Benares Diwali ‘71

(Varanasi)

Benares, Dewali ’71

— — “It isn’t by getting out of the world that we become enlightened, but by getting into the world…by getting so tuned in that we can ride the waves of our existence and never get tossed because we become the waves.”
― Ken Kesey

By the time they got off the train at Benares station the travellers thought they had seen everything. They hadn’t slept for the last two nights and they were now developing a desensitising wall of numbness around them that filtered out any shock. This wall was being fortified on a moment to moment basis; every mother that held out a limbless infant begging for a few pisa, felt a little less shocking. The fact that she may have maimed the child to increase her take was by now an accepted fact and had lost its shock value too.

The exhaustion, heat, the crowds, the inescapable flies, the smells of open sewers, cowshit, urine and the incessant high potency hash joints had them gliding along in a semi catatonic state. and barley speaking in whispers. But nothing had prepared them for this; The most holy of the seven sacred cities in Hinduism, Benares has been a cultural center of northern India for several thousand years, and is closely associated with the Sacred River, the Ganges. The city is known worldwide for its many ghats; embankments made in steps of stone slabs along the river bank where pilgrims perform ritual ablutions and cremations.

Benares is the place every devout Hindu goes to be cremated, his ashes gathered and deposited in the River Ganges, the most sacred of rivers, the river of life. To be cremated there insures a quick and higher incarnation or as some Hindus believe dying here and being cremated along the banks of the “holy” Ganges river allows one to break the cycle of rebirth and attain moksha, salvation making it a major center of pilgrimage for the dying, ie. The city of the dead.

Seated on the floor of the overcrowded train station were a group of 15 or 20 Sadhus. These renunciates, had given up all worldly possessions and connection to society. Some Agori Sadhus used cut human skulls as begging bowls, and wore no clothes, their bodies smeared with ashes from the cremation ghats. They sat naked puffing on chillums loaded with ganga or hash, sacraments blessed to them. Some wore saffron sashes showing their devotion to the god Shiva, their forehead brightly painted with the mark of tripundra. Some had spikes driven through their cheeks, some had large stones tied to their penis. Some had waist length dreadlocks; their dark skin covered with light powdery ash of the cremated, carried pitchfork like tridents with live cobras wrapped around their necks. They sat grouped together stoned and a bit rowdy. One beat a drum, one a tambourine, one just banged two bones on the station platform like drumsticks. They shouted mantras along to this strange rhythm.

A gang of monkeys leaped from piles of freight wrapped in hopsack stacked on wooden trollies. The trollies were dragged through the crowd by barefoot coolies with legs thin as broomsticks. Cows wandered aimlessly around the station; some sitting in the middle of the platform forcing the crowds to walk around them. Clouds of incense and marijuana floated thru the dusty air. Flies covered everything and the loud buzz seemed to be coming from every direction.

In the blazing late morning sun, they glided through the throngs of beggars, touts, coolies, saints and madmen. With a slip of paper that had a hotel name scrawled on it, given to them by a traveler they met in Agra clutched in his hand, he was thankful to have a vague direction to head in, barely a destination.

A rickshaw was chosen because the shirtless driver had slightly more meat on his bones and was less skeletal than the others. Nothing is worse than a bony rickshaw driver; either a western passenger feels guilty watching the frail and sinewy bony legs pumping the pedals, or feels guilty for not patronizing him, he who is the neediest. Pablo and Anna felt nothing either way.

He handed the driver the address silently. Along the way it became apparent that they had landed in another surrealistic dimension; transported into a painting by Hieronymus Bosch… where death surrounds you every moment.

The quest for salvation and an end to the cycle of rebirth and death makes Benares a major center for pilgrimage of the sick and dying. Near the river the smell of burning flesh from the ghats and the putrid odor of the open sewers and clouds of sweet incense and flowers was intoxicating in a nauseating way. Many who couldn’t afford a cremation simply dropped into the river and floated off into eternity. The local vultures and rats seemed to be the only things that were well fed.

Among the followers of the Parsi religion, a devout Hindu Brahman sect, is the belief that nothing should be wasted. Even after our death we should be beneficial for some other animals. They don’t bury or burn the dead bodies. Instead they rather float them away in the river or feed them directly to the vultures and crows.

In Benaras town lies on the Eastern Bank of the Ganges, the Parsi temple stands on the western bank of the holy river, and is one of the twelve Jyotirlingas, considered the holiest of the Hindu God Shiva.

The city is legendary as having been created by the Lord Shiva, the God of destruction. He is a God which denies earthly pleasures, and honors the premise being that nothing can be created without first destroying something else.

Shiva is also the great ascetic, abstaining from all forms of indulgence and pleasure, concentrating rather on meditation as a means to find perfect happiness. He is the most important Hindu god for the Shaivism sect, the patron of Yogis and Brahmins, and they flock to Benares in reverence to him from all corners of India, and as the travelers were about to discover from all corners of the world.

Along the way to the hotel the street was jammed with bicycles, and tricycle rickshaws, each with a small bell; they found themselves immersed in a traffic jam of bicycles among a celestial symphony of a thousand tinkling bells all jingling frantic and ethereal.

A large cow just sat there in the middle of the road oblivious to the traffic jam it was causing. The Hindus, respectful of the cow’s sacred status granted it right of way and did nothing to move it out of the road. The traffic just had to wind its way around it. The cow or Nandi is the mount of The Lord Shiva and to disrespect a cow would be disrespecting the God Shiva and an act considered blasphemous. Therefore, cows were allowed to wander everywhere, untied, unfettered they wandered into shops, restaurants, houses, sticking their faces in diner’s meals at outdoor cafes or just plopping down in the middle of main street.

The people on foot were noticeably skinnier and more emaciated than they had seen before, beyond starvation. Many had dead deep set eyes sunken between the bones of their face they shuffled along wearing tattered cloth shrouds, like a shawl of rags, some wore what looked like a big soiled diaper, some wore hardly anything; truly the walking dead.

Pablo nodded his head to point out something he hadn’t seen before. The telephone poles, askew and barely able to carry the tangle of wires they supported, were the perches of large long necked turkey vultures. The cables of the telephone lines were stitched together with thick spiderwebs, swaying gauzelike in the slight breeze. One could only imagine the size of the spiders capable of weaving the thick nets. Some contained the remains of small dead birds and the skeletons of bats that had gotten trapped in them.

The desk clerk at their hotel smiled, “Welcome to Benares You have come for the festival?”, he asked. The travelers shrugged, (“Wasn’t it always one festival or another? Didn’t the people get confused which holiday it was now? “he wondered).

“For this is the festival of Dewali, the festival of lights” he smiled. “Festival of Disneyland? Who would have noticed?” Pablo thought.

They were shown to their room it was large with a high ceiling and had an ample terrace stretching its length with a low table a couch and a few comfortable looking chairs overlooking the street. Inside, it was shady and cooled by a squeaky ceiling fan. They stretched out and fell asleep immediately.

Diwali, is the Hindu festival of lights, usually lasting five days and celebrated during the Hindu Lunisolar month Kartika (between mid-October and mid-November). One of the most popular festivals of Hinduism, Diwali symbolizes the spiritual “victory of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance”. The festival is widely associated with Lakshmi, goddess of prosperity, but regional traditions connect it, to Sita and Rama, Vishnu Krishna, Durga, Kali, and others.

In the lead-up to Diwali, celebrants prepare by cleaning, renovating, and decorating their homes and workplaces. During Diwali people wear their finest clothes, illuminate the interior and exterior of their homes with diyas (oil lamps or candles), paint the streets and walls with bright colored designs and Yantra symbols, offer puja (worship) to Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity and wealth, light fireworks, and partake in family feasts, where mithai (sweets) and gifts are shared. Diwali is a major cultural event for the Hindu and Jain.

When the travelers awoke the hottest part of the day was over. They made a joint and set out to find something to eat. Pablo grabbed a card from the hotel just in case they got lost.

A tout stopped them in front of the hotel. “Sitar? “He asked “Magic sitar?” “What’s he saying?” Anna asked. She had stomach problems and was tired, unwashed, unfucked, annoyed and cranky. Her stomach was upset and she had been sick since Delhi. Pablo promised to get her something for her Delhi Belly but didn’t trust her in a drugstore alone. ‘Maybe we should get you something for your stomach before we go any further?’, he ventured.

He looked at the kid and asked him if he knew a drugstore nearby. “Oh drugs? You want drugs? What kind of drugs do you want?” he whispered with a conspiratorial excitement.

