2. Health & Happiness? (Part I)

The parking lot is still dark and deserted. It's about five in the morning. A cold breeze is blowing and I'm shivering in thin clothes. I expected a warmer Durban, but it seems winter is on the way here too.

The first session of the Health & Happiness Course is only due to start at six, but I am early to ensure a good position close to the stage. They said a thousand participants are expected.

Feeling terribly tense and in no mood for social interaction, I look around for an inconspicuous location where I can do an hour of waiting. In the middle of the parking lot there is some kind of a solid structure. It's the best observation point - I can semi-hide behind it and will also be able to see the moment the hall doors open. The low brick wall is too cold to sit on. I keep jumping around and shaking my arms for a bit of heat.

After a while two or three cars arrive. Then it is quiet again. Some of the outlines of the surroundings start becoming visible, but it is still quite dark. Suddenly a car door opens and a young woman comes walking straight towards me. So much for my attempt at invisibility, I think despondently. "Come sit with us in the car." Her voice is warm and friendly. It would be impolite to refuse.

Fortunately one of her friends or acquaintances soon arrives and joins us in the car. They are cheerful and babble excitedly, sparing me any talking. The newcomer complains about having had to get up terribly early to do the long drive here. She wishes someone would come and unlock the doors now, because she needs to go to the loo.

Her friend replies that she got up extra early to do her kriya, because then she always knows she's going to be OK for the rest of the day. "Oh, what a good girl you are!", the first one teases. She's warm and spontaneous, and clearly not much bothered about having neglected her own kriya. I immediately like her.

I have no idea what kriya is, but it sure sounds like a useful and powerful technique and I wonder if we will be doing it during the course. Much more than that, however, I am wondering about the Guru and about last night's look. Exactly what is my relationship to him and what does the future hold? Some kind of longing for him has definitely already taken root in me and is growing, but I am still far from sure he's mine and besides, he's not allowed me close yet. And I really can't do this mass gathering public kind of thing. It is absolute torture. I need to be able to see him alone and have stuff clarified. Ultimately I yearn for peace and quiet and meditation in the loving presence of my Guru. Will it be possible with him? And when will that be?

It is becoming lighter. More cars have arrived and a small group of people have started gathering near the doors. "Let's go and join the others", the one girl suggests. They join some of the others, and I go and stand a little off to the side, hoping that nobody else will want to talk to me and that the doors will open soon. More people gather.

Someone comes and opens the doors. Inside I stand around a bit indecisively, trying to figure out the optimum spot for my purposes. I decide to roll out my mat in the third row, slightly off to the right of the centre of the stage. Assuming the Guru takes the same position as last night, I would have a slightly diagonal view of him. He would be quite close.

I notice that the Cape Town devotees who were on the same plane as me and who I observed with the Guru in the airport building yesterday, have placed their mats not too far from mine. But I don't feel like introducing myself. I need to concentrate on the Guru and that's easier done if I remain anonymous.

The masses start arriving and the hall fills up. The Guru is not here. A teacher starts us out on some light Yoga postures. For the most part they are quite nice and relaxing. The instructions are not very detailed and not much attention is paid to the meticulous correction of postures, so people do stuff any which way. I actually find it nice to do things in a more relaxed and intuitive way for a change. I am still a bit unwilling to admit it to myself, but I have really been overtraining in Iyengar Yoga (nine classes a week) over the past year, so all my joints and nerves feel a little fragile and raw and a certain tiredness has set in.

Later, during a break, one of the girls in front of me asks me how do I manage to do a particular backbend as she struggles with it. I generally have a resistance towards being drawn into a teaching role, especially where yoga is concerned, partly because I have not done the three years teacher's training that's obligatory in Iyengar Yoga, but mostly because I feel it entails spiritual responsibility and only true Masters should really be teaching things like yoga. But looking at her posture I immediately notice that her short arms are making things difficult. Having been drilled in the correct use of props by a very passionate and precise teacher, I can't help myself starting to correct the pose and advising on how to use props for improving it and making things easier. She looks genuinely interested and thanks me warmly.

