DRUGS, GUNS & SATSANGH

In the course of a fiery discussion on how so-called gurus milk unwary disciples of their money as well as precious intangibles, a friend mentioned that Papaji (a devotee of Ramana Maharshi who later became a guru in his own right) had bluntly prophesied that in the not-so-distant future, a lot of money would be made out of drugs, guns and satsangh.

Now drugs and guns have always been money-spinners for unscrupulous individuals who worship Mammon—but making money out of satsangh? And what does the word mean in the first place? Etymologically satsangh derives from two Sanskrit words: sat (ultimate truth) and sangha (the company of spiritual friends). It means a gathering of seekers whose primary interest is to awaken the divine within themselves—and who seek strength and support as they tread the tortuous yet amazing journey into inner space. Often gurus hold satsanghs for their followers, and today’s so-called gurus are known to charge big bucks for the privilege of meeting them in such a forum.

From “Consider the Source” to “Who Am I?”

I flew from south India to Manhattan in the summer of 1986 as a young bride with great expectations. Almost none of these hopes were met; as the saying goes, the Great Goddess laughs when you tell her your plans.

For one thing, I had yearned to study creative writing for film at New York University. My husband (now ex) had assured me I could. It didn’t take long for this exciting plan to be shot down by my mother-in-law, who wielded a powerfully negative influence on our life. I was urged to find a job instead, so I could get used to a new culture and lifestyle—and assured this was all for my own good. Once I found my feet, they both promised earnestly, I would be in a better position to really study.

Gnashing my teeth, I learned how to wear a suit and pumps so I could interview. Soon I had a job I did not deserve: I had been an advertising copywriter in south India but now I was Director of Media and Public Relations of a small but prosperous trade advertising agency located on downtown Broadway. Apparently the confident demeanor I had projected along with my excellent speaking English had impressed my new employer. Shell-shocked by the prospect of what lay ahead, I could see no way out of this predicament other than to brazen things out.

Rejection is God’s Protection…

Years ago in Manhattan I enjoyed attending a spiritual meeting where people of varied ethnic backgrounds, professions and ages congregated to remind themselves of the power of the Divine running through their often thorny lives.

One guy—a talented young actor who’d made it big in a Broadway show, and who had then been fired unceremoniously when its sponsor went bankrupt, had been breaking my heart with his stark honesty about the frightening situation into which he’d been hurled: on the strength of the lucrative role he’d just lost, he’d bought an expensive east side condo and married his girlfriend—who, to top it all, was now heavily pregnant.

Success, he confessed miserably, had gone to his head like pink champagne used to: anticipating a large income for an indefinite period of time—Broadway shows can run forever—he and his wife had extravagantly remodeled their new home and taken a slew of expensive mini vacations. Now unemployment and other benefits were barely keeping them afloat; when the baby arrived, things would get worse: if he could not pay his mortgage, he would lose his condo.

The blues had not kept him cowering at home. He’d already begun to audition for other roles—and been rejected time after time, even when it was clear his rivals could not hold a candle to his own thespian skills. Terror would flash across his face at the thought of being forced to move back to his conservative family in the Midwest—just so his girlfriend could have their child minus the stress of living in penury in the Big Apple. Dear God, he begged out loud, give me a break!