The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never

by Steven J. Shupe

JANUARY 15 – morning

  You are dreaming silently in the early morning light, a snoring foreign object nestled amid boulders on the cold sands of the Ganga. Tree-side monkeys do not know what to make of this human head swaddled in blue. But the nearby smell is familiar and compelling. Ripe bananas lay at your side atop your morning orientation note, their aroma wafting to a dozen noses that have descended from the trees and now twitch from the boulders. The noses’ owners are torn between conflicting instincts for survival—the urge to satisfy their hunger for bananas, and their fear of this strange, blue sentinel that is you.

  The bravest of the monkeys scampers forward but remains several yards away from the source of temptation. Then the sandy sentinel shifts as you unconsciously pull the sleeping bag over your head against the growing sunlight. This is the break, the action that tips the simian balance in favor of appetite over fear. The large monkey gives a shriek to build his courage as he dashes towards the bananas. You awaken to this image of a bare-toothed, hairy creature charging your position, and you shriek in response—not in courage but in primal fright as you roll away in the split second available. In one smooth motion, the monkey scoops up the bananas along with your priceless note beneath them, then sprints off to consume as much of the fruit as possible before his clan intrudes. Survival of the fittest in action; terror of the meek in sleeping bag; and a vital message is lost in the sands of time, never to be read.

  After a few moments you laugh in the aftermath of this encounter, more as a release of tension than from humor. What a way to awaken, you think, so alarming you do not even remember your whereabouts. You sit up to determine the source of the roar in your ears and are greeted by a raging river. A beautiful setting for a campsite but where in blazes are you? You get out of your sleeping bag, put on the sweater that lies nearby, and stand to view this wondrous spot. But still you have no recollection of your locale, how you got here, or even who you are. That damn monkey scared not only the crap out of you but also your memory; or so you conclude as you sit back down to take some deep breaths and gather yourself.

  But there is not much to gather either of possessions in the sand or cogent thoughts in your head. You wait, and wait some more in anticipation of a flood of recollection to thunder through the temporary logjam of your mind. But the barrier seems to be a well-constructed dam, a veritable Hoover impeding the course of memory.

  You do not panic, however. Just let the shock of your uninvited wake-up call pass, you think, and all will be well. In the meantime, you check things out and respond to your basic survival instincts with logic. You follow your footprints back through the sand but lose the trail in a boulder field leading to a driveway. You gaze left and see a compound of white buildings, which from this distance appears to be an ashram. To the right, the driveway leads to a road and to what looks like a makeshift eatery. You return to the campsite, gather your belongings, and stroll to the small shop hoping for a bite to eat. Only tea is available, however, and you enjoy its sweet warmth while checking your limited possessions.

  You have plenty of money, at least, and a passport that tells your name, nationality, and that you have been in India for sixteen months. What have you been doing here for so long? Two orange-clad wandering sadhus pass by and you wonder if maybe you are emulating their mode of aimless travel, American style, with a nice sleeping bag and backpack for a journey through this ancient land on foot. Perhaps, but little is certain now except for your growing appetite—and that several jeeps and cars have passed, each heading in the same uphill direction. You conclude, incorrectly, that their route will lead most directly to food. You shoulder the backpack and begin to walk, unknowingly following the morning flow of Indian pilgrims away from Laxman Jhula to Neelkanth village, home of a famous ashram and the infamous Shri Shri Cy Bubha.

  The road quickly climbs above the valley floor through a beautiful forest of lush flowers, ferns, and trees. Several vehicles pass, including buses filled with colorfully dressed people, but you are mostly alone and feeling increasingly hungry. It is well past breakfast time when you finally arrive at a roadside stand that offers eggs, chapati, and simple local dishes.

  With the hunger instinct satisfied you return to the road with the choice of up or down. Not liking the idea of backtracking, you continue with the road’s ascent above the fertile river valley towards Neelkanth village. The day grows warm as you take rest in the shade and do a few stretching exercises. It grows warmer, so you splash in the cool of a rivulet and sit to observe your breathing and to meditate. After more roadside walking, hunger again becomes your companion, while the sun and your wristwatch agree that the early afternoon has arrived. So has Neelkanth, you conclude, as you gaze across an opening to a small village with ashram perched atop the highest hill.

  You enter the dusty main street and sit in one of several open-front cafes that cater to the daily flow of ashram pilgrims. After placing a plentiful lunch order, you ponder your next move. A pilgrimage village like this will likely have overnight rooms available, you conclude, probably a cheap one at Neelkanth Ashram itself. It feels like a good idea to take pause and give your memory a chance to catch up on the journey. You again focus on trying to recall who you are and what you are doing in India. But nothing of seeming importance breaks through the memory barrier, only a thought emerges of an upcoming Kumba Mehla festival and a strong desire to attend it. Not much to go on.

  You decide to move to a back table for privacy in order to take a closer look at your belongings. In addition to the sleeping bag, backpack, money, and passport, your worldly possessions seem to include only a cheap water bottle, an expensive flashlight, a pen and notebook, a small cassette player with a tape entitled, Instrumental Sweetness, a few clothes, and a silver box of puzzling jewelry. Money includes a sealed stack of ten thousand rupees plus another good-sized bundle of crisp rupee notes that you begin counting carefully on the table. Around the count of sixty you are rudely interrupted by a loud voice coming directly over your hunched shoulders.

  “Ah abundance, the hallmark of the universe if we but know in our hearts that we are worthy of its bounty.”

  “What?” you automatically respond looking back at this strange fellow who is staring intently at your money.

  “Nothing, homeboy, just a little quote from an otherwise forgettable piece called The ReMinder that I recently read. So how’s it hangin’?” he asks pulling up a chair.

  You quickly gather your money and zip it safely into your pack then size up this incongruous, orange-clad Hindu who speaks with Texas drawl. Friendly but a bit too pushy, you decide as you give him the brush-off. “Look, I chose this table to be alone. Would you mind?” you state, not remembering that attempts to rebuff this man are futile.

  “Come on, pal, can’t you place me?” After you fail to reply, he adds, “You know, el numero uno on your daily top ten list of wonders of the world? The prince of paradox himself, Cyrus ‘Bubha’ Rajnish,” he announces holding out his surprisingly long arms as if basking in applause. His face registers disappointment that you do not respond with recognition from reading about him in a previous note.

  “I’m sorry but my mind is still a little jumbled from awakening this morning to a raiding party of monkeys by the big river,” you explain.

  “Atcha,” the swami replies with a look of understanding spreading across his face, “you did a little camping out last night, eh? Those monkeys will steal anything, even your memory. Damn inconsiderate of them.”

  “Yeah,” you reply starting to warm to this man’s sense of humor. Then you suddenly realize that you may have already met him. You ask, “Do you know me?”

  “Some guy doing an American Express commercial?” Bubha wisecracks. “The real answer to your question is that I know you now, but to know only what I know now is like knowing nothing. But knowing the nothingness of now makes me in the new know. So no, there is nothing of you I know now except your new now. Know what I mean?”

  He looks at your befuddle
d face and explains, “Paradox, buddy boy, always paradox. But this is not the moment for enlightening you to the subtleties of cosmic law,” he concludes as the waiter approaches with your lunch. Bubha grabs the plate from the server’s hand and adds, “Bring another order for my good buddy here, si vous plait. And a second helping for me so he won’t have to eat alone when it arrives.”

  You are incredulous and slightly amused by the gall of this man as he focuses all his attention on devouring your food without talking. You welcome the silence as you explore your forgetful mind and limited possessions for clues to the past and guidance for the future. Only the waiter’s arrival with two new plates of food, however, gives you any direction. You gladly pick up a spoon and enjoy the new taste sensations as your tablemate quickly digs into his second helping. When he finishes, Bubha resumes the conversation precisely where it had dropped.

  “So I can’t truthfully say I even know myself, let alone you. But I do know a thing or two about you even though you have been a tight-lipped son of a buck. No, a faulty memory on your part cannot thwart my vast intellectual and psychic powers in my never-ending search for truth. Plus a newspaper article of three days ago helped elucidate certain missing pieces about you. Shall I continue?” You nod with growing curiosity. “First, your name is Steven J. Shupe.”

  You remark, “I already know that.”

  “Second, you are an American who has been traveling for some time in India.”

  “Yeah, I already learned that too from my passport,” you say impatiently.

  “And third, you are a fugitive eluding arrest on a first-degree murder charge.”

