Cartwheels in a Sari (15 page)

The more attention I paid to the workings of the disciples who labored over importing celebrities to Guru, the more I saw firsthand that the background information they were giving about Guru included little more than a brochure of posed pictures of Guru at the United Nations and snapshots of Guru meeting other celebrities. All of the specifics about disciplehood and the real workings of the Center were eliminated from their promotional materials. From what they saw, Guru's Center looked like an exclusive new age VIP club. As long as celebrities saw that other celebrities had been to Guru Land, they figured it was a safe place to visit.

When the one person I did care about, the legendary German tennis player Steffi Graf, came to meet Guru at his private tennis court, I was nervous with excitement. Because Guru had been interested in tennis, my father had picked up the game that he had once played back in high school, and soon taught me. Smacking a ball as hard as I could was strangely therapeutic, and tennis soon became my favorite sport. Guru's enthusiasm for tennis led to the disciples’ buying a few acres of land in Queens that became his own private tennis court and the new ashram where all the meditations were held. When Guru put out the order to “bring bigname
tennis players,” disciples began staking out the players’ entrance at the U.S. Open in Flushing Meadows, offering invites to Guru's court. Soon some of the greats of the game— Mats Wilander, Monica Seles, Gabriela Sabatini—were Guru's latest guests. When I learned that Steffi Graf was coming, fresh after yet another one of her many Grand Slam victories, I counted down the days. Decked out in my favorite sari, I made myself readily visible to Guru prior to Steffi's arrival, certain he would give me a special task of sitting in the honored seats beside her or having me give her flowers upon her arrival, but it had no impact. Throughout the entire visit, I was crammed into the bleachers with the other insignificant masses. After Guru lifted Steffi overhead on his contraption, he invited her across the street to watch videos of his myriad accomplishments in the comfort of the disciple-owned Indian restaurant. Afraid of losing my chance to at least say hello, I darted over to Steffi, nearly tripping on my sari pleats to shake her hand and ask her to sign my lucky tennis ball. As I was one step away, I looked up at Isha, who knew nothing about tennis but was blabbing to Steffi about Guru's athletic prowess, and she gave me the indignant look reserved for a vagrant trying to squeegee windows at a stoplight with an old newspaper. She shook her head with an emphatic no, signaling me to back off. My cheeks turned the same color as my fuchsia sari, and when Steffi turned to see what Isha was doing, I hid my lucky ball beneath my sari. Not knowing what to say or do, I bolted down the gravel driveway to hide. I knew my relationship with Guru and, by association, with his inner pack, was strained after my exile from coeducation landed me in Greenwich Academy. Guru's attentions or lack thereof were scrupulously monitored and measured
by both regulars to Guru's house and those waiting to get on the invite list. Though I was still invited to Guru's house, my extra helpings of attention had been visibly absent. This made me edgy. As the Chosen One, I felt I was still owed all of the perks that I once had, without question. But I was less and less inspired to put in the effort to pursue them. More and more, it was not only a challenge but an increasing burden to dazzlingly live up to my reputation, and my new school didn't seem to help.

“Five more hours,” Ramona Edwards said, lacing up her sneakers for the field hockey game. “And I'm gonna get so fuckin’ wasted.”

Minutes after Monday morning's swapped tales of who passed out where and who puked how many times over the weekend, the official countdown launched toward Friday night's binge. By Friday afternoon's round of field hockey games, madrigal practice, and modern-dance club, the countdown was in its last throes, and my classmates quivered with anticipation. The details spread rapidly for the weekend festivities—whose parents were abroad was the only key piece of information; everything else fell into place.

“Sounds great,” I said, watching Ramona apply lip gloss before cramming her plastic mouth guard into her mouth.

Far from getting wasted, my weekend was slated for more mornings that stretched into afternoons that blurred into evenings stuck to the benches of the tennis court as Guru heaved weights and fiddled with new weight-lifting contraptions.

“You going to be around this weekend? Party's gonna be at the Whitmans’,” Ramona said, grabbing the keys to her new convertible BMW, a gift for turning sweet sixteen.

