The Two Krishnas (31 page)

“And then you think about Hinduism: drama queens, all of them — waging war, changing sexes, cannibalistic, polygamous—I mean, how many wives did just Krishna alone have? Sixteen thousand?” he asked. “And yet, who could be more repressed, more conservative, more monogamous than Hindus?”

“Oh, you think way too much,” Rahul laughed.

The food arrived and they indulged in it, but silence hung in the air. Rahul considered, as he rarely did, his own past, wondering if Atif could be right; whether guilt, victimization, even evil, were simply a matter of perspective; if ultimately, they were inconsequential in the
leela
of life. The world spun while nature wreaked havoc, wiping out entire villages, cities; human beings waged wars, while somewhere else, life ambled on in perfect harmony, barely affected.

Atif thought about his status as an illegal alien, of his social security card. He thought about the constant fear that assailed him, that at any moment, even the little he had could be expropriated because he wasn’t born American. He considered how he had lost his freedom, or rather, sacrificed it, to remain not in Bombay, the Middle East or some remote war-torn land, but in America, the iconic land of the free. The irony struck him as sharply as if he had been slapped.

* * *

By the time Sonali finally left, her condescending air intact, Pooja had almost finished cooking the
pau bhaaji
, when something overcame her and she tossed everything into the garbage, no longer hungry.

Rahul’s absence began to cling to her more than she felt it had reason to. Then, needing simply to escape her own thoughts, she drove herself to the Santa Monica mall where she visited Williams Sonoma and perused a book on Indian cooking, picked up a Dutch oven and an assortment of sauces she knew she would probably never use. She paid with one of Rahul’s credit cards and when the saleslady addressed her as Mrs. Kapoor, she beamed, loving it when someone called her by her formal, marital name.

Then she drove to The Banyan, finding a parking spot in the back of the studio. On the rare occasion that she did make it to the studio, Charlie did his best to spoil her. Their relationship, somewhere safely outside the realm of romance, still involved a fair amount of innocuous flirtation, with Charlie making gallant gestures and paying compliments, and Pooja simply blushing from the attention. On her way in, she saw, perhaps for the very first time at The Banyan, a very pretty Indian girl with a blue yoga mat rolled up under her arm, heading into a class. Her body appeared lithe, her countenance confident, but Pooja could hear the loopy cadences and accompanying grimaces of teenage vernacular as she rattled on to her male companion about an upcoming audition. Pooja exchanged smiles with her and, like every other time she encountered another Indian, felt warmed.

Charlie’s office was in complete disarray. The antiqued desk, incongruous with the modern glass and steel design of the studio, carried the weight of a clunky outdated computer. Paperwork cluttered the desk and even the walls, and the trash can was overflowing. In one corner, a sandstone sculpture of Ganesha, balancing on a mouse, was perched precariously atop a large shelf of spirituality books, bending the top plank with its weight, threatening to topple the dancing God from his now tentative throne after centuries of artful equilibrium. From where she sat, against a window that opened up to the serene meditation garden, Pooja could hear the calming water fountain. On the wall across from her, in the midst of the class schedules, post-its and articles of interest, was a framed quote that Pooja had seen many times before, but noticed as if for the first time:

“
And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
”—Anaïs Nin.

“So, I saw an Indian girl here,” Pooja mentioned to Charlie, pushing the quote out of her mind.

“Brilliant! We’re finally legit!” he said with mock-excitement. “And did you immediately embrace, shower each other with kisses?”

“What do you think? Of course! We locked arms and danced around the studio. So sad you missed it.”

“So should we sign you up for classes as well, love?”

“Oh, it’s such hard work,” Pooja said, waving her hand dismissively.

“You know, somewhere under that casual comment, you have the answer to this conundrum,” he said, shaking his finger at her. “Do you know what this swami once told me when I was at an ashram in Rishikesh? The reason why we were so attracted to yoga—
hatha
yoga that is—was because we had more
rajasaic
temperaments.”

She looked at him defeated, as if to say that simply being Indian did not automatically mean one knew everything about such matters.

“Europeans and Americans have more energetic, intense constitutions,
rajasaic
constitutions
,
” he explained. “Indians are more
tamasaic,
which is prone to more heaviness and inertia. You see, at the end of the day,
rajasaic
personalities need to do something with all that excess energy otherwise they’ll go out of whack!” he made a gesture like he was swatting a fly. “Yoga actually has this brilliant, calming effect, allowing people of such constitutions to become more calm, to use up that excess energy.”

“So, what are you saying, Charlie? That we Indians are lazy?” she threw him a look of mock-anger.

“No, no!” he laughed, “just that fewer Indians may be interested in the practice because they’re already calmer. Both extremes are bloody toxic, love, neither one is good. It’s finding that middle ground that’s crucial. Now look at a lad like Greg, he’s just careened off to the other side, completely missing that middle, don’t you think? I hope you don’t mind but I’ll be cutting his hours a little bit. Perhaps I can pick up the deliveries once in a while.”

“That’s not a problem. I can bring them myself. Ajay can help. God knows he needs something to keep him busy instead of running around…” she said, trailing off.

“The boy needs to go out and live it up a little,” he said about Greg, sensing a discussion about her son was out of the question. “He needs to get some balance in his life! How long can you hide behind yoga and books?”

“Hiding behind—Oh, Charlie, sometimes you don’t sound like a yogi at all!” she laughed.

“Let me tell you a little secret. Some of these people, they miss the whole point, using all this as an excuse to hide from the real world, from experiencing life. You know what they say; it’s easy to find peace on a mountain. Try remaining calm on the 405 freeway. Now that’s an accomplishment! Real spirituality, real practice comes from participating in life while maintaining your peace.”

