The Quantum Mantra

by Henri-Paul Bour

Pascal tried to control his emotions by replaying the day’s events as though chronologically recording it. The mission he had accepted was one of uncertainty and unraveling mysticism that was proving itself otherwise.

  Pascal, at this moment knew without knowing, just by intuition that he was going to travel into the past. And he realized he had to focus.

  Even he knew this capacity was related to the science of vibrations and their relationship—their inter-connectedness, he could not really make sense of it.

  He had been told that his mind was made of waves with the capability intuitive to link to other waves from the field, the universal collective consciousness of all memories, the hologram. And this Field was said to contain the past, present, and future.

  He forced himself to forget these complex concepts.

  .“Let go of your self”, Mayumi’s voice found its way again into his thoughts and he ruminated over the significance. He opened his eyes once more, letting his vision fall upon the statue. It was enigmatic. Its gentle smile and half open eyes seemed to return his look. It seemed so inquisitive, as though it were a cat staring at his master, waiting for his reaction.

  Pascal tried to empty his mind from any thoughts or disrupting emotions. Quietly, he breathed out and sat peaceful and still.

  “I hate the movement that displaces the lines and I never cry, and I never laugh.”

  Charles Baudelaire’s poem began playing alongside the instrumental sounds singing in his ear….ici tout n’est qu’ordre et beaute, luxe, calme et volupte…

  Images flooded as though being poured like liquid into his mind: the biologist, Mayumi, the strange death, the dream… he let it go. The clear fluid flooded his imagination: Imae, Mayumi, the Nuclear Hospital, the chanting followers, the images all swirled around each other. Out of nowhere a deep and turbulent fear trickled in like poisonous ink, and he came face to face with a primal fear… Breathing out, he let it go again.

  Until he could bridge a gap of communication and connect with the statue somehow, time was to have no place in reality. Time had to be shapeless.

  An indeterminate amount of time had passed. With every exhalation, the debris of images floating around slowly expelled from his mind, and looking through his Third Eye, he saw the statue begin to smile at him.

  That smile burst into energy, and he could feel that ineffable smile totally filling his consciousness. He felt like a sponge filling with warmth that made him feel an immeasurable sense of joy and contentment. He was sucked back into a void at enormous speeds; all space around him condensed into one focal point, then disappeared, including his own ability to understand.

  He awoke to another consciousness; his pupils were totally dilated. One second, was it two? Perhaps a century had passed.

  Two massive torches lit up the huge Mandala, the traditional sacred representation of the Thousand Buddha dwelling. In the background stood the statue located in the center of the Mandala… the one he had been given tonight.

  In the darkness, monks were reciting mantras and birds were singing

  “The Buddha in the middle is The Perfect One, with a statue on each side. Follow them, follow the principles of the Universe; follow the Mandala,” whispered a magical voice.

  The images of the dream changed to a lovely Oriental woman with a translucent face looking at him with large eyes full of tenderness, but she metamorphosed into a melting face of flesh. She was screaming: “Promise to me, your beloved Imae, to save the monks!” repeating every word with ever more pain in her voice.

  The beautiful face distorted into an agonising mask. The large pupils became enormous and reflected a horrible fear. She was jerked away from him and he felt his body fighting, tearing away at the people jumping on him. He watched her disappear until all he could see was her fine hands outstretched, then swallowed into the mass of people who were ripping her limbs apart like meat.

  A heavy hatchet fell onto the crown of his head.

  Pascal woke up with blood flowing down his face and rain dripping on his body. He had been attacked on his terrace and the statue had disappeared. He reached for his mobile phone and called Sumit before he fell back again, deep into the darkness of slumber.

  The furious knocking woke Pascal. Images of the past dream and present reality were mixing as in a cloudy cocktail. Was he alive?

  A loud rapping on the door brought him back to the present. He was on his private balcony, bleeding profusely. An intense nausea pervaded him. The door slammed open and two men holding a stretcher exploded into the room and ran to him. He could hear familiar voices behind them as he slipped back into the darkness. He registered movements all around him: stairs being climbed, shouting, warm breath on his face and the deafening tone of an ambulance siren.

  When Pascal finally opened his eyes, Mayumi’s face was staring down at him, her large eyes full of tenderness. Behind her, the whole Japanese team from Mantrayana stood exchanging anxious looks. His relief at being alive was somewhat overshadowed by the closeted desire that perhaps his fantasy was being extended, and that those other men were not in fact present in the room.

  Sumit and his assistant Pichai, a Win Shun master, were talking to the doctor who had just arrived. A neat and pretty nurse checked his pulse and jabbed a thermometer into his mouth without warning. Rendered speechless, he couldn’t even acknowledge Mayumi’s presence.

  He felt his bed moving as the nurse dragged him out of the room under doctor’s orders. X-rays were to be taken immediately. She smacked her heel, releasing the bed brakes and manoeuvred the metal frame swiftly. Her efficient movements expressed a dutiful character full of pride for her vocation.

  When he returned to the crowded room, the X-Rays were already glowing in the illuminated cabinet beside his bed.

  “You see,” the doctor was speaking Thai in a low voice to Sumit and Pichai, “your friend has nothing alarming. Nothing is broken; perfect vitals. We shall keep him overnight to monitor him as a matter of precaution.”

  There was no need to understand the language to see the product of the doctor’s lisp splattered all over Pichai’s face. Pascal held back his laughter and replaced it with a grin. Mayumi looked at him reproachfully, as though she had been reading his thoughts.

  The privilege of her company, although welcomed, was not anticipated. He was surprised to learn later that the almond-eyed beauty had insisted on being present in the hospital room.

  Pichai’s jaw dropped, admiring the surroundings. When they had first entered the large private room he was unable to contain his expression.

  “Whoa! Now this is luxury!” The ultra-modern equipment, automatic bed with attached flat screen, television, DVD player and plush furniture surrounding them was a fit-out he had never before seen in a medical establishment. Pichai was used to government hospitals, which were not exactly what one could call attractive. He noticed an additional sofa bed had been installed for visitors.

  “What a palace! I look forward to being sick very soon!” he commented.

  Pascal was quietly installed into his King’s lair, and the nurse left knowing her job was well accomplished. Mayumi was the first to approach him.

  “Oh Pascal, I am so sorry about this attack. I was very afraid for your life. Don’t worry about the statue; what matters now is that you are here.” The intensity of her sentimental expression came as a shock, even to her. She resumed with a more professional tone.

  “It seems that the mission you have accepted is even more dangerous than we initially assumed. You are not obliged to go ahead with it. We completely understand if you wish to terminate it.” The altered pronoun helped build the wall she was so used to hiding behind.

  Pascal noticed this sharp change, but was left enamored by the surprising gentility of her initial words.

  “No,” he said simply. “I must know what is happening. I want to go ahead.”

  Without uttering a single sound, she bowed her head, eyes closed. She was textured with the conservative mannerisms necessary
for survival in Japanese culture, but her percipient eyes showed a nature quite to the contrary.

