Tasting life in orange

A second excerpt from chapter 14 of Chitbodhi’s memoir, One Life: A True Account

Working in the ashram

The Poona ashram at that time was busy like a pedestrian area in the middle of a big city on a Saturday afternoon. The lectures in the morning with Osho were always full. In Buddha Hall there was space for maybe 1500 people to sit and listen to him.

All day, everywhere in the ashram, activities were happening. Besides at least 20 kinds of therapy and meditation groups, also Karate, Tai Chi, Japanese archery and pottery classes were offered.

You could also work, but you didn’t get paid. The ashram was well organized into many departments – Cleaning, Electricity, Cooking, Guards, Gardening, Front Office, Reception, Publishing, Translation, Soap Department, Medical Center, to mention just a few.

With two restaurants on the campus, offering great breakfasts, lunches and dinners, with many Western choices. Life in Poona and around Osho was for sure not boring.

All work was done by us. With a very few exceptions (like the rice cleaning ladies) no Indians from the outside were hired to work inside the ashram. We were building paths and houses, and even the necklace that everybody got when he became ‘part of us’ was made by us in the mala shop.

You want to work? Just ask the same woman, Arup. She chooses the work and puts you in some department of her choosing. We didn’t have a choice. The job you got you had to do, or not work at all, which was also fine.

Nobody asked you to work. Nobody asked you to do a group, or go and listen to his lectures. You could simply hang around all day and all month and do nothing. […]

I asked for work and was put into the cleaning department. For three days I was cleaning the public toilets in the front part of the ashram. I really liked it. On the fourth day I was changed to the kitchen department, Vrindavan – no reason given.

Cutting vegetables, cooking – I always liked to do that – but I was not sure if I really liked it under the command of the famous and feared Deeksha from Italy. People in charge over me and living their power trips has never tasted to me like freedom.

She was the boss and she behaved like the boss.

So I was cleaning carrots the first day and the next and the next and the next.

The main restaurant was a huge open space. At lunchtime probably 1000 people could get their meals there. I was sitting during my lunch break with Garjan, that first red guy I had met when I arrived in Poona.

“Deeksha is staring at you,” he said.

“What? Where?”

“Look towards the front door. She is standing there.”

I glanced over. Indeed she was standing 30 meters away and staring at me. Our eyes met and at first impulse I wanted to look away, but on second impulse I stared back.

We had a staring match. Meanwhile Garjan and I continued our conversation, talking about Deeksha.

“After this she will probably throw me out.” Let her. I stared back.

The staring match lasted maybe five minutes, then she disappeared into the kitchen.

Lunchtime over, I was immediately called to see Deeksha.

She didn’t look at me and didn’t talk to me. She only talked to her assistant: “Tell him, tomorrow morning at 4 am he starts in the bakery as a dishwasher.”

The assistant: “Chitbodhi, you start tomorrow at 4 am in the bakery as a dishwasher.”

I got that after the first time. Twice is kind of overkill…

“Fuck you. Sure, no problem. First the toilets, then cleaning carrots, now dishwasher – it’s kind of an improvement.” I didn’t say it out loud but these were my thoughts.

In the next six weeks I had more of this kind of encounter with Deeksha.

One time I was delivering cakes to the ashram at two in the afternoon. I put them down in Vrindavan and was ready to leave and get back to the bakery.

Deeksha: “STOP!”

Assistant: “Chitbodhi, STOP!”

Deeksha: “Tell him to cut the cake in 16 pieces.”

Assistant: “Chitbodhi, cut the cake in 16 pieces.”

Me with knife in hand, ready to cut the cake.

Deeksha: “Tell him not to start there. He has to turn the cake around.”

Assistant: “Chitbodhi, turn the cake and start the cutting from here,” pointing with her finger.

I turn the cake and start the first cut.

Deeksha: “Tell him, a nice clean cut.”

Assistant: “Chitbodhi, a nice clean cut.”

Me thinking: “What kind of movie is this I am in? This bitch, can’t she talk to me directly?”

She never did ever.

The ashram had rented a bakery in downtown Poona. Inside there was a very big old oven made from stone. The Indian baker used it from four in the afternoon until four at night, and we used it the other 12 hours.

Dishwashing, no big deal for me, for sure no punishment as Deeksha must have intended. After my training in Germany, in the chemical plant with Mr. Wolny, where I washed test tubes and distillation flasks five hours a day for almost a whole year, washing dishes in the bakery… piece of cake for me. Any possible resistance had already been broken – I actually enjoyed washing dishes!

