Taken by the Muse

by Anne Wheeler

  One night, at the height of such rapture, I see Sant watching me. It’s hard to believe he has singled me out of this collection of beautiful people. He smiles at me and I nod back, bewitched.

  Ah ... this feeling ... Mugdha, the feeling for which you are named! Madly in love ... with the Divine! He does take my breath away with his smile and his steady gaze. His presence distracts me, so for fun I turn and sing to him like I’m in some musical or Indian movie. He laughs and embraces my performance as a gift.

  The Fourth Bull of Tao — Catching the Bull

  I seize him with a terrific struggle.

  His great will and power are inexhaustible.

  He charges to the high plateau far above the cloud-mists,

  Or in an impenetrable ravine he stands.

  WORDLESSLY, Sant and I leave together. He is Sikh by birth. I have read about the Sikhs, the great warriors. My father marched out of India with the Ninth Indian Division in 1941, which made me curious about this history. We go to a restaurant unfamiliar to me. Everyone there knows him and we are immediately served. Finally, he speaks. “Do you like your food spicy?”

  “Yes, I do.” End of conversation.

  After we eat, I ask a few questions. His English is limited but proper and formal. “I have been with Bhagwan since the beginning,” he tells me. “He was my professor, I was his student. I knew immediately that he would be my Master.”

  He seems so authentic compared to the cocky Westerners who pose as sages, putting themselves above the others. Some are boastful; many of them are elitist, contradicting what is being taught here. How can you boast about being humble?

  In some ways, the ashram feels like high school, with the “in group” that gets to be close to the Master and the loners who sit off to the side, hoping to be included. Sant doesn’t try to win favour with anyone; he just is. Being with him is easy. Being with him convinces me to extend my stay.

  My hotel is a rundown, rat-infested building with a tired facade of faded grandeur, featuring large, ornate balconies. Fifty years ago, this was a popular colonial hotel, boasting an impressive ballroom with a stunning mosaic floor and a decorative ceiling. Now the ballroom is like a barn, divided into stalls or cubicles to accommodate the flood of low-budget travellers. Each cubicle has a small, lockable door and walls, but no ceiling. It is just big enough for a small bed, a chair, and a cheap, boxy wardrobe. The air in the great room is usually heavy with hash smoke and Nag Champa incense, while the music is loud, mixing East with West amidst the moans of copulating couples as they attempt to reach and sustain nirvana.

  Tonight, I am happy that Sant says good night to me in the garden with a tender kiss. I have hosted a few forgettable partners in my cubicle; I did not reach nirvana.

  March 2, 1976

  Dear Mom, Got your letter, delivered to the hotel. Thanks. Glad you have moved from that noisy apartment. Maureen is travelling back to Canada and is going to bring a few things from me to you. The antique market here is fascinating. I found an ornate silver box housing a bridge set of cards complete with score pad and pencil. Also an antique polo mallet with an engraved handle — I love the image of Dad, the cowboy doctor, playing polo with his cronies here —Polo is still quite popular but the horses look a little underweight!

  Love to everyone. Anne

  RAJNEESH HAS BEEN in the news — there have been more threats to his life. The number of guards at the ashram has doubled, but the gates are still open. Laxmi, the woman who manages the place, has bought the property next door, another old mansion. She is very straightforward in her dealings. I’ve heard she was a businesswoman in her former life, which fits. The walls in between the two properties are coming down so that the grounds will double in size. New toilets from Europe are being installed in the old house, and a vegetarian restaurant is opening in the compound. With all the renovations and the new paint, this place is unrecognizable from how it was when I landed here. Dozens of new people arrive every day, looking like excited children entering a candy shop. (Oddly, there are few “real” children amongst us — followers are discouraged from bringing them into the community.)

  Apparently, the ashram is getting a lot of press abroad. The enthusiasm and joyfulness is contagious, but quietly, down deep, I remain a sceptic. Yes, I get caught up in the magic, but I’m not selling my house just yet.

  My second darshan is different from the first. I miss Gayatri and Govinda, who are gone now, on their annual trading trip. Rajneesh takes a few questions, but it is not an intimate exchange like the one I had only weeks ago. There is not as much banter between him and his followers. I am left longing for that special one-to-one moment. People dance and sing for him, which is beautiful, and before we leave he does address a few of us briefly, assigning us to the new groups being offered. I’m not sure that he recognizes me as Mugdha, but he does direct me specifically: “You will take the Om Marathon! Four days — non-stop. It will liberate you from yourself,” he promises. “Risk everything!”

  I don’t want to do any groups. Honestly. But how can I refuse? I mean I can, but then what would be the point of being here if I don’t take his direction? The “world” seems comfortably far away. I like that. I like my name. It’s happening, I think. I am finding my inner grace.

  The Om Marathon is expensive but I can swing it if I cancel my trip to Karachi, which means giving up my original quest to visit my parents’ former home. I will have to come back to India some other time. The group leader has a reputation for being tough and brutally honest, which is good. I can do “brutally honest,” but it will be a challenge to “surrender” my ego — maybe this resistance is exactly what I should confront. I will take the risk.

