|Journeys: Neville Ackland|
|Date: September 25, 2002|
|Hi, Iím Neville Ackland. Iím the one who staged a one-man protest at Amaroo during Maharajiís program in September 2002. I posted here a few years ago under the name Seeker of Truth. Iím would now like to post this poem that tells the story of my journey into and out of Maharajiís world.
YOU AINíT SEEN NOTHING YET
By Neville Ackland
It was í72, I was 21
on a quest for the truth all starry-eyed.
Along the way I met a man
a boy in fact, who seemed so wise.
He told me of a dream come true,
a dream Iíd dreampt myself one day.
He said heíd be my God for me,
a guru to surrender to.
I prayed to God, could this be true?
Is this the answer to my prayers?
From my soul the answer came,
the consciousness of bliss is here.
So surrender to I surely did
and when I did, I did some more.
Then at last came my reward,
to live a life to serve the Lord.
To please him was my only need,
he smiled at me and I saw God.
I told my friends, what could they say,
Divine light shone on my stage.
My mother lost her only son,
abandoned for a greater cause.
Broken-hearted, health was failing,
alone she turned to face the wall.
She died this way, no compromise.
I prayed for her to know the truth,
that I was right and she was wrong,
Maharaji was my living proof.
A surrendered soul knows itís home
when resting at the Masterís feet.
He was my Lord, he told me so,
my spiritual journey was complete.
The years went by, the mission grew,
confusion reigned amongst the bliss.
The Ashramís closed, we never knew,
this was life, and life was this.
But the Masterís game had just begun,
he became our God, in suave disguise.
Only premies knew the truth,
it became a sin to criticise.
An image change is what he said
would do the trick and make his day.
Iím now a teacher, not a guru,
and youíre my students not my slaves.
Satsang service meditation
all were changed to suit his whim.
No more dancing, no more Krishna,
to mention guru was a sin.
The premies were his faithful children,
at fatherís feet they laid their heads.
To keep the secret of the master
was our duty, a solemn pledge.
An explanation wasnít needed,
we all knew his secret plan,
avoid the media and detection,
the Lord of Lords was just a man.
Behind the scenes he was our saviour,
he looked so good in new disguise.
So cool, so funny, such charisma,
and now it seemed, so worldly wise.
The dashing pilot, the super jet,
the mansions cars and all that stuff.
He deserved it, but didnít need it,
he needed no one including us.
Massive projects he demanded,
money was his greatest tool.
When useless spending came to nothing,
he played it cool, we played the fool.
As time went by it became apparent,
the bossí plans were sometimes mad.
We were only being tested,
the doubting Thomas went underground.
There were problems, and problem premies,
those who were close to him, the privileged few.
They protected their own interests,
and the bossí secrets grew and grew.
Now there was a mega mansion,
and Amaroo, a world away,
became the focus of attention,
not all was well, such fateful days.
Some brave souls, within their prison,
knowing where their motives lay,
tried to take the reigns of progress,
their cause was crushed, their spirit slain.
One fateful day amid the madness,
the penny dropped, at last I saw,
Maharaji, master of deception,
my heart broke, I smiled no more.
seething anger, revelation,
my child shattered, nothing mattered,
frightened friends head for the door.
I begged forgiveness from my mother,
dead and buried long ago.
Ten thousand hours of consultation
before the pain began to go.
Spiritual crisis, all faith shattered,
My lifeís focus all in tatters,
God is deadÖreligion suxÖOh no!
Alas for guru, lord and master,
it was too late to patch the leak.
Grief and anger, heartbreak sorrow,
were met with silence, disbelief.
He made it clear, the parent raged,
how dare they think and speak their mind.
Itís either my way or the highway,
no one dared to cross the line.
Shock and horror, children crying,
fathers angry, we are failing,
surrender further to the lila,
we live to love another day.
Criticism from the airwaves,
information party time.
Accusations in the real world,
from those he thought heíd left behind.
Haunted by that hunted feeling,
looking for a place to hide,
the man withdraws within his fortress,
to play the game of mastermind.
Things not getting any better,
millionaire fat men arenít the go.
Support is leaking, itís very messy,
the mop brigade runs to and fro.
Whilst heís got his faithful premies
that come for miles to kiss his feet,
itís easy to forget his worries,
till next he looks in disbelief.
The internet in all its glory
kept his soldiers up all night.
As dawn broke the truth was spoken,
the masterís ears were filled with fright.
Under cover, in the moonlight,
the phantom struck, confusion reigned.
Churches, councils, business leaders,
all were caught up in the game.
Meanwhile in the local town
his reputation got around.
Letters flying, spray paint splattered,
leaflets littered on the ground.
They called the police and blamed the Christians,
Peak Crossing seethed with discontent.
5000 leaflets, the town was covered,
the phantom struck with shrewd intent.
3000 premies, Sunday evening,
the sun was setting on Ivoryís Rock.
The lord had spoken and they were leaving,
nothing prepared them for the shock.
Someone boldly on the roadway,
holding high a sign that read,
ďMaharaji, master of deceit.
You broke my heart, you didnít care.Ē
The message made it loud and clear
that in the court he would appear.
He dared Maharaji, stand and face him,
called him liar, coward, fool.
The premies fled into the darkness,
no one dared break the rules.
Gone forever the hurt chid victim,
in its place a new man born.
No more fear, no more anger,
the phantomís friend was 10 feet tall.
Secretís out, his cover blown,
the police and press are next to know.
Amaroo will soon be over,
the lord of lords will have to go.
And as for you, Maharaji
you gutless little shit,
the game is up, your cover blown,
itís time for you to quit.
Amaroo is surrounded,
thereís no place left to hide.
You always were the god of nothing,
a victim of your foolish pride.
My heart bleeds, for the premies
so trapped within your snare,
for when you fall, so will they
be crushed by their despair.
When next you choose to come to town,
thereís one thing you can bet.
Iíll be there with bells on,
you ainít seen nothing yet.
Dedicated to the memory of my mum.
You were right, I wish you could be here now.