Dad picks me up from my Mum’s after tea, ‘Hello Toad. Ready for an adventure?’
I sit in the front and we drive past Headingley cricket ground, up by the health food shop where Mum buys organic lentils and veggie sausages and those tiny boxes of raisins.
When we get to the hall it’s full, so we sneak in quietly and sit at the back. At the front of the room there is a trolley with a TV and VHS player on, like the one Miss wheels into the classroom on wet breaks.
A man stands up at the front and tells us that the donations from tonight’s programme will help to build a special conference centre in Amaroo. I don’t know where Amaroo is, but I like the word because it sounds like kangaroo. The man starts to talk about Knowledge and what a precious gift it is.
My Dad has Knowledge. He practices it every day with a blanket on his head. Mum has it too but she doesn’t practice as much as Dad because she is too busy looking after her new baby. I asked her what Knowledge felt like once, and she said it was like drinking love and honey.
‘Dad,’ I whisper. ‘Where is Amaroo?’
‘Australia.’ He says, then he nods towards the front.
I do my best to listen but end up thinking about the framed picture Mum keeps on her dressing table instead. In it Maharaj Ji sits on a golden throne, dressed in white robes, with a rope of flowers around his neck.
Is Maharaji Ji God? No. He can’t be because Mum told me once how she and her friends covered his Roll Royce in daisies and God doesn’t drive cars.
‘But why did you?’ I asked. ‘Didn’t they all just fall off again when he drove away?’
‘It was a way to show our love and devotion.’
‘Like a prayer?’
‘Kind of.’
At school whenever we sing about baby Jesus, I sing to Guru Maharaj Ji instead. I think it’s ok because Miss said that not everyone has to pray the same. Govinder is Sikh, Roopal’s family are Moslem and Siobhan is Irish Catholic. Glenn is not allowed into the assembly hall at all because he is a Jehovah’s Witness and Andrew told me at wet break yesterday that his god is Diego Maradona. Samantha said her mum is an amethyst.
The man at the front keeps talking about Knowledge. I swing my legs and count the holes on the straps on my sandals and say a prayer of my own.
‘Our Father who art in heaven, Guru Maharaj Ji be thy name…’
‘Sshhh,’ says Dad.
The man at the front presses play and the video starts. On the screen there are people gathered, like us, in a big hall, except it is much bigger and Maharaj Ji is really there. When he walks out onto the stage everyone stands and claps. Some even cry. I feel a lump in my throat.
Am I sure he is not God? No. He can’t be because he is wearing a suit.
I asked Dad once why Maharaj Ji does not wear his white robes and flowers at events anymore. ‘Well, it’s the 1980s now, things move on.’ He said. ‘Times change. Even for Gurus. Sometimes they have to just put on a suit and pretend a bit. For the straights.’
Maharaj Ji tells us that he can give us the simple gift of Knowledge and that he is the perfect master. Maharaj Ji says that we must not listen to our minds, only to the simplicity of our hearts. He says that life is as simple as breathing in and out, but I bet he’s never had to do the seven times tables or a Rubix Cube.
The room is hot and stuffy. I lean my head against Dad and try to stay awake. When the video ends, Dad hangs around and chats. They all look like they’ve been on a fair ground ride that was a bit too fast, but they all want to go on again.
I hold Dad’s hand as we cross the road to the Indian shop to buy a samosa and a drink to have in the car. When we get back to Mum’s we sit in the parked up outside for a bit while I finish mine. Dad rolls the window down and rests his big freckly arm out the window. I look past him through the hedge and see that the kitchen light is on because even though it is summer it is getting dark.
‘So, Toad,' says Dad. ‘How would you feel about another adventure, a bigger one?’
I slurp the last bit of my juice.
‘Me and your mum were talking. Might be a good idea if you came to live with me for a bit.’
I look at him. His big friendly face with thick round glasses, his long scruffy hair in a ponytail which he never bothers to brush.
‘What? Even on a school night? What about Mum and her boyfriend and the new baby?’
‘Well maybe they can catch us up. Get their own house, in a few months. Next year maybe.’
But I know he doesn’t mean this because of the way he is straightening the wing mirror.
‘We can swap it round a bit. I’ll do school nights for a bit. Mum can do weekends.’
I think of the feeling of Mum tucking me in bedtime, how her silver necklaces hang down over my face when she kisses me goodnight, the little bird, Tinkerbell, buddha.
If I live with Dad, he’ll let me wear my trainers every day and he won’t be constantly checking my hair for nits, and he’ll always lets me have spaghetti hoops for tea.
I wonder which one is heart and which one is mind.
‘Have a think about it,’ Dad says. ‘Plenty of time, no hurry Toad. No hurry. Take your time.’
HANNAH DAVIES is a Yorkshire based writer, theatre-maker and performer. She currently works teaching theatre at the School of Arts and Creative Technologies at the University of York. 'Guru' is an extract from a much longer writing project, a memoir that explores her unorthodox childhood of being raised in a spiritual cult, the challenges of growing up in a large blended family, and how she dealt with the trauma and tragic death of her mother.
