Professor Chandra Follows His Bliss

by Rajeev Balasubramanyam

  “I guess you’d better call Mum,” said Jasmine.

  “Jasmine, are you sick? Do you need a doctor? They said you ate mushrooms.”

  “Magic mushrooms. They’re a drug, Dad.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Like LSD,” said Jasmine, “but natural. They’re not dangerous. I flipped out a little but I’m okay now. Really.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “They were meant to share but I thought, fuck them, they’re going to college. So I took them all.”

  “What?” said Chandra. “What does that mean?”

  “I took them all.”

  “You’re also going to college.”

  “I fucked it all up, Dad. My SATs. I can go to a community college but nothing else. I’m stuck in this place.”

  “No. Jasmine, no. You can go to England. Anywhere. We can pay.”

  “Not without the grades. You don’t know how badly I fucked up. I’m going nowhere.”

  “It’ll be all right, Jasmine. I’ll make it all right. I’m a Professor. I can sort it out.”

  He wanted to put his arm around her but he couldn’t; physical affection was hard for him, especially when it was most needed—he would always freeze, afraid of rejection.

  “Everything is all right, Dad. Everything just is. Can’t you see that?”

  The moon had gone. He dialed Jean’s number.

  “Right,” she said, when he told her he’d found Jasmine. She did not sound surprised.

  They walked to the car, he and his daughter. Professor Chandra remembered what he had said by the pool about boundaries, how they didn’t exist, how if there was any meaning, none of them would ever know what it was. Wasn’t that exactly what Jasmine was trying to tell him? Was it possible she had come to the same realization fifty years earlier than he had?

  Once inside the car he said, “I think I understand, Jasmine.”

  She looked at him, half-smiling. “You do?”

  “Sometimes I feel like this too. As though I made a mess of it all. As though maybe none of it mattered in the first place. I know.”

  “Yeah?”

  “But drugs will not help, Jasmine. Not at all.”

  “How would you know, Dad?”

  “Drugs are dangerous, Jasmine. Everyone knows that. There are other ways to solve problems.”

  “When you think about it, Dad, who really cares?”

  “I care.”

  “But do you? Do you really?”

  “Yes, I do. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I say silly things. But I do. It’s the only thing I’m sure about.”

  They were driving away, the windows down, Jasmine staring into the street. The sky was a dirty white now, dawn perhaps half an hour away. When they reached Suzie’s house, Jean got in the back and, to his surprise, said nothing to him or to Jasmine.

  At Steve and Jean’s house the gate was already open. Jasmine took Jean inside without a word. Chandra, not knowing what else to do, wandered around the building to the back. Steve was standing above the pool on the low diving board, completely naked in the early-morning chill, breathing deeply: “Hoo-hoo-hoo.”

  “Good morning,” said Chandra as Steve pulled himself back from the brink, wheeling his arms like a propeller.

  Chandra tried to keep his eyes off Steve’s penis, but could not help noticing that his pubic area was shaved clean.

  “Morning, Chandrasekhar,” said Steve, leaving the diving board and crossing the pool’s perimeter. “Guess you didn’t get the sleep you were hoping for.”

  “We had to look for Jasmine.”

  “Yeah, and you found her? I said she’d be fine.”

  “She wasn’t fine,” said Chandra, drawing closer, which made it easier not to look at Steve’s penis. “She was on drugs.”

  “Drugs?” said Steve. “Really?”

  “Magical mushrooms.”

  “Ah, yes. We spoke about this.”

  “You spoke about mushrooms?”

  “About drugs in general,” said Steve. “She’s experimenting, you see.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  “I told her to stay away from the hard stuff. That’s what killed the sixties.”

  “And what did you say about magical mushrooms, Steve?”

  “Hallucinogens are different, my friend. They open the doors of the mind. It’s what brought Eastern spirituality to the West, you know.”

  “No, Steve, I don’t know.”

