Taken by the Muse

by Anne Wheeler

  If Rajneesh personally asks me to do this, I will do my best, but the situation is beginning to feel eerily similar to the one I left months ago. I find myself too accommodating in a group. I hate trying to second-guess everyone — it sparks an old need to please. I promise Laxmi that I will think about it and give her an answer soon. But in my heart of hearts, I want to fly solo.

  Nobody understands my reluctance, especially Sant. I could stay here and be creative for as long as I want. Rajneesh will have an impact on the whole world, and I’ll have considerable influence over how he is presented. Rajneesh, even with all of his contradictions, has a huge following, and it’s growing.

  March 20, 1976

  Dear Mom,

  Sorry I have not written sooner. Hope you received the gifts from Maureen. I am still in Pune, where I might take a job. I am still planning to meet up with my friend Cheryl in Bangkok next month, but after that I might come back here. Don’t worry about me. I am having a most interesting time. Much love, Anne

  PEOPLE NOW WRITE DOWN questions for darshan and hand them in on folded paper — it’s like a game I played as a child. Rajneesh reads one of them out loud. “Dear Bhagwan, what do you want to happen here?”

  Rajneesh laughs. “I want you all to find your own happiness. You don’t need anyone but yourself. No prayer. No priest. You alone are enough to face the sunrise. You don’t need somebody to interpret it for you. You are here, every individual is here; the wonder of existence is here. Be silent and be aware. There is no need for any religion, for any god, for any organization that will control. It is up to the individual to be aware and to be loving. Be happy. It’s up to you. Love is a state of being, not a relationship.”

  I am sitting beside Sant. Rajneesh looks at us and smiles. I wonder if he knows we are together sometimes. Then he motions to me, which is a surprise, as he has not really acknowledged me since my first darshan.

  “You ... come closer please.” Oh no, he’s going to put me in charge of the video department. I can’t do it. I’ll have to decline.

  But no. “I think this is a very good time for you to go into silence. Right now. Right here. For four days, okay? No talking. No singing. And then. You come back and we will talk, yes?”

  I go to speak. “Ah!” He stops me, and I laugh. “No laughing either, Ma. Silence, beginning now.” I nod obediently.

  Silence is a gift. Alone, I wander into the back streets of the city. Throwing my dupatta (long scarf) over my head and hiding my face, I disappear. Now I walk slowly and effortlessly, with grace, even though most of the time I am lost. It doesn’t matter to me; there is nowhere I should be. I love being alone and quiet. I know that, at some point, I’ll come to the end of the road. There’s no need to think beyond the present.

  The Seventh Bull of Tao — The Bull Transcended

  Astride the Ox, I reach home.

  I have abandoned the whip and ropes.

  I am serene. The Ox too can rest. The dawn has come.

  In blissful repose,

  Within my thatched dwelling.

  I AM SHOCKED to hear that my Dutch singing friend is very ill. It has happened so quietly. Her brother, who is also a sannyasin, took her to Bombay, I am told, where she was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumour. Now she lies, unconscious, in a Pune hospital. Within days, we are told she is dying.

  Bhagwan urges us to be with her, to go to her bedside, and to witness this silent departure. It’s a long walk away, but there is a flow of orange people coming and going from the hospital. The hallway is clogged with people waiting their turn to visit her. I find a place against the wall and watch. Being in silence, I feel invisible. Her brother and close friends — those who speak her language and know her birth name — stay in the room with her. I am close enough to see inside whenever the door opens, which becomes increasingly infrequent.

  As evening descends, a few of the musicians I know arrive and play. I cannot sing — but I add to the hushed rhythm beneath the soft chanting that is reaching out to her subconscious. She lies still, her head wrapped in white cloth. The music ebbs and flows — until there is silence.

  The day she dies, darshan is cancelled and we are all called to hear Rajneesh speak. He wants us to celebrate Vipassana’s death. “It’s a high death — she died without a struggle,” he says, “and when you do it that way, only one more death is possible.”

