Homecoming

by Adib Khan

  IT IS DUSK BY the time Martin returns to the house. The front door is unlocked. Maria’s laughter floats from the kitchen into the cold corridor. He hears Frank’s subdued voice.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you!’ Maria greets Martin.

  Frank is opening a bottle of sparkling wine. ‘There’s something to celebrate,’ he announces without looking at his father.

  Maria beams. ‘I was offered the job in Castlemaine!’

  ‘Congratulations!’ Martin exclaims, delighted.

  ‘Baby in October! A new job in January.’ She is full of success. ‘Three days a week. It’s a new clinic. Two Melbourne physiotherapists have decided to expand and open a practice there. They’re renovating an old building. The builders should be finished by the time I begin.’

  They agree to go out for dinner, and by the end of the evening Frank is buoyant. He’ll be a full-time father for a few years. ‘I might set up the shed as a workshop and repair computers.’ He looks at Maria. ‘Just as a hobby.’

  Maria meets his look. ‘Not as something to cause stress.’

  By the time Martin leaves Daylesford after another couple of days, the electrician and the plumber have almost finished their work in the kitchen and bathroom. The arrival of the furniture van delays his departure. He waits patiently as Maria and Frank discuss where some of the pieces should be placed. There are several rearrangements, until the possibilities are exhausted.

  Their goodbye is low-key. Martin is reluctant to leave. He has especially enjoyed the meal times and the conversations with Maria. There is an excitement about the loose and unregimented way of their lives. It has had an energising effect on him.

  ‘Thanks for being so generous with your time and help, Dad. I’m sorry I lost my cool the other day.’

  Martin hugs his son. ‘I can’t change what’s happened and what we are, Frank. But look ahead,’ he advises. ‘You have Maria, and all this. Soon a family. We have to work on ourselves…I would be lying if I said I learned that at your age.’

  Frank nods. They shake hands. Near the gate Martin pauses briefly to admire their work on the fence. He is relieved that the dream about the coffm has reached a kind of subconscious resolution. He had slept soundly the previous night, only drifting back into semi-consciousness at the noise of a lid being prised open. Inside the coffm…nothing. He imagines a puzzled look on Andrew Gribble’s face as the psychiatrist writes in his notepad.

  I don’t know what to make of it, Martin.

  An unlikely admission, but one that would please Martin.

  Andrew, you are human after all.

  Then he drives through the gate and slowly heads away towards Daylesford. He finds the brooding emptiness of the tracts of land strangely comforting.

  FOURTEEN

  Martin pulls up opposite the post office to check his map. He considers the options. There is nothing planned for the rest of the day. He can turn left onto the highway, just after Bunding, and be in Fitzroy by early afternoon. Or…?

  The prospect of going home is unappealing. There was something warm and enriching in Frank and Maria’s kitchen. They had sat together around the table for drinks in the evening. Then, as Maria stir-fried the beef or chicken, marinated with crushed ginger and garlic, soy sauce, dry sherry and a sprinkling of brown sugar, Frank would prepare noodles or boiled rice. There was talk, even from Martin. And he was given the job of chopping vegetables, according to Maria’s prescription for size and shape.

  By contrast his evenings at home are introspective and the meals usually boring, without animation. He thinks about Maria. It was she who had asked him to help in the kitchen, drawing him into the network of her domesticity, making him feel as if he was not merely a guest but an intrinsic part of their lives.

  Martin finds himself heading for Melbourne, accelerating towards the dreariness of homecoming.

  The sign is a blur on his right as he speeds past. He looks in the rear-view mirror and slams on the brakes. The ute swerves slightly and stops on the edge of the empty road. He reverses for about twenty metres until the turn-off is in front of him.

  The Yoga Ashram is seven kilometres away. The way to Barkstead is also indicated. Martin keeps the engine running. He drums the steering wheel with the fingers of his right hand.

  A look-in will not take much time. It could become a talking point with Frank and Maria. He imagines Frank’s surprise. It might even eradicate a few of the impressions he has about his father. But there will be awkwardness at the ashram. No, I am not interested in whatever it is that you offer I only want a quick look so that I can tell my son I’ve been here. Indecision.

