The Yoga Zapper--A Novel, page 10
“Maya, show Jack the guest quarters,” ordered the Hand of God.
“Of course, Hand of God. I will take him.”
Kallin scanned at the rest of the group. His expansive mood instantly disappeared. “Why are you all hanging around? Don’t you have anything to do?” he yelled. The group quickly scattered. Mumbling angrily under his breath, he stomped back to his office.
Maya led Jack through many corridors and past several intricately decorated rooms, her heels clacking on the marble floor. He suddenly became conscious of her sensuous lips, long neck and full figure. She smiled and touched the tip of her tongue to her red upper lip.
“You have a lot of guts,” she mentioned. “I’m amazed at what you said to the Hand of God.”
“I’m not only brave, but also good looking,” he replied, winking at her.
She laughed in amazement, shaking her head, her eyes wide open. She led him into a large, opulently decorated room with high ceilings and walls the color of clotted cream. A large white rug, black dressers, a night table, two red-brocade chairs and a chest of drawers with a wide mirror populated the room. Two large vases, each five feet tall, glazed with colorful geometric designs, stood at each side of a large bed. Two windows, narrow and high, stretched above the bedstead. She pulled back the bed cover and the blanket.
“Sleep well,” she said. “Tomorrow is a big day.”
Jack sat on the soft bed, breathing deeply with eyes closed, as Maya shut the door. The stress of the past few days slowly drained out of his body. His ran his hand over the satin sheets, letting the tension in his shoulders seep down his arms and out of his fingers. At last, he thought, I am in a better place. Standing slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt, removed his pants, shut off the lights and lay down. He pulled the soft blanket up over his chin and fell immediately into a thick, turgid, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Maya knocked on his door. “Wake up,” she said. “Breakfast will be in half an hour.”
Feeling woozy, Jack dragged himself into the attached bathroom, quickly brushed his teeth and showered. He changed into fresh underwear, a black pair of pants, white shirt, black socks, a pair of new brown shoes, and rushed outside where a butler stood waiting. He guided Jack to the dining room.
A crowd of about fifteen people milled about. A large table, seating twenty, occupied the area and an outsized, intricate chandelier hung above. As Jack stood alone in the bustle near the door, Maya engaged in conversation with one of President Kallin’s military advisors at the other end of the room. No one approached Jack, but instead cast long, sideways glances. He distinctly felt not just avoidance, but actual jealousy directed his way. Obviously, his gaining the Hand of God’s favor so quickly did not sit well with them.
President Kallin walked into the room. The guests stood at attention and shouted, “Victory to the Hand of God.”
The president displayed an expansive mood. “Come, come,” he said, waving his hands. “Let’s eat.”
The Hand of God occupied the chair at one end of the table, while Maya parked herself at his right and the national security advisor sat on his left. Jack found an empty seat halfway down. A tablecloth, the color of antique ivory, cutlery of polished silver and plates of various sizes were displayed in his front, and despite it being breakfast, several courses would be served.
Toast with butter and jam came first, served by silent maids dressed in starched white gowns. Then arrived the hash browns. The Hand of God ate silently, keeping his eyes on the food. Some sort of unidentifiable salty, sticky meat comprised the next offering. Jack took a couple of bites and put it aside. The next course was another type of meat; small pieces swimming in gravy. It did not appeal to him either.
The diners engaged in soft chatter, their voices hardly rising over the clink and clatter of forks and knives. A subdued lot, their conversation revolved around the trivial, not much more than acknowledgments of each other’s presence. Judging by the ease of their behavior, Jack realized that the more powerful members of the coterie sat closest to Kallin.
“So, Hand of God,” asked Maya, “Are you going to Kallington today?”
“Yes,” he replied, without looking up. “I have some business at the International Legislative Exchange.”
“I’d like to come, if I may,” she enquired perkily.
“Of course. I am leaving right after breakfast.” Maya looked down the table, her eyes bright. Jack sensed not only her excitement for the trip but also her assertion of rank in the coterie’s hierarchy.
Halfway through the meal the national security advisor’s cell phone rang. He leaned over to Kallin and whispered. The president waved his hand, the man left, and butlers took away his dishes. Suddenly, a young blonde, sitting at the far end of the table, got up and occupied the empty space next to Kallin. Maya glared sharply. The blonde ignored her. Kallin kept eating, not acknowledging the woman’s presence. She waited a few minutes before speaking.
“Oh, Hand of God,” bubbled the young woman, her voice edged with anticipation. “I have never been to the Exchange with you.” The diners looked keenly.
Kallin gazed at her. “Why do you want to come?”
“I’m your policy advisor,” she replied.
“Actually, you’re a policy intern,” corrected Maya.
The blonde smiled sweetly back. “As you like. How can I understand policy if I don’t know how the International Legislative Exchange works?” She stared at Kallin with large blue eyes. “Please. It would an educational experience for me.”
“So you want to accompany me,” he mused, stroking his thin beard, smiling.
“Yes! Of course.”
Kallin turned to Maya. “Maya, I am going to take Jini with me this time. You can stay behind and take care of Jack.” Maya turned a deep red. The blonde faced the diners and smiled. They grinned back.