“Not that kind of drugs, an apothecary, medicine” he said rubbing his stomach as if to show pain there. The kid smiled knowingly. He said, politely in perfect formal English, “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Ram, short from Rama but my friends call me Ram, and you sahib and memsahib shall be my friends. I will be your guide to Benares if you should so desire.”

With that he bowed elaborately. Pablo rolled his eyes, “Oh yeah, How much?” “Only one hundred rupees sir” he smiled “100 Rupees? I can rent an air-conditioned limousine for 100 rupees,” he laughed. “Ok sir, I mean ten, ten rupees.” Pablo grimaced, “OK, OK sir just give me five rupees and I’ll show you the way to the apothecary, but then you must come and listen to the magic sitar with me.” “And then, we will see” said Pablo.

Anna had been acting a little strange since Delhi, or rather stranger than usual. She began painting her eyes with Kohl in Afghanistan (surma) that she extracted from a silver vial. The top of the vial had a little rod that extended to the bottom of the inside of it. It was embellished with classical Indian silver filigree, and was tarnished, as is the case with much of the Indian silver that ended up in Afghanistan, you could never tell if it was an old antique or simply by the time the artisan had made it, it was already tarnished and dented. Whatever the case, it had soul and matched the silver bangles and bracelets she wore around her wrist and the silver slave bracelet she wore around her left ankle.

The first time Pablo saw it he thought it was a coke vial, the kind that came with a little spoon built into the lid. But the powder was black. That was in Afghanistan where the tribesmen apply black eye liner to cut the glare of the sun.

Her faded denim jacket came with her everywhere; now she draped it over her shoulders, the arms tied around her neck like a scarf, or someone hugging her from behind. He joked for her to never again wash it, because at this stage the denim had faded to a perfect match of her crystal blue eyes. The jacket pockets served as her handbag and were full of the things she carried around.

In one of the pockets she had the little round silver snuff box with a small mirror on the lid also that she kept her hash and a few tablets and capsules that he doubted even she knew what they were. In another pocket was her pocket watch and gold chain the present from Jim Morrison that she carried everywhere. Her makeup went in a small red and gold embroidered Moroccan cloth purse that rolled up and tied closed.

The pills in that stash box must have been special because back in the room her usual stash of valium was in a proper yellow prescription bottle and the blotter acid on that sheet of paper with the image of Saturn stamped on it, was kept between the pages of her I Ching.

She applied the black eyeliner thru that mirrored lid every time they stopped for a cigarette or a chai. She even got good enough to apply it with its little stick while sitting in the back of a bouncing rickshaw, which is what she was attempting at this moment.

She had so much on he thought she was beginning to look like a racoon. He started joking her about it, and whistled a few bars of The Beatles tune, “Rocky Racoon” and not say anything else.

Without taking her eyes off the mirror she reached over and grabbed him by the nose playfully, “Hey, keep your wisecracks to yourself my American Eagle” He replied melodically, “Sorry Rocky”

In the market of Delhi, she had picked up a few bright yellow Benares longhis with blood red mantras block printed in Sanskrit. These they shared, they doubled as a scarf, headband, sarong, shawl, and recently Anna had taken to wrapping her head in one like a loose-fitting turban.

Her usual carefully studied look had by now degenerated into wearing the same Rinpoche red, embroidered Afghan vest over a tattered once white embroidered Kandahar shirt and tight brightly colored cotton leggings she had left Agra in three days ago which were washed in shampoo and hung to drip dry every night like a pair of sox.

She still washed her hair at least every other day and wore perfume although now it was no longer the smell of Chanel but today it seemed to be a patchouli /sandlewood mix she concocted. She was experimenting with local scents and a unique mix of various ethnic costume.

Pablo wore a thin Afghan vest with a few pockets over a sleeveless white singlet that hung off his skinny torso and a similar thin white longhi with red mantras printed on it, a string of coral beads and a pair of flip flops. He had taken to buying the cheapest clothes available and just replacing them or giving them away when they needed to be washed.

A 777 Chinese singlet cost about 60 cents, a pair of Tiger brand flip flops were about 75 cents, without any bargaining. Drawstring pajama pants were “expensive”, they came down at around two dollars depending which cotton you wanted.

It was hot and it seemed practical to be dressed like everyone else. He wore a cloth pouch around his neck under his tea shirt with some rupee notes and rolling paper and stash and a few business cards. It served as a safer place than his vest pockets where he carried cigarettes and a box of matches, small rupee notes and coins. And he kept his most important things locked in the hotel safe. Like that they felt ready to move through town without drawing a lot of attention.

They had left the apothecary with some Chinese pills to help with her stomach. Some were merely little black, charcoal balls. Another was a concoction of tiny silver granules that came in a little yellow paper vial printed with the picture of a sage like Chinese elder and indecipherable Chinese characters.

Who really knew what this Chinese medicine actually was? The chemist, a beaming corpulent bald Chinaman believed in them, and Anna had gladly gulped down 5 or 6 of the charcoal and a palm full of the silver ones with a hot tea at his instruction. “If they don’t work you can always crush them up and fill your little vial with the black powder. Do your eye lines with them, Rocky.” he joked.

They returned to the rickshaw, a crowd of beggars had gathered waiting for them to return. They were like living skeletons, skin and bones, a few were limping and supported by wooden branches carved into crutches.

“Don’t worry Rocky,” Ram said seeing her horror, “The lepers are kept out of Benares, they have their own place.” “Oh, that’s very comforting” she said sarcastically. “And my name’s not Rocky!”.

Their rickshaw was a tricycle with a padded seat over the rear axle, just wide enough for two passengers. Ram was keeping up with them walking alongside and talking excitedly and shooing away beggars while moving his hands through the air to add to the impact of what he was saying. They weren’t listening anyway.

The rickshaw driver spoke hardly a word but smiled an endearing toothless smile.

Ram instructed him to a street where they were promised to hear ‘magic’ sitars. “Ok”, Pablo agreed, “but I am not about to buy one!”

They wound their way through ancient streets, Ram shouted that he city is over two thousand years old. “It looks it.”, Anna whispered sarcastically. They passed weavers busily at work on their looms, bundles of raw silk were being sorted through, a silversmith pounded a mallet loudly and worked a foot bellows. Monkeys shrieked at them from terraces as they slowly rolled by.

When they got to Bengali Tola Road it became apparent that this was the music district. Musical instruments were sold and displayed in shops that were hundreds of years old. They decided to get out and walk, the driver motioned towards where he would be waiting. Almost immediately they were descended upon by a crowd of touts, all advertising free Sitar concerts, free chai, “come and listen to my magic sitar” they shouted. The street was dotted with music shops on either side of the block displaying the instruments that they have been making there for centuries, still using the same methods and materials. The tabla, sitar, flutes and harmonium were everywhere. The high pitched tapping sound of tabla drums and droning sitars could be heard floating through the air. Each shop had resident musicians on hand to prove the ability of the instruments… “Like Manny’s on 48th street in New York” he said to Anna, she rolled her eyes and just said, “I doubt it.”

Ram took charge shouting Jawoo! To shoo the beggars and touts away. He obviously had a deal with one of the shops there, and he whispered into Pablo’s ear. “Please come to our shop, we not only have the best music but we also have the best ganga!”

Pablo smiled and put his hand on Anna’s elbow and guided her as he followed Ram down the block.

When they arrived a bundle of sweet smelling incense was lit, silk covered pillows were fluffed up and set down for them and an ornate silver tray with a silver tea set was brought out. The walls and ceiling were covered in billowing bolts of the fine woven shiny silk fabric with bright paisley patterns that the city is world famous for. A pile of bright flowers was spread out on the floor as an offering. A set of tablas shiny and new was spread on a mat on the floor in front of a silk pillow and a large black case sat across from them. It was obvious that the odd shaped case contained a large sitar.

The scene was right out of everything you ever thought about India. “Wow! All we need is a cobra charmer.” joked Pablo. Anna wasn’t joking, she slid into a lotus position, straightened her back put her hands on her knees and turned her palms upwards. She was trying to steady her stomach and compose herself; ready to be transported. She closed her eyes and sat completely still as if transformed by the mere anticipation of what was to come.

The merchant came out and proceeded to make small talk with Pablo. “Where do you come you from? Are you husband and wife? What is your purpose here in India? Where are you going? These questions the travelers had heard a million times by now and were the price they had to pay for being there. After all, if you suddenly materialize on another planet, you better be able to explain yourself, he reasoned.

