Ashes for the Elephant God

by Vijaya Schartz

  The day passed slowly. Came five o'clock, I couldn't stand the waiting anymore. I donned a pair of baggy jeans, a pink sweater and a jeans jacket, slung a denim sack over my shoulder then slammed the door of my apartment on Rue Pasteur. Rushing down two flights of stairs, I hurried toward the Metro.

  Once on the macadam of wide sidewalks lined with tall plane-trees, I slowed the pace. What would the meditation center be like? A bunch of Hare Krishna with shaved heads and Indian clothes, out of touch with reality? No. Despite my skeptical nature, I did not believe that. Besides, Jean-François liked them. They couldn't be that bad. Walking through the lazy Sunday afternoon traffic on Boulevard Voltaire, I filled my lungs with crisp air. The chill made me feel alive.

  On the almost empty subway, while stations slid by the window, my mind returned to the morning vision. The metro ticket in my hand was turquoise...the color of the silhouettes contorted in Yoga postures, with black‑lined eyes and bright red lips. What did they mean?

  I emerged from the Metro at Jussieu and easily found the address on Rue Monge. As soon as I pushed the glass door of the street entrance, the smell of incense and the sound of chanting transported me into another realm. My spirits lifted. Childhood memories flooded my mind.

  As a little girl, in the old Roman church, Gregorian chant resounded under the arches. I would float toward the vaulted ceiling, observing Sunday mass from above. It was a wonderful feeling, as if the spirit freed itself from the body to fly. In those days of trusting innocence, I wanted to become a nun, just to be around the chants that brought me such experiences.

  "Welcome to our MeditationCenter. I'm Chandra. You must be Fabienne." The cheery greeting brought me back to the present.

  I nodded confirmation and returned the warm smile. The Indian name belonged to a Frenchwoman in a long navy dress, about forty‑five, with straight chestnut hair. Not pretty, rather thin, but vibrantly alive, with wide liquid eyes.

  "You are a little early, but make yourself comfortable and feel free to look around and ask questions." Brown eyes studied me over the thin nose. "We have books on the table over there," Chandra said with a graceful hand motion. "The meditation hall is this way, bathroom and lounge that way. Also, we take off our shoes before entering the meditation hall. I'll tell Swamiji you're here."

  After thanking her, I peeked into the empty hall from which the chanting originated. No cultist pictures or garish frescoes on the wall, just a large rectangular room, sparkling clean, with white painted walls and sky-blue carpet. I didn't see any furniture, only the white boom box in a corner: the source of the recorded chant.

  I browsed through the books, then made my way to the lounge where a few members mingled.

  "Welcome. How did you hear about us?" A young woman asked with a smile.

  "My brother used to come here... He just passed away."

  "Sorry to hear that." She looked at me more closely. "No wonder you looked familiar. We all knew Jean-François. God bless his sweet soul."

  "Fabienne?" The young voice belonged to a newcomer straight out of an oriental fairy tale. "Glad to meet you, although I would have preferred happier circumstances." He sounded like a French native but had a shaved head and wore an orange cotton shirt over a long, wrapped skirt of the same hue. A red dot adorned his forehead.

  "Good evening Swamiji," the others called cheerfully.

  After returning the greeting, Swamiji looked at me with a clear smile and handed me a white envelope with my name on it. I opened it immediately. A tide of tears blurred the familiar black cursive filling the single page. I read it, then read it again, unable to believe what my brother asked of me.

  Finally I looked at Swamiji. "He wants me to go to India and personally scatter his ashes on the grounds of the ashram of Ganeshpur, by the NarmadaRiver."

  Swamiji smiled. "Jean-François loved you very much. There are no coincidences. If you are destined to go, things will fall into place. Only those ready for the awakening come in contact with Spiritual Yoga."

  "I don't think I'm ready for this." Wedging myself on the couch, I folded my legs.

  Swamiji watched with amused eyes. "You have practiced Yoga before."

  "No, I never did." There, the shaved head had guessed wrong.

  Swamiji only smiled.

  Another devotee, a boy of about sixteen with a small diamond in the left ear, volunteered to explain. "You don't understand." The teenager smiled with indulgence. "Swamiji is not asking IF you practiced Yoga before, he's TELLING you that you did."

