A Lotus Grows in the Mud (34 page)

I sit and stare at his beautiful face, listening as his words fade to silence in the still air around us. Nobody can validate me now but myself? He has such wisdom.

He then reaches across to a record player and puts on a song by Barbra Streisand. He sits in rapture for a moment, eyes pressed shut; he listens to the words and then stares up at me. “Dance with me,” he instructs. I am stunned, not knowing what to say.

“Oh, okay,” I reply, thinking I’ll just stand before him and maneuver his wheelchair in little circles. I reach for the arm of the chair.

“No, no. Hold me; hold me up,” he says. Using his powerful arms to heave himself from the confines of his wheelchair, he beckons me to stead him on his feet.

“Oh, but, Brij, I can’t,” I cry. “I’ll drop you,” I say in abject fear.

“No you won’t, Goldie. You are much stronger than you think.”

He balances himself on his feet, clamping his arms tightly around me. I put my arms around his torso for support. I am shaking. Behind us, Barbra sings: “People,/People who need people/Are the luckiest people in the world…”

And so we dance. Even though I am afraid, we dance. Even though he is so heavy, we dance. And with each tiny step, I say a prayer that I won’t collapse under the full weight of Brij Gupta. I see a little mouse scurry across the floor by our feet and escape into a well-worn hole. As Brij rests his body against mine, he whispers, “See, Goldie? See how strong you are?”

The spell between us is broken when the door opens and Brij’s brother Sanjay walks in.

“Goldie!” Sanjay cries with delight as he helps me settle Brij back into his wheelchair. “How marvelous to see you!”

We chat for a while, but we can both see that Brij is tiring.

“How would you like to come on the River Ganges with me this evening, Goldie?” Sanjay asks on an impulse. “Some friends of mine have hired a boat and would be delighted if you’d join us.”

“Oh, I don’t know…”

But Brij catches my eyes and smiles broadly. “Oh, but you must go, Goldie! It will be wonderful! Come back and see me tomorrow.”

S
anjay and I sit side by side in the back of a rickshaw in companionable silence. My heart is full of the comfort his words have given me. I was right to come here. I was right to try to open the windows of my mind and soul. I have taken the first important step away from my grief. I’m allowing a little of this amazing Indian light to flood those darkest corners of my heart.

Stepping from the rickshaw as Sanjay pays the driver, I suddenly hear a voice: “Goldie Hawn?”

My heart sinks. Oh no, not now! Not here. I don’t want to be Goldie Hawn. I want to be a stranger walking alone, peaceful with my thoughts. I put my head down and keep walking toward the ghats, trying to ignore the voice.

“Goldie? Goldie Hawn?” The voice is nearer now, and has taken on an urgent tone.

Sighing heavily, deeply dismayed at being recognized here of all places, I turn to see a man in his mid-twenties standing a few feet apart from a group of other Indians, their foreheads devotionally streaked with sandalwood.

I try to muster a smile.

“You’re Goldie Hawn!” the young man states, his eyes bright.

“Yes…Yes, I am,” I reply softly.

“Mrs. Goldie! It’s me, Papu!” he cries, rushing forward. “You remember! The boy who met you many years ago! You helped me. You called me your friend. Mrs. Goldie, I have prayed for your long life every day!”

I stare openmouthed at the man before me. Try as I might, I cannot recognize anything of the little boy I once befriended in this adult’s face. But I know from the sandalwood on his forehead that he is a devout man. I can also tell from the tears in his eyes that he is speaking the truth.

“Papu? I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it! You’re all grown up!”

He runs to me, and I hug him with all my might.

“How in the world did we come to be on the same street?”

I can speak no more. The synchronicity of our meeting on this auspicious day overwhelms me. My guardian angel has been returned to me. Our paths have crossed once more.

Sanjay coughs and steps forward shyly, so I introduce him to Papu.

“Then you must come with us tonight on the boat, Papu,” Sanjay tells him, smilingly. Pointing the way with his hand, he insists. “Please, my dears, come.”

Papu takes my hand just as he did when he was a little boy, following Sanjay to the river. “Thanks to you, Mrs. Goldie,” he says, grinning broadly, “I’m now a very wealthy man. I have my own silk shop. It was your faith in me that made me successful.”

“No, Papu,” I correct him. “It was your faith in yourself.”

