Author's Note (2003 edition)
This work is based on my experiences in India during the 1970's, and is a revision of an earlier book published in 1988. For various reasons, in that first book I attempted to make my story a work of fiction. I even resorted to using a different name, Helena Pearson, for the main character. Regardless, readers and reviewers read it as a memoir.
Now that many of those things I first wrote about have been brought out into the open, and there is much more interest in them, I have decided that it is time to present this story as the truth that it is and Helena as myself.
This revised and amended account of my experiences includes an updated epilogue. As with the first edition, the names of some of the people I met have been changed to protect the privacy of these individuals.
Mary Garden
Blurb
In 1973, Mary Garden abandoned a promising academic career to spend seven years in India at the feet of such gurus as Rajneesh, Sathya Sai Baba and an enigmatic yogi in the Himalayan jungle - Swami Balyogi Premvarni. The Serpent Rising is her own story of the heaven and hell she experienced as she fell under the spell of self-appointed 'god-men'.
This book starts out looking like an act of self-indulgence but it quickly becomes impossible to put down. It is a compelling and shaking account of an extraordinary journey that takes the heroine beyond the superficial religious manipulators of contemporary India to a thoroughly bizarre and sinister situation. It is best described as a spiritual thriller. Dr Martin Duwell, The University of Queensland.
There is no other book that I know of which reveals the addictive nature of the search for spiritual enlightenment better than this one. While it does not seek to be sensational, it is so, by virtue of its subject matter and the courageous honesty of its author. Mary Garden's book may just stop you from falling into that vortex of group hysteria where discernment and commonsense are discarded in favour of dubious mysticism. Sue Gough, Courier Mail.
Epilogue
At the time of writing Swamiji (Swami Balyogi Premvarni) is still alive and unfortunately still up to his old tricks. His web site describes him as a spiritual guide and Yoga expert: 'The gems of wisdom and love which radiate from his heart deeply uplift the spirits of those who experience the blessings of his presence'. His mission is stated as: 'Awakening Super consciousness in spiritual aspirants'. Thanks to the Internet, several seekers who have visited the Himalayan Hill in recent years have contacted me. All have been puzzled, confused and disturbed by what they experienced and all have the same question: is it him or me? Was he 'testing me' or is he downright abusive?
The guru-disciple relationship is probably the most authoritarian in its demand for total surrender and obedience and hence potentially the most destructive of all relationships. And so, far from achieving the freedom and 'enlightenment' that many of us wannabe spiritual pioneers of the 70's went looking for (and indeed were promised), we experienced mental imprisonment and confusion. Those of us who fell for flawed gurus, unwittingly entered a door into a world called derangement, which we regarded as heaven but which in fact was a form of hell. We were seduced by yogis and swamis telling us what we wanted to hear: that we were special and that they were God-incarnate. Our need was our downfall. In the final analysis the authority of the guru is bestowed on him by the disciple!
It is now thirty years since I first set foot in India and felt at last I had come home. From time to time in my now busy life, I look back on those years when my heart was captured and my mind imprisoned and it seems more and more like a strange dream or play in which I once participated. I even have difficulty in recognising myself as the main character. Yet despite its strangeness, this is also the story of thousands of others who have gone searching for something better, some of whom have still not woken up. I am grateful that I did manage to wake up, escaped, and survived to tell the tale.
Excerpt from Chapter 6 : pp 128-131
Life would have been idyllic for me if Swamiji and I had just played at being Radha and Krishna. During these first five months, the sexual aspect of our relationship did not disturb me. But as well as being my beloved, my Krishna (the stealer of the hearts of the gopis), Swamiji was also the teacher, Rudra as he called it - the destructive aspect of Shiva. This was the facet of Swamiji's personality that he seemed to be able to turn on and off at will. It scared me and I found it very difficult to accept and understand.
At these times dreadful expressions crossed his face. His eyes would widen and bulge outwards and the whites would blaze with red. His voice would also change and reach a high pitch, even a screech. I had never before witnessed anything like it. It was as if he had turned into a madman, if not a demon. It was terrifying to me, especially in the beginning.
Sometimes he would grab a long stick that was kept for chasing away monkeys or wild animals and he would beat one of the boys across the legs, on their buttocks or even across their backs. He would scream at them and call them kudaboxes. He often told them they were sleeping and he had to beat them to wake them up.
