The Yoga Zapper--A Novel Read online

  The Yoga Zapper

  By Mohan Ashtakala

  Digital ISBNs

  EPUB 9781771456548

  MOBI 978-1-77299-524-4

  PDF 9781771456562

  Print ISBN 9781771456579

  Amazon Print 978-1-77299-525-1

  Copyright 2015 by Mohan Ashtakala

  Cover art by Michelle Lee

  "Artwork and quoted text courtesy of The Bhaktivedanta Book Trust International, lnc. www.Krishna.com. Used with permission."

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book

  * * *

  Dedication

  To my spiritual teacher H.H. Bhaktisvarupa Damodara Swami.

  Thank you for all your blessings!

  Chapter One

  New Delhi, The Present (Beginning of Kali Yuga)

  The bus to Badrinath leaned badly over to one side. As the doors opened, a sea of pushing, shouting passengers got on and half an hour later, upon departure, another wave of travelers bullied their way aboard while hawkers of all descriptions announced their assorted wares in the crowded bus before scrambling to get off. It puzzled Jack that no one got left behind, run over or pushed off in the overwhelming bedlam. With much grinding of gears and many perfunctory lurches, the bus wound its way out of the Interstate Bus Terminal in the middle of New Delhi. It was only six-thirty in the morning, but beads of sweat already clung to his forehead.

  His older brother sat next to him. Steve Goode clasped his long, artistic fingers together, as if hesitant to allow them to express themselves. Jack’s fingers, strong but always restless, tapped steadily on the seat, as if looking for something to do. He sighed. Steve’s silent treatment tested his patience.

  “Why didn’t you just stay in Kansas City?”

  Steve glared back. “I used the last bit of my student loan to join you on this expedition to nowhere.”

  “Well, don’t be a martyr about it.”

  The reproach had its effect. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” Steve reflected for a second. “I didn’t want to spend the money, but I always wanted to visit India.” He returned to his guide book about Himalayan pilgrimage towns, making notes in his small, ever-present pocketbook. A light gray jacket, a plain white shirt, dark brown slacks and sensible black loafers comprised his outfit.

  Jack restarted the conversation. “When the hell’d you shave?” he queried, scratching his own scruffy chin. He sported a black T-shirt promoting some long forgotten band tour, tight blue jeans, and grubby white tennis shoes.

  “I woke up at four-thirty. Being prepared, you know.”

  Jack snorted. “Where’d you get the book?”

  “At a bookstore in Connaught Square. Yesterday.”

  Just like Mom, thought Jack, both book lovers. He stretched and stared out the window as the bus slowed through the slums in North Delhi. Small, unkempt children played in open gutters. He shook his head. Poor kids, they’ll never get a chance. Never get a chance to go to college, play football or attend concerts. He had dropped out of Missouri after discovering that university demanded scholarship and gave no credit for having a good time. Not because he was stupid—no, everyone told him he was intelligent—but not a single course held his interest. After two years of the college grind, he quit.

  But still, he had his choices and these people didn’t. The crowded hovels, the poverty, the dust and the heat hit him in the gut. How the hell did I end up here, he wondered, in the middle of a noisy bus crowded to the gills with humanity, on a trip to God knows where?

  * * * * *

  They had arrived in New Delhi two weeks earlier and engaged in the usual tourist things a visit to the Taj Mahal, the Purana Quila, the Parliament buildings and the Delhi Zoo. Disregarding the warning that May is the hottest month on the Indian subcontinent when only the proverbial mad dogs and Englishmen roam in the midday sun, they wilted after a couple of weeks. They approached their hotel manager for advice.

  “Too much terrorists in Kashmir,” stated the man. On a small shelf behind him sat a picture of Lakshmi Devi, the goddess of fortune, garlanded with fresh jasmine. Fair-skinned, she sported four arms, wore a red sari and sat crossed-legged on a white and pink lotus. An incense stick burned in front of her.

