Maharishi & Me

by Susan Shumsky

  Several days later, nothing had changed. I was still waiting in the hallway outside his room to get in.

  Finally Maharishi walked by, looked at me, and said, “Start on Holy Tradition.” I had no idea what he was referring to, but I was thrilled.

  Jerry Jarvis interpreted for me, “Maharishi wants a painting of all the masters of the Holy Tradition.” I knew masters in the Shankaracharya lineage included Vasishtha, Veda Vyasa, Shankara, and others. I sang their names during puja whenever I taught TM. But I knew nothing about them, let alone their appearance. Jerry continued, “Maharishi gave this assignment to a British artist Frances Knight, but she’s done nothing.”

  Realizing her project was assigned to another artist, Frances freaked—and dragged me to see Maharishi: “Do you want Susan to help me with this painting?”

  “No,” Maharishi replied with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Each of you should do your own painting.” He seemed to relish the idea of competing Holy Traditions.

  With a felt-tipped pen, Maharishi drew several sketches of lines and ovals indicating the masters’ placement in the painting. Ultimately he positioned ovals along a winding stream. I immediately understood his vision and drew a rough sketch. “Good. Very good,” he said.

  I asked Brahmachari Satyanand what the masters looked like. He helped me identify some masters in Indian magazines from Gita Press. I spent the rest of my time in Mallorca making Holy Tradition drawings.

  In April 1972, International Staff flew in two private planes from Mallorca to Maharishi’s Teacher Training Course for two thousand meditators in the spa village Fiuggi Fonte, Italy. Our plane suddenly banked sharply as the planes nearly collided in midair!

  I flew in Maharishi’s plane because I happened to be in his room when he made seat assignments. Invariably, he only paid attention to what and who was directly in front of him. Nothing existed outside that room. No time existed outside that moment.

  An enchanting, hilly, medieval village one hour southeast of Rome, Fiuggi is famed for oligomineral healing waters. My stark unheated room, with marble floors, shuttered windows, ultra-high ceilings, and shared bathroom, occupied the ground floor of a small pension on a steep, cobblestone pedestrian path. Course attendees stayed throughout the town, ate in fifteen dining rooms, and met Maharishi in an old movie theater.

  Ascending innumerable ancient steps up narrow streets, I viewed medieval archways, colorful gardens, delightful fountains, and passels of Italian grandmothers clad head to toe in black.

  The Italian countryside became inspiration for my Holy Tradition magnum opus. I spent heavenly days sketching the sun-laden trees and bushes, spellbound by smells and sights of the springtime burst of delicate young leaves and glorious flowers.

  I created several Holy Tradition sketches and showed each to Maharishi. He told me to not show anyone my work. So, avoiding Frances like an infectious disease, I didn’t answer the door when she knocked and yelled for twenty minutes.

  Every time I worked on the sketch, I entered a timeless realm. The tangible grace of the masters filled and surrounded me with waves of spiritual substance. Electric love currents moved throughout my being.

  After a few months, I completed a gigantic pencil sketch on butcher paper, over six feet tall. Maharishi praised it profusely and spent an hour making changes, while an increasingly large audience gathered to gawk.

  Maharishi had sent an assistant to call for Frances, but she never showed. I was thrilled. Maharishi gave me license to awaken and express the true inner shameless, ruthless competitor hidden deep within me.

  My Holy Tradition pencil sketch.

  Slowly walking toward the dais, Maharishi greeted the ravenous masses in line, accepting flowers and beaming. One woman handed him a string of coral beads. “Will you bless these for me?”

  He played with the beads, handed them back, and said, “All women should wear these.”

  Suddenly an epidemic of coral buying erupted. Deluged with coral to bless, Maharishi fondled beads and wore strands on his arms during every lecture. Afterward, people claimed their strands, from pale pink to blood red.

  With my paltry stipend I bought a red coral bracelet (the color Maharishi wore) with a gold clasp. I tied a string to its ends. Good, I thought. Now it’s big enough for him to wear on his arm. Maharishi arrived for his lecture. Several people approached the stage to hand him their beads.

