~ Karma Peace ~
A Tale of Mystery, Magic and Madness
by
Connie M. Van Cleve
SMASHWORDS EDITION PUBLISHED BY:
Connie M. Van Cleve and Kundalini Press
Copyright © 2009 by Connie M. Van Cleve Media, Inc.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Acknowledgments…
I would like to thank the very special people in my life…
~ My husband, Spencer Dean, for all his love and support ~
~ My sister, Jean Lucus, for her continuous belief in me ~
~ My nephew, Stuart Terwilliger, for reaching out like a brother ~
And a SHOUT OUT to -
~ Kelly Turknett, Heather Cruikshank, and Rebecca Pollard ~
You three almost got away! Guess you didn’t run fast enough!
I would also like to thank my editor, William Greenleaf, who gave me the words of encouragement that I needed to take this leap of faith.
And to Bharat Mata herself, Mother India, whose landscape and people I adore.
Your inspiration is invaluable.
But most of all, this is for my Father.
To whom I never got to say goodbye,
Lawrence Raymond Van Cleve
Thank you for watching over me.
* Namaste! *
“To become the spectator of one’s own life,
is to escape the suffering of life.”
Oscar Wilde
~*~
“Knowing others is wisdom,
knowing yourself is Enlightenment.”
Lao-Tzu
Sometimes the only way to find yourself is to run away…
Part I: Duhkka (Suffering)
1 ~ Voices
It was a whisperthing, that’s all. An echovirus contaminating the metal and fiberglass tube that I was trapped inside. I glanced around. No one else seemed to hear it, and I prayed for the sound to go away. I even stopped breathing. But the thumping of my heartbeat became the betrayer. The whisperthing continued, like a fistful of flesh-eating worms. “Apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, now does it, girl?”
“Not far enough,” I replied, white-knuckling the armrest confining me.
“Two peas in a pod, I swear. You’re just like me and you know it.”
“I’m not doing this with you,” I hissed, tiny bits of spittle tickling the insipid air. “Not here. Not now.”
“Shush. Need I remind you about my first runaway fiasco? It was Pearl Harbor’s eve, doll. I was only twelve. Ah, but you? Sneaking up on thirty-six, slinky bug. Tall number, I’ll say.”
“Get lost,” I snapped, thwacking a plastic tumbler from the asylum of my tray table. But my anger did nothing to quell her. She maundered on, with a brutal epitaph deluxe.
“If I hadn’t had you, I might have done something with my life.”
“Go away,” I cried, glaring at the invisible onslaught. “Freakin’ leave me alone.” Then something touched me. I jerked.
“There, there, madam,” an Asian flight attendant calmly tried to reassure, rearranging reality along with my pillow. “You’re dreaming. You’re talking in your sleep.” Damn it all to hell, I wasn’t sleep talking. I was wide awake, and she darn well knew it.
“I’m all right,” I lied, thrilled at the vacant seats beside me. “I’ll have another drink. Two Cuervos, please.” And I rested my head against the portside window. Strung up over the vacillating wing tip of Singapore Airline flight number 15, grinning down on me like an unrepentant criminal, was a sliver of a moon. Before I had a chance to blink it away, the sky hostess was back with my booze. “Thank you,” I mumbled, and she shoved the miniature tequila bottles at me, nodded like a bored porcelain doll, and moved on. Across the aisle, an elderly Indian woman in a gold silk sari wobbled her head and sneered. Was she affronted by the small outburst directed at my dead mother? Or just my stalwart drinking? I shriveled and turned away. You’re dreaming. I wished. Off the Haldol for less than a week, and it was already happening. The voices. Or voice, I should say. The other voice had yet to come. But it, too, was on its way.
I was bad Karma right from the start. Or so Mother always told me. An unfortunate accident. Tubule pregnancy or some baloney. Better yet, I’d probably gestated in my mother’s stomach rather than in her womb, like an undigested meal scraping ulcers in an embryonic fluid of bile and unrequited dreams, only to be squirted out into the latrine of life and expected by the whole world to have more self-esteem than a lousy pile of poo. Hard task for an only child. Well, almost only child. I have an older sister and brother, but they escaped the humble commode right after I was born, by way of marriage and the military. Like there’s a difference between the two?
Condemned by the fleshless burden of a name, I tangled my way through a short and abusive childhood, using pretense as a defense, playing tough girl, because what else can you do with a name like Karma? And believe me, I’ve heard it all. Good Karma. Bad Karma. Karma chameleon. Your karma ran over your dogma, Karma. Instant karma’s going to get you, Karma, no matter what you do, Karma. You’re bound to be judged, Karma. By no harsher a judge than yourself, Karma.
So what’s this? A pity party? Not exactly. It’s more a blast through the past to justify leaving my husband and twin three-year-olds behind for the land of India. I mean, hell, where else would a nut job with a name like Karma run off to? Cleveland? I don’t think so.
I requested more tequila, and then gazed out at the hypnotic beacon on the bouncing airfoil. The turbulence was getting worse, inside and out. I thought, hmmf, it would serve me right to go down in a fiery crash. But no, no, no, I remonstrated. That’s wrong. Too many innocent people on this flight. Better my punishment should come when I’m off alone, say . . . like in the Thar Desert on the Pakistani border and I get caught in the middle of an impromptu Indo-Pak gun battle and my body is violently blown to . . . good heavens, get a grip! The bed was made. Now I had to sleep in it. Too bad I couldn’t sleep. Taking sedatives never occurred to me and I was drinking myself sober. I peered out at the moon slice for a little while longer, reached into my laptop case for my Lonely Planet: India 2001 guidebook, then set my watch forward from 6:30 a.m., Pacific Daylight Savings Time, to 9 p.m., Indian Standard Time, September 10, 2001. Soon, we’d be landing at Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi, and I couldn’t help wondering, what are my twins, Chandra and Tara, doing right now? Hard to believe we celebrated their third birthday only a few months ago. The same day, in fact, that I decided to take my miserable self out of their lives. It all happened so fast. And no one even noticed my neurotic behavior. Warren, my husband, was up to his nose hairs in work as usual. It’s his albatross, that damn family business. For peace of mind, call PEACE PLUMBING! That’s the company blurb. It can be heard on all the stations in Seattle and the surrounding areas. We were doing well, financially. So I pilfered eight grand from our joint account. Not a lot. I mean, hell? I knew women who pissed away more on Botox and new clothing. My sanity was worth at least that. Besides, after airfare that only gave me thirty-five dollars per day to live on for 182 days. Six months. I thought, if my novel isn’t completed and the voice of my dead mother gone by then? Well, then it would be the holy river Ganges for me. I’d drown my bloody self. Put myself out of my damn misery.
