Drinks with a guru

Cathy stumbles through the threshold into the room, drawing in the aroma of expensive incense. It is not like the cheap, cloying cow dung smell of the incense you buy at markets or Hippy shops. No, this is olfactory ecstasy, unmistakeably the pure essence of Ylang Ylang - flower of flowers. The effect is rather like the clear-headed serenity that comes with just the right intake of that black gold: Opium. Well, with a little stretch of her imagination.

Close to twenty people – predominantly females – sit cross legged, in haphazard rows, on thin cushions.  Miriam looks over and smiles reassuringly at Cathy, closes her eyes again and continues with her meditation.  She is in the full lotus position, but sways slightly in hula-hoop circles. 

The Guru is the same man in the photo in the Waiting area. Also in the full lotus position, he is perched on a straight-backed teak chair which stands as high as a Bar Stool, at the fore of the room.  It is proudly decorated with multi-coloured, gold-gilt cushions with tassels dripping downwards here and there.  In one hand, a set of prayer beads hangs in a loop, secured inside the “O” made by his connecting middle and third fingers.  His eyes are neither closed nor open. Rather, it is only the whites of them that peep from between upper and lower lashes – the pupils thrown back into his head as though he were looking at something there. A low musical hum resonates steadily from him as though from every orifice – nostrils, ears, slightly ajar mouth. Like his physicality, it hovers unmistakably above the breathing, humming and omming that fills the lower regions of the room.

‘Take a cushion...sit on the floor,’ comes out rich and rhythmical with his breaths exhalation.
She obeys, finding a space amongst his pupils. Just as she comes to rest on the cushion, the Guru speaks.
‘You. Come to the front.’
Cathy looks up, but still only the whites of the Guru’s eyes peek through the lashes – the pupils apparently still focused on something inside his head.  She looks to both sides, but nobody else appears to be aware that anything has been said. Was it only she that heard?
You.’ But this time, he points his finger forward, the Prayer Beads looped over his thumb and hanging from the pointer.  Its aim directed unmistakably at Cathy.  Unconsciously, she bites down on her lip and before she manages to blurt anything, possibly a; ‘Who me?’ he says, ‘Yes, yes, you.  Come forward.  Bring your cushion.  Sit in front of me.’
She sees his lips move this time, so at least is reassured it is not an auditory hallucination. 

Everybody else continues in the same positions, apparently in the throws of deepening meditation.  Miriam sways more violently – her bottom coming off the back of the cushion with each forward swing.  She makes a weird high-pitched noise – part human, part animal – completely oblivious, it seems, to anything outside of herself.

‘Oh. Sure. Okay.’  She stands again, holding her security cushion in front of her, and weaves through a number of bodies to the front, then begins to arrange the cushion and herself on the floor boards again.
‘No, no, not there...come forward...right in front of me...yes, yes...forward...closer.’
Still, only the very rounded whites show through the tiny slits of his eyes. He is like a Bat – sees objects with a honed hypersensitivity to sound waves.  Or maybe it is the invisible third eye in the middle of his forehead that sees?

Cathy squeezes her eyes closed trying to control a potential cringe.  Even though it is she that physically moves forward, she feels as though it is he that pushes into her personal space. His breathing now louder in her ears than her own, his presence overwhelming.

Precisely just before the moment she cracks, he says, ‘Sit there.  That is good.  That is the sensation of two Celestial bodies meeting.  Do not be alarmed.  No big deal, yes?’

Relieved, she drops onto the cushion - her face only a few centimetres from his little bare brown toes, which he wiggles, childlike, in front of her. 
She looks up reckoning his height to be around the same as hers. Not so intimidating.  Although, that would mean an easy eye-to-eye. If this celestial intermingling is any indication of his energies, she is not unsure that the power surge from his eyes won’t be equal to that of the mythical Medusa. Suddenly, she is thankful that in this position, it is his big toe that is at her eye level. Thankful to whom, or maybe more aptly; what? The Universe?

‘Close your eyes.’ he says.
She obeys - her breathing irregular.
‘Breath deeply.  Control your breathing. Deep breath in...long exhalation.’ He breathes audibly while he speaks. ‘That is it.’  Deep inhalation.  Long exhalation.’ As he exhales a hum flows from his chest cavity. As he breathes in, his throat rasps, as though he has partially closed it off. 
Still he holds his eyeballs inside the world of his head. Then suddenly, she notices the hum and rasp is echoed from all throats in the room.

‘My name is Gandharva. What is your name?’ His voice a rich carpet of velvet, flies smoothly from his breath.
‘Cathy.’
‘Would you like something to drink, Cathy?  A Brandy and Dry maybe?’
What a startling question.  Is it a joke?  She opens her eyes and peers up at his face.  His expression remains static.
‘Or...something else? Gin and tonic?  I would like Brandy myself.’  The Guru’s eyes roll forwards in their sockets and for the first time she sees his pupils. Breathing out with a low growl, he moves his head and shoulders to-and-fro, then looks down at her with a quizzical expression.
‘Oh. Okay.  A brandy and dry...if you are having one then.’ Her face flushes.
Continuing his study of her, he booms out a command in Hindi-English, ‘brandy and dry’ the only distinguishable part of the sentence. 