The proprietor launched into his pitch, he told them that Lord Shiva who built this city also created the music and dance unique to Benares, in fact he claimed to be related to Ravi Shankar, who had a music school just in the neighborhood.

Anna asked to use the toilet; her stomach made it difficult for her to relax. When she came back she looked a little green, she reached into her jacket pocket, and sprinkled an array of the Chinese pills into her palm. She put them all in her mouth at once and washed them down with a gulp of tea from the tray in front of them.

Pablo smiled at the shopkeeper, “She’s not feeling too good” he said rubbing his stomach. He smiled sadly, his eyes full of understanding told that he was sincerely sorry for her problem.

There were four drums and a few more pillows on a bamboo mat which was covered with more bright orange flowers. Two of the drums were noticeably larger.

At this point Anna let out a soft groan and excused herself again. The others waited. She came back still holding her scented handkerchief to her nose, and blurted out, that the toilet in this place was a “whole new level of putrid. They try to cover up the shit smell with sweet perfume and incense. I’m sorry, we have to move on.” She said politely.

The others were visibly crestfallen. Pablo included. For a moment he thought to let her go back to the hotel alone and stay there, and then thought better of it. At that moment she got up and ran to the toilet again. The drummer disappeared behind the silk curtain and the shopkeeper excused himself went outside and hung around hoping to spy another customer walking along. The touts that worked the street for him were lounging and smoking bidis in the shade, drinking chai from a small stall a chaiwalla set up under an ancient tree. Business was slow.

“Want to head back?” He asked, Anna just shrugged, “I’m feeling a little better now, I need some air, I just can’t sit here.”

Late afternoon’s golden glow had given way to the lavender and pale blues of dusk. The incense had burned down, the shop was empty. A lamp had been lit and the shop was getting murky in its dim flicker. It had gotten quiet except for the sound of a flute from a flute seller outside on the street. They had only been there a few minutes.

“Let’s go” Anna whispered.

The drummer was nowhere to be found. The shopkeeper was still out front surveying the street.

Pablo slipped him a ten rupee note, and looked at him thankfully, “We’ll be back.” he said with a liar’s promise that he had no intention of keeping.

The shopkeeper smiled knowingly. “Here is my card,” he said thrusting the card into Pablo’s hand. “Come anytime, just for a chai is ok, no obligation, just come and listen to the music, I can see that you were touched.”

Along the street, candles and little terracotta pots filled with oil and a small piece of string as a wick, diyas, were being set out in front of every doorway and on every windowsill to be lit at nightfall. These makeshift lamps were in honor of the festival of Dewali, the festival of lights.

Ram showed up, it was a good thing because they weren’t sure where the rickshaw and driver were, and they were already being followed by a couple of beggars. Ram magnanimously gave each of them a small coin and told them to go.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Ram. “You should come have a look at the river, you must come to see sunset at the the ghats.”

The sun was already setting and the lamps and candles were starting to shine, the old city took on a different character, sparkling but ancient and a bit sinister.

“OK let’s have a look”. he agreed.

Anna fished into her jacket pocket and took out the Chinese medicine and gulped down another palmfull of pills. She wasn’t feeling too good and looked a little pale. It wasn’t like her to be so quiet.

They rode along through dirt and broken concrete streets, through covered arcades and under crumbling ancient archways. The crowds were thick in some places, and unseen speakers loudly blared the Pop music and theme songs from Hindi movies.

Torn movie posters many of them hand painted covered cracked walls where plaster had fallen out and thousand year old bricks were exposed, these were a wine red, or orange color. The city had a patina, smooth; once white plastered walls were now shiny and grey, cracked with branches and trees growing out of them.

As they approached the main Harishchandra Ghat the smell of burning flesh became overbearing. Anna pulled out a bottle of patolli oil and tore off a piece of her head wrap and another small one for Pablo, she sprinkled a few drops on each cloth and they held it over their noses as the driver slowly pedaled on in silence. Ram was somewhere behind them and going at his own pace. Unpaid, they were confident he wouldn’t disappear.

Shrouded ghostlike figures emerged from murky doorways, little oil lamps dimly lit the shadowy alleys. Beggars, some too frail to stand up, sat forlornly in dark corners. Emaciated starved looking Sadhus, some with ash smeared into the hollows of their faces looked like human skeletons. They approached the rickshaw begging for alms upon seeing that they were foreigners they went from begging to demanding bakshish.

They went on like this in awestruck silence. As they got closer to the crematorium the crowd of souls grew denser.

Instead of following instinct and stopping and going back, they were lured on, further into it, by the irresistible wonder of what lie ahead. As always, in fact the thing that bound them so tightly together, was that same dangerous wonder that enticed them and pushed them further, it motivated everything they did. Always testing the limits, on the border line of too much, Indeed, never really knowing the limit until they had gone beyond it.

But this time, it was a journey into the bowels of death itself and they were still irresistibly compelled to try and sneak a peek.

Beneath a covered arcade they came upon an intersection, it’s arched corners were lit by torches. On the pavement were a hundred tiny sparkling oil lamps diyas. Brightly colored geometric symbols were crudely painted on the walls with fluorescent colored tika powder mixed with eggwhite. In this bright spot from the height of the rickshaw they were able to get a better look at the spirits around them. “Whatever you do, don’t look anyone in the eye” Pablo whispered.

The driver motioned to a spot where other rickshaws were lined up, meaning that he would be waiting there and was unable to proceed any further. They got out and walked arm locked in arm, sticking close together while being swept along by the tide of the crowd in the direction of the river.

When they reached the river, the sun had already gone down and the western sky was dissolving in a pool of smoky lavender and the oncoming purple of the night. A golden smudge was the only reminder that the sun had once shone there.

On the steps in between the funeral pyres and the river were a solemn group of Sadhus. Most of them naked, they squatted silently smoking chillums, some sitting cross legged in a lotus position, some squatting on their heels some reclining lying on their back simply staring vacantly. In order to get down to the river they had to pick their way through the group and make their way down the stairs.

In this crowd one naked figure stood out. He was squatting on his heels but noticeably taller and more broad shouldered than the rest, his matted elbow length hair was once blonde, his sun burnt skin, even in this waning light was lighter than the others, he wore only a loincloth and had a rag wrapped around one swollen foot. Pablo nudged Anna to call attention to this guy, he was obviously a Caucasian, probably American thought Pablo.

Anna started at the sight of him, as he looked up they made eye contact for a second. “Holy Shit!” She spoke loudly, “I know this guy!” she recognized him from Amsterdam. “He used to live in Vondel park, and he’s a friend of Uta’s” she added incredulously. “I can’t think of his name, but I know him.” she said again louder this time so he would hear her. Then she shouted something to him in Dutch, the Sadhu bent his head lower, as if trying to hide. She walked rite over on the step above the one he squatted on and repeated whatever she said in Dutch. This time he stood up, even from a step or two below he towered over her. Around his waist was a little cloth pouch tied by a string. He untied it silently, opened the pouch and spilled a pile of tiny orange tablets into his outstretched hand.

Pablo recognized it immediately, “California Orange Sunshine ?!” he gasped not believing his own eyes.

This was some of the best acid to ever come out of the West Coast labs and rivaled even the legendary Owsley tablets for strength and purity. They were about 2000 micrograms per tablet and known as a short cut to enlightenment in some circles. He hadn’t had a dose of that since he was at the Jefferson Airplane concert in Central Park a year ago, it was one of the greatest most euphoric trips he had ever taken; and that was only half a tab!

The Dutchman took the tablets, said a silent prayer raised them to the sky, rolled his eyes, and dropped one onto his outstretched tongue, and offered the rest to the spellbound couple with the deliberate solemnity of a high priest offering a holy sacrament. Pablo impulsively took one, balanced it on his forefinger to examine it for a second, popped it into his mouth and swallowed it with a smile. Anna hesitated, he looked at her quizzically, “No man. My stomach is just not right for this right now.” she said. She took out her little stash box and opened it, He smiled silently and dropped the other nine or ten tabs in.

The pilgrim looked like he hadn’t seen a bar of soap in a year, his long blonde hair was dreaded and tangled; could have been the home of any number of varmints, his once muscular legs were scratched and scabby, his filthy feet were callused and bandaged, probably infected with something, but he had the clearest crystal blue eyes and brightest smile beyond imagining. He beamed wordlessly, radiating a glow and smiled saintlike. For a minute he looked them directly in the eye, first one then the other. He nodded his head dismissed them and resumed his position squatting back down on his heels wordlessly and returned to staring blankly at the river.

