New Novel - Like, Misunderstood: A few sample pages

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PART V – Having a Flash Forward.

 

CHAPTER 68: Bummertime Blues

 

Jeez! It’s the summertime, April 26, 1967, my friggen twenty-first

birthday at goddamn Fort Ord. I’m running with a platoon of draftees

humping packs full of sand over rough Northern California brush land

during Basic Training. The DI sergeant running along side the platoon

is singing: ‘We are the mighty!’

 

Platoon sings in refrain: ‘We are the mighty!’

 

‘The mighty mighty Forty!’

 

‘The mighty mighty Forty!’

 

‘Where are we goin?’

 

‘Where are we goin?’

 

‘To Vi-et Nam!’

 

‘To Vi-et Nam!’

 

‘What we gonna do there?’

 

‘What we gonna do there?’

 

‘Gonna hunt Charlie!’

 

‘Gonna hunt Charlie!’

 

‘All right, ladies, let me hear ya now! What we gonna do in Nam?’

 

The platoon, with my exception, all shout, ‘KILL!’

 

‘I cain't hear you! OK, now, what we gonna do? Everybody now!’

 

‘KILL!’

 

‘What's that now?’

 

‘KILL!!’

 

‘Louder you pretty ladies! What we gonna do?’

 

‘K I L L !!’

 

‘Lets say it again’

 

‘Kill! KILL! K I L L !’

 

‘Louder you mothafuckas!’ The DI is screaming louder, all the recruits

are chanting ‘Kill kill kill,’ like a mantra. ’Kill kill kill!’ All

the solders are chanting except me; it is getting darker as we run

along, the others chanting… ‘Kill! KILL! K I L L !’

 

I’m thinking: the Westerners make fun of Buddhist and Hindu Mantra

chanting. Well, what the hell kind of mantra is this? ‘Kill! KILL!

KILL!’

 

It’s darker. I’ve got a real bad cramp in my gut. Bummer! Sh*t, I can’t

take it anymore. I run off to the side of the trail and stop. ‘F**k

this!’ I say, as I stoop over exhausted, my head down, heaving for air.

‘Ahhhh uhhhh ahhhhh!’

 

Remembering the ‘magic lamp’ I found on the street in Watts that night?

I mentally picture the lamp. Then I rub the lamp and make a wish:

 

‘Jeez! I wish I was, like, anywhere but here!’

 

POOF! A blinding light flash! Whoa! I’m having a friggen ‘Flash

forward!’

 

Looking up I stand at the wooden gate blocking the stone courtyard of a

small Hindu ashram. GOD!

 

Oh yeah! I just arrived in mystical India. I’m dressed in white hippy

clothes covered in coal black soot. I have no possessions. My hair is

longer. Kirtan – singing and chanting – is going on inside the temple

hall.

 

The ashram members are engaged in a ceremony. After concluding the

kirtan – congregational chanting, someone sees me standing at the gate,

barehanded and dirty.

 

The Indian ashramite runs off to call an old Swami about 70 years old

who speaks a bit of English. The old Swami comes to the gate, ‘Yes?

Vaat you are vaanting?’

 

I show the swami a scrap of paper. He takes and looks at it.

 

‘Gurudev is gone to Bombay.’ He informs me, matter of fact.

 

‘Oh thank you!’ Then I realize. ‘But, what? Swamiji is not here?’

 

He shakes his head like a cow, ‘Gone to Bombay side!’

 

‘I'm a disciple of Swamiji, Swami Bhaktivedanta, is he coming back?’ I

ask, full of anxiety.

 

‘Oh! Swami Maharaj!’ He suddenly realizes who it is that I’m talking

about. ‘Yes! He is Godbrother of Gurudev.’

 

‘Who is Gurudev?’ I wonder.

 

The Swami folds his hands together, bows his head, and recites the name

of his guru in reverence. ‘Tridandi Swami Bhakti Hridaya Bon Maharaj.’

 

‘Who is he?’

 

‘Godbrother of your Swamiji!’ the swami tells me. ‘They share same

Guru. He is coming back after one month only!’

 

COOL! ‘Swamiji is coming back here?’

 

‘No! No! Gurudev is coming!’ The old dude sounds frustrated with my

stupidity.

 

I’m like: ‘Gurudev?’

 

‘Gurudev!’ The swami confirms.

 

Gurudev? Jeez, who is that? Well he must be related to Swamiji. Anyway

I’m friggen scared. I look at the dense darkness around us.

 

Bright idea: ‘Hey, may I stay here? I have no place to stay?’

 

‘No! No!’ The swami declines.

 

‘But, can I stay to meet Gurudev?’

 

The swami thinks. ‘Hummm! You may stay to meet, but you must be knowing

all rules, we are having very rigid rules. This is Bhajan Kutir’ (house

of worship).

 

‘Please!’ I beg the guy. ‘I'll do anything, please, I'll follow,

please!’

 

‘You must be clean!’

 

‘I'll take a shower!’

