The Yoga Zapper--A Novel, page 8
“We look not just at people’s nuclear DNA,” explained the doctor, “but also at the mitochondrial DNA. Actually, we don’t examine the entire mitochondrial DNA chain when comparing members of a population—we look at a just string of several thousand DNA sequences which we call the control region. So when comparing the control regions of the population, several DNA characteristics or mutations occur at certain points.” Jack shook his head. The scientific jargon escaped him.
“Think of the entire mitochondrial DNA of a person as a huge rope, a mile long. The control region is one small part of the entire rope, maybe ten or twenty feet long. Then imagine that on this part of the rope are thousands of knots; black, red, green or blue. Now suppose we take the same small piece of rope from each person in the population and compare them, we notice certain mutations or characteristics appearing in the same places on all the ropes.”
“So you are saying there is something wrong with my genes?”
“Not at all. Mutations showing up in different places are not of concern. They happen all the time. What it does mean is that the locations of your mutations don’t match any others in our entire population. You are an absolutely unique specimen! In fact, you are not related to anyone in the whole world!” The doctor bubbled with excitement. He took a few minutes to gather his breath.
“You have no idea how you ended up in Kallington?”
Jack shook his head uneasily.
“You didn’t just appear out of thin air, did you?”
Jack again mutely shook his head. “I…I don’t know.” He sensed a change in the doctor’s mood. He didn’t know the goal of this line of questioning and he didn’t like it.
“Where were you born?”
Jack concentrated, but nothing came to mind.
“Where did you live your entire life?”
Again, Jack wagged his head. The anxiety in his stomach heaved.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“I have no idea who I am,” Jack blurted. What am I doing, he immediately wondered. Why am I answering their questions?
The doctor straightened himself. “This is a matter of utmost concern for national security,” he stated gravely. “We have to report this to the chief of police.”
It instantly occurred to Jack that he was completely at the mercy of these people. The interrogation made it painfully clear that he remained alone, very alone, in a situation that had spun out of control. The anxiety turned to panic.
“No! No!” he yelled. “Let me go! Let me go!” He thrashed violently in his gurney.
“Control him,” demanded the doctor.
The technician ran up and stabbed Jack with a needle. Within seconds, Jack’s eyes closed, his awareness quickly disappearing.
Chapter Eleven
Village of Mahavan, End of Satya Yuga
“What is your name?” enquired Steve in Sanskrit. “And where am I?”
The old man’s eyes widened. “My name is Parvata Rishi and you’re in the village of Mahavan. Where did you learn our language?”
“It was part of my studies.”
The old man smiled appreciatively.
“I’m looking for my brother,” blurted Steve. “He’s tall, has black hair and blue eyes. I…I need to talk to him immediately. Have you seen him?”
“Slow down,” laughed the old man. “Let’s eat. Then we’ll talk.”
Steve sighed. What could he say about the guilt he felt for his angry words, about the promise made to his mother to take care of Jack? Rushing served no purpose. The answers would appear soon enough. Yet, Steve felt pleased to hear the Sanskrit. His studies, after all, came to some use!
“Come, follow me,” instructed the rishi.
They walked to the sandy beach and sat on a long white, cotton cloth, set in front of rough, unglazed, brown clay dishes. Several earthen cups and bowls completed the set.
“Shanti,” called Parvata Rishi, looking at a nearby hut. “Our guest is here.”
A young woman wearing a deep blue sari, the color of the fathomless horizon, partly draped over her head so as to hide her face, stepped out of the door. She neatly balanced several brass bowls, one on top of another, on her left hip and, in her right hand, clutched a large porous clay pot filled with cool water. One by one, she planted the containers on the sand and with a ladle, heaped rice and several varieties of cooked vegetables and legumes in the middle of their plates and poured sweet water from the pot into the terracotta cups.
