The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (6 page)

Yep, time for a chai break.

In 1985, Rajneesh was exiled from the U.S. on grounds of misconduct and violation of immigration laws, although some devotees claim CIA tampering and gradual poisoning. Rajneesh returned to his homeland of India, dropped the old identity of Bhagwan and,
voila
, became simply “Osho”—new look, new name, new image. Osho’s ashram empire was rebuilt in Pune, a city of three million lying about three hours east of Mumbai (Bombay) in the state of Maharashtra. Osho left his body in 1990, but the ashram, known as “Club Med-itation,” lives on, bigger and juicier than ever before.

When I was in Rishikesh at Christmastime, a fellow traveler gifted me with a daily meditation book by Osho,
Alone We Fly
. The simple, inspiring words and insights made sense and drew me in. Plus, the philosophy was exciting! Follow your bliss! Find out! It resonated; after all, the Buddha encouraged people to investigate the truth rather than rely on hearsay. Not only that, I’m quite the curious cat. After traveling in India for a while, hearing much of the Osho controversy and the words of skeptics, distant admirers, and a few loyalists, I figured there was only one way to find out what was really going on behind those ashram gates: go there. It would be a sort of “spiritual investigative journalism.” Was it brainwashing? Absolute rubbish? Were people really having tantric sex on the lawn? I decided to dive in and discover the truth.

After the Rainbow Gathering, I indulged in one month of pure beach peace and perfection. Lest I find myself “stuck” in tropical paradise for the remainder of my India journey, I decided I better pry myself off my duff and get moving. It’s backpacker nature to get stuck. There are two sides to the “stuck” phenomenon: sometimes you’ve simply got to motivate yourself or you’ll never see more of the country you’ve traveled halfway around the world to experience; on the other hand, if you’re blissfully happy, why change it? It’s really a western mindset that we must “be productive” and “do,” rather than just BE. I think I’ve learned, through recent events, that it’s better to ride the wave of bliss while it’s up rather than unnecessarily extricate oneself from ecstasy.

In any case, I’m neither so evolved nor distant from western thinking yet. Although I almost skipped the rail reservation altogether, I reluctantly packed up the mud hut and loaded my rucksack at dawn to board an overnight sleeper train headed north to Pune, in the state of Maharashtra. It is here in this polluted metropolis that the great and famous Osho Ashram is found.

Half asleep, I deboarded the train at sunrise, and the rickshaw dumped me off at the ashram gates. I wandered around the outskirts of the compound in the dark, riling up a cacophony of dogs and waking up servants and housewives until someone offered me a decent room. At midmorning, I entered the ashram, feeling things out, and discovered I’d landed smack dab in the middle of a spiritual theme park of sorts. It was “Guru Disney”—with steep Western prices to prove it.

Though I reminded myself to keep an open mind and not to judge too quickly, I recoiled from the pretentious, commercial energy of the place—a far cry from the natural environs of the beach paradise I’d just left. By simply observing goings-on while sitting in the cafe outside the Osho Commune International, I got the sense that this enormous ashram was Big Business at its finest and most clever. Unexpectedly, I was hit with a massive dose of culture shock: I felt as if I had been prematurely ripped away from the India I have come to adore. Everything at the ashram was so orderly, so costly, and so
clean
to boot. Where were my cows? My cheap
thali
plates of rice and
dal
lentils? I felt as if someone had catapulted me back to the West without warning—Western prices, clothing, rules and regulations, and a palpable, lingering thirst for a different sort of distraction hung in the air, Euro-American style—here at Club Med-itation.

Still, I’d come all this way and as I don’t back down easily, I figured I’d go full gangbusters and see what it was all about. I paid an exorbitant amount (the equivalent of what I could live off in “local” India for one week) just for entry into the resort-cum-ashram on the initial “Welcome Day.” This “welcoming” included mandatory passport photos for I.D., mandatory HIV test (to be renewed every three months), an orientation “sampler plate” of meditations, and a tour for “Osho newbies.” That would be me.

But before the orientation began, I had to buy the famous robes: two maroon robes for day wear, one white for the special “meeting” in the evening. Luckily, my budget traveler’s nose sniffed out an opportunistic little Indian man who had set up a cottage industry selling second-hand robes, squatting in a corner of my apartment complex. I scored three robes for a total of one hundred rupees instead of shelling out five hundred rupees
each
at the snazzy “Galleria” shop located inside the ashram grounds.

The next day, however, I didn’t get off so cheap. I had to purchase a mandatory maroon bikini in order to use the swimming pool and the official ashram shop was probably the only place in the entire nation that would sell such a thing.

Now properly outfitted with robes and bikini, I’d do my best to fully immerse myself into the experience. While keeping one eye on my sanity and inner compass, I endeavored to keep a beginner’s mind—an open mind—and an open heart. The thousands of devotees (the most by far were Germans mixed with smatterings of other northern Europeans) were
so
sincere. Serious
sannyasins
have dropped their given names in place of an Osho-blessed name of Sanskrit origin, such as “Shakti,” “Ananda,” or “Prema.” My question was, now that Osho is gone, who chooses the names? Half-jokingly, I thought to myself, they’re probably randomly generated by computer.

