The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Thirteen

Facecream didn’t wake until long after it was light. She guessed it must have been around nine. Feeling groggy and dull-headed, she lay on the bedroll in the dormitory where she was staying and went over the bizarre events of yesterday in her mind.

She remembered entering the darshan hall along with Puri and Mrs. Duggal and being served a cup of papaya juice by one of the senior devotees. It seemed to her that he had handed her one from the back of the tray, whereas the others had chosen their own.

She’d sat down in front of the stage and Maharaj Swami had entered and been hailed by his adoring followers.

It had been about then that Facecream had started to feel woozy.

At first she’d put it down to all the incense smoke and the heat and noise. But soon her legs had started to feel heavy and her senses had become strangely heightened. The background din of devotional singing and chanting had faded and Maharaj Swami’s words had boomed in her ears. One minute she’d felt chilled to the bone; the next, the temperature in the darshan hall had seemed unbearably hot.

Everything around her with bright colors – the canary yellow kurta of the woman in front of her, the saffron banners hanging on either side of the stage – had started to bleed and pulsate.

She’d realized with alarm that the papaya juice had been laced with some form of hallucinogen. But her fear had quickly given way to a pleasant weightlessness, a sense of blissful detachment. She’d imagined herself six years old again, playing in the front room of her grandfather’s big house in Kathmandu with her old Kumari doll.

Up on the stage, the circle of lights behind Maharaj Swa-mi’s head had begun to spin around faster and faster, until they seemed almost liquid. She’d felt suddenly overcome with emotion, unable to control the tears that had streamed down her face or the impulse to laugh out loud.

But gradually the effects of the hallucinogen had started to wear off. And as Facecream had regained control of her faculties, she’d had the presence of mind to turn events to her advantage.

Her dramatic exclamations and subsequent fainting had fooled even Puri, who had given her a couple of stinging slaps and called for a glass of water.

A crowd had gathered, straining, peering, and then Facecream had started babbling excitedly about how ‘a kind of awesome celestial light’ had ‘like, flooded out of Swami-ji’ and filled her with ‘such warmth and belonging’.

“I could feel this energy pulsing through me. It was like I was actually part of the cosmos.”

Maharaj Swami had invited her up onstage, where he had ‘interpreted’ her vision for his congregation.

“Queenie has been given a taste of the Universal Nectar,” he’d announced. “Through this experience she will come to understand her true potential and comprehend the ultimate reality. Her purpose, like all of your purposes, is to achieve moshka, unity with God.

“God is like the ocean,” he’d continued. “But like raindrops taken up by clouds, you have become separated from Him. For so long you have drifted through the sky. Sometimes feeling light, other times dark and angry. But always aimless, with no purpose. Never happy. Now it is time to complete your journey. It is a long, difficult one with many obstacles. You must be prepared to go through transitions and purify yourself like water falling on the mountain and passing through rock. Those who are lazy and become distracted by worldly things will get trapped in stagnant pools deep beneath the earth. Those who overcome their own egos will join tributaries and eventually great rivers. This way leads back to the all-embracing Ocean where you will experience everlasting love.”

“I had, like, no idea, Swami-ji!” Facecream had gushed. “Thank you! Thank you so much. You’ve opened my eyes!”

The devotional singing and chanting had struck up again. And then Maharaj Swami had made a final pronouncement before bringing the darshan to an end.

“From this day forth,” he’d declared, “you will be known as Mukti. It means ‘salvation’.”

Queenie had been reborn.

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.

“For this we will check all your marma points,” she explained. “There are one hundred and seven in all, and by examining them we can see what’s ailing you.”

“But I feel, like, absolutely fine,” protested Facecream.

“I’m sure,” replied the doctor with a smile, “but many of us are suffering from all kinds of conditions and don’t realize it. We are here to help. Now kindly undress and put on that smock hanging on the hook.”

“Undress? Like, get naked? No thanks.”

“Come now, there’s nothing to be afraid of. You can go behind that screen if you’d prefer.”

Facecream went silent. She genuinely didn’t want to have to undress. If she did, then the doctor would see the scars on her back. And then there would be questions – questions that pertained to her past that she had no intention of answering. Not for anyone.

