Subject: A Lush Resort for Enlightened Tanning 
Date: Published: 8/6/92 (143 lines)
Source: Wall Street Journal. Copyright Dow Jones & Co. Inc.

    LEISURE & ARTS:
    A Lush Resort for Enlightened Tanning
    ----
    By Anthony Spaeth

    Pune, India -- To reach the Osho commune, you simply follow the
 parade of maroon robes and sandals.  Turn right at the vegetarian
 lasagna restaurant and proceed past the stands selling crystals,
 mineral water and herbal cigarettes that, allegedly, improve one's
 health.
    This lushly landscaped 24-acre spread was built by the Bhagwan,
 also known as Osho or Rajneesh, the gray-bearded guru whose legal
 problems in the U. S. launched a million headlines in the mid-1980s.
 The Bhagwan is no more, having died -- or, in commune euphemism,
 "left his body" -- on Jan. 19, 1990.  Everyone assumed his commune
 would splinter before you could chant "Rolls-Royces."  (The Bhagwan,
 you may recall, had 93.)  
    They were wrong.  The Osho commune has never been more prosperous.
 Thousands of dusty-footed, ratty-bearded men and women pour through
 the gate every day, from Europe, America, Australia and Japan.  As in
 the past, some come for enlightenment, "self-realization," or to
 learn meditation from the Bhagwan, who left behind, along with his
 body and beard, a near-eternity of videotaped lectures.
    But these days, many come for weight training, dance, martial
 arts or to work on their backhand.  They lie around the pool in
 bikinis and read Sidney Sheldon.  Some seek companionship at the
 weekly movie night or the commune's cappuchino bar.  A local
 entrepreneur has opened a disco for communers, which is, in all
 probability, the closest thing to an AIDS-free disco in the world.
 (Proof of a negative AIDS test is required to enter the commune,
 with one exception:  There is a daily 30-minute tour for those who
 are merely curious and those awaiting the results of their AIDS
 tests.)  
    In short, folks come here for fun.  "We call ourselves `Club
 Med,'" says Swami Prem Amrito, originally George Meredith, one of
 the insiders who took control of the commune when Rajneesh died --
 "as in `Club Meditation.'"
    It's an amazing turn of events for a group that was totally
 discredited seven years ago.  In 1985, Rajneesh's attempt to build a
 New Age city in Oregon had failed miserably and the Bhagwan himself,
 renowned for his cars, gaudy jewelry and bad jokes, was in an
 American jail awaiting trial on charges of conspiring to evade
 immigration laws.  (He plea bargained, received a 10-year suspended
 sentence, paid a fine and was deported.)  
    Today, his heirs run a spiritual Disneyland for disaffected First
 World yuppies.  It is scrupulously clean, open to all, and although
 called a commune, is actually a tasteful and classy resort.  The
 pathways are marble, the architecture and landscaping superb.  Only a
 core of 100 Indian workers live on the grounds.  Everyone else has to
 find a hotel or guest house and commute to the commune in robe or,
 for tennis players, maroon shorts and shirt.
    Rajneesh remains the commune's guiding force, or so it's said,
 and his hirsute, mossy-eyed image is omnipresent.  Yet one suspects
 that Rajneesh's colleagues are relieved he's gone, happy each
 evening to flick off his video image and get down to business:  the
 accounting, marketing and profit-making of their "Club Med."
    To be fair, it's a business that Rajneesh himself devised.  Born
 Chandra Mohan Jain in 1931 to a family of Indian merchants, Rajneesh
 evolved from a professor of philosophy in the '50s to the leader of
 meditation camps for rich Indians in the '60s.  In 1974, he
 established an ashram here, which drew footloose Western hippies
 looking for enlightenment.  His genius was his lackadaisical
 approach:  Instead of preaching a rigorous spiritual discipline,
 Rajneesh offered a simple form of meditation augmented with
 unrelated courses from the human potential movement, the wacked-out
 wing of Western psychology that prospered in the '70s.
    Rajneesh aimed his pitch at successful professionals from the
 West and taught that only the worldly could reach enlightenment.
