Guru Goa

He gruffly picks up my hand and flexes the wrist backwards so my palm faces towards his round, hairy face. Unsatisfied he has me press my hand, fingers splayed, back onto the little wooden block between us. 

Press harder. I try.

Then again he grabs my wrist and bends it so my palm faces him, ready for scrutiny. He studies the reddened lines and crevices etched into a palm that is smooth to the touch, soft and tender skin alien to physical labor. No lifting, digging, trenching, washing for these college-educated hands.

Guru Shruti Prakash's fingernails are misshapen, the cuticles all but cover the nails. His hands are rough, mine go limp in his grasp.

I wish I could see what goes on in his mind as he gazes into the spiderweb of my palm. Is it a blank slate that he fills with pre-meditated phrases of prophecy and omnipotence? Or does there dance a swirling story of future mixed with past and present? 

Trying to give in to the moment, I resolutely look deep into his eyes, nodding as he foretells my future, understands my present, remembers for me my past. 

"You will have great success."

I perk up, lean closer, nod deeper. Maybe this Guru does know what he is talking about.

"17 makes for Saturn, 1 is 1 for Sun, 1991 makes 20 which is 2 as in Moon."

He loses me again, and my skepticism slowly ebbs away at all remaining faith. 

Replacing faith with distraction, I focus my attention on the mosquitos feasting on my legs and the sand still between my toes and the horns of rickshaws flying past and the sun slowly setting and the itchiness of the mat upon which we cross our legs and the thickness of his accent and his hands, rough, dirty, dark. 

We found this Guru, our Goa Guru, while walking along the main road trying to find an ATM to fuel our shopper's desires. Dressed in bathing suits still wet from the Indian Ocean and elephant-printed sarongs draped casually over our bodies, hair pulled back in salty ponytails and faces pink from the relentless sun, it is as if a spotlight shines upon our sunbrushed bodies. But we have become almost become immune to these clockwork stares. Even in Baga, one of the most popular beaches in Goa, we stand out. As Westerners we hurl ourselves towards the line of cultural insensitivity with our bare legs and shoulders and ankles and collar bones. But as girls raised in tee shirts and shorts, minuscule sun dresses and bikinis, there is only so long we can cover our bodies. 

(Rationalization for outfit choices in Goa: As you are white, you will be stared at no matter what you wear, so you might as well get nice and bronzed.)

A large sign advertised his services -- "Guru Shruti Prakash: NATURAL HEALING, SELF-REALIZATION & MYSTERIES EXPERIENCE CENTRE". Tempted by the desire to see into the future for only 70 rupees for five minutes, and fueled by sun-induced exhaustion and delusion, we turn at the sign and slide/slip down an overgrown weeded path into a long-neglected garden connected to the back of a run-down house. Giving final nods of support, I ring the doorbell.

Watching the time quickly pass, the rupees add up, and my self-realization just as stunted as before, I ask to end the session. Before leaving, my Guru allows me to pick a copper ring from a big wooden tray for him to bless for me. He begins the blessing rituals, filling a little goblet with water and pouring it lightly over the ring. He chants ineligible Hindi, pauses in the middle to ask for my name, and then finishes by placing the ring upon my finger. 

50/50 chance I am now married to an Indian Guru, but at least no dowry had to be paid in exchange for this Indian princess. How much more crunchy can I get?