Foreign Madam and The White Yogi
by Chris Mooney Singh
An ‘Australian Mahabharata’ connecting the Southern Continent to India, via South-East Asia, USA, UK and Europe told as an epic love story with ethical choices and consequences.
Category: Guest Authors
Norval Joe – Pick Two
“Come in,” Halberk Crottage called from behind his government surplus desk. Local Super Hero Liaison was by necessity a low profile job.
A man stepped in. Bright red lipstick matched his flowing red hair. He wore a black satin jacket over a silver French cut leotard, and black fishnet stockings.
“Let me guess. You’re Drag Queen Man,” Halberk said.
“I prefer, just Drag Queen.”
“Okay. What’s your super power?”
“Among other things, I can talk with my mouth closed,” a voice said from behind.
“Why not?” Crottage said. “What brings you in?”
A tear form in Drag’s eye, “Timmy’s Dead.”
Who Do You Miss – Singh
29.12
Yogi was glad for a side-way door to leave.
The satsang circuit had become a weight.
Forced to wear his heart on a holy sleeve
he had to role-play as every person’s soul mate.
Barhai had said. “Ah, Utterakhand! We’ll wait.
You go and see the Himalayan snow.
Amrik will bring you back by the due date.
It will be a rare experience. Go, just go.”
Margot’s signal! Was she trying to break through?
Oneiric words were pushing his heart rate.
To hear so clear a message was deja-vu;
so he’d slept little when Amrik came at eight.
29.13
They took a bus to Meerut to catch a train
and walked the streets of musical instruments —
a local industry of drums and horns
for Indian brass bands. Amrik stepped into
a roll-a-door store and flicked a latch.
The harmonium gasped and coughed to find its voice.
Amrik’s hand ran up and down the keys,
then song took flight with intricate raga rills,
elaborating flightpaths for a line of birds.
Yogi was shocked, hearing such classical heights
of an Indian voice in love with syllables.
Who’d have thought this merchant talked to mountains?
Yogi’s kirtan? A Simple Simon version.
29.14
Time to rush on for the Chandigarh train
second-class sit-up, six hours to Punjab.
Amrik yanked Yogi up and through the door
as the long snake slithered away from Meerut.
They wedged into sweaty vinyl seats,
four moustaches leering back opposite
at the foreigner in his crisp white chola.
Amrik Singh, the short and stocky Sikh
in dark blue turban, business suit and tie
squeezed their bags onto the luggage rack.
Some psycho-bluff was needed to gain a hold
in this give-no-dog-an-inch demesne on wheels.
Yogi clamped his guitar between his knees.
29.15
Above and opposite two young newly-weds,
off now, to visit relatives in some
village perhaps, or honeymoon in Himachal,
had managed to sit up happily jammed together
on the luggage rack – now a romantic nook,
an invisible zone of public privacy
away from myopic eyes of home in-laws
ready to walk in on, and ogle a pretty bride
with hennaed hands, jangling wedding bangles
that she must wear for months to say ‘hands off’
to any male. It was a luxurious bed
for a giggly couple, while those below ignored them.
Yogi half-peeped and thought of Margaret.
29.15
The train moved on. Ragpicker boys boarded
between stations brooming the floor for tips.
Some got a kick and a curse. Snack-wallahs packed
salty treats in newspaper cones for zilch.
One of the four moustaches bought some grams
offering Yogi. He crunched a roasted chick pea
nodding his thanks.
A gift demands a gift.
Amrik dug out a tin-foil wrap of paronthas
with dollop of pickle oily at the core,
offering around. One of the four tactfully
took just one, sharing the Sardar’s wife-packed
travelling luncheon. Ghee-spread rotis oiled
the wheels of the railway journey, clacketing north.
29.16
The compartment soon became a gaming parlour,
the clip-on wall tray attracted playing cards
with popping eyes and gesticulating hands.
“Are you feeling comfortable?” Amrik asked.
They’d only traded glances since leaving Meerut.
“I’m fine thanks. How long will it take to reach?”
Yogi had not inquired about the journey.
“We stop in Chandigarh. I have seva there.
Tomorrow we will join the Hemkund yatra.
My friends are waiting.”
Yogi knew that ‘seva’
meant ‘selfless service’. Enigma still held its cards.
