a cheque for a thousand French francs zipped into this superior type plastic pouch from which he'd earlier extracted a brand new pair of expensive designer briefs he wore for the occasion.

I took along a large red pepper, large green pepper, courgette and aubergine we bought from the street market outside his flat en route to the ashram at Bry, just outside Paris.

The housemother accepted his gift without comment, and mine with: 'Ah, bon, la ratatouille!' whereas I had seen it as some statement of natural artistic beauty and fecundity a la Matisse.

My comrade sat fidgeting through the first two techniques and threw a complete wobbler during the third.

He challenged the mahatma (Umesh Dar), saying that it was completely ridiculous to imagine hearing So Hung with every inhalation and exhalation.

He was silenced by the general vibes, and the mahatma telling him he must at least try to do this before making such pronouncements.

I sat there feeling fairly smug. Alone of the group, I knew my companion had not attended the mandatory 20 satsangs before seeking initiation, but, in fact, had blagged his way in after only 2.

Privately, I suspected it was as dumb or as improbable as he reckoned, but seeing as this was connected with the Lord now being on the planet, one had to do one's best.

He met me 2 days later outside the satsang room on the Place Saint Germain (Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir probably still sipping coffee and debating in a secluded booth in the Deux Magots cafe next door) and told me he felt shit and disoriented and that the whole thing was off the wall.

I felt quite a lot for him, because I still had a blinding headache from someone trying to push my eyeballs through the top of my head. I was trying to accept this as maybe a necessary penalty for the Lord himself having come among us.

I remember that guy with affection. He picked me up at Bry ashram when outsiders were asked to provide accommodation for aspirants.

The night before we were due to receive K, he cooked us a fine meal in his flat in Paris and we sat and yarned together afterwards over a fine bottle of white.

It was up at the 16th arrondissement, and seemed an immensely superior flat for a poor medical student to possess.

He told me that his girlfriend had bought it for him.

When I replied that he must have a very generous lady, he raised a small eyebrow, and I got the picture.

I consequently spent the last evening of my 'worldly' life being comradely instructed by him as to how to have a lady, or various ladies, working for you.

So bizarre is the path of the true seeker, as I reflected rather amusedly at the time.

His total involvement with M after K was about 2 days, whereas my own was a further 27 years.

Now, after all this time, I remember him with affection as an honest and upfront guy.

Now I am a boring old fart, I must say that I still enjoy meditation, though without any sense of that total neurotic 150% commitment that was thrust on us in strange earlier times.

No, I prefer a nice pleasant experience balanced out with a very strong sense of rationalism and objectivity.

One thing which comforts me, however, in my sad situation, seeing my personal pension so eroded by outside Weltpolitik, is that at any time I can construct a nice maison of babes in any capital or reasonable city of Europe to look after me in my forlorn and debased retirement.

It is an ill wind that bloweth no one any good, as they say.

Tempora