From the memoir: A woman writes about growing up with fanatical devotion for a so-called godman

Rampal’s imprisonment should have created some distance. Maybe the fervour would have faded. But it didn’t. If anything, our devotion intensified, taking on an even more fanatical tone.

The pilgrimage to his prison soon became our new ritual. Instead of visiting the ashram, we now drove three to four hours each way just to catch a fleeting glimpse of our imprisoned guru.

Life continued – school for me, college for Anant and work for my parents – but the real excitement in our home revolved around Rampal’s court dates. The moment we received word of his next hearing, the planning would begin. We’d pore over the calendar, checking if I needed to take leave from school or if my parents had to miss work. The idea of skipping a hearing was never even considered.

Rampal was held in a district jail in Rohtak, Haryana. On those mornings, we’d set out early, determined to arrive on time. The four of us squeezed into the car, heading out as if to a family celebration. But these were no ordinary trips.

As we neared the prison, the streets swelled with hundreds of other followers, all gathered for the same reason: to see him, even if it was for a hot second.

Outside the jail, the air buzzed with anticipation. Hours stretched under the blistering sun as we waited. Then, word would spread through the inner circle that the prison van was leaving, and we would know exactly which side Rampal would be seated on. The moment the vehicle appeared, a ripple of excitement would tear through the crowd. Cutting through traffic, we’d sprint to the correct side of the road, pushing forward, desperate to be as close as possible.

Bystanders – shopkeepers, commuters and strangers waiting at the nearby bus terminal—watched us, some laughing, others bewildered by our frenzy.

But for us, this was everything.

The moment the prison van passed, the herd of followers would spring into action, scrambling into cars, jumping on to bikes or piling into auto-rickshaws, chasing it all the way to the court.

Nothing, not distance, heat or exhaustion, could stop his followers from being near him. Rampal’s court appearances were a spectacle.

Devotees infiltrated the court premises in small groups or positioned themselves at vantage points, hoping for a glimpse of him. Some disguised themselves as lawyers in crisp black-and-white suits. Others were real lawyers, having dedicated their careers to his defence.

For most, the ultimate prize wasn’t just seeing him but being seen by him. A single wave of his hand was enough to reignite our faith.

On one particular visit, Shalini and I managed to slip inside the court, blending in with the steady stream of people entering and exiting. We weren’t there to disrupt proceedings or cause trouble; we only wanted to meet his eyes, to feel seen by the man who held our faith in his hands. In that fleeting moment of acknowledgement, the burdens we carried felt lighter. His presence, however distant, felt like healing.

When the hearing ended, we rushed outside, eager for one last glimpse before he was escorted back to prison. As planned, the four of us regrouped in the parking lot, where Sai took the driver’s seat.

Sai, determined as ever, trailed the police vehicle with razor-sharp focus. He accelerated until we were parallel with it. Sai could never run due to his disability, but he had mastered the art of driving swiftly, making up for what he couldn’t do on foot.

And then, for one brief, electrifying moment, we were right beside the window where Rampal sat.

And he saw us.

We bowed our heads, chanting, “Guruji, Guruji!” over and over, our voices blending into a chorus of devotion. Inside the car, a storm of emotions overtook us, Shalini and I huddled in the back seat, Anant in the front, Sai gripped the wheel, barely keeping his hands steady. Our eyes brimmed with tears as we clasped our hands in prayer, overcome by the gravity of the moment.

He was right there.

Inches away.

A divine blessing in human form.

We erupted with joy in the cramped space of the car, swallowed whole by a spiritual ecstasy that had become our lifeblood.

That day felt like a triumph. It wasn’t just another court visit; it was a testament to our devotion. A family moment that we cherished. This was how we showed our loyalty, not just to each other but to the man we worshipped.

A beautiful, twisted expression of love.

But these court visits were never without chaos. Rampal’s followers had a reputation for taking justice into their own hands, prompting frequent lathi charges from the police and ever-tightening security. Clashes, whether with the police or with the rival sect, were inevitable, with violence always simmering just beneath the surface.

Mindful of their disabilities, my parents cautioned Anant and me to keep our distance from the more aggressive crowds. If things spiralled out of control, they wouldn’t be able to run, wouldn’t be able to protect us. So we stayed on the outskirts, watching the mayhem unfold from a safer vantage point.

Despite the tension, there was an odd sense of festivity to it all. Hours spent waiting outside the jail and court were punctuated by small indulgences, cold drinks, chips, samosas or whatever was available at the nearby stalls. On the way home, we sometimes stopped at roadside dhabas for a meal. Other times, we drove straight back, exhausted yet strangely fulfilled. It felt almost like a family outing, except we weren’t bound by love anymore but blind devotion.

We never missed a court date. I skipped school. My parents took leave from work.

Nothing took priority over these visits. This was our life. For me, these trips were the high points of my existence. I wasn’t searching for anything beyond them. I wasn’t questioning them or looking for meaning outside of this adventure.

And in that belief, everything seemed to make sense.

Three adults of a family, consumed by their obsession, were running around prisons and courthouses, chasing a man charged with murder and inciting violence.

And I, at fifteen, was doing the same.

Excerpted with permission from The Cost of a Promised Afterlife: My Escape from a Controversial Religious Cult in India, Priyamvada Mehra, Simon and Schuster India.