*Starred Review* "Sannyasins gathered together to abandon weight, to surrender themselves to levity. . . . The children of Bhagwan's communes needed other things. We needed comfort. We needed a place to stash our Legos. We needed our home." Now 27, Guest spent the majority of his first 10 years shuttling around the globe between communes organized by followers of the notorious Indian guru, Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. In this stirring memoir, Guest combines thoroughly researched portraits of his controversial guru's movement (and its subsequent downfall), his family's story, and his own clear, poignant childhood memories of commune life. A contributor to London newspapers such as theGuardian and the Daily Telegraph, Guest writes with a reporter's sense of economy and restraint, letting absurd, even shocking details speak for themselves. Guest remembers the heartbreaking loneliness and sorrow that "did not fit into the commune's decade-long dream of laughter and celebration" as well as his profound confusion upon reentering mainstream society at age 11. But his anger toward the mother who periodically abandoned him has softened into a mature, deeply moving sympathy. Looking at one of the book's many family photos of his young parents, Guest writes, "I want to take something of my heart and push it . . . back in time. I want to tell them I'll be OK." An intelligent, wry, openhearted memoir of surviving a childhood and a cultural phenomenon that were both extraordinary. Gillian Engberg
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
U.K. PRAISE FOR MY LIFE IN ORANGE
"[Tim Guest's] wonderful account of a frankly ghastly childhood is hilarious and heartbreaking, and it says much for the resilience of the human spirit that he has grown up sound in mind and body without a trace of bitterness towards his mother."--Daily Mail (London)
"An extraordinary memoir."--The Sunday Telegraph (London)
—
From the Back Cover
“A hilarious account of growing up in a commune.”--Irish Times
At the age of six, Tim Guest was taken by his mother to a commune modeled on the teachings of the notorious Indian guru Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, who preached an eclectic doctrine of Eastern mysticism, chaotic therapy, and sexual freedom. Tim and his mother were given Sanskrit names, dressed entirely in orange, and encouraged to surrender themselves into their new family. While his mother worked tirelessly for the cause, Tim--or Yogesh, as he was now called--lived a life of well-meaning but woefully misguided neglect in various communes in Oregon, England, India, and Germany. When the movement finally collapsed amid allegations of mass poisonings, attempted murder, and tax evasion, Tim and his mother started a new life. In this poignant and funny memoir, Tim Guest chronicles his experience of being left alone on earth while his mother hunted heaven, and concludes with a heartening account of how they find each other again.
“[Tim Guest’s] wonderful account of a frankly ghastly childhood is hilarious and heartbreaking, and it says much for the resilience of the human spirit that he has grown up sound in mind and body without a trace of bitterness towards his mother.”--Daily Mail (London)
"A unique, eloquent, child's eye view of growing up in a commune and the price paid for a parent's search for bliss. A complex and superbly told tale of longing and repair. Guest is a fine writer at the beginning, I think, of a distinguished career."--John Lahr
“An extraordinary memoir.”--The Sunday Telegraph (London)
Tim Guest writes for the Guardian and the Daily Telegraph. He lives in London.
A Harvest Original
About the Author
Tim Guest writes for the Guardian and the Daily Telegraph. He lives in London.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
I have photographs of my mother leading a commune parade down Fleet Street. I have photos of me curled up on a commune beanbag reading a commune library book. I have photos of the commune kids running three-legged races on the front lawn; photos of us in maroon body-warmers, tugging each other around on sledges over the frozen waters of the commune lake.
I have brochures, too, designed and printed on the commune printing presses, that list the therapy and meditation groups on offer at the commune. I even have copies of commune videos, made to promote the new lifestyle we were pioneering on the cutting edge of consciousness and out in the middle of the Suffolk countryside. I have another video, made by the BBC, with early footage from the Ashram in India. People saying 'beautiful'; people doing t'ai chi; people naked in padded rooms, hitting each other with fists and pillows. I have copies of the newspapers that were hand-printed in the commune design studios, the photos silk-screened, the headlines hand-applied in Letraset letters. In these newspapers there are interviews with the commune's leading spiritual pioneers, written by other commune residents in the zany language of the time.
I even have some evidence that there was family life before the commune. Photos of me back in 1978, sulking on the steps of our house in Leeds, clutching a Snoopy doll and two stuffed monkeys, just a month before we dyed all our clothes orange.
This evidence has taken me years to gather together. I can look at these artefacts now, and see myself; but in the late 1980s, a teenager living with my mother in North London after the communes had ended, I had no evidence of our history. In a small fire out in our back garden my mother burned her photos, her orange clothes, her mala necklace, with its 108 sandalwood beads and locket with a picture of Bhagwan. Despite my pleas to let me sell it and keep the money, she even burned the bright gold rim she had paid a commune jeweller to fix around her mala locket, in the later, more style-conscious commune years. A week after the fire, I borrowed a pair of pliers, prised the silver rim off my own mala, and threw the beads away.
I had no other evidence of my commune childhood. I had lost touch with the other commune kids. My mother never talked about the commune - or if she did, I refused to reply. We had both stopped using the names Bhagwan had given us. In our cupboards there was no longer a single red or orange item of clothing. Sometimes it seemed the only evidence of the past was in the shape of my body: the tough skin on the soles of my feet, from years of walking barefoot over gravel. The tight tendons in my calf, from a lifetime of standing on tiptoes, looking for my mother in an orange crowd.
Then, in January 1990, when I was fourteen, in the back of the newspaper on my mother's kitchen table I found an article about the commune. I tore it out, folded it, put it in my back pocket. For the next month I carried the clipping everywhere. At school and on buses I would pull it out, read it, fold it, and put it back. I carried that newspaper article until it was too tattered to read; still, I carried it in my back pocket for another two weeks, until finally I left it in the pocket of my jeans and put them in the wash and it was gone.
The article, from The Times, was headlined MINISTER ACTS AFTER INQUEST ON SCHOOLBOY.
A boy was found hanged after a row during a clothes-swapping game with girls at the Ko Hsuan private boarding school, Devon, an inquest was told today.
The school, where some teenage boys and girls share the same bedroom, is organised on communal lines and follows the teachings of the Indian guru Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh.
Nicholas Shultz, aged 13, fell out with a girl he had a crush on because she would not let him wear her clothes. About half an hour later Nicholas was found hanging from a rope swing in the grounds.
I was convinced I knew that swing and the tree it hung from, a great spindly oak in the forest out near the commune boundaries - but I also knew I was mistaken. The commune I remembered had already closed. But this school, Ko Hsuan in Devon, was a continuation of my commune. I knew the teacher, Sharna, who told The Times that thirteen-year-old boys and girls shared bedrooms because 'the kids were mature and totally trustworthy'. I knew some of the Ko Hsuan kids from my own years in those mixed dormitories. I also knew the loneliness of that boy, whose sorrow did not quite fit into the commune's decade-long dream of laughter and of celebration. I could feel that same, familiar sorrow, deep in my chest like an old bruise, but I had no idea of the origins of my sadness. When I read the clipping I remembered there was a reason why I was this way: isolated, strange, shabby, and alone.
I carried that clipping around with me because I finally had one single piece of concrete evidence: at last, something outside of me existed to confirm it had all taken place. I treasured the clipping because it was a single piece of ballast: something to hold me to the ground, to make my history real. I carried that article around because I knew the boy hanging from the swing could have been me.
Copyright © by Tim Guest 2004
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