Sex, Lies, and Two Hindu Gurus — Telling Their Secrets and Finding My Truth

by Karen Jonson

  My mind went blank. Rendered mute, I looked down and stared at the edge of his bedspread for a few seconds. To my surprise, I abandoned by carefully crafted prelude and just blurted out: “I read it’s easier on this path if you are single.”

  Without missing a beat, Swamiji replied: “You are single.”

  His response startled me in its simplicity. I managed to reply: “Yes, but my boyfriend wants to get married.”

  Again without a moment’s hesitation he responded: “Don’t get married. You’ll just get divorced again, and what’s the use of that?”

  His reply was not at all what I was expecting. I was ready for reassurance that we all need someone to help us through the difficult ups and downs of life, and that I could be in a worldly relationship and still find God. I thought he would tell me that God understands that a material relationship is only temporary and that what we really want is to be with Him forever. There’s no sense in living completely alone in the world until that time comes, I hoped.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead of giving me his blessing to marry Roy, he asked me to make the ultimate sacrifice, telling me I should abandon my only friend on Earth and set off on a journey to seek God completely alone. But none of that mattered now.

  I decided in that moment that I would do as my new guru instructed—not marry Roy.

  14

  Blind Sided

  The Price of Devotion

  MONEY HAD BEEN A HUGE CONCERN for me since childhood and if the guru had asked me for my life savings right from the start, I would have bolted.

  I was a sensitive child and my parents’ constant fights about money made an enormous impression on my young mind. I was acutely aware that we typically did not have money for frivolous things or even, quite often, for necessary expenditures. That’s why when Valentine’s Day rolled around in first grade, I did not ask my mother to buy me valentines to give to the other kids.

  Mrs. Bledsoe, our teacher, had us make big heart-shaped pockets, which she then hung around the room. Every day, during the week before the holiday, the kids in my class came into the room with handfuls of tiny Valentine’s Day cards. They walked around the room placing a card in each heart-shaped pocket. As I watched our little “mailbags” puffed up with valentines, I knew I would not be able to add my own envelopes to those pockets.

  When my mother saw the pile of heart-infused red and pink notes I’d carried home, she asked me why I hadn’t told her my classmates were exchanging valentines. “Because we don’t have any money.” She assured me money could be found for school activities. However, I’d already learned a different lesson from her: Money doesn’t grow on trees.

  To compensate for growing up poor, I became frugal once I started earning my own money. I was more of a saver than a spender, and felt safer when I had money in the bank. I worried constantly about money, fearing a grim future as a bag lady living alone on the streets.

  The one thing I would never have done was join an organization that asked for my hard-earned savings. So the fact that this group had not ask me for too much money gave me great relief, and reinforced my impression that it had honorable intentions.

  My first money-related encounter with Swamiji was a small matter, but it made me confident he would never drain my bank account. While he was in Seattle, we went on several shopping trips. On one trip our mission was to find bread-making machines for Barsana Dham and the other centers he visited across the country.

  While we were shopping, Swamiji wandered out of the mall hallway and into a bookstore. I followed him while the others headed into Penney’s. Suddenly I was alone with him. I followed and watched his every move as he looked at various books. Then he picked up the smallest dictionary I’d ever seen, handed it to me, and said, “I’ll take this.”

  Because it was one of the cheapest items in the store, it didn’t set off any warning bells in my money-cautious mind. But a few days later, Carla told me Swamiji had asked if I wanted to become a life member. When she told me the donation for that privilege was $1,000, my deep-rooted money fears flared up immediately. When I responded saying I would think about it, Carla backed off, with no hint of pressure whatsoever. No one else brought up the subject again to my relief.

  Then a few months later, I decided to become a life member, and happily handed over my $1,000.

  15

  See No Evil

  The Guru Plays Favorites

  AFTER BECOMING PART OF Swamiji’s group of followers, I realized they were not like the people I’d met in Christian churches.

