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8 Grand Lake Menu for a Guru I was eleven when the theology I had so wished for came to our house garbed in the saffron robes of a holy man. Mahananda Swami, a slightly built, bearded guru, emerged in front of 1403 S. Homer from a tan Buick LeSabre. Swami pulled himself out of the rear seat by gripping the seat back and sliding forward to get leverage. People in white saris or kurtas gathered around his door to help. Mr. Towner next door slowed his steps behind his mower to watch, his weedless lawn barely needing its shave. Otherwise no one seemed to notice, which surprised me since I was waiting to be embarrassed. The local college marching band practiced in a nearby field and a tuba sounded a blat just as the guru stood. The band oompah-ed while he walked slowly toward our door. Earlier, my parents had whispered a bit about what the neighbors might think and Baba made what he thought of as a “flustered-woman” noise. “We’ll get so close to God it won’t matter,” he said, fluttering his fingers toward the neighbor’s house. Mom muttered as she walked by but with a chuckle in her voice, “Baap re baap, shunaches?” (Are you listening to this?). Baba clutched his chest in mock heart pain. “I may die tomorrow,” he said, sneaking a look toward my mother. Indians gathered from Kansas City, Joplin, and Tulsa, dressing in cotton rather than silk as an outward show of inner humbleness. When the clothes 60 Grand Lake Menu for a Guru were subdued, so were the colors of the foods, I noticed. Mom made dal, cauliflower and potatoes, and chole: all golden in color. The table seemed to quietly pulse with turmeric, and the golden hue enveloped the kitchen. Some women wore the traditional saffron orange and their cotton saris were crisp. The color somehow did not seem bright, but toned like skin and the earth itself. Because I was eleven and the women were busy, I did not get involved in the preparations for the Great Man. But I managed to peek. There was much talk about what types of food a guru would eat. “Plain, plain,” my mother said over the phone to a friend. “Simple vegetables only,” and she nodded her head into the phone. Her voice took on an Indian cadence when it was time for religious events, when there were more Indians about than usual, when there was a “proper” way to handle foods. Baba talked about the Great Man coming and looked skyward. It seemed to me he was rolling his eyes and then, from behind the paper he was reading in the living room, he began making the flustered noises. “Uuuuuhh,” and the paper rustled with the movement of his fingers. At four o’clock, my mother sat in her gold velour recliner with a cup of hot tea and closed her eyes. Her eyelids pulsed a bit even after she sighed and settled into the chair. I had seen these signs before, so I retreated awhile. Eventually the kitchen filled up with uncles and aunties, all of them friends—not relatives—of my parents, everyone padding around in socks, and I passed between them unnoticed, sliding a bit on the linoleum to avoid collisions. Later, sheets were laid down in the hallway to create a “pure” environment, and the guru, in orange robes and a long, graying beard, walked into the house and into my brother’s room to rest. He held the saffron fabric that hung to his ankles away from his feet so he would not trip and the fabric pulled over his kneecap. But something was not right with the guru. His knees seemed weak, the caps bony, poking inward, though he was not pigeon toed. He was crowded by those walking alongside and just behind him in our narrow hall. He was perhaps trying to take narrower steps. But I squinted harder to get a bead on him and sure enough, he was knock-kneed. I had never seen a man walk like this. It seemed important. It was not a factor for the adults, though, this vulnerable walk. The men’s voices softened. They waited to see if he might speak. The women tittered. Mom made homemade cheese, chhana, for Swami, cut it into cubes, and sprinkled it with sugar. I imagined people went overboard making foods for [3.15.174...

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