  Sumit and Pichai had been negotiating in the background.

  “Do you think we can leave him alone?”

  “We better stay with him tonight. Do you want to join me, Sumit?”

  “Of course! As long as I get to keep that nice couch!” They joked around for a while before settling down to prepare for the night.

  The hospital was silent now. Just as the drowsiness of sleep had arrived, a sound at the door alarmed the two men. Two young nurses entered to check the blood pressure and temperature of the injured patient. They stayed a little while and the mood was jovial. Sumit could not help himself and teased the nurses, who responded with witty retort. They were not as shy as they initially seemed.

  The chatty nurses left and closed the large door behind them.

  Pascal fell into a deep sleep. Sumit was now completely awake. He boiled water for tea and clicked the television remote. Sumit dimmed the television brightness and pressed the mute button so Pascal could rest.

  Ong Bak, the popular Thai adventure movie where a young teen, adopted by an elephant keeper sets off to Bangkok in search of a stolen statue was playing. Brave and skilled in martial arts, he managed to retrieve the object from the gang and bring it back to his village. Understandably, this was one of Sumit’s favorite movies as it reminded him of his childhood, playing with the beasts and his friends in the wilderness around the temples. He was soon asleep, dreaming his own version perhaps. All that could be heard in the room was his gruff and throaty breathing.

  Pichai was still awake. He appreciated the slight irony of the situation. In his family, he was renowned for his incredible snoring. Countless nights he found himself relegated outside so everyone else could finally get some shuteye and here he was, experiencing karma. He contemplated waking Sumit to stop the irritating rumble when he noticed a slight movement under the door. Someone was standing there, trying his or her best to remain immobile.

  Pichai carefully woke Sumit. “Someone’s here,” he whispered. Pascal stirred awake suddenly.

  Adrenaline rushed into Sumit’s veins and he propped up, totally alert. They communicated with their hands and kept their eyes on door. The handle silently rotated left.

  Professionals, thought Pichai. The door opened a fraction and a new vertical ray of light entered the room, shadowed by the enormous figure. Pichai held his hand ready to slam the door into the man. He saw Pascal signal with his two fingers and a pointed thumb. His signal was clear: two men were moving in and two more are watching outside.

  How did he know? Pichai stayed behind the door and waited for the two men to walk in. Sumit had already grabbed a metallic chair that was tucked away in the desk next to him.

  Pichai needed a weapon fast. He looked around for something sharp or hard but could only see machinery that was too heavy to attack with. He fumbled his hands over his body to find the pen in his pocket and a set of keys. If it had just been one man he may have managed to stab his eyes, but there were two of them.

  The gap in the door was widening and he was running out of options. Apart from the light from outside, the room was completely dark except for the dim television and a small red light behind him. Of course! The water kettle! He held it tightly, feeling the steam burn the underside of his face. His other hand was free, ready to strike.

  In the large room, Pascal was still sheltered from the light outside. Anticipating the possibility of a shot fired without warning, he had swiftly placed a pillow under the bed cover as a decoy and then tucked himself onto the floor beneath the bed. Just as he slipped under, the giant man stepped into the room, followed by a small but stocky shadow. They moved completely at ease with themselves as though the capture was already theirs.

  They had hardly finished shutting the door when simultaneously, Sumit and Pichai attacked.

  Pichai picked his prey. He catapulted the boiling water into the giant’s face. The intruder’s silenced scream rightly expressed that he was not quite ready for tea. He was holding his face, trying to ease the scorched pain. “Not very clever,” said Pichai, who instantly hammered his vitals and with a hard kick that practically knocked him out. The giant swayed from side to side trying to retain his balance.

  At the same time, Sumit used what he had learned from the Win Chun technique of Chinese fighting. He jumped on the unsuspecting hostile and smashed his face repeatedly that applied particular pressure on his jugular. Within 20 seconds, the man was completely passed out on the floor.

  Pascal knew it wasn’t over. There were still two men coming. He extended his arm to the buzzer on the bed, alerting the nurse’s station.

  Nearby, a heavy nurse was stomping down the corridor carrying a syringe on her way to perform an injection. She noticed two muscular men near Pascal’s door and rushed to warn them:

  “Pi, pi! Yud tini me dai (Sir, sir, you cannot be here!)”

  The pair, certain that Pascal’s fate was in their hands, took the nurse by both arms and hurled her inside the room. They were not expecting a welcoming committee. As she was pushed to the floor, the chubby nurse planted the hypodermic needle into the closest leg she could find. The man bent over, registering the violent chemical moving up into his body. His gun slipped out of his hand and landed on the floor right next to her head. Scrambling for the weapon, she grabbed it with both hands and accidentally pulled the trigger sending a blast of white gunpowder into the air. A tremendous sound was heard throughout the whole hospital.

  Until now, Sumit’s first victim had disappeared into unconsciousness, but the noise was so intense that he popped up, fully alert. The confusion that followed was frenzied. All four men, hurt and demoralized, attempted to draw back in panic. As the nurse planted her foot to get up she stood on the television remote, unleashing the fury of the movie with full sound.

  People came running towards the room, their footsteps heard throughout the long corridor. Doctors, nurses, technicians and even other patients arrived to see the cause of the commotion.

  Pushing their way out through the developing crowd, the first two intruders turned to Pichai and Sumit raising their two fingers into the air. “You slavloch; son of bitch. We will kill you next time!” They yelled as they ran off, stumbling awkwardly.

  Pichai and Sumit ran to catch up with them, but they had already made their exit at the end of the corridor where they climbed out a window and down a fire escape staircase. Obviously these men were not amateurs. Two floors below a big, black Toyota was waiting for them. The smell of burning rubber wafted all the way back to the ward.

  Sumit noticed a walkie-talkie on the ground in front of them. He grabbed it and clicked on its receiver. A voice filled with static was repeating: “Cosmos 1 to Cosmos 3: abort mission, abort mission, over.” And then silence.

  Security guards had scattered everywhere. The room was full of flailing arms and confused faces. Sumit and Pascal heard one of them saying that the police were coming to interrogate the suspects. Now they were the suspects and not the victims? Unbelievable! Something was amiss. They decided to leave quickly. Sumit and Pichai grabbed Pascal and escaped down the same path as their assailants. The room was densely crowded and no one even noticed them leave.

  Sumit proposed they escape to his own home. His wife, Wanee, would be happy to care for him; his daughter was on vacation, so Pascal could use her room for the time being.

  “You will be safe in my part of the city,” he said. “They hate corrupt police officers.”

  Getting away from the hospital was the right decision, and encounters with corrupt police was the last thing they needed right now—and they were probably involved in the story one way or other, so it was a good idea to keep a low profile until they could work out the real threat.

  And they just discovered the name of the plan behind the scene: The Cosmos project.

