And Laughter Fell From the Sky (20 page)

He tossed the brochure onto the carpet. He didn’t want to participate in this farce. Religious rituals were nothing but a way to manipulate people. He wasn’t going to surrender his mind to God, or eternity, or any kind of crazy group where the members all dressed alike. In the past, he had based certain life decisions on a vision or a dream, but they were
his
visions,
his
dreams, not something imposed from the outside. In any case, he wasn’t sure anymore that there was value in his visions or dreams.

He scanned the room for a way out. He was trapped, hemmed in on all sides by this sea of white and yellow. He clutched his hands together and hunched down to endure the ordeal. He could, if necessary, simply step over all these people and head for the door, but at the moment he preferred not to draw attention to himself. He decided to stay put. He wondered if this was how people got sucked into cults. They were polite, they went along with things, they didn’t make a fuss. He looked at his watch: almost a quarter after nine. He’d give this thing until ten, and if it wasn’t over by then he’d make a break for it, walk out, find a bus, get himself back to real life.

After everyone had finished “oming,” someone lit a small fire in a metal bowl on the altar, and everyone repeated a few prayers in unison—one in English, one in Sanskrit. Then everyone grew silent, with their eyes closed.

He looked around at all the people meditating. Some of the women wore Indian-style clothing, and a few of them even had round red kumkums on their foreheads. Here was this group of Westerners practicing what they believed to be Hindu rituals, following a Hindu guru, and yet they were doing it in an American way. The altar was clean, orderly, and symmetrical. There were no oily deepas or cracked coconuts or idols draped in silk and jewels, as in a Hindu temple. Hindu rituals never used printed handouts like the one he held in his hand. Instead, the priest mumbled whatever prayers were required, or a participant would start singing whatever song came to her mind, and the others followed along as best they could. Here, some of the devotees who sat along the wall were stretching their feet out in front of them, toward the altar. No Hindu would ever dare to show the soles of the feet to the altar.

This temple was not as extreme as, say, the Hare Krishnas, where all the white women wore saris, and all the men shaved their heads. It wasn’t as crazy as the Rajneeshees, that Oregon commune from the 1980s where everyone wore red and engaged in frenetic, exhausting exercise, which they called “meditations.” These folks were calm and measured and quiet.

After the meditation, a tall, gray-haired white woman stood up next to the altar and talked in a singsong voice about the war in Iraq and loving one’s enemies and world peace. Just before Abhay’s ten o’clock deadline, the whole thing was over, and everyone filed up to the front of the room, where a large tray of prasada
,
food supposedly blessed by God, was on a table near the altar. The devotees picked up the tan balls of prasada with their right or left hands—not only with the right hand. As a child, Abhay had had this important Hindu rule drilled into him: you accept and give things with the right hand only.

As Kianga and Abhay ate their prasada—peanut butter and dried apricot balls, not something he’d eaten at any Hindu ritual he’d ever attended—the gray-haired woman minister approached them.

“This is my friend Abhay,” Kianga said, and he shook hands with the minister. “He’s interested in communal living, and his family is from India, so I thought he’d like to come here.”

The minister nodded. “Some of us live upstairs. Swami Premananda taught that living together in a spiritual community is the best way to practice brotherly love. We try to share at least one weekly meal with the entire congregation, even those who don’t live in the building. Our congregation comes from all over the area.” She spoke softly and slowly. “We also have daily meditation every morning, and anyone is welcome to join us for that. And, of course, the weekly Sunday service, which you’ve just seen.”

Kianga must have thought his Hindu upbringing and his interest in communal living would come together in this community. The minister was now explaining something about the guru of Swami Premananda back in India, and how the swami had come to the United States, and how she herself was initiated by a direct disciple of Swami Premananda. Abhay tried to look politely interested.

By the time Abhay and Kianga were back in the car on their way home, it was drizzling. The windshield wipers squeaked.

“Whad’ya think?” Kianga pulled out of the parking lot.

“I’m not that interested in religion.” He tried to keep his voice bland, and not reveal all the frustration he felt about the morning.

“This is a community based on your tradition. I thought you’d like it.”

“What happened in that room has very little to do with my tradition. And even if it did”— he let out a huff of air in frustration—“just because I’m brown and my parents happen to be from India, doesn’t mean I’m into everything else that happens to be connected to India or Hinduism.”

