Maharishi & Me

by Susan Shumsky

In eager anticipation, I waited downstairs in the cave. Finally I was called into the next room and knelt clumsily on the carpet before Maharishi. He wrote a list of mantras for people under age thirty and handed it to me.

  He placed his palm on top of my head. Closing my eyes, I transported into a serene, pulsating realm. Waves of deep silence flooded me with ecstasy. Bliss-struck, I opened my eyes and smiled at Maharishi, whose eyes penetrated mine, transferring a wave of rapture, vibrating spiritual energy.

  I floated out of Maharishi’s house, smiling, walking tall and confident. Overwhelmed by a profound upwelling of joy, my footfalls lightened. The trees, flowers, and people around me throbbed with joy. Everything around me seemed to say, “I love you.”

  On April 20, Maharishi was on his way to New Delhi for a few days, then to Bangalore for a TM Teacher Training course for Indians. Just as we six devotees were about to leave with him in taxicabs, I showed him my latest pencil drawing of shadowy people on the roof, Maharishi lying on a cot, and three trees in the background.

  Maharishi said, “Good, good. But I need to see the people’s faces. Where are their faces?”

  Isn’t he ever satisfied? How will I draw these faces? What I didn’t understand was Maharishi had already begun working on me. As I was making new, improved versions of the picture, he was making new, improved versions of me.

  Maharishi then turned to Satyanand, seated in the back seat of the taxi. “Get some paints and brushes, art supplies, whatever she needs, when we get to Delhi.”

  Enroute our taxicabs stopped at a restaurant. All rushed inside for lunch—all except me and Maharishi, whom I secretly observed from my taxicab. When food was brought to his car, he refused it. All he wanted was four servings of the strange concoction Indians called “Kwality Ice Cream.”

  Maharishi had the most dignified persona—never rushed, extremely staid, and sedate. However, I clandestinely observed him, crouched over, scarfing ice cream from paper cups with a wooden spoon, shoveling rapidly, vehemently, into his mouth. I chuckled at the incongruity of such childlike behavior from an otherwise perfectly self-controlled yogi.

  Near sunset, the taxis stopped for one hour at a railroad crossing. Trains move at a turtle’s pace in India, so I walked up to Maharishi’s car and peered into the window.

  Maharishi looked up and smiled. “Hmm?”

  “Can I speak to you a moment?” I asked.

  Maharishi turned to Satyanand, seated in the back seat. “Get out.” Maharishi turned and looked at me. “Come, come. Sit.”

  I entered the back seat of Maharishi’s taxi. “I can either leave India now, or I can come to Bangalore with you. Should I come to Bangalore?”

  Maharishi responded with silence. He had a knack for ignoring questions, while assuming a person would make the right decision.

  The gate at the railroad crossing lifted. “Drive on,” Maharishi said. Satyanand, distraught, knocked on the car window. Maharishi motioned him to the next cab.

  I was squeezed in the back seat of Maharishi’s cab between a beautiful young woman, Vivian Dupont, and JP Srivastava—Maharishi’s brother. The overweight JP occupied half the back seat, resting his head on my right shoulder, snoring. Vivian slept on my left shoulder. Fighting them off, I got no rest. Maharishi slept most of the trip. Though Vivian seemed self-absorbed, vain, and aloof, she was, mysteriously, greatly favored by Maharishi. Later I found out why.

  A trip from Rishikesh to New Delhi should take six hours, but this took twelve. The taxicab kept overheating, breaking down every few miles. We reached New Delhi at 4:00 a.m. A strange juxtaposition—basking in Maharishi’s darshan, sweating in 100-degree heat, and getting crushed by two passengers.

  Satyanand took me to an art supply store to buy paints, brushes, and paper. Now I have to put people’s faces in the picture, I thought. How the heck will I do that?

  We six devotees flew with Maharishi from New Delhi to Bangalore (now Bengaluru) in South India—a city unsullied by the West, steeped in ancient traditions and spiritual vibrations. The weather was milder than Rishikesh, and a rainbow of tropical flowers bloomed.

  What surprised me was the glaring absence of street beggars. Gorgeous young damsels abounded, decked in colorful shot-silk satin saris, hair braided perfectly, adorned with cascades of fragrant jasmine. An ambrosial sight and delightful scent!

