Ganesh and his parents stopped me on my way to the dish room. “Happy birthday, Deependra uncle!”
“I can’t believe you remembered! Thank you!”
I was glad that somebody knew what day it was. I hadn’t heard from anyone in my family for almost three months, and they had obviously forgotten my birthday. It hurt. Then I remembered that this boy and my other Raja Yoga brothers and sisters were all the family I needed.
“You are how old only?” asked the boy’s father.
“Nineteen.”
Ganesh’s parents smiled and wiggled their heads approvingly. His dad reached for my hand and shook it. “Aacha!”
As time passed in the Ravipur ashram, my initial shock and confusion over Sergio’s return to Baba’s side gave way to a fascination. The man was always challenging my concepts of what it meant to be spiritual. Of all of the guru’s Western disciples, Sergio and Avadhoot were undoubtedly the closest. But like Baba’s cowboy photographer, Sergio couldn’t have been more different from the typical devotee. For one thing, I never once saw him in the meditation cave, the dining hall, or at a chant, unless Baba was in attendance. For another, his appearance was as fashionable as Avadhoot’s was outlandish.
Favoring chic linen shirts, slim slacks, and fancy leather dress shoes, Sergio also wore an intricate gold chain around his neck to match his expensive-looking gold wristwatch. He had the distinction of being the only man in the ashram to wear cologne, and he used a lot of it. You didn’t need extrasensory perception to know when Sergio had just left a room or was lurking around a corner. What made him seem even more exotic were his deeply tanned olive skin and perfectly coiffed dark curly hair, which always appeared to be damp. Along with his squeaky clean appearance, his wet hair gave the impression that he had only just stepped out of the shower a few moments earlier.
Sergio had perfect posture and was in excellent shape. Even though he was in his thirties—which, to me at the time, seemed ancient—he was probably the fittest man in the ashram. Because I never saw him lift a finger, however, I couldn’t help wondering how. It seemed like his only seva was to sit up front during darshan. I imagined him with a treadmill and weights, working out in the privacy of his room while the rest of us were meditating or at the chants. This would at least explain the permanently wet hair.
While Sergio more closely resembled a resident of the French Riviera than an ashramite, it was the way he spoke and behaved that made him so different. I hadn’t spoken with him since our first encounter, but I was able to observe him during mealtimes at Prasad. The exclusive company he kept was no surprise: he only sat with other members of the inner circle, and enjoyed a close relationship with Anjali. It also didn’t escape my notice that Gopi was all smiles whenever she sat with him. Doesn’t she know he’s a rapist? I asked myself again and again.
When I was lucky, I found a seat close enough to his table that I could overhear bits and pieces of his conversations. I liked his accent—the way he always added just the hint of a vowel sound at the end of every word, as if he wanted to pronounce it but was stopping himself.
Sometimes at night, when I was alone in the bathroom, I’d stand in front of the mirror doing impressions of Sergio’s hand gestures and facial expressions. One of my favorites was when he’d smile, pinch his fingers, draw a straight line in the air with them, and then declare, “Perfetto!” I loved to imitate the way his lips curled into an ugly scowl when he got angry, or, when he was having a private conversation, how he sometimes looked furtively over his shoulder and stirred an imaginary bowl in the air with the tips of his fingers.
Despite the fact that I never actually saw Sergio do any physical work, he was a busy man. He was in and out of Baba’s house at all hours of the day and night. During darshan, he always told everyone else what to do. Rohini told me that he was Baba’s tour manager, but as far as I could tell, Sergio Casto was in charge of everything.
Around the same time I was becoming obsessed with the Italian, I began to notice that not only Sergio but all the men close to Baba dressed in conservative, Western-style clothing. The only exceptions were the swamis, of course, and Avadhoot, who always dressed like a wackadoo, even in the States. I started to notice that only ordinary devotees like Namdev Loman and me donned traditional Indian clothing. I realized that if I wanted to be close to the guru, I should start dressing like the people who were.
This meant I needed a whole new set of clothes. But Bombay was only place I could buy the Fred Perry polo shirts and straight-leg khaki pants favored by the men on Baba’s staff. The prospect of traveling to the enormous city frightened me. I asked Namdev if he’d make the trip with me, but he declined. He was now on scholarship at the ashram, and he couldn’t come and go whenever he pleased. Rohini was more than happy to give me the time off. She made some suggestions about what to do while I was there, including a visit to the Gateway of India and the caves on Elephanta Island. I thanked Rohini for her ideas, but knew I wouldn’t be doing any sightseeing. I saw myself as a spiritual aspirant on a sacred mission, not a tourist. Sita Perkins also gave her permission for me to leave for a couple of days, and found someone to cover my shifts in the dish room.
“Don’t stay away too long, Deependra,” said the seva coordinator. “Gurudev’s mahasamadhi celebrations begin next week. There’ll be a lot of extra seva for everyone, and you won’t want to miss the saptah.”