After eating a fourth meal on that long-haul flight, I was stone cold sober. At least the voice of Mother had not come back, and for that I was grateful. But where was Babaji? Babaji was my kinder, gentler voice. My guardian angel, if you will. He’d been with me since age six. My invisible friend when I was a child, the saint on my shoulder when I was older, until I started on the Haldol. That killed him off quick, and Ma the murderess along with him.
I’d been seeing this shrink ever since the birth of my girls, because Mother’s whisperthing had gone on full-scale assault. Doc called it a challenging stew of mild schizophrenia peppered with a dash of lingering postpartum psychosis. Uhh? Hello, Doc? Do you think my head’s a crock-pot? Then just call it by its proper name, would you? Fricassee of pre-goin’-freakin’-crazy, that’s what. I saw him twice a week, took the prescribed drug, talked while he practiced his golf swing, then went home feeling worse than before. No more voices. But no more anything else, either. Hardly any ardor in my marriage, minimal patience with my children, and no creative inspiration for my one passion, my ambition of becoming a published writer. A novelist. All gone. Dried up. Like a fallen leaf from a tree, my muse had been widdled on by the neighborhood dog. It was now yesterday’s compost, and I was utterly devastated. Not that I didn’t have a subject to write on, because I certainly did. It was just that the Haldol had sent all my characters AWOL.
And that was PART TWO of my insanity—the visions, and the dreams. They were the clues to my past life. Because, you see, I believe in reincarnation. I was a British soldier last time around. Born in India, 1884. Fought in World Wars I and II. Commanded two Indian regiments and won many victories. Lost some, too. Even fell in love with a devadasi, a Hindu temple dancer, then broke her heart. Hence my obsession with Bharat Mata, better known as Mother India. But a Haldol prescription took care of that madness. So? Was I totally off my rocker? Of course I was. Knitting without needles, but that’s beside the point. The real question was, how could I complete my novel when I couldn’t see my players anymore? And how could I discover what the voices were about unless I quit the medication and unraveled the mystery of my past incarnation? And how could I be a good wife and mother if I couldn’t demolish my demons, follow my dreams, and do something with my life?
Get it?
I guess what I’m trying to say is that it would’ve been preferable to sink to the bottom of the Ganges than ever to repeat those words to my beautiful daughters, Chandra and Tara, the moon and star of my world, the words my mother said to me when I was only thirteen, the same words she was still saying, now that I was off the drug.
“If I hadn’t had you, I might have done something with my life.”
Thanks, Mom. Thanks for the wonderful legacy.
That’s the reason I ran away.
2 ~ Arriving in Hell
No amount of reading, sound advice, or personal travel experience can prepare the first timer for India. It was lodged in my noggin that I had been there before, via my past life. But I soon found out that my beliefs about reincarnation didn’t amount to squat in the present, not when it came down to a billion crazy people all hell bent on separating me, the ignorant lone white female, from the almighty American dollar. It started the minute I stepped off the plane, at 11:30 at night.
“Yes, madam, you need taxi, you need hotel, I know very good hotel in Karol Bagh. Very good price, only four thousand rupees luxury suite and very much quiet. I take you for nine hundred rupees only!” Hoo-wee! This guy didn’t know who he was dealing with. I’d researched this trip voraciously and wasn’t about to be gulled by the ol’ Karol Bagh trick, the one my Lonely Planet guidebook strongly warned about.
“Al Salaam A’alaykum, but no way, sir,” I said. “I’m taking a pre-paid taxi straight to Connaught, and I won’t pay over four hundred rupees. Same goes for a room. I guarantee it.”
He was only momentarily thwarted as he stood in his starched white kurta, matching pajamas and cap, stroking an orange hennaed goatee that boasted of a hajj to Mecca, his gray-green eyes darting around the crowded arrivals hall as if searching for divine guidance. My first encounter with the ubiquitous tout.
Toutous Ripofficuss / taow-tus rip-off-i-cuss / n. 1 A common species adept in the art of hustling and scamming. Found near all travel points, i.e., bus, train, air, and boat. My word, if there was a spaceport, they’d be there, too. And don’t forget the tourist slums.
“Okay, I take you to Connaught. Four hundred rupees. Guesthouse, your choice.” Oh, I had him now. The years of saturating myself in books and travel videos had finally paid off.
“Anywhere I want to go?” I asked, never slowing as I negotiated the endless wave of strange people creatures. It was a human zoo that I made my way through outside the terminal, and he kept up impressively, I must say, considering my desperation to get away. Toting a small backpack and laptop case, I was almost to the pre-paid taxi booth, shaken but still composed, as a glut of shadowy male faces closed in and blocked my way.
“Come this way, madam.”
“Go that way, madam.”
“Hey, why you all alone, madam?”
“Okay, okay. Three hundred rupees. Please, oh, please. I have four daughters and my wife is sick.” That was my persistent tout, and I turned back to face him.
“Four girls?” I asked, clapping my hands. “Quick. What are their names?” Undaunted, he rattled off their supposed monikers.
“Fatimah, Umm Kulthum, Zainab, and Aisha.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, shaking my head. “Tell me. Wasn’t Fatimah the youngest daughter of the Prophet Mohammed? And Umm Kulthum and Zainab two of his granddaughters?” I watched his eyes roll around. “And wasn’t Aisha one of the great Prophet’s wives? . . . Yeah. I thought so. And I suppose you’re going to tell me that your wife’s name is Khadijah. Right?” At that, he bowed shamelessly.