  "But I never..."

  "Not in this incarnation," the boy insisted patiently. "Before..."

  "Before?" I balked at the theory these people accepted so readily.

  "There is a great aura about you," Swamiji explained. "You have so far denied your spirituality in this life, but you can't anymore. Great loss and grief brought you back to the path. The time has come for you to explore that part of yourself."

  "How do you know?" I asked, astounded by his insightful arrogance.

  "You are here." Swamiji's smile turned enigmatic. "No one comes to the center by mistake. This place attracts highly evolved souls, old souls with a particular past, and it repels all others. Did you feel the energy when you entered?"

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  When a loud gong resounded in the lobby, Swamiji rose. "Come chant and meditate with us. We'll talk more later."

  Swamiji led the way to the meditation hall. Imitating my hosts, I left my sneakers at the door and entered the blue-carpeted hall. Soft chanting still oozed from the boom box.

  The rectangular room had filled with people sitting quietly, cross-legged, on the carpet or on individual mats. Chandra took me to the first row where I sat, like everyone else. Swamiji said a few words of welcome, turned off the tape, then started the program with a similar chant. In the midst of many voices, I joined in.

  During the meditation proper, following the directions, I slowed my breathing, closed my eyes, and tried to empty my mind. In the silence, blue silhouettes again paraded under my eyelids. Suddenly, I found myself surrounded by a burning forest, a jungle with wild animals running from the blaze. Heart pounding with fear, I broke into a cold sweat.

  My eyes flew open. Where did this come from? Around me, other meditators stirred slowly out of a trance and shifted position, while chanting from the boom box resumed, bringing those still meditating gently back to reality.

  Swamiji then presented the speakers, two young men and one girl, returned from Ganeshpur yesterday. In the soft illumination of the room, a bluish light surrounded them. They talked about faraway India. In their eyes I could see my own longing. Their words transported me to a land of bright colors, flowers, and strong perfumes, a land of silk and tropical fruit, a land of spiritual awakening. India called to me. I had to go.

  During the refreshments in the lounge, I learned that Swamiji was a nickname for "swami," which meant monk, and this particular one had a name fifty meters long. Over homemade bread and guava juice, I talked to the newly returned members who gave me a list of items. Among them, a valid passport, a visa from the Indian Embassy in Paris, and several shots for such nasty diseases as smallpox, yellow fever, and cholera. The flyer also gave directions to the ashram in Ganeshpur, complete with phone number and website.

  As I returned home that night, my thoughts whirled with travel plans. Sometime during the session, I had made up my mind. I wanted to go to India and grant Jean-François' last wish. What to do with the cat and the apartment? I might be gone several weeks, a whole season. When I opened the door the phone rang, so I rushed inside to pick up.

  "Fabienne? It's Kristelle. Sorry to call so late."

  "No sweat, girlfriend. Boy, do I have things to tell you."

  "Me first," she insisted. "I had a big fight with Mom. I should have left home long ago. Anyway, I'm looking for a place to stay, and I was wondering if I could live with you until I found something else. Please, please, say yes."

 
; I dropped the receiver.

  Chapter Two

  The Rajah's Zenana, 1849

  Korana, the Rajah's daughter, swept into the sumptuous room in a trail of red and gold veils, a chime of tiny bells, and a breath of suave perfume. Mukunda’s gut twisted. The flame of the oil lamp trembled in the hand of the servant girl who’d brought him to the zenana in the middle of the night. A young priest of Kali followed the princess, dressed in a white dhoti, the traditional loincloth. The white cord across his muscular shoulder marked him as Brahmin, the ruling caste.

  At their approach, Mukunda fell prostrate to the marble floor.

  "Why didn't you come at once when summoned?" Princess Korana waved a delicate lotus-shaped fan. The provocative sway of the hip called attention to the exposed skin above the sari's golden belt. She lifted a confident chin, daring him to answer.

  Mukunda shrank under Korana’s stare. Too much attention from the royals usually brought trouble to a lower caste. "But, Princess," he ventured, getting up on one knee and looking around the ornate room with concern, "the women’s apartments are forbidden to men, especially men of common blood. That's why your father ordered me to build them away from the main gallery."

