Taken by the Muse

by Anne Wheeler

  Whistling, he turns down a street lined with ancient trees that shade a row of beautiful but rundown colonial mansions.

  “You want hash? I have very good hash,” he offers, “cut with opium?” He adds with delight.

  Wow! I’ve never tried that before ... opium! I remain casual, however. “Ah ... not now, thanks.”

  “To buy, you want to buy?”

  “Ahhhhhhh. No, not now. Thanks.”

  “Tomorrow, I can meet you tomorrow.”

  “No, I’m fine. Thanks. I’m not buying just yet, but when I do....”

  He shimmies his shoulders and gives it up for now.

  Down the road, I see workers, Indian men and women, carrying buckets of cement up a ladder to the top of a wall under construction. An ornate archway dangles over what will become the entrance to an estate. Dozens of tangerine-clad devotees have gathered on the road to witness its installation.

  “I have to turn around here,” my young driver explains. “They have the road closed all week. The big gates are being delivered tomorrow. I am told they are made of gold!” I can hardly believe that to be true, but he seems so happily convinced that I don’t question the possibility.

  I pay him a very modest fee and yank my pack out onto the ground. Now I’m really coming undone. Thank goodness for the large safety pin, which is now serving as a mini-curtain rod, securing yards of material in its loop. I can’t possibly throw my heavy sack over my shoulder, so I drag it toward the merriment, holding my sari up out of the dust with my other hand.

  A tall, handsome Indian man who seems to be in charge, notices me, and smiles. It is possibly the most beautiful smile I have ever seen — his eyes sparkle with playfulness and warmth. I smile back and then stop to watch the final placement of the arch on which the name, Shree Rajneesh Ashram, is prominently carved.

  As if on cue, I hear my name, “Annie!” I turn to see Maureen, who now calls herself Gayatri, rushing toward me with her arms open wide. The end of my sari unravels as I run to greet her with a wholehearted hug.

  “We’ve been waiting for you!” she says. “This is perfect timing.”

  “Did you get my letter?”

  “No, but we had a feeling you were on your way. Didn’t we, Govinda?”

  Her handsome lover glides up beside her, with a wide grin on his face. “Just last night Gayatri said, ‘Annie should be here any day now!’” He too embraces me, then grabs my pack, guiding me out of the chaos. “You are coming with us for darshan tonight. We have to get ready.”

  “Darshan? What’s darshan?”

  “You’re going to meet Rajneesh!” They look me over, now seeing my disarray. My breasts, which are still packed into the tight blouse, are pointing in two different directions. My hair is ratty, and the beautiful sari is trampled and dirty.

  “Where’d you buy this sari?” asks Gayatri, amused, gathering it up.

  “Bombay. I was so hot.”

  “Never imagined you in a sari,” she teases. “Why didn’t you buy orange?”

  “Because I do not like orange,” I say with conviction. They always bug me about this, like a couple of born-again Christians. They think I should become a sannyasin of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh.

  “I’m here to see you,” I insist, “period. For a week at the most.” They both laugh, as though they know something I don’t.

  For years now, they have been travelling back and forth between India and North America, stopping in places in between, buying and selling collectibles and exotic treasures. It doesn’t matter what side of the world they are on, they’re always the same — happy and loving, graceful and vital.

  I am not sure what it means to be a sannyasin, a devotee. It is not important to me, as I am not looking to take a spiritual journey right now. I am on a personal odyssey, wanting to see where my parents and three older brothers lived during the 1930s in India. Mom and Dad were childhood sweethearts, both raised on the Canadian prairies, close to the wilderness. He dreamed of being a doctor, but when he graduated from medical school during the Depression, he couldn’t afford to set himself up in practice. He wrote exams for the British Indian Medical Service and was one of a handful of Canadians to be accepted. After studying tropical medicine in London, he was sent to India — Mom had her first son en route to her new home. I imagine that they were quite a distinctive couple amongst the British colonialists during the days of the Raj. They moved several times, in what is now Pakistan, but was India then. My father took a lot of pictures, and I grew up loving the family albums full of extraordinary memories. I particularly loved the picture of my brother’s birthday guests happily posed in a huge wagon that was harnessed to a much-decorated camel. As the only child in my family who didn’t get to live in such an exotic setting, I’ve wanted to see these places for myself. I don’t intend to stay here for more than a few days.

