Guesthouse for Ganesha Read online

  Jakob came running back. He shouted, “He’s gone! Tadeusz iz gegangn! Tadeusz is gone! He’s packed his bags and he’s left!”

  Then he added, “And Sarah”—revealing the name of the daughter of the town’s wealthiest merchant—“Sara iz oykh antloyft! Sarah’s gone too!”

  When the truth of the news registered within her, Esther’s body hardened, her vision glazed over. She fought back the tears and took in a sharp breath that would not be released for years to come. One hundred eyes watched her, searching—for a reaction, an emotion, a response. None could be found. Only two people would know the irreversible devastation to her soul.

  Holding head high and still clinging to the small bouquet, Esther walked back to the family home, neither quickly nor slowly. She went to the room shared with four of her sisters and decisively closed the door behind her.

  She was left alone, her sisters sleeping on the floor with coverlets in the front room, the whole family speaking in hushed voices and tiptoeing when moving from table to chair. It was as though a death had occurred and they had begun sitting shiva.

  These are the days of mourning for the Jewish people. Or perhaps … it is for my Father … my dear … dear Father … Shiva … worshipped by so many … as destroyer … not unlike what you call death … but … also worshipped as the restorer.

  Destroyer … restorer … like two sides of a coin … death … life … same … same … just the same … always the same … but different.

  During the next two days, her family listened intently for any movement made in the room. There were few: an occasional turn on the bed or a slow walk across a creaking floorboard. She did not, could not, respond to offers of food or drink.

  Esther left during the deepest part of the third night. She crawled out the bedroom window with only a satchel and an integrant of her dignity.

  The next morning a makeshift shrine was found on her otherwise empty bed. There lay the bouquet of dead posies and a scrawled note saying—

  Kh’vel shraybn.

  ………………..

  I will write.

  The centerpiece was the result of her handiwork of these past days: a neat pile of deliberately and methodically torn colored paper. Each piece the same size and shape as the others—just like Esther’s stitches.

  It was the remains of their ketubah.

  Once in a while, Esther experienced a pang or cramp in her chest. Sometimes palpitations. She grew accustomed to these and did her best to squelch their effect. Ach, Esther would think, such a nuisance.

  Time did not lessen their influence; she just became better and better at denying their presence.

  This is an illusion. Things adjust … shift … but never go away. The energy of true love is eternal.

  CHAPTER THREE

  An image …

  painted of memory and dust.

  A feeling …

  and a hope (that could not be) imagined.

  Despair dissipated …

  momentarily.

  As soon as she received payment for her first significant project—to design and sew a bar mitzvah suit for the local grocer’s son—Esther was finally able to leave the hostel. With these few additional Reichsmarks, she moved into a rented basement room in the Metscher family’s crowded home, which offered a larger space and somewhat more privacy. Located on a highly trafficked street in Köln’s inner city, and with three young children, the setting was loud and boisterous, frequently bordering on chaotic. Not dissimilar to the environment of her childhood home. Although their own resources were slim, this family was kind.

  “Schließen Sie sich uns bitte zum Abendessen an. Please join us for supper,” the mother would bid. “We have plenty of soup and bread for all.”

  On occasion, Herr Metscher would inquire, “Would you like to sit with us this evening? There is lots of wood, the fire is warm, and we thought we would play cards for a while.”

  “Danke, aber—Thank you, but I have much work to do” was Esther’s standard response. Sometimes she would add details about a particular assignment—the need to lengthen the sleeves of a man’s suit jacket or put ruffles on a little girl’s party dress—but always she declined.

  The solitary companionship of her four walls beckoned. This place did not make her nostalgic. Esther was clear that part of her life—family—was complete. Home was now without definition, and this was her preference. She was determined to expunge her past identity. She studied to perfect her German in all spare moments. Her pronunciation became impeccable. The precise structure of sentences remained the challenge, for there seemed to be no rationale.

  “The verb goes where?” she questioned repeatedly. “Here it is at the end of the sentence, and here it is in the middle?” In spite of the language’s convolution, she practiced tenaciously. Esther’s commitment to pass as a native—to begin anew—never wavered.

  And of course, she was driven to persist through her expert sewing talents. Besides her own customers, she pursued an opportunity to apprentice with a master furrier. Although the training was without pay, and often she had to start as early as five in the morning, Esther knew such a distinctive skill in her repertoire would give her a necessary edge over much of her competition.

  Her strategies impressed me. Unbeknownst to Esther she was putting the elements in place that would serve her very survival … in the future.

  Never pause—never rest deeply—never be idle. Thoughts, memories, reflections had power and could overtake her, bringing back the searing pain of loss—the loss of her beloved—with renewed force. So in lieu of rumination about what had happened—and the whys of Tadeusz’s action—she soldiered on, submerging her history, as best she could, with a fusion of grit and necessity.

  Work was her salvation, and she kept herself as occupied with as much of it as possible for as much of each day and as late into each night as her fingers would bear.

