BABA, SURESH, AND THE rest of the innermost circle would fly to New Delhi, where the guru would meet local devotees to lay the cornerstone of a new Raja Yoga ashram. Everyone else was setting off by train a day earlier, and would arrive in Delhi in time for the ceremony. From Delhi, we would continue to the holy city of Haridwar, about a hundred and fifty miles north of the Indian capital.
From the moment we found our first-class cabin on the train, Arjuna Weinberg complained about how jet-lagged he was and how little sleep he had gotten since leaving Birchwood Falls. As always, his eyes were watery and red.
“I can never sleep on planes,” he said. “I hate flying. And I’ve barely gotten any sleep since I got to India. I had to run all over Ravipur tethered to the village idiot with a twenty-pound camera on my shoulder. It was a nightmare!”
Within seconds of sitting down, Poonish Davidson retreated into his own world, mouthing the words to the music he was listening to on his Walkman. Although he was wearing headphones, the volume was cranked up enough so that I could tell he wasn’t listening to anything remotely spiritual. Stephen Ames was also tuning Arjuna out, reading a book entitled The Yoga Sutras Of Patanjali.
After a few hours of nonstop chatter, Arjuna finally fell asleep against the window. I felt gratitude to the guru for including me on his pilgrimage, but with the cameraman dead to the world, Poonish listening to mixtapes and staring out the window, and Stephen absorbed in his book, I was beginning to feel rejected: Why don’t they want to talk to me? Do they consider me beneath them? I reminded myself that it could have been worse. I could have been assigned to the cabin with Brian and Seth.
At the New Delhi railway station, hired cars picked us up and took us directly to the site of the future ashram. Arjuna filmed the guru performing various rituals while I held the microphone and operated the VTR. Afterwards, Baba gave a brief talk, which was followed by a sumptuous luncheon hosted by prominent local devotees.
The ashram had booked us rooms at the Hyatt Regency, which was even more luxurious than the Taj Palace in Bombay. Baba stayed in the Presidential Suite with his attendant Rashmi Varma. Everyone else was paired with a roommate on the floor below. I was assigned to a room with Poonish.
At a short staff meeting in the hotel lobby, Sergio told everyone that we should eat in one of the hotel restaurants and charge it to our rooms. With nothing better to do after dinner, Poonish and I went for a drink at the bar off the lobby. When no one came to take our order immediately, my new friend waved impatiently at a waiter to get his attention. “Garçon!”
“Good evening, gentlemen. What is your pleasure?”
“One fresh lime soda, please,” Poonish said. “Sweetened.”
I ordered the same.
“You don’t drink alcohol?” I asked him.
“Of course not.”
“Why?”
“Alcohol is toxic. I don’t ingest impure substances for the same reason I don’t splash mud all over myself.”
As we sipped our refreshing drinks, Poonish told me about his passion for playing the tablas, and how before meeting Baba he had been a drummer in a rock band back in Wisconsin.
“What’s your favorite group?” he asked, taking a swig of his soda.
“I’m not interested in popular music anymore. I only listen to Raja Yoga tapes.”
Poonish leaned forward in his seat and looked at me expectantly. “Yes, but if you had a favorite, which would it be?”
“I don’t know. The Stones. Or maybe The Who.”
His face dropped. Then he smiled politely. “Cool.”
“What about you?”
“Duran Duran!” he answered, with a delighted grin. “Simon Le Bon rules!”
Over a second round of fresh lime sodas, the conversation shifted to clothes. “I do all of my shopping at Barney’s in Manhattan,” Poonish said. “That’s where Sergio goes.” Then he pointed to his shoes. “You see these loafers? Sergio has the same pair.”
“Italian?”
“No, they’re Bally.”
I had no idea where Bally shoes came from, but tried not to let on. I asked him how he was able to afford such expensive clothes and travel all over the world with Baba. At first he was reluctant to say. Then he explained that as a new member of Baba’s staff, all his expenses were paid. He even received a “modest” stipend.
This disturbed me. “Wait—you mean that people’s donations to the ashram are used to pay for your and Sergio’s fancy clothes?”
Before Poonish could answer, the Italian himself stepped out of one of the elevators. I gulped—he was arm in arm with Gopi. They sat at the far end of the bar. She didn’t even notice I was there. She was too busy gawking at the Sergio.
As Poonish and I finished our sodas, I was unable to take my eyes off Gopi. She blushed, played with her hair, and smiled every time Sergio opened his mouth. She was obviously smitten. And the drinks they ordered looked like real cocktails.
Much to my embarrassment, Sergio noticed me staring. Then he said something that made Gopi look in my direction and laugh. They lifted their glasses to salute me. With blood rushing to my face, I lifted my lime soda in return.
Later that night in my room, I reflected on what I’d seen in the bar. Did Baba know that his closest disciples drank alcohol the moment they stepped out of the ashram? And where was Baba while Sergio and Gopi were getting cozy in the lobby? What did the Omniscient One make of their flirtation? Did he condone it? And did he know that money donated to the ashram was being spent at Barney’s?
*
THE HOLY CITY OF Haridwar lay on the banks of the river Ganges in the foothills of the Himalayas. For the next leg of our journey, the staff drove in a convoy of hired 1950s-style Ambassador cars. Baba drove with Suresh, Anjali, and Rashmi Varma in a chauffeured luxury sedan, which had been put at his disposal by a wealthy devotee from New Delhi. An ill-tempered, scar-faced man named Hameed drove the car I shared with Poonish.
Hameed drove excessively fast up the narrow, winding mountain roads, taking his turns much too sharply. Guardrails were nonexistent in India and one second of inattention would have sent our vehicle tumbling off the side of the mountain. To make matters worse, Hameed was in the habit of randomly honking his horn every few seconds. His constant braking and sudden accelerations, along with the incessant beeping of his horn, were making me ill.
Poonish told me that Haridwar was one of the four sites of the Kumbha Mela, a religious event that happened once every twelve years and drew millions of Hindus to the banks of the Ganges to wash away their sins. The sacred ritual, however, was not the reason for our pilgrimage. We were on our way to the ashram of His Eminence Vedantananda Acharya, where Suresh would take the vows of a renunciant and become a swami.
“Why can’t Baba just hold the ceremony himself in Ravipur?” I asked Poonish.
“The Acharya is the head of the Smriti order. Only he has the authority to ordain swamis.”
I was skeptical. “He has more power than Baba?”
“Of course not! Baba is a shaktipat guru—a perfected master. The Acharya’s role is purely institutional.”
“Hey, do you think we’ll get a chance to take a dip in the Ganges?”
Poonish winced. “I hope not. That’s where they dump the bodies after they burn them.”
I remembered Hindus believed that if they were cremated on the banks of the sacred river, they would attain liberation.
“Sometimes the bodies don’t burn up completely,” Poonish continued, “and the snapping turtles finish them off.”
The idea of bathing in a river full of half-burnt corpses made me want to puke.
As we drove around a curve, our car nearly collided with an oncoming truck. The driver swerved, and we narrowly avoided driving off the edge of a cliff. Hameed slammed his hand down on the horn in anger. I broke out in a sweat.
“You want to give that thing a rest,” Poonish scolded. The driver glared at my friend, and in defiance, honked the horn again.
