“Thank you for asking,” he said. “I am a holy man of sorts, I suppose some might call me a guru. I see you are enjoying a platter of chicken. Around the whole world, all peoples enjoy chicken. Hindus cannot take beef. Muslims cannot take the meat of pigs. Neither can the Jews, nor can they eat some creatures of the sea. But everyone can take chicken. There is fable that explains why that is. Would you like me to relate it?’
What the heck, he was being nice. “Sure,” I said,”Tell me your fable.”
THE GURU’S FABLE OF THE CHICKEN
“Back in the Oldest of Old Times,” he began, “before the Days before the Days, when the World yet rested upon the back of the Elephant that stood upon the back of the Turtle that swam in the Sea of Eternity, a churlish Chicken found himself alone in a vast and empty land.
“What’s a guy supposed to do out here?” he wondered. “There’s gotta be some rules, or some boss, or a traffic cop, or a tour guide, or an instruction manual, or something. They can’t just expect a fellow to figure it all out for himself. I mean, where do you start?” So he thought and thought about it for a minute or two and decided that, since there was nothing for it where he stood, he’d better start walking.
The Chicken walked forever and not quite a day, until he reached a sandy desert wherein a group of men dressed in flowing robes and headdress stood among oil wells and Cadillac limousines. “Yo, who’s in charge around here?” he asked them.
“Be it known that we are humble slaves of Allah, whose words were revealed by the Prophet, peace be upon Him, in the Holy Quran,” came the reply.
“Well, where do I connect with this guy, Allah?” the Chicken inquired.
The men shuddered and recoiled. “Be it known, infidel,” their leader admonished him, “that there is no god but Allah, the Infinite, and Muhammad is his Prophet. Peace be upon Him,” he added. “Therefore venture beyond the horizon calling his name, and surely he will speak to thee.”
The Chicken set off, calling out for Allah every now and then, but he never could quite reach the horizon, nor Allah either. Finally, his breath and body nearly exhausted, he desperately beseeched, “Allah, Allah, Allah, I really gotta talk to you!”
At once a whirlwind rose from the arid desert sands and approached him. “What do you want of me?” an ethereal voice commanded from the swirl.
“Hey, it’s about time you showed up,” exclaimed the Chicken. “Listen, I need some advice. I’m new in this world. What’s the skinny, anyhow? Some guys with towels on their heads told me you could help.”
“Follow the Five Pillars of Islam faithfully, and you will be transported to a paradise of succulent fruit, sweets, sparkling streams of clear water and an endless supply of beautiful virgins,” the whirlwind assured him.
“Virgins?” said the Chicken with a leer. “All right, chicks galore! And I suppose a guy can make a pig of himself, you old dog?”
“Pig?! Dog?!” roared the whirlwind. “Begone, you wretched little beast, and my curses be upon you!”
“Hey, just a minute!” the Chicken exclaimed, but the whirlwind had already dissolved into the clear desert air. “Well, geez…” sighed the Chicken. “Nothing to do but keep on walkin’.” So he resumed his trek and crossed more desert forever and not quite a day, until he happened upon a group of men with bushy beards, ringlet curls and beanie caps adorning their solemn skulls, standing before a high wall, wailing.
“Mornin’, gents,” said the Chicken. “Maybe you can give a stranger a little helping hand? I’m looking for guidance.”
“Jehovah is our true guide,” one of the men informed him. “We have been Chosen to follow His Laws, and His Laws only.”
“Sounds good to me,” said the Chicken. “Where do I find this Jehovah?”
“Seek him in the desert,” said one of the men.
“On a hilltop, that’s my advice,” said another.
“Don’t listen to them. A cave, that’s the ticket,” said another.
As the men argued about the best way to find Jehovah the Chicken wandered off and soon came to a mount, which a passerby told him was named Sinai. To get a better view the Chicken climbed the mount, whereupon a voice boomed out, “What, you want more Commandments? Ten weren’t enough?”
