JOHNNY GONE DOWN

by Bajaj, Karan

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We are opening our first Vipassana centre, so I will be there as long as it takes to establish it.’

  ‘So you will travel around converting people?’

  ‘That isn’t the way it works,’ I said, feeling an inexplicable urge to defend the Buddha. ‘We’ll just do our thing. Maybe one person will come out of curiosity; maybe no one will turn up. Ultimately, if there is truth in the message, it will spread of its own accord. There is no ceremony or conversion, or any “ism” involved. If it helps you, stick with it; if it doesn’t, you are free to go.’

  ‘I might just give it a try then, Monk Namche. Maybe I could be your first student,’ she said teasingly.

  ‘You can call me Nick or Nikhil,’ I said and we shook hands again.

  ‘Nikhil.’ She repeated the name a few times. I watched her lips move as if of their own volition. ‘That’s a beautiful name.’

  I was suddenly concerned for everything I’d been taught.

  ‘I need to sleep now,’ I said.

  She looked disappointed but didn’t say anything.

  I stole a final, hesitant glance at her as I covered myself with the blanket and leaned against the window. Despite the steady hum of the airplane, I had trouble falling asleep for the first time in years.

  I found myself thinking about her at odd times of the day and night. As I hammered planks together to make wooden beds for the dormitory, I remembered the glances I stole at her as she slept in the airplane seat. When speaking of the Buddha’s teachings to the small class, I thought of her expressive face as she listened to my arguments in favour of Buddhism. While buying groceries in the local shops, I would recall the way she delicately held the spoon to her lips as she ate her airline meal.

  Was I in love? I didn’t know, nor particularly cared. I knew that the explanation for what I felt was simpler and much less exotic. I had been in a bubble for ten years; she was the first woman I’d come within touching distance of - a model or a movie star at that. I was merely mooning over her like any thirty-year-old full-blooded male would. Besides, I thought as I remembered my MIT days, she was way out of my league. Intangible spiritual progress aside, at thirty, I was broke, had lost an arm but gained no new perspective, was unemployed for all intents and purposes - and would soon be homeless.

  A year after arriving in Rio de Janeiro, I could no longer ignore the tumult in my mind. I finally decided to speak to David. We had worked hard to get the monastery running in the small farm that the government had allotted us just outside the city. Bit by bit, we had transformed the rocky land into a functioning monastery with a cemented meditation hall, utilitarian sleeping quarters with wooden beds, a common dining area and a sparse vegetable garden. David and I had taught ourselves basic Portuguese by using translation books and practising on each other, and soon we knew enough to spread the word.

  The first few inductees had been second-generation Japanese immigrants in Brazil, a significant population in Rio, who had perhaps heard of Buddhism from their ancestors. But word spread fast and now the monastery boasted a diverse gathering of thirty-odd monks. I knew David was proud of what we had accomplished - which made it even more difficult for me when I hailed him in the garden that day.

  He stopped mulching the lawn and looked at me quizzically, his face ageless and unwrinkled, just the way it had been eight years ago when we first met. I felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of affection for him. How could I do this to the man who had saved my life when everyone had given up on me, including myself?

  ‘David,’ I began. ‘I…’ I stumbled, then stopped.

  He sighed, and I realized he knew.

  ‘You want to leave, don’t you?’

  I nodded. ‘I can’t renounce until I know what I am renouncing; I can’t abstain unless I know what I am abstaining from.’ My carefully practised words came out in a rush. ‘I haven’t lived enough to forsake life. I want to…’

  He placed his hands on my shoulders. ‘You don’t have to explain,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve known for a while.’

  I hung my head in shame. What was I doing? I had no idea what I wanted to do or where I would go next. A blurry image of Lara haunted me, but I wasn’t stupid enough to leave to chase a mirage. I wasn’t suffering any crisis of faith either, because I still believed in the Buddha’s path. Nor did I crave material achievement or sexual conquest. All I knew was that I felt a gnawing sense of unease - a sinking feeling of losing time and wasting opportunities -and neither meditation nor reading Buddhist texts was helping to quell that one bit.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’m doing justice to anyone by being here. If I can’t internalize the words I preach to the novice monks every day, it’s not fair to them - or to you.’

