by Karen Jonson
At last, the morning chant ended, and Maharaji retired to his bedroom. Our trip manager immediately gathered us together and led us to our rooms. We followed her in stupor. She led us down several dusty walkways and up a dangerously unfinished, narrow, and uneven staircase with no railing. The rooms were filthy. Swamiji had rushed the construction crew to get the rooms habitable prior to our arrival. In the rush, they had left behind a thick coat of drywall dust and dirt on everything. Each room had four wooden platforms with thin mattresses, crammed together with about two feet between them. A thin pillow lay on each bed, but no sheets. There was a closet, but no rod or hooks. There was a small kitchen, but no appliances or running water. The only running water was in the bathroom, and it was cold.
But at least we had rooms. As thousands of people began streaming into the ashram for the three-day celebration, many set up camp on the walkways, sleeping side-by-side like logs in a lumberyard. It was shocking to find an endless sea of bodies lying on the cement just outside our doors. We literally had to step over people to get anywhere. It was the closest I’ve ever come to living in a slum.
The female devotees faced another unsettling challenge—peeping Toms. Most of the bedrooms had large windows facing the walkways, but there were no curtains. Bands of young Indian men brazenly stood staring in at us as we tried to get ready for bed. It was truly scary. Some women had brought extra sheets, which they converted into makeshift curtains by nailing them over the windows. But no one in my room had a piece of cloth to spare.
Nothing was easy to come by in this uber-austere Indian ashram—not an extra pillow, a pencil, or even a piece of tape, let alone a piece of fabric to drape over the window. But I was determined to cover the windows my room. The next day I searched around for anything I could use and finally found a stack of newspapers, but had to beg our reluctant coordinator to lend me some duct tape.
Another challenge was the smoke from all the cooking and garbage fires that were constantly burning around the ashram. There was even a construction refuse pile right outside our back window. Within days, my throat was sore and I was coughing in ragged fits. By the time I left India, I was struggling for every breath. When I returned, my doctor diagnosed me with “situational asthma.”
As is usual in India, it was excruciatingly hot in the summer. The only air conditioning units in the ashram were in the bedrooms of Swamiji, Maharaji, and Maharaji’s family members. A few days after we arrived, Swamiji had swamp coolers installed in our bedrooms, but they just blew wet air into the room and made it more humid. However, their noisy humming did at least help drown out the constant banging from the construction, the chaos of the crowd, and the non-stop chanting, which was amplified all over the ashram over loud speakers. The white noise at least helped me sleep a little better for the few hours we had each night to rest.
Sleep was a huge issue for me. Nothing was conducive to rest: not the schedule, not the sleeping conditions, nor the peer pressure from devotees to subsist on a few hours a night. It was a huge effort every day to get even the minimum amount of sleep I needed to function and not fall asleep during satsang, which was a huge no-no, as we soon learned. “It’s a sin to fall asleep while Maharaji is in the room,” a preacher scolded someone who had dozed off during one of the sessions.
During the second evening satsang, despite the scolding we had received, I passed out cold in a sitting position during Maharaji’s two-hour Guru Poornima lecture. I had never fallen asleep in the prayer hall back home. But sitting amidst thousands of people, crammed in, with women’s bodies touching me from all sides, sweating from the heat, blinded by the glare of the video lights, and listening to Maharaji speak endlessly in Hindi (which I did not understand at the time), I could not force my fatigued body to stay awake. I remember waking up a few times, looking around, then passing out again. I learned later that several other devotees had also fallen asleep during the marathon discourse.
I never could shake the jet lag or catch up on my sleep, because the normal daily schedule—which started at 4:00 a.m. and ran until 10:00 p.m.—was brutal. Each day, there were four mandatory satsang sessions, each of which lasted two to three hours. Maharaji’s satsangs are extremely noisy and raucous events, with people playing multiple instruments at once and devotees chanting and clapping loudly. I almost never took out my earplugs.