“Just tell me what gives, that’s all,” said the Chicken. “I’m having trouble figuring the world out, and somebody’s gotta know the answer.”
“Have I got a deal for you,” said the voice. Whereupon it commenced reciting the Torah, Chapter and Verse.
Along about the begats, the Chicken chimed in, “Hey, how much more of this do I have to listen to? I mean, you’ve already started repeating some of these stories.”
“We have only barely begun. My Laws are many, and each and every one must be obeyed to the letter. And the Laws are not the end of it, because to understand and follow them properly requires deep, careful, endless study and contemplation.”
“You gotta be kiddin’,” said the Chicken. “Well, okay, get on with it.”
About halfway through Numbers the Chicken wearily interjected, “So, after all this washing and purifying, and all those sacrifices and observances, and the rest of this mumbo jumbo, what’s in it for me? Any virgins, or fruits, or sparkling streams?”
“Well, maybe a little milk and honey,” said the voice. “That’s about it.”
“Seems to me, these priests of yours have a sweet racket going,” observed the Chicken. “Everybody else works by the sweat of his brow, and they rake off 10%.”
“Get off my mountain, you schmendrick!” bellowed the voice. “And be assured, my curse will follow you, and your children, and their children! And their kids too!”
“Sheesh,” sighed the Chicken. And so he descended from Mount Sinai and resumed his trek. Not even halfway to forever he found himself along the shores of an inland sea, where a multitude had gathered. A man in flowing white robes, His head adorned by a golden halo, was distributing loaves and fishes to His followers.
“Well, this free lunch is all right,” thought the Chicken as he munched away. “And this guy looks like he might have something to impart.” Wiping his beak on his wing, he approached the man and said, “Hey pal, I blew into town a little late today. What have you been telling this lot?”
“Blessed are the poor and the meek,” the man pronounced. “Turn the other cheek. Store up not the treasures of this world.”
“Sounds to me like three E-Z steps to being a loser,” commented the Chicken.
“Each has his cross to bear,” answered the man, “and you can henceforth count on that going double for the likes of you.” Whereupon He resumed handing out loaves and fishes to the multitude.
The Chicken reflected that he’d found no enlightenment in these sandy desert wastes, and that furthermore obviously nobody was ever going to get rich around there. He resolved to try his luck elsewhere and directed his steps toward the East.
Forever and not quite a day later, he found himself in a lush, steaming jungle, where he came upon a golden giant with voluminous ears, seated with his legs arranged in what appeared to the Chicken a very painful posture indeed. “What guidance can you give to a tired and lonely traveler?” the Chicken asked.
The golden giant serenely raised a gentle hand in blessing and intoned, “Rid yourself of all earthly desires. That is the way to Nirvana, the truest bliss.”
“Let me get this straight,” said the Chicken. “I shouldn’t want wine, women, song and a Porsche? And that’s supposed to make me blissful?”
“The One True Way to Enlightenment,” the golden giant assured him. “It works for me.”
“Here’s my version of enlightenment,” the Chicken declaimed. “I’ve rid myself of desire for your Nirvana.”
The golden giant sat up abruptly. “Ordinarily I teach gentleness toward all living things. But I’m teaching no one to be gentle towar
d you, you bum. Beat it!”
On the Chicken slogged, and after forever and not quite a day he found himself atop a lofty mountain peak looking out over the entire world. Sitting before him was a wizened old man in a loincloth. “You seek guidance, pilgrim?” inquired the man.
“Well, that’s what I’ve been doing, lo these many moons,” lamented the Chicken, “but everybody I ask just hands me a line of bullshit.”
“I was going to advise you to perfect your karma by earning merit so that in later incarnations you can free yourself from eternal suffering on the onerous Wheel of Existence,” said the old man sadly. “However, you have insulted the sacred Hindu cow. Therefore go your miserable way with no blessings from me. You’ll never be anything but a chicken.”
