The Swami and the Sari by Mary Scott Its the late 70s.

By day, I was a student at UCLA Law School and by night, the sole disciple of an extraneous Indian Swami adrift on the Palos Verdes Peninsula. I cooked the meals passed through his doorway, arranged his meetings with seekers, and drove him to the occasional spiritual gathering. One day Swamiji decided I should have a sari for those special evenings. We went to an Indian clothing bazaar where he looked through the racks and picked one out. It was very dramatic; mainly red silk with gold and white embroidery and designs. The women in the shop were a bit taken aback by the two of us, possibly because what Swamiji had chosen was a wedding sari. Its not that we werent an age-appropriate coupleI was in my mid-twenties and the Swami was a glowing thirty. Its not that they were shocked because he was the color of dark amber honey and I was quite whitethis was Los Angeles, after all. But the Swami was wearing the robes of a wandering sadhu, their orange color signifying that he was a renunciate, a celibate holy man. I didnt realize that I appeared to be a woman luring a saint into the bushes out back. I should have gotten a clue when upon emerging sari-clad from the dressing room; Swamiji exclaimed You look like my bride! There are actually three parts to a sari. Theres the long piece of cloth that gets wrapped around you, but underneath that theres a slip that goes from waist to floor and a cropped blouse with short sleeves that ends just under the bust line. Today anyone can learn how to wrap and wear a sari on YouTube. Then, I was at the mercy of the shop ladies, who I would come to know, were merciless. They found me the necessary undergarments although they didnt have a slip long enough for me. They demonstrated how to wrap the sari. They took my money and sent us home. A few days later Swamiji spent the afternoon receiving visits from spiritual seekers in my Westwood apartment. When the last stunned Westerner left (Swamiji tended to rather outrageous advice) the Swami said he wanted to go out to dinner. This was huge. In many months of serving him, Id never even seen the guy eat. I just knew that he usually cleaned his plate before he shoved it outside the door of his room. My apartment was right on the edge of Westwood Village and within walking distance to many fine restaurants. He didnt want to go to my favorite Indian restaurant which was just down the street. He wanted to go to a French restaurant. There was a very nice one about a ten minute walk away in the heart of the Village. I called them and made a reservation. Swamiji smiled and asked me to please wear my sari. This was the first time Id tackled putting the thing on by myself. I felt reasonably confident and after a few false starts it looked pretty good. As I had been instructed, I tucked the front panels into the waistband of the slip. We took off for the restaurant. Swamiji was wearing his orange robes, a pair of red bedroom slippers with bright multi-colored yarn balls on the top, mirrored sunglasses and various beads and bangles. He looked bizarre and resplendent and I was feeling quite amazing in my red and gold silk. The matre d liked what he saw when we walked through the door. He escorted us to a great table and our waiter was there in a flash to take our drink order. Something to drink? I looked at Swamiji and asked if hed like to order a drink. I was in uncharted territory. He said yes. The waiter smiled and looked expectant. I asked Swamiji what hed like to drink. He said Something French. I heard myself saying Dubonnet, please.

DUBONNET? The favorite beverage of the French Foreign Legion; quaffed by Barbara Streisand in the 70s movie The Way We Were and beloved by the Queen Mum, who drank it with gin? Id never had it, but I guess the ad campaign with Pia Zadora was lodged somewhere in my brain. I asked for menus and when they arrived I started looking one over. Swamiji wouldnt touch his. Our Dubonnets were served. I explained toasting to Swamiji, made a forgettable and forgotten toast, and we both took a drink. My drink was still at my lips when I was sprayed by Dubonnet flying from his. The first swig had shocked him so that hed spit it out all over me and the table. Then he sputtered that they were trying to poison him, or was it me? We were getting a lot of looks from our fellow diners. I calmed him down by telling him that that was alcohol and hed asked for a drink. It didnt take much conversation to clarify that he wanted a beverage. He wasnt ready to tackle alcohol. Moving right along, I ordered pasta in alfredo sauce for Swamiji and something more interesting for myself. As the waiter thanked us for our order, Swamiji looked at him and said very plainly, I must have a new plate and fork. The waiter looked at me and I looked back at the Swami. What? I cannot eat from a plate or use a fork that has been used by another person. . . . vibrations. I told the waiter that this was Swamijis first trip to a restaurant, needlessly explained that he was a holy man from India, and asked if he could help us. The waiter was enjoying himself now. We were the floorshow. With a flourish he said he was certain they could do something and swept off to the kitchen. There was warm bread on the table and I offered some to Swamiji. He accepted a piece. I explained that the little gold metallic squares things were wrapped butter. He took several, opened them, and then smeared them on his bread without using the used knife. Fine. I wasnt expecting perfect table manners. He wolfed the bread down, chewing with his mouth open and with bits falling out, and then asked where his dinner was. I explained that it would be a while, as all the food was prepared when ordered. I must have it now. Why? Once I start eating I cannot stop until I am finished. Great. I suggested that he lick a pat of butter while we waited and thats what he did. When our entrees arrived, the kitchens solution to the request for a new plate was immediately apparent. They had covered one of their plates with aluminum foil before putting the food on it. The waiter was a pro; he explained to Swamiji that the special covering stopped all vibrations and presented him with a fork that was brand new. Swamiji goes for it! Hes eating! He likes it! His head is buried in his plate! There is no pause between bites! Its all gone! He asks for more! More? I explain to him that dinner in this restaurant is just one serving. Id be happy to order for him again, but it will take more time and Im not sure he wants to keep licking butter. How about dessert? Oh yes. They brought the cart out instantly and we picked several gorgeous pastries and had them slathered in whipped cream. By the time we said our goodbyes to the bows of the waiter and matre d, both Swamiji and I had relaxed. We had managed to eat in a restaurant! The streets of Westwood were busy with UCLA students and hip folks out for a Friday night stroll. We were a striking couple as we wove our way through the crowds back to my apartment. I was stepping off a curb at a particularly busy corner when I stepped on the front of my sari. By the time my eyes turned to look down, it was nothing but a pile of red silk on the street. I was standing there in my slip and little blouse. The shop ladies had failed to tell me that Indian women secured the sari to the slip with a huge safety pin. I was joined in my laughter by those around me as I scooped up the silk, threw it over my shoulder, and walked on.