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The training John
attended was the last time I went to do service at
Amaroo. And I had a real purpose, I had something
to prove to myself. I needed to prove to myself
that I could do service without it freaking me out,
that in the midst of all the craziness I could
perform my service duties creditably and still
function as a normal grounded decent human being, I
was successful, though sorely tested:
First of all, I insisted on not paying full fare, I
was going to be working hard as a member of the
catering team, and I did not want to feel like a
complete sap, so I paid $10 a day for my board. I
shared a tent with a lovely woman and we shared the
fun and helped eachother through the rough spots. I
kept in touch with home, even had the guts to leave
after Dayas and before the training to spend a few
days at home; by the time I got back, Prempal was
expected at any moment, and the place was bedlam,
like the spin cycle of a washing machine on
acid.
We, in the catering team, had had such a peaceful
and fulfilling time doing service; exhilarating
internecine warfare an unavoidable pastime as the
results of the extraordinary level of disinterest
in considering people’s feelings and needs
inexorably came home to roost; the delightful game
Prempal played of not saying when he was coming, or
what he wanted. Having an old hand at the game as
our fearless leader, we suffered much less than we
might have. Decisions were made and the
‘training’ at Dayas proceeded. We set it
up, we decorated the Lord’s table, the
bookings fell through the floor, if not the bills,
the Lord didn’t come.
I have to wonder if Prempal didn’t arrive with
a bad attitude, perhaps he was already feeling a
tad peeved and grumpy, totally speculation of
course. But, even from the distant vantage point of
waitress to the trainees, it was evident that it
wasn’t much fun. The first evening in the
dining hall was good, lots of pleasure in meeting
up again, and though the anticipation had a nervy
edge, of course everyone felt glad that they were
there. Well, not everyone, as with every invitation
only event, there were distraught people to be
found sobbing in the corners of amaroo, but that is
another’s story, it is not mine, I was brave
and determined, but I was not foolhardy; the last
time I had sat and listened to Maharaji, inside
myself, I had said to him that I could no longer
keep coming towards him, it was now a question of
survival, and I had to stand on my own feet.
And as the training continued, I was mighty glad to
be on my own feet, and not crawling into the hall
for more punishment. Serving Sampuranand his soup
was punishing enough.
In retrospect, it was like watching a silent
detonation happen behind a silver screen. All I
saw, during the breaks, were individuals, either
alone or supported by another, drifting off from
the hall like grey wraiths, bent over and
disappearing; I watched this happen every time I
was there. The main body of the group would make it
over for refreshments, the word that comes to mind
to describe the mood is sullen. It was the
industrial strength conversationalists who kept the
ball rolling. The level of numb depression rose at
lunchtimes, numbers of faces bent over their
plates, hunched shoulders; with things easing off
at dinner, served in the dining hall back at camp;
breakfasts became increasingly brittle.
We were having the usual fun in our team, a good
old war of good versus evil, staying human versus
hysterical goosestepping; something I believe Mr
Rawat refers to as a mutiny. And as a treat for
being so good, we were all herded into the back
like a pack of indian schoolkids, to await the
awesome treat of Maharaji joining us for the last
evening. A bit of a party was prepared, a massive
castle of a cake, all our hard work was to pay off
when the lord of the universe, smiling benignly,
would come by to pat us on the head.
I walked into the dining tent, ‘what’s
wrong’, I wondered, the customary high spirits
of the last day of term were missing, many heads
were sunk in gloom, there was an undercurrent of
cornered rattiness.
By the time that cake was wheeled out, it was more
like a palace of malice than a castle of joy; it
had become evident that Maharaji was not going to
grace us with his presence, he was not pleased with
the trainees, and had retired. Regrettably a lot of
withering glances were aimed at the hapless heads
of the diners, some of whom were beginning to
revive and chat more happily.
I will confess, I had assumed that by the time the
training was finished the deconstruction would be
over, and reconstructed, they would be happily
blissed out. Ah fuck, like any sensible person, I
went on a singleminded search for a glass of wine,
I figured I’d earnt it, and I figured one of
those somnolent bastards who I was friends with,
and had waited on, would oblige.
Unfortunately my friends were in the shell shocked
category, but, bounding across the field, defying
security, and best of all, waving a bottle of
wine…… Look, I actually do have memories
of having great fun, I also have a memory of having
to find a tree to shelter beneath until I could
stop crying, and the determination it took to get a
grip and get perspective. I remember the warmth,
friendliness and humour around the staff campfire,
and I remember the ashen faces around the Knowledge
Hall.
I remember a lot of the people and the times up at
Dayas with warmth and affection, and I also
remember the night I spent after the debriefing
session, as the finger of blame mirrored through
the dark hours. That’s what I had to do to
prove to myself that I had done everything Maharaji
had asked of me, and then I was free to ask: has he
delivered?
It’s a no brainer really: No, he
hasn’t.
Some observations and speculations:
I applaud John’s eye for a good joke; the idea
of Mr Rawat boasting about how hard he works at
keeping his body in shape IS hysterically funny,
but on the unfunny side of the tale; that is a
tawdry trick to draw the audience’s focus onto
his person. This needs a little explanation: I am
pointing this out because the most obvious
employment of this technique is the darshan line
where you kiss his feet, but it nonetheless goes on
every time he gets on stage. When you just sit back
and watch him ‘playing with the hearts of his
premies’, you can see what an elephantine
flirt he is.
What a mean trick to play on the trainees, set them
up to take the blame for a no show, when all he
probably wanted to do was get back to his campfire
asap.
The way to recover from a traumatic experience is
to be able to talk about it with your people, but
on returning to their homes this was denied to
those whose family and friends were not training
‘x rated’. In posting, John has done
something to remedy that.
And a footnote on the mutiny:
As the extra shifts took their toll, my legs began
to ache. I complained about feeling tired, and then
I insisted upon my right to complain, I got a bit
of head wind for that, but the morning after the
training was over, as we sat having breakfast, and
were asked to jump to and serve breakfast for the
trainees, who had apparently requested an extra day
of being catered to separately, I refused. The head
wind abated as the sense of being honest about how
you were feeling could no longer be denied, comrade
Lesley got the nod. I said none of us were willing
to serve breakfast, and suggested that rather than
freaking out about it, to just accept it. And so
the better quality food that had been prepared for
the trainees was brought out to the main tent, and
we all had breakfast together; a pleasant addition
to the tucker for the staff, and the start of
reintegration into the human race for the survivors
of Mr Rawat’s training.
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