4. Health & Happiness? (Part III)

It is the second day of the Health & Happy Course. I am early again, among the first to arrive. I am happy to see that a few of my group members are early as well. We get a spot close to the stage at the exact point I had in mind and try to keep some space open for the late arrivals of our group. At least I’ll be spared the misfortune of having to relocate later on to a point way back in the hall where all the latecomer groups will end up.

“All the new people, those of you who are here for the first time, please put up your hands. Guruji wants all of you here in front”, a teacher announces, pointing to the space right before the centre of the stage. A wave of irritation surges up in me. At the moment I am falling just outside the designated area. I have an excellent close-up spot just to the right of the centre. Given the amount of newcomers, any relocation to the designated area would require me to move a few metres further back, away from the stage. I am not the only one to feel irritated. The current occupants of that space don’t feel like giving up their prime spots. Some reshuffling of people takes place, but not an awful lot of it. I hesitate a while before finally taking up my mat and obeying the order. Perhaps the Guru himself wants me to move. Perhaps I am supposed to give up always wanting to do things my way.

This morning the Guru is early for the Yoga session. He sits giving instructions while a teacher to his right demonstrates the postures. I wonder what this Guru’s ability in terms of asanas is, whether he himself still practices them, or if he has moved beyond such physical practices. Anyway, the way he is dressed in his long flowing robes covering every part of his body, is clearly not practical for illustrating asanas. Even the teacher doing the demonstration has too much clothes on and I can’t make out precisely what the postures should look like.

I think of Iyengar stripped almost naked illustrating postures to a T. And also how my own Yoga teacher always has a battle with students insisting they wear shorts, t-shirts and no socks, so he can clearly observe what their kneecaps, feet and arms are doing. I can’t quite imagine this Guru stripping down into a little tight-fitting Iyengar number to illustrate postures for us. Clearly his Yoga is not as precise and finicky. But I hope his relaxed style would help me gain in greater intuitiveness, rather than mere slackness.

He teaches us one or two pranayama techniques and mudras. I again note the lack of precise instructions. Also the fact that his placement of the fingers is different from Iyengar’s variations of the same techniques. I wonder how the people in the back of the hall can follow at all. I am sitting fairly close to the stage and I am frustrated at not being able to see exactly what he is doing. Perhaps most people already know the techniques and that’s why he isn’t bothering to give very precise instructions.

“No, you are doing it wrong”, he announces. I wonder if he means me too. He starts the instructions for a particular mudra all over again. “This finger goes onto your moustache. And if you don’t have a moustache, then I don’t know….” People laugh. I’m amused too. Actually I am still getting used to his moustache and beard. His long hair doesn’t clash with my Guru ideal, but I kind of expected a more clean-shaven look. I have started to tune in to his looks though and am slowly beginning to like the beard part too.

He completes the instructions. Again I find them not precise enough. He has not detailed exactly how he is using his thumb at the ear and I can think of about three options – which one must I use? I don’t like this uncertainty. I wish I could get one-on-one close-up instruction from him.

We have to change into a meditation posture and close our eyes. He tells us very sweetly, “Keep a smile on your face – even if it is artificial, it doesn’t matter. It relaxes all the muscles in the face.” I don’t feel like smiling at all, I am feeling dead serious and stressed. But perhaps he’s right about having to relax the facial muscles. I make a feeble attempt at a smile. It is indeed an artificial one, and a rather tense one as well. I feel stupid and I know I must be looking stupid too. Fortunately all of us have our eyes closed. I keep trying for a minute, then drop it. He will first have to create a true internal smile in me before any external one has a chance of making its appearance.

We do a short silent meditation. During the meditation I don’t feel connected to him. I don’t feel his presence, nor do I relax deeply and I wonder why he is not helping me to do so. Why does he not help my mind to cease being so shallow and restless and tense?

Later on in a talk he tells us, “Never curse. Never curse anybody. You are meditators. If you tell someone he is an idiot, that person may really become like that.” I let his words sink in. So he is convinced that even our little bit of meditation is able to affect reality? I wonder if his words apply only to those who have been initiated in his meditation techniques. Perhaps his warning doesn’t apply to me, because I have not been initiated yet, and anyway, I know how scattered and low-quality my own meditation is. At most my body enters somewhat deeper and lighter states, but never my mind. So I probably have nothing to fear in terms of my thoughts and words becoming truth. I also wonder why he actually needs to warn us at all about this issue. With him as Guru, why would one ever feel the need to curse? Wouldn’t his love and guidance help one to steer clear of extreme mental states such as anger and revenge?

Ironically enough, five months later, his love and guidance still denied me, with things snapping and breaking everywhere inside me, the word “idiot” would enter my mind rather forcibly. The expression “Idiot Guru” would become a constant refrain, a kind of mantra repeated day and night, addressed to him at first with the hurt anger of love, and as my mental equilibrium deteriorated further, with full-blown hatred and the utter wish to completely annihilate him and everything associated with him. Many other words would have reflected my emotions and intentions better, but somehow “idiot” would be the word that my mind grabbed in an attempt to find some emotional release (eventually with a good number of “f”-words added in: “F…ING F…ED-UP IDIOT GURU”). For the moment, though, I don’t have an inkling of what’s to come.

He also tells us, “Don’t worry, you are all protected.” His words give me a feeling of warmth, reassurance and hope. Perhaps he will help to give my life a sense of meaning and purpose, help me gain mental clarity, emotional stability and lightness. Perhaps, together with him, things will slowly start sorting themselves out. At least, that’s what I am deeply hoping.

