At four the next morning, the chant was still going strong, even though there were only a handful of ashramites and musicians left in the hall. The door to the meditation cave was locked, and a handwritten sign was taped to the door:
CLOSED UNTIL AFTER THE SAPTAH.
BABA SAYS EVERYONE SHOULD GO TO THE CHANT.
Obeying the guru’s command, I went directly to the hall and chanted with those already there. Within a few minutes, many others joined us. At five-thirty there was no break for the Guru Gita.
Later at seva, Rohini confirmed what I had suspected: “All the regular practices are suspended during the saptah. Everything will be back to normal next week.”
During the saptah, when we weren’t at the chant, we were expected to ready the ashram for the thousands of visitors who would come from all over the region for the celebrations. This meant that in addition to my regular duties in Housekeeping and the dish room, I also helped out by giving the ashram buildings a fresh coat of paint, weeding the gardens, and decorating the mandap pavilion with thousands of flower garlands. Sleep was frowned upon during the saptah. Day or night, if we weren’t doing seva we were expected to be at the chant.
That afternoon at the saptah, the guru’s mood was dark and his behavior was starkly different from anything I had seen before. I was finally seeing what Gopi had referred to as Baba’s “fiery side.” He kept complaining. First the overhead lights were too bright. Then they were too dim. Next the men were singing too fast, and the women too slow. At one moment, for reasons that were unclear to me, Baba became enraged. He shouted at one of the younger princesses, causing her to burst into tears. Nothing anyone did was right, and thanks to Baba’s microphone and the ashram loudspeaker system, his harsh reprimands could be heard as far away as the village.
That evening the hall was packed, like every other night Baba had come to the chant. But because I had arrived before the guru, I managed to find a place up front, right behind the area reserved for the swamis.
I was dead tired, but wide awake. I was going on my third night in a row of less than three hours of sleep. But as they said in the ashram, during the saptah you didn’t need any sleep. You could get by on the guru’s shakti alone.
Gopi and Parvati were there, decked out in the high-priced saris they had purchased just a day earlier in the shopping arcade at the Taj. Swaying from side to side, striking their cymbals in time to the melody, they and the other princesses chanted with abandon. They seemed oblivious to Baba’s bad mood. As they gazed up at him, tears of devotion streamed down their faces.
Seated up front next to Sergio, Avadhoot was by far the loudest chanter. Unfortunately, he was incapable of carrying a tune. Singing off key at the top of his lungs, his body convulsing, his hands twisted and turned endlessly, clumsily forming the gestures of an Indian classical dancer. I would’ve thought it was an affectation on his part, if I hadn’t already seen and heard the often bizarre movements and sounds caused by Baba’s shakti and kundalini awakening.
Sergio, by contrast, was in a state of agitation. While everyone else sat still, backs erect, attention fixed on the guru, Sergio glanced around the room and fidgeted constantly, scowling whenever he saw anything that displeased him. Suresh, who normally sat opposite Anjali, was on drums that night. It was always a treat to hear him play—through his music, I felt as though I were being transported to higher realm.
While Baba led the chant from his throne, Suresh controlled the rhythm and tempo. Normally, master and disciple were in perfect sync, but tonight Suresh was having difficulty following the guru’s lead. A few times I saw what looked like pure hatred flash across Baba’s face, when Suresh, serene and poised as ever, and seemingly unaware of the problem, played slightly faster than the guru was chanting.
Just as Suresh was bringing the chant to a crescendo, Baba turned bright red and shouted at him in Hindi. A pained expression came over the young Indian man’s cherub-like face, and he shifted to a slower tempo. But this only seemed to make the guru angrier. Beating his tambourine at the speed he wanted Suresh to play, Baba shouted insults at him until he adjusted the tempo again. Unfortunately, not everyone in the hall caught on at the same time—the people seated all the way in the back and in the courtyard were still singing, clapping, and playing their cymbals too fast, and the chant degenerated into a discordant free-for-all.
I thought the people in the back were idiots for failing to notice what Baba was trying to do, and, from the way Sergio was glowering at them, I could tell he thought so too. But the guru’s rage was reserved solely for Suresh. Just as the chant was finally getting back under control, the guru drew his arm back, and then hurled his tambourine at his disciple’s head.
The instrument struck Suresh with a cheerful jingle. He grimaced in pain, but didn’t miss a beat.
A feeling of dread washed over me. I looked around. Mouths hung open in disbelief, and many people had stopped chanting and clapping. Gopi’s eyes were squeezed shut. Baba again shouted at Suresh in Hindi, and then yanked the microphone off its stand and thrust it into Anjali’s hands.
