by Anne Wheeler
“I’m not ready to have a baby. I don’t even know who the father is.” She starts to weep. “I don’t want it. Is it wrong to have an abortion?”
The question shakes me, astonishes me.
I had an abortion — when I was still a teenager. Very few people know about this. Three, maybe four, people. It has been my secret, buried so deeply that I rarely think of it anymore, but here it is, kicked to the surface after having been buried beneath layers of guilt and self-loathing for more than ten years. The past comes bubbling up from the pit of my stomach, and I feel as though I am going to retch.
Rajneesh is nonchalant in his answer.
“There is no question here. When a baby is born, a mother must be born. If you do not want to be a mother, then do not have the child. It’s a wonderful experience to be a mother; for most women, the most wondrous experience. But, if you choose not to be a mother, the soul will choose another mother. It is your ego that thinks you have such a great power here, that this decision is going to be measured by the great gods of the universe. What will they think of you? Do you think they are all watching you? Judging you? Really? That is a fantasy. Like a Walt Disney movie. Listen. You cannot kill a soul. Everything of the flesh grows old and dies of the flesh. But the soul! The soul goes on! Your own soul will go on!
“Life is precious. Do not get me wrong. I love life. Don’t misunderstand me. I am not saying that this loss — of a great possibility — is not a loss. But if every child is a wanted child, then there is hope for this world. I am optimistic that this new freedom of choice will lead to a more enlightened world.”
Suddenly he looks directly at me. “This was a good question, yes?”
He’s asking me?
“Yes,” I stammer. He must have seen me flinch. Or did he see my fascination in his response. I am stupefied by the serendipity at play here, convinced now that he can hear my innermost thoughts. He laughs.
“And you are Gayatri and Govinda’s friend? Yes?”
“Yes, I didn’t expect to be here tonight. They invited me. I shouldn’t have come....” I blabber on, like someone who has wandered into the wrong bathroom. Everyone laughs, including me. I don’t know why.
“You make us laugh. Come closer here. Come sit with me.”
I resist. “Don’t waste your time on me. These people have prepared their questions. I am just visiting.” Everyone laughs again. Why? What is this joke they share? Can they hear the panic in my voice?
“Come. Come closer.”
Everyone waits.
Put on the spot, I shuffle forward a little. “Yes, yes,” he encourages me, “good. Come right here, in front of me, don’t be so nervous.” He beckons me with his hands reassuringly. “I have never hurt anyone.”
Reluctantly, I get closer and closer to his laughing eyes. I look long and hard at him. He nods, “You will be a sannyasin, yes?”
“Ah, no, no, no, no,” I rattle off. “I am not here for that ... I am not ready for anything like —”
ZAP!
What was that?!?
He touched me on my forehead, between the eyes, with his finger, and a buzz of something surged through my body. It felt warm and electric. I am awash with pleasure, dizzy with the surprise of it all. I have lost my composure. I sit there, mouth open, stunned. Have I been hypnotized? Am I delirious? I am so tired, yet so awake. I cannot escape the twinkle of his eyes.
“You will be Mugdha. Ma Deva Mugdha. Do you know what that means?” I can only shake my head. “You remember the feeling you had when you fell in love — for the very first time?” I nod. I was fourteen. He chuckles. “Well, that is mugdha. Totally committed, without question. Madly in love. And Deva? Well Deva can be the Devil or the Divine. So you are madly in love with the Devil and the Divine. Good name, yes?”
It is much more interesting than Anne, for certain. Gayatri and Govinda nod approvingly. My rebellious mind is still trying to figure out how he did what he did. It was not my imagination — I know it was real. It overwhelmed me. Did he have some kind of battery-operated buzzer in his hand? I watch him gesture gracefully, his hand and arms waving with expression. I see no trick. He doesn’t have a magic wand. Perhaps, he is the magic wand.
He leans into me. “You will stay in Pune, Ma Deva Mugdha, for just a little while, with us. Just stop and smell the roses, yes? Get yourself back on course. Everything else can wait.”
I am so stunned, I can only nod.
I could stay. What harm could come of it? I am disenchanted with my life. Gayatri and Govinda have been with him for several years and it hasn’t done them any harm. In fact, I admire, even envy them. They appear to have a loving and worriless outlook on life.
