Maharishi & Me

by Susan Shumsky

  “I got a real strange feeling, too. Visions of people being tortured in concentration camps all night long. I couldn’t sleep,” Kristina said.

  Why did Maharishi send all Jewish International Staff to a hotel haunted by Nazis, previously SS headquarters, with Germans in charge? This was no accident.

  A few days later, I ventured into the abandoned part of the hotel. A terrible feeling attacked the pit of my stomach as I walked through musty corridors. Turning a big brass handle, I opened a large, elegantly carved door. It creaked. I entered a huge ballroom, covered in dust. High ceilings were elaborately decorated with intricate murals and gold relief, thickly coated in dust. Elegant crystal chandeliers, dripping with dusty glass shards, sent chills down my back. A grand parquet floor, interrupted with elegant marquetry—

  On my God, there’s HAY on the floor! The SS stabled their horses here. Did the Russians use the ballroom to stable their horses? How long has this hay been here?

  I turned around and fled the ballroom, never to return.

  Karl Werner, classical music composer and pretentious WYMS Führer, considered Americans lower class. The elite were required to dine formally. International Staff got shuffled with other hoi polloi to the ghetto dining room, deprived of nutrition and bullied like prisoners. Cabbage, white bread, and white potatoes in inadequate portions—that was dinner. Though of Irish origin, Leonard (a rare non-Jew among us) managed to convince Karl he was German. So he dined upstairs in the elegant WYMS banquet hall.

  In horror I watched WYMS despots manhandle Reba Rabinowitz, head of Maharishi’s tape library. They dragged her body, forcing her down the stairs, while she struggled to resist their demands: “You vill move into a new office. Jawohl. You vill cooperate.”

  “I’m not moving those tapes. I’ll die first,” Reba said.

  Quite a reaction, I thought. Whoa. Blitzkrieg of the Übermensch.

  I received a letter by post (yes, back then we communicated that way) from the newly formed Maharishi International University (MIU) in California. “We are in the midst of going through the MIU Catalog with Maharishi here in Santa Barbara. Tonight we were discussing how growth of consciousness could be illustrated graphically. Maharishi recalled a painting you did in Rishikesh of trees against three different backgrounds. He could not have praised it more highly. Over and over he said what an exact representation of the different states of consciousness it is. He wants to have it made into posters.”

  This news sent waves of joy through my heart and tears to my eyes. Maharishi remembers Susan the Artist! Nothing ever came of it, however. Maharishi’s plans were always brilliant and momentous. But rarely did anything materialize.

  Meanwhile, privileged MIU professors, including Keith Wallace, David Orme-Johnson, Larry Domash, Albert Bruns (husband of “Dear Prudence” Farrow), John Farrow (Mia Farrow’s brother), plus wives and kids, basked in Maharishi’s darshan at Mike Love’s 3.5-acre estate on a hillside overlooking the Pacific in Santa Barbara. Gardeners planted a homegrown veggie garden. Sama Veda pundits recorded the Vedas in a small pavilion on the property.

  Maharishi named David Orme-Johnson Director of Research for all TM scientific studies. Though an overwhelming responsibility, David was up for the task. He and John Farrow compiled and edited the first book of TM research.

  For me, stuck in Naziville, summer and fall passed in meditating, accounting, painting the Holy Tradition, picking wildflowers, and enjoying scenic views from Hotel Panhans. On International Staff we had time to sightsee in Europe. But my minuscule stipend usually prohibited such diversions. Still, one day I managed a train ticket to Vienna, strolled around the city, and visited the Spanish Riding School, home of Lipizzaner white stallions.

  It was now November, and snow began to fall. Shivering, I wore long underwear under my sari and a wool sweater over it. WYMS refused to turn up the heat. Days and nights faded into each other. It was quiet—too quiet. Nearly all International Staff were gone. Maharishi had called them elsewhere.

  10

  A SACRIFICIAL LAMB

  1972-1973

  The happenings give the disciple the opportunity to be constantly in tune with the master, to come into his presence, be in his presence. Work is just a means to hang around him.

