186. gurus
pansiveness that stretches to include the others. Distances and differences—of sta-
tus, age, and sex—disappear in an exhilarating feeling (temporary to be sure) that
individual boundaries can indeed be transcended and were perhaps illusory in the
first place. Of course, touch is only one of the sensual stimuli that hammers at the
gate of individual identity. Other excitations, channeled through vision, hearing,
and smell, are also very much involved. In addition, as Phyllis Greenacre has sug-
gested, there are other, more subliminal exchanges of body heat, muscle tension,
and body rhythms taking place in a crowd. In short, the crowd ’s assault on the sense
of individual identity appears to be well nigh irresistible; its invitation to a psycho-
logical regression—in which the image of one ’s body becomes fluid and increas-
ingly blurred, controls over emotions and impulses are weakened, critical faculties
and rational thought processes are abandoned—is extended in a way that is both
forceful and seductive.
It was in such a mild state of “altered consciousness,” pervaded with a feeling of
oneness and affection for every member of the crowd, that I waited for Maharajji to
appear. There is little doubt that I (along with the rest of the crowd) was in a height-
ened state of receptivity for whatever might come next.
The chanting stopped, and there were minutes of hushed silence as Maharajji’s
chauffeured Fiat came into view, driven slowly down the empty road and stopping
behind the high podium from which he would hold the satsang.All eyes were now
raised up to the dais. The canopy above it fluttered lightly in the breeze that rippled
through its bright-blue canvas. And then Maharajji appeared at the top of the steps
behind the dais. A majestic figure with a long white beard and a neatly tied white tur-
ban covering his head, he was dressed in a cream-colored kurta, well-cut churidars,
and a sleeveless tan woolen jacket, with a beige pashmina shawl wrapped round his
shoulders. Tall and well built, Maharaj Charan Singh is a stately figure, and I re-
member the fleeting thought that this is what God ’s younger brother must look like
(see figure 8). With a brisk tread belying his sixty-three years, Maharajji stepped up
to the low divan at the front, bowed, and touched his forehead to the seat in a ges-
ture of reverence to his predecessors. He then mounted the divan and sat down
cross-legged, adjusting the shawl around his broad shoulders as he pulled the mi-
crophone in front of the divan closer. The silence continued, broken occasionally
by a cough, while Maharajji sat there impassively, slowly turning his head from one
side to the other in a wide sweep, surveying his flock from under bushy white eye-
brows and through slightly hooded eyes while his right hand moved up and down
rhythmically, stroking and smoothing down errant hair that had escaped from the
luxuriant growth of his beard.