MEANWHILE, A SHORT WAY DOWNRIVER…
Three sadhus have finished their ablutions and are enjoying the morning sunshine along the Ganga’s sandy shore. Two of them take turns absently throwing rocks at an object caught in a large eddy on the far bend of the river. The third sadhu suddenly stands to get a better look at the floating object. Through toothless gums, he speaks in excited tone to the others who stop casting stones.
Upon further scrutiny, they agree in a flurry of Hindi that indeed it is a human head bobbing in steady rhythm, its mouth gasping for breath at each back-tilt. After quick retrieval of a handy rope and heroic efforts by the toothless old man, the trio successfully brings the head to shore. Like an iceberg, most of its naked mass lies blue and icy underwater; but with the help of a warming fire and blankets, feeling ultimately returns to your body, if not movement.
“Guardian angel,” the toothless sadhu proudly announces while pointing at himself. Your eyes focus in recognition of Herald as you smile wanly through lips that are still a shade of purple. With imploring eyes and a voice less than a whisper you ask the sadhus, “Speak English?”
You are grateful when one of them replies, “I talk little bit English.” You wish you could move your paralyzed body to speak into his ear, but he kindly leans down to hear your faint words.
“Cy doctor bubber, internal sand turds?” the sadhu repeats looking in bewilderment at his two friends. You shake your head and try a second time. He repeats your statement, again without comprehension, “Say doctor buppa and kennels ant herds?”
“Atcha!” Herald exclaims in apparent understanding. “Cy Bubha, doctor!” And your guardian angel runs to flag down a jeep to fetch Cy Bubha from Neelkanth.
During the wait for Herald to return with Bubha, the English-speaking sadhu has more success in grasping your request, although full cognition is thwarted by your weak voice and the Indo-American cultural barrier. Several curious passersby have joined the group and are also attempting to follow your obscure instructions as you lie paralyzed in a blanket. When Bubha arrives and jumps from the jeep, he finds a large group of people shouting various versions of “Dock or pep her and kernel sand turds” followed by a clap of their hands.
Bubha sits by you on the beach and casually asks, “Hey there, homeboy, whatcha doin’, directing a scene for a new Fellini film?” You whisper as your friend brings his ear to your lips to hear your request. “Ah shit, you’re going to owe me big-time for making me stoop to this level of the absurd,” he complains while standing and telling everyone to shut up. They watch as Bubha enunciates a clear message accompanied by a crisp handclap, “Dr. Pepper and Colonel Sanders!”
Finally you can move. Slowly and painfully at first, but your body responds with increasing efficiency to the post-hypnotic signal for release from paralysis. “Thanks,” you say to Bubha as you stretch your limbs and wiggle your digits. “And thank you all. Namaste,” you smile as best you can at the crowd of onlookers.
“So what gives, buddy boy? Even Cyrus the Wise can’t intuit how you got yourself into this mess.”
Your fists clench as you recall Prema’s nocturnal visit to your hut and her betrayal at the Ganga. “She tried to kill me last night!” you announce.
“Who tried to kill you?” Bubha asks incredulously.
“That woman,” you spit out as your eyes narrow to slits, “Prema!”
Bubha gives you a suspicious look, “Are you pointing the great finger again to avoid your own issues, pal?”
“Hell no. It was nearly the perfect crime, too.” The words pour out like a fountain as you describe the details of what has happened since saying good-bye to Bubha two days ago, including Prema’s diabolical actions last night that sent you floating paralyzed down the Ganga.
Bubha sits in silence for a minute pondering what he just learned. Finally he speaks. “It’s a good thing that you called in a Doctor of Paradox for your resuscitation, pal. Looks to me like you’ve woven yourself such a big one that you need some help to fight your way out of this paradoxical web.” You respond with a baffled expression. Bubha sweeps a sinewy arm to indicate the landscape and announces, “My brilliant deduction is that this scene is merely part of a phony ending you are writing for your book.”
“Whoa there. What are you trying to say?” you ask as your mind starts to swirl.
