Kumar, a pragmatic lawyer for Google, was part of a rapidly growing population in America: highly spiritual but religiously uncommitted. But when her daughter was born, she became compelled to find God — or at least some kind of enlightenment.

Convinced that traditional religions were not a fit for her, and knowing that she couldn’t simply Google an answer to “What is the meaning of life?”, Kumar set out on a spiritual pilgrimage, looking for answers — and nothing was off limits or too unorthodox. She headed to the mountains of Peru to learn from the shamans, attended the techie haunt of Burning Man, practiced transcendental meditation, convened with angels, and visited saints, goddesses, witches, and faith healers. She even hired a medium to convene with the dead.

Kumar’s lighthearted story offers a revealing look at the timeless and vexing issue of spirituality in an era when more and more people are walking away from formal religions. Narrated from the open-minded perspective of a spiritual seeker rather than a religious scholar, Kumar offers an honest account of some of the less than mainstream spiritual practices that are followed by millions of people in the world today as she searches for the answers to life’s most universal questions: Why are we here? What happens when we die? Is there a God?


Author’s Note

The events and people in this book are all real, but in some cases I have changed names, artfully disguised details, and altered the timeline to protect the identities of the private individuals who shared this journey with me. I did this out of respect and in a manner that kept the integrity of my experience intact. I know that if I had experienced a forty-five-minute orgasm in front of a group of complete strangers or was a practicing witch who hadn’t come completely “out of the broom closet” to my boss, I would want my name and any identifying markers altered just a bit too. As for my sister, Avanti, I realize that you didn’t want anyone to know that you went with me to have “invisible” surgery and get your eyeballs scraped by a faith healer in Brazil, so I completely left you out of that chapter and pretended that I went alone (you’re welcome). As for everyone else—all my family, friends, and colleagues whose names and specifics I didn’t disguise (sorry, Mom)—I pretty much threw you under the bus. Just roll with it.



In 2010, when my daughter Zia was born, I decided that I needed to find God. I told myself that she would eventually ask me questions that I couldn’t answer—and that completely unraveled me. I was senior counsel at Google at the time, and, as a lawyer, when people asked me a question, I was used to giving them an answer backed with certitude. And precedent. Or if all else failed, at least I could Google a satisfactory answer.

I also found that having a child—actually creating a life—had changed me. It didn’t help that I had struggled to get pregnant, enduring multiple, heartbreaking miscarriages, or that right after Zia was born, my doula commented, “She is from another time,” after pointing out that Zia was holding the fingers of her left hand in gyan mudra—a prayer position used in yoga and meditation. Then a few days into Zia’s life, when my father asked me when I would be taking her to our temple, my spiritual skepticism, complacency, and lassitude abruptly ended. I felt what could only be described as a newfound sense of spiritual curiosity.

Curiosity sparked by a new and completely unanticipated sense of spiritual urgency. And perhaps a touch of panic.

Now that I had a child, I wanted—needed—to believe in something bigger than myself. Not just to believe in the possibility that there is more but to know with a degree of “legal” certainty that there is something deeper and bigger than just this. So as the months following Zia’s birth unfolded, I made a firm commitment to myself—and to her—that I would make a valiant effort to find us a comfortable spiritual home. It became patently clear that my somewhat eclectic multicultural upbringing had given me deep spiritual footings but not the structure they were intended to support.

I had the foundation but not the house.

AT THE ONSET of this mission—which I didn’t embark on in a serious manner until Zia was one year old—I knew that I wouldn’t be looking for God in the usual places or in the traditional sense. Growing up, I had been exposed, first-and secondhand, to a broad sampling of both Western and Eastern religions. I was born to Indian parents and raised in America, where my family was culturally Hindu and practiced a strict and relatively unknown (at least in the West) Indian religion called Jainism. Incongruently, I was educated by Catholic nuns—well, at least until I came home from school one day in fifth grade and announced with confidence that Jesus would save us all, after which my parents promptly enrolled me in the local public school.

As a child I spoke both English and Hindi; by the time my daughter was born, I was reasonably fluent in French and Italian as well. I was well educated, well traveled, and worldly. To add to the religious and spiritual mix, my husband, Atul, an interventional cardiologist, is Hindu. As a man of science, he finds comfort in research and data and doesn’t share my spiritual thirst or my anxiety about the unknown. But for me, science wasn’t enough. And religiously and spiritually speaking, nothing I had experienced thus far was a perfect fit. I was walking barefoot, so to speak. Not because I wanted to but because I had a closet full of uncomfortable shoes.

