One of the greatest blessings whilst in Australia are the small breaths of home that occasionally intrude upon my otherwise separate existence here. Recently I read The Kite Runner (I know, I know about 4 years later than the rest of the world), and visibly flinched at the mention of Los Altos, San Jose, Fremont, and all those other locations so tied in my memories that now are so far away from me. Yet I have had the immense pleasure of reuniting with some wonderful people from home; namely my wonderful parents and sister, who flew all the way to Melbourne to visit me. But additionally, I have also run into a couple old friends, the most recent of which was this past weekend.
Claire and I grew up in the same town, went to the same church, and in fact, being eight years older than me, she was often called upon by my parents to babysit me and my sister. In recent years, her life has taken her far from Los Altos, finally settling in Mt. Eliza, a small town about an hour south of Melbourne. She lives with her partner and their adorable dog in their self-described slice of Melbourne domestic bliss in Mt. Eliza, within walking distance of the ashram that represents a large part of their life.
Though I exist in my own suburban existence here in Bundoora, it lacks a certain home-like, non-ghetto quality that was readily apparent and available in Mt. Eliza. We did some shopping in the downtown area, bought some presents (hear that, Mom and Dad?) and took the dog to the dog park before heading back to Claire's to get ready for satsang that night at the ashram. The ashram is a spiritual center based around the teachings of Swami Shankarananda, known informally as Swamiji. Born a Brooklyn Jew, Swamiji graduated from Columbia and was working as a professor at Indiana University when one night, he opened the door to find a gun pressed to his head. Right as he began to ponder the meaninglessness of his existence thus far, the gunman looked at him closely, said "Wrong house," and left.
If that isn't the kind of encounter that leaves one grasping for answers, I don't know what is, and indeed, for him it sparked a journey that would take him to India, New York, LA, and finally leave him in Melbourne, Australia, where he runs the spiritual center. My first encounter with Swamiji occurred when I was helping Claire de-thorn roses in preparation for that night's festivities. There was suddenly a flurry of activity around me and I turned to find myself looking into the eyes of a man, perhaps in his fifties, about my height, clad in orange robes and obviously in a hurry.
"Swamiji, this is Ellen," Claire said. "I used to babysit her."
"No kidding," he said, the Brooklyn still evident in his voice. We made small talk, he asked me how I liked Obama, we high-fived, and then, in a swirl of orange, he was gone. I didn't realize how flustered I had been until after he was gone.
The rest of the de-thorning passed uneventfully, and, once finished, we went to join the gathering party in the meeting hall. We took our places on cushions on the floor and I began to look around the room. Cushions sat in rows on the floor, some occupied, some with a shawl hurriedly thrown over them, clearly reserved. People greeted each other, smiling, extending their smiles to me, asking how I liked Australia, what I was studying, etc. Music began to start, guitar, bass, sitar, saxophone, a wonderful hodge podge of music, sounding both improvisatory and deliberate all at the same time and people began to quietly sway along with the music.
After a few brief announcements by one of the ashramites who was the emcee for the night, we began to chant, at first all together, then with the men echoing the women. Then swamiji arrived and began to speak. He would speak, interspersing spiritual wisdom with personal anecdotes and questions that in any other setting might be hypothetical, but in this case which he clearly expected answers to, waiting expectantly until a tentative hand was raised and an answer was volunteered. At the end of the talk, Claire whispered that now we would have the opportunity to meet Swamiji, and we dutifully took our place in the line forming before him. After not an insignificant time spent in line, we were standing in front of Swamiji.
I followed Claire's and Jess' cue and knelt before him. He had a sort of fan made out of peacock feathers that he would tap people with in a sort of benediction, and we were dutifully swatted. I don't remember what was said, just again that flustered feeling. We made more small talk, I smiled like an idiot and soon he was folding the three of us into an embrace. His cheek pressed against my hair and though I probably should have felt uncomfortable, I didn't. He handed each of us a square of chocolate, as though we had been good at the doctor's office, and with one final goodbye swat, we were off.
We moved a few feet down the line to Ma Devi, Swamiji's partner at the ashram, and a Swami in her own right. Claire introduced us, and we made the same small talk. "Here," she said, "Take this" and handed me a small photograph of a robed saint, smiling broadly and making the "ok" sign. "He'll protect you," she said and chucked me gently under the chin. We rose and headed to the kitchen for chai and cake, which we ate as I was introduced to countless new and smiling faces. I was constantly struck by how friendly everyone was, chattering away happily to me about their experiences with Swamiji and at the ashram, asking me questions about myself, seeming genuinely interested.
The next morning, Claire took the dog to the dog park and Jess brought me back to the ashram for the Gurugita, a chant with 216 verses that we all dutifully recited. Though I found myself occasionally lost and often stumbling over twelve-syllable Sanskrit words, I was congratulated effusively by my neighbors for "keeping up," proving once again their extreme kindness. After the chanting we went to breakfast where everyone, probably twenty people, sat together around a large table and chatted. I saw Swamiji signalling to Claire and nodding his head in my direction. Dutifully, she stood and introduced me to the whole table, as though I were the new kid in class. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked expectantly at me. I found myself on the receiving end of several questions, asked in rapid succession:
"What are you studying?" "How long are you in Australia?" "How do you find university here?"
I felt like a sports star at a press conference and answered as best I could. When Swamiji and Ma Devi left, Swamiji stopped by me. "Come back and see us sometime," he said, and as our eyes locked I knew he meant it.
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