Printing the book

I've met many people in Boulder who had gurus and are ex-whatevers. They all seem to experience a lack of closure on that period of their lives. I know that I do. For many years, I've made a point of staying away from premies.

Meditation- I still do it. Is it better than someone else's technique(s). Probably not but it works. Any kind of meditation is better than no meditation. I used to have some awesome meditations and loved to see that light. Now I just sit. I don't care if I see anything.

Rick Wienir

I flew to Los Angeles from Hawaii (where I was living) to go to a satsang program. Something happened; either I had a spiritual experience or I was hypnotised. Some woman named Joan Apter was speaking and I was in another world. I was convinced the whole thing was real, flew back to Hawaii, found the premies and "dedicated" myself.

Two premies there claimed they could show me the techniques and knowledge, and that it wasn't necessary to get knowledge through a mahatma. I went for it, but then after having trouble meditating, I flew back to Los Angeles, found Maharaji's home in Malibu, and talked to a woman mahatma (the first and only one at the time). She was very disapproving and told me I could suffer for 25 incarnations just for having received the techniques from someone who was unauthorised.

Now I was afraid and paranoid on top of anything else that was happening. I flew back to Hawaii, determined to get the "real" knowledge. I had to go to satsang every night for two years and nearly beg to receive knowledge. It was my whole life.

I'd often feel extraordinary listening to satsang; temporarily soothed out of some misery. Occasionally, while meditating, I'd be genuinely uplifted. I desperately wanted to belong to something, and was finally accepted into the sick society of premies in Hawaii.

After four years, I just flipped out under all the psychological pressure to be a good premie. I had no bearing on my emotions, all of which were rationalised, and "put in my back pocket" as Maharaji suggested.

Although it seems some phenomenon happened while "practising" knowledge, my emotions and depression became more troublesome the more I tried to ignore them.

One day I just disappeared, and flew to the mainland and started over. I still went to satsang and meditated, but wherever I was I stayed pretty anonymous and didn't join the little premie societies.

I didn't disavow "knowledge" or Maharaji, but by taking some space, I saw how truly sick the premie society was. All these fucked up, manipulative and manipulated people, constantly lying to each other and guilt tripping each other. I continued to meditate and enjoy going to satsang, but also started paying attention and giving validity to how I felt emotionally.

This "grew" me and made me stronger, but I was still never able to reconcile the phenomena I experienced when seeing Maharaji or listening to satsang or meditating, with the terrible bad awful advice that Maharaji gave concerning feelings, emotions and communication.

Finally the ashrams closed in the early eighties and there was no more satsang. Occasionally, I'd go see Maharaji at a program, but mostly just meditated every day and followed a "psychological" self treatment of connecting and accepting my emotions.

In '86 I read some books called "Right Use of Will" and started following these "teachings". I continued to meditate and it has generally been helpful. I wouldn't think of not doing it any more than not brushing my teeth.

I have no idea about what Maharaji's intentions were through this whole thing. I read the interview with Bob Mishler and although I can't just dismiss his accusations, I'm not ready to "convict" Maharaji of much more than giving terrible advice and somehow getting me really "high".

But there was a lot of subtle fear tied in with what he said, and I refuse to buy into any of that. I don't know why Maharaji said those stupid things. I don't feel great resentment toward him. Obviously he gave some dumb advice and I followed it. But I think I felt more truly abused by the premies.

William O West
Howdy folks:

I was living near Detroit in 1973 when GMJ got hit in the face with a shaving cream pie. Premies who were present at the incident were full of Goomrodgie is SO beautiful. He wiped the pie off his face, without getting a drop on his clothes. It was SO perfect. Yeah, right.

The local underground press claimed that the pie hit him full in the chest. Someone was lying, most likely the press.

Later, one of the Mahatmas, with a premie along as an assistant, pretending to be a former devotee of the Guru's father conned the reporter into agreeing to receive the knowledge, and splintered his skull with something like a blackjack as he sat there, thinking, at first, that he was being initiated. He ran, screaming, into the hall, to escape.

A premie friend, Kathy Yoder, said she ran into the reporter somewhere, and he wasn't too happy with the guru. He died, shortly thereafter however, of a brain hemorrhage, almost certainly caused by the beating.

Richard what's-his-name, the main premie in Detroit, went to the police and told them that he could tum in the devotee who did the murder, but the police said that they didn't like those communists at the newspaper, and that they did like the premies and that they didn't care who did it.

Coming down to Millenium '73, according to press reports AFTER the mothership Rennie Davis had promised FAILED to cart the Astrodome and 144,000 premies inside off the planet (we were about 132,000 short) and earthquakes FAILED to destroy New York City.

The Guru's business manager was charged, by the FTC, with selling shares in a shell corporation. Good thinking. If the world had ended on time, he never would have been indicted. There are all kinds of ways of being crazy.

