The Yoga Zapper--A Novel, page 30
Parvata Rishi walked to the front of the community. Come, great heroes,” he announced, pointing to them. Before they could move, Hanuman ran forward, grabbed the two brothers with strong arms and hoisted them on his broad, right shoulder and deposited Shanti on his left. The community applauded and showered them with flower petals.
Jack examined the smiling faces of the cheering men, women, and children, feeling completely unworthy of their adulation. These simple people made far greater sacrifices than he ever did. Every one of them lost a son, a daughter, a father or mother. They had trekked through miles of harsh terrain, over endless mountains and caves just to get to Shambala. They remained the great personalities; they carried in their hearts and in their sadhana the secrets of Yoga and the Vedas. They would reestablish spiritual culture in the coming age, whereas he only destroyed some paltry installation. Tears moistened his eyes. He reflected on the irony praise usually goes to those who least deserve it and comes from those who most earn it.
Hanuman, roaring with happiness and pride, brought them in front of Parvata Rishi and, lifting them off his shoulders, dropped them on their feet.
“Brave warriors,” shouted the monkey king. “All three of you deserve the greatest honor we can give. You have saved Shambala!” The rishi embraced them and in his hands he held three garlands fashioned of beautiful blue, yellow and red wildflowers from Shambala’s forests.
“Come,” he said, motioning to Steve and Shanti. They stepped ahead and reverently lowered their heads. The rishi slipped garlands over their necks.
He motioned to Jack. “Now you come.” The final garland adorned his neck.
Jack shook his head. “My dear Rishi,” he started, speaking in passable Sanskrit, “I am completely unworthy of your praise. I have led a useless life and done all manners of sinful things. So many heroes greater than me exist, like those brave young men who accompanied my brother and me to the moon, who gave their lives so we may all be saved, and all of you who lost a loved one in this war. You are the real heroes.” Tears flooded the eyes of the villagers as they remembered their terrible losses.
“One more thing,” said the rishi. “Let us honor not just the living, but also the dead.” He paused. “From both sides.”
Jack felt nonplussed. “You mean the enemy?”
“Of course,” said the Avatar, joining the conversation. “All of them. The enemy soldiers, the Raks, the generals, and even Kallin.”
“How can you say that,” retorted Jack, his hackles raised. “That man created so much destruction, so much pain, so much death!”
“All souls are equally precious to me, even Kallin’s. From the perspective of this life only, you see a very evil man. But I see all of his lives, just as I see all of yours. From my point of view, from the point of view of the absolute, I see the world as a stage, with actors from both sides. But the real world is the spiritual world, not this one. There is no doubt that Kallin is a very evil man and he will pay the price for that. He will have to work through his karma, but in the end, his soul’s place is in the spiritual world as are all others. No enmity, no quarrels, occur there. All souls in the spiritual world exist only in loving relationships with the Supreme Lord. God doesn’t play favorites. To him, all are equal.”
Jack nodded his head. It made sense. “I need to do one more thing.” He turned to the rishi. “Can I have a blank piece of parchment?”
“Of course,” replied the old man, surprised. Jack tore the page in half, picked up a piece of charcoal from the cooking fire and started sketching. Steve looked at him curiously as the rest of the community gathered around.
“This is Maya,” said Jack, hanging the portrait on a tree branch. He removed the garland from his neck and placed it around her picture. He winced, remembering the hurts, the betrayals and the sexual games he played that brought pain to both of them. The arrogance, the bitterness, the regret, the wounding passions—he had enough of it.
Jack took the other parchment and, with fingers moving quickly, drew the outline of another woman. Steve eyes knotted questioningly. He stared as the sketching filled with detail, until it showed the familiar curls, the warm eyes and the round glasses. Jack got up, found a stump and rested the portrait of his mother on it.
Then a wonderful thing happened. The other villagers brought out their own parchments. Soon, small portraits of loved ones adorned tree stumps, hung from branches or stood on stone surfaces.
