Cartwheels in a Sari

by Jayanti Tamm

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  I hadn't told Kristina about the impending elephant, and I hoped none of the Johansons, especially Kristina, would find out.

  When I was sent out to hang a massive gold banner in letters proclaiming “Congratulations!!!!” across the shrubs in the front yard, I carefully peered down the street, checking if Kristina's family's station wagon was in its driveway before darting out with a baseball hat pushed down to conceal my face.

  Later that afternoon, a massive truck with Zack's Circus and Exotic Animals airbrushed across the front cab idled in the middle of my street, clogging traffic as neighbors from every house in Greenwich, it seemed, stood around incredulous, watching an elephant lumber down a metal ramp into our tiny front yard while throngs of disciples sang and clapped.

  The weight-lifting platform, because of its careful design, worked so that when Guru hunched beneath the padded shoulder stands and hoisted his thin bent legs straight, a lever lifted the platform area ever so slightly. Depending on where the person—or elephant—stood, some weight would be lifted and some wouldn't. The farther back the object was placed from Guru, the lighter the area became closest to Guru's lift. This allowed Guru to continue to lift bigger and more dramatic objects, from people to elephants.

  The next day I cringed when I saw a front-page article in the local newspaper with a large photograph of Guru, the elephant, a few disciples, and me. With elaborate, breathless quotes from both my parents—described as “followers of the Guru”—I was outed to the entire town of Greenwich.

  When Kristina asked me about the elephant while waiting for the school bus, I casually tried to play it off as just one of those weird things that parents like to do. But Kristina persisted in her questions about the Indian elephant-man.

  I mumbled something about my parents being his sponsor and was relieved when the bus pulled into view. At school, when I was questioned about it by the gym teacher in front of the whole class, I denied having any knowledge of the event, politely suggesting he must have mistaken me for someone else.

  Later that night, at the function, I could barely look at Guru, fearing my denial of the Supreme, the Avatar of the Era, my beloved guru, would be reflected across my third eye. I had sunk to new lows, and what was worse was that I knew I was braced to go even lower. I was Judas, the traitor. Instead of silver coins, I was ready to send Guru down the river for the chance to feign normality or, at the very least, anonymity.

  Guru called all the children up onto the stage. On average, there were always about twenty kids in the local area whose parents had become disciples at any given time. Some parents had sought a brief respite from the world, surrendering the steering wheel of life's decisions. Those parents were content to float without having to navigate; some were burned out; some were running away from tragic family lives or abusive relationships; some were unstable and found in Guru's alternative lifestyle a safe haven where societal outcasts came to unite; some were sincere seekers fed up with the scramble for possessions and wealth and aiming for a deeper meaning. Some experienced a hovering aura around Guru, and, as a result, they shed their former life, bringing along their unsuspecting children, who were suddenly draped in saris or matching white shirt and pants like year-round Halloween costumes.

  That night, Guru had the children sit on the floor in front of him. Chahna settled beside me, careful not to crowd my space, but close enough so I could hear her cloggy nasal breaths as Guru began telling stories about his earliest days as a disciple in the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. It was the death of Guru's parents that caused Hridoy, the eldest of Guru's six siblings, to place the family in the care of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram in Pondicherry. That decision instantly transformed the orphans into sanyassis, casting their lives in the ancient Indian tradition of disciples bound to the wisdom and tutelage of a guru. At twelve years old, Guru was told he was now a renunciate, a celibate monk.

  Out of all of Guru's siblings, only his sister Lily came once to visit. Since Lily enjoyed nature, my family invited her to Connecticut during her stay. Charmed by our hospitality, sitting in our back garden, she told us stories of Guru's past. She remembered the early burning ambition of her little brother, the way he observed the ashram elders seated in the front of the meditation hall, how they received prasad first and greeted visitors. He studied the hierarchy of the ashram, working out its complex system of favorites and favoritism. Wanting a promotion into the coveted clan, Guru aligned himself with Nolini, one of Sri Aurobindo's closest disciples. As an assistant to Aurobindo's assistant, Guru was positioned to make his mark, be noticed, and quickly ascend the ranks. Yet, according to Lily, Guru was not satisfied with usurping Nolini's position—Guru wanted to replace Aurobindo himself, becoming a guru with more disciples, more exposure, more power, and more prestige.

