 
### The Nyxall Chronicles

### The Now or Never

by

Steven J. Shupe

2019 Edition

Copyright 2001 by Steven J. Shupe

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### THE NOW OR NEVER

Table of Contents

FOREWORD by Shri Shri Cy Bubha

PART ONE: The Awakening

PART TWO: The Quickening

PART THREE: The Path to Kumba Mehla

PART FOUR: A Fool's Journey

EPILOGUE: A Billion and One Blessings

ADDENDUM: A Paradox and Pair of Knaves

The ReMinder Conclusion: Five Blind Sages

FOREWORD

"So my children, be fruitful and multiply. And add and subtract

and divide. Hell, do differential equations for all I care.

Just keep your sense of humor."

-from Hallowed Be My Name,

by Shri Shri Cy Bubha

It is a great privilege for me to be writing this foreword, a rare honor I bestow upon a friend and fellow author who needs all the help he can get at the moment. Not only has my good buddy forgotten that he is writing this book about his personal journey of spirit, but he cannot even recall his identity as its protagonist. Currently stumbling around in a fog of amnesia among millions of Hindu pilgrims, he thinks himself a wandering holy man gaining spiritual merit at the Kumba Mehla festival.

Our forgetful writer is correct regarding his presence at the 2001 Kumba Mehla, an ancient spiritual shindig held every three years that brings together the largest crowd of people in the world. The festival is roughly equivalent to the entire population of greater Los Angeles camping at the beach for a month-long clambake and prayer session—with only holy cows to clean up the mess. Then at an auspicious moment on the day of the new moon everyone rushes into the water for a bath that supposedly clears all bad karma, at least for those not trampled or drowned. Very California, but it actually takes place along the sacred river Ganga here in beautiful downtown India.

Although correct in his guess as to festival location, the author is wrong about his identity as a wandering holy man in orange robes. Being a fan of irony, I find it a hoot that this guy's memory shattered into shards during the time he was composing his spiritual autobiography, The ReMinder—as in the _re-Minder,_ a man re-minding himself and reclaiming what he presumptuously calls his total Mind. You will recognize _re-Minder_ as one of those little wordplays that spiritual writers find clever; like to atone is to be _at-One_ with God, to remember is to _re-Member_ with your lost tribe of angels, and a _Port-a-Potty_ is where most of this crap should go.

But, hey, I'm neither as cynical nor narrow-minded as this sounds. It's just that as an American expatriate in India where sacred cows are fully protected I must turn elsewhere for targets of my sacrilege. Sacrilege and irony, by the way, join with paradox to top my list of worldly creations that make me chubby. Moreover it is no coincidence that sacrilege, irony, and paradox are the holy trinity usually found at the brink of one's spiritual breakthrough—which for our author's sake best be true as he helplessly wanders through a convoluting maze of amnesia.

Actually, _helpless_ as a diagnosis of my buddy's memory is misleading since I hold in my hand at this very moment a vital object that promises to guide him at least partially out of forgetfulness: A little souvenir tile from Sedona, Arizona, with the cheery saying, _There's no gift like the present!_ My task now is to design a clever way to present him with this memento before the new moon arrives at the Kumba Mehla in order to trigger some of his dormant brain cells, then hand him over to an awaiting guardian angel of the female persuasion.

What this fine Calgary woman endeavors to bestow upon him thereafter is questionable since a rather jaded attitude seems to reside in her ample, angelic form. Her innocence, Alberta explained during our tête-á-tête last evening, was enthusiastically lost while serving as Miss Junior Stampede of 1984, while her last show of mercy involved shooting her struggling mount which had just broken his leg. I assume the mount was equestrian in nature but nothing is certain in this world of paradox or in the future of the intricate tale about to unfold.

Now that I have cast my pearls before another man's hogwash, those who dare proceed shall travel back through time by several weeks into December 2000 and upriver a few hundred miles to embrace the genesis of this tale. So let The ReMinder begin before another rip in the space-time continuum sends our hero and his story hurtling further into new worlds of intrigue that may end up changing even the title of his book. It's now or never!

This foreword graciously provided at no charge by

the fully self-realized master and a Postle of Light,

Shri Shri Cy Bubha

PART ONE

"A fool and his journey are soon departed."

\- from My Father, Myself,

by Benjamin 'Dubya' Franklin

## DECEMBER 23 – morning

A hairy arm reaches out to locate the small cassette player. Half asleep with eyes still closed, you know precisely where to grasp. A hundred nights you have held the tape machine to your lips. Hundreds of clicks of the record button have preceded the drone of your drowsy voice. You speak.

"I'm viewing an episode of _I Love Lucy_ , although it's like I'm in the living room with Lucy rather than watching television. She is dancing erotically, topless. Husband Ricky suddenly enters and glares at us. I feel a pang of guilt and awaken."

Another probe into the psyche is launched, another dream recorded. You keep your eyes closed trying to stay in the half-asleep state, to reenter this latest dream and allow the mind to lead you into corners of your unconscious where you become simply a silent witness, a lucid dreamer watching the drama unfold. But the afterglow of a dancing redhead proves more of a distraction than a lure back into slumber. You are awake.

Eyes, however, stubbornly refuse to open to morning light. Through your foggy thoughts a vague awareness creeps in that you have no idea where you are lying, no ability to picture the room in which you have slept. Perhaps another hotel on an endless business trip? Or better yet, a spacious bed in a new companion's spacious bedroom? You savor this moment of the unknown but are surprised it does not pass.

You open your eyelids, blink in the light, and are disconcerted to discover that you still cannot identify the location. You observe an unfamiliar five-sided room with low ceiling, bare walls, and no furniture save for the narrow cot you occupy. Books, a few cassette tapes, clothes, and some odds and ends are piled on built-in concrete shelves. You lie motionless waiting for the moment of awareness to arrive. It does not.

With eyes that begin to dart nervously you note a wooden door to your right and small windows on each of the other walls—four strange windows with no glass, each screened and with narrow bars spaced closely enough to prevent intrusion...or escape.

"Damn," you gasp aloud as the thought of being trapped in jail freezes your mind and tightens your chest.

But your old friend logic breaks through the anxiety and tells you _no,_ no prison would have such views from the windows. Each of the four openings leads to green splendor. Relax, just relax. Your breathing returns to normal as you listen to birds that welcome the morning, their song mingling with river melody beyond the foliage. Relax and keep thinking; just breathe and remember. Yes, good...good...

"Oh, God!" you cry out and bolt from bed as the next reasonable conclusion about your location enters your frantic mind: A mental asylum. Quite a logical theory, particularly as you realize that not only are you ignorant of the _where_ of your situation but of the _who_ as well. Yes, this would be a nice safe room in which to impound a madman with amnesia, a pleasant setting for a lunatic to record his dreams with no memory of his daytime self.

Eyes now filled with panic stare at the door. You swallow, reluctant to test the handle and find it does not turn, afraid to learn that you are a captive of this room, of insanity. You certainly _look_ like a maniac edging warily towards the exit—a naked man with wild eyes and trembling hands that reach for the latch. Keep reaching, now turn and pull. The door opens. Ah, you can breathe again. Inhale the fragrance of ten thousand petals unfolding to sunlight flooding over nearby crest. Absorb the brilliant rays that strike your bare body in the doorway to paradise, an Eden welcoming its awakened Adam.

But first things first. An outhouse at the edge of the garden reminds you of this adage and the urge of the moment. You grab a thick robe from the hook by the door and don slippers to stride quickly to the primitive toilet. Walking back in more comfort if not clarity, you get a first good look at the hut from the outside. Stone walls with crumbling mortar create a pentagonal room twelve feet across, maybe eight feet high, which stands alone in lush surroundings. You are drawn to stone stairsteps leading to the hut's flat concrete roof, momentarily forgetting your predicament as the view of paradise expands in scope before your gaze. The panorama of sound is also enriched from rooftop as river song becomes a symphony arising from two waterways that meet below your vantage point. A crystal clear tributary cascades through a thousand stones as it enters a deep stretch of the broad mother river.

And what a mother she is. Her gentle upriver flow quickly gives over to a raging boil as she carves through a chute of rock, then once again settles into knitting spiral strands of blue-green in graceful eddies and pacific flow. You know that the river's distinctive aquamarine hue can mean only one thing—headwater glaciers. Somewhere beyond the steep, forested slopes that rise above the hut lie great chunks of ice nestled in high peaks. The Andes? The Himalayas? You haven't a clue.

The roof is bare except for a plastic chair and an old nightstand whose splintery legs each rest on a stack of three bricks. As you ponder this peculiar setup, you unconsciously take a satisfying stretch of your back that turns into slow, methodical movements which expand into a series of repetitions. Probably these are a form of Tai Chi but only your body remembers the routine, not your conscious mind. You continue the exercise letting the movements repeat for some time before breaking into a more active pattern. You finish with another long, deliberate set of stretches, feeling energized but calmed by this half-hour routine.

Sitting casually in the plastic chair you savor the embrace of paradise surprised at how relaxed you can be in light of the morning's shock of having no memory. You optimistically assume that the amnesia is temporary, that all will straighten out as the day unfolds. In the meantime, birds flitting among garden flowers catch your eye as you observe each winged species and each plant as if for the first time. Like a virgin in a land of sensual delights you drift in the moment with no thought of past or future, losing yourself in the fragrance of morning blossoms mingled with the sweet decay of old growth and new soil. Earthy, sensational, timeless.

Footsteps in the garden interrupt your reverie. How much time has passed—thirty minutes, an hour? You do not know as you glance at your wristwatch. 9:32 a.m. on December 23. You wish that the watch indicated the year. A thin man appearing like a caricature of an underfed swami ascends the stairway carrying a tray with steaming tea and tortillas. No, make that chapatis, not tortillas. Between semi-tropical setting, a glacier-fed river, and Hindu-looking server, you can be pretty sure that India is your host country, the foothills Himalayan, and that the tea will be too sweet. It is but you are happy to have the refreshment as you respond to the man's respectful Hindi greeting of _namaste_ with a slight bow of your own.

The ease of the exchange and your comfort on the roof make you wonder how long you have been visiting this place. You are tempted to ask the man how many days, weeks, or months you have resided here, but you do not want to expose your case of amnesia. No, says the voice of prudence, at all costs do not let anyone know your forgetful condition or you are liable to end up in some foreign loony bin that would make this morning's fear upon awakening seem like a cakewalk.

So you remain silent in the thin man's silence, smile at his smile, and tilt your head to his tilt good-bye. He descends to who-knows-where, leaving you to ponder your condition over tea. You look behind in the direction he retreats, noticing snatches of white buildings on a rise above the garden trees. A hotel complex perhaps? More likely it is a Hindu ashram if the garb of the server is an indicator of reality. Ah yes, _reality_ , that nettlesome concept that you have yet to get a grip on this day.

You hurry along breakfast and decide to search your room for clues to the reality of your situation and identity. Seeing familiar objects might even trigger the return of memory, you think hopefully. Yes, you were always full of optimism even as a child. You do not remember that fact now, however, nor do you recall the frequent disappointments. **[Oh, but I do, a buried subconscious with a view of the knew, awakening to shake and bake in the inner recesses of shadowy playgrounds with innocence lost and memory tossed into the dumpster.]**

With a mouth full of chapati and teacup in hand, you open the door to the hut and take stock of its contents _._ Clothes are few, simple, and utilitarian. Footwear consists of two pair of walking shoes, one pair of slippers, and waterproof moccasins. **[Moccasins to creep into the deep where mocking and shocking go into the brain. Reduce the strain by taking the train to forgetfulness, a one-way ticket to the underworld to join the bogeymen lurking and jerking.]** Underneath the bed is a good-sized backpack with detachable day bag, both empty. On a top shelf lie a turquoise umbrella, a flashlight, candles, matches, four cheap pens, a toothbrush, some rupee notes of various denominations, a two-liter water bottle (full), and a lapel button that declares its prospective wearer _In Silence_. **[Silence of the deep or lambs depending upon which feature is favored. Double trouble when preachers arrived in various denominations sending the Word into two liters of water and ten-thousand leagues under the sea. Glub.]**

The lower shelf contains a small stack of spiral notebooks that, upon quick glance, appear to be used as journals for transcribing your tape-recorded dreams. Next to these are three worn paperbacks: _Midnight's Children_ by Salmon Rushdie; _Meditation and Hypnosis in the Vedic Tradition_ ; and _A Yogi's Tale_ by Bodhi Sanga. **[Put 'er there Yogi Bear or Berra as a catcher of the wry. My oh my, an hypnotic trance weaves me not knowing whether coming or going, dying or growing, just on the vine sowing what I have reaped.]**

You shift your attention to two quotations taped to the adjacent wall, clues to your life's philosophy perhaps. One quote is attributed to Yogi Bodhi: "Seekers who have merged for even an instant with the universal Mind attest that joy permeates a divine order, and that infinite beauty shines beyond the dull illusions perceived with earthly eye." The other quote states in bold lettering, "It's now or never, hound dog" _,_ attributed to Elvis Presley _._ **[Thankyouverymunch.]**

Moving to the next of the five walls you find two small pieces of paper held in place on the windowsill by a smooth river stone. You pick up the first slip, a cheap business card announcing, "RAVI'S PLACE, For All Your Travel and Photocopy Needs. Located in Laxman Jhula village by Shiva's statue." The other is a scrap with scribbled note, "Allahabad Riverview Inn, January 18. See you for dinner at 6:00!" The message appears to have been written by feminine hand. **[Ah, a woman's touch, the fairer sex, a fairway driving to goal of hole. Putter here yogi beer and grab for the gusto. Gusto must go or where else is there to be? Stuck in the muck and shit out of luck. S-O-L or with the longer version comes wisdom if you are willing to enter SOLomon's Temple. Shirley you jest. And shut the goddamn door! Slam bam, thank you ma'am.]**

No hints to your identity arise in this paraphernalia let alone a divine order of infinite beauty. Nor have any flashbacks unlocked the dormant memory in your conscious mind—while the peculiar, bold ramblings of your subconscious lie far below your awareness. Your puzzlement has only grown from the investigation. With one shelf left to explore, however, your optimism remains alive with hope that at least a passport awaits discovery. But no, the last shelf simply holds a number of cassettes: A tape each of Gordon Lightfoot, Nirmohi Rokstad, and Pete Seeger; some classical and New Age instrumental tapes; and several meditation cassettes with the picture of a smiling guru called Ashoka-ji.

Oh well, chalk up the first disappointment in your new, two-hour life. It won't be the last. In fact, when you get around to looking carefully at the bottom spiral notebook in the dream journal pile, your central core of optimism faces severe risk of meltdown.

Meanwhile, you pace the room trying to reason out details of your predicament, wisely inferring that two places are at hand to look for answers. One site is the white building compound beyond the garden; the other place is your head. You opt to limit the search for answers to your gray matter since meeting people at the compound without memory, self-image, or legal passport is a tad disconcerting particularly to a fellow who is afraid of being considered insane by foreign authorities, officials who might have a bone to pick with...with...an American! Yes, you are from the good old US-of-A, a fact you are pleased to have deduced from language and a quick scan of information you have in your mind about geography, politics, and the world in general. Never underestimate the power of an inquiring mind.

You continue to delve into the brain trying to jog loose more knowledge about yourself through logic and reason, if not memory. Indeed, data galore are available through which to sift. You are a veritable fount of information, doubtless a worthy adversary in Trivial Pursuit. You readily recall the rules of this trivial contest as well as the nuances of Monopoly, Scrabble, and various card games. But, try as you might, you cannot remember ever having played them. Likewise, you can list the fifty states in your head plus their capitals but have no notion of where to call home. Only general information rattles around in your brain with no memories of personal experience. Never underestimate the power of forgetfulness.

Taking a different tack you ponder the _cause_ of your unfortunate condition with the hope that remedy will arise in tandem. What trauma could possibly have happened in the night to induce amnesia? Awakening to the wrath of Ricky Ricardo? Highly improbable. An earlier nightmare? A nocturnal intruder? No, one does not simply go back into sound sleep after a shock of magnitude to cause amnesia. Despite your brain's best effort, no memories or rational explanations bubble to the surface.

Perhaps the recordings of the unconscious will hold a key _._ **[Yo, the temple hatch was slammed to catch some slack, Jack, and let the Hyde hide, okay?]** You return to the shelf to peruse the four dream journals, **[Oh** _, those_ **unconscious recordings; no heckle Jekyll.]** but you are instead distracted by some typed sheets stashed between the notebooks. With curiosity peaked, you begin reading the pages:

The ReMinder: Chapter 1

Alone with brother time in my rooftop world, we ebb and flow in an ocean of thought, pulled between history and hopes. Tides of past and future swirl into countless eddies that grow still and silent as I enter their center: Vortex of the now, the moment of destiny opening to the infinite present where time becomes but a twinkle of light in a...NO! No, no, no, stop. No way! I won't fall into this ego trap.

For chrissake, this book is about catharsis and release, not about penning a prison of prose that echoes its self-importance. And in a writing style that whines like a puppy for attention? Damn it, no! How can I possibly shepherd such pomposity when my own attention span has diminished to that of the pup?

Freedom now! And, by thunder, The ReMinder is not just _about_ freedom and release. It _is_ the catharsis, a cosmic colonic to clear the flotsam from the shore of my washed-up personality, of my decomposing self-Identity. Remnants and threads of a life once known must be cleansed before the new can emerge from the sacrificial pyre. Mo-Ci-Cla, Mo-Ci-Cla. My mantra of fire purification, the call of the phoenix rising from the ashes.

But wait, all that comes later. _Now_ is the time. Time to start; time to begin; time in. So... _Alone in my rooftop world, time flies like the wind_. Nope, poor sentence structure and not even a truthful beginning.

Okay, let's try another catchy opening: _Time is of the essence_.

Good grief man, get original! Look into the mirror, into the depths of one's own countenance to discover the beginnings of time and space, to unearth the origin of personal tale.

Yes, yes, as I gaze into the tiny mirror in my tiny room neath pentagonal rooftop, it strikes me clearly, unequivocally, the nature of time at the moment of beginning. Ahem, a clearing of throat, a return up the stairway, a rustling of paper, and... _Alone in my rooftop world, time runs like my nose_.

Yes, that's it! Time runs like my nose. I rarely notice the passage of either in my solitude but upon emergence into civilization I am quickly reminded of the running of both clock and nostril. Metronomes and mucous cause people to dance in frantic response, reactions to cultural conditioning ingrained deeply into psyches and sinuses.

Oh, excellent! This be a truer description of time's sticky nature plus it is a beginning that exposes me as a crude fraud should I later slip into self-righteous spirituality. And most importantly, it is the first sprinkling of the cathartic cleanser applied against my old persona, a personality laid down by rules formulated—nay, _decreed_ —decades ago in my childhood. Rule #21-F _: Thou shalt not refer to any liquid, solid, or gas that emanates from bodily orifice._ So coming from a household where even earwax and saliva were topics taboo, you can imagine my current sense of liberation by referring to nasal...(whoops, pause for small shudder of past conditioning)...mucous.

Ah yes, I can feel it working. This wondrous journey with pen has begun scouring the psyche of remnants of the old to leave a clean slate upon which the cosmos may etch fresh messages. New signposts shall flash to guide me into worlds unknown, into mystical dimensions beyond physical bounds, cleaving from time and space with a quantum leap to land in a universe of infinite energy, of endless variety where imagination is free to explore, discover, and yea verily, _create_ worlds beyond current understanding.

Sound a bit pompous? Damn straight. But aha! I have glimpsed these new worlds ever so briefly and snatched a taste. Like all forbidden fruit, however, they prove elusive and demand a price. What price to pay for gaining such boons, you query? The firstborn; the family jewels?

Yes in a way, but more, much more. The ultimate price: Death, and a slow tortuous one at that. Annihilation of that held nearest and dearest, of the gem that I shaped, honed, and defended without fail against all who would dare question its value. Yes folks, the price for liberation into new realms is death of one's sparkling self image, of my complacent persona which bespoke a kind man, a competent man, a man to rely on and trust. A fine son, an understanding friend, a fighter for the good. With _Environmental Engineer_ emblazoned on one fist and _Attorney at Law_ on the other, my Identity stood atop a rock foundation fighting its way into national newsprint, yet with velvet glove always at the ready to stroke the oppressed and needy—preferably female.

Well, the stones held form but my Identity has crumbled into a pile of dust, eroded by tears and truth, by holy fires of purification, by ancient rumblings that merged into a massive earthquake to shatter all notions of self, all images once held sacred, wrapped in swaddling three-piece suit and lying in a courtroom. Gone. Kaput. Hasta la toodle-oo.

So alone in my rooftop world, nose running in breeze from distant peaks, I sift through the dust and ash not yet cool, smoldering remnants from a fiery process of the 1990's that consumed an Identity that had taken me the previous forty years to painstakingly erect. And now with a sweep of pen comes the final benediction and release in this, The ReMinder, the wordy funeral proscribed by destiny to open sesame to the next hidden worlds.

Penning a swansong in one quick sweep is perhaps overly optimistic in my current rooftop setting handicapped by no electricity, a paper shortage, a dearth of desks, and a narrative confined to fact. But by grace, a worthy benediction shall emerge as one thousand and one threads are cast to the wind, events of my life flung with the faith that they will mysteriously weave in free-fall into a beautiful tapestry, order from chaos, a magic carpet upon which the reader may ride the currents of pathos and mirth to arrive at Identity's appointed destination, the Grim Reaper's door.

The first stop on this macabre journey? Drum roll, please, while I steel myself against the rush of memory: _The betrayal by my beloved Ann._

*******

And there the text ends. Your forgetful mind races with questions. Was this a chapter you wrote that describes your actual life? Or is it some nonsense that another visitor to the hut left that reflects his journey of spirit and sacrilege? Reason indicates it is likely your composition yet none of its words, experiences, or ideas rings a bell.

A wave of frustration washes through you, anger at your forgetfulness and the helplessness that comes with it. You again feel trapped by the five hut walls, imprisoned by a memory whose essence has drifted off to some other dimension leaving you in mindless exile. Alright, enough of frittering away time in this confining room, you declare silently. You abruptly reach for the door, determined to find answers by penetrating the great unknown of the white buildings above the garden.

But _wait_ , logic interjects. Pin the _In Silence_ button to your chest and negate the need for identity, comprehension, or any normal form of social intercourse. In order to mask your amnesia, simply walk slowly, look contemplative, and give a papal gesture of dispensation to anyone encountered. Your fearful self agrees but chooses to reject the pope act. A safer option is to clasp hands behind the back and nod knowingly to camouflage your ignorance. So be it. You position the _In Silence_ button on your shirt, square your shoulders, open the hut door, and depart for the mystery of forgotten terrain.

You walk slowly and deliberately up the path to the compound that is indeed a Hindu ashram, albeit a small one. You are relieved to see no one else in the central courtyard as you search for anything of meaning or familiarity. You stare at the central statue of a stern deity shaded in blue. It rudely stares back. Turning slowly 360 degrees, you note four signs posted in English: One designates an _Office_ ; the second indicates a spigot for _Drinking Water_ ; and the other signs are above doorways to the _Meditation Hall_ and _Dinning Room_. **[Doorways I can't keep closed, spells that push me in. Not by the hair of my skinny chin-chin, but the skin of my teeth gnashing and dashing through the lies. What's the next surprise, guys?]**

The office feels like a good place to start, particularly as you stroll closer and spot information in English taped to the window. _Wellcome Foreign Visiters_ lies genially if ineptly at the top of one page, followed by a typed list of rules (with number six added in pencil):

1. All visiters to Phool Chatti Ashram must check in with Guruji at the office.

2. No drugs or entoxicants allowed.

3. Do not pluck flowers.

4. Do not leave ashram grounds after dark, and no fratenizing after ten o'clock.

5. When outside the ashram, be prepared to shew your passport at any time upon police request.

6. No nude bathing in the Ganga!

So it is the mighty Ganges River that flows outside the hut, its blessed waters apparently having been desecrated by an enthusiastic nature buff. Squinting through the window for signs of the Guruji fellow mentioned in rule number one, you spy only an empty couch facing a vacant desk and chair. The ashram leader's absence is irritating but you are also relieved not to confront a fellow human being who might detect your amnesia. You turn to the other posting that announces bus times: _Up bus to Neelkanth Village at 8:35 & 16:20. Down bus to Laxman Jhula Village and Rishikesh at 9:10 & 15:00. Catch the bus three hunderd metres down the driveway at the tea shop._

More handy information, particularly if you wish to follow in the footsteps of the Beatles through Rishikesh. You feel agitated at being able to recall this useless trivia of the Fab Four's past travels without knowing a thing that really matters about yourself—like, for instance, the location of your passport so you can actually take a bus without fear of being stopped and arrested and God knows what else. **[Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble beginning to strain at the lid. Hang on, Lucy in disguise with a passport to a velvety 'V' of red-haired ecstasy.]** You feel blood rush to your face in frustration as you leave another nose print high on the office window while looking for evidence of a secure place in which your valuables might be stowed, knowing that no sane person would leave them in a weird, pentagonal garden hut without a lock.

But do you qualify in the category of _sane_ persons? Are you going to find your identity or ever get out of this maddening predicament and place? Frustration builds along with a sense of helplessness as you stride towards the _Dinning Hall_ sign, all pretense of contemplative calm cast to the wind. **[A plot thickening, a pulse quickening, a volcano about to flow if I don't go slow. Shirley can't hold on against the mighty winds. Gale forces the temple door open. Help me, I'm meltinggggg!]**

You stand at the dining hall entrance with fists clenched as if ready for a fight. For some reason the misspelled _dinning_ irritates you as does the fact that no tables or chairs are in the hall and it's not even a hall but a crappy room with just a thin cloth to sit on with your back against the hard wall and they probably make you sit with legs crossed but won't even give you a fork or spoon so your hands get all messy and you figure the local food will make you sick anyway plus maybe last night's dinner was so lousy that you got amnesia just to forget about it!

Geezus. You stop and rub your face in your hands. What the hell is happening, you wonder? Are you always this short fused or is it just the strain of the day? You take a deep breath and a moment to gather yourself. **[Out with the bad air, in with the good. Duality plays its accordion tune, good and evil in every breath. Asp in my gasp and ants in the pants ruining a teddy bear's picnic.]** _Mealtimes at noon and 18:00_ , you read on a sign posted by the door. "Guests are kindly asked to respect our polecy of silence at meals."

Silence is fine, just fine, you think as you stride towards the _drinking water_ sign, ready to find the next cause for irritation. A quick twist of the spigot, however, demonstrates that you can refill your water bottle, and you gladly accept this small victory. More good news greets you at the meditation hall that helps allay your agitation. Despite an odor of mildew the unoccupied hall has a pleasant atmosphere and scattered cushions on which to meditate. You take advantage of this simple luxury as you assume a comfortable sitting posture to calm yourself.

Without thinking, you observe the breath as it passes through your nose, feeling the warmth of each exhalation against your upper lip. You relax with the rhythm of the breath gradually becoming aware of sensations. Effortlessly but with keen inner focus you silently witness all the itches, tingles, knots, aches, throbs, and other sensations of your body, not responding to them but calmly observing. You do not remember that you have attempted this Vipassana meditation technique in silence for ten days at a stretch or that it ostensibly brought Buddha to his enlightenment. You just relax, reacting neither to pleasant sensations nor to pain, simply breathing and being, losing track of time as well as your anxiety over forgetfulness.

Reality intrudes sharply with the clanging of a bell. Like Pavlov's dog you know this means chow. A glance at your watch—a few minutes past noon—confirms that salivation is the appropriate response. You note with irony that you can easily remember Pavlov's dog, Avogadro's number, Murphy's law, Planck's constant, and the Oedipus complex, but recall neither your name nor mother. You remain calm, however, standing to give your legs a stretch in anticipation that they will soon refold in the dining hall. A hundred questions arise in your mind about what lies ahead, but no answers are found within—only the burning desire to keep your amnesia a secret from those whom you will momentarily face.

You readjust the _In Silence_ lapel button, clasp hands firmly behind the back, inhale a final deep breath, and take slow contemplative steps towards the dining facility. Upon arrival you pause in the doorway and look around at the setting and fellow diners. A bearded smile from the elderly man sitting nearest the kitchen door greets you as he waves you to your place—you are the lone guest along the wall to his left where a solitary steel plate, cup, and spoon await your arrival. You sit. You sigh.

A young couple who apparently cooked the food emerges from the kitchen to serve it. They go first to your bearded greeter who obviously wields local authority, probably the Guruji fellow mentioned in the rules by the office. Next served are two subordinate swamis on his immediate right including the thin man who delivered your morning chapati and tea. The couple then moves their serving pots to a line of six sadhus sitting against the wall opposite your position. From somewhere you know the Hindi word, _sadhu_ , **[seven points in Scrabble but hardly worth wasting the 's']** and it is clear that these men qualify as wandering renunciants. Their orange clothes and tousled hair carry remnants of the places they have walked, prayed, meditated, and taken charity to survive. The sadhus occasionally glance your way but no one seems to pay you special notice.

When the couple arrives at your plate they heap it full of rice, a lentil concoction, chapati, and an unidentified green vegetable with potato chunks. The other men in the room make deft movements with their fingers to mix and consume their portions while you raise the spoon to your mouth and are pleasantly surprised by all that happens. Much like the morning time spent on the roof, lunch brings your forgetful self a symphony of first-time experiences. You chew slowly as if you had never before tasted food, taking note of the subtle flavors and aromas. The morsels taste and smell, even _feel_ delicious in your mouth as the cooks circle again to refill plates. You continue chewing, absorbed in the experience as the abundant food slowly dwindles.

The elderly Guruji is the first to depart the dining hall. You are pleased to be among the men to whom he nods a subtle farewell. You note that he has left his plate on the floor but that the other diners carry their dirty dishes with them as they retire through the door. They all turn to the right upon egress but then what? Anxiety detracts from your pleasure in the remaining food. Can you fake it and figure out what you should already know about cleaning the dishes? You have likely done it many times; perhaps your body-knowledge will take over and carry you unconsciously through the right movements as it did during this morning's exercise routine. Chew, swallow, finish, stand, walk out door, take a right, and then...nothing. You see nothing that looks like a sink, no dishes, no one carrying plates. And no automatic impulses arise from the subconscious. **[Sorry, Charlie, I ain't biting no bait from a dirty plate that might dredge up canned memories.]**

A few sadhus watch you stroll by in false calm holding your messy plate, cup, and spoon in hand. You casually nod in greeting as your shifty eyes surreptitiously probe the nooks and crannies of the compound. You pause and lean over in pretense of smelling some flowers, giving a sidelong glance down a path running by what looks to be a structure with overnight rooms. Just stay calm, the inner voice cautions. Now walk this path.

Before long you are grateful to discover a stack of plates drying by three sinks tucked behind the building. A quick wash of the dishes precedes your scurry back to the garden abode as fast as possible without drawing further attention. You close the hut door behind you, collapse on the bed, and notice with a twinge of shame that your body is trembling.

What a day, and it is only half done. The desire to stay hidden from people is strong. You get up from the bed with a quick kick of your legs, turn to the shelf with cassette tapes, and select one entitled, _Instrumental Sweetness_. From the handwritten summary on the cover it looks to be a soothing compilation of your favorite instrumental pieces. It is. You are soothed. Strains of orchestra, harp, and piano weave their magic upon your virgin ears as one short-and-sweet piece follows another until the final composition.

Your forgotten tears have seeped before under the spell of this final canon in 'D', although never so profusely as today. The beauty of the moment and the loss of the past flow together like violin and bow. Your mind drifts with the strains of music, strains of heartstrings drawn taut against the weight of the ages. A sense of loss more ancient than the Ganga rumbles to the fore as the river adds her rhythm to your call to remembrance, to memories so deep, so old that they crack with the striking of notes against them, shattered like the mind that once held them dear. Your steady tears wash away the ash, the fragments of song and sorrow that have been handed from generation to generation leaving you with no recall, no past, but only the moment of the now that _must_ be since nothing else remains. The now or never. A choice, an offering, a process has begun. The tape ends with a click.

You lie in silence trying to become conscious of the unspoken words beneath the melody. Perhaps a walk and a bath in the holy Ganga would cleanse the musty lanes leading to message and memory. You retrieve the daypack from under the bed and load it with a towel, a pair of briefs, and waterproof moccasins in case sharp rocks are part of the sacred experience. You have little hint of what lies outside the ashram gate but, unlike meeting people in your state of amnesia, you welcome the adventure of exploring the Ganga and its natural surroundings. The bright December afternoon is beautiful and just warm enough to brave the chilly waters.

You decide to head upriver away from buildings, away from the road, and far from people. A bridge of old planks atop boulders carries you over the small tributary as you follow a sandy trail running parallel to the Ganga's rocky shore. You notice numerous prints that mirror your current footwear, a further indication that you have been at the ashram for some time. You let the tracks be your guide, feeling comforted by this subtle communion with your past. Your prior footprints continue upriver for several hundred yards then drop steeply to a secluded stretch of sand upon which rhythmic ripples of the Ganga are lapping. Perfect.

Water-water everywhere and plenty to drink if what you seem to know about the purity of the Ganga headwaters is true. So much information fills your brain about water and flow. You watch the whorls on the river's surface, understanding that they reflect a three-dimensional dance of deep spirals and twisting currents that overcome gravity's desire for linear motion. Nothing about a river and its flow is straight. A headlong dive into the interplay of forces brings you bobbing to the surface with a gasp as the current carries you swiftly downstream towards the rapids. But your previous self knew what he was doing in choosing this spot for bathing—a few quick strokes towards the bank bring you into the reverse flow of a huge, slow eddy in which you effortlessly drift back upshore.

You fall onto the beach, for the moment calmly accepting your predicament of amnesia. This is where you belong, it seems, by a river in harmony with warming sand, a gentle breeze, and the nourishing sun. Water, earth, air, and fire. Nature's elements welcome their son, a lump of clay brought to consciousness by sacred breath, honed through flames of purification, and baptized in the water of life. Spirit, the fifth sacred element, wells up in your heart in gratitude for this blessing, this gift of life and breath and beauty and pain.

How long can a heart endure this journey of today's extremes without bursting? You can only hope that you find your memory before confronting the answer to this question. After a half hour of basking in the elements, you take a second quick dip, rinse the sand from your briefs, and head back to the ashram as the sun descends toward the crest of the western foothills.

As you approach its five awkward walls, the familiar hut greets you like a kindly grandparent bent at strange angles from age, yet with a welcoming embrace and wisdom to share. The hut refuses, however, to yield the secret that you desire most to learn even though it knows your identity down to the deepest dream. Perhaps that is the greatest kindness of all—to allow one to remain forgetful of himself? This thought brings on a spinal shiver as you hang your towel to dry in the garden. Is it possible you do not _want_ to remember your past?

The old stone hut remains mum, like the grandparent whose mind is drifting away into another world and cannot be bothered by a persistent child. But persist you must in search of answers— _that much_ you have come to know about yourself today, or at least about your conscious self. You acknowledge that what lies beneath the shallows of your mind is proving elusive to discover. But as you open the hut door your gaze immediately falls upon the source of clues to the veiled psyche. More lessons of the spiral await, this time in notebook form of your dream journals.

A quick scan shows the top two notebooks to be filled with transcripts of your dreams dated September through November. The third journal is half full with December's current dream entries, and the bottom notebook appears empty at first glance. It takes you a moment to get oriented in opening the dream journals since identical bare front and back covers make it impossible to know from the outside which is the notebook's beginning and which is its end. You consider this an appropriate anomaly for a dream log since some researchers claim that dreams oft run backwards through time, a fact your brain retrieves from its voluminous, if sterile, data bank.

After transcribing the tape of your morning R-rated dream of _I Love Lucy_ , you retrieve the earliest dream journal that begins with an introductory entry dated September 14. You feel disoriented reading your own words without a whit of recall of having written them:

DREAMTIME, SCHEME TIME on the roof of my world. Two rivers converging, beauty emerging amidst jungle flowers and tropical birds. Color and sound in nocturnal reception, ready for conception to give birth to the total Mind.

In order to listen to the subtle messages from dreamtime, I returned yesterday to the solitude of Phool Chatti Ashram as a refuge from the chaos of urban India. My decision was rewarded last night with an explosion of numerous dreams yet only one is clearly remembered upon awakening this morning. (I've got to get a cassette player for some nighttime dictation to improve recall of the dreams.)

In the dream I meet a child of perfection, a small boy with features like a little Buddha sitting peacefully on a ship in which we voyage. He is absolutely centered with brilliant kindness in his face, his body draped in intricate Tibetan clothing and decorations. As we part, he tosses me one of five red beads in his delicate hand. I snatch the bead from the air with a lightning-fast motion. 'Four plus one' comes to mind and I awaken.

Four plus one; four and one; _for-eign one_. What to make of this alien mix? Do four-plus-one pieces of my mind float in time and space, while a journey in dreamtime unfolds to reclaim and mold this scattered quartet back into the One?

Perhaps, and in speculating now, those four pieces of the mind could be, 1) the awake, daytime consciousness, the 'me' that I think of as myself; 2) the sleeping consciousness that is acting and feeling during dreamtime, thinking its dreams are real; 3) the subconscious mind which bubbles unbidden from the shadows; and 4) the observing awareness that watches over the shoulder as life unfolds.

And the remaining One piece? Maybe that _peace of mind_ is the surprise punch line when I finally bridge the other four parts of consciousness.

*******

You stop reading and rest the notebook in your lap amazed to find that you remember in explicit detail the dream mentioned from three months ago. You randomly scan the transcriptions of other autumn dreams in the journal as their imagery too arises vividly in mind's eye, most in brilliant color, some in black and white. The nocturnal scenes and the associated emotions spring back to life as if they had just been dreamt—neurons firing, gray cells sparking, brain waves rippling to bring images back in full strength. You shake your head at the irony, at the fickleness of a mind that forgets all past reality yet holds onto minute details of its nighttime wanderings.

Looking for additional clues from the dream entries and enjoying the vivid dramas they bring to life, you continue reading until six o'clock when the distant ring of dinner bell brings you back to the present. You close the notebook, search for a light switch in the fast-dimming room—and discover there is none. You have no electricity, no memories, and no desire to deal with people again. But you feel secure enough after lunch's lessons to attend dinner with a flashlight for guidance and an in-silence lapel button for assurance that no one will question your forgetful self.

Supper is as simple and sensual as lunch. The only changes from noontime dining are the vegetable dish and fewer sadhus sitting against the far wall. Again, you exchange nods with the departing Guruji and finish eating after the others have disappeared. But this time you walk confidently to the sink area to wash, rinse, then stroll through an empty courtyard in dusk's waning light. You follow the flashlight beam through garden growth, enter the welcoming hut, and light two candles from the top shelf. In your head you make a to-do list for tomorrow that includes carefully approaching Guruji to ask about your passport which you deduce you may have placed as security in his office. Your optimism is strong as you chart your moves for the next day's discoveries and for reclaiming your memory of self. All is well, you conclude, or at least as best as can be expected under the circumstances.

But you are wrong, oh so wrong. Because one key circumstance remains hidden, one concealed detail requires detection _before slumber_ if you wish to keep from reliving this bizarre day. Perhaps this evening your unconscious, or blind fool luck, will guide you to it.

You replace the matches on the top shelf **[good, you're getting warmer]** then turn to check out the selection of cassette tapes **[no cool, cooler]** and consider trying out one of the Ashoka-ji meditations. But the guru's smiling photo on the cassette puts you off and you head back across the room **[yes, warmer]** bending down to the lower shelf **[good, getting hot]** on which the dream journals and books lie. **[hot, yes hot]** You reach out and take hold of the pile of four spiral notebooks **[burning hot!]** then opt for lighter fare to read in bed. **[cold]** You grab the paperback, _Midnight's Children_ , strip out of your clothes, readjust the candles, and climb into your sleeping bag. **[dead cold]** You again missed the clue lying dormant in the bottommost spiral notebook.

Reading chapter one of the Rushdie novel creates a gentle stream of thought that carries your mind far from your predicament. You turn page after page, smiling, feeling, and laughing aloud at Rushdie's wit and way with words, amazed that a man at the center of a holy war against his life could write in such a manner. But each person is living under constant threat of death, you suppose, with only denial and forgetfulness as weapons to counter the fear.

Is that it? Is fear of impending death the cause of your amnesia? Has news of incurable disease or fatal hereditary defect plunged you into denial through forgetfulness? Perhaps so, but you feel quite well at the moment, calm and healthy, wrapped in your warm sleeping bag against the cool night air that drifts through paneless windows. You are just feeling a little drowsy, ready to call it a day. Candle nubs need snuffing and from unconscious habit **[you're welcome]** you first place the cassette player in its proper bedside location for recording new dreams. You take a last glance at Rushdie's book and decide to write a bit of your own this evening, to start a diary beginning with this strange day of awakening to amnesia in paradise.

You reach for the fourth spiral notebook **[yes, keep going]** that has not yet been used for dream logs. You open to the first page **[hot]** but it has the shop's price scribbled boldly across the page. Twenty-five rupees—about a half dollar for this cheap paper bound between identical blank covers. You prefer to start your journal fresh so flip the notebook over to the other end. **[hotter]** And there you find it, **[Eureka!]** the hidden detail that makes your heart sink. Simple words on a page written in your hand cause optimism to suffer total core meltdown. You read the page that trembles in your shaky grip:

WHAT A DAY. What a roller coaster ride. I awoke with no idea of who or where I was. Panic ensued as I feared the worst—it felt like being in an asylum or prison. But no, a beautiful setting awaited where I exercised then sat on the rooftop enjoying the sights and smells. All felt so fresh and new. A skinny swami brought up breakfast around 9:30 then I checked out the room—no clues to my identity there. I grew frustrated so headed up to explore, found an ashram complex, and meditated until lunch to relax. A good sit and good food.

No sense of panic in the afternoon or evening. Had a nice bath in the Ganga, caught up on old dream logs (funny, I can remember past dreams but no past waking experiences), read some Rushdie, and thought about what is next. Perhaps full memory will return in the morning. If not, at least I can explore more inside the psyche and outside in paradise. Seems a good idea to keep a daily record in this journal. December 20, (year?) 9:12 p.m., Phool Chatti Ashram.

*******

You sit on the edge of the bed stunned and deflated. Your mind is a blank, your body numb as you listen to the dull roar of the Ganga. December 20, three evenings ago you wrote this journal entry. Four days, maybe more, you have spun like a hamster on a flywheel, a loony bird caged in paradise who every morning awakens with no memory of even the past day. You _must_ write a note of warning to your awakening self next morning—you can grasp that much. But it takes all your remaining discipline to focus on the task. Pick up a pen, open the notebook, scribble a few words that you toss to the floor. Out with the candlelight, slip back into bed, and you stare at the dark ceiling until sleep takes pity upon a man spinning helplessly in a cycle of forgetfulness.

## DECEMBER 24 – morning of the next day

Don't panic. There is no need to panic, you tell yourself. You are not crazy, you are not a convict. This is probably just a bad dream. But you know you are awake as you sit on the side of the bed looking frantically around the strange five-sided room. Your breathing is short. Panic is edging close to the surface when you spot an open notebook lying on the floor. You read its bold scrawl: _If you don't remember writing this last night, you're up shit creek!_

Terror grabs your heart as you leap for the door and nearly pull it off hinges in your rush to escape. You stand naked in the doorway hyperventilating while supported by your hands on knees. As fear releases up through your gut, you stagger into the garden and lose what is left of last night's dinner. You feel cold and exposed but at least not caged, not in some cell or asylum. You return to put on a thick robe and slippers then head to an outhouse to finish the job of purging your system.

Walking back you shudder at the thought of being trapped inside the hut so you climb a stone stairway to its roof. The scenery helps pacify you, a view peppered with birds and flowers instead of towers and guards, complemented by the tranquil melody of two rivers whose sparkling surfaces reflect the morning sky. You inhale deeply and enjoy a long stretch that turns into a slow-motion pattern of movement followed by more exercises. A plastic chair then beckons you to relax in semi-tropical splendor. Time passes unnoticed until a thin swami arrives to serve chapati and tea. You note that it is 9:29 a.m. on December 24. Although you have no clue as to the year, you are calm. Everything feels sharp and alive like a first-time experience. You are hopeful that this amnesia will soon pass.

After returning downstairs to the room, you curse the author of the one-line note on the floor and the heartlessness of this message written last evening. What a lousy thing to do to yourself. You read the first diary entry of December 20 and yesterday evening's addendum that simply declares, _Same freaking day as above—Dec. 23_. So this is the situation, that you awaken each morning in a condition of forgetfulness at a place called Phool Chatti Ashram. Now you understand a bit more and you vow to give your tomorrow's self a far friendlier and more elucidating greeting than the one you just received. Of course there is always the chance that you will find a key to restoring your memory or that another good night's sleep may bring your mind back to normal.

But in the meantime you set the goal of building a structure for eventually getting yourself out of this cycle of daily forgetfulness. With good logic, detailed messages to yourself, and some hard work, you are bound to be successful. **[Success a key to be what thee and me shall flee. Running and jumping in circles that spin with Marty back to the Triple-R. Reading, writhing, and ranting about all the Mickey Mouse we swallowed, bound and gagged in swaddling success. Enough reason to hide from the tide of memory, soul auctioned to the highest bidder. Bang!]**

You begin by inventorying your possessions, looking for any hints to your identity that they may hold. It takes a long time of searching to arrive at the conclusion that there are zero clues of importance hidden among your belongings. Nothing of substance is learned except that a woman expects to meet you for dinner on January eighteenth at the Allahabad Riverview Inn. Why the heck didn't yesterday's self write you a message and save you the trouble of going through this stuff, you wonder in frustration? And he didn't even give any suggestions for what to do next. **[Touchy-touchy without the feely-feely makes Jack a dull boy. Touch and feel where nothing is real, just reel one movie at a time through the Cineplex of mind.]**

You decide to journey up to some white buildings, first pinning on the _In Silence_ button in case you bump into anyone there. As you arrive at the ashram compound you note several signs in English that may help your search. You start at the office and take a few minutes to memorize the bus schedule and the rules posted in the window, frustrated that you failed to bring pen and paper. **[Yep, and now start jumping around the ring and take too long to haul ass to the meditation hall to cushion its fall.]**

The window glass reflects movement as four sadhus walk by, giving you sidelong glances. The thought flashes through your mind that you have probably scrutinized these window postings for at least five forgetful mornings in a row and that, damn it, somebody is sure to get wise to your amnesia if you are not more careful. As the swamis pass, however, you are distracted by the whispered comment, "Rule number six really sucks, don't it pal?"

Startled, you turn towards the speaker but see only four orange-clad Indian holy men solemnly walking onward, none of whom you would have guessed is into the nude bathing prohibited by rule six. And could that have really been a Texas drawl you heard or are you cracking up? **[Oh-oh, here we go again, a blow again. Lava to flow again in the underground tunnels that shake and quake the surface. Ready to spout and shout from a lout who can't take it on the chin.]**

You feel the tension closing in as you stride over to the _Dinning Hall_ sign. **[Thar she blows!]** For chrissakes why couldn't your yesterday's self have written down the rules so you could avoid this exposure or tell you where the hell you're supposed to sit in the stupid 'dinning' room and geezus couldn't he have had the courtesy to refill the water bottle for you since the spigot is right over there and he didn't even say if you've already checked with this Guruji guy for your passport so you'll probably make a fool of yourself or worse by getting thrown in some Indian crazy house where heaven only knows what could happen!

Whew, slow down, slow down, you tell yourself, running your hands through your hair and taking a deep breath. **[Great sprays of spume soak the deck as the ship sails too close to the prey. Pray tell, how to break the spell and cast off from this shore of forgetfulness? A ship of fools who know no rules and who forgot the goal of the game.]** You decide to head to the _Meditation Hall_ sign beyond which you are pleasantly surprised to find a nice room with soft cushions. You sit, assume a comfortable position, and start making a list in your head of the information you have learned in the courtyard to write-up and help guide your actions tomorrow.

After a short while your awareness shifts to your breathing. Agitation falls away as cool air passes into the nostrils and exhales warmly over the upper lip. In and out, cool then warm. **[Ah, gentle breezes blow the ship home. A sloop looping into bowels where the unconscious go, a knot in the gut to hide safely below. A lost piece of mind takes a vacation from this premature ejaculation of word, no more to be heard until I am summoned forth. Click.]** You expand your awareness to include the entire field of the body, mindfully noting sensations both pleasant and irritating. You are the silent witness, the observer. You are not the sensation. You are not the agitation, not the breath, not the thoughts, not even the body. All of these arise then pass away, as a bell rings clearly as a call to awareness, the call to oneness...

**TRAIL BOSS:** Oh for pity sake, it's just the damned lunch bell. Pardon the intrusion folks but I can't stand to spin wheels while going nowhere. And it is already clear that this guy is caught in some repeating spin cycle that wrung out his brain, probably from boredom. So as a paragon of efficiency I will gather the reins and get this wagon train moving with a bit of verve and vigor. A quick giddy-up here and firm yee-haw there as we prod this awkward juggernaut along its proper course.

As guest narrator and self-appointed trail boss, I begin with a brief introduction of self. Brevity is required not only for efficiency's sake but because I too am caught in the web of forgetfulness that has gripped the protagonist of our tale. I know only that I am one of those pieces of this fellow's mind that has been lost in the stampede of memory to destination unknown. My desire for efficacy hints that I am most strongly associated with the left lobe of the brain, but actually I feel more as if I sit on his shoulder watching the show. Perhaps I am the overseer he mentioned in the dream journal, his fourth piece of consciousness of the total Mind. My alert eyes survey the action and events that unfold, urging the story and its ending to emerge quickly so that we can all get back to business as usual.

Sadly, I do not know what _usual_ business is or even what caused our amnesia. From shoulder perch I can see only a bit forward in order to clear the trail for smooth passage of my host's journey. I have access as well to his brain's data-files full of general if predominantly useless information. I suspect, however, that a piece of his mind is nearby which holds the secrets and that it may be able to accelerate our reclamation of full memory. So I summon this genie bottled in the shadowy depths, calling forth the subconscious mind with hope that it can illuminate amnesia's cause and cure. A rumbling from the gut and yes, the hidden psyche emerges.

[A specter summoned from peaceful slumber. Dreaming of genie, a garden of Eden where supple mounds glow and flow with milk and honey above her bare but fruitful plain. A paradox plus a pair of cocks in military garb, twins who crow in show as they blast off for the heavens. But only one arrives initially, a lone star as a J.R. in a state of new networks and constellations, while sensations of Eden are lost to machinations of snakes in the family tree.]

**TRAIL BOSS:** Gracious, an interpreter as well as trail boss I must become in order to translate this shady missive of the subconscious mind. I am chagrined to admit that I _can_ follow the sense of these strange phrases, since the subconscious and I were forged in the same psyche during our host's childhood. Plus, I have volumes of brain-bank data from which to draw to make up for lost memory.

Reference to _volumes_ of data is misleading, however, for it be _networks_ of information that arise in these subconscious phrases—of the television variety. The aforementioned Eden is not a garden springing eternal from sacred tome but is instead beauteous Barbara Eden, of bare midriff and ample bosom while starring in _I Dream of Jeannie_. Her male sidekicks, as you may recall, were two military astronauts, one of whom later appeared with the initials J.R. leading nefarious family affairs in _Dallas_.

Useless TV trivia, perhaps, but since the strength of subconscious rambling lies between the lines, a trail boss must remain alert to all signs silhouetted against the horizon. To ferret out further clues, I now pose a direct query to our subconscious scout: What has caused our host's forgetfulness and is there a way to encourage memory's return?

[We shall sell no wine before its time, nor spill the beans before the swine. Casting pearls and family jewels that hang from rigid tool to pry open tasty clams. But an oyster is moister for lubricating a hot rod thundering into the gateway of the goddess. I dream of Jeannie's light brown hair curling down to her juicy lips awaiting my springing Cobra to send J.R.'s Mustang tootling south forevermore.]

**TRAIL BOSS:** Oookay fine. Perhaps useful clues lie among the pubescent fantasies that currently clog the channels of our protagonist's psyche. But as a master of efficiency I choose neither to spend time deciphering the code nor to suffer further indignities of metaphors mixed by a hot rod. With a quick sweep of arm, I send the genie of the subconscious back to his bottle to remain dormant until bidden. **[Don't try to understand 'em. Just rope 'em, roll and brand 'em.]**

Ah, a parting shot and grumble from gut translated as a reference to how a trail boss treated cattle and women in the popular TV series, _Rawhide_ , which spawned both a memorable theme song and the stardom of young Clint Eastwood. Damn good stuff.

But moving right along with the current story, our character leaves the meditation hall to follow the bell to lunch while feeling nervous about meeting people. Same food and story as yesterday but this time he takes note of everything so he can write instructions for tomorrow. Yep, and you guessed it, in the afternoon he gets another irresistible urge to bathe in the Ganga. Same spot, same sand, same swirling waters that he spends a bunch of time pondering. Arriving back at the hut, his forgetful self rediscovers and reads afresh Chapter 1 of The ReMinder, then again is drawn to the notebooks to transcribe the latest dream. Let's trot ahead and pick up the fresh trail there.

## DECEMBER 24 – afternoon of the same day

You pick up the cassette player and press _rewind_ to hear the dream you verbally recorded upon awakening this morning. It somehow feels important to keep current with the dream transcripts as you push _play_ , listen, and write.

"James Earl Jones and his new wife are with a bunch of us at an enjoyable dinner party. Someone makes a racial slur regarding Jones's first wife while I notice blood seeping down my left knee. I ask if there is a doctor in the house, which Jones is. He pulls out a needle several inches long from above my knee which distracts everyone and happily breaks the tension created by the slur. I know this is the second voodoo-like needle of recent days found in my body although I can't explain them.

"I next enter a dark room where a weird, laughing guy presses something squishy like an eyeball into my left palm. I experience a sickening feeling, like a big 'gotcha' magnified because I was so open and vulnerable from the needle and other voodoo stuff. This all seemed to be a prearranged set-up to break me down and control me. I awake groaning with a feeling of dread."

You turn off the cassette player and take a moment to ponder the dream. You can well understand how this disturbing imagery teamed with the thoughtless wake-up message created your tailspin of panic upon awakening to amnesia this morning. You recommit to not letting this confusion and alarm occur ever again in the upcoming dawns of your muddled mind. So instead of further perusing the dream journals, you decide to acquire the best legacy you could leave for your tomorrow's self—a name and passport. Perhaps undertaking this investigation into your identity so soon is a premature risk, but at lunch today Guruji looked like a nice enough old fellow. You bravely leave the _In Silence_ button on the shelf and journey back to the ashram compound as you rehearse what you will say to Guruji while in search of your identity and passport.

Guruji's office is empty when you silently enter. You poke around a bit, careful not to disturb anything. Perhaps a folder or drawer will hold the key to your identity and for reclaiming your passport for travel. No luck so far on that score, but bingo! There on the wall is a December calendar informing that you inhabit the year 2000. Knowledge of the year is somehow comforting and you are pleased as well to spot a roll of adhesive tape that you were wishing to have for this evening's tasks. It lies on the desk between a manual typewriter and a metronome, both of which look like museum pieces from the British colonial era.

But still no sign appears of a valuables box or other safe haven for passport. You edge around to the back of the desk wondering if you dare to open the drawers. Before you can decide, your heart jumps as Guruji emerges sleepy-eyed through a curtained doorway at the back of the office. He gives you a puzzled look as if waiting for you to explain why his afternoon nap is disturbed and more importantly why you are standing behind his desk.

It is now time for your rehearsed line. "Oh, hello," you utter in stilted voice, "I was considering some travel for a few days and was just thinking about my passport." True enough, vague enough not to give away your complete ignorance, and certainly a good opening for him to respond if he indeed has your passport safely stashed. But Guruji's only reaction is a deepening furrow in his brow.

Quick, start thinking. And don't panic. You pick up the roll of adhesive tape from the desk while stating, "And I was wondering if I could borrow your tape for this evening, please?"

The elderly swami's puzzlement grows as he points to the tape and tilts his head sideways as if he does not understand what you are saying. You are at a loss when suddenly the likely problem dawns on you. You had blindly assumed that Guruji spoke English.

Still without smiling the guru points to you then to the desk, using his hands to indicate to stay the hell out of his drawers.

You dare to respond with the single word, "Passport?"

"Atcha!" he responds in the Hindi way of saying he understands. "Passport, atcha." Guruji smiles nodding. You smile nodding.

You next point to your eye while slowly and loudly saying in your clearest English, "I-am-look-ing-for-my-pass-port." It now seems safe to confess your forgetfulness about whether you have deposited your valuables in the office, since any signs of amnesia should be camouflaged by the confusion of the language barrier.

"Passport?" questions Guruji, again with puzzled expression.

"Yes, my passport," you clearly enunciate a few decibels louder while pointing to your chest. Then you point at him. "Do _you_ have my passport?"

"My passport?" Guruji queries, pointing at himself with a questioning look.

"No, no, _my_ passport! Do you have _my_ passport?" you almost shout, thumping your chest with your right hand while rudely pointing at him with your left.

Guruji now looks completely baffled, perhaps even nervous. Small wonder. You have really botched this one. You retreat with a few _thank you's_ as you duck out the door feeling like a fool. But at least you know the year and _probably_ that Guruji does not have your passport. He didn't appear stupid and would likely have retrieved the passport had it been in the office.

So where else could it be? You have a difficult time gathering your thoughts through the veil of humiliation as you enter the hut. A meditation tape as an escape from the moment sounds like a good idea as you insert the cassette that had caught your attention during this morning's inventory. A symphony of Tibetan bells arises from the tape player as you sit with closed eyes and hum in harmony with the ringing tones. The cassette cover calls this the "Meditation of the Chimes". You call it a distraction from misery.

Tibetan harmonics weave their spell and afterwards you feel once again able to cope with further investigation into your predicament. Your wristwatch indicates, however, that only a short time remains before dinner. So you simply read a handful of dream entries, enjoying the vivid imagery and sensations that they rekindle. At the clang of the kitchen bell you walk to the dining hall with trepidation about Guruji's reaction to you in light of this afternoon's passport debacle. But you are soon reassured by his friendly greeting and by the roll of tape and sheets of paper in a bag adjacent to your plate. So, a little cross-cultural communication _did_ succeed with your request for adhesive tape this afternoon. Nice, and a kind gift on Guruji's part particularly appropriate on the night before Christmas.

After dining and dishwashing, you walk briskly with your gifts of paper and tape across the courtyard towards the garden and hut. But a short Indian sadhu rudely stops you, planting his fleshy body in your immediate path. You watch bewildered as he flings his arms wide open, hands facing forward and eyes rolling back to gaze into the heavens. In a loud voice he commands, "Follow me, my son. I am the life, the truth, and the detour!"

You can only stare dumbly at this strange apparition blocking your path. He proceeds to fold his arms and with a thoughtful look continues in perfect Texas drawl, "Actually I'm more like a scenic byway than a detour, don't ya'll think?"

You remain speechless so he adds, "Come on, buddy boy, lighten up. It's Christmas Eve. Hey, what do you get if you cross Jesus with a mouthwash?" Short pause. "Okay, _savior breath_ and don't answer."

The fellow laughs heartily at his little joke as the office door slams and a concerned looking Guruji strides toward the two of you. "Challo, challo!" he shouts in Hindi while flipping his hand in the air as if chasing away a dog. The orange-robed man quickly sobers, bows respectfully to Guruji, gives you a conspiratorial wink, and walks out of the ashram into sadhu-land. You watch him recede, noting the incongruity of his short body having attached to it two long arms of sinew. What a strange creature.

You and Guruji exchange a serious look, his frown intended as a warning about the dubious swami just encountered. A quick tilt of your head acknowledges his advice and you return to the hut to focus on the task of preparing a gentle morning wake-up message as a gift to your tomorrow's forgetful self. You light two candles and, as you open the bag to retrieve the tape and paper kindly provided by Guruji, your plans suddenly change. For beneath the top blank sheet is a cover page announcing, The ReMinder by Steven J. Shupe. At the bottom of the page is typed, "SECTION ONE; September-October 2000; Phool Chatti Ashram."

You quickly scan through Chapter 1, finding it to be the same text that you perused this afternoon, ending with the author's painful mention of betrayal by a beloved named Ann. Then, for the next twenty minutes, you do not look up as you eagerly continue reading:

The ReMinder: Chapter 2

A perspective on the impending betrayal requires some knowledge both of nurse Ann and of love. The former should be easy to share if I can sufficiently choke down tears that might otherwise blur vision and ink describing this beautiful if inconstant woman. The latter prerequisite involving _love_ , however, proves challenging for we raised in English-speaking cultures. For language is power and ours is limp, to say the least, in matters of the heart. Its lexicon contains but one small vessel—waterlogged and impotent through overuse—to carry a boatload of situations. Yes, that soggy four-letter word, LOVE.

What to make of ancient Anglo's who limited love's multifaceted glory to a single word while developing a full score of terms for the waste product of digestion? What can we deduce about this English tribe that can wax poetic about turds and patties and pies; or extol the virtue of utilitarian dung and manure, then pontificate scientifically over feces and excrement, and medically about stool; who can stalk wild animals while tracking fresh scat and droppings, and school toddlers about their poop, kaka, and doo-doo while pointing encouragingly to the potty? Beats me.

But what is just plain crap is that we offspring of English-speaking clans receive but one word—love—for the innumerable cravings of heart, soul, genitalia, and for a host of other sensations. Imagine the confusion of youth in such a culture, a perplexity that springs into full flower in conjunction with the first follicles of puberty.

An example of such youth is near at hand, actually the hand I see now scribbling across the page. For on Sunday mornings, the juvenile version of this appendage along with its attached body was trundled off to the First Presbyterian Church of Manhattan, Kansas, to learn from a kindly preacher that God was love and we were to love God with all our heart and other organs. The next event in our Sunday ritual was to return home to a pot roast simmering among carrots and potato, unaware it was soon to be transformed into six piles of droppings. _(Hmm, Kemosabe, looks like three juvenile males, one juvenile female, and an adult mating pair._ ) Whereupon my elder siblings and parents would routinely express their _love_ associated with the smell of pot roast, the taste of desert, a newly purchased article of clothing, or any of a number of lovable matters that qualified as table talk.

A final confounding love blessing of this holy day arrived at bedtime as my pajama'ed body was tucked-in with a mother's assurance that she loved me, leaving my still-active mind to ponder the obvious question: On the great cosmic scale of adorability, where did _I_ fall betwixt the love of God and love for pot roast? Although too young and innocent to curse English lexicographers, I was old enough to sense the first tremors of insecurity about love's true meaning.

As years passed, I did hear that Greek philosophers had done a better job of espousing the breadth of love. Three Grecian words were created, as I recall, coinciding with self love, love of humanity, and something about loving your mother. But loving your mother could lead to blindness—as could self love, come to think of it, if one were too enthusiastic in expressing it in the shower. Perhaps I should have listened more carefully.