  We gather in what was once a bedroom on the second floor of the big house. It’s hot and musty, with a ceiling fan stirring up the stale smell. The leader comes in and we are simply told, “Get naked and put your clothes away. You are not going to need them.”

  My inner cowgirl saddles up. “For God’s sake, woman, get out of here! This man is a pervert, a power sucker! You don’t need this!” I almost take her advice.

  I hate my body. My boobs are too big, my legs too short, my figure too curvy. I have always felt like the ugliest girl in my extended family, my mother being the beauty amongst us all. To put it mildly, being naked in front of a roomful of strangers is totally diminishing.

  Most of the men just go for it and throw their clothes in a corner. Every part of me wants to get out of here now.

  Instead, I strip down, feeling sick to my stomach, and attempt to hold on to my robe, covering myself. It is quickly taken away by the leader’s assistant.

  Then we sit in a circle, as directed.

  Some of the men find this exciting and can’t keep their “reactions” under control. I’m glad I’m not a guy! I am slightly aroused, yes, but mostly I’m on the defensive. If anybody tries to touch me, my claws will come out!

  All of us have sannyasin names. I know nothing about anyone; they know nothing about me. They tell us that after a few days our “true nature” will be exposed. It’s like being in a war — it will bring out the best and worst in all of us.

  The smell of nervous sweat permeates the room but mostly I smell my own stink. “Liberate myself from myself” becomes my silent mantra. I want to drop this feeling of shame I have felt throughout my life — it holds me down. It holds me back.

  The Fifth Bull of Tao — Taming the Bull

  The whip and rope are necessary,

  Else he might stray off down some dusty road.

  Being well-trained, he becomes naturally gentle.

  Then, unfettered, he obeys his master.

  AS A PERSON WHO IS confused and uncertain about what I am going to do with the rest of my life, I am perfect fodder for a group like this. I am open to suggestion, willing to try almost anything, answerable to no one. If I decide to stay at the ashram indefinitely, no one will come looking for me because no one depends on me, except my mother to a point, but ev
en she has remarried and is self-sufficient. I have a little house I could sell and that would be enough money for me to stay here for the rest of my life if I so decided. My disappearance would soon be absorbed. Why not avoid the stress of a career, a family, the bills, and the middle-class responsibilities that could suck away at my freedom and my soul?

  After doing some stretches and chanting, the real work begins. The leader tells me to stand up in front of the others. Why me!?!

  I get up, trying, with utter futility, to do it gracefully, holding my hand over my crotch.

  He instructs the others, “Look at Ma Deva Mugdha and say, out loud, what you see. The first thing that comes to mind.”

  The group doesn’t hold back. Words spill out of them spontaneously. “Kind — tough — hard — frightened — sad — funny — smart — ashamed — angry — masculine — dishonest — ugly— weak — brave.”

  The leader urges them on, “Come on, everyone! Dig in! Look deeper! Don’t censor yourself!”

  The words come at me like bullets. “Aggressive — arrogant — shy — bitchy — bitter — lost — fat — stupid — disgusting.” I try to control my reaction to this battery of insults, but it’s not easy. I try influencing them with my facial expressions — I am amused, I am smiling, I am incredulous, I am hurt — but they keep shooting me down.

  The words get meaner. “Spiteful — slut — lazy — pig — wimp — liar — deadbeat.” And so it goes until they cannot think of any more words.

  I feel beaten up and alone. Paralyzed. Powerless. No one tries to defend me. What in hell am I doing here? What kind of bullshit exercise is this? I retreat to a corner, ready to lambaste the next attacker, my hands in tight fists.

  The leader seems pleased with the exercise, like everybody got it right. “Very good,” he says, smiling like a happy dad. “The words you used to describe Mugdha have nothing to do with her. They have everything to do with you. It’s about how you see yourself in her — you have no idea who she is. So it’s time to own what you said. Let’s explore how you really feel about yourself.”

  He turns to me. “Did you find that exercise upsetting?”

  “No,” I lie.

  “Anyone believe her?” he asks.

  Nobody believes me. They challenge me, shaking their heads. I smile, “Okay, yes. But only because some of it is true. I am kind and brave and a bit shy.” Some of them see the humour. Others call me on it. “Actually,” I add, “I am all of those things — and that’s why it stung.” The leader likes that I get it — he chose the right person to start things off. He is all puffed up thinking he is just so good at what he does.

