Space Between the Stars (21 page)

“This photograph was taken by one of his closest disciples many years ago,” she said. “Guru was in
samadhi
[supreme enlightenment and oneness with God]. He asks that we meditate on this photo each day to invoke his highest consciousness.” I sat silent, letting myself be drawn into the vastness of the consciousness captured by the photograph. After five minutes, Ma-halakshmi bowed her head. We stood and walked to the kitchen, ready to work. I slipped a white apron over my head and read the menu with the list of ingredients tacked on the wall. Mahalakshmi pushed the play button on a tape deck above the counter. “This is a tape of Sri Chinmoy singing.” A vibrato-inflected tenor voice sang out, “Supreme, Supreme, I bow to thee.” In the background I could hear the small Indian organ, called a harmonium. Nasal, tinny, unlike any of the jazz or rock I listened to, or the classical music I had learned as a child, the strange music filled the kitchen.

Mahalakshmi and I chopped broccoli and carrots, soaked beans, sliced cheese, and talked about Sri Chinmoy and the path of bhakti yoga. “Why do the women have to wear saris and the
men white?” Mahavishnu had said it was only suggested, but I had not met a New York disciple who did not wear the uniform sari or white pants and shirt.

“In the Eastern tradition, especially yoga,” Mahalakshmi said, “purity is the highest goal. To follow God, we must keep our minds on consciousness from above, not on sexual energy, which Sri Chinmoy calls ‘the vital.’ To follow Guru, we must not be bound by desire or ego, which fashion feeds, but must give up all vanity for faithfulness.”

I kept chopping.
Purity is good, but I love clothes. Would I have to give up fashion and style to be pure?
Sri Chinmoy's voice droned scratchily from the cassette. A collage of new questions bombarded my mind:
Even though Sri Chinmoy had said he and Jesus were one, isn't devotion to any person like worshipping an idol? Where is the balance between love of God and human love?
I did not want to transcend my physical desires for Carlos. I daydreamed of being wrapped in his arms at night, snug in his love. I was also happy to feel God's love in meditation.
Could not both exist together?

I finished dicing the vegetables for the minestrone. “What would you like me to do with these veggies?”

“Sauté them in olive oil in the soup pot for ten minutes.”

I had cooked only simple dinners at home, and scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. My specialty had been beef stroganoff over noodles. The recipes for Indian cuisine and large quantities of ingredients were a culinary course for me.

The phone rang. I scooped the finely chopped vegetables into a bowl while the oil heated. Mahalakshmi spoke quietly into the phone. “Guru would like to speak to you,” she called, holding the receiver out to me.
My heart beat quickly.
Speak to me?
I turned off the burner, wiped my hands on a towel, and pressed the receiver against my ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, good girl.” His voice was lilting and jovial. “How do you like working with your new friend?”

“I love it,” I answered shyly.

“Please learn our ways from her. She is a very good disciple. You have my infinite blessings, love, and gratitude. Your inner captain is your soul. You will never exploit God's forgiveness sky. All right? Very good. Ommm …” Click. The phone buzzed.

That was incredible.
Sri Chinmoy had chosen to speak to me. He had said that I could never exploit God's forgiveness. All I wanted was for God to forgive my past. If Sri Chinmoy's meditation could promise me that, then I wanted what he offered. I was desperate for anything that could cleanse me from my past mistakes.

“I think he hung up,” I said—more of a question than a statement, as I put the receiver back on the base.

Mahalakshmi smiled sweetly at me and turned back to the stove. I breathed deeply, trying to remember each word he had said and the tone of his voice. I wanted nothing more than to purify myself. Did I want to become a disciple if Carlos did, or would we look for another teacher together? The whole spiritual world was open to us. No matter what path we chose, our lives would never be the same.

“You know,” Mahalakshmi spoke over her shoulder, “disciples come from every walk of life. Some were record-company executives, professors, drug dealers, students, and even hobos.”
We looked at each other and laughed. Mahalakshmi could not have known about my past, but her statement relieved my anxiety. I was glad I did not have the most wicked or unusual past life compared with those people, who looked like angels to me.

“Guru doesn't allow drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, or swearing,” she said. “He wants us to meditate at least a half hour each morning, read his books twenty minutes each day, and meditate for protection before we drive.”
That didn't sound too difficult.
“We choose to treat our bodies as temples. Guru's consciousness protects us from darkness if we walk in oneness with him.”

