Excerpt 2 of Chasing the Avatar

I turned to my right and followed her into an office with a sign hanging above it: “Foreigners’ Office.” Inside was an Indian man sitting at a desk. His head was down, all of his focus upon reading a newspaper that lay on the desk. He was wearing a white dhoti and tunic, like the guy helping Cha Ma in the temple. He must be a brahmachari, too.

Loudly, Radha cleared her throat, “Namah shivaya, Narayana!”

“Namah shivaya, Radha Devi,” he answered, without looking up. His voice was thick and rich with a deep Indian accent.

He has pretty hair. It was about six inches long and hung gently about his neck. It was a rich chocolate brown, with a loose wavy curl to it. It looked so soft. I wanted to touch it. I clasped my hands behind my back.

“Namah shivaya!” Radha responded to his lack of attention rather emphatically.“Namah shivaya!” He looked up and smiled at Radha.

Oh my gosh! He is absolutely bee-you-tee-full! His eyes…his eyes…I found myself staring at him, enthralled. His eyes were big and almond-shaped. Clear and expressive. They sat above an aristocratic nose, full lips and a close-shaven beard that followed a strong jaw. His skin made me think of melted caramel that blended perfectly into his neat beard.

“So, who is this?” With that question, he looked at me and the open, happy face he had for Radha shifted…shifted into something else, an altogether “different” expression. I did not understand it. I could not. This was my first encounter with the passionately contradictory nature of the brahmachari, the sannyasi, the celibate Hindu monk—the repressed, never-to-be-expressed-or-discussed sexuality and the fiery, yet unacknowledged, desire hidden behind a stoic wall riddled with minute cracks and fissures. I simply did not understand ashram brahmacharis and sannyasis, yet. In many ways, I never would.

Radha smiled, oblivious (so it seemed) to the decided shift in his countenance, “Oh! This is Maya. She just got here from America.”

“Has she received darshan with Cha Ma?” asked he, inexplicable disdain for me upon his face. His voice sounded harsh and condescending.

“Yes, that’s what we just finished doing. Cha Ma called for her. Cha Ma told her to stay here.” Radha sat upon the desk, swinging her feet, which were crossed at the ankles, under her. Can she not see his “attitude”? Maybe it’s me? Maybe I’m just imagining it…”

“Really? Cha Ma told her to stay here?” He asked incredulously as he looked at me as if I were a cockroach he wanted to squash. Man! Talk about animosity! What’s wrong with him? He acts like he hates me already and he doesn’t even know me!

“Oh, yes!” Radha nodded her head. They were talking about me as though I were not there. Or as though I were some little puppy with no brain. “Anyhow,” Radha continued as she pointedly, but good-humoredly, turned away from him to me, “this is Narayana. He’s in charge of the Foreigners’ Office.”

“Namah shivaya,” he said in a flat voice, not even looking at me. “Do you have your passport and visa? It costs one hundred dollars per month to stay, which will cover your room and board. All Indian meals are included. If you want anything from the Western canteen, you’ll have to pay extra.”

As he spoke, I began to root around in my bag for my passport, visa and money. My documents had shifted, somehow, to the bottom. I kept digging and digging. Finally, I found them. When I looked up, quickly, with a smile of triumph upon my face, I caught him staring at me…lost…in looking at me with a strange, beautiful, captivated expression upon his face. I felt a jolt within me—a pull. Desire. Quickly, he looked away and I looked back down at my documents and money.

“Here you go!” I proffered, completely flustered, wondering whether Radha had noticed. I dared not look at her. I dared not look at him. I simply could not. Would not.

It seemed to be the same for him. He looked at neither Radha nor me—all of his attention upon my documents and money. He examined them intensely. After what seemed a long time of staring, he began to write my information into a notebook, still not looking at either of us.

I ventured a sidelong glance at Radha. She seemed unaware, as she was picking lint off her sari. Maybe there was nothing there. Maybe it was my imagination. I’m sure it was. He finished writing down my information and counting the money.

“Here you go.” He handed my papers to me, his face closed and hard.

“Thank you,” I responded, as I took the papers. He did not answer me. I kept my eyes averted; I could not risk looking into his eyes. Not that it mattered. He did not look at me. He gazed at Radha as he flicked his hand toward me condescendingly, “Put her into the women’s dormitory above the inner temple.”

With that, he picked up his newpaper, snapped it open with disdain and began to read—we were dismissed. I turned on my heel and walked out the door behind Radha. When I had passed the threshold, she leaned toward me, with a twinkle in her eyes and a smirk on her face, and said, “Methinks the man likes you! Poor thing…you!” She grabbed my suitcase and duffel bag where she had left them sitting by the door and walked off laughing.