After breakfast I hurried back to change in my room. My roommate was in the bathroom. I didn’t hear the shower running and wondered if he might be using the spoon he kept on top of the toilet tank for something. On the dresser next to his bunk was a large ring of keys and a walkie-talkie. Just as I started to take off my sweatpants, the walkie-talkie squawked and made me jump.
“Come in Shivadas. This is Mukti. Do you read me?” I changed into my clothes and the walkie-talkie squawked again. “Come in Shivadas. Do you read me? We have a breach. Over.”
The toilet flushed and my roommate stepped out of the bathroom. His brow was wrinkled and his lips were pressed flat. He greeted me with a once over and a curt nod, and then strode to the dresser and picked up the walkie-talkie. “Copy that, Mukti. This is Shivadas. Over.” Clipped to his shirt was a plastic badge that said “Security.”
“Oh Shivadas, thank Baba you’re there! The cross-country skiers are back.”
My roommate’s eyes widened and his face turned red with anger. “Copy that Mukti, I’ll take care of it.” Grabbing his key ring, Shivadas stomped over to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it behind him.
Although Baba wasn’t arriving until the end of March, work was already in full swing to receive the huge influx of visitors expected to arrive along with him—this year more than ever before. My seva assignment was to help Madhu haul newly delivered foam mattresses off the loading dock to the opposite end of the complex, where the dormitories were located. We were told to replace only those that were falling apart.
The mattresses weren’t heavy or difficult to carry. What made the job take so long was the sheer number of them.
“If they would only buy better quality mattresses to begin with, we wouldn’t have to waste our time replacing them,” said Madhu flinging old, half-disintegrated mattresses into the back of a pickup truck. Despite the bright sunshine, it was freezing cold, and neither of us had thought to wear our coats.
On the way to the dump, Madhu suggested we stop off at McDonald’s to get some lunch. At first I thought he was joking. “What are we going to eat there, the French fries?”
Madhu shrugged, and then pulled into the drive-through. He ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese. I was secretly appalled and wondered what Baba would think of Madhu’s non-vegetarian meal. I stuck to fries and a milkshake.
In the afternoon, Madhu and I moved furniture. Sita explained that a lot of Raja Yoga VIPs would be traveling from India with Baba, and that the furniture in their rooms needed to be in the best condition possible.
We struggled to lift a heavy oak dresser up a flight of stairs. “What’s a Raja Yoga VIP, anyway?” I asked Madhu when Sita was gone. “Like a swami?”
Madhu snorted. “Some of them are VIPs, I guess. She means the tour staff. The people that are really close to Baba.”
We hauled the dresser up another flight and then halfway across the ashram. I nearly dropped my end a couple of times. By the time we arrived at our destination, Madhu and I were both dripping with sweat. As we struggled to fit the dresser through the doorway, Sita appeared out of nowhere.
“This is the wrong dresser,” she snapped, tapping her foot. Her jaw was clenched, and her usually smiling face was pinched in a frown. Madhu and I carefully set the massive block of wood down. We wiped our brows with the backs of our sleeves. I was one hundred percent sure this was the dresser she had told us to move, and exchanged a knowing glance with Madhu.
“Well, since we already brought it here, can’t we—”
“This one has a scratch on it,” Sita said, interrupting Madhu. Then she pointed to a tiny mark on the side of the chest of drawers. “This one goes in Parvati’s room, in Devi Shayanagrih, next to Baba’s house.”
Madhu glared at Sita. “But that’s where we got it from! Anyway, what difference does it make? The scratched side will be up against the wall.”
Sita placed her fists on her hips. “Bring it back to Parvati’s room. Those are your instructions.”
I began to doubt myself. Maybe I misunderstood her original instructions. I was upset that she thought I hadn’t been paying attention earlier. I wanted so much to make a good impression.
Just then the door to the next room opened, and Swami Akhandananda stepped into the corridor. He had a few books under his arm. He glanced at Madhu who was fuming, and then at me. “Everything alright?” the neckless swami asked, tilting his head to the side.
Sita stiffened and folded her arms across her chest. “Let me handle this, Swamiji.”
