Fear of Dying (25 page)

I stared toward the wet wall where statues of the gods were roughly carved in bas-relief. Suddenly, a flash of light. The faces of the gods became the faces of our parents. Then the light went dead. Was I dreaming or imagining? The statues of the god were gone—and with them the faces of our parents.

Do not cry for us, for we have had our lives
, I thought I heard my father say before his stone face turned back into the face of the god.

You must now seize your life,
I heard my mother whisper.
Don't be afraid. Fear is a waste of life.
Her stone face now softened into the goddess's face.

Deeper into the cave we walked, following the sound of rushing water. We came upon a steaming lake where an infinity of gods and goddesses jumped up above the surface of the water for an instant and then submerged and dissolved as if they'd never been.

“It is said that in this cave we all see only what we're meant to see,” Parvati said.

“And what do you see?” I asked her.

“I see myself as a slave of the god, left upon the temple steps, to become the concubine of princes. My family was untouchable once. I weep for the infant I was.”

“I cannot see any infants at all,” I said.

“Of course not. You only see what you are meant to see.”

We descended deeper and deeper into the earth.

Ash ran ahead and embraced a standing rock, weeping.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“I think it is my father,” Ash said. “Shall I forgive him, or myself?” Ash had always hated his father. I looked at Asher's face in the darkness and hugged him very tight.

But all I saw was a man-size tower of rock, bathed in water flowing over stone.

“Without forgiveness, we are lost,” I said.

“There are many levels of civilization in this cave,” Parvati said. “No one agrees on its origins, nor has it ever been mapped. I think we should turn back.”

I looked behind me—mist before a wall of rock. Ahead of me were steps leading farther down.

“But where to turn?” I asked.

Panic seized me. We would never get out. The driver and his navigator had been right. There was no way out of this unmapped cave.

“Some people say the origin of this cave is Buddhist and that the only way to emerge from it is to still the chatter in your mind. As long as fear commands you, you'll be trapped here forever.” Who said that? Was it Parvati, or the god in the cave? Impossible to know.

We began to breathe in unison. Parvati counted our breaths in the echoing chamber. She went on and on until it seemed she had been counting forever. There is a pause at the end of each breath where it is said you may decide which world to enter. I considered death, but I chose life.

*   *   *

How much I missed my mother! Not the mother she had become at the end of her life, but the vibrant young woman who took us flying to Catalina when we were little girls. The vision of Santa Catalina took me back, back, back to my mother lacing up our sneakers and laughing when we were afraid to venture into the plane. She was so beautiful and young and exuberant. I couldn't imagine life without her!

All the tears that refused to flow at her funeral, at her burial, now flowed down my cheeks, immersing me as if with the amniotic fluid that had sustained me inside her for nine months. I was soaked with tears. Their glistening illuminated the path upward, the steps that led out of the cave.

As we were making our way back to the hotel, we all were very silent.

“I never expected to see my father again,” Ash said. “Who knew he was in India—in a cave! I have to forgive him so I can forgive myself.”

*   *   *

We come to India because India is the past of the human race. We burrow in her caves as in the innards of our mothers. We search for meaning in these amazing wombs of time. Once I dreamed of reliving my youth through magic. Now I understand that I relive my youth every day of my life. As a mother, as a grandmother, as a wife, I am in the past, the present, the future all at once. That is the gift that India gives. India has the gift of abolishing time.

As we were driving back to Goa in the gathering darkness, Parvati said, “India has ignited your heart—as Tagore predicted. I have seen Americans transformed this way many times. It is not only the descent into the caves, but the ability to suddenly look at your life differently.”

“But why?” I asked.

“There is no answer to that,” she said. “Unless the answer is karma.”

“But what is karma?” I asked.

“Some translate it as fate,” she said. “To me it is more than that. I think of it as all the influences of your acts stored up in your many lifetimes. Hopefully you will earn the gift of total extinction—never having to be born again in any form. You Westerners dream of immortality while we dream of its opposite.”

“So you would like to grow enlightened enough not to have to live again?”

“That's the idea,” Parvati said.

“So life is not the ultimate blessing?” I asked.

“Far from it,” she said.

“We don't think of not being born again as extinction, but as union with our creator.”

“If I think of it that way, it's another story,” I said. “I can hardly wrap my head around it.”

“It's not easy,” Parvati said. “But if you think that all the actions of each of your many lives can prepare you for reunion with the divine or not, then it makes more sense. You were born from the godhead and will return there—it's only a question of how long it takes.” Then Parvati recited parts of a poem by Tagore that went like this:

“Go not to the temple to put flowers upon the feet of God,

First fill your own house with the fragrance of Love …

Go not to the temple to pray on bended knees,

First bend down to lift someone who is downtrodden.

Go not to the temple to ask for forgiveness for your sins,

First forgive from your heart those who have sinned against you.”

“What does that mean?” Ash asked. “Why would I want to be reunited with a god?”

“To find Nirvana,” Parvati said. “And forgiveness is the only key to Nirvana. You forgive your enemies and then the gods forgive you. That way, you never have to be born again.”

*   *   *

Later, when Ash and I were alone in our hotel room, he said, “All these caves are like gigantic earthworks. They make me understand what I was aiming at. I was drawn to earth art because somehow I knew it was the most ancient art of all. Burrowing into the earth is like burrowing back into your mother so you can be born again. I don't buy this whole lust for annihilation.”