Kianga pulled onto the freeway. “This isn’t about any particular religion. It’s about spirituality.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Religion is when you tell people they have to believe in a certain manifestation of God, and do certain rituals. Religion is about hating people who believe in a different religion, or trying to convert them to your religion. Spirituality is totally different. It’s about connecting with God at a fundamental level, connecting with the eternal, working toward enlightenment. You can do that through traditional religious methods like prayer or meditation, or you can do that by being out in nature, for example.”

He frowned out the windshield and watched the wipers slap back and forth.

She put a hand over his. “I get that you’re not interested in everything from India, but have you ever heard of Auroville? It’s an intentional community in India.”

“I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know anything about it. Isn’t it some kind of religious retreat?”

“A friend of mine is moving there. I looked up their Web site. It seems really amazing. People from all over the world live there. It’s devoted to peace and connecting with the earth. I thought you might know more, since you’re interested in communal living.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“Well, I’m thinking of visiting there, in December. Maybe you should come with me.” She glanced at him and gave him an encouraging smile. “You said you haven’t been to India in years. So—maybe now’s the time. Maybe Auroville will be the place for you.”

“When I go to India, I don’t hang out at intentional communities. I’m stuck in Bangalore with my relatives.”

“Auroville isn’t that far from Bangalore. It’s just south of Chennai.”

Abhay didn’t want to try to explain to Kianga his complicated feelings about India, so he said nothing.

At Kianga’s house, the sun was out again. “Want to come in? Ellen’s at home, too.”

As they got out of the car, Ellen stepped out the door of the house and stood at the top of the stairs, her slim shoulders sloping slightly toward her chest as usual. She was wearing a pair of bell-bottom jeans with ragged hems. She waved to him, and he waved back.

“I’ve got some work to do,” he lied.

Kianga slipped her arms around his waist and pulled him into a tight hug. He felt embarrassed to be hugging Kianga as Ellen watched. Kianga rubbed his back. She felt soft and warm, yet his face burned, and he gently pulled himself away. He walked fast over the bridge above the freeway, and once he was sure they couldn’t see him, he broke into a run to the streetcar stop.

At home he plugged in and turned on his laptop, changed out of his nice clothes, and sent an e-mail to Rasika’s work address, inviting her to visit him in Portland. He didn’t think she’d take him up on it. Then, on impulse, he searched the Web, using the key phrase “organic flowers,” found a company that delivered pesticide-free bouquets, and ordered a vase of white lilies to be sent to Rasika’s office on Monday morning.

Chapter 11

R
asika wasn’t sure why she decided to visit Abhay. The first week of November he had sent her a very sweet e-mail, and a giant vase of beautiful lilies. Yet those weren’t exactly the reasons she decided to make the trip. She wasn’t in a position to be wooed by Abhay, after all.

As soon as she read Abhay’s note, she’d called and made her plane reservations for the coming weekend. She’d never made travel plans at the last minute, like this. She told her parents she was going to California with Jill, to visit an old school friend of theirs. Part of this was true. Jill was going to visit Amanda in Los Angeles. Her mother made a fuss because Rasika was buying the ticket so late. “When did Jill decide to go?” Amma demanded. “Why didn’t you book your ticket so you could get the two-week advance fare?” Amma also worried that Rasika’s boss wouldn’t like her taking time off on such short notice.

“I’ll just be missing work on Thursday and Friday,” Rasika said. “I’m flying back on Sunday.”

“Why so short?” Amma then demanded. “If you are going all the way to California, why not stay longer? You must plan in advance, raja.”

Appa was the one who smoothed things over. “Let her go,” he said. “She has worked hard. It is her own money. Let her have some fun.”

Her father’s words made Rasika feel guilty. If he knew what she was really going to do, he wouldn’t have been so calm about it. Still, she pushed ahead with her plan, arranging her plane ticket so she was leaving on the same day but somewhat later than Jill. She even allowed her parents to drive her to the Cleveland airport, where they met Jill near the ticket counter. Her parents then left, and once she was sure they were out of sight, she rolled her luggage over to a different ticket counter.

As she waited in the check-in line, she told herself that this trip was entirely justified. She just wanted to have a little fun before getting married. She didn’t intend to sleep with Abhay, and to prove it she had booked herself into a hotel suggested by him. She had been very good since agreeing to go to India. She had even switched to a different gym to avoid Benito. She felt extremely virtuous. She deserved a little vacation.

Waiting in the gate area after clearing security, she realized this was the first time she had traveled anywhere alone. She clutched her purse on her lap and observed the other waiting passengers. A young couple dressed in shabby jeans was sitting across from her, sharing a messy plastic tray of French fries and ketchup. A mother nursed her toddler in a sling, while another little girl sat beside her, sucking her thumb. The mother had three large plastic bags stuffed with clothes and toys around her feet. How would she navigate herself, the two kids, and the bags onto the plane?

