by Karen Jonson
Meanwhile, I knew not every devotee in the ashram followed the celibacy rule to a tee. There were a few randy folks who skipped satsang and went out carousing. And then there were a few who actually had sex with each other in the ashram.
To me, this was yet more proof of the unnatural and impossible austere lifestyle we were expected to live to reach God.
42
Giving
How Much is Enough?
SWAMIJI DID NOT HOUND MOST OF his devotees for money through the 1990s, because he didn’t have to—several of his devotees owned businesses that were minting money in the infomercial trade.
These people had a considerable amount of luck and a shocking lack of morals. The net result was that Swamiji had a steady flow of serious money to spend on whatever he wanted, which at that time was creating Barsana Dham and building the 40,000-foot temple. He spared no expense for the multi-million dollar structure and surrounding features, which included a specially made “sky” ceiling (similar to one he’d seen in Las Vegas), a lotus-shaped pond with fountains and waterfalls (also inspired by trips to Vegas), and an elaborate 90-foot pink-and-gray temple steeple (which I later found was a near-exact replica of another Hindu guru’s temple).
There was another reason devotees living in the ashram were not really pressured to give money: Swamiji needed a workforce. In this area, we were expected to give until it hurt. He pushed us physically rather than monetarily. It took an incredible amount of effort to keep the ashram running. A minimum of seventy adult bodies was needed to execute all the work that need to be done—and still everything did not always get done.
I moderated my volunteer labor, primarily because I needed energy to do my paid work, but also because I never saw any of the preachers work themselves to exhaustion. In fact, they were overall a pretty pampered and lazy bunch. I figured if they were allowed to rest, then I should be too. I learned to say “no” and draw clear limits for my time, which annoyed the hell out of some people.
The largest sum I gave to the ashram over the years was my monthly “support payment,” which was theoretically for rent and food. They just didn’t use the word “rent” for tax purposes. This started out at about $450 in the early 1990s, and had risen to $850 by 2008. I also paid rent for my office space. Although I eventually purchased and remodeled my own portable building, I paid rent for use of the land.
In addition to monetary support payments, devotees were also asked to make annual pledges to help build ashrams in India. I usually gave $2,000 a year. However, a couple of years when my freelance writing business was slow and I couldn’t make a pledge, I was never harangued about it.
The annual three-week-long intensive program in the fall was another expense. Visitors paid $80 per day and residents paid $25. On Swamiji’s birthday or for special events, many of us would write him a check or give him cash. Typically, I would give a couple of hundred dollars.
Some people living in the ashram gave a lot more money than I did. A few gave virtually all of their money. But I made it a point to build up a savings account for myself. Despite being encouraged to “surrender,” my instincts told me to take care of myself financially. If I had been pressured to give more, it would have easily been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
However, once Swamiji’s guru entered the picture, all low-ball money collection activities here history—the game changed to hardball.
43
Epic Blast
The Guru’s Wrath
NO ONE WHO WAS THERE EVER forgot the day I was blasted by Swamiji.
“Blast” was the word devotees used when Swamiji scolded them in particularly vicious ways. “I got blasted today,” they would say. According to Webster’s, one definition of blast is “a violent gust of wind and an explosion or violent detonation.” It perfectly described his infamous yelling, accusing, and threatening tirades.
We were taught that even being yelled at or scolded by the guru imparted grace. But no one ever seemed graced after a Swamiji blast. It was more often like a shell-shocked stupor. That was definitely my experience. I didn’t realize how truly epic my blast was until much later, when people brought it up to me on different occasions.
One evening, after dinner, almost a full year after the day in question, a visiting devotee said: “So you decided to stay here?”
“What?” I asked, stunned by her question. Why wouldn’t I be here?
“I wondered what you would do after you got yelled at last year.”
I was surprised she was even there on that day, let alone remembered the event. At the time, I had been so absorbed in my humiliation that I had completely forgotten the other people in room.
“You remember that?” I asked.
“Of course. How could I forget it? It made a great impression on me. I decided that day that I would never move to the ashram. I was terrified by his outburst.”
I was stunned. “What do you mean?”
“He screamed at you and told you to leave the ashram if you didn’t like it. Everyone was talking about it afterward.”
“Wow. It never occurred to me that people would remember that. I was pretty out of it that day.”
“You seemed quite defiant.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were sitting up straight, and standing up to him, holding your ground.”
“Really? I don’t remember it that way at all.”
Of course I remembered being screamed at. But I had not felt defiant. I had been devastated. I saw myself as slumped over, trying to withstand Swamiji‘s verbal pummeling.
It all started with a simple basketball hoop. Some of the men and boys in the ashram liked to play basketball. But when I saw them putting up a hoop right outside my window, I lost it. The ashram was already noisy enough, and my bedroom was my only sanctuary. The hoop wasn’t even up yet, but I could already hear the endless dribbling of the ball. In desperation, I called Sureshwari, hoping she’d understand my problem. But she didn’t.
