Avatar of Night by Tal Brooke

Author:Tal Brooke [Brooke, Tal]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-01-22T16:00:00+00:00

As the mother aspect of godhood, Baba shimmered and dazzled, as he reclined on a large silver-plated swing couch. An invisible row of boys, whose crossed legs could be seen under the couch, were swaying the “jhula” to and fro. Baba was wearing his once yearly, silk embroidered, “Om” and “Sai Baba” monogrammed white gown. To the side, so Baba could be entertained—and so we could be blessed by watching Baba being entertained—was a series of singers and minstrels, each successively worse than the preceding.

We left feeling empty. At the side gate, we all deliberated while Bruce shook his head plaintively with a pathetic laugh, “All I can think of is Jean Harlow.” Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one.

The diagnosis of “cultural variable” came to the rescue once again. Perhaps all of us were jaded after having been burned by a “sick society.” I then added, “If you’re pure enough,” I justified, “you don’t see all that garbage. Clean twenty years of TV and movies out of your head, and you’ll be back in the batting.” I wasn’t convinced of my own argument. It sounded hollow.

Apart from Baba on the couch, the sideshow productions hadn’t been much easier on the others either as they voiced concern. Why would Baba watch that tripe?

I tried to answer that. “OK, when is it ever good enough? Get Ralph Richardson, Olivier, and Alec Guinness doing ‘Henry the Fifth’ as a side-play, and it’s still substandard to the one watching the production. Or get the best production of Bach’s ‘Magnificat,’ and it still falls short of saying it.”

Eddie did the Harlem shuffle. “Yeah, or get Stokely Jackson doin’ Oh, Dem Bones.” A pained chuckle issued from Bruce. In a flash, we went into the gala production of the “Sai Nite” at the Hollywood Bowl. Before we knew it, we were ad libing the whole thing.

At the end, one of us introduced the star of the show with the voice of a Vegas announcer: “Ladeez and Gentlemenzs...and now the Voice of a Thousand Siva Lingams.” And that was it, our knees buckled. A moment later, we knew we had gone too far, quelling our laughter in shame and disgust. Depression set in. Black humor was a way of dealing with despair and anguish, but it was also myopic. And I felt I had indulged in something at Baba’s expense, a kind of blasphemy and ingratitude at the one who had showed so much favor to us.

I went for a midnight walk on the mountain and soon found a large smooth boulder to lie on. The stars were like diamonds on black velvet and revealed an expanse beyond imagination. Nothing like any sky I had ever seen in America, I felt perched on the shores of space. I quietly beheld this black twinkling firmament above that spoke of a truly vast God. Not a random accident—the mantra of empty-headed materialists—but pure design. Then the thought hovered at the back of my mind, Now this is worthy of awe.

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