  I handed Maharishi my pathetic little coral bracelet—all I could afford. “Would you please bless these for me?” Maharishi glared at me, then the beads, like we were poison. He gingerly picked up the gold clasp with thumb and index finger, carefully avoiding the beads, as though the coral might infect him. Evading contact with my seemingly toxic skin, he then dropped the bracelet into my palm from some height with an expression of utter contempt.

  I lowered my eyes and walked away in defeat. It seemed my coral beads hadn’t been blessed. They’d been cursed. I figured he was chastising me for tying string on the beads. He didn’t like manipulative behavior—at least not from me!

  1972, Fiuggi Fonte, Italy: Maharishi teaches “Science of Creative Intelligence.” His scribbled notes cover his coffee table. Associated Newspapers/REX/Shutterstock

  Maharishi’s International Staff comprised a few dozen people, mostly from the USA, Europe, and India. They worked in video production, tape transcription, graphic arts, writing, printing, publishing, housing, housekeeping, food service, accounting, course leadership, and so forth.

  German women, age thirty-something, ran the Finance Office. Hannah Hoffmeyer was in charge. She patrolled every penny, with each expenditure personally approved by Maharishi. Therefore Hannah spent much of her time in his room, waiting for authorizations. I thought she had one of the best jobs on Staff.

  Hannah, about 5’3”, always walked tall and confident. She had a square face, small chin, light blue eyes, and straight, dirty-blond, shoulder-length hair, which she habitually flicked away from her face. Her formal German accent, sober demeanor, and aura of precise efficiency turned me off—but I soon found out how kind and lovely she was.

  “I haf some news for you,” she said one day. “Maharishi said you are going to vork in Finance.” This didn’t sound like good news. But it might be better than being shipped back to the USA on the next plane!

  Working full time on an adding machine was incompatible with working on the Holy Tradition painting. Soon I was out of the art business and into the business business. My job consisted of handling petty cash and other expenditures.

  Since I was an exacting perfectionist, this job suited me. I took to it as a mole takes to dirt, digging deep into organizational mysteries. Suddenly, unexpectedly, my status rose on the International Staff scale. Our elitist club of three Germans and me were given highest rank, trusted by Maharishi unequivocally.

  I sat in a tiny office with a door leading outdoors, dispensing pocket change to various Staff members and paying local vendors who dropped by. International Staff subsisted on a pitiful stipend. With $25 a month I paid for all personal needs. It’s a good thing I don’t wear makeup, I thought. It’s hard enough to keep stocked in sanitary napkins.

  Leonard Campbell was a tall, blond, attractive, California-beach-Kirk-Douglas lookalike with deeply chiseled features. An aspiring brahmacharya, his claim to fame was honesty. Maharishi trusted him unequivocally. When Maharishi entered Italy, Leonard opened a bank account in his own name. Then $50,000 was transferred from the Swiss account to his. Leonard drew out the cash, brought it to his hotel, and locked it in a safe in his room.

  In Fiuggi, John Greenberg, who spoke Spanish but no Italian, accompanied Leonard to pick up the cash. Mr. Gionino, the bank president, tried to convey he wouldn’t release it. Leonard insisted, but Gionino held his ground.

  Leonard’s voice rose, arms flailed about, and fingers pointed threateningly. He yelled, “Don’t you understand? We’re here to pour money into your little town’s economy. Your hotel and food vendors won’t get
paid unless we get this money.” (Leonard was one of those Americans who think if they speak louder, foreigners will magically understand them.)

  Finally, Mr. Gionino shoved a magazine at Leonard and John with a photo of gangsters pointing machine guns. He conveyed if he released the cash, they would be mugged—or worse. He recommended they return on a random day without a briefcase.

  Several days later Leonard entered the bank. Gionino didn’t want employees to see anything, so he withdrew cash on the sly. He stuffed piles of lira into Leonard’s socks, all up and down his trousers, underwear, and arms of his shirt. As though wrapped in a padded jacket, Leonard stole away from the bank and sneaked the cash into his safe.

  Every day Hannah took operating money from the safe. At day’s end, she brought the balance back. Leonard never let anyone other than Hannah enter his room. Rumor was he kept a pet snake in the safe. But it was a fake snake. Hannah was terrified of snakes, and Leonard thrust the thing at her one day. She overcame her fears, grabbed it forcefully near its head, and stared it down.

