Coattail Karma

by Verlin Darrow

  “We have another brother who lives here in Mumbai. The cave wasn’t for him. His name is Jal, and his wife is a nurse. He is a very successful entrepreneur.”

  “Is he expecting us?”

  “No, but this is his company car, and he flew me here to help you. He is a very good fellow. He’ll want to help. And you can use a nurse, can’t you? You are clearly not yourself. I can see that your brain is not right, so going straight to Baba’s would be foolish.”

  I brought my hands down and swiveled my head a bit. No pain.

  “How are you feeling?” Raj asked, noticing my movement. “I know it wasn’t medically advisable to move you, but I feared more for your safety if you remained prone in that shop.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I might be fine, or I might drop dead in the next few minutes.”

  I paused and shifted in my seat, trying to get more comfortable. Now that my head had calmed down, I was aware of several more badly bruised body parts. My shoulder was the worst. And I was still achy from various New Zealand debacles, especially my left hip.

  “How far is it to Jal’s?” I asked.

  “We’re almost there.”

  ****

  I was able to walk almost normally from the car to Jal’s apartment, which was on the ground floor of a three-story wooden building. I felt shaky and weak, but my balance was back.

  Jal wasn’t home, but we were met at the door by his wife, Leena, who was a friendly, portly woman in her thirties.

  “You are very welcome here,” she told me after I was introduced by Raj. “And it’s good to see you again, Raj.”

  She noticed my head. “Oh my,” she said. “What happened?”

  Raj answered before I could. “Sid has been in a serious automobile accident, and as you can see he has sustained a dangerous head injury.”

  “He needs to be in hospital,” she said.

  “Perhaps I could lie down,” I said, suddenly feeling dizzy and weak.

  “Of course.” She escorted me through a small living room to an even smaller bedroom, helping me onto a carved wood queen-sized bed. A pattern of entwined lovers ran across the headboard. The apartment was chock full of overly large, dark wood furniture. It was as if they were afraid of open spaces.

  Raj took Leena aside and whispered in her ear for a while. Her eyes widened, and she nodded several times.

  She was light-skinned, with black, curly hair that fell to her shoulders. Her glittery sari reminded me of one of Chris’s shirts. It was yellow with a horizontal pink pattern that looked like something you’d see on a TV that needed repair. Her face was almost perfectly round with large, mobile features.

  I felt better once I’d been horizontal for a minute or two. I could sense my energy gathering itself, beginning to restore my core.

  Leena bustled from the room and returned with a flashlight and a wicker basket. She pulled a wooden desk chair next to me. “Let’s take a look at you,” she said.

  While she examined my wound, shone the light into my eyes, and felt my pulse for much longer than an American doctor would, Leena told me about her training. She’d graduated from a medical school in Toronto, Canada, which, ironically, wasn’t accredited in India. She had interned in an emergency clinic, where she’d seen her share of urban trauma—gunshots, knife wounds, and vehicular accidents. Once she’d moved back to Mumbai for love, she’d been restricted to nursing.

  “You have a concussion, of course,” she finally said. “The effects of this are unpredictable. Sometimes when the location is on the side of the head, there is internal swelling and the brain presses against the skull. This can cause damage or even death. But it’s not typical.”

  “How’s it look?” I asked. “Am I still bleeding? Is it swollen?”

  “You are no longer bleeding. Your wound is shallow. I would guess that you impacted something blunt such as a seat back. As for your swelling, yes, there is swelling, and it concerns me. But as I was saying, in most cases like this, the patient’s symptoms will calm down after the first few hours, and then only a headache will persist. Your odds of a full recovery are excellent.”

  “He has been healing himself,” Raj said.

  Leena appeared to be skeptical. “Yes, well,” she said, before continuing. “Have you suffered any amnesia, blackouts, vomiting, weakness, or scrambly thinking?” she asked.

  “Scrambly?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Yes. It’s a technical term I use with my charges. I work in a pediatric department these days.”

