Mahalakshmi turned to me. “Have you been to New York before?” She also spoke with a clipped British accent.
“Only twice. Very short trips,” I replied. The summer I had met Sly flashed through my mind.
Carlos and I pulled our bags from the carousel. John took mine, and we headed for the automatic doors.
A brisk breeze snapped against my face. John led us to their Volvo sedan in the parking lot across from the terminal, and Carlos and I climbed into the backseat.
As we drove out of the airport, I saw stripped, broken-down cars lining the roadside, with windows shattered and tires gone. Their empty shells looked lost and harshly abandoned.
“We'll just stop by home if you want to clean up a bit before popping into our restaurant for supper,” John said over his shoulder as he entered the Grand Central Parkway.
“That's fine,” Carlos said. He squeezed my hand. I looked into his eyes and leaned over, kissing his lips. I was grateful not to feel lost or abandoned anymore.
Brownstone buildings with metal signs sat above us on the frontage road. “Mahavishnu and I would like you to meet our guru, Sri Chinmoy,” Mahalakshmi said. “We've studied with him two years. He teaches us meditation and to serve the world through love, devotion, and surrender to God.”
She calls John by the same name as his band. It must be related somehow to the guru.
Carlos scooted forward and rested his arms on the front seat. “Larry Coryell stayed at my house last year. He had a photo of Sri Chinmoy that he meditated on. Before I met Debbie, I fasted seven days, asking God to lead me to my spiritual teacher.”
John and Mahalakshmi looked at each other and smiled.
“Our restaurant is one of the divine enterprises that disciples have here in Queens.”
Jesus'closest followers had been called “disciples.” I asked, “What are ‘disciples’? And ‘divine enterprises’?”
John laughed. “‘Disciples’ are what we call ourselves when we follow Sri Chinmoy's teachings. We consider ourselves ‘devotees’ who tell others about guru.”
‘Divine enterprises’ are businesses owned by disciples,” Mahalakshmi said. “Our menu is vegetarian. I hope you like it. Guru says that meat is full of aggressive animal consciousness, which interferes with our meditation.” I had eaten at the Source on Sunset Boulevard when I lived in L.A. It was vegetarian, and I had loved the salads and casseroles, drawn to the purity of the whole grains and organic produce, fresh-squeezed juices, and the luminescence in the eyes of the workers. My body felt more buoyant and agile eating less meat.
John parked on a street lined with two-story houses with small front yards. Leaves hung from trees in brilliant shades of red, amber, and gold-flecked green. We walked upstairs to their flat. The stark whiteness of the walls stood out in contrast to the dark Long Island skies. Mahalakshmi took off her coat and asked to hang ours. She wore a long, flowing drape around her body that I had seen on women from India. She saw me staring. “Guru asks that we wear saris for meditation and work.”
“Oh,” I said. “It's pretty.”
Carlos and I sat in the living room, looking at books by Sri Chinmoy on the coffee table. There were photos of the guru on the walls, too.
In a few minutes, we tumbled back inside the car and drove to their restaurant, Annam Brahma, a few blocks away.
“Mahavishnu and I own the restaurant,” Mahalakshmi said as she opened her car door. “I manage the day-to-day operations, with five disciples to help me.”
The women who waited the tables wore saris as well as sandals with sockless feet, as though it were summer rather than fall. Their blouses exposed a few inches of midriff. The men were dressed in white from head to toe. Every wall in the restaurant was brightly painted in reds and golds with images of Indian gods and Sanskrit symbols. My eyes kept returning to a print of an Indian woman in red, standing above a circle formed by the heads of twenty men. A wreath of arms framed her body. A huge photo of Sri Chinmoy, similar to the one in his books, hung in a recessed alcove. Vases of flowers sat beneath the photo, and incense burned in a small brass holder. Disciple waiters floated around our table, bringing plates of spicy Indian curries. Mahalakshmi pointed. “That yellowish stew is dahl. The flat bread is chapati.”
“What is this delicious drink?” I asked, gulping a delicate, white liquid.
“Ah,” John smiled. “My favorite. It is a sweet lhasi—yogurt blended with honey, ice, and rose water.”
