… and gather me / Into the artifice of eternity.
His very first apartment here. A basement studio. The house looked neglected now: foundation cracked; stucco patchy; walk unshovelled and icing over, ready to crack the hip of whatever ancient resident had been abandoned inside. Surely not his old landlady? She had been in her sixties at the time, thirty-five, no, thirty-seven years ago. Dr. Shiner, a history prof, no family that they ever saw, though there was an old photo on the mantel: a woman that could have been her, in a dark shin-length dress and small hat; a confident smile dividing sharp, hooded eyes from a jutting chin, posed with a man and two children.
Dr. Shiner had doted on Seth to the point of imposition. Fortunately, he had been raised to accept the controlling attention of elders, surely one reason she loved renting to him. Then Lakshmi arrived. He recalled that first year of marriage as a sex-addled haze with occasional breaks for teaching. Dr. Shiner transferred her affections to Lakshmi, who was home more. Pregnancy gave them an excuse to move.
Perhaps Shivashakti, incarnate, was as fallible, as prey to the same blind desires and bad judgements, as any other mortal? Plausible. But insufficient.
Seth turned again. He saw a hawk wheeling up as he descended.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre / The falcon cannot hear the falconer.
This time he drove farther north, past the university, before turning west to enclose Willard Park in the counter-clockwise loop. Things fall apart …
If Sita and Sundar had not been killed, he would never have found God. The old game: what would he have done instead? Maybe he would have had a hobby. Model trains. Birdwatching. Perhaps with Venkat? But Venkat would never have become interested in birds if his family had lived. Most of the condo residents had given the parakeets back. Moe got an aviary for the lobby, but when residents reported there had been a bird dead in the cage for three days, he set the rest free. The parakeets went feral for the summer, flashing among the trees in Willard Park. Winter was another thing: when bright corpses started appearing in the snow, the SPCA rounded up the survivors and adopted them out to a local cult, which erected a parakeet shrine in the park. Now, a lone Steller’s jay mocked the crows hopping under barren trees, strange and flat against the grey air, and little brown birds rustled berries in the bushes.
The spiral grew wider and looser, past his children’s schools, past the plant nursery where Sita had worked, and then out of Lohikarma along the lake. The road bowed away from the water to make room for parklands but the lake was never fully out of sight. Crafty Canadians: they knew which side their bread was buttered on. These days, clear-cutting was allowed only on mountainsides facing away from the highways, so that the only people who could see the ugly bald patches were ones who had already made their commitment to the place. It was a principle he admired. His kids could call him cynical, but everyone was out to make a buck. In India, they didn’t care what they spoiled. Beautiful spots became cesspools, hill stations trashed and unrecognizable. It was possible Canadians truly respected and valued nature, but even the ones who didn’t had to act as though they did. Made life easier for everyone. Another hawk circled trees and lake, then another.
He turned onto a country highway. Trees closed in, but beyond them was pastureland. He was out in Canada now. Out in Canada. It sounded like a TV show. It sounded like one of his kids’ jokes, something they might invent to pass the time on a road trip. Bungling Indian FOB drives around the Kootenay countryside asking real Canadians dumb questions about things that seem obvious. The kind of thing he would laugh at, particularly now that he, too, was Canadian. But in the early years, that was him.
Out in Canada, an untended field to one side and what might have been an ancient orchard on the other. Fragments of Shivashakti’s lectures drifted up before him. They were always there, favoured phrases and arguments. For twenty years, Seth had steered his life by them. He looked out at the gnarled trees bent with phantom fruit and remembered, The worm is happy in the apple’s core, and knows no other home. Why an apple, not a jackfruit or mango? He had thought perhaps the reference had become universal, or thought it was evidence of how effortlessly international were the workings of Shivashakti’s mind: universal mind. Now he wondered if it was a deliberate attempt to reach out to Western devotees. Would that be so bad?
The lake made him recall the guru’s words on the tsunami: The calmest water has within it this power to take the life it also gives. Let your mind be the ocean, calm and accepting. Reserve your power to rise up and conquer weakness and temptation.