  ‘You are young,’ said David. ‘Don’t be hard on yourself. You will return stronger from the experience.’

  ‘I’ve let you down,’ I said, my head still bowed.

  ‘Look at what you have accomplished.’ He swept his hand around the monastery compound. ‘I haven’t been prouder of anyone in my life.’

  I held his hand and cried disconsolately.

  He touched my head with gentle fingers. ‘I know you will come back stronger,’ he repeated. ‘You didn’t know, but I saw you all these years, exercising, running at night, convincing yourself that you weren’t a cripple, shying away from everyone’s pity. You meditated longer and more intently than any of the other monks, struggling to accept and push the doubts away from your mind.’

  I looked up at him, surprised. He hadn’t stopped me from breaking the rules of the monastery despite being a maha-thera.

  ‘There is a fire inside you I wouldn’t want you to lose. Will you go to the US or return to India?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. No one was waiting for me anywhere. I was leaving the only person who cared whether I was dead or alive.

  ‘Whatever you decide, my only advice to you is to just let go. You have been in a cocoon for too long - break free and fly; you will emerge majestic, like a butterfly.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I have no money of my own, as you know,’ he continued. ‘But I will give you money from the monastery’s funds, which should be enough to buy you a flight ticket at least.’

  ‘I can’t take any money from the monastery.’

  ‘Think of it as a loan, or maybe a payment for your services. We owe you that.’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Don’t worry about me. You know I’ve survived on less.’

  ‘But…’ He stopped, perhaps sensing that I wouldn’t change my mind. ‘The doors here are always open to you,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever hesitate to come back. After all, you are the one who built it all.’

  I looked around at the small world we had created together and an aching sense of loss gripped me again. If I waited any longer, I wouldn’t be able to gather the courage to leave.

  ‘If I have your permission, I’ll leave now,’ I said.

  ‘Now?’ he said. ‘I can’t let you go now. It’s getting dark and this is the most violent city in the world.’

  ‘I’ll survive,’ I told him. ‘I’ve been in worse situations.’

  His brow creased.

  I touched his arm. ‘I’ll be safe. Please take care of yourself.’

  Reluctantly, I turned away and walked along the dirt track that led outside the farm, never looking back for fear of breaking down on seeing the unconditional affection in his eyes.

  Aimless and penniless, barefoot and still clad in my monk’s robes, I walked until I lost all sense of place, direction and time. The quiet streets adjoining the farm gave way to wide, busy roads with motors whizzing past, then to a large rocky cliff with jagged edges and finally to crowded beaches full of revellers - the vista seemed to change with every turn, and even in my confused, disorganized state of mind, I wondered at how much Rio had managed to pack into a few miles.

  Then the ocean front suddenly veered away
towards a rugged shantytown where young boys drove mopeds at breakneck speed and small, busy shops appeared crowded with beautiful, dark-skinned men and women with an easy swing in their step. A narrow, potholed road with broken brick steps on either side wound its way up to what looked like the main centre of the small slum-like township.

  I had no money, so a slum looked like a good place to catch my breath. I made my way through the throngs of people. No one gave me a second glance. A barefoot, crippled monk seemed to fit right in with the assortment of quirky characters on the street - urchins toting big black rifles, groups of young boys and girls carrying large stereos on their shoulders and belting out songs, cheerful, boisterous men and women sauntering to the beach in cheap swimwear, groups of hawkers peddling unhygienic but delicious-looking food. Rows of shacks stood tightly packed together on both sides of the road with unearthed wires dangling from a few electric poles outside.

  With a pang, I thought of myself twenty, maybe twenty-five-years ago: a schoolboy dressed in a smart uniform, listening avidly to our class teacher explaining the plight of ‘those slum-dwellers’ on a school trip with other similarly privileged children to the Dharavi slum in Mumbai. Now I was ‘them’. Only, worse - without a dime to my name or a shack to call my own. Yet, I wasn’t particularly unhappy, perhaps due to the vibrant, joyful music that seemed to be playing in every corner of the shantytown.

