Cartwheels in a Sari

by Jayanti Tamm

  Looking back, however, Girish was right. By the mid-seventies, everything had changed, even the name of our group. Originally called the Aum Center, Guru renamed it the Sri Chinmoy Center, the first of many programs, objects, places, and awards he named in his own honor. The fact that we no longer met for official meditations in Guru's house, and now went to the church, was another enormous change that happened overnight.

  Only days earlier, in the long car ride home from Bayside, when my parents assumed Ketan and I were sleeping, I overheard my father break his own law of maintaining meditative silence in the car to discuss the events that had led to the sudden move to the church. The New York meditations used to be held inside Guru's home, and Guru's neighbors, from their front stoops, gawked at the smiling throng who filed into the blue house each night. My father spoke about one neighbor in particular, a petite married woman a few years older than Guru, who lived directly across the street. Curious about the Indian man, the woman began having neighborly chats with Guru. Charmed by Guru's attention, she decided to attend meditations and soon became a regular fixture at Guru's house. Her husband, a no-nonsense laborer unimpressed by the flocks of what he considered young hippies crowding into the house across the street, began questioning his wife as to what she was doing at a black man's house. When other neighbors confided to him that they had spotted his wife, alone, tiptoeing in and out of the Indian's house in the middle of the night, rumors of an affair seemed confirmed. The husband had had enough.

  My mother had turned around, to ensure that we were both sleeping, before my father continued. I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned against Ketan's snoring body. My parents had already lost me. We all went to Guru's house. What was the problem?

  A call was received by the Queens Building Department, my father continued, that the house was being utilized as a church in a neighborhood not zoned for religious buildings. Building inspectors arrived unexpectedly late one afternoon and, seeing the rows of chairs in the living room, issued a stern warning. Guru would not be able to hold meditations inside his house anymore. The disgruntled husband was ready to go public with allegations of the affair. Guru was furious. He gathered a few disciples, explaining that the Supreme, at times, commands that instead of using compassion, he should use justice.

  Sure enough, the Supreme had bestowed his benevolent justice and the police were called the next day because the neighbor's house had been pelted by stones in the middle of the night. When my father described the shattered glass that littered the sidewalks, I felt disturbed. Stones were dangerous, and the fact that stones were thrown right across the street from Guru's home, made me scared that Guru could have gotten hurt. I wanted to interrupt my father and ask how we could always protect Guru, but then I remembered that I wasn't supposed to have heard any of what he was saying.

  Shortly afterward, the neighbor's house went up for sale, the church was bought, and Guru created the Guards, a group of close male disciples chosen to serve as personal bodyguards for Guru. This news gave me great relief.

  These guards—the same ones who had ushered Girish from the church—now escorted Guru to and from events, standing on patrol near his throne, preventing anyone from approaching Guru without being personally summoned. To make their duties official, Guru had them wear uniforms— white pants with a Guru-blue stripe down the side, a white shirt, Guru-blue tie, and a numbered badge. They were given a ranking and their badges were a reflection of their order. Guru was a strong believer in rank and order. His insistence on rating people seemed to be a throwback to the traditional caste system of his native India. Many times Guru proudly proclaimed that his own family was Kshatriya, the warrior caste, an esteemed rank, which naturally elevated him over those unfortunate enough to be born into lower castes. By assigning rank and order and creating his own caste system within the Center, Guru fostered a competitive struggle between disciples. Close watch was kept on disciples’ rankings, which provided built-in incentives for those eagerly aspiring to improve their status, and provided Guru with plenty of leverage to demote or promote disciples at his pleasure.

  My father, always in the forefront, was given the rank of guard number three, a position of considerable honor. Ketan decided that when he was old enough, he hoped he, too, could wear the proud uniform and stand on patrol.

  Hours later, Guru finally arrived at the church after having been filled in by the head guard about the evening's events. As Guru entered through his private side door in a green dhoti, he walked with a slight limp, as though the earlier episode had already lodged within him as a physical attack.