The food was horrible. Most days, breakfast was runny hot cereal and bland black beans. However, this soon became my favorite meal, only because everything else was worse. Lunch and dinner were flavorless yellow dals, gluey rice, and stiff rotis. One day they gave us packaged dried bread, which we discovered was infested with mold. For all meals, we sat outside in the dirt, men and women in separate rows. People walked up and down the aisles, serving us out of buckets from which they scooped portions of food onto our rectangular metal trays. At the suggestion of experienced devotees I had brought some snack food, but not nearly enough. I carefully rationed my nuts and crackers over my thirty days in India. Yet, I was still always hungry.
I quickly understood that Indians do not share Westerners’ need for a certain amount of space between bodies. They have no problem sitting right next to you in the prayer hall with bodies touching, or pushing into you in a line. It didn’t help that the temperature was over 110-degrees most days. With no AC and humanity literally breathing down my neck, I was constantly sweating. I got a severe heat rash—itchy, bumpy, and red—all over my body, which took months to heal.
By my second week in the ashram, I started counting the days, then the hours, until I could finally leave that miserable place, where I felt not the tiniest spark of divinity from anyone or anything. And it wasn’t just me either. Many devotees were having a difficult time, suffering from all manner of illnesses, from a nearly gangrened foot to intestinal problems. So many people were sick that a doctor was hired to stay in the ashram and tend to the infirmed. When Swamiji was told how much the devotees were suffering, he said: “It takes more than one trip to India to feel Maharaji’s grace.”
When I heard that, I thought: I’ll never know then, because I’m never coming back here.
48
The Maharaji Show
Show Me the Money
ALTHOUGH SWAMIJI HAD TOLD US many stories about Maharaji, I learned there were many things he had kept to himself.
For starters, he failed to mention that Maharaji had an entire family—including a wife, three daughters, two sons, and several grandchildren—and they were all considered to be divine. They were even called “the divine family.” Traditionally, most Hindu gurus live lives of renunciation without families. They are fully dedicated to God, especially if they wore orange, as Maharaji did most of the time.
Neither Swamiji nor anyone else ever offered an explanation as to why Maharaji chose to circumvent this long-standing religious tradition. The closest Swamiji ever came to explaining this inconsistency was a cryptic comment about saints often appearing with many of their “divine associates.” Later he added some vague guidance for interacting with Maharaji’s family members: “We respect the members of his family, but don’t worship them.”
With no clear direction, devotees speculated wildly about Maharaji’s family members. Some people thought his wife was actually Radha and Maharaji was Krishna, despite being told that Maharaji was both forms of God in one body. Some thought his three daughters were incarnations of three of the eight personal associates (called gopis) of Radha. Some thought Maharaji’s oldest son was the Hindu god, Shiva.
But it didn’t really matter who they were or were not, because life in the ashram revolved around Maharaji. He supported this obsession by instructing devotees to “worship the guru as God with everything you have, including your tan, man, and dhan (body, mind, and money.” In fact, his speech on Guru Poornima centered upon this topic. He recited verse after verse from Hindu scriptures to support his point of view. The vast majority of devotees seemed willing enough to buy into the non-stop “Maharaji Show.” To me,
the focus on him was maniacal and disturbing.
Maharaji had a large staff of people who did nothing but serve him all day, everyday. He had two personal assistants who attended to him round-the-clock, several cooks to prepare meals for him alone, and laundresses to wash only his clothes, bedding, and towels in his personal laundry room. A few people tended to his cows, which provided milk just for him. There were also several people dedicated to capturing hours of him on video and thousands of still images. Others sold his photos, tapes, posters, and books in the ashram stores. On top of this, many visiting devotees were recruited for additional tasks, such as sewing his clothes and costumes, and cleaning his bedroom and bathroom.