  —MAHARISHI MAHESH YOGI

  Just when I thought I was stuck in Nazi hell forever, in November 1972 Hannah phoned from Spain: “Maharishi asked me to call you. Do you vant to fly to La Antilla to vork in finan—”

  “Yes. I’ll get on the next plane,” I interrupted. I packed my bags swiftly and off I flew with cashbox in hand, Holy Tradition painting, and all.

  At the Teacher Training Courses in La Antilla, from November 1972 to May 1973, my job was keeping financial records for twenty-five hundred course participants. Many hadn’t paid their full course fee. I worked day and night on this grueling project with no time to attend lectures. It was a nightmare.

  I stayed in a small beach house and walked along the shore to my office. Fierce winds whipped waves into white foam clusters on ominous, wintry, blue-black Atlantic waters. Seagulls circled overhead. Dark clouds crowded the sky. At night the moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds, reflecting shimmering silvery light on inky water. Beautiful and dramatic, but frequently stormy with cold, furious wind—a far cry from the balmy Mediterranean.

  One night everyone was out on a barge, howling at the moon I guess, since it was full. The buses already left for the dock. I was dragging toward my office, staring at the dirt path before me. Too much work. No boat ride for me.

  Suddenly a Mercedes passed my solitary figure on the road. The car stopped. The window rolled down and Maharishi asked, “What you are doing, hmm?”

  “Going to my office,” I replied.

  “No. Get in,” Maharishi demanded. “You’re going on the boat ride. Everyone must go.” I hopped into the car. Traditionally, it’s cosmically auspicious to be on the water with the guru on full moon nights.

  The moment Maharishi stepped onto the boat, he was deluged with hundreds of devotees crowding and voracious eyes beseeching. By the time my car door opened, I was lost in the crowd. No one noticed I rode with him. The worst part was I actually wanted someone to notice. Had I somehow turned into a shallow status seeker?

  I finally stepped onto the barge. It was cold. No—freezing. The stormy waves rocked the vessel to seasick proportions. The icy wind tore through my sweater, sari, long underwear, and socks. Maharishi, in his thin dhoti, shawl, bare feet, and sandals—he never wore socks and rarely got cold.

  He tried to give a lecture, but roaring waves drowned out his voice. What am I doing here? I’ve got so much work, I thought. No one can hear what he’s saying.

  I was waiting outside Maharishi’s bedroom at Hotel Fira. I don’t know why, but I was alone. There were no attendants or devotees. Usually Johnny Gray was there (yes, future author of Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus). He was Maharishi’s current skin-boy. But not this morning.

  Suddenly Maharishi’s bedroom door opened. He appeared at the threshold. His shimmering, white silk dhoti seemed to beam with innate radiance. A vehicle for his atmosphere of thick silence, his aura blazed in luminous transparency. His diaphanous feet glistened like two lotuses, emerging from a pond pristine and untouched.

  But to my mind those lotus feet didn’t appear to be walking. His effulgent corona seemed to float toward me, as if a graceful swan, incandescent and transcendent, materialized from his secret chambers, drifting in a soft, gliding movement in stillness.

  He smiled mischievously and zapped a loving glance that infused me with a stream of divine blessing and blissful energy. What a gift of supreme compassion and grace, the unique spiritual vibration transference from master to disciple—shakti-sanchara. He opened his meeting room door and slipped inside, without a word or sound.

  This was the kind of experience I lived for.

  Johnny Gray showed up presently. Considering the behavior of other skin-boys, I think he
was much too kind to qualify for the job. He ushered me into Maharishi’s meeting room. We discussed course finances—who didn’t have to pay, who had to pay, who should be sent home. My job was to convey messages and collect fees. Those in the “108 Program” paid their way to hang around Maharishi and pretended to work, but money didn’t necessarily garner their acceptance in the program. In India 108 is a holy number. Indian rosaries (malas) have 108 beads for counting mantras.

  This meeting made me feel important, which wasn’t the point—or was it? What was the point? However important I felt, the next day I would feel the opposite. One day any miracle was achievable. The next day all hope was dashed. From majestic to rejected, elated to humiliated—with one glance, Maharishi brought out the best or worst in me.

  In the spring of 1973, Jerry Jarvis passed on a message from Maharishi that I had to communicate to the two thousand students in La Antilla and five hundred in nearby Punta Umbria.

