*******
“Damn, Alberta,” you call out as she re-enters the tent, “I thought you said that The ReMinder was an important cathartic release for me. All I see in this chapter is some contrived opening word play then an awkward seguay into little more than a dull travel report,” you add while skimming through the Chapter 17 pages. “Did I really write sixteen previous chapters of this kind of garbage?”
“No, dear, but you did seem to lose your mojo in the last days of writing in McLeodganj. Even you saw it happening,” she adds while directing you to the last page of the chapter in hand.
While Alberta gets ready for bed, you read the final paragraphs that brought your book to an abrupt halt:
…Thus I was inspired to conclude that, instead of sampling more of India’s spiritual fare, my time would be best spent retreating into seclusion at Phool Chatti Ashram to explore the hidden aspects of mind through attentive dream work.
Arriving at Phool Chatti in mid-September, the garden hut and Ganga roar proved lovely stimuli for a rich dream world as well as inspiration for giving birth to this written benediction and catharsis for my old Identity. These two efforts—recording dreams and composing The ReMinder—like sturdy arms of a slingshot were to launch me into new worlds of mindfulness and bliss, aided by royalties galore to send me off in style.
Nearly three months later, the optimist sits now in McLeodganj feeling tremors of doubt as the juggernaut of lofty intentions shows signs of slowing. In fact, I must admit that both arms of my symbolic slingshot have become flaccid. Hell, this latest chapter of The ReMinder reads more like a self-absorbed travelogue than a launch to spiritual freedom and worldly wealth. Where have those fresh creative juices gone that flowed in resonance with the mighty Ganga on rooftop perch to bring wit, wonder, and insight to my inner world? Plus, ever since the kamikaze pilot showed his cowardly head and destroyed the dreamtime monitoring equipment last week, instead of transcribing six or more dreams each night, I have been left with remembering only the one I happen to awaken to each morning.
Nope, something or someone has got to give. The who that gives is clear, but the where, how, and what I must give up requires further exploration. So begging your indulgence for the time being, I depart from this sluggish train of thought that creates The ReMinder to board another locomotive steaming eastward. Admittedly, the initial stop is already in mind along the route—a little kinkiness in the chain of thought—but I keep that a mystery until reaching the unknown final destination.
Kinks in the links of this chain of fools. Slink to the brink of memory’s jewels.
See you on the other side.
--- The ReMinder in indefinite limbo ---
“How did you say you got hold of this chapter?” you ask the woman lying next to you in her sleeping bag. You put down the manuscript pages and pull the blanket closer around your bare shoulders on the cool ground as the late evening sounds of the Kumba Mehla drift through Alberta’s colorful tent.
“You’d just finished composing that last chapter on your way out of town,” she replies, “and asked me to print it off and bring it to our Allahabad dinner date.”
“Do you have any idea where I was mysteriously planning to go in mid-December after leaving you in McLeodganj?”
“Nope, just that you had a train ticket to Delhi. From there, who knows?” Alberta rolls against you and gives you a long kiss on the lips. “But now my little trooper has returned from the front, battered and shell-shocked.” The kiss was lovely.
You look at Alberta and she at you. “Do we love each other?” you ask.
“What do you think?” she asks playfully.
You take a moment then conclude, “How can a man know love if he doesn’t even know himself?”
“That’s a sensible conclusion. And pretty close to the answer you’d have given if you had your memory.”
“Well, do we love each other?” you pursue an answer from your evasive companion.
Alberta inhales a deep breath before responding. “The answer is no, primarily because we agree that there is no such thing as loving someone or something. ‘I love you’ is just a construct that if you hear and say enough times, you grow up blindly accepting such a notion.”
“That sounds pretty harsh.”
“Not at all, my clueless friend. It actually has been quite joyful and liberating to finally quit working to get people to love me or trying to convince myself that I love them. It’s all an impossible dream anyway.”
“Excuse me for arguing from my fog of forgetfulness, but it feels as if I know that two people can experience love together.”
“Absolutely, and what a beautiful experience to be in a state of love together—or for that matter, to be in a state of love while alone in nature or meditating or twiddling your thumbs. But now, Romeo, see if you can discern the difference between these two statements: Darling, I’m in love with YOU, versus, WITH you, I’m in love.”
You shake your head. “Sorry, I’m a little slow on the uptake.”
“Hell, let’s just forget the topic until the Great Pumpkin returns with your memory, okay?” Alberta concludes while readjusting her position on the ground.
But you keep trying to fit this into context and finally ask, “So romance is dead?”
“No, my dear, just your brain. Romance is alive and well. I love to go madly into some romance and drama and sex and trying to get yummies with a partner. You feel the same way and we’re damn good at throwing ourselves into the part and having a grand time. But if either of us went back into our old addictions and illusions that this is a state of true love, the other would run like a scared bunny.”
“Do you think this has anything to do with why I left McLeodganj?”
“Highly doubtful. In December we were more into humping like rabbits than running like them,” she laughs and rolls on top of you, sleeping bag and all.
