Flying Solo: The new laugh-out-loud romantic comedy coming this summer from Zoe May!

by Zoe May

  I pass other guesthouses. Some of them are housed in the prettiest, quirky buildings, like hobbit hovels with tinted glass windows and winding chimneys. They’re so adorable and fantastical-looking. I slow down in front of a couple of them to take pictures on my phone.

  In the distance, I spot the temple. Technically, the temple is the epicenter of the ashram and yet I haven’t been yet. It doesn’t particularly interest me, but I should probably check it out. I get back on my scooter and head that way, going down the path at a slow speed. As I approach the temple, I spot a swimming pool. My heart leaps. I had no idea the ashram had a pool! I can pass the days swimming now.

  I park my scooter outside the temple and walk up to the entrance. As I approach, I hear chanting from within. There are rows of shoes by the front door. I kick mine off and take a few steps closer, peering inside. There are rows and rows of people, sitting cross-legged, chanting mantras from small booklets adorned with the guru’s face. What the hell? I spot a stack of the booklets by the entrance and pick one up.

  I creep into the hall and sit down at the back, opening the booklet. It’s full of chants. They’re in Hindi but the English translation has been included. I flick through them, reading passages here and there.

  I let go of my desires, my wants, my ego,

  And embrace the spirit,

  The one true leader: Guru Hridaya,

  Heart of the world, conscious being.

  I flick through, but all the chants are similar. There’s nothing about spirituality in general, it’s all about worshiping the guru and negating the self. I look around the room at the people chanting this stuff. Why are they willfully brainwashing themselves? My gaze wanders over to one woman who looks exhausted, a lost searching look in her eyes. She looks like she needs a good hug, and yet she’s half-heartedly chanting instead.

  I decide to attempt to join in with a chant just to see how it feels. I glance at the booklet of the man sitting next to me and turn to the page he’s on, but I can’t get through one whole verse without feeling strange. I give up and just sit there, letting the chanting wash over me. I get bored after a while and sneak back out of the hall, placing my booklet back on the stack. I retrieve my shoes and head back to my scooter.

  I’m about to hop back on my bike and get away from the weirdness of the temple, when I spot Guru Hridaya hanging around by the back of the temple twenty or thirty feet away.

  I feel starstruck. I can’t believe I’m looking at the actual guru! He’s almost started to feel like a celebrity to me. He’s wearing bright orange robes with a matching turban and tons of gold necklaces. He’s plump and would be pretty non-descript were it not for all his eye-catching glimmering jewelry. He even has a shiny gold bhindi and a nose ring with a chain attached that dangles across his cheek towards a hoop in his ear. I stare at him, almost starstruck. I’ve seen his face on websites and posters, heard chants about him, and picked up on so much gossip, that it feels odd to finally lay eyes on him.

  One of his assistants approaches him, ushering him into a waiting car.

  He gets inside and his assistant closes the car door. The driver starts the vehicle and the car begins to pull away. I find myself wondering where Guru Hridaya is heading. What do gurus do all day? I reach into my bag and root around for my sunglasses. I don them, and without really knowing what I’m doing, I hop on board my scooter, twist my key in the ignition and begin following the car.

  It heads out of the ashram, weaving through the streets. I follow at a slow pace, keeping a certain amount of distance. I’m not sure why I’m following a guru. But I did decide to explore today, didn’t I? And what better way to explore than stalking the ashram’s guru. No, not stalking. Familiarizing.

  The car retreats further and further out of the ashram until it arrives at the main road along the coastline. It takes a left, heading in the opposite direction to Meera’s uncle’s restaurant. I have no idea what lies left, but I follow.