  "And what do you think is the penalty for disobeying me?” Korana snapped.

  With a wave of the white silk fan, she dismissed the servant girl, while the Brahmin priest fingered the heavy garnet hanging on his bare chest. Mukunda shivered. He'd heard rumors about these two, the Rajah’s daughter and her half brother, about an incestuous union sealed in blood.

  "I will be your queen some day." Korana softened her tone. "Is it not your duty to indulge your future queen?"

  "Of course, Princess. But, how may I please you?" Mukunda cringed inside. The young priest offered no support, only arrogance. The Rajah guarded his women jealously, mostly his daughter. The spoiled princess had probably bribed a few guards, but what if others had seen Mukunda enter the forbidden zenana?

  "Oh, you can do a lot for me." Korana’s smile never reached the eyes. "I could use a handsome young man like you." The princess now stroked the dark skin of his shoulders with the delicate silk of the white lotus fan.

  Baffled by the unbecoming touch, Mukunda recoiled.

  "Have I made you uncomfortable?" The eyes lined with black kajal softened a little. "I mean you no harm, Mukunda." Korana’s sensual lips parted slightly. "On the contrary." The princess smiled in a flutter of eyelashes. "I would like to reward you... In private... With the rare gift of Kama Sutra, the art of love..." Her generous breasts heaved with every breath, releasing a heady perfume.

  The young Brahmin smiled at Mukunda, as if encouraging him to accept.

  Stunned, Mukunda stuttered, "But... But, Princess, I'm not worthy... Besides, I will marry Lakshmi next month. You should understand that I belong to her."

  "Faithful to my foster sister? How touching..." The princess gave a small laugh. "She’s a commoner." The word sounded like an insult.

  "And so am I, Princess," Mukunda emphasized, bowing in what he hoped would pass for submission.

  "No matter." Korana flicked the fan then whispered into his ear, "Lakshmi won't bother you anymore."

  "What do you mean?" Alarmed Mukunda turned to face the princess.

  "I mean..." Pausing, Korana searched for the right words, "...she met with an unfortunate accident."

  "An accident?" Forgetting his rank, Mukunda rose in panic.

  The priest raised an eyebrow and stepped forward at the breach of etiquette, but Princess Korana stopped him with her fan.

  "Lakshmi stumbled under an elephant's foot in the jungle fire," she explained with strange detachment, as if giving a clue in a game of riddles.

  "But, Lakshmi was nowhere near the jungle during the fire." Mukunda’s stomach knotted at the thought that he might be wrong.

  The princess gazed at him like a naja mesmerizing its prey. "One of my messengers discovered the body near the hot springs."

  Slowly, the meaning dawned on Mukunda. "Lakshmi is dead? No! It’s Impossible!" The world around him reeled.

  The silent priest, who stared with a malevolent smile, wagged his head in confirmation.

  "Dead!" As she ventured closer, the tiny bells at Korana’s waist and ankles jingled. "I'm sorry." The smile held no warmth. "I understand your grief." She brushed her exposed upper breasts against Mukunda's bare arm. "If you'd like a shoulder to cry on, come to my room," she whispered in a breath of sweet ginger. "There’s no guard at my door tonight."

  "How dare you!" Mukunda blurted. Blind with grief and outrage, he forgot basic respect and obedience. "How can you expect me to do your bidding when I just lost the woman I love?"

  The princess straightened, as if slapped in the face. "I will forgive your rebellious words only this once," she warned in a chilling tone. Then Korana smiled coldly. "There are many women willing to please you, Mukunda, but none is more skilled in the art of love than I.Aren't you at least curious? Many a man would forfeit his life to obtain such a favor from me. Don't you find me attractive?" She threaded her fingers through his long, black hair, her lips reaching for his.

  With a shiver of disgust, Mukunda stepped back and turned away. "You are very beautiful, Princess," he said as delicately as he could, suddenly realizing the danger of his situation. "But my soul belongs to Lakshmi. I can't love another as long as I live. Please, let me see her body."

  Crimson mouth turned down at the corners, Korana glared back. "I will not be denied by a palace architect! Either you come to my bed, or I'll have you flogged."

