Space Between the Stars (20 page)

Neither Carlos nor I said anything. I reflected on all we had seen. Ram Dass's book,
Be Here Now
, gave me the same peaceful feeling, yet I had never heard a philosophy like the one spoken by these people. It was as though life's meaning was touching my heart, sprinkling truth inside my body. And the disciples were beautiful. The women wore no makeup, the men had little hair, yet their skin shone and their eyes were lustrous like pearls. After being in Sri Chinmoy's presence for two meditations, my life seemed changed for eternity.

Mahavishnu pulled up in front of the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

“I'll just run up and get my guitar,” Carlos said. We held hands walking into the lobby and took the elevator to our
room. Carlos picked up his guitar and kissed me. “I'll be back after we lay down the tracks in the studio.”

I closed the door, carefully turning all the dead bolts. Through the window, looking down on the street, I watched them drive off.

Was a meditation teacher what we needed to show us the way on this new road to spiritual truth?

Could a teacher open doors to my soul that were shut tight by my mind? I felt liberated when I sat cross-legged in meditation—at one with a universal God who was beyond religion and boundaries of human thought. Even in this small hotel room, an openness to truth hummed within me.

wo days later, Carlos sat on the windowsill beside the radiator. “Mahavishnu asked me about becoming a disciple again when we drove back from the studio.” Down the street, sunlight fell on Washington Square, but the twelve-story apartment building across from our hotel blocked its rays from our room. I perched at the end of the bed facing him.

“I'm beginning to feel pressured,” he said. “I prayed for a teacher, and I loved the meditation at the United Nations, but I didn't know having a guru would mean I would have to dress differently and have short hair—like a square.”

I walked the few steps to the window and touched his soft cheek; my fingers followed the line of his cheekbone. “Maybe you should keep searching. The meditation
was
peaceful, but maybe there's another guru you're meant to follow. Or maybe you don't need a guru at all.”

“I just don't want to cut my hair. Because I had tuberculosis in high school, I got deferred from going to Vietnam. I did not
believe in being regimented and controlled then, and I do not want to be in a spiritual army now.” Carlos's eyes were red with the war he was fighting in his mind and heart.

“Don't rush your answer. Tell Mahavishnu you need more time.” I paused and then said, “I didn't know you had TB.”

“Yeah. It was awful. No one in my family visited me. I was in San Francisco General Hospital for two months. People were dying in beds all around me. Finally, I had to get out. Ron brought me clothes, and I put them on in the bathroom and walked out. I was afraid I would die if I didn't leave.”

How could his family not have visited him? I kneeled on the floor and wrapped my arms around Carlos's waist. His family was so different from mine. They had not been present to his child's heart. I wanted to share the love I had so generously been given as a child; to soothe him with my steadfastness. Carlos's only mainstay in life was his desire to play the guitar. I was beginning to understand why he worked so tenaciously. He was taking care of his life, securing his place on the planet, healing his fractured childhood.

“Mahalakshmi asked me to help in the restaurant while you're in the studio. I didn't know what to say because I don't know how much longer I'll be staying.”

“I would love for you to stay until we finish recording.”

“I would love to be with you, but what about my college? I can't drop out again.”

“Maybe you can work something out with your teachers.”

It seemed like months since I had been to San Francisco State. I knew I would have to choose once more. Pursuing a career or pursuing love? Maybe meditation would give me an answer.
“Come on.” Carlos beckoned as he stood up. “Let's go down to the record store.”

My stride matched Carlos's as he struck out in his snake-skin boots. We linked arms, lovers in Greenwich Village. I leaned into the scent of his leather jacket and Maja soap. Inside the record store, we flipped through dozens of albums, new and used, looking for Coltrane, Miles, Aretha, Billie Holiday—any imports we would not be able to find in San Francisco. Two young men behind the counter stared at Carlos. He did not notice. With albums under his arm, he walked to the register to pay. The one wearing love beads and an earring stuttered, “A-Are you Carlos?”

“Yeah, man,” Carlos said, reaching out his hand to the startled fan. I loved that he was always gracious.

“I love your guitar, man,” he said, shaking the fingers that strummed the strings.

“Thanks.” Carlos pocketed his change, and we walked back to the hotel, a brisk breeze blowing our long hair.

The next morning, Carlos took a cab with me to Parsons Boulevard, a street in Sri Chinmoy's neighborhood where disciples had businesses devoted to spreading the meditation message. In the middle of Long Island's crowded streets—made dark and foreboding by overhead trains, looming brownstones, and dank, acrid subway odors—the white storefronts with smiling disciples gave the impression of openness and safety. We met the Mahas at the Smile of the Beyond, a diner owned by a disciple named Swadhin. Just as Sri Chinmoy had given Maha-vishnu and Mahalakshmi new names with spiritual meanings, we were meeting many disciples with Indian names who lived
and worked in Queens. Sri Chinmoy even named the businesses.

Carlos and I sat down on red vinyl stools, Mahavishnu and Mahalakshmi beside us. Swadhin leaned on the counter, his glasses askew. His hair was slicked back like a gang member from
West Side Story.
His face was round, a row of perspiration across his forehead. An apron was tied barber-style around his waist, and he wiped the Formica in little circles with his towel while he talked with his customers. Carlos and I looked over the menu and ordered veggie burgers, while Swadhin joked with Mahavishnu.

“What time do you think you'll be back from recording tonight?” I asked, searching Carlos's eyes. Our hands were clasped between us.

“The engineer's having a hard time getting my sound, so it'll probably be late.”

