Spiritual Summer
A novel by Nori J. Muster
Chapter Four
Sandy applied the final touches of yellow to a sign with ten-inch-high letters that spelled out: "Vegetarian Buffet." Leaving the sign straddled over two wooden sawhorses to dry, she pulled off her white carpenter's apron and bunched it up.
"This is finished. I'm going home to change," she told the woman who was supervising the work.
She stepped outside and observed people walking everywhere, unloading things, moving things, and talking in groups. The festival was drawing near and it seemed everyone in the temple was getting involved in preparations. The temple owned three thirty-foot carts, smaller replicas of the original Ratha-yatra carts for the festival in India. The painting crew's next project would be to repaint the carts.
Although the temple mood was growing stronger and more excited each day, today was a special day for the community because Nada Swami was returning from his trip. His plane was expected to land at LAX at two o'clock and devotees were already lining up in front of the temple to greet him. Sandy went back to Prana's apartment to change into her sari. When she returned, the crowd had grown larger and some men were leading the chanting. Sandy noted that the men lined up on one side, while the women stood on the opposite side, leaving an aisle down the middle so the guru could walk up to the temple. Always "separate but equal," Sandy thought.
From her place with the women, Sandy searched the row of men to find Jeff. She spotted him and tried to catch his eye by stepping to the front of the women's row, but he wouldn't look at her. Ever since that morning they talked in the alley she couldn't seem to get his attention. He was so kind up until that day; she wondered what happened. Maybe he was preoccupied with his work.
By 2:15 there was quite a gathering of devotees, still chanting. Sandy wondered how they could all manage to drop what they were doing to assemble in the middle of the day to chant. The music picked up momentum and everyone swayed and sang in the hot sun. Sometimes Sandy liked the chanting, but other times she didn't. When she concentrated on the sound and let it permeate her thoughts, she felt peaceful, spiritual, and her material cares faded away. The chanting was at once soothing and invigorating, since the tempo tended to speed up. But today Sandy could not meditate peacefully. She felt anxious about finishing the signs. Besides, it was hot, at least eighty-five degrees, and she felt uncomfortable in the sari, which was constricting and sticky. Since the cloth refused to stay on her head, she let it fall around her shoulders.
Someone tapped her shoulder and said, "Cover your head."
"Oh, yeah," she said, pulling the sari back up.
Some devotees seem more bitter than spiritual, she thought, looking at the matronly woman who had tapped her. Maybe it's because they work too hard, she thought. Anyone who works this hard for no pay and then goes home to an unfurnished apartment and can't even watch TV, she thought, has an excuse to be bitter. Do this, do that, don't look at the men, cover your head. Sandy felt the sting of resentment and didn't feel like chanting. Even worse, she felt like she was the only one in the whole crowd who felt uncomfortable.
She looked at Jeff, who seemed totally immersed. He was moving his head from side to side with his eyes barely opened. If only they had met under different circumstances, she thought. If only he was still a student at Santa Barbara, they could have met there, instead of here. But maybe he was romantic under all that orange cloth, she told herself. Her attention returned to the situation and she felt impatient. When is this Nada Swami coming? she wondered. What does he look like? She already knew he wasn't Indian, or old, and she figured he wouldn't have a long beard. Krishna Center devotees don't have beards or moustaches for the same reason they shave their heads. They think body hair is dirty.
Sandy felt the sari cloth creeping down and falling across her back again. She grabbed the end and tried to yank it up. It stayed for a second and then fluttered down again. "I give up!" she said. The little girl standing next to her looked up with innocent eyes. The woman who corrected her before frowned and diverted her glance.
The sound of the chanting changed, becoming more intense. The men, especially, bounced up and down excitedly, chanting louder and louder. Through the crowd Sandy could see a black Mercedes-Benz pull up. When the door opened everyone threw flower petals. The mood was frantic; the drum players went into a frenzy. Sandy let herself be pushed to the back, since the others seemed much more enthusiastic about seeing Nada Swami. She checked her watch, it was now past 3:30. This is taking forever, she thought, but she reluctantly went along.
