Guesthouse for Ganesha

by Judith Teitelman

  No hiding here. No running. And no secrets, most especially from oneself.

  It would be easy to consider that my presence here is completely irrational, Esther thought. But is it really any more so than places I’ve been during these past many years? When hiding was the means to ensure survival.

  Esther’s left hand ran along a pitted, spongelike, textured wall—ostensibly to steady her, but it was more like a new lover’s caress of discovery. Gently. Carefully. Without benefit of sight, her other senses were elevated, and Esther studied the space around her. Breathing in cool. Hearing stillness. She felt that the ground beneath her feet was irregular, the path winding with a slight but consistent decline.

  These walls of jagged stone resonated with the assured temperament of possibility and transformation.

  At different points along the path, the passageway narrowed or shrunk, and she had to bend or twist. In slow, steady motion they descended. Together they moved without haste. The deeper they went the surroundings remained mostly unchanged. The only evident distinction became a dampness—on the walls, on her clothes, under her feet, and, ultimately, in her heart. This path seemed to lead toward obscurity.

  There was no possible way to turn around—and no reason to.

  Esther continued to breathe through the dark. She felt there was no ending, and soon she no longer had memory of what had come before. No sense or possibility of time. While the space confined her physically, it liberated all her senses, most especially her powers of perception.

  In this place, wherever this is, where it seems as though there is no change, I know full well everything is changing, even though it looks and feels exactly the same. These were the thoughts flowing through her mind.

  This was a meditation in faith and in patience.

  Confidence of trust—of Marco—was unquestioned. Going from the complete unknown to the truly mysterious should have caused uncertainty, if not anxiety, but moment by moment, the young Esther—the adventurous, fearless Esther, the Esther at her core—rebounded.

  More than once she reached to the bottom of her dress pocket to tenderly caress dear Bubbe Royza’s kiddush cup. The cherished possession that had traveled with her since she left Przeworsk—her constant—her sole constant. Esther innately understood that this cherished object, and only this, provided the bridge of connection and place.

  From then—to now—to always.

  Marco gently took Esther’s right hand when the stones below became especially jagged and patchy. As soon as his hand, unexpectedly rough and callused and thickly padded, touched Esther’s, the spark of recognition resonated in her heart—a shared history and common path already journeyed together—wholly comprehending that this bond began long before their meeting on the ship. Knowing at the depth of her being this connection began in a park by the riverfront in Köln and—

  She started.

  —at this instant, Esther felt His truth.

  Her hand squeezed His. She felt a slight twinge as the circulation lessened and no distinction remained between where one hand began and the other ended. They melded.

  Is this the way it has always been? Esther thought in wonderment.

  “You will not … have to do this alone,” Marco said unexpectedly. “Never alone.”

  “But what?” Esther asked, confounded. “Why am I here? Why are we here? And where, exactly, is here?”

  He did not respond; once more His concentration was inward.

  Marco had no trouble providing direction and choreographing a path on the irregular rocks beneath their feet that could be traversed with ease. In a few places He lightly leaped, as though dancing; obviously He had negotiated this course many times before. As they moved onward, Esther saw that Marco kept His second hand face up, palm outward, which generated a pale glow illuminating the way ahead.

  I didn’t notice He brought a torch, Esther thought. It’s hard to see clearly, but He must have one, for there’s a ray of light flickering ahead.

  Esther’s thoughts began to race: was she seeing things that could not be real? It seems as though He’s also carrying a rope and an axe—but each in a separate hand. How can this be, when one of His hands is holding mine? And I see the shadow of a flower on the stone wall. Like a lotus, so exotic. But that, too, can’t possibly be real. The light must be creating shadows that are only illusions. More than one person would have to account for all those hands.

  This place plays crazy tricks on my senses, Esther thought.

  They continued on. The path beneath their feet grew increasingly irregular. Although no direction was evident, she felt clearly they moved in a large, circulating spiral. Esther became unsteady. She understood it had nothing to do with the misshaped rocks beneath their feet.

  Time had evanesced.

  Esther and Marco were in the deepest recesses of the cave when a clearing became visible in the near distance. The blackness began to relax its embrace from the passionate squeeze that had held them. Light and color converged.

  They approached a space much like the grand ballroom of a palatial estate. Or the interior of a cathedral. The stunning stalactites and stalagmites that encircled them appeared as dancers floating above and below. A few seemed to extend their reach as though they strove to touch and be touched. Crystals and salt compounds emanated a kaleidoscope of shimmering lights, reflecting an expansive array of pearls and lace.

  Suddenly—Esther’s equilibrium shifted.

  “This place looks impossibly familiar. But how could—?” She stopped mid-thought, mid-step, mid-breath.

  In such an environment all becomes illuminated.

  “I’ve been here before,” Esther gasped. “I know this place.

