Sixteen
So there I was. In a city where I would always be a visitor, in clothes
that didn’t suit me, in an apartment that was more something for my mom and
dad, with a job in an office like I always intended to avoid and at night in
bed with a woman that got anxious only thinking about it.
And by then there was a crisis at the IHQ. More and more people left the
ashrams to, just like Maharaj ji, get married and have children. As a result
the revenues dropped, while only a few years back the organization had built up
a mega debt by renting the Houston Astrodome. The worlds largest indoor
stadium, at that time, where Maharaj ji was going to announce his thousand year
kingdom of peace. Which he did, but the tens of thousands of followers that came to
listen to that and kiss his feet, didn’t bring enough money to pay the rent of
the stadium and the thousands of hotel rooms around it. Everything would work
out, was the idea, until one property after another became vacant and it became
a hassle to even pay the grocer that supplied the ashrams with food. The
management team, of which I was a member, had meeting after meeting, until we
saw only one solution: Maharaj ji. His allowance of five hundred dollars a day
had to be cut in half. Cars and houses had to be sold. Maybe even his motor
home. Bob Denton would fly over to Malibu to tell him.
The next day he returned, with Maharaj ji. And the message that we were
all fired. That same day we all had to show up at his divine residence. We
waited in the satsang room, a bit like when in the old days you had to report
with some others at the vice principal. Leaning on each other’s bravura to
avoid that hollow feeling inside. Finally he came. One by one we kissed his
feet that lay on a small white silk pillow. He looked down on us sitting on the
floor from his chair, decorated with gold colored pieces of fabric. “You know”,
he said, putting down his words one by one, “it is not up to you to interfere
with the life of the perfect master.” After that he got up and left the room,
followed by Bob Denton, gesturing to us to stay where we were. Half an hour
later Bob came back into the satsang room, with a grin on his face like the one
group member that had managed to stay tough in front of the vice principal. And
won. We all got our jobs back. Bob had explained to Maharaj ji what would
happen if we really would split.
Walking back on Colfax Avenue to my apartment with the long pile carpet
in the bathroom and the dark wood kitchen, I longed for that truant feeling of
the day before when we were all suddenly fired. Just like that time when I was
on my way to kindergarten, and with a sudden insight into my possibilities
turned around and just walked back home. Away from the dark door that was so
heavy you couldn’t possibly open it by yourself. Away from the playground where
you never knew if today again you could remain on good terms with the bullies.
Away from the nun, who was supposed to help and protect, but turned out scary
with her harsh white hat that left red lashes on her neck and forehead. Free.
You know the sky will tumble down when you do it. Too bad.
The next day I stepped into Bob Denton’s office. “I prefer staying
fired”, I told him. It was a short conversation. He understood, he said. So
much had happened. I could arrange a ticket for Amsterdam at ‘Travel’. Back
home I could, no doubt, do something for the Divine Light Mission. No longer in
an ashram, that was obvious of course.
Meanwhile, when I was stopping over in New York with K and Jody on my
way back home, that same Bob Denton called everybody in Europe that I knew
within the Divine Light Mission. Any kind of contact with me was forbidden. “He
dropped out. Stay away.”
In Amsterdam that order was neglected for a few days, so at last I could
get out of Schiphol without a penny in my pocket and had a bed for the first
couple of nights. After that luckily the godless world of illusion turned out
to help me out on my shaky steps back, no hard feelings. I was welcome at the
university, although the academic year had already started. A student counselor
listened to my story and arranged a scholarship. The woman at the student
housing foundation listened and arranged an apartment in Diemen. My brother
didn’t need to listen. He just stood there, as soon as I had the key,
unannounced on my doorstep with a jar of paint and a brush. “I’m here to help”,
he said. He did the ceilings, that I always hate. “Janny asked about you the
other day”, he said when he got on his bike again.