  I spotted a few urchins milling around what looked like a café, and decided to rest there for a while. A group of shaggy-haired black men sat on broken chairs, playing a board game that looked like carrom. They looked at me curiously for a moment. Then one of them pushed a chair towards me and they returned to their game. I rolled up the sleeves of my thick robe and wiped the perspiration from my head as I sat down.

  I could rebuild my life, I thought with a sudden burst of optimism as I looked at the playful shadows caused by the mild March evening sun and the vibrant crowds. If I managed to get work somewhere - any kind of work - I could soon save enough money to take a flight to the US. There would be a problem with the paperwork - I would be classified as dead by now - but my past could be verified and I trusted the American system. Of course, the NASA offer wouldn’t be waiting for me, but being an MIT graduate would probably get me an entry-level job somewhere. Soon, I could restart the life I had left behind and in time, it would come to have some semblance of order. I could do this, I thought, yes, I could get back on my feet again.

  A few women dressed in simple T-shirts and low-cut denim shorts sauntered into the café and Lara’s image flashed through my mind. No time for fantasies, I told myself sternly. I had wasted ten years chasing mirages, I couldn’t afford to waste a minute now.

  ‘You want a beer?’ A short, plump, dark-haired woman, probably the patron of the café, stood in front of me.

  ‘I don’t have money,’ I said in halting Portuguese.

  She gave me a curious glance and went in.

  She came back with a beer and a deep-fried snack.

  ‘Have beer,’ she said. ‘It’s hot outside.’

  ‘I don’t have money,’ I repeated.

  ‘No matter.’

  I didn’t have the will to send it back. I gulped down the beer and took gigantic bites of the snack filled with meat, probably beef. How fickle I was. In a single moment, I had forgotten eight years of learning: to avoid alcohol, fried food and meat. The beer seemed to soothe the weariness in my feet and I stared vacantly at the people strolling past. Women with shopping baskets, children in school uniforms, young men and women holding hands. I had missed this sense of normalcy, perhaps that’s what I had come chasing after. Just as I was drifting into a soporific lull, a sudden movement caught my attention.

  ‘Duck!’ I shouted, my hand moving instinctively to push down the head of one of the carom players. The other players scattered immediately.

  We both fell crashing down from our chairs as a bullet whizzed past his head. Reflexively, I pulled up the board with my right hand, and a volley of bullets struck against the flat, wooden board and went through it, narrowly missing us. The man who I had pulled down took out a revolver from his pocket and began shooting in front of him while I held up the board awkwardly. Suddenly, without warning, he threw aside the revolver and tugged me forcefully into the café, shutting the tin door behind us.

  A scream rent the air as a few more shots ricocheted against the door. I cowered against the far wall while the café owner and the tall, powerfully built black man who had just pulled me in leaned against the opposite wall. I began to feel suffocated in the tiny, airless café, uncomfortably reminded of Cambodia.

  I covered my right ear with my hand and pressed the left tightly against the wall as the bullets continued to pound against the door, and tried to calm myself with slow breathing. Not again, please, not again. I will go back to the monastery, I will serve the Buddha’s cause, I will…

  Suddenly, the bullets stopped.

  I stayed where I was. The man sat down on his haunches after a while, his muscular body tense with anticipation as he crouched against the door. He peered through a crack and then turned to us, his brow creased.

  ‘The dogs have gone,’ he said, running his hand through his closely cropped curly hair.

  He walked over to the woman who had served me the beer. She was sitting against the wall.

  ‘Lucia, bitch,’ he growled at her. ‘You told them I was here, didn’t you, men?’

  She shook her head fiercely and opened her mouth as if to say no.

  He shot her twice, in the soles of her outstretched feet. In the spaghetti Westerns I’d seen, the victim took the gunshots silently - and heroically. But Lucia probably didn’t share my taste in films because she let out a piercing scream.

