When Larry turned eighteen he had two life-changing experiences. One was a dream, and the other was meeting Kathleen at a cousin’s wedding. She had stood out in that white frothy affair, petite and pretty, with dark curling hair and creamy white skin. Hers was a soft, feminine beauty, and he hungered to conquer her. Everything about Kath was soft and fragile. The gods had designed her for love, for being protected. In a perfect world, she would have married a hardworking doctor who would have kept her imprisoned in comfort in a fashionably minimalist, modern home. Add a small pedigree dog, and two perfect children, plus a European holiday every year. But, instead, she had met Larry.
Their meeting was a revelation to him. Finally all the cheesy love songs on the radio made sense. There was such an emotion as love, and he was capable of feeling it. He would lie by her side after sex, watching her sleeping face. Tears would prick his eyes at the sense of completeness he felt. If Kath hungered for him, well, he shared her yearning.
Both sets of parents had disapproved of the match. Kath’s found him too different from other men, with his otherworldly stare, his beautiful face painful to look upon, and the fact that he came from the suburbs. His, because of the way she spoke, because she was ‘Toffee’ and thought herself ‘too good for the likes of us’. Even so, he could sense his father’s relieved confusion that perhaps he hadn’t been raising a queer all these years.
Larry would cringe when he would bring her around to visit their home with its suburban furnishings: red plastic tablecloth, the horseraces blaring on the radio, the Vegemite and sauce bottles on the table, the mall paintings hanging crooked on the wall. Seeing it through her eyes, he was ashamed, and also furious at himself for being ashamed. Who were these two aliens who had given birth to him?
He had dropped out of Church for two years before he had met Kath. The absence of women from the sacred rituals made him increasingly uneasy, the responses he had loved to chant for hours felt hollow and heavy upon his tongue, as if a wonderful new language was just below the text of the Mass. The churches felt empty, the play had lost all meaning. Leaving the Church had left a hole in his life.
But Kath was very interested in New Age philosophies, and together they began to study teachings from various gurus in India. Sai Baba, Krishnamurti, Yogannanda. They had flirted briefly with paganism, but Larry had found the rituals they had attended to be more of an excuse for a bunch of middle-aged thrill-seekers to get their kit off — all the while perving on each other while they sang to Pan.
One day Kath read about the Golden Shakti ashram and decided she wanted to visit India. Friends who had visited the ashram had reported back positively on the cleanliness and cheapness of the accommodation. Unlike a lot of ashrams in India, men and women were not separated and could share sleeping quarters. The guru, Ashbud, had been getting attention from serious spiritual seekers in Kath’s circle. He was like Sai Baba in the early days, before his fame had spread to Westerners. Ashbud was supposedly able to materialise gifts for his devotees from thin air. His breath upon your face could dissolve lifetimes of bad karma, and if you were fortunate enough to be selected for a personal interview, you would be healed, or raised to a state of such spiritual ecstasy that you would no longer need to incarnate any more. Such was the guru’s power, or so it was said.
From the moment Larry heard the name Ashbud, he also longed to visit India and seek an audience with him. Perhaps the great man could explain to him why he had felt so different from others all his life, why he had powers that he could not explain, why he could still read minds, see into bodies to the bones, the muscular structure, the inner organs.
Kath had a different agenda. She had just discovered she was pregnant, and fantasised that if Ashbud blessed the seed within her womb, the child would grow to greatness. She resolved to tell Larry her secret when they arrived in India.
Both sets of parents were against the idea of the pilgrimage. Kath’s parents cried, thinking she would die in some distant, unhygienic hovel, or become a zombie-like cult member, wandering India forever dazed and lost. The Owens’s fears were more about why go to India when you could have a lovely holiday in Queensland or Fiji? Nobody in their family had ever been to India, and the one question that appeared to obsess his mother was: What on earth were they going to use for toilet paper?
And so, when he had turned eighteen, Larry ran off to India with his pregnant girlfriend, Kathleen. They joined the Golden Shaktis, and he changed his name to Lazariel. His son was born in India. In Larry’s fantasies it had been in the commune, a moving home birth attended by the Western devotees of the golden guru himself, Ashbud. When Lazariel had cut the cord that connected his son to Kath, he had wept. But this memory was only a fantasy. Sandalwood incense and patchouli oil were two odours that never failed to evoke unwelcome memories of his time in the ashram. Awakening the demons — so he thought of that period of his life.
