The Yoga Zapper--A Novel Read online

They strode to the chapel’s middle where stood a low platform of bricks on which sat a square copper tray about a foot long on each side and of equal height.

  “This is the havan, the place of the ritual,” stated Nimai. “You will find, on your side, several bowls containing various grains and spices. I have the same and, in addition, firewood and a pot full of ghee—that is, clarified butter.” The Indian community, the main beneficiaries of these rituals, donated handsomely for the services, usually several hundred dollars at a time, which helped immensely with the temple’s maintenance.

  “Sit down,” instructed Dhana. Jack, attired in a clean dhoti and a long-bodied, long-sleeved cotton kurta, took his spot across the havan from Nimai.

  “What about your brother?” questioned Dhana.

  “What about him?”

  Dhana glanced uncomfortably at Jack. “Didn’t you tell him?”

  “No. I don’t want to deal with him right now. I’ll let him know when it’s over.”

  “Maybe you’re taking this too lightly,” cautioned Dhana.

  Jack tapped his fingers. “Listen. Let’s get this over with.”

  Nimai tried again. “Are you sure?”

  Jack ran his fingers through his hair. “Hey man, I paid good money for this and I want it done.” There was no joke about the money in his voice. Dhana shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay. Okay, as you wish,” answered Nimai resignedly. “This yajna is scientific in its technique and precision—it demands meticulousness and the proper following of steps. It releases the power residing in the syllables, in the very sounds, of the mantra. Once the yajna is completed, fix your mind as to the yuga of your choice, as thoughts determine the destination. So let’s start and leave the result in Krishna’s hands. Okay?”

  “Let’s go,” demanded Jack.

  The pujari lined the edges of the havan with a dozen sticks of smoking incense, placed a few pieces of wood in the metal tray, poured a couple of ladleful’s of ghee on top and dropped a burning match, causing the clarified butter and wood to immediately catch fire.

  Nimai first recited the Guru Pranam, the invocation to the spiritual master

  Om agnana timirandhasya jnananjana salakaya

  Caksur unmilitam yena tasmai sri guru vena namah

  Next came the entreaty to the spiritual lineage, the Mangalacharana, and other mantras. He sang the verses in a rich, sonorous rhythm, obeying the protocols clearly defined in the Agamas, manuals of procedure for such rituals. Having effect only if chanted accurately, the mantra required proper pronunciation and correct meter. The pujari coordinated the singing with the offering, in the exact sequence, of grains, spices, and ghee to the growing flames.

  “Let us now deliver the mantra from your shastra.” Jack perked up. Nimai recounted the verses in a sure manner, intoning the word ‘Svaha’ after each line, drawing out the last syllable into an exclamation.

  “This word is very important as it addresses the energy of the fire, which is feminine, and ensures the proper functioning of the ritual,” explained Dhana. At each pronunciation of ‘Svaha,’ Dhana and Jack followed Nimai’s example, throwing grains and spices into the fire.

  The smell of the smoldering spices encased the small chapel with a sweet, acrid fragrance. It stung Jack’s nostrils and overpowered his eyes. He actually tasted those spices, transporting him to warm, tropical climates where winds carried the scent of nutmeg and jasmine to ships sailing out at sea. As the flames billowed higher and higher, he hardly saw the others’ faces as they concentrated on the yajna, repeating the mantras with utmost absorption. Other devotees entered the temple and observed the proceedings from a distance.

  He heeded Nimai’s instruction to deeply concentrate on his destination. Where would he go? The beginning or end of time? Either Satya Yuga or the end of Kali Yuga—only these two choices crowded his mind.

  The incessant chanting increased in frequency and urgency. The crackle of the ghee and the popping of the grains exploded in volume and number until he heard, felt and saw nothing else.

  Then suddenly the intonations stopped.

  “Did you decide?” asked Nimai.

  Jack nodded.

  “Stand up.”

  * * * * *

  Steve rubbed his eyes and stared at his watch. Eight o’clock! He’d slept late! All at once, his mother’s death overcame him. Marjorie Goode no longer existed in this world and tears rolled down his cheeks. He looked up at Jack’s empty bunk. He already felt bad about last night; he needed to apologize. Despite his attitude, his brother undoubtedly loved Mom as much as he did. And more than ever, they needed each other.

