Deepak's Instant Karma

Yet there are other ambitions. Like many entrepreneurs who are only as famous as their connections, he is a profligate namedropper: Karan, Demi Moore, George Harrison, Mikhail Gorbachev, Dr. Benjamin Spock, Nobel winner Oscar Arias, Bonnie Raitt, Defense Secretary William Cohen, Prince Charles and--but he doesn't want to talk about it--the late Diana. ""Rich and famous people very often are more creative, more exciting, more interesting,'' suggests Hollywood power broker Sandy Gallin, a Chopra friend and sometimes representative. ""Why wouldn't he be attracted to them?'' For a guy who preaches the spiritual law of Defenselessness (""I will relinquish the need to defend my point of view''), he takes puckish delight in answering his critics, sometimes in court (sidebar). On his 50 or so lectures per year (10 percent, he estimates, are for charities) he holds book signings but no question-and-answer sessions--a cult of personality spun around a refutation of the self. And he is endearingly naked in his desire to be loved. ""My biggest fear all my life,'' he says, ""was the fear of lack of approval. That was my driving force. But,'' again entering what appears to be the familiar field of infinite possibilities, ""I'm in the process of relinquishing that fear.''

In a movie script he's written entitled ""The Lords of Light'' (no worse than a lot of what's out there), Satan comes to earth in the form of a spiritual cult leader who seduces the masses with utopian promises. Give or take the ability to engulf the world in flames, this is not far from what Chopra's critics accuse him of doing. William Jarvis of the National Council Against Health Fraud, whose profile has risen along with the doctor's, accuses Chopra of substituting superstition for medicine, and depriving patients of several centuries of scientific advances. He is especially critical of the Chopra Center for Well Being in La Jolla, where patients with anything from cancer to stress get Ayurvedic massage, aromatherapy and spa food, for upwards of $2,750 a week (lodging not included). ""I think people like Chopra are delusional,'' says Jarvis. ""And when you're delusional, you think you're the messiah. This is more dangerous than a flat-out con artist.'' Chopra counters that his books stress the importance of Western medicine, and the Chopra Center is fully staffed with licensed M.D.s. Some pilgrims are disillusioned when center doctors recommend an oncologist or a surgeon rather than a new mantra.

Chopra's seduction, instead, is more subtle. He clearly answers both a spiritual and medical longing. But like, say, fashion magazines, he also stimulates the anxieties he purports to relieve. Discussing the death of Diana, for example, or the rise of Hitler, he contends that both are products of our ""collective psychosis,'' in which we all participate. Our health problems, both collective and individual, are evidence of cultural malaise. You're sicker than you think, he implies; here is the cure.

At the same time, while Chopra inspires devotees, even he acknowledges that few are along for the whole ride. ""I can [lecture] for three hours about the meaning of life,'' he says. ""What do they want to ask about? Sesame-oil massage.'' Most Deepakophiles interviewed by NEWSWEEK found more benign inspiration than quantum revelations in his work; many mixed and matched Chopra with other spiritual or self-help figures. ""I don't say things like "I can't do that' or "that can't be done','' says Mark Wesolek, 40, a salesman in suburban Chicago. ""I leave myself open to any possibility, and that allows me to have richer experiences.''

And there is another side to Chopra, behind the enlightened pedant, to which he does not call attention. At a recent retreat in Asheville, N.C., one attendee mentioned an acquaintance suffering from liver disease back in New York. Without prompting, Chopra called the patient, discussed her fears about an organ transplant, talked her into the operation--and talked her out of what she calls her desperate plan to ""go to India and meditate and wait for death.'' He sent her one of his books, an herbal remedy, and a massage therapist he had trained. He did not charge for his services.

The figure of the snake-oil salesman is an enduring piece of American iconography. It pops up wherever there are desperate people. But the key to the snake-oil con is that, for reasons no one understands, sometimes the cure works. Chopra asks: Why does it work for some people and not others? Can it work for everyone? So if skeptics note a whiff of snake oil about him, there is also a nagging, enticing question: what if he is right?