Space Between the Stars (18 page)

Carlos riffled through the stack of albums by the bed. “This is John's last record,
Birds of Fire.
It's amazing.” He put it on. Strings poured out with electric guitar, keyboard, pounding drums. We sat on the bed, covered by music. I picked up the album. John's band was called the Mahavishnu Orchestra. The back cover showed a poem called “Revelation” by Sri Chinmoy. Carlos had mentioned that Larry Coryell, another guitarist he knew, had a guru named Sri Chinmoy.

Carlos tucked my hands beneath his. “Why don't you come to New York with me?”

I looked into his chiseled face, his deep-set black eyes, and wrapped my arms around his waist, squeezing him tightly. “I'd love to, but, school …” I did not know how I could take time off. Plus, hadn't I just returned to college after having dropped out to travel with another musician? Disappointed, I said, “Thanks for asking me.”

All week I thought about not going to New York with Carlos. I went to my professors to see whether it would be possible
to continue my work outside of school for a short time. All of them consented. I was thrilled.

Mom told me she wished I would not go to New York, but rather stay and concentrate on my studies. “You're twenty-one now, honey,” she said. “You've got to think about your future.”

As soon as she finished talking, I packed. I knew Mom was right; she cared about the practical, sensible responsibilities in life. But I was unreasonably in love, and there was no place I wanted to be except with Carlos. I did not have Mom's blessing, but at least this time she and Dad knew Carlos and I left them our hotel information.

New York's skies were streaked with lavender hues. The sun's last blaze backlit the haze above the horizon. Our jumbo 747 banked through the clouds and rumbled onto the tarmac. I touched the small oval window, looking at the sleek airport buildings. I glanced at Carlos, his droopy eyelids and Aztec nose looking out the window. He smiled a wide, mustached grin and grabbed my hand with his long, butterscotch fingers.

I shoved my book into my shoulder bag. Carlos slung his soft-case Gibson Les Paul over his shoulder, and we walked down the Jetway into the embrace of John McLaughlin. He was two inches taller than Carlos, his face was square, and his hair cut in a thick crew.

“This is my wife, Mahalakshmi,” John said with a British accent.

“This is Debbie.” Carlos pointed to me. We all shook hands.

Mahalakshmi reached my shoulder. Her blond hair was pulled back into a straight ponytail. Clear, blue eyes caught mine, and she smiled warmly.
We strolled to baggage claim, weaving in and out of hundreds of passengers who rushed in every direction. Skycaps yelled, “Need help?” A man in a navy chauffeur cap and wrinkled trench coat elbowed up to me and said in a quiet voice, “Only thirty dollars to Manhattan.” I shook my head and moved closer to Carlos. Police whistles rang outside, while suitcases banged down baggage chutes.

Mahalakshmi turned to me. “Have you been to New York before?” She also spoke with a clipped British accent.

“Only twice. Very short trips,” I replied. The summer I had met Sly flashed through my mind.

Carlos and I pulled our bags from the carousel. John took mine, and we headed for the automatic doors.

A brisk breeze snapped against my face. John led us to their Volvo sedan in the parking lot across from the terminal, and Carlos and I climbed into the backseat.

As we drove out of the airport, I saw stripped, broken-down cars lining the roadside, with windows shattered and tires gone. Their empty shells looked lost and harshly abandoned.

“We'll just stop by home if you want to clean up a bit before popping into our restaurant for supper,” John said over his shoulder as he entered the Grand Central Parkway.

“That's fine,” Carlos said. He squeezed my hand. I looked into his eyes and leaned over, kissing his lips. I was grateful not to feel lost or abandoned anymore.

Brownstone buildings with metal signs sat above us on the frontage road. “Mahavishnu and I would like you to meet our guru, Sri Chinmoy,” Mahalakshmi said. “We've studied with
him two years. He teaches us meditation and to serve the world through love, devotion, and surrender to God.”

She calls John by the same name as his band. It must be related somehow to the guru.

Carlos scooted forward and rested his arms on the front seat. “Larry Coryell stayed at my house last year. He had a photo of Sri Chinmoy that he meditated on. Before I met Debbie, I fasted seven days, asking God to lead me to my spiritual teacher.”

John and Mahalakshmi looked at each other and smiled.

“Our restaurant is one of the divine enterprises that disciples have here in Queens.”

Jesus'closest followers had been called “disciples.” I
asked, “What are ‘disciples’? And ‘divine enterprises’?”

John laughed. “‘Disciples’ are what we call ourselves when we follow Sri Chinmoy's teachings. We consider ourselves ‘devotees’ who tell others about guru.”

‘Divine enterprises’ are businesses owned by disciples,” Mahalakshmi said. “Our menu is vegetarian. I hope you like it. Guru says that meat is full of aggressive animal consciousness, which interferes with our meditation.” I had eaten at the Source on Sunset Boulevard when I lived in L.A. It was vegetarian, and I had loved the salads and casseroles, drawn to the purity of the whole grains and organic produce, fresh-squeezed juices, and the luminescence in the eyes of the workers. My body felt more buoyant and agile eating less meat.

John parked on a street lined with two-story houses with small front yards. Leaves hung from trees in brilliant shades of
red, amber, and gold-flecked green. We walked upstairs to their flat. The stark whiteness of the walls stood out in contrast to the dark Long Island skies. Mahalakshmi took off her coat and asked to hang ours. She wore a long, flowing drape around her body that I had seen on women from India. She saw me staring. “Guru asks that we wear saris for meditation and work.”

“Oh,” I said. “It's pretty.”

