by Karen Jonson
When she told the woman who arranged the charan seva about Kripalu’s digital rape, the woman said, “Keep your private experiences with Maharaji to yourself. Don’t tell anyone anything, including me.”
I also talked to Peter M., who was in charge of ashram security. He also knew many things others did not know. After the news broke about Kripalu, he went through a period of disillusionment himself. Somehow he sought me out and we had a few heart-to-heart conversations in the privacy of my office. At one point, he was going to leave on a two-week vacation in the mountains of Colorado to try and make sense of everything. “I can get clarity when I’m 14,000 feet up,” he said.
But during a layover in Phoenix, before he turned off his cell phone for his two weeks of escape, Prabhakari called him. “Swamiji wants you back in Barsana Dham right now.” Peter M. did as he was told. He cancelled his trip and returned to Barsana Dham. Soon afterward, he disappeared. I asked where he was and was told he had been sent to India.
Later, I heard that Prakash sent him there “because he knew too much.”
69
Behind Closed Doors
The Guru’s Secret Sex Factory
KRIPALU’S LIFE BEHIND BEDROOM DOORS can best be summed up in three words: Secret Sex Factory.
From my research with victims and other sources, I discovered Kripalu was engaging in a wide range of sexual activities with women and underage girls several times a day, on a scale incomprehensible to the average person. Strangely, the sheer volume of activity helped keep his underground sexual lifestyle a secret, simply because no normal person could imagine such a massive sex operation, complete with every detail executed like clockwork, down to changing and washing his bed sheets several times a day. But, piece-by-piece, I put together an outline of this part of his life, which had been hidden from the majority of the devotee population for decades.
Kripalu had the perfect smokescreen. From the outside, he seemed to live an orderly life that included regular appearances in the prayer hall, daily walks around the ashram, watching TV, reading the newspaper, eating, and taking naps. The population of devotees not involved in sex acts with him, which included many female devotees and all the male devotees, believed when he was not engaging in his public activities, he was resting in his bedroom.
People like this anonymous commenter defended Kripalu: “Maharaji has a VERY strict schedule…and NO one enters the master’s room without permission, and Neelu his assistant is always there!”
It’s true. He did indeed follow a strict schedule in the public eye. However, he spent a lot of time out of the public eye, and that part was unknown to most people. One thing is for sure; he was rarely “resting,” as most people assumed. In fact, Kripalu lived a private life that would put most of most decadent hedonists to shame.
Kripalu’s bedroom activities started in the early morning hours, when most people were still sleeping, with the first of five daily rounds of charan seva and its requisite pressing and groping. Following each charan seva session, one of the women would stay behind or, if none of them were good candidates, another woman would be brought to him for “private time” to do whatever his heart desired from oral sex to intercourse. Just as there were definite time slots for charan seva, there were specific times for the one-on-one private time sessions, and women in-the-know could request a slot in the schedule.
A resident devotee who spent a lot of “private time” with Kripalu said the following about his 2007 trip: “If we wanted to go see him alone, we’d go ask Carla what times were available and she’d put our name on the list.”
New female recruits were given precise instructions and prepped for their first experiences by the guru’s helpers and female preachers. Women and young girls were told things like “expect anything to happen” and “consider him Krishna and yourself a gopi performing divine-love acts.” He would engage in anything from kissing to petting to getting or giving oral sex to intercourse. One of his favorites for a while was a young woman from Ireland. She told someone that one time, as she walked into his bedroom, Kripalu told her in English: “I’m going to fuck you.”
Another time he made a move to perform oral sex on her and she pulled him away. “No Maharaji, not that.”
She later told a friend: “I just didn’t want God to do that to me again.”
His bath was also a time for more sexual activity—this was called “bath seva.” This is one of the only sex-related sevas that women paid for. The fee was one lakh rupees (about $2,200 U.S.). It involved getting the bathroom ready for him, including the precise placement of the rugs, towels, and soap. Then Kripalu would walk into the bathroom naked and sit down on his bath stool. The woman would wash and dry his whole body as instructed, including his private parts. Once clean, he would indicate that it was time for her to perform fellatio. When he was satisfied, he would stand up and leave.
Apparently, it was sometimes a challenge to find enough women to fulfill Kripalu’s needs every day, in which case, his helpers would scramble to find women and girls. One afternoon the woman from Ireland received a call from Neelu telling her to come over for private time. “I just didn’t go; I was too tired and didn’t feel like it,” she told another woman.
One day Neelu said to a woman who washed Kripalu’s multiple sets of sheets each day: “Bring a woman or girl for Maharaji. Get anyone.”
Right after the Trinidad incident, I found the following post on a blog: “All the women in JKP know about Kripalu having sex with women devotees and young girls.” That was not true. Kripalu, Prakash, the preachers, and the helpers repeatedly told the women and girls to “keep quiet” about whatever happened inside his bedroom. And they did, because they either believed they were being graced or they were ashamed and embarrassed. Since no one spoke out, the rest of us remained in the dark.
