“Turn it off! Turn it off!” In the black depths of sleep, the angry voice of my roommate and the persistent whine of my alarm reached me. I forced my eyes open and slapped the off button, knocking the clock to the floor.
“Sorry, Claus,” I said, rolling over to face his side of the room. But there was no answer. He was already asleep.
Dragging myself out of bed, I threw on one of my new Fred Perry polo shirts and a pair of khaki slacks. I skipped breakfast in the dining hall and hurried to the entrance of Baba’s house off the courtyard. I didn’t want to be late.
As I waited for Sergio, I admired the festive decorations in the courtyard, and inhaled the heady fragrance of the countless garlands of jasmine flowers that hung everywhere. In the hall opposite the guru’s house, a few hardcore devotees were keeping the chant alive. Anyone not doing seva was still in bed, and the hordes of visitors expected for the celebrations were yet to arrive.
I glanced at my watch. It was nine-o-five, but there was no sign of Sergio. Nine-o-seven, still no sign of him. Then, after what seemed like ages, a rugged, powerfully built man in his mid-twenties rode into the courtyard on a bicycle, dismounting in front of Baba’s house. I recognized him immediately. His name was Brian Pettigrew and he was from New Zealand. He often worked as an usher during darshan.
“Who are you?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“I’m Deependra.” Where’s Sergio? I wondered.
Brian pulled out a small notepad from his pocket and studied it. “Greenbaum?”
I nodded.
Just then, two more men wandered into the courtyard and joined us. One was tall and balding. I didn’t know him. The other was Namdev’s friend from Down Under.
Brian glanced at his list again. “Names?”
“Andy Martin,” said the Australian.
Brian nodded. “Right.”
“Seth Gold.”
Brian glanced at his watch. “Brilliant! Now that you’re all finally here, we can get started.” The New Zealander spoke with a lisp and, looking more closely at his face, I noticed the vestiges of a cleft lip.
“I love your accent,” Seth said with a smirk. “Where do you hail from?”
Brian put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. “Christchurch, and you?”
Seth pursed his lips. “New York.”
“I’m from New York, too!” I said. “Well, Upstate really.”
Brian snorted. “Good on ya, mate.” Pulling a set of keys out of his pocket, he unlocked the entrance to Baba’s house. Then he disappeared within, shutting the door behind him. A minute later, he came back out with laminated badges that said “Shree Brahmananda Ashram Security” and a bundle of bamboo sticks, which he distributed among us.
Brian stiffened up. “Right. In another hour, there’ll be a thousand people lined up outside. Every bloody Adivasi and his mother within a twenty-kilometer radius will be cued-up for a free lunch and a handout. The three of you will be stationed at the gates, helping the ashram guards keep order.”
Seth studied his stick with the curiosity of an anthropologist examining an artifact from a primitive culture.
“Think you can handle it, ladies?”
Andy and I nodded. Seth was lost in thought.
“Seth?” Brian lisped. “Doctor Gold?”
Seth looked up at Brian. “Yes?”
“You reckon you’re man enough for the job?”
A squiggly vein on Seth’s temple began to quiver. “I’m here to serve the guru.”
Brian grinned contemptuously. “That’s the spirit!”
Suddenly, I got a strong whiff of cologne. A moment later, the door to Baba’s house swung open and Sergio stepped out. Behind him was a young girl in pink pajamas. She must’ve been about twelve or thirteen. Her eyes were red and swollen, as if she had been crying. It took me a moment before I realized that she was Prema, Govinda Brown’s daughter. It touched me knowing that Baba was taking such good care of the injured man’s child.
“Go on, sweetheart,” Sergio said, gently pushing the girl in the direction of the dining hall. “Come back later. Baba will have ice cream!”
Prema nodded blankly, and then took off. Sergio turned his attention to our group. “Okay, listen, after the festa, Baba’s going to pay his respects at Gurudev’s samadhi shrine in the village. It will be your job to protect the motorcade.”
