The Yoga Zapper--A Novel Read online

  “Wow!” exclaimed Jack. Vedas? Yuga? Humans living for thousands of years?

  Mr. Iyer pushed two small clay bowls containing plain yogurt toward them.

  “Dahi. Eat.”

  The cool, creamy yogurt perfectly ended the meal. It removed the heat left on the tongue from the spices and admirably relaxed the stomach without eliminating the pleasant warmth enveloping the body.

  “So if we go to this valley, we can see the rishis?” asked Jack, his eyes lighting up.

  “Ji. Ji,” replied Mr. Iyer. He moved close to Jack, peered into his eyes, raised a finger and shook it professorially. “But only if you have spiritual vision.”

  Jack grabbed a pencil and paper out of his backpack and looked expectantly at Mr. Iyer. “I’m into yogis meditating in caves. Tell me more.”

  Steve stared apprehensively at his brother. First of all, even Jack must know that there are no thousand-year-old yogis meditating under any trees. Besides, what guidance could any yogi, ancient or not, give him? The best advice could only come from those closest to him and what his little brother ought to be doing is to get an education or a real job.

  Sometimes he just couldn’t understand Jack. Jack always ran around without any stability in his life. When Dad died, Steve automatically got a job—Mom needed the help. Life forced a disorderly existence on Steve and academics became his refuge. Reading, writing and spending time with books turned out to be something he controlled, regulated; a place just for him.

  The thought of studies brought out his latest dilemma. He stared out the window at the waters flowing under the bridge. He especially liked languages, but could he pursue it as a career? Or look for a job unrelated to his major? That was a tough one. Not many jobs appeared in his field, especially ancient ones like Sanskrit. But working for a company for the rest of his life? That was a big commitment. Yet it seemed inescapable getting a steady income would help everyone. He exhaled, glad in coming to India—he needed to think things through. He shook his head and fixed his gaze at his brother furiously writing on a piece of paper.

  “What are you doing?”

  Jack, his sense of adventure piqued, hardly heard him. Outside, the moonlight shone silver on the Himalayan peaks while the distant chants of pilgrims making their way back from the temple and the rushing sound of the swollen river echoed in the open room. The kerosene lamps illuminated Jack’s face and threw deep shadows in every corner. He positively glowed. In this wondrous setting, anything seemed possible.

  “Don’t worry,” retorted Jack. “I know what I’m doing.” Steve sighed but kept quiet. When Jack got an idea stuck in his head, nothing could be done.

  “Sometimes you’ve got to go with the flow, with your destiny,” said Jack. “Anything is possible. Is it by accident that we’re sitting here tonight, in this restaurant, getting instructions on how to get to this hidden valley?”

  Steve yawned. “How about getting instructions on where to sleep?” Jack stared back sheepishly. It was late.

  “The dharmashalla, the pilgrim’s hostel, is just down the street from where you came,” said Mr. Iyer. “Go now if you want a place.” They paid their bill of a hundred and fifty rupees, about three dollars, picked up their backpacks and walked briskly down the winding, unlit street.

  The dharmashalla had very basic amenities—a place to sleep on a hard wooden floor and not much else. No electricity. No running water. The freezing river provided water for a bath and an outhouse leaned up behind the building. But a place in the dharmashalla was a much sought-after prize it cost nothing and constituted the only shelter in town as neither five-star hotels for the wealthy nor youth hostels for the adventurous existed. Everyone, young and old, Indian and foreigner, believer and non-believer, piled into it in the evening, connected by one of the most basic of human needs a safe place to sleep.

  In one corner of the huge room they found a couple of thin reed mats and pillows, spread their sleeping bags on top of the mats and quickly fell into a deep, restful sleep. The next morning they heard, but managed to sleep through, the noise of the pilgrims who arose by five o’clock, bathed and wandered to the temple. By the time they awoke at seven-thirty, the dharmashalla had almost emptied. Jack rose bounding with energy, ready for a day of action and adventure. Steve, too, felt bright and well rested.