  Guru had to start somewhere, and so, for a few years, he was Nolini's lackey, running errands. Guru's rewards were scraps of praise. Years later, when Guru's own discipleship grew and he started meeting celebrities and world figures, Guru always sought a strong quote—a positive endorsement— about himself. Nothing pleased Guru more than a glowing comment from a celebrity, which was repeated endlessly, printed and distributed and repeated again.

  Lily told us that since Sri Aurobindo was considered an esteemed author of both poetry and prose, Guru decided that he, too, would take up writing. Wanting recognition for his talent, Guru typed up some of his own verse and gave them to Nolini to read, hoping Nolini would pass on his poetry to Sri Aurobindo. Guru's desire came true. Nolini gave Sri Au-robindo Guru's writings, and after scanning through some poems, Sri Aurobindo uttered words that Guru endlessly quoted: “He has promise. Tell him to continue.” Guru was in his glory. Nothing could have been better. The comment was simultaneously vague and specific. Recognition of promise and an urge to go forward was perfect for young Madal. Coming from his guru, a God-Realized soul, an avatar who had achieved the fruits of liberation, these words were a confirmation of everything Madal wanted to do and become. He has promise. Tell him to continue.

  Inside the clay and concrete walls of the ashram, Madal read about the broader world. The West, in particular America, intrigued him. He told us that he once imagined America as a large, eager child, waving and welcoming him to play, ready to share its toys and abundance with him. The sedentary life of the ashram was not his choice. He wanted to take on America.

  He has promise. Tell him to continue. What was set in motion needed completion. In her soft voice and hesitant English, Lily had explained that Sri Aurobindo had never encouraged his disciples to be missionaries, even in India, let alone in America; Aurobindo believed that seekers who felt an inner calling would find his teachings, and he disapproved of swamis who actively recruited in order to claim large numbers of disciples. In fact, with his lack of contact with his ashramites, Sri Aurobindo seemed more inclined to be without disciples altogether and to be left alone for contemplation. Madal knew that he would neither be asked nor would receive permission to venture to America as a representative of Sri Aurobindo. There needed to be another way. He has promise. Tell him to continue.

  SEATED BEFORE GURU onstage, I closed my eyes while Guru recounted his favorite tale about the ashram when he was fourteen and received a direct order from the Supreme to go to America. He had been strolling alone along the shore of the Bay of Bengal, the backyard of the ashram, a site where land dissolved into shimmering blue waters. It was dusk, and the beach was empty. As he looked across the vast horizon, suddenly the sky cracked and flashed, blinding him. In the clouds was the Supreme—a figure complete with a voice and a message for him alone. The Supreme “commanded” him to go to America and be of service to the aspiring souls who were searching for a spiritual guide. As he heard these words, he felt afraid and began to cry. The Supreme consoled him, bestowing upon him the confidence and the knowledge that he had the capacity to be “my instrument, my supremely chosen instrument.” And as he longed for answers to questions of how and why,
the figure in the clouds disappeared, leaving him alone, contemplating the daunting enormity of his mission.

  For the first time, I realized that while he had been brought into the ashram by his family, he had left on his own, ending his life as a disciple and beginning his life as the Guru Sri Chinmoy. I wondered how difficult the decision to leave must have been and how it had changed his life forever. In departing the ashram, he had to give up everything he had known—his home, family, and Guru—for the daunting, vast outside world of the unknown.

  A few times, years later, Guru suggested some of the opposition that he faced as he announced his intentions to leave the ashram and go off on his own. Nolini told Madal he no longer needed an assistant. His friends became distant. His brothers and sisters—his doting surrogate parents—wondered just who was this thin man in baggy khaki shorts and dusty callused feet who suddenly spoke of Manhattan? When had he arrived? And when had their Madal, the smiley, mischievous noisemaker departed?

