Dharma Sutra

by David Pugh

  Last time I was here I did finally get inside the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s ashram, now known locally as the Beatles’ Ashram. I expected his ghost to be still wandering the grounds, looking for tourist ladies’ bottoms to pinch, but I picked up no sense of his presence at all. He will always be remembered as the Beatles’ guru and the man that Prudence Farrow didn’t want to come out to play with.

  Back then I found meditation an impossible task; it opened the doors to all the monsters that have pursued me through life. I could fight one demon at a time but when they came at me together, it was an overwhelming struggle and they would drag me down to Hell; for want of a better word that described the depression I had been going through for years. If I could have sold my soul to Mephistopheles then, I would have had no reason to complain about being torn apart by demons as I was used to it. Unfortunately, I was never approached by a stranger at a crossroads, offering me life’s temptations, excepting perhaps one or two beautiful women, whom I was foolish enough to reject. At the time of my first visit to Rishikesh I was still on the quest to produce good art and not really getting there, so it left no time for relaxation. I believed then that I could relax for eternity when I was dead, so I felt no need for the practice runs, that I then mistakenly believed meditation offered. I enjoyed the stretching part of yoga but I found it all geared to take me to the Dead Zone. Having at the time felt that I had spent the previous twenty-seven years working six days a week in a solitary room, I didn’t need to be told what the Dead Zone is like, I had been there.

  This visit to Rishikesh was being made by a very different person, one who was no longer alone, a person who now knew the truth of existence and had realised, finally, that during his time in the Dead Zone, he had been living the dream. The person I am today is finally alive; Prometheus unchained from the rock on Mount Khvamli, my liver no longer being eaten by the vulture of alcohol.

  Chapter 90: Let the Sideshow Begin

  ‘Is this what you really want, a circus tent?’ I recognised the voice and presence of Issa behind me. I was sat in the middle of a huge, if rather grubby, red carpet, facing a stage inside a marquee used as a spillover classroom, borrowed from my friend, yoga and music teacher, Bhuwan.

  ‘I don’t think it is, dear Issa,’ he sat beside me still dressed as Jesus, ‘what I’m doing is telling my story, to my generation, those who were teenagers in the Sixties but really missed the message.’

  ‘That’s not a very big audience, is it?’ the Nazarene commented, ‘Om Pekesh’s young friend Vadim has arranged for a class of Russian yoga students to attend your show, along with Bhuwan’s American group. Do you think they need permission to have sex, as part of a Cosmic Crusade against the Void?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied, ‘I’ve been so caught up in the revelations I’ve had, that I just let Om Pekesh take charge of this show.’

  I was looking at the stage, Om had gone to some expense, the three murti were immense but constructed, very convincingly, out of raffia palm and fibre glass not solid neem wood. Beneath each of the statues was a throne, one for each of us, Subhadra’s being more of a table, as Shizuko had been in India studying the sitar and would play for the audience, as a warm up. Right now she was receiving some expert tutoring from Bhuwan; a tabla had been put next to Jagannath’s throne, for Remus to wow the audience with his djembe skills. It had been left to me to do the oratory and tell the assembled youth what sex was about. I gazed at the huge lingam near Jagannath’s left arm, the phallus represented Shiva; I now knew the importance of this symbol, I had barely paid it any attention before these last months. Here was the torch that lit a light in the Void, a prick was all that stood between humankind’s survival and growth and the return of the all-powerful nothingness that wanted to reclaim us. We were claiming that Nirvana was nothing but a trick created by the Void, to remove the more enlightened ones from the cycle of Samsara and the discovery of the truth. This would be controversial news but enlightenment to many, the Humanists and the Luciferians could embrace a possible new slogan, ‘Tune in, turn on and keep on fuckin…’ I could see the T-shirt now, a cartoon fully limbed Jagannath, sandwiching Subhadra between himself and Balabhadra. I shook my head in despair; Remus and Shizuko were natural show people and were loving the idea. When the news got out that our Subhadra was ex JAV-Idol Dora Yaki, our show would be a sell-out, if only for her Qs & As. The more I thought about it, the more I agreed with Issa, this was a circus and probably would mask the gravity of the simple message. Om had arranged a troop of female dancers to open and close for us, doing a Bollywood style Jay Jagannath chant, closing with a reworking of Laila O Laila.

