Five
Right, so New York. Today we stroll through that same China Town where
back then with K and Jody we were instructed to keep the car locked up tight.
The scene has hardly changed. Lots of plastic, red and gold and lots of busy
Chinese going at great lengths to sell things you truly wonder who the hell
would want to have them. Little paintings of neon waterfalls in three dimensions,
porcelain Buddhas with fat, pink painted bellies, hard purple and bilious
green plastic flowers, golden yellow dragons that, no doubt, have already
damaged the chain they’re hanging on beyond repair. Or, one door down the road,
ground turtle nails, crystals smashed to smithereens or crushed coral as the
remedy against failing potency, headache, irregular menstruation or
unintentional wetting the bed. Apparently it all pays off, because the shops
and the people selling it are still there and can be visited without the
protection of car steel, as it turns out.
After that we cross the financial district heading for ground zero and
look at the hole that, like a knocked out front tooth draws more attention than
the once intact set of teeth. I used to have the answer to war and violence.
Meditate. That would bring man and ultimately the world the ‘thousand years of
peace’ of Maharaj ji. Now I don’t have answers anymore, or only answers that
raise new questions.
Just down the road, in the marble doorway of a bank on Fifth Avenue,
lies a skinny man. He looks straight ahead, without seeking eye contact with
the people that are swarming at this hour past his outstretched feet. A little
cardboard sign leans against his leg. ‘Vietnam Vet’, it says, written in
crooked ballpoint letters. Underneath it says: ‘Homeless and desperate. Please
help.’
How this meditation had to be done, was called the ‘knowledge’.
Techniques that had to be revealed by a mahatma, a traveling teacher of Maharaj
ji. This wasn’t so much about technical skills, the devotees in the ashram
stressed, but rather about becoming a part of the world of guru Maharaj ji. Or
not. The test of whether you were ready for that was a game without rules. The
fact that a mahatma came, showed that enough souls were ready. But what you had
to do to get there, was a question that only led to mysterious smiles and
devotionally raised eyes of the devotees. Lots of vacuuming and potato peeling,
was all I could come up with, and looking just as happy into the world as the real
followers. So that’s what I did ‘til some weeks later a friendly Indian ‘great
soul’ did arrive, with a red dot on his forehead and a pink robe draped around
his waist and shoulders. Everyone kissed his feet and laughed even more
blissfully than before. So did I, although the tension remained because the
mahatma’s arrival didn’t necessarily mean that all twenty people that had
applied were actually ready to receive the knowledge. Again a judgment without
rules, except of course not leaving. Nobody knew the moment that the mahatma
would decide that there was enough devotion to start an initiation session.
So I sat on the floor of the ashram and listened for hours to the
stories of the initiated followers. They were basically always the same. First
there was darkness, then guru Maharaj ji brought the light. Just like there
always has been, in all ages, a ‘perfect master’ on earth for the ones that
were truly searching, there now was guru Maharaj ji. The followers of Jesus had
found him, the followers of Krishna had found him, the followers of Buddha and
Mohammed had found him. And we, as we sat on the floor for a day and a half in
the end, had found him. All these masters taught the same thing. This was the
eternal secret behind all religions. Well kept and only meant for those who
understood that following and worshipping the living perfect master is the only
way to enlightenment. The techniques were a mere aid, worthless without
complete dedication to the guru.
At the end of the second day, when the mahatma finally entered the room,
about ten people were left. A clear sign that this just wasn’t for everybody.
In English with an Indian accent (‘yes, yes, you must be berry determined’), he
again told about the living perfect master and how lucky we were to have met
him. “Because true devotee bill experience eternal bliss and joy.” Whoever
couldn’t promise that devotion, could still leave the room. “Without a life at
the holy lotus feet of the master, this knowledge is completely worthless”, the
mahatma roared.
In the end six people were left, at which moment the followers of the
ashram that were present closed the curtains and locked the door of the room.
The initiation was strictly secret. Like the others I had to solemnly promise
never to tell anyone what the mahatma was about to reveal. I see that
differently now.
Maharaj ji taught four meditation techniques. Three of them I had read
about before in ‘The Yogis of India’, a book with a hard cover and black and
white photos of sadhus with waving grey beards that I carried around as a bible
for years. But now, thanks to this mahatma, I finally understood the value of
these techniques. Like concentrating on the sound that your breath makes at the
back of your throat that kind of sounds like sooo (inhaling) --- hangggg
(exhaling). A simple breathing technique, I always thought. But this sound, the
mahatma said, is the true meaning of the Word that the bible mentions. The Word
that is god. “Every living perfect master teaches same technique but then, I
tell you, people turn it into religion and true meaning gets lost. Until next
perfect master comes..,” he said, bowing deeply at the picture on the wall
showing Maharaj ji wearing the red velvet robe and golden crown of Lord Krishna
in the Bhagavad Gita.
The second technique he demonstrated to us one by one. I sat with my
back straight and legs crossed on the floor. In the half light the mahatma sat
in the same posture right in front of me. His knees, covered with pink cotton,
touched mine. He smelt a bit sweetish, like incense. He breathed very light, as
if hardly there. His dark brown eyes shone. “Close your eyes.” With his index
finger he lightly touched my forehead, right where he himself had a red dot.
“Concentrate here.” He then put his thumb and middle finger on my closed eyes
and pushed them pretty strongly to the place where his index finger was
pointing. “What you see?” “Light, mahatma ji.” “Good. This is eternal light of
creation. Source of all bliss. Meditate on it.” He grabbed my own hand to take
over his grip on my eyes and moved on to the next one.
After that he taught to listen to the sound of your own body while
pressing your thumbs in your ears. The fourth technique was to stretch your
tongue to the back of your throat, till it reached behind the uvula. There the
true devotee could, after lots of meditation, taste the reward of ‘holy
nectar’. The drink of the gods. The food of yogis that meditate for months
without food. The source of life for Jesus in the desert. “This is their
secret.”
We had to practice this twice every day for at least an hour. With a
cloth over our head (that’s why all of these beautiful Indian fabrics in the
ashram!), because nobody was allowed to see the secret techniques. Together
with a life of dedication to the master, “this will bring you eternal
happiness.” We then were allowed to kiss his feet and finally go home.
Must try to find one of those beautiful cloths tomorrow, I thought,
riding my bike.
