The Yoga Zapper--A Novel, page 9
“I wondered who would leave this baby in the Tapovan forest, the domain of only those existing outside of human society—the sadhus, that is, the renunciates and the wild animals. I picked up the baby and to my surprise, saw clasped in each palm, a single leaf from the holy Tulasi plant. The little baby’s special origin became immediately clear.”
Steve glanced at the young woman sitting next to him. Could this be true? He shook his head.
“As I stood, a vision appeared,” continued the rishi. “An apsara, a most beautiful divine angel, with pale green skin the color of spring’s first shoots, hovered in the air above, her honey eyes shimmering in the lustrous sunlight, dressed in the same opaque, yet glistening, saffron cloth as the baby. Her dark, red hair floated behind her in the sapphire sky and with perfect limbs and delicate hands, she greeted me with palms pressed together. A large golden bindi adorned her forehead, diamonds and emeralds from the heavenly planets decorated her lovely neck and the words she spoke poured into my ears like honeyed poetry. The apsara informed me that the infant belonged to her and requested me to take care of it. Upon maturity, she revealed, this baby girl would bring me great honor and be the mother of numerous brave and renounced sons as well as several chaste and beautiful daughters. Saying this, she disappeared.
“The sweet little baby looked at me, smiled, and held out her arms. I hesitated on taking the responsibility. After all, as a renunciate, I’d grown extremely attached to my spiritual practices. Then I understood it as God’s desire, since this baby came to me without my personally wanting her. She arrived, I realized, to teach me things that my tapasya hadn’t, and raising her would also be a sadhana, a spiritual practice. Since then, I’ve lived in this village and my wonderful daughter has grown into a young woman as beautiful, as charming, as her heavenly mother.”
Steve stopped and collected his thoughts. The story astonished him but, yet, Shanti’s angelic parentage seemed entirely believable. He glanced at her. She draped the sari over her head and looked shyly away. Within this timid young woman, poised uncertainly at the threshold of womanhood, lay some unknown power, a future that he could hardly guess. Like the delicate flower which produces the seeds of mighty trees, none could deny neither her origin nor her destiny. He suddenly became self-conscious. I’m Steve, he thought, good old Steve, just a plain-spoken mid-western boy from Kansas City, wherever that may be now, a son of the good, strong, unpretentious soil of the American heartland. He breathed deeply and turned his eyes to the old man.
“I have a question from your speech this morning.”
“Go ahead,” urged the rishi.
“You described this as a very advanced civilization. But I don’t see any modern technologies, such as electricity or telephones.”
“Ah!” uttered the old man. “Then tell me the goal of human civilization.”
Steve pondered the question for a few moments. “I suppose civilization’s goal is to create things to make life easier, longer and happier for everybody.”
“Hmm,” said Parvata Rishi. He slowly shook his head. “My son, the goal of human society is not to increase wants. We can invent ever more clever machines, creating ever more things for consumption, but human desires have no end. That’s the danger in serving the body and the senses. Where will it end? The real goal of human life is centered on knowledge of the eternal self, not the mortal body. If one truly understands who one is, all other types of knowledge become secondary.”
The old man stared deeply into the horizon. His face turned dark and grave, lost in a faraway gaze. “In the future, human beings will move from a simple, spiritual culture connected to all things to a complex, materialistic one which is oriented towards self-centered desires. In fact, so much so, that we may destroy our very life-giving earth.”
A strange feeling overcame Steve. The rishi, though present in body, was absent in spirit. He had a sudden insight. The old man gazed not into the heavens, but far, far into the future, looking over the river of time and observing its flow, centuries and centuries from now. His statements were not mere thoughts, but factual observations. The thought chilled Steve. He shivered and took a deep breath. “I have to ask you something about my brother.”
Parvata Rishi turned back his gaze. Shanti pulled the border of her sari even more fully over her head, hiding her face completely, and picked up the empty plates and strolled back to the hut.
“Yes,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“I don’t know what to do. Jack could be anywhere, even at the end of Kali Yuga. Can you tell where he is? You are a rishi, after all.”
The old man took his time. “Even though I see the future in a broad sense, I cannot trace the movements and destinies of individual persons without deeply examining their accumulated karma. It is a subtle science. This takes time.”
“So karma is individual and personal?”
“Yes. It requires a concentrated study of the person involved.”
“Can I do something?” inquired Steve.
“You would be the best one to gain realizations about your brother. After all, you’re closest to him. The knowledge of karma is not gained from the study of books, but by deep internal meditation and a purified consciousness. It is not a mathematical formula solved with pencil and paper, but an answer revealed in the heart. It is already within you. Because of your familiarity, you will best reckon your brother’s whereabouts. When the time comes, you will know.”
“And how long will that be? I need to know as soon as possible.”
“Satya Yuga’s effects and the practice of yoga and meditation will purify your consciousness. That takes some time and until then, you won’t know. Your brother may not only be in any time period, but also in any country. The realm of possibilities is almost endless. So you have to look within.”
“What if he’s at the end of Kali Yuga?” questioned Steve, hesitantly.
