The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never

by Steven J. Shupe

JANUARY 24 – morning (continued)

  “Hot damn!” you rejoice as the curtain over your memory begins to lift. You stare at the colorful tile in your hand vaguely recalling that a man named Cy Bubha returned it to you the other day. “And you said it had been a gift to me from a blonde women…” you state to Alberta as a mosaic in your mind slowly takes form from pieces of the past. “Prema’s her name! Hey, and I remember being with her at a river. This Cy Bubha fellow was around there, too. Where was that?” you ask yourself as the search through percolating memories continues.

  “The Ganga?” Alberta adds trying to help her awakening friend.

  “Phool Chatti Ashram! Yeah, I remember waking up there morning after morning with this amnesia thing. That’s where I was living and where most of my belongings are.” You smile in triumph at Alberta but then suddenly flush red with anger. “Damn it, that creep is giving away my stuff. Oh, sweet Jesus, what a set-up!” you exclaim as memories of Bubha drugging you in the cave shine through the widening slit of recollection. “Come on,” you command while grabbing your orange clothes. “We’ve got to stop that bastard from giving away my sleeping bag and backpack this morning.”

  Alberta heads for her clothes as well but suddenly stops in bewilderment. She looks at where you have just dropped to the ground holding your head in your hands. “Steven, you look so pale. What’s going on?” she asks consolingly.

  Alberta joins you on the ground with an arm around your shoulder as you stare into space. You do not want to answer her question. Somehow speaking the words will make this nightmare more intense, more tangible. But there is no awakening into a flood of relief from this current drama. The knot in your stomach is real and so is the shaky voice that finally answers, “I’m wanted for murder.”

  “Well, did you do it?”

  You react with equal parts of anxiety and surprise at her matter-of-fact question. “You think I’m capable of such a thing?”

  “Can you remember anything about a murder?” she responds, avoiding your question.

  You take a moment to try to bring together all the facts, all the memories floating through your active mind. But they are stopped cold at a large barrier over which you cannot see. Your memory begins on a mid-December morning as you awoke confused and forgetful at Phool Chatti Ashram. Everything before that time remains forgotten.

  “Oh shit,” you gasp as additional memories push the bad into worse, “that Guruji guy has been controlling my mind, hypnotizing me into amnesia. I bet this Sedona tile is some post-hypnotic trigger to give me back partial memory—and maybe to make me do all sorts of weird things,” you deduce while quickly laying the tile face down on the tent floor.

  “Sweetie, slow down. Now you’re sounding paranoid,” Alberta responds with genuine concern. “Guruji is a sweet old guy that wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  “Does he speak English?”

  “Of course, quite well.”

  “See,” you reply, feeling the trap tighten. “He was pretending not to know English with me at Phool Chatti. Plus he was monkeying around with my umbrella and my hut and who knows what else.” You close your eyes trying to pull together the memories into one clear picture. But even with all the events of the past month vivid in your recollection, nothing really makes sense.

  “Do you actually remember Guruji hypnotizing you?”

  “No, but Cy Bubha told me about it as Guruji was chasing us through the forest last week.”

  Alberta nods her head in understanding, “And I bet Bubha was the one who informed you that you’re wanted for murder, too, right?”

  “Yes, but I know he was telling me the truth when I pinned him down to answer for real.”

  “Well, what’s real with that trickster is anyone’s guess. And you could drive a Mack Truck through his version of truth. Time for another trip to the riverside to rescue your goodies and get some answers.”

  The two of you stand but big brother fear plays its hand. “I think I’d better wait in the tent,” you announce.

  “Why?”

  “The police are looking for me. Bubha said the newspaper reported that the murdered guy’s wife was probably here in Allahabad. We were supposedly having an affair.”

  “Even if that’s all true, your sadhu disguise will serve you well. Just get dressed and keep the faith.”

  Your thoughts continue to race as you put on your orange clothing. Details of conversations and dates, even slight variations in your daily routine at Phool Chatti, are now easy to recall—but only those occurring since the morning of December nineteenth. Yes, that is the date when this all seems to have begun, when the mind shut down from the past. Try as you might, neither can you remember any earlier events of your life nor can you begin to make full sense of what has been happening these past weeks. It seems logical that Guruji hypnotized you into amnesia, you conclude, but Bubha is the one who clearly has been messing with your mind and possessions.

  You start walking out the tent with Alberta when you stop with a puzzled look on your face. “You speak Hindi, don’t you?”

  “Pretty well,” she answers.

  “Are these sadhu guys really into Arnold Schwarzenegger and The Terminator?”

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “But—”

  Alberta interjects, “Just assume that for every stupid question you have, Shri Shri Cy Bubha is the answer.”

  But neither Bubha nor answers await down by the riverside. Not even his banner remains flying as you see it lying in tatters next to the splintered remains of a former country kitchen. But what makes your heart race and your body duck behind cover is the sight of two Allahabad cops standing by the wreckage.

  “Damn, Bubha had my passport after stealing my stuff from the cave,” you whisper to Alberta, deducing that the trail to the police’s murder suspect must be very hot indeed.

  “Don’t jump to any hasty conclusions, Steven. I’ve seen this wreckage dozens of times in India where an illegal vendor failed to pay enough baksheesh to the police. I’ll just casually stroll up to check things out,” she says trying to sound casual. “But this time I agree that you should lay low just in case they are looking for you as a fugitive.”

  She gives your arm a squeeze then walks to the clearing and surprises the officers with her fluent Hindi. A short conversation ensues and she returns to your hiding place smiling. “Seems that the holy officials of the Kumba Mehla didn’t approve of Cy Bubha’s raffle and other innovative ways to seek donations,” Alberta reports. “Or at least his techniques raised a few eyebrows and palms that failed to get sufficiently greased.”

  “Did you find out where Bubha is?”

  “I asked but the cops just told me to go find a real guru.”

  “What to do now?” you ask yourself aloud in an exhale of both relief and concern.

  Alberta answers, “Take solace in knowing that your sleeping bag and backpack will likely bring comfort to an officer-of-the-peace in Allahabad. And that our little buddy is savvy enough, I’m certain, to survive this ordeal without losing his cheery disposition or your incriminating passport.” She smiles then adds perkily in a shift of mood, “So how about a sacred bath on this morning of the new moon?”

  “Are you kidding?” you respond immediately. “I’m outta here as fast as I can catch a train—which should be easy today with everyone sticking around for the big bath ceremony.”

  “Heading to where, super sadhu?”

  “As you said, Bubha is the key to all my questions, plus he’s the self-appointed trustee of my funds and passport, if either remains intact. Since he’s probably been banished from this festival, my best bet is to try to find him at his little Alamo at Neelkanth village.”

  Alberta whispers in mock suspense, “Plus that will give super sadhu a chance to reconnoiter under cover of darkness at Phool Chatti Ashram where the evil guru lurks with hypnotic web to capture unsuspecting Westerners.”

  “Come on now,” you protest, “this is serious stuff going on. Are
you really so sure that Guruji is above reproach? This is India after all.” You punctuate the point by nodding toward the ruins of Bubha’s encampment.

  “To be honest, no, I don’t know Guruji well enough to unquestionably vouch for his character. I just hate to see my partner getting paranoid and losing his sense of humor.”

  “Well, when I finally see something to laugh about in this, I’ll be the first to join you in a good belly whopper. But right now I’m getting out of this city where the wife of a dead cricket player or the police may put me into a headlock without benefit of Hillary’s resuscitative nugae.”

  You smile wanly at your feeble attempt at humor as Alberta gives you a hug. “That’s the spirit partner. And I’ll be your Nancy Drew for Hindi translations and a little resuscitative nooky when needed. This may even become our most interesting improv piece yet. Although I will miss our amnesia wake-up skits, won’t you?”

  “No comment, although nicely done this morning, Hillary. In fact, in all three wake-up performances your sense of timing, sadism, and manipulation was impeccable.”

  Alberta bows. “Thank you, dahling. And to clear out bad karma that may have resulted from such machinations, I will take a quick Ganga dip this morning while you, Sir Edmund, break camp. Agreed?”

  TRAIL BOSS: Yep, our hero acquiesces, still tending towards being a little too malleable with his questionable guardian angel. But, hot damn indeed, at least he finally got some memory back, giving hope for this wandering wagon train to find its way home.

  The scene ahead shows our dynamic duo safely escaping from Allahabad while enjoying cozy sleeping berths on the overnight train, thanks to Alberta’s cash. A midday arrival in Laxman Jhula gives them plenty of time to drop Alberta’s luggage at Ravi’s Place and head up to Neelkanth village. Our character’s post-December 19th memory remains sharp so he has no trouble directing the jeep driver curbside to Bubha’s Neelkanth apartment building. And there they be, a pair of sleuths standing in the dusty main street of the village.

  January 25 – afternoon of the next day

  “That’s Bubha’s building entrance over there.” You point for Alberta’s benefit.

  “Well?” she prods.

  You continue to hesitate, wanting Bubha to be home but fearing what you may hear. So many emotions arise as you think of seeing this long-armed trickster again. You recall your laughter together, his genuine warmth at times, his thievery at others, and the manipulation that left you naked in the dust in the cave. But most pressing of all is the memory of him claiming that you are a man wanted for murder, a fugitive from justice. You must find out for certain, so you steel yourself and begin the final steps with Alberta by your side.

  You walk into the entryway of Bubha’s apartment building then pause a moment to let your eyes adjust to the dim light. The landlord is resting in the corner and looks up to see who has entered.

  “Atcha!” he exclaims as he jumps to his feet and hurries to the desk. An excited stream of Hindi accompanies his pointing at you while shaking a newspaper clipping in his hand. Less than one second elapses between your recognizing the picture on the paper and your dash through the door in a wave of anxiety that surpasses any yet experienced. Alberta takes the clipping, briefly notes the caption below a handsome cricket player, thanks the landlord for the information, then exits in far less haste than yourself.

  Trying to imagine where a scared rabbit would run, she heads in the direction leading out the village. Calmly, she sings in lovely voice as she strolls down the street, head and shoulders above the pilgrims in colorful garb who listen to her song. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” Alberta warbles with words and melody that are certain to reassure any native Kansan or stray munchkins that no danger lies in the immediate future. “And meet the young lady who fell from a star.”

  The ploy works as Alberta spots your head peering around a building. She walks to your hiding place, lifts the Hindi newspaper clipping to reading level, and translates the caption beneath the picture of the man you purportedly murdered, “India’s batsmen displayed superior technique but failed in their bid to defeat their Sri Lankan rivals in yesterday’s cricket test in Colombo.”

  It takes you a moment to grasp the significance of this sporting report, then you ask tentatively, “So the guy wasn’t murdered?”

  Your translator answers with a simple, “No.”

  You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or rage in fury. “There is also a note from Bubha attached.” Alberta continues reading:

  “How do you spell relief now, homeboy? Just thought you might want this picture as a little souvenir. Nothing like a verdict of acquittal to make the sun shine brighter. Plus you have a passport and money waiting at Phool Chatti Ashram that I left with Guruji, if you dare to face the hypnotic machinations of a master of mind control. Remain vigilant in this treasure hunt, since not everyone is as honest as I.”

  “What a guy,” you state shaking your head. “Is there a date on Bubha’s note?”

  “The landlord said he left it on his way to pick up the train for the Kumba Mehla last week. Bubha must have been a busy fellow the day after abandoning you in the cave and getting everything ready for departure. And no, he hasn’t returned,” she adds, anticipating your next question.

  “So it’s on to Phool Chatti, eh Nancy Drew?”

  “Looks that way, Hardy boy.”

  “So let’s go have some tea and plan out a strategy,” you suggest.

  “Strategy? To hire a jeep and drive a few miles down the hill?” Alberta looks at you like you’re crazy.

  “I mean for after we get down to Phool Chatti to scope things out. You know, to make sure this manipulative Guruji doesn’t give me a post-hypnotic suggestion that sends me off the deep end or something.”

  “Good grief, Hardy, isn’t being a paranoid idiot once a day enough?”

  “Nope, Miss Drew. If you’d lived in a fog of amnesia for a month, been facing a murder charge, and had a stupid souvenir tile trigger your memory, you might be cautious, too.”

  Alberta thinks for a moment. “Say, maybe it was the Sedona vortex energy in the tile that stimulated your memory.”

  “Good, now we’re both being idiots. Let’s go strategize.”

  AFTER THE STRATEGY SESSION and a ride down from Neelkanth, the jeep drops the two juvenile sleuths at the top of the Phool Chatti driveway rather than proceeding down to the ashram gate. The Hardy boy had lobbied hard with the Drew girl to implement this clever drop-off ploy to avoid detection of their arrival by the ashram’s evil swami. Hardy had suggested sneaking up on Guruji in his office, thumping him over the head with the ancient typewriter, and searching his drawers for old man Applegate’s stolen doubloons and pieces-of-eight. Nancy grew wise to the fact that Hardy had reclaimed his sense of humor and she bit his nose in response, inadvertently spilling tea and ending the strategy session. The young detectives then hired the jeep that is now motoring away from the drop-off point, as they both grow serious and reassume their true identities.

  Alberta walks down the driveway towards the ashram gate hoping to find Guruji. You head stealthily around the garden’s side entrance to check on the hut and to begin a quick inventory of your few possessions to see if anything has been pilfered—besides, of course, the souvenir tile that Bubha brought to the Kumba Mehla festival. But shortly after entering the hut, your focus of concern shifts dramatically as you rediscover the paperback book entitled, Meditation and Hypnosis in the Vedic Tradition.

