I find your kindness to me rather stunning, actually. I mean, I'm forty-two and just a former housewife—
Please. No fishing, Kundalini. You are magnificent. Your breasts are magnificent. Once, you did not let me caress them. You did not let me caress them like this.
Perhaps the context was different. Time has moved on. I was then in your abode, now you are in mine. You are my guest, one refuses a guest nothing. Master, why have you come to me?
I was alone. I was nervous. I thought of you, perhaps also alone. There has been so much disturbance but I am left alone, at the hurricane’s eye—is that an expression? Ma Prapti has the many reporters to fascinate with her horrifying confessions. Durga has her fellow-warriors to exhort and imbue with thirst for glory. In my solitude I enjoy samarasa, the divine immobility. But for the condition ofsabaja, of the non-conditioned and purely spontaneous, to reach that ofadvaya, of non-duality, and from this to attain Mabasukba, of which we once spoke, there must be yuganaddba, the principle of union, which implies an initial duality. I thought of you. My inkling has been that you, too, wish to confront the other, the opposite, and thus achieve advaya. It is perilous, because within it one loses the self.
You said you felt nervous. How can this be when you are a jivan-mukta, always in a state of samadhi?
I am Arbat, a follower of Buddha. The Blessed One did not leave the world, did not disengage himself from the confusions ofjiva and ajiva and withdraw into nirvana like your cowardly Jesus. He stayed upon earth, instructing and consoling bis disciples to the age of eighty. If we stay on earth, we stay inprakriti. If we stay inprakriti, we are subject to thevasanas and cbittavrittis of other men. We are subject to nervousness in the forms of lust and fear. This is the great sacrifice the enlightened make, out ofkaruna, out of compassion. Indeed you are smooth, as smooth as Hack Kali. As smooth as Satyavati after bathing in the river Jumna. As smooth as Radba upon the flower couch in the groves of Vrindavan. There is that faint oiliness which I much love. It makes an iridescence.
My father had dark skin. My mother is quite pale. She takes a terrible tan, but keeps trying.
Yes. Your rich mother. We discussed her. I think you are very close, mother and daughter.
Not really. We got off on the wrong foot somehow, when I was very little. About your fear. Is it that you are afraid of death?—of course not, how could you be?—or of the troubles in the ashram sending you back to India?
I am not so afraid of India. Perhaps I am afraid of non-India. I am afraid ofadvaya, of non-duality. Tor as long as there is duality, the spirit does not need to unrobe. I am not afraid of unrobing the body and will do so. But I am afraid, yes, of the spirit unrobing itself of the body. Ofjiva shedding ajiva. That is what I promised you, I think. To turn your body into spirit, to have the great bliss, the Paramabasukha.
Do you think I'm ready for that? Maybe to start with we could have just a little sukha.
Let us concentrate, Kundalini. That is stage one. We will let Durga have her shootout on the bills and the FBI men shoot back and the poor little sannyasins run for cover while we enact maithuna. Maithuna is not what is called in this coarse country "fucking. "It is cosmic play. It is lila. The soul's journey is lila. The emergence of prakriti from purusba is lila. From the truth of the body, bhanda, emerges by lila the truth of the universe, brabmanda.
I love it when you explain things. Would you like to touch me again?
That comes later, the touching. First is concentration, sa-dbana. We concentrate upon the beloved. It is best if she is parakiya rati—the wife of another. That is why I so much like your Charles. We need him. Otherwise you are apakva, unripe. Otherwise you are samanya rati, ordinary woman. We must mentally conceive you into visbesha rati—woman extraordinary, divine essence of woman.
Shall I concentrate on you, too?
It is not so necessary, what the woman does. But yes. I am nitya manus, eternal man. lam sabaja manus, man unconditioned, lam ayoni manus, man unborn. My linga is all lingas. My mouth is all mouths. My hands are all bands.
That idea gives me the creeps. I want them to be your hands, your hands only. When can you start touching me?
I am Krishna and you are Radba and we are in Vrindavan. Many flowering trees all about us. The smell of much mai-tbuna all about us. The sound of water running. Birds unseen singing. All things rank, ripe, deep. We gaze and concentrate upon the other.
