The Yoga Zapper--A Novel Read online

  The prodigal son, she smiled wryly. Still, he resents me. He thinks I’m stopping him from doing what he wants. Jack would rather fight with fate, take it head on and think of actually winning. His youth, his immaturity, prevented an understanding of the heavy and unexpected blows life directed at people. She suddenly panicked. A premonition of the suffering he would endure filled her with dread. Would he end up all alone in a trailer park at the edge of town, condemned to a life of loneliness and dull boozing? Deserted, she thought, like me.

  She shook herself out of her reverie. Night fell softly and she realized it only when she heard the crickets chirping incessantly in the grass. She got up, entered, and walked down the hall. Once these rooms were filled with husband and children but one by one, they left prematurely, leaving her as bereft as the emptiness she walked past every day. She sighed and trudged into her bedroom and changed into her robe. Funny, she thought, I haven’t eaten a thing all day.

  She tucked her slippers under the bed, climbed between the thin flannel sheets, pulled the blanket over herself, turned off the bedside light and closed her eyes. A vast darkness greeted her. Sometime, in the middle of the night, without once waking up, Marjorie Goode died.

  Chapter Seven

  Kansas City, The Present (Beginning of Kali Yuga)

  Steve awoke late the next morning and discovered Jack’s empty bed. He rubbed his forehead and remembered the usual Saturday chanting party—they most likely left early. He showered, dressed and according to custom, removed his shoes before entering the chapel. Charming paintings of peacocks and elephants lined its walls, stretching from the floor, half-way to the top. The domed ceiling created a large, hushed space inside which a worshipper sensed the presence of God. The altar, built on a plinth a couple of feet above the floor, was adorned with flowers, and a couple of incense sticks burned in a holder in front of the Deities. He sat down.

  Of carved white marble, Krishna, tall and strong and dressed in a golden dhoti and a peacock feather adorned purple turban, smiled mischievously while holding a flute to his lips, displaying the strength, grace and charm of a youth in full bloom. Steve easily imagined Krishna sauntering along a dusty path in the pastoral village of Vrindavan, in India, where he grew up, playing a bamboo flute and leading his cows to pasture.

  Radha rani, Krishna’s eternal consort, stood to the right. Lovely in a long flowing red gown, intricately decorated with sparkling green embroidery which blended with the flowers and leaves on the altar, she displayed pink-colored cheeks the hue of lotus blossoms, large green eyes and beguiling long black hair. Dhana once stated that Radha rani, being the female energy of Krishna, is considered to be the same, yet different, from him. Steve remembered an analogy from a morning discussion that Krishna is the sun and Radha rani the sunshine; one emanates from the other, yet both are different.

  Suddenly a long-stemmed rose fell right into his lap. He peered up, astonished. Radha rani smiled back, compassion showing in her eyes. He noticed the basket in her hands. The flower must have slipped from it.

  “Hello there.” Steve turned around. Dhana greeted him.

  “Look,” exclaimed Steve, “This flower just dropped from Radha rani into my lap!”

  Dhana laughed. “I’m not surprised. Many devotees have interesting pastimes with Radha and Krishna.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Krishna plays all sorts of games with his devotees. They’re called his lilas.”

  Steve stared at Dhana wide-eyed.

  “Krishna is famous for his transcendental pranks. His lilas are beyond our comprehension.”

  Steve shook his head. The idea of playful, mischievous god struck him as startlingly different from his image of a formidable, jealous old man who made His creation and then, Steve concluded at one point, totally abandoned it. The concept remained too far removed from his Western sensibilities. He changed the subject.

  “I need to talk with you. I visited my mother yesterday.”

  “How is she?”

  “Well, she’s old. But I’ve decided to move back. She needs help, at least for a little while.”

  “How about Jack?”

  “I’ll talk to him. I don’t know if he’s the type to live long in this place.”

  Dhana laughed. “I think you’re right. When will you leave?”

  “Sometime this week, if it’s okay with you.”

  “Sure. And good luck.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call my mother and let her know.”

  “You know where the phone is,” Dhana responded, leaving.

  “Yes, of course.” Steve breathed a sigh of relief as lightness entered his heart. He glanced once more at the kind, smiling faces of the Deities and their gentle, loving expressions. Things were finally working out. He got up and walked over to the lobby to use the phone.

  * * * * *

  The moon shone brightly and the night air cooled Jack’s skin, a welcome contrast from the mugginess of the day. The female devotees drove the car back after the downtown chanting, leaving Jack and Nimai to stretch their legs and saunter leisurely back to the temple. Night lights burned in upstairs bedrooms and blue illuminations from television sets streamed through front windows. Streetlights shone at street corners, little puddles of brightness in the sea of blackness, and water sprinklers circled on some lawns, with little rivulets flowing into the gutters. Occasional dog barks echoed from anonymous back yards.

  He listened to Nimai quietly tapping a rhythm on his mridanga, a two-headed drum held by a long strap hanging around his neck. They talked little, yet relished the companionship. Deep furrows lined Jack’s forehead. How could he inform Nimai that the interlude at the temple soured into another dead end, despite all that he liked about them? Would it be fair to stay half-heartedly? He knew the pattern. He would eagerly get into things but, sooner or later, had to move on.

