The Yoga of Max's Discontent

by Karan Bajaj

  The snow began falling again. Max pressed his gloved hands on his wet head and moved closer to the cart. The group found the gyros really awesome so they ordered more, laughing uproariously at their own appetites.

  Max shifted in the snow, waiting for them to leave. More people joined them. Their faces blurred with the others. Only the sound of laughter emerged from the snowy mist.

  I want to see the unborn, un-aging, un-ailing, sorrowless, and deathless face-to-face.

  Max took a deep breath. More than half of the kids from his elementary school had ended up on the streets. One or two different turns and he also would have been sitting on a newspaper on the ice like the homeless man from the other night. He couldn’t throw everything away.

  Max thanked Viveka and paid him when the others finally left.

  “Oh no, no, sir, I cannot take money from you. Indeed, you talk to me like a friend,” said Viveka.

  “I insist,” said Max, putting the five-dollar bill in Viveka’s hands. His hands were rough and cold against Max’s skin, making Max think of the mountains again. He hesitated. “What happens when the yogis find the unborn, un-aging . . . this thing they are looking for?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Viveka. “But I see the faces of those who stop by my cart here. They’re like the faces of the soldiers in the army and the people in my village. Their smiles are hollow, their eyes are hungry. The yogis’ faces were different.”

  “Happier?”

  “Not exactly, sir, more like . . . silent, complete. Like the mountains around them. Asking no questions, seeking no answers, just certain—as though they knew exactly who they were.”

  Again Max’s heart tugged. He took a deep breath. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “I hope to see you again.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said Viveka. “Please do not forget your gloves.”

  Max picked up his leather gloves from the beverage cooler. “I forgot it was cold for a moment.”

  “The body adapts anywhere, sir.”

  4.

  A knock.

  Max looked up from the clutter of numbers on his computer screen. Outside the windows of his glass-walled office on the forty-eighth floor of the Trump Building opposite the New York Stock Exchange on Wall Street, clouds covered the rising winter sun.

  Sarah, his boss and their firm’s managing director—a hard-driving woman in her late fifties—stepped into his office.

  “How’re you doing, Max?”

  He stood up. “Good. Thank you.”

  “No, how are you really doing?” she said, looking up at him. “I know how hard it is to lose a parent.”

  Max’s gaze shifted from the light furrows on her face to her kind eyes. “Really, I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you for asking.”

  She gave him an awkward half hug. “Did you look at the study request? If I don’t get the data to Tom by noon, he’ll rip me a new one.”

  “I’m on it.”

  • • •

  MAX GROUPED MULTIPLE Excel files together and applied array formula after array formula to make the numbers break and tell him a story. A week ago, the private equity firm he worked for as a vice president had been evaluating the purchase of a midsize snack-food company that made cookies and crackers. Now they were analyzing a fruit-juice corporation. If Max liked what he saw on the company’s balance sheet and in its revenue projections, his bosses would decide if they could make a quick profit by buying the company and selling it again in a couple of years. Max compared the company’s cost of goods sold to that of its closest publicly traded competitor. His firm could cut $3 million in costs immediately by shifting the apple-juice base to the similar-tasting but far cheaper pear juice. Shortening the juice-box straw by just a tenth of an inch would net another $2 million. Still more could be saved by changing the dark blue embossing on the package to cobalt blue. Yes, it was a great company to buy. With a few easy fixes, you could bleed it dry and reinvest the savings in advertising. Fruit juice made up only six percent of an American kid’s fluid intake. If moms replaced just one can of soda or iced tea with the company’s juice box, his firm would make a killing.

  How did this become my life?

