Mahalakshmi and I worked side by side at Annam Brahma. I chopped vegetables, cooked rice, and blended sauces. She showed me how to slice eggplant, salt it, and then lay it on paper towels to draw out the bitterness before breading and frying it for eggplant parmigiana. She coached me in disciple etiquette while we worked. “We do not ever point our feet toward Guru. It's disrespectful. We do not touch him, either.”
“Why?” I asked. I had never known a person I could not touch. There were many unusual customs on this meditation path.
“Guru is a vessel of divinity. He brings down infinite grace and compassion from God. Because he meditates on such a high plane of consciousness, he is hypersensitive—and just as he receives energy from the Supreme, he also receives our impurities. If we touch him, all that we are thinking and feeling enters into him because he is our spiritual father. So, we try not to saturate him with our human frailties. Ramakrishna, the great Indian avatar, died of cancer that came to him through his disciples' impurities.”
These concepts and beliefs were all new and, although they were foreign in origin, I accepted them, excited to be learning the customs of another culture.
Working at Annam Brahma, the hours passed quickly. We put in almost ten hours a day at the restaurant. I made and drank a sweet lhassi every day, perfecting the mix of yogurt, rose water, and honey. Sri Chinmoy said that disciples would have boundless energy by living pure lives devoted to God. I felt energetic, but collapsed into bed each night after work. When we went to meditation, I felt sleepy; but as I breathed in—focusing on Sri Chinmoy's face—the light I received raised my spirits and gave me strength. Sometimes disciples nodded forward in a swooping motion as they fell fast asleep during meditation. It was hard not to laugh as they straightened themselves and tried to look alert, as though nothing had happened.
Disciples were the only friends Mahalakshmi had. She mentioned that her mother lived in the English countryside, but said she did not visit often. I began to see that the meditation path was a separate world, a protected environment that was self-sustaining and so full that it precluded time to socialize outside the center. I did not even consider that being separate from my family would ever be required of me. We were closer than ever. Maybe Kitsaun would come to meditation with me.
On my last morning in New York, Sri Chinmoy called me to his house for a private meditation. A wind of fury sped through the streets, blowing the last leaves of fall into the gutters. Again I was sad to be parting from Sri Chinmoy and the disciples who had mentored me, but I was joyous to be returning to San Francisco, where Carlos would arrive only a few hours after me.
“Please,” Sri Chinmoy said, “sit down.”
I sat on the carpet facing him. He wore luminous peach satin. “You will go back with all my blessings, good girl. Carlos will bring the impurities of the world, and you will give him my blessingful light and love. Now, let us meditate.”
I concentrated on Sri Chinmoy's eyes. The room began to spin. My body felt weightless as I floated in the rays of Guru's meditative trance. When he bowed, I bowed and raised myself from the floor. My vision was blurred with tears that had risen from some inner emotion over which I had no control.
I hugged Mahalakshmi outside JFK airport. “Thanks for everything—working at Annam Brahma and letting me stay with you.” I grabbed my suitcase from the car and ran into the terminal, waving as the automatic door closed behind me.
The plane landed in San Francisco, and I pulled my sky-blue fleece coat over my sari. Carlos had bought the coat for me at Mary Quant in London, and I loved it. My hair was curled around my face, and I wore no trace of makeup. I claimed my suitcase and walked to the international terminal to wait for Carlos's plane. I had not been alone much in Queens and savored having time to myself, even if it was at the airport.
I stood outside the metal doors to customs, my palms clammy. After two weeks apart, I wondered if our fledgling romance might have lost some of its fire. Even the transcendent hours of meditation could not take away the fluttering nervousness I felt. I first spotted Barry, the road manager; then, above the slow-moving line of travelers, I saw Carlos's head, his pale lemony skin, shorn curls, and off-white suit. I froze, waiting for recognition that he was as excited to see me as I was to see him. I hated my insecurity, but felt dwarfed by the love Carlos received from thousands of fans each night. Carlos smiled and waved, holding my gaze with his dark eyes. I surged forward through the crowd and dove inside his warm arms, which transported me to the comfort of his manhood and the memory of his arms and legs entwined with mine. In the crush of bodies, he held me, his soft lips parting to receive mine.