  “Don’t you live here at the ashram, with the holy man?” I ask Gayatri, as I scamper down the road, trying to keep up to them.

  “No, no. We have a flat with a special nook for guests, like you.”

  I hear the crowd cheering behind me, and turn to see a large black car with its lights on, slowly approaching the entrance. The handsome gatekeeper motions for the people to clear the road, then glances in my direction. Again, he nods at me distinctly. Gayatri notices.

  “See, you’ve already made an impression. That’s Sant. You have good taste.”

  “I just looked at him. Who wouldn’t?” I laugh, retrieving the end of my sari and flinging it around my neck. He is too gorgeous for me, dressed in a soft, peachy silk suit that drapes beautifully over his graceful body as he ushers the big car through the cloud of adoring orange people into the compound. One back window is down, and I catch a glimpse of the guru waving like a king to his subjects.

  Gayatri and Govinda, both long and lean, look fabulous in their flowing robes, elegantly edged with embroidered ribbon. Unlike most followers of Rajneesh, they have remained monogamous (I am assuming) and in touch with their families. Other “Rajneeshies” I’ve talked to believe that enlightenment is not attainable unless you drop all of your attachments — including those you have to people.

  Nonattachment has never made sense to me, especially when the teacher and main exponent of this notion drives around in a big car, dressed like a high priest, adorned with gold and precious gems. The word attachment must be a metaphor I have not yet grasped. Nobody in this crowd looks detached — except perhaps from obligations.

  To remain uncommitted, “like a rolling stone,” is a popular moral code these days, and is not limited to gurus and folk singers. I have avoided marriage, going from one man to another, proving to myself, at least, that I am a free woman, independent, able to support myself without help from any man, thank you very much.

  On the other hand, I am often lonely. Because of this transient lifestyle, I have learned not to invest emotionally in any relationship because I presuppose it will end without much cause. It has been a long time since I have dated a man who wants to settle down and have a family. Too many lovers have passed through my life. Most of them have remained friends; some of them are now married with children. At times, I have felt betrayed and confused by them and by myself for resisting the natural urge to be with someone. Why can’t I pledge my trust in anyone?

  This easy-come, easy-go rash of relationships and the non-attachment pathway to enlightenment that Rajneesh promotes are only possible because, for the first time in the history of humanity, birth control is accessible. Less than ten years ago, it was not available to unwed women. Good girls like me did not “go all the way” for many reasons, but pregnancy was the biggest one. When I was in university, I still thought I had to be a virgin when I got married. Abortion, like birth control, was against the law.

  Suddenly the pill, the IUD, and the diaphragm were all there for the asking. I was in my early twenties when I first got a prescription for the pill, and I remember how remarkable it was. Suddenly I didn’t have to worry about
getting pregnant, which was a good thing — but not totally. I soon realized that universal birth control liberated men more than it did women. Sure, it was easier for women to say yes when they weren’t taking such a risk, but it was much harder to say no. It seems that sex has become a recreational pleasure! I believe that sex is a beautiful, and possibly, a spiritual experience. What I want to know is, where is the love now? How is making love different from having sex?

  I have learned to take care of myself, by not investing my heart and soul. And so I’ve come to realize that it’s important to love your work because if you love your work you can live without romance.

  Or maybe work is the problem. Over the past few years, I’ve become tough, decisive, and pretty damned good at my craft, working seven days a week, putting everything and everybody else aside. It has changed me. I’ve become more competitive and less forgiving. While trying to prove myself, I think I have also lost my sense of purpose. I have been so caught up in being as good as “the boys,” that I lost my love of making films. As a group, we started out with a strong sense of who we were and who we represented. Then by necessity we focused on making money and building our reputation so we could buy equipment and compete. We won awards and got some recognition. And I know that I got caught up in how cool it is to be a filmmaker rather than how privileged it is to make a difference.

