По битловским местам в Индии

With the Beatles in India
by Paul Saltzman, Photographer, filmmaker, author of The Beatles In India

These are excerpts from the new, Deluxe Limited Edition, box-set book, The Beatles in India. The time that John, Paul, George and Ringo spent at the Ashram in India, in 1968, was the single most creative period in their illustrious careers--they were inspired to write 48 songs in the few weeks they were there. But the real reason they went to India was to find inner peace: George Harrison shared this with me in one of the many intimate times I was fortunate to spend with the Fab Four.

Introduction

The 1960s were archetypical. Following the enormous destruction and inhumanity of two world wars in the first half of the 20th century, and the reactive focus on creating personal wealth for safety in the 1950s, the 60s quickly became a time of tremendous change in society, marked by a world wide upheaval between the generations and growing skirmishes between governments and their own young people. The 'old order' was being challenged daily by social and political activism, as well as drugs, rock 'n' roll, and the 'free love' movement. As Bob Dylan told us, the times they are a-changin'. Our generation was looking for fun, yes, but also for deeper meaning for ourselves and for others, trying to create a better world.

The 1960s came to a head in 1968. It was both positive and negative. It started with the 'Prague Spring' liberalization of communism in Czechoslovakia, followed by the 'Tet Offensive' in Viet Nam and the buildup of the anti-war movement in the United States. In May of that year the 'Paris Riots' saw hundreds of thousands of French citizens take to the streets in a general insurrection, started by university students in a quest for social and political reform. By August, Russian tanks crushed the 'Prague Spring' but it was the first crack in the face of totalitarian Soviet communism that would eventually lead to the fall of the Berlin Wall and the dissolution of the U.S.S.R. And while the early and mid 1960s saw major leaps forward in the American civil rights movement, 1968 was the year the movement lost two heroes in the assassinations of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., at age 39, and Bobby Kennedy, just 42.

By 1968 the struggle for outer justice and equality was being mirrored by a growing thirst for inner transformation, and our generation dived into the universal quest for personal fulfillment. We were looking for a more loving redefinition of relationships than our parents' generation seemed to believe in. It wasn't just about getting a job and making a living, anymore. It was also about living your feelings, about honesty, joy and playfulness. It was about peace both inside and out. The Beatles, Dylan and Donovan were our heralds, our troubadours calling out to us, leading the way, in the ideal, to an end of the patriarchal, both within and without. It was the beginning of a movement from a struggle-based paradigm to a joy-based paradigm. In their music, they never felt or appeared or sounded as if they were out to please, or manipulate, or make money. For the Beatles, they were mostly having authentic fun, itself a great lesson.

But something was missing. Early in 1968, at the height of their popularity and arguably the most famous people on the planet, the Beatles traveled to India, to the foothills of the Himalayas, to find something that all their fame and fortune could not give them. They went to find inner peace. For eight weeks they disappeared into an ashram to study meditation. No press or visitors were allowed.

Seekers in their music, they were now seekers in their spiritual lives. For many of us, the Beatles were the avatars--the embodiment, the archetype--of western culture and society and when they turned to the East, millions of young people turned to see what they were looking at, where they were going, what they were doing. To the West, then, ashrams were a little known phenomenon. They were centers of spiritual learning, of yoga, of vegetarian eating and, to the generations of the 60s, word that the Beatles were at an ashram in India aroused a curiosity in a great many people searching in their own lives for a deeper fulfillment than materialism could deliver. The Beatles were forging ahead, again.

Why did all four Beatles go to India? George was the most interested. He was 'the quiet one', perhaps most in touch with himself. He was a devoted seeker, devoted to finding the inner connection with his own Divine Nature. This connection is soul food. It requires quiet to do this. That they all went was significant. Each, in their own way, more or less, was looking to get away from their fame, from the cacophony of their busy lives. Looking for the quiet. Looking for the soul food. As George said, when we sat together at the ashram: all the bells and whistles, all the outer rewards and distractions, "It isn't peace inside, is it?" They were also there to be together. They were family.

Personally, I woke up one morning in Montreal in late 1967 and realized there were parts of myself I didn't like. I was shocked. I had thought all was going well: I was working in film, been a television host at 21, was proud of myself for doing voter registration work in Mississippi in the dangerous summer of '65. And yet, in that moment, I felt empty inside. As I thought about it, I realized I lacked self-confidence. I lacked a sense of inner peace, even a sense of meaning for my life. In December of that year, I stuffed my backpack and set out on a journey to 'find myself'. I only thought of India. It was instinct, the inner voice. I knew nothing of India or meditation, and I had no idea the Beatles would be there.

I said good-bye to my girlfriend, both of us in tears, and arranged to end my time working at the National Film Board of Canada with one last job, as a sound recordist on a documentary shoot in India. On December 4, 1967, with two hundred dollars and a round-trip ticket to India in my pocket, I boarded a plane for my first trip overseas.

The Journey

Flying at 32,000 feet, heading for India, I was excited, and scared. I knew I was searching for something. I was looking for a different 'me'. But, who was that? And, how do I find him? And, what if 'he' didn't exist? What then?

