The Blissful Mother
by Nathan Leslie
From any perspective you can think of, my love life has been a wash. Not one, but two divorces. Serial sex. Ugliness seemed to seep into my life from all sides. That was years ago.
Since then I've been on a sort of strict regimen. I began a no-red-meat diet, which seems to make a difference. I quit smoking completely. Started running every morning. Two miles at six in the morning isn't exactly a hoot, but when you're on the mend, sacrifices must be made.
Additionally, I decided to eliminate sex from my life entirely. My posture was this: nobody can give me a better orgasm than Rosie and her five sisters, and until I find love nobody's going to get the chance to try. Yet, I can't overestimate this: it wasn't easy. My job has something to do with this mess. I work as an assistant manager of a hotel/conference center in Sheperdstown, West Virginia. Context: when you work surrounded by young female employees (desk, bar, restaurant), and then are forced to restrain yourself when women in their power suits come waltzing through for some series of ungodly dull seminars on accounting or business writing, it's difficult-repeat, difficult-not to meet up with the brunette at the bar with the anklet tattoo peeking out from under her high heels (especially if she's staring vacantly into the Keno machine). Especially when you have the key to her room. We'll get to ethics later.
The other factor here is that when your life is empty as mine was after Linda left me for another woman three years ago, you need something, anything, to fill the void. For at least a year and a half it was anonymous sex with whoever I could lay my hands on. Sex was the filler that gave my life meaning, if only for fifteen minutes. Yet, above and beyond coitus itself, it was a diversion. It was the hunt that inspired me-the thrill of the chase, the kill. It was difficult-repeat, difficult-to just quit cold turkey, just like that.
But then. I did.
Then-now-a year and a half without so much as a blowjob in the boiler room. This was the time of hard-core personal reconstruction. My own personal boot camp: diet, exercise, and abstinence.
Everything changed with Pia Ma.
Now, to understand the impact that Pia Ma had upon my life, I have to backtrack, contextually speaking. In terms of conference centers, summers are always light. I believe I can safely generalize that whether you are in Japan, Kenya, or France your summer is going to be quieter than, let's say, February. The people who would normally make the conference center rounds can all afford six-week vacations in Costa Rica.
Sheperdstown is quaint in December, dull in July. Pia Ma's group, "The Blissful Mother," was scheduled for July 23-30th, the height of the down season. The week before, all that we had was a weekend antique show, and a small family reunion. This is compared to five or six major events every week in the winter. This is another way of saying that when "The Blissful Mother" came into town, the whole staff was dying to cater to their every whim. Anything to relieve the boredom.
Not that we knew what to expect. It goes without saying that we didn't know what was coming our way. "Blissful Mother," we all said. "What is this some new age rock group?" But I knew it wasn't. Somehow my gut told me everything was going to be different.
Then they arrived -- they being the Americans paying top dollar to listen to Ma's lectures and spiritual guidance. This was my first surprise. When I saw the Indian name in the registry I just assumed all or most of the guests would be Indian-perhaps a family get-together of some sort. Instead, almost the entire group was frizzy-haired, graying, white-overgrown hippies. But well into the early afternoon there was still no sign of Ma. Still, nobody amongst the attendees seemed worried.
Then it was eight, nine, ten at night. I was on duty at the time, with Joanna and Bruce behind the desk. I was in the midst of doing some paper work, but I had a hard time concentrating. The sense of anticipation was palpable.
Finally, a call came through to the front desk.
"Yes, hello."
"The blissful mother is ready to enter. Please open the front doors for her entrance after you have informed the guests of her arrival."
There are times in my professional life when I knew not to ask a follow-up question, since the authority on such matters was speaking. This was one of those times: I just did as I was told.
Once I put the announcement through via intercom, I walked over to one of the couches in the lobby and waited for the spectacle to arrive. Little did I know. Approximately thirty seconds after the announcement, Ma's followers leapt into the lobby each carrying bowls filled with flowers. All of a sudden petals darted into the air toward the entrance. One minute after the announcement, all the people we had checked in during the long day formed a human corridor down the center of the lobby, throwing flowers and chanting.
Then, through the open doors I could see eight men dressed in white, carrying a stately woman, on a white platform. Her followers went into a fit, throwing more flowers, chanting, and falling to their knees almost simultaneously. They bowed over and over again. The men carried Ma through the gathering slowly, and each guest turned, still bowing, as she passed.
As for me, I just sat in awe at the power this woman had over Ma's groupies. Sitting on the platform dressed in white robes, she appeared absolutely regal: salt and pepper hair, long and stately neck, delicate hands, and a posture that would make West Point proud. Yet, as I watched her more intently, I could see the strength of her gaze; her eyes were dark and looming, deeply recessed in her face, yet as unwavering as steel. Her jaw was set in firm determination: I knew right away this was not a woman to take lightly. The overpowering scent of flowers seemed to underscore this.