  “I was just being open with her. Being honest. I told her hallucinogens, in small quantities, won’t hurt her. Nor will smoking pot.”

  “You told her that?”

  “Yes, Chandrasekhar. I told her the truth.”

  “You know where I found her, Steve?” he said. “In a dumpster.”

  He could see her now, face up on a heap of garbage, blood dribbling from her mouth. The image was so clear it even convinced him.

  “Look, Chandrasekhar, young people get up to all sorts of things. Wait till we sit down and I tell you some of my stories.”

  Steve was afraid; Chandra could tell. He had even taken a step backward, toward the edge of the pool.

  “She could have died, Steve.”

  “No, no, no, no, no, my friend, not from psilocybin. Jaz will be fine, I assure you. Just another story to tell.”

  “I don’t ever want you to tell my daughter to take drugs again, Steve.”

  “Oh, my friend, you’ve got me all wrong.”

  “Never again, Steve.”

  “All right, buddy. Never again, I promise.”

  Chandra stepped toward him until they were facing one another.

  “And I want you to apologize, Steve. To me and to Jean.”

  “Come on, Chandrasekhar. It’s just a misunderstanding. Let’s go inside and drink some coffee and laugh about it.”

  “Say you’re sorry, Steve.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly. Come now.”

  Steve put out his hand. Chandra stared at it. What did it mean, this hand? If he touched it, would that mean he agreed that teenagers should take drugs?

  “Sorry, Steve,” he said. “I reject your hand.”

  “Oh, well, that’s all right,” said Steve, putting his arms by his sides. “But I had expected more from you, Chandrasekhar.”

  “More from me?” said Chandra, watching as morning feelers of light crept over the edge of the pool.

  “I’d expected a more enlightened approach. Rather less 1950s. Still, each to their own.”

  “Jasmine is my own.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve always been of the belief that children don’t belong to anyone. That’s the mistake we all make, you see.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” said Chandra. “She belongs to me and I belong to her. You’re the one who doesn’t belong.”

  “This is my home,” said Steve. “But I see what you mean. You feel angry because your need for power hasn’t been met.”

  “My need for what?”

  “Power. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You feel powerless and you’re taking it out on me. That’s quite okay. I understand. I would hate to be in your position.”

  “And what position is that?” said Chandra, thinking that if Steve took one more step backward he would fall into the pool.

  “With Jean and all that,” said Steve. “I don’t want to upset you.”

  “This is not about Jean,” said Chandra, leaning forward. “This is about my daughter whom you encouraged to take drugs. I have been out all night looking for her. She could have died, and you, Steve, do not care.”

  “I care, of course I do. I just think you’re projecting your pain, Chandrasekhar. We both know Jasmine was in no danger. We both know this is all because your wife left you, because she’s wi
th me now. It’s hard to adjust. I get it. I feel for you.”

  “I don’t think you get anything,” said Chandra. “I feel for you.”

  “So let’s call it quits,” said Steve, extending his hand once more.

  “Let’s call it nothing,” said Chandra, and punched Steve on the nose.

  Steve covered his face with his palms. A tablespoon of blood slipped between his fingers and fell shining on to the sparkling tiles. Chandra wrung his hand: punching a face, it turned out, wasn’t so different from punching a fridge. And now Steve was falling, the back of his head hitting the water first, and then his back, before he disappeared altogether.

  Seconds later, Steve rose to the surface, spread-eagled in the sunlight with a pink halo around his head, which swelled into a cloud. He turned himself over and swam sideways to the deck where he put out his elbows and dabbed at his nose with his fingers.

  “Steve,” said Chandra. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. It’s nothing. I’m all right. Just hand me that towel, please.”

  Chandra walked around the pool, fetching the towel from the sofa. The sun had risen. An airplane was cutting its way through the solid blue sky above them.

  “Here, Steve,” he said, tossing the towel.

  “Thanks.”

  Steve’s voice sounded funny, as if he had swallowed helium. The blood was still visible in the pool, fainter now, dissolving. Chandra turned his back and entered the house through the screen doors.

