Namaste
Authors: Sean Platt,Johnny B. Truant,Realm,Sands
Would You Like a Free Library of AWESOME Books?
NAMASTE
by Sean Platt &
Johnny B. Truant
Copyright © 2013 by Sean Platt & Johnny B. Truant. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited. The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help us spread the word.
Thank you for supporting our work.
PRELUDE
Chapter 1
2:14
P
.
M
.
ON
M
ONDAY
The man in the light-blue robes circled the park’s fountain with no particular sense of hurry. His bare, bloodstained feet took slow, steady strides, imparting a sense of purpose in his apparent aimlessness. He looked like a man with nowhere to be and nowhere to go … whose lack of destination carried its own agenda. Like Shavasana, the so-called yogic corpse pose in which doing nothing at all is the challenge, the man seemed to be testing discipline through lack of activity.
As the man walked, his blue robe (a peculiar color for such as him, with his shaved head and Zen bearing) swayed above his feet, a saffron sash occasionally peeking at his waist. He looked mostly down, not around, as if praying, or perhaps concentrating. A small, serene smile was on his dark-skinned face, and his eyes sparkled. He didn’t seem precisely happy, but he definitely didn’t seem unhappy. If anything, his bearing was one of acceptance. Of rightness. Of a deep knowledge that things in the world and the universe were as they should be, and that he knew how to work within that system, how to move, how to be, how to foster a sense of fulfillment. As people passed and nodded to him, the man would press his hands together in front of his chest and make a small bow with a smile — the gesture of
namaste
, which was intended not just as a greeting, but as his soul’s acknowledgement, centered in his heart chakra, of the other person’s soul.
Inside his own mind, the man with the robes and shaved head considered the world as it was, and couldn’t be otherwise. He had, long ago, resolved to do what he could to help those who sought enlightenment, but otherwise not to struggle against the universe by fighting through moments. The current instant was as it was because that was the way of the universe. The collective weight of the past had borne down upon this moment like the forces of heat and pressure in a forge, creating it as its own unique, beautiful moment. To fight it was to fight the collective past of all beings, of all things.
Yet, some fights were meant to be fought, and it was the job of any pilgrim in life to learn the difference. The past shaped the present, so there was little point in trying to fight it … but what if the present that the past had created was one of conflict, of fighting? When that happened, paths converged and truth blurred. It made little sense to struggle against how things were meant to be. But were there not times when “how things were meant to be”
was
in conflict? It was a spiritually difficult problem. Were conflicts and wars profane anomalies violating the universe’s will? Or were they simply culminations of their respective pasts, destined to be struggled through and fought for — not because of a
failing
of acceptance, but because of the
total and complete willingness to accept
?
The bald-headed pilgrim, his bare feet swishing from fountain to soft, green grass, pulled a bracelet of wooden beads from within the folds of his robe and began rubbing them with his fingers and thumbs, focusing his attention on the sensations, on the beads, on the world around him, on the space inside himself, on nothingness. That was the very conflict they had discussed so much back at the monastery. His order was already divergent in their thinking and in their ways, but even within the order he was an outlier. In his mind, the others were afraid. He could not fault them. All conscious souls experienced fear (until nirvana), and each of his compatriots had been on their individual journey, each carrying invisible baggage that none other than they could see. And while the others had seemed serene in their own light-blue robes with their own shaved heads, they were — because they were human — as afraid as any other, as afraid as he himself had been from time to time. They didn’t fear death because death offered renewal and rebirth in the upward cycle, but they feared threats to their systems of thought. His constant questions had been such threats, and he could not blame them for questioning him back.
Fighting and war are bad,
said the elders.
Or were they? He couldn’t help but wonder. If all things served the will of the universe, why were humans born with so fervent a desire to indulge their darker sides? The order tried to explain that away — to speak of evolution and rising above, to a person’s purer nature — but it had felt unsatisfying. He couldn’t shake the feeling of predestiny. All things occurred as they should. So, why should conflict be any different? But the others hadn’t liked that at all. They had simply repeated that it was a man’s task to rise above, to surmount those impulses as the Christians talked about rising above Satan. But like the Christians’ implications of the devil within a person’s soul, the idea of inevitable moments to grapple made no sense. To ignore the question and simply repeat “rise above, rise above” was to ignore the truth, to throw a blanket over a dark pit that had been born into the home’s structure and pretend it had never been there in the first place.
He rubbed the beads between his thumbs and forefingers, smiling.