  He pointed the gun at her forehead.

  ‘Did you tell Baz?’ he asked.

  ‘No, you bastard,’ she shrieked. ‘I didn’t tell anyone.’

  He lowered the gun, apparently satisfied with her response.

  ‘Get out,’ he said, and she limped to the door, howling in agony. She let out what seemed like a stream of expletives, though my Portuguese wasn’t sophisticated enough to understand any of it. I stared at her receding figure as she opened the door of the café and limped out into the setting sun.

  He had shot her for no reason, I thought, yet he showed not a bit of remorse. What would he do to me?

  He turned and pointed the gun at me. The muscles in his tattooed arms tensed, beads of sweat forming on them. He was about my age, but his easy familiarity with the gun made him appear formidable.

  I felt nothing. There was just the vague thought that my soles already hurt from walking, so it would be better if he shot elsewhere.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  A tough question for me to answer at any time, more so at gunpoint.

  ‘Nick.’

  He looked me up and down. ‘Why are you dressed like a bobo, men?’

  ‘I don’t understand bobo,’ I said.

  ‘Idiota. Joker.’

  ‘I am not an idiot. I’m a monk,’ I replied.

  He stared at me in incomprehension, and came closer. ‘I could shoot you, you know,’ he said, pointing the gun at my forehead.

  ‘I saved your life,’ I said softly.

  He guffawed so hard that he doubled up.

  ‘You are right, men,’ he said, flashing a smile. ‘I forgot.’

  He acted like a man who was used to shooting someone every day.

  Just then, three or four men with large black guns came running into the café. I stiffened.

  ‘Behind you,’ I shouted and he turned around immediately.

  I expected them to shoot him. Instead, they aimed their guns at me.

  ‘Stop, don’t shoot, you bastards,’ he told the men. ‘While you midget fuckers were busy chasing women, he saved my life.’

  He looked at me. ‘Bom,’ he said, ‘you are a good man. I’m Marco.’

  ‘Nick,’ I said again as he shook m
y hand.

  The others put down their guns and shook my hand one by one.

  ‘Alex.’

  ‘Re.’

  ‘Jesse.’

  ‘Maki.’

  They seemed like a walking advertisement for Brazilian diversity. One was blonde, one was brown, one was Oriental, one was black. No one looked at my arm.

  ‘You speak Portuguese like a foreigner but you don’t look like a tourist. Didn’t anyone warn you about the favelas of Rio? If you go around dressed like a joker, someone will mug you or shoot you sooner or later, men,’ said Marco.

  ‘I’ve been in worse spots,’ I told him.

  He stared at me. ‘Why are you here?’

  I hesitated for a moment. ‘I need a job,’ I replied.

  ‘But why in this favela?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  He laughed. ‘Let’s hear it back home, men. You don’t have any place to go, right?’

  I shook my head. He put his arm around me and began to lead me out.

  ‘Donos, should we go after Baz?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Another time,’ said Marco. ‘Today is for new friends.’

  I hesitated. Although the gang had an easy frat boy air about them, the significance of the big guns in their hands, the attempt on his life, and the casual ease with which Marco had shot the café owner weren’t lost on me.

  ‘Come on, men,’ Marco said. ‘You aren’t afraid of us, are you?’

  I shook my head. Fear was the last thing on my mind. But it just didn’t seem right to join a street gang on the day I left the monastery.

  ‘You don’t understand, men,’ he said, patting his revolver lovingly. ‘Out here, this is a necessity.’

  The Buddha had taught me not to judge people and situations. If he could accept Angulimal, the serial killer who wore a garland of human fingers, who was I to judge a man who had almost been killed?

  We began walking through the narrow streets, Marco and I, followed by four men openly toting guns. No one seemed to pay much attention to our odd procession as we made our way through a maze of streets and alleys. People went about their business despite the noisy shootout, as though encounters like this occurred every day. But everyone greeted Marco with a tone of hushed deference and I finally understood the meaning of ‘Donos’.