 "Osho said, `This is for the person who has had the fast car,'"
 recalls Dr. Amrito, who was Rajneesh's personal physician, "`the
 person who has done it all.'"
    Almost immediately after the death of Rajneesh, at the age of 58,
 his followers decided to remake the Osho commune into a resort for
 casual visitors.  They bought land and doubled the size of the
 commune.  They constructed pyramids of marble and a pristine Zen
 garden.  Diplomats from New Delhi started flying here for spa-type
 weekends.  Politicians and musicians were invited to stay gratis.  The
 Osho "Multiversity" began, offering such courses as "Fitness for
 Businessmen and Women" and "Strengthening the Lower Back."  Last
 year, an elegant black-tiled pool was completed.  A driving range is
 going up to help attract more Japanese.  "Maybe there'll be a
 hypnotist to help with the swing," muses a tour guide.  "Along with
 meditation, of course."
    It would appear to be the fulfillment of Rajneesh's cynical
 dream:  Build it and they will come, if not for the soul then for the
 nails, a tan or the "nirvana pizza."  Everyone certainly seems
 friendly and happy here, if cliquish, like earnest college students.
 Things seem to be managed smoothly, with occasional bursts of
 efficiency.
    Appearance doesn't tell all, however.  It is, for example, hard to
 understand how things are organized or financed at the Osho commune.
 A 21-person "inner circle" is supposed to be in charge, but there
 are chronic rumors that the circle has ruptured.  Where the money
 comes from or goes is impossible to determine.  Dr. Amrito says 7,000
 to 13,000 people come to the commune daily, but this is difficult to
 verify, and the commune is famous for number-fudging.  Nearly half
 are said to be from Germany; 11% from Italy.  There are lots of
 suntans around:  Many come straight from the beaches of Goa,
 following up a surf-and-sand vacation with a few weeks in
 meditation.
    Daily admission is 75 cents, with an additional $1.85 for access
 to the pool, tennis courts, weight room and Jacuzzi.  You pay as you
 go for food, drink and extras like tarot sessions or "Tibetan eye
 readings."  The big revenue center is the Multiversity.  Courses cost
 an average of $40 per day.  More expensive are the training courses,
 which teach people how to be massagists, hypnotists or practitioners
 of other Osho techniques.  Some of these last for months.
    Rajneesh's successors clearly loathe India, seeing the heat and
 dust as a stumbling block in attracting people from
 hygiene-conscious Europe and America to the Multiversity and the
 commune in general.  So they're forced to dream up novel marketing
 methods, including group tours.  The people in charge of public
 relations also have to contend with the sometimes embarrassing
 memory of Rajneesh himself.  Among the guru's beliefs was that
 celibacy created AIDS.  "The effort to be celibate created
 monasteries, which in turn created homosexuality," Rajneesh once
 said, "which is responsible for the AIDS epidemic."
    Dr. Amrito, a biblical-looking character with dramatic white
 curls and beard, relates this last bit of information with
 uncharacteristic sheepishness.  He has further trouble explaining
 away the abject failure of the Oregon commune.  But soon he's back on
 keel, twirling the ruby-and-diamond wristwatch his guru left him and
 talking about psychic "garbage" and Rajneesh's ability to "help
 people grow up."  Inevitably, however, the talk of psychic "dry
 cleaning" is combined with an attractive, worldly pitch.  This is Dr. 
 Amrito on "Zennis," the commune's Zen tennis course:
    "It's about watching yourself playing the game," he says.  "It's
 an incredible way of improving your game -- but that's not the prime
 motive."  No, of course not.
    Oh, and by the way, he continues, "there's a top coach here from
 the U. S. There's a top German tennis player here."  And did you know
 a former Miss Greece just arrived yesterday ...Tuesday is
 vegetarian sushi night ...
    ---
    Mr. Spaeth is a novelist and journalist living in New Delhi.

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