“How do we do that?” Andy asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
Sergio’s lower lip curled down into a sneer. “You beat the shit out of anybody who gets too close to the car. Understand?”
I held up my stick. “You expect us to hit people with this?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Don’t worry, Greenbaum, we’re not in America. Nobody’s going to arrest you!” Sergio winked at Brian and they both burst out laughing.
What have I signed up for? The last time I had ever hit anyone was in third grade. What does beating people up have to do with meditation and spirituality? I was about to tell Sergio and Brian I wouldn’t be able to be a guard, when a loud voice rose up inside of me: This is another test from the guru. Another opportunity to prove myself.
Before taking up our posts, we helped bring boxes from a storage room off the courtyard to the mandap. When everything was moved, Sergio opened a few of them. Some were full of American-style blue jeans, others contained t-shirts bearing Baba’s picture and the ashram logo. Sergio took a pair of jeans out of a box and held it up for everyone to see. “Anyone want a pair?”
The jeans were ridiculously out of fashion: tight in the thighs and flared. I hadn’t seen a pair of bell-bottomed jeans like that since the early seventies.
“Hey, Gold, Greenbaum—you like? They’re free!” Sergio winked at Brian again. Everybody laughed except Seth and me.
“Who are they for?” I asked
“They’re Baba’s gift to the Adivasis,” said Brian. “The feast they’re preparing in the dining hall—it’s all for them. He’s also giving every family a new pot and blanket.”
I was moved by the guru’s profound generosity, but couldn’t help wondering how the Adivasis would feel about the out-of-date jeans.
“They’re going to love them, believe me,” Sergio growled, reading my face. “The fashion here is ten years behind Europe and America.”
On the way back to the courtyard, I asked Andy what he knew about the Adivasis. He explained that they were a tribal people like the aboriginals of Australia, and were considered to be the indigenous people of India.
“They’re mostly hated by the general population. Brahmananda was like a father to them. He provided food and clothing, and even founded a school for them. Baba’s been following in Gurudev’s footsteps by employing them for construction work and gardening.”
I scratched my head. “If the Adivasis are indigenous, where do all the other Indians come from?”
“Good question, mate,” Andy laughed. “Beats the hell out of me!”
Seth, Andy and I followed Brian out of the ashram into the street, and took up our position in front of the main gate, where two armed Indian guards were already stationed.
“If you’ve already got them,” Andy said, gesturing to the security men, “what do you need us for?”
Brian shot a cold glance toward the guards. “Sergio doesn’t trust ‘em.”
As I stood guard in front of the ashram, the heat and the endless drone of the chant from the loudspeakers made me sleepy. Dark thoughts clouded my mind. I replayed the scenes of Baba throwing his tambourine at Suresh’s head, and of Govinda falling off the scaffolding. I got a sinking feeling. I also had doubts about my latest seva assignment. Would I really be able to hit someone with a stick? To combat my negative feelings, I reminded myself that whatever happened in his ashram carried the guru’s blessing.
Arriving on foot, the Adivasis began to form a line in front of the gate. With their happy faces and friendly demeanors, they were a beautiful people, much darker and smaller than the average Indian. The older men wore traditional garb, but some of the younger ones favored Western-style camp shirts and slacks. The women, young and old, dressed alike in colorful cotton saris. Many of them held the hands of small children or balanced babies on their hips.
Not long after the locals arrived, auto rickshaws began dropping off devotees from Bombay and beyond. In practically no time, the line was over two blocks long.
I couldn’t stop yawning. Seth crossed over to my side of the gate, using his stick as a staff. “Tired?” he asked, with a smug grin on his face.
“A bit.”
Seth sniggered. “Well, if you’ve been working as many hours as the rest of us, you should be.”
I shrugged. “Brian called you ‘doctor’ earlier. Are you a physician?”
Seth shook his head and laughed again. “I’m a clinical psychologist.”
