*******
You sit in the quiet of the hut stunned and deflated. Your mind is a blank, your body numb as you listen to the sound of the Ganga. December 20th, three evenings ago you wrote this journal entry. Four days, maybe more, you have spent like a hamster on a flywheel, a loony bird caged in paradise who every morning awakens with no memory of even the past day. You must write yourself a note of warning for next morning—you can grasp that much—but it takes all your remaining discipline to focus on the task. Pick up a pen, open the diary notebook, scribble a few words that you toss to the floor. Out with the candlelight, slip back into bed, and you stare at the dark ceiling until sleep takes pity upon a man spinning helplessly in a cycle of forgetfulness.
DECEMBER 24 – morning of the next day
Don’t panic; there is no need to panic, you tell yourself. You are not crazy, you are not a convict. This is probably just a bad dream. But you know you are awake as you sit on the side of the bed looking frantically around the strange, five-sided room. Your breathing is short. Panic is edging close to the surface when you spot an open notebook lying on the floor. You read its bold scrawl: If you don’t remember writing this last night, you’re up shit creek!
Terror enters your heart as you leap for the door and nearly pull it off its hinges in your rush to escape. You stand naked in the doorway hyperventilating while supported by your hands on knees. As fear releases up through your gut, you stagger into the garden and lose what is left of last night’s dinner. You feel cold and exposed but at least not caged, not in some jail or asylum. You return to put on a thick robe and slippers then head to an outhouse to finish the job of purging your system.
Walking back, you shudder at the thought of being trapped inside the hut so you climb a stone stairway to its roof. The scenery helps to pacify you, a view peppered with birds and flowers instead of towers and guards, complemented by the tranquil melody of two rivers whose sparkling surfaces reflect the morning sky. You inhale deeply and enjoy a long stretch that turns into a slow-motion pattern of movement followed by more exercises. A plastic chair then beckons you to relax in semi-tropical splendor. Time passes unnoticed until a thin swami arrives to serve chapati and tea. You note that it is 9:29 a.m. on December 24. Although you have no clue as to the year, you are calm. Everything feels sharp and alive like a first-time experience. You are optimistic that this amnesia will soon pass.
After returning downstairs to the room, you curse the author of the one-line note on the floor and the heartlessness of this message written last evening. What a lousy thing to do to yourself. You read the first diary entry of December 20 and yesterday evening’s addendum that simply declares, Same blinking day as above—Dec. 23. So this is the situation, that you awaken each morning in a condition of forgetfulness at a place called Phool Chatti Ashram. Now you understand a bit more, and you vow to give your tomorrow’s self a far friendlier and more elucidating greeting than the one you just received. Of course, there is always the chance that you will find a key to restoring your memory or that another good night’s sleep may bring your mind back to normal.
But in the meantime, you set the goal of building a structure for eventually getting yourself out of this cycle of daily forgetfulness. With good logic, detailed messages to yourself, and some hard work, you are bound to be successful. [Success a key to be what thee and me shall flee. Running and jumping in circles that spin with Marty back to the Triple-R. Reading, retching, and ranting about all the Mickey Mouse we swallowed, bound and gagged in swaddling success. Enough reason to hide from the tide of memory, soul auctioned to the highest bidder. Bang!]
You begin by inventorying your possessions, looking for any hints to your identity that they may hold. It takes a long time of searching to arrive at the conclusion that there are zero clues of importance hidden among your belongings. Nothing of substance is learned except that a woman expects to meet you for dinner on January 18th at the Allahabad Riverview Inn. Why the hell didn’t yesterday’s self write you a message and save you the trouble of going through this stuff, you wonder in frustration? And he didn’t even give any suggestions for what to do next. [Touchy-touchy without the feely-feely makes Jack a dull boy. Touch and feel where nothing is real, just reel one movie at a time through the Cineplex of our mind.]
You decide to journey up to some white buildings, first pinning on the In Silence button in case you bump into anyone there. As you arrive at the ashram compound, you note several signs in English that may help your search. You start at the office and take a few minutes to memorize the bus schedule and the rules posted in the window, frustrated that you failed to bring pen and paper. [Yep, and now start jumping around the ring and take too long to haul ass to the meditation hall to cushion its fall.]
The window glass reflects movement as four sadhus walk by giving you sidelong glances. The thought flashes through your mind that you have probably scrutinized these window postings for at least five forgetful mornings in a row, and that damn it, somebody is sure to get wise to your amnesia if you are not more careful. As the sadhus pass, however, you are distracted by the whispered comment, “Rule number six really sucks, don’t it pal?”
Startled, you turn towards the speaker but see only four orange-clad Indian holy men solemnly walking onward, none of whom you would have guessed is into the nude bathing prohibited by rule six. And could that have really been a Texas drawl you heard or are you cracking up? [Oh-oh, here we go again, a blow again. Lava to flow again in the underground tunnels that shake and quake the surface. Ready to spout and shout from a lout who can’t take it on the chin.]
You feel the tension closing in as you stride over to the Dinning Hall sign. [Thar she blows!] For chrissakes, why couldn’t your yesterday’s self have written down the rules so you could avoid this exposure or tell you where the hell you’re supposed to sit in the stupid ‘dinning’ room and geezus couldn’t he have had the courtesy to refill the water bottle for you since the spigot is right over there and he didn’t even say if you’ve already checked with this Guruji guy for your passport so you’ll probably make a fool of yourself or worse by getting thrown in some Indian crazy house where heaven only knows what could happen!
Whew, slow down, slow down, you tell yourself, running your hands through your hair and taking a deep breath. [Great sprays of spume soak the deck as the ship sails too close to the prey. Pray tell, how to break the spell and cast off from this shore of forgetfulness? A ship of fools who know no rules and who forgot the goal of the game.] You decide to head to the Meditation Hall sign beyond which you are pleasantly surprised to find a nice room with soft cushions. You sit, assume a comfortable position, and start making a list in your head of the information you have learned in the courtyard to write-up and help guide your actions tomorrow.
After a short while, your awareness shifts to your breathing. Agitation falls away as cool air passes into the nostrils and exhales warmly over the upper lip. In and out, cool then warm. [Ah, gentle breezes blow the ship home. A sloop looping into bowels where the unconscious go, a knot in the gut to hide safely below. A lost piece of mind takes a vacation from this premature ejaculation of word, no more to be heard until I am summoned forth. Click.] You expand your awareness to include the entire field of the body, objectively noting sensations both pleasant and irritating. You are the silent witness, the observer. You are not the sensation. You are not the agitation, not the breath, not the thoughts, not even the body. All of these arise then pass away, as a bell rings clearly as a call to awareness, the call to oneness…
TRAIL BOSS: Oh for pity sake, it’s just the damned lunch bell. Pardon the intrusion folks, but I can’t stand to spin wheels while going nowhere. And it is already clear that this guy is caught in some repeating spin cycle that wrung out his brain, probably from boredom. So as a paragon of efficiency, I will gather the reins and get this wagon moving with a bit of verve and vigor. A quick giddy-up here and firm yee-haw there, and we edge this awkward juggernaut along its proper
course.
As guest narrator and self-appointed trail boss, I begin with a brief introduction of self. Brevity is required not only for efficiency’s sake but because I too am caught in the web of forgetfulness that has gripped the character of our tale. I know only that I am one of those pieces of this fellow’s mind that has been lost in the stampede of memory to destination unknown. My desire for efficacy hints that I am most strongly associated with the left lobe of the brain, but actually I feel more as if I sit on his shoulder watching the show. Perhaps I am the overseer he mentioned in the dream journal, his fourth piece of consciousness of the total Mind. My alert eyes survey the action and events that unfold, urging the story and its ending to emerge quickly so that we can all get back to business as usual.
Sadly, I do not know what usual business is or even what caused our amnesia. From shoulder perch, I can see only a bit forward in order to clear the trail for smooth passage of my host’s journey. Plus, I have access to his brain’s data files full of general, if predominantly useless, information. I suspect, however, that a piece of his mind is nearby which holds the secrets, and that it may be able to accelerate our reclamation of full memory. So I summon this genie bottled in the shadowy depths, calling forth the subconscious mind with hope that it can illuminate amnesia’s cause and cure. A rumbling from the gut and yes, the hidden psyche emerges.
[A specter summoned from peaceful slumber. Dreaming of genie, a garden of Eden where supple mounds glow and flow with milk and honey above her bare but fruitful plain. A paradox plus a pair of cocks in military garb, twins who crow in show as they blast off for the heavens. But only one arrives initially, a lone star as a J.R. in a state of new networks and constellations, while sensations of Eden are lost to machinations of snakes in the family tree.]
TRAIL BOSS: Gracious, an interpreter as well as trail boss I must become in order to translate this shady missive of the subconscious mind. I am chagrined to admit that I can follow the sense of these strange phrases, since the subconscious and I were forged in the same psyche during our host’s childhood. Plus, I have volumes of brain-bank data from which to draw to make up for lost memory.
Reference to volumes of data is misleading, however, for it be networks of information that arise in these subconscious phrases—of the television variety. The aforementioned Eden is not a garden springing eternal from sacred tome but is instead beauteous Barbara Eden, of bare midriff and ample bosom, a star in, I Dream of Jeannie. Her male sidekicks, as you may recall, were two military astronauts, one of whom later appeared with the initials J.R. leading nefarious family affairs in Dallas.
