Space Between the Stars (19 page)

Strips of white paint peeled from the corners of the ceiling above us. The phone rang. I twisted my body toward the night-stand. “Hello?”

“Hi. This is Mahalakshmi. How are you today?” Her English was so proper. “Fine, thank you.” “I hope I didn't disturb you, but Guru—rather, Sri Chin-moy—has asked me to invite you and Carlos to the United Nations for meditation today at noon. Do you think you can make it?”

I turned to Carlos. He hadn't moved, but was listening to my conversation, one eye open. I was intrigued by the invitation and hoped he was, too. “Can you hold the line, please?”
Burying the phone in the bedcovers, I repeated Sri Chin-moy's request to Carlos.

“Sure,” he said. “I'd love to.”

“Thanks, Mahalakshmi. We'll be there.”

Carlos and I took a taxi across Manhattan. Centuries of living oozed from the buildings, the sidewalks, the people. San Francisco was nascent and tame by comparison. Soot clung to Manhattan's stone facades, poured on by trains, buses, cars, and ships. The boroughs were separated into ethnic groups, yet everyone met as equals on the frenzied battleground of the city.

Dozens of flags representing member countries stood tall along First Avenue in front of the United Nations. The U.N. Chapel was across the street from the stately gray office building on Forty-sixth Street. Mahavishnu and Mahalakshmi stood outside, waving at us from the cab. We followed them into the sanctuary to a row of umber-toned pews that faced a paneled dais in a room the size of a small auditorium. Opulent yet simple, the room was half-filled with forty or more disciples—young men dressed in white, and women in flower-patterned saris—sitting alongside people in suits. Nearly everyone's eyes were closed. Carlos and I sat between Mahavishnu and Mahalakshmi. I straightened my back and closed my eyes, hearing only the faint rustle of clothes against legs as newcomers filed into the pews.

The creak of a door and a low murmur of voices caused me to open my eyes. A round-faced man in a peacock blue flowing garment glided into the room and climbed the stairs to the dais. He was of medium height, his head bald, his hands folded at his chest. He bowed and walked to the podium, gazing intently at his audience, a slight smile on his lips.
At first sight, Sri Chinmoy looked as Mahavishnu and Maha-lakshmi had at the airport: austerely clean, with an otherworldly glow outlining his body. Brown-skinned, like Paramahansa Yo-gananda in photos I had seen, Sri Chinmoy's nose was sharp and his ears pointy. I turned my gaze within, breathing deeply, trying to expel all images from my mind in order to meditate, but thoughts swept through my head like a ticker tape on Wall Street: Kitsaun's face
—How I wish she were here with me to experience this meditation.
My English professor
—Will I return to school?
A volley of Sly's sneers and mischievous smiles veered through my mind as well. I silently asked God to purify me and forgive my past so that the painful choices I had made would stop haunting me. My chest heaved and fell, my breath calmed, and a feeling of grace brought tears to my eyes. I sat in peace, finally silent inside, yellow-white light beaming in the air whenever I looked up.

When I looked at Sri Chinmoy his body looked frozen. His arms were raised high in the air, his hands pressed together, and his eyes moved up and down rapidly.

What is he doing?
I peeked a glance at Mahalakshmi on my right. She was looking at Sri Chinmoy, her mouth in a soft smile. I closed my eyes again, concentrating on my heart gently rising and falling in the center of my body. For thirty minutes, no sound was uttered. I wondered whether Carlos was feeling peaceful or whether thoughts were running through his head. Sri Chinmoy sang one long, nasal “Om” and then bowed. Everyone stood and filed out of the church, disciples with their hands pressed together, bowing as they walked past the guru. I looked at Carlos; we smiled and leaned into each other, not ready to leave.
Mahavishnu asked Carlos and me to meet the guru, walking us to the front of the room. Sri Chinmoy smiled widely and made cooing sounds, his hands hidden in the pockets of the winter coat he had put on. “I'm very happy to meet you,” he said, his voice inflected with a slight accent. “Please come to my house for meditation tonight.”

He turned and walked through the door, which was held wide by two young men who quickly followed after him. His flowing Indian dress hung shiny and soft under his brown tweed coat. Carlos bowed and touched his hands to his heart.

“Come to our house later and we'll take you to Guru's,” Mahavishnu said. “We'll go to the studio after.”