She smiled. “He’s a good boy.”

“Well, yes, of course, but do you suppose it’s healthy for him to shut the world out like this? A boy his age needs to create some raucousness, misbehave some, create some real anguish for his family.”

“Oh, I have a feeling his family’s quite anguished just the way he is.”

“Yes,” his chuckle turned into robust laughter. “Yes, I think you’re quite right, love. The chap’s got them wondering if their baby got switched at birth. Maybe the rightful Goldstein heir’s somewhere up the Himalayas. Besides, business is quite slow,” he said. “Yoga studios are mushrooming all over the city now. Some of them are offering classes for free, some kind of donation, anything. Imagine that! There are limits even to altruism, don’t you think?”

“Now, is that what the Buddha would say?” By doing this, she encouraged him in a conversation, even though her mind was beginning to drift away, conjuring Rahul’s face. She had always been this way, letting others express themselves until they felt lighter, finding it easier to listen than to speak. But so many times she wasn’t there and they never knew the difference, only needing to express themselves in the company of others, rather than needing to be understood or advised.

“Most people forget that the Buddha lived a full life before he attained nirvana,” Charlie scoffed. “What, do you think he was born enlightened? Before he parked himself under that
bodhi
tree one fine day, relinquishing the material world, he had already lived a full life, loved a famous courtesan of his time, even fathered a child, learnt what it was to be disappointed by the world and those you loved. You see, that journey that led him from Lumbini to that very pivotal moment in Bodhgaya, where he attained enlightenment is, according to me, the most crucial part of his story. But people just want to focus on him sitting cross-legged under some tree!”

Charlie dipped a fennel tea bag into a cup of steaming water and scowled at it, apparently displeased at the strength of its brew, but then, as was typical of him, he quickly recovered and braved a sip without waiting for it to cool down.

“Then again, maybe the boy’s all right,” he said, completely contradicting himself, watching the steam dance up from his cup in whorls. “Maybe he’s exactly the kind of hero our world needs nowadays. He’s said ‘no’ to the system.”

“Heroes save the world.”

“The world within,” he smiled. “What about that world? To be able to resist what the world insists you must have or be like, to divert from the program, to have glimpsed the subconscious and to make that leap determinedly, you know, following your bliss, whatever it may be, wherever it may lead, that, love, is also heroic, don’t you think?”

She slowly nodded, never having considered this. To Pooja, the heroic were always those who put others before themselves. But now, listening to Charlie, an old adage came back to her, about how despite his best intentions, a hungry man cannot feed others without eventually resenting them.

“A person who is informed by his true calling, his passion, even if it takes him away from the life prescribed to him by his birth and standing, now that,
that
is a hero!”

“Oh, you’d better make up your mind, Charlie,” she said, exhausted. “You can’t seem to take a side. It’s like watching a whole debate team in one person!”

“A true Gemini,” he laughed. “Still trying to find my middle, love. Still trying to find that middle.”

He noticed her perturbation as she sat across from him, now lost in some thought that was pulling down at the corners of her painted mouth, and looking out the window at the large flapping leaf of the banana plant in the garden. Even in her distracted, pained state, she glowed, as if a light was emanating from behind her, perhaps from her very suffering, and Charlie was reminded of saints like Meera, for whom their pain became a source of sublimity. It was as if some pain had granted her a luminous beatitude.

“You all right, love?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, much too quickly, and rose to her feet. Her eyes fell on a half-eaten piece of cashew marzipan on the side of Charlie’s messy desk and although she didn’t comment on it, she smiled, rewarded.

“Let me get you some tea, something,” he suggested.

“No, no, really. I have to get home now,” she said, glancing at her wristwatch then realizing, yet again, that once she got there, there would be nothing to do and nobody to talk to or tend to.

A class had just adjourned and they could hear the shuffle of students leaving the studio. He smiled warmly. “It sure is nice to see you, Pooja. I wish you would come by more often, really. It may even help with the business, what with clients seeing
puka
Indians around here,” he laughed. “Give the place some legitimacy, you know?”

She came closer to him.
“Tch,
don’t worry about this place. Spirituality tends to go through phases too. Once summer’s gone and they can’t go to the beach anymore, they’ll be here in record numbers. It’s going to be fine, just wait and see.”

Charlie didn’t tell her that summer was in fact the busiest time for the studio and chose instead to look deeply into her eyes, which he noticed were always moist, as if on the verge of tears. “Yes, but are you?” he asked.

She looked at him, his question catching her off-guard.

“Are you fine?”

She wished desperately to spill out her fears but some part of her, perhaps the one that had been groomed by her emotionally fortified mother, felt ridiculous for wanting to do so.
I am not going to let that witch poison my mind,
she thought to herself, still standing so close to her caring friend.
Sonali’s whole life is built on causing destruction! Rahul is completely right about her. She is best avoided altogether. Soon he will be home, tired from the conference and weighed down by his suitcase and clunky binders, which I will expediently put away, and everything will feel normal again.

She nodded reassuringly at Charlie but hurried out of the studio, weaving through the scantily clad students with their yoga mats, water bottles and towels hoping that she could get far away before the snakes of doubt uncoiled in her mind again.

* * *

As they cut across the mountains to rejoin the lives they had temporarily abandoned, Atif and Rahul were swallowed in the clotted freeway of cars juddering towards the basin of city lights. The air became brown, dense, thick. Now, they were anchored down, the open skies and space gone, the music of birds and the rustle of leaves drowned by the babel of life. Looking at the choking procession they were joining, Atif plummeted into depression, ready to cry. How can one deal with this hell after so much happiness? How does one not help but feel banished from grace?