“That would pose some difficulties. Kali Yuga is characterized by the lessening of intelligence and memory. It is the age of forgetfulness. It is a dangerous and difficult place.”
“What can I do?”
“Since your brother may be almost anywhere, I suggest you join us on the pilgrimage. At our destination, we will meet many great spiritual personalities from all over the world and perhaps one will have news about your brother. As well, your consciousness may be clarified enough by the time we finish the pilgrimage that you will locate your brother by yourself.”
Steve nodded. The rishi’s proposal made far more sense than any alternative. He directed his attention toward the hut, hearing Shanti sweeping the floor. Going on pilgrimage would allow him to spend more time with the rishi and his daughter. The plan definitely had its merits.
Chapter Twelve
Central Prison, End of Kali Yuga
Two policemen dragged Jack, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, into an office occupying a corner suite on Central Prison’s top floor and deposited him in a chair in front of a figure sitting behind a hefty executive desk. On it sat a sign reading ‘General Contog—Chief of Police.’ They removed his handcuffs, saluted the general, and walked out.
A big bay window, behind the desk, facing Jack, looked over cloudy skies. Dark brown tile floors, walls painted a utilitarian white, a gray glass cabinet built into the left wall and pictures of the general with various important-looking figures hanging on the right wall completed the large but sparse office. The clock on the wall read eleven-thirty in the morning and a nondescript, red rug lay under his chair. Despite the lights built into the ceiling, the office appeared drab, even dark.
Jack felt dazed, disheveled. The general pressed a button on his desk and a low hum filled the room. He opened a bottom drawer, pulled out a small red tablet computer, quickly snapped Jack’s photo, punched in some commands, immediately returned and locked it up. He walked over and peered directly into Jack’s eyes.
With rough brown skin creased like broken sandpaper, the general’s face featured bushy eyebrows, piercing dark eyes, a sharp nose, a wide chin and a shaven head. Of medium height, he wore a blue uniform with three stars on each epaulet and his blue pants, with a vertical gold stripe down each leg, were pressed crisp and straight. His thick black shoes shone brightly. He looked to be in his fifties, but displayed a strong chest and a clear, steady gaze. General Contog carried himself with strength, determination and vigor, yet with cunning, cruelty, and ambition. His face told the story of a man who scratched and clawed his way from the bottom to the top, and of all the scars that came with that climb.
“Who are you?” demanded the general. Again the same question.
“I don’t know.”
General Contog punched another button on the desk. Images appeared in the air; some sort of report. Swiping his fingers on the images, he went from page to page. “This is the report from the DNA identification unit,” he said. “You have no DNA implant, there are no records of you in the database and more than that, you’re a unique genetic specimen.” Jack shrugged his shoulders. The general walked over, suddenly bent down, put his arms on the chair and looked directly into Jack’s eyes.
“Are you a rebel?”
“What?” asked Jack, his eyes showing bewilderment.
“Are you a rebel?” shouted Contog, his eyes blazing, his face only a few inches away. Jack’s heart thumped loudly in his chest.
“No!”
Contog straightened himself and walked around for a few moments. “Have you ever visited the ancient ruins?”
“Ancient ruins?” questioned Jack, his eyes blank.
The General strode back to the desk and peered again at the report. “So you really don’t know anything, do you?”
“No. Please believe me, I don’t know anything.” Anxiety cut into him like a sharp knife.
“You’re a real conundrum. You pose both an opportunity and a liability.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know if you were sent here by the rebels. If so, you’re a liability.”
“But I don’t know anything about a rebellion,” protested Jack.
“That is why you pose a unique challenge,” replied Contog. “Your ignorance doesn’t mean that the rebels aren’t using you. The fact that you can’t be traced back to them makes you their best bet to infiltrate us.” The general paused. “However, you also represent a great opportunity. You can be of use to us.”
“In what way?”
“Don’t worry about that,” replied the chief of police, with a thin smile on his lips. The telephone rang.
“Please hold for President Kallin,” announced a voice on the other end. The general stood at attention.
“General!” shouted a male voice at the other end. The speech sounded gruff, almost guttural—a voice like black Turkish coffee with unfiltered French cigarettes. It raised the hair on the back of Jack’s neck.
“Yes, sir,” replied Contog, saluting the phone’s monitor.
“At ease, General,” commanded the voice. The general relaxed. “Do you have the electronic jamming device on?”
“Yes, sir. Standard interrogation procedure.” He pressed a button on his desk. The low hum disappeared.
“Who do you have?” demanded Kallin.
“I have a prisoner here. Shall I have him removed so we can talk in private?”
“Of course.”
Contog called the policemen. They entered and escorted Jack out.
“What’s this about your boys capturing a rebel not in our database?”
“He may be a rebel, or maybe not,” countered the general.
“Then who the hell is he?” asked the president.
“We don’t quite know.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a truly unique specimen.”
“Can you match his DNA with anyone else’s in the population?” asked Kallin.
“We can’t find a match.”
“How can that be? No mother, no father, brothers, cousins, nobody?”
“No. I don’t know how that’s possible. And neither does he.”
“Then shoot the dog and get it over with,” screeched the president.
“He might have some value to us.”
