Sex, Pigs, and Husbands cont.

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Susan's mother was remarried to a retired Air Force officer. They began each day with Bloody Marys and ended them with scotch and sodas. Susan hated her stepfather and despised the person her mother had become. She left home to go away to Northeastern University in Boston, vowing that she would be different.

She and a girlfriend were on a summer tour of Europe, walking down a Hamburg street, when they spotted a man in robes chanting on a comer. It was Hansadutta. Susan was fascinated. She and her college friend spent several days in the Hamburg temple, learning to chant and listening to Hansadutta preach. When they flew back to the States, Susan's girlfriend returned to school. Susan didn't. She moved into the New York temple and was initiated by Prabhupada.

Kanka, as Susan was now called, was very happy. Prabhupada was a perfect father figure; she, a perfect daughter. She dedicated her life to spreading the word that Krishna was lord of the universe. Krishna Consciousness, unlike her real father, was eternal—it could not be taken away from her. Then she met Swarup, Steven Hebel.

"Hey, Swarup, Kanka just told me she likes you," Brahmananda told Hebel one afternoon. "Maybe you should go out on a date, or something."

"Kanka?" Hebel asked. "Really? She's cute."

Their wedding, in June 1971, was not only a major Hare Krishna event, but also a sixties happening. In their September 6, 1971 issue, New York magazine covered it and published a long story of the idyllic couple. It was presented as the best of the sixties; the paradigm of peace and love, anti-materialism, and cross-cultural advancement. Here were intelligent, all-American kids choosing to live simply as conservative Hindus.

For years, Steven and Susan Hebel remained the model of a devout Krishna couple. They had three children and lived in Brooklyn, Boston, and Los Angeles. Like an IBM management trainee, Hebel climbed the ISKCON ladder rung by rung. He vaulted into the elite with his appointment as the movement's social secretary.

But Steven's marriage collapsed in 1977, when he started an affair with Cynthia, known in the movement as Chitta, a tall, blond, blue-eyed devotee, who wore a ring through her nose. He didn't like deceiving Susan and finally told her about it. She wasn't about to give him up, so all three moved into a small house near the Los Angeles temple.

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On even nights, Steven slept with Susan; on odd nights, with Cynthia. It wasn't long before Hebel was exhausted and the women were threatening to scratch each other's eyes out.

"I always wanted a shiksa, but this is ridiculous," he told a friend.

Susan finally packed up the kids and left Los Angeles to submerge herself in Krishna Consciousness in New Vrindaban. A few weeks later, Hebel was working in his office in the LA temple when his phone rang.

"Swarup! Long time no see," the caller on the other end of the line said. It took Hebel a moment to place the voice. It was his old friend from the Laguna Beach temple. The two men chatted a while about their personal lives before launching into a discussion of the movement.

"There's been some big changes down here," his friend said. "Really big changes."

"Like what?" Hebel asked.

"Like you gotta come down and see for yourself," his friend replied. "Believe me, it'll be more than worth the trip."

The last time Hebel had seen him, he'd been following a devotee's ascetic regime in the Laguna temple. This time, Hebel arrived to find him living in a beachfront condo and driving a shiny black BMW.

"The fruits of laboring for Krishna," his friend said with a laugh.

Hebel sank into a seamless white leather couch and listened to the Laguna Beach devotee describe his work as a mule for Joe Davis and Roy Richard.

"But I didn't get you down here just to hear me talk," his friend said, producing a razor blade and a small glass vial filled with white powder.

"Is that what I think it is?" Hebel asked as his friend began laying out lines.

"It is, and you're gonna love it."

Hebel did love cocaine. From then on, he'd spend a day in his office, playing the role of a senior ISKCON/BBT executive; the next day, he and Cynthia were in Laguna Beach, doing coke.

Steven Hebel wondered how things had gotten so screwed up. It wasn't only him. The whole movement was spinning out of control, flying apart. After Prabhupada's death, Ramesvara had returned from

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India and proclaimed himself an acharya. But many of the older devotees in LA refused to accept the squeaky-voiced Jewish kid as their guru. Some "blooped"—returned to karmi life; others joined Swami B. R. Sridhar, Prabhupada's eighty-five-year-old godbrother, who had a small movement based in his temple in Navadwip, across the Ganges from Mayapur.