“Oh, you smart Eeemerikan. You know Islam,” he said. “Much impressive. Okay, fine. Wife not sick, and I have only one baby son. So? What say you to my offer?”
Holy Mother, all I could do was laugh.
“Three hundred rupees to Connaught?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Guesthouse of my choice?”
“Of course, madam.”
“Fine. Let’s go.” And I slid into the back of his black Ambassador taxi and we chugged away from the congested airport and into the maw of the night.
“Now you pay up front.”
“No, I don’t think so. I pay on arrival.”
“Half now, then.”
“Why half now, for cryin’ out loud?” He turned to me, beaming.
“We will be needing petrol.”
Yikes! This was my baptism in the murky river of Indian logic, and my patience was running thin. Now you’d think the world over that most taxi drivers would be rarin’ to go upon garnering a fare. But not so in India. Things are done differently in Bharat, for not only did we stop for gas, but they changed a tire as well. It was now a quarter after midnight, and I was half past delirious.
“Look. I just got off a plane. I’ve been in transit for twenty-six hours,” I barked. “Do you hear me?” The driver was having tea with the station attendant. They glanced over like they couldn’t understand the fuss, nodded as if they did, lit up some foul-smelling smokes called biddis, then continued sipping their chai, all while I sat there ranting. Finally, the driver joined me.
“You see, madam? No problem. Now we go.” Then another man bounced into the passenger side of the taxi.
“Oh, no. Get out. Right now,” I demanded, truly stressed.
“No worries, madam. This my friend’s brother.”
“I don’t care if it’s Shah Jahan himself!” I yelled, cheeks aflame. “He’s not traveling with us.”
The station attendant walked over, and the three engaged in a mystery discussion in their native tongue. “Listen here. I’m going to call the police,” I continued, drowning in denial over my disadvantage. The station attendant turned and spoke pidgin English to me.
“Madam, please? I pay fare if you allow driver take brother to Delhi. Okay? No problem?”
I was really torn. And tired. What if this is some kind of trick? I could get mugged. Or worse. Perhaps this was my punishment for running away from my responsibilities. My husband. My children. My life. Was this the executioner greeting me at the gate? Unfortunately, it seemed that I was going to have to face my fate.
“All right,” I said. “I give up.” And we were off.
Back on the unlit road, I began calculating cows in the tilt of the cab’s crooked headlamps. Big beautiful Zebus. Some were alone. Some were cuddled in clumps. Gray. Black. White. Brown. With massive humps and imposing horns, they slept on the roads, medians, and turnstiles. There were empty fields all about, yet these silly beefers chose the streets. They loitered and slept as close to harm’s way as possible, daredevil bovines, living on the edge of life, like me. “Watch out,” I yelled, my heart jolting. A near miss. The driver and his companion chuckled.
“No problem, lady. Remember? I’m Muslim. It’s okay if I hit cow. Not holy to me. Just steak dinner.” Another burst of giggles from the two men.
“Wouldn’t exactly be halal, now would it?” I asked, exasperated, referring to the unlikely notion of them eating impure road-kill. Never mind the fact that hitting one of these massive moo-moos would probably do more harm to us than to the beefwad itself.
“See! She knows halal. I told you she’s smart Eeemerikan,” the driver exclaimed to his shotgun partner while careening all over the road. I tugged at my backpack straps, petrified as he asked, “Now, please? What is your very good name?”
I wanted to scream. “Karma. Are we almost there?”
“Karma? Are you being for real, lady? Why you Westerners always changing your very good name to Hindi? This I do not understand.” Both men were wobbling their heads disapprovingly. I was too exhausted to explain that Karma was my given name, that my mother had been a twisted woman with a cruel sense of humor, so I remained silent. “And I bet you come all the way to India to find yourself,” he continued. “Yes. Of course you did. Of course. Well, don’t bother, madam. Why? Because we already found you!” Both men fell into a peal of laughter that split my skull.
“Oh, come on!” I howled. “Can’t we just freakin’ get there?”
“No problem. We here. See? Baba Kharak Singh Marg and Indira Chowk. Connaught Place. Which guesthouse would you be liking?” he asked with a mouthful of teeth dark red from too much betel nut chewing. The street was as desolate as Shaitan’s soul, so I opened my LP travel guide to a marked page, and with penlight in hand, I fingered the highlighted text.
“This one,” I said, and he gave me a downcast look. Here it comes, I thought. He’s going to tell me it’s closed. Out of business. Finished. Kaput. All so that he can drag me to a hotel of his choice, one that’ll pay him a hefty commission, at my expense.
“Big problem, madam. You see, I cannot read or write.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Ringo Guesthouse,” I blurted out, feeling like a jerk. “Scindia House Road.” Even though it was 1:30 a.m., I was safe at Connaught, and it really hurt me, the thought of him not being able to read or write.
“There, madam. Ringo Guesthouse. I know by heart.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, looking at the whitewashed building with the Ringo sign on top. “I’ll get out here. Oh, and here’s the three hundred rupees we agreed on. Keep the one-fifty I already paid, even though your friend covered the fare.”
“Oh, thank you, madam. Thank you,” he said, kissing the rupee notes and touching them reverently to his forehead. Four hundred and fifty rupees total, I’d made it on. Nine American dollars and some change. Didn’t take much to make this guy happy. I stepped out with my backpack, laptop case, and travel guide, and watched as the car disappeared into the night, feeling anything but magnanimous. Then I wilted, because on the door of the guesthouse was a note. Big ominous letters, spelling words I did not want to see. SORRY—NO BEDS TO LET.
“Blasted all to hell,” I wailed, crumpling to the ground and embarking on the cry of my life.
What in the world was I doing in India? Alone. I’d left my husband and girls behind. What was I thinking? My God, and what were they doing right now? Warren? My in-laws? Our daughters? My sister? Were they worried sick about me? Or were they throwing a party back home? Yippee! Hip hip hooray! The lunatic’s finally gone! I pulled some Kleenex out of my pocket, blew my nose, cried some more, and assessed my situation. It wasn’t looking good. I moved my belongings to the side of the building and plopped down. There was a shred of light shining from an amber street lamp, so I began flipping through my guidebook, trying to figure out where to go next.