  …

  When Pascal woke up in the tiny room provided by Sumit and Wanee, he w
as in high spirits. He was often able to distance himself from his emotions and pain, choosing instead to tap into constructive energy. He knew it was a faculty that everyone had but few made the effort to use it. Being a doctor definitely helped his training.

  After some breathing exercises and a shower he felt ready to join his friends for a delightful breakfast on their terrace. Brewing coffee and smoky bacon could arouse even the most stoic from their slumber and Wanee knew Pascal was particularly fond of those yellow yolks.

  He was struck by a Spinoza quote:

  “An affect can be changed, but only by another one stronger and contrary.” These simple words were encouraging him to chase bad feelings, quell his anger, and think positive!

  Though not versed in Western philosophy, Wanee’s skills involved anthropology. She had gained a Ph. D. from Ramkhamhaeng University in Bangkok specializing in Asian Art and History. Her passion for investigating and reproducing icons of these studied cultures made her a specialist in her field.

  The garage at the back of her house under the big Banyan tree was converted into a workshop for this very reason. For Wanee, this workshop was a retreat; a secret place in a tropical jungle. Wanee had painted the big room in white and the sofa, wooden cabinets, and porcelain cups were also completely white.

  She installed large, colonial-style glass doors opening to the natural garden foliage. This was her private world and Sumit didn’t dare break in.

  All Wanee’s treasures could be exhibited here. The countless shelves displayed her collections: antique statues, paintings, Byzantine icons, and particularly, rare religious symbols and images. She had crafted, repaired and copied many of the objects herself. The long teak wood table littered with sophisticated tools bore the marks of her labor.

  At present, she was working on a 3D reproduction of The Diamond Mandala, a famous Japanese Mandala that was one of the oldest religious images of Buddhism in Japan. She had copied the model from an old book and posted its enlargement on the wall. It was incredible how the change in size revealed so much about its complexity.

  This room stood like an antithesis to Placido’s living room, it was so welcoming in its configuration. A large coffee table, stained with the memory of a hundred cups recorded the numerous conversations that had occurred here; the mystery of the Aztecs or the intellectual prowess of the Egyptians would have been appropriate. Her CD collection boasted Arabic songs from the famous Egyptian singer Oum Kalsoum, flutes from Syria, blues from Colonial America, nortenas from Mexico, ritual African rhythms, Japanese Koto—all neatly condensed, no doubt, into the iPod sitting in its dock.

  Her favorites were closer to home, however. Northern Chiang Mai and Issan had its Luktung and Morlam folklore, where the desperate and forgotten exhumed their miseries reminiscing about rice fields and buffaloes. The songs from Tai Ora Tai and Siripon Ampanpong tore her soul to shreds, although the pain was strangely cathartic. Yu ni jai seumer (In My Heart Forever) was playing now.

  Wanee was actually from a wealthy Sukhotai family and had been given the chance to travel and study in both England and the USA. Having majored in Religious Cultures, she continued to teach advanced students at Chulalongkorn University in Bangkok. As Sumit liked to say, “She is my Wikipedia.”

  Wanee’s help would be crucial.

  Pascal had known her for several years and had always been delighted to talk with her. He had always retained a particular discussion they had had on the influence of Oriental civilizations on human behavior today. It was a link he had never even thought about.

  Surrounded by so much artwork, Pascal was nostalgic for a talent he had never had in this lifetime. An admirer of art, particularly painting, had brought him to exhibitions all around the world, from the Tate to the Guggenheim to the Prado and the Louvre amongst others. Had he been able, he would have followed Picasso’s advice as he wrote: “I would like to be an art collector, but since I cannot afford to buy, I paint.”

  Thanks to his knowledge of art and paintings, Pascal had developed an encyclopedia-like repertoire. His photographic memory could easily recall details not always perceived by the general viewer.

  The meeting between friends was about to start.

  Pascal was outside on the steps, looking in through the open windows. He stood with Sumit for a while, describing his visions and traveling in time during the early days of Japanese history.

  Pichai arrived first. As always he had a giant smile plastered on his face and looked peaceful. Ram and Ma Sue were staying at his place and he had brought them out of hiding, so to speak. Boon and Noi, the two nurses from the camp, seemed to have disappeared.

  Pichai’s clothes were drenched in sweat, as he had just finished his Win Shun training.

  He was teasing Wanee, “Is this our new operational mission? I should have come in my army jeep.”

  The Japanese group followed minutes later wearing heavy faces. They were all escorted inside Wanee’s white room.

  “What happened?” asked Pascal.

  Kengo took charge. “We have a situation. My parents have been detained by Homeland Security on their arrival in L.A.”

  “This is a crisis for us. They freed them after a few hours, but it’s in on all the Japanese media. It seems like someone’s trying to warn us, but about what?” added Mayumi.

  “Father sent me this email to explain what they had been told.” Kengo handed over an email that read:

  “You may practice your religion freely in the United States as long as you do not use illegal means of mental mass persuasion.”

  Pascal looked quizzical. “What does that even mean? Is meditation an illegal practice? Some dumb people into that Agency must have received misleading information they did not even verified.”

  But who wanted to put them in a difficult situation?

  “Well,” sighed Sumit, not ready to believe it was a conspiracy again.

  “This is much bigger than we thought, but we’ve tried to be cautious. It seems we haven’t done enough. I feel like I’m running on a timer.” Pascal stood up and began pacing, collating his thoughts in the growing puzzle.

  As he raised his head he came face to face with the poster of The Diamond Mandala on the wall. As he stared at the huge picture, the room began to revolve around him. He felt dizzy and nauseous all of a sudden and he fell to the ground. Mayumi ran to his side as Pascal placed his hand up, demanding peace. She held him by the shoulders, to keep his body from swaying.

  Everyone kept silent for a moment. Pascal eyes were bulging as his mind was driven into the world of the Mandala image. He spoke in a low and broken voice, completely entranced:

  “I know the message of the Mandala! The two statues; they are on both sides!” His trembling finger pointed to the center of the Mandala. “Yes, I remember now. The larger one is the one you gave me in the posture of the Mudra of Teaching, the Empty Master, which is the symbol of vacuity.”

  A gong resonated in his head; his body was jerking. “The monks are running for their lives. They have taken the Master Buddha statue and the Mandala. Imae, my beloved wife is dead. My heart is broken.” Sweat and tears were running from his eyes.

  “I am bleeding; it hurts, but I must save the monks. I must bring them to the caves. The Master was right! I have to follow the way of the Mandala!”

  Pascal inhaled fiercely, as though he had been chocking on stale oxygen.

  Everyone was looking at him, but Wanee looked ecstatic; she had understood! She ran to Pascal, tripping and almost falling over and handed him a glass of whiskey. She patted him; comforting him.

  “Oh Pascal! Drink up; you will feel better. You are very brave and we can see how enduring it was to undertake this travel to the past!” She turned to Kengo and Mayumi. “You both have had the experience of connecting with the ancestors; you already have suffered in your training to reach them. You are Buddhists so surely you understand the significance of these images and the strong connection Pascal has with them.” She was so excited she wa
s shrieking.

