Ladoo: Artifact from graphic novel

Last edited Thu Apr 30, 2026, 01:29 PM - Edit history (1)

This is an anonymous essay written by Neeru, a character from my upcoming hybrid graphic novel, Guru Diaries (spiritual fantasy/psychological suspense). Neeru's 25 at the time this essay is published in The 2001 Massachusetts Review. This should read like a short story.
All feedback welcome.

LADOO

By N—

(Editor's Note: The following essay was submitted to the Review by Dr. Emma Vance of Lesley University. The author has chosen to publish anonymously.)

My late father was a revered pandit, but before that he eked out a living selling costume jewelry from a stall in Chandni Chowk, the sprawling market in Central Delhi.

One day, Papa was at his work table when he noticed his fountain pen had rolled onto a dab of glue, and then dried onto a Celtic angel trinket. The modest pen had cost him half a day’s earnings. He was examining the prized instrument under his worklamp, trying to decide if he should rip off the trinket or dunk the pen in solvent and risk ruining the finish.

A stranger walking through the market with his children stopped in front of his table.

"Hmm…let me see that."

Papa readily handed it over, grateful for a fresh set of eyes. Then the man asked, “How much for this angel pen?”

The fresh eyes saw something Papa didn’t. The trinket and stylus looked joined by design.

Papa didn't miss a beat. "Let me tell you. These don't come cheap..."

The gentleman was a wholesaler. He ordered a thousand.

Within a year, Papa sold his business. He was a millionaire. The pens were flying out of Hallmark stores throughout the US and high-end department stores across Europe.

In 1985, when I was 9, we took our first vacation, following our guru, Swami Vitkananda, on his tour across Australia and the Far East.

We were relaxing in the Swami’s suite at the Hyatt in Melbourne. He prodded Papa to recount this singular event. The wealthy donors, mostly Indian expats, laughed heartily at his absurd luck. Mama and I didn’t laugh. We waited for the Swami to speak.

“When we see our problems as a gift—not a curse,” Maharaji gently explained, “then untold opportunities arise. And when we look into the darkness with the same receptivity…Atman—the light of the true self—is revealed. How do we react when things don't go our way—when a child interrupts us, when a mosquito lands on us...when glue gets on our favorite pen? This determines who we are and who we become. It is my prayer that you find blessings in your lives…and that your lives bring blessings to the world.” When he was finished, my arm was around Mama's shoulders as she held back tears.

That evening, we attended a spectacular gala—a first birthday party held by a prominent Sikh family. Behind the Hyatt an expansive terrace filled up with hundreds of guests. There was a stage and dance floor constructed on the beach which overlooked Port Phillip Bay.

It was my first time seeing the sun set on a body of water. I took off my shoes and wandered towards the shore. My nine-year-old heart fell helplessly into the sad, wordless poetry of sunsets. Beauty beyond reach. Fathomless mysteries. Death.

The transcendence yogis strive for is called Jivanmukti or “dying while living,” so I heard as much about death as an undertaker's child. For this, I have no misgivings. I think spirituality is a mixture of love and death. And life is fumbling for a recipe that has just two ingredients.

Suddenly, I was rattled by the thunderous roar of techno music blasting from the terrace loudspeakers. A hermit crab scurried back into the waves. “Not my cup of tea either,” I thought.

As a bassy DJ introduced the family of the birthday boy as if they were a cadre of superheroes, I jogged back, the heavy silk of my dress swishing against my legs. I knew Mama would be furious if I missed the Master’s darshan. It wasn't the first time I reflected on the absurd logic of being on time for timelessness, and the paradox of rushing to relax in the guru’s presence.

The legendary disco star Bappi Lahiri, beloved by children throughout India, was flown Down Under to perform. Years later, Mama would learn that the party cost $150,000 AUD.

We ended up sharing a table with Hungarian initiates. To my right was a 12-year-old girl named Agatha who reeked of filched cigarettes. Hiding behind curls, she wore faded jeans and a T-shirt. I shyly peeked to see what it said, and then I smiled up at her as if to say, “I get it,” naively thinking Madonna was a biblical reference and “Like a Virgin” a plug for chastity.