Another side of me remains cautiously doubting if I am truly included in his protection. I mean, I may be present in this hall and hearing his words addressed to us, but he has not initiated me yet, so how can I be hundred percent sure he’s taking responsibility for me as a student or disciple? I am also not sure what it means to be “protected”. “Protected” against what exactly? Does it mean protection against falling away from the path? Does it mean protection against severe calamities and extreme suffering? Or does the type of protection vary from person to person? I am well aware that a spiritual path is seldom moonshine and roses, it can be very tough, so protection won’t necessarily mean there won’t be any suffering. Well, if only he always lets me feel his loving presence, if only he never deserts me, if only he clarifies my spiritual practice for me and keeps me steadily progressing on the path, then that would fulfil the deepest needs in me.

Later on there is darshan again for one of the other cities, not Cape Town. I am beginning to feel some despair. Time is running out and I wonder if my turn will ever come. I am standing towards the back of the hall looking up at the upstairs room where darshan is taking place. Through the glass panel I have a view of the Guru interacting with devotees. From where he is sitting, he suddenly looks down into the hall towards… me! He is laughing and waving his left arm energetically. Could it be?! Is he really motioning for me to come? Or is it just my imagination and sheer wishful thinking? I look around me, checking if there isn’t someone else responding to his call. No one seems to be looking at him and no one is moving towards the stairs either. Everyone down here seems to be going about their own business. Perhaps the waving was really meant for me, then? I still hesitate. Why, why, why do I have this strong feeling he is playing a game with me?

I look at the entrance to the darshan room. The white-clothed gatekeepers are lined up in front of the door. To get to him I would have to pass through them. Who of them would believe me if I just go and announce that the Guru had waved to me to come up and see him? I remember the hostile reception I got yesterday when I enquired from one of them whether Cape Town already had its turn. If I go now and request to see the Guru, they might think, “Who does this boy think he is? Does he think just because he’s white he’s got right of entry?” I wince at the thought. I don’t have the strength to face up to their refusal and looks of censure. If He truly wants to see me, it is so easy for him to just send one of his many attendants to come and call me. Even nicer would be if He could come to me himself. After all, I have been running after him so much the past few days, trying so hard to always position myself in the best places to be close to him.

I stay put down in the hall. He doesn’t look at me again. Doubt and sorrow overtake me – perhaps I have ditched my only chance at being with him. Too bad then. I couldn’t do better even if I wanted to. Emotionally I have limits, after all. Surely he understands that?

I overhear one course participant telling another: “He had a meeting with all the teachers and communicated simultaneously with all of them through silence. Without talking he told each of them individually what they needed to hear.”

I instantly feel terribly deprived. So he really is capable of doing such things and some people here are recipients of it. Then why doesn’t he choose to communicate with me through silence? Is it because I am not a teacher, or because I have not been initiated yet, or because I am not purified enough? But surely that shouldn’t be much of a barrier to him? I have a feeling that if he really wants to he could easily clear away all my internal obstacles and let me feel his loving guidance. Why is he making me wait?

In the afternoon I help to arrange the chairs for some public function on education that the Guru has organised. It means there won’t be a course session at that time. I am not really interested in the topic, but it strikes me again how this Guru goes out of his way to involve local politicians and dignitaries in his events. One side of me is impressed by this unifying role he is playing, but I am not sure where it leaves me in terms of my spiritual ideals. Over the last couple of years I have been slowly disentangling myself from all activist and socio-political involvements in order to direct my mind one-pointedly towards spiritual practices alone. I am finding it ironic that I am now ending up in the presence of a Guru who seems to be moving the opposite way from where I am heading. Does it mean I must reverse my direction again and fall in with his socio-political commitments? Or will he help and guide me along the way I have chosen, into greater solitude and meditation?

This afternoon the Guru actually sits on a regular chair close to the podium like the other speakers. I keep my gaze constantly on him but try to be unobtrusive enough so that the speakers next to him won’t notice. I am not so sure I am succeeding in this. My seat is right on the aisle that runs towards the podium on the right corner of the stage. As per the habit I’ve developed over the past few days, I am sitting a little into the aisle for a better view. He is not paying any attention to me. I try to give some aural attention to the keynote speaker. After all, if the Guru found it important to host such an event, then I guess I should take some interest in what’s being said. Fortunately there are only a few speeches, then it’s the Guru’s turn. The audience, most of whom are devotees, wakes up and applauds him enthusiastically whenever he makes a joke or mentions a point they agree with.

Directly on the other side of the aisle from me sits a young boy in a red t-shirt with his mother. The boy is very restless. The event must be so boring for a child. I guess his mother brought him because she wanted him to see the Guru. The boy quickly makes the association between the Guru’s voice reaching a certain pitch (usually when he finishes making a point) and the audience clapping. He starts leading the clapping. He clearly doesn’t understand a word the Guru is saying, but he intently listens to the rising and falling of the Guru’s voice. Whenever the voice reaches a particular pitch, he starts clapping as if his life depends on it. Not knowing that it is a small boy clapping, the rest of the audience, anxious not to be found wanting on the clapping front, falls in like sheep. Half of the time the boy’s clapping is at completely inappropriate times, yet the audience catches on. I am embarrassed on behalf of the boy and on behalf of the audience. He is also disturbing my concentration on the Guru.

I can see the boy does not have control over his impulses and I feel sorry for his young mother. She’s just leaving him to do his thing. Clearly it won’t be much use telling him to stop. The thought crosses my mind that the Guru might actually deliberately be using the impressionable mind of this boy to heighten the enthusiasm of his audience. I feel uncomfortable about it, but I am also angry at myself for being so overly sensitive and serious about everything. So what if the boy keeps clapping and the audience is stupid? Let him clap as much as he wants to.

Suddenly the boy’s mother gets up, takes the boy by the hand and leaves. I feel so very bad and guilty. Perhaps she sensed my irritation at the clapping. I am so selfish. She needed to be here with the boy and perhaps I have been a factor in driving them away.

