In mid-2021, I relocated back to India, after spending four years in the US, to be a caregiver for my father, who was in the end stages of stage four cancer. After his death, I was deeply lost and overwhelmed. My grieving mother, exhausted after years of being a sole caregiver, was diagnosed with anxiety and PTSD. I was also grappling with a demanding job and failing family business while untangling the financial and legal labyrinth of banks and courts for transferring my father’s assets to my mother. 

I found refuge in a long-standing love, Sufism. Exploring Eli Shafak’s Forty Rules of Love, I found M, a practicing Sufi on Instagram. She was around my age. Her highly photogenic uploads involved her spinning feverishly to ghazals in long flowing skirts. Captions like “drown yourself in God’s love” and Noor E Khuda accompanied her posts. Delighted at having found a young Sufi woman, I reached out. I was invited to join her online sessions, where she taught us how to whirl to Abida Parveen’s Man Kunto Maula. I felt like I had found something real and lasting. 

M was charismatic, had been a former model, and spoke with a frank earnestness that was refreshing. For a girl who had spent most of her adult life in corporate cages and a suffocating North Indian patriarchal home, her sessions felt like a long, deep exhale. I became a regular. 

Like many spiritual seekers, she had shopped around—having spent many years with Osho and Turkish Sufi masters. She had finally found one master she could devote herself to and moved to Bengaluru, where he was based. Her sessions were an amalgam of everything she had picked up. 

I also learned about her guru. He was an upper-class, soft-spoken, middle-aged man who radiated absolute peace. His teaching, however, was not Sufi. He taught Advaita, or Non-Duality, a philosophy about Oneness—encapsulated by the term Aham Bramhasmi from the Upanishads—I am the Universe.

Whenever I expressed curiosity about his teachings, M would get enraged. I was in “her sangha." This possessiveness felt strange, but I let it go. Everyone has their quirks, and M was trying to establish an identity. I was also fascinated with M’s inner circle, which comprised three younger girls who idealized her. Their camaraderie was endearing—and I pined to be included.

Over time, she started shifting from Osho’s active meditations to satsangs. The word typically refers to a gathering of holy ideas. In this context, M preached Advaita inquiries she had learned from her guru. These inquiries, popularized by the late Ramana Maharashi, involve contemplating the question—Who Am I? 

M, however, was far from the silent and radiant Ramana. She would often attack and humiliate us during sessions. If we got offended, she would claim our “ego was too much." In M’s guru’s version of Advaita, thoughts were the enemy. The mind was trying to distract us and pull us into Maya and illusions such as money, fame, and even romantic love. In M’s worldview, those with a high degree of cognitive intelligence were lost, their spirit dominated by their theoretical knowledge. I never engaged with her directly; my corporate job involved enough humiliation. M often passed snide and cruel remarks, singling me out as an "intellectual." 

Grief and Belonging

I stayed in that group for close to 3 years. I always believed that those who get drawn into cults come from a low socioeconomic and educational stratum. I, however, had resources, a world-class education, and a strong spirit. Yet, I was sucked in, though to my credit, never completely. I remained slightly skeptical of M. 

I have a critical and opinionated mind, a healthy degree of self-reliance, and an independent spirit. These qualities have often led to a breakdown in my relationships. I have never truly belonged to any group. Majoritarianism seeps through every social setting in India. Cultivating self-reliance in a culture where group dynamics weigh heavily on individual liberty is often a losing battle. 

The answer to why I got involved is complex. I was grieving and looking for a surrogate family after my father’s death. But I do not think grief is the complete answer. The group, comprising others like me—lost, lonely, misfits—did give me a sense of belonging. 

There were people navigating abusive marriages and recovering from traumatic childhoods. There was a girl who had left her violent husband only to return home to find her father masturbating sitting opposite her. And then there was me, the eldest daughter, product of an alcoholic, narcissistic father and a passive, unavailable mother. 

We all carried broken hearts. I felt I had found my tribe, who I could grow old with in a commune in the mountains.

Glimpsing God

Towards the end of 2022, M disappeared. She informed a few of us that she was going into a deep meditation and wouldn’t be taking any sessions for a while. She emerged weeks later with shattering declarations: she would now only wear white, have no physical contact with men, and not touch money. All of her sessions would be free. People could, however, donate. For a year, I handed 20% of my paycheck to M.

Soon, M’s inner circle began referring to her as Ma. I didn’t want to call her Ma, but I eventually did because I was afraid that I would appear highly arrogant if I didn’t. She added me to a WhatsApp group of three of her closest followers. I was thrilled—I had done it; I was now part of M’s inner circle. 

In May 2023, she did a three-week intensive retreat where I experienced a lot of emotional release. I would burst into an avalanche of tears in public. I would sit by myself for hours, peacefully detached from what was going on. I experienced bone-chilling silence. I sensed that the world as we know it lacks any solidity—it could vanish in the blink of an eye. I felt like my body was porous; the inside and outside were one, which was no real substance. M told me that I had had darshan. I had seen God. 

This experience was life-changing; my corporate job felt pointless, and I quit it. I became deeply aware of my body and, for the first time in my life, faced my own fragility and mortality. I had spent my entire life running away from my own vulnerabilities and my own eventual end. But now, I could not look away. I could not share any of this emotional upheaval with M—she would accuse me of being lost in my mind. 

M’s expectations of me increased. She handed me critical managerial tasks, and in the next retreat I managed meals for around 20 people. I did an excellent job. M told me, with a straight face no less, that she believed that Devi Annapurna had possessed me. Others’ attitude towards me changed too. A few of them whispered that I might become M’s successor. The next Ma. The idea made me horribly cringe; I had no desire to become anyone’s spiritual authority. 

