Spell of Blindness

by Lori Tiron-Pandit

  I’ve been thinking about this all day. She also finds it worrisome that I don’t preach about love anymore. I don’t?

  Of course she didn’t miss the opportunity to express again her views on Traian being constitutionally unable to understand me or make a good partner for me. He is too simple, she says. I love simple. She should learn to just shut up sometimes.

  .

  I met Ra. He came to Bucharest for the first time in three years, and he called me.

  I have had only vague news about him in the past few years. I knew that he lived in a monastery up north for two years, and that he spent another year in Ukraine, with a project involving restorations of a cathedral from Kiev. I remember looking it up online and falling under a spell at the sight of the sky-blue walls and golden domes of that church.

  I’ve been thinking about him often. It has been reassuring somehow to know that he was there, somewhere. He didn’t try to contact me all these years, though. I was afraid to find out what time had changed. But yesterday, he took me in his arms and held me tightly, my face completely buried in his chest, leaving me gasping for air, as always.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I am very happy you’re here. How I’ve missed you.” He smelled of something I could name some time ago. Something that used to be very real. He smelled of old times. Nothing had changed.

  We met at the National Art Museum, where he had been attending a conference. He didn’t ask me how I was doing or anything in the lines of a normal polite conversation between two people who hadn’t seen each other for years.

  “It’s been a long time. You look good.” I tried to bring things to normal and recover my breath. I was lying, though. He didn’t look so good: bonier than I remembered, with even more grey in his hair.

  “I’ve been very well, thank you. You, however, look sad,” he replied.

  “Thanks. Aren’t you sweet? I am perfectly fine, thank you very much.” It didn’t upset me, though. Nothing he says ever will. Whatever words come out of his mouth, his eyes say only “I love you.”

  “My colleagues are going to a nearby bar,” he said. “Do you want to come? It could be fun, although mostly a lot of drinking, probably. But they are an interesting group. What do you say? I hope you don’t want to leave right away.”

  I tried to think what I wanted. “Okay. It would be nice, I guess, although I don’t really feel like making polite table conversation with strangers right now,” I told him.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll just go in, have a drink, and leave. You’ll enjoy it. Then we’ll go somewhere nice and talk.” He grabbed me in his arms, tight, and kissed my forehead. He then let go of the embrace and made two quick steps backward, away from me, still holding my hand and looking into my eyes.

  He stopped, his eyes glittering with naughtiness and excitement, and pulled me toward him. “Let’s go.”

  I swirled.

  I remember the first time I danced with Ra. It was in a long corridor, right behind the theatre stage area, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out to the night lights of the town. Visitors were not allowed into that corridor, so it was always empty. Somebody was playing a piano in a nearby room, and the sound of music was slowly molding the hurling emptiness of the space, although it was so faint that it could have been only in our minds. He came close to me, tall and smiling, and I put my head on his chest and relaxed completely. I don’t know if we moved. The moon was full, and the town below sparkled. That was the first time I danced in the sky.

  I knew he loved me, much before he uttered the words, before I pretended to be shocked by the realization. I knew it. I just wanted it to remain unsaid because I had no use for his love at that time. I didn’t know what to do with it. I still don’t.

  Yesterday evening, we ended up at his place. I didn’t know why I had agreed to go there. I knew it was wrong, I knew we’d both be hurt, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was not able to say no to him anymore. Not that he had asked anything. He just took me there, blinding me with his loving smile, making me want his love. I had forgotten that it was not right, that I was still not ready to give anything back.

  He offered me a strong drink, I remember, and I started to feel warm. He looked very handsome in his striped linen shirt. I sat beside him on the sofa.

  “So, are you in love with someone now? Is he making you happy?”

  Let’s start with an easy question, why don’t we?

  “His name is Traian,” I admitted. “He is not in town tonight. We had a fight. But he’ll be back.”

  “I’m sure he will. I hope you’re happy. Are you?”

