Professor Chandra Follows His Bliss

by Rajeev Balasubramanyam

  In reality, there were two overweight white men and an older, darker-skinned woman who was looking at the sea while Chandra eased his body over the edge of the tub. The men were talking finance, using language Chandra understood and did not want to be reminded of, although, short of sticking his fingers in his ears, it was impossible not to hear them. They kept saying that Obama was “racking up the national deficit,” which irritated Chandra to no end. He tried to hypnotize himself by staring at the sea as the woman was doing, but eventually he couldn’t help turning around and saying:

  “Deficit is when the government spends more than it receives in revenue. National debt is how much the government owes. You can’t confuse the two.”

  The younger of the men smiled before turning away so that Chandra could see the tattoo on his back—a depiction of The Last Supper, in its entirety—before returning to his conversation.

  “You sound kinda British, honey,” said the woman, who was about his age with frizzy white hair and freckled, near cylindrical breasts that rose from the water as she spoke.

  “I usually live in England,” he said, averting his eyes.

  “But you’re from South India originally?”

  “Yes,” said Chandra. “How did you know?”

  “My husband and I traveled. We spent years traveling. Gives you an eye for that kind of thing.”

  “So you went to India?”

  “Oh, we went everywhere.” She splashed water over her face and hair, looking out toward the frothing sea. “Started out in Iran, and just drifted.”

  Professor Chandra thought of Steve—“I’m a fucking stereotype”—but shook his head: he didn’t want Steve in there now.

  “I’ve never done that,” he said. “I’ve never not known where I was going.”

  “It’s fun,” said the woman. “But you’ve got to feel free to be free, you know. And if you feel free, you can be anywhere.”

  “I’m Chandra,” said Chandra, realizing this sort of talk no longer alarmed him.

  “Dolores,” said the woman, holding out her hand. “Dolores Blum.”

  He accepted her dripping hand.

  “So what are you studying here, Dolores?”

  “Plain old yoga. Good old yoga, I should say. How about you?”

  “ ‘Being Yourself in the Summer Solstice.’ ”

  “Oh, that sounds beautiful. Being Yourself in the Summer Solstice.”

  He could see her stretching out the words in her mind, as if admiring the sheen on a strip of satin. “It’s something I struggle with,” she said, “being myself.”

  “Really?”

  “I guess we all do. It must be so nice to be yourself, I mean really be yourself.” She stretched out her legs, brushing his thigh with her toe. “It must be like floating.”

  The men who knew nothing about economics left, easing out of the water like hippos from a mud hole. Chandra tried to relax, leaning back his head, running his hands through his hair. Relaxing wasn’t something he was good at, not without a novel or a glass of cognac in his hand. There were massage tables on the deck above them, but Chandra disliked massage. It always left him in pain and more stressed out than before.

  “So what was it you were telling those bros?” said Dolores. “Something about finance?”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” said Chandra. “I’m an economist, that’s all.”

  “There’s a certain type of person that doesn’t like being corrected,” she said, eyes twinkling.

  “I know,” said Chandra. “I’m one of them.”

  “Course you are, honey. It’s called being a man.”

  Chandra pursed his lips. This was the sort of thing Radha would have said.

  “Hey,” said Dolores, reaching out her hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, no, no,” said Chandra, blinking hard. “It’s all right. It’s perfectly true, that’s all.”

  “Well, hey, it’s true of me too. Anyway, I can’t stand all this bullshit about being beyond opinions. There’s a garden beyond right and wrong….Sure there is, but I’ve never seen it.”

  “I suppose I should learn when to keep quiet,” said Chandra.

  “You know who’s the most opinionated person I know?” said Dolores. “My husband.”

  “Oh?”

  “And he’s a monk.”

  “Can one be a monk and a husband?”

  “If you’re a Zen monk,” said Dolores. “Sure.”

  “So you live in…a monastery?”

  “Of course!” said Dolores. “What did you think? Don’t these look like the breasts of a nun?”

  Professor Chandra tried desperately to think of a response, something like “They certainly don’t,” or “My thoughts exactly,” but this would sound either sleazy or plain ridiculous from his lips, so he reverted to habit and shifted uncomfortably.

  “Actually, I’m not a nun at all. I’m a monk’s wife, which isn’t the same thing. But you should come visit us,” said Dolores. “Our place is ten thousand feet high in the mountains. Colorado’s best-kept secret. You can just lose yourself up there, forget the rest of the world exists. Not bad for a girl from Honduras.”

  “We’re doing meditation here,” said Chandra. “But I don’t think it’s my kind of thing.”

  “We do the simple kind. You just sit. It’s good for a lot of things. We had a young man the court ordered into rehab, but they let him come to us instead. Was with us two years and never used again. Ended up going to college. He’s a programmer now.”

  The mention of college reminded him that his afternoon session was probably starting. He hadn’t even thought about his critical voices yet.

  “I’m sorry,” said Chandra, “I think it’s time for me to go.”

  “Sure, honey,” said Dolores. “You got duties.”

  “Don’t you?” he said. “I mean, won’t your yoga be starting?”

  “Of course. But who goes to all their sessions?”

