Karma for Beginners (17 page)

“That's fantastic, Vrishti. Really, what an honor,” my mom says, smooth as silk, a tiny bitter smile on her lips.

. . .

The seeker must also be a warrior, fiercely fighting the lure of subjective emotion.

Vasant Panchami is a festival that's apparently supposed to mark the beginning of spring. It's ten degrees out here, but maybe it's warmer in India. Devotees come from all over the country and everyone dresses in yellow, which is supposedly the color of the goddess Saraswati, whose birthday this supposedly is, and they all fly kites. Show me someone who flies a kite in January in upstate New York, and I will show you someone celebrating another country's holidays. The good thing is that Saraswati is the goddess of music, so the musicians play all day and everybody chants.

My mom is off somewhere doing something, as usual, so I'm going to the introductory celebrations on my own. I put on a yellow leotard and rust-colored cords and pull out my weed, sealed in a Baggie wrapped in a handkerchief and then a scarf, stuffed into a sock and then a sneaker, stashed in the back corner of my closet with all the other things that matter. My tapes, my weed, my Walkman, Green Tea Experience, Colin's flannel: all hidden, tucked away where she can never find them. Almost as hidden as the person I've become.

I blow smoke out the window screen, cold air doubling back to bite my skin, and once I'm high I head out to Shanti Kutir. I walk up and over and out through the courtyard of gods, which is a very cool environment to be in stoned. The brass statues twinkle, Gandhi leaning forward on his walking stick, Ganesh waving elephant arms, Buddha closed-eyed and serene, fresh flower garlands insisting spring against the January air. The last snatches of a rainbow sand mandala drift with the wind on the ground. For a minute I think I could be happy here, if it weren't for all the ashram people. And my mom.

As soon as I round the bend I see the mass of devotees, the crowd a single yellow organism pulsing against the white sky. Whoa. One second I'm just me, a single person, and then the next I'm part of that breathing yellow mass, bodies packed together tight enough that it doesn't even feel cold. Familiar faces mix with new ones and I give myself over, letting myself move with the crowd down the hill. At the bottom I grab a cushion, drop off my shoes, and sit in the middle of everyone, far away from the Guru's special circle in the front.

In the throng of unfamiliar faces I'm just another girl in yellow. Not Guhahita's daughter or Devanand's
sevite
or the girl who wears tight clothes. Just me, anonymous, myself. The drone starts; I close my eyes. The music is amazing stoned, finger cymbals tinkling crystalline; it's just as mathematical as Rush and Yes but more organic, less American. Plus we get to sing along, which you can't do with prog rock. The chant kicks in: the sounds start in my chest, move toward my mouth, and as they leave my lips they rise from the huge crowd like a giant cloud, drifting up into the air above us, hovering. All the ashram stuff drops away, all of everybody's individual bullshit everything, and we're just one knot of people, tied together with invisible threads of harmony and melody, chords and counterpoint, riding the chant like a river, this huge and beautiful thing made up of all of us.

I chant for hours and the stoned turns into something clearer, just as high but clean as water, streaming up through my spine to the spot between my eyes. The music speeds up and slows down, speeds up and slows down, and when it finally curls around itself and goes to sleep, I feel more awake than ever. I'm not thinking about anything, and nothing hurts. I flow outside with the crowd, hardly noticing when I get jostled or pushed forward, just trying to breathe in and out and in and out and keep the feeling going.

By the time I get to Atma Lakshmi, it's settled into a warm buzz between my eyebrows, encircling my skin. I climb up in Colin's van and kiss him on the mouth, look bright and straight into his eyes. “Hey,” he says, catching a contact high, and kisses me again. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say, and laugh. I lean back, leave my seat belt off. “Where we going?”

I want to have sex, but we have to go to Clint's first; Colin's out of weed. We knock and no one answers, so we just go in. “Led Zeppelin II” is blaring; Clint and Bennett are on the couch, heads back, eyes closed, mouths open.

“This is some good shit,” Clint says when he finally lifts his head and notices we're there.

