Years ago, when I was active in the New York poetry scene, a friend of mine went out with a guy who showed up at our salon. He was about our age, well-built, and looked as if he worked out. His poetry was well-crafted, if uninspired. One thing everybody noticed about him was that his hairline sometimes changed.
My friend eventually told me that her boyfriend—let’s call him Jim—was a member of Hare Krishna—you know, that cult which shaves its heads, dresses in Indian garb and beads, chants “Hare Krishna,” and collects alms all over the place. They believe that the chanting will improve the world spiritually, as well as improving their own hold on sanctity. Jim’s “hair” was actually a wig.
Despite his youth, Jim used to be a tenured academic, but he was also a heroin addict. He used to finance his growing habit by getting female undergraduates (most of them his students) to prostitute themselves. One winter night, his dealer failed to show. There he was, alone in a public park and starting to get the shakes. All of a sudden, he was surrounded by Hare Krishnas. They brought him to their place, detoxed and fed him, never leaving his side. Those who study cults call this type of thing “love-bombing,” in which the group convinces a troubled individual to join through pure attentiveness.
The strategy worked. Jim joined and never left. He told my friend, “I can’t handle freedom.” This didn’t stop him from criticizing his fellow devotees, whom he called “earthworms.” He went on and on about this, listing the average H.K.‘s social, intellectual and psychological deficits. However, he valued the sect’s extreme regimentation and rose to become one of its officers.
One day, Jim disappeared. It was a while before he came back. My friend told me that the sect’s leaders knew about their dating relationship and considered her a danger. They whisked him off to the sect’s Southern headquarters, an Indian-style colony called “New Vrindaban,” all of whose buildings had gilded facades.
Jim then delivered the really bad news to my friend. Knowing his weakness for female company, they chose a wife for him from among the sect. My friend asked him, “Gee, what is she like?” Jim answered, unsmiling, “Well, one woman is just like another….”—Kathryn Nocerino