  We six assisted Maharishi as he taught TM Teacher Training to sixty Indian disciples. Maharishi kept us Westerners near him at all times, treating us like princes and princesses. His fountain of love, continually showering grace, never shut off. Whenever he saw me, he beckoned me to “Come, come” and sit near him.

  Being loved by a God-infused master was unique. It was the first time I ever really felt loved. When he said, “Come, come,” his words, like cotton candy, sweet, fragrant, and soft, melted even the most injured heart. The man I revered made me feel special. This was completely unfamiliar territory. I wanted more.

  I lined up with the rest of the damaged to feed at Maharishi’s exquisite love trough. His glance, his smile, his presence exuded torrents of love, sweeping every tinge of pain into wisps of nothingness, pappus fluff in the wind. All thoughts, negative, positive, or otherwise, disappeared when I was in his presence. Fears became insights. Heartache turned into joy. Insecurity became gratitude. I swam on waves of bliss in his rapturous ocean, vibrating in ecstasy.

  A special Brahmin cook prepared meals for Maharishi and the six of us. We sat cross-legged on mats while delicate, delicious food and fabulous sweets were spooned onto our “plates” (sewn-together fig leaves). We chanted “aam, aam!” in unison to summon mangoes. We followed the Indian custom of right hand for eating and left hand for latrine activities.

  Rama Rao was the first person to learn TM from Maharishi. In the group photograph on the next page, he’s the dark-haired man in the back row, to the right of Guru Dev’s picture. Mr. Rao invited us six to dinner. In India it’s said, “Treat guests as God.” So, traditionally, Indians don’t eat until guests are fed. After our simple, delicious meal, prepared with so much love by Rao’s wife, she presented gifts of saris to the women and dhotis to the men. I was gifted an orange cotton sari shot with black threads. I wore it for decades until it became threadbare.

  May 1970: Group photo Bangalore Teacher Training course. I am seated cross-legged on ground, far right. Photo courtesy of EGK & Son Photography, Bangalore, India

  Rama Rao reminisced about the early days. He was instrumental in helping Maharishi spread TM throughout Kerala in South India. In October 1955 a yajna (religious fire ceremony) took place in Cochin. He showed us the booklet Beacon Light of the Himalayas, which commemorated the event. It included transcripts, photographs, and a signed, handwritten message, “Maharishi’s Message to Peaceless and Suffering”:

  “Oh ye of the peaceless and suffering humanity! My happiness desires to root out your suffering. Will you extend your arm and allow me to lift you up from the mire of misery and peacelessness? Come on, here is the call of peace and joy for you, come and enjoy the Blissful Grace and All Powerful Blessings of my Lord the Great Swami Brahmanand Saraswati, the Great among the greats of the Himalayas. I have found a treasure in the Dust of His Lotus Feet and now I invite you to share it with me and make yourself happy …”

  In Bangalore we visited colorful Hindu temples where Maharishi lectured in Hindi. Pampered and spoiled, we six were always seated in the front row and honored as special guests—a few bratty young Westerners treated with utmost respect. But those truly deserving honor were the venerable founders of the TM Movement, like Rama Rao and Sri Venkatesham.

  Late one night, Lars asked Maharishi, “Can you tell us about Guru Dev?”

  Maharishi had a flair for the dramatic. His greatest oratory skill was his uncanny ability to elicit emotion from listeners. He paused and closed his eyes, as we waited with awed anticipation. Then he opened his eyes halfway, looking inside, rather than at us. Almost whispering, eyes downcast, he spoke slowly and qui
etly, with depth of feeling:

  “All that I speak is but a reflection of his holy presence. He was living Brahman. I basked in the radiance of his presence. Such personalities as Guru Dev are born of the necessity of time.”42

  He explained that, even though all wisdom is in the Vedas, if humanity doesn’t live it, it remains dormant and inaccessible. However, one man can revive it by embodying omnipresence, the fullness of wisdom. Then, from that one candle, many other candles get lit. Every generation then passes it on. “When thousands of people are living that, then this will be a world where angels will want to come. We want to leave a better world.”43

  In this way, Maharishi gave all credit to Guru Dev, in reverence. His vision was a world at peace, without suffering. He worked tirelessly daily toward fulfilling his “World Plan.” He stated that the glamour of taking credit is dangerous, so we give homage to Guru Dev and to Cosmic Intelligence.

