Saswad: a dream vanishes

Part 2 from chapter 22 of Chitbodhi’s memoir, One Life

Saswad fort, photo taken on the day of the inauguration

The Saswad commune was active from January to beginning of June [1981]. The rainy season in India usually starts in early July and lasts until the beginning of October. We never had rain in all my time there except once, sometime in March.

One day Amita and I were standing in the cobblestone courtyard when a guy from the kitchen ran through the castle shouting, “Rain, rain!” pointing to the sky. “We have to save the cement!”

Looking up, shit, black sky, still maybe 10 kilometers away, but so fucking black. We joined the guy, running out of the castle, down the hill to the parked pickup. Two others had also reacted quickly.

Four on the back; a Formula 1 drive two kilometers over a bumpy stony dirt road. Twice we skidded and almost went crashing down the hill. Four of us clinging to the sides and watching the sky. A huge rainstorm approaching us fast, totally atypical for this time of year.

A week before, trucks had delivered 200 sacks of cement to the small outpost at the edge of our land. Vegetable growing had started there already around a small old farmhouse; the community wanted to build more houses. Instead of stacking the cement under the roof outside the small house, the truck driver had dumped them by the road, out in the open.

We arrived. 200 sacks of cement had to be shifted 50 meters into safety, by five men, in no fucking time. The sky around us fucking black, menacing and announcing a heavy downpour.

Any way one could carry a big sack of cement, on the shoulder, on the head, on the back, under your arm. We ran the 50 meters, stacking bags under the roof. Run back, grab one more, run and stack. No time to even feel how heavy the work is. No time to even think for a moment. One sack burst over my head, running. No time to even realize that. Run back and grab another one, run watching the rain approaching.

The last 3 sacks on the way to safety, the first big drops of water hit us, followed within seconds by a huge downpour, the sky dumping tons of water.

Cement is safe!

We looked at each other and started laughing. We had all become cement. Cement men. So funny, the rain hit us and the cement ran down our faces, down our skin, and we started to dance in the rain. Five cement men dancing crazily with laughter in the pouring rain.

A big open well was near the small house. We threw all our cement clothes off into the rain, ran naked through the mud, jumping into the big cool well.

We stayed an hour down there in the water, the rain pouring out of the sky.

All so happy and feeling so crazy.

After an hour the rain stopped. The sun came out. We collected our clothes, all scattered in the mud.

I just wore my underpants; Amita his muddy T-shirt, his prick hanging out from underneath. The others didn’t bother putting anything on and stayed naked all through our ride back on the pickup to the castle.

We were kings. Happy kings.

Arriving back at the castle, we saw lunchtime had just started, everybody welcomed us naked kings, who still had cement clinging to some areas of our bodies.

I went up to the room of Sindhu’s, my girlfriend, which she shared with Amita and Pankaja, an English lady.

I never in my life had worked so hard. My back hurt. My muscles and hands started shaking on the way up. A tired king but so happy and high.

Pankaja offered to bring lunch back for Sindhu, Amita and me. We sat down on the bed opposite each other, and I told her the story of the cement.

Another Life

Vision disappeared and all became grey around me. Vision came back, and I was somebody else: a small boy, maybe 8 or 9 years old, throwing a small handmade ball against a castle wall made of rough stones. I enjoyed myself. The ball bounced unevenly back. Sometimes I couldn’t catch it and it rolled past me.

Then it caught the edge of the wall, bouncing into the huge, deep, arched entrance of the castle. I watched it bounce one more time, then roll all the way out of the castle, coming to rest one meter outside, illuminated by bright sunlight.

I ran to recover my ball. Trumpets blared from all sides, and people were shouting: “Thy king is coming!” over and over.

I saw him already turning the last bend. Many horses had left the woods in the distance, coming to the castle, all riders in beautiful colors, carrying banners – and in front the most colorful, the most impressive, already on the last straight to the castle, just 50 meters more to where I stood.

My King.

My ball in the way of my king, and he would see it, and he would see me if I ran to get it.

I stopped, shaken by fear, right before the line between shadow and sunlight, staring at my ball, and the king approaching.

Vision disappeared. All grey around me. Vision came back.

Sindhu sitting in front of me, looking puzzled, at a loss.

“Chitbodhi, Chitbodhi, are you all right?” – her hand on my shoulder. “What happened? You stopped talking in the middle of a word, and stared at me with blank eyes.”

I look at her. I am back with Sindhu, sitting on the bed. What happened to me?

I just had been a boy, maybe for one minute? Two minutes?

I was shocked, very confused, and told Sindhu what had happened.

I will never forget that small moment of being another person, a small boy. This Boy also had been me.

The Fire

The end of May approached. Somehow an atmosphere of hostility was being created in Saswad. News arrived from Sheela and the main Ashram in Poona, that farmers from surrounding villages might attack us. Each day new stories, building up to a supposedly imminent attack, and more guards from Poona were stationed in and around Saswad.