The oven was huge. Three meters wide and five meters deep inside. At the time I was there, we had three men, mainly for making bread, and eight women who made all kinds of cakes, croissants, shortbreads, and then there was me as a dishwasher, working at high speed, as everybody who has ever worked in a bakery would know.

Eleven bakers produce a lot of dirty baking forms and every form had to be cleaned fast and immediately. After all, almost 2000 people were enjoying our bakery goods.

Every day: 150 – 1 kg white breads, 180 – 1 kg brown breads, and twice a week 100 pumpernickel breads. And… every morning 500 croissants had to be ready by 9.30 for breakfast, and then cinnamon rolls, cookies, special birthday cakes, chocolate croissants, shortbreads, apple cakes and German cheesecakes by 2 pm for afternoon tea break in the ashram.

I loved the dishwashing job, but it didn’t last long.

Four days into my dishwashing career, a few bakers fell ill and Ramananda, a US baker in charge of the bread, took me away from the dishwashing sinks and made me a baker. The next morning another dishwasher arrived, sent by Deeksha. The woman in charge in the bakery was Italian; her name was Anasha.

So suddenly I am a baker. We didn’t have any machines like we would today. All kneading had to be done by hand, and to make around 300 breads ready for the oven took us from 8.30 to 11 am, so they’d be ready to be delivered to the ashram by 1:30 pm.

Two bakers were responsible for white bread and brown bread. Before making the dough they split up the mountain of flour between them; each had 75 kg. That first day Ramananda told me to just watch him and imitate him, which I did. Tough job this kneading, but I tried my best and was proud at the end that my pile of dough looked the same as his, and kind of had the same consistency.

Testing my dough he said to me: “Your bread is horrible, looks the same, but will taste like shit.”

“How do you know?”

“I know, trust me.”

That evening and the next morning my arms almost fell off. They weren’t used to kneading so much dough!

Next morning, as we got ready to start the kneading again, Ramananda ventured into a lecture: “You have to knead the bread like you treat and touch the sexiest naked woman alive. The way you did it yesterday, you were violating her, you were raping her. Just think of naked beautiful breasts, feel them, and touch them. You have to put your soul into the kneading.”

“What has bread got to do with my soul? Bread is bread.”

“Wrong, bread is food; food is only as good as we are. Food comes from the soul if it’s good. A good cook cooks with his heart and a good baker the same. You have to put your whole feeling into the kneading. Strong and soft, what women like and bread loves that too.”

I was kneading, and listening to him and watching him, trying to do the kneading like he was. I couldn’t really imagine that the pile on the table in front of me was a sexy naked beautiful woman, but I tried hard. Sometimes he interrupted me: “Now you are violating her again. Softer, knead with your heart.”

Sometimes his finger reached over, testing my dough and then leaving with the comment: “Still pretty bad, more heart, don’t hold back.”

That went on for a second day.

On the third day he took me aside before we started.

“Okay, today we do a little test so you understand what I am talking about. From your pile we will separate one bread, mark the form, and do the same from my pile of dough. After we have delivered the bread to the ashram we will have these two breads for our afternoon tea break. We will all taste both breads, but only you and I will know which is mine and which is yours.”

Okay, that was a challenge for me and I did my best. Ramananda didn’t help me even once.

3 pm: We were sitting outside the bakery with all kinds of freshly-baked stuff for our tea break, including the two breads. My bread looked the same as his. My bread had the same consistency as his. Two identical loaves.

Everybody tasted from both breads, and they pointed to his bread as being the far-better-tasting one. After tasting both, I grudgingly had to agree: his tasted different, much better.

On the morning of the fourth day, another small lecture:

“Bread has a soul. It’s food that we make from our heart. If we don’t put our soul into the making of it then it’s a tasteless bread. And here, for this ashram, we only make the best, the very best.”

After six days he stopped watching me and giving me these speeches. Now I knew my bread was as good as his.

Chandus and Panda

During these six weeks of working as a baker, one afternoon at four o’clock, while coming back to the ashram, suddenly I see a big white dog appear at the end of the street, with Chandus following. Panda had arrived and I was so glad that they had finally made it to Poona.

Panda, as beautiful and cool as ever, welcomed me like a friend. Wow, he remembered me! Chandus had arrived four days before, and had already booked his appointment for taking Sannyas.

Then I remembered my piece of hashish, still in my backpack, because since leaving Afghanistan I hadn’t felt like smoking at all.

“You want my piece? For free?”

He was delighted. He had been afraid to take anything with him over the border. So suddenly he got my 70 gr and he was so happy, and now I knew why I had taken it with me – for Chandus.