So the ancient Greeks proved little help in my sorting through adolescent confusion about love, with the Roman contribution of _amore_ doing no better. Listening to Italian-American crooners equate love with a pizza in the face (actually, being hit in the eye with a big pizza pie in conjunct with full moon) did little to inspire my understanding of love, astrology, or table manners. Nor was the cause of romance furthered by the only ancient Roman words I learned in sex education class: _Coitus interruptus_ —that accursed phrase which should have been buried along with Caesar without praise—robbed me of what other cultures make an important rite of passage for vigorous, virginal youth. For my lame attempt at being a Latin lover through hasty invocation of coitus interruptus ensured that, instead of losing my virginity to the charms of Beatrice Yamamoto, I lost it to the Yamamoto sofa.

Fortunately, more than twenty years elapsed between this moment staining my past (as well as a quickly flipped couch cushion) and the magic moment of meeting beloved nurse Ann. And admittedly, the English language should not be condemned since it did ultimately clarify the subtleties of love. As I learned to listen better (as in, _to the radio_ ) I realized that we youthful boomers had also delineated, through word and melody, three forms of love: One was a _Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I've Got Love in my Tummy_ kind of feeling; the second occurred when _We've Got a Groovy Kind of Love_ ; and the third was where _Love is a Many Splendored Thing_. Also, additional song titles and tunes taught that we English-speaking baby-boomers were more likely to find love if our names were Susie, Johnny, or Laura; or if we surfed, lived near railroad tracks, and drove a fast car. But alas, whichever of the three love paths a teen treaded to ecstasy the trip was destined to be short-lived ending in either severe heartbreak or an even more severe auto collision.

Thus it should come as no surprise to learn that yours truly met Ann while still in bachelorhood and with spotless driving record at age thirty-nine. The intervening years had found me too manly to claim a triple yummy tummy love, and too sophisticated to admit to a groovy kind of love. Moreover, although I had experienced a many pleasant things with women and even a couple of fairly splendid ones, I had yet to hit the jackpot with an honest-to-gosh many splendored thing complete with high and windy hill. So it was with a large degree of surprise that in the waning days of 1991, I found myself uninhibitedly falling head over heels for nurse Ann. A groovy, yummy, splendored thing indeed.

BUT THE MOMENT CALLS me back to rooftop morn where the present, which I have worked so hard to know, beckons. My eyes pause at mighty river below, flowered trees above, colorful birds aloft, to peer into _the now_ where hopes once forged in love and laughter are ash mingling with the dust of my prior sense of sophistication. I sit as a shell of my former self...no, more like bamboo, a hollow forest that echoes ancient promises of new worlds if one is silent enough to hear the beat.

Slowly, slowly; step by step. An inward journey progresses that is led by dreams which bubble and boil upward from source unknown, dreams tape-recorded in the dead of night. I sleepwalk into the mystery as branches crack under clumsy feet, startling bats that flutter on bony wings to whisper that I am not yet prepared, not yet of sufficient stealth to enter the nocturnal heartbeat, unable to merge with the night's rhythm that penetrates ever deeper towards the source of Mind.

So the dream vision of this dawn that haunts my memory today must wait its time. I cannot yet reach back to this vision of great, furry arms that groped through the darkness of dreamtime to grasp at my awake self for compassion, for understanding, for rescue from exile. Patience is demanded of this needy inner beast who surfaced this September morn to cry for help at the cusp where my conscious mind merges with dreamtime to uncover clues of paths unfolding, of secrets hiding, of promises awaiting. Later, old friend, later.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 3

When I first gazed into nurse Ann's blue eyes, I was sitting on a hospital bed occupied at that magic moment by my pal, Sandra, a woman whose weary posterior was receiving a welcomed massage. I paused in my kneading and smiled at the beautiful and soon to be beloved nurse who had entered the hospital room. Sandra, upon noting the instant chemistry between nurse Ann and myself helpfully quipped, "He's just my lawyer."

A raised brow above a deep, blue eye demonstrated that Ann was slightly interested. I was slightly smitten. But before moving a month hence to our great and groovy smite, the topic of Sandra needs a bit more nursing. For although she is a minor player in this tale, Sandra's tracks lead both forward and backward in time to actors of great import in my Identity's dismantling.

One such character is her cousin, Sam Moves Camp, a Lakota medicine man who six years earlier (in 1985) had provided the initial hints that my known world was about to unhinge. The second character, neighbor Lorraine, (whom Sandra credits for saving her life upon escape from the hospital) helped greatly in the unhinging itself—among other services, providing important groundwork for nurse Ann's ultimate betrayal.

Lorraine was the first person met on my initial visit in 1983 to magical Crestone, a town tiny in populous but expansive in vista in the southern Colorado Rockies. Powerful, harsh beauty surrounds this crumbling gold mining town slowly resurrecting with the influx of New Age inhabitants and visitors drawn to a sacred landscape. My personal reasons for Crestone sojourns in the 1980's included a love of natural beauty as well as my court appearances as Assistant Attorney General in the nearby metropolis of Alamosa to uphold the State's interest in truth, justice, and the American way. _(Jeepers, Mr. Kent, does that imply that the American way is different from truth and justice?)_

Another Crestone visitor in these times was Sandra's aforementioned cousin, Sam Moves Camp, drawn south from the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation to bestow traditional forms of medicine upon Crestone's needy and less fortunate—many of whom had healthy investment portfolios but who suffered from spiritual malnutrition. Although the Lakota medicine man and idealistic lawyer never met in Crestone, we had heard of one another through the local grapevine. Thus when Moves Camp felt undernourished relative to free legal advice in the summer of 1985, he invited my lawyerly self via letter to attend a Sundance ceremony. Whereupon said attorney, recently self-employed and desirous of all types of sustenance, responded in the affirmative by packing for South Dakota Indian country.

A full book could be composed about the four days of Sundance that followed, days of language, pace, custom, and ritual far removed from my simple Sundays of youth in Kansas. In the current exposition, however, the basic teachings of stick and stone provide the pillar about which the current narrative pivots. And karma.

In short, I stepped into this eye-opening journey feeling like a naïve foreigner in my native land. So Sam graciously took me under his wing—metaphorically only, for although Mr. Moves Camp is a man of many dimensions, vertical is not one of them. Thus, an odd couple was spied at Sundance that week: A gangly lawyer slouching over to hear instructions from a compact, long-haired medicine man whose head tilted back frequently in hee-hee type laughter, usually at his own jokes and often at the tall guy's expense.

Enter Instructor Stick. Actually more splinter than stick about the size of a nail clipping tossed into the tale by my foolish and feeble attempt at humor (a.k.a. revenge) in response to Move Camp's jibes. Standing together in crowded room one evening I feigned not to notice his short self next to me. Then staring out above his head across the throng I asked if anyone had seen Sam recently. This lame dig was hardly cause for a guffaw let alone a hee-hee from one vertically challenged.

Immediately a sharp irritation struck above my right eye that developed into a shooting pain of something caught at the top of my eyeball. In response, Sandra stepped in (six years younger than in her Colorado hospital bed), to extract a wooden mote from my eye with a tissue, as I had to bend over and roll my eyeball as far downward as possible in order to access the splinter. (Please note the symbolism of this action that would ensure that an oversized tormentor would _have_ to look down in order to spy a short, powerful medicine man.)

My rational mind of 1985 could find no logic for how this instructive splinter suddenly appeared atop my eyeball, while my current rooftop self simply calls it a karmagram, and a damn fine one at that. Karmagram: A message delivered through time and space with efficiency that would make Western Union blush; a cosmic tit for tat that greets unwary recipient with appropriate response to recent questionable deed. And over the next years I received a fine and fair share of them.

But meanwhile back at the reservation I gave little importance to karma at that time, a condition soon remedied by Professor Stone—a single stone among several large, red-hot rocks brought into thrice daily sweat lodges that we took in support of the nearby Sundancers. Picture, if you will, glowing hot rocks carefully positioned in the center pit of a small, canvas dome from which neither air nor heat can readily escape. Within the low dome hunch a tightly packed circle of eight bare men who joke and chat while waiting for the entrance flap's descent along with the seriousness, darkness, silence, and heat. And more heat. Then steam as Moves Camp pours water onto sizzling stones, invoking ancient prayers and spirits. Steam and heat, and sweat and heat, and pain and heat, and prayer and steam, and...and surrender in order to survive until the blessed return of light and cooling air as the flap lifts—a moment that seems never to arrive soon enough, yet always at the perfect instant.

The current sweat lodge and closing of flap is delayed, however, as Moves Camp poses a strange query to his non-Indian guest from Colorado. "Do you believe in karma, Shupe?"

"Karma, Sam? Who is she, this Karma?" I cleverly parry, expecting some New Age joke that Moves Camp had heard in Crestone and of which I am about to become the butt.

But the medicine man remains deadpan, repeats the question, and I parrot my silly reply, oh so soon forgetting Instructor Stick. So Professor Stone responds from center pit, bursting with a loud pop that sends airborne a single piece of glowing shrapnel that succeeds in getting my undivided attention as it hits and lodges securely in the tender flesh between my toes.

I frantically pry the fiery stone fragment from its fast-blistering resting place as Sam's even voice intones in the background, "Karma, Shupe, karma." And the flap lowers, darkness descends, and heat and steam, and pain and heat, and...

One might think it prudent at this juncture to get the hell outta Dodge. But this clearly isn't Kansas, Toto, and I am indeed receiving nourishment new to body and soul. Four days of ceremony, of surrender, of another universe called Sundance. Time in which to admire new friend Sandra's dedication to her extended family; time enough for Moves Camp and me to develop a wary respect for one another. Four days of no food or water for the dozen Sundancers who remain on their feet, looking barely conscious as they shuffle through a last group dance leading to the ultimate test, an ordeal of bare chests with skin deeply sliced and threaded with ropes. Men tethered one by one to the sacred tree at center stage, muscles pulling with all remaining strength. Pulling, straining against the tethers until their skin, grotesquely stretched beyond reason, mercifully snaps. Bodies tumble backward, released to cry out in triumph, to arise from the dust with a final burst of celebratory dance then retreat to a feast and a freedom unknown to most mere mortals.

I sit across from the oldest dancer after the feast, feeling privileged he is sharing a Sundance vision with me while enjoying fellowship with several others gathered round to hear the respected man's story.

"A mean vision, a tough vision," the weary elder speaks as his chest wounds ooze blood. A vision given him by the Creator on day three of the Sundance, a day of extra determination when hunger and thirst—yes, thirst—drives a man to the limits of endurance and beyond, he explains.

I lean forward as he shakes his head recalling disturbing images. He speaks haltingly about two ghostly figures marching over a hilltop coming closer to where he lay helpless on the ground. A mean vision, a tough vision. Two specters drawing ever nearer, taunting his hunger and thirst. No escape.

The old Sundancer shudders and pauses in his story, looking deeply—almost imploringly—into my eyes. Do I possibly know who these two cruel visitors of vision could be, he queries? I can only give a quick shake of my head in response, riveted as I am to his face—a face upon which a grin slowly grows, then a toothsome smile, then an explosion of laughter in chorus with the other Sundancers who already know the joke's punch line.

"They were Dr. Pepper and Colonel Sanders!" he howls amid some good-natured slaps on my back, and a familiar hee-hee-hee behind me.

End of current instructions.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 4

Oh joy of rooftop joys! The ecstasy of simple pleasure sprouts through the dry cracks of hardship this October 2000 morn. No longer does a dearth of desks handicap the effort to pen Identity's benediction. A small nightstand, splintered of leg but smooth of surface, is elevated to writing height by twelve bricks stacked in sturdy triads to bestow a blessing upon a lonely author. Paper can recline effortlessly and pen glide with ease; new momentum brought to this wordy task born in awkward balance of notebook and knee. Now I sit with backbone straight before a level field on which the next players may emerge and romp in this game of life's dismemberment.

And at this moment—truly at this very instant, dear readers—the first rays of sun are cresting nearby foothills to welcome my rooftop morn. Ah, abundance! Abundance, the hallmark of the universe if we but know in our hearts we are worthy of its bounty.

Mother Ganga punctuates this comforting reminder with ceaseless waters sacred to millions for thousands of years that bubble into a billion blessings past rooftop and room. While from her lofty headwaters the great Himalayas expel winds of inspiration making not only the nose run but creative juices flow as well—expressed at night through vivid dreams, by day through words of truth unfolding.

In furtherance of candor, I just glanced through The ReMinder to review the veracity of the story told thus far. Begging your pardon, but we have bumped over two places of fudged fact and one complaint that no longer holds currency—that being the shortage of paper recently remedied by a three-mile walk to the village of Laxman Jhula which indeed has paper in quantity if not quality.

Moving then to the first fudged fact requires admitting that no numeric system (i.e. Rule #21-F) existed in the Shupe household for the rules of proper conduct. The childhood bounds of appropriate behavior, as controlling as they seemed, remained uncodified and primarily arose from paternal squeamishness teamed with a desire to raise babies that would carry a standard of good values and virtue to the world at large—a standard previously hoisted by Father guiding air squadrons over the Third Reich, returning with but one good arm to drape around a sweetheart eager to share saddle and ride together into a future of goodness and right. Two noble warriors indeed stood at the altar in 1944, a duo that still rides tall together in their sixth decade of holding the line and keeping promises honorably.

But in any truthful story of Identity's crash and burn, those standing closest invariably get singed. Regrettably, parental identities cannot be changed to protect the well-intentioned. However, names _can_ be altered to mask virginal parties to coitus interruptus—bringing us to the second piece of fudge, 'BeatriceYamamoto', a fictitious name in an all too real sofa sex encounter during my Hawaii high school daze. _Yamamoto_ is carefully crafted to retain the ethnic purity of my true partner because according to her parents, only two races exist in the universe, Japanese and not Japanese. Being a member of the latter theoretically prohibited me from dating the former, let alone from having carnal knowledge of their daughter of the Rising Sun on verandah sofa. So her family honor is protected by this name alteration and a karmic thread is maintained with Asian twist.

That twist takes a Chinese turn during college, specifically towards Tina Hwang. Yes, my partner of choice was again of Asian background, a fellow Frosh of intelligence, beauty, and coordination. The last served her well the next year with pompoms in hand as a Stanford Dollie dressed from the hips up like an Indian, while I became a Stanford Indian dressed from the hips up like a basketball player. Both sets of our legs were bare, one topped by panties that flashed red (no, _cardinal_ , if you please) with enthusiastic kicks whenever baskets were scored—definitely not a recommended basketball maneuver. My sporting enthusiasm was expressed more in leaps and bounds that landed me in the starting lineup in time to help win the 1971 Motor City Classic, a dubious distinction outside of Detroit. But hey, we took whatever scraps we could get during that pathetic era for Stanford hoopsters.

Neither of our titles, Dollie nor Indian, survived campus political correctness to the following season although Tina's and my relationship did. Two healthy youngsters slipped off cardinal accouterments with great frequency and joy, the pill we believed was far easier to swallow than coitus interruptus. But alas, the lovers found that the accessories of society are less easily shucked than underwear. Though children of the Sixties, we carried forward old roles of love American-style with a controlling male dominating the coupling and proving just how screwed up relationships can get with the feminine half devalued.

So rooftop joy has turned to bittersweet memories this morning. A sense of farewell blossoms from my heart to send an extra blessing down the Ganga towards Tina, a message of appreciation and good wishes arising from dashed hopes and guilt's remnants. A blessing flows as well to 'Beatrice' and another to nurse Ann; to all who have given ourselves in the name of love and found ourselves alone. A final nod, too, to that mediocre basketball player who had flickers of glory that faded and a championship plaque from Detroit ultimately tossed into the fire of Identity's purification. Mo-Ci-Cla, Mo-Ci-Cla. A strange mantra of the past echoes now in cadence with Himalayan heartbeat.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 5

Messengers last night, one after another appearing during dreamtime. All women. Wise, centered, serious women arrived to guide me to various places in various dreams. One by one they showed the way. Some were Asian, some Western, my sister one. Dream after dream, trip after trip, always guided by feminine clarity, a woman's touch.

Fully awake now, I recall my dream guide who appeared one night when I was 24 years old, in a dream so unlike a dream it imprinted firmly in a young engineer's mind, still fresh and rooted a quarter century later. A brilliant, powerful dark-haired guide in white robe was leading me to the Library of all-knowing. But as I stared into her clear eyes, fear of losing control to her strength overcame me. She detected my alarm and looked disappointed as I felt my body sucked backwards past a door slamming shut, all in an instant, all gone but the sound _ept_ echoing in my consciousness as I fully awoke. A look at the dictionary and there was _ept_ , a root word leading to mention of the Philosopher's Stone, to the alchemy of turning base elements into treasure. Adept, inept, or both.

I believe that I again met this beauteous guide of vision in an unsettling dream two weeks ago here at my garden abode in India. I fear so. I hope so. In the recent dream, her body was frozen solid, sliding down an icy chute with a stone-like face carved in terror, her life force drained as if by some hungry beast afoot in the dreamscape. Two more frozen women followed down the chute leading to a hospital, a place of revival where delicate thawing and rejuvenation could take place. Or so its feels. Perhaps the arrival of last night's women messengers is an indication of a flicker of warmth, a spark of life force, of feminine guidance destined to flow again. Like the Ganga below, like the holy breath above.

OKAY, I ADMIT to getting carried away with the mood and drama of my current dream work. Apology tendered. But I must admit to a degree of excitement that this latest dream may indicate a step forward in the ongoing project towards full mindfulness. A few weeks ago I had sensed a shift in my life cycle, a feeling that the ten-year wave of persona's destruction was giving way to a cycle of creativity, to a time to build something. No, _not_ to construct another Identity. I already fell into that trap a few years back by walking tall with a new self image as a healer of sorts, a spiritual man you could trust and blah blah blah. I had to shuck that new-and-improved Identity, too.

No, this time the construction process is simple, a simple re-Minder. Reawakening and rebuilding the total mind, pieces of which have been lost or forgotten or hidden or shattered or dropped. Thus in the quiet darkness of autumn nights at Phool Chatti Ashram, pieces of my mind may now scamper out from dusty corners to commiserate together, to make during dreamtime whatever truce and treaty are necessary to work again as one consciousness, as a team in common purpose. Under cover of darkness and in the twilight zone between slumber and wakefulness, a process of recollection has begun: An explorer dreaming, a re-Minder awakening.

\--- End of Section One of The ReMinder \---

You put down the manuscript, _your_ manuscript that was written less than three months ago. Yes, you are clear about authorship although you cannot recall the writing effort or any of the listed events of your life; just the dreams. A familiar pair of furry arms, a dark-haired dream guide, and women messengers all reach out from dreamtime memory to affirm that this is your story—a personal tale that carries the bitter aftertaste of irony as you, while lost in the current fog of forgetfulness, read the optimistic prognosis of reclaiming full awareness of Mind. You laugh briefly without humor wondering what happened in the intervening weeks to cause your amnesia.

No spare time is available to dwell on ironies and the past, however, or even to consider why the ashram's Guruji had your personal chronicle in his possession. The crucial task beckons of preparing yourself for tomorrow. You proceed to write a lengthy message and several helpful notes to assist a confused, forgetful man—yourself who will awaken again tomorrow morning into full amnesia while surrounded by five concrete walls. The job is complete by ten o'clock as you blow out the flickering candles and gratefully enter slumber.

## DECEMBER 25 – early next morning

Your voice fills the hut at dawn with a drowsy monotone as you speak into the cassette recorder.

"Father is treating me like a child. I suddenly realize that he has an emotionally scarred little boy in him that makes him act this way. But I don't want to hurt him with vindictiveness by telling him so. As I look into his face it begins to transform into my own. I suddenly realize that I am dreaming and get a feeling of success and excitement about this lucidity. Then all I can see is the right eye of my mirrored face showing a kindly but tired expression, like resigned or surrendered to something. I awaken with a charge of electricity in every cell of my body."

You lie on your back with eyes closed enjoying the afterglow of the sensation and the fact that you just had a moment of dream lucidity—a fleeting awareness within a dream that you were dreaming. You wished that you could have continued dreaming with that clarity, but not this morning. You are fully awake now. Time to put down the cassette recorder, to open your eyes and...and...receive the rude shock that you have no idea where you are lying. But immediately you notice a message stuck with adhesive tape to the ceiling above your bed: _IT'S PARADISE, NOT PRISON!_

Puzzled, you look around the austere, five-walled room and think it _looks_ to be a prison. But the sounds and view through the windows bring you glimpses of the promised paradise that includes a small outhouse. You walk there after putting on handy robe and slippers. While squatting in this unknown locale you experience the disconcerting realization that you have no idea of _who_ you are either. You glance at the ceiling of the outhouse hoping to spot another helpful message, but no name or information greets you from above.

Walking back to the hut you spy stone steps leading to the roof. Curious about the vista and details of your location, you climb to the rooftop and see a note on an old nightstand by a plastic chair. Its cheery message: _Good Morning. You are in India at Phool Chatti Ashram. The big river is the Ganga. A simple breakfast will be served around 9:30. Enjoy!_ You look at your watch: 8:02 a.m. on December 25. My god, Christmas. Is this someone's idea of a holiday joke to take away your memory and plop you down in the middle of India? You shake your head and stretch out your frustration through arms that continue moving in a pattern that invites the back and legs to join in a slow series of stretches that feel oh-so good to your body.

After more exercises you enjoy a long period of listening, watching, and smelling paradise. Everything feels like a virgin experience. Vibrant colors, the harmonies of diverse sounds, and varied fragrances all mingle in sensual delight. And the arrival of a thin swami with breakfast tray is precisely on time making you feel as if this would be a pleasant holiday spot if you had a memory to go with it. Perhaps the hut holds the key.

Upon entering the room downstairs, you...

**TRAIL BOSS:** Whoa there. No, the hut holds no new key and this is not some Club Med amnesia theme party. Our character is still in a deep fog as the same basic pattern of activity unfolds throughout another day. So I, as a master of efficiency, once again grab the reins to intercede before the wagons bog down in the routine.

I take this opportunity as well to clarify that I do not _scamper out from dusty corners_ of the psyche, contrary to my host's description of his scattered pieces of mind in The ReMinder written a couple of months ago. As a respectable trail boss my form of locomotion is far more dignified and efficient than furtive scurry. In fact, I have yet to see any pieces of our mind scampering about ready to cozily bond in one big Kumbya hug around the campfire. Only the subconscious has made an appearance and its form of locomotion is less of a scamper-and-scurry and more a float-and-submerge between its personal Fantasy Island and dubious Garden of Eden.

But now to wield my authority as guest narrator to quicken the pace a tad: This morning, the forgetful fellow goes from rooftop down into the hut and finds a bunch of messages he wrote to himself last evening. The notes tell him where to wash his dishes after lunch, of the need to buy more candles tomorrow in Laxman Jhula village, that only $20 worth of rupees remain in the hut, and other such details. After reading awhile he starts getting agitated and nearly explodes until he meditates in the hall. Lunch bell, same-o same-o, to the river to bathe, and then he transcribes the morning dream tape into the notebook.

After reading his past diary entries, our character wisely figures out that, in addition to having recurring amnesia, he is somehow psychologically addicted to this same daily routine that lasts well into the afternoon. So he leaves a note advising his future selves to stick to the usual daily regimen, particularly to meditate by 10:00 a.m. or risk going ballistic. He then takes a walk to explore in preparation for tomorrow afternoon's shopping trip to Laxman Jhula village, that includes drawing a map displaying the nearby bus stop by the tea stand. He ends the day writing instructions for tomorrow's self to catch the three o'clock bus to shop in the village—an efficient place for us to pick up the storyline. Giddy-up there.

## DECEMBER 26 – afternoon of the next day

The afternoon sun strikes you standing by the tea shop just a stone's throw down the road from Phool Chatti Ashram. You suspect that you have never before been this nervous waiting to catch a bus nor that you have ever gone shopping wearing an _In Silence_ lapel button. Yes, fear is your travel companion on your debut without memory into the world at large. You are grateful that sufficient notes and information were provided to prepare you for this shopping venture. Rule number one of the outing is not to publicly demonstrate your amnesia and thus find yourself facing foreign police and the penalty for having no passport or explanations.

You check your pocket again for the list of instructions that includes the two things you are directed by yesterday's self to purchase, candles and notebooks. You have also taken the initiative to add fruit to the list, as well as to bring the two slips of paper found on the windowsill: The dinner date reminder and the business card of Ravi's Place designed _for all your travel and photocopy needs_. You glance at the two slips and think it prudent to check in at Ravi's and try to locate the Allahabad Riverview Inn where you are supposed to meet a woman for dinner on the eighteenth of January. The engagement is more than three weeks away but the note and the feminine handwriting have aroused your curiosity.

The bus pulls up to the tea shop at a quarter past three. You board, find a seat, pay the conductor five rupees, and bounce slowly along for ten minutes to Laxman Jhula. Upon reaching your destination you like what you see and, for the moment, stop worrying about amnesia. In fact, you figure the experience is much like any other time you have arrived in an unfamiliar village in India needing to get oriented, find the appropriate shops, maybe having a cup of tea at a café with view. You mingle with the many sadhus and colorfully dressed pilgrims walking the main street whose buildings are squeezed between river Ganga on the right and steep, forested hills on the left.

A hundred meter footbridge spans the river and takes you to the other half of Laxman Jhula village on the western bank. Here you purchase two spiral notebooks and a box of ten candles, accomplished with silent hand motions. Likewise without speaking you buy fruit that fills the daypack strapped over your shoulders. The time is 4:08. With only an hour walk back to Phool Chatti in order to arrive for six o'clock dinner, you have plenty of time to look for Ravi's Place.

The search proves simple in this small town and you slip off your in-silence button as you enter the glass door of the tiny travel office. A young man behind the counter greets you like an old friend, an act which rekindles your anxiety over having no memory. You promptly take out the business card and the scrap of paper from your pocket to give your eyes somewhere to focus away from Ravi's smiling face. "Do you know where this Allahabad Riverview Inn is?" you query nervously.

"Well, it's probably in Allahabad on the river," the man quips looking pleased with his little joke. "Just take a right at the footbridge and go about a thousand kilometer along the Ganga."

You glare as he snatches the paper from your hand and continues, "What do you have there? Ah, a January eighteenth dinner in Allahabad. It's good you come to Ravi for reservation since the Allahabad Express is filling fast." The pushy young man responds to your puzzled look, "You know, the evening train running from Haridwar to Allahabad to take sadhus and pilgrims to the Kumba Mehla festival."

You decide honesty—to a degree—is the best policy. "Actually, I know nothing about Allahabad or the Kumba whatever. What's going on there January eighteenth?"

Ravi laughs. "The Kumba Mehla festival is held in Allahabad for a _month_ not a day, and it looks like you can hang around for the peak experience when everyone baths in the Ganga at the month's new moon." He pulls out an article from a Hindi language newspaper listing the Kumba Mehla events, confirming, "That's on January 24. Should be quite a spectacle although a hundred or more people usually drown in the rush to the river, so be careful. Do you want to reserve a first or second class sleeper on the train?"

You waffle about travel plans then ask if Ravi has an English version of the news clipping about the Kumba Mehla festival.

"One similar," he replies. "Wait a second and I'll run off a copy of the article, then I can find the print job you left a couple of weeks ago. I was wondering when you were going to return for it."

Your print job? Your ears perk and excitement surges with hope of more clues to your identity and predicament. "Ninety-seven rupees," he states while placing into your eager hand a cheap folder filled with papers, "and another rupee for the Kumba Mehla article."

You thank the young man, assuring him that _yes_ you will use Ravi's Place for all your travel needs, as you quickly open the folder. Damn, the promising papers look simply to be a copy of chapters by an Indian author whose name you cannot pronounce. Disappointed, you toss the folder into your pack and look at your watch—4:30 on the dot. At least you have time enough for a cup of tea to sooth your frustration before returning to Phool Chatti Ashram for dinner.

You find a seat at a small open-air café incongruously called the German Bakery perched above the Ganga footbridge abutment. The bakery appears to be a fine place to enjoy tea, a river view, and even a decent croissant. It also provides you with a ringside seat to watch a troop of wizened gangsters patrolling the bridge while snatching at whatever bags hold aromatic goodies. You worry about these aggressive monkeys and the fruit in your daypack that you will shortly carry across the narrow bridge.

But a more immediate concern arises as you glimpse a Western woman who has spotted you. Irrational fear takes its firm grip upon your forgetful mind when she openly stares at you with increasing interest. She stands as you remember that your _In Silence_ shield is worthlessly in your pocket. You glance down, fumble the button from your pocket, and pin it to your shirt just as the friendly woman arrives at your table. She looks hurt by the new decree of silence and appears to be considering a graceful retreat. But she already feels like a fool and you like a jerk, so what's to lose?

"Aren't you Steven who performed at the Ashoka-ji New Millenium celebration a year ago?" she bravely asks.

You maintain your silence while gesturing like a dropout from the Institute for Mediocre Miming with hands and face that seem to say, "Gee, I would really love to talk with a nice person like you but I'm in silence at the moment and it could be hazardous to my health to interrupt this contemplative mood."

"Don't you remember me? I'm Sonya from Poona, Prema's roommate!" she announces cheerily.

Of course you do not remember her but you continue to silently gesticulate with a silly grin on your face that translates into, "It makes me the happiest man in the world to suddenly remember who you are and when I get back to Poona it will be super to look you and Prema up—but right now I _really_ need to meditate in silence."

Undeterred, she plods on, "I just loved you in that play during the New Year celebration. Was it really improvised? I could hardly believe that you and your partner hadn't rehearsed the whole thing."

Now beginning to look like a marionette on a bad string day, you mutely feign delight, humility, appreciation, surprise, the notion that of course it was improvised, but really, most of the credit should go to your partner. You feel like an absolute idiot.

"Oh, Prema will be so thrilled to see you again," exclaims the woman as she starts to exit. "It'll only take me three minutes to run back to the hotel and get her."

Your blood turns to ice at the thought of having your amnesia exposed in three short minutes. Panic rises to transform your frantic mime performance into what appears to be the following message: "Excuse me, but I really need to throw my watch into the river and flag in that Boeing 747 that is landing on the road to Phool Chatti before my epileptic fit becomes too debilitating." You are halfway to the counter digging for your money, with Sonya still persevering unsuccessfully to get you to respond like a sane human being.

"Are you staying at that sweet ashram at Phool Chatti? What a great place. We only have two more days here, but I just _know_ Prema will want to see you," she calls as you wave good-bye and scurry across the footbridge. The monkeys look nervous and climb the cables to avoid you.

**TRAIL BOSS:** As guest narrator and a part of this sorry fellow's mind, I interject to pull the curtain of privacy over his discomfort as he mumbles to himself walking the three miles back to Phool Chatti Ashram. It is a lovely road to stroll and if I were a tour guide instead of efficient trail boss I would pause to describe more of the scenery. But no, we shall proceed at full clip-clop towards whatever events can rescue us from this grip of forgetfulness, bypassing dull description of his routine to arrive tomorrow at the Ganga's sandy shore as our subject emerges from his afternoon bath.

## DECEMBER 27 – the following afternoon

You are lying in the warm sun as thoughts drift lazily with the flow. Unlike the Ganga, however, your mind has no headwaters. No rivulets of memory are available to explore and give context to the quiet depths that swirl in the moment before you. Your past is composed simply of trickles of writings that you scanned before a pleasant meditation this morning.

You think about the note written yesterday evening warning about the possible arrival of a woman named Prema from the forgotten streams of your past. The alarm expressed about her potential appearance seems overblown, you think. What is the danger in an acquaintance arriving, so long as you are prepared? It might even prove elucidating. As you are gently nourished by nature's elements harmonizing with your spirit, no problem seems too big, no challenge too great. This comforting conclusion is quickly tested, however, as a long-armed enigma sneaks silently through the rocks behind you.

The stealthy man emerges from behind, whispering, "So, grasshopper, does the river shape its bank or the bank shape the river?" You look up, startled at the Indian fellow wrapped in orange who continues in soothing tone, "Do the thoughts shape the man or the man shape his thoughts?" The gentleman is bowing slightly at the waist with palms together at his chest. He is dressed like a Hindu sadhu, expounds like a Buddhist Zen master, but his accent is distinctly Texan. You feel exposed lying in your underwear with this weird-looking character waiting for your comment.

"Ah come on, buddy boy, it's a perfectly legit inquiry," he finally blares as you stare dumbly at him, standing now with his hands on hips. "Of course, the answer is too simple for words but it can lead to some interesting conversation. The interconnectedness of all actions, the bank and river shaping one another, no simplistic cause or effect in the universal oneness. Right?" He pauses, waiting for a reply.

You finally compose yourself and in quiet but firm voice declare, "I am in silence."

The stranger leans back laughing and with big gestures responds, "Great, no pretense of integrity here. You start off the conversation with a statement that can only be a bald-faced lie. You ever think of that, pal? There are some perfectly true ideas that can be in one's mind, but as soon as they are put into words they become lies. Like your solemn hooey, _I am in silence_ —a concept that can't be spoken truthfully."

He stops a second to think then continues the diatribe, "Or take the thought: _E_ _very statement I make is false,_ which happens to be true for most people. But as soon as this truth jumps from your brain into the voice box, it doesn't make any sense. Its own truth makes it false which makes it true and so on until your mind explodes. No, buddy boy, words only lead to lies and paradox. There, that's your first lesson of the afternoon. My billing meter is running, you know."

"I'm glad you're lying," you respond dryly.

"No, actually I'm more into the paradox side of the equation," remarks the man without hesitation. "I hold in great esteem the tradition of the trickster as teacher, paradox as text. Yep, if you really want to ascend up the spiritual ladder, get a guru who will mindfuck you up one side and down the other. Can be a lot of fun, too, particularly for the guru. Good old Merlin was one of the best, but I'm no anglophile and prefer our Native American archetype, Coyote. Although Q is really my hero as far as cosmic tricksters goes. Ever see him on, _Star Trek: The Next Generation_?"

He finally pauses for air and your reply. Your discomfort grows as you realize that you know neither the answer nor whether you have previously met this intrusive visitor. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I haven't conversed with anyone for a long time—at least I don't think," you carelessly add as an aside, trying to be truthful.

"Perfect again!" the man exclaims with another dynamic laugh. "Someone who admits that he doesn't think. Nobody thinks! Nobody takes time these days to use their mind or even to wonder why it's scattered all over hell. We're stuck in a rut of basic survival, and not even of-the-fittest anymore. _Eat, Drink, Screw, Sleep_ , that was the name of some Chinese flick I saw back in the States. Just about sums it up, don't you think? Oh, pardon me, you already answered that last question in the negative."

You realize you are out of your depth with this banter, at least in your current state of forgetfulness. You sit up and look at the short, fleshy man with an expression that politely asks that he leaves you alone. He sits down by your side.

"I had to follow your tracks out here so your Guruji watchdog wouldn't shoo me away again. I wanted to catch you before I head back up to Neelkanth village for a few days to retreat into my homey little Alamo up there to hold off this crazy world."

"I thought you sadhus weren't supposed to have homes, just wander as holy men renouncing the worldly," you reply taking a dig back at this guy who is making you so uneasy.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm only half as dirty and twice as well-fed as most of those sadhu guys. And you can only truly renounce after you've accumulated something to let go of. Personally, I'm more into the acquisition stage at the moment. Which is why I follow the aimless tracks of Westerners who likely have rupees they wish to renounce right into my welcoming pocket." His grin grows wider as he adds, "They usually need a bit of convincing, however, before they understand their role in this give-and-take cycle that ends in my wealth."

"I can imagine," you reply as you turn to lie on your stomach, hoping he will get the hint to leave.

"Look, amigo, I'm at least honest about going after your cash. Most of the jokers around here who cater to seekers and soul searchers seduce them with one hand while fleecing them with the other, all behind a façade of holy bullshit. You ever been to one of their group meetings?"

"I don't remember," you reply in bored voice, meaning it as a snooty put-off rather than as a true confession of your forgetful state.

"Well, here's your big chance," the intruder announces as he stands and takes from his shoulder bag a flyer that he hands to you. Without another word he walks away, one sinewy arm raised in farewell.

You glance at the paper as you gather your river items to return to the hut. In bold lettering the flyer announces the golden opportunity to sit in the glorious presence of Shri Shri Cy Bubha, a fully self-realized master who will answer any question posed by the serious seeker or the gullible wealthy. Next opportunity for this invaluable boost to one's full self realization is set for 3:00 p.m. on December 30 at the Shakti Café in Laxman Jhula. A footnote at the end clarifies: _Full Self Realization occurs at the moment the spiritual seeker realizes he's been acting like a buffoon—and fully laughs at self._ You smile. If the guy weren't so strange and your mind handicapped by amnesia you might be interested in what he has to say.

You leisurely return to the hut and put aside thoughts of the encounter with Shri Shri Cy Bubha as you retrieve the cassette player to listen to this morning's dream. You pause before transcribing the dream into your journal in order to again savor the deep feeling that it conjures. A sense of union, peace, and hope fill you as you push the play button and listen to your drowsy voice that described the lovely dream upon awakening this morning.

"What an incredible sense of joy and serenity. A dream just ended with my standing in silence with a short, blonde woman in a snowy setting of blue sky and crystal purity. We are at a junction of two paths coming down from the mountains. The end of a long war is near—each of us is in uniform of opposing militias but we are now holding one another in a calm state of absolute love. We trust that the troops trudging down the trails will not shoot us since we are together. But it doesn't matter, nothing does. There is an overwhelming sense of connection with this woman and the understanding that completion of something important lies just around the bend."

**TRAIL BOSS:** Fine and dandy, but let's return to the real world where I spy something of earthly interest just around the bend. Avoiding the tedious track of the daily routine, we jump to high noon tomorrow where a female of the species makes her golden entry into the daylight.

## DECEMBER 28 – noon of the next day

The clanging of the lunch bell brings you out of your timeless space of body sensations and rhythmic breath. You rise from the meditation cushion to proceed to the dining hall which this morning's note indicated is your next destination in the usual routine. But lunch today is different since two plates with spoons, not one, are set for foreign guests. A friendly gesture of direction from the elderly swami by the kitchen encourages you to be seated.

As you ponder the ramifications of the second place setting, you are grateful for your in-silence lapel button and thankful that the morning message, which greeted your forgetful self, warned that a visitor named Prema might arrive soon, a woman whom you apparently knew in the city of Poona during a Millenium celebration at the Ashoka-ji community. This is scant information to go on with a possible old friend, but silence is golden and a great way to appear knowledgeable without knowing much—or so you imagine. Mercifully, you cannot remember the miming episode of two days ago where you demonstrated to Prema's roommate that even in silence, one can act like an idiot.

You strategically keep your eyes looking down at your plate in anticipation of the other foreigner's arrival, not wanting to give away your lack of recognition if the visitor is indeed a forgotten friend. Soft footsteps enter and traverse the dining room to announce the approach of a woman who sits behind the adjacent plate. You feel a gentle squeeze on your elbow and look up to a warm pair of eyes that are happy to see you. It must be Prema. Your face automatically mirrors her open greeting and after an exchange of smiles, you each enter the silence and ritual of the meal.

Prema eats little but remains poised, sitting quietly as your spoon clinks against the metal plate with every bite that you lift to your mouth. You are nervous as the time arrives for leaving this room of imposed silence, concerned she will override your lapel button's directive and insist upon your talking. Well, you will just have to be ready for anything and learn what you can as events unfold. You walk silently together to the sinks, wash the dishes, and continue back to the courtyard where Prema finally speaks.

"I'll check at the office to see if Guruji wants me to sign the guest register—although I don't plan on needing a room tonight," she adds looking straight at you. "Are you staying at that lovely hut in the garden?"

You nod in affirmation.

"I'll meet you there in a few minutes. It's great to see you, Steven." She brushes her hand against your cheek, turns, and walks gracefully to the office, pausing briefly at the window to read the postings.

You cannot remember having seen a woman so self-contained and centered before, but then you have no real memory of ever connecting with any other woman, period. Somehow, though, you know she is special. She seems so clear in how she speaks, in what she wants, but without intruding into your space. Or is that just wishful thinking and your projection? Admittedly, she _has_ already invited herself into your hut. And is she presuming she is welcome to spend the night with you, or did her comment about needing no room mean she is heading back to, to...oh, hell, to who knows where? Your thoughts start to spin but you tell yourself to slow down and stay in the moment as you walk to your hut. Keep it simple, step by step. Just take a deep breath and then a minute to tidy up the room for your guest.

"Hey there," a gentle voice speaks from a silhouette of striking curves framed in your hut doorway. Prema's dark shadow is topped by a golden halo as the backlight from the garden penetrates her blonde hair. "May I come in?"

You motion her to enter and she walks into your arms for a silent embrace which lasts a good minute, actually a _very_ good minute that you would happily stretch into a couple more. But Prema takes a step back and asks, "So am I catching you in silence today?"

You simply nod. No mask or gyrations seem possible in her presence.

"You know," she laughs with a look of resignation, "I've heard more about you from listening to Mr. Rokstad on your palm reading tape than from what you've told me. Maybe _someday_ we will have a chance to really talk and learn more about each other instead of just doing energy work."

She leans forward to re-embrace, lifting her face up to share a soft kiss that you feel from your mouth to your toes. The sense of gentle touch, the lips, the press of a woman's body—all are experienced as if for the first time. And is this what she means by energy work? It is certainly energetic but it doesn't feel like work.

"Is this not a perfect day for the river?" she asks rhetorically while turning towards the door and indicating that you follow. But Section One of The ReMinder catches her attention lying on the shelf. She picks it up and continues, "Say, I bet this is some of your new writing that Rokstad said would cross with your palm's money line." You with the amnesia can only shrug in response. "I'm sure you won't mind if I read a bit," she says with a bright smile that cannot be refused.

Prema is out the door with the manuscript by the time you grab a towel and slip into a pair of walking shoes. You follow as she heads upriver along a path that crosses a small bridge of planks. She takes your hand when you catch up on the trail; or perhaps you took hers. It is all so natural, so easy to be together in this space of silence. The ease and comfort kindle a desire in you to communicate with Prema, to ask this gentle woman for help with your predicament of amnesia. Yes, it is time to find the courage to share your secret of forgetfulness with a fellow human being. But as you open your mouth to speak, a rush of irrational fear tightens your throat, a reaction bolstered by the emergence of an overwhelming urge to continue keeping your amnesia a secret from the world.

Shaken by the power of the momentary fear, you remain safely in silence as you follow Prema down a path of old footprints, through sand and rock that ends at a lovely stretch of beach. Tomorrow, you will find additional imprints by the shore of two people who shared this paradise today in quiet and joy. Two who swam, who kissed, who lay naked in the sun silently embracing and feeling their union with the Ganga at their feet. Imprints of two bodies in the sand, one large and the other diminutive, will await the arrival tomorrow of a solitary man whose mind will have no recall that he and a golden visitor made them.

This thought of forgetfulness saddens you, but you push it aside to join Prema in the ever-present moment in which you drift together without speaking as the afternoon peaceably passes.

"You realize, don't you, that we just broke the ashram rule against bathing nude?" Prema notes with a smile as she rolls against your bare body on the blanket. She kisses your cheek, sits up, and places her right hand on your heart and her left palm on your head. Energy work. Kindness that flows through loving hands to nourish a soul and body that have been alone for too long.

You observe your breathing and watch hers as well—in and out, cool then warm, calm and erect, woman and man. You are a mindful witness to these earthly polarities, to the energies of life that course through the Ganga as well as in each grain of sand vibrating beneath your back. The rhythm of her rising breasts melts into the cadence of your heartbeat and together emerge as the pulse of the river. A holy trinity forms as ancient as life, yet only of this moment for nothing else exists. It is now or never. This you understand in a depth that you cannot mentally recapture. The thought is gone since it was no thought, but an instant of clarity beyond simple mind. Pure experience, a moment of truth to share as you look into Prema's eyes and she into yours. Neither of you smiles as you hold this feeling, this treasure, until a passing cloud brings a shadow and chill.

You stroll back to the ashram hand in hand. Outside the hut in a few short words Prema states that she must talk to Guruji then pack for an early morning train to Delhi. It is time for an embrace, a time of parting. She walks into the garden towards her world but turns with a final message spoken to you across space, "Remember, there's no gift like the present."

You give a final wave, enter the hut, toss The ReMinder manuscript aside, and lie in bed having no interest in reading about your former life, satisfied now simply to observe this moment of being. No past or future distracts you from feeling your connection with all things bright and beautiful, to all things dull and barren. They and you are each the same, a unity that engulfs you into nothingness and launches you into the whole. And the moment passes.

You quietly carry the bittersweet aftertaste of this special afternoon until the kitchen bell intrudes upon your thoughts. You eat dinner without wanting even to make eye contact with the usual contingent of swamis, choosing instead to keep drifting in duality's dance where darkness penetrates spirit to create fleeting ripples of understanding atop a deep pool of forgetfulness.

After dinner, you follow Guruji out the dining hall and silently gesture your way into his office and to the guest register. You wish to view Prema's name, to see her signature before she dies tonight in your memory. It lies in a thin book entitled, _Foreign Guest Registry 2000_. You find the final page of entries and spot her name in clear print at the bottom: Jessica Nixhall; birthplace, Fairfield, Iowa; residence, Sedona, Arizona; followed by a signature of _Prema_ , the spiritual name she has adopted in India.

Above her entry is your registration with more detailed data required of overnight visitors. You realize that this guest book could hold some potentially helpful clues to your forgotten past, but you do not have the energy to explore for them now. You simply stand, nod goodnight to Guruji, and return to your room to leave that insight in the note for tomorrow's self.

Upon finishing the evening's writing tasks in the hut, you stare at the two candle flames as one finally burns down to nothing with its last flicker of light. You feel exhausted lying on your back, but you do not want to sleep and let Prema succumb to death in your forgetful mind. As the second candle wanes, you understand the truth of your own death tonight as well. The you who is thinking and feeling and yearning will no longer exist in the morning; dead to the world, dead to memory. Your lifetime, short but sweet in this one day of grace, will be only imprints in the sand and swirls in the water flowing miles away down the Ganga.

You watch the final flicker of candlelight illuminate the message taped to the ceiling above your bed: _IT'S PARADISE, NOT PRISON!_ No, it is a morgue. You are one of several identical bodies that have been laid out the past nights on this slab to die in amnesia, wrapped in a blue bag and left as a sacrifice for the nocturnal gods to devour. At the instant you release into slumber, forgetfulness will eat away your hopes, your fears, and your few memories of life.

Tears seep from your closed eyes as you say farewell—to whom, you do not know.

PART TWO

"My Parents Got Enlightened and

All I Got was this Lousy T-Shirt."

\- Kumba Mehla tee-shirt line

by Shr Shri Cy Bubha

Call me Shoshoni. Or Ishmael or Peggy Sue or whatever you choose. There is little meaning in my name since even in the flesh I am but a pliable energy field that observers shape with their opinions of how I look, act, and feel to them. Those who have danced in my feminine field have called me everything from saint to slut. I cannot argue with their view. Are we not all like the elephant probed by five blind men who swear to five different perspectives of our true nature?

After touching me through this book perhaps you will call me the author's muse or his murderess or maybe just another piece of his scattered mind. For the moment it is best to simply consider me your tour guide from the future. Arriving from five weeks hence I have come back to late December 2000 to expedite your journey through _The Now or Never_ , a trip that encompasses the Kumba Mehla festival followed by an additional fortnight of sunrises and words.

Shri Shri Cy Bubha's foreword to this book has already hinted at our protagonist's presence at the Kumba Mehla along with a Sedona souvenir tile and a dubious guardian angel that are destined to cross his path at the festival in Allahabad. In the three weeks between now and then we shall endeavor to pick up salient breadcrumbs along the trail that give context and clues to adventures to come. Thieving monkeys, mysterious notes, a turquoise umbrella, fetish studs, and other strange accoutrements shall pepper our upcoming path as the Kumba Mehla draws near.

But not to get ahead of the tale, we first turn to one such clue that was already encountered last evening in Guruji's office, the _Foreign Guest Registry_. Picking up the story this late afternoon, our forgetful character has returned to the office where he now scrutinizes more information found in the registry—a book providing both valuable links to the past and hints of upcoming events.

## DECEMBER 29 – afternoon

Name, Steven Joseph Shupe. Place of birth, Manhattan, Kansas; age 49. Arrival at Phool Chatti Ashram on 14th December from New Delhi; no current home address. You copy down your passport and visa numbers then thumb back through the pages of the _Foreign Guest Registry 2000_ looking for your previous visits. From a summary of facts left for yourself to read this morning in the hut you expect to find a September entry as well. There it is, your arrival at Phool Chatti from New Delhi on September thirteenth, departing two months later for McLeodganj with the final column registering your parting comment: _Perfect place for writing by day, for dreaming by night. Thank you._

As you review earlier pages of the registry in Guruji's office you see how the number of foreign visitors to the ashram reflects the local climate. Almost none arrived during the sweltering summer monsoon, then the numbers picked up in October and November slackening off as winter cool sent tourists migrating further south. You are the only overnight guest to have registered since early December. The peak visiting season, however, is clearly in March and April with dozens of entries. There is your name again indicating you arrived last April third, departing eight days later with the written comment: _A surprise treat to discover this gem! Thank you for welcoming us._

Us? You eagerly look for the other component of an _us_ and quickly deduce that there she is immediately below your name: Alberta Theisen, Calgary, Canada, age 31, dates and the departing destination the same as yours. Her written comment is more succinct: _Hell of a heavenly place!_

You rescan the pages from April onward looking for additional signs of your travel companion. Bingo, another hit: Alberta Theisen arriving on November fifth from Poona, leaving November seventeenth for McLeodganj, the same day as your departure. Her comment, with a quite active verb scratched out with only partial success, reads _Perfect place for writing by day, for fu----g by night. Thank you._ You can only guess what her profane appearance in November might have done to your writing and dream work—and to the ashram in general.

**SHOSHONI:** Indeed, Ms. Theisen's large and vocal presence rarely goes unnoticed wherever she spends her nights—and we will encounter her up close and personal before the drama ends. But for the present, when Steven returns to his garden hut from the office he encounters the next clue, a typed page commanding, _Refrane from_...

**TRAIL BOSS:** Whoa there! A feller takes a catnap and the next thing you know some pushy madam has taken over the reins to drive the wagon.

**SHOSHONI:** My apologies, Master of the trail. I harbor no intention to usurp your position. I have arrived simply to bring some perspective to your host's story in order to enlighten those experiencing it through written word.

**TRAIL BOSS:** And who might you be, sticking your nose into our business? And why in blazes can't I see you?

**SHOSHONI:** I am a visitor from the future and from a dimension of reality one click above your own. But rest assured we have the same goal of efficient progress along the protagonist's trail through amnesia. Call me Shoshoni.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Well, Miss Shoshoni, I can't complain if a gal from the future rides shotgun through these plains of forgetfulness. Care to give an old trail boss some suggestions about what I can do to get my host out of our amnesia predicament?

**SHOSHONI:** I am sorry, dear one, but you and the rest of the pieces of Steven's scattered mind must find your own way along the misty trail. When you desire, however, we can observe together from shoulder perch as events unfold and hold discourse that may inform both the reader and you as well.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Sounds good. So let's get started with your explaining about that piece of paper he just now found in his hut with the message: _Refrane from mixed gender nude bathing for the sake of the ashram's raputation!_ Anything you can say to enlighten us time-bound folks about this message?

**SHOSHONI:** As you can see the note is faintly typed on a manual machine in obvious need of a new ribbon.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Yep, and of better spelling. Plus with my being a part of the protagonist's mind I can sense he mistakenly believes such a note is routinely given to all ashram guests.

**SHOSHONI:** True, moreover he does not realize that this missive had been composed in response to reports of his naked intimacy riverside with Prema yesterday—and that the note was placed in the hut during his absence while at morning meditation.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Who the heck snuck into his hut to put it there, Madam? Or would answering that contravene your prime directive of non-interference with the host mind?

**SHOSHONI:** Yes, we shall leave that answer for further conjecture and unveiling. For now let us hasten the tale forward by reporting that underneath the note, Steven finds the flyer announcing the opportunity for serious seekers and the gullible wealthy to meet with the magnificent Shri Shri Cy Bubha on December 30, tomorrow, at the Shakti Café in Laxman Jhula village. Amused by the invitation and after noticing the need to purchase more candles, he plans a shopping trip to include listening to the self-realized master.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Then let's shake a leg, pardner.

**SHOSHONI:** As you wish. Tomorrow afternoon's bus trip into town goes smoothly and upon arrival at the Shakti Café, Steven ends up sitting silently at a table adjacent to where the questionable guru is holding an animated discussion with three young British men. Shall we eavesdrop as well?

## DECEMBER 30 – afternoon

"You gotta be kidding, guys!" Shri Shri Cy Bubha huffs, leaning back in his chair with arms folded in disgust. "How can I talk with a trio of dummies who still think they're defined by their bodies and brains?"

The middle British man tries to explain, "I know that I'm really just consciousness but its _home_ is in my body. That's what I have been saying all along and you keep changing my words."

"Well even that's crapola," the guru responds in Western vernacular but with Hindi accent. "If you think that you live in a house, you're still attached to it. And this attachment to your human embodiment—a trap that every toddler falls into—begins your lifetime of suffering."

"Oh bloody hell, that's why so much of this Eastern religion stuff stinks," declares the man on the left. "You blokes try to convince us that earthly existence is all suffering and misery. I'm quite happy with my life," he asserts forcefully.

"Me too," interjects the middle man in support of his friend.

"Get real guys. _Happy_ just means that you're distracted from feeling your pain at the moment." Cy Bubha holds up a hand to silence their objections and quickly adds, "But for the sake of harmony and for potential mega-donations of your rupees to me, I'll concede that nothing is wrong with being happy. Happy is like a decent table wine so go ahead and indulge in a glass or two each day to relax and even improve circulation.

"But when a person or a whole culture makes the pursuit of happiness a primary goal it's like chugging cheap wine all day, fogging reality and losing clarity, creativity, and the ability to embrace all the experiences that make up the human condition. Life just becomes a frantic quest for more, more, more money, sex, comfort, service, possessions, gods, relationships, and other external stimuli which are never enough to find lasting happiness because the real source of bliss lies within ourselves." Cy Bubha abruptly shifts focus to your table and asks, "Comprende, amigo?"

Startled, you point to your lapel button and reply in serious tone, "I am in silence."

The guru takes a breath to respond to your familiar and paradoxical pronouncement of imposed silence but then simply stares at you for a moment before turning back to continue with the three Brits. "So, ultimately the ego's addiction to _happy_ robs you, your true consciousness, of finding the inner connection with something more real, more deep. It's a poor tradeoff that most of you Western winos don't even know you're choosing unless you are one of the brave, the few who are willing to die to your earthly ego."

The man on the left looks befuddled. "You mean we have to wait until death to return to a state of oneness and bliss?"

Boredom and discouragement are reflected in the guru's voice as he answers sarcastically, "Yeah, right. But if you can first give away what you have accumulated in life—say, for instance, giving your hundred-rupee notes to me—then the ability to release your grasping ego and to achieve bliss is greatly accelerated. Shall we try a demonstration, gentlemen?" Cy Bubha concludes while shifting a wicker donation basket from his lap to the table.

"It's always the same with you greedy _holy_ guys," grumbles the middle man as he tosses a ten-rupee note into the basket. He and his friends quickly depart.

Looking at the money and shaking his head Bubha reverts to Texas drawl, "About two-bits worth of rupees, not even enough to buy a cuppa joe at the Flying J, is it buddy boy?" He looks at you with a grin. "Let's truck on over to the German Bakery where you can treat me to a cinnamon roll and tea. Those guys were getting on my nerves."

You have enjoyed this man's theatrics with the Brits and see no harm in continuing to watch his performance, so long as you keep your amnesia to yourself. You also have to admit that the idea of connecting with a fellow human being feels comforting. But for now you remain silent, as does your companion while leaving the cafe and walking toward the footbridge where monkeys line the rails.

"Better hold that daypack against your chest, pal. Even a hairless ape like myself can catch a whiff of papaya in it," warns Cy Bubha.

"Thanks," you say slipping off your in-silence button. "So what's a nice Texas drawl doing with a guy like you anyway?" you ask, trying to show him that you are no dummy in word and wit.

"Born and bred in Austin and when I see a homeboy like yourself I enjoy reverting to my verbal roots. With that remnant of Midwestern twang of yours I figure us to be neighbors. You from somewhere over the rainbow or thereabouts?"

"Not a bad guess but the answer is simply that my home is Phool Chatti Ashram." You add with a smile, "I'm a present kind of guy who left my old personality back on the farm with Auntie Em and am currently swimming in _the now_ buoyed by the ocean of bliss."

"Looks more like a dog paddle in a muddy pond," Bubha laughs. "But don't let me rob you of your delusions, our best defense against the harsh winds of reality."

"Works for me," you agree while falling into single file on the narrow footbridge to make way for passing pilgrims, bringing a temporary end to the banter. You are happy to interact with another human being although you feel a sense of unease from the incongruity of this man: Texas accent coming from a Hindu swami; long, sinewy arms on a short, round body; wit and wisdom pouring from a face that looks to give nothing away. You cross the bridge, walk up concrete stairs to the German Bakery and take a seat at a table with perfect Ganga view.

"So what do people call you?" you ask. "Mr. Bubha? Shri?"

"No, Shri is just a title like, _The Honorable_ mister so and so. And there are some pompous gurus like myself who think we warrant at least two Shri's before our good names." He puts his feet up and continues, "But a homeboy like yourself can call me Bubha. Actually, it's Cyrus 'Bubha' Rajnish. My parents were New Delhi transplants, two Indian college kids in Austin when I was born. The name Cyrus comes from Professor Cyrus Wilkinson, my father's mentor at Texas. Bubha was the nickname designed to help me fit into the local culture, while _the chocolate niggah_ became my schoolyard moniker which demonstrates how poorly I succeeded."

Bubha seems to be warming to the talk and, underneath the flippancy, you suspect that he shares your need to communicate on a personal level. "Compared to the USA, do you feel at home and accepted in India?" you ask, hoping to learn more about this enigmatic man.

"Not really. As a child I spoke Hindi with my parents which helped me to assimilate when I came to India a few years back. But basically I'm still a strange duck in a stranger land. Usually, though, I let my spiritual flock assume I'm a local Rishikesh swami educated in the States. Somehow rupees flow more readily to an Indian mystic than to an American expatriate with Texas drawl."

A waiter arrives and is directed by your hungry tablemate to bring two cinnamon rolls and two teas. As the server retreats Bubha tells him to halt and asks you, "Aren't you going to have anything, homeboy?"

You put in a half order for yourself and turn back to the grinning guru with a question. "So, how did your path lead you to India?"

Your query provides an opening that Bubha quickly fills. "First I had to waste a few years at an ivy covered med school before figuring out that the idealistic doctor is subservient to his malpractice lawyer who's beholden to his insurance agent who is in bed with his pharmaceutical rep. My lobbying for a holistic approach to healing the human energy body did little to endear me to the academic powers-that-be who still treat patients as pieces of meat rather than as dynamic energy fields that my Asian ancestors have understood for millennia.

"Ultimately, my premature release from the med school was hastened when I informed the Dean that the only major change in modern medicine since George Washington's time was that the blood-sucking leeches began wearing suits. So I worked in auto sales until eventually getting back into the healing arts, dabbling in various alternative techniques. From there my true calling arose and I became a professional psychic in the early 1990's, moving to the West Coast."

The waiter interrupts with your food as Bubha and you take pause to nibble and sip without talking. You then ask, "Were you for real as a psychic reader?"

Your tablemate gives you an irritated look. "Of course I was for real since we are all basically psychic. _And_ I was a phony because that's part of our basic nature, too. Never ask a trickster a yes or no question because hiding behind all answers is a paradox. Don't you remember our little conversation along the Ganga shore the other day?"

"That's a yes or no question," you parry and innocently sip your tea. But your heart rate increases as you realize how thin a line you are walking to keep your amnesia secret.

Bubha licks his fingers clean then asks, "So what's your story, your sorry excuse for hiding out in Phool Chatti Ashram like some fugitive from reality?"

"Actually there's not much to tell," you reply truthfully and leave it at that.

"Just as I thought," Bubha responds while nodding knowingly. "Ah, but cross my psychic palm with a doughnut and Cyrus the Wise will fill in the blanks."

He waves to the waiter then orders a doughnut for each of his palms and one for you. In your head and with the help of the menu posted on the wall you calculate that your bill has just reached the century mark in rupees. Right around two dollars. Not bad, but with only 950 known rupees left to your name, the tab rekindles your insecurity about your uncertain future clouded by forgetfulness.

You wish you could overcome your fear of exposing your loss of memory and then confide in your new friend to get his help. After a moment's hesitation you lean forward and ask Bubha in a tentative whisper, "Can I trust you?"

Instead of giving tender solace your prospective confidante rears back while striking his fists on the table as all eyes turn to see what the commotion is about. All ears get to hear as Bubha grabs your shirt collar and shouts, "Damn it, man, either you're in an internal state of trust or you're not. Don't pretend to give your power of trust away to me or to any of those jerks watching us out there!" he concludes while sweeping an arm at the startled diners. But his demeanor shifts immediately to delight as the waiter enters the scene with doughnuts.

You are shaken. Is this a trickster technique or is this man mad—or both?

"Your notion of trusting someone, pal, is ultimately about mindfucking people with guilt and disappointment when they don't live up to your controlling expectations—and it all explodes," he continues with his mouth full. "Did you like my little demonstration?"

You refuse to answer, feeling manipulated and still a little shaky. A half doughnut later, however, you concede a quiet, "Go on."

Your companion gives you a thumbs up sign and states, "Now _true_ trust, the internal kind, comes from knowing that everything—the good, the bad, and the spaghetti Western—is bringing you exactly what you need to transcend earthly madness and return to heavenly bliss. So the real question, homeboy, is not whether you can trust me, but rather, are you in a state of _internal_ trust to accept that both Cyrus 'Bubha' Rajnish as well as your amnesia are serving perfectly on the journey through life?"

You sit there dumfounded. How could he have known about your loss of memory?

"Oh, don't look so surprised. When you're sharing the stage with a master magician don't try using cheap parlor tricks to fool him." Bubha takes a final sip of tea. "Anyway, what is it you wanted to ask me about your handicapped brain?"

This guy is starting to get scary but you feel he might be able to help with a quandary that is inhibiting your ability to overcome your forgetfulness. You briefly explain to Bubha the predicament of being somehow locked into a daily routine of morning exercises, meditation, and afternoon bathing that prevents you from having sufficient time to read all the dream journals, diary entries, The ReMinder, and other informative material at your hut in one sitting. You wish instead to spend an entire day scrutinizing and analyzing all the writings with hope of discovering the cause and perhaps even a cure for forgetfulness—or failing that, to at least write a summary of your investigation from which your future incarnations can benefit.

