body experience,' he chuckled. 'Wouldn't you like to fly the hell around the ashram by astral projection? Let's hear you chant. HHHHHmmmmmmmm . . . C'mon! HHHHHmmmmmmm . . .'

I joined in, 'HHHHHmmmmmmmmmm ,' and we broke out in laughter.

But then he was gone, and it was just me and those people.

I moved out of the apartment. At a hotel near the ashram, I took a room in a row of shacks. The other guests all wore orange and kept their doors open while they socialized on the communal porch. Exhibiting that friendly Bhagwan glow, they were pleased to supply me with incense and candles. They wanted to know when I was going to take sannyas and become one of them.

Early Tuesday afternoon, the thought came to me—why not join? Who knew how long I'd be stuck in Poona? Since I had to be there anyway, why not involve myself in the utopia? It might be fun.

I rushed to the ashram office—stopping often for the inevitable hug—and informed them I wished to become a sannyasi. They made an appointment for my darshan (audience) with Bhagwan the next night.

My neighbours at the hotel were overjoyed at having fostered a new recruit and helped me prepare. Bhagwan couldn't tolerate scents, so special shampoos and soaps had to be used. Before I'd be allowed into the hall, I'd have to pass a smell test, and they decided I couldn't wear the one orange outfit I possessed. Someone lent me an orange robe.

At six I gathered with the selected others by Lao Tzu Gate, and we waited in silence to be let in. When the time came, we filed by two sniffers, who took deep whiffs of our hair and clothes before declaring each person scent-free and granting entrance to the inner sanctum. Sitting on a marble floor, we waited silently for a signal. When it came, everyone sat up straight and brought their hands together in prayer form, the Indian gesture of greeting.

The guru made his entrance.

Long grey beard, long white robe, he entered slowly, placed his palms together and pointed them toward us; then he sat in the only chair in the hall. He spoke for a while to those assembled, then dealt with individuals who'd written him a question. Finally, he addressed us newcomers.

We were called individually to sit at the Master's feet. I was nervous and excited as I pattered forward through the solemn atmosphere, When I sat before Bhagwan, he placed a mala (a beaded wooden necklace with his picture) around my neck and put his thumb over the 'third eye' on my forehead. He stared in concentration and then scribbled on a piece of paper.

'Your name will be Ma Prem Madhumaya,' he said. 'It means 'love with the sweetness of honey'.'

I was an orange person! Brian would die when he heard!

In no time, I looked like, sounded like, and acted like a sannyasi. I took a handful of clothes to be dyed orange (Brian was really going to die). Every day at Buddha Hall the non-stop activities began with Dynamic meditation at sunrise. Buddha Hall was an immense raised platform, roofed, but without walls, therefore open to the flowery richness of the tropics. I never made it to the ashram before 1 p.m.—after a meaty lunch outside and just in time for Bhagwan's taped discourse. I'd bring a pillow (orange, of course), sprawl on the cold marble of Buddha Hall, and listen to the soothing voice coming from the speakers. Alas, I often fell asleep midway through—but so did many others, I noticed.

'It doesn't matter,' someone assured me. 'Bhagwan's intensity will get through, whether you hear every word or sleep through the whole thing.'

This was true. Bhagwan's presence filled every corner of the ashram. His picture hung everywhere, and his name found its way into every conversation.

At 3 p.m. Sufi Dance taught us words to songs and simple dance steps. We sang to Allah and Yahweh, to Hindu gods and Christian ones, stomping and clapping, whirling, jumping and running, holding hands and changing partners. Fifty or sixty of us bounded and pranced to Sufi Dance, covering the great distance of the hall. At the end of each frantically energetic segment, the Leader would shout 'Stop!' and we'd stop where we were, dose our eyes, and feel joyous energy flood our bodies. In the Bhagwan vocabular, I was 'blissed out.'

At 4 p.m. was Kundalini, consisting of fifteen minutes of frenzied shaking, followed by fifteen minutes of dancing, then fifteen minutes sitting in quiet meditation with our eyes closed, and finally with 15 minutes lying flat out. Unfortunately, I never remembered the mosquito repellent until the meditation part. Every mosquito in the state of Maharashtra knew about Kundalini. They massed in a cloud for this banquet of motionless bodies just waiting to be bitten.

I took more clothes to be dyed orange.

I also discovered Laxmi Villa, an estate whose mansion had been divided into small rooms where housed sannyasi Freaks. While old-time sannyasis lived at the ashram, and recent arrivals from the West stayed in Poona's hotels and apartments, Laxmi Villa housed the hippies. Freaks, and travellers. There was always a party somewhere in the villa, and once a week it hosted an open-house affair in the garden. Laxmi Villa was the only place with a drug scene; Bhagwan advocated the natural high only, and many villa residents did aspire in that direction, in sharp contrast to Goa.

Although little smack could be found in Poona, an ex-Goa Freak guided me to its one opium den—a shack in a vacant lot. I waited an hour to taste a lungful of smoke. Though Bhagwan was against drugs, this was still India, and sannyasis packed the little den. Within days I knew the regulars, and we'd talk about Bhagwan while waiting for the baba to clean dross out of the pipe.

'Did you hear about the assignment Bhagwan gave Sambhava studying the tree behind the bookstore?'

'Sambhava sits in front of that tree all day.'

'He has to do it for a week.'

'Bhagwan said it will teach him humility.'

'Hey, baba. Eck mas, please. One more pipe.'

Meanwhile, what was happening with my wonderful house? What was the fat lawyer doing? I decided to sneak back to Bombay to find out.

I went by train, which turned out to be worse than the taxi and took four hours longer. I knocked on Brian's door with a grin on my face.

'Goddamn!' he said, seeing the  mala and the orange clothes. 'What the hell? Cleo!'

'No, no,' I giggled. 'My name is Prem Madhumaya. It means 'love, sweet as honey.' '

I hurried to see Fat Lawyer, who did the Indian shake with his head and promised me, 'Soon, soon.'

'But my house!' I started, then I stopped and sighed. This was India. Things moved slowly. 'At least tell me how soon. If I have time, I can take group sessions at the ashram.'

He waved his ring fingers in the air. 'Take them. You have time.' That night I dared to dine at the Ambassador Hotel so I could say hello to friends. The crowd of Freaks made room for me at their table. 'Hoo, boy—look at you!' exclaimed Norwegian Monica, spotting my orange.

I ordered a three-course meal and indulged in the cocaine that made its way around the table. By the time my crabmeat arrived, I couldn't eat a thing. Stories of how people spent the monsoon unfolded.

'We went back to Bali,' said Max. 'It's ruined. Tourists everywhere, and the police really hassle you for nude bathing. Would you believe Kaiya Waiya is now part of Club Med?'

'No! How disgusting!'

We also heard about those of us who'd run into trouble that monsoon.

'What a bastardly turn of events for Kadir!' said Dayid. 'A contretemps!'

'Did something happen to Kadir?' I asked. 'I have silver jewellery of his that I couldn't sell in the West.'

'They busted him in Europe,' explained Ashley. The tiara on her head reflected blue beams of light. 'He was sentenced to two years.'

'Two years!' I exclaimed. 'Poor Kadir. He must be going crazy. Stuck in jail for two years—and so far from India. It's terrible in the West. I missed this place like mad when I was in Canada.'

'I can empathize with that pathos. Midway through the monsoon, Ashley and I experienced a puissant fervour to return here.'

'This monsoon I went to my country, Iran,' said Sima. 'It is a relief to be back in India.'

'Oh, hey, did you see Serge there?' I asked.

'Yes,' answered Bernard. 'He was waiting for you.'