Part 23 (1/2)

”Yes, but I just got here. I'm staying at the-”

”You will have to go to the restaurant.” She pointed across the courtyard at a tan brick complex with a series of arched entranceways under the palm trees. She strolled away, her sari palloo swaying as she walked.

He stood there feeling lost and angry and exhausted. He didn't have any way of contacting Kianga. She'd said she would get hold of him through his guesthouse. He unzipped his waist pack and pulled out a ragged sheet of paper on which he had written important phone numbers. He scanned the list and found the Central Guest House, where Kianga said she had booked a room for him, and then, holding the list in one hand, he proceeded down the pathway and under the arches to what looked like the restaurant. There was a cl.u.s.ter of outdoor tables on a patio. Many of the patrons were white. He heard what sounded like French, and perhaps German, or maybe Dutch, being spoken. No one looked his way. He gazed around for some sort of helper or waiter, and seeing none, approached the counter of the restaurant, where there were cakes and cookies displayed in the gla.s.s case. Behind the counter an Indian man and a blond woman were busy putting desserts on plates.

”Is there a phone here?” he asked tentatively.

The Indian man looked up. ”Is it a local call?” he asked in what sounded like British English.

”I need to reach the Central Guest House,” he said.

”Come round this way,” the man instructed, and Abhay went around the corner to the cas.h.i.+er's table, where there was a telephone.

Although he reached someone at the guesthouse, and although she confirmed his reservation, she was not able to help him get to his room. ”You will have to walk,” she informed him. He couldn't quite place her accent. Maybe Italian? Spanish? ”It is not far. Half a kilometer.”

”Isn't there a bus or something?” He had no idea where he was heading.

”No. We have no buses. See you soon.” And she hung up.

So he was still stuck in this very pretty visitors' complex at Auroville. He walked to the entrance gates, where he remembered seeing some sort of information booth. His back was feeling the effects of the b.u.mpy bus ride, and he just wanted to get to his room, take off his backpack, and lie down. Of course now there was no one in the booth.

”Where you want to go?” someone asked from behind, and he saw, to his relief, an Indian man approaching him. This must be the entrance guard, and he would undoubtedly have a map.

”The Central Guest House,” Abhay said. ”Do you know where it is?”

”That way.” The man gestured vaguely down the road. ”Three kilometers.”

”I was told it was only half a kilometer.”

”Three kilometers. I will take you. Only one hundred rupees.” The man pointed to an autorickshaw sitting outside the entrance gate.

This man was not the guard, but an enterprising auto driver. Abhay had now been in India long enough to be outraged at this price. ”A hundred rupees to go three kilometers?”

”I come from Pondicherry. You will not find auto here.”

Abhay stood there fuming. How could Auroville realize human unity if they wouldn't even help people get into the place? He slipped his arms out of his backpack and thumped it to the ground.

”Eighty rupees,” the man said. ”I will take you.” He reached for the backpack.

Abhay waved him away. ”I'll walk,” he declared, slung on his backpack again, and stepped out onto the dirt road. Probably if he kept walking, he'd come across a sign. His sneakers padded over the soft red dirt. The trees all looked alike, a tangled forest of thin trunks along the sides of the path, and it felt like he was just walking in place instead of proceeding to his goal. He could see no signs of any sort, and there was no one ahead of him to ask. Should he go back to the courtyard? At least there were people there. He might have a chance of getting some help, if he kept asking. Out here, he was all alone.

He heard a motor puttering toward him, and turned in relief. Maybe the autorickshaw driver had followed him. He was now willing to consider paying whatever it took to get to his room.

It wasn't the autorickshaw, but a motor scooter. Instead of pa.s.sing him, the scooter stopped. ”Can I help you?” The driver was a plump, light-skinned Indian man, with a fringe of graying hair around his bald crown, wearing a dress s.h.i.+rt and sandals. He looked as if he might be traveling to his office.

”I need to get to the Central Guest House.” Abhay tried not to appear too desperate. ”Do you know where it is?”

”Please sit,” the man offered, pointing to the back of his seat. Enormously relieved, Abhay perched behind him and clung to the bottom of the seat with both hands, trying not to topple over with his heavy backpack as the scooter buzzed and tilted along the road. Within a few minutes the man stopped amid a cl.u.s.ter of low buildings. ”This is Central Guest House,” he said, and Abhay eased himself off the bike. The man motored away before Abhay could thank him.