  “Exactly,” said Chandra, who had attended every scheduled lecture and seminar from the onset of his BA to the end of his PhD. “Who does that?”

  The two sat together for another hour, talking and looking at the seabirds and the waves. Dolores showed him how to count his breaths, how to observe the beads of sensation flowing across his skin. He told her about India and China, about the difference between Tiger and Cub economies. He told her about Jasmine too, though not Radha.

  They left the hot tubs when it was time for dinner, and it was only as they crossed the deck that Chandra realized he and Dolores were naked, yet talking away like old friends. They even dressed in front of one another, Dolores slipping into a king-sized bra while he brushed his hair with his hands and put on his blazer. When they were clothed and he could look at her once more, he concluded that Dolores was a handsome woman. No, a beautiful woman, soft but strong, wise but willful, just irritating enough to keep him on his toes. He liked the two tiny moles on her neck, the roundness of her ears (it was rare to have round ears, wasn’t it?), the smoothness of her elbows.

  As they walked back to the dining hall, Dolores told him she meditated for two hours a day, sometimes more.

  Chandra whistled.

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” she said. “My husband does a minimum of four.”

  “Four hours!” said Chandra.

  “And he’s still not easy!” said Dolores. “Who would he be if he didn’t meditate? An axe murderer, probably.”

  Chandra wanted to say, “He’s a lucky man,” but faltered at the last instant, changing it to, “I’m sure he’s a good man.”

  “Well, that’s what meditation teaches you. There are no good men or bad men. We’re all kind of the same.”

  “We are?”

  “I think so.”

  They reached the dining hall. Dol
ores stopped and looked toward the river.

  “I’m going to pass on dinner,” she said, and patted her stomach. “Better take care of the mind instead.”

  “Oh,” said Chandra. “Oh, I see.”

  “But it was delightful meeting you, honey. And you’ve got to come to our place. You’ve just got to. You’ll love it.”

  Dolores took a pen from her handbag and wrote her number on an old bus ticket. Chandra folded it and put it in his wallet before writing his own number on a business card. They stood looking at each other for a few seconds before hugging. Chandra held on to her a little longer and a little tighter than he had expected to, and when he let go there was a lump in his throat.

  “Oh, honey,” said Dolores who, for a moment, looked as sad as he felt. “That’s just the way it is.”

  Professor Chandra knew exactly what this meant. She was married and he was lonely, and had they met at another time…but this was true of about a thousand other things. There were so many paths his life could have taken. It wasn’t worth thinking about.

  “Goodbye, Dolores,” he said, surprising himself by executing a neat European demi-bow.

  “Goodbye, Chandra,” said Dolores, and puckered up her lips before walking away.

  Chandra ate by himself, even though he could see the rest of his group in the dining hall, chatting animatedly. When he finished he returned to his room and lay on his bed, counting his breaths and observing his critical voices.

  His father. That was the first. Then his mother, though in a different way (more tears and more guilt). At least four uncles, his grandmother, all his schoolteachers including the dreaded Professor Joseph at Hyderabad who would call him “duffer” and twist his ear even when he gave the right answer and shout, “Office clerk!” at anyone he deemed stupid enough never to rise above said station.

  After school, it was pure carnage. His wife, obviously, and his colleagues, scores of reviewers he had never met, several secretaries, especially Daphne with the permanent cold and transparent nostrils who pronounced his name “Candor” and hadn’t once made eye contact in seven years; then the anti-capitalists and the liberals who’d never read a word he’d written but disagreed with all of it anyway; and finally, his children…the most unforgiving critics of all.

  He understood it now, that he had internalized those voices, that he was his own worst critic, but there was something Rudi Katz had missed. As Chandra had explained to the group, he was a highly successful man, at the top of his profession, but he had risen to these heights entirely through being hard on himself; those hours of caffeinated self-punishment in the library, digesting near unreadable books, writing until his hand literally bled. It was an ethic he had tried to instill in his children, the necessity of working twice as hard as their peers, but they did not understand. The world was a different place to them. They had gone to the finest schools he could find, and not the Stalky & Co. beat-the-lazy-out-of-you type either. It had all been about compassionate rearing and child-centered mollycoddling. And the result? Sunny had pursued success, yes, not out of necessity but due to a sociopathic drive Chandra had never understood. And as for the girls, they simply wanted out, had taken a sledgehammer, in different ways, to the walls of the home he had mortgaged his entire life to build.

  But try telling that to Rudi Katz…

  * * *

  —

  Professor Chandra returned to the yurt the following morning after breakfast. The chairs and cushions had been moved to the perimeter. There was a table near the door with a stack of thin pieces of cardboard on it, and two bowls, one filled with pens and the other with safety pins.

  “Take one of each,” said Rudi, who was sitting on the floor near the door with his knees hunched to his chin.

  Chandra did, and sat with his back to the wall, eyes closed, counting his breaths.

  “Take your card and pen,” continued Katz, “and write your name at the top. Then write down all the negative things that have been said about you in the past two days. If you can’t remember, or you’re one of the lucky few about whom no one had anything bad to say, then try to think of other hurtful criticisms you remember receiving in life. Keep it short and snappy. Note form. And when you’re done, pin it to the front of your shirt, like this. Okay?”

