A Nation of Mystics

by Pamela Johnson

  Then, she lowered her head to whisper, “Some say he is a saint.”

  When Charles finally arrived at the door of Ram Seva’s home, Christian’s hand in his, he understood immediately the extent of the family’s poverty. Dim light from a single door and window filled an almost empty room that held only a small stove, a single shelf of dishes and utensils, a three-shelved bookcase, a table and four chairs, and two cots along the wall. But the concrete floor was swept clean, the altar covered with marigolds, and the smell of incense was strong.

  The bookcase was crowded with philosophical and religious texts. Other worn books were stacked on the table. Christian could see his father’s immediate interest as he eyed the library.

  “I have been expecting you,” Ram Seva bowed. “Namaste!”

  “Namaste,” Charles echoed, taking a seat at the small table.

  While Nareesh and Christian quietly regarded their elders, looking up to smile shyly at each other, their fathers made small talk, fulfilling the obligations of custom and good manners. Charles asked about Ram Seva’s health, commented on how men of God lived simply; his own home was comfortable but not lavish. Ram Seva shook his head in response to the coming monsoon season, rose to boil water for tea, and discussed his one luxury: a special blend of afternoon Darjeeling.

  “I understand the boys have been together every day,” Charles ventured, watching Ram Seva move about the room. “Is that true?”

  “Inseparable. Like water to the clouds.”

  Charles shifted in his seat and then came to the point of his visit. “This relationship between the boys is very close. Christian is hardly home …”

  “And neither is Nareesh. They find many things to occupy themselves, both together and with the other children.”

  “I’m told Christian spends a good deal of time in your home.”

  “The children make their own choices. They recognize each other as old friends.”

  At this Charles paused. “Old friends? You believe they knew each other in a past life?”

  “More. They have karma to work out together in this lifetime.”

  Reverend Brooks looked at Christian quietly for a moment and then said, “Christian, why don’t you and Nareesh play outside for a while. We’ll call you when tea is ready.”

  The boys gleefully ran from the room, happy to be able to escape to play their own games.

  “I understand you are a widower,” Charles said to Ram Seva.

  “Yes,” Ram Seva replied, “for several years now.”

  “Has the boy been to school? How do you provide?”

  “I teach him. And with God’s help, we manage.”

  “With God’s help, we all manage,” Charles answered solemnly.

  Another long moment passed while the only sound in the room was the kettle, the pot beginning to whistle. Finally, Charles said, “I have a proposition for you. What if I offer to send Nareesh to school with Christian? I can most likely arrange a scholarship.”

  While the sweet scent of steeping tea filled the small room, Reverend Brooks outlined the advantages to be gained by Nareesh attending an English boarding school.

  Finally, with a smile in his voice, Ram Seva said calmly, “You seek my son to take him away from his spiritual heritage. I tell you, my friend, that even with a Western education, my son will return to his people and follow the path of Brahman and the knowledge of the Ultimate Reality. Knowing this, do you still wish to give?”

  Reverend Brooks thought quietly for a moment once again. “Yes,” he answered. “On this, we can both agree—this was no chance meeting.”

  “Indeed.”

  Then, understanding that a subtle bet had been made and that the future was open to the choices of their children, the two men fell silent.

  Finally, turning the conversation, Charles asked, “Tell me, what are you reading at the moment? I see several books of interest …”

  And when the boys had returned to the room to share in the tea and biscuits, the two men were deep in conversation and smiling.

  Many years later, with the last year of high school imminent, Christian and Nareesh walked together in the village near the same well where they had met. The evening was dark, because the moon had yet to rise. Christian had just returned from a summer vacation in Sri Lanka. Applications for college had to be mailed within the next weeks, final decisions made.

  “I still remember the day your father came to my house for the first time,” Nareesh told Christian. “He opened up a world I never knew existed. He made possible my future. I’ve no problem deciding to go to the theological college to honor him and his gifts.”