As she ardently kisses your neck and ears, you begin to feel like the nervous bunny. The electricity is a little much for your system and you finally protest, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know you, or even myself. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good at sex right now.” You sound like a scared rabbit as well.
Alberta comes up for air with a disgusted look on her face. “Damn, you’re still sitting out there in left field just watching, aren’t you?” She studies your befuddled expression and softens a bit. “Okay, sweetie, I’ll give you a break, but just for now. I will do my enthusiastic best to remind you in eight hours that morning is my favorite time for making good use of that lovely erection you always seem to begin the day with.”
And she blows out the candles, neither of you realizing that your memory of today will fail to arise with your appendage in the morn.
TRAIL BOSS: Looking ahead a bit, I can confirm that the sun rises along with the sexual appendage in question. Call me old fashioned, but I think a feller has a right to his bedroom privacy. Plus I don’t see how tomorrow morning’s awakening is going to promote anything in this story except to add another blow to the dignity of our forgetful character. So let’s jump to the riverside where that Cy Bubha is serving up breakfast and his next plateful of philosophy.
SHOSHONI: Indeed, master trail boss, I applaud your desire to maintain Steven’s dignity and the quality of the story. Again, we find ourselves working together to move the tale along in an efficient, yet elucidating, manner. Well done.
TRAIL BOSS: Thank you, missy, although I have to admit to getting a mite nervous when you start sweet-talking me. What’s on your pretty little mind this time?
SHOSHONI: I do not mean to sound crass, but Steven’s sexual appendage and its attempted use by a former Miss Junior Stampede and skilled rodeo rider over the next mornings provide insight and context into the important male-female issues with which he struggles.
TRAIL BOSS: So you want us to raise the curtain to allow full exposure to whatever spectacles emerge from the combination of amnesia, an erection, and the desires of this Cal
gary gal?
SHOSHONI: If you would be so kind, yes.
TRAIL BOSS: Well, the Shoshonis I’ve met along the trail have always been a pretty wise people, so I will defer to your judgment and fine name on this one.
SHOSHONI: Excellent. And yes, Shoshoni is a fine name, is it not? I adopted it just this week and I am already rather fond of it.
TRAIL BOSS: Say, did your name use to…
SHOSHONI: Stop right there, dear one, lest we give away too much too soon. For now, let us move our attention to the more provincial name of Alberta and its owner who has recently roused from her slumber and begun her tender expressions of sexual intimacy.
JANUARY 21 – early next morning
“Oh, for crying out loud. What’s your problem now?” the naked woman complains as you awaken sputtering against her kisses.
You open your eyes to a face from dreamtime glowering at you. “Alberta?” you ask in shock, looking desperately around the decorated tent to get oriented. “Am I dreaming?”
“Geezus, I thought we went through all this last evening,” Alberta grumbles reaching down your blanket to remind you with a vigorous grasp and rhythmic motion of the topic at hand. “The scared rabbit routine won’t work a second time, sweetie, not when you’re standing so rigid at the ready.” Her movements grow more enthusiastic as she removes your cover and mounts your ready, if not particularly willing, Self.
A sense of panic is growing, a feeling of being out of control. Where the hell are you? Billowing cloth is above you, the hard ground below, and a drum majorette from dreamtime is gyrating atop you trying without success to get you to join the beat. “I’m sorry,” you gulp as you free yourself, “but I don’t know where I am.”
“You’re in deep shit, that’s where you are,” Alberta retorts as she yanks your blanket around her shoulders. “I’ll give you one minute to fully wake up and start showing some respect to a lady.”
You gaze around the canvas enclosure, feeling bewildered. “I am fully awake, but I don’t remember a thing. Where the blazes am I?”
Alberta closes her eyes in frustration, “Damn, it’s déjà vu all over again. Not a whit of memory, eh?” You shake your head. Alberta falls onto her back, staring up at the multi-colored cloth decoratively hung from the tent’s ceiling. She begins speaking and takes the next half hour to explain all she knows about you and the current situation. Only her mention of the Kumba Mehla strikes any chord in your flat memory. “So you can understand,” she concludes, “why I was pissed at you for acting like some virgin bride this morning.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” she quips sarcastically.
You look at Alberta, not quite knowing what to make of her. You ask, “Do we love each other?”
She gets a bored look on her face and replies, “Sure, why not?” After a brief silence Alberta states with significantly more feeling, “You know what really ticks me off is that pipsqueak swami who didn’t bother to tell me any of this at our dinner the other evening. Why the hell couldn’t Cy Bubha have warned me about your recurring amnesia thing?”
“Maybe he didn’t know,” you speculate about this unknown person.
“No, Bubha is a shrewd little bastard. He knew a lot more than he was telling me over dinner. Get dressed,” she commands jumping to her feet, “and we’ll crash his little revival down by the riverside.”
The walk together along the Ganga takes you through a plethora of morning sights, sounds, and smells. Some are pleasant, some discordant, but the overall effect is one of distinctive harmony arising from the chaos—India at its best. You arrive at a small open space above which flies the banner announcing, Shri Shri Cy Bubha, a Postle of Light. To the side of the clearing is a wooden booth housing Bubha’s Country Kitchen and T-shirt Stand. The breakfast special of huevos rancheros, toast, and homefries has attracted a number of hungry Westerners sitting in the open and enjoying a taste of Texas.