  We eat and sleep in this room. There’s a water closet down the hall, with a tap, and a bucket for flushing. We get smellier, more emotional, and less defensive. I do not hold back; it gets physical but this is no orgy. It builds to a sequence of cathartic outbursts, with people exposing their anger and hurt and trying to take it out on other members of the group. Having come from a family that never showed their emotions, it is the first time I am pushed to lose my temper. My gut-wrenching words fly out of my mouth without thought. I can’t remember what I said, but in the end, I do feel as though I have survived something that has changed me. My emotions are a part of me, not to be denied. And I don’t apologize for how I look or smell or feel about anybody. I am who I am. We are all complex individuals, with experiences, good and bad, that have shaped us. Nothing is personal; there are no secrets. I have come out knowing myself better and am more able to accept my strengths and weaknesses. I’m not perfect, but I’m worth keeping. I forgive myself completely for disappointing my parents, for having had an abortion, for everything and anything ... I feel ready to move on.

  The Sixth Bull of Tao — Riding the Bull Home

  Mounting the Ox, slowly I return homeward.

  The voice of my flute intones through the evening.

  Measuring with hand-beats the pulsating harmony,

  I direct the endless rhythm.

  Whoever hears this melody will join me.

  SO MANY PEOPLE come to the morning meditation now, that there is no room in the hall for the live musicians. Now we move to a recording that is played loudly over inadequate speakers — it’s not the same but still incredible with maybe a thousand seekers in attendance.

  A fancy boutique now sells books, pictures, music cassettes, odourless soap, and of course, beads, jewellery, and orange clothing. It is certainly the most beautiful shop in Pune, with lovely places to sit and contemplate how much to spend.

  Being seen with Sant puts me closer to the centre of what’s happening. Without making any effort, I am included, I am somebody. Wary and reticent around those who are suddenly friendly but don’t know me, I eat with my Indian sannyasin friends when I can, so that I can see what is happening through their eyes. It appears to me that there is a mutual admiration society, with the more established members hugging and loving and smiling at each other. They are blessed, feeling chosen and grateful that they have found their master. I feel more comfortable amongst those who stay in the shadows, and find a few close friends.

  It is not uncommon for Indians to dedicate themselves to a spiritual life, but Rajneesh is not a typical guru. Some of Sant’s friends have been disowned by their families for having made the decision to follow Rajneesh. If I turn up back home calling myself Mugdha and wearing orange, I might be disowned, too. But that does not concern me. I feel no need to please, or impress, or prove myself right. It will be an interesting test of friendship and acceptance. Why should I care if people judge me for something that really has no impact on their lives?

  Laxmi has heard from Sant that I make films and calls me in to have a talk with her. She is making plans to produce and distribute videos of Bhagwan’s discourses. She asks me what I think of video.

  “Well,” I tell her, “I have worked with it and have found it frustrating. The equipment is bulky, and if it breaks down it’s hard to find someone who can fix it. It needs to be kept clean, which would be a challenge in this dusty city. The technology is very new and changing so quickly, that what you buy now will soon be obsolete. Personally, I would stick with film until video becomes more advanced — and standardized.”

  Laxmi keeps nodding, looking at me. “You have won awards, yes?”

  “Yes. Some.”

  “Where?”

  “The most impressive one, I guess, would be the Blue Ribbon at the New York Documentary Film Festival.”

  She nods and shimmies her shoulders some more. “What was that film about?”

  “It was about women ... the history of pioneer women in Canada.”

  She is surprised but pleased. “Good, good. We need you.”

  I’m not anxious to get involved and I think she might be playing with me. So I tell her what I know. “I met some of the sannyasins who are keen on video. They said that you encouraged them to find out what is the best video set-up on the market right now and to make a list so you can purchase it. They were very excited.”

  “Yes. I think video is very good,” she tells me. “They shot one of Bhagwan’s discourses and then showed it to me the same day!”

  “Well, this is it’s great advantage — you don’t need to go to a laboratory.”

  She agrees. “And we are installing bigger screens so that we can project to thousands of people at a time while he is speaking. You can do that now with these cameras.”

  I am honest. “Video is meant for small screens ... on a large screen the image will go soft and out of focus. I am sure it will get better, but right now it is substandard. Television networks, for example, will not air it.” This last point registers with her.

  I can see a power structure crystallizing around Rajneesh, and Laxmi is his chief of staff. Many sannyasins are very ambitious; they want to be close to him, to photograph him, to guard him, to transcribe and edit the discourses, to design the book jackets, and so on. The problem is, he may be enlightened, but nobody else I’ve met here
is. On occasion, Rajneesh will declare that someone has reached Nirvana and there is a great flurry of excitement. It’s as though someone has won a championship. Something about it doesn’t sit well with me. It seems contrary to everything he says. Actually, he often contradicts himself.

  And now this production of videos is another way to gain access to the man himself. Who will get to shoot them, direct them? Who will set the style, the pace, the standard? Whoever it is will have access to Rajneesh directly on a daily basis and will win a place in the inner circle.

  I think the still photographers have done sterling work; they have obvious skills and their photos are brilliant. Video should be an extension of their domain. “I don’t want to take anyone’s place,” I tell Laxmi.

  “You are not taking anyone’s place. You are a film director. We need you. We are going to build a library of films. We will distribute them all over the world. This is a serious undertaking. And you, Ma, will do your best work under Bhagwan. This is your destiny.”