I found Dr. Warme’s description of Maharaji to be the most realistic perspective of any I’ve ever heard. He was not a devotee, but a devotee’s friend, when he went out of curiosity. This passage from his book, Daggers of the Mind, which explores people’s search for spiritual healing, describes his experience upon arriving at the ashram:
“The ashram itself is made up of a cluster of buildings, dormitories or apartments, and a meeting hall, where a party was going on. The party celebrated the Maharaji. He sat on a platform—to me, it looked like a bed sprinkled with petals—and ate tidbits, some of which he tossed to the devotees crowded around. In two corners of the room were thrones, really heaps of elevated pillows, colourful, gilded with banners and gold edging. I noticed spotlights and strategically placed video cameras pointed towards the thrones. Every eye was on the guru. The devotees cheerfully bounced him up and down. Although it was a party, only the guru was partying; the others cheered and applauded as he partied.”
“I could see right away that the Maharaji’s followers wished to make themselves—their souls—utterly subservient to him. Later, the devotees’ thorough denial of their own interests—really a denial of their existence—became clearer… their self-cure was to have no soul at all, to shadow, ape, and adapt themselves to the contrasting soul of the guru, which was alive, vivacious, throbbing.”
“… it (the ashram culture) saddened me; worshipful devotion to the guru left out fun and adventure for the devotees.”
Despite all the craziness and hardships of living, even temporarily, in a third-world country, “going to India” became the Holy Grail for most Western devotees. They seemed to view trips to India as badges of honor, which they collected like scout badges. A competition seemed to have developed among devotees regarding who went to India more often. The more trips they racked up, the more they acted like they were superior to others—the antithesis of a humble devotee. Many devotees claimed to be “blissed out” when they were in Maharaji’s presence, yet they did not seem to retain any of that bliss once they returned home.
I don’t know what the devotees got out of their tours, but do know what Maharaji gained: cold hard cash. Before I went, I had no idea how much his ashrams were set up to collect money from visiting devotees—this was another tidbit Swamiji had failed to share. On my first trip I paid $2,000 for room and board. At least that’s what I was led to believe. I later gleaned that Maharaji didn’t charge any room and board fees. You could stay in his minimalist ashrams for free. However, what he did charge for was seva opportunities. Many devotees would return from India owing anywhere from $1,000 to $15,000 in additional seva debt, sometimes even more.
At Barsana Dham, we never paid to sit at Swamiji’s meals, ride on his golf cart, pranam to him each day, or anything else. But we quickly understood life with Maharaji was very different. There was a fee attached to most things. The majority of fees were for personal interaction with him, including bowing to him every morning in the prayer hall ($2.50), bowing in his bedroom during special events ($100), having evening coffee with him in his bedroom ($250), receiving a cookie ($250), getting a rakhi string tied on your wrist ($100), “washing” his feet ($250), painting his feet with red mehndi paste ($250), pushing him on a swing for a minute ($250), getting slapped by him with a slipper ($100 per slap), riding in his car with him ($2,500), and watching him eat his afternoon meal ($2,500). He also sold personal items to devotees—things other people had given him. One man paid $2,200 for a gold necklace, a woman purchased a bracelet for $700, and several people purchased discarded outfits and shoes for hundreds of dollars each. Maharaji was constantly selling his cast-off clothing and gifts. Everything seemed to be up for sale in Maharaji World.
Not knowing that my $2,000 was a pre-payment for seva opportunities, I assumed I had been freely invited to participate in a small variety of activities. One day, as instructed, I lined up with hundreds of other people outside his bedroom. The line slowly snaked up to his door, and after almost an hour, I made it to the threshold of his bedroom. A female preacher grabbed my arm and pushed me toward his bed. Like the devotees before me, I bowed with as much reverence as I could muster. Maharaji was lying back on a pile of pillows, talking in Hindi to a group crowded around the head of his bed. He didn’t even look up at me as I gazed upon him. Then another preacher grabbed my arm and pushed me out through a door on the opposite wall. The total time I spent in his room was perhaps forty-five seconds. It cost me $100.
The “foot washing” ceremony was equally brief. When I arrived in Maharaji’s room he was sitting on the bed with one foot in an oversized metal bucket of water. Following the lead of the people before me, I stuck my hand in the water and briefly touched his foot. Then, as before, a preacher grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the room. This cost me $250. These two interactions were so fleeting and stressful I didn’t feel anything but anxiety. Why didn’t I feel any bliss? I wondered.