CHAPTER TWO
Every fortunate person who knows the secret of Osiris hidden in the shadows will live as a living man among the living.
— Texts of the Sarcophagi VII, 364
India. Heat. Ceiling fans. Stared at and followed wherever you went. Heat. Flies in your mouth and eyes. Avoiding the pools of diarrhoea in the street. Beggars. Stinking heat. Hunger. Warm, pulsing air. Cows with tiny coloured bells on their horns. Going into toilets and being chased out by cows. Heat. Indian women, gracefully beautiful in their saris. Colour. Heat. Nausea. Being asked for their autographs by smiling locals. Bodies burning in the City of Light. Ashes in his mouth. Bodies exposed to full view in the streets. Noise. Warm, stinking air. Heat. Anger, contempt, fear. Disbelief. Hating India, loving India.
The initial culture shock Larry experienced was severe. He shook on the streets, feeling overwhelmed with the stench, the poverty. He had constant diarrhoea and vomiting. It irritated him that Kath appeared untouched by the noise and filth. She ate from road stands, with flies covering the food, and she constantly chirped about how glad she was to be ‘home’. Soon he was ready to drown her in the Ganges and catch the first plane back to Australia. He had never felt so much hatred and, paradoxically, so much love, for a place.
They had flown into Madras with its population of over five million, most of whom seemed to be living on the streets. Yellow and black taxicabs swarmed like an angry nest of wasps in the dirty chaos. Larry was horrified when the first taxi driver beamingly accepted his fare, assuring him that he knew the destination, and then drove halfway across the city to stop in a filthy side street and demand his rupees. After the thirteenth taxi driver had done it, he realised it was just India. There seemed to be no logic or reason in the mad new world he found himself in. God is Great proclaimed signs on the front of lodging houses, and it was true. God was great in India. This was the country that had birthed Buddhism; boasted a large Islamic population; colourful Hinduism with its vast pantheon of gods; the unique ancient religion, Janism, one of the world’s oldest religions; Zoroastrianism; Sikhism; and Christianity. Signs of worship were everywhere among the rubbish lining the streets, the clothes hanging out to dry and even the lurid cinema posters advertising the latest Bollywood blockbusters.
Yet there was another side to India. It was difficult to walk ten paces along the street without some man coming up to grab Kath by the breasts. Western backpackers with whom Larry and Kath talked related horror stories of a train being shot up by fanatics. Some had escaped death by hiding under the dying bodies of women and children. And when Kath and Larry eventually braved the packed train stations to attempt to decipher the message boards in order to catch a train to Mysore, where the Golden Shakti ashram could be located, they witnessed the stabbing of a Western tourist by an Indian man who fled before anyone on the platform had time to react.
Larry noticed with shock how the majority of spectators stepped over the body to push their way onto the trains. Death had a different rhythm in India. On the train he found it difficult to relax, conscious all the time of his money belt s
trapped around his middle. Western backpackers had also told tales of bandits who gassed the train carriages to rob the travellers. Sometimes they removed kidneys and livers from their oblivious donors for the black market trade in body parts.
He sat, sweat dripping off him in the sickly heat, sipping warm mango juice and chat tea bought from the sellers who flooded the platform stops. He tried to blank out Kath, who was busy bonding with everyone in the compartment, handing out their address in Australia to eager hands.
It was a relief when they made it to the ashram, with its cool white rooms that smelled of sandalwood, jasmine and frangipani. Its large ceiling fans were a welcome, silent witness as they dozed and made love. Larry’s stomach even began to settle down with the simple, delicious vegetarian food prepared by volunteers and the calm, devout vibes that permeated the enclosed area. Ashbud was spotted infrequently during the day. He appeared for morning darshan, a distant figure, clothed in green, waving to the large crowd of Westerners who had assembled from all parts of the world. He was a short, sunglassed figure in a black limo, acknowledging his devotees, surrounded by armed guards. New friends at the ashram stressed the importance of the armed guards. There had been an assassination attempt on Swami’s life the previous year. Two Western men, Americans, had been shot as they dived in front of the bullets in their attempts to defend him.