Impoliteness might have pushed, calling his hand,
but he knew he had to play a game of patience.
29.17
In the next compartment a group of schoolgirls
started to sing and clap. “What’s that Amrik?
Is it a party?”
“No, Sant ji — Antakshri
a parlour game. He listened, then translated:
Baithe, baithe, kya karein? Karna hai kuch kaam,
Sitting, sitting what to do? Pass the time with a game?
Shuru karo antakshri, leke prabhu ka naam!
So let’s play Antakshri, invoking first God’s Name.
Amrik said : The letter ‘m’ starts off the next round:”
Mehfil Yeh Humari Hain
Toh Bol Do Yeh Saare Zamane Se
Men Not Allowed, Men Not Allowed!
A typical Hindi-English Bollywood mix.
The last line rang out like a strident challenge
and the four moustaches shouted their own version:
Women Not Allowed, Women Not Allowed!
29.18.
The station coming up was Saharanpur.
The newly-weds were getting down. He jumped
to the carriage floor, grabbing their bag.
It was her turn. She dangled hennaed feet,
ankleted, over the edge. Her nose-ring jiggled,
while necklace and gold earrings made her more
resplendent in blood-red salvaar kamiz,
her vermillion sindoor parting married hair.
All eyes turned up. It was too far. The train
was stopping fast, so she took a leap of faith
into husband’s hands about her petite waist.
The warm crushing together of shy bodies
made all sigh at the starting heat of love.
29.19
After Saharanpur they measured time
by flashing stops: Pilkhani, Sarswara,
the ochre earth, the thorny kikar trees,
green fields of paddy and wading buffaloes,
next Kalanaur then onto Yamunangar.
The Yamuna was swollen with monsoon
as they crossed the pylon bridge into Haryana,
green miles of farmland and more rail sidings:
Mustafabad, Barara, Tandwal and Kesri
three clackety hours until they reached Ambala.
The blue snake pulled up. There was delay.
The four moustaches left and new ones came.
Chai-wallahs boarded with aluminium urns,
white plastic cups while coolies in red coats
fought over luggage. Yogi and Amrik waited.
29.20
As Yogi and Amrik moved to window seats
a woman was taking a shortcut over tracks
baby on hip, lugging her ragpicker bundle.
She struggled, but none on board could help,
fearing the train would leave. She stepped from rail
to rail over bitumen fill, struggling her bundle
onto platform concrete, then tried to climb, but her
baby slipped from her hip, plummeting headfirst
onto a steel rail. She jumped back screaming,
but the picked-up infant was now a thing of jelly.
It was hopeless to watch as the passenger train inched out
of Ambala Station — lives transformed forever.
29.21
As fire is covered by smoke and a mirror by dust
the obvious cannot be seen.
As an embryo grows through love or a moment of lust
death reneges on the life caught in between.
As Yogi thought of the child with a jelly-dead head
he tried to accept what he saw.
One slip of a hand had lost the gold in the thread
and wrecked a natural law.
What lay uncertain ahead was a curtain of rain,
shrouding the nothing that’s there.
And the capital Chandigarh, also ahead on the plain
might just leave him gasping for air.
Richard – Church
#1 – George’s Story, Part 43: Little old lady
Within minutes of leaving his hideout, George ran into trouble – trouble in the form a of a little old lady, waving a bible at him. This was something he’d simply not planned for.
“Are you saved, sonny?”, she demanded fiercely.
Wishing his face wasn’t smeared in mud, he mumbled: “erm, yes”, hoping she’d go away.
“Then why aren’t you in church today?”
George was lost for words.
“Never mind, son, Rasputin here will take care of you.”
George slowly turned, to find the monstrous man who’d abducted Emily, stood right behind him.
“Time to go to church!”, grinned the brute.
#2 – The Church of the Unified Singularity
Hi, and welcome to my church: it’s a bit different to most churches.
For a start, there’s no all-powerful deity, no scriptures and rituals, creeds and festivals are all frowned upon. My church doesn’t require confession, repentance or regular attendance, there’s no hymn singing or pilgrimages.
You won’t find me on your doorstep with a big smile and colourful pullover, either – because you can’t join my church… it’s exclusive to me, and me alone.
I am – in every sense – the religious body!
Of course, being the church isn’t all fun and games, but the tax concessions are fantastic!