I think to myself, well, I don't like the responsibility of teaching, but maybe I nonetheless have a little bit of talent for this kind of thing. If he is my Guru, then perhaps he wants me to fulfil this kind of role in his organisation. Who knows? My purpose in life is not clear.

He's here! I instantly switch over to highly focused mode. He comes walking up the left side of the stage, mike in hand. "Hmmm. All of us did a little yoga this morning? Good, good, good." He moves with charm, there is much warmth and sweetness in his voice, and my heart responds. I realise how much I've missed his presence.

He does a few light exercises with us: Walking and jogging in one place, then speeding things up, running faster, faster, then slowing down; walking some steps backwards and forwards on different parts of the feet - like on the heels only or on the outsides of the feet only; mimicking pulling a rope from a well, then a rope from the sky, a few light stretches. It is very unlike the strict style I have become used to and I'm enjoying it. The Guru himself is teaching and my critical side is more or less pushed to the back of my mind. I am trying to understand him.

At some stage we are sitting and he starts leading a laughing session. I hate the idea of having to undergo a public catharsis and I fear being pulled against my will into something I can't control. I know how much pent-up emotion I carry inside, how much violence also. It would not be safe to let it all out in public. I could go mad. Fortunately he does things very mildly. Few people get into hysterics and it doesn't last long. His eyes are smiling and his laughter is charming and exudes warmth, but it remains controlled, his lips joined throughout. I take note of his self-control and cautiously follow his example, but hardly making a sound. Inside me there is no laughter and certainly no letting go. I so badly want to tune in and to please him, but I wish I could be alone with him. Then some kind of catharsis (in the form of crying, not laughing) would be fine, but not like this in these public circumstances. Afterwards we lie down and relax. I am relieved the laughing part is over and that I managed to maintain complete control. I am listening to his voice giving relaxation instructions. I've fallen in love with his voice.

Later we are sitting again and he talks about various issues. He also illustrates some simple exercises one can do in the office to relax the eyes and facial muscles if they are strained from a lot of computer work.

In the beginning some people try to take down notes, but he tells them there's no need to take notes and that things will come back to us at the time we need it. His confident way of saying this makes me believe that he is busy with some real spiritual transmission, and that he himself will be able to make one remember things at exactly the right moment. That is reassuring and good to know. I would have been one of those trying to take elaborate notes if it weren't for the fact that I wanted to keep my body completely still and receptive. I don't want to take my eyes off him, not even for a split second.

He gives various hints about food and cooking healthily, like cooking vegetables in minimum water and never throwing away any leftover water, but using it because of the nutrients it contains. I take the hints to heart. He also says if you want to lose weight you should separate carbohydrates and protein, i.e. eat only carbs one meal and only protein the other meal. I make an internal note to pass this piece of advice on to some relatives.

He tells us to check through which nostril we are breathing - left or right. He asks those who are breathing through their right nostril to raise their hands. It's most people. Then he asks those who are breathing through their left nostril to raise their hands. It's me and some others. He says that only those who are breathing through their right nostril have been listening to what has been said. The others have not been listening.

I have a brief moment of self-doubt, but it is not acute. I might be breathing through my left nostril but I know how I have given my utmost to absorb him and everything he says. If my attempt has not been good enough, well, too bad, I can't do any better unless he helps. I wonder if left-nostril people wouldn't in that case be better off taking notes. Notes do have a way of focusing one. Alternatively, I wonder if he perhaps means that us left-nostril breathers are being too caught up in our heads, and that our hearts are not receptive enough. Anyway, such a shift from head to heart is also not under my control. If he wants me to do any better, it's up to him to bring about the transformation. Issue of self-doubt successfully resolved.

He says the ancient rishis had a rule to eat when the right nostril is open and drink when the left nostril is open. I consider that I had very little for lunch yesterday, only an apple for dinner last night and no breakfast this morning, so I can't have overeaten. Strictly speaking I should feel starving and my right nostril should be open now. But perhaps my system is in need of cleansing and fasting. Anyway, I am too tense to have any appetite.

People have an opportunity to ask questions and he answers.