Is there a next stage?
Smarana, recollection. I think ofKundalini as when she first came in her rented Hertz, in a checked suit too hot for the sun, with the bold manners of a woman who thinks well of herself.'
And I think of you as you were from afar, a brown face on a poster, on the label of a cassette.
Which cassette did you possess?
The one on yamas and niyamas.
Yes. That was a good one. An early one.
And then the one where you answer questions about the aham and the burning away of the vrittis.
I had stupid questioners that day. Stoned hippies and Vishnu bums. All squatting on the din floor in Ellora. Before the solid middle class discovered Buddha and pulled out their fat wallets.
Should we be proceeding with the ceremony? Should you have all your clothes still on?
It is not important that the worshipper be naked; only the goddess, the worshipped. Now comes aropa, the attribution of qualities. You are woman, nayika. You are tall. You are dark. You are smooth. You are splendid. You have limbs like thick luminous snakes. Your belly is waxen and long, long; under my eyes it has dunes and hollows like desert sands in moonlight. It has shiny stripes like veins of expensive mineral. Your navel is an eye without an eyebrow. It is elegant and long and was well cut by the doctor the day of your birth. Bless that man. He is present in your navel.
I was born in the war, in '44. Daddy was in the South Pacific on a destroyer. The hospitals were understaffed and the doctor on emergency was a black man my mother had never seen before. Our own doctor had collapsed; he hadn't slept for thirty-six hours, there were fights and accidents all over Boston then, the soldiers and sailors and all these jazz places. It was wartime. My mother said she was so terrified she vowed she'd never bear another child. But she did, four years later.
People forget pain. They do not so quickly forget bliss.
Oh, stop looking. I am so old. My poor saggy body. My poor stretched belly, that's what those marks are, from carrying Pearl. This Paramahasukha should have come along when I was twenty.
You were not ready at twenty. You were only ready for Charles.
I was ready actually for a boy called Myron Stern, but my parents disapproved so violently I was scared off. What a docile nitwit I was.
With this Myron, too, dubkba would have entered in. Life is dubkba. Dubkba is incorrectly translated "pain." Buddha did not say, "Life is pain." Dubkba is disenchantment. He said, "Life is disenchantment." He said, "Life is a letdown." With Myron, as with Charles, there would have been enchantment, there would have been disenchantment. Even with Arbat.
Not with you, Master.
Why not? I am myself or another.
No, you are you. You have attributes. Let me see you.
I am afraid to disrobe. I am afraid of non-duality.
Don't be silly. Let me help.
[Faint tumult.]
I am fat, yes. My telly is in layers like a cake.
Just cozy. So much nice soft black hair.
My linga does not reach the sky.
It's trying.
In aropa, flowers are offered to the nayika.Sbe is beginning to become a goddess. Heryoni is a lotus. Her mouth is a lotus.
You're so sweetly prim here. Like a little cactus. Without thorns. With a little bitter dewdrop.
Your breasts are fruit with tips the color of eggplant. Your shoulders are a silver yoke. Your jaw is a wing, beating slowly up and down.
Those are nice attributes. I like this aropa part.
When the nayika is not there, the yogi remembers her b
eauty. That is the fourth stage, manana.
Will you remember me?
Ah, your voice is dark and sad. That is the question women ask. They always ask, "Will you remember me?"
They want to know.
Their asking so earnestly plunges the lovers back into time, the sad time that does not exist in Vrindavan.
I think you have many nayikas to remember.
The visbesha rati is not jealous. She is Shakti and is all women.
How very convenient for Shiva.
You ridicule your Master. You are being wicked Kali.'
I'm getting sexually frustrated. How many more stages are there?
No need exists to rush. That is very Occidental, your need to rush.
Couldn't you at least kiss me? Somewhere. Anywhere.
The next stage is dbyana, mystic meditation, in which the nayika sits upon the lover's left and is embraced, not for the sake of bodily pleasure but for the enhancing of the spirit.
That may be too subtle a distinction for this old girl.