The next day at two I was back on duty. This gave me some time to catch up on my sleep, since I always have trouble nodding off when it's hot, air conditioning or no air-conditioning. I can't explain it. That night I had the strangest dreams, the kind that seem so vivid when you are experiencing them, but can't remember as soon as you wake up. It was disorienting. When I walked towards the conference center, I could hear chanting before I even stepped into the building, a different one from the night before. Then I stepped into the lobby, and was immediately struck by a wave of sound. The entire building seemed to reverberate from the singing. I asked Ron, the manager, what was going on.
"They've got about ten mikes in there," he said.
"It's some sort of cleansing exercise."
I went into the office suite, what we call "the hovel." I put my dinner in the fridge, checked my messages, that sort of thing. Then, I walked over to the bank of security cameras manned by Derrick, our long-time guy. He looked at me and shook his head.
"This is some sort of craziness, huh?"
"Yeah," I said.
But I couldn't help becoming transfixed by the goings-on: Gutama Ma was dancing. I don't mean some sort of weak-need American sway; she was spinning eyes-closed, arms raised, and hands flailing, seemingly in divine rapture. The guests swayed along though, as I assume she was directing them to do. Then they chanted and played cymbals, drums, and bells.
"How long has this been going on?" I asked Derrick.
"Going on three hours. There's supposed to be a lecture later." He rolled his eyes.
"When?"
"Later, man. How should I know? Later."
"Later," I said. "Okay."
Of course, I had to attend to work: Check on the housecleaning, touch base with our accountant, contact the new chef candidates, go over the budget, put my John Hancock on the endless stream of paper-work. Still, I kept checking up on conference room three. Finally around three-thirty, the lecture was starting.
Ron went home. I told Derrick he could take fifteen, that I'd watch the screens.
"Must get boring staring at the television all the time," I said.
"Man, you have no idea."
As soon as Derrick left, I was back in the security booth, transfixed again. This time it was just Pia Ma's voice, the purest and clearest of all voices. Listening to her was like listening to a voice inside of you, speaking directly to you. I've never experienced anything like it.
Then I started to hear her, what she was saying. She spoke of oneness between all things, and the beauty of life. She spoke of the love of the gods, and how to best approach them. She spoke of the need for purity and a clean mind, the need for clarity of purpose. She spoke of love and contentment. She spoke of her life, or began to. That was when Derrick returned, patting me on the shoulder without saying a word.
The next day I wasn't scheduled to work. Still, I woke up at six and ran, then sat down to a light breakfast. As I was drinking my coffee and eating my toast, I felt my mind wandering, and my concentration waning. I couldn't seem to focus on the newspaper or anything. As hard as I tried, my thoughts kept returning to Pia Ma, the chants, the flowers. It was as if she had hypnotized me.
Though I wanted to return to work to witness Ma's speeches and the dancing, I was worried about what my colleagues would think-the embarrassment of being at the center with no reason. I was honestly terrified at the prospect of losing the respect of my colleagues. Yet, I had to physically stop myself from getting in the car and driving five minutes down the road. No. I needed to control my desires, I told myself. I watched a movie to take my mind off The Blissful Mother. I went out for lunch, to the mall, all to avoid going to work.
Finally, around five in the evening, I couldn't stand it any longer. My sense of curiosity was too great. I drove to work.
Yet, this time when I entered the lobby, I couldn't hear chanting, and only a few smattered guests lingered about the lobby in their robes and beads. I waved to the desk crew who most likely thought that since I was in casual attire, I must have left something behind the desk, and was just swinging by to pick it up. Instead, I went to the restaurant. When I walked in, I saw why everything in the center was so quiet: all the guests were eating, all dressed in white, quietly spooning vegetables into their mouths. Nobody spoke at all. Aside from the clinking of silverware it was silent. No chance to inquire: I walked back out into the lobby.
Standing by one of the sofas off to the left was a tall woman with glasses and short-cropped hair ringing her head. She stood staring at the pattern on the sofa, a finger outstretched, almost in amazement. I watched her eyes widen and shrink as her pupils gathered the geometry of paisley.
"Excuse me," I said, approaching quickly.
She didn't respond at first, still tracing the patterns in her mind. Then, suddenly she seemed to snap out of it and recognize my presence.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said.
"That's fine," I said. "Nice sofa?"
"Yes. I was given an assignment," she said.
"What?"
"Oh, well The Blissful Mother gave us each an assignment. Mine was to contemplate the beauty of shapes. Yes."
I introduced myself, explained my station in life, and tried to communicate to this devotee my interest in The Blissful Mother in a way that I hoped she would not find offensive or strange. I sat down on the sofa cum-object-of-analysis, and patted a spot next to me. Then I immediately felt patronizing. Still, she sat without hesitation.