  Jean was sitting at the breakfast bar with her back to the pool. She half-turned her head as he entered. “Well,” she said, “that was quite a night.”

  “How is she?” said Chandra, avoiding eye contact.

  “She’s asleep.”

  “Do we call a doctor?”

  “No. She’s okay. But she doesn’t want to go to her graduation. I had to say yes in the end. I mean, it’s up to her.”

  “Oh,” said Chandra, as Jean took a seat beside him.

  “I’m sorry, Charles. You came all this way.”

  “Oh, no,” said Chandra. “We can’t force her. I understand.”

  “Christ,” said Jean. “Did we ever do anything like this?”

  “We couldn’t afford to.”

  “I think she really wanted to see us together,” said Jean. “Maybe it all got too much for her.”

  “It’s about college,” said Chandra. “She told me.”

  “No, Charles. She only said that because it’s what you wanted to hear.”

  “It’s her future,” said Chandra. “She’s thinking about the future.”

  “She’s thinking about right now,” said Jean. “She just needs to see that you and me and Steve can get along. We can spend the day together at least, when she wakes up. Let her see we’re all okay with each other. It won’t be the end of the world if she goes to a community college for a year.”

  Chandra closed his eyes. To him it would be. But the question was a test. Jean wanted him to be more accepting, like Steve.

  “I suppose not,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Charles,” said Jean. “I know you want them all to go to the best universities, but it’s more important that she’s happy. And right now she isn’t. Another year at home might even be good for her.”

  “A good education is happiness in the long term,” said Chandra.

  “I don’t disagree,” said Jean. “But it isn’t everything. You can’t just tell her what’s good for her, Charles. You have to see her. You have to listen to her.”

  Chandra was sure Jean wanted to say, “Like Steve does,” or, “Like Steve listens to me,” or talk about something that happened twenty years ago and use it as proof of his inability to understand her, or anyone. He, in turn, wanted to tell her he’d just punched Steve into the pool like something from a Hindi movie.

  “You said boundaries,” said Chandra. “One boundary is she goes to university, she studies hard, she doesn’t throw her future away.”

  “I agree,” said Jean.

  “Would Steve agree?”

  “No,” said Jean. “But Jasmine isn’t his child.”

  Steve was pulling the screen doors open, stepping inside. He was wearing flip-flops and a dressing gown and had cotton wool stuffed inside his nose, which looked red and swollen but not broken.

  “Lo lo lo la la la,” sang Steve.

  “Oh, my God,” said Jean. “What happened?”

  Chandra’s body went rigid. For a fleeting moment he considered making a run for it, getting into his car and driving through the gates while shaking his fist and yelling, “Hi ho, Silver!” or something equally triumphant. Instead he turned to look at Steve, who was smiling at him.

  “I hit my face,” said Steve, “doing one of those stupid tumble turns.”

  “Oh, love,” said Jean, taking his hand and leading him to the stool she’d been sitting on.

  “It looks easy on the TV,” said Steve.

  “Does it hurt, Steve?” said Chandra, in as kindly a voice as he could manage.

  “I’ll get you some ice,” said Jean.

  “It’s nothing,” said Steve. “I didn’t hit it hard.”

  Jean crossed to the fridge and put some ice cubes inside a tea towel which she pressed to Steve’s face.

  “It’s all right, love,” said Jean. “It’s just bruised.”

  “How’s Jaz?” said Steve.

  “She doesn’t want to go to her graduation,” said Jean. “But she’s fine.”

  “Well,” said Steve, “I can hardly blame her. Commencement’s a drag. Three hours of pure misery.”

  “She’ll never have another one,” said Jean.

  “And thank God for that. First you listen to the valedictorian telling you their life is gonna be way better than yours, and then some sap tells you to follow your dreams even though his generation killed any possibility of that happening. Isn’t that right, Chandrasekhar?”