  ‘What about the girl, Tenshi Tengoku?’ I was still confused by her appearance and very unsure of her role in our extravaganza.

  Issa reminded me of her part in bringing the continued existence of Bob Jallow to our notice. He was, however, very upset that the Gambian gangster had found her and used her to try and disrupt our cave ceremony. He understood that the ghost of Jatta would like to track Remus and myself and bring about our downfall, as a closure to his last incarnation; ghosts often sought revenge. Without a corporeal body he would have to use another body to do physical damage. Issa told me that so-called random attacks on people by weak-minded assailants were done under the control of these astral wanderers. What was disturbing was that he had managed to influence the behaviour of a Stolen Child; the man had some formidable power if he could manipulate an angel. Issa warned me to keep a close eye on Tenshi; she was still young and hadn’t had the years to complete her cosmic education.

  ‘I don’t get that,’ I had to stop him, ‘if time doesn’t exist, why would she need more time to learn more about her powers?’

  ‘You forget,’ the master continued, ‘Tenshi was a human girl and although she went through accelerated development in the Cosmic Incubator, she still grew in a human-like physical continuum.’

  I made a decision to adopt this girl if anything should happen to her mother. It seemed that she had made the choice to return to the earthly plane and stay with her mother, much to the annoyance of her cosmic teachers. Having been a college dropout myself, I respected her decision to do what she liked with this second-chance life she had been given.

  I looked for Issa to concur with me but he had gone again, so I returned to my netbook to write my oration for the next day’s show. I was labouring, whatever I put down seemed more like the obvious rather than a revelation. Remus pulled me from my task, shouting through the marquee entrance.

  ‘Jeffrey, come now! I want you come! I see him! Ramachiranjiv! Let’s go!’

  Chapter 91: Upon This Rock I Shall Build My Church

  The bright sunlight of Swargashram dazzled me, too many hours looking at a computer screen.

  ‘There he is!’ Remus broke into a run.

  ‘Which one?’ all I could see were dozens of holy men making their way to Mother Ganga.

  ‘One in orange!’ Remus unhelpfully shouted.

  Then I saw him, a tall Rasta-like figure in orange lungi with the same stride as the man I had followed through the African bush, all those years ago. Anirudh Ramachiranjiv carried a shoulder bag and a long ceremonial staff, which didn’t seem to be a walking aid, more like Gandalf’s wand. We were close to the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s ashram, down from Ram Jhula Bridge, and Rama was wading into the river, heading towards a large rock. Remus determined to follow him but I hesitated as the Ganga at Rishikesh is very deep and the current strong, not to mention the snow-melt coldness of the water. There were a few smaller rocks between the riverbank and the stone platform Ramachiranjiv had lifted himself onto, so I used them to help my wading. Remus was well ahead of me when I lost my footing and panicked, I had seen men carried down into the churning depths. I flayed about looking for something to grab; fortunately, Ramachiranjiv’s staff came to my rescue and I hauled myself up on it. On the other end of the wizard’s wand was Remus, both he and the sadhu were laughing at my plight.

 
Rama indicated me to sit down, with the afternoon sun on my sodden back. He offered us both a bottle to drink from, I was afraid that it might be another soma concoction; I wasn’t in the mood for another trip. The bottle contained kombucha, “the immortal health drink” claimed by Chinese medicine, it had a slight alcohol-type kick, the nearest I’d get in this teetotal town. Remus was grinning like a man who was having a one-to-one moment with someone who has influenced his life. I wished the man on the rock was Leonard Cohen, as one Remus Jallow in my life was enough. The sadhu seen up close did not look well, his skin had an ashen colour, unlike Remus’ ebony that was glistening from the river water, and Rama’s eyes looked tired, rimmed with glaucoma.