  In spite of this, on the scarce chance there was an interlude—and this might possibly occur while walking to the market or heading home from an appointment with a tailoring customer—solitude engaged her. Only then would a recollection float to the fore.

  One would imagine that this memory … this thought … would be of him … of Tadeusz … of the love shared … of the love lost …

  But at this time … during these years … that story was buried too deep to mine.

  Esther’s thoughts strayed to a singular evening, nearly two years ago, one with a distinctive palette of gray, black, and ash in setting and in circumstance. One that embodied wonder and a spark of recognition, although perception without comprehension. For in the midst of that evening’s bleak twilight, like a flare within a foggy sphere, had stood a garishly decorated, rickety wooden stand emanating color and vibrancy and energy not previously known or possibly imagined that had drawn her like iron to magnet. The crowded space filled with exotic, intoxicating scents. Over the entry, a scrawled sign introduced INDISCHES ESSEN—INDIAN FOOD. Images covered the walls—a portrait gallery of the odd and the bizarre and the obscure and the indefinable and the impossible. And one in particular—

  Me

  —that stood out to her, that whispered to her, that softly spoke her name and sang her truth.

  Did it really happen? Did the stand in fact exist? And what is it about the elephant-headed man that I can’t get out of my head after all this time? Esther would wonder, for experiences like that were not natural. So very strange, for it was merely a picture and nothing more.

  Or was it?

  I make such connections with many … in fact … with each and every one of you … and often … but most do not feel my energy … or simply ignore.

  Yet … with Esther … the bond formed was indisputable and resonated throughout and between our realms.

  So much had passed; still, she was certain it was more than just a sweven. She had not imagined the scene, the experience, or most especially, the connection made there. Of this she was adamant. While highly skill
ed and inventive with pattern and thread and capable of making smart party dresses out of odds and ends, bits and scraps, Esther was not worldly or sophisticated. She could not be considered a woman of vision, or one of magical thinking. Esther had only ever lived a practical life, an ordinary life. One secluded and confined within borders of daily tasks, necessities, and demands.

  I would sometimes be a tad mischievous … when I could … when I thought it would help ease her ache … for just a moment …

  When no one else was around … I would encircle her with gentle whiffs of my home … the food … the air … the cities … the land. These times would surprise her … take her off guard … yet ignite her senses … revive her … they would not let her forget. And then … she would … ever so slightly … smile.

  Once, and only one time, on a day when she had finished her assignments early, when she had purchased needed supplies and had just picked up a customer’s black silk pants and dress shirt to be mended, Esther took this unique interlude without obligation to investigate further. To test herself and remembrance. To find answers without questions. She was a few blocks from the Köln Bibliothek. She had passed the narrow, stately brick building often; it was at the edge of the neighborhood, on Josef-Haubrich-Hof. She had considered venturing in more than once, but always her days were otherwise filled with responsibilities.

  This uncommon day, curiosity guided her through its heavy wooden doors. Esther wanted to know more—to learn something, to learn anything—to understand her strange, if not irrational, interest, this calling to a place and a land and a concept disconnected to the realities of life.

  Not surprisingly, the Bibliothek’s selection of geography books—those of other countries, most particularly countries outside the European continent—was wanting. She wandered up and down the aisles without result. The undertaking soon daunted her, for she couldn’t understand its systems or organization. Frustrated, Esther marched over to the large, imposing desk and the woman seated behind it and asked, in a too loud voice, “Können Sie mir helfen, ein Buch über Indien zu finden? Can you help me find a book on India?” She remembered to add the word “please” after the fact.

  “What kind of book?” the librarian inquired. “Geschichte Indiens? India’s history? Cooking? Architecture? Travel?”

  Esther shook her head at each topic.

  Only when the librarian suggested, “Perhaps a picture book,” did Esther finally nod. This will make the most sense, she thought. For it was an image—a fantastical image—she could not get out of her head.

  The librarian went into the stacks and returned with the one book in residence on this faraway place in space and imagination called Indien. It was thin in size and content.

  Esther carried the book to a corner table at the back of the library. She sat down and slowly turned each page in hope of finding what she was seeking, although not at all confident she knew what that was. A few of the pictures, mostly of landscapes and oddly designed structures, offered an impression of the stand that remained alive and vital in her mind’s eye. But Esther could not find anything that resembled the curious portraits she recalled more vividly, most particularly of the one that was half man, half elephant—

  Me …

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A-U-M

  “A” represents the waking state …

  “U” the dreaming state …

  “M” the state of deep sleep.

  AUM in its entirety,

  followed by a moment of silence, represents the Shanti—

  the peace beyond understanding.

  Aum Shri Ganeshaya Namah

  (Praise to Lord Ganesha)

  I am Ganapati … son of Shiva and Parvati. Lord Ganapati … Lord of the Ganas … the celestial ones … who watch over all … protect all.

