That to me was the bitterest revelation of all. I had not realized until then how much comfort I had taken from Ma’s insistence that she not only wanted to die, she was looking forward to death and the liberation it would bring with every remaining metastasized cell. It had been on the basis of that assertion that I had supported her in her Varanasi adventure, made all the arrangements, carried out all her wishes. I was giving my mother what she wanted, honoring her living will, I was her enabler, I was helping her to die with dignity. That she had declared with so much conviction that she wanted nothing better than to die made everything so much easier for me, banished any qualms and reservations. And now here she was turning the tables on me, trying to wheedle a reprieve, choosing life, putting herself on life support, placing her trust in this operator, this hustler Zehava, in a last desperate plea bargain for an extension. Had I been in Varanasi at that time, I would have pushed Zehava in all her high-maintenance glory into the foul waters of the Ganges alongside the slimy bathers and the sweating launderers and the idol worshippers doing their puja not only for the sin of raising false hopes, but for the crime of betraying the entire feminist agenda, for choosing her inner Zehava over her Golda, which is completely unforgivable.

How to understand Ma’s weird fixation with Zehava and her preposterous Shiva linga weight loss and transformation program? In the end I concluded that the only reasonable explanation was that she figured it might turn into a boon for India’s tourism, which could translate into more business for me. Ma was always looking out for her kids’ welfare. If she noticed someone talking to himself in the street, for example, she would hand him one of the cards she had had made up to publicize the powers of my twin brother, Shmelke. Go see my son, Reb Breslov Tabor, in Jerusalem, a miracle worker, a healer, he will make you normal, much cheaper than a psychiatrist, even with the airfare. But hey, bottom line, whatever Ma’s good intentions might have been on my behalf, however much she might have had my interests at heart by cultivating this con artist at the expense of her true desire for moksha, Zehava was messing with my mother’s head, it was a nonstarter. And not long after, Zehava was out of the picture—literally, the ones Manika was sending to me. No matter how many Shiva lingas Ma had stroked, she had not lost a single ounce, nothing at all had been transformed or transfigured. In a routine update email, the rebbetzin Dassi speculated that the cancer seemed to have dug its claws into my mother’s spine with a vengeance; it was becoming more and more painful for Ma to get around, though she still had her appetite, and her mood was still positive.