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Excerpt from the book:
Meanwhile Buddha had wandered off to an area
about 100 yards to the right of the stage. A small crowd had
gathered near a yogi. Buddha is heartened to observe a healthy
and handsome young man sitting in lotus position, lower back arched
slightly, soles of feet pointed upwards. The blond man was nearly
nude, his oil covered skin and braided blond hair glowing in the
afternoon sun. Earlier, the rain had pelted down and many of the
festival-goers were happily caked in mud, but the seated yogi looked as
fresh as if he'd floated down from Ayodya on the wings of a swan.
He was speaking to those gathered around, but he didn't use the stick
on a string which the people on the stage were using to make voices
very loud. When speaking, he didn't gain eye contact with anyone
for more than a half second. However, when his glance met
Buddha's, they stayed riveted. Each saw the other in their most
glorious arraignment, with rainbows and radiance. Even those in
attendance could sense the dynamics of those two gaining eye contact,
and there was a murmur among the group. The yogi moved his gaze
toward a woman nearby, to whom he whispered something. She smiled
and gracefully sashayed her way through the attendees, to address the
Buddha; “Hi, my name is Amrita. Please sir, would you come with
me. You should meet the Swami.”
Buddha felt an immediate kinship with her, in
no small part because her name was Amrita, a lovely word he knew to
mean; 'nectar of the Gods.' He followed the pert woman as she
purposefully wended around to the right side of the stage. There
were metal poles tied together, on top of which were large black boxes
which projected very loud sounds. At this close range, one
couldn't call it music. It was more like an assault on hearing,
and vaguely reminded the Buddha of the assault of the universe at the
final moments leading to his initial samadhi under the bo tree, so long
ago.
Amrita and Buddha arrived at an opening in a
flimsy fence. Thankfully, by this time, the music had subsided,
so some conversation could ensue. A large man at the gate kept
saying things like, “I'm sorry ma'am, as I said, you can enter because
you have a pass, but your friend here doesn't have a pass.”
The swami was summoned, and showed up with
some entourage. Immediately, when he saw the holy man at the
gate, the Swami supplicated himself repeatedly, his forehead touching
the bare earth, leaving a brown mark on his skin. The Buddha
motioned kindly for the swami to rise, and stop making such a
fuss. Amrita wondered out loud why the man she was escorting did
not also supplicate himself in the presence of an obviously revered
holy man in the form of the Swami.
Swami gently chastised her by saying, “there
is no need for him to supplicate before me. He supplicates before
no man. Can't you see? He is a fully enlightened being.”
“Yes, I see he is a high being and that's why
I wanted to bring him to you to meet. But still....”
“Look at his eyes, Amrita, they glow.
And he's in silence, which is another mark of a truly spiritual
being.” Addressing the Buddha, “Please sir, I don't know your
name, but please come and join me.”
The guard stepped aside. Buddha is now
hand-in-hand with the Swami as they enter the backstage area.
Swami continues, animated like a child who finds a white pony with a
red bridle under the tree on Christmas morning, “I am scheduled to take
to the stage in a few minutes. They want me to address the
crowd. Would you honor us with your presence?”
Buddha assents, but as the two walk onto the
stage, Swami goes to the place with the bulbous white pillows at center
stage, whereas Buddha chooses to sit stage left, several paces
away. Swami gleefully motions for the enlightened man to sit
closer, on cushions, but Buddha opts to sit nearby, on the bare plywood
floor.
Swami addresses the crowd. “Dear people,
friends, brothers, sisters, daughters, sons, we are all so blessed to
be here in this lovely setting together. Just to be alive is a
blessing. To be born in this amazing world, even with all its
troubles is a miracle. I have just met this lovely man sitting
here near me.” He motions to his new acquaintance, “I say,
'just met' but I feel I've known him all my life, and maybe in previous
lives. I don't even know his name, but I don't need to know his
name. His eyes and his presence tell me more than I need to
know. This man, I can say, is truly enlightened. For all of
us here to merely be in his presence is a true blessing. You'll
notice he has a little chalkboard hanging on his chest. That's to
indicate he's in silence. Going into silence is a lovely thing to
do – for anyone. For everyone. You know, just as a blind
man's senses become more acute when he cannot see shapes, so too when a
person doesn't speak, his other senses become more sensitive.