“If I read the skit and scat of this trail correctly, it began with your theory that imagination affects reality and that the book helps shape the author. So yesterday you composed a fantasy epilogue of fame and fortune in a New York penthouse with hopes it would pave the way to a successful book career.”
“Yeah, that was the general idea.”
“Well, it looks to me that next, while taking your walk after dinner last evening, you got cold feet over impending performance pressures of a successful author, tight schedules, high taxes, all those nasty trappings of the rich and famous. So you expanded the phony epilogue to send yourself swirling away from all responsibilities with a fatal dive into the Ganga and slandering sweet Prema as a killer.”
“Well, maybe I did write some more on the epilogue after dinner…” you mumble while starting to feel confused and foggy about what actually happened last night.
“But then this morning, you chickened out on this grandiose symbolic death of the Identity and instead of letting yourself drown at the end of the book, you’re now drafting an addendum with a flamboyant river rescue complete with a batch of finger lickin’ foolishness.” Bubha looks at his watch and finishes, “Leaving your readers scratching their heads and me running late just because some wishy-washy, weak-willied writer can’t make up his mind about his true desires and how he wants his story to end.”
You ponder the ramifications of what Bubha is saying. “You really think that Prema’s attempted murder of me and this rescue scene is just a part of an imaginary ending that I’m writing for the book?”
“That’s my brilliant deduction and the only explanation that could make sense. Unless…”
“What?”
Bubha lets loose with a long whistle as he stares off into space. “Unless, my dear in‑Specter, our little Prema has in fact killed you and she is the one fabricating this paradoxical addendum to throw the readers and police off her murderous trail.”
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE LIBRARY…
A broad smile curves upon your supple lips as you watch the draft of the first installment of the addendum come off the printer. You pick up the papers, toss your golden hair over your shoulder, and read what you have just composed—a dose of truth, a bit of foolishness, a dash of imagination, and enough paradox to pull it all together. Not bad so far, you think, as you return to the computer and open up Steven’s old files to look for a solution to the bigger challenge: How to deter his family from following up on his mysterious disappearance in India.
You stare at the computer screen as a series of Steven’s documents appear under the heading, Fool’s Journey. Scanning the titles, you are drawn to A Fool and His Family and take some time to read the file. Your radiant smile continues to broaden as you explore this hidden treasure. Here is the gold mine of opportunity, a veritable mother lode of prose in just the right vein to alienate his devoted family. An incestuous Christmas letter, an Oedipal journey through red hair, and a few skeletons rattling in the closet should ensure that the Shupe clan distances itself from, if not outright disowns, their former A-1 child. Ah, abundance once again flows in testimony to the benevolent hand of the universe that leads to a happy ending. You head downstairs to share the good news with Guruji and show him the first installment of the addendum.
“So, my Prema, how’s it going in weaving your golden thread?” Guruji asks as you enter his office.
“So far, so good,” you state as you hand Guruji the printout of what you have composed of the addendum thus far. “Convoluting the trail with the truth of paradox is a piece of cake; although Bubha may be getting wise to my little ploy. I’ll have to throw him off the scent in the next insta
llment.”
“That leaves only the need to deter Steven’s family from nosing around. Any ideas yet?”
“As a matter of fact, I just uncovered some perverse pages that Steven composed this week that could be the key to destroying his family’s devotion to him. But there’s one glitch,” you state with a frown. “Our late author made a distinct point of not opening these uncensored pages of his sexual psyche to the public so, without his permission, I can’t just stick them into the book’s story line without—”
“I know, I know; without damaging the integrity of his story and palm lines and money and all the rest. Well, do your best dearest,” Guruji encourages, “while I dream of what I will do with that hefty donation you shall be providing me from the royalties.”
You meet his grin of anticipation with your own smile as ideas for the next installment of the addendum begin churning in your head. “I’ll be in the library rehearsing my righteous indignation act and writing like mad,” you state while opening the office door to leave. “By the way, watch out for flying glass in a little while.”
“What?” the puzzled swami asks.
