He had just expressed what I felt, and I smiled in return. "I'm Fabienne, just arrived from France." I extended a hand.
He looked at it then bowed slightly, hands joined in a triangle in front of his forehead. "Namaste." He smiled. "Touching is not permitted...too radical for Indian culture, too distracting for a place of meditation. Welcome to the ashram, Fabienne. I'm Swami Satiananda. I hope you find here what you're looking for. I’ll take you to the admission office."
I followed the swami through a maze of stone buildings, mosaic courtyards, artistically tiled galleries and well‑manicured gardens. Fragrant flowers embalmed the air. Suddenly, a cacophony of gongs, conches, drums and stringed instruments exploded throughout the whole complex, bringing the residents out of the buildings and into the structure with the blue frescoes.
Swami Satiananda smiled. “Time for the chant." He left me at the office and hurried to the temple, from which melodious chanting now resounded through hidden speakers, bringing peaceful vibrations to the farthest confines of the vast property.
I learned from the American office attendant who processed my e-mail registration that the complex could accommodate over a thousand people.
"At this time of year, however, visitors are few," she specified. "And the large dormitories remain closed."
I deposited my important papers, return ticket, passport, and currency in the office safe. The attendant assigned me to a small dorm where three other girls already bunked.
"One of them is French and speaks no English. She has only two weeks left here but could use some help with translation," the woman explained hesitantly. "I see you don't have that problem."
"I'd be glad to be of service to a fellow citizen," I replied without hesitation.
Following the American guide through the shady walk leading to my new quarters, I gawked at the freshly painted buildings, the impeccable lawns, the lush greenery, but mainly the flowers. Here, crimson bougainvilleas covered a white wall, while rose bushes, hibiscus, gardenia, and white jasmine lined the path, along with a hundred trees, plants, and flowers I had never seen before. Birds of paradise grew on a shady lawn, and camellias blossomed in a dark green tree. I hardly noticed the Indian man who tagged along unobtrusively, rolling the suitcase on a hand truck.
The clean room held five narrow poster beds. Above each one were sunken shelves in the wall to store personal effects. My hostess dropped a small comforter she had carried from the office onto the varnished wood surface of the bed. I realized then that it was a thin cotton mattress, the only cushion against the hard wood.
"If you'd like a mosquito net, we have them at the office." The woman looked at her watch. "You missed lunch, but if you're hungry, a special sitting will be held in ten minutes in the refectory for a group of Bhramacharyas in retreat."
I must have stared.
"Celibate women," she explained. "Candidates for priesthood, very recognizable in their yellow robes. If you'd care to join them, I'll show you to the refectory. Oh, and don't try to talk to them. They have vowed to remain silent for the duration of the retreat."
My stomach growled. "I guess I could eat something." I smiled and she laughed.
"You'll have to change clothes, though. In the ashram women wear loose clothes and no skin must be visible, except head, hands and feet. The only exceptions are for festival days when saris may be worn."
Left alone for a moment, I opened the suitcase on the bed, found white cotton baggy pants and an oversized, long-sleeved shirt. I changed quickly while the hostess waited outside, then she led me to the refectory.
"Wash your hands here first." The American woman indicated a row of faucets above a long corrugated sink lining the wall of the concrete structure. “The door is over there.”
She left me, and I washed my hands before entering the vast empty building. For a second, I thought I'd made a wrong turn. Polished stone floor, no tables, no chairs, a battery of fans overhead turning lazily...it hardly resembled a dining room. When a group of women in yellow garb entered, however, I followed them across the shiny floor. Immediately, out of the kitchen came a young man, rolling out a long rush of coarse fiber next to the wall. As the Bhramacharyas sat down in a row on the mat, I did the same and waited in total silence.
With minimal sound and fuss, round metal trays were set before us. Soon, the attendant served rice, vegetables and flat bread. Trying to blend in, I waited patiently. The young server poured water in metal goblets, then a gong sounded, and the Bhramacharyas started eating... With their fingers! I hesitated, studying their manner. They tore off a piece of flat bread, used it to scoop food from the platter with the middle three fingers of the right hand, and shoved it in their mouth. I could do this.