It's like making love in the dark; you don't need to see your lover to
enjoy sensuous pleasures. Indeed, when it's dark, you probably
feel more sensitively than if the lights were on.”
Swami turns to face Buddha and asks with
gestures whether he would like to share anything with the crowd.
Buddha puts his hands together in a mudra,
which places them over top of his brahma chakra, an inch over the top
of his head. He nods slightly and grins beautifully. The
crowd emits an audible 'umm' sound, fully appreciative. Looking
over the crowd, it's evident that many in attendance are sitting with
legs crossed, some looking skyward, some with eyes closed or opened
partway. Many are adorned by sweet grins – knowing they're
partaking in a sublime, once-in-a-lifetime moment.
Buddha picked a key moment during the Swami's
speech to tip toe to the rear of the stage. He walked to a place
near Amrita, the nice woman who had introduced him to the Swami,
without her noticing him. Yet he can't help but hear her
conversation. She was engaged in talking with a man she called
'Wavy Gravy.' He was elder than most of the people at the
festival. He had a crinkly wry smile with a few teeth
missing. “You know what s-w-a-m-i stands for, don't you?”
“No Wavy,” said Amrita, rolling her eyes,
“what does it stand for?”
“It stands for 'Someone Who Attacks My
Infants.'”
“That's a weird thing to say. Are you
referring to the swami there on the stage?”
“No, it's a general statement. You could
call it an impoverished attempt at humor.”
“I could call it worse than that.”
“But think about it,” Wavy continued, “How
many swamis do you know who aren't enmeshed in some sort of accusations
of sexual misconduct?”
“Christian priests are also.”
“No denying that. But two wrongs don't
make a right. Plus, the difference is; priests usually pick on
young boys and girls, whereas swamis focus on women. You could
say priests are 'equal-opportunity sexual predators.'”
“I don't like the tone of this
conversation. I want to hear what's happening on stage.”
She turns her back to him and steps away, like a thoroughbred leaving
its stable.
Buddha grins and slips away - out of the
backstage area. A few stagehands, performers and hangers-on are
pleasantly nodding their recognition of him being a high being, and
he's thankful none are hounding him as a celebrity. He meanders
away and gains the meadow behind the stage, then proceeds to stroll
around the shore of Filippini Pond while sharing niceties with a few
skinny dippers there. He then heads northeast. With each
step away from the teeming crowd, he feels tingles of relief. He
is reminded of how he loves solitude; fresh air, sounds of nature, wind
on his body. Now the last rays of sun are kissing his neck.
Wisps of coolness greet the twilight.
After about twenty minutes hiking on a
seldom-used dirt road, a mechanized chariot approaches. It growls
and puffs out smoke like a randy beast. The man operating the
machine gives a friendly salutation. As the machine saunters by
at walking pace, Buddha grabs hold of the back of the wagon the beast
is pulling. His hands grip the top of the stout little wooden
fence, while his feet are pressed against a metal bar further
down. The operator seems not to mind and keeps rolling.
Buddha sees the farmer's weathered face in a reflective surface which
protrudes off the side of the vehicle. He assumes the driver can
also see him hanging on for the ride.
The assembly arrives at a large house at dusk,
with lights in a dozen windows. Buddha thinks these must be rich
people, to have so many candles. Perhaps it's a rooming house
filled with travelers.
The driver opens a door on the side of the
machine, steps out and strolls around to kindly greet the odd man who
had hitched a ride without asking, “I remember doing that when I was a
boy. I was kind'a concerned you might fall off. What's your
name, buddy?”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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copyright 2020 by Ken Albertsen and Adventure1
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