Vessie & the Guru
The ashram was a New England style structure: wood frame, salt-box
shape, except for the veranda that flounced around it like a teenager’s skirt.
It looked warm and inviting—a great place to find a shady spot, curl up
with a good book and dream, or sit in the sun and be a nuisance to a fly.
“It’s where we live and study,” Lester said. “It’s our temple.” He pointed
to a narrow path trellised with multi-colored flowers that curled off to one
side. “Master lives down there in a small house. I’ll tell him you’re here,
although I’m sure he already knows. Guruji knows everything. Go to the
main house, Ves. You’ll be welcomed there.”
Vessie watched Lester disappear through the vines. Then, suddenly,
the sound of spinning tires spun her head around. She could see the tail
lights of the limousine disappear as it left the parking area and descended
out of sight. Foot was gone. Oh my god. What the hell am I doing here?
She felt her heart race and took several deep breaths. You’ll be alright,
she told herself. Lester’s here. Lester? Lester’s a flake! Relax, be present.
Another deep breath. Okay, temple, she thought. The only time I heard the
word temple was when Daddy spoke about the Jewish church, uh, temple.
What kind of temple is this?
Vessie climbed the wood stairs past several men and women who were
busy sweeping, but not too busy to offer her smiles. On the veranda others
were washing windows and tending to flowers that grew in deep pots. The
women were draped in saris of unstitched cloth that flowed neatly over a
blouse with a scooped out neckline. The men wore dhoti-kurtas, the same
fashion as Lester wore the night he levitated into the pool. They were all
dressed in white. They weren’t whistling, but Vessie thought they should
be, for their lilting presence radiated a happy weightlessness.
A strong fragrance permeated the air. Rose incense, Vessie thought, breathing it in like ambrosia. She followed the sweetness inside. There, a large entry hall, wainscoted with rich reddish-brown maple, led off in three directions.
Vessie was fascinated by what she might find behind each door. She
chose door number one, the center door, and opened it. There was no
bedroom suite or trip for two to Hawaii. Not even an air conditioned
Cutlass Supreme with sunroof and power-steering. There were pews and
chose door number one, the center door, and opened it. There was no
bedroom suite or trip for two to Hawaii. Not even an air conditioned
Cutlass Supreme with sunroof and power-steering. There were pews and
a center aisle, like in Everend’s church; but no wooden effigy of Jesus
bleeding all over his feet.
She walked cautiously to the altar. There were framed photographs
and paintings of men she had never seen before, except for Jesus. He was
smiling, not all cut up like meat. The other men had beards and mustaches.
They looked serious, but jolly, and were dressed in an orange dhoti draped
over their chest like Ghandi. An urn fi lled with sticks of incense burned
beneath the gallery. Vessie felt compelled to sit down and close her eyes.
Seconds later, a man stood beside her. She didn’t hear him come in,
but felt his presence and opened her eyes. He was tall and dark skinned,
dressed like the men on the altar. His nose was long and aquiline, jaw
strong and jutting, lips red as plums. Black hair fell in ringlets on broad
shoulders. Black penetrating eyes stared at her.
Suddenly, electricity fl owed from him to Vessie forcing the release of
walled up tears.
“There has been much sadness,” he said. “Let the sadness go. Let the
anger and frustration go. Lose that which clutters and covers who you really
are. You are not the mind. You are not your thoughts. That is illusion.”
He zapped her with more energy.
Instantly, Vessie’s tears felt like warm gold.
“Welcome, I am Paramahansa Bramananda.”
She didn’t know what was happening to her. She just knew it was
wondrous.
He turned, walked softly to the altar and pointed to the photographs.
“This was my Master, and he… his… and he… his.”
Vessie had heard East Indian accents before, but now every lilting
syllable seemed to be a song on the cosmic hit parade.
“Ah, you’re wondering about the men and women on the veranda. They
are acolytes…my disciples.”
His extra sensory perception is awesome, she thought. Sort of like
knowing the phone’s going to ring.
“Yes, it’s like knowing a phone is going to ring.”
Vessie realized she was no longer alone. There were others like her,
other oddballs.
“If you are an oddball, then all here at the ashram are oddballs,” he
said.
A wave of excitement, relief, hope filled her. She wished her father was
there. She watched the powerful man in the orange dhoti lead her from
the sanctuary to his dwelling. He seemed neither man nor woman, but a
delicate blending of the two. Now it was her turn to walk down the trellised
pathway. She felt oceans away from Los Angeles. The air was scented with
pungent jungle flowers, and the trees and shrubs grew at their own pace.
Everything was natural, unlike the manicured gardens of Beverly Hills
where hedges looked like bowling balls and storage boxes, and flowers
grew in predictable placements like colors on a paint-by-number canvas.
Vessie watched Bramananda remove his sandals before entering, and
followed suit.
“We remove our shoes to keep the vibrations of the outside world,
outside,” he told her.
The little house was the size of a hut—its one room separated only by
the arrangement of a futon at one end and a small altar at the other. He sat
down on a gold silk cushion and folded his legs in a full lotus position,
then closed his eyes.
Inside, beyond the retina and vessels of blood, he was transcending the
outer world, letting go of all that was material, experiencing that which is
beyond pizza, under arm deodorant, and taxi cab receipts. Vessie didn’t
intend to, but again was compelled to close her eyes. She felt like Alice
falling down the rabbit hole, but, the hole was filled with light.
“Ooooooooooo.” Vessie could feel her breathing slow to a snail’s pace
and a rush of energy bubble from her belly to her toes. Bramananda was
causing her to experience pure energy. He was giving her a sneak preview
of what was to come if she chose to study with him. She felt like everything
delicious: chocolate, black forest cake, hot buttered challah, Dijon mustard
on chips, honey on apples, and whipped cream on everything. Nothing was
going to drag her away from this experience. Nothing.
Just as he had caused her eyes to close, he opened them. Her body was
a marshmallow calm—her mind as clear as Mrs. Smith’s chicken soup.
“You have been under much stress. That is the greatest hindrance to
enlighten-ment. You must recharge yourself. I will show you how, if you
choose for it to be so.”
Vessie chose to be sewn into the hem of his dress if it was okay with
him. But, why me? she thought. How come I’m so lucky?
“Because, it is your karma,” he said. “Nature’s law of cause and effect.
Nothing in life is luck or chance. You get what you deserve and you deserve
to learn from me.”