  Steve walked down the hall and into the men’s bathroom. The rules were clear the kitchen, considered to be as sacred as the altar, required cleanliness before entering. This meant taking a shower and wearing a clean dhoti and kurta. He bathed, dressed and walked into the unusually quiet kitchen. A large bag of carrots lay on top of the cutting table and, locating a peeler, he started working. Half an hour later, Daya, Nimai’s wife, walked in.

  “What are you doing here?” she exclaimed.

  “Getting ready for the Sunday Feast, what else?”

  “Don’t you want to see the yajna?”

  “What do you mean? Where is everyone?”

  “You idiot!” yelled Daya. “We’re all in the temple watching your brother do the ritual from your Yoga Zapper!”

  Steve dropped the peeler. The color drained from his face as he ran out. Upon entering the chapel, the intense, fragrant, astringent smell burned his eyes. Stunned, tears streaming down his face, he stumbled toward the havan, where Jack stood erect with eyes closed, concentrating deeply.

  * * * * *

  “Decide your destination and take one step toward the fire,” ordered Nimai.

  Steve saw Jack shift his weight to his left foot, moving toward the sacrificial blaze.

  “Jack! Stop!” screamed Steve. He couldn’t explain it, but a terrible sensation of losing his only family member overcame him.

  “Take your step now,” commanded Nimai again.

  Steve ran, arriving at the havan at the exact time Jack stepped forward.

  * * * * *

  A strange, distant, unearthly flat note, rising and falling in pitch, gusted into the hall. Dhana recognized it as the sound of conch shells blowing, but what did it herald? And who trumpeted them?

  A sinuous green flame, like a verdant vine emerging from a flaming pot, rose from the center of the havan. The green stem arched and curled slowly up, glowing incandescent with heat. Dhana gasped, his hair standing on end, rubbing his eyes unbelievingly. The burgeoning vine stopped and a large pink bud blossomed on top, expanding larger and larger, flashing like a sun suspended in the hollow space inside the dome, radiating enormous amounts of light and heat.

  Slowly, this glistening, burning blossom opened up. One by one, enormous hot pink petals spread up and out, the sizzling color burning into Dhana’s pupils. He shivered violently at the sight of the unearthly flower, unable to move his frozen legs. Beads of sweat swelled instantly on his head and ran down his neck.

  As the fiery lotus flower stretched and swelled, leaves of burning green flames curled out from under it and bristled down the walls of the chapel, surging into every nook and cranny. The smell of charred plaster filled his nostrils and the ripping sound of peeling paint burst into his ears.

  An immense roar, an overpowering thunderclap, as if the universe itself split, shuddered the building. The blast shook the devotees out of their open-mouthed stances. Dhana and Nimai scrambled madly to the altar, followed by the other screaming devotees, who bounded into the alcove where the Deities stood, and huddled, trembling, at their feet. Despite the torrid heat, the altar remained miraculously cool and unaffected; a small oasis in the midst of the raging storm. His arms trembling, Dhana held on to Krishna’s feet with both hands, eyes barely open.

  “Krishna!” he yelled. “Please protect us!”

  Suddenly, from th
e middle of the flower burst forth a whirling globe of silvery fire, shedding brilliantly shining sparks. As Dhana watched with horror and disbelief, the blinding ball flew down and, whizzing around at enormous speed, enrobed Jack and Steve. Capturing them, it flew straight up.

  The fiery lotus flower instantly disappeared as a wondrous purple, blue, red and yellow cloud of smoke streamed rapidly out of the havan and quickly surrounded the iridescent orb and spun around it at incredible speed, resembling a multi-colored planet with an incandescent core. Suddenly, a tremendous ear-splitting clap sounded and the sphere, along with the two young men, disappeared in a flash of smoke and fire.