  “Just before you arrived Wanee, Pascal was telling me about his dreams and his lost woman from the past. Is it Imae?” asked Sumit.

  Pascal was still weak and hadn’t regained his hearing. Mayumi was stroking his back and chest, helping him to breathe. Wanee stood up and rushed to the image on the wall.

  “Let me describe how Mandalas work. As some of you already know, these are the most-used spiritual icons in Esoteric Buddhism. Each one represents images of the Buddha’s spiritual world. Deities represented here have very complicated meanings and levels of spirituality. It is said that with intense training, those who contemplate a Mandala with strong intention are able to enter the worlds of the deities that were attributed to them by the masters and reach the ultimate level of consciousness, the ultimate truth.

  What is extraordinary is that Mandalas are an archaic expression of what Niels Bohr, the famous Quantum scientist said: Symmetry is a rule of the universe, in three dimensions, and an apparent reality is hiding the true reality”

  She looked at Kengo and Mayumi.

  “This Diamond Mandala is your Mandala from your ancestor in Shingon Buddhism isn’t it?”

  “Yes we are all familiar with it,” answered Kengo.

  “Then our case is simple.”

  The siblings stared at each other. Perhaps this woman was nothing more than a dreaming eccentric.

  “Pascal has clearly indicated that there are two Buddha statues, and that they are here on both sides of this Mandala. I have always been convinced that a Mandala was some sort of map.” They were all focused on Wanee.

  “The master statue here in the center with no mantra is the one sent to Japan by the Korean Emperor in Nara. Pascal saw it in his vision. It is the same one the Buddhist group possesses now. On the Mandala, we can also see clearly another statue. That one on the right certainly contains a mantra. The location on the Mandala indicates it has been sent to the Eastern New World, the vast Khmer Empire, which was to become the largest Empire ever seen in the southern region.”

  “Here, see. The Mandala also describes that statue on the left, the one that traveled to the Mediterranean Kingdoms to the followers of the Son of God.”

  .Not quite knowledgeable of Western religion, Sumit tried to catch up. Who was this Son of God?

  “Of course you know. They call him Jesus and he is the one who established Christianity, one of the most powerful belief systems on the planet.”

  Kengo was at a complete loss. He looked at the Mandala and then stared at Wanee.

  “But how can you say so? There is no precise location given anywhere on this.”

  “Oh yes there is; you just don’t have the map legend. Here, let me show you.” She lifted the large screen of her laptop and detailed images came up. “This upper part means ‘West’, so Buddha images from that area are looking in the westerly direction: South-West or North-West, each according to their position. Another clue: the ninth circle here represents Barbarian countries that indicate a geographical position… and so on. With these signs we can figure it out. It’s a kind of spiritual GPS from the past.”

  “How do you know any of this?” asked Kengo.

  “I’ve been researching the meaning of Mandalas for years, but never had the hard rock of evidence to make my claims hold any ground.”

  Pascal had recovered from the shock, warmed by the large glass of liquor.

  “Wow, Wanee. I should have come to you earlier. Congratulations.” he said to her. “But how are you sure about the accuracy of my vision?”

  “Oh, Frenchie, I would have never offered to help you without doing a bit of research first. It was not just a legend. I had to check the facts. By chance I found the proof in the Official Chronicle recorded in 750 AC by the Imperial Order. It is the most important evidence of Japanese history.”

  She showed them a short video. The narrator read:

  “In the year 538 AC, the King Syong Myong of Korea was eager to set up an alliance with the Japanese Emperor, Kinmei Tenno. He sent a mission with presents, the most valuable being the introduction of Buddhism. A thousand years after the death of the historical Buddha Shakyamuni, Buddhism had arrived in the islands of the Empire of Wa.

  The King’s emissaries brought many icons of the religion with them, golden and bronze statues, banners, scrolls, and Chinese texts, which helped solidify the new belief. The Emperor was very attracted to the deep philosophy that seemed more sophisticated than the Shinto religion worshiped in Japan, but his power was also in the hands of feudal families committed to the ancient system. The Mononobe and the Nakatomi families warned the Emperor that the devotion to a new God called Buddha was going to attract the anger of their respected Gods, their Kami. Still interested in Buddhism, the Emperor ordered The Prince Imane No Sokune from the powerful Soga family to build a temple and begin worshiping this religion. Soon after, a large epidemic coupled with an extremely long drought damaged the country: a bad omen attributed to the new religion. The Emperor had no choice but to follow the old families’ advice. He ordered the temple be burned down; the monks killed and all icons to be destroyed and thrown into the river.

  This is where the chronicles record ends, but we already know what unfolded really.

  First, as the Mantrayana sect master told Pascal, the Imperial soldiers could not eradicate the devotion. The monks went on to worship secretly and kept all the precious icons intact. And now, here is the best part: the master knew that you, Pascal, encountered the events that occurred over 2000 years ago in their first temple. During your training in Osaka, he had already communicated with your vision and understood that in your past lives you were transported back to the very moment the Emperor sent his troops to destroy the religion!

  That is why he needed you to live again these historical moments. And even more amazingly, he knew that you were the lover of Prince Sokune’s daughter. Imae, was that her name?”

  Pascal automatically swung his attention towards Mayumi, unaware of his subconscious action until they were looking each other straight in the eyes. Her face turned an incredible shade of pink like the peaches from Japanese fables and she looked down, embarrassed.

  …

  Sumit, who had been outside to take a phone call, jumped back into the room.

  “Pascal, I have to talk to you urgently! I have just received an important phone call. Let’s go outside.”

  Sumit was eager to smoke a cigarette and talk seriously. He was excited. His past had finally come to his aid. Everything being connected and intricate, the information he was going to pass on was probably meant to be delivered this very day by his beloved uncle. Sumit reflected on his earlier conversation:

  “Sumit, young man, it is so good to hear your voice,” said his uncle.

  “Uncle, I see technology has not escaped you all the way over in your temple of the forest. Thank you so much for calling me back.”

  “When I received your voice message talking about an old Khmer statue, I was transported to a very particular memory I have always known would be very important some day. I do not know if it is connected at all, but I feel I should tell you anyway.”

  “Yes Uncle, please continue.”

  “When I was a young monk, before your existence Sumit, I met an old Christian missionary traveling from Laos and Cambodia. We had shared a very strong bond, and after a while staying in the temple, he gave me a very old statue said to contain a manuscript similar to the ancient Sutras that were written on palm leaves tied up with string. He told me he thought that manuscript was an ancient relic from the Khmer period. For him, it held no particular meaning whatsoever.” The phone crackled with a brush of fabric over the microphone. He continued, but his voice was muted.

  “Hello? Ajahn, I can’t hear what you’re saying,” Sumit shouted into the phone.

  “Yes hello, I am here! Sorry son, my robe does get in the way sometimes.”