“I see.” I was unimpressed. Seth reminded me of Melanie’s boyfriend, Herb, and he was beginning to get on my nerves.
Just then Brian rode through the gate on his bicycle. “Right, they’ve relocated the chant to the mandap now. We’re going to start letting these drongos in. If anyone starts pushing or shoving, get rid of ‘em.”
Over the loudspeakers I heard Baba join the saptah, and soon the number of voices with him increased exponentially. An hour later, the chant reached a crescendo, and then came to an end.
“Jai Gurudev!” Baba called.
“Jai Gurudev! Jai Gurudev! Jai Gurudev!” the public roared.
“Today we mark the twenty-second anniversary of our beloved Gurudev’s mahasamadhi—the day when he left his physical body to merge with the Absolute.” Baba’s and Anjali’s voices sounded tinny over the ancient sound system.
“Those of you who knew Brahmanandaji will recall that he lived his life absorbed in the divine, and the legends of his miraculous powers are many. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, and Jew were equal in his eyes—all pilgrims on different paths to the same destination. In his company, ordinary beings were transformed into accomplished yogis, and seekers into enlightened sages. Through his teachings, misguided ascetics were able to see their own True Self reflected in the world.
“He was a master of all branches of yoga. Though he was a great being, he lived an ordinary life. Although he was all-knowing, his manner was unassuming. Many witnessed his awesome power: he had the ability to transmit his own spiritual energy to others with a mere touch, awakening them to their own sublime nature. He was kind and loving, but he could also be ferocious.
“The behavior of such perfected masters may seem strange and difficult to understand at times. Ordinary beings are bound by countless lifetimes of mental conditioning, but the actions of such liberated souls are the spontaneous expressions of the divine goddess herself! Therefore, if you live in the company of such a master, you must never criticize him.”
After Baba’s talk, the line outside the gate surged forward. Over the loudspeakers, one of the Indian swamis announced in Marathi and English that darshan would begin after the feast, and that everybody should take their turn eating in the dining hall.
I had been keeping an eye out for any disorderly conduct, but so far everything was going smoothly. Just when I thought I could start to relax, however, there was a commotion on the other side of the gate. Psyching myself up to do whatever was necessary to preserve order, I had to laugh when I discovered that the source of the disturbance was Namdev Loman. Moving against the flow of the line, he was trying to exit the ashram. “Let me pass! Get out of my way!”
The Indian guards were doing nothing to prevent Namdev from leaving the ashram, but they weren’t doing anything to help him either.
“Stand aside!” I demanded, brandishing my stick, but nobody listened to me. “I said move! Make way for this man!”
I felt like an actor playing a part in a movie. While most of the visitors remained oblivious, at least a couple of them got the message—there was just enough movement for Namdev to slip out.
“Fucking cretins!” Namdev cursed, pushing his way through the crowd.
“Hey, watch your language,” I said, tapping the stick against the palm of my hand.
Namdev lowered his eyes to read my badge. “What the fuck? Is this your new seva?”
“It’s just for today, I think.”
Namdev chuckled. “Beats the hell out of cleaning Indian toilets, I guess.”
I bristled. I hoped now that I “worked for Baba,” I’d never have to clean up shit again. “Why aren’t you in the mandap?”
“I had to get out of there for a minute. Too many people.” Something over my shoulder caught Namdev’s eye and he licked his lips. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and then sprinted across the street and disappeared into the chai shop.
A minute later he returned with a bottle of Indian cola. It looked cool and refreshing, and I wished I’d asked him to get me one, too. I was getting hungry.
Namdev twisted off the top and drank it down in one gulp. He tossed the empty bottle onto a pile of garbage on the side of the road.
“Hey, Deependra,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you hear about Govinda Brown?”
“Yeah, I saw it happen,” I said. Then I added, “He’ll live.”
“Yeah, but he may never walk again. It’s not right—making people work for days on end without any sleep. An accident like that was just waiting to happen.”
