by CW Ullman
When he opened his eyes, standing directly in front of Charlie, was a smiling Darla. She kidded him in an Indian accent, “Tell me, what do you see? Hmm?”
Charlie could not wipe the smile off his face when they embraced. He was happy. The sensation was like being in love for the first time. All things are now possible: happiness, freedom from anxiety, personal forgiveness, acceptance, and enlightenment Charlie thought this was an experience which everyone in the world needed to have. It was the answer to ending strife, wars, misery, and human suffering. Knowing this, knowing the love of God, was the truest desire of everyone on the planet. Charlie was going to do all he could to spread the knowledge. Tapping into this current of possibility was going to be his mission; to take the greatest gift he ever received and give it to everyone he knew. The mystery of unlocking happiness and joy should not be held just by the few people fortunate enough to have discovered it. While the heaven of meditation embraced him, he would come to know the mission was rooted in a more earthly agenda.
Charlie did not come down from his introduction to the knowledge for two weeks. He moved into the ashram where adherents were devoted to the teachings and strictures of an ascetic life and gave their lives over completely to Guru Prajwal. Charlie’s one possession, his car, was given to the mission. All the money he had, thirty dollars, was theirs and he worked to give the mission much more.
Every morning they would rise at four, go down to the main room, light a few candles, sit in the lotus position, and sing an old Indian devotional called, “Aarti.”
From the Vedas, the oldest of Sanskrit literature believed to be divinely revealed, Aarti, literally means ”to take away,” or purge the obstacles to enlightenment. While they sang Aarti, a ghee-bathed wick was lit and passed amongst the adherents. They brushed their fingers over the flame as an offering to God and then touched water to their foreheads as a sign of rebirth and cleansing. When the devotional was finished, they meditated for an hour.
Charlie loved the discipline and ritual. Like routines he developed in the Navy, Charlie was comforted by a sense of order. Knowing where to go, what to do, and how long to do it was itself a form of meditation for him.
Charlie worked at the office building downtown, where he ran the advertising for the mission magazine. This morning, the news that greeted him at the office was that Guru Prajwal was coming to Denver for a visit. Charlie was informed he temporarily had an added new job. He was to help find a suitable place for the Guru to stay and be one of the people to attend to him while he was in Denver. For the next two weeks, Charlie and Mahatma Ji drove around looking at houses in a suburb of Denver called Cherry Hills. Mahatma Ji said that once the house was available, they would have to scrub it clean from top to bottom. Mahatma Ji liked to repeat the old American adage, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”
When the house became available, Charlie, Mahatma Ji, and a crew of premies spent days scouring every inch. Two days before Guru Ji’s visit, an advance team consisting of assistants and family members arrived. Meeting them for the first time was a revelation. They seemed to lack any of the welcoming, friendly spirit of the American premies. They were demanding, haughty, and short-tempered. It seemed as though nothing in the house was right. The lead member of the advance team, Raja Ji, a son of Guru Ji, chastised Mahatma Ji constantly, shaking his finger in his face and then brushing him aside. The relationship between Mahatma Ji and Raja Ji could best be described as that of a dog to a cruel owner.
After one of these tirades, Charlie had to ask Mahatma Ji why he let Raja Ji talk to him so rudely.
“Sri Raja Ji is the son of Guru Prajwal. He wants to get everything A-OK. You never argue. It is our duty to listen and do the best we can. We are all in service to Guru Ji.” Mahatma Ji said.
Having served in the Navy, Charlie understood what it meant to obey orders and not question authority, but Raja Ji was easily forty years younger than Mahatma Ji, who had been with Guru Ji’s father. It seemed to Charlie that Mahatma Ji should have earned a degree of respect from Raja Ji.
When Charlie brought this up to Darla, she explained what was going on. She started, “You may not like some of what I’m going to tell you. The caste system in India still exists. The gurus, and by extension their families, are considered royalty. In fact, they’re above royalty because their followers believe they have been touched by God. Divine right of kings is still alive and kicking in India. The gurus collect offerings from their followers and then set up schools, medical centers, and food banks for their followers. The gurus hold a lot of power and wealth, and like executives in this country, their staff can have sharp elbows.