“Is anything wrong?”

Puri’s operative tried to think of an excuse for not going through with the examination, but for once she faltered. “It’s just that…”

“Really, there’s nothing to worry about,” interrupted the doctor. “Now, be a good girl and do as I say. There are others waiting after you.”

Facecream slowly took off her clothes, put on the smock and then lay on the examination table.

“There we are. This won’t take long.”

The doctor poked and prodded and made notes on a clipboard. After a few minutes, she asked her patient to turn onto her front. Facecream complied, readying herself with a story about having fallen into a thorn patch at the age of seven. Even after all these years, the scars were prominent; there were four of them, and they ran in parallel lines from her right shoulder down to her left hip. The doctor said nothing about them.

“See, that wasn’t so painful, was it?” she said cheerily at the end of the examination.

Next, blood, urine and saliva samples were taken, and then Facecream was given a questionnaire to fill out. It included 150 multiple-choice questions, mostly pertaining to her relations with others and her perception of herself: “Would you say you are (a) happy; (b) sad; (c) miserable; (d) depressed?”

Facecream found herself answering honestly, curious to know how she would score. But when she returned the completed questionnaire, the doctor gave it only a cursory glance before laying it on her desk and then prescribing a number of Maharaj Swami-branded Ayurvedic ‘medicines’ to help cleanse her system of ‘bile and destructive toxins and help energy flow’.

“What about the test? When do I find out how I scored?”

“That’s not how it works – it’s not like a school examination,” answered the doctor kindly. “Be patient. Swami-ji will answer all your questions in time.”

After the appointment, Facecream found herself unchap-eroned and, despite the heat, went for a walk around the grounds. Near the hospital, she came across the outlet for a ventilation shaft half hidden behind some bushes. There was another, identical one near the darshan hall, and yet another on the far side of the residence hall. This suggested there was a network of rooms or passages underground. But where were the access points?

Before she could investigate any further, Bossy appeared and told her everyone was gathering again at the gazebo.

The rest of Facecream’s morning was spent doing yoga and repeating a mantra from the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad.

“It is designed to divert the mind from basic instinctual desires or material inclinations by focusing on a spiritual idea, such as ‘I am a manifestation of divine consciousness’,” explained the senior devotee who led the session.

Om Asato ma sat gamaya Tamaso ma jyotir gamaya Mrtyorma amrtam gamaya Om shanti shanti shanti (From ignorance, lead me to truth; From darkness, lead me to light; From death, lead me to immortality Om peace, peace, peace)

At lunch, Facecream helped serve the long line of poor and needy who flocked to the ashram every day for a free meal. Her task was to ladle yellow daal onto hundreds of plates.

After she herself had eaten, she decided to try to find the spot on the river where Manika Gill had supposedly killed herself.

When no one was looking, she slipped out the back of the tent and made her way toward the rear of the grounds where there were plenty of shade trees growing. It was here that she came across Damayanti sitting on her own on a bench.

“I’m going down to the river. Come for a walk,” said Facecream.

The devotee hesitated. “I… I don’t know.”

“But I want to see the river and I don’t know the way,” she pleaded. “I… I can’t.”

“Sure you can. Come on, it will be fun.”

“What about the others?”

“Let’s just go, the two of us,” said Facecream, making it sound like an exciting, radical idea.

Damayanti glanced around her. “We’d better be quick,” she said, and the two managed to slip away together.

A gate at the back of the grounds led to a well-worn path that wound beneath a canopy of Rudraksha trees along a sheer cliff thirty feet above the Ganges.

The river was still in its infancy here, untainted by the corrupting pollutants awaiting it along its fifteen-hundred-mile journey across the baking Indo-Gangetic plain, home to more than one-seventh of all humanity. Its virginal waters crashed and plunged over boulders, swirled around fallen tree trunks and spat at the rocks strewn along its banks.

Facecream and Damayanti passed brightly feathered kingfishers and a line of village women and girls who smelt of smoke and earth and carried bundles of kindling balanced on their heads. The locals stared at them, whispering and giggling amongst themselves, before heading higher up into the woods.