After following the other devotees inside, Sandy observed that the signs and painting supplies had been pushed to one side of the room. She wished she could go back to work, or maybe go home and rest. But she didn't want to be a spoilsport. If Prana or Jeff later asked her how she had liked Nada Swami, she didn't want to have to say that the whole thing bored her and she went home to take a nap.
The chanting continued and devotees were dancing wildly around the room. Nada Swami was seated on a throne-like dias, next to the larger, more ornate dias that held the Indian founder's picture. The chanting died down and then started again at a slower pace. Sandy went up to the balcony to try to get a better look at what was going on, pushing her way to the railing to look down. Several men were gathered around Nada Swami, taking off his socks. They put a stainless steel salad bowl under his feet and poured a pitcher of water over his feet into the bowl. All the while the tempo of the music was slow and solemn.
Sandy tried to understand if this was some kind of worship ceremony, when she remembered Prana saying that they would be washing Nada Swami's feet when he arrived. Washing his feet! Sandy suddenly realized that that's what they were doing. Who does he think he is, Jesus? Krishna? she wondered. Besides washing his feet, she noticed, a man was fanning the guru with a round, flat fan made of peacock feathers. She looked more carefully to see if anything about the guru commanded this much respect. He was thin, almost scrawny, like Prana, and didn't look like a guru. He didn't even shave his head like the other devotees, but had thick black, medium-short hair. The only thing that made him look like a devotee were his orange robes. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and looked young; Sandy guessed late twenties. There didn't seem to be anything distinguishing about him.
Sandy watched as the foot bathers poured yogurt, honey, oil, and more water over his feet. The ingredients collected in the salad bowl to form a white, yogurty-mush. Then they poured pitchers of water over his feet. When the foot bathing was done, the men removed the salad bowl and dried Nada Swami's feet with an orange bath towel. They put his socks back on for him. Another man took the salad bowl and splashed the sticky white substance at people in the crowd. The dancing intensified and the floor became wet and muddy as people danced in the yogurt-honey-oil-water.
After twenty-five minutes the chanting stopped. Sandy thought it was over, but then someone brought a microphone to Nada Swami's seat. The guru tapped the mike a few times and it made a loud "thud, thud, thud" through the speakers hanging above the altar.
"Hare Hare," Nada Swami said.
"Hare Hare!" the devotees answered in unison.
"Krishna Krishna!" the guru shouted.
"Krishna Krishna!" the devotees shouted back.
"It is so nice to be back in our Krishna Center world headquarters." The guru straightened his back and, holding his chin up high, looked around at his admirers. "I hope you are all blissfully engaged in preparing for our Ratha-yatra festival."
Sandy, noting his New York accent, thought to herself, A Brooklyn businessman is a guru? The other devotees, who seemed to be unable to sit still with all the excitement, roared back their enthusiasm to Nada Swami.
"So fired up!" the guru said, and then he chuckled. "That's good because we have to work hard to get the Lord's mercy."
The devotees again roared with delight.
"Let's see," the guru said, "how many more days until the festival?"
Several people in the crowd shouted out, "Ten."
Nada Swami appeared to be calculating in his mind, then he said, "That's right, only ten more days. And this community has a lot of work to do! I have just returned from New York, where I met with some of our fellow leaders in this International Center for Krishna Worship. They had a very, very successful Ratha-yatra festival in New York City, but we know the festival here in Los Angeles is the best in all of North America."
The crowd shouted in agreement.
"Okay, okay," Nada Swami said. "But we have to make this year our best yet! I have invited the other leaders to come here to see how to put on a Ratha-yatra festival and I think we're going to have seven visiting gurus here in approximately one week. I want everything to be perfect, which means every one of you must do your absolute best. Rise to the occasion and the Supreme Lord will certainly recognize your sincerity and reward you a million-fold."
Sandy felt a little lost, since she still had only a vague idea of what the festival would be like. The other devotees seemed to soak in every word.
