The Bikini Prophecy - Part One

by Matt Kyler

  I spot an Internet cafe and enter. After acknowledging the owner at the counter with a nod, I make my way to one of a dozen computers that line the far wall. As I approach, a lone male customer desperately tries to minimise a screen full of naked ambitions. Unperturbed, I sit down, open a browser and log into my account.

  I have mail.

  From Sydney.

  From: Bernard

  To: Matt

  Subject: Hello

  Hi Matt,

  Hope your adventure is going well. A quick update from home - the show has had amazing reviews. It scored the highest rating of any drama debut ever!! So it looks like we have ourselves a hit. The network has green-lit a second series for next year so stay in touch because there will be episodes for you to write.

  Lots of love,

  Bernard

  PS: Emma is in Europe. Apparently she got lucky!

  I ignore everything in the email about the popularity of the TV series and the possible resurrection of my career and fixate, instead, on the only line that matters.

  Apparently she got lucky!

  The words reach out from the screen and punch me in the gut. In an instant, any level-headedness I had crumbles and I collapse into my obsessive old self. Petty jealousy consumes me and I sense the darkness from outside creeping in to cast shadows on my thoughts. More than anything, I want to curl up on the floor and cry. I stare at the screen for what seems like an eternity … and then the frustration and anger arrives.

  Six fucking months!

  Correction: six non-fucking months.

  That’s how long Emma refused to sleep with me. And yet she slept with some other prick on the first week of a European bus tour.

  Fucking hell, I must be a delusional fool.

  All that talk about her not wanting to mix work with pleasure. I bet none of that was real. Man, how could I be so ignorant of the truth? She wasn’t interested in me, she was just trying to let me down gently. That’s why she never instigated anything. Not the phone calls, the dinners, the kiss, the groping in the front seat of her car. None of it. The relentless pursuit was all me. Me spilling my guts to her. Me opening up my heart and telling her shit that I couldn’t tell anyone else. Me making myself vulnerable, soft, insipid and fucking weak.

  I feel like such a dick.

  Why wasn’t I good enough, Emma? … Why?

  I glance at the offending line on the screen again.

  I know exactly why.

  I was broken. But she never understood.

  I raise my hands to my face and knead my forehead in frustration. My heart aches beyond reason. I feel cheated. Cheated on. But there’s something else bugging me. Karma maybe? A lingering double standard. Because despite embarking on a trip of true love for Emma … I packed condoms. A dozen of them. Specifically for unplanned encounters.

  So much for true love.

  And what about that night with Claire before I flew out of Australia? Or the other women I slept with in Sydney while I was obsessively professing my undying love to Emma via phone, email and big fucking mouth? Why did I do that? I thought I wanted to save her, conquer her, be the father of her children. But maybe I just wanted her because she was the very first female I met after Claire.

  “I’m in love with someone at work.”

  That’s what I callously told Claire over the phone. The unwelcome truth was met with silence. There were so many miles between us. And yet, I heard the unspoken question.

  “Why wasn’t I good enough, Matt? … Why?”

  Because you were broken, Claire … but I never understood.

  I close the internet browser. There will be no writing home. Too many thoughts. But no words. I pay the man at the counter for my five minutes of personal hell and walk out into the anonymity of darkness. The welcome gloom swallows me and I shuffle, downcast and depressed, along the street. My progress goes unrestricted until I am stalled by a father and his small child beneath a streetlight. Armed with ice creams, they hold me up.

  “Hello,” says the father, extending a hand.

  I shake it. “Hi.”

  The man angles his head towards the timid toddler and addresses him in Hindi. The words prompt the boy forward. He raises a hand and I grasp it gently. When I let it go, the doting dad is smiling proudly. Without a word, he lowers a trusted hand and leads the youngster away.

  From behind, they look like the subjects of a Hallmark card for Father’s Day. The heavy mist and soft glow of the streetlight making them appear ethereal and pure. With a heavy heart, I watch them slowly step out of eyesight and vanish into the darkness.