  Where does the idea of high deaths and low deaths come from? Who sorted all that out? Who decided when a death is auspicious? It seems as though all religions are run by men who put up obstacles, install gates on the mythical road to Enlightenment, or Heaven, or Everlasting Life of some kind. That way they are able to control all of those who wish to journey with them. Such imaginations these men have! I thought Rajneesh was anti-religion, but this sounds very religious to me.

  But when Rajneesh says this, I do connect: “We must meet death with our eyes open. Experience the last moment. Watch death happen. Be there when it happens. That is the ultimate challenge — the most important. Do not fear it. Experience it with total awareness.”

  We are told she must be cremated within a day of death. The body is washed and dressed for the cremation. Some of us come in before the procession and adorn Vipassana’s body with flowers. My period of silence is over, so I will sing with the others in the procession, as she is carried through the streets of the city to the funeral pyre near the river. We follow the drums and chant, “Govinda, Bolo hari, Gopala, Bolo.” She sang this mantra in the garden only weeks ago. It feels surreal that her body is being carried, floating above our heads, looking peaceful and sublime.

  The ceremony just happens. With death so omnipresent in India, the rituals take over, and everything unfolds without any clear leader. For thousands of years, the same traditions have shaped the lives and deaths of the people, and this makes me feel that I am a part of a bigger evolution — a natural rhythm that will continue to repeat itself until the end of time.

  Vipassana’s voice crossed over mine many times in harmony — I can hear her voice in mine now. Could she have imagined this cadence to her life?

  It is dusk when we reach the funeral pyre. Her brother and friends place her body upon the wood that has been stacked like a waiting cradle. More wood is added to build the fire up and over her. From a distance, I see Vipassana’s brother being instructed on how to carry out the last rites. It appears that they are placing some small items around her head and sprinkling ghee over her body and over the wood before lighting the fire. I strain to see it all, slightly ashamed of my morbid curiosity.

  The chanting and drumming continues as the fire turns into a roaring blaze. Black smoke spirals into the air; ashes descend on us like confetti. I feel the soot on my skin, sticky and oily. The smell of burnt meat and hair causes some to leave, some to retch. It makes me cough and I cover my face. Her glowing body seems to levitate within the inferno. Her skull becomes a brilliant red orb. Her brother is given a long bamboo spear by one of the elders. Suddenly, he thrusts the pointed end into the skull and it explodes into a ball of fire shooting upwards.

  Her soul has been released from its earthly domain.

  The Eighth Bull of Tao — Both Bull and Self Transcended

  Whip, rope, person, and Ox — all merge in No Thing.

  This heaven is so vast, no message can stain it.

  How may a snowflake exist in a raging fire?

  Here are the footprints of the Ancestors.

  WE ALL STAND THERE, watching, in silence. A shared flash of wakefulness. It is the greatest lesson — beyond words, beyond thought.

  I stay until the fire is finished. A few people stay to retrieve the charred bones that remain.

  As I wander back to my hotel, Sant catches up to me and says nothing. There is nothing to say. The event has shifted my perception of life; death is so close and so real now. Like love, you can talk about it, you can name it, but it is not real until you experience it. Death remains the unknown for all of us, but now I accept i
ts inevitability. Tonight, it snuck up and almost knocked me over. I am reeling from the impact and inwardly finding a new balance.

  I did not see my father’s dead body. He just disappeared from my life without my registering the reality of his death. I never said goodbye to him. Until tonight.

  The Ninth Bull of Tao — Reaching the Source

  Too many steps have been taken returning to the root and the source.

  Better to have been blind and deaf from the beginning!

  Dwelling in one’s true abode, unconcerned with and without —

  The river flows tranquilly on and the flowers are red.

  AS PROMISED, I meet with Laxmi to tell her my decision. I have a ticket to Bangkok, and I will leave in a few days. There are many capable and willing followers who eagerly want to dedicate themselves to the high-tech future of this movement. I am grateful for what I have learned, but I cannot stay.

  “Where do you live?” she asks.

  “In Canada. In a city called Edmonton.”

  “Is there a Rajneesh centre there?”

  “No. No centre.”