“Ah, my flock returneth,” declares a voice shouting from a tent. A robed man emerges with long arms spread in greeting and blessing.
“You creep,” Alberta responds, “why didn’t you tell me he awakens as a zombie each morning?”
“And spoil the fun of the lovebirds’ reunion?” Bubha replies walking towards you. “Nothing like a little surprise to spice up the dullness of relationship. Howdy, zombie boy, how’s it hangin’?”
Alberta immediately answers for you, “It’s hanging fine, but he doesn’t have a clue what to do with it anymore, damn it. And you were no help.”
“Well, a sexacologist I am not, but a chef I be. My trainees behind the counter are still learning the nuances of country cookin’ but I can offer you a humble taste of home at India prices. It’s a great means for attracting foreigners and their currency into my web, both of which I convince with golden tongue to remain steadfast with me.”
“You really are a manipulative bastard,” remarks Alberta as she turns toward the breakfast booth.
“We all manipulate, my dear,” Bubha counters. “Some of us are just more forthright about it.”
“I still say you should have helped out your forgetful friend and me a bit more.”
“And how, pray tell, should I have accomplished that? You wish me to play God, to presume that I knew what was best for you then control events to bring the proper results? Oh, I could have made things go more smoothly, made the sheep more comfortable and received their bleats of gratitude for being such a nice guy. But is that helping you? Nay, all a humble servant can do for his fellow man is to be honest.”
“You call your antics being honest?” asks Alberta incredulously.
“I do indeed,” Bubha proclaims. “To be honest in expressing who I truly am; to be honest in following my yes at any given moment without pretense—this is the mark of an honorable man who serves the world to his fullest capacity. And it takes courage to follow this path where the ignorant folk sling slurs at you such as creep.”
The guru holds up a restraining hand as Alberta takes a breath to protest. He announces, “Let us pause for peaceful dining, since those running on empty stomachs are at a disadvantage to my speedy charge into the philosophic. Huevos rancheros, amigos?”
Bubha escorts you both to the counter then wanders off to visit with other diners. You and Alberta tote steaming breakfasts to a spot under the banner and sit cross-legged on the ground. A few trees and a stretch of boulders are the only things lying between you and the sacred Ganga. It is a beautiful view, with a few morning bathers at the nearby shore and a few million people in the tent city behind you.
“You say I’m supposed to know this guy, this Shri Shri Cy Bubha?” you ask Alberta after enjoying a mouthful of spicy eggs.
“Well, he said you sent him in your place for dinner on the 18th while you went off swaddled in orange searching for the Great Pumpkin or some such nonsense. He wouldn’t respond seriously to my questions about you or what had really happened. He was witty, charming, intelligent, and damned evasive that evening.” Alberta reflects a moment and states, “The creep’s right, though.”
“About what?”
“That we serve the world best by being honest with what we feel rather than by trying to do what our little brain thinks is right for others. I’d much rather be with the guy who knows what he wants and goes for it openly than be with the one who is trying so hard to figure out what makes me happy.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. We all are only trying to get what we want; that’s just human nature. Those nice guys are unconsciously manipulating me instead of clearly taking care of their own needs for happiness, approval, control, self-gratification, whatever. You’d agree if you remembered anything about your past.”
“Oh, but I do agree, wholeheartedly,” Bubha’s voice chimes in from behind. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s hard not to eavesdrop when someone is capitulating to my wisdom.”
Alberta shrugs and concludes, �
��It just seems like it would be a safer world if we admitted that we are trying to get our needs met—and then go for it honestly.”
“So you saw, Eat, Drink, Screw, Sleep, too,” Bubha laughs as he sits.
“Actually I did, but I think it all started with, Suck. Just scream and holler until we get the nipple flowing with milk. To hell if Mommy’s sleeping. With age, we only learn to suck off others more subtly and less honestly.”
“My dear,” Bubha raises his teacup in toast, “you sound as cynical as I and nearly as wise. Hear-hear.” He then turns to you and asks, “So, buddy boy, how does it feel to be at the mercy of two self-indulgent hedonists who see the world as their oyster and you the shill to pry open?”
Alberta adds, “And who believe that the honest expression of our needs serves each other in a perfect cosmic dance?” They clink teacups and laugh.
“A little scary for one without memory, I would imagine,” Bubha continues as he looks again to you. “Hell, you could end up being robbed blind in a cave and left to wander like a lost soul if that were someone’s idea of a good joke and a source of needed income.”
Before you have a chance to respond, Bubha hollers at the breakfast booth, “Hey guys, bring my good buddy here some more huevos.” He then stands, “Sorry, but I’ve got to start my guru gig before the audience leaves for better food. Hang around to listen if you want.”
“Thanks but that was enough bull for now,” Alberta responds. “I’m going to take zombie boy for a walk after breakfast. Maybe I can get him retrained in the eat, drink, suck, and screw cycles of life.”
Bubha laughs, “Have fun, homeboy. And ya’ll come back tomorrow for grits.”