“It's all about the fear of dying,” I said. “We just keep making up different philosophies to deal with our fear. And it's all so ridiculous because once we are dead we are utterly fearless. Death is fearlessness. It's the anticipation of our dying that's the problem.”

“When we were in the cave, I suddenly realized why I had such a fierce drive to get rich when I was younger.”

“Why?”

“I thought that wealth would protect me from dying. And for a long time, even after I met you, I thought I was protected. But after my aneurysm, I discovered that I am not immune to the fate of others. My sense of specialness was lifted.”

“So are you more afraid now—of dying?”

“Oddly, I am less afraid. I think of the millions and millions of people who have been through that passage without difficulty, and I am more curious about it than I am afraid. Maybe I have lived many times before and maybe I will live again.”

“But I thought you said you couldn't believe in reincarnation?”

“I never said that.”

“I thought you did.”

“No—I think reincarnation would be terrific—as long as I was reincarnated with you.”

Ash and I had broken some barrier—as if India were a kind of second honeymoon for us. Come to think of it, we'd never had a first honeymoon. We'd just plunged into our life together—our schedule dictated by Glinda's school schedule. But now we were alone together and we found we really loved each other. When I was with Ash, I was never lonely. That was what sex with strangers promised but could not deliver. I now thought I must have been crazy to seek intimacy there.

*   *   *

That night there was a huge party on the grounds of the hotel and in the adjoining ballrooms. You could tell who the sponsors were—Coca-Cola and Chivas Regal—because they'd set up enormous chaser lights over the outdoor bars.

I found that I could hardly walk across the garden without some beautiful older woman in a glorious sari grabbing me around the waist and telling me that Blair had changed her life. This was perplexing to me.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because she gave us permission to be tough yet feminine,” one older actress called Rhadka explained. “Indian women needed that permission.”

“But your goddesses are strong yet feminine. Isn't that enough?”

“We tend to ignore our goddesses,” she said. “But your television goddesses give us permission to be ourselves. And for that we must thank you.”

“But why do women always need permission to be ourselves?” My question lingered in the air unanswered.

When it was time for me to give my presentation, I used this as my opener: “Why do we as women need permission to be ourselves? So many people have thanked me for giving them permission to be real, to be honest—but why do we need this permission? Who took away our self-given permission, and why? I think if we could answer this question, we'd be well on the way to improving women's lives all over the globe. So let me just say—we have our own permission. And that ought to be quite enough for us!”

If Blair had galvanized the women, the notion of giving ourselves permission energized them even more. As I walked through the garden, women reached out to touch me. The need for self-affirmation was so great.

“Will you be my guru?” one beautiful young actress asked me.

“I am trying to tell you that you are already your own guru,” I said. “You
are
strong and powerful. You only have to know how powerful and full of life you are!”

And then, as if by an act of the gods—the lights went out.

Hundreds of people in the ballroom and garden, wandering in the dark. Waiters brought candles and flashlights. Food continued to be served. But suddenly we were back in the ancient era of caves. The music went on playing.

In the darkness, I was embraced again and again by people I could not see. I could feel their warmth, hear the music, smell their perfume. I thought of the strangeness of life, how it continues even in darkness. The past was unknown and so was the future. We might as well be living in that cave where all the statues become our parents and we fear we will never escape. We are here in the darkness hoping to be born again. That is why we have come to the place where civilization was created again and again.

“When once I leave this body, shall I come back to the world?” Tagore asked. Do we ever know?

I looked around for Asher, but could not see him in the darkness. All I saw were the moving shadows that might as well have been shades of the dead. I had the feeling we had never emerged from the cave, that we were stuck there forever because of our lack of humility, our lack of faith.

I realized that all my life I had substituted cynicism for faith. I had protected myself from deep knowledge of myself. Now I made a promise to the gods—to myself—to shed that cynical skin and explore forgiveness, humility, love.

How little I knew myself until I descended into the earth in search of my ancestors. How little I knew of those I claimed to love!

Without seeing where I was going, I walked and walked over the wet grass until I found the waves lapping at my feet. I saw the statues of my parents in my mind's eye. I felt a powerful embrace in the darkness. And when I turned to look, I saw Asher.

“We have so many mysteries to solve,” he said.

“Perhaps we will solve them together in our next life,” I said.

“As long as we are together, we can do it,” Ash said, the water lapping over our toes as if to whisper its assent.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to:

Ken Burrows and Gerri Karetsky, who kept saying, “You always say that,” when I despaired that I could not write this book.

Ann Pinkerton and Clarice Kestenbaum, who knew I could write even when I forgot.

Elizabeth Sheinkman and Adrienne Brodeur, who read this novel before it was ready and always believed in it.

Jennifer Enderlin, who showed me that great editing is still alive and well in the publishing world.

Dr. Harold Koplewicz, who kept saying my title had to be
Fear of Dying,
even before I was able to appreciate it (my original working title was
Happily Married Woman
).

When I'm working on a book, I'm always terrified of showing it for fear that the magic will evaporate. I now recommend this to all my writing students. Vladimir Nabokov says somewhere that he wrote an early short story about his passion for a very young girl and it took decades for it to turn into
Lolita
. It needed to grow “the wings and the claws of a novel.” I have learned that novels take as long as they take.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR