Somehow, that was all beside the point when I was with him. The energy that radiated from him rendered the questionable behavior meaningless. Would you care if Jesus’ jokes weren’t funny? What if Buddha’s feet smelled bad? Maybe this was why people kept electing flawed politicians. A given candidate’s charisma might convince voters to put aside the messy details of his personhood.
“Tell me who you met after I called New Zealand customs about your luggage,” Marco said.
“That was you?” I was astonished.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To set in motion what needed to happen next,” Marco said. “Energetically, I mean. Just because none of it’s real, doesn’t mean it can’t be kickstarted into action.”
“You orchestrated all that? You know Lannie?”
“No. All I did was call customs. The universe is self-regulating, and I just gave it its chance to assert itself. That’s all.”
My face flushed and my fists clenched—who the hell did he think he was?—followed by a strong rush of gratitude. “Thank you for Lannie,” I said.
“I take it he wasn’t a government official at the airport,” Marco said. “Was Lannie the energy being I sensed somewhere near Auckland?”
“She is. Yes. What do you mean ‘energy being’?”
“I’ll explain later.” He scratched himself on the neck, the first time I’d seen him scratch, sneeze, or burp. “Basically, it’s a classification—a rank—in the spiritual hierarchy,” he continued. “I need you to tell me about her now. I couldn’t approach her myself—our energies are not compatible, for reasons that I won’t go into. But I knew you’d find your way to whoever it was if I kept you at the airport. I’ll bet she was superficially unremarkable, wasn’t she?”
“Yes.” It was my turn to scratch. A tiny flying insect circled my head and periodically settled onto one of us.
“Her energy is extraordinary, though, isn’t it?” Marco said. “I could feel it all the way from the Bay of Islands.” He seemed excited, or some other related emotion I’d never seen him display before.
“Yes. But why would I end up meeting her just because I’d been detained by customs? I don’t get that. I get the everything’s-connected-and-what-goes-around-comes-around deal. I understand how homeostasis works, too. So I think I generally know what you mean by self-regulation, but why would any of that add up to meeting Lannie?”
“Because the universe needed you to. The more important something is, the more it’s governed by meaningful coincidences.”
I shook my head. “But suppose I escaped the airport ten minutes later?”
“You didn’t.” He gave me the same look he’d given Chris.
“I could’ve,” I said.
He just watched me and smiled.
“Her husband could have kicked me out of his car for bleeding,” I added. “Or Vlad could’ve chased me down outside his office.”
Marco waited.
“Or I could have been stymied by the airport fence. I almost was.”
“It happened the way it happened,” he said. “There are no accidents. You had to find a way over the fence, so you did.”
“Okay, fine.” I played with my fingers for a moment, tangling and then untangling them.
We sat quietly. Several groups of pilgrims strolled by. Three sturdy-looking young women spoke German to one another and waved merrily to Marco. A couple with two very young children argued in loud Texas accents. And a very short, elderly Indian man walked by holding a trumpet, of all things.
“Perhaps you have questions,” Marco said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“As a matter of fact, I’d appreciate the opportunity,” I said. “I’ve been stockpiling questions for days.”
“Go right ahead.” He shifted on the bench and faced me.
A smile began to form on my face, until I remembered how these conversations tended to go. I’d probably end up more ignorant and confused than ever.
“Can you tell me more about how the world might end if we don’t do something heroic? Why do we need to get people to be more conscious?” I asked. “I know I probably didn’t have the background to understand before, but now…”
“As I alluded to earlier, illusion—the world as you know it—is a construct that mass consciousness—energy—has created, and now maintains. Very few people need to actively—consciously—participate in maintaining full-scale illusion. That’s because almost everyone helps when they’re asleep. Have you ever wondered why our brain activity increases instead of subsiding while we sleep?”
“I’ve read theories,” I said. “But none of them are particularly compelling.”
“We all participate on an unconscious level at night. We must, or there would be no world.”
“And we need the world? We need illusion?” I asked.
“It’s plan A—the most elegant vehicle for consciousness to come to know itself. But no. We don’t need any particular format or circumstance for the job to get done. On the other hand, it might take a few billion years get something equivalent up and running. And personally, I like it here.”
“Sure. So what’s the problem? I’m with you so far, but I don’t see a problem.” I waved the bug away.
“There’s an epidemic coming. A virus is loose in sub-Saharan Africa, and there will not be a vaccine.”
“So?”
“It’s a sleep disorder. The central nervous system can’t shut down—rest—the conscious mind once the virus takes over.”
“Aha,” I said.
“So soon the physical realm will need to be supported by a greater proportion of awakened people to take up the slack from all the non-sleepers—those infected by the virus.”
“And very few of us are particularly awake at this point?”
He nodded. “That’s by design. Our brain chemistry is configured to block awareness. We’re all capable of perceiving and sensing far more than our brains can handle without becoming overloaded. That’s why hallucinogenics like LSD are so powerful. They’re much more efficient neurotransmitters than the ones we produce ourselves, so they override our built-in filters.”