“As you wish, oh Hand of God,” Maya answered. She sat at the table, not eating her food. As soon as Kallin finished, she got up and left.
Chapter Thirteen
The Village of Mahavan, End of Satya Yuga
After breakfast, Parvata Rishi tended to his readings while Steve toured the community. He understood that farmers owned the majority of the huts facing the fields. Other homes, including Parvata Rishi’s, lined the forest’s perimeter while a few stood near the temple. It took him less than half an hour to circumambulate the village, but a lot longer to observe its inhabitants. Two hundred and fifty, perhaps three hundred souls of all types and ages, with the majority being young or middle-aged, along with a good number of children living in the utmost freedom and lovingly indulged by all members of the community regardless of parentage, lived in the place.
The village bustled; everyone worked hard, either in the fields or tending to their chores, and since their labor met their basic needs, they concentrated their spare time on the artistic, the cultural and the spiritual. The inhabitants showed remarkable honesty, sincerity and meaningfulness in their dealings and their conversations, eager to chat and commiserate with Steve on the loss of his mother and brother. Their genuineness struck Steve. No fakery, pretense or artificial emotions produced by brainless television shows crammed with canned laughter clouded their hearts.
He took lunch at the temple’s priest house, welcomed by his wife and a gang of bright-eyed youngsters. The pujari, a middle-aged man with a cheerful disposition, introduced himself. “My name is Vishnuyasha and this is my wife Sumati.” He looked around. “My son is somewhere around here.”
As he pressed his palms together in greeting, a young boy, all mischievous smiles and youthful energy, rushed in and stared at Steve, wide-eyed. The food was delicious and the company of the family, delightful.
After lunch, Steve explored the surroundings. He headed along the path out of the village, following the river bank until it came to the hill with the baobab tree and, instead of following the trail up the hill, continued along the thin path disappearing into the dense forest. Immediately, the omnipresent green fusion enveloped him. Large-trunked, broad-leafed trees surrounded him with their vast, silent fastness, observing him like ageless witnesses. Their sheer profusion, stretching out in all directions in such inestimable distances boggled his imagination. Was it possible, one day, for these forests to indeed disappear?
The path fizzled out, replaced by a barely recognizable trail. He climbed a large boulder, looked up at the canopy of leaves and thought of his distance travelled—from his family, his home and the streets of the Kansas City. They seemed so far away, so unreal. Surprised, he arched his eyebrows. Leaving the settlement and exploring the jungle by himself, let alone traveling to another yuga—this resembled Jack’s persona, not his.
The thought of his brother filled his heart with a vague uneasiness. He regretted his anger, but still, Jack’s treatment of Mom rankled him. He immediately pictured her, her eyes smiling through her glasses. He straightened his back, his heart pinched and tears emerged—the grief pure and untinged with any other emotion, whether regret, unhappiness, unsaid words or bitter feelings. The hurt lasted only a few seconds. Her disappearance, though final in one sense, didn’t drag him into overwhelming sorrow. Mere death couldn’t separate them.
He noticed something moving among the trees. He wiped his eyes. Someone was walking toward the settlement and he quickly distinguished it to be one of the women. As the figure moved closer, Steve recognized a certain familiarity in the shape, the straightness of the back and the suppleness of the limbs. It was Shanti!
“Hello Shanti,” he shouted.
She strolled up to him, balancing a load of wood on her head, swaying gently to and fro. Her eyes showed slight surprise, but no hesitation or reticence.
“Hello,” Shanti replied, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“Just walking in the forest. I need the exercise.”
She laughed. “If you want exercise, try collecting firewood every day!”
“Maybe I will,” he answered, jumping off. “Let me carry your load.”
Shanti turned red. “No! This is my service! My father will wonder what I am doing if I let you carry my firewood!”
Steve backed off.
“I’ve been doing this for years,” she explained. “I’m used to carrying these loads.”
She lifted her hands above her head and holding the bundle, swung her hips out. The wood, tied with a grass rope, came quickly off and she gently deposited it on the ground with a flick of her wrists. She leaned against a tree and faced him, arms bent back, pushing against the trunk, her hips barely touching it.
She breathed hard with her mouth slightly open. Despite the appearance of effortlessness, carrying firewood was obviously a strenuous exercise. She pushed her long hair off her forehead and wiped her face with the edge of her bright green sari. The green canopy above them, the hushed silence and the darkness of the forest created the effect of a private, personal space. He leaned against the boulder as neither spoke for a long time.
Her presence felt powerful, palpable. Though several inches shorter, she remained, nevertheless, commanding. Did a secret strength lie in her limbs, a potency hidden behind a veil of modesty, like that of the jacaranda tree which stands tall, straight and slender and covers its head with a shroud of delicate purple blossoms, yet is able to withstand the severest winds? Or did her mysterious origins now color his imagination? She seemed regal, more noticeable now that she dressed simply and lived plainly among mortals, like the sun which glows more brightly while shining through low clouds on the horizon.
Shanti finally spoke. “Where are you from?”
He realized that he, with his light skin and dark blond hair, must seem as exotic to her as she to him. “I’m from Kansas City. Wherever that might be now.”