‘They died in bliss,’ the devotees recited to Larry, faces radiant at the thought of this grace. ‘The highest way for any of us to die would be at the feet of the master’ Larry always had to bite the inside of his cheek when he heard sentiments like that.
Kath, however, had embraced the mythology around Ashbud and would sit for hours, chanting with different groups, in an attempt to purify herself. When she had first shyly informed Larry of her pregnancy, his immediate reaction had been fury. She had known she was pregnant, and she had dragged him to this stinking, illiterate Third World country. She had tricked him with her lies that she was taking the pill. He was not yet nineteen; he had his entire life in front of him and, in one swoop, she had stolen his freedom.
She was smiling uncertainly up at him, her eyes huge with hope that he would share her joy. He had restrained the urge to strike her, to scream at her for using his seed. Instead, smiling, he had pulled her into his arms, feeling her stomach move against him. It would take time to get used to the idea, he informed her, but he would adjust.
That night he was unfaithful to Kath for the first time, screwing an English girl who had been flirting with him. The sex was hot and wonderful, and he wondered why he had resisted his urges for so long. He was not like normal men; he could not be judged by their rules.
Strange, disturbing dreams had returned to him at night. Primeval birds, long extinct, danced intricately, breathing fire, their immense red-and-gold wings moving slowly through the air. There was an ancient city, pearl-white, long forgotten to time, crumbling. Black rain fell upon him, and he screamed in pain. Angel men with shouting faces, huge giant men, ran towards him, their wings on fire, and were pushed by the angels towards a black hole, screaming. His entire body twisted in half in his attempts to break free of them. A woman wept in a garden. Tall like the angel men, she wore gold snake bones in her hair and around her neck. Her grief was palpable. He knew this woman to be his mother. Dreams haunted him; the night offered no solace, no peace of mind.
As the humid days passed, he became more resigned to the idea of the baby and more determined that it would not interfere with his life plans. They still hadn’t been granted an audience with Swami, and Larry had decided that he didn’t care if a personal interview never eventuated. Many of the devotees were filled with longings for a private session with Ashbud, but few were chosen to sit at the feet of the guru. Larry was fond of verbalising his suspicions about why wealthy Americans and Japanese seemed to have a priority on appointments, so it came as a surprise when, after darshan, a personal minder, one of a large collection of hideous Indian hags fond of terrorising the Westerners with broomsticks, suddenly gave him the signal that Ashbud desired an audience with them.
Larry felt the collective disappointment of the assembled devotees when he received the much-prayed-for invitation, and he grinned to himself. These people are full of shit. When it cut to the chase, the truth is, all that these white-clothed, smiling bunch of New Agers really cared about was numero una.
Larry and Kathleen were led to Swami’s private interview room by three of his minder hags, who kept hissing self-importantly at them to hurry. The room was monitored by several Indian security men with machine guns. It was located in the rear of the compound in the large brick building that formed Ashbud’s private quarters. The exterior of the courtyard featured a small garden, where mischievous monkeys played in the trees, spitting at the hags as they passed. Larry knew that Ashbud’s pet elephant, Rosebud, was housed at the rear of the building. He was devoted to the animal, and it to him. The devotees loved to relate stories of how, when he left on his numerous trips around India, Rosebud, stricken with grief, refused to eat and would cry tears for days until he returned. She was adorned with precious silks and jewels that would have kept an Indian family going for years. She had her own private security guard to protect her, and it was widely assumed among the faithful that Rosebud’s next incarnation would be as a human being.
As Larry and Kathleen waited outside, a popular American movie star emerged from the interview with his wife, who was a model and known wannabe movie actress. Larry was surprised to see the famous faces. He had read they were both heavily involved in the cult of Scientology. She had obviously been crying. They scowled furiously at Larry and Kath, mere mortals who were daring to look upon them. Simultaneously they placed dark shades to shut out the prying eyes.
