S. (25 page)

Now that I know, he
does
remind me a bit of Myron Stern, and that must churn up a lot of old rage and frustration in me.
Not
at
you and Daddy any more—you were no more to blame for squelching that romance than a cat should be blamed for tormenting a mouse; it was just your creaturely nature, and I, I suppose, down deep wanted you to do just what you did. My anger is at myself, all the worse in that my recent attempts to squelch an infatuation of
my
daughter’s have proved totally ineffectual, thanks in part to the transatlantic meddling of your groom-of-choice, the impeccable Charles. Did you and Daddy ever feel even the
littlest
bit guilty about nixing the love of my life? Maybe it would have been a sociological misfortune but a healthy cross of genes. You shouldn’t interfere with natural processes—that’s called pollution. Now that I look with vidya, the Arhat has Myron’s wonderful little way of cocking his head back (I thought it was the itchy beard made him do it) and lifting off his heels like a bird preening and about to take wing: king of all he surveys, adding a cubit to his height, cock of the walk, whatever. And his hands—those subtle tapered fingers, formed by generations of watchmaking and counting gold and not being allowed to own land or farm—like trickles of warm oil on your skin. Though Charles had done all those million stitches and palpations, his hands felt always a little rigid and clumsy, and
cold
—I used to think in bed my skin would warm his touch in a few seconds but it would take
minutes
and by that time this anger would be rising in me and everything would be against the grain, as they say around here—there’s even a word for it,
pratiloman
. It’s what happens when you stroke a cat against the fur.

Forgive me, you don’t want to know any of this. This is my garbage and you have your own life. Somebody said to me the other day that at some point a woman must become her own mother. But it’s hard when you still have one alive and well. That is
amazing
about the Visàge buyout by Revlon, and
your making all that scrumptious money! But now
do
put it in some safe securities—utilities pay the best dividends of course and are not apt to go down unless the company overcommits to nuclear power—or CDs and don’t listen to another word the admiral whispers into your ear.
You were lucky
. It seems to me that if the SEC were to investigate you could both go to jail for that tip and his son too. How old is his son? Forget I asked, I’m not on the market, but I can tell you entre nous it’s only a matter of time until I am disparue from this place. The only people left are those with nowhere else to go, or those who
did
attain near enough to vairagya and samadhi not to give a hoot about their surroundings. Almost all the stores in the mall are shut down, and the Karuna Pharmacy is under a heavy indictment from the narcs, and even the sweet little Sachchidananda River has dried up—I guess we
were
depleting the water table, with the irrigation and all the flush toilets people insisted on having. It used to be called Gritty Creek and now we can see why. Even the days have turned unfriendly—the sun is bright but not warm and the nights are viciously cold and somehow frighteningly
enclosing
, like being inside a black crystal or a cage of stars. So many stars!—an impossible dust of them that you never see in the misty polluted East.

If you and your voracious boyfriend are going to keep eating out at Polynesian, Mexican, and Cajun restaurants every night you shouldn’t be surprised by an irritated duodenum or even diverticulitis. What you need is
bran
and raw iron-rich vegetables (dark-green leafy ones
—not
iceberg lettuce) and eggs in moderation, and to cut out all grease and fatty meats, except maybe liver once a week for the iron.
Don’t
tailor your diet to the Admiral’s—he is a man and has altogether different needs, since he has a prostate and you don’t
and you have smaller bones. Men can absorb much more calcium than women, and you should never drink milk for a pre-ulcerous condition—milk, it turns out, is rather
hard
to digest. Try Gelusil—Maalox somehow has a bad aura, a faint vibrating violet glow like those public toilet seats that supposedly sterilize themselves.
Please
don’t tease me about your marrying this sailor-boy—it would be much kinder to the heirs and save a lot of legal fees if you would just live in sin. Couldn’t you find another condo, with an elevator and a peek at the sea? Or get used to the pool view from his, and ignore the rattle of the diving board and the sound early in the morning from the sprinklers? If you wouldn’t wake up at four in the morning you wouldn’t hear the sprinklers. Have you ever tried wax earplugs? The best are made in Europe, Oropax—little fuzzy balls that go deliciously soft from your body heat—but Flent’s from any old American drugstore might help you. Warm them in your hand before poking them in, otherwise you could break an ear drum. I’m sorry your know-it-all swain thinks the real-estate action is moving inland and that your place is depreciating. In Florida housing may be more like cars than in the North—new is best and almost-new is second-best and then it’s all downhill. Also I suspect there’s a subconscious pull away from the seaside now with the icecaps melting from these holes in the ozone. But what would the two of you do with a view of a golf course? Balls through the window, and electric carts being driven right through the yard. As I remember, you never liked men having fun by themselves. And think how you’d miss the little shops at the Palm Royal Plaza—you
know
you didn’t like Del Mar Village near as well. We Price women need to see the
sea
. That
was
a rather funny cartoon from the Miami
Herald
but men never wear those dots (tikkas) on their foreheads, and he
never claimed to be a Brahmin, only an honest Shudra (the artisan caste).

