A Nation of Mystics

by Pamela Johnson

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Christian asked quietly, “What are the tantric exercises?”

  Roger’s head turned to the voice, and he looked directly at Christian. “Exercises in meditation and self-control.”

  “You teach the ancient tantric meditations? Which school of tantra?”

  “I am the Prophet,” Roger answered, his voice rising in strength. “I teach my own way. A new way for a New Age.”

  “Are the practices based on Vedic tradition?” Christian insisted.

  Amy turned away from him, clearly embarrassed that he questioned the Prophet.

  “My way teaches that tantra is the heart of our communal love. The power of the exercise guides us.”

  As if slapped from years of lassitude, Christian closed his eyes, thrown back in time, remembering.

  Summer. Christian was almost fourteen years old. He and Nareesh had been invited by the Müller family to vacation in the resort town of Madras, in southern India, on the Bay of Bengal. Heinrich Müller, Christian, and Nareesh had been close friends at school, and the Müller’s gift of rooms on the beach was a generous offer.

  However, the real reason Christian had asked his parents if he might travel was that he knew that Lama Loden had been invited to give the Kalachakra initiation to a group of Buddhist pilgrims at Kanchipuram Monastery. Although Christian hadn’t known the lama long, he was already captivated by his presence, his thoughts and wisdom, already realized that time took on a new quality when he was with the lama. Everything on the stage of their mutual space was important. Each thought, each material item, held a reason. On the afternoon in the school’s garden when Lama Loden had described the purpose of his upcoming trip, Christian was sure the initiation was something he wanted to experience. Could it be an accident that the trip and the initiation were happening at the same time and in the same place?

  “Kalachakra,” Lama Loden had instructed as Christian and Nareesh sat on stone benches in the school’s garden, “represents the wheel of time, the place of enlightenment without beginning or end. The Kalachakra deity is one with time and space and knows all things.”

  The entire ceremony would take twelve days, Lama Loden had explained. An enormous sand painting, seven feet in width, would be constructed over the first eight days. Afterward, the initiates taking part in the Kalachakra rite would be invited to view the painting for the final four days of the ceremony.

  In Madras, Nareesh and Christian, along with Heinrich, at first reluctantly in tow, had easily found the monastery. Once there, the boys began to have a sense of the importance of this particular initiation in Tibetan Buddhist teachings. Only then did they understand the reverence attached to the ceremony, the long journeys of the pilgrims who attended, the material value of the colored sand. Several monks had been working on the painting for many days—two days to draw the pattern alone—working in sections together, using tubes to let the sand fall into intricate patterns.

  “May we see the painting, Lama?” Christian asked.

  “Not yet,” answered Lama Loden. Not until tomorrow. Then it will be complete. We have invited many deities to live within the painting, waiting to bestow blessings of wisdom and compassion. At the center of the mandala is the lotus flower, and to reach it, you must travel through many rooms. In each room, you will feel a change in your mind energy, rising in awareness as you contemplate the gifts of each space.”

  On the following day, they were allowed to view the sand painting and to receive the blessings of the initiation. Not only was the painting one of the most beautiful of human endeavors Christian had ever seen—the colors brilliant, the geometrical designs stunning in their complexity—but Christian also felt a strengthening of his newly established meditation practice.

  “What you see is a flat surface,” Lama Loden told the initiates, the three boys among them. Gesturing to the lines, he added, “But imagine the lines rising to form a three-dimensional building. And in this building are rooms within rooms. The farther into the center of the sacred space you travel, the greater the gifts.

  “Look, here is where you enter from the back door. In this first room, you will encounter the enlightened body. Here you may contemplate, visualize, and pray before passing to the next room. In this second room, you will find enlightened speech. And in that room is another smaller room, one of the enlightened mind. Again, within this space, there is yet another room containing enlightened wisdom.

  “In this highest level of rooms, enlightened wisdom, is the home of Kalachakra, the deity representing one who knows all and is one with time. It is here that Kalachakra unites with Vishvamata, the mother of all things. Here is the heart of tantra and the Kalachakra initiation, the visualization of the union of Kalachakra and Vishvamata.

  “This image reflects the highest level of tantra, the union of wisdom and compassion.”

  Christian’s voice was quiet when he opened his eyes to look once again at Roger. “And you claim to be a Buddha? An Enlightened Being?”

  “I am a Buddha,” Roger pronounced loudly. “My followers are bodhisattvas, working for the good of mankind.”

  Ignoring the discomfort building in the room, the eyes from every corner casting impatient glances, Christian pressed, “What form do your exercises take?”

  Only when Christian heard several exasperated sighs did he suddenly realize that everyone present wanted to believe that Roger was a Buddha. No one in this room cared to have their faith questioned.

  “The exercises and their forms are for those who belong to the commune. Join us, be one of us, and I will teach you.”

  But Christian was already sure of the form, and they would not include the long practice of the six perfections—giving, ethics, patience, effort, concentration, and wisdom. This man of small wisdom would instead use the exotic to entice and mislead the uninitiated.

  You have nothing to offer anyone, Christian decided.

