honor U Thant. I spent the hours huddled underneath a garbage bag fashioned into a poncho. Wet and cold, as the hours trudged past I concluded that I hated the UN and wished it would just go away so I could go home. Guru, on the other hand, was elated by the visit. Soon the photograph of Guru and U Thant bowing with folded hands to each other was being publicly distributed along with typed comments excerpted from U Thant's kind words.
Guru used the photos and comments so much that U Thant's office was notified by some high-level officials who had been keeping close watch. Several top executives viewed Guru as a charlatan who claimed his role at the UN was of an official capacity, and urged the Secretary-General's office to keep their distance. Thus began the long-standing game that sometimes felt like Risk and sometimes like dodgeball between the Secretary-General's office and Guru. Certainly no Secretary-General after U Thant ever spent hours sitting in a wet field with Guru again. They had learned their lesson. Butnonetheless, with the ongoing efforts of his disciples, Guru became a permanent fixture as he continued to expand his role and presence at the UN.
The side door finally unlocked. I opened my eyes. I napped so often now, I wasn't even aware when it happened. All of my Nobel Prize prayer sessions inevitably ended in my jerking awake and peering at a clock that registered that hours had passed. This happened in meditations with Guru as well; I felt as though I had caught the contagious disease that caused many disciples to conk out at a second's notice.
Gitali stood with an extra large smile on her sweaty face. Her frizzy black hair was tightly pulled into a bun, and she wore a sari and yellow latex gloves. I must have been standing outside for at least an hour, waiting for her to open the door, but she didn't acknowledge that fact, as she handed me a stack of garbage bags, informing me that I would be cleaning the birdcages today.
I knew Gitali adored the zoo; with it she had a purpose and need—a way to belong to Guru's coveted domestic space. Gitali, like the majority of Guru's disciples in the New York area who did not work for disciple-owned businesses, or “divine-enterprises” as Guru called them, was employed at one of the UN branches. Even with permanent contracts, high pay, great benefits, and the ability to meditate with Guru twice a week on their lunch hour, most disciples, still longed to be with Guru, every day, all day, as full-time devotees. Gitali, a full-time UN worker and part-time Madal zookeeper, was no exception. She was in Guru's special close circle, assigned to Isha's friend pool. Since Gitali worked at UNICEF during the week, which she claimed as her spiritual
sadhana,
having to deal with outsiders for eight hours a day plus ridethe low-consciousness subway, her time at Guru's zoo cleaning bird droppings was her refuge.
I put on a pair of mammoth cleaning gloves that were itchy from bleach. Even before opening the door to the bird zone, the thick stench and their shrill squawks clawed through the basement. Always a fan of soft, cuddly animals, I neither understood nor liked birds. Their unblinking eyes and pointy beaks, coupled with their reptilian talons, made me wary. I didn't trust them. When I walked inside, I felt as though my eardrums had been ripped out. Caws, shrieks, whines, and whistles collided at a shattering pitch. Maybe because they never saw sunlight, or were forced to live in cramped conditions, all of the birds seemed extra neurotic, pacing in mad circles in their own messes on the floor, or furiously pecking at the cage bars.
“Nice birdie,” I said, tentatively reaching my arm inside a cage of black mynah birds that had been smuggled by a disciple from Indonesia. Some of the creatures stood their ground, staring me down, as others flapped spastically on metal perches.
“Okay. Nice birdie,” I said, keeping an eye on the one that seemed about to dart in my
Guru used the photos and comments so much that U Thant's office was notified by some high-level officials who had been keeping close watch. Several top executives viewed Guru as a charlatan who claimed his role at the UN was of an official capacity, and urged the Secretary-General's office to keep their distance. Thus began the long-standing game that sometimes felt like Risk and sometimes like dodgeball between the Secretary-General's office and Guru. Certainly no Secretary-General after U Thant ever spent hours sitting in a wet field with Guru again. They had learned their lesson. Butnonetheless, with the ongoing efforts of his disciples, Guru became a permanent fixture as he continued to expand his role and presence at the UN.
The side door finally unlocked. I opened my eyes. I napped so often now, I wasn't even aware when it happened. All of my Nobel Prize prayer sessions inevitably ended in my jerking awake and peering at a clock that registered that hours had passed. This happened in meditations with Guru as well; I felt as though I had caught the contagious disease that caused many disciples to conk out at a second's notice.
Gitali stood with an extra large smile on her sweaty face. Her frizzy black hair was tightly pulled into a bun, and she wore a sari and yellow latex gloves. I must have been standing outside for at least an hour, waiting for her to open the door, but she didn't acknowledge that fact, as she handed me a stack of garbage bags, informing me that I would be cleaning the birdcages today.
I knew Gitali adored the zoo; with it she had a purpose and need—a way to belong to Guru's coveted domestic space. Gitali, like the majority of Guru's disciples in the New York area who did not work for disciple-owned businesses, or “divine-enterprises” as Guru called them, was employed at one of the UN branches. Even with permanent contracts, high pay, great benefits, and the ability to meditate with Guru twice a week on their lunch hour, most disciples, still longed to be with Guru, every day, all day, as full-time devotees. Gitali, a full-time UN worker and part-time Madal zookeeper, was no exception. She was in Guru's special close circle, assigned to Isha's friend pool. Since Gitali worked at UNICEF during the week, which she claimed as her spiritual
sadhana,
having to deal with outsiders for eight hours a day plus ridethe low-consciousness subway, her time at Guru's zoo cleaning bird droppings was her refuge.
I put on a pair of mammoth cleaning gloves that were itchy from bleach. Even before opening the door to the bird zone, the thick stench and their shrill squawks clawed through the basement. Always a fan of soft, cuddly animals, I neither understood nor liked birds. Their unblinking eyes and pointy beaks, coupled with their reptilian talons, made me wary. I didn't trust them. When I walked inside, I felt as though my eardrums had been ripped out. Caws, shrieks, whines, and whistles collided at a shattering pitch. Maybe because they never saw sunlight, or were forced to live in cramped conditions, all of the birds seemed extra neurotic, pacing in mad circles in their own messes on the floor, or furiously pecking at the cage bars.
“Nice birdie,” I said, tentatively reaching my arm inside a cage of black mynah birds that had been smuggled by a disciple from Indonesia. Some of the creatures stood their ground, staring me down, as others flapped spastically on metal perches.
“Okay. Nice birdie,” I said, keeping an eye on the one that seemed about to dart in my
Similar Books