The Guru comments on the raising of children and women’s issues. He says a rebellious child needs to be given encouragement, positive reinforcement. With a shy child, on the other hand, one needs to be firm. He says people generally do the opposite. They tend to punish a rebellious child, causing the child to become more rebellious. And they tend to be too soft on a shy child, then the child never develops confidence. Instead they should act firmly with a shy child child, but with love, of course.

I feel his solution might be a little simplistic and I also feel pressurised by him. I think back to my own childhood. What was I, shy or rebellious? Definitely very shy, and also always “different” – “rebellious” would not be the right word. Immense scars were left by teachers who tried to be “firm” with me, forcing me to interact with and perform in front of other children before I was ready for it. Their attempts failed miserably, publicly embarrassing me and making me overly self-conscious of the fact that my behaviour is being watched all the time. I think of people I know who have similar temperaments, and also of the shy guy in my group. We should really be left to come out of our shells if and when we ourselves so desire. Anyway, why does society have this idea that a healthy personality is synonymous with being assertive and overconfident? I again reflect on how this Guru’s organisation tends to favour the confident outgoing types. There seems to be a particular “model” personality everyone should develop. What is my place in this whole set-up? Or does he have other plans for me? I hope he does.

He says that feminism has done women a great disservice. It is causing women to lose their sensitivity. Inwardly I flinch. Do I really have to hear this even from a Yoga Master? – the idea that “Women are like this”, “Men are like that” and for all eternity this is the way it should be. Is it necessary for him to be so simplistic and conservative? Issues are way more complex than that. And gender is not a cut-and-dried duality. I have been active in attempts to open up more space for gender diverse people – people who in one way or another transcend or transgress conventional female/male, man/woman categories. It would not be nice to have a Master who has no understanding of these issues. Is he even able to understand me and my own complex history at all? I need a Master who is more all-inclusive and flexible than me, not one who is less so. If he truly is my Master, then I will be ashamed to tell all my feminist, lesbian, gay, transgender, intersexed and genderqueer connections that I have such a conservative Master.

I am really struggling with these disagreements I feel with him. One side of me is engaged in self-doubt: I wish I could tune in to him completely and please him even to the extent of agreeing with everything he says. He is the Guru, after all, and perhaps my ego needs to submit. Another side of me is doing battle with him.

He continues saying, “Of course, traditional practices that discriminate against girl children should be eradicated”. Well, at least he’s got that insight. It gives me a little more hope. With the right input, perhaps he’ll be able to come to a more progressive understanding. It’s just that he has not had wide enough exposure yet. Perhaps a Master is also conditioned by his/her own culture. Perhaps Masters learn to encompass the universe by tuning their own consciousness to the minds of their devotees and disciples. It could be that he has deliberately made me come to him because he realises his shortcomings on the gender front and he wants to learn some things through my consciousness. The thought relaxes me a little. There’s hope for the two of us together. Through me he could acquire greater openness and nuance in his understanding. I could help him to broaden his horizons and heighten his sensitivities. He’s a Master, so he should be able to assimilate me quickly. Perhaps he’s already done it. Then he’d be able to guide me properly according to my nature and aspirations.

The public event on education comes to an end. There is going to be darshan for the remaining cities and regions. Perhaps, finally, now? I quickly go up to the first floor balcony and watch the Guru making his way from the front of the hall. He is walking quickly, a whole column of devotees following behind him. When he gets near the back of the hall, a large, spontaneous woman approaches him from the side and warmly embraces him. He ignores her completely and keeps walking on with force. There is something brusque in his face and bearing. Her arms fall from him, dropping to her sides. Then she is swallowed up by the crowd and I can no longer see her.

I feel pain. For her and for myself. It’s as if he has rejected both of us.

“Why so cruel?”, I whisper to him.

From where I stand it looked as if she was a coloured woman. In South Africa race is not yet a non-issue. I wonder how she must be feeling. Not only were her most spontaneous sentiments of love and devotion trampled upon, but she was also rejected by an Indian Guru among a lot of Indian devotees. It’s adding racial insult to grave injury. Surely he must be aware of these dynamics? Why did he do it? Did he think she needed that rejection for some reason? But is such cruelty really necessary? What is the nature of a Guru’s love and compassion? Does it include being cruel?

It is deeply impressed on me that one cannot just assume he will accept one’s expressions of love and devotion. And you cannot just assume it is OK to approach him spontaneously. It’s up to him to make the first move.

He comes up and the darshan process starts. Still no luck for Cape Town, no luck for me. A few buses with elderly people arrive outside. They seem to be Zulu-speaking people. Some rows of chairs have been arranged in a corner at the back of the hall just below the darshan room. People file in and go sit in the chairs. When everyone is seated the Guru goes downstairs and walks around them, every now and again lightly waving his hand as if in greeting, or perhaps motioning them to remain seated (except that no one is trying to get up). “He is blessing them all”, a woman next to me confidently asserts to her friend. Oh, is that what he’s doing, I think to myself.

Something doesn’t feel right to me about the whole process. It’s as if a separate small enclave has been formed here at the back of the hall. Why this separation and division? Why were they not seated in the front of the hall, properly welcomed in the company of all of us and blessed together with all of us? Why was there no attempt at integration? He is not setting a good example.

Once he has circumambulated the people, the Guru speaks a few sentences to them. There is a Zulu translator. Then he comes back up to continue darshan. The visitors downstairs don’t stay long. I think they receive food and then leave again in the buses. They seemed happy enough at being on an outing, but I feel uncomfortable. To me it looked as if they were treated a bit like sheep, as if it was all just for show.