Landing in the early dawn's dust and heat of Bombay on December 6, 1967, I was four days shy of my twenty-fourth birthday and I'd never been out of North America. On my own, far away from home, I found myself loving my girlfriend more than ever. Culture shock hit hard. I spent the first three nights in a Salvation Army hostel, for a dollar-fifty a night, including three meals and tea. The first night, my two hundred dollars in U.S. traveler's checks were stolen and I was awakened at 5:30 the next morning by an earthquake.

Nonetheless, I was amazed by India--by its richness and its poverty. The streets around the hostel stank of sewage and yet the colourful clothes, the music, the art and the smell of incense were exquisite. The local people were remarkably hospitable. If I looked lost on a street corner for thirty seconds someone immediately came up to offer directions. Often, they were very curious and asked questions. "What is your name?" "How old are you?" "Where are you from?" "Are you married?" "How do you like India?" And several times I was invited into their homes for tea and conversation.

As the first days passed, I felt the wonderful winter heat of Bombay bathe my body. My neck and back stretched out and stood tall, and my shoulders came upright from their long-defensive hunch. My chest opened up, feeling unrestricted, and my breathing became deep and relaxed, like I couldn't remember. I loved India, that first week, just for that. Just for the visceral, joyful feeling of coming home to a place within myself that I had long forgotten. It was my first conscious step on the journey within, which George Harrison wrote about so beautifully in his songs Within You, Without You and The Inner Light. It would be only a few weeks later, and a few city blocks from where I was staying in Bombay, that George would first record The Inner Light--on January 12, 1968, at EMI's Bombay studios--and I couldn't have imagined that by mid-February my path would unexpectedly cross his, and that of the other Beatles, in Rishikesh.

When the NFB film director and his cameraman arrived a few days later, I moved across the road into the Taj Mahal Hotel. The premier luxury hotel in Bombay, it was renowned for its ornate British Raj architecture. I was now living in luxury on the film production's budget. Two days later, we drove north by Econoline van, filming up the beautiful west coast of Gujarat and across the western scrublands of Rajasthan. Six weeks later, we finished our filming and on January 24, 1968, we drove into New Delhi. I was excited. A letter from my girlfriend back home was waiting for me. All I can remember is her first line: "Dear Paul, I've moved in with Henry." As I read her "Dear Paul" letter that first night in Delhi, my heart felt crushed by a sledgehammer. I could hear a screaming inside me and I feared that if I let it out I would drown in it. I could barely breathe through the tears. I felt totally abandoned, alone.
It didn't help that I was now 'off the production budget', near broke and had to check out of the posh Oberoi Intercontinental Hotel. After checking out the next day, I walked into the hot mid-afternoon sun and found a crowd of between thirty and forty press people milling about. Even though I'd worked in current affairs television for several years, I had never experienced a news scrum. A gaggle of journalists, reporters, news photographers, cameramen and soundmen were camped outside waiting for someone to arrive. A moment later, a white chauffeur-driven Ambassador, then the most common car in India, pulled in and at a shout they all grabbed their news gear. Paparazzi-like, they swarmed the car. The object of the hunt, a petite, wispy, beautiful young woman could barely get herself out of the car. As she and her female friend were rushed into the lobby by hotel staff, the press crushed around yelling out questions, microphones thrust forward, cameras rolling, snapping photographs. I recognized Mia Farrow from the numerous pictures I'd seen of her in newsmagazines, when her marriage to Frank Sinatra had ended.

Mia was clearly shaken and frightened by the rapaciousness of the news people as they all pushed past me in pursuit of her. Two large Sikh doormen, wearing starched white uniforms and crimson-red turbans, blocked the press from entering as three assistant managers rushed Mia and her friend through the lobby toward a waiting elevator. One photographer slipped through a side door and as he raced up behind Mia calling her name, so she'd turn around, she lost it. She ran at him, screaming, hitting him with her bag. Two security men grabbed him and ushered him out. Mia was close to tears with a look on her face like that of a terrified child.

Deeply moved by her distress, I bought a beautiful giant yellow mum at the hotel flower shop and took the elevator up to her floor. I got off and headed down the long hall towards the Maharajah Suite. The doorbell sounded quietly through the heavy mahogany double doors. After a long moment, the friend I'd seen Mia enter with opened the door. She was, I later learned, Mia's sister Prudence Farrow. I explained that I had witnessed the scene downstairs and wanted to make a kindly gesture. Prudence was wary but accepted the flower, saying she would give it to Mia, and as I turned and went back down the hall she called after me, "Thank you." As I left, I understood the double-edged sword of fame in a way I never had before.

As I hung around New Delhi, not knowing what to do, I was desperate for relief. A new American acquaintance, Al Bragg, asked me if I wanted to come along to hear the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi give a talk on transcendental meditation. "I'll try anything." I said, jumping at the chance. That night, the large auditorium at New Delhi University was jam-packed, overflowing with foreigners and Indians as we squeezed in against the wall at the back. On stage, a low dais was festooned with flowers. After ten or fifteen minutes, a short, curious little man draped in white cotton, with long scraggly graying hair and beard, entered at the rear of the hall and walked down the center aisle. Close behind, twenty Westerners followed, each of them wearing colorful Indian clothes and garlands of red, white, and orange flowers around their necks. They were, it turned out, part of a group of meditators on their way to the Maharishi's ashram in Rishikesh. As the Maharishi sat cross-legged on the dais, his followers seated themselves in a semicircle behind him.