The map was reasonably detailed, so I thought I should be able to find my way to another guesthouse. And that’s when I heard them. The footsteps. Padding toward me. I held my breath, afraid to look up. Then he spoke to me in perfect English.
“Do you mind if I help myself to the Godiva chocolate that’s in your backpack?”
Oh, how my heart soared. I’d known that melodious voice almost my entire life. Words so sweet, they could not be believed. It was Babaji.
Now I must explain this voice, because it’s very complex. Throughout my childhood and into my adult life, whenever Babaji would surface, chocolate would disappear. Ice cream, candy, cake, whatever. Of course, I would always get blamed for it. Funny thing is, I detested chocolate. I hate it to this very day. Not to mention, if I’d eaten all the chocolate that had gone missing, I’d be big as a barn, which I’m certainly not. Doctors presumed I was bulimic, that I suffered from an eating disorder. In other words, I secretly binged, then purged. What rubbish. So as a kid, I spent much of my allowance on chocolate, trying to cover for that rascal Babaji, just so I wouldn’t get into trouble, or worse, get put away in some mental institution. It was a real challenge. And there’s something else that must be told. Babaji was invisible. He was only a voice. Or what some might call an imaginary friend. I never actually witnessed the chocolate disappearing, never watched him eating it, never saw him in the flesh, never touched him, never smelled the sandalwood scent of his copper-colored hair, not until that night in Delhi when I looked up and beheld by the light of a dull street lamp the most beautiful face I’d ever seen.
“Well? Why are you all bug-eyed? It’s like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Oh my God!” I shrieked, snatching up my backpack and laptop. Then I ran. And ran. And ran. And then I ran some more. A good ten minutes of full-out running. It was impossible to tell how far I’d gone, or where to, for that matter. My chest was burning, my heart was flopping behind my ribs like a fish in a cage, and perspiration poured off me in rivulets. I dropped my belongings, put my hands on my knees, and waited for my breath to catch up.
“I’ve lost it,” I gasped, shaking my head. “Totally. My sanity’s completely gone. First voices. Then dreams and visions. Now I’m full out seeing things. Just freakin’ great.” After a moment, my heart slowed, and I wiped the sweat from my brow, then looked at my watch. It was 2 a.m.
I needed to find a place to stay, to sort things out.
I needed to get my bearings.
I needed my guidebook, with its detailed maps.
“I can’t believe this!” I yelled, and burst into a fit of spleen-splitting laughter. My travel guide was right where I’d left it—on the ground, beside Ringo Guesthouse. Wherever that was. Suicide was now a viable option. “Anybody got a gun?” I hollered.
“Psst. Are you looking for this?” a voice asked. His voice. I spun around. He was holding out my book like he was handing me a gift. When the shock wore off, I snatched it from him without saying a word. I needed to drink it in. He was barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in a white Indian loincloth called a dhoti, and he appeared to be no more than twenty-five years old, very muscular and lean, with shoulder-length copper-brown hair that sparkled in the light of the street lamp. And his eyes? What can I say? They were dazzling, with dark star centers wide enough to fall into, orbs so deep and wise and mischievous. “Thanks for the Godiva,” he went on with a wink. “It was splendid.”
“Yeah. Right,” I scoffed, dropping down to rummage through my pack. Like I needed proof. He’d known about the Godiva chocolate that I’d purchased at Changi Airport on my Singapore layover. That should’ve been enough. But I just had to check. Indeed, the chocolate was gone. I drew in a ragged breath. “I’m trying to grasp this, Babaji. Really, I am. I’m just so tired.”
He smiled. Warm, sympathetic. “Come, now. You have quite a journey ahead of you,” he said. A wave of tranquility swept me up, and I followed, by way of the nighttime streets, no more words or thoughts. Just shanti. Peace. Like my elegant surname. And then, no more Babaji. He was gone. Vanished. Poof.
The only other thing I recall from that weird first night in Delhi was glancing up at a sign that said NEW DELHI RAILWAY STATION, then walking down a quiet street just opposite to a place called the Ganapati Guesthouse, where I threw down a wad of rupees, locked myself in a room, and promptly passed out.
3 ~ Culture Shock
Mother thought death was a good thing. And she killed in fabulous ways. This was the word-poison ravishing my skull as I slithered off the bed like an arthritic cobra, bearing my fangs at the unholy sentiment, and recoiling at the cerebral playback of the previous night’s insanity.
“Lucky to be alive yourself, you damn fool,” I scolded, staring down at the travel clothes I still had on. All I could think was, Yep! Wrinkled like my future. So like dead skin, I sloughed them off in the cramped bathroom, where a red bucket and matching measuring cup sat competing for attention over a ceramic-lined hole in the ground. “Oh. So what are you guys for?” I asked, hands planted on jutting hips, challenging the inert objects for an answer, or perhaps a little jig. I mean, why not? Every other madness had come my way. “Oh, I get it,” I replied, noticing there was no toilet paper, no handle to flush the squat potty, and a water spout right next to the gurgling poo pit. Defecation, India-style. Splash-n-dash; the reason you never use your left hand for eating in India. I chuckled. “I’m a slap-happy camper. Water beats dry leaves any ol’ day.”
After a rousing tepid shower, I skulked around my small room. Not much. Twin bed. Table and chair for laptop and me. It would do in a pinch, and I was chomping to get on with my writing. But first, I needed to send an email to my sister, so she wouldn’t be worried. That’s what made me think of the letter I’d left for my husband. I took a copy of it from my laptop case and reread it.
Dearest Warren,
There is no eloquent way to put this, so I’ll be blunt. I can’t take life as it is anymore, because I am living your life. I am living my kids’ life. I am living everybody else’s life but my own. Therefore, I am living a lie. My life-long dreams have been crushed by the juggernaut of society’s prosaic expectations, and yet I’ve met the demands of family by being a supportive wife while you do your thing, and I’ve given birth to a healthy and beautiful pair of daughters. Not only that, I’ve sought help through counseling and taken the prescribed medication, both resulting in a worse state of mind than before. So, this is how it has to be.
