The Unpersuadables: Adventures with the Enemies of Science (6 page)

From my Western perspective, Ramdev’s claims sound impossible. And yet they represent an interesting complication. Back in Gympie, John Mackay asserted that his belief is scientifically testable. ‘God says, “I will make myself known to you,” and he did,’ he told me. When I enquired as to how, he said, ‘It’s something in me.’ Meanwhile, when I asked his accidental namesake Glennys Mackay how she could be so sure that alien ‘greys’ were, in fact, robots, she replied, ‘It’s just something I’ve been shown.’ For both Mackays, their conviction seems to be projected from the same place: the unconscious. Contrary to what John might insist, though, these beliefs do not represent any mode of proof. That is to say, John and Glennys might preach the reality of gods and greys, and many people might believe them. But they are not actually promising anything tangible, demonstrable or, indeed, testable to earn this faith. And yet Swami Ramdev is.

When he finally appears on stage at 06:30, we rise as one to greet him. A procession of acolytes files past to touch his skin and lay red roses at his feet. Then, accompanied by his three-piece band, he assumes a perfect lotus position and starts with his ‘Ooooooooommmmm’. His voice has an impressive timbre; it booms and unfurls and quivers your intestines. Sitting on the distant stage at the end of the colossal venue,
in his orange robes with his feet on his inner thighs, he looks beguiling and beautiful.

With his theme song over, he jumps up and begins to bounce alarmingly, kicking one knee up at a time, almost to the height of his chin. Everyone copies him, beaming and giggling and panting. Then he starts walking on his hands. The crowd awkwardly drift back down to the safety of their tartan rugs. Ramdev reassumes the lotus and breathes in so completely it looks as if his stomach has been scooped out. It bulges into a giant ball, like a watermelon being pumped up. He causes it to shimmer, with little waves of contractions running through it. And then, finally, the pranayama begins.

The seven exercises that Ramdev promotes are almost as effortless as breathing itself. There is one where you lie on your fists and breathe. There is another where you breathe in and stay breathed in for a bit. And there is one which involves breathing in slowly and then exhaling abruptly with a loud ‘hhhfff’ sound. This, we are told, expels ‘toxins’ from the body. And then there is ‘the bumblebee’, which is designed to ‘balance dopamine levels’ and sharpen memory and involves us putting our hands over our faces to prevent ‘energy’ leaking out of our eyeballs.

Respite comes during Ramdev’s long lectures, which are delivered in Hindi. As he speaks, my concentration breaks. I notice that the hall is filled with subtle contradictions. Ramdev goes to great lengths to tell his fans that he is no quasi-god, but his promotional banners seem to imply a different message. There is the Swami floating on water with the sun coming out of his head; there is the Swami levitating on the sunset with his stomach hollowed out; there is the Swami parting the clouds to reveal a celestial white glow; there is the Swami with the sun shining out of his backside. And there he is beseeching his faithful to enjoy the benefits of ‘the world’s best basmati rice.’

Pushing myself painfully upwards, when the session is over, I decide to seek out someone who can speak to the truth of Ramdev’s claims. I find Aasha, who has taken two weeks’ holiday from her job as a tax inspector to be in charge of Ramdev’s volunteer workforce. She gives the impression of embodying the very spirit of prim, precise orderliness. Her hair is soberly cut and perfectly symmetrical; her dead-straight fringe frames neat, circular spectacles.

‘I am a rational person,’ she says. ‘I am very sceptical by nature. But there’s no mumbo jumbo here. I would have walked out if there was any hint of mumbo jumbo.’

She tells me that it was the death of her brother that inspired her journey into pranayama.

‘He got Legionnaire’s disease and was put on a ventilator,’ she tells me, plainly. ‘I made the decision to switch off the machine. I had to be strong for the whole family. I went into a depression. Very, very dark.’ Her expression lifts into one of brightness and smiles. ‘But when I saw Swamiji on the Asatha Channel he almost immediately took me out of it. I wanted to live for that. I wanted to be alive.’

‘And is it true that he’s cured cancer?’ I ask.

‘It is true,’ she nods. ‘It has been found that cancer cells cannot thrive in a highly oxygenated environment. When you do this type of exercise you flood your system with oxygen and this brings about huge biochemical changes. One of the exercises is the equivalent of chemotherapy and one is the equivalent of radiotherapy.’

