Well, because I was hanging out with a particular man, whom I shall let remain nameless, he decided, since we were an item, back then, that we should travel together to Bombay, and depart the same day. I was leaving on this particular day, no matter what, October 16, New Life Day, and had to get back to work, it having been hard to get the time off, and it being too expensive for me to change my ticket. So, I agreed to share a cab, from the pilgrim center to Bombay, even though I was flying to the states, and he to the UK.
The night before we were to leave, this young woman was trying to talk him into staying longer, and even offering to lend him money, since thief that he was, he always lied that he had no money. He had no character, whatsoever.
I simply said, that I was retiring. I woke up feeling sad, somehow, and I went to the tomb, early that morning, there being very little time to get ready, with breakfast and all, to depart, and so the que at the tomb, being incredibly long, discouraged me, and I returned down the hill, to the old pilgrim center, where my parents' murals are.
Dressed in a burgundy tee shirt, and an Indian print skirt, after packing I posed with everyone, including my so called companion, for a group picture, with him in his stupid outback hat.
The whole way to Bombay, I had to listen to this horrid man berate me, about what a terrible person I was. I was crying, but it had nothing to do with him. It was because I did not say goodbye to Baba at the tomb, and I knew in my heart of hearts, I was not returning. I did not know yet that I would go blind, even though I already had poor eyesight. I also did not know what financial dire straights, and hardships were ahead of me. I had only been divorced for a year, and once my ex-husband started having kids with his new wife, he did not take that much responsibility for ours, except that he did pay child support, which I have to give credit for.
Anyway, I retreated to a world of my own, and sang the Gujarati Arti to myself, in the taxi. We stopped at some hellhole, trash everywhere, filthy bathroom. There were lots of beggars. I had not eaten our lunch. I had no appetite for the food that had been given us by the kitchen staff.
We gave some food to a woman, but had nothing for a begging child. I realized when we drove away, that we had uneaten peanut butter sandwiches, which I could have given the child. I became grief and guilt stricken over this realization. I cried all the more, silently. I did not want this man, I was with, to know I was crying.
Once at the Lela Kempinsky, there were all sorts of ordeurves, cappucino, pastries, and anything the heart desired, but I could not eat a thing, thinking about the hungry child. It bothered me so much.
Finally it was happy hour. We went for drinks, like we always did. I drank four gin martinis. I was very drunk. I was not happy drunk. I was miserable drunk. The hostess even followed me into the ladies room, to ask me if I was in need of money or something. She had brought me a glass of water earlier, while I sat in the parlor, there.
I said, "no, I'm fine."
Finally, I left alone on a shuttle. He kissed my cheek, goodbye. I went to the airport drunk, and got a meal at the airport, while I was waiting, a veggieburger, I believe, and fries or fritters, perhaps, and probably coffee.
I flew back to America. The plane stopped in Frankfurt. I felt strange in the airport, felt the cold filter through the terminal. I drank coffee, a bottled water, tried to clear my head.
I slept a lot, but had almost no appetite for food. They used to feed you well on airlines, as well as free drinks on international flights. I did drink, however. And, I slept, slept a lot.
Finally, at home, after getting over jet lag, and getting over a sickness from the trip, I began to thrive again. I gave my dad's friend a gift, but I do not remember what else I brought from India, except some things that I had bought, and the nameless man, had bought me a ring, a green stone in it, but I really do not know the meaning, perhaps none, and he ended up, two years later, pulling it off my finger, and throwing it away. I feel like all that was just a nightmare, so unhappy, so blank, so soulless, so nothing. If only I could have found myself sooner, before I sank into quick sand. I had so much to offer the world with my music, writing, drawings and healing arts. It all seems a waste of a life now. I just do not know.
I know now that Meher Baba was not who he said he was. I am completely disillusioned and glad to be. There is no significance in Meher Baba, and I now know that. God alone is God, period.
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