Somewhere in the distance — perhaps in a car — he could hear a snippet of song permeating the sweet, warm spring air. A song he’d heard before, plucked from his conflicted mind. A soft voice sang that to everything, there is a season.
A time to be born. A time to die.
A time to plant. A time to reap.
A time to kill. A time to heal.
A time to laugh. A time to weep.
Because each coin shared a pair of sides. You could not die unless you were first born. You could not reap without planting. Sometimes to heal, death must be death.
The others had not agreed. They said mortal existence carried the sludge of earthbound living, and that it was every devotee’s job to know each cycle of life, death, and rebirth. He had protested:
Then why do we train? Why do we spend our days learning to use our bodies in such intricate ways, training even our smallest muscles?
They answered, sounding less certain than he himself felt,
For the practice of discipline. To control ourselves physically, so we can learn the habits that will allow us to control ourselves spiritually
.
He had never understood that. Restraint was to sharpen a sword against a grinding stone every day for the mere act of sharpening it … and then to stand back to admire that useless sword’s sheen while you were subdued by bandits who held sticks as weapons.
He sat on the grass, folding his blue robes under him. The dirt beneath the grass was cool on his bare legs. There was a light twittering in the air, an amalgam of the far-off sounds of people and nature. The lightest of breezes carried the sweetest of scents, like shorn grass and new blossoms. Right now, all around him, things were trying to grow while other things died. What he saw wasn’t abundance and expansion. It was the world in balance, life and death in measure.
Placing the beads back in his pocket, he sat with his hands open and palms up on his knees, closing his eyes. A vision — a memory he can hardly believe was real — filled his mind:
Rich draperies — the kind no one buys unless they literally have nothing else to spend money on.
Fluted columns on the porch, nymph statues in fountains on the lawn.
A marble foyer, painted in blood.
He breathed deeply, falling into the vision.
Outside the house, in the circular driveway and in front of a wide set of polished, stone steps, there is an ambulance. The ambulance seems not just out of place but garish, offensive to the home’s impeccable decor. Its appearance isn’t just incongruous; it’s downright offensive. Cheap, chrome trim, painted metal and plastic parts — the ambulance sits in the driveway like a blemish. People coming and going from the ambulance twist this particularly offensive knife, running up and down the steps in their cheap, working people’s shoes, pants low in threads and off the rack, their uncouth and indelicate hands leaving inferior prints on the polished brass door knobs. Dozens of feet from paramedics and policemen tromp the marble floor, unaware (or perhaps uncaring) of its pedigree, of the long journey it took from Italy to be here. No thought given to the mosaic in gold leaf; no attention paid to the antique glass windows. So much base, sordid activity to disrespect the house, to sully it by their Philistine presence.
A throng of reporters waits outside, feet plowing the delicate lawn and scuffing the fountain bases. A grim procession of bodies exits on stretchers. Flashes go off as reporters take their photographs in the dark night, save for scant light from the house. It feels like a fashion show, with all participants bloody and twisted, necks snapped, inhuman damage done to each.
Flashes go off, greeting the show’s models as they come out on stretchers.
Turn to the left. Pose.
At the top of the steps, only now noticed standing off to the side with two policemen, is a man who could be the macabre fashion show’s architect. He is dressed immaculately, in a custom-tailored suit made of imported fabrics, hand-stitched by the best domestic artisans. His cuffs, peering out from his suit coat sleeves, are as white in the house lights as ivory teeth. Except only one cuff is visible, because on further inspection this important man’s right wrist is being gripped by his left hand. The right hand itself, above the wrist, appears at first to not be a hand. The thumb is bent the wrong way. The fingers are staggered, twisted away from one another. The hand’s center appears almost chewed, yet little blood has spilled. The wrist must be beyond broken, because whenever the man’s grip with his left hand falters, the hand flops like a rag, and the man in the suit screams.
There is a paramedic attempting to attend to his destroyed hand, but no one is treating the man with the respect he seems to deserve — his opulent home shattered by a gang of murderers, his hand smashed by a thousand elephants. The police don’t seem to care about the man’s hand, and nobody has suggested he sit. The paramedic does his best as the man mutters incoherently, his eyes large and lost. The police continue asking questions, eager to learn of the group who did this.
Was it a gang? A group of home invaders?
The man in the suit mumbles.
Were they business rivals?
The policeman says “business,” as if implying crime in which the broken-handed man is, himself, culpable.