Useless trivia, perhaps, but since the strength of subconscious rambling lies between the lines, a trail boss must remain alert to all signs silhouetted against the horizon. To ferret out further clues, I now pose a direct query to the subconscious scout: What has caused our host’s forgetfulness and is there a way to encourage memory’s return?
[We shall sell no wine before its time, nor spill the beans before the swine. Casting pearls and family jewels that hang from rigid tool to pry open tasty clams. But an oyster is moister for lubricating a hot rod thundering into the gateway of the goddess. I dream of Jeannie’s light brown hair curling down to her juicy lips awaiting my springing Cobra to send J.R.’s Mustang toodling south for evermore.]
TRAIL BOSS: Oookay fine. Perhaps useful clues lie among the pubescent fantasies that currently clog the channels of our character’s psyche. But as a master of efficiency I choose neither to spend time deciphering the code nor to suffer further indignities of metaphors mixed by a hot rod. With a quick sweep of arm, I send the genie of the subconscious back to his bottle to remain dormant until bidden.
[Don’t try to understand ‘em. Just rope ‘em, roll and brand ‘em.]
TRAIL BOSS: Ah, a parting shot and grumble from gut translated as a reference to how a trail boss treated cattle and women in the popular TV series, Rawhide, which spawned both a memorable theme song and the stardom of young Clint Eastwood. Damn good stuff.
But movin’ right along with the current story, our character leaves the meditation hall to follow the bell to lunch while feeling nervous about meeting people. Same story as yesterday, same food, but this time he takes note of everything so he can write instructions for tomorrow. Yep, and you guessed it, in the afternoon he gets another irresistible urge to bathe in the Ganga. Same spot, same sand, same swirling waters that he spends a bunch of time pondering. Arriving back at the hut, his forgetful self rediscovers and reads afresh Chapter 1 of The ReMinder, then again is drawn to the notebooks to transcribe the latest dream. Let’s trot ahead and pick up the fresh trail there.
DECEMBER 24 – afternoon of the same day
As the hut welcomes your return from the Ganga, you notice the dream journals on the shelf and suspect that they might yield some useful information. First, however, you pick up the cassette player and press rewind to hear the dream you recorded upon awakening this morning. It somehow feels important to keep current with the dream transcripts as you push play, listen, and write.
“James Earl Jones and his new wife are with a bunch of us at an enjoyable dinner party. Someone makes a racial slur regarding Jones’s first wife while I notice blood seeping down my left knee. I ask if there is a doctor in the house, which Jones is. He pulls out a needle several inches long from above my knee which distracts everyone and happily breaks the tension created by the slur. I know this is the second voodoo-like needle of recent days found in my body although I can’t explain them.
“Other scenes are in the dream that I can’t remember until I enter a dark room where this weird, laughing guy presses something squishy like an eyeball into my left palm. I experience a sickening feeling, like a big ‘gotcha’ magnified because I was so open and vulnerable from the needle and other voodoo stuff. This all seemed to be a prearranged set-up to break me down and control me. I awake groaning with a terrible physical and emotional feeling.”
You turn off the cassette player and take a moment to ponder the dream. You can well understand how this disturbing imagery teamed with the thoughtless wake-up message created your tailspin of panic upon awakening to amnesia this morning. You recommit to not letting this confusion and alarm occur ever again in the upcoming dawns of your muddled mind. So instead of further perusing the dream journals, you decide to try to acquire the best legacy you could leave for your tomorrow’s self—a name and passport. Perhaps undertaking this investigation into your identity so soon is a premature risk, but at lunch today Guruji looked like a nice enough old fellow. You bravely leave the In Silence button on the shelf and journey back to the ashram compound as you rehearse what you will say to Guruji while in search of your identity and passport.
Guruji’s office is empty when you silently enter. You poke around a bit, careful not to disturb anything. Perhaps a folder or drawer will hold the key to your identity and for reclaiming your passport for travel. No luck so far on that score, but bingo! There on the wall is a December calendar informing that you inhabit the year 2000. Knowledge of the year is somehow comforting and you are pleased as well to spot a roll of adhesive tape that you were wishing to have for this evening’s tasks. It lies on the desk between a manual typewriter and a metronome, both of which look like museum pieces from the British colonial era.
But still no sign appears of a valuables box or other safe haven for passport. You edge around to the back of the desk wondering if you dare to open the drawers. Before you can decide, your heart jumps as Guruji emerges sleepy-eyed through a curtained doorway at the back of the office. He gives you a puzzled look as if waiting for you to explain why his afternoon nap is disturbed and more importantly, why you are standing behind his desk.
It is now time for your rehearsed line. “Oh, hello,” you say in stilted voice, “I was considering some travel for a few days and was just thinking about my passport.” True enough, vague enough not to give away your complete ignorance, and certainly a good opening for him to res
pond if he indeed has your passport safely stashed. But Guruji’s only reaction is a deepening furrow in his brow.
Quick, start thinking. And don’t panic. You pick up the roll of adhesive tape from the desk while stating, “And I was wondering if I could borrow your tape for this evening, please?”
The elderly swami’s puzzlement grows as he points to the tape and tilts his head sideways as if he does not understand what you are saying. You are at a loss, when suddenly the likely problem dawns on you. You had blindly assumed that Guruji spoke English.
Still without smiling, the guru points to you then to the desk, using his hands to indicate to stay the hell out of his drawers.
You dare to respond with the single word, “Passport?”
“Atcha!” he responds in the Hindi way of saying he understands. “Passport, atcha.” Guruji smiles nodding. You smile nodding.
You next point to your eye while slowly and loudly saying in your clearest English, “I-am-look-ing-for-my-pass-port.” It now seems safe to confess your forgetfulness about whether you have deposited your valuables in the office, since any signs of amnesia should be camouflaged by the confusion of the language barrier.
“Passport?” questions Guruji, again with puzzled expression.
“Yes, my passport,” you clearly enunciate a few decibels louder while pointing to your chest. Then you point at him. “Do you have my passport?”
“My passport?” Guruji queries, pointing at himself with a questioning look.
“No, no, my passport! Do you have my passport?” you almost shout, thumping your chest with your right hand while rudely pointing at him with your left.
Guruji now looks completely baffled, perhaps even a little nervous. Small wonder. You have really botched this one. You retreat with a few thank you’s as you duck out the door feeling like a fool. But at least you know the year and probably that Guruji does not have your passport. He didn’t appear stupid and would likely have retrieved the passport had it been in the office.
So where else could it be? You have a difficult time gathering your thoughts through the veil of humiliation as you enter the hut. A meditation tape as an escape from the moment sounds like a good idea as you insert the cassette that had caught your attention during this morning’s inventory. A symphony of Tibetan bells arises from the tape player as you sit with closed eyes and hum in harmony with the ringing tones. The cassette cover calls this the Meditation of the Chimes. You call it a distraction from misery.
Tibetan harmonics weave their spell and afterwards you feel once again able to cope with further investigation into your predicament. Your wristwatch indicates, however, that only a short time remains before dinner. So you simply read a handful of dream entries, enjoying the vivid imagery and sensations that they rekindle. At the clang of the kitchen bell, you walk to the dining hall with trepidation about Guruji’s reaction to you in light of this afternoon’s passport debacle. But you are soon reassured by his friendly greeting and by the roll of adhesive tape and sheets of paper in a bag adjacent to your plate. So, a little cross-cultural communication did succeed with your request for adhesive tape this afternoon. Nice, and a kind gift on Guruji’s part, particularly appropriate on the night before Christmas.
After dining and dishwashing, you walk briskly with your gifts of paper and tape across the courtyard towards the garden and hut. But a short Indian sadhu rudely stops you, planting his fleshy body in your immediate path. You watch bewildered as he flings his arms wide open, hands facing forward and eyes rolling back to gaze into the heavens. In a loud voice he commands, “Follow me, my son. I am the life, the truth, and the detour!”
You can only stare dumbly at this strange apparition blocking your path. He proceeds to fold his arms and with a thoughtful look continues in perfect Texas drawl, “Actually I’m more like a scenic byway than a detour, don’t ya’ll think?”
You remain speechless so he adds, “Come on, buddy boy, lighten up. It’s Christmas Eve. Hey, what do you get if you cross Jesus with a mouthwash?” Short pause. “Okay, savior breath and don’t answer.”
The fellow laughs heartily at his little joke as the office door slams and a concerned looking Guruji strides toward the two of you. “Challo, challo!” he shouts in Hindi while flipping his hand in the air as if chasing away a dog. The orange-robed man quickly sobers, bows respectfully to Guruji, gives you a conspiratorial wink, and walks out of the ashram into sadhu-land. You watch him recede, noting the incongruity of his short body having attached to it two long arms of sinew. What a strange creature.
You and Guruji exchange a serious look, his frown intended as a warning about the dubious sadhu just encountered. A quick tilt of your head acknowledges his advice and you return to the hut to focus on the task of preparing a gentle morning wake-up message as a gift to your tomorrow’s forgetful self. You light two candles and, as you open the bag to retrieve the tape and paper kindly provided by Guruji, your plans suddenly change. For beneath the top blank sheet is a cover page announcing, The ReMinder by Steven J. Shupe. At the bottom of the page is typed, “SECTION ONE; September-October 2000; Phool Chatti Ashram.”