  Chandra could hear Pam’s voice complaining, but then he heard the word “Gucci” and laughter, so perhaps she was parodying herself. The atmosphere felt lighter than before.

  He put his head down, trying to remember. The only person who had criticized him was Pam, but he found it hard to recall anything specific. She had lost her temper, then stormed out of the room. He remembered she’d told him he was acting like her father. Was that right? Or that she felt he was like her father, which was a different thing. But in any case, he could hardly write “Like Pam’s father.”

  What else? Had Daisy or Bryan said anything? Not Bryan. Daisy said she felt sidelined by his dialogue with Pam, but he couldn’t write “Sideliner.” Someone had told him he believed he was more important than the rest of them. Who was that?

  Self-important, he wrote, unable to remember.

  Superior.

  He recalled another now.

  Think everything is about me.

  It was a short list, would make him look as though he had a big ego if he left it at that. He needed more. The Texan guy to his left seemed to be writing a novel. Chandra thought about things Radha might say, or Jasmine.

  Pompous.

  Doesn’t listen.

  Doesn’t get women (that was his own, but he was sure one of them would have said it).

  Thinks he knows everything.

  Thinks he’s right all the time.

  Contemptuous.

  Arrogant.

  Something from Sunny, perhaps.

  Weak.

  Yes, that was what Sunny would say. Maybe even “Loser.” Should he write loser?

  Chandra looked up. Elke, he saw, had already pinned her “shame sheet,” as he thought of it, to her blouse. She seemed to be enjoying it, sticking her flat guilty chest out, practically begging them to judge her. Chandra could not read her sheet from where he sat, but he guessed the word “murderer” was on there somewhere. Was that why she had come here, in search of execration? Or had she genuinely come to be healed?

  “Right,” said Rudi, though the Texan was still scribbling. “I think we’re all done. Pin your lists to your chests—don’t stab yourselves—and walk around the room in any direction. When you meet someone, stand in front of each other and decide who’s going to go first. That person will read the other’s list and tell them the opposite of what it says. You got that?

  “Please understand that the purpose of this exercise isn’t to lie or butter the other person up. The purpose is to learn who we truly are in our hearts when our critical voices aren’t distorting our perceptions.”

  Pam raised her hand.

  “Do we have to mean it?”

  “Yes,” said Rudi. “Yes, you do. You can’t force it, but I think you’ll find it’s not so hard after all. Try it. You might like it. Anyone else? Okay, good. Let’s begin.”

  Professor Chandra watched while the others converged on the center of the room. How quickly these Californians moved, how eager they were to do as they were told, broadcasting their feelings without the slightest idea that in a totalitarian state mental privacy would be the first thing to be abolished. But he sounded like Radha now. No, he sounded like a cop-out, still standing by the wall. What was it Jean used to call men like that? Wallflowers. “Stop being a wallflower, Charles,” she’d say.

  He stepped forward. Already he could see a red-headed woman brushing away tears. A tall ruddy-faced man called Andy, one of the few who looked approximately Chandra’s age, stepped toward him and took off his baseball cap.

  “Hey,” said Andy.

&nb
sp; “Hey,” said Chandra.

  “You want to go first?”

  Chandra stared at the cardboard tied to Andy’s denim shirt. It read, Withdrawn. Aloof. Talks in this annoying way. Keeps staring. People think he’s judging them all the time. Looks like he has a gun.

  Andy looked up and shrugged.

  “So what are you gonna do?” he said.

  “Andy,” said Chandra, and realized he felt relaxed in this man’s company. “Andy, Andy, Andy.”

  They were giggling now, the two of them, like schoolboys.

  “Andy,” said Chandra. “You’re a great guy. You’re friendly and warm. You’ve got a nice deep voice, a great accent too. I like the way you look at me. Very direct, not hiding anything. I think you’re very accepting of people and very peaceful. I can’t imagine you ever shooting anyone.”

  Andy grinned.

  “I think you’ve got to put things positively,” he said. “The last part.”

  “Oh,” said Chandra. “Then you look like the sort of man who prefers knives to guns.”

  They high-fived. Chandra couldn’t remember the last time he’d high-fived anyone. Jasmine, probably, a decade ago.

  “A peacemaker,” said Chandra. “A diplomat. A good, gentle man. How’s that?”

  “Much better,” said Andy. “And you, Chandra, am I saying that right? You, Chandra, are…wow, nice shirt. Let me say that first. Hey, this is a great way of looking at women’s breasts.”

  Chandra, who hated such jokes, chuckled in spite of himself.

  “Seriously, you’re a good man,” said Andy. “I know that already. I like you.” Andy’s clear blue eyes twinkled into his. “You’re easy-going, good-humored, and humble. You care about people. You’ve got a good heart. You’re a gentleman, kind and respectful to women, kind to darn near everyone, and you’re a human being, strong sometimes, vulnerable sometimes, but magnificent, especially when you’re at your most fragile. I mean, what could be more magnificent than that?”

  Chandra nodded.