Carlos nodded. He grasped my hand, and we stood watching people leave the chapel. I felt stunned, as though knocked down by floodwaters that had washed me clean. An exhilarating freedom was awakened inside me, as though my soul had been asleep until this moment of spiritual illumination, as though meditation on my own was just a hint of what could be experienced. I looked at Carlos—his face was flushed.

“I feel different,” he said, looking in my eyes. “I felt something divine in that meditation. Did you?”

“I saw light. For the first time, I felt the bliss we've read about in meditation books.”

We walked ten blocks, letting the experience settle in our hearts before deciding where to go. We took a cab back to the Village and ate lunch in a tiny health food store on Eighth Street. A cockroach ran by on the shelf behind the lunch counter as I lifted my avocado sandwich to my lips. “A New York good luck charm,” I said, and smiled.
In the late afternoon, we took a taxi to Mahavishnu and Ma-halakshmi's house in Queens. They asked if we had trouble saying their names and told us that we could call them the Mahas. Carlos and I looked at each other and laughed. We confessed it was hard to say “Sri Chinmoy.” “That's why the disciples call him ‘Guru,’” Mahavishnu explained.

“A guru is to be venerated above normal people or spiritual aspirants because he has reached oneness with God,” Mahalak-shmi said. “When we are invited to his home, like tonight, we are being blessed to feel the transcendent power of God that he receives in meditation.” We drove the few blocks to Sri Chinmoy's house. Disciples walked down the street, twilight's shadows dancing on softly billowing Indian saris.
Do they all live in this neighborhood?

“Is what Sri Chinmoy wears also called a sari?” I asked.

Mahalakshmi opened her car door. “No. The men wear
dhotis
tied around their waists like a sari, and a long shirt that hangs to the thigh, called a
kurta.”

We climbed the stairs and entered the guru's home. Carlos and I took off our shoes, leaving them beside the Mahas' on the enclosed porch. Each step I took in my stocking feet took me further into this new world. Here we were in the house of a realized spiritual master. Walls were painted high-gloss white. Soft, baby-blue carpeting looked like a waveless ocean. No furniture cluttered the main room that I supposed was once a living room. Only a long, two-foot-tall throne, ornately painted with gold leaf, stood in front of the windows. There, Sri Chinmoy sat cross-legged, wearing an emerald, flowing
dhoti.
The
kurta
hung loosely from his broad shoulders. The only visible
parts of his body were his chestnut-hued hands, neck, and very shiny head. Sri Chinmoy's eyes glistened like gold nuggets when he smiled.

“Oh, ho!” he exclaimed as we walked into the room. “You have come.” His face gleamed as he narrowed his eyes into meditative slits, watching Carlos and me sit down on the floor beside Mahavishnu and Mahalakshmi. Disciples were lined up in rows facing Sri Chinmoy. I smiled at the woman beside me.

“We are so glad you have come to our humble meditation,” the guru spoke softly. “Of course, we are here to meditate on God and bring down the Supreme light from above. Let us go within.”

Wafts of incense smoke curled from a table beside the throne. Sri Chinmoy straightened his back and looked up, as though seeing God through the ceiling. He parted his lips, his face molding into a plastic-looking mask. I took deep breaths, swaying in the longing that pulsated from my heart. Thoughts faded, and I was overtaken with the peaceful silence in the room.

Sri Chinmoy chanted “Om” as he had at the U.N. meditation. He looked down at Carlos and me, and then he closed his eyes.

“You are both soulful seekers of the divine Truth. I can feel God's blessings entering into you. Do you have any questions?”

I could not speak. What could I say or ask in front of all these disciples who had been meditating so much longer than I?

Carlos said meekly, “I have followed Jesus and am wondering if meditation with you is okay with him.” A few disciples laughed.
Sri Chinmoy said, “This is a very good question. Many of my disciples come from churches and synagogues. We are a path, not a religion. You might think of Jesus as one of God's eyes and me as the other. Through both eyes you can see the Almighty. We are working together to give you the vision of God.”

Carlos bowed. I was glad he had asked that question. We had both been raised to believe that Christ is the way to God and heaven.

A girl with waist-length wavy brown hair asked, “How can I make the most progress in the spiritual life?”