I shook my head. “You weren’t there. It was his own fault. He was careless—acting like a clown.”
“Sure, whatever you say,” Namdev said, looking away. He didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe myself.
“Isn’t it wonderful what Baba’s doing for the Adivasis?”
“Give me a break, man—the whole thing’s a publicity stunt. Did you know the ashram only pays them the equivalent of one dollar a day?”
“That can’t be true,” I said without conviction. I got an uneasy feeling in my gut.
“The ashram’s excuse is that they don’t want to distort the local economy, but that’s a load of crap, if you ask me.”
Righteous anger rose up inside of me. He was insulting the guru now, and if he kept at it I was ready to bring my stick down on his head.
“Let me tell you,” Namdev continued, “these skinny little Indians are tough, and their working conditions are horrible. Once, when I was supervising some Adivasi laborers loading a truck, I cut my arm on a rusty old pipe—I was squirting blood all over the place. None of my fellow Raja Yogis gave a shit, but the Adivasis all came running to help me. Do you think anybody in the ashram cares about them?”
I swallowed my anger. “Are you still working at the generator plant?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. And it was supposed to be a ‘temporary’ position. The other day it got up to a hundred and fifty degrees in there!” I believed him—in India it could get up to a hundred and ten degrees in the shade. “I’m on call twenty-four seven. The generator automatically starts whenever the main power fails, and I have to be at the plant whenever it’s running. Sometimes the power doesn’t come back on for over a day. The hours I put in are insane. My record is a hundred and fifty-two hours of seva in one week!”
“Think of all the good karma you’re accumulating.”
“Yeah, sure,” Namdev scoffed. “I complained to Sergio about it, and he said I should be grateful to live in the ashram for free. Then he told me some story about how his uncle Giovanni was taken prisoner by the Red Army in Poland and had to walk all the way back to Sicily after the war.”
“World War Two?” I asked, remembering that Sicily was an island.
“I guess so. Anyhow, it’s not fair—I can’t even go to any of the programs or big events whenever the video crew is shooting, because the generators have to be running in case the power fails.”
“Well, you can go today, right? There’s no video crew in India right now.”
“Wrong! Arjuna arrived yesterday. He’s setting up in the mandap right now. The only reason I’m standing here talking to you is because Baba went back to his house for lunch.”
If he’s so down on the ashram, why does he stay? I wondered. Just then, there was a squeal of feedback over the loudspeakers and someone made an announcement in what sounded like Marathi. A look of mild panic came over Namdev’s face.
“What are they saying?” I asked.
Namdev started to push his way back in through the gate. “I don’t know, but if they’re saying anything, it probably means Baba’s on his way back to the mandap. I gotta go!”
The announcement was followed by a live performance of Hindu devotional songs. Moments later there was another surge and the line began to move more quickly.
Two more hours passed and my empty stomach was gnawing at me. I was afraid there’d be nothing left to eat by the time I was allowed to go to the dining hall.
Another group of musicians began to play Sufi devotional songs called qawwalis. Their music was hauntingly beautiful. I wished I could be in the mandap with everybody else. I wanted to complain to Seth, but held my tongue.
I must get a hold of my mind and remember that my purpose in life is to serve the guru, I told myself. The hardships I go through now will only help to purify my soul and help make me strong enough to hold Baba’s grace.
Seth sauntered over to my side of the gate smirking. “You think they forgot about us?”
“Maybe Brian and Sergio did,” I quipped. “But not Baba!”
He shrugged, and I noticed the squiggly vein in his temple was pulsating again.
“When Brian gave me this stick this morning I was afraid I might have to use it on somebody,” I said. “But they seem pretty docile, don’t they?”
Seth smiled philosophically. “The day isn’t over yet.”
As he strolled back to his post, I wondered why Sergio had assigned him to Security. I assumed he had chosen Andy for his muscles, and me for my loyalty. But Seth didn’t strike me as either particularly strong or committed to the path. He was tall and towered over most Indians, which could be intimidating, I guessed, but I couldn’t imagine him protecting his guru by any means necessary.
