That’s what this guy says to my mother. Namaste. The god in me recognizes the god in you. He presses his hands together at chest level.
“Namaste,” Mom says, returning the greeting.
“My dearest Rebekah,” the guru says.
I can hear his accent now. It’s that light British accent you hear in people who go to British schools in foreign countries.
“I am most honored to be in your presence,” he says. He bows from the waist and stays there, his head towards the ground.
“Guru!” Mom says, and she falls to her knees.
The ladies follow her lead. Women are dropping like flies all around me. The really pregnant ones have to struggle their way down. The less pregnant women just plop.
I’m the only one still standing. The guru comes out of his bow, and we’re looking at each other face to face.
“Down,” Mom whispers.
“No.”
“Bow down.”
“Jews don’t bow down, Mom. We have a long history of not bowing down.”
Mom is persistent. It’s not like I can kick her, but I shuffle my leg around to try and get her hand off of me.
“Sanskrit, please!” Mom says, still tugging at me.
“Sanskrit?” the guru says.
Finally, somebody who can pronounce my name correctly.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” the guru says. “You have? From who?”
“From your mother. We spoke on the computer. What do you call it?”
“Chatting?”
“Yes. We chatted. She’s very proud of you.”
“She is?” I say.
“Enough, ladies. Get up, please,” the guru says.
The women rise as the guru walks over and stands in front of Mom.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she says.
“I’m here,” he says, and smiles at her.
“May I—” she says, and holds out her arms.
“Please do,” he says, and they embrace, a long, tight embrace, so intense that Mom all but disappears into his robes.
It goes on for way too long, to the point where the ladies and I are standing around, looking at one another uncomfortably.
“What the hell, Mom,” I say.
She emerges from his robes, her face glowing.
“Thank you,” she says to him.
“No, thank you. It’s not often I get to hug a beautiful yogini.”
I clear my throat loudly.
“I’m sorry I scared your son earlier,” the guru says.
“You didn’t scare me,” I say. “Why did you run from me?”
I want to tell him that we keep the stall door closed in America, especially when we look like crazy homeless men, but I glance at Mom and decide it would be better to keep that to myself.
Mom says, “We’re all surprised that you’re here, Guru Bharat. You honor us with your visit.”
“No, no. It’s my honor to be at your center,” he says, like he’s at the center of the world rather than the yoga center next to a waxing salon in Brentwood.
“May I show you around?” Mom says.
“That would be most gracious of you,” the guru says.
“What about the prenatal class?” I say. My being here for the class was important to Mom. Or so she said.
“The guru came all the way from India,” Mom says. “I’m sure the ladies—”
“We don’t mind,” one of the pregnant ladies says.
“We don’t,” another one says. “Of course not.”
I say, “I just think when you make a commitment, you should keep your commitment.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mom says.
“I came here to help you. I could have been in school right now.”
“Since when do you want to be in school?”
“Since I’d like to get into college, Mom. If that’s okay with you.”
“You’re only a junior,” Mom says. “You’ve got another year.”
“It’s Jewish school, Mom. We’re worrying about college from day one.”
“I’m sorry, guru,” Mom says. “I don’t think Sanskrit understands that we have the founder of a religious order in our midst.”
“It’s not a religious order,” the guru says.
“What is it?” Mom says.
“It’s nothing,” the guru says.
He smiles and claps his hands, delighted with himself.
“How can it be nothing?” Sally says.
“The Buddha called it sunyata. Emptiness. There is no essential nature to things. We give them meaning, when they deserve none.”
Mom throws me a look. “We want to learn all about it, guru,” she says. “Just give me a minute to speak to my son.”
Mom grabs me and pulls me into a yoga studio.