No. Not subtle. Love is for bodies only when the spirits are in harmony. Love is more than fucking only when the god in the other is saluted. That is why we say, "Namaste."
I love the way you say "luff." I always have.
That is why we say, "So 'bam." I am He.
I'm supposed to say something back but I forget what.
You say, "Sa 'bam." You are She.
Sa 'ham. I am Stye.
Great Kundalini, stand so I may meditate upon your body, each glistening particle, each cell of skin, each hair and gland. Think with me of your body cell by cell, as something greater than galaxies, greater than all the jewel trees. You are like a Bodbisattva standing in the Land of Bliss, in Sukbavati. You are infinitely tall, infinitely splendid. You are immeasurably radiant, amitabha. You are amitayus, forever enduring.
Mm. That feels nice. Tickly, but nice.
I am bathing you with my tongue. I drink your perspiration, your rasas. This is fuja, the sixth stage. The nayika is bathed as if she is a statue of the goddess. As I do so I repeat formulas in my head.
Must you go through this every time?
To make it holy, yes. To exalt us, yes. You may sit now. On my left. On the bed. The worship continues. Open your thighs.
That's nice too. Nicer, even.
Can you feel my inner concentration?
So that's what I feel.
I adore your yoni. I drink your rajas.
Don't stop. Must you stop?
Now the seventh stage. The adept lays the nayika on the bed and repeats aloud the sacred formula.
There is one?
Hling kling kandarpa svaha.
What does it mean?
Hling kling kandarpa svaba.
O.K. Pardon my asking.
Now sit on me.
It's too big. It has reached the sky.
This is stage eight, maitbuna.
Oh. It's not too big. Not quite. Not quite quite.
Kundalini was impatient for this stage.
Keep talking to me, please.
Concentrate. Think of ida. Think ofpingala. Energy is rising.
Mm.
Think of Muladhara to Svadbisthana. Now she leaves the belly and files to the solar plexus, to Manipura.
Mmm.
From Manipura to Anabata, the heart. Up, up, to beyond the heart.
Nn.
Beyond the heart to Visbuddba, the throat. There are many throats.
To Midge
Dombi dances in the sambbogakaya. The washerwoman dances in the throat. From Visbuddba—
[Unintelligible.] Oh. My God. Goodness me. Now you.
No. I do not do. You do again, Kundalini. And again.
Really? Isn't that unfair?
Unfair to you. It puts you into time. It puts you into the clutches of Kali, while I am in samarasa. I have the bliss of vajrolimudra. The energy of the suspended semen enters my spirit and makes me immortal. You die again and again. You are cruelly used.
If you say so. I keep going?
Keep going.
Mm. Nn. Oh. Oh yes, yes. God. How do you do it?
Advanced technique. It is called "ujjana sadbana," "against the current."// brings, through samarasa, sabaja. It brings the non-conditioned. It brings advaya. Sbakti and Shiva, vajra and padma, jiva and ajiva are one. You and I are one. What I will, you become.
Yes, Master.
If I scratch your fat rump, it is pleasure.
Pleasure.
If I slap you thus, that too.
That too.
Come once more.
Darling, I'm exhausted.
Come. Come, you sopping cunt.
[Click: end of tape, side one.]
Midge, that was the most magical thing of all, the way that side of the tape got used up just as I did. I think my moan drowned out the click in the drawer, but / heard it. I really probably should erase that side, but I have this feeling about it that it's bigger than I am somehow, that my personal modesty is totally unimportant and it wasn't me in any case but a kind of goddess actually and that what really is important is the Arhat's voice on tape, his fantastic capacity for love. I don't know how he held it but it stayed just as hard as a rock, only of course smooth—a jewel just like they say. He was the jewel and I was the lotus. It felt just like that, on and on into eternity. And it wasn't just that once, I've been with him a few times since. I'm not sure, though, you should play the tape for Irving and the other girls—only if you think they can take it in the yogic spirit and not as just titillation and gossip. It m«jf n't get back to Charles. I'll leave it up to you, I've been away so long now I can't be the judge of anybody's spiritual progress and maturity. Please keep it safe for me, 'though, so some day when I'm old and gray and sitting in some nursing home or Florida condo like my grotesque mother I can play it and remember the times when I was Shakti and Radha with the best of them. I wonder whose Radha she ever was, by the way. It's awfully hard to picture Daddy being Krishna.
