Cartwheels in a Sari (11 page)

She sighed and patted my shoulder.

“You really are the luckiest person,” Gitali said and walked past me toward the cockatoos.

I sat on the concrete floor, nursing my finger, as a tidal flood of fear and doom filled me. This was what my future was? A lifetime of this—feathers and shit. I knew I shouldn't be feeling this way; being at Guru's house and cleaning the cages was an incredible honor. But I didn't want it. To me, the idea was horrifying. Even if Guru had me on the fast track to God-Realization and was preparing me to succeed Prema and Isha, it still felt like torture. I didn't care if working in this basement was my sacred destiny. Every squawk and scoop
felt filthy and stifling. I panicked, and my heart thumped until it hurt. I thought of Chahna. She was probably in her sunny backyard or in her bedroom playing. I wished I could be with her instead of being in this hub of blessings, but I knew I couldn't tell that to anyone, even her. She had been so excited for me when I had bragged to her about tending Guru's animals. Chahna, who had never been invited to visit the animals, made me promise I'd describe all I saw and did with exact details. Knowing how happy Chahna was for me made me feel terrible. Why couldn't I be happy? I looked around and tried to fake a smile, but it felt impossible. Instead, I scrunched my knees into my chest, forming a tight cocoon, while cockroaches scuttled past. I decided then, for the first of many times, that being the luckiest person was for the birds.

M
OST PEOPLE SETTLE IN GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT,
an oasis of French boutiques, polo clubs, and waterfront rambling estates, as the culmination of a lifelong dream to enter the gated community of New England's elite. Not us. For my family, Greenwich was a disappointing substitute for Jamaica, Queens. As most disciples moved to Queens, and others just faded away, the once illustrious Connecticut Center no longer served as a holy temple and returned to being a leaky basement. My parents pleaded with Guru to allow them to flee Connecticut altogether, but Guru refused, explaining that he wanted to maintain a presence in the state. My father decided that the way to obey Guru by still living in Connecticut was to move to Greenwich, located only steps away from the New York border.

In a tiny corner of Greenwich that brushed against Port Chester, New York, the depressed town housing the many illegal Hispanics who served as maids, chauffeurs, masons, and landscapers to the mansions of Greenwich, we bought an old pea-green, three-story house. With two floors to rent to tenants to aid with the mortgage, we occupied half of the first
floor and made the other half my father's office in an effort to save money. Shortly after establishing his practice, my father had aligned himself with a clan of real estate developers and gradually became involved in their schemes, spending the majority of his business hours flipping properties rather than defending cases in court. Everything about my father's dealings and finances was a mystery to us. Even though he worked as a Greenwich lawyer, my father proudly professed that he never had money. He didn't feel comfortable billing his few clients, and instead of regular payments, he'd work out deals that gave him a cut of the property, which did little to assist with the immediate basic needs to cover our household expenses. The money that my mother did unearth from my father's coffers all went to Guru. As a result, I was the poorest kid I knew who lived in Greenwich with an attorney for a father.

The opportunity to slip out of Norwalk and shed my reputation as a kooky and possibly dangerous outcast was a welcome relief to me. I was in junior high school, and I was quietly eager to gain a fresh start. My game plan was not to cause any waves with Guru or at school, although I felt moody and anxious about both. Guru's lack of awareness over my concerns regarding my future and my rapidly waning interest in God-Realization reinforced my doubts that his inner powers were working as well as they used to, at least on me. Guru seemed somehow oblivious to the fact that I was attempting to conceal my involvement with him from the outside world. He also didn't seem to notice that I felt increasingly irritated with his strict limitations on all aspects of my daily life—from telling me what sport to play to how to wear my hair. Rather than burst into my new junior
high as one of Guru's public ambassadors, I planned to conceal all traceable evidence of my discipleship, making myself as anonymous as possible, until I was finished with school altogether.

“What are you doing?” I asked my mom one morning, as she sat at the kitchen table with a long list of phone numbers to call.

She was breathless, flushed at her news.