You sit in the swirl created by this rapid exchange of words, wondering if these two people are really your friends.
BY EVENING YOU are exhausted as you finally return with Alberta to the tent after a day filled with the life cycle of eat, drink, walk, shop—and little energy left for anything else. You did, however, have some pleasant stops to rest and watch the plethora of pilgrims at the Kumba Mehla festival. Plus, it was interesting to observe Alberta bargain in her fluent Hindi with the vendors; although you have no idea what she will do with some of the exotic items purchased.
What a woman to have as a companion and tour guide through the one day of your current life—and the keeper of your memory at night. She has so many sides, you think, as you watch your companion unpack her purchases that add to the surreal look of the tent’s interior. Yes, you could imagine that she is a great partner for doing improvisational theater. Wild, spontaneous, quick, and sensitive to those around her. Probably great in bed if you could keep up with her—not something you care to try under current conditions. But Alberta is understanding as you hang up your sadhu clothes and wrap your nude body snugly in the blanket. She kisses you gently, blows out the candles, and zips into the bag next to you. You feel a hand resting tenderly on your side as you drift into a sound sleep.
JANUARY 22 – the following dawn
Alberta awakens in the early morning light and arises carefully so as not to disturb your slumber. She makes use of the chamber pot then loosely fastens a white robe around her that she purchased yesterday for the upcoming occasion. Stepping back to where you are lying, she looks tenderly at your sleeping self and smiles. She then straightens her shoulders, assumes a stern look and shouts, “How in Isis’s name did you sneak thy way into the inner sanctum?”
You awaken with a start to see a woman in pure, white robe looming above you amidst billowing colored cloth. “Answer me plebe, or I shall call the guards who will dispatch thy worthless life in five seconds.” The woman raises her hands as if to clap in summons, still scowling at your plebian presence lying in a blanket.
“Wait,” is all you can think to say in the fog of your mind. Then the woman’s face breaks through the mists of your dreamtime memory and you ask, “Alberta?”
Her raised hands turn to fists. “How dare ye mock the High Priestess with the name of a commoner. Explain thyself or die.” You are without explanation, your mouth open but unmoving, your eyes filling with panic as the priestess turns to summon the guards. Then the tide shifts as she slowly pivots back to face you, her look of sudden comprehension shows with a sly smile. In one smooth motion she whips the blanket from your naked body.
“Ah, just as I thought, an acolyte coming to worship the Goddess,” she nods staring at your erection. “Fool that you are, not knowing that any man who entereth the inner sanctum unbidden shall lose his memory. Were you not aware of this price thou payest for ecstasy?” You simply shake your head like a fool, wondering if this is all a dream. “But thou art blessed this morning, acolyte,” she continues as her robe falls open with a shake of her shoulders, exposing a tantalizing corridor of naked curves, flesh, and a velvety gateway to the goddess. “For the High Priestess is eager and ready for worship this morning in the ritual of the Triple Gem. Have ye heard tell of this ceremony, plebe?”
A second nervous shake of your muddled head accompanies the priestess’ provocative shimmy that sends her robe tumbling to the ground. Even through your anxiety, you cannot take your eyes off of this stunning display of woman standing before you in full glory. “Some men live to tell the tale,” she says while slowly walking around you, “some do not. But do not worry, acolyte, for upon the third climax of the Priestess—after three orgasmic gems—ye shall be given back your identity and released to reenter the world of mortals. Doth ye follow instructions well?” You can only gaze in amazement, still wondering if this is a dream as she lowers herself to your lips.
NO, IT WAS NOT a dream, and yes, you received your identity, if not memory. Following her third sparkling gem, Alberta explained all she could about your life and situation, ending with a kiss on your nose. You lie silently afterwards, listening to the clamor of the Kumba Mehla outside the tent—sounds previously explained as chanting and drumming of temple servants preparing a post-Triple Gem feast. The charade is over and you are filled with conflicting emotions as you watch this wild, beautiful, and manipulative woman get dressed.
“Maybe we can catch a late breakfast at Cy Bubha’s if you don’t mind grits,” Alberta suggests as she tosses you a pile of orange clothing.
You take some time to unwrap the garb and finally say, “I don’t know what to think.”
“Good, get used to that condition, sweetie, and be grateful for experiencing the best sex we’ve had since Poona.”
“But it was such a controlling thing to do to someone with amnesia.”
“Oh for pity sake, the Steven I know would be laughing at the Triple Gem Ceremony and congratulating me on a fine performance,” she says while sitting by your side and taking your hand. “And using his imagination to come up with the rousing ritual of the Two Family Jewels or some such sweet revenge.” You smile and shrug as Alberta continues, “Would you prefer that I gently awaken zombie boy and we civilly take all day to sort things out? Hell, amnesia at night would be a mercy killing if we just created those kind of memories each day.”
“What do we have together in our normal life?”
“Hard to describe,” Alberta replies while pausing to think. “We are alive and real and in the moment. Often in conflict, sometimes in harmony, usually driving each other crazy after a week or two at the level of intensity we burn. Always glad to say good-bye, but even more delighted to see each other again when it’s time.”
