Fully determined to return to Maharishi’s graces, I cooked him Indian sweets and sneaked into his house, to the chagrin of Jerry Jarvis’s wife, Debby. Soon I was banned altogether. She didn’t easily forgive see-through blouses worn in my former hippie incarnation.
I managed to worm my way into transcribing videotapes of the Humboldt course. Fortunately, in September Maharishi invited our group to meet him in Santa Barbara, where he was planning to build a meditation academy.
The property lay on a mountaintop with breathtaking views of the ocean. We drove up the steep road to explore it. Maharishi stepped out of the car and his dhoti flapped in the wind, clinging to his body. A gust whistled through the pines. His beads tangled in his hair, flying wildly in the gale. He shivered. “What a cold place” was his only comment.
It turned out the property was never used—no water for a well.
At the end of my visit, Maharishi said, “Come, come.” I knelt on the floor as he reclined on a couch. (In India, disciples sit with eyes lower than their guru and never point their feet at him.) Those penetrating ebony eyes transmitted divine energy as he said, “Come to Estes Park. I’ll be teaching Teacher Training Course. Come and teach meditation in Denver while I’m there. You can visit me whenever you like.”
Apparently, Maharishi couldn’t teach in Rishikesh anymore due to tax problems, and Estes Park would be his first course outside India.
I glowed with happiness.
Upon arriving in Colorado in October, I discovered my parents had trashed all my possessions. But resentment didn’t stop me from unceremoniously invading their home and using their good graces for my own purposes. I stayed with them, established a TM Center in Denver, and visited Maharishi in Estes Park often.
I offered an introductory lecture at a university. The Denver Post ran a story and three hundred people showed up. As I initiated the new students, my mind expanded and heart flowed with compassion. My forehead and crown buzzed with blissful energy. The presence of the Holy Tradition of masters became palpable. Guru Dev was the main ingredient in that spiritual mélange. The room sank deeper into silence and turned milky white. My mind expanded to dwell on many higher levels—all ecstatic.
By sunset, I finished leading twenty people into their first TM experience. I said to my fellow course Instructor, “If this is what it’s like to initiate, then bring on the people. I could really get used to doing this!”
However much I loved initiating, with Estes Park nearby, the main thing on my mind was getting near Maharishi. To this end, each weekend I sped recklessly up treacherous, winding mountain roads at breakneck speed in my parents’ big white Buick. I always brought homemade Indian sweets and a handmade rose garland to drape around Maharishi’s neck.
In the hushed atmosphere of Maharishi’s log cabin in the snow, he would meet Jerry Jarvis (head of SIMS), Charlie Lutes (head of SRM), another TM leader, or would be alone. His unfathomable love, grace, and deep silence permeated the small rustic dwelling, set amidst spruce and fir. In this still, silent landscape, I hovered in suspended time and space, intoxicated by the ambrosia of his charismatic presence.
If Maharishi was still in his bedroom when I arrived, I helped “Susan the Singer” clean the cabin or helped the cook Anthony Romano prepare lunch. Anthony was one of many I had introduced to TM.
During one visit, I lugged my latest version of the painting of rooftop and trees in Rishikesh. Maharishi said, “Good, good. I still can’t recognize everyone’s face. I want to be able to name each person.”
I groaned inwardly. Not again! But I said nothing. I half smiled, half grimaced. By painting the picture over and over, I was doing what I couldn’t possibly do, expanding my boundaries. But I realized Maharishi might never declare the painting “done.”
Sufi guru Radha Mohan Lal told his disciple Irina Tweedie, “Whatever you do I will always tell you that it is nothing and you should do more! Otherwise how will you get rid of the shaitan of pride?”45
After three months in Estes Park, in December 1970 Maharishi left for Teacher Training Courses in Mallorca, Spain. I followed him in a mad dash to catch his plane. Sometimes I drove next to him and waved, speeding at eighty miles per hour. His comment when we arrived at Stapleton Airport: “Susan, you are really a good driver!” He smiled and gave me a rose.
I spent the next year in Denver, developing the TM Center. Jerry Jarvis promoted me to “Regional Coordinator” of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, Wyoming, and Utah. I traveled around the area, organizing and teaching meditation courses.