  Here, there was a constant air of competition among his followers to seemingly win the title of holier-than-thou. This rivalry was palpable as we prepared for his visit. The top-dog climate went into overdrive once Swamiji arrived. Everything was fair game, from a person’s proximity to him in the prayer hall to being chosen to personally serve him in his bedroom.

  Every evening there was a race to secure the space closest to his couch on the floor of the makeshift prayer room. The most coveted seats were directly in front of the loveseat. Serving him personally was not as egalitarian. Karen L. dominated on that front for three reasons: she had gained the upper hand due to her senior status among the new devotees; Carla was busy dealing with everything else; and, probably most importantly, her daughter, Christi, was Swamiji’s undisputed favorite.

  Christi had recently started studying to become one of his preachers, joining the ranks of the other women who wore orange and proselytized his message of divine-love-consciousness. Swamiji fawned over her constantly. Whenever he was driven anywhere in Michael’s BMW, he always singled her out to ride with him. I longed to hear Swamiji call my name to join him—just once.

  He also called Christi into his bedroom on a regular basis, especially in the evenings, after the rest of us left for home. Karen L. would often join them, watching movies, eating snacks, and generally having a grand time with Swamiji. One morning I noticed Karen L. and Christi bustling around the kitchen, secure in their roles as teacher’s pets. Their smug happiness felt like a swift kick of rejection.

  Swamiji’s personal assistant, Vishi, also spent a lot of time alone with him. One day as I passed by his open bedroom door, I saw her standing next to his bed. He had one hand on her body in what looked like an intimate touch of some sort. Her back was to me, however, so I could not see clearly what was going on without stopping to stare. The fleeting image startled me. Later that night when I was alone in bed, I felt a niggling suspicion: “Is this really the spiritual path I think it is, or something else?” I felt a bit sick to my stomach. But I tamped down my negative thoughts and reassured myself whatever I had seen was innocent.

  After all, Swamiji was a saint, right?

  16

  The Turning Point

  A Sacrifice

  AFTER EIGHT DAYS OF EXISTING in close proximity to the jockeying-for-position devotees, I had had enough and needed a break.

  The minute Swamiji left Seattle for his next destination, I wanted to get back to normal life as fast as possible. I asked Carla for my TV and VCR, but she was going in several different directions and I had to wait to get her attention. Finally, impatient, I went to the second floor to get them myself. As I struggled to carry my TV down the stairs, Michael came rushing to me.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said, barely containing my irritation.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked, ever the most upbeat member of the group.

  “Yes,” I lied. “I’m just tired and want to get home.” We placed the TV in the backseat of my Honda Civic and I hurried back upstairs for my VCR. I practically threw it on my passenger seat as Michael looked on concerned.

  “See you later,” I called out, then closed the car door. I could not back out of his long driveway fast enough. I wanted far away from all of those people.

  As I drove home across the long, low bridge spanning Washington Lake, I breathed with relief. My muscles, which had t
ightened into knots over the past week, started to relax. I couldn’t wait to see Roy.

  Life fell back into a familiar, comfortable pre-Swamiji routine. We hadn’t spent much time together in a couple of months, so we celebrated by going to the coast for the weekend. On the winding road to the ocean, I felt free. I savored the experience of walking along driftwood-dotted beaches, dining on fresh seafood, and lying in each other’s arms in our B&B that overlooked the forest.

  We were also making plans with Roy’s five siblings to celebrate their parents’ upcoming fortieth wedding anniversary, which was to be a three-day extravaganza. We decided to spend an additional two days camping with one of Roy’s brothers and his wife. Meanwhile, I was still doing my daily devotions at a little makeshift altar tucked in a corner of our bedroom. But I wasn’t going to satsang.

  About three weeks later, Prabhakari surprised me at work, calling to say Swamiji was asking about me. “He wants you to come to the ashram for guru poornima,” she said.