Darshan seems to be over. He hasn’t seen me. I wonder if there will be another opportunity later tonight at satsang. While waiting for him to come out of the darshan room, I position myself some way down the stairs with all the other devotees lining the sides. I want him to pass close to me. He briefly exchanges words with a few people, but doesn’t look at me in particular. I somehow find myself walking down the stairs right behind him. As we descend the last flight of stairs, an Indian man appears from the direction of the kitchen. Right in front of me the Guru suddenly spreads his arms wide, quickens his pace down the last few steps and spontaneously embraces the man.

I immediately think of the woman whose embrace he had rejected earlier. So it’s indeed up to him to choose who gets an embrace and who not, who receives his love and who not. Better let me never make the same mistake as that poor woman. It’s up to him to make the first move. I am to wait.

I feel a little jealous of the man who received the embrace right in front of me, but not too much. Perhaps he really needed it. It even crosses my mind that it might be the man whose wife committed suicide. Perhaps he had flown in to come and see the Guru? – Nah, probably unlikely.

I also have an unsettling feeling that this Guru plays games with people to subdue their egos. He might be sending this man to heaven right now by giving him an embrace, and then subject him to hell by ignoring him for an entire year to come. I have read enough Guru stories to know one can’t always trust their ways. Perhaps they know what’s best. Anyway, a mere once-off embrace in the public eye is not what I need. I need a radical inner transformation, some great shift, a love great enough to dissolve my body and entire existence. It needs to happen in meditation with him.

The Guru is away. There is still time before tonight’s satsang, so I take a walk to the beach. Apparently he will meet us there tomorrow morning early to watch the sunrise together. I want to check out the exact spot beforehand to make sure I won’t miss it in the dark tomorrow morning and also to determine the time required to walk there.

I have not eaten for two days but don’t feel hungry. I return to the hall for satsang. We have to continue for a while without the Guru because he is at his corporate dinner. As far as positioning is concerned, I’m doing the slightly-into-the-middle-aisle thing again. Eventually the Guru comes and takes his seat centre stage. Happily and serenely he is surveying all his devotees, from one end to the other, both in the front and in the back, his eyes continuously moving from one part of the audience to the next.

Immense frustration starts building up in me. I am seated too far back. I can’t see him clearly enough. I need to have him close-up. I feel anger at the rest of the audience being here. I feel angry at having to keep up appearances and not being able to sit in lotus and meditate on him. To try and give vent to my frustration, I imagine an explosion, flame and fumes and all, issuing from me. I imagine issuing it off to my right where no people are seated, sideways and up into the air.

It’s not making me feel much better. I notice some open space close to the stage on the Guru’s far left. There are only a handful of people sitting there. They have formed a kind of short diagonal row of their own. If I move there now, the whole hall is going to notice it. I experience a short internal battle: What is most important – to remain unnoticeable, but frustrated, or to go with my strong inclination to be close to the Guru, but having to cope with the embarrassment if people notice my obsessiveness? It doesn’t take me long to decide. The Guru is looking at the people on his far right. The whole hall is looking at him. Perhaps no one will notice me. I grab my chair and quickly walk round the back of the audience to his far left, placing the chair just behind the short row that has formed next to the stage. I sit down. This is really close-up. I am happy I made the move. The frustration in me evaporates. It doesn’t seem as if anyone noticed me and the Guru himself is still looking at the people way to his right. I wonder if he knew of my frustration and that I have moved. I am opening myself up to him, but how tuned in and aware is he really of me?

He slowly starts turning his head from the people on his far right, all the way to his far left where I am sitting. He throws his head back and laughs, looking down at me with me amusement. It’s a long look, then he shifts his gaze again to the audience in the middle.

Could it really be? Was it really for me? Was he really aware and reacting to my move? Or was that laugh meant for the guy in front of me? Perhaps the guy in front of me was thinking something and He reacted to that guy’s thoughts? Or perhaps His laugh was meant for both of us? All this doubt is killing me. It really felt like He was looking straight at me. Emotionally I claim the look for myself – I needed it. He is aware of me, He is tuned in. And it was not a dispassionate look. It may have been a little aloof, but it was also warm and amused.

Some time later he addresses us, asking, “Who of you want to become Art of Living teachers?” I am surprised to see that out of such a big audience only a few people are raising their hands. I know he’s definitely not asking me. After all, I’m still completely new here and he’s not even made it clear to me he’s my Guru. I may be getting all these looks from him, but there’s no deep internal connection yet. Anyway, I may like him and want him to be my Guru, but I don’t like his organisation, I don’t like its culture, I don’t like its teachers, I don’t like its courses. If he is my Guru, perhaps he’ll guide me along another path. My heart is set on meditation and the Himalayas. If he wants me to do organisational work for him instead, then he would have to make that very clear to me and also show me how it fits with my purpose in this life.

“All of us will do this work,” he states matter-of-factly, casting a sideways glance at me. I am not hundred percent sure the glance was for me. It seemed so and it felt like it, but I am cautious. On the one hand I hope it was for me – a part of me wants to feel that he claims me, even if it means me having to become a teacher in an organisation I dislike. I have a need to belong to a Guru. On the other hand, I really have had enough of dealing with people and taking responsibility for others. I need a break. I have been struggling so hard to disentangle myself from various organisational and activist commitments over the past few years in order to focus on Yoga alone. I don’t want to get caught up in organisational stuff again, not even if it is Yoga-related. Perhaps his sideways glance was intended for the guy in front of me, or for the whole short row of about eight people seated in front of me. None of them had put up their hands either. Perhaps some of them are old-time devotees and the time is ripe for them to become teachers.

He continues, addressing the entire hall again, “From here the wave must spread up into Africa. I will help you, I will be with you. You help me with my work and I will help you with your work.” This sounds very reassuring and promising. If he will truly help me and be with me, then perhaps I would be willing to do whatever, even if it means forgoing the Himalayas for now. Especially if he could help with this PhD thesis of mine which is such a big stress on me – what with all the Yoga classes I’m attending and all the Yoga books I’m reading, the thesis is not getting itself written. And time is running out and money is running out, and my head and heart are in such great conflict.