“Do we have other lovers?” you ask tentatively.
Alberta laughs and gives you a tender kiss. “The way your body responded this morning, sweetheart, I doubt that you have had one in a long time. Let’s go get some breakfast.”
YOU AND THE FORMER temple priestess sit on the ground cross-legged, a plate of grits and fried eggs balanced in each of your laps. An amiable dialogue between seekers and Shri Shri Cy Bubha is going full tilt as you listen to the discourse this late morning.
“Okay, not a bad premise,” the guru observes. “Now, someone else y
ell out your favorite spiritual truth, if you dare.”
“Oneness!” a brave soul ventures. With a rolling gesture of his sinewy arms, Bubha encourages the man to expand on this notion. “The unity of all,” the man continues, “and the importance of transcending duality to live as one in the world with everything.”
“Great!” Cy Bubha cries in delight. “A perfect example of a punch line that is hard to argue with and even harder to live by. How many of you really experience that you and I are one entity, not two; or that this tree is you as much as your body is; or that you are One with the piles of garbage and worse along the river? I venture that none of us does.
“We may sincerely believe this punch line—that there is only a unified energy field and we are all one big something together—but we still think and live in duality. And those who try to force themselves to live the punch line of unity end up like zombie boy here wandering around mumbling, Mommy and I are one.” The guru winks at you. “Nope, we just can’t get ahead of ourselves in this game of transformation. Honesty is the only policy, accepting where we are and going full tilt boogie with it. Next question.”
“So is a God there to help us boogie in the right direction?” queries another seeker.
“Ah, the great yes-and-no question of the ages, answered in a thousand different ways—words, swords, and rational thought optional.”
“So, is there a God?”
“Well, here’s an option to consider,” Cy Bubha expounds. “Once you work through your skepticism about God and finally know and love God with all your heart, then you realize the next punch line that there is no God out there and you start the cycle again at another angle. A maybe, yes, and no answer where each component is true depending which way you tilt the picture. Always seems to boil down to a shifting paradox when we get to the deeper questions, now don’t it?”
Many in the crowd nod in agreement, although one person interjects, “Well, I think God is love, plain and simple.”
“Fair enough,” Bubha responds, “if that’s your truth. But if we limit God to love, we next have to create a devil or infidels or a hidden shadow to house the not so lovable sides of existence—and then it all can really get crazy.” He gets a mischievous look on his face while asking, “Wanna see just how crazy a master of dual choices can get?”
And with that, the guru leaps into the air, doing a complete circle and lands shouting, “So, who will trade their wristwatch for what’s hidden in the box?” He points to the table with one hand where Herald has placed a colorful box, while using his other hand to hold an imaginary microphone to his mouth. “No takers, eh?” Bubha continues even before the audience has recovered from the surprise of seeing their guru transform into a television game show host. “Then who has a 1999 ten-rupee note to trade for the gift in the box?” He hustles around the group of spectators, many of whom are squinting at their ten-rupee bills.
“Hey,” someone observes in frustration, “there’s no year shown on rupee notes.” Bubha continues prowling the audience, not responding to the person’s comment.
Finally a man catches on, waves a dateless ten-rupee note in the air and hollers, “I’ve got a 1999 one!”
“Excellent!” Cy Bubha exclaims. “A man who understands he creates his own reality through perceptions. So run on up and see what you win,” the host directs as he snatches the ten rupees from the man.
“Far out, a trekker’s flashlight!” the man exclaims with delight as he finds an expensive, albeit used, model in the box. Herald escorts the man back to his seat as the master of ceremony continues in steady pace to the next deal, taking a hundred-rupee note from a woman for what’s in his pocket.
“Aw, too bad,” Bubha says in mock disappointment as he pulls out the prize. “Just a worthless old cassette tape of airy-fairy stuff called Instrumental Sweetness.” The contestant looks irritated as the host asks, “Do you have a cassette player with you for listening to this tape?” She shakes her head as the guru bursts out, “Well, you do now!” Cy Bubha pulls out a portable cassette machine while the woman gives him an enthusiastic hug.
“And now for a real treasure,” Bubha continues in non-stop banter as he signals Herald to bring a silver box to him. “Who will trade two American pennies for this valuable box of jewelry?”
“Hey, that American penny thing isn’t fair to the rest of us from other countries,” a woman in front protests in a thick European accent.
“You’re right, darlin’. So what country are you from?”
“Belgium.”
“Okay, I’ll trade this jewelry for two American pennies or two Bolivian pesos,” Bubha proclaims as he again prowls the audience for a lucky winner. He arrives to where you are sitting, grabs your arm, and pulls you up front while addressing the irritated Belgian, “You’re on the wrong planet if you expect fairness.
“Wow, what a surprise!” he continues as he fishes two pennies out of the side pocket of your shoulder bag. “An enthusiastic contestant is delighted to trade his pennies from heaven for this box of precious jewels.”
You look through the assortment of clip-on earrings and other jewelry that this man has just handed you, feeling awkward in front of the group. “What would I do with this stuff?” you ask the guru as you give him back the box.