Best way is to be crazy for God. I believe that was attributed to Mahatma Fakiranand, but you may have more accurate information. My late father's watch and a number of other personal items were stolen from me by other premies to raise money for the cause.

Much was done that was illegal in that crazy environment.

Pat W

In 1997 I submitted a long and quite passionate 'Journey' to this website. A year or so ago I withdrew it, intending to revise it, but I haven't got around to doing it until now. This probably reflects the degree to which I have increasingly 'recovered' from the angst I was once going through and which had motivated me to put pen to paper. The following is a much briefer description of my 'Journey' as a premie.

I practiced meditation very earnestly and enjoyed the results at the time. Guru Maharaj Ji (as he was then called) advocated the Indian traditional path of 'Satsang, Service and Meditation and Darshan'. This was his prescription for your life as a premie of the 'Perfect Master of the Age'. I readily swallowed the whole package and put my doubts on hold as Maharaji had formally commanded.

I took the instruction to follow the Master very literally. This resulted in my rapidly becoming an unusually well-travelled young man, although generally the most I would see of a country would be the interior of some big conference hall or echoey sports facility. I have lost track of the Maharaji festivals that I attended, as no doubt many other premies have too. Anyway, all that 'Darshan' and attention to the words of the Master left me in no doubt as to the gist of what he wanted me to do with my life.

There was however an insidious side to his message. This was that you basically started out pursuing the harmless-sounding agenda of receiving 'Knowledge' but often ended up, as I did, facing an agenda which required much more commitment - that you dedicate your entire life. This requirement Maharaji called 'Surrender' and by 1977 was something he evidently felt terribly strongly about.

So I duly ended up that year in a tiny basement flat in Hove that was the new Brighton 'Ashram'. There was some local resentment about the 'officiality' of this establishment, but the steady stream of visits from Maharaji's instructors (such as the 'patron saint of laundry' Anne Johnson, and the die-hard David Smith) eventually assured the stamp of 'Official Place of Surrender' on our humble rented flat.

I was soon thereafter posted to various ashrams around England, including Norwich, Newcastle and London, where I lived the prescribed lifestyle ­ which roughly translated into the daily routine of getting up dog-tired to sing 'Arti' with a bunch of other over-tired males, sitting under blanket for an hour or two, traipsing off to work (preferably doing something that one wouldn't enjoy too much and hence wouldn't become 'attached to') ­ going back to ashram ­ vegetarian meal ­ off to Satsang program or 'aspirant evening' ­ back to ashram, and so on and so forth. All in all, not the most glamorous rota and one of course which , as I later learned, could not have less resembled the more indulgent lifestyle of our Master.

By 1981 all this ashram 'surrender your life' plan of Maharaji's was looking increasingly ill-conceived. 'Unworkable' was possibly a term that Maharaji might have used when taking a moment off from his 'tight schedule' to address the issue with organiser Mike Dettmers. Who knew what really went on in the dizzy offices of power? Nobody at my lowly level of the hierarchy for sure.

So in 1981 there was a general Ashram 'purge' and within a month or so the ashrams disappeared altogether. As it was, Dick Cooper (the UK co-ordinator) and 'Big Frank' (the ashram co-ordinator in Newcastle) somehow agreed that I was no-longer ashram fodder and so I was ousted during this purge.

Out of the ashram, I found myself aged 25 and in need of a job, a place to live and most urgently ­ a girlfriend. I had 'surrendered' sex for long enough! Thanks to my father's will I had some money to make a fresh start, otherwise I would have had a lot more difficulty getting on my feet. By the mid-eighties, and after a lot of hard work, I had a career as a media composer and was 'on the up and up'. I was very relieved to be enjoying life again. The ashram experience had turned very sour and had been a singularly depressing chapter in my life but I still practised Knowledge and supplied Maharaji's media wing 'Visions' with plenty of soundtracks for their productions.

I became increasingly disenchanted on a gut level though. Maharaji's repetitive demands for respect and the general attitudes and dysfunction amongst premies grated. I became more uncomfortable at programs and even felt physically sick sometimes. My body was telling me that my heart was not buying this any more and gradually my heart and mind followed suit. I played guitar at some 'events' with the premie bands and even met Maharaji on a few occasions. All in all, I was gaining a more prosaic perspective on Maharaji and the way things were.

I attended an event in Amaroo in 1994, which proved a turning point. It was a fine social event for premies (if you were prepared to put up with the premie paranoia - 'no photographs allowed' etc) but I was tiring of these festivals. Maharaji's 'Master' appearances seemed less inspiring to me.

I guess the whole thing seemed more and more stage-managed and the premies sycophantic attitude to Rawat more unbearably precious. Afterwards, I rented a car, cuddled a Koala at the Brisbane park , drove down south with an old friend and decided to propose to my current wife! A new life beckoned.

