Free Cartwheels in a Sari by Jayanti Tamm Page B

never know what type of problems she makes for me in the inner and outer world. She is determined to make me suffer and to make the Supreme's will suffer. The pain you see I have in the outer world is so insignificant to what, at every moment, I have in the inner world. Most excruciating. Most excruciating. Alo is responsible for wanting to ruin me and the will of the Supreme.”
    I had never heard Guru speak about Alo in such a blunt and negative way. From the disciples I had learned that joking about Alo in her absence and worshipping Alo in her presence were politically advantageous. Beyond that, I overheard comments Prema and Isha tossed over their shoulders at meditation, forewarning that the witch was returning to town, but I had not realized the severity of Alo's effect on Guru and the suffering she caused for him. I knew my own ignorance and lack of spiritual aspiration created his pain. He had given me proof in a written statement proclaiming my worst quality.
    Three years earlier, at a fund-raiser, for twenty-five dollars, disciples could stand before Guru as he wrote their worst quality. My parents thought this was a great idea. For a special gift, they signed me up. After my turn was over, I needed help from my mom to explain what it meant: “Deliberate disobedience on the lower-vital plane.” I did not understand. My mother informed me that the lower-vital plane was the part of the being that harbored impure thoughts, emotions, and desires. At nine, my impure thoughts had been that Ketancould be a jerk, and my dad wore the same stinky, sweaty T-shirt that he had run in and then dried off on the radiator for the remainder of the day. Guru had officially confirmed the depths of my disobedience, my grave sins.
    To witness Guru speaking about Alo with such pain in his voice was new and surprising. The problem of Alo, obviously, was dire. But, as with everything else, I had been too selfish and unaware to notice. What was wrong with me? My own intuition was nonexistent. I loved Alo. And secretly—even though it was bad—I still loved her. This probably caused Guru extra suffering.
    “Guru?” a woman asked.
    “Oi?” Guru replied. “A question?”
    It was dark, and in my seat I couldn't see into the rows behind.
    “Is there something that we can do to help you with Alo?” she questioned.
    I was glad that she asked this. I really wanted to know.
    “Could you not kill her?” Guru said.
    The world paused. Stuck in a moment, frozen. Only the wind moved, bleeding through the glass onto me, giving me chills. I did not want to hear any more. I felt afraid of Guru and what he wanted. It all felt wrong. I turned away, toward the window that offered an illusion of the world outside with no lights and only deep darkness. Somewhere, I remembered the snaky arms of the Guru-bust in the backyard, curling and lapping their way toward my bedroom, awaiting my eventual return.
    Half an hour later, the bus was fixed and merrily on its way, when Guru told the driver to pull over to a Howard Johnson's rest stop. As the sleepy disciples stretched and stumbledoff the bus, confusion churned in my head. Nothing made sense. I must have misunderstood Guru. Language had different meanings for moments, and words slipped between meanings quickly, as when crossing between rooms. What I heard Guru say felt wrong, yet I knew that was impossible. He could never be wrong. Unsettled and with my stomach throbbing with discomfort, I turned toward my mother, who stood in the aisle zipping up her coat. There was a line to disembark as disciples packed tightly in front and behind her. I wanted to confess my distress to my mother, but I knew I couldn't. In my family, as in the Center, we did not speak openly. Guru's standard policy was that disciples who questioned him were problematic and needed to be turned in for punishment. Criticisms, concerns, and suggestions about the Center were evidence of one's spiritual corruption. Rather than expose my