“Who want to become Art of Living teachers?” he asks again. More people are putting up their hands this time, but still far fewer than I expected, especially given his reassurances of a moment ago. None of the people in front of me seem to be putting up their hands. I guess his glance was intended for me then. I put up my arm halfway, making a kind of oscillating wavering movement with my hand. It’s meant to indicate only a 50% commitment to becoming a teacher. My commitment is dependent on him first clarifying some stuff for me and helping me experience a tangible shift within me. In the absence of such a shift there will anyway not be the energy or strength to act as a teacher.

“Who want to become coordinators in their areas?” Some people put up their hands. I know I have organising and coordinating skills, but I am adamant this request is definitely not for me. I am not even a teacher yet, so how could I volunteer to become a coordinator? It is meant for the more senior people. He also doesn’t look at me this time, so I feel let off the hook.

“Who volunteer to take down the names and contact details of all those who want to become teachers?” He makes a point of identifying the individuals. “Who will take down the details of those who want to become coordinators?” He again identifies the individuals committing to doing the follow-up work and he makes sure we see where they are in the hall. He says all of us who volunteered to become teachers and coordinators must give our details to these individuals. He is clearly serious about this. I can see there is a practical and management dimension to him.

Afterwards I do as he instructed and go write up my details at the designated person. Hopefully this is the start of new direction and meaning in my life? Hopefully from now on he will take responsibility for me, take charge of my life, remove all the tension and confusion, bring about transformation? Hopefully.

Someone announces on the microphone that there is a shortage of coordinators: Will more volunteers please come forward? Not meant for me, comes my inner reply, but I feel a little guilty. I know I’ve got all the skills, it’s just the energy and motivation that are lacking. A few minutes later the request is repeated – they still don’t have enough coordinators. This time I take it as the Guru’s call. I go and give up my name. I seem to be the last one. They have enough now and the request is not repeated again.

There is not another darshan opportunity after satsang. The Health & Happiness Course is at an end and I have missed out on his guidance. Some people were clever – if they had to leave the course early and were afraid of missing out on their own city’s darshan, they just went in for an earlier darshan with one of the other cities. It never occurred to me to try something like that. My honesty and grudging respect for instructions seem to be putting me at a distinct disadvantage.

The Guru may have omitted Cape Town because that’s his next stop. Perhaps he’ll give Capetonians darshan in their own city? Perhaps, perhaps he will see me there? And what if he doesn’t? Why is he making me wait so long? A kind of dull despair is threatening to overtake me. I have only one straw to grasp at, and it’s hardly a palatable one, namely, he seems to have claimed me as one of his future teachers and coordinators. And then there were those few very direct looks. I replay them in my mind continuously, but that’s it. That’s all.

For the third night in a row I hardly sleep. Again I am terrified I will oversleep and miss the sunrise meditation on the beach with him. I pray that something more conclusive will happen tomorrow.

3. Health & Happiness? (Part II)

It is lunch and the Guru is gone. Volunteers have prepared food for the course participants and people can go fetch some in the kitchen. I consider also getting some. Good Indian food would be nice for a change. My own cooking skills are so plain. Seeing lots of people heading towards the kitchen, however, I change my mind. I have had enough of crowds for now. I need a break and some fresh air. Besides, I am not really hungry and I am still breathing through my left nostril. A fast might be a good idea, especially as I am trying to figure out this Guru issue.

It's nice to be outside and on my own. I need to think things over. He has not given me darshan yet. When is he going to give it to me? Is he going to give it to me at all, ever? I replay his look of last night over and over again in my mind. This morning he has not paid any particular attention to me even though I was quite near the stage. At least, there was no look that I could single out as having been definitely for me, and not perhaps for the person next to me.

This is to become an obsession in coming months - receiving looks from him but always doubting if they were not perhaps intended for the person in front of me or behind me or next to me, or even for a few of us simultaneously. The only reason I don't have much doubt that last night's long look had been zoomed in on me specifically (despite the distance between us), was because of the impact felt on my entire body and psyche. And also because of the immense embarrassment that consumed me afterwards for having drawn his attention publicly to me for so long. My head might be capable of doubting everything else, but it could not doubt the embarrassment. The embarrassment was rock solid. It proved the look had been for me. Even so, I cautiously keep open the possibility that he might have simultaneously included someone else in that look besides me. After all, he has such a big assembly to keep happy. He probably makes economical use of his looks. Deep inside me, though, the wish is that I had been his only intended recipient.

I set out in some direction and luckily hit the mall and shops area. Apple juice is what I need now. I get a six pack and make sure it is non-carbonated. This morning the Guru had asked who of us drank fizzy drinks like Coca Cola. Most people had put up their hands. Once in a while I drink sparkling fruit juice or sparkling mineral water, so I had put up my own hand halfway. He had said somewhat dramatically, lowering his voice: “Do you know what it causes? It causes cancer.” He had explained how the body’s natural process is to get rid of carbon dioxide, but now we are putting carbon dioxide back into it by drinking carbonated drinks. I decided that from now on sparkling drinks were definitely completely off my consumption list.

An announcement was made this morning that there will be a corporate dinner with the Guru tomorrow evening. It is going to be with business people, but we may also go. Tickets cost a thousand rand each. I want to be in his presence as much as possible the few days that he is in the country, so I consider drawing the money. Then I decide against it. I am not into corporate things, I will just be uneasy and frustrated, and there will anyway not be an opportunity for me to interact closely with him. Besides, I don’t know Durban and don’t feel like searching for the venue or paying for a taxi. Last but not least, spending another thousand rand would be extravagant. As it is I am already headed deep into my credit card and my next scholarship payout is not due until another month or two. How I will manage financially until the end of the year is a question that weighs heavily on me.