My belly churned. I thought I might throw up at any second. “Can you stop the car a minute, please?”
The scar-faced driver frowned. “No stop.”
“He can’t—not unless Baba’s car stops first,” Poonish explained. Then my friend got a glint in his eye, and a mischievous smile played on his lips. “Hey, you want to hear something totally gross?”
I inched closer to the open window. “Not really.”
Poonish ignored me. “There’s a Shiva-worshipping sect of ascetics in Haridwar called the Aghoris. They’re known for doing all kinds of disgusting stuff. They drink urine, eat shit, and practice ritual cannibalism using the partially-cremated remains of the dead. They live in the charnel grounds and smear ashes all over their bodies.”
“What’s a charnel ground?” I asked, unsure if I really wanted to know.
“It’s like an above-ground graveyard, where they leave half-burnt dead bodies to rot. The Aghoris make bowls out of human skulls and eat their meals out of them.”
I felt a wave of nausea. “You’re going to make me puke!”
“Look at you!” Poonish hooted. “You’re turning green!”
I didn’t want to be sick all over the inside of the car, so I rolled down my window. Hameed the driver eyed me suspiciously in the rear-view mirror.
“Most Hindus are afraid of them,” said Poonish. “They shun them.”
“Understandably.” I decided that if I had to throw up, I’d aim for my new friend.
“They’re considered black magicians, but many of the local people in Haridwar revere them because of their supernatural powers.”
“So they do all of these weird, gross things, but what do they believe in?”
“They have the same goal we do—enlightenment.”
I was skeptical, and suspected that Poonish might be making the whole thing up.
“How does eating dead people and drinking piss help them achieve that?”
Poonish explained that the Aghoris believed that the greatest obstacle to attaining a state of perfect non-dualistic awareness was people’s tendency to cling to concepts of right and wrong. For the Aghoris, this kind of delusional thinking was an even greater hindrance than an addiction to comfort and sensual pleasure. They achieved transcendence through self-degradation and the breaking of social taboos.
“They take drugs, eat meat, and engage in Tantric sex rituals.”
“They sound totally insane. I can understand why decent people want nothing to do with them. I’d be afraid of them, too.”
“Maybe they sound crazy to you,” said Poonish, lifting his chin and sitting up straight. “But from the standpoint of an enlightened being, their view makes perfect sense.”
I was beginning to think Poonish was nuts too, but wanted to understand what he was getting at.
“What do you mean?”
“You agree that Shiva is the cause of everything that occurs in the phenomenal universe, don’t you?”
“Um, yeah,” I said. “Everything is an expression of God.”
“And God is perfect, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Then logically, everything that exists must be perfect too. The Aghoris believe that to deny the perfection of anything would be to deny the sacredness of God as well.”
“Agoris—very bad,” Hameed growled, frowning at us through the rearview mirror.
I agreed with the driver, and wondered why on earth Baba chose Haridwar as a place to spend three years in silent retreat.
Hameed’s constant horn honking irritated Poonish even more than it did me. Indian drivers, I noticed, had a tendency to use their horns as a way of making their presence known to other drivers. But Hameed’s honking was gratuitous. He honked any time another vehicle came into view, and he honked whenever he saw cows or pedestrians in the immediate vicinity, even if they were nowhere near the road.
Despite Hamid’s refusal to stop earlier, when we were about halfway to our destination, he pulled into a service station. A sign above the fuel pumps said “Indian Oil.”
“What’s wrong?” Poonish demanded. “Why are you stopping?”
“Petrol.”
Three men attended to our vehicle. One pumped the gas while the other two cleaned our windshields. When they were finished, Hameed went inside to pay.
Fearing this might be my last chance to puke before we got to the Acharya’s ashram, I got out of the car and walked a few feet to the side of the road. After a few painful dry heaves, I finally found relief. When I returned to the car, the hood was up and Poonish was bent over the engine with a hand on one knee. The other hand held a Swiss army pocket knife.
“What are you looking for?”
“The wire,” he said, biting his lower lip.
“Which wire?”
“The one connected to that fucking horn.”
I glanced nervously in the direction of the station office. Hameed was still inside. “Are you crazy?”
“Hel-l-l-l-o! What’s this?” Poonish said, opening his knife. Before he could snip the wire, Hameed returned and started shouting.
“Ae! Tu meri gaadi ke saath kya kar raha hai?”
“Fixing that fucking horn hey!” Poonish hollered back. Then he cracked a wicked smile and doubled over with laughter.
Hameed turned purple with rage and slammed shut the hood of the car. “Foolish American boys!”
Poonish and I were both laughing now as we piled back into the car. Turning the key in the ignition, Hameed slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The tires on the car screeched as we sped back out onto the roadway. We didn’t get even a tenth of a mile before Hameed’s hand was back on the horn again.
The city center of Haridwar was crowded with ancient temples and shrines, and overflowing with pilgrims, tourists, hawkers, and saffron-robed monks. As we drove through, devotional songs in praise of the river goddess Ganges and Lord Shiva blared from loudspeakers. Looking out the window, I saw naked, trident-carrying holy men with long matted hair and bodies smeared with sacred ash. They begged in the streets or performed rituals like street magicians. The Acharya’s ashram was located on the outskirts of town.
Above the ashram gate, a banner in Hindi and English read: “Welcome Swami Rudrananda and His Disciples.” Inside, Baba was received by His Eminence and a huge gathering of sannyasins—all of whom were Indian. Avadhoot was taking pictures everywhere at once.
Attired in the plain cotton robes of a simple renunciant, the Acharya was more modest and austere-looking in appearance than I had pictured. Like Baba, he was in his early seventies, but appeared much older. Our guru’s full head of hair was lustrous, and had not yet gone completely gray. His Eminence’s head and face were shaven. Baba’s skin was golden-hued and radiated good health; the Acharya’s complexion was pallid.
Hands folded in reverence, His Eminence greeted Baba with sparkling eyes and a warm smile before garlanding him with flowers. Patting the Acharya on the shoulder, Baba said something in Hindi, prompting laughter from his host and everyone else who could understand. I marveled at these two great beings exchanging pleasantries and knowing glances, as if they were both in on the same cosmic joke.
“Shouldn’t we be filming this?” I asked Arjuna.
“Nah. When they want us to shoot, they’ll tell us—believe me.”
The Acharya escorted Baba and Suresh to a nearby temple, while the sannyasins led the rest of us to a grassy spot on the riverbank. Under the shade of trees, they served us water in crudely fashioned clay cups and a simple lunch on banana leaf plates. Sipping my water, I cringed, wondering where it came from. If it was from the Ganges, anything could be floating around in it. I reminded myself that the river was holy and washed away the sins of all those who came in contact with it. I had nothing to fear.
Most of the food was palatable. The only thing I couldn’t eat were the chapattis— they tasted like concrete. Halfway through the meal, Poonish showed me what he had found embedded in one of his puris: a dead cockroach. My nausea returned with a vengeance and our lunch was over. Shooting up to our feet, we searched for a garbage can to dump the rest of our food, but were intercepted by Sergio.
“Act polite!” he scolded. “Go back and finish your food!”
When the meal was officially over, the sannyasins took our dirty leaf plates and clay cups and tossed them into the river. I watched as the banana leaves were carried downstream by the current.