Carlos's eyes flashed. “Remember when I saw you at Slugs with Tony Williams? I asked you what it was like to record with Wayne on Supernova.”
“Yeah. I told you how wonderful that session was,” John answered.
“Where's Slugs?” I asked.
“Here in New York City,” John said. “Tony's a great drummer.”
“Your drummer Billy Cobham is a powerhouse,” Carlos said. “I can't wait to play with him.”
The restaurant bustled with customers and workers. “Do you work here every day, Mahalakshmi? Am I pronouncing it right—Ma-ha-'lock-shmee?”
“Yes, that's right. I work five days. I also travel to Europe to give talks about meditation.” She tore a piece of puri and scooped dahl into her mouth.
“Life was rather bleak until we found Guru,” she said. “Now Mahavishnu and I have a purpose deeper than we had ever known before.”
“What is that?” I asked, looking into her serious blue eyes.
She spooned chutney onto my plate. “We've accepted that God-consciousness can be attained in this lifetime. That's why we have the restaurant—so we can meditate even while we work. We opened this place to feed people's souls as well as their bodies.”
“It is not enough to go to church on Sunday and then live the remainder of the week without God,” John said. “The spiritual path of meditation is active twenty-four hours a day. Sri Chinmoy teaches us to keep the mind pure and the heart open to God. He also meditates on us, infusing our bodies with light.”
I was a sponge, soaking up this new information: feeding souls; feeling purpose in one's life. It was exactly what I wanted: a cleansing of the impurities in my mind and body, a recovery of who I was before I met Sly—a scrubbing of my soul.
“Where is Sri Chinmoy from?” Carlos asked, his head cocked to the side as he listened intently.
“A small village in India,” Mahalakshmi said. “His family studied with Sri Aurobindo, a yoga master and ascetic.”
Carlos said he was interested in meeting Sri Chinmoy. Did I want to meet this guru, too? The sound of dishes clinking together, and pots banging in the kitchen, hummed around me. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to experience what these new friends were living. Could a guru map out my road in life and show me a safe path through the universe?
We finished the meal with gulab jamun, round, doughy balls soaked in sugary syrup. I sat back in my chair, relaxed, content, and filled with thoughts about my next steps, my future. A new possibility was unveiling before me, a communion with my place in the divine plan. The warmth and happiness in the restaurant made me want to stay there. I felt at a turning point in my life.
Carlos and I thanked Mahalakshmi and John. We shook hands and said good-bye to disciples who seemed awed by Carlos, and we bundled into our coats for the walk to the car. John drove us to our hotel in the city, while Mahalakshmi stayed to close the restaurant. Bounding over the parkway, our conversation waned in the late hour. Lights from Manhattan's skyscrapers shimmered across the East River against the gray-black sky. Musty subway odors seeped through John's open window when he paid the toll for the Midtown Tunnel.
He stopped at the curb outside the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Washington Square was two blocks up, the lighted arch glowing over Greenwich Village.
“Thank you, John,” I said, climbing out of the backseat.
“You're welcome. Please call me Mahavishnu. Our names have spiritual meanings that Guru gave us. Mine means ‘the great Vishnu’—the god who preserves divinity. Mahalakshmi
's means ‘the great Lakshmi’—the goddess of beauty.”
“They're exquisite,” I said.
We pulled our suitcases out of the Volvo and waved Mahavishnu back to Queens. A bellman appeared and took our bags inside.
Riding the shaking elevator to the eighth floor, Carlos leaned over and brushed his lips across mine. I tipped the bellman, closed the door, and slid out of my coat. What a magnificent night. My life felt changed—renewed and energized.
New York was wide awake at midnight: horns honking, traffic lights blinking, strangers scurrying along Fifth Avenue. I sat down at the window and played back the ideas I had been introduced to.
I felt as though fingers, gentle and prodding, had peeled back a dark curtain over my soul and exposed it to the changeless, enduring presence of God.
Carlos set up his cassette player, and Miles's “In a Silent Way” eased into the room.
fell asleep cradled in Carlos's arms and awoke with his chin resting on my head, my leg across his legs. Bits of last night's conversation floated through my mind. I knew I belonged here on this spiritual adventure with him, seeking something divine through this catalyst of music.