Soon the valley widened and a sandy beach appeared below them on the near bank, golden in the sunshine. A steep trail led down to it. Facecream suggested they go for a swim. But Damayanti looked suddenly terrified.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to go down there. Can we go back?”

“Of course we can. But tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s nothing. I just don’t like it here.”

Facecream feigned an epiphany. “This wasn’t where that girl… she drowned, didn’t she? God, that was terrible. I read about it in the papers.” Facecream realized that anyone remembering the old Queenie would have found this highly improbable – unless of course the news had found its way into the Indian edition of Hello!. “I can’t remember her name. What was it?”

“Manika,” said Damayanti.

“That’s right, Manika Gill. She was, like, so young and beautiful. I saw her picture. Did you know her?”

The younger woman nodded.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You poor sweetie.”

Facecream gave her a tender hug and the young woman began to cry on her shoulder.

“Manika didn’t even say good-bye,” she sobbed. “I don’t understand it. She didn’t say anything to anyone.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“That night. We all went to sleep. But in the morning she was gone.”

“You mean she was staying in your – our – dormitory?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God! That’s so unbelievable. So you must have really known her well. Was she unhappy? I’m just curious, guess.”

Damayanti didn’t answer. She appeared conflicted, as if there was something she wanted to say but dared not.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

They walked back up the path for a few minutes and then sat down on a smooth rock listening to the susurrus of the river below. Facecream started tossing little stones over the cliff edge, watching them splash into the water.

“Can I ask you something?” she said after a while. “Have you had lots of visions like the one I had yesterday?”

Damayanti nodded.

“Did Manika have any?”

She nodded again.

“A lot?”

Just then a male voice called out Damayanti’s name.

“That’s my father,” she said with alarm. “I’ve got to go.”

A middle-aged man appeared. He was wearing the garb of a devotee.

“There you are,” he said in a kindly yet firm voice. “I’ve been looking for you. Luckily someone thought they saw you coming down here.”

Casting a suspicious look at Facecream, he took his daughter by the hand and led her away.

Facecream returned to the residence hall and found her other roommates preparing to go to Haridwar to watch the evening aarti ceremony. She decided to join them.

Setting off in a local bus and singing devotional songs along the way, they reached the city at dusk. The population was emerging into the streets. Along the narrow, medieval lanes, the sounds of worship spilled out from countless temples. Small petrol generators rumbled. Beggars with amputated limbs wailed for alms and showed off their deformities to frightening effect. Hardware merchants sat amidst stacks of stainless steel tiffins, baltis and enormous cooking pots that looked like imports from Brobdingnag in Gullivers Travels.

Facecream’s group wove through the crowd, past holy cows, open sewers and dozens of stalls selling tacky religious memorabilia like om key rings, until they reached the Har ki Pauri ghat. Thousands had already gathered at the water’s edge – ordinary men and women who had traveled to the city to offer prayers of thanks to the river goddess Ganga; the odd bedraggled tourist; members of sects and cults, each in their own distinct outfit and occupying blocks of the steps like football fans in team stripes.

As darkness fell, diyas were lit and cast onto the water, floating off down the river – a miniature armada. Bells and gongs clattered. Speakers blared ‘Ganga Mantra’. Temple priests standing at the edge of the western bank lit oil lamps, circling them in the air, casting glimmering orange reflections in the water.

Sitting there, watching this timeless, bewitching spectacle, Facecream could understand the attraction life at the ashram held for her roommates. The camaraderie, the sense of a shared purpose, was no different here than it had been in the Maoist camps. But as she had learned to her cost in Nepal, such idealism was easily preyed upon.

She found herself wondering about Maharaj Swami – what kind of man was he really?

The nineteen-year-old Facecream, the one who had fled home to join the glorious Maoist cause, might well have perceived him as a Robin Hood type, robbing the rich to help the poor. But she had learned that such men were not motivated by generosity. Building wells, helping tsunami victims – that was all done to impress others, to build a saintly reputation. Power was the only thing that motivated such men. They were intoxicated by it.

Had Swami-ji come to believe his own lie?

Facecream hoped to get a better measure of him tomorrow evening. Before she had set out for Haridwar, word had been sent that she was to be given a private audience.