  “What about your plans for medical school?”

  “Afterward.”

  Christian clasped his hands behind his back, deep in thought. He raised his eyes to the narrow slice of stars shining between the buildings. “You’re a better son to my father than I am.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I’ve been thinking … I may not go to school in the States.”

  Nareesh gazed intently into Christian’s face, trying to read what was there in the dim light.

  “What about your father?” Christian asked. “What does he say about you becoming a Christian minister?”

  Nareesh shook his head. “My father never says.”

  “You spent several weeks with him,” Christian insisted. “He didn’t suggest anything?”

  “Suggest? If his example can be a suggestion, then yes. He lives in his own world of asceticism and humility, meditating. The number of his disciples appears to increase daily. But the biggest news is that he and Daya Nanda have been offered a residence for an ashram in New Delhi. I believe he’s going to accept it. A growing number of Westerners have found their way to his door, and New Delhi offers a more central location for study.”

  When Christian said nothing, Nareesh pushed his shoulder to get his attention. “Hey, what’s up with you? You’ve been distracted all evening.”

  “I … I feel as if I’m being torn in two.” With some embarrassment, Christian added, “When I stayed on with Heinrich a few weeks ago in Sri Lanka … after you left … I met a girl.”

  “And …” Nareesh asked, fearing the answer.

  “We became intimate. I would have found a way to stay with her, but she was gone the next morning. Back to the mainland. A tea picker, Heinrich told me. Simply came to the island for the harvest.”

  “I have a feeling I know who instigated that meeting. I wish I could blame this on Heinrich. We both know his tastes run to the sensual, but …”

  “No, you’re right.” Christian sighed. “It was my choice.”

  “There’s more, isn’t there? You’re thinking of Lama Loden.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “Christian, I know you better than you know yourself!”

  “Can you understand?” Christian cried with a rush of anguish. “Can you see how I’m being ripped apart? Is the ministry for me? Do I send off my application for divinity school? Or do I forego becoming a minister and become a part of the world, with all its pleasures? Like Heinrich. Pleasures I’ve found I enjoy! Or … do I take robes and reside in a monastery with Lama Loden, whom I love, living in prayer and meditation and bringing others to Buddha consciousness?”

  “Whatever you choose, you know your father will never understand a commitment to anything other than the Christian religion. How could he? He’s devoted his life to his church and the people in this village. He might understand that you’re not ready to make a lifelong commitment to a ministry, but he could never understand your exploration of Buddhism. For my part, I have no trouble with my decision. Even if you take robes, I go to the States.”

  “You see,” Christian answered, swallowed by misery. “You’re a better son to my father than I.”

  KATHY

  HAIGHT-ASHBURY, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA

  JULY 1967

  At the San Francisco airport, Kathy nervously waited for the suitca
ses she’d brought from Arizona. Although she tried her best to look nonchalant, her throat was dry, and her heart raced with apprehension. Discreetly, she looked left and right, trying to gauge who might be the Heat.

  Just walk away, a tiny voice tempted. Just leave it and walk.

  Suitcases began rolling off the belt; people stepped forward to grab bags. One of her suitcases hit the rollers, then the other. She took a deep breath, and she plunged, unable to leave them. Too much bread was invested. Making her way outside, she waited for someone to arrest her. Only when the taxi pulled away did she realize how badly she was shaking.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she was dropped off in front of the Drogstore Cafe, back among her own people, anxiously hoping to see someone who could help carry. But instead of friends, the faces were all new. How could a few weeks make such a difference?

  “What’s in those suitcases, little girl?” one of the hawkers teased as she neared the corner of Ashbury Street.

  Suddenly, a kid in a bright jacket sprinted past. “Run!” he shouted. “They’re coming again!”

  Voices picked up. People began moving toward Masonic, away from the park.

  “What’s going on?” she called to someone hurrying past her.

  “The pigs are sweeping the street!”