Akhandananda lowered his chin to his chest and raised his free hand in the air. Then he turned to leave, slowly shuffling his feet as he disappeared around a corner.
“Look, it’s no problem, Sita,” I said. “We’ll bring it back to Parvati’s room. Sorry for the misunderstanding.”
“Thank you, Doug,” the seva manager said, beaming at me with approval. “Madhu, you should try to learn something from your new friend here. Doug has only been in the ashram a couple of days and already he has right understanding.”
Sita frequently asked Madhu and me to lug extremely heavy objects from one end of the ashram to the other, only to tell us later to bring them back to where they came from, or to somewhere else. Sometimes I suspected her of doing it on purpose, for some reason I couldn’t fathom. One thing was certain: she was quickly making an enemy out of Madhu. Once, he complained to Alan about her. The next day, Sita assigned Madhu the extra seva of keeping the temple path cleared of snow and ice. I volunteered to do it instead of him, but Sita insisted it was now Madhu’s responsibility.
One morning, when Sita made us return a heavy desk to the basement after we had carried it all the way upstairs, Madhu decided that we should conduct an experiment: the next time she asked to us to move a piece of furniture somewhere, we would leave it where it was. At first, I didn’t want go along with the idea. It didn’t strike me as the kind of behavior that Baba would approve of, and I thought it went against the spirit of selfless service. But late one afternoon, after a particularly grueling day, when Sita asked us to move a solid oak bookcase from the basement up to the swami library on the third floor, I gave in. We left the bookcase where it was.
Later after seva, when Madhu and I were waiting in line for dinner, I saw a visibly agitated Sita coming out of Alan’s office and heading straight toward us. I dreaded this moment.
“Now we’re in trouble,” I said.
Madhu discreetly elbowed me in the side. “Relax.”
“Boys,” Sita said, thrusting her chest out. “Tomorrow morning, I need you to take that bookcase back downstairs to storage.”
“Oh-kay,” said Madhu, sighing heavily for effect. The second she was out of sight, the two of us burst out laughing.
“Now the trick is to see how many times we can get away without doing anything before something actually needs to get moved!” Madhu said.
Just then, someone cleared their throat behind us. I turned around and my face burned with embarrassment. Swami Akhandananda was standing directly behind me.
“Douglas, I’d like to have a word with you,” the swami said. He rolled his eyes toward Madhu. “Privately.”
After we got our food, I followed Akhandananda to an empty table in the back of the cafeteria. “Douglas, have you ever heard of the spiritual master, Gurdjieff?”
“Um, no.”
Akhandananda raised a spoonful of hot soup to his mouth and blew. “Georges Ivanovitch Gurdjieff was an enlightened being who was born in Armenia. About forty years ago, toward the end of his life, he established an institute, much like an ashram, in France. Like the teaching methods of many great masters, Gurdjieff’s were difficult for ordinary people like you and me to understand.”
The soup was still too hot for me, so I dunked a piece of bread in it, letting it cool a while before trying to eat it. “Like what?”
“He was notorious for putting his most annoying student in charge of his institute when he was away. Later, when he returned, he’d reward her in front of all his other students for her obnoxious behavior.” The swami paused for a moment and looked at me, as if he were expecting me to comment. But I had no idea where he was going with this story and how it related to me.
“On one occasion, Gurdjieff asked a new student who had only recently joined his movement to dig a ditch on the grounds of his institute, only later to have another student fill it in.”
“What was the point of that?”
“This was Gurdjieff’s way of teaching his disciples to drop their egos and to let go. It was his way of teaching them how to perform their seva with right understanding.”
“Right understanding—I’ve heard that expression a lot since I’ve come to the ashram. What does it mean, Swamiji?”
“Right understanding is another way of saying, right attitude. All service selflessly rendered to the guru is of equal importance. It’s not for us to question the usefulness or logic of what we’re being asked to do. When we feel resistance to what is being asked of us, it’s a clear indication that the guru is working on our precious egos.”
“Yes, but Sita is not the guru,” I protested.
The swami smiled knowingly. “Isn’t she?”
“But—”
“In the ashram, the guru’s shakti works relentlessly through everyone and everything to cleanse us of our negative karma and to free us from the traps set by our own minds.”