And thus the Chicken traveled hither and yon, and to and fro, and north, south, east and west, across the Seven Seas to the Four Corners and back, seeking guidance from any and all. And without exception insulting each and every god and holy man he encountered.
Some gods protect the lowly pig. Some gods protect the noble cow. Some gods protect humble creatures of the sea. Many and sundry animals fall under the divine protection of the diverse gods.
But because of his churlishness, the hapless Chicken is not only permitted, but welcomed, on every table across the wide, wide world.
*
“Well, that explains everything,” I told him. “Thank you. I enjoyed your story.”
“Just so,” he said with a little bow, his hands together prayer-style, like they do. “I am pleased my story amused you, Memsahib. By the way,” he added. “I don’t suppose you could spare one of those drumsticks?”
*
“The next day I thought I’d come to the hospital and check up on you, so I got into one of those crummy little Indian cabs. However, after a few blocks I realized that the driver was going in the wrong direction. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘The hospital is the other way.’
“He held up a tourist guide opened to an ad for a carpet store. ‘My cousin owns this shop,’ he said. ‘He has excellent rugs and most reasonable prices. I thought we could stop there first.’
“Absolutely not!” I shouted at him. “Take me to the hospital! Now!” He turned at the next corner, and I think he really did mean to head back to the hospital, but at the next intersection we came to this long column of dingy, grim-faced little men marching along, blocking all traffic.
“Oh dear,” the driver sighed. “The sewer workers’ union is staging another demonstration. The Communists must have incited them again.” He started nudging the car into the line, but they wouldn’t make way for him, and pretty soon we were surrounded by pissed-off Communists marching by, me sitting in the middle of it like Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. I thought they’d start rocking the cab or stoning it or something, but eventually he managed to squeeze his way through the line and eventually brought me to the hospital. But they told me you couldn’t have visitors until today. So I hung it up, went back to the Oberoi, had a couple gin and tonics, and that was it for yesterday. Anyhow, I needed the sleep, so I napped through the afternoon.
“So, that’s been my time in glorious Calcutta. What a godawful grim place this is! Utterly a city without joy. Such unhappiness. And the men are such jerks. I thought it was just the Indians that come to Los Angeles, but it’s all of them. I cannot wait to go home!”
*
Dana spent every day with me, while my wounds healed and my sickness subsided. Sooner than I’d hoped, the docs cleared me for takeoff, and Dana and I arranged our flight home. My passport had strayed somewhere in the Indian hinterlands, and Payne D’Arse smoothed the way by expediting my new one—my second in two years. The photo this time would cause any conscientious customs clerk to double-check the “no entry” roster. I was in no shape to comb Calcutta for clothing in a style I liked, so Dana rounded up an outfit for me to fly home in from the boutiques in her hotel. The day before departure we paid a visit to Mother to thank her for saving my life.
“Think nothing of it, Jake,” she said. “We served you out of the spirit of pure Christian charity. I am overjoyed that you recovered from your distress so thoroughly. Certainly you have your friend, Miss Wehrli, to thank, and I hope as well as the humble efforts of me and the Sisters.”
“I would like to make a contribution to your Missionary,” I said. “How does it work? Do I send the check to you here?”
“No, Jake, send no money. It would only cause difficulty,” Mother said.
“But couldn’t you use some money for medicines, or food, or a better water supply? I see so many things here that could be improved with just a little money.”
“You do not understand our philosophy, Jake. We do not see poverty and suffering as afflictions. We see them as blessings, as ennobling, for Christ lived in poverty and suffering, and by emulating Him in our daily lives and our ministrations it brings us closer to His true spirit. We dress as the poorest, we eat as the poorest, we live as the poorest. When Sisters travel to Missions in other lands they carry only as much belongings as will fit in a plain cardboard box. So the poor whom we serve know that we are truly humble, and thus they find our help easier to accept.”