SINCE I HADN’T been able to find God—or a satiating spiritual connection—in any of the obvious places, I decided to widen my net. This wasn’t an out-and-out rejection of the traditional religion that I grew up with; rather it was a deep, spiritual curiosity that left me yearning to find out if there’s more. So when I headed out to find God—him or her or it—I was looking elsewhere and everywhere. And I went all-in. I wanted to experience each of these belief systems and practices in the flesh. Nothing was off-limits or too unorthodox.

WHAT I FOUND was unexpected, to say the least.

Early on, what I encountered was somewhat encouraging, at times even bordering on the spiritual. That inspired me to keep looking.

But more often what I experienced was perplexing. Or hilarious.

Other times, what I unearthed could only be described as shocking, intellectually discordant, or downright baffling. Or just plain-old disappointing. What I observed ranged from the very profound to the stunningly dumbfounding.

And it was crowded. I had to wait in a lot of lines. It seems everyone is looking for God—or at least one of his spiritual bedfellows.

WHEN I FIRST mentioned my quest to friends and colleagues, I didn’t know how they would react. So I was initially cautious. I whispered tentatively in a few, select ears.

To my relief, no one pulled back or judged me. Instead they lit up, became animated, whispered back.

A few even shouted from the mountaintops.

After all, finding a comfortable spiritual home affects us in so many fundamental ways. It provides clear direction and adds meaning and purpose to everything we do—not just for our families and on a personal level but in our work too. And having meaningful work grounded in a higher purpose beyond the material and the here and now is profoundly life altering.

THERE IS COMPELLING evidence that religious beliefs are not solely a result of indoctrination, that humans are born with a natural instinct to believe in divine power, which helps explain why so many of us are seeking. Broaching this topic with family, friends, and colleagues—many of them lawyers, doctors, and engineers—opened up an unexpected dialogue. Quite a few of them scribbled down names of people they thought I should meet, people they referred to as goddesses, gurus, and saints. Many of them told me, with detail and fervor, about their spiritual journeys, some successful, others disastrous and disappointing.

Then they invited me to places. Lots of places.

Apparently, while I had been negotiating contracts at Google, the rest of the world had been on a quest to find enlightenment, spiritual clarity, and salvation.

I was late to the party.

WHEN A COWORKER named Gopi heard about my quest, he suggested that I meet a healer from India known as Hugging Amma. In addition to being on the marketing team, Gopi taught yoga at Google and occasionally sent me spiritual missives—sweet, inspirational sayings conveyed via e-mail. He thought I might benefit from meeting Amma, and I was intrigued. Besides, in a few weeks Amma was going to be in New York City hugging her followers at a convention center just a quick cab ride from my apartment.

Amma has a global reputation as a healing saint and a guru. She travels around the world and frequently embarks on multicity tours across the United States, delivering her message of kindness and love with the simple warmth and connection of an embrace. Over the last three decades she has dispensed more than 34 million hugs.

Amma supports a network of charities under the umbrella organization Embracing the World, which reportedly takes in over $20 million a year. Hugging is apparently big business.

And there’s no question that she helps people. After the tsunami hit in 2004, Amma had over 6,000 homes built in southern India. She has properties in Asia, Europe, and the United States—including an ashram in the Indian state of Kerala, where she built a state-of-the-art university and a medical school. But she also bought a mansion in Maryland said to be worth almost $8 million, so she’s definitely helping Amma too, as she sells her Amma-themed merchandise: Amma-branded jewelry, clothing, dolls, and even watches, which I was told keep “Amma Time”—whatever that is.

Amma’s “children,” as she calls her followers, swear that she’s a spiritual healer. Her critics suggest she’s a guru of self-promotion. Either way, her following is undeniably enormous. I contemplated Gopi’s suggestion by asking myself if I believed that spiritual salvation and enlightenment lay in something as simple and pure, as innocent and fundamental, as a hug.

Or an aggregate 34 million hugs.