  It started when Dad died. He was just eleven years old. He woke up that morning to hushed conversations, his mother’s soft tears and Steve’s long, sad face. A whirl of unfamiliar sounds, strange people, and inexplicable rituals filled the rest of the week and, only weeks later, he finally understood that his father had gone forever.

  For months afterward he had the dreams always searching for his father but never finding him. He recalled the very first dream. The summer sun shone warmly on the school bus returning home in the afternoon. He sat on the front seat, peering through the windshield and spied his father standing at attention on the verandah, wearing his military uniform, his dark hair cropped short, pants creased crisply and a cap perched on his head. His father smiled broadly; Jack saw him from a mile away. After seemingly forever, the bus stopped in front of his home. He jumped off and ran through the open gate, up the path, past the blooming roses and daisies but when he reached the verandah, discovered, to his shock, that his father had disappeared. A desperate search began. He hunted through the garden, around the back yard, inside the house and all over the upstairs, but without luck. The dream ended only when he woke up, shivering.

  Another, more regular, dream occurred outside of the home. He tramped alone in the woods near the base on a cold, cloudy, winter’s day, lost like a little child, looking for what he did not know. Somewhere deep in the forest, he came across a patch of blood on the snow and, next to it, a set of boot prints. He stopped, thoroughly shaken. They were Dad’s! He trudged and trudged, following the tracks through the forest for miles and miles, panting with exhaustion. No matter where he searched; behind tree trunks, bushes or rocks, no sign of his father surfaced. The tracks continued forever and he woke up drained, at the point of collapse.

  The dreams panicked him, but worse, when he awoke, an image of his uniformed father hung in the air above his bed. He clamped his small hands over his eyes, trembling in complete confusion. Only after he desperately pushed that figure out of his mind did he sleep again. During the waking hours, he continued the pitched battle with his mind. Whenever his dad appeared, he consciously drove him out with
teeth-gritted determination. The battle continued for months until all remembrances of his father finally stopped.

  Though the dreams ended, the sensation of being left alone, of being abandoned, of something missing, never left. It penetrated deep into his psyche, and since then, he never once felt completely whole or fully satisfied, knowing something got taken out and never restored.

  He finally stopped thinking of his father and, after a couple of years, even forgot his appearance. He hardly talked about him unless Mom or Steve brought up the memories. They remained in the past and dredging them up served no purpose. ‘Live for the present’ became his motto.

  At about that time, he started arguing with his mother. Growing up, being a teenager, explained part of it. In high school, his hormones raged and drinking, partying and girls became staples of his life. As recollections of his father receded, he replaced them with just having fun. A blur of passable grades, a gaggle of girlfriends, gin and coke, grass and so much more defined those years. Predictably, his mother reacted to this behavior by worrying and nagging, and worrying and nagging some more, until he responded to her clinging by distancing himself.

  Travel caused further disagreement. He remembered his first set of wheels and the unforgettable freedom and deliverance it brought from the deep pit that Kansas City had become. He drove that used, baby-blue Datsun everywhere—he took it to Chicago the junior year of high school and in the summer of his senior year, all the way to El Paso. The stories that car could tell! From then on, wandering became an obsession, almost a compulsion. Again, Mom reacted with fear. She tried to argue him out of his wanderlust by curtailing his freedom. That just pushed him further away and, after moving out and starting college, he hardly saw much of her.

  But being dismissed unceremoniously from university shook him deeply. Not that he was ever serious about studies. Everything came easily in high school and he received passable grades without ever trying. At Missouri, however, real competition threatened, something he was not prepared for. After dropping out, he worked odd jobs and travelled, but over the past year, a strange feeling he could not put his finger on, of something missing, of something being not quite right, overcame him.

  He remembered Laura, his last girlfriend. He broke up with her just before the India trip. With long, curly black hair, ivory skin and green eyes she was not just beautiful, but exotic. At first, she showed no interest, but he turned on the charm, his easy smile, and the funny jokes and after a couple of months of pursuit, she surrendered. The chase enlivened him and brought passion and adventure and every day felt fresh as he put his whole heart into the hunt. But strangely enough, after conquering her, he quit. She bored him; he had to move on. She made an awful scene, crying, cursing and throwing things, but he couldn’t help his feelings.

  He felt the need to spread his wings and, in some way, to find himself. That might explain the India trip. He never thought of that country before, but its mystical side attracted him, although he never previously expressed an interest in the mystical. And what did mystical mean, anyway? While he appreciated Steve and all his help, the idea of becoming more independent surfaced.

  He rubbed his face in frustration. A familiar darkness descended, like a curtain covering his mind, blotting out all thoughts. It felt claustrophobic, suffocating, like the world closing in and he had to escape. He knew the feeling; he reacted this way every time he reached a dead end. He hated it and, sometimes, hated himself. He shook his head vigorously and pushed the feeling out—time to move on.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Nimai.

  “Oh nothing,” replied Jack, “nothing at all.” He sighed. It was useless to lie or delay the inevitable. “I…I’m sorry, but I don’t think the temple is the place for me.”