Hebel hadn't been as upset about Ramesvara as some of the other devotees. At first, Ramesvara had been pretty cool about the whole thing, laughing about his supposedly exalted state. But that didn't last. The more he was worshiped, the more he liked it. Soon he began demanding that all devotees idolize him.

Hebel rolled up a twenty-dollar bill, snorted a line, and handed the "straw" to Cynthia.

"You should have been at the temple this morning," he told her. "I was sitting around Ramesvara's office with a bunch of other senior devotees, shooting the breeze with my feet up on his desk, when that little schmuck walked in. I said, 'Hey, Ramie-swami, what's happening?' "

"He freaked out, huh?" Cynthia said. The coke had made her jittery and she was pacing the room.

"He went totally nuts. First, he storms out of the room. He comes running back in, shaking and shrieking, 'Would you act like this if Prabhupada walked in?' He starts ranting and raving about how he's on the same level as Prabhupada and should be treated that way."

Cynthia didn't say a thing. She sat down and cut a few more lines. When they were neat and straight, she handed Steven the rolled-up bill. Another line, or two, always seemed to lift his mood.

"Look, I'm sick of this decadence," he said, pushing the coke away. "Don't you miss being pure? Don't you miss the old days of being devout? The only way we're ever going to get back into Krishna Consciousness is to go to New Vrindaban and submit to Kirtanananda."

They were silent for a while.

"Besides," Hebel said. "I miss my kids. I wanna be near them."

Cynthia looked out the window, debating whether to put her foot down.

"Okay, I'll go," she tentatively agreed. "But promise that I won't have to share you with Susan."

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Hebel did.

They both vowed to stop using drugs and celebrated their decision by finishing the lines Cynthia had laid out on the round pocket mirror.

On his first day at New Vrindaban, after Kirtanananda stormed off in response to his questions, Hebel drove up to his tiny cabin in Tola-van, the small fringie community at the edge of the commune. He couldn't get the condition of the nursery or Kirtanananda9 s odd behavior off his mind. He kept seeing his son's bloated stomach—how could a bloated stomach not be serious?

When Hebel arrived, Cynthia met him at the door. She was irate. "You know who I just talked to?" she shouted. "Dharmatma! He told me Kirtanananda wouldn't let us stay if I didn't do sankirtan."

Hebel ran his hand soothingly through her blond hair. She knocked it away.

'I won't do it," she said, her face flushed with anger. "I swear I won't—not after all the stories I've heard about how he treats women. And especially not after meeting that arrogant scumbag!"

"Don't worry," Hebel said calmly. "I'll get you out of it."

While Hebel was calming Cynthia, Thomas Meyers, Taru, marched his new wife, Mahara, Mary St. John, behind the old barn at New Vrindaban. Taru was an intense young man, one of the few scholars at New Vrindaban. A cum laude graduate of Cleveland State, Taru had learned Sanskrit so he could read the Hindu scriptures in their original form and was the editor of Brijabasi Spirit, the community magazine.

When Kirtanananda ordered them to get married, Taru and Mahara barely knew each other. They hadn't talked much since their marriage and didn't know each other much better now. Mahara had no idea why her husband had ordered her to follow him.

When they arrived behind the barn, Taru turned and hit her hard across the face.

Mahara screamed. Taru hit her again.

"Why are you doing this?" she cried.

"Kirtanananda told me to," Taru said.

"But why?" screamed Mahara.

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"You're not submissive enough."

"But how can I be more submissive?" wailed Mahara, one of the best sankirtan collectors in ISKCON. "I've given Kirtanananda my life. I've worked day and night doing sankirtan. I've raised millions of dollars for him."

"You're not submissive enough," Taru repeated and hit Mahara again.

She fell to the ground. Taru jumped on top of her and again hit her in the face. He got up and stood over her, clenching and unclenching his fist. Mahara was curled up with her hands over her face, whimpering. Taru was crying, too.

"I'm sorry!" he sobbed. "I'm sorry!"

He looked down at Mahara one last time and then ran away.

Taru disappeared during the winter of 1980. New Vrindaban did not report his absence. Devotees were told not to mention his name. But that didn't still the rumors.

Sergeant Westfall heard the gossip and quietly began making inquiries. The story Westfall heard over and over was that Taru was in India. He checked with Immigration and the State Department; neither had a record of Taru leaving the country. Westfall slipped questions about the vanished devotee into all his conversations with members of the commune and grilled his informants. But he couldn't get a solid lead about what had happened to Taru.