  You pause in stunned silence for an instant then respond, “You’re joking.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about something like that nor would the victim’s wife, I’m sure.” You stare at this stranger in silence not knowing what to think. He continues, “So this murder rap is news to you, buddy boy? It sure surprised me when I read it in the newspaper. Of course, I’m not saying I believe you actually killed the guy but I saved the article in case you’d be interested. Want to come up to my room and take a look?”

  You still cannot speak and can barely move as the news takes hold. Can this be true? Are you a person capable of murder? You walk like a large shadow behind your new companion as he leads you a short way down the street to a two-story building. Cy Bubha keeps talking although you barely hear, listening as if you are at the bottom of a deep pit.

  “Fortunately, the newspaper didn’t print a picture of you, just a photo of the batsman that you supposedly bumped off,” Bubha states as he turns to enter his apartment lobby. He nods to the landlord as you follow your escort up a flight of stairs. He leads you through a doorway on the second floor above which a sign commands, Remember the Alamo. You do, vaguely, but it does not feel very important at the moment. No, the present reality focuses to an extremely narrow point, like the sun’s rays through a magnifying glass burning into a piece of your mind. A sizzling point that freezes your blood and numbs your body to create a paradox of hot and cold in this bright day of dark surprises. Bubha hands you a newspaper folded to the back page.

  “Read this,” he commands pointing to the print beneath a photograph of a handsome man swinging a cricket bat. You gape dumbly at the article as if your knowledge of the alphabet has deserted you along with memory. Nothing makes sense as you stare at the markings on the page like they were in Greek—or Hindi.

  “Atcha!” Bubha exclaims hitting his palm to his forehead. “Forgive me, but you are looking so much like a native these days, I forgot you no-speakie the local lingo. Allow me to translate.”

  He grabs the Hindi language newspaper and paraphrases aloud the high points of the article as he reads. “It says you and this guy, Raghibur Singh—actually he was a pretty popular player on India’s national cricket team—were seen in New Delhi a month ago driving off together in his car. The aforementioned auto was found abandoned two days later but with no sign of either of you. There is some insinuation that you were having an affair with his wife or mother or maybe with both of them; India’s newspapers don’t like to go into detail on this kinky stuff—gives the provincials too many ideas. Let’s see…his body was found on January tenth, five days ago, shot with a single bullet from his revolver that was retrieved from nearby bushes.”

  Bubha looks up and states with forced optimism, “His own gun—sounds like you might have a self-defense argument there.” He continues paraphrasing as he scans the article, “Your prints were found on the gun. There’s some stuff about how the New Delhi police are proud-as-punch for using an international computer network to trace your fingerprints in a single day. But they have no clues as to your whereabouts. Also, it seems that the wife has gone into hiding, although rumor has it she left for Allahabad. And last but not least, his teammates have put up the equivalent of a $15,000 reward for your arrest. Rather an impressive sum in this neck of the woods,” Bubha adds, raising an eyebrow. “That’s about it, pal. Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.”

  You sink heavily into the single chair in the room, looking at the floor and shaking your head. “I just don’t feel like I’d be capable of doing something like that.”

  Bubha gives you an impatient look. “Pardon me, but that’s crapola. Everyone has a shadow as well as an angel side, and it is the proverbial ‘nice boy’ who is out of balance and, as an adult, is usually the one who goes up to the bell tower with the rifle in a moment of passion or depression or whatever.”

  “You sound like you are trying to convince me that I’m guilty,” you reply sharply.

  “Now don’t get paranoid on me, homeboy. That addled brain of yours already has enough conditions to deal with.”

  You sit silently for a moment, growing acutely aware of your fear and vulnerability, disturbing emotions that quickly take cover behind a flash of anger. You glare at the bearer of bad tidings and declare, “Man, I don’t know what to make of you, whatever-your-name was. You eat my food, you tell me I’m a murderer, and then lecture me on the nature of duality.”

  “I only said that you are accused of murder, not that you did it,” Bubha corrects you while staying calm.

  Your agitation grows as you stand, grab the newspaper, and shake it in his face. “Tell me the honest truth. Am I really wanted for murder?”

  Bubha stares you straight in the eye and in even voice states, “You stand charged over the alleged murder of one Raghibur Singh, cricket star and resident of New Delhi.” And you can tell without a doubt that the man is speaking the truth.

  After long pause you concede, “I guess I’m going to have to trust you.”

  “Trust me? Not much choice, pal,” Bubha replies, sparing you a repeat dissertation on the nature of trust that you have long forgotten. “But not to despair. For I, as your personal tour guide through the mists of forgetfulness, gave your situation deep consideration during our silent lunch. It seems that our spiritual strengths will dovetail quite nicely, your strength being abundant rupees and mine being a sound memory and clear police record. Our respective needs shall be met by blazing a trail to the Kumba Mehla in Allahabad where you can be swallowed in the safety of anonymity while I convince wealthy pilgrims to swallow my lines. I just need an hour or two to prepare for this surprise departure and to get you a new identity with which to travel.”

  You look at this strange little man and ask, “Why are you willing to take this risk to help me? I mean I’m grateful and all, but harboring a fugitive instead of claiming a $15,000 reward?”

  “Bah, do not insult me with talk of reward. My simple answer as a humanitarian is that a fellow human being cries out for assistance through the darkness of lost memory. Plus,” he adds, “I hate cricket. So give your humble tour guide one thousand rupees of solvency whilst I endeavor to shop for sustenance and camouflage. You, of course, shall remain hidden in this room for the time being, safe from prying eyes and greedy reward mongers. Actually, I suspect that one neighborhood watchdog is out i
n his chauffeured ashram jeep at this very moment desperately searching for you.”

  Bubha responds to your questioning look with booming voice punctuated by grand gesture, “Time for telling all shall arrive with the morrow. For now, I must hunt and gather. Upon my return be ready to depart as we commence our journey ‘fore the sun goes down. The Northwest Passage to prosperity awaits discovery or my name’s not Meriwether Lewis!” The short swami strikes a pose with one finger pointed skyward, then he pivots smartly and marches out the door.

  You conclude that this is likely the strangest day of your life, from charging monkey to amnesia to a murder rap to this orange-robed madman in whose hands you have placed your trust. You recline on his hard bed and contemplate your situation. How does it feel to be an accused murderer? Not good. No, not good at all.

  You close your eyes and take comfort observing the breath flow through your nostrils, feeling the sensations that arise then pass away, arise and pass away. You retreat into a timeless space, a spaceless time where there is no guilty past or threatening future, just the eternal now into which you slowly disappear.

  “GET YOUR LAZY sack-of-jawea out of bed, and get hopping,” Bubha shouts as he bursts into the room and begins stuffing your backpack with packages. “What would Jefferson say if he could see how you’re spending the taxpayers’ money? Only a couple of daylight hours remain but every little step brings me closer to the green fields and greener pilgrims of the Kumba Mehla. Yep, you are truly an answer to my prayers, pal. Free home delivery of a first class train ticket to this golden festival wandered to my doorstep today. Just because the delivery boy is an accused felon does not thwart my enthusiasm—although it sure appears to have dampened yours. Smile, buddy boy, we’re going on an adventure!”

  You do not smile as you follow this hyper-charged man out the door, amazed that his short legs can carry him so fast. With the new weight in the backpack you struggle to keep pace as Bubha strides out the village in the opposite direction from which you arrived this afternoon.

  “We’re going to make a big loop that eventually brings us back to a bus route to Haridwar,” Bubha explains, “and from there we can pick up a train to the Kumba Mehla. Some of the trail will get a bit rough but it leads to the perfect place tomorrow for undergoing your identity transformation.”

  You look nervous and ask, “What do you plan to do to me?”

  “Oh relax, pal. I told you that paranoia doesn’t serve the cause of freedom. This is India, not Hollywood. No scalpels and silicone implants, just a billion people with whom you can mingle as one. Your tan and apparent aversion to barbers will serve you well to meld with the sadhus at the Kumba Mehla. Probably they’ll think you’re a Punjabi holy man with that obnoxious height you’re cursed with.

  “So just relax and enjoy a couple of peaceful nights camping, followed by the Allahabad Express from Haridwar. We’ll then alight just in time for one to enjoy a pleasant and elucidating dinner on January 18th with a mysterious woman. Ever heard of the Allahabad Riverview Inn?” he asks, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. You just shake your head no, and Bubha grins while walking briskly down the road.

  Little traffic is on this route although your guide seems to take careful note of each vehicle. You easily forget that you are a fugitive as you lose yourself to the rhythm of trekking through this beautiful foothill country. But Bubha grabs your arm as a jeep passes, ready to make a run for it if he sees a threat.

  “I wouldn’t think there would be police up here, or at least none looking for me,” you state in reaction to his caution.

