Leela’s Gift

Leela’s Gift

Janet Levine

Smashwords Edition

© Copyright 2010, Janet Levine

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters depicted here and real persons is coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-557-53142-4

Come to understand that great core within you,

Like the very axis around which the stars turn.

—The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali (translated by Geshe Michael Roach)

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

PROLOGUE

Our Long Island home was decorated with colorful wall hangings of Shiva, Vishnu, Lord Krishna, and the Wheel of Life. Once when I was six years old my paternal grandmother visited from India and brought these gifts. She had told me the meaning of all the symbols, but I forgot them, and my father, Anadi, wouldn’t elaborate. Superstitions, he’d say. Anadi had asked my mother to remove the hangings, but Luisa’s resolve was firm, They are gifts from your family.

No one argued with my mother when she was being righteous. Her aristocratic Spanish Castilian heritage, evident still in her lustrous black hair, and proud demeanor and her unshakable belief in the correctness of her stance, rendered argument futile. My maternal grandparents never forgave my mother for moving away from Louisiana, and for marrying an Indian (a brown man). I had never met them, although I had met some of Luisa’s cousins in later years when they passed through New York.

One Sunday morning when I was eight years old, I was rummaging in a sandalwood box that I had found in a cupboard in my parents’ bedroom, searching for unexpected treasures. The box held a sandalwood mala, incense sticks, and altar cards with faces of Hindu gods and goddesses. My father found me sitting on the carpet in a patch of sunlight staring at a card with Lord Vishnu’s face, his four arms, the harmonious coral and gold colors, and the more subtle yellow, lavender and pale blue.

What are you doing, Leelaji? Your mother told you to get ready, we’re going out for lunch.

Who is this man, Daddy? You look like him except you’re not so fat and you only have two arms.

That’s Lord Vishnu. My mother gave me this box with these things when I was nineteen and left New Delhi to study in America.

What is he wearing around his neck?

Anadi took the card from me and studied it carefully. "It’s a long mala, a necklace of large white cowrie shells around his neck, so long that it falls all the way to his waist…"

And on his head…

On his head is an ornate golden crown embellished with large golden feathers.

What does embellish mean…?

Embellish, embellish…it means to decorate in an interesting and stylish fashion.

Together we gazed solemnly at Vishnu’s face, darkly handsome in a florid way, highlighted by heavily veiled and mascara-lined eyelids.

My grandmother? Nannyji…? The strange word turned my speech hesitant as if my tongue had a knot. …She gave you this? Are you a Hindu believer?

Anadi paused, No, I’m not a believer. But someday you and I together, we’ll read the Vedas, the great, ancient wisdom texts of India. Those I do hold dear…

I pondered this new information. Then I turned to look at my father and asked brightly, as his dark brown eyes—like my eyes—danced with light.

Will we see Nannyji again soon? Is she coming to visit us?

Maybe, or maybe we can go to India to visit her and the rest of the family.

Anadi sat reflectively with the box in his hands. I settled into his lap, and sighed. He was a busy man; he didn’t spend much time with me anymore. He smelled fresh and clean. I was fascinated by the way the dark hair on his chest whorled through his open neck shirt, and how my brown skin matched his brown skin. I whispered, Tell me about Lord Vishnu.

He is an aspect of Brahman, God, whom Hindus pray to, along with Brahma and Shiva. Lord Vishnu is often identified with Krishna and Rama. He is also associated with other divine figures. They all live in your name, Leela, which means divine play, the gods are playful. Vishnu is known as the Preserver, that’s why my mother gave me this altar card. She believes Lord Vishnu will preserve me in my life in America.

What do you believe?

Leelaji, I believe this is superstitious nonsense that keeps India backward with so many of her people clinging to these ancient ideas…

Suddenly Luisa’s clear voice rang out from downstairs, breaking our communion. What are you two doing up there? We should be going, we have a table reservation.

Anadi held out his hand and I took it. Come on, we’re going out to lunch… Holding his hand I felt safe; he was strong and handsome like the Hindu gods.

