Down by the Ashram Down by the Ashram Spring was ...

Spring was thawing Manhattan, and Susan was getting antsy. Though she had her own thriving business, a new car and a paid-for Manhattan condo at age 26, there was something missing in her life. It was getting time to decide what it was, especially as the weather warmed and she'd controlled her fierce coke addiction had been handled for the better part of a year.

I was a guitarist and singer in a variety of bands. Susan and I met at a 12-step meeting and started dating, which is usually a recipe for eventual disaster. This time, though, romance won out over dysfunction, and we enjoyed a passionate affair that lasted through the winter, growing close enough to visit each other's families for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Soon after getting a hankering to change her life, she dragged me along to a seminar on Lafayette St. given by a guy named Paul Lowe. Lowe turned out to be a tall, thin, white-haired Englishman with a beard who was in touch with higher levels of reality. Some called him an awakened being. He traveled the world with no permanent home, giving talks; suggested admission was ten bucks. Unlike some other Western spiritual teachers I had known, Paul made little effort to enroll disciples or market himself, and he wasn't slick. He worked with everyday people of all ages, from street punks to millionaires and people with AIDS. He was kind, and ruthlessly honest. Susan and I adored him.

After a few evenings with Paul, reality as Susan and I knew it was over. Everything we thought about relationships, work, life and the workings of our own minds was being examined, questioned and in many cases detonated. The 12-step experience was completely wrecked; we couldn't go to those meetings anymore.

Paul eventually moved on to Germany. Within the week, Susan announced she was closing her business, subletting her apartment and going to an ashram in Poona, India. She said I was free to join her if I wanted. I had no desire to go and didn't really understand why Susan wanted to, but her mind was made up. I felt stuck. Paul had left, Susan was leaving, and I'd dropped my 12-step program and all my acquaintances there.

Her mom came to visit from Long Island one day to have lunch with us. While Susan was in the bathroom, Mom took me aside.

"Why aren't you going with her? Something could happen!"

"I don't have the money."

"How much does it cost to go to this place?"

"The place itself is cheap, but the airfare's around $1200."

"Well, get together as much money as you can, and call me. I'll match it, and you can go."

Susan left New York a few days later, blowing me a kiss as she disappeared into the security area at the airport.

I quickly got busy, placing an ad in the Voice advertising housepainting, figuring I could make quick cash. I got a few calls from guys wanting me to come to their places and paint in my underwear, but then a break: a whole parking garage on Perry St. I did the job by myself, working 10 hours a day for 14 days straight, and made $1800. Susan's mom made good on her word, handing me $1800 cash at my place as well as another $3000 to give to her daughter.

I got to Bombay at dawn. The sun came up over a staggering array of sights, smells, sounds and energy completely beyond my experience. The Indian air smelled of sweetish smoke from the household garbage fires people burned outside their homes in the nearby area. The sky was orange and purple. Women walked about with bricks stacked atop their heads. Men were small, wore moustaches and held hands as they strolled down the street. Children approached me, flexing their hands open and closed, begging for alms. I was exhausted but didn't dare sleep; I was too fascinated. I took a small plane to Poona, 60 miles away.

Susan met me at the airport. It had been five weeks since we'd seen each other. She looked different. Her face was a bit broken out, and there was something foreign behind her eyes, as though she'd gone through a lot. She'd taken Sannyas?becoming a disciple of the master, Osho?and her new name was Krisana.

We drove in a rickshaw to her flat in an Indian village near the ashram, which Krisana shared with three other Sannyasins. I gave her the cash her mother had sent with me. We spent a night together, but there was something wrong; we didn't melt together as before.

The ashram was an enormous, immaculate, open-air, lushly green paradise with a main gate, private dwellings for staff, a cafeteria, a huge meditation tent called Buddha Hall, flowing fountains and slate walkways. There was a nominal fee to enter. Groovy people walked around in beads, sandals, tie-dyes and other colorful clothing. There were meditation seminars and other classes you could take, and it seemed like a lot of fun.

After two days, Susan and I got on each other's nerves, and she finally told me she'd met someone else. She intended to spend time with him, so I rented a room for $50 a month and moved out.

If I'd been alone in Manhattan, I was twice as alone in India. I knew no one, and decided to plunge into ashram life. Osho was ill, and I only saw him once in the three months I was there. Still, I took Sannyas along with a few other newbies in a ceremony that about 400 people attended in Buddha Hall, and received a mala, a photo of Osho on a wooden chain, to wear around my neck. I performed in the ashram follies under the name Rick Shaw, and suddenly a whole bunch of people knew who I was. I relaxed into the life, and people started wanting to spend time with me. It was a very free society. Lots of people slept with lots of people. Sometimes the affairs would last an evening, sometimes a few days, sometimes a week. Sometimes they ended gently, sometimes with jealousy and rancor.

Soon after, I participated in intense weeklong seminars, one after the other: Encounter, Primal Scream and a Tantra group. By the time I was out of money and ready to leave the ashram, reality had been shattered many times over, and I was ready to return to New York. I never said goodbye to Susan, but took the addresses of at least 15 people I'd gotten close with.

I landed at JFK on August 3, but my summer seemed already over. Osho died shortly afterward. When I got the news, I took my mala down to the Hudson River, kissed it and tossed it in.