Something about this had troubled him but he had not had time this week to think about it. Now, he understood it to be the hint that nature had intention. If Lakshmi or his daughters had raised this objection, he would have resented their literalism. Asked if they had ever heard of metaphor. Pointed out that there was nothing untrue in the words, if you read closely, which they hadn’t. To say the ocean is calm is correct: this is a physical state, not only an emotional one. Perhaps he had been infected by their view, over time. They were hard to resist. Perhaps Shivashakti had driven him into their arms. Perhaps that was his intention.
The country highway had turned to gravel at some point. Up ahead was a turn that led into the woods, very like one he and the kids took, a couple of times, to a campsite they loved. You drove through the woods to the site, fifty metres from a cliff with a huge view of the sky. He would feel better if he could see that view.
The barren landscape brought to mind Shivashakti’s talks on death, especially what he said in the wake of the bombing: Krishna said to Arjuna, I am death, shatterer of worlds. Your world has been shattered. But death comes, by human hand or divine will. This loss makes you want to kill. If you must strive, strive against this. Think, what else can I give? All is karma. These matters are not within your control. But the actions of this life are. If you must strive, strive to do good and be humble. Then strive to cease striving.
Strive to cease striving. Renounce even renunciation. Seth had found himself, in recent years, thinking more and more on such prescriptions, perhaps particularly as Lakshmi became more and more committed to the new form of meditation she had found, without gods, mantras or other trappings; perhaps particularly as they both aged toward the phase of life when their own traditions prescribed that they begin withdrawing from the push and pull of material life, toward asceticism. Maybe they would move out into the country, he thought with a vague glance at the enfolded mountains, the well-made fields. But no, they should do it gradually, with few outward alterations. Shivashakti talked about how strictness in asceticism can itself become a distraction, a source of vanity. The goal is not the goal, he would say. It put Seth, smugly, in mind of Bala and his boasts on the many things he could live without. Poor Bala: his son seemed to be struggling. Their daughter was doing well, though: a medical professor, married to an investment banker, two kids. He thought of Brinda. His throat grew tight.
The goal is not the goal. Strive to cease striving. He’d always liked the sound of that. Strive to cease striving.
Drive to cease driving. His accelerator felt loose. It seemed he was on a logging road, a couple of ruts through the trees, scrubby grass between them, made for and by Jeeps and trucks. How long had the gas indicator light been on? It was hard to see in daylight but all too visible in the off-road shade. He remembered now that he had meant to fill up on returning from the airport this morning. The car rolled to a halt as the motor died into the silence of the vast Canadian winter.
After yesterday’s warm spell, the temperature was dropping again. He always overheated the car; it began cooling quickly now in the evergreen shade. He was wearing gloves and a winter coat but had forgotten hat and scarf. Thin socks. Oxfords, with thick rubber soles, so he wouldn’t fall, but he still could freeze. What could he do? He had to walk. Where? He got out of the car and regretted it as the cold clapped his cheeks and boxed his ears, which started ringing again—panic. Where the hell was he and which
way should he go?
He turned toward the nose of the car, pointing deeper into the woods. How far would he have gone if he’d had more gas? How far would a full tank have taken him? Maybe it was a blessing—maybe he was closer to civilization than he otherwise would have been. And still it was only mid-afternoon. Winter, though: only a few hours till sunset. The road curved off ahead and disappeared, nothing familiar about it, and there was little chance of finding anyone at the end of it who could help.
He started to retrace his way. How long had it been since he had passed a house or anyplace that looked even vaguely tended? How long had he been driving? He looked at his watch. Three o’clock. What time had he left home?
