by Karen Jonson
A sea of ecstatic faces beamed at Maharaji as he entered the prayer hall. The crowd of devotees smiled widely, eyes focused squarely on him, as they shouted “Maharaji Ki Jay Ho!” over and over again. As he sat on this bed, the devotees danced and chanted around him. With his encouragement, the chanting grew louder and louder, which incited the drummers and cymbal players into a frenzy of booming percussion and ringing metal. Singing turned into screaming. People crowded as close to him as they could, pushing and shoving to get a better look. As always, he loved the attention.
As Maharaji’s wife entered the prayer hall, she was directed toward her own smaller and more simply decorated bed. His wife slept in her own bedroom, and they did not eat meals together. Nor did they spend any private time together. We’d been told sex had not been required to produce their five so-called divine children.
His daughters sat on the floor on carpets placed around their mother’s bed. The prayer hall seating arrangement in Austin replicated almost exactly the seating arrangements in their India ashrams.
For the next six weeks, Maharaji ruled the world inside the ashram gates. In Maharaji World, his every command was followed, every word was gobbled up, and every desire was catered to. I was not at all happy about his second visit. I couldn’t understand why everyone seemed so ecstatic to have him there again, since our lives had been turned upside down in a test of endurance that seemed lost before he even arrived. But seeing the devotees go crazy around him, I felt alone in my irritation. My solitary displeasure did not go unnoticed by Prabhakari. One day she stopped me in the hall and told me, “You have to be happier when you are around Maharaji, because you are ruining the videos.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, mystified.
“Go see Allison, she’ll show you what I mean.”
I knocked on the video room door. Allison, Prabhakari’s right-hand woman, sat me down and proceeded to show me an already cued-up video. The camera panned across a sea of smiling faces in the prayer hall. Then, in the middle of the blissful crowd, one clearly unhappy face stood out—mine. I was not only not smiling, I was grimacing. It was shocking to see video evidence of how badly I had hid my true feelings.
I lied to her, saying I’d had a headache. There was no point in admitting my true feelings about Maharaji’s intrusion into my life. After assuring Allison that I would try not to ruin any more of the videos, I fell into a routine that included a unique seva: baking birthday cakes. One of the seva opportunities devotees could purchase from Maharaji on this trip was to celebrate their birthday with him, whether or not it was actually their real birth date. A surprising number of people wanted to participate, even though it cost $2,500. So many, in fact, that a cake was needed every evening for the occasion. Maharaji would blow out the candles on behalf of the “birthday” person, then cut a piece of cake. The cakes had to be large to look good on video. Before he left six weeks later, I had baked, decorated, and served over fifty giant birthday cakes, which netted him $125,000.
Maharaji had many desires; some of which were well known. He wanted people to attend the multiple hours of satsang and chant loudly and not fall asleep in the prayer hall. He wanted devotees to get by on simple (often tasteless) food, and austere, often crowded, living conditions. He wanted devotees to do as much monetary seva as possible, even if it meant going into debt. Above all, he wanted them to reduce their worldly relationships and increase their relationship with him—which he claimed was eternal.
However, some of Maharaji’s wishes were known only to a few of the devotee women. Among his private desires were what kind of sheets he liked on his bed, what kind of perfumes and oils he used, and what kind of girls and women he preferred to spend “private time” with. These desires were not well known to devotees in the general population until the summer of 2007. Until then, he and his inner circle had somehow managed to keep these secrets from the majority of his followers for nearly six decades.
But three weeks after he left Barsana Dham for Trinidad, his bedroom doors were opened wide for the whole world to have a look—and what we saw was not pretty, wholesome, or divine.
55
Charan Seva
My Initiation into a Secret Ritual
THERE WAS A SHORTAGE OF WOMEN when Maharaji arrived five weeks early to Barsana Dham that year—that’s how I ended up in his bedroom one afternoon doing the secretive “charan seva” for the first time.
Charan seva means, “worshipping the guru’s lotus feet.” But in Maharaji’s case, the activity had very little to do with his feet. It was a euphamism for touching other body parts.
I was leaving the prayer hall early in the morning the day after Maharaji arrived when Carla stopped me. It was 5:30 a.m. Most of the devotees were still in the prayer hall, chanting. I was going back to bed to get some more sleep. She approached me purposefully and asked, “Would you like to press Maharaji today?”
Of all the questions Carla could have asked me, this is the last one I would have imagined. I’d never been asked to press him before. I didn’t even know it was an option. I was astonished. After all, spending time in Maharaji’s room was considered a great honor among the devotees. Up until then, I’d only spent time in his bedroom when I was spending money on seva. I felt a rush of happiness—maybe this was my chance to actually feel his divinity.
“Yes, I would. I’d love to. Thank you so much for asking me.”
I was gushing, partly because I could not believe my luck, and partly out of concern that she would take back the offer if I didn’t show the proper level of interest and appreciation. Carla studied a small notebook she was carrying. Using a pen as a pointer, she said, “You can either press him at six this morning after his walk or at five this afternoon, right after arti.”