The Bhramacharyas ate slowly, as if to savor every single bite. I did not recognize any of the vegetables. They tasted surprisingly good on the rice, a little spicy, but moist, some of them sweet, a truly unique experience. By the end of the frugal meal, I almost got the hang of finger eating. Imitating the ladies in yellow, I cleaned my tray with the last piece of flat bread. Not a grain of rice or a sip of water remained when the server took away trays and goblets.
I left the refectory feeling light but not hungry, then returned to the office to get a mosquito net. Most beds had one, and I didn't care much for malaria or itchy bites. Back in the room, I stacked my clothes neatly on the shelves, shoved the suitcase under the bed, stretched the mosquito net between the poles, then admired my handiwork. Something suddenly felt different. The chanting had ceased.
A flurry of activity told me that the ashramites had reclaimed the grounds when a tall blond girl in a fancy long dress of deep blue silk entered the room in a swirl of perfume. Bells jingled at her ankles as she walked. She looked out of place with her flashy clothes, heavy makeup, and blood-red fingernails.
"So, you must be the new roommate. Welcome to my little domain," the blond girl said mockingly with a strong accent. "My name is Kora and I'm from Australia. Where are you from?" The smile didn't reach her eyes.
For no reason I could think of, my scalp prickled.
Chapter Five
So'Ham, the mantra of enlightenment
After a nearly sleepless night on the hard bed, with dogs barking, mosquitoes buzzing, and a terrible racket that lasted for hours, I awoke at three thirty in the morning to the sound of conches and drums. I took a shower as instructed, using a dipper and a single gallon of water in a bucket, then dressed comfortably to go meditate. So did the other girls in the room, except Kora who still slept soundly.
"Shouldn't we wake her up?" I asked the other roommates. "Morning meditation is mandatory. She could be kicked out for this." The three sleepy girls looked at me blankly.
"I wouldn't." Jade, the Filipino girl shrugged. "But knock yourself out."
I approached the bed and shook Kora gently. "It's time to get up," I said softly.
Kora turned and blinked in the dim electric light. Pushing me away with a force I wouldn't have thought her capable of, she hissed, "You stupid bitch, leave me be. Do your bloody meditation without me. No one will notice I'm not there unless you tell, and you bloody hell better not." She stared at me hard, watching her threat sink in then turned toward the wall. One angry pull on the long shawl she used as a blanket covered her head from view.
"Sorry I mentioned it," I said, more shocked than offended.
Once outside, I shivered in the slight chill despite the poncho over my cotton clothes. Since there were several meditation halls, we split up, the other French girl preferring the pavilion in the garden, Jade the temple, and the American girl the courtyard. I understood that a few privileged ashramites were allowed to meditate in the hallways outside the master's apartments. I opted for the main hall, curious to feel the vibration resulting from a greater number of meditators.
In the blue penumbra of the candle-lit hall, silent shapes resembling sitting statues lined the walls, as if guarding the sanctuary. Having left my slippers outside, I tiptoed qu
ietly in search of a space to set my meditation mat. I felt light-headed. All around me, the air vibrated, and I could faintly hear a high‑pitched whine. As I sat down cross-legged and straightened my back, it occurred to me that I didn't really know how to meditate.
Although I had attained some serenity before and had a few unexplained visions while sitting quietly, I had never reached the state of "no thought" that qualified as pure meditation. Were all these people truly meditating? They had to be to create such tangible vibrations. Aware of my inadequacies, eyes closed, I focused on breathing slowly, in an attempt to empty the mind. I promptly fell asleep where I sat. When I awoke, soft peaceful chanting emanated from the temple.
Filled with shame, I discreetly joined the others. While chanting, sleepy ashramites oscillated from foot to foot. I followed the simple melody by sounding out the phonetic Hindi words from a book, glancing at the attached translation only when the pace allowed.