“I think I understand what you mean, Swamiji.” My soup had cooled down enough for me to eat. It didn’t taste good, but I knew it was good for me.
“Baba often tells the story of the great Tibetan Yogi, Milarepa. I think you might appreciate it. Milarepa had been searching for a teacher for many years. When he finally met his guru Marpa, he didn’t immediately receive shaktipat. Instead, Marpa put his new disciple to work doing manual labor. Determined to be a model disciple, Milarepa performed his seva willingly and without any complaints. However, every time Milarepa would complete a task, he’d ask Marpa for initiation. This would send Marpa into a rage. He’d beat his new disciple and then assign him a new chore.
Among the tasks that Marpa asked Milarepa to do was to build him a tower. As soon as construction of the tower was nearly completed, however, Marpa commanded Milarepa to tear it down and to rebuild it elsewhere. Milarepa faithfully did what his guru asked of him, but once again, just as he was about to complete the second tower, Marpa made him knock it down again. Marpa ordered Milarepa to build and destroy many towers, but Milarepa never complained.” The swami finished his soup.
“I think I understand,” I said. “It was all some kind of test.”
The swami buttered his bread. “Correct.”
“He wanted to see if Milarepa was willing to let go of his concepts of how things should be and place his trust in him.”
The swami licked his lips and batted his eyelashes at me. “Precisely, my boy! In Raja Yoga, we call letting go like this surrender. Baba says we should understand Marpa’s harshness toward his disciple as a method of burning away all the evil karma Milarepa had created in his past.”
“Did Marpa eventually give Milarepa shaktipat?”
“Of course! As soon as Milarepa became worthy. How easy Baba makes it for us—all we have to do is take the shaktipat retreat!” The swami giggled with delight and I laughed too. “Baba says we can learn a lot from the life of this great yogi. Never once while he was building and tearing down all those towers did Milarepa complain about his seva or question his guru. After that, Milarepa lived in a cave for the rest of his life, devoting himself to spiritual practice.”
I felt full of gratitude and respect for the senior swami. “I think I understand why you told me these stories. I want you to know I’m very thankful for your guidance.”
Akhandananda patted my arm affectionately. “Sometimes it’s hard to understand everything that goes on in Baba’s ashrams, my boy. But never forget, everything that happens to us contains a message from the guru. A big part of our sadhana is learning how to listen.”
“I understand, Swamiji. I am listening.”
Akhandananda got up to bus his tray and I followed. “Oh, and one more thing, Douglas,” the swami said, turning over his tray and dumping a piece of uneaten bread into the garbage. “Beware the dangers of what Baba calls bad company. Not everyone you meet in the ashram has right understanding. Or pure intentions.”
The weeks leading up to Baba’s arrival passed quickly. My spiritual practice intensified, and my dedication to serving the guru became stronger. In addition to my seva with Madhu in Housing, I voluntarily took on extra work. Instead of going to morning meditation some days, I chopped vegetables in the kitchen. After meals, I worked shifts in the dish room, and swept and mopped the dining room floor.
“You’re becoming a real pro with that screw gun,” Madhu said, passing me a two-by-four. We were assembling our last bunk bed for the morning and were about to quit for lunch. “When you first got here, I’m pretty sure you didn’t know what a hammer was.”
“Ha, ha.” The power tool made a loud grinding noise, encountering some resistance in the wood.
“Hey!” Madhu called over the sound of gun. “Hey!”
I released my finger from the on/off switch and turned to Madhu. “What’s up?”
“I’m in the mood for a veggie burger. I’m going to eat lunch at Prasad today. Want to come?”
I thought about it. On principle, I hadn’t yet visited the ashram café. I’m a renunciant, I told myself. The cafeteria food should be enough for me. “I don’t know—”
“Come on, even Baba doesn’t eat the cafeteria food.”
I didn’t care for Madhu’s irreverent comment about the guru’s eating habits, but was curious to see the place. I had only glanced through the windows a couple of times. “Veggie burger, huh?”
“They’re nothing like the real thing, of course,” Madhu said. “But they’re not bad.”
We locked up the room we’d been working in and I followed Madhu to Prasad, which was located off the reception area and the cafeteria. I couldn’t understand how Madhu, who’d grown up in Raja Yoga, had developed a taste for real hamburgers.