“You think there’re any corpses floating around in there?” I asked Poonish.
“That is not the Ganges proper,” he said in a fake Indian accent. “That is a canal only.”
From a dais in one of the ashram’s many shady gardens, our guru and His Eminence held darshan. Suresh sat at their feet.
“Make sure you get good coverage of this,” Avadhoot said to Arjuna, loading a roll of film into his camera. Then he pointed at me. “And make sure he gets usable audio. The sound at the shrine was a disaster!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Arjuna answered, adjusting his tripod. “I get it.”
“What’s happening? Why is this so important?” I asked Arjuna, after Avadhoot was out of earshot.
“They set up Baba’s throne higher than the Acharya’s.”
I glanced in the direction of the two holy men. Arjuna was right; Baba’s throne was raised a few inches higher than the other guru’s.
“That’s very significant—it’s an acknowledgement of Baba’s superior attainment. We want it well documented.”
Our guru may have been the guest of honor, but from the way Baba and His Eminence kept glancing down at Suresh and smiling, it was clear that Suresh was the center of attention.
“Tomorrow morning, Suresh will be taking the vows of sannyasa and will be ordained as a swami,” Baba said through Anjali. “Later in the evening we will all go to the Hari-ki-Pauri ghat for the Ganga arti.”
“Great,” Arjuna grumbled.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
“You’ll see. We’re going to have to kill to get any decent footage next to the river. Too many pilgrims and tourists.”
Darshan went on for hours. The sun fell lower in the sky. At one point, Baba turned to Avadhoot and spoke to him in Hindi. This time the photographer translated for us: “Baba says we should put our cameras away now.”
The Acharya eyed Avadhoot with admiration. I could tell he was impressed by the American’s fluency in an Indian language.
“His Eminence likes your big hat,” Anjali said to Avadhoot. Everybody laughed, but I noticed that Baba’s translator was not amused. Her expression was glum and her lips were pressed flat. I’d never seen her so sullen.
Avadhoot tipped his idiotic ten-gallon hat to the Acharya and spoke with a ridiculous Texas accent: “Why, thank you, Your Eminence! Whoo-whee!”
Everybody laughed again.
“Do the cowboy walk!” Suresh called.
Avadhoot swaggered away from the dais in an exaggerated bow-legged strut. Then he stopped and spun around with his index fingers aimed at Arjuna like pistols. “Stick ‘em up, pardner!”
Arjuna sighed and shook his head. “What an asshole,” he muttered.
Luckily for the cameraman, only I heard him.
Slapping his knee, the Acharya laughed heartily, and then turned to speak to Anjali.
“Avadhoot, His Eminence would like to try on your hat.”
“Why certainly!” said the cowboy photographer, brimming with pride. With a bow and a flourish, Avadhoot handed the Acharya his Stetson.
His Eminence regarded the alien object with childlike curiosity, and then set it down on his own head. The hat proved much too large for him, however, causing it to slip down over his face, covering his eyes. While everybody else laughed and applauded, a quarrel broke out between Anjali and Gopi. I was unable to hear what they were saying, but I could tell Baba’s translator was angry. Gopi was on the verge of crying. When their bickering became too loud to ignore, the laughter stopped abruptly, and all eyes were on the two women.
“Get out of here, you incompetent fool,” Anjali scolded.
Gopi fled the garden in the direction of the river, tears streaming from her eyes, the back of her hand held against her mouth. For a second I thought about running after her, so she could see how much I cared. But I didn’t dare move. I was on this pilgrimage to serve the guru. If Baba needed Arjuna to film, and I wasn’t there to assist him, Sergio would be furious.
A moment later, Baba was blasting Anjali, I assumed for the disruption. If the scolding upset her, however, she didn’t show it. When Baba dismissed her, she left calm and collected, shoulders back and chin up.
Baba’s closest disciples were housed in newly constructed bungalows, but the accommodations for the rest of us were austere, even by Indian standards. The room I shared with Poonish was covered with dust. Cobwebs dangled from every corner of the ceiling. Two doors on cinderblocks served as beds, and a wooden crate between them served as a night stand. On the crate was an old lamp. A ceiling fan wobbled noisily, giving little relief from the heat.
“It’s not so bad,” I said, putting on a good face for my fellow Raja Yogi.
Poonish stood with one arm holding the other at the elbow. “We don’t even have air conditioning. And the bathrooms are a hundred yards away.”
“We don’t have air conditioners or bathrooms in our rooms in Ravipur either.”
Poonish bit his lip. “Some of us do.”
I was envious. Baba’s staff really had it made.
We stayed up late talking about Duran Duran, men’s fashion, and whatever else popped into Poonish’s head. When we finally switched off the light, it was a quarter to midnight. As I waited for sleep, I thought about how blessed I was to be in the holy city with Baba, and how happy I was to have made a new friend. I also thought about how Anjali had scolded Gopi at darshan. I wished I could’ve defended her. I was sure she hadn’t deserved Anjali’s harsh treatment.
Just as I was drifting off to sleep, Poonish cried out: “Aaaaaaaagh!”
“What’s wrong?” I said, fumbling for the switch on the lamp between our beds.
Poonish was hopping around the room in his underwear, frantically scratching himself. His eyes were wide with dismay. “Bed bugs!”
Suddenly, I felt itchy too. “Are you sure?”
Grabbing his clothes off the top of his suitcase, Poonish quickly got dressed. “One hundred percent sure. I’m getting out of here!”
“Where are you going to sleep?” I asked, scratching my arm.
Poonish thrust open the door to our room with so much force he practically knocked it off its hinges. “In the car. You coming?”
“Yeah, but what if it’s locked?” I pulled my clothes on as fast as I could.
“Then I’ll break a window!”
I wasn’t as convinced of the threat as Poonish, but he knew India much better than I did. If he said there were bedbugs, I wasn’t going to argue with him.
The quickest path leading to the cars took us along the river. Luckily, we could see where we were going—the moon was full and cast an eerie, washed-out light over the water and the ashram compound. As we got closer to the main gate, I noticed that lights were still on in a couple of the bungalows. I wondered why they were still up at such a late hour.
The car wasn’t locked, as it turned out. Inside, Hameed was asleep on the back seat, with his feet propped up in an open window. We looked around for an empty vehicle, but they were all already occupied by their drivers.
Poonish pounded a fist against the roof of Hameed’s car. “Wake up, stupid!”
The scar-faced driver was unresponsive. Next Poonish tried whistling through two fingers. He was so loud the whistle hurt my ears, but still nothing. As a last resort, Poonish grabbed Hameed’s legs and shook them.
“Vakt kya hua hai?” said the driver, rubbing his eyes.
My friend pointed to the back seat. “We sleep here!”
Hameed blinked his eyes a few times to check if he was really awake. Then he vigorously shook his head. “Nahin! Chale jao!”
“Yes, yes!” Poonish insisted, reaching for the door handle. Before he had a chance to open it, however, Hameed brought a fist down on the lock. Then he rolled up all the windows.
“What’s plan B?” I asked, relieved not to have to share the back seat of a hot car with two other men.
Poonish went from car to car, waking up the drivers, demanding that we be allowed to sleep in their vehicles. The response from all of them was the same. They were off the clock and we should get lost.