  To imagine his uncle in a pedestrian outfit of jeans and a T-shirt was beyond hilar
ity and he sighed warmly, reflecting on the saffron robes he wore.

  “And what is the scripture about?” Sumit had asked.

  “I cannot say for sure. I have tried to decipher its meaning, but it is impossible to translate. It was not even written in Pali or Sanskrit; its origin is a complete mystery.”

  “Uncle, do you still have the manuscript with you?”

  “Well yes, of course. It is here. I put the statue in my temple but kept the scripture hidden. But wait! The strangest part is that right after you had left your message, I was approached by a monk from our temples in Bangkok who had heard of an old document in my possession. He insisted that I show it to him. I was unsure, but then again, I had no reason not to show him. He took it for two hours somewhere and returned it to me promptly without any further comment.”

  Sumit remained silent.

  “You can understand why I immediately called Luang Po Ongsri. Do you remember he is our venerable master who lives in the capital?”

  “Of course, Uncle.”

  “He did not know of such a monk. I had a bad feeling about it from the start but my discipline will not let me turn down a fellow member. It seems he was a fake, but why did he take an interest in this forgotten scroll? Whatever it is, he did not look happy when he gave it back.”

  “Where is the manuscript now?”

  “I kept it hidden it in the same place, but my intuition cannot help but spell out suspicions. I feel it is attracting great danger to our area. Very intense energies are circulating here.”

  When Sumit had finished sharing his uncle’s information with Pascal, the Japanese group was already hurriedly filing out of the room. Mayumi followed behind. Pascal thought he noticed a strange hand movement from her, as though she were touching her hand to her heart. The aftermath of his encounter was surely playing with his senses. She held his eye contact for a second too long for him to dismiss it entirely as illusion, however.

  When they had all left, without much of a goodbye, both men resumed their paused conversation.

  “How could they translate that document?”

  They looked at each other and in unison, exclaimed: “Ram!”

  Pascal had always teased his Indian medical partner for his uncanny interest in the vernacular Sanskrit languages. The seed of people’s particular curiosities spurring into such specific areas of knowledge was surely a connection psychology had attempted to explain and had failed. He had never thought such an expertise would have actual implication beyond the academic world, yet alas, here they were. The fraying curtain of coincidence was beginning to slide open, making way for the idea that this indeed was all connected. Pascal recapitulated the facts to Ram and concluded:

  “We must believe in Sumit’s uncle’s intuition and retrieve that scripture, but the problem is that we are not alone in our endeavor. News of the location of the documents travels fast. Uncle Ajahn himself, expressed his fear of imminent danger. He was visited by sinister people with dubious intent who masqueraded as monks and tried to get information from him and they will probably be back. We must hurry and go to him.”

  After all, thought Pascal, it was the only lead they had.

  Pascal thought of another option.

  “Could your uncle send this document to us?”

  “Oh I’m afraid there is no way! He said he would not give it to anybody, especially not now. He may not even show it to Ram if he doesn’t feel the correct intention. The only way is for us to go there, quickly. We must talk to him in person before someone else decrypts the message in the documents.”

  Of course, Sumit’s own agenda to protect his uncle was clear. “You will see. My uncle is very strict and it is very difficult to convince him. Pascal, you will have to prove yourself to him.”

  “We must go quickly then.”

  “We have to leave first thing tomorrow for the Temple of the Forest in the East, that is known as the temple of the ancient ones. This is where my uncle the Ajahn lives.”

  “It’s probably not the most exciting holiday, but it will have to do,” joked Pascal.

  “Issan is very beautiful, you will see,” said Sumit proudly.

  Pascal nodded approvingly, slipping his hand into his front jacket pocket. He retrieved his phone to make a call and on it, and found a piece of paper no larger than the size of a stamp. He quickly put it back in his pocket and started to discuss the details for the trip to Issan.

  Later, driven by strong instinctive compulsion, Pascal recalled the paper fragment and took it from his pocket. It read:

  ‘Sirocco. 6pm. Private. M.’

  The message was from her; he knew it. Mayumi was the only possible culprit, or suspect to put it more mildly.

  It was almost 6 p.m. The powerful Toyota Vigo was rolling through Bangkok’s Silom Avenue heading towards State Tower.

  But why had Mayumi chosen to meet here and why had he accepted?

  The modern building attracted a flurry of night guests lured by the chance to admire the magnificent views over a relaxing drink, an experience made available at the penthouse bar, Sirocco. There was no roof to inspire safety and a glass wall surrounding the large outdoor terrace allowed an image of a fabulous sunset reflecting off the Chao Phraya River whilst city life bustled 69 floors below.

  The bar was secluded yet central, public with private tables and yams—Thai guards surveying the entire circumference. Pascal’s logical gears began to churn, obstructing his hopes and romantic illusions. Of course this place was perfect. Mayumi knew Pascal would have recognized the famous spot instantly from the note, and this kind of large space would not invite ambushes… And the guards, not to mention the height of the building, made it much too dangerous to attack.

  “Damn it! How is it possible?” barked Sumit. He had just spotted the big, black van that they had noticed in front of Pascal’s hotel only a few nights ago.

  He was impressed that their stalkers had found them in this giant city. Pichai who was seated next to him, looked in the rear-view mirror, then turned his head to the back of the car, confirming his friend’s observation. He also noticed an identical second van about three cars behind.

  “These guys might be pros, but they don’t seem to learn. We’re going to loose them no matter what. I think it’s time we taught them another lesson,” he smiled at Pascal, who was anxious to reach his destination.

  When they reached the intersection that led to the Chinese district, Sumit decided to make an unexpected U turn and took a sharp left into the Sofitel building, straight up the ramp into the parking lot. “You see,” Sumit turned to Pascal in the back seat.

  “It was a good idea to accompany you both, wasn’t it? They were probably ready to harm you or who knows, maybe tickle you a little…Catch us if you can!” he said tauntingly.

  He parked the car in the nearest spot, they jumped out, and rushed to the elevator. In the lobby they found the exit and hurried toward it. Before they stepped out onto the street they peered out and saw the big van rolling up the parking ramp.

  “Here they are,” whispered Sumit.

  They also noticed the other car parked up a little further on the avenue. Both sides of Silom were blocked by the heavy traffic and no cars were moving.

  “Very, very good!” Sumit was grinning with delight. “Let’s go, now!”

  The others had no time to oppose, and all three men followed Sumit as he crossed the traffic-jammed avenue. He motioned them towards a moto taxi stand. Motorcycle drivers had saved many from late meetings; it really was the most convenient way to get around Bangkok.

  “Follow me!” he shouted as he jumped on the back of the first motorbike. He ordered the driver to take the first soi, the small road on the left; told him to drive on the sidewalk, and from there, instructed him all the way down back streets to Sathorn Road to State Tower. “Make sure we don’t lose my friends,” he ordered.