What other news? I don't know what sort of stuff gets onto television back East—I suppose it depends pretty much on what the Russians and Iranians did that afternoon—but Durga and Agni and the rest of her hard core, mostly the guys from security and some of the younger women in PR, stayed up in the canyon a few more days, until their pills and water ran out, but when nobody came after them they began to dribble back to the Chakra and the cafeteria, looking dusty and underweight and sheepish. Durga had expected some kind of shootout, like they have I guess in Belfast with the British soldiers, but the IRS and Immigration don't work like that, it's more a matter of form letters with that dotty kind of printer that only the government still seems to use, these utterly machine-made-looking letters you can keep ignoring because it looks like junk mail until some morning months later the sheriff shows up with handcuffs. These shots I kept hearing were I guess Durga and Satya and the guys having fun, practicing with their infrared gunsights and these other fancy armaments that have been costing the Treasury of Enlightenment an arm and a leg. To avoid an ambush in the pass she came down the Sachchidananda on a rubber raft they had up there, and though there was her old kind of dash in that, she looks basically discouraged. She talks about deporting herself back to Ireland rather than fight the INS. We've had a couple of long talks, she and I, now that I use her old office in the Uma Room, and the odd thing is I'm beginning to like her, rather—though of course not the abso/«fely comfortable way I like you and Donna and Ann Turner and Liz Belling-ham. We have a language in common, we went to the same sort of schools and dated the same boys more or less and made the same klishta compromises, but a lot of the women here, frankly, are like people from the moon. It's like they skipped a beat somewhere, and really don't much care about either death or sex. Maybe it's an East Coast / West Coast thing, or a generation kind of gap, but I don't think so exactly. Maybe I've been standoffish. I came here, face it, to get close to the Arhat, and now that I couldn't get any closer except by crawKng up his assh
ole—sorry, that's the way he talks, once you get to know him, with almost a tough-guy kind of American accent, God knows where he picked it up—and now that I've achieved my objective and satisfied my really pretty deplorable phalatrishna, I'm able to relate to these people on more relaxed terms. Durga's always frightened me but she says now I frightened her from the start, and if you think of her as just this little Irish village girl you can see I might be frightening. She says she could see at a glance that I had the kind of energy the Arhat eats up. She says he eats people up, psychologically, without meaning to—it's just that his prana and mahat are so strong they suck you in and spit you out, he's so incredibly intuitive that he gets impatient, and she and Prapti and Nitya and Alinga and the inner circle were wearing out around him. So she sensed I was going to take over, though of course I haven't, I still don't know the half of what goes on around here. She said, Durga, to finish up with her, that she was raised with this terribly restrictive Irish Catholicism and hated it and thought what the Arhat was offering, this free-form Buddhism, would release her but she wonders now if it didn't actually make her more uptight, all these spiritual possibilities so she was constantly having to choose, and maybe the real way to be free is just to do whatever the priest or husband or boss or whoever says while deep inside scorning it—that this is real asanga, real detachment from your life, instead of coming here and trying to make a new social model and the desert bloom and so on. All I could tell her was that it's been wonderful for me so far but that I rather did doubt if I or any woman would ever be able to do vajrolimudra, because of the anatomical differences, and so would always be swept along by time. She kissed me then, this big white face of hers swooping down, she said I looked so sweet saying that, when I had just been trying to be serious. I mean, really kissed me, but it wasn't like with Alinga—I have the funny feeling Durga doesn't have much of a sex life in any direction. Her eyes get softest when she talks about Ireland and her mother and the two cows they used to keep in the village, the way their spotted big sides steamed just after it rained. She was some sort of artiste in Dublin—I don't know, do they still have music halls?—but it's the village and the cows that turn heron. The warm milk—that steamed, too.