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Samskara Sam Archive

MARch 1995 to August 1996

The Benevolent Dictator
by Atmadeva

MA Margii audience only

S, (Final)

Deep in sadhana on a full moon night, you may happen to delve into the quirkiest region of the collective consciousness and find the following dished-up on your mental plate: ‘Summary of Previous Episode/Samskara Sam’.

Feverishly, you read on: ‘A PROUTist coup d’etat takes place at the Lismore Master Unit. Only hours earlier our diverse conglomeration of protagonists have foolishly fitted themselves out as ‘conspicuous consumption margiis’. Highly inappropriate dress, given the changed political climate: the new regime has imposed a wealth ceiling of only 50.00 rupees/month. Along with cult-napped youngster J.R. Rasagoullafella Jnr. and talk show host Ms Ota-Yoga Wimfrey, they are duly arrested and bundled into an old Mazda school bus. Destination: Re-Education Camp’.

Under the armed escort of the ‘P troopers’ (PROUTist perpetrators of the coup, dressed in yellow skivvies emblazoned with the letter ‘P’), the bus rattled along dusty roads through a terrible sleepless night. The journey was made all the more uncomfortable by the minuscule kindergarten-sized seats and the zealot in ‘continuous play mode’ booming out the FIVE PRINCIPLES OF PROUT for the entire journey.

At last we arrived at notorious Tic Tic Town. It was surprisingly beautiful in the early morning light. Nestled around what appeared to be Lake Geneva were a series of villas, tennis courts, swimming pools, jet boats… even a ‘Yogi’s R Us’ department store.

We were processed in a glamorous reception room under the guidance of a camp commandant, a wise old Cakra Balance Technician with a huge snow white beard (rather like Father Christmas). All our ‘conspicuous consumption wear’ was thrown into an AMURT Children’s Home Clothing Bin, and we donned our camp uniforms. It was a solemn, transforming experience. A rebirth, more profound than any rebirthing workshop. Our new outfits consisted of pale orange pyjamas, a necklace name tag made of wood and an un-removable high-tech anklet which plotted our position on an electronic surveillance system at all times.

Feeling like psychiatric patients we went upstairs to a three course breakfast at the five star pabula intake centre. There I met, of all people, my Cult Bust Inc. supervisor Rajaguna Roy!

‘What the hell are you doing here, you rajasik blob of reactive momenta!’ I half whispered, half shouted, looking furtively around to see that no one in a position of authority saw me speaking to such a loser.

‘It’s all over, Sammy’ he weeped ‘The stock market crashed at 9.07 am yesterday morning. Executives, are jumping from their penthouses. Stockbrokers and property speculators are driving their BMW’s into the harbour. Global capitalism is finished. Australia is the first domino to fall and soon the PROUTists will be in control everywhere… I tried to make my escape via the American embassy. Thousands had fled there, only to witness the last chopper leaving the rooftop. Then some ‘P’ troopers nabbed me and here I am, my only crime, having a red face and being in possession of an onion’.

It all sounded so unreal - as unreal as the heaviest dose of pseudo culture. Capitalism finished!? No more shopping, No more accumulating stuff. No more buy this, buy that. And no more cult-busting too! Rajaguna Roy looked forlorn. Not only had this morning’s collective shoulder stand left him feeling upside down, but the sentient food didn’t give him the necessary kicks.

Looking at my own situation, I noted the following: I was jobless, possession-less, credit card-less. I had nothing… yet somehow I had everything! This sounded funny, but I felt I had in my possession an unknown happiness. A ring of spiritual confidence orbited my left knee. And my brainwaves seemed to be moving about entirely different poles. Besides, the food in this place wasn’t bad at all.

Leaving Rajaguna Roy to his misery I mingled with some of the other inmates for the duration of the three hour breakfast. First person I met was formerly a big shot movie director… famous for the now banned soapie/romance ‘Runaway Beach’ which starred ex-Cakra Balance Technicians playing their post-missionary lifestyles. Then there was the nutty professor who claimed to have discovered the eighth cakra. (If you are interested in trying to locate it, go up 257mm from the 7th cakra then head another 141mm in the direction of Tiljila and there it is!… feel it?). I pondered: if this was so, then shouldn’t a Namaskar be moved up a notch, with the hands touching the Sahasrara and Visuddha Cakras?

