Cartwheels in a Sari (23 page)

M
Y MOTHER GREETED ME INSIDE KENNEDY AIRPORT'S
international arrivals gate with flowers and cupcakes to celebrate my return. I felt myself disarmed in her hug, shutting off my vigil—no more trains, translations, maps—knowing that I was relieved from the duties of taking care of myself. My father, not wanting to pay for parking, looped around the passenger pickup platform, evading airport security, finally slowing down just enough for us to dash inside the car. As my father battled traffic, maneuvering a way through the clogged arteries of Grand Central Parkway, I counted the minutes before I stepped inside my beloved guru's sacred realm once more. My parents’ questions at times overlapped, from the current exchange rate of the franc to the comfort level of sleeping in a couchette. They listened to my answers with the respect afforded a world-traveled woman and not the huffish girl they had watched disappear into the departure gate more than one year ago. I sensed we were now three independent disciples, rather than two parents and a child. Their shift in attitude filled me with
confidence that returning to New York to begin my new life as Guru's own devout disciple was my sublime mission.

We drove straight to the tennis court, where the evening function was nearly over. Anticipating my first glimpse of Guru, I quickly walked up the driveway and spotted Ketan. He waved me over to him. If he had been the one who reported on me, I no longer felt resentment toward him. My experience, I realized, had made me return to Guru stronger than ever. Filling me in on his newfound duties, from disseminating stories about Guru's weight lifting to news stations to being the chief organizer of concerts from Philadelphia to Minneapolis, Ketan fluffed his new white-blond highlights, while sipping an espresso. As he escorted me through the crowd assembled for prasad, I sensed his pride that I had repaired my life and was fully restored. He had his little sister, once again, along for the ride in Guru's golden-boat.

Prasad was almost over, and I joined the line behind a few new disciples whom I had never seen. They looked at me, eyeing me as a newcomer in my fitted French jeans, then turned their backs quickly to let me know my attire was not suitable for meditation. I smiled at them, finding it amusing that they mistook me for a brand-new disciple. I didn't mind. Older and wiser, I felt generous with the world. I had overcome temptations, renounced the poison of vital-attachments; I had been on the grand tour of Europe, and I had returned to my source, my all. After all of the miles and crossings I had trekked, I could not wait to remain seated in worship at the feet of my master for eternity.

“Jayanti, come, come excellent girl,” Guru said, waving his hand at me. The same women who just a few moments ago had snubbed me, now looked at me again, with newfound respect
, as I made my way toward Guru's throne. He released a single purple iris from a crowded flower arrangement on his side table and motioned for me to approach. As I leaned before his chair to hold the stem, his hand remained. I once again smelled the familiar, lulling fragrance of Guru I remembered from my childhood, a sweet-tropical perfume, like candied gardenias.

“All my eternal love, concern, and affection. To you, to you, to you,
my
Jayanti.”

Tears dripped from my eyes, and I brought the flower to my heart. It was exquisite in its solitude. I understood. I was that same beautiful single flower, whole and complete unto itself, and Guru was the only requirement for my spiritual growth and sustenance. As I bowed to Guru, he tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, his eyes twinkling. I was home.

That night I received an invitation to go to Guru's house. Jet-lagged and still unshowered, I could not wait to be back in the cozy familiarity of all things Guru. Gitali, Vani, and Ushma welcomed me back, inching over to create a space for me on Guru's living room floor, and I stepped through feeling fully entitled to reoccupy my seat, landing back in the exact spot that I had left.

In the crowded room, Guru recounted one of his favorite stories about Krishna. Krishna promised two brothers that he would be the charioteer to the one who ventured around the world and returned first. One brother dashed off on an epic voyage across desert, seas, and mountains, while the other brother walked slowly around Krishna once. Years later when the first brother returned, haggard and depleted, from his epic journey, and saw his brother relaxed at Krishna's feet, he could not fathom how he was defeated. The other brother
explained that since Krishna was his world, all he had to do was traverse Krishna, the epicenter of his universe, one time.