Ashbud’s interview room was simply decorated. A large overhead fan whirled through the air. There was no furniture, save the large chair that seated the guru. In front of him on the floor were plump cushions, which he indicated Larry and Kath should sit upon. Personal guards stood to attention inside the room, although Larry was relieved to see the hags were banished to the outer quarters. The large windows were open, and Larry could see Rosebud having her daily bath outside, being scrubbed down by laughing minders who worshipped her.
Up close, Ashbud was a bit of a disappointment. Puffy in the face, with a belly like a spider, he had long grey hair that hung past his shoulders. It was said a nest of scorpions lived there in peace. He reeked of bullshit. Larry could feel Kath almost hyperventilating with excitement beside him, and he had to struggle to control his irritation.
The guru raised his hand over them in blessing. There was a long pause while he regarded them through slitted eyes. Larry found it difficult to equate the man who sat in front of him with the Ashbud of legend. Perhaps all the stories that had been circulated about him were myths, exaggerated over the years and reaching gigantic proportions of untruth. It seemed impossible to reconcile this obese, aging Hindu with a Christlike figure who could heal the terminally ill, tame ferocious tigers, snakes and scorpions with his loving hands and, with those same hands, manifest precious jewels from the air for his wealthier devotees. ‘Ashbud happy,’ the guru announced. Larry resisted the temptation to comment that of course Ashbud was happy — he was a millionaire several times over! The guru was appraising him, and Larry had the sensation of his mind being squeezed. He felt a small rush of energy in his lower spine, and the light in the room appeared to glow brighter.
Kath began to sob. Ashbud broke his attention from Larry and regarded her with an intense stare. Larry felt that he was not seeing her. His gaze seemed cold and detached, as if he were viewing a struggling ant. ‘Baby cooks well,’ Ashbud announced, and went into a peal of laughter, slapping his knee as if he had said something terribly funny. Larry tried to control his face from registering his disgust. He knew that great spiritual teachers like the Dalai Lama were childlike, but Ashbud just seemed to be brain dead. The guru waved his hand in the air and a miniature gold b
racelet appeared. He flicked it across to Kath.
‘Charm for baby, keep him happy.’ Him — Larry wondered if that were true. He shouldn’t confuse the messenger with the message, he reminded himself. Perhaps there was more to Ashbud than his appearance had led him to believe. The sleeves of the green punjabi outfit he wore were pulled up. Where had the bracelet come from?
‘Love everything,’ Ashbud intoned. ‘Life is a big Christmas tree. Lots of presents. Ashbud will give you everything that you want. What you need?’ He fixed a fierce glare on them. Larry panicked for a second. What sort of fucked-up question was that? What did he need? A million dollars? World peace? An answer to the questions that had plagued him since childhood about his true origins? Solutions to the puzzle of the disturbing visions he saw, the demonic thought patterns twisted around people’s heads, the mind-reading? Should he tell him that he desired self-realisation?
To his horror, he could hear Kath replying, ‘We want only your love, Swami’. He had to fight to suppress the urge to kill her on the mat at Ashbud’s feet.
‘Good! Good!’ Ashbud was beaming at Larry, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. ‘Ashbud happy, now kiss feet.’
Larry realised the interview was at an end. He watched, confused, as Kath, beaming like a child, kissed Ashbud’s feet. Then he, too, bent his head. The guru’s feet smelt of roses. Larry’s mouth touched the skin, and a blue flame leapt up Ashbud’s leg. Larry risked looking upwards at the guru, and found him looking down at him. With a small shock, he recognised the hunger in those eyes.
He had been furious at Kath afterwards, refusing to talk to her for the entire day. She had blown his chance of finding solutions to the answers that had tormented him for so long. She had dragged him to this stinking country, had lied to him about contraception, and now she had prevented him from solving the puzzle of his origin, not to mention understanding the strange manifestations that occurred around him. His simmering resentment toward her hippie-drippy New Age-bullshit attitude flared up, tightening his throat, shortening his breath. It only ignited his anger when, hysterical at his hostility, she turned to Anna, the English girl he had been fucking, and cried on her shoulder about how he was treating her.
Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2 Page 2