Namaste

by Sean Platt

  Contents

  Copyright

  PRELUDE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  JOURNEY

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Would You Like a Free Library of AWESOME Books?

  More Revenge?

  About the Authors

  NAMASTE

  by Sean Platt &

  Johnny B. Truant

  Copyright © 2013 by Sean Platt & Johnny B. Truant. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help us spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting our work.

  PRELUDE

  Chapter 1

  2:14 P.M. ON MONDAY

  The man in the light-blue robes circled the park’s fountain with no particular sense of hurry. His bare, bloodstained feet took slow, steady strides, imparting a sense of purpose in his apparent aimlessness. He looked like a man with nowhere to be and nowhere to go … whose lack of destination carried its own agenda. Like Shavasana, the so-called yogic corpse pose in which doing nothing at all is the challenge, the man seemed to be testing discipline through lack of activity.

  As the man walked, his blue robe (a peculiar color for such as him, with his shaved head and Zen bearing) swayed above his feet, a saffron sash occasionally peeking at his waist. He looked mostly down, not around, as if praying, or perhaps concentrating. A small, serene smile was on his dark-skinned face, and his eyes sparkled. He didn’t seem precisely happy, but he definitely didn’t seem unhappy. If anything, his bearing was one of acceptance. Of rightness. Of a deep knowledge that things in the world and the universe were as they should be, and that he knew how to work within that system, how to move, how to be, how to foster a sense of fulfillment. As people passed and nodded to him, the man would press his hands together in front of his chest and make a small bow with a smile — the gesture of namaste, which was intended not just as a greeting, but as his soul’s acknowledgement, centered in his heart chakra, of the other person’s soul.

  Inside his own mind, the man with the robes and shaved head considered the world as it was, and couldn’t be otherwise. He had, long ago, resolved to do what he could to help those who sought enlightenment, but otherwise not to struggle against the universe by fighting through moments. The current instant was as it was because that was the way of the universe. The collective weight of the past had borne down upon this moment like the forces of heat and pressure in a forge, creating it as its own unique, beautiful moment. To fight it was to fight the collective past of all beings, of all things.

  Yet, some fights were meant to be fought, and it was the job of any pilgrim in life to learn the difference. The past shaped the present, so there was little point in trying to fight it … but what if the present that the past had created was one of conflict, of fighting? When that happened, paths converged and truth blurred. It made little sense to struggle against how things were meant to be. But were there not times when “how things were meant to be” was in conflict? It was a spiritually difficult problem. Were conflicts and wars profane anomalies violating the universe’s will? Or were they simply culminations of their respective pasts, destined to be struggled through and fought for — not because of a failing of acceptance, but because of the total and complete willingness to accept?

  The bald-headed pilgrim, his bare feet swishing from fountain to soft, green grass, pulled a bracelet of wooden beads from within the folds of his robe and began rubbing them with his fingers and thumbs, focusing his attention on the sensations, on the beads, on the world around him, on the space inside himself, on nothingness. That was the very conflict they had discussed so much back at the monastery. His order was already divergent in their thinking and in their ways, but even within the order he was an outlier. In his mind, the others were afraid. He could not fault them. All conscious souls experienced fear (until nirvana), and each of his compatriots had been on their individual journey, each carrying invisible baggage that none other than they could see. And while the others had seemed serene in their own light-blue robes with their own shaved heads, they were — because they were human — as afraid as any other, as afraid as he himself had been from time to time. They didn’t fear death because death offered renewal and rebirth in the upward cycle, but they feared threats to their systems of thought. His constant questions had been such threats, and he could not blame them for questioning him back.

  Fighting and war are bad, said the elders.

  Or were they? He couldn’t help but wonder. If all things served the will of the universe, why were humans born with so fervent a desire to indulge their darker sides? The order tried to explain that away — to speak of evolution and rising above, to a person’s purer nature — but it had felt unsatisfying. He couldn’t shake the feeling of predestiny. All things occurred as they should. So, why should conflict be any different? But the others hadn’t liked that at all. They had simply repeated that it was a man’s task to rise above, to surmount those impulses as the Christians talked about rising above Satan. But like the Christians’ implications of the devil within a person’s soul, the idea of inevitable moments to grapple made no sense. To ignore the question and simply repeat “rise above, rise above” was to ignore the truth, to throw a blanket over a dark pit that had been born into the home’s structure and pretend it had never been there in the first place.

  He rubbed the beads between his thumbs and forefingers, smiling.

  Somewhere in the distance — perhaps in a car — he could hear a snippet of song permeating the sweet, warm spring air. A song he’d heard before, plucked from his conflicted mind. A soft voice sang that to everything, there is a season.