***. ***. ***

The travelers stood silent, absorbing the last remaining flickers of daylight in the form of an orange smear on the western horizon across the river from them. A saintly Sadhu waded out into the river and blew loudly on a conch shell. The sound trumpeted and echoed and seemed to be carried along downstream by the river.

“We should move.” Anna whispered.

They turned and standing rite behind them was a sadhu that looked different from the others. For a start he was rather plump and seemed to be well fed. He had thick shoulder length grey and white hair and a salt and pepper beard and was swathed in a woven shawl of clean white cotton. Around his neck were strings of wooden beads and garlands of bright orange flowers.

“Hello?” He said calmly, “May I talk with you for a second?” He asked in perfect queens English giving them no choice. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He handed a business card which Pablo struggled to read in the waning light. In large text could be seen the word Astrologer.

Pablo smiled. The man explained that he wasn’t originally from Benares but came there at the advice of his Guru astrologer to find himself. “Much like the two of you, I should imagine,” he added.

He continued to give a few details about himself, and then to spill out his tale.

He was educated in England, where he studied medicine and returned to Bombay after his studies, and continued to peruse that career, when his life took an unexpected turn.

While he was in England his father died and he hadn’t the money to return, reasoning his father wanted him to complete his studies more than anything. He was married in an arranged marriage to a woman he hardly knew before leaving to the UK and she lived in Bombay with his parents while he did medical school in England.

He was supported by his family in the form of monthly checks.

The family were cotton merchants who had put their profits into buying more land on which they planted and grew more cotton. He had no idea that his father left very little money and that his mother was selling off small plots of land to keep him in school.

In the mid 1960’s India experienced severe droughts and famine. His mother couldn’t secure financing from Banks or the government so she desperately borrowed from greedy money lenders at exorbitant interest rates, losing the land in small plots to service the loans, piece by piece.

By the time he returned in 1970 the land and business were gone, and she was still in debt. She and his wife had been banking without his knowledge, on him coming home and supporting them as a successful doctor.

All of this tale he spewed out in the first minutes of meeting them, they were relieved of the burden of having to explain themselves, for the thousandth time, and just let him talk.

The man thought he had already summed them up and didn’t bother with the usual questions; there was no reason to explain anything.

Anna grew restless and wanted to get away from this guy before he tried to get some money out of them. They could feel the build up, it was coming. She whispered to Pablo while the guy continued along his monologue, “ I have got to get back to the hotel, my stomach is gonna explode! I got to get to the toilet immediately.”

They cut their friend off flashed him his card and promised to look him up, found their rickshaw driver in a rush. Anna couldn’t wait another second; her stomach was rumbling and she had to go. She jumped into the rickshaw and shouted desperately to the driver “Hotel !Hotel !”.

The driver made a quick u turn and off they went, leaving Pablo there alone with this guy and beginning to get the telltale metallic taste in the back of his throat and little stroboscopic flashes in the periphery of his vision that signaled the beginning of a strong acid trip coming on.

The music grew louder and louder, speakers seemed to be everywhere blaring loud excruciating Hindi film music. A high pitched woman’s voices wined unintelligible phrases in Hindi punctuated by screeching violins. A gentle sickening sweet deep male voice sang a chorus in response.

A procession came up, they were carrying what looked like an alter with a statue of a well adorned dancing goddess surrounded by tiny terracotta saucers of oil, each with a wick of burning string, these diyas illuminated the deity. A crowd of devotees and holiday revelers followed and he was swept along with them through the arcade.

Pablo had no idea where they were going or in which direction they were heading, and just surfed along on the wave of garish brightly colored saris and tika powder and deafening music blaring from seemingly every direction through a sea of sparkling candle lights and tiny twinkling diyas. He was thankful to lose the astrologer in the crowd.

He floated along like this without direction, a woman approached through the crush. She had a gold stud and chain in her nose and large golden hoops in her lower ears, the top of her ears were studded with a row of golden piercings, a thick stripe of lurid red yellow and blue tika ran from the bridge of her nose and vanished beneath her thick black hairline. She had flowers in her hair and thick heavy eye makeup, wide staring gentle dark eyes that seemed to look rite through him, and golden bracelets from her wrist to her elbow. She wore a bright orange sari that matched the flowers she had in her hair. Around one arm were garlands of the same bright orange flowers, they were stitched with string into necklaces, she dropped one around his neck, he smiled and tried to fish a few pisa out of his vest pocket, but she vanished into the crowd before he could pay her anything.

The ear splitting music was getting to be too much for him and Pablo had to find a way to escape the cacophony.

A Sadhu walked right up to him out of the crowd. He was wearing little more than a loin cloth and a few strings of wooden beads, his dark skin was painted with light ash it outlined the bones and the hollows of his face, and rib cage. A walking skeleton. From a little pot in his hand he dipped his thumb in a saffron colored powder and thumbed a bright stripe of saffron colored tikka from the American’s nose to the top of his forehead. He then aggressively demanded a tip, the traveler handed him a few rupee notes, no idea of the denominations, and continued along his way.

He caught a glimpse of a side lane; it was dark but for a few shining diya in a neat row on the flagstones leading into the lane. There were mystical symbols drawn out in bright tika and flower petals, in the center of it was the melted remains of a candle. They seemed to mark out a path like a trail of clues inviting him to follow. He allowed himself to be drawn along. He found a small doorway with a few steps leading up to it and sat on the top step.

Through the end of the alley he could see the crowd flowing by but sat in relative peace. The light was delicate and thin, the tiny lamps hardly lit the lane he was in. The walls vibrated and swayed, throbbing in the glowing flicker.

There was no doubt about it, he was tripping. A cozy feeling of contentment flushed over him. “Alone at last,” he thought, and fumbled with the money pouch around his neck, found his stash and managed to roll a joint of hash, tearing a corner off the astrologers business card to roll into a filter, He lit it up and smoked silently and blew out a thick sweet white cloud. This quiet alley would serve as his departure lounge.

It was the Afghan, “When the clouds clear the sun will shine,” he chuckled to himself. He knew the hash would be a perfect launching pad for what felt like a nice trip that was kicking in. He sat there a while vacantly watching the crowd that shuffled by at the end of the alley.

At one point he thought he saw that Indian astrologer, his face was clear and shining and seemed to be gazing directly into his eyes. How could that be? Nobody could possibly see him in the dark sitting on those steps, and yet although it only went by in a flash of a moment he was certain that they had made direct eye contact. If that was even him. “I guess you can’t hide from a clairvoyant” he reasoned with irony.

The hash was starting to make him a little anxious and he started wondering where the hell he was, how he would get back to his hotel. As he put his stash back he felt the business cards he had collected that day and moved them to his vest pocket. He took comfort in the fact that he could just hand the hotel card to any rickshaw driver and end up back there with Anna.

The thought of her made him smile, a big dumb acid flushed smile that he couldn’t wipe off his foolish face. So many things about her made him smile, so many things to like about her he realized. It was the first time he had been out of her company in days, and he felt a strange loss. Suddenly he felt a big love for her, tinged with a hopeless sadness. Why the sadness? He couldn’t put his finger on it, maybe he thought it was fated to end badly, but it might have something to do with the total impossibility of ever being able to have an actual ‘real life’ together. He decided to go rite to her and tell her, it was like a secret he was bursting to confess.

He stretched his legs out in front of him and looked at his feet. The telltale sign that they seemed to be very far away, someone else’s feet, confirmed it, there was no doubting it now, he was definitely tripping. He took another hit of the joint and stubbed it out and put it in his cigarette pack, to finish later.

Walking was funny, he felt much taller than usual and off balance, the extra height would take some getting used to. He felt like a tightrope walker, a drunk one. He stretched out his arms to keep his balance and wobbled down the lane with a dumb grin on his face as if balancing on a log crossing over a stream.

The scene at the end of the alley took him by surprise. He wasn’t ready for the bright light, the kaleidoscopic garish colors and the music. He collided headlong rite into it all.

He stood still not knowing which direction to walk and the crowd seemed to just flow around him. He stood stunned like that for some time not thinking anything but mesmerized by the spectacle of what was going on around him.