“Listen, Poonish,” I said, “maybe there weren’t any bedbugs in our room and you just imagined it.”
But he wasn’t listening to me.
“I have a better idea,” he said finally. “Let’s sleep in the temple!”
I thought about it, but decided to pass. A temple was a sacred space—I didn’t want to risk angering the guru. “I’ll take my chances back in the room.”
“Suit yourself,” Poonish said. Then he hurried toward the temple.
On my way back to the room, I again walked along the edge of the holy river and remembered that we’d be visiting the Har-ki-Pauri ghat with Baba the next evening. I looked forward to participating in the Ganga arati ritual. Everyone said it was spectacular.
Just then, I saw something out of the corner of my eye that freaked me out. A large object—only a few yards away—was floating downstream toward me. Could it be? Please God, no, not a dead body!
I thought about the Aghori cult and a chill spread through me. I wondered if we were anywhere near a charnel ground. They could have been munching on half-burnt corpses just a mile or two upstream.
When the object was close enough, I saw it was only a log. But this did little to calm my nerves. Even if I couldn’t see the dead bodies floating on the surface, I knew they were in there, probably just below the surface. I regretted my decision to return to the room without Poonish. I was alone, with no one to protect me. What if the Aghoris also ate people while they were still alive?
I was about to turn around and head for the temple, when I finally saw the lights of the bungalows up ahead. As I drew nearer, I saw something that shocked me. A man was standing in the open doorway of a bungalow, holding a woman in his arms. I was pretty sure it was Sergio and Anjali.
Unsure what to do, I ducked behind a bush and observed. Although the light coming from the open door was dim, I was almost certain I recognized the translator’s long black braided hair, and the floral pattern of the sari she had been wearing earlier. Then I heard the man speak. I’d recognize that accent anywhere—it was the Italian. A moment later, he led the woman by the hand inside and closed the door behind them.
I was confused and angry. In the bar the night before, I’d seen him making bedroom eyes at Gopi. Now, he seemed to be canoodling with Baba’s translator! I’d heard Baba say many times that everyone living in the ashram—even married couples—was required to observe strict celibacy. I was appalled by Sergio’s immoral behavior. Not only was he hitting on the girl I loved, he was two-timing her!
Back in the room, I was now more afraid of being eaten alive by the Aghoris than of getting a few insect bites. After making sure the door to my room was securely locked, I inspected the flimsy pad that passed for a mattress on my makeshift bed. No sign of bed bugs. I checked Poonish’s bed, too. Nothing. Stripping down to my underwear, I got back into bed, switched off the light, and pulled the bed sheet over my head. A few seconds later, I thought I heard a tentative knock on the door. Unsure if I’d imagined it, I didn’t immediately respond. A moment later, the gentle knock came again. It’s Poonish, I thought. He must’ve forgotten his key.
Turning the light back on, I thought about getting dressed, and then changed my mind: It can only be Poonish. I opened. To my astonishment, it was Gopi!
Her eyes were red and wet with tears. She glanced down at my bare legs, and then looked away. “Oh, sorry!”
I ducked behind the door. “It’s okay. Just a second.” My heart raced. “Let me put something on.” I left the door slightly ajar, and scrambled to get dressed. I couldn’t imagine what she could possibly want. As soon as I was decent, I went to the door again.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “I saw your light on just a minute ago.”
“It’s no problem,” I assured her, and invited her in.
Gopi glanced around the room. “Where’s Poonish?”
“Sleeping in the temple. He thinks we have bedbugs.”
Gopi laughed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “That figures. He panics easily. I’m sure he’s imagining it.”
I studied her face. She looked so sad—but God, she was gorgeous. “Well, he did find a dead cockroach in his lunch.”
Gopi laughed and cried at the same time. “I’m so sorry,” she said, trying to pull herself together.
“Please,” I said, gesturing toward Poonish’s bed. I’d already forgotten about the imaginary bed bugs.
Glancing at the bed, she took a seat on the edge. I sat on my bed, across from her.
Gopi stared at the floor and twisted a strand of hair around her finger. I couldn’t believe she was there, in my room. Of all the people making the pilgrimage with Baba, she had turned to me. I was thrilled, but couldn’t help wondering why.
“What’s up?” I asked her, trying to sound casual.
“It’s Anjali. She’s been in a horrible mood ever since Baba announced that Suresh would be his successor.”
I found it hard to believe that Anjali could be jealous of her brother—she was too spiritually advanced for such a primitive emotion. But who was I to say? Gopi knew her infinitely better than I did.
“What were you two arguing about at darshan?”
Gopi looked at the floor again and continued to play with her hair. “Oh, that. She accused me of forgetting to bring a gold watch that Baba had intended as a gift for the Acharya. But it’s not true. Baba gave it to her to pack, but she forgot. Now she’s trying to blame the whole thing on me!” Gopi sniffled and wiped her eyes again. “I just don’t understand it—she’s not usually so mean.”
“How unfair!”
Gopi’s shoulders curled over her chest and she again began to cry. Even with her face twisted in sorrow, she was by far the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.
When she finally stopped bawling and looked up at me again, her lips were slightly parted. They were full and sensuous. I wondered what it’d be like to kiss them.
What would Baba think if he knew I had a girl in my room at this hour?
“Listen, Gopi, I’m sure Anjali is just having a bad day. She’s mad now, but she’ll get over it. She definitely doesn’t seem like the kind of person to hold a grudge.”
Gopi looked away from me. She was quiet for a few seconds before speaking.
“I’m not upset about the watch or Anjali—not really.”
“You’re not?” I couldn’t imagine what problems someone as close to the guru as Gopi could have that would be worth getting so upset. “What’s wrong, then?”
She began to sob again, even harder and louder than before. Brian and Seth were in the room next door. I was afraid they might hear her.
“I just can’t understand what he sees in her!” she said abruptly.
“Well, she’s been with him since she was a little girl, and she’s obviously extremely devoted,” I said. “I mean, he did make her his translator.”
Gopi shook her head, sobbing. “I’m not talking about Baba.”
“Wait—who—what—are we talking about then?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing.
“Gopi?”
I got up from the bed and looked for something to give her to wipe her tears. When I couldn’t find anything, I took a clean t-shirt out of my duffle bag and handed it to her. She nodded in thanks, and then blew her nose in it. I decided I’d never wash that t-shirt again.
“You want to tell me?” I asked as gently as possible.
There was another long silence. Finally, she blurted out: “I’m talking about Sergio!”
A vision of the Italian having his way with the angel flashed through my mind, and every cell in my body burned.
“Oh—” I was unable to think of anything to say. Beautiful girls were the same in the ashram as they were in the ordinary world, I told myself. They always fall for the biggest jerks. What cruel game was Sergio playing with Gopi’s feelings?
“They’re together right now in his bungalow!” she said, confirming my earlier suspicion.
I suddenly felt a little better. Sergio was no longer interested in Gopi. He had moved on to someone else. “Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’m sharing a bungalow with her and she’s still not back yet.”
I realized Gopi was totally hung up on him. I couldn’t see why. He was handsome and a snappy dresser, but he was old—or so I thought at the time—and a convicted rapist!
Gopi pulled herself together and glanced up at me with her head tilted to one side. “What’s wrong?”
“Me? What do you mean? Nothing.”