  Of course! There it is, the clue that had been under your nose all along, its scent masked by forgetfulness. You quickly open to the table of contents where your worst fear is confirmed: Chapter 8: Inducing Amnesia through Hypnotic Trance. No question now remains in your deductive mind. An ancient technique of hypnotic mind control has been used by a modern-day bastard, Guruji, to manipulate you for weeks. Your satisfaction at unraveling this mystery is short-lived as anger at Guruji flares to the fore. But this emotion, too, is quickly snu
ffed by a flood of anxiety as you realize that you likely remain a pliable pawn to the old swami and his post-hypnotic commands.

  Your unease is compounded as movement outside the window grabs your attention. A knot forms in the pit of your stomach as you watch Guruji slowly approach with Alberta stumbling behind with a vacant look on her face and arms dangling limp at her side. Her bearded captor is carrying a metronome under his arm, a tool of his nefarious practice of mind control. Only quick thinking can save you from whatever hypnotic commands—both verbal and visual, you assume—lie in his arsenal that he is about to use on you. You immediately wedge a chair under the door handle and implement a clever, albeit noisy, countermeasure as Guruji and Alberta arrive at the hut looking at each other in bewilderment.

  “It sounds like the title song to Oklahoma,” Alberta shouts to Guruji above the racket you are making. She takes a step to the nearest window and peers through the bars.

  “Oh, for pity sake. Steven! Steven!” Alberta yells at you sitting on the bed with eyes tightly closed and hands firmly over your ears. You hear nothing but your own singing voice and see nothing until you dare to squint to check out the situation. You spy your friend at the window moving her mouth in muffled appeal. Rising from the bed you continue your defensive strategy which at this moment involves some wavin’ wheat that sure smells sweet.

  After moving cautiously to the window to check on Alberta’s hypnotic state, you are relieved to note she seems fully lucid and extremely animated in her verbal entreaty which appears from lips to read as, “Shut the fuck up already!” You stop singing, drop your hands from your ears, and learn that your lip reading abilities are accurate. Alberta next commands, “Just open the goddamn door.” You do and look suspiciously at the swami in the entryway. Your eyes move to glare at the metronome then return to Guruji’s face.

  “Welcome back, Steven,” the elderly swami states shyly. “Your companion said you would find humor in my bringing along the metronome. My apologies for our miscalculation.” He bows slightly.

  You have the presence of mind to return the courtesy and say, “Namaste,” in appropriate volume, as a gust of embarrassment comes sweeping down the plain onto your reddening face.

  Alberta clarifies, “Guruji only agreed to go along with my zombie-girl charade and carry the metronome since I promised never to use obscenities in his ashram or write them in the guest book again.”

  Guruji turns to her and notes, “A promise you already broke at the window, young lady.”

  “Whoops, sorry about that.”

  “And I’m sorry about my strange reaction to your arrival, Guruji,” you say with an apologetic smile. “I had just spotted that book about Vedic hypnosis and let my imagination carry me away.”

  “No need for apology. And the book is quite relevant to the moment, I might add,” the kindly swami continues in mild tone. “I have hypnotized you into amnesia but all in accordance with your requests.” Guruji responds to your puzzled look by pulling an envelope from his pocket. “Here, first read this and then we can continue our discussion in more comfort at my office.” You take the envelope and see your name scrawled on it in your familiar handwriting.

  Guruji continues, “And here is your passport and money along with a note of explanation from Cyrus that he left for you on his way to catch the train for the Kumba Mehla.”

  “From who?” Alberta asks.

  “A gentleman you know as Shri Shri Cy Bubha, I believe,” the elderly guru explains as he steps back to retreat through the garden. “I will look forward to your arrival at my office, Steven.”

  “Thank you,” is all that you can say to Guruji as you look with continuing confusion at the two envelopes in your hand.

  “Well, my singing Hardy boy, it appears as if you’ll be busy sorting through the mystery for awhile,” Alberta observes. “I’ll head up to the compound, call Ravi for luggage delivery, and get a room, while you piece together some new cause for paranoia.”

  You look up at Alberta and respond, “Okay, zombie girl, but kindly spare Guruji and me further theatrical embarrassment.” Alberta gives you a noncommittal wave as she leaves through the garden. You close the door to the hut, toss the large envelope from Bubha onto a shelf, and open the smaller one with your name and handwriting. Inside is a letter in faint print, apparently composed by you in December on Guruji’s old typewriter, that you immediately begin to read:

  HELLO MY FELLOW CREATOR. We sit on two sides of the same story, identical twins framing a tale of forgotten memories and new adventures. I am the director who carefully set the stage with creativity and detail, while you became the actor living the story in its fullness. Did we have an appreciative audience? That audience was you as well, since I am certain you remained attentive to your breathing, your body and mind. A silent witness, a forgetful man, a pilgrim to the Kumba Mehla--and what more you became these recent weeks I can only imagine. Oh yes, I am you and you, I. But a gulf of amnesia seems to muddy our sense of unity, does it not?

  Shall we remedy this little inconvenience? The time will soon arrive when we can, or more correctly, when you can elect to unite us. The choice is yours whether to include me--your past--as part of your future. But Guruji will explain all that shortly. My task of the moment is simply to welcome you back to Phool Chatti and explain how you arrived here.

  I am certain you have deduced that the souvenir tile is a key piece of the magic mosaic that carried you home. But let us follow the trail of breadcrumbs back to McLeodganj to where the loaf was baked and the plan plotted for your journey, thereby fully empowering your intellect so that you are not left feeling small and toad-like in your cultural depravity.

  Do you recognize this little ‘toad-like’ phrase from The ReMinder? That manuscript was our one daytime bridge of communication across the dimensions of space and time. I took great care in plotting where you would find these three sections of the reminder to your past. Our bridge of communication was, of course, supplemented nicely by a plethora of nocturnal dreams that we both can fully recall. I as director could have wiped out your dreamtime memory as well, but I chose to keep the past dreams alive for your entertainment and insight along the path.

  Such power I wielded back then before you took the reins on December 19 to act out the drama of amnesia. Sitting in my director’s chair in McLeodganj reading a book from Guruji about ancient Vedic practices, I learned that the dedicated seeker, with the help of hypnosis, can induce amnesia to move more fully into the present. Yes, why not apply a new tool to our fervent search for inner truth, particularly as The ReMinder was showing little promise of sending Identity leaping merrily into the abyss, and since new dream work had hit a lull. (Have you discovered yet what the Kamikaze is hiding from exposure that inhibits our dream work and re-Minding process?)

  So I joined Guruji at Phool Chatti in mid-December to create this drama. It is he who has overseen your efforts and is now prepared to answer all questions. Oh, how I wish I could ask questions of you now, particularly regarding the time at the Kumba Mehla with Alberta. By scheduling a dinner date with her for January 18, I wrote Alberta into the amnesia script without her knowledge. I trust that she served her supporting role well in refreshing ways--bless her imaginative heart and related accouterments.

  Through the veil of time, I can vaguely spy you upholding your end of the story. Can you detect me waving across the continuum? A twin of the past, the ghost of remembrance who comes to haunt you with promises of past glory and the pain of yesterday’s heartbreak. Farewell for now and best wishes, from the shell of your former self.

  P.S. If you hold the shell to an ear, perhaps ye shall hear the ocean roar.

  You put down the letter from your past self and you smile. Of course, it all makes sense. Well, not quite all but Guruji should be able to fill in the gaps, including explaining this mysterious choice ahead about reclaiming the past. Your memory still stops at December 19th, with no recall of your life before that date. But for now, you retrieve
Bubha’s envelope from the shelf and are relieved to again be in possession of a legal passport. The amount of money enclosed, however, appears far short of the nearly $400 worth of rupees that Bubha stole after serving you the Cyrus special tea. You quickly read the accompanying handwritten message that he wrote the day after deserting you at the cave.

  Welcome home, Pal.

  Now don’t get bent out of shape by being 300 dollars shy of expectations. I told you I didn’t come cheap, although you paid almost nothing for the benefits received. Hell, for what a weekend at Disneyland costs, you got the virtual reality experience of being an accused murderer, getting chased by an old geezer with hypnotic powers, and arising anew in birth from the dark cave of the void. My 50% commission was a pittance and I have tried to minimize expenses. But I knew you’d want me to travel first class to Allahabad, plus paying off the sadhus last evening to relinquish their cave, hiring the toothless Herald to follow you, etc., etc. You lawyers know how these billing procedures work.

  Plus it’s a damn good thing that I checked in here today with Guruji to see what I should know about your condition of induced amnesia. Seems that a Sedona souvenir tile needs to be in your sweaty palm by new moon day of the Kumba Mehla for you to get back some memory. Quite a little amnesia gig you two have concocted. Guruji is ticked that we ran away from him yesterday morning in the forest, but I told him we had a pressing engagement in a cave that evening for a lesson in holdovers and release. He was confused, but I assured him that we’ll be traveling on the same train this evening to Allahabad and not to worry about a thing. And if you are reading this note, then all’s well that ends well, eh pal?

  But as I recall, your dream ending has something to do with entering a cosmic Library of all-knowing. Well, buddy boy, don’t be surprised to find the library closer than you think, perhaps just beyond the fingertips. There, that’s a little hint of opportunities to come. Simply keep in mind that any half-wit like yourself can learn a spiritual punch line. But only a full-blown fool can master the cosmic joke.

  Your devoted servant and straight man,

  Cyrus ‘Bubha’ Rajnish.

  You put Bubha’s note back into the envelope as step-by-step you grow closer to answers to your questions. But new clues and mysteries arise as well as you recollect remnants of the past few weeks. You are grateful that the trail of the moment clearly leads to the promise of answers at the ashram office as you follow the path through the garden to where Guruji waits behind his desk.

  He beckons you into the office while stating, “I again express my regret at bringing the metronome to your room as some sort of joke. I fear I tend to become too agreeable in the presence of the fairer sex.”

  “Alberta can be convincing,” you agree with a smile, “but no need to apologize.”

  “What is that American expression that Prema uses for me?” Guruji looks into space until recalling the word. “Creampuff, I believe.”

  You laugh and ask, “So you know Prema well?”

  “Like yourself, she has become a frequent visitor to my ashram. Lovely girl and a bit too persuasive at times as well, I admit.” Guruji’s thoughts drift from the room but soon return to the moment carrying the thread of conversation that had gone on in his head. “Indeed, the inbreath and outbreath, the male and female, pain and pleasure are all one of the same coin, are they not?”

  “So it seems,” you reply not quite sure what you are agreeing to.

  “Well,” Guruji states while clearing his throat, “you are approaching a critical moment of decision in the amnesia process and one that requires preparation. Clarity is essential, so instead of my feigning ignorance of the English language in order to avoid your queries the past weeks, I will welcome your questions and shall be clear and thorough in my explanation of recent events.”

  “I’m all ears,” you respond, encouraging your teacher to continue.

  “On December 18th we undertook a lengthy hypnosis session to imprint you with the desired pattern of amnesia that you had chosen. This included programming you to a basic daily schedule of morning exercises, meditation sits, a Ganga bath, dream work, meals and the like. These were designed to provide a healthy daily routine as well as to keep you occupied in order to prevent too many excursions from the ashram. Outside interference can be a problem in this Vedic practice and may lead the student astray.”

  “Was Cy Bubha an example of this interference?” you query.

  “Precisely. Cyrus nearly ruined the exercise with his curiosity and, shall we say, his overreaching. You had been hypnotically programmed to resist informing others of your amnesia and to have fear arise at the prospect of people discovering your condition. But this was not enough to prevent you from being caught in Cyrus’s distractions. Of course, the monkeys that swept into your camp by the river were another unforeseeable influence on your unfolding program.”

  “How do you know about the monkey that stole my bananas and wake-up note?” you ask with surprise since you had not yet mentioned anything to Guruji about your journey away from the ashram.

  “Cyrus filled me in on his way to the Kumba Mehla train—at least to the extent he chose to share the facts. I in turn gave him an overview of our amnesia work and handed him the souvenir tile to present to you at the festival before the new moon day.”

  “Does the tile have special meaning or energy?”

  “No, you simply selected this possession as the post-hypnotic trigger for first, stimulating your desire to attend the Kumba Mehla, and second, for bringing back partial memory when you saw it on the day of the new moon in Allahabad. You had developed quite an intricate scheme and it worked nicely.”

  “Was it you, Guruji, who also brought into my hut the note admonishing against nude bathing after Prema and I had done so?”

  “Yes,” the swami replies curtly, “after an eye-witness reported your questionable riverside frolic with sweet Prema.”

  “But that beach is so well protected, I can’t imagine someone watching us there,” you continue with a questioning look. Guruji remains silent and awaits the next query from his pupil. After realizing no further beach explanation is forthcoming, you ask about another mystery, “Say, did you sneak in that rainy night to take my turquoise umbrella, and why did you give it back to me at lunch pretending it was a gift?”

  “Swami Nageet, my slender assistant, said he found the umbrella outside my office that morning. I simply returned it to you in the dining hall with gestures to indicate that it was yours.” Guruji suddenly shifts tone as if remembering something important. “By the way, we programmed into your mind that, upon seeing the briefcase lock, the combination of 1-2-5-1 would return to your consciousness. Do you recall that experience?” Guruji asks, effectively deflecting focus from umbrella to briefcase.

  You nod remembering the briefcase on your lap in the train from Haridwar to Rishikesh. “So that was part of the grand plan to get my passport and money to travel in comfort to the Kumba Mehla?”