  They gathered their backpacks and tagged behind the few remaining stragglers to the river bank. They stripped, wrapped themselves with thin cotton towels called gamchas and poured buckets of freezing water over their bodies.

  Thoroughly numb, his fingers barely functioning, Steve somehow managed to change into fresh clothes. Then, following the pilgrims and, according to custom, they first visited the Tapta Kund, the hot springs. At first the heat felt unbearable, but after several minutes, the water loosened Steve’s muscles and dissipated the numbness in his body. Women bathed on the opposite side, separate from the men, fully clothed in their draping saris yet fully wet, displaying a certain grace and sensuality. He noticed Jack staring at them.

  After a long time, they dressed and headed for the shrine. The temple was not large, maybe fifty feet high, and positioned itself in the middle of an enclosed courtyard whose stone walls contained many ancient carvings. Standing in line outside, they awaited their turn to have darshan of Sri Badri Narayan, as travelers ahead of them stepped into the inner sanctum of the temple and rang large bells hanging from the ceiling.

  As they strode inside, Steve tugged Jack’s shirt. “The canopy covering this inner sanctum is made of pure gold,” he whispered, consulting his notes.

  “Wow,” replied Jack.

  Upon approaching the Deities, the pilgrims immersed themselves in their private devotions. With palms held together in supplication and prayers on their lips, they stood one by one in front of the carved stone Deity of Sri Badri Narayan, who was dressed in a yellow silk dhoti, a blue silk shawl embroidered with trees and colorful birds and a golden crown encrusted with numerous jewels. The priest waved a lamp in front of the Deity.

  “What’s he doing?” enquired Jack.

  Steve consulted his notebook. “This, I believe, is called arti, a ceremony of worship. It consists of offering a lamp filled with clarified butter in which cotton wicks are soaked and lit. The Deity is also offered flowers and water and, finally, fanned with a whisk made of yak-tail hair.”

  “Far out!” exclaimed Jack.

  The pilgrims bent down from their waists, touched the Deity’s feet with both hands and patted themselves on their heads in a gesture of receiving blessings.

  “I don’t know about this,” whispered Jack. “I could never bow down in front of anyone or anything.” Steve nodded his head. He hadn’t seen much devotional expression in his life, and certainly not this type. He wrestled with conflicting feelings. The pilgrims’ obvious, genuine, piety certainly impressed him but it also jarred his American sensibilities. Yet he came to India to witness exactly this kind of thing.

  “Are you going to request something?” joked Steve.

  Jack glanced back questioningly. “You think I should? I mean, I don’t know if I believe in any of this stuff. It’s a little weird, you know.”

  “Well, it can’t hurt. We need all the help we can get.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll ask for a brand new Corvette. Or to win the lottery.”

  “How about the answer to a really big question?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like your purpose in life?”

  “Oh that.” Jack shrugged but when his turn came to stand before the Deity, he inexplicably folded his palms together and with the straightest face he could muster, requested Sri Badri Narayan to reveal to him his destiny. Steve laughed quietly and, upon approaching, carefully noted the Deity’s appearance, the garments, the priest’s actions, the pilgrims’ movements and silently walked away.

  Exiting the temple, Steve eyed his watch. Eleven o’clock. He looked up just in time to see Jack walking up a path toward the mountains.

 
“Wait,” shouted Steve. “Where are you going?”

  “To the Valley of the Rishis.”

  “Are you crazy? We need to pack food, make plans, and check directions. You know, prepare to leave for Delhi tomorrow.”

  Jack stopped. “That’s not going to take all day.”

  Steve slowly shook his head. Jack was right; it wouldn’t take the rest of the day, but that wasn’t the real objection. His brother was chasing rainbows again.

  “Loosen up, Steve,” Jack continued. “Trust me. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  Steve dubiously put his backpack over his shoulders and followed his brother up the narrow trail.

  Chapter Three

  Badrinath, The Present (Beginning of Kali Yuga)

  Jack sat in the restaurant playing with his curried vegetables and rice. Last night, in the same place, the mood had been magical. Tonight he felt exhausted, angry, his face drained, and his eyes barely open. A waiter they didn’t see yesterday served them. Mr. Iyer seemed to be hiding in the kitchen.