It was like a medieval pageant. A Cloaked figure materialized through the clouds of smoke and incense, he hobbled along leaning on a wooden crutch, a Holy man sprinkled sacred water from the Ganges on the crowd; dispensing blessings with a flower dipped into a tin bucket he carried with the comportment of a Pope at Benediction. Families hand in hand all in their finest clothes shuffled by, infants were held up and displayed fully made up with eye makeup, rouge and tika, like the sacred cherub deities that they are. In the acid’s glow everything was glittering and shimmering in the flickering candlelight.

He stumbled along once again with no direction in mind and allowed himself to be swept into the flow of the crowd. He came to an intersection of two lanes in a crowded covered arcade.

It felt ancient but familiar, a sense of déjà vu came over him and he wondered what it was that seemed, like a fragment of a dream to him?

The only light was from the tiny diyas placed along the sides of the street and in every corner. They lit the passing faces from below and it added a mysterious and ghostly shadow to them as they drifted out of clouds of incense.

One face stood out. It caught Pablo’s attention from across the road and through the crowd. He was staring intently at Pablo and they stopped in their tracks each staring into the eyes of the other. They both stood motionless like that for a minute.

At first Pablo didn’t know why but he couldn’t look away. It was only when the crowd momentarily thinned and he got a better look at him that he realized it.

He stood frozen in shocked disbelief. There across the street from him was a skinny Indian kid with a bright stripe of tikka on his forehead, the thin growth of his first beard on his chin, his curly hair blew off his shoulders, around his neck was a string of orange beads and a garland of orange flowers. He wore a once white Benares sarong with red mantras printed crudely all over it, a thin vest over a cheap singlet, a silver bracelet on his left wrist, on his feet a worn pair of Chinese Tiger brand flip flops. He had a hawk like nose and shined with sweat. In short, he was not only dressed identically to the last detail as the American but he looked exactly like him!

They both saw it and realized it and both were equally stunned. Pablo froze with shock as the Indian drew closer. He had a quizzical look of disbelief in his eye. His skin was darker, and he was an Indian but by every other every detail they were exact identical twins!

The Indian came closer, startled he raised his right hand excitedly in the air and twisted it left and right like screwing and unscrewing an invisible light bulb, fluttering it wildly, he rolled his eyes with a gesture of puzzled incomprehension.

Pablo was dumbstruck with fear, frozen. At first, he thought it must be the acid, but this guy’s reaction was unmistakable proof that they both saw it.

The bewildered Indian seemed to be getting agitated, almost aggressive about the absurdity of the situation.

He shouted something unintelligible to the traveler and began to howl yelling something over and over. He glared into Pablo’s eyes now bordering on rage. He stomped and circled around the American pointing a threatening finger and repeated whatever he was shouting.

He was probably thinking this was a demonic charade conjured up to trick him. He stepped closer and when he got close enough he pushed him shoving one hand on each shoulder as if he expected the American to vanish in a puff of smoke like a magic spell. Nothing happened. He pushed again this time harder and sent Pablo falling backwards, unsteady to begin with he tripped over somebody and fell backward on to the pavement.

The crowd seemed to surge and he was surrounded by feet and legs stepping over him, some stepping on him some stumbling over him and falling themselves. A sandaled foot kicked him in the head and ran off. He looked at his hands; they were bloody, his shirt torn his arms muddied, he struggled to get to his feet.

When he was finally able to fight his way back up he was surrounded by a gang of agitated people shouting at him aggressively. From behind someone kicked him, he turned to see who it was and caught site of his doppelganger fleeing through the crowd. He turned around and their eyes met one last time.

Pablo began to laugh wildly. It was the mad laugh of a crazy man, it was the acid, the fear, the stunned disbelief at what had just happened. He laughed uncontrollably, tears rolled down his eyes, he cackled like a lunatic, began to hoot wildly and the crowd around him who had been challenging him a minute ago just stepped back.

He collected himself, dusted himself off and stormed away against the flow of the crowd, this time without stumbling and tripping. He lost a flip flop, and just stepped out of the other one and left it there. No one bumped into him.

He walked mindlessly in shock in the opposite direction of the mob’s flow making believe that he knew where he was going for the sake of the eyes he thought he could feel on him.

He eventually found himself on a quiet side street, still barely in earshot of the music and racket of the festivities. The street was empty but for a few shrouded figures lurking in the shadows.

He passed a narrow crosswalk and had to walk around a large cow that stared at him placidly.

A mangy half bald dog barely skin and bones followed a few steps behind him yapping weakly. He turned around to look, little worms seemed to be crawling out of a festering wound on his bony ribs. Pablo stomped a threatening foot and the dog stepped backwards still managing to cough up a weak bark. The traveler stooped down as if picking up something and mimed throwing a stone. He watched as his hand passed by his eyes leaving trails like a film in slow motion, he hallucinated a ball of light project from his hand and explode in flames. The beast let out a yelp and turned and fled down into the dark end of street.

A beggar who had been skulking in a doorway emerged from the blackness and approached him. He had one arm, the other severed and tied at the stump like a sausage, he made eye contact.

Pablo now tripping heavily tried to hold his gaze and looked him directly in the eye as deeply as possible, not with challenge but with wonder, trying to communicate maybe telepathically, trying to reach him psychically to see what he could learn from him. The beggar looked away, shamefully, not really expecting to get anything.

Pablo reached into his vest and pulled out a wad of rupee notes, they were crumbled up in a ball, like a used tissue and he had no idea how much was there. The beggar took the money raised it up to the sky, bowed and tapped his forehead with the cash and like an apparition, silently vanished back into the shadows.

At the end of the deserted street he could see a small square and an array of tiny flames. They seemed to be floating a meter off the ground. As he approached he could make out that it was some sort of shrine, an ancient bronze altar of tiny terracotta oil pots with string wicks. Their flames shivered in unison illuminating the murky corners of this empty little plaza. He noticed that a few had gone out, and fumbled for a match, there was only one left in the box and he felt compelled to lite as many as he could before the single match died out. There was a little metal box below the flickering row and he stuffed a few rupee notes into the slot. He made a silent prayer, “Oh God please get me home.” and stood there paralyzed just staring into the flames, there was no telling for how long.

He continued wandering along slowly, barefoot on filthy wet streets, dispensing alms like this and trying to make direct eye contact with whoever he encountered whenever he could; looking for something in the beggar’s eyes, trying to connect, searching in the decay for some sort of answer, looking for a truth.

He came upon a darkened alley, there was one diya on the ground in a corner that illuminated a sinister looking shadow against a cracked dingy white wall. It grew larger and smaller as the draught moved the flame closer to it in a threatening silhouette dancing a frightening pantomime. It was a sleeping form lying motionless in the shadows; a man shrouded in a tattered cloth.

In Pablo’s condition it appeared to be a phantom, a ghost like spirit, retched and filthy. In the silence of the empty street he could hear the man cough weakly, an exhale while letting out a his last dying breath; his final soft moan. It was the song of death, a haunted song, the ultimate mournful last song a soul would ever sing on this earth, a song full of resignation, exhaustion and above all a forsaken finality filled with lonesome sadness.

This shocked him, it sent shivers down his spine but the chill in his bones riveted him there and he began to shake, still entranced, petrified but unable to look away, he watched in the darkness as the man’s soul rose up and left his body.

At that moment a few large bats flew out of a corner as black as voodoo. They seemed to be the size of small airplanes and headed rite for him, he stood frozen; paralyzed, and resigned himself to whatever may happen and didn’t even flinch. They soared by him so close he could feel the wind of their wings on his face.

At a deserted junction a naked lightbulb swayed slightly, dangling from a frayed electric cable. Beneath it sat a lone rickshaw. The driver was wrapped in a cloth shawl in the back seat getting ready for a night’s sleep. When he saw the American he sat up. Pablo looked him directly in the eye, trying to elicit a response, the driver smiled beatifically, “the eyes of a madman or a saint” he thought.

In the stoned dim light, he fumbled thru the business cards in his vest pocket and handed one to the driver. “Oh yes” the driver said, he stepped out of the passenger seat and beckoned, “Sit down please”.

The driver stuck to the quiet back lanes and side streets to avoid the crowds and festivities. In the sky above the narrow lane fireworks softly popped, the sound of cheap homemade ones.

Pablo was feeling anything but festive, in fact he was horrified, completely numb, shaking but unable to construct a cognizant thought at all. He was in a state of psychedelic shock, aghast, scared shitless.

The ancient city, glowed like molten steel; illuminated by firelight, it no longer resembled a fairyland sparkling in the clouds. Quite the opposite. He saw himself on a vessel in hell, sailing through the underworld, floating down the river Styx.