  The car picks up pace, pelting down the road. I rev my accelerator, determined to keep up. The ocean stretches into the distance to the left of me, the waves crashing against the shore. Unlike the last time I saw the ocean, at night with Seb and Meera, I can see it clearly now. The sea glitters into the distance – a vast, shimmering expanse – but the sandy shore is littered with plastic bottles, cans, and trash. It’s sad that it’s so dirty as it could be such a beautiful beach were it not for all the rubbish. The wind rushes through my hair. I should be wearing a helmet, but I didn’t feel I needed one as I cruised leisurely around the ashram. I’m beginning to wonder if I should turn around and head back. The guru’s car is going fast, very fast. Who knows where they’re going? They might be driving for miles. I might not even have enough fuel. I have half a tank, but I have no idea how far that will get me. And anyway, I don’t even know why I’m really doing this.

  We must be three or four miles away from the ashram and I’m about to turn around, when the guru’s car begins to slow down. I spot a building that looks like an LA mansion. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen in the area. I brake and draw to a halt, stopping far enough away from the guru’s car that he shouldn’t be able to spot me.

  I watch as he gets out of the car and waves to his driver, before dialing a code into a security system at the gates of the mansion. They open and he walks through, wandering down a pathway towards the front door. The mansion is enormous. Spectacular. It must have half a dozen bedrooms. It even has a pool at the back.

  I wait for a moment. The driver of the guru’s car starts turning the car around. I start up my scooter and try to look inconspicuous, continuing along the road.

  The driver passes me but doesn’t pay me much attention.

  I wait until he’s out of sight and draw to a halt not far from the mansion. I park my scooter and creep furtively towards it. I reach the gates and peer down the path. I spot the guru in his front room, visible through the plate glass windows. He reclines on a large, plush-looking sofa, clearly perfectly at home in his surroundings.

  Meera told me he lived at the ashram in a modest hut, like he was a self-sacrificing modern-day Buddha. And yet here he is, looking completely at home! Has he been leading a double life? Is this where the donations from his devotees get spent? Does he even do charity work? I feel outraged, frustrated. Something’s definitely not right. I reach into my bag and take some pictures of the mansion with my phone, but it’s so far along the path that they’re grainy and indistinct and you can’t see the guru inside, even when I try to use the zoom function.

  I want evidence. I look around, wondering what to do, when I spot a letterbox. Ha! I can just check the guru’s mail and find a letter addressed to him. I try to pull the mailbox open, but it’s locked. I should have realized it would be. Yet I peer in and spot a few letters inside. Fortunately, I have quite slender fingers and I reach into the letterbox to grab the corner of one of the letters. I try a few times to grasp it, feeling anxious. What if Guru Hridaya has CCTV and he’s watching me? What if he comes out to see me rooting through his mail?

  I’m sweating, stressed, and I’m about to give up when I manage to get hold of one of the letters. Slowly but surely, I pull it gently out of the letterbox, until I’m holding it in my hands. Excellent! I look at the address but of course, it’s in Hindi and indecipherable to me. I take a picture of it to show Meera later and then post the letter back into the box.

  I look back down the driveway at the guru in his mansion. He’s still lying on the sofa, relaxing. Someone – a woman – walks over to him and hands him a drink. It’s hard to make out, but it looks like a beer.

  I shake my head. So much for relinquishing your vices and material desires. The guru couldn’t be any more ostentatious, with his palatial beachside mansion and booze-drinking. Unbelievable.

  Feeling disgusted yet pumped full of indignation, I jump back on my scooter and speed off towards the ashram. I barely register the sea this time. I don’t feel relaxed or soothed by the sound of the rollin
g waves. I’m simply too shocked. Too angry. The cheek of the guru! The audacity! The hypocrisy. I can’t wait to tell Meera about this. The wind blows through my hair as I speed back.

  I reach the ashram, slowing down as I take the turn inside. As I pass the main hall, I spot Paul wandering along the path with Blossom. They both look my way, but I ignore them. I don’t care about either of them right now. I just rev my scooter and speed off towards the guesthouse.

  I spot Meera sitting at the picnic table with her laptop, like she was yesterday.

  I park my scooter and dash over to her.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, feeling a little breathless.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asks, looking a little taken aback. ‘Your hair’s all over the place!’

  ‘Oh!’ I laugh, patting my hair down, realizing how frazzled I must look from my chase. ‘I’m fine!’

