Playing with the Grown-ups (8 page)

'What will you call her?' her mother asked.

Kitty felt dumb and uninspired.

'Splendour?'

'That's a marvellous name. Happy birthday, Magpie, are you in a better mood?'

'Mmm.'

'Fitzgerald sent you something. Here.'

She held out a tiny, beguiling blue Tiffany box. There was a card: 'To the birthday girl'. It was a gold heart. Precise, simple
and perfect. She hung it from Kitty's neck. Kitty stroked Splendour uneasily and sat, the birthday gloom dissipating.

'Is Violet really calling her cat Bruce?' she asked.

'We've already got a Barry in the family, why not a Bruce?' Her mother grinned and Kitty laughed.

'I do love it when you laugh,' her mother said.

That night they had supper at the smartest restaurant on Madison Avenue. Kitty wore lip gloss and a dot of Chanel No. 5 behind
her ears. She drank a glass of champagne, which made her feel hot and a bit deaf. Everyone who walked by the table said hello
and happy birthday and that she looked like her mother, which made her feel like she was in one of the Aerosmith videos she
watched on MTV. Kitty wished she had dangly earrings and a red Camaro.

She had stopped wearing her glasses when she landed in New York and nobody had seemed to notice or mind. Not even Nora, since
her return. She had worn them since she was six. Life looked delicately blurred, a dream forgotten.

Tonight her mother was in a question-asking mood, and bathed in the wattage of her curiosity, Kitty chatted away like a mongoose,
falling in love with her all over again.

When they got home Kitty climbed the eighty-nine steps to her bedroom and lay on her bed, fuzzy from champagne, warm and light.
Her mother lay next to her and stroked her forehead.

'I'm glad you liked my surprise,' she whispered.

'I should really be painting,' her mother said drowsily, wearing a pair of polka-dot bikini bottoms, her breasts small and
high. 'If not painting, at least sketching or something . . .'

Kitty shut her eyes.

'Mummy, tell me about when you met Andy Warhol.' It was her second favourite story. 'You must be bored of it by now. . . No?
All right. I met Andy Warhol in the summer of 1975 at a party. I was wearing an Ozzie Clarke dress and I was dancing.'

'. . . to a Donna Summer song.'

'To a Donna Summer song. "Love To Love You Baby", I think, and he said in that silly, whispery little voice, "You are the
most exquisite girl I've ever seen." '

Violet wandered into the garden in a sundress with cherries on it; on her feet she wore pink jelly sandals. She was brown
and rosy.

'Hi. You've got much bigger bosoms than Mum, Kitty. What are you talking about?' she added suspiciously.

'A painter called Andy Warhol. Shush, Violet. So he said, "I'm going to sketch you." And he did. And on the bottom of the
drawing he wrote "To Marina, the most beautiful girl in the world".'

Kitty covered her face with her hands.

'And what did you do with the sketch?' she asked, knowing the answer.

'I threw it away,' her mother said with a smile,' because I was so sure.'

'So sure of what?'

'I don't know. Just sure. I thought he was just another man that thought I was beautiful. Silly really.'

'But where will we sleep?' Kitty asked her.

'In a dormitory. Life there is very simple.'

In Kitty's experience dormitories were not fun places.

'It will be lovely, I promise,' her mother said. 'Now Nora, we need to get the little ones smart clothes for Satsang.'

'They have smart clothes, Marina.' Nora looked at her sharply. 'I'm not sure that your man's place is a good place for the
children . . . what will they do there?'

'They will receive the Swami-ji's Shakti,' her mother said. 'There's lots of other children there they can play with too.
It will be wonderful.'

'Well, I'm not going.' Nora said. 'It's against my religion.' She got up out of her chair and gave Marina a mutinous look.
'Hare Krishna rubbish,' she said quietly.

'What do you mean against your religion, Nora . . . you're an atheist! Swami-ji embraces many religions; you are not excluded
by faith. He's like Jesus, he loves everyone.'

'Jesus? For goodness sake.' Nora stalked out of the room, her tiny figure erect like a sword.

'You shouldn't have said that,' Kitty said. 'She hates talking about religion.'

Her mother raised her eyes in appeal.

'Honestly, she's so narrow-minded,' she said peevishly. 'We'll all be happier without her and her judgement anyway. Her loss.'

Privately Kitty thought that this probably was not the case.

The limousine cruised, shark-like, through small towns where the houses looked like they had been transplanted from England.
They made Kitty feel homesick.

In the car her mother was agitated and bossy. It was searing-hot outside, and the air conditioning came blasting out in icy
spikes. They all wore white, and Sam and Violet, roused at 6 a.m., sat in silent starched protest, like grumpy cherubs. To
Kitty's surprise her mother had actually let her wear make-up. 'Swami-ji likes everyone to look their best. It makes him happy.'

She felt nervous, like she was about to sit an exam that she hadn't revised for. The towns that they passed began to get smaller
and more run-down and Kitty wondered whether the ashram had picked up and moved in the night like a circus. She looked at
her mother questioningly.

'We'll be there soon,' Marina said.

They turned into a town with one main street in which all of the windows were boarded up but one, where a huddle of men sat
on the pavement, looking up with momentary interest as the car slid by. Kitty smiled at them from the open window, a smile
to show them that they weren't rich people cruising by in a limo; they were on a benevolent spiritual quest. The men sneered,
and she shrank back into her seat. She noticed an ominous sign that read 'Penn Gun Club' with an arrow.