  Why did he have to do this? “I don’t know if I am happy. But I am Okay. I’m not suicidal or anything. So that’s good. What about you? How’s your happiness?” I waited for him to say how he could never be happy without me, how it all depended on me, and all that.

  “I’ve never been happier,” he answered instead. “I am always happy. It’s the state of being that I choose. You will learn that when you grow up a little. Our lives are our own creations. We have complete control.”

  “Yes,” I said. Metaphysical mumbo jumbo.

  “No, you don’t know. But you’ll find out.” He turned his head toward me and fixed me with his eyes, and I kissed him. His lips were soft and deep. The warmth emanating from his body had an opiate effect.

  “I’m sorry,” I said finally coming to my senses. “I need to go.” I struggled to get up from the deep sofa that had sucked me in.

  “What are you sorry for?” he said with a peaceful expression on his face. “You know that I still carry your photograph with me everywhere? It’s worn out. I need another one.” He was smiling. Almost cheerful. He got up and showed me the photograph in his wallet—a young seductress wearing too much lipstick and dark eye liner. She looked confident and bold. Who was she?

  “I don’t even recognize myself in this.”

  “Well, it was you, under all the makeup. You were going through a vamp period. It’s hilarious.”

  “You find me hilarious?” How could he say that?

  “Always.” He laughed loudly to prove it.

  “I have in my diary the letter you wrote me after you left,” I told him. “I know it by heart.”

  He nodded. “You should throw it away. It’s an old vestige of a time that’s only myth now. No reason to hold on to it.” He was looking in his glass. “Now, maybe you should go home. It is getting late. Come, I’ll take you.” He started toward the door.

  “It’s Okay,” I stopped him. “Don’t worry about it. The subway station is just across the street.”

  He opened the door for me and stood there watching me walk away.

  I still felt his eyes on the back of my head as I took the subway to go home. I cried all the way, for no good reason.

  .

  I think that we should get married. I cannot avoid it more than I have until now. Parents keep putting pressure on us. His parents, especially. Mama doesn’t say much, but I know that she would be happy to see me married and settled. She told me once that maybe I should seriously think about it and either get married or end this relationship. We have been together for a long time, and I should be able to make a decision without wasting any more time. I guess we’ll have a wedding, and everybody will be happy.

  I know that Mama’s biggest problem is that I moved in with Traian already. She thinks it’s not right, and she’s probably even feeling guilty. She doesn’t want me to repeat her mistakes.

  I cannot find any rational reasons for not going ahead with the marriage. Traian is more than ready. He has always been. We could set a date in September, so that we have enough time to prepare. I have to think of my dress and hairstyle. I also need to lose more weight.

  .

  I went to church today.

  “You should go in and light a candle,” the voice said as I was passing the church on my way home from school.

  “A candle for what? How will that help? God sees me in distress each
moment of my life. I don’t need to go inside any church.”

  “How do you know? How do you know anything? It cannot hurt. Just go in.”

  “And if I go in, what do I do? I don’t want to see the priest. I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

  “Just go. Light a candle and come out. You can do at least that.”

  “I guess I could.”

  I went inside, lit a candle, and prayed. I prayed to God to help me love Traian more, to have mercy on us, to help me make him happy.

  Then I lit a candle just for Traian. May he be happy whatever happens.

  5.

  THIS VILLAGE, CRADLED BETWEEN round hills, with its daily train on the serpentine railway, with the small monastery to the west and the vineyards to the east, with the country store and the bakery next to the school, this village, Ana thought, was the place where gods come to rest. She worked, ate, and slept, and somehow it felt like there wasn’t anything else to be wanted.

  The house needed a lot of work. Ana painted the fence a delicious buttercream color, the same color she remembered from childhood. For the window frames, she chose a shade of blue called Serene Rain.

  Gabi, Vica’s seventeen-year-old granddaughter, helped her with the painting in the evenings after returning from school.