Maharishi returned to Humboldt in August 1971. But getting near him was difficult. The innocent days of India and Estes Park were over. A new group, the “International Staff,” seemed very important. They appeared to have unlimited access to Maharishi. So I became absolutely determined to join the Staff.
At the end of the course, I approached Maharishi. “I want to travel with you to Austria and Spain, to take your courses in Europe. I’ve saved $2000.”
“Where you got all that money, hmm?” he asked.
“I earned it teaching TM,” I replied. Maharishi seemed incredibly surprised. I continued, “I want to take these courses, then stay and work on International Staff.”
He asked, “What you will do?”
I replied, “Anything,” gazing at him with entreating, starry eyes.
“Very good. Come and take the courses. Then work on Staff. Tell Debby to arrange your flight to Austria.”
When I found Debby Jarvis, her eyes shot bullets at me. “I’ll have to ask Maharishi about that,” she scoffed.
Despite Debby’s resistance, I was on the list for the plane to Austria via England. My greatest desire was to live in Maharishi’s presence, so he was ever willing to say yes. It was up to me to make the most of this gift.
In September 1971, we arrived in Kössen, Austria—quaint, clean, and pristine. Picture-postcard Tyrolean chalets with pitched roofs and slatted gables abounded. Wooden balconies lined with flower boxes spanned each building’s entire frontage. The dark wood upper floors contrasted sharply with white plastered first floors, decorated with Gothic script and colorful insignias.
Kössen was like a scene from The Sound of Music movie set, where we might burst into song anytime and frolic about wildflowers on emerald rolling hills crowned by snowcapped mountains.
Maharishi assigned me to a pension closest to his chalet. Washing his clothing became my excuse to hang around him. I tried the industrial ironing machine in the basement. That was a mess. The silk came out stiff and starched. The way to successfully iron silk was to handwash it and iron while wet. Then it came out unwrinkled, shimmering, soft, and perfect.
Maharishi’s dhoti (robes) consisted of two large pieces of silk. His were quite threadbare. New ones were immediately ordered from India. His loincloth comprised two strips of white silk. He tied one around his waist, the other around his crotch. His lungi (lower garment), about four meters of unsewn white silk, wrapped around his waist like a sarong. His angavastram (upper garment) draped about his shoulders like a shawl. Both of these tucked nicely into the waistband of his loincloth.
To maintain celibacy, a monk’s loincloth holds his genitals in place. The penis is lifted up and testicles are pushed back while the loincloth is tied tightly around the crotch. This theoretically prevents night ejaculations and other unmentionable energy losses.
Maharishi’s shahtoosh shawl, or “ring shawl,” could be pulled through a finger ring due to its fine material. Yet the shawl kept Maharishi so warm, he never wore a coat. Touching this shawl was like caressing heaven or falling into a cloud. For one shawl (if you could get one, since they’ve been illegal since 1977) four to five Tibetan antelopes (chiru or tsoe) are slaughtered for their under-fleece, since they’re wild and can’t be sheared.
As I cleaned Maharishi’s bathroom, I discovered exotic unidentifiable items. Years later I learned the weird, u-shaped, stainless steel thingamajig was a tongue scraper. And what about
bronze cake makeup? It was to conceal his large white leukoderma spot on his right temple. He parted his hair on the left to hide it. Whenever the wind blew, he held his hair next to his temple on the right to prevent exposing the mark.
In 1975, when a skin-boy (nickname for personal secretaries who carried around Maharishi’s deerskin and clock) from Canada named Edward requested that I buy bronze-colored makeup for “one of Maharishi’s female guests,” I replied, “I know exactly who the makeup is for. I used to have a job like yours, cleaning Maharishi’s bathroom.”
I wasn’t sure which revelation Edward, dumbfounded and aghast, was more horrified about—that I knew Maharishi’s secret, or that I’d ever had a job like his!
Back in Kössen, in addition to cleaning, I prepared Maharishi’s meals with Mrs. Whitestone, an Initiator from Brighton, England. However, Maharishi’s scrawny cook Dunraj soon showed up, and we were out of a job.
Every day after Maharishi’s lectures, I joined the small group gathered at his house. One day he said, “Susan, help Miriam edit the Symposium book.”
