Interview for The Saturday Evening Post

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Read interview on The Saturday Evening Post

In which our reporter learns about Transcendental Meditation, makes a voyage to India and meets the Maharishi, the Beatles, a Beach Boy and other notables in search of something.

Now when I try to remember what it was like, or when people stop me and demand a reasonable explanation, I think first of the sweet madness that was as much a part of the place as the incessant squalling of the crows. Nearly always there was bright sun, but now when I remember, I think of the one afternoon when there was mist rising from the Ganges, and it is through that mist that I still see them, moving serenely among the shesum trees with flowers in their hands. I see them smiling at me, as if from an immense distance, and it is their gentleness and the Maharishi’s laughter that make nonsense of all the reasonable explanations.

Geoffrey, of course, foresaw the difficulties, just as he foresaw everything else, and so did Anneliese, who told fortunes and liked to listen to the Beatles playing music on the roof of their bungalow. That last morning they gave me oranges and a necklace of marigolds, also a coin for the ferryman who would transfer me to the other side of the Ganges.

“They won’t believe you,” Geoffrey said. “Surely you must understand that?”

I said I did, and Anneliese smiled and pressed my hands, as if I’d said something especially wise. Whatever anybody said there seemed especially wise, and nobody could make any serious mistakes. Even Mia Farrow’s abrupt departure from the ashram could be explained, as could her wanderings in the south of India.

They wanted me to stay, partly because they thought I’d begun to attain God-consciousness and partly because, later that afternoon on the shore of the river, Donovan had promised to sing. At the time both reasons seemed entirely plausible. I can remember thinking how pleasant it would have been to follow the others into the garden, where the Maharishi sometimes would speak to us in a voice that was both high and musical, like the piping of a flute.

A month earlier, in New York, my reluctance would have seemed absurd. The Maharishi Mahesh Yogi I then knew only as a name in the newspapers, presumably another in the succession of Indian magi who have promised the riches of the spirit to generations grown bored with the clumsier profits of the dehumanized West.

[…]

Twenty minutes later Suresh ushered me into the Maharishi’s presence, but now when I try to reconstruct my first impression of the man I’d heard so much about and come so far to see, I can think of nothing startling or exceptional. No doubt I expected signs and wonders, and probably the expectation clouded my sight. I saw only a small, frail man, sitting cross-legged among cushions. His long hair, with streaks of gray in it, fell to his shoulders, and although he smiled and nodded at me. I noticed a vaguely troubled expression in his eyes. He had delicate hands and wore cheap, wooden sandals.

Next to him, also cross-legged among cushions, sat Walter Koch, a physicist from Santa Barbara, and Mike Love, the lead singer of the Beach Boys. Koch had gathered a plaid blanket around his shoulders, and Love wore an astrakhan hat.

The Maharishi welcomed me as a representative of the United States and said that if everybody in our two countries could be persuaded to meditate, then there would be peace in the world for 1,000 generations. His voice had a soft resonance in it, and he ended his sentences on a rising inflection. Koch questioned me as to my intentions, and when he had assured himself that they were honorable, he said to the Maharishi, “We’ll hit ’em all at once, Maharishi. TV… magazines… lectures… saturation.”

“Groovy,” said Mike Love.

We all laughed, for no apparent reason, and then, listening to the wind, the Maharishi said, also for no apparent reason. “When Ringo comes, the storm clears the passage… in the clear, Ringo comes.”

Again he laughed, and his laughter contained within it a quality of maniacal innocence. The conversation ended with the Maharishi expressing the polite hope that I could stay for a few days.

Koch led me back down the hill in the rain, explaining that things were somewhat unsettled at the moment and that I mustn’t misinterpret the Maharishi’s courtesy. A naive and worried man. Koch clearly had appointed himself liaison officer between the Maharishi and the great world. Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr were expected that evening, and he hoped to avoid a repetition of the events associated with the arrival of the other Beatles.

“It’s supposed to be a secluded course,” he said, “but it’s getting like Grand Central Station around here.” […]

[On Friday] The Beatles appeared toward the end of lunch and the beginning of tea. Dressed in romantic combinations of mod and Indian costumes, they came as a group, accompanied by their wives, also in vivid and trailing silks. They moved slowly, their heavy gold chains and pendants swinging solemnly against their chests, and the girls, all of whom had long, blonde hair, evoked images of maidens rescued from castles. Collectively they looked like characters from a strange and wonderful movie as yet unseen.

They sat in a row on one side of the table, and Paul McCartney said he’d had a dream. To Anneliese Braun, an elfin woman to whom everyone applied on such matters, he explained that in his dream he’d been trapped in a leaking submarine of indeterminate color. When all appeared lost, however, the submarine surfaced in a crowded London street.

Anneliese clapped her hands in the enthusiastic way she had, like a child seeing his first snowfall. How very nice, she said, wondering if McCartney understood. He smiled and said he didn’t think he quite got all of it.

“Why,” she said, ”… it’s the perfect meditation dream.”

The voyage in the submarine she interpreted as the descent toward pure consciousness through the vehicle of the mantra; the leaks represented anxiety, and the emergence in the street indicated a return to normal life, which was the purpose of all good meditation.

The other people present applauded, and in the ensuing silence at the far end of the table. I heard somebody say, “I’m sure it’s Wednesday, but they’re trying to tell me it’s Saturday.”