  “Don’t you have homework? Or study to do for college admission?”

  “Homework is easy, and I am not going to college. I’m getting married when I finish school. We’ll have a big wedding at the Hill Inn,” Gabi said with a very small but determined voice. She was taller than Ana and yet seemed to take up much less space. It seemed to Ana that Gabi was a whisper of the willow trees in the village. She came and left without making a sound or leaving a mark behind, and she seemed to never speak unless she had to. She was incredibly efficient with all sorts of housework, and she came over to help Ana as often as her mother allowed. Ana figured that the girl showed so much interest in her because of her novelty status in the village. Until one day when Gabi confessed to the truth, after Ana brought out from her luggage a small volume of literary fiction that she had bought just before leaving Bucharest.

  “I was hoping you had books, being that you are a teacher and all. I didn’t have anything good to read this summer, and there is nothing left at the library that I haven’t read twice already. I thought maybe you’d find something for me.” Gabi’s hands were shaking when she picked up the book.

  The next day, Ana went to the post office to use their computers and order several more books for Gabi. She was not sure what genre the girl liked, so she went to the New Releases section and picked out a few new women authors. After that, for the entire day, she felt a joy that she didn’t understand. It was like she had done something worthwhile by any possible standards.

  .

  She managed to balance ten plastic bags on the bicycle. It was after many years that she was stocking her pantry and her life so carefully. She suddenly felt grown-up and in control of her life, a small success that gave her a glimpse into how life might be for those who feel accomplished. Of course, the thought was chased away urgently by the gravity of the word accomplished, and by her uncertainty of its dictionary definition and of who, in fact, wrote dictionary definitions after all.

  She had found her mother’s bicycle in the barn. The paint was almost entirely gone, and rust bloomed in big splotches everywhere. Ana’s grandfather had bought this bicycle for his daughter when she was in seventh grade. She had just won a county math competition. The whole family was overjoyed. Ana’s mother’s photo had been posted on the announcement board at the post office so that everybody could see. The bicycle still held that little math genius pride in its rusty metal bell and squeaky wheels.

  Ana tried hard to close her eyes and see her mother as a ponytailed girl in grey wool sweaters and navy-blue sweatpants. She tried to imagine her riding that bicycle, passing by the walnut trees that bordered the street, with hope in her heart and a vision of the future that was never going to match real life. Ana wondered if her mother had been happy here, and why she never returned.

  But she didn’t have too much time to ponder: her groceries were waiting, and the fire needed to be started before she could cook. Ana rolled up her sleeves and grabbed a small pile of wood from the shed to carry into the kitchen. She had thought about ordering a gas stove, but decided to practice making wood fires in the stove, for the sake of old-time memories, and because it smelled so good, and because it was something new that she could learn, something she could put on the empty shelves of her new life.

  . .

  The Year Before

  THE MEETING HOUSE IS a well-groomed place, shining awkwardly in a decrepit neighborhood. Spotless whitewashed cement walls surround the building. Inside, there is a small garden with a water fountain and one of those bizarre Indian statues of a dancing god with four arms.

  This Transcendental Integration Movement of Laura’s has got a lot of bad press in the past months. It has become an enormous operation, with tens of thousands of members all over Europe. When Laura joined, eight or nine years ago, there were just a few groups scattered around the country. There have been nudity and sex scandals, and brainwashing accusations. Parents complained about their children abandoning school to follow this man who calls himself Chandan (otherwise known as Brad Griolaru) and cutting their ties to their families.

  Laura started going to their meetings soon after the path-changing experience with the Buddhist monk. After joining TIM, she became very quiet and secretive. She kept very private. All she needed was the group—no friends or family. Friends and family would have held her back, she said. Ever since joining Chandan’s group, I’ve rarely known where she was or what she was doing. She never returned to college and, if she got a job, it was for TIM.