  Gayatri and Govinda live on the second floor of an old mansion in Koregan Park. The place is not unlike the ones my folks lived in forty years ago. But they had dozens of servants. It must have been quite an adjustment for my mother, born in 1910, the eldest daughter of a homesteading family that managed to survive out in the middle of the Canadian wilderness. She grew up milking cows, driving a team of horses, growing and canning vegetables, happy with a single present at Christmas, usually handmade.

  In India, because she was a memsahib, she was supposed to do nothing. If she boiled the water or swept the porch, for instance, the whole staff would quit, refusing to work for a woman who didn’t hold her status. Nellie Rose, who as a child got to order a single pair of shoes from the Eaton’s catalogue once a year, suddenly had a dedicated aya for each of her three children, plus a gardener, a gateman, maids and cooks, and a personal tailor who sewed outfits for every member of the family for the many social events they attended. She lived in a mansion with wide verandas softened with Persian rugs and tropical fruits that she was not allowed to pick.

  I can’t help but think of her and Dad as I enter this compound in Pune, which is far past its glory days. The garden has been ignored; the verandas are cluttered with mismatched furniture and laundry. The interior has been divided into several apartments.

  But as I climb up the stairs and around the back I come to a place of wonder, eloquently decorated with treasures that Gayatri and Govinda have gathered from around the planet. In a sweet, curtained-off alcove, there’s a wooden cot that will be my bed. Outside the window, a mango tree dances in the fast-falling light.

  Gayatri reminds me that we’re in a rush. I am to shower with a special soap and wear a pure white robe. “When you are with Rajneesh,” Gayatri explains, “you cannot smell of anything. So we don’t buy the Indian soaps, like the sandalwood I can smell on you now,” she cautions. “It is the worst, so hard to wash away. There will be ‘sniffers’ at the gate. If they smell anything on you, they will refuse you entry.”

  “Sniffers?” I ask.

  “Yes, Govinda is a sniffer sometimes.”

  “But not tonight,” he adds. I struggle to maintain my serious expression while I imagine him like a dog checking people out with his nose.

  I’m just going to meet Rajneesh out of curiosity, I tell myself. Then I’m out of here.

  The robe is a little long and I look like one of the seven dwarfs, but it’s light and cool, much easier to manage than the sari. As I follow Gayatri and Govinda back to the ashram, I try my best to refine my movements as Jyoti taught me earlier today, but I must step quickly to keep up.

  There are very few street lights. Huddled forms have already claimed the sidewalks, so we move out onto the street and walk amongst the bikes and smaller vehicles. A bent figure comes at me from behind a tree. The face emerges from the shadows and into focus, looking right at me, disfigured with leprosy, gums exposed to the air, two gaping holes where a nose should be. The voice is liquid and low; her accent beautifully articulated Indian English. “Take pity, memsahib, please, take pity.”

  I cannot look her in the eyes any longer and thrust an American dollar bill at her. She cannot hold it in her stumpy hands, and it blows across the road. I dart into the traffic and grab it. Quickly, I stuff the bill inside her simple sack and she blesses me, putting her arms in front of her chest. I nod in response. Her face speaks to me of long suffering and intelligence, reminding me that fate can bring misery and is beyond our choosing.

  Years ago I met an Irish doctor who was with my father in India. He said Dad used to go out into the villages, that he learned to speak Urdu very well. I wonder if he treated anyone like her. What would he think of me now, rushing off to meet a guru? I doubt I would be here if he were alive. He was a strict father, definite in his opinions. I would have been married with children, I’m sure, like most of my cousins and old friends.

  Every evening, about a dozen people are invited to darshan, which is a meeting with Rajneesh, on his veranda. We are the last to arrive and wait at the gate while the people ahead of us are being sniffed. One woman is rejected but refuses to leave and sounds desperate. “You are power-tripping, man, I need to see him. I told you! I am leaving tomorrow. Don’t do this to me again!”

