Karma for Beginners (8 page)

It's trees again and then the First Aid trailer, rickety steps and yellowing white paint. I think of going back in there, wrapping myself in the scratchy Guatemalan blanket, turning on the radio, picking up Jayita's book about the bliss of true universal aloneness. I wonder if I would get it now. I get up close and squint through the shades, trying to see if she's in there, smiling up at Chakradev. I wouldn't mind. They're the only ashram people who have ever been nice to me. I stand for a minute, listening for Jayita's stoner-yoga voice, but it's just quiet. I get back on the trail.

The woods go on and on and I start to worry that I'm lost. If I am, I'll be screwed—it's the country here, no pay phones anywhere, and anyway we don't even have a number for me to call. Ahead I see daylight and when I get closer, the road. Across it are falling-down houses, pale blue and yellow and tan, one with a rusted-out car in the front yard, another with a dog. The lawns in front of them are patchy, half green, half brown. I stay on my side of the street.

I remember the letter I sent to my dad, the names of the highways and routes, and for a minute I imagine his van chugging over the hill to scoop me up, take me off on tour, tell me stories that I haven't heard. When a pickup truck whizzes by, fast and rickety, my heart jumps a little, even though I know there's no reason in the world it would be him. It's stupid even to think it. The pickup fades into the distance, and then there's nothing for a long long time.

There's no real shoulder, just a seam where road meets grass, crumbling asphalt bleeding into green and dust. I kick my feet along it, step after step. I wonder if I'm going to have to hitchhike to get back. My mom used to hitchhike some, in Big Sur when we didn't have a car. She'd catch a ride up Highway 1, go off and meet Billy the kayaker while I stayed back in our tent. I always wondered why he didn't just come pick her up; he had a truck. But she liked catching rides, she said, and she always came back bearing food and stories. She never hitched with me there, though, and she always told me: Never ever hitchhike. It's dangerous and just for grown-ups. You never know who's driving.

The dog by the tan house barks loud and I jump. It's probably been forty-five minutes already, but I decide to walk a little longer before I stick my thumb out.

It's two miles at least before the woods let up. On my right I spot a smooth, wide opening, grass trimmed and thick and green, white-and-purple-spotted lilies growing on the sides of it like someone planted them. My sneakers squish in the moist ground as I turn in. A big old oak with a
NO TRESSPASSING
sign marks the start of the path, more lilies sprouting from the tangle of its roots. Nervous, I wonder if a rich person lives here, someone with a burglar alarm, but then I see another oak tree with another sign. In rose-colored paint is a big “om” symbol inside a purple circle, flanked on either side by swans. Underneath it says
THE GURU'S DWELLING.

Another ten steps in you can see the big white mansion. It reminds me of my fourth-grade field trip to the state capitol. The house is sprawling and square, and even though it's fall, flowers spring up everywhere in perfect clumps. Allium, asters, anemone: almost the entire “A” section from my alphabetized field guide to flowers. I used to page through those pictures for hours, wondering how all those different shapes got made, so many, all of them so beautiful. Here, they sprawl out like a map of all the different kinds of perfect in the world.

I hug the side of the mansion, follow it around to the back. Behind, I find a smaller concrete building, whitewashed to match the main house. Another garden stretches out, wrapped in chicken wire, fat squash resting on dirt, the last of the tomatoes slowly reddening on the vine. A thin strand of barbed wire tracks the top of the fence, keeping out the deer; plastic tubs for trash line up by a small back door, each one with a chain and a lock. Past that—a big uncovered window.

I keep myself small, sneak close enough to peer in. Inside, the kitchen is all stainless steel, garlands of flowers crisscrossing the ceiling, just out of reach of clouds of rising steam. It's a hive in there,
sevites
buzzing around, carting tubs of dirty dishes, sweet potatoes, squash; chopping stems off purple blossoms; mincing herbs. They cross paths and then clear, and I can see the stove. Stirring a big steel pot and sweating, hair tied in a blue bandanna, is my mom. Her cheeks flush pink from steam and she looks like a picture of a peasant girl in Italy a zillion years ago, or some angelic hippie on a sixties Arizona commune. She grins at someone I can't see and her teeth flash. Then she turns back to the pot, singing to herself. I have an impulse to say,
Mom! Hi!
My knuckles clench up to knock on the window before I even think. But then I remember that
NO TRESSPASSING
sign technically refers to me, and I put my hands back in my pockets.