  She never tried to hide away from me, though. I feel like I am the only relic from her past that she still allows to get close. It’s because we have this sort of symbiotic relationship: we keep each other sane. We both tend to go too far into our own worlds, and we need somebody to help us find balance, or at least the semblance of it. Maybe that’s why Laura never really tried to get me to join with her.

  That is why I wanted to come in and see for myself. I don’t know what I expected to find, and even as I walk in, I am frightened, and I doubt that I should be doing this. But I cannot stop it. Laura needs me right now, and I don’t know what else to do but come here and see who these people really are. Zina helped me get in. I am a hurt woman who believes that TIM might help her heal. Brad Griolaru is present for a reflective meditation session at this meeting house today, and I am allowed to participate.

  The disciple who is showing me the way is wearing a white linen shirt and jeans. We take off our shoes at the entrance of a large, tiled, white, well-lit hall. It smells of incense. Sandalwood, I guess. There are many people around, most looking like college students. They are sitting on the floor, some chatting, some sitting cross-legged with their eyes closed, and a few even sleeping on mats on the floor. Nobody pays any attention to me.

  In the back of the hall, there is a raised platform separated from the rest by ornate stone railings. Chandan is sitting crossed-legged on a small purple cushion. He is wearing full-fledged Indian attire: white cotton pants with a white long kurta. He fees magnetic. The whole space orbits around him.

  The young fellow who led me there indicates that I should sit on the floor and not disturb the master, who seems to be in deep meditation. Then I am left alone. Brad doesn’t make any gesture to let me know that he is aware of my presence. I think that’s just a technique to make me believe he’s in a trance, far away from this place, because he is a master yogi and he can detach from his body or whatever. I think he wants to impress me, although I am not quite sure why. I decide to not bother, and take my time to relax. I look around. It’s beautiful. The light is mellow, and the air is soft like a pillow. I sit on a cushion with my legs crossed and wait for the numbness to make me uncomfortable, but the numbnes
s doesn’t come. Instead, my body relaxes and feels supported from all sides. Almost like in a womb, I think, before everything around me starts slowly moving away, and I fall asleep.

  Strangely, I dream of Chandan. He kisses my hand. I unwind and float toward him, unencumbered by reason or thought. He kisses my lips and my neck, and it feels like nothing I’ve ever known before. Then suddenly, in the middle of the dream, I open my eyes and see it for the illusion that it is, an illusion that I am not controlling. The realization scares me, and I wake up. I am sitting on the pillow, and Brad is looking straight at me. I feel embarrassed.

  “You have a powerful spirit,” he says. “You’ve come here to find answers that nobody has but you. You’ll know it all when you become aware that you already have all you need. Free yourself of the shackles of social norms and fake morality, and allow your spirit to soar, to love, and to be loved.”

  All my embarrassment has vanished as I roll my eyes. Gibberish.

  “Is that all?” I ask.

  “What else do you want?” He has closed his eyes again.

  “I don’t know—advice, a way of coping, maybe an asana, a meditation technique to connect myself to some spiritual, metaphysical space where love resides. I was hoping for more.”

  “I see. I am afraid I cannot help you.” His eyes sparkle. He’s incredibly attractive and repulsive at the same time. He seems improbable.

  I thank him hastily and get ready to leave. As I turn my back to him, I hear, “I know what you’re looking for. You’re not there yet. Your vital energies are stuck, and this is not allowing you to reach your full potential.”

  He says these words looking into the floor. He never lifts his eyes toward me again, so I leave.

  “Return tomorrow for our circle meditation in the afternoon. Maybe you will find more answers then.” He says the words in a loud voice, so I could hear them on my way out. I don’t turn.

  I do return the next day, however, more out of curiosity than hope, and because Laura is not around (she is at some camp in the mountains) to advise me otherwise. I do have a sneaky feeling that Laura would have tried to stop me. The truth is that I feel intrigued by Chandan. I want to know if he is the real thing. I also know that I just need to get out and think of something other than Dan.