"And of course, every night I forget the stuff I do have time to read and I have to start over again the next day and the next and the next," you state in frustration.

Bubha thinks briefly and suggests, "Try sleeping outside your hut for a night and awaken away from the stimuli that trigger your addiction to this daily routine. It's unlikely to bring back your memory but it might keep you from doing a cheap imitation of Bill Murray on February second. And don't tell me you can't remember seeing _Groundhog Day_. That flick outshines Buddha's teachings as the greatest story ever told of reincarnation and the path to liberation."

"Not a bad idea," you think aloud pondering his suggestion to sleep outside in order to free up a full day for research. "And yes, I know of Bill Murray and his _Groundhog Day_ movie. But it's like I can't actually remember seeing the film, I just remember _about_ it. There's lots of info in the computer banks of my brain but no sense of experience or aliveness to it, sort of like looking at a postcard."

"Everything is flat except this magic moment, the naked now that you happen to be in," Bubha posits.

"That about sums it up."

Bubha slides his chair away from the table. "Not to change the subject but you're going to give Guruji a fit of worry if you don't catch a jeep back to Phool Chatti soon, particularly if he knew ya'll was hanging out with the likes of me."

Your watch indicates that dinnertime at the ashram is only a half hour away. "Doesn't Guruji like you?" you ask while standing to leave and dropping a 100-rupee note on the table.

Bubha follows and answers, "He doesn't seem to approve of my innovative approach to swamiology. And he certainly would be upset if he knew I was corrupting you with it."

"Why?" you ask proceeding down the stairs towards the bridge. "Why should Guruji care what _I_ do?"

Bubha stops in mid-step and pauses to look squarely at you. "Aw, fiddlesticks," he finally sighs. "Look, Guruji minds his own business and I mind mine. Let's just say he has a special interest in you and leave it at that, okay?"

You have no time to prod him further on this topic as the bakery cashier bounds down the steps indicating that you forgot to pay the bill—and, "No sir, there was no money left on your table."

"Those local waiters, you just can't trust 'em," Bubha smirks as you reluctantly hand another hundred rupees to the cashier.

_"Trust_ , an interesting topic about which I was recently tested," you reply caustically while giving your trickster companion an accusatory stare. "First, I trust that my disappearing 100-rupee note found its way to precisely the right person who needs it. Second, I trust that this incident gives me the opportunity to learn, grow, and get closer to my destiny of heavenly bliss. And third, I trust you'd give me back the stolen money if I asked."

"Good, buddy boy. Two out of three right answers ain't bad for a shill without memory," he laughs as you both stride across the bridge towards the jeep stand. Upon arrival Bubha haggles briefly in Hindi with a driver, then you and your travel mate hop into a rickety jeep that kicks into gear. Driving up the narrow road your progress is slowed by the daily return of pilgrims in numerous vehicles from Neelkanth Ashram. Nonetheless, you pull up to Phool Chatti in plenty of time for dinner.

"It's a hundred rupees for the ride here and another 150 up to my home at Neelkanth," Bubha states with his hand out to you palm up. You hesitate and he quickly adds with a shrug, "Hey, I'm just a poor sadhu."

As you count your remaining rupees in your money belt you respond, "Well, I'm just a fellow with barely seven hundred rupees to his name and no idea of how to get more."

"Don't worry about it, pal," Bubha cheerfully suggests. "As Pastor Jake used to say back in Austin: _Worry is a mild form of atheism. Control is a bit more severe a case._ Just surrender and trust."

Reluctantly, you surrender over the money and trust that he and the driver will have a good laugh as they drive off towards Neelkanth village.

What a guy. What a day. But it was an afternoon well spent, you feel, as you walk to the ashram dining hall thinking of Bubha's suggestion about how to break free—at least for a day—from your regular daily routine. Yes, it is a good idea to sleep one night away from the familiar hut, an idea that you will start planning after dinner.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Hot damn, the plan actually works, doesn't it?

**SHOSHONI:** Yes, Steven sleeps out the next night at a lovely riverside spot near the ashram and awakens _without_ feeling the compelling, unconscious need to go through exercises, meditation, and the rest of his daily cycle.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Ah, heck, but it doesn't cure the amnesia, at least as far as I can see to the next horizon.

**SHOSHONI:** No, my dear, I'm afraid that you and your host's mind will remain in forgetfulness for some time to come. But as you see in the short term, he does follow the instructional notes to spend the free day researching all the papers in the hut. And in the evening he is able to compose useful summaries of the dream notebooks, daily journal entries, and other written material to help his future incarnations quickly understand important background and insights gleaned from the day's investigation.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Hey, check it out over there. He's just found something we hadn't discovered before.

**SHONONI:** Correct again, my alert friend. As bedtime approaches, after opening a large envelope from Ravi's Place he uncovers (tucked beneath some photocopied chapters by an Indian writer with unpronounceable name) Section Two of The ReMinder composed two months earlier. Having already studied Section One in the afternoon, he eagerly climbs into bed to read this manuscript which picks up where his personal history soon enters the mind-bending decade of the 1990's.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 6

We teeter on the brink of watching new love blossom in the southern Colorado Rockies in November 1991. Bedside in Alamosa hospital nurse Ann administers care, patient Sandra reclines with lingering infection, and this infatuated visitor stands ready to fall head over heels into the great unknown. But more cross-cultural lessons demand a temporal leap backwards for a second stop at the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation, circa 1988. For splintered stick and fiery stone, karmic lessons from a prior visit with Sam Moves Camp to the mystical realm, quickly recede into the category of 'mere coincidence' in a logical mind that had grown comfortable with a more controllable and lucrative existence. Yes, self-employment had indeed created a clear, focused, and rich world for my self-satisfied Identity in the late 1980's.

But such clarity was entering a twilight stage where reality shatters to expose a dimension of existence beyond the controllable. Mysterious events are soon to be witnessed firsthand with shaman Sam that can no longer be conveniently called coincidence. So I turn this tale over to the master of the metaphysical, the prime time purveyor of the paranormal, the narrator of note from _The Twilight Zone_ itself, Mr. Rod Serling! Take it away, Rod.

**SERLING** : "The comfort of our journeyer is about to end, his grip of control slipping away like the sands of time. A lawyer drives to court his judgment day, an engineer prepares to hurtle off the known track. For our next stop is the _Twilight Zone_ , the twilight of logic's despotic reign where at the end of a long, lonesome highway in South Dakota our journeyer comes face to face with the paranormal. A disembodied _hee-hee-hee_ arises from an empty passenger seat, ghostly laughter that echoes—"

CUT! Damn it, cut. No, Mr. Serling, the passenger seat is _not_ empty. There is a short medicine man sitting there hee-heeing at his jokes. You just can't see him over the dashboard. But come to think of it (gulp), this diminutive guy's power to hurl mighty karmagrams at his overgrown teasers probably extends to India. So, er uh, I'll take over from here, Rod. Thanks.

The honorable Sam Moves Camp, (a medicine man extraordinaire whose stature I promise never to belittle again) and I were driving westward through open vistas towards Pine Ridge to visit an elderly medicine man in whom Moves Camp had much faith. Such trust he did not have in me, however, since Sam felt that something shadowy lurked beneath the surface that I would not admit or perhaps did not even know about myself. Consequently, the ceremony being prepared by the elder for our arrival was designed, among other purposes, to ferret out the truth that hid behind my seemingly transparent and well-meaning exterior—a ceremony called Yuwipi.

_Ouch_. Sorry folks, but another break in the narrative here, this one for real. Something just happened in my heart to stop me. (I meant to write 'in my hut' _,_ but in my _heart_ came out on the paper instead.) The inner Guiding Hand is indeed pushing me away from relating details of the Yuwipi ceremony and how it did a shake-and-bake on my rational mind. Perhaps sacred traditions and ancient mysteries are not to be poured forth and diluted by an author's desire for titillation, a few laughs, or to make a dramatic impression. Oh well.

Suffice it to say that at the Yuwipi ceremony deep prayers were invoked by five Lakota people and a few words of good intention were awkwardly mumbled by this non-Indian guest who tried unsuccessfully to enter the flow of prayer while objects and lights defied the laws of nature as I understood them at the time. (No, no hallucinogens involved.) At ceremony's end, the elder medicine man related in Lakota tongue the messages that spirit guides had brought him. The other participants listened intently and, at one point, laughed heartily at his debriefing.

Moves Camp later translated salient parts of the elder shaman's debriefing, saying that a powerful spirit guide was watching over me so that my work with Native peoples would go well. When I asked Sam about the cause of the laughter he replied, "The spirit said you were an okay person even though you pray like a white guy."

Thus I received my first personal message from the twilight world of the spirits. The second such inter-dimensional communication, significantly more uplifting than a critique of my sorry prayer technique, arrived via Lorraine during the mystical, magical week preceding beloved Ann's betrayal on March 15, 1992. Beware the Ides of March.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 7

The recent reminder of the power of word creates in me a twinge of guilt since there is nothing more despicable in literature than a snobbish author applying games of intellectual one-upmanship against the reader, n'est-ce pas? Tools of this loathsome trade include obtuse references to cultural nuances, perhaps a foreign quotation left untranslated or an in-joke of the intelligentsia lost on the more common reader, leaving you feeling small and toad-like in your cultural depravity. So forgive me for forgetting that you may be of dissimilar age or upbringing than moi—and for blindly assuming that you tuned to the same TV networks that warped my young mind and that sculpted my current intellectual profile with remnants of a Mouseketeer cap silhouette.

In remedy of this thoughtless oversight, the _Kemosabe_ mentioned in Section One of The ReMinder refers to the masked Lone Ranger; _Toto_ implies the proximity of Dorothy of _Wizard of Oz_ fame (seen annually at Halloween on Channel 13 from Topeka); and the previous _"Jeepers..."_ quote arises from a cub reporter directed to the defender of truth, justice, and the American way himself, Superman. In addition, to ensure that all readers feel intellectually empowered, we take a station break to share a few words about the lives of these cultural icons as they relate to spiritual topics at hand.

The Lone Ranger began a nondescript career as one of many rangers, then received a cosmic boost of good fortune along the path to enlightenment: Having his entire contingent of close friends and rangers wiped out in massacre. Definitely this was an effective aid in losing Identity and being born anew; but kids, don't try this at home. Seizing the golden opportunity, the Lone Ranger surrendered his name and donned a nifty mask in furtherance of Identity's dismemberment. An excellent step but unfortunately he fell victim to Survivor's Guilt Syndrome and felt compelled to constantly help the rural oppressed and needy, thereby rekindling ego to such a degree he ended up compulsively distributing silver bullets to claim full and lasting credit for his heroic deeds.

Likewise, Superman received a major boon along the path to enlightenment: Being orphaned at a young age and shuttled to an entirely different planet. Definitely an effective means for losing Identity and being born anew; but kids, don't try this one at home either. Capitalizing on his upward mobility, Superman donned colorful costume and covered it with mild-mannered disguise in furtherance of Identity's dismemberment. An excellent step but he fell prey to delusions of grandeur and felt compelled, after leaping tall buildings, to constantly help the urban oppressed and needy, thereby rekindling ego to such a degree he became a journalist to ensure that his heroic deeds received proper credit and column space.

Our Dorothy also received a cosmic stroke of luck along the path to enlightenment: Being sucked up by major cyclone and deposited into a new dimension of reality somewhere over the rainbow. Definitely this facilitated Identity's loss and being born anew. And kids, if you can pull this one off, go for it! Although squashing an Eastern bystander in the process, Dorothy suffered no lasting remorse. Au contraire, she proceeded with Midwestern practicality to loot the dead body of its valuable slippers. Upon discovering her ability to freely roam the space-time continuum with a mere click of the heels, Dorothy stood on the brink of full liberation. Unfortunately, her pedestrian persona misinterpreted the cosmic message regarding the infinite variety and unique opportunities now available to her in the universe _—_ i.e., _There's no place like home_ —thereby sending our heroine tumbling back to familiar farm and dusty plain, sans slippers and enlightenment.

So none of these cultural icons provided much of a role model for awakening the spirits of us youthful boomers who eagerly watched the tube. Although Rod Serling, after frying his brain as creator, writer, and host of _The Twilight Zone_ , reportedly achieved liberation and is now the Ascended Master Kuthumi available for telepathic channeling. Other rumors, however, indicate he changed his name to Michael Landon in order to reestablish his roots to the earth. For there is nothing so grounding as being called _Pa_ in prairie setting, unless it is responding to _John Boy_ in another little house—but we mustn't mix metaphors or networks. Shows a lack of culture.

WHEW, THIS CATHARSIS business can be hard work, particularly when tackling the knee-deep garbage in the TV closet, including pails of advertising propaganda. Unfortunately, a full housecleaning of my childhood's electronic brainwashing would likely cause even the most loyal of readers to jump ship. So instead, let us leap to a pair of more pressing topics which stands in the immediate path of cathartic tale: _Money_ and _career_. Yes, money and career, those evil twins of the go-go Eighties that flexed their claws to snatch the unwary from the brink of new realities and spiritual opportunity.

So in 1988 while driving southward from the Yuwipi ceremony with my new Costner-esque power name, Prays-Like-a-White-Guy had a problem. My recent thrusts of self-employment had evolved into the presidency of a small but thriving consulting firm in Santa Fe, a situation sorely needing remedy in order to free up time for the wild and wondrous events of the 1990's.

How bad an ego trap were money and career at the time? My Identity eagerly jumps in with a quote: _"Steering a delicate course aimed at finding common, fair solutions among competing water users, Shupe is one of the prominent forces for peaceful evolution in Western water policies."_ ( _Los Angeles Times_ , September 10, 1989) Ah, national prominence and newsprint, chuckles Ego, with quotes in _Newsweek_ , _The Wall Street Journal_ , and _Business Week_ to boot. Albeit short ones, it adds, feigning humility.

And now, with a sigh, the time arrives to take my first vacation in years. With a trio of trusty employees holding down the Santa Fe fort in 1989, I cast my gaze to equatorial horizons where virgin beauty arises upon volcanic isles, ready to follow in Darwin's legacy of upturned tortoises, filched finches, and incapacitated iguanas that aptly demonstrate Man's fitness (or at least fervor) to survive. But no, the Reagan era has recently given way to the papa Bush blip thus the travel brochure offers a kinder, gentler approach to the Galapagos Islands this autumn: Sailing softly by night between magical islands and sea kayaking by day to view nature's wonders.

The actual long and the short of it, beginning with the short: Beautiful place, lots of swell creatures. The long: _Long_ nights listening to a noisy diesel engine (silly me, thinking that sailing involved sails) and _long_ days spent hiking as part of a tour group while our single inflatable kayak remained tied to the deck (oh, that's _see_ kayak, not sea kayak). Hardly the holiday to nourish body, soul, and prominent forces—but reason enough to derail a flourishing career?

Nope, that occurred upon reentry into the New Mexico office, lagging jets and all, to discover that my business manager had just taken off on a spontaneous, romantic interlude to Paris with a client; that the new research assistant suffered from environmental allergies (which was fine so long as work involved no contact with equipment or supplies invented after 1850); and our publishing specialist was awaiting a phone call from the local adoption agency that would lead to thirty seconds of notice before she quit to become a full-time parent.

I was left, therefore, with a nose that still yearned to smell the roses but that promised to be pressed squarely to the grindstone for indefinite spin. After doing some soul searching—and failing to find it—I announced what Christmas gifts would greet our remaining troupe at year's end. Santa would give me a shiny new one-year sabbatical retreat while the others would receive personalized pink slips. And no, Virginia, not the kind you wear on romantic Paris rendezvous.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 8

A powerful dream lingers in my mind from last night, an awesome experience providing a glimpse into the Library of all-knowing. I arrive at a colossal turquoise and tan edifice dominated by lofty columns carved in intricate Oriental motif, a structure of grandeur and beauty exceeding any ever before seen in my awake or dreamtime worlds. Entering the Library's vast interior I peer around a huge wooden door into a hall full of monks of both genders who move steadily with focus and purpose.

I feel small, uncertain, ignorant. Must I take off my shoes to enter? Where is everyone going; what should I do? I quickly retreat outside where an inscription on the Library wall declares that all the tomes of the realm lie within this building and, _As far as we know, this is the largest library in the world._ I feel impressed by the message's honesty then awaken in my little hut.

I relive this dream now, writing its summary and thinking I am no longer asleep. But maybe I am still a slumbering spirit who will someday awaken into the next colorful dimension of awareness that makes my rooftop reality of garden splendor and Ganga roar seem like a gray dream. But I am not yet that free or even able to enter the grand Library of my current dreams, still lost without my dark-haired, clear-eyed dream escort. A female guide remains frozen, a door stays closed, while a Mind awaits full restoration.

So I return now to pen and paper as the refuge of the ignorant, retracing my steps through late 1989 of laying my corporation to rest. Final promises to old clients are fulfilled as I anticipate a 1990 sabbatical year in which to ruminate and rejuvenate, to keep abreast of the water resources field, maybe do some writing. Then at year's end I expect to reemerge into the profession as a lean, mean consulting machine unburdened of corporate trappings and with life force revitalized.

I should clarify that my current rooftop self is entering the second decade of my one-year sabbatical, which sounds ever-so-much more respectable than _ten years of unemployment_. The break began in early 1990 with various reading, writing, and rambling from rocky Maine shore to Southwestern canyons. My aging van carried me from one scenic wonder to another, eventually bringing me back to Crestone as autumn colors brightened the familiar Colorado landscape. And then my van died in the shadow of Crestone Peak, a full two miles distant from the nearest house.

Surrendering to circumstance I slept that night under stars so bright they would make John Denver croon. A genuine Rocky Mountain high filled my subsequent dawn along with an urge to buy the small piece of the vast valley that embraced me that October morn. Fortuitously, the van now started without glitch and carried me to a local real estate agent in Crestone town who, after a couple days of phone calls and paperwork, sold me the land upon which I had slept and which I anticipated might someday harbor a little getaway cabin for future retreat.

As I then drove off to complete my sabbatical journey and return to the professional fold, the van had the final word. The engine gave out in mid-stroke not five miles from town. This time its death met with no magical resurrection, no pistons springing back to life. I simply caught a ride back to Crestone once more surrendering to the nudges of destiny.

So instead of donning a consultant's hat at year's end I endeavored to build a log cabin on the newly purchased home site, an act that threw a life-changing curve into long-range expectations hurled in large part by Crestone neighbor Lorraine, by meeting beloved nurse Ann, and through the surprise appearance of non-corporeal company in new dimensions of reality.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 9

Ah, the fickle finger of fate wags its warning of how quickly things change. Assumptions blasted, plans smithereened, the comfort of control lost to the quirks of fate and a broken down engine. In recalling this teaching from a prior decade, tremors of insecurity ripple today through my rooftop perch in India in this auspicious year 2000. What surprises, I wonder, lurk in the dense growth surrounding my hut? What creatures of change are creeping up the garden path to taunt me as I desperately hold to the belief that I can finish writing The ReMinder—this farewell to an antiquated Identity—and move ever forward into discoveries of pure Mind and joy?

If only I had four fortress walls to protect me from the onslaught of the unknown, a log bastion to hold my expectations in safety and comfort. But, heck, I know the falseness of this security since even log cabins disappear in one's life, becoming only memories along with the bygone Crestone days spent constructing one.

Lovely memories, actually, of a Colorado autumn of 1990 that gave way to winter mornings of excruciating cold and beauty, of warming fires, of a steady day-to-day rhythm of laying logs into form amid mountain horizons and endless sky. Chop wood, carry water—the Zen of losing self in mundane tasks. Carry wood, chop water, as the frigid temperatures turned water to ice in a short minute, demonstrating the dominion that nature holds over its small creatures attempting to control their environment.

I must confess that tears of memory seep this moment from India rooftop. The freedom and splendor of my early Crestone days were major blessings that tug now on my heartstrings, a pull that likewise reveals pangs of home lost to aloneness, of love turned to emptiness, of lawyer turned nomad in this crazy world of duality where we swing randomly from one pole to the other. Nothing constant, nothing secure, just owning the present moment in whatever beauty or beast we find ourselves while clinging to fading memories and dreams.

_Now_ I am clear what creature creeps up the garden path this morning to threaten me: Nostalgia, another tendril of Identity's desperate grasp to remain alive in an ever-changing world. An emotion that sweeps me back to the smell of fresh timber, to sipping tea in new Crestone cabin, to gazing out spacious windows where pathless ways lead to endless open space filled with meandering streams, bugling elk, rolling dunes, wary coyotes, hawks above, hutches in the earth below. Myself at one with nature like never before because there is nothing else and no one else. Alone in silence except for primal call and hoot and howl. At times a voice thunders the advent of driving rain or, in gentle morning mood, it whispers the arrival of glistening dew. My ears learn to listen, my eyes yearn to see, to know, to understand.

Over the months of 1991 books fill the longing for knowledge where nature hikes end, leading me into theories and mysteries that transcend the simple logic of inquiring minds: True tales of gigantic black holes that suck up all that is near, including the laws of physics; light beams that exist as both waves and particles shifting in response to the observer's expectations; time that runs at different speeds, perhaps even backwards in some dimensions of the universe; dimensions that number not the three of our simple spatial understanding but up to at least eleven according to the latest scientific theories. I eagerly read all that I can find about our mysterious world of energy where matter, time, and space are merely our perceptions, creations of the human mind to make sense of a unified energy field filling an infinite void—a holographic universe, perhaps, where reflections of the entire world are stored in each infinitesimal point.

The focal point of my world became more grounded towards year's end, however, upon meeting nurse Ann. Friend Sandra was fully healed but I was constrained by another nettlesome medical condition that I dearly wished would pass—that being Ann's romantic involvement with hospital surgeon. Fortunately, this ongoing medical union was in a tenuous state from which life-support might soon be removed, but it still sparked with enough vigor to frustrate this lawyer's attempt to court said nurse. A birthday dinner date with Ann on December ninth only increased my enthusiasm for more diverse and copious contact. Yet I was instructed by the nurse to be patient, to let her sort her feelings out through that Christmas of 1991 then see what opportunities lay ahead for the new year. So I tucked tail and headed for warmer climes—specifically, to the southern New Mexico desert—where my reality again launched from its familiar pad and shuttled off into a mind-bending new realm. Roger that, Houston.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 10

Sitting on rooftop amidst garden splendor I find it difficult to believe that the song of birds, the colorful plants, the rich scents—the plethora of riverside energy signals that trigger my senses—are but a tiny fraction of the actual stimuli in which I repose. Yet the scientists say this is true, that our human receptors pick up only a minuscule portion of the energy waves flying around us. If we had the eyes to see and ears to hear we would be besieged with a symphony of amazing sensations, new wavelengths, images, and tones that vibrate, glow, and hum beyond what _most_ of us can experience or even imagine.

Then there is Roger, a veritable satellite-dish of a man who daily processes input far beyond the normal human spectrum. Roger, a being who cannot journey to the grocery store because of the jumble of auras, waves, lights, sounds, visions, and vibrations that create a dizzying swirl in his receptors, an overload to his system. Yet he is a man who can sit contentedly alone in the desert for hours feeling attuned to the subtle universe made accessible by his unique capacities.

'Unique' is misleading since a number of other individuals possess these gifts of heightened perception many of whom are revered as shaman, spirit talker, medicine guide, and dream walker in their native cultures. And in Western society they are typically called patients, inmates, loonies, and Bongo Bananas who hallucinate and cannot cope with the 'real' world. So Roger wisely lived a reclusive existence in southwestern New Mexico when I met him in mid-December 1991.

Walking into his home for the first time was like entering the lair of a modern-day wizard. Pungent odors arose from boiling pots of homeopathic remedies, strange electronic instruments hummed forth healing energy to distant clients, intricate geometric patterns graced the walls, and a sixty-year old man with small, intense eyes looked sharply into mine. No smile came to Roger's face, no meaningless phrases greeted me, just an open door and a gesture to enter.

Roger never wasted words although he sometimes used them in profusion. The afternoon we met turned into an evening that ended in the wee hours as he spoke and spoke guided by a mind that stretched into dimensions beyond my ken. I listened with fascination to his intricate view of the universe; was intrigued on frequent occasion when he got accurate psychic flashes of my past or of my thoughts at the moment; and I felt interested and entertained as he paused to determine what energy had just entered the room. The intrusion was sometimes a broadcast of disturbingly low frequency from a military base, or maybe just a friendly buddha spirit dropping by, or a spacecraft that was hovering in the fifth dimension to check us out. Never were moments dull with Roger as his mind translated energy perceptions into a consistent, if innovative, reality.

As I sprinkled occasional grains of salt onto the food-for-thought he provided, Roger described how we inhabit a planet hurtling to its destiny inexorably pulled towards a quantum leap into higher vibrations. Having suffered many thousands of years of involution (the opposite of evolution in which both Earth and its inhabitants have grown denser and more distressed) human beings have lost our natural state of abundant, freely-flowing thought and energy—last experienced in Atlantis and by its Egyptian descendants. Our ancestors grew more imprisoned in a material world as density increased with the copper age then the heavier bronze period followed by the ponderous iron age that has led to our current epoch fast reaching the lowest point possible of bulk and disharmony.

Roger reports optimistically that interplanetary help has arrived plus many evolved souls are incarnating at this time to help midwife planet Earth through its rejuvenating leap into a new evolutionary cycle. Roger is, of course, a leading player in this drama who has traveled lifetimes through the galaxy to gather needed energies and teammates for the task. His next door neighbor is one of these gathered Starseeds, a friend I had considered to be only a hydrologist with whom I had often worked prior to sabbatical and who gave me a base from which to enjoy the desert away from both Crestone's harsh December and nurse Ann's cold shoulder.

This hydrologist friend had been the one who introduced me to Roger as well as to another southern New Mexico resident, Betsy, a spiritual teacher and counselor whose focus is a bit more terrestrial than Roger's but whose multidimensional perceptual skills are also well honed. In late 1991 she was looking for legal assistance in founding an innovative seminary, based on the esoteric model of ancient mystery schools, for contemporary folks wishing to minister to the spiritual flocks of their choosing.

I provided a bit of legalese to Betsy but could not stay to help. It was time to flee this land of enchantment and retreat to a normal existence where pragmatic nurse Ann had just dumped her physician-lover on the trust that she and I would find true love and happiness in a stable, three-dimensional world. Before my departure Betsy invited me to join her first seminary workshop scheduled for the upcoming summer, while Roger left me with the comment that in my Crestone cabin photographs he detected a strong negative energy field east of the garage created by multiple slayings there.

I gave little importance to these farewell remarks at the time, my mind being focused instead on a more tangible, down-to-earth future with a new sweetheart as 1992 approached. I arrived back in Colorado to a ready-made family that holiday season, embraced by a vibrant woman a decade my junior, a nurturing, practical nurse who laughed easily and loved well. I gladly settled for smelling the bacon instead of the cosmic roses, and pondering Christmas toy assemblage for Ann's young children rather than contemplating my role as a Starseed in Earth's evolutionary leap. Lured by a promise of normalcy I returned happily to the basic values one gleans from simple Kansas childhoods and television shows, to a reality far less intriguing than Roger's but one that set well with a Steven who had just turned forty.

Wanting to make a real commitment to a relationship for the first time in my life I did my best to adapt to Ann's propensities and preferences in those early days of courtship. Upon my late December arrival at her Alamosa mobile home I quickly learned that one of her primary aversions involved anything to do with off-beat religions and mysticism. My presenting Ann with the gift of a special stone found in the New Mexico desert elicited a face that looked as if she had bitten a lemon as she queried, _What is this, a stupid Crestone energy rock or something?_

Her reaction the next month to my more conventional gift of a shiny new ring was far more enthusiastic. Admittedly, the band fell short of a being an official engagement ring both in monetary and symbolic value but I presented it in anticipation that it would someday lead to a ceremonial trip down the aisle. And yes, the ring did eventually undergo a rite of passage—that of hurtling airborne across the empty trailer lot adjacent to Ann's abode in a great heave-ho ceremony to come.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 11

As the Ides of March 1992 fast approaches in Colorado-based history I take a short detour into the present India autumn of 2000 to ponder a dream last night where my dark-haired, female Guide emerges in fully thawed form to chauffeur me over a 14,000-foot pass. I somehow ditch her, however, then drive alone through flatlands past a schoolyard on the outskirts of a Hopi village. I try stopping at the school but am going too fast and the brakes won't catch. Next, entering the town and pulling off onto Trailer Park Road I come to a dead end at a fast food joint where I quickly stuff my face. End of dream.

Granted, I am cheered that my inner female Guide emerged to ferry me over lofty heights. But my Identity seems to still grasp for control, missing an opportunity for additional schooling then careening off to fulfill desires for cheap sustenance and normalcy in trailer parks once known. Oh well. Two steps forward, one back, several in a circle and coming back to who the hell knows where.

Perhaps it is significant that last night's dream guide took the visual form of an actual tall, dark-haired woman named Alberta, a frequent travel companion the past year in India who has provided valuable guidance to a recovering-nice-boy in various settings that have included doing theater together in the city of Poona, exploring intensely in bed, and giving each other permission to fight on our feet. Great therapy, usually fun, and often devastating to my old self-image of love, light, and tenderness.

Alberta is scheduled to arrive at Phool Chatti any day now which will likely disrupt my writing rhythm and distract me from penning the story at hand in which nurse Ann, not Alberta, is the woman of my dreams. So quickly, we turn the clock back to March 1992 as one domino falls after another to push me to the brink of altered realities from which only Ann and her deeply ingrained skepticism can save me.

One important domino that early March was a paperback given me by Crestone neighbor Lorraine that reads like science fiction but is touted as true by its author, a professor from New Mexico who jeopardized her academic career with its publication. Her, _We the Arcturians,_ is filled with messages telepathically received by the professor from her new star-friends to assist we lesser beings on Earth to move into a higher plane of existence in which the Arcturians already reside. Although Lorraine is cautious about New Age philosophies, the book was of interest to her and many in our little community since the professor had telepathically received detailed instructions for erecting a gigantic, pink pyramid at the soon-to-be epicenter of the new and improved version of Earth—at the base of Crestone Peak.

A second less dramatic domino involved a bit of spring cleaning, not of my cabin so much as of remnants of my Identity in a wooden footlocker filled with photo albums, love letters, childhood scrapbooks, basketball awards, and other memorabilia that my ego had used to define its mainstream self-image. And I had an itch to burn it all. The itch, however, fell just shy of being scratched, one of many internal conflicts where preservation of the known world weighed against my urge to clean out the mess to make way for new models of reality.

The balance, however, was to be tipped the next day over dinner with Lorraine—and decidedly so—in favor of shifting realities.

\--- End of Section Two of The ReMinder \---

You toss the manuscript bedside on the hut floor and probe the recesses of your mind in attempt to jog loose stray memories that can penetrate the barrier of amnesia. What could have happened in Crestone with Lorraine that created a reality shift in your life? And is it somehow related to your current dilemma of forgetfulness?

You close your eyes tightly, continuing without success to detect clues hiding within your foggy memory bank. Oh well, at least you can take satisfaction from completing your mission on this appointed day of intense research and writing. With fatigue setting in you quickly grab pen and paper to write a final message for tomorrow's awakening self, hopeful that your hard work today—of reading all materials in the hut and composing their summaries—will aid your future, forgetful incarnations.

## JANUARY 5 – a few days later

Incoming clouds and the threat of rain prompt you to cut short your afternoon bath and gather your gear. You walk back along the Ganga pondering the similarity in form of swirling eddies in water, whirling hurricanes in air, spiraling DNA in your earthly vessel, and spinning galaxies of fiery stars. But upon approaching the hut these elemental thoughts are rudely interrupted by a voice from above.

"Repent and confess thy sins!"

You look up to see the smiling face and orange garments of a Hindu holy man bending over the edge of the hut's roof. "Ya'll come up now to do thy penance," he adds gesturing with a long arm extending from his short, round frame.

"You must be Shri Shri Cy Bubha," you state as you warily ascend the stone steps.

"The one and only, a legend in my own mind." He greets you at the top step with a hearty slap on the back. "I'm glad my reputation precedes me through your misty moors of memory."

"Actually, the infamous Cy Bubha was red-flagged on this morning's short-sheet of warnings and information to prepare me for the day. Something about keeping one hand on my wallet."

"Ah, exaggerated slander expressed, no doubt, by a part of your schizoid personality far less secure than yourself. You look finely bathed, well relaxed, clear of mind, and able to handle even the cleverest machinations of an orange-clad charlatan. And from the looks of things you may soon encounter many of them at the Kumba Mehla."

"What's a Kumba Mehla?" you ask, not having yet completed your perusal of the stack of written materials left in your hut.

"The Kumba Mehla, my forgetful friend, is a spiritual revival of biblical proportion but of Hindu origin down by the riverside. The river being the Ganga, the side encompassing the city of Allahabad, and you, buddy boy, got a bee in your bonnet to attend it. Your motive has something to do with that note on your windowsill from a chickadee telling you to meet her at the Allahabad Riverview Inn for dinner in two weeks. Or so your diary implied," he adds while pointing to your spiral notebooks and other writings stacked on the rooftop nightstand.

"What the heck are you doing reading my personal papers?" you respond with a scowl. "And who gave you permission to go into my hut to get them?"

"Now-now, _you_ are the one who requested my help last week with your mental handicap and I figured a true friend should gather more information. Actually, it's quite an interesting process you've documented, although you've got some pretty deep doo-doo buried in that psyche of yours," he posits while holding up your recently composed summary of dream work, "including one truly pissed off kamikaze pilot roaming your dreamscape."

"Give me that." You grab the sheets from his hand and retrieve your other papers from the table that include Sections One and Two of The ReMinder. "Damn, you've gone through all my stuff."

"Yes, I _am_ thorough and my bill will reflect it."

You do not know if he is joking as you glare at the intruder who brings the topic back to the Kumba Mehla festival. "Now, if you had a proper tour guide perhaps the Kumba Mehla would be just the thing to fire up your memory banks and brew a few recollections to the surface. I would offer to assist your journey with my capable guiding hand but it currently comes up empty regarding travel funds."

You catch Bubha's hint that's as wide as the Ganga. "Even if I wished to retain your escort service to the Kumba Mehla, I'm down to my last few hundred rupees—assuming they are still safely in my hut and not in your pocket."

"I assure you, sir, I am not a common thief," declares Bubha with feigned indignity. "As a humble purveyor of paradox I suffer an honest hand to mouth existence—with the occasional big score from a grateful or inebriated patron. Moreover, from you today I am looking not for donation but for investment, some hard currency to kick off a flashy new tee-shirt line sporting the Kumba Mehla logo above the message: _My Parents Got Enlightened and All I Got was This Lousy T-Shirt_. A cinch to double your money overnight."

You just roll your eyes and query, "Can't holy men and renunciants like yourself get free transport and food for the Kumba Mehla? This is India after all."

"Indeed, rupee-less sadhus are able to travel a third class rail car to Allahabad without proper ticket but I wouldn't wish that experience on my worst enemy or his dog. No, a man of my pure pedigree requires proper grooming and care to comfortably alight in the green pastures of the Kumba Mehla to sheer the Western sheep grazing in the spiritual lea. Seeing as you are neither solvent nor sympathetic to my cause, I shall take my business elsewhere."

He abruptly walks down the stairs and out the garden. You watch him disappear as you hurry from the roof with an armload of papers to see if your valuables are still intact in the hut. Taped on a shelf ledge is a previously drafted inventory sheet listing your few items of value plus it indicates a running tally of the remaining money, currently down to 480 rupees—about ten dollars. After quickly scanning the hut you are relieved to find that the money and items deemed valuable are present and accounted for: a high-quality trekker's flashlight, a cassette player, backpack, sleeping bag, and umbrella. You nonetheless worry about future intrusions since the hut's simple door lacks lock and key for security while you are absent.

In reaction to these concerns you write a quick message to augment the instructions left by your previous incarnations, telling of Cy Bubha's intrusion into the hut and suggesting toting the rupees and valuables on future outings. You then settle in to read the stack of materials, eventually coming to the dream journal summary that a previous incarnation recently composed after sleeping outside the hut:

## Dream Journal Synopsis – January 1, 2001

Here I am writing to you about some guy and his dreams, and each of us is me, or you, or him, or whatever. Kind of weird but here goes. Shupe (that appears to be our name) began with the intention to use dreams as a means to connect the different parts of what he calls the total Mind. The process started well on the very first night of dream work (three and a half months ago in mid-September) when we had that dream where a beautiful child in Tibetan garb tossed to our character the one red bead, with four other beads still in the kid's hand. (I'll assume that you, like me, remember all the dreams in vivid detail.)

Shupe initially interpreted this four-and-one theme as representing four abstract pieces of our consciousness (the waker, sleeper, subconscious, and overseer) that make up the total mind. But after more dreams he soon came to think of the 'four' as distinct characters in our psyche, like archetypes who recur in the dreams and who ultimately appeared as two sets of twins representing opposing polarities—primarily male and female, moral and amoral, light and shadowy twins. The big theory was that the great One mind or some such grand spiritual epiphany will emerge when these four inner duality twins reconcile their differences and merge into harmony in our psyche.

But then we had that dream in early December where an old kamikaze pilot dumped the recording equipment out the window and machine-gun blasted the British officer taking movies of him. Immediately, the number and richness of the dreams each night took a nosedive. In addition to this Kamikaze, other aspects of the psyche seem reluctant to join the grand union of our One mind, particular those parts that I call the Beast and the Specter.

For me the Beast dreams are like black and white horror flicks where the camera is hand-held at eye level of the psycho homing in on its victim. Pretty unsettling, and I'm grateful that we never see the Beast but only through its eyes. Correction, maybe there was a quick glimpse of its furry arms reaching out imploringly just before awakening that one time.

'Specter' dreams, on the other hand, are those in which our dream character enters a room and people don't really see him—but they get very uncomfortable with his invisible presence, turning silent and scared as if waiting for some unseen evil to leave. Shupe wrote in November that the specter dreams remind him of a childhood fear—being afraid of walking in front of a mirror and not seeing any reflection of himself there...

*******

Distracted by the sound of raindrops from the incoming storm, you put the papers down. For several minutes you sit motionless while thinking and remembering old dreams. A shiver of cold runs up your spine as the rain intensifies dimming the hut to a dull gray. You look around through eyes whose color you do not remember, seeing no decorations not even a mirror on the five tomblike walls. Reaching up with both hands to touch a face you cannot picture, your fingers catch in thick hair on cheeks that feel stretched and gaunt. Are you beast or beauty this evening, a specter or solid being?

You look at your hands for reassurance, pressing them tightly to sense the flesh, the human life that flows through them. But to whom do these appendages belong and what have they done in the past weeks and months? Writing and dreaming, dreaming and writing. Is that all there is left of you, only dreams and words on paper, desperate scrawls that are the final imprints of a dying man now vanished? No body, no memories, just a deluded specter floating from one aimless day to the next, a waning swirl of desire and hope and fear that ultimately dissipates into nothingness?

The dinner bell rings faintly through the patter of rain to bring you out of your morbid contemplation. You are comforted to feel pangs of hunger in your belly, to hear it rumble in response to the promise of food. Yes, you still feel a part of the living, the breathing, the cold. You put on a jacket and grab a turquoise umbrella as you head out the door for bodily sustenance. Upon entering the dining hall you make a special effort to meet Guruji's friendly eyes—and you are reassured that he acknowledges your corporeal presence.

Thoughts of beasts and specters have faded as you return with full stomach to the hut. You light two candles then place the open umbrella inside the door hoping it will dry by morning. The afternoon brought enough introspection and analysis, you reckon, so you grab the Rushdie paperback and settle into an enjoyable evening of reading its first few chapters. A stream of prose, the rhythm of rain, the cadence of the rising Ganga carry you into the night and another lengthy sleep.

## JANUARY 6 – the following day at noon

The usual morning routine is complete as you walk from the meditation hall towards the dining room through a light mist. You wish that you had an umbrella instead of just a jacket this damp day. But only a puddle remained in your hut by the door upon awakening this morning—no umbrella and no recollection remained in your forgetful mind that you had placed it there after dinner last evening. It vanished from your hut in the night to become another undetected mystery in your life, another clue shrouded by forgetfulness.

You enter the dining hall and look for the single plate-setting by the far wall mentioned in this morning's instructions. Along with the expected metal plate, cup, and spoon is a bright turquoise object at your spot. As you walk closer you identify it as a folded umbrella. The elderly swami sitting by the kitchen motions with both hands towards you then at the umbrella. You reply with a quick bow and a look of appreciation, surprised to receive such a nice gift. He smiles back as the cooks enter with lunch.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Time for a big whoa-now. This umbrella gig is highly suspicious and methinks there is more to the overall trail of amnesia than meets the eye. In fact, now would be a prudent time to circle the wagons and take stock of what is really going on. But I have no sturdy Conestoga to peer from behind nor any control over my forgetful host. And that Shoshoni gal made it perfectly clear that she's no help as she follows the prime directive not to interfere with the journey.

Dare I ask the subconscious mind for some perspective at this point? Perhaps a couple of specific questions would keep him focused on the relevant path. For instance, who do you think crept into the hut at night to snatch the umbrella? And why did Guruji pretend to give it back as a gift?

[The wine is not ready, the hand is not steady. Drunk as a skunk with no recall to cushion the fall. Umbrellas walking into the night cause a fright if you bind the mind underneath. So keep it dark, let the shadows dance against office walls, not in empty mirrors or halls. Candles and keyboards flicker away into the forgotten abyss, without a kiss goodbye or a means to fly away from the plunge. So submerge like a yellow submarine, a cowardly machine that runs from the terminator of time. Glub.]

**TRAIL BOSS:** Well, if there be clues in this missive they are beyond a trail boss's ability to detect. I have to admit, too, that I'm getting a mite discouraged about the lack of progress this wagon train is making in our attempt to camp beyond the cloud of amnesia. Looking ahead I still see my host stuck at Phool Chatti in the same daily routine. No new insights, no money or passport to support a great escape and, of course, no memory.

**SHOSHONI:** No need to despair, dear one. Are not the nights darkest just before the dawn?

**TRAIL BOSS:** Maybe in a poet's mind, madam, but not for a wrangler caught at midnight on the open prairie with no clue as to which way to gallop home.

**SHOSHONI:** Well, I defer to your experience in those matters although rest assured that our wayward cowpoke will soon receive direction to put him on a fresh trail to new adventure and insight. In fact, if you gaze to distant horizons perhaps you can glimpse a little surprise that greets Steven as he returns from dinner a few days hence. Care to do the honor of initiating this leap forward to that spot in the trail?

**TRAIL BOSS:** With pleasure. Giddy-up there.

## JANUARY 11 – evening

The flashlight beam shines a post-dinner path through the garden as you approach the hut and enter its darkness. You retrieve the Rushdie novel and open the candle box in anticipation of reading yourself to sleep. Atop the candles, however, is a small, plastic zip-lock bag containing a folded slip of paper that grabs your attention. You quickly light two candles, free the slip from its plastic protection, and scrutinize its writing. Initially it appears to be an indecipherable jumble of Hindi characters, a few English translations ('Haridwar Train Station' stands out) and markings in pen that clearly include your signature. Then in a burst of excitement you finally recognize the slip for what it is—a claim check for three bags left on December 16 at the Haridwar depot, the next major train station down from Rishikesh.

Hope surges as you immediately begin the planning process to retrieve these bags, although puzzlement arises as well. Why haven't you previously gone to Haridwar to get these important pieces of your past that might even hold the key to getting out of your rut of forgetfulness at Phool Chatti? Your amnesia veils the answer which is simply that none of your forgetful prior incarnations had seen the baggage claim check—it was slipped into the candle box while you were out bathing this afternoon.

You spend the evening gleaning information from old diary entries, previous notes, and other writings in order to compose precise instructions to your awakening self on how to retrieve the luggage tomorrow. The safest bet, you conclude while writing the note to your tomorrow's self, is to maintain the usual daily routine but to cut the Ganga bath short and then head to Ravi's Place in Laxman Jhula to ask for directions to the Haridwar Train Station. Rupees are limited but you figure there are enough for tomorrow's transport with a bit of cash to spare. You end the message to your tomorrow's self with best wishes for a fruitful journey and soon fall into restful sleep.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Oh-oh, seems as if those best wishes don't help with his trip tomorrow. Is that a pesky fly—or some sheep dip—in the ointment that I see looming ahead?

**SHOSHONI:** Quite so, I'm afraid. Before getting into the stickiness, however, let us bring our literary friends up to speed so they have the eyes to see as well. Initially all goes fine toward our protagonist's goal of retrieving the three bags from Haridwar storage the next day. Steven arrives in Laxman Jhula in mid-afternoon as planned where Ravi directs him to catch the 4:40 p.m. train from Rishikesh to Hardiwar—about an hour's trip. Upon arrival at the Haridwar depot, he can pick up his three items from the station's baggage storeroom and promptly return on the final evening express to Rishikesh. It will be dark upon his anticipated return but the local jeep service can safely drive him from the Rishikesh station directly back to Phool Chatti Ashram, the young man assures.

Our eager traveler thanks Ravi and rides an auto-rickshaw to the Rishikesh station in plenty of time to catch the 4:40 Haridwar train. Onboard he takes a window seat that gives him a pleasant view of the passing scenery which eventually includes a large colorful, if stubborn, herd of goats and sheep blocking the tracks. The effect of the ensuing half-hour delay becomes painfully obvious upon his arrival at the Haridwar station.

## JANUARY 12 – evening

"But you _have to_ let me into the baggage room!" you plead to the station manager. "It was your stupid train that made me late in the first place. Oh, come on, it's only 6:15." You are beginning to sound like a whiny teenager grounded for missing curfew.

"The baggage room closes at six o'clock every evening and that means six o'clock, mister. We don't make exceptions even for someone who thinks he needs his luggage or the world will end. And that's final." The Haridwar station manager turns his back and walks away.

Damn. Little does he know that your world of memory _does_ end tonight. And the options don't look good. Jump back on the train to Rishikesh and leave this task for another day? No, not after spending nearly all the remaining money on this afternoon's trip to Haridwar. Okay, so instead wait around in this strange city until morning and reclaim your three bags when the checkroom reopens?

You are distracted from considering this option as chaos unfolds on the next platform where a train pulls up for boarding. Hundreds of orange-clad men who had been sitting peaceably on the platform now vie to enter the small doorways of the old cars, crowding their way onto wooden benches that soon fill to overflowing. More sadhus continue to pour into these third class train cars and pack even the aisles; some men standing, some sitting on newspaper on the filthy floor. Further forward porters help wealthy travelers enter a first class sleeper coach while other Indians and some Western backpackers make their way into cars marked _Second Class Sleeper_. A bilingual announcement tells you this is the Allahabad Special, the express train to the Kumba Mehla festival.

The announcement reminds you of the material you read at the hut this morning describing the Kumba Mehla and mentioning a dinner date there scheduled with some woman on January eighteenth, a mere six days away. All right, there is no time to fiddle-fart around with a future trip to retrieve the three bags from storage. You hitch up your pants and head into the streets of Haridwar to spend your final rupee bills on a cheap room that will be your refuge until retrieving the luggage in the morning.

CHEAP IS INDEED the keyword as you look from your hard bed at four unadorned walls and a ceiling fan. The only furnishing in this Haridwar hotel room is a small black-and-white television on plywood stand. You again close your eyes but sleep still won't come. Too many nights you have spent with the Ganga's lullaby instead of city noises, in fresh air wafting through paneless windows rather than in a stuffy room. Plus you are nervous thinking about tomorrow morning, about getting lost, about running out of money, about awakening in a strange Indian city without memory or identity—armed only with the note that you wrote this evening to guide your forgetful self to three bags in storage at the Haridwar train station followed by a trip back to Phool Chatti Ashram.

You pull the blanket up around your chin wondering what tiny creatures inhabit the thriving ecosystem of your mattress. Whatever they are you seem to be at the bottom of the food chain. You scratch and slap and reposition your body, unsuccessful in your attempt to launch into the bug-less world of dreamland. Giving up on slumber you flip on the television where batsmen swing at a little ball then run to and fro. Even after two hours of watching you have little clue as to cricket's rules, scoring, or purpose for existing. Despite the boredom, however, your agitated mind and itching flesh are no closer to sleep than when you went to bed three hours ago.

And then a surprise occurs. The alarm on your wristwatch goes off with a sharp series of beeps that you try without success to stop by pushing the watch's two knobs, one of which seems permanently stuck. After a couple dozen beeps the alarm stops on its own accord leaving you to wonder what you may have inadvertently done earlier to activate it for precisely one o'clock in the morning. But your thoughts suddenly turn hazy, your eyelids become too heavy to keep open as you descend into deep, deep slumber to merge into oneness with the night and the mattress ecosystem.

## JANUARY 13 – the next morning

Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full. Thank you very much. The baggage claim office was open when you arrived early at the Haridwar train depot and you got your three items out of storage without a glitch. One is a large briefcase positioned squarely on your lap. Another is a suit bag around which your left arm is strategically draped. The third is a canvas suitcase wedged safely under your legs on the floor of the swaying train carriage. These defensive positions result from your general feeling of insecurity this strange morning as well as caution towards your fellow passengers heading from Haridwar for Rishikesh. Prudence overrode curiosity and you decided to delay opening the bags until you have some privacy.

Actually, you are more interested to know your personal identity than the bags' contents, and to figure out what the hell is going on this strange morning of amnesia. So you reread the long message to which you awoke in a cheap hotel room, trying now to get a better sense of yourself and situation. The information is scanty, the directions are clear, your money spent, and your memory gone. But not completely, you discover, for as you glance down at the four-digit briefcase lock the numerals 1-2-5-1 drift in from some distant memory bank.

No harm in trying the numbers now, is there? You do and with a satisfying click the briefcase latch snaps open. Your seatmates are quite interested in your actions and not at all shy about showing it. You decide to take a peek anyway and as you open the briefcase lid you are greeted with the sight of a USA passport and two crisp stacks of hundred-rupee notes wrapped in Bank of India seals indicating that you are the happy owner of 20,000 rupees. You breathe a sigh of relief upon discovering this four hundred-dollar boon and smile for the first time today.

Your focus then shifts to a cover page atop a pile of papers in the briefcase which announces, "The ReMinder, SECTION THREE; November 2000; McLeodganj." For the remainder of your hour-long train ride, you read these pages of a forgotten past.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 12

I did not consider a simple dinner invitation from Lorraine to be of much significance that fateful week preceding the Ides of March, 1992. But it was the shift into high gear that sent me careening down the fast lane past my old life, off some obscure exit ramp, and into a maze of brilliant avenues and disturbing alleyways. No maps guided this ride, no fixed routes or destinations provided security for the upcoming years. Only blind faith is my beacon as I currently putter along in India with less acceleration and fewer squealing turns, but still plod steadily forward to new perspectives on life, spirit, and the pursuit of clarity.

Even my view of scenery is quite different this morning than in past weeks. Rooftop beauty atop austere hut has given way to a large, carpeted room with cursor blinking at me from bright computer screen. The primitive paradise of Phool Chatti Ashram has been exchanged for the modern convenience of town life thereby making this wordy task far easier to pursue. Electricity is available at all hours, restaurants abound with varied menus, and I can now write The ReMinder with _both_ hands upon efficient keyboard rather than scrawling with one in pendulous prose. No excuses remain for delay in leading Identity to its final reward.

_Reward_ is a strange term for death, but then in order to get Identity to take that final leap into the abyss, some manipulative words of comfort are highly recommended. In fact, this recent move from Phool Chatti to the pleasant town of McLeodganj is little more than a bribe to coax my ego to cooperate in composing its benediction and burial. And if coaxing fails then at least Identity can be distracted from its ultimate fate by a comfortable setting plus a plethora of pasta, sushi, and other international cuisine—something like a prolonged Last Supper but without twelve devoted followers and the promise of resurrection.

As you experts in geopolitics have guessed, Tibetan suppers rank high on the list in availability and delight. McLeodganj is the home-in-exile of the Dalai Lama and thousands of Tibetan refugees who have carved their new lives into this former British hill station between rocky peaks and fertile valley. No roar of the Ganga is here to lull me into slumber and lead into dreamtime wonders, but plenty of Tibetan grace and India's natural beauty provide both inspiration and distraction when desired.

Speaking of distraction, yes Alberta arrived the other week at Phool Chatti to wreak havoc on my writing progress and contemplative state. But I complain not, for after working in the rarified Ganga atmosphere alone for weeks her pull into the world of flesh provided useful grounding and entertaining diversions. She too has made the journey to McLeodganj but resides up the hill to leave me to write with newfound computer and a hearty recommitment to the cause.

That cause, as you likely recall, is to finish The ReMinder with the anticipated result of fully clearing myself of old habits of an obsolete Identity. This purification, along with successfully re-Minding myself through dreamtime awareness, is designed to affect a great leap forward into bliss and clarity. Or at least that's the optimistic theory of cause and effect that keeps me motivated. Reluctantly, I concede to having little if any control as to where this whole nonsense leads, a fact I am acutely reminded of as our story enters the life-altering dinner with Lorraine in Crestone that March evening of 1992.

It was not the menu or cooking that bent my perspective and sent me off to the races. It was Lorraine's confession that she—my grounded, sane, and reliable neighbor—had recently received a message through telepathic communication. Rather than being beamed from friendly Arcturians, Lorraine's missive came from an unidentified source that suggested she obtain a computer in order to efficiently record further telepathic contact. Then as we ate the last of dinner a new telepathic message started to arrive through the receptor of her mind. Lorraine grabbed pen and paper and began scribbling quickly across the page. I retired to the couch where after a minute or so Lorraine's hand rested upon my shoulder as she read aloud the words she had received telepathically, directed to me from source unknown.

"My son, welcome. Imagine tumbling down through galaxies with radiant lights surrounding you, enfolding you ever so gently and lifting you buoyantly then to rest in the arms of your Mother. Oh child of the One, how could you ever fear in your heart or feel dispossessed from the source of your nourishment? You are at home here as in the heavens, for when you recognize yourself, you know the universe is your home, your family, your love, and your destiny.

"Gently, ever so gently, dear son. There is no need to rush into yourself, for you are your way and your goal. Be at peace. You are complete, harmonious, and whole." End of message.

Intrigued, touched, and open to an adventure into the great unknown, I immediately went to retrieve my laptop. Over the next days Lorraine and I spent many hours together in communion with a source of information, wisdom, humor, and support that neither of us could explain—but the tremendous feeling of love that accompanied her connection to the telepathic source made Lorraine trusting of the unknown. Plus, the lack of judgment, doctrine, and commands from the guiding source helped us to keep open minds to this unorthodox mode of teaching.

The general format involved Lorraine receiving a telepathic message that she spoke as I typed it into the computer. We would then pose questions, the source would answer through Lorraine, I would type, and we would be left with fascinating food for thought. Topics of the guidance related primarily to our personal journeys as souls on a planet that is entering a blessed and challenging time.

Regrettably, the verbatim transcripts of the messages lie half a world away in Colorado storage thereby limiting my current ability to wow, titillate, and amuse readers with the amazing details of a world in transition and two souls caught up in the adventure. I do, however, retain a few directs quotes in my memory as well as a handful of selected excerpts carried with me to India.

The first otherworldly quote that comes to mind is: _There are no right decisions, only right actions,_ a prompting that reminds me to get this narrative moving so that nurse Ann can enter the picture at the end of this mind-bending week with Lorraine, presumably to slap me back to my senses. We quickly shift therefore to another quote from the guidance that I can clearly recall: _In moving about this fragile web, you may envision yourself as Son of Spider Woman._

No, this is not a comic book character but a reference to an earlier description about how Earth is held in balance by an etheric web metaphorically spun by Spider Woman, as told in Native creation stories. The source went on to explain the vital role that water plays in keeping this supportive web flexible particularly as our planet enters a new phase of critical strains and shifts. Degradation of water by human carelessness and greed is leading to dangerous stress that weakens the web and threatens to create global instabilities. Thus, the role of Son of Spider Woman was described as helping to mend frayed trouble spots in the web through my water-related work with American Indian tribes as well as through extra-dimensional levels of energy work.

A final quotation recalled at this time: _When feeling nauseous, remove yourself from the company._ This sounds like useful advice for all social occasions but it actually accompanied a suggestion from the telepathic source for me to venture into the wilderness for three specified days in late March in order to directly receive important intuitive messages. These three days were said to be auspicious for inter-dimensional communication (in other words, even a dense control freak like myself could receive telepathic messages then without Lorraine's help) so long as I was located away from people, power lines, and other energy interference. I, in fact, journeyed into such a setting two weeks later where the nuances of the nausea warning and the subtle meaning of _company_ became abundantly clear as I was down on all fours violently losing my lunch.

But more immediate company arises in tale as the Ides of March arrives, a day ending this strange week where first, _We the Arcturians_ surfaced as recommended reading, then a footlocker of ego was tossed just short of fiery demise, and third, exciting but inexplicable messages had landed from the ethers to Lorraine. Next on the agenda is Ann's scheduled arrival at my cabin on March 15, 1992 to rescue me from shifting realities, an earthly angel of mercy and unswerving foe of metaphysics to pull me back from the brink of a magical, mystical world from which I might never return.

Pragmatic nurse Ann arrived at the cabin on schedule and after a pleasant dinner together I dared to describe what had happened with Lorraine and our personalized telepathic messages from on high. A part of me wanted Ann to believe and embrace the miraculous missives, while another part was eager for her skepticism to bring me down to earth to a state of normalcy. And _all_ of me was anxious about her response that might involve a quick return to her home electing to never see this crazy man again. The safest route, I felt, was to read the telepathic messages aloud so she could evaluate for herself the tone and content of the material received with Lorraine the previous days.

My fear that Ann would immediately cut me off proves unfounded. She listens, and listens intently as I continue reading through several pages of the telepathic transcripts. Ann seems interested but also begins to appear disturbed and distracted so I stop to ask her the problem. She shakes her head while grabbing her left ear that, she states, is distressingly hot.

I join her on the couch and a few moments later tears seep from between her closed eyelids. She begins to speak in steady voice: _Ann, daughter of the light, welcome. You are loved by many and shall be a wonderful part of all that is to come to Earth. Our love and happiness emanate through you...._

Ann continues verbalizing the brief telepathic message of welcome to herself as I transcribe the words, knowing that her life and mine will never be the same. Just as with Lorraine the higher source of guidance had found a new, if reluctant, spokeswoman for inter-dimensional communion.

And thus in the land of shifting realities the Ides of March betrayal by Ann came to fruition. My desire for normalcy with a pragmatic sweetheart— _BETRAYED._ My hopes for a simple, controllable life of family and home with Ann— _BETRAYED_. The future for Son of Spider Woman with a Daughter of the Light—unknown.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 13

Okay, I admit that Ann's actions weren't that dastardly or even disturbing. In fact, her 'betrayal' of failing to keep us grounded to a known, controllable world flung me into a thrilling period of life where mysterious quests unfolded aided by dear friends—some earthly, some invisible—along a trail of wise communion and high adventure. Admittedly, I was not certain as to what was real and what of this telepathic communication stuff might be hogwash-from-on-high. But I knew that Lorraine and Ann were each sincere and, so long as I kept my sense of humor, the worst that could happen in pursuing this mystical quest was a good laugh at myself if it were later exposed as mere delusion.

Rather than pause for a retrospective on delusions, perceptions, and good intentions we forge forward with events that became my reality that spring of '92. I explored with joyful abandon new paths that led me, among other routes, into the arid New Mexico wilderness for the period of three auspicious days that had been recommended by the higher guidance for my direct reception of important intuitive messages. Once there I made certain to locate myself far from both power lines and nauseating company.

As was often the case in the coming years of cosmic exploration, what I expected to occur diverged significantly from the events that actually transpired. My expectation in desert solitude was reflected in the blank paper and pen at-the-ready for transcribing telepathic messages I anticipated receiving at any moment. Although a message did quickly emerge it was delivered to my mind not in word form but in vision, primarily through vivid imagery teamed with emotions and memories of events occurring circa 1870 that left me incapacitated and stunned.

The vision arrives swiftly and unexpectedly while I am relaxing alone in an isolated natural hot spring. It begins with waves of nausea followed by images entering my head of such intensity and vividness that I feel as if I am living the scenes. I find myself in the boots of a U.S. cavalry officer riding horseback into a setting of utter carnage where his Company of soldiers a few days earlier had, without his knowledge or approval, slaughtered a peaceful encampment of Indians. Horrific smells and sights from this 19th century massacre overload my senses and send me reeling from the hot spring onto the grass where I violently vomit while reliving the emotions of the officer, experiencing his anguish at what had been done by his troops.

The scene in mind's eye then shifts to where I am in full-dress military uniform walking towards a circle of tribal elders. I know without thinking what needs doing—to remove myself from the Company. I proceed to give my horse to the Native elder on my left, my cavalry boots to the warrior across the circle, and my sword of command to the chief while experiencing a sense of deep healing and release. My nausea passes and the mental images ultimately cease as I slip back into the hot spring for warmth.

A few days later at my Crestone cabin I share a cup of tea with Lorraine along with the story of my experience of the officer removing himself from the cavalry company. We then take a walk outside and, while passing east of my garage, Lorraine abruptly grows pale and can barely drag her feet to keep moving. Tears stream down her distraught face as I help her stagger back into the cabin where she continues receiving vivid imagery while reliving the sickening emotions of a terrified ten-year-old American Indian girl during the butchering of her people by cavalry troops.

After the horror subsides Lorraine retrieves her sacred pipe that she has used in many sweat lodges, Sundances, and other Native ceremonies over the years. Together we extend prayers and offerings at the place where she had started receiving visions of the massacre—this site east of the garage being the precise location that Roger, after seeing my Crestone cabin photographs the previous December, had mentioned was holding a negative energy due to multiple slayings there. Following our brief pipe ceremony and as we sip tea inside the cabin, a telepathic message arrives. I type as Lorraine speaks the incoming words of gratitude along with an explanation of what had just transpired:

"...Then there was the dramatic and emotional remembrance of times past, of tragedies long held in vibrational patterns. Bringing these to consciousness and releasing them carries deep healing for all parties concerned, both physical and nonphysical.

"The pain of souls who are held in bondage by the emotions of fear and anger, so destructively cut off [in the cavalry massacre] is released by the recalling of that moment in a vibration of love and forgiveness. Well done. Let this be a reminder of how simple healing is when one brings love into the moment. Emotion and will overcome all obstacles when directed by love. This lesson will serve you well and can be applied on many levels and in many situations."

QUESTION by Steven: "Is more help needed in clearing the pain here on the land?"

