Cartwheels in a Sari Read Online Free PDF Page A

materialism. When our ancient Chevy station wagon died, it forced myfather to scour the
Bargain News,
reluctantly open his tattered wallet, and buy a beat-up tan Dodge Dart for two hundred dollars. The car came without a muffler, speedometer, or heat.
    “It's perfect,” my father said, jiggling the keys.
    Therefore it was a true surprise when my father brought home an expensive purchase, a roughly chiseled bust with abstract carvings for the facial features, pitted pockets for eyes, and a wide slab for lips. The head, seemingly decapitated, perched on a square base. When my father unpacked it, I was terrified.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “It's Guru, of course,” my father said.
    “What happened to his body? And why does he look like that?”
    “It's an interpretation of his highest
samadhi
consciousness,” my father said.
    “Do we have to keep it?”
    My father shot me a disappointed look, and I faked a smile, like I had made a joke.
    My father built a small stone shrine in our backyard to house it, and I took great pains to avoid it. During the day, I looped around the backwoods to evade its vacant stare. But the daytime was not my real concern; I suspected that during the day, with my family around, I was relatively safe; the real threat, I feared, came at night.
    After Ketan was asleep in the top bunk, and the rest of the house was hushed into darkness, I imagined that the Guru bust hunted me, sprouting arms, tentacle-like appendages that expanded from its base. They slowly snaked down thestones, across the grass, up the shingles, through the window, into my room, extending, writhing to my pillow, and strangling me, airless and smothered. I lay awake, terrified, listening for its rustle across the grass or the creaking of the window screen lifting. My parents in the next room were millions of miles away. Even Ketan, directly above me, could not save me. It was patient and relentless. It would get me in the end. It was only a matter of time, but my family was utterly oblivious. No one could see the dangers of this supposedly holy figure but me.
    ONE MONDAY NIGHT in late September, Guru instructed my parents to set up the meditation outside in the field beside our house. All afternoon dark rain clouds filled the sky as the wind whipped through the trees. When my father told Guru that a storm seemed likely, Guru pointed to his own third eye and said he was the guru and did not want or need suggestions. My father quickly bowed in understanding of Guru's wise teaching moment, then ran to the basement to carry Guru's throne outside.
    Our field quickly filled with disciples. As soon as Guru began meditating, lightning flashed and thunder banged. Guru said he would give a special meditation to stop the rain, and he raised his folded hands. For ten minutes, the sky quieted. I smiled. My guru could do anything, even banish the rain without effort. But when fat raindrops landed in my lap, making my sari stick to my legs, I wondered what had happened. Guru scanned both the men's and ladies’ sides and, in a voice coated with disappointment, revealed that some of the very same disciples who sat before him had inwardly expresseddoubt at Guru's capacities. Because of this poisonous doubt, he had held off the rain for only a limited time, and now, to teach a true lesson, the rest of the meditation would be cloaked in rain. I looked around me, suspiciously, wondering who the doubters were. Who were the culprits who dared to disbelieve Guru? I was furious that these same people had the audacity to sit, attempting to blend in with the true disciples.
    But by the end of the night, I had lost interest in whoever caused the downpour. I was drenched and restless. I whispered to my mother that I needed to use the bathroom. When I found Ketan stomping in huge puddles at the back, we decided to sneak off. We ran into the side woods, crouched inside the brambles, and watched the remainder of the function from our hiding place. Usually I