  “I’ve dreamt of this place. I’m sure of it. Only here. During the time when I thought I could no longer dream, when every night was dark and blank and empty. When only a few nights were broken by the possibilities that dreams offer. The few dreams I had then, during those awful years—throughout the war, and those before—all those years after Tadeusz—in Köln—they were of here. This place—I don’t understand. How? How is this possible? What is this about? What is happening? Where am I?”

  “Ah … my dear Esther,” Marco said. His voice shimmered with an echoing timbre. “We are so close … nearly there … you will soon understand. Please … it will be lucid … clarity is your gift. For here is the center of all things … where your soul … all souls … meet. At this juncture is where the outer and inner worlds become one. It is where … all begins.

  “Here … is the cavern of self … your self.”

  At that instant, Esther heard a drumbeat commence in the distance, faintly, echoing within the chamber’s walls. Slow—cadenced—tapping. First of a lone drum, followed minutes later by a second, then a third and then others, impossible to distinguish how many or to ascertain their location.

  Tablas—dayans and bayons—continuous, diffused, thoughtful tapping—tapping—tapping—

  Escalating to an unrelenting, pulsating beat.

  Pounding—throbbing—thumping.

  Bells began to clang—gently. Conch shells blown. The hint of a rattle shaking, gaining energy—vitality.

  Each frontward step increased the collective sounds twofold.

  And then—like a mirage emerging on the horizon of a vast desert space—Esther saw a sparkle of light from a candle glowing purposefully.

  His silhouette took form.

  He was manifest.

  Seated on an intricately carved golden marble throne with His left leg folded before him, providing a resting place for His protruding belly, the figure towered above Esther at more than four meters. This elephant-headed man was draped in layers of luscious yellow and red diaphanous silk cloths. Countless chains of exquisite mala—each with 108 flawless beads—rested against His throat; garlands of red hibiscus flowers lay upon His chest. His four arms and hands seemed in constant motion yet without movement.

  Before him were positioned three small clear gla
ss bowls—two empty, one filled with water. Red and yellow joss sticks burned on either side. Fragrant smells of spices, woods, and herbs emanated from their incense. A pot of red paste lay to the right. Traces of recently perfumed air floated above, and freshly cut red roses, anthuriums, cardinals, peonies, dahlias, and calla lilies encircled him. A tall red candle had only just begun to burn. Mangos and coconuts lay in a bowl. A large rectangular ceramic platter spilling over with sugar cookies held center stage.

  “Om Lam,” Marco said softly, bowing before him and laying a second red candle down next to the first, along with a handful of marigolds.

  Ah … my Esther. Your journey … is now realized.

  As you now know … you have become clearly aware … we have been together for a long time … for a very long time indeed. It is my pleasure and my gift to assist and support you … to support all … whether it is understood that I am with you … or not.

  For I am always … and have always been here for you.

  Esther … my dear Esther …

  The boundaries of your past are released. No barriers exist to your future …

  Esther looked serenely into His eyes. She then turned in one full circle to embrace the surroundings. Have I fallen asleep? she wondered. Perhaps this is a dream. A dream like all the other times.

  Ah … dear Esther … for you as for everyone … there is no real ending in the same way there is no real beginning. It is part of a continuum … merely a brief transition … and it is clear …

  Your heart knows … and has always known … the way home …

  Esther reached into her pocket and pulled out Bubbe Royza’s kiddush cup. She laid it in front of him, just beside the second red candle. Her remaining link to this world, this life, the one object and its bond to memories that had sustained and supported her for these past many years, was offered—

  —and released.

  She lit the candle’s wick, and the cavern immediately became enveloped in a rich rose hue.

  Fulfillment washed over Esther. The long hibernation of self was over. The answers were before her. No questions remained. She began to let go—wholly—releasing all that had come before. Letting go of events and actions and experiences that had taken place in her life. In so doing she felt more alive and vital than ever before—more complete and full.

  The one and only thing she did not leave behind—would not—could not—let go of—because love is all that matters and all that continues on—was Tadeusz. With forgiveness, and the cognition and the clarity that Tadeusz was and will—throughout time—remain her beloved, she fully embraced his being.

  A true liberation—liberation of the spirit—was taking place.

  Wholly uniting Esther—with Esther.

  Percussions and bells, hushed during His speech, resumed. This time—more powerfully and passionately—escalating in scale and tone—creating a high-pitched rumbling throughout—rising to an almost deafening degree.

  The ground joined in the revelry and began to shake.

  At the outset, this motion was barely discernible. Slight, seemingly insignificant vibrations reverberated through the earth.

  But the movements grew rapidly stronger—more potent—with increasing force until the entire cavern shook dramatically.

  At this, the drumming amplified—growing louder and louder. More insistent—more repetitive—strident—commanding—

  Soon—all that was everywhere—all that was anywhere—was this sound and the reverberation of this sound.

  And then—

  —she slipped through the echo—on His arm—

  EPILOGUE

  The energy advanced—

  The ground continued to quaver and tremble, vibrate and roll—formidable and more vigorously with increasing vitality—

  The persistent percussion matched the movement’s intensity, expanding to an almost deafening scale. Thunderous drums and clangs—escalating excitement and ferment.