“Where’s Poonish?” Anjali’s voice reverberated loudly in the hall over the now almost inaudible chant. A few seconds later, Poonish Davidson appeared beside the guru with his own set of tablas, as if he’d been waiting in the wings.
“Nikal jaao yahaan!” Baba hollered, pointing at Suresh.
“Suresh, get out,” Anjali translated for the rest of us. Her face was a mask of dispassion. “Poonish will take over on the tablas.”
Without hesitation, Suresh ceded the drumming to the American. Lowering his head, he calmly rose to his feet, bent over to retrieve the tambourine from where it had landed next to the harmonium, and brought it back to the guru.
Curling his lip and shaking his head, Baba snatched the instrument out of his disciple’s hands and shooed him away. Unperturbed, Suresh bowed down before him, collected his drums, and then nonchalantly sauntered out of the hall. Once he was out of sight, Baba leaned over to speak to Anjali, who immediately shot up, taking Baba’s microphone in hand.
“Baba says everyone should be chanting.” Her voiced boomed over the sound system. “Go on, chant—chant!”
Within seconds everyone was chanting again, and Baba smiled with approval at Poonish’s drumming. “Acha, acha! Good drummer! Very good drummer!”
I prayed that I’d never cause the guru to become so angry.
On the last night of the saptah, I was working with a group of Indians and Westerners to string the dozens of flower garlands needed to decorate the mandap. After a couple of hours, Stephen Ames pulled me aside. “You’ll be working with Govinda now,” he told me.
Govinda Brown was a thin, spry Australian man with tattoos all over his body. He lived in the ashram with his wife and young daughter. Apparently, the Indian devotee who had been helping him to hang garlands had requested another seva. I soon understood why: his job required repeatedly scaling a rickety twenty-foot bamboo scaffolding with one hand, while carrying as many finished garlands as possible in the other. The work would have been scary enough, but the Australian’s devil-may-care attitude made it terrifying.
“Ow!” I cried out, as my shoulder hit the marble floor of the mandap. For the first time in my life, I had fallen asleep standing up.
“You alright, mate?” Govinda called from the top of the scaffolding. Fortunately, I hadn’t been up there with him when I collapsed.
“I think so,” I said, rubbing my arm and willing myself back on my feet. “I fell asleep.”
Govinda laughed hysterically, jumping up and down on the wooden platform as though it were a trampoline. Fearing the makeshift rig might come crashing down, I scrambled to get clear of it. This also struck Govinda as funny. He again laughed wildly, and then bounded down the side of the scaffolding, shaking it violently.
“Crikey! I’m knackered too,” he said, jumping to the floor. He didn’t look tired to me. Looking up at the high ceiling of the pavilion, he surveyed our work. “This section is done. Let’s take a chai break after we move the rig.”
The last thing Govinda needed was another cup of chai, but I wasn’t in a position to stop him. He was a nice enough guy, but his manic energy was beginning to wear me out. Tomorrow was the last day of the saptah and I was desperately looking forward to a full night of sleep.
“Come on, mate!” said the Australian, gulping down his seventh cup of chai. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we can go back to the chant!”
As I climbed, the bamboo frame yielded under my weight and wobbled. I was sure one of the bamboo rungs would snap, or that the rig—held together with only a few strands of worn-out rope—would give at any moment and come crashing down.
“She’ll be right, mate! That’s it, bring ‘em up to Govinda. I ain’t got all night!”
I’d never worked with Govinda before, so I couldn’t tell whether he was always like this, or if his reckless behavior was the result of an adrenaline rush and too much chai. The Australian’s constant jabbering and sudden movements on the scaffolding were endangering both of us. I was afraid that if he didn’t calm down he’d cause an accident. And that’s exactly what happened.
Around two in the morning, Govinda accidentally dropped his hammer over the side of the platform. Reaching down after it, he lost his balance and slipped. He screamed as he fell, and his bones made an audible cracking sound when he struck the marble.
I ran over to him. He was unconscious. I thought he was dead.
Sergio, who had arrived just in time to witness the mishap, sprang into action. He immediately sent for Nirmalananda, the swami doctor, and cleared the mandap.
“Everybody get out!” he shouted, pointing to the exit.
“Can we go to bed now?” a woman asked, tearing up. Her face was drawn and her eyes were bloodshot.
“No! Everybody should go back to the chant!”
