Read Online Leggy Blonde: A Memoir by Aviva Drescher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Aviva Drescher
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if I changed my attitude . Skepticism would jinx it.
I felt like the only sane person for thousands of miles.
Dad rented the finest accommodations available: a single prison cell–like room with a cement floor and one small window. It had four cots and a private bathroom with a toilet and a sink with running water. We brought our own toilet paper. This was the luxury package. In 90 percent of the dorms at the compound, the devotees did their business in a hole in the ground and cleaned their hands in the dirt.
By the way, I wasn’t being a First World snobby asshole. I wasn’t whining about not being adequately pampered at a five-star resort. I was an anxiety-prone hypochondriac teenager in extreme distress, thousands of miles from home. With every breath, I felt germs entering my lungs. The crowds were tighter and riper than anything I’d seen or smelled on a New York subway. My graft abrasions were openand seeping. The shower water came from a well. In my mind, it was a stream of malaria, aimed right at my face. The public drinking water was literally teeming with bacteria. A single sip would cause violent dysentery. We drank only bottled water. Our food came from a canteen truck. It arrived twice a day to feed thousands of people. The menu options were bread and bread. Sometimes we cooked rice and vegetables in our room, but I was afraid the vegetables weren’t clean enough, and didn’t dare eat them.
Most of the people there were Indian. We met some Europeans and Americans, too. All races were represented from dozens of countries. However diverse the people, they were all of a certain type—the kind of person who joined a cult. I’d expected to be surrounded by the severely sick. Blind lepers, crooked crones shaking tiny canes—biblical suffering stuff. There certainly were sick people who’d come to be cured. But the devoted, in general, appeared to be healthy—physically. Mentally? They had to have a screw loose.
At 4 a.m., we were roused by bells. We rolled off of our cots, got dressed, and joined the herds heading toward a large communal outdoor area that surrounded the palace where Sai Baba rested (he claimed he didn’t need sleep). We walked among concrete buildings, wandering elephants, and throngs of people. Everyone wore saris, including us. We bought some in New York before the trip, and continued to add to our collection in India. My mom loved the fabrics and thought the tunics were beautiful. I missed my jeans.
At the palace, people in wheelchairs were rolled to the front for the predawn gathering. Everyone else sat on the floor. We were really packed in tight. And then we waited. It would take hours for Sai Baba to make his appearance. Then he would walk around the people for about ten minutes. When he finally got over to us, Sai Baba wavedhis hand in the air. Vibhuti appeared in his hand. He sprinkled the ash on us. And then he moved on.
Sometimes he materialized beads and jewelry. He’d lift up his hand, and stones would drip out of it. Once he put his hand in an empty bowl, swirled it around, and it was suddenly full of the holy ash. The people around us would bow, pray, cry, and go nuts when he came near. My father claimed to feel “ebullient” when Sai Baba was near. Mom was excited by the spectacle. I admit to feeling a calming energy when Sai Baba was close. But I wasn’t healed or relieved of my anxiety about being there. I certainly didn’t regrow my appendage like a salamander.
For a lucky (often wealthy) few, Sai Baba would grant a personal audience. He would take you to his private area and do whatever it was he did back there. Despite Dad’s campaigning for over a month, our family was not invited over to Sai Baba’s place. Dad didn’t want to leave Puttaparthi until we had been. I was losing weight, losing my mind. I fantasized about my bed, hot dog vendors, biking in Central Park, Pioneer grocery store, and of course, my boyfriend. I couldn’t stand being away from
I felt like the only sane person for thousands of miles.
Dad rented the finest accommodations available: a single prison cell–like room with a cement floor and one small window. It had four cots and a private bathroom with a toilet and a sink with running water. We brought our own toilet paper. This was the luxury package. In 90 percent of the dorms at the compound, the devotees did their business in a hole in the ground and cleaned their hands in the dirt.
By the way, I wasn’t being a First World snobby asshole. I wasn’t whining about not being adequately pampered at a five-star resort. I was an anxiety-prone hypochondriac teenager in extreme distress, thousands of miles from home. With every breath, I felt germs entering my lungs. The crowds were tighter and riper than anything I’d seen or smelled on a New York subway. My graft abrasions were openand seeping. The shower water came from a well. In my mind, it was a stream of malaria, aimed right at my face. The public drinking water was literally teeming with bacteria. A single sip would cause violent dysentery. We drank only bottled water. Our food came from a canteen truck. It arrived twice a day to feed thousands of people. The menu options were bread and bread. Sometimes we cooked rice and vegetables in our room, but I was afraid the vegetables weren’t clean enough, and didn’t dare eat them.
Most of the people there were Indian. We met some Europeans and Americans, too. All races were represented from dozens of countries. However diverse the people, they were all of a certain type—the kind of person who joined a cult. I’d expected to be surrounded by the severely sick. Blind lepers, crooked crones shaking tiny canes—biblical suffering stuff. There certainly were sick people who’d come to be cured. But the devoted, in general, appeared to be healthy—physically. Mentally? They had to have a screw loose.
At 4 a.m., we were roused by bells. We rolled off of our cots, got dressed, and joined the herds heading toward a large communal outdoor area that surrounded the palace where Sai Baba rested (he claimed he didn’t need sleep). We walked among concrete buildings, wandering elephants, and throngs of people. Everyone wore saris, including us. We bought some in New York before the trip, and continued to add to our collection in India. My mom loved the fabrics and thought the tunics were beautiful. I missed my jeans.
At the palace, people in wheelchairs were rolled to the front for the predawn gathering. Everyone else sat on the floor. We were really packed in tight. And then we waited. It would take hours for Sai Baba to make his appearance. Then he would walk around the people for about ten minutes. When he finally got over to us, Sai Baba wavedhis hand in the air. Vibhuti appeared in his hand. He sprinkled the ash on us. And then he moved on.
Sometimes he materialized beads and jewelry. He’d lift up his hand, and stones would drip out of it. Once he put his hand in an empty bowl, swirled it around, and it was suddenly full of the holy ash. The people around us would bow, pray, cry, and go nuts when he came near. My father claimed to feel “ebullient” when Sai Baba was near. Mom was excited by the spectacle. I admit to feeling a calming energy when Sai Baba was close. But I wasn’t healed or relieved of my anxiety about being there. I certainly didn’t regrow my appendage like a salamander.
For a lucky (often wealthy) few, Sai Baba would grant a personal audience. He would take you to his private area and do whatever it was he did back there. Despite Dad’s campaigning for over a month, our family was not invited over to Sai Baba’s place. Dad didn’t want to leave Puttaparthi until we had been. I was losing weight, losing my mind. I fantasized about my bed, hot dog vendors, biking in Central Park, Pioneer grocery store, and of course, my boyfriend. I couldn’t stand being away from
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