You quickly scan through Chapter 1, finding it to be the same text that you perused this afternoon, ending with the author’s painful mention of betrayal by a beloved sweetheart. Then, for the next half hour, you do not look up as you eagerly continue reading:
The ReMinder: Chapter 2
A perspective on the impending betrayal requires some knowledge both of nurse Ann and of love. The former should be easy to share if I can sufficiently choke down tears that might otherwise blur vision and ink describing this beautiful if inconsistent woman. The latter prerequisite involving love, however, proves challenging for we raised in English-speaking cultures. For language is power and ours is limp, to say the least, in matters of the heart. Its lexicon contains but one small vessel—waterlogged and impotent through overuse—to carry a boatload of situations. Yes, that soggy four-letter word, LOVE.
What to make of Anglo ancestors who limited love’s glory to a single word while developing a full score of terms for the waste product of digestion? What can we deduce about this English tribe that can wax poetic about turds and patties and pies; or extol the virtue of utilitarian dung and manure, then pontificate scientifically over feces and excrement, and medically about stool; who can stalk wild animals while tracking fresh scat and droppings; and school toddlers about their poop, kaka, and doo-doo while pointing encouragingly to the potty? Beats me.
But what is just plain crap is that we offspring of English-speaking clans receive but one word—love—for the innumerable cravings of heart, soul, genitalia, and for a host of other sensations. Imagine the confusion of youth in such a culture, a perplexity that springs into full flower in conjunction with the first follicles of puberty.
An example of such youth is near at hand, actually the hand I see now scribbling across the page. For on Sunday mornings, the juvenile version of this appendage along with its attached body was trundled off to the First Presbyterian Church of Manhattan, Kansas, to learn from a kindly preacher that God was love and we were to love God with all our heart and other organs. The next event in our Sunday ritual was to return home to a pot roast simmering among carrot and potato, unaware it was soon to be transformed into six piles of droppings. (Hmm, Kemosabe, looks like three juvenile males, one juvenile female, and an adult mating pair.) Whereupon my elder siblings and parents would routinely express their love associated with the smell of pot roast, the taste of desert, a newly purchased article of clothing, or any of a number of lovable matters that qualified as table talk.
A final confounding love blessing of this holy day arrived at bedtime as my pajama’ed body was tucked-in with a mother’s assurance that she loved me, leaving my still-active mind to ponder the obvious question: On the great cosmic scale of adorability, where did I fall betwixt the love of God and love for pot roast? Although too young and innocent to curse English lexicographers, I was old e
nough to sense the first tremors of insecurity about love’s true meaning.
As years passed, I did hear that Greek philosophers had done a better job of espousing the breadth of love. Three Grecian words were created, as I recall, coinciding with self love, love of humanity, and something about loving your mother. But loving your mother could lead to blindness—as could self love, come to think of it, if one were too enthusiastic in expressing it in the shower. Perhaps I should have listened more carefully.
So the ancient Greeks proved little help in my sorting through adolescent confusion about love, with the Roman contribution of amore doing no better. Listening to Italian-American crooners equate love with a pizza in the face (actually, being hit in the eye with a big pizza pie in conjunct with full moon) did little to inspire my understanding of love, astrology, or table manners. Nor was the cause of romance furthered by the only ancient Roman words I learned in sex education class: Coitus interruptus—that accursed phrase which should have been buried along with Caesar without praise—robbed me of what other cultures make an important rite of passage for vigorous, virginal youth. For my lame attempt at being a Latin lover through hasty invocation of coitus interruptus ensured that, instead of losing my virginity to the charms of Beatrice Tanigawa, I lost it to the Tanigawa sofa.
Fortunately, more than twenty years elapsed between this moment staining my past (as well as a quickly flipped couch cushion) and the magic moment of meeting beloved nurse Ann. And admittedly, the English language should not be condemned, as it did ultimately clarify the subtleties of love. As I learned to listen better (as in, to the radio) I realized that we youthful boomers had also delineated, through word and melody, three forms of love: One was a Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I’ve Got Love in my Tummy kind of feeling; the second occurred when We’ve Got a Groovy Kind of Love; and the third was where Love is a Many Splendored Thing. Also, additional song titles and tunes taught that we English-speaking teens were more likely to find love if our names were Susie, Johnny, or Laura; or if we surfed, lived near railroad tracks, and drove a fast car. But alas, whichever of the three love paths a teen treaded to ecstasy, the trip was destined to be short-lived, ending in either severe heartbreak or an even more severe auto collision.
Thus it should come as no surprise to learn that yours truly met Ann while still in bachelorhood and with spotless driving record at age thirty-nine. The intervening years had found me too manly to claim a triple yummy tummy love, and too sophisticated to admit to a groovy kind of love. Moreover, although I had experienced many pretty-okay things with women and even a couple of fairly splendid ones, I had yet to hit the jackpot with an honest-to-gosh many splendored thing complete with high and windy hill. So it was with a large degree of surprise that in the waning days of 1991, I found myself uninhibitedly falling head over heels for nurse Ann. A groovy, yummy, splendored thing indeed.
BUT THE MOMENT CALLS me back to rooftop morn where the present, which I have worked so hard to know, beckons. My eyes pause at mighty river below, flowered trees above, colorful birds aloft, to peer into the now where hopes once forged in love and laughter are ash mingling with the dust of my prior sense of sophistication. I sit as a shell of my former self…no, more like bamboo, a hollow forest that echoes ancient promises of new worlds if one is silent enough to hear the beat.
Slowly, slowly; step by step. An inward journey progresses that is led by dreams which bubble and boil upward from source unknown, dreams recorded in the dead of night. I sleepwalk into the mystery as branches crack under clumsy feet, startling bats that flutter on bony wings to whisper that I am not yet prepared, not yet of sufficient stealth to enter the nocturnal drumbeat, unable to merge with the night’s rhythm that penetrates ever deeper towards the Source of mind.
So the dream vision of this dawn that haunts my memory today must wait its time. I cannot yet reach back to this vision of great, furry arms that groped through the darkness of dreamtime to grasp at my awake self for compassion, for understanding, for rescue from exile. Patience is demanded of this needy inner beast who surfaced this September morn for an instant to cry for help at the cusp where my conscious mind merges with dreamtime to uncover clues of paths unfolding, of secrets hiding, of promises awaiting. Later, old friend, later.
The ReMinder: Chapter 3
When I first gazed into nurse Ann’s blue eyes, I was sitting on a hospital bed co-occupied at that magic moment by Sandra, a woman whose weary back and buttocks were in the midst of receiving gentle ministrations from my hands that could no longer be considered juvenile appendages. No, these hands were now a pair of whoppers that had dunked basketballs, gesticulated convincingly before judicial bench, penned guides for the future of water flow in the American West, and grasped many a buttock over the years. But my bun-grasp of the moment with Sandra was not that of the norm. Such prior grasping had usually been accompanied by rhythmic motions and a gathering of momentum to ride the waves of sexual ecstasy while supported by the sacred feminine that lay between my hands and my Self.
Forgive me, but a brief digression is required to clear up another strange ambiguity in language, this one arising from the oft-used exhortation of my early childhood: Stevie, stop playing with yourself. The word, Self, consequently etched in my toddler’s mind as the proper term for the male sexual organ, and in order to promote Stevie’s cathartic release, will be used herein as such—capitalized to avoid confusion.
Therefore, if you read of my self (small ‘s’) riding waves of ecstasy while executing innovative maneuvers with a grace rarely seen in sport, know that I am simply imagining surfing in Hawaii—where, yes, the Shupe family relocated in 1965. Not to be confused with my Self riding waves of ecstasy while fumbling hands grasp heaving buttocks—definitely not a recommended surfing maneuver.
Or a better example is ‘self-employment’ which describes my career status in the late 1980’s after leaving the Colorado Attorney General’s Office; whilst ‘Self-employment’ refers to launching my sexuality towards an intended destination which, just for clarification, had never been Sandra. With kneading complete of Sandra’s bed-weary posterior, I smiled at the beautiful and soon to be beloved nurse who had entered the hospital room. Sandra, upon noting the instant chemistry between nurse Ann and my self (capital ‘S’ optional), helpfully quipped, “He’s just my lawyer.”
A raised brow above a deep, blue eye demonstrated that Ann was slightly intrigued. I was slightly smitten. But before moving a month hence to our great and groovy smite, the topic of Sandra needs a bit more nursing. For although she is a minor player in this tale, Sandra’s tracks lead both forward and backward in time to actors of great import in Identity’s dismantling.
One such character is her cousin, Sam Moves Camp, a Lakota medicine man who six years earlier (in 1985) had provided the initial hints that my known world was about to unhinge. The second character, neighbor Lorraine, (whom Sandra credits for saving her life upon escape from the hospital) helped greatly in the unhinging itself—among other services, providing important groundwork for nurse Ann’s ultimate betrayal.
Lorraine was the first person met on my initial visit in 1983 to magical Crestone, a town tiny in populous but expansive in vista in the southern Colorado Rockies. Powerful, harsh beauty surrounds this crumbling gold mining town slowly resurrecting with the influx of New Age inhabitants and visitors drawn to a sacred landscape. My personal reasons for Crestone sojourns in the 1980’s included a love of natural beauty as well as my court appearances as Assistant Attorney General in the nearby metropolis of Alamosa to uphold the State’s interest in truth, justice, and the American way. (Jeepers, Mr. Kent, does that imply that the American way is different from truth and justice?)