  “Though many of you are here, very few are true disciples,” Guru said.

  Tension filled the hall. Disciples from both the men's and women's sides shifted.

  “Dear ones,” Guru said. “True disciples never doubt their guru.”

  Some folded their hands tighter, while others searched for a notebook and pencil to write down every precious word.

  “To make the fastest progress, you need one hundred percent faith in your guru. I am giving you messages from the Highest Supreme,” Guru said with closed eyes. “True disciples do not doubt their guru. Doubt is poison. It leads to the destruction of your spiritual life. Faith, unconditional faith, must be present to be a true disciple. Anyone who doubts is not a real disciple.”

  Not only his words but the energy driving the words seemed tired, as though the disciples’ failures caused a leak inside him. He was lagging, flat, disappointed in a physical manner.

  I wanted to run to the stage and climb his throne, shouting that I was sorry. I would try harder. I should have tackled Girish and made him stop. No one could hurt or doubt Guru. I then thought of my own secret fear of the Guru-bust, and I swore I would be better and worship it, too. I would make alterations to my spiritual life. I would amend my errors. Then my progress would make Guru happy. I had noticed that Guru was happy when we did what he asked us to do. I'd listen, I promised. I'd do anything.

  After a long meditation and the prasad, an item of blessed food distributed by Guru that traditionally followed a session of meditation, in an instant, Guru lifted the sorrowful air, and magically transformed himself into a storyteller.

  With a gleam in his eye, Guru coyly teased, “Now, I have barked at you all. Is anyone interested in hearing some rubbish tales? Absolute rubbish tales?”

  “Yes, Guru,” we shouted back, with my voice the loudest.

  Of course we were interested, how could we not be? These were stories about Guru's childhood—the fact that he even had a childhood gave me hope. His past seemed remote and vague, except for the rare occasions when he re-created it for us.

  Instantly, Guru's posture changed. Slouching his shoulders, he tucked one leg upon his throne, and rested his arm on his knee. His voice cleared of the low and often raspy tone that accompanied his first words after a prolonged period of silence. He now spoke quickly as his sentences finished with exclamation marks.

  Guru's childhood was a realm of adventure and innocence. In Guru's remembrances, he was usually involved in some type of trouble or mischief, and then, just as easily, slipped out of it without a scratch. From stealing sweets meant for the family shrine to climbing the mango tree to gorge himself on its fruit, Guru was intent on exploring options and testing limits. Guru's status as a young troublemaker was lovingly accepted and sanctioned. Though his birth name was Chinmoy, his nickname was Madal, which meant “noisemaker,” and that was the name that he carried until he arrived in America. Then he took the special honorarium reserved for holy men and women and renamed himself Sri Chinmoy. It was Sri Chinmoy whom I had known my whole life, but it was Madal whom I was most curious about. The idea that Guru had a prior life—involving siblings, parents, scoldings, and trouble—was fascinating.

  Tonight, as always when Guru recounted his tales, time evaporated. In the middle of one story, he veered off toward another anecdote and then another until an hour later, as though finally noticing that he somehow had ta
ken an alternate route, he stopped, asking how he had gotten there. I did not mind, sitting enraptured, as his stories blurred from one episode into the next. Guru often repeated stories, and I recognized his favorites, which quickly became my favorites, too: Guru's survival from the overcrowded commuter ferry that sank; Guru's face-to-face encounter with a tiger in the dark forests of Bengal; Guru's near rescue by his family servant, after standing too close behind an imam's machete poised to sacrifice a goat. As Guru spun his childhood reminiscences, he was relaxed and happy, as if he wished to be back in a time before he was responsible for the salvation of souls and his only responsibility was keeping monkeys from snatching away the fruit he would carry home to his mother.

