*******
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 probably 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 only 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 the 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, Self-activated 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 did he actually go 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 a sense of 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 crap 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 the hell 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, f
or God’s 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 arms 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 to 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 19th 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 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, ugh, ‘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 the leather choker to his neck, “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.” You are beginning to sweat 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 of the 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 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 a
loud in sudden recollection.
“Right!” Guruji exclaims looking pleased with himself and with his just-completed theatrical 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 lines 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 emerges 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)