I wished I could have gone to the party, but there was no chance. Every weekend, like every evening, was spent in Queens with Guru. Since Guru had directed my father to buy a house two blocks away from Guru's own in Queens, it was now my official, permanent home away from home.

“No, I've got that event—party—to go to,” I said, trying to be cool. “Remember, I told you how I was hanging out with Steffi Graf last weekend? Well, you know Clarence Clemons? He plays saxophone in Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band? I'm going to be hanging out with him.”

“That's so sick! I hate you!” Ramona shrieked. “Have a drink for me and tell him to tell Bruce I'm available anytime!” She winked and ran out of the junior lounge. I waited until everyone cleared out, then I walked down to the end of the gated entrance, outside the massive stone pillars, away from the chatty patrol of the other kilted girls and their glamorous moms who clumped together forming tennis dates. Since Guru refused to let me drive, I waited, far from anyone, for the unmistakable sound of my father's car chugging up the windy hill, sputtering and backfiring, clotting the air with burning smoke. I thought about Clarence Clemons and his upcoming visit to the tennis court and the ten songs written about him that I still had to learn. Clarence Clemons had become another disciple. Sort of. A “disciple,” when it applied to celebrities, meant that they dropped in for a meditation a few times a year and received a spiritual name and tons of attention, cakes, songs, presents, awards, and photos. I was positive that Clemons, like Roberta Flack and others who came as new disciples, would not be told on for talking to a member of the opposite sex or listening to rock music on the radio. I, on the other hand, had just been scolded for having cut
my Guru-mandated long hair to give myself some wispy bangs, and even though I securely bobby-pinned them off my face during meditations, my delinquency had not gone unnoticed with yet another message expressing disappointment from Guru.

“Drive,” I commanded my father, urging a quick getaway, after heaving the dented door shut with both hands.

“Good day?” my father asked.

“Yeah right,” I said, smearing sarcasm.

Lately, my mother and father were like two massive canker sores; even thinking about them made me irritable and edgy. I blamed them for my current status both at Greenwich Academy and in the Center.

“It stinks in here.” I winced, covering my nose with my left hand from the collection of my father's stinky stained Sri Chinmoy T-shirts in the backseat.

“These stupid windows don't even open.” I sighed with deep exasperation.

My father's explanation of having been tarring the roof of a new condominium project just made me more irritated. Other Greenwich Academy girls’ dads didn't walk around in ripped tar-stained sweatpants and T-shirts, nor did they transport used roof shingles in their car in one of many regular runs to the dump. Though some of my classmates had parents in building development, it meant that they just owned or traded real estate. My father bought funky parcels of land, mostly with dilapidated houses, which he then sold or traded for yet another odd-shaped lot of land. It seemed he was always engrossed in at least two real estate projects, but nothing happened at our house nor did we ever see any profits roll back to us.

My mother and my father, I decided, were determined to be a constant source of humiliation for me. My mother seemed to be always poking around in my business, and since Guru had stopped talking to her, I decided that she wasn't one to pay much attention to. My father no longer crisscrossed the East Coast giving meditation classes or working on manifestation for Guru. Spending the majority of his time on his own projects, my father, however, was still a front-row occupier at meditations and Guru's trusted lawyer, which meant that he maintained his reputation as one of Guru's most important and close disciples. At that time, his opinion held clout with Guru, and he was often invited to Guru's house even on nights when I wasn't.

I felt constantly edgy. I needed something to jolt me toward inspiration. I needed a miracle.

THE MIRACLE WAS
awaiting me when I arrived at the tennis court the next morning. The court was being frantically decorated with crepe paper garlands, tissue paper ornaments, and masses of flowers. Guru had done it. A miracle. He had lifted seven thousand pounds with one arm. An enormous blown-up photograph of the moment graced the middle of the court, surrounded by hundreds of flickering white tea candles. In the photo, the steel bar that held the plates stacked like a massive roll of LifeSavers was supported on each end by a U-shaped cradle that hung slightly above the height of Guru's shoulder. The design was created so that when Guru pushed on the bar, it braced against the side of its cradle and slid up the side, then when Guru released the weight, it clanged back into its base. Photos captured all of Guru's previous lifts, and
as the weights got heavier, the angles of the photos changed. To make the feats clearer to the public, Guru instructed the photographers to shoot from a low angle, to provide the most dramatic shot.

