The Yoga Zapper--A Novel, page 19
“Do you think the rebels may be around?” she asked.
“The rebels be damned,” he replied, unbuttoning her blouse. They lay in each other’s arms for many minutes and then made furious love in the womb of the dome, their voices echoing back and forth off the walls of the monument. Jack’s lovemaking was neither peaceful nor satisfying, but a desperate attempt to bond with someone, anyone, in this dark, desolate world. But the harder he tried to connect with Maya, the emptier he felt. His attempt finished as quickly and as futilely as it started.
“What’s wrong?” questioned Maya. He said nothing. There was no feeling at all and it was obvious to both of them. He felt even more alone.
Chapter Twenty Four
On Pilgrimage, Satya Yuga
One day the pilgrims came across an enormous black rock sitting squarely in their path. They found no passage through, over or around it. They gathered at its base as Parvata Rishi unwrapped his palm-leaf manuscripts from their orange cloth coverings, placed a white cloth on the ground and sat down.
The blackness of the granite, its glassy smoothness, the roughly triangular shape and the way it sat on the ground—all seemed oddly familiar to Steve. He jumped up. He had seen it before! “Parvata Rishi, I have something to say,” he interjected.
The rishi looked up from the shastras. “What is it, my son?”
“I have seen this rock before.”
“Really?” asked the rishi, his eyes wide.
“Yes. My brother and I traveled in the Himalayas, just a couple of months before I appeared in Mahavan.”
The rishi put down the scriptures. “Tell me more.”
Memories of the trip to India, the temple in Badrinath, the meal at the restaurant and the hike through the mountains, all came tumbling back. Did it all happen just a couple of months ago? It seemed so far away, as if in another time and place. But of course it did happen in another time and place. Yet here he stood again.
“My brother and I came here, following the instructions of a South Indian restaurant owner, searching for the Valley of the Rishis, which if I understood properly, lies somewhere past this rock. Unable to proceed further, we turned back.”
“I believe that the Valley of the Rishis, as you call it, is actually Shambala, and a good reason exists for your inability to continue.”
“What’s that?”
“You did not have the spiritual power to do so.” The rishi picked up the shastra. “According to this, to gain the shakti, the spiritual strength, to solve the riddle posed by this barrier, we need to meditate for the next seven days and achieve dhyana, that is, clarity. Only then will we be able to proceed.”
The pilgrims nodded their heads. This seemed completely understandable to them. They regarded this as not just a physical passage but a spiritual one as well and, indeed, the further they traveled in the mountains, the more their voyage had became mystical. Following Parvata Rishi’s shastras, they had stopped and conducted yajnas, chanted mantras or meditated at specific places along the way. Steve never attempted a week-long meditation, but the others seemed totally unfazed by such a challenge. For the yogis from the forest, a seven-day meditation was hardly worth mentioning.
They rested for the night and the next morning found their places of meditation in front of the rock. Steve sat next to Shanti. She patted his hand and he found comfort, security and resolution by her side. He crossed his legs, straightened his back, stretched his arms out and closed his eyes, fingers touching the ground.
Shanti tapped his shoulder.
Steve opened his eyes. “What is it?”
“Get going.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s been a week already. Time to get going.”
“What!” exclaimed Steve. “I closed my eyes just a few moments ago!”
“It’s Satya Yuga,” laughed Shanti. “You’re becoming a real yogi.”
The rishi walked to where the granite met the mountain. “My meditation revealed a passage through this rock.” He pulled aside some bushes.
“Dig,” he pointed.
Steve grabbed a flat piece of wood and started excavating, the expectancy of the journey’s conclusion fueling his efforts. The soft ground yielded easily. Others, grabbing makeshift shovels, kitchen utensils, or with bare hands, burrowed at the indicated area and, after a couple hours of work, fashioned a trough ten feet deep and four feet wide. They gathered in the pit and the rishi organized an arti, offering the sacred flame first to the rock and then to the pilgrims, who passed their hands over it and touched their heads respectfully. Parvata Rishi bent down and thrust the rock at the bottom of the trench. A small passage, just big enough for the pilgrims to squeeze through in single file, opened up as part of the stone sprung back. Steve gasped.
They gathered large branches, bound them at one end with oil-soaked cotton cloth, lit them and entered the passage. Steve waited until all the travelers passed through the hole one by one, and finally, he, Shanti and the rishi ducked in. He pushed the rock and it snapped back into place perfectly, leaving no trace of its separate existence.
Steve held the torch above. It illuminated Shanti’s and Parvata Rishi’s faces, shining like buds in a dark flower bed. As they set off into the belly of the mountain, a long thin line of torches flickered in the darkness, going ever downwards. The pilgrims called out their names from front to back and then back to front in military style, their voices becoming muffled the further they receded.
He whooped, his voice echoing five times, on each occasion growing fainter and more indistinct. The exclamation points of flames stopped moving as their bearers turned around, and shining eyes and flashing smiles reflected back, growing smaller and smaller all the way down and then quickly disappeared as the torches turned back around and the travelers continued their trek. He sighed deeply, inhaling in the unexpected, exquisite scene, the indelible image sending chills down his body.