  The driver was not surprised at all. This was the way taxi-motorcycles usually operated, turning any surface i
nto a road.

  Pascal, who was last to jump on the motorbike, turned and had a look behind him. He could see men running in their direction but only one had come close enough to see his face. The others were struggling to reach them. The huge silhouette seemed to have been hit by a tuk-tuk.

  All of them began gesticulating their arms and yelling at the driver. Tuk-tuk drivers were usually very tough guys. The short but muscular man stepped out from his seat looking livid. Without a doubt, his anger was intensified by frustrating hours stuck in traffic. There was no way his pride would be quashed by foreigners parading through his streets.

  Sumit had created an unexpected diversion, and a good one. Though they were escaping, Pascal was incredibly concerned. They had to find out whom these men worked for. He didn’t want to live with a permanent threat.

  They arrived in front of the tower in record time and stepped into the immense, air-conditioned lobby that was illuminated with unflattering neon. Sumit, Pichai, and Pascal watched the area for a while but there was no sign of their followers.

  “You see,” said Sumit, “These guys are feeling way too proud of themselves and that will teach them some humility!” he began to laugh loudly. Pascal was not so confident, especially now that Mayumi could be involved. He didn’t want to see her hurt.

  Sumit’s friend Pichai proposed that he stay in the lobby to watch for intruders. His fear of heights was not going to serve him well here. The view atop the skyscraper others found so breathtaking was his recipe for nausea.

  They all agreed.

  “ Those thugs knew too much about our whereabouts much too quickly. Our followers must have bugged our telephones or even maybe my car,” explained Sumit. “Don’t use your mobile phones anymore and I will avoid using my personal car for a while... I think I have a plan to get rid of them for good. I will stick their bug to a tuk-tuk!”

  The group of men all laughed, elated.

  Sumit and Pascal entered the mirrored lift, waiting for its ascent. At the top, the wind was blowing hard and the whole building felt as though it were swaying. Pascal walked down the marble steps to the main terrace and saw her.

  With the backdrop of the city’s vastness, Mayumi stood with her arm resting upon the glass wall. She was looking out towards the distant ocean; her head moving sideways at intervals, scanning the crowd. The clock ticked past 6 p.m.

  She was dressed in a simple, black suit, perfectly tailored to her slender shoulders. She wore a simple black, silk blouse underneath her jacket. The wind had pushed the fabric against her body, silhouetting her torso and breasts.

  Pascal was watching her black hair conjoin with the twilight sky as though the ever-expanding entirety of space was but an extension of her beaming self. She wore no makeup and a small golden band was wound around her slender wrist.

  Pascal couldn’t stop staring at her. The ease of her stance articulated a strong personality—one used to handling itself in public. He had never noticed it before tonight, but among the dispersed individuals concerning themselves with the materiality of their own existence, Mayumi looked so out of place. She had donned the appropriate costume and business-like appearance, but her exotic face and flickering eyes expressed a soul who belonged elsewhere—in a different time perhaps.

  Even from where he stood, Pascal could see the golden streaks in her copper eyes. They seemed to transcend to a separate universe; one unfettered by the petty preoccupations of this one. Her very presence was absorbing, completely and utterly magnetic.

  He was approaching her slim and sensual body, unable to release his eyes from her despite the epic view of the city. The sunset was inflaming the clouds in a symphony of color, contrasting against the arriving darkness of the night.

  Mayumi looked around once more, in what seemed her final attempt. As she propped her fine chin up, her gaze found Pascal’s and she smiled, shyly. The expectation of his arrival had been slim, as she did not know if he would understand the note properly. But he was here and a sudden rush of blood reached her cheeks.

  She had always been so in control of her own body, never slipping the firm grip she held on a smile she usually used so sparingly. She waited for him to come to her, her feet glued to the stone floor. No words were exchanged as a waiter led them to a private table.

  “What would you like to drink, Mayumi?” Pascal enquired, the menu still closed in front of him. For someone who seldom drank, Mayumi’s affinity for champagne was inexplicable. She flicked through the menu and pointed delicately at her choice.

  “It is my favorite,” she whispered.

  Pascal ordered a flute of Veuve Clicquot. His own family had owned a vineyard in Champagne, but Pascal drank very little alcohol however, he admired her taste and ordered the same.

  “Every day is not like this,” he said, trying to control his heartbeat.

  Waiting to be served, they spoke about idle matters as though afraid to enter the real conversation. The chit-chat continued until finally, Mayumi stopped and looked into Pascal’s face intently.

  “You came, Pascal. You are here and I have to tell you how grateful we are for your help. Although I haven’t known you for very long, I understand your hopes and dreams and I will try to guide you to find a balance for your powerful mind.”

  “At Wanee’s place, I discovered that you feel I have been connected to you in our past. In our esoteric practice we are constantly faced with strange encounters. I understand that, but it is not new to me. We all live in an infinite chain of ancestors and we are all intertwined, even though it is difficult to perceive it usually, but I do. I am a medium and I have helped many followers reconcile with their past. We have prayed to allow their beloved ones find peace.”

  “I believe that in order to move forward, I have to tell you this one thing. What you believe about our relationship is not entirely clear to me and I can feel the strength of your conviction—The conviction that you see in your dreams.. But Pascal, this mission is too important for you to be blinded. I cannot be this woman you think of. It is impossible.”

  Totally taken aback by her firm delivery, Pascal felt a pang of disappointment.

  “Whatever we may have been our previous lives, I do not feel like her,” added Mayumi.

  “I am sorry that you feel that way,” replied Pascal, “but I can only express what I feel and cannot escape the images. I am told to trust my intuition and now, when I have it the strongest, I am told I am wrong.” His throat tightened and he realised how vulnerable he was with her. “I don’t understand. You want me to help you here; there must be a connection, I am certain of it.”

  “We cannot be, Pascal.”

  “Why are you saying this? What is it that you’re afraid of?”

  “You must accept things now in order to find the balance within you; you must release me from your thoughts. I am a fiction that will stop you from finding what you need in your own life.” She could not understand why she too, was fighting her own desires to tell him the truth.

  “I don’t believe I am reaching out to the past. I know you are part of Imae. You are part of the Mantrayana past; I know you are! It is in you. Are your parents, your family stopping you? Are they pushing you away from me?” he demanded.

  Mayumi turned her face away, wanting to answer and prove to him how right she was on this matter and yet no words came out.

  “I know you are here Mayumi, and you see me there too!” he almost shouted, the night’s lights beginning to blur with the wetness in his eyes.

  She snapped her head towards him, her mouth finally expelling the sound.

  “My parents never saw my birth Pascal! Do you hear?”

  Pascal’s muscles snapped loose in his forehead. He looked up at the voice.

  “Who you see is a projected image of me—one I’ve been trained my whole life to be. You only see what you want to see, hear what you want to hear, and I’m telling you it’s impossible. My family, my real connection, has disappeared. My blood is in Mongolia, so I have no link
with Japan and Mantrayana, to your fantasies, or to any Princess Imae.” She stood up, pushing her chair back, and walked away towards the bar.