I wondered aloud about the meaning of my name. Nothing special, my father explained. Many women and girls in India are called Leela. All names have meaning. Most of them we have forgotten. He drew me to him and bent to kiss my forehead, I was teasing you about the gods playing in your name.

The next time I looked in the cupboard for the box I couldn’t find it. And two years later my father died.

CHAPTER ONE

At Indira Gandhi International Airport in the national capital, New Delhi, I disembarked onto the tarmac from the Air India jetliner that had carried me half way around the globe from JFK Airport in New York. It was a foggy morning, but I could smell the warm air. How good to be walking on the ground again after such a long flight.

A small knot of people stood behind the railed barrier outside the glass international terminal doors, and then the face of my cousin, Jala, came into focus. Goodness, they are here for me, I thought. That group is my family.

Amid cheers and shouts of Namaste, welcome Auntie and Leelaji, I was swallowed by a scrum of people trying to hug, or simply touch me. Overwhelmed by the effusive warmth, vaguely I was aware of the bemused stares of some of the other passengers as I hugged and kissed as many cousins as I could, and then clung to Jala. When we broke apart we both wiped away tears.

Leela, it has been too long…

Yes, I responded, it has. Too long. I turned to my family, noting the multi-hued rainbow of saris and kurta and salwar kameez, the elegance of the way the women arranged colored pashmina and silk scarves around their heads and shoulders, the long, white kurtas of the men, not in western dress.

Here auntie, one of the little girls, a third cousin, or maybe even a fourth, was pushed forward by her young mother, and she thrust a bouquet of beautiful peonies into my arms. The child, peering at me, asked innocently, Where are your children? I buried my head in the flowers to hide both my sudden tears at her question and to appreciate the perfumed scent. After a while I lifted my head and asked the group in general. How did you get permission to be here, outside the building? You should see the security at airports in America after September 11!

One of my male cousins about my age, bearded and dressed in a business suit, answered. We obtained permission. We have family in the airport administration. All legal…

I laughed in delight as I looked at the group, Thank you so much for coming. What a welcome. You make me feel so at home.

Auntie, a photo… A relative, a tall, handsome adolescent wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt and waving a digital camera, was trying to move the group into a phalanx. Standing in front I held the bouquet and was surrounded by the youngest children. Then I was escorted by my cousin in a business suit and whisked through customs.

As Jala drove me from the airport I shared my thoughts with her, This is a precious journey, maybe my last time to be traveling in this way.

Why the last time? She looked at me quizzically as the car, a small white Ambassador wove through the traffic, a surrounding wall of compressed movement: cars, mopeds, bicycles, tricycle rickshaws, trucks, buses, cows, dogs, even monkeys on the streets, and pedestrians, a river of pedestrians flowing unceasingly in both directions. The smell of rotting garbage and exhaust fumes was ubiquitous, as was the use of cell phones. I closed the window, pleased that the car had air conditioning. The street noise was a cacophony highlighted by the dissonant honking of horns. I knew horn honking was an art form in India, not so much a warning but a statement of presence, of being part of the parade. These sensations together with the bright sunlight, colorful storefronts, and the multi-hued dress of the people overwhelmed my sensory perception. Amid the ebb and flow of urban street life, vignettes caught my attention. Alongside stationary cows at the side of the road I saw fresh produce vendors seated on straw mats behind mounds of shiny egg-plants, cauliflower, white radishes and other seasonal produce. And next to them sari-clad vendors attending beautiful flower stalls. Yellow and orange marigold garlands adorned cars, bicycles, animals, people and buildings.

Trouble with my eyes. I replied. I’ll tell you about it, later, when we are out of this… I waved my hand, Confusion. Jala laughed and shrugged, Not confusion, Leela, Indian street scene. You never get out of it. You get used to it…Trouble with your eyes? That’s bad isn’t it, you being a journalist. How will you write, take photos?

Laughing with her, I relaxed. No big deal… yet. Thanks for organizing the reception; so unexpected and such fun. I recognized many family members from my childhood visits. Of course I see myself reflected in you all, we are all aging. Turning impulsively I squeezed her free hand. It’s so good to be here with you and the family.

