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You stop reading and rest the notebook in your lap amazed to find that you remember in explicit detail the two dreams mentioned from three months ago. You randomly scan the transcriptions of other recent dreams in the journal, and their imagery too arises vividly in mind’s eye, most in brilliant color, some in black and white. The nocturnal scenes and the associated emotions spring back to life as if they had just been dreamt—neurons firing, gray cells sparking, brain waves rippling, and images coming back in full power. You shake your head at the irony, at the fickleness of a mind that forgets all past reality yet holds onto minute details of its nighttime wanderings.
Looking for additional clues from the dream entries and enjoying the vivid images they bring to life, you continue reading until six o’clock when the distant ring of dinner bell brings your mind back to the present. You close the notebook, go to turn on a light switch in the fast-dimming room—and discover there is none. You have no electricity, no memories, and no desire to deal with people again. But you feel secure enough after lunch’s lessons to attend dinner with a flashlight for guidance and an in-silence lapel button for assurance that no one will question your forgetful self.
Supper is as simple and sensual as lunch. The only changes from noontime dining are the vegetable selection and fewer sadhus sitting against the far wall. Again, you exchange nods with the departing Guruji and finish eating long after the others have disappeared. But this time you walk confidently to the sink area to wash, rinse, then stroll through an empty courtyard in dusk’s waning light. You follow the flashlight beam through garden growth, enter the welcoming hut, and light two candles from the top shelf. In your head, you make a to-do list for tomorrow that includes carefully approaching Guruji to ask about your passport, which you deduce you may have placed as security in his office. Your optimism is strong as you chart your moves for the next day’s discoveries and for reclaiming your memory of self. All is well, you conclude; or at least as best as can be expected under the circumstances.
But you are wrong, oh so wrong. Because one key circumstance remains hidden, one concealed detail requires detection before slumber if you wish to keep from reliving this bizarre day. Perhaps this evening your unconscious, or blind fool luck, will guide you to it.
You replace the matches on the top shelf [good, you’re getting warmer] then turn to check out the selection of cassette tapes [no cool, cooler, very cold] and consider trying out one of the Ashoka-ji meditations. But the guru’s smiling photo on the cassette puts you off and you head back across the room [yes, warmer] bending down to the lower shelf [good, getting hot] on which the dream journals and books lie. [hot, yes hot] You reach out and take hold of the pile of four spiral notebooks [burning hot!] then opt for lighter fare to read in bed. [cold] You grab the paperback, Midnight’s Children, strip out of your clothes, readjust the candles, and climb into your sleeping bag. [dead cold] You again missed the clue lying dormant in the bottommost spiral notebook.
Reading the Rushdie novel creates a gentle stream of thought that carries your mind far from your predicament. You turn page after page, smiling, feeling, and laughing aloud at the author’s wit and way with words, amazed that a man at the center of a holy war against his life could write in such a manner. But each person is living under constant threat of death, you think, with only denial and forgetfulness as weapons to counter the fear.
Is that it? Is fear of impending death the cause of your amnesia? Has news of incurable disease or fatal hereditary defect plunged you into denial through forgetfulness? Perhaps so, but you feel quite well at the moment, calm and healthy, wrapped in your warm sleeping bag against the cool night air that drifts through paneless windows. You are just feeling a little sleepy, ready to call it a day. Candle nubs need snuffing and from unconscious habit [you’re welcome] you first place the cassette player in its proper bedside location for recording new dreams. You take a last glance at Rushdie’s book and decide to write a bit of your own this evening, to start a diary beginning with this strange day of awakening to amnesia in paradise.
You reach for the fourth spiral notebook [yes, keep going] that has not been used for dream logs. You open to the first page [hot] but it has the shop’s price scribbled boldly across the page. Fifty rupees—about a dollar for this cheap paper bound between identical blank covers. You prefer to start your journal fresh so flip the notebook over to the other end. [hotter] And there you find it, [Eureka!] the hidden detail that makes your heart sink. Simple words on a page written in your hand cause optimism to suffer total core meltdown. You read the page that trembles in your shaky grip:
WHAT A DAY. What a roller coaster ride. I awoke with no idea of who or where I was. Still have little idea, but at least I’m somewhat oriented. The morning started in panic as I feared the worst—it felt like being in an asylum or prison. But no, a beautiful setting awaited where I exercised then sat on the rooftop enjoying the sights and smells. All felt so fresh and new. A skinny swami brought up breakfast around 9:30 then I checked out the room—no clues to my identity there. I grew extremely frustrated so headed up to explore, found an ashram, and meditated until lunch to relax. A good sit and good food.
No sense of panic in the afternoon or evening. Had a nice bath in the Ganga, caught up on old dream logs (funny, I can remember past dreams but no past waking experiences), read, and thought about what is next. Tomorrow, I’ll check with the Guruji guy for my passport and get any info I can wheedle. I need to be subtle, however, as I don’t want him to know my forgetful condition. An India jail or madhouse for this foreigner with no passport or memory—no way! Other than that fear, I’m surprisingly calm.
Perhaps full memory will return in the morning. If not, at least I can explore more inside the psyche and outside in paradise. Seems a good idea to keep a daily record in this journal. I’ll close now, review the dream logs a bit, and get some shuteye. December 20, (year?) 9:12 pm, Phool Chatti Ashram.
The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never Page 5