  I am Vighnahara … Remover of Obstacles … I am Siddhipriya … Bestower of Wishes and Boons … Buddhinath … God of Wisdom … Swaroop … Lover of Beauty … Uddanda … Nemesis of Evils and Vices. And … I am Kaveesha … Master of Poets … I have one hundred and eight names.

  Most know me by Ganesha … Ganeshe … God of the People.

  But … truly … sadly … most do not know me at all … or even acknowledge my very existence.

  There are countless stories … legends really … describing how I came into being. Explaining my unique form … part human … part elephant. Some say I came through my mother’s loins … others through her mind … that I came of a wish … a desire … to bring harmony and prosperity to all who reside here … Calm.

  But … I came through a sound. A sound so pure and clear and true … it has been known so far to only a very few …

  AUM was my birth canal.

  And I came out dancing at the first flicker of dawn … dancing with a joy and a passion and a freedom not yet to be matched. I long for partners in my movements … but the time has not yet arrived. So I dance … for universality … for unity … for the supreme God force present within all things … within all.

  I smile broadly, ecstatically.

  When I dance… I dance for all … as I am here for all … I am here for you.

  I have been here a long time … and I know I must remain here longer still … for this is the Kali Yuga … and I am needed here now more than ever. For this is the period of the greatest … darkest evil of man unto man. The time when avenues of possibility and opportunity and hope appear to be cut off … with only despair and desperation emerging in one’s path.

  But truly … this is only an illusion. It is all an illusion. Yet I remain visible to those willing to see me … to let me guide them on.

  Esther saw me … although she as yet does not know who I am or why I am here for her. Deep within her … she recognized me … and carried me forward to accompany her … to support her … to help her triumph over that which took place and that which is to come.

  This is the Kali Yuga … and the destruction and horror that lies in wait for her will be more immense than the human mind can fathom … more than the celestial ones could conceive. And we remain in the darkest part of that night … when even the stars sleep … when the forces of ignorance are in full bloom … and the subtle faculties of the soul are obscured.

  The depth of Kali’s rage strikes each corner of the globe.

  And … can strike in the very core of one’s life … testing heart … testing faith … as with Tadeusz.

  Ah … Kali … the black one … the dark one … Kali Ma … is the mother … the goddess … of destruction and dissolution. She … alone … commands transition.

  And in contrast to the way I dance to hope and triumph … She steps out with Her left foot … sword in right hand … and dances to death. Burial sites and cremations are Her platform. And Her followers … yes … She has many … dance with Her. Playing their flutes and pungis and kabbas and banging their tablas in revelry … in awe … of Her power … Her force … kicking up the ashes that follow Her everywhere. The footprints of Her destruction.

  Her disciples … sing in ecstasy …

  “Because You love cremation grounds

  I have made my heart one

  so that You

  Black Goddess of the Burning Grounds

  can always dance there.

  No desires are left, Ma, on the pyre

  for the fire burns in my heart,

  and I have covered everything with its ash

  to prepare for Your coming.

  As for the Conqueror of Death, the Destructive Lord,

  He can lie at Your feet. But You, come, Ma,

  dance to the beat; I’ll watch You

  with my eyes closed.”

  Ah … six million … twelve … no … the numbers will be unfathomable … the loss … too expansive … the pain … cavernous …

  And for so many … so very many … for those who will remain … those who will endure … it will appear to be the end … the end of everything … the end of this world.

  I take a deep
breath and sigh, faintly.

  But there is no end … no real end … in the same way there is no real beginning. It can be said … in all candor … that the end of the world never is and never can be anything … but the end of an illusion.

  Yes … Kali brings forth destruction. Yes … this is true. But this includes the destruction of ignorance … the end of unconsciousness. She maintains our world order and blesses and frees those who strive for knowledge … for verity.

  For Kali’s force … and Kali’s will … alone … bring forth renewal.

  Oh Kali … my Kali … is so reviled … so misunderstood … so terribly misunderstood. So many perceive Her as hideous … evil … unforgiving. But while She kills and destroys … She also creates and nourishes. Kali is the Goddess of Time … a concept few understand.

  She is the Goddess of the transformation you call death … the power of time that devours all. But we must learn that when time is transcended … there is only the eternal night of unbounded tranquility … bliss. By Her magic we see good and we see bad … but in truth there is neither.

  The world … this world … this whole world … and all we see … it is the play of Maya … the veil that lays over all.

  So … now you know … now you see … death is not an end. This is important … it is key. This is truth. Death is merely transition. There will be no end for Esther and the others … a passage … perhaps … a shift … but not an end.

  Life … IS … precious … sacred …

  Life is an illusion …

  Kali is destruction … dissolution …

  Kali is renewal … rebirth.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Unceasing days of darts and darning, seams and hems,

  yokes, eyelets, scallops—

  backing and beading, pinking and pleating,

  ribbing and ruffles,

  appliqué and overlay,

  for dresses and skirts and camisoles and capes—

  pants and shirts and vests and suits,