Late that night, Carlos and I hid in our little room. “Maha-vishnu said Sri Chinmoy told him my soul has asked to be on his path,” he whispered. Carlos's breath was warm on my forehead as we lay in the hollow of our twin bed. My lips pressed against his bare chest as I listened to him search his core. “Let's go back to the U.N. Chapel for Sri Chinmoy's noon meditation. This time I'll know if it's God's will for me to join the meditation path—and maybe you will, too.”

The path of meditation was being traced on my heart. I had found a new passageway to God very different from my Christian upbringing. My communion with God had begun with prayer, a plea for God's Spirit to enter into my body. Meditation was an extension of that connection, a gathering of inner power with the lightning bolt of heavenly vision. I had not come to New York to find a guru, yet I loved being with Mahalakshmi and learning about the spiritual path.

Wednesday morning, the chapel seemed filled with even more light than the week before. Carlos and I sat near the front of the room, waiting expectantly for a sign from God.
Sri Chinmoy entered in a flaming red
kurta
and
dhoti
that glinted off the walls of the room. Incandescent rays of gold waved behind him as he stepped up to the dais and raised his hands to his forehead. Stillness spread over me. I do not know how long we meditated, but my heart soared to a new height. When thoughts came into my mind, they were about working at Annam Brahma and the idea that maybe one day I could run a divine enterprise. After meditation, everyone filed out. The Mahas told Carlos and me that Sri Chinmoy had asked to speak with us.

We were led to a small room down a hallway. One of Sri Chinmoy's attendants opened the thick wooden door. Inside, Sri Chinmoy sat behind a small table. Two chairs faced him. He motioned for us to sit; then he lifted his face toward the ceiling, his lips parting to reveal a luminous spread of white teeth against his brown skin. “You have both meditated very well today,” he murmured. I bowed my head. “It is my joy to tell you that the Supreme has told me you are both meant for my path. Now it is up to you to accept or reject. All my love and blessings.”

Sri Chinmoy stood and walked past us, laying his hand briefly on my head before reaching the door. His touch left a palm print of heat. I remained bowed until he left the room. When I raised my head, Carlos sat still, his eyes closed. His ponytail hung over his shoulder. After a few moments, he whispered, “Now I understand the notes that John Coltrane played when he recorded ‘Ascension.’ I feel healed from my anger at the breakup of the band. If we join the path, my quest for light will be complete. Do you want to become a disciple with me?”
“I love the meditation and the ideas Sri Chinmoy expresses about truth and light. I feel hope here. If becoming a disciple will give me more of that, I'm ready.”

We embraced, sealing our commitment to follow Sri Chinmoy.

The Mahas waited for us in the front of the chapel. Maha-vishnu clasped Carlos's hand and put his arm around his shoulders when we told them our decision. “I'm so happy, brother,” he said.

Mahalakshmi hugged me. I felt their oneness with us. “Guru said he would like to accept you as disciples at a special meditation,” she said. “We'll see you later.” They turned from us and disappeared down the street.

Carlos and I walked through Manhattan feeling the intense energy of the city and our decision. Carlos turned and caught my chin with his hand. “Will you go to London with me?” he asked. The band would be leaving in eight days.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I love being around you and want to share my music and King's Road—even the bad English food—with you.” He laughed as though remembering a boiled meal or a fantastic concert played at Great Albert Hall.

I wanted to say yes, but saw my own life shrinking in the mosaic of Carlos's career. Carlos was eagerly inviting me to his fiesta, his life. Mom had always told me I was loyal.
Am I crazy to be loyal in love when I had been so hurt before?
Carlos stared into my eyes as people brushed past us on the sidewalk. I could not resist loving him. “I'd love to go,” I said. I knew I made a difference in Carlos's life. He had told me more than once that he adored
my soul. Learning from his musical digest of blues, jazz, rock, and Latino rhythms complemented my own gospel and jazz heritage. I only prayed that what Carlos could teach me about love would remain as gratifying as it felt right now. Now I had to work on my bravery to call Mom and Dad to tell them I had decided to put off college once more.

