Going down

No word short of emaciated can describe my physical condition. I have nothing to hang onto except my bone-dry determination to follow my spiritual path and become an acharya. Meditation is extremely difficult; my mind wanders incessantly.

What occupies my mind more during meditation—my spiritual ideal or the thought of ice cream-choco-late-crunchy granola cereal- peanut butter-fresh fruits-milk shake-a swim in the sea-a clean quiet room-and a soft bed? Though I try not to think of such things, they bombard me whenever I close my eyes.

I’ve never been so thoroughly depressed in my entire life. The diarrhea has become amoebic dysentery, my eyes have turned yellow due to hepatitis, and my nose is continuously blocked. The severe pain in my belly does not allow me to stand up straight or walk properly.

Everyone else gets up at 4:30 each morning, but I get up at 3:30 to use the outhouse. This sometimes takes the full hour, and the effort leaves me soaked in perspiration. I’ve totally lost my sense of humor and as a result all the Indian trainees dislike me. There are only three other Westerners here—two Americans and one German.

They are also sick, but not as bad as I. They are able to relate to the Indians to some extent, but I talk only to them.

By and large, the Indian trainees believe that I am faking much of my sickness, so they are unsympathetic. The trainers, however, are concerned and send me to different doctors from time to time. None of the medicine helps.

Though I frequently fall asleep while studying, somehow I’ve learned enough of the course material to pass most of the tests of the first half of our syllabus.

Among all the trainees, my knowledge of Sanskrit was the worst.

Oddly enough, I was the only one to pass the Sanskrit exam this time. On the other hand, I thought that my understanding of Prout was better than anyone else’s, yet I was the only one to fail the Prout exam. The examiner, who visits once monthly, is a very senior Dada named Acharya Dasaratha. Obviously, he considers more than mere intellectual knowledge.

The second part of my training has begun. I have to learn the spiri-tual philosophy in depth, including the principles of many other major spiritual and religious orders of the world, memorize and be able to explain the meaning of about 100 Sanskrit shlokas (aphorisms) related to Ananda Marga spiritual philosophy, memorize by sound only about 400 other Sanskrit shlokas, and be able to demonstrate and explain all the important yoga postures. The most difficult part is the 400 Sanskrit shlokas because I have no idea of their meaning, and will surely find it perfectly boring. 20

An Indian brother, Amitabha, is in charge of shopping and running errands in the city. Twice he’s accompanied me to see doctors. This morning, I was leaning against the well, waiting for someone to draw water for me, when Amitabha approached me with a worried look.

“You’re very sick, brother,” he said.

“What’s new in that?” I said.

“I thought you were faking it. But last night it was raining so I had to sleep near the latrine. Baba, I think you stepped on me or over me fifteen or twenty times rushing to pass stool. Come on, you better lie down and I’ll bring another doctor.”

“Doctors are useless. Besides, my nightly visits to the latrine have been going on for a long time. You simply didn’t know about it. I told you and everyone else that my system’s broken, but no one believed me.”

A crucial lesson

Today will surely prove a red-letter day in my personal history.

Just before the morning class started, I was still in bed, completely depressed. On his way to class, the trainer, Dada Japananda, stopped to talk to me.

“I think you are very ill this morning, no?”

“Yeah,” I moaned.

“Is it impossible for you to attend class?” “Yeah.”

“Then don’t worry. Rest now, and we will arrange the doctor later.” In fact, with a bit of pain I could have gotten up and joined the class. So it was a lie. I simply didn’t want to do anything.

20 Soon after I completed my training, the number of shlokas that had to be memorized by Westerners was sharply decreased, and translations were added.

At the same time I felt guilty for not getting up. So I pulled myself near the classroom door. Lying on my stomach, unable to see into the room, I listened.

“You there,” the trainer said apparently to one of the brothers in the class. “Stand up. Tell what Sanskrit shloka you memorized since yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I did not leam any new shloka. " “What? Nonsense. Sit down. You.” he said to another trainee, “stand up. What shloka did you learn since yesterday.” “I’m sorry, sir. I also.”

“Stupid. Lazy fellow. Sit down. What about you?” he said to a third trainee.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“What is this! Are you all simply killing the time here? Anyone who learned any shloka since yesterday stand up now.”

Silence. Tension-filled, fear-laden silence. Surely no one stood up. Ten seconds passed. I leaned nearer the door, straining to catch what was happening.

Suddenly a huge banging sound startled and shocked me. Goose pimples rose in my skin. It was the fist of the trainer, which he had pounded a single time with great force on the classroom table.

“You worthless bloodsuckers! Worse than animals! At least animals make no claim to serving others. But you. you hypocrites, you pretend to have dedicated your lives to serving mankind! Bah! You rest nicely in this house, passing the time comfortably day by day, while your spiritual father lies suffering in a prison cell without even a fan or any other sort of normal comfort!

While He undergoes penance to demonstrate the ideal sacrifice for society, you all couldn’t care less, bound up in your personal likes and dislikes!

Hypocrites, parasites! I’ll have nothing to do with any of you. I won’t see your faces unless and until you change your ways!”

He stomped out of the classroom without noticing me still lying near the door.

I stood up immediately.

I have no right to be depressed, now or ever, I thought. How can I serve anyone, how can I expand myself, how can I do anything of any value if I am sad? From this moment I shall never again indulge in sorrow.

I picked up my towel and walked in an almost normal gait to the well. For the first time since my troubles began I did not care about the pain in my stomach. Ignoring my weakness, I pulled up a bucket of water—something which over the last few weeks I had believed I couldn’t do. 21