“You look upset.”
Am I that transparent? I wondered. I turned away. “I’m fine. I’m just concerned about you.”
I didn’t know much about Sergio, or how he had become so close to the Baba, but it was strange that the guru seemed to put up with all of his shenanigans. We were in a holy place. And the guests of another guru. How could he allow Sergio and Anjali to be alone together at this hour?
I looked back at Gopi. She was so vulnerable and sad. I wanted to make her smile again.
“You’re a beautiful girl, Gopi.”
She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with my t-shirt. “Thank you, Deependra. You’re very sweet.”
“Any guy would be extremely lucky to be with you.”
Her face fell, and she began to wail again. “He told me he loved me!”
I couldn’t stand to see her cry anymore. I took a different approach. “Well, if you like oily hair and shiny shoes, I can see why you’re into him.”
Gopi stopped crying for a second and let out a laugh.
“Hey, what kind of an asshole are you?” I said, perfectly imitating Sergio’s voice.
Gopi’s eyes widened in astonishment and an open-mouthed grin lit up her face. “Oh, my God—that’s amazing! You sound just like him!”
“Don’t worry, we’re not in America,” I said in the Italian’s voice again. “No one’s going to arrest me.”
The smile vanished from Gopi’s face. “That’s not funny.” Then her face screwed up and she cried again.
I stood up, and then sat down on the edge of Poonish’s bed, next to her. Putting my arm around her, I softly kissed her on the top of her head.
She buried her face in my shoulder, wrapped her arms around me, and continued to cry. She smelled even better than I could ever have imagined—an intoxicating mixture of pheromones, shampoo, and a light floral perfume. I had to stop myself from burying my nose in her hair. Instead, I took her hand in mine and gently caressed the back of it with my thumb. Her skin was soft and smooth, and I found myself overcome with desire. I thought about trying to kiss her, but remembered where I was.
Baba would be angry.
Reaching up, I cradled the back of her head and stroked her long golden hair. If I could hold this beautiful creature in my arms for the rest of my life, who needed meditation and sadhana?
Then a dark thought invaded my reverie: Has Gopi slept with him? Is that bastard doing it with Anjali right now? Is the guru onto him? Hasn’t Baba ever heard of three strikes and you’re out?
I tried to apply right understanding to the situation: maybe Sergio and Anjali were only talking. For whatever reason, Anjali appeared to be troubled at the moment. Maybe he was comforting her.
Just then, I heard the sound of creaking wood outside. I turned my head to see a shadowy figure move away from the window. There was a pounding in my chest and any lust I felt immediately subsided.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
Gopi lifted her head off my shoulder and looked at me quizzically. “Hear what? I didn’t hear anything.”
I thought of the Aghoris again and freaked out. “I heard a noise and thought I saw someone right outside the window.”
Gopi shrugged. She seemed unconcerned. Not only that, but her tears had dried up. If I was going to make a move, it was now or never.
She glanced down at her watch and gasped. “Oh my God, I can’t believe how late it is. I should be going.”
We got up from the bed and I saw her to the door.
“Are you sure you’re going to be alright? Do you want me to walk you to your bungalow?”
“Oh, no—that’s okay. You’re the sweetest, Deependra. Thanks for listening to my sad story.” She laughed self-consciously.
“Anytime.”
Gopi smiled and then leaned in and kissed me softly on the cheek.
“Good night, Gopi,” I said, opening the door. She stepped out into the night and was gone.
For a few moments I stood in the open doorway, savoring the sweetness of the encounter. I was grateful that the Omnipotent One hadn’t let anything inappropriate happen between us.
The sins committed in the world are washed away at an ashram, I remembered Baba saying in one of his books. But those committed in the house of the Guru cling stubbornly. They are difficult to cleanse.
I got undressed again, got back into bed, and switched off the light. Now it was ridiculously late, and I worried I might be too tired to carry the heavy VTR and do a good job with the sound all day tomorrow. I was desperate to sleep, but my visit from Gopi had left my mind racing: She turned to me because she can sense how much I love and care for her, I told myself. Soon she’ll forget all about Sergio and will be mine!
If there was any chance I’d get to sleep, I had to get my mind under control. I repeated the Om Namah Shivaya mantra to myself and breathed deeply, but I was unable to focus—the room was still fragrant with her intoxicating scent.
Is Sergio trying to get under the sari of every cute girl in the ashram? If that’s the kind of man she’s attracted to, what hope do I ever have of getting under her sari?
STOP! shouted a voice inside my head. I had come to the ashram to pursue the loftiest goal of human existence, not to give in to my animal urges. What must the omniscient guru think of me? He has brought me on a pilgrimage to the banks of the sacred river to bear witness to the ordination of his closest disciple, and I thank him by inviting a girl into my room?
Suddenly the door to the room burst open. My heart thudded against the wall of my chest. Aghoris! I shot up to a sitting position. It was too dark for me to see who it was. I thought I’d piss myself.
“Poonish?” I croaked. There was no answer. I began to tremble. “Who’s there?”
Again, my words were met with silence. All I could discern was a dark figure standing in the doorway. My mind went to the worst-case scenario: the Aghoris had come to eat me! There was an excruciating pounding in my ears. Holding my breath, I switched on the light.
The bright light stung my eyes, and all I could make out was a flash of orange. I screamed like a child.
A half second later, I realized how cowardly I’d been. The shadowy figure was not a cannibal, but my own beloved Baba! I was mortified!
For what felt like an eternity, the guru stood in the doorway, staring at me without saying a word. Then he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. I couldn’t believe it: Baba was actually in my room!
Then I saw he was holding a big stick. Now I was afraid for a different reason: the guru was here to beat the shit out of me for breaking the rules.
“Gopi is good girl, no?” he finally said, speaking English. His tone was gentle. He didn’t sound angry.
“Yes, Baba,” I said, shaking all over. “A very nice girl, too.”
“Very pure,” the guru added, pursing his lips and tapping the stick against the palm of his hand.
I swallowed hard and nodded.
Sauntering over to Poonish’s side of the room, he regarded the empty bed for a few seconds. I wondered what he could see there. Maybe he was psychically replaying my conversation with Gopi in his mind’s eye.
Baba lightly tapped the stick against the palm of his hand again, and then turned to face me. Sweat trickled down my temple. I was sure he was about to strike me with it. Instead, he sat down on the bed where Gopi had just been, and stared inscrutably into my eyes.
I felt naked in front of the guru—utterly exposed. This was partly due to the fact that I was literally almost naked—all I had on was a pair of briefs—but mostly because I knew I could hide nothing from the Omniscient One.
“Your brother—” Baba began, “—ashram finished?”
I hesitated before responding. I didn’t understand what he meant. “Jeremy? I mean, Shree Ram?”
The guru stared back at me in silence.
“He just graduated from medical school, Baba. He’s a doctor. Lives in the world.”
just gazed into my eyes without saying a word, or giving any indication that he understood me.
I couldn’t think of anything to say. I knew Baba could read my thoughts, so why repeat them out loud? Instead, I tried to keep my mind as still as possible.
I no longer had the sense that he was angry with me. Maybe he didn’t mind I had broken the rules, because I was with a member of his inner circle. Regardless, I was awestruck: Here I was, face-to-face and alone with the guru for the very first time!
