in, greeting me with a smile. Some pleasant music was
playing, a spacious hall was well lit, and the milky white walls
seemed translucent. Arrangements of fresh flowers, large and
small, were places here and there. Framed portraits of the
Guru, the current leader of this tradition, were displayed on
every wall. I walked slowly around, looking at each portrait.
Some portraits were formal, offering a viewer a benevolent
smile and a joyful variety of monastic garments of Indian
swamis: scarlet red, coral, peach, and saffron yellow. Others
were casual, capturing the moment of movement and emotion.
But most striking feature in all the portraits was the piercing
look of the Guru’s large black eyes, shaded by her long velvety
eyelashes.
The bell rang softly, and an elderly woman announced that
the meditation hall was now open. I took my shoes off and
walked in. It was dark inside. Several rows of red chairs were
arranged neatly. Before I could decide where I wanted to sit,
the same woman came to me and directed me to the left. “The
right side is for men, the left side is for women - for the
purposes of harmonious chanting,” she explained.
When my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, and when I
settled comfortably on the floor, I noticed the centerpiece of the