We are told that we are going to be divided into groups. My heart sinks. It means group work, and group work always means compulsory social interaction. Boring, draining, stressful, embarrassing are emotions that come to mind. I am in no mood for discussion, for listening to others or giving my own views. I've come for the Guru and I want to direct my mind one-pointedly at him only. But he himself is the one dividing us up, assigning each of us a number: 1, 2, 3, 4... Then we are instructed to form groups according to our numbers: all the 1s together, all the 2s, all the 3s... "Quick, quick, quick", comes his voice over the microphone. People have been getting up very leisurely.

I take my Guru-assigned number seriously (not everyone does) and start searching for same-number souls. Once we are all sitting in our groups, we are told that from now on we are to do everything in the course together as a group. In the morning when we arrive we should find our group, we should be enquiring after each other, eating together, helping each other and so on. I'm not happy with this arrangement at all, I can immediately see how taking the group into account will complicate things for me. For starters, I won't be able to remain so anonymous and inconspicuous any more. They will want to socialise when I am busy concentrating. They will also notice that I am meditating on the Guru. And I will have to sit wherever the group wants to sit, ruling out my careful selection of the best spot for observing the Guru close-up. Inwardly I sigh a very dejected sigh.

While we are busy in our groups the Guru will start giving darshan to people according to city, i.e. all the Pietermaritzburg people together, all the Durban people together, all of Johannesburg together, etc. Individuals are allowed to leave their groups and go for darshan when it is the turn of their city. Darshan is to take place in an upstairs meeting room on the first floor. The room has big glass windows overlooking the hall. From down here one can see the people in the room as well as the people crowding outside the door and on the stairs. There are teachers in front of the door regulating who may enter.

I quietly hope that darshan will settle all my questions and doubts. I so wish it could be alone with him, but that may not be possible. The groups that enter seem large, thirty or forty people at a time. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could make an exception for me? I am so very desperate and lost and tense, after all. I pray hard to him to see me alone and for his help and his love.

Down here we are ten or so people in our group. We have to get to know each other. People say their names, where they are coming from, what they are doing. One woman tells how hectic her first year in the organisation was. That year she went to India three times to attend courses. She says everything happened so fast. She's an enthusiastic volunteer. I've been yearning to go to India for a long time and I take her story as evidence that this Guru could fast track things for one if he wishes to. If he is my guru, then I hope he'll make it possible for me to go with him to India soon.

Another woman is also an enthusiastic volunteer for the organisation. Her husband is in our group as well. He is very shy and hardly says a word or look at us. I can see that he is not a very social person and that he feels uncomfortable, as if he would rather be somewhere else. I can relate and I feel sorry for him. I try a little to draw him into the conversation and to get him to relax in our presence, but I can see I am just making things worse and I stop my attempts. I gather from his wife's excited talking that she's using a lot of their resources for the volunteer work, that there is never quite enough for the work and that she wishes her husband would become more involved. I can understand her enthusiasm for the organisation's work - she's clearly believing in it and enjoying it, but something upsets me about how it seems not be having a good effect on their relationship, as if something is out of balance. It strikes me that this organisation and its courses are geared towards extroverts, towards active outgoing types. The introverts suffer. They are required to undergo personality changes to meet the organisation's requirements.

A twenty-something girl introduces herself. There is something very pure, innocent and vulnerable about her, a hesitation in her way of speaking. She tells how she has not missed a single day's kriya over the past five years. There is no pride in her voice, it's a simple sharing of her joy, one senses her tremendous gratitude. She seems contented with what the Guru has given her. I again wonder what kriya is and I feel a bit jealous that I am five years behind. I obviously have much worse karma. No Guru has claimed me yet nor initiated me into a suitable practice. If this Guru is mine then my expectation is that he will personally initiate me into a unique practice suited to my nature. I observe that my demands of a Guru seem to be much higher than those of the other group members. I absolutely require personal and private attention from my Guru over an extended period of time, nothing less. Perhaps my ego is way too big. But even bigger are my emotional needs and vulnerability.

It's my turn to introduce myself. People are astonished that this is my first course. They can't believe my luck. "How lucky you are! Your very first course and it is with Guruji!" I feel a little more special, as if the Guru has given me special treatment. It  makes up somewhat for the fact that I don't have five years of unbroken kriya behind me.

