Page 92 of And Still Her Voice
“Do I need one?”
He laughed and then welcomed me onto the grounds where I asked for directions to the main building. Sitting on 250 acres of garden space on the banks of the Adyar River, the buildings were flanked by ancient trees that were probably around even before Grandma’s last visit. The aroma of fragrant flowers greeted me and a chorus of birds sang as I took in the surroundings, a lush jungle full of mangroves, coconut groves, and banyan trees.
“Now we can breathe,” Grandma said. “We must walk the grounds. I remember now what air, what nights, what marvelous quiet, no street noise. I just know we’ll find the answers here.”
“Settle down, Grandma.” The idea of being free of her at last seemed less elusive. I knew she also wanted to be free of me and her earthly ties. “I need to see if I can get a room.”
At the main reception area, an old guide in short white hair asked me to state my purpose. After telling him I wanted to do some research on an ancient religious practice toward enlightenment, he escorted me to the Leadbetter Chambers building, a hostel for visitors. The ceilings were vaulted and the light from the high windows sliced down, casting oblique shadows like I might be in jail. The ventilation ports above the windows and overhead fans offered a bit of relief. I wasted no time unpacking before I left to find the library.
“It looks the same,” Grandma said as I crunched along a loamy path filled with dried bean pods. “Except for that new building.”
I stepped into the main hall surrounded by the symbols of the world’s major religions. On the northeast section of the hall were emblems of Zoroastrianism, Islamism, Sikhism, Daosim, Confucianism, and Hinduism. A statue of Krishna stood with his flute and sacred cow. Another sacred cow.
“As you can see, darling, all religions, all castes. I was free to attend whichever service I wanted, whichever lectures,” Grandma said. “Because I’d recently been heartbroken over the death of my father and when I stumbled into a lecture on the transference of consciousness and learned how one could assist even after the loved one had gone, I knew I had to do something.”
So where do I find that class where I can learn how to undo what you’ve done to me? I thought, but I don’t think Grandma paid me any attention.
“I took time to study and after time, I just knew Father made it to that pure land because of me.”
***
Wandering into the west side of the north wall, it seemed all the gods that ever existed were represented. Silently, I thanked them all for bringing me here and prayed that one of them might help me find the answers to my being.
Feeling hopeful, I entered a more modern structure, and stepped up to a dark young man in a white cotton tunic sitting behind a desk. He had a broad, smooth forehead, lush wavy black hair, a slender nose, full lips, and the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. As he jotted some notes on a piece of paper, I noticed his long, brown slender fingers as if he was born to write and work in a library. I instantly knew he could help me.
“May I assist you?” he asked, revealing a big arresting smile that captured my breath. He set down his pen and folded his hands.
I took a deep breath. “I hope so.”
“Have you visited before?”
“No, I’ve never been here.”
“Well then allow me to welcome you.” He nodded, opening his hands, palms up cordially. “This is the newest facility. It is climate controlled in order to preserve ancient manuscripts and books.”
“Quite impressive,” Grandma said. “While here last, I studied the works of the Master Kuthumi with the young Krishnamurti. Might you have copies of any of their works?”
The librarian peered at me. “You appear too young to have studied here with Krishnamurti. And you said you’d never been here before.”
“Oh yes, well I mean, my grandmother. The last time my grandmother was here.”
I turned my head and thought-voiced, “Grandma, be quiet. Let me do the talking.” I turned to the librarian and smiled. “Can you please help me? I’m looking for a book about transferring consciousness, a practice called Phowa.”
His eyes widened. “Very well, do you have the name or the catalog number?”
“More specifically, I’m looking for anything written about transferring a consciousness back to its source.”
He brought his hand to his mouth and squeezed his lips, his gold watch glinting in the lamplight as he dropped his arm back onto the desk. “Ah, you mean something on spiritual suicide.”
I went cold, not knowing how to respond. Both my father and Grandma had tried to explain that the only way to rid myself of Grandma would be by death or suicide. I felt a scratch in mythroat. “Remember, not a good idea, darling. Besides the fact that it’s a sin in the Catholic Church, I remind you again, nothing changes, except that you’re on the other side, even more miserable than here on Earth.”
Spiritual suicide seemed a bit more palatable. “Grandma, let me handle this.” I looked at the librarian. “Yes, please, something on that.”
“Very well, but still I must have a name or catalog number,” he said, returning to his writing. “Feel free to look through the catalogs,” he said without looking up and pointing a long finger to a wall with rows upon rows of directories. “Once you’ve found what you’re looking for, I will retrieve the book for you. We close in thirty minutes.” He returned to his note taking.
Frustrating and frightening. I didn’t even know where to begin as I opened the first long narrow index box. Some of the print was in English, but most was Greek to me. Saved by the sound of the dinner bell, I stopped.
***
