Desi Manifesto Blog: The Forum for South Asian American Men

Can you feel the power? What about you, “Miss Mantra”?

[Blogger: S.I.] It’s been two weeks. We know. We’re sorry. We had things to do. But that doesn’t mean we stopped loving you.

Mike Myers’ movie “The Love Guru” flopped last weekend, assuming the “downward spiraling dog” pose, and this coming weekend’s box office receipts should shut the lid on that coffin. Well done, even if we weren’t sure whether it helped or hurt desis in the US.

This monumental failure dredged up memories of my encounter a few years ago with a real life love guru, and the hilarity that ensued. No, he wasn’t about “love” directly, but he proffered all the intangible accoutrements of spirituality.

Fake? Hack? Snake oil salesman? Charlatan? Scam artist?

No no, please call him Maha Rishi.

That’s right. “Maha”=Great. “Rishi”=Sage, who is in effect a great wise one.

Great Great Wise One.

His credentials were outstanding. He came highly recommended from Professor Really Smart Professor, Ph.D. He’s the best they have at UCLAUC.

Sigh. Welcome to So Cal.

I USED TO BE an assistant at the crappiest “independent” (meaning, no money and no movies) production company in history, which was based on a studio lot (in Hollywood, you have to waste money in style).

As it was my first job in Hwood, I didn’t have the skills to distinguish between what was LA, what was bullshit, and what was both (a LOT of Column A is also in Column B, especially in the entertainment industry).

One of my bosses, Mark, was a “talent” manager. I use the term “talent” loosely. Among the wannabe divas, preening actors, and couple of good people who should have been with a better company, a stringy looking white dude sauntered in.

We were a little far from the beach, and he didn’t bring a surfboard, so I couldn’t have imagined why else he was there. He was gaunt, unshaven, and had scraggly hair. But I wasn’t in the mood to share my lunch, and he couldn’t have slipped past the lot security.

Me: “Uh, may I help you?”

Flim Flammer (soft-spoken, feigning inner tranquility): “Yes, I’m here to see Mark.”

Me: “Ooookay. What’s your name?”

Flim Flammer: “Maha Rishi.”

Me: “…I’m sorry?”

Flim Flammer (thinking I genuinely didn’t know what he said): “Maha Rishi. M-A-H-A R-I-S-H-I.”

Me (not a chance): “But, what’s your real name?”

Flim Flammer (unperturbed): “It’s Maha Rishi.”

Me (perturbed): “No, but I mean, your actual name. That’s on your ID. Because I have to call in passes for you in the future.”

Flim Flammer: “………….Tyler Banks. But call me Maha.”

Me: “Thanks Tyler. Oh, sorry.”

As Mark escorted him into his office, my cultural sensibilities already had overridden any self-preservation instinct for my job. I found myself stunned. Who the hell was this guy and what the hell was his game? And were people really stupid enough to believe his bullshit?

That was the hope, apparently. I approached my other bosses, thinking they were unaware of the happenings. Foolish on my part. Not only did they know, they supported it. If other people were dumb enough to buy Tyler’s shtick, they didn’t care as long as they cashed in.

But the clods were aware enough to notice my discontent. They asked if he offended me. I said that I could believe a non-Indian would be in to the philosophy, yoga, and spirituality. I could even believe the guy would be expert enough to teach others.

But when this fool goes around refusing to acknowledge the name on his ID and calling himself Great Great anything, and when someone who is supposed to be spiritual can be found in the waiting room of a company like this, you know he’s full of shit.

“Hey if he makes us money, you better like him!” was the refrain.

I didn’t tell them that last part. I was still pretty new to the job.

THE MORE MEETINGS they had with “Rishi,” the more I learned about his game. And the more my distaste grew for his unwashed hair.

He was a part-time yoga instructor who had segued into “generic life advice.” Basically, a fortune cookie Gumby. And he thought now would be the perfect time to branch out and start his own brand. DVDs, CDs, workshops, books–all with the “Rishi” brand of beach-bum inner peace. He even had a treatment for a TV show - “Maha Rishi and the Adventures of Miss Mantra.”

As the vague idea of this Hacky McHackerson achieving any kind of success bubbled in my brain, I became physically incapable of letting it go. A number of our conversations went as such:

Phone rings.

Me: “Hello, Piece of Shit Company.”

Huckster: “Hello S.I., this is Maha Rishi.”

Me: “Hey Tyler. Need me to call in a pass?”

Huckster: “…Yes, please do.”

Me: “OK, I’ll put it under TYLER BANKS. Be sure to show them your ID with your full legal name spelled out.”

Huckster: “Thanks…”

Me: “No problem, Ty.”

THE “TALENT” MANAGER said Tyler was totally centered, cool, just really down to earth.

He said he used to be stressed out and have difficulty achieving any kind of inner calm until he started taking classes (at exorbitant sums I assume) with “the Rishi.”

He said I should try to take a step back and give him a chance.

Hmmm, no.

Was it because he was stringy as opposed to yoga toned? A surfer type? White? American? From So Cal?

Maybe, maybe, no (maybe), no, no.

My real arguments: his self-aggrandizing moniker would go against the morals and mores of anyone who practiced what Tyler preached. Or it should, anyway.

More, he was squeezing out every penny he could from his spirituality, which seems antithetical to spirituality on the whole. Or he was trying and failing. Either way, something was amiss.

And, seeing how into his act the ADD-and-easily-influenced “talent” manager was only fortified my position.

In life, even if you don’t know the answer, you can get a lot of things right by doing the opposite of what the idiot does.

That, by the way, was the most valuable lesson I learned at this company. Which would be going out of business shortly after I left.

Coincidence?

TWO MONTHS LATER, everyone in the workplace knew that when Tyler surfed in, my sound bytes would follow. When he entered, I’d grill him:

Me: “So where did you learn about yoga?”

I Learned Everything on Wikipedia: “I’ve been doing it for years, some independent instructors and research, just immersing myself.”

Me: “So just kind of winged it, huh?”

Or:

Me: “So, to really find out about the heart of yoga and its roots, have you ever been to India?”

Rupees Ain’t Dollars: “…Well, I haven’t had the chance to go yet… But I’d definitely like to one day.”

Or:

My Favorite Yoga Position Involves You (to a wannabe diva in the office): “Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Wannabe Diva: “Hello, I’m Wannabe Diva.”

My Favorite Yoga Position Involves You: “Nice to meet you. I’m–”

Me: “This is Tyler Banks. My bad, I should have introduced you guys sooner. Busy day today, let me tell you.”

Or:

Me: “Did you know you’re a white dude from California who still has sand in his draws, provided you’re wearing any, from bumming around on the beach?”

Guilty: “You’re right… I’m not wearing draws. My soul is free. But my knowledge isn’t.”

No, I didn’t ask that.

CALL IT “HABITUALIZATION.” I’d somewhat come to terms with this cat. This was LA. People will believe any old crap in So Cal, especially when they have money to spend and their brains have been poisoned from the sun, surf, and smog. He was trying to get his dollar on, and as long as he found no success, I felt fine.

My bosses, however, did not. A lack of success is the death knell, and even if they believed in the life cycle as he preached it, this kid would have to be reborn elsewhere.

They’d taken his ideas out on the town. And no one bought. He had nothing new, and they were out of avenues to sell him.

The first Love Guru flopped. And last weekend, the second one did as well.

And I bet Miss Mantra left his ass, too.