Strips of white paint peeled from the corners of the ceiling above us. The phone rang. I twisted my body toward the night-stand. “Hello?”
“Hi. This is Mahalakshmi. How are you today?” Her English was so proper. “Fine, thank you.” “I hope I didn't disturb you, but Guru—rather, Sri Chin-moy—has asked me to invite you and Carlos to the United Nations for meditation today at noon. Do you think you can make it?”
I turned to Carlos. He hadn't moved, but was listening to my conversation, one eye open. I was intrigued by the invitation and hoped he was, too. “Can you hold the line, please?” Burying the phone in the bedcovers, I repeated Sri Chin-moy's request to Carlos.
“Sure,” he said. “I'd love to.”
“Thanks, Mahalakshmi. We'll be there.”
Carlos and I took a taxi across Manhattan. Centuries of living oozed from the buildings, the sidewalks, the people. San Francisco was nascent and tame by comparison. Soot clung to Manhattan's stone facades, poured on by trains, buses, cars, and ships. The boroughs were separated into ethnic groups, yet everyone met as equals on the frenzied battleground of the city.
Dozens of flags representing member countries stood tall along First Avenue in front of the United Nations. The U.N. Chapel was across the street from the stately gray office building on Forty-sixth Street. Mahavishnu and Mahalakshmi stood outside, waving at us from the cab. We followed them into the sanctuary to a row of umber-toned pews that faced a paneled dais in a room the size of a small auditorium. Opulent yet simple, the room was half-filled with forty or more disciples—young men dressed in white, and women in flower-patterned saris—sitting alongside people in suits. Nearly everyone's eyes were closed. Carlos and I sat between Mahavishnu and Mahalakshmi. I straightened my back and closed my eyes, hearing only the faint rustle of clothes against legs as newcomers filed into the pews.
The creak of a door and a low murmur of voices caused me to open my eyes. A round-faced man in a peacock blue flowing garment glided into the room and climbed the stairs to the dais. He was of medium height, his head bald, his hands folded at his chest. He bowed and walked to the podium, gazing intently at his audience, a slight smile on his lips. At first sight, Sri Chinmoy looked as Mahavishnu and Maha-lakshmi had at the airport: austerely clean, with an otherworldly glow outlining his body. Brown-skinned, like Paramahansa Yo-gananda in photos I had seen, Sri Chinmoy's nose was sharp and his ears pointy. I turned my gaze within, breathing deeply, trying to expel all images from my mind in order to meditate, but thoughts swept through my head like a ticker tape on Wall Street: Kitsaun's face—How I wish she were here with me to experience this meditation. My English professor—Will I return to school? A volley of Sly's sneers and mischievous smiles veered through my mind as well. I silently asked God to purify me and forgive my past so that the painful choices I had made would stop haunting me. My chest heaved and fell, my breath calmed, and a feeling of grace brought tears to my eyes. I sat in peace, finally silent inside, yellow-white light beaming in the air whenever I looked up.
When I looked at Sri Chinmoy his body looked frozen. His arms were raised high in the air, his hands pressed together, and his eyes moved up and down rapidly.
What is he doing? I peeked a glance at Mahalakshmi on my right. She was looking at Sri Chinmoy, her mouth in a soft smile. I closed my eyes again, concentrating on my heart gently rising and falling in the center of my body. For thirty minutes, no sound was uttered. I wondered whether Carlos was feeling peaceful or whether thoughts were running through his head. Sri Chinmoy sang one long, nasal “Om” and then bowed. Everyone stood and filed out of the church, disciples with their hands pressed together, bowing as they walked past the guru. I looked at Carlos; we smiled and leaned into each other, not ready to leave. Mahavishnu asked Carlos and me to meet the guru, walking us to the front of the room. Sri Chinmoy smiled widely and made cooing sounds, his hands hidden in the pockets of the winter coat he had put on. “I'm very happy to meet you,” he said, his voice inflected with a slight accent. “Please come to my house for meditation tonight.”
He turned and walked through the door, which was held wide by two young men who quickly followed after him. His flowing Indian dress hung shiny and soft under his brown tweed coat. Carlos bowed and touched his hands to his heart.