Finally, Baba spoke: “Ashram, world—same, same.”
Although I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about, I nodded in agreement.
The guru was silent again for a while.
“Coming, going,” said Baba, swatting the palm of his hand with his stick. “Same, same.”
“Um, yes, Baba.”
“Birth, death,”—swat—“same, same.” Swat.
Now I really had no idea what he was talking about. And I was too distracted by what he was doing with his stick to figure it out.
“Waking, dreaming,”—swat—“same, same.” Swat.
I was utterly confused. I was about to ask him for clarification, when suddenly the door to the room swung open. Baba and I turned our heads to see a wide-eyed Poonish trembling in the entrance.
Baba frowned and looked my friend up and down. “Why not sleeping?”
“Bugs, Baba,” Poonish rasped. “Insects in my bed—biting me.”
“No bugs,” snapped the guru, swaggering toward Poonish, slapping the stick hard against his hand now.
Poonish winced.
The guru regarded the side of my roommate’s head for a while. “Bugs in here—” said Baba, lifting his stick and pointing it at Poonish’s temple. “—not in bed.”
“Yes, Baba.”
The guru moved closer to my roommate. I held my breath—I was sure he was about to bring his stick down on Poonish’s head. Instead, Baba strode straight past him, exiting through the open door. Before disappearing into the darkness, the guru turned around one last time to confront my friend. “Go to sleep!” he commanded. “Tomorrow, busy, busy.” Then he was gone.
Carefully closing the door behind the guru, Poonish staggered over to his side of the room, collapsed into bed, and exhaled forcefully through puckered lips.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
Poonish shrugged.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen Baba by himself. What was he doing at this hour walking around the ashram with a stick?”
Poonish was silent for a few seconds, and then shrugged again.
I scratched my head. I wanted answers, but my roommate was in no mood for a conversation. He was still shaking.
“I thought you were sleeping in the temple,” I said, lying back down in bed.
“One of the temple priests found me and kicked me out.”
I switched off the light, and then lay awake in bed, reflecting on the most bizarre night of my life. First a visit from an angel, and then the guru himself! How would I be blessed next?
*
MY ALARM CLOCK SOUNDED like a Mack Truck backing up.
“Shut it off!” Poonish moaned.
Groping for the clock in the darkness, my fingers came in contact with the snooze button. I desperately wanted to go back to sleep for a few minutes, but I had no time to spare. I switched on the light and Poonish shot up in bed, squinting and rubbing his eyes. Not wanting to risk falling back asleep, I dragged myself out of bed and immediately got dressed.
Something was wrong. I felt an intense itching all over my body and I began to scratch. I glanced over at Poonish on the bed. A look of horror was creeping across his face and he started scratching, too. Looking down at my arms and legs, I gasped. I was covered in rows of tiny red bites.
“I knew it!” Poonish shouted. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I took a better look at my roommate. His face was covered with little red welts, too. I couldn’t believe it. Baba had told Poonish that he’d been imagining them. It was unthinkable to me that Baba had been wrong. I racked my brain. The only explanation I could come up with was that this was yet another test.
Poonish carried on like a crazy person. I was afraid he might have a nervous breakdown, but then he surprised me. It was as though a switch had been flipped inside his brain. One moment he was freaking out, the next he was calmly getting dressed and reciting the Om Namah Shivaya mantra under his breath.
For me, meditation in the Acharya’s temple that morning was impossible. The itching sensation all over my body was unbearable. Even when I was able to stop scratching my bites, I couldn’t put the midnight encounter with Gopi and the surprise visit from Baba out of my head. Instead of focusing on the mantra, my mind alternated between visualizing Gopi naked and attempting to interpret Baba’s latest test. Why, I wondered, hadn’t the guru been angry with me for having a girl in my room after lights out? Was the stick some kind of unspoken warning? I was also confused by Baba’s cryptic words: “Coming, going. Same, same.” What did that have to do with Jeremy?
What perplexed me the most, however, was the question of why Baba had told us categorically there weren’t any bed bugs, when he obviously knew that there were. Had he wanted us to get bitten? In the back of my mind, I also wondered if Baba was the shadow at my window when Gopi was in my room. But I immediately shot this idea down. What possible need could an omniscient being have to spy on people?
As if my turbulent mental state wasn’t hard enough to cope with, the person sitting directly behind me was snoring his head off. Incapable of getting into meditation, I gave up trying. I opened my eyes and turned around to see which loser had fallen asleep. I should have known—it was Avadhoot Plotnick! The cowboy photographer’s upper body was slumped over, with his head between his knees. He’s lucky Baba isn’t here! I thought.
I glanced over at Poonish, sitting a few feet away. The raised bite marks on his face were probably just as irritating as my own, but his face was completely serene. His legs were folded in the half lotus position, his eyes were gently closed, and his back was straight as a wall. Despite his unspiritual behavior at times, his ability to meditate under the circumstances was proof that he was secretly an accomplished yogi. Then it hit me: I too needed to learn to transform doubt into faith.
My eyes wandered to the women’s side of the small Shiva temple, and I noticed Gopi was missing. I glanced back to the men’s side. Sergio wasn’t there either. Are they together?
Then I remembered that Sergio never came to meditation. Looking around some more, I realized that none of Baba’s closest people were there, except for Avadhoot. They were all probably busy preparing for the ordination ceremony. The idea that they might all be sleeping never occurred to me.
The meditation session ended and was followed by the recitation of the Guru Gita. I had hoped the chant would be easier for me to get into, but it was useless. I remained completely unfocused. Thanks to Avadhoot, however, I soon forgot all about my doubts and confusion. Even if his deafening off-key chanting and mispronunciation of the sacred Sanskrit syllables didn’t inspire me to delve one-pointedly into the ritual, it irritated me so much I was incapable of hearing or thinking about anything else.
Just when I thought the torturous chant would never end, Gopi appeared at the side entrance. She was glancing around the temple, looking for someone. The someone turned out to be me. When she saw me, she came over. What now? I wondered.
She crouched down next to me and whispered: “Baba says you, Arjuna, and Avadhoot must come to the garden immediately with your camera equipment. Tell the others.”
Her gaze was alert, but emotionless. It was as though our intimate exchange last night had never happened.
Dejected, I rose to my feet. “Got it.”
Gopi jerked her head back, and then studied my face with alarm. “What happened to you?”
“What do you mean?
“Your face?” she said, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Bed bugs. Poonish wasn’t imagining things.”
Gopi bit her lip and shook her head. Then she turned to leave the temple.
We arrived in the garden where darshan had been held the day before. A group of Brahmin priests were chanting mantras and offering oblations at a fire pit. The pulsating flicker of the fire and the cadence with which the sacred syllables were recited was hypnotic. The mantras had a vibrational effect on me as well, causing the muscles in my arms and legs to twitch and a subtle energy to stir at my heart and throat chakras.
Arjuna tapped me on the shoulder, and then waved a hand in front of my eyes. “Are you going to stand there like a zombie, Deependra, or are you going to set up the VTR?”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, snapping out of my trance. “What are the priests doing?”
“The fire ritual?” Arjuna said, attaching a tripod plate to the bottom of his camera. “It’s called a yajna. It’s part of the sannyasa ceremony.”