“How?”
“He may be sent by the rebels. His lack of identity makes sure that he cannot be traced back to them. But we can play the same game. The rebels, even if they remove their DNA implants, are still in our database. What they don’t have and neither do we, sir, is someone like him—that is, a complete original. We can use him against them and they wouldn’t know it.”
“Keep going.”
“Sir, you mentioned that you suspect a mole in our administration. He can be useful to us if you understand what I mean.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed the president. “Damn good thinking.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Bring him over to my country estate this evening. I want to see this motherless dog myself.”
* * * * *
Kallin’s country estate, End of Kali Yuga
In dull silence, General Contog and Jack camped next to each other on an expansive sofa while two accompanying policemen drooped on a close-by couch. Several sets of sofas, love seats and armchairs populated the large drawing room, each an island of luxury in a sea of expensive furniture. A garish green carpet spread out everywhere, over-red brocade drapes dressed the windows and marble statues stood interspersed at regular intervals. The effect of this ill-matched, ostentatious decor gave the impression not so much of luxury, but of a forced artificiality. Despite the attempt at class, it resulted in lifeless impersonalism. Several doors led out of the drawing room, emptying into different parts of the estate, and at every entrance waited assorted butlers, maids and members of Kallin’s security detail.
Jack and the general had arrived almost an hour ago, flying north over endless miles of monochromatic brown land. Low hills and flat plains stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, and occasionally, large industrial complexes sprouted up in the most unexpected areas. Jack saw no lakes, rivers or other bodies of water.
By the time they arrived at the estate, the sun had fully set. Jack sat bleary-eyed, having hardly any rest since his unexpected arrival in this world. The non-stop questions, the medical exams and the grilling by endless functionaries tired him. Everyone wanted to know his identity. After two days of this, he simmered.
A door opened at the other end of the vast room and a tall man wearing a shiny green suit, white shirt and a blue tie walked in, accompanied by a coterie of several men and women. The guards all jumped to their feet, saluted the man and shouted “Victory to the Hand of God!” General Contog stood up smartly and saluted. Jack rose unsteadily and looked around, baffled. What the hell is a Hand of God, he wondered. The man approached and examined him minutely from top to bottom. Jack felt unnerved, as if being stared right through.
The Hand of God had dark sandy hair speckled with gray and a thin white beard starting at his temples, running down his cheeks and around his chin. Hard, black, extremely observant, almost paranoiac, eyes darted to and fro, and he featured stubby hands, big but well-formed ears, and large, meaty lips. He carried himself in an aloof, even carnivorous manner, like a wolf, ever on guard, never letting anyone get too close. Obviously narcissistic like many powerful men, he projected himself as the center of all attention, which, of course, he was.
“Ha,” he shouted in a dark voice, after several seconds of inspection. “You’re really tall, aren’t you? Almost as tall as me.” He walked around. “Who are you?”
Again, the same inevitable question, asked at least a hundred times since his capture. Jack’s frustration boiled over. He didn’t care anymore.
“Who are you?” retorted Jack. The room suddenly chilled. The man pulled himself up. His eyes glared.
“I am the Hand of God,” he shouted. “Who do you think I am?”
Jack stared right back. “Hey, I don’t know,” he replied loudly. “Maybe you’re the president?” The green-suited man looked back with wide-eyed surprise.
“Ha! Ha!” he bellowed. The gathering breathed a sigh of relief and laughed along. He put his left arm around Jack’s shoulders. “I like you, boy. You’ve got guts.” He pointed to the others. “Unlike the rest of you sniveling idiots.” They gasped. “My boy, on official business I am the president but at all other times I am the Hand of God. I am the Hand of God because God works through me. And only me.” Jack opened his mouth, about to question him further. The others waited with bated breath. For once, reticence reigned. He said nothing.
The Hand of God shook his finger at him. “And don’t ever question me again. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” replied Jack. “I do.” The Hand of God laughed and slapped Jack chummily on the back.
A young woman with short red hair and honey-colored eyes strode forward. “Oh, Hand of God,” she commented, “he certainly is an interesting young man.”
“This is Maya,” President Kallin said. Maya looked straight into Jack’s eyes. Jack found himself staring right back. Built like a brick outhouse and shorter than him by a good seven inches, she wore shiny black pants made of a silvery material with a matching jacket, a yellow sash around her neck and expensive red pumps. A black mole appeared above her left upper lip and dimples formed on flawless cheeks when she smiled. He looked her up and down and grinned. She beamed back, her teeth like pearls, her eyelashes flitting like tiny, black butterfly wings. Obviously she knew her way around men. Jack felt a chill. How long has it been, he wondered.
The president introduced several other members of the coterie who came by and shook Jack’s hands. “This is my national security advisor,” announced the Hand of God, pointing to a pale man with receding hair who observed Jack anxiously.
“So general,” questioned the Hand of God, “what else did you bring?”
“President Kallin, here is the DNA identification report.”
Kallin flipped through the tablet briefly before handing it to his national security advisor. “General,” he commanded, “You are dismissed. I will keep this young man here.” Contog saluted and quickly marched out, followed by the two police officers.