She smiled at me. Jalaja, beautiful Jala, she reminded me of her mother, one of my father’s sisters; we all have the Pathak look.

I’m going to enjoy my days here. The photos you emailed me of your home are inviting, so tranquil. I can do with some luxury and quiet after that long haul from New York.

Some time later, when finally I was alone in one of the guest bedrooms, I noted that the letter—as Sofia, my yoga teacher, had promised it would—had arrived from the ashram. Jala had placed it on my bed.

Seeing it there I recalled the moment I made the decision to travel to India. In the fall, about two months earlier, during one of my regular visits to my eye doctor, he told me, There are signs of degeneration in your left eye, the ‘good’ one.

This news shocked me; after the operation to my right eye a year ago, this could presage life-changing reality. Immediately I arranged to spend two months on the Asian sub-continent with my father’s family. After all India was my fatherland, and I wanted to see my family again. Before leaving New York, I shared my travel plans with Sofia who was excited.

While you are there would you like to visit Maharishi, my teacher’s ashram? As I told you, it is in Darjeeling in west Bengal. If you’re staying with your cousins in New Delhi it’s an easy flight or train ride, both cities are way up in the north.

This was the suggestion that she had made several months earlier and now I was here I could envisage myself at the ashram learning about another culture, and finding time to relax. Drowsily I decided that once I was over the jet lag I would arrange a visit to Darjeeling. I sunk into the bed. As I was falling asleep I heard the child at the airport ask, Where are your children? The question jolted my consciousness to wakefulness. It was repeated almost hauntingly, like a mantra, as I struggled now to fall sleep. But one specific memory kept me awake, as it had many times since I’d been on assignment in east Africa the previous winter.

******

Brother Joe at the mission asked me, Would you like to join me on a quick round of the emergency children’s ward? We brought in five youngsters today found in a deserted village in the far hills. We have no idea yet why they were left behind, or where the adults are. The younger ones are near death, all of them severely malnourished. I promised the doctor I’d come by tonight to administer last rites.

Excusing myself from a group of Belgian nuns, who had arrived that day, I followed him into the night. The warm air enwrapped me like a shawl. The African sky at night seemed close enough to touch with its intricate golden fretwork. In the east the full moon that had risen earlier, looking blood red, had ascended on its path in stages—brown gold, beaten gold, and finally, this smaller almost silver orb in the sky. A nightjar whirred close by, shrieking a warning call. It was a short walk to the clinic, where in a side room a bare light bulb dimly lit the eight small cots, five holding shrunken human shapes. Large insects buzzed and bombarded the netted windows.

Brother Joe moved from cot to cot as he blessed the victims, at his side a young Swedish woman, a volunteer doctor. He smiled benevolently at one youngster lying too still, large eyes staring at him from an almost skeletal face. Something drew me to Brother Joe’s side at this child’s cot; I leaned over to hold his hand. The desperately sick child tried to lift his hand to touch mine, but he was too weak. Closing his eyes, he seemed to turn inward, and I sensed he was near death. Unexpectedly, I had an onset of racking heaves that left me desperate for breath, and frightened. Brother Joe and the doctor held their arms around me and led me to a small round table with several chairs in one corner of the room. The doctor brought me a glass of water.

Brother Joe was sympathetic, I understand your distress; you get used to seeing it, but never to the idea of the suffering.

After I drank the water, still disturbed by my emotional response and strangely silent because of it, I left the room with Brother Joe. It was a relief to be away from there, and from the starved and dying children. It was near nine thirty, and with lights out by ten we needed to return to the mission house. We walked in silence. At the guest residence, Brother Joe took both of my hands in his.

It’s a hard place here, Leela, a constant life and death struggle. Africa is not for the faint-hearted. Your tears of sympathy water the seeds of life, and keep hope alive. Blessings Leela, sleep well.

Nodding, I felt ashamed. Not trusting myself to speak, I squeezed Brother Joe’s hands in gratitude for his understanding. Turning away quickly I hurried into the old mission building, opened the thick wooden doors and went immediately