  Max’s chest tightened. Sweat formed on his temples. He looked up from the numbers. Years ago, the city had put up a medical waste incinerator opposite the children’s park in Port Morris to burn amputated limbs, bloody bandages, cancerous tissue, aborted fetuses, and other infectious materials. It was supposed to be constructed on the Upper East Side, but Manhattan residents had protested about the threat of respiratory ailments, so the city had dumped it in the Bronx instead. Children were clearly more disposable there. Each time Max was on a break from school and had walked past the shiny blue metal-top building, he had thought he was on the verge of an insight. He was standing in the middle of two worlds, between the death and destruction in the projects and the hope and life at Trinity and Harvard. He was meant to discover something about the nature of suffering and why it chose those it did. Why hadn’t he dug deeper to find that insight?

  On the opposite side of the Hudson, a factory emitted a spiral of gray smoke. Sarah stepped out of her office and spoke animatedly to a group of shiny-faced, blue-eyed analysts milling around in the lobby. They laughed with their broad chins and perfectly straight teeth.

  After all those years, he was still trying to belong.

  While he was in high school, each day from four to six in the morning, he had cleaned the bathrooms of the Harlem Public bar, scraping hardened chewing gum off the urinals, removing T-shirts flushed into toilets, and washing dried vomit from trash cans. At Trinity, he’d rush into the gym showers and scrub himself again and again so his classmates wouldn’t smell the Clorox and Pine-Sol on his body. He’d hang with his friends after school, hungrily watching them eat pizza and drink soda at Pizza Pete’s, telling them he didn’t like the flat taste of cheese, unwilling to admit he couldn’t spare a quarter for a slice of pizza every day. Back in the projects, he’d take his shirt out and sling his pants low and play with Pitbull’s sawed-off shotgun, not once mentioning calculus, SATs, college applications, and everything else that possessed him. Every day he’d worn a mask. And now once again he was fronting as a suave corporate type with his Borrelli shirt and Ferragamo shoes.

  “How’s it going?” Sarah popped her head into his office.

  Max gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Tom’s real hot on consolidating the production network,” she said. “Can they operate with three plants instead of four? What’s the trade-off between transshipment and site costs?”

  “I’ll dig into it,” said Max.

  “You haven’t gotten to the supply chain yet?”

  Max shook his head.

  A wave of irritation swept through her face. “If you’re not up for it today . . .”

  “I’m on it.”

  Sarah left his office.

  • • •

  MAX OPENED the Excel file. Again, his stomach tightened. Even his kid sister had had the courage to do her own thing. Sophia hadn’t fit in with the girl cliques in the projects, so she’d learned to rely on herself. Defying their mother, who’d wanted her to get a well-paying job, she was counseling teen junkies in a Brooklyn treatment facility. Andre was studying criminal behavior at John Jay to help kids get out of the same gangs that had crippled him. Who had Max become?

  So if there is birth, age, suffering, sorrow, and death, then there must be something that is unborn, un-aging, un-ailing, sorrowless, and deathless—immortal, as it were.

  He understood now why Viveka’s description of yogis on the top of the mountain had struck him. They had stripped their life down to its barest essence to find the same insight about suffering he’d felt close to uncovering years ago. Now that he no longer had his mother’s voice in his head prompting him to become someone, nothing stopped him from seeking t
he same insight. Did the yogis find any answers? After a moment’s hesitation, Max switched over from Excel to Chrome and began searching the Internet for information about Himalayan yogis.

  • • •

  HE SKIMMED THROUGH story after story of young Westerners traveling to India to seek spiritual enlightenment. A shadow of doubt arose in him. Was he unraveling after his mother’s death, becoming just another privileged white fucker with rich people’s problems? Max remembered the strange feeling from last night that he’d heard Viveka’s words before, somewhere within the depths of his heart. He tried to dismiss all doubt and tore through the web pages as though scrutinizing a prospective acquisition’s noisy balance sheet, deciding whether to invest in the company or not.