“What is the guy on second base,” you explain as new ideas continue flooding in for the next installment. Guruji looks bewildered as you blow him a kiss and say, “Not to worry, darling, it’s just a bit of foreshadowing thrown in by the bookend author as I attempt to be faithful to the twisted mind of the lead writer. I’ll be finished writing the addendum in a Jiffy, after waxing poetic for a Skippy or two, and flying smooth or crunchy like Peter Pan through a never-never land of aisles and smiles!”
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RIVERBANK…
“Do you really think Prema could be writing this paradoxical addendum to cover her diabolical tracks?” you ask while pondering the ramifications of this possibility. “Damn, Bubha, that would leave me just a confused specter while my dead body floats down the Ganga halfway to Allahabad.”
“Right, and it would make me a duped character in her addendum caught in the swirl of a creative paradox.” Bubha cogitates on this disturbing notion for a minute then speaks, “Nope, let’s assume that you are still breathing air while creating this contrived addendum and that I, not Prema, rule as top dog of paradox peak.”
You slowly shake your head and state, “Maybe so…but damn it, Bubha, I don’t feel that this scene is contrived. Actually, I think Prema did try to kill me last night and that Herald really had to rescue me this morning from the river.”
Bubha shrugs. “Hold on to your victim fantasies if you want, pal, but let’s assume the most logical reality which is that you are caught in indecision about how to end your book, and then we can get to the task at hand.”
“That task being what?”
“Well, if you’re writing this imaginative ending with the hope that it will create your reality that follows, then the task is to make sure that the story’s conclusion reflects your true desires. What about getting your book published? Isn’t that a desire for the immediate future?”
You think for a moment then announce, “Yeah, maybe I should accept the offer Prema made last evening to take care of all the publishing details.”
“Then go for it, buddy boy. Write a creative finale that makes peace with your golden muse so she’ll handle the book business while you—“
“While I go off into the high Himalayas to lose myself in walking through scenery and solitude for a while,” you interrupt Bubha to complete his sentence with your other desire of the moment. “Thanks for helping to clear things up, Doc, and for all the encouragement,” you add with an affectionate look at your advisor.
“I’ll give you more than encouragement, my sentimental journeyer. How about a genuine American backpack and king size sleeping bag to take on your trek?” he remarks while pulling you to your feet and leading you to the jeep.
“Really? You returned from the Kumba Mehla with my sleeping bag and backpack intact?”
“By the skin of my teeth and a few hundred rupees of baksheesh to the Allahabad police,” Bubha explains as he reaches into the back seat of the jeep and hands you a familiar duo of travel companions for bed and baggage. “Now I’ve got to make like a bread truck and haul my buns on some errands if I’m going to keep my travel date with Alberta to Vancouver,” he states while hopping into the jeep. The engine starts and the vehicle begins pulling away.
“Hey, thanks for renting the computer for me in the library,” you add in farewell.
Bubha sticks his head out the window and replies, “My pleasure. But you better look out, homeboy. If Prema gets into your computer files and reads that you’ve framed her for murder in your imaginary ending, her righteous indignation could blow your chances for a harmonious union with your new business partner.”
“Holy shitaki,” you exclaim, “I’d better hustle back to the ashram and delete any such slanderous nonsense before Prema discovers it!”
Bubha extends a long, sinewy arm out the window in response as his jeep pulls away for Laxman Jhula. You quickly head the other direction, wrapping the blanket tightly around your shoulders and picking your way barefoot along the road to Phool Chatti. Upon your arrival at the ashram, you head first to the hut to put on clothes before approaching Prema with the good news of your plans to trek while she shepherds Now or Never to completion.
As you open the hut door, however, travel plans suddenly swerve violently. There at your feet lies the damning evidence that brings stark reality back to the fore: Melted candle wax, now firm and cold. No, last night’s candlelight, the ringing alarm, and the sharp clap of Prema’s hands were not figments of your imagination, but actual tools of a murderous plot to take your life and your book. You stare in stunned silence at the dried pool of red wax left from the one o’clock arrival of that manipulative, deceptive, greedy, hand-clapping, twin-shouting book thief.
