Roshini began her search for God that summer. In Almond Creek, there was the sense that everything has been sanitized, sterilized, deodorized, buffed, shined, filed and painted - not the kind of town that is associated with a spiritual search. But this was where her parents lived, where she was born and brought up, and where she was spending her three-month summer break. It would have to do.

The last few months, Roshini had been going through a classical German phase, Kafka, Goethe, Mann. But it was Hesse who’d blown her away. Like her, his protagonists were caught in identity struggles, in wars against their base selves, in love with the inaccessible, in search of the elusive. And they always turned to spirituality for answers. And so she decided that there would be no more worrying about trivialities, like that ripe zit on her forehead. Her sights were set higher now.

One morning, as she sat on a bench at Tilden Park, she looked up from her book and saw a young black woman standing next to her. The woman was in her early twenties, pretty, and wearing a pleasant smile. The woman asked if she had heard of Soka Gakkai. Normally, Roshini would have said she wasn’t interested, but today she took the offered pamphlet and listened to what the woman had to say. At the end of her little speech, the woman, whose name was Carrie, wrote her telephone number on the front of the pamphlet.

“Soka Gakkai has changed my life,” Carrie said. “And it can change yours too.”

Roshini called the number that evening and a few days later was sitting in a living room in an apartment in El Cerrito, staring at the view of the bay and the San Francisco skyline from the windows that ran from floor to ceiling. There were several leafy plants, a long grey sofa, two bright blue chairs and a sisal rug covering the wooden floor. There was only one wall adornment, a Mondrian print that hung above the sofa. Carrie introduced her to the owner of the apartment, Sarah, a tall, thin woman from Kenya. Soon others began to arrive. Sheets were laid on the floor and people starting sitting down, some cross legged, some kneeling, others with their legs tucked to the side. When the session officially began there were an additional twenty or so people in the room. The newcomers were all white and ranged in age from the mid-twenties to the early fifties. A smiling, plump, red haired woman shushed everybody and after introducing herself as Marla, asked that everyone give their name and a brief description of themselves. She pointed Roshini out as a first-timer.

“Welcome!” Marla beamed.

“Welcome!” chorused everybody.

After Roshini introduced herself, she was given a quick round of applause. Waves of good feeling emanated from everyone and Roshini felt warm and cozy. Then a man who had introduced himself as Jess, divorced father of two, got up and presented a summary of the group’s theological beliefs. There were essentially Buddhists, he said, but with some differences. Like other Buddhists, they also believed that there was a universal force which some people call “God,” the omniscient benefactor, the keeper of Truth and Love. They differed from other Buddhists in several ways, however. Firstly, they believed that a person could reach this force if they chanted a particular Japanese sentence over and over again with the utmost concentration. The concentrated chanting connected the chanter with the rhythm of the universe and the soul of the chanter with this force. He urged the chanters to think transcendent thoughts as they chanted, to “Concentrate on what you’re searching for in your own life.”

He added that these might be material things like a better job, a new car, or a house, but they could also be things like True Love, Inner Peace or World Harmony. Afterwards, several other people got up and gave examples of how chanting had changed their life. One woman said she’d been single for ten years. Then a month after she began to chant, she’d found her husband, the man sitting next to her. Another man testified that he’d been looked over for a promotion but a few weeks after his first chanting session, he was offered a better job at a different company. Another man talked about successfully battling cancer. A fourth spoke about the birth of a child. All the speakers bristled with enthusiasm and their faces glowed as the light from the golden California sunset streaming through the windows. Then after a few minutes of silence to get into the mood, the chanting began. Roshini picked it up easily, as it was just one sentence repeated over and over. A sense of hilarity crept over her, but she fought the urge and was began chanting along.

She remembered her family’s bi-annual visits to the Hindu Temple. When she’d been a small child, as soon as the chants of “Om,” the group prayers or the singing of the Bhajans began, she’d begin to giggle and would have to be carried out of the room by a grim parent. Doubled up with laughter and holding her stomach or sides, she would try to get them to understand. But how could she explain how funny she found the moment of pregnant silence right before the congregation burst into prayer, the moment when everybody in the room took a deep breath? Or the first few moments of group prayer or devotional singing when groups who had started at different times subtly fought for ascendancy of timing and rhythm? Or the Uncle who picked his nose and sang at the same time? She couldn’t and they didn’t understand. So when she was older and refused to go with them to the temple, they hadn’t complained much.