  At the end of Fiuggi Teacher Training Courses in August 1972, Hannah told me: “Maharishi’s leaving for a few months to the States. He vants you to stay in Europe and replace me vile I’m gone. You vill be in charge of Finances for International Staff in Semmering, Austria, vere residence courses vill be taught by the German WYMS—Vorld Youth Meditation Society.”

  Whiney little fool, I grumbled, “But I’m from the States. I don’t want to be here while he’s there. I want to travel with Maharishi.”

  That day I would be made a Full Initiator, along with students on their TM Teacher Training Course in Fiuggi. Then I could teach TM to all age groups. After receiving the adult mantras, I hung around, waiting to talk with Maharishi privately.

  “What your plans are, hmm?” Maharishi asked.

  I paused, considering how to answer. If I say I want to go to the States, he might dismiss me from Staff. If I say I want to stay in Europe, I won’t get to travel with him. I don’t know what to say. Got to say something. Here goes.

  “I want to do what you want me to do—what’s best for me to do.” The very moment those words left my lips, I thought, Uh oh, I’m in big trouble.

  Maharishi paused for a long time. Then one of those mischievous twinkles sparked in his eyes.

  “Then go to the States and initiate the people.”

  Oh My God! No! My mind screamed. My ears were hit with the bomb—unspeakable words everyone on International Staff dreaded, words that marked the abrupt halt to our glorious ride on Staff, words that meant The End.

  No, I thought. I refuse. I will not let this happen.

  In a panic, I protested, “But Maharishi, Hannah told me you wanted me to be in charge of finances in Austria. I want to stay on International Staff.”

  I’m so confused. What am I supposed to say?

  Maharishi laughed at me. “Then go to Austria and then come to Spain. Come tonight and we’ll talk.”

  Good. He wants to see me tonight, I thought. I’ll get this straightened out.

  When confronted with Maharishi’s vastly intimidating presence, I would often become undone. Unfailingly, he would say the one thing that scrambled my brain so I couldn’t think straight.

  At dinner I found Hannah. “Maharishi told me to stay on Staff and work in Austria.”

  “But I thought you didn’t vant the job. I already gave it to Joshua and Samuel Kramer,” Hannah replied, annoyed.

  “But that was supposed to be my job.”

  “I vill talk to Maharishi,” Hannah said.

  This is awful. I thought. I shouldn’t have complained. Now Hannah’s given my job to those Jewish brothers from the USA. Maharishi often spoke of the ideal master-disciple relationship. He glorified devotion and surrender. But I couldn’t even follow simple instructions, for God’s sake!

  That night on the Fiuggi hilltop, I waited on the grass, leaning against the fence enclosing Maharishi’s house. Others waited too: Reginald and Hannah, Joshua and Samuel Kramer, and about twenty more.

  Maharishi’s skin-boy Gregory appeared at the threshold three times, at 11:30, 12:00, and 12:30, and told everyone to leave. After each announcement, many people left, but I stayed. Finally, at 12:30, Gregory said, “Maharishi has just gone to bed. He says everyone must leave now. Come back tomorrow morning at 8:00.”

  The Kramer brothers looked at each other, got up, and headed toward a Mercedes. Reginald and Hannah got into the car. Everyone else followed suit, including me. They gave me a ride back to my pension.

  I lay on my bed with mind churning. Now I’ve really done it. Those Kramers will be in charge. Aarrgh! Guess I’ll try in the morning. I turned over and went to sleep.

  Next morning at 8:00, I waited outside the gate again. The Kramers were there. “Hello, Susan,” Joshua said. “Maharishi asked for you last night.”

  Last night? I thought. When, last night? … Oh, those snakes. THEY GOT IN! As soon as they got rid of me, they went back up the hill. Now I am so screwed!

  As always, Maharishi only dealt with what confronted him that moment. If we didn’t get in the room, we didn’t get our assignment. Then we were done for, because Maharishi gave it to someone else.

  So how did we get in the room? By lying, cheating, sneaking, stepping on people. By kissing-up to those in power. By staying awake until everyone left. By ignoring skin-boys who ordered us to leave again and again. By returning after pretending to leave. In short, any way we could.

