Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

23. On The Road To Rishikesh

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

23.

February 1968

We landed in New York just before midday and I wasn't remotely prepared for the change in the weather. LA had been mild and sunny, but New York in February was below freezing, the sky grey and the streets covered in snow. I was shivering in velvet trousers and the thinnest roll neck jumper beneath my silk brocade Ottoman jacket as we were met by Maharishi's private secretary out front of the Plaza Hotel.

We booked rooms on the same floor as Maharishi and said farewell to Guru Jerry, then dropped our luggage off in our rooms. I guessed Paul would have arrived back in London by now and phoned Cavendish, but it just rang endlessly. Before I could give it a second go there was a knock on my door. It was Maharishi's secretary, announcing that his holiness would see me now.

I followed her down the hall to a suite near the elevators and an Indian chap answered the door. The suite was filled with freshly cut flowers, their scents almost eye-watering in the overly-warm room like the radiators were turned up to full whack. The sitting room furniture had been moved up against the walls and a low dias was set up in the middle of the room, also decorated with fresh flowers.

Maharishi sat lotus-style on the dias, draped in white cotton robes and a heavier tan blanket, his feet clad in sandals despite the snow outside. It was a bit surreal to see him in real life, his long greying beard and cheery face reminding me a bit of a cartoon come to life after I'd seen him so many times on the cover of Life and Time and Newsweek, so often at the far out Fab Four's side.

He was smiling gently as he spoke to Mia, who sat cross-legged in front of him. She turned to look at me over her shoulder, flashing me a grin.

"And this is my friend Beatrix," she explained.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear," Maharishi said in a sweet, sing-song-y kind of voice.

There was a knowing glint in his eye when he met my gaze and I could see immediately why people were drawn to him. He had a certain quiet charisma that immediately intrigued and calmed me.

"How do you do," I said, and Maharishi let out a little giggle like he couldn't hold it in.

"Sit, my dear," he gestured to the floor beside Mia and I lowered myself down, uncertain what to expect from this holy man.

Maharishi looked about ready to say something very wise when there was a furious knocking on the door. He giggled as a commotion erupted outside the sitting room, a young woman's voice pleading, "I have to see him! I have to see him!" and the chap who'd opened the door to me trying to calm her down.

A moment later a girl came barrelling into the room, stopping short when she saw Maharishi sitting calmly on the floor with us.  Her curly brown hair was cut short and she wore shapeless dungarees beneath a too-large parka, her eyes wide behind her wire framed glasses. She stood there gaping at us for a few seconds, then let out a sob and threw herself at Maharishi's feet, weeping.

"Prudence," Mia hissed, mortified. Twin pink spots appeared on her cheeks, and I realised this was the younger sister who yearned to live with Maharishi in India forever.

Prudence kept weeping helplessly and Maharishi let out another giggle, looking pleased with everything.

"This is my sister," Mia explained apologetically. "Prudence. I told her we were coming."

Prudence was desperate to come with us to India but because she was only seventeen her application to study in Rishikesh had been rejected. She told Maharishi her whole story — and it was a long, long, nutty story including two stints in a mental hospital, a religious pilgrimage to France, and acid flashbacks that made her tremble to talk about them. Marharshi listened and responded gently and thoughtfully, giving Prudence his full attention.