Cartwheels in a Sari by Jayanti Tamm Read Free Book Online Page A

very basics of food and warmth, and he attempted to make it ours too.
    As long as the car could get us to Queens—and many cars didn't, having to abandon them along the way—that was all that mattered. We loaded in and, before departing, meditated for protection on the large photo of Guru glued to the dashboard. The rest of the car ride to see my spiritual master consisted of dining à la carte from a brown bag and silently fighting with Ketan. My parents never said much to each other. It was my father's rule. He felt we should ride in silence, beginning our meditation the moment we left our house. When my mother spoke to my father about mundane matters such as money for bills and groceries, he answered in slight nods, as if to remind her she was breaking a rule.
    We learned every bump and turn. With my eyes closed, I could tell if we had reached New Rochelle simply by the buzz of the worn roadway, or if we had passed Co-Op City by the sound of the tires rolling over the metal plates in the drawbridge. Over the years, we marveled as the landscape around us turned into suburbia, as the toll fares increased, as lanes closed and reopened for paving and repaving, and as on-ramps and off-ramps sprouted endlessly while malls and con-dos appeared, replacing woody lots. We knew all the side roads—if there was an accident on I 95, we found the twisty streets that released us onto the Merritt Parkway. With the aid of the car's static radio used only for the purpose of receiving traffic updates, we triumphantly navigated our way for Guru's blessings each night and safely back home again.
    “Brothers and Sisters.”
    Girish, a tall man with puffy bags beneath his eyes like half doughnuts, stood with his back to Guru's altar, facing the disciples at the front of the church. A writer and scholar on world religions, Girish belonged to one of America's wealthiest families.
    “As you know, lately, at every meditation, Guru makes alterations to our so-called spiritual practice.”
    This was highly unusual. Normally, before Guru arrived at the church we were meant to be silent, attempting to raise our consciousness to be more receptive to Guru's presence. Announcements were made at the end of the night. I had a feeling this was not meant to be happening. I sat on the orange shag carpet beside my mother, pleating the end of my sari as a fabric fan to create a breeze.
    “Many times Guru claimed he was not leading a religion but a ‘spiritual path.’ But this church that we now occupy is an apt symbol of what the Aum Center has become.” Girish paused, scanning the pews. As usual, the church was hot and crowded.
    When I checked my parents’ reactions, both were absolutely still.
    “The meditation group that now only some of you original members recall has been corrupted into an organization with its own iconography, rituals, rules, and holy books.”
    At this, rumbles occurred from the back of the church. Sounds of people shifting and getting up whisked to the front.
    “With the expanding list of controlling rules, such as his ban on all marriages”—Girish looked back and forth between the men and women, instigating a response—”avoiding any non-Guru-related social interaction with the opposite sex,restricting socializing solely to other disciples—this includes giving up connections to family members who are not disciples—are now enforced laws. Mandatory attendance at meetings, required daily meditations, songs, and chants.” At the last one, he added extra emphasis and shrugged his shoulders. “Didn't we join this group as an alternative to the formal dogma of religion?”
    “Sit down!” A shout came from the far back of the women's side.
    I turned but couldn't see who it was that had decided enough was enough. It started an avalanche.
    “Girish, be quiet!”
    “We won't hear you anymore!”
    “Someone, get him out of here!”
    With new energy, he spoke louder.
    “I ask you, Brothers and Sisters, is true spirituality