On 21 June 2007, an anonymous person who had been sent for private time wrote the following on Guruphiliac.com: “Then they (yes, he Kripalu) tried to lay their hands on my self-respect. I had not given them permission for this, I was not expecting this, I was not told this is ‘leela.’ I was just considered so brain-washed that I would be easy picking.”
Of course, the children were complete victims at the hands of the fake guru and his cadre of accomplices. One of the underaged girls involved in the 1991 arrest of Kripalu reported that he’d told her he’d give her “a curse” if she didn’t take off her clothes, have sex with him, and keep quiet about it.
It’s possible that threats kept many people quiet, along with fears of opposing a so-called powerful spiritual organization, which had a reputation, real or manufactured, for harming people who spoke out. Victims must also have had to deal with their own feelings of public humiliation and shame, which kept most of them silent for years. This was true especially in India, where the stigma attached to victims is severe.
Although I had never participated in any of the sexual activities, I was an insider now—but like so many others, I was not going to keep their secrets.
70
Clueless
Omniscience Debunked
DEVOTEES ALWAYS SAID, “Swamiji knows everything,” yet he didn’t have a clue when I looked him in the eye and lied to him three times in early 2008.
I was away from the ashram running errands when I received a call from Prabhakari. “Swamiji wants to see you right now,” she announced sternly.
“I’m at the drug store.”
“How soon can you be home?”
“In about thirty minutes.”
“Well, come straight to Swamiji’s sitting room.”
It was always nerve-wracking to be called to see Prakash. You never knew what he wanted or if you were going to get screamed at for some mistake, known or unknown. But getting summoned when you are half an hour away from the ashram is a kind of hell.
I was shaking as I pulled out of the drug store parking lot, and almost collided with another car. I drove home in a hurry, barely seeing the road in front of me as my mi
nd raced with possible scenarios that would demand my appearance before the guru. Had someone complained to Prakash about something I’d said? Had I done something unknowingly that he deemed wrong? Or worse, did they go into my room and find my journals? I was worried about my journals and computer, because they contained so many of the activities I was documenting.
My mind finally settled on the most likely scenario: I hadn’t been going to satsang. Although I had a clear purpose for staying in the ashram a little longer, I could barely stand to live the ashram lifestyle, including attending satsang.
I mentally prepared my response for Prakash, which was my recurring fallback position: migraine headaches. I had started suffering from migraines a couple of years earlier. They were painful episodes that drove me into my bed for a day or two at time. To survive, I used my disability as a reason to stay away from everyone.
Despite having an excuse ready, I was troubled by one thought: what if Prakash really could read my thoughts and know exactly what was on my mind, how I really felt about him and his slimy organization, and what I’d been up to the past few months? It was always understood among devotees that he was omniscient, clairvoyant, and all-knowing. If this were true, I was in real trouble.
I finally pulled into the ashram. With pins and needles tap-dancing across my nervous system, I entered my room and immediately checked to see if my journals and laptop were where I’d left them—under the pillows on my bed. I was relieved to find them lying there undisturbed. I quickly changed from pants into a skirt, grabbed a shawl, and ran across the lawn to the temple. On the way, I was concentrating on blanking out my negative thoughts and thinking of Radha. “Oh Radha, help me get through this.”
I found him resting in his puffy brown recliner in the preacher’s sitting room with three women sitting on the floor around him: Prabhakari, Karen L., and Allison. I sat down in the empty space on the floor to his left side. I looked up at him and waited. He was dictating something to Karen L. It was an email to Jane, a follower who had moved out of the ashram a couple of months prior. I couldn’t believe they were discussing it in my presence.
The email said: “All the time you were criticizing everyone in Barsana Dham, criticizing Maharaji, and committing grave transgressions hundreds of times every day. Swamiji, out of his care and kindness gave you a chance to come and talk to him personally if you have problems, while he was here before the twenty-third. As you haven’t responded yet, it seems you are neglecting Swamiji and, as such, stay wherever you feel happy in the world. We are sending your stuff to your address by post.”
When Prakash was finished, he said, “Okay, email her.” Karen L. got up and scurried out of the room.
Prakash looked at Prabhakari and said, “Is anyone talking to Jane these days?”
“I don’t know, Swamiji.” Then she looked at me and said, “Are you talking to her?”
“Only a couple of times,” I said. This was my first lie. In truth, I had been talking to her or emailing her every day.
Prakash looked at me and growled, “Don’t talk to her again.”
“Okay, Swamiji,” I said with all the fake humbleness I could muster.
“Why are you here?” he growled.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“You wanted to talk to her, Swamiji,” Prabhakari quickly interjected.
“Oh yes,” he said and pulled a square yellow post-it note out of his shirt pocket. I could see a list of names on it with several crossed out. He found my name written on the list and scratched through it with a pen. Then he glanced down at me. I forced my thoughts to be as still as possible, hoping he could not read my mind.
“How are you feeling about Maharaji these days?”
“I feel good.”
“But you had some doubts last time I was here.”
“Oh yeah, that was before. I’m doing fine now.” This was my second lie.
