Masters of the Universe
Some families had a chalet in France. Others, a timeshare in Mykonos. We had a stake in a one-man travelling Hindu temple.
A ‘Swami’ is an honorific title given to a Hindu who has chosen the path of renunciation. They’ve given up worldly possessions, material pursuits. Pleasure. It’s Sanskrit for “he who is one with his self”. ‘Master of his domain’, to quote Seinfeld.
Like a mobile hairdresser, our Swami came to us. The pleasure, you could say, was all ours. Except the pleasure, like a timeshare, was somewhat shared with other families around the world. We’d split the airfare, host him, and donate to his various temples. In return, he’d bless our houses, read our palms, bestow his teachings upon us.
When he came to see us in the early 90s, I imagined him as the Splinter to our Pre-Teen Mutant Hero Turtles. He certainly had an origin story worthy of a comic book hero. Rumour has it, he was abandoned as a baby in an intercity temple and raised by religious zealots. It was a sliding doors moment for him, as the building next door was a hair salon. He might have indeed arrived that day in a van with ‘Jack the Clipper’ on the side.
As it was, he pulled up to bless our new house in a new car. I went out to meet him on our driveway, and as he stepped out, I caught a glimpse of his Nike Air Jordans from under his orange robes. He was on his phone. The first person I’d seen use a mobile outside of Michael Douglas in ‘Wall Street’. You’d be right to ask yourself both why a 9-year-old had seen ‘Wall Street’ and why a Swami had a mobile phone.
In those days, it took a full minute to retract the aerial back into the handset. While he did, he looked up at our new home at the top of a steep driveway - the main house and garage adjoined by a granny annex. “It looks like the open jaws of a roaring lion,” he said. I touched his feet, a Hindu mark of respect, but filed his words away in my head – in a drawer marked: Things Not To Say At A Housewarming.
If you’ve ever been to a housewarming in an Indian household, you know we take it quite literally – with an actual fire called a havan, where wood and herbs are burned inside the house. So, you get to bless your new home and also test the smoke alarms.
My uncles brought bricks in from the garden to prop up the havan, while my mum and dad met his various demands: a sheet to drape over the sofa, so his seat wouldn’t come into contact with ours; a steel cup of water poured into his mouth, so his lips wouldn’t touch the rim; and my room to sleep in, because it would be pure, he said. Little did he know, ‘Wall Street’ wasn’t the only film I sneaked into my TV/VCR combo. I too was master of my domain.
The havan was ready. My mum and dad, my sisters and I sat cross-legged around the fire as the Swami started his religious chants or mantras. They were always delivered at breakneck speed, like at 2pm he was doing a housewarming ceremony, and at 3pm a ribbon cutting at a shopping centre. ‘Informer’ by Snow was riding high in the charts, so my sisters and I took giggle-stifled pleasure in the similarities in cadence: a string of unintelligible lyrics followed by a repeated phrase. In Swami’s case, it was ‘swa-ha’, which we listened out for as our cue to pour puffed rice and herbs from our hands into the fire.
The chanting, the heat, the smell of the herby fire is supposed to send you to a higher plane of consciousness, but my mind kept drifting.
I wonder if we’re going to miss Gladiators… “Swa-ha.”
Are hoverboards for real? “Swa-ha.”
The twins from Fun House. The Twins from Fun House. “Swa-ha.”
Afterwards, my cousin and I played football in the garden. Well, he sort of played football at me. I wasn’t very good at sports, but he was always on the ball. My gran came out with a blessing: two pieces of chapatti, touched by the Swami. “Eat it,” she said in Hindi. For the first time that day, my cousin passed.
Later, Swami offered to read our palms. I went first, and as I held my hands out to him his face lit up. “Ah, an artist!” he said. “You’re going to make a masterpiece with these hands.” I was chuffed with that.
My cousin’s turn, and Swami’s face changed. I hadn’t seen that expression since he proclaimed our house would devour us all. He flinched as he ran his fingers over the faint creases in the boy’s hand.
“This hand,” he quivered. “I see it… holding a weapon.” He dropped my cousin’s hand.
“Well, that’s me,” he said, getting up from the tarpaulined sofa.
Of course, our destinies weren’t imprinted that day. The house didn’t swallow us up. And I don’t know if my cousin can read this from his prison cell, but I haven’t made my masterpiece either.