“My question exactly, and maybe you’ll remember the answer someday. But I can see you are currently eager to trade your jewels for what’s behind the curtain.” He points to the table where Herald is holding a dirty dishcloth like a tiny curtain. While handing the box of jewelry to the Belgian woman Bubha adds as a quick aside, “No fairness on this planet, darlin’, but plenty of abundance. It’s all yours.”
The master of ceremony then signals Herald to drop the curtain as he grabs the unveiled object and shouts. “An authentic souvenir tile from beautiful Sedona, Arizona! A gift that keeps on giving to remind its lucky winner that there’s no gift like the present—and no tomorrow if you get lost in the vortex. Congratulations, pal,” Bubha says handing you the Sedona tile and shoving you back towards the audience. “And don’t lose it,” he adds with a serious expression.
You stare at the colorful souvenir feeling happy, almost relieved, to have it although you have no understanding as to why. You sit back down next to Alberta and show her the tile. “Something is plenty fishy here,” she whispers. “Let’s get out of this trickster’s web and have a little chat.”
The two of you stand to leave while Bubha waves a farewell without missing a beat in his wheeling and dealing. “And what would you trade for this lovely digital watch? The damn alarm rings at one o’clock every night but what the hell.”
You are out of range to hear the outcome of Cy Bubha’s latest deal as Alberta observes, “That likable little creep is a hard one to figure. He’s holding all the cards and still playing them too close to his chest to see. I wish I knew what he’s up to.”
“How so?” you ask.
“Take that Sedona tile in your grubby hand for instance. Are you grateful to him for it?”
“Well, yeah, it’s pretty and it feels kind of nice to have.”
“It was yours to start with, zombie boy. Or at least ever since a blonde bombshell from Poona gave it to you after some simply divine energy work. Plus if I had gotten a better look at that jewelry Bubha was giving away, I bet I would have recognized it as well.”
“You think he stole it from you?” you react with shock.
“Nope, from you, prince charming. You actually don’t look half bad in earrings and accessories on stage. And my guess is that those were your flashlight and tape player he traded away. Plus, how did Bubha know about the two pennies in your shoulder bag unless he had put them there himself?”
You and Alberta walk slowly into the heart of the Kumba Mehla as these questions and quandaries follow your footsteps. You pause at times to discuss the mysteries, but mostly just enjoy the three-ring circus of the Kumba Mehla—swimming in the Ganga, trying out various food stalls, and watching holy m
en, sadhus, and charlatans go through various gyrations on their paths to self-realization.
At the end of the long day you lie in your blanket by candlelight inspecting the souvenir tile that holds your fascination. You are distracted as well by Alberta in a revealing robe unpacking the fruits of her latest shopping efforts. “A pair of purple socks, a souvenir knife with curved blade, and a yellow turban,” you observe with a laugh while watching her. “The height of fashion for the well-dressed pilgrim.”
“Depends on which planet you’re visiting.” She wiggles her index fingers at her temples like alien antennae as she joins you with a hug.
“Who did you say first gave me this Sedona tile?” you ask while enjoying the warmth of Alberta’s body.
“Just some woman you know from Poona named Prema. Or at least Prema was it last I heard. That gal changes her spiritual name as often as her panties.”
“What’s she like?”
“Well, let’s just say she is a petite woman who has a huge doorway to her heart—and with the knockers to match. You are one of the brave, the many, who have taken advantage of her gifts of energy and openness.”
“You sound cynical.”
“Not really. I actually respect that Prema goes for what she wants. Maybe after watching this Bubha fellow in action, I’m just suspicious of everyone. Quite a day, wasn’t it?” she asks giving you a long kiss.
“Best one I can remember,” you answer drolly.
Alberta smiles back. “You can say that again, or at least you will tomorrow evening.”
“Oh-oh, I think you’ve already made some plans for our next wake-up skit,” you conclude while looking into your companion’s mischievous face. She stays mum and gives a noncommittal tilt of her head. “You do realize,” you say in gentle warning, “it was quite a shock to my system this morning to be awakened by an angry priestess who manipulated me that way?”
“Are you whining, acolyte?”
“No, but I am serious about your being a little more considerate of my disoriented morning self, okay? Waking up to full amnesia is no picnic.”
Alberta coos reassuringly as she settles into her sleeping bag, “Not to worry, sweetie, not to worry.”
JANUARY 23 – early next morning
“Fuck me or die, slave!”
Your morning wakeup call has arrived, standing with one foot on either side of your chest. Through bleary and astounded eyes, you see a giant of a woman looming above you cleaning her fingernails with the point of a curved knife. She is wearing purple knee socks, a yellow turban, glittering jewels—and nothing else but a scowl.
“Is there something you don’t understand about these options, slave?” she asks squatting down to sit on your stomach. “Fucking me means sex, dying means death. Simple choice.”
Through some distant memory of dreams her face looks familiar. “Alberta?” you ask tentatively.
“Damn,” the woman exclaims with a frown, “they promised to fully erase your memory banks before delivery. No use trying to reprogram a slave with old loyalties intact. What else do you remember?” she asks looking sternly down into your face.
