My Journey In and Out of the Prem Rawat Cult
Grab a beverage of your choice, and let me tell you a crazy story.
The July sun sat on the horizon like a vast fiery orange-red ball, warning me it would be another scorching day. I set the brake on my uke, a massive rock-carrying machine, and pulled the lever that released a load of boulders in front of me into the crusher. I backed out and headed into the quarry, repeating this mind-numbing process for the next eight hours.
At 4 p.m., I clambered into my metallic blue '56 Chevy, complete with glass pack mufflers, a jacked-up rear end, and a 3-speed 283 engine, and slid The Stones Exile on Main Street into the eight-track. I cranked the front windows down, stepped on the clutch, fired up the engine, and headed back into Delaware, Ohio, the home of Ohio Wesleyan University.
It was the summer of 1972. Watergate, the Vietnam War, and America divided. I was twenty-one years old and heading into my senior year.
When I returned to my apartment, I parked and crossed the street to grab dinner in one of the school dorms without showering or changing clothes. I was covered in white dust from head to toe.
After dinner, I sat down in the courtyard. Her feet barely touched the ground as she walked by me — long, dark hair, olive skin…