A FEW HOT BREATHS LATER…
The mountain trek is going to have to wait, you think, as you feel hot blood surge into your head. Oh yes, there is a little business to attend first, a score to settle with a conniving female before a contemplative man enters the high country. You burst from the hut at a pace that quickens with each step through the garden. The eyes of your inner beast stare at the gray world of the ashram passing by, as the heat burns in your face. Heat and steam, and pain and heat, and sweat and…you arrive at the Guruji’s office flinging the door open in a burst of shattering glass.
“Steven!” cries the swami in shock as he looks up from his reading.
“Where is she, Guruji?” you ask in a voice that could cut through steel. Guruji is too startled to speak. “She tried to kill me, you know.”
“Don’t be a fool, Steven.”
“That suggestion contradicts my spiritual beliefs,” you reply through clenched teeth. “Now where the hell is Prema?”
Guruji points his finger upward and says, “She just went to the library. But you’re in no condition to…”
You are out the broken door before Guruji can finish. As you stride up the steps two at a time you hear a squeal come from the library and Prema exclaim in righteous indignation, “Oh, that’s outrageous!” You stand in the library doorway breathing heavily as Prema turns from the screen. “You!” she cries and narrows her eyes.
“Yes, me. No thanks to you…you little man-eating, book-stealing killer!”
“Me?” Prema shouts in surprise. “Why you…you woman-hating, paranoid rice ball!”
The two adversaries point fingers squarely at one another as Guruji’s voice from behind you suddenly commands, “Now both of you cut this out and just settle down.”
As you turn, you are inflamed by the sight of the swami cradling the metronome. “So you’re in on this, too, you hypnotic bastard,” you yell as you lunge for the mind-numbing weapon in Guruji’s hands.
“Twins!” shouts Prema with quick thinking and a swift clap of her hands.
“Oh, fuck a duck,” you cry as you sprawl forward, landing helplessly at Guruji’s feet.
“Dear me,” he gasps, “are you all right, Steven?” Prema and the elderly guru each take hold of an arm and pull your paralyzed body into a sitting position against the wall.
Nose smarting but otherwise uninjured, you glare up at your two captors and state defiantly, “Go ahead and do with me what you will.”
Guruji turns to Prema and asks, “What in Shiva’s name is he talking about?”
Prema shakes her head looking nearly as confused as the swami. “All I know is that last evening I offered to help Steven finish his book, and just now I discovered in the computer that he rewrote his story’s ending to turn me into a book thief and murderess.” She turns towards you and asks, “Don’t you think that’s overreacting a bit to your inner duality and Mommy issues, Steven?”
“Overreacting! You send me floating down the Ganga in the middle of the night and now you dare to accuse me of overreacting?”
“Oh, for heavens sake. Can you believe this nonsense?” Prema asks Guruji. “He’s writing a bunch of hocus pocus in a phony ending to his book and trying to pin it on me! He even turned you and me into money-grubbing sex perverts,” she states pointing at the computer screen she just read. “Talk about projections, Steven.”
“Bullshit, you nearly killed me with your diabolical plan. If Herald hadn’t rescued me from the whirlpool this morning….” You stop as you consider the other alternative. “Or maybe I am dead and you’re just covering your murderous tracks by writing a clever, paradoxical addendum.”
Prema looks at Guruji and rolls her eyeballs. The kindly swami kneels down to your sweaty face and gently states, “Frankly, Steven, I don’t give a marble what has transpired in the past or which of you is writing this ending to Now or Never. All I know is that it is time for you to make peace with this woman towards whom you have so much resistance.”
He lifts the metronome to your face and continues, “I brought this instrument upstairs simply so we could clear you of all the post-hypnotic suggestions. However, I am going to defer that action until you and Prema can speak to one another civilly. Is that clear, my friend?” You nod your head while glaring out the corner of your eye at Prema.
“Prema, I’m going to ask you to sit by Steven and to work things out together. Do you understand, dear?” Prema nods as she folds her arms and reluctantly slouches against the wall next to your paralyzed body. Guruji looks from one to the other of you waiting for someone to speak. You each remain stubbornly silent until Guruji asks, “So who’s on first?”
“Correct,” Prema responds tersely.
“What?” he asks.
“I already told you, What is the guy on second base,” Prema immediately answers.