The café didn’t bear any resemblance to the dining hall. The tables and chairs were made of teak wood, display cases were filled with an array of appetizing vegetarian sandwiches and baked goods, and a blackboard hanging from the ceiling listed the day’s specials. On the wall behind the counters was a mural of palatial structures set amidst fountains, temples, palm trees, and lush, meticulously landscaped gardens. The painting was of Baba’s home in India—the Ravipur ashram.
From behind the counter, a fresh faced, wholesome young woman wearing a floaty blouse and a paisley scarf tied around her head took our order. Madhu and I both asked for veggie burgers. For dessert we got sweet yogurt drinks called lassis. When our orders were ready, Madhu led me to the far end of Prasad and through a big sliding glass door, where we sat down at a long butcher-block table. On the wall above was a humorous photograph of Baba in the ashram kitchen. He was wearing a big chef’s hat and posed in front of an industrial-size pot, with his arms around an attractive Western couple. The man was dressed in paint-splattered overalls and the woman was decked out in a vibrant blue and orange sari.
My veggie burger was topped with grilled onions, tomatoes, crisp lettuce, and a pickle. I took a bite and flavor exploded in my mouth. I decided I needed to start eating at Prasad more often.
“Who’s that couple in the photo with Baba?”
Madhu turned to look at the big picture hanging on the wall. “Oh, that’s Chamundi and Daniel Groza,” he said through a mouthful of food. “She’s Baba’s personal cook and he’s the head of the construction crew. Daniel’s also a pretty good singer and guitarist. He wrote a few songs about Baba and he sings the Guru Gita in English. They sell his music on cassette in the ashram bookstore.”
“What is this room? Why is it closed off from the rest of Prasad?”
“It’s the VIP room.”
I suddenly felt self-conscious. “Are you sure it’s okay we’re in here?”
“It’s fine.”
I wasn’t so sure. It felt like we were on display, behind the glass sliding doors.
“Do you see anyone else more important than us around here at the moment?”
I forced a smile. “Why does the ashram even have a VIP room? Doesn’t labeling certain people more important than others only puff up their egos and contribute to delusion?”
Madhu shrugged. “I don’t know. I never really thought about it.” Then his eyes lit up like he was remembering something. “Hey, you know the black guy, Alan Jones?”
“The manager?”
Madhu nodded, swallowed. Then he smirked. “Right, the manager. Do you know how he got the job?”
“No, but it sounds like you’re going to tell me.”
“Gajendra Williams—the real manager—got fired. Thrown out of the ashram.”
“Why?”
Madhu smiled, with a spark in his eye. “Embezzlement.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Stole a small fortune from The Mission. They say that what he didn’t spend on Armani suits and expensive restaurants in the City, he locked away in a Swiss bank account. I heard they caught him stealing cash right out of the dakshina basket—lots of it.”
I didn’t know what a dakshina basket was, but I had the feeling the money had been meant for Baba’s Mission. I got a sinking feeling and looked down at my hands. They were trembling.
Madhu looked over his shoulder for a second, and then turned back to me. An impish grin spread across his face. “You know who else got kicked out?”
Why is he telling me this? I wondered. As painful as it was to hear, I wanted to know all the facts. “Who?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Sergio Casto,” he whispered.
“Who’s Sergio?”
“He was Baba’s tour manager. Now he’s no longer welcome at the ashram.”
I put my burger down. “What did he do?”
Madhu leaned toward me and whispered, “Raped a sixteen-year-old girl. In his room at the Manhattan ashram.”
The room seemed to close in on me. Rape! Embezzlement! What kind of a place is this?
“I don’t believe that! How is it possible?”
Madhu shrugged. “Yeah, it’s nuts,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Well, I mean, it wasn’t rape rape. Cause the girl was going along with it. What’s that called?”
I thought I’d throw up. “Consensual?”
“Yeah—I mean no,” said Madhu, scratching his nose. “Statutory! That’s it. They call that statutory rape.”
“Was he much older?”
