The next morning, I found it impossible to meditate. I couldn’t stop thinking about the secret ritual in the guru’s house I’d seen the night before. Why does Baba lavish those girls with so much attention? Why not me?
During breakfast I considered asking Rohini, Sita, or even Swami Akhandananda if they knew anything about the chant, but decided against it. I didn’t want anyone to think I was nosy.
My afternoon seva finished early that day, so I managed to get to the courtyard before darshan had started, before all the spots near Baba’s throne were taken. One of the princesses let me sit directly behind the swamis. Within ten minutes the courtyard was full. Turning around, I looked at all the people sitting behind me. I felt blessed to be seated so close to the throne, and thanked the omnipotent guru. After a few more minutes, the door to the guru’s house opened and Baba strode out, followed by Anjali and Suresh. As soon as the guru was seated, Stephen Ames brought him a microphone.
“Once, Mullah Nasrudin was wandering around all day in the hot sun, until he came upon a beautiful tree and sat down in its shade. He was very happy to have found such a lovely tree, but then he had a thought: ‘Wouldn’t it be much better if there were a beautiful cottage here for me to live in?’ Nasrudin did not know it, but the tree he was sitting under was a wish-fulfilling tree. So the moment he made this wish it was granted and a beautiful cottage appeared just like that.” Baba snapped his fingers.
“Nasrudin went inside the house and took a look around. It was exactly what he had wanted. He was elated. Then he had another thought: ‘This is wonderful, but wouldn’t it be even better if I had delicious food served to me on golden platters?’ And, since no trick is too difficult for a wish-fulfilling tree, this desire was also fulfilled—not just one, but hundreds of delectable dishes on golden platters materialized. Nasrudin was surrounded by them, and their aroma was intoxicating.
“Still unsatisfied, Nasrudin wished for servants to wait on him. They also appeared and began doing his bidding. So, Nasrudin ate and drank very happily without having to lift a finger. Next, Nasrudin wanted a female companion.” The courtyard erupted in laughter. First the Indians, then, after Anjali’s translation, the Westerners. “How could he sleep all alone in such a beautiful house?” Baba continued. Again, laughter erupted.
“So, a moment later, a ravishing maiden materialized. Nasrudin couldn’t believe his good fortune. But then, he began to have a doubt: ‘This is all too good to be true. She must be a ghost because the moment I thought of her she appeared.’
“No sooner had the doubt occurred to Nasrudin, than the girl turned into a ghost. When he saw the ghost, he became afraid it would devour him, and this is exactly what happened. The ghost ate him up.”
Baba paused for a moment to allow the moral of the story to sink in.
“So this is how poor Mullah Nasrudin’s story ended under the wish-fulfilling tree. This was all he achieved in his life. He had acquired so much, and then, through the power of his own mind, he turned the woman into a ghost who destroyed him. Your own mind is a wish-fulfilling tree. It has enormous potential. But like Nasrudin, you create wonderful experiences for yourself with your mind, and then, because of your doubts, you are eaten up by them. This is why you practice Raja Yoga—through meditation, through self-inquiry, you are able to eliminate these self-destructive tendencies.”
A darshan line formed immediately after Baba’s talk. I got up to join it, leaving my asana on the floor to hold my place. As I waited my turn, I thought about the story he had just told about the wish-fulfilling tree. Like Nasrudin, I thought that I too should wish for something. I didn’t have to think long about what I wanted. I would wish for enlightenment, obviously. Through the power of my own mind, and the grace of the guru, I would make it happen. Unlike Nasrudin, I was sure I’d never let my own mind destroy me in the process.
Yet in the instant that I bowed before the guru, a pitiful cry rose up from deep within my wounded heart. Instead of wishing to attain the most lofty goal of human existence, the lonely orphan inside of me cried out for what I needed more than anything else in the world: Love me! I wished to be close to Baba. I prayed for him to make me a member of his most beloved inner circle. When I stood up, my eyes met Baba’s, and he held me in his gaze for what felt like an eternity. The guru had heard me.