I was happy with this explanation. It was more scientific than usual; it reminded me of the answers that Marco had given Chris.
“Also,” Marco continued, “the pieces on a Monopoly board need to remain unaware that they’re not a real dog or a real top hat. Otherwise, they can’t play their roles properly. The game is ruined if the participants transcend the premise—if they see behind the curtain. Full scale illusion is maintained by a consensus belief in the solidity of the physical world.”
“So there needs to be a small percentage of people who are awake—consciously helping to administrate the deal—and a multitude of people who are clueless—lost in the illusion?”
Marco nodded again.
“So how many people will it take?” I asked. “How many need to come on board to keep things going?”
“We’ll need to triple the number of conscious humans in a matter of months, or it will all fall apart.” As usual, he said this with equanimity.
“What would that look like—if there’s nothing here anymore?”
“I don’t know. Let’s not find out,” Marco said.
Lucy ran up at that point and tried to jump into my lap, which was at least a foot higher than the world’s most athletic beagle could ever hope to manage. I grabbed her and pulled her up, and she enthusiastically licked my face and wagged herself.
“I love you, too,” I told her, and I had a feeling that she understood. She settled down after a while and lay on the bench beside me.
I decided to stop asking questions since the answer to the sole line of inquiry I’d pursued so far was proving to be so challenging. Sleeping wasn’t sleeping. An insomnia epidemic was going to wipe out the physical world unless more people became…what? Enlightened?
And how does one go about awakening people on a deadline? I could see how Bh
ante and his organization could provide us with a platform on a grander scale than we could manage on our own. And obviously I knew how powerful the energy that Marco and I embodied was. But could it be as simple as that? Will I need to develop a new skill set to persuade skeptical people to believe all the counterintuitive metaphysical teachings that I’ve been force-fed lately?
Some time passed while I considered all this. Then I was gradually enticed back into the moment by the combination of an uncomfortably buzzy posterior and an insistent beagle. Lucy had grown bored and was shoving her nose into my hand.
“That’s it? No more questions?” Marco finally asked.
“That’s it for now,” I told him. “I can only assimilate so much in one sitting. Especially if I’m sitting here. Would you mind if we moved?” I asked.
“Let’s head up the hill to the tomb,” he suggested. “I think it’s time.”
Chapter Nineteen
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but when he rose and began striding toward the driveway, Lucy and I followed. By the time we’d passed the parked taxi and retraced the way up the driveway, she and I had caught up. We walked three abreast to the road. I could see the pilgrim center’s grounds in more detail as we marched around several curves.
The flat lawn areas were a bit raggedy, as though the type of grass they were trying to grow wasn’t quite suited to the central Indian climate. The earth itself looked very dry, except for a few small puddles in low spots. I got the impression it rained regularly, but most of the ground couldn’t hold the water. Stand-alone mature trees bordered various group plantings—mostly flowerbeds and stalky bushes. We walked by one smaller tree that sported purple pinwheel flowers. They smelled like shampoo.
There were birds everywhere. Each tree was full of them, and others roamed the lawn, jabbing their beaks at bugs and worms. I saw several that resembled species I knew—finches, canaries, and wrens. There were also two kinds of beefier black birds, but they weren’t crows or ravens.
I could see a larger, more modern building just beyond the pilgrim center. It seemed to share the property, so perhaps it was connected to Meher Baba too. A school? The equivalent of a church headquarters?
We crossed the well-worn asphalt and then stepped across a set of narrow-gauge railroad tracks. A hard-packed path just past them ran straight up a fairly steep hill, and we began climbing it. We strode side by side with Lucy in the middle. Her tongue hung out, dripping saliva, and she panted laboriously.
It must’ve been in the high nineties now, and the air was so humid, there was nowhere for perspiration to evaporate to. It lay on my arms and brow, turning sticky as more sweat oozed out from under it.
The hill was relatively bare, with scrubby bushes and patches of bare dirt scattered around. There were no birds here, but I saw several lizards scuttle away from our feet, and a brown snake sunned itself on a mini-mesa of limestone.
At one point, I glanced back. The full vista of Baba’s property spread out below me. All sorts of small buildings sat behind and to the side of the two I’d seen before. A haphazard array, it looked as though it had developed over time with no particular plan. The land around the compound was being farmed.
After a short but very tiring hike, we reached the tomb. It was at the top of the hill, next to a crude stage and two small houses. There was a 360-degree view from the plateau, and I was struck again by how big the sky looked. I’d never thought of it as something that could embody size, but it seemed to extend itself farther to the sides than back home. And go up higher, as well.
I’d seen a photo of the tomb itself online, but nonetheless I expected something more impressive than what I found. I’d thought it would be constructed on a grander scale—either soaring upward or sprawling horizontally. I guess I was expecting a cross between a Buddhist temple and a miniature Taj Mahal.