  “It ain’t the police I’m worried about, Clyde, it’s the Phool Chatti Neighborhood Watch that might prove troublesome. Just be ready to follow my spry plunge into the forest if I spot an old swami in a jeep—and we’ll pick up a more secure footpath before long anyway. Relax, I’ll explain it all tomorrow after you’ve had a chance to clear your mind with a good night’s sleep.” He smiles reassuringly.

  No threatening swami appears, no headlong plunges become necessary. Bubha is relieved to leave the exposure of the road when the fork to a forested footpath is encountered at dusk. You follow the trail for a few hundred yards and set up camp safely among thick trees. Sitting at the fire, tall and short make an odd couple in the flickering light as each of you silently chews the food purchased in Neelkanth a few hours ago. No words are spoken, no sense arises of needing to do anything more. Enough adventure and surprises have occurred for one day, you think, as you prepare for sleep.

  You look across the fire at your travel guide now lying in his bedroll, feeling grateful to this unusual ally as you journey together into the unknown. You have many questions you wish to ask Bubha in the morning, trusting he will help shepherd you through this maze of forgetfulness.

  Trust, however, is a slippery concept in the hands of a trickster, particularly one who failed to explain to your forgetful self that all your daytime questions perish with your descent into slumber.

  JANUARY 16 – the following morning

  “Good morning, my name is Cyrus. I will be your host on today’s flight. If there is anything that we can do to make your trip more comfortable please don’t hesitate to ask. Now, if you would kindly return yourself to a full upright and locked position, we can begin the day. Tea?” Cy Bubha offers as he helps you sit up in your sleeping bag. With eyes still bleary from deep slumber, you look around in a mental fog at the unfamiliar forest setting.

  Bubha squints as he peers into your face. “So this is how your daily wake-up call into oblivion works, eh, buddy boy? Mind if I watch while you stumble around in a fog of forgetfulness?”

  You rub your eyes, trying to recognize where you are. “Back off, for pity sake,” you blurt at the strange man who is babbling nonsense in your face.

  “Ah, we awaken grumpy, do we?” Bubha replies, backing off only a little.“ How quickly one rejects the hand that feeds him, pushing away the only man who is your tie to continuity, your only chance to survive in this jungle. No, my friend, as soon as you grow fully awake and grasp your predicament you will beg my forgiveness for having treated me rudely.”

  “What the hell?” you say more to yourself than to the stranger as you look at the lush surroundings, unable to make sense of anything.

  “Now,” Bubha continues, “would you like a little orientation tour of your situation? The foremost fact is that you have awakened in this state of amnesia for the past month, each night completely forgetting your past. Second, you are in India with the only friend you have, yours truly, Cyrus ‘Bubha’ Rajnish. Third, we are heading to the Kumba Mehla festival on tomorrow evening’s train. Fourth, you are an American raised in Kansas and Honolulu, an engineer and lawyer by training. And fifth, your name is Ferdinand von Zeppelin, the Third.”

  “Ferdinand von Zeppelin? Come on, get real,” you implore.

  “Okay, actually your name is Steven Shupe but I’m softening you up for releasing your attachment to identity and for becoming a wandering sadhu. The rest is fact. Next fact, today we take a lengthy hike to a cave down yonder trail to help with identity’s dismantling. Alles klar, mein freund?”

  You barely take in what this little man in orange just spoke, and you comment through the continuing haze in your brain, “Dismantle my identity? I can’t even remember who I am.”

  “Excellent point!” Bubha exclaims. “I can see that traveling with the master of paradox has already made you the wiser. Note, however, that although one may forget a personal identity, you may nonetheless retain attachment to its holdovers. And I’m an expert at helping people to release those holdovers and transfer their material burdens onto my shoulders—or into my wallet, depending upon their size.”

  You shake your head at your puzzling companion and respond, “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “In short, if you got the money, honey, I got the time. But don’t worry about it. I’m the detail man and you’re the guy with no memory. Looks like your uphol
ding your part in our partnership quite well this morning.” The fellow gives you a hearty slap on the back.

  You drop your torso back to the horizontal position and stare through the treetops to morning-sky blue. It seems like neither your head nor this Cyrus character is going to give you any straight answers. While he begins loading a backpack, you slip out of the sleeping bag and into your clothes.

  “We can stop along the trail to fix breakfast later,” your travel host announces. “I’d like to put a little more distance between us and the road for now.”

  You see little choice but to go with the flow even though the wake left by this guy feels choppy. While stuffing your sleeping bag into its sack you notice a thin swami hurrying down the path to your campsite. “Who’s that?” you ask your companion.

  “Damn it!” Cy Bubha exclaims and rushes over to stop the intruder with words that soon rise in pitch. You understand none of the Hindi they speak but you can tell that an altercation is fast brewing.

  Bubha turns and hurries toward you while the thin swami motions you to stay put as he jogs up the path towards the road calling out, “Guruji, Guruji!”

  In the meantime, your agitated guide hurriedly tosses the last items into the pack and tells you to get your rear in gear. “Move it or lose it, Sue-Sue. The skinny guy’s boss, Guruji, is nothing but trouble. I’ll explain later but first we need to outrun the geezer.”

  So run you do, responding to Bubha’s genuine sense of anxiety about whatever lurks on the other side of the trees. As you crash through the underbrush, you hear a distant voice shout in clear English, “Steven, wait! You need help.”

  But the strong grip of your companion pulls you along to outdistance the pursuer. After what seems to be an hour of carrying a full pack on a half-run, you stop to catch your breath. The cool of the morning air hits your sweaty back as you remove the pack, sit on a moss-covered log, and look at your companion who is wheezing by your side.

  “Cyrus, can you talk?”

  “Call me Bubha. What?” he gasps.

  “What are we running from?”

  Your jogging partner takes another moment to catch his breath then answers, “Ourselves mainly.”

  “No, I don’t mean in the cosmic sense. I mean who is this Guruji?”

  “Curious little devil aren’t you?” Bubha pants. “Would you be satisfied if I said just to trust me?”

  “Cut the crap, man, and tell me why we ran from this Guruji guy.”

  Bubha looks at you seriously and decides to explain. “Okay, pal, I have wanted to spare you as many gory details as possible in your condition, but here goes. Guruji is the head honcho at Phool Chatti Ashram where you’ve been hiding out the past month. He seems by all appearances to be an okay fellow, at least as holy men go. But he is actually a manipulative bastard who preys upon the weak. When you arrived in December at his ashram looking for refuge you were quite vulnerable for a reason best left buried—or probably cremated by now.”

  Bubha does not respond to your puzzled look and continues with the story, “Guruji took you under his wing and taught you certain meditations from the ancient Vedic tradition. He incorporated a hypnosis technique that, if facilitated by a qualified master, can accelerate the meditator’s path to awareness. It can also, however, be abused by the unscrupulous.

  “In your vulnerable state, your mind was an easy target for Guruji to control—and presumably you have money well beyond the attractive amount in your backpack. I don’t know what his long-term scam is, but Guruji hypnotized you into a daily amnesia routine which kept you stuck and helpless at his ashram. You slept outside two nights ago breaking the routine and then wandered to Neelkanth where I found you bewildered and without direction.”

  You shake your head slowly back and forth. “Jesus Christ, what a set up. How do you know all this?”

  “Well, I was suspicious about the way Guruji hovered over you at the ashram, and he also pretended not to understand English around you. The man is as articulate in the Queen’s English as I, which is saying quite a bit—although he can’t spell for beans. Then when you let your state of forgetfulness slip to me in Laxman Jhula the other week it all fell into place.”

  “And you have just let this go on? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” you ask with obvious irritation.

  “And what good would that have done in your condition? Made you even more paranoid so you’d blow a few circuits? Frankly, I didn’t know what to do other than to stick close and watch for an opening. I read through your personal papers hoping to identify a way to help you. I even dropped some hints to encourage you to go to the Kumba Mehla festival. Looks like they might have worked,” he smiles.

  “You know,” you respond, “when you mentioned the Kumba Mehla earlier this morning it was like some trigger went off and I really have this urge to get there. It’s in Allahabad, right?”

  “Right, and it’s going to be full of charlatans and cranks but there is also the true article that attends the festival. Every three years these yogis come out from their caves to sit at the Kumba Mehla and share their presence, wisdom, and metaphysical skills with the millions of seekers. I figure you might find a real McCoy there who can undo the damage which that damned Phool Chatti Hatfield has done to your mind.”

  “Makes sense,” you say nodding your head and holding out your hand to your flight attendant. “I really have to thank you, Bubha.”