As I turned to go back to my place on the floor, a small group of Indian men with their chins held high entered the courtyard and caught my eye. They weren’t dressed like the typical devotees from Bombay, in polyester camp shirts and bell-bottom slacks. These men wore starched white Gandhi caps, lightweight cotton kurtas, and loose-fitting trousers.
Returning to my spot behind the swamis, I found my asana crumpled between two skinny Indian men. “Excuse me, I’m sitting here.” I pointed to my woolen carpet. “That’s mine.”
One man ignored me. The other wiggled his head, waving his hand at me dismissively.
Fuck this! I thought. I flew into a rage. They’re not going to get away with it. I wedged myself between the two men, expecting them to either put up a fight or cede the spot to me. I was astonished when they did neither. Oblivious to my aggression, they allowed me to sit on top of them. Then, after all that, one of the darshan ushers told me to move. I was outraged: I couldn’t understand why he didn’t make the Indians move. I was there first!
As I got up to leave, Anjali called out to me: “Deependra!” Her sharp tone struck me like lightning. I looked at Baba. He was staring back at me. Shit! I’ve angered the guru! I thought. Baba turned to Anjali and spoke a few words, and then she pointed in my direction and motioned for me to come.
I pointed to my chest. “Me?”
Anjali nodded her head vigorously. As I stepped into the aisle, I was almost knocked over by the men in Gandhi hats. Vinod Desai was leading them up the aisle to meet the guru.
Pushing my way to the front of the line, I knelt down next to Baba’s translator. “I’m so sorry, Anjali. I wasn’t sure you were talking to me, then—”
“Be quiet!” she snapped. “Go fetch Avadhoot. Baba needs him. Tell him to come quickly!”
I knew exactly where to find the photographer. Thrilled to have been sent on such an important mission for the guru, I ran to the elephant house as fast as I could. When I got there, Avadhoot was in the fenced-in area with Raju, patting him affectionately, and cooing sweetly into his enormous ear.
“Who’s a good elephant? Is it Raju? Is Raju a good elephant? Yes he is! Yes he is!”
Just then, Raju snatched Avadhoot’s cowboy hat with his trunk and waved it around in the air.
“Ho, ho, ho, Raju. Be a good elephant. Give Avadhoot back his hat.”
The elephant brought the hat back down within Avadhoot’s reach, and then lifted it up and away again just before Avadhoot had a chance to grab it.
“Give it back Dumbo!” Avadhoot hollered. “Or I’ll rip your tusks out with my bare hands and sell them for ivory!”
Catching my breath from the run, I called out to him from the other side of the fence. “Excuse me, Avadhoot.”
“Yeah. What is it?” he grumbled, struggling to get his hat back from the playful elephant.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Baba wants you to come to the courtyard, right away.”
“Fuck! With my camera?”
My mind froze. “They didn’t say!”
The photographer narrowed his eyes. “And you didn’t even think to ask?”
I felt like a fool. I shook my head. I’ve blown it! I thought. I’ve failed in my mission!
“Idiots!” Avadhoot shouted. “The ashram is overflowing with idiots!” He hastily herded Raju back inside his house, locked the gate, and then, hatless, he tore down the garden path toward to courtyard, with me chasing after him.
I wanted to shoot myself for how poorly I’d handled the mission. I should’ve known to ask Anjali about the
camera. Suddenly it occurred to me: Of course he needs it. Baba probably wants pictures with those Indians in the Gandhi hats. Shit!
“Avadhoot!” I called. But it was useless—he was too far away now to hear me. “I think Baba wants you to take pictures! Avadhoot, wait!”
Out of breath, and with no possibility of catching up to him, I slowed to a walk.
By the time I got back to the courtyard, Avadhoot was already posing the men around Baba’s throne. I realized he must have raced to the Audiovisual office, grabbed his camera, and begun directing the visitors, all in the time it took me to walk to the courtyard.
From the back of the courtyard, I surveyed the area where I’d been sitting to see if I could spot my asana, but it had been swallowed up in the sea of devotees.
