and keep walking until you see huts. It’s probably Ramakrishna’s place unless something else has gone up there, which is unlikely, since it’s all dry, fallow land.”
“How long is the course?” said Max.
Anand laughed. The shyness left his face. “This isn’t your usual Indian ashram with Guru Goons making foreigners shriek devotional songs in ecstasy,” he said. “It’s just a saint teaching what he knows and he barely speaks any English. There are no courses or programs. You live with him. He accepts no money or donations. You go there as a beggar, a monk, accept whatever alms he gives you in the form of his teachings and leave when your hands are full. All he’ll ask for in the end is that you never speak of him, and point people his way only if they are serious seekers.”
“And you think I’m a serious seeker?” said Max hopefully.
Anand shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, deflating Max. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. Most Westerners who come here want easy answers. That’s why I also fell into the
Hare Krishna
thing, chanting, love, all the simplistic stuff that gives you some happiness but doesn’t last. But something in your eyes, in your going to the high Himalayas in this crazy winter, makes me want to believe that you can be more.” He sat down on the chair opposite Max. “I asked Leela for her opinion as well. I haven’t given the address to anyone in some years. I guess I shouldn’t have without knowing you better but I told myself, if he passes my impromptu test, I’ll tell him.”
Max stared at the paper again. “Have you been there?”
Anand nodded. “I didn’t last even a week. I wasn’t meant to be a yogi in this life. Ramakrishna helped me realize that.”
“Yet you are happy,” said Max, looking at the pictures of the smiling family on the wall, all with big dimples on red cheeks.
Again, the dimples appeared. Anand thrust his shaven head closer. “A painting of the moon gives us joy but it isn’t the moon, is it?” he said. “How much more joy would there be in seeing the moon rather than its painting, in feeling the warmth of the sun and not its reflection in the water? I’m merely seeing the painting, Max; you have a chance at seeing the moon.”
“What does that mean?”
“One day you’ll know,” said Anand. “At least, I hope you will. And maybe you’ll come back and show me the moon too.”
Max shook Anand’s hands. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said. He got up. “I’ll make my way there immediately.”
Anand laughed. “You can’t go there in these clothes,” he said.
Max looked at his muddy, torn cargo pants. “I have a cleaner pair in my backpack.”
“No, I meant that it’s very hot there,” said Anand. “You won’t last an hour in those heavy shoes and clothes.”
Max still felt cold from his hike. “I’ll manage,” he said.
“Trust me,” said Anand. “I’m talking safety, not comfort.”
Max would never take another warning lightly in India. “But I’ll never get shoes and clothes my size here,” he said. “I can barely find shoes that fit me in the US.”
The dimples returned. “Ah, my friend, but there is one place and, luckily, it’s on your way,” said Anand.
12
Two days later, Max was in a youth hostel on the second floor of a rundown building in Mumbai. Every bone in his body hurt from sitting cramped and sleepless for forty hours on a hard wooden seat of the Dehradun–Mumbai Express Train. He had paid for a reserved seat in the second-class compartment but barely enjoyed that privilege as two ticketless women had wanted to share his six-foot-long seat. “Kindly adjust please, kindly adjust please,” they had said, their heads bobbing. And they had been hard to refuse with infants in their arms and large smiles on their sweating faces. He had gotten along famously with them. One woman had thrust her baby into his arms while she went to the platform to refill her water bottle
“How long is the course?” said Max.
Anand laughed. The shyness left his face. “This isn’t your usual Indian ashram with Guru Goons making foreigners shriek devotional songs in ecstasy,” he said. “It’s just a saint teaching what he knows and he barely speaks any English. There are no courses or programs. You live with him. He accepts no money or donations. You go there as a beggar, a monk, accept whatever alms he gives you in the form of his teachings and leave when your hands are full. All he’ll ask for in the end is that you never speak of him, and point people his way only if they are serious seekers.”
“And you think I’m a serious seeker?” said Max hopefully.
Anand shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, deflating Max. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. Most Westerners who come here want easy answers. That’s why I also fell into the
Hare Krishna
thing, chanting, love, all the simplistic stuff that gives you some happiness but doesn’t last. But something in your eyes, in your going to the high Himalayas in this crazy winter, makes me want to believe that you can be more.” He sat down on the chair opposite Max. “I asked Leela for her opinion as well. I haven’t given the address to anyone in some years. I guess I shouldn’t have without knowing you better but I told myself, if he passes my impromptu test, I’ll tell him.”
Max stared at the paper again. “Have you been there?”
Anand nodded. “I didn’t last even a week. I wasn’t meant to be a yogi in this life. Ramakrishna helped me realize that.”
“Yet you are happy,” said Max, looking at the pictures of the smiling family on the wall, all with big dimples on red cheeks.
Again, the dimples appeared. Anand thrust his shaven head closer. “A painting of the moon gives us joy but it isn’t the moon, is it?” he said. “How much more joy would there be in seeing the moon rather than its painting, in feeling the warmth of the sun and not its reflection in the water? I’m merely seeing the painting, Max; you have a chance at seeing the moon.”
“What does that mean?”
“One day you’ll know,” said Anand. “At least, I hope you will. And maybe you’ll come back and show me the moon too.”
Max shook Anand’s hands. “Thank you for trusting me,” he said. He got up. “I’ll make my way there immediately.”
Anand laughed. “You can’t go there in these clothes,” he said.
Max looked at his muddy, torn cargo pants. “I have a cleaner pair in my backpack.”
“No, I meant that it’s very hot there,” said Anand. “You won’t last an hour in those heavy shoes and clothes.”
Max still felt cold from his hike. “I’ll manage,” he said.
“Trust me,” said Anand. “I’m talking safety, not comfort.”
Max would never take another warning lightly in India. “But I’ll never get shoes and clothes my size here,” he said. “I can barely find shoes that fit me in the US.”
The dimples returned. “Ah, my friend, but there is one place and, luckily, it’s on your way,” said Anand.
12
Two days later, Max was in a youth hostel on the second floor of a rundown building in Mumbai. Every bone in his body hurt from sitting cramped and sleepless for forty hours on a hard wooden seat of the Dehradun–Mumbai Express Train. He had paid for a reserved seat in the second-class compartment but barely enjoyed that privilege as two ticketless women had wanted to share his six-foot-long seat. “Kindly adjust please, kindly adjust please,” they had said, their heads bobbing. And they had been hard to refuse with infants in their arms and large smiles on their sweating faces. He had gotten along famously with them. One woman had thrust her baby into his arms while she went to the platform to refill her water bottle
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