Past the whitewashed kitchen building is the back of the mansion. No gardens, just a row of fall crocuses along the wall, beneath leaded glass windows. Curtains hang inside, white silk and gold embroidery like a sari, almost see-through but not quite. A bird twitters on my right and I startle. I stop walking a minute, hold still. Nothing but quiet around me.

When I turn the corner I catch a flash of movement in the middle of the white. A curtain's pulled. The window's high up; I have to stand on tiptoe.

The room is the color of rose quartz. Everything, walls and carpet and pillows, silk-covered altars and the big soft velvet chair. The beard guy is sitting in it, dressed all in red. He's watching TV.

I can't believe it. One television in this whole huge ashram and it belongs to the beard guy? He's supposed to be the purest one here, and he's got
cable
. I turn to see what he's watching.
Mr. Belvedere
. George and Mr. Belvedere are having an argument. I can't hear what it's about. Then the TV shuts off;the door to the room cracks open, and all of a sudden the beard guy's face looks mad.

I crane my neck to see who he's glaring at. It's

Jayita, dressed in a beige shawl to match her skin and hair. The beard guy says something to her, some kind of command it looks like, and she nods. She looks sad. She lifts her head to say something back, pleading, it looks like, and he just shakes his head.
No
, I see his mouth say, sharp.

The window's old heavy glass and I can't hear through it, even with my ear up close. But there's a tiny crack along the frame. If I can pry it open, I can lift the window. I find a stick and jam it between. It makes a creak. I duck down fast, heart pounding in my ears, blood rushing to my face.
Shit
. I imagine them stop talking and turn toward me, count the time it'd take for the Guru to get up and walk to the window to look. I wait even a little longer than that.

Slowly I stand up, back stiff from hunching, lift up to look again. They're still arguing. They didn't notice. I stick my finger in the gap and push. This time the window doesn't creak, it just cracks open.

Indian accents are usually lilty, smooth, and up-and-down like music, but his is clipped and hard. “You will understand it as a test,” the Guru says. “In time. Right now, your perception is not sufficiently refined to see that this relationship is harmful, so you must trust the Guru's guidance.”

She's trying to make her voice sound calm, but you can hear the quavering underneath. “But aren't we supposed to follow our hearts? I can't just end a relationship with someone I love—”

“Ah,” he says like she's a child, “but there are realities more powerful than the minor attachments you call
love
. Sometimes we must give up our desires in order to know a larger truth.” And then he pauses, and he looks down at her boobs. She doesn't notice.

“But it just feels wrong—”

He interrupts her. “That's enough. There is no arguing. Serious spiritual work requires sacrifice, and this place is not for anybody but the serious. So let me make it very clear to you: If you do not give up your attachment, you will have to leave.”

“
Leave
?” She sounds shocked, and even mad. Then she catches herself. “I'm sorry. I just don't understand.”

“It's not important that you understand,” he says.

“It's important that you follow the practices laid out for you. You've made your own choice to commit to the path of surrender. If you diverge from that path now, you will find that it becomes strewn with obstacles beyond that which you had previously imagined.” It's weird; it sounds like a warning.

Fear flicks across her face. Her eyes fill with questions, and it reminds me of that first night at Special Program, when I couldn't tell the difference between the truth and the illusions of my mind, and all of a sudden everything I was sure of crumbled and I didn't know how I was supposed to know anything at all.

“So—this is my karma?” she asks tentatively, like she's setting one foot on an icy lake to make sure it won't break beneath her.

He stares down at her and gives a tiny nod.
“The divine consciousness is testing me?”
He nods again.
“Okay,” she finally says quietly. “Okay. It's a lesson.