  After our two-week trip to Bangalore, we returned to Rishikesh—to swelter in 115-degree heat. We stopped with Maharishi for a holy dip in the Ganges as we crossed from Haridwar. Women were required to be fully dressed in a sari or shalwar kameez. No swimsuits allowed.

  While bathing in the Ganges, I flashed on past life memories as a sanyasi, bathing in the holy river. I was a man in a loincloth, thin and emaciated, smeared with ash, meditating in a cave near the riverbank. Then I was a Swami, bearded and long haired, wearing saffron robes. These memories were filled with great joy and few cares.

  Back at Maharishi’s ashram, everything moved slowly. It was so hot I couldn’t think straight. Sitting up to meditate was difficult, even in the early morning, before the suffocating heat descended. Maharishi ordered us to stay in our rooms or his basement cave. No walking under the stifling sun allowed. No bathing in the Ganges, except early morning.

  Curiously, out of us six, three shared the same name—Susan. Maharishi nicknamed each of us: Susan the Artist (Susan Shumsky), tall and uber-skinny blond with blue eyes; Susan the Singer (Susan Ballantine), tall, blond, porcelain-skinned, full-figured, with glasses and buck teeth; and Susan the Thinker (Susan Schmidt), short, stout, with short black curly hair. After this, Maharishi always called me Susan the Artist. A few weeks later, Maharishi changed Susan the Thinker’s name to Susan the Great.

  In June the summer heat yielded to monsoon. I was sitting with Maharishi in his bungalow. Suddenly a terrible wind erupted. His door flapped and clanked. The shutters banged. Rain began to pound in torrents.

  Maharishi said excitedly, “Come, come.” Up the stairs he ran. I followed him to the enclosed porch above the kitchen. He jumped about like a rabbit—atypical for his formal, dignified persona. He grabbed a mattress propped against the wall and dragged it to a window overlooking the garden. He said, “Come. Sit.”

  Sitting side by side on the mattress, we looked out over the ashram landscape. The trees were dancing and writhing violently, ripped by the wind. Rain poured a deluge. Mud splattered everywhere in an awesome display. We watched in silence for a long time.

  Maharishi turned to me and said, “Such a terrible force in nature. What can man do? Just be a witness to it.”

  I didn’t speak. A million volts of electricity bolted through my body. My mind became a pool of molten gold. I wanted to sit near Maharishi, gaze into his eyes, and drink in his vibe forever. My senses were awake and alive as never before. To breathe the air that he’s breathing, I thought. That’s all that matters now.

  Maharishi leaned over and patted my head lightly. My eyes could no longer remain open. I sank into deep silence. The world disappeared. Nothing was left but a typhoon of bliss ripping through my body, cleansing and purifying every pore. Then I disappeared. Nothing remained but bliss. An ocean of ecstasy in waves of bliss.

  Dumbstruck, melted into a tidal wave of nothingness, my eyes remained glued shut for an indeterminate time. What broke the spell was Susan the Great tromping loudly up the stairs, yelling, “Maharishi, Maharishi, where are you?” Soon afterward Vivian came upstairs to further spoil my beatific mood.

  I struggled with yet another version of my painting of the trees and people on the roof. When I showed it to Maharishi, his comment: “I should be sitting up instead of lying down. And it should be bigger.”

  Though I was growing weary of restarting the painting repeatedly, I began a new version. One day, Maharishi asked me to bring it to his cave under his house. There he dictated a commentary, entitled “A Vision of Cosmic Consciousness, God Consciousness, and Unity Consciousness on a Moonlit Night with Maharishi.”

  I returned to my room, to complete a bigger painting. But when he saw this new version, his comment was, “I want to see who the people are. I want to be able to recognize them.”

  My heart sank again. This is really beyond the pale. How can I possibly do this? It seemed, no matter how many times I revised the painting, Maharishi would always ask for improvements. I didn’t know his motive was to stretch my boundaries so I could express more potential as an artist, and ultimately, as a human being. Whenever he described his relationship with disciples, he equated himself to a carpenter, and his disciples to pieces of wood. He was whittling me into the real me.