  I sit down at the picnic table.

  ‘I just saw Guru Hridaya. I was at the temple and he was outside, at the back. He got into this car and I followed him. Anyway, they drove out of the ashram, like three or four miles away, to this mansion,’ I babble, pulling my phone out of my pocket.

  ‘This enormous mansion! I swear it’s where he lives, Meera,’ I tell her, retrieving the picture.

  I show her the shots I took.

  ‘I found his mail, look!’ I hand her my phone with the picture of the guru’s letter on screen.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Meera nods, taking in the pictures. ‘That’s his place,’ she remarks casually.

  ‘What?’ I balk. ‘I thought he lived here. I thought he had a humble life?!’

  ‘No, not really!’ Meera laughs. ‘He stays here a few days a week, but he doesn’t really live here. It’s just part of his image, you know?’

  ‘But…’ I utter. ‘All that money he takes in donations, does it just go on his mansion?’

  Meera shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Like I said, we stay out of his way and he stays out of ours.’

  Meera hands me back my phone.

  ‘I can’t believe it…’ I take my phone. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Meera sighs. ‘But we can’t do much about it. Some residents tried to lobby him to be more ethical a while back, but it didn’t achieve anything. I just wish he’d pay tax on all the money he makes from this place, then at least locals would benefit too.’

  ‘He doesn’t pay tax?’ I query.

  ‘No. He claims the money he receives counts as donations and therefore isn’t taxable by law, but not all the money the ashram makes is from donations. He’s tax dodging, but no one really says anything,’ Meera tells me.

  ‘It would make a huge difference to the area if he did pay,’ she continues. ‘We’d have better roads, better policing, better schools, the ocean wouldn’t be as dirty, but he doesn’t pay anything. It makes me sad. It’s a shame, especially for when I have kids, you know? But no one challenges him,’ Meera notes ruefully.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, feeling unsettled.

  ‘He’s rich. We can’t go up against him.’ Meera shrugs.

  I nod, understandingly, although I’m completely taken aback. Guru Hridaya must be making millions from this place with all the visitors and workshops and donations, and yet he doesn’t give a penny back to the local community? It’s terrible. I can’t believe he could have the audacity to live tax-free here when so many local people, like Meera, are helping to prop his ashram up. No wonder the roads are pitted with potholes and the beach is scattered with litter.

  ‘What’s up?’ Meera asks.

  I realize I’ve gone silent, lost in thought. Meera doesn’t know I’m a tax lawyer. I simply told her I had a City job in London, and she didn’t ask any questions. I have an overwhelming urge to read up on Indian tax law and understand this situation. I need to figure out whether what Guru Hridaya is allegedly doing is legal.

  ‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ I insist. ‘Is there a library here?’

  ‘Err, yeah,’ Meera replies.

  She reaches for a pamphlet on the table and opens it up, showing me a map. She points to where the library is.

  ‘Cool!’ I reply. ‘Thanks. I’m just going to go there for a bit.’

  ‘Okay...’ Meera shrugs. ‘See you later.’

  ‘See you!’

  I hop back on my scooter and head to the library for an afternoon spent reading about Indian tax law.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A couple of days have passed and I’ve managed to get my head around the basics of Indian tax law, having spent hours researching in the library.

  It turns out you can use Wi-Fi in the library for as long as you want as long as it’s for educational purposes so I’ve scrolled endlessly, reading articles on Indian case law, while catching up with people back home on Facebook in the background. The library is the quietest place in the ashram that I’ve found so far, even quieter than the meditation spots. Hardly anyone goes there. There are just a couple of regulars, who seem to be dedicating their time at the ashram to reading, but it’s mostly empty and very peaceful. The building the library is housed in is striking, with a tall domed ceiling and towering shelves.

