Cartwheels in a Sari

by Jayanti Tamm

  The one perk my mother had from her janitorial job was that she got to tidy Guru's separate staircase and private rooms. This was the only part that I found interesting, having access to the zone where no one, unless summoned, could go. I'd offer to help her dust Guru's room, or even vacuum, while carefully scanning for any special gifts or objects. While my mother scrubbed his bathroom toilet and shower on her knees with a special cleaning product and brushes used only for Guru's area, I'd poke around in his large Guru-blue sitting room, enjoying my special access.

  To ensure utter privacy, her urgent appeal could not join the rest of the disciples’ written correspondence dropped inside Guru's letter box by his throne. Before each meditation, disciples tried to nonchalantly place in the container their communications to Guru about their lives, from critical health problems to reporting on a fellow disciple seen outside a movie theater. My mother knew that the box, gathered at the end of each evening by either Isha or Prema, depending on who got there first—yet another challenge in their ongoing battle for top status—was often left carelessly upon the porch at Guru's house where the piles of letters accumulated. On days when Guru felt uninspired to read the letters himself, he chose one of the women to read the private letters aloud to him.

  This needed an immediate answer, and my mother was not going to risk the chance of anyone else serving as translator or intermediary. After pacing through his private sitting room, she decided it was still too public, and she propped the envelope in his bathroom, right beside the sink.

  The meditation that night was long, with Guru teaching a few new songs and selling another volume of Twenty-Seven Thousand Aspiration-Plants. I handed Sajani my expressions that I had encased inside a Guru-blue folder decorated with glittery stars, spelling out my name across the front. All night, while I squirmed in anticipation of how my expressions would be received, my mother sat beside me waiting for Guru to go to his bathroom.

  Near the end of the night, Guru left the stage and went into his room. When he returned, he proceeded to sell a photograph of himself cuddling his beloved dogs, Sona and Kanu, on his lap, for ten dollars. Prema and Isha strode to their money-collecting positions: Isha to the men's side and Prema to the women's side. Normally, when Guru sold anything, my mother insisted that either Ketan or I, or both of us, reap the blessings of having the opportunity to stand before Guru to purchase the sacred object.

  That night my mother never took her eyes off Guru. Her face was drained of color, and her forehead was slick with sweat. She pulled ten dollars from her purse and cut in line. When it was her turn to stand before Guru, her critical moment, Guru dispensed the picture while leaning over to grab a handful of cashews. She paused for his counsel, or even a brief sign, but the woman who was behind her and wasn't about to wait, sidestepped my mother and extended her folded hands to receive her photo. When my mother returned to her seat beside me, she was shaking.

  “Are you sick?” I asked, looking at her for the first time all day.

  She didn't answer.

  When Guru's picture sold out, it was time for him to leave. As he slowly stood and slipped his white-socked feet inside his sandals, my mother leapt and darted toward the back. I thought she was going to throw up.

  She shot straight into Guru's bathroom. The letter was out of the envelope and littered across the sink. Not knowing if he would again return to his room, she waited for him in the shadowed hallway where his room and his private side staircase merged.

  He whistled as he approached.

  My mother didn't wait for him to acknowledge her.

  “Oh, Guru!” my mother whispered in desperate panic. “What should I do?”

  In four words she condensed all of the hope, shame, faith, and wonderment of her six-page letter. He was our avatar, the direct representative of our insignificant selves to the infinite pantheon of divinity. He was both father and God, the sustenance of our lives. My mother folded her hands tightly against her heart, the heart that held her full commitment to Guru, while sharing it with her family, that impossible balancing act that never lay equal. In Guru's world, my mother's love for her family was a weakness, an attachment, binding and dangerous. She knew this, and readily accepted the fact that this weakness reduced her in the eyes of all of those whom she loved: Guru, my father, my brother, and me.

  Guru didn't stop walking. He never even broke his stride or slowed his pace.

  Without a brief pause or bothering to look in her direction, he flatly stated, “Do the abortion,” as he descended the stairs.