Down the street, well-fed Adivasis bearing gifts from Baba were exiting through the south gate. My stomach growled and I felt faint. It was nearly three-thirty, but the line of people waiting to get in still looked endless.
“Stand aside! Move it mister!” came a voice from the other side of the gate. I turned around to see Brian pushing his way out. This time he was on foot. “Right. Seth, Greenbaum, which one of you wants to eat first?”
Seth turned to me, and smiled insincerely. “You go, Deependra. You’re a growing boy.”
I didn’t argue with him. I hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before, and was beginning to feel lightheaded. Pushing my way through the masses of visitors crowding in the courtyard, I bumped smack into Gopi, causing her to drop the clipboard she was carrying. She burst out laughing.
“Whoa, Deependra!” Gopi’s eyes and mouth were wide open in mock surprise. “Where you goin’ with that big stick!” She was wrapped in a turquoise silk sari, which picked up the blue and green of her mismatched eyes perfectly. The outfit left her midriff and navel exposed and I couldn’t stop staring. “Did you eat yet?” she asked.
“No. Do you know if there’s any food left?”
“Tons. I just ate myself.”
I wanted to keep talking with her, but she continued on her way to wherever she was hurrying.
When I got to the dining hall it was still crowded and I had to wait in line. Fifteen minutes later I was still nowhere near the front. I reflected on my encounter with the angel: I think she might have been flirting with me! What I would give to hold her in my arms…Someone grabbed me by the shoulder, interrupting my reverie. “What the fuck are you still doing in line, dipstick?” I turned around and was confronted with Brian’s angry face. His eyes were wide and his nostrils flaring. “Go eat with the bloody VIPs!”
A small area of the dining hall had been reserved for members of Baba’s personal staff, ashram trustees, and public figures, but by the time I was seated it was empty. The food was amazing and unlike anything I had ever eaten at the ashram. Prakashananda—the shirtless Indian swami—served me himself: gourmet vegetable curries, basmati rice, pickled mango, puris, and a tangy taro leaf roll called elephant’s ear. For dessert I received a sweet, milky banana dish with chopped almonds and cardamom. Everything was delicious. I ate greedily and as quickly as possible—I had kept Brian waiting long enough.
When I returned to the main gate, there were fewer people waiting to get in, and I didn’t have to push my way to get out into the street. By the time I got to the other side, however, I was shocked at what I saw: all hell had broken loose. A band of angry Adivasi men were in a shouting match with some of the people in line, and the ashram guards were caught in the middle. Seth and Andy were frozen on the sidelines. Running over to where they were huddled together, I had to shout to be heard.
“What’s going on?”
“Don’t know, mate!” Andy said, his lower lip quivering. “The car across the street pulled up, and these hooligans jumped out and starting giving everyone bloody hell.”
I glanced at Seth. He seemed calm, but the vein in his head looked like it was going to explode.
The argument escalated into violence. A couple of the troublemakers ran back to their vehicle and returned with wooden clubs. As women and children fled, Seth began to back away toward the gate. Before he was able to go back inside the ashram, however, he was knocked to the ground when another man was pushed into him. Leaping to his feet, he ran in the opposite direction and disappeared into the chai shop.
Andy was trembling. “What do we do?”
I pushed my fear aside and raised my stick in the air. “Let’s get ‘em!”
Just as we were about to charge the agitators, we heard shouting from inside the ashram. The next thing I knew, Sergio, Brian, and Vinod Desai stormed out through the gate. The Italian’s eyes were wild.
Brian beat his stick into the palm of his hand, every fighting muscle in his body straining against his skin. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Union men, sir! Very bad!” Vinod said, shaking his head. The Indian’s eyes were bulging so far out of his skull I thought they might pop.
I was shocked by what Sergio did next. Reaching under his jacket and behind his back, he pulled out a snub-nosed revolver and fired a shot into the air.