“Here we are,” says Sanjay, pointing to a beautiful double-decker boat moored to the riverbank. He and his friends have hired musicians to
play for us, and the beautiful Hindu music of sitar, flute and tabla calls to us from across the water.

As I pull off my sandals and step aboard the boat, the sitar player puts down his instrument and scatters rose petals before my bare feet. He leads me to the top deck, which is covered in rugs and pillows. He takes rose oil and rubs it on his hands, gently massaging the oil into my hair and my skin.

Sanjay’s friends join us, and we push off from the riverbank as the musicians begin to play. There is no motor, just the sound of paddles gently slapping the water. I lie back on the pillows and rugs, inhaling the oil, soaking up the golden light. I can feel my joy awakening from deep inside me.

We drink chai as the musicians play a Hindu song I recognize. Before I know it, I’m singing along: “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare.”

Boy, I think, laughing, if my mother could see me now!

I can almost feel Moses looking down on me from heaven. “So what are you, Goldie Hawn?” he is saying. “A Jew or a Hindu?”

“I dunno,” I reply. “I think I’m a little bit of everything. All faiths can be beautiful.”

I stare across at this moving tableau: the funeral pyres, the flames and billowing smoke, the flesh and bones of those who’ve died becoming the air that we breathe. Nearby, inside the tall, thin houses on the edge of the river, babies are being born. On the doorsteps, men and women are waiting to die. All around me is the full circle of life and death, and all of the inevitables, emerging from creation and destruction simultaneously. A beautiful sense of calm fills me at my acceptance of this endless cycle. I am beginning to understand. My mother’s death is all part of this same divine process.

W
hat are we mourning? What are we running from? Death is the one inevitability in life, yet so many of us, especially in the West, are uncomfortable with it. Certainly in my house, we never dis
cussed it. My parents never spoke of death, and even to the very end my mother refused to say, “I’m going to die.” And yet she did. We all do.

During this healing journey, I sensed some divine force had brought me to this mystical city to find the answers I was seeking to questions in my life, forcing me to focus on questions about death and to immerse myself in a culture that so embraces it. By rejecting the normal Western reaction of being so afraid of dying, I came to believe that it is vital that we come to terms with death, especially our own, in order to live out the rest of our lives fully and consciously.

Know that you are going to die, then back up and live each day with that truth in mind. Wake up each morning happy to be alive.

I
feel as if I’m in a Garden of Allah as I push my way through overgrown banana trees and ferns to find the half-hidden door to the motel in Hollywood, California. The place looks like something out of the
Sunset Boulevard
era.

Hacking my way through to the entrance and up the stairs, I think, Goldie, do you really want to do this? Maybe this transformational breathing session is too much of a left turn…even for you.

After knocking on a door, I stand before it, toying with the idea of running away. But before I can, it opens, and I come face-to-face with a woman whose luminous smile reassures me.

“Hi! Come on in,” she says, leading me into a room lit only by candles and filled with crystals and incense. She seems pretty normal, I think. Soft-spoken, she is sweet and soothing. “This way,” she says, and takes me through to a bedroom. “So now why don’t you start by loosening your clothing and making yourself comfortable. Lie down on the bed and relax. I’ll just fetch a glass of water. I’ll be right back.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and look around. The curtains are sheer and a little bit grubby, but I can just about see through them out onto the Hollywood Hills. My breathing guide returns with the promised water, and sits next to me on the bed.

“So this will help my prana
,
my life force?” I ask.

“Yes, in a way. Now, we’re just going to start with some deep breathing, so lie down.”

“Oh, okay.”

“We’ll go deeper and deeper with the breathing, and you’ll soon begin to have some strange physical sensations.”

“I will?”

“Yes. Now, whatever happens, I want you to keep with it. Don’t be afraid. It can get pretty intense, and if you feel like you have to stop, then stop, it’s okay. But it’s best if you just keep rolling. Don’t worry, I’ll guide you through it.”

“Er, okay,” I say nervously. “But this is going to be, like, fun, right?”

She doesn’t answer me. Instead, she just presses my arm with her hand and makes me lie back on the bed.

“All right, now, Goldie. We’ll start with a quick inhale and then a puff out, forcefully. Like this.” She demonstrates. “We’ll do that a few times, and then we’ll start to pant, but with each breath it will become deeper and more rhythmic.”

“Okay.” I do as I am told.

In through my nose and out through my mouth, deeply through the diaphragm, pushing my ribs sideways, feeling them move.

In…out…in…out.