  Irritation!

  Martin puts the ute into gear with unnecessary force and takes the turn. He follows another sign onto an unsealed road that meanders between gum trees. At last there’s a gate, wide open. He stops to scrutinise the symbol hanging from the fence. It is unlike anything he has seen before. He feels an uneasy stirring.

  He squeezes the ute into a space among the cars. Tentatively he walks around the back of the buildings, stopping to admire the vegetables planted in rows to receive sunlight for most of the day. Randomly he follows a circular course past a dam until he discovers steps leading down to a glass door marked reception. As he is about to enter he notices the small sign painted in white. Martin complies and takes off his shoes. Involuntarily he checks his socks to see if there are any holes in them. He opens the door and tiptoes inside.

  It is not what he had imagined. The timbered walls and carpeted floor exude welcoming warmth. The foyer is deserted. There is another door opposite the entrance. He can see people, men and women, sitting on the grass in a courtyard fringed by a verandah.

  ‘May I help you?’ A woman emerges from one of the side rooms.

  Martin introduces himself. ‘I am on my way back to Melbourne after visiting my son,’ he explains a bit awkwardly. ‘I thought I’d drop in to have a look, if that’s okay.’

  ‘You are welcome at any time,’ the woman smiles. ‘I am Swami Atma Muktananda.’ She senses his wariness. ‘We are not a cult or part of any religion. Promoting peace and harmony, both individually and globally, is our objective.’

  Martin begins to have faint regrets about taking the detour.

  As she leads him through the building, he understands Frank’s attraction for the place. There is a lack of urgency about life here, as though the administrators have dispensed with notions of time, schedules and deadlines. But there is nothing to suggest there is any lack of discipline. It is almost as if the calm orderliness has been preordained. The Swami talks about the tradition and practices of Satyananda yoga.

  ‘My son speaks enthusiastically about the ashram.’ Martin’s eyes flit into corners of rooms and across the expanse of the property. There are no placards or slogans anywhere. ‘He and his partner have recently moved to Daylesford. He’s been here a few times.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Frank Godwin.’

  The Swami’s face registers a friendly recognition. ‘So far, Frank has been very serious about yoga. He is keen to master the techniques of yoga nidra. It is a form of deep relaxation.’ Her speech is calm but quite formal.

  Martin can hear another voice as the Swami leads him to a door. ‘This is the Sadhana Room,’ she explains. ‘It is used for meditation, practices and lectures. In fact we have an American visitor who is conducting a couple of sessions today. Would you like to join in?’ She sees his reluctance. ‘Jeffrey Benson is an academic and a former psychiatrist from Chicago. You can leave at any time. There is no compulsion to stay.’

  She opens the door and waits for Martin to enter.

  ‘I don’t know if I, ah…have the time,’ he mumbles, catching a glimpse of a youngish man. Draped in a saffron robe, Jeffrey Benson wears owl-like spectacles and his head is shaven. He is seated in a lotus posture with his back to a raised wooden platform.

  Martin tries to imagine Andrew Gribble in the same situation.

  He can hear
the drone of a comforting voice, but is unable to rid himself of the images of expensive furniture and paintings, made-to-order suits and silk bow ties. And a question: Change the world from out here in the middle of a forest?

  The rectangular room is large, its full-length windows graced with maroon curtains. The platform behind the American is bare, except for a vase of fresh flowers and the cushions that lean against a stained-glass window. The floor is carpeted, and the timber ceiling lends warmth and intimacy to the room. Boxed in glass on top of a wooden stand, a single flame burns steadily.

  ‘That light?’ Martin whispers.

  ‘The Joyti light,’ the Swami replies. ‘It burns all the time and represents our inner being…soul…spirit, whatever you may wish to call it.’

  The men and women on the floor appear casual and relaxed under woollen blankets. Their ages vary. Some lie flat on their stomachs, their elbows resting on cushions. But their attentiveness to Jeffrey Benson strikes Martin as being remarkably self-disciplined. He listens, still hesitant about entering the room.

