Space Between the Stars (25 page)

Being in a relationship with Carlos was like standing beside a radiant, iridescent peacock with its tail feathers fully fanned out in a blue-green rainbow. Everywhere we went, people wanted to shake his hand, praise him. Women actually asked to kiss him right in front of me. My heart felt trampled in the outpouring of devotion to him. On the one hand I accepted the culture of devotion accompanying Carlos's fame. On the other, I couldn't conceive of being so fanatical about another human being and I often told people, when they oohed and aahed over my good fortune to be with him, that “each person has a gift to offer the world,” and I was sure they were special, too.

But, clouds blew in through the window of my insecurity and disrupted my peaceful meditative world when I answered the telephone and someone was breathing and then hung up. My intuition told me it was a woman calling to speak with Carlos, but that she was afraid to ask for him when she heard my voice. I wondered if it was his former girlfriend, Linda, and worried he was not over her, and when it happened more than once, fretted there were others, and allowed the voiceless phone calls to poison my joy. I rationalized that if Carlos was
seeing other women, it should not concern me. We were not married, but we were together so much, I did not believe he had time for another relationship. Carlos and I had a closeness that assured me we would be together for a while, and I purchased flower bulbs to plant in his garden, as though I would be there in spring to see tulips and daffodils push up along the walkway outside the kitchen window.

Sevika called me every day. She planned ways for the San Francisco Centre to make money to buy books and tapes from the New York Centre, and she wanted to sell clothes at the Alameda Flea Market. I had so much I was not wearing from my old life. I took Sly's goat coat, my tight, eight-button sailor jeans, and the purple taffeta hot-pants suit I had not worn since L.A. to sell at the flea market. Carlos reluctantly gave some snakeskin boots and black leather pants.

Sevika put Sri Chinmoy's picture on the table with the items for sale. Saris were enough of an attention-getter, but the transcendental meditation photo really raised eyebrows. An older couple walked by us, looking at the photo, and then stared and shook their heads—and the man mumbled, “Damn gurus come to America, brainwash our kids, steal our money.”

I was mortified. I felt the same despair from the man's negative comments that I had felt growing up with people staring at my father's coal skin next to my mother's white. Their eyes had held scorn, even hatred, as they openly stared at us walking by. We never said anything, just stared back, holding our ground, keeping our heads high.

With Sevika, I could swallow my discomfort because it did not hurt like racism. And I felt it was my duty to help her. I was
the only other woman in the Centre. I also had fun learning more about Guru from her perspective, which was much holier and funnier than Mahalakshmi's. Sevika acted as though Guru were present at every moment. His invisible spirit-consciousness was like a ghost constantly at her side. Being with Sevika was like being in New York. Before she drove, she prayed aloud for Guru to protect her. Yet she had a boisterous sense of humor and told jokes nonstop. She worked tirelessly on project after project, including sewing a bright gold satin
kurta
and
dhoti
for Sri Chinmoy that required tedious hand stitching. Her eyes often were red-rimmed from working until the wee hours of the morning. What drove her was divine love. When she spoke Guru's name, she swooned with devotion.

Carlos took me to his parents' home in late December. He had bought them a duplex in Noe Valley near Twenty-fourth Street. Mrs. Santana hugged me and spoke to me in Spanish. She and Carlos had the same butterscotch skin; Mr. Santana was brown like me. His mother's hair was straight and thick, a golden color. She was tall, with a wide girth and imposing strength. Her voice was musical and kind. Carlos had to interpret their words, as my high school Spanish was not good enough to understand what they were saying. The house was immaculate, and we sat at their dining room table eating a delicious meal of
chile relleños
and refried beans that Mrs. Santana had cooked. Mr. Santana held Carlos's hand in his own, gently squeezing it as he spoke softly to him. He wore a black suit, the jacket cropped short, with polished silver buttons looped with chains across his white shirt. He was going to play violin at La Cantina
with his mariachi band. Mrs. Santana fluttered from the kitchen to the dining table, trying to include me in her fluent Spanish conversation.

When we left, Carlos said, “I think that went all right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have not been close to my mom since I left home. She and I fought a lot.”

“About what?”