  “Atcha, money indeed,” Guruji declares as he unlocks a desk drawer, withdraws some envelopes, and hands you a large one. “Yes, in answer to your question. Also, here are your credit cards and five thousand rupees you kept in my safekeeping. You will find enclosed as well a list of your bank account numbers, passwords, addresses, and other practical details that you will need if you choose not to reclaim your past memories and therefore need the written reminders.”

  You lean forward and ask, “What’s this big choice all about anyway?”

  Guruji assumes a more formal posture. “The choice ahead is no small matter—either to leave your past behind or to reclaim your memories of life. This decision has been made by thousands of disciples in traditional manner since ancient Vedic times. In the evening, the disciple shall forego dinner and social intercourse. Upon awakening in the morning, he shall proceed alone to the Ganga and bathe by fully immersing himself three times. Upon surfacing from the third plunge, the disciple will chant one of two pre-selected holy mantras t
hat determines his destiny.”

  “You mean that one mantra would trigger the full return of my memory and the other would not?”

  “Precisely,” Guruji affirms while opening an envelope with your signature on it, “although in December you have pre-selected two songs, rather than holy chants, that are personally meaningful to your choice ahead.” His voice assumes full authority as he announces, “You will choose one of these two alternatives after taking your ritual bath tomorrow. Option one—if you elect to recall your lifetime of memories—then you will sing,” Guruji holds the paper with your handwriting at arms length as he reads, “the theme song to the television western, Rawhide.”

  He appears puzzled but continues with the instructions. “Option two—if you choose to permanently erase all memory of your past—then you will sing,” and again he refers to the paper, “the Elvis Presley song, It’s Now or Never.”

  Guruji places the paper on the desk. “Perhaps I miss the cultural nuances involved with your song selections but I assume that the options are clear to you, yes?” You nod trying not to smile at this little joke of holy mantras hurled across time from your twin self of the past. “If these songs reflect your theatrical nature, Steven, that is fine. But please take the decision seriously that will chart your destiny for the rest of your life.”

  “Believe me, I will,” you reply as you take a moment to grasp the repercussions of what Guruji just said. “So if I sing, Rawhide, after taking three dunks in the Ganga, I will get all my memories back?” The elderly swami nods in the affirmative.

  “So what does it actually mean if I choose the option of singing, It’s Now or Never, in order to forget my past.”

  Guruji looks you straight in the eye. “It means that the memories of your life would begin with December 19, 2000, when the amnesia process commenced. Any memories before then, besides your past nighttime dreams, will be irrevocably lost.” You swallow, thinking that a permanent erasure of memory might be appropriate for a Vedic sadhu, but you have a hard time imagining this drastic measure for yourself.

  The kindly swami relaxes and continues in friendly tone, “Well then, I will look forward to seeing you after your bath tomorrow to learn whether you decided to restore your memory.”

  You bow and retreat from the office marveling at the fullness of this day. You awoke a few hours ago on a train from Allahabad feeling the fear of an accused murderer, then discovered at Neelkanth that you are a free man—and now you learn you are free even to choose whether to reclaim your past or not.

  Sitting in the ashram courtyard to let the latest news settle, you gaze at the blue statue that seems like one of the few friends you can remember. Before long, a familiar voice rings across the courtyard, one of human quality and eagerness. “Mr. Steven! Welcome back from the Kumba Mehla.”

  Finally you are able to return the familiarity of this young man’s greeting, although with slightly less enthusiasm, “Hello Ravi.”

  “Good trip?” he asks while toting Alberta’s two large bags towards the office.

  “Unforgettable,” you reply sparing him the details. “Thanks for arranging my ticket.”

  “And thank you for sending Shri Shri Cy Bubha to me. He said you wanted him to have a first class ticket and to give me big commission and tip.”

  “Yeah, right,” you respond while thinking of Bubha’s expense account covered with your money.

  Guruji hurries out to direct Ravi to Alberta’s upstairs room near the library. You grab a bag to help although Guruji politely reminds you not to linger longer than necessary in Alberta’s abode. You are glad to see her and, after assuring Ravi you will use him for all your travel needs, you eagerly share with Alberta the conversation you just had with Guruji.

  “So what do you think?” you ask after describing the details of the decision that awaits your morning bath.

  Alberta replies, “Intriguing options, and interesting choice of holy mantras. I bet the sacred Ganga has never before heard the thundering hooves of the Rawhide theme song, although maybe an enthusiastic pilgrim has hummed a verse or two of, It’s Now or Never.”

  “Appropriate choices, don’t you think?” you declare with self-satisfaction. “The final refrain, it’s now or never, my love can’t wait, would cast me back into the world unburdened of past ties and memories. Otherwise it’s, Rawhide, and the return of my memory with, all the things I’m missin’—good victuals, love and kissin’—are waiting at the end of my ride. There appears to be method in my madness after all.”

  “Only sometimes, Hardy boy,” Alberta corrects. “So which option do you plan to choose?”

  “Since I’ve been wanting so badly to get my memory back, my initial response is to speedily reclaim it by singing Rawhide after my ritual bath. But as you point out, the alternative of continued forgetfulness is intriguing.”

  “Your amnesia sure didn’t hurt our relationship. In fact, we’ve never gotten along better and had more fun than these past days,” Alberta says as she steps forward to give you a gentle kiss. “Not even one fight.”

  “Adventure, aliveness, the great unknown, being fully present with one another,” you agree. “Amnesia has its advantages.”

  Alberta ponders a moment then continues, “But to be honest, there has been a difference in you that detracts from it all.”

  “How so?”

  “Hard to put my finger on but it’s like a sense of uncertainty in you, a tentativeness that I never saw in you before. I kind of miss the old Steven that would grab the bull, or a sacred cow, by the horns and wrestle it to the ground.”

  “So you would vote for the rope-and-roll-and-brand ‘em option and give up my search to try to understand ‘em?”

  “Who knows?” Alberta answers. “It’s your choice, and probably when we really get down to it, there isn’t that much to lose with the memory.”

  “And from what you and The ReMinder tell me, no one else would really care if I cleanly erased the slate of my past.”

  “You seem pretty tight with your family, though,” Alberta asserts. “Can you imagine meeting up with your parents again but having no recall of them?”

  “Actually yes, I was just in the courtyard thinking about that very thing. And it seems like it could be a wonderful experience to simply meet one’s parents anew, adult-to-adult, with appreciation for their having given me life and raising me. I’d probably sense an inner bond with them but without the baggage of resentments, projections, and all the parent-child history crap.”

  Alberta sits down as she observes, “I’m glad to see that your optimism is still alive amid this idle conjecture.”

  “Can you tell me anything beyond conjecture about my family?”

  “Not much. Your folks sound real supportive and nice. I kind of envy your having had such security and peace in childhood.”

  “Yours was different?” you ask.

  “Mucho. Conflict was the name of the game at our Calgary homestead. Come to think of it, though, you may have a source of information at hand about your history that includes a description of parental conflict. Do you have a cassette tape in your hut by a Norwegian guy named Nirmohi Rokstad?”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it in the hut but never listened to his music.”

  “It’s not music. It’s a tape Mr. Rokstad made of a palm reading he did for you a year ago. I gave you a gift reading from him and when I later listened to the session tape it was excellent.”

  “What’s the deal with conflict?”

  “The short version is that underneath all the niceness at home lay a deep male versus female conflict on both sides of your family tree that Rokstad said you have internalized and that has screwed up your inner masculine-feminine balance. But not to worry, sweetie, your palm lines show that during the period around age 50, you will get it all together and tap deeply into creativity, harmony, and money.” Alberta sidles closer to you and provocatively rubs up against your body as she continues, “Lots of money resulting from two writing lines t
hat join as one book to burst forth during that period.”

  “Are you teasing?”

  “Heavens no, my dear 49’er. Why else do you think I’d be hanging out with an old geezer like you if not for the promise of your near-term wealth?” You glare playfully at her while she adds, “Just listen to the tape if you’re interested. Since Bubha gave away your cassette player during his Let’s Make a Deal skit at the Kumba Mehla, I’ll dig mine out when I unpack and loan it to you at dinner.”

  “No supper for the weary or rest for the hungry this evening, I’m afraid. This dedicated Vedic disciple needs to hightail it back to a lonesome hut to contemplate my future. But thanks, I’ll check back with you following my momentous bath tomorrow and among other things, I’ll appreciate borrowing your cassette gizmo.”

  You share a nice, long hug with Alberta before returning to garden solitude. The hut welcomes you to another evening in its five awkward walls while the windows accommodate a gentle drift of cool air and soothing sounds of the Ganga. Drift continues to be the evening’s theme as you let your mind wander to wherever it chooses, floating between the brief past that you can recall and the future that you try to imagine—a future that will, in large part, be determined by a choice of the morning, by one tune or another sung in ancient ritual to modern melody.

  JANUARY 26 – the following morning

  You awaken with sleepy eyes that open to gray walls and an auspicious morning. You smile, pleased that all is familiar. You arise to put on slippers and a thick robe as you head to the outhouse.

  [Awakening in fine fettle and pedal to the metal, you hurry out to take your bath. Slam, bam, thank you Sam and all the other spiritual guides who have brought you to this moment. Ann, Roger, Betsy, Lorraine following on down the line looking fine. Now three dips in a river and a song to sing, memories to fling forward or backward over your shoulder, to bathe the tears away, the years away…]

  TRAIL BOSS: Whoops, sorry folks. Looks like the subconscious mind sneaked in as guest narrator while I was still snoozing. Let’s just turn it back over to the main story line and see what type of revival our character chooses down by the riverside as the morning progresses.

  [Boring and snoring this type of story. No tale with gale to lift the wings into flight if left to its own devices. Gizmos and quiznos sandwiched between dull words that go bump in the night.]

  TRAIL BOSS: My-my, our subconscious friend is getting a little assertive these days, grabbing back the reins and snapping them to get my attention. Perhaps his point is valid regarding the tone and heavy pace of the primary narrative. So a democratic trail boss will give the subconscious an opportunity to continue as temporary narrator—so long as some level of clarity emerges in his train of thought and his boldness is tempered. Here goes:

  You walk from hut to familiar beach lying in reach of footprints in the sand, tracking through time and space to end the race to the finish. Break the tape with a bath and a song, forge into the future with neither right nor wrong, just a choice made whether to reclaim the past to carry as a heavy weight into the ring of the future.

  Bell clangs to start the round. You stand at attention on Ganga shore in brief, still no relief to your swirling thoughts about what to do or what to don’t. Three dips coming, two choices humming through your mind. Can love wait another round or simply be found in the moment of now or never? Raw hide on the other side to grate against the option to be free from memory. Rowdy and dowdy, handy and sandy as you enter the river away from rocks.

  Up to your knees in the freeze but not yet deep enough for full dipping. Onward where current grows stronger to carry you to the moment of truth. Breathtaking and bump making is this first plunge under the waters that welcome the latest Vedic disciple in ritual of choice. Emerging with gasp and hopes for the past but two more plunges to go before the throw of tune to breeze, a croon to please the laughing spirit of the Ganga.

  A second dunk into the swirl brings a curl back into your mind of what was left behind. Glad for the freedom of blessed forgetfulness, from the pain of recall, from the mess of it all that lies under the surface. But there you go a third time below, lingering in the silence of the deep for as long as you can, delaying the moment that arises with your next inhalation above the watery domain. Up you come embraced by air, taking it in, singing it out. Feeling the thunder of the selected song that bursts from your lungs and rings from shore to shining shore. Ride ‘em in, Rawhide! And the memories of yore stampede from your core.

  The decision was made, a plan is now laid while sitting in the sun with full memory of life rising from past horizons. A beam, a beat, a tramping of feet that advance through your head and up to the fore. Foreplay and a fair way to go before it is all clear, though those things you hold dear are not so many to count. But one Canadian dear is mountable and accountable if you want to ride her to the finish, tan her hide and roll aside the ache of mornings past. A surprise in thighs that this urge would surge which the Ganga cannot satisfy.

  You stride to the hut, club swinging in steady beat ready for the treat that lust demands. Whip and ropes are retrieved from your room to add seasoning to the tender morsel awaiting the plunge. More striding and hiding by Alberta’s door, yearning for more, always more. Feeling the roar surge through loins that ache for release. A club to raise, a turn of phrase, and…

  TRAIL BOSS: Whoa! Time to pull the flap of decency over this wagon that is starting to rock in a peculiar rhythm as our frisky character enthusiastically joins with Alberta. The sexual action ahead is out of sync with decent, God-fearing folk, so we shall forego further visual description and avoid unnecessary titillation or offense. We should, however, keep an open ear by Alberta’s door to avoid missing important conversation that will likely follow on the heels of our protagonist’s momentous decision sung in the Ganga to reclaim his memory…

  “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “I am your wildest fantasy. I am your worst nightmare. And I’m back.”

  “Elvis?”

  “No, apparently my love can wait. But victuals and kissin’ are long overdue.”

  “So, Rawhide echoed across the Ganga shore, eh cowboy?”

  “Yep, plus I stopped by my hut to pick up these four little darlin’s to help celebrate my return of memory.”

  “My, what big ropes you have. Looks like a lonesome cowpoke in search of a sacred cow to roll.”

  “Precisely, my dear. And precisely four ropes, the number required for a well-deserved karmagram arriving via special delivery to you—complements of a humiliated inner sanctum acolyte, a Rigel Seven sex slave, and a naked scaler of Mt. Everest.”

  “Oh Sir Edmund, how thoughtful. Just please understand me after you’re through.”

  “Sorry, that goes against the code of the West and the prevailing theme song.”