  “I’ve experienced everything you mentioned except I haven’t thrown up. But I’m feeling much better now.”

  “In the ordinary course of events,” she said, “we would keep you in hospital for twenty-four hours since this is the time period in which something untoward might develop. And your recent symptoms would certainly warrant this precaution. But I understand that you’re a sadhu who must reach Baba’s tomb. And bad people harbor ill will toward you?”

  “I don’t know what ‘sadhu’ means,” I said.

  “Holy man,” Raj said from where he leaned against the doorjamb. It was still very surreal to watch him say and do things in my body, with my face.

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, yes. I don’t know how holy I am, but I do have spiritual business at the tomb. And apparently a hospital might not be safe for me.”

  “Why don’t you lie here and collect yourself?” Leena suggested. “Jal will be home soon. I’ll make us all a nice meal, and then I’ll assess you again later. If you keep improving, we’ll send you on your way.”

  “Can I ask a question?” I said. “How many people have you met who look exactly like your husband, Raj, and myself?”

  “Oh, I’d say a dozen,” she replied. “It’s a very strange thing, isn’t it? Are you new to the idea?”

  “Very. And I’ve had alternative explanations for all of it as well—from someone I have reason to trust.”

  Raj spoke up. “He means Marco. He is under Marco’s spell.”

  “Have you met him?” I asked Leena.

  “No. But my husband has. This Marco, or whatever his name is, must be a very scary fellow. Jal is not a fearful man—far from it—but he was trembling when he returned from his meeting with him. And he would not share any details. This was not like him, either.”

  “Thank you for everything,” I told her. “I’d like to rest, but I’m afraid that if I close my eyes, I may never open them again. Is that a myth, or is that really a risk with this kind of head injury?”

  “There are situations where that is so. Not to worry here. Rest up.”

  She and Raj filed out of the room, and I thought about Sam, deciding that her appearance back when the taxis boxed us in meant she was safe. Then I fell asleep.

  I had a dream, or perhaps a vision. I was at the Lincoln Memorial in DC, where I’d once visited in real life as a ten-year-old. Instead of a statue of Lincoln, though, there was a giant marble statue of Lucy the dog. She began talking to me in an Indian man’s voice, and I felt Marco-style energy surge through me.

  “You don’t need to know what you don’t need to know,” she said. “Don’t worry. Be happy.”

  I remembered that this was Meher Baba’s catchphrase. “Are you Baba?” I asked.

  “We are all Baba,” the voice said. I saw now that the statue’s mouth wasn’t moving. “And we are all Sid. And we are all Lucy. You know this.”

  “Who should I believe?” I asked. “Who can I trust?”

  “Yourself. And the universe. The universe loves you. Everything that happens serves you. Everything is driven by love.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I awoke and lay basking in a sublime dream hangover. Eventually, I struggled to my feet to use the bathroom. En route, I checked myself over. I was still in pain, but I’d returned to my current baseline of functioning, whatever that was. I had no idea, really. My sense of self had shifted so dramatically so many times recently, I felt as though a mysterious stranger lived inside m
e, sharing space with my historical self. This new guy didn’t seem to buy into the paradigm that we even existed.

  I wandered into the living room after a few minutes. Raj and Jal were meditating, sitting cross-legged side by side on red cushions on the floor against the far wall. Jal wore a charcoal suit with a white shirt and a yellow tie. His feet were bare. I could’ve distinguished him from Raj even if he’d worn his brother’s jeans and green T-shirt. His face—our face—exhibited an arrogance—a haughtiness—that immediately repelled me. He hadn’t even opened his mouth yet, and already I disliked him.

  “Greetings, my brother,” he said, rising and waving his hand jauntily. “I am so glad to meet you.” He extended his hand to me, and I moved forward and shook it.

  “Let’s seat ourselves for lunch and discuss your future,” he suggested.