Aasha walks me over to a table near the busy merchandise stalls and introduces me to sixty-three-year-old Harita from Ilford in East London. Over the last decade, Harita has had cancer in her bowels, bladder and spine. She has had her uterus and half her bladder removed. She sits poised and upright in her cushioned seat, her hands squarely placed on her lap. Her weakness only becomes apparent when she speaks. She twists and pulls at an old paper handkerchief and her sentences tremble and break.

‘Now is the fourth time cancer has come to me,’ she tells me. ‘They said they couldn’t give me chemotherapy because it’s not working any more and now they want to give me radiotherapy. But I said, “No. Give me one month. I want to see Swamiji. I will be better with this. Swamiji can cure everything.”’

That night, in the chaotic Muswell Hill hotel that I have put myself up in, I lie in bed with a copy of the official Ramdev book
Yog: In Synergy With Modern Science
. Written by his colleague Acharya Balrishna, it makes for extraordinary reading. ‘He has a dream of a disease free world,’ it says. ‘This, he plans to achieve with the science of Yog which he feels will bring an end to the unethical business of weapons and
allopathic [i.e. conventional, Western] medicines.’ Much of the text seems to be oppressively scientific – full of graphs, anatomical diagrams and dense paragraphs containing words such as ‘neuro- endocrine system’, ‘limbic-hypothalamic’ and ‘spondylitis’. Mixed in with the jargon, though, are some fantastical-sounding claims. ‘The person who follows celibacy with complete austerity develops incredible physical, mental and spiritual abilities’; ‘The person who recognises the value of pranayam and makes it the very base, certainly wins over enemies’; and my own favourite, ‘The slower the breath, the longer the life. This is the secret behind the long life of the tortoise.’

I also read some press cuttings that concern the controversies that have struck Ramdev, back in India. He owns a factory that
manufactures over a hundred and sixty herbal treatments
, including syrups, tablets and powered potions. In 2006 a
senior politician accused him of using human bones
and
the testicles of an otter
in his medication. This led to angry denials from Ramdev. His furious supporters gathered on the streets of New Delhi and burned effigies. During the disorder,
twenty were arrested
. Now officially exonerated, he blames
a sinister conspiracy of multinational pharmaceutical companies
who were threatened by both his commercial empire and his frequently stated ambitions for a world free of Western-style medicines.

The empire of the Swami suffered more significant trouble over
claims that pranayama can cure AIDS
–
a statement Ramdev denied ever making
after he was
threatened with legal action by medical NGOs and
brought under pressure by the Indian government, who took the extraordinary step of publicly censuring him. It is an episode that seems not to have harmed his standing much. Ramdev remains, according to the biography in his book, ‘famous for his medical research, practical approach to yoga and services in the field of cow breeding.’

I spend the next five days rising in the darkness, picking my way to my small square of tartan in the Alexandra Palace, doing my breathing exercises and feeling exactly as ‘amazing’ as you might expect after three hours of pre-dawn nose yoga and speeches delivered in Hindi by a man sitting very far away. I also spend a good deal of time badgering and whining at the organisers for a personal audience with the
Swami. Their puckered smiles and dipping chins tell me everything I need to know about my chances. But then, unexpectedly, it pays off. I am finally granted ten minutes with Ramdev. We are to meet in a back room where the ‘Founder Members’, who
have each paid more than £6,000
for their rarefied status, are queuing to meet their hero.

When the occasion arrives, I am made to wait for hours. We are in a messy fluorescent-lit area behind a large closed door that is strewn with wipe-clean tables and stackable chairs. I am watching an elegant lady in a sparkling sari and a golden, diamond-encrusted watch take her turn with the barefoot ascetic, when I see Aasha.

I say, ‘Bearing in mind how he speaks out against divided India …’

‘There is no division here,’ she interrupts, smiling thinly.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘but it seems to me that the more money you spend, the closer you get.’

The elegant woman kneels before Ramdev. An expensively heeled foot pokes out of her silken robe.

‘It might seem that way,’ Aasha replies. ‘But this is a family and once you enter, you are engulfed by his love.’

‘You’ve only got to look at how much money these people have spent, compared to everyone else.’ I give Aasha a doubtful look. ‘Maybe that’s a coincidence?’

