to the finish just about the time a documentary titled Wild, Wild Country was released and within days attained “blockbuster” status on Netflix. With its focus on the extraordinary experiment in Oregon and the local, state, and federal backlash that ensued, this six-part documentary soon sparked not only recollections and reflections (and not a small number of reconnections) among those of us who were there, but a remarkable upsurge of interest among young people particularly, most of whom were not even born or were mere toddlers at the time it was happening.
To the filmmakers’ credit, and despite the many limitations of the work—they themselves admit they could only skip over the surface of a much deeper and more complex story, even in a six-hour program—the documentary manages to avoid the simplistic tropes that have characterized so much of the media coverage of Osho and his movement for decades. Featuring archive footage interwoven with contemporary interviews of key players in this phase of Osho’s work, the filmmakers stop short of pronouncing any of those interviewed “right” or “wrong” – leaving open-minded viewers with more questions than answers. I suspect Osho would have heartily approved of that outcome.
After watching Wild, Wild Country myself, I wondered whether and how those questions might be addressed in the pages of this volume, and found the work to be impeccable in that regard. It is a clear-eyed, straightforward and often humorous first-person account of an extraordinary experiment in creating a self-sufficient and sustainable city from scratch, grounded in the teachings of a contemporary mystic—and the forces, both external and internal, that brought the experiment to its dramatic close.
Interviews with those involved, from city planners to organic farmers, lawyers to heavy equipment operators, reveal the ways in which the effort represented the cutting edge of what are now broadly understood to be the foundations of environmentally beneficial and sustainable development. On a more personal, individual level, discussions with those who aligned themselves with Sheela and her criminal activities and with those who were targeted by her for expulsion, or even murder, explore how the darker realms of unawareness can fester and erupt into violence when, for whatever reasons of ego preservation, we fail to identify and confront it.
Maneesha’s historical documentation has stood the test of time as fully as Osho’s work itself. Readers who come to the book in search of a deeper understanding of why so many intelligent, likeable people ended up with Osho, what really happened in Oregon, what might have led various players featured in the Wild, Wild Country documentary to do what they did, and how the experience of being with Osho throughout these phases of his work has affected people’s lives, will not be disappointed.
Spoiler alert—the book ends at a cliff-hanger, with Osho and his companions surrounded by tense and heavily armed ATF officers, then locked up in a Charlotte, South Carolina jail. Keep an eye out for the Osho: Twelve Days that Shook the World sequel to follow.
Sarito Carol Neiman
Chapter 1: Incredible India
The real sannyas is bringing meditation to the ordinary affairs of life, bringing meditation to the marketplace. Eating, walking, sleeping, one can remain continuously in a state of meditation. It is nothing special that you are doing but doing the same things with a new way, with a new method, with new art. Sannyas changes your outlook. ~ Osho
All the eyes of all the participants are on me as I walk around the group room. The facilitator has just led us in a guided fantasy, and that has unexpectedly brought up my feeling that I am at a crossroads: Which direction to take in my life? She has suggested I explore the two options I’ve identified—to enroll in a course to be a group facilitator, or to go to India—through movement, and to talk or make any sounds that emerge.
When I am being in the first option I walk about aimlessly, slouching, my hands in my pockets. I talk about “getting rid of my hang-ups” and “letting my left toe speak for me,” and other group-ese language I’ve learned. When I play the “going to India” option I straighten up, my walking is gentle, less sure, my arms opening up and outward in slow motion. I can hear my voice fill with wonder as I say, “India… India?” … I pause, then, “It’s the unknown… the vast…” and in my mind’s eye I see a sunset or is it sunrise?—anyway, soft orangey-red colors.
“Just allow yourself to experience those two alternatives,” the facilitator suggests, “just keep exploring … keep exploring both.” I follow her instructions until she prompts me with, “Which is it going to be?”
Enjoying being the center of attention I ask, “Is there a need to choose? I can just oscillate between the two.” After all, to me this is just a group exercise; why not tease it out a bit longer? What’s the rush? Then, “I don’t know what I want,” I tell her.
The words spoken, something happens inside me; there’s a sense of a presence settling down inside. I stop in my tracks and stare at the facilitator: “I know the answer—I didn’t know I knew it, but it’s here”—and I point to my belly.
“And what is the answer?”
Startled, I hear myself say, “I’m going to India.”
*
Born and raised in Australia, as a child my role model was Margot Fonteyn. Her grace and beauty and the breath-taking world of Swan Lake—my parents took me to my first ballet—for half a dozen years fueled my dream to be a dancer. By my school-leaving age, my school’s music teacher suggested a career in singing, and I briefly played with the idea of being a diva. I’d fallen in love with Elisabeth Schwarzkopf in Der Rosenkavalier a couple of years earlier, and I adored singing. A Joan Baez lookalike with my long black hair parted in the middle, aided by white foundation makeup and kohl-rimmed eyes, I felt pale and interesting. Dressed in jeans and a tatty old fur coat, I learned to accompany myself on a guitar well enough to perform in various coffee shops in Melbourne—all the thing in the 1960s. But finally idealism overrode those two loves and, intent now on saving the world, I trained in General Nursing and Midwifery. A friend—she later became a nun and a teacher—and I planned to start our mission in Calcutta, being the worst place we could think of.
But my interests had started changing, turning inward: I became intrigued with the question: What makes for happiness? Why are some of us happy and others not? William was the trigger. A patient on my very first ward and in his early thirties, he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Being bedridden, completely immobile and almost skeletal meant he was very prone to bedsores; in spite of our care he had developed a massive one on his rear. Daily two of us would turn him onto his belly, and then one of us would open his dressing and with forceps pick out the exudate from the crater-like wound that had eaten into him right down to the bone. Yet he was uncomplaining, always open, welcoming and grateful. At the same time I knew a young staff nurse—competent, wealthy, pretty and popular—who had recently tried to commit suicide. Clearly, happiness wasn’t dependent on our physical circumstances.
It must lie in the mind but where exactly? For years I’d been itching to leave Australia for England: my application to the world-renowned Maudsley Hospital for the 2-year Psychiatric Nursing course was accepted—the entry into my quest to discover the source of happiness!
London was an exciting place to be in the late 1960’s-early 1970s. However, the course was a disappointment. Way before the end of it I was disenchanted with the world of the mental and sometimes disturbed by the way psychiatric patients were treated. Often I felt closer to them—officially the ones with the problems yet they were more in touch with their feelings, more sensitive and more vulnerable—than to my colleagues.
What a joy, then, it was to discover the humanistic growth movement, which had arrived recently on Europe’s shores from Esalen in the United States. My flat mate Chris—also studying at the Maudsley—ventured into the world of “inner growth” the weekend before me, signed up for a “24-hour Encounter Marathon.” She arrived home on a high and full of fantastic stories: I instantly booked for the workshop on the following weekend, which happened to be a 48-hour marathon.
We confronted each other, sobbed, shouted, danced, hugged, and sang. It was a whole new world for me