“You taste so good. I've wanted to hold you in my arms since the day you left,” he whispered. “Just feeling you gives me strength.”
People pushed past us, shoving us closer together. Blood rushed through my body, pounding in my pulses. “I've missed you so much,” I whispered.
Kitsaun met us outside. She looked radiant, taller. I noticed her staring at my sari with the intensity of a seagull diving for a fish. She would expect a full explanation of the past month's activities. I embraced her, holding on for a long time, and lingered in the sisterhood that I had missed. She drove us across the Golden Gate Bridge, past Tam Junction and around familiar roads, asking me about Europe and wanting to hear about the meditation path. “What does the guru do?” she asked.
“He meditates in front of us, teaching with his consciousness as well as by answering questions about the spiritual life,” I said. “His followers work in businesses they own so they can keep their minds on meditation and purity.”
“Sounds interesting,” she said. “But I don't see why you have to dress like you're in India. Why the sari?” She turned onto the Mill Valley Road, where Carlos's mountain chalet sat at the end.
Carlos said, “It's all about identification with the divine, taking us away from the ways of the ego and desire.”
Kitsaun wasn't convinced about the direction of our lives, but she seemed open. She drove back to the city, leaving Carlos and me alone: one continuous, complete heart.
had traveled nearly twenty thousand miles across America, the Atlantic Ocean, and Europe—and no place was as beautiful to me as the San Francisco Bay area. The redwoods, firs, and pines standing still on Mount Tamalpais as though waiting for rainfall to reawaken them; the creek spinning through Old Mill Park, smoothing stones and pebbles; neoclassic sandstone buildings on Market Street that were rebuilt after the 1906 earthquake—all welcomed me back to the splendor of our home. When we first ventured to meditation in San Francisco, the Farallon Islands floated out on the ocean in the last sunlight of the day. We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, sailboats breezing through the swirling waters between steel pillars that plunged hundreds of feet below. Christmas lights flickered on in the Embarcadero office buildings. Carlos turned the black Volvo hatchback onto Park Presidio, and we headed to Noe Valley.
Meditations were held in a Victorian house on Sanchez, a street so steep that cars parked sideways so their brakes would not slip and cause them to careen down the hill. Sevika and Saumitra, the Centre's leaders, seemed younger than twenty-one. Like other disciples, they were innocent and unguarded, friendly and open. Sevika wore her long brown hair pulled back into the popular disciple ponytail. Her narrow, long nose and thin lips gave her face a gaunt look, but her body was strong and well built. She wore her sari a little shorter than the ankle-length style of the New York girls. Saumitra's above-the-ears haircut accented his bushy eyebrows and penetrating eyes. They lived in the Centre, a simple, unpretentious house.
The dining room served as the meditation space, with a large, ornately framed transcendental photo of Sri Chinmoy on a table, votive candles sending up shimmering white light. Carlos and I sat down cross-legged with five disciples who were already in the room. After fifteen minutes of silence, Sevika stood and read from one of Sri Chinmoy's books: “Pray with fear: God sheds bitter tears; pray with love: God smiles
with the beauty of the Golden Dawn; pray with all you have: God wings toward you to grasp you. Pray with all that you are: God becomes your liberation.” She bowed to Guru's picture and sat down again, facing the shrine.
The words flowed with my slow breathing, and my heart communed with my inner source. When meditation ended, I felt refreshed and inspired—at one with God.
Sevika caught up with Carlos and me in the hallway as we were walking to retrieve our shoes and jackets. “Would you like to stay and eat with us?” Her face held an eagerness that was almost pleading.
I looked at Carlos. “Thanks,” he said quietly, “but we have reservations at a restaurant.” Sevika's shoulders sagged, but she smiled and said, “I'll call you tomorrow, Debbie. Maybe we can work on a project together next week.”
“Sure, that would be great.” I put on my coat. Carlos opened the door.
Saumitra called out, “Good night, brother. Good night, sister!”
I smiled.
“What?” Carlos asked.
