Free Never Mind the Bullocks by Vanessa Able

dead on the floor and running around blindfolded, screaming gibberish at high volume. The latter appealed to me the most on the grounds that it was theoretically a lot like driving, and as hard as it was to do, I decided to give it a really good go.
    â€˜
Grarrrlllllaarrlllll!
’ I roared, waving my hands frantically in the air in an attempt to awaken my inner Tasmanian Devil and have him kick up a dust storm through the rose garden of my more English inhibitions. Feeling an utter fool, I paused for a moment to catch my breath and peek through my blindfold. My fellow internees were hopping around like deranged cats, dressed in the same long maroon robes and screaming gutturalnonsense. Reminiscent of a high-security nuthouse, the scene was terrifying to behold, and I was part of it. I replaced my blindfold and decided that in this case, watching the madness was more maddening than participating in it. There was nothing else for it but to jump high in the air and let out another deafening ‘
Ggggrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaalll!
’
    When the evening dancing started, the auditorium transformed. About 200 or so people, all clad in regulation white evening robes, started boogying around the hall to the repetitive strain of what sounded like a cheerful Cossack ditty mixed with a 1970s cop-show theme. The room began to resemble a cross between
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
and a Goa trance party. Gathered there were people of all ages and nationalities, and every single one appeared to be thoroughly absorbed in his or her personal dance, eyes closed and arms swinging. Their sheer number was a blessing. I could lose myself in this sea of groovers, and after a few minutes I started to feel like I was at a nightclub. I closed my eyes and let my body do what it would in time to the jaunty melodies emanating from the band. Every so often there would be a sudden break in the music and the revellers would stop mid-routine, shout ‘
Osho!
’ at the top of their lungs, and then continue their dance. Not really sure why we were doing it, I nonetheless joined in, feeling my embarrassment dissipate with every minute.
    Eventually, we were able to invoke him. Sweaty and danced out, when the music stopped, everybody in the hall plopped down on the floor and the man himself made an appearance, projected from beyond the grave onto a giant video screen at the front of the auditorium. Wearing a blue gown with Dynasty-style shoulder pads and his trademark beanie, Osho spoke slowly and precisely to the camera from somewhere in what I guess must have been the mid-1980s.
    His talk impressed me. He appeared to have a focused air and a wicked sense of humour. He told a really long joke about Mikhail Gorbachev and Ronald Reagan, and I laughed out loud, as did everyone else. But when I stopped laughing, they continued. A couple of minutes passed and they were still laughing, some of them rolling around on their backs, thumping the floor in breathless mirth. Five minutes turned to ten and finally the giggles died down and transformed into something even more disturbing: gobbledegook. Hundreds of voices jabbered in unison; the sounds they made were incomprehensible, noises rising from the subconscious, but somehow they came together in a deranged harmony. It was a bit like the gibberish session, but more controlled, and with the blindfolds off.
    Feeling like a daunted private among an army of demented chimps, I let my underlying fool flow out through my mouth and gave voice to all manner of nonsense. I babbled, gabbled, yabbered and yammered until I was almost drooling down my white dress. Osho thought it was necessary to walk through the fires of insanity to decompress the tensions of social living, to liberate one’s soul from the frameset of rules, and I was beginning to see his point.
    When I left the resort two days later, I returned to the Indian roads with a fresh outlook. I knew I had to adjust my attitude: just like in the