The saptah was a chant that went on twenty-four hours a day for seven days, culminating in the beginning of a holiday. In this case, we were commemorating Brahmananda’s Punyatithi—the anniversary of his leaving his physical body to merge with the Absolute.
The day before my excursion, I went by the office to pick up my passport. Gajendra’s reluctance to hand it over bothered me. He first wanted to hear why I needed it. When I explained that I needed new clothes, he was satisfied and wrote down a few addresses for me.
“I’d also like to call home,” I added.
Gajendra folded his arms and eyed me cautiously. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” I felt a tightening in my chest. “No, nothing is wrong. I’d just like to say hello.”
“Which hotel are you staying in?” he asked, handing me the paper with the addresses.
“I thought I’d spend the night at one of the guest houses on the list recommended by the ashram.”
Shaking his head, Gajendra took my passport out of a file cabinet behind him and handed it to me. “Forget about those places. You should stay at the Taj.”
“The Taj Palace? Isn’t it expensive?”
The manager’s permanent frown was momentarily eclipsed by a smile. “It’s worth the money. You’ll also be able to make an international call there. Anyhow, what’s the big deal?” Gajendra said, wiggling his eyebrows. “You can afford it, right?”
*
The next morning, I didn’t bother packing a change of clothes. I knew I’d be returning from Bombay with a brand new wardrobe. The Guru Gita was just beginning when it was time for me to leave. As I tiptoed passed the open-air hall, I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Outside at the bus stop, I could still hear the chant over the ashram loudspeakers.
I wasn’t sure exactly when the bus to the railway station would arrive—no one in the ashram could say with any certainty—but forty minutes into the Gita, I boarded a run-down, dust-covered red and yellow bus.
As the bus crawled down bumpy dirt roads through the Maharashtrian countryside, I was fascinated by what I saw: men and boys walking alongside the road hand in hand, or sleeping on top of each other under the shade of trees; impossibly huge loads of sugarcane transported by rickety ox carts; trucks elaborately adorned with religious symbols and garlands, the words “Horn OK Please” or “Please Use Dipper At Night” painted on their back ends. I wondered what these instructions could possibly mean to other motorists, and why they were in English.
Suddenly I felt knuckles rapping on my head, knocking on my skull as if it were the front door of a house.
“Hello, please!” came a man’s voice from behind me.
I whipped my head around and was face to face with a balding man with an oily comb-over and a shit-eating grin.
“Hey, cut it out!”
I wanted to smack him, but held back. I was in a foreign country, I reminded myself. For all I knew, maybe it was normal to greet people that way.
“So sorry,” the man said, apologizing by quickly touching his hand to my arm and then touching his own head. “You are coming from which country?”
“America.”
The man’s eyes widened in alarm. “Iran?”
He had misheard me. “No, no! The United States.”
“Aacha! Aacha!” the man exclaimed, wiggling his head and smiling again. “America proper?”
“That’s right.” I was unsure what America proper actually meant.
After what felt like an interminable journey, the bus finally arrived at a ramshackle train station. Half of the passengers got off the bus.
“Is this the Vasai Road station?” I asked a man sitting across from me.
The man smiled at me benevolently, but remained silent.
“Vasai Road?”
The man’s grin widened and he wiggled his head ambiguously.
Again I felt the knuckles of the man sitting behind on my head. The heat of anger spread through me. I bit my lower lip and turned around again.
“What is it?” I demanded through gritted teeth.
“This one—Vasai Road railway station—here only,” the man said happily.
Inside the station, the line for a ticket was so long I missed my train to Bombay. I had to wait outside on the platform for nearly two and a half hours until the next one came.
When the train finally arrived, it was packed with people. After a two-hour journey, we pulled into Churchgate Station. I was astounded when my fellow passengers began pushing and shoving each other, jumping out of the open doors of the train before it had even come to a complete stop.
The railway station in Bombay reeked of rotting fish—an even more unpleasant odor than the public toilets at the ashram. I nearly vomited. On the street, I was assaulted by hot blinding sunshine and the incessant cacophony of car horns blaring, the aggressive calls of hawkers, and the raucous conversations of pedestrians. I was also greeted by another familiar odor—the one I had first encountered on the tarmac at the airport months ago—a sickening combination of exhaust fumes, wood smoke, and putrid garbage. As much as my senses were overloaded, I was fascinated by the scene: men carrying dozens of tin canisters on their heads; women in elegant saris or shrouded in black burqas; old men in traditional Indian garb; businessmen in Western-style suits; teens in tight blue jeans; children with stumps for limbs begging in between traffic lanes; skinny men sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk; scrawny dogs everywhere. I should be disturbed by the terrible poverty, I thought. But I feel nothing. What’s wrong with me?