  “No branding I hope.”

  “Not to worry. I abhor hickeys, which is something I recalled this morning at the Ganga. See, a refreshed memory does have its advantages.”

  “Any other newly recalled memories from your recovered past to share?”

  “Nothing as important as the hickey thing. Is that rope comfortable around your ankle, dear?”

  “No problem. In fact, maybe you could tighten up the right wrist.”

  “Hmm, a woman with nowhere to go but all dressed up. There, that’s better.”

  “I’m glad I was wearing my old dress, macho man.”

  “Have I told you lately, dearest, how lovely you look naked, spread eagle, and helpless?”

  “You should know, you’re supposed to remember everything now.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.”

  “Mmm, my goodness…”

  “Goodness has nothing to do with this, cowgirl.”

  “Don’t you think it rather strange that once your memory returns the first thing you want to do is dominate me and fuck my brains out?”

  “To the contrary, it is a perfectly natural response in one who has f
elt impotent, used, and manipulated for too long. Are you complaining?”

  “To the contrary, you know how I love to bask in receiving sometimes.”

  “And together, my beloved Hillary, we shall reach for the highest highs and deepest depths. I think right…down…here would be a perfect base camp from which to continue the journey.”

  “Oh, Sir Edmund, who needs Sherpas when I have you.”

  “I appreciate the name upgrade to Sir Edmund, by the way. Much more dignified than Fast Eddy.”

  “Do you think that my ‘Hillary’ is sophisticated enough to match your newfound dignity?”

  “Actually, it sounds rather senatorial.”

  “You’re mumbling, dear.”

  “Mmm uhh.”

  “That tickles. Hey, cowboy, try humming a few bars of Oklahoma at the gateway to the Goddess to see their effect now.…Yes, ooh yes…louder darling, louder!”

  “Methinks thou doth protesteth too little. This is supposed to be my assertion of authority and your karmagram, remember?”

  “So what’s your special delivery besides talking too much? What the…where the…how…oh my. Oh my! Gracious, how you’ve changed Sir Edmund.”

  “Nothing like a few good thrusts of power to counteract six weeks or eight years of being misunderstood, maligned, and manipulated. Right, Hillary?”

  “Oooh, yes. Four more years! Four more years!”

  TRAIL BOSS: My apologies, folks, for thinking that some important discourse would emerge once our character’s memory returned. Even after all these years of riding herd on the species, I still find human nature a puzzlement. Hmm, puzzlement—one of Yul Brenner’s favorite words shortly before he led the Magnificent Seven over the border to protect downtrodden peasants from marauding banditos. His partner, Steve McQueen, survived to attempt a motorcycle leap over a barbed wire fence in a great escape to freedom, while Charles Bronson returned from the dead as Mr. Majestyk to blast his way to fame while saving oppressed farm workers. James Coburn, too, resurrected to become in like Flint, while the suave secret agent, Napoleon Solo, emerged from the ashes of—

  SHOSHONI: Excuse me, master Trail Boss, but I shall grab the reins. Apparently, a feminine touch is needed to keep the narrative on relevant track as testosterone dominates on all levels at the moment.

  Back to the present story, hormones and decibel levels finally subside in Alberta’s room and padded ropes are loosened allowing freedom of movement for all parties. Our protagonist, feeling significantly less frisky, heads to his appointment with Guruji where they debrief the morning river bath episode as a climax to the amnesia experience. The elderly swami is not surprised by Steven’s decision to reclaim his memory, although Guruji has a surprise of his own to share—that being a computer and printer recently rented for the ashram by an anonymous donor and tucked conveniently in the upstairs library.

  This of course gets Steven’s fingers itching to fly over the keyboard. But before starting into new writing, he first takes time for catching up on the pieces of his past that are scattered in his hut, including listening to the palm reading tape by Mr. Rokstad. After dining congenially with Alberta, he returns to the library and begins to compose at the computer. And there we find him as Guruji ascends the steps to enter the library with another important gift.

  JANUARY 26 – that same evening

  “I hope I am not disturbing you,” Guruji begins in his mild manner.

  You turn from the glowing screen and reorient yourself to the immediate surroundings. “Not at all.”

  “Is The ReMinder going full speed ahead again?” asks the swami while pointing to the computer.

  “Actually not yet,” you reply. “It feels more important to just let unbridled creativity flow for awhile, to air the foolishness in my psyche and see where it leads.”

  Guruji laughs, “The great unknown seems to be the destination that your drama loving personality relishes most, Steven.”

  “You know me well, Guruji,” you grin as you point to the cassette tape on the table, “although this time I supposedly have a recorded preview of the outcome.”

  “Is that the palm reading cassette tape that mentions the intersection of your writing lines with a deep money line?”

  “How the heck did you know that?” you ask.

  “Our friend Prema was quite impressed with what was reflected in your palm lines about your writing efforts and the probable financial outcome.” Guruji continues in response to your deepening look of confusion, “Prema and I had one of our usual lengthy chats after she left you at the hut the other week—and she had sensed that something was different about you that day together at the beach while you were in silence. Forgive an old swami who talks too much, but I went ahead and explained the hypnotic amnesia situation that you and I had created. She was very interested in the details and as I mentioned before, I am something of a creampuff in her persuasive presence.”

  You feel irritated by this invasion of privacy, but you do not want to create conflict with this gentle man. You simply ask, “So my wise teacher, is my future indeed carved into my palms like stone?”

  Guruji pauses to think before answering, “My master taught me to accept my own fate and the fate of others as a natural part of our collective destiny. And most of all not to judge or interfere with any deeds of another person since each action in this cycle plays its role to perfection. Perhaps in my next incarnation I will learn a better answer to your inquiry.”

  You pat the computer and respond, “Since I don’t have your patience or assurance of another lifetime, I’m letting my flying fingers lead to the answers of the ages—or at least to release some nonsense in my mind while madly typing.”

  “I regret to remind you that one detail constrains your noble quest, that being the cut-off of electricity to the compound at ten o’clock each evening. But here,” Guruji adds cheerily, “I have brought you a little gift to help keep proper track of time.” You inspect the digital watch the elderly swami hands to you as he continues. “It was left here recently by an ashram guest and you are most welcome to use it during the remainder of your stay. I ask only that you do not attempt to operate the watch’s knobs which can lead to a rather complicated mess.”

  You strap the timepiece to your wrist and look up to Guruji with appreciation, but you are surprised to see an embarrassed look growing on his face. “Yes?” you finally say to encourage him to speak.

  “Please also recall our ashram rule of no fraternizing with other guests after ten o’clock.” He clears his throat and adds, “And if you would kindly request your companion to reduce her volume when, when…”

  “No problem,” you interject to rescue Guruji from his discomfort in addressing this morning’s sexual activity with bondage ropes and an extremely vocal Alberta.

  “Thank you,” he says relaxing. He takes another breath then queries, “Speaking as a guru to his student, I was wondering why you chose to have sexual intercourse after the ritual bath. Few of our disciples have chosen to reclaim their memory as you did, and I have not heard of any who indulged immediately in sexual union.”

  You sense Guruji’s sincerity in wanting to understand his student’s path so you consider a minute before responding. “To be honest with you, Guruji, as I sat by the Ganga after restoring my memory, I felt empty, surprised, and maybe even scared about my experience at that moment. I had thought that remembering my past would give me a clearer knowledge of myself and awareness of my path. But instead, the lifetime of memories that swirled back into my mind seemed so distant and foreign to me. At that moment, I had no sense of who Steven is in this world, a disoriented feeling that ran even deeper than during all those mornings I awoke with amnesia.”

  You pause for another moment of thought then conclude, “My sexual actions with Alberta, I suspect, were to give me some sense of control, a sense of power that countered the insecurity I was feeling.” Silence reigns in the library as both you and Guruji look at the floor while thoughts take y
ou into different worlds.

  “Well, thank you for your candor,” Guruji eventually replies as he walks to the doorway. “By the way, Steven, in your inquiry of whether destiny is carved in stone thereby dictating our flow of actions, you might wish to recall the first query posed by Cyrus at your encounter at the Ganga in December.” He stops at the doorway and states this initial question, “Does the river shape its bank or the bank shape the river?”

  It takes you a moment to remember that first conversation with Bubha, then you suddenly ask, “Hey, how did you know that Bubha told me…?”

  But the quiet swami has disappeared down the stairway into the night.

  JANUARY 27 – the next morning

  You awaken to paradise but this time with full memory of a life and strife and all that jazz. Blue notes and high tones float back to recall the face of it all. Profiles in courage and heads buried in cowardice, the faces and traces of your times once known and now known again. But is there more, something left to come to the fore?

  That is the feeling that rumbles underneath the dawn of your day. Yes, it is comforting to know how this moment sits atop your past, but what else is cast in shadows behind this lifetime known? You spy ancient shadows from the corner of the ‘I’, sense the tremors that shake inside where secrets hide and forgetfulness still reigns. King of the mountain, queen of the ball, memory taking the fall so that you may once again stumble and tumble into this earthly plane.

  You tiptoe to the tiptop of roof and sigh with pleasure, sit with leisure in a familiar plastic chair by a table that barely stands up to the task. A glance at new wristwatch whose silent digits indicate well past nine which is fine. No rush in the garden but you wonder why you are so early to bed and late to rise. Healthy perhaps, although wealthy and wise seem to elude your reach.

  You meditate a moment to slow the mind’s pace then retrace steps down the stairs to enter hut door. After dressing and grooming, you walk to where Alberta is rooming to find her on the verandah, a beautiful vantage point from which one can look down on the garden and see the swirling junction of two familiar rivers just beyond your hut. Alberta sits with closed book on her lap, staring into the greenery below. You kiss her forehead which elicits only a slight smile, so you pull up a chair to join in her silence.

  “Good morning, Steven,” she finally speaks.

  “Hey there, my subdued friend. What’s the good word this morning?”

  She simply states, “Annihilation.”

  “Anything more?” you ask.

  “After annihilation, of course not. That’s it. Game over.” Alberta looks into your face then hands you the book from her lap. “Maybe this is part of why annihilation preys on my mind, but mostly I’m still reeling from a dream vision that knocked my socks off in the wee hours.”

  A photograph of an intense, unsmiling man greets you on the cover of the book that proclaims, I am That, by Nisagardatta Maharaj. You thumb through the pages while waiting for Alberta to continue at her pace. She quietly resumes talking, “The vision was of a raging river made of fire and brimstone and churning waters. I was on its edge sensing the power of it like…I don’t know, power beyond imagining. Somehow I knew that if I jumped into the river that all traces of me, every last speck of who I am, would be erased. DNA, soul, memory, every single aspect of Alberta Theisen would be forever lost. And I realized that if I had to choose between stepping into that river or returning to live fifty more years in a concentration camp, I would readily opt for the latter.”

  “Hell of a choice,” you respond. “What happened to my fellow seeker who has always said she isn’t afraid of death?”

  “Your line as well, Steven. But we’ve been viewing death more as an opening into another world, an opportunity where the new and improved soul goes merrily tripping away into the next cosmic adventure.” Alberta looks at you straight on. “What I glimpsed last night is annihilation of the entire known self, pure and simple. And mine was scared shitless to make the leap into oneness with the flow, or whatever the hell that river represents.”

  “Sounds like I need an addendum to Yogi Bodhi’s quote on my hut wall,” you laugh. “A divine order of beauty exists at the heart of reality—but tough titty you won’t be around to appreciate it.”

  “Good old humor,” Alberta replies grimly, “the smiley mask to hide the fear of death from ourselves and the world. In fact, maybe we create all this nonsense about reincarnation and heavens and soul journeys and writing books just to avoid our fear—not fear of simple death, but of total annihilation around the next bend.” Alberta rises from her chair and sits in your lap, nestling in closely as you wrap your arms around her.

  Silence prevails as you feel her tears run down your neck and sense the warmth that radiates from this bundle of emotion and thought, of fluid and flesh that holds a steady beat at the center which you feel pulsing beneath your hand on her heart. A world unto herself, a being that contains the universe with all of humanity and history wrapped into this single point in space called Alberta.

  After a few minutes, she slowly unfolds and returns to her chair. “Here I am pondering the annihilation of body, mind, and soul, while you’re celebrating the first day of awakening to your full memory of life,” she says softly. “Sorry for the downer.”

  “No problem. In fact, I’m still down inside myself waiting for the joy of recollection to spring forth or for some big feeling of wholeness to wash over me after reclaiming my past at yesterday’s bath. Maybe you were right when you suggested that memories don’t matter that much after all.”

  Alberta gives you a weak smile. “Sorry, sweetie, but I’m not up for more analysis right now. I just want to be alone, okay?”

  “Sure,” you reply as you stand and brush your hand along her hair as you retreat toward the stairs. As you pass the kitchen, the questions of life quickly give over to the urge of appetite as you ponder the options to fill your stomach. No more rooftop delivery service of a chapatti breakfast is available from the thin swami now that your amnesia process is over. And the cupboards in the guest kitchenette are bare. Laxman Jhula is a long way to walk for breakfast, but you actually welcome the excuse to head to town and undertake a simple act in this complex world, a trip with clear direction and purpose. You return to the hut to retrieve some rupees and begin the walk to the village.

  After an hour of constant green along the lush road you emerge into Laxman Jhula and a rainbow of colors as pilgrims from all over India bustle from temple to temple in their finest garb. They pause at carts to eat small meals, select postcards, buy cheap souvenirs to carry back to their home villages, and marvel at a small, battery-powered robot in a storefront window. You recall that you had a similar robot as a child decades ago, a toy that modern American youth would now shun as boring and trivial. Yet here it stands as a centerpiece of wonderment for those emerging from temples and an ancient way of life.