The kitchen was the place where Swamiji most often became Rudra. He was like a Zen master where food preparation was concerned. Everything had to be done with total attention and rhythm. If he caught anyone being clumsy or inattentive, then the culprit would be sent out with a slap on the face, a tug on the ear and a tirade of abusive words to accompany them.
It was in or near the kitchen that suddenly aspirants, especially the boys, would be overcome with a craving for food. But Swamiji insisted that this craving was not hunger but greed. He claimed that for centuries yogis in the upper reaches of the Himalayas have lived for months, even years, on prana alone. Hence it was just conditioning and habit that produced the sensation of hunger in the stomach. We were taught that we simply did not need to eat as much as we thought we did. Hunger (along with other natural desires) was an enemy we had to fight and conquer.
The boys were obviously confused about Swamiji's distinction between hunger and greed and this reflected in their actions around the kitchen. They would drop buckets of water, allow the buffalo milk to boil over or let the fire go out. I was astonished to see how their faces changed when they worked near the kitchen and I tried to ignore the slightly crazed looks that came over them. Their eyes would widen and dart everywhere. Also they would begin to move here and there without finishing one task at a time. When they became like this, Swamiji would send them away usually to the back of the Kriya Room or even to the toilets where he said they belonged. Occasionally he would do this to one of us girls but we were sneakier and also got away with more things generally around Swamiji. We became skilled at sneaking food into our mouths behind Swamiji's back without becoming flustered or confused.
Sometimes I heard the boys arguing in the Kriya Room over whose turn it was to go to the post office to fetch the mail or to buy provisions from the market place. They used these journeys as an excuse to buy sweets and other food, which they would then try and sneak back into the ashram. Swamiji would regularly inspect their bags and backpacks and would even look carefully though the shelves in the Kriya Room. Often he found foods they had hidden and would chuck them down one of the toilets. He would scream out that they were pigs. Sometimes he would pull their hair or shake them. Once he dragged Angus into one of the water tanks, pushed his head under the water and held it down for a few seconds. At first I was appalled by such acts and would rush to intervene. This would infuriate Swamiji and even the boys didn't appreciate it. They seldom protested against these acts of violence and seemed to enjoy them. They believed they were benefiting spiritually from Swamiji's wrath - the divine wrath of Rudra. It was sickening to hear them apologising or pleading forgiveness. Occasionally I noticed Saraswati or one of the others watching and smirking while Swamiji gave one of his 'lessons' (as he called them). The experience of observing fellow disciples being woken up seemed to have the effect of raising their own spirits.
For my part, however, at least in the early days, all this made me want to run away. At least once a week I would rush back to the Shakti Kutir and pack my possessions. I would feel frantic and become convinced that Swamiji was a madman and dangerous. He always sensed when I was packing my things and he would appear with a smile. His Rudra had been switched off and he would revert to being my beloved Lord Krishna. My fear would vanish. And then I would feel foolish and realise he was in complete control after all. He just assumed Rudra to teach us lessons. The problem was in me alone - I was lacking in faith and needed to surrender more to him.
It was many months before he even raised his voice at me. He used to say, 'Little mouse would freak out if I give her a lesson. She will run away and we will never see her again'. He was probably right.
Excerpt from Chapter 7 : pp141-146
Despite the growing sense of timelessness that life at the ashram induced, certain problems related to time began to occupy my mind. There was always the problem of money, for example. By November, after five months here, I had only 1000 rupees left. However, there was still the money in New Zealand that the insurance company had sent to my mother. I estimated that this money could last me a few more years in India as well as provide an airfare home in an emergency. I wrote to my mother asking her to send me over a few hundred dollars in the form of a bank draft to one of the major Indian banks in New Delhi. Within weeks a message was received from the bank to say they were holding the draft for me. Since there was no telephone at the ashram, I went down to Swargashram Office and asked the postmaster to telephone the bank to say I would be coming in a few days to collect my money.
But when I told Swamiji I needed to go down to Delhi, he shook his head and, when he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically shrill, as if my words had hurt him in some way. 'Money's not important here. You can stay here forever if you like. This is your real home. Leave the money in Delhi for a while. Everyone comes here and wants to leave straight away. They use any excuse and go running back into the world again to get covered in dreams. They forget their guru who tried so hard to wake them up. Such is the pull of samsara. Do you want to end up like Mariana? At the bottom of the ocean.'