It always hurts to let go of your attachments.” She sounds like she's trying to convince herself. “So you will end this—
thing
with Chakradev?” the beard guy asks her, his voice like a stick, poking. Her eyes fill up. “I will.” His face softens and he leans toward her. “Good,” he says. “This is good.” He reaches out to touch her face, brushes his fingers down the side of her cheek. Gravity pulls his hand down past her chin and it grazes her chest. It stays there too long. She flinches. And he says, “Go.”

I remember that night at First Aid, how Jayita lit up all sparkly when Chakradev walked into the room; how she got all sassy with Ninyassa and danced to the radio even though we weren't supposed to. Now she looks like a different person. She slinks out the door, her body like a bent piece of grass, stepped on and limp.

When the door clicks shut, the beard guy sits up straighter in his chair. I'm mad at him, and also I'm confused. Jayita and Dev were nicer to each other than anyone else I've seen here. They made each other happy. Why would he want to stop that? And why would he get to decide in the first place? That seems more like a boss or a dad than a teacher. And that touch at the end—that was creepy.

Then there's music from inside. Bells, and voices singing Sanskrit words. Four women in saris walk in, waving incense in circles. One of them is my mom. Another one is Vrishti. Behind the incense circlers, another two women, almost as beautiful but not quite, come in with platters of food heaped up and surrounded by flower blossoms. It looks gourmet.

The women bow down in front of him. All of a sudden the beard guy's face is reassuring and warm, like a good dad playing with a toddler. The opposite of how it was with Jayita. My mom touches her head to his feet.

. . .

Surrender to the guru is the birth of enlightenment; the truth and the teacher are one and the same.

I stayed there watching till the sun sank down and the sky turned white with just a bottom rim of gold. More cooking, more cleaning, more beard guy sitting in his chair. I wondered what he thought about when he was alone. Did he watch the red bars of the digital clock and think, “Ah! Time for pretty incense ladies to come in!” Or “Almost time for
Love Boat
!” Or did he worry whether he was right to make Jayita leave her boyfriend? What was it like to have a thousand people plan their lives and feelings based on just the way he looked at them? If that were me, I think I'd spend every single second freaking out about every single flicker of my eyes.

That night my mom didn't come back until super late, and I was glad. It took an hour just to get the mud out of my sneakers. And I didn't want to talk to anyone, especially her. I had a secret that I didn't ask for. Not like Colin, not even like the letters to my dad. This wasn't a secret that I chose. It got forced on me, and knowing it felt dirty.

There wasn't any reason for Jayita to break up with Chakradev. The Guru was making her do it just because he felt like it, and she was doing it because he said. Even though she didn't want to. Like she was a little kid, except she's not. It scared me to see it. And it scared me even more to see him touch her after.

And I wondered: did the beard guy get to say what everyone here was supposed to do about every person in their lives? What if he told my mom it was better for her karma to get rid of me, leave me alone forever? Would she be strong and tell him no, or would she crumple like a stepped-on blade of grass?

I practically hold my breath all the way to the lot. I make myself imagine it empty so I won't be disappointed; I squeeze shut that little space of maybe from the start. The hope pushes at me, but I steel myself against it. When Colin's face pops into my head I shove it away, picture a plain gray stretch of gravel, no one there.

When I come around the bend the yes rushes in so fast I almost make a sound. His Converse sneakers are sticking out from underneath the bus. And then his jeans. And then the bottom of his shirt. He hears me coming, swivels out from under.

“Hey!” he says, and grins. And I start crying.

All of yesterday swells up inside me like a water balloon, and his face is the pin that pricks me. I'm so relieved to see him it just gushes out. I can't believe what an asshole I am and I try to hide it—laugh over the tears just to cover them with
something
, then choke it all back into my throat as fast as I can. It doesn't work very well. I think I might actually look crazy.

“Hey,” he says again, his voice softer, worried. He sits up straight. “Hey, what's wrong?” Snot is streaming from my nose; my cheeks are hot and damp. I shake my head, my face tucked down. I can't look at him like this. My chest hitches and I breathe in hard and slow, try to get a grip.