I don't tell them that over my dead body would I ever have been interested in attending the course unless it was with the Guru himself. I badly need a Guru's presence and guidance, not that of some ordinary teacher. Besides, the hyped-up new age type courses that are advertised all over the market have never drawn my attention. If it weren't for the ad that said a Guru himself is coming to teach a course, I wouldn't have given this organisation or its courses a second thought. Even its name sounds so phoney.

The vulnerable hesitant girl had gone for darshan. She is beaming all over. "He asked me, 'Are you happy?' I said, 'Yes.'" She is indeed looking very happy, as if her heart's greatest desire has been fulfilled. I marvel at how contented she is with so little. Perhaps the Guru is really helping her and being with her because she is so humble. I must be a worse person, because he is still keeping me at a distance. I have yearning for him, but he is not yet allowing me close. He is not yet calming me down or letting me feel his love. He has not dissolved all the pain and tension inside me. I am still living an inner hell.

There wasn't enough time to give darshan to all the regions. Darshan will be continued at a later stage. I am still hoping and praying for a turn and fantasising about it.

The Guru is onstage again. He tells us about a five-minute film made by Chinese photographers at his organisation's Silver Jubilee celebration in India earlier in the year. The photographers have managed to capture something remarkable - the presence of lots of beings in the sky who have come to witness the celebrations. The Guru says that people who can see these kinds of things (like auras I presume) could discern the shapes of the figures, for example, a little figure sitting in lotus posture in its light bubble. He says he would like us to see the film, so we need to make sure we have a view of one of the screens set up in the hall.

I feel a bit torn between wanting to remain here in the front of the hall close to the Guru and at the same time wanting to do what he asked of us, which would mean relocating to a place further away. I get up and survey the screens set up in the middle of the hall, making a quick calculation. The screen on the left is the best, undoubtedly. I could sit there watching the film with one eye while keeping the other eye on the stage where the Guru is sitting. I make a dash for it to get there before other people take up the best places.

"Is the whole group coming...?", his voice sounds sweet. It feels as if his eyes are fixed on my back. I stop dead in my tracks. I'm already in the middle of the middle of the hall, at my destination. I slowly turn around. Many people have not even gotten up yet. Luckily I am not the only one who has forgotten the group stuff. Some others are also scattered all over. But I feel very visible, standing here in the middle, directly in line with him where he is sitting. I hesitate about what to do.

He turns his head to talk to someone at his side. It gives me more time to decide. Inwardly I am pleading with him: "You know I am only trying to get the best position so that I can see both you and the film properly. If I go search for them now, it's all lost. Can't I rather just stay here?"

Someone closeby remarks to her companion: "He senses that we are not all together. It is making him feel unhappy." She really seems to feel that he is sad about the present state of affairs. Sensitive and nice person she is, I say to myself, but I am not so sure she's completely accurate in her assessment of his emotional state. His heart does not strike me as quite that vulnerable. But it does cross my mind that as the Guru he constantly has to wait for and move with everybody, with the whole world. He has to be tuned in universally. Whereas I am not even prepared to tune in and wait for the nine people in my group. The thought softens me a little. Perhaps I must try harder to follow his example and not be so terribly self-absorbed and selfish.

I look back to where my group once sat. By now the whole hall is up and moving. Remembering faces is not my strong point. How will I even recognise my group members? I slowly start walking back towards the front of the hall. Two or three people from my group recognise me. We decide that it's good enough and find some place to sit. I still get a fairly good spot.

I am somewhat surprised that he wants us to see this film. There is really nothing to see. I fail to see why he says that the photographers did a good job in capturing the presence of devas or ethereal beings. There are coloured lights yes, but they look exactly like reflections of stage lights on a camera lens. Any piece of bad camera work at a big outdoors music concert would show the same kind of effects. It also does not look as if the audience is even remotely aware of the heavenly hosts above them. Anyway, I take his word that the lights represent extraordinary beings who have come to his mass celebration. When the camera brings the stage into view, a tremendous white light is visible on it. The unspoken assumption is that it must be representing the Guru's aura. At this point he jokes that the big light in the front is nothing, it is just caused by the camera. People laugh. We all know that the bright white light is really him. His light is brighter and bigger than the lights in the sky. One feels privileged and protected to have such a great Guru.

