This Evening

Sat quietly in the semi-dark. Hunched over, fingers pressed into the carpet. Communing with the Holy Ghost. Entreating it to forgive me, thanking it for my turn of chance, pleading that I have the strength to remain true to myself… Someone turned off the fan above. Felt a bead of sweat make its way down my breast. Was suddenly completely aware of my body – my sex, the blood, bright red, coursing from the heels of my feet to my fingertips. I wondered how abstinence from passion, good food, music, high art, popular culture, stimulation of any kind – visual/aural/sensual/intellectual could be deemed The Path. And the cynic in me awoke as I observed men and women prostrate themselves in front of the Bearded One and His Consort. I thought of how all Gurus had ‘spiritual wives’ and speculated what function such wives served.

Got up and tried to find my way to the office, the cold purpose of my visit. But there must have been something magical in that room which had waylaid me, with its odour of incense. I found myself walking with my eyes closed, in spite of myself I had reached a heightened sense of calm. A deaf man came up to me and spoke in sign language. I made gestures of incomprehension, but he only went away when I smiled.

Reached the office, mumbled my question, and then my feet led me straight back to the path around the Room. I passed it, the quiet within, but it was getting dark and I resisted. Held my slippers in my hand to feel the hexagons the path was made of with my feet. Kept seeing patterns - diagonal lines, beautiful and straight.

Crossed the busy road, the footpath was made up of big squares, my vision was focused on the line they made, I followed it, heavy traffic blaring on one side, a row of tents and dinner fires on the other. I found myself repeating the mantra that I had imbibed as a child. Slow and deliberate, my eyes on one square and then the next, I sang this mantra without being aware of it.

Turned in to the Institute. The buildings with round holes cut into them through which fluorescent light poured. Imagined minds being sharpened. Chilled mango on my tongue and throat. A bent old man with a stick asked me to help him across a trench in the road. I held his hand, supported his frail spine. White dhoti and pointed black shoes, his hand trembling as he raised it in thanks. Down the subway, with the busy city flying over my head, and the gentle road leading home.