Read Online Leggy Blonde: A Memoir by Aviva Drescher - Free Book Online

would have looked great on a Harlem Globetrotter or one of the Jackson Five. He had brown skin, a broad nose, and bulging crazy black eyes. He wore a crossing-guard-orange caftan, buttoned up to his neck and flowing down to his feet. If I saw him hanging out in Central Park, waving his arms around and coughing up golden eggs, I’d think he was on drugs.
    “He’s got millions of followers from all over the world,” said Dad. “Doctors and politicians. Not just the needy and uneducated.” That was true. The prime minister of India, scientists, and intellectuals from around the globe swore by his divinity.
    The description of this ashram—thousands of sick, desperate Kool-Aid drinkers crammed into a remote village in a Third World country—triggered an instant panic attack. I was convinced the trip would kill me.
    By no means was I averse to exotic locales. My parents were travel junkies and took my brother and me on trips through Europe. We rode the Orient Express, and went on safari in Africa. Elephants charged at us at top speed, almost squashing our Jeep. We watched a python catch, kill, and swallow a gazelle whole. The Masai Mara people were fascinated by my leg. They cut me to see if I had human blood in my veins. I loved exploring foreign lands and cultures andwas grateful my parents had taken me to the far corners of the world.
    But this trip to India wasn’t a holiday or a wild adventure. It seemed like the desperate plotting of a delusional man who was forcing me to go along with him against my will. I staged a protest and refused to leave New York. My father put a ton of pressure on me. He made me feel like I had no choice. When I left Mike for the airport, I honestly believed I’d never see him again.
    My parents, brother, and I flew seven hours to Paris. My anxiety spiked for the entire flight. By the time we landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, I felt wrung out. We would spend the night in Paris and then continue to India.
    For dinner, we went to a restaurant near Sacré-Coeur. I was on the edge of my emotional control and couldn’t eat. Mom tried to force food on me, but I was nauseated. I felt light-headed. My chest was tight. Suddenly, the room went dark.
    “I’m going blind!” I screamed.
    “For Christ’s sake, Aviva, they just dimmed the lights,” said Dad.
    “What is wrong with her?” Mom added.
    It was like that the entire trip. Any twinge meant the worst-case scenario.
    The next day, we flew to Bombay. The flight was ten turbulent hours in a jam-packed plane. We landed in a place of abject poverty and human suffering like I’d never imagined. Beggars and garbage everywhere. The smells were indescribable. And this was an industrialized city. This was civilization.
    Dad said, “We’re almost there!”
    We then flew to Bangalore, a vacation spot for Indian residents. From there, we drove deeper into the subcontinent in a rickety, overcrowded bus, down hundreds of miles of patchy “road.” Hours went by. It was like driving to the end of the world. Finally, we arrivedin Puttaparthi, the village that had been built up around Sai Baba’s ashram to cater to the seeking masses. Our bus was one of dozens to arrive that day disgorging the faithful, the needy, and the sick, of all races and ages. The hundreds joined the thousands roaming around the place with a glazed expression, like they’d been hit on the back of the head and weren’t sure who they were.
    “I can’t believe we’re here!” my parents said to each other. They were excited, and eager to find our rented apartment and settle in. My brother was nonplussed.
    I was miserable, of course.
    “Change your attitude, Aviva,” Mom said sternly.
    “Or it might not work,” Dad chimed in.
    “It” was the spontaneous regeneration of human flesh. What the best doctors in New York City could not do with state-of-the-art technology, a self-proclaimed god with a Jimi Hendrix ’fro in India would accomplish with cow dung ash. But only