  The three of us sat cross-legged facing each other; Ramachiranjiv took back his staff and gave Remus a tremendous whack on his dreadlocked head. I hoped he wasn’t going to try the same on my bald crown but his attention was on his doppelganger; Remus was grinning like a fool, I thought the blow had affected his often-slow wits. On the contrary he bowed his head to the master and received another blow to the back on his skull; it was as if Ramachiranjiv was trying to crack open a coconut. The sadhu then sat bolt upright and concentrated his attention on Remus, holding the Gambian in a hypnotic gaze. Ramachiranjiv rubbed a purple paste onto his own forehead; he seemed to be working it in very deeply, pushing hard with two fingers, as if trying to break open the skin. What happened next made me believe that I might well have drank soma, as the sadhu’s skin parted and what looked like an eye opened in the wound, just as I had seen in so many pieces of Hindu art. His two fingers seemed to reach deep into his skull and pull the eye out, it was then that I recognised it as his pineal gland. He offered the bloody conarium to Remus, indicating him to swallow it, which my African friend did without a question. I was mesmerised, I probably had my mouth open. Remus took a gulp of the kombucha and the ceremony was complete, Ramachiranjiv gave his staff and bag to Remus and stood up. The older man now began to radiate a pure white glow, so bright that I had to look at what happened next through the gaps in my fingers. The whole rock seemed to be wrapped inside a white gold sphere, Ramachiranjiv took a step backward and arms raised in a crucifixion-like pose, fell in slow motion, gently backwards into the arms of the mother of the rivers. The glow reduced in size to that of a small orb, no bigger than an eye and penetrated Remus’ forehead, leaving a small scar. Remus described the sensation of having his stomach wrenched into his brain, for a moment his body glowed like the sadhu’s had and then all was calm, as time and the river seemed to stop.

  Remus stood up, offered me his hand and, incredibly, together we walked across the surface of the now still river to the bank. Shizuko was waiting for us on the sand, a little way behind stood Om Pekesh and his dance troop with Tenshi, Papu and Issa. As the three of us joined hands a wave of pure love burned through us, sending a golden beam into the sky. Our friends and the dancers formed a ring around us, the golden glow spread through all and crossed the world like an atomic explosion of joy and a glorious, “Jay Jagannath!” echoed across the universe.

  Time still seemed to be on hold as we danced, and the women sang their Bollywood Jagannath song, until we fell to the sand and into a hysterical bout of laughter, the kind I have experienced following an out-of-body experience. The laughter rivalled the roar of the now flowing Ganga, and this laughter stayed with us for our whole stay in Rishikesh, and laughter therapy became part of our Living Jagannath liturgy. We would need all the positive energy of laughter in the years ahead, as something dark was growing in Africa.

  Chapter 92: African Epilogue

  Abibatu’s Palace, Brufut – four months after the bloody battle in Bakau.

  The morning of the day my beloved son, Aboboulaye, left this world, I prepared a mixture from the iboga plant. I divided it into three potions, one for myself, one for the goat and one for my son’s spirit beast, in his cage in my compound. I drank my potion and put a potion in the goat’s drinking bowl and one in the hyena’s; I had added an allure in each, which made the drink irresistible to the creatures and they cleared their bowls. I waited until the iboga entered into what became our joint mind and then the three of us knew what needed to be done. The goat had to die but the iboga gave the animal an understanding of what death meant, a human understanding, and its fear became intense. The spirit beast picked up the scent of fear, maddening its blood lust; I looked into the beast’s eyes and told him what I wanted and what his reward would be for bringing it to me. I opened the cage and the beast flew north, racing with demonic possession toward Bakau.

  A new life grows inside me; the son of my son but with Aboboulaye’s soul brought to me by the hyena on the day those people slowly killed him. In a few months my son will be reborn, stronger than ever, and he will take his revenge on a small-minded world that condemned him. Who were they to judge him, what right did they have? I am an upstanding member of the Gambian elite; I hide the power inside me, hidden in clothes of the desert religion. My gifts come from the roots and rocks of Africa, from the beginning of the world and the cradle of humanity. Our ancestors learned how to become one with the spirits of the animals, the forest, the fire, the river and the sky, to use the elemental forces to gain power over the weak. The gifted ones like us have no need for this Islam, a religion for those who fear death; we have mastered death, we can make the dead walk again and we can take the body of a newborn and come again to this world, strengthened and more powerful with each rebirth. Soon Aboboulaye will walk again amongst the living, and he will bring death to those who wronged him.

  End