  I dared to imagine myself deciding and then preparing to leave behind Guru's ashram in search of a different world thousands of miles away. Instantly, I felt both terrified and thrilled.

  “Jayanti, all right?” Guru asked. His stories were over, and the other children, even Chahna, stared at me.

  I blinked hard, embarrassed to be caught thinking about leaving Guru. My cheeks flared pink.

  “Bah. Now let us have a soulful-smile contest. All stand up and turn to the audience. Give your most soulful smile, and the audience will vote.”

  From the longest hair contest for the women to the best abdominal muscle contest for the men, Guru enjoyed competitions that set up disciples against one another. I was used to them but still wary. At a meditation I missed due to the chicken pox, Guru had held a contest for the ugliest girl. When I heard that Barbara, a relatively new disciple with a boil the size of a large gumball beside her nose, had won, I sighed with relief, grateful that my mother had kept me home that night.

  We turned with our backs to Guru. In the shuffle, Chahna stood beside me. She smiled wide, the gap between her two front teeth on display. Across from me stood the boys, of various heights; some squirmed around, while others adapted a perfect pose. Ketan dazzled a dimpled smile.

  I still did not understand what “soulful” meant, even though Guru used it constantly to describe everything as either being soulful or not. What I discovered was that when Guru interrupted midsong the various disciple singing groups who performed at every meditation because they were not soulful enough, when they resumed singing, the tempo had slowed down dramatically. Soulful, therefore, I had deduced meant slow. I worked my lips into a slow, upward-turned arch, hoping I'd faked soulfulness.

  When the results were tallied up, I had won for the girls, and Puran, a small, quiet child three years younger than me, won for the boys. Chahna did not even place. I had done it again. I had successfully faked soulful, scamming the entire audience, Guru included. No one had yet figured out what I realized more and more—that I was rapidly becoming the least soulful of all.

  THE NEXT DAY at the junior high school, as always, I was trying to keep a low profile, slinking into classes early to avoid the drama between periods when notes were passed urgently, gossip was exchanged, and the popular girls got their butts pinched by boys. Only once, while walking to social studies, I felt a quick squeeze on my behind. I had turned with great excitement. Attempting to play off an annoyed look, I saw a stunned Andre Banducci.

  “Oh God,” he stammered. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Since then, I spent the five minutes between classes—an interminable length of time—hidden from view.

  “Hey,” a voice urged from the back of the empty room.

  I decided not to look, assuming no one would be trying to get my attention.

  “Hey, you with the long hair.”

  I looked back and saw Colin McLevy in the last seat in the corner. Colin was tall, lanky, and never without headphones and his tape player. Beneath an acid-washed denim jacket covered with buttons and patches, he wore a hooded sweatshirt draped over his head like a monk's hood.

  “Come here,” he said. “I wanna ask you something.”

  Colin had never spoken to me before even though we had three classes together.

  No boys talked to me. In fact hardly any girls talked to me either. This must be an accident.

  “What?” I said, making the walk toward him as slow as possible, struggling to portray disinterest.

  “Sit down. Pull up a desk.” He leaned over and closed the carefully created gap between the rows, by dragging the desk and parking it right beside his.

  I remained standing until he hit his right hand against the back of the neighboring chair, his silver rings—one for every finger, including the thumb—clanking upon the metal.

  As I sat beside him, I surmised he had an agenda: he needed to copy last night's homework. He had assumed incorrectly that I had done the homework. Of course I hadn't. I never did. By the time I got home in the early hours of the morning from the meditation and our special invitation to Guru's house, homework was the last thing on my mind.

  “I didn't do the homework,” I quickly said, to spare him from any more efforts.

  “So?” Colin said, squinting through the dark brown bangs that hung in front of his blue eyes.