  You continue to the Shakti Café and enjoy breakfast at the table where Bubha lectured not so long ago to a trio of bewildered Brits about happiness. You are comforted by his notion that the soul returns to heavenly bliss rather than being vaporized in a river of molten brimstone. Yet it is probably all the same, you think, as your mind continues with the theme of annihilation that Alberta began. Her dream vision was one more attempt of a human mind to describe the indescribable, to understand what lies beyond life as we know it as separate living creatures. Dust unto dust, union with God, disappearing into the all, born anew to the freedom of paradise, rebirth into the prison of Earth—the theories are many, the answers are nil. The porridge is tasty.

  You pay for your meal and begin shopping for fruit and a few supplies. Before leaving Laxman Jhula, you enter a shop whose window proudly announces its email service. Yes, it is time to undertake this act that feels so incongruous with the past weeks of being lost to your past. Now, to log onto the Internet that links you electronically to the world left behind, to find messages from family and friends who have missed hearing fr
om you.

  You read the news from the homeland and enjoy a brief sense of connection it provides, a familiar way of chatting with the folks, of catching up with a world once known. You write quick messages in return that say you are fine and that the journey through India remains fulfilling. Parents and siblings will be comforted to know you are well. What else to say? That you have become a madman with fingers flying across the keyboard after exploring the rolling landscape of amnesia, and that you recently enjoyed humming the score of Oklahoma after tying a naked rodeo queen to the bedpost? No, there is no short or family-rated version of this customized tour package. You open a couple of favorite web sites for a final glimpse at a distant world before strolling back to your isolated garden hut at Phool Chatti.

  Alberta soon knocks on your hut door after having spotted your return through the garden. You are happy to see that she has reclaimed her usual lively self. The sight of her towel and blanket in hand pleases you since a plunge into river, sunshine, and sand sounds good to you as well. Your stroll together along the Ganga is followed by a lazy afternoon in which two large bodies lie on a familiar beach, ebbing and flowing between conversation and silence. Then a red tide of emotion moves in as a storm of controversy grows between the couple.

  “Oh for pity sake, do you have to bring that up again,” Alberta shouts.

  “Well, I think it’s a good example of the point I’m trying to make.”

  “We all kill aliveness. So quit projecting your crap onto me.”

  “I’m claiming mine too,” you assert, “but it’s just that you grew up with so much practice and do it more on a daily basis.”

  The agitated woman counters, “You’re being an asshole—and killing my aliveness right now for that matter.”

  “Now there’s an excellent example of projection,” you expound with grand gesture. “And haven’t we learned to honestly share our feelings rather than just name calling? Oh yeah, and throwing sand at me really helps.”

  “Okay, I feel you’re an asshole. How’s that for sharing my true feelings?”

  “Fuck you too…hey, not in my face for god’s sake!”

  “Don’t you touch me, you jerk,” Alberta hisses.

  You scoop up a handful of sand in your fist as your narrow eyes bore into the woman who is squared off in front of you. Your heart is racing, your body is tense, and you feel a kind of anger that has only come to the surface in the year since meeting Alberta. This emotion of rage is one of many discoveries that this woman has helped you to uncover regarding aggression and conflict. You know exactly what you want to do at this moment and you let your instincts take over.

  With one quick jerk of your arm, you toss the sand ceremonially over your left shoulder. You stare fiercely into your opponent’s eyes, give an intimidating flex of your pectoral muscles, and grunt in your best imitation of a sumo wrestler. Your adversary responds by tossing a handful of sand over her shoulder and lifting her right leg sideways into the air and crashing it back to earth. You are shaken by the power rippling through the sand, but you match Alberta’s display with your own sideways lift-and-pound motion. A rumble of ancient Japanese voices emerges from the rocks as final bets are placed on these two titans of fury.

  The chiseled six-foot-one physique of the former barrel racer is impressive, supported by her powerful thighs shaped by years of straddling her mounts of choice at the Calgary Stampede. Her fierceness appears to exceed her opponent’s but he holds a definite height and weight advantage as they plow into each other in a burst of grunts and lunges. The larger wrestler uses his size advantage well, but a rodeo-quick counter maneuver of hair-pulling equalizes the battle and increases its pitch. Finally, the size factor dominates as the barrel racer is lifted off her struggling feet. The larger wrestler staggers towards the river where the two titans fall as one into the water, creating a massive tsunami that inundates the far shore and decimates several outlying villages. Both emerge laughing and splashing as the battle continues with another clench that slowly transforms into a lingering hug.

  “Madness, pure madness,” you quietly state to the woman in your arms. Alberta gives you a final nip on the ear and eases back into the gentle current of the Ganga. “I can’t believe how easy it is to go ballistic when I give myself permission with you to really feel this crap inside,” you say shaking your head.

  “Nothing like forty-nine years of suppression to add fuel to your anger’s fire,” Alberta responds while taking off her bathing suit in the water.

  “Speaking of suppression, dear, don’t forget Guruji’s rule against nude bathing,” you remind your naked companion.

  “No sweat. I received special dispensation from sumo tournament officials to clear sand from a sacred gateway and other shady avenues,” Alberta laughs while heading to shore in her full glory.

  “I think I’ll make the same request,” you respond while noting your own supply of grating sand. You wring out your briefs while following Alberta to the blanket where you lie naked by her side. “Amazing how much power is stored in this old anger and pain. God, I’m grateful we’ve found a safe way to be real with it,” you punctuate with a kiss of thanks to your wrestling partner.

  “No blood, Bowie knifes, or hickeys allowed,” Alberta says reviewing the agreed upon rules of combat as she lays her head on your shoulder.

  “Maybe we should include hair-pulling on the list of prohibitions.”

  “Not on your life!” your companion responds immediately. “Don’t forget, you’ve used that tactic a time or two to counter my superior speed.”

  “I remember all too well,” you state with a wince of guilt as your mind takes off into memories of other bouts with Alberta this past year. After a few minutes of deep thought you gently ease her off your shoulder and sit to gaze at the river where you took the ritual bath yesterday and emerged to sing Rawhide. “You know, I may have made the wrong decision to reclaim my memory.”

  Alberta joins you in a sitting position. “Steven second-guessing his past choices? I thought that was unheard of in your philosophy that all actions serve to perfection.”

  “I don’t know, Alberta. It’s just that remembering my past hasn’t felt like I thought it would. I expected some big relief and a sense of knowing myself that would deepen after the journey into amnesia. But instead, I just look back at my life and feel so detached from the memories and from the people that I find there.”

  “Didn’t you enjoy getting onto the Internet with your family and friends today in Laxman Jhula?”

  You pause to recall your recent email experience this morning. “Yes, it felt good on one level, but in another way I could see myself putting on a mask and playing some old game with them that makes me queasy, to tell you the truth. The past is like a prison to me now.”

  “It’s a prison only if you keep living it, sweetie.” Alberta laughs and pulls you back down on the blanket, snuggling her face into your lap. “There’s no gift like the present, right?”

  “That’s a line from the past, dear,” you respond as you feel your humor return. “Plus, Prema might object to your plagiarizing her Sedona gift-tile quotation at such a moment of naked intimacy, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I know some gifts that that little blonde energy field has never thought of,” Alberta declares while descending to give her full attention to your responsive Self. “Ever heard the Canadian national anthem hummed in full volume from this angle?”

  “Sounds highly patriotic but right now my choice would be to look into your eyes up close and personal,” you request of your friend. Alberta obliges as she unfolds and eases into comfortable union on top of you. “Thank you, dear one,” you respond with a kiss and gentle sway to maximize the ambiance of the moment.

  This period of quiet after the storm continues for some time although kisses become more frequent and earnest. Alberta speaks between a set, “I packed while you were in Laxman Jhula this morning.”

  You are startled by the announcement. “Leaving so soon?�
�

  “Last night’s annihilation theme was really a biggie for me and I need a few days where I can be alone and anonymous. You’ll lose yourself in your writing whether I’m here or not.”

  “True, but I hope you’ll come back to Phool Chatti,” you state while punctuating your request with a caress of her back and a firm grasping of buttocks.

  The thighs of an equestrian respond instinctually to the increased stimulus as Alberta continues, “Neelkanth village looked like a sweet little place to take a couple of books and do some thinking. And that will keep me close by to check back with you later.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be near,” you reply as you join in the rhythm.

  “Plus if annihilation is around the corner, this is the way I want to ride into it,” Alberta declares with conviction and a healthy squeeze of her thighs.

  “Amen to that, sister.”

  THE AFTERNOON WENT too quickly, you think, as you stand by the jeep that is ready to take Alberta to Neelkanth village. You watch her graceful, long strides as she exits the office and walks towards the driveway. “You know, I think that’s the finest week we’ve ever had, zombie boy,” Alberta declares as she approaches.

  “The name is Sir Edmund, if you please,” you respond with feigned formality. “And kindly desist from disempowering me further and destroying my aliveness through subtle verbal maneuvers couched in humor.”

  She gives you a quick hug. “Trying to pick one last fight before I leave, eh dahling?”

  “Sure, I’m going to miss our escapades into the fray of adventure and truth. All I have left without you are eight flying fingers, two thumbs to create space, and Guruji to make sure we all don’t fraternize after ten o’clock.”

  “Be a little cautious around Guruji this evening,” Alberta says in a whisper. “I’ve never seen him this tired and grumpy.”

  “Really, our Guruji is being a grouch?”

  “A polite one, but yes, he looks as if he hasn’t slept well,” she concludes getting into the vehicle. A last brief kiss through the open jeep window and you watch your designated guardian angel, temple priestess, interstellar master, ex-wife Hillary, bondage slave, and sumo opponent pull away. You are alone. You absently kick a stone in the driveway as you turn towards the ashram compound. In the hour remaining before dinner, you decide to lose yourself as a fool on his journey at the new library computer. And you write:

  A FOOL’S JOURNEY – January 27

  In the beginning came the word and a whole bunch more to play with and stay with alone in the library. Sitting now again with brother time on my hands, with memories back to the fore and a keyboard as an instrument to fly full bore. So where to go, how to flow, all dressed up with nowhere to sow but only reap the messages from the mind behind all that is to come. A spread eagle wanting to soar, naked to the world and ready to be born anew into morning dew and evening don’ts. Don’t type too long or sing a song that keeps Guruji awake for heaven’s sake. But do tell and let the tide swell, an ocean of thought pulled by the moon’s power into the wake by intuition and imagination. Two prescient palms on the hands of creation play in sync as a link in this chain of fools.

  A Fool on his journey wonders how to wander, what to ponder. Kinks in the links of memory’s tools are ready to be worked out to recall the fall. A reminder in the grinder, ground round on a hill listening to distant symphonies that come home to remembrance, composing songs of different tunes but all in perfect charmony. Hmm, charmony, a strange but charming compound word that reflects the end of conflagrations. Charred remains and harmonic refrains all are part of this fiery process of purification, rising from ashes with crosses and dashes, like a musical Morse code tapping away with shoes that dance to a different drummer. A drum being an instrument of construction or destruction depending upon where the beat lands, either atop a bewitching bystander (squish) or in the land of the free (a wish).

  A wish. What is my wish for the moment, my lonely heart’s desire in this fire of cleansing? Maybe a friend who understands, a companion to ride the tide and hold my hand through this journey into the unknown. Does one lie near to fill this role, an imaginary playmate to join in this dance of chance to let the inner voice guide? I stop typing to ponder this question when suddenly the curtain to my psyche cleaves open with blinding light as a robed figure springs forth.

  “Hallelujah! I have risen from the tomb!” a ghostly Shri Shri Cy Bubha exclaims with a broad smile, sinewy arms raised to the heavens of my imagination.

  “Wh-where did you come from?” I stammer as this familiar specter pushes through my psyche, gives me a friendly slap on the back, and makes himself at home next to the computer.

  “Same place you got everyone else stored, real and imagined, right there in your beady little mind.”

  “You mean that even actual people can be used for an imaginary playmate?” I ask.

  “It’s your ballgame, pal, so as long as you’re having fun, then go for it,” replies Bubha via my fast-typing fingers. “Just call out my blessed name and I shall rise again and again, like your own personal messiah on Viagra.” I plunk my elbows on the desk with my face in hands. What have I done by allowing this guy’s spirit to invade my mind and computer?

  “Whew, it’s good to be out in the fresh air,” my conjured Bubha continues without missing a beat. “It can get pretty damn stuffy in the psyche, particularly with what you recovering nice boys shove down there. Thanks for inviting me out for a stretch.”

  “I invited you?” I ask incredulously. “You come barging in here with your sacrilegious jokes and make yourself at home and now pretend like you were invited! You haven’t changed any, have you?”

  “Neither have you, pal. Still trying to pass the buck to externalize your unhealed crap on someone else.” Bubha grins and adds coyly, “Have you missed me?”

  Actually, I have but I sure as hell won’t admit it to him. “Like a hole in the head,” I declare.

  “Ah, but you are not missing that, mon ami. Au contraire, from firsthand investigation I can vouch that you’ve got a hole about the size of Texas in that mind of yours. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  I reply, “I thought it was more to pull together the scattered pieces of my total Mind.”

  “True enough, but a couple pieces fell to the floor as you turned them over. I think you even kicked one under the sofa while trying too hard to find it. But that’s where I come in, sort of a cosmic flashlight—a Rajnish radiance rod—to help you look through the muck under the couch.”