I was skeptical, but then I reminded myself that millions around the world believe that Amma is a healing saint. Besides, I reasoned, Gopi is an enviably spiritual and happy man, so I should at least give Hugging Amma a shot.

Then I reminded myself that there was some soft science behind this too. Hugs release oxytocin, the “feel-good” hormone, and touch is recognized as an important element in psychological and physical healing and well-being. Maybe that alone explains it? Or maybe this was just the lawyer in me trying to find a concrete explanation for the inexplicable.

As for her critics, I rationalized that money and spirituality are always an awkward, unsavory mix. Doesn’t the Catholic Church have the highest net worth of any institution on earth? Don’t Mormons pay 10 percent of their income to the church? And don’t some people who practice Judaism “pay to pray,” with temples charging for seats or memberships? Don’t many religious organizations and a lot of spiritual leaders own real estate and sell related paraphernalia?

THE DAY I went to see Amma, I changed my clothes three times. I had absolutely no idea what to wear to meet a saint. (Add to that the fact that July in New York can be brutally hot, and I didn’t want to be sweaty for my hug.) Work clothes felt oddly formal, a loose-fitting, colorful Indian salwaar kameez seemed too costumey, jeans would be sweltering, and everything else in my closet was better suited for a night out on the town. Yoga pants, on the other hand, seemed directionally correct; I worried that they were too casual and informal—even bordering on cliché—but settled on them with a loose-fitting button-down shirt anyway.

When I finally arrived at the convention center to meet Amma, thousands of people were milling about in the front of the hall. And they were shopping. I had walked into what appeared to be an Amma-themed tchotchke sale. All the merchandise I had read about—the dolls and perfume and jewelry—was for sale. The hug might be free, but a watch with Amma’s face on it will set you back $25.

I got in line for the ticket to hug Amma, thinking how this didn’t feel any more spiritual than hanging out at a flea market. I spent the next four hours standing and waiting with thousands of other people. Some, just like me, were looking for something they were prewired to want but probably would never find; many others were fervent believers, sure they had already found it.

At noon, there was a sudden flurry of activity when some of Amma’s children (identifiable by what looked like beauty pageant sashes) rolled out a red carpet. Amma entered to palpable excitement. I was standing close enough that I unintentionally ended up in a makeshift receiving line, which made it possible to reach out and touch her hand. I was wearing my new Amma watch on my wrist and had a few other Amma incidentals tucked away in my purse.

She was wearing a white cotton sari. She is all of four feet tall. For some reason, I thought she would be bigger. Maybe like Michael Jordan.

When my number was finally called and I was next in the crowd to receive a hug, the movement around me accelerated. Amma’s front man asked me what language I spoke. I stumbled, then said, “Hindi.” Oddly, he leaned over and told her that I spoke English, apparently deciding I wasn’t Indian enough.

When I approached Amma, one of Amma’s children pushed me down on my knees, and Amma pulled me in to a long bear hug. I wasn’t sure how this worked—what I was supposed to do or how I should feel. As a New Yorker, hugging strangers didn’t come naturally to me. When I started to wonder who should instigate the release, I awkwardly tried to pull away. But she held on to me with the firmness and conviction of an uncomfortably overfamiliar distant relative while chanting something in my ear, whispering in a language I did not recognize. I surrendered to the moment.

Her words felt comforting, even though I didn’t understand them. I tried my best to hold on to them but I couldn’t.

I can report that Amma smelled of sandalwood and rose and hugged with such conviction and passion that for a brief moment, mid-hug, after I had allowed the energy and emotion to engulf me, I thought she might just be selling what I was shopping for. I was hoping she would tell me something profound or answer those questions that plagued me… the questions that Zia would be asking me.

Why are we here?

What is the meaning of life?

What happens when we die?

Is there a God?

When she released me from the embrace, Amma held me at arm’s length, then looked and smiled at me with such honesty and purity that I felt she, above anyone else, understood who I was. And then—just like that—it was over.

Before sending me on my way, she gave me a packet of sandalwood powder and a kiss.

A kiss made of milk chocolate, wrapped in silver, and manufactured by Hershey.

I WAS SIMULTANEOUSLY over-and underwhelmed. The hug, the sandalwood, the rose, the warmth, the energy, the conviction, the whispered words, her smile—all were, on many levels, compelling, even spiritual. In the depth of her embrace I had thought, at least fleetingly, that I felt something approaching otherworldly and enlightening.