  5

  Miracles of Faith

  DIANA ROSS ALWAYS BLOCKS THE ENTIRE PARKING LOT,” Claire Milani said. “That's so fucked up.” Idling in her white, convertible Rolls-Royce, Diana Ross, wearing oversized white sunglasses, her loose hair a bushel of glamorous curls, waited to pick up her daughter from school.

  “She just wants attention,” Claire said. “Oh, that's my ride. Later.”

  With a swish of her blond, shiny hair, a chauffeur opened the back door of a black Jaguar and whisked her away.

  Heiress to a multimillion-dollar luxury shoe empire, Claire was considered an ordinary student at Greenwich Academy, an all-girls’ college preparatory day school founded in 1827. With a serene, rolling campus, complete with a mansion serving as the official welcome parlor, Greenwich Academy was the prime choice of society's debutante elite and the daughters of world leaders, national politicians, Hollywood celebrities, and New England's aristocratic families. It was also the prime choice of Guru for keeping his Chosen One boy free.

  Guru mandated that I transfer to the all-girls’ prep school not long after Dom Cappeli, a fellow sophomore who lived two streets away, rang my doorbell, asking to hang out. He was greeted by my father, who slowly and carefully explained that I was not allowed to talk to any boys because of our spiritual vows. I was once again in trouble. I had a hunch that if my mother had answered the door, she would have invited Dom inside. I had noticed that my mother, who had always publicly stood behind the rest of the family whom she self-lessly served, had become strangely quiet and reserved about Guru and the Center. Though she never once made any comment or hint about a lessening of her drive toward Guru's latest commands and programs, I silently suspected she had faded, removing herself from the constant race toward Guru's favor, but I never dared to ask, and she never risked revealing anything. As long as my father, whom Guru acknowledged as the head of our family, was unswerving in his devotion to Guru, she remained quiet, concealing her own concerns and doubts about the Center.

  As I kneeled before Guru awaiting my punishment, Guru quizzed Harish on the number of cities already committed to declaring his birthday, August 27, Sri Chinmoy Day. In honor of his age, Guru wanted fifty-five. Not one less. As Harish frantically flipped through scribbled papers to offer a total count, Guru simultaneously inquired after cities he considered especially worthy. It was clear that Guru had an abundance of projects much more important than me. Besides, I was now a repeat offender. When Guru finally finished with Harish and he remembered I was next to him, he was rushed and preoccupied. He succinctly stated I was no longer trusted to be in the same institution as boys. Then he motioned for the next person waiting in line to approach.

  My parents swiftly carried out Guru's order, scrounging enough money to cover tuition at the all-girls’ school Greenwich Academy my own private nunnery. I had been ushered through into a new closed society, another group. As I was fitted for the school's uniform—a kilt in a hunter-green tartan with a solid color blouse—I sighed in resignation. This wouldn't be all that different. Every night at meditation, the sari was my uniform, and the girls were separate from the boys, so this felt vaguely familiar, only with kilts.

  When the school year began, I discovered that I had nothing in common with my classmates. Eventually, tired of being silent and alone, I extracted select parts of my life to share with them. Since turning fourteen, I was allowed to journey with Guru on international concert and lecture tours
, and also on the annual Christmas trip, which, in a continued effort to keep Alo Devi out of Guru's way by having her spend months planning and preparing the travel arrangements half a world away from Queens, had become expanded journeys to exotic lands. When the Greenwich Academy girls spoke of holidays in the Hamptons or yachting trips to Monte Carlo, I casually mentioned having taken jungle treks in Sri Lanka or camel rides in Egypt. With Guru, I had been to every continent except Antarctica, and though we stayed in hotels that didn't qualify as anything other than perhaps two stars, tops, and during most of our visits Guru sat in the hotel meeting room teaching songs, exercising with weights, and getting massaged, my new classmates didn't need to know all of that.

