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When I think back to
my second overseas trip in my young life, a
21-year-old travelling to India for the first time,
basically I just get the urge to go to the
bathroom. I was a guest of the Living Lord, Satguru
and Perfect Master, soon to become the Maharaja of
Malibu, who had come with more power than ever
before -- more than Jesus, more than Bud, more than
Krishna. And what a host! Some seven Boeing 747
Jumbo Jets filled with hippies and church ladies
descended on this Third World power, the largest
democracy on earth. (My father, OTS, Sr., asked my
hometown friend while I was gone, “Henry, can
you tell me why OTS went to India? Did he leave a
coat there? A hat?” My Dad, a comedian, was
totally stumped as to what possibly was the pull so
far away -- what was the matter with the Catskills?
Atlantic City?) Maharaji called it “spritiual
boot camp” but it was really a physical boot
camp -- nothing really spiritual about it. He
showed up once in a while, but I guess he
couldn’t take the smell either and so he
stayed at his birthplace home in Derha Dun during
most of my visit.
I was there for two weeks at the Punjabi Bhag
Ashram in New Delhi and four weeks at the Prem
Nagar Ashram in Haridwar, in the Utter Pradash
(e)state. I was there with my friend, “Punjabi
Bob” and a few other thousands lost guests who
all wondered what the hell they were supposed to do
all day now that we’re halfway around the
world. I did nothing . . . but lost 25% of my
bodyweight. Well, I was busy (detailed below), but
I did nothing. We even got to sleep one night on
the filthy floors of the Delhi Airport because our
return flight was postponed for 24 hours. (I guess
we just didn’t call ahead to check our flight
status.) Most of us were so sick, we didn’t
even care at that point. Nice.
Yes, the country stunk, smelled like dung; yes
there were large cows and crowds of kids and humans
with large amounts cooking equipment piled on their
heads running loose everywhere in the streets,
including tons of Tibetan refugees selling knitted
hats and sweaters, yes it was hard to breath as
there were no paved roads -- only heat and dust;
but, yes I felt secure under the auspices of The
World Peace Corp. (WPC) and its fearless leader,
Philadelphian Steve “Lemon” Moscowitz (a
friend of “The Chicken Man,” Phil
Testa?), but I digress. In the Andrea Erickson
format, let me give you a typical day during my
journey to this Far Eastern “holy land.”
Let’s start at midnight and work our way
around the clock.
12:00 Midnight: Having dressed in all of the
clothes I had brought to India all at once, I
settled into my thin noninsulated Sears® Junior
Scout sleeping bag, which lay on soft dirt in the
middle of a large open-sided tent with about 500
other people in rows of dirt trying to sleep while
shivering in near freezing temperatures (as we were
just at the foothills of the Himalayan mountains).
[Almost sounds like the Al Q prisoners at
Guantanimo Bay, Cuba, no?] It appeared that
much of the loose dirt somehow had miraculously
entered my mouth, nose and lungs and made me cough
for about four weeks straight without stopping like
my fat aunt, OTS, Sr.’s older sister, who
smoked three packs a day of Camel-no-filter
cigarettes. Black lung, brown lung, red lung --
your call.
12:20 A.M.: Cramps began AGAIN, but I had to
ignore them. Too early to start the trek to the
latrines. Stare at dirt; continue constant
coughing. (Bare light bulbs burned brightly
everywhere during the entire four weeks day and
night in our romantic hideaway on the Ganges,
making it real hard to sleep if you could stop
coughing.) Tried to keep my shorts clean. People
everywhere were starting to sneeze, cough and vomit
at an alarming rate. [By the way, they’ve
never heard of “tissues” in India. The
sounds were loud and people just couldn’t
control themselves or beat their sickness. This
lasted all month long.
1:00 A.M.: Weaker and weaker as the cramps
became just too much to bear and I was running out
of clean underwear by the minute, I began my hourly
trek to the latrines and up a wooden ramp, which
was like climbing a mountain after a few weeks. The
latrines were built by Indian premies to resemble
Western toilets (with sitting capabilities), but
they were just a little off on their calculations,
and, if you sat down on these red brick structures,
you had just as a good chance of completing your
seated task as you did of falling through the seat
hole into the troughs below, which worked as a
gravitational irrigation/plumbing system. The shit
ran downhill, in short. Therefore, after a few
days, we just squatted on top of these brick things
like the Indians. Don’t forget, however, that
there was no paperwork to complete. Just a clay jar
with purple colored disinfectant water to wash you
left hand after you were done. Walk slowly back to
open-sided tent in the dark cold of night as the
cramps stared up yet again even though I just went
and hadn’t even gotten back to my sleeping bag
yet.
