Jain's Gold Brick
The tellurians came from all walks of life and every corner of the globe, in an age when more earthlings than ever before were seeking au courant ways to look at and live out their brief prances upon the planet with as much spellbound enlightenment as eugenically possible. Enter Indian self-help sage Chandra Mohan Jain, and the New Age of Bipedal Beastmode is born.
Jain's gold brick of self-enlightenment mobilized an alarming and alacritous multitude of free-spirited self-aggrandizers ready and waiting to hit the guru's sweet spot of human consciousness, that sunny and satiating junction where cornucopian love and a delirious desire to belong meet instant gratification. They wanted to wield a mystical power far greater than themselves. Blinded by self-worship, they hedonistically followed the teachings of a crooked Indian conman with the creepy Kaa-like lisp of a surreptitious serpent from the jungle-book nether worlds of Bharata.
At some point in his beguiling life as a beloved and prosperous con artist, Jain changed his name to Rajneesh, and he was henceforth known as Acharya Rajneesh or Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. Acharya means spiritual teacher or leader, influential leader or preceptor, and expert instructor in religious matters. Bhagwan is a Hindu term meaning god or lord, which in Sanskrit translates to fortunate and blessed. Near the end of his life, he settled on a one-name sobriquet more often than not reserved for rock stars like Sting or Bono, claiming for his celebrated self the tag of Osho, which means high-ranking or highly virtuous Buddhist monk.
At his ranch in Oregon, Osho liked to sit alone and center stage in a white upholstered chair perched slightly yet loftily above his large audiences of followers, known as Rajneeshees, sitting and kneeling before him. His hat of choice was the hand-knitted beanie. The exalted mikao wore a stylish collection of superbly-woven headdresses like silky pastel crowns upon his VIP head, each fashionable cap tugged snugly over his brow by deft handlers who knew how to bring out the best of Osho's careworn facial undertones, with the graying wisps of his listless mane and leonine beard smartly coiffed to Nazareth perfection. But they could not hide the doomsday look in his dark, sneaky eyes.
Of course, another part of me deeply loved the simple man's crystal clear philosophy, how it cut through so much of humanities bullshit and straight to the heart of Homo-sapient existence; that we're all conditioned to think and feel exactly as our cultures have trained us, and after we're thusly groomed, societies force each member to shun everything considered taboo, demanding by threat of social shaming and ostracism total compliance to societal norms.
Sitting in the auditorium, watching Osho's devotees swaying meditatively back and forth to fiercely beaten drums and powerfully strummed guitars, my true admiration for him suddenly conquered, in a mini battle, that part of me which secretly envied Osho; my negative side, where ugly feelings of jealousy are harbored, the place I allow myself to hate him for his vast knowledge of ancient wisdom, his ability to live so happily in the now of his own skin, and the charismatic way he uses his charms to win over everyone whom crosses his path.
Sensing the nearness of Osho's address, the crowd suddenly became more frenzied. Many began chanting even louder and singing more merrily, while others gyrated their hands like fully crescendoing tamborines. Then, the gathering quickly quieted into a pin dropping hush, and every eye turned to the Master.
I'm not down on the ideas or talents Osho possessed. I do, however, frown upon what his success ultimately represented: that all nirvanic pots of gold are eventually filled to the brim with the putrefactive excrement of all-too-human foibles.
Rajneesh was a crackerjack at pulling wires. In the Netflix documentary Wild Wild Country, his go-to move of manipulation was the namaskar, the chicest of all Hindu hand gestures supposedly showing respect and giving honor to others. In reality, the namaste is mostly the touchless salute of shallow narcissists caring more about looking cool and feeling puffed up than respecting and honoring others. It's a paradigm of pure phoniness. In the end, Osho bailed on his followers big time, essentially throwing all of his namastes out the window.
That was going to be my first question for him, followed by many others. What had poisoned him along the way? Why had he betrayed everything he stood for? How many times had he drunk wine and fooled around in his jacuzzi deep down in that secret bunker?
But now it was time to listen to Ace Vachasya, meaning one who is a great orator, speak. Straight out of his asshole.
"First of all," Osho began, "I know that I am now dead."
A collective gasp chorused through the crowd, rows of hands, palms inward, simultaneously popping up in front of an equal number of gaping mouths and frozen faces stunned by incredulity. They breathlessly awaited his next utterance, frightened to the core yet madly roused by the sheer stupefiedness of it all.
"I am dead, and I am so very, very sorry now. I lost my way, and in doing so you lost your way." Osho's eyes were filling with tears of pure joy. He felt in his heart the same way he had felt in the beginning, long before the cars and the fame and the wealth, and the Machiavellian contrivances that had taken him so tragically off course. He felt cleansed again. His spirt was free once more, perhaps for the last time, and he would now tell everyone the truth.
No Ace Vachasya now. Just a man, open and honest and ready to admit his shortcomings. That was the beauty of our secret, found in the enigmatic dimensions of dead twins talking. It was the excogitative power to pull vainglorious heads out of swaggering asses.