  “Yes,” said Chandra, deciding it was best to agree with anything Steve said. “I suppose that is right.”

  “Jaz is better off at home. She had her fun with her friends last night. That’s enough.”

  “Steve,” said Jean. “I don’t think she had fun.”

  “I know, honey,” said Steve. “I just mean high school isn’t where life’s real lessons are learned. And neither is college. Jaz is a smart girl. She knows that.”

  “So where are life’s real lessons learned?” said Chandra, in spite of his resolution.

  “And please don’t say the university of life,” said Jean.

  “Well, like I said last night, I learned half of what I know studying Vedanta, and the rest at Esalen.”

  Steve put his hand over Jean’s, lowering the ice pack.

  “Yes,” said Chandra. “You said.”

  “It was founded by two Stanford graduates actually,” said Steve. “Interesting story. One of them was diagnosed psychotic and put in a mental hospital. The other traveled to Pondicherry, Aurobindo’s ashram.”

  “What’s the difference?” Chandra wanted to say, whose disdain for hippies was surpassed only by his hatred of sadhus; those ash-smeared, ganja-imbibing beggars who contributed nothing to society while expecting reverence from ordinary working people.

  “Anyway,” said Steve, “when they got back to San Fran, in ’62, I think, they got together with a few other guys, Huxley, Watts, and opened the Esalen institute, named after the tribe who used to live there. It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump for you. You could be there in a couple of hours.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Jean, putting her hand over her mouth. “You’re not actually suggesting Charles…”

  “Oh, I’m sure Chandrasekhar’s game for anything,” said Steve. “Pass me the iPad, would you, honey?”

  Steve shuffled over till his elbow wa
s touching Chandra’s.

  “Look,” he said. “Here are some pictures of the site. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Chandra looked. He saw gardens, and a swimming pool that faced over the sea. Steve clicked on the list of former teachers. They were mostly PhDs from Ivy League schools; Richard Feynman’s name was there, the first Nobel Prize-winner Chandra had ever met, back in the seventies.

  “And here are the upcoming workshops,” said Steve. “ ‘The Natural Singer: Solo of the Heart,’ ‘Advanced Yoga,’ ‘Tantric Massage for Couples,’ ‘Being Yourself in the Summer Solstice,’ ‘The Path of Tibetan Mahamudra,’ ‘The Way of Zen,’ ‘Ecstatic Dance for Women,’ ‘Overcoming Addiction: Six Steps Not Twelve.’ Anything catch your eye?”

  Chandra shook his head, then caught Steve’s eye. There was only one word for his expression: devilish. This was payback, blackmail for his silence.

  “Addictions, no,” said Chandra.

  “Unless you count work,” said Jean.

  “Which I don’t,” said Chandra, who found the word “workaholism” as oxymoronic as “liberal intelligentsia.” “Yoga, no.” Since coming to California he had begun to view yoga as the greatest evil of modern life. “Couples, no. Singing, no.”

  “How about this?” said Steve, and clicked on “Being Yourself in the Summer Solstice,” a course which lasted three days and cost two thousand dollars. “ ‘Often we take the biggest leaps in personal development when we learn to ignore the critical voices inside our heads, when we stop believing that wisdom is outside and look for it in ourselves instead. This workshop will help us finally listen to our own voices.’ ”

  “I don’t think so,” said Chandra.

  “It would be my treat,” said Steve.

  “Oh, God no,” said Chandra. “No, no, no.”

  “I insist,” said Steve.

  “Don’t be silly, love,” said Jean. “Charles would never dream of doing something like that. Not in a trillion years.”

  This would have been true half an hour ago, Chandra reflected, but now he had no choice. He had punched Steve in the face and this was his comeuppance and both of them knew it.

  “I’ll do it,” said Chandra. “But I can’t let you pay, Steve.”

  “Good Lord,” said Jean.

  “Wonderful!” said Steve. “And you’d be with Rudi Katz. Rudi’s majestic.”