  “Now don’t turn sentimental on me, pal. My invaluable assistance is provided only partially out of the goodness of my selfless heart. You’re financing this expedition and I expect to be supported in a manner to which I would like to grow accustomed.”

  You laugh. “Shall I begin by fixing some breakfast?”

  “Nope,” Bubha replies, “digestion would be greatly enhanced by another hour’s brisk walk with full pack to further distance ourselves from the hypnotic dangers of Guruji. He probably has implanted both visual and verbal post-hypnotic triggers into your psyche that could send you hurtling back into his sticky web of intrigue.”

  “Okay then, let’s go,” you acquiesce as a chill runs down your spine at the thought of Guruji’s hypnotic power over you. “I suppose I’m the one toting the pack on this trot to safety?”

  “Good thinking, Francis. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The day continues in this pace of walk and rest, silence and banter. You enjoy both the scenic beauty as well as your articulate new friend as the hours roll by, getting ever closer to the evening’s objective. Bubha remains secretive about your destination, telling you it is a cave but nothing more about its role in your unfolding journey to the Kumba Mehla. He sometimes strikes you as a little boy with his sense of playfulness and mystery, yet much wisdom lies behind his moods and humor. It feels good to have such a friend, to share a sense of camaraderie, to have someone helping you through the difficulties of amnesia. You ponder your predicament of forgetfulness as well as count your blessings along the winding path through the day.

  As evening descends, you round a corner where three sadhus sit at the side of the trail directly in front of what appears to be a narrow passage running into the side of a steep hill. Bubha signals you to hold position while he confronts the sober trio of orange-clad holy men. There is no altercation or raising of voices, although you sense a tension in the air as three stony faces greet Bubha’s inquiry. He points to the cave entrance, points to you, makes a number of gestures, and seems to be getting nowhere. Then he folds his arms and simply states a few more words. The faces of the sadhus suddenly break into broad smiles, two off-white and one quite toothless. They stand and walk past you on the trail while nodding and bowing with respectful greetings of, “Namaste, namaste.”

  Bubha signals you forward then disappears into the hillside cave. You follow along a narrow passage that opens to a bedroom-sized chamber. “Holy batcrap, it sure is dark in here,” your escort notes. The evening sunlight barely penetrates into the silent room although the sadhus’ waning fire casts a pa
le glow against the bare rock. You watch the smoke as it swirls above the flames and disappears through a crack in the ceiling. The cave looks like a cozy niche well worth defending.

  “What did you say to those sadhus that was so compelling they deserted this perfect refuge?” you ask Bubha with curiosity.

  “Oh, I just told them you were Arnold’s personal trainer and wanted to use the cave for shooting a new workout video. Most of these sadhu guys are really into Schwarzenegger flicks, you know.” No, you did not know that, but you decide it would be futile to attempt serious pursuit of the topic with your travel guide. You gather more wood for the fire, unload the backpack, and settle in for a comfortable if dim evening in the cave.

  After dinner Bubha sorts through the packages and pulls out notebook paper. “Put another handful of branches on the fire, buddy boy. Divine inspiration can be a bitch to compose without sufficient light.”

  “Maybe I’ll do some writing, too,” you announce while depositing the remaining wood on the fire. You turn to look through the backpack for pen and paper, feeling the fire’s heat on your back—warmth that will persist well into the night in this compact enclosure.

  “Now who could you be writing when you can’t even remember yourself?” Bubha asks absently as he begins composing on the paper in his lap.

  “Actually, I’m writing to me. Since you said I awaken each morning with no memory, I figured it would be a good idea to give myself a little information for tomorrow particularly if I awaken before you. Unless, of course, your mysterious plan for the evening includes curing me of this recurring amnesia,” you add with a look of hope at your companion.

  “No such luck, pal. Just a quiet evening of creative writing, a cup of tea, and a little teaching in the cosmic cycle of accumulation and release. Nothing memorable,” he adds as you each settle down to write. Upon finishing the note to your tomorrow’s self, you carefully fold the paper and put it in your pants pocket along with your trekker’s flashlight for easy discovery in the morning.

  “Don’t go down for the night yet,” Bubha directs. “The Cyrus special will be served shortly, guaranteed to be the best cup of tea you can ever remember having.” Your cave mate gathers ingredients from his bag and sets water to boil. “I’ll finish up this hallowed epistle and we can relax over a cup. Then, my dear Watson, I shall shed more light upon the mystery of this evening—the Case of the Disappearing Holdovers.”

  You smile back and turn to the fire, losing yourself in the dance of heat and air that manifests in colorful flames and tendrils of smoke. After several minutes of mindless observation, a hand appears in front of you offering a steaming cup of tea. Yes, it is the best tea that you have tasted in your one day of memory, although it is a tad bitter. Bubha sits across from you in contemplative silence, staring into your face as you sip his gift of the Cyrus special. When your cup is drained he speaks.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to get to Haridwar in time to catch the six-thirty train to Allahabad tomorrow evening. Just don’t let your guard down in the crowd going to the Kumba Mehla festival. A popular scam is for a scoundrel to befriend a naïve foreign passenger, offer him tea laced with a knockout drug, then robbing him blind.”

  “Now why should I worry about anything like that when I will have the great Cyrus Bubha to protect me?” you ask in slow, deliberate words that grow increasingly difficult to speak. Your cup becomes too heavy to hold as you drop it and slur, “What the hell?”

  “No,” Bubha responds as the drugged tea takes hold of you, “I must hasten to explain that your valiant protector shall be off on other duties and will not be sharing a train seat with his good buddy. Although I would rather you not fall into the fire just now,” he urges as he gets up and eases your limp body onto your back. You are unable to move a muscle but can still hear his voice through your drug-induced stupor.

  “So much to do and so little time,” Bubha observes aloud as he removes your watch and rifles your pockets. “Places to go, money to count, a herald to pay, instructions to give, and a certain Guruji to visit,” he concludes as he dumps the message from your pocket into the flames. “Sorry, pal, but no holdovers of identity or crib notes are allowed in this spiritual college.”

  Your last conscious sight before the curtain drops fully on your drugged senses is of your former travel companion flipping through your stash of rupees with his eyes aglow in the firelight—a testimony to the success of this illustrative lesson in the cycle of his accumulation and your release of material possessions.

  JANUARY 17 – early morning of the next day

  Cold. Dark. Dirt. Skin. Life is down to its basics as you lie naked in the dust of the cave. You have a few sensations but no emotions upon awakening this morning. Chill against bare skin and hands that run through dirt in the darkness are the limits of your universe. No puzzlement arises in your mind, no curiosity or fear—just sensations in a body with which you feel no identification. A body in the dirt. You do not know who or what it is, nor do you care.

  How long can a heart endure the journey of extremes that your forgetfulness has brought forth? How far can you ride the cycles of frustration and freshness of amnesia, its despair and delight, without snapping? This far and no further. The roller coaster has stopped. Your mind jumped the tracks, entered the curio shop, and leapt into the postcards to escape into a flat world where the dimensions of aliveness fade into detachment that keeps you safe from feeling, buffered from caring. No desires arise to be shared and shattered, no trust is offered for betrayal. No creativity or humor bubble forth to turn the current basics into a clever Indie film title. Cold-dark-dirt-skin are simply the realities of the moment, nothing more.

  Your body stands, drawn to the dim light that leads through a narrow passage into the awakening day. You hear the sound of birds, see the lush green of the forest, and feel nothing. Orange clothes folded neatly at the cave entrance offer warmth. Shoes provide protection. A shoulder bag contains a blanket, fruit, and two American pennies in the side pocket. Two cents to your name, but you have no name. You fail to see the symbolism or get the little joke deposited last night by your forgotten travel companion. But you spot the note that he left under a small stone and you read.

  Welcome my Son:

  Birth. Quite an experience, is it not? An emergence from the dark cave of womb, a journey through tunnel of mystery to bright light awaiting. But you had it easy, my son. No squishing of skull or claustrophobic panic in a tight passage that leaves you gasping for breath amidst painful cries of your mother creator. Your parturition is a simple stroll into the waiting embrace of morn, swaddling clothes at the ready, a new dawn for a new man. Complete with instructions and friendly greeting from your Maker—a creator who is not bleeding and recovering from pain, but One sitting peaceably in paradise amidst the fruits of six days of honest labor, counting his newly found rupees and knowing it is good.