“I know people who have contributed substantial amounts to your Missionaries. May I ask what you do with their money?”
“It is an embarrassment to admit this, but we don’t know what to do with it, so we deposit it in the bank, hoping that Christ will some day reveal His plans for it. Oh, we need a little money, of course, for travel and so forth, and the Bank of Credit and Commerce International is very handy for that, as they have offices in all the poor countries where we work.”
“Your money is on deposit in BCCI?”
“Yes. It is operated by some nice gentlemen in Pakistan. We feel that being of a kindred race they understand us, and with the bank situated in one of the world’s poorest countries, we are helping the poor even with our bank deposits.”
I told Mother about my recent encounter with BCCI. By the conclusion of my story her normally downcast eyes were flashing, and she said, “Hmmm. This is news to me. Thank you, Jake. Your information is contribution enough. I will have our accountants make some calls this very afternoon to some people they know at the Vatican Bank in Rome. Christ Himself had differences with money changers, you know, “she added. So I couldn’t contribute money, but at least I contributed my services as her bouncer for a few days, as well as a little timely financial counseling. Considering what finally happened to BCCI, I may have saved her Missionary millions of dollars.
From each according to his abilities, they say. We do what we can.
*
And thus it happened that I owed my life to two great women. Mother rescued me from a squalid death in a Calcutta gutter. And Dana Wehrli rescued me from Mother. I don’t mean to make light of Mother’s efforts. Her Missionary accomplishes considerable good the world over, and many honors and accolades have been bestowed on her and her organization. But a recipient has to be suffering total immersion in the depths of abject despair and misery to appreciate her ministrations fully. Sadly, all too many such people remain with us. For those of you not among them, my advice is: Do your utmost to avoid getting yourself into a situation where what Mother’s Missionary will do for you amounts to an improvement.
I personally had no lust for salvation or spiritual ennoblement just then. My fondest desire was to get back home to my beach pad and resume normal life in Malibu, California, U. S. of A., that best of all possible worlds.
Introduction to the Story
As you might imagine, returning home after an unscheduled, abrupt, incommunicado absence of six months required some adjustments. There was of course the obvious matter of recuperating from injuries and diseases incurred from my near-death experience in a Calcutta gutter. My fevers and shakes progressed to feeling wrung out and finally to energy and spirits revived. Wounds healed up,
bruises and lumps faded away. The casts graced my wrist and ankle for another few weeks, and my broken ribs still ached, but I could get around. Too bad it didn’t result from doing something heroic, rather than from a beggars’ riot over a counterfeit one hundred dollar bill. Not the kind of feat to impress a sports bar full of beer-besotted buddies with. Especially since I didn’t think I’d better mention the involvement of Emil Grotesqcu, my perennial KGB shadow.
Straightening out practical details kept me busy without requiring much physical activity. Having paid no bills for six months, things were shut off—phone, electricity, gas, water. I had to replace a refrigerator and the rotted food that filled it; also called in a plumber to set dried-out seals and connections right. My Cherokee went to the shop for refitting as well. After my mail overwhelmed the box at the end of the driveway the post office took to storing it, filling most of a mail bag with bills, catalogs, grocery store fliers and solicitations for donations (UCLA expelled me my sophomore year, yet they still pursue me—I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of their fundraisers reached me while I languished in that Lucknow dungeon). The telephone answering machine had long since hit storage capacity. At least the landscaping hadn’t gone out of control—not much happens to sand, oleander bushes, sea apples and cacti over six months.
By the time my casts came off I’d pretty much gotten on top of everything. Mail sorted, letters answered, clients re-contacted, bills paid, normal life resuming. Fortunately my absence occurred after I’d sent in my tax returns, one thing I gratefully did not have to resolve. Also fortunately, my investment portfolio on autopilot had grown enough to cover my expenses. Yes indeedy, long term T-Notes at 10% are a fine investment, and the Reagan 1980s stock market revival was underway.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 23