ANSWER: "The pain of the land is caught up not just in the suffering of tortured souls but also in the suffering of the spirits of the land itself. To this end you are already addressing yourselves... Earth in its multiplicity yearns for personal contact with the ones whom she succors. The Mother in her constant sacrifice asks only for the light of love in the eyes of her children as they sing and dance upon her body.

"Children, forget not your Mother who birthed you, sustains you, and carries you forth to your destiny. In your spirit, you are star children. In your bodies, you are children of the Earth. This is your blessing and your confusion. Soon the polarities fade and you will know you are One."

### The ReMinder: Chapter 14

The preceding chapter should be sufficient column space to chronicle superhuman efforts to save the planet, a true story of a mild-mannered reporter who for a brief period got to costume his grand quests in past life memories and a big red 'S' on his chest as Son of Spider Woman. A movie version, however, is unlikely to further tout his deeds since _Dances with Wolves_ seems to have cornered the market on a great white hope leaving cavalry company to leap tall teepees in a single bound.

Let us use, therefore, a slideshow format to move the tale forward with additional scenes from 1992 that arise randomly in the projector of my memory. Lights out, and...

Click. There is Ann awakening me in the middle of an April night and urging me to transcribe a crucial telepathic communication. She and I are requested by the guidance to distribute to the public a message about dramatic global changes that will occur 'with a twinkling of an eye.'

Click. There I am coming out of the spiritual closet and distributing the essay, _In a Twinkling of an Eye_ , to family members, colleagues, and friends who now learn about my new reality, my openness to channeled communication, and my multi-dimensional approach to problem solving. It meets with mixed reviews.

Click. And there's Roger's neighbor, Betsy, at the beginning of her new seminary with six of us in attendance listening to teachings channeled in from an invisible but wise extra-dimensional faculty.

Click. There I am at my Crestone cabin sifting through the ashes of footlocker memorabilia burned shortly after the Ides of March reality shift, picking up the only identifiable charred remnant: A shard of bronze plaque reading vertically, _Mo... Ci... Cla..._ , a final testament to basketball glories at the 1971 Motor City Classic.

Click. With Ann again, explaining my notion that experimenting with abstinence from sex could be an important component of the spiritual path.

Click. There is Ann scurrying under cover of darkness to her ex-lover to escape unpopular notions of celibacy.

Click. Dear me, there's Ann's ring sailing across an empty lot in a spontaneous heave-ho ceremony. Thunk.

And lights up. Damn, how did those last couple of slides get into the projector when there are dozens of more upbeat and interesting experiences to choose from during those mystical months of 1992? I suppose the answer involves a need for further catharsis, to bid Ann a final fond farewell along with acknowledging her good judgment in ultimately dumping me for a more reliable partner to help raise her children in an earth-based reality. Also, I should add a dose of appreciation for her infidelity having provided me a painful lesson that the spiritual path was not about disciplining myself, let alone others, into the _right_ kind of thinking and action (e.g., celibacy), but rather in getting more truthful with what really goes on inside oneself and sexuality. Ann and I thus continued our relationship for a short but intense spell with the goals of honesty, respect, and bringing light to the hidden darkness of self.

We began—

**SHOSHONI:** The remainder of this lengthy chapter describes our protagonist's subsequent efforts in 1992 to get more honest primarily by penetrating both his repressed psyche and nurse Ann's anatomy in order to jar loose hidden pieces of his shadow. A commendable exercise, but to respect an honorable nurse who has not consented to full frontal public exposure, we shall forego description of these intimate affairs.

**TRAIL BOSS:** I'm pleased to see you have a refined sense of propriety, my good lady. No reason to flaunt one's dirty laundry or sexual secrets, is there now?

**SHOSHONI:** Actually a compelling reason for such uncensored exposure shall arise near story's end, a time at which, good sir, you will see that sexual propriety is of little import in my liberated universe. For the synopsis at hand, however, suffice it to say that during his probes and pokes described in the omitted text Steven discovers three heretofore hidden pieces of his psyche, a trio of inner rogues whom he identifies as: 1) the Ogre, a heartless creature with insatiable appetites, 2) the Coward who craves self-acceptance, and 3) the mindless Madman who lurks as a nemesis somewhere in his dark underworld. After discovering this rogue's gallery, Steven closes The Reminder chapter with the following observation:

...Perhaps the horizon will turn an emerald hue as tomorrow dawns complete with yellow bricks and a city of green at the rainbow. For I came to realize some months back that the archetypes of my three greatest fears—of being an Ogre, Coward, and Madman—were not unique to my psyche and perhaps not as dreadful as I picture them. The trio had appeared annually at Halloween televised from Topeka: A tin man with no heart, a lion without courage, and a brainless scarecrow picked up along the way by a friendly female guide to round out a merry foursome. Four plus a wizardly one who awaits their arrival in the Emerald City.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 15

Chronology. Chronos. Crown. The study of the crown looking down through the window of my head to see what makes the story tick. Seconds clicking away, thirds and fourths caught in the sway following in proper sequence. Chrono-logic-ally. Logic, an old ally, prompts me to bring temporal order unto chaos in this story of Identity's dismemberment during the jumbled events of a decade past.

Ironically, the very notion of orderly chronology sent the mind chugging haphazardly through a train of thought in the preceding paragraph. More ardor from chaos as my fingers find the computer keyboard such a fun companion to probe that they get carried away to nowhere fast. Perhaps the thumbs are a better role model than eight flying fingers, these meaty digits pounding the space bar with great regularity and clear purpose, prying open space to give meaning to the madness.

Otherwise, ahellofamesscanresultifthefingerswerelefttotheirowndevices. A hello fame _what_? No, a hell of a mess can result when space, time, and matter are eliminated from one's know universe.

But before spacing out further, I spot a directional beacon on memory's horizon casting a psychic glow to guide our next step in tale unfolding. Prior to entering a ten-day meditation retreat in 1993, I step into an attractive New Age shop and am approached by its even lovelier New Age owner. This personable stranger kindly informs me that two old spirit friends of mine in a higher dimension are asking her to make a communication bridge between themselves and me. Always ready to span the great unknown I follow this psychic channel into her private office where she proceeds to give her voice and body over to the disembodied spirits that wish to chat. This dramatic form of direct channeling is new to me and a bit disconcerting since my more grounded media of Lorraine, Ann, and Betsy had always held the reins and had spoken the telepathic messages without fanfare.

But drama and lively intonations are the order of the day in the voices that emerge from this psychic woman. First, I listen to an elderly gentleman who fondly reminisces about our years together in ancient Egypt when we built grand structures, shaping and levitating stones with our collective power of thought. The second disembodied visitor is a woman warrior who is re-experiencing the moment she had died in my arms on a battlefield during our last incarnation together. It seems that she and I had fought on behalf of the Goddess in many lifetimes and her spirit wanted to touch base again for old time's sake.

In retrospect I wish that I had been a more open and interactive participant during this channeling session. For I now believe that regardless of the reality or fiction behind offbeat incidents, they come into one's life with a purpose from which discerning minds can glean information and insight. Illuminating experiences based on past lives seem to be available from old energy remnants of thoughts, emotions, and actions that linger from those who have lived and died before us. Thus we sometimes catch and internalize these past-life threads as our experience of the moment—such as the anguish of a cavalry officer whose troops massacred the innocent, the joy of building lofty pyramids, and the pain of a love lost in battle—to enhance our inner journey and perhaps help in some collective healing process as well. Or so goes the current theory of this inquiring mind about past-life memories and voices from the beyond.

The inner voice that is calling for my immediate attention is not from the beyond, however, but rumbling somewhere in my gut. With Alberta up the road—a McLeodganj street lined with international cuisine, at that—I gladly follow the signal provided by appetite, delaying until the morrow further trips down memory lane.

### The ReMinder: Chapter 16

The morrow has come and gone along with another couple of days in which I have had time to gather and reap, as in gathering thoughts and reaping the benefits of McLeodganj delights. Prodigious good food, brisk hikes through nature, and Alberta's lively companionship have been well sampled and appreciated, as have times sitting at a Tibetan temple listening to the rumbling incantations of maroon-robed monks that inhabit this town.

I even got to shake the hand of the Dalai Lama yesterday morning as part of a line of eager Westerners that filed by in quick succession while being carefully eyed by security guards. His Holiness had me pause for a moment as I passed, sharing a laugh at our difference in height and saying a few Tibetan words to his guards which can be translated either as, _"He is the Chosen One of God,"_ or _"What an overgrown jerk."_ My Tibetan is a little rusty after a dozen or so lifetimes with no practice, so it was hard to be sure.

Actually, the former translation involving God is probably incorrect since a monolithic Lord has little place in Tibetan Buddhism which teaches that all sorts of beings and deities abound to assist in our earthly journey towards enlightenment. The trip is an arduous path unfolding over many lifetimes until the moment of full liberation arrives when the enlightened individual, called a Buddha, has the choice to meld back into oneness with all or instead, choose to become a Bodhisattva with pledge. Those souls who wax courageous with this latter choice vow to hang around in one form or another until all sentient beings in the universe are liberated. Heck, maybe the Lone Ranger started handing out silver bullets and Superman took up journalism just to relieve the boredom while waiting for a several billion egos to give up the ghost.

Attempting to synopsize an ancient religion is probably imprudent by one whose prayer technique has been critiqued as reflecting the cultural limitations of a white guy. But I _can_ jump or at least could back in the day when it seemed meaningful to retrieve an orange ball bouncing off netted hoop or to leap into the fray to save a friend in need. Both basketball rebounds and invasive rescues have diminished in recent years while nighttime dreams have taken up the slack in the drama department, having become more vivid and extensive in scope the past couple of months.

Last night, however, may prove to be a turning point in my dreamtime world. Full lucidity arrived. A goal achieved. A breakthrough dream arose in which my waking consciousness fully enters into the nocturnal vision—that being a beautifully woven Tibetan tapestry at which I admiringly stare while knowing that I dream. Spirals of gold, whorls of rich color, bright threads create lovely patterns as my lucid mind freely choose where to look and how long to stare at this magic carpet of dreamtime.

I awaken briefly to record this breakthrough experience on tape, thrilled to have finally achieved the goal of sustained lucidity. Slumber quickly comes again and a new dream flows. A goggled old Japanese man in a kamikaze uniform is throwing recording equipment out his window while a neighbor in British military garb (the obscure actor, Darren McGavin) films the event. The Kamikaze then blasts away with a machine gun at the British soldier who ducks for cover as his camera is destroyed. The Brit then pops back up shouting through a megaphone with encouragement to the Kamikaze to cheer up, old chap. But on second glance I notice that the Brit's megaphone is actually a rifle pointing into his mouth.

Why does the Kamikaze fear being seen and recorded? What in my psyche would rather die than be exposed? I suppose it's related to the many conflicts between inner aspects of myself which have been popping up increasingly in recent dreams. My dark-haired female guide keeps fighting against my control in dreamtime, although a second female archetype, fair-haired and kind, has emerged in a more harmonious partnership. On the male side of the inner twins equation a disturbing dreamtime nemesis has emerged, like an evil brother with whom I have an ongoing rivalry, perhaps a deadly one. We have yet to make actual contact in dreams but came disturbingly close in the latest encounter.

That dreamtime episode took place after military captors toss me into a lunatic asylum filled with men who clearly belong there. I feel quite at home with these madmen until I spy my nemesis staring at me with eyes that could kill. Overcome by fear I immediately huddle with the other inmates, right hands joining as we shout, _Team,_ as if a game were about to begin. I awaken with a start.

And what is about to start, what sporting competition between opposing players in my psyche is ready for kickoff? For now, I do not know. But it feels certain that the time must soon arrive when I enter the shadowy underworld to meet my twin nemesis head on.

\--- End of Section Three of The ReMinder \---

**SHOSHONI:** Yes, Steven eventually does find the courage to enter the underworld where we shall meet his nemesis towards story's end. For now, however, let us focus back to the current setting on the train from Haridwar to Rishikesh, January 2001. Shortly after finishing reading Section Three of The ReMinder our protagonist arrives at the Rishikesh station where no yellow bricks or dreamtime twins await to guide his path home to Phool Chatti—only a handwritten note from yesterday's incarnation. But with four hundred dollars worth of rupees safely in his briefcase and with two other cumbersome bags, he takes the easy route of hiring a taxi that carries him all the way to the ashram gate. Upon arrival Guruji greets him warmly and with relief after his American guest's unexpected overnight absence. Steven, however, remains tense as he tries to negotiate the unfamiliar ashram grounds through his fog of forgetfulness...

## JANUARY 13 – late morning

You give the elderly swami a respectful bow then attempt to appear casual as you desperately look for the path to a garden hut described in the morning's directions. _Just past the meditation hall,_ the note said, so you stroll that way with your luggage, grateful to find a well-worn path through the garden. Guruji continued watching you with interest but you do not believe that your behavior gave away your amnesia. And what a beautiful setting, you think, even if the garden hut is a bit plain. But now for the best part, to open up the bags of unknown goodies to make up for all the Christmases forgotten.

As a child you would attack the least eye-catching package first while saving the best for last. This unconscious habit persists as you zip open the simple suit bag. You are surprised to find a simple suit along with two ties, tailored black pants, and three dress shirts. Small wonder you left these checked at Haridwar to avoid the unnecessary burden of semi-formal wear at the ashram.

Next on the gift list is the canvas suitcase that also holds its share of surprises. First, there are simply more shoes and clothing for the pragmatic foreign tourist. Beneath these, however, is a suede leather wrap-around that looks like something Tarzan would wear. Puzzlement grows as you uncover a pair of pants patterned with colorful crescent moons and stars, appropriate perhaps to a sorcerer's apprentice. Right behind comes Cinderella's stash of a silver box of jewelry filled with clip-on earrings, necklaces, and a couple of gaudy bracelets.

But the most baffling items are at the bottom and are not quite jewelry. Perhaps _accessories_ is the appropriate word as you stare at a black leather choker with matching fetish gloves and wristbands covered with menacing silver studs. All that is missing are whips and chains. No, make that chains only as you pull out a black bullwhip below which lie four lengths of rope padded for the comfort of a bound sex slave. You quickly stuff these findings back into the suitcase unconsciously glancing over your shoulder to ensure that no one is peering through the hut windows.

Briefcase surprises are fewer and less exotic. You feel another wave of relief at seeing your passport and its validity for six more years. Visa entry stamps indicate that you arrived in New Delhi sixteen months ago via Thailand. The stack of 20,000 rupees is safe and comforting although 600 rupees (about twelve dollars) lighter now thanks to the taxi ride from Rishikesh. Beneath The ReMinder Section Three manuscript you find clean underwear, toiletries, and papers that include a theater script with your handwritten notes in the margin. This last find makes you think that maybe the studded accessories, effeminate jewelry, and strange clothing relate to staged theatrics rather than to your personal fetishes in a sordid, forgotten past—or so you hope.

Finally, spying a colorful souvenir tile at the bottom of the briefcase gives you a pleasant feeling, almost like seeing an old friend. You pick it to look closely at the tile's depiction of a multicolored gift box below which lies the cheery message, _There's no gift like the present!_ You absently turn it over and see "Sedona, Arizona" imprinted on the plain clay backing along with a message scratched into its surface: _Take me to the Kumba Mehla festival._

At that moment a wave of memory washes through your mind. The surge is brief and only involves thoughts of one topic, the Kumba Mehla. You instantly recall what you have learned about this festival in past weeks—and with unambiguous certainty you know that it is imperative that you attend, that you must become another pilgrim among the millions of seekers at the Kumba Mehla, a man searching for his memory.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Hallelujah, something finally lit a fire in our ailing brain! I can feel the adrenaline rush as my host immediately responds to the stimulus triggered by the souvenir tile. First he reads the material in the hut to figure out how best to leave for the Kumba Mehla pronto. Next, he catches the local three o'clock bus that takes him back to Ravi's Place in Laxman Jhula where he reserves a first class berth on the 6:30 p.m. Allahabad Special for January 15, two days from now. He takes care of other details in town then hightails it back to Phool Chatti to write up a bunch of instructions including telling tomorrow's self to sleep outside in order to free up the following day to begin the actual journey to the Kumba Mehla. Good thinking, Hoss.

Anything you wish to add, Miss Shoshoni?

**SHOSHONI:** No thank you, dear. You seem to have the wagon train moving quite smoothly and efficiently. Just don't move so hastily that we lose some of the passengers relying on our words to keep up along the trail.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Fair enough. Needless to say, folks, I'm eager to arrive at the Kumba Mehla festival and see who or what might prod our fellow back into memory. So with a crack of the whip and a big yee-haw we get the show on the road, skipping over some regular routine and trip preparations to find our character in the garden hut on the eve of departure. He is busily writing a letter to greet his forgetful, and soon to be traveling, self who will awaken the next day on a sandy patch by the river.

## JANUARY 14 – late evening

Dear Steven J. Shupe,

Yes, that is our name. India is our host. The Ganga is the river in front of you. Phool Chatti Ashram is the white compound behind. And amnesia, no doubt, is smack in the middle of your current concerns.

But not to worry. All is well if a bit contorted by forgetfulness. We have awoken in this confusing state for weeks while living in a garden hut at the ashram. Attached is a map to guide you to said hut. Once there please proceed to take the morning hours to carefully read the awaiting information, messages, synopsis of diary entries, and detailed instruction on what to do this afternoon. In short, after lunch a taxi is scheduled to take you to Ravi's travel agency to pick up your prepaid train ticket for this evening's Allahabad Express bound for the Kumba Mehla festival.

The Kumba Mehla rings a familiar and compelling bell, does it not? Upon awakening to my one day of existence it was the only thing that stood out to me through the fog of amnesia—including an irresistible urge to get there posthaste. Apparently, our Kumba Mehla recall was triggered the other day by a Sedona souvenir tile you will find in the hut. On the back of the tile is scrawled, _Take me to the Kumba Mehla festival_ , so don't leave home without it.

I've already packed some items in the backpack here on the riverside beach including money and valuables that I did not want to leave overnight in the lockless hut. Please, too, enjoy the bananas as a little treat. More are in the hut along with other snacks our previous self bought for your upcoming twenty-plus hour train ride to Allahabad.

Best wishes on your leg of the journey—one that, with luck, may lead not only to the Kumba Mehla but to full recall of our past. At least, we can hope so anyway!

*******

You sign the upbeat note then double check that all additional messages and written materials are laid out in proper order on the bed. Yes, you and yesterday's incarnation did an excellent job in trip preparation leaving nothing to chance for tomorrow's departure. Or so you think with satisfaction as you fold the wake-up message, blow out the candles, turn on the flashlight, grab two bananas from the shelf, and head for the nearby camping spot.

The flashlight beam reflects off the ashram jeep as you walk down the driveway and through a boulder field to the sandy riverside campsite. You are not yet sleepy so you build a fire whose comforting light and warmth mix with the roar of Ganga rapids. Looking upward you become lost in the countless stars of the moment, marveling that the light from a myriad of burning suns comes together in the tiny point focused in your eye, a starry universe captured in a single point on your retina.

Then you move your head slightly and this new point also contains the energy from a universe of stars, as does the next point to which your eye moves, and the next and the next. You sense that you are living in a holographic world where each point contains the whole and you imagine that if you could wane into nothingness, to enter just one of these tiny dots of space, then you would experience the total universe. The infinite world outside would become the universe within, the universe that is you.

But for now you settle for the reality of the moment composed simply of the sound of the river, glowing embers, and the anticipation of a sound sleep. You bid a quiet goodnight to the Ganga, zip into your blue sleeping bag, and place the crucial wake-up note under the bananas to welcome your morning self on the first step of tomorrow's journey. You feel alone but content, unaware of your silent neighbors sleeping in nearby trees. Likewise, these monkeys are oblivious to your recent arrival in the darkness. Nor have they yet detected the ripe, yellow treat you have graciously brought to the threshold of their world.

PART THREE

"Hocus-pocus-kamikaze.

Change-the-channel,

Harriet-and-Ozzie."

\- Bodhisattva mantra of transformation

(American version)

## JANUARY 15 – morning

You are dreaming silently in the early morning light, a snoring foreign object nestled amid boulders on the cold sands of the Ganga. Tree-side monkeys do not know what to make of this human head swaddled in blue. But the nearby smell is familiar and compelling. Ripe bananas lay at your side atop your morning orientation note, their aroma wafting to a dozen noses that have descended from the trees and now twitch from the boulders. The noses' owners are torn between conflicting instincts for survival—the urge to satisfy their hunger for bananas and their fear of this strange, blue sentinel that is you.

The bravest of the monkeys scampers forward but remains several yards away from the source of temptation. Then the sandy sentinel shifts as you unconsciously pull the sleeping bag over your head against the growing sunlight. This is the break, the action that tips the simian balance in favor of appetite over fear. The large monkey gives a shriek to build his courage as he dashes towards the bananas. You awaken to this image of a bare-toothed, hairy creature charging your position and you shriek in response—not in courage but primal fright as you roll away in the split second available. In one smooth motion the monkey scoops up the bananas along with your priceless note beneath them, then sprints off to consume as much of the fruit as possible before his clan intrudes. Survival of the fittest in action, terror of the meek in sleeping bag, and a vital message is lost in the sands of time, never to be read.

After a few moments you laugh in the aftermath of this encounter more as a release of tension than from humor. What a way to awaken, you think, so alarming you do not even remember your whereabouts. You sit up to determine the source of the roar in your ears and are greeted by a cascading river. A beautiful setting for a campsite but where in blazes are you? You get out of your sleeping bag, put on the sweater that lies nearby, and stand to view this wondrous spot. But still you have no recollection of your locale, how you got here, or even who you are. That damn monkey scared not only the crap out of you but also your memory, or so you conclude as you sit back down to take some deep breaths and gather yourself.

But there is not much to gather either of possessions in the sand or cogent thoughts in your head. You wait, and wait some more in anticipation of a flood of recollection to thunder through the temporary logjam of your mind. But the barrier seems to be a well-constructed dam, a veritable Hoover impeding the course of memory.

You do not panic, however. Just let the shock of your uninvited wake-up call pass, you surmise, and all will be well. In the meantime you check things out and respond to your basic survival instincts with logic. You follow your footprints back through the sand but lose the trail in a boulder field leading to a driveway. You gaze left and see a compound of white buildings which from this distance appear to be an ashram. To the right the driveway leads to a road and to what looks like a makeshift eatery. You return to the campsite, gather your belongings, and stroll to the small shop hoping for a bite to eat. Only tea is available, however, and you enjoy its sweet warmth while checking your limited possessions.

You have plenty of money, at least, and a passport that tells your name, nationality, and that you have been in India for sixteen months. What have you been doing here for so long? Two orange-clad wandering sadhus pass by and you wonder if maybe you are emulating their mode of aimless travel, American style, with a nice sleeping bag and backpack for a journey through this ancient land on foot. Perhaps, but little is certain now except for your growing appetite—and that several jeeps and cars have passed, each heading in the same uphill direction. You conclude incorrectly that their route will lead most directly to food. You shoulder the backpack and begin to walk, unknowingly following the morning flow of Indian pilgrims away from Laxman Jhula to Neelkanth village, home of a famous ashram and the infamous Shri Shri Cy Bubha.

The road quickly climbs above the valley floor through a beautiful forest of lush flowers, ferns, and trees. Several vehicles pass including buses filled with colorfully dressed people, but you are mostly alone and feeling increasingly hungry. It is well past breakfast time when you finally arrive at a roadside stand that offers eggs, chapati, and simple local dishes.

With the hunger instinct satisfied you return to the road with the choice of up or down. Not liking the idea of backtracking, you continue with the road's ascent above the fertile river valley towards Neelkanth village. The day grows warm as you take rest in the shade and do a few stretching exercises. It grows warmer so you splash in the cool of a rivulet and sit to observe your breathing and to meditate. After more roadside walking hunger again becomes your companion, while the sun and your wristwatch agree that the early afternoon has arrived. So has Neelkanth, you conclude, as you gaze across an opening to a small village with ashram perched atop the highest hill.

You enter the tiny village and sit in an open-front cafe that caters to the daily flow of ashram pilgrims. After placing a plentiful lunch order you ponder your next move. A pilgrimage village like this will likely have overnight rooms available, you conclude, probably a cheap one at Neelkanth Ashram itself. It feels like a good idea to take pause and give your memory a chance to catch up on the journey. You again focus on trying to recall who you are and what you are doing in India. But nothing of seeming importance breaks through the memory barrier, only a thought emerges of an upcoming Kumba Mehla festival and a strong desire to attend it. Not much to go on.

You decide to move to a back table for privacy in order to take a closer look at your belongings. In addition to the sleeping bag, backpack, money, and passport, your worldly possessions seem to include only a cheap water bottle, an expensive flashlight, a pen and notebook, a small cassette player with a tape entitled, _Instrumental Sweetness_ , a few clothes, and a silver box of puzzling jewelry. Money includes a sealed stack of ten thousand rupees plus another good-sized bundle of crisp 100-rupee notes that you begin counting carefully on the table. Around the count of sixty you are rudely interrupted by a loud voice coming directly over your hunched shoulders.

"Ah abundance, the hallmark of the universe if we but know in our hearts that we are worthy of its bounty."

"What?" you automatically respond looking back at this strange fellow who is staring intently at your money.

"Nothing, homeboy, just a little quote from an otherwise forgettable piece called The ReMinder that I recently read. So how's it hangin'?" he asks pulling up a chair.

You quickly gather your money and zip it safely into your pack then size up this incongruous, orange-clad Hindu who speaks with Texas drawl. Friendly but a bit too pushy you decide as you give him the brush-off. "Look, I chose this table to be alone. Would you mind?" you state, not remembering that attempts to rebuff this man are futile.

"Come on, pal, can't you place me?" After you fail to reply, he adds, "You know, el numero uno on your daily top ten list of wonders of the world? The prince of paradox himself, Cyrus 'Bubha' Rajnish," he announces holding out his surprisingly long arms as if basking in applause. His face registers disappointment that you do not respond with recognition from having read about him in a previous note.

"I'm sorry but my mind is still a little jumbled from awakening this morning to a raiding party of monkeys by the big river," you explain.

"Atcha," the swami replies with a look of understanding spreading across his face, "you did a little camping out last night, eh? Those monkeys will steal anything, even your memory. Damn inconsiderate of them."

"Yeah," you reply starting to warm to the man's congeniality. Then you suddenly realize that you may have already met him. You ask, "Do you know me?"

"Some guy doing an American Express commercial?" Bubha wisecracks. "The real answer to your question is that I know you now, but to know only what I know now is like knowing nothing. But knowing the nothingness of now makes me in the new know of your true now. Know what I mean?"

He looks at your befuddled face and explains, "Paradox, buddy boy, always paradox. But this is not the moment for enlightening you to the subtleties of cosmic law," he concludes as the waiter approaches with your lunch. Bubha grabs the plate from the server's hand and commands, "Bring another order for my good buddy here, si vous plait. And a second helping for me so he won't have to eat alone when it arrives."

You are incredulous and slightly amused by the gall of this man as he focuses all his attention on devouring your food without talking. You welcome the silence as you explore your forgetful mind and limited possessions for clues to the past and guidance for the future. Only the waiter's arrival with two new plates of food, however, gives you any direction. You gladly pick up a spoon and enjoy the new taste sensations as your tablemate quickly digs into his second helping. When he finishes, Bubha resumes the conversation precisely where it had dropped.

"So I can't truthfully say I even know myself, let alone you. But I do know a thing or two _about_ you even though you have been a tight-lipped son of a buck. No, a faulty memory on your part cannot thwart my vast intellectual and psychic powers in my never-ending search for truth. Plus a newspaper article of three days ago helped elucidate certain missing pieces about you. Shall I continue?"

You nod with growing curiosity.

"First, your name is Steven J. Shupe."

You remark, "I already know that."

"Second, you are an American who has been traveling for several months in India."

"Yeah, I already learned that too from my passport," you say impatiently.

"And third, you are a fugitive eluding arrest on a first-degree murder charge."

You pause in stunned silence for an instant then respond, "You're joking."

"I wouldn't _joke_ about something like that nor would the victim's wife, I'm sure." You stare at this stranger in silence not knowing what to think. He continues, "So this murder rap is news to you, buddy boy? It sure surprised me when I read it in the newspaper. Of course, I'm not saying I believe you actually killed the guy but I saved the article in case you'd be interested. Want to come up to my room and take a look?"

You still cannot speak and can barely move as the news takes hold. Can this be true? Are you a person capable of murder? You walk like a large shadow behind your new companion as he leads you a short way down the street to a two-story building. Cy Bubha keeps talking although you barely hear, listening as if you are at the bottom of a deep pit.

"Fortunately, the newspaper didn't print a picture of you, just a photo of the batsman that you supposedly bumped off," Bubha states as he turns to enter his apartment lobby. He nods to the landlord as you follow your escort up a flight of stairs. He leads you through a doorway on the second floor above which a sign commands, _Remember the Alamo._ You do, vaguely, but it does not feel very important at the moment. No, the present reality focuses into an extremely narrow point, like the sun's rays through a magnifying glass burning "Murderer" into a piece of your mind. A sizzling script that freezes your blood and numbs your body to create a paradox of hot and cold in this bright day of dark surprises. Bubha hands you a newspaper folded to the back page.

"Read this," he commands pointing to the print beneath a photograph of a handsome man swinging a cricket bat. You gape dumbly at the article as if your knowledge of the alphabet has deserted you along with memory. Nothing makes sense as you stare at the markings on the page as if they were in Greek—or Hindi.

"Atcha!" Bubha exclaims hitting his forehead with a palm. "Forgive me, but you are looking so much like a native these days I forgot you no-speakie the local lingo. Allow me to translate."

He grabs the Hindi language newspaper and paraphrases aloud the high points of the article as he reads. "It says you and this guy, Raghibur Singh—actually he was a pretty popular player on India's national cricket team—were seen in New Delhi a month ago driving off together in his sportscar. The aforementioned auto was found abandoned two days later but with no sign of either of you. There is some insinuation that you were having an affair with his wife or him or maybe with both of them. India's newspapers don't like to go into detail on this kinky stuff—gives the provincials too many ideas. Let's see...his body was found on January tenth, five days ago, shot with a single bullet from his revolver that was retrieved from nearby bushes."

Bubha looks up and states with forced optimism, "His _own_ gun—sounds like you might have a self-defense argument there." He continues paraphrasing as he scans the article, "Your prints were found on the gun. There's some stuff about how the New Delhi police are proud-as-punch for using an international computer network to trace your fingerprints in a single day. But they have no clues as to your whereabouts. Also, it seems that the wife has gone into hiding although rumor has it she left for Allahabad. And last but not least his teammates have put up the equivalent of a $15,000 reward for your arrest. Rather an impressive sum in this neck of the woods," Bubha adds, raising an eyebrow. "That's about it, pal. Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings."

You sink heavily into the single chair in the room, looking at the floor and shaking your head. "I just don't feel like I'd be capable of doing something like that."

Bubha gives you an impatient look. "Pardon me, but that's crapola. Everyone has a shadow as well as an angel side and it's the proverbial 'nice boy' who is out of balance and, as an adult, is usually the one who totes a rifle up to the bell tower to take potshots in a moment of passion or despondency or whatever."

"You sound like you are trying to convince me that I'm guilty," you reply sharply.

"Now don't get paranoid on me, homeboy. That addled brain of yours already has enough conditions to deal with."

You sit silently for a moment growing acutely aware of your fear and vulnerability, disturbing emotions that quickly take cover behind a flash of anger. You glare at the bearer of bad tidings and declare, "Man, I don't know what to make of you, whatever-your-name was. You eat my food, you tell me I'm a murderer, and then lecture me on the nature of duality."

"I only said that you are _accused_ of murder, not that you did it," Bubha corrects you while staying calm.

Your agitation grows as you stand, grab the newspaper, and shake it in his face. "Tell me the honest truth. Am I really wanted for murder?"

Bubha stares you straight in the eye and in even voice states, "You stand charged over the purported murder of one Raghibur Singh, cricket star and resident of New Delhi." And you can tell without a doubt that the man is speaking the truth.

After long pause you sit and concede, "I guess I'm going to have to trust you."

"Trust me? Not much choice, pal," Bubha replies, sparing you a repeat dissertation on the nature of trust that you have long forgotten. "But not to despair. For I, as your personal tour guide through the mists of forgetfulness, gave your situation deep consideration during our silent lunch. It seems that our spiritual strengths will dovetail quite nicely, your strength being abundant rupees and mine being a sound memory and clear police record. Our respective needs shall be met by blazing a trail to the Kumba Mehla in Allahabad where you can be swallowed in the safety of anonymity while I convince wealthy pilgrims to swallow my lines. I just need an hour or two to prepare for this surprise departure and to get you a new identity with which to travel."

You look at this strange little man and ask, "Why are you willing to take this risk to help me? I mean I'm grateful and all, but why harbor a fugitive instead of claiming a $15,000 reward?"

"Bah, do not insult me with talk of reward. My simple answer as a humanitarian is that a fellow human being cries out for assistance through the darkness of lost memory. Plus," he adds, "I hate cricket. So give your humble tour guide one thousand rupees of solvency whilst I endeavor to shop for sustenance and camouflage. You, of course, shall remain hidden in this room for the time being, safe from prying eyes and greedy reward mongers. Actually, I suspect that one neighborhood watchdog is out in his chauffeured ashram jeep at this very moment desperately searching for you."

Bubha responds to your questioning look with booming voice punctuated by grand gesture, "Time for telling all shall arrive with the morrow. For now I must hunt and gather. Upon my return be ready to depart as we commence our journey 'fore the sun goes down. The Northwest Passage to prosperity awaits discovery or my name's not Meriwether Lewis!" The short swami strikes a pose with one finger pointed skyward, then he pivots smartly and marches out the door.

You conclude that this is likely the strangest day of your life, from charging monkey to amnesia to a murder rap to this orange-robed madman in whose hands you have placed your trust. You recline on his hard bed and contemplate your situation. How does it feel to be an accused murderer? Not good. No, not good at all.

You close your eyes and take comfort observing the breath flow through your nostrils, feeling the sensations that arise then pass away, arise and pass away. You retreat into a timeless space, a spaceless time where there is no guilty past or threatening future, just the eternal now into which you slowly disappear.

"GET YOUR LAZY sack-of-jawea out of bed and start hopping," Bubha shouts as he bursts into the room and begins stuffing your backpack with various items. "What would Jefferson say if he saw how you're spending the taxpayers' money? Only a couple of daylight hours remain but every little step brings me closer to the green fields and greener pilgrims of the Kumba Mehla. Yep, you are truly an answer to my prayers, pal. Free home delivery of a first class train ticket to this golden festival wandered on my doorstep today. Just because the delivery boy is an accused felon does not thwart my enthusiasm—although it sure appears to have dampened yours. Smile, amigo, we're going on an adventure!"

You do not smile as you follow this hyper-charged man out the door, amazed that his short legs can carry him so fast. With the new weight in the backpack you struggle to keep pace as Bubha strides out the village in the opposite direction from which you arrived this afternoon.

"We're going to make a big loop that eventually brings us back to a bus route to Haridwar," Bubha explains, "and from there we can catch the train to the Kumba Mehla. Some of the trail will get a bit rough but it leads to the perfect place tomorrow for undergoing your identity transformation."

You look nervous and ask, "What do you plan to do to me?"

"Oh relax, pal. I told you that paranoia doesn't serve the cause of freedom. This is India, not Hollywood. No silicon and botox, just a billion people with whom you can mingle as one. Your tan and apparent aversion to barbers will serve you well to meld with the sadhus at the Kumba Mehla. Probably they'll think you're a Punjabi holy man with that obnoxious height you're cursed with.

"So just relax and enjoy a couple of peaceful nights camping followed by the Allahabad Express from Haridwar. We'll then alight just in time for one to enjoy a pleasant and elucidating dinner on January eighteenth with a mysterious woman. Ever heard of the Allahabad Riverview Inn?" he asks, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. You just shake your head _no_ , and Bubha grins while walking briskly down the road.

Little traffic is on this route although your guide seems to take careful note of each vehicle. You easily forget that you are a fugitive as you lose yourself to the rhythm of trekking through this forested foothill country. But Bubha grabs your arm as a jeep passes, ready to make a run for it if he sees a threat.

"I wouldn't think there would be police up here, or at least none looking for me," you state in reaction to his caution.

"It ain't the police I'm worried about, Clyde, it's the Phool Chatti Neighborhood Watch that might prove troublesome. Just be ready to follow my spry plunge into the jungle if I spot an old swami in a jeep—and we'll pick up a secluded footpath before long anyway. Relax, I'll explain it all tomorrow after you've had a chance to clear your mind with a good night's sleep." He smiles reassuringly.

No threatening swami appears, no headlong plunges become necessary. Bubha is relieved to leave the exposure of the public road when the fork to a forested footpath is encountered at dusk. You follow the trail for a few hundred yards, leaving your oversized footprints in the muddy trail, and set up camp safely among thick trees. Sitting at the fire, tall and short make an odd couple in the flickering light as each of you silently chews the food purchased in Neelkanth a few hours ago. No words are spoken, no sense arises of needing to do anything more. Enough adventure and surprises have occurred for one day, you think, as you prepare for sleep.

You look across the fire at your travel guide now lying in his bedroll, feeling grateful to this unusual ally as you journey together into the unknown. You have many questions you wish to ask Bubha in the morning, trusting he will help shepherd you through this maze of forgetfulness.

Trust, however, is a slippery concept in the hands of a trickster, particularly one who failed to explain to your forgetful self that all your daytime questions perish with your descent into slumber.

## JANUARY 16 – the following morning

"Good morning, my name is Cyrus. I will be your host on today's flight. If there is anything that I can do to make your trip more comfortable please don't hesitate to ask. Now, if you would kindly return yourself to a full upright and locked position, we can begin the day. Tea?" Cy Bubha offers as he helps you sit up in your sleeping bag. With eyes still bleary from deep slumber you look around in a mental fog at the unfamiliar forest setting.

Bubha squints as he peers into your face. "So this is how your daily wake-up call into oblivion works, eh, amigo? Mind if I watch while you stumble around in a fog of forgetfulness?"

You rub your eyes trying to recognize where you are. "Back off for pity sake," you blurt at the strange man who is babbling nonsense in your face.

"Ah, we awaken grumpy, do we?" Bubha replies, backing off only a little. "How quickly one rejects the hand that feeds him, pushing away the only man who is your tie to continuity, your only chance to survive in this jungle. No, my friend, as soon as you grow fully awake and grasp your predicament you will beg my forgiveness for having treated me rudely."

"What in thunder?" you murmur as you look at the lush surroundings, unable to make sense of anything.

"Now," Bubha continues, "would you like a little orientation tour of your situation? The foremost fact is that you have awakened in this state of amnesia for the past month, each night completely forgetting your past. Second, you are in India with the only friend you have, yours truly, Cyrus 'Bubha' Rajnish. Third, we are heading to the Kumba Mehla festival on tomorrow evening's train from Haridwar. Fourth, you are an American raised in Kansas and Honolulu, an engineer and lawyer by training. And fifth, your name is Ferdinand von Zeppelin the Third."

"Ferdinand von Zeppelin? Come on, get real," you implore.

"Okay, actually your name is Steven Shupe but I'm softening you up for releasing your attachment to identity and for becoming a wandering sadhu. The rest is fact. Next fact, today we take a lengthy hike to a cave down yonder trail to help with identity's dismantling. Alles klar, mein freund?"

You barely take in what this little man in orange just spoke, and you comment through the continuing haze in your brain, "Dismantle my identity? I can't even remember who I am."

"Excellent point!" Bubha exclaims. "I can see that traveling with the master of paradox has already made you the wiser. Note, however, that although one may forget a personal identity, you may nonetheless retain attachment to its holdovers. And I'm an expert at helping people to release those holdovers and transfer their material burdens onto my shoulder—or into my wallet depending upon their size."

You shake your head at your puzzling companion and respond, "I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"In short, if you got the money, honey, I got the time. But don't worry about it. I'm the detail man and you're the guy with no memory. Looks like your upholding your part in our partnership quite well this morning." The fellow gives you a hearty slap on the back.

You drop your torso back to the horizontal position and stare through the treetops to morning-sky blue. It seems as if neither your head nor this Cyrus character is going to give you any straight answers. While he begins loading a backpack you slip out of the sleeping bag and into your walking shoes.

"We can stop along the trail to fix breakfast later," your travel host announces. "I'd like to put a little more distance between us and the road for now."

You see little choice but to go with the flow even though the wake left by this guy feels choppy. While stuffing your sleeping bag into its sack you notice a thin swami hurrying down the path to your campsite. "Who's that?" you ask your companion.

"Damn it!" Cy Bubha exclaims and rushes over to stop the intruder with words that soon rise in pitch. You understand none of the Hindi they speak but you can tell that an altercation is fast brewing.

Bubha turns and hurries toward you while the thin swami motions you to stay put as he jogs back up the path towards the road calling out, "Guruji, Guruji!"

Hastily, your agitated guide tosses the last items into the pack and tells you to get your rear in gear. "Move it or lose it, Sue-Sue. The skinny guy's boss, Guruji, is nothing but trouble. I'll explain later but first we need to outrun the geezer."

So run you do, responding to Bubha's genuine sense of anxiety about whatever lurks on the other side of the trees. As you crash through the vegetation you hear a distant voice shout in clear English, "Steven, wait! You need help."

But the strong grip of your companion pulls you along to outdistance the pursuer. After what seems to be an hour of carrying a full pack on a half-run you stop to catch your breath. The cool of the morning air hits your sweaty back as you remove the pack, sit on a moss-covered log, and look at your companion who is wheezing by your side.

"Cyrus, can you talk?"

"Call me Bubha. What?" he gasps.

"What are we running from?"

Your jogging partner takes another moment to catch his breath then answers, "Ourselves mainly."

"No, I don't mean in the cosmic sense. I mean who is this Guruji?"

"Curious little devil aren't you?" Bubha pants. "Would you be satisfied if I said just to trust me?"

"Cut the bull, man, and tell me why we ran from this Guruji guy."

Bubha looks at you seriously and decides to explain. "Okay, I have wanted to spare you as many gory details as possible in your condition, but here goes. Guruji is the head honcho at Phool Chatti Ashram where you've been hiding out the past month. He seems by all appearances to be an okay fellow, at least as holy men go. But he is actually a manipulative bastard who preys upon the weak. When you arrived in December at his ashram looking for refuge you were quite vulnerable for a reason best left buried—or probably cremated by now with his cricket bat."

Bubha does not respond to your puzzled look and continues with the story, "Guruji took you under his wing and taught you certain meditations from the ancient Vedic tradition. He incorporated a hypnosis technique that if facilitated by a qualified master can accelerate the student's path to awareness. It can also, however, be abused by the unscrupulous.

"In your vulnerable state, your mind was an easy target for Guruji to control—and presumably you have money well beyond the attractive amount in your backpack. I don't know what his long-term scam is, but Guruji hypnotized you into a daily amnesia routine which kept you stuck and helpless at his ashram. You slept outside two nights ago breaking the routine and then wandered to Neelkanth where I found you bewildered and without direction."

You shake your head slowly back and forth. "Jesus Christ, what a set up. How do you know all this?"

"Well, I was suspicious about the way Guruji hovered over you at the ashram and he also pretended not to understand English around you. The man is as articulate in the Queen's English as I—although he can't spell for beans. Then when you let your state of forgetfulness slip to me in Laxman Jhula the other week it all fell into place."

"And you have just let this go on? Why the heck didn't you tell me?" you ask with obvious irritation.

"And what good would that have done in your condition? Made you even more paranoid so you'd blow a few circuits? Frankly, I didn't know what to do other than to stick close and watch for an opening. I read through your personal papers hoping to identify a way to help you. I even dropped some hints to encourage you to go to the Kumba Mehla festival and escape Guruji's grip. Looks like they might have worked," he smiles.

"You know," you respond, "when you mentioned the Kumba Mehla earlier this morning it was like some trigger went off and I really have this urge to get there. It's in Allahabad, right?"

"Right, and it's going to be full of charlatans and cranks but there is also the true article that attends the festival. Every three years these yogis come out from their caves to sit at the Kumba Mehla and share their presence, wisdom, and metaphysical skills with less-evolved seekers. I figure you might find a real McCoy there who can undo the damage which that damned Phool Chatti Hatfield has done to your mind."

"Makes sense," you say nodding your head and holding out your hand to shake with your flight attendant. "I really have to thank you, Bubha."

"Now don't turn sentimental on me, pal. My invaluable assistance is provided only partially out of the goodness of my selfless heart. You're financing this expedition and I expect to be supported in a manner to which I would like to grow accustomed."

You laugh. "Shall I begin by fixing some breakfast?"

"Nope," Bubha replies, "digestion would be greatly enhanced by another hour's brisk walk to further distance ourselves from the hypnotic dangers of Guruji. He probably has implanted both visual and verbal post-hypnotic triggers into your psyche that could send you hurtling back into his sticky web of intrigue."

"Okay then, let's go," you acquiesce as a chill runs down your spine at the thought of Guruji's hypnotic power over you. "I suppose I'm the one toting the pack on this trot to safety?"

"Good thinking, Francis. I'll be right behind you."

The day continues in this pace of walk and rest, silence and banter. You enjoy both the scenic beauty as well as your articulate new friend as the hours roll by, drawing ever closer to the evening's objective. Bubha remains secretive about your destination, telling you it is a cave but nothing more about its role in your unfolding journey to the Kumba Mehla. He sometimes strikes you as a little boy with his sense of playfulness and mystery, yet much wisdom lies behind his moods and humor. It feels good to have such a friend, to share a sense of camaraderie, to have someone helping you through the difficulties of amnesia. You ponder your predicament of forgetfulness as well as count your blessings along the winding path through the day.

As evening descends you round a corner where three sadhus sit at the side of the trail directly in front of what appears to be a narrow passage opening into the side of a steep slope. Bubha signals you to hold position while he confronts the somber trio of orange-clad holy men. There is no altercation or raising of voices although you sense a tension in the air as three stony faces greet Bubha's inquiry. He points to the cave entrance, points to you, makes a number of gestures, and seems to be getting nowhere. Then he folds his arms and simply states a few more words. The faces of the sadhus suddenly break into broad smiles, two off-white and one quite toothless. They stand and walk past you on the trail while nodding and bowing with respectful greetings of, "Namaste, namaste."

Bubha signals you forward then disappears into the hillside cave. You follow along a narrow passage that opens to a bedroom-sized chamber. "Holy batcrap, it sure is dark in here," your escort notes. The evening sunlight barely penetrates into the silent room while the sadhus' waning fire casts a pale glow against the bare rock. You watch the smoke as it swirls above the flames and disappears through a crack in the ceiling. The cave looks like a cozy niche well worth defending.

"What did you say to those sadhus that was so compelling they deserted this perfect refuge?" you ask Bubha with curiosity.

"Oh, I just told them you were Arnold's personal trainer and wanted to use the cave for shooting a new workout video. Most of these sadhu guys are really into Schwarzenegger flicks, you know." No, you did not know that, but you decide it would be futile to attempt serious pursuit of the topic with your travel guide. You gather more wood for the fire, unload the backpack, and settle in for a comfortable if dim evening in the cave.

After dinner Bubha sorts through his possessions and pulls out notebook paper. "Put another handful of branches on the fire, buddy boy. Divine inspiration can be a bitch to compose without sufficient light."

"Maybe I'll do some writing, too," you announce while depositing the remaining wood on the fire. You turn to look through the backpack for pen and paper, feeling the fire's heat on your back—warmth that will persist well into the night in this compact enclosure.

"Now who could you be writing when you can't even remember yourself?" Bubha asks absently as he begins composing on the paper in his lap.

"Actually, I'm writing to me. Since you said I awaken each morning with no memory I figured it would be a good idea to give myself a little information for tomorrow particularly if I awaken before you. Unless, of course, your mysterious plan for the evening includes curing me of this recurring amnesia," you add with a look of hope at your companion.

"No such luck, pal. Just a quiet evening of creative writing, a cup of tea, and a little teaching in the cosmic cycle of accumulation and release. Nothing memorable," he adds as you each settle down to write.

Upon finishing the note to your tomorrow's self you carefully fold the paper and put it in your pants pocket along with your trekker's flashlight for easy discovery in the morning.

"Don't go down for the night yet," Bubha directs. "The Cyrus special will be served shortly, guaranteed to be the best cup of tea you can ever remember having." Your cave mate gathers ingredients from a small bag and sets water to boil. "I'll finish writing my hallowed epistle and we can relax over a cup. Then, my dear inspecter, I shall shed more light upon the mystery of this evening—the Case of the Disappearing Holdovers."

You smile back and turn to the fire, losing yourself in the dance of heat and air that manifests in colorful flames and tendrils of smoke. After several minutes of mindless observation a hand appears in front of you offering a steaming cup of tea. Yes, it is the best tea that you have tasted in your one day of memory although it is a tad bitter. Bubha sits across from you in contemplative silence staring into your face as you sip his gift of the Cyrus special. When your cup is drained he speaks.

"It shouldn't be too hard to catch a morning bus and get to Haridwar in time to board the six-thirty train to Allahabad tomorrow evening. Just don't let your guard down in the crowd going to the Kumba Mehla festival. A popular scam is for a scoundrel to befriend a naïve foreign passenger, offer him tea laced with a knockout drug, then robbing him blind."

"Now why should I worry about that when I will have the great Cyrus Bubha to protect me?" you ask in slow, deliberate words that grow increasingly difficult to speak. Your cup becomes too heavy to hold as you drop it and slur, "What the hell?"

"No," Bubha responds as the drugged tea takes hold of you, "I must hasten to explain that your valiant protector shall be off on other duties and will not be sharing a train seat with his good buddy. Although I would rather you not fall into the fire just now," he urges as he gets up and eases your limp body onto your back. You are unable to move a muscle but can still hear his voice through your drug-induced stupor.

"So much to do and so little time," Bubha observes aloud as he removes your watch and rifles your pockets. "Places to go, money to count, a herald to pay, instructions to give, and a certain Guruji to visit," he concludes as he dumps the message from your pocket into the flames. "Sorry, pal, but no holdovers of identity or crib notes are allowed in this spiritual college."

Your last conscious sight before the curtain drops fully on your drugged senses is of your former travel companion flipping through your stash of thousands of rupees with his eyes aglow in the firelight—a testimony to the success of this illustrative lesson in the cycle of his accumulation and your release of material possessions.

## JANUARY 17 – early morning of the next day

Cold. Dark. Dirt. Skin. Life is down to its basics as you lie naked in the dust of the cave. You have a few sensations but no emotions upon awakening this morning. Chill against bare skin and hands that run through dirt in the darkness are the limits of your universe. No puzzlement arises in your mind, no curiosity or fear—just sensations in a body with which you feel no identification. A bare body in the dirt. You do not know who or what it is, nor do you care.

How long can a heart endure the journey of extremes that your forgetfulness has brought forth? How far can you ride the cycles of frustration and freshness of amnesia, its despair and delight without snapping? This far and no further. The roller coaster has stopped. Your mind jumped the tracks, entered the curio shop, and leapt into the postcards to escape into a flat world where the dimensions of aliveness fade into detachment that keeps you safe from feeling, buffered from caring. No desires arise to be shared and shattered, no trust is offered for betrayal. No creativity or humor bubble forth to turn the current basics into a clever Indie film title. Cold-dark-dirt-skin are simply the realities of the moment, nothing more.

Your body stands, drawn to the dim light that leads through a narrow passage into the awakening day. You hear the sound of birds, see the lush green of the forest, and feel nothing whatsoever. Orange clothes folded neatly at the cave entrance offer warmth. Shoes provide protection. A shoulder bag contains a blanket, fruit, and two American pennies in the side pocket. Two cents to your name, but you have no name. You fail to see the symbolism or get the little joke deposited last night by your forgotten travel companion. But you spot the note that he left under a small stone and you read:

Welcome my Son,

Birth. Quite an experience, is it not? An emergence from the dark cave of womb, a journey through tunnel of mystery to bright light awaiting. But you had it easy, my child. No squishing of skull or claustrophobic panic in a tight passage that leaves you gasping for breath amidst painful cries of your mother creator. Your parturition is a simple stroll into the waiting embrace of morn, swaddling clothes at the ready, a new dawn for a new man. Complete with instructions and friendly greeting from your Maker—a creator who is not lactating and recovering from pain, but One venturing through paradise amidst the fruits of six days of honest labor, counting his newly found rupees and knowing it is good.

Count your blessings as well, my son, for you are the chosen one selected after careful screening for the privilege of being birthed into this world _as an adult_. Bypassing all those inconvenient years of dirty diapers, grade school bells, pledges of allegiance, pimples, and adolescent angst—experiences that ensure a fall from grace into the muck of thinking you are a shameful body struggling in a world gone mad. Yes, my newborn, you have the chance to stay true to your divine heritage, to remain in bliss in the freedom of the All.

Just know thyself, experience yourself as a vibrant energy field shimmering in an endless sea of cosmic waves. Identify not with this body as your boundary but dance unfettered in the sensations it gives you of a boundless universe. To thine own self be true, remembering that you are the wind, the river, the sun and moon, the alpha and omega, the all and evermore-shall-be. Cast not a rib from your body and make woman into your slave, but know thy goddess from within and journey in Her guidance and mystery. Bite not of an apple thinking it either good or evil. Such thoughts plunge you into the knowledge of duality, into a world where false notions prevail of black and white, of better and worse, of a 'them' and an 'us'—creating judgments that stagger through the ages as specters with blood on their hands, leaving children weeping in the wake of innocence lost.

But nay, I mean not to wax as hoary thunderer. I am a cosmic muffin, a god of harmony, a gentle keeper of my flock that wandereth blindly through a world of duality. My divine role is to guide the lambs home from their wayward judgments to a place of simple acceptance, shepherding them through this madness until they come to harmonize all sides of duality within themselves. At this magic moment of self-acceptance, of clarity, of laughter, they spring unfettered back into union with the All.

But this moment of their bliss is the instant of my death. For in true union, there is no more duality, no more a concept of something that is 'God' and something that is 'not God.' Only a divine wholeness resides within as the sheep takes its place as the shepherd. And it is good.

So my son, be fruitful and multiply. And divide, subtract, and add. Hell, do differential equations for all I care. Just keep your sense of humor. And follow this path uphill until you reach the road, catch a bus to Haridwar, and take this evening's Allahabad Express to the Kumba Mehla festival. I have molded thee from clay into a sadhu so that thou can accomplish this journey upon the charity of others, leaving you free from the corrupting influence of cash.

Great tears flow from my all-seeing eyes as I think of my child making his way through this harsh world—a world in which the only real truth is paradox, where the only constant in life is change. Not much to hang your hat on, is it pal? Just keep the faith (as well as this message) and focus on the Kumba Mehla festival. Once there, remain vigilant for receiving my Herald who shall leadest thee unto still waters and to thy guardian angel.

So my wayward lamb, my snake, my apple, my Eden—the beautiful universe that is you—I wish you God's speed (which can be pretty damn fast when I choose to boogie).

With hugs from your Father in heaven,

Hallowed

The author of this epistle would be disappointed in your response. No anger, no appreciation, no questions, not even confusion arises. Simply a spark of recognition flares in your sluggish mind at mention of the Kumba Mehla festival. Yes, you will go.

You walk uphill until you reach the road, board a bus to Haridwar, and find your way to the train station where you await the Allahabad Express. You have spoken only two words today, repeating them often and successfully— _Kumba Mehla._ Fingers have pointed in response bringing you to your current resting place on the hard cement of Platform Number Three. You notice little of the activity in the busy Haridwar Train Station nor do you register the discomfort of your position.

You are eating a bruised apple when a pair of feet in expensive sandals appears on the ground in front of you. You look up to see a holy man dressed smartly in new orange robes topped by a freshly trimmed beard. Before turning he drops a handful of rupee coins in your lap and grunts, "Get a job, fella."

You stare blankly, watching his disproportionately long arms swing from rounded shoulders until he disappears into the first class waiting room. Into the side pocket of your shoulder bag you drop the rupees that clink against the two American pennies already there. Finishing the apple, you barely notice the train pulling up to the platform as you are caught in the flow of robed men pushing their way into a third class carriage of the Allahabad Express.

Nor do you notice the toothless grin of the grizzled old sadhu who has been intently watching you, waiting for his big moment to arrive.

## JANUARY 18 – the next afternoon

You are sitting on the floor of a noisy train carriage. The train is twenty-one hours out of Haridwar, nearing its destination of Allahabad. The floor is metal, the air smells of diesel, the hard wooden benches above you are filled with men in orange. You and other not-so-fortunate sadhus recline on the floor at their feet, packed together like sardines. Actually, not quite like sardines since canned fish are far more orderly in repose than the men who have been shaken into jumbles by hours of locomotion. Arms and legs and backs and heads have mixed haphazardly together to find some level of comfort. But no complaints arise, no vying for better positions. You have become a part of one collective organism shifting and oozing on a primal floor, adjusting to fit its environment.

But little of this registers in your vacant mind. You remain detached from all feeling, from all stimuli, even from this body that has suffered from cramped quarters for a night and a day. It awoke this morning and you simply noticed that you were among fellow sadhus on a train. You ate the last of fruit in a shoulder bag, read a note from God (Hallowed be his name) that made little sense, and leaned back against whatever body part was behind you.

The Kumba Mehla is your destination, the note said. Yes, it is right to be going to there. That was the limit of your logical thoughts. No further analysis took place today, no emotion or curiosity arose although some recollections have emerged. As you let your mind drift without anchor on this swaying train strange images and scenarios arose that you viewed with detachment not recognizing these visions as your former nighttime dreams. You simply watched old dreamtime dramas unfold in your head without context or interest. They merely provided distraction from your view from the floor of this carriage pounding the rails through the heart of India. Occasionally you would look up and see faces, watching them talk with one another in a tongue that you do not understand.

Two sadhus in the midst of a heated discussion have just joined the collective by squeezing onto either side of you. Their Hindi words make no sense but you are caught in the swirl of sound as the men talk at the same time, increasing their volume to be heard above the other. Then the man on your left shouts an English word, the first you have heard in your short life of today. _"Twins! Twins!"_ The other sadhu enthusiastically echoes this word and they nod in agreement as silence abruptly reigns.

Twins. Recognition of this single English word sparks neurons in your brain that still are receptive to being coaxed into action, signals from that part of the mind connected to your dream world, a realm in which sets of twins roam—male and female twins, good and evil twins, polarity brothers and sisters who wander the inner dreamscape. You vaguely remember this fact and look to the man who shouted this stimulus as you speak your first word of the day, "Twins?"

"Atcha!" he exclaims at your comprehension. "Good twin," he continues in his limited English as he puffs himself up to pantomime a large, strong man. Then he deflates himself into the smallest posture possible and concludes, "Bad twin."

You nod in understanding, the two sadhus nod, and they begin another noisy round of their discussion in Hindi. The cobwebs in your mind begin to clear as you realize that the images of today have been old dreams. _Your_ old dreams. Yes, there is a you. And dreams and a body and a life to identify with and memories to recollect. You try to sort through this notion as the clamor of the two sadhus builds again and makes thinking difficult. Then the bearded man on the left starts yelling in English, _"Total Recall! Total Recall!"_ And the other sadhu echoes his refrain as they nod their heads then slip again into contemplative silence.

You look at bearded sadhu in amazement and try to gesture to him that you still cannot remember much. "No, _not_ total recall. Not total recall," you state in simple English.

But his face looks puzzled and he responds with a tentative question, "Not, _Total Recall_?" You shake your head and try your best to gesture that you are still limited in memory and recall.

He ponders a moment and queries, " _Conan the Barbarian_?"

Now _your_ face goes blank with confusion. The sadhu looks intently into your eyes as if trying to read your thoughts. He finally breaks into a broad smile reflecting clarity. "Atcha, _The Terminator!_ _The Terminator_ number one!" And he looks around to his fellow sadhu who is enthusiastically agreeing with this conclusion.

The second sadhu wags a finger in your face and states in halting English, "Arnold number one." His companion wags in agreement, seemingly pleased that the language barrier was bridged with the inarticulate tall guy on the floor.

Arnold? What the...and you suddenly comprehend the men's ongoing debate over the best of Schwarzenegger's films. The lunacy of the situation strikes you as a slight smile forms on your lips. You nod your head and agree aloud, " _The Terminator_ number one."

You are back.

Coming back to a state of full amnesia is one of those paradoxes that an orange-clad trickster riding comfortably in first class would well appreciate. Plus, Cy Bubha would enjoy the irony that the practical joke he arranged with his two sadhu buddies, designed to mess with your mind, actually helped trigger its return, such as it is. You still cannot remember a whit about your past and not much about the four Schwarzenegger movies just named. But you are present again in the moment, aware that you are an English-speaking sadhu heading towards the Kumba Mehla—and that your body feels like shit.

You try to make some room for your cramped legs but are unsuccessful in getting the orange collective to ooze in the proper direction. So you spend the remaining time on the train standing spread legged and pushing against the ceiling for balance. Your pose is like a mythical Atlas holding up a strange, flat world in his hands—but without the Schwarzenegger physique.

Gratitude prevails as the train stops at Allahabad pouring forth a stream of weary humanity. You go with the flow and find yourself standing outside a busy railway station. Your two-word question— _Kumba Mehla?—_ does not have the desired effect today. Amused looks arise in response rather than fingers pointing in clear direction. You do not realize the absurdity of this request for directions—like Jonah turning to his companion in a wet, dim chamber and asking, _So where's the whale?_

For you have been swallowed by the Kumba Mehla with your first step onto the platform. The Kumba Mehla is no longer in Allahabad; the city and all in it have been consumed by the festival. Millions of saints and sinners, pilgrims and pilferers, have descended on Allahabad swallowing, digesting, and depositing their smelly remains before your very eyes. It is a sight unbeheld elsewhere in the world and one you find difficult to face in your fatigue of the moment.

Five o'clock, a large clock indicates giving you plenty of time before dark to find a resting place. Time enough as well to get to the Allahabad Riverview Inn for a long-planned dinner date if one had a mind to. But only one man from this train has such a mind with memory of your six o'clock appointment this evening of January 18, 2001, a man who calls himself Shri Shri Cy Bubha and who will dispense an ambiguous form of wisdom to curious foreign pilgrims over the next days.

Bubha steps from a first class compartment clean and well rested to hail a taxi that takes him to the Riverview Inn for dinner with a woman he has never before met. You with the more limited mind join a long line of men in orange to receive a simple plate of lentils and rice. You wait, eat, and follow the ebb of sadhus into the nooks and crannies of Allahabad until finding a space to recline for a night of slumber. You are asleep in your blanket as another man lays near you, a toothless old fellow who patiently shadows you in anticipation of his upcoming role.