I am removing myself from the family’s presence for six months. I’m leaving the girls in your and your parents’ care, and just so you know, I’ve weaned myself off the Haldol. It’s either sink or swim. I’m heading to India to finish the novel that I’ve been working on for the last twenty years, and I’m going to destroy this madness, once and for all. On my own. If I fail, then it was wonderful loving you, because I will not leave my daughters the inheritance that my mother left me. I refuse. I’ll break this neurosis chain with my death, if need be. Better they have no mother than a bad mother. I hope you understand. If all this works out, perhaps you’ll be waiting with open arms for me upon my return from this mental restoration sabbatical. Only when I love myself, War, will I be able to give you and our children the love that you all deserve. Please keep me in your prayers.
Love, Karma
Even before I had finished reading my own suicidal decree, I was sobbing. Surely Warren would never show this letter to the girls, would he? If I failed, that is. Perhaps I should’ve made that consideration before writing it. The very idea of hurting them pulverized my soul. But isn’t that what I was doing, by not being there with them? I thought of that Texas woman, Andrea Yates, the one who’d drowned her five children only a few months before. Supposedly she suffered from postpartum psychosis, just like me. “That’s why I left you with your father, girls. I couldn’t let it get that bad,” I whispered, shivering, confused. “Not that I’d ever physically harm either one of you, my loves. I’m more concerned about that other kind of abuse. The kind that comes from this mess here.” I pretended to flip open my skull. “Why, look. A twisted brain-wreck. All piled up and smoldering on the tracks of my life.” Sighing, I breathed back the tears and was about to put away the letter, when whisperthing came waltzing in.
“Charming, Karma. Self-pity is so unbecoming on you, doll. You should just embrace the fact that you’re a child of my loins, and that you’re doomed to failure.
“I’m not up to this, Mother,” I said, as I began to dress.
“Quibbler. You know I’m right. You always run. Take that time you hid from your father. Remember? Denver? Third grade? After that morning fight that he and I had?”
“Shut up, you filthy rotten bitch!”
“Ooh. Such language. As I was saying, you hid after school in the neighbors’ yard and waited for Mommy to come home, now didn’t you?”
Oh, it was all I could do to keep from trashing the room. This was one memory that I didn’t want to re-hash, but she was forcing me, and I was there again—a child, shivering behind a tall wooden fence on the neighbors’ side of the tan brick duplex, my cheek pressed against the fragrant cedar wood. I could even smell the damp fresh dirt below me, as the neighbors’ deranged cocker spaniel yapped and bounced off the inside of their door. And I could hear him, my father, as he walked down the drive, then back up to the house, each step a thud of apprehension as he agonized over where I was. Every time he went in or came out, the screen door snapped, and I could taste his pain beneath my hand, cupped over my mouth in fear. My stomach was roiling, because I knew I was in deep trouble.
“Yes, Karma. It’s all seeping back, now isn’t it? You hid because you were terrified that Daddy would take you away. Remember?”
I was enraged. It crossed my mind to grab the glass water carafe from the table, smash it, and slit my throat. Kill me to kill her. Right in the middle of Old Delhi. Then another thought saved my life. She wasn’t worth it. So I fought back.
“You manipulated me, Mother. You used me. A child. All for your own sick mind games. I know that now.”
“No, Karma. You were the cause of your father’s death, darling. He became so agitated when he thought his precious little girl had disappeared that he collapsed.”
“That’s bullshit. He didn’t die.”
“No. He didn’t. Not right away. He made a partial recovery. But it was you who pushed him over the edge. Face it, precious. It was all your fault.”
“No, it wasn’t, goddamn it. You took me to school that morning, I remember. All the way there, you scared me to death. Made me worry that you and Daddy were getting divorced. I left school and walked home all by myself. I was petrified. Sick to my stomach. I didn’t want you and Daddy to break up. How was I to know that you and Daddy made up over the phone at lunch?”
Silence. Sweet silence. But not for long.
“Yes, that’s true. We did make up. But your hiding caused us to fight all over again, you stupid girl. I took you to your brother’s house to wait for things to cool down, but when we got back home, we found that your father had been admitted into the hospital. Yes, poor man. Sixty-four. Too old to be a good and proper husband anyway. And do you recall the last thing you did together? Do you? He bought you a cute little cowgirl outfit and took you to the Denver Stock Show and Rodeo, right after his release. And what did you do? You carped the entire time. These boots are too tight. I don’t like this cowboy hat. Waa waa waa!”
“How would you know? You weren’t even there.”
“No. But your grown up sis was. Brooke told me what a little ingrate you were. You know, he died just a few months after that.”
“You’re a horrible bitch. I was a child. I was confused. I had ulcers, for God’s sake. I was on medication. At nine years old, Mother. And don’t forget, you had us shacked up with that pedophile scum, Dack Worley, long before Daddy was even gone. God, it sickens me to think that Daddy actually kept onions and tomatoes in the fridge all the way up to the end, hoping you’d come back. He hated onions and tomatoes, Mother. And I’ll never understand what he saw in you. I won’t believe Daddy’s death was my fault, damn it. Do you hear me?”
“Oh, I hear you, Karm. You’re just like me, darling. I was a runaway, too. Remember? I told you. Pearl Harbor’s eve, doll, when I was only twelve. Why those slant-eyed Japs panicked me right back home, that’s for sure. Back to my Pappy’s rough wet kisses. Right back into the path of his loving leather belt.”
“What does that have to do with me, you racist whore?” I yelled. “I’m not going home, Mother. I’m going to finish my novel. And I’m going to rid myself of you, I swear I am, goddamn it! So piss off!” I snatched up my daypack, my money belt, and I bolted. Thankfully, the guesthouse lobby was filled with locals and a group of backpackers. The assorted bunch looked up as I bounded down the stairs. I nodded self-consciously as the guesthouse manager motioned me over.
“Good morning, madam. I hope you slept well. You were in a very bad state last night.”
“Yep. Long trip.”
“I would say a long trip,” he trilled, slapping the counter. “Like athlete, you were much covered in sweat, I would be swearing it. You tell me you ran from Connaught. From Ringo Guesthouse.” All the other travelers laughed.
