Cartwheels in a Sari by Jayanti Tamm Page A

stool, leaning both elbows on the counter in a pose that seemed far too casual for an avatar. I hesitantly approached him with folded hands. There was no doubt that Guru's occult powers had sensed my fears.
    “Yes, Guru,” I answered sheepishly, pressing my hands upon my heart.
    “Jayanti,” Guru said through closed eyes, in a low voice.
    Beloved Guru I love you and nobody else. Beloved Guru I love you and nobody else….
I tried all of my devotions to repair the inner damage I might have caused myself. Trembling, I braced myself and leaned to gather up his disappointment.
    “I have a very important job for you,” Guru said.
    My stomach collapsed. I felt sick. Was I supposed to kill Alo? As the Chosen One, of course, I was the obvious candidate, and why shouldn't I be? Guru selected my soul in order to serve him and him alone. His mission was my only purpose. Besides, I had just passed the deadline of God-Realization by age eleven, and both Guru and I knew that I was not even close to it. Here was a way to expedite my progress and solidify my seat at his divine feet, and I was doubting Guru. No matter what Guru asked, now or in the future, I needed to carry it out, swiftly and obediently. I needed to be a divine soldier—fearless.
    “Yes, Guru,” I vowed, steadying myself for my order.
    “Buy hot chocolate for everyone. You need to count. Bus people. Car people. All. You get special hot chocolate prasad,” Guru said, handing me a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
    I must have looked stunned.
    “Oi. All right?”
    I was confused and needed clarification.
    “When you were talking about Alo, earlier, in the bus …”
    “Good girl, my sweet Jayanti. Of course your guru meant inwardly. All inwardly, Jayanti, divine.” Guru smiled lovingly, adjusting his voice with a slight cough.
    Though I was still shaking, I bowed, feeling relieved for his words and shame for ever doubting him.
    Setting off on my task, my brain couldn't hold the numbers together, nothing followed, nothing stuck. After my third attempt at a recount, I asked Vanita if I could borrow a pen and paper.
    Later, when the order was complete, and I was handing each Styrofoam cup to Guru so he could offer it to the freezing and overjoyed disciples who beamed at the opportunity to approach him, delighting in the fact that he was noticing, one by one, who had made the journey with him and who had not, I saw firsthand the rapture on everyone's faces. I still felt queasy. A massive circle packed tightly around Guru and me. Hundreds of eyes gazed toward him, craving even the slightest return glance. The disciples’ distance from where I stood next to Guru seemed endless. Although I was closest to him, I felt the farthest away.
    Guru's fingers accidentally brushed mine with the presentation of each cup like a formal ceremony from an ancient king's court. My position beside Guru was where his disciples, young and old, male and female, all desired to be. I knew this because they told me, constantly, scribbled on birthday cards, confessed through stalls in the bathroom, murmured through faraway stares.
    “I wish I were you.”
    “How did you ever get to be so blessed?”
    “You are the luckiest person in the whole world.”
    Their loving adoration felt both flattering and baffling. I could not take any credit for it. I had not achieved anything. None of this was my doing at all, but I did not remind them of that; I smiled and blushed, my cheeks always giving awaymy secret discomfort by flaring pink. The disciples’ imaginings of my blessed existence did not include the garish reality of my flawed and crooked self—a fake who did not know how to meditate, who was not anywhere near God-Realization and was bothered less and less by that pressing matter, and, worst of all, who at times dangerously doubted Guru. Of course Guru was not asking for someone to really kill Alo. Guru wasn't at fault—I was, for misunderstanding his wisdom. Tears soaked my eyes. I saw the