I felt alone and estranged, pressured from the inside and out when I tried to get to know some of the devotees or expressed my concerns, doubts or criticisms. Often they just seemed to look at me, or through me, as if I just hadn’t “got it” yet, whatever “it” was. A few
sannyasins
explained from their vast wisdom that I needed to stick around for a few weeks—or
months
—so that my energies could synchronize with the energy of Osho and the ashram.
Okay…I’ll do my best.

Wearing maroon robe at all times, I participated in several different “active meditation” sessions over the course of the week—all techniques approved by Osho before he died, including Sufi (dervish-whirling), Kundalini, Nataraja (Shiva’s dance), a variation of Vipassana, and Dynamic Meditation to start the day.

In case you thought meditation was about staying still and keeping quiet, you haven’t come across anything like “Dynamic Meditation.” Starting at six a.m. was one wild combo of: (1) intense nose-clearing
pranayama
-type breathing with mandatory handkerchief handy—great for eliminating Pune pollution; (2) jumping up and down with arms held high overhead, shouting “HOO HOO HOO HOO!” over and over and over again, enabling the energy to slam down into your lower chakras, awakening life force; (3) gibberish talking, screaming, yelling and letting go of whatever “madness in the mind” you can express; (4) freezing your body in whatever position you find yourself when the gong sounds and holding that pose; and, last but not least, (5) dancing freely in celebration and culmination. Now THAT’S what I call one hell of a creative way to start the day!

I went over the edge during the evening meditation, known as “The Gathering of the White Robe Brotherhood.” The name itself gave me the creeps.

Shortly after sunset, one is to arrive inside the main meditation hall, the “Osho Auditorium,” freshly showered and wearing a clean, white robe. Then, the ashram gates officially shut—no one allowed in or out. All attendees remain inside this huge pyramid with black marble floors resembling a massive mausoleum. For the next two hours, I struggled to understand what was happening—and when it was all over, I found myself sitting on the floor of the pyramid amongst thousands of white-robed devotees, and said out loud to myself, “That was the most bizarre fucking thing I have
ever
experienced!”

Why wasn’t I “getting it”? Why didn’t I “get” the need to talk gibberish and scream out angst, then “fall down like a sack of potatoes” the next minute, in order to silence my mind? Why didn’t I get the jokes Osho told his “Beloveds” from the huge movie screen projected overhead, as the white-robed folks surrounding me giggled with glee at the words of their Master? Why did I, in contrast to the direction people were purportedly heading, feel increasingly crazier with each passing day, instead of experiencing a deeper inner silence from releasing my madness as promised?

I met an angel along the way—they always show up in our lives when we need them most. John was an older bloke from London of about 60, a very nice and, more importantly, a very witty middle-aged gent with shoulder-length white hair and rosy Santa Claus cheeks. British John had been doing this Osho “trip” for over 25 years, including the years in Rajneeshpuram in Oregon. He was one of the only abnormally-normal sannyasins that seemed keen on speaking with a fringe visitor—an outsider like myself. One day, as we munched lunch together in the cafeteria, John admitted that he’d come to realize that the trip was over for him. He was done with the scene; any of the original magic was gone and it was now about Big Business and New Age Kindergarten—to use his own words. It was one of the most sincere talks I’d had yet at the ashram, and I was overjoyed to have met him.

A few days later, he passed me on the street as I was buying a coconut to suck down. “Hey John!” I shouted, calling him over. “I think I gotta buy a bus ticket outta here—
tonight
.” I saw myself reflected in his eyes, looking increasingly drained and pinched. John lightly took my arm and gently took me to the side of the footpath where we could speak away from the passing ruckus. “Get out, Love,” he told me. “You don’t need this place. You have a beautiful energy, and it will suck you dry.”

He’d validated my senses, my intuition, and my truth. With that boost of encouragement—coming from an old-timer, at that!—I breathed a big sigh of relief. I had my answer. My truth was solid. I rounded the corner to the next travel agent and bought myself a ticket for an overnight bus departing just four hours later—back to the beach.

Now that I’m settled back in paradise, I’ve talked to a few folks about my experience at the Osho Ashram. Some of the more “grounded” folks well-acquainted with Osho’s teachings assure me that the current ashram is a far, far cry from what the Teacher himself taught or envisioned. They agree that, indeed, big business has taken over since his death and the sincere message and enlightening energy have been whittled away. My gut tells me this is true. And, my gut tells me something else, as Osho himself pointed out:

G-U-R-U stands for “Gee, you are you.”

More and more, I have got the message to take the spiritual trip less seriously—I’ve already “got it.” So here I am, back on the beach, to enjoy myself, to celebrate “getting it.” I also feel the need to regenerate and refuel body, mind, and spirit after getting a bit beat up out there in Guru Disney.

Yet, contrast certainly has its place: This morning, waking up in my hammock to the rooster crowing, hearing the waves crash against the shore, eying a cow munching her morning compost scraps, staring up at the palm trees—all was right with the world. I had returned to my ashram, and Mother Nature was granting me the sweetest discourse—no robe required. And I have a date with a mango that’s calling my name.

What are my plans now? Ha! I heard somewhere that plans are God’s sense of humor—and I’ve found that to be doubly true in India.

By the way, there was no sex on the lawn. At least that I saw.