A tingling sensation starts behind my eyes, and I feel slightly dizzy.

In…out…in…out.

I’m breathing to her rhythm, not mine. After about ten minutes, I start to feel a strange buzzing in my head, and then I start to get scared. What’s this going to do to my brain? I think. What if I hyperventilate and pass out? I am understandably afraid of reaching an altered state.

“Keep going, Goldie. That’s it. Keep breathing, just like that.”

I’m dizzy. I’m nauseated. I’m trying to get all the air out before I breathe new air in. Worse, I’m beginning to feel unbelievable pressure on the top of my head. It feels like the whole world is pressing down on me.

In…out…in…out.

Continuous heavy breathing. The pressure gets worse and worse. It now feels as if I have a hundred pounds on top of my skull.

What’s going on here? I ask myself. This is heavy-duty. I must be crazy. My head feels as if it will explode. But there is no respite. The woman urges me on and on with ever more fervor.

In…out…in…out.

“Keep going, Goldie, keep going!” she coaches, kneeling beside me now on the carpet, her fists clenched in encouragement. “Soon you’ll be out and free!”

In…out…in…out.

“Free?” I pant. “But I’m already free!” Touching the top of my head, I groan. “Oh, there’s so much pressure here.”

In…out…in…out.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “No!” I say, breaking the rhythm and sitting up. Panting, I tell her, “I’m sorry but that’s just too much.”

“It’s okay,” she says, but I can see her disappointment.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, getting up rather unsteadily.

Staring in the mirror, I try to pull myself together. All right, Goldie, you’re going to go through this now. Just do it. This won’t kill you.

I open the door, flop back on the bed and go for it. I start breathing heavily again and very quickly return to my earlier state. Once again, I feel like my head is in a vise.

“Oooh, but it really hurts,” I complain, having second thoughts.

“That’s okay,” she says. “Don’t worry. That’s completely normal when you’re experiencing rebirth.”

“Re…birth?!” I pant between breaths, looking up at her. “Wait a minute! Are we rebirthing me?”

“Yes, Goldie! Yes! Can’t you feel it?” she replies, more breathless than I am. “You’re pushing down and pushing down! You’re going through the birth canal! Can’t you feel the squeeze on your head?”

My hands clamped to the top of my head, I cry, “Yes, already! But when the hell am I going to get out of here?”

Suddenly, I know what it is that I’m feeling. Pushing, pushing. In, out, in, out, in, out. Puffing, panting, my cheeks filling with air and emptying. The pain and pressure on my head excruciating.

“I can’t stand much more of this!” I whine. “It hurts too much.”

“Keep going!” she shrieks. Her eyes radiate her zeal. “You’re almost there!”

“I am?” I carry on, chiefly because I figure this is my only way out of
wherever it is that I am. In and out…in and out…gasping, fighting for every breath.

I have no idea what to expect next. Nothing prepares me for what follows. Suddenly, there is the most tremendous sense of exhilaration. All the pressure in my head melts away. I can feel it all so powerfully: the struggle of childbirth—the pain—followed by the sheer elation of emerging out into the world, of merging with the earth, with the air, with life.

I’m laughing and laughing, and crying, and laughing some more. I’m feeling incredible joy. I have come into this world, and all I keep saying through my tears is, “I’m so happy to be here. I’m so happy to be here.”

T
rue or false, whether it was real or imagined or just all in my mind, I was faced with a new perception of myself that day—that I loved being born. It’s something I have always innately felt, I guess—that from the very beginning, I have had some joyful connection to being here in this world.

Since that day, I try to wake up each morning feeling equally reborn, ready to meet each new day with the possibility of doing it better. I seek to return to that joy of just existing, of being here and now in the moment, so safe and pure and sound.

But what was even more amazing for me was the realization that birth is not that much different from death as a transition: it has the same feelings of letting go, of going back, the joy and relief of returning home. The moment a new child bursts into the world and fights for its first gulp of breath is as awesome as the moment of one’s final breath.

In my mind, I’d experienced coming out of not just any birth canal but that of my own mother’s. Now, even though I was fifty years out of her womb and she had taken that final breath, I’d been able to summon up the experience of being born to her again. The connection to her was still so alive. Just because I couldn’t see her or touch her didn’t mean that she was no longer there.

This was such an important lesson for me to learn in this long and painful process of healing. I had lost my mother. But I could still feel the strength and purity of the umbilical link between us.