Curious about the important visitors, I looked around for someone to ask. Indira St. John was a few feet away. I approached her. “Who are those people with Baba that Avadhoot is photographing?”
“Oh, them?” said Indira, her eyes glued to the guru. “Just a bunch of politicians. They want Baba to endorse their candidate in the next election.”
“I didn’t know Baba was political.”
“He’s not—obviously. He gives them his blessings, like everyone else who comes to see him.”
Baba was now laughing and joking with the men while Avadhoot continued to take pictures. When their audience was over, one of them placed an envelope in the basket at the guru’s feet, and Suresh escorted them out of the courtyard in the direction of Prasad.
Just then I got a whiff of strong cologne. I turned and saw the well-dressed man from the previous night.
“Indira, I need to speak to you,” he said in a strong Italian accent. He turned to face me, looking me up and down before locking eyes with me. “Alone.”
The man creeped me out, but I was unable to look away. He dismissed me with a flick of his chin, and then turned to Indira.
I moved back to where I’d been standing and continued to look on as Baba greeted more weekend visitors. But my thoughts kept returning to the swarthy Italian man. Who is he? And why haven’t I seen him around Baba before? I glanced back to see him walking away from Indira and toward the manager’s office. Indira was now headed in my direction and I stopped her just as she was about to pass me. “Indira, who was that man?”
“Sergio,” she muttered, without looking at me. Then she turned to walk up the aisle and took a seat behind the younger darshan girls.
Sergio Casto? Wasn’t he the rapist? I was horrified.
As I dried dishes at Prasad that evening after dinner, I was in such a state of confusion I could barely focus on what I was doing. Why? Why does Baba allow Sergio back in the ashram after what he did? And what was he doing in Baba’s house in the middle of the night? Are rapists invited to the guru’s secret rites?
“Deependra, uncle, I have one doubt,” said Ganesh Doodhwala, who had come for the weekend with his parents.
“A doubt about what?” I asked, absently feeding a tray of dishes into the machine.
“Something is weighing heavily on your good mind. What is wrong? Please tell me.”
“No, I’m okay,” I answered.
“Then why have you loaded the washer with the clean dishes which you yourself have only just now dried?” Everybody in the dish room laughed.
“How stupid of me!” I buried my face in my hands. I was not okay, but didn’t want to share what was troubling me with anybody, least of all a twelve-year-old boy.
My head was spinning. The fact that Sergio was in the ashram disturbed me deeply. I needed to regain control of my thoughts. I went to the small Brahmananda temple off the courtyard, sat down in front of the life-size statue of Baba’s guru, closed my eyes, and prayed: Gurudev, please help me understand your successor Rudrananda’s actions. They make no sense.
I opened my eyes and looked up at the statue’s impassive face. Silence.
Answer me Gurudev! Why would Baba do such a thing? Sergio’s behavior flies in the face of Baba’s teachings! We are meant to remain celibate in the ashram and rid our hearts and minds of lust. If I can do it, why can’t one of Baba’s closest disciples?
Again I gazed up at the statue of Brahmananda. Silence.
Then I had another thought. Maybe silence is the answer! Suddenly I felt lighter—almost giddy. I must stop trying to understand the actions of an extraordinary saint with my ordinary mind.
I guided my mind toward thoughts of Baba’s tremendous compassion. I remembered my first darshan with him, when he had taken me in his arms, forgiving me for causing my mother’s illness and giving me permission to forgive myself. Didn’t Baba also forgive me for my own sexual perversion? If Baba could forgive me, why not Sergio, or any of his other followers?
I prostrated myself before Lord Brahmananda, and thanked him from the depths of my heart for granting me right understanding. I was so relieved I felt like dancing. On the way back to my room, I looked up at the millions of stars in the night sky. The heavens were smiling down on me. I had passed another of the guru’s tests!
I thought about Baba’s supreme love for his children. Tears of gratitude streamed down my face. Baba has given Sergio a second chance, I told myself. I was now more in awe of the guru than ever.
Jai Gurudev! I whispered out loud.
Jai Gurudev! Jai Gurudev!