  The environment elevated.

  Climaxing magnetism. Pure—unbridled—energy.

  Soon it was space overflowing with blessings and smoke.

  Thick clouds of ash and soot and cinders rolled in like a giant swell crashing against the shore.

  She appears—

  —as an arresting exposed black form absorbing all frequencies of light while glowing brighter than any nearby star—the image of fierce magnetic beauty. She is constantly in motion: Her four arms, with clawlike hands and extended nails, flaying with swords and tridents, intoxicated red eyes emblazoned, hair disheveled and abandoned, lips smeared with blood, long sharp fangs protruding and tongue lolling. Her swaying skirt of human arms and garland of 108 human heads continuously in motion. Bedecked in corpses for earrings and serpents for bracelets.

  She, alone, is the embodiment of disintegration and transformation.

  Ah … Kali … Kali Ma … my beloved Kali … You have come. But of course You are here … for You are the most beneficent … and loving of us all.

  Kali … they never know where We can be. Or ever so more importantly … who We can be.

  Do you think a time will come when they will truly comprehend? Do You believe they can learn and accept?

  That We are everywhere and always where We are most needed … even if it is not accepted that We are needed.

  Do you think they will ever understand … what need even is?

  Kali meets Ganesha’s embracing gaze and smiles obliquely. Eyes sparkle. She moves close to Him. A knowledge and warmth passes between them. Left hands around waists, right hands held up, fingers intertwine, left feet swing to the side.

  They dance.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  When a book travels a long and oft times circuitous route to publication—in this case eighteen years—there are myriad people to recognize who provided encouragement, sage advice, and the all-important humor and wit along the way. I extend heartfelt thanks for the support of all those noted below, and apologies that this list cannot be comprehensive.

  First and foremost, I’d like to extend deep gratitude to my publisher, Brooke Warner, and her She Writes Press team, including project manager Caitlyn Levin, copywriter Jennifer Caven, and interior designer Tabitha Lahr; to my literary agent, Priya Doraswamy at Lotus Lane Literary, who remained invested and committed over the long haul; to Crystal Patriarche and Book-Sparks’s innovative, strategic efforts to share my novel as far and wide as possible; and to my dear, longtime friend Michael Kellner, who brilliantly captured my tale on the book’s cover.

  I wish to acknowledge my appreciation for those who listened, those who encouraged, those who suggested, those who connected, those who cheered, those who read, and those who critiqued: Betsy Amster, Sasha Anawalt, Anne Bray, Cynthia Campoy Brophy, Anne Dubuisson, Karen Foster, Peter Gadol, Weba Garretson, Betsey Grady, Jack Grapes, Gilda Haas, Dharma Hernandez, Mead Hunter (my insightful first reader), David Kipen, Geralynn Krajeck, Adam Leipzig, Imre Molnar, Mary Jane Myers, Susie Norris, Laurie Owyang, Gary Phillips, Andrea Richards, Peggy Riley, Howard A. Rodman, Louise Steinman, Bill Stern, Janet Sternburg, Marie Unini, and Morrie Warshawski.

  Many thanks to Terry Wolverton, a stellar teacher, who endeavored to launch me on the creative writing path; to my fellow writers in the Saturday morning Relax & Write group led by the inimitable Maia Danziger, who got me to do what others before had tried—namely, to put words on paper and read them aloud; to the wide-ranging, informative classes taught by discerning writers at UCLA’s highly regarded Writers Program, of which I must single out Mary Yukari Waters—her ten-week course offered an in-depth overview that easily rivaled any top-notch MFA; and to the incredibly generous Kerry Madden-Lunsford, who appeared at the absolute right time to teach me exactly what I needed to know. In addition, I thank the Shoah Foundation Institute for Visual History and Education for the opportunity to do in-depth research.

  Lastly, I am deeply indebted to my translators: Tine Kindermann (German), Rob Adler Peckerar (Yiddish and Hebrew), Ema
nuelle Batz and Aaron Paley (French), Ans Ellis (Dutch), Shashi Bhatter (Hindi), and Carla Fantozzi and Fabio Angelini (Italian). To Barrett Briske, who diligently researched the public domain status and necessary permissions of the many quotes, lyrics, and poems included in my novel, and to Coleman Barks, who generously gave permission to use his translation of Rumi’s “The Guest House.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Judith Teitelman has straddled the worlds of arts, literature, and business since she was a teenager and worked her first job as a salesperson at a B. Dalton/Pickwick Bookstore. Life’s journeys took her from bookstores to commercial fine art galleries to the nonprofit arts and cultural sector, in which she has worked as staff, consultant, and educator for more than three decades. Throughout this time, Teitelman continued her pursuit of all things literary, and over the years her writing has been published in a variety of formats and publications. Guesthouse for Ganesha is her debut novel. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and three beloved cats.

  Author photo © Anne Bray

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  She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.

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