“Don’t be selfish, Karen,” she scolded when I asked if she could request the men to move the hoop somewhere else.
I didn’t think the request was selfish. After all, wasn’t this a spiritual community designed to promote meditation? How was the sound of a basketball dribbling like a broken metronome supposed to be conducive to God realization?
After satsang that evening I told Vishi I wanted to speak to Swamiji.
“What about?” she asked suspiciously.
Anger and frustration overwhelmed me. I broke down into a hysterical crying fit as I explained the situation.
“I’ll go ask him,” she said, obviously wanting to get away from me. Ten minutes later, she returned and told me sheepishly, “He said to ask him tomorrow morning at his breakfast.”
I was crushed. I knew it wasn’t a good sign that he would not see me now. He probably wanted to get the story from Sureshwari first. I slept poorly, contemplating the best way to tell Swamiji my problem and trying to guess the outcome. I dreamed about driving the backhoe and knocking down that stupid basketball hoop myself.
The next morning’s satsang ticked by at a torturously slow pace. Afterward, I couldn’t eat. I went behind the temple and sat staring at Barsana Hill, wondering how I had arrived at this new agonizing place in my already difficult spiritual journey. Why did I have to suffer even more? Tears rolled down my face. I cried ferociously, all alone.
Finally it was time for Swamiji’s morning meal. I was the first person in the sitting room, and sat down in the space right next to his couch. I sat there morosely, slumped in unhappy anticipation and isolated misery. I could sense devotees arriving and sitting down around me, but I could not look at anyone.
He finally appeared, but said nothing. Vishi brought him his meal on his serving tray. He ate slowly and silently. When he was finished, he leaned back on his pillows and looked at me.
“You want to ask me something?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words caught i
n my throat. Now that it was time to speak, I was terrified.
“Tell me!” he commanded angrily.
I tried again. I could barely whisper. “Swamiji, they have installed a basketball hoop near my bedroom.”
“So?” he growled. It was obvious he already knew what I was going to ask him.
“It’s very loud and disturbing.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Each time he spoke his rage and volume escalated.
“Can they move it somewhere else?” I asked.
Swamiji went ballistic.
“What do you want? What would make you happy? Do you want to live alone in the jungle? Do you think you’ll be happy there? This is an ashram. You have to learn to live with other people.”
He went on and on for what seemed like an hour. Each comment was delivered with more venom than the last, and not a shred of compassion or concern or love softened the impact of his verbal punches.
I was shocked, but angry too. All I could think of was being forced into an even worse living situation than I had already endured for the past few years. Finally, his rage abated and he switched from attacking me directly.
“No one appreciates what I’ve created here. If you don’t like it here, leave.” He paused again. “Barsana Dham isn’t a prison. You are free to go. Go and see how happy you are in the world.” Then he added, “I’m not saying this only to you. I mean everyone.”
He was silent for a couple of minutes. I could sense the anxiety of some of the other devotees behind me. A couple of people were sobbing softly.
Then Swamiji glared at me again and delivered the final blow. “Don’t expect anyone to adjust to you. Adjust yourself!” With that, he stood up and left the room in a huff.
I rose from my sphinx position and left the room. I felt like a zombie as I prepared for a work luncheon with a group of writers. I was in a painful fog the entire time, and it was almost impossible to act normal in front of the other writers. One of Swamiji’s comments kept rattling around in my brain: If you don’t like the ashram, then leave.
After my business meeting, I drove around downtown Austin for three hours looking at apartments. I was hoping something would magically jump out at me and break me out of my ashram prison cell. Despite what Swamiji had said, it did feel like a prison to me—with a particularly sadistic warden. Sure, there were no bars on the outside. The bars and lock and key were contained in the belief system, and had created a prison on the inside.
I was still depressed when I returned to the ashram, and my mood only blackened further when I heard thump-thump-thump of the basketball on the pavement. The guys wasted no time using their new basketball hoop. I sat in my room in paralytic misery, wondering what I should do. Then I remembered my new office space down at the warehouse, which was on the far northeast corner of the ashram property. I got into my car and drove the short distance to the building. I suddenly had a whole new appreciation for the tiny, dingy office.
I had been renting the space for about two months from the warehouse manager, a fellow devotee. Ironically, Sureshwari had arranged the relationship after I told her I was working out of my bedroom. I had asked if there was any office space I could rent on the property. I had been hoping for a room in the brand new two-story office building, which housed the growing media-buying company, which was part of the informercial enterprise, run by some of the devotees. There was a small apartment with two bedrooms on the second floor and I wanted one. Instead, she offered me a room in the old dingy warehouse.
I hated the room. For starters, the warehouse was dark, dirty, and full of cast-off junk. Every floor and wall was scuffed and stained. Wires and cobwebs hung from every corner and beam. The color of the walls was unidentifiable under thick layers of dust and grime. One wall of my office abutted the warehouse—a clanking, crashing, echoing cave of a room where they stored and shipped out the various products sold through the infomercials. The room was filled with pallet after pallet of abflex machines, miracle blades, blenders, supplements, and other odds and ends sold through late-night 30-second and half-hour commercial pitches.