  I declared on the microphone, “Recently the value of the US dollar has dropped compared to the Spanish peso. Therefore the course fee will be raised. Each of you now owes another $50. Please pay as soon as possible. You will not become an Initiator until you pay this additional fee.”

  This announcement hit like a bomb. The crowd roared and shouted in anger. I was mobbed as I tried to leave the hall. Questions flew from every direction. Everyone assumed the fee increase was my idea. In their idealized concept of Maharishi, he couldn’t possibly be behind it.

  This incident endowed me an aura of severity. And if I didn’t have enough headaches collecting course fees, now there was an additional bill for each participant. My workload had just doubled.

  It was the night before Maharishi would give final instructions and mantras to make thousands of Initiators. Sitting on the stage, he dispensed orders to International Staff. Catching my eye, he motioned to me.

  “Go through each of your records,” he said. “Calculate who’s paid and hasn’t paid their course fees. Staple a slip of colored paper to the lower left-hand corner of each record. Write in felt-tipped pen, either FULLY PAID or OWES $ and AMOUNT. Do that now, before tomorrow morning.”

  “Now?” I looked at my watch. I realized, There are two thousand records. Two thousand!

  “Yes,” Maharishi said. In his inimitable fashion, he shot me a piercing glance like an earthquake, shaking me to my core. My body exploded with energy. Flooded with Maharishi juice, enough to fill a swimming pool, I was nearly knocked over with bliss.

  Now it was 1:00 a.m. I had to finish this impossible task by 8:00 a.m. So I asked for helpers. Maharishi recruited whoever happened to be in his line of sight. “Malcolm will help. And Susan the Singer—Susan will help you. Do it over there, in that corner of the lecture hall.”

  “Jai Guru Dev,” I said, swimming off in a pool of bliss.

  I brought all my records to the hall and began the project. Maharishi stayed for another half hour. The moment he left, Susan complained she was too tired. “Finish it in the morning,” she said, and stood up to leave.

  “But there is no morning. He’s starting at 8:00!” I exclaimed. Susan ignored me. I couldn’t blame her. She was in charge of the kitchen.

  “I’m glad I’m not you,” Malcolm said. “Got to go talk to Maharishi. Get someone else to help.” Him I could blame. He was just being a “p” with a “rick.”

  I tried frantically to find helpers, but the moment Maharishi left, everyone was off to bed. Staying up all night doing arithmetic wasn’t anyone’s lollapalooza. Typical. These lazy people can always be counted on to disappear the moment Maharishi stops babysitting them.

  I phoned Maharishi’s skin-boy and told him my helpers had abandoned me. He informed me I would have to do it all myself. I returned to my office, desperate and frantic. I stayed up all night, painstakingly preparing each record for the looming onslaught of two thousand Initiators-to-be.

  Finally I nearly finished—with just one hour to get back to my room, shower, change, and make it to the lecture hall with my stack of records. When I arrived, Maharishi called me over. “Everything is finished, hmm?”

  “Not quite. I finished 1800 of the 2000 records,” I replied. “I’ll complete the other 200 today.”

  “Two thousand? What about the five hundred in Punta Umbria?” Maharishi barked.

  “I didn’t know you needed those today. I haven’t started them yet,” I said.

  “No excuses,” Maharishi yelled. Even though the so-called helpers left the entire task in my lap, I was the guilty party. “Where are the Punta Umbria records?” he snapped.

  I said, “I’ll get them from my office.”

  Maharishi said, “Tomorrow morning we go to Punta Umbria to make Initiators.” He motioned to Hannah Hoffmeyer and Samuel Kramer and said, “Susan made a mess of all this. Sit behind her and watch her all day. Make sure she doesn’t make any more mistakes.”

  So, as two thousand people shuffled by my table, one by one, I collected unpaid course fees and marked each slip FULLY PAID. Students took their folders up to the stage to hand to Maharishi, where he dispensed mantras. This gave me quite a reputation—Susan The Terrible. Yikes!

  Amid this chaos, I attempted to add, subtract, mark, and staple the additional seven hundred records. Meanwhile, Hannah and Samuel sat right behind me like centurions. Much too exalted to stoop to my level, they didn’t lift a finger to help.

  That night I stayed up all night working again.