  I also kept pace by name-dropping. As my classmates gossiped that they had spotted Martina Navratilova on the ski slopes in Aspen, I would yawn, mentioning how little sleep I

  had had since I was hanging out with Carl Lewis until early in the morning. I just didn't specify that the eight-time gold medal-winning Olympian Carl Lewis had become a disciple and that besides standing alongside twenty other disciples serenading him with the songs Guru wrote in his honor, I rarely spoke to Carl directly. Carl Lewis was first introduced to Guru by Narada Michael Walden, an old-time Connecticut Center disciple who had left the Center to go out to California and eventually struck celebrity as a record producer for such artists as Whitney Houston and Aretha Franklin and then returned to the Center as a big shot. Carl became a regular, receiving his spiritual name, Sudhahota, and even bringing his mom, sister, and coach. But Carl Lewis was by no means the only celebrity Guru hosted. Since Guru's success with the United Nations Secretary-General U Thant, a major portion of Guru's energies went to successfully procuring a steady influx of high-profile people from all walks of life. Casually mentioning to my classmates my weekend visit to Leonard Bernstein's Manhattan apartment was never a lie, nor was dining with Muhammad Ali or hosting New York City mayor Ed Koch. Though I was not part of Guru's official Manifestation Committee—a group charged with promoting Guru's mission around the world and bringing celebrities to meet with Guru—Ketan was. Ketan loved it; he was schmoozing with celebrities while scoring spiritual benefits. He was thrilled, and so was Guru.

  A photograph and a zealous quote from a public figure opened doors, not only to other public figures but to media interests. The Manifestation Committee produced an array of glossy public relations materials that chronicled Guru's encounters with famous people from all walks of life. From Pablo Casals to Pia Zadora, for celebrities a meeting with “the Sri” was a dollop new age and a dash exotic, a curious encounter that, if nothing else, could produce a zany anecdote. Guru, well taught from his early ashram days as Nolini's apprentice, understood that accolades produced the most favorable results. The celebrities never suspected that their invitations to meet with Guru were for anything other than an occasion for Sri Chinmoy to honor them for all of their accomplishments and countless ways in which they contributed to humanity. To formalize all of this, Guru developed awards such as the Heart of Peace Award, and the weight-lifting invention of Lifting Up the World with a Oneness-Heart Award—a small medal on a rainbow ribbon to be placed around the neck of the world leader or pop star after he or she had climbed up a rickety ladder to stand on a platform, clutching at a thin metal pole as Guru stood beneath the platform where a U-shaped cradle supported a bar that he heaved up, which raised the rocky platform and then dropped it down quickly. Congratulations! Guru leaned close to the guest while the cameras flashed. A song composed in the person's honor was sung and the adoring throngs in the rows of benches cheered. The celebrity left with gifts, flowers, medals, feeling daring, bold, and brave while mystically moved by the holy man in the tight undershirt and thin nylon short-shorts.

  While I name-dropped with my classmates, I eyed with suspicion the parade of movie stars, politicians, and dignitaries that arrived at meditations. For the celebrities’ one-hour pit stop to Guru's world, they blitzed in like tourists who had never read a guidebook, let alone a single article on their destination, and just commanded a driver to drop them off long enough to say they'd been there, before moving on. It didn't seem fair that they received such lavish praise and attention from Guru without having to put in any of the grunt work. Unlike the core disciples, these “honored guests” weren't required to endure the true hardships of disciple life, such as weekly weigh-ins where being a single pound above Guru's assigned body weight meant suspension or not converting enough new disciples to fulfill Guru's target number of aspiring souls meant expulsion. I suspected that the celebrities didn't know about any of that.

  The more attention I paid to the workings of the disciples who labored over importing celebrities to Guru, the more I saw firsthand that the background information they were giving about Guru included little more than a brochure of posed pictures of Guru at the United Nations and snapshots of Guru meeting other celebrities. All of the specifics about disciplehood and the real workings of the Center were eliminated from their promotional materials. From what they saw, Guru's Center looked like an exclusive new age VIP club. As long as celebrities saw that other celebrities had been to Guru Land, they figured it was a safe place to visit.