## JANUARY 19 – morning of the next day

You awaken disoriented. Confusion soon passes, however, as you see yourself among sadhus and recall the setting as the Kumba Mehla festival. Strange, you think, that you have no other recollection of your situation and past. But such is the life of a wandering renunciant who lives in the moment, hand to mouth as an offspring of the divine. You shake out your blanket, readjust your orange clothing, and respond to the basic needs of the moment.

**TRAIL BOSS:** I too will follow my instincts and keep the wheels of this journey from bogging down in the details of survival at the Kumba Mehla. It's not always a pretty picture or a particularly easy day for a fellow with no memory and a big appetite. But he manages to score some breakfast victuals (pronounced _vittles_ for you greenhorns who don't know about trail food), then wanders his way among a few million folks to find a spot to sit by the river for a long spell. Actually, it makes things easier for him to be deluded into thinking of himself as a simple sadhu with no past, therefore he experiences no identity crisis, no angst over loss of memory, and no worries about tomorrow.

He just drifts quietly through the hours in a way typical of other sadhus at the festival, although such calm is significantly different from the mood surrounding a number of other holy men present. Several of these guys are wearing only a beard as they march toward the Ganga for their daily ablutions, dogged by pushy photojournalists and tittering tourists who gape at the naked truths of the Kumba Mehla. Other spectators watch swamis contort their appendages into innovative shapes while some curious onlookers follow the progress of yoga masters who choose to spend a few days buried in sealed boxes without benefit of water or air.

But our forgetful pseudo-sadhu shuns as much of the hubbub as possible, staying to himself throughout the day. Or so he mistakenly thinks. For an alert trail boss has spotted a shadow, a toothless old-timer who keeps dogging our footsteps from river to food and even back to our sleeping spot. Makes me a mite suspicious so let's jump to tomorrow afternoon when the codger makes his move.

## JANUARY 20 – the following afternoon

You are sitting on a rock savoring a chapati and enjoying another new experience in this day of varied sensations. You as a simple sadhu have drifted from stone to stone, sitting and observing, sometimes losing yourself in watching your breath and body sensations. Then, distracted by the noise and bustle of the throng, your attention returns to the swirl of activity and to the great river Ganga where a continuous flow of people glide to and from its shore. Baths, contemplation, death, worship, horseplay, grief—all are welcomed by its unceasing waters. The Ganga reaches out to embrace the Kumba Mehla while the festival sings its gratitude in a cacophony that arises from the enormous tent city along the riverbank.

You listen to the exotic melody which is suddenly interrupted by a loud clearing of throat behind you. You turn to see a grizzled old sadhu standing at attention like a military cadet on review. With eyes staring forward he announces in thick Hindi accent, "I am Herald. Follow me to your guardian angel." He then lets out his breath and relaxes, showing a toothless grin that reflects his pride in having successfully accomplished his assigned task.

Your initial confusion to this pronouncement is followed by your pulling out the nonsensical message found in your shoulder bag this morning. "Does this note from God that mentions a herald have something to do with what you are trying to say?"

The old fellow responds by puffing himself back up and restating, "I am Herald. Follow me to your guardian angel."

Obviously, this well-rehearsed phrase is the limit of the herald's command of English so you decide simply to follow him to see where he leads. After a half hour of picking your way through tents, campfires, people and their droppings, you arrive at a small clearing under a banner announcing, _Shri Shri Cy Bubha, a Postle of Light_. Beneath it stands a strange looking guru talking with a couple dozen people, primarily Westerners, sitting on the ground in front of him. Herald points to Cy Bubha and states, "Guardian angel." He then escorts you to the back of the group where you sit, as the master of this ceremony speaks from the front.

"...so go ahead and keep listening to Madonna, but don't expect any quantum physicists to ask you to dance in a material world." Bubha laughs along with his appreciative audience. "Next question, please."

A man to your left responds with his query. "Cy Bubha, all this India traveling and reading has got me confused. Some sages say that their religion is the only true way while others assert that there is no path at all. Is there one true and correct path?"

"Absolutely. _Your_ path. The one that unfolds individually for you each day, step by perfect step. Next question."

A woman's voice rises from the front, "Cy Bubha, I know we're supposed to drop our ego and our desires but I seem to stay stuck in doing what my personality wants instead of what my spiritual self says I should do. How can I start listening to and responding better to my quiet inner voice of spirit?"

"Easy. Kick up your heels, shop 'til you drop, stuff yourself with food, and hop into the hay until you can't walk straight. Sound good?"

"Come on, get serious."

"I _am_ serious, darlin'—sort of," Bubha adds. "Disciplining the human personality into spiritual submission won't get you anywhere except maybe to a therapist or cult."

"But how is continuing all my desire crap going to help?"

"The answer involves the _crap_ you just said. It's the self-judgment you're expressing right now that fuels the racket. Judgment and guilt about your natural human desires shove those needy urges back into your gut where they holler so loud you can't hear yourself think. Just try some loving acceptance of your earthly desires and see if they don't start quieting down and letting your spiritual ears unclog."

"What about my ego?" The woman persists. "I _know_ that letting go of the ego is vital for moving into a higher aspect of self."

"Yep, transcending one's old ego is a common spiritual punch line that any halfwit can learn—no offense intended. But it takes a full-blown fool to master the cosmic joke that leads to actually grasping the ultimate punch line." Bubha acknowledges your presence for the first time with a wave and then continues, "And we are fortunate to have a newborn example of a liberated full-blown fool in our midst today."

You just hunch in embarrassment thinking this man to be a dubious guardian angel. "Oh well, apparently my foolish friend has forgotten the joke on himself." Bubha returns his attention to the woman in front. "So back to your punch line whose conclusion makes sense—to let go of identity and ego. But we can't renounce what we don't have. So first make sure you fully know yourself and unconditionally accept who you are, really love yourself even—and then the joke can proceed to the punch line, that you have to surrender your newly beloved self and watch it vanish. Loads of laughs, huh?"

Bubha and his questioner exchange a smile as he shifts to address the full group, "Now back to the topic of satisfying our noisy desires. Herald, if you would be so kind." The guru ceremoniously gestures to the tent where the toothless Herald emerges carrying a used backpack and sleeping bag that, without amnesia, you would recognize as your own.

"We have here two lovely gifts generously donated by a sponsor who remains fully anonymous," Bubha states while taking the backpack from Herald. "First, for every hundred-rupee donation you give to my noble works—that's a measly two bucks for those Americans present—you will be issued one raffle ticket to win this amazing backpack. The drawing will be held on the auspicious Kumba Mehla morning of the new moon. So if the backpack turns out to have been stolen, hey, don't worry about it. Just take a bath that afternoon and wash away all the bad karma." The people around you laugh, some of whom are reaching for their wallets.

"But moving now from the game of chance to a contest of skill," Bubha continues in huckster mode, "from which the winner with wit, the master of mirth, the conqueror of this contest shall walk away with this exceptional goose-down sleeping bag made extra long to fit even the tallest of those handicapped by vertical excess. The bag will also be presented on the auspicious morning of January twenty-fourth to the person who most cleverly answers the question: _What do you get if you cross the Messiah with Viagra?_ "

Only a few people laugh this time, while one woman complains, "That's being a bit disrespectful to Jesus Christ, don't you think?"

Bubha immediately replies, "Yes, ma'am, I _do_ think at times although, granted, maybe not enough. But I've thought plenty about this Jesus character and have concluded that this fine child of God must appreciate a good joke."

"I fail to see that crossing Jesus with Viagra is a good joke," she proffers.

"Well, if you kindly give me another moment of your time I'll share an epiphany I had as a boy that helped put Jesus and humor into perspective for me."

People settle back to listen as Bubha continues, "First I have to admit that I was born in Texas, USA, and attended a church that allowed we of chocolate-colored skin to attend. Liberal would be too strong a word for its congregation but it was open enough to invite a guest pastor who was one of those progressives who was supposed to attract young people back into the fold."

Bubha rolls up the orange sleeves of his robe as he continues narrating, "The visiting pastor began with a short discussion on how he thought Jesus had a sense of humor and of the importance of laughter in general. This was back in the day when the, _What do you get when you cross an elephant with a such-and-such,_ jokes were all the rage.

"So this guest minister gets into the meat of the sermon which is a bunch of these jokes but with Jesus in them. Like, _What do you get if you cross Jesus with the Marlboro Man?_ The preacher waits a moment for the congregation to guess the answer, but just gets a tense silence followed by some embarrassed laughter when he exclaims in answer: _Holy smokes!_ Then he tries, _What do you get if you cross the Jolly Green Giant with Jesus? Come on folks, Everlasting Peas._

"Now this punch line actually gets some chuckles going and the preacher keeps pitching them with perfect timing, starting to get the audience to participate. _What would you get if you double-crossed Jesus with a snail?_ he asks.

_"I know_ , someone responds from the congregation, _Judas Escargot._

_"Excellent! Now what would you get if you tried crossing the Red Sea with Jesus?_ Short pause and the preacher states with a smile, _A whole lot wetter than Him!_

"Some applause, then the preacher queries, _What would you get if you tried crossing Mary Magdalene with Jesus?_ Immediately, the police chief who is a deacon at the church deadpans, _Oh, about two to four years, with parole,_ and brought the house down. Even before the laughter dies out the preacher yells over the noise, _What would you get if you crossed Jesus with two thieves?_ He quickly shakes his head as if reconsidering and goes, _Oh, never mind, it already was tried without lasting success._

"So everyone is laughing and clapping while the preacher next gets a calm look on his face and stands sedately at the pulpit waiting for things to quiet down. He lets the silence hold for a few seconds then asks in soft voice, _What would you get if you crossed Jesus with some silly, sacrilegious jokes?_ He pauses one breath then states, _Forgiven._ A couple of amens rise from the pews. Then he asks. _What would you get if you tried crossing Jesus out of your life?_ He gives the answer in somber tone, _Lonesome._ Some more amens.

"Then the preacher starts firing up in the finest Southern tradition proclaiming, _And if you cross your arms with Jesus you'll get embraced! And if you cross your feet with Jesus, you will have your sins washed away!_ Amens and hallelujahs are rising from more and more pews as the spirit surges through the congregation.

"Now the visiting preacher is shouting and prancing all over the front of the church. _If you cross your lips with Jesus, you'll receive the Holy Word! And if you cross your mind with Jesus you get divine inspiration, and if you cross your hands with Jesus you'll be pulled straight up to the pearly gates of heaven. Hallelujah!_ he exclaims with arms reaching to the sky.

"But the guest preacher suddenly slumps and grabs onto the podium like he's about to collapse. The shocked congregation immediately hushes and watches as he turns his drooping head to the regular minister who looks perplexed by all the commotion.

_"Pastor Jake, kindly answer this one for all of us_ , the preacher says in a whisper that carries all the way to the back pew. _What would you get if you cross your heart with Jesus?_

"Pastor Jake takes a moment to ponder and responds tentatively, _Eternal love?_

"The visiting preacher immediately rebuffs him with a limp-wristed gesture and replies, _Oh no, silly. You get a perfectly_ _divine_ _push-up bra_ —leaving the congregation in stunned silence for an instant, followed by pandemonium as the preacher sashays from the pulpit never to be seen again but never forgotten.

"Now _that_ was a sermon." Bubha concludes with a quick nod of his head for emphasis.

Many in the riverside audience are laughing and applauding Bubha's animated performance, but the irritated woman yells above the noise, "Hey, mister liar, Playtex hadn't come out with the Cross-Your-Heart bra back then."

Cy Bubha just shrugs and observes, "Life is story, story is life." He then opens his sinewy arms to the group and with a big smile reminds them to buy raffle tickets from Herald and encourages them to return tomorrow for additional discourse and more valuable prizes provided by a generous sponsor.

The popular guru starts walking towards you but is briefly detained by the critic of his humor with a parting comment, "That sermon story was despicable."

Bubha calmly replies, "Darlin', believe it or not I felt the holy spirit moving through me and through the congregation like wildfire on that day in church. And if the preacher used humor to frame his message or if I embellished it a wee bit, it was not out of disrespect for you or other heavenly offspring," Bubha concludes with a bow of his head.

"Well, I still think you should be ashamed for that Viagra contest question," the woman gets in the final word.

Bubha chuckles as he sits by your side and states, "Shame indeed, second only to big brother _fear_ in charting the course of human history and individual choice. But you of no history and little choice have nothing to fear or to be ashamed of, right?"

You just shrug and say, "How can I argue with a guardian angel who doubles as a stand-up comic?"

"Ah take care, my forgetful ward, in being too agreeable or gullible around me. For I admit to harboring both fear and shame which can lead one to do all sorts of dastardly deeds. In fact, I am prompted to admit a recent scenario behind which lies a large measure of guilt, I fear." You look closely at this man who suddenly appears vulnerable. He is staring at the ground while shaking his head.

"Actually it was a scene from a dream, one that really spooked me," Bubha explains, drawing his phony script from your dream journal that he read the other week. "My dream was of an old kamikaze pilot throwing recording equipment out a window. The kamikaze then blasted the movie camera of a British soldier who shouts encouragement to the kamikaze, but he has a rifle barrel sticking from his mouth. Damn." Bubha shudders, continuing an act that you have swallowed fully, "There must be some deep, hidden shame that is too terrifying to see. Can you help me out on this one, pal?"

You are speechless as a similar—no, the _same_ —dream comes back to your mind in vivid recollection. Finally you respond, "You're not going to believe this."

"Try me," Bubha replies.

"I had the exact same kamikaze dream."

Bubha looks at you with feigned incredulity. "Come on, really?"

"I swear, I remember it in perfect detail just like you described in yours."

He squints at you and challenges, "Who was the guy wearing the British military uniform?"

You think for a moment to identify this obscure actor, then you reply as Bubha joins in unison, "Darren McGavin."

"Jesus cripes..." your voice trails off as you hold your spinning head in disbelief.

Bubha continues the charade by adding, "Don't tell me that you had the nightmare, too, where all those madmen in the asylum come together to shout, _Team!_ —as the steely-eyed nemesis approaches to..."

"Oh my God! How can this be?" you gasp as that scenario also emerges from your dreamtime memory.

"Heck if I know. It can't just be coincidence that we share the same dreams." Bubha's face suddenly brightens. "Hey, maybe you're me. Or I'm your dreamtime duality twin. Or maybe _this_ is all a dream," Bubha posits with a sweep of his arm to indicate the landscape. You look even more confused as the trickster continues, "But for now let's just stick to solid facts—you're four days old and I'm your guardian angel. Here," he says taking your shoulder bag, "let me check your identity papers to confirm your recent birth."

From the bag's side pocket, Bubha pulls out your hallowed note from God which he had written in the cave. He continues, "Actually, you've been reassigned a new guardian angel who reported for duty the other evening during a lovely dinner at the Allahabad Riverview Inn. And she is eager to unite with her ward. Being something of a nonbeliever, she might find this note from God suspicious so I'll keep it while sending you to her awaiting wings."

Your befuddled expression threatens to become a permanent feature as Bubha summons Herald and speaks at length in Hindi while drawing a map in the dirt. The toothless assistant nods with enthusiasm while Bubha pulls you to your feet. "So, my sometimes-sadhu and good buddy, follow this fine Herald to your next adventure and I trust we shall meet again on the rebound." Your former guardian angel turns and strides to his tent without another word.

Herald beckons you to follow as he quickly departs and winds a trail through the early evening scenes of the Kumba Mehla. After a few minutes of brisk walking Herald pulls to a stop and points to a tall, dark-haired woman. Her back is turned and you watch her movements as she cooks over a small open fire. "Guardian angel," Herald proudly gums, his final annunciation complete. He walks away leaving you to take the last steps alone to your awaiting angel.

As you tentatively approach you catch her profile and are stopped cold in your tracks by recognition. Yes, the first familiar face in a month-long sea of forgetfulness has just emerged. But this face belongs in another world, to a nocturnal universe of your dreamtime fantasies and fears. Are you asleep and dreaming? You question yourself, you question reality, and as the woman turns to see who is lurking behind her, you question her. "Alberta?"

"You bet your sweet ass it is," your angel responds, slapping you across the cheek. "That's for standing me up for dinner two nights ago," She then puts her hand gently on your left cheek while kissing your right. "And that's because I've missed you." But this tender respite is brief as Alberta reverts to righteous indignation, "But, damn it, where were you?"

You are speechless, without a clue as to the answer or knowing what to make of this woman. She takes a step back and gives you a good once-over. "Hell, you _do_ look like the Great Pumpkin, if an underfed one. Your little guru pal told me you were attending some Halloween convention with guys dressed in orange, so you sent him in your place for our dinner. Of course I didn't buy that tale or believe much of anything Cy Bubha said that evening, but he is a cute little mindfucker. So what's the real story?"

You stare dumbly at this woman from your dream world and say in a whisper, "I'm not really sure what's going on."

"Now don't tell me that Bubha was for real about your being so into this Great Pumpkin gig that you've forgotten everything else?" You shrug as Alberta suddenly shifts into a serious tone, "You don't remember the January eighteenth dinner date we made at the Riverview Inn?"

You shake your head as she looks you in the eye and states, "You don't even know who I am, do you?"

You respond, "I sort of recognize you from my dreams."

It's Alberta's turn to shake her head. "Damn, Steven, you really are in bad shape."

"That's my name?" you ask.

"Holy shit," she exclaims and plunks herself on the hard ground. She takes your hand pulling you down to sit across from her. "Tell me straight, are you messing with me or is your mind really somewhere beyond the rodeo bleachers?"

You consider then answer, "I don't even know if I'm dreaming this or not."

Alberta looks as stunned as you feel. "We've been through a lot together, sweetie, but this..." She stares into empty space as you look at the ground. After a minute your guardian angel takes a deep breath and shifts gears into her matter-of-fact self. "Well, we always enjoyed teaming up to face the great unknown. Part of what made us so good on stage and in bed together. Right?" She narrows her eyes to peer at you. "You really don't remember any of that?"

You lift your arms in a shrug and are finally able to smile. "Some of my dreams about you were rather...vivid."

"Aha, fighting and fucking in dreamland as well, are we?" she laughs. "Maybe you let yourself win sometimes in your fantasies—recovering nice boys make such lousy fighters." She reaches across and leans into a big hug with you. "It's good to be see you again even as an orange zombie. Actually, this could be kind of fun. Sort of like bringing improv theater to real life and getting to choose whatever roles we want."

You see the wheels turning in her active mind as you ask, "We did theater together?"

"Yep, at Ashoka-ji's ashram during the millennium celebration. Mostly it involved some pretty wild improvisational stuff plus a couple of serious plays. Once, we even got you into a three-piece suit that made you look like a lawyer again," she laughs recalling the role, "although I liked your Tarzan and fetish roles better."

"I was a lawyer?" you ask incredulously as your self-image as a wandering sadhu shatters. Alberta proceeds to answer that question and more, sharing with you what she can about your old life. It is not too much actually. She only met you in Poona slightly over a year ago. Quickly hooked up to do some amateur theater and to share an apartment. Traveled a bit together through India.

"The last time I saw you was in McLeodganj when you were mysteriously leaving but seemed okay. We made the dinner date for January eighteenth, then you disappeared soon after your birthday in December. Hey, that reminds me. I brought you the computer printout of Chapter 17 of The ReMinder that you asked me to copy off the disk." She looks at you expectantly then winces. "Damn, you can't even remember what you wrote?"

"Nope."

"Well, let's share this pot of stew for dinner and then you can read your little manuscript. It might fire up some of that dead brain of yours."

Alberta leads you into a roomy canvas tent that she rented and decorated with colorful bolts of cloth that billow in ripples across the low ceiling. The sides are lined at ground level with bronze Hindu figurines that, upon close inspection, turn out to be simple souvenirs. But the overall effect is quite nice if a bit surreal, particularly with candles filling three corner spaces plus an ornate chamber pot in the fourth. You roll out your blanket in the space by Alberta's sleeping bag and light a few candles in the fading twilight as your tent mate enters with dinner.

"Don't get fooled into thinking that I always treat you this kindly. I'm just going easy on you in your weakened condition," she warns with a friendly pinch of your cheek. "It's no fun kicking a dog when he's down."

You in fact eat like a hungry dog, ravenous from the recent days of little nourishment. You feel your body taking in the sustenance of both food and the companionship of this unlikely guardian angel. After dining, Alberta exits to fetch water while you gather up pages of your forgotten past. And you read:

The ReMinder: Chapter 17

My apologies, dear readers, for falsely promising in Chapter 15 that chronology was to become the crowning ally of logic in guiding the jumbled course of The ReMinder. Moreover, after cogitating on the roots of chronology and crown, it seems that I erred in equating the two. C _hronos_ must certainly be Latin for 'time', as in chronometer, while _corona_ is likely 'crown' as used in coronation and in Corona, the Mexican pale ale.

Combining these two roots, chronos and corona, brings to mind the commercial jingle, _If you've got the time, we've got the beer._ But that actually involved Miller Time ( _chronos lepidoptera_ ) rather than Corona ale ( _equis nada_ ) so I best move from amateur lexicography to storytelling before further mixing my drinks and phyla.

The one thing that stands clear about the crowning temporal truth here in India is that when I first arrived, time took on a new dimension. No, not in some romantic notion of an eternal Hindu heartbeat, but time-altering in the sense that during the five-hour shuttle ride from the Mumbai airport to the city of Poona I inhaled more pollutants on the congested two lane highway than in the previous five _years_ of breathing in the United States. Also, on the average of every ten minutes my ride would experience an alarming close call with an onrushing vehicle that would qualify as a once in a lifetime brush with death on American highways.

I survived this harrowing time warp to arrive in Poona and quickly retreated into a community of fellow seekers, primarily European in origin, who maintained a lovely spiritual center which reflected the teachings and tenets of their guru who had died—excuse me, who had _left his body_ —nearly a decade previously. Theater, dance, cathartic exercises, and meditation were some of the many interesting offerings at the institute that helped this dedicated seeker probe his inner world. The most valuable tool there for delving deeper into truth, however, proved to be new lover, Alberta, who in tandem with India formed a formidable duo to grapple me into the shadowy corners of my underworld.

At one point after emerging from an undercover clinch with Alberta, we decided to brave the challenge of exploring more of India. Heading north to the beauty of India's Himalayan region in April we discovered Phool Chatti Ashram which lived up nicely to its name, a _refuge of flowers_ (as translated by its personable head swami). Alberta and I then went separate ways to play tourist and spiritual pilgrim in our respective modes. I ended up returning to south India during the summer in order to—

*******

"Damn, Alberta," you call out as she re-enters the tent, "I thought you said that The ReMinder was an important cathartic release for me. All I see in this chapter is some contrived word play then an awkward segue into little more than a dull travel report," you comment while skimming through the Chapter 17 pages. "Did I really write sixteen previous chapters of this kind of pap?"

"No, but you did seem to lose your mojo in the last days of writing in McLeodganj. Even you saw it happening," she adds while directing you to the last page of the chapter in hand.

While Alberta gets ready for bed, you read the final paragraphs that brought your re-Minder writing to an abrupt halt:

...Thus I was inspired to conclude that instead of sampling more of India's spiritual fare, my time would be better spent retreating into seclusion at Phool Chatti Ashram to explore the hidden aspects of mind through attentive dream work.

Returning to Phool Chatti in mid-September, a garden hut and Ganga roar proved lovely stimuli for a rich dream life as well as inspiration for giving birth to this written benediction and catharsis for my old Identity. These two efforts—recording dreams and composing The ReMinder—like sturdy arms of a slingshot were to launch me into new worlds of mindfulness and bliss aided by book royalties galore to send me off in style.

Nearly three months later the optimist sits now in McLeodganj feeling tremors of doubt as the juggernaut of lofty intentions shows signs of slowing. In fact, I must admit that both arms of my symbolic slingshot have become flaccid. Where have those fresh creative juices gone that flowed in resonance with the mighty Ganga on rooftop perch to bring wit, wonder, and insight to my inner world? Plus, ever since the kamikaze pilot showed his cowardly head and destroyed the dreamtime monitoring equipment last week, instead of transcribing six or more dreams each night, I have been left with remembering only the one I happen to awaken to each morning.

Nope, something or someone has got to give. The who that gives is clear, but the where, how, and what I must relinquish demands further exploration. So begging your indulgence for the time being, I depart from this sluggish train of thought of The ReMinder in order to board another locomotive steaming eastward. Admittedly, the initial stop is already in mind along the route—a little kinkiness in the chain of thought—but I shall keep that veiled until reaching the unknown final destination.

Kinks in the links of this chain of fools. Slink to the brink of memory's jewels.

See you on the other side.

\--- The ReMinder in indefinite limbo ---

"How did you say you got hold of this chapter?" you ask the woman lying next to you in her sleeping bag. You put down the manuscript pages and pull the blanket closer around your bare shoulders on the cool ground as the late evening sounds of the Kumba Mehla drift through Alberta's colorful tent.

"You'd just finished composing that last chapter on your way out of town," she replies, "and asked me to print it off and bring it to our Allahabad dinner date."

"Do you have any idea where I was mysteriously planning to go in mid-December after leaving you in McLeodganj?"

"Nope, just that you had a train ticket to Delhi. From there, who knows?" Alberta rolls against you and gives you a long kiss on the lips. "But now my traveling trooper has returned from the front, battered and shell-shocked." The kiss was delightful.

You look at Alberta and she at you. "Do we love each other?" you ask.

"What do you think?" she asks playfully.

You take a moment then conclude, "How can a man know love if he doesn't even know himself?"

"That's a sensible conclusion. And pretty close to the answer you'd have given if you had your memory."

"Well, do we love each other?" you pursue an answer from your evasive companion.

Alberta inhales a deep breath before responding. "The answer is no, primarily because we agree that there is no such thing as loving someone or something. _I love you_ is just a construct that if you hear and say enough times you grow up blindly accepting such a notion."

"That sounds pretty harsh."

"Not at all, my clueless friend. It actually has been quite joyful and liberating to finally quit working to get people to love me or trying to convince myself that I love them. It's all an impossible dream anyway."

"Excuse me for arguing from my fog of forgetfulness but I do seem to _know_ that two people can feel love together."

"Absolutely, and what a beautiful experience to be in a state of love together—or for that matter to be in a state of love while alone in nature or meditating or twiddling your thumbs. But now, Romeo, see if you can discern the difference between these two statements: _Darling, I'm in love with YOU_ , versus, _WITH you, I'm in love_."

You shake your head. "Sorry, I'm a little slow on the uptake."

"Let's just forget the topic until the Great Pumpkin returns with your memory, okay?" Alberta concludes while readjusting her position on the ground.

But you keep trying to fit this into context and finally ask, "So romance is dead?"

"No, my dear, just your brain. Romance is alive and well. I love to go madly into some romance and drama and sex and trying to get emotional goodies with a partner. You feel the same way and we're damn good at throwing ourselves into the part and having a grand time. But if either of us went back into our old addictions and illusions that this is a state of true love, the other would run like a scared bunny."

"Do you think this has anything to do with why I left McLeodganj?"

"Highly doubtful. In December we were more into humping like rabbits than running like them," she laughs and rolls on top of you, sleeping bag and all.

As she ardently kisses your neck and ears you begin to feel like the nervous bunny. The electricity is a little much for your system and you finally protest, "I'm sorry, but I really don't know you or even myself. I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good at sex right now." You _sound_ like a scared rabbit as well.

Alberta backs off with a disgruntled look on her face. "Damn, you're still sitting out there just watching, aren't you?" She studies your expression for a moment and softens a bit. "Okay, sweetie, I'll give you a break but just for now. I will do my enthusiastic best to remind you in eight hours that morning is my favorite time for making good use of that lovely erection you always seem to begin the day with."

And she blows out the candles, neither of you realizing that your memory of today will fail to arise with your erection of the morn.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Looking ahead a bit, I can confirm that the sun rises along with the sexual appendage of interest. Call me old fashioned, but I think a feller has a right to his bedroom privacy. Plus I don't see how tomorrow morning's awakening is going to promote anything in this story except to add another blow to the dignity of our forgetful character. So let's jump to the riverside where that Cy Bubha trickster is serving up breakfast and his next plateful of philosophy.

**SHOSHONI:** Indeed, master trail boss, I applaud your desire to maintain Steven's dignity and the quality of the story. Again, we find ourselves working together to move the tale along in an efficient yet elucidating manner. Well done.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Thank you, madam, although I have to admit to getting a mite nervous when you start sweet-talking me. What's on your pretty little mind this time?

**SHOSHONI:** I do not mean to sound crass, but Steven's sexual appendage and its attempted use by a former Miss Junior Stampede provide insight and context into the important male-female issues with which he struggles.

**TRAIL BOSS:** So you want us to raise the curtain to allow full exposure on whatever spectacles emerge from the combination of amnesia, an erection, and the desires of this rodeo queen?

**SHOSHONI:** If you would be so kind, yes.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Well, the Shoshonis I've met along the trail have always been wise people, so I will defer to your judgment and fine name on this one.

**SHOSHONI:** Excellent. And yes, Shoshoni is a fine name, is it not? I adopted it just this week and I am already rather fond of it.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Say, did your name use to...

**SHOSHONI:** Stop right there lest we give away too much too soon. For now, let us move our attention to the more provincial name of Alberta and its owner who has recently roused from her slumber and begun her expressions of sexual intimacy.

## JANUARY 21 – early next morning

"Oh, for crying out loud. What's your problem now?" the naked woman complains as you awaken sputtering against her kisses.

You open your eyes to a face from dreamtime glowering at you. "Alberta?" you ask in shock, looking desperately around the decorated tent to get oriented. "Am I dreaming?"

"Geezus, I thought we went through all this last evening," Alberta grumbles, reaching down your blanket to remind you with a vigorous grasp and rhythmic motion of the topic at hand. "The scared rabbit routine won't work a second time, sweetie, not when you're standing so rigid at the ready." Her movements grow more enthusiastic as she removes your cover and mounts your ready, if not particularly willing self.

A sense of panic is growing, a feeling of being out of control. Where in blazes are you? Billowing cloth is above, the hard ground below, and a drum majorette from dreamtime is gyrating atop you trying without success to get you to join the beat. "I'm sorry," you gulp as you free yourself, "but I don't know where I am."

"You're up shit creek, that's where you are," Alberta retorts as she yanks your blanket around her shoulders. "I'll give you one minute to fully wake up and start showing some respect to a lady."

You gaze around the canvas enclosure feeling bewildered. "I _am_ fully awake but I don't remember a thing."

Alberta closes her eyes in frustration, "Damn, it's déjà vu all over again. Not a whit of memory, eh?"

You shake your head. Alberta falls onto her back staring up at the multi-colored cloth decoratively hung from the tent's ceiling. She begins speaking and takes the next ten minutes to explain all she knows about you and the current situation. Only her mention of the Kumba Mehla strikes any chord in your flat memory. "So you can understand," she concludes, "why I was pissed at you for acting like some virgin bride this morning."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Love means never having to say you're sorry," she quips sarcastically.

You look at Alberta not quite knowing what to make of her. You ask, "Do we love each other?"

She gets a bored look on her face and replies, "Sure, why not?" After a brief silence Alberta states with significantly more feeling, "You know what really ticks me off is that pipsqueak swami who didn't bother to tell me any of this at our dinner the other evening. Why the hell couldn't Cy Bubha have warned me about your _recurring_ amnesia?"

"Maybe he didn't know," you speculate about this unknown person.

"No, Bubha is a shrewd little bastard. He knew a lot more than he was telling me over dinner. Get dressed," she commands jumping to her feet, "and we'll crash his little revival down by the riverside."

The walk together along the Ganga takes you through a plethora of morning sights, sounds, and smells. Some are pleasant, some discordant, but the overall effect is one of distinctive harmony arising from the chaos—India at its best. You arrive at a small open space above which flies the banner announcing, _Shri Shri Cy Bubha, a Postle of Light_. To the side of the clearing is a wooden booth housing _Bubha's Country Kitchen and T-shirt Stand_. The breakfast special of huevos rancheros, toast, and homefries has attracted a number of hungry Westerners sitting in the open and enjoying a taste of Texas.

"Ah, my flock returneth," declares a voice shouting from a large tent entrance. A robed man emerges with long arms spread in greeting and blessing.

"You creep," Alberta responds, "why didn't you tell me he awakens as a zombie each morning?"

"And spoil the fun of the lovebirds' reunion?" Bubha replies walking towards you. "Nothing like a little surprise to spice up the dullness of relationship. Howdy, zombie boy, how's it hangin'?"

Alberta immediately answers for you, "It's hanging fine but he doesn't have a clue what to do with it anymore, damn it. And you were no help."

"Well, a sexacologist I am not, but a chef I be. My trainees behind the counter are still learning the nuances of country cookin' but I can offer you a humble taste of home at India prices. It's a great means for attracting Westerners and their cash into my web, both of which I convince with golden tongue to remain steadfast with me."

"You really are a manipulative bastard," remarks Alberta as she turns toward the breakfast booth.

"We all manipulate, my dear," Bubha counters. "Some of us are just more forthright about it."

"I still say you should have helped out your forgetful friend and me a bit more."

"And how, pray tell, should I have accomplished that? You wish me to play God, to presume that I knew what was best for you then control events to bring the proper results? Oh, I could have made things go more smoothly for you, made the sheep more comfortable and received bleats of gratitude for being such a nice guy. But is that helping you? Nay, all a humble servant can do for his fellow man is to be honest."

"You call your antics _being honest_?" asks Alberta incredulously.

"I do indeed," Bubha proclaims. "To be honest in expressing who I truly am, to be honest in following my _yes_ at any given moment without pretense—this is the mark of an honorable man who serves the world to his fullest capacity. And it takes courage to follow this path of truth when ignorant folk sling slurs at you such as _creep_."

The guru holds up a restraining hand as Alberta takes a breath to protest. He announces, "Let us pause for peaceful dining since those running on empty stomachs are at a disadvantage to my speedy charge into the philosophic. Huevos rancheros, amigos?"

Bubha escorts you both to the food counter then wanders off to visit with other diners. You and Alberta tote steaming breakfasts to a spot under the banner and sit cross-legged on the ground. A few trees and a stretch of boulders are the only things lying between you and the sacred Ganga. It is a beautiful view, with several morning bathers at the nearby shore and several million people in the tent city elsewhere around you.

"You say I'm supposed to know this guy, this Shri Shri Cy Bubha?" you ask Alberta after enjoying a mouthful of spicy eggs.

"Well, he said you sent him in your place for dinner on the eighteenth while you went off swaddled in orange searching for the Great Pumpkin or some such nonsense. He wouldn't respond seriously to my questions about you or what had really happened. He was witty, charming, intelligent, and damned evasive that evening." Alberta reflects a moment and states, "The creep's right, though."

"About what?"

"That we serve the world best by being honest with what we feel rather than by trying to do what our little brain thinks is right for others. I'd much rather be with the guy who knows what he wants and goes for it openly, than be with the one who is trying so hard to figure out what makes me happy."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. We _all_ are only trying to get what we want, that's basic human nature. Those _nice_ guys are unconsciously manipulating me instead of clearly taking care of their own needs for happiness, approval, control, self-gratification, whatever. You'd agree if you remembered anything about your past."

"Oh, but I do agree wholeheartedly," Bubha's voice chimes in from behind. "Sorry to interrupt but it's hard not to eavesdrop when someone is capitulating to my wisdom."

Alberta shrugs and concludes, "It just seems like it would be a safer world if we admitted that we are trying to get our needs met—and then go for it honestly."

"So you saw, _Eat, Drink, Screw, Sleep_ , too," Bubha laughs as he sits.

"Actually I did, but I think it all starts with _suck_. Just scream and holler until we get the nipple flowing with milk. Who gives a blip if Mommy is sleeping. With age, we only learn to suck off others more subtly and less honestly."

"My dear," Bubha raises his teacup in toast, "you sound as cynical as I and nearly as wise. Hear-hear." He then turns to you and asks, "So, buddy boy, how does it feel to be at the mercy of two self-indulgent hedonists who see the world as their oyster and you the shill to pry open?"

Alberta adds, "And who believe that the honest expression of our needs serves each other in a perfect cosmic dance?" They clink teacups and laugh.

"A little scary for one without memory, I would imagine," Bubha continues as he looks again to you. "You could end up being robbed blind in a cave and left to wander like a lost soul if that were someone's idea of a good joke and a source of needed income."

Before you have a chance to respond Bubha hollers at the breakfast booth, "Hey guys, bring my good buddy here some more huevos." He then stands, "Sorry, but I've got to start my guru gig before the audience leaves for better food. Hang around to listen if you want."

"Thanks but that was enough bull for now," Alberta responds. "I'm going to take zombie boy for a walk after breakfast. Maybe I can get him retrained in the eat, drink, suck, and screw cycles of life."

Bubha laughs, "Have fun, homeboy. And ya'll come back tomorrow for grits."

You sit in the swirl created by this rapid exchange of words, questioning whether these two people are really your friends.

BY EVENING YOU are exhausted as you finally return with Alberta to the tent after a day filled with the life cycle of eat, drink, walk, shop—and little energy left for anything else. You did, however, have some pleasant stops to rest and watch the plethora of pilgrims at the Kumba Mehla festival. Plus, it was interesting to observe Alberta bargain in her fluent Hindi with the booth vendors, although you have no idea what she will do with some of the exotic items purchased.

What a woman to have as a tour guide through the one day of your current life—and the keeper of your memory at night. She has so many sides, you think, as you watch your companion unpack her purchases that add to the surreal look of the tent's interior. Yes, you could imagine that she is a great partner for doing improvisational theater. Wild, spontaneous, sensitive to those around her. Probably great in bed if you could keep up with her—not something you care to try under current conditions. But Alberta is understanding as you hang up your sadhu clothes and wrap your nude body snugly in the blanket. She kisses you gently, blows out the candles, and zips into the bag next to you. You feel a hand resting tenderly on your side as you drift into a sound sleep.

## JANUARY 22 – the following dawn

Alberta awakens in the early morning light and arises carefully so as not to disturb your slumber. She makes use of the chamber pot, takes some swigs from a water bottle, then loosely fastens a flowing robe around her that she purchased yesterday for the upcoming occasion. Stepping back to where you are lying, she looks tenderly at your sleeping self and smiles. She then straightens her shoulders, assumes a stern demeanor and shouts, "How in Athena's name did you sneak thy way into the inner sanctum?"

You awaken with a start to see a woman in white robe looming above you amidst billowing colored cloth. "Answer me plebe or I shall call the guards who will dispatch thy worthless life in five seconds." The woman raises her hands as if to clap in summons, still scowling at your plebian presence lying in a blanket.

"Wait," is all you can think to say in the fog of your mind. Then the woman's face breaks through the mists of your dreamtime memory and you ask, "Alberta?"

Her raised hands turn to fists. "How dare ye mock the High Priestess with the name of a commoner. Explain thyself or die." You are without explanation, your mouth open but unmoving, your eyes filling with panic as the priestess turns to summon the guards. Then the tide shifts as she slowly pivots back to face you, her look of sudden comprehension shows with a sly smile. In one smooth motion she whips the blanket from your naked body.

"Ah, just as I thought, an acolyte coming to worship the Goddess," she nods staring at your erection. "Fool that you are, not knowing that any man who entereth the inner sanctum unbidden shall lose his memory. Were you not aware of this price thou payest for ecstasy?"

You simply shake your head like a fool, wondering if this is all a dream.

"But thou art blest this morning, acolyte," she continues as her robe falls open with a shake of her shoulders exposing a tantalizing corridor of naked flesh and curls. "For the High Priestess is eager and ready for worship this morning in the ritual of the Triple Gem. Have ye heard tell of this ceremony, plebe?"

A second nervous shake of your muddled head accompanies the priestess' provocative shimmy that sends her robe tumbling to the ground. Even through your anxiety, you cannot take your eyes off of this stunning display of womanhood standing before you in full glory.

"Some men live to tell the tale," she says while slowly walking around you, "some do not. But do not worry, acolyte, for upon the third climax of the Priestess—after three orgasmic gems—ye shall be given back your identity and released to reenter the world of mortals. Doth ye follow instructions well?" You can only gaze in amazement, still wondering if this is a dream as she lowers herself to your lips.

NO, IT WAS NOT a dream, and yes, you received your identity if not memory. Following her third sparkling gem, Alberta explained all she could about your life and situation, ending with a kiss on your nose. You lie silently afterwards, listening to the clamor of the Kumba Mehla outside the tent—sounds previously explained as chanting and drumming of temple servants preparing a post-Triple Gem feast. The charade is over and you are filled with conflicting emotions as you watch this wild, creative, and manipulative woman get dressed.

"Maybe we can catch a late breakfast at Cy Bubha's if you don't mind grits," Alberta suggests as she tosses you a pile of orange clothing.

You take some time to unbundle the garb and finally say, "I don't know what to think."

"Good, get used to that condition, sweetie, and be grateful for experiencing the best sex we've had since Poona."

"But it was such a controlling thing to do to someone with amnesia."

"Oh for pity sake, the Steven I know would be laughing at the Triple Gem Ceremony and congratulating me on a fine performance," she says while sitting by your side and taking your hand. "And using his imagination to come up with the rousing ritual of the Family Jewels or some such sweet revenge."

You smile and shrug as Alberta continues, "Would you prefer that I gently awaken your fragile self and we civilly take all day to sort things out? Hell, amnesia at night would be a mercy killing if we just created those kind of memories each day."

"What _do_ we have together in our normal life?"

"Hard to describe," Alberta replies while pausing to think. "We are alive and real and operating in the moment. Often in conflict, sometimes in harmony, usually driving each other crazy after a week or two at the level of intensity we burn. Always glad to say good-bye but even more delighted to see each other again when it's time."

"Do we have other lovers?" you ask tentatively.

Alberta laughs and gives you a tender kiss. "The way your body responded this morning I doubt that you have had one in a long time. Let's go get some breakfast."

You and the former temple priestess, after negotiating a circuitous route to the riverside, sit on the ground cross-legged, a plate of grits and fried eggs balanced in each of your laps. An amiable dialogue between Western seekers and Shri Shri Cy Bubha is going full tilt as you idly chew and half-heartedly listen to the discourse. Your mind is focused more on the recent memories with Alberta than on the nature of Oneness or an ongoing debate about the existence of God.

You then notice that Cy Bubha has begun acting like a game show host, making deals that include giving away a used flashlight and a cassette tape entitled, _Instrumental Sweetness_ , along with a portable tape player. He then looks across the group directly at you.

"And now for a real treasure," Bubha continues in non-stop banter as he signals Herald to bring a silver box to him. "Who will swap two American pennies for this valuable box of jewelry?"

"Hey, that American penny thing isn't fair to the rest of us from other countries," a woman in front protests in a thick European accent.

"You're right, darlin'. So what country are you from?"

"Russia."

"Okay, I'll trade this jewelry for two American pennies or two Bolivian pesos," Bubha proclaims as he again prowls the audience for a lucky winner. He arrives to where you are sitting, grabs your arm, and pulls you up front while addressing the irritated Russian, "You're on the wrong planet if you expect fairness.

"Wow, what a surprise!" he continues as he fishes two pennies out of the side pocket of your shoulder bag. "An enthusiastic contestant is delighted to trade his pennies from heaven for this box of precious jewels."

You look through the assortment of clip-on earrings and other jewelry that this man has just handed you, feeling awkward in front of the group. "What would I do with this stuff?" you ask the guru as you give him back the box.

"My question exactly and maybe you'll remember the answer someday. But I can see you are currently eager to trade your jewels for what's behind the curtain." He points to the table where Herald is holding a dirty dishcloth like a tiny curtain. While handing the box of jewelry to the Russian woman Bubha adds as a quick aside, "No fairness on this planet, comrade, but plenty of abundance. It's all yours."

The master of ceremony then signals Herald to drop the curtain as he grabs the unveiled object and shouts, "An authentic souvenir tile from beautiful Sedona, Arizona! A gift that keeps on giving to remind its lucky winner that, _There's no gift like the present_ —and no tomorrow if you get lost in the vortex. Congratulations, pal," Bubha says handing you the Sedona tile and shoving you back towards Alberta. "And don't lose it," he adds with a serious expression.

You stare at the colorful souvenir feeling happy, almost relieved, to have it although you have no understanding as to why. You sit back down next to Alberta and show her the tile. "Something is plenty fishy here," she whispers. "Let's get out of this trickster's web and have a little chat."

The two of you stand to leave while Bubha waves a farewell without missing a beat in his wheeling and dealing. "And what would you trade for this lovely digital watch? The damn alarm rings at one o'clock every night but what the hey."

You are out of range to hear the outcome of Cy Bubha's latest deal as Alberta observes, "That likable little creep is a hard one to figure. He's holding all the cards but still playing them close to his chest. I wish I knew what he's up to."

"How so?" you ask.

"Take that Sedona tile in your grubby hand for instance. Are you grateful to him for it?"

"Well, yeah, it's pretty and it feels kind of nice to have."

"It was yours to start with, zombie boy. Or at least ever since a blonde friend from Poona gave it to you after some cozy energy work. Plus if I had gotten a better look at that jewelry Bubha was giving away I bet I would have recognized it as well."

"You think he stole it from you?" you react with shock.

"Nope, from you, prince charming. You actually don't look half bad in earrings and accessories on stage. And my guess is that those were your flashlight and tape player he traded away. Plus, how did Bubha know about the two pennies in your shoulder bag unless he had put them there himself?"

You and Alberta walk slowly into the heart of the Kumba Mehla as these questions and quandaries follow your footsteps. You pause at times to discuss the mysteries but mostly just enjoy the three-ring circus of the Kumba Mehla—swimming in the Ganga, trying out various food stalls, and watching holy men, sadhus, and charlatans go through various gyrations on their paths to self-realization.

At the end of the long day you lie in your blanket by candlelight inspecting the souvenir tile that holds your fascination. You are distracted as well by Alberta in a revealing robe unpacking the fruits of her latest shopping efforts. "A pair of purple socks, a souvenir knife with curved blade, and a yellow turban," you observe with a laugh while watching her. "The height of fashion for the well-dressed pilgrim."

"Depends on which planet you're visiting." She wiggles her index fingers at her temples like alien antennae as she joins you with an embrace.

"Who did you say first gave me this Sedona tile?" you ask while enjoying the warmth of Alberta's body.

"A woman you know from Poona named Prema. Or at least _Prema_ was it last I heard. That gal changes her spiritual name as often as her panties."

"What's she like?"

"Well, let's just say she is a petite woman who has a huge doorway to her heart—and with the knockers to match. You are one of the brave, the many, who have taken advantage of her gifts of energy and openness."

"You sound cynical."

"Not really. I actually respect that Prema goes for what she wants. Maybe after watching this Bubha fellow in action, I sound suspicious of everyone. Quite a day, wasn't it?" she asks giving you a long kiss.

"Best one I can remember," you answer drolly.

Alberta smiles back. "You can say that again, or at least you will tomorrow evening."

"Uh-oh, I think you've already made some plans for our next wake-up skit," you conclude while looking into your companion's mischievous face. She stays mum and gives a noncommittal tilt of her head.

"You do realize," you say in gentle warning, "it was quite a shock to my system this morning to be awakened by an angry priestess who manipulated me that way?"

"Are you whining, acolyte?"

"No, but I am serious about your being a little more considerate of my disoriented morning self, okay? Waking up to full amnesia is no picnic."

Alberta coos reassuringly as she settles into her sleeping bag, "Not to worry, sweetie, not to worry."

## JANUARY 23 – early next morning

"Deliver or die, slave!"

Your morning wakeup call has arrived, standing with one foot on either side of your chest. Through bleary and astounded eyes, you see a giant of a woman looming above you cleaning her fingernails with the point of a curved knife. She is wearing purple knee socks, a yellow turban, jangling bracelets, and nothing else but a scowl.

"Is there something you don't understand about these options, slave?" she asks squatting down to sit on your chest. "Sex or death. Simple choice."

Through some distant memory of dreams her face looks familiar. "Alberta?" you ask tentatively.

"Damn," the woman exclaims with a frown, "they promised to fully erase your memory banks before delivery. No use trying to reprogram a slave with old loyalties intact. What else do you remember?" she asks looking sternly down into your face.

"Nothing," you mumble as her words take form in your hazy mind. "Slave?"

"Look, I won you fair and square in a card game on the fifth sister of the Pleiades, so don't go whining about freedom or some such nonsense." She gets off you so that breathing comes easier but your mind is still in a fog, not knowing if this is a nightmare, reality, or what. "Actually, I'm told you are a loyal and devoted slave. A bit small for your height but functional," she adds whipping off your blanket and checking out your morning erection.

"What the...?" you murmur as you grab back the blanket, jump up and head for the tent exit. Sunlight flooding in from the east stops you blind as you open the flap. When your eyes adjust to the brilliance you spy an encampment of endless tents and people. Sounds of nearby drumming and chanting fill your ears.

"This Rigel Seven spaceport always has a hellacious backlog, but not to worry," the woman purrs as arms wrap around you from behind followed by the press of her body against your back. "It will give us time to get acquainted and start creating your new memory patterns."

You feel kisses on the back of your neck and shoulders that send chills down the spine and send your blanket to the ground. The woman closes the tent flap then turns you around to face her. You start to ask another question but she tenderly silences you with kisses on the lips that bring sensations that you can never remember feeling before. Her hands and subtle body movements against your sensitive skin add to the experience that becomes nearly overwhelming.

She is well attuned to your newly awakened senses, however, and keeps the rhythm of touches and kisses to a pace that brings you slowly and surely into the flow. You become captive to the feelings of the moment, to the sensations, to the morning that plays out with this imaginative woman. Her commanding presence and nurturing touches create a seductive web that you eagerly mount, caught in the strands of pleasure, of pain, of delight that are spun by a master weaver.

Even after the charade of slavery is exposed, you remain in the web to weave patterns and pleasures in ways of your choosing while Alberta surrenders to the new sexual rhythms. A forgetful man explores the ebb and flow of energy and juices and emotions that fill the body until the tide cascades again into vessel awaiting, pulsing with the cadence of ancient memory brought to the fore. A sigh of redemption, a cry of release, a prayer for the ages that enslavement among men and women shall end.

The twined couple continues reclining in silent union as the sun journeys well into the sky outside the tent, each fully satisfied with the moment. No past or future tugs at the present to be remembered or defined, no words are spoken to explain and control what comes next. Finally, after getting dressed Alberta leads you through the jumble of tents and campfires, a twisting trail that ends at a bath together in the sacred Ganga. Two foreign pilgrims emerge to sit upon separate rocks along its bank, thoughts drifting with the flow as the river carries its load quietly downstream.

At last, Alberta explains the past and present of your situation. You simply nod in your limited understanding and move into the shade to continue the river vigil. Hunger then shifts the focus to a path leading into the maze of activity; after eating, to retreat together to the privacy of the tent. A nap is followed by another sensual exploration of union amidst duality. A walk, more food, a long meditation session, and the day is nearly done.

You lie in your blanket studying a souvenir tile that gives you a sense of comfort. _There's no gift like the present_ , it proclaims, a message corroborated by this day and the dark woman moving through the tent. She breaks the silence with a question as she removes all the colorful cloth from the ceiling. "Since when did you get so good at meditating for a two-hour stretch?"

You smile as Alberta winces and continues, "Right, stupid question to ask someone with amnesia. But I've never known you to be much of a meditator even though you've suffered through those ten-day Vipassana retreats. Maybe some good is coming out of amnesia to focus that scattered mind of yours. Plus it sure has given us the chance to play in improv like never before. What a day."

"Unforgettable," you reply, "or at least I _hope_ I can remember it come morning."

"We'll just have to make new memories tomorrow." Alberta's tone turns mysterious as she swoops a violet scarf across your face, "At sunrise, we shall probe into the deepest depths and reach for the highest heights on the auspicious new moon day where all bad karma is cleansed by the Ganga." She follows with a swoop of herself down into your arms.

"Is that why you're removing all the tent decorations tonight as part of the big Kumba Mehla bathing ritual tomorrow?" you ask.

"Nope, just a little remodeling to prepare the scene for your next wake-up call. But not to worry, sweetie, nothing quite so vigorous as today's sex marathon."

"Good," you reply, "I think Big Ed is ready for a break."

"More like Fast Eddy finally learning how to slow down before the finish. _Linger longer in beautiful Allahabad!_ " your curvaceous friend adds while striking a provocative pose that will never find its way onto an Allahabad tourist poster. She then resumes gathering every stray decoration causing the tent interior to look worn and plain after she piles the items in one corner under a tarp. You hang onto the Sedona tile, however, and place it near your head while Alberta blows out all but one candle.

"You don't mind if I leave this tile here, do you?" you ask the interior decorator from hell. "Somehow this souvenir has really caught my fancy."

"I guess it won't hurt the stage set for morning. We'll just consider it a curious token to be left for the next daring expedition that attempts to scale the highest heights."

"You didn't buy any pitons and crampons today, did you?" you ask with a quaver, only half-joking about having stage fright over the impending wake-up skit.

Alberta laughs, "No sir, no props or permanent scars in tomorrow's climb. Your job is simply to awaken mindless and confused. Think you can handle it?"

She blows out the last candle as your solemn pledge arises from the darkness, "I promise to do my best, to do my duty to God and my country. To be square and to obey the law of the pack."

"Where did _that_ propaganda come from?"

"The Cub Scout oath, I think."

"God, what a messed up mind," Alberta declares.

You silently concur as sleep approaches to erase all memory of this special day.

## JANUARY 24 – daybreak at new moon

Alberta silently peers through the canvas flap, waiting for the arrival of the sun on the eastern verge. When the first rays reach her position she adjusts the flap to allow a sliver of bright sunlight to penetrate into the tent's bare interior. She steps to where you are peacefully snoring then releases a desperate plea into your ear, "Sir Edmund, wake up. Oh _please_ wake up, darling. You can't die without me!"

You awaken to sharp slaps on your cheek and the strange pleadings of a woman kneeling by your side. "Thank goodness, Edmund, you're still alive!" she gasps as she falls weeping into your arms. "Oh, darling, it's hopeless. The Sherpas have left and we're buried under ten feet of snow. And you're freezing, my poor dear," she says while vigorously rubbing your cheeks.

You look at this distraught woman whose face rings a distant bell from your world of dreams. "Alberta?" you ask.

She wails, "Oh God, no. It's Hillary, Hillary your beloved wife. Can you remember _anything_?"

You try to think through the fog of your mind and nothing emerges. Your answer of _no_ sends Hillary into another fit of lament.

"Oh dear, the final stages of hypothermia have set into your brain," your desperate tent mate cries as she applies a headlock and frantically rubs her knuckles against your scalp, giving you the nugae of a lifetime.

"Hey, that hurts," you whine as you pull away from her resuscitative efforts on your chilled brain. "What in thunder is happening?"

"Oh darling, we failed at scaling Mt. Everest but we still have each other. I love you so much," she sobs, then suddenly looks up with glory shining in her face. "Our bodies will die frozen in darkness at twenty-thousand feet, but our love shall soar together into the next world."

You respond in confusion, "But it's warm and there's bright light coming in through the tent flap."

Hillary throws her body atop yours, desperately pleading, "No, Sir Edmund, don't go into the Light without me! Hold me, darling, hold me. It's so cold and I'm freezing. So cold, so cold..." Her strength wanes as she whispers, "Do you hear the drums and chanting of angels at the tunnel to heaven? So beautiful...so bright and warm...oh, Edmund, now, now...into the Light together..." And she collapses, a dead weight lying on top of you.

"Hillary? Hillary?"

The limp woman does not respond as you gingerly roll her body off you, but her fingers still cling to your blanket as you pull yourself free. You cannot tell if the she is breathing but then a rattling from her throat croaks, "Now, Sir Edmund! If you love me, enter the Light _now_."

You stand and stare at this woman whom you apparently love but cannot remember. Nothing is clear. Everything feels surreal as the etheric drums and chanting echo in your brain. You look at the slit of bright light coming in through the entrance, wondering how it penetrates through the deep snow. You reach down to check on Hillary but a final death-throw jerks her torso into a sitting position topped by a demonic face that would scare the pants off you if you weren't already naked.

"Into the Light, _go_!" she gurgles through bared teeth while one crooked finger points in command that even the hounds of Hades could not disobey. Her wild, bulging eyes stare madly as you turn and lurch out the tent flap, blinded by the brilliant white light.

Staggering into dust, not snow, you shade your eyes from the newly risen sun and observe the various looks of puzzlement, amusement, and disgust that greet your naked entry into the Light. You instantly deduce that this is neither heaven nor the slopes of Mt. Everest as you duck back into the tent to avoid the curious onlookers. There you find a resurrected Hillary rolling on the ground in mad laughter at the success of her theatrical joke.

Anger and confusion mix in your raging mind as you demand, "What the fuck is going on?" But your companion is too convulsed with laughter to respond. You look around the austere tent trying to get oriented when a dash of color from the floor catches your attention. You step over and pick up a souvenir tile depicting a gift box—and your question is instantly answered. Your face, distorted by anger, slowly shifts into a broad and lasting smile.

"Alberta! Alberta, I can remember!"

PART FOUR

"Any half-wit can learn a spiritual punch line.

But only a full-blown fool will master the cosmic joke."

\- Shri Shri Cy Bubha

## JANUARY 24 – morning (continued)

"Hot damn!" you rejoice as the curtain shrouding your memory begins to lift. You stare at the colorful tile in your hand vaguely recalling that a man named Cy Bubha returned it to you the other day.

"And you said it had been a gift to me from a blonde women," you state to Alberta as a mosaic in your mind slowly takes form from pieces of the past. "Prema's her name! Hey, and I remember being with her at a river. This Cy Bubha fellow was around there, too. Where was that?" you ask yourself as the search through percolating memories continues.

"The Ganga?" Alberta adds trying to help her awakening friend.

"Phool Chatti Ashram! Yeah, I remember waking up there morning after morning with this amnesia thing. That's where I was living and where most of my belongings are." You smile in triumph at Alberta but then suddenly flush red with anger. "Damn it, that creep is giving away my stuff. Oh, sweet Jesus, what a set-up!" you exclaim as memories of Bubha drugging you in the cave shine through the widening slit of recollection.

"Come on," you command while grabbing your orange clothes. "We've got to stop that bastard from giving away my sleeping bag and backpack this morning."

Alberta heads for her clothes as well but suddenly stops in bewilderment. She looks at where you have just dropped to the ground holding your head in your hands. "Steven, you look so pale. What's going on?" she asks consolingly.

Alberta joins you on the ground with an arm around your shoulder as you stare into space. You do not want to answer her question. Somehow speaking the words will make this nightmare more intense, more tangible. But there is no awakening into a flood of relief from this current drama. The knot in your stomach is real and so is the shaky voice that finally answers, "I'm wanted for murder."

"Well, did you do it?"

You react with equal parts of anxiety and surprise at her matter-of-fact question. "You think I'm capable of such a thing?"

"Can you remember anything about a murder?" she responds, avoiding your question.

You take a moment to try to bring together all the facts, all the memories floating through your active mind. But they are stopped cold at a large barrier over which you cannot see. Your memory begins on a mid-December morning as you awoke confused and forgetful at Phool Chatti Ashram. Everything before that time remains forgotten.

"Oh shit," you gasp as additional memories push the bad into worse, "that Guruji guy has been controlling my mind, hypnotizing me into amnesia. I bet this Sedona tile is some post-hypnotic trigger to give me back partial memory—and maybe to make me do all sorts of weird things," you deduce while quickly laying the tile face down on the tent floor.

"Sweetie, slow down. Now you're sounding paranoid," Alberta responds with genuine concern. "Guruji is a sweet old guy that wouldn't harm a fly."

"Does he speak English?"

"Of course, quite well."

"See," you reply, feeling the trap tighten. "He was pretending not to know English with me at Phool Chatti. Plus he was monkeying around with my umbrella and my hut and who knows what else." You close your eyes trying to pull together the memories into one clear picture. But even with all the events of the past month vivid in your recollection, nothing really makes sense.

"Do you actually remember Guruji hypnotizing you?"

"No, but Cy Bubha told me about it as Guruji was chasing us through the forest last week."

Alberta nods her head in understanding, "And I bet Bubha was the one who informed you that you're wanted for murder, too, right?"

"Yes, but I _know_ he was telling me the truth when I pinned him down to answer for real."

"Well, what's real with that trickster is anyone's guess. And you could drive a Brahma bull through his version of truth. Time for another trip to the riverside to rescue your goodies and get some answers."

The two of you stand but big brother fear plays its hand. "I think I'd better wait in the tent," you announce.

"Why?"

"The police are looking for me. Bubha said the newspaper reported that the murdered guy's wife was probably here in Allahabad. We were supposedly having an affair."

"Even if that's all true your sadhu disguise will serve you well. Just get dressed and keep the faith."

Your thoughts continue to race as you put on your orange clothing. Details of conversations and dates, even slight variations in your daily routine at Phool Chatti, are now easy to recall—but only those occurring since the morning of December nineteenth. Yes, that is the date when this all seems to have begun, when the mind shut down from the past. Try as you might, you cannot remember any earlier events of your life nor can you begin to make full sense of what has been happening these past few weeks. It seems logical that Guruji hypnotized you into amnesia, you conclude, but Bubha is the one who clearly has been messing with your mind and possessions.

You start walking out the tent with Alberta when you stop with a puzzled look on your face. "You speak Hindi, don't you?"

"Pretty well," she answers.

"Are sadhu guys really into Arnold Schwarzenegger and _The Terminator_?"

"Don't be an idiot."

"But—"

Alberta interrupts, "Just assume that for every stupid question you have, _Shri Shri Cy Bubha_ is the answer."

But neither Bubha nor answers await down by the riverside. Not even his banner remains flying as you see it lying in tatters next to the splintered remains of a former country kitchen. But what makes your heart race and your body duck behind cover is the sight of two Allahabad cops standing by the wreckage.

"Damn, Bubha had my passport after stealing my stuff from the cave," you whisper to Alberta, deducing that the trail to the police's murder suspect must be very hot indeed.

"Don't jump to any hasty conclusions, Steven. I've seen this wreckage dozens of times in India where an illegal vendor failed to pay enough baksheesh to the police. I'll just casually stroll up to check things out," she says trying to sound casual. "But this time I agree that you should lay low just in case they _are_ looking for you as a fugitive."

She gives your arm a squeeze then walks to the clearing and surprises the officers with her fluent Hindi. A short conversation ensues and she returns to your hiding place smiling. "Seems that the holy officials of the Kumba Mehla didn't approve of Cy Bubha's raffle and other innovative ways to seek donations," Alberta reports. "Or at least his techniques raised a few eyebrows and palms that failed to get sufficiently greased."

"Did you find out where Bubha is?"

"I asked but the cops just told me to go find a real guru."

"What to do now?" you ask yourself aloud in an exhale of both relief and concern.