Another Crestone visitor in these times was Sandra’s aforementioned cousin, Sam Moves Camp, drawn south from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation to bestow traditional forms of medicine upon Crestone’s needy and less fortunate—many of whom had healthy investment portfolios but who suffered from spiritual maln
utrition. Although the Lakota medicine man and idealistic lawyer never met in Crestone, we had heard of one another through the local grapevine. Thus when Moves Camp felt undernourished relative to free legal advice in the summer of 1985, he invited me via letter to attend a Sundance ceremony. Whereupon said lawyer, recently self-employed and desirous of all types of sustenance, responded in the affirmative by packing for South Dakota Indian country.
A full book could be composed about the four days of Sundance that followed; days of language, pace, custom, and ritual far removed from my simple Sundays of youth in Manhattan, Kansas. In the current exposition, however, the basic teachings of stick and stone provide the pillar about which the current narrative pivots. And karma. In short, I stepped into this eye-opening journey feeling like a naïve foreigner in my native land. But Sam took me under his wing—metaphorically only, for although Mr. Moves Camp is a man of many dimensions, vertical is not one of them. So an odd couple was spied at Sundance that week: A gangly lawyer slouching over to hear instructions of a compact, long-haired medicine man whose head tilted back frequently in hee-hee type laughter, usually at his own jokes and usually at the tall guy’s expense.
Enter Instructor Stick. Actually more splinter than stick about the size of a nail clipping, tossed into the tale by my foolish and feeble attempt at humor (a.k.a. revenge) in response to Move Camp’s jibes. Standing together in crowded room one evening, I feigned not to notice his short self next to me. Then staring out above his head across the crowd, I asked if anyone had seen Moves Camp recently. This lame dig was hardly cause for a guffaw let alone a hee-hee from one vertically challenged.
Immediately, a sharp irritation struck above my right eye that developed into a shooting pain of something caught at the top of my eyeball. In response, Sandra appeared in fully clothed anterior (six years younger than in Colorado hospital bed), to extract a wooden mote from my eye with a tissue, as I had to bend over and roll my eyeball as far downward as possible in order to access the splinter. (Readers, please note the symbolism of this action that would ensure that an oversized tormentor would have to look down in order to spy a short, powerful medicine man.)
My rational mind of 1985 could find no logic for how this instructive splinter suddenly appeared atop my eyeball, while my current rooftop-located mind of October 2000 simply calls it a karmagram, and a damn fine one at that. Karmagram: A message delivered through time and space with efficiency that would make Western Union blush; a cosmic tit for tat that greets unwary recipient with appropriate response to recent questionable deed. And over the next years, I received a fine and fair share of them.
But meanwhile, back at the reservation, I knew little of karma at this time, a condition soon remedied by Professor Stone—a single stone among several large, red-hot rocks brought into thrice daily sweat lodges that we took in support of the nearby Sundancers. Picture, if you will, glowing rocks carefully positioned in the center pit of a small, canvas dome from which neither air nor heat can readily escape. Within the low dome hunch a tightly packed circle of eight nude men who joke and chat while waiting for the entrance flap’s descent along with the seriousness, darkness, silence, and heat. And more heat. Then steam as Moves Camp pours water onto sizzling stones, invoking ancient prayers and spirits. Steam and heat, and sweat and heat, and pain and heat, and prayer and steam, and…and surrender in order to survive until the blessed return of light and cooling air as the flap lifts—a moment that seems never to arrive soon enough, yet always at the perfect instant.
The current sweat lodge and closing of flap was delayed, however, as Moves Camp posed a strange query to his non-Indian guest from Colorado. “Do you believe in karma, Shupe?”
“Karma, Sam? Who is she, this Karma?” I cleverly parried, expecting some New Age joke that Moves Camp had heard in Crestone and of which I was about to become the butt.
But the medicine man remained deadpan, repeated the question; and I parroted my silly reply, oh so soon forgetting Instructor Stick. So Professor Stone responds from center pit, bursting with a loud pop that sends airborne a single piece of glowing shrapnel that succeeds in getting my undivided attention as it hits and lodges securely in the tender flesh between my toes.
I frantically pry the fiery stone fragment from its fast-blistering resting place as Sam’s even voice intones in the background, “Karma, Shupe, karma.” And the flap lowers, darkness descends, and heat and steam, and pain and heat, and...
One might think it prudent for me at this juncture to get the hell outa Dodge. But this clearly isn’t Kansas, Toto, and I was indeed receiving nourishment new to body and soul. Four days of ceremony, of surrender, of another universe called Sundance. Time in which to admire new friend Sandra’s dedication to her extended family, time enough for Moves Camp and me to develop a wary respect for one another. Four days of no food or water for the dozen Sundancers that remained on their feet, looking barely conscious as they shuffled through a last group dance leading to the ultimate test, an ordeal of bare chests with skin deeply sliced and threaded with ropes. Men tethered one by one to the sacred tree in the middle, muscles pulling with all remaining strength. Pulling, straining against the tethers until their skin, grotesquely stretched beyond reason, mercifully snaps. Bodies tumble backward, released to cry out in triumph, to arise from the dust with a final burst of celebratory dance, then retreat to a feast and a freedom unknown to most mere mortals.
I sat across from one of the older dancers after the feast, feeling privileged he was sharing a Sundance vision with me while enjoying the sense of brotherhood as several other dancers gathered round to hear the elder’s story. “A mean vision, a tough vision,” the weary man began speaking as his chest wounds oozed blood. A vision given him by the Creator on day three of the Sundance, a day of extra determination when hunger and thirst—yes, thirst—drove a man to the limits of endurance and beyond, he explained.
I leaned forward as he shook his head recalling disturbing images. He spoke haltingly about two ghostly figures marching over a hilltop coming closer to where he lay helpless on the ground. A mean vision, a tough vision. Two specters drawing ever nearer, taunting his hunger and thirst. No escape.
The old Sundancer shuddered and paused in his story, looking deeply—almost imploringly—into my eyes. Did I possibly know who these two cruel visitors of vision could be, he asked? I could only give a quick shake of my head in response, riveted as I was to his face—a face upon which a grin slowly grew, then a toothsome smile, then an explosion of laughter in chorus with the other Sundancers who already knew the joke’s punch line.
“They were Dr. Pepper and Colonel Sanders!” he howled amid some good-natured slaps on my back, and a familiar hee-hee-hee behind me.
End of current instructions.
The ReMinder: Chapter 4
Oh joy of rooftop joys! The ecstasy of simple pleasure sprouts through the dry cracks of hardship this October morn. No longer does a dearth of desks handicap the effort to pen Identity’s benediction. A small nightstand, splintered of leg but smooth of surface, is elevated to writing height by twelve bricks stacked in sturdy triads to bestow a blessing upon a lonely author. Paper can recline effortlessly and pen glide with ease; new momentum brought to this wordy task born in awkward balance of notebook and knee. Now, I sit erect in stentorian clarity, backbone straight before a level field on which the next players may emerge and romp in this game of life’s dismemberment.
And at this moment—truly at this very instant, dear readers—the first rays of sun are cresting nearby foothills to welcome my rooftop morn. Ah, abundance! Abundance, the hallmark of the universe if we but know in our hearts we are worthy of its bounty.
In this spirit of abundance, I announce through horn of plenty the secret kept camouflaged thus far. The secret being location, location, location, selfishly tucked between the lines out of fear that its unveiling would rob me of this paradise—a hut and rooftop of small proportion but, like Crestone, with a surrounding huge in spirit a
nd beauty. The mighty river below? The Mother of all mothers, the Ganga (or the Ganges River for those who think it jolly-good sport to rename an ancient culture in their image). Ceaseless waters sacred to millions of people for thousands of years bubble into a billion blessings past rooftop and room. And the great out-breath of Himalayan peaks is the cleansing wind of past reference, inspiration from on high making not only the nose run, but creative juices flow as well. A holy infilling of Himalayan breath enters my grateful body in constant rhythm—expelled at night through vivid dreams; by day, through words unfolding.
But surely these grand mountains and pulsing waters are bountiful enough for all. Why hoard one’s riches when it pours in such abundance? Ah, there be but one hut in the garden, I reply while rubbing greedy palms together. One secluded, quiet room lies in perfect location with flat rooftop graced by flowering trees, and just a gentle stroll away from the main compound where plenteous meals are served daily. Now, the final secret as my beady eyes narrow and shoulders hunch—all for a daily charge of only three dollars.
More precisely, the cost is 150 rupees per day, now that the veil over India’s face has been fully lifted. India! Land of history and heritage, a spiritual salve for weary souls, a balm and boon for shrunken bank accounts. This final reminder releases me from Scrooge-like pose to enjoy the liberating effects of secrets shared and elevated nightstand.
In furtherance of candor, I just glanced backward through The ReMinder to review the veracity of the true tale told thus far. Begging your pardon, but we have bumped over two places of fudged fact and one complaint that no longer holds currency—that being the shortage of paper recently remedied by a three-mile walk to the village of Laxman Jhula which indeed has paper in quantity if not quality.