The Cracks 

Despite her claims to being detached from the world, M was often riled, just like the rest of us. She spent weeks moping when one of her closest followers left and became an Instagram Guru Ma. We spent weeks placating M; she complained about how disappointed she was in us. Her outbursts would leave me completely rattled. Something in me had started to shift; her moods started to exhaust me. There was no space for the followers to express any emotion but the teacher could take up all the space she needed.

In October 2023, in another retreat in Delhi, she ended up in my passenger’s seat while I drove us to dinner. She had spent the previous hour yelling at her entire inner circle—accusing us of not being devoted enough. I was terrified during the drive and avoided her in case she burst into a rage again—I could lose my concentration. She could smell my growing discomfort and resistance.

I also attended a few of M’s guru’s sessions and asked him questions. I had heard both him and M talk of reincarnation. M firmly believed that she was in Osho’s Oregon cult in her previous birth. But her guru never spoke of a soul, and as per Advaita, there was no ego. There was only consciousness, which is impersonal, universal, and not owned by a particular organism. So, my question to him was—who or what exactly is reborn? He didn't answer.

They say science doesn't have all the answers. It doesn't. But neither does spirituality.

In the summer of 2024, I experienced a severe depressive crisis. M was busy organizing a retreat in Rishikesh and wanted me to take up key responsibilities. I was, however, struggling to stay functional. I had been diagnosed with clinical recurrent depression in 2016 and have had sporadic episodes since. M’s response to my anguish was cold—I was having a devil attack, and I needed to become more obedient. My trust in her completely broke. I left the group.

This haloed, ivory-tower spirituality was not for me. I was looking for wisdom, but I found spiritual arrogance. I was looking for love, but I found another set of checklists I had to meet. I needed integration, not transcendence. I wanted to be able to look at the world, with all its darkness, and live in it without flinching. Maybe even thrive, when all I had been doing for years was struggling to survive.

M’s and her guru’s teaching felt hollow, without teeth or spine. They spoke of divine love. But love requires empathy, imagination, and acknowledgement of the other, not detachment. You cannot love someone if you cannot put yourself in their shoes.  

Post-Cult Recovery

After I left, I saw myself become a post-cult recovery therapist for others who wanted to leave but were enmeshed. I had long lamenting phone calls with one man who had become M’s object of affection and was shaken after she stalked and hounded him. I found a close friend in an American woman who had been with M’s guru. She had been at the receiving end of M’s bitter jealousy as M saw her as a competitor. 

The American woman, K, and I have stayed in touch over the years. We used our conversations as an opportunity to “unlearn” all that spirituality had offered us—primarily an escape through transcendence. Spiritual figures in our lives had taught us to chant the name of God but not raise our voice for injustice, as the latter was “too wordly." We had to “grow our consciousness” to a point that we would hover above the stinking, suffering masses as we chanted Ram Ram. 

Transcendence hadn’t really helped us. We were still mortal suffering beings, deeply flawed and full of desires. When K had doubts about leaving the community, I urged her with this question—was there even a single person in the group who inspired you? Anyone who became less arrogant and more compassionate? We couldn’t even find one.

My discussions with K enabled me to achieve clarity. There was no authority between us. Both of us were trying to figure it out. Our discussions revealed a lot, especially how we had projected a knowingness on the guru figures. Both of us carried grief—immense expectations, parental death, and sexual traumas. We were drawn to spiritual groups because we sought love and belonging. We needed saviors because we didn’t believe in ourselves. We needed a space that could help us metabolize our deep sadness—we didn’t find it, but we found ourselves. We came to the insight that we had been avoiding. We had to face ourselves, our needs, and especially our pain. Maybe the point of reaching transcendence was the realization that it is not enough—humans still need to work on themselves and resolve their issues.

Choosing Reality, Exactly How It Is

If the detached spirituality is not my cup of tea, then what is? M told me that I had glimpsed God. I don’t know about that, but I saw my own absence, and strangely, everything was fine. The human brain is terrified of uncertainty, and after taking a peek into the unknown, I can say it isn’t so bad. It was actually delicious.

This newfound embrace of my own mortality pushed me towards freedom, as inherently, I do feel like I have nothing to lose. I attempt to consciously look towards the raw, naked truth and never look away from suffering, especially my own. I am cultivating a drive to find purpose and joy in the midst of impending doom—the climate crisis, pollution, right-wing authoritarianism, and AI. Transcendence taught me that life is fleeting; it is over before we know it and hence must be cherished. 

I spent many years being a spiritual seeker, but the answer to what could give my life purpose and meaning was within my own home. Having witnessed both my parents' battles with cancer and spending years battling with India's healthcare system, I became deeply committed to public health research. Over the last couple of years since leaving the group, I devoted myself to my family business in healthcare publishing and becoming a public health advocate. Even though I run a business and have financial acumen, I approach it like a creative problem-solving exercise and a testing ground for new ideas on how medical research in the Global South can be improved. 

India devotes less than 5% of its R&D budgets to medical research and close to 80% to defense. Through my work, I want to make an iota of an effort to tip the scales—but I am fully aware that it is a losing battle. I do not think anymore that we can save the world—but we can try to engage with it. Fully and fearlessly.

There is a Chinese movie I once watched, a cinematic spectacle called Hero. A scene within it has never left me. A group of rebels are hiding inside a calligraphy school, which gets attacked by the Emperor’s army. Calligraphy is almost a spiritual art in the Chinese context—a culmination of the artist’s talent and inner spirit. 

As the arrows rain down, too numerous to fight and with nowhere left to hide, the calligraphy teacher instructs the students to continue with their art. Nobody moves. Many students get hit but continue their art. There is immense dignity in persisting in your art and self-expression in the face of an imminent end. There are losing battles, but then there are losing battles that are worth the fight.