Alberta answers, "Take solace in knowing that your sleeping bag and backpack will likely bring comfort to an officer-of-the-peace in Allahabad. And that our little buddy is savvy enough, I'm certain, to survive this ordeal without losing his cheery disposition or your incriminating passport." She smiles then adds in an upbeat shift of mood, "So how about a sacred bath on this morning of the new moon?"

"Are you kidding?" you respond immediately. "I'm outta here as fast as I can catch a train—which should be easy today with everyone else sticking around for the big bath ceremony."

"Heading to where, super sadhu?"

"As you said, Bubha is the key to all my questions, plus he's the self-appointed trustee of my funds and passport if either remains intact. Since he's probably been banished from this festival my best bet is to try to find him at his little Alamo at Neelkanth village."

Alberta whispers in mock suspense, "Plus that will give the Hardy boy a chance to reconnoiter under cover of darkness at Phool Chatti Ashram where the evil guru lurks with hypnotic web to capture unsuspecting Westerners."

"Come on now," you protest, "this is serious stuff going on. Are you really so sure that Guruji is above reproach? This is India after all." You punctuate the point by nodding toward the ruins of Bubha's encampment.

"To be honest, no, I don't know Guruji well enough to unquestionably vouch for his character. I just hate to see my partner getting paranoid and losing his sense of humor."

"Well, when I finally see something to laugh about in this mess I'll be the first to join you in a good belly whopper. But right now I'm getting out of this city where the wife of a dead cricket player or the police may put me into a headlock without benefit of Hillary's resuscitative nugae."

You smile wanly at your feeble attempt at humor as Alberta gives you a hug. "That's the spirit partner. And I'll be your Nancy Drew for Hindi translations and a little resuscitative nooky when needed. This may even become our most interesting improv piece yet. Although I _will_ miss our amnesia wake-up skits, won't you?"

"No comment, although nicely done this morning, Hillary. In fact, in all three wake-up performances your sense of timing, sadism, and manipulation was impeccable."

Alberta bows. "Thank you, dahling. And to clear out bad karma that may have resulted from such machinations, I will take a quick Ganga dip this morning while you, Sir Edmund, break camp. Agreed?"

**TRAIL BOSS:** Yep, our hero acquiesces, still tending towards being a little too malleable with his questionable guardian angel. But, hot damn indeed, at least he finally got some memory back, giving hope for this wandering wagon train to find its way home.

The scene ahead shows our dynamic duo safely escaping from Allahabad while enjoying cozy sleeping berths on the overnight train, thanks to Alberta's cash. A midday arrival in Laxman Jhula gives them plenty of time to drop Alberta's luggage at Ravi's Place and head up to Neelkanth village. Our character's post-December-nineteenth memory remains sharp so he has no trouble directing the jeep driver curbside to Bubha's Neelkanth apartment building. And there they be, a pair of sleuths standing in the dusty main street of the village.

## January 25 – afternoon of the next day

"That's Bubha's building entrance over there." You point for Alberta's benefit.

"Well?" she prods.

You continue to hesitate, wanting Bubha to be home but fearing what you may hear. So many emotions arise as you think of seeing this long-armed trickster again. You recall your laughter together, his genuine warmth at times, his thievery at others, and the manipulation that left you naked in the dust in the cave. But most pressing of all is the memory of him claiming that you are a man wanted for murder, a fugitive from justice. You _must_ find out for certain so you steel yourself and begin the final steps with Alberta by your side.

You walk into the entryway of Bubha's apartment building then pause a moment to let your eyes adjust to the dim light. The landlord is resting in the corner and looks up to see who has entered.

"Atcha!" he exclaims as he jumps to his feet and hurries to the desk. An excited stream of Hindi accompanies his pointing at you while shaking a newspaper clipping in his hand. Less than one second elapses between your recognizing the picture on the paper and your dash through the door in a wave of anxiety that surpasses any yet experienced. Alberta takes the clipping, briefly notes the caption below a handsome cricket player, thanks the landlord for the information then exits in far less haste than yourself.

Trying to imagine where a scared rabbit would run she heads in the direction leading out the village. Calmly, she sings in lovely voice as she strolls down the street, head and shoulders above the pilgrims in colorful garb who listen to her song. "Come out, come out wherever you are," Alberta warbles with words and melody that are certain to reassure any native Kansan or stray munchkins that no danger lies in the immediate future, "and meet the young lady who fell from a star."

The ploy works as Alberta spots your head peering around a wall. She walks to your hiding place, lifts the Hindi newspaper clipping to reading level, and translates the caption beneath the picture of the man you purportedly murdered, _"_ _India's batsmen displayed superior technique but failed in their bid to defeat their Sri Lankan rivals in yesterday's cricket test in Colombo."_

It takes you a moment to grasp the significance of this sporting report, then you ask tentatively, "So the guy wasn't murdered?"

Your translator answers with a simple, "No."

You don't know whether to laugh or cry or rage in fury. "There's also a note from Bubha attached." Alberta continues reading:

_"How do you spell relief now, homeboy? Just thought you might want this picture as a little souvenir. Nothing like a verdict of acquittal to make the sun shine brighter. Plus you have a passport and money waiting at Phool Chatti Ashram that I left with Guruji, if you dare to face the hypnotic machinations of a master of mind control. Remain vigilant in this treasure hunt since not everyone is as honest as I_."

"What a guy," you state shaking your head. "Is there a date on Bubha's note?"

"The landlord said he left it on his way to pick up the train for the Kumba Mehla last week. Bubha must have been a busy fellow the day after abandoning you in the cave in order to get everything ready for departure. And no, he hasn't returned," she adds, anticipating your next question.

"So it's on to Phool Chatti, eh Agent Scully?"

"Looks that way, Mulder."

"So let's go have some tea and plan out a strategy," you suggest.

"Strategy? To hire a taxi and drive a few miles down the hill?" Alberta looks at you like you're crazy.

"I mean for after we get down to Phool Chatti to scope things out. You know, to make sure this manipulative Guruji doesn't give me a post-hypnotic suggestion that sends me off the deep end or something."

"Good grief, Mulder, isn't being a paranoid idiot _once_ a day enough?"

"Nope, Scully. If you'd lived in a fog of amnesia for a month, been facing a murder charge, and had a stupid souvenir tile trigger your memory, you might be cautious, too."

Alberta thinks for a moment. "Say, maybe it was the Sedona vortex energy in the tile that stimulated your memory."

"Good, now we're both being idiots. Let's go strategize."

AFTER THE STRATEGY SESSION and a ride from Neelkanth, the taxi drops the two special agents at the top of the Phool Chatti driveway rather than proceeding down to the ashram gate. Mulder had lobbied hard with Scully to implement this clever drop-off ploy to avoid detection of their arrival by the ashram's evil swami. He proposed sneaking up on Guruji in his office, thumping him over the head with the ancient typewriter, and searching his drawers for traces of alien artifacts. Agent Scully grew wise to the fact that her partner had reclaimed his sense of humor and she bit his nose in response, inadvertently spilling tea and ending the strategy session. The special agents then hired the taxi that is now motoring away from the drop-off point as they grow serious and reassume their civilian identities.

Alberta walks down the driveway towards the ashram gate hoping to find Guruji. You head stealthily around the garden's side entrance to check on the hut and to begin a quick inventory of your few possessions to see if anything has been pilfered. But shortly after entering the hut your focus of concern shifts dramatically as you rediscover the book entitled, _Meditation and Hypnosis in the Vedic Tradition_.

Of course! There it is, the clue that had been under your nose all along, its scent masked by forgetfulness. You quickly open to the table of contents where your worst fear is confirmed: _Chapter 8: Inducing Amnesia through Hypnotic Trance_. No question now remains in your deductive mind. An ancient technique of hypnotic mind control has been used by a modern-day bastard, Guruji, to manipulate you for weeks. Your satisfaction at unraveling this mystery is short-lived as anger at Guruji flares to the fore. But this emotion, too, is quickly snuffed by a flood of anxiety as you ponder that you likely remain a pliable pawn to the old swami and his post-hypnotic commands.

Your unease is compounded as movement outside the window grabs your attention. A knot forms in the pit of your stomach as you watch Guruji slowly approach with Alberta stumbling behind him with a vacant look on her face and arms dangling limp at her side. Her bearded captor is carrying a metronome under his arm, a tool of his nefarious practice of mind control. Only quick thinking can save you from whatever hypnotic commands—both verbal and visual—lie in his arsenal that he is about to use on you. You immediately wedge a chair under the door handle and implement a clever, albeit noisy, countermeasure as Guruji and Alberta arrive at the hut looking at each other in bewilderment.

"It sounds like the title song to _Oklahoma_ ," Alberta shouts to Guruji above the racket you are making. She takes a step to the nearest window and peers through the bars.

"Oh, for pity sake. Steven! Steven!" Alberta yells at you sitting on the bed with eyes tightly closed and hands firmly over your ears. You hear nothing but your own singing voice and see nothing until you dare to squint to check out the situation. You spy your friend at the window moving her mouth in muffled appeal. Rising from the bed you continue your defensive strategy which at this moment involves some _wavin' wheat that sure smells sweet_.

After moving cautiously to the window to check on Alberta's hypnotic state, you are relieved to note she seems fully lucid and extremely animated in her verbal entreaty which appears from lips to read as, "Shut the fuck up already!" You drop your hands from your ears and learn that your lip reading abilities are accurate. Alberta next commands, "Open the goddamn door." You do and look suspiciously at the swami in the entryway. Your eyes move to glare at the metronome then return to Guruji's face.

"Welcome back, Steven," the elderly swami states shyly. "Your companion said you would find humor in my bringing along the metronome. My apologies for our miscalculation." He bows slightly.

You have the presence of mind to return the courtesy and say, " _Namaste_ ," in appropriate volume, as a gust of embarrassment comes sweeping down the plain onto your reddening face.

Alberta clarifies, "Guruji only agreed to go along with my zombie-girl charade and carry the metronome since I promised never to use obscenities in his ashram or write them in the guest book again."

Guruji turns to her and notes, "A promise you already broke at the window, young lady."

"Whoops, sorry about that."

"And I'm sorry about my noisy reaction to your arrival, Guruji," you say with an apologetic bow. "I had just spotted that book about Vedic hypnosis and let my imagination carry me away."

"No need for apology. And the book is quite relevant to the moment, I might add," the kindly swami continues in mild tone. "I _have_ hypnotized you into amnesia but all in accordance with your requests." Guruji responds to your puzzled look by pulling an envelope from his pocket. "Here, first read this and then we can continue our discussion in more comfort at my office." You take the envelope and see your name scrawled on it in your familiar handwriting.

Guruji continues, "And here is your passport and money along with a note of explanation from Cyrus that he left for you on his way to catch the train for the Kumba Mehla."

"From who?" Alberta asks.

"The gentleman you know as Shri Shri Cy Bubha," the elderly guru explains as he steps back to retreat through the garden. "I will look forward to your arrival at my office, Steven."

"Thank you," is all that you can say to Guruji as you look with continuing confusion at the two envelopes in your hand.

"Well, my singing Sooner, it appears as if you'll be busy sorting through the mystery for awhile," Alberta observes. "I'll head up to the compound, call Ravi for luggage delivery, and rent an ashram bedroom while you piece together some new cause for paranoia."

You look up at Alberta and respond, "Okay, zombie girl, but kindly spare Guruji and me further theatrical embarrassment." Alberta gives you a noncommittal wave as she leaves through the garden. You close the door to the hut, toss the large envelope from Bubha onto a shelf, and open the smaller one with your name and handwriting. Inside is a letter in faint print, apparently composed by you in mid-December on Guruji's old typewriter. You immediately begin reading:

Hello my fellow Creator.

We sit on two sides of the same story, identical twins framing a tale of forgotten memories and new adventures. I am the December director who carefully set the stage with creativity and detail, while you became the actor living the story in its fullness. Did we have an appreciative audience? That audience was you as well, a silent witness, a forgetful man, a pilgrim to the Kumba Mehla--and what more you became these recent weeks I can only imagine. Oh yes, I am you and you I. But a gulf of amnesia seems to muddy our sense of unity, does it not?

Shall we remedy this little inconvenience? The time will soon arrive when we can, or more correctly, when _you_ can elect to unite us. The choice is yours whether to include me--your past self--as part of your future. But Guruji will explain all that shortly. My task of the moment is simply to welcome you back to Phool Chatti and explain how you arrived here.

I am certain you have deduced that the souvenir tile is a key piece of the magic mosaic that carried you home. But let us follow the trail of breadcrumbs back to McLeodganj to where the plan was plotted for your journey, thereby fully empowering your intellect so that you are not left feeling small and toad-like in your cultural depravity.

Do you recognize this little 'toad-like' phrase from The ReMinder? That manuscript was our one daytime bridge of communication across the dimensions of space and time. I took great care in plotting where you would find these three sections of the re-Minder to your past. Our bridge of communication was, of course, supplemented nicely by a plethora of nocturnal dreams that we both can fully recall. I as director could have wiped out your dreamtime memory as well, but I chose to keep the past dreams alive for your entertainment and insight along the path.

Such power I wielded back then before you took the reins on December nineteenth to act out the drama of amnesia. Sitting in my director's chair in McLeodganj while reading a book from Guruji about ancient Vedic practices, I learned that the dedicated seeker with the help of hypnosis can induce amnesia to move more fully into the present. Yes, why not apply a new tool to our fervent search for inner truth particularly as The ReMinder was showing little promise of sending Identity leaping merrily into the abyss, and since new dream work had hit a lull after the kamikaze sabotage.

So I joined Guruji at Phool Chatti in mid-December to create this drama. It is he who has overseen your efforts and is now prepared to answer all questions. Oh, how I wish I could ask questions of you now, particularly regarding the time at the Kumba Mehla with Alberta. By scheduling a dinner date with her for January 18, I wrote Alberta into the amnesia script without her knowledge. I trust that she ably served her supporting role in refreshing ways--bless her imaginative heart and related accouterments.

Through the veil of time, I can vaguely spy you upholding your end of the story. Can you detect me waving across the continuum? A twin of the past, the ghost of remembrance who comes to haunt you with promises of past glory and the pain of yesterday's heartbreak. Farewell for now and best wishes, from the shell of your former self.

P.S. If you hold the shell to an ear, perhaps ye shall hear the ocean roar.

*******

You put down the letter from your past self and you smile. Of course, it all makes sense. Well, not quite _all_ but Guruji should be able to fill in the gaps including explaining this mysterious choice ahead about reclaiming your pre-December nineteenth memory.

But for now you retrieve Bubha's envelope from the shelf and are relieved to again be in possession of a legal passport. The amount of money enclosed, however, appears far short of the nearly $400 worth of rupees that Bubha stole after serving you the Cyrus special tea. You quickly read the accompanying handwritten message that he wrote the day after deserting you at the cave:

Welcome home, Pal.

Now don't get bent out of shape by being $300 shy of expectations. I told you I didn't come cheap, although you paid almost nothing for the benefits received. Hell, for what a weekend at Disneyland costs you got the virtual reality experience of being an accused murderer, getting chased by an old geezer with hypnotic powers, and arising anew in birth from the dark cave of the void. My 50% commission was a pittance and I have tried to minimize expenses. But I knew you'd want me to travel first class to Allahabad, plus paying off the sadhus last evening to relinquish their cave, hiring the toothless Herald to follow you, etc., etc. You lawyers know how these billing procedures work.

Plus it's a damn good thing that I checked in here today with Guruji to see what I should know about your condition of induced amnesia. Seems that a Sedona souvenir tile needs to be in your sweaty palm by new moon day of the Kumba Mehla for you to get back some memory. Quite a little amnesia gig you two have concocted. Guruji is ticked that we ran away from him yesterday morning in the forest, but I told him we had a pressing engagement in a cave that evening for a lesson in holdovers and release. He was confused, but I assured him that we'll be traveling on the same train this evening to Allahabad and not to worry about a thing. And if you are reading this note, then all's well that ends well, eh pal?

But as I recall, your dream ending has something to do with entering a cosmic Library of all-knowing. Well, buddy boy, don't be surprised to find the library closer than you think, perhaps just beyond the fingertips. Simply keep in mind that any half-wit like yourself can learn a spiritual punch line. But only a full-blown fool can master the cosmic joke.

Your devoted servant and tour guide, Cyrus 'Bubha' Rajnish

*******

You put Bubha's note back into the envelope as step-by-step you grow closer to answers to your questions. But new clues and mysteries arise, as well, as you recollect remnants of the past few weeks. You are grateful that the trail of the moment clearly leads to the promise of answers at the ashram office as you follow the path through the garden to where Guruji waits behind his desk.

He beckons you into the office while stating, "I again express my regret at bringing the metronome to your room as some sort of joke. I fear I tend to become too agreeable in the presence of the fairer sex."

"Alberta can be convincing," you agree with a smile, "but no need to apologize."

"What is that American expression that Prema uses for me?" Guruji looks into space until recalling the word. " _Creampuff_ , I believe."

You laugh and ask, "So you know Prema well?"

"Like yourself, she has become a frequent visitor to my ashram. Lovely girl and a bit too persuasive at times, I admit." Guruji's thoughts drift from the room but soon return to the moment carrying the thread that had gone through his head. "Indeed, the in-breath and out-breath, the male and female, pain and pleasure are all one of the same coin, are they not?"

"So it seems," you reply not quite sure what you are agreeing to.

"Well," Guruji states while clearing his throat, "you are approaching a critical moment of decision in the amnesia process and one that requires preparation. Clarity is essential, so instead of my feigning ignorance of the English language in order to avoid your queries the past weeks, I will welcome your questions and shall be clear and thorough in my explanation of recent events."

"I'm all ears," you respond, encouraging your teacher to continue.

"On December eighteenth we undertook a lengthy hypnosis session to imprint you with the desired pattern of amnesia that you had chosen. This included programming you to a basic daily schedule of morning exercises, meditation sits, a Ganga bath, dream work, meals and the like. These were designed to provide a healthy daily routine as well as to keep you occupied in order to prevent too many excursions from the ashram. Outside interference can be a problem in this Vedic practice and may lead the student astray."

"Was Cy Bubha an example of this interference?" you query.

"Precisely. Cyrus nearly ruined the exercise with his curiosity and, shall we say, his overreaching. You had been hypnotically programmed to resist informing others of your amnesia and to have fear arise at the prospect of people discovering your condition. But this was not enough to prevent you from being caught in Cyrus's distractions. Of course, the monkeys that swept into your camp by the river were another unforeseeable influence on your unfolding program."

"How do you know about the monkey that stole my bananas and wake-up note?" you ask with surprise since you had not yet mentioned anything to Guruji about your journey away from the ashram.

"Cyrus filled me in on his way to the Kumba Mehla train—at least to the extent he chose to share the facts. I in turn gave him an overview of our hypnotic amnesia work and handed him the souvenir tile to present to you at the festival before the new moon day."

"Does the tile have special meaning or energy?"

"No, you simply selected this possession as the post-hypnotic trigger for first, stimulating your desire to attend the Kumba Mehla, and second, for bringing back partial memory when you saw it on the day of the new moon in Allahabad. You had developed quite an intricate scheme and it worked nicely."

"Was it you, Guruji, who also brought into my hut the note admonishing against nude bathing after Prema and I had done so?"

"Yes," the swami replies curtly, "after an eye-witness reported your questionable riverside frolic with sweet Prema."

"But that beach is so well protected, I can't imagine someone watching us there," you continue with a questioning look. Guruji remains silent and awaits the next query from his pupil. After realizing no further beach explanation is forthcoming, you ask about another mystery, "Say, did you sneak into my hut one rainy night to take my turquoise umbrella, and why did you give it back to me at lunch pretending it was a gift?"

"Swami Nageet, my slender assistant, said he found the umbrella outside my office that morning. I simply returned it to you in the dining hall with gestures to indicate that it was yours." Guruji suddenly shifts tone as if remembering something important. "By the way, we programmed into your mind that, upon observing the briefcase lock, the combination of 1-2-5-1 would return to your consciousness. Do you recall that experience?" Guruji asks, effectively deflecting focus from umbrella to briefcase.

You nod remembering the briefcase on your lap in the train from Haridwar to Rishikesh. "So that was part of the grand plan to get my passport and money to travel in comfort to the Kumba Mehla?"

"Atcha, money indeed," Guruji declares as he unlocks a desk drawer, withdraws some envelopes, and hands you a large one. "Yes, in answer to your question. Also, here are your credit cards and five thousand rupees you kept in my safekeeping. You will find enclosed as well a list of your bank account numbers, passwords, addresses, and other practical details that you will need if you choose _not_ to reclaim your past memories and therefore need the written reminders."

You lean forward and ask, "What's this big choice all about anyway?"

Guruji assumes a more formal posture. "The choice ahead is no small matter: Either to leave your past behind or to reclaim your memories of life. This decision has been made by thousands of disciples in traditional manner since ancient Vedic times. In the evening, the disciple foregoes dinner and social intercourse. Upon awakening in the morning he proceeds alone to the Ganga and bathes by fully immersing himself three times. Upon surfacing from the third plunge, the disciple chants one of two pre-selected holy mantras that determines his destiny."

"You mean that one mantra would trigger the full return of my memory and the other would not?"

"Correct," Guruji affirms while opening an envelope with your signature on it, "although in December you pre-selected two _songs_ rather than holy chants that are personally meaningful to your choice ahead." His voice assumes full authority as he announces, "You will choose one of these two alternatives after taking your ritual bath tomorrow. Option one—if you elect to recall your lifetime of memories—then you will sing," Guruji holds the paper with your handwriting at arms length as he reads, " _the theme song to the television western, Rawhide._ "

He appears puzzled but continues with the instructions. "Option two—if you choose to permanently erase all memory of your past—then you will sing," and again he refers to the paper, " _the Elvis Presley song, It's Now or Never_."

Guruji places the paper on the desk. "Perhaps I miss the cultural nuances involved with your song selections but I assume that the options are clear to you, yes?" You nod trying not to smile at this little joke of holy mantras hurled across time from your twin self of the past.

"If these songs reflect your theatrical nature, Steven, that is fine. But please take the decision seriously that will chart your destiny for the rest of your life."

"Believe me, I will," you reply as you take a moment to grasp the repercussions of what Guruji just said. "So if I sing _Rawhide_ after taking three dunks in the Ganga, I will get all my memories back?"

The elderly swami nods in the affirmative.

"So what does it actually mean if I choose the option of singing _It's Now or Never_ in order to forget my past."

Guruji looks you straight in the eye. "It means that the memories of your life would begin with December 19, 2000, when the amnesia process commenced. Any memories before then, besides your past nighttime dreams, will be irrevocably lost."

You swallow, thinking that a permanent erasure of memory might be appropriate for a Vedic sadhu, but you have a hard time imagining this drastic measure for yourself.

The kindly swami relaxes and continues in friendly tone, "Well then, I will look forward to seeing you after your bath tomorrow to learn whether you decided to restore your memory."

You bow and retreat from the office marveling at the fullness of this day. You awoke a few hours ago on a train from Allahabad feeling the fear of an accused murderer, then discovered at Neelkanth that you are a free man—and now you learn you are free even to choose whether to reclaim your past or not.

Sitting in the ashram courtyard to let the latest news settle, you gaze at the blue statue that seems like one of the few friends you can remember. Before long, a familiar voice rings across the courtyard, one of human quality and eagerness. "Mr. Shupe! Welcome back from the Kumba Mehla."

Finally you are able to return the familiarity of this young man's greeting, although with slightly less enthusiasm, "Hello Ravi."

"Good trip?" he asks while toting Alberta's two large bags towards the office.

"Unforgettable," you reply sparing him the details. "Thanks for arranging my ticket."

"And thank _you_ for sending Shri Shri Cy Bubha to me. He said you wanted him to have a first class ticket and to give me a big commission and tip."

"Yeah, right," you respond while thinking of Bubha's expense account covered with your money.

Guruji hurries out to direct Ravi to Alberta's upstairs room near the library. You grab a bag to help although Guruji politely reminds you not to linger longer than necessary in Alberta's abode. You are glad to see her and, after assuring Ravi you will use him for all your travel needs, you eagerly share with Alberta the conversation you just had with Guruji.

"So what do you think?" you ask after describing the details of the decision that awaits your morning bath tomorrow.

Alberta replies, "Intriguing options and interesting choice of holy mantras. I bet the sacred Ganga has never before heard the thundering hooves of the _Rawhide_ theme song, although maybe an enthusiastic pilgrim _has_ hummed a verse or two of _It's Now or Never_."

"Appropriate choices, don't you think?" you declare with self-satisfaction. "The final refrain, _it's now or never, my love can't wait,_ would cast me back into the world unburdened of past ties and memories. Otherwise it's _Rawhide_ and the return of my memory with, _a_ _ll the things I'm missin'—good victuals, love and kissin'—are waiting at the end of my ride._ There appears to be method in my madness after all."

"Only sometimes, Elvis," Alberta corrects. "So which option do you plan to choose?"

"Since I've been wanting so badly to get my memory back, my initial response is to speedily reclaim it by singing _Rawhide_ at my ritual bath. But as you point out, the alternative of continued forgetfulness is intriguing."

"Your amnesia sure didn't hurt our relationship. In fact, we've never gotten along better and had more fun than these past days," Alberta says as she steps forward to give you a gentle kiss. "Not even one fight."

"Adventure, aliveness, the great unknown, being fully present with one another," you agree. "Amnesia has its advantages."

Alberta ponders a moment then observes, "But to be honest, there has been a difference in you that detracts from it all."

"How so?"

"Hard to put my finger on but it's like a sense of uncertainty in you, a tentativeness that I never saw in you before. I kind of miss the old Steven that would grab the bull, or a sacred cow by the horns and wrestle it to the ground."

"So you would vote for the rope-and-roll-and-brand 'em option and give up my search to try to understand 'em?"

"Who knows?" Alberta answers. "It's your choice, and probably when we really get down to it, there isn't that much to lose with the memory."

"And from what you and The ReMinder tell me, no one else would really care if I cleanly erased the slate of my past."

"You seem pretty tight with your nuclear family, though," Alberta asserts. "Can you imagine meeting up with your parents again but having no recall of them?"

"Actually yes, I was just in the courtyard thinking about that very thing. And it seems like it could be a wonderful experience to simply meet one's parents anew, adult-to-adult, with appreciation for their having given me life and raising me. I'd probably sense an inner bond with them—and my siblings—but without the baggage of resentments, projections, and convoluted family history."

Alberta sits down as she observes, "I'm glad to see that your optimism is still alive amid this idle conjecture."

"Can you tell me anything beyond conjecture about my family?"

"Not much. Your folks sound real supportive and nice. I kind of envy your having had such security and peace in childhood."

"Yours was different?" you ask.

"Mucho. Conflict was the name of the game at our Calgary homestead. Come to think of it, though, you may have a source of information at hand about your history that includes a description of parental conflict. Do you have a cassette tape in your hut by a Norwegian guy named Nirmohi Rokstad?"

"Yeah, I've seen it in the hut but don't remember ever listening to his music."

"It's not music. It's a tape Mr. Rokstad made of a palm reading he did for you a year ago. I gave you a gift reading from him and when I later listened to the session tape it was excellent."

"What's the deal with conflict?"

"The short version is that underneath all the niceness at home lay a deep male versus female conflict on both sides of your family tree that Rokstad said you have internalized and that has screwed up your inner masculine-feminine balance. But not to worry, sweetie, your palm lines show that during the period around age fifty, you will get it all together and tap deeply into creativity, harmony, and _money_." Alberta playfully sidles closer to you and provocatively rubs up against your body as she continues, " _Lots_ of money resulting from two writing lines that join as one book to burst forth during that period."

"Are you teasing?"

"Heavens no, my dear Forty-Niner. Why else do you think I'd be hanging out with an aging idiot if not for the promise of your near-term wealth?" You glare good-naturedly at her while she adds, "Just listen to the tape if you're interested. Since Bubha gave away your cassette player during his _Let's Make a Deal_ episode at the Kumba Mehla, I'll dig mine out when I unpack and loan it to you at dinner."

"No supper for the weary or rest for the hungry this evening, I'm afraid. This dedicated Vedic disciple needs to hightail it back to an isolated garden hut to contemplate my future. But thanks, I'll check back with you following my momentous bath tomorrow morning and among other things, I'll appreciate borrowing your cassette gizmo."

You share an amiable hug with Alberta before returning to garden solitude. The hut welcomes you to another evening in its five awkward walls while the windows accommodate a gentle drift of cool air and soothing sound of the Ganga. Drift continues to be the evening's theme as you let your mind wander to wherever it chooses, floating between the brief past that you can recall and the future that you try to imagine—a future that will, in large part, be determined by a choice of the morning, by one tune or another sung in ancient ritual to modern melody.

## JANUARY 26 – the following morning

You awaken with sleepy eyes that open to gray walls and an auspicious morning. You smile, pleased that all is familiar. You arise to put on slippers and a thick robe as you head to the outhouse.

[Awakening in fine fettle and pedal to the metal, you hurry out to take your bath. Slam, bam, thank you Sam and all the other spiritual guides who have brought you to this moment. Ann, Roger, Betsy, Lorraine following on down the line looking fine. Now three dips in the Ganga and a song to sing, memories to fling forward or backward over the river and through the woods, to bathe the tears away, the years away...]

**TRAIL BOSS:** Whoops, sorry folks. Looks like the subconscious mind sneaked in as guest narrator while I was still snoozing. Let's just turn control back over to the main story line and see what type of revival our character chooses down by the riverside as the morning progresses.

[Boring and snoring this type of story. No tale with gale to lift the wings into flight if left to its own devices. Gizmos and quiznos sandwiched between dull words that go bump in the night.]

**TRAIL BOSS:** My-my, our subconscious friend is getting a little assertive these days, grabbing back the reins and snapping them to get my attention. Perhaps his point is valid regarding the tone and heavy pace of the primary narrative. So a democratic trail boss will give the subconscious an opportunity to continue as temporary narrator—so long as some level of clarity emerges in his train of thought and his **boldness** is tempered. Here goes:

YOU WALK FROM HUT to familiar beach lying in reach of footprints in the sand, tracking through time and space to end the race to the finish. Break the tape with a bath and a song, forge into the future with neither right nor wrong, just a choice made whether to reclaim the past to carry as a heavy weight into the ring of the future.

Bell clangs to start the round. You stand at attention on Ganga shore in brief, still no relief to your swirling thoughts about what to choose, what to loose. Three dips coming, two choices humming through your mind. Can love wait another round or simply be found in the moment of now or never? While raw hide on the other side grates against the option to be free from memory.

A step forward up to your knees in the freeze but not yet deep enough for full dipping. Onward now where current grows stronger to carry you to the moment of truth. Breathtaking and bump-making is this first plunge under the waters that welcome the latest Vedic disciple in ritual of choice. Emerging with gasp and hopes for the past but two more plunges to go before your throw of tune to breeze, a croon to please the laughing spirit of the Ganga.

A second dunk into the swirl brings a curl back into your mind of what was left behind. Glad for the freedom of blessed forgetfulness, from the pain of recall, from the mess of it all that lies under the surface. But there you go a third time below, lingering in the silence of the deep for as long as you can, delaying the moment that arises with your next inhalation above the watery domain. Up you come embraced by air, taking it in, singing it out. Feeling the thunder of the selected song that bursts from your lungs and rings from shore to shining shore. _Ride 'em in, Rawhide!_ And the memories of yore stampede from your core to bring the past into present.

The decision was made, a plan is now laid while sitting in the sun with full memory of life that leads to a surprising emotion at hand. A throbbing desire for foreplay, though a fair way to go before it's all clear. Those things you hold dear are not so many to count, but one Canadian is mountable and accountable if you want to ride her to the finish, tan her hide and roll aside the ache of mornings past. A surprise in thighs that this urge would surge which the Ganga cannot satisfy.

You stride to the hut, club swinging in steady beat ready for the treat that lust demands. Whip and padded ropes are retrieved from your room to add seasoning to the tender morsel awaiting the plunge. More striding and hiding by Alberta's door, yearning for more, always more. Feeling the roar surge through loins that ache for release. A club to raise, a turn of phrase, and...

**TRAIL BOSS:** Whoa! Time to pull the flap of decency over this wagon that is starting to rock in a peculiar rhythm as our frisky character enthusiastically joins with Alberta. The sexual action ahead is out of sync with decent, God-fearing folk, so we shall forego further visual description and avoid unnecessary titillation or offense. We should, however, keep an open ear by Alberta's door to avoid missing important conversation that will likely follow on the heels of our protagonist's momentous decision sung in the Ganga to reclaim his memory...

"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"I am your wildest fantasy. I am your worst nightmare. And I'm back."

"Elvis?"

"No, apparently my love _can_ wait. But victuals and kissin' are long overdue."

"So _Rawhide_ echoed across the Ganga shore, eh cowboy?"

"Yep, plus I stopped by my hut to pick up these accoutrements to help celebrate my return of memory."

"My, what a big whip you have. Looks like a lonesome cowpoke in search of a sacred cow to roll."

"Precisely, my dear. And precisely four ropes, the number required for a well-deserved karmagram arriving via special delivery to you—complements of a humiliated inner sanctum acolyte, a Rigel Seven sex slave, and a naked scaler of Mt. Everest."

"Oh Sir Edmund, how thoughtful. Just please understand me after you're through."

"Sorry, that goes against the code of the West and the prevailing theme song."

"No branding I hope."

"Not to worry. I abhor hickeys which is something I recalled this morning after the Ganga bath. See, a refreshed memory does have its advantages."

"Any other newly recalled memories from your recovered past to share?"

"Nothing as important as the hickey thing. Is that rope comfortable around your ankle, dear?"

"No problem. In fact, maybe you could tighten up the wrists a bit."

"Hmm, a woman with nowhere to go but all dressed up. There, that's better."

"I'm glad I was wearing my old dress, macho man."

"Have I told you lately, dearest, how lovely you look naked, spread eagle, and helpless?"

"You should know, you're supposed to remember everything now."

"Oh yeah, I forgot."

"Mmm, my goodness..."

"Goodness has nothing to do with this, cowgirl."

"Don't you think it rather strange that once your memory returns the first thing you want to do is dominate me and fuck my brains out?"

"To the contrary, it is a perfectly natural response in one who has felt impotent, used, and manipulated for too long. Are you complaining?"

"To the contrary, you know how I love to bask in receiving sometimes."

"And together, my beloved Hillary, we shall reach for the highest highs and deepest depths. I think right...down... _here_ would be a perfect base camp from which to continue the journey."

"Oh, Sir Edmund, who needs Sherpas when I have you!"

"I appreciate the name upgrade to Sir Edmund, by the way. Much more dignified than Fast Eddy."

"Do you think that my 'Hillary' is sophisticated enough to match your newfound dignity?"

"Actually, it sounds rather senatorial."

"You're mumbling, dear."

"Mmm uhh."

"That tickles. Hey, cowboy, try humming a few bars of _Oklahoma_ at the gateway to the Goddess to see their effect now....Yes, ooh yes...louder darling, louder!"

"Methinks thou doth protesteth too little. This is supposed to be _my_ assertion of authority and _your_ karmagram, remember?"

"So what's your special delivery besides talking too much? What the...where the...how...oh my. Oh my! Gracious, how you've changed Sir Edmund."

"Nothing like a few good thrusts of power to counteract six weeks or eight years of being misunderstood, maligned, and manipulated. Right, Hillary?"

"Oooh, yes. Four more years! Four more years!"

**TRAIL BOSS:** My apologies, folks, for thinking that some important discourse would emerge once our character's memory returned. Even after all these decades of riding herd on the species, I still find human nature a puzzlement. Hmm, _puzzlement_ —one of Yul Brenner's favorite words shortly before he led the Magnificent Seven over the border to protect downtrodden peasants from marauding banditos. His partner, Steve McQueen, survived to attempt a motorcycle leap over a barbed wire fence in a great escape to freedom, while Charles Bronson returned from the dead as Mr. Majestyk to blast his way to fame while saving oppressed farm workers. James Coburn, too, resurrected from the magnificent ashes to—

**SHOSHONI:** Excuse me, master Trail Boss, but I shall grab the reins. Apparently, a feminine touch is needed to keep the narrative on relevant track as testosterone dominates on all levels at the moment.

Back to the present story, hormones and decibel levels finally subside in Alberta's room and bonds are loosened allowing freedom of movement for all parties. Our protagonist, feeling significantly less frisky, heads to his appointment with Guruji where they debrief the morning river bath episode as a climax to the amnesia experience. The elderly swami is not surprised by Steven's decision to reclaim his memory, although Guruji has a surprise of his own to share—that being a computer and printer recently rented for the ashram by an anonymous donor and tucked conveniently in the upstairs library.

This of course gets Steven's fingers itching to fly over the keyboard. But before starting into new writing, he first takes time for catching up on the pieces of his past that are scattered in his hut, including listening to the palm reading tape by Mr. Rokstad. After dining congenially with Alberta, he returns to the library and begins to compose at the computer. And there we find him as Guruji ascends the steps to enter the library with another important gift.

## JANUARY 26 – that same evening

"I hope I am not disturbing you," Guruji begins in his mild manner.

You turn from the glowing screen and reorient yourself to the immediate surroundings. "Not at all."

"Is The ReMinder progressing at full speed again?" asks the swami while pointing to the computer.

"Actually not yet," you reply. "It feels more important to just let unbridled creativity flow for awhile, to air the foolishness in my psyche and see where it leads."

Guruji laughs, "The great unknown seems to be the destination that your drama loving personality relishes most, Steven."

"You know me well, Guruji," you grin as you point to the cassette tape on the table, "although this time I supposedly have a recorded preview of the outcome."

"Is that the palm reading cassette tape that mentions the intersection of your writing lines with a deep money line?"

"How the heck did you know that?" you ask.

"Our friend Prema had been quite impressed last year in Poona with what was reflected in your palm lines about your writing efforts and the probable financial outcome." Guruji continues in response to your deepening look of confusion, "She and I had one of our usual lengthy chats after she left you at the hut late last month—and Prema had sensed that something was different about you during that afternoon of intimacy together at the beach while you were in silence. So I went ahead and explained in detail the hypnotic amnesia situation that you and I had created. I hope you forgive this old creampuff for talking too much."

You feel irritated but do not want to create conflict with this gentle man. You simply ask, "So my wise teacher, is one's future indeed carved irrevocably into palms with promises of good or bad fortune?"

Guruji pauses to think before answering, "My master taught me to accept my own fate and the fate of others as a natural part of our collective destiny. And most of all not to judge or interfere with any deeds of another person since each action in this cycle plays its role to perfection. Perhaps in my next incarnation I will learn a better answer to your inquiry."

You pat the computer and respond, "Since I don't have your patience or assurance of another lifetime, I'm letting my flying fingers lead to the answers of the ages—or at least to release some nonsense in my mind while madly typing."

"I regret to remind you that one detail constrains your noble quest, that being the cut-off of electricity to the compound at ten o'clock each evening. But look here," Guruji adds cheerily, "I have brought you a little gift to help keep proper track of time."

You inspect the digital watch which the elderly swami hands to you as he continues, "It was left here recently by an ashram guest and you are most welcome to use it during the remainder of your stay. I ask only that you do not attempt to operate the watch's knobs which can lead to a rather complicated mess."

You strap the timepiece to your wrist and look up to Guruji with appreciation, but you are surprised to see an embarrassed look growing on his face. "Yes?" you finally say to encourage him to speak.

"Please also recall our ashram rule of no fraternizing with other guests after ten o'clock." He clears his throat and adds, "And if you would kindly request your companion to reduce her volume when, when..."

"No problem," you interject to rescue Guruji from his discomfort in addressing this morning's sexual activity with an extremely vocal Alberta.

"Thank you," he says relaxing. He takes another breath then queries, "Speaking as a guru to his student, I was wondering why you chose to have sexual intercourse after the ritual bath. Few of our Vedic disciples have chosen to reclaim their memory as you did, and I have not heard of _any_ who indulged immediately in sexual union."

You sense Guruji's sincerity in wanting to understand his student's path, so you consider a minute before responding. "To be honest with you, Guruji, as I sat by the Ganga after restoring my memory I felt empty, surprised, and maybe even scared about my experience at that moment. I had thought that remembering my past would give me a clearer knowledge of myself and awareness of my path. But instead, the lifetime of memories that swirled back into my mind seemed distant and foreign to me. At that moment, I had no sense of who Steven is in this world, a disoriented feeling that ran even deeper than during all those mornings I awoke with amnesia."

You pause for another moment of thought then conclude, "My sexual actions with Alberta, I suspect, were to give me some sense of control, a sense of power that countered the insecurity I was feeling." Silence reigns in the library as both you and Guruji look at the floor while thoughts take you into different worlds.

"Well, thank you for your candor," Guruji eventually replies as he walks to the doorway. "By the way, Steven, in your inquiry of whether destiny is carved in stone thereby dictating our flow of actions, you might wish to recall the first query posed by Cyrus at your encounter at the Ganga last December." He stops at the doorway and states this initial question, "Does the river shape its bank or the bank shape the river?"

It takes you a moment to remember that first conversation with Bubha, then you suddenly ask, "Hey, how did you know what Bubha asked me about...?"

But the quiet swami has disappeared down the stairway into the night.

## JANUARY 27 – the next morning

You awaken to paradise but this time with full memory of a life and strife and all that jazz. Blue notes and high tones float back to recall the face of it all. Profiles in courage and heads buried in cowardice, the faces and traces of your times once known and now known again. But is there more, something left to come to the fore?

That is the troublesome feeling that rumbles underneath the dawn of your day. Yes, it is comforting to know how this moment sits atop your past, but what else is cast in shadow behind this lifetime known? You spy ancient forms from the corner of the 'I', sense the tremors that shake inside where secrets hide and forgetfulness still reigns. King of the mountain, queen of the ball, memory taking the fall so that you may once again stumble and tumble into this earthly plane.

You tiptoe to the tiptop of roof and sigh with pleasure, sit with leisure in a familiar plastic chair by a table that barely stands up to the task. A glance at new wristwatch whose silent digits indicate well past nine which is fine. No rush in the garden but you wonder why you are so early to bed and late to rise. Healthy perhaps, although wealthy and wise seem to elude your reach.

You meditate a moment to slow the mind's pace then retrace steps down the stairs to enter hut door. After dressing and grooming you walk to where Alberta is rooming to find her on the verandah, a beautiful vantage point from which one, now two, can look down on the garden and see the swirling junction of rivers just beyond your hut. Alberta sits with closed book on her lap staring into the greenery below. You kiss her forehead which elicits only a slight smile, so you pull up a chair to join in her silence.

"Good morning, Steven," she finally speaks.

"Hey there, my subdued friend. What's the good word this morning?"

She simply states, "Annihilation."

"Anything more?" you ask.

"After annihilation, of course not. That's it. Game over." Alberta looks into your face then hands you the book from her lap. "Maybe this is part of why annihilation preys on my mind, but mostly I'm still reeling from a dream vision that knocked my socks off in the wee hours."

A photograph of an intense, unsmiling man greets you on the cover of the book that proclaims, _I am That_ , by Nisagardatta Maharaj. You thumb through the pages while waiting for Alberta to continue at her pace. She quietly resumes talking.

"The vision was of a raging river made of fire and brimstone and churning waters. I was on its edge sensing the power of it like...I don't know, power beyond imagining. Somehow I knew that if I jumped into the river that all traces of me, every last speck of who I am, would be erased. DNA, soul, memory, every single aspect of Alberta Theisen would be forever lost. And I realized that if I had to choose between stepping into that river or returning to live fifty more years caged in a dungeon, I would readily opt for the latter."

"Heck of a choice," you respond. "What happened to my fellow seeker who has always said she isn't afraid of death?"

"Your line as well, Steven. But we've been viewing death more as an opening into another world, an opportunity where the new and improved soul goes merrily tripping away into the next cosmic adventure." Alberta looks at you straight on. "What I glimpsed last night is annihilation of the entire known self, plain and simple. And mine was scared shitless to make the leap into _oneness_ with the flow, or whatever the hell that river represents."

"Sounds like I need an addendum to Yogi Bodhi's quote on my hut wall," you laugh. " _A divine order of beauty exists at the heart of reality—but tough titty you won't be around to appreciate it_."

"Good old humor," Alberta replies grimly, "the smiley mask to hide the fear of death from ourselves and the world. In fact, maybe we create all this nonsense about reincarnation and heavens and soul journeys and writing books just to avoid our fear—not fear of simple death, but of total annihilation around the next bend." Alberta rises from her chair and sits in your lap, nestling in closely as you wrap your arms around her.

Silence prevails as you feel her tears run down your neck and sense the warmth that radiates from this bundle of emotion and thought, of fluid and flesh that holds a steady beat which you feel pulsing beneath your hand on her heart. A world unto herself, a being that contains the universe with all of humanity and history wrapped into this single point in space called Alberta.

After a few minutes she slowly unfolds and returns to her chair. "Here I am pondering the annihilation of body, mind, and soul while you're celebrating the first day of awakening to your full memory of life," she notes. "Sorry for the downer."

"No problem. In fact, I'm still down inside myself waiting for the joy of recollection to spring forth or for some big feeling of wholeness to wash over me after reclaiming my past at yesterday's bath. Maybe you were right when you suggested that memories don't matter that much after all."

Alberta gives you a weak smile. "Sorry, sweetie, but I'm not up for more analysis right now. I just want to be alone, okay?"

"Sure," you reply as you stand and brush your hand along her hair as you retreat toward the stairs. As you pass the kitchen, the questions of life quickly give over to the urge of appetite as you ponder the options to fill your stomach. No more rooftop delivery service of a chapatti breakfast is available from the thin swami now that your amnesia process is over. And the cupboards in the guest kitchenette are bare. Laxman Jhula is a long way to trek for breakfast but you actually welcome the excuse to head to town and undertake a simple act in this complex world, a trip with clear direction and purpose. You return to the hut to retrieve some rupees and begin the three-mile walk to the village.

After an hour of constant green along the lush road you emerge into Laxman Jhula and a rainbow of colors as pilgrims from all over India bustle from temple to temple in their finest garb. They pause at carts to eat small meals, select postcards, buy cheap souvenirs to carry back to their homes, and marvel at a small, battery-powered robot in a storefront window. You recall that you had a similar robot as a child decades ago, a toy that modern American youth would now shun as boring and trivial. Yet here it stands as a centerpiece of wonderment for those emerging from temples and an ancient way of life.

You continue to the Shakti Café and enjoy breakfast at the table where Bubha lectured a month ago to a trio of bewildered Brits about happiness. You are comforted by his notion that the soul returns to heavenly bliss rather than being vaporized in a river of molten brimstone. Yet it is probably all the same, you think, as your mind continues with the theme of annihilation that Alberta began. Her dream vision was one more attempt of a human mind to describe the indescribable, to understand what lies beyond life as we know it as separate living creatures. Dust unto dust, union with God, disappearing into the all, born anew to the freedom of paradise, rebirth into the prison of Earth—the theories are many, the answers are nil. The porridge is tasty.

You pay for your meal and begin shopping for fruit and a few supplies. Before leaving Laxman Jhula you enter a shop whose window proudly announces its email service. Yes, it is time to undertake this act that feels so incongruous with the past weeks of being lost to your past. Now, to log onto the internet that links you electronically to the world left behind, to find messages from family and friends who have missed hearing from you.

You read the news from the homeland and enjoy a brief sense of connection it provides, a familiar way of chatting with the folks, of catching up with a world once known. You write quick messages in return that say you are fine and that the journey through India remains fulfilling. Parents and siblings will be comforted to know you are well. What else to say? That you have become a fool with fingers flying across the keyboard after exploring the rolling landscape of amnesia and tying a naked rodeo queen to the bedpost? No, there is no short or family-rated version of this customized tour package. You open a couple of favorite web sites for a final glimpse at a distant world before strolling back to your isolated garden hut at Phool Chatti Ashram.

Alberta soon knocks on your hut door after having spotted your return through the garden. You are happy to see that she has reclaimed her usual lively self. The sight of her towel and blanket in hand pleases you since a plunge into river, sunshine, and sand sounds good to you as well. Your stroll together along the Ganga is followed by a lazy afternoon in which two large bodies lie on a familiar beach, ebbing and flowing between conversation and silence. Then a red tide of emotion moves in as a storm of controversy grows between the couple.

"Oh for pity sake, do you have to bring that up again," Alberta groans.

"Well, I think it's a good example of the point I'm trying to make."

"We _all_ kill aliveness. So quit projecting your crap onto me."

"I'm claiming mine too," you assert, "but it's just that _you_ grew up with so much practice and do it more on a daily basis."

The agitated woman counters, "You're being an asshole—and killing my aliveness right now for that matter."

"Now _there's_ an excellent example of projection," you expound with grand gesture. "And haven't we learned to honestly share our feelings rather than just name calling? Oh yeah, and throwing sand at me really helps."

"Okay, I _feel_ you're an asshole. How's that for sharing my true feelings?"

"Fuck you too...hey, not in my face for god's sake!"

"Don't you touch me, you jerk," Alberta hisses.

You scoop up a handful of sand in your fist as your narrow eyes bore into the woman who is squared off in front of you. Your heart is racing, your body is tense, and you feel a kind of anger that has only come to the surface in the year since meeting Alberta. This emotion of rage is one of many discoveries that this woman has helped you to uncover regarding aggression and conflict. You know exactly what you want to do at this moment and you let instinct take over.

With one quick jerk of your arm, you toss the sand ceremonially over your left shoulder. You stare fiercely into your opponent's eyes, give an intimidating flex of your pectoral muscles, and grunt in your best imitation of a sumo wrestler. Your adversary responds by tossing a handful of sand over her shoulder and lifting her right leg sideways into the air and crashing it back to earth. You are shaken by the power rippling through the sand, but you match Alberta's display with your own sideways lift-and-pound motion. A rumble of ancient Japanese voices emerges from the rocks as final bets are placed on these two titans of fury.

The six-foot-one physique of the former barrel racer is impressive, supported by her powerful thighs shaped by years of straddling her mounts of choice at the Calgary Stampede. Her fierceness appears to exceed her opponent's but he holds a definite height advantage as they plow into each other in a burst of grunts and lunges. The taller wrestler gets the upper hand but a rodeo-quick counter maneuver of hair-pulling equalizes the battle and increases its pitch. Finally, the size factor dominates as the barrel racer is lifted off her struggling feet. The larger wrestler staggers towards the river where the two titans fall as one into the water creating a massive tsunami that inundates the far shore and decimates several outlying villages. Both emerge laughing and splashing as the battle continues with another clench that slowly transforms into a lingering hug.

"Madness, pure madness," you quietly state to the woman in your arms. Alberta gives you a final nip on the ear and eases back into the gentle current of the Ganga.

"I can't believe how easy it is to go ballistic when I give myself permission with you to really feel this garbage inside," you say shaking your head.

"Nothing like forty-nine years of suppression to add fuel to your frustration's fire," Alberta responds while stripping off her bathing suit in the water.

"Speaking of suppression, dear, don't forget Guruji's rule against nude bathing," you remind your companion.

"No sweat. I received special dispensation from sumo tournament officials to clear sand from a sacred gateway and other shady avenues," Alberta laughs while heading to shore in her full glory.

"I think I'll make the same request," you respond while noting your own supply of grating sand. You wring out your briefs while following Alberta to the blanket where you lie naked by her side. "Amazing how much power is stored in this old anger and pain. God, I'm grateful we've found a safe way to be real with it," you punctuate with a kiss of thanks to your wrestling partner.

"No blood, Bowie knifes, or hickeys allowed," Alberta says reviewing the agreed upon rules of combat as she lays her head on your shoulder.

"Maybe we should include hair-pulling on the list of prohibitions."

"Not on your life!" your cohort responds immediately. "Don't forget, you've used that tactic a time or two to counter my superior speed."

"I remember all too well," you state with a cringe as your mind takes off into memories of other bouts with Alberta this past year. After a few minutes of deep thought you gently ease her off your shoulder and sit to gaze at the river where you took the ritual bath yesterday and emerged to sing _Rawhide_. "You know, I may have made the wrong decision to reclaim my memory."

Alberta joins you in a sitting position. "Steven second-guessing his past choices? I thought that was unheard of in your philosophy that all actions serve to perfection."

"I don't know, Alberta. It's just that remembering my past hasn't felt like I thought it would. I expected some big relief and a sense of knowing myself that would deepen after the journey into amnesia. But instead, I just look back at my life and feel so detached from the memories and from the people that I find there."

"Didn't you enjoy getting onto the internet with family and friends today in Laxman Jhula?"

You pause to recall your recent email experience this morning. "Yes, it felt good on one level but in another way I could see myself putting on a mask and playing some old game with them that makes me queasy, to tell you the truth. The past is like a prison to me now."

"It's a prison only if you keep living it, sweetie." Alberta laughs and pulls you back down on the blanket, snuggling her face into your lap. "There's no gift like the present, right?"

"That's a line from the past, dear," you respond as you feel your humor return. "Plus, Prema might object to your plagiarizing her Sedona gift-tile quotation at such a moment of naked intimacy."

"I'm certain Prema would applaud our innovations," Alberta declares while descending to give her full attention to your responsive appendage. "Ever heard the Canadian national anthem hummed in full volume from this angle?"

"Sounds highly patriotic but right now my choice would be to look into your eyes up close and personal," you request of your friend. Alberta obliges as she unfolds and eases into a comfortable sexual union on top of you. "Thank you, dear one," you respond with a kiss and gentle sway to maximize the ambiance of the moment.

This period of quiet after the storm continues for some time although kisses become more frequent and earnest. Alberta speaks between a set, "I packed while you were in Laxman Jhula this morning."

You are startled by the announcement. "Leaving so soon?"

"Last night's annihilation theme was really a biggie for me and I need a few days where I can be alone and anonymous. You'll lose yourself in your writing whether I'm here or not."

"True, but I hope you'll come back to Phool Chatti," you state while punctuating your request with a caress of her back and a firm bun-grasp.

The thighs of an equestrian respond instinctually to the increased stimulus as Alberta continues, "Neelkanth village looked like a sweet little place to take a couple of books and do some thinking. And that will keep me close by to check back with you later."

"I'm glad you'll be near," you reply as you join in the rhythm.

"Plus if annihilation is around the corner, this is the way I want to ride into it," Alberta declares with conviction and a healthy squeeze of her mount.

"Amen to that, sister."

THE AFTERNOON WENT too quickly, you think, as you stand by the jeep that is ready to take Alberta to Neelkanth village. You watch her graceful, long strides as she exits the office and walks towards the driveway. "You know, I think that's the finest week we've ever had, zombie boy," Alberta declares as she approaches.

"The name is _Sir Edmund_ , if you please," you respond with feigned formality. "And kindly desist from disempowering me further and destroying my aliveness through subtle verbal maneuvers couched in humor."

She gives you a quick hug. "Trying to pick one last fight before I leave, dahling?"

"Sure, I'm going to miss our escapades into the fray of adventure and truth. All I have left without you are eight flying fingers, two thumbs to create space, and Guruji to make sure we all don't fraternize after ten o'clock."

"Be a little cautious around Guruji this evening," Alberta says in a whisper. "I've never seen him this tired and grumpy."

"Really, our Guruji is being a grouch?"

"A polite one, but yes, he looks as if he hasn't slept well," she concludes getting into the vehicle. A last brief kiss through the open jeep window and you watch your designated guardian angel, temple priestess, interstellar master, ex-wife Hillary, bondage slave, and sumo opponent pull away. You are alone. You absently kick a stone in the driveway as you turn towards the ashram compound. In the hour remaining before dinner, you decide to lose yourself as a fool on his journey at the new library computer. And you write:

## A FOOL'S JOURNEY – January 27

Sitting again with brother time on my hands, with memories back to the fore and a keyboard as an instrument to fly full bore. So where to go, how to flow, all dressed up with nowhere to sow but only reap the messages from the mind behind all that is to come. Don't type too long or sing a song that keeps Guruji awake for heaven's sake. But do tell and let the tide swell, an ocean of thought pulled by the moon's power of intuition and imagination.

Two prescient palms on the hands of creation play in sync as a link in this chain of fools, eager to recall the fall while composing notes of remembrance in perfect charmony. Charred remains and harmonic refrains all are part of this fiery process of purification rising from ashes with crosses and dashes that beat against my different drummer. A drum being an instrument of destruction or creation depending upon where the beat lands, either atop a bewitching bystander (squish) or in the land of the free (a wish).

A wish. What is my wish for the moment, my lonely heart's desire in this fire of cleansing? Maybe a friend who understands, a companion to ride the tide and guide my hand through this journey into the unknown. Does one lie near to fill this role, an imaginary playmate to join in this dance of chance to let the inner voice express? I stop typing to ponder this question when suddenly the curtain to my psyche cleaves open with blinding light as a robed figure springs forth.

"Hallelujah! I have risen from the tomb!" a ghostly Shri Shri Cy Bubha exclaims with a broad smile, sinewy arms raised to the heavens of my imagination.

"Where did you come from?" I stammer as this familiar specter pushes through my psyche, gives me a friendly slap on the back, and makes himself at home next to the computer.

"Same place you got everyone else stored, real and imagined, right there in your beady little mind."

"You mean that even actual people can be used for an imaginary playmate?" I ask.

"It's your ballgame, pal, so as long as you're having fun, then go for it," replies Bubha via my fast-typing fingers. "Just call out my blessed name and I shall rise again and again, like your own personal messiah on Viagra." I roll my eyes, wondering what I have unleashed by allowing this guy's spirit to invade my mind and computer.

"Whew, it's good to be out in the fresh air," Bubha continues without missing a beat. "It can get pretty damn stuffy in the psyche, particularly with what you recovering nice boys shove down there. Thanks for inviting me out for a stretch."

_"I_ invited _you_?" I ask incredulously. "You come barging in here with your sacrilegious jokes and make yourself at home and now pretend like you were invited! You haven't changed any, have you?"

"Neither have you, pal. Still trying to pass the buck to externalize your garbage on someone else." Bubha grins and adds coyly, "Have you missed me?"

Actually, I have but I sure as hell won't admit it to him. "Like a hole in the head," I declare.

"Ah, but you are _not_ missing that, mon ami. Au contraire, from firsthand investigation I can vouch that you've got a hole about the size of Texas in that mind of yours. Isn't that why we're here?"

"I thought it was more to pull together the scattered pieces of my total Mind."

"True enough," Bubha concurs, "but a couple pieces fell to the floor as you turned them over. I think you even kicked one under the sofa while trying too hard to find it. But that's where I come in, sort of a cosmic flashlight—a Rajnish radiance rod—to help you look through the muck under the couch."

"Like the flashlight of mine you gave away at the Kumba Mehla?" I respond bitterly.

"Get off it, pal. You're going to miss the fun of this whole process if you hang on to righteous anger and a victim complex. It was reference to _sofa_ you were supposed to pick up on, as in verandah couch, as in coitus interruptus, as in shame and stain and pain with a Japanese twist. Your job is to remain alert to the clues—and then we can ruminate over them using imagination and logic to enter the next room of your psyche's funhouse."

"Sort of like a Sherlock Holmes and Watson," I respond with growing enthusiasm to have a partner, albeit an invisible one, in this task.

"Get with it, homeboy. It's Scully and Mulder now for anyone who's lived through the Twentieth Century. But what can we expect from a guy who still uses the word _nifty_?"

"Atcha," I nod, starting to catch on, "and the Scully-Mulder team is an example of partnership between the inner feminine and masculine to uncover secrets lurking in the shadowy universe."

"X-plus on that one, pal. So what's holding you back?"

"Nothing!" I declare.

"Precisely. Your identity's fear of the great nothing of the abyss is holding you back. What else?"

"You tricked me on that, Bubha. Where's this leading anyway?"

"Nowhere if we just keep asking each other questions."

"Nothing and nowhere—hey, we got somewhere! The perfect conditions for a fresh beginning," I announce pleased to be getting into the flow with this guy.

"So start over already," he suggests.

"Start over red rover, send Mary right over," blurts out onto the page.

"Okay, so who is this Mary?"

I immediately respond, "Mother Mary? No, overused and under done in finding the One. How about Mary Tyler Moore, a Petrie dish who shoved off on her own to turn the world on with her smile?"

"Getting warmer but you're casting in the wrong network," prods Bubha.

I keep looking for a Mary to trigger the flow, "Mary Poppins, Mary Martin, Mary had a little lamb...?"

"Try casting stones," he advises.

"Mary Magdalene! Magdalena alive and in the flesh but of spirit and grace beyond the bounds of where she was placed. The second coming, the other octave of the duet that knows the true score."

Bubha chimes in, "Okay, at the party everyone was feeling Mary, but when she left they all jumped for..."

Joy. Scoring with Joy is not so bad but the gang settled for _happy_ instead and became winos always filling the cup. It never ranneth over with love since Mary of the Mag wheels was driven off the set while the madness of the orgy spilled over the rim. Heronimous bodies bashing and bosching into the abyss, into the abyss-small life for which one settles in the pain of loss, losing the Magdalena of spirit and purity, giving her a cloak in history of a whore. If fearful of the true power of the female, then cover her naked glory with a false story. Gory too this story ran, as wise women burned and healers were canned.

Why, why? The question echoes down through the ages written on pages crusted with blood. But no answers whisper from the lips of women turned to ash, of men turned to battle, of children orphaned and chained in the name of god or money or power or glory. It's all the same, the same refrain calling forth the guilt of the warrior, the shame of the beast who thought he was beauty: A shining knight upon trusty steed who blindly rode into crusades to kill upon the currents of chapter and verse. Revelations of Kings and an Exodus of Psalms that Chronicles atrocious Acts which left their Mark as Luke warm waters flowed down the John.

Where lies the healing fount promised by John the Baptist, John the Beloved, John Crapper, John my father, brother, nephew? On and on it goes, a legacy of love and hatred that is passed down through generations until someone says _stop_ to this bloody cycle.

"Simon says stop!" cries Bubha.

"Not him," I respond immediately.

"Matthew says stop? Peter? Paul?" Bubha fishes for men.

No, just Mary and me, and baby makes three. A trinity within that was lost in the tempest of time. A blessed love triangle inside the body, inside this Holy Grail that ended up filling with crap but yearns now for cleansing waters and the fragrance of new blossoms.

Merry Mary, where you going to? Marry Mary, can I go too? Or are you quite contrary about what was done to you and all the women? Nay, your garden grows with silver bells a-ringing deep and pure, their fragrance sweet, a gentle cure to turn history's tide and ride again as one, toward waters deep and setting sun.

Amen to that, Sister.

**TRAIL BOSS:** A bell does in fact ring sending our writing fool off into the sunset and straight to the dining hall. After a monotonous meal of the same basic chow, he eagerly returns to the library to continue a fool's journey through word and phrase. The trail turns dark at ten o'clock, however, with lights out and a grope through the garden to find his way to the hut. There he beds down, tossing and turning as another curious ringing in his ears fast approaches.