“Kansas…?” she repeated, uncomprehendingly.
“In Kali Yuga, many, many years from now, in a land called America, a very large village named Kansas City will exist,” he clarified, using terminology familiar to her.
She giggled, imitating the sounds he made. “Kan…Kansas City? That’s a funny name for a village!”
Steve laughed with her. “That’s true. It is a funny name for a village.”
“What is it like in Kali Yuga?” she enquired, her curiosity aroused.
Steve took a minute to figure out an answer. “Well, we have cars, televisions, air conditioners—you know, that kind of stuff.”
Shanti kept silent. Obviously, none of those meant anything to her.
Steve changed the subject. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No. At least not in this world.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighed and her eyelids flickered. “My mother is an apsara. She lives in Gandharva Loka, one of the heavenly planets. Its inhabitants lead extremely long lives, possess great beauty and are very talented singers and artists. There, she may have other children.”
Steve knotted his eyebrows. Heavenly planets?
“Many heavenly planets exist,” she explained, “as do many earthly planets and hellish ones. In fact, many universes are present, not just this one.” Steve remained silent, absorbing the magnitude of the cosmology.
“Why did your mother leave you?” he asked, bringing the discussion to the immediate.
“From what I understand, I have a destiny to fulfill on this Earth planet.”
Steve’s eyes brightened with interest. “And what is that?”
Shanti’s eyes clouded. “I don’t know. Maybe my father does, but he hasn’t told me.” She looked away. “I think you are so fortunate to have a brother, to retain memories of a mother. You don’t know what it’s like to be an only child all these years.”
Steve looked at her, surprised, taken aback by her admission of loneliness. She seemed to be so content. Thinking about it though, he realized the difficulties she faced, first of possessing such unusual origins and secondly, of sharing no siblings. Despite having such a wonderful father, young women need mothers as well. She suddenly seemed like a vulnerable girl.
“Yes,” he replied. “I am indeed fortunate to have a brother.” He looked down and sighed.
“Why are you sad?”
“I don’t know where he is. I need to find him. And I miss my mother.”
Shanti sympathized with him. “I guess we’re the same. We’re both missing mothers and siblings, we both come from other places and we both have destinies to fulfill.”
Steve nodded his head. She very much spoke the truth.
She got up. “It’s getting dark. I want to be at the temple for the Sandhya arti, the evening worship. I don’t want to be late.”
“Let me help you,” he offered. He picked up the bundle and settled it gently on her head. Its weight, as well as the realization of the expert bodily movements required to transport it for long distances, surprised him.
They strolled to the village, side by side, happily engaged in conversation.
* * * * *
Parvata Rishi spent an hour each day teaching Steve hatha yoga, with its emphasis on the asanas; the practices and philosophy of ashtanga yoga and its stress on moral codes, namely the yamas and niyamas; and the nine processes of bhakti yoga, the yoga of devotion. A few days after his arrival, Shanti asked him for help. “Do you want to do some karma yoga?”
“Yes,” he replied hesitantly. “What is that?”
“Karma yoga is selfless service—work done without thought of personal gain.”
“Okay.”
“Today, we’re cooking for the temple. The meal will be offered to the Deities and then to the community at lunch. Let’s make some puris.” Steve washed his hands and followed her into the kitchen. She placed a large curved copper pan half-filled with ghee on the wood stove, pulled a bowl from the shelf and poured several measures of flour into it. To that, she added salt and water and started mixing. Steve stood by, writing it all down in his book.
“What are you doing?” she questioned.
“I’m making notes on how much flour, water and salt you added.”
Shanti smiled. “You’ll never make puris that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Put the book away, come here and knead the dough.” Steve regarded her uncertainly and rolled up his kurta sleeves. He slowly and softly laid his hands on the dough.
“Don’t be afraid of it,” Shanti laughed. “Just squeeze and roll the dough.” Steve kneaded it more vigorously. “How does it feel?” she questioned after some time.
“Kind of hard.”
“Add some more water.” Steve took a bit of water, poured it into the bowl and mixed it again. After a minute he stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m finished.”
She chuckled. She detached a small piece of dough and handed it to him. “Pull it apart.” It tore easily.
“Kneading makes the dough elastic. Continue until it’s ready.” Steve grimaced. This was harder than expected. After some time, Shanti stopped him.
“Check it now,” she stated. This time the dough stretched well, being soft and supple.
“Perfect,” she remarked. “Let’s make some puris.” Following her directions, he pulled off bits of dough, rolled them into balls with his fingers, flattened them with his palms and shaped them with a wooden roller into round, flat disks each about the size of his hand.
“Excellent,” said Shanti, encouragingly. “Now slip it into the ghee.” Holding one of the disks at the edge of the metal pan, he slid it neatly into the hot ghee. She gently pushed it down with a ladle until it puffed up, round and smooth. Making sure to brown both sides, she lifted the cooked puri out of the pan and set it in a serving container.
“You can finish the rest.”
Fascinated, Steve didn’t take long to fry them and, shortly, a small mound of puris stood ready to serve. Parvata Rishi walked into the kitchen.