His coat was bulky and inelegant, with sturdy snaps and zippers; it looked as though it were made for this weather and it had served him well from home to car to office, but now he felt the difference between it and its more expensive counterparts. A hood, for one thing. He pulled the puffy collar up close to his ears. He balanced among the heavy-truck treads, fossilized in the frozen mud, stiff as the soles of his shoes. Glancing behind, he found his car had already disappeared. Progress! The trees around him were not huge but they were indistinguishable. He presumed his car was still back there. His eyes stung. It wasn’t that cold. Maybe a couple degrees below freezing. No wind. Why were his eyes watering? Not that cold compared to what? Most of Canada. He was thinking fast but it wasn’t helping him. Mind racing; car stalled. Sounded like a fortune cookie. Fate don’t fail me now—ha! Jokes no help. Cold hands; warm heart. What was he supposed to do, pray? Ha, and ha again!
The trees were different now. Everything changes. They weren’t all evergreens anymore. Birches, he thought, bent to left and right. Frost! Last thing he needed was more frost: what about a poem called “Nice Warm Fire?” Or “Gas Station.” Ha again. More light coming through. His daughters had told him about this, how trees tell you the age of the woods. Back when they went out in the woods together. Not often, long long ago. Evergreen woods are older. Straighter, darker trees. He thought so anyway. Younger woods let in more light. It was warmer, by a tint, he could feel it. Splashes of sun on his face. Younger woods, more recently cleared. Old growth long gone. Old farms grown over? Or land cleared for some other reason. Or land where no trees had grown before.
Now there were almost no evergreens. And he was walking fast and faster. He was almost warm. Why the sudden sense of optimism? He could still be miles from anyone who could help. Any second now, he would trip over the body of the last guy abandoned by God in the middle of a crisis. It probably happened all the time. His eyes were still watering. His cheeks were wet. The woods thinned. He was at a crossroads.
The road he had climbed—he only now noticed that he had been walking uphill—plateaued and continued through the intersection and beyond, flatter now, no longer an undulation underfoot. It stretched ahead, as far as Seth could see, toward a vanishing point. But what if it actually vanished at that point? It looked so unused that he could easily imagine it terminating in a field, thinning and running aground, sliding under the floating wreck of a pioneer cabin. You still saw them sometimes, roof beams rotted and caved, mysterious holes in the log walls. He imagined taking that road, and living out his days in the ghost cabin, combing wheat seeds out of hulls with his teeth and chewing them raw, drinking the nectar of wildflowers, beard long and soft across his naked chest as he trance-huddled against the one standing wall of his shelter. But what if he couldn’t grow a long beard? He had never tried.
The crossing road delineated a wilder from a tamer place, woods from field, overgrown from overcleared. Two roads diverged in a wood … He had walked out of the wild and had to choose: walk into the tame or take the road that straddled these ways of being? Way leads on to way …
To his left, west. He took a couple of experimental steps, shoes crunching gravel, and it felt so good he kept going, up hill and down dale until he came to the ocean. And kept going and discovered he could breathe underwater. He had simply never tried. Perhaps it only worked in salt water. Sundar and Sita were there. The water had pieced them back together and there they lived, swimming with the fishes. Sita couldn’t swim before. But necessity is the mother of mothers.
Then there was the appeal of the east. He looked back over his shoulder at it. The vast expanse of where he came from. He jumped and was pulled back there, legs and arms flung from the force of the vortex that funnelled along the road. The widening gyre. He spun, he tumbled, he flew, miming in reverse the actions that had brought him to the crossroads, till he was shocked back into the darkness of the womb.
East or west: it was his choice.
But he always chose badly. He was not trained for choice; he didn’t like it. The only things that made sense in his life were the things he had not chosen. His wife, his kids, his nations, his job. His God? Was that a choice? Or had Shivashakti chosen him? It felt as though Seth had chosen freely. He had overcome the resistance of his wife and kids to do it. Had he chosen badly? His department chose his courses; his students chose him. His parents chose his wife. When they went to a restaurant, Lakshmi’s food was always better, unless he let her order for him. He could always be happy with a choice someone else had made. He should not be given such responsibility as this. He turned to face each direction one more time. Sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler …
He sank to his knees and wept at the crossroads. He wept and could not choose and could not move.
