First encounter with Dynamic Meditation in New York City, April 1977. An excerpt from chapter 13 of Chintan’s book Mastering Madness
We climbed the stairs to the third floor and arrived at an open apartment door that was covered by a red fabric. Entering the apartment I found myself in a narrow waiting room with a couch and a small table, on which lay a number of magazines, flyers, cassette tapes, and books, all of them with an Eastern flair. On the far wall was an orange curtain, slightly open in the center to reveal a brightly-lit open room containing a dozen people mostly dressed in shades of orange.
I had a dull ache in my stomach and I was finding it hard to breathe, but since I was a macho sort of dude, dressed in blue jeans and Western-style shirt, and on a first date with a new lady I did my best John Wayne imitation as we pushed through the orange curtain to join the other meditators.
The dull ache intensified as I did a quick analysis of the wide assortment of humanity inside. Prasad left me for a long hug with a short, elegantly-dressed Indian woman. No one greeted me. Most of the orange-clad inhabitants were men. Two were non-orange men, very tall and athletic, tossing around a football. I had the same nervous feeling I always had when entering a new bar, as I scouted out potential danger and assessed the spirit of the place. My take of this joint was that there was insanity here, danger here. I sat down on one of the large cushions with my back against the wall and prepared for all manner of outrage.
Inwardly I was encountering the lie of my existence. I was not cool. I knew nothing. I was terrified. I was scared. My life was bullshit. Please God; please mother; come and take me home. Prasad had disappeared through the curtain, and I was left alone to continue my intellectual analysis of the situation while my guts ached.
This place was as raucous as any bar I had ever frequented. All that was missing was the booze, pool table and jukebox. There were three Eastern Indians, one Rasta man, two Blacks, a fat white woman, a very hairy old Jew, a middle-aged white couple curled up on the floor in a sensuous embrace, and a short, bearded, tanned, muscled white guy who, if he lost the beard, would look like my twin brother.
Prasad returned with her arm wrapped around a short Indian man who she introduced as Swami Jayananda. The Swami had dark, kind eyes and appeared to be in a rapturous state of mind, or no-mind as the Buddhists say. I wondered if he was the guy whose picture was in her locket. He began a hurried introduction and detailed description of the meditation scheduled that evening. I could understand every fifth or sixth word. I gleaned that the guy in the locket was in India, and was referred to either as Master or something that sounded like Bog One.
From what I understood, the meditation we would do was called Dynamic and consisted of five stages. The first was intense breathing, followed by something called “kee-tar-sees,” or at least that’s what I heard. As he was explaining, the others in the room were removing much of their clothing and getting ready. With the exception of the breathing stage and the final dance stage, I really had no idea of the other stages, but figured I could just copy the others.
We were instructed to take our space, stand in a relaxed posture, feel our feet contacting the floor, and spend a moment tuning into our inner world. “Now close your eyes, and when you hear the music, begin the breathing.” As soon as the first chaotic chords of the taped music filled the space, the lights were turned off, and I was alone, surrounded by a dozen heavy breathers.
This stage of the meditation was only ten minutes long, yet to me it seemed an eternity. What was the purpose of this, and what was the kee-tar-sis that was to follow? Being a heavy smoker, my deep breathing was initially painful and not very deep, but after a while I began to feel energized and emotional. I felt like bursting out laughing. Occasionally from one of the others a loud gasp or grunt cut through the sounds of heavy breathing.
At the ten-minute mark there was a dramatic change in the music and all Hell broke loose! Something must have gone wrong. Have the police arrived to check on the strange noises? Has someone been shot? Everyone in the room had suddenly gone mad. I heard blood-curdling screams, cries of anguish, hysterical laughter, vicious curses and the sounds of fists smashing into pillows. Kee-tar-sis? Aah – Catharsis! That’s what the Swami was talking about.