  Count your blessings as well, my son, for you are the chosen one, selected after careful screening for the privilege of being birthed into this world as an adult. Bypassing all those inconvenient years of dirty diapers, grade school bells, pledges of allegiance, pimples, and adolescent angst—experiences that ensure a fall from grace into the muck of thinking you are a shameful body struggling in a world gone mad. Yes, my newborn, you have the chance to stay true to your divine heritage, to remain in bliss, in the freedom of the All.

  Just know thyself, experience yourself as a vibrant energy field shimmering in an endless sea of cosmic waves. Identify not with this body as your boundary, but dance unfettered in the sensations it gives you of a boundless universe. To thine own self be true, remembering that you are the wind, the river, the sun and moon, the alpha and omega, the all and evermore-shall-be. Cast not a rib from your body and make woman into your slave, but know thy goddess from within and journey in Her guidance and mystery. Bite not of an apple thinking it either good or evil. Such thoughts plunge you into the knowledge of duality, into a world where false notions prevail
of black and white, of better and worse, of a ‘them’ and an ‘us’—creating judgments that stagger through the ages as specters with blood on their hands, leaving children weeping in the wake of innocence lost.

  But nay, I mean not to wax as hoary thunderer. I am a cosmic muffin, a god of harmony, a gentle keeper of my flock that wandereth blindly through a world of duality. My divine role is to guide the lambs home from their wayward judgments to a place of simple acceptance, shepherding them through this madness until they come to harmonize all sides of duality within themselves. At this magic moment of self-acceptance, of clarity, of laughter, they spring unfettered back into union with the All.

  But this moment of their bliss is the instant of my death. For in true union, there is no more duality, no more a concept of something that is ‘God’ and something that is ‘not God.’ Only a divine wholeness resides within as the sheep takes its place as the shepherd. And it is good.

  So my son, be fruitful and multiply. And divide, subtract, and add. Hell, do differential equations for all I care. Just keep your sense of humor. And follow this path uphill until you reach the road, catch a bus to Haridwar, and take this evening’s Allahabad Express to the Kumba Mehla festival. I have molded thee from clay into a sadhu so that thou can accomplish this journey upon the charity of others, leaving you free from the corrupting influence of currency.

  Great tears flow from my all-seeing eyes as I think of my child making his way through this harsh world—a world in which the only real truth is paradox, where the only constant in life is change. Not much to hang your hat on, is it pal? Just keep the faith (as well as this message) and focus on the Kumba Mehla festival. Once there, remain vigilant for receiving my Herald who shall leadest thee unto still waters and to thy guardian angel.

  So my wayward lamb, my snake, my apple, my Eden—the beautiful universe that is you—I wish you God’s speed (which can be pretty damn fast when I choose to boogie).

  With hugs from your Father in heaven,

  Hallowed

  The author of this epistle would be disappointed in your response. No anger, no appreciation, no questions, not even confusion arises; simply a spark of recognition flares in your distant mind at mention of the Kumba Mehla festival. Yes, you will go.

  You walk uphill until you reach the road, catch a bus to Haridwar, and find your way to the train station where you await the Allahabad Express. You have spoken only two words today, repeating them often and successfully—Kumba Mehla. Fingers have pointed in response, bringing you to your current resting place on the hard cement of Platform Number Three. You notice little of the activity in the busy Haridwar Train Station nor do you register the discomfort of your position.

  You are eating a bruised apple when a pair of feet in expensive sandals appears on the ground in front of you. You look up to see a holy man dressed smartly in new orange robes topped by a freshly trimmed beard. Before turning, he drops a handful of rupees in your lap and grunts with a distinct Texas drawl, “Get a job, fella.”

  You stare blankly, watching his disproportionately long arms swing from rounded shoulders until he disappears into the first class waiting room. Into the side pocket of your shoulder bag you drop the rupees that clink against the two American pennies already there. Finishing the apple, you barely notice the train pulling up to the platform as you are caught in the flow of robed men pushing their way into a third class carriage of the Allahabad Express.

  Nor do you notice the toothless grin of the grizzled old sadhu who has been intently watching you, waiting for his big moment to arrive.

  JANUARY 18 – the next afternoon

  You are sitting on the floor of a noisy train carriage. The train is twenty hours out of Haridwar, about two hours from its destination of Allahabad. The floor is metal, the air smells of diesel, the hard wooden benches above you are filled with men in orange. You and other not-so-fortunate sadhus recline on the floor at their feet, packed together like sardines. Actually, not quite like sardines, for those fish are far more orderly in repose than the men who have been shaken into jumbles by twenty hours of locomotion. Arms and legs and backs and heads have mixed haphazardly together to find some level of comfort. But no complaints arise, no vying for better positions. You have become a part of one collective organism shifting and oozing on a primal floor, adjusting to fit its environment.

  But little of this registers in your vacant mind. You remain detached from all feeling, from all stimuli, even from this body that has suffered from cramped quarters for a night and a day. It awoke this morning and you simply noticed that you were among fellow sadhus on a train. You ate the last of fruit in a shoulder bag, read a note from God (Hallowed be his name) that made little sense, and leaned back against whatever body part was behind you.

  The Kumba Mehla is your destination, the note said. Yes, it is right to be going to there. That was the limit of your logical thoughts. No further analysis took place today; no emotion or curiosity arose, although some recollections have emerged. As you let your mind drift without anchor on this swaying train, strange images and scenarios arose that you viewed with detachment, not recognizing these visions as your former nighttime dreams. You simply watched old dreamtime dramas unfold in your head without context or interest. They merely provided distraction from the orange-clad knees viewed from the floor of this carriage pounding the rails through the heart of India. Occasionally you would look up and see faces, watching them talk with one another in a tongue that you do not understand.

  Two sadhus, in the midst of a heated discussion, have just joined the collective by squeezing onto either side of you. Their Hindi words make no sense but you are caught in the swirl of sound as the men talk at the same time, increasing their volume to be heard above the other. Then the man on your left shouts an English word, the first you have heard in your short life of today. “Twins! Twins!” The other sadhu enthusiastically echoes this word and they nod in agreement as silence abruptly reigns.

  Twins. Recognition of this single English word sparks neurons in your brain that still are receptive to being coaxed into action, signals from that part of the mind connected to your dream world, a world in which sets of twins roam—male and female twins, good and evil twins, polarity brothers and sisters who wander the inner dreamscape. You vaguely remember this fact and look to the man who shouted this stimulus as you speak your first word of the day, “Twins?”

  “Atcha!” he exclaims at your comprehension. “Good twin,” he continues in his limited English as he puffs himself up to pantomime a large, strong man. Then he deflates himself into the smallest posture possible and concludes, “Bad twin.”

  You nod in understanding, the two sadhus nod, and they begin another noisy round of their discussion in Hindi. The cobwebs in your mind begin to clear as you realize that the images of today have been old dreams. Your old dreams. Yes, there is a you. And dreams and a body and a life to identify with and memories to recollect. You try to sort through this notion as the clamor of the two sadhus builds again and makes thinking difficult. Then the man on the left starts yelling in English, “Total Recall! Total Recall!” And the other sadhu echoes his refrain as they nod their heads then slip again into contemplative silence.

  You look at the sadhu in amazement and try to gesture to him that you still cannot remember much. “No, not total recall. Not total recall,” you state in simple English.

  But his face looks puzzled and he responds with a tentative question, “Not, Total Recall?” You shake your head and try your best to gesture that you are still limited in memory and recall. He ponders a moment and queries, “Conan the Barbarian?”

  Now your face goes blank with confusion. The sadhu looks intently into your eyes as if trying to read your thoughts. He finally breaks into a huge smile of awareness, “Atcha, The Terminator! The Terminator number one!” And he looks around to his fellow sadhu who is enthusiastically agreeing with this conclusion.

  The second sadhu wags a finger in your face and states in h
alting English, “Arnold number one.” The other sadhu wags in agreement, seemingly pleased that the language barrier was bridged with the inarticulate tall guy on the floor.

  Arnold? What the…and you suddenly comprehend the men’s ongoing debate over the best of Schwarzenegger’s films. The lunacy of the situation strikes you as a slight smile forms on your lips. You nod your head and agree aloud, “The Terminator number one.”

  You are back.

  Coming back to a state of full amnesia is one of those paradoxes that an orange-clad trickster riding comfortably in first class would well appreciate. Plus, Cy Bubha would enjoy the irony that the practical joke he arranged with his two sadhu buddies, designed to mess with your mind, actually helped trigger its return, such as it is. You still cannot remember a whit about your past and not much about the four Schwarzenegger movies just named. But you are present again in the moment, aware that you are an English-speaking sadhu heading towards the Kumba Mehla—and that your body feels like shit.