  The great female “hugging saint” who bestows grace upon thousands of devotees daily, Amritananda Mayi (Ammachi) said, “When the disciple approaches the Master, he is raw, rusty, primitive. The Master, the infinitely loving, divine alchemist, transforms the disciple into pure gold.”44

  I searched my memory, straining to paint a recognizable portrait of each person on the roof that night. I used the course group photograph as reference. For several portraits, I closed my eyes and attempted to visualize people’s faces. I worked diligently, but didn’t finish.

  Every new project animated and excited Maharishi. His eager enthusiasm for each moment and every person resembled a baby’s thrills for daily new discoveries of life’s wonders. One afternoon he called me to his cave and said, “This is the ashram we will build in Bhopal.”

  “Where’s Bhopal?” I asked.

  “Central India. A devotee donated some land to Maharishi,” Susan the Great chimed in. Maharishi then showed me elaborate colorful drawings he’d made with felt-tipped marking pens.

  “Can you make drawings of this ashram? This is how it should look.” Maharishi described the ashram in detail and handed me his scribbled drawings and contour land maps.

  Entirely overwhelmed, with zero knowledge about construction or architecture, I retreated to my room. Next day I returned to Maharishi’s cave with felt-tipped-pen-drawn pictures that resembled his own amateurish scribbles. He raised his eyebrows in obvious wonder at my massive incompetence.

  “The pictures should be line drawings, side view and top views,” Maharishi said, “like this.” He handed me some architectural renderings.

  Maharishi had much more faith in me than I had in myself. Frustrated and distraught, I could foresee no pathway whereby my blatant absence of architectural training would deliver anything remotely approaching a positive result. Though I was a pretty good artist, there were definite limits conferred by a certain lack of education. Perhaps Maharishi saw something in me I couldn’t see.

  I handed the architectural renderings back to Maharishi, and said, sarcastically, “Maharishi, I’m an artist, not a landscape architect.” Maharishi no longer called me to his cave, and he gave me no more assignments. This was just one of many tests I failed.

  7

  BEES TO HONEY

  1970 TO 1972

  The purpose of the relationship is to imbibe more and more of the master’s heart, mind, and being into the disciple’s being, just as the purpose of the gushing of the river towards the ocean is to own the whole of the ocean.

  —MAHARISHI MAHESH YOGI

  Willing to try any spiritual adventure with unbending resolve, I’d received the unheard-of blessing of staying with Maharishi and only five others for several months. That was the last opportunity a small group had close proximity to him for su
ch extended time.

  In June 1970, we six fortunate devotees waited in the New Delhi Airport to fly to the Italian Alps, where Maharishi would lead an Initiators-only course. For the past six months, we’d dwelt in a cocoon of pure love—far from the tense, all-businesslike West. So when Lufthansa pilots and stewardesses appeared in stiff uniforms and rigid, synthetic personae, the shock of reentry into callous Western civilization descended upon us. We could feel paradise slipping away.

  At six thousand feet, Livigno ski resort was nestled in a valley of rolling hills encircled by alpine peaks. In this halcyon setting, our magic carpet ride of favoritism came to a screeching halt. We were just six out of hundreds of Initiators. We found ourselves demoted to a pension down the road, far from Maharishi’s lodgings (except Vivian, that is).

  For reasons unknown, I distanced myself from Maharishi and hung out with Lars, my Dutch crush. Was it because I felt ultimately undeserving of Maharishi’s incessant, intense blast of divine love? Perhaps I subconsciously sought to revisit more familiar territory—pain, guilt, loneliness, unrequited love. Lars fit the bill for such dalliances with rejection.

  At the end of the course, Maharishi asked me, “Coming to America with me?”

  I replied, “No. I’m going to Holland. I want to do some sightseeing.” Maharishi’s eyes twinkled and he chortled in cynicism. I was busted. I could never hide anything from him.

  As soon as I got to Amsterdam, I realized my blunder. Cool and distant, Lars spent little time with me. My only consolation was visiting the Rijksmuseum to see works of my favorite painter, Vermeer.

  After my Dutch misadventure, I joined Maharishi in August 1970 for his one-month course at Humboldt State University in Arcata, California. Opting for my silly Holland side trip didn’t endear me to him. He revoked my insider-privilege welcome mat. Though Maharishi bubbled with love and laughed frequently, he was a strict, severe, exacting master with zero tolerance for less than 100 percent focus.