She stopped going not just because of her lack of composure during prayer but also because she began to regard the Hindu Temple more as a social gathering place than as a place of worship. She noticed how concerned her mother was about what to wear and which of her friends would be there and who had donated what sums of money to the temple recently. She saw how her father dozed off during prayer sessions and the way his eyes lit up when it was all over and he could rapidly progress towards the food that was sometimes served after. The far away look that the worshippers had in their eyes as they mumbled the prayers or devotional songs, like they were really thinking about how they’d forgotten to take out the garbage that day or what they should cook for dinner or how they really must have it out once and for all with so and so at the office. It had seemed to her that they were, at best, apathetic actors playing roles they felt they must, or, at worst, hypocrites.

She got home from her first Soka Gakkai meeting just in time for dinner. Her father asked where she’d been that evening and she said she was thinking of becoming a Buddhist. He asked what she meant and she explained about the chanting, the rhythm of the universe. Her father said it sounded like she’d joined some cult but her mother swooped in and said that after all Buddhism was an offshoot of Hinduism and that Siddhartha was originally a Hindu prince and it wasn’t as if Roshini was talking about shaving her head and dancing around in orange robes.

“You’re thinking of the Hare-Krishnas,” Roshini said crossly.

Her father told her to forget all this nonsense and come to the Temple with them that weekend. Her mother replied that her father should learn to mind his own business and that if Roshini wanted to become a Buddhist then it was her choice. Her father grumbled that they never had such problems with Rakesh. Rakesh was Roshini’s brother, ten years her senior. Instead of going into private practice after finishing medical school, he had taken a Ph.D. and was now an associate professor of medicine at a large Mid-Western University. Rakesh was married to Shylaja, another doctor, and they already had a two-year-old child, Tarun. When Roshini heard her father mention Rakesh’s name, she got up from the table and said that she was tired of forever being compared to her brother. Later that evening, she heard a knock on the door. It was her father, wanting to apologize. Her mother stood behind him and it looked to Roshini like she was nudging him on and she was suddenly disgusted with the both of them and pretended to be very sleepy so that they’d leave quickly. And they did.

The evening before her next session, she made a list of all the things she wanted to have happen so that she could think about those things when she chanted. Number one on the list was the name of the boy she’d been in love with since she was fifteen and had first met at a party at his parents’ house. In spite of being a college sophomore and under the legal drinking age, Varun had made a drunken appearance after all the guests had finished dinner, like an Indian James Dean. Later, as she was waiting for her parents to finish their goodbyes and join her outside, she had overheard him on his cell phone talking to someone called Anushka. She had fallen in love with him right then and there and from that day on it had been her mission to surreptitiously find out as much as she could about him. It turned out that Varun was somewhat of a disappointment to his parents and was doing poorly at USC, a school he’d no doubt picked because of its reputation for partying. They met again a few months later, and this time, Varun spoke to her.

“You’re Rakesh’s little sister, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Fine.”

Then, pretending to hear someone calling her name, she had fled. They had spoken little more over the years but she cherished each of these casual one or two sentences exchanges like small treasures.

The next meeting of the Soka Gakkai East Bay chapter was held in a small, dark first-floor apartment in Berkeley, just off of Telegraph. As she sat cross-legged in a corner, waiting for the meeting to begin, she was surprised to see someone she knew from her parents’ circle. She didn’t have a chance to talk to him before the meeting began but during the round-the-room-introduce-yourself phase, she mouthed “hi” to him when their eyes met. He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth in exaggerated surprise.

His name was Jon and his family was Jewish-Keralites or “Cochinis” as they are referred to in Israel. Before they’d all left, Jews in Kerala had self-identified as white or black, the difference being that the black Jews looked Indian. Jon’s family, who looked as Malayalee as they came, had moved to America and had mostly Indian-American friends. His parents had been very active socially when Roshini was growing up and she had seen Jon at many a dinner party, including at his parents’ house in Black Dove. Like her, he had just finished his first year of college, but unlike her, he had opted to stay in state and live at home while attending Berkeley. She hadn’t seen him in years, after she’d begun to have her own ideas on what to do on weekend evenings, and had refused to attend social events with her parents.