  What we knew about Guru's family we learned from his stories. Guru's father worked as a train inspector for a railway line that ran from Chittagong to Assam and later founded a bank. Guru's mother stayed home to raise their seven children. Even though he was an orphan when he was only twelve years old—his father passed away when Guru was only eleven, and his mother died the following year—their loss seemed raw, as if their absence still left a hollow space inside a holy man filled with God.

  “Oi,” Guru finally said, as if waking from his own sweet spell. “Oi. I have talked too much. Let us go, dear ones,” and with that the meditation was over. The book of his childhood was tightly closed, and, as always, I greedily wished he had shared more.

  After the meditation, a select group of disciples was usually invited to Guru's house. Although the official meditations were relocated to the church, Guru continued his practice of hosting unofficial gatherings that spilled from his living room onto his porch. These invitations to Guru's house became a prized honor, evoking jealousy and envy for those who were regulars on the special list. My family was almost always invited, which meant that already late nights became even later.

  Now, Guru appeared to have returned to his earlier weary and stern state. He sat quietly on his couch with his palm over his forehead. Finally, in a raspy whisper, he said, “You are all dear to me, very dear. The Beloved Supreme has a special task. Write, write very strong letters to Girish for speaking against me. Very, very strong, you write. Insulting him. Be merciless. Use all of your special American language to insult and scold him. You know his worst qualities, you know his weaknesses. You tell, tell all of this to him in letters that you send. Letting him know he is not a third-class disciple, not a fifth-class disciple, but the lowest of low class of disciple. You people, serve the Supreme by using all kinds of language to insult him.”

  I watched as heads nodded in agreement.

  Yes, Guru. Of course, Guru.

  He is so bad, Guru. His massive ego has poisoned him, Guru.

  He has lowered our consciousness, and he insulted us by insulting you, Guru.

  Right away, Guru, of course, Guru.

  I silently wondered, how could Girish be so bad?

  The car ride home was quiet. I immediately began composing my own letter of insults, but since I had never written that kind of letter before, I realized I would need my mother's help; I wanted to ask her if we could start this morning, skipping what few hours of sleep still existed before I had to go to school, but my mother stared out the window. Ketan was asleep, gently snoring. My father drove, with both hands tightly clutching the wheel, as if trying extra hard to steer us in the right direction, though everything seemed to be pulling the opposite way.

  3

  The Divine Cage

  “ALO DEVI IS A FAKE,” KETAN SAID.

  “I'm telling,” I threatened, retreating to my standard response to most everything Ketan said or did. “Go right ahead,” Ketan smirked, keenly aware that he had just bombarded me with the most shocking and sensational blow of my childhood.

  He played it off calmly, casually buttoning his prized jean jacket. Since Guru did not approve of denim, Ketan was never able to wear it to meditations, hiding it in the car when we neared Queens, but all other times, even in the summer, he wore it constantly with matching blue jeans, and a plastic comb in his back pocket to fluff up his blond pompadour.

  We sat across from each other in our hot kitchen. My father was at work, and my mother had dashed to the grocery store for vegetables to cook a curry for the evening's meditation. Ketan rocked his chair, resting his feet on one of the four mismatched seats cramped around our square table.

  Often when Ketan claimed he had hot gossip, I'd just sigh or shrug my shoulders, feigning disinterest, in an effort to lessen Ketan's gloating. I squinted at him skeptically.

  “You seem surprised.” Ketan mocked.

  With news this explosive, Ketan could not bear to hold it in for a second longer.

  “Alo's not a God-realized soul. Not at all. She's a big problem for Guru. Guru feels sorry for her, so he doesn't cut her off totally. We're all supposed to pretend that she's just like Guru. But we shouldn't meditate on her or anything like that. Just when she's around we need to fake that we like her and fake that she has powers. But that's it. You know how we have pictures of her on our shrines? Well, most disciples don't. They removed them all.”

  I had been punched in the gut.