Madhu nodded. “Oh, yeah, Sergio’s old. He’s like thirty or something. Anyhow, The Mission hired a good lawyer and they got him off. But he’s not allowed back in the ashram—any ashram. I heard he went back to Sicily. That’s where he’s from.”
My eyes stung and my nose started to run. “Well, if they got him off, maybe the girl was lying.” I wiped my nose with my napkin.
The grin disappeared from Madhu’s face. His eyes widened. “Hey, you okay, man?”
I stared down at my half-eaten veggie burger. I was unable to speak. Then Madhu said something else about Baba “cleaning house,” but I was unable to listen. I stood up too quickly and felt dizzy. Leaving my food and my untouched dessert on the table, I went to the door to let myself out.
“See you later?” Madhu asked, nervously.
“Um, yeah,” I muttered, sliding the glass door closed behind me. As I entered the main dining area of the café, I locked eyes with Kriyadevi, who was sitting by herself directly opposite the VIP room. She was eating a pastry.
I walked past her and she followed me with her eyes. “Doug?”
I didn’t answer, continuing on my way toward the exit.
“Doug? Are you okay? . . .Doug?”
I rushed back to my room and crashed on my bed. I needed to be alone. Dark thoughts about Raja Yoga swirled inside my head. I wanted to run away, but thought maybe I should talk to Swami Akhandananda first and get his perspective. Then it occurred to me that Madhu might be making everything up. The way I saw it, he was the least spiritual person in the ashram, and therefore the least credible. Why should I believe anything he said?
I only had a few minutes before I had to return to seva. Doubts about the ashram tormented me: How can the divine coexist with such evil and corruption?
I tried to stand up, but felt unsteady on my feet. I sat back down on the bed. Even if Baba had banished the embezzler and the rapist from Raja Yoga, I couldn’t understand how an all-knowing and all-powerful guru could allow these things to happen in his ashram in the first place.
I took a framed picture of Baba off my altar and lay down on my bed. I held the photo above me and studied it. As always, Baba was gazing right back with infinite compassion and love. I prayed: Oh Baba, how could there have been such bad men at your ashram? How could you not have foreseen the evil they’d do?
From the photo, Baba spoke to me with his eyes. He was deeply sorry for the turmoil I was experiencing, but there was a message in it for me—something I needed to learn in order to progress on the path. I prayed to the guru to help me understand what that message was.
Stepping into the bathroom, I regarded my reflection in the mirror. My face was puffy and my eyes were red. My chest ached and my throat was sore. I needed to go to seva, but I didn’t want anyone to see me like this. I desperately wanted to get back into bed and pull the covers over my head. I wanted to hide until I could figure out what to think.
I washed my face, pulled myself together, and headed to the seva desk to get my afternoon assignment from Sita. I dreaded seeing Madhu again. I was afraid of what he might tell me next.
I mounted the steps to the upper lobby, where I found Kriyadevi talking to Alan. Her expression was deadly serious and her body rigid. Alan also looked tense. As I drew nearer, Kriyadevi noticed me and signaled my presence to Alan with a discreet nod of her head in my direction.
“Oh, Doug,” Alan said, raising a hand in the air to get my attention. Kriyadevi took off and headed down the ramp to the basement. “Could I speak to you in my office, please?”
I was afraid I had unknowingly done something wrong or that I might be in trouble for eating in the VIP room. Nervous, I followed Alan into his office.
“I have to report to seva in a couple of minutes,” I said, glancing at a clock on the wall.
“Seva can wait,” he said curtly.
There were two chairs in front of Alan’s desk. He turned them to face each other. “Take a seat please,” he said, gesturing to one. His expression was grim. We sat down and Alan stared at me for a moment before speaking.
“I hear Madhu has been telling you stories about Baba and little girls.”
At first I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him correctly: Baba and little girls? What was that supposed to mean? I was too stunned to respond.
Alan shook his head. “He’s got a big mouth on him, that kid.”
“What about Baba and little girls?” I blurted out.
Alan seemed confused by my question. Then a look of comprehension spread across his face. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and then buried his face in his hands. Looking up at me again, he asked: “What was he gossiping to you about, then?”
“He was telling me about a guy named Gajendra Williams who stole a lot of money from the ashram, and someone named Sergio Casto—Baba’s tour manager—who had sex with an underage girl in the Manhattan ashram.”