  Instantaneously, unexpectedly, the noise, the flames, and the heat all disappeared. The chapel cleared and a summer breeze, feeling absolutely cool on Dhana’s skin, wafted through the open windows along with the sound of chirping sparrows. A palpable silence enveloped the temple. The whole incident took maybe half a minute, but for him, felt like a lifetime.

  The devotees stood on shaking legs. The chapel’s walls and ceiling still smoked, sand and hot bricks lay strewn about, but the temple remained otherwise unharmed. Dhana examined the altar. The incense sticks continued burning in their holders, the fresh flowers yet stood in their vases and Krishna still sported his mischievous little smile.

  Chapter Nine

  The Village of Mahavan, End of Satya Yuga

  Steve walked along a soft, red dirt path on top of a hill. The knoll contained meadows and pastures filled with sweet-smelling grasses and profusely growing flowers. Tall greenery, feathered with seeds on top, lined the edges of the trail. He picked up a handful of the rich soil and smelled it. Moisture hid in the earth just at his fingertips—obviously, it had rained earlier in the day or perhaps the previous night. The showers released an aroma of sweetness held fast deep within the soil. Did this earthy scent, clinging dew-like to the sweet air, perfume his every breath and did the atmosphere, so delicately scented, flow over his body like a fresh mountain stream?

  He closed his eyes and inhaled. With each wave, the soft wind rinsed away all concerns. Each breath, each step, sucked all worries, all anxieties away. Images of warm summer days spent playing in meadows full of flowers, of a carefree childhood filled with light and laughter crowded his mind. He noticed a tree with an enormously distended trunk, standing comically like a stiff sentinel on top of the hill. He laughed like a child, the joy coming long and deep from inside and for no reason at all. He dashed along the path toward the tree, laughing happily, uncontrollably, his lungs devouring great big gulps of heavenly air.

  The deeper he breathed, the more his body wanted. He couldn’t recall when his mind felt more clear and content. As a child he’d wake up completely refreshed after a night of restful sleep, but never before had he experienced anything like this—his entire body alert, full of energy and vigor. This place removed mountains of burdens from his shoulders; weights so accustomed to bearing, he had never noticed them before.

  He stopped running, lay on his back in the grass beside the path and stared into the absolute blue of the atmosphere. Only a few soft white clouds danced in the firmament, metamorphosing endlessly into fairies and angels, knights and castles. He sensed himself merging into that infinite, unending horizon.

  An intense, wonderful tingling sensation, as if his nerves themselves became alive, tickled his toes and his fingertips. The sensation grew more pronounced and ventured into his torso, where individual nerves and muscles playfully wrestled with each other. Unable to bear their blissful combat, he laughed, roared, and grabbing his stomach, rolled over the field, his clothes and hair ensnaring grass and flowers.

  After a long while, he calmed and a pleasant, tired feeling overcame him. He noticed the sun—that warm, yellow globe—lay only midway on the eastern horizon. He lifted his arm and examined his watch. At first he couldn’t see the hands; they whirled in an indistinguishable blur. A momentary fear overcame him. The watch suddenly felt ugly, alien, like an evil manacle on his wrist. It ticked softly, ever rapidly, and to his suddenly sensitive ears, sounded deadly—innocent-looking on the outside, but full of a complex, murderous technology inside. He tore that black, strange, thing off, threw it as far as possible down the hill and immediately experienced a sense of great relief and boundless satisfaction. So that’s what’s been tying me down all this time, he thought.

  He felt happy, carefree again. He bounded up on his feet and jogged over to the fat-bellied tree. It was the strangest thing he ever saw. Curiously small leaves crowned tiny branches extending from the top of its trunk. He walked up to it, arms extended, but his embrace came nowhere close to covering even a quarter of the trunk. The fat-bellied tree looked down and smiled, as if to chastise him for being so foolish.

  Large roots, like thick brown waves, emerged at intervals out of the rich, red earth. He sat on one and peered into the valley. Tall, broad-leaved forest covered the entire area. The dirt path tumbled down the side of the hill, ran through several hundred yards of dense, cool woodland, and stopped at the bank of a fast-moving river at least two stone throws across. It flowed towards him from low-lying hills in the far north, and beyond them stood tall, magnificent mountains, filling the entire horizon, their regal crowns dusted eternally with pure, pristine snow, silently surveying their kingdoms below. Ethereal, transcendental, as if unconnected to the earth, they stood shimmering blue and white on the far-away, unreachable skyline.