“Please meet my daughter Shanti,” said Parvata Rishi. A young woman in the prime of youth, she displayed slender arms and unblemished skin the color of freshly-pressed, golden olive oil. The silver border of her sari framed jet-black hair curling above her forehead, running behind her ears and falling loose and long on her back. Her cheeks glowed a subtle pink and large green eyes shone through dark eyelashes. A delicate necklace of bright red coral graced her elongated neck and large fish-shaped gold earrings adorned her ears. Her breasts, though small, clung full and firm on her strong, yet supple, frame. The freshness, the special bloom, of a maiden just entering womanhood glistened on her face and body.
“Hello,” he mumbled. “My name is Steve.”
She flashed a perfect white smile. Steve couldn’t remove his gaze from the limpid green pools of her eyes. Shanti noticed his obvious stare and smiled innocently. Determined not to make a fool of himself, he forced his attention on his plate and quietly relished the sweet natural taste of the fresh foodstuffs.
After eating, the two men got up and walked towards the lotus pond while Shanti transported the empty containers back to the hut.
“I was talking about our village, but actually,” clarified the rishi, pointing to the trees on the other side of the river, “Mahavan refers to the great woodland surrounding us.”
“Yes, I observed the forest from the hill,” Steve stated. “How big is it?”
“It extends all the way to the mountains to the north, a full month’s journey by foot. It is the domain of the Jantu, the non-human citizens of this land. Two other forests are associated with this village—one is the Shrivan, the Forest of Plenty, composed of fruit and medicinal trees, planted, taken care of and used by members of this community and the other is the Tapovan, the Forest of Austerities, where yogis and rishis meditate peacefully in hidden places. No one disturbs its environment in any way as tampering with the natural order of things would disrupt the meditation of the sages. We truly are forest dwellers.”
Steve waited for a few moments. “What about my brother?”
The rishi stopped. “I have a few questions. Did you come from Kali Yuga?”
“Yes.”
“You are in Satya Yuga. Actually, I’m surprised you even traveled from Kali yuga!”
“Why?”
“Because Kali Yuga is full of anxiety, forgetfulness, and discord. One cannot have good consciousness in that age.”
“What makes this age so peaceful? Is it your simple lives?”
“Simple living is a symptom of Satya Yuga, not the cause. Actually, the nature of time itself is different.” Steve stared back blankly.
Parvata Rishi lifted his arm and pointed to the river. “Look at this river. See how it runs from the mountains down to the forest. Up there, its waters are clear and clean, but flowing down the hills, the current picks up innumerable grains of sand, clots of dirt and pieces of wood. You look at the current here and imagine it’s clean, but hidden inside are large quantities of impurities. By the time it enters the ocean, it is heavy, dark, and swollen with residue. Like this mountain stream, time starts out fresh and pure but slowly, imperceptibly, picks up impurities until finally, it too becomes heavy and dark.”
Steve reflected a moment. “What do you mean by impurities?”
“Let me explain it another way. All things require a medium, something against which to act. When we walk, our feet push against the ground. Stars move within the medium of the firmament. We are engaged in thousands of actions every day. It is impossible to be inactive. So tell me the medium in which actions take place.” Steve shook his head silently, his forehead creased questioningly.
“Actions take place, one after another, in the medium of time. We know this by the symptom of actions, namely, reactions.”
“That makes sense.”
“Understand that when time is fresh, fewer reactions lie embedded, dormant, in it. Satya Yuga is the beginning age where time is ‘cleaner’ or ‘fresher.’ As the yugas pass, more karmic reactions accumulate until finally, in Kali Yuga, time resembles a dark, impenetrable river filled with silt, rocks, fallen trees and other dangerous objects.”
“I understand your analogy,” replied Steve. “But does it truly work that way?”
“Come. I’ll show you.”
They walked to the edge of the pond and stared into its clear waters. Parvata Rishi picked up a small pebble and dropped it into the liquid. Steve watched it sink, reaching the bottom, nestling into the river-bed.
“Imagine this pebble to be your karma. Look how clearly it is seen at the bottom of the pool. In other words, when engaged in an action, the consequences are easy to understand.”