Steve took his garland and invited Jack to place it around their mother. It encircled the portrait and hung in front on the stump. The rest of the community came by and, one by one, offered a petal, a blossom, or a flowery vine to the memorial.
Jack stopped and wiped his eyes. “Mom, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and I always will. I never had a chance to say bye to you. But I want to tell you that I always loved you and that you will always be with me. And I hope that I will become the man you always wanted me to be.”
Epilogue
Shambala, Beginning of Satya Yuga
For several months, Jack and the remaining survivors of the terrible war struggled with their sadness not just for their fellow travelers but for all the victims on both sides. The few dozen of them were the only humans left on the planet. Every single other person—whether villager, Rak, soldier, monkey, bear, Hero and even Kallin himself—went to the other side where no earthly differences are remembered.
A great sadness descended upon them and during the customary morning gatherings under the trees, many recited heart-rending stories of loss. Steve’s eyes moistened upon hearing the agony of bereaved parents and separated lovers. Shanti joined him, her eyes wet, with great despondency in her heart. But also, tales of countless heroic deeds, of supreme sacrifices and unparalleled bravery were recounted. The elders remained stoic, knowing the material world to be a place of suffering, where none escape death, but their hearts still grieved for the young ones. Yet, the end of the war brought relief.
Kalki Avatar, Hanuman, and their companions left soon after the war’s end. The small band of survivors became broken-hearted upon the departure of their kind benefactors and protectors. Jack felt especially sad to see Hanuman go. He came to appreciate the loyal monkey’s valor and devotion. But the Avatar’s work on this planet had ended and he traveled to another place, in this universe or another, always engaged in his lilas, his eternal pastimes. The survivors offered prayers and fire yajnas for their dear departed ones and offered penances for their benefit. Yet, sadness remained.
* * * * *
But the sun rose every day and life had to go on. It was, after all, the nature of reality that all things must pass and, after many months, the sorrow dissipated. The earth, refreshed, sprouted grasses, flowers, and trees. Jack wandered through the pastures, letting go of hurry and anxiety, savoring the aroma of the renewed land. The guilt and despondency he felt about Maya’s death slowly lifted as Satya Yuga gently poured its benevolent waters over him and, while it removed the self-loathing, it also helped him see clearly his follies and his responsibility in the heartbreaking affair. He learnt well his hard lessons. The karmic aspects of his actions became clear and he determined to never again put himself or others in a similar situation.
He imbibed the spiritual practices of yoga and meditation, of living in the moment, of doing his duty and leaving the results to a greater power. The seasons changed and the earth, with the burden of sinful men and their karma lifted from her breast, once again became a happy place. As Satya Yuga began, it brought with it longevity, peace, and contentment.
The residents of Shambala smiled again, joyful and satisfied to live in their intimate spiritual community, taking care of each other in their simple, sweet lives. They re-established their rituals—those of waking at the brahma muhurta hour, yoga, meditation, japa and puja, performing their duties, gathering wood, cooking and singing the evening kirtans—finding in this both solace and structure. It helped them endure their pain and loss and brought them back to the present.
* * * * *
Finally, the day arrived when the community moved on. Parvata Rishi consulted his sacred books and on the day the constellations provided their benign blessings, the young members of the community got married. The beautiful spring day sparkled beautifully, the sun rose high, the firmament shone a perfect blue and a soft wind caressed the faces of those gathered for the ceremony.
Twelve young couples, each from a different community, representing the different peoples from all parts of the earth, gathered for their weddings. They sat around the havan, chanted mantras, cast grains into the sacred fire, circumambulated the flames and promised the seven great vows that all wedded couples make.