  A few blocks away, the riot squad moved in a wedge toward where she stood. For a long moment she faltered, unable to understand. Big men decked out in helmets, leather, guns, and clubs—like huge, blue insects from a science fiction story—were shoving people left and right against walls, searching them, making arrests. One kid ran, and they were on top of him, a nightstick holding him down. A woman screamed. The sound echoed down the street. Now people began running in all directions, pounding on doors on the side streets seeking sanctuary.

  “You’d better move with those suitcases,” someone called to her. “They’re picking up runaways.”

  “My God,” she mumbled, turning the corner and hurrying toward Richard’s flat.

  I’m dead if they open these bags. Please, God, please let Marcie be home.

  Kathy checked under the doormat. No key. She pounded on the door, driven by desperation, using her fist again. Suddenly, the door was thrown wide.

  “Kathy!” Marcie cried.

  “Oh, Marcie! There!” she pointed toward Haight Street. “The pigs are rounding up people on the street! What’s happening? How can they do that?”

  Richard pushed past them to the landing at the top of the stairs and followed her gaze, his brow creased. Then he said tightly, “Get those suitcases inside.”

  “What’s going on?” Kathy’s voice was shaking badly.

  “It’s the second time this week,” Richard informed her. “Pretty good timing on your part. Marcie, why don’t you take Kathy back to our room. I’ll see if anyone needs sanctuary.”

  Richard stood by the door, Kathy still frozen where she stood. Past him, people were still running by the house. From the Victorian window, she watched the blue wall of officers reach the corner, randomly pushing and beating the longhairs, throwing bodies into the paddy wagon that followed them up the street. Richard closed the door and went to stand next to her and Marcie at the window.

  “It’s not just the drugs,” he mumbled, grimly watching the scene. “It’s our ideas they want to destroy. They’ll use the excuse of drugs to create public hysteria. To put laws on the books that will gradually take away our freedoms, make our way of life impossible.”

  “Richard … let’s go back,” Marcie said quietly.

  He turned, seemed surprised to see them still there. “Go on. I’m coming.” And a moment later, casting one last glance toward Haight Street, he followed them down the hallway.

  “So how’s it goin’?” he asked Kathy, closing the door to the bedroom. “You have a key for those suitcases?”

  “What’s going on outside?”

  “They’ll be gone soon.” His voice was low and cold.

  “How’s … how’s everyone in the house?” Kathy asked, still shaken.

  “Good,” Marcie answered. “We’re only seven now. Us, you, Merlin and Greta. Alex and Honey are still together. But Michael and Terry found old ladies and decided to set up their own house. They have a lot of friends coming out from Michigan. Even so, we’re still a pretty tight family.”

  “We decided not to ask anyone else to live here because business has picked up so much,” Richard added. “We have to be careful about who comes into the flat, especially with large amounts of stash and money around.”

  Kathy’s face dropped. The house closed to outsiders? Part of what she valued about the Haight was its open trust, the sharing of what you had, making a seeker’s journey easier. She’d often brought a new traveler home to spend a few days. Many of them still did business with Richard.

  “I know it’s a bummer,” he sympathized. “But having a lot of traffic in and out of here draws attention. We can’t control what people are carrying, or who’s following them home. I don’t want the house busted.”

  Kathy sighed. “It’s just this separation between us and others. A division where we should be whole.”

  And for what? she did not add aloud. Because we have money and stash?

  “Let’s hear the good news, Kathy.” Richard eyed the suitcases. “Let’s see what you’ve brought back.”

  “The good news … well …” She thought about Larry, grinned, the street suddenly forgotten. “I met a groovy dude, and I took one of those White Lightning tabs you gave me.”

  “Sister!” Marcie exclaimed. “So now you know!”

  “Now I know,” Kathy answered wistfully.

  “Kathy, what about the suitcases?” Richard asked impatiently. “You can talk about your sex and drugs later.”

  “Alright,” she laughed. “Here’s the key.”