“I’ve also noticed how they speak to Mahatma Ji and I don’t like it either. Let me be alone in a room with them and they would discover a new tone, but he’s the guy they’re talking to. If you ever said anything about this to them, Mahatma Ji would be devastated.”
Charlie responded, “He’s such a sweet guy. I mean the bowing and scraping from a guy in his seventies to these jerks doesn’t seem right.”
“Mahatma Ji is doing what his heart truly desires. He is serving his Master, and he will put up with any amount of shit to be near Guru Prajwal. Maybe what you need to do is focus more on Mahatma and less on Raja.”
Charlie knew she was right. There were always going to be assholes in the world. One cannot control others, only one’s self. This reminded him of the truism from Buddha in the Hermann Hesse novel, Siddhartha. When Siddhartha, the Buddha, had nothing and was moribund, he was told true wealth is what an individual can control. Siddhartha realized, “I can sit. I can wait. I can fast.”
Charlie was learning to wait.
The house was finally readied to Raja’s liking. He walked all the way around and through the residence with Mahatma Ji, bowing and grinning, in tow. Charlie was standing by the front door watching, when he noticed one of the other assistants, Sharma, drop something on the floor in a room in which Raja and Mahatma Ji were headed.
Raja walked in the room and started yelling in English. Raja had gone to school in England and had affected an upper class, condescending accent, “Dirt. What is this dirt? I thought you told me the rooms were all clean.”
Mahatma Ji was facing the thirty-year-old Raja, who kept tapping him on the forehead, as if Mahatma Ji was a schoolboy being admonished. Raja walked around the room flinging his arms and returned to tap Mahatma Ji’s forehead, while Mahatma Ji looked down the entire time.
“I thought you said you wanted to see Guru Prajwal when he got here. You kept repeating, ‘Raja, I will crawl on my knees to see Guru Ji, I will guard him with my life, he means the entire world to me.’ You can’t even keep dirt off the floor. I don’t think you will see Guru Ji when he comes to America. I think you need to stay in a closet. Go!”
Mahatma Ji turned around to leave and Raja yelled at him again, “Where do you tink you are going, you pathetic, useless old man?”
Mahatma Ji turned with still downcast eyes and said, “My dear Raja Ji, I thought you told me to leave.”
“ I tought you told me to leave. No, stupid old man,” I said “Go,” Raja continued, “as in go to the closet. There.”
Raja pointed to a closet, Mahatma Ji walked in, and Raja slammed the door. With the door shut, Raja and Sharma looked at each other and bent over in silent laughter.
Still laughing, they walked toward Charlie. When Raja spoke with Charlie, it was as though they were old classmates. He said, “These old mahatmas are so easy to fool. They’re dumber than bags of rice. Everything is yes Raja, no Raja, whatever you want Raja, let me lick your boots Raja. Do you believe these guys? Do me a favor, tell one of the girls in the kitchen to clean up the room. Sharma and I are going for a ride. Tamil will stay in that closet all day. When the girls finish with the room, tell Tamil that Raja said he can come out.”
Raja and Sharma walked out the front door imitating Mahatma Ji’s downcast look, got in a Rolls Royce, and drove off. Charlie had never before heard M
ahatma Ji’s non-religious name, Tamil. He walked to the door and got Mahatma Ji out of the closet.
“You know Sharma dumped dirt on the floor? Why do you let them do this to you?” Charlie asked.
“I am in service to Guru Prajwal. I am being tested. I love him for that. I must be pure to be with Guru and Raja’s job is to purify me,” Mahatma Ji said.
This was such a stretch for Charlie, he was not sure he could wrap his head around it. Testing Mahatma Ji was not what Charlie would have called it. He was being played. Mahatma Ji lived for only one thing and that was to be with Guru Ji. Charlie had tried to feel the same affinity, but his connection was to the meditation. Mahatma Ji had been in America for over a year and this was the longest he had been separated from Guru Prajwal. Charlie had seen Mahatma Ji crying in front a picture of the Guru because he longed for him so much. He overheard a phone call where Mahatma Ji was asking to come back to Punjab because he missed Guru Ji so much. It was as though Raja and Sharma had sentenced Mahatma Ji to perpetual hazing. Raja was the master of finding the one thing people wanted, dangling it in front of them and taking great joy in denying it to them.