  “Good. Then there is something you will do for Bhagwan.”

  “What is that?” I respond.

  She smiles, knowing that I feel badly for turning her down. “You will marry Sant,” she says, “and he will come to Canada to be with you. Together you will open a centre. Is it a big city?”

  “Is this Rajneesh’s request?” I ask.

  “My request is Rajneesh’s request. We both know that marriage means nothing. It is only a formality. If the centre does not work out in your city, you can try somewhere else. Vancouver perhaps.”

  Has Sant been a part of this plan? Has our whole relationship been geared toward this contrivance? Our time together has been quiet; there has been no mention of Canada. I cannot imagine him there. With me. In Edmonton. Or Vancouver.

  All I can say to Laxmi is, “I will talk to Sant.”

  Strangely he is not at the gate, nor is he with his friends. I rush to sign up for my last darshan and manage to get a reservation for the next night.

  Rajneesh has told us that obedience is the greatest sin. Listen to your intelligence, and if something feels right, then do it. You know what is right and wrong. For you. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

  Nobody knows where Sant is. I go to darshan without having talked to him. There are hundreds of people in the garden, wanting to be noticed by the Master. He doesn’t pretend to recognize everyone or to remember all the names he has given to his sannyasins.

  I go up with several others and end up sitting within inches of Laxmi. I have not been back to see her. She leans over and whispers something to Rajneesh and he looks straight at me.

  “You are leaving us?” he asks me. I nod, smiling, feeling special that he acknowledges me. Ah, my ego — it is still here and still strong. I shudder, worried that he may ask me to marry Sant. I can’t. I just can’t. He smiles at me. Here it comes.

  “Don’t come back.” He says this seriously. I wince. He sees this and chuckles, playfully. “Were you planning to come back?”

  “No,” I say truthfully. Never.

  “Good,” he says. “Then we agree. Take what you know and use it. Share it.”

  Now he talks to everyone. “In sharing, you will be fulfilled. Share your laugh, your love, your voice, your ideas, and expect nothing in return. Do it for the joy of doing it. Madly in love. Be in love with life. Hmm? Make your work, play. Enjoy it. Be in the moment and you will do your best work. If you are not in the moment, nothing much will happen. It will only be an exercise. But if you share the moment, everyone around you will join. Together you will dance and everyone will be fulfilled.”

  He directs his words to me. “You will do that?”

  “I will,” I say. “I will try to do that!”

  The Tenth Bull of Tao — Return to Society

  Barefooted and naked of breast, I mingle with the people of the world.

  My clothes are ragged and dust-laden, and I am ever blissful.

  I use no magic to extend my life;

  Now, before me, the dead trees become alive.

  Dear Mom,

  I’m travelling now, heading to Thailand to meet Cheryl. I didn’t get to Karachi. Next time. You will hardly recognize me — I wear soft silk and walk slow. I miss you. I have questions to ask you — I realize I do not know much about how it must have been for you in India. It certainly has changed me. Namaste.

  Love you, Anne

  SANT IS AT THE GATE. He’s talking to a couple of new women. He nods at me and I nod back. It was good to have been with him and that is enough. We haven’t spoken since Laxmi told me to marry him. I don’t think he even knew about it. I don’t say goodbye. He doesn’t know I’m leaving, but that doesn’t matter. “Love is a state of Being, not a relationship.”

  Life feels fresh and I feel free. My burden of self-doubt and guilt has been lifted. I walk away from the ashram, with an easy swing in my step, calmness in my being. I will try to live up to my new name — Ma Deva Mugdha — in love with the Devil and the Divine and remind myself to do everything with awareness.

  Perhaps I’ll find Jyoti at the taxi stand in Bombay and buy a lovely blue salwar kameez for my mother. She’ll get a kick out of that.

  ROSSDALE HOME IN EDMONTON, 1976.

  IMAGE COPYRIGHT ELEANOR LAZARE AND BRANCHING OUT MAGAZINE.