“SIR?” A MAN’S VOICE, UNEASY. “Could you stand please? Slowly. What you feel is a gun in your back. No sudden moves.”
Seth continued to kneel, looking down at the mixed dirt and gravel where the roads entwined, and saw boots, brown hiking boots, to one side. Beyond them, if he shot his eyes as far to the side as they would go without turning his head, he could see the tires of a truck resting quite ordinarily on the western road. He became aware, as he had been so politely informed he might, of an iron nubbin of pressure on the bend of his spine. He took his hands off his chest, slowly put them to his thighs, and then pressed his fingertips to the chapped skin of the winter ground as he tried to straighten his legs. One didn’t work. He tried the other. That one failed as well and he fell over.
“Shit.” This voice was different from the other and came from behind him. “Pat him down.”
Seth, on his side on the sloping ground, shook his feet to try to get the feeling back into them and his legs. As the tingles started, so did the fear. He looked up at the first man who had spoken to him, wearing a ski jacket and a nylon balaclava.
“I’m checking for weapons and your wallet, understand?” There was fear in his voice, but still his intentions could be violent and godless. “Hold your feet still. Cut that out.” He zipped open Seth’s jacket without helping him up, kneeled awkwardly to check where his pockets should be, and, finding Seth’s wallet, stood back and opened it. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, pulling out Seth’s driver’s licence, credit card, Harbord ID card. “Faculty? You’re a professor?”
Seth nodded and tried to roll himself to his feet.
“Let me help you,” the man with his wallet said, and gestured with his head to the other man, leaner and taller than the first, also in a ski mask.
They got Seth to his feet. His legs would support him now but he couldn’t feel much below his knees. “Which department do you teach in?”
“Physics,” Seth said, and his voice was hoarse as if long unused. He coughed. They dusted him off a little. He did the same.
They waited. His knees buckled as if they’d been waiting to do so. Both men leapt to catch him.
“Goddammit,” said the shorter man, looking at the other, and then at Seth. “Maybe you had better sit down for a few minutes. We need to talk.”
They started to lower Seth back onto the ground and then reconsidered. “You may as well get in the truck.” When they had hoisted him into the cab, they withdrew, conferred, then returned to stand at the open door.
The shorter man asked, “Do you have any idea what you’re doing out here?”
Seth sensed concern. “Praying?”
The taller man looked away, then back at Seth. “Can we drive you home? Your address is on your licence.”
“I’m wondering, should we take him to a hospital,” said the shorter one.
“No, actually, I’m fine,” Seth said, rubbing his cheeks. “I was driving. I ran out of gas. My car is down that road, in the woods.” That’s what it was. He ran out of gas.
“Down there? You sure?”
“Is there any way you could take me to a gas station? Then I could call a tow truck to bring me back here.”
They looked at each other. The taller one gestured to the shorter with his head and they walked away again, leaving the truck doors open. They stood out of earshot, the dark thickening around them. The taller one scooped up a snowball and threw it away. As they walked back, they peeled off their masks. They were in their late twenties, tidy-looking, a couple of well-groomed white men in the prime of youth coming upon him in the middle of nowhere.
The skinny one had dark hair and was clean-shaven. He got into the driver’s seat. “Okay … what’s your name again?” he asked.
“Seth. Rhymes with ‘faith.’ ”
“Seth. Um, pleased to meet you.” He grinned a bit, not a smile, and held out his hand. “I’m Brian.”
The other, shorter, blonder, with a bit of a beard, was called Jeff. He hoisted himself into the passenger seat. “So, listen. We were on our way home. What we think is, you come with us. It’s not too far. Have a bowl of soup, wash your face.”
Seth put his hand to his face and then checked it in the rear-view mirror.
“Then we need to go to town anyway for some errands, and so we’ll take you, get your gas, and then drive you back here to your car. Sound all right?”
“You’re very kind,” Seth said. “But that’s a lot of trouble for you.”
The Ever After of Ashwin Rao Page 33