  A German lawyer’s blog caught his attention. She had survived unscathed a car crash that had killed her husband and three children. Her quest for life’s answers led her to India. It seemed you didn’t even have to throw a stone to find a spiritual teacher in India. Just bending to pick up one would make you collide into one guru or another, all of whom eventually demanded money, gifts, and sometimes even sex. Disappointed, she had given up on her search for a teacher and had begun studying ancient Eastern doctrines in solitude when she ran into a South American man high up in a guesthouse in the Himalayas. The man’s teachings gave her journey the focus it lacked before. Her calm, unblinking account was a welcome departure from the breathless, wide-eyed “Dude, I found some enlightenment in India” stories he’d come across. Max searched for more information about the South American.

  Slowly a picture emerged from the handful of blogs that mentioned this man. Once a successful doctor in Brazil, he had left everything behind to become a yogi in the Himalayas. Some said he was twenty-five. Others said that he looked twenty-five but was actually more than a hundred years old. That he had penetrated the mysteries of consciousness and the material body and had reversed the process of aging. The Brazilian taught a method of yoga and meditation that allowed one to go deep within the recesses of one’s own mind to reach a perfect condition beyond good and evil, birth and death—the end of suffering, as it were. Max’s heart stirred. Again the words sounded strangely familiar, as if he’d heard them before. But when? He barely knew anything about yoga and meditation. The rational part of him still didn’t know what to make of this mystical mumbo-jumbo. And yet he felt compelled to find out exactly where the Brazilian yogi lived.

  An Australian blogger had last seen him in a cave high up in the Garhwal Himalayas. Max emailed him, the German lawyer, and the other bloggers who had mentioned the Brazilian, asking to call or meet them to discuss the doctor and their own journeys. He didn’t know where they would meet. They were German, Israeli, Slovenian, Indian, from everywhere, and they seemed like seekers, never still, always on the move. They could be anywhere. Well, so could he.

  A shadow appeared on his laptop.

  Max looked up, startled.

  “Are you done?” said Sarah.

  Max shook his head.

  She frowned. “Can I see where you are?”

  Max pulled up the Excel file. He turned the screen toward her and walked her through his half-baked analysis.

  Sarah’s face dropped. “This isn’t enough. We need more for Tom.”

  Max saw the concern rise in her pale face. His pulse quickened. She hadn’t watched over her shoulder all her life in fear that a stray bullet would paralyze her, nor had she worried each day that the junkies sleeping under the dark stairwell of her apartment building would rape her little sister. His questions could never be hers. He couldn’t live her life anymore.

  “You’re usually . . . can we please get the fuck on it now?” she said. “We have to get it together by noon.”

  Max shook his head. “I can’t. I have to leave,” he said.

  5.

  Time waste. You must not have come now,” said the man sitting next to Max on the floor of the train’s open doorway.

  Max smiled. This was the hundredth time he’d heard that in the last day—on the flight from London to New Delhi, in the rickshaw ride from the Delhi airport to the train station, on the railway platform, and now on the five-hour train journey to Haridwar, the foothills of the Himalayas in Northern India. This was his first time in India, and he had traveled outside the United States only once before to Kilimanjaro in East Africa, but enough images of India had seeped into popular culture so that nothing was completely unexpected. Stray dogs and cows blended with the riot of motorists on the roads, so he hardly noticed them after the initial surprise. The constant honking of car horns wasn’t any more overwhelming than the sound of ambulance sirens in Manhattan. And with its shiny new highways and faceless skyscrapers, New Delhi appeared far wealthier than the South Bronx, with its burned-out, abandoned buildings. Even the street hustlers gently whispering of bargains for marijuana and prostitutes were like Boy Scouts in comparison to the pimps and crack fiends back home. There were unexpected sights—a man riding a motorcycle with a sixty-foot ladder tied behind him; a marriage procession in the middle of a highway; colorful billboards of film actors with big-barreled machine guns in their hands and fake blood gushing from head wounds, yet not a hair out of place—but thus far the only true surprise was the unabashed curiosity of the Indian people. He tried to relax and enjoy the barrage of questions thrown his way and not to take offense at people’s swift judgment of his travel plans.

