Cartwheels in a Sari by Jayanti Tamm Read Free Book Online

gluttony, set his internal alarm clock to 4:45 for morning meditation. Working for himself was ideal, for it seemed doubtful that he would have thrived in a corporate, partnered law firm dressed in his thrift-store polyester suit, Guru-blue tie, and sandals.
    After searching for inexpensive rental space, my father found a room on the second floor of a brick row house in Darien, Connecticut. The other tenant, Bill, another independent lawyer, needed someone to split the space and the rent.
    When Guru came to bless the office, he called for my family to gather for a photograph.
    “Samarpana,” Guru addressed my mother. “Your role is to serve Rudra. You become his secretary,” Guru said, then quickly turned away from her.
    We stood near Guru, with folded hands and our new positions. My father, freshly accredited, had all of Guru's permission to set forth and build a clientele, to study and argue cases, to interact and have a legitimate and worldly career. He was ready to embark on his split life between days filled defending clients in real estate deals and researching tax breaks, and his evenings reciting mantras on humility, purity, and surrender.
    For the photo, my father glowed, dressed in a white dhoti and kurta to mark the special occasion. He seemed unaware of the photographer and on bent knees received Guru's blessings.
    My mother, as always, was never called separately but summoned only when Guru sought the full family. She stood slightly behind my father, a fitting spot. Repeatedly Guru had told my mother that Rudra was the genuine spiritual seeker, and her duty was to tend to his needs and desires. Perhaps it was her newly official role of being my father's assistant that seemed to confirm what I sensed she had always felt, that she was a person of nonimportance whose task was to prop and support other people, people who mattered. She took Guru's sudden and public pronouncement of her designated job as a secretary as part of her spiritual
sadhana,
like the ancient tradition of seekers who, to find inner peace, take vows of silence for years or refuse to eat solid foods, denying themselves in order to arrive at enlightenment. Her official duty as myfather's support staff lent credibility to her habit since childhood of blending into the background. And as my mother stood in the photo, with her hands folded and her eyes searching for Guru, she was present but hardly noticed, as she was obscured by the shadow of my father.
    Ketan, always trying to be in the forefront, begging for star status, wedged his way opposite my father. With a wide, toothy smile right at the camera, Ketan beamed for the shot.
    Tightly posed together with Guru and my family, I felt invincible. I had everything that I wanted within inches from me. It was perfect.
    “Namo, namo, namo, shakti pujari…”
Guru started singing, then nodded his head for us all to join him.
    We stood with folded hands singing soulfully, while my father remained on his knees in a trancelike state with Guru's palm on his third eye. When Bill, who shared the communal office space, opened the door, he froze, momentarily taking in the scene, then quickly exited with an overpolite series of hand waves.
    “BROTHERS AND SISTERS. May I have your attention?”
    It was a Thursday night, and we were in Guru's new church, purchased by the disciples, located in a quiet working-class neighborhood in Bayside, Queens. The acquisition of the church had occurred suddenly, but that was how everything seemed to happen. Now, every night except Monday when Guru still came to our house, my family battled commuter traffic on Interstate 95 from Norwalk, Connecticut, to Bayside, New York. Sometimes it took us one and a half hours to get there, sometimes more. With such a large portion ofour life spent in a hajj to Queens, it would seem logical for us to have a safe, comfortable car, but that wasn't the case. My father felt that part of his
sadhana
was to be in discomfort, denying himself the