  They had spent the afternoon tramping around the mountains following Mr. Iyer’s inscrutable instructions, which described a passage not of this world. After five hours of climbing, a black granite boulder, the size of a modern apartment building, roughly triangular in shape and as smooth as glass, stopped the trail dead in its tracks. They found no way over, around or through it and when the sun started to set and shadows darkened the trail, they admitted defeat and trekked hastily back to town.

  “Hey, thanks for taking notes on our route out,” Jack finally remarked. “Otherwise we would have been completely lost.”

  “See,” declared Steve humorously, trying to cheer up his brother. “If I didn’t plan things, we wouldn’t have made it back.”

  “Yeah,” uttered Jack glumly, “And if I wasn’t spontaneous, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

  “What’s the problem? You really didn’t expect to discover those old yogis, did you?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve been in India for almost a month and instead of mysticism, all I’ve encountered is misery. I’m ready to pack it in and go back home. I guess I’m looking for something that just can’t be found.”

  Steve smiled. “So why did you come?”

  Jack grimaced. Steve always needed a reason, a purpose, a plan, for everything. “Just to have fun,” he replied. “And you?”

  “Well, I came to think about my future,” mumbled Steve, “and Mom asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  Jack rolled his eyes.

  “Come on,” Steve said, cocking his head. “Don’t give up. Maybe you were right last night. Maybe we aren’t here by accident.”

  “I don’t know. This is probably just a big mistake. This place sucks and so does the rest of this country.” After leaving New Delhi, coming to the mountains and visiting the temple, what next? Except for a few brief moments, the whole trip disappointed Jack. Maybe the fault lay with him. He came expecting something. Answers, maybe? But answers to what? They paid the bill, picked up their gear and headed out the door.

  Although still early evening, a crowd filled the dharmashalla. The brothers went to the corner of the room, searching for the mats and pillows. None were left and a very disagreeable old man, smelling like he hadn’t seen a bath for a whole month, slept in the same corner they had occupied the previous night. Bare-chested, he wore a ragged old dhoti and a loop of string running over his left shoulder, across his chest and around his back,

  “Now what?” demanded Jack. “I’m too exhausted to deal with this.”

  “Let’s just find another place to sleep.” They located a couple of spots near the door, but another problem arose. Jack emptied his backpack but his sleeping bag had disappeared.

  “Did you remember to pack it this morning?” asked Steve.

  Jack looked around. There, under the thin cotton sheeting covering the old man! His sleeping bag!

  “Hey!” he shouted, “Give me back my sleeping bag.” The old man made no effort to get up. “Hey,” Jack shouted even more loudly. “I want my sleeping bag.”

  “Stop!” admonished Steve, grabbing his brother. “You can’t do that here.”

  Jack looked around. A few travelers murmured in Hindi. He backed off silently but glared angrily at the decrepit old man.

  “Just drop it,” warned Steve. “In India, people always defer to their elders, even if they are in the wrong.”

  The man opened a baleful eye and surveyed the two young Americans from about ten steps away. He smirked, revealing two yellow teeth on the top of his mouth and three brown ones on the bottom. He sat up, retched loudly and spoke in a high-pitched, thick accent. “So you two fools went looking for the rishis? What will you do tomorrow, look for God himself?” He turned around and made a comment in Hindi. His neighbors laughed. Jack’s face flushed red. How did he know? Of course! It must have been that Mr. Iyer!

  “Let me tell you a secret,” the man confided. Jack and Steve both ignored him. “Idher aow,” coaxed the old man. “Come here.”

  The others looked up expectantly, motioning them to come. The brothers glanced at each other and then at the old man. Slowly, hesitantly, they approached.

  “Closer. Come closer,” he prodded. Jack grimaced. The old man’s thin face remained unshaven, his gray hair disheveled, his head balding and his nostrils flared wide open. A foul smell wafted up from his sweaty, unwashed body and through his shabby clothes. He sat up and put his mouth next to Jack’s ear.