As I wrote earlier, theoretically the fort did have its own water supply. Below the middle building there was an underground cistern, but the water was too dirty and stinking for use. Sometime in March we had attempted to clean it out – 6 people were involved with that project for almost a week. Although they managed to pull out mud 8 meters deep, they had to give up in the end – the water was still not clean enough.

The only way for us to have clean water for our showers, toilets and kitchen – and our soap department – (by then we were almost 200 people living there) was to contract to rent a well from one of the neighboring farmers, and pump the water from that well up to the castle. One of these wells was located almost a kilometer away. It had to be guarded 24 hours a day because of the very powerful and expensive modern pump we had installed.

Previously just one guard had been there, but now suddenly two guards from the Poona ashram were placed in that position!

The mala shop, a modern workshop with sophisticated lathes producing the lockets and the wooden beads for the malas, was the only department located outside the castle.

Beside it were stored building materials: piles of cut wood, cement – plus gas cylinders, petrol barrels, stoves, kerosene; and anything taking up too much room in the castle.

Usually guarded by one of us, but now Poona guards took over.

Looking back, it’s all so funny!

Those Poona guards: big beautiful sexy men, long hair, long beards, big 350 cc Enfield motorbikes, all the women lying at their feet; egos as big as the biggest mountains on this beautiful planet… our Samurai guards.

We in Saswad never felt any hostility from local farmers. Just the opposite! The few times I met them when I was out on the land they were always very friendly. Nobody had any problem with us being there.

But the announcements kept coming. Motorbikes arrived from Poona with more news that attacks were imminent. The buildup about these threatened attacks was felt by most of us as just big hype for nothing.

Not that the farmers were hostile to us. We (or, some powers in Poona) were hostile to them.

May 27, 1981 started like a normal day. At lunchtime Mukta approached us in the soap department. Could we help later guarding the castle and all the pumps outside? A big meeting had been planned down in Poona for our few guards with ashram guards and Sheela, to discuss this imminent attack by local farmers.

All the guards rumbled away on their motorbikes after lunch, and we at Saswad had to temporarily replace them. Mukta stationed me to guard the mala shop and all the materials stored there. Amita went out to one of the wells to guard the pump.

Afternoon, sitting on a chair, what a boring job! Guard, for what? We were in the middle of fucking nowhere. No villages or houses within 5 km. Nobody anywhere. We were alone there with nature. Anybody who attacked us could be seen from two kilometers away. And anyway they all liked us. None of them had any problem with us, and we in Saswad for sure had no problem with the farmers.

Time passed. I certainly didn’t watch out for an attack that would never come. At 6 pm, an hour before darkness, Mukta walked down to me. Walked past me, right into the middle of the storage area, slowly looking around, scanning every object stored there. Then she waved me to come. Pointing at a 200-liter tin barrel, probably for petrol: “Chitbodhi, can you check this barrel? What is inside?”

“Petrol, half full.”

“Can you roll the barrel over to your chair?” she asks.

So I roll the barrel over to my chair.

“A little bit more, just put it around the corner of the wall.”

I do.

She walks back to the middle for more critical looks. She has found three big gas bottles behind the pile of wood.

She waves me over. “Can you check if they are empty or full?”

I lift them – clearly heavy and full.

“Chitbodhi, can you carry them over to the barrel?” Heavy bastards, probably 30 kg gas in each.

I carry them over one by one and she inspects the area some more.

A 10-liter petrol canister standing in the mala shop also has to be carried over to the barrel around the corner of the big castle wall.

She asks – I do. No thinking. I am just bored, and hope the guards will return soon and I can go back inside.

A last look around and she is obviously satisfied. All is okay now.

Walking past me she says, “Thanks, Chitbodhi. They should be coming back soon.”

You could hear them from kilometers away a little later. Our Hells Angels Samurai guards were approaching. A big roar filling the empty valley, a dust cloud far away, our safety was coming, big and beautiful, bearded with flying hair. Our machos arrived, en masse, over 40 of them, the bikes passing my chair, up the hill to our big castle entrance and parking. I had to cough from all the dust thrown up from the bikes.

A big entrance for them, like in a theater: the curtain rises. The spotlights go on. The play starts. I am watching from below: a scene out of the movies, 40 beautiful guards: were we preparing for a war, and all of us had missed that?

But now we were safe. Our protectors had arrived. Why the fuck did they park right by our huge entrance? The storage area below had enough empty space for all bikes. But no, blocking the whole driveway, typical for them.

I was relieved of my duty. Two Samurais took over my job. It was almost dark now in Saswad.

That night I slept in Sindhu’s room, inside the castle but right above the mala shop.

We all woke up at the same time. Our room was brightly lit in red flickering colors, coming from the one old arrow slit in the wall. The whole castle must have woken at the same time.