  A guard pushes her aside, “I can’t help what I smell. You smell of onions!”

  “I haven’t eaten any onions!”

  The sniffers move onto the next guest, ignoring her rage. I turn to Gayatri, “Can’t the all-powerful Rajneesh tune out the smell of onions?”

  “He is very sensitive,” she explains seriously. “He doesn’t want to be distracted.” My scepticism bubbles up, as the woman tries to break through but is blocked. She goes ballistic and is dragged away.

  She’s probably stoned, I think to myself. Guess I’ll pass on the opium-laced hash. How ridiculous is this place? Now I’m getting nervous. I look around for an exit in case I decide to escape.

  “Just relax,” cautions Govinda. “Don’t start to sweat. They’ll smell it.”

  Surprisingly, we are barely sniffed before being given entry. I guess it’s because I am with members of the inner circle.

  The newly planted garden is verdant and well watered. Vibrant bougainvillea and ginger plants line the cobbled pathways. Walls and fountains are under construction, and I can imagine this becoming a magical oasis in the centre of this dust-choked city.

  Pillowed places have been saved for Gayatri and Govinda, and a cushion is quickly found for me. A flute player sets a lofty mood, and a couple of women get up to dance on the glossy floor. The evening birds seem to herald the arrival of Rajneesh as he comes out smiling and settles into a throne-like chair. He seems very casual and a little naughty. By just raising an eyebrow, he initiates a flurry of delight. Everyone titters with anticipation, sensing his greatness and the possibility of witnessing a momentous exchange.

  I feel totally dishonest being here. I don’t jibe with anyone acting so godlike, so in control over other peoples’ lives. Having travelled to Africa and beyond, I am suspicious of all religious leaders; several I’ve met in the third world openly exploited their exalted powers. At most, I hope to be impressed by a clever teacher.

  His gaze falls upon me and I feel exposed. Shyly, cautiously, I briefly smile back as he gives me a warm, loving look. I resist being charmed by his laughing eyes and obvious charisma. It is a long moment before he turns away, seemingly bemused by my lack of response.

  I close my eyes and tune in to the music. I am tired and annoyed with myself for agreeing to come here tonight. In so many ways, I have not landed in this time zone yet.
I left Canada without much of a plan. The decision was impulsive, a result of wanting to escape, rather than of going somewhere. I left the proverbial pot boiling on the stove back home, thinking I had to get away from it all. And now, forty-eight hours after leaving Edmonton, this.

  Whatever “this” is.

  His voice is quiet but full of mischief. “Tonight, I welcome the sceptics. I do appreciate the sceptical mind. So please. Go on being sceptical,” he says to everyone. “Ask questions for however long it takes. Just see where it gets you!” People laugh. “Believe nothing until you know it. A true sceptic would not listen — even to the Buddha! So be a sceptic, listen only to your own truth.”

  I swear he is talking to me as I struggle to bat down my innermost thoughts. He holds onto the silence, letting his words sink in, then speaks again.

  “You have to sharpen your doubting forces, so that you can cut through all the rubbish in your mind. All the conditioning. All the falsehoods. All the things you have tried to be, tried to do — for others. For your own self-gratification. Your own sense of self-worth. Then…ask the questions which only you can answer. Nobody else can love on your behalf. Nobody else can live on your behalf. You decide what it is you like and what it is you don’t like. When you eat, really taste it; when you listen, really hear it. When you speak, speak what you believe, not what others have told you. Unless you discover yourself, there will be no joy, no ecstasy, no satisfaction.”

  He says “satisfaction” as though he is Mick Jagger, and everyone applauds quietly, murmuring their delight. He is so cool.

  One woman, young and childlike, approaches him and kneels, putting her head to the floor in reverence to him. “You have a question, Ma?”

  She goes to speak, but her voice is weak and tearful. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Tell me. What is happening? Hmmm?”

  “I am pregnant.”

  He nods, knowingly. She gathers herself up to continue.