The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  Gosh, I thought to myself, that’s real power.

  “You will stay with us for a few days, of course …” said the holy man.

  “If there is anything you need, please ask for it. Tell my secretary where to collect your belongings and they will be fetched.”

  Bhalu twitched his fingers restlessly. The notion of having all his wishes catered for was one which pleased him. No sooner had the swami strolled away – preceded by the backward-walking sprinklers – than Bhalu began a long, uncompromising list of requests.

  Still bewildered as to why we were being given preferential treatment, again I urged Bhalu to come clean. As before, he refused to reveal the lies. Ignorant of the nature of our alibi, I resolved to make use of the circumstances. I would study the sage’s methods first-hand.

  Three hours after our arrival, the ashram’s members entered the central heart-shaped auditorium in single file. Most were barefoot; all were dressed in the association’s symbolic hue of orchid pink. The believers appeared to have come from many backgrounds, across the subcontinent. There were foreigners too. I heard them whispering in Japanese, French, Spanish, Arabic and Russian. Wherever they had come from was irrelevant now. Their allegiance to Sri Gobind transcended national boundaries. Each devotee wore a thin pinkish cotton band around the left wrist; a simple yet earnest token of their obeisance.

  I scanned the assembly hall for Bhalu, who was absent. He was, no doubt, making use of the fraternity’s mixed bathing pool. To the Trickster, the idea of naked rose-petal-sprinkling girls was far more intriguing than a public audience with a deity in human form.

  Before the swami entered the hall, his disciples clasped hands, forming a single chain. In unison they chanted a short mantra, over and over. At first the verse was slow and distinct. But with each repetition it became a little more blurred by the acceleration of the delivery. To the words were added lurching, writhing movements of the torso. One by one, the followers broke the daisy chain of hands, veering off in their own directions, their bodies quivering. Some rocked their heads back and forth; others rubbed their hands lasciviously over their thighs. All seemed well practiced in the obscure ritual. Like any group with its own traditions, they drew strength from what was alien to others, but central to themselves.

  Again, the flower-sprinkling maidens heralded the arrival of the yogi’s retinue. As the first wilting petals touched the central dais, an ominous hush fell across the hall. The master was surrounded by those who worshiped him. Rather, he was above them, seated on a golden throne, up on the dais. Placated by the presence of their leader, the disciples’ frantic expressions were calmed.

  It was then, at that moment, that I understood the key aspects of the cult environment. Give people a symbol – whether an emblem, a movement of the hand, a secret word, a color, or an amulet. Tell them to hand over all their worries, and place absolute trust in you. Better still, never actually say this, but imply it. Preach lessons which no one can fully understand. Exhort notions that contradict everything the followers have ever learned. Fill a hall with five hundred people; but don’t let them forget that each communicates with the other through you. Without you, they are blind, deaf, and dumb. But, most importantly, prove your occult competence in real terms … through miracles.

  Concoct the right blend of the mysterious, and the disciples will follow you anywhere. You can laugh, cry, rant, and rave; or merely sit for hours in silence. Hone that balance and you can do what you like: for the equilibrium of mystery has made you a god.

  On that first evening, half a dozen Chinese businessmen were attending the darshan, the service. They had, I heard later, been dragooned into visiting the ashram by a local politician. Once he was comfortable on his golden throne, his hands stroking the panther-head arm rests, the yogi called out for the Chinese, and then for me, to join him on the dais. As visitors to the commune we stood out by the nature of our dress. Only the initiated were permitted to wear the orchid pink robes of the clan.

  The Chinese and I scrambled up on to the platform, which was positioned at the acute end of the heart-shaped auditorium. I perched on a pink satin cushion to the left of the holy man, slightly further back than his throne.

  When we were in position, the lyre player strummed a few chords, and as she did so, the followers prostrated themselves on the floor and prayed. Sitting on the stage, I understood how a guru feels when his acolytes pay homage. My instinct was to thrust up my arms and plead with them to stop. I would, I mused, not make a good godman.