In the photo, wearing a white singlet and tight shorts, Guru grimaced as his right arm strained against the monstrous weight.

I was stunned. When had all this happened? How had I missed out on this?

The guards, busy tidying up, and the assembly line of volunteers who were packing special bags of prasad to honor the occasion, worked excitedly to finish before Guru's arrival.

“Thanks a lot,” I grunted to my mom, as though she had simply forgotten to fill me in on the events.

“Honey, this is all a surprise to me. You know I wasn't invited to Guru's house last night. Only your father was,” she said, taking a seat in one of the side benches.

Even a gift of sour candy with a note filled with animal stickers from Chahna didn't help my rotten mood. I merely nodded an acknowledgment of her offering when I spotted her waving to me from her seat at the back. I knew Chahna would never consider her lack of awareness of Guru's latest news as a concern or drawback, and that fact, in addition to everything else, was an irritant to me. Her detachment from her low status in the Center never failed to amaze me. While I valued Chahna's loyalty and undying friendship, parts of her character seemed beyond my understanding. Everyone in the Center cared about status. What was the matter with her? I decided it must be a flaw, a lack of spiritual drive.

When the “good singers” were summoned to practice a congratulatory song for Guru when he walked through the
gates, I joined them, pretending that I had known about the lift and even hinting that I had been present at the event.

Isha's car crunched up the gravel driveway and when the gate opened, Guru entered to our song. He folded his hands together and walked over to the gigantic picture and meditated before it as the photographers scrambled for a prime shot. Guru's throne was brought into the middle of the court, near the photo, where he then invited the disciples who had been at his house the previous night to share some of their experiences of the lift. One by one, weepy disciples stood before the microphone, gushing their gratitude at Guru's transcendent one-arm miracle lift. But my father remained silent.

I had known that my father was invited to Guru's house after the meditation, and by the time I went to bed, he hadn't returned. That morning, when I woke up, he was still out for his traditional long weekend run, so my mother and I left without him. I was jealous that he had witnessed the miracle firsthand while I had been asleep only blocks away. It was so unfair.

Guru then announced he was selling copies of the picture. Disciples raced down to line up with handfuls of cash to purchase the sacred relic. I nudged my mother to hand over the money and cut in line. When I stood before Guru, he held the photo with both hands and concentrated on me before stretching out to release the photo. I folded my hands tightly together, pressed upon my chest, and stared at Guru's golden face. Across his third eye, the morning sun dazzled its reflection, until his entire face was drenched in light. The arrangements of congratulatory flowers garnished the air with perfume, while the heat from the candle flames quivered low. The second I stood barefoot before Guru, I felt overwhelmed
by his humbling and beautiful presence. The waves of energy that surrounded him enveloped me completely, erasing all thoughts. This was what I loved about Guru. Being in his presence created a tangible change in me; it made me holy, better.

“My Jayanti,” Guru said. “You see what your guru can do? Through the Supreme's infinite compassion, anything can be done.”

He reached to his side table and gently lifted a pen to the picture. Across the span of his white singlet, over his own heart chakra, he wrote “Jayanti,” and drew a series of curly, interconnected birds that formed a tight protective circle around my name. When he finished he tapped his finger against my scripted name etched onto his heart.

“Jayanti, divine. My infinite love and infinite pride, my own Jayanti,” Guru said, extending the photograph to me.

I reached for it with both hands, gazing into Guru's venerable face. I never tired of looking at him. Guru's face had been my focal point for my entire life, and it still offered an endless series of surprises. When he joked, deliberated, or scolded, his expressions were unrestrained, natural. Depending on the sun's position, Guru's skin shifted from shades of saffron to amber to gold. I studied his eyes, watching them silently broadcast blessings.

Flanked by his staging of flowers and incense, I longed to sit on the ground before Guru's throne and never leave. With a sweep of ancient devotion, all my outer strife and worries seemed to utterly wash away. Rid of desires for wild freedoms, suddenly I wanted to spend my life inside his trance, drinking in his light, his consciousness. The way he made me
feel when I stood near him, fixated on his presence, was a sense of completion—I was aligned, whole, and safe.