We spent the afternoon in Greenwich Village. Carlos and I walked downstairs to a subterranean salon on Eighth Street. Two hairdressers' eyes opened wide as they recognized the long-haired, mustached man at my side. “May we help you?”

“I need a haircut,” Carlos said softly.

“Please sit here,” the tall brunette with layered waves said. “An inch?” she asked.

“Um, to here, please.” Carlos held his hands beneath his ears, his face blank, his eyes clouded.

“Oh no,” she said, clamping her hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry, but are you sure?”

I sat in the swivel chair next to Carlos, observing the scene. “Don't make it any harder for him,” I urged.

Carlos gulped. “No, I'm not sure, so you'd better hurry.”

Shampoo. Snip, snip, snip. Tears welled in my eyes. The handsome, young rebel man whose free-flying hair had been part of his antiestablishment image sat before me shorn clean. He looked younger, like a high school boy. His skin glowed, and his eyes reflected the pain of the sacrifice he had just made.

Mahavishnu shook Carlos's hand when we returned to their house, congratulating him on his monk-like haircut. Mahalak-shmi was at her restaurant, Annam Brahma. Ranjana and La-vanya, the two young women who drove Sri Chinmoy to
meetings and were in his inner circle, came to the door with a package for me. Ranjana was about five feet ten inches and angular like a two-by-four, her pale skin lit like a paper lantern. Lavanya was shorter and had a warm smile and soft eyes beneath brown hair held back from her face with a gold barrette. I opened the rose-tinted tissue. Inside were a sari, blouse, and slip. The silky fabric was deep yellow along the bottom, rising to a soft wheat color painted with thin stalks of bamboo. “Thank you,” I said, clutching the sari to my heart. “It's beautiful.”

“I'm sure Mahalakshmi can help you put it on,” Lavanya said. They smiled and walked back down the stairs, turning to wave as they climbed into a blue Rambler, Ranjana behind the wheel.

This entire experience was becoming surrealistic. I felt as though I was in the audience, watching someone else's life be transformed into an astonishing fairy tale.

Mahalakshmi came home and showed me how to wrap the sari. I stepped into the white cotton slip and tied the drawstring around my waist. I put my arms into the short, cotton blouse and snapped it closed. Mahalakshmi walked around me in circles, tucking the slippery yards of fabric into my slip. I felt my past moving farther into the background. Even the few blissful months I had had with Carlos were being transcended by this conversion to discipleship. We were not going to be living only for ourselves: God was now our daily communion, Sri Chin-moy our guide.

With the curling iron, I rolled my shag hairstyle to frame my face and rubbed clear gloss on my lips. Carlos dressed in the white shirt and pants Mahavishnu had brought him from Par-
sons Boulevard. Standing together in the mirror, we looked like people we did not know. Carlos's short hair gave his eyes room to glow, but he looked so “straight.” The sari made me look chubby in the middle—I tried to flatten the bunched material at my stomach. We felt uncomfortable in our new attire, but were determined to conform to this required outer appearance in order to make spiritual progress.

The ceremony was at Sri Chinmoy's house. By the time Carlos and I walked in the front door, I was spinning with nervousness. I felt as though I were flying above the house, watching the whole process from out of my body. Ranjana and Lavanya scooted apart to allow Carlos and me to sit directly in front of Guru. At least twenty disciples were sitting behind us, but I did not focus on them. I kept my head down until Sri Chinmoy sat on his throne; then I lifted my eyes to meditate on him. In my peripheral vision, Carlos shimmered in his white.

“Carlos and Devi,” Sri Chinmoy spoke in a soft drone like the harmonium on Mahalakshmi's cassette. “You have now entered the inner world where you have accepted me as your guru. The outer world of turmoil has surrendered to the inner world of delight and peace. Your souls are crying out for the infinite Light from the inner Sun that we all have. I will give you realisation. Your lives are written on my heart. I am at your service forever.”

The candlelight pulsed into a wondrous glow, making the room radiantly bright. The night passed as a peace-filled dream—my heart, like a prism, reflecting and receiving the effulgence of God's light. Afterward, the disciples served us plates of curry and rice. We ate very little, we were so excited.
Congratulations followed us out the door when we left Guru's house.

“How do you feel?” I asked Carlos back in our twin bed at the Mahas'.