Coffee seva gave me my first substantial experience with him. About twelve of us were in his bedroom, sitting around his bed, while he watched the news on TV and ate a snack. At one point, he started laughing. I was sitting right in front of him, intently watching his every move, desperately trying to make the best of my confinement in his ashram. I tried to soak in the divine vibrations I wanted to believe he possessed. Glancing at me, he pointed to the TV. I turned around and looked at the image on the screen. It looked like the scene of some parade. I smiled at him and nodded.
One of his helpers entered the room with a cup in one hand and a spoon in the other. She walked to each of us one by one. We tilted our heads back and opened our mouths as she poured a spoonful of coffee into our mouths, like a mama bird feeding a baby. Presumably it was his leftover coffee, which meant it was prasad. Soon afterward, Maharaji indicated that the coffee seva was over.
The spoonful of coffee had cost me $250.
49
No Titiksha for the Gurus
Gluttons for Creature Comforts
TITIKSHA IS A HINDU CONCEPT of tolerating sacrifices in personal comfort while on a spiritual path.
Literally, it means “bearing opposites with self-control.” In other words, in your quest for spiritual enlightenment you should not become negatively or positively affected by conditions such as weather extremes, happiness or sadness, or being hungry or sated. India’s original shankacharya, Adi Shankacharya (788 CE to 820 CE), said titiksha is an essential quality on the path to God realization. Swamiji and Maharaji piggybacked on this Hindu tenet, telling us we had to be devoted, no matter how uncomfortable the physical circumstances might be. They, however, appeared to be exempt from the rigors of titiksha as both were beneficiaries of many creature comforts.
Swamiji frequently instructed us to live more simply and scolded us for indulging in perceived luxuries, such as having too many clothes or eating meals outside of the ashram’s community kitchen. Once, he gave us an impassioned lecture on how people seeking God in the old days in India often lacked even the most basic comforts, including daily meals. He said, “You all have everything taken care of here. You have rooms, electricity, AC, and not one of you has ever gone hungry, not even for a single day.” This talk was obviously meant to make us more humble and appreciative of what we had in his ashram.
However, as he was lecturing us,
he was wearing a cashmere sweater, sitting on his luxurious custom-built bed with multi-hundred-count sheets, and covering his legs with the highest quality down comforter. A door to the right of his bed led to his private bathroom, which featured an extra-large jet-powered bathtub, a steam room, and a sauna. His personal kitchen was custom built with high-end cabinetry and marble countertops. His cupboards were filled with top-of-the-line appliances, real silverware, fine china, and delicious foods. His upstairs sitting room featured a balcony overlooking the most ornate part of the ashram, including a perfect view of a lotus-shaped pool with three fountains and two waterfalls.
His transportation always included a new model, high-end Lexus. His front passenger seat was covered with a sheepskin throw and small pillows for his comfort. His golf carts were regularly upgraded to the newest models. He flew only first-class on his many trips to and from India.
In fact, no detail was too insignificant when it came to his comfort. A cadre of his followers was devoted to ensuring that his every whim was swiftly and unerringly catered to. Devotees bent over backwards to ensure everything he sat on, wore, ate, and experienced was precisely to his liking. Any discrepancy would be considered a life-or-death crisis—from the shape of a particular pillow to an unwanted sliver of light peeking through his bedroom curtains.
I once observed a devotee nearly having a nervous breakdown because she couldn’t get the shape of a small pillow sewn exactly the way he wanted it. She ran back and forth from his bedroom to her sewing machine, increasingly frantic to please him.
Swamiji’s preachers followed his lead. They too wanted luxuries made available to them—from cashmere sweaters to the latest cell phones to special food items. Devotees were happy to oblige and spoil them. They believed that by catering to the preachers’ every whim they would garner goodwill and gain Swamiji’s grace.