I don’t feel comfortable with the fact that one has to pay money (and a lot of it) to see him – whether at a course or a dinner. It is not in line with my ideal of what a Guru should be like. But in coming to the course I have already shown that I am prepared to relinquish some of my preset ideas and to give him the benefit of the doubt. I need a Guru badly and perhaps I have been too idealistic and rigid in my views. Some of my preconceptions might be in need of adjustment.

There is time left before the afternoon session and I wander off to the beach to drink my juice.

Once back in the hall I overhear one of the devotees complaining to her friend that she cannot understand how people could be going to places like Chicken Licken and Nandos over lunch, and to do this while Guruji is here, and after everything he has told us this morning. I smile. Obviously there is great variation in the convictions and behaviour of devotees. Not everyone takes “the path” and its requirements as seriously as people like this complaining devotee and myself. Somehow it relaxes me a bit to hear that. My own extreme seriousness is so emotionally crippling.

The afternoon session starts. The Guru is absent. A loud overconfident teacher is giving some talk. I don’t relate to him at all. In fact I positively dislike him. His voice jars on my whole being. I don’t want his influence on me. I tell myself that my hypersensitivity is causing me to be unfair and too harsh in my judgement of him, but I can’t help it. Many people seem to find him entertaining and laugh at his jokes, but I sense no compassion or deep understanding in him. He comes across as head-centred, almost arrogant, a business manager type, someone used to ordering people around. I oscillate between the need to completely block him out and the desire to take in the information he conveys because it might be knowledge that would link me closer to the Guru.

“You two in the front – stop thinking about Cape Town!” The teacher is looking at people sitting close to the stage to my left, but from where I sit I cannot see which two. He laughs and asks: “Have you two been thinking about Cape Town?” Again I can’t see or hear any response. I wonder if the guy is faking it to frighten us into concentrating better. Alternatively, I wonder if this isn’t perhaps the Guru’s way of letting us know that He is present with us even in his physical absence. Perhaps the Guru himself has for a moment channelled some info to this guy about what’s in the minds of those two persons. I don’t really think the teacher of his own accord has the ability to read minds. He does not strike me as spiritually advanced, merely a big ego.

Nightmare! – he announces a laughing session. My entire body tenses up. Have we not already had one? Was that not enough? Why another one? And the Guru isn’t even here and I don’t feel safe.

This time we don’t do it sitting up with open eyes like we did this morning with the Guru. We have to lie on our backs, eyes closed. I also lie down and close my eyes but make absolutely no attempt to mimic laughter. I fear that the teachers will notice my non-cooperation and that they will come and order me to join in. I also fear that the collective hysteria in the hall might be strong enough to pull me in even though I am not making any attempt of my own accord. The session goes on for what feels like a very long eternity. Many people go into hysterical laughter, some for quite a while. This is a much more forceful session than the one we had with the Guru. I am in inner agony. I feel a terribly strong urge to leave the hall, but restrain myself, praying intensely to the Guru to end all of this quickly please. Finally it comes to an end and I relax my tensed-up body somewhat. I can breathe again. We have to lie still and relax, keeping our eyes closed.

No, no, no! – the teacher announces that we have to get ready to repeat the whole thing all over again. Extreme panic grips me. Is this going to last all afternoon? I do a quick check-up of my inner mental state: Will I be able to endure another session? The answer is a forceful NO. I slowly lift my head a little and open my eyes. The teachers on stage are talking among themselves. No one is looking towards me and all the inert bodies around me have their eyes closed. I quickly and silently get up, leaving my mat and stuff behind, and step as rapidly and quietly as possible over the outstretched bodies, my eyes fixed on the nearest hall door. I am terrified that the door might be guarded by a teacher. From the corner of my eye I see volunteers busy in the kitchen, but they have their backs towards me. I fear any moment a teacher is going to notice me and stop me. What will I do then? I don’t know. Then I’m at the hall door and out. There was no one at the door. The sun is shining. Relief floods me.

I cross the parking area full of cars. Off to my right I notice three or four people standing talking. One of them has white clothes on – must be a teacher or assistant. I pray they won’t notice me or query me. I find a spot to sit at the farthest end of the parking area. The cars hide me from sight. What now? I wish for the Guru to come. It would be perfect timing if he came right now. It’s the most plausible moment for seeing him privately. The masses are engaged inside and won’t bother us. I need him badly now and I pray to him to please come right this moment. I want stuff sorted out and clarified, and I need loving relief from all this torture.

I don’t know how long I sit there. One or two hours maybe. The Guru doesn’t come. Useless prayer.

Eventually I gather the courage to go close to the hall door again and check what they are doing. Everyone is sitting up. A film is going on. Some people are walking to the toilets and back. It’s a good moment to enter. I quickly slip in and find my place.

Later we do some group work. A few of the people in my group complain about not getting to see enough of Guruji. They had to make all kinds of special arrangements with their children and their jobs to be able to be at this course. They came for Guruji but now he is not here. They are not happy about this. I find it interesting to see that people don’t feel inhibited to question his absence openly. They are not in a state of complete unquestioning surrender. It’s not a case of just trusting that if he chooses to be absent it is because he knows best and it is for their own good. One side of me is glad to see that people are critical. It makes the atmosphere feel more open and light after the tyranny of the authoritarian teachers. Another side of me judges that the devotees are not in a very advanced state yet, not yet ready for complete surrender, also not yet deeply and intimately connected with the Guru.

I know he is probably busy seeing politicians and business people right now. At least I am a bit better off than these Durban devotees because I will also be able to see him on his Cape Town visit later in the week.