I'm still bright and open from the chanting; everything seems beautiful, even Clint and Bennett. We smoke and it
is
good shit, strong without the blurry, and I sit on the floor, look for a long time at a space landscape poster of green-and-blue-rock arches rising out of water. Then I shift my gaze to the three guys on the couch—friends as long as I've been alive, they know each other inside out, what to laugh at, what to listen to, all that shared history I can hardly imagine. My body feels loose and open and connected to the rest of me.

“You guys are beautiful, you know that?”

They all lift their heads and look at me at once. It's like something from a Three Stooges movie; I crack up. Colin and Bennett turn to each other, wondering what's so funny. Clint just looks at me.

“You're beautiful too, Tessa, you know
that
?”

I smile. “Thanks, Clint.”

“Sure.” He smiles back.

My muscles fill with feeling and I feel like lying down, so I do, on the floor, stretch against the rough carpet, arms over my head, toes curling.

“Just
beautiful
,” Clint says.

Bennett chuckles to himself and flips the record over.
Whole Lotta Love
comes on and the guitars mix with the stretching in my muscles; it feels super good, molecules moving against each other, my leotard and the carpet and the music and the air. I wiggle around.

When I open my eyes all the guys are watching me. “I gotta get some water,” Bennett says suddenly, and goes over to the yellow kitchen.

“You really are,” Clint says. He turns to Colin. “She really is.”

Colin gives him less than half a smile. Clint keeps his eyes on me but talks to Colin: “You are one lucky man, man.” Bennett comes back with a Big Gulp and plops on the couch, watching me like a TV.

I can tell they think I'm hot. And not like the weird gross old “distracted” guys at the ashram, a cloud of embarrassed and Ninyassa hanging over it, but like Colin does, the way that's strong, that gives me power. I squirm against the floor again, testing it out. Clint and Bennett laugh.

“This is awesome, man,” Clint tells Colin. “C'mon, Tess, we better go,” Colin tells me.

In the van, he is mad.

“What the fuck was that?” he says.

“What do you mean?” We're still high.

“You can't do that, Tess.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

I sort of do and sort of don't. “No I don't.”

He makes a martyr noise, like he doesn't want to explain but he will because I'm making him. “You can't—roll around on the floor like that.”

“Why?”

“Jesus, Tessa, are you playing dumb?”

I guess I am a little bit, but I also don't see what's so wrong. I was just feeling good and being beautiful, and they appreciated it. It's natural. “What's wrong with it?”

“You can't act like that in front of guys.”

“Why? I act like that in front of
you
. A lot more than that!” I tease, expecting him to laugh. He doesn't.

“Guys—have reactions to that stuff.”

“So?” I can tell he's getting frustrated, but I just don't think there's any reason to. It's not like I'm going to cheat on him with Clint and Bennett, for god's sake.

“That's okay. It's natural.”

He makes a noise. “Yeah, I know it's natural. But they're my
friends
. And you're my—” He trails off.

Is he going to say
girlfriend
? “I'm your what?”

“You're my girlfriend, Tess.”

He's never said that before. I flush with pride.

“I am?” I nuzzle up to him, breathe on his neck.

“Yes, Tessa, you are, okay?” He seems exasperated. Which is weird.

“Good. That's really good.” I smile at him and squeeze his arm.

But he doesn't touch me back; he just says, “Okay,” and fiddles with his keys. I try to catch his eyes with mine, but he won't let me.

My heart starts beating and my mind gets panicky. I don't know why, but I have to get his gaze back. He has to look at me.

I rub his knee, seductive. “I'm glad that I'm your girlfriend, Colin.”

“That's great. I'm glad too. Okay?” I go higher up his thigh. But he won't stop being distant. And my mind won't stop racing.

I have to give myself a reason he won't look at me, something that's not about him being mad or not wanting me or wishing he could leave. I have to tell myself something good or I'm going to panic and everything will suffocate.
Maybe he's mad because he's jealous of them
, I tell myself.
Maybe that means that he loves me
.

And then it hits me. There is no better time than now. “I love you, Colin.” His eyes widen; he almost looks scared. It dangles out there like a raindrop on a twig, swelling and swelling before it drops. The moment stretches out, and I get terrified. He's not going to say it back. This is horrible. It's the worst moment of my whole entire life. But then he runs his fingers through his hair, looks out the window, like his normal self.