My office was shaped like an L and was barely 150-square-feet. It had a small closet with wooden-slat doors and a tiny window that looked out on the sky and a small grassy patch next to the building. It also had one upholstered chair with wooden arms, a small bookcase, and an end table, all recycled and shabby. But at that moment, all I cared about was the noise—or rather, the lack of it. The muted hum of the warehouse activity through the thick wall didn’t seem so bad compared to the hard smack of a basketball on pavement a few yards from my head. As I sat there in my tiny forlorn office, I contemplated another one of Swamiji’s comments during my epic blast: “Adjust yourself.”
I looked around the room, seeing it with new eyes. It was actually not as beat up as the rest of the building. The walls were clean, and the carpet was in excellent condition and an appealing shade of dark mauve. Even the window had a pretty view. It was as if the room had been hermetically sealed off from the rest of the filthy, depressing wreck of a building. I decided I would adjust myself by fixing up my little office to be the sanctuary I needed.
I made a list. I would paint the walls, get a new corner desk, get a mini couch and cute pillows, hang pictures, get vases and dried flowers, hang curtains, and buy a TV. I left the warehouse buoyant with new plans and a new outlook. In less than a month, I had transformed my office into my version of Jeannie’s bottle. It soon became my home away from home. I started spending more time there than in my bedroom. Even at night, I would drive back down to the warehouse after satsang to spend a couple of hours reading and watching TV.
My little space gave me a separation from ashram life that I grew to cherish.
44
More Bad Press
Royally Skewered
THE FIRST BAD PRESS for Swamiji in 1992 was not the last.
In October 1995, three years after the unflattering article in the Austin American-Statesman, a new article was published in Texas Monthly magazine under the headline: “Swami Dearest.” The in-depth expose uncovered much more of Swamiji’s activities. It made public the amount of money donated and earned by the ashram, the ashram’s damaging alterations to a once-historic Texas building, and the controversies involving Barsana Dham’s handling of family grave sites on the property. It also contained many revelations about Swamiji’s business practices and raised questions about the clandestine purchase of 200 acres of what had been part of the historic Friday Mountain Camp.
“Deed records show that the purchase was made on May 25 (1990)… Records also show that on the same day, in a separate transaction, (Dennis) Wagner optioned the land to the ISDL. Asked why he flipped the land so quickly, Wagner responds, ‘I really can’t remember that far back how the transaction all happened,’ but he maintains that the ISDL’s involvement was never covered up.”
This was all researched and reported by Jeannie Ralston, a freelance reporter hired by the magazine to write about the organization that had taken over land that had been home to the Friday Mountain Camp, a boys’ summer camp, which operated from 1947 through the 1970s. Prior to that the land was owned by the Johnson family, who ran the Johnson Institute, a private secondary school founded in 1852 by Professor Thomas Jefferson Johnson.
I had been behind the scenes while the reporter was researching the article, because I worked for Jan and Dennis Wagner at the time. I knew there was a lot of hubbub going on, with Barsana Dham trying to control whom Jeannie had access to for interviews. Swamiji and his preachers handpicked several devotees for her to interview. But she was a seasoned reporter, and clearly did not rely solely on the ashram for her sources.
Despite his efforts to control the story, Swamiji was his own worst enemy. He shot himself in the foot right from the start during his brief interview with her. Jeannie led off her story with an account of her attempt to interview the guru:
“He was agitated. His fingers twitched. His deep brown
eyes seemed to grow even more impenetrable. Fifteen minutes into our interview, Swami Prakashanand Saraswati made it clear he did not like the questions I was asking about his writings and the spiritual philosophy that governs Barsana Dham, his ashram west of Austin. The 66-year-old leader of the International Society of Divine Love (ISDL) reached toward my tape recorder to turn it off. ‘These questions are useless. I cannot explain. These are intellectual questions,’ he said, shaking his head. His words came out in a breathy mumble, accentuated by the lilting accent of his native India. ‘It takes years and years of study to understand these things.’
“Signaling an abrupt end to our interview, Swami Prakashanand, called Swamiji by his two thousand or more followers worldwide*, slowly lifted his body—clothed in saffron robes, a saffron sweater, and saffron tube socks—from a chair shaped like a satellite dish. Then he walked toward the door of the room, past beatific photos of himself and paintings of the Hindu god Krishna. After telling me he did not want an article written about him, the small man with a bump of a stomach, flowing white hair, and a full beard paused and suddenly smacked the palm of his hand to his forehead, as if he had forgotten something important. He swooned slightly and collapsed in a controlled fall to the carpet, landing with his head near my feet. ‘Krishna, Krishna,’ he called out as he lay on the floor. Two female ‘preachers,’ Western devotees, who also wore saffron robes, rushed to his side. As they frantically administered to him, I was asked to wait downstairs.