When the chant ended, the devotees scattered, some to eat breakfast across the street, others to perform personal chores or assigned tasks inside the ashram. I felt light, happy, at peace with myself. How could anyone leave such a place for the stressful chaos of regular life? Through the open gates, many came and went, but I had no desire to visit the real world, even for breakfast, which I never ate anyway. Birds sang, the sun shone gaily, and the fragrant breeze smelled of jasmine. It was still early. At that time of day in Paris, I would have just awakened.
"Mukunda!" someone called in the street.
I turned around, craned my neck to see. "Mukunda..." I whispered, shivering. For some obscure reason, I knew It was a man's name, a name that echoed deeply throughout my being, although I had never heard it before. In the warm pool of my visions, an Indian man smiled, dark skin glistening over smooth muscles.
I peered through the gate but, not wearing my contacts, I saw only the vague shape of sleepy ashramites dragging their feet away toward breakfast. Was Mukunda one of them? I doubted it. None of them looked handsome, noble, or courageous enough. Too bad... I would have liked to gaze upon the man who bore such a fascinating name.
The office woman stopped me on the path to my room. "Baba will welcome you during his morning stroll in the garden," she announced.
"So soon?" I couldn't believe my luck.
"Be at the south end of the garden pavilion in half an hour. You are allowed to ask a few questions. You can also bring a gift, if you have one, to honor the tradition. Otherwise, don't worry about it. Baba is not a stickler about tradition, although he does enjoy a little decorum." She gave me a reassuring smile as she picked up the hem of her long skirt, then turned and left.
Now that the time had come to meet the holy man, I felt inadequate, unworthy. What would such a being want with me? How would a wise man, who spent his life in meditation and the search for truth and purity, judge the arrogant little actress just arrived from the world capital of sin?
I was not prepared with a present either, having just heard about the custom the night before from Jade. The gift must be something of high personal value. Some gave their last pack of cigarettes, drugs, a bottle of booze, to signify giving up an addiction. Others offered orange silk for swami's robes, money for the charitable work of the ashram, or the gold jewelry that symbolized a materialistic life. Baba also had a reputation for loving perfume. So did I.
As soon as I reached the dorm, I explored the corners of my suitcase in search of the brand new bottle of Shalimar purchased at the duty-free shop, a last indulgence to sophistication. But it was not enough. I must give up something more, something unique, something I cherished. Then it dawned on me. I knew what I should give up, but did I have the courage?
Kora waltzed into the room, her purple dress of layered gauzy silk spreading an aura of musky perfume. "So, you have Darshan with Baba this morning? What are you going to give him?" She checked her eye makeup in a hand mirror.
I hesitated to answer, but nothing could remain secret for long in such a small community. "Perfume," I said, willing to forget her previous rudeness for the sake of peace. "And the silver locket my brother wore when he died."
"Let me see it." It sounded like an order, not a request.
I dug the medallion from under the white cotton shirt where it hung on my skin, and showed it to her.
"It's not very valuable," she said with disdain, letting it drop back to my chest. "On my welcome meeting, I gave Baba a heavy necklace of solid gold."
"You did?" The feat surprised me. I couldn't picture Kora giving up her gold jewelry.
"Well, I didn't really intend to, but I was wearing it, and it happened in the courtyard, while everyone was watching." Kora sat on her bed in a dramatic pause and spread her dress in a half circle. "When Baba asked me if it was my favorite necklace, I said yes, and when he asked if I could part with it as a token of my commitment, I couldn't say no." The beginning of a smile curled the corners of her mouth. "Especially since this cute guy had his eyes on me all the time and I wanted to impress him. But I never forgave Baba for taking that necklace from me." Her lips tightened in resentment.
"He didn't take it from you," I protested, shoving the suitcase back under the bed. "He only asked whether you could give it up. Had you been honest, you would have said no." I straightened my clothes.
"No matter. Chad is very cute, and we have been good friends ever since." Her conspiratorial smile and tone intimated more than friendship.
"I thought fraternizing was not tolerated in the ashram."