  “Hey,” enquired Jack. “Where would you go?”

  “Me?” retorted the manager, with surprised eyes. He reflected. “My father went to Badrinath in Himalayas. My grandfather, same thing. In my life, I pray for chance to have darshan of Sri Badri Narayan, the temple Deity.”

  Jack knotted his eyebrows.

  “Darshan means to have audience with, vision of, the Deity.”

  “Okay, okay. How do we get there?”

  The hotel manager arched his eyebrows. “No. Not a tourist place. Only pilgrims go. Very difficult.”

  “Hey, you only live once,” countered Jack. “Just give us the directions.”

  The manager shrugged his shoulders and threw a bus schedule on the counter. “You go by the bus. Only part way. Then you climb on the foot.”

  Jack grabbed the brochure and as he turned to go, he glimpsed, out of the corner of his eye, Lakshmi Devi winking at him. His eyes widened, he held his breath and turned around. She stared back, impassive. He shook his head. Maybe the heat got to him.

  * * * * *

  Jack looked out the window. If a game inside the city, traffic resembled war outside, with every highway a battlefield. The casualties littered the roadside huge lorries lay flipped over at depressingly regular intervals, along with broken cars and an occasional dead goat.

  At night, the traffic became even more hair-raising. Making no concession to darkness, navigated by fatalistic drivers with no fear of death, the trucks, with six or eight headlights blazing, their sides painted with fierce female divinities carrying swords and axes, careened down dusty country roads at breakneck speeds. But the next morning, away from the large metropolis, came scenes of great beauty hills garlanded with shimmering green rice fields, snow-capped mountains reflecting in their blue waters. In the evenings, they rested in tiny villages where small wiry men of the hills returned home from fields, their lives following the timeless, primordial cycle of seasons, rains and crops. Stopping in these hamlets, he sensed the simplicity of the inhabitants’ lives. Despite the poverty of their possessions, they showed little anxiety. Genuine warmth filled the evenings the villagers shared songs and what little food they had unhesitatingly. What does it take to be like them, he wondered. What makes them happy with what they have?

  Though constantly broke, Jack somehow always coughed up enough money to impulsively travel to various parts of the world. He spent last spring in Paris; the previous winter, snorkeling in Mexico. He traveled at every chance, but each trip ended in disappointment, always finishing where he had started—with no idea what his life was about. Maybe India would inspire him, unlike his previous adventures. He shrugged. Mom constantly reminded him that he had to stop wandering and become serious. She no doubt insisted on his big brother coming to watch over him, as if Steve was his father or something.

  He caught himself. That wasn’t quite fair. He had to admit, his brother rescued him from some tight spots over the years—once Steve drove all the way to San Antonio and bailed him out of jail after he got drunk and punched out a guy in a bar. Or last year, when Steve pulled together the money to retrieve his impounded vehicle. Jack laughed. That’s me, he figured—a hellraiser just like Dad
. He understood why Mom wanted him to settle down; she didn’t want him to turn out like his father. It’s in my blood, thought Jack, I have to keep moving.

  And the other thing that Mom always harped about girlfriends. He liked the chase, the thrill of getting a woman, but as soon he established a relationship, he’d lose interest. Jack rubbed his chin. Damned if he knew why, but it happened every time. It led to some awful scenes, with hurt girlfriends slamming doors behind them, but he couldn’t help himself. If there were no feelings left, he moved on. I can’t be blamed, he supposed, it’s better to be honest about these things.

  Jack suddenly felt depressed. He took a deep breath and caught himself. Forget about the past, he reminded himself. It’s just an empty place and there’s no point dwelling there. He exhaled and pushed out all the negative thoughts and felt better. Just live for the moment. That’s my philosophy. He looked down on the floor and grinned. If that’s what you call a philosophy.