Carlos and I sat in the living room, looking at books by Sri Chinmoy on the coffee table. There were photos of the guru on the walls, too.

In a few minutes, we tumbled back inside the car and drove to their restaurant, Annam Brahma, a few blocks away.

“Mahavishnu and I own the restaurant,” Mahalakshmi said as she opened her car door. “I manage the day-to-day operations, with five disciples to help me.”

The women who waited the tables wore saris as well as sandals with sockless feet, as though it were summer rather than fall. Their blouses exposed a few inches of midriff. The men were dressed in white from head to toe. Every wall in the restaurant was brightly painted in reds and golds with images of Indian gods and Sanskrit symbols. My eyes kept returning to a print of an Indian woman in red, standing above a circle formed by the heads of twenty men. A wreath of arms framed her body. A huge photo of Sri Chinmoy, similar to the one in his books, hung in a recessed alcove. Vases of flowers sat beneath the photo, and incense burned in a small brass holder. Disciple waiters floated around our table, bringing plates of spicy Indian curries.
Mahalakshmi pointed. “That yellowish stew is
dahl.
The flat bread is
chapati.”

“What is this delicious drink?” I asked, gulping a delicate, white liquid.

“Ah,” John smiled. “My favorite. It is a sweet
lhasi—
yogurt blended with honey, ice, and rose water.”

Carlos's eyes flashed. “Remember when I saw you at Slugs with Tony Williams? I asked you what it was like to record with Wayne on Supernova.”

“Yeah. I told you how wonderful that session was,” John answered.

“Where's Slugs?” I asked.

“Here in New York City,” John said. “Tony's a great drummer.”

“Your drummer Billy Cobham is a powerhouse,” Carlos said. “I can't wait to play with him.”

The restaurant bustled with customers and workers. “Do you work here every day, Mahalakshmi? Am I pronouncing it right—Ma-ha-'lock-shmee?”

“Yes, that's right. I work five days. I also travel to Europe to give talks about meditation.” She tore a piece of
puri
and scooped
dahl
into her mouth.

“Life was rather bleak until we found Guru,” she said. “Now Mahavishnu and I have a purpose deeper than we had ever known before.”

“What is that?” I asked, looking into her serious blue eyes.

She spooned chutney onto my plate. “We've accepted that God-consciousness can be attained in this lifetime. That's why
we have the restaurant—so we can meditate even while we work. We opened this place to feed people's souls as well as their bodies.”

“It is not enough to go to church on Sunday and then live the remainder of the week without God,” John said. “The spiritual path of meditation is active twenty-four hours a day. Sri Chinmoy teaches us to keep the mind pure and the heart open to God. He also meditates on us, infusing our bodies with light.”

I was a sponge, soaking up this new information: feeding souls; feeling purpose in one's life. It was exactly what I wanted: a cleansing of the impurities in my mind and body, a recovery of who I was before I met Sly—a scrubbing of my soul.

“Where is Sri Chinmoy from?” Carlos asked, his head cocked to the side as he listened intently.

“A small village in India,” Mahalakshmi said. “His family studied with Sri Aurobindo, a yoga master and ascetic.”

Carlos said he was interested in meeting Sri Chinmoy.
Did I want to meet this guru, too?
The sound of dishes clinking together, and pots banging in the kitchen, hummed around me. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to experience what these new friends were living.
Could a guru map out my road in life and show me a safe path through the universe?

We finished the meal with
gulab jamun
, round, doughy balls soaked in sugary syrup. I sat back in my chair, relaxed, content, and filled with thoughts about my next steps, my future. A new possibility was unveiling before me, a communion with my place in the divine plan. The warmth and happiness in the
restaurant made me want to stay there. I felt at a turning point in my life.

Carlos and I thanked Mahalakshmi and John. We shook hands and said good-bye to disciples who seemed awed by Carlos, and we bundled into our coats for the walk to the car. John drove us to our hotel in the city, while Mahalakshmi stayed to close the restaurant. Bounding over the parkway, our conversation waned in the late hour. Lights from Manhattan's skyscrapers shimmered across the East River against the gray-black sky. Musty subway odors seeped through John's open window when he paid the toll for the Midtown Tunnel.

He stopped at the curb outside the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Washington Square was two blocks up, the lighted arch glowing over Greenwich Village.

“Thank you, John,” I said, climbing out of the backseat.

“You're welcome. Please call me Mahavishnu. Our names have spiritual meanings that Guru gave us. Mine means ‘the great Vishnu’—the god who preserves divinity. Mahalakshmi's means ‘the great Lakshmi’—the goddess of beauty.”

“They're exquisite,” I said.

We pulled our suitcases out of the Volvo and waved Mahavishnu back to Queens. A bellman appeared and took our bags inside.

Riding the shaking elevator to the eighth floor, Carlos leaned over and brushed his lips across mine. I tipped the bellman, closed the door, and slid out of my coat. What a magnificent night. My life felt changed—renewed and energized.

New York was wide awake at midnight: horns honking,
traffic lights blinking, strangers scurrying along Fifth Avenue. I sat down at the window and played back the ideas I had been introduced to.

I felt as though fingers, gentle and prodding, had peeled back a dark curtain over my soul and exposed it to the changeless, enduring presence of God.

Carlos set up his cassette player, and Miles's “In a Silent Way” eased into the room.

fell asleep cradled in Carlos's arms and awoke with his chin resting on my head, my leg across his legs. Bits of last night's conversation floated through my mind. I knew I belonged here on this spiritual adventure with him, seeking something divine through this catalyst of music.