  Swallowing hard, Mukunda remained silent.

  "Better yet," Korana went on. "I'll tell my father you broke into my apartments with rape in mind. He'll have you executed for it."

  "I will deny it, Princess." Mukunda felt trapped. "The Rajah has known me for years. He might listen to reason."

  "Really!" Korana looked genuinely amused. "And who do you think my father will believe, when my half-brother surprised you red-handed in my apartments?"

  The Brahmin priest gave a wicked smile. "I could also testify that I saw him start the jungle fire, dear sister. That alone is punishable by death."

  "Good thinking, Shankarananda." Turning to Mukunda, the princess added, "See, you cannot afford to refuse!"

  "How dare you toy with people's lives?" Mukunda's voice rose to a yell. "Don't you have any compassion? I love Lakshmi with all my heart! I'd rather die than share your bed."

  "Silly little man." Korana stepped back, holding her head high. "I gave the order to lure Lakshmi into the forest to meet her fate... I even used your name as bait. Do you understand?"

  "Why? You... You, murderous bitch!" Abandoning all caution, Mukunda lunged to strangle Korana.

  Shankarananda swiftly barred Mukunda's way and took the impact without budging. The young priest then dealt a mighty punch to Mukunda's head. Before he realized what had happened, the palace architect lay on the floor, stunned, head bursting with pain.

  "Guards! Guards!" The princess lifted the red silk of her sari to run toward the door. "Come quick, an intruder."

  In a squeak of leather armors, scabbards, and sandals, two powerful eunuchs rushed in and seized Mukunda by both shoulders to right him. The guards stank of sweat. Mukunda struggled in their steely grip. His head throbbed, and thick blood clouded his vision.

  "Murderess! Pawn of Kali!" Mukunda spat in desperation. "Some day you'll pay for this."

  "Enough!" Korana snapped. "Take him to the dungeon!"

  Defeated, Mukunda let the guards carry him away. His life was forfeit, but death would come as a relief. Hopefully, in the next life, he’d be reunited with his beloved Lakshmi.

  Chapter Three

  Ganeshpur, India,1996

  "Sahib!" The male voice called above the din of construction. Enormous diggers dredged gravel and sand from the riverbed. All around, concrete trucks roared and smoked. Heavy buckets of fresh concrete traveled along creaking cableways, guided by dark little men gesticula
ting, half naked, yelling Hindi expletives.

  Under the shade of a canvas awning, among Indian foremen, a tall Californian turned away from the laptop on the blue‑print table. His golden tan, leather sandals, white cotton shirt and slacks told of a long familiarity with the local culture. Pale blue eyes squinting against dust and the hot afternoon sun, he waved and answered with an American accent, "Thanks, Amit, I see it."

  Eying the black sedan that stirred a cloud of dust along the unpaved road, the chief engineer combed back a handful of blond locks with long fingers, snatched a yellow hard hat from a hook and placed it squarely on his head. "Let's go."

  This made the job worthwhile. Several foremen followed the westerner’s long steps toward the dam under construction. Lost in thought, the American did not notice the searing heat, or the dust, or the clamoring bulldozers, tractors and earth-moving machines tearing a path into the rocky side of the mountain. He just felt happy.

  The blond man’s satisfaction did not derive only from building a modern power plant or completing a monumental work of art. He particularly enjoyed improving the lives of thousands of people by bringing modern comfort and irrigating the fields all year round. He smiled inwardly. Four crops of rice a year instead of one ought to help in the battle against malnutrition. In this country, good engineering skills could make a difference. Of course, a few villages would need to be relocated, but every improvement had its price.

  When the black Mercedes came to a halt, the American bent over to open the back door. A gnarled, bald man wearing gold‑rimmed sunglasses stepped out, clad in a silk shirt and lungi of vibrant orange. The hot breeze caught the fold of his ankle-length wrap. Although the old man held a walking stick, he obviously didn't need it to lean upon. The red bindi on his forehead moved as the swami frowned then smiled. A full row of false teeth gleamed white in an otherwise brown face.

  "Sadgurunath Maharaj Ki Jay!" the foremen greeted the important guest in unison.