  I looked down at my hands, naked of any jewelry—Guru forbade it—and nail polish—also forbidden. My chewed-up cuticles, some with tiny scabs mixed in with rips of skin and lopsided nails, were ugly. I balled my hands into tight fists away from Colin's view.

  “Skip sixth-period study hall with me,” Colin said.

  With his headphones still on, the faint residue of synthesizers and drums seeped into the air.

  Mrs. Catonia burst into the room, her heels snapping against the floor, followed by the rest of the class, talking loudly, recapping the latest hallway scandals.

  I nodded.

  For a few minutes I worried about breaking Guru's rule against mixing with boys. But since no disciple went to my school—Ketan was already in high school—I figured Guru would never find out. Besides, maybe Colin was really a spiritual seeker and wanted to talk about Guru. In that case, I justified that I was doing the right thing by agreeing to help him in his inner search. Satisfied with my reasoning, I straightened the barrettes in my long, straight, Guru-approved hair, and set off for Colin's spiritual intervention.

  During sixth-period study hall, I knew right where to find him. Behind the brick wall of the building where boys played handball was an area reserved for the rebels who skipped classes. Although teachers regularly patrolled this delinquent domain, since it also served as an extra parking lot for faculty, there were always cars to duck behind and avoid detection.

  When I had skipped class before, I had hidden inside the bathroom to avoid a test or project that I had not completed. I had never dared to venture to the official skipping zone. That would have been ridiculous. One needed an invite. Besides, mostly boys hung out there, and the only time I spoke to boys in school had been when I was assigned to be their group partners in class.

  Colin sat on the pavement, leaning against the brick wall, still listening to his music. As I approached him, I hoped he would remember that he had asked me to come and prepared an escape route in case he didn't.

  “Hey,” he nodded. “You like Depeche Mode?”

  “Sure,” I said, not knowing what he was talking about. Besides my mother's old Broadway show tunes, I wasn't allowed to listen to any music that wasn't Guru's. According to Guru, it strengthened the lower-vital and slowed spiritual progress.

  “Here.” He popped out one earphone from the plastic holder and handed it to me, while he kept the other one shielding his ear.

  Because the wire was so short, I had to sit right next to him, close enough to smell the orange gum he was chewing. I scanned the surrounding area, double-checking that no disciples lurked behind the cars.

  When I'm with you baby I
go outta my head… I just can't get enough … I just can't get enough …

  The synthesizer, the cold pavement, the brush of denim— Colin didn't want to discuss Guru, and I suddenly didn't care. Guru who?

  I nodded my head, pretending I knew the whole song. When it ended, he rewound it and started again. I waited patiently, staring at the cracks in the pavement, wishing study hall would never end.

  After rewinding it a fourth time, Colin turned his head and looked right at me.

  “Hey,” he said.

  I slowly turned to find him only inches from my face.

  “You know how to kiss,” he said, without a hint of a question.

  Before I had time to back away or stall for time, Colin leaned in and smashed his lips onto mine. Within a second, he had pried my mouth open, and his tongue was flicking in and out.

  Stunned, with wet slobber oozing from my lips, I followed his lead, my tongue darting into his mouth, attempting to mimic his moves.

  The bell rang.

  “Oh shit. I got a math test,” Colin said, jumping up and scurrying inside.

  THAT SAME AFTERNOON, dazed with reckless passion, I composed my first love letter—pledging Colin my eternal love, praising his hazy blue eyes, brown hair, and exquisite taste in music.

  What I hadn't accounted for was that Ketan would find it first.

  Ketan, always keenly aware of what would give him the upper hand in his ongoing battle to wipe out the Chosen One, had discovered a draft of the letter and delivered it straight to the source—Guru.

  I spent the entire meditation that evening playing, rewinding, and replaying my kiss. Though I knew I had committed a grave act of disobedience to Guru, I couldn't stop myself from relishing my wild passion. I was a woman in love.

  After prasad, Guru summoned me to his throne, pushing the microphone away for privacy.