“I must get a broom to clean up this room. We will need to wash it again to get it ready for Guru Prajwal,” said Mahatma Ji.
“Raja Ji said to tell the girls to do it,” Charlie said.
“And miss an opportunity to serve the master? Oh no, I will do it,” Mahatma Ji said.
On the way back to the ashram Mahatma Ji spoke, “Don’t you feel lucky, Charlie? Our opportunity was to clean the residence of Guru Prajwal. I hope our presence in the room does not disturb His Holiness. We are lucky, Charlie, very lucky.”
Charlie loved Mahatma Ji, and so wanted to feel his reverie for the simplest act for Guru Ji. Mahatma Ji was overjoyed, not at the thought that he might see Guru, but that he would just be in the same city as Guru Prajwal. Charlie thought of him as a little child about to go downstairs on Christmas morning when he spoke of the visit. He was sitting in the front seat of the car, hunched over with his eyes closed, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, repeating, “We are so lucky, hmmm, Charlie?”
The day came when Sri Guru Prajwal was to arrive and the flurry of activity in the ashram was phrenetic. At two in the afternoon, Charlie, Raja, and Sharma drove out to the airport to pick up Guru Prajwal who was coming in on a private jet paid for by one of the premies with a trust fund. When Mahatma Ji learned Charlie was selected to drive to the airport to get Guru Ji, Charlie thought he was about to see a old Indian monk do back flips.
While in the car, Raja asked, “Charlie, do we have clearance to drive out on the runway?”
“Yes, we can drive right out to the plane,” Charlie said as they left the house.
“Now remember, when we gather Guru into the car you are not to speak to him unless he speaks to you. Always address him as Guru Ji and don’t stare at him in the rear view mirror. Always open the door and close the door for him. Do you have any questions?” Raja said.
Charlie shook his head. On the drive to the airport, Raja and Sharma were talking about where they were going to sit in the car: Raja in the back, Sharma in the front. The conversation drifted back to their activities since they had been in Denver. Charlie looked on the family of Guru Prajwal as the keepers of a spiritual heritage. The spiritual leaders from whom Guru Prajwal descended had cared for people in the Punjab region going back to 1539. The guru in northern India had seven million followers who thought of him and his family as infallible.
So it became unsettling for Charlie when he heard them speaking about how much money American donations would add to the mission’s coffers. They were used to riding in chauffeur-driven cars where they talked freely in the back. They were privileged and took no pains to hide it. Both were over-privileged, prep school punks like some Charlie had known when he attended a prep school in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
They arrived at the airport as the plane was taxiing to its anchor. When it stopped, the aircraft door unfolded and out stepped Guru Prajwal, who then tripped on the first step and fell down the next five steps to the ground. Raja, Sharma and the people inside the plane all rushed to his aid. They picked him up after which Guru Prajwal went on a tirade, smacking them. When he got to the car, he told Raja and Sharma to get a ride with someone else. The two of them bowed and stepped back from the Rolls Royce. Charlie put Guru Ji in the car, ran around to the driver’s side, looked in the rear view mirror once, started the car, and drove off.
“What is your name?” Guru Prajwal asked.
“Guru Ji, I am Charlie Palmer.”
“Charlie Palmer, are you from Denver?”
“No, Guru Ji, I am from California.”
“I was just there. I did a program in Los Angeles. I want to move the American center from Denver to Los Angeles. I do not like cold weather, I get enough of that in Punjabi. Don’t take me to the residence yet, I want to drive around.” Guru Ji commanded.
Guru Ji was dressed in a white tunic that went past his knees with white pants and sandals. He had been reading about the Red Rocks Theatre on the outskirts of Denver and wanted to see it. He told Charlie one day he would do a program there when enough people would come to it. He asked him who was the mahatma that taught him the techniques and Charlie answered Mahatma Ji.
“Charlie, they are all named Mahatma Ji. What’s his name?” Guru Ji chuckled.
“Tamil?”
