BE HERE THEN
A Memoir
ONE
The first time I see Bhagavan Das is on the summer solstice, one year after my father’s death. I don’t see the holy person I read about in Be Here Now. I see a guy surrounded by giggling girls, wearing shorts and a t-shirt with his back toward me. When he turns, he licks his lower lip then bites down, as he bends towards one.
An hour later I sit in the front row of a dim room. He passes by me draped in a long white gown with dreadlocks hanging to his knees. Candles surge. The crowd’s voice dies. When he bows before the altar a dreadlock whips my face. Turning, he grins with the eyes of a serpent and rises onto the stage.
He scans the room. His gaze seems to see what the rest of us cannot. Then, he picks up his ektara and begins chanting. He cries out with yearning and thunder. His voice is undressing him, calling to the Goddess Kali, begging her to take from him all that is not free.
Tears stream down my face. He cries to her like he’s her baby. He stomps the floor and growls like a war god who wants to make love. My body trembles. I want to crawl into his lap, but I don’t.
After the kirtan, I wait to meet him. He looms sweaty and glowing. His eyes are lightning blue, his eyebrows bushy. He opens his arms. “I love you,” he whispers in my ear. I feel his heart thump against mine, the steam of his breath on my throat. I hear silk and smoke and gravel.
I give my life to Kali through him.
“Will I see you again?”
His eyes reach into mine. I nod. “Good,” he says, and hugs the next girl.
