Seven
From New York’s LaGuardia Janny and I fly on to Denver. There we have an
Avis rental car booked to drive through the Rocky Mountains and the deserts of
Arizona and California to San Francisco. The peace and quiet of traveling to
write down how it was. And to see what I missed out on before.
The first time in my life I was in an airplane, was about half a year
after I got that half a shelf and a place to roll out my sleeping bag at the
ashram. Just like a few thousand other followers from Europe and the United
States I was in one of the five chartered Boeing-747’s, on my way to a big
festival in New Delhi to see the guru for the first time in person and then
stay at his ashram in Hardwar on the Ganges for a few weeks.
It was hot, there on that concrete plain right next to Delhi Airport
where we were told to assemble and wait. Maharaj ji himself was going to
welcome us, a whisper said. After about four hours in the burning sun, it was
clear that we weren’t ready for that. Too little meditation and too much ‘mind
and illusion’, no doubt. So we left in rented buses to a campsite that the
Indian followers had put up on a dusty plain outside Delhi. The tents were
basically wooden poles affixed with ropes. On those poles sat a roof of colored
pieces of fabric. The sides were open for wind, dust and warmth. Next to the
campsite were the festival grounds - a wide open field with a stage at the far
end that had microphones on it, a throne decorated with flowers for the guru
and embroidered pillows for the mahatma’s. After his father’s death, Maharaj ji
was chosen to succeed him as guru and religious teacher at the age of six. A
daunting position, because the Divine Light Mission of his father had almost
ten thousand followers in India. A few thousand of them sat on the festival
grounds in red, purple, yellow and golden saris and white ‘Indian pajamas’,
that were also quite popular among the Western followers. They had a red dot on
their foreheads, put flower leaves on each other’s heads and sang songs that seemed to turn around
over and over in the same intonation. On the stage the mahatma’s took turns giving
‘satsang’: an improvised speech, directly from the meditative experience, about
the virtues of the holy master and his divine knowledge bringing enlightenment
for the true devotee. Again and again similar words in repeated circles, just
like the songs. The microphones cracked, the followers sang, the sun burned and
the mahatma’s praised our luck because the road to eternal bliss was right in
front if us. For three days without end, sometimes in English but mostly in
Hindi.
At the end of the third day Maharaj ji came. First, unexpectedly even
so, some American followers that were part of his own security service, the
World Peace Corps, walked onto the stage. With decent suits and sturdy faces.
People nudged each other. Then he came. Everybody bowed deep to the ground. At
this distance I couldn’t see him very well, but his face seemed to beam with
light to me, like smiling babies sometimes have. I understood he was constantly
one with the divine sound within and permanently stoned on nectar. So that’s
how that looked. I again bowed in the dust. He sat down on the throne. One of
the mahatma’s put a garland around his shoulders and kissed his feet. The
microphone cracked. “Dear premies[1]”.
His voice sounded young, but with the peace of mind of a wise, old man. “You
have come a long way.” Around me, Western followers looked at each other,
moved. That was true! And he spoke to us! “Give the reins of your life to me
and I will bring you salvation.” “Oh, my lord”, someone whispered next to me.
Then Maharaj ji switched to Hindi.
[1] ‘Premies’ sounds like ‘premmies’, is
Hindi for ‘the ones that love’ and the name to indicate followers of Maharaj
ji.