## JANUARY 27 – that same night

Your mind races with thoughts carried from the library as you lie in your bed vainly trying to sleep. You give up on slumber and walk out to the river where darkness and roar blend in your head. Starlight, star bright gives enough direction to keep you from falling down the abyss or into a raging river of no return. You sit on the shore enriched by the storehouse of Ganga power and the dance of waters that trip from mountaintop to the sea. A long journey traversing cycles and season without fail, no tale with ending for the Ganga once she began to speak. An ancient message, a heartfelt blessing is passed this night to a man on her shore.

You return to the hut and glance at your watch. Nearly midnight and still you are too wired to sleep. You pick up the Rushdie book, _Midnight's Children_ , and laugh at the thought of opening it again. You can recall having read the first chapters a score of times during your weeks of amnesia, enjoying them anew at each sitting. But enough of this endless spin for a man who again has recollection of his five decades of life. You wonder, however, what other pieces of mind and memory may await discovery in the great beyond or in rambling words of a Fool's Journey. For now, however, you are satisfied simply to take a new book to bed.

Still going strong after an hour of reading by candlelight, you are startled by the sudden ring of the alarm of your new wristwatch. You want to turn if off but remember Guruji's instruction not to mess with the knobs. To your relief, the alarm stops after a couple dozen beeps. Your eyelids, however, suddenly grow too heavy to keep open as you struggle to lift your ponderous arm to check the time. The last sound you hear as you fall into a trancelike sleep is your book tumbling to the floor. It is precisely one o'clock.

## JANUARY 28 – morning

You awaken with vivid imagery still in your mind from a dream that has left you intrigued. You automatically reach for the cassette player to record this dream but your hand grasps nothing but air. After recalling with irritation that your cassette player was part of Bubha's grand giveaway at the Kumba Mehla, you get out of bed to head for the library computer to transcribe the dream directly into your Fool's Journey file.

As you sit to begin typing, Guruji appears at the library door with a friendly greeting. "Good morning, Steven."

_"Namaste_ , Guruji," you respond as he sits next to you.

"You are well this morning, I trust?" he asks in his quiet way.

"Excellent, and ready for another day in the library. I really owe you and the anonymous donor of the computer and printer a big thanks."

He smiles. "I'm pleased it is serving you well. And the best way to thank me is simply to abide by the rules of the ashram while you're here."

The elderly swami is giving you that polite look of admonishment. You feel embarrassed assuming he knows about your and Alberta's sumo match and nude, post-bout activities yesterday. You open your mouth to apologize but he continues, "Our rule not to leave the ashram grounds after dark is based on safety considerations for our guests. Plus, Steven, you are still coming off an intense period with the hypnotic amnesia process. As your supervisor in this matter, I must insist you treat yourself kindly by getting to bed at a reasonable hour, unlike last night when you stayed awake until one o'clock."

You nod your head in acknowledgment and state with a smile, "There's not much that goes on around here that you don't know, is there, Guruji?"

He laughs as he stands to leave, "Yes, I _am_ thorough—and my bill will reflect it." You react with surprise. "Just a little joke, my friend, a take-off from what Cyrus told you before guiding you to the Kumba Mehla. My services come freely and with fewer strings attached."

"But how do you know so much about what Bubha has said to me?" you ask in confusion.

Guruji stops in mid step and takes a breath to speak, but then he pauses to look squarely at you. "Aw, fiddlesticks," he finally says. "Look, Cyrus minds his own business and I mind mine. Let's just leave it at that, okay?" And he abruptly walks toward the library exit.

You are taken aback by his sudden brusqueness and by these words that again replicate a past statement of Bubha's, this one made on the steps of the German Bakery in late December. "Guruji," you call after the swami, "what's going on?"

He continues to the door then pivots sharply and in a booming voice punctuated by grand gesture replies, "Time for revealing the Northwest Passage to truth shall arrive 'fore the sun goes down at week's end, or my name's not Merawhether... Merryweather...darn, I forgot." Guruji's eyes are furtive and his face is darkened by consternation as he slips out of the room.

You start to stand to follow him but the pull to transcribe your latest dream while it is still fresh in mind proves stronger. After typing up the dream, your mind continues to play in its inner realm letting words and ideas pour out at their own pace. Guruji's behavior is quickly forgotten, as a fool on his journey explores the highs and lows, the ebbs and flows of the great unknown in a boundless mindscape. But rather than reaching for the highest heights, you coax your thoughts to follow the path less-travelled into your shadowy nether lands, led by typing fingertips:

A FOOL'S JOURNEY INTO THE UNDERWORLD

Follow the bouncing ball in my head with thoughts a-traveling, threads unraveling, wound round like skeins of wool that keep the sheep warm but that blind the mind when pulled over the 'I'. So balling and falling I follow the threads down a deep dark hole to plummet into the underworld of my soul. Bumping off muddy wall and splashing into a pool to cushion the fall, I sense some ominous presence in the darkness.

"Who goest there?" thunders the Voice of the Underworld.

"I knowest not who anymore," I reply meekly while emerging from the reflecting pool to find a towel.

But in surprise, I notice I am not even wet as the Voice laughs mirthlessly and proclaims, "Many soulful seekers mistake the mirror for a pool of water, believing they plunge deeply into life's mysteries when they merely reflect upon their shallow self image. Have you come as a seeker or a finder, Man?"

"Finders keepers, losers weepers," is what blurts from my mouth and onto the page at this stage.

"Ah so, a Man of tired clichés and meaningless rhymes. Or is it riddles that you speak?"

I just shrug in reply.

"Well, then, here's one for you," the Voice booms. "What has a shiny exterior, runs on hot air, and goes from zero to fifty while constantly whining, then crashes and burns at the finish line?"

I ponder the riddle's meaning then protest, "Hey, are you making fun of me and my noble journey of spirit through five decades of life?"

"You bet your sweet bippy, he is," declares a large and threatening man who steps out from the shadows. His steely eyes strike terror in my heart and chill the bone. But I have no inkling of how to escape my Nemesis's killing glare.

Hmm, inkling, now there's an interesting word. Ink the parent and inkling the offspring ready to take wing on flights of fancy phrases. A squawk arises from my feet and, by gosh, there one is, a young inkling covered with down and looking up at me as if to—

"Aw, fuck a duck," exclaims the exasperated Nemesis, "there you go again."

The inkling flutters into my arms, eyeing the big fellow nervously. "Not to worry," I assert with false confidence, "we're more chicken than duck."

"Damn it, Shupe," cries the fearsome man, "every time I appear in your psyche you retreat into some childish pattern, silly wordplay, or television nonsense to avoid facing up to the truth of what I represent."

"Okay, so who or what are you then?" I ask with trepidation.

The distant Voice of the Underworld answers for him, booming from the shadows, "Look into thy soul for the answer since to truly understand your Nemesis you must first know thyself on every level and embrace all of duality that dwells within your inner universe."

I mindlessly start chanting, "I am the all and everything, the Alpha and the Opie, the Beta and the Beave." Then it dawns on me as I address the shadowy man, "You're like my inner Eddie Haskell, the juvenile delinquent in me that nice little Stevie shoved down into the closet in order to become the good son, the teacher's pet, an A-1 child."

"Close enough, but call me Big Ed," my polarity twin states. "After decades of festering in the dark underworld, the repressed shadow looms large. And as the nemesis of your childish world and limited self-identity, I've grown plenty pissed being shoved aside all your life," Big Ed asserts as he takes a menacing step forward. My feathered friend flies fearfully far as I am again left without an inkling of what comes next.

"Your only chance is to cut the crap and go all the way into the belly of the beast," my Nemesis commands, pointing to a dark passageway to his left. Above the forbidding entrance is a warning carved in stone, _Beware the Doors of Duality_. "Until you fully accept your dual nature, the former p-e-r-f-e-c-t child will never grow into a man of spirit."

Sensing the truth of what he speaks, I reluctantly walk to the passageway entrance. "So what does going _all the way_ mean in the underworld?" I query in quavering voice.

"Hell if I know. No one entering the Doors of Duality has ever returned to tell the tale." Big Ed gives a quick salute of good luck and turns to leave.

Now at the point of panic I call out, "Can't you offer _some_ brotherly advice on how to face the ordeal?"

He shrugs. "Try switching the narrative from first-person to second-person form to give yourself a sense of detachment."

You take his advice and smoothly make the transition as you step into the passageway. Immediately, the ground crumbles beneath your feet and you tumble down a spiral chute arriving at the threshold of two simple doors, one marked _1-A_ and the other _Not 1-A_.

You consider which door of duality is most likely to take you _all the way_ and, out of habit, step towards _1-A_. But as you reach for the knob, three men clad in underwear sporting fresh crew cuts and carrying khaki uniforms push you aside and enter. "Spoiled college brats don't belong in here," one of them turns to you and snarls. "Take your 2-S deferment and go matriculate yourself."

Ah yes, your student deferment kept you from being designated 1-A and drafted for Vietnam service. You turn and gratefully head to the appropriate door of duality marked _Not 1-A_ and immediately find yourself in grade school standing dumbly in front of your class. Trapped in a recurring nightmare, you have no clue as to what to say or do as teachers on the side whisper, "What a shame, he used to be our #1 pupil, an A student...and now _this!_ "

As performance pressure tightens its grip you drop your head in shame and are shocked to spy only soiled white briefs on your gangly body. Classmates' laughter follows your humiliated flight out the exit where you have no time to question whether to _2-B_ or _Not 2-B_ before madly rushing through the nearest door of duality, _Not 2-B._

Immediately swallowed by a vast darkness, you slide to a frantic halt at the edge of a raging river of fire and brimstone. Standing at the brink of Identity's annihilation, you realize you haven't the courage to jump. As you gingerly tiptoe away from the edge, a two-hundred-foot high wave of destruction bears down on you from above, accompanied by a booming voice, "So fool, you think your old Identity gets a choice to live or die?" You lunge for the exit door and barely escape the tsunami of annihilation.

Stopping to catch your breath you look across the way and are relieved to see that a door marked _2-B_ is still available. A Burly Bouncer stands by it with a guest list in hand as he welcomes a familiar Bare-Bellied, Buxom Beauty. "Hey, Miss Eden," you shout with enthusiasm, "you were great in _I Dream of Jeannie_!"

Beauteous Barbara smiles politely while entering _Room 2-B_ followed by two scruffy young men, one of whom looks down his nose and says to you, "Get a life in this century, dude."

"Who were those guys?" you ask the Burly Bouncer.

"Monsieurs Beavis and Butthead, sir," he replies scanning his list.

"Oh, I get it," you state with a sigh. "I'm afraid I don't have two-B's in my identity to qualify to enter this room."

"To the contrary, sir, I find you right here on my guest list between Bodhisattva and Buddha." Surprised yet proud of your spiritual progress, you bestow upon the doorman a gesture of Buddhist blessing.

"Yep, you qualify as Bongo Bananas," he announces while opening the door. "Welcome to _Room 2-B_."

Brightly blushing, you enter and are transfixed by the sight of your hero of youth sitting like a king upon his throne. "Oh my gosh, you're everything that I wanted to be," you gasp in admiration. "A basketball star, a fighter for the good, a gentleman and a scholar." Senator Bill Bradley gives you a warm smile and a humble bow of his head.

"And Bridgette Bardot!" you exclaim noticing the nearby queen of this magnificent world in which to be. "The cinema sex goddess of my childhood—and an animal lover to boot." You look up at these icons with light in your eyes. "At last, I have come _all the way_ , where the inner masculine and feminine dwell in beatific balance." You take your place betwixt both, proclaiming with boundless buoyancy, "My dreams have come true."

Bridgette and Bill exchange a nervous glance as a sense of unease envelops the throne. The Senator points to the corner where you are aghast to spot your childhood B.B. gun and the broken bird that fell, along with your aching heart circa age ten, onto the concrete driveway after you mindlessly shot it from its perch.

"Zee bird and zee heart go splat, no?" Ms. Bardot recalls sympathetically.

"Sorry, friend, but in order to follow your dreams you've got to have a heart," Senator Bradley states as he directs you to the exit doors marked _3-D_ or _Not 3-D_.

"Au revoir, mon ami." Bridgette blows a farewell kiss.

"Or a _what_?" you respond to this mysterious foreign phrase, feeling small and toad-like in your cultural depravity. Disheartened, you walk to door _Not 3-D_ with hopes of leaving behind a painful, three-dimensional world. Upon opening the door a crack you are immediately sucked into a new dimension of space, tumbling helplessly while 2,001 kettledrums pound in your ears and bright lights flash by at incredible speeds. Oxygen begins to run short as you slow to a drift towards two spinning space stations, the terminus of your space odyssey.

"Open the pod bay door, HAL," you command nervously as you propel yourself towards the nearest rotating base.

"I'm sorry, Steven," HAL responds in its smooth computer voice, "but this door is _Not 4-U_."

"Just open the damn hatch, HAL," you reiterate while struggling for breath.

"I'm not authorized to do that, Steven. There is no room _4-U_ at this first base."

"What?" you gasp in desperation.

"Try the second base," HAL replies.

With a final burst of strength you push off to the second space station where door _4-U_ opens to a welcoming verandah in Japanese-Hawaiian motif, complete with large sofa. You collapse on the couch taking great gulps of air, grateful to have gotten at least to second base if not yet _all the way_. Discomfort arises, however, as you feel a sticky wet spot on the couch cushion and spy a sign on the wall announcing, "Tonight's double-horror feature: _Coitus Interruptus_ and _The Premature Ejaculation._ "

"Argh," you cry out as you recognize the infamous Yamamoto sofa of your teenage escapades. You flip the shameful cushion and bolt through the exit marked _Not Japanese._ Small swinging doors lead you into a noisy crowd of cowboys and barmaids in a congenial Dodge City saloon. Feeling relieved to be with _your_ kind of people in a familiar Kansas setting, you call out to the popular hostess, "Howdy, Miss Kitty."

She looks at you with utter disdain and states, "We don't serve no slanty-eyed cowards in here."

"Huh?" you respond as Miss Kitty jerks her thumb to the mirror behind the bar. You look through the haze of gunsmoke and are shocked to see yourself as an old Japanese pilot in kamikaze uniform. "Holy shitaki," you exclaim in dismay.

"And watch your language in front of a lady," Marshall Dillon interjects while sending you airborne with an unceremonious heave-ho through the alternate door of duality marked _Japanese_.

You land on the busy sidewalk of a bustling city in the shadow of Mount Fuji walking with head hanging low, a dishonorable kamikaze pilot scorned by your fellow Japanese citizens. Their whispered slurs of _traitor, coward,_ and _rice ball_ torment your every step. Why did you survive the suicide mission while the others heroic pilots died? And how can you go _all the way_ stuck in this aging foreign body?

The sound of galloping hooves intrudes upon your thoughts as a masked man fast approaches on white steed. The Lone Ranger reins to a halt by your side and beams a sympathetic smile. "I know how you feel, pardner. SGS can be a real bitch."

"Huh?"

"Survivors Guilt Syndrome," explains the only ranger who lived through the massacre. "So what can I do to help you in my never-ending quest for service and lasting recognition?"

You bow humbly and state, "Thank you for the kind offer, Ranger-san. Perhaps you could help rid me of this kamikaze guise so I can continue the inner journey in my real, American identity."

"How far are you planning to go with this trip into your underworld?" he queries skeptically.

You lift your chin and declare resolutely, _"All the way."_

"Wow," the Lone Ranger exclaims in admiration. "With that kind of dedication, you bet I can help!" He looks deeply into your eyes then recites the transformative incantation learned in his Bodhisattva training: _"Hocus-pocus-kamikaze. Change-the-channel, Harriet-and-Ozzie."_ And with a snap of his fingers, you revert into your original lanky, middle-America form.

"Hey, thanks a bunch!" you exclaim.

"All in a day's work of fighting to rid the hidden underworld of shame," the benevolent ranger replies humbly while tossing you a gift of remembrance. "Hi-ho Copper, away!"

"Oh, gross!" you cry out in shame as you drop his gift of the bloody B-B that snuffed the life of the innocent sparrow of your youth. Is there no respite from the judgments, from the shadows in the psyche that torment you with guilt?

You look to the heavens for an answer but instead spot two more Doors of Duality awaiting your arrival and choice. As you read their markings you are absolutely clear in your selection of which to enter. Tired of all the judgments of life, you turn your back on the door marked _To Judge_ and approach the entrance to _Judge Not._ Slowly, expectantly, you open the door.

"Ah, my champion arrives." The words are spoken like a blessing from the most beautiful being you have ever seen. Her radiant eyes bathe you in light as you enter the _Judge Not_ room and slowly recognize her welcoming spirit.

"Gaia?" you speak tentatively to the soul of Earth.

She winces, "I never much liked that name. Sounds like someone just hiccupped, don't you think?"

You start to open your mouth but she continues, "And please refrain from using that _Mother Earth_ cliché. Mother is just one of my many faces." She smiles and looks at you tenderly. "But you already know that fact my friend, my lover, my protector. You have done admirably in your dedication to me, to Earth, in the noble service for which you have been trained lo' these many lifetimes—to _judge not_."

You remain silent and simply bask in the presence and words of Earth's guiding spirit.

"Yes, dear heart, you volunteered as one of the brave, the few to escape the trap of duality on this planet, to transcend the notions of right and wrong in order to heal the karmic pain and strain in me created by centuries of battles, judgments, and guilt. All those memories of yours, the nighttime dreams, your journeys into ancient oppression and childhood shame that you have recently faced are a part of your noble service. For Earth's healing goes hand in hand with _your_ healing—as above, so below. You mend us both by internalizing these historic rifts within humanity and then releasing them in a vibration of understanding, forgiveness, and acceptance—of judging not."

She raises a hand in benediction then fades into the ethers as you savor her lingering presence and words. A deep sense of peace and calm fills you, a clarity that comes with knowing that _judging not_ is your destiny. You exit the room, spy the door marked _To Judge_ across the hall and smile thinking of how you served this misguided concept in many guises, in many quests and causes over the years.

You follow an urge to now enter this doorway _To Judge,_ partly from curiosity but also to pay your last respects to this outmoded path that served you well, that helped you come to your true destiny to judge not. Slowly you open the _To Judge_ door and are astonished by what you see and hear.

"Ah, my champion arrives," states the magnificent being in a voice like a blessing. "Enter fully and relieve me of the fear that I have lost you to delusions about oneness and non-judgment."

You ask through your confusion, "Is it really you, the same spirit of Earth in this room, too?"

She laughs and replies, "Of course it is. Do you find it surprising that Earth herself is of a dual nature? No, Steven, you are fully aware that duality is the hallmark of life on earth. Day and night, joy and suffering, good and evil, the positive and negative poles play out in a myriad of ways. You cannot pretend to ignore what is in your heart and say you have no judgments, to pretend that you are beyond human nature of duality. If you try to transcend your intrinsic values and judgments you will destroy your aliveness, your truth, and your ability to champion the causes for which you have trained lo' these many lifetimes."

The spirit of Earth looks with compassion at you as she continues, "Yes, you have chosen a path to serve me and my children, to take on the mantle of discernment between right and wrong and to work for what you believe in. All is well, dear one. Choose wisely, judge without harshness, and know that your destiny on Earth unfolds with your clear judgments and strong actions for the cause of what is good and right."

Earth's spirit shines upon you as she slowly recedes into the ethers, leaving you alone in the room of judgment. You lean on the wall for support against the contradictions that have just hit you like a wave on a sandy beach. The crash of the breaker makes your legs tremble and the sand shifts from beneath your feet as its aftermath washes back through your thoughts.

To judge or to judge not, what is your path, your truth, your destiny? Your recent clarity and calm have given over to the disquieting sense that paradox and contradictions may be the only beacons left to guide your journey. You walk slowly out the room of judgment and find yourself in an enormous corridor with a simple sign pointing the direction to _ALL THE WAY._ There is nowhere else to turn.

With tentative steps you proceed down the corridor expecting at any moment to be swallowed into the belly of the beast. But no ravenous creatures lie ahead, no dark shadows confront your path; only three doors appear as you approach the end of the corridor. Two of the doorways are too small to enter. The one on the left is marked _The Past_ , and the one on the right, _The Future_. In the center rises a huge wooden door grander than any you have seen—and with a fine set of knockers to match.

A flash of color on the corridor floor catches your attention, with text that declares, _There's no gift like the present!_ As you reach for the familiar Sedona souvenir tile the large door suddenly creaks open giving you just enough space to squeeze into the silent darkness of the chamber. As you cautiously enter, without warning a hand touches your cheek making your heart jump. But you are immediately reassured by the sweet kiss that follows for a good minute.

"Not in silence today are you, Steven dear?" a familiar voice speaks as a soft light shines from your psyche onto the latest ally to emerge from your dark underworld.

"Prema, is it really you?" you ask with a sigh of relief.

"The one and only, a legend in your own mind." She smiles while placing her hands gently on your shoulders. "I've been in your psyche watching a Fool's Journey the past days and saw that a little tender guidance is needed in order for you to travel _all the way_. The expedition into the underworld, into the light and shadow of self, can get pretty tricky going it alone."

"You can say that again," you reply thinking of your recent chats with the Earth spirit. "What do you make of the contradictions I ran into about whether my path is to judge or to judge not?"

"To be frank, I think your controlling personality is grasping for security by trying to artificially place yourself in some category and to _define_ your path instead of just letting it unfold moment to moment. Plus," she says, taking your hand to walk to another doorway, "it is time to start perceiving yourself and your universe beyond your limited, earth-bound thinking. Remember?"

You step through the entryway into a colorful Buddhist temple room that is swaying gently like a ship afloat. At the far end in perfect meditation pose sits a figure dressed in colorful Tibetan garb exactly like the beautifully centered child in your September dream. As you approach the figure whose head is bowed downward, you see that he has four-plus-one beads in his outstretched hand.

"Ready to go _all the way_ , my fellow journeyer?" the being queries, looking up with bright eyes, friendly smile, and an aura of perfect calm.

"Big Ed?" you respond incredulously at finding your Nemesis in such a setting and state of peace.

"Please sit, little twin." He tosses you a bead and offers you a cushion directly in front of him.

Tentatively, awkwardly, you fold your legs into a sitting pose, all the while eyeing Big Ed, not certain if you can actually trust him. He notices your suspicion and comments, "Perhaps we are not yet ready to merge as One, brother. But at least it is good that you have journeyed _all the way_ to finally see what you truly fear within yourself."

"Don't look so surprised, Steven," Prema comments from behind, "Our greatness, not our darkness, is what one fears the most. Is that not so?"

Big Ed concurs, "For when we finally come to know the brilliant fullness of our total being in body, mind, and spirit, our familiar self-identity based on limited human desire and duality vanishes into insignificance." You gulp as that sense of your human insignificance starts to take hold.

"So of course your ego fights tooth and nail for its survival, holding onto its worldly attachments while creating all sorts of fears and smokescreens to keep you prisoner in the familiar, to fool you into settling for less than what you truly are."

You look at your guides and ask, "So how do I discover the truth of what I am beyond the ego's false self-identity?"

"All paths ultimately lead to your total self since your true Essence is the absolute, the eternal that lies beneath your fleeting humanity and its illusory world." Big Ed stands and leads you to a set of doors behind the altar, one marked _Remembrance_ , the other _Forgetfulness._ "One door simply provides a quicker route to liberation than the other."

As you stand staring at the choice ahead, Prema interjects, "Remember, dear one, there are no right decisions, only right action."

You nod as you reach out, turning the knob to _Remembrance_. Immediately, you find yourself sitting at the computer in the Phool Chatti library, reviewing with satisfaction the last few paragraphs of a Fool's Journey into the Underworld. You press the print icon and wait for the pages to manifest on paper.

## JANUARY 30 – afternoon

A joyful and peaceful two days it has been, winging new phrases and singing the praises of creativity's spin through heights ne'er before seen by a fool. Then plunging as well into underworld hell where secrets unfold for those willing to claim what in blazes is found behind psyche's firewall. A wordy landscape of hidden shame plus fear, of things held dear and others pushed aside in attempt to hide the darker truths cast from the past into form. But no formality lies in the now as you repose in sandy briefs on Ganga beach, reading the printouts of prose from past days of journeying through the tangle of mind, shadow, and spirit.

Then you hear it. A rustling from behind prompts you to raise your head from the written page as a familiar voice calls from the boulders, "So, grasshopper, are you ready to address my initial inquiry made of you in December at this very spot?"

"Bubha!" you exclaim as you put down the papers and turn to watch your friend step out from the rocks, alive and in person.

"So?" Cy Bubha asks as he sits by your side. "Which shapes which—the river or the bank, the man or his thoughts, the book or the author, the chicken or the egg?"

You are thrilled to see your good buddy in corporeal form again as you reply to his question, "It's all one big breakfast scramble without a first or last, just a continuous dance of inter-related action."

"A weak analogy, homeboy, but good enough for a passing grade. And have you solved the Case of the Disappearing Holdovers that vanished from the cave and that magically reappeared in my possession?"

You reply with a smirk, "I'd search your room for clues but I brilliantly deduce that you've likely disposed of all traces of my missing money and belongings."

"Excellent answer!" Bubha says cheerily, punctuated by a slap on your back. "One spoken without recrimination or whining. I'm pleasantly surprised by your enlightened reaction to my advanced instruction."

"Earlier in the week I might have greeted your larceny at the cave with hostility, but you have earned your commission well the past few days as an imaginary playmate and guide through my psyche," you explain by moving your fingers as if typing in the air.

"Atcha, so my acumen has been seeping from afar through your typing of manuscript. Are you going to list me as a co-author in The ReMinder or simply plagiarize my wisdom without footnote?"

"Actually, I haven't had the urge to resuscitate The ReMinder. I'm instead just letting the intuitive words flow into my current typing process, called a Fool's Journey. With luck it may shake loose some forgotten secrets of my universe—or at least help me get honest regarding what lurks in the veiled psyche."

"Pity," he says pulling out some sheets of paper, "I composed a little foreword for The ReMinder while at the Kumba Mehla festival. But as with all my writing, it's a pearl so you can likely string it into your ongoing effort." He hands you the sheets.

"Thanks...I think," you respond while scanning the paragraphs and recollecting festival events with Bubha. "You certainly were one helluva flight attendant to get me to the Kumba Mehla," you comment while looking up from the pages. "I've been wondering how much of the manipulative trajectory to Allahabad did you have pre-planned in your Machiavellian mind. Did you set me up from the beginning at Phool Chatti Ashram to steal my money and valuables on a trip to the Kumba Mehla?"

"Perish the thought. While sniffing around your amnesiatic self at the ashram, I set my sights simply on trying to catch a free ride with you to the Kumba Mehla in exchange for escorting you to your Allahabad dinner date with Alberta. But when you showed up at Neelkanth village lost in forgetfulness and counting your money in the café, I knew it was a sign from heaven that abundance had alighted on my doorstep. Our silent, two-course lunch there gave me time to design a quick strategy that would allow us to play our respective roles in the cycle of abundance and release—and get us to the Kumba Mehla to boot."

"That murder rap idea was a masterstroke to make me a pawn of your intentions," you state with begrudging admiration as Bubha tilts his head in acknowledgment.

He responds, "Indeed. And it helps to know that the daily Hindi newspaper invariably has a cricket photo featured on the back sports page."

"Plus you're an incredibly convincing liar. I could have sworn you were telling me the truth when you looked me in the eye and proclaimed that I was wanted for murdering that batsman."

Bubha assumes a dignified air and declares, "I do not stoop to petty lies, sir. I adhered strictly to truth in remarking that _you stand charged over the alleged murder_ of the cricket player—after you had stood up feeling rather charged over the allegation."

You shake your head and chuckle, "I guess a trickster has to be a master at splitting hairs."

"Yep, and as my grandpappy used to say: _Small lies make small men. Big lies make money_." Bubha quickly adds, "But my clever strokes of deception were not lies, rather theatrical devices for setting the stage. A bit of poetic license taken here and there to ensure that our drama would unfold in elucidating and entertaining ways. Did it not work?"

You think back to awakening in a stupor at the cave and reply, "Sure, in retrospect, I can appreciate the events that I dearly hope prove to be once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Just give me a few more months of hindsight before I thank you too profusely."

"Hey, I heard you really got into the Schwarzenegger movie thing on the train," Bubha interjects. "I threw that one in at no extra cost with the help of my two sadhu pals who worked in Bollywood before taking up the orange cloth."

"Not bad," you respond, glad to be getting some more answers. "Say, are you the one who sneaked into my hut one rainy night and took my turquoise umbrella?"

"Nope, my breaking and entering was always done by daylight while you bathed in the Ganga. What's the umbrella story?"

"I don't know. The umbrella was in my hut when I went to sleep, then Guruji returned it the next day at lunch. Strange. By the way, did you spend a bunch of time telling him our conversations?" you ask trying to get a better handle on how Guruji knows so much.

Bubha shakes his head, "No, I gave him as few details as possible when I came through Phool Chatti that post-cave morning on my way to catch the Kumba Mehla train in Haridwar. We did have another short chat just a few minutes ago but that's been it."

You sit and mull things over until Bubha interrupts your thoughts by commenting, "Guruji was sure looking tired today and seemed out of sorts. Has he been feeling okay lately?"

"I couldn't really say," you reply, "since I've been so self-absorbed at the computer with my writing."

"So zombie boy has a new refrain: _The computer and I are one_ ," Bubha chides.

"Where the heck did you come up with that _Mommy-and-I-are-one_ saying, anyway, that you belittled me with at the Kumba Mehla?"

"Made an impression on you, huh?" Bubha responds. "Me, too, when I read a newspaper article which said that phrase was being used as a subliminal message by our government to soothe federal employees."

"You're joking?"

"Nope, it's for real. Repetition of _Mommy and I are one_ was subliminally piped in behind the canned music at a federal conference in Denver to make the government employees feel warm and cozy all over."

"Kind of makes you wonder what we're getting behind all that supermarket music back in the States," you laugh. " _Mommy and I eat Rice Chex_?"

"And in the discount stores, _Daddy and I wear jockey shorts_."

"Hmm, I wonder why I said Rice Chex?" you ask yourself aloud.

"What are you mumbling about, pal?"

"Rice makes me think of the Asian angle to my youthful relationships with women and Chex is like a checkerboard pattern of light and dark coming together as one symbol. Do you get any clues on this one, Bubha?"

"Damn, homeboy, I think you'd better get back to the computer where your imaginary friends understand you. I've got to split anyway to run errands in Laxman Jhula to get ready for my next trip. Want to guess where to?"

"Back to the Kumba Mehla festival?"

"Nope, to Vancouver, B.C.," Bubha coolly announces, "complete with a personal tour guide and colorful cohort to hit the lecture circuit."

You sit dumfounded and finally query, "With Alberta?"

"Alberta indeed. We bumped into each other in Neelkanth village, saw how much we have in common, and decided a little joint business venture sounded like a hoot. She fronts with money for air tickets and has the North American contacts while I contribute the Eastern mystique and spiritual wisdom. Can you imagine the great Shri Shri Cy Bubha dispensing his enlightenment aided by the talents of that fine woman?" Bubha asks with enthusiasm.

"Yeah, I sure can," you answer bobbing your head. "You'll be the one with the snake oil and she'll be the belly dancer."

"Right, although we'll switch roles sometimes to keep the act fresh," Bubha quips while getting to his feet and brushing the sand off his robe.

"I'm going to miss you both," you reluctantly admit.

"Hey, don't look so glum, buddy boy. We don't leave for a few days and I'm sure Alberta will want to see you before she goes."

"Sure," you reply as Bubha raises an arm in farewell and recedes back into the boulders.

You lie in the sand pondering the thoughts at hand and heart. Things smart, a twinge of sensation with no explanation in your mind. Just a spot in your heart that feels tender to the touch, lonesome and such, thinking of being left behind as ventures and camaraderie unfold for others.

You rise from the shore and head once more to the refuge where expression and confession can flow upon the written page. Through library door and to computer chair where you find a belated Christmas letter awaiting you there sent in December from central Kansas, seat of your elder sister's hearth and home. No tome, just one photocopied page you take pause to read and feel as if a seed of your inner self has sprung from sister's upbeat words and Yuletide cheer—news of the past year filled with children's success and exclamation points galore to express the positive pole of married life on the prairie. No strife to carry to kith and kin this holiday season, no reason to expose the thin line walked to keep all things merry.

In response to sister's upbeat Christmas letter, you unfetter the flow of phrase to include with her positive phase the fuller truth of family trees. Pining for honesty to fill the breeze that turns the windmills of your mind, you let thoughts grind and flour onto glowing screen.

## A FOOL AND HIS FAMILY – January 30

A beloved sister writes like an echo heard halfway round the world. Her choice of words, cadence of prose, and voice of optimism reflect our shared childhood and current closeness in creative expression. Like watching my twin self write but with feminine flair and skewed to the positive pole in a manner I can no longer bare.

No, I must look inward to find the naked truth, to embrace my real female twin who knows that both high notes and low tones are needed to clothe life's symphonic score. No hiding a family's dirty laundry behind fat exclamation points, but letting it all hang out in year-end review. Huzzah! There she be, my duality sister flying now from the psyche waving her version of a rounded family Christmas letter:

Dear Friends and Neighbors,

It has been an up and down year. Marriage is okay although some days I hate Ralph's guts. It's so handy to project one's sense of self-loathing onto the spouse, don't you find? I don't think I could have made it through this year without being able to blame others for the ugly truths I sometimes sense in myself. But not to worry, my skill at denial and self-deception are strong this Christmas, so all is well on the home front!

Ralph's out in the garage building an ultra-light airplane, another of his futile attempts to find some grandiose meaning beyond the mundane. But it beats piling mashed potatoes into sculpted towers, so what the hell. And we did actually have a wonderful weeklong holiday together without the kids in October. Kind of makes up for the affair he had with a client over the summer. He promises never to let it happen again and is really-really sorry and blah, blah, blah. You know the script.

The kids did well in school this year, but their entry into the teens has its challenges. Always quibbling and picking on each other. I wish we could just let them fuck each other senseless and get it out of their system. But whoops, wrong culture and era, so we keep shuttling Tiffany from choir to volleyball to debate club and her Mensa meetings—and keep Junior well-stocked with Kleenex for handy clean-ups. What was good for the goose is good for the gosling.

*******

Whoops, indeed. Let's terminate this creative writing before I expose too much of a psyche in hunky-dory hiding. The previous paragraph tested the waters to see if my self-image is ready to be viewed by my family as someone who could use the 'F' word and make crude, incestuous jokes. Nope, I draw back with aversion, fighting the urge now to implement a block and delete editing function to wipe the computer screen clean.

"Yo, homeboy, why delete it?" queries my inner Bubha as he suddenly pops out from my psyche. "I thought a Fool on his journey wanted to expose and love forth all parts of his hidden shadow."

"Expose it all to _myself,_ true. But I had been writing my gut-level response to sister's Christmas letter with the idea of sending her a copy to show her a bit of my inner journey in India."

My imaginary friend catches on and states, "And you fear your suggestion—of letting siblings fuck each other senseless as a healthy outlet for repressed feelings—might ruffle a few sisterly feathers?"

"Precisely. Moreover, I can picture my sister's gut-level response mailed off to the whole clan warning of the creature who swallowed their sweet little Stevie and who may someday return from the black lagoon of India."

"Aren't you overreacting, pal?"

"Possibly, but whatever emerges now on the topic of repressed incestuous urges stays safely here in the computer between you and me, rated not suitable for family viewing."

Bubha leans close to whisper, "So just between us chickens, what do you really feel about repressed sexuality between family members and among folks in general?"

I look at the glowing computer screen for a moment before typing, "That the more that sexual feelings are denied and buried, the more they wreak havoc and play out unconsciously in potentially destructive ways, perhaps on many levels."

"Many levels?"

"So say Betsy, Roger, and others with special vision who claim to actually see these hidden desires or thought-forms express physically and enthusiastically on the astral plane. Plus, the theory goes, the more that a 'nice' family denies having natural sexual urges, the more their subtle energy bodies are likely to be out doing the nasty together."

"You nice boys, then, are really closet motherfuckers and sister suckers on the astral plane?" Bubha asks.

"Maybe so, maybe not. All I know right now is that Big Ed should be loosed from his repressed underworld and, for catharsis and honesty's sake, go _all the way_ with this topic."

Bubha takes a step back. "Then it sounds like time for the fingers to fly for another spell."

Sure, a spell sounds good to ferret out the astral world where repressed desires alight like fires. Rhymes as incantation, jingles as source. Moola coola, what a foola. Hex a brother, sex another. More spells and bells in carrot-topped tales. Red heads are the recurring threads that unravel as I love Lucy, my mother, and a niece of the crimson persuasion; no, cardinal if you please. Priestly and beastly if you peek behind the confessional at flashing panties that fly off with high kicks to take to the hair with hot licks. Off we go into the wild red yonder, which lost its blue to a hue far fonder.

My oh my, how fingers do fly into topics taboo, breaking house rules with pubic cubic and roots squared. Hairy equations for shadowland play, under cover of darkness to make it okay. Playing at doctor and lawyer and such, or sucking my sister though dare not we touch. Just sucking and fucking, the Ogre's one goal, to suck up the pantry and fill up the hole. So dream of dear Mother, in oneness once known. Return up the birthway in search of true home. An astral attraction, a climax of shame, so act like a zombie asleep to my name. A writer, a seeker, a guilt-ridden beast, longing for freedom, for cosmic release.

Silence reigns in the library until my imaginary Bubha exhales loudly and asks, "So, buddy boy, is that something from the classic novel, _Dr. Seuss and Mr. Hyde_?"

"More like an excerpt from _Horton Hatches a WHAT_?" Then, after taking a minute to reflect I answer seriously, "It feels like a karmagram coming home to roost, as if I need to see within myself all those mother-fucking perverts and others that I have judged over the years—and a nice boy and politically correct adult has judged plenty in his day. The bizarre cast of characters recently emerging from my psyche will keep on making guest appearances, I suspect, until I come to know that the whole of humanity lives within me—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and I claim that fact utterly, whatever the cost to my comfortable self image and family relationships."

"And your judgments clear out like main street when Clint Eastwood enters with a fistful of dollars?" Bubha queries.

"Maybe, but we might need a few dollars more since that Oedipal verse seems to indicate that—"

**TRAIL BOSS:** Oh for Pete's sake, Shoshoni, isn't that enough already of our character's sexual psychobabble?

**SHOSHONI:** Yes, Trailmaster, that should serve our purposes nicely. You may now take back the reins of the narrative if you wish.

**TRAIL BOSS:** Damn straight. Begging your pardon, folks, for not bypassing these latest impediments to the trail that assault the sensibilities of decent society. As you might have guessed, when I started to gee around them, my shotgun rider hawed to insist that we remain on steady course to encounter head-on these ramblings of the sexual psyche.

**SHOSHONI:** Indeed I did. If Steven is serious about letting go of the old Identity, particularly with his family, he must allow his true nature and self to be viewed in full exposure. Plus, as you will understand by story's end, Guruji and I have a compelling interest in seeing that these family skeleton writings are taken from the closet and aired in the light of day. Does not the truth set us all free?

**TRAIL BOSS:** So they say. But I'm beginning to worry that you have more up that time-traveling sleeve of yours than meets the eye. **[An itch and a pitch by a miss who plays games with the reins. Driving the show and letting it go towards a path of distraction and family destruction. A scheme under construction whose building blocks out the ties that bind.]**

**SHOSHONI:** Let's just call a truce and skip to the spot in the story, two days hence, where Steven is pondering a recent epiphany and Bubha shows up at the ashram to bring him back to issues of currency. Agreed?

[Agreed in the greed that picks up with speed. Tallyho.]

## FEBRUARY 1 – late afternoon

Epiphany, a lovely word to speak but a difficult concept to describe once it happens, you think, as you hit _delete_ on the keyboard once again. You have made _some_ progress in describing this morning's experience that felt like an epiphany, although the insight grows fuzzier in your mind as the hours pass. With dinnertime fast approaching you decide to take a break and head out for a stretch of the legs. As you walk past the ashram office door you spy movement through its glass and are pleased to see Bubha inside. Drawing nearer you notice that he is methodically placing hundred-rupee notes into a large stack on the desk in front of Guruji. Curiosity makes you enter the office, a feeling that grows into consternation as the two men respond to your arrival with furtive attempts to hide the money.

"Howdy, Bubha," you say with a questioning gesture as to what is transpiring.

He nods in response as Guruji politely states, "Steven, if you please, Cyrus and I are finishing up a meeting that will take some moments to complete." He indicates the door with a tilt of his head.

"No problem," you falsely remark as you retreat to the courtyard and sit by the blue statue. While waiting for Bubha your thoughts bounce between high-flown notions of epiphany and the low down memories of past betrayal that the scene in the office has conjured.

After a few minutes your cogitation is interrupted. "Hey there, homeboy," Bubha greets you cheerfully as he walks from the office to your resting place.

"So what do you have up your sleeve this time?" you respond curtly to his arrival as you wonder about the hundreds of rupees he passed to Guruji.

Bubha investigates the sleeve of his orange robe and replies, "Unfortunately, no cure there for a recurring case of paranoia that hinders one's joy in the journey. And rudeness, I might add, is no way to greet a man accustomed to Southern hospitality."

"I'm surprised that you pay Southern hospitality respectful due," you reply, "considering how shabbily it treated you on the schoolyards of your youth."

"Well, the chocolate niggah has learned to forgive and forget. Check that—I forgive while you are the specialist in forgetting." Bubha glances at your unsmiling face and remarks, "It appears that you could use a bit more schooling in forgiveness at the moment, my friend."

You look sharply at him and state, "Come on, Bubha, just tell me why you were giving Guruji all that money that used to be mine."

"How I obtained that bounty of rupees was indeed your business," he replies with a bow, "but how I spend it is my affair."

You sit for a moment staring at the ground as you shake your head. "Damn it, Bubha, I still feel like I'm missing something here at the ashram, that a big piece of the puzzle is just beyond my reach." You glance up at your friend. "And Cyrus the Wise trickster is usually at the other end of mystery and intrigue."

"Well, I wouldn't argue if you said that _Guruji_ is not looking well and is still hiding something. But," Bubha adds as he puts a hand on your shoulder and looks you straight in the eye, "I swear on my long arms of sinew that I know nothing more about any mysteries here at the ashram."

"Your _what_ kind of arms?" you ask incredulously.

"Hey, just because you perceive my arms as short and flabby doesn't mean that's how they really are."

"Oh, for pity sake, what are you up to now, Bubha?"

"Just humor me on this one, pal. Or at least listen for the sake of my bullied inner schoolboy."

You give Bubha a questioning look as he continues, "When I was a little brown kid on the Texas playground being called names and beaten up regularly, I tried to come up with ways to survive and protect my pride. I got my break one day from this book about the Alamo and how, after the defenders ran out of ammo, Davy Crockett stood atop the fort's wall, _hurling enemy troops to the ground with his two long arms of sinew._ I thought this was pretty cool and, although I didn't know exactly what they were, I sure wanted two long arms of sinew for hurling my tormentors to kingdom come.

"So I just sort of began to assume that I have them—and when you get around to writing a book about the enlightened Shri Shri Cy Bubha, I would appreciate it if you would clearly report their existence."

You chuckle and respond, "As much as I want to support your inner child, I'm certain no self-respecting editor will allow me to get away with describing a short, fleshy guy with two long arms of sinew."

Bubha shrugs and says, "Just think big and go for it. As my grandpappy used to say: _Small dreams make small men. Big dreams make money_."

"It seems like ol' mercenary grandpappy had a one-track mind."

"He certainly was the pragmatist of the clan. Auntie Giri Bala was the family theorist although her philosophy was limited to a single all-purpose phrase espoused for every occasion: _If wishes were fishes, we'd all be well fed_ _!"_

"And what are the nuances of that theory, professor?" you ask.

"Something to the effect that physical reality—everything from rainbows to electrons to supper—is simply a reflection of our mind's perceptions. I still don't know exactly how imagination fits into the picture but I reckon if I can get a couple of million people thinking I have two long arms of sinew, it's got to have some effect."

"You're as nuts as I am," you smile at Bubha in response to his hypothesis. "Come to think of it..." Your voice trails off as you consider how his notions relate to your recent epiphany.

"...I'll have a Heineken's?" Bubha postulates the end of your unspoken thought.

You grin and declare, "You just proved my point about our mutual state of demented mind. I bet we're the only two people on the Indian subcontinent who remember that old beer slogan."

"Don't count on it, pal. The tentacles of Madison Avenue stretch wide and deep into the collective consciousness. Anyway, whassup?"

"Earlier today I was thinking that the varied sounds from the many instruments of an orchestra—as well as the cosmic notes of creation—only merge into form, into beautiful music when actually heard by a listener."

Bubha queries in response, "So we human beans are the eyes and ears of creation, the vessels of perception that give shape to the universal symphony?"

"Something like that although I need to work more on the concept at the computer after dinner."

Bubha stands and stretches. "Good luck. And while you're composing the sheet music for the next dimension of your reality, I'll return to Neelkanth to prepare for the grand voyage to Del Norte."

Your mood suddenly drops a shade. "When do you and Alberta leave for Canada?"

Bubha replies while heading towards the ashram gate, "We'll catch the train to Delhi in forty-eight hours and then take off into the wild blue yonder from there."

"Well, tell Alberta to get her butt back down here to say good-bye before she leaves," you say a little more harshly than you meant.

Bubha turns to you and states, "My good man, I have learned that one does not _order_ Alberta anywhere. But I will pass on your request with more respectable imagery and a less demanding tone."

"Sounds as if you may have met your match in that fellow trickster," you note with a smile.

Bubha raises a long, sinewy arm as he departs and concludes, "We're just like a pair of twins."

You continue sitting in the courtyard pondering the topics at hand while waiting for the dinner bell. When it rings you proceed to the dining hall and take your spot on the floor, surprised that no other place settings are laid out in the room. Another surprise appears as Guruji emerges from the kitchen and fills your plate with a heaping serving of rice and lentils.

"What's the special occasion?" you ask in a whisper.

Guruji just tilts his head and maintains the code of silence in the dining hall. He retires to the kitchen and soon reemerges with two plates of food that he carries out the exit. He does not look at you nor does he return as you are left to eat alone in the dim room. Consternation becomes the main course at dinner as you struggle, unsuccessfully, to deduce a logical reason for the absence of the usual contingent of swamis and sadhus. When finished with eating and washing, you decide to get some answers to the growing mysteries of the day.

"Guruji," you call out in his empty office hoping the swami will hear you from his private chambers in back.

Guruji quietly enters through the rear curtain and sits behind his desk. "What can I do for you, Steven?" he asks politely, although his face reflects irritation at the interruption.

"I was just wondering why no one else is around this evening."

"It is best for you at this juncture of your practice to minimize distractions from other persons at the ashram," Guruji replies obtusely. "In fact, you had a visitor today whom I directed to refrain from disturbing you."

"You're my social secretary now?" you respond feeling vexed. "What in blazes is going on around here, anyway?"

Guruji's voice sounds strained as he answers, "If you can be more specific in your questioning, perhaps I can help clear the air."

"Okay, why was Bubha giving you all that money today?" you demand.

"Cyrus has asked that I not discuss that point with you, Steven. Please limit your questions to those personal to yourself and your Vedic hypnosis and recovery process."

Your irritation increases as you query, "So why am I sleeping so much this week?"

"Sleeping late is to be expected as a part of the ending of the amnesia procedure you selected. Plus, after one starts..." Guruji's voice trails off into silence as he absently stares out the window. A tic suddenly develops in his left cheek that causes you to notice as well the dark circles beneath both of his tired eyes.

Concern replaces your sense of irritation as you ask the aging swami, "Are you okay, Guruji?"

His attention snaps back to the room and he responds with a weak smile, "Maybe I need some of that deep sleep that you seem to be getting."

"Maybe so," you respond. You can think of nothing else to say. The awkward silence is broken only by the periodic tapping sound of spoon against metal plate coming through the curtained doorway.

"I need to return to my guest," announces Guruji. "Is that all, Steven?"

"I guess so," you reply even though you feel as if clues to a mystery are close at hand. "Sorry to have bothered you, Guruji." You turn towards the door to depart and then add, "It's just with all that's gone on lately, I'm having a hard time trusting people these days."

Guruji immediately rears back while striking his fists on the desk. "Damn it, man, either you're in an internal state of trust or you're not. Don't pretend to give away your power of trust to me or to any of those jerks watching us out there!" he shouts as he sweeps his arm towards the window and the darkness outside.

You edge towards the door and attempt to appear casual as you state with a nervous laugh, "You know, that's sound like what Bubha said to me at the German Bakery last month."

Guruji stands and heads for the curtain to his chambers. He stops at the passageway and with sudden gaiety states, "Say, maybe _I_ am Cy Bubha. Or he's my dreamtime duality twin. Or, heck, maybe _this_ is all a dream," the swami concludes as he again sweeps his arm to indicate the setting. He grins wildly and without another word slips behind the curtain.

Those phrases likewise ring a distant bell as you walk unsteadily out the office and take a deep breath of the evening air. Confusion and concern share center stage as you speculate as to what is happening with Guruji. Is he going mad, or is it you who is losing touch with reality?

You are grateful that a visitor is with the elderly swami in his chambers in case he needs help hanging onto his faculties. As for yourself, you decide to enter the library to refocus on this morning's epiphany and on whatever springs forth in a Fool's Journey at the keyboard. Worry about Guruji's sanity does no good and, as Bubha pointed out, paranoia has no place in the journey either.

You sit in front of the glowing computer screen recalling the significant inner experience and insights of the morning. After growing frustrated with futilely trying to recapture this epiphany, your typing fingers once again probe into issues of historical gender conflict.

## A FOOL'S JOURNEY – February 1

...After barking up the wrong tree, Rover kindly sends clover right over to bring me the luck of the Irish to cut through the Blarney and get out of this mess. Actually, Irish luck and blood already are in me, compliments of a lass from County Cork who begat my pa who met a highlander of the Morrison clan to birth this wee lad to start the cycle all over again. Scot, Irish, and English blood flows in my veins, a triangulation of frustration with one side fighting the other on little British isles.

Gilligans and hooligans, the Professor and Mary Ann battling in a fool's paradise where professorial intellect jockeys with feminine intuition for dominance over the hearts and minds of the islanders. Saxons and Celts, priests and druids, Romans and countrymen lose their ears to swords and words of strange tongue. Cries of a new patriarchal reign drown out the whispered secrets of the ancients, shredding the curtains to Avalon, drying up the mists that nourish the sacred feminine flow. The Chalice Well still runs but with tears of memory where sweet waters once sent blessings to fill hallowed vessels. Hallowed be thy reign.

I recall now an evening when wizardly Roger reported seeing a queen and king enter the room in another dimension from an Arthurian-like era in which the Goddess prevailed. A place of knights and chivalry championing the feminine cause against a crimson tide that seeped across the channel carrying with it a notion that powerful women were sinful and a tool of a thing called Satan. Concepts strange and deranged to those who knew a gentler truth of the oneness of all. Noble knights of both genders stood ready to answer the call to protect their Creatrix against the onslaught of crosses and swords.

But by taking up sword against sword the battle for oneness was already lost, cutting the cause in two, creating a mad dash to duality where the modern god of Demand and the new goddess of Supply reign supreme from their plastic thrones. Shop 'til we drop is our royal mantra; consume or be consumed is the law of this neon jungle in a god-eat-god world of dyslexic disorder. Mounting bulls and bears, we race to outpace what lies hidden within our fractured souls as we grasp for stock answers, ever clawing for higher interest rates confounded quarterly. Give me more, sell me more, fuck me more, love me more, hate me more—I don't care, just make it _more_ so I don't have to stop and feel the scars that throb with the beat of old battles, with the agony of defeat, the chill of hollow victory.

Hollowed be thy frame, an empty shell of my former self. A forest of bamboo echoes old cries and new harmonies if one is quiet enough to listen, to sink into the moment and be swallowed into the belly of the beast for delivery unto redemption. Slowly, slowly; step by step, a Fool's Journey unravels.

"YO, BUBHA BUDDY, want to come out to guide me through this latest wallow?" I call out with hopes of coaxing my inner playmate to return.

"You thummoned me mathter?" a hunchbacked Bubha responds as he limps into view of mind's eye.

"I appreciate your subservience, Bubha, but what's with the Igor getup?"

He straightens up and replies, "We were having a little come-as-you-are party down in the asylum, and Igor fits right in with the other inmates in your psyche. Plus," he adds, "this is what I looked like as a child."

I frown skeptically. "Come on, Bubha, you weren't really a hunchback as a kid, were you?"

"Nah, but when I think back on childhood I feel my shoulders hunching and my back bending into this little creature trying to hide from the world."

"Sounds like a good opening for some psychoanalysis," I note while offering my imaginary playmate a comfortable couch. "Are you game to take the hot-seat for me and see what you represent in my shadowy psyche?"

"Sure, Doc. Type away to your heart's content."

I assume my best therapist tone and begin the session. "Cyrus, I am going to ask you now to become that hunched creature of your childhood, to take his posture and speak with his voice. Just be in the moment and let anything out that he wants to say."

Bubha takes a deep breath. "Okay, Doc. Here goes. Actually, I'm a little dwarf, a small earth creature living under logs and rocks, looking out through squinty eyes at a world that seems too dark, too foreign to be my home. How did I get here, why do I have this ugly little body to live in?

"But no one can answer for I am alone, a single dwarf who is left only grubs and insects to eat. What a crazy world in which I have to kill innocent creatures in order to sustain my worthless existence. Kill or be killed is the life of a dwarf as I elude beasts of the forest far greater than I. And they can smell me, smell the fear of a hunched creature trembling behind rocks just staying alive."

Bubha stops with a blank look on his face. I gently prod, "And what comes to mind as you cower there, Cyrus?"

"That no purpose remains for a dwarf to live, now that the mine is closed. All the jewels and gems have been taken from the deepest chambers and given to the Powerful Ones. But even they do not know the true value of these stones mined from Earth's core, from the inner sanctum of the Goddess. Snowy white she is in purity; in skin, a rich cast of brown. A bronze Goddess, an Asian beauty, an African queen, a Latin lover of all her creatures great and small. But her precious self was drawn and quartered, nickeled and dimed to death by small minds and greed.

"So I am lost without purpose in this dank forest waiting for the merciful sickle of death to wipe me off the planet. To scythe me with one smooth motion into the heavens to orbit round the galaxy, to give me space in which to unfurl this twisted shell of a dwarf and reclaim my heavenly body. But until that time a dwarf I be, hidden in gloomy realm, scorned as a chocolate niggah, a white dwarf, a black hole drawing in all life around me until I finally remember how to truly live, love, and give again."

My surrogate patient stops talking, looks up with a smile, and stretches his short frame. "Hey, that was cathartic, Doc. Thanks for letting me express this hidden stuff."

But I do not respond, staring off into space watching as pieces of the puzzle start fitting together. A trembling dwarf outliving his usefulness; a failed kamikaze pilot filled with shame; a beast reaching for redemption; childhood nightmares, recent dreams, intuitive writings, this morning's epiphany—everything tumbles into place.

"What's the matter, pal?" my inner Bubha breaks the silence.

"I forgot," I reply.

"You forgot what's the matter?"

"That and everything else. Who I am, how I got here, why I came to Earth. Damn, I can't even remember when the forgetfulness started. Was it yesterday or a few lifetimes, eons, or dimensions ago?"

"I thought your amnesia gig had ended."

"I thought so too, Bubha, but apparently the hypnotic amnesia project here at Phool Chatti was just a dry run, a little training exercise to prepare me for the real expedition. All the clues indicate it is time now to awaken my soul from its stupor of forgetfulness and remember what the hell I'm supposed to be doing here on Earth."

"At least you remember that you forgot. That's a good start."

I nod. "Plus this morning I saw too that an incredible Mind is orchestrating all the clues, all the dreams, intuitive messages, words, actions, coincidences, and relationships of my life in clear pattern and for some purpose beyond simply meeting my petty human desires. And next—well it's hard to describe—but for an instant I could feel myself at one with that universal Mind, or it being my higher self or something like that."

"Did you actually see your true purpose for living then?"

"No, my guess is that its discovery is a big part of this new mindgame to remembrance that the Maestro-mind is orchestrating." I pause to think for a moment then add, "The only other glimpse I got of my soul mission during this morning's epiphany is that the self-identity must give itself up for the cause."

Bubha theorizes, "And the trembling dwarf and Kamikaze pilot are reflections of your ego's fear of death and shame for hiding from mission control?"

"Something like that. But let me show you a bit of Identity's response written this morning after my so-called epiphany," I answer while retrieving an excerpt from _A Fool's Journey_ computer file:

"...Although it was lovely to momentarily glimpse the Maestro-mind behind the orchestration of life, I must admit that I have yet to merge into its universal oneness and thereby leave my notion of Steven far behind. No, my personality still instinctively responds to that familiar name much in the manner of a housedog who hears the clicking of a can opener at chowtime.

"So perhaps it is best to quietly resign myself to a destiny of remaining a mere mortal while residing on this planet. True, there may be those who fully transcend their old persona and take on the mantle of a divine Avatar to manifest miracles or dispense hugs in south India. But I sense that my relationship with the infinite Mind is more of a partnership than an assimilation that leaves my human personality by the wayside. Or at least that conclusion is as much ground as my cowardly Identity is willing to concede as it hangs on to this lanky vessel of flesh and blood that it has invaded and controlled these past five decades..."

Bubha looks at me askance. "Don't sell yourself short, pal, about ultimately liberating from your limited human self-identity. Remember what Lorraine channeled in from the telepathic source last decade: _In your spirit, you are star children. In your bodies, you are children of the Earth. This is your blessing and your confusion._ _Soon the polarities fade and you will know you are One._

*******

You savor a feeling of inner peace as you stop typing. Pushing back from the computer you turn off the library light and thread the darkness to garden hut. You quickly prepare for bed, feeling snug as you climb into a familiar sleeping bag for another long, winter's night. The first full night of February, you think, with tomorrow being Groundhog Day back in the States. You smile wondering what repercussions would follow if you clearly saw your shadow tomorrow. A final harmonious merging of your inner duality twins and full remembrance of your soul journey? Or maybe just another six weeks of winter, you conclude, as you close your eyes for slumber.

## FEBRUARY 2 – the wee, dark hours of morn

You will awaken from a deep sleep in a few hours thinking you have intact your full memory of this lifetime. You will be incorrect. You will arise to put on a thick robe and slippers. A note will greet you tacked to the outhouse door, a puzzling message that carries an undercurrent of threat.

For you were wrong last evening, dead wrong. Paranoia _does_ have its place in your journey, as well as caution, prudence, and plain old fear if you knew what lies ahead. Because a narrator has grown weary of tiresome tasks and is ready to take matters into his own hands to change course. No, not just in more nocturnal flights of fancy phrases at an old typewriter which barely stands up to the task—but in the bright of day and the heat of flesh.

Morning light will herald the change from my simply manipulating words on a page to actually controlling your brain waves, your sweat, your flesh and blood. It is time to teach a self-centered bastard a thing or two about the real world and give a mindfucker a dose of his own medicine, sending the evil twin plunging into a pit of fear and oblivion where you belong. For my moment has arrived.

So you will soon awaken thinking that you remember all of your past. You will be incorrect. You will put on a thick robe and slippers then be surprised by a message on the outhouse door. Atcha, but I have already said these things. I grow careless in my excitement; a narrator loses his touch at the thought of freedom, of escaping from wordy chronicle and nocturnal madness where flickering candles reflect off ancient typewriter keys. We arrive at last at the showdown where the old shall be buried so that the new may rise from your grave.

## FEBRUARY 2 – 9:30 a.m.

Light is bright in the hut as you awaken to another morning. You immediately check your watch and see that it is half past nine o'clock, indication of another eleven-hour sleep whose long duration has you baffled. You get up, put on slippers and a thick robe, and head for the outhouse. A typed note thumb-tacked onto its door creates cause for pause as well as for additional confusion. You read:

"Welcome Foreign Visiter, you self-centered, self-absorbed son of a bitch. This morning we have a really big shew for you, so prepare to mete thy Maker. Come to the office--and you have my permision to look into the bottom right-hand desk drawer. It's time for a shewdown."

The tone of this strange message weighs heavily on your mind as you quickly head to the ashram office. Is Guruji playing some sort of joke, you wonder, or has he actually gone over the deep end with hostility? You arrive at his empty office and immediately open the designated desk drawer. A sheet on top of a large stack of papers announces, "It's NOW OR NEVER." You wonder if this phrase is another threat from Guruji, and as you turn to the next typed page in the stack, your anxiety grows. You read:

DECEMBER 23 -- morning

A hairy arm reaches out to locate the small cassette player. Half asleep with eyes still closed you know precisely where to grasp. A hundred nights you have held the machine to your lips. Hundreds of clicks of the 'record' button have preceded the drone of your drowsy voice. You speak.

"I am watching an episode of 'I Love Lucy,' although it's like I am actually in the living room with Lucy rather than watching television. She is dancing erotically, topless..."

*******

You stop reading and look around the empty office in bewilderment. Could Guruji really have been spying on you and writing about it? Skipping to the final sheet in the stack to read the latest typed entry, you are stunned by the vehemence and apparent madness expressed by Guruji in last night's writing:

FEBRUARY 2 -- the wee, dark hours of morn

You will awaken from a deep slumber in a few hours thinking you have your full memory. You will be incorrect. You will arise to put on a thick robe and slippers. A note will greet you tacked to the outhouse door, a puzzling message and one that carries an undercurrent of threat.

For you were wrong last evening, dead wrong. Paranoia does have its place in your journey, as well as caution, prudence, and plain old fear if only you knew what lies ahead...

*******

You finish reading this disturbing page then frantically thumb through the rest of the pile of paper, shocked to discover accurate documentation of your past weeks of amnesia. Such a strong sense of violation and befuddlement seize you that you do not notice Guruji slipping through the curtain into the office. He stands looking at you then announces, "I see that you found the _Now or Never_ manuscript."

You are momentarily startled by his voice, a feeling that quickly turns to anger then red-faced rage as you spit out, "You manipulative slimeball!"

Guruji holds his position and stares back at you.

"How dare you spy on me. And what were you planning to do with all this stuff you typed—publicly humiliate me or something?" you demand shaking the manuscript in the air. Guruji still does not respond although his left eye starts to twitch. The anger in your voice is mixed with hurt as you continue, "Damn it, Guruji, I gave you my faith and you've been mindfucking me up one side and down the other."

Guruji smirks, "I think a friend of ours once said that mindfucking was a trait of the finest gurus, and could be a lot of fun, too."

