Abandoned roads - Jos Lammers

didn’t bring enough money to pay the rent of the stadium
and the thousands of hotel rooms around it. Everything
would work out, was the idea, until one property after
another became vacant and it became a hassle to even pay
the grocer that supplied the ashrams with food. The management
team, of which I was a member, had meeting
after meeting, until we saw only one solution: Maharaj
ji. His allowance of five hundred dollars a day had to be
cut in half. Cars and houses had to be sold. Maybe even
his motor home. Bob Denton would fly over to Malibu to
tell him.
The next day he returned, with Maharaj ji. And the
message that we were all fired. That same day we all
had to show up at his divine residence. We waited in the
satsang room, a bit like when in the old days you had to
report with some others at the vice principal. Leaning on
each other’s bravura to avoid that hollow feeling inside.
Finally he came. One by one we kissed his feet that lay on
a small white silk pillow. He looked down on us sitting
on the floor from his chair, decorated with gold colored
pieces of fabric. “You know”, he said, putting down his
words one by one, “it is not up to you to interfere with the
life of the perfect master.” After that he got up and left
the room, followed by Bob Denton, gesturing to us to stay
where we were. Half an hour later Bob came back into the
satsang room, with a grin on his face like the one group
member that had managed to stay tough in front of the
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