“Who?” Guruji queries with a baffled look.
You catch on to Prema’s routine and state brusquely, “No, Guruji, Who is the guy on first.”
“Who is?”
“Right!” Prema and you concur simultaneously and share a laugh.
“Laurel and Hardy?” you ask Prema, trying to remember the origin of this old comedy routine.
“Actually, I think it was Abbott and Costello. But whatever the case, it’s probably not cricket to use an American baseball joke on a Hindu swami. Sorry, my dear,” Prema says to Guruji, “but it did serve to break the ice between Steven and me.” She then turns to you and asks, “May I do the honor with Dr. P and KFC?”
“With my permission and undying gratitude,” you reply.
She stands and proclaims, “Dr. Pepper and Colonel Sanders!”
“Don’t forget the clap.”
“Oh, right.” She makes a crisp clap that gives you back your blessed freedom of movement.
You roll your shoulders in relief and address Guruji, “And now would you please clear out these post-hypnotic triggers from me once and for all?”
“Certainly, Steven,” he replies while setting the metronome into motion. “I’ve been rehearsing the routine you chose as the clearance mechanism, although I’m afraid I understand its significance as poorly as the baseball joke just now.”
“Just remember, it’s all in the wrists and fingers.”
Guruji stares deeply into your eyes and strikes the pose of a wizard with arms extended. “Meeska, mooska, Mouseketeer. Mouse cartoon time now is here!” And with a snap of his fingers, the final remnants of your journey into hypnotism and amnesia are fully cleared. “How was that execution?” Guruji asks his acting coach.
“Perfect,” you reply as Prema bursts into laughter.
“Why in heaven’s name, Steven, did you pick such ridiculous trigger mechanisms for this ancient Vedic hypnosis practice?” she asks shaking her head.
“Partly to support my sense of sacrilege and partly to add some color when Now or Never is made into a movie,” you reply with a straight face.
Prema perks up and declares, “Wouldn’t Robin Williams make a great Cy Bubha?”
“Yeah, and we could get the Gandhi actor to play Guruji,” you add giving the swami a wink as he takes a seat in the corner.
“Great,” Prema agrees, “and have Alberta played by the actress from The Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman.”
You laugh and look at Prema with tenderness. “Let’s not get catty, dear, or get ahead of ourselves in counting cinematic chickens. First we have a book to finish. Right, partner?”
“Sounds good,” she says while reaching up to touch your cheek. “But are you certain you want this teamwork with me?”
“Absolutely, my golden muse.” You look her in the eye and state in your best Transylvanian accent, “You vill make zee book a vinner and make me a rich man, no? So, where do we start?”
Prema shifts smoothly into her business mode. “Primarily I think we need to somehow tighten the early days of amnesia to drive the story more efficiently.”
You instantly brandish an imaginary whip while drawling, “Yep, gotta keep them dogies movin’.”
Prema’s face beams with delight. “That’s it, Steven! An inner trail boss to ride herd on the effort, true to your psyche and approach.”
“Shore ‘nuf, ma’am. What else?”
“Just to pepper in a few of your subconscious ramblings here and there, then include some of your Fool’s Journey from this past week.”
“Whoa there. That’s all fine and dandy but make sure you leave the family sex stuff out of the book. My clan would be hurt, disgusted, and furious if what came out of my sexual psyche about them ever got into print. Damn, they’d probably even wish that I had drowned in the Ganga.”
“Steven...” Prema’s voice sounds a gentle warning.
“What?” you ask sharply.
“I believe he’s the chap on second,” Guruji mutters to himself.
Prema steps over to where you stand and places her hands on your shoulders. “Regardless of whether your next step on the soul journey is at the bottom of the Ganga or the top of a mountain, you’re going to eventually have to break those family ties based on an outdated self-image and lingering habits of a child.”
“But—”
“No ‘buts’ and no more hiding your full humanity behind a false front of ‘niceness’. Only the truth shall set you free—and you know it.”
Damn it, you do know it. Even if truth shifts like sand on a windy day and is couched in paradox upon paradox, you know when you are standing in honesty and when you are not. That feeling in your gut tells all and you can no longer ignore its signals, no longer rationalize reasons to deceive yourself, to turn truth into some belief system that overrides simple and plain honesty in each moment.