  A time to be born. A time to die.

  A time to plant. A time to reap.

  A time to kill. A time to heal.

  A time to laugh. A time to weep.

  Because each coin shared a pair of sides. You could not die unless you were first born. You could not reap without planting. Sometimes to heal, death must be death.

  The others had not agreed. They said mortal existence carried the sludge of earthbound living, and that it was every devotee’s job to know each cycle of life, death, and rebirth. He had protested: Then why do we train? Why do we spend our days learning to use our bodies in such intricate ways, training even our smallest muscles?

  They answered, sounding less certain than he himself felt, For the practice of discipline. To control ourselves physically, so we can learn the habits that will allow us to control ourselves spiritually.

  He had never understood that. Restraint was to sharpen a sword against a grinding stone every day for the mere act of sharpening it … and then to stand back to admire that useless sword
’s sheen while you were subdued by bandits who held sticks as weapons.

  He sat on the grass, folding his blue robes under him. The dirt beneath the grass was cool on his bare legs. There was a light twittering in the air, an amalgam of the far-off sounds of people and nature. The lightest of breezes carried the sweetest of scents, like shorn grass and new blossoms. Right now, all around him, things were trying to grow while other things died. What he saw wasn’t abundance and expansion. It was the world in balance, life and death in measure.

  Placing the beads back in his pocket, he sat with his hands open and palms up on his knees, closing his eyes. A vision — a memory he can hardly believe was real — filled his mind:

  Rich draperies — the kind no one buys unless they literally have nothing else to spend money on.

  Fluted columns on the porch, nymph statues in fountains on the lawn.

  A marble foyer, painted in blood.

  He breathed deeply, falling into the vision.

  Outside the house, in the circular driveway and in front of a wide set of polished, stone steps, there is an ambulance. The ambulance seems not just out of place but garish, offensive to the home’s impeccable decor. Its appearance isn’t just incongruous; it’s downright offensive. Cheap, chrome trim, painted metal and plastic parts — the ambulance sits in the driveway like a blemish. People coming and going from the ambulance twist this particularly offensive knife, running up and down the steps in their cheap, working people’s shoes, pants low in threads and off the rack, their uncouth and indelicate hands leaving inferior prints on the polished brass door knobs. Dozens of feet from paramedics and policemen tromp the marble floor, unaware (or perhaps uncaring) of its pedigree, of the long journey it took from Italy to be here. No thought given to the mosaic in gold leaf; no attention paid to the antique glass windows. So much base, sordid activity to disrespect the house, to sully it by their Philistine presence.

  A throng of reporters waits outside, feet plowing the delicate lawn and scuffing the fountain bases. A grim procession of bodies exits on stretchers. Flashes go off as reporters take their photographs in the dark night, save for scant light from the house. It feels like a fashion show, with all participants bloody and twisted, necks snapped, inhuman damage done to each.

  Flashes go off, greeting the show’s models as they come out on stretchers.

  Turn to the left. Pose.

  At the top of the steps, only now noticed standing off to the side with two policemen, is a man who could be the macabre fashion show’s architect. He is dressed immaculately, in a custom-tailored suit made of imported fabrics, hand-stitched by the best domestic artisans. His cuffs, peering out from his suit coat sleeves, are as white in the house lights as ivory teeth. Except only one cuff is visible, because on further inspection this important man’s right wrist is being gripped by his left hand. The right hand itself, above the wrist, appears at first to not be a hand. The thumb is bent the wrong way. The fingers are staggered, twisted away from one another. The hand’s center appears almost chewed, yet little blood has spilled. The wrist must be beyond broken, because whenever the man’s grip with his left hand falters, the hand flops like a rag, and the man in the suit screams.

  There is a paramedic attempting to attend to his destroyed hand, but no one is treating the man with the respect he seems to deserve — his opulent home shattered by a gang of murderers, his hand smashed by a thousand elephants. The police don’t seem to care about the man’s hand, and nobody has suggested he sit. The paramedic does his best as the man mutters incoherently, his eyes large and lost. The police continue asking questions, eager to learn of the group who did this.

  Was it a gang? A group of home invaders?

  The man in the suit mumbles.

  Were they business rivals? The policeman says “business,” as if implying crime in which the broken-handed man is, himself, culpable.

  The man only mumbles.

  How many were there, at least? the police ask, their manners growing frustrated.

  One, the man in the suit finally manages to say. There was only one man.

  Sitting cross-legged on the grass in the park, Amit shuffled his light-blue robes and opened his eyes. A thought entered his mind unbidden — a thought that had, when he raised sound and logical reasons for its validity, frightened (maybe threatened) his order:

  The time for peace will come later. The time for vengeance is now.