  “I am Gautama Rishi himself,” he shouted, referring to one of the ancient sages. The room exploded with laughter. Jack jumped and glared back angrily. He felt exhausted, his neck stiff from carrying the backpack all day and his calf muscles throbbed painfully. A hard anger coiled in the pit of his stomach. Steve tugged at Jack’s arm.

  The old man bent over in laughter. “Why did you idiots come here? You fools are either looking for God or hashish. Are you on a holy trip or a hippie trip? Maybe you want some ganja?” The old man whispered. “I can get some cheap. Very cheap. Twenty rupees.” A young man next to him grinned broadly, held up both hands and rubbed his fingers together as if rolling a joint. Jack peered into the old man’s red eyes. He seemed to have smoked a lot of cheap ganja already.

  Jack’s temper exploded. “Pagal!” he shouted angrily, one of the few Hindi curse words he knew, his finger pointing at the man. His blue eyes blazed and he pulled his dark hair behind his ears. Steve pulled him back, but Jack refused to be restrained. “Crazy,” he shouted again.

  The room stilled. The old man fell silent. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Yes,” he admitted softly, “I’m crazy.” He regarded them with sad, tired eyes. “I studied engineering at Jawaharlal Nehru University in Delhi. Then I became a pujari here in Badrinath. I worshiped Sri Badri Narayan daily. I had everything a Brahmin could ask for. I served God directly, but I threw it away.” Jack’s eyes widened. Obviously, being a priest at this shrine stood to be a prized position and the education explained the man’s English.

  “What happened?” probed Jack gruffly. “How did you lose your position?”

  “By committing too many offenses against God,” replied the old pujari. “What exactly, what does it matter? Now look at me, begging like a useless man, living on the charity of strangers.”

  Not charity, concluded Jack, more like thievery.

  “I don’t want to talk anymore,” announced the man abruptly and, belching one final time, turned his body away, closed his eyes and covered his head with the sleeping bag.

  Jack and Steve resigned themselves to sleeping on the bare floor. Their backpacks served as pillows and they shared the single sleeping bag. In spite of the warmth from the huddled bodies in the room, cold seeped in through the floor and the walls and they lay shivering, occasionally nodding off in fitful sleep, waiting for morning to start back to Delhi.

  The commotion started well past midnight. The old man first moaned intermittently, then shouted in Hindi, refusing to cal
m down. Children woke up crying. One by one, the pilgrims arose, some lighting candles, others turning on their flashlights, moving over to the pujari. They found a large candle and planted it on the floor next to him. The light illuminated his face contorting in pain, wavered on the pilgrims gathered over him, and cast flickering shadows on the ceiling and on the bare walls.

  “Now what the hell’s the matter with the old man?” Jack complained.

  But the pujari’s moaning got worse. A crowd gathered and an animated conversation followed. They consulted amongst themselves and came up with different suggestions, but nothing helped. Jack felt queasy; something felt seriously wrong. The young traveler sleeping next to the old man approached them.

  “The pujari is too much sick,” he informed Steve. “You go get doctor.”

  Steve’s eyes widened. He pulled the sleeping bag close. “Why me? I don’t speak Hindi.”

  “He is saying you to help him. No one else.”

  The young man looked up. “Please, please get doctor.”

  “Why? Why me?”

  “I…I have no money,” cried the old pujari. Tears of helplessness flowed down his face. “If you give him, he will come.”

  Steve arched his back. “How much?”

  “Only five hundred rupees!”

  Steve hesitated. More tears rolled down the man’s cheeks.

  Jack jumped up. “Hey, that’s only ten dollars.” He pulled out the money and handed it to Steve. “If it saves the old geezer’s life and we get some sleep, it’s worth it.”

  “Please,” pleaded the pujari. “He lives at the end of the street. He knows me. Go now.”

  The personal appeal felt impossible to ignore. Steve grabbed his sweater, wrapped it hurriedly around his waist, and rushed out.

  The man waited for Steve to leave before signaling Jack to come closer. With his thumbs, the pujari made a massaging motion on his chest.