  As well as reading up on Indian case law, I’ve been researching the guru thoroughly and I’m pretty sure he’s breaking the law by not paying tax. I’m confident he could be prosecuted but I’m not entirely sure what to do with the information. Yes, my company could technically take action against him, but is a London law firm really going to file a lawsuit against a guru in India? Hardly. Who would pay them? If the locals were going to pay a firm to sue Guru Hridaya, they would have done it by now. It seems that, like Meera said, there really is a dynamic of ‘you mind your business and I’ll mind mine’ between the local people and Guru Hridaya and his followers. The attitude they adopt is almost like an Indian head wobble - they don’t really approve but they don’t disapprove strongly enough to do anything about it, they just let it go. Also, suing a multimillionaire con artist of a guru would no doubt be an expensive and stressful endeavor and I doubt many of the locals around here, who are mostly small business owners, have the resources or time to take that on.

  I sent my boss an email yesterday explaining everything, just in case Pearson & Co is interested. I know my firm is probably going to think I’m a bit sad, unable to stop focusing on tax law for more than a week but this case is about more than me being a workaholic, it’s about helping the local community. I may not have gelled particularly well with the hippyish side of ashram life, but I’ve found a way to connect with this place in my own right, and I want to help if I can.

  I wasn’t sure how Nigel would respond to my email. Would he write it off as nonsense? After all, suing a guru does sound out-there, but he replied this afternoon suggesting we catch up. He said he wanted to ‘discuss my email’, but left it at that. For all I know, he’s going to give me stern orders to stop reading about tax law while on holiday or perhaps, just perhaps, he is interested in the case.

  I borrowed a spare mobile from Meera for the call. She’s been totally excited about the case, ever since I told her that I specialize in tax. I check the bars of reception as I pace back and forth in front of the library, my palms clammy with sweat. Nigel’s meant to call any minute now. I stare at the screen and when it finally starts ringing, I feel a jolt of alarm and excitement. I’m nervous. As I answer, I realize I haven’t been this invested in a case for a long time.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, picking up.

  ‘Rachel, hi,’ Nigel answers. ‘Are you there? How are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. I’m good!’ I reply. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m well. All’s good over here. How’s the ashram then?’ Nigel asks, sounding tickled.

  Ever since I told him that I was going to stay in an ashram in India, he’s found the idea hilarious, and his amusement clearly hasn’t waned.

  ‘It’s good, actually!’ I tell him. ‘I like it more than I thought I would, although I haven’t really got on board with the spiritual stuff.�
�.

  ‘No, it sounds like you’ve been more interested in the local tax litigation,’ Nigel laughs.

  ‘Haha, yes!’ I admit, feeling a little embarrassed.

  I can’t tell if Nigel thinks I’m a ridiculous workaholic loser who needs to learn to take a day off or if he finds my interest in foreign tax law somewhat admirable.

  ‘Well you know, you can take the girl out of the legal world, but you can’t take the legal world out of the girl!’ I babble, laughing nervously.

  ‘Ha! Have you been enjoying yourself though aside from reading up on case law?’ Nigel asks.

  I think about the spirit animal workshop and Spiritual Ascension Snakes and Ladders. Nigel already finds the concept of the ashram ridiculous enough, I’m definitely not going to be mentioning those things. They’d blow his mind.

  ‘Yeah, it’s lovely! The weather is beautiful, the scenery is stunning, the people are interesting,’ I tell him, gazing down the path towards lush palm trees as I speak, thinking of Meera and Seb.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Nigel comments. ‘I can’t wait to see your pictures.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ll show you when I’m back at work. Or I’ll add some to Facebook soon,’ I insist, remembering that Nigel and I are technically Facebook friends after he added me following a team-bonding trip to Center Parcs.

  ‘Great! I’ll keep an eye out. So…’ Nigel draws in a deep breath and I can tell that the small talk part of our conversation is over. ‘I’ve been looking into what you sent me.’

  He pauses.

  ‘Yes,’ I gulp.

  ‘It’s an interesting case,’ Nigel says. ‘Very interesting.’

  Interesting? Very interesting?

  I grin. This is good. This is very good! I’ve worked with Nigel for long enough to know that he doesn’t describe a case as “interesting” if he’s not interested in pursuing it.