Maybe this is where I belong. Like so many others here, I have been a wanderer, looking for something beyond the obvious patterns of our society. I haven’t gotten married, nor have I latched onto a demanding or lucrative career. Why, I’m not sure. I know that the early death of my father left me in shock. Then becoming pregnant at nineteen wiped out my innocent fantasies about sex and love being one and the same.
I am confounded by Rajneesh’s discourse on abortion! The truth, I realize now, is that I was raped. But nobody asked me how it happened. “The less said, the better” was the code of the day. So I hid it. I don’t think I even knew or uttered the word, rape.
But I have, at times, felt like a slut, a disappointment, unworthy of being loved, guilty of murder perhaps. Rajneesh’s response is so contrary to what I was taught to believe that I can’t immediately embrace it — even though it would be a convenient way to shed my burden of shame. I rarely go to church, but I’m still conditioned, I guess, by the Christian code that would judge me. In the church’s eyes, I have committed murder. I was weak and wicked. I killed my own child. I know many people who believe that — people who lived on the same block as me. I could never look them in the eye after what I did.
Still, religion continued to intrigue me. I was always a seeker of sorts. As a teenager, I was curious to find God. I tried every Christian denomination (that being the only religion I knew of) in the city, hoping one of them would diminish my doubts about the Messiah. I couldn’t bring myself to believe in the Virgin Birth or the Resurrection. I thought the parables were brilliant, so were the Ten Commandments. “Love thine enemy” was a real test of humility. If the world could just embrace a few simple precepts like “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” then peace would be possible.
But I cannot believe that The Almighty is watching over each and every one of us. Hopefully Rajneesh will offer up something more credible, more profound. Something we can all embrace. My hopes are not high, but I am motivated to stay and hear more.
February 13, 1976
Dear Mom,
Pune is a beautiful little colonial city with a polo club and a racetrack much like the ones in your photographs. Very British. I have decided to stay here for a while. Maureen has some wonderful friends, and I have found an apartment to rent by the week. Don’t worry about me. Love, your daughter, Anne
HAVING NOTHING ORANGE to wear, Gayatri takes me to her tailor, Omari. With the arrival of so many Westerners, the Pune fabric stores are packed with new bolts of fabulous cloth in every shade of orange, from red to yellow. Within a day, I have a new wardrobe — three monk-like robes and five salwar kameez, the versatile Indian suits for women, perfect for me. Made to measure, the tunic flatters my full figure, and with the baggy pants I can do cartwheels in public if that is my pleasure. Omari has used a generous amount of flowing silk so I can indulge in the sweet sway of the fabric when I walk.
I find a room at the Diamond Hotel and pay up for a couple of weeks. Rajneesh is about to begin a series of lectures in English, on the Ten Bulls of Taoism, a series of short poems used in the Zen tradition to describe the journey toward Enlightenment.
The First Bull of Tao — In Search of The Bull
In the pasture of the world, I endlessly push aside the tall
gr
asses in search of the Ox.
Following unnamed rivers, lost upon the interpenetrating
paths of distant mountains,
My strength failing and my vitality exhausted,
I cannot find the Ox.
EVERY DAY, BEFORE DAWN, the streets of Koregan Park fill up with sannaysins gravitating toward the ashram. Sant is there to open the gate (gilded with brass, not gold), and greets me with a glowing smile, “Good morning, Ma Deva Mugdha.” “Good morning, Sant!”
I am surprised that he knows my name. He must have asked somebody.
Silently, I enter Buddha Hall, which isn’t actually a hall yet. Presently, it is a large shiny cement floor surrounded by temporary walls made of bamboo, with wooden scaffolding and a ceiling of draped cloth that glimmers in the morning light. Indian musicians, nestled together in a carpeted corner, tune their instruments. A few foreigners, excited to be included, join them with a variety of acoustic stringed instruments, flutes, and drums from the far corners of the planet.
I lay out my mat, which defines my personal space, in preparation for the morning meditation. It is understood that “anything goes, as long as you stay on your mat.”
This is the dynamic meditation, otherwise known as the madness meditation. It takes several days for me to grasp the sequence, which is complicated by the fact that we are all blindfolded. As we settle ourselves, securing the scarves around our heads, blacking out the world, the drummers begin to mark out a heavy primal beat, giving us the signal to begin.