“Nothing,” you mumble as her words take form in your hazy mind. “Slave?”
“Look, I won you fair and square in a card game on the fifth sister of the Pleiades, so don’t go whining about freedom or some such nonsense.” She gets off you so that breathing comes easier but your mind is still in a fog, not knowing if this is a nightmare, reality, or what. “Actually, I’m told you are a loyal and devoted slave. A bit small for your height but functional,” she adds whipping off your blanket and checking out your morning erection.
“What the hell?” you murmur as you grab back the blanket, jump up, and head for the tent exit. Sunlight flooding in from the eastern horizon stops you blind as you open the flap. As your eyes adjust you see an encampment of endless tents and people. Sounds of nearby drumming and chanting fill your ears.
“This Rigel Seven spaceport always has a hellacious backlog, but not to worry,” the woman purrs as arms wrap around you from behind followed by the press of her body against your back. “It will give us time to get acquainted and start creating your new memory patterns.”
You feel kisses on the back of your neck and shoulders that send chills down the spine and send your blanket to the ground. The woman closes the tent flap then turns you around to face her. You start to ask another question but she tenderly silences you with kisses on the lips that bring sensations that you can never remember feeling before. Her hands and subtle body movements against your sensitive skin add to the experience that becomes nearly overwhelming.
She is well attuned to your newly awakened senses, however, and keeps the rhythm of touches and kisses to a pace that brings you slowly and surely into the flow. You become captive to the feelings of the moment, to the sensations, to the morning that plays out with this imaginative woman. Her commanding presence and nurturing touches create a seductive web that prey eagerly mount, caught in the strands of pleasure, of pain, of delight that are spun by a master weaver until she finally offers you her gateway to enter, a passage into the unknown that, for the first time in your memory, you penetrate. The moment of entry takes your breath away, lost to the warmth and smoothness that tightens around you, contracting your awareness into a single point, a single focus where nothing exists but the heat and passion and pulse of union.
Even after the charade of slavery is exposed, you choose to stay in the web of the moment, remounting the patterns and pleasures in ways of your choosing while Alberta surrenders to the sexual rhythms you create. A forgetful man explores the ebb and flow of energy and juices and emotions that fill the body until the tide cascades again into vessel awaiting, a chalice where dark and light crackle, voices thunder, heartbeats pound with the cadence of ancient memory brought to the fore. A sigh of redemption, a cry of release, a prayer for the ages that enslavement between men and women will end. Resting now, you lie peacefully in the inner sanctum of this tall, dark-haired woman which provides, like forgetfulness, another welcoming refuge.
You and Alberta continue reclining in silent union as the sun journeys well into the sky outside the tent, each fully satisfied with the moment. No past or future tugs at the present to be remembered or defined, no words are spoken to explain and control the who, when, or where of what comes next. Finally, after getting dressed, Alberta leads you through the jumble of tents and campfires, a twisting trail that ends at a bath together in the sacred Ganga. Two foreign pilgrims emerge to sit upon separate rocks along its bank, drifting with the flow as the river carries its load quietly downstream.
At last, Alberta explains the past and present of your situation. You simply nod in your limited understanding and move into the shade to continue the river vigil. Hunger then shifts the focus to a path leading into the maze of activity; after eating, to retreat together to the privacy of the tent. A nap is followed by another sensual exploration of union amidst duality. A walk, more food, a two-hour meditation session, and the day is nearly done.
You lie in your blanket studying a souvenir tile that gives you a sense of comfort. There’s no gift like the present, it proclaims, a message corroborated by this day and the dark woman moving through the tent. She breaks the silence with a question as she removes the colored cloth from the ceiling. “Since when did you get so good at meditating for a two-hour stretch?”
You smile as Alberta winces and continues, “Right, stupid question to ask someone with amnesia. But I’ve never known you to be much of a meditator even though you’ve suffered through those ten-day Vipassana retreats. Maybe some good is coming out of amnesia to focus that scattered mind of yours. Plus it sure has given us the chance to play in improv like never before. What a day.”
“Unforgettable,” you reply, “or at least I hope I can remember it come morning.”
“We’ll just have to make new memories tomorrow.” Alberta’s tone turns mysterious as she swoops a violet scarf across your face
, “At dawn, we shall probe into the deepest depths and reach for the highest heights on the auspicious new moon day where all bad karma is cleansed by the Ganga.” She follows with a swoop of herself down into your arms.
“Is that why you’re putting away all the tent decorations tonight as part of the big Kumba Mehla bathing ritual tomorrow?” you ask.
“Nope, just a little remodeling to prepare the scene for your next wake-up call. But not to worry, sweetie, nothing quite so vigorous as today’s sex marathon.”
“Good,” you reply, “I think Big Ed is ready for a break.”
“More like Fast Eddy finally learning how to slow down before the finish. Linger longer in beautiful Allahabad!” Your curvaceous friend laughs while striking a provocative pose that will never find its way onto an India tourist poster. She then resumes gathering all items, causing the tent interior to look old and plain after she piles the decorations in one corner under a tarp. You hang onto the Sedona tile, however, and place it near your head while Alberta blows out all but one candle.