I looked on in amazement at the chaotic ebb and flow of traffic in front of the station. Vehicles heedlessly swerved in and out of lanes, coming perilously close to one another in a perpetual state of near misses. I had no idea how to hail a taxi, but several drivers solicited me the moment I stepped to the curb. I hopped into the nearest car and asked the cabbie to take me to the Taj Palace hotel in Colaba.
At first, the seeming recklessness of my driver scared me—he came within millimeters of hitting a young couple sharing a motor scooter, and then narrowly avoided colliding with an oncoming double-decker bus as he passed an auto rickshaw. I felt safer, however, after I noticed a flower-adorned photograph of Gurudev Brahmananda fixed above his dashboard. Baba’s guru will protect me!
“I’m a devotee of Brahmananda, too,” I said from the back seat.
The driver squinted at me in the rearview mirror.
“I’m a disciple of Gurudev’s successor, Swami Rudrananda. I live in the Ravipur ashram.”
Ignoring me, the driver turned sharply onto a broad avenue with many shops, street vendors, and restaurants. I assumed he didn’t speak English.
I stared out the window at a haggard man playing a reedy wind instrument, leading an emaciated cow by a rope. At his side was a small boy in filthy clothes beating an impossibly large drum that hung from his neck.
The taxi turned onto a side street, and then turned again onto a six-lane boulevard parallel to the harbor. A street sign identified it as “Marine Drive.” In the distance I saw a great stone archway at the end of a large wharf crowded with people.
“What is that?” I asked, pointing to the archway in a last attempt to communicate.
“The monument, sir?” the driver said in perfect English.
“Yes!” I wondered why the man had previously pretended not to understand me.
“That is the Gateway of India. Erected by the British in 1911.”
After passing a few blocks of badly weathered apartment buildings, we arrived at an enormous hotel with red domes and pointed arches. The entrance was guarded by two Sikh doormen, ceremonial daggers holstered at their sides. Their long hair and beards were tucked neatly into bright orange silk turbans that matched the sashes tied around their waists. The ends of their mustaches were waxed and twirled into points that curved upward toward their cheeks.
They’re never going to let me in that place, I worried. Not the way I’m dressed. I was wearing one of my clownish blue ashram ensembles.
“Good afternoon, sir,” one of the doormen said, holding a door open for me. “Welcome to the Taj Palace.”
Stepping out of the sweltering heat, humidity, and glaring sunlight into the sumptuous, dimly lit, air-conditioned lobby was like entering an oasis of comfort and luxury.
Contrary to my fear of looking like a weirdo in such elegant surroundings, I fit right in. In addition to the Indian and Western businessmen, glamorous women, and Arab sheiks, there was a variety of white-skinned oddballs and freaks lounging in the lobby: a crazy-eyed man with a long beard and shock of white hair in the orange robes of a sadhu grasping what looked like King Neptune’s trident; a barefoot, middle-aged lady in a pale yellow sari with a string of enormous rudraksha beads hanging from her neck; and a couple of young, long-haired backpackers in tie-dyed t-shirts and cutoffs who reeked of pot.
I was impressed by the elegance of the place: its Persian carpets, crystal chandeliers, onyx columns, and gigantic bouquets of fragrant lilies. I wished I could stay longer than just one night, but I knew it must cost a fortune. I decided to ask for the cheapest room in the house.
“Just you, your good self, checking in, sir?” the woman at reception asked in a British accent. Her hair was dark brown instead of black, and her eyes were an arresting shade of gray.
“Yes.”
“I have a lovely single room for you, sir, with a splendid view of the Arabian Sea.”
Suddenly I changed my mind about trying to save money. After a year of austerities, I deserve the best! “Do you have any suites with the same view?”
The clerk stared at me incredulously for a moment. Then she responded: “Yes, sir. However, we will require payment in advance.”
I took a wad of traveler’s checks out of my knapsack and, handing a small chunk of my inheritance money over to the woman, felt the walls of my throat begin to close.
“Very good, sir,” said the clerk, handing me a room key. She struck a call bell on the counter with the palm of her hand, and a moment later a bellhop appeared beside me.
“Your luggage, sir?” he asked, looking around on the floor next to me.
I was confused. “What luggage?”
The bellhop’s bushy eyebrows squished together. “Your valise?”
“Oh!” I handed the man my worn out knapsack. “This is it.”
The woman behind the reception counter cringed, and then dismissed me with a disapproving wiggle of her head.
My suite consisted of a bedroom with a king-size bed and a living room with a large sofa. Both rooms had access to a balcony with a breathtaking view of the harbor and the Gateway of India.
After settling in, the first thing I did was to set up a puja to Baba with a small framed photograph of him and an incense burner I’d brought with me. Pleased with my makeshift altar, I lit a stick of sandalwood incense, and then prostrated myself before the guru’s picture.