  “Like the flashlight of mine you gave away at the Kumba Mehla?” I respond bitterly.

  “Get off it, pal. You’re going to miss the fun of this whole process if you hang on to righteous anger and victim crap. It was reference to the couch you were supposed to pick up on, as in verandah sofa, as in coitus interruptus, as in shame and stain and pain with a Japanese twist. Your job is to remain alert to the clues—and then we can ruminate over them using imagination and logic to enter the next room of your psyche’s funhouse.”

  “Sort of like a Sherlock Holmes and Watson,” I respond with growing enthusiasm to have a partner, albeit an invisible one, in this task.

  “Get with it, homeboy. It’s Scully and Mulder now for anyone who’s lived through the Twentieth Century. But what can we expect from a guy who still craves Moola Coola and likes to use the word, nifty?” He winks.

  “Atcha,” I nod, starting to catch on, “and the Scully-Mulder team is an example of partnership between the inner feminine and masculine to uncover secrets lurking in the shadowy universe.”

  “X-plus on that one, pal. So what’s holding you back?”

  “Nothing!” I declare.

  “Precisely. Your identity’s fear of the great nothing of the abyss is holding you back. What else?”

  “You tricked me on that, Bubha. Where’s this leading anyway?”

  “Nowhere if we just keep asking each other questions.”

  “Nothing and nowhere—hey, we got
somewhere! The perfect conditions for a fresh beginning,” I announce pleased to be getting into the flow with this guy.

  “So start over already,” he shouts.

  “Red rover, start over, send Mary right over,” blurts out onto the page.

  “Okay, so who is this Mary?”

  I immediately respond, “Mother Mary? No, overused and under done in finding the One. How about Mary Tyler Moore, a Petrie dish who shoved off on her own to turn the world on with her smile?”

  “Getting warmer but you’re casting in the wrong network,” prods Bubha.

  I keep looking for a Mary to trigger the flow, “Mary Poppins, Mary Martin, Mary had a little lamb…?”

  “Try casting stones,” he suggests.

  “Mary Magdalene! Magdalena alive and in the flesh but of spirit and grace beyond the bounds of where she was placed. The second coming, the other octave of the duet that knows the true score.”

  Bubha chimes in, “Okay, at the party everyone was feeling Mary, but when she left they all jumped for…”

  Joy. Scoring with Joy is not so bad, but the gang settled for happy instead and became winos always filling the cup. It never ranneth over with love since Mary of the Mag wheels was driven off the set while the madness of the party spilled over the rim. Heronimous bodies bashing and bosching into the abyss, into the abyss-small life for which one settles in the pain of loss, losing the Magdalena of spirit and purity, giving her a cloak in history of a whore. If fearful of the true power of the feminine, then cover her naked glory with a false story. Gory too this story ran, as wise women burned and healers were canned.

  Why, why? The question echoes down through the ages written on pages crusted with blood. But no answers whisper from the lips of women turned to ash, of men turned to battle, of children orphaned and chained in the name of god or money or power or glory. It is all the same, the same refrain calling forth the guilt of the warrior, the shame of the beast who thought he was beauty: A shining knight upon trusty steed who blindly rode into crusades to kill upon the currents of chapter and verse. Revelations of Kings and an Exodus of Psalms that Chronicles atrocious Acts that left their Mark as Luke warm waters flowed down the John.

  Where lies the healing fount promised by John the Baptist, John the Beloved, John Crapper, John my father, brother, nephew? On and on it goes, a legacy of love and hatred that is passed down through generations until someone says stop to this cycle.

  “Simon says stop!” cries Bubha.

  “Not him,” I respond immediately.

  “Matthew says stop? Peter? Paul?” Bubha fishes for men.

  No, just Mary and me, and baby makes three. A trinity within that was lost in the tempest of time. A blessed love triangle inside the body, inside this Holy Grail that ended up filling with crap but yearns now for cleansing waters and the fragrance of new blossoms.

  Merry Mary, where you going to? Marry Mary, can I go too? Or are you quite contrary about what was done to you and all the women? Nay, your garden grows with silver bells a-ringing deep and pure, their fragrance sweet, a gentle cure to turn history’s tide and ride again as one, toward waters deep and setting sun.

  Amen to that, Sister.

  TRAIL BOSS: A bell does in fact ring sending our hero off into the sunset and straight to the dining hall. After a monotonous meal of the same basic chow, he eagerly returns to the library to continue a fool’s journey through written word. The trail turns dark at ten o’clock, however, with lights out and a grope through the garden to find his way to bed. And there he lies, tossing and turning as another curious ringing in his ears fast approaches.

  JANUARY 27 – that same evening

  Your mind races with thoughts carried from the library as you lie in your bed vainly trying to sleep. You give up on slumber and walk out to the river where darkness and roar blend in your head. Starlight, star bright gives enough direction to keep you from falling down the abyss or into a raging river of no return. You sit on the shore enriched by the storehouse of Ganga power and the dance of waters that trip from mountaintop to the sea. A long journey traversing cycles and season without fail, no tale with ending for the Ganga once she began to speak. An ancient message, a heartfelt blessing is passed this night to a man on her shore.

  You return to the hut and glance at your watch. Nearly midnight and still you are too wired to sleep. You pick up the Rushdie book, Midnight’s Children, and laugh at the thought of opening it again. You can recall having read the first chapters a score of times during your weeks of amnesia, enjoying them anew at each sitting. But enough of this endless spin for a man who again has recollection of his five decades of life. You wonder, however, what other pieces of mind and memory may await discovery in the great beyond or in rambling words of a Fool’s Journey. But for now, you are satisfied simply to take a new book to bed.

  Still going strong after an hour of reading by candlelight, you are startled by the sudden ring of the alarm of your new wristwatch. You want to turn if off but remember Guruji’s instructions not to mess with the knobs. To your relief, the alarm stops after a couple dozen beeps. Your eyelids, however, suddenly grow too heavy to keep open as you struggle to lift your ponderous arm to check the time. The last sound you hear as you fall into a trancelike sleep is your book tumbling to the floor. It is precisely one o’clock.

  JANUARY 28 – morning

  You awaken with vivid imagery still in your mind from a dream that has left you intrigued. You automatically reach for the cassette player to record this dream but your hand grasps nothing but air. After recalling with irritation that your cassette player was part of Bubha’s grand giveaway at the Kumba Mehla, you get out of bed to head for the library computer to transcribe the dream directly into your Fool’s Journey file.

  As you sit to begin typing, Guruji appears at the library door with a friendly greeting. “Good morning, Steven.”

  “Namaste, Guruji,” you respond as he sits next to you.

  “You are well this morning, I trust?” he asks in his quiet way.

  “Excellent, and ready for another day in the library. I really owe you and the anonymous donor of the computer and printer a big thanks.”

  He smiles. “I’m pleased it is serving you well. And the best way to thank me is simply to abide by the rules of the ashram while you’re here.”

  The elderly swami is giving you that polite look of admonishment as you feel embarrassed that he apparently knows about your and Alberta’s sumo match and nude, post-bout activities yesterday. You open your mouth to apologize but he continues, “Our rule not to leave the ashram grounds after dark is based on safety considerations for our guests. Plus, Steven, you are still coming off an intense period with the hypnotic amnesia process. As your supervisor in this matter, I must insist you treat yourself kindly by getting to bed at a reasonable hour, unlike last night when you stayed awake until one o’clock.”

  You nod your head in acknowledgment and state with a smile, “There’s not much that goes on around here that you don’t know, is there, Guruji?”

  He laughs as he stands to leave, “Yes, I am thorough—and my bill will reflect it.” You react with surprise. “Just a little joke, my friend, a take-off from what Cyrus told you before guiding you to the Kumba Mehla. My services come freely and with fewer strings attached.”

  “But how do you know so much about what Bubha has said to me?” you ask in confusion.

  Guruji stops in mid step and takes a breath to speak, but then he pauses to look squarely at you. “Aw, fiddlesticks,” he finally says. “Look, Cyrus minds his own business and I mind mine. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?” And he abruptly walks toward the library exit.

  You are taken aback by his sudden brusqueness and by these words that again replicate a past statement of Bubha’s, this one made on the steps of the German Bakery in late December. “Guruji,” you call after the swami, “what’s going on?”

  He continues to the door then pivots sharply and in a booming voice punctuated by g
rand gesture replies, “Time for revealing the Northwest Passage to truth shall arrive ‘fore the sun goes down at week’s end, or my name’s not Merawhether… Merryweather…darn, I forgot.” Guruji’s eyes are furtive and his face is darkened by consternation as he slips out of the room.

  You start to stand to follow him but the pull to transcribe your latest dream while it is still fresh in mind proves stronger. After typing up the dream, your mind continues to play in its inner realm letting words and ideas pour out at their own pace. Guruji’s behavior is quickly forgotten, as a fool on his journey explores the highs and lows, the ebbs and flows, of the great unknown in a boundless mindscape. But rather than reaching for the highest heights, you coax your thoughts to follow the path less-travelled into your shadowy nether lands, led by typing fingertips:

  A FOOL’S JOURNEY INTO THE UNDERWORLD

  Follow the bouncing ball in my head with threads unraveling, thoughts a-traveling, wound round like skeins of wool that keep the sheep warm but that blind the mind when pulled over eyes. So balling and falling, I follow the threads down a deep dark hole to plummet into the underworld of my soul. Bumping off muddy wall and splashing into a pool to cushion the fall, I sense some ominous presence in the darkness.

  “Who goest there?” thunders the Voice of the Underworld.

  “I knowest not who anymore,” I reply meekly while emerging from the reflecting pool to find a towel.

  But I notice I am not even wet as the Voice laughs mirthlessly and proclaims, “Many soulful seekers mistake the mirror for a pool of water, believing they plunge deeply into life’s mysteries when they merely reflect upon their shallow self image. Have you come as a seeker or a finder, Man?”

  “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” is what blurts from my mouth and onto the page at this stage.

  “Ah so, a Man of tired clichés and meaningless rhymes. Or is it riddles that you speak?”

  I just shrug in reply.

  “Well, then, here’s one for you,” the Voice booms. “What has a shiny exterior but is empty inside, runs on hot air, goes from zero to fifty while constantly whining, then crashes and burns at the finish line?”

  I ponder the riddle’s meaning then protest, “Hey, are you making fun of me and my noble journey of spirit through five decades of life?”

  “You bet your sweet bippy, he is,” declares a large and threatening man who steps out from the shadows. His steely eyes strike terror in the heart and chill the bone. But I have no inkling of how to escape his killing glare.

  Hmm, inkling, now there’s an interesting word, like a little bird given birth in prose. Ink the parent, and inkling the offspring ready to take wing on flights of fancy phrases. A squawk arises from my feet and, by gosh, there one is—a young inkling covered with down and looking up at me as if to—

  “Aw, fuck a duck,” exclaims the exasperated stranger, “there you go again.”

  The inkling flutters into my arms, eyeing the big fellow nervously. “Not to worry,” I assert with false confidence, “you’re more chicken than duck.”

  “Damn it, Steven,” cries the fearsome man, “every time I appear in your psyche, you retreat into some childish pattern, silly wordplay, or television nonsense to avoid facing up to the truth of what I represent.”

  “Okay, so who are you then?” I ask with trepidation.

  The Voice of the Underworld booms from the shadows, “Look into thy soul for the answer since to truly understand your nemesis you must first know thyself on every level and embrace all of duality that dwells within your inner universe.”

  I mindlessly start chanting, “I am the all and everything, the Alpha and the Opie, the Beta and the Beave, the Caesar and the Romero.” Then it dawns on me as I address the shadowy man, “You’re like my inner Eddie Haskell, the mischievous part of myself that little nice boy Stevie shoved down into the closet in order to become the good son, the teacher’s pet, an A-1 child.”

  “Close enough, but call me Big Ed,” my polarity twin states. “After decades of festering in the dark underworld, the repressed shadow looms large. And as the nemesis of your childish world and limited self-identity, I’ve grown plenty pissed being shoved aside all your life,” Big Ed asserts as he takes a menacing step forward. My feathered friend flies fearfully far as I am again left without an inkling of what comes next.

  “Your only chance is to cut the crap and go all the way into the belly of the beast,” my nemesis commands, pointing to a dark passageway to his left. Above the forbidding entrance is a warning carved in stone, Beware the Doors of Duality. “Until you fully accept your dual nature, the former p-e-r-f-e-c-t child will never grow into a man of spirit.”

  Sensing the truth of what he speaks, I reluctantly walk to the passageway entrance. “So what does going all the way mean in the underworld?” I query in quavering voice.

  “Hell if I know. No one entering the Doors of Duality has ever returned to tell the tale.” Big Ed gives a quick salute of good luck and turns to leave.

  Now at the point of panic I call out, “Can’t you offer some brotherly advice on how to face the ordeal?”

  He shrugs. “Try switching the narrative from first-person to second-person form to give yourself a sense of detachment.”

  You take his advice and smoothly make the transition as you step into the passageway. Immediately, the ground crumbles beneath your feet and you tumble down a spiral chute arriving at the threshold of two simple doors, one marked ‘1-A’ and the other, ‘Not 1-A’.

  You consider which door of duality is most likely to take you all the way and, out of habit, step towards ‘1-A’. But as you reach for the knob, three men clad in underwear, sporting fresh crew cuts, and carrying khaki uniforms push you aside and enter. “Spoiled college brats don’t belong here,” one of them turns to you and snarls. “Take your 2-S deferment and go matriculate yourself.”