“You don’t mind if I leave this tile here, do you?” you ask the interior decorator from hell. “Somehow this souvenir has really caught my fancy.”
“I guess it won’t hurt the stage set for morning. We’ll just consider it a curious token to be left for the next daring expedition that attempts to scale the highest heights.”
“You didn’t buy any pitons and crampons today, did you?” you ask with a quaver, only half-joking about having stage fright over the impending wake-up skit.
Alberta laughs, “No sir, no props or permanent scars in tomorrow’s climb. Your job is simply to awaken mindless and confused. Think you can handle it?”
She blows out the last candle as your solemn pledge arises from the darkness, “I promise to do my best, to do my duty to God and my country. To be square and to obey the law of the pack.”
“Where did that propaganda come from?”
“The Cub Scout oath, I think.”
“God, what a messed up mind,” Alberta declares. “It’s time to say goodnight already.”
“Goodnight already, goodnight Dick, goodnight Chet. Ow! Goodnight Alberta.”
JANUARY 24 – daybreak at new moon
Alberta silently peers through the canvas flap, waiting for the arrival of the sun on the eastern horizon. When the first rays reach her position, she adjusts the flap to allow a sliver of bright sunlight to penetrate into the tent’s bare interior. She steps to where you are peacefully snoring then releases a desperate plea into your ear, “Sir Edmund, wake up. Oh please wake up, darling. You can’t die without me!”
You awaken to sharp slaps on your cheek and the strange pleadings of a woman kneeling by your side. “Thank goodness, Edmund, you’re still alive!” she gasps as she falls weeping into your arms. “Oh, darling, it’s hopeless. The Sherpas have left and we’re buried under ten feet of snow. And you’re freezing, my poor dear,” she says while vigorously rubbing your cheeks.
You look at this distraught woman whose face rings a distant bell from the world of dreams. “Alberta?” you ask.
She wails, “Oh God, no. It’s Hillary, Hillary your beloved wife. Can you remember anything?”
You try to think through the fog of your mind and nothing emerges. Your answer of no sends Hillary into another fit of lament. “Oh dear, the final stages of hypothermia have set into your brain,” your desperate tent mate cries as she applies a headlock and frantically rubs her knuckles against your scalp, giving you the nugae of a lifetime.
“Hey, that hurts,” you whine as you pull away from her resuscitative efforts on your chilled brain. “What the hell is happening?”
“Oh darling, we failed at scaling Mt. Everest but we still have each other. I love you so much,” she sobs, then suddenly looks up with glory shining in her face. “Our bodies will die frozen in darkness at twenty-thousand feet, but our love shall soar together into the next world.”
You respond in confusion, “But it’s warm and there’s bright light coming in through the tent flap.”
Hillary throws her body atop yours, desperately pleading, “No, Sir Edmund, don’t go into the Light without me! Hold me, darling, hold me. It’s so cold and I’m freezing. So cold, so cold…” Her strength starts to fail as she whispers, “Do you hear the drums and chanting of angels at the tunnel to heaven? So beautiful…so bright and warm...oh, Edmund, now, now…into the Light together…” And she collapses, a dead weight lying on top of you.
“Hillary? Hillary?”
The limp woman does not respond as you gingerly roll her body off you, but her fingers still cling to your blanket as you pull yourself free. You cannot tell if the she is breathing, but then a rattling from her throat croaks, “Now, Sir Edmund! If you love me, enter the Light now.”
You stand and stare at this woman whom you apparently love but cannot remember. Nothing is clear. Everything feels surreal as the etheric drums and chanting rattle in your brain. You look at the slit of bright light coming in through the entrance, wondering how it penetrates through the deep snow. You reach down to check on Hillary, but a final death-throw jerks her torso into a sitting position topped by a demonic face that would scare the pants off you if you weren’t already naked.
“Into the Light, go!” she gurgles through bared teeth while one crooked finger points in a command that even the hounds of Hades could not disobey. Her wild, bulging eyes stare madly as you turn and lurch out the tent flap, blinded by the brilliant white light.
The nearby drumming and chanting suddenly stop. You shade your eyes from the newly risen sun and observe the various looks of puzzlement, amusement, and disgust that greet your naked entry into the Light. You instantly deduce that this is neither heaven nor the slopes of Mt. Everest as you duck back into the tent to avoid the curious onlookers. There you find a resurrected Hillary rolling on the ground in mad laughter at the success of her theatrical joke.
Anger and confusion mix in your raging mind as you demand, “What the fuck is going on?” But your companion is too convulsed with laughter to respond. You look around the austere tent trying to get oriented, when a dash of color from the floor catches your attention. You step over and pick up a souvenir tile depicting a gift box—and your question is instantly answered. Your face, distorted by anger, slowly shifts into a broad and lasting smile.
“Alberta! Alberta, I can remember!”
PART FOUR
“Any half-wit can learn a spiritual punch line.
But only a full-blown fool will master the cosmic joke.”
- Shri Shri Cy Bubha
The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never Page 11