  You try to make some room for your cramped legs but are unsuccessful in getting the orange collective to ooze in the proper direction. So you spend the remaining time on the train standing spread legged and pushing against the ceiling for balance. Your pose is like a mythical Atlas holding up a strange, flat world in his hands—but without the Schwarzenegger physique.

  Gratitude prevails as the train finally stops at Allahabad pouring forth a stream of weary humanity. You go with the flow and find yourself standing outside a busy railway station. Your two-word question—Kumba Mehla?—does not have the desired effect today. Amused looks arise in response rather than fingers pointing in clear direction. You do not realize the absurdity of this request for directions—like Jonah turning to his companion in a wet, dim chamber and asking, “So where’s the whale?”

  For you have been swallowed by the Kumba Mehla with your first step onto the platform. The Kumba Mehla is no longer in Allahabad; the city and all in it have been consumed by the Kumba Mehla. Millions of saints and sinners, pilgrims and pilferers, have descended on Allahabad, swallowing, digesting, and depositing their smelly remains before your very eyes. It is a sight unbeheld elsewhere in the world and one you find difficult to face in your fatigue of the moment.

  Five o’clock, a large clock indicates, giving you plenty of time before dark to find a resting place. Time enough as well to get to the Allahabad Riverview Inn for a long-planned dinner date if one had a mind to. But only one man from this train has such a mind with memory of your six o’clock appointment this evening of January 18th, a man who calls himself Shri Shri Cy Bubha and who will dispense an ambiguous form of wisdom to curious foreign pilgrims over the next days.

  Bubha steps from a first class compartment, clean and well rested, and enters a taxi that takes him to the Riverview Inn for dinner with a woman he has never before met. You with the more limited mind join a long line of men in orange to receive a simple plate of lentils and rice. You wait, eat, and follow the ebb of sadhus into the nooks and crannies of Allahabad, finding a space to recline for a night of slumber. You are asleep in your blanket as another man lays near you, a toothless old fellow who patiently shadows you in anticipation of his upcoming role.

  JANUARY 19 – morning of the next day

  You awaken disoriented. Confusion soon passes, however, as you see yourself among sadhus and recall the setting as the Kumba Mehla festival. Strange, you think, that you have no other recollection of your situation and past. But such is the life of a wandering renunciant who lives in the moment, hand to mouth as an offspring of the divine. You shake out your blanket, readjust your orange clothing, and respond to the basic needs of the moment.

  TRAIL BOSS: I too will follow my instincts and keep the wheels of this journey from bogging down in the details of survival at the Kumba Mehla. It’s not always a pretty picture or a particularly easy day for a fellow with no memory and a big appetite. But he manages to score some breakfast victuals (pronounced vittles for you greenhorns who don’t know about trail food), then wanders his way among a few million folks to find a spot to sit by the river for quite a spell. Actually, it makes things easier for him to be deluded into thinking of himself as a simple sadhu with no past; therefore he experiences no identity crisis, no angst over loss of memory, and no worries about tomorrow.

  He just drifts quietly through the hours in a way typical of other sadhus at the festival, although such calm is significantly different from the mood surrounding a number of other holy men present. Several of these guys are wearing only a beard as they march toward the Ganga for their daily ablutions, dogged by pushy photojournalists and tittering tourists who gape at the naked truths of the Kumba Mehla. Other spectators watch swamis contort their appendages into innovative shapes, while some curious onlookers follow the progress of yoga masters who choose to spend a few days buried in sealed boxes without benefit of water or air.

  But our forgetful pseudo-sadhu avoids as much of the hubbub as possible, staying to himself throughout the day. Or so he mistakenly thinks. For an alert trail boss has spotted a shadow, a toothless old-timer who keeps dogging our footsteps from river to food and even back to our sleeping spot. Makes me a mite suspicious, so let’s jump to tomorrow afternoon when the codger makes his move.

  JANUARY 20 – the following afternoon

  You are sitting on a rock, savoring a chapati and enjoying another new experience in this day of varied sensations. You as a simple sadhu have drifted from stone to stone, sitting and observing, sometimes losing yourself in watching your breath and body sensations. Then, distracted by the noise and bustle of the throng, your attention returns to the swirl of activity and to the great river Ganga where a continuous flow of people glide to and from its shore. Baths, contemplation, death, worship, horseplay, grief—all are welcomed by its unceasing waters. The Ganga reaches out to embrace the Kumba Mehla, while the festival sings its gratitude in a cacophony that arises from the enormous tent city along the riverbank.

  You listen to the exotic melody which is suddenly interrupted by a loud clearing of throat behind you. You turn to see a grizzled old sadhu standing at attention like a military cadet on review. With eyes staring forward he announces in thick Hindi accent, “I am Herald. Follow me to your guardian angel.” He then lets out his breath and relaxes, showing a toothless grin that reflects his pride in successfully accomplishing his assigned task.

  Your initial confusion to this pronouncement is followed by your pulling out the nonsensical message found in your shoulder bag this morning. “Does this note from God that mentions a herald have something to do with what you are trying to say?”

  The old fellow responds by puffing himself back up and restating, “I am Herald. Follow me to your guardian angel.”

  Obviously, this well-rehearsed phrase is the limit of the herald’s command of English, so you decide simply to follow him to see where he leads. After a half hour of picking your way through tents, campfires, people and their droppings, you arrive at a small clearing under a banner announcing, Shri Shri Cy Bubha, a Postle of Light. Beneath it stands a strange looking guru talking with a couple dozen people, primarily Westerners, sitting on the ground in front of him. Herald points to Cy Bubha and states, “Guardian angel.” He then escorts you to the back of the group where you sit as the master of this ceremony speaks from the front.

  “…so go ahead and keep listening to Madonna, but don’t expect any quantum physicists to ask you to dance in a material world.” Bubha laughs along with his appreciative audience. “Next question, please.”

  A man to your left responds with his query. “Cy Bubha, all this India traveling and reading has got me confused. Some sages say that their religion is the only true way, while others assert that there is no path at all. Is there one true and correct path?”

  “Absolutely. Your path. The one that unfolds individually for you each day, step by perfect step. Next question.”

  A woman’s voice rises from the front, “Cy Bubha, I know we’re
supposed to drop our ego and our desires but I seem to stay stuck in doing what my personality wants instead of what my spiritual self says I should do. How can I start listening to and responding better to my quiet inner voice of spirit?”

  “Easy. Kick up your heels, shop ‘til you drop, stuff yourself with food, and hop into the hay until you can’t walk straight. Sound good?”

  “Come on, get serious.”

  “I am serious, darlin’—sort of,” Bubha adds. “Disciplining the personality into spiritual submission won’t get you anywhere except maybe to a therapist or cult.”

  “But how is continuing all my desire crap going to help?”

  “The answer involves the crap you just said. It’s the self-judgment you’re expressing right now that fuels the racket. Judgment and guilt about your natural human desires shove those needy urges back into your gut where they holler so loud you can’t hear yourself think. Just try some loving acceptance of your earthly desires and see if they don’t start quieting down and letting your spiritual ears unclog.”

  “What about my ego?” The woman persists. “I know that letting go of the ego is vital to move into a higher aspect of self.”

  “Yep, transcending one’s old ego is a common spiritual punch line that any halfwit can learn—no offense intended. But it takes a full-blown fool to master the cosmic joke that leads to actually grasping the ultimate punch line.” Bubha acknowledges your presence for the first time with a wave and then continues, “And we are fortunate to have a newborn example of a liberated full-blown fool in our midst today.”

  You just hunch in embarrassment thinking this man to be a dubious guardian angel. “Oh well, apparently my foolish friend has forgotten the joke on himself.” Bubha returns his attention to the woman in front. “So back to your punch line whose conclusion makes sense—to let go of identity and ego. But we can’t renounce what we don’t have. So first make sure you fully know yourself and unconditionally accept who you are, really love yourself even—and then the joke can proceed to the punch line, that you have to surrender your newly beloved self and give it all up. Loads of laughs, huh?”

  Bubha and his questioner exchange a smile as he shifts to address the full group, “Now back to the topic of satisfying our noisy desires. Herald, if you would be so kind.” He ceremoniously gestures to the tent where the toothless Herald emerges carrying a used backpack and sleeping bag that, without amnesia, you would recognize as your own.

  “We have here two lovely gifts generously donated by a sponsor who remains fully anonymous,” Bubha states while taking the backpack from Herald. “First, for every hundred-rupee donation you give to my noble works—that’s a measly two bucks for those Americans present—you will be issued one raffle ticket to win this amazing backpack. The drawing will be held on the auspicious Kumba Mehla morning of the new moon. So if the backpack turns out to have been stolen, hey, don’t worry about it. Just take a bath that afternoon and wash away all the bad karma.” The people around you laugh, some of whom are reaching for their wallets.