I followed the others down a dimly-lit garden path, until we arrived at a fork. I was shocked when almost everybody headed in the direction of the dorms, instead of the hall for the chant. I was tired too, but I would do as I was told. After all, an order from
Sergio was as good as a command from the guru himself. The quitters had wrong understanding.
An older woman who had come to the chant with me from the mandap was crying over the accident. When she wouldn’t stop, an usher finally had to ask her to leave. I felt bad about the accident too, but not that bad. I tried to see it in a positive light: the guru’s shakti was purging Govinda of his evil karma.
Then I had a thought: Isn’t feeling sad when someone gets hurt a normal emotional reaction? Why don’t I feel anything? I remembered Baba teaching that the world and all phenomena within it were an illusion. I chose to believe the reason I didn’t care was because I had already attained a higher state of consciousness. The universe I lived in was as unreal as a film projected on a screen. Why worry about “others” when I was merely asleep and dreaming?
An hour later, Sergio came to the hall looking for people to help finish decorating the mandap. I immediately volunteered. When I returned to the scene of the accident, I was surprised to find everything back to normal. There was no sign that anything bad had happened.
Avadhoot was there now, taking pictures of the flowers. His camera was mounted on a tripod and his eye was glued to the viewfinder. I approached him and asked about the Australian. “Is Govinda going to be alright?”
“He’ll live,” he muttered, changing lenses. “They took him to Breach Candy Hospital in Bombay. His wife’s there with him. Now hold this.” Avadhoot handed me a reflector, and then inched the tripod closer to his subject.
“Does Baba know about what happened?”
“Sure, sure, kid. Baba knows everything. Now shut up and let me work.”
The Punyatithi celebrations were only a few short hours away and there were still many garlands to be hung. But after what happened to Govinda, nobody wanted to go anywhere near the scaffolding. I couldn’t blame them. I was scared too, and was glad to be assisting Avadhoot on the floor instead. This didn’t last, however. Before long, Sergio needed a volunteer to finish what Govinda had started. I hesitated at first, and then changed my mind. “I’ll do it!” This is how I will prove myself.
“Grande, Greenbaum!” the Italian said, handing me a hammer and giving me a big pat on the back. “Indira will help you.”
I was now starting to look up to Sergio as a leader. He was good at telling other people what to do, but what I liked most about him was that he valued me as a member of his team.
As the hours passed, and the sky began to lighten, my fatigue was replaced by a rush of blissful energy. Baba’s shakti had turned me into a superman. By comparison, Indira St. John looked like a wilted flower. She could barely make it to the top of the platform. Toward the end, I was climbing down the scaffolding myself to get the garlands.
With the help of those I considered to be the guru’s “hardcore” devotees, we were able to finish decorating the mandap and setting up Baba’s throne before dawn. By the time I hung my last garland, I was no longer desperate for sleep. I was ready to do more seva or go to the chant.
In addition to the euphoria I experienced something else, and there was no denying it: overwhelming sexual desire. I wanted to have sex with every woman who came into view, even some of the older female swamis. If Indira were game, I would’ve fucked her right then and there on the hard marble floor of the mandap, in front of everyone. I knew these thoughts were impure and sinful, but I reached the point of no return. Desire had overtaken any sense of control I usually possessed. I was incapable of stopping myself from fantasizing.
“Looking good, Greenbaum!” Sergio called, from below. “Finito?”
“Sì!” I answered, speaking the only word of Italian I knew.
“Benissimo! Very good!” he said, beaming an enormous smile up at me.
Bounding down the scaffolding, I jumped to the floor right in front of him.
Gazing at the Italian’s noble face, I had a realization: Sergio is more than a man. He’s a god. I would do anything he asked of me. “What’s next?”
“Now you take a rest, Greenbaum.”
“Rest? I’m not tired!” I was pumped up and eager to serve. There was no way I’d be able to fall asleep at this point.
“Sì, sì. I have an important seva for you in a few hours. You need to be in good shape. You make a nap now and report to me in front of Baba’s house at nine o’clock. D’accordo?”
“What about my regular seva?”
Sergio frowned. “You work for Baba now. Understand?”
“Got it!”
I turned to leave, but Sergio called out to me before I reached the exit. “Hey, Greenbaum!”
I turned around. He was smiling again.
“You did good. You make me very happy. When I’m happy, Baba is happy. Understand?”
“Totally!”
When I got back to my dorm, I took a bucket bath with ice-cold water, washing off the grime and dirt from the past week of nonstop seva and chanting. As I toweled off, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. I was glowing. I was not as good-looking as Sergio, of course, but for the first time in my life, I liked what I saw.