Nose noise and tasty talks

Last night I spoke to one of the trainers.

“Dadaji, my nose has been heavily blocked with mucus for several days now. It’s almost impossible for me to practice pranayama (alternate-nostril breathing meditation). What should I do?”

“You say almost impossible?”

“Yes.”

“That means it’s possible. So you should continue the pranayama regularly. Rather, the pranayama that you’ve been doing twice daily should from now be increased to four times daily.”

Today I followed his directive. Not only does the pranayama take me much longer than anyone else, and cause my head to spin, but the sound of my nose is extremely loud, and disturbs the other trainees during meditation. 1 am thus compelled to practice meditation in the adjacent room.

17 M uch later I came to know from Dadas that hot spices should be strictly avoided by the patient of diarrhea. The chilies were the worst thing I could have consumed. Of course they did succeed in cleaning me out—perhaps one or two thousand times. If I had eaten rice I might have been able to regain some sort of equilibrium. 18 Prout is an acronym which stands for the “Progressive Utilization Theory”. Propounded by Baba in 1959, Prout is a system which provides for the rational development and distribution of all of society’s material and mental resources. It is radically different from either capitalism or communism. See the appendix for an introduction to Prout.

My nose may remain blocked until I get out of here. The psychosocial gap separating me from the trainees has now been increased by a physical gap.

During lunch we were served the usual drumsticks, indigestible beans and thick, partially cooked flat breads. I sighed and murmured, “Yuck. Again.”

“You think it’s only tough for you.” said the brother sitting next to me. “Do you imagine that this sort of food and life style is normal for the rest of us? In my family home we had thin delicate breads fried in purified butter every day, vegetable dishes of many tasty kinds, fruits, yoghurt, hot milk, and various milk sweets. You think you’re so special.”

“No! I never said anything like that.”

But he had already turned away to talk with another person.

A trainee makes trouble

One of the Indian trainees, Santosh, is always happy and affectionate. Though most of the other brothers don’t speak to me, he often does. He plays at reading the lines in our hands, and likes to discuss our personal lives. Nevertheless I don’t like him much.

This afternoon we were all performing group meditation when yelling and scuffling suddenly erupted from the corridor. I jumped up to see two trainees forcefully slapping Santosh, while one of the trainers looked on. Santosh was screaming in Hindi, “Please let me go! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

I was shocked. Running forward, I grabbed the two trainees and tried to push them away.

The trainer touched me on the arm.

“Please don’t disturb now,” he said.

“But, how dare they? He’s our brother!” I said.

He pointed at an open suitcase on the floor, saying, “Do you recognize any of the papers there?”

As the beating and yelling continued, I looked at the suitcase which was full of notebooks, letters, envelopes and crumpled papers of all sorts. Suddenly I saw one crumpled envelope addressed to me. It was a letter from home which I had received, read and thrown away. I became even more confused and looked at the trainer.

“Santosh is a spy from the CBI (Central Bureau of Investigation),” he said. “Over the last few days he’s made a nice collection of interesting documents, including several diaries stolen from my office desk. Fortunately we discovered the matter just as he was about to go out with the suitcase.”

“But he’s a trainee, and wants to become an acharya. How could…?”

“Things are not always as they seem to be.”

“Anyway what can the CBI gain from our documents?”

“Nothing. We really have nothing to hide. But the CBI is aching to find something they can use to create trouble for us.”

The trainer catches my vibes

Accompanied by an Indian trainee, I went to the market area to change some of my travelers’ checks into rupees so I could make a donation to the training center. It was understood that I wouldn’t spend any of the money except for the cost of the rickshaw. But when we passed a fruit stall we could not restrain ourselves from enjoying a few bananas. Though most people would consider this of no consequence, for me it was tantamount to stealing, and I immediately felt guilty.

When we returned to the center the trainees were eating lunch, the usual tasteless gook. Looking at their pitiful condition, I felt sheepish, to say the least. I submitted the account to one of the trainers, Dada N, and covered up the expense for the bananas. After that I felt so glum that I could not join the meal, and walked around the building in a tortured state of mind for half an hour.

Finally I couldn’t take it any longer. I knocked at the door of the trainer who had not come out since I spoke to him.

“Yes. Come in.”

“Sir, I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

“What is it, my boy?”

“I have a mistake to admit, and I want to ask for punishment.” “Bananas,

huh?” “What! How could…?''

He only looked at me calmly, with a tinge of a smile.

“Anyway, Dadaji, I feel very bad.” I half-heartedly added, “Can you please give me punishment?” I expected him to direct me to fast or something similar.

“I think you’ve had enough punishment already during the last half hour. Better that you just return to your studies.”

Going out, I wondered how the trainer could know. I asked the other trainee if he had mentioned our indulgence to anyone.

“Of course not,” he answered nonchalantly. “You think I’m an idiot?”

What for?

The same trainer called me into his office today. “Sit

down, my boy.”

I sat on a chair facing him. With his eyes half closed, he entered a semi¬ trance condition, pointed his two index fingers at me, and began rotating them in small circles. I felt a bit uncomfortable.

“There’s some problem with your knees, isn’t it?” he said in a distant voice. I nodded.

“Perhaps you had an accident or major operation on them when you were young?” He must have been seeing the colored auras around my knees since I was wearing pants as always.

“Yes. When I was sixteen years old a crazy doctor operated on my knees declaring that he would correct my bow-leggedness.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “You see.” He became silent. I felt even more uncomfortable.

“Alright, you can go now.”

I’ve never liked the blatant exhibition of occult power. There’s nothing miraculous in it, and usually it is misused merely to impress oth-

19 In 1974. I received a letter from a friend in India mentioning that this Dada left his acharyaship. My friend wrote: “I was shocked, considering that Dada N wrote the first two comprehensive books on Prout, and appeared so highly developed. But several workers told me that Dada N’sloss of confidence was surely a direct result of the misutilization of his personally gained powers. He remains a Margi, and intends to marry. It’s a pity. Though I respect the family path as spiritually equal to the way of the ren undate, for Dada N it is clearly unsuitable.

I wonder if he may remain in confusion for many years to come.”