Happy Thanksgiving, and even Merry Christmas. I don’t know what will be happening to me. I have to confront the Arhat and do dread it. I waited twenty-two years to confront Charles and then it was by being out of the house when he came home from work. Thanks for letting me cry on your shoulder about Watertown, etc. You were a good mother, given the vikshipta (scatterbrained) style of your generation. I guess that’s all any of us can do, follow the fashion and trust biology to override culture—if we try to be better parents than our peers, our children will feel uneasy. I mean, children aren’t
entirely
the point of a woman’s life, are they? But if not, what is? Tell me if you’ve learned.

Addled love,
Sare

[
tape
]

Namaste, Master.

My little Kundalini has been avoiding me these past days
.

These past days have brought many duties and distractions.

And disasters
.

Disasters only to those who have not yet disengaged from prakriti. Whose vasanas still harbor phalatrishna.

That is well spoken. You are wearing Western dress. It has sharpened your tongue
.

Now that it is almost December my saris seemed thin.

Your sweater indeed appears bulky. It conceals the shape of your beautiful breasts
.

I blush to hear you call them beautiful. Only Buddha and his peace is beautiful.

Within his peace there are a million million jewels. It is one of the priceless insights of Mahayana that particulars do not cease in nirvana. They are simply at last freed from disturbing motion. The wind of decay no longer caresses them
.

As executive assistant, I have a number of sorrows to report, and one cause for joy.

I wish to hear the cause for joy. Let our lawyers deal with the sorrow. Sorrow is their trade
.

The joy is that Melissa Blithedale, after months of meditation and growing disenchantment with the Presbyterian Church and her mirthless financial advisers, has experienced a change of heart. In our letter of late May she was told she would be welcome back here. Now she wants to come. And to secure your benevolence she not only offers to cease demanding return of the loan she made three years ago but wishes to kick in another five hundred K. What shall I tell her?

Tell her of course to come. Write and say, “Come, ineffable Melissa! Be no longer buffaloed!”

She will find the puram much diminished since her last stay. Then, I believe, she was thoroughly coddled.

We will coddle her again, the good Mrs. B. We will take her into our innermost councils, which since Durga’s departure are under-populated. We will house her in high style, in her choice of abandoned A-frames. She will find spiritual advantage in the many challenges. You have never met her, Kundalini. Her ashram name is Mahima, which means “the power to swell to enormous size and touch the moon.” She is quite short and squat, yet with a charm, a monied bounce. She has that sexual confidence of rich women. She is of an old San Francisco family. You will enjoy her. She is amusing. You and she will speak the same language, that of the manner born
.

I am not sure she and I will speak any language.

How is that, my most precious?

No. Don’t touch me yet.

As you wish, my nayika
.

When I first came here, my leader in dynamic meditation kept shouting at me, “Who are you?” Now I ask the same question of you, Master. Who are you?

Who do you think I am?

I think you are my Master and love and my living path to Buddha.

[
Silence
.]

But now I have been told that you are not a holy man from India but a Jewish Armenian from Watertown, Massachusetts.

[
Silence
.]

Which is true, Master?

Wherein is the contradiction? Why may not a holy man come from Watertown? Why may not the living path begin there?

Perhaps there is no reason.

And yet you feel one. You feel deceived. Worse, you feel mocked
.

Yes, I suppose.