I also had the pleasure of meeting Johnnie Jai (He’s the one who gets all excited when someone says ‘Param Pita’) and the ‘Orange Brothers’. They were an interesting phenomenon, a duo not unlike Samskara Samantha and myself. One was a little overweight and both wore shabby suits and dark glasses. Over-zealous in their fund raising efforts, they were doing time for eight counts of dangerous driving; twelve counts of using non-sentient language; and forty one counts of drinking in a standing position.

Pretty soon breakfast was finished and it was almost time for lunch. Father Christmas blew his whistle and put me on meal preparation. I found myself in an affinity group with all my old friends. We laboured in an enormous gourmet kitchen under the expert guidance of cordon bleu chefs, while the others raved about the ‘How to Find the Right Mate Astrology Workshop’ they’d just been to.

The methods of the new regime were indeed surprising. The warders carried carrots, rather than sticks and seemed to have the objective of making life so good here that no one would want to escape. Take away the anklets and Tic Tic Town would be more like a New Age festival on a cruise ship than a corrective institution. Running the whole show was Father Christmas, ship’s captain or Benevolent Dictator if you will.

Putting the finishing touches to a carob moose my mouth began to water. But in vain. The Benevolent Dictator came into the room and announced that all the food was for sadavarata (food service) and none of it would be for us. With shoulders stooped in disappointment, J.R. Rasagoullafella Jnr. and myself carried a tray of… you guessed it: rasagoullas, to a gleaming white nine seater Toyota bus. Such is (spiritual) life: one could have no attachments on the autobahn to the Atman.

The sadavarata was in a nearby shanty town, a large community of ‘no-name’ margiis. They lived in drab black and white cardboard boxes and their use-by-dates were forever expiring. These were the poorest of the poor- not even shudras and they were mighty pleased to see us. The food was devoured in about four minutes and it must be said that we too left the feeding ground with a sense of nourishment: spiritual nourishment.

Feeling quite inspired, J.R. Rasagoullafella Jnr. and myself went down to Lake Geneva to do a spot of meditation. On a small peninsula, we found a beautiful graveyard shaded by cypress pines. Despite the fact that the Orange Brothers were careening about the lake in their jet boats, we were still able to do deep meditation because the place was so well vibrated. Too well vibrated: soon I began to hear spooky noises. oooohheeeei-mmma^aghdanv HE HE HE! Fearfully I reconnoitred around the tombstones. Before long I found the emanation point. It was the Kamamaya Kid, hiding in a nearby crypt with a ghetto blaster playing Kapalika Meditation SFX (KapalikaMed Sound Effects: Graveyard Mix - available at Yogi’s R US $19.95). I made a few SFX of my own and the junior jiiva fled.

Returning to my five speed sadhana mat I again descended into deep meditation. It seemed I was plunging into the grave and merging with a recently departed soul. That person was Fat Orange Brother who had just drowned himself in the lake.

I came out of sadhana in the crimson dawn of the next day. Dripping wet and 20kg overweight I peered from dark sunglasses to find the benevolent dictator standing before me. I tried to touch his feet, but he belted me with a very long carrot.

‘What is your name, junior jiiva?’

I’m not a junior jiiva, I’m a senior jiiva I thought to myself.

‘Samskara Sam… I think… except that I seem to have Fat Orange Brother’s body’

‘Yesss, you do indeed’ he giggled ‘This is punishment for all your past mistakes. Do you accept punishment for these mistakes’.

‘Er… what mistakes?… oh yeh… OK’.

Then the benevolent dictator smiled and tapped me on the seventh cakra (or was it the eighth?) with his very long carrot and Fat Orange Brother’s disgusting bodily attributes dissolved instantly. I was again my essential self, beaming with goodness.

‘Now go ahead my junior jiiva and do good work’

I gave him a 1Gb Namaskar and left that sacred place.

Back in the real world, Unit Entity No.12, doing time as an ice cream cart, had bogged himself on the beach so I hauled him out (turning down the offer of a White Magnum.). A small girl’s tricycle was squeaky so I oiled it for her. RS Pluto broke his tongue cleaner so I gave him a carbon fibre one. An ant needed it’s gearbox overhauled so I overhauled it. Etc. Etc.

So began my life as a goody goody, working for His mission. One quinquelemental adventure was over and maybe a new one was just beginning.

Episode 6