  “But moving now from the game of chance to a contest of skill,” Bubha continues in huckster mode, “from which the winner with wit, the master of mirth, the conqueror of this contest shall walk away with this exceptional goose-down sleeping bag made extra long to fit even the tallest of those handicapped by vertical excess. The bag will also be presented on the auspicious morning of January 24th to the person who most cleverly answers the question: What do you get if you cross the Messiah with Viagra?”

  Only a few people laugh this time, while one woman complains, “That’s being a bit disrespectful to Jesus Christ, don’t you think?”

  Bubha immediately replies, “Yes, ma’am, I do think at times, although granted maybe not enough. But I’ve thought plenty about this Jesus character and have concluded that this fine child of God must appreciate a good joke.”

  “I fail to see that crossing Jesus with Viagra is a good joke,” she proffers.

  “Well, if you kindly give me another moment of your time, I will share an epiphany I had as a boy that helped put Jesus and humor into perspective for me.”

  People settle back to listen as Bubha continues, “First I have to admit that I was born in Texas, USA, and attended a church that allowed we of the chocolate-color persuasion to attend. Liberal would be too strong a word for its congregation, but it was open enough to invite a guest pastor who was one of those progressives who was supposed to attract young people back into the fold.”

  Bubha rolls up the orange sleeves of his robe as he continues narrating, “The visiting pastor began with a short discussion on how he thought Jesus had a sense of humor and of the importance of laughter in general. This was back in the day when the, what do you get when you cross an elephant with a such-and-such jokes were all the rage.

  “So this guest preacher gets into the meat of the sermon which is a bunch of these jokes but with Jesus in them. Like, ‘What do you get if you cross Jesus with the Marlboro Man?’ The guy waited a moment for the congregation to guess the answer, but just got a tense silence followed by some embarrassed laughter when he exclaims in answer: ‘Holy smokes!’ Then he tries ‘What do you get if you cross the Jolly Green Giant with Jesus? Come on folks, everlasting peas.’

  “Now this joke actually got some chuckles going, and the preacher kept pitching them with perfect timing, starting to get the audience to participate. ‘What would you get if you double-crossed Jesus with a snail?’ he asked.

  “ ‘I know,’ someone responded, ‘Judas Escargot.’

  “ ‘Excellent! Now what would you get if you tried crossing the Red Sea with Jesus?’ Short pause and the preacher states with a smile, ‘A whole lot wetter than Him!’

  “Applause, then a fellow shouted from the back, ‘Hey, where would get if you crossed the Road to Damascus with Jesus?’ The guy can’t wait and blurts out his answer—‘To the other side!’—as he laughs hysterically and starts clucking like a chicken.

  “Then the preacher queries, ‘What would you get if you tried crossing Mary Magdalene with Jesus?’ Immediately, the police chief who is a deacon at the church deadpans, ‘Oh, about two to four years, with parole,’ and brought the house down. Even before the laughter dies out the preacher yells over the noise, ‘What would you get if you crossed Jesus with two thieves?’ He quickly shakes his head as if reconsidering and goes, ‘Oh, never mind; it already was tried without much success.’

  “So everyone is laughing and clapping, while the preacher next gets a calm look on his face and stands sedately at the pulpit waiting for things to quiet down. He lets the silence hold for a few seconds then asks in soft voice, ‘What would you get if you crossed Jesus with some silly, sacrilegious jokes?’ He pauses one breath then states, ‘Forgiveness.’ A couple of amens rise from the pews. Then he asks ‘What would you get if you tried crossing Jesus out of your life?’ and he gives the answer in somber tone, ‘Lonesome.’ Some more amens.

  “Then the preacher starts firing up in the finest Southern tradition proclaiming, ‘And if you cross your arms with Jesus you’ll get embraced! And if you cross your feet with Jesus, you will have your sins washed away!’ Amens and hallelujahs are rising from more and more pews as the spirit surges through the congregation.

  “Now the visiting preacher is shouting and prancing all over the front of the church. ‘If you cross your lips with Jesus, you’ll receive the Holy Word! And if you cross your mind with Jesus you get divine inspiration, and if you cross your hands with Jesus you’ll be pulled straight up to the pearly gates of heaven. Hallelujah!’ he exclaims with arms reaching to the sky.

  “But the preacher suddenly slumps and grabs onto the podium like he’s about to collapse. The shocked congregation immediately hushes and watches as he turns his drooping head to the regular minister who looks perplexed by all the commotion.

  “ ‘Pastor Jake, kindly answer this one for all of us,” the preacher says in a whisper that carries all the way to the back pew. ‘What
would you get if you cross your heart with Jesus?’

  “Pastor Jake takes a moment to ponder and responds tentatively, ‘Eternal love?’

  “The visiting preacher immediately rebuffs him with a limp-wristed gesture and in lisping voice replies, ‘Oh no, silly. You get a perfectly divine push-up bra’—leaving the congregation in stunned silence for an instant, followed by pandemonium as the preacher sashays from the pulpit never to be seen again but never forgotten.

  “Now that was a sermon.” Bubha concludes with a quick nod of his head for emphasis.

  Many in the riverside audience are laughing and applauding Bubha’s animated performance, but the irritated woman yells above the noise, “Hey, mister liar, Playtex hadn’t come out with the Cross-Your-Heart bra back then.”

  Cy Bubha just shrugs and observes, “Life is story; story is life.” He then opens his sinewy arms to the group and with a big smile reminds them to buy raffle tickets from Herald and encourages them to return tomorrow for additional discourse and more valuable prizes provided by a generous sponsor.

  The popular guru starts walking towards you but is briefly detained by the critic of his humor with a parting comment, “That sermon story was despicable.”

  Bubha calmly replies, “Darlin’, believe it or not I felt the holy spirit moving through me and through the congregation like wildfire on that day in church. And if the preacher used humor to frame his message or if I embellished it a wee bit, it was not out of disrespect for you or other heavenly offspring,” Bubha concludes with a bow of his head.

  “Well, I still think you should be ashamed for that Viagra contest question.” The woman gets in a final word as she walks away, “The Second Coming is at hand!”

  Bubha chuckles as he sits by your side and states, “Shame indeed, second only to big brother fear in charting the course of human history and individual choice. But you of no history and little choice have nothing to fear or to be ashamed of, right?”

  You just shrug and say, “How can I argue with a guardian angel who doubles as a stand-up comic?”

  “Ah, take care my ward in being too agreeable or gullible around me. For I admit to harboring both fear and shame which can lead one to do all sorts of dastardly deeds. In fact, I am prompted to admit a recent scenario behind which lies a large measure of guilt, I fear.” You look closely at this man who suddenly appears vulnerable. He is staring at the ground while shaking his head.

  “Actually it was a scene from a dream, one that really spooked me,” Bubha explains, drawing his phony script from your dream journal that he read the other week. “My dream was of an old kamikaze pilot throwing recording equipment out a window. The Kamikaze then blasted a neighbor’s movie camera as the guy ducked for cover. When the neighbor popped back up, he is in a British military uniform shouting encouragement to the Kamikaze, but he has a rifle barrel instead of a megaphone sticking from his mouth. Damn.” Bubha shudders, continuing an act that you have swallowed fully, “There must be some deep, hidden shame that is too terrifying to see. Can you help me out on this one, pal?”

  You are speechless as a similar—no, the same—dream comes back to your mind in vivid recollection. Finally you respond, “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “Try me,” Bubha replies.

  “I had the exact same kamikaze dream.”

  Bubha looks at you with feigned incredulity. “Come on, really?”

  “I swear, I remember it in perfect detail just like you described in yours.”

  He squints at you and challenges, “Who was the guy wearing the British military uniform?”

  You think for a moment to identify this obscure actor, then you reply as Bubha joins in unison, “Darren McGavin.”

  “Jesus cripes…” your voice trails off as you hold your spinning head in disbelief.

  Bubha continues the charade by adding, “Don’t tell me that you had the nightmare, too, where all those madmen in the asylum come together to shout ‘Team’ as my steely-eyed nemesis approaches to…”

  “Oh my God! How can this be?” you gasp as that scenario also emerges from your dreamtime memory.