  Richard opened the bags, unwrapped a kilo, and rolled some of the herb. “Nice,” he said. He toked and passed the joint to Marcie. “I should bring some of this to Kevin. See what he can do. What do you think, Marcie?”

  “It’s tasty.”

  “One other thing.” He turned to Kathy. “Alex and I feel a grand is good payment for the connections you’ve turned us on to.”

  Marcie raised an eyebrow, her voice unsure. “Business with Kathy? Kathy’s family.”

  “You mean,” Kathy asked, embarrassed, “I won’t have any more money coming from you?” She hated putting a price on the things she’d done for love.

  “Not unless you make other connections. But for right now, we’re square.”

  “Then all the money I have is wrapped up in the kilos I brought.”

  “Plus $400 I owe on the grand,” he answered, reaching into his pocket.

  Kathy watched him count it out in twenty-dollar bills and tried understanding the new dynamics of what he was proposing. “In a way, it’s like I have my own trip going, right? Something separate from yours.”

  “Yeah. If you keep bringing keys in, you’ll be able to support yourself. Does a grand for all your efforts to date seem fair?”

  “Plenty fair.”

  “Good. Now we’re even.”

  Kathy took the money.

  “Between Kevin and us, we’ll do fifty,” Richard told her a few days later. “At $25 apiece, that’s $1,250. You want to fly them out here or drive?”

  “You know, Richard, I’ve … I’ve been thinking,” Kathy said tentatively, looking first at Richard, then at Alex. “That airport scene’s a big risk. If I deliver, my price is going to be $30 a key. I’m the one who has to carry between two airports.”

  Alex’s jaw tightened. “It means renegotiating with Kevin.”

  “But there’s risk, Alex. If I’m going to take this kind of chance rather than put my energy into something else, I need to take it seriously.”

  “It’s a hassle for us,” Alex insisted.

  Kathy hadn’t been around enough to know that Alex still exercised a subdued hostility to both Marcie and herself. But Marcie had wa
rned her. Over the weeks, Marcie had learned to keep quiet when Alex came to talk to Richard. On occasion, Alex’s jealous frustration was intense enough to physically push her from the room. But on the subject of Alex, Richard was deaf. Alex was more than his partner. Alex had been his friend from kindergarten.

  “His father was a brute,” Richard had tried explaining. “Alex would have these bruises up until about high school. His mother escaped by drinking. But watch and see. Acid will mellow him. And the help of the right woman.”

  Richard was right about one thing. Tripping had changed Alex. On one terrifying night, Alex had seen his childhood, every moment of the trip filled with the memory of being unwanted and beaten, every sense tuned to it, every thought focused on the naked energy of his need to be loved. On that trip, he was a small boy again, crying, alone, yearning for the protection of his mother, begging for the solace she could not offer. Acid had made the problem easy to define. He was even able to recognize his father in himself. Knowing what to do with his realizations, however, was another.

  Now he wasn’t budging. A point of honor, it seemed. “I don’t feel like going back and hassling Kevin again.”

  Kathy cocked her head to one side, suddenly realizing something. Alex was trying to use her, intimidate her into traveling to Arizona and delivering keys to him with no compensation for her efforts or risk. It didn’t really matter that she was helping him out, putting herself on the line. All Alex wanted was to come out on top.

  With an unprecedented forcefulness, she told him pointedly, “It means an extra $250 split between you for primo smoke delivered to your door. Where are you going to get a deal like that? You’ll be making $20 to $25 a key.”

  “Alright,” Richard leaned back and even smiled. “I think we can speak for Kevin. But we’re entrusting you with a lot of cash. What guarantee do we have that we’ll get it back?”

  “I’ll use my own money if you want …” Kathy was quickly learning one of the first rules of the trade—never tell anyone your copping price, “but then the price will be higher.”

  “Okay,” Richard nodded. “We’ll front you the money. At thirty a kilo. You have enough suitcases?”