Stunned also, the union men dropped their weapons, and then made a run for their car. As they sped away, Sergio ran after them firing several more rounds at the back of their vehicle. “Vaffanculo!”
We all breathed a collective sigh of relief, and joined Andy and Brian at Sergio’s side. Re-holstering his gun, the Italian spat on the ground. “Okay, the ashram is closed now. Basta! Vinod, tell all of these contadini to go home!”
Vinod translated Sergio’s words for the guards, and then made a general announcement in Marathi to everybody who was still in line. Without protest, the Adivasis turned around and headed back in the direction of the village.
Brian gritted his teeth. “Where’s Seth?”
Andy shook his head. “Don’t know, mate.”
“Me neither,” I lied.
Sergio glanced at his watch. “Brian, Andy, go to darshan now.” They nodded and started to leave. “And come back quick! Baba’s motorcade leaves for the village in an hour. Greenbaum, stay here, I want to talk to you.”
Is Sergio angry with me for happened? I braced myself for the worst.
“Listen, Greenbaum,” Sergio said, lowering his voice. “After tomorrow, Baba makes a pilgrimage with a small group to Haridwar in the north—he wants you to come to help the video crew.”
I suddenly felt lighter. This was good news—no, amazing news! I remembered that Haridwar was the holy city where Baba had spent three years in silent retreat and took the vows of a swami. I got even more excited.
“A pilgrimage with Baba? I would love to!”
The Italian lifted a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh. It’s a secret. You say nothing to nobody. You know how to keep a secret, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. You can count on me!”
Sergio smiled broadly and gave me an affectionate pat on the cheek. “You know something, Greenbaum? I like you. You’re okay!”
I went to the mandap, where the Sufi qawwali singers were still performing. They clapped and sang with an all-consuming yearning to know God that moved me beyond measure. I took a seat at the back of the pavilion and watched my beloved guru bestow gifts and blessings on the last of the visitors. Tears of gratitude gushed from my eyes. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was going on a pilgrimage with Baba. I was one step closer to joining the guru’s inner circle.
The procession to Gurudev’s samadhi shrine in the village was slow, and I was grateful that it had been scheduled at the end of the afternoon, when the sun was lower in the sky.
The swamis and the members of Baba’s personal staff led the procession, followed by the rest of the ashramites and dozens of Indian devotees. They sang, clapped, and danced to a recording of “Om Namo Bhagavate Brahmanandaya,” which blared from the loudspeakers of an ashram van. Behind them, at safe distance, Baba rode in an air-conditioned sedan with Anjali, Suresh, and his valet. Brian and Andy guarded the front of the motorcade, while Seth and I took up the rear.
I had to hand it to Brian: he was good at keeping the public at bay. All he had to do was to lean his large muscular body into anyone who got too close, and they immediately backed off. Seth, who seemed to have recovered from the incident with the union men earlier, also proved effective. He kept people away by glaring at them with a crazed look in his eye. I was impressed. The shrink could be pretty scary when he wanted to be.
Arjuna Weinberg shot video from the sidelines. He was aided by an Indian man who looked clueless. Whenever Arjuna checked on the man’s performance, he got a pained look on his face, and was clearly frustrated by the Indian’s inability to follow his instructions or anticipate his movements. More than a few times I saw Arjuna yank the headphones off the Indian’s head and readjust the audio levels.
While Avadhoot was not part of the procession, he was the most conspicuous member of our party. This was due less to his great height and eccentric attire than to his outrageous behavior. He would climb on anything or push anybody out of his way for a picture. He was careless, and had no respect for other people’s personal space. When he wasn’t intentionally making people move, he was bumping into them with the oversize camera bag that hung from his shoulder. Sometimes he even appeared to be blocking Arjuna on purpose. I couldn’t tell whether this was the only way he could get a particular angle, or if he was intentionally trying to keep Arjuna from getting it. No one was safe from him, except the guru, of course. Remarkably, it was only the Western devotees who ever complained about him. Indians were oblivious to his abuse, as if being knocked to the ground during a parade were par for the course. Instead of provoking anger in them, his aggressive style elicited only big smiles, words of encouragement, and offers of assistance.