#3 – Focus of the community
They come to our village from all over the world – tourists and sightseers, just to see our church.
We’ve got it all: a crooked steeple, weeping madonna, a crypt of human bones, haunted cemetery and healing well. There’s also a gift shop, selling trinkets and homemade cakes. Once a month, our mad monk makes an appearance, and on special occasions you might catch a glimpse of the hunchbacked bellringer.
Every last bit of it is – of course – completely fake, but nobody seems to mind. As long as the tourists are happy and the money keeps on rolling in, who’s complaining?
Serendipity – Account
The instructions were simple and written clearly, in bold, on the note that I intended to pass to the cashier:
Do not raise the alarm
Remain calm
Completely fill the bag with unmarked notes
Do not move until I have left the building
I read through them again carefully. Clear, concise and unambiguous… but it seemed to me there was something missing.
I frowned and chewed thoughtfully on the end of my pen while I thought it through, and then it came to me, at last – the one vital instruction that I’d completely forgotten to add:
Please close my account.
Norval Joe – 404 Not Found
Long John Silver pushed through the doggie door at the back of the house.
Dirgle, sitting in front of the TV, heard the click of toenails crossing the kitchen before the wiener dog appeared at his knee and dropped his food dish on the floor.
Pouring the last of the bag and barely filling the dog’s bowl, Dirgle hurried off to the grocery store.
As the cashier scanned four large bags of dog food, he slid his card and punched in his PIN. The little window read, ‘Account Not Found’.
Apparently, Wiener Dog Man had pissed off the wrong people.
The Alabaster Room by Spate
She paced at the window. Her reflection, caught in the glass, became part of the January snowstorm that quietly swirled outside, spiraling in a downward waltz of translucent white flake and wind.
She thought: “How out of control and random life has become; a dance with no one leading. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I didn’t desire fame or money – just pure art.”
Now she was forced to hide in this monochromatic winter hostel to be not found by the copycat fans or those wishing her dead.
Yes, dead!
Miyuki never foresaw the fury of the Abstract Expressionists.
Blame by Danny
I understand in the wake of the “Citizen’s United” decision by the U.S. Supreme Court that not only has corruption been legalized, but it is almost impossible now to follow the money trail of the entities contributing to campaign finance. Corporate America has become the Wizard of Oz, don’t look behind the curtain, there is nothing to see here. Pretend to hold us accountable if you want, but we will point the fingers of blame, thank-you. After all, you have no idea the billions it costs to run a blame campaign, and we billionaires intend to keep it that way.
Voyage by Justin
Bob however, failed to realize the large array of surveillance cameras on the cruise ship. The thermal cameras have algorithms and sensors that can tell the difference between a falling person, a chair, or an ice sculpture a drunken passenger has tossed overboard. As soon as Barbie tumbled over the railing after his push, her fall was instantly detected by cameras and alarms were sounded. At the same time, the security woman checked the cameras pointed at the deck where Barbie fell, and saw the devilish deed Bob had done. She stored the timestamp and emailed the ships security chief.
Singh – Nanobots (The Lakshmi Plot Pt 6)
(The Lakshmi Plot Pt 6)
59
Bhim followed the shaman downstairs to inspect the tiger tracks.
“Uncle was here, Baba,” Bhim said.
“Shh,” chided the shaman in his brusque manner, gesturing for Bhim to be quiet.
Both of them knelt while the shaman traced the impression with his index finger.
“ A new beast has come,” Bhim suddenly realised that, for the old baba, a pug mark was like a fingerprint, or perhaps there was some other meaning that only the shaman could divine. Now he squatted, testing the air like a wild dog and then got up to climb the temple rungs. Bhim followed dutifully behind him.
60
They bowed. He hunched over withdrawing himself, arms shrouding his head like wings; soon the shaman jerked upright shaking his head wildly from side to side. His eyes glared and his grunts shifted back and forth across male and female registers as an entity spoke through him. Instead, he reached across and gripped the young man’s head with his hand, thumb pressing hard into the centre of the forehead. Something passed into Bhim. He was eased onto his side, convulsing as if having had a massive electrical shock. The shaman sat back and closed his eyes auditing what was going on.