  “Really!” remarked Nimai. Was there surprise or hurt feelings? The devotees became, over the past month or so, not just strangers sharing a roof, but actually friends. A genuine sense of community and an unpretentious accepting of each other characterized their relationships. After all, they took a couple of strangers, welcomed, fed and sheltered them. Jack started disliking himself.

  “I’m really sorry, but I need to move on.”

  Nimai kept quiet. Jack felt bad, guilty. He grabbed his wallet and offered some cash. “This is a gift. Just to show how much I appreciate everything you and the others have done.”

  Nimai gasped. “No! I can’t accept this.”

  The vehemence surprised Jack. Embarrassed, he returned the money to his wallet and rubbed his forehead. Why did he reject the gift? Of course! He had put Nimai in an awkward situation by approaching him directly. Jack felt worse. They continued walking, their steps echoing in the night.

  “Look,” said Nimai, after some time, pointing to the sky, brilliant with stars. “Look at the Saptarishi.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That constellation composed of seven stars. Each of the stars is the home of a great rishi. Once a year, it is said, they descend from their dwellings in the stars and meditate on the shores of Lake Manasarovar in Tibet.”

  “Really,” inquired Jack, engrossed by the tale.

  “Yes,” continued Nimai. “Their tapasya, that is, their austerities, lessens the karmic burden of the earth. Humankind is so sinful that if karma is allowed to accumulate unchecked, the earth would sink into the netherworld.” He pointed again to the constellation. “There, do you see it?”

  Jack peered intently. “Oh! You mean the Big Dipper!”

  “Yes, the Saptarishi.” Nimai stopped and faced Jack. “You know, tomorrow, the stars and the constellations will be aligned in exactly the way described in your Yoga Zapper.”

  “I forgot about that!” Jack exclaimed. An idea suddenly occurred.

  “If you conduct the ritual described in the Yoga Zapper, will you accept the money?”

  “Well, I don’t….” started Nimai.

  “Not for you personally, but as a donation for the temple.”

  “Maybe.” Nimai hesitated. “Are you sure? Don’t take these things frivolously!”

  “Hey, what are you talking about? In all your years as a pujari have you ever seen anyone flying across the yugas?”

  “No, but….”

  Jack interrupted again. “Steve spent a lot of time translating that thing. Let’s take it to its conclusion.”

  “Well….”

  “Well, what? You’re a pujari. Will you get a chance to do anything like this again?

  “No.”

  “So let do it!” Jack took the money and thrust it into Nimai’s hands. “Don’t worry. You and I know this stuff will never work.”

  “So why do you want to do it?” asked Nimai finally.

  “Curiosity,” laughed Jack. “Plain dumb, stupid, curiosity.”

  Chapter Eight

  Kansas City, The Present (Beginning of Kali Yuga)

  Jack caught a glimpse of someone sitting in the dark on the temple steps. It was Steve! The moon shone directly overhead, way too late for anyone to be waiting up, especially tomorrow, with the Sunday feast program, promising to be a busy day. Nimai nodded to Steve, glanced at Jack, walked inside and shut the temple door behind him.

  “What’s going on?” Jack probed. Steve avoided looking at him. “Come on, Steve,” pushed Jack. “Tell me. Something’s wrong—I can read it in your face.”

  Steve glanced up, eyes glaring. “Mom died,” he whispered harshly.

  Jack turned white. It couldn’t be true! The sound of the wind, gentle all this time, roared into his ears. The surrounding darkness rushed into his body, shaking him.

  “How?” he mumbled. “How did it happen?”

  “She died last night,” murmured Steve, tears filling his eyes. “I called home this morning and receiving no answer, I went right away.”

  “I’m…I’m sorry. I…I can’t believe it!”

  “Believe it,” shouted Steve. “I just got back from the hospital. The paperwork is finished. Mom is gone.”

  Jack fel
t the world swirling. How he wished to express his regret at not seeing her when he had the chance, but no words came. Nothing justified his behavior.

  “You know,” continued Steve. “When I saw her yesterday, she kept asking about you.”

  “I’m sorry,” repeated Jack. “I’m sorry.”

  Tears formed in Steve’s eyes. “You could have come with me. But for you, everything was more important than her.”

  “I had no idea….”

  “It’s not just today. You’ve behaved like this for years. You’ve treated her really selfishly for a long time!”

  Jack wiped his tears. “I…I don’t know what to say….” He held his hand out. Steve slapped it away.

  “I hate you,” screamed Steve, completely out of character. “I never want to see you again!” He bounded up, entered the temple and slammed the door behind him, leaving Jack stunned and shivering in the dark.

  * * * * *

  “Come in,” said Dhana, “we’re waiting for you.” Jack said nothing.

  “You’re going ahead with this, aren’t you?” questioned Nimai, somewhat doubtfully.

  “Yeah, this better work,” cracked Jack without humor. “That’s my last fifty bucks.”

  The devotees smiled uncomfortably. Jack told no one about his mother, but Dhana sensed a new edge in him. Was it the upcoming ritual, which no one quite knew how to approach?