Cartwheels in a Sari by Jayanti Tamm

own weaknesses, and risk being reported, it was much safer to keep my concerns to myself. As the Chosen One, I had a lot to lose.
    “Mom?” I asked in a low voice.
    She looked at me with deeply tired, apologetic eyes.
    “I had a good meditation tonight,” I said.
    THE REST STOP was populated with truck drivers smoking and chatting up the waitresses, who jiggled while refilling coffee cups. All heads turned as we entered. We looked like we suffered from severe personality disorders—our top halves resembling skiers, bundled in earmuffs, scarves, and parkas, and our bottom halves meditators from which flowed our matching Guru-blue saris, the color selected by Guru as our standard uniform for all public concerts and events. The finishingtouch below our saris, the outer symbol of our contemplative lives, was our footwear—various sizes and colors of running shoes, which demonstrated our shared enthusiasm for Guru's latest obsession with running. The male disciples all matched one another, wearing white pants, white shirts, and running shoes. We loaded in, filling the restaurant to capacity.
    Umed, a male disciple, carried Guru's portable chair, blanket, area rug, and tray. As always, Umed was prepared to set up a mini-shrine wherever Guru went. Vanita, who, along with her sisters, Sarisha and Upala, owned an Indian vegetarian restaurant in Guru's neighborhood, stood by armed with multiple thermoses filled with juice, water, ginger ale, and teas for Guru as well as bags with snacks, just in case Guru was hungry or thirsty. No matter the location, from meditations at the church to gas stations, one of the three women was permanently on call with sacred snacks and beverages for Guru. With these standard procedures, any area—public or private—was transformed within minutes into a meditation hall. Disciples always cleared a respectful circle around Guru, never daring to come too close, and always careful to leave the best area for Guru to occupy, as they stood gazing lovingly with folded hands, positioning themselves to have a clear view of Guru and for Guru to have an even clearer view of them. This was not always easy, since the standard seating chart seemed to apply no matter where we went. Guru's strict seating order remained and if a disciple simply forgot, there were others to remind the person by standing or sitting directly in front of them. A first-row seat in the church meant a first-row seat, or area to stand, anywhere.
    The waitresses’ mouths sagged in surprise at our arrival. Iwas used to it. We created a scene wherever we went. At the Pan Am terminal in Kennedy Airport, before a trip back to India, Guru held a meditation followed by prasad at the departure area gate. Having three hundred people converge with folded hands in such a small area had alarmed airport security. My father had to use all of his negotiating skills to talk down airport officials from calling in SWAT teams, assuring them that we were not staging a threat but were merely waving good-bye to our church leader. Gawks, whispers, hoots, leers, and having the authorities question us were everyday occurrences.
    “It's those Moonies,” a truck driver in a red and black plaid jacket announced with authority. “They sell crap in airports.”
    The waitress nodded and told the short-order cook she was going to need some backup.
    I turned to the man and, with my hand on my hip, I sighed extra loud and rolled my eyes in deliberate exaggeration, to let him know how absurdly ignorant he was. Even if I was having a crisis in faith, I wasn't going to let a man with bacon caught in his beard insult my guru. Though we were frequently mislabled Moonies, Hare Krishnas, and the Kool-Aid group of Jim Jones, we found it a personal affront, swearing that those oddballs had nothing in common with us; we were a “spiritual path,” and those others, according to Guru, were just crazy cults.
    “Oi, Jayanti.” Guru nodded toward me.
    He sat upon the HoJo orange