The Maharishi talked in a high musical voice about meditation as a direct path to inner peace and harmony. He said, "Transcendental meditation naturally takes the mind beyond the present level of experience to the finer stages of experience, and eventually takes it beyond the finest state of experience and leaves it in a state of pure awareness. It takes the mind behind and beyond the fears and anxieties that trouble us. Reaching those fields of pure consciousness, of pure being, we tap the very source of bliss and energy."
All this, he said, could begin quickly and easily without conflict in the mind and without giving up any of life's pleasures. I couldn't quite buy this. I guess I believed the road to inner peace and happiness was one of struggle. And yet, he was light and joyful and his laughter seemed to embody what he promised was available to all of us through meditation. Standing there at the back of the auditorium, I prayed he was right.

That night, I decided to go to his ashram, or spiritual retreat center, in Rishikesh to learn meditation. Distracted by the pain I was feeling, I didn't think to make arrangements and several days later I rode through the night by third-class train, northeast into the foothills of the Himalayas. As morning came, a dawning lavender-pink sky illuminating the forested green slopes that rose on either side of the tracks, we entered Dehra Dun, a town known for its two elite British-run private schools, its temples and as one of two rail stops close to Rishikesh.

An hour and a half ride by scooter-rickshaw and 43 kilometers up the road, at 1,175 feet above sea level, we enter Rishikesh. The majesty of the Himalayas begins as the Shivalik range towers another 5,500 feet above the town that straddles the banks of the Ganges. To India's eight hundred million Hindus, the Ganges is Ganga Ma--or Mother Ganges--the holiest of rivers, making Rishikesh a pilgrimage center filled with temples and hostels. A center for yoga, meditation and philosophical studies since ancient times, it also has many ashrams, both in the town and in the hills around, like the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's.

I hadn't realized there were many ashrams there and I asked a young man if he knew where the Maharishi's was. He didn't, but said that most of the ashrams were across the river. Walking through the bustling town, past small white temples, sadhus and a few beggars, I arrived at the bathing steps, or ghats, for pilgrims that lined the river. The Ganges flowed swiftly, a rich emerald green colour, as I hired a small motorboat to take me across the river. The old boatman steered us out into the fast current in a wide trajectory that carried us the 150 yards to the east bank of the river. Nearing the far shore, we passed in front of the ghats on the Swargashram side of the Ganges. Men and women, young and old, were bathing and washing clothes in the bright sun. As the boatman pushed off, he pointed south along the riverbank and said, "Maharishi ashram, there."

Not knowing what I was looking for, I walked a half-mile along the pebbly and rocky riverbank until I saw a small sign at the foot of a narrow path. Made of rough wood, it had the word 'ashram' crudely painted on it, with a small arrow pointing towards the heavens. After a circuitous and steep climb through trees, thickets and patches of large purple wildflowers, I reached the top of the cliff. It was early afternoon on a beautiful day. From there, a one-lane dirt road ran several hundred yards away from town, along the cliffs, leading me to the ashram.
At the entrance stood a faded, yellow, wood picket-fence gate. It was locked and a man in a slightly tattered, dark blue Nehru jacket stood guard. He spoke no English but motioned to someone inside and a short young man in his early thirties, with a lovely light-brown complexion and a short, dark, trim beard came to talk to me. He introduced himself in a quiet, warm voice as Raghvendra, a disciple of the Maharishi, and asked if he could help me. I told him I had seen the Maharishi speak at Delhi University a few days before and that I'd come to learn meditation. Raghvendra was kind, but firm, "I'm very sorry but the ashram is closed because the Beatles and their wives are here, and were doing a meditation teacher's course." I had nothing to lose: "You have to teach me." I said, " I'm in a lot of emotional pain." He considered this for a moment, then said, "I will ask the Maharishi. I will send you a cup of chai, but I may not be back for two or three hours."

I thanked him, dropped my backpack to the ground, and plunked myself down. I had no idea the Beatles would be there and, at that moment, it was not good news. I spent the afternoon resting there by the gate and wrote a letter to my parents and one to my girlfriend, hoping she would reconsider. A few hours later, Raghvendra returned. Again, he was soft-spoken and kind.
"I'm sorry," he said, "the Maharishi says 'Not at the present time'."

He explained that there were sixty meditators in the ashram from all over the world, to take their advanced teacher's course, and with the Beatles and their wives there the ashram was closed to all visitors and the press. Without thinking, I said, "Can I wait?" Raghvendra was a little taken aback. He paused, seeming to check my sincerity, then said, "Yes" and added that, since I had come all the way from Canada, I could sleep in one of two old, white canvas army tents pitched across the path in a clearing of scrub grass under the old teak trees. He added that they would send me their "simple vegetarian meals." Each tent could sleep about six adults, but I was alone in mine. A local tailor from the village below had temporarily set up shop in the other tent.

As each day stretched slowly into the next, I thought about my quest to 'find myself' but I just wanted my heart to stop hurting. I longed to be taught meditation. Over the next few days Raghvendra and I talked often. A kind, decent, down-to-earth man, there was always a twinkling joy in his eyes and whenever we looked at each other we couldn't help smiling. Raghvendra was a brahmacharya, or novice monk, and one of the Maharishi's closest disciples. He had spent many years looking for a guru and when he finally met the Maharishi, two years before, he gave up his law studies and became one of his lifetime students.