  Ah yes, your student deferment kept you from being designated 1-A and drafted for Vietnam service. You turn and gratefully head to the appropriate door of duality marked ‘Not 1-A’ and immediately find yourself in grade school standing dumbly in front of your class. Trapped in a recurring nightmare, you have no clue as to what to say or do, as teachers on the side whisper, “What a shame, he used to be our #1 pupil, an A student…and now this!”

  As performance pressure tightens its grip, you drop your head in shame and are shocked to spy only soiled, white briefs on your gangly body. Classmates’ laughter follows your humiliated flight out the exit where you have no time to question whether to ‘2-B’ or ‘Not 2-B’ before madly rushing through the nearest door of duality, ‘Not 2-B’.

  Immediately swallowed by a vast darkness, you slide to a frantic halt at the edge of a raging river of fire and brimstone. Standing at the brink of Identity’s annihilation, you realize you haven’t the courage to jump. As you gingerly tiptoe away from the edge, a two-hundred-foot wave of utter destruction bears down on you from above, accompanied by a booming voice, “So fool, you thought your old Identity gets a choice to live or die?” You lunge for the exit door and barely escape the tsunami of annihilation.

  Stopping to catch your breath, you look across the way and are relieved to see that a door marked ‘2-B’ is still available. A Burly Bouncer stands by it with a guest list in hand as he welcomes a familiar Bare-Bellied, Buxom Beauty. “Hey, Miss Eden,” you shout with enthusiasm, “you were great in I Dream of Jeannie!”

  Beauteous Barbara smiles politely while entering Room ‘2-B’ followed by two scruffy young men, one of whom looks down his nose and says to you, “Get a life in this century, dude.”

  “Who were those guys?” you ask the Burly Bouncer.

  “A Mr. Beavis and Mr. Butthead, sir,” he replies scanning his list.

  “Oh, I get it,” you state with a sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t have two-B’s in my identity to qualify to enter this room.”

  “To the contrary, sir, I find you right here on my guest list between Bodhisattva and Buddha.” Surprised yet p
roud of your spiritual progress, you bestow upon the doorman a gesture of Buddhist Blessing.

  “Yep, you qualify as Bongo Bananas,” he announces while opening the door. “Welcome to Room ‘2-B’.”

  Brightlly blushing, you enter and are transfixed by the sight of your hero of youth sitting like a king upon his throne. “Oh my gosh, you’re everything that I wanted to be,” you gasp in admiration. “A basketball star, a fighter for the good, a gentleman and a scholar.” Senator Bill Bradley gives you a warm smile and a humble bow of his head.

  “And Bridgette Bardot!” you exclaim noticing the nearby queen of this magnificent world in which to be. “The cinema sex goddess of my childhood—and an animal lover to boot.” You look up at these icons with light in your eyes. “At last, I have come all the way, where the inner masculine and feminine dwell in beatific balance.” You take your place betwixt both, proclaiming with boundless buoyancy, “My dreams have come true.”

  Bridgette and Bill exchange a nervous glance as a sense of unease envelops the throne. The Senator points to the corner where you are aghast to spot your childhood B.B. gun and the broken bird that fell, along with your aching heart circa age ten, onto the concrete driveway after you mindlessly shot it from its perch.

  “Zee bird and zee heart go splat, no?” Ms. Bardot recalls sympathetically.

  “Sorry, friend, but in order to follow your dreams you’ve got to have a heart,” Senator Bradley states as he directs you to the exit doors marked ‘3-D’ or ‘Not 3-D’.

  “Au revoir, mon ami.” Bridgette blows a farewell kiss.

  “Or a what?” you respond to this mysterious foreign phrase, feeling small and toad-like in your cultural depravity. Disheartened, you walk to door ‘Not 3-D’ with hopes of leaving behind a painful, three-dimensional world. Upon opening the door a crack you are immediately sucked into a new dimension of space, tumbling helplessly while 2,001 kettledrums pound in your ears and bright lights flash by at incredible speeds. Oxygen begins to run short as you slow to a drift towards two spinning space stations, the terminus of your space odyssey.

  “Open the pod bay door, HAL,” you command nervously as you propel yourself towards the nearest rotating base.

  “I’m sorry, Steven,” HAL responds in its smooth computer voice, “but this door is ‘Not 4-U’.”

  “Just open the damn hatch, HAL,” you reiterate while struggling for breath.

  “I’m not authorized to do that, Steven. There is no room ‘4-U’ at this first base.”

  “What?” you gasp in desperation.

  “Try the second base,” HAL replies.

  With a final burst of strength you push off to the second space station where door ‘4-U’ opens to a welcoming verandah in Japanese-Hawaiian motif, complete with large sofa. You collapse on the couch taking great gulps of air, grateful to have gotten at least to second base, if not yet all the way. Discomfort arises, however, as you feel a sticky wet spot on the couch cushion and spy a sign on the wall announcing, “Tonight’s double-horror feature: Coitus Interruptus and The Premature Ejaculation.”

  “Argh,” you cry out as you recognize the infamous Tanigawa sofa of your teenage escapades. You flip over the shameful cushion and bolt through the exit marked ‘Not Japanese’. Small swinging doors lead you into a noisy crowd of cowboys and barmaids in a congenial Dodge City saloon. Feeling relieved to be with your kind of people in a familiar Kansas setting, you call out to the popular hostess, “Howdy, Miss Kitty.”

  She looks at you with utter disdain and states, “We don’t serve no slanty-eyed cowards in here.”

  “Huh?” you respond as Miss Kitty jerks her thumb to the mirror behind the bar. You look a haze of gunsmoke and are shocked to see yourself as an old Japanese pilot in kamikaze uniform. “Holy shitaki,” you exclaim in dismay.

  “And watch your language in front of a lady,” Marshall Dillon interjects while sending you airborne with an unceremonious heave-ho through the alternate door of duality marked ‘Japanese’.

  You land on the busy sidewalk of a bustling city in the shadow of Mount Fuji, walking with head hanging low as a dishonorable kamikaze pilot scorned by your fellow Japanese citizens. Their whispered slurs of traitor, coward, and rice ball torment your every step. Why did you survive the suicide mission while the others heroic pilots died? And how can you go all the way stuck in this aging foreign body?

  The sound of galloping hooves intrudes upon your thoughts as a masked man fast approaches on white steed. The Lone Ranger reins to a halt by your side and beams a sympathetic smile. “I know how you feel, pardner. SGS can be a real bitch.”

  “Huh?”

  “Survivors Guilt Syndrome,” explains the only ranger who lived through the massacre. “So what can I do to help you in my never-ending quest for service and lasting recognition?”

  You bow humbly and state, “Thank you for the kind offer, Ranger-san. Perhaps you could help rid me of this kamikaze guise so I can continue the inner journey in my real, American identity.”

  “How far are you planning to go with this trip into your underworld?” he queries skeptically.

  You lift your chin and declare resolutely, “All the way.”

  “Wow,” the Lone Ranger exclaims in admiration. “With that kind of dedication, you bet I can help!” He looks deeply into your eyes then recites the transformative incantation learned in his bodhisattva training: “Hocus-pocus-kamikaze. Change-the-channel, Harriet-and-Ozzie.” And with a snap of his fingers, you revert into your original lanky, middle-America form.

  “Hey, thanks a bunch!” you exclaim.

  “All in a day’s work of fighting to rid the hidden underworld of shame,” the benevolent ranger replies humbly while pressing a parting gift into your hand. “Hi-ho Semen, away!”

  “Oh, gross!” you cry out as you drop his gift of four, stiff tissues from your Honolulu drive-in climax. A hot rush of shame flashes in your face, a sharp fist to the gut doubles you over as you stumble forward on the path. Is there no respite from the judgments, from the shadows in the psyche that torment you with guilt?

  You look up to the heavens for an answer, but instead spot two more Doors of Duality awaiting your arrival and choice. As you read their markings, you are absolutely clear in your selection of which to enter. Tired of all the judgments of life, you turn your back on the door marked ‘Judge’ and approach the entrance to ‘Judge Not.’ Slowly, expectantly, you open the door.

  “Ah, my champion arrives.” The words are spoken like a blessing from the most beautiful being you have ever seen. Her radiant eyes bathe you in light as you enter the ‘Judge Not’ room and slowly recognize her welcoming spirit.

  “Gaia?” you speak tentatively to the soul of Earth.

  She winces, “I never much liked that name. Sounds like someone just hiccupped, don’t you think?”

  You start to open your mouth but she continues, “And please refrain from using that Mother Earth cliché. Mother is just one of my many faces.” She smiles and looks at you tenderly. “But you already know that fact, my friend, my lover, my protector. You have done admirably in your dedication to me, to Earth, in the noble service for which you have been trained lo’ these many lifetimes—to judge not.”

  You remain silent and simply bask in her presence and words.

  “Yes, dear heart, you volunteered as one of the brave, the few to escape the trap of duality on this planet, to transcend the notions of right and wrong in order to heal the karmic pain and strain in me created by centuries of battles, judgments, and guilt. All those memories of yours, those nighttime dreams, all your journeys into ancient oppression and childhood shame that you have internalized, are a part of your noble service. For Earth’s healing goes hand in hand with your healing—as above, so below. You heal us both by internalizing these historic rifts within humanity and then releasing them in a vibration of understanding, forgiveness, and acceptance—of judging not.”

  She raises a hand in benediction then fades into the ethers as
you savor her lingering presence and words. A deep sense of peace and calm fills you, a clarity that comes with knowing that ‘Judge Not’ is your destiny. You exit the room, spy the door marked ‘Judge’ across the hall, and smile thinking of how you served this misguided concept in many guises, in many quests and causes over the years.

  You follow an urge to now enter this doorway to ‘Judge’, partly from curiosity but also to pay your last respects to this outmoded path that served you well, that helped you come to your true destiny to judge not. Slowly you open the ‘Judge’ door and are astonished by what you see and hear.

  “Ah, my champion arrives,” states the beautiful being in a voice like a blessing. “Enter fully and relieve me of the fear that I have lost you to delusions about oneness and non-judgment.”

  You ask through your confusion, “Is it really you, the same spirit of Earth in this room, too?”

  She laughs and replies, “Of course it is. Do you find it surprising that Earth herself is of a dual nature? No, Steven, you are fully aware that duality is the hallmark of life on earth. Day and night, pain and pleasure, good and evil, the positive and negative poles play out in a myriad of ways. You cannot pretend to ignore what is in your heart and say you have no judgments, to pretend that you are beyond human nature of duality. If you try to transcend duality, you will destroy your aliveness, your truth, and your ability to champion the causes for which you have trained lo’ these many lifetimes.”

  The spirit of Earth looks with compassion at you as she continues, “Yes, you have chosen a path to serve me and my children, to take on the mantle of discernment between right and wrong and to work for what you believe in. All is well, dear one. Choose wisely, judge without harshness, and know that your destiny on Earth unfolds with your clear judgments and strong actions for the cause of what is good and right.”

  Earth’s spirit shines upon you as she slowly recedes into the ethers, leaving you alone in the room of judgment. You lean on the wall for support against the contradictions that have just hit you like a wave on a sandy beach. The crash of the breaker makes your legs tremble and the sand shifts from beneath your feet as its aftermath washes back through your thoughts.

  To judge or to judge not, what is your path, your truth, your destiny? Your recent clarity and calm have given over to the disquieting sense that paradox and contradictions may be the only beacons left to guide your journey. You walk slowly out the room of judgment and find yourself in an enormous corridor with a simple sign pointing the direction to ALL THE WAY. There is nowhere else to turn.

  With tentative steps, you proceed down the corridor expecting at any moment to be swallowed into the belly of the Beast. But no ravenous creatures lie ahead, no dark shadows confront your path; only three doors appear as you approach the end of the corridor. Two of the doorways are too small to enter—the one on the left is marked The Past, and the one on the right, The Future. In the center rises a huge wooden door grander than any you have seen—and with a fine set of knockers to match.

  A flash of color on the corridor floor catches your attention, with text that declares, There’s no gift like the present! As you reach for the familiar Sedona souvenir tile, the large door suddenly creaks open giving you just enough space to squeeze into the silent darkness of the chamber. As you cautiously enter, without warning a hand touches your cheek making your heart jump. But you are immediately reassured by the sweet kiss that follows for a good minute, actually a very good minute.

  “Not in silence today are you, Steven dear?” a familiar voice speaks as a soft light shines from your psyche onto the latest ally to emerge from your dark underworld.

  “Prema, is it really you?” you ask with a sigh of relief.

  “The one and only. A legend in your own mind.” She smiles while placing her hands gently on your shoulders. “I’ve been in your psyche watching a Fool’s Journey the past days and saw that a little tender guidance is needed in order for you to travel all the way. The expedition into the underworld, into the light and shadow of self, can get pretty tricky going it alone.”

  “You can say that again,” you reply thinking of your recent chats with the Earth spirit. “What do you make of the contradictions I ran into about whether my path is to judge or to judge not?”

  “To be frank, I think your controlling personality is grasping for security by trying to artificially place yourself in some category and to define your path instead of just letting it unfold moment to moment. Plus,” she says, taking your hand to walk to another doorway, “it is time to start perceiving yourself and your universe beyond your limited, earth-bound thinking. Remember?”

  You step through the entryway into a colorful Buddhist temple room that is swaying gently like a ship afloat. At the far end, in perfect meditation pose, sits a figure dressed in colorful Tibetan garb exactly like the beautifully centered child in your September dream. As you approach the figure whose head is bowed downward, you see that he has four-plus-one beads in his outstretched hand.