Since I had planned to go back to sleep that morning, I told her I’d take the 5:00 p.m. slot. Then I instantly thought better of not taking the first available opportunity. “Well, maybe this morning instead.” I was overly excited by the enormity of the event and probably wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.
“I’ve got four women already, and a couple more to ask.” I could see the page she was studying. It contained lists with times and women’s names. There were five or six separate lists.
The last thing I wanted to do was create a problem for Carla, and possibly lose my chance. “Five this afternoon is fine then,” I said. She seemed satisfied with my decision.
“Meet me in the hallway outside of his bedroom fifteen minutes early,” she said. “Take a shower, cut your nails really short, don’t wear any jewelry, and don’t tell anyone.”
“Okay,” I said without hesitation.
She looked up to see if I comprehended her directions. Then her eyes squinted slightly, as if second-guessing her decision to invite me to do the precious charan seva. “Do you have a firm grip?”
“Yes,” I blurted out, not sure if I actually did and fearing I didn’t.
She put her arm out. “Here. Press my arm.”
I gripped the muscle of her forearm and pressed as hard as I could.
“That’s good,” she declared. “Press him really hard. The harder the better. That’s how he likes it.” Then she pivoted and walked away.
In the bhakti tradition in Hindusism, pressing (or massaging) a guru is a sacred honor for a devotee. Typically, they massage the guru’s feet. However, few followers actually get to press their gurus’ feet, because the guru has such a large following that it’s impossible for the majority of his followers to get physically close to him or her. Often it’s because the guru is no longer living. As a result, the idea of pressing the lotus feet of the guru is more a concept than a reality for the average devotee.
My guru was very much alive and had a relatively modest congregation compared to other gurus. However, some devotees had much more access to Maharaji than me. So after fifteen years on this spiritual path, to be asked to “press my guru” made me feel like I’d reached the pinnacle of my spiritual journe
y. I must have finally reached a significantly high stage of devotion to be included in such an intimate activity, I thought. In that moment I felt that every hardship I had endured along the way was now paying off. I couldn’t wait until evening to experience such an exquisite blessing.
All five of the women selected for the 5:00 p.m. pressing session showed up fifteen minutes early. The other women in my group were Indian, ranging in age from twenties to fifties. Carla directed us into a small hallway with two doors, one of which led into Maharaji’s bedroom via his bathroom. The space was about six feet by three feet.
“Wait here until Neelu opens the door,” Carla instructed authoritatively. “Maharaji is still walking, but he’ll be in his room soon. Keep quiet. We don’t want anyone to know you are here, especially the men.” Then she disappeared.
As we waited silently for several minutes, I tried to savor the moment, but as the seconds ticked by, I grew increasingly nervous about what was about to happen. The hallway was stuffy, and with five bodies crowded together the space was growing warmer and more uncomfortable by the minute. I began to sweat. I broke the silence to distract my mind from my nerves and physical discomfort.
“Have you ever done this before?” I asked one of the women in a low tone.
“No,” she said softly shaking her head.
I looked at the other women.
“No,” said two others.
“I’ve done it many times,” said the fifth and the oldest. “I press him all the time. I travel with him a lot.”
I was relieved to have at least one experienced person among us. All four of us looked to her.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“Each of us has to take a position on his leg or foot, but only his right foot, because the left one hurts from an old injury. You have to be very careful while massaging his other foot. It is very delicate. And use the palms of your hands, not your fingertips, so you don’t hurt him.”
“I don’t want his foot,” I said, fearful of causing him pain.
“I’ll do it,” she offered. “Who wants to do his thighs?” None of us answered. Then I said, “I will.”
Another woman said, “I will too.”
“Okay, you two take a thigh and you two take a calf. If you’re wearing any jewelry, take it off.” Clearly, this woman knew the routine. Two women took off rings and put them in their bags.
The door finally opened. Neelu, Maharaji’s main assistant, waved us in briskly, “Come on, come on. Maharaji is waiting.”
We hurried through the bathroom into his bedroom. The air-conditioned coolness was a relief after the stifling hallway, but was laced with the strong smell of foreign perfume.
Maharaji was lying on his bed in his orange short-sleeve shirt and dhoti against a neatly positioned pile of pillows. His legs were spread open in a diamond shape. His arms were spread, resting on pillows positioned on both sides of his body.
Each of us hurried to our pre-determined spot, climbed onto his bed, and kneeled on the mattress. I placed my hands on his thigh and started to grab the muscle. It was difficult to massage him, since he was skeletally thin and there was little meat on his bones.
Within a minute, Maharaji said something in Hindi, and Neelu barked at us, “Maharaji wants you to press harder.” Then she flipped the switch, dimming the lights, and left the room through another door. Maharaji continued to lie in the same position, saying nothing.
I was shaking, but concentrating on massaging him as firmly as possible, without digging my nails or fingertips into his flesh. I moved my hands up and down his thigh, gripping whatever muscle I could find. The fabric of his thin dhoti fabric kept bunching up under my fingers, threatening to spread open at his groin. I paused a few times to quickly straighten the fabric to preserve his modesty.