I was trying really hard. I wanted to get it.

But in the end, the kiss unglued me. She told me to eat it.

Like Holy Communion? The Eucharist from Hershey?

Before I left the building, I was already obsessing about the kiss. Should I eat it now like she told me to? And if I don’t, what if it melts? What happens if I lose it? Can I save some for my husband and Zia? How do you share one little kiss?

With these thoughts racing around in my head, the questions I’d set out to answer seemed even more elusive. I had been undone by a piece of candy.

I stepped out onto 34th Street to assaulting midday heat. Looking back over my shoulder, I acknowledged that it felt better in there hugging Amma than it did out here in the heat and noise of the city streets. But I knew it wasn’t anywhere near enough. I was looking for more than a fleeting sense of comfort. I was looking for more than a sweaty hug at a convention center.

IN THE NEXT few months, I would wait in more lines. I would follow detailed instructions. Instructions about energy fields and karma, cleansing rituals and seminar logistics. Instructions written by spiritual leaders who took Visa and PayPal and had websites with disclaimers, downloadable liability release forms, and links to Google Maps.

I had to remind myself that the pope uses Twitter, that the liability issues were pro forma, and that I worked for Google. It shouldn’t bother me that I was looking for God using the Internet and a credit card while signing disclaimers.

Should it?

I OPENED MY doors to let evil spirits out after I walked around my apartment burning a mixture of Epsom salts and rubbing alcohol. I downloaded a meditation timer app to my phone and snuck into the Mothers’ Room at Google to meditate every afternoon. I had my natal chart read by a man dressed like the captain on The Love Boat, joined a laughing yoga group in South Africa via Skype, and stood half naked on a beach in Mexico covered in Mayan clay and honey, trying to visualize a beautiful garden and all my dreams coming true.

I started working with an energy healer in Australia for “distance healing” via Google Hangout. She clears my energy fields quarterly, right before our scheduled video chat. Then she reminds me to envision a white protective light surrounding me while I shower and comments about the negative energy field running under the building I live in. She keeps suggesting that I sell my apartment and move. (Apparently energy healers in Australia have no idea how hard great apartments are to come by in New York.) But it’s easy to get hooked and become dependent. When I called her for advice about an issue with a family member and she didn’t get back to me for a week, I felt enormous trepidation. I had to remind myself that energy healers take vacations just like the rest of us.

To say that I was pushing my boundaries would be a grand understatement. The law is palpable and definitive, and the corporate legal work that fed and housed me anchored me in the concrete. But in my spare time, on weekends and days off, on my way to and from work, I found myself untethered and yearning for the comfort of another realm.

A realm that eluded me.

AFTER ONE FRIEND told me about a ten-day silent meditation retreat, another confessed that she had had a near-death experience as a child and now speaks to angels. Another gave me the name and address of her facialist in Los Angeles, a celibate Buddhist who keeps a second apartment in downtown New York, goes by the name “Goddess,” and channels angels.

I have her on speed dial.

I traveled to Brazil to meet John of God and was introduced to tantric sound healing and transcendental meditation as I SoulCycled and hip-hop yoga-d away my lingering baby weight. I got detailed and reliable first-person accounts of the spiritual exploits of others, along with speculative half-truths, hearsay, and misrepresentations. I heard the plausible and the promising tucked in between reports of routes to salvation that sounded more like spiritual black holes or marketing scams than paths to enlightenment. Each account was richer, stranger, and more implausible than the last.

I lapped them up.

A forty-five-minute orgasm as a route to spiritual healing and enlightenment? Invisible surgery to cure cancer or depression? Count me in.

Yoni worship? Cooch yodeling? A forgiveness coach? Exploring the divine feminine? I signed up for all of it.

Spiritual salvation, inner peace, and the keys to happiness were conveniently offered in weekend packages, midweek seminars, and all-inclusive retreats. Millions subscribe to these wildly popular programs. My inbox was overflowing with brochures and web links forwarded to me by friends and friends of friends, accompanied by notes written in a tenor that ranged from unflinching conviction and awe to cynical curiosity.

There were more than a few giggles. Not everyone believed. But everyone, it seemed, was looking.