“Can you believe it? Guru is coming here, to our house, to lift an elephant!” she shrieked, with the phone draped over her shoulder. “I'm calling all the local newspapers and TV!”

So much for being anonymous.

When Guru's knees made sprinting and long distance running, his former passions, unendurable, he began a new craze of weight lifting. But as with all of Guru's hobbies, he did not follow traditional standards. Bored with dumbbells, Guru assigned his guards to build him apparatuses so he could lift objects. They engineered a contraption that resembled a calf-raise machine with a platform that was used to hoist gigantic pumpkins, people, and motorcycles; this way, Guru found, in addition to receiving exercise, he received press, and lots of it. Eager to expand his fame, Guru was bemused to add “sports nut” and “weight-lifting champion” to a résumé that included author, musician, UN peace ambassador, and spiritual teacher. The title of “heavy lifter” seemed to get Guru more coverage than the others, which intensified Guru's expanding quest to find new angles and objects to lift in order to arouse the media's interest.

Careful to conceal my hesitancy about the blessing of having Guru lift an elephant at my house, I dutifully helped my parents organize the event, blowing up balloons and stenciling
arrows onto signs around the neighborhood to ensure the reporters found our house tucked into the back lot of the dead-end street.

Four houses away from me lived the Johansons, a Swedish family whose older daughter, Kristina, was a ninth grader at my school. Waiting for the bus in the morning, she had introduced herself while constantly brushing her blond feathered hair. Wanting to make a new friend, I took a new approach and casually failed to mention anything about Guru; instead I tossed endless questions to her, which she was only too pleased to answer, blabbing about herself while snapping her gum.

“Did you tell that sweet girl that rides the bus with you to school that she was welcome to come watch Guru lift the elephant?” my mother asked, folding press kits to distribute at the big event.

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

I hadn't told Kristina about the impending elephant, and I hoped none of the Johansons, especially Kristina, would find out.

When I was sent out to hang a massive gold banner in letters proclaiming “Congratulations!!!!” across the shrubs in the front yard, I carefully peered down the street, checking if Kristina's family's station wagon was in its driveway before darting out with a baseball hat pushed down to conceal my face.

Later that afternoon, a massive truck with
Zack's Circus and Exotic Animals
airbrushed across the front cab idled in the middle of my street, clogging traffic as neighbors from every house in Greenwich, it seemed, stood around incredulous
, watching an elephant lumber down a metal ramp into our tiny front yard while throngs of disciples sang and clapped.

The weight-lifting platform, because of its careful design, worked so that when Guru hunched beneath the padded shoulder stands and hoisted his thin bent legs straight, a lever lifted the platform area ever so slightly. Depending on where the person—or elephant—stood, some weight would be lifted and some wouldn't. The farther back the object was placed from Guru, the lighter the area became closest to Guru's lift. This allowed Guru to continue to lift bigger and more dramatic objects, from people to elephants.

The next day I cringed when I saw a front-page article in the local newspaper with a large photograph of Guru, the elephant, a few disciples, and me. With elaborate, breathless quotes from both my parents—described as “followers of the Guru”—I was outed to the entire town of Greenwich.

When Kristina asked me about the elephant while waiting for the school bus, I casually tried to play it off as just one of those weird things that parents like to do. But Kristina persisted in her questions about the Indian elephant-man.

I mumbled something about my parents being his sponsor and was relieved when the bus pulled into view. At school, when I was questioned about it by the gym teacher in front of the whole class, I denied having any knowledge of the event, politely suggesting he must have mistaken me for someone else.

Later that night, at the function, I could barely look at Guru, fearing my denial of the Supreme, the Avatar of the Era, my beloved guru, would be reflected across my third eye.
I had sunk to new lows, and what was worse was that I knew I was braced to go even lower. I was Judas, the traitor. Instead of silver coins, I was ready to send Guru down the river for the chance to feign normality or, at the very least, anonymity.