  “Very wrong decision. You must come back in May,” said the man.

  The train stuttered in the thick evening fog. A bearded man with a bucket in his hand appeared from the white mist outside. He rushed toward the moving train and thrust one naked foot in the space between Max and his companion.

  “What . . .” said Max, jerking back.

  The bearded man grabbed the train’s door and pulled himself inside the train, his bucket flying behind him. Salted peanuts rained on Max’s head. A peanut vendor. He flashed Max an apologetic smile and began advertising his wares inside the train.

  Max’s companion in the doorway of the vestibule didn’t seem to notice the interruption. “Are you listening, bhai?” he said. “Himalayas closed in winters.”

  Max turned to him. “How can the mountains be closed? They’re always there, right?” he said.

  “No, no,” said the man, shaking his professorial face so hard that Max worried his glasses would fall off the train. “What I mean is, roads are all blocked. Big storms. Forget getting to Uttarkashi even, definitely not farther up.”

  If that were the case, coming to the Himalayas in December had indeed been a waste of time. From the train station in Haridwar, Max intended to go up to Uttarkashi, a seven-hour journey by road, then take a bus to Gangotri, the origin of the river Ganges, another six hours north, followed by a ten-mile trek up the mountains to Bhojbasa near the Ganges’s source glacier, where a lone guesthouse served holy men living in the Himalayan caves. The Brazilian doctor had last been seen in a cave near the guesthouse.

  Max hadn’t accounted for the roads being blocked, but he had planned well for the trek to the guesthouse. Within a week of quitting his job, he had said good-bye to Sophia, taken care of his apartment and finances, gotten an Indian visa, and flown to New Delhi via London so he could reach the Himalayas before the winter peaked in early January. In his backpack, he had his best cold-weather hiking gear: woolen base layers, insulated down pants, two thick sweaters, one synthetic jacket, one hard-shell jacket with a hood, two pairs of gloves and hats, four pairs of woolen socks, and multiple hand and toe warmers, enough to survive in temperatures much lower than the minus-ten degrees expected in the Upper Himalayas. And somehow he didn’t feel cold here in Northern India despite the temperature gauge on his compass hovering just above zero in the train’s open doorway. Of course this had less to do with his resilience and more to do with the heat generated by a few hundred people packed in a train compartment meant for fifty. On a mission
to strip his life of the softness and comfort he’d been spoiled by back home, Max had chosen the cheapest compartment in the train. He’d been lucky to get a spot by the doorway. People were sitting hunched on suitcases, lying on luggage racks, even squatting atop the washbasin outside the bathroom—anywhere they could find an inch of space. The return journey wouldn’t be pleasant if the roads indeed were closed.

  Max’s companion must have sensed he was throwing a wet blanket over his travel plans. “If God wants, you will find a way.”

  “Amen,” said Max.

  “Christian?” asked the man.

  Max smiled. You’d have to know someone for months before you dared ask that question back home. “I grew up as one,” he said. “Now I don’t know who I am. Perhaps that’s why I came to India.”

  “Good, good,” said the man. “If you want to find bahut kuch kar sakte ho here . . . idhar . . . you must . . .”

  Max seized the moment. “Can you teach me some Hindi? I have a guidebook, but I don’t think I have the pronunciations right.”

  The man’s face lit up. “You must know Hindi in India. Absolutely must. No problem, I can teach you important words quick.”

  And just like that, while the train started and stopped in the thick winter fog, Max got an impromptu lesson in Hindi pronunciation. Outside the train, India beyond the gleaming metropolis revealed itself. Half-naked kids huddling around small fires, people entering tiny mud huts with gaping holes, deformed beggars shivering on dirt roads, starving, thin cows languishing next to the train tracks—suffering everywhere in the land that promised salvation from it.

  • • •

  “DHANYAVAD. I can’t thank you enough,” said Max as the train reached Haridwar station six hours after its expected arrival time.