Moving then to the first fudged fact requires admitting that no numeric system (i.e. Rule #21-F) existed in the Shupe household for the rules of proper conduct. The childhood bounds of appropriate behavior, as controlling as they seemed, remain uncodified and primarily arose from paternal squeamishness teamed with a desire to raise babies that would carry a standard of good values and virtue to the world at large—a standard previously hoisted by Father guiding air squadrons over the Third Reich, returning with but one good arm to drape around a sweetheart eager to share saddle and ride together into a future of goodness and right. Two noble warriors indeed stood at the altar in 1944, a duo that still rides tall together in their sixth decade of holding the line and keeping promises honorably.
But in any truthful story of Identity’s crash and burn, those standing closest invariably get singed. Regrettably, parental identities cannot be changed to protect the well-intentioned. However, names can be altered to mask virginal parties to coitus interruptus—bringing us to the second piece of fudge, ‘BeatriceTanigawa’, a fictitious name in an all too real sofa sex encounter during my Hawaii high school daze. Tanigawa is carefully crafted to retain the ethnic purity of my true partner because according to her parents, only two races exist in the universe, Japanese and not Japanese. Being a member of the latter theoretically prohibited me from dating the former, let alone from having carnal knowledge of their daughter of the Rising Sun on verandah couch. So her family honor is protected by this name alteration, and a karmic thread is maintained with Asian twist.
This ethnic thread had initially appeared with my first high school sweetheart, Deanne Arakawa, a name I share unabashedly because our sweet affections and playful discoveries carried no shame from which innocence or others must be shielded. Just my shame. A hot rush to the cheeks, a low blow absorbed in the gut the morning after a lovely evening at the drive-in theater where Miss Arakawa and I explored some new, semi-clothed territory, climaxing (literally) with handy Kleenex and a fast drive over the Pali Highway to beat midnight curfew. Haste makes waste, and in this case led to leaving it soggy on the floormat of my parents’ car; thereby setting the stage for my tsunami of shame upon awakening to find that four stiff tissues had been retrieved from auto by mommy-dearest and positioned in a neat row upon my bathroom counter. No DNA test was required to establish guilt.
It’s the Orient twist, however, that keeps this karmic thread aloft, not an ejaculation of shame. Or is it both? Hmm, interesting thought, but now is not the time for past-life regression. No, the trail must plunge boldly forward across the sea from Honolulu high school to California college. Or on the ethnic level, we migrate from the gentle slopes of Mt. Fuji to the soft underbelly of China, more specifically to that of Tina Hwang.
Yes, my sweetheart of choice was again of Asian heritage—a fellow Frosh of intelligence, beauty, and coordination. The last served her well the next year with pompoms in hand as a Stanford Dollie dressed from the hips up like an Indian, while I became a Stanford Indian dressed from the hips up like a basketball player. Both sets of our legs were bare, one topped by a pair of titillating panties that flashed red (no, cardinal, if you please) with enthusiastic kicks whenever baskets were scored—definitely not a recommended basketball maneuver. My sporting enthusiasm was expressed more in leaps and bounds that landed me in the starting lineup in time to help win the 1971 Motor City Classic; a dubious distinction outside of Detroit. But hey, we took whatever scraps we could get during that pathetic era for Stanford hoopsters.
Neither of our titles, Dollie nor Indian, survived campus political correctness to the following season, although Tina’s and my relationship did. Two healthy youngsters slipped off cardinal accouterments with great frequency and joy, the pill we believed was far easier to swallow than coitus interruptus. But alas, the lovers found that the accouterments of society are less easily shucked than clothing. Though children of the Sixties, we carried forward old roles of love American-style with a controlling male dominating the coupling, and seeing just how screwed up relationship can get with the feminine half devalued.
So rooftop joy has turned to bittersweet memories this morning. A sense of farewell blossoms from my heart to send an extra blessing down the Ganga towards Tina, a message of appreciation and good wishes arising from dashed hopes and guilt’s remnants. A blessing flows as well to Deanne, and one to Beatrice, and another to beloved nurse Ann; to all who have given ourselves in the name of love and found ourselves alone. A blessing, too, for that mediocre basketball player on a second-rate team who had flickers of glory that faded and a championship plaque from Detroit ultimately tossed into the fire of Identity’s purification. Mo-Ci-Cla, Mo-Ci-Cla. A strange mantra of the past echoes now in cadence with Himalayan heartbeat.
The ReMinder: Chapter 5
Messengers last night, one after another arriving in my hut during dreamtime. All women. Wise, centered, serious women came to guide me to various places in various dreams. One by one, they showed me the way. Some were Asian, some Western; my sister one. Dream after dream, trip after trip, always guided by feminine clarity, a woman’s touch.
Fully awake now, I recall my dream guide who appeared one night when I was 24 years old, in a dream so unlike a dream it imprinted firmly in a young engineer’s mind, still fresh and rooted a quarter century later. She manifested as a tall, beautiful guide with dark hair flowing down the back of a white robe, to lead me to the Library of all-knowing. As I stared into her deep, clear eyes, fear of losing control to her power overcame me. She detected my fear and her face looked disappointed as I felt my body sucked backwards past a door slamming shut, all in an instant, all gone but the sound ept echoing in my consciousness as I fully awoke. A look at the dictionary at bedside and there was ept, a root word leading to mention of the Philosopher’s Stone, to the alchemy of turning base elements into gold. Adept, inept, or both.
I believe that I again met this beauteous guide of vision in an unsettling dream two weeks ago here at my garden hut in India. I fear so. I hope so. In the recent dream, her body was frozen solid, sliding down an icy chute with a face like stone carved in terror. Her clear, wise eyes now bulged with fright, frozen in time, with her life force drained as if by some hungry beast afoot in th
e dreamscape. Two more frozen women followed down the chute leading to a hospital, a place of revival where delicate thawing and rejuvenation could take place. Or so its feels. Perhaps the arrival of last night’s women messengers is an indication of a flicker of warmth, a spark of life force, of feminine guidance destined to flow again. Like the Ganga below, like the holy breath above.
OKAY, I ADMIT to getting carried away with the mood and melodrama of my current dream work. Apology tendered. Also, an author should have the decency to clothe such flashes of the naked psyche with an explanation of why they arise in tale. Certainly some high-minded excuses could be given for exposing my intimate dreamtime passages to you, but the baser reasons are more elucidating—beginning with exhibitionism and followed closely by avarice. Yes, greed for greenbacks arises within me after a decade’s drought, because day may arrive when India rooftop no longer suffices as the outer perimeter of my existence. Perhaps a hankering will emerge for Antarctic cruise, African safari, or a week exploring the lights of Broadway—vistas that, I recall, cost a bit more than three bucks a day.
So in order to generate the necessary revenue and royalties, this true tale needs to engender suspense, mystery, a hook—not simply ending with Identity’s predictable thud of hollow bamboo landing atop ashram rooftop. No, a magic carpet to carry hordes into bookshops and myself to international vistas demands threads of daring and suspense, ones that lead to veiled mysteries that are finally exposed in full glory at tale’s end. (Does the furry-armed creature from dreamtime emerge from the darkness? Will the beautiful tour guide thaw in time to open the Library of all-knowing!?) Therefore, I doggedly toss the woof and warp of my dream journal into the loom without foreknowledge as to what patterns may arise, retelling the occasional dream herein (out of the half-dozen or so I nightly record) then together we shall see what method may emerge from nocturnal madness.
For the moment, I can at least bring insight into the origin of this dream work based on a sense a few weeks ago of a shift in my life cycle, a feeling that the ten-year wave of persona’s destruction was giving way to a cycle of creativity, to a time to build something. No, not to construct another Identity. I had already fallen into that trap a few years back by walking tall with a new self image as a spiritual man, a healer of sorts, a counselor you could trust and rely on, blah blah blah. I had to shuck that new-and-improved Identity, too.
No, this time the process is simple, a simple reminder. Re-Minding myself. Reawakening and rebuilding my total Mind, pieces of which have been lost or forgotten or hidden or shattered or dropped. Thus in the quiet darkness of autumn nights at Phool Chatti Ashram, pieces of my mind may now scamper out from dusty corners to commiserate together, to make during dreamtime whatever truce and treaty are necessary to work again as one Mind, as a team in harmony with single purpose. Under cover of darkness and in the twilight zone between slumber and wakefulness, a process of recollection has begun. An explorer dreaming, a re-Minder awakening.
--- End of Section One of The ReMinder ---
You put down the manuscript, your manuscript that was written less than three months ago. Yes, you are clear about authorship although you cannot recall the writing effort or any of the listed events of your life; just the dreams. A familiar pair of furry arms, a dark-haired dream guide, and women messengers all reach out from dreamtime memory to affirm that this is your story—a personal tale that carries the bitter aftertaste of irony as you, while lost in the current fog of forgetfulness, read the optimistic prognosis of reclaiming full awareness of Mind. You laugh briefly without humor, wondering what happened in the intervening weeks to cause your amnesia.
No spare time is available to dwell on ironies and the past, however, or even to consider why the ashram’s Guruji had your personal chronicle in his possession. The crucial task beckons of preparing yourself for tomorrow. You proceed to write a lengthy message and several helpful notes to assist a confused, forgetful man—yourself who will awaken again tomorrow morning into full amnesia. The job is complete by ten o’clock as you blow out the flickering candles and gratefully enter slumber.
DECEMBER 25 – early next morning
Your voice fills the hut at dawn with a drowsy monotone as you speak into the cassette recorder.