  “When did you talk to Maharishi?” I asked Joshua and Samuel.

  “We knew Maharishi wanted to see us, so we went back,” Samuel said.

  “Maharishi told me to come last night, too,” I said. “But Gregory told us Maharishi went to bed.”

  “Well, you know Maharishi.” Joshua laughed.

  I guess I don’t know him as well as I thought, I realized.

  Finally I got into the room, just before Maharishi left, along with several International Staff and WYMS guys, who were, to my mind, a pack of Nazi Schutzstaffel. They lived in their restricted conclave, guarded Maharishi as though he were the Führer, and treated everyone else as Untermenschen.

  Maharishi said, “Susan, you will take the cashbox to Austria.”

  I asked, “Who will authorize the payments?” That was my job. I was supposed to take over for Hannah.

  Maharishi ignored me. He continued talking about the Austria courses. “But who will sign the authorization slips for the payments?” I insisted.

  Maharishi paused. Then he looked at Leonard Campbell. “You will. Leonard will authorize.”

  I could do nothing. I’d been shafted, with no one to blame but myself. Add this to your list of regrets, mistakes, and lost opportunities, Ms. Young and Foolish!

  Maharishi assigned Bud Neilson (his job was transcribing tapes) and me to travel to Austria by rail, with Grant and Claudine—leftover casualties who’d developed interesting problems during long rounding.

  One of the walking wounded, Grant went into silence in Mallorca. Like me, he wore a badge “in silence.” However, after the course, he was incapable of uttering a word. In Fiuggi, Maharishi often approached him and yelled at the top of his lungs, “speak, speak.” No sound ever came.

  The other mishap was Claudine, who couldn’t stop dancing. It was the Jerk, Watusi, or Boogaloo. Her arms flapped and floundered while meditating, walking, or eating—in fact, anytime at all. Maharishi told her to sit very still. She did so for twenty seconds. Then her chair flew across the room as she exploded into dance. Maharishi laughed so hard that his beard nearly fell off, but it scared the crap out of her.

  These two curiosities became our charges en route to Austria. Maharishi couldn’t risk sending them home in their embarrassing condition. They would have to remain in Europe until normalcy returned. So as Bud and I sightsaw our way to Austria, we dragged these two oddities through the Assisi caves, St. Bernard monastery, Florence Uffizi museum, and Vienna canals.

  Several su
ch anomalies appeared on Maharishi’s courses—involuntary movements, spasms, muscle contractions, facial distortions, and sounds. Maharishi called them “heavy unstressers,” and placed them in a special room to meditate together. Since “unstressing released deep-seated traumas, Maharishi habitually described it as “something good is happening, hmm?”

  Summer and autumn 1972 passed in a most peculiar place—Semmering, Austria, a Viennese Alps ski and spa town. Hotel Panhans, a regal, imposing, palatial structure about an hour’s train ride southwest of Vienna, must have been grand in its heyday.

  I realized every Jew on International Staff was there. Those in charge were German TM Teachers from WYMS (World Youth Meditation Society). I started to wonder, Which German “Youth” is this? Welt Jugend, or Hitler Jugend?

  The first night, I heard horses and soldiers clattering. Soldiers laughed gruffly. Horses neighed. Bridles clanked. Spooky. I looked out the window. Where can the sound be coming from?

  Next morning, after a fitful, sleepless night, I ventured downstairs to eat breakfast with Kristina (from the Finance Office), Joshua, Samuel, and Leonard. “I heard strange noises last night,” I said.

  “So did I,” Kristina said.

  “This place is creepy,” Samuel agreed.

  “I think I know why.” Leonard said. “I talked to the hotel manager last night. During World War II, Himmler, Goering, and the SS occupied this building as a Nazi headquarters.”

  I gasped. “My God. You’re kidding.”

  Leonard continued, “Nazi soldiers rode their horses right into the hotel and used the ballrooms as stables. Parts of the hotel have been abandoned for decades. After the Second World War, Semmering was occupied by Russia.”

  “You mean I was hearing poltergeists?” Samuel asked.

  “It would appear that way,” Leonard said.