  ‘We have a remarkable capacity to run away from ourselves,’ the teacher says softly. ‘We look outwards, seeking external solutions to all our problems, instead of accepting them as part of the human condition and working on them from within. There is an inclination to feel guilty about preconceived notions of personal inadequacy. We try desperately to compensate for what we don’t have. This leads to feelings of emptiness, as though there are critical elements missing from our lives.’ He pauses for a drink of water.

  ‘Thanks,’ Martin whispers and steps inside.

  ‘Remember,’ Swami Muktananda says kindly before closing the door, ‘there is no compulsion to stay.’

  Martin sits near the door, separate from the group. His knees creak as he lowers himself to the carpet. He changes his posture several times, finding it impossible to get comfortable. There is a stack of pamphlets lying on the table beside him. He reads one to distract himself. Benson’s background includes a double doctorate in history and psychology, an associate professorship in one of America’s most prestigious universities, a successful private practice as a clinical psychologist, several published books. All this, apparently, abandoned for a life of frugality and contemplation.

  Jeffrey Benson does not demonstrate even the faintest acknowledgement of Martin’s entrance or his distractive movements, which draw sharp glances from several people. Martin mutters, ‘Sorry,’ but it’s only as a reflexive utterance and no one else hears.

  He shifts again, tucking his legs under his buttocks and resting a part of his weight on the palm of his left hand, which presses on the carpet. The ligaments and tendons in his legs begin to hurt. He winces, doubling his effort to concentrate on what the American is saying.

  ‘We tie up our lives with difficulties,’ Jeffrey Benson explains, ‘and expect others to untangle them. There are four principles that ought to be remembered: acceptance, dissipation of anger, openness and a recognition of the universal nature of problems, rather than focusing on the narrowness of one’s own misfortunes, treating them as though they are unique. Negativity can lead to feelings of doubt, estrangement and emptiness. We must strive to evolve to a state where we don’t feel threatened by our predicaments. It is undesirable to become frantic and seek to resolve difficulties immediately. Instead, absorb them into your being and learn from the anguish they cause. This learning is a part of the solution. It is a component of the cleansing process and, believe me, you are not alone in accumulating experiences that cause distress and create guilt. It is inevitable to be hurt in life.’

  Martin moves again. The pain is excruciating. He grabs a blanket from the corner and slides towards the group. No one looks back. He feels he’s trapped in a world of unexplored ideas with people more open-minded than he is. He has made it more difficult to leave, but the urge to listen to this calm-mannered man overcomes his panic.

  A woman tentatively raises her hand. ‘How do we get rid of the emptiness?’

  Benson smiles kindly. ‘You don’t. That is precisely the point I’m trying to make. Put aside your fear and reach into the void. Just to illustrate the point, let me tell you a well-known story that exemplifies how this emptiness is used positively to develop spirituality. Some of you may have heard the tale of Kisagotami and her experience with the mustard seeds. Those of you who know it, please bear with me. It is a worthy parable.’

  Martin finds himself edging still closer to the dais, between an elderly man and a middle-aged woman. He notices eight framed pictures on one of the walls. They are all coloured differently, but the symbol from the fence is unmistakable. He vaguely remembers Colin’s explanation of the circle as the ultimate wholeness of life itself. In Vietnam, Colin had frequented Buddhist temples and sought to speak to the monks. One of them had given him a copper amulet embossed with this circle, which he wore around his neck. A chakra symbol, he said. After he returned to Australia, Colin did not discard the charm. ‘Not much use here,’ Martin had said cynically to him. ‘It won’t prevent things from falling apart.’ Colin had smiled and fingered the piece of metal. ‘It may help me to identify the pieces.’