“Father is treating me like a child. I suddenly realize that he has an emotionally scarred little boy in him that makes him act this way. But I don’t want to hurt him with vindictiveness by telling him so. As I look into his face, it begins to transform into my own. I suddenly realize that I am dreaming and get a feeling of success and excitement about this lucidity. Then all I can see is the right eye of my mirrored face showing a kindly but tired expression, like resigned or surrendered to something. I awake with a charge of electricity in every cell of my body.”
You lie on your back with eyes closed enjoying the afterglow of the sensation and the fact that you just had a moment of dream lucidity—a fleeting awareness within a dream that you were dreaming. You wished that you could have continued dreaming with that clarity, but not this morning. You are fully awake now. Time to put down the cassette recorder, to open your eyes and…and…receive the rude shock of discovering that you have no idea where you are lying. But immediately you notice a message stuck with adhesive tape to the ceiling above your bed announcing, IT’S PARADISE, NOT PRISON!
Puzzled, you look around the spartan, five-walled room and think it looks to be a prison. But the view and sounds through the windows bring you a glimpse of the promised paradise that includes a small outhouse. You walk there after putting on handy robe and slippers. While squatting in this unknown locale you experience the disconcerting realization that you have no idea of who you are either. You glance at the ceiling of the outhouse hoping to spot another helpful message, but no name or information greets you from above.
Walking back to the hut you spy stone steps leading to the roof. Curious about the view and details of your location, you climb to the rooftop and see a note on an old nightstand by a plastic chair. Its cheery message: Good Morning. You are in India at Phool Chatti Ashram. The big river is the Ganga. A simple breakfast will be served around 9:30. Enjoy! You look at your watch: 8:02 a.m. on December 25. My god, Christmas. Is this someone’s idea of a holiday joke to take away your memory and plop you down in the middle of India? You shake your head and stretch out your frustration through arms that continue moving in a pattern that invites the back and legs to join in a slow series of stretches that feel oh-so good to your body.
After more exercises you enjoy a long period of listening, watching, and smelling paradise. Everything feels like a virgin experience. Vibrant colors, the harmonies of diverse sounds, and varied fragrances all mingle in sensual delight. And the arrival of a thin swami with breakfast tray is precisely on time making you feel as if this would be a pleasant holiday spot if you had a memory to go with it. Perhaps the hut holds the key.
Upon entering the room downstairs, you…
TRAIL BOSS: Whoa there. No, the hut holds no new key and this is not some Club Med amnesia theme party. Our character is still in a deep fog as the same basic pattern of activity unfolds in another day. So I, as a master of efficiency, once again grab the reins to intercede before the wagons bog down in the routine.
I take this opportunity as well to clarify that I do not “scamper out from dusty corners” of the psyche, contrary to my host’s description of his scattered pieces of mind in The ReMinder. As a respectable trail boss my form of locomotion is far more dignified and efficient than furtive scurry. In fact, I have yet to see any pieces of our mind scampering about ready to cozily bond in one big Kumbya hug around the campfire. Only the subconscious has made an appearance and its form of locomotion is more float-and-submerge than scamper-and-scurry between its personal Fantasy Island and dubious Garden of Eden.
But now to wield my authority as guest narrator to quicken the pace a tad: This morning, the forgetful fellow goes from rooftop down into the hut and finds a bunch of messages he wrote t
o himself last evening. The notes tell him where to sit at lunch, of the need to buy more candles tomorrow in Laxman Jhula village, that only $20 worth of rupees is in the hut, and other such details. After reading awhile he starts getting agitated and nearly explodes until he meditates in the hall. Lunch bell, same-o same-o, to the river to bathe, and then he transcribes the morning dream tape into the notebook.
After reading his past diary entries, our character wisely figures out that, in addition to having recurring amnesia, he is somehow psychologically addicted to this same daily routine that lasts well into the afternoon. So he leaves a note advising his future selves to stick to the usual daily regimen, particularly to meditate by 10:00 a.m. or risk going ballistic. He then takes a walk to explore in preparation for tomorrow afternoon’s shopping trip to Laxman Jhula, and he draws a map showing the nearby bus stop by the tea stand. He ends the day writing instructions for tomorrow’s self to catch the three o’clock bus to shop in the village—an efficient place for us to pick up the storyline. Giddy-up there.
DECEMBER 26 – afternoon of the next day
The afternoon sun strikes you standing by the tea shop just a stone’s throw down the road from Phool Chatti Ashram. You suspect that you have never before been this nervous waiting to catch a bus nor that you have ever gone shopping wearing an In Silence lapel button. Yes, fear is your travel companion on your debut without memory into the civilized world. You are grateful that sufficient notes and information were provided to prepare you for this shopping venture. Rule number one of the outing is not to publicly demonstrate your amnesia and thus find yourself facing foreign police and the penalty for having no passport or explanations.
You check your pocket again for the list of instructions that includes the two things you are directed to buy, candles and notebooks. You have also taken the initiative to add fruit to the list, as well as to bring the two slips of paper found on the windowsill: The dinner date reminder and the business card of Ravi’s Place designed for all your travel and photocopy needs. You glance at the two slips and think it prudent to check in at Ravi’s and try to locate the Allahabad Riverview Inn where you are supposed to meet a woman for dinner on the 18th of January. The engagement is more than three weeks away, but the note and the feminine handwriting have aroused your curiosity.
The bus pulls up to the tea shop at a quarter past three. You board, find a seat, pay the conductor five rupees, and bounce slowly along for ten minutes to Laxman Jhula. You like what you see upon arrival and for the moment stop worrying about amnesia. In fact, you figure the experience is much like any other time you have arrived in an unfamiliar village in India needing to get oriented, finding the appropriate shops, maybe having a cup of tea at a café with view. You mingle with the many sadhus and colorfully dressed pilgrims walking the main street whose buildings are squeezed between river Ganga on the right and steep, forested hills on the left.
A hundred-meter-long footbridge spans the river and takes you to the other half of Laxman Jhula on the western bank. Here you purchase two spiral notebooks and a box of ten candles, accomplished with silent hand motions. Likewise, without speaking, you buy fruit that fills the daypack strapped over your shoulders. The time is 4:08 p.m. With only an hour walk back to Phool Chatti in order to arrive for six o’clock dinner, you have plenty of time to look for Ravi’s Place.
The search proves simple in this small town and you slip off your in-silence button as you enter the glass door of the tiny travel office. A young man behind the counter greets you like an old friend, an act which rekindles your anxiety over having no memory. You promptly take out the business card and the scrap of paper from your pocket to give your eyes somewhere to focus away from Ravi’s smiling face. “Do you know where this Allahabad Riverview Inn is?” you query nervously.
“Well, it’s probably in Allahabad on the river,” the man quips looking pleased with his little joke. “Just take a right at the footbridge and go about five hundred miles.”
You glare as he snatches the paper from your hand and continues, “What do you have there? Ah, it’s good you come to Ravi for reservation since the Allahabad Express is filling fast.” The pushy young man responds to your puzzled look, “You know, the evening train running from Haridwar to Allahabad to take sadhus and pilgrims to the Kumba Mehla festival.”
You decide honesty—to a degree—is the best policy. “Actually, I know nothing about Allahabad or the Kumba whatever. What’s going on there January 18th?”
Ravi laughs, “The Kumba Mehla festival is held in Allahabad for a month not a day, and it looks like you can hang around for the peak experience when everyone baths in the Ganga at the month’s new moon.” He pulls out an article from a Hindi language newspaper listing the Kumba Mehla events, and confirms, “That’s on January 24. Should be quite a spectacle although a hundred or more people usually drown in the rush to the river, so be careful. Do you want to reserve a first or second class sleeper on the train?”
You waffle about travel plans then ask if Ravi has an English version of the news clipping about the Kumba Mehla festival.
“One similar,” he replies. “Wait a second and I’ll run off a copy of the article, then I can find the print job you left a couple of weeks ago. I was wondering when you were going to return for it.”
Your print job? Your ears perk and excitement surges with hope of more clues to your identity and predicament. “Ninety-seven rupees,” he states while placing into your eager hand a cheap folder filled with papers, “and another rupee for the Kumba Mehla article.”
You thank the young man, assuring him that yes, you will use Ravi’s Place for all your travel needs, as you quickly open the folder. Damn, the promising papers look simply to be a copy of chapters by an Indian author whose name you cannot pronounce. Disappointed, you toss the folder into your pack and look at your watch—4:30 on the dot. At least you have time enough for a cup of tea to sooth your frustration before returning to Phool Chatti Ashram for dinner.
You find a seat at a small open-air café incongruously called the German Bakery perched above the Ganga footbridge abutment. The bakery appears to be a fine place to enjoy tea, a river view, and even a decent croissant. It also provides you with a ringside seat for watching a troop of wizened gangsters who patrol the bridge while snatching at whatever bags hold aromatic goodies. You worry about these aggressive monkeys and the fruit in your daypack that you will shortly carry across the narrow bridge.
But a more immediate concern arises as you glimpse a Western woman who has spotted you. Irrational fear takes its firm grip upon your forgetful mind when she openly stares at you with increasing interest. She stands as you remember that your In Silence shield is worthlessly in your pocket. You glance down, fumble the button from your pocket, and pin it to your shirt just as the friendly woman arrives at your table. She looks hurt by the new decree of silence and appears to be considering a graceful retreat. But she already feels like a fool and you like a jerk, so what’s to lose?