For the first minute I was too stunned to join in. When I finally did, I found that the main emotion arising in me was laughter. So I laughed loudly. I could barely hear my own sounds. When a pillow landed on my feet, I took the hint and knelt before it and smacked it around. It felt good to vent, even though the anger was mostly just acting. Near the end of ten minutes the sounds mellowed a bit and I became aware of one person sobbing off to my left. That emotion was not an act.
When the music changed again, everyone began jumping up and down mouthing the sound “HOO” as feet hit floor. I did the best I could, but half way through was completely spent. A man’s voice on the recording yelled “STOP,” and we all froze in position and remained in silence for 15 long minutes.
During that silent time my mind chattered with myriad thoughts that covered my entire 33 years. It is said that at the moment of death, a man’s entire life flashes before his eyes. This was something like that. I could feel my heart beating wildly. I was covered in sweat. There was no sound in that room except gentle breathing.
The sound of a flute signaled the end of the silent section and we all began to move to the sound. Soon the flute was joined by string and percussion instruments. Small candles were lit and the dancing became wild and free. Everyone kept their eyes gently focused on their own space, avoiding social coupling, but in every other way we were engaged in a joyous communal sharing. No bodies touched, but I felt as if I were dancing intimately with all these strangers. […]
The Swami who had led the meditation inserted a cassette into the tape player saying it was a new lecture fresh from the Ashram in India, and so with cups of tea we all spread out on the floor to listen. At the time I didn’t realize who this guru was or that he had anything to do with the Dynamic Meditation because Crazy Prasad (as she was lovingly referred to by her fellow meditators) was deliberately vague in offering information. For the first 15 minutes or so I barely tuned in to the melodic voice on the tape. I was in a state of bliss, a state reminiscent of hashish-high. […]
His accent was thick, yet he spoke so slowly that I could understand almost all the words. He was talking about the search for God, Enlightenment, Truth; and saying that it was an alone journey, a journey inside. And then he hooked me – with a reference to Samuel Beckett’s play “Waiting for Godot.”
For the remainder of the discourse I was completely captivated. How often I had read Beckett’s strange, mystical story of two tramps endlessly awaiting the arrival of the mysterious Godot, their savior, the man who would somehow give sense to their senseless lives, the man who, in the course of the drama, never arrives? And how often had I felt that this Godot was God, or the search for Truth? And conversely how often had I felt the same despair that the two vagabonds felt, as night fell and they (and I) were alone and waiting for a savior to appear?
It was thrilling to listen to the man, who was later identified as Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, give his interpretation of the play, which was both simple and profound. “Samuel Beckett,” he said, “was a man of deep insight into man’s neurotic need to look on the outside for truth, for salvation,” for a Go-Doat as he pronounced it. He then went on with an extremely funny attack on organized religion, sprinkled with jokes about Jesus, Mohammed, and other messiahs and ended with an exhortation to embrace the wisdom of Gautama the Buddha and simply “be a light unto yourself.”
Prasad and I were the last to leave the center. I purchased a magazine called ‘Bhagwan’, published by the ashram in Poona, India; a copy of the evening’s discourse on cassette tape, plus a few newsletters also published in India. We arrived at her parent’s luxurious abode around 1 am and grazed in the kitchen. I was full of questions about the meditation, the guru, and the ashram in India, but the crazy one was more interested in playing with her new boyfriend. So I naturally put the questions aside and kissed and petted like a nervous schoolboy, jumping whenever I imagined her parents stirring upstairs.
Mastering Madness
by David Hill (Chintan)
Phenomenal Publishing, 2016
Available as paperback and Kindle from amazon.com* – amazon.co.uk* – amazon.de* – amazon.in
Related articles
- Mastering Madness – Kaiyum reviews the book by David Hill, aka Anand Chintan (August 2016)
- Have a little courage – A day with Chintan in an encounter group, in late 70’s Poona (March 2017)
- Bird Man – Chintan writes about his connection with the feathered beings (September 2020)
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