I was sitting on the floor and he was standing next to me, his robe brushing against my face. Nearby, the coals on the portable barossi fire were gleaming, orange on black and the sweet smell of freshly picked eucalyptus leaves, burning slowly, drifted towards me. Winter was almost here. Nobody slept on the roof any more.
As Swamiji spoke to me, his toes (peeking out from his orange robe) rubbed and stroked my feet. I remembered how Sai Baba had done the same thing. His voice dropped and became soft and silky, 'Little mouse is trying to run away already? Haven't you learnt your lesson yet? Look at the big changes happening inside of you. You are becoming very sensitive. Lots of kundalini energy being awakened. From this: (he rubbed his two fingers together) one and one make one'.
At these words, spoken so seductively, my plans melted away. I just sat there with nothing to say. As I sat there I realized there was a part of my mind that would always agree with him, which would see that what he said was in some way right for me. When he spoke like this, the questioning, analytical processes of my mind usually switched off. Those processes that in the past had been so overused that at times they had burnt out.
Though I didn't tell Swamiji, there was a second reason why I had also felt like leaving. Over the last few months I had noticed myself changing dramatically. For example, when I carried out even the simplest of tasks, such as sweeping the veranda, I was often aware of not only my whole body moving rhythmically, but also, the sensation of my hand gripping the straw broom and even how my eyes focused on the floor I was cleaning. There was no rushing to complete the job. There was no daydreaming about other things. Just sweeping the floor attentively. When there was such attention, my mind became peaceful and joyous. It seemed I was becoming less the robot I used to be - a machine performing certain actions whilst my mind was far away, here and there, running into the future or dwelling on the past.
Things were slowing down at last and I was beginning to realize there was the profoundest joy to be had in the experiencing of the smallest things. Listening to the doves calling and the Ganga roaring, smelling the jasmine flowers in the garden and the various herbs growing wild in the jungle, watching the stars blaze in the skies at night and the sun rising and sinking all became intense experiences for me. I also noticed my face was looking younger, my eyes softer and clearer. Even Swamiji pointed this out to me. 'You see, Archana. Much change. Kundalini purifying. Cleaning out your body and your mind. Now, sometimes, you look sixteen years again. This happens to people when they come here. Though, when you freak out and lose faith in me, want to run away, then you look fifty years old - old and tired. Just look at your eyes - very clear now.'
Although awed by this transformation, I sometimes questioned it. How permanent was this change? Would I lose it all, away from this ashram? I needed to know whether I could live out there, anywhere, and feel the same way as I did here. If not, then what was the point of being here at all?
From the time I learnt my draft had arrived in Delhi, the germ of restlessness began to unsettle me. Swamiji sensed it. 'It's just your monkey mind. The trouble with you Westerners is that you have no self-control. Be detached. Watch this mind of yours. The mind is very cunning and very dangerous.'
However, I didn't know how to watch my mind, my thoughts. Instead I tried to fight against the restlessness, to push it aside. Finally it got so bad that in meditation class and satsang I could barely sit still for longer than five or ten minutes. I would begin to fidget and usually made excuses to leave the class. I'd go around the back of the Kriya Room and wash my clothes or try to keep busy in other ways. Finally one morning I made up my mind to leave, at least temporarily, not only to collect my money but also to test myself outside. Swamiji reluctantly gave me permission.
As I was leaving, I knelt down to touch and kiss Swamiji's feet. He put his hand gently on my head. 'Just remember this is your home, the garden of your heart. It's just your mind taking you outside. There's no need to go anywhere. Have a taste out there and come back soon.'
A loud squawking made me turn around. A black crow was sitting on the bench outside Saraswati's room. I looked up at Swamiji and noticed he was looking across at the bird. 'This is a very bad omen. You should not go at this time. That bird is the messenger of the devil.'
I ignored him, stood up and waited for him to put the red tilak mark on my forehead. As I walked down the path, I looked back and saw Swamiji standing outside the veranda door, watching me. An orange flame against the jungle green. I waved and then began to run down the spiral path towards the gate. The crow flew overhead, squawking wildly. Tears streaked my face.
