Space Between the Stars

by Deborah Santana

  Carlos bowed. I was glad he had asked that question. We had both been raised to believe that Christ is the way to God and heaven.

  A girl with waist-length wavy brown hair asked, “How can I make the most progress in the spiritual life?”

  Sri Chinmoy closed his eyes. “If you cry only to please God in His own way, if you cry only for your progress, then you are bound to get all the experiences which God has in store for you. Imagine you have a bicycle inside you. When you ride a bicycle, you have to pedal it all the time. You cannot balance motionless at one point. While you are meditating, you have to aspire all the time; otherwise, you will fall. In the spiritual life, movement has to be constant. Either you move forward or you move backward. So, good girl, always pedal forward, always aspire to please God in His own way.”

  It was as though we were students in Sri Chinmoy's class. In a way, sitting at his feet reminded me of times with Sly. He had created a student-teacher atmosphere, even with candlelight, similar to the candles burning on the table beside Sri Chinmoy. Many nights I had sat at Sly's feet, looking up to him as he talked about his music and danced before his friends as though we were his disciples. I felt cautious at the remembrance. Sly had not been a window to divinity. I hoped it was not possible to get caught in a similar trap with a man who professed to be holy. I glanced at Carlos, his face shining with light. He caught my stare and smiled. Carlos had a spiritual core like mine, with a hunger to live for God's truth. We would figure this out together.

  “Dhruva. You have a question, good boy?” Sri Chinmoy gestured to a man in the row behind us.

  “Guru, what is the difference between getting high on drugs and getting high in meditation?” A few snorts of laughter sounded around the room.

  “Do not laugh. This is very important,” Sri Chinmoy said. “Of course, people may ask how I know the difference since I have not taken drugs. But, I have meditated and have realised the Highest. The use of drugs is not proper. Those who take drugs are damaging their subtle nerves and spiritual faculties. It is the same with drinking and smoking.”

  I could feel my face flush. He continued. “Those who take drugs get an experience that is unnatural and forced. But when one meditates and enters into the living Consciousness of God, at that time one sees the real Light, knows the real Truth, and feels the real Ecstasy. By taking drugs and using artificial means, people are unconsciously, if not deliberately, negating the real Truth.”

  I felt like everyone's eyes were on Carlos and me. Sri Chinmoy smiled at Dhruva. “But do not waste your precious time brooding on the kind of life that you lived in the past. I do not ask anybody to repent. It is true that repentance purifies the soul. But at the same time, if you are constantly repenting your past, then you will have no time to aspire and look forward toward the light of the future. All right?” I needed to hear that it was not necessary to look back. I spent a lot of time examining my past mistakes.

  Sri Chinmoy waved his hand and said, “It is late. Go rest.” Disciples stood and walked to the front porch. Carlos was surrounded by young men reaching to shake his hand. I looked back at Sri Chinmoy on his throne. He threw a dazzling smile in my direction. I quickly looked down, embarrassed by his attention.

  Mahavishnu drove back to their house to drop off Mahalak-shmi before he drove us to Manhattan.

  “What do you think of our guru?” Mahavishnu asked.

  Carlos was quiet for a few seconds. “I think he embodies God's wisdom.”

  Mahavishnu waited.

  “I'm curious about the teachings,” I said.

  “Do you think you would like to become a disciple?” Mahavishnu asked.

  “When Larry Coryell stayed at my house,” Carlos offered, “he had that photo of Sri Chinmoy meditating, and it scared me.” Carlos shook his head as though trying to get the image out. “Maybe I didn't want light at that time. I've changed, but I don't know if I'm ready to be a disciple, man.”

  “What does one have to do to be a disciple?” I asked, remembering the words of compassion Sri Chinmoy had spoken that had touched my broken heart.

  “Guru says that his meditation path is a boat, and he is the boatman taking us to the Golden Shore,” Mahavishnu said. “When he accepts a disciple, he concentrates on the seeker's soul to ask God if the person is meant to follow his path. If the answer is yes, he gives the aspirant's soul an inner meditation. He brings our souls forward and gives us inner instruction. He enters into our consciousnesses and gives us the capacity to receive and manifest God's Light. We consider Guru our spiritual father.”