“Mom wanted us to live according to her rigid sense of right and wrong. I was a hippie, and we couldn't talk about anything, so I moved out, roaming San Francisco with my friends and playing my guitar to make money. We played at weddings and at the YMCA in the Mission. I stayed at Gregg Rolie's and Michael Shrieve's houses a lot.”

Carlos and I told each other stories about our families and began to understand that although we had been raised worlds apart—his father old-country macho, and his mother traditional stay-at-home; my father a social rebel, and my mother an independent woman who worked outside our home—what we had in common was a desire to be kind and to trust in love. He accepted me wholeheartedly like a limb of his body and called me
muñeca—
“doll” in Spanish. I called him “sweetheart.” Carlos was a name that belonged to the world, and I wanted the part of him that wrapped spiritual love around me—soft, tender, generous, and mine alone.

We flew to New York to attend Sri Chinmoy's New Year Meditation and rented a car to drive to Manhattan, rushing so we would not be late. A gust of Manhattan's cold brittle wind
pushed me up the stone steps of Hunter College Auditorium. The double doors opened to a marble foyer, where a poster of Sri Chinmoy hung, his face an expression of meditative bliss.

The words were framed in hand-drawn gardenias. I was surprised to see Mahavishnu's name like an advertisement. It seemed artless and begging, as if Sri Chinmoy needed a famous person to sell his spirituality, incongruous to what I believed God could do without human assistance. People stood outside the doors to the auditorium. One of Sri Chinmoy's male attendants opened a side door for Carlos and me. Disciples bustled through the large theater: Two men carried a wooden platform onto the center of the light-flooded stage, bending deeply as they set it down. A woman followed, her sari dancing around her. She laid a thick square of foam on the wooden seat and draped gold brocade over it, smoothing the fabric with her hands. The plain wood was transformed into a throne, accented by flowerpots of poinsettias and chrysanthemums along the front of the stage.

Mahalakshmi waved from down front and walked quickly to us. “I'm so glad you could come. Guru wants you to sit with the New York Centre. We're in the middle first three rows.”
She led us to our seats. No New York disciples were talking. They sat straight-backed with their eyes closed, absorbed in their own consciousnesses, finding an inner silence in the midst of the preparations. I wanted to sit by Mahalakshmi and catch up on disciple news, but the focus of the devotees was the night's meditation. Carlos and I sat down. Mahavishnu slid into the seat next to Carlos and embraced him in a bear hug. “I'm playing acoustic tonight. Want to join me? We can do ‘Naima’ or ‘A Love Supreme.’

Carlos looked surprised. “I don't have my guitar,” he whispered.

Mahavishnu smiled. “I brought an extra Martin.”

Although Carlos loved spontaneous jam sessions, he usually played his own instrument.

Carlos looked down at his hands for a few moments. The stage lights cast an adobe glow over his skin; he looked so mestizo against the white shirt he wore. A long line creased his cheek, like a dimple pulled sideways. His lips pursed together as he thought.

Carlos raised his head, eyes twinkling. “Okay, man.”

Mahavishnu motioned for Carlos to follow him. Carlos left his coat on the seat next to mine and walked up the stairs onto the stage, disappearing behind thick velvet curtains. Doors at the rear of the auditorium opened, and seekers filed into rows behind the disciples.

Lavanya and Ranjana descended the stage stairs. Light glinted off their saris—Ranjana's threaded with gold, and La-vanya's embroidered with tiny round mirrors. They were dressed as though going to a ball. Their lives were a puzzle to
me: Although they were together much of the time, I never saw them talk to each other or display outer signs of closeness or even friendliness. They carried themselves with an air of knowing, but their faces—often without emotion—were aloof like wax figurines. They sat in the first row directly in front of the throne. Sri Chinmoy emerged from the side, walking stiffly, as though already deep in trance. His brown head topped a flowing white
kurta
and
dhoti;
his hands were clasped loosely in front of his body. He sat down on the edge of the throne, his feet in sheer, white striped socks.

“Om,” he chanted forcefully, the word resonating until the sound melted into absolute silence. “Om,” he chanted again. An aura of white light radiated around Sri Chinmoy's face, his neck extended like a heron ready to fly and his eyelids half-mast in dreamlike whiteness. On Guru's shoulders rested blossoms of white and red carnations woven into a thick necklace hanging to his stomach. He sat back on his throne, the garland around his neck rising and falling with each breath.