  Standing, the lyrist began to play again; this time she was accompanied by a sitar player. As the chamber filled with soft, soothing music, the swami began his oration. He spoke of love, of truth, hope and peace. His language was sugar-sweet like the messages on greeting cards which make you cringe. He rambled on about the merits of free love, invincible joy and faith. The Chinese sat stony-faced, staring at the cushions before them. Perhaps sensing that the concentration of his guests was waning, Sri Gobind began a series of superb miracles.

  No explanation was given why the illusions were done at all. If this was a god standing before us, why should he need to prove his abilities? Nonetheless, in the most devoted disciple lies a kernel of doubt.

  Circling his wrist three times, the yogi created vibhuti, as if from nowhere, and sprinkled it on the cupped palms of the Chinese executives and myself. Then, lifting his left hand up to his ear, he pulled out a shiny oval object. It was about three centimeters high and made from milk chocolate. It was an Easter egg. He handed it to me, telling me the egg was a symbol of new life and purity. The devotees applauded rabidly. Far more cynical than they, I checked the sell-by date. As I suspected, it was three months past due. The wedding-egg salesman had obviously found another outlet for his products.

  When the Chinese had been presented with eggs, the godman moved on to the next illusion. He asked someone from the audience to come up and give him a coin. The smaller the value, the better, he said. A voluptuous Bavarian woman leapt to her feet and bounded up on to the stage. She presented the pandit with a ten-paisa coin. He held it up to the devotees, like an amateur magician would do at a child’s party. The followers squirmed with delight. Chanting mantras and twisting about on the platform like a disco dancer in slow motion, the mystic fell into an impromptu trance. A moment later, the coin had vanished and reappeared. Touching it to his brow, Gobind returned it to the disciple. The Chinese narrowed their eyes. The devotees drew a deep breath. I craned my neck to scrutinize the guru’s hands.

  Suddenly, the German lady screamed that the coin was secreting ash. She had witnessed a miracle and wanted everyone to know it.

  Back in Calcutta, Feroze had demonstrated the “ash from coins” illusion on several occasions. He had mentioned that the routine was popular with Indian godmen.

  The secret is very simple. A five-, ten- or twenty-paisa coin must be used. They are the only aluminum coins circulated in India. Distracting his acolytes by dancing around, the guru rubs the coin on a sponge concealed in a pocket of his robe. The sponge has been dipped in a saturated solution of mercuric chloride. When it comes into contact with the soft aluminum, a chemical reaction begins. After a moment or two on the warm palm of the follower, the aluminum metal sweats ash. Even if it’s washed in water, it continues to give off heat and gray ash.

  The Bavarian woman buzzed through the hall like a spinning top, showing off her ash-covered coin to anyone interested. Another handful of miniature Easter eggs were materialized and thrown to the audience to halt feelings of jealousy. Unlike the Chinese and I, who had scoffed our eggs, the followers clutched theirs reverentially, as if they were holding divine objects.

  With another prolonged discourse at an end, the yogi called for a volunteer. Fifty devotees jumped to their feet, begging to be selected. Snapping his fingers at a short, rotund Indian, Sri Gobind instructed him to draw an image on a blank card. He did so, and the card was placed in an envelope. Sellotape was used to secure the pouch. The participant
scrawled his signature across the seal. He handed it back to the guru. Staring at the cushioned floor of the dais, Gobind went into deep and introspective thought. Again, the auditorium fell silent. Could he reveal what had been written on the card without unsealing the envelope? The Chinese and I, who were hoping for another hand-out of Easter eggs, were skeptical. The followers knew that another miracle was on the way.

  As I had practiced tricks under Feroze’s guidance, I had recognized that without showmanship, even the most dazzling conjuring was two-dimensional. For the first time I was witnessing illusions being carried off before a large audience, by a formidable Thespian. The prosaic air of the Master’s study had been replaced by a hall crammed full of believers.

  Sri Gobind manipulated his spectators like a true professional. He molded their emotions; feeding them with his magic. I sensed the expectation, and then the surge of rapture as a second miracle was delivered. This was a performance which might have stirred even Feroze. Indeed, the more I considered it, the more I realized that the godman’s conjury was very similar to that of my own teacher.