  “Does every disciple have to look alike—wearing the saris, the men with white clothes and crew cuts?” I asked.

  Mahavishnu chuckled. “It seems a sacrifice to look like a disciple in the beginning. Mahalakshmi and I have been disciples two years. I had long hair, too,” he said, glancing at the dark curls hanging down Carlos's back. “But those are only outer suggestions. Wearing white helps us remember to keep our mind pure. The only real rules are that we have to meditate every morning, become vegetarians, and attend meditations at Guru's centers every week. There's a Sri Chinmoy Centre in San Francisco, too.”

  Neither Carlos nor I said anything. I reflected on all we had seen. Ram Dass's book, Be Here Now, gave me the same peaceful feeling, yet I had never heard a philosophy like the one spoken by these people. It was as though life's meaning was touching my heart, sprinkling truth inside my body. And the disciples were beautiful. The women wore no makeup, the men had little hair, yet their skin shone and their eyes were lustrous like pearls. After being in Sri Chinmoy's presence for two meditations, my life seemed changed for eternity.

  Mahavishnu pulled up in front of the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

  “I'll just run up and get my guitar,” Carlos said. We held hands walking into the lobby and took the elevator to our room. Carlos picked up his guitar and kissed me. “I'll be back after we lay down the tracks in the studio.”

  I closed the door, carefully turning all the dead bolts. Through the window, looking down on the street, I watched them drive off.

  Was a meditation teacher what we needed to show us the way on this new road to spiritual truth?

  Could a teacher open doors to my soul that were shut tight by my mind? I felt liberated when I sat cross-legged in meditation—at one with a universal God who was beyond religion and boundaries of human thought. Even in this small hotel room, an openness to truth hummed within me.

  wo days later, Carlos sat on the windowsill beside the radiator. “Mahavishnu asked me about becoming a disciple again when we drove back from the studio.” Down the street, sunlight fell on Washington Square, but the twelve-story apartment building across from our hotel blocked its rays from our room. I perched at the end of the bed facing him.

  “I'm beginning to feel pressured,” he said. “I prayed for a teacher, and I loved the meditation at the United Nations, but I didn't know having a guru would mean I would have to dress differently and have short hair—like a square.”

  I walked the few steps to the window and touched his soft cheek; my fingers followed the line of his cheekbone. “Maybe you should keep searching. The meditation was peaceful, but maybe there's another guru you're meant to follow. Or maybe you don't need a guru at all.”

  “I just don't want to cut my hair. Because I had tuberculosis in high school, I got deferred from going to Vietnam. I did not believe in being regimented and controlled then, and I do not want to be in a spiritual army now.” Carlos's eyes were red with the war he was fighting in his mind and heart.

  “Don't rush your answer. Tell Mahavishnu you need more time.” I paused and then said, “I didn't know you had TB.”

  “Yeah. It was awful. No one in my family visited me. I was in San Francisco General Hospital for two months. People were dying in beds all around me. Finally, I had to get out. Ron brought me clothes, and I put them on in the bathroom and walked out. I was afraid I would die if I didn't leave.”

  How could his fami
ly not have visited him? I kneeled on the floor and wrapped my arms around Carlos's waist. His family was so different from mine. They had not been present to his child's heart. I wanted to share the love I had so generously been given as a child; to soothe him with my steadfastness. Carlos's only mainstay in life was his desire to play the guitar. I was beginning to understand why he worked so tenaciously. He was taking care of his life, securing his place on the planet, healing his fractured childhood.

  “Mahalakshmi asked me to help in the restaurant while you're in the studio. I didn't know what to say because I don't know how much longer I'll be staying.”

  “I would love for you to stay until we finish recording.”

  “I would love to be with you, but what about my college? I can't drop out again.”

  “Maybe you can work something out with your teachers.”