The boats were running again. During the heavy rains of the rainy season, they seldom cross the swollen Ganga. In the past years a few boats had tipped over in mid-stream flinging hundreds of pilgrims into cold, raging waters. As we moved away from the bathing ghats of Swargashram, I looked across to the jungle-clad mountains behind. The few buildings on the ridge could not be seen; the deodar firs and other trees towered around them, like an almighty shield. The only sign of the ashram was the orange flags waving on the two poles that crossed each other about midway. The flagpoles reminded me of Swamiji rubbing his forefingers together, symbolizing the union of two bodies. These past months were truly the most extraordinary of my life.
I looked down into the blue-green water and let my hand hang loosely over the side of the boat. This icy cold water had first trickled out from a cave called Gomukh in the snout of a glacier 100 kilometres away and was now leaping downwards on its long journey a further 2000 kilometres to an outlet in the Bay of Bengal, near Calcutta. Swamiji had once remarked that the mind was like the flow of water, still and clear near the source, muddy and dirty at the mouth in the ocean. He had likened the endless cycle of water (that begins from the river's mountain source and wanders downward to the sea, then moving upwards through the clouds to fall as rain in the mountains again) to the mind that moves in restless cycles looking for satisfaction in the outside world. As I sat there, I prayed that this journey would satisfy my restlessness, so I could come back here to the lap of the gods.
When we reached the other side, near the Shivananda Ashram, I clambered out of the boat and climbed into a scooter rickshaw. I glanced across the river for one last time and looked up at the tiny orange flags waving. I thought of Swamiji, my adorable boy-yogi and my heart lurched. 'I hope you know what you're doing. Haven't you found everything you ever wanted in your life up there on the hill,' I said silently to myself. I turned away and brushed the tears off my face with the palm of my hand.
Excerpt from Chapter 10 pp 224-226
Then, almost one year after the abortion, what I had most dreaded came to pass. Swamiji snared a new consort. Even though other girls had come and stayed at the ashram during the past year and I suspected that they sometimes shared his bed, his relationship with them was cool and detached.
But one afternoon during the summer heat when things seemed to fade and merge together and we spent more time reading and sleeping, a girl walked slowly up the ashram path. She was bare-footed, wore a white sari, and carried a sitar. At first sight of her, I sensed what she would become.
The newcomer was an American from San Francisco who had been studying music with a well-known veena master higher up in the mountains in a temple of profound religious significance for Hindus. She was of striking beauty: the skin on her face was almost flawless, her features delicately moulded and her eyes sparkling and almond shaped. She looked slightly overweight by Western standards but Indians typically view excess fat as a sign of beauty. She smiled and laughed a lot and during that first satsang she sang devotional songs to Swamiji while playing on her sitar. I noticed Swamiji changing, mellowing, as he flirted playfully with her.
When Swamiji asked her to come and live here, her round face lit up with a full smile. She clasped her hands in joy. She leant over and rested her head on his feet as I looked on in horror. Towards evening she left to catch a bus up to the mountain temple in order to collect her possessions and to say goodbye to her music teacher. Evidently she had been just passing through Rishikesh on her way back from Delhi where she had been to arrange a visa extension. My only consolation was that if she came and stayed here she would leave as soon as she realized that Swamiji's moods changed dramatically. He wasn't just Krishna! This girl looked as if she lacked the strength that Saraswati and I both had. I even entertained the unlikely possibility that her music teacher might try and seduce her and entice her to stay on with him. I at least hoped her visa extension would not be granted so she would have to leave India soon.
But she returned. Swamiji immediately gave her a new name, Padma, which means lotus. He explained that her heart was open like a lotus. That first night she was invited to sleep in the main building and I was sent back to the Shakti Kutir.
I could not sleep. For most of the night I kept creeping up to Swamiji's window to try and hear what was going on inside. There was a candle lit in his room and I could smell his favourite incense. At times I heard faint murmurings or Padma giggling but I heard no sighs, groans or words that I could understand. I kept returning to sit on the hard cot near the tanks of frogs and slime to wallow in self-pity and jealousy. My lotus flowers were no longer in bloom. I burnt some of the poems I had written for Swamiji. I contemplated burning down the ashram or even killing Swamiji.
Early in the morning, before the sun had risen, I packed a few things into a cloth shoulder bag and walked quickly around the boundary of the ashram. I climbed a tree near the corner kutir and swung myself over to the back path. I hoped that when Swamiji discovered that I had left he would be full of remorse for the way he had treated me and would send someone to track me down. But this time Swamiji's attention was directed elsewhere.