“Good thing you chucked it out of there, mate,” a gal from Australia blurted out. “I threw my swag down there last month and let me tell you, that place is a bloody hell-hole. Bedbugs. Roaches. Flies. Completely infested. Need I say more?”
I smiled and shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak. Not until I chucked Mom out of me.
“Madam, will you please kindly wait?” the manager asked. “I will be needing your passport information for the guest registry.” I sat down beneath a potted palm on a red divan beside three old gentlemen. They were gawking, and I felt self-conscious once more. Putting my hands together as if in prayer, I greeted them in Hindi, “Namaste,” then looked away. When I glanced back, they were still staring. I smiled. They nodded and continued to stare. One of them mumbled. The other two laughed. I fiddled with my daypack and examined my surroundings. On the wall behind the hotel counter were three gold-framed pictures of Hindu deities. In the middle was the guesthouse namesake, Ganapati, better known as Ganesh, the elephant-headed son of Parvati and Shiva, remover of obstacles, god of new endeavors. On the left was Laxmi, goddess of wealth and prosperity. She held two lotuses, one in each hand. On the right was my favorite female divinity, Saraswati, goddess of learning and the arts. In her arms she held a veena, a sitar-type instrument. Each picture had a garland of marigolds hanging around it, and sandalwood incense burned below. Hoping that these aged fellows spoke at least a little English, I broke the pendent calm by pointing at the pictures and naming them, as well as each one’s significance. The three men wobbled their heads, seemingly impressed by my comprehension of their religion. Then the man in the middle reached into his pocket and removed his wallet, fumbled through it with leathery hands, and handed me a plastic calendar card from the previous year with a colorful picture of Ganesh on it.
“For your many safe travels, madam,” he said, and I felt a warmth inside, similar to the feeling I’d had the night before with Babaji.
“Shukriya,” I answered, thanking him in Hindi. He responded by pressing his hands together and bowing. The other two men followed suit, then they departed.
“Madam, your passport?” the manager reminded me. When he saw it was American, he smiled. “My nephew is in New York City,” he stated proudly. “He works in the World Trade Center. Eighty floors up. I cannot imagine being up there so high.” I nodded as I filled out the guest book.
“Sir, where can I buy clothing and snacks?” I asked.
He clicked his tongue and laughed. “Why madam, you are in the Pahar Ganj. The main bazaar. When you step outside you will find best shopping all around.”
I made my way out into the daylight of Old Delhi and found pure, unadulterated chaos.
“Chai! Chai! Chai! Garam chai! Masala chai!” a tea walla yelled into the moving throng of mad-people-flesh: women in silk saris, men in cotton kurtas, brilliant colors bleeding everywhere, silver tassels tinkling on anklets, gold and glass bangles clinking, dancing with the shrill bleating honks of revving auto-rickshaws and the tring-tring-tring of bicycle handlebar bells. The pungent smell of fresh manure was making amour with the sweet scent of jasmine, while the biting whiff of exhaust cut through the stench of a dog’s corpse that was rotting way too close to a desperate snake charmer. As newly dyed textiles hung out above him like war flags in the sun, the snake charmer was trying to entrance a reluctant cobra. A mother was slapping the face of a filthy crying child; a father was telling inflated stories to a solemn-chinned pharmacist who was dispensing his medicines, while a big-bellied butcher looked on in amusement, cleaver in hand, surrounded by the hanging, skinned bodies of red-veined goats. An enormous white ox with lyre-shaped horns was towing a cart through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea. As I reached out to touch his soft damp muzzle, the magnificent beast snorted and flashed his dark eyes serenely at me, and the cart driver smiled. I thought to myself, God, I love this place! Then they converged, the shopkeepers and salesmen. I was but a dribble of molasses on an anthill. All manner of objects, edible and non, were shoved at me from the storefronts, and I was swept up in a hustling whirlwind.
“Yes, please! You like Limca? Fanta? Thumbs up? Bisleri? Bourn Bons? Batteries? Film? Magazine? Newspaper? Perfume? Hats? Agarbathi? Blouses? Very good prices.”
I stopped and looked at the goods in one shop, to the consternation of the other shopkeepers.
“I’ll take a large bottle of Bisleri water, some candles, and that incense over there, yes, that Mugal Murti Googal Doop, please,” I said to a greasy-haired shopkeeper who was all smiles.
“Fancy bindis for your forehead? Amla Shampoo? Parachute Coconut oil? Medimix Soap? Vicco Turmeric creme?”
“No. That’s all. Thanks.”
“Perhaps some Biddis, or Charminars?”
“Nope. I don’t smoke. But thanks,” I said, paying him. I took a few steps and swilled some water under the gleaming sun. Another man blocked my way. He was amazingly fair, with a prominent proboscis and smoky blue eyes.
“Madam, see my shop. Nice Kashmiri shawls and carpets. Best prices.”
“No, thank you.”
“Oh, please, only for looking. Looking no charge.”
“It’s my first day. So, no thanks. I’m just wandering.”
He displayed teeth that reminded me of keys on an antique piano. “You very beautiful, madam. Your husband lucky man. You have husband, no?” He was walking beside me, refusing to give up.
“Yes, I have a husband. And he’s much bigger than you,” I replied, continuing down the crazy bazaar. But he was relentless.
“Where is your husband?” he asked, unabashed.
“What’s it to you?” I laughed. He said nothing. He just kept his stride beside me, smiling. “Look. It’s really none of your business. You’re awfully nosey, you know. What do you want from me, anyway?” Stupid question. His Wurlitzer smile widened.
“I want you look in my shop. That’s all. I also sell tickets to Rajasthan. Best prices.”
Now he had my attention. Fifteen minutes on the streets of Delhi, and I knew that this was not the place to conjure demons or to be creative.
“Tickets to Rajasthan, you say?” After all, I hadn’t fared so badly last night, bartering with that taxi driver. I’d arrived safely. It wasn’t his fault that my chosen hotel had been full. I’d be just fine with this clown. But I was naive regarding the ways of the golden-tongued Kashmiri salesman.