It seems like forever till the tears slow down, but I know it's not even a minute. I wipe my face on my T-shirt and look up. His eyes are soft and worried like his voice.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don't be sorry.”

“Okay. Sorry.” It's a reflex.

I almost do it again but he stops me, smiling. “Are
you okay?”

He didn't say,
Is everything okay. Are
things
okay
. He said,
Are
you
okay
. Somehow that difference matters. I open my mouth to say,
Yeah
—another reflex—but it won't come out. I shake my head again.

He pats the gravel beside him. I crouch down, and he wipes off his hands with a rag. I don't know how to start, and he doesn't ask me any questions. Just sits there, leaned up against the side of the bus, next to me.

Finally I ask him: “Have you ever had a secret that you didn't want?”

He says, “Sure.” He doesn't tell me what it is.

The quiet yawns between us. He stands at the edge of it on purpose, waiting, and finally I dive in. I tell him about pillars and marble, steel pots and
NO TRESSPASSING
, white silk and gold. I tell him how I watched my mom through thick heavy windows, didn't knock. And then about Jayita and the beard guy.

His eyebrows knit; he curls his lip. “That's fucked up,” he says, and it makes me so relieved to hear it. “Nobody has the right to tell someone else who they can be with.”

Be with
. “Yeah,” I say, shaky. “Yeah,” I say again, surer.

We work for a while, quiet, tools clinking on metal, grease smearing on hands. When the sun's high in the sky he stops, flips the top off a gallon jug of water, drinks. He squints at me. “What were you doing walking all that way, anyway? That entrance must be four or five miles up the road at least. That's way more than an hour even if you go pretty fast.”

So much stuff happened since yesterday morning that I almost forgot about that part, but now it comes right back. I went because he wasn't here. I went because he has a whole life I don't know about, and all I've got is this lot. I waited and I freaked out and all I could do was walk, away and fast, get to someplace different, far from here. How am I supposed to say that stuff?

“Um, I was bored, I guess.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I stick to my story. “Just bored.”

He leans back. “Bored, huh?” He thinks something, but I can't tell what. All of a sudden I feel like he's looking at me through a lens. Like a magnifying glass. I feel like a bug on the hot ground.

“Well, you weren't here, so—”

“Ahh.” He cuts me off. “Ah. I see.” His eyes spark; the corner of his mouth twitches up. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to smile back. I'm not sure I could, though, regardless. I hardly explained anything, but somehow I said too much.

Colin sits there twinkling at me for a second, stretching things out so I'll have to say something. My cheeks are hot. I know they're red. I feel like a naked baby bird. He isn't being mean, just teasing me. It should be no big deal. At school people made fun of my almond-butter sandwiches and the dolphin stickers on mom's car, and it always bounced right off my skin; I never cared. Now I do.

My eyes well up again. Ridiculous. Just a little, but come on. I try to fake like I'm gazing thoughtfully into the distance, but he sees.

“Wait,” he says. “Hang on. Are you crying?”

I have to look at him to answer. I shake my head no, but a tear spills out of one eye, streaks down my cheek.

“You are. God, I'm sorry—”

“It's okay—” I start to say.

“I wasn't laughing at you. You know that, right?”

I nod, small.

“I really wasn't. Okay? I just thought it was—Crap. Sorry.”

Another tear drips on my nose.

“Oh, Christ,” he says. “Come here,” and he leans over and puts his arms around my shoulders. We're sitting down, so it's a weird halfway kind of hug. Still, this shudder of electricity goes into my shoulders and down my spine. His T-shirt is soft under my palms, and past that is his skin, and muscle underneath. I hang on.

I hung on a long time, till it was almost weird. The funny thing is, he did too.

I think. Maybe he was just waiting for me to end it, the way you do when you don't know how long the hug's supposed to last and you don't want to hurt the person's feelings. But usually you can feel the question in the other person's fingers: they loosen their grip, hold on halfway till you let go. But he didn't pull away.

Finally I had to. I was starting to blush hard and even sweat. I moved back, and he tilted his head, thinking something. I couldn't tell what. After a second he said, “C'mon,” picked up the socket, and got back to work.