2:00 A.M. - 4:00 A.M.: See 1:00 A.M.
4:30 A.M. Awakened by the mysterious and
enchanting sounds of monks throughout the valley
praying and singing Arti and other prayers from
neighboring ashrams and homes. Another trip to
latrines.
5:00 A.M. Kneel under a four-foot high spicket
of cold water and “bathe.” Or, if you
were a polar bear premie, walk to the Ganges River
on the property and dunk yourself in the freezing
melted Himalayan snow -- now called the Ganges
River. In either case, wash your clothes while
their still on your body, wrap yourself in a very
used towel and dress for the coming hot and dusty
day in as little clothing as possible.
6:00 A.M. Sleep deprived, cranky and cramped,
sit down among 500 others for a nice quiet 30
second meditation and then a 59-1/2 minute
snorefest.
7:00 A.M. Go get your wheatberries and buffalo
milk topped with sugar. Daily. What a buffet
treat.
8:00 A.M. After another visit to the latrines
(after a few days your hands are almost permanently
dyed purple now), get ready for the day. Go to
satsang given in Hindi, which I didn’t
understand. Four hours of it. But I was told it
wasn’t the words, it was the VIBE. Or, listen
to Professor Tanden rant and rave in broken English
about enlightenment. He was a
“householder” premie who ran Divine Light
Mission in India and was MataJi’s main flunky.
His son, evidently, had hashish smoking problems
with the law. He was sort of like the clown act at
the Barnamun & Bailey circus. He never got any
jokes and was a sort of country bumpkin that we all
came to enjoy.
Noon: Lunch, hot chilies, vegetables and dal on
rice served on a leaf. No utensils.
12:18 P.M. Run to the latrines.
12:30 P.M. Delirious rest.
2:00 P.M. Visit the Rose Garden and the
beautiful premies who tended the roses. Rows and
rows of beautiful sweet smelling multi-colored
roses. Caught of glimpse of Mata Ji laughing and
tossing and re-adjusting her sari over her head,
which she did about 45 times an hour. She had a
great laugh, but a bitter disposition, it seemed.
Played favorites. Could be mean. Liked Professor
Tandan. Wore out-dated but fashionable eyewear.
Sang like her son (could break a window during the
high portion of her rendition of that old
spiritual: “Apni Haste”.)
3:00 P.M. After a few stops at the latrines,
more incomprehensible Hindi satsang or a Knowledge
Review in Hindi, again with no translator. Clear as
a bell. The demonstration of the Nectar technique
by Mahatma Ramanand while continue to speak in
Hindi only should be part of a Saturday Night Live
Classic skit.
4:00 P.M. After having delusional cravings for
pizza, green peas, oatmeal, a cheese sandwich on
toast, tomato soup, anything Western, I stop at the
canteen and purchase some Indian-made “Western
Potato Salad,” which was made with potatoes,
ghee, corriander and love. Sold-out many days in a
New York minute.
5:00 P.M. Dinner. See lunch
5:18: P.M. See 12:18 P.M.
6:00 P.M. Dropped dead before satsang for an
hour.
7:00 P.M. Satsang time. Perhaps a young
Padarthanand in pigeon English or and old Ramanand
pulling on his big ears and making faces and
laughing for 15 minutes.
9:00 P.M. Arti (15 minutes in Hindi, 15 in
English).
9:30 P.M. Chitchat. Jokes. Gopi Gossip amongst
ourselves (sample topics included: the infamous
suitcase with jewels and watches and cash smuggled
into India on one of the Jumbo Jets that the Hindi
press caught on to; premies who were sneaking out
and smoking dope at the Ashok Hotel in New Delhi,
premies who were going into town and buying food to
eat off-sight. A real felony.)
10:00 P.M. Final trip of the day to the
latrines.
10:30 P.M. Bed time. After the thousands left
the big open-sided tent and the dust was
sufficiently kicked up so you couldn’t even
see the stage any more, it was time to roll out the
old Junior Scout sleeping bag and hit the hay, I
mean dirt.
11:00 P.M. Meditation on a stick.
11:25 P.M. Pray to Jesus to get me the fuck out
of here! Start to cramp up again, but fall asleep
with dirt in my tears.
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