61
Where before Bhim had journeyed down Daksin Ray’s path of blood and death inhabiting the body of hunter or the hunted, he now became the tiger’s rider, the controlling goddess force who grabbed hold of soft neck fur and willed the beast above the estuarine Sundarbans. Instinctual power held in check by intelligence could fly down to see deep into the heart of tree, animal, bird or ant and speak with its spirit. Now Bhim perceived the forests and human settlements as pores on the body of one vast living organism, each a microscopic mouth expressing the same truth of coexistence.
62
Bhim wondered how the survivors from his old village community were coping with the aftermath of the cyclonic storm surge. Through speed of thought the flying tiger travelled and saw the rescue helicopters, the army barges, the vehicles bringing in supplies. Trying to stay alive, survivors massed before the back of every truck and sides of boats, or retrieved stray parachutes with ration packs from waterlogged fields of dead crops. It wasn’t enough. Crowds clambered over each other like mud crabs competing in a bucket. They pulled back the top climber into the claw pit. Yes, desperation succeeded and created savagery.
63
The tiger’s amber eye showed Bhim that humanity was no less bestial under the skin. Life spoke through the spiky pores of mangrove suckers and retributive cycles where nature was forced to right the balances drowning hundreds of thousands. It was hard to travel with that electrical current coursing up the spine and frothing over from the mouth. Bhim felt the sensation of being a bubble in a bloodstream and he might drown at any moment. The shaman’s power igniting Bhim’s own ability began to wain and the young man’s focus also blurred. Soon, both were gasping awake like landed fish.
64
Devika greeted her husband and Baba when they returned. She passed each a cup from the morning’s milking and served the left over catfish from a pandanus leaf. She was feeling the lack of starch in their meagre diet and longed for a handful of rice with her own fish piece that she took after the men slumped on their mats. Yet, she was grateful to her husband and Lakshmi whose worship she did twice daily. It made her mourn the loss of Meera Devi, her mother-in-law, whose company she pictured while swirling communal hands in the rice pot.
65
Bhim was woken by a vigour shake of the shaman’s hand. Again, he was dream-travelling into the jungle.
“Here,” the old man said, and passed him a white mask. It looked like the face of a ghost. There were empty sockets for eyes to see through and a crudely painted watermelon smile. He ran his finger over the rough-moulded face made from papier-mache. Flipping it over he could see the raw newsprint inside and that excited him. He remembered those week visits to Sitapur on market day and bringing a paper to read to the women at home.
66
One strip of the glued paper was readable. The headline said: Nanobots Crawling under your Skin. The lead sentence followed: “Imagine an army of robot spiders doing surgery on your eye, fixing a faulty value in your heart, or patching up blown out brain tissue.” How strange and unbelievable especially sitting in this hut where real spiders and scorpions climbed the railing at night. Even stranger was the thought of wearing this story close to his face. Then the shaman pulled out another. Made of rubber, it bore a comic caricature of with a moustache and learing smile.
“Put in on,” he said.
67
Surprising the shaman stretched the elastic and wore the mask on the back of his head. His was standard issue for licensed honey gatherers and wood cutters. Devika laughed. The shaman wasn’t impressed, stared back and addressed Bhim.
“If Uncle come for you, it will be from behind.” With that he gripped the young man at the nape of his neck. “Like this.” Then he explained, “But if he sees a face, he won’t attack. They come from behind.”
This new strategy has been thought up recently by a psychology student in Kolkata at the university, and strangely, had been working.
68
“Come. Put on your mask.”
Bhim hooked the band on his forehead. Again, Devika couldn’t help giggling. Grown men putting masks on backwards. She was beginning to even doubt the reality of tigers.
The shaman passed another mask to Bhim. “Tell her not to leave the hut without it.” The young man was also irritated no. She was not showing respect and spoke harshly. “You heard, woman. Put it on.”
She picked it up with picqued reluctance
“It is time,” the shaman said and climbed down.
They followed the trail to the boat.
“Get in. I will paddle,” the shaman said.
69
The double man travelled up the creek between their island and the one opposite. So far Bhim had not come this way. But he was glad to be away from the tension at the hut. He saw a rainbow krait skimming poisonously in the water, and two mudskippers with locked jaws fighting over a female. They threw the net and trawled, picking up two cracks and a panga. The shaman poled for a long time. Bhim wanted to ask where they were going, but knew better. Sure enough, the shaman veered to the right and slid into a new mud beach.