And so far a great new life it has been. I have a wonderful wife (not a premie), two gorgeous children and lots of new friends. Sadly my 'apostate' reputation has alienated me from a few of my premie friends ­ not all. Mostly they have all moved on - many ages ago.

I don't go to programs these days although I am informed by others as to the current gist. I am still concerned enough to have an interest in discussing this subject up to a point. To me, it is a matter of ethics that people are more completely informed about Prem Rawat's 'work', and his past, whilst he continues to outreach and influence people. As I see it, the organisation from the top down still displays an attitude of revisionism that stems largely from shame about the past or at least, fear that wider knowledge about 'the way things were' will put people off. In my opinion this is disrespectful towards those who made considerable sacrifices and who toiled to help make Maharaji what he is today. We hear of such former premies being now dismissed as liars and 'unlit matches' and effectively being made scapegoats for the past mistakes. I strongly feel that Prem Rawat should accept responsibility for his past words and deeds that affected so many people.

I went into this whole thing at 17 with the motivation to find the Truth. Now at 46, I find myself unfortunately feeling compelled to protest that truth is being buried in the name of 'Truth'. That is indeed a strange irony.

John Watson

This is something that I've sledom thought of in the last ten years, but I've realised that has been as a result suppressing the memories of what happend. The questions I've been asking myself are pretty much the same as those whose stories I've been reading during the past few days since I discovered the web site.

I became involved with the Divine Light Movement and m in 1975. A childhood, friend Ernie Tyas, had been at the Alexandra Palace shows in London and received knowledge along with some of his friends from University. He came back to my home town of Guisborough in North Yorkshire and held satsang for all of his friends. I was immediately struck by how ernest and 'blissed-out' he was and began to attend satsang in Stockton a nearby town where there was a premie house.

Looking back i can see that I was the classic cult victim, from a not particularly close, typical, British middle class family, low self esteem, in need of some kind of loving, stabilising, supporting family life.

In the summer of 1976, I passed my A-levels, and started studying music, with the emphasis on singing, at the same University as Ernie in Bangor, North Wales. This became my real introduction to satsang and premie life, (although at that time not a premie myself) and through the premies I met, to Hashish, Maharaja and Psyloscybin (magic mushrooms). Throughout this time I was disturbed by the mental state of some of the premies, for example Witford (Richard) who had more scars on his wrists than anyone I've seen before or since, and Ernie who suffered (and still does) from depression.

It was amazing how many premies I met who lived in and around Bangor, and how many of them had a serious problem with substance abuse of one form or another. Ironic really considering what our perfect master had been up to!

In the course of that year I used more time on attending an aspirant program in Chester (two hours away by train) and enjoying various mind altering substances than I did studying. So, of course, the inevitable lay in wait, and after I dropped out of the University's Opera three days before the first performance to see m at the London Wembly Arena (back in the days when he could pack 'em in) I got sent down (that's thrown out on my arse for you guys in the US).

I attended a selection weekend in Manchester where the mahatma (a Canadian woman who I think was called Joyce) told me that if I wanted knowledge then I'd better move to Manchester. This I did in 1977, alienating myself from my family and friends, and began the process of becoming a premie. I lived in several premie houses, (including sharing a flat with Bazzer) and in early 1978 I received knowledge at the Manchester Ashram. Like many have said and written, this was an amazing experience. How much was because of the meditation techniques, and how much was because the whole aspirant program provides conditioning (roll over Pavlov) so the aspirant will have this amazing experience is open to question. (Incidently, at the same selection weekend a certain Jonathan [mad john] Cainer was told that if he wanted knowledge then he'd better marry his then premie girlfriend).

Shortly after this, I lost my job when I hitched down to Malaga in southern Spain to see m in a bullring. (Ah the incongruity of it all!) A year of travelling to festivals followed culminating in a trip to Kissimie, Florida, in November. This was an introduction into the harsh realities of how much of a rip-off culture was (and is) surrounding m.

I moved into a premie flat in Manchester with two premies, Ian Gosling and Chris Gribble and tried to get something out of my life.

After 18 months or so, things began to go very pear shaped, both in my life, but also in the mission. The closure of the ashram (I saw one of the Ashram premies, George Blodwell, on a low budget celebrity show from the US some months ago billed as an Image Consultant - nice work if you can get it!), the later de-Indianising and westernising of the mission to maximise revenues (we all know what happened to all the money from the ashrams don't we. It didn't go towards housing the homeless premies, that's for sure!), all contributed to the general unease and falling-apartness. This of course was always explained as being a problem with the interpretation of what m wanted by the organisation... this was of course nothing to do with m. (Didn't Nurenburg eradicate this as an excuse?....).