You look straight into Prema’s eyes and she into yours. There are no smiles or masks, no gyrations to interfere with this moment of silent communion, of understanding, of agreement. Then a mischievous grin grows on Prema’s face as she states, “We’re just like a pair of…twins!”
You laugh and take your partner into your arms, sensing that the end of some long battle is near at hand. Two paths lead through a frozen landscape to meet in warmth of embrac
e, in a state of truce and love where famished hearts open to receive the bounty. “All right, dear one,” you quietly state, “do whatever you feel is needed for the book and for the path to honesty.”
“Even if it means that your family and friends wouldn’t bother to search for the old Steven that disappears?”
You nod slowly. “Particularly so. You have my permission to include any writings from my bare psyche that are needed for the cause of freedom.”
“Freedom for us all,” Guruji adds with relief for what Prema has just accomplished.
I WALK TO THE GANGA for the last time to take a bath. Maybe I am a confused specter invisible to the world, not realizing that I am dead as my body floats downriver to the sea. More likely, I suffer from an ancient case of amnesia, still forgetful of where I came from, of who I truly am, and of what purpose lies in the madness of day-to-day living. A madman searching for meaning, a coward yearning for peace, an ogre awaiting redemption from ages of conflict and oppression. Or perhaps I am a fair woman who looks into the mirror and sees a dark man; or a dark man who catches the reflection of wings from the corner of his weary eye. All of the above and more; none of the beyond and less. Yet there is hope today, a promise of honesty and new warmth in the heart of a Fool. And a journey that continues step by step into the great unknown.
But first, a bit more foolery and jewelry must glitter in the theater of the absurd before the next step is taken. A team effort beckons to bring closure to the story that opens the door to new horizons.
THAT EVENING IN THE LIBRARY…
“So, my golden muse, how does that look?” you ask of Prema as you lean back in your chair in front of the computer.
“Lovely,” she replies gently rubbing your shoulders. “These new inclusions in the manuscript should give me plenty of your inner Trail Boss with which to work.”
“And was that enough bubbling and rambling of the subconscious there at the beginning?”
“Yes, my dear, I’ll take it from here while you are now free to climb every mountain or whatever your heart desires.”
“Don’t forget to edit in Bubha’s request for two long arms of sinew.”
“No problem,” Prema agrees. “And you’re sure you don’t mind if I change the title to The Now or Never?”
You nod your head. “A much better choice to indicate that the now is all that truly exists—particularly for a protagonist whose past has been erased from memory.”
Prema gathers the scattered papers in the library from this afternoon’s efforts and adds, “Plus I’m going to refashion your pen name idea, Mr. Nix, into the chronicle’s title to better reflect one’s paradoxical existence as both nothing and all. And let’s include your elephant and blind men parable to finish the book,” she concludes while glancing at the conclusion to The ReMinder that you wrote yesterday.”
“Sounds good,” you reply, “although grant me dispensation for an additional commercial jingle or two to emerge from the psyche before we’re through.”
“Spare me the indignity, please,” Prema responds with a scrunch of her nose. “Say, maybe we could purge all that media junk from your mind by overloading your circuits with a bunch of obnoxious beer slogans and create a massive explosion from your system.”
Before you can protest against this measure, Prema heads toward the library door and instructs, “But first, give some thought to what you want to create this evening—alive and in person—to conclude your story as you leave for the Himalayas.” She adds with a laugh, “Be sure to make it visually appealing for the movie version of The Now or Never.”
You turn off the computer and follow your golden partner down the steps and into the courtyard. “Definitely I’d like to touch base with my amoral twins one more time before they leave tonight for Vancouver,” you declare thinking fondly of Bubha and Alberta.
“Then keep an eye out for them while I show the addendum to Guruji and pour us all some tea.” Prema turns to enter the office then pauses as she peers into the sunset. “Who’s that coming down yonder high and windy hill?”
You gaze up to see dark hair blowing in the breeze as a tall woman races towards the ashram gate. “Steven, Steven!” Alberta cries as she leaps with splendor into your awaiting arms.