Jack observed his brother and his sister-in-law. Shanti looked impossibly radiant. The sun sparkled on her hair and her face glowed golden. She wore a red sari and adorned her hair with scented blue blooms from Shambala’s forest. The flower of womanhood blossomed into a fullness and freshness that shimmered on her face and on her body. Steve stood next to her and when the time came for husband and wife to circumambulate the sacred fire, tied the end of her sari to his white dhoti. As they strode around the fire repeating their vows, Lakshmi Devi, the goddess of material and spiritual abundance appeared in eight forms above. Each of these four-armed female divinities sat on large white lotuses, circled a hundred feet in the air above the yajna, and sprinkled flower petals on them and the other lucky couples. Steve and Shanti looked up and tendered their respects to the heavenly guests with palms pressed together before offering their obeisances to Jack.
“Good going!” he declared. “Congratulations!”
Shanti looked a bit young. Jack made her out to be eighteen at the most but, obviously being meant for each other, the age difference would only narrow after time. And none could deny their love. Steve would make a good father—he had that sense of duty, that sense of loyalty.
He viewed the rishi. Mischief sparkled in the old man’s eyes. What joke, what piece of humor crossed the old man’s mind? Parvata Rishi caught Jack’s eyes for just a second, long enough for the secret to be transmitted.
Of course! Jack realized it right away. “Wait a minute! None of this happened by chance, did it? That I ended up in Kali Yuga? That Steve got married?”
“No, it didn’t,” admitted the sage laughing. “It took me some time to realize it, but now it’s perfectly clear. There’s no doubt that Steve’s destiny is to be a Prajapati.”
“What is a Prajapati?”
“A Prajapati is a progenitor. At the beginning of every Satya Yuga, several Prajapatis are necessary to repopulate the earth. All these young couples you see here are Prajapatis for this age.”
Steve’s jaw dropped. “How long have you known my destiny?”
“I wondered about my daughter’s future for a long while. I prayed for a suitable husband and when you appeared in Satya Yuga and the two of you fell in love, I have to admit, it surprised me. So many other fine young men live in our village and in the neighboring ones. Yet God found it in His desire to send you. Certainly, you will make a fine husband for my daughter and a good father for your children.”
“That’s how I ended up here!”
“Yes,” said the rishi, still smiling roguishly. “We can say, truly, that you are a divinely chosen couple.”
“And we…we’re going to have children?”
Shanti interrupted. “Yes,” she revealed, clasping his hands excitedly, “we’ll have nine thousand, four hundred and eighty sons!”
“Nine thousand, four hundred and eighty sons!” gasped Steve.
“And they’ll all look like you,” she exclaimed happily.
“And how many daughters?” asked Jack.
She screwed up her face with disappointment. “Only three thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven.”
“How are you going to find the time to do all this?” asked Jack, laughing.
Steve turned red.
Parvata Rishi answered. “This is Satya Yuga. One can easily live for a hundred thousand years. My dear son-in-law, your descendants will inherit the earth. This is your destiny.”
Steve looked stunned, unable to fathom what had just happened. Jack watched his brother walk away with his bride. Though utterly charmed by Shanti’s sweetness and modesty, he himself felt in no way touched. No thoughts of marriage or even women entered his mind. How empty were the glories of the flesh! He wished his brother the best, but his path lay in a different direction.
“And what about me?" he questioned. “By what design did I end up here?’
“You were a surprise,” admitted the old man candidly. “I never had an inkling of your showing up. But I have studied you carefully and now realize who you are.”
“Who?”
“My dear son, you have a great destiny ahead of you. You are the incarnation of Gautama Rishi, one of the greatest rishis who ever lived. Your arrival here is of great auspiciousness.”
“Me, an incarnation of a rishi? How is that possible? I was born in America.” He swung his arm around. “I had no knowledge of any of this.”
The rishi nodded. “At first, it perplexed me. But our understanding is insignificant compared to that of the Divine. Your destiny is to become a great yogi and you will be known in history as one of the carriers of yoga to the next Satya Yuga. Just as I am, for this age.”
Jack’s head spun. “I don’t know if I can believe any of this. It’s too far-fetched!”