The book consisted of excerpts from the summer 1971 International Symposium on the Science of Creative Intelligence at University of Massachusetts and Humboldt State College. The lineup of speakers included Buckminster Fuller and Nobel laureate chemist Melvin Calvin.
This project was the last thing I wanted to do. In my mind, Miriam Jacobs was a self-serving tyrant. Still, I did my assignment dutifully. I edited copy. She treated me like a speck of dirt.
Miriam waited outside Maharishi’s door to read her book to him. She didn’t invite me, but with sheer determination and sitzplatz, I got into the room by staying joined at her hip. Miriam started by reading a quote from Bucky Fuller: “Science, at its beginnings, starts with a priori, absolute mystery, within which there loom these beautiful behavior patterns of the physical universe where the reliabilities are eternal.”46
At some point Miriam read the section I wrote.
Maharishi commented, “Very good. Very well written.”
Miriam smiled. “Thank you.”
It was the only section Maharishi praised. However, Miriam didn’t bother to tell him I edited it. My wishful thinking believed he must know who wrote it. He knows everything, doesn’t he? No, Maharishi didn’t know everything. But he did know I had a facility for editing. Even I wasn’t aware of that.
Which reminds me of The TM Book by Peter McWilliams and Denise Denniston, published in 1975. I happened to be in Maharishi’s room when he first browsed through it. He looked at me directly and said, emphatically, “Such cartoon books you should never write.” How did he know I would ever write any book? After all, I was “Susan the Artist.” Now I’ve authored fourteen books.
One afternoon I was visiting Maharishi’s house. As usual, he was working on some project. Day and night he gave lectures or held court to staff and visitors, working incessantly without a moment’s rest. He slept one to three hours. Then the merry-go-round/circus started again.
Once we got through Maharishi’s door, it was bad form to leave before he dismissed us. Also, if we left, we ran the risk of not getting back in.
This time I had a problem. I was on my menstrual cycle. My periods were hideous. I bled profusely and had to change napkins often. My napkin was soaked through. There wasn’t another. My skirt might get stained, I thought. Maybe even the floor. If I leave, he’ll think I’m rude. If I stay, I’ll make a mess. Oh God, more blood!
Suddenly Maharishi asked, “What is that smell?”
“What smell?” Maharishi’s secretary asked. He sniffed.
I sniffed. What smell? I wondered.
Maharishi continued his work. He didn’t pursue it. After about ten minutes he asked again, “What’s that smell?”
“What smell are you talking about, Maharishi?” someone asked. Maharishi said nothing.
“I don’t smell anything,” another person said.
Maharishi’s secretary said, “I’ll open the window.” A frigid wind swept through the room.
He continued working another fifteen minutes. Suddenly he asked, “What is that smell?” Then Maharishi turned to me, fixed his eyes on mine, and scowled with disdain. Why was he shooting daggers at me?
8
MAHARISHI MERRY-GO-ROUND
1971 TO 1972
A very tender, delicate field on which the disciple lives his life at the feet of his master. In its flexibility of tenderness, the link is absolutely stable, unshakable. On that firm basis, happenings come and go, but his mind is not on the happenings.
—MAHARISHI MAHESH YOGI
After Maharishi glared at me, I thought, My God. Is he talking about my menstrual blood? I sprang to my feet, barreled out of the room, and tore back to my pension, in horror that I’d tainted his refined, holy atmosphere with my repulsive, vile femaleness.
I examined my undergarments. Yes, my napkin is soaked, but no blood is on my underwear, panty hose, or skirt. How could Maharishi smell the blood? Nobody else did. If Maharishi could detect this from his couch, about fifteen feet from me, his sense of smell was mindboggling.
At the end of the course, Maharishi arranged an entourage to drive from Austria through the Alps to Italy, France, and Spain. Maharishi assigned everyone to a luxurious Mercedes—everyone, that is, except me, who was demoted to the back seat of a rusty blue Fiat with a German couple and their dog.
Driving through the Alps day after day, whenever Maharishi spied me in the back seat with the dog, he glared with contempt and broke into uproarious laughter. Though Maharishi’s mangy dog Peter slept under his cot in Rishikesh, he publicly declared pets inferior creatures that drained our energy. So I was mortified. And though I kept pushing the damn thing away, she kept climbing on me, sleeping on my lap.