  SHEET ON THE WALL:

  Edmonton, 1976

  I’VE MADE GREEN CURRIED CHICKEN with coconut milk, jasmine rice, green papaya salad with custard for dessert. I call upstairs. “Supper in ten. How many are eating?”

  Two voices chime down, “Three. No, four ... two!”

  “Two?” I am impatient but try to sound blasé about it. “We were going to talk, remember? We need to talk.”

  I’m an out-of-work freelance filmmaker, with no equipment or financing. I wear orange clothing and my friends call me Mugdha, which is the name I was given in India by an eccentric guru known as Rajneesh. Last summer, twice a week, a group of like-minded weirdoes would meet in my backyard to do the madness meditation, which involves screaming and dancing around to loud music, blindfolded. The neighbours tolerated this bizarre behaviour — and the steady stream of humanity moving in and out of the place, including those visiting in vans parked out front and others throwing their tents down in the empty lot next door.

  I spend most weekends at a commune north of the city. Everything they say about the place is true. It’s akin to a perpetual love-in and yes, we do gather to cook, make music, chant, and dance naked under the full moon. There’s a huge garden we all plant and harvest, a barn divided into living spaces, and several funky cabins along the Sturgeon River. In the summer there are extra places to camp and horses for those who like to ride.

  One could say that my life is chaotic, unpredictable, and I’m fine with that for now. There is no man in my life, though. I think of having a child on my own but, truth is, I can’t afford a family.

  Meanwhile, the biological clock ticks on as my twenties draw to a close.

  The only steady guy in my life is Wilbur the Worm. I write and perform a radio show for CBC that broadcasts in Alberta, Saskatchewan, and the Northwest Territories, teaching elementary kids music. Wilbur is a squeaky-voiced character who co-hosts the show with me, Anne. He is me, of course, and together we bring in thirty-five dollars a week.

  I own an old house in a sweet part of Edmonton — Rossdale — down in the valley on the banks of the North Saskatchewan River. It was built in 1904, when this neighbourhood was a small town with its own school and a few stores. Back then, the river was a main thoroughfare; the big paddleboats would have passed right by my front door. I share my home with three wild and wonderful women — Lorna and Linda, identical twins, and Sylvie, a French Canadian from Northern Alberta.

  They descend from the second floor with two men trailing. “I guess we’re five of us eating,” says Lorna.

  “It smells
so good!” says a new guy with an air of entitlement. I’ve never seen him before. Maybe it’s just his British accent that makes him seem arrogant. I admonish myself for finding fault, but where did he come from?

  “And who might you be?” I ask, lightly.

  “Me?” he looks surprised, “I’m Keith, the architect. I’m with her.” He points to Linda. She shakes her head and points to her sister. “No, you’re with her ... you’re with Lorna. I’m Linda.”

  “Of course!” He can’t tell them apart and attempts to laugh it off. Hungry, he sits down with a wink.

  The other guy, Michael, fills his bowl and leaves the room. “Have a good talk!” He is visiting from Montréal and pretty much stays out of everything, but Keith enthusiastically digs into the food.

  “What’s up? What do we need to talk about?” Linda asks.

  “Well. Taxes are due. Mortgage rates just went up half a point.” I try to present the bad news gently. “So I need to raise your rent by twenty dollars each.”

  “From ninety to one hundred and ten? For a room? That’s a lot,” Keith reacts. I stare at Keith in disbelief. How does he know how much they pay? He shrugs. “It is just my opinion. Pardon me.”

  “What an idiot!” I think to myself. It’s a bargain for them, especially considering the “guests” who rarely contribute.

  I just finished editing someone else’s film and the pay was reasonable, but with all the extra costs around here, I’m counting every penny. I could find another editing job, but I’m anxious to make a film of my own.

  Sylvie breaks the silence. “I think it’s cool, no problem for me.”

  Linda just got back from travelling, so I know she’s pondering whether or not she’s even going to stay here. “There’s a sort of room in the basement and a bathroom. Why don’t we get another person?”

  “What?” I cut her off, “Nobody wants to live in that pit. There’s hardly any room and that old furnace is filthy, often smells like coal!”