Scanning Guru's living room, I suddenly felt foolish. Clearly that story was about me. I wondered if Guru and everyone else viewed me as the living example of the brother who had to learn his lesson through unnecessary efforts and wasted time. While I had nearly drowned in vice, then spent months in restless roaming, the rest of Guru's close disciples were all happily seated at Guru's feet the entire time. I wondered if perhaps there were reasons why I needed the accumulation of those experiences. After all, Guru had reminded us countless times that Buddha himself had spent time as a husband and father before casting off those roles to fulfill his destiny as the Awakened One. The important fact, I decided, was that at the critical moment both Buddha and I turned away from temporal trappings. Even if it took me longer than it should have, I was back to stay at Guru's feet forever.

As I looked over at the doorway from the living room to the porch, there stood Chahna, my best friend. I gasped with surprise, and nearly stepped on Tuhina as I raced toward my loyal sister. I had searched for her at the meditation, but I hadn't seen her. I never expected I would find her at Guru's house. Before I had left for France, Chahna was not on Guru's invitation list.

When I enfolded her inside a big hug, Chahna settled stiffly into my arms, as if surprised by my embrace. I grabbed her hands and plopped her down right near the front door. I saw that her acne had cleared. Her skin looked shiny and nearly smooth. She had lost weight, and her eyebrows had a shaped, higher arch. She looked older, like she too had experienced her own share of travels.

“So?” I asked, tightly gripping both her hands. “I want a complete run-down of everything that has happened in Chahnaland.”

She answered politely with vague ramblings about her parents and Puffy her orange cat, but she didn't mention anything about herself.

Ketan then arrived with the video recording of Guru that had appeared earlier that night on the local news. Before Ketan lowered the lights, Guru asked if Chahna had arrived.

“Yes, Guru,” she said from where we sat near the doorway.

“Come, good girl.” Guru took a white gardenia, larger than his hand, from the side table. He put it to his own forehead for a few moments as Chahna stood before him with folded hands.

“I am so proud of you, so very proud of you,” Guru said.

I watched my Chahna, and I, too, felt proud. Obviously Chahna, like me, had arrived at a critical juncture and solidified her commitment to Guru and to Guru alone. I realized once more how similar we were, how at times in the past we had even shared the same dreams at night, as if our connection had been thickly woven into ancient and lasting layers.

Instead of returning to sit beside me, she found another seat, on the other side of the room. I waved to her to share in the excitement of her blessing, but she didn't look up and stared at the flower with her head lowered.

Guru told Ketan to start the video.

The footage showed a sea-plane, its front propeller whirling, parked on a large platform. Attached to the platform was a calf raise machine that Guru approached, then tucked his shoulders into thick pads that he pressed up against. His thin, muscular legs were braced and slightly bent at the knees.
Guru gave a great groan, and the platform jiggled, then smacked down with a loud thud. The next shot showed the pilot exiting the plane and vigorously shaking Guru's hand.

After a chopped quote from Guru about self-transcendence, the camera returned to the newsroom, where a silver-haired anchorman uttered a rehearsed chuckle, then bid his audience good night.

Everyone clapped loudly when it was done.

“Bah Bah. Ketan, again, show again!” Guru had sat up in his chair; Amal, the male disciple specially selected to massage Guru's feet, now shifted himself to Guru's new position.

Ketan rewound the tape, and we watched it again.

When the shot of the lift played, Guru said, “Can you all see? See?”

“It's so high, Guru,” Gitali said.

“Guru, the whole plane was up in the air!” Bhupal said.

“Again! Ketan, let's see again,” Guru said.

Ketan rewound the tape, and pressed play. This time at the lift, Guru told Ketan to pause it, to see the platform move. Ketan backed it up and played it, again and again.

“Very big plane,” Guru said, turning toward the girls’ side.

“Guru, that was so-o inspiring,” Dharinil said.

“That plane was blessed to be lifted by you, Guru,” Sarisha said.

Guru smiled, asking Ketan to rewind it, yet again.