We begin with chaotic breathing — through the nose. We’re told to focus on the exhalation, which I find tricky, but I do my best. The idea is to infuse our bodies with as much oxygen as possible. This first stage takes about ten minutes, but it feels like forever.
Finally the music shifts into a higher gear, signalling me to seek out my insanity. Following whatever thoughts are racing through my mind, I am charged to pursue my own madness. I chase down anger, remorse, greed, joy, sadness, desire, fear — memories born of times I have forgotten. Raging on until I am truly barmy, I mourn my father’s death, I rant at old friends and lovers, I rejoice in the freedom of being here, I convulse with outrageousness, I beat myself up for being fat and ugly. Emotions explode inside me, as I lose all control, resisting the need to censor myself, leaping into the unknown. It’s like a dress rehearsal for death, or a trip on acid, or self-induced insanity. I lose sense of time and I forget where I am. The point, of course, is to lose one’s mind.
The meditation falls apart if I stop and question why I am doing this. One must not think. One must just do. There are no answers. My inner cowgirl refuses to stay quiet: This is absolute nonsense, a ridiculous game thought up by a madman. Get the hell out of here before you are brainwashed! During the meditation, some participants do get lost.
I cannot see them, of course, but I can hear them, going out of control, leaving their mat, screaming and crying. Sometimes the music dwindles to silence while designated guards rush in to bring the madness under control, and we stand there, suspended, wet with sweat, wondering who it might be. It could have been me — off my rocker, as my mother would say. It is so bizarre. Impossible to explain to anyone who hasn’t been here.
The music changes again. We all jump up, throwing our hands in the air and shouting “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!” over and over. Together our voices crescendo, creating an overwhelming emotional pulse. “Hoo! Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!” To a stranger, we might appear like a bunch of baboons in heat — eagerly jumping higher and higher, yelling louder and louder. It’s exhausting; it goes on and on, testing my limits. I give it my all — anything less and the exercise is pointless.
I am wet with sweat when the music evolves, slowing down, becoming lyrical and fluid. Flutes play against gently plucked strings as voices embellish melodies that weave together with a sense of discovery and joyfulness. Still blindfolded, I am uninhibited. I dance and sing, my thoughts drifting away, reacting spontaneously to the musicians, who in turn follow their own instincts. The music is enchanting, full of discovery. Each person is autonomous, in his or her own bubble, protected from judgment or the pressure of expectations. Like a whirling dervish, I spin and lose myself amongst the vibrations — soaking up the moments of magic. It could be a path to enlightenment — but I’m not there yet.
Then, at last, silence. I drop to the ground, my energy completely spent. With no idea of what others are doing, I lie there listening. I reach for the sound that is furthest away — a train, a horn, a church bell, a bird call. Then I pull my attention closer, closer and closer, bringing my awareness into the surrounding environment, listening to the cool breeze, the people breathing in the room, the footsteps and the sighs, closer and closer until all I can hear is my own heartbeat. Concentrating, I slow it down until it is beating out an easy, peaceful tempo as I balance on the edge of consciousness. Yes, this is the way, I tell myself; I will continue on this path. I will listen to Rajneesh and do as he tells me to do.
The Second Bull of Tao — Discovery of The Footprints
Along the riverbank under the trees, I discover footprints,
Even under the fragrant grass, I see his prints,
Deep in remote mountains they are found.
These traces can no more be hidden than one’s nose, looking heavenward.
WE REMAIN IN SILENCE until the gong rings. Perhaps some have emptied their minds — I am usually lost in some internal musings.
The dynamic meditation takes about an hour, after which there is time for tea before we funnel into the garden for the morning discourse. Rajneesh sits on his veranda with his chosen few around him. Several tall, strong men stand guard at the entrances, mostly Indians, which reminds me that recent attempts have been made on our guru’s life. His untraditional methods and teachings have provoked outrage amongst many.
To my mind, he is provocative, in a good way. He titillates his listeners through wit and humour, weaving different wisdoms together, showing how they are the same, how they complement each other. They all say the same things. The illusive experience, the moment of oneness, is there for all of us. He is full of surprises and contradictions, telling jokes, teasing us all. I can see why so many people have gathered around him. The whole world can laugh, can appreciate from his insights. Especially when it comes to tantric sex.