I popped a blank cassette into the deck, and then did a sound check with Arjuna. While we waited for Baba, Suresh, and the others to arrive, Gopi appeared again at my side and handed me a tube of ointment.
“Use this stuff on your bites. I found it in Baba’s first aid kit.”
I was deeply touched—she cared. “Thanks, Gopi.”
The prescription was for a steroidal anti-itch cream and it was in the name of “Walter Plotnick.”
“Avadhoot’s real name is Walter?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
Gopi nodded. She glanced in the photographer’s direction and stifled a giggle.
When she was gone, I applied the anti-itch cream over the areas where I’d been bitten, and the irritation went away almost immediately. I thought about how Gopi had gone out of her way to help me. It made me love her all the more.
Then someone shouted: “What are you doing here?”
I turned to see Anjali hurrying toward Avadhoot, lifting her sari off the ground as she ran. There was a tightness in her eyes and her brow was furrowed.
“What do you mean what are we doing here?” he hollered back.
“You’re missing everything! They’re shaving Suresh’s head right now behind the cowshed. Baba’s very angry!”
Having delivered the message, Anjali did an about-face and rushed back in the direction from which she had come.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Avadhoot let me have it: “You’re the one who said we should set up here!”
“But that’s what Gopi told me—” He didn’t want to hear my excuses. As far as Avadhoot was concerned, the miscommunication was my fault.
Grabbing our gear, we raced to the opposite end of the ashram. By the time we arrived at the cowshed, however, the ceremony was over. We found Baba chatting with his arm around Suresh, who was now shaven-headed and dressed in white robes. Avadhoot immediately started taking pictures.
I was expecting Baba to be angry, but he greeted us with a wide grin and beaming eyes, like a proud father at his son’s high school graduation. Since we had “missed everything,” Arjuna and I were sent to join the rest of our group for breakfast on the riverbank while Avadhoot joined the guru and his successor for a private meal with the Acharya.
The fire in the yagna pit hissed and flames leapt every time Suresh made an offering.
“Jyotiham viraja vipatmam bhusam,” he recited.
Anjali translated: “May I become a being of light, free of dust, free of stain.”
Baba and the His Eminence were seated on their thrones, surrounded by their respective disciples.
“After today, the person known as Suresh Bhandary will be considered dead,” said our guru through Anjali. “This morning, he participates in his own funeral. Bones, skin, and all the other constituents of the physical body are symbolically offered to the fire and are burnt as they would be in cremation. Through the fire, he will be physically and mentally purified,” said Baba. “His soul will be set free, even while his body is still alive.”
The ceremony dragged on for hours, and the heat next to the fire pit was unbearable. Arjuna had the luxury of filming from a tripod, but I had to handhold the microphone while squatting uncomfortably on the ground the entire time. When one arm got so tired that I could no longer hold the mic, I changed hands. After an hour of this, both arms began to ache, and I asked Arjuna if I could put the mic on a stand I’d seen earlier. The cameraman agreed, but Avadhoot, who had overheard our exchange, put the kibosh on it: “No way! He has to be able to move quickly in case something unexpected happens.”
Arjuna shrugged. “Whatever.”
The photographer glared at Arjuna, and then, reaching out to grab him by the arm, inadvertently knocked the video camera off-kilter.
“Hey, cut it out!” Arjuna scolded, readjusting his frame. The cameraman and the photographer’s testy exchange drew angry stares from Sergio and Anjali, but Baba and the Acharya appeared oblivious.
“You can’t shoot from a tripod all day,” Avadhoot fired back. “You should be getting different angles!”
“Why don’t you do your job, and I’ll do mine?”
“Lazy dipshit,” muttered Avadhoot. Then he stomped off to the other side of the fire pit and resumed taking pictures from every conceivable angle. After a few minutes of this, Baba became annoyed with Avadhoot’s conspicuous performance and sent Sergio to deal with him. The moment Avadhoot realized Baba wanted him to stop, he immediately capitulated and sat down. Within five minutes, however, he was on his feet snapping pictures again. This time, instead of constantly changing his position, he stood directly in front of Arjuna.
“Pssst, Deependra,” whispered Arjuna, tapping me on the shoulder. I turned around and was face to face with the cameraman, who had abandoned his post to communicate with me as discreetly as possible. His eyes were even more bloodshot than usual. “Go tell that nutcase he’s blocking my shot.”
“Don’t you think he knows?” I whispered back.
“Just tell him.”
Avadhoot’s behavior was bizarre. He and Arjuna were both here to serve the guru, yet Avadhoot appeared to be intentionally sabotaging the cameraman’s work.
When I reached the photographer’s position, I gave him Arjuna’s message. “Avadhoot, you’re standing in front of Arjuna’s camera,” I whispered. “He says you should move.”
“You tell that lazy fuck that he was right,” the cowboy said, removing the camera from his face for a second. “This is the best angle. I’m going to stay right here until the end of the ceremony.”
I turned around to face Arjuna and shook my head. The cameraman didn’t waste any time. Turning scarlet, he marched right over to where Avadhoot and I were standing and yanked the photographer’s arm.
“Move, you psycho!”
“You move, whiny little kike!” shouted Avadhoot.
This time Baba and the Acharya heard them—even the Brahmin priests noticed. The next thing I knew Sergio was on his way over.
“Hey, Arjuna, what kind of an asshole are you?”
The cameraman’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Me? What did I do? He’s the one blocking my camera.”
The Italian marched right up to Arjuna until he was towering over him. “Stop complaining all the time and get back behind the camera!”
Toward the end of the ceremony, Suresh, Baba, the Acharya, and all the witnesses set off for the bank of the holy river. Arjuna and I raced ahead of them to get a shot of their arrival.
The priests recited a text from the Vedas, and the guru’s future successor was immersed in the Ganga. Afterwards, one of the Acharya’s disciples led Suresh to a nearby building. When he returned he was dressed in the orange robes of a swami.
“Through the fire of his spiritual practice, a sannyasi must burn away all his impure qualities,” Baba said through Anjali. “He must remain in a state of detachment from the distractions of this world and rid himself of desire forever. He must become a perfect example to others and work continuously for the enlightenment of humanity, striving always to relieve all beings of sorrow and never to become the cause of unhappiness in others. He must become a vessel of divine light and spread it everywhere he goes. Remember these precepts always and never stray from the true path!”
Baba placed his hands on Suresh’s head and uttered a blessing in Sanskrit. Then he turned to address the gathering again: “The one known as Suresh is now dead to the world. The name of the swami you see before you is Brahmananda.”
I got the chills and nearly let the microphone slip from my hand. Did the guru just say what I thought he said? I glanced around at the other members of our party. I had heard right. Everyone was in a state of shock. Baba had just renamed his closest disciple after his very own guru.
The new Swami Brahmananda dropped to his knees and prostrated himself before Baba. The rest of us cheered: “Jai Gurudev! Jai Gurudev! Jai Gurudev!”
Our convoy arrived at the Har-ki-Pauri ghat at dusk, just as the evening arati was about to begin. My microphone and VTR were tethered to Arjuna’s camera. He began filming the moment we got there. Worshippers mobbed the great flight of steps leading down to the river, vying for the best place to sit or stand. Some succeeded in staking out places along the river’s edge, cupping water in their hands and then letting it fall back into the river.