  Like a faded memory.

  Like the ghosts of futures past.

  UPRIGHT: Listen to intuition, you know it’s right … Right?

  REVERSED: Ignorance is bliss, though … Right?

  “The third poison is ignorance,” says the woman opposite me. “This is when we choose only to see our version of the truth. When we cloud our world with delusions and refuse to accept reality.”

  Dolma and I are sitting outside a lonely tea-shop on the top of a mountain in Rewalsar. I’m on a day trip to this small sacred town that is revered by Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs alike. Sharing the table with us is Dolma’s artist husband and her imposing Buddhist monk brother.

  “Each of these poisons block true happiness,” continues the university lecturer. “And lead us to sadness and depression.”

  Thanks to the impromptu lesson, I’ve learnt that Buddhists believe all human suffering arises from just three poisons: greed, hatred, and ignorance. In other words, bad shit happens to us when we lust after things we think will make us happy. Bad shit happens when we push away from experiences that make us unhappy. And, finally, bad shit happens when we misunderstand the source of happiness (hint: it comes from within).

  It’s a fair theory, but like all lectures, I was bored after five minutes.

  It’s not that I don’t see the value of Dolma’s teachings. I do. It’s just that I’m already familiar with the content. Everyone is. After all, it’s the central theme of countless fairy tales, children’s stories, self-help books and… well, lectures on happiness.

  “This is what Monk Norbu specialises in,” says Dolma, rabbiting on. “He uses tantric healing mantras to help people remove these poisons from their lives.”

  I glance at the monk sitting next to her. I’m still not sure what to make of Norbu. He doesn’t look like the antidote to unhappiness, more like a possible trigger. In fact, the big unit looks like he could pass as hired muscle for some organised crime syndicate… well, apart from the dress-like maroon robe, which actually makes him look like a cross-dressing hitman.

  When I first saw Norbu, half an hour ago, I thought he was some dodgy tour guide masquerading as a monk to fleece gullible tourists. Turns out he has a full-time gig travelling the world as a chant master and sand mandala artist for the Dalai Lama. It also turns out, that in his down time he presides over private prayer flag ceremonies on the top of isolated mountains. I know this fact because his sister, Dolma, told me … right after she asked me why I was spying on them at a secluded spot on the rocky knoll behind us.

  “I thought you were a tour group,” I said after she questioned my presence.

  “No,” she said.

  But instead of reprimanding me, she invited me to take part in the rest of their ceremony. I felt honoured. Especially, at the end, when Norbu invited me forward and quietly chanted a prayer for me. One that was unnervingly long.

  “Monk Norbu has said the Metta prayer for you,” explained Dolma. “This is a special prayer for well-being and happiness.”

  Awesome.

  Once done, we all strolled over to the lone tea-shop and ordered biscuits and tea. Dolma paid for everything then refused to accept money from me. I’m not exactly sure why people keep giving me shit for free. Maybe I appear both spiritually and financially impoverished.

  I am grateful for their kindness though because I had woken up feeling a little l
ost today. There were a few things distracting me. Namely, that Emma screwed some random dude in Europe. Plus this morning was a bit of a struggle in other respects. Firstly, I struggled to remain good-humoured on the cramped bus trip from Mandi to Rewalser because of a sleepless night … thanks to Emma bedding some random dude in Europe. Then when I arrived at Rewalser Lake I struggled to walk up the side of the mountain because I forgot to eat breakfast or bring water. Now, as a rule, I wouldn’t normally forget a detail like eating and drinking … but Emma screwed some random dude in Europe.

  I know it’s foolish to allow Emma to incapacitate me like this, but the fact is, I’m not the only space cadet walking around this town. Rewalsar attracts tens of thousands of deluded pilgrims each year. Many of whom are here solely to pay their respects to a man known as the ‘second Buddha’. A tantric guru, who according to local legend, holed up in a nearby cave with the King of Mandi’s daughter. It was here that the Buddhist master helped the princess reach enlightenment … by filling her void with his special tantric healing scroll. Of course, when the king cottoned onto this carnal caper he went bat-shit crazy and immediately condemned the lovers to death by fire.