“Come to our house later and we'll take you to Guru's,” Mahavishnu said. “We'll go to the studio after.”
Carlos nodded. He grasped my hand, and we stood watching people leave the chapel. I felt stunned, as though knocked down by floodwaters that had washed me clean. An exhilarating freedom was awakened inside me, as though my soul had been asleep until this moment of spiritual illumination, as though meditation on my own was just a hint of what could be experienced. I looked at Carlos—his face was flushed.
“I feel different,” he said, looking in my eyes. “I felt something divine in that meditation. Did you?”
“I saw light. For the first time, I felt the bliss we've read about in meditation books.”
We walked ten blocks, letting the experience settle in our hearts before deciding where to go. We took a cab back to the Village and ate lunch in a tiny health food store on Eighth Street. A cockroach ran by on the shelf behind the lunch counter as I lifted my avocado sandwich to my lips. “A New York good luck charm,” I said, and smiled. In the late afternoon, we took a taxi to Mahavishnu and Ma-halakshmi's house in Queens. They asked if we had trouble saying their names and told us that we could call them the Mahas. Carlos and I looked at each other and laughed. We confessed it was hard to say “Sri Chinmoy.” “That's why the disciples call him ‘Guru,’” Mahavishnu explained.
“A guru is to be venerated above normal people or spiritual aspirants because he has reached oneness with God,” Mahalak-shmi said. “When we are invited to his home, like tonight, we are being blessed to feel the transcendent power of God that he receives in meditation.” We drove the few blocks to Sri Chinmoy's house. Disciples walked down the street, twilight's shadows dancing on softly billowing Indian saris. Do they all live in this neighborhood?
“Is what Sri Chinmoy wears also called a sari?” I asked.
Mahalakshmi opened her car door. “No. The men wear dhotis tied around their waists like a sari, and a long shirt that hangs to the thigh, called a kurta.”
We climbed the stairs and entered the guru's home. Carlos and I took off our shoes, leaving them beside the Mahas' on the enclosed porch. Each step I took in my stocking feet took me further into this new world. Here we were in the house of a realized spiritual master. Walls were painted high-gloss white. Soft, baby-blue carpeting looked like a waveless ocean. No furniture cluttered the main room that I supposed was once a living room. Only a long, two-foot-tall throne, ornately painted with gold leaf, stood in front of the windows. There, Sri Chinmoy sat cross-legged, wearing an eme
rald, flowing dhoti. The kurta hung loosely from his broad shoulders. The only visible parts of his body were his chestnut-hued hands, neck, and very shiny head. Sri Chinmoy's eyes glistened like gold nuggets when he smiled.
“Oh, ho!” he exclaimed as we walked into the room. “You have come.” His face gleamed as he narrowed his eyes into meditative slits, watching Carlos and me sit down on the floor beside Mahavishnu and Mahalakshmi. Disciples were lined up in rows facing Sri Chinmoy. I smiled at the woman beside me.
“We are so glad you have come to our humble meditation,” the guru spoke softly. “Of course, we are here to meditate on God and bring down the Supreme light from above. Let us go within.”
Wafts of incense smoke curled from a table beside the throne. Sri Chinmoy straightened his back and looked up, as though seeing God through the ceiling. He parted his lips, his face molding into a plastic-looking mask. I took deep breaths, swaying in the longing that pulsated from my heart. Thoughts faded, and I was overtaken with the peaceful silence in the room.
Sri Chinmoy chanted “Om” as he had at the U.N. meditation. He looked down at Carlos and me, and then he closed his eyes.
“You are both soulful seekers of the divine Truth. I can feel God's blessings entering into you. Do you have any questions?”
I could not speak. What could I say or ask in front of all these disciples who had been meditating so much longer than I?
Carlos said meekly, “I have followed Jesus and am wondering if meditation with you is okay with him.” A few disciples laughed. Sri Chinmoy said, “This is a very good question. Many of my disciples come from churches and synagogues. We are a path, not a religion. You might think of Jesus as one of God's eyes and me as the other. Through both eyes you can see the Almighty. We are working together to give you the vision of God.”
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