I had forgotten about Guru's weight lifting and watching it on the evening news, I found it appeared like a bizarre spectacle. Even after having viewed the tape ten times, I still saw only the front half of the platform slightly tilt, while the back half, where the plane was parked, remained unmoved. I wondered if anyone would be urged to follow a spiritual path
after viewing that footage. It seemed neither inspiring or mystical. I wished instead they could have seen Guru as I did, radiating love. I peered over at Chahna, wishing that she were still beside me so I could ask if she had seen the plane lift, but when I tried to signal her, she wasn't looking at the TV but intently staring at the flower in her hands.

I WAS OFFICIALLY
a “vagabond,” the name Guru affectionately gave to those whose full-time occupation was him. My mother received a message from Guru instructing her that her mission was to support both her children financially so that they could devote themselves entirely to their inner lives. Since my mother thought doing so would make her children happy, she selflessly complied, finding solace in the contentment of her children. When my father grumbled about having to pay for two adults who were fully capable of earning a living to sit around all day, he received a message back from Guru that he was not being receptive to the will of the Absolute Supreme. After that, arguments continued between my mother and father, causing yet another daily source of tension between them, flaring up every time my mother took money out of my father's wallet for her ascetic offspring. With my parents handling all of my living expenses, and extra money given to me periodically in wads of cash from Guru, my finances were taken care of, along with nearly everything else. Not having any burdens or responsibilities for items like rent (since I lived on the top floor of my parents'house in Queens), food, or car insurance, like monks and nuns, my agenda only consisted of one thing: my spiritual life, or, more accurately, Guru.

I woke up at five-thirty for
bhajan
practice at Isha's house, where a select group of women sang songs written by and dedicated to Guru. Following
bhajans,
I scurried home to change into my running clothes to make it to the starting line of Runners Are Smilers, the two-mile road race held every morning around the Jamaica High School track, where I tried my best to avoid finishing in the last handful of panting joggers. Once again, I darted home to shower and arrived at the tennis court at nine, where I sat in the bleachers and watched Guru play tennis, sing, weight lift, draw, eat, meditate, and chat on the phone until dusk, when Guru went home for a brief interval. I, too, returned home just long enough to change into my sari for the evening function. The difference between the day function and the evening function was that at night, the bleachers were crowded with the disciples who had to work during the day, and therefore came to Guru every night eager to soak up as much inspiration as possible. Following the evening meditation came the great honor, when I and thirty lucky disciples were invited to Guru's house, where we sat on the floor of his living room until the early morning. Then I went home to begin it all again.

Guru bathed me in attention and regularly summoned me for gifts of silk saris, tennis rackets, and trophies. He boasted about me into the microphone during functions, praising me for trivial challenges such as catching the prasad orange that he threw or reciting an aphorism. When I wrote a couple simple poems, Guru proclaimed that I was “the poet laureate of the Sri Chinmoy Center.” Guru assigned me tasks, such as collecting money for pictures of himself that he sold, the privilege of playing tennis upon his court whenever I wanted, and composing lists of visiting disciples whom I felt should
be included in new singing groups. Often he confided in me, revealing secrets such as his increased knee pain was because of other disciples’ jealousy of me. Guru had always told me that as the guru, it was his burden to carry all of our ignorance. This colossal weight manifested itself physically, producing a never-ending series of aches and pains in Guru's body. As a result, he now walked with a limp, as both his knees and his back were perpetually in excruciating pain. When I saw Guru limp or rub his hamstring, I felt terrible knowing how much I had contributed to his suffering. I hoped I never again would inflict discomfort upon him. Often during meditations, I cried and inwardly asked Guru to forgive me for having hurt him so much with my years of teenage heresy. But Guru's compassion was endless, and instead of punishing me, Guru offered me more and more kindness.

One of Guru's ways of lavishing blessings upon me was to invite me for car trips. As the disciples lined the lower end of the tennis court and driveway to wave a greeting of hello or good-bye to Guru, his driver would often slow down and motion for me to get inside. The invitation to ride in Guru's backseat was a coveted honor, and as I closed the door behind me, I heard both female and male disciples sigh at my fortune. We never went far, usually to his house, or the divine-enterprises, but sometimes, when Guru was hungry, we went to a diner.