I stripped naked and drew a bath. As I waited for the tub to fill, I regarded myself in the mirror. I’d never been thinner in my entire life. I noticed something else: my acne had completely cleared up. It had must have happened gradually, but for some reason I hadn’t noticed it getting better. This was further proof that the fire of Raja Yoga was burning away all of my imperfections, inside and out.
When the bathroom had filled up with steam and I could no longer see my reflection, I slid my aching body into the tub. The water was much hotter than the bucket baths I’d gotten used to in Ravipur, but thanks to the air conditioning, it felt wonderful.
Although I had a lot of shopping to do before the stores closed, it was difficult for me to drag myself out of the delicious hot water. I soaked until my fingers and toes became swollen and wrinkled.
Stretching out on the bed, I luxuriated in the firmness and enormous size of the mattress. No crazy roommates. Alone at last! But as I drifted off to sleep, another thought occurred to me: Wouldn’t it be perfect if Gopi were here with me?
A loud knock came on the door. I shot out of bed, wrapped a towel around my waist, went to the door, and looked through the peephole. Outside stood a heavyset Indian woman and a tall Indian man in a hotel uniform. The woman scowled and knocked again. I unlatched the door and cracked it open, exposing only my head and bare torso.
“Good afternoon,” the woman frowned, turning her nose up at me. “I am Mrs. C.N. Narendra —hotel security. Kindly to open the door please.”
I glanced up at the tall uniformed man next her. He had a vacant look on his face, and although he was taller than me, he was even skinnier. He didn’t seem particularly threatening. The fat woman looked a lot more dangerous, and I was afraid of her.
“May I please put on some clothes first?”
“Very well,” the woman said, pursing her lips. I shut the door, and hastily got back into the same sweaty clothes I’d been wearing before my bath.
I opened the door again and Mrs. Narendra waddled into my suite to begin her investigation. While her assistant waited in the doorway, she checked all the rooms.
“May I ask what you’re looking for?”
Mrs. Narendra turned around and regarded me suspiciously. “I’ll know when I find it.”
She let herself out onto the balcony. I couldn’t imagine what they suspected me of. I couldn’t help feeling like a criminal.
Satisfied that I had nothing to hide, Mrs. Narendra and her lanky assistant departed without saying a word, leaving the door to my suite open behind them.
I had wasted enough time. I’d skip lunch, hit the shops, and have a big dinner later. On my way out of the hotel I stopped at reception to drop off my room key. The light-skinned woman I’d spoken to earlier was assisting another guest, so I talked to a different clerk—an earnest-looking young man in thick-rimmed glasses.
“A Mrs. Narendra made a visit to my room earlier,” I said, handing him my key. “She said she was from hotel security. She didn’t find anything. May I ask why she was sent?”
“Ah yes,” the clerk said, blushing a little. Then he opened his mouth again to speak, but nothing came out.
“Yes, what?” I insisted.
“Checking for monkey business only, sir,” the clerk muttered, turning redder.
“Monkey business? What sort of monkey business?”
“Oh, you know, sir—” he began, looking away. “—the usual hanky-panky, mischief making, and what-all.”
Out on the street I lost my way a couple of times before finding the Colaba Causeway, where Gajendra had told me the men who tour with Baba bought all of their clothes. After an hour or two of window shopping, I came upon a store called Arrow, where I found everything I needed: Fred Perry polo shirts—one in every available color, and half a dozen pairs of pants—khaki, white, blue, and charcoal gray. I was spending a small fortune, but I didn’t care. I was doing this for Baba.
Before leaving the shop I changed into one of my new outfits and asked the shopkeeper to throw out my old Indian “clown suit.” He was all too happy to oblige.
I left Arrow in my stylish new clothes with my head held high and a spring in my step. I felt like a new man. What would Sergio think of me now?
Above me I heard the sound of someone clearing phlegm from their throat. I looked up to see a man spitting out of an open window. I moved just in time to avoid getting hit.
“Please don’t be afraid, sir,” came a voice from behind me. I spun around and was face to face with a beautiful Indian girl in her teens. She was dressed in an indigo blue sari. In her hand she held tiny garlands of jasmine flowers.
“I don’t want money,” she said in perfect English. “But could you please buy me some food? I’m very hungry.”
I looked the girl over: she was clean and well groomed. Her dark skin was radiant in the sweet light of the late afternoon, and her braided hair looked like black silk. There was an air of purity about her, and I guessed she was unmarried.
All she wanted was something to eat, she had said. I thought about inviting her back to my suite and ordering room service. We could eat out on the balcony and enjoy the sunset together. Afterwards, I would seduce her and make love to her in my big king-size bed. When she sees how rich I am, how will she resist me? I thought. Perhaps I will make her my wife and take her back to the ashram. I wonder what our children would look like? Will they look Jewish or Indian?
“Sir, perhaps you would like to buy some flowers? I just want to buy something to eat. Sir?…Sir?”