Sri Chinmoy closed his eyes. “If you cry only to please God in His own way, if you cry only for your progress, then you are bound to get all the experiences which God has in store for you. Imagine you have a bicycle inside you. When you ride a bicycle, you have to pedal it all the time. You cannot balance motionless at one point. While you are meditating, you have to aspire all the time; otherwise, you will fall. In the spiritual life, movement has to be constant. Either you move forward or you move backward. So, good girl, always pedal forward, always aspire to please God in His own way.”

It was as though we were students in Sri Chinmoy's class. In a way, sitting at his feet reminded me of times with Sly. He had created a student-teacher atmosphere, even with candlelight, similar to the candles burning on the table beside Sri Chinmoy. Many nights I had sat at Sly's feet, looking up to him as he talked about his music and danced before his friends as though we were his disciples. I felt cautious at the remembrance. Sly had not been a window to divinity. I hoped it was not possible to get caught in a similar trap with a man who professed to be holy.
I glanced at Carlos, his face shining with light. He caught my stare and smiled. Carlos had a spiritual core like mine, with a hunger to live for God's truth. We would figure this out together.

“Dhruva. You have a question, good boy?” Sri Chinmoy gestured to a man in the row behind us.

“Guru, what is the difference between getting high on drugs and getting high in meditation?” A few snorts of laughter sounded around the room.

“Do not laugh. This is very important,” Sri Chinmoy said. “Of course, people may ask how I know the difference since I have not taken drugs. But, I have meditated and have realised the Highest. The use of drugs is not proper. Those who take drugs are damaging their subtle nerves and spiritual faculties. It is the same with drinking and smoking.”

I could feel my face flush. He continued. “Those who take drugs get an experience that is unnatural and forced. But when one meditates and enters into the living Consciousness of God, at that time one sees the real Light, knows the real Truth, and feels the real Ecstasy. By taking drugs and using artificial means, people are unconsciously, if not deliberately, negating the real Truth.”

I felt like everyone's eyes were on Carlos and me. Sri Chinmoy smiled at Dhruva. “But do not waste your precious time brooding on the kind of life that you lived in the past. I do not ask anybody to repent. It is true that repentance purifies the soul. But at the same time, if you are constantly repenting your past, then you will have no time to aspire and look forward toward the light of the future. All right?”
I needed to hear that it was not necessary to look back. I spent a lot of time examining my past mistakes.

Sri Chinmoy waved his hand and said, “It is late. Go rest.” Disciples stood and walked to the front porch. Carlos was surrounded by young men reaching to shake his hand. I looked back at Sri Chinmoy on his throne. He threw a dazzling smile in my direction. I quickly looked down, embarrassed by his attention.

Mahavishnu drove back to their house to drop off Mahalak-shmi before he drove us to Manhattan.

“What do you think of our guru?” Mahavishnu asked.

Carlos was quiet for a few seconds. “I think he embodies God's wisdom.”

Mahavishnu waited.

“I'm curious about the teachings,” I said.

“Do you think you would like to become a disciple?” Mahavishnu asked.

“When Larry Coryell stayed at my house,” Carlos offered, “he had that photo of Sri Chinmoy meditating, and it scared me.” Carlos shook his head as though trying to get the image out. “Maybe I didn't want light at that time. I've changed, but I don't know if I'm ready to be a disciple, man.”

“What does one have to do to be a disciple?” I asked, remembering the words of compassion Sri Chinmoy had spoken that had touched my broken heart.

“Guru says that his meditation path is a boat, and he is the boatman taking us to the Golden Shore,” Mahavishnu said. “When he accepts a disciple, he concentrates on the seeker's soul to ask God if the person is meant to follow his path. If the
answer is yes, he gives the aspirant's soul an inner meditation. He brings our souls forward and gives us inner instruction. He enters into our consciousnesses and gives us the capacity to receive and manifest God's Light. We consider Guru our spiritual father.”

“Does every disciple have to look alike—wearing the saris, the men with white clothes and crew cuts?” I asked.

Mahavishnu chuckled. “It seems a sacrifice to look like a disciple in the beginning. Mahalakshmi and I have been disciples two years. I had long hair, too,” he said, glancing at the dark curls hanging down Carlos's back. “But those are only outer suggestions. Wearing white helps us remember to keep our mind pure. The only real rules are that we have to meditate every morning, become vegetarians, and attend meditations at Guru's centers every week. There's a Sri Chinmoy Centre in San Francisco, too.”