So I showed up. In Abadiânia, Brazil, and Ojai, California; in Kyoto, Japan, and Rhinebeck, New York. I traveled in all directions all around the globe. I became a spiritual tourist.

Not one of my friends pointed me toward traditional philosophies or religions. Though this journey I had embarked on might eventually lead me to a spiritual place, it clearly would not be a route to a temple or synagogue or church.

Along the way, I learned to chant, to meditate, and to marvel. I wrestled with my own identity, from my ethnic and cultural roots in India, to my femininity, to my role as a woman, daughter, mother, and wife. I questioned my relationships, my core beliefs, and the possibility of otherness. Mine was a global expedition and a noble quest. I fancied myself an explorer, no different really than Magellan or Columbus. I was looking for a new world.

Because now that I had a daughter, I didn’t want to believe that the spiritual world was flat. I couldn’t just sit back and accept the possibility that if I set sail to circumnavigate this earth in search of God, I would reach the end and just fall into a void of nothing.

I intended to return home with a spiritual map and the epic stories of self-discovery to go with it. I wanted to be able to tell my daughter, with certitude and conviction, that there is more. And it is glorious.

DON’T GET ME wrong: I was a skeptic extraordinaire. Some of what I had been told was truly unbelievable—often irrational or just plain crazy.

Angels? Witches? Faith healers? Saints? Eyeball scraping and nasal probes? Tree whispering and bioenergy healing? Sweat lodges?

At times what I heard conjured up words like “charlatan” and “ridiculous.” I will admit that, at the beginning of this journey, I had a propensity to giggle, even to snicker.

But I self-corrected. I promised myself that, above all, I would show respect and keep an open mind. I knew that if I didn’t do that, I would never learn something more expansive than what I already know.

I kept reminding myself that I was doing all of this so I would have answers for Zia when she was old enough to ask those questions. The questions that had unglued me when she was born. The questions that everyone wants answered.

Why are we here?

What is the meaning of life?

What happens when we die?

Is there a God?

So I shored myself up and dedicated myself to this mission. I had undertaken difficult challenges before: I’d studied biomedical ethics at Brown University, then law at Boston University. I was certain I could do this. I gave myself a year.

I gave myself one year to find God for Zia. The journey ended up taking much longer than that. And what I found was completely unexpected.

This book tells that story.

Chapter 1


Abadiânia, Brazil

As I opened up to conversations about spirituality, it quickly became clear that I knew many perfectly normal, intelligent, and rational people who held beliefs and engaged in practices that I found highly questionable. Okay, in some cases, absolutely preposterous and full-on nuts. And yet, I envied each of them. I desperately wanted the deep level of conviction and meaning that they had in their lives.

And then, as I stood at the gate at JFK waiting to board a plane to Brazil to visit one of the more questionable of highly questionable spiritual leaders on my long “hit list,” rather than open-mindedly embracing the opportunity before me—as I had promised myself I would—I began to backpedal. Mainly because I started thinking about the Catholic Church’s warnings about the dangers of yoga.

The church advises Catholics to not practice yoga at all. And if they do stray from the flock to take a cleansing breath or two, they are cautioned to not mistake any spiritual feelings they may experience while in downward dog or warrior pose as in any way relating to God.

The reason this particular fact unnerved me was not completely random. I may not be Catholic, but I spent some of my early, formative years with nuns—and there I was, headed to visit a faith healer. A faith healer who performs miracles and convenes with the dead. A faith healer not sanctioned by the church.

I was pretty sure that was worse than yoga.

IN THAT MOMENT it dawned on me that one tough part of shopping for a new God is the completely irrational fear that the old God you already have ties to, however loose, just might get pissed off and drop you altogether. By boarding this plane, I was straying from the flock—quite a few flocks, in fact. I was an apostate and religious turncoat, a spiritual Benedict Arnold.

And yet I boarded that plane anyway.

JOÃO TEIXEIRA DE FARIA, John of God (JOG), claims to be a full-trance medium—a pipeline between people here on earth and the spirit world. Granted, that may sound stranger to some of us in the United States than it does to people in Brazil and in many other parts of the world where there are strong cultural beliefs in the existence of mediums who act as vessels of contact with those on the other side—but still.