“In the deepest moment of lovemaking, thinking stops and you can feel the life force, the pulse and nothing else. The moment is so intriguing, the moment so tremendously powerful, so intense, so alive that you are absorbed by it. You are simply in awe. A great wonder holds you for just that moment. This is the closest that most people get to being totally aware, totally present. The great challenge is to sustain this moment. You can do it with a partner or you can do it on your own. It is possible. Yes, you can bring yourself to a euphoric state and sustain it ... but as soon as the little voice speaks up — the little voice, you know the little voice in your head ... the moment is gone. Yes?” Some mornings, he accepts questions, but I never ask any because he always seems to address what is on my mind. He is anti-religion and says, “God is the greatest lie created by mankind.” People are like children, he explains. “They want a father, a mother to take over, to make the decisions when they are afraid, in trouble, or sick. They call out for help — but there is no father in Heaven. That is an illusion. There is no God, or Goddess, but there is godliness. Yes. Godliness is within each and every living thing.”
The Third Bull of Tao — Perceiving the Bull
I hear the song of the nightingale.
The sun is warm, the wind is mild, willows are green along the shore —
Here no Ox can hide!
What artist can draw that massive head, those majestic horns?
THE COMMUNITY IS GROWING so quickly. Now you have to book at least a week ahead for darshan. There are no last-minute invitations. The main floor of the house has become a maze of busy offices, and the second floor is being used for encounter groups. Psychologists are coming from all
over the world to work under the Master’s guidance.
I attended some Gestalt therapy groups back home. The leaders were all men with big egos. During one weekend retreat, (a group I took for a university psychology course credit) I experienced the leader, a professor, use his position of power. He was a good-looking charmer and almost everyone opened up to him, trusted him with their intimacies. He moved in on the three most attractive women — one was shy and naïve; the second had done two previous groups with him and was smitten; and the third was going through a divorce and shared her feelings of rejection. He teased and flirted with these three so blatantly that a couple of the young men called him on it. But he skilfully turned their complaints back on them, brutal in his defence. The young men retreated. He continued his games with the women, ignoring the rest of us. Eventually I did try to confront him, but it got ugly and humiliating very quickly. He didn’t own his behaviour, and I was afraid I would lose my credits so I sat back and watched the competition. In the end, I believe he bonked two of them but no one reported him. He left a trail of bewildered students and one broken heart in his wake.
Disenchanted by that experience, I decided that the guru wannabes arriving at the ashram were nothing but trouble. I planned to get out of here before more of them arrived and I was pressured to participate.
When I arrived in Pune a few weeks ago, there were a couple of hundred Westerners and many more Indians. Since then, the balance has shifted dramatically. New devotees pour in from Europe, Asia, and the Americas. Many dress immodestly, flaunting their promiscuity and self-declared liberation causing more tensions between the locals and the ashram. Traditions are held strong here. Unmarried women who are not virgins are worthless. Many marriages in India are arranged when the future bride and groom are still children. Romantic films are a very popular form of entertainment, but actors are not allowed to kiss on screen. Local Indian businesses are making money from this explosion of foreign visitors, but others would rather see Rajneesh dead.
Most evenings, I return to the ashram to make merry with the musicians, singers, and dancers who perform for Bhagwan after darshan. I love that these soulmates from all over the world have landed here to share in this alchemy. Sometimes I drum or dance, but mostly I sing, riffing off whatever is happening, improvising a descant or a harmony. There is one voice that I recognize from the morning meditation, a clear high voice that blends so well with my own. We find each other, first by listening, then by sight. She is Dutch and her sannyasin name is Vipassana. Both of us blonde, we look like sisters and are sometimes mistaken for each other. Together we are challenged by the Indian singers who break open the tempered scales and encourage us to throw away our need for tonality and keys. They are not bound to the tempered scale of twelve separate tones like we are. They melodically slide up and down in pitch, playing on the passion that builds and subsides, multiple times, orgasmic in nature. The rhythm volleys back and forth with the tabla players and the singers, who use their voices like plucked strings for rapid exchanges. It is mind-boggling as we try to emulate the intricacies, dividing the rhythms into five, or seven, or twenty-three, and beyond. There is no room for thinking; one can only mindlessly echo their phrases.