My surprise must have shown. It made Kora smile.
"It's not. So what? Just don't get caught. And you better not tell!" Her expression hardened, as if she meant to scare me.
I resisted a smile, wondering what she could do if I betrayed her. "Why would I care?" I offered in good will. "It's your own business."
So much for the lack of secrets! Suddenly I felt dumb for coming to this place. What gave me the idea that people would be any different here? But little time remained before my meeting. I brushed unruly black locks, tied them into a ponytail, donned my contact lenses, then made for the garden pavilion, holding the bottle of perfume.
*****
I heard the approaching group before I saw it. "Can't you understand that your physical strength won't help you in the spiritual world?" Baba appeared around the row of oleanders lining the path, shouting, rolling his eyes behind tinted glasses, and shaking a walking stick in the direction of a tall, handsome youth, naked to the waist and built like a football player. A retinue of selected trustees and devotees followed the exchange in consternation, hard pressed to follow the master's fast walk. I couldn't believe an enlightened guru could lose his temper.
"You cannot fistfight your way through spirituality," Baba continued in the same loud tone, still walking, now holding the stick behind his back. "I thought you understood, when I placed you in charge of the elephant, that he is stronger and meaner than you. You cannot win against him by butting heads. Shankar can smash you like a fly anytime he chooses. You have to become his friend, give him unconditional love, and win his in return. You can't compete with him."
The young man, red with shame, loped alongside Baba, apologizing profusely, swearing that it would never happen again.
Baba then stopped in the middle of the path, just in front of the pavilion. His followers gathered around. "Chad, let me tell you about Shankar," Baba said in a softer voice. "This elephant once was a powerful priest. His knowledge was great but his heart remained vile. He abused his power and committed unforgivable crimes. For these crimes, he came back to Ganeshpur to live as an elephant, the animal he’d used to perform many killings. But his irascible temper and desire for violence linger in this life, as well as bitter resentment, and his dark soul struggles on the difficult path to redemption."
Baba looked at the young man intensely. "Go now! I never want to hear the elephant rage all night again, or learn that he broke his chains or destroyed his shed."
So, that was the racket I�
��d heard the night before. As the young man disappeared swiftly along the path, I wondered whether Kora had anything to do with this. She had come to bed hours after curfew. Was this the Chad she’d talked about? Was their so-called friendship the cause of Shankar's rage?
I shuddered at the thought of an elephant living so close. I had an uncontrollable phobia of elephants, ever since as a child I'd seen one in a zoo and ran screaming all the way back to the gate.
As soon as Chad disappeared around the bend, Baba started laughing heartily, then winked at me through shaded glasses. "It's been a long time since I indulged in anger, but it's the only language this boy understands." Suddenly serious, the holy man gazed at me.
I bowed slightly, then returned the gaze, unflinching, hoping to find in the depth of his soul the answer to my burning question: what was the real meaning of my being here?
He simply smiled and said, "I'm glad you came, Fabienne. You belong here and you can stay as long as you like."
I thanked him, a little confused. It never occurred to me that Baba could refuse his hospitality. As I handed him the perfume, the guru gave the walking stick to a woman of his retinue, then took the bottle, looking at me silently as if to discover the deeper meaning of my gift. Then, I reached behind my neck to slip the chain over my head, and handed him the locket. Baba took it reverently, brown fingers feeling the smooth silver. He looked at me as if wondering whether he should accept, then he opened the locket to look at the two portraits: Jean‑François on one side, me on the other.
"Acha! Your brother watches from above." Baba said seriously. "He is very proud of you for coming all this way. But are you ready to give up the grief and the attachment?"
"I must try," I said, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Baba smiled. "It would be rude of me to refuse a gift that cost you so much." He deposited perfume and locket in a blue velvet box held by a trustee. "Let me give you something in exchange." He then reached under his orange silk shirt. A magnificent necklace of polished gold dazzled in the morning sun, as trustees and privileged followers held their breath.
Ashes for the Elephant God Page 5