  By the time Maharishi arrived in Punta Umbria, I’d finished my task, miraculously, with help from a kindly young Initiator, Theresa Olson, whose family had hosted Maharishi in Los Angeles during his first world tour in 1959.

  A week later, I received a message to bring all my records to Maharishi’s meeting room. Hannah Hoffmeyer and Thomas Martin, a wealthy young man from the USA, were there. He was in the “108 Program.”

  “Thomas,” Maharishi said, “Susan’s records are all a mess. Go through every one of them and check the math.”

  I was indignant, but said nothing. My records are perfect. I double-check everything, I thought. Insulted and outraged, I handed over my records.

  A few days later, Thomas knocked on my office door and declared, “Your records have absolutely no mistakes that I can find.”

  “No surprise to me,” I said. “Did you tell Maharishi?”

  “Tried to. Every time, he changed the subject,” Thomas replied.

  “He often does that,” I said. “He tells you to do something. Then when you’ve finished, he’s no longer interested.”

  June 1973—time for our next destination: Seelisberg, Switzerland, on Lake Lucerne. What a glorious place! So invigorating, with clean, rarified air and magnificent vistas. If heaven existed on earth, it was the Swiss Alps.

  The most picturesque village on Lake Lucerne, Seelisberg stood on a spectacular precipice, twelve hundred feet above the bright cobalt lake. Stunning jagged peaks enchanted the eye for miles in every direction. Graceful swans and delightful boats glided to and fro. A charming red funicular railway carried passengers down to the dock at Treib, where steamboats ferried them around the lake. Serenity pervaded the air.

  Legend says Switzerland was founded in 1291 at Rütli meadow, seated below Seelisberg. The oath of allegiance was purportedly sworn there by the original Swiss cantons, which banded together against the counts of Habsburg.

  Seelisberg, Switzerland: Sönnenberg and Kulm hotels, connected by glassed-in walkway. Ringier AG

  International Staff resided in two recently purchased hotels—Kulm and Sönnenberg, connected by a covered walkway above the road. Maharishi’s lakeview room faced Fronalpstock across the lake, which bore resemblance to Mount Kailesh in the Himalayas—legendary home of Lord Shiva. Maharishi nicknamed it “Mount Shiva.”

  Maharishi on overlook in front of Sönnenberg with Mount Shiva in background.

  Renovations began. Maharishi, chief contractor, directed builders personally, as per his typical micromanagement of everythin
g. In a cream-covered ballroom on Sönnenberg’s second floor, a semicircular amphitheater with seven rows of gold velvet throne-like chairs was constructed. White-pine curved desks with microphones were built into each row. Gold velvet drapery hung on the arched windows and as a backdrop for Maharishi’s video production stage. Lavish flower arrangements and foliage surrounded his gold couch. Guru Dev’s portrait sat above the couch. Maharishi’s coffee table held a microphone, world globe, clock, blank drawing paper, colorful marking pens, and a bell. Flags of every nation surrounded the hall, which was carpeted in red.

  If the US Capitol House Chamber and Buckingham Palace spawned a love child during the Indian Raj, it might have resembled this assembly hall (see photo on page 201).

  Upon our arrival in Seelisberg, Maharishi said to me, “You’ve been working very hard. Now go to your room. Meditate and round.” As usual, I took this to heart—and to the hilt. I holed up inside my room for eight weeks, spending all day rounding. A kindly man on Staff placed meals outside my door twice daily.

  After two months, I received a note under my door. “Maharishi has been asking about you. He hasn’t seen you for a long time.”

  The same night in the lecture hall, dressed in my sari, I showed my face. Maharishi shot me a disgruntled look. I approached and said, “I heard you asked about me.”

  Maharishi replied, “I told you to round, but not this kind of rounding.” Apparently I wasn’t supposed to disappear for eight weeks.

  Three years previously, I’d taught a TM residence course in Abiquiú, New Mexico at Ghost Ranch, attended by fledgling meditators Rhoda and David Orme-Johnson. At that time, I predicted David would oversee all scientific research on TM. My prediction came true. David became chairman of Maharishi International University’s (MIU) Psychology Department, and compiled five hundred studies for Collected Papers, a.k.a. Scientific Research on Transcendental Meditation and TM-Sidhi Program.