Almost single-handedly, he opened the door some four decades ago to a swarm of swamis, gurus and holy men (and some women) from India who spread through the United States and elsewhere in the West, offering spiritual placebos for temporal ailments. Not all of them preached meditation, of course; some sold bottled water from the Ganges, the holy river in northern India revered by Hindus and condemned by environmentalists for its pollution; still others brought out of India strange herbal elixirs and potions that promised everything from sexual potency to mental acuity.

There were also those who tapped into the growing American consciousness concerning health, and brought with them recipes for savory vegetarian dishes. Naturally, those dishes would be offered at the ashrams that sprouted across America, in small towns and large cities, in the "Age of Aquarius" that sprang from widespread disenchantment of young people with the Vietnam War in the 1960s, and with what many perceived to be the excesses of American capitalism.

Ironically, of course, the swamis and gurus invented their own special form of spiritual capitalism, one that made some of them exceedingly wealthy. For example, the late Rajneesh would "suggest" that his disciples give him gifts ranging from diamond-studded Rolex watches to gold-burnished Rolls-Royce sedans.

He accepted no perfumes or fragrances, however, and did not tolerate them within the precincts of his ashrams. Rajneesh emphasized that human pheromones enhanced spirituality, that one needed to enjoy the natural sensual odors produced by women and men, and he advocated libidinousness as a means to achieve nirvana - if not in the next life, then certainly in this. His gatherings on the West Coast, and later in the Indian city of Pune, must have employed art directors who worshipped the bacchanalia of the Emperor Caligula.

The Maharishi was not into sexual odors - or, to put it another way, he was into recommending breathing exercises that involved heavy intake of oxygen, not pheromones. No doubt his techniques were widely embraced: the physician and author Deepak Chopra was an early follower, and the Maharishi's organization claims to have millions of followers in many parts of the world.

Some of those followers are also into another consequence of the swami business - yoga.

And while the Maharishi - a Hindi word that translates into "The Great Sage" - may not have necessarily spurred the advent of yoga in America, it would be safe to suggest that many in the wave of yoga teachers who descended on the U.S. in the 1970s and 1980s took their cue from him.

That cue was extraordinarily smart in its very simplicity: Get celebrity endorsements, and the groupies and gawkers will follow. The Maharishi's own celebrity Rolodex included the Beatles (with whom he was to have a much publicized falling-out), Clint Eastwood, Donovan, and Mia Farrow, who later reportedly accused the holy man of unholy improprieties - as did John Lennon, who openly questioned the Maharishi's adherence to celibacy, a key tenet of orthodox swami-hood.

The Maharishi gave a new sheen to that swami-hood. With the help of canny business advisors, he expanded "Transcendental Meditation" into a flourishing commercial empire. He also made rewarding forays into conventional forms of education. There is even a Maharishi University of Management in Iowa.

Not all his imitators or competitors were as successful. For example, Rajneesh ran afoul of America's tax authorities and left the U.S. in disgrace, at least as far as the law was concerned. Some swamis were found in flagrante delicto. Still others discovered that their English homilies were not quite comprehensible to everyday audiences, and their hymns in Sanskrit - the ancient Indian classical language - even less so. One teenage swami found himself unexpectedly denounced by his own mother, who then claimed the mantle of guru-ship for herself.

There were swamis who found that holy-dom was not beyond the immutable laws of capitalism - that only the fittest survived. So the field winnowed over the years. Moreover, home-bred motivational speakers such as Anthony Robbins and the former football quarterback Terry Bradshaw began to attract large audiences, particularly in the corporate community and on campuses.

And so the swami business went through a transformation. It started returning to its roots. My friend Vinita Bharadwaj, an accomplished Dubai-based writer, brought to my attention recently the enterprise of Swami Ramdev, who has reinvigorated interest in yoga in the land of its origin, India. The swami appears daily on Indian television, and reportedly has millions of acolytes to drop everything else - including, sometimes, their clothes - to practice his brand of yoga. This brand emphasizes pranayama, or breathing control. Traditional yoga, on the other hand (foot?), stresses asanas, or complicated postures that sometimes produce unintended consequences such as, say, twisted backs and sore knees.

Well, more power to Swami Ramdev - even if, along with his celebrity, has come considerable controversy. One controversy concerned unproven charges that some of his Ayurveda medicines - based on ancient Hindu formulae - contained animal and human bones. Another controversy was over insufficiently compensating his staff.

No matter. The swami can surely calm his mind and control his blood pressure by practicing what he preaches.

And herein lies an important lesson for practitioners of the swami business: Like the technique of breathing control, wherein one can hold one's breath for only so long - pheromones and all - all success in swamidom is ephemeral. Today's mantra is tomorrow's memory. Besides, there's always bound to be another swami waiting in the wings - or is it sprouting wings? After all, the Maharishi promised he would levitate, as did a couple of other spiritual entrepreneurs.

But they discovered, like the rest of us, that gravity is a tad difficult to defy. It is always a problem trying to transcend the laws of nature, meditation notwithstanding. Still, swami capitalism may well have something going for it that Wall Street doesn't. The Force may be with. Who knows? Who can argue?

So let's meditate. Let's hold our breath. Let's try to touch our toes with our foreheads. And let's not forget to open our wallets to widen the reach of swamidom.

The Maharishi would approve from his sinecure in nirvana.

Pranay Gupte is a veteran international journalist who has written for The New York Times, Newsweek International and Forbes. The author of six books, he currently writes for Portfolio.Com, and is working on a major book on the Middle East.