But what wasn’t funny, the dog was in heat, bleeding all over the back seat and all over me. And Maharishi guffawed at me constantly, as if saying, “Your female offensiveness is so disgusting that you deserve this filthy car with this bitch bleeding all over you.”
Was this punishment, or some mysterious poetic justice?
Maharishi’s passport disallowed entry into France, so he abandoned our caravan in favor of a plane. My task became driving a Mercedes to Spain. One passenger was Maharishi’s chief graphic artist—Reginald Brooks, a tall, dark-haired, British, stunningly handsome, Peter Lawford lookalike, with distinctive features and square jaw. I was enchanted by his charming, cultured, refined nature.
We sped through French vineyards over country roads thickly canopied by sycamores said to be planted during Napoleon’s reign, stopping at charming country inns to indulge in rich French delicacies. Then over the Pyrenees into Spain, where the landscape changed to white stucco houses and red tile roofs.
My crew and I put our vehicle on a barge and landed safely on the island of Mallorca. But one of the Mercedes headed for Mallorca didn’t quite make it. The skin-boy driving it took a wrong turn, down some steps, and landed in the ocean. Kerplunk!
Maharishi would spend October 1971 to April 1972 at Hotel Samoa, Calas de Mallorca, amidst palm trees near the rugged, rocky Cala Antena coastline, dotted by hearty bushes and white sand beaches.
Earlier that year, in April 1971, Maharishi’s previous course in Mallorca had been the site of an international incident. A somber, uber-earnest devotee with thick eyeglasses and shaggy, overgrown mustache, Brendan Sutton was famous for hardly ever speaking or completing any sentence. Of course, he was assigned by Maharishi to man the course “Information Desk.”
On April 23, 1971, John Lennon and Yoko Ono suddenly appeared at the desk to “collect” Yoko’s seven-year-old daughter Kyoko Chan Cox. The child’s father Anthony Cox and his wife Melinda Kendall were meditating on the course. Cox had custody of Kyoko, but a battle raged over visitation rights.47
Though John and Yoko wore dumb disguises, everyone recognized them immediately—including the Spanish hotel manager, whom we dubbed “Señor Bullfrog” (due to his constant croak of
“Hola! Hola! Dígame! Dígame!” at peak pitch when answering the phone).
Needless to say, the Lennons got nothing out of Brendan. Señor Bullfrog called skin-boy Gregory to the desk to meet “Mr. and Mrs. Smith.” When faced with John and Yoko, a gobsmacked, speechless Gregory was incapable of uttering a word.
Yet someone pointed the Lennons in the right direction, because they kidnapped Kyoko from daycare at 1:00 p.m. Cox reported the abduction to the Guardia Civil. By 5:00 p.m. John and Yoko were arrested in Palma at Hotel Melia Mallorca. By 8:00 p.m., Kyoko was returned to her father. The Lennons received a conditional discharge and flew to Paris.48, 49
When I first arrived in Mallorca that October, John and Yoko’s dramas were furthest from my mind. I was focused solely on Maharishi. I felt I’d definitely arrived—in my farfetched, infantile fantasy, anyway. I enjoyed exclusive access to Maharishi’s private floor, available only to International Staff. He gave me a job assigning rooms to Teacher Training Course participants. However, since I was paying my way, I asked if I could take the course. He answered, “Good, good. Begin rounding. And where is your sari? Saris you should wear every day.”
“Even here in Spain?”
“Yes, every day,” he responded.
From that moment on, I always wore a sari around Maharishi. First I slipped on my choli (sari blouse)—short-sleeved, skin-tight, cropped at the midriff. I stepped into a long cotton petticoat and knotted the drawstring. I wrapped the fabric, tucked it in, and pinned the pleats to my petticoat using two giant safety pins. If I didn’t, all the material would unravel onto the floor—awkward! I was over 5’9” tall, and saris were designed for short Indian women who could tuck a foot of fabric into their petticoats. I squeezed bangles onto my wrists and slid my feet into delicate thonged sandals.
Maharishi & Me Page 8