"I have had a revelation," Kirtanananda announced one day. "I dreamed Taru has gone to India and jumped into the confluence of the three holy rivers. He has drowned."

Taru has never been seen or heard from again.

Sharon Wilson was back home in New Vrindaban after five weeks on the road. She was exhausted from working fourteen- and fifteen-hour days and crisscrossing the country at night to get to ball games and concerts. She walked up the stairs in Dharmatma's house and knocked on his bedroom door.

"Go away, I'm busy," Dharmatma shouted.

Sharon knew what that meant. He was in there with a woman.

Who is it this time? she wondered as she walked back down the stairs. One of his sankirtan bimbos, maybe? Or one of his other wives?

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Dharmatma had three wives, including Sharon. He controlled everything they did, whether they were at home or on the road. If a woman needed new underwear, she had to call Dharmatma to ask for permission to buy it. One time, Sharon's clothes were so worn out, they were literally falling off her back. She asked Dharmatma for some money. He gave her a stolen credit card and told her to buy a few things, but only what she really needed. Another time, he told her to shoplift. She was nailed liberating a blouse in Toronto, Canada, and spent a weekend in jail. When she telephoned Dharmatma to tell him what had happened, he called her a fool for getting caught.

A young, heavy set women Sharon had never seen before came down the stairs and walked out of the house without looking at Sharon. Sharon

went back upstairs and knocked on the door.

"I suppose you want some?" Dharmatma asked when she walked in. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked except for his underpants.

Sharon smiled. "I missed you."

"I'll bet you did," Dharmatma snapped.

Sharon walked over and sat down next to Dharmatma. She kissed his shoulder and began licking his neck. Dharmatma pushed her away and jumped to his feet.

"Did you see that pig who was in here?" he asked.

"Who is she?" Sharon asked. "A new girl," Dharmatma said. "She joined the team a couple of weeks ago. I just fucked her. I had to, to keep her going. It was awful. I can still smell her. This whole room reeks of pussy. How can you stand it?"

"I stand it because you're here," Sharon said, walking over to him.

She slipped her hand into his pants and began fondling him.

"I'm still your favorite, aren't I?" she asked. "Come on, let's go over to the bed and I'll remind you why I'm your favorite."

She took him by the hand and led him back to bed. She peeled down his underpants. It took her a long time to get him hard.

Sex with Dharmatma was always the same. Sharon always had to seduce him; he was completely passive. When it was over, she had to tell him how great it was, how nobody had ever fucked her like he did. She did it because long ago she had discovered that the better actress she was in bed, the easier life was out of bed.

Chaos • 261

Dharmatma came, rolled out of bed immediately, and put on his briefs.

"You really are a whore, aren't you?" he said. "You've really got to have it, don't you?"

Sharon's heart sank. It was going to be this way again. Dharmatma was going to abuse her. She had been hoping that this time it would be different, that maybe, just maybe, he'd be too tired. "Did you hear what I said, slut?" Dharmatma said. "I just missed you," Sharon said, getting out of the other side of the bed. "That was all."

"You gotta have it all the time, don't you?" Dharmatma repeated, walking around the bed toward her. "I'll bet you get it a lot on the road. I'll bet you fuck truck drivers. I bet you go into truck stops and get yourself some Peterbilt hog."

"Why are you like this?" Sharon whimpered, stepping back. "Why do you say such terrible things?"

Dharmatma hit her across the face with his open hand. Then he hit her again with the back of his hand.

"Don't you dare ask why, bitch!" Dharmatma screamed. "You know why! 'Cause you're such a filthy pig. Now get dressed and get your ass outta here. I want every bathroom in this house cleaned before lunch. You got that?"

Sharon nodded.

"I wouldn't have to hit you if you didn't have an attitude," Dharmatma said in a calmer voice. "I only do it 'cause I think it'll help."

"I know," Sharon hurried to agree. "I must have done something in a previous life to deserve it."

"Could be," Dharmatma said, losing interest. "Now get out of here and get the bathrooms cleaned."

Sharon scrambled into her clothes and went downstairs wondering what was worse, being on the road or being home. She hated living in a van with two or three other women and spending all day begging money from strangers. But on the road, she could at least tell herself she was doing something for Krishna.

Sharon had had three children with Dharmatma. But she'd never been allowed to spend much time with them. Like all New Vrindaban youngsters, they'd been put in the guru kula when they were five. When they were eight, the commune's children were sent to India to study.