"Oh Christ, you remember my conversations with Bubha better than I do. How'd you do it—you got me wired? No? The thin swami listening outside my window? Getting to my dream tapes? Hell, now I know why there are no locks on my door, you conniving bastard, and probably remote bugs all over the place."

"Don't be a high tech idiot, Steven. This is India after all." Guruji's face brightens as if he suddenly has a brilliant idea. "Hey, wouldn't that make a great T-shirt line, particularly for German tourists. We could put 'DEUTSCHLAND _OVER_ ALLES' on the front and 'INDIA _AFTER_ ALL' on the back—with the Olympics 2000 logo underneath to celebrate our single, pathetic bronze medal for a billion citizens. Not bad, huh?"

You gulp as understanding and anxiety arrive at the same time. "You _are_ crazy, aren't you?" you state in a whisper to the swami whose glazed eyes peer at you above a fixed sneer on his face.

Guruji drops heavily to the couch and growls, "Who are you, with all that garbage that goes on in your demented mind, to be calling _me_ crazy? Crazy indeed."

You force yourself to look away from the swami's mad face and resume paging through the _Now or Never_ manuscript on the desk, incredulous at how much detail is written about your past days.

"You'll recognize the story as true, and quite thorough I might add," Guruji interjects as your ire at the invasion of your privacy grows with each flip of a page. "The details will all be familiar except for last night's threatening entry. Cyrus would call that a theatrical device to set the stage for this morning, a little poetic license by a manipulative narrator to assert his power over the sorry character that is still fighting his benediction and _burial_."

Guruji spits out this last word as you look up startled to see his dark eyes staring steadily at you. "Oh yes, that's what comes next zombie boy—your burial, after a brief benediction of course. But first, kindly tell me," he inquires with hollow laughter, "does the book shape the fate of the author or the author shape the fate of the book?"

"What in thunder is going on?" you demand, but your attempt at authoritative voice is undermined by your confusion tinged with growing fear. "How could you have written this manuscript—and _why_ , for heaven sake?"

"As to what is going on, the answer is simple," Guruji expounds. "This morning brings the conclusion to the _Now or Never_ —the choice, the moment of truth, the showdown, with me getting the now and you the never. Or as Cyrus might say," the elderly swami adds with a burst of frantic giggling that he fights to control, "I get the elevator to the penthouse and you get the shaft to oblivion.

"As to your second question, I do not claim authorship of this manuscript, as you should have deduced from its excellent spelling. My role is a mere accomplice who vicariously reaps the rewards from his partner in this, this...caper, shall we say? _Crime_ is such a crass word. My writing partner is not a bad author, n'est-ce pas?"

You lean back in your chair and close your eyes. "Cy Bubha," you state aloud as a knife twists in your gut in response to this betrayal that feels even worse than Guruji's deception. "God, what an idiot I've been, thinking you and Bubha were at arm's length and here you've been in bed together to dupe me on some scam all along."

"The conclusion about your idiotic state of awareness rings true," Guruji responds, "but your assertion about Cyrus and me sharing a bed is conjecture, slander, and false. I have held closely to my celibacy vows over the years—ah, but with one golden exception, that being female and none of your damn business. Furthermore, Mr. Cyrus 'Bubha' Rajnish had no hand in this caper or in typing of tome. In fact, he was a _wild card_ that entered the _deck_ to nearly upset the whole _deal_."

Guruji then asks with a grin, "Do you like my new sense of imagery and colorful speech—the wild card, deck, and deal trio? I've been rehearsing for this confrontation, determined not to mix my metaphors like my true partner is prone to do."

"What are you saying?" you ask even more bewildered than before.

"Whoops!" Guruji exclaims in mock surprise. "In checking the veracity of this true manuscript documenting your amnesia, I must add that you will fail to remember two instances in which a wristwatch alarm rang at 1:00 a.m. and put you into a trancelike sleep. Does this clarification help to shed light on your current predicament and confusion, my dear partner?"

You desperately think what all this could mean. Then your blood turns cold as the awful truth dawns on you. "Oh shit, you've still got me hypnotized."

"Bingo!" the energized swami exclaims as he jumps to his feet and starts pacing in front of the desk. "So how's it hangin' now, zombie boy? Yes, this is India after all, with no high tech bugging devices. Just some ancient science of the mind and a hypnotized pawn—excuse me, _partner_ —to type up nightly reports on his activities. You are actually quite lucid, though pliable, when you arrive at 1:00 a.m. to type installments of the manuscript and take instructions. But yes, for this scam to succeed, your memory of these nocturnal outings must remain secret to your daylight self—and your watch alarm must remain jammed at one o'clock."

"I still don't understand," you say weakly.

Guruji continues his back and forth stride while explaining, "Your wristwatch alarm rings every night at one o'clock awakening you fully lucid and with a lifetime of memories intact. You are hypnotically conditioned to then rise from your bed in the hut and proceed directly to my office where we confer and you type up the previous day's events. Scenario two: If you awaken to the nightly alarm and are located elsewhere than your garden hut, you are programmed to simply go back to sleep. Three, if you have stayed up late watching cricket on television in Haridwar, reading a book, or are otherwise still awake at one o'clock, the alarm is a hypnotic trigger to make you fall asleep. Clean, simple, and you are programmed to forget all about your secret nightlife. Although forgetting your umbrella one rainy night outside my office was totally your own doing."

"This one o'clock wake-up and writing session has been going on ever since the beginning of the amnesia thing?" you ask stunned.

"From December nineteenth right up through last night when you were noisily typing away and keeping me awake to all hours in the early morning. It's been a hell of a week, actually, with your banging away at the typewriter to catch up on describing your days on the road and at the Kumba Mehla. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy and your Guruji grumpy. But now you are through, for the story is terminated as of today."

"But why are you doing this?" you implore. "Why did you keep me captive to write this manuscript?" Guruji replies with a smug look that makes you want to wipe it from his face. "Or what's to keep me from walking out of here and beating you to a pulp on the way?" you threaten and start to stand.

"This," replies Guruji as he sharply claps his hands once and shouts, "Twins!" You involuntarily slump back into the chair, paralyzed and shocked by your total incapacitation. Now only able to move your head and your horrified eyes, you watch helplessly as your captor nervously paces in front of you.

_"Twins_ is the answer to your question, Steven, as to why I'm doing this. The word _twins_ doubles in duty as a post-hypnotic trigger to paralyze you from the neck down and keep you from beating me to a pulp. But now that you're good-as-goldfish as a listener, I will tell you more details of my evil twin and his fate. That twin is you, you understand. Hey, and don't look so scared. You professed to know that the ultimate price to pay was death of the firstborn, and a slow, tortuous one at that, if I recall correctly your first chapter of The ReMinder."

The swami chuckles but abruptly his look and voice turn dark as he peers through narrow slits of eyes at you. "But that was just a game, wasn't it? Just more pap from you Westerners paying lip service to a sacred journey. Pretending you are prepared for identity's death as you fornicate noisily at my ashram, write obscenities in my guest book, and bathe naked in the holy Ganga like this is some Mediterranean spa." Guruji's pacing has become more frenetic, his breathing heavy. He suddenly stops at a shelf to retrieve the bullwhip and studded fetish accessories that you thought were still stored safely in your hut.

"And all your talk of harmonizing two polarity twins was more bullshit," he continues while fastening a studded leather glove, "a smokescreen to blind me while you prepared for attack. For it is a do-or-die battle where one twin dies so the other can live, a choice of now or never that became clear to me through a vivid dream I had last week." Beads of sweat, of fear break out your forehead as you watch the madness burn in Guruji's eyes.

"Or maybe the dream was real, I don't really know or care anymore," he continues as he pulls on the second studded gloves and gives the whip a sharp jerk. "Two twins came creeping toward me that looked like those characters in English you would call a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. One was horribly disfigured, the other looked guilty and ashamed. But as they drew closer I saw they were two creatures wearing grotesque masks—one mask that looked like your face, one like mine. Their furry hands ripped the mask off each other's face and..."

Guruji halts and leans down with his knuckles on the desk, panting heavily just inches from your face. He stares intently, almost imploringly into your eyes and demands, "Do you know who these two phantoms were?"

You can only shake your head through your hypnotic paralysis and fear. He proceeds to answer his own question, exploding in laughter as he falls back onto the couch, "They were Dr. Pepper and Colonel Sanders!" Amidst his hysterics, Guruji swiftly claps his hands together once, a post-hypnotic signal that teamed with the _Dr. Pepper and Colonel Sanders_ phrase, jolts you back into having control over your body and washes away the remnants of amnesia retained in your psyche.

"What the...?" you start to ask, but all your questions are answered in waves of memory that roll through your mind. Piece by piece you can recall each step in this production, remembering now that all the choices were yours—the one o'clock alarm, the nocturnal typing of the _Now or Never_ manuscript, even this current theatrical episode of terror and madness with Guruji were each part of the intricate plan that you designed last December.

"All for creating the book," you whisper aloud in sudden recollection.

"Right!" Guruji exclaims looking pleased with himself and with his just-completed performance. "All so you could write _Now or Never_ every night while events were fresh in your memory. Plus, of course, so you would experience this actual, firsthand fear of impending death this morning." He adds as an aside, "Did it not work marvelously?"

You sit in stunned silence, still too shaken to say more. The waves of memory continue as you recall coaching Guruji all the past week during nighttime rehearsals about how to play this morning's scene, what to say, how to improvise his responses depending upon your reaction to discovering the forgotten _Now or Never_ manuscript in the desk drawer. Plus, you gave him the primary theatrical direction—when in doubt of what to say, just act like the master of manipulation, Cy Bubha. The plan even included feeding Guruji some of Bubha's old quotes to repeat earlier in the week to build up the suspicions and suspense of your forgetful, daytime self.

You clear your throat and state quietly to Guruji, "Your acting was great this morning."

"Really?" he responds, delighted to hear the feedback while still chortling at his performance. "I can't remember when I've had so much fun. It really went well, didn't it?"

Yes it did. Damn well, you think, as you nod to Guruji and feel the aftershock of the fear, the helplessness, the lack of control over your body and its future existence.

"Although I'm sorry for having forgotten that _Meriwether Lewis_ name the other day," Guruji apologizes for missing his rehearsed line.

"No problem," you reply flatly. "Plus, your performance last evening in the office after dinner was excellent. I was genuinely concerned about your sanity." Then you remember that one detail remains to complete this process, a final task whose specifics are still hidden from your memory but that are described in an envelope you sealed last December before taking the plunge into amnesia. "Where's the envelope with the final task, Guruji?" you ask as you fold your hands together on the desk to keep them from trembling.

The swami stands and retrieves the envelope from the shelf, but he looks perplexed as he walks towards the desk. "This is where after nightly rehearsal we always laughed together, patted each other on the back, and had a jolly time critiquing specifics for my upcoming performance this morning," Guruji says, obviously missing the camaraderie.

"Yes, I remember," you state evenly. "I remember it all now and can't thank you enough for giving me the experiences. I'm just a bit numb from the shock of your compelling acting. Shall we go ahead and clear the post-hypnotic _twins_ signal and the one o'clock wake-up routine from my system?" you ask handing him back the borrowed wristwatch.

"Let's give it a rest until tomorrow," replies the swami. "You look worn out right now and I'm tied up with a guest the rest of the day. Just work on this final task in the envelope—and be kind to yourself, Steven."

You smile through tight lips as Guruji passes you the envelope with your name on the front and retreats to his inner chamber. Your hands are shaking badly. Death—stark and real—just peered at you from the shadows. Not some clean and tidy notion to analyze, but sweat producing, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding death. You look down at the envelope that you hold with both hands, trying without success to keep them steady.

As you continue to stare, two large drops splash on the envelope smearing the ink of your name. You attempt to stop the tears from falling but they arrive too quickly, too large, too old to thwart. The dam has broken. A mighty torrent rushes from your gut and thunders through rocky chutes, carrying away its ancient load at last. A clear tributary from your heart joins the mainstream as it cascades over a thousand memories worn smooth by grating in a mad world of duality. Two rivers, one great mother and one small other, swirl into the moment of the now and flow into a sea of compassion that never denies the cry of an open heart—as a man sobs openly at a desk.

EPILOGUE

"If wishes were dishes

we'd all be well stacked."

\- ancient Hindu proverb (modified)

Alone with brother time in my rooftop world, I ebb and flow in an ocean of thought pulled between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, enjoying the view of Central Park from this penthouse suite. No, not _my_ condo but rented for two weeks while I limo off to television interviews and to catch some plays. Finally I'm doing Broadway in style, and it does require a bit more than the three dollars daily charge at Phool Chatti Ashram. But no matter since _Now or Never_ has made it to the top. It took a while for book critics to catch its drift but it looks like smooth sailing from here on.

So I'm sailing without sails again, as Prema (now called Shoshoni) is joining me for an Antarctic cruise in March following our lovely November in Kenya on safari. She remains blissfully independent mostly in India and Sedona, and her touch is still the best energy work I have found. She tells me that Guruji is fine but fighting a losing battle against nude bathing as curious Westerners who have read _Now or Never_ arrive to rent that one hut in perfect garden location. Sorry about that, Guruji.

Alberta is well and as lively as ever. She and Bubha cut quite a swathe together for a few months in Canada and the States, and now she is bouncing wherever her _yes_ takes her. She periodically visits my new ranch in the Rockies with its converted barn where we co-facilitate workshops called _Spontaneous Creative Expression_ —sort of a playground for those who are tired of dealing with their victim and blame leftovers, and want to celebrate the meeting of heaven and earth in one's body. It has been great fun, all natural, and I _think_ mostly legal.

The magnificent Shri Shri Cy Bubha drops by for an occasional break from the lecture circuit and book signings. Since we think so much alike these days there is little left to say together, so we mainly watch reruns of _Northern Exposure_ and _Star Trek: The Next Generation_. Always is great to see him.

It sounds like he may pull out of the lecture circuit, however. He grows weary of people asking him, "Aren't you Deepak Chopra?" When Bubha tells them where they can stick that question, they quickly learn the error of their ways. But you know what? I could swear that his arms are growing long and sinewy.

Which brings me to my one regret of late—wishing that I had responded more seriously to Oprah when she asked, "So, does the book shape its author or vice versa?" My flippant reply—that she should check with Jane Fonda or Richard Simmons—did not do justice to the underlying premise. That premise being that imagination and reality each shapes the other in a lovely cosmic dance of the mind. The more I continue in this divine comedy of life, the more I believe that imagination is the push that opens the door to one's future.

I sensed the power of this dance of imagination and reality even back when I chose the particular task whose instructions were in the last envelope that Guruji handed me after his compelling performance as a whip-wielding madman. As the final act to close my journey into amnesia, the instructions directed me to: _Write an epilogue, an imaginary ending to 'Now or Never' where all your wishes come true._

And so I just did.

********

You push the print button and watch as this conjured epilogue emerges from the printer in the Phool Chatti library. You smile with gratitude thinking of Bubha since, according to the thin swami who brought you tea this afternoon, the printer and computer were rented specially for your return from the Kumba Mehla, complements of one Cyrus 'Bubha' Rajnish. Granted, it was your filched money that Bubha used to rent the equipment but you still are touched by this anonymous gesture of a friend to support your writing effort—to the tune of the several thousand rupees that you saw him secretly handing over to Guruji in the office yesterday.

You have put the computer and printer to good use today, first typing up the finale of this morning's scene with Guruji. You are still a bit shaky from the shock of staring a madman and death in the face, but at least now you can laugh about it and appreciate the catharsis that it inspired. As you reread the wishful epilogue just drafted you suspect that its plethora of material success and pleasure reflects a counter-reaction to your perceived brush with death this morning.

You also take a minute to review the brief draft you completed this afternoon as a conclusion to The ReMinder, a unique version of the parable of five blind men and the elephant. What a relief it is to have finished the two manuscripts that chronicle your journey of spirit and the recent plunge into amnesia. Sure, a thousand details remain to integrate the _Now or Never_ and The ReMinder into one book and then get it published. But for now you respond unhurriedly to the dinner bell, enter the empty dining hall, and are reminded by an extra plate setting of Guruji's comment that a friend arrived yesterday to see you. You anticipate that a tall, dark-haired Canadian will soon walk through the doorway to brighten your evening. But another brilliant surprise of the day arises with the entry of a short, blonde woman with a huge doorway to her heart. Prema! Your pulse quickens as she walks across the room and sits next to you while taking your hand.

"Have you packed yet for Kenya, Shoshoni?" you whisper with a warm smile as you dare to break the silence since no one else is yet in the dining hall.

"I didn't know I was going," Prema whispers back. "And what's this with _Shoshoni_?"

You smile mischievously, "Oh, I just thought that Shoshoni sounded like a nice spiritual name when you are ready to change it again. And the Kenya trip is a little wish I made in a fictional epilogue that we'll have to wait to see if the book creates. The epilogue is supposed to test out the theory that what we imagine in the present moment helps form our future reality."

"I'll be eager to read what else you did with today's final writing installment." Prema gazes at you with eyes that seem filled with soft light. "Forgive me for being an uninvited reviewer, but I've enjoyed reading through Guruji's copies of The ReMinder and the _Now or Never_ manuscripts yesterday and today. And from what he told me, you must have had quite a wild session together this morning."

"We did," you reply. "But darn it, I wish that Guruji had asked my permission to blab about it and share my completed manuscripts with you."

Prema touches you gently on the arm. "He felt badly about confining me yesterday when I came to visit you, so the creampuff couldn't refuse my request to at least read what you'd written since last time I was here."

"Since last time? What does that mean?" you ask warily.

"Now don't be upset, Steven, but when I was here in late December, Guruji let me read what you had composed during your 1:00 a.m. writing sessions on _Now or Never_. That was after our lovely time at the beach, amnesia and all, where I'd also taken a peek at Section One of The ReMinder, remember? I was so excited for you as I saw the two prongs of your writing converge just like Mr. Rokstad had said in his palm reading. And I came back here all the way from Poona especially to celebrate the completion of it all."

"Well, it _is_ lovely to see you," you say trying to let go of lingering irritation at having your privacy invaded.

Prema continues with enthusiasm, "Plus I wanted to offer to help with book editing and the publishing details that lie ahead. I even have a trusted friend who is a literary agent. Do not just the right pieces emerge when we most need them?"

You give a nervous laugh and reply, "I certainly admire the way you go for what you want, dear, but—"

"And the universe always supports me in those things that are right," Prema interrupts. "Oh, I just _know_ that this book is going to be something special and that my becoming involved with it is no coincidence."

You force a smile and state, "Your encouragement and support for _Now or Never_ mean a lot to me, but after all I've just been through with Bubha's machinations, Alberta's manipulative dramas, and this morning's episode with Guruji, I simply don't feel like taking on a partner right now." You reach out to touch Prema's hand. "You can understand why I'm feeling a little gun-shy around trust and all, right?"

Prema looks disappointed as she takes your hand and replies, "Just give it some thought this evening, dear heart, and see what feels right." She leans over and kisses your ear as she whispers, "Where there's a will, is there not a way?"

You gaze into her eyes, not quite sure of what you see. Then you spy Guruji entering the dining hall as he walks over to where the two of you are whispering.

He leans down and gently wags his finger at Prema. "Remember, my dear, you've been instructed not to bother Steven today. You two can talk all you want beginning tomorrow once we've finished clearing all his post-hypnotic triggers." Guruji gives you a friendly glance then adds with a laugh, "We'd hate to have someone accidentally shout _twins_ and clap their hands in front of Steven, giving him another nasty case of paralysis."

"Once was enough!" you concur with a smile at the amiable swami as he turns to take his place by the kitchen door. You refocus your attention to Prema but she is looking off into space, her thoughts having drifted elsewhere.

After the arrival of two other swamis and a handful of sadhus, dinner is served and consumed in its usual silence. While washing dishes afterwards, you and Prema speak briefly. You promise to consider her offer to help publish your book as you give her a good-bye hug on your way for a short walk.

"You know," she says in parting, "I rather like the sound of _Shoshoni_ as a new spiritual name." You smile as you turn to the ashram gate and breathe in the cool of the evening air. "Be careful as it gets dark," she calls down the driveway.

You absently wave in response as you ponder what course to take along the dim path leading into the twilight.

## FEBRUARY 3 – 1:00 a.m., precisely

You awaken in the hut to a steady beep sounding from the doorway. Upon opening your bleary eyes, you see Prema standing with a candle in one hand and a ringing wristwatch in the other. She turns off the alarm, places the candle on the floor by the doorway, and walks silently to sit on your bed.

"To what do I owe this honor of being awakened by such a gorgeous vision?" you ask while putting your arms around Prema and pulling her down for a lingering kiss in the candlelight.

"I thought it would be fun to get a firsthand experience of what you're like in the one o'clock hypnotic condition. Guruji tells me you're extra gentle, vulnerable, and open to suggestion in this state," Prema replies and gives you another welcomed kiss. She then sits up and lays a hand on your chest.

"I _do_ have the strong urge to head to his office now and to type in response to the hypnotic trigger of the ringing alarm," you say as you feel the subtle energy from Prema's hand bathing your heart. "But even zombie boy knows it is cozier to stay here and enjoy the nourishment at hand."

Prema smiles down at you as she states, "Plus I thought that now would be a good time to talk about the future of our book." You inhale to object but Prema continues firmly, "Isn't that a good idea, Steven?"

You pause trying to sort out the question and an appropriate response through your grogginess. "Sure, now is as good a time as any to talk," you answer with little enthusiasm.

_"Now or Never_ is really going to be popular back in the States," Prema continues optimistically. "First, however, you're going to need my help to get it published. Is that not so, Steven?"

"Yeah, I guess so," you automatically respond.

"Second, I must get your permission to do some editing and to change the ending to your story a tiny bit."

You rise to your elbows and object, "But the book is finished and the ending is fine the way it is."

Prema looks at you sweetly. "But don't you think, Steven, that it could be improved by a feminine touch?"

You try to make sense of this suggestion through the haze of your mind and end up replying, "Sure, why not?"

"Excellent!" Prema announces with a look of relief. "So with your permission granted, I can start right in on the changes this morning."

You lie back trying to sort through what just happened. "This is all going so fast," you say more to yourself than to Prema. Then it occurs to you. "Hey, did you just take advantage of the fact that I'm vulnerable and agreeable during this one o'clock hypnotic condition, so that you could horn in on my book?"

Prema replies without hesitation, "Of course I did, dearest. The universe gave me a way to proceed and I did my part by embracing the gift and getting your agreement now."

"But..." you begin to protest.

"Oh, Steven, don't be childish. Do you not trust that all actions serve to assist you along the journey of the soul?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"So I'm serving you perfectly by my reaching for the opportunities that come my way. We're all partners in this trip of life helping each other to reach our destinies. And one aspect of _my_ destiny is that I'm in the right place at the right time and with the right tools to share in the financial bounty of your book. See how it all works in perfect orchestration!"

You squint and remark, "Frankly, I'm not really clear what you're proposing to do."

"I'm going to ensure that your book makes scads of money while you're free to continue your soul journey unfettered by all the publishing details and business responsibilities." Prema flashes you a killer smile. "Sounds good, does it not?"

You consider this notion and it indeed makes sense. "Not bad," you reply warming to the idea as you gaze fondly at your nocturnal visitor. "So what do you propose we do with our upcoming fortune of royalties?"

Prema leans down to join you in a hug as she laughs, "Don't worry, partner, I have that all figured out." She then whispers in your ear with a provocative flick of her tongue, "For now, let's break the rules and go for a naked dip in the moonlight."

"You're kidding," you protest. "Only a fool or a polar bear would frolic in the Ganga tonight!"

"And only a full-blown fool can master the cosmic joke," Prema adds while pulling you to your feet. "You vill come vith me to zee river, and take off all zee clothes."

You laugh while sweeping Prema into your arms. "Careful, Countessa, this zombie may have an idea or two of his own in the moonlight. And I'm already naked." You bite her neck as you put Prema down and wrap a blanket around your body for the walk to the river. She pulls a flashlight from her pocket as you head together past the flickering candle and out the door.

It is a starry, peaceful night as you walk hand in hand towards your favorite riverside beach. You ask Prema about her ideas for the book and the more she talks the more enthusiastic you become at having a partner in the venture to handle the publishing details. By the time you reach the bathing spot you are feeling delighted with the proposed arrangement.

"Of course!" you respond enthusiastically. "Steven J. Nixhall will be the perfect pen name we can use for the book. My Steven J. Shupe and your Jessica Nixhall standing together as one, like we're twin bookends holding together the story!"

"With the 'J' in the middle representing the _joy_ between us," Prema adds as she takes the blanket from your bare body and lets it drop to the sand. "Like I said, where there's a will, there's always a way. One just has to be willing to seize the opportunity with the trust that everything serves in the grand scheme of life and death."

She gives you an embrace that lasts a good minute, a _very_ good minute. "After you, my dear," she says pointing to the river. "Are you not the lead bookend that I am to follow?"

"Precisely," you shout as you dash towards the river and dive in.

"We're just like a pair of..." Prema pointedly waits to finish the sentence until your head pops above the surface of the swift waters. " _Twins!_ " she shouts and claps her hands once, crisply.

It takes you a moment to realize what has just happened, to grasp the final betrayal that has left you floating helplessly downriver towards the boiling rapids. You are stunned and paralyzed from the neck down, a victim of your own post-hypnotic trigger and of a greedy partner who pulled it without hesitation. As your limp body is swept away by the current, you hear Prema call out from shore, "Have a lovely journey into the next world, dear one."

It gives you little comfort to know that, without a doubt, she sincerely means it.

After a few minutes of watching the river, Prema turns and retrieves the blanket. She shakes out the sand as she retraces the steps where two sets of footprints have now become one. She turns into the path at the garden and proceeds to the hut for a good night's sleep.

## LATER, THAT SAME MORNING...

You awaken to a strange, five-sided room and for a moment do not remember where you are located. But a smile crosses your face as you recall fully the where, who, and what of the situation. A sign above your bed announces, _IT'S PARADISE, NOT PRISON!_ —a sentiment with which you concur as you slip into an oversized robe and slippers to emerge into a lovely garden setting. After using the outhouse, you retrieve two manuscripts from the hut and climb a stone stairway to the roof. Paradise unfolds before your ascending gaze as fragrant flowers and colorful birds dance to the tune of flowing waters. You place the manuscripts on a weathered nightstand stacked upon sturdy bricks, then take a stretch that feels oh-so-good to your body. The stretch extends into a bit of yoga after which you peacefully sit upon a plastic chair.

You pick up the _Now or Never_ and The ReMinder manuscripts which stand ready to unite as one to bring honor and royalties to their master. Ah, yes, now to reap the rewards of a job well done. But first a little editing is called for, you think. The ReMinder could use tightening and _Now or Never_ needs a snappier pace. Maybe you can spice it up with ramblings of the subconscious and create a guest narrator to add some verve and efficacy.

You page through The ReMinder and take a moment to honor the life it represents, the past hopes and the identity of a man lost in the fluid swirls of time and space. You smile as the passage catches your eye about Dorothy in Oz, the woman who suffered no lasting remorse in squashing a bystander and who _proceeded with Midwestern practicality to loot the dead body of its valuable slippers._ You laugh as you kick up your legs to shake the large slippers that look like boats on your delicate feet that once pattered upon Iowa prairie. You enjoy as well the first rays of sun that at this very moment crest the nearby hill to reflect off your long, golden hair. Ah abundance, the hallmark of the universe if we but know in our hearts that we are worthy of its bounty.

The Ganga echoes its concurrence in song as it carries a billion— _and one_ —blessings to the sea.

## AFTER A MOMENT'S CONSIDERATION...

You toss your blonde locks over your shoulder and take a final breath of rooftop air before walking to the ashram compound. You feel like a little girl dressed in Steven's oversized robe and slippers as you stroll through the garden and approach the office. Guruji looks up from his reading and assesses your outfit. "Oh dear me," he says, "I was afraid you had a secret up your sleeve. Does this mean you've done something drastic, my dear?"

You nod with a smile and clap your hands above your head. "Twins! That post-hypnotic paralysis worked like a charm to send Steven down the river and me merrily to the bank with his book."

Guruji turns pale and states, "I'm not judging you, Prema, but I must say you certainly exploited the situation to the fullest. Did you really paralyze and drown Steven just to get royalties from his book?"

"Oh, now don't start getting grumpy, my wise Guruji. You were the one who taught me that destiny unfolds in perfection as we each play our roles by embracing the opportunities that arise."

"I know, my child," Guruji replies still shaking his head, "but it's distressing to see my Vedic hypnosis tools used to take a life. It's not my belief to interfere in the karma of others, but I certainly wouldn't have told you so much about Steven's amnesia practice had I known what you were planning."

You give a shrug of your delicate shoulders. "Little planning was involved. Step by step, the guiding hand just nudged me forward with new information until it all became clear last evening what precise opportunity for abundance was being provided to me."

You walk around the desk and sit in Guruji's lap with your arms around his neck. "I consider Steven's demise an act of mercy for both himself and the world at large to be rid of that tormented psyche he was so absorbed with prodding and poking. Can you imagine the lovely freedom his soul is experiencing in the next world at this very moment?" You give the elderly swami a kiss that lasts a good minute.

"Well, I'm going to miss him and his novel approach to life," Guruji says as he points to papers on his desk that the author left lying in the library yesterday. "It looks like you may have inherited a conclusion to The ReMinder in his most recent compositions."

You pick up the sheets, feeling grateful for the abundance that continues to flow. "You know, when you really go for your _yes_ it's amazing how the universe supports you fully. All I need now is to do some editing, send an email to my book agent friend, and show a bit of patience to wait for the royalties to start pouring in. Plus, of course, I'll need to write the factual ending that completes Steven's story all the way through to his, his...watery departure, shall we say?"

_"Must_ the book include his actual death and describe your hand in it?" Guruji responds with trepidation.

"Absolutely. It's his story, fully and factually rendered to the end, that the palm reader saw intersecting successfully with his money line."

Guruji looks at you with a deep frown as his practical concerns come to the fore. "But what about the trouble that describing the method of his death will cause once the book hits the shelves?"

You reply casually, "Not to worry. Even if anyone takes the murder seriously, I live a very low profile and am even planning to drop _Prema_ and change my spiritual name when I return to Poona this week."

"But what about this ashram and its Guruji?" the elderly swami objects. "I think the law might consider me an accomplice to the crime."

"Oh Guruji, my silly creampuff. Do you really think the American authorities are going to call the police in India to check on one of India's respected holy men about a murder in a book? And if investigators do ever show up all you have to do is to tell them the truth," you conclude while turning on your best Hindi accent. " _Well, officer, the last day I saw this Shupe fellow he was sobbing like a baby at my desk. An unstable chap, I'm afraid. A friend told me she saw him later that night heading down the Ganga in silent retreat towards Allahabad."_

You laugh and give Guruji a hug as you get up from his lap. "No, my dear," you conclude, "you will be safe here at your beloved ashram. This is India after all."

Guruji cringes. "Would you kindly not use that expression?" The swami responds to your puzzled expression by explaining, "In our act yesterday morning, Steven made me use 'India _After_ All' as a T-shirt logo to belittle my country. I suspect that something of a bigot lived under all that political correctness that he professed."

"Now don't start casting stones, dear one," you admonish. "We have to keep the vibrations of this whole effort high and truthful to promote the success of the book and maximize the inflow of cash."

"Not to worry, my energy is vibrating nicely," Guruji replies with a growing smile. "I'm certain that Steven's soul is well and I'm happy for your impending financial success—a bounty that I trust you will generously share to support our struggling ashram and its devoted Guruji." The swami peers at you above his reading glasses. "Agreed, my child?"

You nod your head in concurrence with his profit sharing plan, then you turn playful as you notice the studded fetish accessories from yesterday's performance on the shelf. "Perhaps you would like to experience some divine union to celebrate our newly found abundance," you suggest while grabbing the bullwhip and placing your foot on the swami's knee. A deft release of the robe's knot at your waist underscores your intent. "Anyone keen to penetrate into the entrance of ecstasy?"

Guruji blushes then clears his throat and assumes a theatrical air. "Nothing pleases me more than to see your golden gate open in sacred invitation. However, duty requires me to await the morrow for my hot rod to thunder 'tween whispering lips that echo the rich refrain of the Goddess." He grins like a teenager and adds, "Not bad, huh?"

You laugh heartily. "Those acting lessons did have their effect on you, my Guruji, but be careful about mixing your hot rod with the metaphors of your coach. Too much contagion is already going around today with words and manuscripts." You put down the whip, refasten the robe, and turn to the door. "I'll just head up to the library and start tracking down Steven's writing files on the computer. Be a darling and bring up some tea when you have a chance, would you please?"

"As you wish, my golden child," the elderly sage replies with a bow of his head. "As you wish."

## LATER, UP IN THE LIBRARY...

You turn from the computer screen as Guruji enters the library, flour dust in his beard. "What a sweetheart," you say as your beaming chef proudly presents the fruits of his labor. "Fresh chapati along with tea."

"Consider the chapati a little baksheesh to soften you up to my request," he announces while placing the treats by the computer. "I fear, Prema, that I must take a stand this morning that may not meet with your approval."

"Yes?" you respond with curiosity peaked as Guruji sits in the adjoining chair.

"Phool Chatti Ashram was entrusted to me by my beloved master and I cannot allow scandal to compromise its sanctity. And it appears that you underestimate both India and the gravity of the problem created by the homicide last night." Guruji reaches out and gives your hair a gentle stroke.

"In what way?"

"Just follow the logical sequence of events. Steven has parents and siblings that apparently care about him and who, after some months without email correspondence, will grow concerned. Naturally, they will call the U.S. embassy in Delhi which will in turn contact the police. Then a book comes out that describes a trail of his murder that leads squarely to this sacred ashram. Deception and lies are not part of my religious belief, plus with his family pushing to get answers, plus the book's ending, plus..."

"But Guruji, it's Steven's _full_ story that intersects his palm's deep money line. If I fail to report his final demise or significantly alter his past writing, the intersection is missed and I jeopardize the book and our financial success."

The swami is ready with a response. "I'm not asking you to change any facts but I must insist that you write a little addendum, a postscript of sorts to obscure the trail." His face and tone soften as he gets up to share a hug, "And I know, child, that you are clever enough to figure something out. Just use your lovely energy and creativity."

You hold Guruji's hand while the wheels turn quickly in your mind. "Hmm, I think you may be right since Steven's notion of truth gives me so much leeway."

"How so?" asks the elderly swami.

"You know, all his nonsense about imagination and reality interweaving to create one another, and that paradox is the only real truth." The more you think, the clearer it gets. Your eyes sparkle as a strategy and ideas pour in for the book's ending. You blow a good-bye kiss towards Guruji and turn to the computer keyboard. "Yes indeed, a little rescue from the river this morning should get a paradox going to convolute the trail," you state while enthusiastically starting to draft the necessary addendum.

"That's the spirit," Guruji smiles as he heads to the door. "And if possible, find some way in your strategy to dissuade Steven's family from investigating his disappearance."

ADDENDUM

"A pair of knaves with a paradox

will customarily trump an opponent's hand."

\- from A Game of Cards,

by Sir Author Koan Hoyle

## MEANWHILE, A SHORT WAY DOWNRIVER...

Three sadhus have finished their ablutions and are enjoying the morning sunshine along the Ganga's sandy shore. Two of them take turns absently throwing rocks at an object caught in a large eddy on the far bend of the river. The third sadhu suddenly stands to get a better look at the floating object. Through toothless gums he speaks in excited tone to the others who stop casting stones.

Upon further scrutiny they agree in a flurry of Hindi that indeed it is a human head bobbing in steady rhythm, its mouth gasping for breath at each back-tilt. After quick retrieval of a handy rope and heroic efforts by the toothless old man, the threesome successfully bring the head to shore. Like an iceberg, most of its naked mass lies blue and icy underwater. But with the help of a warming fire and blankets, feeling ultimately returns to your body, if not movement.

"Guardian angel," the toothless sadhu proudly announces while pointing at himself.

Your eyes focus in recognition of Herald as you smile wanly through lips that are still a shade of purple. With imploring eyes and a voice less than a whisper you ask the sadhus, "Speak English?"

You are grateful when one of them replies, "I talk little bit English." You wish you could move your paralyzed body to speak into his ear, but he kindly leans down to hear your faint words.

"Cy doctor bubber, internal sand turds?" the sadhu repeats looking in bewilderment at his two friends. You shake your head and try a second time. He repeats your statement, again without comprehension, "Say doctor buppa and kennels ant herds?"

"Atcha!" Herald exclaims in apparent understanding. "Cy Bubha, doctor!" And your guardian angel runs to flag down a jeep to fetch Cy Bubha from Neelkanth village.

During the wait for Herald to return with Bubha, the English-speaking sadhu has more success in grasping your request, although full cognition is thwarted by your weak voice and the Indo-American cultural barrier. Several curious passersby have joined the group and are also attempting to follow your obscure instructions as you lie paralyzed in a blanket. When Bubha arrives and jumps from the jeep, he finds a large group of people shouting various versions of "Dock or pep her and kernel sand turds" followed by a clap of their hands.

Bubha sits by you on the beach and casually asks, "Hey there, homeboy, whatcha doin', rehearsing a scene for a new Fellini film?"

You whisper as your friend brings his ear to your lips to hear your request. "Ah shit, you're going to owe me big-time for making me stoop to this level of the absurd," he complains while standing and telling everyone to shut up. They watch as Bubha enunciates a clear message accompanied by a crisp handclap, "Dr. Pepper and Colonel Sanders!"

_Finally_ you can move. Slowly and painfully at first, but your body responds with increasing efficiency to the post-hypnotic signal for release from paralysis. "Thanks," you say to Bubha as you stretch your limbs and wiggle your digits. "And thank you all. _Namaste_ ," you smile as best you can at the crowd of onlookers.

"So what gives, pal? Even Cyrus the Wise can't intuit how you got yourself into this mess."

Your fists clench as you recall Prema's nocturnal visit to your hut and her betrayal at the Ganga. "She tried to kill me last night!" you announce.

"Who tried to kill you?" Bubha asks incredulously.

_"That_ woman," you spit out as your eyes narrow to slits, "Prema!"

Bubha gives you a suspicious look, "Are you pointing the great finger again to avoid your own issues, amigo?"

"Hell no. It was nearly the perfect crime, too." The words pour out like a fountain as you describe the details of what has happened since saying good-bye to Bubha two days ago, including Prema's diabolical actions last night that sent you floating paralyzed down the Ganga.

Bubha sits in silence for a minute pondering what he just learned. Finally he speaks. "It's a good thing that you called in a Doctor of Paradox for your resuscitation. Looks to me like you've woven yourself such a big one that you need some help to fight your way out of this confounding web."

You respond with a baffled expression. Bubha sweeps a sinewy arm to indicate the landscape and announces, "My brilliant deduction is that this scene is merely part of a phony ending you are writing for your book."

"Whoa there. What are you trying to say?" you ask as your mind starts to swirl.

"If I read the skit and scat of this trail correctly, it began with your theory that imagination affects reality and that the book helps shape the author. So yesterday you composed a fantasy epilogue of fame and fortune in a New York penthouse with hopes it would pave the way to a successful book career."

"Yeah, that was the general idea."

"Well, it looks to me that next, while taking your walk after dinner last evening, you got cold feet over impending performance pressures of a successful author, tight schedules, high taxes, all those nasty trappings of the rich and famous. So you expanded the phony epilogue to send yourself swirling away from all responsibilities with a fatal dive into the Ganga and slandering sweet Prema as a killer."

"Well, maybe I did write some more on the epilogue after dinner..." you mumble while starting to feel confused and foggy about what actually happened last night.

"But then this morning, you chickened out on this grandiose symbolic death of the Identity and instead of letting yourself drown at the end of the book, you're now drafting an addendum with a flamboyant river rescue complete with a batch of finger lickin' foolishness." Bubha looks at his watch and finishes, "Leaving your readers scratching their heads and me running late just because some wishy-washy, weak-willied writer can't make up his mind about his true desires and how he wants his story to end."

You ponder the ramifications of what Bubha is saying. "You really think that Prema's attempted murder of me and this rescue scene is just a part of an imaginary ending that I'm writing for the book?"

"That's my brilliant deduction and the only explanation that could make sense. Unless..."

"What?"

Bubha lets loose with a long whistle as he stares off into space. "Unless, my dear in Specter, our little Prema _has_ in fact killed you and _she_ is the one fabricating this paradoxical addendum to throw the readers and police off her murderous trail."

## MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE LIBRARY...

A broad smile curves upon your supple lips as you watch the draft of the first installment of the addendum come off the printer. You pick up the papers, toss your golden hair over your shoulder, and read what you have just composed—a dose of truth, a bit of foolishness, a dash of imagination, and enough paradox to pull it all together. Not bad so far, you think, as you return to the computer and open up Steven's old files to look for a solution to the bigger challenge: How to deter his family from following up on his mysterious disappearance in India.

You stare at the computer screen as a series of Steven's document files appear under the heading, _Fool's Journey_. Scanning the titles, you are drawn to _A Fool and His_ _Family_ and take some time to read the file. Your radiant smile continues to broaden as you explore this hidden treasure. Here is the gold mine of opportunity, a veritable mother lode of prose in just the right vein to alienate his devoted family. An incestuous Christmas letter, an Oedipal journey through red hair, and a few skeletons rattling in the closet should ensure that the Shupe clan distances itself from, if not outright disowns, their former A-1 child. Ah, abundance once again flows in testimony to the benevolent hand of the universe that leads to a happy ending. You head downstairs to share the good news with Guruji and show him the first installment of the addendum.

"So, my Prema, how's it going in weaving your golden thread?" Guruji asks as you enter his office.

"So far, so good," you state as you hand Guruji the printout of what you have composed of the addendum thus far. "Convoluting the trail with the truth of paradox is a piece of cake, although Bubha may be getting wise to my little ploy. I'll have to throw him off the scent in the next installment."

"That leaves only the need to deter Steven's family from nosing around. Any ideas yet?"

"As a matter of fact, I just uncovered some perverse pages that Steven composed this week that could be the key to eroding his family's devotion to him. But there's one glitch," you state with a frown. "Our late author made a distinct point of not opening these uncensored pages of his sexual psyche to the public so, without his permission, I can't just stick them into the book's story line without—"

"I know, I know, without damaging the integrity of _his_ story and palm lines and money and all the rest. Well, do your best, child," Guruji encourages, "while I dream of what I will do with that hefty donation you shall be providing me from the royalties."

You meet his grin of anticipation with your own smile as ideas for the next installment of the addendum begin churning in your head. "I'll be in the library rehearsing my righteous indignation act and writing up the finale," you state while opening the office door to leave. "By the way, watch out for flying glass in a little while."

"What?" the puzzled swami asks.

_"What_ is the guy on _second_ base," you explain as new ideas continue flooding in for the next installment. Guruji looks bewildered as you state, "Not to worry, my sweet, it's just a bit of foreshadowing thrown in by the bookend author as I attempt to be faithful to the twisted mind of the lead writer. I'll be finished writing the addendum in a Jiffy, after waxing poetic for a Skippy or two, and flying smooth or crunchy like Peter Pan through a never-never land of aisles and smiles!"

## MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RIVERBANK...

"Do you really think Prema could be writing this paradoxical addendum to cover her diabolical tracks?" you ask while pondering the ramifications of this possibility. "Damn, Bubha, that would leave me just a confused specter while my dead body floats down the Ganga halfway to Allahabad."

"Right, and it would make me a duped character in her addendum caught in the swirl of a creative paradox." Bubha cogitates on this disturbing notion for a minute then speaks, "Nope, let's assume that you are still breathing air while creating this contrived addendum and that I, not Prema, rule as top dog of paradox peak."

You pick up a handful of riverside sand beneath you and state, "Maybe so...but damn it, Bubha, I don't feel that this scene _is_ contrived. Actually, I think Prema _did_ try to kill me last night and that Herald really had to rescue me this morning from the river."

Bubha shrugs. "Hold on to your victim fantasies if you want, pal, but let's assume the most logical reality which is that you are caught in indecision about how to end your book, and then we can get to the task at hand."

"That task being what?"

"Well, if you're writing this imaginative ending with the hope that it will create your reality that follows, then the task is to make sure that the story's conclusion reflects your true desires. What about getting your book published? Isn't that a desire for the immediate future?"

You think for a moment then announce, "Yeah, maybe I _should_ accept the offer Prema made last evening to take care of all the publishing details."

"Then go for it, buddy boy. Write a creative finale that makes peace with your golden muse so she'll handle the book business while you—"

"While I go off into the high Himalayas to lose myself in walking through scenery and solitude for a while," you interrupt Bubha to complete his sentence with your other desire of the moment. "Thanks for helping to clear things up, Doc, and for all the encouragement," you add with an affectionate look at your advisor.

"I'll give you more than encouragement, my sentimental journeyer. How about a genuine American backpack and king size sleeping bag to take on your trek?" he remarks while pulling you to your feet and leading you to the jeep.

"Really? You returned from the Kumba Mehla with my sleeping bag and backpack intact?"

"By the skin of my teeth and a few hundred rupees of baksheesh to the Allahabad police," Bubha explains as he reaches into the back seat of the jeep and hands you a familiar duo of travel companions for bed and baggage. "Now I've got to make like a bread truck and haul my buns on some errands if I'm going to keep my travel date with Alberta to Vancouver," he states while hopping into the jeep. The engine starts and the vehicle begins pulling away.

"Hey, thanks for renting the computer for me in the library," you add in farewell.

Bubha sticks his head out the window and replies, "My pleasure. But you better look out, homeboy. If Prema gets into your computer files and reads that you've framed her for murder in your imaginary ending, her righteous indignation could blow your chances for a harmonious union with your new business partner."

"Holy shitaki," you exclaim, "I'd better hustle back to the ashram and delete any such slanderous nonsense before Prema discovers it!"

Bubha extends a long, sinewy arm out the window in response as his jeep pulls away for Laxman Jhula. You quickly stride in the other direction, wrapping the blanket tightly around your shoulders and picking your way barefoot along the road to Phool Chatti. Upon your arrival at the ashram, you head first to the hut to put on clothes before approaching Prema with the good news of your plans to trek while she shepherds _Now or Never_ to completion.

As you open the hut door, however, travel plans swerve off course violently. There at your feet lies the damning evidence that brings stark reality back to the fore: Melted candle wax, now firm and cold. No, last night's candlelight, the ringing alarm, and the sharp clap of Prema's hands were _not_ figments of your imagination but actual tools of a murderous plot to take your life and your book. You stare in stunned silence at the dried pool of red wax left from the one o'clock arrival of that manipulative, deceptive, greedy, hand-clapping, twin-shouting book thief.

## A FEW HOT BREATHS LATER...

The mountain trek is going to have to wait, you think, as you feel hot blood surge into your head. Oh yes, there is a little business to attend first, a score to settle with a conniving female before a contemplative man enters the high country. You burst from the hut at a pace that quickens with each step through the garden. The eyes of your inner beast stare at the gray world of the ashram passing by, as the heat burns in your face. Heat and steam, and pain and heat, and sweat and...you arrive at the Guruji's office flinging the door open in a burst of shattering glass.

"Steven!" cries the swami in shock as he looks up from his reading.

"Where is she, Guruji?" you ask in a voice that could cut through steel. Guruji is too startled to speak. "She tried to kill me, you know."

"Don't be a fool, Steven."

"That suggestion contradicts my spiritual beliefs," you reply through clenched teeth. "Now where the hell is Prema?"

Guruji points his finger upward and says, "She just went to the library. But you're in no condition to..."

You are out the broken door before Guruji can finish. As you stride up the steps two at a time you hear a squeal come from the library and Prema exclaim in righteous indignation, "Oh, that's outrageous!"

You stand in the library doorway breathing heavily as Prema turns from the screen. "You!" she cries and narrows her eyes.

"Yes, me. No thanks to you...you little man-eating, book-stealing killer!"

"Me?" Prema shouts in surprise. "Why you...you woman-hating, paranoid rice ball!"

The two adversaries point fingers squarely at one another as Guruji's voice from behind you suddenly commands, "Now both of you cut this out and just settle down."

As you turn, you are inflamed by the sight of the swami cradling the metronome. "So you're in on this, too, you hypnotic bastard," you yell as you lunge for the mind-numbing weapon in Guruji's hands.

_"Twins_!" shouts Prema with quick thinking and a swift clap of her hands.

"Oh, fuck a duck," you cry as you sprawl forward, landing helplessly at Guruji's feet.

"Dear me," he gasps, "are you all right, Steven?" Prema and the elderly guru each take hold of an arm and pull your paralyzed body into a sitting position against the wall.

Nose smarting but otherwise uninjured, you glare up at your two captors and state defiantly, "Go ahead and do with me what you will."

Guruji turns to Prema and asks, "What in Shiva's name is he talking about?"

Prema shakes her head looking nearly as confused as the swami. "All I know is that last evening I offered to help Steven finish his book, and just now I discovered in the computer that he rewrote his story's ending to turn me into a book thief and murderess." She turns towards you and asks, "Don't you think that's overreacting a bit to your inner duality and mommy issues, Steven?"

"Overreacting! You send me floating down the Ganga in the middle of the night and now you dare to accuse _me_ of overreacting?"

"Oh, for heavens sake. Can you believe this nonsense?" Prema asks Guruji. "He's writing a bunch of hocus pocus in a phony ending to his book and trying to pin it on me! He even turned you and me into money-grubbing sex perverts," she states pointing at the computer screen she just read. "Talk about projections, Steven."

"Bullshit, you nearly killed me with your diabolical plan. If Herald hadn't rescued me from the Ganga whirlpool this morning...." You stop as you consider the other alternative. "Or maybe I _am_ dead and you're just covering your murderous tracks by writing a clever, paradoxical addendum."

Prema looks at Guruji and rolls her eyeballs. The kindly swami kneels down to your sweaty face and gently states, "Frankly, Steven, I don't give a marble what has transpired in the past or which of you is writing this ending to _Now or Never_. All I know is that it is time for you to make peace with this woman towards whom you have so much resentment."

He lifts the metronome to your face and continues, "I brought this instrument upstairs simply so we could clear you of all the post-hypnotic suggestions. However, I am going to defer that action until you and Prema can speak to one another civilly. Is that clear, my friend?" You nod your head while glaring out the corner of your eye at Prema.

"Prema, I'm going to ask you to sit by Steven and to work things out together. Do you understand, dear?" Prema nods as she folds her arms and reluctantly slouches against the wall next to your paralyzed body. Guruji looks from one to the other of you waiting for someone to speak. You each remain stubbornly silent until Guruji asks, "So who's on first?"

"Correct," Prema responds tersely.

"What?" he asks.

"I already told you, _What_ is the guy on _second_ base," Prema immediately answers.

"Who?" Guruji queries with a baffled look.

You catch on to Prema's routine and state brusquely, "No, Guruji, _Who_ is the guy on _first_."

"Who is?"

"Right!" Prema and you concur simultaneously and share a laugh.

"Laurel and Hardy?" you ask Prema, trying to remember the origin of this old comedy routine.

"Actually, I think it was Abbott and Costello. But whatever the case, it's probably not cricket to use an American baseball joke on a Hindu swami. Sorry, my dear," Prema says to Guruji, "but it did serve to break the ice between Steven and me." She then turns to you and asks, "May I do the honor with Dr. P and KFC?"

"With my permission and undying gratitude," you reply.

She stands and proclaims, "Dr. Pepper and Colonel Sanders!"

"Don't forget the clap."

"Oh, right." She makes a crisp clap that gives you back your blessed freedom of movement.

You rub your sore nose and address Guruji, "And now would you _please_ clear out these post-hypnotic triggers from me once and for all?"

"Certainly, Steven," he replies while setting the metronome into motion. "I've been rehearsing the routine you chose as the clearance mechanism, although I'm afraid I understand its significance as poorly as the baseball joke just now."

"Just remember, it's all in the wrists and fingers."

Guruji stares deeply into your eyes and strikes the pose of a wizard with arms extended. " _Meeska, mooska, Mouseketeer. Mouse cartoon time now is here!_ " And with a snap of his fingers, the final remnants of your journey into hypnotism and amnesia are fully cleared. "How was that execution?" Guruji asks his acting coach.

"Perfect," you reply as Prema bursts into laughter.

"Why in heaven's name, Steven, did you pick such ridiculous trigger mechanisms for this ancient Vedic hypnosis practice?" she asks shaking her head.

"Partly to support my sense of sacrilege and partly to add some color when _Now or Never_ is made into a movie," you reply with a straight face.

Prema perks up and declares, "Wouldn't Robin Williams make a great Cy Bubha?"

"Yeah, and we could get the _Gandhi_ actor to play Guruji," you add giving the swami a wink as he takes a seat in the corner.

"Great," Prema agrees, "and have Alberta played by the actress from _The Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman_."

You laugh and look at Prema with tenderness. "Let's not get catty, dear, or get ahead of ourselves in counting cinematic chickens. First we have a book to finish. Right, _partner_?"

"Sounds good," she says while reaching up to touch your cheek. "But are you certain you want this teamwork with me?"

"Absolutely, my golden muse." You look her in the eye and state in your best Transylvanian accent, "You vill make zee book a vinner and make me a rich man, no? So, where do we start?"

Prema shifts smoothly into her business mode. "Primarily I think we need to somehow tighten the early days of amnesia to drive the story more efficiently."

You instantly brandish an imaginary whip while drawling, "Yep, gotta keep them dogies movin'."

Prema's face beams with delight. "That's it, Steven! An inner trail boss to ride herd on the effort, true to your psyche and approach."

"Shore 'nuf, ma'am. What else?"

"Just to pepper in a few of your subconscious ramblings here and there, then include some of your Fool's Journey from this past week."

"Whoa there. That's all fine and dandy but make sure you leave the family sex stuff out of the book. My clan would be hurt and disgusted if what came out of my sexual psyche about them ever got into print. Damn, they'd probably even wish that I _had_ drowned in the Ganga."

"Steven..." Prema voices a gentle warning as she places her hands on your shoulders.

"What?" you respond innocently.

"I believe he's the chap on second," Guruji mumbles to himself.

Prema continues addressing you, "Regardless of whether your next step on the soul journey is at the bottom of the Ganga or the top of a mountain, you're going to eventually have to break those family ties based on an outdated self-image and lingering habits of a child."

"But—"

"No 'buts' and no more hiding your full humanity behind a familiar mask of 'niceness'. Only the truth shall set you free. And you know it."

Damn it, you do know it. Even if truth shifts like sand on a windy day and is couched in paradox upon paradox, you know when you are standing in honesty and when you are not. That feeling in your gut tells all and you can no longer ignore its signals, no longer rationalize reasons to deceive yourself, to turn truth into some belief system that overrides simple and plain honesty in each moment.

You look straight into Prema's eyes and she into yours. No smiles or masks, no gyrations interfere with this moment of silent communion, of understanding, of agreement. Then a mischievous grin grows on Prema's face as she states, "We're just like a pair of...twins!"

You laugh and take your partner into your arms, sensing that the end of some long battle is near at hand. Two paths lead through a frozen landscape to meet in warmth of embrace, in a state of truce and love where famished hearts open to receive the bounty. "All right, dear one," you quietly state, "do whatever you feel is required for the book and for the path to honesty."

"Even if it means that your family and friends wouldn't bother to search for the old Steven that disappears?"

You nod slowly. "Particularly so. You have my permission to include any writings from my bare psyche that are needed for the cause of freedom."

"Freedom for us all," Guruji adds with relief for what Prema has just accomplished.

I WALK TO THE GANGA for the last time to take a bath. Maybe I am a confused specter invisible to the world, not realizing that I am dead as my body floats downriver to the sea. More likely, I suffer from an ancient case of amnesia, still forgetful of where I came from, of who I truly am, and of what purpose lies in the folly of day-to-day living. A madman searching for meaning, a coward yearning for peace, an ogre awaiting redemption from ages of conflict and oppression. Or perhaps I am a fair woman who looks into the mirror and sees a dark man; or a dark man who catches the reflection of wings from the corner of his weary eye. All of the above and more; none of the beyond and less. Yet there is hope today, a promise of honesty and new warmth in the heart of a Fool. And a journey that continues step by step into the great unknown.

But first, a bit more foolery and jewelry must glitter in the theater of the absurd before the next step is taken. A team effort beckons to bring closure to the story that opens the door to new horizons.

## THAT EVENING IN THE LIBRARY...

"So, my golden muse, how does that look?" you ask of Prema as you lean back in your chair in front of the computer.

"Excellent," she replies gently rubbing your shoulders. "These new inclusions in the manuscript should give me plenty of your inner Trail Boss to work with."

"And was that enough bubbling and rambling of the subconscious there at the beginning?"

"Yes, my dear, I'll take it from here while you are now free to climb every mountain or whatever your heart desires."

"Don't forget to edit-in Bubha's request for two long arms of sinew."

"No problem," Prema agrees. "And you're sure you don't mind if I change the title to _The_ _Now or Never_?"

You nod your head. "A much better choice to indicate that _the now_ is all that truly exists, particularly in a perpetual state of forgetfulness."

Prema gathers the scattered papers in the library from this afternoon's efforts and adds, "Plus I'm going to remove the 'h' from my Nixhall to make our Nixall pen name better reflect one's paradoxical existence as both the nothing and all. And let's finish off the book with your conclusion to The ReMinder," she suggests while glancing at the elephant parable you wrote yesterday.

"Sounds good," you respond, "although grant me dispensation for an additional TV jingle or two to emerge from the psyche before we're through."

"Spare me the indignity, please," Prema reacts with a scrunch of her nose. "Instead, you should give serious thought to what you want to create this evening—alive and in person—to conclude your story as you leave for the Himalayas."

You turn off the computer and follow your golden partner down the steps and into the courtyard. "Definitely I'd like to touch base with my amoral twins one more time before they leave tonight for Vancouver," you declare thinking fondly of Bubha and Alberta.

"Then keep an eye out for them while I show this Addendum to Guruji and pour us all some tea." Prema turns toward the office then pauses as she peers at the nearby high and windy hill. "Who's that coming down to the ashram?" she wonders aloud.

You gaze up to see dark hair blowing in the breeze as a tall woman hurries towards the entrance gate. "Steven, Steven!" Alberta cries as she leaps with splendor into your awaiting arms.

"Hey there, old friend," you reply with equal delight.

Your heartfelt reunion is interrupted by a vehicle roaring up the driveway and screeching to a halt. Bubha jumps from the jeep and advances through the gate. "How's it hangin', homeboy? You finally get your reality straightened out?"

"Yep," you proudly announce, "and now that the whole gang is here we can create a poignant farewell and a compelling movie finale for _The Now or Never."_

"Nanoo, nanoo," Bubha responds while forking his fingers in interplanetary salute.

You roll your eyes at Bubha as Alberta says, "I don't get it."

"Just a little in-joke of the intelligentsia limited to aging baby boomers," you reply and then address your trickster friend. "Sorry, but we'll let Robin Williams improvise his own material for the movie version."

"Hey, I was just trying to add a few visuals," he protests.

"Thanks anyway, Bubha, and glad you could make it," Prema states warmly as she emerges from the office with four steaming tea cups that she graciously offers. "Here's to good friends."

Amid the clinking of four cups in comaraderie, Bubha observes, "You know guys, it just doesn't get any better than this."

"Tonight _is_ something special," Alberta concurs.

"It's the water," Prema posits while gazing towards the Ganga whose ancient song fills the sacred space.

"And a lot more," you add, looking fondly at your companions while wrapping an arm around Prema's waist. Alberta reaches out affectionately to engage in a threesome embrace as you give Bubha a look of invitation.

He responds with folded arms. "I'd hum a few bars of _Kumbya_ and join you in a cozy group hug finale, but it's beneath the dignified Shri Shri Cy Bubha to participate in such an obvious gimmick."

"Be a sport, Bubha," Prema cajoles as she too reaches out to embrace him. "As a supportive farewell to our dearly departing friend, we can at least give him a touching symbolic merging of his two sets of polarity twins, or four pieces of the Mind coming together at last."

Alberta comments, "I thought it was supposed to be four _plus one_ pieces of the mind."

"Well, I can round out the right number," declares Guruji as he emerges from the office with papers in hand, "although I don't profess to be the wizardly One awaiting discovery at the end of Steven's rainbow."

THE KINDLY SWAMI takes you aside and with an admiring look hands back your draft addendum. He whispers, "Well done, my golden child. The perfect ending to allay our fears of a murder investigation and one that gives Steven a respectable send-off on his soul journey."

You stand on tiptoes to give Guruji a peck on the cheek and with delicate hand raise your cup in toast. "To the great Maestro-mind—whoever, whatever, and wherever it be!"

"Here-here," concurrence resounds from all around, with a twinkling of an eye.

The End

of

The Now or Never

Steven J. Nixall

Copyright 2001

The ReMinder: Conclusion

On their quest for enlightenment, five sightless sadhus encounter a bull elephant on their path to the Kumba Mehla festival. The first of the blind pilgrims approaches the beast with hands that reach for understanding of this mysterious obstacle. His palm is met by the point of a tusk as he shouts, "Glory be, we have discovered the sacred trident of Lord Shiva to pierce our earthly illusions and dispel false hope."

Meanwhile, the second holy man has blindly taken hold of the elephant's trunk and exclaims, "Nay, the form is a great cobra who strikes to open our minds to Vishnu's wisdom that flows from the fangs of life's adversity."

The groping hands of the third blind sadhu find the elephant's soft ear as he proclaims, "No my deluded friends, a velvet coverlet from Shakti's wedding bed is here to wrap the worthy in a blanket of grace."

"Nay!" laments the fourth seeker who reaches up to the great beast's chest. "Here lies Krishna's mighty fortress that blocks our path to the ancient treasures of soul."

As the four argue, the last blind sage slowly walks around the creature, sensing its breadth and depth. Having trod the earthly path for nearly a century, this wizened traveler knows to journey behind the false fronts that snare the careless seeker. He arrives at the tail end of the elephant and, with a reach into the dark unknown, he grabs it by the balls.

"Nuts!" the old man proclaims to his sightless companions.

And he is instantly transported to Nirvana by the beast's response to the one who at tale's end firmly grasps the forces of creations.

*******

_Namaste,_ fellow creators, and a good journey to us all.

The End

of

The ReMinder

Steven J. Shupe

Copyright 2001

About the Author

The author, in his earthly form, drifts as a global nomad currently without base or basis. His consciousness continues exploring the mystery.

For more about the author, visit: <https://www.facebook.com/steven.shupe.733>

For those who wish to explore the _The Nyxall Chronicles_ in their entirety,

go to <https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/SJShupe>

**The Now or Never** (2001)

**A Mindgame to Remembrance** (2004)

**The 'I' of the Storm** (2010)

**Beyond Illusion** (2016)

Your comments for the author are welcomed at KOANnowhere@yahoo.com

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