Page 93 of And Still Her Voice
The next morning, I awoke to the sound of another bell signaling breakfast. In the hall, I tried the crispy-thin wafer dosa like one of Mom’s tortillas served with sumbar and chutney.
I needed to go back to the library for research and to get to know that young man better, but first I wanted to tour the grounds where I came upon so many flowers in every shape and color I’d never seen before. I wanted to bottle the fragrances. There were shrubs and herbs and trees I didn’t recognize except for the bottlebrush and the pepper trees and the palm trees, short and tall. And then canopied within a coconut grove grew a five-hundred-year-old banyan tree, considered a holy site. Directly adjacent stood the School of Wisdom in the Blavatsky bungalowwhere Theosophical lessons were given every day. A class had just started. What are the chances they’d be discussing transference of consciousness? I wondered. I walked in and took a seat.
The leader of the day, a slim older woman, with silver threaded through her charcoal colored hair, led us in meditation. She mentioned something about inward turning and contacting a subtler, deeper order. At first, I resisted. My goal had been to get out of my head, but by the end of the session, I did end up leaving in a more peaceful state.
I continued touring the grounds, coming upon a Garden of Remembrance, an elevated grassy area in the shape of a six-pointed star.
“Let us sit there awhile,” Grandma said. “Perhaps if we remember . . .”
I’d grown so tired of remembering her life. I kept walking until I noticed a Bodhi tree representing the Lord Buddha’s enlightenment, across from which sat a temple dedicated to Buddhism. The moment I stepped into the cave-like dwelling, the air seemed to be sucked out. Everything stood still, including the giant thousand-year-old statue of the Lord Buddha himself. It was just that giant idol and me. My skin prickled as I remembered my catechism where I read something in the Bible about false gods. “For the Lord your God, who is among you, is a jealous God and his anger will burn against you, and he will destroy you from the face of the land.” Now, that’s the god I remember. I was more afraid of the punitive one than the enlightened one. I hurried out into the garden where I stopped to catch my breath before tripping and falling down onto a patch of grass.
A gong sounded. Lunch already? But the sun had dipped below the tall trees. The breeze blowing in from the river that had chilled my skin as I looked at my watch on the goose bumped skin of my wrist. Six o’clock. I’d even missed the dinner bell.But I wasn’t hungry. I’d been in the garden all day, humming a tune I’d never heard before, at the same time listening to all the sounds outside my head, birds and insects, the garden vibrating through my body with the energy of the surrounding wildlife. For the time, I’d become one with nature, breathing in the essence, the fragrance of all the flowers, nature’s incense. Had I taken a nap? I didn’t want to leave. Neither did Grandma, whom I hadn’t thought about all day.
“I didn’t think about you either, my darling.”
After a breakfast of vada, a savory donut-shaped fried lentil fritter served with coconut chutney, I headed over to the School of Wisdom where I would make the morning classes and my garden visit a daily ritual, putting off the return to the library for another week or so. I felt a calling on the outside of things and outside is where I thought I might finally find the answer to the Grandma situation.
But then one evening as I sat in silence watching the miracle bugs and fireflies put on a mesmerizing light show, I heard a voice and turned to see the young man from the library. “You haven’t returned to the library.”
“Hi. No, not yet.”
He extended a hand, “I am Vihaan.” With still enough twilight, I could see his smile transform his face, his cheekbones shining like big polished obsidian marbles and his white, large teeth highlighting his fine features.
“I’m Anna.” I stood, dusting myself off. “I am ‘overdue’ (I laughed at my own pun) to return to the library, but for now it seems I might find the answers out here. I’m not even sure a book exists for what I’m looking for.”
“Unfortunately, from what I’ve learned, once you’ve arrived in that Amitabha, that pure place without ego, one does not return to the circle of life.”
Without holding back anymore, I’d run out of time, and at the risk of sounding crazy, I said to Vihaan, “I share a consciousness with my grandmother—go ahead, Grandma, say something.”
“Greetings, Vihaan,” she said in her smoky voice.
He looked me in the eyes, wobbling his head slightly. “Hello, Anna’s Grandma.”
“You can call me Phoebe,” Grandma responded.
I knew he doubted us, but I didn’t have time or the desire to explain anymore.
“And so, I thought I could find what I’m looking for in a book. I’m hoping to reverse the transference of consciousness.”
“I see,” Vihaan responded, humoring me, no doubt, as he took a seat on a nearby bench. I sat back down on the grassy ground where I’d been seated, now, at his feet.
“There is much to learn,” he said. “But, unfortunately, much wisdom has been passed down from the masters by word of mouth, not much is written. Sometimes, it is only through the accumulated energy of the lineage or the oracle itself, and the blessings of the teacher. Only then is a qualified lama able to directly transfer the blessing of a practice to disciples.”
“I see, and where might I find a qualified lama?” I asked. “The sooner I can be free of her, the better off I’ll be.”
“So says you,” Vihaan said.
I opened my hands like a lotus flower, palms up. “Even now, we’re not alone. She’s sitting with us here in this garden.”
He scanned the area. “Oh, right. Right.”
“You mentioned something about spiritual suicide. Is there a book on that?”
“Again,” he laughed. “I would need a catalog number.”
We sat in silence, the cicadas growing louder, the sky a little duskier. I picked a blade of grass and twirled it between my fingers.
“There was a time a couple of years ago,” Vihaan said. “I had the opportunity to study the teachings of Machiq, a Tibeten yogini from the eleventh century. That’s the cool thing about working here. I can study as much and whatever I want.”