Shouting voices from outside, people running and a bell ringing; I didn’t even know we had one. Funny things I noticed in those moments. Running down the stairs, the plumber, a German, running past me, trying to brush his teeth on the way down to the fire. Is it important to arrive for firefighting with freshly-brushed teeth?

Everybody in the castle was awake within a few minutes, all running down towards the mala shop.

Turning the last corner as one of the first, huge flames welcomed me. The mala shop completely engulfed in four-meter-high flames, already threatening the piles of wood stored in the middle of the area.

The first few minutes, shock for everybody, but no time – shock can really settle quickly, and action follows immediately. Problem was – no water tap outside the castle. Buckets had to be found. Water had to arrive from inside the castle. A human chain formed and the buckets of water were handed all the way down to where the fire was, and then back, empty.

A few people were trying to save some wood, pulling it out from the vicinity of the fire, clearing the area that hadn’t yet combusted; some people were working the buckets of water arriving in the chain.

And in all this craziness people can still have fun, as it turned out. I was one of the guys throwing water onto the flames. Just had thrown one load onto the flames, turned around and was hit by a full load of water and also hit by the plastic bucket following the water. Everybody started laughing, the guy had lost control of the bucket. We were far from being professional firefighters, so accidents like these happened many times.

Two hours it took to get control – we finally managed to put out the last flames.

At four in the morning we had won and suddenly it was all over. 180 wet, dirty and tired people walking back to the castle, leaving behind piles of smoldering ash. We went back to bed, trying to sleep another two hours until we woke up for another day of work.

I inspected the site with Amita first thing the next morning. The mala shop was gone. All burned, 90 percent of the wood gone up in flames. Walking back up to our soap department I noticed the barrel of petrol and the gas cylinders standing around the corner of the wall. Nothing had happened to them, they’d been safely stored away from the fire that night.

I had put them there the evening before. Mukta had told me to.

It hit me. We were standing by the barrel.

I told Amita what Mukta had me do the evening before.

It was all suddenly so clear. They had done it. They had started the fire. If this barrel and the gas cylinders had been at their old place, we would have had explosions. Some of us might have been killed.

And where the fuck were the two Poona guards , who’d been sitting by the mala shop? All the Poona guards had disappeared during the night; nobody had seen them at the fire or working in the bucket chain. All Enfield motorbikes had disappeared.

All suddenly became so clear. Suspicion spread fast. The Samurai guards had started the fire, and fled back to Poona right away. Somebody in the Poona ashram had orchestrated the hype beforehand in order to commit arson.

Sheela? Only one person could have schemed up something like that. I don’t have any proof for it, but most of us speculated that it might be so.

A Dream Vanished

But life now accelerated, switching to the fast lane. 27th May was the fire. 28th May, the truth slowly settled in all of us. 1st June, an urgent message arrived that hit like a bomb.

Osho had left Poona, destination unknown – had disappeared, didn’t show up for the morning lecture. What would happen to us now in Saswad? What would happen to the Poona ashram? Osho we all had come to Poona for, to listen to his talks in the morning and evening. With him gone it’s like you wake up in the morning, want to start your car and discover: somebody has stolen the motor overnight.

2nd June, a new message arrived. Pack your bags. You have two hours. Saswad is finished. Buses arrived a few hours later, and our beautiful castle emptied within 30 minutes. Down in Poona, a maelstrom of rumors. He had gone to Simla to a new commune. He had gone to California, Brazil. Other places were mentioned.

Somehow all life was on pause, leaving 5000 people guessing about the future. We had all come to listen to this crazy Indian every morning and every night. We all had come to learn about ourselves. We had all come to break the patterns of society in ourselves. We had all come to change. Bottom line, we had come to become better people, learning about life at its fullest, learning about Tears, Happiness, Depression, Love, Sex, Meditation and Dancing. Open for anything that came our way.

With this crazy Indian in the middle, Poona had been a fairground. For me a three-year rollercoaster ride. What fun it had been!

Four days later somebody told me that Saswad had been cleaned out and everything was stored on a property close to no. 70 Koregaon Park. I had to go there immediately. Standing on the other side of the fence, tears in my eyes, yes it was all there, everything in disarray, piles of wood, stones, kitchen stoves. They must have taken down every nail we ever used. My beautiful Saswad, now a pile of finished dreams, what a fucking good time I’d had in those five months.

Somehow news came through that Osho was now in the US, in New Jersey, and there would be a new commune someday in the future. Poona was finished. Every day more people left, back to the countries they had come from. Poona emptied out over the next two months.

The new challenge for all of us – going back to the “normal” world, and now we had to learn a hard lesson: we had become the enemy.

Follow the whole series of excerpts on Osho News: One Life by Chitbodhi

Featured image: Front wall of the fort, photo taken the day of the inauguration of the Saswad commune – credit to Osho Resources Centre (oshoresourcecenter.com – facebook.com)

One Life: A True Account
by Chitbodhi (Karl Ludwig Malczok)
ASIN: ‎ B00T1LKX6A
Kindle eBook: Amazon*