JOG and his devotees believe that he enters a trancelike state that enables him to channel more than thirty entities—from kings and saints to doctors, scientists, and psychiatrists. This, he professes, gives him the power to heal the sick. JOG believes that he is a conduit—literally, the healing hand of God—and that God ministers to the ill by directing his actions. Even though this sounded completely ludicrous to me, he’s treated over 15 million people (some via distance healing), and so far over 8 million have traveled from around the world to see him in person, many at his compound, Casa de Dom Inácio de Loyola or “The Casa,” in Abadiânia, Brazil.

There are numerous reports that JOG has cured cancer, eliminated tumors, and restored sight. While individual anecdotal stories of miraculous cures or partial recoveries are widespread, actual documented scientific evidence is hard to come by—and, believe me, I looked. He does, however, offer proof himself in the form of an “evidence room” at The Casa full of crutches and walkers left behind by the “cured.”

JOG is popular and controversial enough to have attracted widespread media attention, including from 60 Minutes, CNN, the New Yorker, the New York Times, and the big-name media gurus. Dr. Oz was consulted by ABC’s Primetime with respect to some of JOG’s apparent results, including a patient who appeared to have shown remarkable improvement from an inoperable, stage IV glioblastoma multiform with a reported 2 percent rate of remission. While Dr. Oz said that he wouldn’t send his own patients to JOG, he thought that “JOG could… be on to something,” be it the atmosphere in the clinic or the actual hands-on manipulation performed. Oprah reports of her near collapse and overwhelming physical response when she witnessed JOG performing what he calls a “visible” surgery. Yes, the kind that involves a knife and blood. And no, JOG is not a doctor. He has no formal education. In fact, he can neither read nor write.


  • "Anjali Kumar is a spiritual omnivore. Her fearless sampling of everything on the menu is an inspiration."
    --AJ Jacobs, bestselling author of My Year of Living Biblically

  • "Anjali Kumar is both philosophical and brilliant, while also incredibly curious and quite funny. These attributes, paired with her gift for the written word, make Stalking God a fascinating read and will change how you think about religion and spirituality."
    --Bobbi Brown, founder of Bobbi Brown Cosmetics
  • "Candid and entertaining . . . A pleasantly thought-provoking memoir." --Kirkus
  • "With a skeptical outlook and an intrepid spirit, Kumar searches for God in the obscure, quirky, often humorous and sometimes just shy of terrifying backwaters of the spiritual landscape. Fellow nones, those with no affiliation to a particular religion, will appreciate this personal journey while secularists and believers will gain a better understanding of this growing demographic."—Library Journal
  • "With a skeptical outlook and an intrepid spirit, Kumar searches for God in the obscure, quirky, often humorous and sometimes just shy of terrifying backwaters of the spiritual landscape. She arrives at a place where it just might be that getting on with the business of actually living is of the greatest spiritual value."
    Library Journal
  • "Anjali Kumar hunts for the holy while Stalking God."
    Vanity Fair (?Hot Type?)
  • "A fascinating journey"—Marie Claire (?What We?re Reading?)
  • "Kumar is witty, thoughtful, and makes you want to be her best friend. From a silent retreat, to dabbling with mediums, to Burning Man, witches, and transcendental meditation, Kumar's memoir goes there, literally."—BookRiot
  • "It's a book that anyone seeking anything can relate to. And where it ends up is downright profound....but mostly, it's fun."—Shondaland
  • "In Kumar's probing, capable, irreverent hands, [this] journey is a delight to share in."
    Shelf Awareness **starred** review

On Sale
Jan 16, 2018
Page Count
256 pages
Seal Press

Anjali Kumar_Stalking God

Anjali Kumar

About the Author

Anjali Kumar was the Founding General Counsel and Head of Social Innovation at Warby Parker, a leader for socially conscious businesses. Prior to joining Warby Parker, Anjali was Senior Counsel at Google, working on projects ranging from Google X to YouTube. Anjali curated and hosted the @Google Speaker Series on campus in New York City, where she also hosted a YouTube interview series “Lunchtime at Google.”

Anjali is currently an Adjunct Professor at Columbia Business School. She also serves as an advisor to prominent technology companies, luxury fashion brands, consumer products, and non-profit organizations, including Malala Fund,, and

Learn more about this author