After a while, he lost track of time in the darkness. They could have walked for an hour, maybe three. The total lack of any reference points made it hard to tell not only time but also distance and direction. The passage led steeply down for about seven thousand steps, where it opened up into a large cavern. Steve waved the torch above his head and the light sparkled back from the roof of the grotto. They sat down to eat a quiet and quick lunch of bread, water, and dried fruit, as no one wanted to waste time.
From this part on, Steve, Shanti, and her father started at the beginning. A slight wind blew into the cave and they decided to walk towards it, hoping to find an exit. The passage did not now so steeply decline but still tilted downwards. Steve breathed in the humidity and relaxed his body, his skin, nostrils and lungs exulting in the moisture after weeks of dry mountain air. After some time, Steve realized that wetness splashed under his sandals. An inch of water flooded the cave’s floor and he scooped a handful to taste the sweet liquid. They were heading in the direction it flowed. He looked back. The line of flickering lamps went deep into the darkness, twinkling high on the cavern’s ceiling.
The muffled sounds of names being called bounced off the walls in the back recesses of the cave and echoed past him in the dark, warm, moist womb of the mountain. He marched and marched, quietly and resolutely, hour after hour, in the thick darkness, the humid air becoming warmer. The water slowly increased in volume, coming up to his ankles and many thousands of determined steps later, reaching his calves. The wind whistled in his ears, but he saw no sight of the exit. The weeks of walking and the closeness to their destination filled Steve with both great impatience and heavy exhaustion.
After hiking in the dark, unknowing of the passage of time, seemingly like forever, but yet maybe a half a day, the water flowed knee-deep and the trek slowed. The roof of the cavern, now a tunnel, could be touched by extending both arms. The darkness, warmth, and dampness gave him the impression of passing through the mountain’s birth canal, of being pushed out of its side. If this was a birth, he reflected wryly, it certainly was a long, painful and difficult one.
Steve’s feet ached from exertion. The muscles in his legs bunched, making each step an exercise in agony. Finding footholds under the rushing water further complicated the situation. Each step required care. He looked back. Parvata Rishi panted for breath and every once in a while stopped to gain strength. Shanti clasped on to her father, breathing heavily. They reached the limits of endurance but had no place to stop or rest, as the water, now a river, flowed strong, fast and cold around them.
Suddenly, a pang of fear entered Steve’s pounding heart. Did they take a wrong turn? He froze, unable to move his feet in the grimly pulling waters.
Shanti saw it first. “Look!” she exclaimed. “That must be the light at the entrance to the cave.”
Steve peered anxiously. A slight paleness, like a purple stain on a black cloth, appeared in the distance.
“Yes! That’s it!”
A great cry arose from the pilgrims. A new energy enthused Steve and he redoubled his efforts. The pale patch grew more obvious the closer he came, until there was no mistaking it. Sunlight shone ahead!
The last part of the march, however, proved to be the most difficult. The wind blew fast, warm and moist against his face but the bone-numbing water, now waist deep, drained his energy and slowed his movements. He had to exercise care any slip or fall risked meant being swept away by the cunning current, and with his load to carry, proved to be an especially arduous task.
Just when he thought he could go no further, when the waters reached up to his chest, when his shaking, cramping legs refused to budge, the passage widened and riverbanks appeared. He scrambled out and dragged himself onto the pebbly shore. Others followed. The ones porting loads threw them down, shivering and gasping in exhaustion. After resting his cold body for several long minutes, Steve once again got up on trembling legs, the exit less than a thousand footsteps away. A roaring sound from outside filled the air.
Not caring for the others, he ran until he escaped into the sunlight which crashed into his eyes, blinding him. He crumpled on the rock, curled up, shivering, trembling, gasping in huge lungful’s of air. His skin felt wrinkled, leathery and slippery from the long exposure to the water and he let out a strange little cry, almost a whimper, a small baby sound.
Many minutes later Steve’s eyes focused. The lip of the cave jutted out of the mountain for about thirty feet and down its center raced the river, twenty feet across and six feet deep, thundering into the valley below. He kneaded the knots in his legs, yelping in pain as the muscles straightened out. Steve turned on his stomach and crawled to the edge of the rock. The spray created an intense rainbow that hung in the air, not fifty feet away. The entire valley came into view. From his high perch, it appeared so small, so exotic and so beautiful that it almost seemed to be a painting, the canvas delightfully alive with hundreds of sparkling colors. The water, boiling white and blue, fell far below onto a jumble of white rocks and gathered itself into a picturesque river which meandered all the way through the lush, enchanted land until it disappeared into the ground at the mountains at the other end.
The valley, long but narrow, measured not more than a couple of hundred square miles and lay perfectly hidden, encircled completely by seven ranges of mountains, like an emerald surrounded by diamonds. The sheer granite wall across from where he lay seemed almost close enough to touch, but he knew, stood much further away. Large eagles and hawks floated lazily in the late afternoon haze near those cliffs and the sun sent brilliant shafts of golden light to the valley floor. The scent of wild grass and pine forest floated up, and he relished deeply their inimitable fragrance. A large verdant meadow rested in the valley on the near side of the river, while a forest of pines, rhododendrons, and fruit trees grew on the other. He stood up and looked above. Drops of melting snow fell cold on his now warm face.
