Walking toward Raghvendra's quarters, I met Prudence and Mia Farrow out for a stroll. We greeted each other. Prudence stopped.
"You're the fellow from the hotel in Delhi, aren't you? You came to our room." Prudence turned to her sister. "Mia, this is
the guy who brought you that lovely, big yellow mum." Mia brightened. "That was so good of you." Mia took my hand for a moment
and smiled. "That was such a horrible day. We'd just arrived from New York, exhausted from the long flight, and then that
press thing happened. But your generosity made a difference." I said I was glad, and after a few more warm words we parted.
Later that day, I learned that Mia and I had something in common, and that was the reason we'd both come to Rishikesh. We had
each gone to hear the Maharishi lecture, she in Boston just a month beforehand, hoping to find a salve for the pain of
heartbreak, searching for a new self-respect by going within, irrespective of the love of others.
It was Prudence who had actually introduced Mia to meditation. At the ashram, Prudence immersed herself in meditation for such
long hours that she didn't come out for her meals, having a tray set outside her door. After a while she stayed in her room
around the clock. She was either blissed-out or, as one of the Beatles later voiced, flipping out. Either way, it became a
cause of great concern and George, followed by John and Paul, tried to get her to come out. Prudence wouldn't even answer the
door. I would be gone by then, but eventually, after three weeks of Prudence's staying in her room, John and Paul took their
guitars and serenaded her through her locked door and drawn curtains, singing a little ditty John wrote for the occasion. It
worked. The drapes moved slightly and Prudence looked out. After a moment, a slight smile animated her face and eventually she
emerged. The little ditty was Dear Prudence and it became part of the Beatles' next album--The Beatles--widely known as The
Within You, Without You
The next day, I sat with the Beatles overlooking the Ganges. After chai, everyone left except George and me. Sitting alone
with him I felt shy, awkward. George was quiet and intense, but friendly. He was then just a few days away from his
twenty-fifth birthday. I told him I loved Norwegian Wood and asked him how long he had played the sitar.
"A little over two years," he answered. "It was when we made Help. We were filming and there was a sitar around. I was
curious and fooled around with it on the set. But, the first time I really listened to sitar music was off a Ravi Shankar
album. Later, I met him in London and asked him to teach me. He agreed, but it wasn't until I came here with Pattie, to Bombay
where Ravi lives, and studied with him that I really got deeply into it. And into India and all it has to offer, spiritually
A baby monkey dropped down onto the far end of our table from the thatched roof above, scampered four or five feet towards us,
grabbed a crust of bread lying there and chattered off, noisily. We both laughed at its apparent pleasure. "I'm going to
practice for a while. Would you like to come and have a listen?" George asked.
We walked over to his bungalow and into a small meditation room, about eight feet by ten feet, with only a white futon on the
floor and his sitar. George sat cross-legged near the center of the room and I sat facing him a few feet away, my back resting
against the wall. He gently nestled the large gourd at the base of the sitar against the sole of his left foot, as soft
sunlight filtered through the slightly dusty windowpanes. Everything was glowing. I could smell the faint aroma of sandalwood
incense from somewhere outside as George closed his eyes and began to play. As the multilayered music, like a kaleidoscope of
exquisite colours, filled the small room my eyes closed and I drifted dreamily on the waves of sound. Time shifted. It seemed
to slow down. He played an Indian raga for fifteen minutes, or maybe it was forty. As he finished, the musical reverberations
slowly fading into silence, I felt a soft, delicious feeling of peace. When I opened my eyes, he was gently laying his sitar
back down. The sunlight had shifted across the futons and there was an vibrant, soothing aura in the room.
In the relaxed conversation that followed, he told me that his wife Pattie had learned transcendental meditation first and
then got him interested. The Beatles' interest in meditation and spirituality had begun several years before Rishikesh. George
was influenced by the writings of the Indian scholar and sage Vivekananda and had been exploring the spiritual aspects of life
for some time. As he found exciting books or passages, he would share them with John, Ringo, and Paul. As they delved into
deeper spiritual questions they found drugs less capable of helping them find the inner answers they were looking for.
Earlier, smoking marijuana and hashish, and taking LSD for fun and for exploring consciousness, had brought some positive
results manifested in their songs. In time, though, drugs became somewhat of a dead end. I had experienced this as well.
On August 24, 1967, the Maharishi was giving an introductory lecture at the Hilton Hotel in London and Pattie and George took
the other Beatles along to hear him speak. Afterward, they went backstage for a private meeting. They were drawn to his
message and the Maharishi invited them to leave with him the next morning by train for a ten-day meditation retreat in Wales.
But, after only one day at the retreat, they learned of the death of their manager, Brian Epstein, and returned to London.
When the Maharishi returned to the city they continued to study with him and he invited them to Rishikesh for the three-month
intensive meditation course.
I asked him what meditation was like for him. He was quiet for awhile, and thoughtful: "Meditation and Maharishi have helped
make the inner life rich for me. The meditation buzz is incredible. I get higher than I ever did with drugs. It's simple, the
vibration is on the astral plane, and it's my way of connecting with God." He was silent for a moment, and with a profound
modesty he added, "Like, we're the Beatles after all, aren't we? We have all the money you could ever dream of. We have all
the fame you could ever wish for. But, isn't love. It isn't health. It isn't peace inside. Is it?" He gave me a dear, even
loving smile. Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Sometimes, it's only much later that we realize the impact another person has had on us. I've never forgotten his words. Only
years later would I realize that, in that moment, George changed my life. He was one of my heroes and he was pointing the way,
telling me where to 'find myself'. Not outside myself, in money or fame or anything else external, but within myself. He was
also telling me that that's also why he and the other Beatles were there--to find something deeper within themselves. In time,
I would come to understand that it's a universal journey: To know ourselves, to like ourselves, profoundly, to be
self-realized, we must journey within. George and I sat quietly a while longer, and then we went out into the warm winter sun.
Paul Saltzman is a photographer, filmmaker and author of The Beatles In Rishikesh and The Beatles In India. The Beatles In
India project is an opportunity for fans to come together in discussion and community, in acknowledgement of the Beatles in
India experience. Through the sharing of our feelings and through the photographs and music, the Beatles in India experience
comes alive in the hearts of everyone.
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