Read Online Cartwheels in a Sari by Jayanti Tamm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jayanti Tamm
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door.
Ketan continued to chat, as the sun shifted through various windows, until it finally slid from view altogether. I needed some time to sort all this out. Information was coming too quickly. Across from where I sat, above our telephone with the tangled cord, hung a black-and-white photograph of Alo and myself in which I was just learning to walk, attempting to balance on my pudgy legs, as she stood behind me, clutching on to my raised arms, lending me support.
THAT NIGHT, WHEN I questioned my mother, she urged me to remain loving and kind to Alo, and not to worry about the rest.
I suspected she was lying. It couldn't be that simple.
And it wasn't.
I soon discovered that there were two distinct groups in the Center—those who knew that Alo was not God-realized, and those who didn't. The people in the know about Alo were mostly Guru's close disciples in the New York area. Few of the visiting disciples from around the country, and even fewer from the increasing number of meditation groups in Europe, knew Alo was a fraud. I quickly realized that knowing put me into the elite category. These were the disciples who, when Alo was away, made fun of her, laughing at everything about her from the way she warbled when she sang to how she always tried to move her chair to be closer to Guru.I, too, joined in. It was fun. I imitated her bad posture and protruding chin. When Alo was in town, like the rest of those who knew, I overacted with full devotion, bowing lavishly to her after receiving prasad, and applauding loudly for her shrill singing. This was doing what Guru wanted, pleasing the Master unconditionally, which made him happy, and to make him happy, after all, was the only reason I even existed. I wrote her thick, fake letters of gratitude, praising her spiritual heights, and attributing to her all of the many eye-opening lessons I was learning in my spiritual life.
DURING THIS TIME, Guru was perpetually on tour throughout the United States and Canada, giving free concerts and lectures in a frenzied effort to expand his mission, and so were we. Weekends, therefore, meant bus trips.
In the bus, Guru reserved the first row for himself, and then positioned Prema and Isha on the seat across from him. The rest of the bus was by invitation only and getting onto Guru's bus was a prized privilege. Other buses trailed behind, with sad disciples who sat facing their windows with folded hands, just in case they might pass Guru's bus in traffic, and they could have a few seconds of a highway blessing via Guru's window. My family always got invited onto Guru's bus, which meant that in addition to being entertained by Guru spontaneously singing, telling stories, and passing out prasad, we received special perks like keeping count of the drawings that he did on everything from place mats to napkins. The buses we traveled on were not luxury models, but low-budget rejects, like retired school buses without heat. Inevitably, on each trip, we had mechanical problems.
One freezing and sleet-drenched night, on our way back home from Guru's public concert, the bus's engine began smoking, and we quickly pulled off the nearest exit. A few of the guards, including my father—who also rotated as one of the official drivers—bundled up and headed outside to fiddle with the engine.
Alo had been at the concert, but she had driven down from Canada with Roshan and Heera. I had watched Alo in the auditorium. She was in the row in front of me, and for the entire concert, her head drooped asleep, like a wilted tulip. In her defense, even a short concert for Guru was at least three hours long.
His concerts always started late. He began with a silent meditation, then improvised on many musical instruments, none of which he knew how to play. As usual, before Guru entered the stage, the hall was full. Disciples responsible for producing the event wanted to give Guru a packed house, and so for months they soaked the city with posters, gluing everything
Ketan continued to chat, as the sun shifted through various windows, until it finally slid from view altogether. I needed some time to sort all this out. Information was coming too quickly. Across from where I sat, above our telephone with the tangled cord, hung a black-and-white photograph of Alo and myself in which I was just learning to walk, attempting to balance on my pudgy legs, as she stood behind me, clutching on to my raised arms, lending me support.
THAT NIGHT, WHEN I questioned my mother, she urged me to remain loving and kind to Alo, and not to worry about the rest.
I suspected she was lying. It couldn't be that simple.
And it wasn't.
I soon discovered that there were two distinct groups in the Center—those who knew that Alo was not God-realized, and those who didn't. The people in the know about Alo were mostly Guru's close disciples in the New York area. Few of the visiting disciples from around the country, and even fewer from the increasing number of meditation groups in Europe, knew Alo was a fraud. I quickly realized that knowing put me into the elite category. These were the disciples who, when Alo was away, made fun of her, laughing at everything about her from the way she warbled when she sang to how she always tried to move her chair to be closer to Guru.I, too, joined in. It was fun. I imitated her bad posture and protruding chin. When Alo was in town, like the rest of those who knew, I overacted with full devotion, bowing lavishly to her after receiving prasad, and applauding loudly for her shrill singing. This was doing what Guru wanted, pleasing the Master unconditionally, which made him happy, and to make him happy, after all, was the only reason I even existed. I wrote her thick, fake letters of gratitude, praising her spiritual heights, and attributing to her all of the many eye-opening lessons I was learning in my spiritual life.
DURING THIS TIME, Guru was perpetually on tour throughout the United States and Canada, giving free concerts and lectures in a frenzied effort to expand his mission, and so were we. Weekends, therefore, meant bus trips.
In the bus, Guru reserved the first row for himself, and then positioned Prema and Isha on the seat across from him. The rest of the bus was by invitation only and getting onto Guru's bus was a prized privilege. Other buses trailed behind, with sad disciples who sat facing their windows with folded hands, just in case they might pass Guru's bus in traffic, and they could have a few seconds of a highway blessing via Guru's window. My family always got invited onto Guru's bus, which meant that in addition to being entertained by Guru spontaneously singing, telling stories, and passing out prasad, we received special perks like keeping count of the drawings that he did on everything from place mats to napkins. The buses we traveled on were not luxury models, but low-budget rejects, like retired school buses without heat. Inevitably, on each trip, we had mechanical problems.
One freezing and sleet-drenched night, on our way back home from Guru's public concert, the bus's engine began smoking, and we quickly pulled off the nearest exit. A few of the guards, including my father—who also rotated as one of the official drivers—bundled up and headed outside to fiddle with the engine.
Alo had been at the concert, but she had driven down from Canada with Roshan and Heera. I had watched Alo in the auditorium. She was in the row in front of me, and for the entire concert, her head drooped asleep, like a wilted tulip. In her defense, even a short concert for Guru was at least three hours long.
His concerts always started late. He began with a silent meditation, then improvised on many musical instruments, none of which he knew how to play. As usual, before Guru entered the stage, the hall was full. Disciples responsible for producing the event wanted to give Guru a packed house, and so for months they soaked the city with posters, gluing everything
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