I snapped out of my reverie. Am I insane? What am I thinking? Then I remembered Baba saying that one should never give to beggars. I had no idea what his reasons were, but it didn’t matter. I’d be damned if I disobeyed the guru.
I turned away from the girl and ran back toward the hotel as fast as I could.
“Wait, sir! Please! Don’t be afraid!”
She chased me for a few blocks and finally gave up. I was relieved.
Feeling peckish myself, I looked for somewhere to eat an early dinner. After sticking my head into a few restaurants, I finally settled on a place called Café Leopold, where other Westerners were dining. One of the waiters seated me. There were so many vegetarian options, it was almost impossible for me to choose. I ended up ordering three paneer vegetable dishes, and was unable to finish them all. Leaving half my food uneaten, I asked for the check and returned to the hotel.
With nothing to do, I dropped off my purchases in my room and went back outside into the warm evening air for a long walk, giving both doormen generous tips on my way out. Baba said not to give to beggars, but nothing about tipping, I reminded myself.
Strolling down Marine Drive for a few blocks, I passed luxury apartment buildings, all of which were protected by stick-wielding security guards in ill-fitting uniforms. Some of them looked like they were on the verge of falling asleep and slipping from their chairs.
After wandering down random streets for a couple of miles, I came upon an area where dwellings were made of plywood, corrugated metal, and sheets of plastic. There I encountered more beggars, most of whom were children.
This must be a slum, I thought. I didn’t know how to react to what I saw around me. Again, I was unable to feel anything. This is their karma, I told myself. They deserve to live like this.
Night fell, and as I made my way back to the hotel I was accosted by shifty-eyed men: “Yes, please, hello! Looking for smack?”
Smack? At the age of nineteen, I didn’t even know what smack was. As they looked me up and down, trying to gauge how much money they could extract from me, I ignored them and avoided eye contact.
A few blocks from my hotel I heard what sounded like chanting. As I drew nearer, the singing got louder and I discovered its source: the music was coming from the open windows of a church. Curious about what an Indian church was like, I stopped and looked through the windows. The people inside were standing with their eyes screwed shut and their arms raised in the air, singing what sounded like a cross between a Hindu chant and gospel. To me, they were pathetic. Their hearts were full of devotion to God, yet they had chosen the wrong path. I was lifetimes ahead of them.
“Yes, sir—the post is the cheapest way to make a trunk call,” said the earnest-looking clerk at the reception. “But it will be a very time-costing undertaking. The queue for an international line is too lengthy. Better to wait in the comfort of your suite. Kindly to be giving the number of the party you wish to ring in America. The hotel operator will revert to you when your line has been achieved.”
I glanced at the clocks on the wall above the clerk—there was one each for Bombay, Hong Kong, London, and New York. It was eleven o’clock in New York. “Is it A.M. or P.M. in the States right now?”
“Most definitely A.M., sir.”
I would only be able to call one sibling this time. I was about to write down Jeremy’s number, but then I changed my mind and gave him Melanie’s.
Up in my room, I was pleasantly surprised when the phone next to my bed rang within a few minutes. “Good evening, Mr. Greenbaum,” came a woman’s voice when I answered. “This is the hotel operator. I have your party in America on the line.”
“Hello, Melanie?”
“Dougie, is that you?” My sister’s voice was shrill. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes—fine. I’m at a hotel in Bombay.” There seemed to be a slight delay between the time I spoke and when she heard me.
“What happened? Did you leave the ashram? You sound so far away—like you’re calling from the moon!”
“No, I didn’t leave the ashram. I’m just doing some shopping. I’m going back to Ravipur tomorrow afternoon.”
“When are you coming home?”
I assured Melanie that I’d be returning to Birchwood Falls in the summer with
Baba—unless he asked me to remain behind.
“What? You mean he might tell you to stay in India? They can’t force you!” My sister was angry now and, as usual, jumping to conclusions. I’d forgotten how annoying she could be. “What about college? Are you going to apply to TC3 for the fall?”
“I’m thinking about it,” I lied.
Mindful of the time, I asked about our other siblings and Grandma Millie. Lucy had started at Syracuse University and was dating a star player on the basketball team—a black guy named Henry. Aunt Gabby had moved down to Florida so that she and Grandma could have more time together to argue—a good distraction for both of them, we agreed. She had no news from our brother.
“Before you hang up, Doug, I think you should know that I’ve decided not to sell Mommy’s house.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m getting out of the nursery business—I’m going to teach horticulture at a correctional facility for girls in South Lansing. I’m putting the farm up for sale.”
I wondered how teaching horticulture to juvenile delinquents could possibly benefit them, but didn’t want to waste time and money talking about it.
“So, you and the girls are staying in the house? How exactly does that work? Are you going to be buying the rest of us out?”
