A Free Lunch

"I'm not coming."

"It's your choice. We're not forcing you to do anything you don't want to do."

"I hate being all fake."

"Why do you have to be fake? Don't you like lunch? Just come and enjoy a good lunch!"

I'm really lucky my parents were so open-minded. They didn't yell at me for saying I needed to be 'fake' with their spiritual teacher, Swami Ji. They simply accepted that a seventeen-year-old was probably not ready to believe, to have faith, to understand the need for a Guru.

I was struggling inside. My parents, grandparents and aunts and uncles all believed implicitly in Swami Ji. They attended his lectures (about the Hindu Holy Book, the Gita), consulted him about business and personal matters all the time and joined him for meals when he was in our town and his disciples invited them. I knew it would be fun. I knew the disciples were really good cooks. But I didn't like pretending that I had accepted Swami Ji as a mediator between me and God. I thought I could talk to God directly, I didn't need a teacher.

I went, because yes, I liked lunch.

I did what I was supposed to do -- bowed down and touched Swami Ji's feet in greeting and tried not to look bored as he talked to my family and other close devotees. It was a privilege, being there, but I didn't know it at the time. I just waited for lunch.

Swami Ji's young disciples served us -- food, and a heap of new jokes. They had a good sense of humour, all of them, and the meal was pretty hilarious.

I had had a good time, but I didn't 'believe' in Swami Ji.

Months passed, years even.

And one day ...

I went to Granny's house to find her distraught. Swami Ji was unwell. Very unwell. She had just got the news. "Send him a get well card," she urged me. I did. Mechanically. I bought a pretty card, wrote "To Swami Ji, Love, Sonali" and posted it off.

"I've been sending him stuff, you know," Granny said. "I mean, from you. Each time you passed an important exam or did well at some activity in school, I sent him a telegram and signed it from you. I know his blessings are important to you, and I wanted him to know it, too."

I was stupefied. I had been honest with my parents, but was I that good an actress, that my Granny had been so totally fooled about how I felt about Swami Ji? Why had she sent him telegrams in my name? That was not true. The telegrams weren't from me at all. I sputtered my indignation to my Dad, who merely said, "Cool it."

As Swami Ji's condition worsened, his devotees travelled to meet him, to be at his side, to hear any last words of wisdom. My grandparents were among them.

Swami Ji died.

He wasn't cremated or buried, that isn't the custom. He was set afloat in holy waters. I don't remember exactly whether it was a lake or a river or what ... I just remember Granny saying that Swami Ji had predicted that there would be a 'gathering of turtles' -- meaning, his disciples, setting his body afloat.

And Granny told me something else about what Swami Ji had said.

He had talked about me.

He had received my card, and had remarked, "I didn't know Sonali cared about me enough to send a card."

Granny dismissed it off as a sick man's babbling.

But ... me?

I was stunned.

Did I really think I had Swami Ji fooled? Maybe I did, I don't know. But this one simple sentence suddenly found its mark. The man had known, all along, that I was simply going through the motions. Maybe he even realised that I went only because I liked lunch. He probably had those telegrams sussed out immediately.

And yet, he smiled at me, blessed me ... gave me some nice lunch. Not once, but several times. He had me fooled.

And that's when I understood the greatness of Swami Ji.

When I understood how he had me fooled.

His deep spirituality, his gentleness, his consideration, not letting a youngster know she was doing a bad job of pretending to believe.

I wish I'd believed when he was alive.

I could have told him, in person, that I believed, then.



Full Counts
All Words: 738