  The wind had picked up and licked the tears from Pascal’s eyes, spreading them inside his ears. He sat looking out into the sky, at the starless horizon expanding in front of him. How could he have been so wrong about his ‘truth’; thinking he would come here convincing her of it too?

  Her independence was not one of assuredness, but one riddled with the ultimate insecurity of not knowing where we come from at the basic level. In her ‘medium’ life she would have flicked those eyes to help others discover their nature and past, and yet she was left floating in a lake of her own anonymity. He saw her black hair dancing erratically in the wind; her back turned to him against the ledge.

  “I am sorry Mayumi.” He was right behind her, his right hand resting upon the curve between her neck and shoulder.

  “We have an urgent and important problem to solve for the family that I have had to call my own,” she said. “But also, for our followers and Buddhism’s path, we have to find the original mantras; we have to focus on that mission. I asked you to join me tonight in the hope I could convince you to see beyond our own connection and your personal visions, to see the importance of the mantras. I too am sorry you had to find out my past, which should bear no burden on your own path. I did not think I would need to tell you and I trust you to never mention it again to me or to anyone else.”

  “You have my word.” He nodded respectfully, even though she could not see his gesture. “So, you were saying about the mantras?”

  “We are afraid these documents will fall into the hands of those wanting to use their divine power for personal gain. They could potentially manipulate the whole of the population into submission,” she answered.

  “That cannot happen; surely that cannot happen.”

  “There is something else, too.” She turned around finally.“You see, the Original Mantras are closer to Buddha, the Enlightened One and are written by Ananda, his faithful disciple. Only these original sounds have these special powers formulated by the founder. In science we would say the right frequencies, not modified by generations of monks. The chanting waves of the original mantra are in direct resonance with the cosmic energy, the Buddha’s mind energy. In the hands of negative and oppressive organizations these mantras could prove the most aggressive and efficient weapon of mental influence.”

  The dried tear marks on her face had left her skin taut. She spoke almost blankly, and then her tears began again.

  “Pascal, are you ready to help me find these originals?”

  “Of course, Mayumi. I am ready to learn and I am ready to fulfill my mission!”

  Mayumi replied gently. “I knew you would provide the right answer and I thank you for that. You can be sure that I will try my best to help you. I felt it was important to define the boundary first. We cannot let ourselves be swayed by our own emotions, not when there is a phenomenon of much greater importance occurring.”

  Pascal looked down to the cars that were reduced to the size of ants—in fact they looked as big as he felt right now.

  “Next time you come to the temple I will show you the way to meditate; to receive the energy from the medium, and you will, without any doubt, transmit this energy to the others.”

  “Okay,” Pascal lit up knowing he would still be able to see her. “I am curious about something.” Mayumi’s large eyes blinked and he smelled the champagne breath as she exhaled softly.

  “Since you are a neurologist, how can you combine two points of view?” She seemed relieved that the question raised had not attempted to bring up the last conversation topic.

  “I would say that as a scientist I make experiments to study what conventional people call ‘paranormal phenomena’. As a medium, I practice them.”

  “So, when can you introduce me to your own research and practice?” asked Pascal.

  “For that, you will have to come to Italy as I live in Rome,” she said warmly. “I would be delighted to guide you myself here, but I have to leave tomorrow for an important forum in neuroscience.”

  She paused for a long moment.

  “And also, something very strange is happening at my clinic.”

  She lowered her voice.

  “I may have found a way to an old mantra that was kept in Rome during the Renaissance. You must come and see one of my patients. He is a Dominican…but I cannot tell you more now!”

  “That’s good news. I’ve always loved Italy,” joked Pascal. Inside, he too was glowing at the thought of being near her again.

  “As soon as my mission to the Laos border is accomplished I hope to fly to Rome and see him.”

  “See you,” was what Pascal really meant.

  Mayumi smiled back. She had understood.

  Pascal suddenly felt lonely and reluctant to leave Mayumi after such an encounter. He felt that a secret now bound them together—one she was not prepared to give initially. But she had given in, allowing him a glimpse of her past and her history. It was so much more than he had anticipated, in fact.

  Despite the warmth Mayumi had displayed, he understood that discovering the Khmer Mantra was essential. Not only for her approval, but for the importance of shielding it from use by those who wished to impose control. Was it the Cosmos project they heard about at the hospital?

  It may have been a reflection of his French temperament, but he hated nothing more than others assuming command over others, especially against their will. He had to find the mantra and bring it back safely. A deep presentiment told him the Sumit’s uncle, the Theravada teacher, had the answer in the Temple of the Forest.

  He had already planned to leave early the next morning. Mayumi stood up, extending her hand, although in a different way than when they first met this evening. Pascal noticed this; lingered in the space between them and moved to her side, embracing her with his arms instead. Full of hope, yet respectful, he moved back.

  But hope is also fear; fear that this would be their last meeting.

  …

  Sumit was impatiently waiting with his friends at the Temple of the Forest to talk to his uncle.

  The Venerable Father Luang Po Chana was teaching his morning session. At first sight, he didn’t seem impressive. The faded saffron robe was wrapped around sagging skin hanging off his bones and the only smile he could offer was toothless.

  He sat on a wicker chair cross-legged, eyes closed beneath the simple wooden hut raised on stilts. The ground was scattered with Thai, Laotian and even white-faced farangs who came to train as monks and learn the path of Buddhism. The hard faces of the local villagers surrounded the novices, each donning their traditional farmer pants tied in place with a multicoloured checkered belt. Most of the older ones had known the monk when he first arrived as a Bhikkhu, a beginner. Everyone sat silently, listening to his teachings.

  “The way of the forest,” he said, “is like the way of its founder Gautama, our Buddha.”

  His tone was of an old and trusted friend, resonant yet personal.

  “Gautama was enlightened in a forest; taught his whole life in a forest and eventually died in a forest. The forest tradition is pure in representing the way of the Elders. They called it Theravada, the South East Asian school of Buddhism. But you know—for better or for worse—that was the way the Buddha made it and that is the way we still do it! It has become our rule.”

  The Ajahn was a devout follower of the Theravada school. His non-formal, unorthodox teaching style was compensated by strict discipline. Most of the Western religious preachers were quite elaborate, poetic even, with crafted sentences full of imagery and sound that helped them gain support like a political campaign, only with a little more pomp.

  His teaching avoided such tricks. It was simple and direct, unpredictable but always in response to the mood, the questions, and the feelings of the people around him. He often used humor as a way to smooth the hard truth.

  Today,
he used trivial examples from everyday life: how even the simple housewife who performs her daily chores can find peace of mind in the plumping of a grain of rice or the peeling of a ripened fruit. It was true that calm, whatever definition it could hold, was often gained inadvertently, in the simple acts of the everyday.