"Let me ask you a question," I said.
"Yes," the woman said.
"What is it about The Blissful Mother that you are so interested in?"
"Yes," she said. "It's funny. It is not The Blissful Mother that I am interested in, as much as the truth that speaks through her. The Blissful Mother, if you don't already know, is one of the spiritual centers in the world. God relays through her."
"How? I mean, how did this happen?"
"Oh, well, the way that she explains it, she didn't realize she was so blessed until she was a young bride. She was married at age thirteen."
"Thirteen?"
"Yes. She would cook for her husband, as almost all Indian women do. Yet, when she cooked, her consciousness would retreat. She would not know where she was. When she would enter one of these trances, it is said of her that she would see Kali herself flying through the air. She has been said to lose all control of her body during these times, rolling on the ground, bouncing up and down like a rubber ball."
"This is unbelievable," I said.
"And yet, witnesses have said that her body appears to grow as large as a hippo and as small as a mouse. But it is in her devotion to God that is truly remarkable."
I decided I had to talk to her the next day, even if it was only for five minutes. Upon arriving at work, the first thing I did was to approach one of her entourage.
"I must see her," I said. "I must speak to her." After much wrangling she agreed to see me around nine at night, right before she went to sleep. To meet the appointment, I had to stay after work for three hours, or go home and return. I stayed after, basking in the glow.
When The Blissful Mother finally beckoned me, I didn't expect much, as I was sure her saintly schedule was fairly booked. When I was eating my lemon chicken and rice, I imagined a five-minute session where Ma remained mysterious and remote, in a half-trance, seated in a lotus position, flanked by her entourage. Instead, when I knocked she opened the door herself in one of the red flannel bathrobes we provide (and sell for fifty dollars a pop), balancing a glass of water and the television remote in her left hand as she shook my hand with her right.
"Have a seat," she said, directing me to the sofa as she sat on the armchair, channel-surfing with the sound on mute.
"Sorry if I'm drinking in front of you. I just got dehydrated after these long days. Can I get you some water? Or Coca-cola maybe?"
I was stunned. This was like seeing mother Teresa at the racetracks. I just shook my head.
"You look pale. Um, what is your name again?"
I told her, but wouldn't look at her. I felt foolish.
"I see," she said. "You expected to see me like I am out there. I am sure that is the problem. Correct?" "No," I said. "I just didn't know."
"You didn't know that I watch television and drink Coke?"
"Yes," I said.
"I live in society like anybody else. I was looking for the news. I do like to keep up with the world. Some do not, but to me I think we must be practical. Plus, I use events to spice up my lectures. You have to hook some of them with references they already are familiar with."
"Oh," I said.
"Yes. There are many aspects to each and every one of us. Even I need a break from spirituality and holiness at times. Does this mean I am less pure? Perhaps. Nevertheless, I can't be that all day everyday," she said pointing below.
"I understand," I said.
"I can see that there is something about you that is.in turmoil perhaps. You have been through quite a lot in your life?"
"Yes," I said. I crossed my arms, holding onto my elbows. "I am trying to piece my life back together."
"But it is so very difficult to do that," she said.
"How is that going? At this she placed the remote control on the coffee table, and walked to me. She placed her hand on my forehead, then sat beside me. I felt such an upwelling of remorse and shame that I began to weep.
"I am sure you heard about the visions and trances. I know you think that spirituality is difficult to achieve. Yet, let me comfort you by saying that one can know God by knowing all. For instance, sometimes I feel closest to Kali when I help others. And often you help others simply by being a good person."
"But you give so much to the poor and helpless. I can't do those things."
"And nobody is asking you to. Most people live as I do. Yet, I have never undergone previous births."
"I don't understand," I said.
"I am what you might call a self-made spiritual leader," she said. "I wasn't chosen like many. So I feel this makes me more accessible. At any rate, here is my advice: do not try so hard to be perfect. Mistakes are only mistakes in our eyes. God does not see it that way."
"I have become abstinent," I said. "I just-I don't know. Is this the right way to overcome my sins? Is that what I should do?"
Slowly but firmly she shook her head. She placed her hand upon my forehead again, and I could suddenly hear the almost silent buzz on the television. I could feel the touch of her palms, and the feelings through them. I was suddenly aware of everything around me, on a heightened level. It was a car ad, then an ad for shampoo. Then a man spoke into the camera, wearing a suit and tie. In the background was Washington, D.C. rendered by computer graphics. The news was on. I closed my eyes. In the darkness of my vision, I could see a small blue orb. I stared at it, and felt a great relief, a release, and the warmth of her palm against me. This is how the rest of my life began.