  Raj and I followed him into the dining room, which was dominated by a long, glass-topped table. Four places were set, and Leena appeared with a wooden tray as we took our places.

  She met my eyes and smiled. “Let’s start you with some dahl,” she said. “There’s chutney on the table. What would you like to drink, Sid?”

  “Water is fine.”

  “Very well,” she said and served us, placing the fourth bowl at her place before heading back into the kitchen.

  “So Sid,” Jal said in fast, heavily accented English. “Raj has informed me that he has illuminated you concerning the man you know as Jackson.”

  “Marco,” Raj said.

  “Yes, of course. Marco. Have you had a chance to think over what he told you? May I offer you my computer to research this man? Dr. Bompiani’s history at Stanford is well documented. You can email our brothers if you wish for them to share their experiences of this crazy person. Or I can tell you of my own meeting. Just let me know what suits you.”

  “You’re talking very fast and saying a lot,” I told him and then took a spoonful of food. He waited impatiently for me to continue, tugging repeatedly on one of his earlobes.

  “I listened to Raj,” I finally said, “when my mind was clouded. I’ll listen to you now with my full awareness. But please, slow down.”

  Leena came back in the nick of time. The dahl was very spicy; I needed the water she’d brought. It didn’t help.

  “Certainly, certainly,” Jal agreed. “Bompiani is about power. He has determined that true power—the deepest kind—the ruler of all other powers—must be based on spiritual authority. The material world springs forth from Spirit. If someone can manipulate that realm and convince others to help him, then who knows what he could do?”

  If I signed up to believe him about Marco, even temporarily, I’d also have to revert to entertaining the idea that I was a clone. This seemed much more likely in that moment than it had the day before, but it was still a big stretch.

  “Can you prove we’re clones?” I asked. If this issue were settled, I’d certainly feel more allied with one side or the other.

  “Yes, of course. After lunch, I will satisfy you. But let me tell you more about Dr. Bompiani’s plan. He tried to recruit me, and he demonstrated his powers to me. I remained stalwart to my truth. So he told me what he had planned, hoping this would entice me into throwing my lot in with him.”

  He paused and cocked his head. It was a ploy calculated to create suspense.

  “So?” I said.

  “He wants to be in charge!” he proclaimed.

  I laughed. I didn’t mean to. It just tickled me—the way he said it. It could’ve been a line in a Mel Brooks film. “In charge, huh?”

  “Yes. This is very serious. What is wrong with you?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry. In charge of what?”

  “Everything!”

  “Oh.”

  Raj spoke up. “It may sound absurd, Sid, but you are new to this world of energy and spiritual authority. There is a very real risk that Marco can succeed in ruling the world if you help him. You are Buddha. You are only just stepping into your power.” He shook his head slowly. “Make no mistake, Sid, he would be a power-mad ruler. We would all suffer.”

  “So you’re telling me I ought to believe you two and disbelieve Marco? Why should I?” I asked. “It’s just words here at this table. Marco backs up his words with energy—and love. He’s helped me in amazing ways.”

  “I could give you a drug,” Jal said, “that I guarantee would make you very happy—at least for a while. This means nothing. In fact, it is a problem because there are permanent side effects from this. Our biochemistry and energy fields are meant to be what they are. You will surely suffer from this madman’s tampering. We are using words and words alone because words are right and appropriate.”

  “You realize that I’m a therapist. Don’t you think I can tell who’s a narcissist or a sociopath? Or who’s just annoying?” I said, staring at Jal.

  Leena pushed back her chair and returned to the kitchen.

  “Perhaps you can know these things when they are the ordinary version,” Jal said. “This man is different. Let me ask you this. Did he make you feel special? Did he lie, manipulate, and control you? Is he charismatic and compelling? Does he hide who he is and what he’s doing? Aren’t these the characteristics of a sociopath? You can say he does all this in pursuit of goodness, but the ends do not justify the means.”

  Leena returned with more food, which was alarmingly beige—all of it. I just hoped it wasn’t as spicy as the last dish.