“Hey there, old friend,” you reply with equal delight.
You share a heartfelt kiss that is interrupted by a vehicle roaring up the driveway and screeching to a halt. Bubha jumps from the jeep and advances through the gate. “How’s it hangin’, homeboy? You finally get your desires straightened out?”
“Yep,” you proudly announce, “and now that the whole gang is here we can create a poignant farewell appropriate for my sendoff and a compelling movie finale for The Now or Never.”
“Nanoo, nanoo,” Bubha responds while forking his fingers in interplanetary salute.
You roll your eyes at Bubha, as Alberta says, “I don’t get it.”
“Just a little in-joke of the intelligentsia,” you reply and then address your trickster friend. “Sorry, but we’ll let Robin Williams improvise his own material for the movie version.”
“Hey, I was just trying to add a few visuals,” he protests.
“Thanks anyway, Bubha, and glad you could make it,” Prema states warmly as she emerges from the office with four steaming tea mugs that she graciously offers in Miller Time fashion. “If you’ve got the time, we’ve got the brew.”
Alberta, being more of a Lowenbrau fan, raises her mug aloft and declares, “Here’s to good friends.”
The toast is completed with a clinking of four mugs and Bubha’s observation, “Tonight is something special.”
Prema concurs in Coors fashion as she looks fondly at her companions and states, “You know guys, it just doesn’t get any better than this.”
Bubha nods. “It’s the water,” he notes while gazing at the Olympia-sized Ganga.
“And a lot more,” Alberta postulates.
Rather than joining in the camaraderie, you grow dizzy and your head starts pounding under the artesian pressure of this mindless onslaught of advertizing pap. But the offensive barrage continues. “Darjeeling, the brew that made Mahalwaki famous,” Prema states with real gusto.
“Oh,” responds Alberta hamming it up, “from the land of sky-blue waters?”
“Tastes great,” Bubha declares in challenging voice.
“Less filling,” Alberta retorts with a snarl.
Dangerously nauseous now from ad-byte overload, you remove yourself from the company and stagger towards nearby bushes. Prema looks with concern at your pale face and shouts into it, “Whassuuuuup??!!!”
This ultimate assault on human intelligence and dignity sends you over the edge. Dropping to your knees, the horror of five decades of commercial jingles, offensive slogans, inane theme songs, and TV drivel explodes violently from your system. When the retching subsides, Bubha hurries over to help you to your feet.
“Ugh, I can’t believe I ate the whole thing,” you state shaking your head in disgust.
Bubha asserts, “Sorry, pal, but a bunch of old beer ads and losing your cookies is not the socko finish to your book that’s gonna pack ‘em in at the movie theaters.”
“Hell, we’ll just let Spielberg figure it out when the time comes,” you mumble while staggering back to join the group.
“For a memorable climax,” interjects Alberta, “I was thinking that Prema and I could strike angelic poses and warble, Climb Every Mountain, as you walk towards the mighty Himalayas.”
“Not bad, but I’m a little sensitive to the ford every stream part after last night’s unscheduled float down the Ganga, complements of a manipulative golden twin,” you growl playfully while grabbing Prema into your arms. Alberta reaches out affectionately to engage in a threesome embrace as you give Bubha a look of invitation.
He responds with a bored expression. “I’d hum a few bars of Kumbya and join you in a cozy group hug finale, but it’s beneath the dignified Shri Shri Cy Bubha to participate in
such an obvious gimmick.” You give him a questioning look. “Don’t play stupid, homeboy. You know, this warm-fuzzy hug represents a touching symbolic merging of your two sets of polarity twins, or four pieces of the Mind, or some such hooey coming together at last.”
Alberta adds, “I thought it was supposed to be four plus one pieces of the mind.”
“Well, I can round out the right number,” declares Guruji as he emerges from the office with papers in hand, “although I don’t profess to be the wizardly One awaiting discovery at the end of Steven’s rainbow.”
The kindly swami takes you aside and with an admiring look hands back your draft addendum. “Well done, my golden child. The perfect ending to allay our fears of a murder investigation and one that gives Steven a respectable send-off on his soul journey.”