  I was instantly thrilled to know he remembered me. I wasn’t even sure what guru poornima was, but if Swamiji was asking for me directly, I wanted to be there.

  When she told me the date, my stomach muscles tightened. It was the weekend of the anniversary celebration. My euphoria turned to anxiety as I told her of my plans. Clearly uncomfortable with my reluctance, Prabhakari played the trump card. “The more you do what the guru says, the faster you’ll reach God.”

  With that, I felt the stress drain out of me. There was only one choice. Swamiji wanted me—Roy and his feelings came second. Needless to say, Roy did not take the news well. He yelled and screamed in rage and frustration. “Now I’m even questioning if we should get married, because Swamiji might call you at the last minute and you’ll leave me standing at the altar.”

  I had not yet told him that Swamiji had already instructed me not to marry him. Roy left for Oregon. The next da, I flew to Austin. I was excited to see Swamiji. Roy was a distant memory.

  One afternoon a group of women from the ashram walked the dirt path down to the creek that snaked through the property. It formed several swimming holes along its route. While cooling off in the water, Carla said: “Tell them your story.” The women were delighted and congratulated me on my wise decision to choose Swamiji over Roy.

  After that, the tale of my “surrender” to my guru became something of a badge of honor among my fellow devotees.

  17

  Ashram Bound

  A Leap of Faith

  IN AUGUST, I BROKE THE NEWS to Roy that I would not be marrying him.

  He was resigned to the fact. We planned an amicable split. In September, I moved into a small one-bedroom apartment across from the Seattle zoo. My only long-range plan was to devote my life to God realization. At the time, it did not occur to me to ask to live in the ashram. I was happy with my solitary existence in Seattle, away from the other devotees.

  In fact, every time I visited Barsana Dham I was happy to leave. I did not feel cut out for living in cramped quarters with so many people. I had always been a loner and cherished my privacy and solitude. Plus, the people at the ashram were different. Even though I was becoming more dedicated to Swamiji, there were still some whose level of die-hard devotion made me uncomfortable.

  Nonetheless, I woke up one day during a visit to Barsana Dham and suddenly realized I did not want to leave. I decided if I was going to dedicate myself to this spiritual path, I might as well commit fully—like a good Catholic girl who decides to become a nun. I believed the ashram lifestyle would facilitate my goal of achieving God realization by making me fall in line with everything, from the daily schedule of devotion to the minimalist living conditions, and even help me deal with the melting pot of personalities.

  One afternoon I scoured the help wanted ads in the Austin newspaper, and thumbed through the Yellow Pages to see how many advertising agencies and public relations firms were in town. Austin wasn’t as big as Atlanta or Seattle at that time, but it looked like it was just big enough to support my career as a marketing writer.

  On the morning I was scheduled to leave for Seattle, I went to say good-bye to Swamiji. I blurted out: “I love Barsana Dham, Swamiji. I never want to leave.”

  To my surprise, he encouraged me to stay and look for a job near the ashram. “Can you change your flight and stay two more days?”

  My mind raced. Could I? Should I? “I’ll try Swamiji.”

  I left his room in a state of bewilderment and panic. Was this a gift from God, or a totally crazy lark? I ran down to the kitchen to get my plane ticket out of my luggage. My suitcases were already packed and standing like two soldiers in the dining hall outside of the women’s dormitory. Karen L., who was supposed to fly back to Seattle with me that afternoon, was sitting in the dining hall having tea with Christi.

  They could tell something exciting had happened. I was clearly radiating a you’ll-never-guess-what-just-happened-to-me devotee giddiness. Grinning widely, I announced my change of plans: “I’m not going back to Seattle today. Swamiji told me to stay here and look for a job in Austin.”

  Karen L. frowned. She had been a devotee for two years and desperately wanted to move into the ashram. However, she was married to a man who was not a devotee, and so would not be allowed into move to the ashram with him. Christi had recently moved to complete her preacher studies. Most devotees believed living in Barsana Dham was the greatest opportunity a devotee could receive.