“They're so sweet.”
“It's almost unreal,” Carlos agreed.
“That's what the New York disciples were like: always smiling, bouncing with energy and joy.”
Carlos put his arm around me. “That's how I feel around Mahavishnu. I don't need food or sleep. Just meditation and my guitar.”
We drove to La Traviata on Mission Street. Zef, the owner, hugged us as we entered, and seated us in a corner booth. Sonorous opera music filled the restaurant. Scents of fresh-baked bread, tomatoes, and crushed garlic seemed to emanate from Zef's apron and clothing.
By the time we drove back to Marin, Panoramic Highway was enveloped in fog. Our headlights reflected soft light back to us from the clouds clawing along the street. The tower house was warm, protected from the wind by the hillside across the road. We lit candles and talked until the whisper of our bodies became more important, calling us into a spinning circle of lovemaking. Carlos's hands were like silk along my body, and for long moments we watched each other, caught in the plea- sure of longing. I loved the sounds of tree branches brushing the side of the house when I was in Carlos's arms.
Most nights I stayed in Mill Valley, and I went home to Mom and Dad's when I needed different clothes. My parents were accepting of my living arrangement—either they genuinely loved Carlos, or perhaps they remembered the trials of their early years together and had compassion for me. Sometimes I spent a night or two in my old bedroom. Kitsaun was living at home again, and we went to movies and talked late into the night. She met Carlos and me at Shandygaff, and we told her about the Centre; she promised to visit a meditation soon.
Carlos stayed up until 2:00 A.M. every night, practicing his guitar downstairs in his studio, and he rehearsed Monday through Friday in the city with the band. I wrote poetry, shopped for groceries, or met Sevika at the Centre to help transcribe cassette tapes of Sri Chinmoy's lectures. New York disciples wrote us group letters that held new language and ideas. Disciples called Guru their “father” and God “the Supreme.” Their letters persuaded us to deepen our connection with Sri Chinmoy. The head of the New York Centre, Dulal, wrote that we should “live it, practice it, breathe it, eat it, touch it and become intoxicated with the Supreme's nectar.” The disciples shared a fervent enthusiasm to spur one another to be more and more absorbed in spirituality. I ingested this information and coerced my mind to accept what disciples called Transcendental Reality—the truth of higher consciousness: It was a study of Hinduism, like a college course, about India's culture and cosmic theology. Part of my mind readily accepted the new ideas and spiritual concepts. Yet deep within, the teachings of my childhood that Jesus Christ was the way to God was an impediment to this new theology. Martin Luther King, Jr., had accepted the teaching of nonviolence from Mahatma Gandhi. Other Indian values of truth, such as nonpossession, physical labor, fearlessness, celibacy unless one was married, and equal respect for all religions were ideals that I wanted to incorporate into my daily life. Although some of the beliefs were similar to Christian thought, I had never studied them with a contemplative spirit, and I felt that I was expanding my soul.
Being in a relationship with Carlos was like standing beside a radiant, iridescent peacock with its tail feathers fully fanned out in a blue-green rainbow. Everywhere we went, people wanted to shake his hand, praise him. Women actually asked to kiss him right in front of me. My heart felt trampled in the outpouring of devotion to him. On the one hand I accepted the culture of devotion accompanying Carlos's fame. On the other, I couldn't conceive of being so fanatical about another human being and I often told people, when they oohed and aahed over my good fortune to be with him, that “each person has a gift to offer the world,” and I was sure they were special, too.
But, clouds blew in through the window of my insecurity and disrupted my peaceful meditative world when I answered the telephone and someone was breathing and then hung up. My intuition told me it was a woman calling to speak with Carlos, but that she was afraid to ask for him when she heard my voice. I wondered if it was his former girlfriend, Linda, and worried he was not over her, and when it happened more than once, fretted there were others, and allowed the voiceless phone calls to poison my joy. I rationalized that if Carlos was seeing other women, it should not concern me. We were not married, but we were together so much, I did not believe he had time for another relationship. Carlos and I had a closeness that assured me we would be together for a while, and I purchased flower bulbs to plant in his garden, as though I would be there in spring to see tulips and daffodils push up along the walkway outside the kitchen window.