“I’ll write you a letter explaining everything,” she answered. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I got off the phone with Melanie, and then stepped out onto the balcony for air. The cool sea breeze was a welcome change after the sweltering heat of the day. I looked over the harbor. The Gateway of India was all lit up for the night. I regretted I had no one to share the enchanting view with me. Again, I thought of Gopi and how romantic it would be to share my luxury suite with her. We would make love on the king-size bed, order room service, and dine together out here on the terrace. Then I reminded myself of Baba’s recent talk, in which he said that we were not in the ashram to meet a husband or a wife or to make friends. I repeated the mantra silently to myself and tried to put the lustful fantasies out of my mind.
But it was impossible. I felt lonely and homesick. I missed my family and wished I were back in Ithaca.
*
After a late breakfast in the hotel restaurant, I took a walk across the street to the wide jetty that led out to the Gateway. There, men who barely spoke English solicited me relentlessly, offering their services as tour guides. Some of them were selling tickets for boat rides to and from Elephanta Island, where I could visit its famous caves and see the ancient Hindu and Buddhist sculptures cut from the rock. I would’ve liked to make the voyage. I wanted to learn more about India in general. But there was no time. I had come to Bombay on a mission for the guru: I had purchased the stylish clothes required to serve him more closely, but I still needed to find a pair of dressy loafers, like the ones Sergio wore. Then I had to get back to Ravipur as soon as possible. The chanting saptah was scheduled to begin that evening, and I’d be needed for extra seva in the week leading up to Brahmananda’s Punyatithi.
At the suggestion of the concierge at the Taj, I looked for shoes in the hotel’s shopping arcade. The stores in the arcade were fancy, but pricy. A gift shop offered a huge selection of decorative objects, bronze sculptures of Hindu gods and goddesses, shawls from Kashmir, and jewelry. Past the hotel swimming pool, I found a clothing store called Burlington’s that sold traditional Indian men’s and women’s clothing.
This must be where the princesses do all their shopping, I mused. Then I couldn’t believe it—I caught a glimpse of a familiar form in one of the stores. My pulse quickened. I turned my head and there, on the far side of the shop, was Gopi. She was examining an elegant green and gold sari that another one of Baba’s darshan girls was holding up for her. She didn’t see me at first.
I continued to stare until, glancing in my direction, she noticed me and a bright smile of recognition dawned on her face. “Deependra! Hi!”
My breath caught in my chest.
As I approached, Gopi gave me the once over. “Hey, nice new threads!”
She noticed! My heart swelled. “Thanks!”
The other princess was a tall, curvaceous young woman with an olive complexion, long brown wavy hair, and an aquiline nose. I guessed she was Jewish or Italian. She was attractive, but nothing compared to the angel.
“This is Parvati,” Gopi said, introducing her companion.
“I’m Deependra.”
Parvati sneered. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you cleaning the courtyard. What’s your last name?”
“Greenbaum.”
Parvati laughed without smiling. “Of course it is.”
“What’s yours?” I asked, wondering what was so funny.
“Halabi,” the girl said.
I turned to Gopi. “Yours?”
“Defournier. It’s French.”
Now all three of us were laughing, but I still wasn’t sure why.
Gopi glanced at her watch. “Did you eat lunch yet?”
I shook my head.
“Parvati and I are going to get a quick bite. Then we’re going to head back to Ravipur. Want to join us? The three of us can share a rickshaw from the railway station at Vasai Road to the ashram.”
“Can three passengers really fit into one of those things?” I asked.
“It depends on how much stuff they’re carrying!” Parvati chuckled, gesturing to the five or six fancy shopping bags at her feet.
Gopi smiled and blushed. “And we’ve got more in our room.”
“So do I!” I said. Then we all laughed again.
Gopi and Parvati paid for their things, and then the three of us went to the hotel restaurant for lunch. The buffet was enormous and the food was fantastic. Nearly half of it was vegetarian.
To drink, Gopi and I ordered Indian colas. Parvati ordered a Kingfisher. She took a sip of her beer, and then offered me her glass. “Want to try it?”
“I don’t drink,” I said, wondering why she did.
Parvati jutted her chin out. “It’s a lot better than the shit you’re drinking.”
“Deependra, how do you like living in Ravipur?” Gopi interrupted.
“It’s a dream come true. I’m so grateful to the guru to be there.”
Parvati smirked. “How do you like cleaning the courtyard? Weren’t you working with Avadhoot and the video crew in Birchwood Falls?”
I explained that I’d been only filling in for a while for Kriyadevi Friedman after she broke her leg. “And I
don’t clean the courtyard anymore. I wash dishes at Prasad. I… also clean the public restrooms.”
Both women leaned back and cringed. “Ewwwwwwww!”
Heat rushed to my face and I got a sharp pain at the back of my neck. They are Baba’s darshan girls because they are pure and innocent, I thought, lowering my head in shame. I am a worthless wretch. I stared at the uneaten food on my plate.