The next morning Abhay opened his eyes and gazed at the wood struts of the roof above him. Birds trilled and twittered outside. His room was small and clean, with a fan hung from the middle of the ceiling. The climate here was much more humid than in Bangalore, and during the night he'd felt chilled by the dampness and hadn't slept well.

He wondered what the day would bring. At the guesthouse office last evening, he'd been given a message from Kianga. He'd called her back from the phone outside the office, and she'd given him directions to reach her farm, called ”Guidance,” this morning.

Last night the manager of this guesthouse, Paloma, had given him a map and lent him her copy of an Auroville handbook, on the cover of which was a photo of the gold globe of the Matrimandir-the shrine or temple in the center of the community. It looked like some sort of extraterrestrial s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p that had only temporarily landed on the red earth. Paloma had also given him detailed instructions as to how he could manage to gain entry into the Matrimandir grounds, as well as the temple itself. He wasn't sure he would bother with the whole to-do, yet Paloma seemed to a.s.sume that the main purpose of his trip was to see the Matrimandir. He was starting to fear that religion, or spirituality, was far more important in Auroville than he had envisioned.

Before going to bed he had pored over the Auroville handbook, attempting to absorb all the details of Auroville's history and its hundreds of communities and businesses. He read about the health care services available to Aurovillians; libraries within the community; language cla.s.ses; community schools. There was a whole section on alternative energy experiments. He discovered a list of about a dozen organic farms, including the one Kianga worked on. The information was overwhelming and exciting.

He read far into the night, and now, in the morning, the booklet lay on the mattress next to him. He began to hear sounds of dishes clattering in the dining hall, so he got out of bed and bathed in the little adobe bathhouse, in which a large metal pot of water had been heated with a wood fire underneath, so the whole place was warm, toasty, and smoky-smelling. When he exited the bathhouse into the cool damp morning air, something hopped away from his foot. He startled, and then realized with relief that it was only a squat toad.

Relaxed, he made his way under the trees to the dining hall. Ferns and other plants grew alongside the bricked paths. A black stone bowl, filled with water, displayed floating red and orange chrysanthemum blossoms. Decorative shaded lanterns graced the outdoor seating area. Near the reception hut was a small statue of dancing s.h.i.+va, in front of which someone had lit a stick of incense that perfumed the morning air.

The line for breakfast snaked out the dining hall door. Abhay glanced at the bulletin board covering the outside wall of the dining hall. In the middle of the board was a poem: Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light!

Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter pa.s.ses over the earth.

The b.u.t.terflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.

The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion.

Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.

Abhay didn't normally pay much attention to poetry yet found himself scanning the words over and over again.

”You like the poem?” It was Paloma, the office manager, standing in front of him. ”Every week I put a different poem on the bulletin board.”

”Who wrote it?'

”This is from the Gitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore. You must be familiar with his work.”

Abhay was familiar with the name of the famous Bengali poet but had never read any of his poems. He liked this one. It was full of joy and seemed to fit so well in the calm beauty of the morning. Before he stepped into the door of the dining hall, Abhay read the lines one last time.

After he'd filled his plate with b.u.t.tered bread and fruits, Abhay took his plate and cup of tea to a table and sat down. At the next table, also alone, was seated the plump, balding, middle-aged Indian man who had given him a motor scooter ride the day before. Abhay stepped over and held out his hand. ”I'm Abhay. I didn't have a chance to thank you for the ride.”

The man held out a small, delicate-fingered hand. ”Nandan,” he said. ”Please, sit down,”

Abhay transferred his plate and cup to Nandan's table.

”How do you like Auroville?” Nandan asked.

”So far, so good.”

”I have been coming here annually for years,” Nandan said. ”I am a physician in Chennai. My life is full of stress, noise, crowds.” He spoke slowly, reclining comfortably in his chair. ”I come to Auroville for a rest. It is so peaceful here. My wife and my children find it dull, but I love the quiet.”

Abhay was surprised. Didn't Nandan realize that Auroville was not some sort of retreat or resort? But maybe to Nandan, Auroville was just a place with a lot of trees and fresh air.

”Tell me about yourself,” Nandan invited. ”Where are you from? How did you decide to visit Auroville?” He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table, looking expectantly at Abhay, as though his only concern in the world was Abhay's life.

There was something so calm and friendly about his eyes that Abhay started talking, and soon he was telling him everything-growing up in Ohio, his parents' expectations of him, his time at Rising Star, his move to Portland, and now the visit to Auroville.

”I just want to find a place to fit in.” Abhay frowned up at the blue sky through the leaves above his head.