The turbulence of world events in 1968 didn't echo in Rishikesh. At the same time, the world's press arrived to find out what the Beatles were doing there. Every day 20 to 30 would arrive: camera crews, radio and press reporters: BBC, the American networks, Time Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, Paris Match, Vogue, Der Stern, Italian and Japanese television, and more. Each afternoon I'd watch as the Maharishi came out of the gate to give a press conference and answer questions. Referring to the Beatles, one British reporter asked me if I thought they'd "gone bonkers".

Meditation

I waited for eight days outside the gates to the Ashram. Then one day, in the early morning mist, Raghvendra came through the gate. He said I could come in now and learn to meditate, and I could spend my days in the ashram, take my meals with them and continue to sleep in the tent at night. My initiation into transcendental meditation took place in Raghvendra's quarters, with only the two of us there. We sat cross-legged on white futons on the floor and began with a short puja, a traditional Hindu offering of fruit, flowers, cloth and prayers. After Raghvendra sang ancient Sanskrit prayers, he told me my mantra, or incantation, that I would use in meditating. Mantras can be words, which lose their meaning through repetition, but mine was simply a one-syllable configuration of letters that gave a soft sound when pronounced. He instructed me in how to say the sound silently, within, and just easily follow it, listening to it until it faded to silence; and how to repeat this until I experienced a transcending of normal waking consciousness. I closed my eyes and tried it for a few minutes. Raghvendra asked me to describe what I was experiencing, to make sure I was using the technique properly. Then after reminding me that the mantra was mine, and secret, he left me alone to meditate for the first time.

I relaxed, shut my eyes, and let thoughts come and go. As I became engrossed in thought, the outside world seemed to recede. I no longer noticed the wind in the trees or the sound of faraway talking. Then, as Raghvendra had instructed, I gently replaced my thoughts with my mantra. I silently said my sound and listened to it, following it. Thoughts flooded back in, and again I replaced them with my mantra. I lost sense of time and for a moment only the sound of my mantra was in my conscious mind. As the sound faded no verbalized thoughts replaced it and I was left in a place without sound and without thought. I wasn't actually conscious of this until a second later, when that faithful little observation voice in my head said, "Hey! That's it!" which right away pulled me back into conscious, verbal thought.

I hadn't fallen asleep, yet it had been a very restful place of silence and darkness. I didn't know quite where I had gone, but I knew I had been somewhere deeply peaceful. I felt reenergized and I realized that I must have transcended. I wanted to experience it again and so continued meditating for about half-an-hour and transcended once more. It could have been for a second or two, or several minutes--I couldn't tell. Most of the time, though, I just thought about things, and my thinking seemed clearer, less cluttered than usual.

When I stopped, I waited for about a minute, slowly opened my eyes, and walked into the bright afternoon sun. It took my eyes a moment or two to adjust. The scream was gone. The agony was gone. I felt like a newborn chick, having just come out of its shell into a whole new reality. I walked toward my tent feeling rested, calm, mildly euphoric, turned on at being alive. As I sat, I couldn't help smiling at the friendly hills. I felt a soft physical vibration in my body and a warmth in my heart. I felt a new sense of oneness with the world. I realized, sitting there, that truly loving another person is not possessive or controlling, but expansive and supportive. Surprisingly, I felt happiness for my girlfriend. And, I realized I had abandoned her before she left me. I felt different, like something profound had shifted within me. Was this part of 'finding myself'? Was this what I had been looking for? And was it to be found inside me? It felt like it, like the beginning of a new path--and I felt very grateful.

That night I sat alone looking up at the mountain stars for hours. The trees rustled faintly in the distance, the sweet fragrance of evening jasmine filling the air. Monkeys chattered and somewhere in the valley below a lone peacock called out. From the far side of the ashram another answered. Allowing the soft, velvet touch of night to envelop me, I felt at peace.

With the Beatles in India - Part 2
by Paul Saltzman, Photographer, filmmaker, author of The Beatles In India

These are excerpts from the new, Deluxe Limited Edition, box-set book, The Beatles in India. The time that John, Paul, George and Ringo spent at the Ashram in India, in 1968, was the single most creative period in their illustrious careers--they were inspired to write 48 songs in the few weeks they were there. But the real reason they went to India was to find inner peace: George Harrison shared this with me in one of the many intimate times I was fortunate to spend with the Fab Four.

Meeting The Beatles

The ashram sat on a small plateau among wooded hills. A narrow dirt road ran from the front gate to the back of the property, and a barbed-wire fence surrounded the property, ensuring the ashram's privacy. Along the road, away from the cliff, behind a low chain link fence were six long, whitewashed bungalows each with five or six double rooms. Flowerbeds filled with large red hibiscus blossoms garlanded the ashram and several vegetable gardens, tended by a turbaned old gardener, supplied some of the fresh vegetables we ate. Peacocks inhabited the surrounding woods and occasionally one would wander onto the ashram grounds.

I was walking through the ashram the next morning when I saw John, Paul, George, and Ringo sitting with their partners-Cynthia Lennon, actress Jane Asher, Pattie Boyd Harrison and Maureen Starkey-as well as Donovan and Mal Evans at a long table by the edge of the cliff that overlooked the Ganges and Rishikesh. Somewhat nervously, I walked over.