Dogs were not allowed in the ashram. But with Panda it was a very different story. He got special permission to go in with Chandus. He just wasn’t allowed to go inside the big meditation hall and listen to Osho, and wasn’t allowed to participate in therapy groups. Haha, Panda didn’t need any therapy. We humans were fucked up. He was fine to the core.

My money situation was slowly signaling the end of my India adventure. I still needed to keep aside $350 for my long way back overland.

I stopped working and decided to just hang out and enjoy my last weeks, meeting friends and the many new people who were streaming into Poona every day. Poona, a place, and one Indian guy, Rajneesh, magically attracted thousands of people from all countries of this world – is actually attracting millions of people until today, a place and a guy with no answers. But are answers really what we are looking for?

I didn’t get an answer but that felt good. I had an unbelievable time in Poona. It all happened differently than what I had planned.

One more story from Poona

One day I was sitting outside the ashram on a low wall, just smoking an Indian cigarette, a beedi. An older guy sitting beside me, same as me in a red robe and with a necklace, and we started a conversation. Although it was very hot, he wore a red scarf around his neck.

Talking about the usual things like enlightenment, awareness, and groups, I saw something white peek out from under his scarf.

“What is this white thing under your scarf?”

He removed his scarf… and I was stunned. He was wearing a white priest’s collar, covering it with a scarf, and wearing the red robe and necklace, which meant he had chosen to be a Sannyasin.

“You are really a priest?”

“Yes, from Ireland,” and he pulled photos out of his shoulder bag, of his church and his congregation, of him in the graveyard at a funeral.

“How can it be? The Catholic Church hates us, Osho is constantly telling jokes about the stupid Pope. What do you do when you get back to Ireland? Give up your priesthood?”

“I can’t wear red there. For sure I don’t want to give up my priesthood. I will wear the mala underneath my clothes. Nobody in my church needs to know.”

“So why are you here? What is so special for you here? What is so special about this guy?”

His answer was surprising: “Listening to him, I understand Jesus for the first time. And that makes me love my job even more.”

Not much more to say about that.

Getting ready to leave

It was the middle of July now and somehow I had to get ready for my four-week trip back overland to Berlin.

My plan for Berlin was simple and short. Stop my Psychology studies, dissolve my apartment and sell everything I owned, say goodbye to all my friends in Berlin, and come back to Poona.

Sounds like a real plan.

But first I had to go all the way back by train and bus, and then I would maybe sit in that sweet shop in Istanbul as one of those returning from Poona. And then one guy would arrive from Berlin, like I did, but then this time it would be me, all in orange and with a mala, who would be asked all kinds of questions.

But… what could I say about Poona?

Now I understood the guy I’d met on my way here. What can really be said about Poona? About this strange Indian man. That he was sitting all day in his room, just coming out for a two-hour lecture in the morning and another two hours in the evening?

He said he was enlightened. I have no idea what enlightenment is. The place is beautiful. Nobody ever told me what to do. I was me, always me.

Whoever wants to know, has to go there and find out for themselves.

I had $600 left in travelers checks. Time to start. I needed $350 for all the expenses until I arrived at the Berlin train station. Time now to get going with my plans for Berlin. No time to stay anywhere for long. Just as quickly as I could, back overland.

Time to say goodbye to Poona.

At that time, whoever was leaving could see Osho in the evening one last time; could sit in front of him and say goodbye. And maybe talk to him.

I had my train ticket to Bombay. It was my last night in Poona, and that night the leaving Darshan. Same as every night at his house, people were called forward to receive Sannyas, the mala and a name, then the people who were leaving during the next few days were called forward.

To sit a second time in front of him was no better for me than the first. I just had to look into his eyes and my brain went blank. Thinking stopped and it was useless for him to try to start any kind of conversation with me. He did try a few times but I couldn’t say anything. I understood what he said, but there were no thoughts. What to answer?

Osho gave up after a few tries, smiled, and everybody starting laughing. He gave me a small box as a gift and just smiled.

Once back in my seat my thinking came back and I felt so stupid. Why didn’t I say anything? Why didn’t I ask a question?

Why? Why? I didn’t really understand.

From chapter 14 (edited) of Chitbodhi’s book, One Life – Featured image thanks to Swami Guru – reproduced with permission

Oberhausen College – too good to be true – From Chitbodhi’s memoir, One Life. Co-protagonists are: “A teacher, Dr. L. and 26 incredible classmates!”
Holzkamp – Chitbodhi remembers events during his days at Uni in Berlin
Squatting a Church (16 December 1977) – Chapter 8
A sudden decision – A Long Read from chapter 13
Becoming one of them – Chapter 14 (Part 1) – Receiving a new name and being in the Encounter Group
Follow the whole series of excerpts on Osho News: One Life by Chitbodhi