Some teacher is again addressing us from the stage. Suddenly her expression changes. Her face becomes a mixture of tearfulness and resentful anger. Her eyes are fixed on... could it be? ... on our group? Am I imagining it? She is saying how people are not appreciating Guruji and everything he is doing for us, how he is sacrificing such a lot for us. It seems like her gaze is fixed on the complainants from my group. They are sitting opposite me, a little away from me. We are near the middle of the hall. I am relieved that I don’t seem to be included in her gaze. But I feel tremendously sorry for them and wonder how they are feeling. If even I feel like a kind of accomplice merely for having been a silent member of a complaining group, then how must they be feeling who have done the actual active complaining?

More soberly, I reflect that if a few members of my group have been complaining then there must have been other groups with complainants as well. Perhaps most people are feeling dissatisfied with the Guru’s absence. The teacher might have overheard people’s complaints and it had upset her. Perhaps it is mere coincidence that she seems to be looking at our group. We are situated fairly centrally in the hall, after all.

On the other hand, like with the previous teacher, there is the possibility that the Guru is sending her some instantaneous info of what’s happening in our group. In that case I would actually feel very special for having ended up in this complaining group. It means he’s showing us he’s present and aware of us. He is remembering me. No need for any of us to feel guilty in any event. We all just very badly want him to be with us and that’s quite natural. The teacher seems to me immature and a bit vicious and uncompassionate for having caused such a scene. Could she not have gone and vented her tears and anger offstage instead of upsetting all of us? I feel somewhat irritated with her.

Afterwards none of us in the group discusses the incident, so I am not sure if they also experienced her as having looked at us specifically. Later I overhear fragments of a conversation between two people from another group: “If even these senior teachers like.... have these abilities... then...” The woman is referring to the teacher who "read" the minds of the two Capetonians. Her point seems to be that if even teachers have these mind reading abilities then the Guru’s powers must be very great indeed. No, I say to myself, she is wrong about the teachers. These teachers are too ordinary to possess such abilities on an ongoing basis. If there has been any mind reading by them then it was due to the Guru channelling to them for that instant only. It’s all to do with his powers only. I am not ready to grant anyone else any special powers or authority over me.

Another remark by a devotee perplexes me deeply. She is telling a friend that apparently the wife of someone quite high up in the organisation has committed suicide. That is why Guruji has not been here this afternoon. He was very upset and spoke with the guy on the phone for an hour or more.

How could the suicide have happened, I wonder. What went wrong? Was she a devotee like her husband or not? If she wasn’t a devotee, then why was that the case? What kept her away from the Guru and his grace? And if she was a devotee, then why the suicide? In either case, why couldn’t the Guru help her? Why couldn’t he give her happiness? Or didn’t he want to for some reason? Has he managed to be present with her even in the suicide, or did she feel completely deserted by him? What are the limits of his powers? Can he transform all one’s bad karma or not? When does he intervene to help and when not? The incident worries me. I have also been suicidal at various times in my life and I want to have the inner assurance that he can lift me out of such states and bring about inner transformation.

It is late afternoon, early evening. There is no formal course session at the moment. Some meetings of teachers are going on. Most people are leaving. Satsang will be a bit later. The Guru is here but veiled in darkness. He had come, entered the upstairs meeting room, drawn the blinds and switched off the light. The room is dark. He seems to be alone in there. The stairs are guarded.

He must be in darkness because he feels disturbed by the suicide. That would mean he does share in the suffering of others. I wonder if he is meditating or how he is handling it. I also wonder what is the nature of a Guru’s pain and attachment. How is it different from that of an ordinary human being? I contemplate various answers, but none seems conclusive.

I keep hanging around near the back of the half empty hall, constantly looking up at the dark room. I am trying to empathise with him, to share his pain and to understand him. I wonder if he is aware of my presence like I am of his. To be more inconspicuous I find a spot next to a side wall. I would like to sit in lotus for better concentration, but that would make me too noticeable. I give up the idea of lotus, feeling intense irritation at always having to consider what others might think. I sit down in a very informal and relaxed posture, leaning my back against the wall and keep watching the dark room while pretending not to watch. I am trying to communicate with him mentally and to make him feel my solicitous presence.

I wonder how other people could be leaving while the Guru is here. He might be hidden and inaccessible, but at least he is here, and there is always the chance he could come out any moment. And perhaps even a great Guru needs his devotees’ emotional support. Perhaps he specifically came here because he wanted to be close to his devotees and needed their presence in this dark hour. All those leaving are obviously not extremely devoted and not as desperate as I am to be tuned in to a Guru.

I am reminded of the agony Jesus went through the night before his arrest and crucifixion and how his disciples couldn’t keep awake with him. I consider how ironic it is that these biblical analogies are entering my mind now. Even as a small child I could not relate to Jesus. I couldn’t articulate it then, but it was because I sensed he was not a truly humble and loving person. And now I suddenly and inexplicably feel a little more favourably disposed towards Jesus and am drawing all these analogies with his crucifixion and what not.

Some people are arranging chairs for tonight’s satsang. I am reminded how I didn’t help to clear away the chairs after last night’s talks. It was late and I was too exhausted and had too much stuff to go and assimilate. I also still had to do the walk back to the backpackers and this part of Durban was probably not the safest at night. So I had skipped helping with the chairs, though feeling a bit guilty about it.

I now again feel torn between my sense of duty telling me I should be helping the volunteers (who are only a few) and my intense desire to focus all my energy on the Guru alone. I opt for the latter. This kind of inner conflict would become another pattern that would increasingly torment me in the coming months: A constant confusion about whether I should prioritise dutifulness (dull, boring and stifling as it may be) or my intense yearning for the Guru, a choice between being serviceable in his organisation or continuously seeking out opportunities for being passively receptive in his presence.