  It seemed like months since I had been to San Francisco State. I knew I would have to choose once more. Pursuing a career or pursuing love? Maybe meditation would give me an answer. “Come on.” Carlos beckoned as he stood up. “Let's go down to the record store.”

  My stride matched Carlos's as he struck out in his snake-skin boots. We linked arms, lovers in Greenwich Village. I leaned into the scent of his leather jacket and Maja soap. Inside the record store, we flipped through dozens of albums, new and used, looking for Coltrane, Miles, Aretha, Billie Holiday—any imports we would not be able to find in San Francisco. Two young men behind the counter stared at Carlos. He did not notice. With albums under his arm, he walked to the register to pay. The one wearing love beads and an earring stuttered, “A-Are you Carlos?”

  “Yeah, man,” Carlos said, reaching out his hand to the startled fan. I loved that he was always gracious.

  “I love your guitar, man,” he said, shaking the fingers that strummed the strings.

  “Thanks.” Carlos pocketed his change, and we walked back to the hotel, a brisk breeze blowing our long hair.

  The next morning, Carlos took a cab with me to Parsons Boulevard, a street in Sri Chinmoy's neighborhood where disciples had businesses devoted to spreading the meditation message. In the middle of Long Island's crowded streets—made dark and foreboding by overhead trains, looming brownstones, and dank, acrid subway odors—the white storefronts with smiling disciples gave the impression of openness and safety. We met the Mahas at the Smile of the Beyond, a diner owned by a disciple named Swadhin. Just as Sri Chinmoy had given Maha-vishnu and Mahalakshmi new names with spiritual meanings, we were meeting many disciples with Indian names who lived and worked in Queens. Sri Chinmoy even named the businesses.

  Carlos and I sat down on red vinyl stools, Mahavishnu and Mahalakshmi beside us. Swadhin leaned on the counter, his glasses askew. His hair was slicked back like a gang member from West Side Story. His face was round, a row of perspiration across his forehead. An apron was tied barber-style around his waist, and he wiped the Formica in little circles with his towel while he talked with his customers. Carlos and I looked over the menu and ordered veggie burgers, while Swadhin joked with Mahavishnu.

  “What time do you think you'll be back from recording tonight?” I asked, searching Carlos's eyes. Our hands were clasped between us.

  “The engineer's having a hard time getting my sound, so it'll probably be late.”

  In jest, I poked my lips out as though displeased. I knew Carlos's music came before everything else in his life. After more than three months together, I accepted the line of demarcation between his guitar and me. As much as I wanted to be the great love in Carlos's life, I did not feel competition with his passion for his art. I would never demand he choose between us—not because I knew he would choose his guitar, but because I realized early in life that each person comes to earth with something unique to give to the world. Carlos's gift was his music. Although I was still searching for my purpose, I knew I would never let him come before my destiny when I found it.

  Swadhin twirled our plates onto the counter. In front of us, a poster-size photo of Sri Chinmoy—dressed in white, smiling, and holding an open yellow rose—hung suspended by a wire. We faced our images reflected in the eight-foot-wide mirror covering the wall and bowed our heads to bless our food. Books of Sri Chinmoy's teachings were stacked on shelves near the door, price tags on each spine. Disciples sat together in booths, chatting while they ate. They all had such clear eyes and transparent joy.

  I cut my veggie burger in half and ate, glancing through the storefront windows onto Parsons Boulevard. A trail of people walking quickly down the hill passed those laboring up the hill. “Why don't you two stay at our house instead of the hotel?” Mahalakshmi asked. “Carlos can drive to the studio with Ma-havishnu.”

  I looked at Carlos. I still had not decided whether I was staying until the recording would be finished. Mahavishnu said, “That's a great idea.” Carlos looked down. “We don't want to impose.” “And I have to figure out how long I will be here,” I said. The Mahas spoke at the same time: “We want you to stay!” Mahalakshmi said, “Think about it and let us know.” I nodded my agreement. “All right,” Carlos said. “We'll let you know tomorrow. Thanks.” We walked outside and parted with a kiss as Carlos slid into Mahavishnu's Volvo. I stood waving as they drove off to Manhattan. Mahalakshmi and I started up the hill to her little Subaru for the drive to their restaurant, where we had eaten the first night.