The rishi picked up a stick, reached into the waters and stirred the sand and mud. The water immediately clouded and debris swirled around the stone.
“In clear water it is easy to pick up the pebble. In cloudy waters, you will never find it even if it belongs to you. Satya Yuga allows us to delve deeply into the study of reactions to one’s actions—that is, karma—as time is not burdened with the cloudiness of un-manifested reactions. In Kali Yuga, the atmosphere, dense with karmic reactions, renders it almost impossible to understand these laws.”
The explanation made perfect sense. Not just intellectually, but his entire body was ridding itself of years, of lifetimes, of accumulated anxieties. His very bones shouted out these lessons.
“How did you learn these things?”
“By the practice of austerities and by renunciation, I withdrew my attachment to this world. The path of the yogi is like one of these lotuses, being of this world, yet detached from it. Natural insight is a part of life in this age. Floating above the current, I see the flow of the river downstream. That is why I am called a rishi, a seer.”
“What does this mean for my brother? How can we discover what’s happening to Jack?”
The rishi arched his eyebrows. “By controlling one’s mind and senses. This is called tapasya, or austerity.”
“And how do you do that?”
“Come. I will show you.”
As they walked, Shanti joined them. Steve noticed her curious glances. He must quite be a sight with his pale skin, light hair, and dark brown eyes. He measured her. Of good height, she came up to his shoulders. The sari fell around her neck, revealing dark hair draping behind her. A small garland of jasmine flowers crowned her head and tucked itself behind her ears. To say that she looked beautiful and exotic did not do justice to her grace and femininity. He withdrew his glance and kept his eyes downcast, listening to their soft steps as they passed the two trees at the entrance to the temple’s courtyard, where the villagers practiced yoga.
“To access this knowledge requires concentration and study,” the rishi said. “It is a very subtle science. Kali Yuga is characterized by anxiety, hurry, and divided aims, where peacefulness, a requisite for the study of spiritual topics, is sorely lacking. In Satya Yuga, however, meditation is much easier due to time’s peaceful condition. Here, the science of the yoga is truly well developed.
“Our long lives allow for the intense practice of yoga and meditation, the true dharma, that is, the innate occupation for all human beings of this age. The capacity for meditation exists in every age, but the process is very difficult to access. It can be safely said that meditation and yoga exist only in shadow outside of Satya Yuga.”
They found a peaceful spot under one of the trees in the temple compound. The rishi sat down in padmasana, the lotus pose. Steve followed his example.
“Please teach me yoga,” requested Steve.
“Where did you come from?”
“From America.”
“And what language do you speak there?”
“English.”
“Okay,” said the rishi, with a gleam in his eyes. “Teach me this Eengliz and I will teach you yoga.”
Steve laughed. “That’s a deal.”
“Come meditate. Practice withdrawing your senses from the objects of the senses. This is the way to understand karma.”
Steve glanced over at Shanti. Already deep in concentration, she showed herself an old hand at the practice.
Parvata Rishi tapped him lightly on his shoulder. “Come. Do as I do.”
Steve turned his head and closed his eyes. Controlling his breath, he withdrew into himself.
* * * * *
Parvata Rishi arranged for Steve to spend the night at his hut. A low cot, on which lay a cushion of cut grass covered with a clean cloth, furnished Steve’s small room. He fell asleep easily and awoke next morning just at dawn, completely refreshed. The calls of parrots, swallows and doves filled the air as rays of light streamed from the eastern horizon. Despite the early morning, just a touch of coolness tinged the pleasant weather. The ground, fresh and damp, emanated a fragrant, earthy scent; a product of the night rains. Shanti hung a fresh set of dhoti and kurta on a nearby branch as Steve took his morning bath with buckets drawn from a sweet-water well, under a canopy of mango trees, behind the thin walls of a rattan blind. He dressed and greeted his benefactors at their dwelling.
“Good morning,” announced Steve
“Namaste,” replied the rishi, with closed palms.