  For all of my eleven years, I had worshipped before Guru and Alo. Alo Devi was Guru's Canadian-born companion who met Guru when he was a simple disciple at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram in India, where she had arrived alone to immerse herself in the yogic philosophies of the ancient East. After Guru befriended her, she helped Guru leave India, get a green card, and settle in New York City to build his own mission. Given the role of Divine Mother, a spiritual consort, Alo added familiar Western traditions and culture to Guru's path. To me, she was part grandmother and part saint. It was Alo who wrote my name in calligraphy on the day I was born; she blessed me, meditated on me, and had given me countless presents.

  Ketan relished my openmouthed shock.

  “You know how Alo's not really around that much anymore? That's done on purpose,” he said.

  It was true that Alo spent little time in New York, and when she was in town, various disciples, including my family, were asked by Guru to take Alo on long outings, purposely causing her to miss Guru's day appointments and evening functions. Most of the time, however, Alo wasn't in New York at all. She was in Puerto Rico, a second home for her, or she was on visits back to Canada, or working on her biggest project—arranging the Christmas trip. What began as a one-week visit to Florida, the Christmas trip had become an annual monthlong end-of-year spiritual retreat for Guru and a group of disciples to locations from South America and the Pacific Islands and beyond. Since children were not allowed to go, I loathed the event that left me at the airport, in tears, waving good-bye to Guru, all my disciple friends, and worst of all, my mother. Sometimes my father went, and a few times, they both went, leaving us to stay at the house of a disciple who had no clue as to what to do with two children. On one of those occasions I ended up in an emergency room for a tetanus shot after a horse chomped my behind when my appointed caregiver had dropped me off at a farm to explore.

  “That's right,” Ketan said, as if reading my thoughts. “Guru keeps her away on purpose. She nags him and is really jealous. She wants everything to be about her, too. But, really, how could it be? Seekers wouldn't understand. They'd see two thrones up on stage and think they're married. People don't get the fact that Guru and Alo aren't like that. And even about Alo and Guru living together. People would think that they're, you know, together. It's crazy. Alo is on the third floor and Guru is on the second. But still, people think that way.”

  What way? Although I didn't understand, I needed him to continue.

  According to Ketan's unnamed sources, Alo resented the fact that Guru was getting so much press and had many new disciples all over the world. As Guru's position and status grew, Alo found her own position diminished. In order for Guru to avoid dispensing to the public the complicated answer to the question of who Alo was, Alo was strategically tucked away. When Guru gave public lectures, Alo now sat
in the audience. Alo's shrinking role had become enforced in private, too. Even at the church, on the shrine area originally fitted for two, now Guru's throne alone dominated the stage, and for the occasions that Alo came back to town, a small white wicker chair was placed near the dais's edge, and then mysteriously vanished when she was sent off again.

  But, according to Ketan, what made Alo the most outraged was the influx of gopis, female disciples, who were always at her and Guru's house. In particular, it was my idol, Prema, and her counterpart, Isha, whose constant presence and elevated status irritated Alo the most. Though they were not related, nor friends, Prema and Isha, two women in their early thirties, like it or not were linked together. Guru had made them his two favorite disciples. Although Guru tried to keep their rank equal—he hadn't made a specific order for them—it was clear to all of us, and Alo, too, that they were his number one and number two devotees. Precisely because Guru never formally solidified their order, Prema and Isha were always battling to claim the title of Guru's number one. At times, they conducted their power struggle publicly. An ongoing competition was who would receive prasad first. When Guru called for prasad, both women slowly rose, straightened out the pallu, draped it across their backs like a shawl, then languidly moved toward Guru with folded hands. A few times they bumped into each other in the process, which caused a great fuss; neither one apologized, but one needed to back down, allowing the other to go forward. Most days Isha made sure to beat out Prema's soulful steps and reach Guru first with a concentrated expression of soulful bliss, yet when it was Prema's turn to receive the blessingful fruit, she paused, extending the moment when her eyes locked with Guru's just enough to reassure us that though she was not always first, her devotions were purer. Different in every way, from looks to personality, when it came to marking their position, Prema and Isha were strikingly similar.