Sam and Violet saw it too, and they immediately perked UP.

'Is this a town of cowboys?' Sam said, his brown eyes wide.

'Sort of.' Her mother smiled weakly. She mouthed to Kitty, 'The town's people aren't very TOLERANT of US.'

The men on the street were not looking at the limo with admiration; they wanted to carjack it and kill. She wondered if they
would kill her quickly or torture her a bit first. Perhaps they were rapists too.

'Can we lock the door?' she said.

'Don't be silly, Kitty. We're nearly there.'

They drove in silence for a few miles.

'Look!' her mother said, pointing. 'There it is!'

In the hazy shimmer of heat, placed improbably on a cornfield, was what looked like an ice-cream castle, with turrets and
fountains, surrounded by a large razor-wire fence.

'Don't speak to Swami-ji unless he speaks to you first,' her mother warned.

'I won't,' Kitty said, giving her what was meant to be a chastising look.

'Good girl,' her mother said.

The throne was before her. She had an urge to laugh. Her mother got on her knees and bowed, her head touching the cool marble
floor. Kitty followed what she did. She peered up at Swami-ji and saw his feet poking out of his long saffron robe. They were
small, and his toenails were curved and wizened, but pink like the shells she collected on the beach when she was little.

They used to call them elephant's toenails.

Suddenly his foot shot out and tapped her lightly on the shoulder. Kitty sat bolt upright in surprise, and stared into his
eyes, which were like blackcurrants, kind and tender. She felt when he looked at her that he knew everything there was to
know about her. Every bad thought she'd ever had, who she fancied, what colour knickers she was wearing. Why it was that misty
English mornings made her ache, and how she wanted to have dinner with Mr Fitzgerald every Saturday night religiously. She
felt sorry for being angry with Swami-ji.

He spoke to her with his eyes; they said, 'I've known you for a thousand years. You are infinite. You are precious, you are
my child.'

She didn't know why, but she could feel tears bubbling up inside her. She felt very old and tired, like she had come home
after being at sea for years. The world made sense. She held her breath, and her head back so the tears couldn't fall. Her
mother stood up, gathering Sam and Violet, each in an arm. She stood too. She bowed her head to her hands.

'So serious!' Swami-ji pointed at Kitty, giggling like a little boy. His lips curved down when he smiled, his smile was so
wide. 'So serious, Lakshmi, your eldest child!'

A strangled noise came out of Kitty's throat that was half sob half laugh. Tears coursed down her face and the hysteria that
had threatened to engulf her poured forth. She quaked with laughter. The more she laughed, the more Swami-ji laughed. He shook
and bellowed and hooted. He jiggled like jelly.

'You're funny!' Sam said.

'So are you!' Swami-ji called back. 'But you, serious one, you are the funniest.'

'Thank you,' she said shyly, because he said it fondly.

He reached out and patted her hand with a hand that was strong and dry like the branch of a tree. He passed her something
that glittered and shone.

'Wear this and think of your Swami-ji, little one. Imagine it as my hand touching yours.'

'Thank you,' she whispered, rubbing her eyes.

Afterwards, her mother was very pleased.

'Oh Kitty, what a blessing! I can't believe it. Let me look.'

It was a gold bangle coloured with semi-precious stones, and it was beautiful.

'Swami-ji sees how special you are; that's why he gave that to you.' Her mother seemed very proud. She started asking Kitty
lots of questions. How did you feel, what were you thinking, why were you crying?

Kitty tried to answer but she didn't have the words to explain. She wanted to be alone.

'Do they have biscuits at this place, Mum?' asked Violet.

'Yes, they do.'

'Good. Do you think next time I'll get a present? Because it wasn't really fair that Kitty did and me and Sam didn't.'

'I'm sure, my darling, that you guys will get a present soon.' Marina winked at Kitty.

'All right, I think I like it here then.'

Violet skipped down the thickly carpeted hallway, her white dress billowing behind her.

Her mother painted a mural in the temple. Kitty worked in the kitchen, making vats of fragrant chai tea, and tiny little coconut
sweets.

Everyone seemed to know her mother and love her.

'Lakshmi!' they said. 'These are your kids? How beautiful they are. What grace for them to come to the Guru so young. It's
the best gift you could give them.'

'I know,' her mother said, smiling. 'If only we had all been so lucky.'

'Before we had the Guru we had drugs, we had sex, we had negative patterns of behaviour; then we found God, and now we are
free.'

'What does that mean?' Kitty said to her mother, her ears pricking up at the sex bit.

'It means that the Guru freed us from human bondage.'

'What do you mean us? Did you take drugs like them?'

'No. I was lost, though, and kept trying to find myself through other people. Now I know who I am. Gosh, you look so pretty
in a sari.'

The thing she loved best was Satsang with Swami-ji, which happened at six every day before supper. You went and did your bowing
which was called 'Pranarn'. And then you took your seat and he gave a talk, which was always funny and wise without being
tedious. After the talk the lights were dimmed, and the sitar called, the people answering in unison, chanting, calling on
the gods, asking for their divine protection and benevolence. Then they had to meditate.