Chaos • 262

For the last eight years, Sharon had been on the road almost continuously. Even births did not keep her off sankirtan for long. She'd worked the streets until the day she went into labor with her second child. Two months after childbirth, she was back out working "the pick," as sankirtan was called.

Sharon had played so many roles working the pick that she felt like an actress traveling from town to town with a second-string repertory company. Sometimes she was a concerned mother, collecting money for the Nandegram School for underprivileged Appalachian children. Other times, she was the widow of a Vietnam veteran, collecting to help troubled Vietnam vets. She also posed as a representative of NORML, the National Organization for the Repeal of Marijuana Laws. She worked Hansadutta's record scam. At fairs where she had to wear a name tag, Sharon told people that ISKCON stood for "Interstate Kids Concern."

For a while a new wrinkle introduced by New Vrindaban—and quickly copied by other temples—had made things more interesting.

"Excuse me," Sharon would say to a person walking across the street. "But I'm going to have to make a citizen's arrest. You were speeding through that intersection."

During the holidays, it had been a goof to approach people and arrest them for being "under the influence of Santa Claus." At ball-games, she'd arrest people for being "intoxicated with football." People were so relieved to find it was all a joke, they gladly gave her a few dollars.

But after a while, the citation line became as dull and as routine as all the other scams. And she was tired of getting arrested. It had happened so often recently—twice for theft by deception in Indianapolis; three times for soliciting without a permit in Norfolk, Virginia; and who could remember how many times in Austin, Texas, or Orlando, Florida?

Sharon got a brush and a box of Comet out of a downstairs closet and went into the bathroom. As she scrubbed the toilet, she thought about how sankirtan had changed over the years.

At first, devotees worked the crowds at sporting events, particularly football games, where spectators arrived early to tailgate. The pickings were always good because fans were drinking heavily and in a fine mood. Digging into their pockets to come up with five or ten dollars to

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buy some poor kid a turkey dinner or help an orphan in Appalachia only added a warm glow of altruism to their beery high spirits.

Then it occurred to Dharmatma that the money his teams collected was only a fraction of what people spent on sports paraphernalia. Why not cash in on these fans' obsession? Why not sell pennants and buttons in parking lots? The sankirtan parties would make a fortune.

New Vrindaban soon began buying hats, pennants, bumper stickers, and buttons bearing the insignia of major college and pro teams from Taiwanese manufacturers. Ignoring copyright and trademark laws, the Krishnas sold the souvenirs at games. After the sports paraphernalia operation really got rolling, the Krishnas bought a four-color printing press in Iowa for $i 10,000 and began turning out their own posters and bumper stickers.

Sharon thought of all the bumper stickers she had pushed: Snoopy holding a beer mug with slogans like Let's Party! Life's a Beach, and Party Till You Puke. But her favorite was Are We Having Fun Yet?

"Are we having fun yet?" she asked herself as she scrubbed around the bathroom sink.

She finished up quickly and hurried over to the nursery to pick up her three-year-old son. Seeing her children was the best thing about being home. Still, it hurt to see them. They always reminded her of her failures as a mother. She felt so guilty about spending so little time with the children. Sometimes when she looked at her little boys she would get all teary-eyed.

She took her son home, put him in a high chair in the kitchen, and started making lunch for him. She was waiting for a bowl of Campbell's tomato soup to cool when Dharmatma walked in.

"I thought I told you to clean the bathrooms," he said menacingly.

"I did," Sharon said.

"I said all the bathrooms. That means the one upstairs, too."

"I forgot," Sharon said. "I'll get to it right after lunch."

Dharmatma walked up to her.

"This is for being disobedient," he said and slapped her across the face.

"You hit Mommy!" the three-year-old shrieked. "Daddy! Don't hit Mommy!"

Sharon raced to the high chair.

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"It's all right," she said. "Don't cry. See, Mommy isn't crying."

"Get away from him," Dharmatma ordered. "You're fuming him into a wimp."

Sharon had her back turned and was stroking her son's hair. Dharmatma ran over, grabbed her by the long thick braid that tumbled down her neck, and dragged her out into the garage. He took a thick rubber hose off a workbench. He drew it back and hit Sharon across the back of the neck as hard as he could.

A white light flashed in front of her eyes. Her arms shot out, numb and rigid. She hit the garage floor, face first.

 

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