When the chanting session was over, she went with Jon to a café on Telegraph. Jon was short, chubbier and more hirsute than she remembered, and was wearing loose jeans and a black T-shirt with “Phish Back Stage” written on the back. He had fair skin, a round face, prominent nose, and a full head of gorgeous curls. His eyes were light brown, large and intense. If eyes really were a window to the soul, Roshini felt that Jon’s soul must be a hot, bright star, teetering on going Nova. After they sat down, he started to talk quickly and excitedly, sipping his carrot juice during brief pauses. He had apparently been to five Soka Gakkai sessions and said he was beginning to think they were “totally bogus.” For one thing, he had been hit up for money and had had to shell out $25 for a sacred scroll. He was now interested in another religion.

“Islam,” he said. “You know, like Malcolm X.”

They met the next day at a Starbucks in Almond Creek, where they spent most of the time talking about Jon’s poor relationship with his parents. Her own irritation towards her parents was tempered by protectiveness. Like the time her mother had mispronounced something at a local store and the white clerk had said “Ex-Cuse Me?” snottily and made her repeat it over and over again till Roshini had cut in. With Jon it was political. The way he explained it, his parents were turning into fascists.

“You should have heard how they talked after September 11th,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed and knitted together. Then he pulled out several books on Sufism that he’d checked out of the library.

They did not go to any more Soka Gakkai sessions. Instead they met every day and talked about Islam. They subscribed to chat groups on the web, read the Sufi texts diligently, and printed out articles they found interesting. At home, she argued with her parents about Kashmir, surprising them one evening by citing U.N. Resolution 47, the one that clearly states India was supposed to have organized a plebiscite.

The more hawkish her parents became, the more vociferous her defense.

“Muslims are being persecuted all around the world!” Roshini cried out in frustration one day.

“You think it’s all haha-hehe for Hindus in this country?” her father replied. “Do you know the town was sued when they approved the temple building permit? People argued that a Hindu temple in the neighborhood would bring down property values. One woman even said Jesus would punish the town if it encouraged idolaters to worship false Gods.”

Then her mother said that Roshini had gone crazy and was she trying to bring ruin on their family? Roshini had shouted back and her father had joined in and later when she met Jon she was very angry.

The summer was not progressing smoothly at Jon’s house either. He had told his parents that he was thinking of converting and there was almost daily “abuse” according to him. And one day, after a fight with them, he disappeared. The second day after he’d taken off, Jon’s mother came to Roshini’s house, and Roshini listened from the top of the stairs. Jon’s mother told hers that Jon had become a different person since he’d befriended Roshini. She started sobbing loudly and accused Roshini’s parents of hiding Jon in their house. Roshini’s father replied that she was crazy, she had a crazy son, and she should leave their property right away or there would be consequences.

“Jon?” Jon’s mother shouted towards the front door. “Son, if you can hear me come out!”

Then she got back into her car and drove away in small noisy spurts. Afterwards, Roshini’s parents forbade her to ever see Jon again.

“You see how mad those people are,” her father fumed.

Jon called her later that evening. He had gotten a ride to Tahoe and had broken into the house that his parents kept there as a vacation home. He planned to stay in Tahoe for a couple more days “till things cool down” before returning home. She decided not to tell him about his mother’s visit but instead said that he should let his parents know where he was as they were probably worried.

The following day, somebody kept calling Roshini’s house and then immediately hanging up whenever someone picked up the phone. Her parents knew exactly who it was because of caller ID and after the third time, Roshini’s father called back and told Jon’s mother that if she didn’t stop harassing them, she would be hearing from the police. Jon must have talked to his parents very soon after that, because she stopped calling.

Jon returned a few days later. When they met at Starbucks he seemed embarrassed about the whole thing and blamed the undependable hot-water supply at the Tahoe house for his speedy return. Maybe it was because of the cold showers that he looked so refreshed - his skin aglow, his body crackling with energy, and his curls glossier than ever. She caught herself staring and hurried to pull out a book of Hafiz’s poetry that she’d brought along to share. That same afternoon it came to their attention that they had not yet actually set foot in a mosque. Jon said slowly that maybe they should make plans to go to the Masjid next Friday afternoon for prayers.