With bamboo sticks in hand, Sergio, Brian, and Seth cleared a path for the guru and Suresh to descend to the riverbank. Sensing his greatness, no doubt, most of the pilgrims immediately made way for Baba. Some, however, were determined to touch his feet first. My job, as usual, was to keep up with Arjuna and get good sound. Trying to walk backwards down a flight of stone steps in front of the guru, with thousands of people pushing and shoving around me, was nerve-racking. But this was not nearly as frightening as working alongside Avadhoot. He was hell-bent on getting the best pictures possible, even if this meant knocking me and Arjuna over in the process.
The closer we got to the bottom of the steps, the more crowded they were with worshippers, and the more the agitation of Baba’s security team increased. While the guru and his successor appeared perfectly serene in the midst of chaos, Sergio’s face was pinched tight. Brian had turned purple and his neck was corded. When a man refused to move out of Baba’s way, the New Zealander swatted him on the shoulder with his stick.
Of everyone in our party, Seth seemed the most out of sorts. Sweat dripped from his face, and the squiggly vein in his temple was throbbing so hard I thought he might have a stroke.
As if on cue, the music which had been blaring over the loudspeakers abruptly stopped when we arrived at the bottom of the ghat, where the steps met the river. Moments later, hand bells rang out and multi-tiered lamps were lit and waved in the direction of the holy Ganges. Under the watchful eyes of Baba’s security team, Baba and Suresh folded their hands and bowed their heads in prayer. Avadhoot feverishly snapped pictures, and Arjuna filmed.
Just then, a scarecrow of a man in ragged clothes with a crazed look in his eyes cried out something in Hindi and lunged at Baba’s feet. Gopi screamed. I wanted to do something to help Baba, but before I could make a move, Suresh and Baba’s bodyguards sprang into action. The first to reach the aggressor was Seth. He brought his stick down so hard on the man’s back I thought he might have broken it. Then Suresh, Sergio, and Brian all tried to pull the man off of the guru. Wrapping his arms around Baba’s legs, the deranged man put up a good struggle. They were unable to free Baba of his desperate hold. It wasn’t until Seth again brought his stick down on the man’s head that he finally let go. Sergio and Brian held the man at bay as he clasped his hands together in prayer and sobbed uncontrollably. Suresh, his demeanor calm as ever, tried to speak soothingly to the man. Meanwhile, Baba appeared unfazed by the drama unfolding around him. As Avadhoot, Arjuna, and I did our best to fend off curious onlookers, Anjali and Gopi led the guru away to safety.
Suddenly, I heard Seth shout, “I’ll kill you!”
I turned to see him push past Sergio and Brian to swing his stick down on the man’s head. The man screamed in pain and blood spurted from a gash at his temple. He tried to shield himself from further blows, but it was no use. Seth appeared to have developed superhuman strength, managing to beat Baba’s aggressor half to death before the rest of the men in our party were able to subdue him. Even then, they couldn’t hold him. Like a rabid dog, Seth turned on them, whacking Suresh a few times over the head. Sergio was able to wrest the stick from his hand, and Brian knocked the wind out of him with a blow to the stomach.
While Baba’s aggressor lay unconscious and bleeding on the steps of the Har-ki-Pauri ghat, Sergio and Brian continued to beat and kick Seth into submission. Minutes later, the police arrived. After conferring with witnesses, they handcuffed Seth and hauled him away.
“Savages!” he shouted, struggling to break free. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all!”
As soon as we were back in the Acharya’s ashram, Baba spoke to the members of our party in the garden: “The kundalini-shakti is the most powerful force in the cosmos. It has the power to impart enlightenment—or cause insanity. Some deluded disciples believe that once they receive shaktipat, they no longer need anything from the guru—that the guru’s job is finished. They abandon the guru and try to do sadhana on their own terms. This is very dangerous. Only a fool abandons the guru and rejects his guidance. Only a perfected master can control the awakened kundalini in the disciple. This evening, you saw the results of such arrogance.”
I didn’t understand how, or if, the guru’s words related to Seth’s violent behavior. But like many of Baba’s profound teachings, I would have to meditate on them before meaning revealed itself to me.
Dinner was served indoors, under harsh fluorescent lights. I ate in silence, alone, and I thought about the man that Seth attacked. He was hurt badly. Anjali and Rashmi, Baba’s attendant, had taken him to a local clinic. When they returned to the ashram, they reported that the doctors said he’d be alright. I wondered what he had done to deserve such a savage beating, and how the guru could have let it happen. Then I thought about Seth. When I finished eating, I approached Avadhoot and asked if he knew what the police would do with him.
“I don’t give a shit what happens to that crazy motherfucker,” he answered. “He can rot in an Indian prison, for all I care. He ruined what should have been an amazing shoot!”
Overhearing my exchange with the photographer, Sergio joined in. “It’s like what Baba said about the kundalini. Seth turned his back on the guru and couldn’t handle the shakti. It made him pazzo.”
“How long are the police going to hold him?” I asked.
A vicious smile crept across Sergio’s face. “Oh, they’re not going to keep him. They’re going to take him to a hospital. You know, for therapy.”
The Italian glanced at the photographer and they exchanged grins of delight.
“Yeah, right—a mental hospital,” Avadhoot said, and both men burst out laughing.
“What about the man who attacked Baba?”
Sergio’s smile grew even wider. “If he ever wakes up, he’s also going to the loony bin!”
Both men let out hoots of laughter, drawing disapproving glances from the Acharya’s disciples, who were still serving dinner. The two men regained their composure, and then exited the building together, sniggering on their way out.
As soon as they were gone, Brian, who had been finishing his dinner and listening in on our conversation, rose to his feet and swaggered over to me.
“You don’t mention a word of this to anyone back in Ravipur, Greenbaum. Understand?” The New Zealander stared at me searchingly.
I drew in a deep breath and then released it. “Got it.”
*
My second and final night at the Acharya’s ashram was less eventful—no midnight visits from the guru or girl of my dreams. The Acharya’s swamis had been apologetic over the bedbug situation. They “shifted” Poonish Davidson and me to another “clean” room. Yet despite the lack of excitement and promise of a bite-free night, it took me ages to fall asleep.
Doubts haunted me. I was deeply troubled that Seth—a psychologist, no less—had gone off the deep end, practically beating a man to death. It also upset me that Baba’s people didn’t seem to care or want to do anything to help him. I thought about suggesting we help Seth find a lawyer or contact the American Embassy in Delhi, but held back. I didn’t dare anger Sergio and Avadhoot. Instead, I convinced myself that Seth had let the guru down and had brought whatever happened to him on himself. He was on his own.
After trying for what seemed like hours to lull myself to sleep through repetition of the mantra, I finally gave up and allowed my thoughts to turn to Gopi. In my mind’s eye I visualized her long golden hair and her mismatched emerald and sapphire eyes. I tried to imagine what it would feel like to have her all to myself, far away from the ashram, in a safe place, like my hotel room at the Taj. I fantasized about kissing her full lips and caressing her bare breasts—about doing everything with her without the fear of disobeying the guru’s command or breaking any rules. I’m not sure what time it was, but I eventually drifted off to sleep sometime before dawn, without giving in to any impure urges.