Slowly the rickshaw pedaled down deserted candlelit lanes; they flickered and gleamed with a threatening aura, there was a diya in every window and there were small shrines and strange magical looking symbols marked in colorful paint and carefully arranged flower petals on the cracked pavement.

It appeared as if the city was smoldering, radiating heat like a glowing ember, he started to sweat, his torn shirt and vest were soaked. It appeared to him surrealistic and forlorn. Spooky, silent figures floated by sizzling out of the mist and darkness, they stared vacantly like zombies in a city of lost souls. A monkey shrieked loudly someplace near him almost causing him to jump out of his seat, the driver chuckled to himself.

He hallucinated, into the shadows, where he witnessed silent scenes of life and death transpiring before his eyes. He was unable to look away entranced in the acid’s hypnotic grasp.

He heard growling sounds from a dark alley they slowly passed, a few street dogs tore at a human corpse. He wanted to vomit, the stench was unbearable, it must have been lying there for a few days.

He began to wonder if he had scaled a mountain too high to ever descend. These startling images would have to be buried in his psyche forever and never consciously dwelt upon. Like the horrors a soldier might witness on a battlefield, they would have to be blocked out, the lessons learned were only to emerge in tiny doses and subconsciously become part of the perspective that guided him along on his own private journey, but buried from objective deliberation. They would remain as unspoken truths; beacons to guide him along in life for many years to come.

The rickshaw lurched as the driver stood up on the pedals and put all of his flimsy weight behind the bicycle’s downward stroke. He could hear a drum beat echoing in the distance.

They emerged onto a bright square, there were people walking happily along and music was playing, but this music wasn’t from speakers blaring piercing pop songs, it was the gentle drone of a sitar. The surrounding buildings had a candle or an oil lamp in every window.

In the distance, tripping, they looked like the New York skyline on a clear October’s night. It reminded him of how far away from home he had strayed, he became overcome with homesickness and sadness; drowning in a sea of turbulent emotions he struggled to contain the tsunami of tears welling up from his heart.

This trip was a horror. Would he ever find his way back home? Had he died and this was the underworld?

The rickshaw stopped and the walla hopped out of the seat and walked the carriage into a spot along the curb.

Pablo looked around, although the street seemed vaguely familiar his hotel was nowhere to be seen.

‘Hotel?‘ he asked the man, ”Hotel, on the card?? Where is my hotel?” he begged in a dry whispered plea. He barely recognized his own voice.

He couldn’t wait to get away from these nightmares and back to Anna and the sanctuary of their hotel room.

The driver handed the card back to him as proof that they had reached the destination on the card he was given. Momentarily he was lost again, tried to focus his eyes and held the card up closer. His hands were shaking, he struggled to read, Mahesh Music Shop with a picture of a Sitar and Tablas on it? He still didn’t get it; he had given the driver the wrong card.

At that moment the smiling shopkeeper came down the stairs to greet him and touched his arm gently. Pablo flinched, startled by the contact.

“My friend you have returned!” he said with obvious cheer. He looked Pablo over, he was muddied and his shirt torn, he had blood on his hands and sarong, he was barefoot and his feet were cut and filthy.

The shopkeeper now asked in a serious voice with a worried look on his face, “Why are you alone? Where is memsaib? What has happened?”

He paid the driver and guided Pablo up the stairs into the shop. Pablo, confused and still uncomprehending, allowed himself to be ushered along although he had no idea where he was being led, or who this guy was.

Mahesh sat him on one of the big silk pillows. He could see that the unblinking American was still in a state of shock and unable to speak.

He shouted in a deep voice and two young girls came out, they went behind the curtain again and in a few minutes came back with a pot of hot water and clean towels and set about cleaning his feet, arms and hands. Someone brought a clean singlet and he put it on. He just surrendered to their efforts in a daze.

They took the wilted and broken flowers from around his neck and replaced the strand with a fresh one. They found a shred of silk and tied back his hair. A silver tray with a tea set was brought out. “Drink” the shopkeeper urged. He drank a chai before he could speak. It was hot and sweet and warming, it calmed him.

“Anna is fine, she is at the hotel, I got lost and fell.” He managed to say breathlessly in a shaky voice. Aside from whispered pleas to the rickshawalla these were the first words he had spoken out loud in hours and his own echoing voice sounded distant and unfamiliar.

He began to take stock of his surroundings; the shop had taken on a different radiance. There were sparkling diyas everywhere, the colorful paisley curtains glowed, they fluttered and billowed luxuriantly in the evening breeze that somehow found its way into the shop.

The silver tray was refilled with fruits and sweets and another pot of sweet spicy cardamom chai. Pablo marveled at the details of the carved adornment on the silver tray and tea set that he hadn’t noticed that afternoon.

A bundle of incense was brought in; thick fragrant clouds of smoke flooded through the glimmering candlelight.

He eyed the room, cozy and comfortable, the bright colored paisley curtains that billowed in and out with the breeze resembled the deep breathing of a warm and nurturing live room. He snickered inwardly at the pun, this was truly a “Living Room” it was breathing.

The women brought out a tray of small sweet golden cakes cut into little squares, like golden brownies, they were topped with almonds and pistachio, there was a slight trace of cardamom. They were the first thing he had eaten since that morning and with his heightened senses the texture and flavor was the most exquisite concoction he had ever tasted. In a few minutes he had eaten the whole tray of them.

This slowly melted away the last traces of the paranoia that had been haunting him since he had encountered his Indian double.

All the sugar on an empty stomach brought on his trip a little stronger, but the horrors were falling away. He was slowly morphing from a Dante’s Inferno like surrealistic Hell into a technicolor Indian Fantasia.

*** ACIDARTHA ***

In a few minutes his body tingled and tickled him from someplace inside. That trippy shiteaters acid grin took over again and he couldn’t wipe it off his face.

He started to giggle, for no apparent reason. Mahesh laughed, “My friend, you have enjoyed the Mithai, I can see. Those are a very special treat we eat during Dewali, my daughters will be very happy!”

“I’m sorry that you had to leave this afternoon before my son had a chance to play for you.”

“That was only this afternoon” Pablo though, it seemed like years ago.

“We would like for you to listen to our magic sitar, and really to hear it. To hear a Raga is to see its colors, for Raga means ‘to color”. It can color one’s mind and it can color one’s emotions. It can show you the colors of your chakras.

A Raga is just like your life, it can follow a strict adherence to guidelines and rules, or it can be constantly rearranged and reordered as circumstances unfold if you let it. A raga has its own personality; some are linked to gods or goddesses, in Benares we often hear variations of the Shiva raga.

If you sit still, and quiet your mind you will see the colors and find answers within them, I think tonight since it’s the very holy night of Dewali for our illustrious guest we shall compose this very special piece for you, we will spontaneously create for you the composition; the “Pablo Raga.””

He nodded in the direction of the drums and Sitar arranged on a low platform in front of him, there were the drums of various sizes and a large Sitar with a few pillows and silk carpets arranged around them. There were flowers strewn about everywhere, incense had been placed in a silver vase in front of the instruments.

With the bravado of a Raja Mahesh ceremonially clapped his hands.

From behind the paisley curtain, a well-dressed boy no more than a dozen years old, in a shiny grey silk Nehru suit appeared, he bowed deeply with great flourish and with a devilish gleam in his eye sat behind the smaller pair of drums. He cracked his knuckles, stretched theatrically, bowed his head, looked up smiled and anxious to get going, impatiently began to tentatively tap a simple rhythm with two fingers on the smallest high-pitched drum.

He proceeded to work the tapping into a repetitive rhythm. It built up in speed slowly and mathematically, gradually increasing its pace in measured increments, it doubled in time, then it doubled again until finally settling down into a consistent smooth flow. His hands flew gracefully and became a speedy blur.

The listener closed his eyes and immediately was greeted with a picture of passing highway. It was from the impossible perspective of being seen directly in front of him, as if he would have to be flying and looking directly down to see it go by.

The drum was beating a rhythm familiar to the traveler. It was the sound of the road passing beneath the wheels of the Merc as it sped down a section of smooth highway. It wasn’t the black tarmac of America or Europe, but the light grey cement of the desert highways of the Middle East,

It was their beloved Asian “high-way”; what they fondly called, the “free-way”.

In his mind’s eye, Anna sat next to him and Billy and Uta were in the back seat, not a word was spoken, they were united as one, yet each on their own trip, separate in their destinies.