I savored my malai kofta with a guilty conscience as Agatha glumly regarded her plate. “I vant a hamboorger,” she moaned, shipwrecked in a sea of vegetarians. Her mom, a fair-skinned devotee dressed in a sari and bindi, murmured something to her in Hungarian which I roughly translated as, "Eat. Or I kill you.” My mother smiled at the two. She’d often remind me that we all struggle to live up to the Master's teachings.

For months, longtime disciples would rhapsodize the Satguru's "crazy wisdom" on display that night, comparing it to Jesus turning water into wine to keep the party going.

Maharaji arrived wearing a sparkling gold chain over his burgundy embroidered kurta with matching velvet slippers—a departure from his usual austerity. To Papa, this bore a subtle message: even frugality can be an attachment. During the concert, the Master climbed onstage and sang a call-and-response with Bappi, his voice so full of feeling that tears filled his eyes. And when he jumped down and danced wildly with us kids under the disco lights, Mama proclaimed he was Balakrishna in the throes of samadhi.

After the concert, the Swami made his way towards the dining area to cut the cake. The crowd reverently lined up for darshan, as Roman, his videographer, glided backwards in front of him and a retinue of saffron-robed monks floated behind. I was already near the cake table with my hands together in namaste when the Swami recognized me, stopped, and casually lifted his hand—a signal for his assistant to pass him the wireless microphone.

The Master smiled warmly, glancing at me. “I’d like to congratulate…” He furrowed his brow and scratched his head in mock confusion. “Hmm…What’s her name again? Ah, yes. Ladoo.”

Laughter rippled across the room.

“I’m joking, of course. It’s N—," he said into the mic. "But she is as sweet as a ladoo. Let us congratulate her. She just tested into the best private school in Delhi.”

I blushed, speechless, as security gently prodded me closer. I beamed up at him.

“And I hear she’s a great meditator," he announced to the room. He looked down at me. "How much time did you put in today, Ladoo?”

“Two hours and thirty-four minutes, Master,” I said confidently.

The room erupted. But my embarrassment vanished as Maharaji smiled down at me reassuringly. He chuckled and handed me a small, gold-foil box of sesame ladoos from a basket of prashad brought over to him.

“N— is a shining example,” he scanned the children in the crowd, his velvet voice booming over the speakers. "Put in the time. Your grades will improve, and your life…will get better... and better."

He then gently pressed his thumb against my forehead—a profound blessing.

Within an instant, I felt my senses pull back from my extremities. Before anyone could congratulate me, I staggered away and collapsed on the lawn just off the terrace. I crawled and leaned my back against a palm tree.

I lost consciousness of my body and melted into colors far more beautiful than the sunset that had earlier transfixed me.

Mama found me, slouched over and drooling on my dress. She jostled me awake. I shuddered, clinging to the vestiges of the world I’d left behind. Mourning the density of the world I’d returned to.

Those I've met who've received shaktipat regard it as one of the peak experiences of their lives.

I once did.

The next morning, I was coming back from the beach when Papa approached me in the hallway, worry spread across his face.

"Can you find the Hungarian girl you sat with yesterday? Agatha? Maharaji wants to speak to her."

I handed him my backpack to return to the room. "I'm on it." I rushed off on my mission.

"She's in big trouble," I heard over my shoulder.

I found her at the side of the hotel, smoking behind the bushes, listening to her Walkman.

She removed her headphones and swatted angrily at a mosquito.

"The Master wants to see you," I said.

She took a long drag from her cigarette and didn't respond even after she exhaled. She spat on the ground and finally said, "No. He geeves me the creeps."

I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. "No?"

She began to put her headphones back on. "Are you sure?" I asked.

She was just about to press play when she stopped, batted the hair from her eyes, and glared at me. "You still here?"

I hurried back to the hotel, astonished by this profound disrespect. No one said no to the Master. But Mama always insisted, “He doesn’t command with fear—He commands with kindness.”

Still, I thought, Agatha’s contempt for our Godman had to have consequences.

Eight years later, I would become haunted by this Hungarian girl who I thought was blind to love. For she could see what I couldn't. What my parents couldn't—wouldn’t, even after I told them. Even after I ran away.

"Ladoo" wasn't a term of endearment. It was an item on his menu.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

N— resides in Massachusetts. She is the plaintiff in Jane Doe vs. Swami Vitkananda and Ashoka International.