“Right here, madam. My shop.” By the time I was finished, I’d purchased a deluxe bus ticket to Jaipur, a roundtrip ticket for the second-class sleeper train from Jodhpur to Jaisalmer, a half-day taxi tour of Delhi for the following day, and a blue paisley cotton salwar kameez. All this put me out forty-six hundred rupees. One hundred big ones. Heck, I was in the desert on a sweet camel named Mahbuba by the time I realized I’d paid seventy dollars too much for it all. Oh, well, two days’ subsistence down the drain. Lesson learned. Not as travel savvy as I thought I was. It was going to take some practice, this bartering thing. I’d have to be wiser in the future.
After sending an email of reassurance to Warren and my sister, Brooke, telling them I was alive, well, and all but contrite over abandoning my life, I headed back to the guesthouse to relax, but the churning guilt inside wouldn’t allow it. In fact, I’d been fighting an oppressive feeling of anxiety ever since that terrible argument with whisperthing, accusing talons of judgment ripping at my sternum, making it difficult to breathe. I sprawled out on the bed and tried to read my guidebook but couldn’t focus. I looked at my watch. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon, so I closed my eyes and pretended I was cuddled up with Warren and the girls.
Then my eyes flew open. Oh, my precious brown-eyed Warren, with his sturdy arms, arrogant jaw, and unruly blond hair. Was he asleep right now? Or was he staring at the ceiling, cursing his estranged, lunatic wife? The letter I’d left had explained my dilemma, but was it enough? And what about my little twin pixies, always together like a pair of matching bookends, with their father’s doe eyes and my cinnamon-brown hair? Were they suffering over my abandonment?
With doubts asphyxiating me, I slipped into an unpleasant dreamscape filled with screaming in-laws and crying baby daughters, and a particularly cruel slumbervision in which I returned to Seattle to find a strange, beautiful woman occupying my house, holding my laughing girls while my husband threw various objects at me, telling me to get lost because I was no longer needed. Thankfully, I was pulled from this obnoxious siesta by a pounding at my door.
“I’ll be right there,” I yelled, confused. Morning already? Back home, yes. But not here. My digital travel clock read in Indian Standard Time: 7:25 p.m. Tues 9/11.
Hmm? 911, I thought as the obstreperous banging continued. What could possibly be the emergency? “I’m coming, I’m coming, hold on now, would you?” I barked. Then I yanked open the door. Standing there with tears rolling down his face was the guesthouse manager. He reached out and grabbed my forearm.
“Madam, something terrible is happening,” he said, his face gnarled in anguish. “Hurry come downstairs. You must see.”
I stood rigid, unable to digest his words. “Is there a fire? Should I grab my things?” I cried, trying to pull away. But he wouldn’t have it. Holding my wrist in a vice-like grip, he desperately tugged at me, carrying on incoherently, so I slammed the door with my free hand and followed. We went down the stairs and into the lounge, where all the guests were gathered around a small TV, grave looks plastered on their faces.
As I looked at the screen, I gasped. A silvery skyscraper building stood with smoke pouring from a horrible gash in its side, a noxious cloud wafting up like a dragon’s breath into the blue sky above. But wait. A second skyscraper just behind. Why, yes. I recognized these buildings. I was looking at the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. No wonder the guesthouse manager was two turns from hysteria.
His nephew worked there. He’d mentioned it when he took my passport information.
“Oh, Allah,” he kept saying over and over, standing there beside me, ringing his hands, then raking them over his face.
“Reports confirm that an aircraft has hit the north tower, though the type is unknown . . .” were the words rattling out of the box from CNN World News. I was stunned.
“A freak accident?” I gasped, shaking my head. But what came next over that sad little cathode ray tube proved beyond a gut-felt doubt that it was much worse than that.
4 ~ The Darkest Day
It was as if the second plane plunged through my rib cage and into my heart, forcing flames out through my spine, so completely did I feel what my eyes were seeing. “Oh, God,” I gasped as I collapsed into a chair.
“Easy, mate,” the Australian said, the one who’d spoken to me earlier, as she came and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. Tears welled up and I could no longer see the terrible images, nor could I make out the words tumbling from the reporter’s lips.
“It’s a terrorist attack,” I gasped, pounding fists on knees. “That’s the only explanation. And here I am in India, away from my husband and children.” I turned to the poor guesthouse manager, who looked as though he were dying. “Your nephew works there,” I blurted out. “Is there anyone you can call?”
He wiped his cheek. “No, madam. He was in America alone. I raised him. He is like a son to me . . .” His words trailed into a sob that sent white-hot pain all through me.
“Let me call home. Maybe my husband can find something out for you,” I choked out over the lump in my throat. I started to get up, but the Aussie stopped me.
“Forget it, mate. It’s hard enough getting a call out of India on a good day. You won’t get a local operator under these circumstances, let alone an international one.” So we sat helpless, pinned to the screen as more horrors unfurled.
It was grotesque, like a bad Hollywood movie, all special effects and heavily laden with glass, metal, paper, plastic, wood, fiber, and heart-and-soul flesh plunging to the ruthless bitumen below. Please, someone tell me that those are stunt people hanging from those windows, screaming, crying, begging for help that they knew would never come, as some gasped their last brave good-byes before swan-diving to the street to escape a much worse fate. God, I shouldn’t be watching this. But I couldn’t bring myself to look away. I felt like a morbid voyeur as I watched first the south tower crumble, then the north tower. Word came in that a third hijacked aircraft had hit the Pentagon, and then there was yet another report, of a fourth hijacked plane and its subsequent crash somewhere south of Pittsburgh and just north of hell.