  One of the foreigners, a recently converted academic professor, was enquiring about the six realms of Buddhist Cosmology. Knowing his response would require a mouthful the Ajahn removed his false teeth and handed them to his attendant.

  “It is like the story of a monkey finding a nut and he is unable to open it.” The sides of his mouth rose up comically, revealing his pink gums.

  The Ajahn didn’t wish to embarrass the professor, but his message of humor simply turned the question into a matter of common sense. Contrary to much Western education, the monk truly believed that intellectual behavior was meaningless if it did not have application.

  Pascal and his friends were listening, seated in the shade of a wide tree not far from the teacher himself. They had arrived late last night in the neighboring town of Ubon, a typical Northeastern town in Issan Province, a mostly agricultural region.

  “You know,” said Sumit to his friends, “Ajahn was actually one of my martial arts teachers, if you can imagine it.”

  It was indeed difficult to picture that the skinny man had practiced the ancient art of fighting in his youth. Teaching was now his one and only devotion.

  “He may not look so brilliant to you now but wait until you talk to him.” At that very same moment the Ajahn fixed his stare on Pascal.

  “Oh, I can see a young foreigner over there,” uttering the words playfully as he turned his head to another man, “and I think he can understand the Thai language very well. And you know why I know that?” He smiled his gummy smile once more. “Because he has not been listening to anything I have been saying. He is probably too preoccupied by what he will be having next for lunch.”

  Everyone started laughing and Pascal, surprised by his technique, understood the lesson and smiled back.

  Once the twenty minutes had elapsed, everyone dispersed for the daily routine of prayers, work, and meditation.

  Ram was suddenly staring at a young beautiful nun coming to them. It was Ma Sue with her shaved skull and white robe. She walked over to Wanee, who was going to introduce her to the women’s convent.

  They were expecting her. They both left quickly, realizing their place because generally, male monks don’t favour speaking with women.

  The “Ajahn” beckoned to his nephew Sumit. Even before he could introduce anyone from the group the teacher took another deep look at Pascal and apologised in an elegant manner:

  “I understand you came here with a pure heart and for a good cause. But it is not good to let your personal objectives isolate you from the present event. I know you understood why I did that. I did not intend to be rude, but it was a unique way for you to be attentive to where you are—in the now—and the fact that future time unfolds in the present.”

  He closed his eyes and touched Pascal on the shoulder. “If you always concentrate on the future and live in hope that you will achieve your goals later, it is the same as living in fear; the fear that you will not reach your objective.” He raised his eyebrows, trapping the beads of sweat between the creases of his wrinkles. His eyes were still closed.

  “A German poet wrote: ‘Hope is the last thing to die’. Do you agree with that?” Not waiting for Pascal’s reply he said, “Don’t you see how restrictive and pessimistic that really is? As long as we can rely on our own vitality and understand the world as it really is and not as we wish it to be, then hope disappears only to be replaced by the present truth. Hope should be replaced by the potential of the moment, don’t you think?”

  He tensed every muscle in his face and released them just as suddenly, finally opening his eyes as sweat streamed down into them.

  “Aah, now isn’t that much better?” His pink gums glistened in the morning light.

  “Well, it’s…” Pascal was cut off.

  “No more words; time for action. So, the reason for your visit: the manuscript!” He called his attendant, a Bhikkhu, a slim, young boy with clever eyes and a round face. No instructions were given, but he returned a minute later with a rectangular gold case. It very much resembled the boxes that held sutra prayer books that the Bhikkhu received when they were ordained.

  Ajahn opened the case. Inside were dried banana leaves tied together with strips of red silk. Underneath, two hard, wooden tablets held the more fragile folios. Its surface was delicately lacquered, displaying golden carved symbols that Pascal didn’t recognize. They looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs.

  “You see,” said the Ajahn, “this manuscript dates back from the post-Khmer era: some 600 years ago and it is still in perfect condition. The characters are a little bit faded, but readable—if you can understand it, of course!”

  Ram was fervently pulling out his laptop from his protective shoulder bag. He was impatient to start examining the manuscript.

  “Our friend Ram is a devoted Hindu.” Pascal said with a big smile. “Like you, he believes in Karma and Reincarnation. He may become a Buddhist, or maybe even a monkey in his next life!”

  Ram had not heard the joke so preoccupied was he with his computer.

  “For the time being though, he is very fluent in language computerisation and algorithms. He had translated many parts of the difficult Upanishads, the Vedic bible of the Brahmins' culture, documents thousands of years old. He has created his own program and wishes you to let him try to read it ,” he said, gesturing towards the box with an open palm. He remembered Pichai’s advice: pointing with the index finger is badly viewed in Thailand and it’s even worse if the foot is used.

  The Ajahn looked impressed.

  “What is that language?”

  Ram was happy to share his own knowledge with the teacher.

  “Simple,” he said. “It is what we call an Abugida or in this case, a Siddham consonant language. It is pre-Sanskrit and Pali vernacular. And you know, it is said that it was the language used by Gautama to teach his followers because it was the common language. That is one of the many reasons he became so popular so quickly.”

  The Ajahn burst into laughter. It was not every day that someone else taught him something new about Buddha’s life. Delighted by the conversation, the Ajahn seemed more comfortable in entrusting Ram his manuscript.

  “Your friend seems to me a serious, trustworthy and confident person. He can translate the manuscript, no problem at all.”

  With a wink, the Old teacher turned to Pascal. “I see now Sumit was right. He told me that you had a special personality with the potential to reach the Middle Way, the Vacuity, where there is no space, no time and no more ego. I see that now.”

  “But you are still stranded in a sea of distraction. Let me teach you our way to achieve the concentration objective to project your positive intention. Allow me to show you something about the Theravada practice that will help you to practice a different path from the Yogi or Esoteric way.”

  He took Pascal aside, leaving Ram in a world of his own.

  “Now, the basic purpose of our Theravada meditation practice, which has been developed for over two thousand years is to open your mind to the supreme reality; your true Self. We call it The Middle Way because it is a state of mind with neither good nor bad and no personal judgment... only the original truth of the universe with no boundaries.”

  Always eager to compare with his Christian education Pascal asked:

  “Is that state the one our Saint Paul called In Medio Stat Virtus: the truth is in the middle?”

  “Maybe, maybe,” mumbled the Old man. “But let’s concentrate on practice, not Theology. Are you ready to try?”

  “Right now?”

  “There’s no better time!”

  Of course Pascal was curious. He always tried to push himself to new states of mind and different mental ter
ritories, but never with drugs. He was also told by neurologists that the use of drugs—whatever they are—may induce a mystical high, but in the long term facilitate spiritual laziness and increase personal stress in the best of cases.

  He could not deny the teacher Ajahn’s invitation, and moved with him to a suitable location beneath a Banyan tree.

  …

  “All the joy the world contains

  has come through wishing happiness for others.

  All the misery the world contains

  has come through wanting pleasure for oneself.”

  Shantideva