 

‘No no! You must be learning how to take bath, what is meaning of

clean, and so many things to stay here.’

 

I’m thinking, ‘Jeez! How the heck do they take baths around here?’

 

‘I can learn. Please! Please!’

 

‘Whew!’ The Swami opens the gate and lets me enter.

 

Hey, it’s my first night in the Mahatma Gandhi’s Country.

 

 

CHAPTER 69: Rock ‘n’ Rules

 

OK, attention all Jeff Beck loonies! It may not exist until 40 years in

the future, but that’s no problem for Jeff to surmount; he’s been 40

years ahead since 1965. If you have a copy of ‘Nadia’ by Jeff Beck

now’s the time to crank it up, as I describe basic primitive ashram

life in India. A real-ashram. Not some damn hippy retreat.

 

Four AM. ‘Huh? What?’ I hear the load blast of a conch shell being

blown three times

 

God! Where am I? It’s pitch black. I’m laying on a dusty burlap bad. It

feels like I’m not alone. ‘Gulp!’ Jeez, where’s the friggen light? Oh,

right, there’s no electricity here. Gotta use an oil lamp. I feel

around and find a box of matches. I strike a match to light a small

lamp. I look around. ‘Whoa!’ I see a snake tail slither away under the

sleeping sack.

 

‘Aargh!’ Just behind my head there are two tan scorpions crawling up

the wall. Sh*t! I quickly stumble outside a pint-sized door to the

ashram well.

 

At the water well I watch as the members of the ashram, mostly old men,

line up and take bath according to seniority, the oldest first. The

Swami is taking abath wearing a gamcha (red/white waist cloth); he is

also wearing a sacred thread. He calls me to come watch him bathe.

 

He takes a lota (small water pot) of water from an open well bucket

with his right hand and then, using his wrists, he tilts the pot to

splash some water onto his left hand. Then he reaches into a pile of

dirt in a can, and using his wrists to splash the water, he uses fine

dirt to wash his hands after using the outhouse. Using the dirt he

somehow washes his hands clean. He then brushes his teeth with a Neem

Tree twig he had soaking in water all night. He drinks the Neem water,

then chews up the end of the fibrous twig, and then he brushes his

teeth vigorously with the chewed end.

 

Then using his right hand he scoops more water out of the bucket, and

starts to pour water on his head and then more, and more, until he has

made himself all wet. Then he wipes off the water using his gamcha

cloth. He is now wearing only a Kaupin or loincloth.

 

Jeez, I feel like I know this ritual. Like from my last life or

something.

 

After wiping all the water, he walks away from the well so others can

bathe, and he goes and puts on a dry, clean cloth, wrapped around his

waist. He then sits, facing the East, and applies wet tilak –

sacred-earth-white clay – on his forehead and then 11 other places on

his body. Then, taking the sacred thread and wrapping a loop around his

thumb he holds his right hand up to his heart, and covers it with his

cupped left hand, as he silently chants his gayatri-mantras, only

barely moving his lips as he sits, straight backed, and meditating.

 

Wow! It all seems somehow so familiar.

 

‘Hey, I feel like I know all this! Why is that?’ I ask the swami.

 

‘Vhy?’ he replies. ‘Because I am telling you!’

 

Oh, ah, yeah!

 

After using the squat-style outhouse and finishing bathing and

ablutions, all the ashram monks enter the temple hall. There are three

Deities on an altar with various other sacred items and stones.

Primarily Lord Chaitanya, Lord Krishna, and Goddess Radharani. Below

are sacred Shalagram and Govardhan stones, called shilas.

 

The devotees are standing up and singing Bengali and Sanskrit prayers

before the Deities, while playing on mridanga drums and finger cymbals.

Then they begin chanting Hare Krishna Maha-Mantra, and here I

understand and join in.

 

Hey, this is kind of like what I experience a funky version of in San

Francisco, but this seems very authentic, very ancient, very bonafide.

The real thing.

 

All the ashram members, about 10 men, are singing the ‘Hare Krishna’

mantra together, faster and faster, and then finally singing, ‘Nitai

Gaura Hare bol! Hare bol! Hare bol! Hare bol!’

 

They reach a crescendo and the chanting stops and I watch as they all

bow down sideways, keeping the Deities to their left, flat as a stick

in full prostration. Hey, I can do that! No sweat. So I also bow flat

in the same way, flat on the floor before the Deities behind all the

others near the temple entrance

 

The old SWAMI MADHAV is really helpful because he sees I’m eager to

learn, like, everything. We’re standing together in front of the temple

Deities room, and the swami is pointing out various things and

explaining to me.

 

Suddenly though, ‘Yikes!’ I got diarrhea! I run into the outhouse.

After I come back out the swami scolds me for touching the water pot

with my left hand, the same hand I used to wipe my a** hole with water.

The swami throws out the water, then throws a bucket of water on me.

 

Hey, like, sorry about that!

 

I see ashram members cleaning clothes in a bucket and beating the wet

clothes on a stone slab. Others are sweeping the temple and the

grounds.