"I want each and every one of you to make any sacrifice necessary to make this festival a success," Nada Swami continued. "As you know, last year the festival didn't make a profit, and this year we'll be lucky if we break even. Therefore, I've planned a marathon to help raise the necessary funds. I want each of you to take it upon yourself to do your part, either by donating something from your own, personal savings, or by voluntarily going out to preach."
Go out to preach? Sandy wondered if that meant "go to the airport and panhandle." If that's what it was, she was sure Nada Swami's speech didn't concern her. Hadn't her mother already asked her not to go to the airport? Besides, she would be busy repainting the parade carts. Nada Swami continued talking, giving the marathon a big build-up, but Sandy didn't pay attention. She kept looking at her watch and wishing it would end. It was already getting close to five o'clock, time she would ordinarily stop painting for the day. Great, she thought, the whole day has been wasted. After another ten minutes Nada Swami said a final "Hare Hare" into the mike and it was over. He got up and walked out of the temple, followed by enthusiastically chanting men. Sandy watched as they followed him across the street up to the green building, where he went through Prana's office door and disappeared.
Sandy walked back to the apartment feeling frustrated and confused. She hadn't gotten any work done since morning and now it was too late. She thought about Jeff, especially how he avoided her. Maybe he is totally sold out on this Nada Swami guru and wishes she didn't exist. Maybe she should leave and let him have his guru and his austerities; his whole absurd little world. Worshiping this guru fellow is too much, Sandy thought, letting the top of the sari trail behind her. She went to her room and pulled off the sari, then changed into her own clothes, the jeans and flowered silk shirt she had worn the first day at the airport. She looked at the garland of carnations Prana gave her the first night, which was now drying in the windowsill. Instead of getting angry, she decided to take a walk. Maybe things would seem different if she could just get out to think for a while.
She started west down Venice Boulevard, thinking there was a mall not very far. She would only be gone a while, she thought, so no one would miss her. Prana would be working late to catch her guru-boss up on his correspondence, phone calls, legal details, temple politics. All the things big-city gurus must worry about.
Sandy kept thinking about the ceremony and the guru's speech about getting more money for the festival. Spiritualists shouldn't be so concerned about their income, she felt. She kept thinking that she could see the mall in the distance, but it was just a mass of street lights and electrical poles. She quickened her pace. Just then, a white van pulled over to the side of the road. Her heart pounded. Jeff jumped out and stepped onto the sidewalk in front of her.
"Can I give you a ride somewhere?"
"Oh, God! Jeff!" Sandy felt her knees become weak. She searched for something to say. "I'm going to the mall. I can walk."
"The mall is a lot farther than you think. I can give you a ride."
"I can manage," she said, reluctant to share her anger with him, since he probably felt good after seeing his guru.
"No, really, it's at least four miles to the mall. Please let me give you a ride."
He was still smiling and his ambience softened Sandy's mood.
"Oh, all right. Thanks."
They got in the van and Jeff started driving down the street toward the mall. Sandy looked at her floral blouse, unable to speak, remembering the first night she met him.
"Pretty ecstatic ceremony, wasn't it?" Jeff asked.
"Yeah, great, sure, I loved it," she said.
They drove along in silence. Sandy could feel Jeff's mood fading, falling to equalize with hers.
"Where should I drop you off?" Jeff asked as he drove into the parking lot of the mall.
"I guess here is okay," she said, reaching for the door handle. "I'll probably only window shop, anyway."
"Is something wrong?"
"As a matter of fact, yeah, there are a couple of things," she said, releasing the handle.
"Can I help?"
"I wish you could explain something." Scenes of Nada Swami and the foot bathing ceremony whirled through her mind. She couldn't understand why there were so many rules about gurus and celibacy. "Tonight when--it's just that you --" She tried to express it, but couldn't. She felt a tear rolling down her cheek and wiped it away with her hand.
"What's the matter? Is it something about me?"