  So while his devoted brethren twitched like wind-up toys, the showman did his stuff. When five or six minutes of chanting were at an end, the yogi announced the nature of the unseen symbol. The fanatic had drawn a Hand of Fatima. A potent sign, which appears in numerous religions, the Hand was a favored emblem of the cult.

  Tearing through the envelope, the godman displayed the card to the followers. It did indeed bear a large, crudely drawn Hand of Fatima.

  The auditorium echoed to the sounds of crazed applause. A woman at the back of the hall began to rip at her locks ecstatically, screaming out her adoration. She pulled out two handfuls of thick mouse colored hair. The tall Anglo-Saxon man beside her was similarly awestruck. Prostrating himself on the floor, he declared Sri Gobind to be “the True God”. But he was preaching to the converted. Even the skeptical Chinese businessmen were now being swayed by the godman’s magic.

  I was the only unbeliever. From my position on the stage, I had scrutinized the miracle at close quarters. The meeting hall’s shape – a heart – was obviously more than symbolic. The design, with the dais at the pointed end, ensured that no one could position himself behind Sri Gobind. From where I was sitting, on the sidelines, the second miracle had melted away into illusion. But even I, a hard-bitten skeptic, could not fail to applaud the mastery with which the yogi had performed.

  With deft-handed artifice, he had furtively wiped the front of the envelope across one corner of his mantle. The fabric had probably been treated with ordinary lighter fluid. When the oil came in contact with the paper of the envelope, it turned it from opaque to transparent – allowing the pandit to glimpse the symbol inside. A couple of minutes later, once the lighter fuel had evaporated, the paper was opaque again.

  When the darshan was at an end, I searched out the Trickster. He had raided the cult’s hospitality stores, and was stuffing all manner of booty into a pillowcase in his suite. Disposable Bic razors, shower caps, toothbrushes and sachets of eau de toilette: they represented loot of the most valuable kind. We had been invited to stay as honored guests; and all he could do was steal from the host. Did he feel no shame? Bhalu, who was busy unhooking a shower curtain in the bathroom, told me he had no choice. Theft was in his blood.

  By the next morning, the Trickster had filled eight pillowcases with booty. They were stacked like sandbags in his cupboard. Again, I rebuked my young companion. But to him, a thousand sachets of eau de toilette represented spoils gained on a subversive mission. The plunder would, I suspected, turn him into the premier trading magnate of the railways overnight.

  As I hurried off to another public audience with Sri Gobind, Bhalu pondered how to convey his sacks from the compound unseen.

  Like the audience hall, the ashram itself was constructed in a heart shape. For, as the guru said so often, everything we know and have is created from love … hot love. Five heart-shaped buildings formed the backbone of the compound. In their heart-shaped rooms devotees meditated and read, slept and ate. When not swimming in a heart shaped pool, they were encouraged to explore the heart-shaped maze, or sit beneath the great heart-shaped water-clock to consider the swami’s teachings.

  As I strolled over to the compound’s heart-shaped auditorium, I noticed a number of modest stone shrines dotted about the paths. One could not help noticing them; for each one – about three feet high – had a follower sitting in meditation beside it. Rather than sheltering a miniature effigy, the shrines housed something far more precious: the hand-print of the yogi.

  All godmen and godwomen are expected to be eccentric. The more worshiped and wealthy they are, the more outlandishly they are supposed to behave. Some religious leaders have drunk their own urine; others have advocated unthinkable sexual practices or have swanned about in fleets of Rolls-Royces. An anthropologist friend once suggested to me that godmen are like politicians. Articulate and well-dressed, they travel first-class, invent new rules, amass great fortunes at the public’s expense and, given half a chance, cavort about with licentious abandon.

  When it came to divine eccentricity, Sri Gobind was no exception. His followers took great pride in the tales of their teacher’s irregularities. Every so often, gripped by an insatiable desire, the guru would jump naked from his bed. Running into the heart-shaped gardens, he would relieve himself in the bushes. Or, in the middle of an address, he had been known to rip off all his clothes and anoint his flabby belly with buffalo-milk butter. Each morning, his fans averred, the holy man would douse himself in a bath of potassium permanganate. The immersion gave his skin its exotic purply-brown tinge. He would dress his hair with a pomade of seasoned egg whites; dab his earlobes with witch hazel; and spray his nether regions with his own blend of catnip cologne.