"May I join you?" I asked. "Sure, mate." said John, "Pull up a chair." Then Paul said, "Come and sit here." and pulled a chair over next to him. As soon as I sat down, to my surprise, I heard this voice in my head scream, "Eek! It's the Beatles!" Before I even had time to think, I was surprised by a second voice within me. This one was calm, deep and resonant: "Hey, Paul," it said, "They're just ordinary people like you. Everyone farts, and is afraid in the night." And from that moment on, I never thought of them as the Beatles again, but rather, as four individual human beings.

At a pause in their conversation, John turned to me and said, "So, you're from the States, then?" "No, Canada," I answered. He playfully turned to the others, "Ah! He's from one of the Colonies, then." I said, "Yes," as we all laughed. "You're still worshipping Her Highness, then?" "Not personally," I quipped, as we all laughed again, "but we still have her on our money." "Lucky you," joked Ringo, and Paul joined in with another tease. I came back with, "Well, we may have her on our money, but she lives with you." As we continued to roll with the laughter, Cynthia good-humouredly interceded: "Leave the poor chap alone. After all, he's just arrived." "No problem," I responded, and John turned to the others with a final, "Ah! You see, mates, they still have a sense of humour in the Colonies!" and we all laughed again. After that, they just took me into their small family. Later, someone got up and said they were going to meditate. Within moments all were gone except Mal and me. I asked him if they were really as cool as they seemed. "Not always," he answered, "but pretty much."

Over the following days Mal and I became buddies. He had been with the Beatles from the beginning of their success. He was a big teddy bear of a man who had been a part-time bouncer at the Cavern Club in Liverpool when the Beatles played there. He was hired in 1963 by their manager, Brian Epstein, to be one of their 'roadies'. Now, he was a personal assistant to all four of them, taking care of their needs both in England and on the road, as he was doing in Rishikesh. He called them, "the boys."

I first became aware of the Beatles dancing to their early rock and roll songs, like Twist and Shout, Roll over Beethoven, and Please, Mr. Postman. By the time Can't Buy Me Love hit number one on the pop charts, in April 1964, I was a fan. Beatlemania was already exploding, worldwide, and they first toured Canada that year. On September 7 they came to Toronto. I was then twenty-one and will never forget the feeling of electricity crackling in the air as they sang twelve songs and eighteen thousand of us, packed to the rafters in Maple Leaf Gardens, yelled and screamed and set off so many flash bulbs that it seemed like fireworks popping all over the arena. It was a matinee performance, and after it was over we all made our way out of the Gardens into the late-afternoon summer sunlight, onto Carlton and Church streets. The police had blocked traffic from the area, and as the huge crowd of fans filled the deserted streets you could almost hear a pin drop. Electricity still tingled in the air. There was no jostling, yelling or calling to friends, just silence, parted by the odd hushed voice, everyone still transported by the magic of the Beatles.

On August 8, 1966, the Beatles released their album Revolver in North America. I remember it vividly. Word was that the album would sell out on that first day and I rushed to buy a copy. Back at my house, my girlfriend and I smoked a joint, stretched a long yellow extension cord out the front window into the warm sun and set up my hi-fi on a large multicolored Indian bedspread on the front lawn. I put the vinyl LP disc on the turntable and we lay down, cuddled up next to each other, my arm under her head, and closed our eyes. From the first note to the last I was transported. That day, the Beatles opened a door in my psyche. I can't think of any other way to say it. It was a key moment in my life, and the song that actually did this was Tomorrow Never Knows. Lying there on the grass, eyes closed, the sun on my face, gently stoned and super focused, the lyrics sank into me. I knew the Beatles were telling me of a journey I had not yet made, of an internal place that held great love and knowing.

The Beatles and their group ate at the table by the cliff, shaded by a flat thatched roof covered with vines and held up by white wooden poles. Breakfasts were cereal, toast, juice, tea and coffee. Lunch and dinners were soup, plain basmati rice and bland but nutritious vegetarian dishes with almost no spices. Occasionally, I ate with them. Crows settled in the trees nearby and silver-gray, long-tailed langur monkeys gathered on the flat roof of the nearby kitchen, both waiting for an opportunity to grab a scrap of food someone might leave behind. Perhaps this is where John wrote Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except Me and My Monkey. Occasionally, a vulture circled lazily overhead, hanging in the updraft, pausing on its way back across the river to the non-vegetarian side of the Ganges, beyond Rishikesh-itself a designated vegetarian area. George and Pattie, Ringo and Mal all had cameras with them and, as we sat around the table by the cliff, they took snap shots of the group. It felt like we were all on a family picnic. The day after I met them, I asked each of John, Paul, George and Ringo, individually, if they minded my taking the odd snap shot. Nobody minded at all. I had my inexpensive Pentax camera with 50mm and 135mm lenses and although I had never been a photographer, I liked taking pictures.

People on the meditation course were off on their own, meditating ten to twelve hours a day, including Prudence Farrow. The Beatles spent their time meditating, resting, writing songs and attending the Maharishi's lectures, or having private, group sessions with him on the roof of his bungalow. My days were free to meditate, relax and hang out with the Beatles, their partners, Mal, Mia Farrow, Donovan and Mike Love, usually in small groups at the table by the cliff.