 

Now it’s morning and devotees are reading Sanskrit books; some are in

deep meditation, chanting on beads

 

There’s a devotee cooking over a coal stove. Hey, FOOD!

 

‘Sorry!’ the swami tells me. ‘No food here. In this ashram we only have

prasadam.’

 

‘Uh oh!’ I think. ‘Looks like a “prasadam” diet is my lot in life.’

 

In a bare dining area the devotees are sitting in a line according to

seniority and being served rice and dal on banana leafs. Wow! Spicy!

Ouch! I reach into my mouth and discover a small rock, along with a

piece of my tooth. Great!

 

I’m always seated at the very end of the line. That’s my position

around here… I’m friggen last! Back in the outside world I might be

considered important as lead singer of a great rock band, but around

this ashram, and village, I’m the least of the least. Even the local

dogs are better than me. In the eyes of my fellow ashramites I’m a

mletcha – a cow eater. They look at me as someone who is so degraded as

to eat the sacred cow, revered in India. It doesn’t matter I’m now a

vegetarian, because it’s bad enough that I was born into a mletcha

family. Around here I’m less than dog poop. Anyone who wants to have

their material ego shattered, just come stay, like, HERE!

 

Ha! I think to myself. Friggen Green Beret Special Forces guys couldn’t

last two weeks in this place. They would go nuts. Nothing to kill.

Bummer! ‘Hey, kill time, dude!’ Or better yet, ‘chill time.’

 

Can’t beat the price on ‘ego busting!’ Jeez, free service around these

parts.

 

There are devotees chanting alone with handheld rosary beads in a bag

on their right hands. Some are pacing, some are sitting, all are

quietly chanting the Maha-mantra: ‘Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna

Krishna Hare Hare / Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare’ –

repeatedly, over and over again, all day long. Every day.

 

Amidst all this chanting and meditation are so many other spiritual

activities. I see a devotee worshiping with elaborate ritual and hand

movements in the temple inner sanctum. Then devotees chanting in the

temple during arati (worship) with a priest offering burning lights,

flowers, and other items, waving them before the Deities while all the

other devotees are mouthing the songs and playing.

 

Diarrhea again. I clutch my stomach as cramps drive me to run into the

outhouse, then again take a bath any time after using the latrine.

 

It’s amazing to see the etiquette and respect these devotees have. I

always see various ashram members stopping to bow whenever they pass

each other, always at least bending over to touch the ground with

folded hands when ever a devotee sees another; all saying, ‘Dandavat’

to each other, which means, ‘kindly accept my prostrated obeisance!’

 

Swami Madhav shows me how to tie on a loincloth, which I will use

instead of pants. Like a bozo I drop my outercloth, which comes loose

exposing my loincloth. The swami scolds me again. All the other ashram

members treat me like a terminal idiot. Sh*t, I wonder, how do they

know?

 

Holding my stomach I run into the outhouse again. And later lay down

clutching my stomach in pain from amoebic dysentery. Wow, I’m so weak

all of a sudden! Whoa! I can’t stand up. Jeez, my head is spinning.

Where am I?

 

Where am I? At the Rama Krishna Mission free hospital in Vrindavan.

 

‘I say, you must be drinking only boiled water!’ the Resident Dr. Gopal

tells me. ‘Three times! You must boil the water three times before

drinking! Otherwise you vill go on catching this amoebic dysentery and

your health will be ruined!’

 

‘But Dr Gopal, I can't boil water because I'm not allowed into the

kitchen; and they won't boil water especially for me, I'm not this

body!’

 

Doctor Gopal is like, ‘Vell, then…’

 

Yep! That’s me clutching my stomach and running into the outhouse

again, and later laying down clutching my stomach in pain from amoebic

dysentery. Then getting up and running again. And again. Then back into

the free hospital, then out. God!

 

Man, they have germs so big in Vraja that you don’t even need a

microscope to see them in the water. People don’t catch germs in Vraj,

I realize, germs catch the friggen people.

 

‘Hey, Mr. Vrajavasi, whattya got there?’

 

‘This? Aw, nothing! Just taking my germ for a walk.’

 

Man, in Vraja, you’re in good shape if you can get your germ to wear a

friggen collar.

 

Wow! Look at the place. Vraja-dham. There’s a peacock strutting by,

then stopping to fan its feathers. The sun is setting. I’m standing on

the roof of Gurudev’s ashram looking out over sacred Vrindavan, home of

5,000 temples, all devoted to Lord Krishna. As I gaze over the sea of

temples and ashrams, bells and conch shells begin resounding from all

over. Wow! I’m safe in Vrindavan! I can hardly believe I made it. I

feel so happy, that tears come to my eyes, tears of joy. Thank you,

Krishna! Thank you!

 

‘Hey Rick!’ you’re probably asking. ‘How they heck did he get outta the

Army? And to friggen India?’ Well, if it wasn’t for my wish (on the

magic lamp) and subsequent ‘flash forward,’ then you wouldn’t even be

asking. Dude!

 

 

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