In jest, I poked my lips out as though displeased. I knew Carlos's music came before everything else in his life. After more than three months together, I accepted the line of demarcation between his guitar and me. As much as I wanted to be the great love in Carlos's life, I did not feel competition with his passion for his art. I would never demand he choose between us—not because I knew he would choose his guitar, but because I realized early in life that each person comes to earth with something unique to give to the world. Carlos's gift was his music. Although I was still searching for my purpose, I knew I would never let him come before my destiny when I found it.

Swadhin twirled our plates onto the counter. In front of us, a poster-size photo of Sri Chinmoy—dressed in white, smiling,
and holding an open yellow rose—hung suspended by a wire. We faced our images reflected in the eight-foot-wide mirror covering the wall and bowed our heads to bless our food. Books of Sri Chinmoy's teachings were stacked on shelves near the door, price tags on each spine. Disciples sat together in booths, chatting while they ate. They all had such clear eyes and transparent joy.

I cut my veggie burger in half and ate, glancing through the storefront windows onto Parsons Boulevard. A trail of people walking quickly down the hill passed those laboring up the hill. “Why don't you two stay at our house instead of the hotel?” Mahalakshmi asked. “Carlos can drive to the studio with Ma-havishnu.”

I looked at Carlos. I still had not decided whether I was staying until the recording would be finished. Mahavishnu said, “That's a great idea.” Carlos looked down. “We don't want to impose.” “And I have to figure out how long I will be here,” I said. The Mahas spoke at the same time: “We want you to stay!” Mahalakshmi said, “Think about it and let us know.” I nodded my agreement. “All right,” Carlos said. “We'll let you know tomorrow. Thanks.” We walked outside and parted with a kiss as Carlos slid into Mahavishnu's Volvo. I stood waving as they drove off to Manhattan. Mahalakshmi and I started up the hill to her little Subaru for the drive to their restaurant, where we had eaten the first night.

“Annam Brahma is more than a restaurant,” Mahalakshmi said. “It's a holy abode where we feed customers a higher consciousness along with their vegetarian meals.” Sri Chinmoy had
named Annam Brahma and the translation from Sanskrit is “Food is God.”

My first afternoon helping at the restaurant, Mahalakshmi explained that we had to wash our hands and keep our hair back to meet the health code of New York State. I worked in my jeans and sweater, my hair pulled back into a ponytail. The kitchen had a big commercial six-burner stove and double-door stainless-steel refrigerator. A table with chopping boards was in the center of the room, which was really only big enough for a couple of people to move around in. Along the wall, large canisters with handwritten labels were stacked: lentils, rice, noodles, flour. Bottled spices sat on a stainless-steel ledge above the stove. Mahalakshmi asked me to mix milk, eggs, and sugar for individual custards. As I stirred, I looked out a window onto a dark garbage area and thought how different it was from the beautiful Mill Valley garden outside Carlos's kitchen window.

Though at least five disciples had been working the night Carlos and I first came to Annam Brahma, only Mahalakshmi and I were doing the prep work. She did not carry on casual chatter; she told me about the life of a disciple. “We meditate every morning at six A.M., but you can also start the day by chanting ‘Supreme, Supreme’ as soon as you open your eyes.” She told me that Guru meditated on all his disciples every morning at 2:00 A.M.

I took a taxi back to the hotel around five o'clock. Night closed in on the Manhattan streets, the city crowded with pedestrians and buses, and lights in offices turning on floor by floor. In our room, I ran a hot bath to soak off of my skin the smell of the peanut oil we'd used to fry the Indian flat bread,
and thought about the different possibilities for my future. I was twenty-one. Mom said I needed to buckle down and finish my education. Carlos wanted me to travel with him, in his musical realm. I was happy and I was learning, even though it wasn't in a university. What was my place? Was it to gain spiritual knowledge through the meditation practice, or should I return to academia? Both stimulated my heart and mind. Being with Carlos, traveling with him, was the major question. I would assimilate firsthand knowledge of places through walking streets, visiting museums, and meeting local residents—but all on Carlos's timetable, not mine. I lit the candles on our makeshift shrine and sat in the silence, waiting for direction.

When Carlos walked through the door after recording, I said, “I would like to stay in New York with you and work with Mahalakshmi.” My heart had chosen spirituality.

“You're sure?” he asked. “You won't regret not finishing your semester?”

“I can start again in January. I'll just end up with a couple of incompletes. I would rather be with you.”

“Yes!” Carlos raised his arms above his head and then pulled me into his chest, squeezing me close.

The next day, Carlos and I moved to the Mahas'. They gave us the guest room with twin beds. We slept together in one bed, Carlos's leg swung over my waist, me crushed to his torso. Mahalakshmi knocked gently on our door at 5:30 the following morning. I unpeeled from Carlos's body, my feet hitting the floor before my eyes opened. I stumbled to the shower and stepped into the hot, stinging water, chanting, “Supreme, Supreme” under my breath. It felt strange using “Supreme” in-
stead of “God” or “Jesus,” and I saw Sri Chinmoy's brown face instead of a long-haired Jesus of the Bible.

After kissing my sleeping mate good-bye, I drove with Ma-halakshmi to the restaurant. She lit candles in the alcove that arched above a very un-human-like photograph of Sri Chinmoy. In black and white, the guru's head was a floating gray shadow with eyes at half-mast in the silver frame. I leaned toward Ma-halakshmi and whispered, “It doesn't look anything like Sri Chinmoy.” I felt ill at ease before the strange image, which barely looked like a person.