  I booked my return flight for two days later. Once that chore was accomplished, I went to the satsang hall just as the morning prayer service was starting. My mind raced with job-searching plans. I could not calm down enough even to pray.

  As always, Swamiji entered the small prayer hall a few minutes before satsang ended, two ladies in orange trailing after him. As soon as he entered, all eyes were on him and all ears ready to hear any words of wisdom he might utter.

  But today, after crossing his legs on his decorated bed and leaning back on his pillows, he looked right at me and asked: “Did you change your flight?”

  I grew warm sensing the devotees’ curiosity.

  “Yes, Swamiji,” I said, nerves audible in my shaky voice.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “In two days, on Wednesday.”

  “Good. What will you do now?”

  “I’ll apply for jobs around town today.”

  Christi started to ask him a question: “Swamiji, can I take Kare…”

  “Take care of her?” Swamiji said, cutting her off. Laughter bubbled around the prayer hall. “Yes, you can take care of her.”

  Christi cocked her head and smiled coyly at him. “Can I take Karen around Austin to apply for jobs?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  At that moment I did, indeed, feel taken care of—by God himself in the form of my spiritual master.

  PART TWO

  In the Ashram

  The Razor’s Edge

  “Arise, awake, and learn by approaching the exalted ones,

  for the path to salvation is as sharp as a razor’s edge,

  impassable, and hard to go by, say the wise.”

  — Katha Upanishad, 1-III-14

  “Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never is,

  but always to be blest: The soul, uneasy and confin’d

  from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come.”

  — Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man, Epistle I, 1733 AD

  18

  Journey’s End

  Abandoning the World

  ON TUESDAY 13 APRIL 1993, I moved into the Barsana Dham ashram with no fanfare.

  I drove through the gates with the last of my remaining possessions squeezed into my car. I had shipped eleven boxes from Seattle the week prior, but had given away or sold everything else. At thirty-five, my personal possessions were now reduced to just my clothes, business files, computer, sewing machine, and photographs.

  It had been a challenge to pare my stuff down to on
ly these bare essentials. But I had done exactly what my new guru instructed to do. Some of my “non-essentials” included a prized collection of art deco antique furniture, which I’d purchased piece by piece over the years in Atlanta flea markets.

  When I first broached the subject of living in the ashram with Swamiji, I didn’t know where I would live in the ashram—and I didn’t care. At that point, my desire to find God at the feet of Swamiji was so intense I believed I would happily live in a tent in the woods if it meant I could spend the rest of my life worshipping God in close proximity to my guru.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to live in a tent. Swamiji assigned me to one of the eight bedrooms in what he called “The Girls’ House.” The Girls’ House sat on a small hill facing the new temple construction site. The house had been completed a few months earlier, and when I arrived, only five women lived there: an elderly woman who had donated most of the money for the building’s construction, two women my age, and a mother and daughter who shared a 200-square-foot bedroom and bathroom.

  During my previous visit, I had been asked to help clean the building to get it ready for the first residents. At that time I had no idea I would soon be one of them. As I wiped up drywall dust from the windowsills and vacuumed the floors, I admired the simplicity of the building’s design: each bedroom had a compact walk-in closet and shared a bathroom with one neighboring bedroom.

  A shared living room, a small kitchen, and a laundry room formed the center of the building. The west and east wings each housed four 12x8-foot bedrooms. The rooms were just big enough to house a twin bed, desk, nightstand, and a bookcase. Not exactly a spacious place to showcase my eclectic collection of antique furniture. But Swamiji had said, “Don’t bring your furniture; just your personal things.”

  I loved my furniture. But Swamiji taught us that to find God, we had to loosen our grip on our material possessions and attachments in the world. Giving up my beloved furniture was a small price to pay for reaching the divine world, I thought. I placed a classified ad in the newspaper. By chance, I received a call from a man who had just opened a new antique store in a hip part of Seattle.