  Chapter Two

  Badrinath, the Present (Beginning of Kali Yuga)

  Their route took them to Haridwar, where the Ganges flows from the mountains to meet the plains, and then up to Hrishikesh in the high hills, famous for its many yoga ashrams. When they reached Hrishikesh, the temperature became bearable, even cool at night, and they reluctantly had to buy thick green woolen sweaters at a roadside stand.

  The three-day bus journey ended at Hanuman Chatti, where they left the rest of the passengers. Grateful to escape the claustrophobia, and with much stretching of cramped muscles, they headed on foot along the pilgrim trail following the blue-green Alakananda river. They climbed for two days, straining under heavy backpacks, with the night spent in an unnamed village a cluster of brown stone huts with gray slate roofs, a stranger to both electricity and indoor toilets, clinging to the leeward side of a high ridge, surrounded by forests of silver-green Himalayan pine.

  By the time they arrived in Badrinath, the sun hung low in the west. Steve took the backpack off his weary shoulders and dropped it on the ground at the edge of the trail. His brother stood next to him. Exactly six feet tall, Steve, twenty-seven, measured a hair shorter than his younger brother and featured dark brown eyes and a mop of pale brown hair curling over his forehead. Jack had sharp blue eyes, an oval face, an aquiline nose, a handsome chin and, at only twenty-three, boasted broad shoulders with long black hair, which women found irresistible.

  Slowly bending his aching knees, Steve rested his thin frame on a large boulder and gazed at the town below. The Alakananda river, fast moving and fed by melting snows, split the town in two. Several buildings, mostly shops and restaurants, occupied the near side of the river while sweet pine-wood smoke wafted along the cobblestoned streets. The trail enlarged into the town’s main road, running right through its center, across its only bridge and ended at the front steps of the shrine, while mountains loomed beyond it. The whole place gave off a sense of impossibility, as if arising from the rocky ground rather than having been crafted by human hands.

  Steve referred to his notebook. “The great Indian philosopher, Adi Shankaracharya, originally established the temple almost twelve hundred years ago.” An aura of great antiquity permeated the town’s every nook and corner, from the ancient weathered stone buildings to the rough-hewn granite temple, which looked as if it had been there forever. Even the dust that blew in from Tibet seemed ageless.

  Steve continued. “The famous Tapta Kund, hot springs encircled by terraced stone steps, renowned in antiquity throughout India and China, lies close to the temple. The Kund is older than the temple and according to legend, built by the Pandavas, five legendary brothers whose names are mentioned in the five-thousand-year-old Mahabharata, the history of ancient India.”

  He recalled his readings from the bus that Badrinath rested at an elevation of about 11,000 feet above the vast Gangetic Plains. No inhabitants lived permanently in this isolated area as no agriculture, industry or trade could take durable hold; rather, it existed only as a place of pilgrimage and, for six months of the year, when the winter snows closed the mountain passes, the whole town shut down and the carved stone Deities, the icons of the temple, were relocated to a lower elevation.

  In the fading sunlight, Steve straightened, looked down and spied several small eateries.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Hey, I’m famished,” added Jack.

  They scrambled down and found the Ajanta Hotel, which followed the Indian custom of calling a restaurant a hotel. They climbed a flight of stairs to an expansive open-air room and chose a hefty, bare wooden table with rough-hewn benches overlooking the bridge leading to the temple. Several large hissing kerosene lamps hung on the walls. The setting sun lent a golden hue to the snows on the mountain tops and from across the river came the tinkling of temple bells.

  A thin, dark-skinned, middle-aged man dressed in a long white shirt extending down to his knees and a clean white-cotton, toga-like, garment wrapped around his waist and covering his legs, approached them. He parted his black hair, slick with oil, neatly down the middle and peered at them through round, dark-rimmed glasses. Reminding Steve more of a scientist than a restaurant owner, he precisely poured a tall glass of water for each of them.

  “Yes, sir,” he pronounced. “You want to eat, no?”

  “What do you have?” Steve asked.