“Old Tamil, he is one of my oldest mahatmas. He served my father. I grew up on Tamil’s lap. I used to torment him miserably as a young lad and he would come back for more. When I was told I had to learn English, I made him learn English, too, so I could have someone with whom to speak. Once, I sent him down to New Delhi because I wanted him to buy a recording of Frank Sinatra. He said back to me, Frankie Shinatra. We went back and forth trying to get the pronunciation right and I thought he understood by the time he left. He was gone for a year. A year! You could have walked to New Delhi and back in two weeks.
“So after a year, he came back tired and sad. I asked him where he had been and he answered everywhere. I said to him that I wanted him to go to New Delhi and get a recording of a Frank Sinatra. He said he felt very bad because he had disappointed me on this task, and he did not deserve any mercy from me. He would have talked for another year if I did not stop him. I said okay, okay, just tell me what happened. He said, ‘I went everywhere and I asked many people and they kept telling me the same thing. So I asked many more and still nothing. I did not want to give up, Sri Guru, but in New Delhi, I could not record Frank Shinatra. He does not live there.’”
With that, Guru Ji burst out laughing. He was laughing so hard it made Charlie laugh. Having known Mahatma Ji personally and how literal he could be about certain things, Charlie imagined him wandering the Indian countryside looking for Frank Sinatra to record live.
“That Tamil is an old goat, but I love him. He would die for me. He has the heart of an innocent lad. That man is pure devotion,” Guru Ji said.
They drove out to Red Rocks as the sun was setting. They got out of the car and Charlie walked behind Guru Ji who shouted and listened to the echo.
“Yes, this is what I read about. Okay. Let’s go, they will all be worried, wondering where I am. They’ll think you kidnapped me if we’re not back soon,” Guru Ji chuckled.
They left with the sun low in the west, casting long shadows of tall rocks onto the ground. Guru Ji fell asleep in the back seat. They were driving into Cherry Hills to the house they had rented for Guru Ji and Charlie thought how wonderful the day had been and how great Guru Prajwal was. Here he was in the back seat of the car Charlie was driving. Of seven million people who would love to drive Guru Ji around for a day, he was actually chosen.
He thought of Mahatma Ji and what he would say right now, “Charlie, you know how lucky you are?”
As they were pulling up to the house, Charlie looked in the rear view mirror and called to a sleeping Guru Ji, who awoke angry.
&nbs
p; “I don’t like it when people wake me up from my dreams,” Guru Ji said.
Charlie apologized as they pulled up to the front door and fifteen people came running for the car. They stopped short of the Rolls Royce and stood in reverence, looking in the window at the guru. Before Charlie could open Guru Ji’s door, someone else did. Charlie was standing next to the car when Guru Ji exited, he pointed at Charlie while speaking at Raja. Guru Ji strode into the house and Raja put a hand up to have Charlie stay by the car. It would be the last time Charlie would ever talk or be alone with him.
Guru Prajwal’s visit was written up in the Denver Post and a story on the mission appeared alongside. It told of the many addicts forsaking drugs to enter the ashram and begin a chaste and productive life. It covered the political activists, who thought it more urgent to know personal peace before trying to spread world peace, and the community activities undertaken by the premies. The Post did not report on the petty fights among the people in the ashram over control of everything from food to toiletry articles, and who was supposed to do dishes and clean the bathrooms. The Post also missed the fact that when sixty people in their twenties are under the same roof, there seemed to be no amount of devotion, satsung, or meditation that curbed the sexual desires of many.
Clearly an ascetic life was not meant for everyone in the mission, and after being in the ashram for a year, Charlie thought he might have come to the end of ascetic living. The line of gurus from which Guru Prajwal descended used the Bhagavad-Gita and the Ramayana, old Hindu scriptures, to illustrate virtues such as devotion, sacrifice, loyalty, and love. These ancient Hindu stories are as colorful as the Old Testament. In one text, people who renounced all material things were called sadhus, a Sanskrit term that literally translates to “good man” or “good woman.” Mahatma Ji was a true sadhu. He cared about nothing else but to serve the Perfect Master. When he saw Guru Prajwal, all of the tension and anxiety left his body and he was truly at peace. Charlie realized he was not a sadhu because he liked having money in his pocket too much. Also, when a command or request was given in the wrong tone, it irritated him. However, the biggest obstacle might have been the inability to connect to Guru Prajwal. Charlie did not know if it was himself, or if Guru Prajwal was not the person he had built him up to be.