Implosion of a cult: egos, exiles, and confessionals
Followers of a woman living in suburban Auckland believe she is the reincarnation of an Indian deity, who can heal their ailments. But two former volunteers for the woman’s group, Kosmic Fusion, have described being subjected to gruelling ‘‘confession’’ s
She’s short, for a living god. Despite being, literally, five foot nothing, Kaveeta Bhavsaar is a far more imposing presence than her much taller, quieter husband, Sunil Kumar Porumamilla.
But then he can’t cure your ailments with a high-frequency light wave.
In their rented villa in Mission Bay, Auckland, which combines views of Rangitoto with water stains on the ceiling, smells of incense waft through the house as Bhavsaar explains how Kosmic Fusion, a spiritual movement she started seven years ago, was sabotaged from within by ‘‘malignant narcissist snakes’’.
The couple’s front room is devoted to an intricate shrine to Bhagwan Swaminarayan, a 19thcentury Hindu religious leader whose followers believed was a living incarnation of the god Krishna.
Bhavsaar, 47, believes she channels the long-dead Swaminarayan, and controls something she calls the Quantum Vortex Scalar Wave Proton Pulse – or QVSWPP – the ‘‘mother of all frequencies, energies and vibrations’’.
Believers pay money to attend workshops at which Bhavsaar supposedly uses the energy force to upgrade them to a ‘‘fifth dimensional grid’’ where they are cleared of electromagnetic radiation from mobile phones, computers and the like.
Bhavsaar has, says her adoring husband, ‘‘more knowledge than 1000 people put together. That’s her gift.’’
The couple have adopted the holy names Sree Maa and Shri Ji. Devotees are asked to refer to them as a single entity – Sree Maa Shri Ji – and believe they are the male and female reincarnations of Swaminarayan.
Bhavsaar rejects any suggestion she and Porumamilla are holding themselves up as gods. ‘‘I’m a non-doer, I’m the guardian,’’ she explains. ‘‘Guardian doesn’t mean I own it, it means I’m safekeeping it.’’
In 2011, Bhavsaar started Kosmic Fusion, which at its peak had 400 followers worldwide, and later attracted a core of mostly female devotees to live in an ashram at a luxury home in east Auckland. That was, until it all crumbled last year with the exile of two key lieutenants.
Legal letters have flown back and forth, with accusations of sabotage, theft of intellectual property and defamation.
The two exiles say Kosmic Fusion is a dangerous cult.
Experts agree, saying some of what went on amounts to psychological abuse.
The gurus say no-one was forced to do anything against their will and the women are making false allegations because they wanted to replace the leaders and take over the group.
It seems the implosion of a spiritual movement can be just as ugly as any relationship breakdown.
‘She removed that sadness’
‘‘She was very charismatic. Some people might call it arrogant, but she knew who she was, and she knew a lot.’’
German-born dance instructor Iphigenie Amoutsias was immediately impressed by Bhavsaar when they first met.
Bhavsaar had arrived at her Auckland dance studio in 2012 for lessons, but Amoutsias soon became the pupil.
Amoutsias had long practised Buddhism, but no longer felt it was working for her.
She began solo ‘‘healing’’ classes with Bhavsaar. ‘‘She removed that sadness inside . . . I really felt something was lifted.’’
Taiwan-born Joy Kuo found Kosmic Fusion online, then met the couple when they ran a stall at a mind, body and spirit exhibition in her hometown of Sydney in late 2012. She signed up for a workshop, believing it would help her spiritual growth.
Kuo, Amoutsias and other former Kosmic Fusion followers say Bhavsaar had an instant effect on their sense of wellbeing and they wanted to learn more.
When we meet, Bhavsaar explains that she teaches people how to use the energy wave – after that, they are on their own.
Former volunteer Renu Ryder, an Auckland marketing manager who says Kosmic Fusion has kept her sober after a long battle with alcoholism, describes it as ‘‘an energy that you feel that just kicks in. Some people get clarity, some people get their physical ailments improved, some feel very calm.’’
Inner cadre
While Kosmic Fusion claimed devotees around the world, who would tune into meditation sessions online, the core of the movement was a group of about 12 mostly Auckland-based people called Facilitators-in-Training.
Kuo and Amoutsias were in this inner cadre, with the idea that they would eventually be able to run their own sessions.
Intriguingly, the trainees were allowed to organise sessions where Bhavsaar wasn’t physically present, or even linked online to the room, but could supposedly channel the energy wave remotely.
Trainees would pay for oneon-one sessions, or ‘‘discourses’’, with Bhavsaar and attend a series of residential courses, costing hundreds of dollars.
Many were given Hindu names chosen by Bhavsaar; Amoutsias was known as Meera and Kuo as Komal.
As they became more devoted, some of them proposed forming an ashram – or shared house – with the gurus.
Bhavsaar and Porumamilla are adamant the ashram was not their idea, but in early 2016 they happily moved into the luxurious rented home, complete with pool and triple garage.
Porumamilla would leave each day for his job as an IT contractor and Bhavsaar would stay home, giving discourses.
According to Kuo and Amoutsias, the guru would be ferried to hair, beauty and massage appointments, often paid for by the trainees.
Documents written by other members show they were expected to cook and clean at Bhavsaar’s direction.
With hours of daily instruction and worship, life in the ashram could be hard, says Amoutsias. She would often get just four or five hours’ sleep.
Then, at a retreat in Taupo¯ in June 2016 came a major development. Amoutsias and
‘‘She was very charismatic. Some people might call it arrogant, but she knew who she was, and she knew a lot.’’