Whispered voices and a shuffling, banging commotion come from behind a large, tri panelled, hand-painted silkscreen which partitions the meditation room from a living area. The tripditch, painted skilfully and with much subtlety, portrays a huge mountain, gnarled trees rooted into its rocky clefts growing out at incredible angles. A little deer – Bambi like – grazes peacefully upon the high altitude grasses. Sitting upon a precarious outcrop close by, legs knotted into the lotus position, an emaciated Buddha meditates – blissed out, oblivious to the ground falling away beneath him, disappearing finally, into little wisps of cloud hugging the mountains edges below.
Finally the guru releases the vice-like grip of his focus from Cathy.
‘Your family is well, Sonja?’
‘Yes, very well, teacher.’ replies a bouncy female voice.
‘Good. Good. And Michael, you must be about to leave for your Retreat?’
‘Yes Gandharva. In three days.  I look forward to it.’
The Guru’s laugh leaps about the room. ‘Yes. So you are. Good, good....aaah...here come our drinks Cathy.’
A rubenesque Indian woman with black eyes and the smoothest, shiniest chocolate brown skin Cathy has ever seen, slips quietly into the room – her aqua blue silk Sari shimmering the exact opposite tone of orange - with each silent step. The only sound coming from her is the satisfying jingle of the ice in the glasses she carries on a small wooden tray.  In fact, the only sound in the whole room is the jingle of the ice. All eyes are closed, every ear pricked in anticipation.  Suddenly she wishes she had declined the offer of a drink.  But wouldn’t that be rude?
The woman smiles, bowing her head slightly, as she passes one of the glasses to Gandharva.  He lifts his right hand from his knee and points lazily towards Cathy, muttering something at her in his indigenous tongue.  Graciously, turning towards Cathy, she passes her the Brandy.  Cathy reaches forward awkwardly taking the drink and looking up at her, smiles appreciatively.
As the Guru takes his, he waves his hand dismissively at the woman without looking at her.  She nods her head, hands pressed together fingers meeting her chin and leaves the room, silent and dignified.

‘Drink. Drink!’ Apparently he must say many things twice, for emphasis.
She takes a large mouthful of Brandy. Who knows, this is probably the initiation for every new person.
‘You are very wise Cathy.’
She looks up at the Guru incredulously, her brow furrowing.
‘But you are wise in your soul. Even though you do some not so wise things – yes?’
Her laugh surprises her. Smothering it, she swallows the sticky Brandy and Dry tinged spittle inside her mouth. ‘Yeah, the last part is true, um... Gandharva...um...Guru.’
‘You have been here many times before.’
Cathy slurps more of the drink. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve never been here before.’
‘Oh yes...yes.  Many incarnations.  You will remember things first – from the past.  After, you must learn one or two new lessons before enlightenment.  And then, you will not have to come back again.’
‘I’ve lots to learn...Gandharva.  I don’t know very much at all...’
‘But you are on a high plane.  Yes, much higher than my followers here.’ He sweeps his arm over the room dismissively. ‘Yes,’ he says thoughtfully, the energy surge from his eyes burning like white light into her mind.
She blinks and inhales deeply, seeking equilibrium. 
‘These people have many more manifestations – countless lessons to learn.’ His tone, a whisker away from mockery.

She flinches as a male behind her clears his throat, and twists her head in the direction of the noise.  Nothing seems amiss on the dispassionate faces. Miriam is still in a trance, but is silent - her body motionless and centred above her hips.

‘It is my karma also, that I am here, physical, in this room.’ As he utters the words, an exhausted sadness traverses his face, like the filaments of clouds momentarily obscuring the bright star spangle outside.  He inhales, his eyes rolling back into his head congruous with his inflating belly. Then abruptly he snaps his pupils forward again, revealing the sparkle of mischievousness which Cathy recognises from the photograph hanging in the Waiting Room. 
‘This Brandy is good.  Drink up, we will have another one. Jalaja, my little Lotus flower...two more!’ 

The room behind Cathy seems to shuffle.  She uncrosses her legs and sitting to one side, tucks them modestly beneath her. Jalaja delivers the drinks, this time serving Cathy first. The Guru consumes half of his in a single gulp, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and ejects a satisfied, ‘Aaaaaaah’. 
‘Did you know I can astral travel.’ Clearly, it is a statement, not a question.
‘You mean, travel out of your body – like Shirley Maclaine in her book...’
‘Out on a Limb,’ somebody adds helpfully.
‘I can travel, yes, outside of my body.’  He swigs the last of his drink and lets his right arm slide over the armrest where it dangles precariously, empty glass still in his grasp, the Prayer Beads falling, tinkling musically on the polished floor boards.  Then silence.
         
‘Yes, yes.  I can travel to your house – to your room at night when you are asleep in the bed with your boyfriend.  I can watch you with my astral travel eyes.  I can have sex with you, if I want.’

He giggles as though the words that have just fallen from his mouth are mere child’s play. The room behind her inhales sharply. 
Cathy watches his eyeballs begin the assent into his skull again.  It is as though the pretence of focusing on the exterior world for too long is just too much for him.
Then suddenly, they flick forward and he begins to laugh out loud.  The noise roars through the room, infecting every person - infiltrating every atom like laughing gas.
‘Anyhow.  We shall eat now.’ 

Simultaneously everybody stands and trundles out past Bambi and the skinny Buddha.  Cathy looks directly at the Guru, hoping that he can read her thoughts.  He smiles back at her.  It is the innocent smile of a child.  He waves his hand at her, swooshing it towards the adjoining room. ‘Shoo, shoo. Go to the room for the feast my wives have prepared for you.’

She hears the thud of his feet as they touch the floor and their double-beat, tap-tap, tap-tap, following closely behind. She does not look back.