  “Annam Brahma is more than a restaurant,” Mahalakshmi said. “It's a holy abode where we feed customers a higher consciousness along with their vegetarian meals.” Sri Chinmoy had named Annam Brahma and the translation from Sanskrit is “Food is God.”

  My first afternoon helping at the restaurant, Mahalakshmi explained that we had to wash our hands and keep our hair back to meet the health code of New York State. I worked in my jeans and sweater, my hair pulled back into a ponytail. The kitchen had a big commercial six-burner stove and double-door stainless-steel refrigerator. A table with chopping boards was in the center of the room, which was really only big enough for a couple of people to move around in. Along the wall, large canisters with handwritten labels were stacked: lentils, rice, noodles, flour. Bottled spices sat on a stainless-steel ledge above the stove. Mahalakshmi asked me to mix milk, eggs, and sugar for individual custards. As I stirred, I looked out a window onto a dark garbage area and thought how different it was from the beautiful Mill Valley garden outside Carlos's kitchen window.

  Though at least five disciples had been working the night Carlos and I first came to Annam Brahma, only Mahalakshmi and I were doing the prep work. She did not carry on casual chatter; she told me about the life of a disciple. “We meditate every morning at six A.M., but you can also start the day by chanting ‘Supreme, Supreme’ as soon as you open your eyes.” She told me that Guru meditated on all his disciples every morning at 2:00 A.M.

  I took a taxi back to the hotel around five o'clock. Night closed in on the Manhattan streets, the city crowded with pedestrians and buses, and lights in offices turning on floor by floor. In our room, I ran a hot bath to soak off of my skin the smell of the peanut oil we'd used to fry the Indian flat bread, and thought about the different possibilities for my future. I was twenty-one. Mom said I needed to buckle down and finish my education. Carlos wanted me to travel with him, in his musical realm. I was happy and I was learning, even though it wasn't in a university. What was my place? Was it to gain spiritual knowledge through the meditation practice, or should I return to academia? Both stimulated my heart and mind. Being with Carlos, traveling with him, was the major question. I would assimilate firsthand knowledge of places through walking streets, visiting museums, and meeting local residents—but all on Carlos's timetable, not mine. I lit the candles on our makeshift shrine and sat in the silence, waiting for direction.

  When Carlos walked through the door after recording, I said, “I would like to stay in New York with you and work with Mahalakshmi.” My heart had chosen spirituality.

  “You're sure?” he asked. “You won't regr
et not finishing your semester?”

  “I can start again in January. I'll just end up with a couple of incompletes. I would rather be with you.”

  “Yes!” Carlos raised his arms above his head and then pulled me into his chest, squeezing me close.

  The next day, Carlos and I moved to the Mahas'. They gave us the guest room with twin beds. We slept together in one bed, Carlos's leg swung over my waist, me crushed to his torso. Mahalakshmi knocked gently on our door at 5:30 the following morning. I unpeeled from Carlos's body, my feet hitting the floor before my eyes opened. I stumbled to the shower and stepped into the hot, stinging water, chanting, “Supreme, Supreme” under my breath. It felt strange using “Supreme” in- stead of “God” or “Jesus,” and I saw Sri Chinmoy's brown face instead of a long-haired Jesus of the Bible.

  After kissing my sleeping mate good-bye, I drove with Ma-halakshmi to the restaurant. She lit candles in the alcove that arched above a very un-human-like photograph of Sri Chinmoy. In black and white, the guru's head was a floating gray shadow with eyes at half-mast in the silver frame. I leaned toward Ma-halakshmi and whispered, “It doesn't look anything like Sri Chinmoy.” I felt ill at ease before the strange image, which barely looked like a person.

  “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.