The drummer grinned devilishly like a naughty child he hit a rim shot with a sharp “ping” and the vision of his journey popped like a bubble along with it. The playing now seemed to be getting smoother and looser as he settled into a groove.

At one point he played gentle soft high-pitched rhythms so fluidly that they unmistakably conjured up the image and sound of the trickle of a mountain stream, you could hear the birds chirping as the shallow water gently flowed over the stones, but as the stream gained force and the water rushed over larger rocks the beats became stronger, the drummer beat faster and louder building up a tension.

Pablo opened his eyes for a second just in time to see the boy’s head fall back entranced, his eyes rolled back into his head. Pablo shut his eyes as a torrent of drum beats came crashing down like a waterfall.

He was sitting lotus style and so deeply at one with it at first, he didn’t respond when Mahesh nudged him to have a hit of the chillum that he had lit.

He coughed out a huge cloud, he could feel the blood rushing to his head, all the while the drum beat stronger and faster; never stumbling or missing even the slightest fraction of a beat, the twelve year old drummer held all in earshot completely captive.

To Pablo’s ears, outside the noise and sounds of the street just drifted away, he barely heard the soft ‘pops’ of fireworks seamlessly join among the drumbeats.

He envisioned a drumbeat sitting on a cloud of incense and ganja as it wafted its way slowly down the thousand year old pathway, calming all that it touched, dissipating with a “pop!” like a floating bubble in the sky.

Suddenly he opened his eyes to the sound of a deeper and heavier footing that played under the child’s sharp staccato. Another drummer had sat down behind the larger pair of drums and backed up the quick staccato with a slow deep rhythm that wound around it and under it. This became the heartbeat, the foundation upon which the child drummer danced.

At this moment in his mind’s eye Pablo saw a glowing red heart beating, it radiated a soft golden red aura, the image was flooded with a red light; warm secure and womblike. He felt for the first time completely secure and became extremely grateful for his situation. After all, what more could the traveler need than a good woman to love, the lighthearted company of likeminded companions, and an open road?

This insight sent a benign wave of satisfaction over him, and Buddhalike he felt free from even the slightest desire and contented, just floated there with it.

At this point time seemed to have completely stopped. Having been measured in the fractions of the drummer’s microbeats, a thousand beats could pass in a moment, and it was impossible to know. The drummer, in this way had literally stopped time.

It became harder to keep his eyes open even for a second, eyes half opened his gaze rested unfocused on the tip of his nose. The traveler completely relaxed and sat lotus on the oversized pillow smiling with his arms outstretched and hands on his knees with palms facing the heavens.

In soft counterbalance to the drummer’s lightning fast staccato the slow strains of the sitar sizzled in. Pablo focused his eyes to see Mahesh smiling at him, he was sitting comfortably with his legs crossed balancing the sitar on the mat next to him, the instrument’s long neck stretched out hovering a meter over his head. He lowered his eyes as his fingers took on a life of their own.

He seemed to be channeling this musical energy, it flowed through him; emanating from the instrument but coming from another world.

Ascending and descending scales interwove with the drumbeats and played against their own lingering echo. They became echoes of echoes, and reflections of reflections and reflections of that.

He visualized a pool of tranquil water where a single bead of soft orange rain fell; a single orange tear dropped sending concentric circles that radiated out to its unseen shores. It glowed a bright amber orange color, like the flowers he wore around his neck, with his eyes still half closed he brought up a few fingers to touch them, just to be sure they were still there. Their soft thick petals tickled his fingertips.

In his mind’s eye the ripples gently lapped the coast and reflected back to the point where the first teardrop had fallen.

A soft summer’s morning golden honey color flushed over a thick dreamy orange light in his perception. It was the orange color of the California Sunshine he had taken! He thought of the words, the stupid pun he had made up earlier, it suddenly had a new and profound meaning, “When the clouds clear, the sun will shine!”

The Sitar sobbed low and whining notes; a long drawn out single note seemed to stretch out time before him. It evoked a vision of an endless stretch of golden amber like molasses, flat, thin and ever stretching further into infinity. It was time, it was a river, of course, it was the Ganges. Not the filthy river he had seen that afternoon with the rot of mankind polluting it with their stench, but a pristine and timeless pure and infinite flowing of all that exists.

If the drumbeats chopped time into microseconds and induced the trance they all seem to have fallen into, the sitar in contrast took a moment and stretched it, like an elastic band, it stretched time across the universe, it was whining with a low, sad, soulful, sweet and transcendental song of the human condition. It had the blues.

If the drums were chanting a repetitious trance; a chopping staccato of sacred mantras, the sitar was sending the listener into a meditation. A deep and eternal OOOMMM.

He felt a powerful strength well up in his chest, he felt ready to accomplish anything and to help others with a new strength and purpose, a confidence sprang up from inside, a power he had never known he had. There it was before him in a golden apparition, shining brightly like a radiant jewel, bright golden yellow like morning sunlight. He opened his eyes and laughed out loud.

The drummers and sitar played in perfect synch each an inseparable part of what became one sound, they were one. Mahesh and his two sons. His wife and the daughters peeked from behind the curtain shyly. He saw in that instant the love between them. It shone with a great green life like a forest, it was the love that was the glue that joined them as one, he could see it and he could feel it! The music took an unexpected detour and went off in an obtuse angle, the raga changed and the color he felt, he tasted he smelled and heard loud and clear his vision was flushed with a cool verdant, pastoral emerald green shining bathing everything it permeated in a sparkling jade iridescence.

With his eyes closed again he saw the faces of the wretched floating by, the multitudes and the madness he had just witnessed, but from a benign perspective. From a place of confidence and strength, and he loved them. He loved the musicians and the children around him, he thought of Anna and smiled broadly, her raccoon eye make up, her fuck you attitude and he knew he loved her, loved this city of life and death, as he loved life with all of its glories and pitfalls, with equality, it wasn’t a vision but a feeling, in his heart, throbbing along with the deepest drum, the pulse of the universe, the drumbeat was a heartbeat and that heart was overflowing with mankind’s love.

The manifestation of all that is beauty; all that is perceived to be good was balanced on an iridescent drum beat and a golden musical note, both born and died before him in an instant, once born instantly vanishing into dissipation; flowing out into eternity; evaporating into a blissful void.

Such was life and death he realized, existence was like a single beat of a drum in a nanosecond of nowness; a brief intersection of before and after; past and future, lived on only in echoes of memory, and he became aware that we are merely hopscotching along the stepping stones of nowness over the river of time.

In the heart of this decaying city devoted to death and the dying dwelled the most fragrant and beautiful creation of life. They existed in equal measures side by side.

He now saw that amidst all of the darkness and decay shone something sacred with blinding brightness. A perfect luminescence (of acid’s?) divine clarity bathed the city in its light, purifying everything in its radiance. A perfect spotless angelic electrifying white light.

The city of death was revealing herself to be a city of extremes.

***. ***. ***.

He opened his eyes to an empty room. He was still seated with his legs crossed on a pillow but had no idea of time; how long he had been “out” or when the music had stopped.

The candles had all melted down and there were only a few diyas left flickering. He was still tripping heavily but, in a calm, matter of fact way. His cheeks ached from so much smiling and his vision was watery, he hadn’t tried standing up yet. For the moment he was content to float and just roll with a sense of wellbeing. He felt cleansed, like when he did when he was a kid just coming out of confession.

He drained the final dregs from the cold chai in front of him and searched out the last crumbs of the sweets left on the tray.

Gradually he became aware of his body and stretched his arms above his head, arched his back, rolled his shoulders and his head, stretched his neck did a few chin circles. It was time to make a move.

He silently slipped off the pillow, looked around for his shoes, and then started to remember, they were long gone. Outside the street was deserted, his rickshaw was there with the driver asleep in the back. He shook the carriage gently to wake him up.

This time he handed him the right card and slowly they made off for the hotel.

The sky was noticeably lighter, the vacant streets revealed themselves to be desolate and shabby. The last twinkle of the lights died down among the confetti of spent fireworks.

He could feel the forlorn staring at him from the shadows and the alleys but now fragile, dared not look towards them.

The rickshaw stopped in front of an unfamiliar building. It had folding steel gates chained together and a giant lock hung from the chains. Pablo checked the card, this was it, but the hotel was chained and gated for the night.

