All true Gurus are alike in the fact that they exist in a constant state of self-realization, but external characteristics differ. The apparent differences between my Guru and her master are vast—she's a feminine, multilingual, university-educated and savvy professional woman; he was a sometimes-capricious, sometimes-kingly South Indian old lion. For a nice New England girl like me, it is easy to follow my living teacher, who is so reassuring in her propriety—exactly the kind of Guru you could take home to meet Mom and Dad. But Swamiji . . . he was such a wild card. And from the first time I came to this Yogic path and saw photographs of him, and heard stories about him, I've thought, "I'm just going to stay clear of this character. He's too big. He makes me nervous."

每一位真正的导师都同样处在某种经久不息的自我实现状态，但他们的外在性格却不尽相同。我的导师和她师父之间，有着天壤之别——她是女性，说多种语言，受大学教育，是经验丰富的职业女性；他则是时而反覆无常、时而具王者风范的南印度老狮子。像我这种来自新英格兰州的好姑娘，很容易追随举止得体、教人放心的这位在世导师——正是那种能带回家见父母的导师。可是思瓦米吉……他总是不按牌理出牌。打从我走上这条瑜伽道路，看见他的相片，听见关于他的传说，我就想：“我得和这人物保持距离。他太庞大。他让我紧张。”

But now that I am here in India, here in the Ashram that was his home, I'm finding that all I want is Swamiji. All I feel is Swamiji. The only person I talk to in my prayers and meditations is Swamiji. It's the Swamiji channel, round the clock. I am in the furnace of Swamiji here and I can feel him working on me. Even in his death, there's something so earthy and present about him. He's the master I need when I'm really struggling, because I can curse him and show him all my failures and flaws and all he does is laugh. Laugh, and love me. His laughter makes me angrier and the anger motivates me to act. And I never feel him closer to me than when I'm struggling through the Gurugita, with its unfathomable Sanskrit verses. I'm arguing with Swamiji the whole time in my head, making all kinds of blowhard proclamations, like, "You better be doing something for me because I'm doing this for you! I better see some res-ults here! This better be purifying!" Yesterday, I got so incensed when I looked down at my chanting book and realized we were only on Verse Twenty-five and I was already burning in discomfort, already sweating (and not like a person sweats, either, but rather like a cheese sweats), that I actually expelled a loud: "You gotta be kidding me!" and a few women turned and looked at me in alarm, expecting, no doubt, to see my head start spinning demonically on my neck.

然而如今我人在印度，在曾是他家的道场，才发现我只需要思瓦米吉。我只感觉到思瓦米吉。我在祷告和禅坐之际，只对思瓦米吉说话。这是日夜播放的思瓦米吉频道。我在思瓦米吉的炉子里，感觉到他正在锻炼我。即使死后，他依然像存在人世。他是我奋力挣扎之时所需要的大师，因为我能诅咒他，向他展露我的失败、缺陷，而他只是发笑，发笑而爱我。他的笑使我更加愤怒，而愤怒激励我起身行动。当我艰难地吟唱梵语诗节高深莫测的古鲁梵歌时，使我觉得比任何时候更靠近他。我从头到尾在脑子里和思瓦米吉争辩，做出各种夸大的宣言，比方：“你最好为我做些事，因为我为你做了这些！最好让我看见成果！最好起净化作用！”昨日我非常恼火，因为低头看吟唱本发现才唱到二十五节，而我已浑身不适而发烫，汗流浃背（不像人出汗，反倒像乳酪冒出水汽），于是我竟大声吐出一句：“你在开玩笑吧！”几个女人慌忙转头看我，肯定预期看见我的头像着魔般开始在自己的脖子上旋转。

Every once in a while I recall that I used to live in Rome and spend my leisurely mornings eating pastries and drinking cappuccino and reading the newspaper.

我偶尔想起住在罗马的日子，早晨总是从从容容吃糕饼、喝咖啡、看报。

That sure was nice.

那真不错。

Though it seems very far away now. Eat, Pray, Love

尽管现在似乎离我十分遥远。