  When the one person I did care about, the legendary German tennis player Steffi Graf, came to meet Guru at his private tennis court, I was nervous with excitement. Because Guru had been interested in tennis, my father had picked up the game that he had once played back in high school, and soon taught me. Smacking a ball as hard as I could was strangely therapeutic, and tennis soon became my favorite sport. Guru's enthusiasm for tennis led to the disciples’ buying a few acres of land in Queens that became his own private tennis court and the new ashram where all the meditations were held. When Guru put out the order to “bring bigname tennis players,” disciples began staking out the players’ entrance at the U.S. Open in Flushing Meadows, offering invites to Guru's court. Soon some of the greats of the game— Mats Wilander, Monica Seles, Gabriela Sabatini—were Guru's latest guests. When I learned that Steffi Graf was coming, fresh after yet another one of her many Grand Slam victories, I counted down the days. Decked out in my favorite sari, I made myself readily visible to Guru prior to Steffi's arrival, certain he would give me a special task of sitting in the honored seats beside her or having me give her flowers upon her arrival, but it had no impact. Throughout the entire visit, I was crammed into the bleachers with the other insignificant masses. After Guru lifted Steffi overhead on his contraption, he invited her across the street to watch videos of his myriad accomplishments in the comfort of the disciple-owned Indian restaurant. Afraid of losing my chance to at least say hello, I darted over to Steffi, nearly tripping on my sari pleats to shake her hand and ask her to sign my lucky tennis ball. As I was one step away, I looked up at Isha, who knew nothing about tennis but was blabbing to Steffi about Guru's athletic prowess, and she gave me the indignant look reserved for a vagrant trying to squeegee windows at a stoplight with an old newspaper. She shook her head with an emphatic no, signaling me to back off. My cheeks turned the same color as my fuchsia sari, and when Steffi turned to see what Isha was doing, I hid my lucky ball beneath my sari. Not knowing what to say or do, I bolted down the gravel driveway to hide. I knew my relationship with Guru and, by association, with his inner pack, was strained after my exile from coeducation landed me in Greenwich Academy. Guru's attentions or lack thereof were scrupulously monitored and measured by both regulars to Guru's house and those waiting to get on the invite list. Though I was still invited to Guru's house, my extra helpings of attention had been visibly absent. This made me edgy. As the Chosen One, I felt I was still owed all of the perks that I once had, without question. But I was less and less inspired to put in the effort to pursue them. More and more, it was not only a challenge but an increasing burden to dazzlingly live up to my reputation, and my new school didn't seem to help.

  “Five more hours,” Ramona Edwards said, lacing up her sneakers for the field hockey game.
“And I'm gonna get so fuckin’ wasted.”

  Minutes after Monday morning's swapped tales of who passed out where and who puked how many times over the weekend, the official countdown launched toward Friday night's binge. By Friday afternoon's round of field hockey games, madrigal practice, and modern-dance club, the countdown was in its last throes, and my classmates quivered with anticipation. The details spread rapidly for the weekend festivities—whose parents were abroad was the only key piece of information; everything else fell into place.

  “Sounds great,” I said, watching Ramona apply lip gloss before cramming her plastic mouth guard into her mouth.

  Far from getting wasted, my weekend was slated for more mornings that stretched into afternoons that blurred into evenings stuck to the benches of the tennis court as Guru heaved weights and fiddled with new weight-lifting contraptions.

  “You going to be around this weekend? Party's gonna be at the Whitmans’,” Ramona said, grabbing the keys to her new convertible BMW, a gift for turning sweet sixteen.

  I wished I could have gone to the party, but there was no chance. Every weekend, like every evening, was spent in Queens with Guru. Since Guru had directed my father to buy a house two blocks away from Guru's own in Queens, it was now my official, permanent home away from home.

  “No, I've got that event—party—to go to,” I said, trying to be cool. “Remember, I told you how I was hanging out with Steffi Graf last weekend? Well, you know Clarence Clemons? He plays saxophone in Bruce Springsteen's E Street Band? I'm going to be hanging out with him.”