I would somehow be reminded of the story of Jesus’ anointment at Bethany – how Mary chose Jesus’ presence, while Martha thought service was more important. Despite a lot of inner anguish and confusion over the matter, I would fairly consistently choose the Guru’s presence over seva, hoping and praying that this was indeed what he also expected from me. I guess I couldn’t have been more wrong. It would become the cause of rising tension and conflict between his organisation and me, the eventual cause of me being thrown out. In the short term he was happy to toy around with me, heightening my infatuation with him to breaking-point, but in the long term he really wanted an organisational tool, for which I was emotionally too weak and ill-suited.

Satsang has started. Hindu devotional songs are being sung. They are new to me and I have to get used to the sound. Some of them are nice. I don’t sing along because I can’t make out the words. Also because I am self-conscious – I know how flat and out of tune my singing is.

The Guru is centre stage. There is no sign of him being upset or anything. He is his cheerful self. Perhaps he has shifted his mood away from the suicide for the sake of all of us. I ponder on the great responsibility he carries for so many people, both here and all over the world, how he has to be tuned in to all their emotions and sorrows and problems. I wonder if he also has other devotees who right this moment might be busy committing suicide or contemplating doing it. About which of his suicidal devotees does he become visibly upset and about which not? Is it merely determined by how close they are to him in the organisation? Does this then mean he feels more love and concern for some than for others?

While the people are singing the Guru is meditating. I am also meditating, but with open eyes – on Him. Suddenly his eyes become upturned, the whites of his eyeballs showing, his eyelids only semi-closed. This must be… Samadhi? I’m not sure what it is, but the sight of it affects me greatly. My entire body feels entranced, becomes alert, light, expanded. I feel great yearning and… am I imagining it? … a kind of subtle physical desire? It is certainly subtle, but it also seems to be unmistakeably physical. Is this what I should be feeling? Shouldn’t I rather be lifted into some kind of higher state beyond the body and beyond desire? I don’t give it much thought, though, I am too entranced. I just want to merge. I imagine dissolving my body into his, becoming him, feeling what he is feeling. I so desperately and intensely desire to lose myself completely in him. I am Him, I am Him, I am Him.

It lasts a short while and then he closes his eyes. I did not manage to enter any deep or unusual state of consciousness, but at an emotional level the effect on me was great. I am falling, falling, fallling headlong for Him.

He does not spend much time onstage. He leaves again for the upstairs meeting room. He will continue with darshan during satsang. Will my turn finally come?

Will You please see me now? PLEASE?

I am not occupied with satsang in front of me. I am occupied with the upstairs room behind me. Some cities’ names have been called out and those devotees are crowding the stairs and the balcony outside the meeting room. Groups are ushered in and out by the teachers/assistants in their white clothes. I am terribly afraid that I might miss hearing it when Cape Town’s name is called out. I can bear this agony for a while and then no longer. I leave satsang and make my way up the stairs, joining the small crowd on the balcony.

I hang around there for a long time, never hearing “Cape Town” announced. I wonder if I haven’t perhaps missed its turn earlier today. I feel distressed. Eventually I gather up all my courage and approach one of the white-clothed persons: “Hi, has Cape Town been in yet?” I’m feeling very hesitant and apologetic for even daring to ask. He’s a sturdy fellow, not very tall, but bigger than me anyway. He looks me up and down, sizing me up, before answering, “No”. His voice is far from friendly. I am at once relieved to hear his answer and distressed at his somewhat hostile reception. I have no strength for coping with any form of hostility, not even the slightest. But I somehow keep hanging around, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible and trying to get a glimpse of the Guru through the glass windows. At least once our eyes meet without me having any doubt that the look is intended for me. There are also a couple of other looks that may be mine or not.

The darshan session comes to an end. Cape Town still hasn’t got its turn. My heart sinks deep into my shoes. Why don’t You want to see me?

He comes out the door making his way through his adoring devotees, all eager to see him and be close to him, all desiring to have a quick word with him. I watch as he slowly walks down the first flight of stairs, greeting and joking with devotees lining the sides. Then I quickly reposition to the part of the balcony overlooking the final flight of stairs where he has to descend. He turns on the landing and starts descending the steps. Will You please look at me?

He looks at a person standing to my right, laughs and lifts his hand in blessing. Then he looks down and descends further. Are You then not going to look at me? – a soft pleading whisper arises from deep inside. The wall of the second floor staircase comes down to right before my forehead. I lean my forehead against it to help ground me in case he completely ignores me, in case I have to handle his rejection. He is on the middle step of the staircase, at the point closest to me. His head lifts and two large brown pools look up at me. They are completely dispassionate. I drown myself in them. Then it is over and gone, he is down the stairs.

It is the look that swings the scale. It was very close-up, very direct and in some way I felt claimed. He is very aware of my existence. I might not quite be hundred percent convinced yet that he is mine – for that I would need to experience some profound shift or connection within myself, and this has not yet happened. But I have definitely moved from a 50/50 position and am now hovering around the seventy-five percent conviction point. After all, I badly need a Guru and this one seems available and interested, albeit in a rather strangely dispassionate way.

I wonder why all the looks he gives me are so impersonal and dispassionate. He gives all kinds of other looks to other people, like the guy next to me who received the smiling blessing, but I get only dispassionate looks. Perhaps I need a lot of purification and dispassionate looks operate at a higher purifying level. Whatever. But I also need His Love and I hope he is not going to deny me it for much longer.

Once He is gone I help to clear the chairs so that the hall will be ready for tomorrow’s early morning yoga session. I am relieved that I am able to help this time and that it doesn’t involve any sacrifice as far as the Guru’s presence is concerned. Naturally my mind is on Him, not on the chairs. Once again I hardly sleep the night. I am constantly occupied with him. I am also terrified that I might oversleep and miss the early morning session.