  “Ready to go all the way, my fellow journeyer?” the being states, looking up with bright eyes, friendly smile, and an aura of perfect calm.

  “Big Ed?” you respond incredulously at finding your nemesis in such a setting and state of peace.

  “Please sit, little twin.” He tosses you a bead and offers you a cushion directly in front of him.

  Tentatively, awkwardly, you fold your legs into a sitting pose, all the while eyeing Big Ed, not certain if you can actually trust him. He notices your suspicion and comments, “Perhaps we are not yet ready to merge as One, brother. But at least it is good that you have journeyed all the way to finally see what you truly fear within yourself.”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Steven,” Prema comments from behind, “Our greatness, not our darkness, is what one fears the most. Is that not so?”

  Big Ed concurs, “For when we finally come to know the brilliant fullness of our total being in body, mind, and spirit, our familiar self-identity based on limited human desire and duality vanishes into insignificance.” You gulp, as that sense of your insignificance starts to take hold.

  “So of course your ego fights tooth and nail for its survival, holding onto its worldly attachments while creating all sorts of fears and smokescreens to keep you prisoner in the familiar, to fool you into settling for less than what you truly are.”

  You look at your guides and ask, “So how do I discover the truth of what I am beyond the ego’s false self-identity?”

  “All paths ultimately lead to your true self, since your Essence is the absolute, the eternal, the divine center that lies beneath your fleeting ego and its illusory world.” Big Ed stands and leads you to a set of doors behind the altar, one marked ‘Remembrance’, the other ‘Forgetfulness’. “One door simply provides a quicker route to liberation than the other.”

  As you stand staring at the choice ahead, Prema interjects, “Remember, dear one, there are no right decisions, only right action.”

  You nod as you reach out, turning the knob to Remembrance. Immediately, you find yourself sitting at the computer in the Phool Chatti library, reviewing with satisfaction the last few paragraphs of a Fool’s Journey into the Underworld. You press ‘print’, and wait for the pages to manifest on paper.

  JANUARY 30 – afternoon

  A joyful and peaceful two days it has been, winging new phrases and singing the praises of creativity’s spin through heights ne’er before seen by a fool. Then plunging as well into underworld hell where secrets unfold for those willing to claim what in blazes is found behind psyche’s protective firewall. A wordy landscape of hidden shame plus fear, of things held dear and others pushed aside in attempt to hide the darker truths cast from the past into form. But no formality lies in the now, as you repose in sandy briefs on Ganga beach, reading the printouts of prose from past days of journeying through the tangle of mind, shadow, and spirit.

  Then you hear it. A rustling from behind prompts you to raise your head from the writte
n page as a familiar voice calls from the boulders, “So, grasshopper, are you ready to address my initial inquiry made of you in December at this very spot?”

  “Bubha!” you exclaim as you put down the papers and turn to watch your friend step out from the rocks, alive and in person.

  “So?” Bubha asks as he sits by your side. “Which shapes which—the river or the bank, the man or his thoughts, the book or the author, the chicken or the egg?”

  You are thrilled to see your good buddy in corporeal form again as you reply to his question, “It’s all one big breakfast scramble without a first or last, just a continuous dance of inter-related causes and effects.”

  “A weak metaphor, homeboy, but good enough for a passing grade. And have you solved the Case of the Disappearing Holdovers that vanished from the cave and that magically reappeared in my possession?”

  You reply with a smirk, “I’d search your room for clues but I brilliantly deduce that you’ve likely disposed of all traces of my missing money and belongings.”

  “Excellent answer!” Bubha says cheerily, punctuated by a slap on your back. “One spoken without recrimination or whining. I’m pleasantly surprised by your enlightened reaction to my advanced instruction.”

  “Earlier in the week I might have greeted your larceny at the cave with hostility, but you have earned your commission well the past few days as an imaginary playmate and guide through my psyche,” you explain by moving your fingers as if typing in the air.

  “Atcha, so my acumen has been seeping from afar through your typing of manuscript. Are you going to list me as a co-author in The ReMinder or simply plagiarize my wisdom without footnote?”

  “Actually, I haven’t had the urge to work on The ReMinder. I’m instead just letting the intuitive words flow into my current typing process, called a Fool’s Journey.”

  “Pity,” he says pulling out some sheets of paper, “I composed a little foreword for The ReMinder while at the Kumba Mehla festival. But as with all my writing, it’s a pearl so you can likely string it into your ongoing effort.” He hands you the sheets. “Am I correct in assuming that your current effort documents your recent amnesia episode?”

  “Nope, wrong again. It would be a prison for me and my happy fingers to relive and write about the recent past. Thanks, but I’ll just keep flying into the present moment to recover forgotten secrets of my universe—or at least to get honest with myself regarding what lurks in the veiled psyche.”

  “Still on the exalted quest for Truth, eh pal? Your persistent need for a grand purpose is one holdover you seem unable to release.”

  You respond with a shrug, “As you said the other day, as long as I’m having fun with the ballgame, why not go for it?” Bubha’s puzzled expression prompts you to add sheepishly, “Oh yeah, that was a comment by your imaginary self or my invisible playmate or whoever.”

  “Sounds as if you are doing a crackerjack job of mixing reality with imagination these days,” Bubha throws in a friendly jab.

  “I’ve been taught by a master,” you remark with an accusatory stare.

  “Ahem, I admit to having exploited your amnesia with a flight or two of imagination on our journey together the other week.”

  “Helluva flight attendant you were, too, Cyrus. I’ve been wondering how much of the manipulative trajectory to the Kumba Mehla did you have pre-planned in your Machiavellian mind? Did you set me up from the beginning to steal my money and valuables?”

  “Perish the thought. While sniffing around your amnesiatic self at Phool Chatti, I set my sights simply on trying to catch a free ride with you to the Kumba Mehla in exchange for escorting you to your Allahabad dinner date with Alberta. But when you showed up at Neelkanth village, lost and counting your money in the café, I knew it was a sign from heaven that abundance had alighted on my doorstep. Our silent, two-course lunch gave me time to design a quick strategy that would allow us to play our respective roles in the cycle of abundance and release.”

  “That murder rap idea was a masterstroke to make me a pawn of your intentions,” you state with begrudging admiration as Bubha tilts his head in acknowledgment.

  He responds, “Indeed. And it helps to know that the daily Hindi newspaper invariably has a cricket photo featured on the back sports page.”

  “Plus you’re an incredibly convincing liar. I could have sworn you were telling me the truth when you looked me in the eye and proclaimed that I was wanted for murdering that batsman.”

  Bubha assumes a dignified air and declares, “I do not stoop to petty lies, sir. I adhered strictly to truth in remarking that ‘you stand charged over the alleged murder’ of the cricket player—after you had stood up feeling rather charged over the allegation.”

  You shake your head and chuckle, “I guess a trickster has to be a master at splitting hairs.”

  “Yep, and as my grandpappy used to say: Small lies make small men. Big lies make money.” Bubha quickly adds, “But my clever strokes of deception were not lies, rather theatrical devices for setting the stage. A bit of poetic license taken here and there to ensure that our drama would unfold in elucidating and entertaining ways. Did it not work?”

  You think back to awakening in a stupor at the cave and reply, “Sure, in retrospect, I can appreciate the events that I dearly hope prove to be once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Just give me a few more months of hindsight before I thank you too profusely.”

  “Hey, I heard you really got into the Schwarzenegger movie thing on the train,” Bubha interjects. “I threw that one in at no extra cost with the help of my two sadhu pals who worked in Bollywood before taking up the orange cloth.”

  “Not bad,” you respond, glad to be getting some more answers. “Say, are you the one who sneaked into my hut one rainy night and took my turquoise umbrella?”

  “Nope, my breaking and entering was always done by daylight while you bathed in the Ganga. What’s the umbrella story?”

  “I don’t know. The umbrella was in my hut when I went to sleep, then Guruji returned it the next day at lunch. Strange. By the way, did you spend a bunch of time telling him our conversations?” you ask trying to get a better handle on how Guruji knows so much.

  Bubha shakes his head, “No, I gave him as few details as possible when I came through Phool Chatti that post-cave morning on my way to catch the Kumba Mehla train. We did have another short chat just a few minutes ago but that’s been it.”

  You sit and mull things over until Bubha interrupts your thoughts by commenting, “Guruji was sure looking tired today and seemed out of sorts. Has he been feeling okay lately?”

  “I couldn’t really say,” you reply, “since I’ve been so self-absorbed at the computer with my writing.”

  “So zombie boy has a new refrain—the computer and I are one,” Bubha chides.

  “Where the hell did you come up with that mommy-and-I-are-one saying, anyway, that you belittled me with at the Kumba Mehla?”

  “Made an impression on you, huh?” Bubha responds. “Me, too, when I read a newspaper article which said that phrase was being used as a subliminal message by our government to soothe federal employees.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “Nope, it’s for real. Repetition of ‘Mommy and I are one’ was piped in softly behind the canned music at a federal conference to make the government employees feel warm and cozy all over.”

  “Kind of makes you wonder what we’re getting behind all that supermarket music back in the States,” you laugh. “Mommy and I eat Rice Chex?”

  “And in the discount stores, Daddy and I wear jockey shorts.”

  “Hmm, I wonder why I said Rice Chex?” you ask yourself aloud.

  “What are you mumbling about, pal?”

  “Rice makes me think of the Asian angle to my youthful relationships with women and Chex is like a checkerboard pattern of light and dark coming together as one symbol. Do you get any clues on this one, Bubha?”

  “Damn, homeboy, I think you’d better get bac
k to the computer where your imaginary friends understand you. I’ve got to split anyway to run errands in Laxman Jhula to get ready for my next trip. Want to guess where to?”

  “Back to the Kumba Mehla festival?”

  “Nope, to Vancouver, B.C.,” Bubha coolly announces, “complete with a personal tour guide and colorful cohort to hit the lecture circuit.”

  You sit dumfounded and finally query, “With Alberta?”

  “Alberta indeed. We bumped into each other in Neelkanth village, saw how much we have in common, and decided a little joint business venture sounded like a hoot. She fronts with money for an air ticket and has the North American contacts, while I contribute the Eastern mystique and wisdom. Can you imagine the great Shri Shri Cy Bubha dispensing his enlightenment aided by the talents of that fine woman?” Bubha asks with enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, I sure can,” you answer bobbing your head. “You’ll be the one with the snake oil and she’ll be the belly dancer.”

  “Right, although we’ll switch roles sometimes to keep the act fresh,” Bubha quips while getting to his feet and brushing the sand off his robe.

  “I’m going to miss you both,” you reluctantly admit.

  “Hey, don’t look so glum, buddy boy. We don’t leave for a few days and I’m sure Alberta will want to see you before she goes.”

  “Sure,” you reply as Bubha raises an arm in farewell and recedes back into the boulders.

  You lie in the sand pondering the thoughts at hand and heart. Things smart, a twinge of a sensation that has no explanation in your mind. Just a spot in your heart that feels tender to the touch, lonesome and such, thinking of being left behind as ventures and camaraderie unfold for others.

  You rise from the shore and head once more to the refuge where expression and confession can flow upon the written page. Through library door and to computer chair you find a belated Christmas letter awaiting you there sent in December from central Kansas, seat of your sister’s hearth and home. No tome, just one photocopied page you take pause to read and feel as if a seed of your inner self has sprung from sister’s upbeat words and Yuletide cheer with news of the past year filled with children’s success and exclamation points galore to express the positive pole of married life on the prairie. No strife to carry to kith and kin this holiday season, no reason to expose the thin line walked to keep all things merry.

  In response to sister’s belated Christmas letter, you unfetter the flow of phrase to include with her positive phase the fuller truth of family trees. Pining for honesty to fill the breeze that turns the windmills of your mind, you let thoughts grind and flower onto glowing screen.

  A FOOL AND HIS FAMILY – January 30

  A beloved sister writes like an echo heard halfway round the world. Her choice of words, cadence of prose, and voice of optimism reflect our shared childhood and current closeness in creative expression. Like watching my twin self write but with feminine flair and skewed to the positive pole in a manner I can no longer bare.

  No, I must look inward to find the naked truth, to embrace my real female twin who knows that high notes and low tones are each needed to clothe life’s symphonic score. No hiding a family’s dirty laundry behind fat exclamation points, but letting it all hang out in year-end review. Huzzah! There she be, my duality sister flying now from the psyche waving her version of a rounded family Christmas letter:

  Dear Friends and Neighbors,

  It has been an up and down year. Marriage is okay although some days I hate Ralph’s guts. It’s so handy to project one’s sense of self-loathing onto the spouse, don’t you find? I don’t think I could have made it through this year without being able to blame others for the ugly truths I sometimes sense in myself. But not to worry, my skill at denial and self-deception are strong this Christmas, so all is well on the home front!

  Ralph’s out in the garage building an ultra-light airplane, another of his futile attempts to find some grandiose meaning beyond the mundane. But it beats piling mashed potatoes into sculpted towers, so what the hey. And we did actually have a wonderful weeklong holiday together without the kids in October. Kind of makes up for the affair he had with a client over the summer. He promises never to let it happen again and is really-really sorry and blah, blah, blah. You know the script.

  The kids did well in school this year, but their entry into the teens has its challenges. Always quibbling and picking on each other. I wish we could just let them fuck each other senseless and get it out of their system. But whoops, wrong culture and era, so we keep shuttling Tiffany from choir to volleyball to debate club and her Mensa meetings—and keep Junior well-stocked with Kleenex for handy clean-ups. What was good for the goose is good for the gosling.