Mahavishnu walked onto the stage. Fans began whistling and clapping.

“Whoo! All right!”

Applause crescendoed around the auditorium. Carlos walked out in his bare feet, carrying a guitar by the neck with both hands. His head was bowed. A hum of voices said, “It's Carlos. That's Carlos Santana.” Louder cat calls, whistles, and clapping.

Mahavishnu and Carlos sat down on the stage floor behind a six-inch-high microphone on a stand. They tuned their strings to each other. The auditorium grew silent. Their four hands moved
ever so slightly as the melody of John Coltrane's “Naima” whispered across their guitar strings. Sri Chinmoy sat up tall, his eyes fluttering as the two guitarists bent over their fingers, absorbed in the music. Carlos's soft legato chords were a perfect foil to Mahavishnu's rapid arpeggio runs. Trading solos, their tonal qualities blended as one voice.

Sri Chinmoy maintained his meditative tranquility. The final chord was followed by cheering, as though we were at a concert rather than a meditation. Sri Chinmoy bowed toward Mahavishnu and Carlos, a smile beaming from his face. The guitarists walked off the stage. After many shouts of “Encore! Encore!” did not bring the men back, I heard the rustle of some people leaving.

The New York girls went onto the stage to sing. I would have died if I'd had to follow Carlos and Mahavishnu, even though many of their fans had left, but the women closed their eyes and folded their hands; Bengali words tumbled from their lips as the remaining nondisciples squirmed in their seats.

The meditation ended, and Sri Chinmoy left the stage. Carlos walked toward me, fans surrounding him, trying to shake his hand. When he reached me, I thought,
He's glowing.

“You're glowing,” he said, looking in my eyes.

“So are you.” I laughed.

Savyasachi came up behind Carlos. “Guru would like to see you both in the back room.” He led us down a hallway behind the stage to a door cracked and yellowed with age. The air held the scent of fresh gardenias. Carlos and I waited while Savyasachi slipped inside the room. I shifted my heavy wool coat from arm to arm. Carlos leaned back against the wall, his
eyes closed. The door opened, sending light cascading into the hall. “Guru can see you now,” Savyasachi said.

Sri Chinmoy sat in an orange-cushioned recliner, his Buddhalike smile gently beckoning us. Carlos knelt at his feet, his eyes looking down at the floor. I knelt next to him.

“Dear ones, I am so happy you came to this special meditation.” Sri Chinmoy's voice creaked like a door, its hinges needing oil. “While I was meditating, your souls approached me, asking for a blessing. When you were playing your guitar, dear Carlos, the Supreme told me your spiritual name. This name I will give you in the next few months. When you receive this name, a new, fruitful consciousness will dawn in you. Your soul flew to me also, Devi.” I smiled at the way he pronounced my name with a
v
instead of a
b.
In Hindi,
Devi
means “goddess.” I hoped that
Devi
would become my spiritual name.

“The Supreme gave me your spiritual name also. Together, the two of you will run like deer to the golden shore. You have pleased God with your purity, your aspiration. In August we will have a special gathering at my home for you to receive your soul names.”

Carlos and I bowed, feeling that we were making progress in our spiritual lives. Each Indian name embodied the divine qualities of the disciple's soul. We stood up, gathered our coats, and backed out of the room. The next day we left for San Francisco.

Carlos continued rehearsing every day with the band. They were scheduled to begin their tour in San Diego on January 30, my birthday. His suitcases were laid out on the bedroom floor. He folded T-shirts, jeans, and a snakeskin jacket into neat piles
and laid cowboy boots on their sides. Carlos made copies of albums he wanted to listen to on the road and lined one whole side of his suitcase with cassettes. We went to his management office in San Francisco to meet with Barry Imhoff, the tour manager, who worked under Bill Graham. Bill owned the Fill-more West in San Francisco and the Fillmore East in New York City, world-renowned concert venues, and ran his concert-promotion and band-management company across the street from Fillmore West on Geary Boulevard. Carlos held my hand, and we walked by the thin-faced lobby receptionist into the main room. Heads turned to watch us. I continued to be stunned when people paid such attention to Carlos and, in turn, to me. When the band was onstage, I understood who Carlos was in the musical world—his gift of melody and time, his fame. But alone, he was my sweet friend and lover, not a famous celebrity.