  And that’s the end of the story.

  Actually, it’s not. Because like all good spiritual myths a miracle needs to occur. In this case, the deadly fire extinguished itself. And when the smoke cleared, it revealed a beautiful lake. And floating atop that beautiful lake was a lotus flower. And standing unharmed atop that lotus flower’s leaf was the beautiful princess and her guru. Unsurprisingly, such a sight rendered the entire populace of Rewalsar speechless. Because not only had they witnessed a beautiful miracle … the lucky fuckers now had lakeside realty.

  As for the king … well, he was so overwhelmed by the event that he gave the couple his blessing and offered them his kingdom. And everyone lived happily ever after, chanting prayers and drinking tea, I guess.

  Or something like that.

  Thing is, I don’t really know the finer details because I haven’t really had time to read up on it. I’ve been distracted by Emma’s sex life, near starvation and the laborious chore of scaling a mountain of a thousand stairs to visit the carnal cave in question. However, what I can say with certainty, is that this love story is a big deal in Rewalsar. So much so, that statues of the ‘second Buddha’ and the princess have been erected all over the town. All of which now serve as bait to lure lost souls up a mountain, with the hope of finding spiritual illumination … in a dark fucking cave.

  Oddly enough, this is exactly what happened to me. After standing before the gold statue of the ‘second Buddha’ in that cave, I had a major epiphany. And it was this:

  Emma can fuck whoever she damn well pleases.

  This was immediately followed by another equally forceful emotional realisation. Which was this:

  Emma can also go fuck herself.

  I know that’s a spiteful thought. One probably born from three poisons. But it’s how I feel right now. So from this moment forth, I’m done with the infatuated thoughts. Done with unrequited love. Done with the heartache.

  And done with Emma.

  I look past my companions and stare at the path I know I need to tackle. I have to go back to the start. Way back. Literally and metaphorically. Firstly, down the seemingly endless stairs that cascade from mountain top to miracle lake. And, secondly, back in a time before Emma. Neither task holds any joy.

  “How are you getting back?” asks Dolma on cue.

  I point to the stairs behind her. “Same way I came up.”

  A look of horror crosses her face. “You can’t walk down there! It’s too far. We can take you down to the lake in our taxi. Or if you want you can come back to Mandi with us.”

  “No, it’s fine. I already have a bus ticket.”

  “Please, I insist. It’s no problem.”

  Without any further argument, I accept the offer. And, eventually, we finish our drinks and climb into the taxi van for our ride back to Mandi.

  Thankfully, the journey is more enjoyable than my morning bus run. Surrounded by good company, the miles disappear with ease. There’s barely even enough time to wear out my welcome. And even if there was, I wouldn’t get a chance to say much because Dolma insists on force-feeding me muffins, cake and spiritual allegories.

  Before I know it, we are parked outside my hotel in Mandi. I say farewell and step outside. I’m upbeat and happy. Maybe the lecture and prayer have done something because I sense a larger force in my universe. But it’s not faith or fate. It’s simply a positive energy. A self-confidence. A self-belief, maybe? That I can move on from Emma. All I have to do is let go of the desire. Let go of the hate. Let go of the delusions.

  But I can’t, of course.

  Because, unlike the Buddhists in the taxi, I don’t know how to flush out the poisons. All I know is that I have to keep moving. Towards a better future. Possibly with Emma. But I need to steer clear of my past with Claire. And the only way to do all those things is to continue this journey.

  And follow my heart.

  End of Part One

  Pre-order Part Two

  Part Two of The Bikini Prophecy is available for pre-order exclusively at Amazon.

  Find it here:

  The Bikini Prophecy - Part Two

  What about Part Three?

  The third and final instalment is also available for pre-order at Amazon.

  Find it here:

  The Bikini Prophecy - Part Three