Rockstar Gone Wrong

OSHO (1931—1990) A self-styled godman for those who were all too human

Iremember Rajneesh clearly. Anyone who met him, talked to him, will never forget him. I remember his piercing eyes, like those of the ancient mariner in Coleridge’s poem, that grabbed you in its stare and refused to let go. The shining bald pate and the long white beard, carefully groomed to look impossibly careless, reached out wherever you looked. And the shimmering overcoat with giant sequins and rhinestones that hung loose on his frame as he sat surrounded by his disciples at his feet and those gorgeous looking girls dressed in red short skirts and purple halters with Uzis held firmly in their hands, pointing upwards as they womanned the gates of his commune hall. He was, as you would call it, a sight for the Gods.

A godman if ever there was one, a guru like none other. Absolutely, incredibly unforgettable. Etched in your mind forever. A shining image of a rockstar gone all wrong.

And when he spoke, he had you mesmerised. For he spoke of all the things that mattered to you. Sex. Religion. Freedom. Sex. Music. God. Sex. Faith. Freedom. Hope. Dreams. Sex. A world without wars. Zen. Liberation. Sex. For that hour or two there was nothing else that mattered.

Above the commune hall in the city of Rajneeshpuram, in what must be America’s bleakest state, Oregon, whirred the armoured choppers protecting a man who no one wanted to ever kill. But he was always paranoid. His armoured cars, all Rolls Royces, 300 of them—nothing less would do for him—queued up in many colours in an open air parking lot. I had dropped in to interview him without warning or prior appointment, and he had broken his maun vrat (vow of silence) to give me that interview.

On the way, Ma Anand Sheela, his second in command, some called her his sister, others, his secret lover, told me how the commune was built by the followers, every building, every home, even the giant lake, the commune hall, the massive kitchen. For us, work is worship. We build for Bhagwan. This city is his. She was tiny, dressed for the occasion. In bright red, pink and orange. Tiny shorts. Tightly tied blouse. Great cleavage, I noticed.

Her right index finger was casually twirling a shiny Beretta as we walked. Six big strapping bodyguards towered over her. Swiss, she whispered.

I remember him, yes, distinctly. The gentle voice. The occasional smile. He was playing to a crowd that adored him. I was the only one out of place, seeking a story, seeking insight into what made the man tick. I asked him straight questions. He gave me interesting if somewhat convoluted answers. But he was charming. He had nothing to hide, apart from his addiction to Valium, which he denied. It made him human. I felt he had no answers. But yes, he had many interesting questions. Like I did. Like his followers did.

That night I left Rajneeshpuram and drove out into the dark. I remember his last words: You and I are the same. We ask the same questions. We seek the same answers. But I have my people. They love me. Who do you have?

Before my interview appeared the following week, Ma Anand Sheela had decamped with $55 million from the ashram’s coffers. The commune began to break up. Rajneesh was jailed and finally deported. Twenty-one nations refused to allow him entry. Finally, he returned to India, to the very Pune he had once quit in a huff, a quieter man. The shimmering overcoat with sequins and rhinestones stayed in the empty city that had once housed an impossible dream. Of a generation that wanted to end all wars and simply make love.