After I’d massaged him for about five minutes, he touched my hand with two of his long, bony fingers and nudged it toward his groin. I assumed he was indicating for me to massage higher on his thigh. But I was already massaging as high as I possibly could. I moved my hands a few millimeters higher, taking great pains not to come into contact with his private parts. Then he touched my hand again, pushing it still closer to his crotch, but with more force. I couldn’t imagine what he was actually suggesting, and kept my hands just at the top of his thigh. He didn’t try again. Lost in the thrill of being so up close and personal with my guru, I pushed the strange incident into the back of my mind.
After another ten minutes, my legs were shaking from squatting in a kneeling position. I was starting to sweat despite the room’s frigid temperature. Fearing that a drop of sweat would fall on him, I quickly wiped my face with the edge of my sari.
Finally, after almost fifteen minutes of massage, he abruptly indicated the charan seva was over with a curt “Jao!” which means “leave now” in Hindi. As we scrambled off his bed, he repositioned himself and reached for a buzzer on his night table. As we scurried out through the bathroom door, Neelu entered from another door.
I walked around the ashram for the rest of the evening in a daze, which I assumed was devotional euphoria. It was intoxicating to be in on this secret seva. Now I understood why female devotees kept such things hush-hush. It was like some kind of initiation into a super-secret club—the kind where people say, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
That’s how secret charan seva was.
56
More Charan Seva
Seeing and Not Believing
AFTER MY FIRST EXPERIENCE, I craved the intimacy of pressing Maharaji again.
As it turned out, there was plenty of opportunity. Since he’d arrived ahead of schedule, few devotees from outside of Austin had been able to rearrange their travel plans fast enough to be there during the first week of his visit. I learned Swamiji had told the woman organizing charan seva to include all of the female devotees in Barsana Dham. After all, there were at least five timeslots each day to fill up with five to six women each time. And that was just for charan seva. I would later learn about other intimate opportunities that were even more secretive.
My second time in his bedroom followed the same routine as the first, but with one difference. As I approached his bed, intending to take the same position on his left thigh, he grumbled a few words in Hindi. I had no idea what he said, but I felt he was indicating he did not want me in that spot again. I instinctively turned to see who was behind me. It was a nubile Indian woman in her mid-20s. I indicated for her to take the position. Maharaji didn’t say anything, but he did smile, and I sensed he was pleased with the arrangement. I climbed up on the bed and kneeled next to his left calf. We all started pressing our assigned body parts.
Maharaji was downright skeletal. His calves had even less meat on them than his thighs, and it was a real challenge to find anywhere to grip. I struggled to find a muscle and press him with the required degree of pressure without merely pinching his skin. I was concentrating so fully on the task at hand that I barely noticed what the other women were doing. In about fifteen minutes, he began to shift his body upright. This was the signal that he’d had enough. We all scrambled off the bed and hurried out of his bedroom. At least, I assumed we all left. Later, after learning more about Maharaji’s private habits, I cannot honestly say that every woman came out when I did.
A few days later I approached Carla. “When can I press Maharaji again?”
She glanced down at her daily lists. A slot in the afternoon session was open. She wrote my name down and reminded me to show up fifteen minutes early. “Some women aren’t showing up on time and I have to run and find a replacement at the last minute,” she said with irritation. I was surprised to hear that any woman would miss the chance of a lifetime.
This time I planned to take the position on his calf again. But I was the last one to enter his bedroom, and as I walked toward his bed, all the positions except his left thigh had been taken. So I climbed on the bed and started pressing his thigh again. At one point, when I tried to s
traighten his slipping dhoti, I noticed something strange. The woman massaging his right thigh had both of her hands under the fabric of his dhoti over his groin, and was moving them up and down. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
As I concentrated on my thigh-pressing duties, I couldn’t help but keep glancing over, trying to understand what I I was seeing. After determining she was, in fact, massaging his penis, one thought entered my mind: I’m so glad it’s not me doing that to him. The woman was a long-time devotee, whom I’d known my entire time in the organization. I would have been mortified to have someone see me engaging in such an activity—even on the “divine master.” I left the room, handling this shocking experience the same way I’d handled any other uncomfortable experiences over the years—I buried it in the dark recesses of my brain.
After this experience, my enthusiasm for charan seva began to falter. I didn’t ask to go into Maharaji’s bedroom again for a while. But then the euphoria of being part of the inner circle overrode my common sense. I asked Carla for another chance to massage him.
As I waited for my fourth charan seva, the group of women discussed which positions we wanted to take. Right away, I said, “I want a calf.” At least that way I would not be in the dangerous thigh area. I was soon thankful for planning ahead. As I massaged his left calf, I saw some movement out of the corner of my right eye. I glanced over and saw that Maharaji’s left hand was under the sari of the woman next to me, and he was squeezing her breasts. Again, I kept trying to verify I was not imagining things. Again, I thought instinctively: Thank God that’s not me he’s doing that to.
When I left the room, I knew this was the last time I was performing charan seva. I now knew more than I wanted to about this secret ritual.
However, what I didn’t know then was that there was another secret seva, also available only to female devotees—and it was called “private time.”