The next afternoon, Donovan, Mal, John, Paul, George, Cynthia, Jane, Pattie and her sister Jennie and I were sitting around chatting about meditation, agreeing that more than one voice would play in one's thoughts and the key was to simply go back to one's mantra. John said, "Not so easy, really. I often have music playing in me head." George seemed the most serious about meditation, followed by John. Paul seemed less serious, but he'd had several profound experiences, he said, enjoying the time he dropped away from busy, worldly thoughts. Ringo was the least interested. John did say, though, that there was a friendly competition amongst the four of them to see who was really getting the best results.

The ashram food was a major topic. It was good but bland. Someone said that the Maharishi didn't want any of our meditations interrupted by upset stomachs from hot Indian spices. Mal quickly cracked everyone up with "Well, Ringo definitely won't have that problem!" One of Mal's responsibilities was descending to town each morning to buy fresh eggs and cooking them for Ringo, to go with his baked beans. Ringo had arrived in India with two suitcases: One filled with clothes and the other with cans of baked beans. Mal later told me that Ringo, as a child, had been in and out of hospitals with stomach problems and now always watched his food carefully when he traveled. George and John, already vegetarians when they arrived at the ashram, said they had no problems, but Paul was missing meat.

As we sat together, John, Paul, Ringo and George exuded a truly down to earth decency and warm-heartedness, without any airs. As a couple, George and Pattie were self-contained and quiet. They seemed very much in love. Pattie's sister Jennie was young, about eighteen, always happy, and very beautiful-she was a model at the time. Ringo and Maureen had just had their second child together and seemed so comfortable, like an old married couple.

As I spent time with the Beatles, together or individually, Paul was the most overtly warm and friendly. Jane Asher was a lovely-hearted woman whose striking red hair framed a freckle-filled face of beauty and intelligence. Unlike the other Beatles and their partners, Jane and Paul were openly tactile and affectionate. John and Cynthia were different. They were both bright and friendly with me but distinctly distant and cool with each other.

It was getting towards evening, the sky turning a lovely pale pink, and across the Ganges the sounds of Rishikesh were fading into dusk. A flight of forty or fifty beautiful emerald-green parrots landed dramatically in a nearby tree and glimmered like jewels in the evening light. Gradually, people got up to leave our gathering spot near the cliff's edge until everyone had left, except John and me. He was quiet, even a bit sullen, and I got the sense he wasn't happy. I asked him how long he was staying.
"We're all taking the Maharishi's course for three months, including Mal, and who knows after that." He looked at me very warmly and smiled, "What about you?"

I told him about my trip, the heartbreak and how I felt about the miracle of meditation. That I'd probably hang around for just a few more days. He picked up a glass of water and, after almost finishing it, said that meditation had certainly been good for him, so far. After a moment he looked at me and gently added, "Yeah, love can be pretty tough on us sometimes, can't it?" We both sat quietly. It felt like a moment suspended in time. A lone hawk circled in the sky just above us and out over the river, so close we could see its talons. I looked at John and our eyes met. He smiled and said, almost mischievously, "But then, the good thing is, eventually, you always get another chance, don't you?" "For sure," I said. We were silent again, and after a while John said, "Off to write me music, then."

It was an important moment for me. John was reminding me to maintain perspective; in the words of Aldous Huxley, "maintaining fair witness". We got up and walked together to the bungalow where he was staying. I continued on to my tent. It wasn't until some months later that I read all about John and Yoko and realized that, that night, he had been talking not only about me, but also about himself.

The Inner Light

In the morning, as I finished meditating, Raghvendra came and said it was time for me to meet the Maharishi. I followed him out into the intense Indian sun and walked to the Maharishi's whitewashed bungalow. His house sat in a grove of trees at the edge of the cliff. We walked up the stone path, crossing the well-kept lawn between two small fountains, past flowerbeds filled with yellow and orange marigolds. Several steps led up to a wide porch where we left our sandals. We entered a small, bright meditation room, separate from his private quarters, in back. There was a low dais for the Maharishi and the floor was covered with white futons.
We sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the dais and waited. A few minutes later, voices approached from outside. The door swung open and, after removing their shoes and sandals, John, Paul, Ringo, George, Cynthia, Pattie, Maureen, and Jane all came in.

"Hi, Paul, how are you?" asked Ringo.

"Excellent," I said.

"That's what happens here," said George, smiling, as everyone sat cross-legged around us.

After a moment the Maharishi came in from his room and sat on the dais. He put his palms together and said, "Namaste." with a giggle of joy. We returned the greeting. After some general words of welcome, hoping we were all getting along well, he asked George about the small black tape recorder he'd brought with him. "Is it a new song, George, or shall I recite the Vedas?" the Maharishi giggled again. "A new song," George answered, "I just recorded it in Bombay last month."

George pressed the play button and began to sing along with his recorded voice and music, smiling shyly like a new father as his song, The Inner Light, filled the room. The Maharishi, rolling his prayer beads between his fingers, laughed approvingly.
The Maharishi never did notice me but I didn't mind at all. Sitting right beside George, listening to him sing, I felt blessed.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

A couple of days later, late in the afternoon, I heard guitars and the sound of Paul's and John's voices. They were sitting with Ringo among the potted plants on the steps of their bungalow. I got my camera and after taking a few pictures through the chain link fence, opened the gate and joined them. They were strumming their Martin D-28 acoustic guitars, singing fragments of songs, musically meandering through some of my favorites: Michelle, All You Need Is Love, Norwegian Wood, Eleanor Rigby and others.