  And as quickly as the thought came, the past overrode the moment. Lama Loden walked with him once again.

  “So, why do they argue … Hindu and Sikh?” Christian asked his lama. “If they both seek God, why do they hate each other?”

  “They are confused by the concept of emptiness, the illusion of separateness, Christian. Each man believes that God exists within himself but forgets that God also exists within every other man and that men are inseparable, not only from each other but from all things. Each is so busy protecting his own spiritual identity that he cannot see the eternal relationship that makes all men brothers. It is this ignorance, this illusion of separateness, that makes peace difficult.”

  “But their own religions teach them these things. How many times have you told me that human beings desire happiness, and yet, they fight. That man’s words are full of hate.”

  “Do not be deceived by outer appearances. Tomorrow, that very man may risk or even lose his life to save another. That man has great value. Stop and think, Christian. Without evil, how will you know good? Without darkness, how will you know light? Without sorrow, how will you know compassion? We are all mirrors to one another. You only recognize anger because it has a home in you somewhere.”

  Lama Loden smiled and placed a hand on Christian’s shoulder. “Because he teaches you of yourself, he does you a great kindness.”

  Christian lowered his head in submission to the memory of his teacher’s words. Maybe Roger could teach him something—perhaps about the misuse of power. Although the temptation still remained—the desire to make shreds of Roger’s façade—it would not be pleasant. Power had to be used without pride.

  Roger saw Christian’s gesture, the bowed head. “Join us,” he said, softening his voice, enticing him. “I will answer all your questions.”

  A tension still permeated the room, and seeking to diffuse its influence, Roger spoke into the thick silence. “Let us visit with each other for a few minutes. Walk and greet someone you do not know. If you are interested in staying for tonight’s tantric lesson, you are welcome. Visitors
who prefer not to participate may return another day.”

  Christian, feeling anxious to leave, stood and looked toward Amy, but she had turned her back to him. When he moved to see her face, he was shocked at her entranced expression, her eyes locked on Roger. With a sudden frightening clarity, he knew she saw a Messiah.

  “Are you ready to go?” Christian asked quietly.

  People stood around them, stretching, moving into small clusters to chat.

  “I … uh … I think I’ll stay for the meeting. Is that alright?”

  “And for what this man is calling tantric exercises?” he asked.

  He took her arm and walked to one side of the room. “Don’t you see?” he whispered, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself, his eyes searching hers.

  “See what?” she returned. “He could be the Messiah, and I’ve been led to him for a purpose. He told me today that I was one of the chosen few who would lead the world into the Light!”

  “You know what kind of tantric exercises he performs?” he asked sharply, hoping to confront her with Roger’s intentions.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Amy, he tells you he’s a god, but he wants you as a man. He wants your body, not your soul. Don’t you see what he’s asking of you? Do you want this man?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and looked toward the floor. “If that’s what he wants, there must be a good reason.”

  Christian wanted to shake her, wake her up.

  Does she have any idea of what she’s doing? Any sense?

  “Tantra is not sex,” he insisted. “It’s a very complex system of meditation. Most often, tantra is visualization. Occasionally, after many years of patience and practice, beings of higher consciousness may join their bodies to achieve oneness with the Divine Mother. But this is rare.”

  Suddenly, she looked directly at him, and her voice rose. “How do you know what real tantra is? He’s the Messiah. His ways are not to be questioned. How can you understand a man to whom God speaks?”

  The words slapped his face, hard enough that he took a small step back.

  “He’s false,” Christian tried, but with the sickening feeling that he was losing her. “Tantra is holy. It takes a great deal of understanding and training to teach it. This man is only seeking self-satisfaction. Are you willing to give up everything you have to do this? What happens when he doesn’t want you in his special circle any more?”

  “Christian, I have to trust someone who is God directed. You don’t understand at all.”

  “I care for you.” He was looking intently into her face, but she would not meet his eyes. “I love you. We have a life together.”

  She lifted her eyes to his, her voice sure. “At his side, I could do anything. I would have purpose.”

  There it was, laid clear. A deep silence filled the space between them.

  “Alright,” he said in a low voice that was a growl of pain and anger. “If you don’t have the intuition for truth, then perhaps you’re right. The people around me have to be perceptive, insightful, or everything could be lost. I’m going to L.A. tonight for three or four days. That should give you enough time to move out.”

  He turned to leave, then paused. “Allen will have five grand for you. Put some of it away. The time may come when you’ll need it.”

  “But Christian,” she shrugged innocently, “the commune can use it.”

  Christian knew who would use it all right. But if $5,000 was the price to buy her way into her new life as one of the chosen few, then it was her right to spend the money as she wanted.

  “Amy, are you sure about this?”

  She nodded, her eyes bright with expectation. “Good-bye, Christian,” she said gently.

  At the door, he looked back one last time, only to see that she was already standing next to Roger.

  The crowd was smaller now, but still good-sized, as Roger began the evening’s lessons. He looked around the room at his disciples, and Amy felt a sudden surge of interest from the participants. Roger appeared to collect the living energy in the room and channel it through his own body.