Afterwards he remarks how amazing tecnology is nowadays that it is able to pick up these kinds of phenomena. He also draws our attention to the fact that when a lot of people come together to meditate, it has a big effect. See how even in the heavens they are curious and come and have a look.

I am left with the impression that these subtle beings are not much more advanced than human beings. They also like big shows. At a purely human level, however, I am impressed by the statistics. The Guru had clearly managed to bring together a lot of diverse people in great numbers. He is playing a unifying and all-embracing role, and it appeals to me.

1. First Darshan

It is May 2006. I am standing around in the baggage retrieval area of Durban International Airport, waiting for my luggage. I am tired, tense, uncertain. One Great Question keeps revolving itself ceaselessly, eating away at my mind: Will he be the One, the true One, the Guru I have been waiting for? He better be. After all, the wait has been so long, my practice is flagging and my faith in Yoga and spiritual practices generally, is at a low ebb. It's about time he comes.

I look towards the airport's waiting area. A largish group of people are crowding around the exit point for passengers, singing Hindu devotional songs. It must mean the Guru himself is still due to arrive, and they are here to welcome him. I feel distinctly out of place. At the best of times I am uncomfortable with crowds, especially when there seems to be some strong collective consciousness at work. And this crowd looks just a little too homogeneous and overenthusiastic. I remind myself how a jet-setting socially active Guru with a large following was never what I have imagined for myself, and how the idea of a solitary Himalayan Yogi had more appeal. But then again, who knows? Sometimes fate has other designs, and it is true that a side of me periodically tends towards social and political involvement. Perhaps my destiny is to continue along those lines with this Guru, rather than to withdraw into mountains.

"Guruji is here! Let's leave the bags, it can wait till later." The exclamations are coming from some devotees who happened to be seated right behind me on the flight from Cape Town. I stop scrutinising the baggage line and look up, rather pleasantly surprised at this unexpected synchronicity of events, but also in some trepidation, as the real issue would be decided right now.

The devotees hurriedly make their way towards a rather dishevelled and tired-looking figure in white robes as he enters at the other end of the hall, greeting him excitedly and touching his feet. I remain at a safe distance, watching intently from afar. It's a total anti-climax: My heart feels absolutely no rapport. It can't be him. Still, all kinds of possibilities cross my mind: I wonder if he is nonetheless aware of my presence, and if he couldn't perhaps point me to the right Guru.

I keep watching his every move. I am too far away to hear his voice. A few times his eyes dispassionately meet mine; the first time only briefly while he sweeps his gaze around the largely empty baggage hall. Then there are a few longer looks. His eyes are uncommonly expressionless. It is something new to me. The looks serve as a kind of validation and consolation of my distressed heart, but they don't help to decide my burning issue.

I collect my bag and yoga mat and, despite a strong desire to interact more closely with him in the hope of some guidance, decide to tear myself away from the scene, wishing to get out of the airport building before he meets the throng of devotees in the waiting area. I am not in the mood for their child-like jubilation, nor the traffic jams that would coincide with their departure. The evening programme is due to start in a couple of hours, and I must still find my accommodation.

With a heavy heart I consider the fact that I might have come in vain, and that as a poor student I might have wasted the more than three thousand rand I have spent in coming here (half of which is the fee for the three-day course), money which might have been better spent on paying debts.

I don't manage to avoid the traffic jam. I am seated in a taxi fairly quickly, but some of the Guru's devotees already have their cars waiting and ready, blocking the narrow lane. He must have moved fast through the welcoming party, because the next moment I see him getting into the vehicle right in front of us. For quite a while we travel behind them on the highways of Durban. My eyes are riveted on his figure in front of us and I wonder again at the coincidence, but my heart remains heavy and unconvinced.

I settle into a cheap backpackers within walking distance of the Durban Convention Centre, and then make my way there for the first evening session, which is a free public talk and interfaith prayer event. There are about two thousand people. The Guru, again in white robes, seats himself cross-legged on a dais in the middle of the stage. He doesn't look dishevelled any more. Other dignitaries, including local politicians and representatives of other religious institutions, all of whom are to make speeches, are to be seated on regular chairs off to the side. It is clear who is the centre of attention.