  “You said you could prove all this after lunch,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “I can show you things on the internet,” Jal said. “If you saw Stanford faculty photos from years ago and your Marco was there as Bruno Bompiani, what then? And the preliminary findings of the medication study are online—in a reputable journal. You can read that. The human potential movement was very big in those days. We can also show you the DNA testing that has been performed on twenty-seven of us.”

  “What about Meher Baba?” I asked. “How does he fit into all this?”

  Leena spoke up. “Baba is love. He is beyond the beyond, but still he loves. He is watching over all of us. His love guides us. Everyone in the world answers to Baba. He is the guru of gurus. His love is in our hearts. It is our hearts.”

  “Yes, yes,” Jal said. “He was a great man. But that is neither here nor there right now.”

  “Why don’t we just enjoy our meal now?” Leena said. “These matters can wait.”

  “So be it,” Jal said, and we ate.

  ****

  After lunch, Leena presented me with tropical-weight clothes—khaki pants, a short-sleeved white shirt, and several other items.

  “Obviously, these things of Jal’s will fit you perfectly,” she said. “He prefers more formal wear, anyway. Your corduroy pants are better suited to Canada and even your socks are a foolish choice for India. We need to keep you all squared away, don’t we?”

  I thanked her and changed into the new outfit in the bathroom. Then Jal, Raj, and I adjourned to Jal’s small office. Our host had bookmarked various websites, which I read as he maneuvered through them one by one. His computer verified everything he’d told me. I felt sick to my stomach. It was clear Marco really was some sort of monster. And the DNA test results from my brothers’ blind samples were identical.

  There were a variety of other revelatory facts, but by now I was feeling so overwhelmed, the words on the screen just looked like random letters to me. When I tried to focus, I could make out one or two here and there, but otherwise it was as if I had given myself brain damage. I guess I was subconsciously insulating myself from whatever might be too overwhelming. I felt like I was on the brink of a breakdown.

  Then denial reared its head. I began working hard to generate less disturbing explanations. Clearly, I couldn’t simply believe my senses now that I’d been worked over by all sorts of expert manipulators since I’d left California. My ability to adjudicate what was reality and what was a hoax had been compromised over and over. So I shouldn’t just
believe what I saw on the computer. And Jal was spoon-feeding me all the information, too. He could’ve constructed all these websites from scratch. After all, it was far more likely the computer had been tampered with than someone had managed to create human clones decades ago. That was what it came down to.

  “You could’ve preloaded your computer with fake sites,” I said. “It all could’ve been set up ahead of time.”

  Jal threw his hands in the air. “You’re impossible.”

  Raj spoke up. “What would satisfy you?” he asked.

  Then a benign conspiracy asserted itself. The overhead light and the monitor blinked off; the power had failed. It was dim in the room but not dark.

  “This is a normal occurrence here,” Jal told me. “Please remain calm. I’ll go fetch a flashlight. Raj, go get the magazine in my study. We can resume using the flashlight and the article about the drug.”

  They both trotted off, and the power immediately came back on. Jal’s computer must’ve featured an instant-on capability. His home page stared back at me, and I hurriedly Googled Bruno Bompiani. He was a real person, but not Marco. Bompiani was a six-foot-seven-inch, twenty-two-year-old Italian volleyball player.

  I closed the tab and scooted over to a nearby couch. When my brothers—my triplet brothers—returned, I was a picture of innocent consternation. “Gosh,” I said. “I guess it’s all true. I can’t deny it, can I?”

  “You certainly cannot,” Jal said.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I need to use the rest room.”

  They both nodded, and I headed toward the front door, walking as casually as I could. Leena emerged from the kitchen and spotted me just as I reached for the door handle.

  “Where you going?” The urgency in her voice betrayed her.

  “I’m just going to get a little air,” I told her, swinging the heavy wooden door open.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “I haven’t re-examined you yet.”