When Baba’s motorcade arrived in the center of the village, Sergio and Vinod were already waiting in front of Brahmananda’s samadhi shrine. As soon as the car pulled up, the Italian rushed to open the door for the guru. His eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, Baba was beaming smiles in all directions. He was met at the entrance of the shrine by two sour-looking Indian men, who gave him a cool reception. I couldn’t understand what Baba was talking to them about, but it seemed as though they hesitated before letting him in.
I asked Brian who the men were.
“Trustees, mate. They control everything that goes on inside the shrine.”
As soon as Baba was inside, Avadhoot rushed in after him, ignoring the protests of the trustees and the temple’s security guard.
“Photography is strictly prohibited!” one of the trustees shouted in English.
Arjuna was about to follow Avadhoot in, but seemed to change his mind, and remained outside.
Through the open entryway of the temple, I watched the security guard confront Avadhoot, who completely ignored him. When the cowboy wouldn’t stop taking pictures, the guard grabbed him and tried, unsuccessfully, to pry the camera out of his hands. Oblivious to the altercation, Baba, Suresh, Anjali, and the rest of the swamis prostrated themselves in front of the statue of Gurudev, and then performed a puja.
Meanwhile, the guard was joined by one of the trustees in his efforts to stop Avadhoot. When the noise they were making reached an unacceptable level, Sergio intervened, shaking the trustee’s hand and discreetly passing him an envelope. The slightest hint of a smile spread across the sour man’s face, and he called off the guard.
“The pictures are for Baba’s personal use only,” Sergio said.
“Yes, okay,” the trustee said, wiggling his head in assent. “No problem.”
Sergio flicked his chin in the direction of Arjuna. “What about the cameraman?”
The trustee narrowed his eyes and frowned. “For American television?”
“But no!” Sergio laughed, holding his open palms.
The trustee wiggled his head again, and Sergio hurried to the entryway to tell Arjuna to come inside.
Arjuna mounted the camera on his shoulder and Sergio curled his lip down in disgust. “Hey, what kind of an asshole are you?”
The cameraman let out a long exaggerated sigh.
“Why you such a pussy? Why you wait outside? You should be more like Avadhoot!”
“The man said no pictures!” Arjuna protested.
“Who’s your guru? Baba?” Sergio asked, and then gestured in the direction of the trustee. “Or maybe that asshole?”
Tired of arguing, Arjuna entered the shrine and positioned himself alongside Avadhoot. At Sergio’s command, Brian, Seth, and I went in, too.
I found Avadhoot’s disrespectful behavior and Sergio’s use of profanities in Gurudev’s tomb disturbing. I wondered how Baba could put up with them. But despite my nagging doubts about the guru’s closest disciples, the awesome power of the shrine was enough to silence my agitated mind.
When the ritual was over, Baba turned to address the gathering. Anjali translated, and Suresh stood at his side. “Today is the anniversary of my beloved Gurudev’s mahasamadhi—the day he left his physical body to become one with the Absolute. On such a uniquely auspicious occasion I have an announcement to make. This young man,” Baba said, gesturing to Suresh, “will be my successor.”
There was a collective gasp. Even Anjali, who was usually a picture of dispassion, had to pause to collect herself before translating. “Suresh still has much sadhana to do, and he will not take his place on the throne until after I pass away. But make no mistake, he will be the future leader of the world-wide mission begun here in Ravipur by my own guru. Today, I install Shree Brahmananda’s shakti in him. In two days’ time, we will leave on a pilgrimage to the banks of the holy Ganges, where he will be initiated as a swami. Jai Gurudev!”
“Jai Gurudev! Jai Gurudev! Jai Gurudev!”