I buried my face in my hands. The world’s gone completely mad. And I had thought it was only me. Hardly. I was nothing more than a loony microcosm of a greater whole, a minor representation of a larger slapdash picture, a muddled speck on a living canvas brimming with confusion and ignorance, where fools varnish with complacency and cowards paint with blood. And here I was, suspended in between. Creator. Absconder. The eccentric runaway artist. How the hell would I ever find a meaningful place in my world now? Never mind finding a warm fuzzy spot in the hearts of the people I loved most amidst an unfolding tragedy in which thousands of lives had been lost right before my peeled-back eyes, and I was a million miles from home. Worse yet, gut instinct told me that I was very close to the perpetrator of these horrors, though I dared not voice it, sitting in the company of both Hindus and Muslims. I glanced around. The guesthouse was Hindu-owned, but the manager’s name was Mr. Rashid. I’d heard one of the cleaning boys call him that. He was Muslim. As my belly made a growling accusal at the man I suspected to be responsible for these terrible crimes, his name spilled silently onto my lips.
Osama-bin-Laden-militant-Islamic-terrorist-Supreme … holed up nearby, just a country leap frog away, somewhere in the desolate mountainscapes of Afghanistan.
“I assure you, madam. Bin Laden is no true Muslim,” Mr. Rashid said to me out of the blue. Whoa! Did he read my mind? Or had I unwittingly spoken out loud?
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to …
“He is a murdering pig-lover and I curse him,” he exclaimed, and spat on the white marble floor. A young boy ran forward from the shadows to swab up the man’s ire, then, mouse-like, disappeared again. I closed my eyes because nothing seemed real. When I reopened them, I gazed at the dozen or so travelers who were standing in front of the droning television—four male students from Japan, an older man from Germany and his Italian wife, three lovely British twenty-somethings, a yellow dread-locked wannabe yogi from Sweden, and a handsome newlywed couple from Israel. Everybody was heartbroken and shell-shocked. We were as one in the face of this tragedy, knowing that nearly every race, creed, and religion was represented in the souls buried there on that tiny slip of an isle known as Manhattan. Yes, even half a world away, we could sense our collective innocence lost, trapped there, forever entwined with the dead in a smoke-choked, hideous mass grave.
“Please. Take some rest. It is late and there is nothing to be done,” Mr. Rashid said, all forlorn. “I will let you know if anything else happens.”
The Aussie nudged me. “Could it get any worse, mate?” she whispered, but I didn’t have the strength to reply. I stumbled back to my room and stared up at the ceiling as it collapsed on me again and again. I fought off visions of airplanes, metal and fiberglass tubes like the one I’d been trapped on the night before, as they morphed into perfect fuel-filled bombs. Then I asked myself that impossible question, Why do these terrorists hate my homeland so much? I answered, Because they’re jealous of America. But no, that was an over-simplification. It would be like saying America had been jealous of communism; that we invaded Cuba and Vietnam and carried on a cold war with Russia, all in the name of envy. No, that definitely wasn’t it. What I was looking at, what the world was looking at, was good old-fashioned fear. Communism had once been a threat to everything America stood for, just as the West now seemed to be a threat to this particular belief system—assuming that Bin Laden was indeed responsible—which was driven by a corrupt version of Islam and a misguided hatred of America, the so-called Great Satan. Yes, this very well could be a continuation of the holy war initiated by Osama himself with the first World Trade Center attack in 1993, followed by the bombings of the U.S. embassies in Africa, and the assault in Yemen on the U.S.S. Cole. Modern-day jihad. Too soon to tell, though I was willing to slap down a big fat bet.
Then I thought of Mother’s whisperthing on the airplane over, as well as right here in this room. I ran away on Pearl Harbor’s eve, doll. Why the hell had she mentioned that? Little did I know that people were already equating this terrorist attack with that infamous day. But that wasn’t the reason she’d brought it up. Truth be known, my mother’s disclosure had been a terrible premonition, a full-out psychic moment from me, Little Miss Full-out Psychopath.
“Nice,” I said, throwing off the fluffy blanket and rising from the bed. “I should start my own psychic hotline. Like Miss Cleo. But I’ll be Madam Karma. Swell.” At that, there was a brisk knock on my door. “Yes?” I answered, opening the door just a crack, reluctant to look bad news in the face. There like before, with tears wetting his eyes, was Mr. Rashid. Only this time, they were tears of joy, so I threw open the door. “He’s alive,” I cried. “Your nephew’s alive!”
“Yes! Allahu Akbar. I received an email, madam. My nephew is in California. He is on business. Praise be to Allah.”
I shook his hand with both of mine. “Indeed, Mr. Rashid. Praise be to Allah. I’m so happy for you. We needed this good news.” As he left, elated, I closed the door and fell against it, mentally and physically exhausted. It was 6 a.m.
“Delhi tour’s in three hours,” I said, realizing that I had not the wherewithal to sore-thumb it through crowds, where I would have to face questions to which I had no answers. I was numb over the terrorist attack and felt completely insignificant, even smaller than I’d felt before. And seeing as how my life was barely worth the paper that my passport was printed on, I made a snap decision. The girls were safe with War and Granny, this I knew. But I was still a bag of chips shy a picnic, so there was nothing else to do. I had to carry on. I had to heal myself. So I bounded down the stairs for a word with Mr. Rashid, who was sad at the news that I was leaving, but at the same time agreed with the wisdom of it.
“Bilkool,” he agreed in Hindi. “There are extremists even here in India, madam. An anti-U.S. morcha is already in the works at the Jama Masjid, and a person phoned only moments ago claiming to be a reporter, asking if I had any American lodgers. Of course I told him no, and he became quite agitated.”
“Wonderful,” I said, feeling perspiration sprouting on my palms. “Am I in danger, then?”
“Not if you go on to Jaipur, madam. Rajasthan is primarily Hindu. I would suggest for you to be cautious in Ajmer and any mosque area, but other than that, I believe you will be quite safe. Right now, I think some people are muddled. We Muslims are a passionate lot. Please do not think badly of us.” He put his hand over his heart. “Here is a card for Hotel Dream. The owner is a friend of mine. I will phone and tell him that you are coming.”
“That’s so kind, Mr. Rashid. Thank you. And here’s my husband’s business card. If your nephew is ever in Seattle, please tell him to ring us up. I’d be so happy to meet him. And if you ever visit America, Mr. Rashid, of course you’ll always be an honored guest in my home.” At that, his smile set the room ablaze and almost made me cry. “Thanks, again. I’ll return for my belongings after breakfast.”