“Look. I love you too. Whatever. Just don't act like that in front of them, okay?” He said
I love you too
. I will do anything he asks me to. “Okay.”

He's quiet the whole ride home, but I just watch the road and play it over and over in my head like it's a tape.
Look. I love you too. I love you too. I love you too
.

The cafeteria's packed like a can of tuna. Chanting pipes through tinny speakers, and the line for food is very very long. There are so many brand-new blank-canvas faces that I'm surprised to recognize one. Jayita's even thinner than before, jawbones jutting out, elbows sharp. She sees me and doubles back, beelining with her tray. There's nowhere to go: slow-moving devotees with trays of tempeh stroganoff surround me on all sides and I can't move. Skinny, she slips through the cracks in the crowd.

“Tessa,” she says when she gets close. “How are you?”

“Uh, I'm fine?” I haven't talked to her in months.

“Good. That's good. Listen,” she says, jumpy. “I think you're smart.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Yeah. You're a smart girl. You know right from wrong.”

I have no idea what to say to that. “Okay.”

“So I think—I think maybe you should talk to your mother.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“I think you should talk to your mother,” she says again, without explaining. “He's”—she stops, then starts again—“he thinks there are no consequences. But giving up your will, it's—it's dangerous.” She looks down, almost like she's talking to herself. “It's not an illusion.” She shakes her head, grim. “I don't think it's an illusion.”

Part of me wants more than anything to ask her what she's talking about, but part of me really does not want to know.

After dinner my mom's still out somewhere, so I dig in her nightstand drawer. I have a sick feeling in my throat, and I want to see that journal. I sift through stray earrings and half-crumpled scraps of paper, but it's not there. I lean over the edge of the bed, check under it, beneath her pillow. No dice.

In the Burger King lot, I want to talk to Colin about everything.

“I talked to Jayita,” I tell him.

“Oh yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. “Cool.”

“It wasn't, actually,” I say. “It was actually super creepy. She's really skinny now and kind of—I don't know, kind of intense. And she came straight up to me and told me I should talk to my mom. Twice. Isn't that weird?” I want him to tell me what it means, what I should think.

“Yeah,” he says. “Weird. Well, you know those people are weird, Tess,” and he turns up the volume on Cream. “Man, Clapton, man,” he says, shaking his head at the guitar solo.

“Yeah, but don't you think that's kind of strange?” I press him. “I mean, more than usual?”

“I don't know, Tess, how would I know? All those people are crazies. She was probably wearing some white robe and a red dot on her forehead, for god's sake. You can't think about it too much.”

It's true: she
was
wearing a white robe and a red dot on her forehead. But she's still a person. I don't like Colin saying those people are just crazy. My mom is one of “those people.”

“Yeah, I guess. She's just my mom, you know?”

“Well, sure.” He pauses.

I'm about to start talking again, but he goes on. “But at some point you've gotta have your own life. I mean, look at me. I don't go around stressing out about my parents. And believe me, I could.” He snorts. “But, you know. They do their thing, I do mine.”

“Right.” I wish I could feel that relaxed. Maybe you have to be twenty for that. “Right,” I say again.

He turns the volume up more, till it's too loud to have a conversation. “Poor Tess,” he says, and reaches for me, hands sliding up my shirt. “C'mere.”

That night at Clint's I just want to get back to the ashram. I want to see my mom, stand on the solid ground of her eyes and cheeks and mouth. Even though I hate her. I drink Mountain Dew from a Smurfs glass. Caffeine mixes with the weed and I imagine Evening Program happening right now, all those visitors packed into Shanti Kutir, sitar and chanting and special
prasad
for Vasant Panchami, and I am antsy to be missing it.

We are listening to “Drums and Space,” which is the section of a Grateful Dead show where they make strange non-melodic noises on their instruments for approximately an hour. They do it at every single show. This particular “Drums and Space” is from a show at Veterans Memorial Coliseum, I've been informed by