  “We’ve been chosen to bring new life to this ailing planet,” he began. “Our purpose is to teach love to all the corners of the earth. The voices I hear will direct us. Our first instructions are to care for this house, the restaurant and bakery, our clothing store. People will join us, and we’ll set up new colonies. Already, we’re sending people to begin in Los Angeles and Hawaii. With God directing us, we cannot fail.”

  He spoke to them of the mysteries of the voices, of how the message would be revealed to all men in time. The chosen few—those seated before him—had special graces and abilities to reach multitudes. Someday, the bright triangular symbol of the commune would be known worldwide. Heads in the room nodded in agreement. Sympathetic smiles told Roger they heard his words and understood.

  “Now it’s time for communal members who wish to take part in the tantric exercises to choose a partner. Amy, you’ll be mine.”

  Fourteen people were left in the room, seven couples. A circle was joined, hands dropped. Both men and women began to undress. Amy hesitated … and then decided. Soon, she was naked with the others.

  Standing next to Roger, she admitted she had wanted to be his lover from the first moment she’d met him. Roger had flagrant raw power. Now he had singled her out to be his partner, giving her a special power of her own.

  “Men and women will turn to each other, sitting face to face,” Roger commanded. “Men will penetrate the female, but orgasm is forbidden. Control your primal energy. Meditate on the eyes of your partner. Find yourself there. At my signal, women will move to the right, to the next man.”

  To Amy’s surprise, Roger passed her to the man on his left, who gently pulled her down, sitting her in his lap. As Roger had begun the description of the ceremony, the man had begun to rise, she to moisten. Her partner easily entered her. Around the circle she went at Roger’s command, her vagina aching, clitoris stimulated, crying for the thrust. At last, she met with Roger and noticed that the blankness she had seen in the eyes of the others did not exist in his. His eyes were smiling. Roger was enjoying himself, waiting for her.

  Of course, she thought, this, too, is a necessary part of communal living. What better way to experience each other, personally, intimately? How can there be jealousy when we are available to each other?

  Amy clung to Roger, her arms desperately locked around his body. She expected warm, smooth flesh, meditation, and then release. But Roger’s penis was not quiet like the others. His worked and moved within her, controlled by muscles at the base of his shaft.

  Ah! Amy rose to a frenzy.

  Involuntarily, she pulled at him with her vaginal muscles, felt the lining ripple, sucking inward, wild and violent. Roger pulled out a moment later, wrapping his penis in a towel just in time to catch all his semen.

  CHRISTIAN AND NAREESH

  INDIA

  THE PAST

  Christian’s long legs carried him quickly away from the Family of Man commune. Turning the key in the ignition of the Lotus, he pulled out onto the street, then punched the accelerator, laying rubber, taking Ashby Avenue, heading toward the hills, punishing the car and himself. Leaving the freeway, he rounded the corner, tires screeching, and drove toward Skyline Boulevard, his frustration and anger played out on the road. Miserable and suddenly deeply lonely, he longed once again to talk with Nareesh, the one person who had always understood everything about him.

  Nareesh! Where are you? he begged wordlessly. Where are you?

  The village where the mission was located was small, and as a child, there was never any need for Christian’s parents to fear where he might wander. Leaving the mission compound walls, he would explore along the stream that flowed past the mountain town. In early morning, he would take joy in the cooing of birds, the air cool, the new daylight gentle, awakening. He would follow behind the women as they drew water from the well, listening to their laughter, colo
rful saris moving softly with the motion of their hips, or chase after the dark-haired, barefoot children in the alleys between the red brick and white stucco houses.

  Even at five years of age, Christian knew that his father worried as he began to use foreign words and phrases with some fluency.

  “There’s no need for concern,” he overheard his mother tell his father. “In a few years, Christian will board at school, and eventually, knowing Hindi will be useful when he assumes your ministry.”

  Charles Brooks would later call Christian’s meeting with Nareesh an accident, while Baba Ram Seva, Nareesh’s father, named it “karma”—a wayward ball quickly racing down a street, two boys chasing it from different directions, and in one moment, reaching it together. When Christian lifted the ball and passed it to Nareesh, their fingers touched, and they were bound. Even though Nareesh was two years older, from that moment, the boys became inseparable, roaming through village and field, sharing everything.

  On the day that Christian met Ram Seva, the holy man had looked piercingly at Christian, then had closed his eyes, sitting quietly for what seemed a long time to a young boy. Restless, squirming, and with nothing else to do, Christian had studied the man, his skin dark against the white cotton robe, the bright red tilak on his forehead—a reminder of the third eye of knowledge—coarse black hair hanging to his shoulders, flecks of gray just touching his moustache and chest-length beard.

  When Ram Seva had finally opened his eyes, he’d stated simply, “It is good that you have come together again.”

  The news of Christian’s visits to the home of Ram Seva passed quickly through the village. Finally, Dasa, one of the household servants Charles had rescued from the poverty of the street, quietly approached him.

  “I only tell you, Reverend,” she explained, “because the boy’s father is a devout Hindu, a Brahmin. The boy’s mother is dead, and the father has chosen to live in poverty and chastity. He teaches and has many disciples.”