Sevika called me every day. She planned ways for the San Francisco Centre to make money to buy books and tapes from the New York Centre, and she wanted to sell clothes at the Alameda Flea Market. I had so much I was not wearing from my old life. I took Sly's goat coat, my tight, eight-button sailor jeans, and the purple taffeta hot-pants suit I had not worn since L.A. to sell at the flea market. Carlos reluctantly gave some snakeskin boots and black leather pants.
Sevika put Sri Chinmoy's picture on the table with the items for sale. Saris were enough of an attention-getter, but the transcendental meditation photo really raised eyebrows. An older couple walked by us, looking at the photo, and then stared and shook their heads—and the man mumbled, “Damn gurus come to America, brainwash our kids, steal our money.”
I was mortified. I felt the same despair from the man's negative comments that I had felt growing up with people staring at my father's coal skin next to my mother's white. Their eyes had held scorn, even hatred, as they openly stared at us walking by. We never said anything, just stared back, holding our ground, keeping our heads high.
With Sevika, I could swallow my discomfort because it did not hurt like racism. And I felt it was my duty to help her. I was the only other woman in the Centre. I also had fun learning more about Guru from her perspective, which was much holier and funnier than Mahalakshmi's. Sevika acted as though Guru were present at every moment. His invisible spirit-consciousness was like a ghost constantly at her side. Being with Sevika was like being in New York. Before she drove, she prayed aloud for Guru to protect her. Yet she had a boisterous sense of humor and told jokes nonstop. She worked tirelessly on project after project, including sewing a bright gold satin kurta and dhoti for Sri Chinmoy that required tedious hand stitching. Her eyes often were red-rimmed from working until the wee hours of the morning. What drove her was divine love. When she spoke Guru's name, she swooned with devotion.
Carlos took me to his parents' home in late December. He had bought them a duplex in Noe Valley near Twenty-fourth Street. Mrs. Santana hugged me and spoke to me in Spanish. She and Carlos had the same butterscotch skin; Mr. Santana was brown like me. His mother's hair was straight and thick, a golden color. She was tall, with a wide girth and imposing strength. Her voice was musical and kind. Carlos had to interpret their words, as my high school Spanish was not good enough to understand what they were saying.
The house was immaculate, and we sat at their dining room table eating a delicious meal of chile relleños and refried beans that Mrs. Santana had cooked. Mr. Santana held Carlos's hand in his own, gently squeezing it as he spoke softly to him. He wore a black suit, the jacket cropped short, with polished silver buttons looped with chains across his white shirt. He was going to play violin at La Cantina with his mariachi band. Mrs. Santana fluttered from the kitchen to the dining table, trying to include me in her fluent Spanish conversation.
When we left, Carlos said, “I think that went all right.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have not been close to my mom since I left home. She and I fought a lot.”
“About what?”
“Mom wanted us to live according to her rigid sense of right and wrong. I was a hippie, and we couldn't talk about anything, so I moved out, roaming San Francisco with my friends and playing my guitar to make money. We played at weddings and at the YMCA in the Mission. I stayed at Gregg Rolie's and Michael Shrieve's houses a lot.”
Carlos and I told each other stories about our families and began to understand that although we had been raised worlds apart—his father old-country macho, and his mother traditional stay-at-home; my father a social rebel, and my mother an independent woman who worked outside our home—what we had in common was a desire to be kind and to trust in love. He accepted me wholeheartedly like a limb of his body and called me muñeca—“doll” in Spanish. I called him “sweetheart.” Carlos was a name that belonged to the world, and I wanted the part of him that wrapped spiritual love around me—soft, tender, generous, and mine alone.
We flew to New York to attend Sri Chinmoy's New Year Meditation and rented a car to drive to Manhattan, rushing so we would not be late. A gust of Manhattan's cold brittle wind pushed me up the stone steps of Hunter College Auditorium. The double doors opened to a marble foyer, where a poster of Sri Chinmoy hung, his face an expression of meditative bliss.
Space Between the Stars Page 17