A superior smile crept across Parvati’s face. “I clean Baba’s bathroom, sometimes.”
I am out of my league with these girls!
“It’s so full of shakti—” continued Parvati. “The second I go in there I slip into a state of meditation.” For some reason I doubted Parvati’s story. Not because I didn’t believe Baba’s bathroom wasn’t a powerhouse of divine energy, but because I had the distinct impression that the girl never meditated.
I pushed the food around on my plate and sank lower in my chair. “You’re really lucky to have that kind of seva.”
Parvati took another swig of beer. “Of course, it’s already perfectly clean before I even get started. The guru is completely pure in all respects.”
When we were ready for dessert, Parvati left, saying that she’d meet up with us in the lobby. There was something else she still wanted to buy at Burlington’s.
“Don’t worry, Greenbaum,” Parvati said, winking at me. “Gopi will pay my share.”
For the next few minutes Gopi and I sat without saying a word to each other, eating sweet cheese dumplings smothered in rose syrup. Then I had a thought. Alone and away from the ashram, this was the perfect opportunity to get some answers. “Can I ask you something, Gopi?”
She straightened her back. Then she looked up at me and tilted her head to one side. “Um, sure. What is it?”
“Not long ago, I heard a chant coming from Baba’s house. It was late—after midnight. Do you know anything about it?”
Gopi stared at me with her mismatched eyes. “What were you doing out of bed and wandering around the ashram at midnight?”
Remembering that lustful thoughts about her had driven me from my bed that night, my mind raced, searching for an excuse. “Sometimes I can’t sleep because of the noise from the village. It seems like there’s a wedding every night.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Weddings?” She carefully placed a tiny spoonful of gulab jamun in her mouth. “At this time of year?”
“Baba was leading,” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard her question. “But I’m pretty sure most of the others were women.”
Gopi formed a steeple with her fingers and stared into her dessert for a long time before speaking. “Chants to Devi.”
“What?”
“We recite mantras to worship the Goddess with Baba twice a week.”
“Oh, so you were there?”
Gopi looked away, and then hesitated again before answering. “Yes.”
“But why the secrecy? And why are they chanted in the middle of the night?”
Gopi turned her head back to look me in the eye. “Because they’re not for everybody.”
Neither of us said another word until the waiter brought the check. Then I asked him to charge it to my room.
“Room number, sir?”
I gave the waiter the name of my suite and signed the check. Gopi let out a short bark of laughter and stared at me in disbelief. “You’re staying here? In a suite?”
“Yeah, aren’t you?” I asked, trying to sound casual—as if I stayed in suites at fancy hotels all the time.
“Are you kidding? We’re staying at the Apollo Guest House across from the police station. The Taj is way too expensive.” Gopi reached into her purse and counted out some rupees, and then set them down on the table in front of me.
I shook my head and pushed the banknotes back in her direction. “Keep your money.”
The angel looked nonplussed, but accepted my offer to treat. “Thanks, Deependra.”
Gopi and Parvati accompanied me while I looked for shoes in the arcade, but I couldn’t find anything that looked like Sergio’s loafers.
“Forget it, Greenbaum,” said Parvati. “If you want high quality shoes, you’re better off waiting till you get back to the States.” Gopi agreed and I gave up looking.
The girls waited in the lobby while I checked out of the hotel. When the clerk handed me my statement, I gasped. The five-minute “trunk call” to the States accounted for over twenty-five percent of the bill.
We stepped out of the climate-controlled hotel into the sweltering heat of the afternoon.
“Shall I call you a taxi, sir?” the Sikh doorman asked.
“Yes,” said Parvati, before I had a chance to respond. “Make it fast, please.”
By the time our train pulled into the Vasai Road station several hours later, it was dark. Parvati haggled with a few drivers in a combination of English and Marathi before finally settling on one. The girls climbed into the three-wheeler and I helped load their purchases onto their laps. I got in on the other side next to Gopi.
The ride across a seemingly endless series of dirt roads was bumpy, but I didn’t mind because Gopi and I kept getting knocked into each other. Even better, whenever the rickshaw took a sharp turn, we were practically thrown into each other’s laps. This was a thrill for me, and the physical contact made me long to take her in my arms and tell her how much I loved her.
The rickshaw hit a large pothole in the road and I awoke, disoriented. Someone’s head was resting on my shoulder. Then I realized who it belonged to. Gopi had also fallen asleep. Meanwhile, Parvati was wide awake, watching the road like a bird of prey. Where the hell am I? It was dark, but by the buildings and shops along the side of the road, I could tell that we were on the outskirts of Ravipur. We would be arriving at the ashram in just a few minutes. Looking down at my feet, I was relieved to see that my shopping bags were still there and hadn’t fallen out of the three-wheeler while I nodded off.
