The Yoga of Max's Discontent Read Free Page B

holding the service in the St. George–St. Demetrios Greek Orthodox Church in Spanish Harlem, but his mother hadn’t identified with the Orthodox faith, just as she hadn’t fasted at Lent or sought any Greek family in the United States. “Talking of past is like two birds sitting and knitting sweater. Fool’s daydreams. You think only of future,” she had said in her halting English whenever Max and Sophia asked her too many questions about her childhood. Not that it mattered. Orthodox or Episcopal, everyone ended in some spot under theearth. At least she had died a natural death. A life not cut short by a shooting or an overdose was a minor blessing in the projects.
    On his way back from the Columbus Circle subway station after her memorial service that evening, Max saw the Indian food cart guy from a week before standing on a small stool in front of the open-air cart, still naked from the waist up. He was scraping snow from the cart’s tin roof, a look of complete absorption on his face. Max hesitated, then removed his overcoat and walked up to the cart, shivering in his sweater.
    The man saw Max and smiled. “From the other night, yes?” he said, getting off the stool.
    Max nodded. “I came to give you this.” Max handed him the overcoat. “It’s very cold here.”
    The man laughed and his eyes lit up. “Thank you for caring, sir, but I am not in need of a coat.”
    â€œPlease. Just a small gift from my sister and me. It’s not safe to be like that in the winters in New York.”
    â€œIndeed, sir, that is very considerate, but I am very fine indeed,” he said. “Please believe me when I say I can buy a coat for myself. I have been in America for one whole month, but I have not felt cold here. It is much colder where I come from.”
    Max put his coat back on and huddled closer to the warm cart. “I didn’t know it was that cold in India,” he said. “I mean, you are from India, aren’t you?”
    The man nodded. He pulled a mug of water from the metal tank under the grill surface and washed the grill.
    â€œIndia is a big country, sir. I am from the mountains, up, very far up in the Himalayas beyond Kashmir, where people rarely visit,” he said. He splattered oil on the grill. “Will you have something to eat, sir?”
    Eight PM . Max was restarting work the next day after a week off, and he hadn’t slept well for several nights. But he felt like talking to someone who didn’t know of his mother’s death and wouldn’t offer unwanted condolences and homilies.
    â€œA falafel gyro,” said Max, stooping and moving closer to the cramped, warm cart interior.
    â€œSit, sit, sir,” said the man. He wiped the stool outside the cart with a dry white cloth. “You are tall for my small cart, sir.”
    Max sat on the stool. “I’m tall for every cart,” he said. “And please don’t call me sir, I’m Max. Max Pzoras.”
    He smiled. “Indeed,” he said. “My name is Viveka.”
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    VIVEKA TOOK FALAFEL from one of the stainless steel containers on the shelf and put it on the grill. The falafel sizzled. Just inhaling the hot metal smell made Max shiver less. Viveka broke the falafel gently with his tongs, snowflakes falling on his naked back.
    Max shook his frozen fingers. “You must feel at least a little cold,” he said.
    Viveka looked up from the grill. “Oh, me, no, not at all, sir,” he said. “If you live in cold weather for long, your body changes. And I am nothing. The Himalayan yogis sit in their caves wearing nothing for months even when the temperature drops to thirty or forty degrees below zero—much, much lower than here.”
    â€œBut that’s just a myth,” said Max. “No one has actually seen them.”
    Viveka put the tongs down. He raised his eyebrows.