The Guru remains seated as each speaker greets him, a few by touching his feet. I feel somewhat uncomfortable, because I don't sense great humility in him. One speaker is a Roman Catholic nun, for whom this situation is clearly not an easy one. As she approaches him somewhat uncertainly, he waits just a moment too long before getting up in a kind of magnanimous gesture of greeting her on an equal footing. Perhaps to the devotees packing the hall this is a sign of their Guru's kindness and humility, but I have a feeling that some injustice is being done and my empathy is with the nun.

During the speeches (especially that of the nun), the Guru often closes his eyes and seems to nod off, dropping and raising his head every now and then. I suspect that he is tired, but still find it disrespectful. Only in subsequent days do I realise that all the nodding is not necessarily sleepiness, and that his regular way of meditating includes spontaneous head movements, sometimes forwards and backwards, but also sideways. Not that meditating through the speeches of guests invited to honour you is any less disrespectful than sleeping through them, but anyway.

The nun is not the only speaker who is uncomfortable with the situation. A swami representing another well-known Hindu organisation makes a speech with a number of strong statements, including the fact that there have been many other great Masters doing a lot of good work. There is a sting in his statements, and even for me, who is completely new to the scene, it is not hard to make out at whom they might be directed. His target, however, seems unperturbed, happily gazing back at his adoring audience.

I marvel at the political bickering going on even among institutions of spiritual Gurus. The swami comes across as a little too strident and bitter, so my sympathy is not greatly with him, but I certainly catch the hint that this Guru's presence is not a magic wand that dissolves all disharmony. Clearly not everyone agrees with a previous speaker who extolled the great blessing bestowed by Guruji's coming here and having his feet touch our country's soil.

The speeches go on and on. The Guru is mostly nodding off, but periodically opens his eyes and lets them glide over the audience. I am sitting about a third of the way from the front of the hall, next to the centre aisle. In fact, I have moved my chair ever so slightly into the aisle. The aisle leads in a straight line to the centre of the stage, which is where the Guru is sitting. There is no spatial or visual obstruction between us.

All evening I am highly tense and unhappy, but physically have gone into a motionless, semi-meditative state, watching him intently, hardly blinking, taking in every move. It's the first time I see a Yoga Master and I want to tune in and absorb as much as possible. Besides, I badly need him to give me some answers.

I realise the motionless erectness of my pose and the intensity of my looking might become evident to the people around me. And although I want to draw the Guru's attention, I have no intention of drawing everybody else's. I am already visible enough by being one of the few non-Indians present, not to mention the fact that I am sitting halfway into the centre aisle. In an attempt to be less obtrusive, I every once in a while deliberately look away from him and pretend to be interested in the speakers, well, for a few seconds at least. I am frustrated at having to keep up appearances and wish the entire audience and speakers could just be erased from space.

I look at him again and put some extra mental intensity behind my question: For what have you made me come here? You are not my Guru, and I don't fit in here at all. I am unhappy and depressed and uneasy and out of place. I would have been far better off staying at home. At least not so much money would have been wasted. And if you want me to stop looking at you and not disturb people with my intensity, then just signal to me and I won't look.

His eyes meet mine. Impersonal eyes, like this afternoon, but this time there is a concentratedness in them. Two small whirlpools of black and white energy, it feels like.

Our gazes lock. A line of electricity connects us. Spiritually and emotionally I am hungry, and my whole being enters the look.

He is looking and I am looking and he is looking and I am looking. I fear that people are going to start noticing. He is looking and I am looking... They are probably noticing already. He is looking and I am looking... I don't want them to notice. He is looking and I am looking... I don't want to look away, I don't want to look away. He is looking and I am... I look away. I look to the ground.

The entire space between us is electrified. I am electrified. Ever so slowly, ever so unnoticeably, I dissolve my erect posture into a slight slump, I am invisible, invisible, invisible. I'm not here. I don't exist. I melt my body away into empty space. I open up a chasm beneath me and swallow me up.

OK, that settles it, I won't look ever again. I won't look at anyone. I'm looking at the floor for the rest of the evening. And I'm completely invisible.