Ringo was dressed in his favorite heavy, gold-brocade Nehru jacket and jeans, with his ever-present black bag over his shoulder and his silver 16mm camera case nearby. He was calm, quiet, almost motionless. Of the four Beatles, he appeared the most serene, the most grounded, the most at ease with who he was. Late in his life, John said, "People think Ringo was the least of the Beatles. Actually, he was the heart and soul of the group."
Having been photographed so often, and in the completely informal ashram setting, they paid no particular attention to the camera. Paul started strumming again and John joined in. Paul had a slip of paper sitting on the step beneath him and he started to sing the words that he had scribbled down. It was the refrain to Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. They repeated it over and over again--working with it, playing with it--and when they paused for a moment Paul looked up at me with a twinkle in his eyes and said, "That's all there is so far. We don't have any of the words yet."

John chuckled with pleasure at his new folk-guitar picking technique he said Donovan had been teaching him. Some time later Ringo mentioned dinner was ready but as John got up, Paul started to sing and play Ob-La-Di again. John couldn't resist and fell in with him, playing and singing very upbeat. Then Ringo joined in, finger-snapping the rhythms. By then the sun had dropped behind the hills. A gentle aroma of evening jasmine drifted over the grounds, a peacock shrilled off in the woods, and after a while we all headed off to eat.

Walking toward Raghvendra's quarters, I met Prudence and Mia Farrow out for a stroll. We greeted each other. Prudence stopped. Then Mia.

"You're the fellow from the hotel in Delhi, aren't you? You came to our room." Prudence turned to her sister. "Mia, this is the guy who brought you that lovely, big yellow mum." Mia brightened. "That was so good of you." Mia took my hand for a moment and smiled. "That was such a horrible day. We'd just arrived from New York, exhausted from the long flight, and then that press thing happened. But your generosity made a difference." I said I was glad, and after a few more warm words we parted. Later that day, I learned that Mia and I had something in common, and that was the reason we'd both come to Rishikesh. We had each gone to hear the Maharishi lecture, she in Boston just a month beforehand, hoping to find a salve for the pain of heartbreak, searching for a new self-respect by going within, irrespective of the love of others.

It was Prudence who had actually introduced Mia to meditation. At the ashram, Prudence immersed herself in meditation for such long hours that she didn't come out for her meals, having a tray set outside her door. After a while she stayed in her room around the clock. She was either blissed-out or, as one of the Beatles later voiced, flipping out. Either way, it became a cause of great concern and George, followed by John and Paul, tried to get her to come out. Prudence wouldn't even answer the door. I would be gone by then, but eventually, after three weeks of Prudence's staying in her room, John and Paul took their guitars and serenaded her through her locked door and drawn curtains, singing a little ditty John wrote for the occasion. It worked. The drapes moved slightly and Prudence looked out. After a moment, a slight smile animated her face and eventually she emerged. The little ditty was Dear Prudence and it became part of the Beatles' next album--The Beatles--widely known as The White Album.

Within You, Without You

The next day, I sat with the Beatles overlooking the Ganges. After chai, everyone left except George and me. Sitting alone with him I felt shy, awkward. George was quiet and intense, but friendly. He was then just a few days away from his twenty-fifth birthday. I told him I loved Norwegian Wood and asked him how long he had played the sitar.

"A little over two years," he answered. "It was when we made Help. We were filming and there was a sitar around. I was curious and fooled around with it on the set. But, the first time I really listened to sitar music was off a Ravi Shankar album. Later, I met him in London and asked him to teach me. He agreed, but it wasn't until I came here with Pattie, to Bombay where Ravi lives, and studied with him that I really got deeply into it. And into India and all it has to offer, spiritually and otherwise."
A baby monkey dropped down onto the far end of our table from the thatched roof above, scampered four or five feet towards us, grabbed a crust of bread lying there and chattered off, noisily. We both laughed at its apparent pleasure. "I'm going to practice for a while. Would you like to come and have a listen?" George asked.

We walked over to his bungalow and into a small meditation room, about eight feet by ten feet, with only a white futon on the floor and his sitar. George sat cross-legged near the center of the room and I sat facing him a few feet away, my back resting against the wall. He gently nestled the large gourd at the base of the sitar against the sole of his left foot, as soft sunlight filtered through the slightly dusty windowpanes. Everything was glowing. I could smell the faint aroma of sandalwood incense from somewhere outside as George closed his eyes and began to play. As the multilayered music, like a kaleidoscope of exquisite colours, filled the small room my eyes closed and I drifted dreamily on the waves of sound. Time shifted. It seemed to slow down. He played an Indian raga for fifteen minutes, or maybe it was forty. As he finished, the musical reverberations slowly fading into silence, I felt a soft, delicious feeling of peace. When I opened my eyes, he was gently laying his sitar back down. The sunlight had shifted across the futons and there was an vibrant, soothing aura in the room.