Kuo say their guru left the meeting room in which everyone was gathered, then returned and announced she was the reincarnation of Swaminarayan.
Bhavsaar says this event has been misinterpreted: she was simply ‘‘introducing’’ herself as the guardian of Swaminarayan’s power: ‘‘Introducing yourself is not saying ‘I am God’.’’
But Amoutsias felt uncomfortable. She’d been assured that this was not a religious movement. ‘‘I was in shock. The others were emotional but they all seemed fine with it, some of them were crying. I felt the odd one out.’’
Kuo says she was told to gaze at photos of the couple and worship them as the male and female aspects of Swaminarayan. ‘‘I just took it – I didn’t think too much,’’ she says. ‘‘I was trusting what they were teaching us was on the right path.’’
Ritu Bhargava, who owns a hair extension salon in Auckland and remains devoted to the gurus, was at the retreat and understood that the couple were reincarnations of Swaminarayan. ‘‘That completely made sense to me,’’ she says. ‘‘I had a feeling, because Sree Maa Shri Ji is not a normal person.’’
Renu Ryder says: ‘‘They are who they say they are. They are an incarnation of the Absolute. I know for a non-believer it might be hard to believe. But I know it to be true.’’
The slow reveal
Mark Vrankovich, the executive director of cult monitoring organisation Cultwatch, says all such groups adopt the tactic of the slow reveal of their true nature. It starts with a ‘‘PR front that seems normal’’, then once the recruit is heavily invested they show their hand.
‘‘How would you feel if I told you I was a God? So it is hidden, and a secret that’s revealed and the reason is that you would run – until they’ve got their hooks into you.’’
One key element of life inside the ashram, say Kuo and Amoutsias, was the use of confessional, or ‘‘coming clean’’ sessions. For up to 10 hours, they would confess their sins, and would be berated by Bhavsaar in front of a live audience of fellow facilitators in training and others watching online.
They would be recorded – one of Amoutsias’ confessions has been posted on the Kosmic Fusion website.
At first, Amoutsias says she thought the sessions were revealing character flaws she couldn’t see. ‘‘But they were mental torture, really,’’ she says.
In one, she says, Bhavsaar predicted she would one day commit suicide, a claim Bhavsaar strongly denies.
Most of those confessing appear to have been diagnosed as ‘‘covert narcissists’’ and the sessions were an opportunity to ‘‘cleanse’’ themselves.
Amoutsias says the person in the spotlight would have to kneel or stand while they were criticised, and some were spat on or struck on the face.
Bhavsaar and Porumamilla strongly deny this, and produced statements by several volunteers who denied anyone was ever abused or assaulted.
One writes: ‘‘Quite frankly, have never seen such ridiculous claims in my entire life. I am very sorry Sree Maa Shri Ji have to even read such questions.’’
One of the first to undergo the confessional sessions was Bhargava, the hair salon owner.
She says it helped her realise she is a ‘‘full-blown covert narcissist’’ and had falsely accused her ex-partner of abuse.
‘‘Sree Maa Shri Ji were the only ones who showed me what is right – I was telling a story from a damsel in distress, a victim. They helped me to see where I was lying.’’
Bhargava claims the exiled members are ‘‘malignant narcissists’’ who wanted to destroy Kosmic Fusion.
Kuo says her experience of the confessionals began with the interrogations of Bhargava. ‘‘We were told . . . it was to help her come clean: you need to reveal your darkness so you can get rid of it and the rest of the students are helping her in that process.’’
She says Bhargava was the focus for two months, before they moved on to someone else.
Mid-way through 2017, Kuo was invited to come to Auckland from Sydney to stay in the ashram, and somehow became the new target.
She was shocked: she felt she’d always been highly regarded in the organisation.
Instead, she faced threats of police and legal action for her supposed transgressions, including keeping copies of Kosmic Fusion materials.
‘‘They took away my mobile, my passport, my laptop.’’
Over three days, she says she had to kneel, without food, while she was questioned by her guru. She says her hair was pulled and she was slapped and hit. She was petrified.
Bhavsaar says these allegations are untrue but Kuo insists Bhavsaar compared herself to an immigration officer.
‘‘You need her stamp to go to Akshardham – like heaven.
‘‘She says she can send me to hell, or make me reincarnated as an animal. I was so scared, because at the time I still believed she had this ability to do something on me – to [decide] my destiny.’’
Shedding the ego
Sydney-based former member Sheree McRae says she witnessed some confessionals, which were based on members voluntarily writing letters about their faults.
She didn’t want to take part, and says she wasn’t pressured to.
Some were an opportunity for people to get things off their chest, she says, others were ‘‘full on . . . a bit awkward’’.
Renu Ryder says the sessions were about sharing with the group and shedding the ego. ‘‘It can be uncomfortable – but so can anything worthwhile, like going to the gym . . . peeling back the layers can sometimes be pretty painful.’’
Bhavsaar describes the sessions as ‘‘reflections’’ rather than confessions. ‘‘You think it’s not my right to ask someone [if they are sabotaging the ashram]?’’
Asked why the sessions lasted so long, she says: ‘‘When someone is wasting your time and not even coming clean, whose time is getting wasted, mine or theirs?’’
She compares the process to a criminal trial. ‘‘And a person can come clean, like in a court.’’
Peter Lineham, professor of religious history at Massey University, says the confessional is an established technique.
A public confession – often even of invented sins – maintains loyalty and undermines any sense of privacy. ‘‘It makes it, therefore, a very powerful tool in reshaping personality.’’
Tomorrow: Out from under the ‘Quantum Vortex Scalar Wave Proton Pulse’.