“That’s great,” he chirped, seeming to accept my statement. He paused for a minute as he stared at me through his watery black slits for eyes. Then he said, “I heard you aren’t going to satsang.”
“I haven’t been feeling well, and I’m very busy with work, Swamiji.”
He growled, “You need to make satsang a priority, otherwise you’ll just keep wasting your life.”
“I’m trying my hardest,” I said, acting as humbly as possible. “But I’m having trouble sleeping and can’t wake up in the mornings.” The part about trying my hardest to get to satsang was my third lie in the span of a few minutes.
He started yelling at me. “Try? Try? You have to try harder. I’m trying to save you from hell. And by that I mean the world.”
All of a sudden I started bawling. Prabhakhari and Allison sat looking smug, apparently enjoying the sight of me being tortured by the guru. Of course, they thought I was crying because I Prakash was scolding me. In reality, I was crying because of my pent up anger at discovering the truth about this man and his cult. I continued sobbing for a couple of minutes. When I stopped, he indicated that I could leave.
I walked back to my office and wrote an email to Jane with the subject line: “Do not reply to Karen L.’s email!” I told her: “I just overheard Prakash dictate it to her. Whatever you do, do not respond to them.”
I hit the send button and sat back with satisfaction, because I had just told Prakash three lies—and the self-proclaimed omniscient saint didn’t have a clue.
71
A Forgotten Secret
The Depths of My Denial
IN A STORY FULL OF EXPOSED SECRETS, I had my own secret that pained me greatly to remember years later.
This story illustrates the fact taht people can deny and make excuses for their mentors, no matter how much their mentors’ actions conflict with their moral fiber. I, too, had been in denial for years about a particular incident. But my memory of it was buried so far down that I had not thought about it for years. It came back to me as I began learning about the dark side of this organization.
One day, Kate and I were returning to the ashram after one of our many outings into downtown Austin. We had hung out many times over the years when she was fifteen to eighteen. Although she was much younger than me, she was mature for her age, and appeared to be the most sensible person in the ashram. In fact, we shared a common distaste for the more illogical and unfair aspects of ashram life. However, we lost touch when she moved out at eighteen.
On our return to the ashram that day Kate and I were talking about an unsettling experience that happened to her two years earlier. The priest of the temple, Gopal Das, who was my age, molested Kate one night at her home when her parents were away. I was mortified and told Prabhakari, who seemed concerned at the time. She told me that she would tell Prakash and he would “take care of it.” She insinuated that Gopal Das would be asked to leave. I was relieved, because the incident had been a major blow to my spiritual life—I couldn’t believe something so horrible could happen here.
Kate and I waited for months for Gopal Das to disappear, but nothing ever happened, and I finally gave up waiting for Swamiji to do the right thing.
On the way home, I was telling Kate how disgusted I still was that nothing had ever happened to him. She said, “Well, I’m not surprised, considering what else has happened to me.”
“What else happened?” I said, my voice distressed.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Did Gopal Das touch you again?”
“No, not him.” She was silent for a few minutes. Then she said words that made me sick to my stomach: “It was Swamiji.”
My heart pounded. This was not what I expected to hear. Not only did I not want anything else to have happened to her, but also I didn’t want to believe my guru would do anything to harm a child.
“What did he do?”
“I don’t want to tell you.” She seemed to shrink back into the passenger seat.
My mouth was dry and my head ached. I felt dizzy. “What happened?” I pleaded
I was dying inside, struggling to drive safely as I approached the L-shaped curve of Highway 45.
“Where did he touch you?” I asked. Kate was silent.
“Was it sex?” I asked. I was afraid of the answer, but needed to know.
“No,” she said. “It was kissing and touching.” She wouldn’t tell me anything more.
I stared at the road, my hands gripping the wheel. This couldn’t be happening. What was I going to do with this information?
I struggled for words to make sense of the awful situation. My mind went to the only solution that gave me any relief—I thought Swamiji had bestowed his grace on Kate. I said: “You know, I’ve heard of things from other women whom he’s touched and kissed. They like it and call it ‘grace.’ He has touched and kissed me that way too.”
She glared at me. “You mean you know about this?”
I flinched. “I know a little bit. Something happened to me and I’ve heard a few whispers.”
She glanced at me in disgust, then turned and stared at the window.
In fact, two women had told me part of what happened to them when I was a fairly new devotee. But I didn’t want to know the details from either of them. On a flight back to Seattle, Karen L. started to tell me about her “private time” with Prakash when she would lie with him in his bed. She mentioned they “cuddled” before I changed the subject. Another time she mentioned off the cuff that she and her husband no longer had sex, “because I would be cheating on Swamiji.”
Another time, when I went out for coffee with Suzy, a woman who lived in the ashram, she started to tell me stories about some intimate experience she’d had with Prakash in his bedroom. But I had cut her off and changed the subject. Of course, I had experienced Prakash kissing me and pinching my nipples—his signature move. But it was easy to push these experiences out of my mind. I was not going to let anyone else tell me stories that would demolish my dream world. I had joined the group and moved to the ashram believing this to be a pure spiritual path to God. And that is what I wanted to continue to believe.