The floor is unappetising. A state of extreme deprivation overtakes me. It is unbearable.

Perhaps I could slowly lift my head and look at the speaker, and then once in a while include you in the far corner of my gaze? But I won't look at you directly again.

This is not working for me.

Perhaps once in a while I could look at you for a brief second or two, very unobtrusively?

I am looking at him more or less continously again. It can't be helped. But I try to maintain a slight slump in my body, preventing it from taking on a Yoga-like posture, and I make sure the speakers get more of my visual attention. He's not paying any further attention to me. Externally it feels as if things have returned to normal again. Internally there is turmoil. What was the significance of that look? Is he perhaps my Guru? But I don't recognise him. He does not seem familiar to my heart at all.

The long list of speakers comes to an end. It is late in the evening. By now half the audience have followed their Guru's earlier example and are nodding off, and the other half is extremely restless. The rain is beating down on the roof of the Convention Centre.

For a large part of the evening my critical and analytical mind has been hard at work, trying to take in a lot of new information and making sense of a cultural situation I am unfamiliar with. And then there was all the effort of looking intensely at the Guru (while pretending not to be looking for the audience's sake) in an attempt to get some answers; not to mention his return look that surpassed mine in intensity, which I am trying hard to interpret: Is He mine or is He not? I am exhausted, but it is his turn to speak and I try hard to muster the necessary energy to listen alertly to his speech. So his next move catches me off guard.

He very simply and plainly announces that we've now had to take in a lot of knowledge and that it needs to be digested, so we will do a short meditation. It's the first time I hear his voice. It is not at all what I expected. The unceremonious down-to-earth manner of his approach also pleasantly surprises me, although I am not quite sure that it is respectful to the other speakers. There's not much time to ponder on the etiquette of public speaking, though.

He immediately leads a short and simple guided meditation, connecting us with the falling rain, the sky, the earth. I am too occupied with the timbre of his voice and with my own inner turmoil to relax deeply into the meditation, but his voice has a soothing effect on on my soul and my rational mind gives way. My desperate heart starts wondering more and more if he is not my Guru after all. His charisma is beginning to have an effect, and it increases during his subsequent short talk. The immense distance I felt is diminished unexpectedly and drastically, but not completely.

The formal part of the programme had ended and many of the earlier speakers have left by now. The atmosphere becomes more intimate and informal, a reunion of Guru and devotees. It was his 50th birthday a week ago and devotees present him with a big birthday cake. He stands holding the mike in one hand and a big knife in the other. While talking he starts slicing up the cake.

He is saying that words are not real communication. Real communication is a connection between hearts, from heart to heart. No need for any words then. I deeply agree and wish for him to allow me to feel that connection to his heart, for his heart to speak to mine, for him to let me feel his love and settle down all this turmoil and confusion that are consuming me.

He keeps slicing and slicing and slicing the cake into ever smaller pieces. People start laughing. He continues for a while longer. Finally he stops and says: "Now everyone will have a cake. No one will go without."

It instantly reminds me of the story of Jesus breaking five loaves of bread and two fishes into so many pieces that it could feed a big crowd. I had left Christianity behind long ago, when I was seventeen, but biblical stories and parables still sometimes float back into my mind.

I wonder if the Guru is joking or if he is truly busy performing some miraculous feat of multiplication. There is no way of verifying that, however, as only the children rush forward to grab a piece of cake. The adults (including me) have their inhibitions to deal with. A very large piece of cake therefore remains untouched onstage. I nonetheless feel that it was a nice gesture of him. One feels as if he cares and shares. Even so, he is still not connecting deeply to me and I wonder why he is keeping me at a distance when I am in such great need.

I go to bed later that night engaged in inward battle with him, but it is clear that this fish has taken the bait. I hardly sleep, and for the next three days of the course I don't eat at all, having no appetite, but I do drink some apple juice for energy. I am continuously in a heightened state of confusion, tension and longing.

Little do I know that the game of looks that started on this first evening and which continued throughout the course, would be played between us for the next seven months, a harrowing game of looking and not-looking, of distance and nearness - a continuous promise of intimacy never fulfilled, which would eventually drive me to the verge of suicide and put me in constant fear of losing my mind.