  He shook his head, got up and walked around the tree, eyeing the river curving around the hill. The waterway turned and spread out into a large, shallow pool crowded with water lilies and lotuses, the large flowers shining white and pink. On the near shore lay a small, sandy beach, bordered by a large flat expanse of grassland. And on it, close to the river, perched a small village composed of several dozen thatch-roofed huts.

  So he was not alone! Relief washed over him. The sight of human habitation raised a hundred questions. What am I doing here? Who lives in that village? His memory, his past, flooded back. He remembered everything his brother, his mother’s death, the fire ritual and the Yoga Zapper. He stared at the village again. Could Jack be there?

  The community surrounded a large stone building, square at the bottom and tapering twenty feet high, set in an enclosed courtyard. From its crown rose a bronze pole with a shining metal disk on top, with stylized flames emanating from its edges. Steve surmised that it must be a place of worship. Large tree branches extended over the stone walls, their canopies shading the compound where several inhabitants, wearing white or orange dhotis, practiced hatha yoga. Some sat in padmasana, with their legs crossed, backs straight, arms extended to their knees with thumbs touching their forefingers, while others stood in vrikshasana, with one foot tucked up at the knee of the other, their hands stretched overhead with palms together.

  Next to the temple grew an enormous banyan tree, composed of several trunks, creating the effect of a small grove, affording both shelter and community to the inhabitants. Steve saw children playing among those tree trunks and women sitting under the shade, engaged in conversation. The young ones noticed him and started waving and Steve smiled at their innocent gesture of friendship and signaled back. Soon, the adult members of the village became aware of his presence and gestured, urging him to come down.

  Steve trekked down the path. At the base of the hill, he encountered a footpath meandering along the banks of the stream, shaded by tall trees on one side while rushes and long grasses grew along the shore. The sparkling blue waters, cool and inviting, sped downstream, tumbling among large rocks.

  Striding on the path, and following the bend of the river, he passed the pool brimming with lotuses and lilies before stopping at the village’s entrance. The entire community had gathered to meet him. The women, lithe and supple, formed two rows and small children stood peering curiously from behind the shelter of their mother’s saris. Behind them, men positioned themselves, their strong bodies clothed in cotton dhotis, either white or saffron, and at
the end stood an elderly man with a long white beard, holding a garland of flowers.

  On the ground at the village’s entrance lay an intricate design created with some sort of white powder. The care and effort going into its creation suggested more than mere decoration and it occurred to Steve that not only was he entering the village, but also crossing into the special cosmology, the different world, represented by the drawing.

  Baffled, he stopped at the center of the design and several women rushed forward with brown earthen pots. Bending down, they poured water and washed his feet with strong hands. He recoiled, being greatly self-conscious, but his sensitivity remained totally unnoticed by the women who glanced at him shyly and with amusement. As soon as this part of the greeting ended, a lady applied a large round spot of red powder directly to the center of his forehead. Obviously, this was their customary way of greeting visitors, but why did they receive him, a complete stranger, with such affection and familiarity?

  After the women moved away, Steve strode between the parallel lines of inhabitants as, at every step, they threw flowers, quickly smothering him with sweet-smelling petals. When he reached the end, the old man, smiling broadly under his thick beard which, combed around the edges of his mouth in a manner as to give the impression of a continual smile on his lips, stepped forward

  Despite his age, the old man displayed a strong, tanned body. Skin hung loose on his arms and chest, but his eyes remained dark and clear. His gentle and kind demeanor revealed the nature of someone who, having lived a long, fruitful and satisfying life, retains nothing but goodwill toward all souls. He stared intently into Steve’s eyes, as if examining the contents of his heart, all the while maintaining an affectionate regard on his face. He slipped the heavenly garland, fashioned of lotus blossoms, each huge and aromatic, the long, thick petals gleaming white, their tips pink, over Steve’s head and rested it on his shoulders.