Read Online Leggy Blonde: A Memoir by Aviva Drescher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aviva Drescher
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New York. I cried when I thought about Mike.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dad asked. “Why aren’t you glad to be here?”
After five weeks in saris (you don’t know how sorry), Dad agreed to leave. Although we’d been there for a long time, and had been amply showered with burned cow-shit ash, we weren’t healed. My parents’ faith was stronger than ever, though. Upon our return to New York, they put up framed pictures of Sai Baba around the house, and kept pots of vibhuti around the apartment. The space we called “the gallery”—actually, a home gym—was right outside my bedroom. Mom taped photos of Sai Baba on the StairMaster and treadmill. Isaw them whenever I entered or left my room, and felt a stab of resentment each time.
They talked about Sai Baba all the time, not only to each other, but with everyone they knew. Their obsessive devotion—and cult recruitment efforts—drove away some of their friends and a few of Dad’s big clients. My parents purchased an apartment at the ashram. They went back a few more times and finally landed that private interview with Sai Baba. He used his sleight-of-hand tricks and made jewelry appear. He gave Mom a necklace, and blessed them. She acted like that necklace was a gift from God. As far as they were concerned, it was.
As hard as the conditions were, the worst part of the experience was my parents’ impatience with me—and their having gone off the deep end. They were supposed to be responsible caregivers and protectors. When I complained about my fears or raised a doubt about Sai Baba, Dad didn’t want to hear it. The ostensible reason we went to Puttaparthi was to heal me. Back home with all those photos around the house, I realized that my parents lied not only to me, but mostly to themselves. The trip wasn’t about me. It was always about them. They used me as an excuse to follow their latest fad, the newest health craze. They dragged me along, knowing how hard it would be for me to stand.
What if I had believed them, and in Sai Baba? Imagine how disappointed I would have been not to regrow my missing foot.
A classic rite of passage for any teenager was drawing a distinct line between herself and her parents. I was so dependent on Mom, I might never have managed to separate from her if not for that trip. I can’t say I came away from the experience a stronger person, but I had become an individual. I had my own thoughts and opinions. My parents forced me to go to India, but they couldn’t change my mind.As much as it pained me to disagree with them, I took pride in it, too.
A lot of accusations were made about Sai Baba over the years to come, including allegations of sexual abuse. He certainly raked in a massive fortune, and curried political favor in his country. He also built schools and hospitals in the poorest regions in India. Some of his scams have been exposed by documentarians and laughed off by Vegas-style magicians on the Internet. On YouTube, you can see videos of a capsule of compressed ash between Sai Baba’s fingers. When he waved his hands around, he opened the capsule. Presto chango, a handful of ash. People have raised the critical question, “If Sai Baba could materialize gold and diamond rings, why did he give them to the rich and powerful instead of directly to the poor?” You know what? If he really could spit up gold, maybe he would have given it to the poor. But he couldn’t, obviously. He was a fake whose best magic trick was pulling the wool over intelligent people’s eyes.
Over the years, I’ve checked in with Dad about his faith. “So, do you still believe?” I’ve asked him.
For a long time, he did. But after decades of willful delusion, Dad finally let his guru go. He’d seen too much to believe in magic tricks by then. Although he’d hoped and prayed that gods really walked among us, in the end, Sai Baba had been a sham. There are some realities faith alone just can’t change. Dad was embarrassed about all
“What’s wrong with you?” Dad asked. “Why aren’t you glad to be here?”
After five weeks in saris (you don’t know how sorry), Dad agreed to leave. Although we’d been there for a long time, and had been amply showered with burned cow-shit ash, we weren’t healed. My parents’ faith was stronger than ever, though. Upon our return to New York, they put up framed pictures of Sai Baba around the house, and kept pots of vibhuti around the apartment. The space we called “the gallery”—actually, a home gym—was right outside my bedroom. Mom taped photos of Sai Baba on the StairMaster and treadmill. Isaw them whenever I entered or left my room, and felt a stab of resentment each time.
They talked about Sai Baba all the time, not only to each other, but with everyone they knew. Their obsessive devotion—and cult recruitment efforts—drove away some of their friends and a few of Dad’s big clients. My parents purchased an apartment at the ashram. They went back a few more times and finally landed that private interview with Sai Baba. He used his sleight-of-hand tricks and made jewelry appear. He gave Mom a necklace, and blessed them. She acted like that necklace was a gift from God. As far as they were concerned, it was.
As hard as the conditions were, the worst part of the experience was my parents’ impatience with me—and their having gone off the deep end. They were supposed to be responsible caregivers and protectors. When I complained about my fears or raised a doubt about Sai Baba, Dad didn’t want to hear it. The ostensible reason we went to Puttaparthi was to heal me. Back home with all those photos around the house, I realized that my parents lied not only to me, but mostly to themselves. The trip wasn’t about me. It was always about them. They used me as an excuse to follow their latest fad, the newest health craze. They dragged me along, knowing how hard it would be for me to stand.
What if I had believed them, and in Sai Baba? Imagine how disappointed I would have been not to regrow my missing foot.
A classic rite of passage for any teenager was drawing a distinct line between herself and her parents. I was so dependent on Mom, I might never have managed to separate from her if not for that trip. I can’t say I came away from the experience a stronger person, but I had become an individual. I had my own thoughts and opinions. My parents forced me to go to India, but they couldn’t change my mind.As much as it pained me to disagree with them, I took pride in it, too.
A lot of accusations were made about Sai Baba over the years to come, including allegations of sexual abuse. He certainly raked in a massive fortune, and curried political favor in his country. He also built schools and hospitals in the poorest regions in India. Some of his scams have been exposed by documentarians and laughed off by Vegas-style magicians on the Internet. On YouTube, you can see videos of a capsule of compressed ash between Sai Baba’s fingers. When he waved his hands around, he opened the capsule. Presto chango, a handful of ash. People have raised the critical question, “If Sai Baba could materialize gold and diamond rings, why did he give them to the rich and powerful instead of directly to the poor?” You know what? If he really could spit up gold, maybe he would have given it to the poor. But he couldn’t, obviously. He was a fake whose best magic trick was pulling the wool over intelligent people’s eyes.
Over the years, I’ve checked in with Dad about his faith. “So, do you still believe?” I’ve asked him.
For a long time, he did. But after decades of willful delusion, Dad finally let his guru go. He’d seen too much to believe in magic tricks by then. Although he’d hoped and prayed that gods really walked among us, in the end, Sai Baba had been a sham. There are some realities faith alone just can’t change. Dad was embarrassed about all
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