“I want to tell you something, Doug, and I want you to listen very carefully. Anyone who has ever tried to do something truly good in this world has been the target of this kind of character assassination.”
“So the stories aren’t true?” The words Baba and little girls were still reverberating in my head. I couldn’t fathom how there could even be a rumor like that to begin with. Who could dream up such a horrible lie?
“If everyone were perfect when they came to the ashram, they wouldn’t need to do any sadhana. Do you understand?”
“I guess so,” I lied.
Alan let out a huge breath, smiled tentatively, and then reached for my shoulder. He gave it a weak squeeze. “Everything else okay? How’s your room? Are you comfortable?”
“Um, yeah, sure. My room’s okay, I guess.”
Alan placed a finger on his lips and thought for a while. “Tell you what we’re gonna do. We’re going to give you a new seva assignment. How does that sound?”
It would be a relief not to have to work with Madhu anymore. Clearly he was a perfect example of what Baba would call bad company. “I’ll serve the guru in any way I’m needed.”
Alan got up and went behind his desk. Then he opened a folder and studied its contents. “How’d you like to help out in the Audiovisual department?”
I thought about watching videos of Baba all day, or carrying a light for the crew while they were filming Baba, and got excited. “That would be great!”
“You’ll be working in the video library.”
The idea of working in a library sounded like it might be boring, but at least I wouldn’t have to schlepp furniture around all day. “I’m grateful for any opportunity to be of service.”
Alan told me to take the rest of day off. He expressed regret for the “unpleasantness” I had been through. “Oh, and Doug,” Alan said as I was about to let myself out. “After today, you won’t have to worry about Madhu anymore.”
After my talk with Alan, I went outside. Expecting to be cold without my coat, I was surprised by how unseasonably warm it was. The sun was shining and the icicles hanging from the ashram’s eaves and gutters were melting. Pools of water were forming beneath them, and the snow on the ground was wet and glistening. Spring was coming soon. I had faith that once I met Baba, any lingering doubts I might still have about the ashram would be put to rest.
With my afternoon free, I spent some time meditating in the hall. Afterward I visited the ashram bookstore. I pored over the books by Baba I hadn’t read yet, and perused the back editions of Raja Path Magazine. I loved looking at the stunning pictures of the guru and all the glowing people surrounding him. I looked forward to the day I’d be one of them.
In many of the photographs, two beautiful Indians were at his side. One of them I recognized as Anjali Bhandary, Baba’s translator. The other was a handsome, serene looking young man around my age, with the round, pleasant face of a cherub. I guessed they were Baba’s closest disciples.
“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the counter. “I was wondering if you might be able to tell me who this is?” I pointed to the handsome young man.
The woman glanced at the photo and smiled brightly. “That’s Suresh Bhandary. He’s Anjali’s brother. He’s known Baba his entire life.”
I decided to buy all the back issues of Raja Path they had so that I could read them at night before lights out. I also bought a rudraksha bead mala that I could wear as a necklace and use to repeat the mantra, an intricately carved wooden incense holder, a dozen pictures of Baba and Gurudev Brahmananda, all the books by Baba I hadn’t read yet, and the cassette that Madhu had told me about, of Daniel Groza singing the Guru Gita in English. My mouth fell open when the cashier told me how much everything cost. Then I remembered, I’m rich now. I can buy anything I want. I added a few more items to my purchases, and paid for everything with traveler’s checks.
On my way back to my room, I looked through the large windows of the lobby and noticed a taxi parked in the driveway. I recognized the driver as the guy who had taken me from the bus station to the ashram. He was loading luggage into the trunk. Just then I noticed his passenger was Madhu. I wondered whether he was leaving voluntarily, or if Alan had kicked him out. I thought about going outside to say goodbye, but was afraid he might be angry at me for ratting him out. I moved closer to the window to get a better look. He was laughing and joking with the driver. Maybe he’s happy he’s finally going to Hollywood, I thought.
The rear wheels of the taxi spun on the ice for a few seconds, and then Madhu was on his way. I hoped they had kicked him out. It would serve him right for gossiping. Good riddance.