  Several hundred followers, with frozen lotus-eater smiles, were loitering at the heart-shaped meeting hall by the time I arrived. As well as the hard-core devotees, hundreds of others turned up to be cured and blessed. The sick and ailing, each rapt with expectant hope, reminded me of the psychic healer in the Calcutta marshes. But here, in Madras, the stakes were far higher. Sri Gobind was no two-bit village prestidigitator: he was the helmsman of an immense money-making operation.

  Like some sublime ruler, he didn’t travel in search of partisans; he waited for them to attend him. And they came in their droves, prostrating themselves at his feet. Politicians and scholars, Hollywood actors, aging hippies, and ordinary folk, they embraced Sri Gobind with equal zest, bringing him all their woes. Questions of religious identity, marriage problems, financial difficulties, or relief from illness: nothing was beyond the expertise of their lord.

  With the sun high above the heart-shaped theater, packed with pilgrims and adherents, the faint whisper of a hand rasping at a lyre’s strings hinted that the godman’s retinue was approaching.

  First came the pink petal girls; then the stooping factotums; the amiable yes-men and nodders followed; and on their heels hastened the farrago of secretaries, bearers and bodyguards, punkhawallas and bandsmen. At the center of the multitude, cooled by a dozen heart shaped fans, was the yogi himself.

  The retinue advanced to the dais. As the mystic stepped up on to the platform, the first marvel occurred. Two banks of red tulips – in tubs either side of the stage – bowed their heads in honor of the omnipotent god. The effect of this feat was awesome. A woman with turquoise nail varnish threw her arms in the air and exclaimed her devotion. A contingent of Uruguayan beatniks gaped wide-eyed at the miracle. Unable to contain himself, an old Punjabi scrambled on to the podium, crawled over to the godman, and began to lick his feet. The jinn-like henchman grabbed the ancient by the neck and flung him into the crowd.

  Feroze had demonstrated the “flowers bow down” routine in the laboratory. A concealed jet sprays chloroform over the blooms. Like humans, they are susceptible to anesthesia, and quickly droop.

  As before, Sri Gobind beckoned for me to join him on the
dais. Once on the stage, I greeted him. He looked me in the eye and wished me boundless hot love. Returning the remark anxiously, I noticed that the godman’s eyes had changed color overnight. The day before, they had been a dusty brown. Now they had mutated to a deep shade of royal purple. The tint complemented the guru’s lavender shot-silk robes rather well. I glanced down at the spectators. They seemed blasé at their deity’s astonishing eye color. What significance is a spontaneous change of eye color to an immortal capable of far greater feats? I had heard of another godman who would tour Indian villages wearing mirror-like contact lenses. Who would doubt that a man with reflective eyes was not a deity?

  Every Thursday, Sri Gobind treated the ill and dying. Those who could walk would congregate at one side of the dais. Others, too sick to stand, would be lined up on the stage on cots. That day about eighty patients had been admitted to the ashram to be healed. None would be charged for the treatment, which was laid on more as a public-relations exercise than an organized clinic. In any case, I suspected Sri Gobind had little need to accept petty fees from the infirm: his coffers must already have been brimming over with donations from his disciples.

  Before the healing could commence, the yogi performed a selection of miracles to put the ailing at ease and to titillate the audience.

  First, he materialized vibhuti and sprinkled it into the palms of the infirm. Then he pulled a gold bracelet from nowhere and offered it to the wife of a wealthy businessman. She had come to have her angina treated. As the guru moved to his next miracle, four large church candles at each corner of the dais lit themselves spontaneously. Sri Gobind said it was hot love, not he, which had ignited their wicks. I knew differently. Feroze had taught me the trick. The wicks are dipped in a solution of white phosphorous, mixed with carbon disulphide. When the solvent has evaporated, the wick catches light.