About this time I began to smoke hash again, and when this became known (within a couple of days... premies are such gossips!), I was shunned by a large number of the more holy premies (with the exception of some like for example mad John Cainer who turnd up looking to score one evening). It was like being shown the cold shoulder by a loved one, hideously painful. In the end I began to move out of the premie circle and eventually moved back to my home town in 1981.

Ernie still lives locally (Saltburn-by-the-sea) but otherwise I've lost touch with all the premies I knew from that time. I was left with a Hash habit that took until 1993 to break. I also had huge problems in personal relationships, I was frightened of rejection and could not accept criticism, which took me years (and cost a fortune in therapy) to get over. I have been a Radiographer (X-Ray tech.) since 1984, and moved to Denmark in 1990. This is not the direction I saw my life leading in 1976.

I haven't sung professionally since 1977.

All in all I've accepted the way my life has turned out, inspite of d.l.m. and m, but I do believe it would have been totally different if I hadn't attended Ern's satsang that evening in 1975. I'm no longer bitter, but I know that I gave up much for a handful of broken promises and unfulfilled dreams.

John Watson

Leslie Veale

We were born into a shell shocked world. We grew up with a subterranean silence that echoed to the muffled sounds of the terrorised and the call to make peace not war. And maybe in our youthful ebullience, the call sounded more like make love not war, or maybe we were being wise. I don't know for sure, do you?

The Nausea Factor

Whatever you ingest, good or bad, the next thing that is going to happen is that you will attempt to assimilate it. If it's a poison, it's not always that easy.

There's anaphylactic shock. I have an understanding of what this means from the inside of experiencing it, and I have also been given an explanation of the basic procedure. You overreact to the poison, an instaneous rejection, creating such a tidal wave of resistance that your whole system goes into shock, all the capillaries open in your skin at once, the blood drains away from vital organs, and so on, it is major trouble.

And then, I was watching a comedy show just recently, Black Books. An accountant was feeling bored and frustrated in his job, and he had a Little Book of Calm, which he accidentally swallowed, whilst reading it at work. The doctor in the hospital told him the situation was dire, they would be operating in the morning to remove it, and even then, the prognosis was not good. In the morning, the doctor arrived at his bedside with new x-rays. The Little Book of Calm has disappeared, he announces. "Of course it is impossible, but the only explanation is that your body has assimilated it overnight, that is, of course, impossible, you do realise." As the camera pans back, we take in the glowing aura, as our accountant smiles beatifically, and says something along the lines of "Consider the reflection a mountain makes in a pellucid lake." He then wanders out, still begowned in white, and tries it on a few skinheads, (fortunately rescued by a mad drunken black irishman).

I would imagine most of us have memories of that moment, that brief struggle before succumbing to the inevitable, that moment when your stomach insists it can't handle it's contents, that there is only one way to do it, and that is to send it back. And, despite the possible embarrassments associated with it, the relief, the pleasure that washes through you, the clean sleepy peacefulness that follows. And my goodness, aren't you glad not to be feeling so sick anymore.

Sometimes, we feel we are in a situation that precludes this easy resolution, and we are determined not to succumb to the natural way, and we pit all our strength, courage and fortitude towards this end, we believe that we have no choice in this, our heart, love, hope itself, is at stake.

This is a serious situation to be in, at least I found it so. In my case, the poison was ingested through my eyes and ears. It was trippy, I mean really trippy when it first hit, I was eighteen, it was London, Spring 1973.

You know, I'm just thinking about it, for a short period in my life, less than a year, I had it all together, thanks to my Grandmother who had a cottage in the woods which she lent to me. It was a lovely place, near Southampton, and I had somehow managed, with my mother's help if I remember correctly, to enrol myself in art college to study pottery. I liked my teacher, a Korean war veteran, and I had clay in my fingers. I was high as a kite on zen macrobiotics, believe me, I was a novice and consequently, according to the book I was reading, had to stick to the basics to be able to balance my yin and my yang, which meant rice, water and fire to cook it.

I had graduated to include gamasio and twig tea, and had started a vegetable garden when my hippy friends caught up with me. They reunited me with the delights of toast, porridge and a nice cuppa. The house grew distinctly more colourful. And then a premie turned up. A lovely genuine human being, who had recently got caught up in a hindu flavoured messianic religion without understanding what had happened, and passed it on to me. And that was that. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure when I gave up art college, I probably missed the start of term, I don't remember thinking about it.

Fortunately I met Bill soon afterwards, we fell very much in love, which had a calming effect, and made me happy. We moved to Australia. So, for many years I went about my life without recognising what idiotic things I believed, pretty easy seeing as we both believed the same things, actually all we premies believed them. Apart from, if I am to believe them, a few hardy souls who reckon they were hip to the whole thing right from the start. An assertion which, I think, begs the question: 'Just how much of an idiot do you want to make yourself out to be?