The tomb actually resembled a falafel stand or a commercial kiln. It was the size of a large suburban bedroom—a gray stone building with a modest stucco dome affixed to the top. The proportions were skewed. Neither its height, width, roofline, nor window size harmonized with any of the other dimensions. It was an assemblage of spare parts—not quite ugly, but homely, perhaps. And it was unabashedly modest in every respect. I had to remind myself that I was in an impoverished part of the world and the tomb had not been built to inspire awe in someone like me.
Symbols of various religions were painted above the open front door. I recognized most of them. Baba seemed to be an inclusive sort of guy. Back then, this had probably been unusual.
The area radiated unfamiliar energy, but it was too complicated for me to sort through on the fly. It wasn’t particularly intense at that point, which surprised me.
Low wooden bleachers—three rows high—sat just to the side of the tomb, surrounding a small brick courtyard covered by a freestanding tin roof. The courtyard was about eight paces across, and a middle-aged Indian man in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie sat on a stool in the middle of it. He faced a dozen Westerners who were scattered across several benches. The man didn’t seem to be sweating at all. How is this possible?
The pilgrims were mostly white and European-looking, but one couple looked to be Malaysian or Indonesian.
“Come, come,” the Indian man said to me in fast, accented English. “Sit. I’ve just begun the orientation session. Marco, you can take a seat and be patient.” He glanced at Lucy, who was snuffling the open-toed sandals of a French-looking woman—small features, odd haircut, and an “I hate NYC” formfitting T-shirt. “Please keep your animal under control,” he added.
Marco corralled Lucy, and the two of them ambled to the shade behind the courtyard.
I sat down next to the Malaysian/Indonesian couple and learned that I wasn’t to chew gum or spit in the tomb. Women should wear “substantial undergarments” and “button up their other garments to their capacity.” Men should be “ever-vigilant concerning the zipper on their pants.” This was a holy place, and we should spare no effort to prepare ourselves to properly receive Baba’s love.
By the time he was finished, I was wondering just what sort of loutish spiritual pilgrims Meher Baba was attracting these days. Also, I was curious to see if the Frenchwoman would be sent back to the center. In my estimation, her upper undergarment was woefully insubstantial.
Then we had to wait our turn to actually enter the tomb. It was so small on the inside, only a few people could fit around the crypt at any one time.
As soon as I passed through the doorway into the dim light of the tomb, I was hit by a tsunami of energy. I staggered back and might’ve fallen if Marco hadn’t been standing right behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders and said something, but I was already beyond words—beyond mind.
The energy was indescribable. I became lost in it. It was both incredibly intense and very, very sweet—a personal love as well as a universal one. Perhaps it was Baba’s essence—I don’t know. It was by far the most blissful energy I’d ever felt. I was drunk on love. Stoned out of my mind.
I wasn’t aware of any further experience, but apparently time passed. Eventually, I found myself sitting cross-legged in the small room. I was alone. My legs were killing me, so I stretched them out and massaged my sore muscles as I looked around.
I was at the foot of a concrete crypt. It was raised about three feet off the stone floor and bedecked with garlands of tropical flowers. Hundreds of brightly-colored blossoms produced an almost overwhelming wave of scent.
The interior walls were gray stone, and every inch of them was covered in amateurishly painted murals of Meher Baba. He was portrayed in a variety of settings—cradling a lamb in his arms, sitting on a wooden throne, walking through a meadow. They had all been painted by the same artist.
I now felt no esoteric energy at all—either from the tomb or from inside myself. I missed it. It was as though I’d been living in a symphony hall, enjoying the constant companionship of the music, and then I’d woken up deaf one day.
I wandered out of the building. Bhante stood waiting. Jason, Chris, and my two brothers—Raj and Jal—sat on bleacher seats behind him. The tomb keeper was gone. There was no sign of Marco or Lucy, either.
The older Sri Lankan stepped forward and hugged me. I could sense my heart send him something; it didn’t feel like anything special, but there’d been a lot of inflation in that realm lately.
Bhante was jolted. I had to hold him up briefly before he was able to step back and stand on his own.
“Oh my goodness,” he said. “Who are you? How could this be?”
“I’ve been through some transformative experiences lately,” I told him.
“I can feel this. I did not know such a thing was possible,” Bhante said. He looked stricken. Maybe it was humbling to realize that there were still things he didn’t understand.
I shrugged. What did it matter? Here I was.
“Thank you for your blessing,” he said. “Will you join us?”
“Sure.”
Jason stood up and extended his hand as I moved forward. I shook it. A burst of energy shot out to him, and he fell back onto his seat, dazed. The bleacher shook, and the wooden bench made a cracking noise under him. It gave way a moment later, and he lodged in the vee of the tilted halves of the broken slat.
Obviously, the energy still resided in me and was available to others. Why am I blocked from my internal experience of it?
My brothers exchanged puzzled glances. This wasn’t the Sid they knew.
I turned to the nearest one. “Raj?” I asked.
“I’m Tom,” he said in an American accent.
“I’m Charles,” the other one said in an Australian one.
“Whatever,” I said. I looked at Chris. “I assume everyone here has met my friend.” I didn’t know what name he was using since he’d impersonated Jackson at the Auckland airport.
Coattail Karma Page 22