  “Hell, I don’t know. It can’t just be coincidence that we share the same dreams.” Bubha’s face suddenly brightens. “Hey, maybe you’re me. Or I’m your dreamtime duality twin. Or, heck, maybe this is all a dream,” Bubha posits with a sweep of his arm to indicate the landscape. You look even more confused as the trickster continues, “But for now let’s just stick to solid facts—you’re four days old and I’m your guardian angel. Here,” he says taking your shoulder bag, “let me check your identity papers to confirm your recent birth.”

  From the bag’s side pocket, Bubha pulls out your hallowed note from God which he had written in the cave. He continues, “Actually, you’ve been reassigned a new guardian angel who reported for duty the other evening during a lovely dinner at the Riverview Inn. And she is eager to unite with her ward. Being something of a nonbeliever, she might find this note from God suspicious so I’ll keep it while sending you to her awaiting wings.”

  Your befuddled expression threatens to become a permanent feature as Bubha summons Herald and speaks at length in Hindi while drawing a map in the dirt. The toothless assistant nods with enthusiasm while Bubha pulls you to your feet. “So, my sometimes-sadhu and good buddy, follow this fine Herald to your next adventure and I trust we shall meet again on the rebound.” Your former guardian angel turns and strides to his tent without another word.

  Herald beckons you to follow as he quickly departs and winds a trail through the early evening scenes of the Kumba Mehla. After a few minutes of brisk walking Herald pulls to a stop and points to a tall, dark-haired woman. Her back is turned and you watch her graceful movements as she cooks over a small open fire. “Guardian angel,” Herald proudly gums, his final annunciation complete. He walks away leaving you to take the last steps alone to your awaiting angel.

  As you tentatively approach, you catch her profile and are stopped cold in your tracks by recognition. Yes, the first familiar face in a month-long sea of forgetfulness has just emerged. But this face belongs in another world, to a nocturnal universe of your dreamtime fantasies and fears. Are you asleep and dreaming? You question yourself, you question reality, and as the woman turns to see who is lurking behind her, you question her. “Alberta?”

  “You bet your sweet ass it is,” your angel responds, slapping you across the cheek. “That’s for standing me up for dinner two nights ago,” She then puts her hand gently on your left cheek while kissing your right. “And that’s because I’ve missed you.” But this tender respite is brief as Alberta reverts to righteous indignation. “But, damn it, where were you?”

  You are speechless, without a clue as to the answer or knowing what to make of this woman. She takes a step back and gives you a good once-over. “Hell, you do look like the Great Pumpkin, if an underfed one. Your little guru pal told me you were attending some Halloween convention with guys dressed in orange, so you sent him in your place for our dinner. Of course I didn’t buy that, or believe much of anything Cy Bubha said that evening, but he is a cute little mindfucker. So what’s the real story?”

  You stare dumbly at this woman from your dream world and say in a whisper, “I’m not really sure what’s going on.”

  “Now don’t tell me that Bubha was for real about your being so into this Great Pumpkin gig that you’ve forgotten everything else?” You shrug, and Alberta suddenly shifts into a serious tone, “You don’t remember the January 18th dinner date we made at the Riverview Inn?” You shake your head as she looks you in the eye and states, “You don’t even know who I am, do you?”

  You respond, “But I recognize you from my dreams.”

  It’s Alberta’s turn to shake her head. “Damn, Steven, you really are in bad shape.”

  “That’s my name?” you ask.

  “Holy shit,” she replies and plunks herself on the hard ground. She takes your hand pulling you down to sit across from her
. “Tell me straight, are you messing with me or is your mind really somewhere beyond the left field bleachers?”

  You consider then answer, “I don’t even know if I’m dreaming this or not.”

  Alberta looks as stunned as you feel. “We’ve been through a lot together, sweetie, but this...” She stares into empty space as you look at the ground. After a minute, your guardian angel takes a deep breath and shifts gears into her matter-of-fact self. “Well, we always enjoyed teaming up to face the great unknown. Part of what made us so good on stage and in bed together. Right?” She narrows her eyes to peer at you. “You really don’t remember any of that?”

  You lift your arms in a shrug and are finally able to smile. “Some of my dreams about you were rather…vivid.”

  “Aha, fighting and fucking in dreamland as well, are we?” she laughs. “Maybe you let yourself win sometimes in your fantasies—recovering nice boys make such lousy fighters.” She reaches across and leans into a big hug with you. “It’s good to be see you again, even as an orange zombie. Actually, this could be kind of fun. Sort of like bringing improv theater to real life and getting to choose whatever roles we want.”

  You see the wheels turning in her active mind as you ask, “We did theater together?”

  “Yep, at Ashoka-ji’s ashram early last year. Mostly it involved some pretty wild improvisational stuff plus a couple of serious plays. Once, we even got you into a three-piece suit that made you look like a lawyer again,” she laughs recalling the role, “although I liked your Tarzan and fetish roles better.”

  “I was a lawyer?” you ask incredulously as your self-image as a wandering sadhu shatters. Alberta proceeds to answer that question and more, sharing with you what she can about your old life. It is not too much actually. She only met you in Poona slightly over a year ago. Quickly hooked up to do some amateur theater and to share an apartment. Traveled a bit together through India.

  “The last time I saw you was in McLeodganj when you were mysteriously leaving but seemed okay. We made the dinner date for January 18th then you disappeared soon after your birthday in December. Hey, that reminds me. I brought you the computer printout of Chapter 17 of The ReMinder that you asked me to copy off the disk.” She looks at you expectantly, then cringes. “Damn, you can’t even remember what you wrote?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, let’s share this pot of stew for dinner and then you can read your little manuscript. It might fire up some of that dead brain of yours.”

  Alberta leads you into a roomy canvas tent that she rented and decorated with colorful bolts of cloth that billow in ripples across the ceiling, just above head level. The sides are lined with Hindu figurines that upon close inspection turn out to be simple souvenirs. But the overall effect is quite nice if a bit surreal, particularly with candles filling three corner spaces plus an ornate chamber pot in the fourth. You roll out your blanket in the space by Alberta’s sleeping bag and light a few candles in the fading twilight as your tent mate enters with dinner.

  “Don’t get fooled into thinking that I always treat you this kindly. I’m just going easy on you in your weakened condition,” she warns with a friendly pinch of your cheek. “It’s no fun kicking a dog when he’s down.”

  You in fact eat like a hungry dog, ravenous from the recent days of little nourishment. You feel your body taking in the sustenance of both food and the companionship of this unlikely guardian angel. After dining, Alberta exits to fetch water while you gather up pages of your forgotten past. And you read:

  The ReMinder: Chapter 17

  My apologies, folks, for falsely promising in Chapter 15 that chronology was to become the crowning ally of logic in guiding the jumbled course of The ReMinder. Moreover, after cogitating on the roots of chronology and crown, it seems that I erred in equating the two. Chronos must certainly be Latin for ‘time’, as in chronometer, while corona is likely ‘crown’ as used in coronation and Corona, the Mexican pale ale.

  Combining these two roots, chronos and corona, brings to mind the commercial jingle, If you’ve got the time, we’ve got the beer. But that actually involved Miller Time (chronos lepidoptera) rather than Corona beer (equis nada) so I best move from amateur lexicography to storytelling before further mixing my drinks and phyla.

  The one thing that stands clear about the crowning truth involving time is that when I first arrived in India, time took on a new dimension. No, not as in some romantic notion of a timeless ancient heartbeat, but time-altering in the sense that during the five-hour taxi ride from the Bombay airport to Poona, I inhaled more pollutants on the congested two lane highway than in the previous five years of breathing in the United States. Also, on the average of every ten minutes, my taxi would experience an alarming close call with an oncoming vehicle that would qualify as a once in a lifetime brush with death on American highways.

  I survived this harrowing time warp to arrive in the city of Poona and quickly retreated into a community of fellow seekers, primarily European in origin, who maintained a lovely spiritual center in Poona which reflected the teachings and tenets of their guru who had died—excuse me, who had left his body—nearly a decade previously. Theater, dance, cathartic exercises, and quiet meditation were some of the many interesting offerings at the center that helped this dedicated seeker probe his inner world. The most valuable tool there for delving deeper into truth, however, proved to be new lover, Alberta, who in tandem with India formed a formidable duo to grapple me into the shadowy corners of my underworld.

  At one point after emerging from an undercover clinch with Alberta in the flat that we shared, we decided to brave the challenge of exploring more of India, so headed north to the beauty of India’s Himalayan region. In April, we discovered Phool Chatti Ashram, which lived up nicely to the Hindi meaning of its name, a ‘refuge of flowers’ (as translated by its personable head swami). Alberta and I then went separate ways to play tourist and spiritual pilgrim in our respective modes. I ended up returning to south India during the summer in order to—