Guru called all the children up onto the stage. On average, there were always about twenty kids in the local area whose parents had become disciples at any given time. Some parents had sought a brief respite from the world, surrendering the steering wheel of life's decisions. Those parents were content to float without having to navigate; some were burned out; some were running away from tragic family lives or abusive relationships; some were unstable and found in Guru's alternative lifestyle a safe haven where societal outcasts came to unite; some were sincere seekers fed up with the scramble for possessions and wealth and aiming for a deeper meaning. Some experienced a hovering aura around Guru, and, as a result, they shed their former life, bringing along their unsuspecting children, who were suddenly draped in saris or matching white shirt and pants like year-round Halloween costumes.

That night, Guru had the children sit on the floor in front of him. Chahna settled beside me, careful not to crowd my space, but close enough so I could hear her cloggy nasal breaths as Guru began telling stories about his earliest days as a disciple in the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. It was the death of Guru's parents that caused Hridoy, the eldest of Guru's six siblings, to place the family in the care of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram in Pondicherry. That decision instantly transformed the orphans into
sanyassis,
casting their lives in the ancient Indian tradition of disciples bound to the wisdom and tutelage
of a guru. At twelve years old, Guru was told he was now a renunciate, a celibate monk.

Out of all of Guru's siblings, only his sister Lily came once to visit. Since Lily enjoyed nature, my family invited her to Connecticut during her stay. Charmed by our hospitality, sitting in our back garden, she told us stories of Guru's past. She remembered the early burning ambition of her little brother, the way he observed the ashram elders seated in the front of the meditation hall, how they received prasad first and greeted visitors. He studied the hierarchy of the ashram, working out its complex system of favorites and favoritism. Wanting a promotion into the coveted clan, Guru aligned himself with Nolini, one of Sri Aurobindo's closest disciples. As an assistant to Aurobindo's assistant, Guru was positioned to make his mark, be noticed, and quickly ascend the ranks. Yet, according to Lily, Guru was not satisfied with usurping Nolini's position—Guru wanted to replace Aurobindo himself, becoming a guru with more disciples, more exposure, more power, and more prestige.

Guru had to start somewhere, and so, for a few years, he was Nolini's lackey, running errands. Guru's rewards were scraps of praise. Years later, when Guru's own discipleship grew and he started meeting celebrities and world figures, Guru always sought a strong quote—a positive endorsement— about himself. Nothing pleased Guru more than a glowing comment from a celebrity, which was repeated endlessly, printed and distributed and repeated again.

Lily told us that since Sri Aurobindo was considered an esteemed author of both poetry and prose, Guru decided that he, too, would take up writing. Wanting recognition for his
talent, Guru typed up some of his own verse and gave them to Nolini to read, hoping Nolini would pass on his poetry to Sri Aurobindo. Guru's desire came true. Nolini gave Sri Au-robindo Guru's writings, and after scanning through some poems, Sri Aurobindo uttered words that Guru endlessly quoted: “He has promise. Tell him to continue.” Guru was in his glory. Nothing could have been better. The comment was simultaneously vague and specific. Recognition of promise and an urge to go forward was perfect for young Madal. Coming from his guru, a God-Realized soul, an avatar who had achieved the fruits of liberation, these words were a confirmation of everything Madal wanted to do and become.
He has promise. Tell him to continue.

Inside the clay and concrete walls of the ashram, Madal read about the broader world. The West, in particular America, intrigued him. He told us that he once imagined America as a large, eager child, waving and welcoming him to play, ready to share its toys and abundance with him. The sedentary life of the ashram was not his choice. He wanted to take on America.

He has promise. Tell him to continue.
What was set in motion needed completion. In her soft voice and hesitant English, Lily had explained that Sri Aurobindo had never encouraged his disciples to be missionaries, even in India, let alone in America; Aurobindo believed that seekers who felt an inner calling would find his teachings, and he disapproved of swamis who actively recruited in order to claim large numbers of disciples. In fact, with his lack of contact with his ashramites, Sri Aurobindo seemed more inclined to be without disciples altogether and to be left alone for contemplation
. Madal knew that he would neither be asked nor would receive permission to venture to America as a representative of Sri Aurobindo. There needed to be another way.
He has promise. Tell him to continue.