"No, it's not you. It's something else." She noticed his kind glance and decided to change the subject.
"There is one thing," she said. "Why do you ignore me around the temple? Did you disown me?" Sandy crossed her arms and bit her lip.
"Oh, no. I haven't been ignoring you. As a matter of fact, I think about you all the time. Maybe too much."
"You do? But you treat me like I don't exist," she said, hesitating again and wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue. "Sorry. You probably think I'm stupid."
"No," he said, patting her gently on the shoulder.
"I think about you, too. You say you think about me, but then why do you ignore me?"
"I already told you, I'm a brahmacari. I'm not supposed to look at a woman, much less talk to one at the temple."
"But you just said you think about me."
"I know. I shouldn't even do that."
"You know what? I think that's ridiculous! You're not the monk type. It's the group. They're making you think that because of all their rules."
"Now wait a minute."
"Look, Jeff, what's wrong with a guy liking a girl and a girl liking a guy? Why do you have to follow all their rules so strictly?"
"Remember the other day, when we were talking in the alley? That was my ashram leader we saw walking up. Anyway, he told me to stay away from you."
"That's what I mean! It's not fair!"
"That's the way it is," Jeff said. "A brahmacari isn't supposed to talk to a woman. Not like that, anyway."
"Then why don't you leave? What's stopping you?"
"You don't understand, Sandy. It's my decision. Just like a family has rules, the devotees are my brothers and sisters and Nada Swami is like my father."
"I have a father, too, but we don't wash his feet."
"All right, that's enough," Jeff said. His voice sounded tired and strained. "Nada Swami is my spiritual father, my guru. It's a form of worship to wash his feet. It's authorized."
"Authorized by who?"
"By the Vedic scriptures," Jeff replied.
"All right, look, I don't want to debate religion here. I'm just telling you that they've got you all mixed up, that's all."
"No, I'm happy here," he said, appearing more composed. "What makes you think I'm mixed up? This is my home. I like it."
"You don't like me, too, then?"
"It's complicated. I'm not supposed to."
"Forget about 'supposed to.' What about how you really feel?"
Jeff put his hands to his forehead, covering his face. "It's my decision."
"But you're a human being," Sandy continued. "You can't go on denying your feelings forever. What if you meet someone you like? What will you do then? What if you want to talk to her and hold her?"
"Stop it! It's not what you think," Jeff said, still holding his forehead in his hands. Then he reached out and took Sandy's hand and held it in both hands. "Please don't get a bad impression of ICKW because of me."
Sandy's heart fluttered and she stared into Jeff's eyes.
"I do think of you too much," he said, pressing her hand in his and looking into her eyes.
"Don't worry about it, Jeff, I don't hold it against you."
"I can't help myself," Jeff said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "There's something special about you. I knew it the first time I saw you."
"I feel the same."
"You're right, there's nothing wrong with feeling like this," he said, kissing her gently. They sat for a few minutes embracing and looking into each other's eyes.
Jeff pulled away. "This is wrong. I shouldn't be doing this." He turned to the steering wheel.
"It was just a little kiss."
"No, we should go back."
"Let's stay a little longer."
"We're going back. It isn't you, it's me. I don't know what I'll do." He started the van and drove out of the parking lot. Without speaking he turned onto the street, toward the temple.
"What was it like for you at college? Did you ever have a girlfriend?"
"Yeah, I had a few girlfriends."
"How old are you?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Just wondering how much older you are than me." It was now getting dark and Sandy looked at the lights and the buildings as they drove down the street.
"I'm twenty," he said.
"Good, then you're only three years older than me."
"It isn't going to do you any good."
"We'll see."
"Can you promise not tell anyone about this? Especially Prana or any of those women you paint with in the temple?"
"Why would I tell them?"
"I know how you women are," he said. "Seriously, though, I would get in a lot of trouble. Nada Swami is very strict about these things."
"I like you, you know," Sandy said.
"Oh, I have a problem now, don't I?"
"Just don't ignore me anymore."
"I'll think of you."