You stand on tiptoes to give Guruji a peck on the cheek and with delicate hand raise your mug in toast. “To the great Maestro-mind—whoever, whatever, and wherever it be!”
“Here-here,” concurrence resounds from all around, with a twinkling of an eye.
End of
THE NOW OR NEVER
The ReMinder: Conclusion
A book within a book, a mind within a mind, a story that unwinds without end or beginning. And a gentle tapping of keyboard continues in order to keep the promise made at the end of The ReMinder—to see you on the other side.
For we have arrived, my fellow journeyers, on the other side of this trip into amnesia, a major detour from The ReMinder that was designed to penetrate the present moment, to leave the past behind and let the steps proceed one by one into the now, into discovery of self without the weight of memory to hold one back from taking the bold leap into the realm of mystery. So what is the view from the far side? What have you discerned from these scrawls upon paper, these black marks on white background that would remain meaningless hieroglyphs if not for you, the reader, the observer giving form to the void? What have you created with your perceptions of truth and madness and plot that unfolded in the now or never as you watched these phrases flow across the continuum?
Perhaps I will never know, but somehow I sense that your answer echoes back to me through time and space as the process of creation dances between us. The writer’s hand shapes the words, the reader’s mind shapes the book, the book shapes the author in a cosmic reel that opens sesame to a new reality of our perceptions. Like the five blind men probing an elephant, we each discover within our minds a unique world given form by our limited senses and boundless imaginations.
So in closing, let us pay homage to these five sightless sages who faced the great beast in the darkness, paving the way for others to see the light. A parable of words, a flash of insight, and a modern tribute to the ancient wisdom of mother India completes our cycle of creation.
Five Blind Sages Confront the Elephant Bull
On their quest for enlightenment, five blind sadhus encounter a huge elephant blocking their path to the Kumba Mehla festival. The first of the sightless pilgrims approaches the beast with hands that reach for understanding of this mysterious form. His palm is met by the point of a tusk as he shouts, “Glory be, we have discovered the sacred trident of Lord Shiva to pierce our earthly illusions and dispel false hope.”
Meanwhile, the second holy man has blindly taken hold of the elephant’s trunk and exclaims, “Nay, the form is a great cobra who strikes to open our minds to Vishnu’s wisdom that flows from the fangs of life’s adversity.”
The groping hands of the third blind sadhu find the elephant’s soft ear as he proclaims, “No my deluded friends, a silken coverlet from Shakti’s wedding bed is here to wrap the worthy in a blanket of grace.”
“Nay!” laments the fourth seeker who reaches up to the great beast’s chest. “Here lies Krishna’s mighty fortress that blocks our path to the ancient treasures of the soul.”
As the four argue, the last blind sage slowly walks around the creature, sensing its breadth and depth. Having trod the earthly path for nearly a century, this wizened traveler knows to journey behind the false fronts that snare the careless seeker. He arrives at the tail end of the elephant and, with a reach into the dark unknown, he grabs it by the balls.
“Nuts!” the old man proclaims to his sightless companions.
And he is instantly transported to Nirvana by the beast’s response to the one who, at tale’s end, firmly grasps the forces of creation.
*******
Namaste, fellow creators, and a good journey to us all.
End of
The ReMinder
About the author
Note from the Publisher: Please forgive our confusion about the true identity and nature of the book’s author. A Ms. Shoshoni submitted a series of manuscripts as The Nyxall Chronicles, including The Now or Never, with a note assuring us that the original scribe is fine, still flowing with a journey of spirit in his fluid universe.
Assuming this to be true, and after reading the manuscripts, we have compiled the following brief biographical sketch for your edification:
Shupe has spent a lifetime or more screwing with people’s minds and banging away at their psyches in search of some cosmic release. He currently resides in duality, but hangs by a thread to the hope of an ultimate oneness of spirit.
The Now or Never (2001)
A Mindgame to Remembrance (2004)
The ‘I’ of the Storm (2010)
Beyond Illusion (2016)
Comments and insights are welcomed at [email protected]
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The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never Page 17