  Jeffrey Benson closes his eyes. ‘A young woman by the name of Kisagotami had the misfortune of losing her only child due to illness. The emptiness that was suddenly created in her life was devastating. Lonely and grief-stricken, she sought to reverse her loss. She wandered through her village, carrying the corpse of the one-year-old boy. She begged the villagers for medicine that might revive her son. People thought that she had lost her sanity. They were scared by her passionate pleas and avoided her. But there was one man who was moved by her plight. He directed Kisagotami to seek help from the Buddha. “He has the medicine that you require,” the man said. Eagerly she went to the Buddha and asked for the cure. The Buddha listened patiently. “Yes, I know of such a medicine,” he said. “But first I must have some mustard seeds from a house where there has been no death. Come back when you have the seeds.” So the woman went around the village, and eventually she realised that a house untouched by death did not exist. She went back to the Buddha. “Do you have the mustard seeds?” he asked. “No,” she answered. “The villagers said that there are more dead than the living.” The Buddha looked at her compassionately. “And what does that say about your condition? You grieved as if you were the only person in the village to have lost someone dear to you. That is not so. Death has one unbending rule, and that is the life of every creature must end. You are not alone in your loss.” Near dusk one day, when Kisagotami had given up her worldly life to become a follower of Buddha, she looked at the village from the top of a hill and saw distant lights shining in the houses below. I am like those lights, she thought, and it is said that at that moment she saw an image of Buddha. “Living beings are like those lamps,” he told her later. “Ultimately they will all be extinguished.”’

  There is a ponderous silence. Jeffrey Benson opens his eyes and waits patiently, gazing steadily through one of the windows in the opposite wall. Someone coughs. There is restless stirring. Martin wonders if there is a contrived theatrical element in this long silence, or is it genuinely a part of the understanding process of the parable? He looks closely at the American. His face is implacable, without any hint of smugness.

  ‘So, what can you tell about emptiness?’ Benson asks suddenly, without looking at anyone.

  ‘That we can learn from our situations and find meaning by considering the universal rather than the personal.’ Martin had not intended to speak.

  ‘Yes. Anything else?’

  ‘Holding the dead child and walking through the village suggests that we cling to our feelings of loss and create self-pity by assuming that the tragedy is ours alone to suffer. It is a resistance to the natural order of things rather than acceptance.’ Martin searches for his next words, something appropriate to articulate transformation. He is uncomfortable that people are staring at him. ‘Her recovery is in the recognition that her problem is
not unique to her but shared by the rest of humanity.’

  Benson looks more curiously at him. ‘And the lights in the house?’

  ‘She is able to widen her focus.’ A young woman, with braided hair and wearing a caftan, is enthusiastic. ‘From the personal to the universal. By acknowledging her common fate as a living creature, Kisagotami also affirms the flaws and responsibilities of life that enable her to overcome the trauma of emptiness.’

  There is a ripple of assent in the room. Other voices offer opinions. Benson listens attentively to the comments and personal experiences about emptiness.

  ‘So…instead of transforming emptiness and extracting meaning from it, we try to eliminate it. Almost as a last resort we turn to the ego and bolster it, expecting it to meaningfully occupy the vacuum we feel.’ Benson looks among them. ‘Buddhism takes a different approach. Concentrate on emptiness, discontentment, feelings of inadequacy, and you will become stronger and more aware. Learn to recognise who and what you are. The process of change is subtle and gradual. It cannot be forced, nor accelerated. Work from within yourself. Transformation, rather than rejection. Meaning, rather than ongoing vacuum.’

  He allows time for more discussion, then waits until the room is quiet again. ‘We will end this session with a few minutes of chanting.’

  Martin is still while they chant. There are different ways of approaching problems, he concedes. But unfamiliarity makes it difficult to seek what has not been tried. Work from within yourself The words are not entirely disconcerting. But how? Where is the beginning? Is there an established process that can be followed? Figure it out for yourself You learn during the journey, not before or after it, Benson might say. And what could be his response? But I was brought up in a tradition in which we were told. Persuasively guided. Martin recalls his childhood days in church with the family. There was hierarchy a set of practices, a communal identity. The chaplain led the way. The sermons gave directions. The biblical stories were intended to be inspirational and exemplary. Martin’s mode of thinking and responding to life’s circumstances had been moulded by the pattern of these rituals. Despite the changes in his personality and a gradual shift away from the church, it was still a tradition that continued to impact on his system of values. If forced into a definition of his identity, Martin would still say that he was a Christian.