“Yes, Masjid,” Roshini said. Even the word sounded cool.

But on Thursday, her tooth began to hurt and they rescheduled for Sunday. On Saturday, he called and said he had forgotten a high-school friend was in town and so they rescheduled again. And after the third time rescheduling due to an unexpected appointment that came up independently for both of them, the subject of attending Masjid was not brought up. For her part it was her fear that the mosque would end up being like all the other religious centers she’d been to – somewhat ridiculous. She wasn’t sure why Jon seemed to avoid wanting to go but if she asked him he might decide that they should actually go so she said nothing.

One afternoon, they were sitting under a tree in Tilden Park reading Rumi together when she leaned over and kissed him fully on the lips. He didn’t kiss as well or as enthusiastically as she’d hoped and as soon as they stopped she told him about Varun, how she’d fallen in love with him when she was fifteen and how she’d always be in love with him. Jon asked why she had kissed him if that was the case and when she replied that she didn’t know, he got up.

“You should tell him how you feel,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”

But when he did, everything was wrong. Different. Soon the trips to Starbucks and the park and Mount Diablo came to a stop.

“So you’ve decided to come with us for a change?” her mother asked when she saw Roshini dressed up in her blue selwar kameez.

When they arrived at the party, everyone said how nice it was to see her, the first time all summer. But Roshini had come for a reason. Because it was his house. She found him next to the pool, drunk as usual.

Every other time they’d met, she’d been too flustered to even look at him properly. But today her breath was measured and her heart steady. Today she allowed herself to look.

His t-shirt was white, his shorts khaki, and his wavy hair fell with tousled ease over his forehead. He had almond shaped eyes with long, thick eyelashes and his skin was like caramel. He had a jogger’s body, lean and muscular, and she imagined a flat stomach under that loose t-shirt.

When he noticed her standing there he said, “Hi, I’m Varun and I live here so I guess I’m the host so can I get you something to drink?”

She realized that he had no idea who she was. She followed him to the basement bar, trying not to stare at the way his calf muscles swelled and contracted as he walked down the stairs.

The outdoor bar had drawn the drinkers and the basement was empty. It was colder here than the rest of the house and smelled like the inside of a new car. The mood lighting left the room in part-shadow and as they walked to the bar, her feet sunk into the soft, thick carpet. He turned towards her. She’d waited for this moment for years and now that it was here, she was strangely calm.

“I’ve had a crush on you since I was fifteen.”

He looked at her in astonishment.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Maybe it was because he was drunk that this was proving to be so easy. She told him she wasn’t kidding.

“I don’t remember you,” he said finally. “At all. And I have a girlfriend.”

Instead of the overwhelming grief she’d expected to feel after this rejection, there was only a flush of embarrassment. And even more surprising, a twinge of something that could only be relief. He regarded her blearily for a few moments and then appeared to come to a decision.

“But she’s not here tonight, so if I can fulfill your fantasy now’s a good time,” he said, and did a little rocking thing with his hips. He smelled like beer and was staring at her chest. Roshini mumbled that she had to go and stumbled back upstairs. She told her parents she was leaving and called a cab. On the ride home, she opened the windows and stuck her face out into the wind.

She was already waiting when Jon arrived at Starbucks the next morning.

“You sounded weird on the phone last night,” he said.

“I’m not really in love with Varun.”

Luckily he didn’t ask why she’d changed her mind. Instead he awkwardly leaned forward and kissed her like he meant it. His breath smelled sweet, like toffee. A sensation she’d never experienced before spread through her body and lit up her mind. Maybe this was the thing they called bliss.

They became a couple. She went back to worrying about her stomach, nose, eyebrows, arms, legs, butt, chest, and facial fuzz. The price of modernity. Jon’s parents were not at all happy about his new relationship, which made it better for him. Better than religion. In fact, Jon and Roshini stopped talking about religion altogether. But they still read Rumi once in a while, because no one says it better.

“To Love is to reach God.
Never will a Lover's chest
feel any sorrow.
Never will a Lover's robe
be touched by mortals.
Never will a Lover's body
be found buried in the earth.
To Love is to reach God.”

Photographs by Abeer Hoque