“Aren’t you Steven who performed at the Ashoka-ji New Millenium celebration a year ago?” she bravely asks.
You maintain your silence while gesturing like a dropout from the Institute for Mediocre Miming with hands and face that seem to say, “Gee, I would really love to talk with a nice person like you but I’m in silence at the moment and it could be hazardous to my health to interrupt this contemplative mood.”
“Don’t you remember me? I’m Sonya from Poona, Prema’s roommate!” she announces cheerily.
Of course you do not remember her but you continue to silently gesticulate with a silly grin on your face that translates into, “It makes me the happiest man in the world to suddenly remember who you are and when I get back to Poona it will be super to look you and Prema up—but right now I really need to meditate in silence.”
Undeterred, she plods on, “I just loved you in that play during the New Year celebration. Was it really improvised? I could hardly believe that you and your partner hadn�
��t rehearsed the whole thing.”
Now beginning to look like a marionette on a bad string day, you mutely feign delight, humility, appreciation, surprise, the notion that of course it was improvised, but really, most of the credit should go to your partner. You feel like an absolute idiot.
“Oh, Prema will be so thrilled to see you again,” exclaims the woman as she starts to exit. “It’ll only take me three minutes to run back to the hotel and get her.”
Your blood turns to ice at the thought of having your amnesia exposed in three short minutes. Panic rises to transform your frantic mime performance into what appears to be the following message: “Excuse me, but I really need to throw my watch into the river and flag in that Boeing 747 that is landing on the road to Phool Chatti before my epileptic fit becomes too debilitating.” You are half way to the counter digging for your money with Sonya still persevering unsuccessfully to get you to respond like a sane human being.
“Are you staying at that sweet ashram at Phool Chatti? What a great place. We only have two more days here, but I just know Prema will want to see you,” she calls as you wave and smile and scurry across the footbridge. The monkeys look nervous and climb the cables to avoid you.
TRAIL BOSS: As guest narrator and a part of this sorry fellow’s mind, I interject to pull the curtain of privacy over his discomfort as he mumbles to himself walking the three miles back to Phool Chatti Ashram. It is a lovely road to stroll and if I were a tour guide instead of efficient trail boss I would pause to describe more of the scenery. But no, we shall proceed at full clip-clop towards whatever events can rescue us from this grip of forgetfulness, bypassing dull description of his routine, to arrive tomorrow at the Ganga’s sandy shore as our subject emerges from his afternoon bath.
DECEMBER 27 – the following afternoon
You are lying in the warm sun as thoughts drift lazily with the flow. Unlike the Ganga, however, your mind has no headwaters. No rivulets of memory are available to explore and give context to the quiet depths that swirl in the moment before you. Your past is composed simply of trickles of writings that you scanned before a pleasant meditation this morning.
You think about the note written yesterday evening warning about the possible arrival of a woman named Prema from the forgotten streams of your past. The alarm expressed about her potential appearance seems overblown, you think. What is the danger in an acquaintance arriving so long as you are prepared? It might even prove elucidating. As you are gently nourished by nature’s elements harmonizing with your spirit, no problem seems too big, no challenge too great. This comforting conclusion is quickly tested, however, as a long-armed enigma sneaks silently through the rocks behind you.
The stealthy man emerges from behind, whispering, “So, grasshopper, does the river shape its bank or the bank shape the river?” You look up, startled at the fellow wrapped in orange who continues in soothing tone, “Do the thoughts shape the man or the man shape his thoughts?” The gentleman is bowing slightly at the waist with palms together at his chest. He is dressed like a Hindu sadhu, expounds like a Buddhist Zen master, but his accent is distinctly Texan. You feel exposed lying in your underwear with this weird-looking character waiting for your comment.
“Ah come on, buddy boy, it’s a perfectly legit inquiry,” he finally blares as you stare dumbly at him, standing now with his hands on hips. “Of course, the answer is too simple for words but it can lead to some interesting conversation. The interconnectedness of all actions, the bank and river shaping one another, no simplistic cause or effect in the universal oneness; right?” He pauses, waiting for a reply.
You finally compose yourself and in quiet but firm voice declare, “I am in silence.”
The stranger leans back laughing and with big gestures responds, “Great, no pretense of intergrity here. You start off the conversation with a statement that can only be a bald-faced lie. You ever think of that, pal? There are some perfectly true ideas that can be in one’s mind, but as soon as they are put into words they become lies. Like your solemn hooey, I am in silence —a concept that can’t be spoken truthfully.”
He stops a second to think, then continues the diatribe, “Or take the thought: Every statement I make is false, which happens to be true for most people. But as soon as this truth jumps from your brain into the voice box, it doesn’t make any sense. Its own truth makes it false which makes it true and so on until your mind explodes. No, buddy boy, words only lead to lies and paradox. There, that’s your first lesson of the afternoon. My billing meter is running, you know.”
“I’m glad you’re lying,” you respond dryly.
“No, actually I’m more into the paradox side of the equation,” remarks the man without hesitation. “I hold in great esteem the tradition of the trickster as teacher, paradox as text. Yep, if you really want to ascend up the spiritual ladder, get a guru who will mindfuck you up one side and down the other. Can be a lot of fun, too, particularly for the guru. Good old Merlin was one of the best, but I’m no anglophile and prefer our Native American archetype, Coyote. Although Q is really my hero as far as the ultimate trickster goes. Ever seen him on, Star Trek: The Next Generation?”
He finally pauses for air and your reply. Your discomfort grows as you realize that you know neither the answer nor whether you have previously met this intrusive visitor. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I haven’t conversed with anyone for a long time—at least I don’t think,” you carelessly add as an aside, trying to be truthful.
“Perfect again!” the man exclaims with another dynamic laugh. “Someone who admits that he doesn’t think. Nobody thinks! Nobody takes time these days to use their mind or even to wonder why it’s scattered all over hell. We’re stuck in a rut of basic survival, and not even of-the-fittest anymore. Eat, Drink, Screw, Sleep, that was the name of some Chinese flick I saw back in the States. Just about sums it up—don’t you think? Oh, pardon me, you already answered that last question in the negative.”
You realize you are out of your depth with this banter, at least in your current state of forgetfulness. You sit up and look at the short, fleshy man with an expression that politely asks that he leaves you alone. He sits down by your side.
“I had to follow your tracks out here so your Guruji watchdog wouldn’t shoo me away again. I wanted to catch you before I head back up to Neelkanth village for a few days to retreat into my homey little Alamo up there to hold off this crazy world.”
“I thought you sadhus weren’t supposed to have homes, just wander as holy men renouncing the worldly,” you reply taking a dig back at this guy who is making you so uneasy.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m only half as dirty and twice as well-fed as most of those sadhu guys. And you can only truly renounce after you’ve accumulated something to let go of. Personally, I’m more into the acquisition stage at the moment. Which is why I follow the aimless tracks of Westerners who likely have rupees they wish to renounce right into my welcoming pocket.” His grin grows wider as he adds, “They usually need a bit of convincing, however, before they understand their role in this give-and-take cycle that ends in my wealth.”
“I can imagine,” you reply as you turn to lie on your stomach, hoping he will get the hint to leave.
“Look, amigo, I’m at least honest about going after your cash. Most of the jokers around here who cater to seekers and soul searchers seduce them with one hand while fleecing them with the other, all behind a façade of holy bullshit. You ever been to one of their group meetings?”
“I don’t remember,” you reply in bored voice, meaning it as a snooty put-off rather than as a true confession of your forgetful state.
“Well, here’s your big chance,” the intruder announces as he stands and takes from his shoulder bag a flyer that he hands to you. Without another word he walks away, one sinewy arm raised in farewell.
You glance at the paper as you gather your river items to return to the hut. In bold lettering the flyer announces the golden opportunity
to sit in the glorious presence of Shri Shri Cy Bubha, a fully self-realized master who will answer any question posed by the serious seeker or the gullible wealthy. Next opportunity for this invaluable boost to one’s full self realization is set for 3:00 p.m. on December 30 at the Shakti Café in Laxman Jhula. A footnote at the end clarifies: Full Self Realization occurs at the moment the spiritual seeker realizes he’s been acting like a buffoon—and fully laughs at self. You smile. If the guy weren’t so strange and your mind handicapped by amnesia you might be interested in what he has to say.
You leisurely return to the hut and put aside thoughts of the encounter with Shri Shri Cy Bubha as you retrieve the cassette player to listen to this morning’s dream. You pause before transcribing the dream into your journal in order to again savor the deep feeling that it conjures. A sense of union, peace, and hope fill you as you push the play button and listen to your drowsy voice that described the lovely dream upon awakening this morning.
“What an incredible sense of joy and serenity. A dream just ended with my standing in silence with a short, blonde woman in a snowy setting of blue sky and crystal purity. We are at a junction of two paths coming down from the mountains. The end of a long war is near—each of us is in the military on different sides but we are now holding one another in a calm state of absolute love. We trust that the troops trudging down the trails will not shoot us since we are together. But it doesn’t matter, nothing does. There is an overwhelming sense of connection with this woman and the understanding that completion of something important lies just around the bend.”
TRAIL BOSS: Fine and dandy, but let’s return to the real world where I spy something of earthly interest just around the bend. Avoiding the tedious track of the daily routine, we jump to high noon tomorrow where a female of the species makes her golden entry into the daylight.