“Wake up Gopi, we’re almost there,” I said, gently shaking her.
Gopi opened her eyes, and then glanced up at me. She looked confused for a moment, but then a smile of recognition lit up her eyes. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but at that moment I thought Gopi liked me.
For the rest of the ride, I reflected on my visit to the city. I’d miss the luxury and comfort of the Taj, but was glad to be returning home to the ashram and the safety of my familiar routine. I was also pleased with myself. Despite my anxiety and misgivings, I’d gone through with the trip. Managing everything on my own made me feel grown-up. There are probably a lot of other things I could do now that used to scare me, I realized. I have the guru to thank for that.
By the time we pulled up in front of the ashram, it was late in the night. But over the ashram loudspeakers, we heard a rousing chant in progress. I listened closer—Baba was leading it!
“The saptah’s already begun!” Parvati said, scrambling out of the rickshaw with her belongings.
“You’re going to love it,” Gopi said, hopping out of the three-wheeler. “At the end of the saptah there’ll be a huge feast and a celebration!”
Impatient to join the chant, we paid the driver without arguing about the price, and then rushed to the gate.
I tried to open it, but couldn’t. “It’s locked! How do we get in now?”
Gopi chuckled and playfully elbowed me in the side. She reached for a cord that rang a small bell hanging inside the gate. “Thought we had to stay out here all night, huh?”
A few seconds later, out of the darkness a groggy Indian guard emerged and let us in. I followed the girls into the courtyard, drawn by the hypnotic melody and rhythm of the chant. Then I caught sight of my guru: holding his tambourine high above his head and beating it in time to the music, Baba swayed from side to side on his throne. His eyes were rolled up into his head and his eyelids fluttered. I was enthralled.
The hall was packed with ashramites and devotees, overflowing into the courtyard. Not wasting any time, the girls raced off in the direction of their dorm, presumably to drop off their shopping bags. My room was much farther away, however, and I hesitated to leave the courtyard. I didn’t want to miss anything.
Utterly transfixed by the chant, and oblivious to how much time was passing, I stood in the center aisle near the back of the hall, shopping bags and knapsack at my feet, gazing at my beloved guru and singing along: “Om Namo Bhagavate Brahmanandaya! Om Namo Bhagavate Brahmanandaya!” The same sacred mantra over and over. It meant: “I surrender to Lord Brahmananda.”
At one point, Baba opened his eyes and seemed to be staring directly at me. Knowing he was watching, I threw myself even more deeply into the chant. I let the sound of Baba’s voice and the sacred mantra purify my being and wash away the decadence of the past two days. I closed my eyes and allowed the chant to lift me away: “Om Namo Bhagavate Brahmanandaya! Om Namo Bhagavate Brahmanandaya!”
Baba’s shakti coursed through my entire body.
Then someone grabbed me by the arm so forcefully I cried out in pain. Opening my eyes, I saw Sergio Casto standing two inches from my face, glaring at me. He smelled strongly of cologne, and his breath was minty fresh.
“Don’t stand there like an idiot in front of the guru with all your shit on the floor!” he hollered, trying to make himself heard over the chant. “This is a place of worship, not an American shopping mall!”
Trembling all over, I shouted back an apology. “I’m so sorry, Sergio! I didn’t mean to be disrespectful!”
“Let’s go,” he mouthed, gesturing for me to pick up my stuff. Grabbing my arm again, he led me into the courtyard. We drew stares from people on our way out of the hall. “You crazy or something?” he said, tapping the side of his head with his finger. “Have some respect! Bring these bags to your room, and then come back.”
“Right away, Sergio!”
Looking me up and down, an amused smile spread across his face. “Hey, nice clothes.”
“Thank you.”
Sergio placed his hands on his hips and smiled again. “Arrow?”
I nodded.
“Molto bello! But next time you should shop at Maharaja’s. You can tell ‘em Sergio sent you.”
“Thank you. I will!”
“Now go, Greenbaum. Take your things to your room and come back quick!”
Returning to my room, I found Claus snoring noisily in his bed. Why would anyone rather be sleeping when they could be chanting with the guru? I couldn’t fathom it. As I put my things away I thought about my encounter with Sergio. His temper frightened me, but I understood that he could also be very nice.
Statutory rape is not really rape rape, I mused. I wondered what the age of consent was in Italy. Maybe Sergio was just ignorant of US law? I thought about it some more and decided that even if he thought it was legal, he was still too old to have sex with a sixteen-year-old. Then again, everybody makes mistakes, I told myself. If Baba could forgive the Italian, why shouldn’t I?
Sniffing my arm where Sergio had grabbed me, I smelled traces of his cologne. I made a mental note to find out what it was called and where to buy it. I recalled how he had been impressed by my new clothes and felt elated. Then it hit me: Sergio had called me by my last name. And I thought he didn’t even know I existed!