against you are. Then you can worry about your house.'

'How long will it take?'

'Weeks only.'

'Weeks! But I must hurry home right away. If it's been smashed open, anyone can walk in and take everything. Oh, my wonderful house!'

'These things take time. This is India, not America. I will go to Goa.'

'You have to go there?'

He leaned back in his chair, which made a loud squeak, and did that Indian shake with his head again. 'How else can I find out what is going on?'

I didn't mention the telephone, realizing the man was seizing this opportunity to have a vacation at my expense. Another Indian lawyer would do no differently. I sighed. This was the Indian way.

'Perhaps I will be able to leave here at the end of the month,' he said.

'End of the month!! No sooner?'

He raised a hand in the air where his gold rings glinted in the forty watt light. 'I am a busy man.'

Back at the apartment, Brian and I discussed how it wasn't terribly cool for me to stay in Bombay with the police perhaps waiting for my next visit to Dipti's. I couldn't go to Goa, either.

'Why the hell don't you go to Poona?' Brian suggested. 'I've been thinking of visiting a friend there: We could go together.'

'Poona! Isn't that where the ashram is—Rajneesh? ‘Where orange people come from?'

Apparently orange was a spiritual colour, and the Rajneesh zealots wore nothing but orange clothes and a picture of their guru, Bhagwan Rajneesh. I remembered how Mushroom Jeffrey had dyed his clothes when he became Swami Anand Geet. I'd seen orange people pass through Goa. Did I want to surround myself with them? Spirituality was the last thing I desired at that moment.

'Poona! Well, at least I’ll be safe there. No policeman would think of looking for me near an ashram. Oh,' I groaned, covering my face. 'AH that orange.'

Since Brian could only be away from Bombay for a weekend, it wasn't until Friday afternoon that we climbed into a taxi at Churchgate Station. Three other passengers (all Indian) climbed in too, which meant four of us squeezed into the back seat of the small car. It was a seven-hour drive, and after we left the city, an endless stream of dirt blew at me through all four, wide-open windows.

By the time we arrived in Poona, it was night. The driver took everyone else to their homes before he dropped us at the address Brian had given him.

Hungry, dirty, dying for a toilet, and exhausted, I was not in the mood for the cheerful liveliness of Brian's friends.

'Brian!'

'Hi, Lydia. How the hell are you?'

'No, no,' said the happy, frisky voice. 'My name is Vanya now. Bhagwan named me Prem Vanya. It means love, sturdy as a forest.'

I groaned inwardly as I slid my suitcase across the top step and faked a smile at my hostess.

'Come in, come in,' she bubbled in her halo of orangeness. Three more orange shapes buzzed from behind her to whisk my suitcase from where I'd dumped it at my feet. I gave Brian a sidelong Look. I didn't think I was ready for this.

All topics of conversation that night centred on Bhagwan: this person's dilemma resolved by a 'vision' from Bhagwan, that person's insight into his 'past life' acquired during Bhagwan's lecture, and someone's else's 'astral projection' through the ashram guided by Bhagwan. Brian and I periodically sought each other's eye for a comforting look of 'How did we get ourselves into this?'

'My company in Vancouver exceeded my expectations last year,' Prem Vanya told us, 'but then Bhagwan called me to Poona—transcendentally, I mean, the way he brought you two here today.'

'Uh . . . Oh . . ? Is that goddamn right?' Brian answered, refolding his arms around his knee and staring in seeming fascination at the orange rug on which he sat.

The long night ended only because everyone wanted to wake up early for 'Dynamic,' a meditation at sunrise.

'Why don't you two do Dynamic with us?' suggested Prem Vanya. 'Then you'll be there for Bhagwan's lecture at eight.'

I waited for Brian's (I hoped) negative reply. It came.

'Ah . . . well, actually I'm goddamn tired. I think I sleep late tomorrow, if you don't mind.'

Saved!

'Fine. I'll pick you up at noon, and we'll lunch at the ashram cafeteria. How's that?'

Trapped.

Prem Vanya brought me a blanket (orange, of course) and ensured I was comfortably installed on the mattress that also acted as a couch. Brian slept on the floor at the far end of the room, and an orange person unrolled himself a sleeping bag in a spot near the window. As my eyes closed on the orange-painted walls, the orange-draped table, the orange flowers in a nearby bowl, I wondered if my fate at the hands of the Goa police would not have been better.

Fortunately the orange people were gone when I awoke. I found Brian in the kitchen, eating toast with orange marmalade (of course). 'What have you gotten me into?' I asked.

Framed by an orange wall, he took a bite, and orange jelly caught in his moustache as he said, 'It is too goddamn much, isn't it?'

'Must we really go to that ashram for lunch? I think I had enough of Bhagwan last night.'

'What the hell, it might be a gas,' Brian answered sarcastically, rolling his eyes to the orange ceiling.

I looked at the tattoos covering the arm that reposed on the orange table and thought: If an ex-Hell's Angel can stand it, I can stand it.

At noon, Prem Vanya bubbled into the apartment and bubbled us out the door into a waiting rickshaw. As we drove through town, I noticed that half the people on the street were foreigners dressed in orange. The boutiques that lined the sidewalks displayed wares in one colour only—orange.

'There it is, that's the ashram!' yipped Vanya ecstatically.

I could have guessed. The street had become impassable, clogged with knots of orange people. Numerous units of two and three pressed together in what looked like a hug. We climbed out of the rickshaw some distance from the ashram entrance and shouldered through the motionless bodies.

'Vanya!'

Prem Vanya encountered someone she knew and was engulfed in one of those lengthy embraces. Brian and I stood there until the hugging came to an end. We hadn't gotten much closer to the ashram when Vanya met another acquaintance and entangled herself in another Bhagwan hug. When this happened several times more, Brian exhibited impatience.

'C'mon, c'mon. Let's get the hell inside already.'

With the next people Vanya met, she limited the hug to a few seconds only, and we eventually made our way into the ashram.

The inside revealed lush greenery polka-dotted with gigantic flowers. Orange people were everywhere, strolling down paths, sitting on the lawn, entering and exiting various buildings. I moaned when I saw the cafeteria. It looked like it belonged in a high school in Iowa somewhere, and of course it served only vegetarian food. I should have known.

The weekend passed quickly, and Brian and I actually had a good time laughing over the orange-flavoured exuberance. We engaged in an especially good giggle as I recounted my first experience with a Bhagwan hug. Apparently the appropriate response was to hang on tightly and squeeze back; the occasional murmured 'Mmmmmm' was optional. The hug was to continue as long as possible—the longer held, the greater proof of possessing Bhagwan.

Sunday soon came to an end, and Brian was about to leave me alone with that bunch.

'Oh, Brian, I don't know how I'll bear it here by myself. Will you keep in touch with that lawyer and let me know when I can leave for Goa? I’ll go crazy if I'm stuck here too long.'

He thought my predicament very funny. 'Maybe you'll see the goddamn light and have a goddamn out-of-