  “Yes, sir. I have very good food. Iddli and dosa. Also dahi, sambar, and coconut chutney. Everything vegetarian only.”

  “Nothing with meat?” questioned Jack.

  The man adjusted his glasses. “No sir. No non-veg. This is temple town. It is sacred place. No killing of animals here.”

  Jack shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “What do you suggest?” Steve inquired.

  “I will bring everything,” the man replied and abruptly disappeared.

  “What’s he wearing?” asked Jack.

  “You mean that white robe wrapped around his waist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a dhoti. It is the traditional dress of India for men, just like the sari is for women. And that long shirt is called a kurta.”

  Ten minutes later, the man returned with plates filled with food, introduced them and detailed their ingredients. “This is iddli, is made with rice flour and steamed and put in sambar.” The iddlis resembled large white dumplings floating in bowls of sambar, a richly-spiced golden broth with an assortment of vegetables. Steam, redolent with the scent of fresh spices, rose and disappeared into the chill evening air. Steve sliced warily into an iddli with his spoon. It tasted light, almost feathery, with a slight sourdough taste.

  “Sambar, it is made with lentils, spiced with curry powder, roasted cumin, poppy seeds, and garam masala,” the man recounted. Bits of red tomatoes, fresh green chilies, and coriander leaves floated on top. It was spicy, spicier than Steve expected, but the heat drove away the cold blowing in from the open walls.

  More food came, and they ate hungrily. “This is dosa. Is made with rice flour and urad dahl.” The man waited for a moment. “Urad dahl, is kind of small white lentil.”

  Steve pulled over the dosa, a thin, almost translucent, crepe rolled into a long cylinder, golden on the outside and stuffed with spiced, herbed potatoes. A side dish of coconut chutney accompanied it. He broke off a piece of the crispy crepe and tasted it. The dosa almost melted on his tongue.

  “I first peel potato,” explained the man, “then I chop, only a little I boil it, and then I fry in the pan with oil, herbs and spices. It becomes crispy and tasty. ” The dosa sent a warm glow from Steve’s mouth all the way to his stomach. A small taste of the coconut chutney, seemingly containing equal parts of fresh, green chili and raw, scraped coconut, seared his tongue and left him grabbing for water. He concentrated on the dosa.

  The man pulled up a chair and sat down beside them. “Angrezi?” he asked.

  “No, we’re not English,” Steve replied, recalling coming across that word in New Delhi. “We’re American. Where are you from?”
>
  “Yes, sir. I am from South India. I am speaking very good English!” He smiled proudly. “I am owner of hotel. My name is Iyer.”

  It explained the English, more familiar in the South, remembered Steve.

  “Why you are coming here?”

  “To see the temple.”

  “Achha?” enquired Mr. Iyer, obviously puzzled that two young Americans would be visiting.

  “I just graduated from college,” explained Steve, “majoring in languages.” The countless hours spent in the library at the University of Missouri left him with a permanent crease around his eyes, giving him the air of a university professor. “I even completed two courses in Sanskrit and Indian philosophy. So coming to India is in some way a fulfillment of my years of study. I enjoyed learning the philosophy of India.”

  Mr. Iyer beamed.

  “So what else is there to see besides the temple?” asked Jack

  “The temple is the town. There is nothing else.”

  “Maybe we can trek in the mountains.”

  “The Valley of the Rishis is up there,” offered Mr. Iyer helpfully.

  “What’s that?”

  “The word rishi means ‘sage’ or ‘seer’,” answered Steve. “They’re basically like yogis who spend their lives in meditation.”

  “In that valley are many rishis,” added Mr. Iyer. “Some been meditating there for hundreds, maybe thousands of years!”

  Jack straightened up. “Thousands of years?”

  “Some rishis been there since Satya yuga, the golden age, thousands of years ago. They been meditating in cave or under tree all this time. Because they are so much meditating and so much yoga doing, their brain is able to keep the Vedas, the holy teachings of wisdom, and carry it from one yuga to next.”