In the relaxed conversation that followed, he told me that his wife Pattie had learned transcendental meditation first and then got him interested. The Beatles' interest in meditation and spirituality had begun several years before Rishikesh. George was influenced by the writings of the Indian scholar and sage Vivekananda and had been exploring the spiritual aspects of life for some time. As he found exciting books or passages, he would share them with John, Ringo, and Paul. As they delved into deeper spiritual questions they found drugs less capable of helping them find the inner answers they were looking for. Earlier, smoking marijuana and hashish, and taking LSD for fun and for exploring consciousness, had brought some positive results manifested in their songs. In time, though, drugs became somewhat of a dead end. I had experienced this as well.

On August 24, 1967, the Maharishi was giving an introductory lecture at the Hilton Hotel in London and Pattie and George took the other Beatles along to hear him speak. Afterward, they went backstage for a private meeting. They were drawn to his message and the Maharishi invited them to leave with him the next morning by train for a ten-day meditation retreat in Wales. But, after only one day at the retreat, they learned of the death of their manager, Brian Epstein, and returned to London. When the Maharishi returned to the city they continued to study with him and he invited them to Rishikesh for the three-month intensive meditation course.

I asked him what meditation was like for him. He was quiet for awhile, and thoughtful: "Meditation and Maharishi have helped make the inner life rich for me. The meditation buzz is incredible. I get higher than I ever did with drugs. It's simple, the vibration is on the astral plane, and it's my way of connecting with God." He was silent for a moment, and with a profound modesty he added, "Like, we're the Beatles after all, aren't we? We have all the money you could ever dream of. We have all the fame you could ever wish for. But, isn't love. It isn't health. It isn't peace inside. Is it?" He gave me a dear, even loving smile. Neither of us spoke for several minutes.

Sometimes, it's only much later that we realize the impact another person has had on us. I've never forgotten his words. Only years later would I realize that, in that moment, George changed my life. He was one of my heroes and he was pointing the way, telling me where to 'find myself'. Not outside myself, in money or fame or anything else external, but within myself. He was also telling me that that's also why he and the other Beatles were there--to find something deeper within themselves. In time, I would come to understand that it's a universal journey: To know ourselves, to like ourselves, profoundly, to be self-realized, we must journey within. George and I sat quietly a while longer, and then we went out into the warm winter sun.

[...] Из Бомбея Шнуров отправится в штат Гоа, где познакомится с русскими, которые тоже, как и он, приехали в Индию за просветлением. В Гоа Шнуров посетит очень странное место - дерево «Битлз», с которым связана загадочная легенда и под сенью которого до сих пор обитают загадочные существа.

http://spb.kp.ru/2006/09/06/doc134971/

вроде как автор поста утверждает, что это и есть ашрам в Решикеше
http://cosma.livejournal.com/282675.html

Mira Nair making film on Beatles' India experience
http://www.zeenews.com/articles.asp?rep=2&aid=332224&sid=ENT&ssid=1
Mira to make film on 'Beatles in India'
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/208777.cms
Nair To Document Beatles' Indian Trip In New Movie.
http://www.femalefirst.co.uk/entertainment/Nair+To+Document+Beatles++Indian+Trip+In+New...

2Primal Scream:

Альбом "Битлз в Индии" - это фотоальбом или книга с фото и текстами? И что за издательство?

Всем привет! Исполнилась еще одна мечта (загаданная на первых страницах этой темы) - пару недель назад я вернулась из Индии, где почти неделю провела в Ришикеше. Теперь я могу со всей уверенностью заявить - битловские места в Индии есть! О том как я искала и нашла ашрам Махариши в Ришикеше и о его (ашрама) теперешнем состоянии можно почитать здесь:
http://anickey.multiply.com/journal

Все фотографии из ашрама можно посмотреть здесь: http://anickey.multiply.com/photos/album/19
Фотографии из Ришикеша: http://anickey.multiply.com/photos/album/18
и Дели: http://anickey.multiply.com/photos/album/17

Ну и вот еще кое-чего я отыскала из видео:
Фильм The Beatles in India 1968-го года, транслировавшийся по итальянскому телевидению:
часть 1


часть 2


А также симпатичный клип The Beatles in India:


Иногда там даже проскакивают знакомые мне (и вам теперь тоже - по фотографиям) домики:))

2Anickey:
> Исполнилась еще одна мечта
Молодец, Ань! :)

Теперь, самое главное, чтобы исполнились и все остальные, особенно №5 ;)))

2SergeK:
ну эта то у меня шла вне конкурса))
а мечта номер 5 у меня всегда под номером один, не сомневайся:))

ну а как насчет самого места, я не ошиблась - это действительно оно самое?

Anickey,

Это интересная и поучительная история.

2Anickey:

>Всем привет! Исполнилась еще одна мечта (загаданная
>на первых страницах этой темы) - пару недель назад
>я вернулась из Индии, где почти неделю провела
>в Ришикеше. Теперь я могу со всей уверенностью
>заявить - битловские места в Индии есть! О том
>как я искала и нашла ашрам Махариши в Ришикеше
>и о его (ашрама) теперешнем состоянии можно почитать
>здесь:
> http://anickey.multiply.com/journal

Ух ты! Священный Ришикеш! Интересное место, хотя забросили его совсем. Смело ты там полазила. Обезьяны на первый взгляд спокойные, но могут неожиданно что-нибудь утащить. Красивый закат солнца и ночной пейзаж в Ришикеше.