  He placed his palms together over his heart chakra and bowed his head forward, honoring his soul’s promise in a greeting to itself.

  Chapter 2

  8:33 P.M. ON SATURDAY

  There were two men at the front door, but the front door itself was open. This was fortunate, because only a master locksmith or a tank could open the heavy doors, once closed. The guards should have been protection enough, plus the inner doors between the foyer and the home’s interior, a high fence topped with razor wire surrounding the property, guards at the front gates, and a surveillance room that monitored the grounds. There was no reason to keep the big doors shut.

  Amit had already handled the guards at the gate. They hadn’t opened the fence before dying, but he had easily scaled it. Amit could have scaled it while being shot at, which of course he hadn’t been because the men with the guns were all lying on the ground. Once you’d shimmied your way up bamboo trees all day for weeks, a fence posed little challenge. The grounds hadn’t been difficult to cross. All men thought the same, more or less. It seemed like a very Zen thought, but really it was just common sense; the cameras were laid out in logical ways — logical to those who designed the system, and those who monitored it. It was impossible to watch every section of the grounds at every moment, so instead the system was installed to watch the largest areas, those most likely for an intruder to cross.

  Accordingly, as with so many things in life, the difficult path turned out to be the right one. After breaking the front gate’s camera from its mount, killing the guards, and climbing the fence, Amit simply crossed the lawn in a serene state of determination, asking himself in each moment which was the more difficult path to take. Each time that was the one he had taken.

  It would be logical and quick to run up the yard’s slope between the topiaries. So he had leapt from tree to tree and hedge to hedge along the sides.

  It would be simple to cross around the pond, sticking to shadows, and approach the house from the rear. But it would be nearly impossible to crab-crawl beneath the horizontal trellis then swim beneath the pond’s huge surface without surfacing for air, so he’d done that next.

  The guards were surprised to see Amit at the front door. They took in his wet, light-blue robes spattered with blood, and his shaved head, then traded glances. What could this crazy vagabond possibly want? The fact that the crazy vagabond had gotten past all of their security didn’t matter. They saw nuisance rather than threat. One raised his palm and said there was no soliciting, but when he did, Amit crossed to the guard and broke the warding hand at the wrist.

  “What the hell?” the other guard yelled, fumbling at his belt. He had a gun; Amit saw it on approach. He knew every detail of their weapons, and had been tracking them since allowing himself to be seen. With the guard’s eyes on Amit, he wasn’t able to get the gun by feel. It was strapped in like an officer’s. Without looking down, his brain hadn’t remembered.

  Amit stepped forward and, in one deft movement, used the heel of his palm to smash the guard’s nose up into his brain. The guard went limp and crashed to the steps. Amit looked over, eyes calm — opposite of the guard’s. Amit held the guard’s dominant hand, he flailed and reached for something — anything — on his belt with the other. But his second hand was clumsy; most people didn’t train as the shadow monks did and could only use some of their muscles.

  Amit pulled the guard’s hand around his own neck, then used momentum and positioning from his opposite hand (neither was dominant and never had been) to snap the man’s neck.

  He looked up, kno
wing he’d see a security camera. This part was unavoidable. In fact, desired. The Right Hand would never barricade himself inside. He’d fight, because he had something to prove. But like all cowards, he’d fight with the hands of others.

  Amit gave the camera a sarcastic smile and nodded at the men behind it.

  Then he sat on the stone steps and waited. While waiting, he pulled a set of prayer beads from his robes and started to rub them.

  He looked at the dead guards. No, the others would never have understood. They’d have said that violence begat violence and that an evolved soul transcended the need to inflict harm on another. They’d tell him a man should never kill — that to do so polluted his soul. But as Amit looked on the guards, he felt no guilt, no sense of wrong. These men had chosen their station. They knew who they worked for. And if he was wrong, they’d be reborn with an advantage and ratchet down his next time through. When the big wheel kept spinning, there were no dead ends. Only detours and diversions. The best a man could do was what he felt was right.

  Amit didn’t think he was wrong. Events had unfolded before him, and certain things had become inevitable. It wasn’t resistance to do what he was doing now. What would have been resistant — what would have been fighting the very will of all that existed — would have been turning his cheek after what had happened.

  Peace could come later, after what had gone wrong was righted.

  The door opened behind him. He heard minute clicking — the hammers of handguns. He kept his eyes down, feeling the beads between his fingers. He looked at the bodies, wished for their release to a better existence, then stood.

  A voice screamed, “Drop it!”

  “They are only prayer beads.”