“Don’t worry, it will be revealed to you in time.”
“Now that your daughter is married, what will you do?” Jack asked, already knowing the answer. He felt a kinship with this old man. After all, despite the age difference, nothing of family, of material life, remained for them.
“I’ll pick up my solitary spiritual practices again. It is what I’ve always wanted to do but since accepting the responsibility of taking care of my daughter, something I had to put aside. I’m very grateful for Shanti. I’ve learned a lot from her. But from now on, sadhana will be my sole occupation.”
He pointed to a cave high in the hills. “I will spend the rest of my days there, engaged in yoga and meditation.” Jack regarded Parvata Rishi with great affection. His kind, fatherly expression left him no doubt that he wanted to spend the rest of his days in his company. He bent down on his knees once again.
“Can you please teach me?” he requested. “I really want to understand who I am. I need your spiritual instruction.”
The rishi smiled. “You are welcome to come with me, my son. I am your spiritual father. When I pass away, you will carry on for me. That,” he chuckled, “is my destiny.” He lifted Jack up by his arm. The old man and the new renunciate walked slowly up the path toward their place of meditation.
“Come,” said the old man, “let us practice yoga.”
The End
The Story Behind the Yoga Zapper
The legend of Shambala is well known in the East, whether in India, China or other oriental countries. James Hilton, in his travels in the Orient, came across the legend of ancient beings with extremely long living in a hidden place in the Himalayas, and subsequently wrote Lost Horizon, mentioning Shangri-La, a variation of the original Sanskrit word.
Several years ago I came across a book titled On the Way to Shambala, written by Dr. Edwin Bernbaum, who holds a doctorate in Asian Studies from the University of California at Berkeley. He writes about visiting a Buddhist temple in Nepal and coming across a scripture which described a passage to the mythical valley. Intrigued, he requested a couple of the monks from the shrine to accompany him on a journey of discovery. They followed the instructions contained in the text and after a month-long trek, after crossing seven ranges of mountains, came across a perfectly hidden valley.
He describes descending into this beautiful valley, with its pristine forests and a small river running through it. His guides confirmed that this was, indeed, Shambala. He enquired as to why he didn’t see any sages mediating under its trees and was informed by the monks that, they were there indeed, but he didn’t have the spiritual vision to see them.
In my studies as a Hindu Vaishnava priest, I had previously learnt of this legend in a scripture named the Srimad Bhagavatam (also known as the Bhagavat Purana) which mentions Shambala in connection with a larger story that of the degradation of humanity at the end of Kali Yuga, the appearance of the tenth avatar of Vishnu named Kalki, and his role in defeating the forces of evil at that time.
In my conversations with yoga practitioners, I sensed a deep curiosity about the traditional narratives of yoga. Yoga is not just a grounded physical practice (though it can be taken as just that,) or a deep spiritual philosophy (which adds depth to the practice,) but also has its own legends and mythic origin stories—a view of humanity's future (and past), of society’s moral evolution and a view of yoga's own rise, diminution, demise and eventual rebirth—all wrapped up in an exciting and engrossing tale.
The narrative has all the elements of a potboiler—a dystopian future, deep spirituality, yogis meditating for uncountable years, fantastical weapons, flying vimanas and a great war between the forces of good and evil at the end of time.
The idea of presenting this engaging story to the modern reader by way of a page-turning fantasy novel immediately came to me. The key was not just to recite the ancient legends, but to let them be seen through the eyes of modern protagonists who would not only have their own engaging stories to tell, but also act as the eyes and ears for the western audience.
I have tried to be as authentic to the original scriptures as possible. The Srimad Bhagavatam describes the end of Kali Yuga in detail as a cannibalistic society with a wicked world ruler, deformed Rakshasas, environmental degradation, and oppressive taxation. The characters (except for those taken from scripture such as Kalki Avatar and Hanuman, among others) and the plot are my inventions, but rest is not; they are the product of many years of study of the original sources.