“Steve,” came a voice from inside the cavern. It was Shanti! He hobbled back inside. She held on to her stumbling father. He jumped between the two of them and with his strong hands, dragged the struggling pair into the open. Parvata Rishi fell on the stone, completely drained, his eyes blinking uncontrollably.
Shanti joined Steve, her face beaming with excitement and relief. Shambala at last! He embraced her, swinging her round and round, too excited for niceties, as she screamed with pleasure. They had traversed for weeks through jungle, over seven mountains ranges, and for many exhausting, grinding hours through underground caves to reach their destination.
Steve walked to where the ledge met the mountain. A narrow path, only two feet wide, gently twisted down. Shanti went first and he, with his strong right hand holding her father, came next, while the rest followed, and they arrived at the meadow within an hour, where, on the grass and under trees, stood the shelters of earlier arrivals. The pilgrims of Mahavan set up camp and the air filled with sounds of joyous laughter, greetings of old friends and much storytelling. Steve dropped his load and ran laughing as far as his legs could carry him, arms stretched out, through the long green blades, past clumps of yellow marigolds, blue buttercups, and white daisies, drinking in the warm sun and inhaling the tang of pine trees. His legs trembled, his arms tingled with delight and he dropped in the lush grass, closed his eyes and fell asleep.
* * * * *
Shambala, End of Satya Yuga
After three days in Shambala, Steve and Shanti finally sat down with Parvata Rishi near the river, where the sun warmed the grass, sparkled above the stream and shimmered on its fast-moving waters. Parvata Rishi called it the Sarasvati, the great watercourse so often mentioned in the Vedas, the mighty mythical river with its origin in the spiritual world, on whose banks the great yogis practiced their sadhana. Without doubt, meditating on its banks and listening to the pleasant sound of the flowing waters induced the most calmful of contemplations.
The peaceful river served as an ironic setting to the anxious pair. Tranquility did not describe Steve’s feelings. He gripped Shanti’s left hand tightly, butterflies in his stomach, his hands clammy and cold, shaking slightly with apprehension. Shanti nervously fidgeted with the border of her cream colored sari. Anxiety radiated from her face.
The rishi sat bare-shouldered in the crisp air, wearing a Brahmin thread—a loop of cotton string draped over his left shoulder, crossing his chest, circling his right hip, and coming up over his back.
Parvata Rishi turned to Shanti. “Well, my dear, what is it?”
Shanti looked up shyly. “Father, we’re here to request your blessings for our marriage.”
“Marriage?” enquired the rishi. “You mentioned it to me, but our young friend has said nothing.”
Steve managed a quick smile and opened his mouth, but no words escaped his lips. His mind went blank. An awkward silence fell among them.
“Well, son,” encouraged the rishi, “speak.”
“I…I want to marry Shanti,” Steve stammered.
The rishi gazed at the mountains, toying with his Brahmin thread for several long seconds. “Why do you want to marry my daughter?”
The question threw Steve for a loop. He certainly hadn’t expected to give justifications for the proposal.
“I love Shanti very much,” he finally mumbled.
The rishi smiled. “That is certainly a good reason for a marriage.” The sun glistened on his white hair and shone on his bronzed shoulders. “But as a father, I am anxious to see my daughter properly taken care of. Do you understand?”
Steve slowly nodded his head, but his eyes showed bewilderment.
“I mean, how will you support her, and later on, a family?”
Steve turned white. The idea hadn’t crossed his mind. “Well, I suppose I can farm or take up some trade. I am sure I’ll learn something in a little time,” he countered bravely.
“I’m sure you will. But here’s my question—are you are ready to marry my daughter?”
“What do you mean?”
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight, that is, twenty-eight in Kali Yuga years.”
“In other words, you are past the age by which most men marry.”
Steve slowly nodded his head. In Mahavan, most of the young people married in their early adulthood. Their culture demanded it. But he had another explanation. “I didn’t marry, I suppose, because of my mother and brother. As the older one, I had to take care of them after my father died. They needed my help.”
“So what has changed?”
Steve didn’t know what to say. He kept quiet and looked at the grass. “I do feel an obligation to my brother,” he agreed finally. “And though my mother is gone, I made a promise to her.”
“And what is that?”
“I gave her my word that I would help Jack, and in some ways, look after him.”
The rishi observed him gravely. “Since this obligation is important to you, are you ready to marry Shanti?”
The observation flabbergasted him. “Of course I’m ready! I want to marry Shanti no matter what!”
“What if you discovered that your brother is in Kali Yuga? After all, you did come looking for him, didn’t you?”
Steve nodded his head hesitantly. “I imagine so.”
“What would happen to Shanti if you went to Kali Yuga? Or for that matter, anywhere else? Would you leave her behind while you searched for your brother?”
Steve said nothing. Parvata Rishi was right. The last many weeks spent with Shanti in the blush of love pushed questions about Jack into the background. He hadn’t thought things through properly.
