Tarquin Hall - The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Facecream took a shower and changed into the white kurta and sarong that were now an integral part of her new identity as a dedicated, impressionable disciple. She forwent makeup, applied a red bindi to her forehead and pulled her long hair back into a discreet ponytail. The only reminder of the old Queenie – iPods, mobile phones and Jimmy Choos being banned in the ashram – was her Raspberry Rapture nail varnish.

She knew from the induction briefing she had been given yesterday evening that her roommates – all young Indian women – were attending the yoga and meditation sessions held every morning. Facecream decided to go and walk around the grounds in order to get a better lay of the land. But she had forgotten that silence was observed throughout the ashram until ten o’clock. And as she greeted some of her fellow devotees on the stairs with a ‘namashkar’, they all put their index fingers to their lips and frowned.

Making her way out through the front doors of the residence hall, stunned momentarily by the bright sunshine and the sticky heat, she came face-to-face with one of her roommates. A bossy young woman, she gave Facecream a disapproving look, took her by the hand and led her over to the gazebo.

There, amidst pin-drop silence, some two hundred devotees sat meditating.

Facecream found a place at the back, seated herself on one of the rush mats and closed her eyes.

Thirty minutes of meditation was part of her usual daily constitution, and after all the clamor of yesterday, she welcomed the opportunity to declutter and refresh her mind.

She could not help but wonder, though, whether Bossy had been standing outside the residence hall waiting for her.

After the session was over, the devotees all made their way to the food hall, which was actually a big tent, and Facecream joined her roommates for a midmorning snack of curd mixed with chopped papaya, apple, pomegranate and a little spicy masala.

Conversation now being permitted, they all chatted away, introducing one another and telling their individual stories, and the mechanics of the group soon became clear.

By far the most assertive personality was Bossy, who was from Mumbai and had been living at the ashram for more than a year. Anorexic and neurotic, she spoke about Maharaj Swami as if no one else understood him as well as she did.

“You’re not the only one to have been given a vision,” she told Facecream. “Others have been chosen, including myself and Damayanti.” She was referring to another member of the group, a nervous, pretty twenty-five-year-old. “Swami-ji moves in mysterious ways. At times he will provoke a change in someone by giving them a tiny glimpse of the ultimate reality so that others can observe their reaction and behavior and witness the all-dominating ego at work. Not everything is always as it seems.”

Facecream thought it wise to listen attentively to what she had to say, at least for now, and occasionally mouthed platitudes like “Wow, that’s so interesting!”

But no one else could get a word in edgewise and everyone seemed relieved when Bossy stood to go. As the spokesperson for Maharaj Swami’s Committee for Poverty Reduction, she had important work to attend to.

“Come,” Bossy told another of the roommates, a twenty-two-year-old. “You’ve got yoga in ten minutes. You shouldn’t be late.”

The younger woman hadn’t finished her breakfast but obediently put down her bowl and said: “You’re right, didi, I should get going,” and the two left together.

The three remaining girls were Priyanka, Meghna and Damayanti.

Although not as assertive as Bossy, they, too, spoke of little else but Maharaj Swami and his teachings and their own spiritual journeys.

“I searched for so long for a true master,” said Meghna, a southerner from Mangalore. “I tried them all: Sai, Sadhguru, Amma, Sri Sri. So many. Unlike the others, Swami-ji wasn’t so distant or boring. When I met him for the first time it was like I got an electric shock. I swear my hair stood on end. I felt totally inconsequential, this tiny speck in the universe, and yet I knew that God had brought me to his true representative.”

Priyanka claimed that as a child her father had often beat her. “Then a kindly man started appearing in my dreams,” she said. “I didn’t know it was Swami-ji because I didn’t recognize him. He told me that he would protect me and that my father was in pain and that I should forgive him. Then one day I saw a picture of Swami-ji in a magazine and I recognized him and so I came here. Later on, I persuaded my father to join me, and Swami-ji agreed to see him. He had a private audience. Apparently before Swami-ji said one word, Papa broke down in tears. Swami-ji helped him get rid of all of his negative energy and anger. Nowadays he’s a completely changed person.”

“Some people are saying, like, Swami-ji called on the goddess Kali to kill that guy, you know that old man in Delhi who was preaching against him. You think that’s true?” asked Facecream.

“Nothing would surprise me. He’s very powerful,” answered Priyanka.

“No way! Swami-ji would never hurt anyone,” said Meghna.

Damayanti, whose parents were also both devotees and along with their daughter often stayed in the ashram for weeks on end, had said little thus far. But now in a quiet voice she asked Facecream what had brought her to the ashram.

“It wasn’t my choice,” she answered. “This is, like, the last place I thought I wanted to be. My pa made me come. But now I’m really glad he did. I mean, I’ve never experienced anything like it. It’s so awesome. It makes me feel so, like, in touch with myself, you know?”

“There is a shloka in the Bhagavad Gita that says, ‘The guru appears when the disciple is ready’,” said Priyanka.

“You’re very lucky. Few are blessed with so much attention as Swami-ji bestowed upon you,” said Meghna with a smile that let slip a hidden jealousy.

Priyanka led Facecream over to the Abode of Health, the two-hundred-bed hospital Maharaj Swami had constructed with donations from various Indian billionaires, including the reclusive ‘Scooter Raja’, R.K. Roy, whose company Roy Motors controlled 64 percent of India’s motorbike business.

The façade of the hospital was built of pink Dholpur stone with life-size elephants holding up the arch of the entrance. Inside, everything was shiny and new and the departments were all equipped with the latest state-of-the-art diagnostic machines, like MRIs and ultrasound cardiology systems. But no surgery was available; all existing conditions were treated ‘naturally’.

On their way to the walk-in clinic, where Facecream was due to undergo a health check, they passed a laboratory sealed behind three-inch-thick glass panels, where technicians in white coats and face masks peered into microscopes and petri dishes.

“Western drug companies have sent their spies here to try to discover Swami-ji’s secrets,” said Priyanka, pointing out the security cameras in the corridor outside the laboratory.

Facecream wanted to say: “Surely if Maharaj Swami is at one with the universe and knows and sees everything, there’s no need for cameras!” But she held her tongue, smiled innocently and said, “This place is awesome. Can anyone get, like, treatment here?”

“People come from all over India with every kind of complaint. And if you can’t afford to pay, then it’s all free.”

“That’s amazing!”

“That is Swami-ji’s way. He is here to help others. He builds wells, irrigation systems, schools. When the tsunami happened, he helped hundreds of fishermen rebuild their lives.”

At the clinic, a pleasant Ayurvedic lady doctor explained that all devotees coming to stay at the ashram underwent a mandatory examination.