Aasha considers the scene for a moment. She lowers her voice.

‘To be honest, I’m not too happy with it myself,’ she whispers. ‘But I can see why he’s doing it. Medical science will not accept anything unless clinical trials are carried out. That is what he’s currently seeking to do and these trials are tremendously expensive. He needs to raise large amounts of money.’

More time passes. And then more. I find myself sitting next to the most beautiful woman in the room. Shipra is a clinical nurse and she informs me that, if I do eventually receive my promised audience, she will be translating. We watch in silence as Ramdev listens to a family’s woes with an intense, hawkish expression that peers through the no-man’s-land of skin between his beard and hair. Occasionally he breaks into an unsettling kind of laugh, which involves him throwing his head back as far as it will go while making absolutely no sound at all. Shipra, I notice, is finding it difficult to restrain her gaze.

‘He’s very charismatic,’ she says. ‘Spiritual people have their own aura. He’s also very funny. He says, “You eat vegan food when I’m looking and then you go home and eat fried food.” Ha! Ha!’

She looks at me and carries on laughing. ‘Ha ha ha.’

I smile and nod politely as Shipra beams, and leans in towards me.

‘You know,’ she whispers, ‘he’s a sworn celibate.’

‘That must be disappointing for his fans.’

‘Yes,’ she says, gazing directly at his mouth. ‘Yes, it is.’

When the time finally comes, I settle down on a seat adjacent to Ramdev. Seeing the Swami treated as a kind of godhead for the previous few days seems to have had an unconscious effect on me, and I am surprised to find myself nervous. I begin by asking, just to confirm, that pranayama really can cure all diseases. He nods deeply, his beard pushing against his orange robe.

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘So it can cure cancer?’

‘Yes.’

‘AIDS?’

‘Yes … er, no!’ he says, suddenly looking panicked, his eyes shining wide and white from the shadows of their hairy dens. ‘No AIDS!’

‘So it can cure every disease in the world except AIDS?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘But even in AIDS it can help the immuno-suppressive system and lymphocytes.’

I move on to the reports that I have read in the Indian press of Ramdev telling children that
Coca-Cola will turn their skin dark
, a powerful message for vanity-conscious youngsters to whom pale complexions are desirable – and a statement that is unarguably wrong. I am curious to see if Ramdev will admit to saying this as, presumably, he is smart enough to realise that I know it to be untrue.

‘Did you once claim Coca-Cola darkens the skin?’ I say.

His eyes slide sideways, towards Shipra.

‘Even in the USA, the government has banned it in schools,’ he says.

‘But did you claim it darkens the skin?’

‘There has been scientific research that says it can be harmful to health.’

I put down my pen.

‘But did you say it darkens the skin? I just want to establish, for the record, if you’ve ever claimed this.’

He looks towards Shipra once more. I watch as a hot conference takes place between them in Hindi. Eventually, she tells me, ‘Swamiji just says that to the kids. It’s not necessarily true.’

I decide to tell Ramdev about my meeting with Harita, and how she has put her faith in him, over conventional medicine, by delaying her cancer treatment.

‘He never tells people to stop their treatment if they’re not well,’ Shipra says.

‘But you do campaign for a world free of Western medicines,’ I say.

Ramdev smiles delightedly. He says, in English, ‘I want this!’

‘But it would cause massive suffering,’ I say.

The guru gives his mane a serious shake.

‘Western medicines are very expensive and they do not cure diseases, they only control them. They have only existed for two hundred years. Before this people were still being cured and they actually lived longer.’

Just as I begin to dispute this, I am interrupted by another extended exchange between Shipra and the Swami.

‘Swamiji is asking, how did you get these questions?’

I show him my notepad.

‘I wrote them,’ I say.

Shortly afterwards, the interview is terminated, my time apparently up.

The next morning, as I am walking into the arena for my final session with the Swami, I am stopped by an official who tells me that she has heard all about me. ‘You were asking questions you shouldn’t have,’ she says.

*

A couple of weeks later, I am back in the warm arms of Sydney, Australia, where I am currently living and working. I decide to send
a kind of greatest hits package of Ramdev’s claims
to Dr Rosanna Capolingua, who chairs the Ethics Committee of the Federal Australian Medical Association.