There were a few people who seemed to be traveling alone: a man in a business suit was tapping away on his laptop, and a fat woman wearing a shirt that read
BABY DOLL
in sparkly letters was holding a cell phone to her ear.

Rasika didn’t have a virtual companion like a computer, and she didn’t feel like talking to anyone on her phone. She walked casually over to one of the shops and bought a
House Beautiful
magazine. She might as well think about how to decorate her future home. Yet she didn’t really want to read about “Five Big Paint Color Trends” or “Thanksgiving Table Setting Ideas.” She kept checking her ticket for the time of her flight, and peering at the board above the check-in counter to make sure she had the right gate.

Once she boarded, Rasika grew increasingly relaxed the farther she got from Ohio. At first she kept busy looking through the airplane catalog of expensive items that the well-heeled passenger might want: a robotic vacuum cleaner, a restaurant-quality frozen margarita maker. She considered whether she might want to order a pair of golf-ball-finding glasses for her father. The catalog slid off her lap and under the seat in front of her. She didn’t want any of it. She just wanted to rest. She pushed her seat back and closed her eyes and slept.

Abhay met her at the airport that evening. He almost couldn’t believe she was really here, that she was close enough to touch. He was always surprised when he saw Rasika anew. She was never the static beauty he pictured. He had remembered her as fragile and glassy. Today she looked sweet and pliable, like a child who’d just woken up from a nap. Her hair was a bit tangled, and the side of her face was imprinted with the woven pattern of the seat where she must have pressed her cheek. He held out his hands to her, and she placed her tapered fingers in his.

“Your hands are so cold!” He wanted to pull her close to him right away but didn’t think she’d appreciate that in public.

“It was freezing on that plane.” Rasika pulled her hands away. “You look tired. Washed-out. Maybe you’ve been working too hard.”

He ignored this remark. After they collected her suitcase she asked, “Should we take a cab? I assume you don’t have a car.”

“We’ll take the train.” He pulled her suitcase behind him out the baggage claim doors.

On the MAX platform, a train was waiting. “This is so convenient!” She sank into one of the molded plastic seats and closed her eyes. Her long black lashes lay in delicate fans on her cheeks. Abhay smiled at her beauty. He was elated that she’d agreed to come see him. She had told him over the phone that she was going to India in December to get married, and she insisted that she was just coming out to visit him as a friend. Yet she must love him, just as he loved her. How could he make her see this? He put a hand over the cold fingers on her lap.

When the train pulled out, Rasika opened her eyes and looked out the large picture windows with interest. She curled her fingers around his. “How can they do this?” she asked. “How can the train be on the road?”

“It can go wherever they put down tracks.” He was again surprised and moved by her almost childlike curiosity and naïveté.

The next thing she observed was, “Portland is just like Ohio, except the trees haven’t lost their leaves yet.”

He was irritated at this statement, although he realized she was right in a way. They were passing the usual warehouses, parking garages, office buildings, and billboards. The scenery from every freeway in America probably looked just like this one.

“It’ll get better,” he reassured her.

As they approached the Steel Bridge across the Willamette River, she clutched Abhay’s arm. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“I hope we’re not going over that big black thing.”

“You don’t like bridges?”

“It looks like a huge roller coaster.”

He laughed. “It’s a drawbridge. It opens up to let boats through. That’s why it has those tall sections.”

Once in the city, Rasika said, “This is a really big city. I didn’t realize the buildings would be so tall.” She ducked her head and peered up through the window.

“It isn’t that big, actually. It’s nothing like New York City or Boston. You’ll see, when we get out.”

“I’ve never been to New York City or Boston.”

“Really? Your parents never took you there?” Abhay’s parents made it a point to take him and Seema to all the important tourist destinations in the United States. His father believed in the educational value of travel.

“My father doesn’t like driving in a big city. It makes him nervous. He won’t even drive into downtown Cleveland. The airport is as far as he’ll go.”

“Where did you go on vacation, then?”

“Mostly to India. Almost every summer my parents took us to Bangalore. Other times we’d drive down to North Carolina to visit my mom’s sister.”

“I guess your dad doesn’t drive in India? That would make him even more nervous.”

“My uncles drive. One of my uncles usually has a driver, from his job. Or we take a taxi or autorickshaw.”

When they arrived in front of Rasika’s hotel, she looked dismayed. “Is it safe to stay here?”