He paid the driver and sat on the steps wondering what to do. Now the sky was a soft fluorescent ultraviolet; morning was breaking blue. He climbed the steps and shook the chain loudly, waking up the entire street. He shook harder until finally a watchman appeared from a few doors away, he was sleepy eyed and carried an enormous ring with skeleton keys, he looked at Pablo quizzically, this was not an ordinary occurrence, but he silently unchained the gates and slightly drew them back leaving enough space for him to barely squeeze through. The guard rolled the gate back slamming it with a sense of anger at being disturbed by this stoned barefoot hippy, just before sunrise.

He climbed the smooth alabaster stairs and ran his hand along the cracked plaster wall. A rat ran by. When he reached his landing, he was surprised to find the door to his room ajar. He walked in and slipped on a puddle of vomit, the room stunk of it. He walked into the bathroom to wash it off his foot and saw another huge Puddle. This one was mixed with blood, it was a kind of mustard colored with red streams of blood running through it.

On the bed lied Anna, face down in a tangle of sheets. She was wearing a sarong that was all bunched up beneath her, the rear soiled with shit and the sheets too. Her legs were smeared with it. On the night stand next to her was a piece of aluminum foil with hardened black dots, the residue of burnt heroin. Her silver stash box lay open, a small folded envelope of a creamy white powder spilled out into a little pile on the table, a powder coated nail file and crisp rolled up bill were next to it.

The vials of Chinese medicine lay empty next to her embroidered purse with her makeup spilling out of it and an open vial of valiums.

The stench was overwhelming but now in the twilight of dawn the scene in the room became obvious.

He shook her, he wanted to tell her everything that had happened since they parted, he wanted to tell her about his visions and how he had met his double, but most of all he wanted to tell her that he loved her, and at this moment regardless of how disgusting this room was and how horrible she looked and how nauseating the smell was, at this moment he really loved her and wanted nothing more than to just cuddle her in his arms and tell her everything.

He shook her again… This time he rolled her over, she had blood around her nose and mouth. He didn’t mind, he knew he loved her and started to kiss her, deeply but she didn’t respond. She smelled like vomit. He hugged her and laid back on the soiled mattress holding her crooking her head under his arm like she liked to.

*******

He was still tripping when he somehow found his way back to the ghats. There, among the wretched and the sacred, the holy men and yogis did their morning ablutions in the Ganges. Clouds of smoke; chillums full of ganja and hashish, mixed with incense and burning wood camouflaged the rising stink of the river. Holy men washed in the river, some yogis stood balancing on one foot, others twisted themselves into impossible contortions.

Pablo wandered through the crowd with a placid smile, as if he now knew what they knew as if the acid had him privy to their secrets, even higher than they were, or so he thought.

The Dutch Sadhu squatted on the same step in the same position as they had left him around sunset.

It looked like he hadn’t moved. Pablo walked over to him, their eyes met and the sadhu smiled unblinking, a smile of stoned recognition. He just stood up and reached into his pouch as if to give him another dose, but Pablo stayed his hand, instead leading him by the wrist and the elbow to the waiting rickshaw.

When they reached the hotel, there was still nobody at the desk, it was early morning and the cleaning ladies hadn’t began making the rounds yet and they were unnoticed.

In the room the Dutchman seemed to know just what to do. They silently undressed her and sponged her body clean with wet cloths soaked in her shampoo. Pablo sprinkled her body with the last of her Chanel. Like an Egyptian queen they adorned the body in all of her makeup and jewelry. They graced her in her bracelets, her Afghan necklace, and rings and took flowers from the vase in the room and put them in her hair. He took the garland from around his neck and solemnly slipped it over her head.

He gently kissed each of her closed eyes, sealing them for eternity, and from her makeup pouch took the silver vial of coal and gently painted her closed eyes, “raccoon style” as she had come to prefer.

He found a pink lipstick and carefully and gently stretched her lips and smeared it on them, rubbing away the excess with his fingertip, and then shaded her cheekbones with the lipstick left on his fingers.

He took bits of rag and stuffed them between her toes, as he had seen her do, so that they didn’t touch each other and set out to paint her toenails with a bright pink lacquer from the pile of cosmetics from her embroidered makeup bag that had spilled out on the table. His shaking hands spilled it and he watched it run down her foot and over the slave bracelet she wore around her ankle.

He spread out her limp fingers and carefully painted over her chipped nails one by one, marveling at the lacquer’s opalescence as it swirled over her nails onto her smooth fingers.

He loved those fingers, how he loved watching her smoothing cream over her hands with the gentle care of a mother cat cleaning her kittens. They were still soft, he took her palm and held it to his cheek, it was cold, he bathed it in warm tears.

He dressed her in her beloved denim jacket. Her pocket watch fell out and the lid popped open when it hit the floor. Tripping, the engraved lizard on its lid seemed to shed a sparkling tear, he grabbed it and his hands started to shake.

All the while the Dutch Sadhu sat silently in lotus position staring at her in blank catatonic “meditation.”

Pablo found himself shaking uncontrollably, and fighting to hold back a torrent of tears, he thought he might have a breakdown. He sat on the mattress and stared at her motionless body, he hugged her and kissed her, half expecting her to miraculously come alive, but she fell limp and motionless.

He saw the powder and the nail file on the bed stand and for a moment thought he’d do a line to ease his nerves. He remembered what Anna had told him about mixing those two drugs, and in a flash of clarity resisted. He scooped the dope up off the nightstand and stuffed it in her silver stash box.

They found the cleanest sheet and silently, without a word between them, wound her body in it. The Dutchman hoisted her over his broad shoulders, never uttering a single word.

Pablo picked up her gold pocket watch and chain and draped it around the Sadhu’s neck, he closed the clasp on the end of the chain and hung it like a medallion with the carved lizard facing out.

******

The boatman wore a thin rag that barely covered his thigh. I say thigh because he only had one, the stump of his lost leg tied up and knotted like a waterballoon was exposed when he was seated on the wooden plank of his canoe. He sat in the dugout smiling happy to have the business. A 2-meter blonde dreadlocked sadhu carrying a mummy and an acid burnout hippy were the first clients he had that day. The Dutchman motioned to an island in the river. It was a place where the river forked. At its tip a little beach they floated up on. The Dutchman hopped out and pulled the canoe onto the shore..

Once again fooled into thinking that he was desensitized to the point of being numb to any horror, the bar was raised considerably. This was the place where the bodies that are thrown into the river whole are washed up. Turkey vultures picked sunbleached human rib cages scavenging last shreds of flesh. Skulls and bones littered the beach like seashells on a sandy shore.

He had no idea why they stopped there and refused to get out. He was still barefoot and couldn’t have navigated the litter. The Sadhu left him and walked behind a hill covered with human remains. The sound of crunching bones under his bare feet gave Pablo the chills. The fearless vultures barely parted for his passing them. The sunlight was now blinding and he was dying of thirst, his head was throbbing; he was still tripping and the acid was taking another flickering turn.

Gone was the clarity and understanding of life, and the detached philosophical observations and musings on its meaning. It was replaced by pure grief, sadness and mourning of lost love. No amount of acid or mental gymnastics, no argument or Buddhistic detachment could get him over that. He tried to not look at the boatman’s stump, he allowed his eyes to fall on the corpse of Anna. He could pick up a slight trace of her perfume over the stench. He was beginning to panic. He started to sob and tried to lick the salty tears from his face with a parched dry tongue. The boatman pretended not to notice.

Finally, the Dutch appeared with a smile on his face, he was with a naked Sadhu carrying a silver pot and a trident shaped pitchfork, he had his hair pinned up with human bones and wore a long necklace of broken human bones around his neck that rattled when he walked. He had a wild madman’s look in his eyes and was so skinny you could count the bones in his ribcage.

How could he possibly live on this godforsaken sliver of land? What could he eat? And then his eyes fell again on the vultures. Could he be living off of them, or perhaps what they ate?

He wondered what Anna would say about this place and these guys. He wondered if this was alright with her.

The boatman rowed to the west of the island where the river flowed faster and the current would easily take her. The two sadhus got out of the boat Pablo passed the body to them. The naked sadhu chanted “bom shiva shiva shiva bom, jai hari jai hari hari” and shook his rattling necklace of bones. The Dutchman, disregarding Anna’s (Jim’s) antique pocketwatch around his neck, that she cherished, swam underwater and washed in the Sacred Ganges filthy water, Pablo was too paralyzed to get out of the boat and watched as the two holy men floated her body wrapped in the white sheet, downstream into the river’s current “riding the waves (of her) existence, until becoming the wave.”.

Uta was her only friend, and he wondered what he would tell her or if they would ever meet up in Kathmandu like they had planned.