“When did you get up?”
“Since well before sunrise,” said Parvata Rishi. “The early brahma muhurtha hours are the best time for spiritual practices.”
They strode to the temple where the villagers had already congregated for the arti ceremony, and with sweet, melodious voices greeted the Deities with a gentle and contemplative early-morning kirtan. After the ceremony, they proceeded toward the banyan tree. A three-foot high earthen platform surrounded the main trunk and Parvata Rishi climbed and sat on it with legs crossed. Following Shanti’s lead, Steve sat on the ground in front of the rishi, taking notes in his small pocket notebook.
“Today, we will discuss the upcoming pilgrimage,” announced the rishi. “But before starting, let me introduce our young visitor. His name is Steven Goode and he’s staying at my ashram.”
Steve clasped his palms against each other and saying ‘Namaste,’ bowed his head slightly towards the crowd. The men, mostly young, and the women, robust and handsome, glowed in the best of health. Those with children tended their young ones near the pond.
“Satya Yuga will draw to a close shortly,” continued Parvata Rishi. “Already, we see omens of this. Our bodies suffer from shortness of breath, our memories are not as quick and sometimes we even forget, however momentarily, the goal of life. We live in the highest form of human society, but change will come. Those wishing to remain immersed in Satya Yuga civilization must prepare for the journey ahead. In about one month’s time, sages from many parts of the world will gather at a valley in the faraway mountains to perform a great yajna.”
Steve knotted his eyebrows. Parvata Rishi spoke of Satya Yuga as a highly advanced civilization, yet he saw only thatched huts and a simple way of life. What did the rishi mean?
The rishi discussed the pilgrimage individual responsibilities, the daily routine, and the best route to take through the forest and the hills. Upon this, the villagers engaged in an animated discussion.
Steve glanced at Shanti. The morning sun, shimmering over the horizon, threw an orange hue on her hair. It warmed her golden cheeks and cast fire in her emerald eyes. She noticed him and smiled girlishly. Steve acknowledged her and smiled back. How much of her is a woman, he wondered, and how much of her still an adolescent?
The rishi got up and bowed. “Tomorrow, we will discuss further the preparations for the pilgrimage, due to start next week.”
The villagers dispersed and Parvata Rishi, Shanti and Steve made their way home. Shanti went inside and brought a plate of fresh fruit for breakfast. They all sat on the ground and ate.
“Yesterday, you mentioned that people here lead long lives?” asked Steve.
“Yes,” stated the rishi. “A person’s lifespan in Satya Yuga is about a hundred thousand years.”
Steve’s eyes widened. He glanced at Shanti. “And how old are you?”
She grimaced. “I’m only eighteen thousand, eight hundred and twenty-one years old.”
The rishi smiled. “Shanti is a very special young woman with a really interesting origin.” Steve straightened up and looked expectantly.
“I never married,” continued the rishi, “and I never asked God for anything other than to serve Him. In my youth, I spent many thousands of years in Tapovan, practicing meditation and undergoing great penances. To have darshan, the blessing of seeing God Himself in person, remains my greatest desire to this day. I don’t know if it will ever happen but, if it does, it will be only due to His mercy. I spent my youth and middle age living alone in the forest, eating and drinking only what God saw fit to give me, controlling my breath so as to inhale only once every two days.”
Steve’s eyes widened at the narrative. Amazing, beyond comprehension, but yet, from everything he saw so far in Satya Yuga, totally believable.
“I spent over twenty-five thousand years this way. One day, in a small clearing in the forest, I found a Tamal tree with a large black trunk and long light green leaves, taller and handsomer than any other, as if placed there by an unseen force, for some unknown purpose. The tree, so singular and enchanting, distracted me from my meditation. Circling it, I discovered a large natural opening in its trunk and from inside came the sound of a baby crying. Curious, I discovered within a little baby girl swathed in delicate, heavenly, clothing—garments impossible for human hands to produce.