Now six hours later, hair washed, dinner eaten, and mail fruitlessly checked and checked again, I sit in Evening Program. I can't look at my mom; I feel like she'll know that I know things I'm not supposed to, things that
she
doesn't even know. And I don't want to tell her. Just because it's in my head doesn't give her the right to know it. I want to keep it for myself.

Jayita's up in front now too, closer even than my mom and Vrishti. She has a red dot on her forehead. Chakradev is nowhere to be seen. It's weird to me that she's still here. I mean, the beard guy said that if she didn't want to dump Dev, she could leave. Well, he told her she would
have
to leave, but still. If that was me and I had someone that I loved, I wouldn't let anybody split us up. I guess she loves the Guru more than Chakradev. Except it didn't really seem like love.

I watch Jayita sway, eyes closed, off inside her head somewhere. I can't tell if she's blissed out or she's really sad. She must miss Dev, I know. And I wonder if she misses herself, too. I stare at her hard, hoping she'll feel my eyes and open hers and meet them. I want to see inside her. I want to know if she's still there.

A swami strides up to the podium and I stop watching her. “Welcome!” he says. “We have a very, very special gift for you tonight,” he says. “The Guru will grant
darshan
.”
Darshan
: that thing that made my mom feel like an electric ocean. Sharing presence with the Guru. This means I'm going to have to look him in the face.

After the murmurs of excitement, the room fills with the low thunder of mass rustling. “Please line up in a centered and orderly manner,” the swami says into the mic. I try to keep my eyes on Jayita, to see what happens to her when she gets up close to him again, but she just disappears into a mass of paisley skirts and patterned shawls and drawstring pants.

It's ten minutes till we get to the head of the line. Two swamis stand between us and the beard guy like bodyguards, nodding when the next person has permission to go.

“Go ahead,” a lady swami finally says, and nods at me.

I don't want to bow. I'd have my doubts even if it weren't for yesterday, but when you add that to it too, my knees are locked, like my legs are made of long, unjointed bones and if I try to bend, they'll break. Everyone is staring at me. Some of them are glaring. I cannot bow down to this guy. Finally my mom puts her hand between my shoulder blades and shoves, hard enough that if I don't go in the direction she's pushing me I'll fall.
Fuck you
, I think at her hand, and fold over.

When I look back up, the beard guy's beaming down at me. Up close you can see all his pores. He stares like he can see all the way through my clothes to my skin, and through my skin to my bones. I want to cover up my insides, but there's no blanket that could do that. His eyes are lasers. I feel hot.

“You have a new friend,” he says. I don't know what he's talking about, except I kind of do. How would he know that, though?

We're there for a long minute; I can't move. Finally he lifts his gaze off me and it's like cool air floods in, like a door opened in an overheated room. He turns to the lady swami, says something underneath his breath that I can't hear. She nods and walks behind his chair, bends down. When she comes back she's holding out a red-and-pink stuffed teddy bear, the kind you get for five dollars at the drugstore for Valentine's Day. On its stomach is stitched,
Someone Loves You!

I feel gross taking it, but I wonder if it's some kind of sign.

. . . . .

On the way out of Evening Program, Mom and Vrishti want to see my teddy bear. It's like they're cheerleaders at school and the bear is from some football jock. I hate cheerleaders.

Mom and Vrishti want to have girl talk, except about the Guru. Who did he look at and for how long, who got special gifts and
You are so lucky he gave you that
. It's just a drugstore stuffed animal from an out-of-date holiday, made in China and thin at the seams, but their eyes light up like it's a diamond.

“It holds the Guru's energy,” Vrishti says. “Now you can keep his spirit with you at all times!” I don't want to keep the Guru's spirit with me at all times. I don't think I want it with me ever. But he knew I had a new friend; the bear says someone loves me. If there's even any chance at all that it's true, I have to hold on to it.

“It means you're special, you know,” says Vrishti. “He recognizes something in you.” She and my mom both look at me, jealous. I clutch the bear tighter to my chest.