Our tantric lovemaking, the highly successful technique of vajrolimudra, now seems a mockery, a loss of your dignity because behind the mask and accent of the guru a pair of Western eyes watched, and a brain thinking with a coarse American accent?

Something like that. Let me hear your real voice.

I’m not sure I can still do it. Even my brain now, when it talks to itself, has the Arhat’s voice
.

When did this incredible imposture first occur to you?

I resent the word “imposture.” I grew into it organically. It’s a phase of my being, a karmic reality. In India I became Indian. I never applied for citizenship, but the rest of it—the diet, the clothes, the languages, the mind-set—just came and filled me in. But
they
didn’t forget—the Indian authorities. They remembered, and when enough little embarrassments at Ellora had piled up—injuries, bad
trips, complaints from parents, complaints from neighbors—they kicked me out. The wogs deported me
.

Why isn’t this generally known?

I wasn’t getting stateside publicity in those days. I was just one more guru obscuru. Coming to the States was Durga’s idea, and she was right: this is the place to score. This is the place where duhkha translates into money. Back in India, once I was gone, what did they care? To them, I was one more piece of foreign klishta—as long as I left and the ashram dissolved, they were happy enough
. Their
dirty little secret was, our farmhouse and its bit of land was where they were putting one of their cardboard-and-plaster housing projects, with rakeoffs for everybody. Our getting out quietly was part of our price for not balking at their price. What you got to realize about India, it may be poor but it’s a capitalist country. People are on the take. For peanuts by our standards, but on the take
.

But how did you get into this country?

No problem. I had my old passport. Dean Rusk had signed it, that’s how old it was. I went and got it renewed at the consulate in Bombay and walked through controls at Kennedy. Welcome home, Mr. Steinmetz. I didn’t even bother to put on a suit. Durga and Nitya and Alinga knew, but that was about it. Ma Prapti maybe, but I think not; otherwise she would have blabbed when she got to blabbing. Not everybody came in the same plane, remember. You stand in the fast line, they look up your number to see if you’re on the feds’ shit list, and bingo, if you’re not, you’re in. Once in, I’m the Arhat again
.

But how did you become the Arhat in the first place?

The story of my life. O.K. I was born on Elton Avenue, of these two crazy mismatched people. There wasn’t any religion around the house, my parents cancelled each other out. They must have had great sex, because nothing else showed. My mother was actually a kind of anti-Semite. She couldn’t stand my father’s people, from
over in the old West End, mostly. She thought they were pushy, greedy, slippery, and had crucified Christ. And him and the Armenians—he called them barbarians, he called them gypsies. He’d say the Turks should have finished the job, she’d say Hitler didn’t have such a bad idea. I got nothing, growing up. No baptism, no bar mitzvah. My mother didn’t even make choeregs for breakfast, she said my father could go out and buy himself bagels. People felt sorry for me. One of my mother’s older sisters, Aunt Mariam, took me to church a few times at Easter and Christmas—to St. James locally and that new one they put up over on Brattle Street, right in Wasp country—but, Jesus, the services were endless, and all that incense and candle smoke did a job on my sinuses. I was one of those kids with tons of allergies. The desert here has been great for that, by the way. The same with you? I notice your nose runs a lot. O.K. Don’t answer. Sulk. Make your guru squirm
.

So: spiritually I grew up with nothing, just these ethnic slurs all the time and noises from the bedroom. But there was
some
thing—a blank little God I carried with me like a tiny teddy bear in my head, this little curved shadow like a husk clinging to the underside of my brain. I mean, it was me, yet something more than me, something I could appeal to—and there wasn’t just input, there was output. I was transmitting and receiving. I could feel it at night. But also in the day, in the middle of the afternoon, out on the schoolyard, this terrific joy, this gratitude that kept spilling and spilling out of me like thread when the sewing machine goes crazy. But it had no face or name; it had no form. I was jealous and sore—my parents with their orthodox upbringings had been given something, it was part of their energy, and the other kids in school had been given the same sort of thing even if they took it for granted and didn’t know diddledy-squat about it and even shat on it. The Catholic girls with the little gold crosses between their tits and the Jewish boys taking off a double set of holidays and even the Protestants, their faces would get a little stiff and guilty if the talk got too dirty—you
could see some shadow coming from above, some message from way upstairs
.