“This is a neat hotel. It’s a hundred-year-old converted apartment building.”

“There’s a parking garage across the street. And what’s that building? The one with the sign.”

Abhay shrugged at the windowless wall of a building with a huge painted sign advertising Oriental rugs. “You said you wanted something inexpensive,” he reminded her.

“I didn’t want to be extravagant with money, but this place is so old and shabby!”

“I didn’t want you to stay way out in the suburbs,” Abhay said, “since I don’t have a car. This is a nice place. The bookstore where I work is just around the corner, and it’s on the streetcar line.”

He dragged her suitcase in, and they got her settled in her room, which was clean and basic; nothing opulent like the hotel she’d taken him to in Cleveland.

“You can see Powell’s from here,” he said, standing at the window. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Rasika collapsed on the bed in a fetal position and closed her eyes.

“You’re not tired, are you?” Abhay asked. “I’m taking you to a really nice restaurant for dinner. You’ll like it. Don’t sleep now.”

She sat up. “I need to call my parents.”

He looked out the window while she talked to her mother in Tamil, in that same high-pitched voice he remembered from the last time they were in a hotel room together.

“Everything OK?” he asked when she turned off her phone and threw it back into her purse.

“They think I’m in Los Angeles with my friend Jill. I had to make up some stuff about how nice the weather is.”

“What’re you going to do when your parents find out the truth about you?”

“They’ll never find out.” She stood up and pulled her fingers through her mussed hair. “After I get married, everything’ll be fine.”

“You’re really going to go through with this marriage? To the guy in India?”

“Of course.”

“But you’re here now. With me.”

“I just wanted a break from all the stress at home.” She picked up her purse and walked into the bathroom. When she came out, her hair was smooth and her face newly painted. “OK. Let’s go.”

They ate at a stylish Vietnamese place, decorated in black and white, with huge cylindrical glass vases of bamboo and orchids strewn about. They ordered mango daiquiris. Rasika giggled as she wrapped one of the tiny fried spring rolls in a lettuce leaf, along with a sprig of mint and some pickled daikon. “I’ve never had Vietnamese food before.”

“Do your parents mind that you eat meat and drink alcohol?” Abhay asked.

“They don’t know.” Rasika dipped her roll into the bowl of soy-vinegar.

“So they’d mind?”

“I think so. My dad more than my mom.”

Abhay’s parents didn’t exactly approve of his meat eating and alcohol drinking, but those were minor issues compared to his total lack of a lucrative profession. “You have to hide a lot from your parents. Doesn’t that bother you?” He bit into the hot, crunchy spring roll.

“I don’t want to make them unhappy.”

“They’re happy with someone who doesn’t exist. You are not the person they think you are.”

She held her hand up to her full mouth and rolled her eyes at him.

Then he thought of something. “Hey. I never asked how you’re doing after Kanchan—you know—what you told me at Ledges.” Abhay couldn’t even get the words out.

“I don’t have any post-traumatic stress, if that’s what you’re asking. Mostly I’m angry that he ruined the Renaissance Hotel for me. I can never go there again.”

Abhay nodded. “I’m really sorry.”

“I’m fine. I really am. I’m just going on with my life.”

He wasn’t sure if this was true. Her face, when she insisted she was fine, had become pinched and sad. Yet she obviously didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so he let it pass.

When they got back to her hotel room, Rasika stopped with a halt just inside the door. “I’ve never slept in a hotel all by myself.”

“I can stay.”

“No. I’ll be OK.” She threw her purse on the bed, pulled the curtains closed, and opened her suitcase. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his legs, assuming she just needed a few moments to invite him to stay. She lifted her pajamas from the suitcase and said, “You need to leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She planted her feet firmly on the carpet and pointed at the door.

As soon as he stepped out, she closed the door, and he heard the metallic swish of the chain-latch slide into place. Then he heard a thump, and the door rattled in its frame—as though she’d dropped to the floor and slammed her back against the door.

The next morning, Abhay walked in the misty air to Rasika’s hotel.She met him in the lobby, near the reception desk. She was sitting on the edge of a chair, dressed neatly in jeans, a pink sweater, and a gray jacket. She wore no makeup as far as he could tell, and her hair was in a ponytail. Even though her clothing was casual, it was so crisp and new that she looked dressed up.

“Very cute,” he said, looking at her pink sneakers. “I thought we could go somewhere and talk.”

“Why?” She stood up, and in her flat shoes she was only a few inches taller than he.

“I want to know more about what you’re thinking, why you’re here. Have you had breakfast? We can go to a coffee place if you want.”