DECEMBER 28 – noon of the next day
The clanging of the lunch bell brings you out of your timeless space of body sensations and rhythmic breath. You rise from the meditation cushion to proceed to the dining hall which this morning’s note indicated is your next destination in the usual routine. But lunch today is different since two plates with spoons, not one, are set for foreign guests. A friendly gesture of direction from the elderly swami by the kitchen encourages you to be seated.
As you ponder the ramifications of the second place setting, you are grateful for your in-silence lapel button and thankful that the morning message which greeted your forgetful self warned that a visitor named Prema might arrive soon, a woman whom you apparently knew in the city of Poona during a Millenium celebration at the Ashoka-ji community. This is scant information to go on with a possible old friend, but silence is golden and a great way to appear knowledgeable without knowing much—or so you imagine. Mercifully, you cannot remember the episode of two days ago where you demonstrated to Prema’s roommate that even in silence, one can act like an idiot.
You strategically keep your eyes looking down at your plate in anticipation of the other foreigner’s arrival, not wanting to give away your lack of recognition if the visitor is indeed a forgotten friend. Soft footsteps enter and traverse the dining room to announce the approach of a woman who sits behind the adjacent plate. You feel a gentle squeeze on your elbow and look up to a warm pair of eyes that are happy to see you. It must be Prema. Your face automatically mirrors her open greeting and after an exchange of smiles, you each enter the silence and ritual of the meal.
Prema eats little but remains poised, sitting quietly as your spoon clinks against the metal plate with every bite that you lift to your mouth. You are nervous as the time arrives for leaving this room of imposed silence, concerned she will override your lapel button’s directive and insist upon your talking. Well, you will just have to be ready for anything and learn what you can as events unfold. You walk silently together to the sinks, wash the dishes, and continue back to the courtyard where Prema finally speaks.
“I’ll check at the office to see if Guruji wants me to sign the guest register—although I don’t plan on needing a room tonight,” she adds looking straight at you. “Are you staying at that lovely hut in the garden?”
You nod in affirmation.
“I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. It’s great to see you, Steven.” She brushes her hand against your cheek, turns, and walks gracefully to the office, pausing briefly at the window to read the postings.
You cannot remember having seen a woman so self-contained and centered before, but then you have no real memory of ever connecting with any other woman, period. Somehow, though, you know she is special. She seems so clear in how she speaks, in what she wants, but without intruding into your space. Or is that just wishful thinking and your projection? Admittedly, she has already invited herself into your hut. And is she presuming she is welcome to spend the night with you, or did her comment about needing no room mean she is heading back to, to…oh, hell, to who knows where? Your thoughts start to spin but you tell yourself to slow down and stay in the moment as you walk to your hut. Keep it simple, step by step. Just take a deep breath and then a minute to tidy up the room for your guest.
“Hey there,” a gentle voice speaks from a silhouette of striking curves framed in your hut doorway. Prema’s dark shadow is topped by a golden halo as the backlight from the garden penetrates her blonde hair. “May I come in?”
You motion her to enter and she walks into your arms for a silent embrace which lasts a good minute, actually a very good minute that you would happily stretch into a couple more. But Prema takes a step back and asks, “So am I catching you in silence today?”
You simply nod. No mask or gyrations seem possible in her presence.
“You know,” she laughs with a look of resignation, “I’ve heard more about you from listening to Mr. Rokstad on your palm reading tape than from what you’ve told me. Maybe someday we will have a chance to really talk and learn more about each other, instead of just doing energy work.”
She leans forward to re-embrace, lifting her face up to share a soft kiss that you feel from your mouth to your toes. The sense of gentle touch, the lips, the press of a woman’s body—all are experienced as if for the first time. And is this what she means by energy work? It is certainly energetic but it doesn’t feel like work.
“Is this not a perfect day for the river?” she asks rhetorically while turning towards the door and indicating that you follow. But Section One of The ReMinder catches her attention lying on the shelf. She picks it up and continues, “Say, I bet this is some of your new writing that Mr. Rokstad said would cross with your palm’s money line.” You with the amnesia can only shrug in response. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I read a bit,” she says with a bright smile that cannot be refused.
Prema is out the door with the manuscript by the time you grab a towel and slip into a pair of walking shoes. You follow as she heads upriver along a path that crosses a small bridge of planks. She takes your hand when you catch up on the trail; or perhaps you took hers. It is all so natural, so easy to be together in this space of silence. The ease and comfort kindle a desire in you to communicate with Prema, to ask this gentle woman for help with your predicament of amnesia. Yes, it is time to find the courage to share your secret of forgetfulness with a fellow human being. But as you open your mouth to speak, a rush of irrational fear tightens your throat, a reaction bolstered by the emergence of an overwhelming urge to continue keeping your amnesia a secret from the world.
Shaken by the power of the momentary fear, you remain safely in silence as you follow Prema down a path of old footprints, through sand and rock that ends at a lovely stretch of beach. Tomorrow, you will find additional imprints by the shore of two people who shared this paradise today in quiet and joy. Two who swam, who kissed, who lay naked in the sun silently embracing and feeling their union with the Ganga at their feet. Imprints of two bodies in the sand, one large and the other diminutive, will await the arrival tomorrow of a solitary man whose mind will have no re
call that he and a golden visitor made them.
This thought of forgetfulness saddens you, but you push it aside to join Prema in the ever-present moment in which you drift together without speaking as the afternoon peaceably passes.
“You realize, don’t you, that we just broke the ashram rule against bathing nude?” Prema notes with a smile as she rolls against your bare body on the blanket. She kisses your cheek, sits up, and places her right hand on your heart and her left palm on your head. Energy work. Kindness that flows through loving hands to nourish a soul and body that have been alone for too long.
You observe your breathing and watch hers as well—in and out, cool then warm, calm and erect, woman and man. You are a mindful witness to these earthly polarities, to the energies of life that course through the Ganga as well as in each grain of sand vibrating beneath your back. The rhythm of her rising breasts melts into the cadence of your heartbeat and together emerge as the pulse of the river. A holy trinity forms as ancient as life, yet only of this moment for nothing else exists. It is now or never. This you understand in a depth that you cannot mentally recapture. The thought is gone since it was no thought, but an instant of clarity beyond simple mind. Pure experience, a moment of truth to share as you look into Prema’s eyes and she into yours. Neither of you smiles as you hold this feeling, this treasure, until a passing cloud brings a shadow and chill.
You stroll back to the ashram hand in hand. Outside the hut in a few short words Prema states that she must talk to Guruji then pack for an early morning train to Delhi. It is time for an embrace, a time of parting. She walks into the garden towards her world but turns with a final message spoken to you across space, “Remember, there’s no gift like the present.”
You give a final wave, enter the hut, toss The ReMinder manuscript aside, and lie in bed having no interest in reading about your former life, satisfied now simply to observe this moment of being. No past or future distracts you from feeling your connection with all things bright and beautiful, to all things dull and barren. They and you are each the same, a unity that engulfs you into nothingness and launches you into the whole. And the moment passes.
You quietly carry the bittersweet aftertaste of this special afternoon until the kitchen bell intrudes upon your thoughts. You eat dinner without wanting even to make eye contact with the usual contingent of swamis and sadhus, choosing instead to keep drifting in duality’s dance where darkness penetrates spirit to create fleeting ripples of understanding atop a deep pool of forgetfulness.
After dinner, you follow Guruji out the dining hall and silently gesture your way into his office and to the guest register. You wish to view Prema’s name, to see her signature before she dies tonight in your memory. It lies in a thin book entitled, Foreign Guest Registry 2000. You find the final page of entries and spot her name in clear print at the bottom: Jessica Nixhall; birthplace, Fairfield, Iowa; residence, Sedona, Arizona; followed by a signature of Prema, the spiritual name she has apparently adopted in India.
Above her entry is your registration with more detailed data required of overnight visitors. You realize that this guest book could hold some potentially helpful clues to your forgotten past, but you do not have the energy to explore for them now. You simply stand, nod goodnight to Guruji, and return to your room to leave that insight in the note for tomorrow’s self.
Upon finishing the evening’s writing tasks in the hut, you stare at the two candle flames as one finally burns down to nothing with its last flicker of light. You feel exhausted lying on your back, but you do not want to sleep and let Prema succumb to death in your forgetful mind. As the second candle wanes, you understand the truth of your own death tonight as well. The you who is thinking and feeling and yearning will no longer exist in the morning; dead to the world, dead to memory. Your lifetime, short but sweet in this one day of grace, will be only imprints in the sand and swirls in the water flowing miles away down the Ganga.
You watch the final flicker of candlelight illuminate the message taped to the ceiling above your bed: IT’S PARADISE, NOT PRISON! No, it is a morgue. You are one of several identical bodies that have been laid out the past nights on this slab to die in amnesia, wrapped in a blue bag and left as a sacrifice for the nocturnal gods to devour. At the instant you release into slumber, forgetfulness will eat away your hopes, your fears, and your few memories of life.
Tears seep from your closed eyes as you say farewell—to whom, you do not know.
PART TWO
“My Parents Got Enlightened and
All I Got was This Lousy T-Shirt.”
- Kumba Mehla tee-shirt line
by Shr Shri Cy Bubha
The Nyxall Chronicles: The Now or Never Page 6
