Free Cartwheels in a Sari by Jayanti Tamm Page A

rare occasions I had received an invitation to a big event like Susie Thompson's birthday party at McDonald's, I was not allowed to attend. Guru had clear rules that socializing with outsiders was forbidden. Even when I begged my father to go, he seemed baffled as to why anyonewould even want to go to a birthday party. Social events, for my father, were worse than searching for files at the town clerk's office. My request to attend the class year-end roller skating party caused him to stare at me for a long time, as if unsure that this strange little person was somehow the special soul that Guru had selected. Then he'd ask if I had meditated that day.
    Since every night and every weekend we were in Queens or somewhere else spreading Guru's message, instead of chatting about play dates and birthday parties, I'd attempt to share news with my classmates about the many special events that occurred during our two sacred holidays: April, in honor of Guru's arrival in America, and August, in honor of Guru's birthday. During those times disciples from all over the world congregated in New York for nonstop festivities that included our own parades, Olympics, and circus. But the girls at Silvermine School weren't impressed. Soon even the rare birthday party invitation ceased. Sitting in the cafeteria by myself, it dawned on me one day that I was labeled the weird kid not only by my classmates but by the teachers as well.
    When I failed the poetry presentation in Mrs. Sanders's class, I stayed after school for clarification. I had done the assignment, a rarity, having chosen a poet—Guru, of course—I memorized the poem, recited it before the class, and made a posterboard illustration to accompany it. I didn't know where I had gone wrong. Granted, all the other students chose Robert Frost and Shel Silverstein, but it was unclear to me what the problem was, until Mrs. Sanders accused me of making up the poet.
    Although at this time Guru had already written more than five hundred books and was cranking out a book or two aweek of short spiritual aphorisms, I kept quiet. More and more, defending Guru didn't seem to be worth it. Leaving Guru out of school altogether felt like a wiser choice. I figured that it wouldn't insult Guru. My academic career was never something that he emphasized, or even mentioned. When I did receive a surprisingly good grade, Guru was quiet. Education was not what he wanted from me, and he made that clear. What he wanted and expected was my unconditional obedience and undying love, and for that, I suppose, it didn't matter if I ever returned to school. I might as well just have sat on his tour bus forever.
    Guru woke up.
    “Oi. Are you people still alive?” Guru asked, tapping on the microphone of the bus's broken PA system. “Or are you all in the sleep-world?”
    Toward the front of the bus, a few muffled murmurs responded from beneath mouths wrapped with scarves.
    “I am in such pain. Excruciating pain,” Guru said.
    I knew Guru hurt. His slight limp at the beginning of the concert became a definitive wobble that caused him to move extra slowly, pausing between steps onto the bus. Seeing Guru in such obvious discomfort pierced me with guilt. The blame was mine, as well as all the other disciples who were constantly failing him with our selfish needs. My complaints about the freezing bus, the lack of sleep and food, I knew were ungrateful and uninspired, which resulted in desires and longings for myself rather than Guru. And the price was paid by Guru, yet again. I slunk into my seat, wishing I could reverse all the damage that I had done.
    “You cannot and will never know what this Guru has to carry. So much dead elephant weight. I suffer from carryingyour problems. Vital problems, which are emotional problems. Mental problems. But my suffering does not end there. So merciless does Alo torture me. Endless are her attacks on me. Her fierce jealousy and her demands create such problems. You people will