The Bernadette - A Serendipitous Diary of Lost Lives

                  

         FOR

                                                          Aseem Chaturvedi

                                                          Vikram Russell &

                                                              Amit Babu

                               OM AH HUM VAJRA GURU PADMA SIDDHI HUM

1998, Delhi

Most stories start with once upon a time;

But some stories are never on time.

When I started this, Meghna was only three. She hadn’t even walked yet.

Pankaj always used to say, “Life is a poppat. Poppat maina tota, tota maina poppat maina parrot…” I wonder why he stopped talking.

Meghna met Pankaj over the garden fence when they were both four; which is when I lost the desire to know more. Kalyani, my wife, never liked Mohini, Pankaj’s maternal familiars because she wore three bindis instead of the usual one. Their bickering always came down to that. And this… of course. The rambling of mad men is never pleasing.

1975, Munich

It all began when Chacha told me something extremely profound.

“The Jews have been talking wrong all these years, or maybe we’ve been listening incorrectly,” he said one afternoon over masala beers.

“It’s not ‘yaa way’,” he drawled, enunciating clearly, “It’s ‘yuh wuh’… this and that...here and there. We forgot to worship the time we live in… craving always for tomorrow and losing respect for yesterday.”

“Jah,” I said.

1983, Delhi

Chacha introduced me to Kalyani at Anup’s house last June. He and Norah had just moved into this picturesque barsaati in Defence Colony; with a new Maruti in tow. Chachu and Chachi, or rather Manu and Suhita, always kept a firm grip on things, being Meghna’s god-parents after all.

I may have fallen in love with Kalyani only because she is a chemist. A childhood crush on Chachi having transferred itself to another healing woman.

2001, Delhi

Siddharth and Tyagi Baba have just returned from their monthly sojourn to Haidakhand. “Meeting trees with memory really unlocks your perspective,” says Siddharth taking off his socks and stretching his toes. Tyagi Baba nods knowledgably. “Nothing is not evil,” he says mournfully. “But some things are, no?” asks Siddharth sagely.

Tyagi Baba laughs. “What are things?” he asks back, even more sorrowfully.

1984, Delhi

Getting drunk is getting painful. Saw a Sardarni being raped and butchered, all with the same knife while I hid behind the curtain. Drank... threw up… drank some more… kept drinking. Now all I see is her.

1955, Bardez, Goa

My cycle’s got another flat tyre. Bizarre! Thought I had told Filsu to fix it… although the boy at the pump did a pretty fine job of it. One thing I’ve always learnt from children…is that energy is rampant and infectious. It never grows old... after all what are we but existence in consciousness... or rather within.

I forget how old I am some times and maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Filsu keeps telling me to act my age. How can you act out an age?

1962, Delhi

Chachi’s just back from the front. She’s been nursing the 6^th Paras in China. Amazingly amidst all that sabre-rattling, she found a dealer in medicinal herbs. Now she plans to take on big pharma.

1985, Delhi

Meghna’s learnt a new word from Pankaj and Kalyani is none too pleased. She’s been yelling ‘bhenchodh’ every five minutes. Chachi tells Kalyani to wash Meghna’s mouth with soap. Meghna yells bubbly ‘bhenchodhs’ throughout the house.

1979, Darjeeling

Kurt Baba and Tyagi Baba have hatched a plot to drive me insane. And I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what it is. They keep talking about nothing and finger pointing bodhisattvas everywhere. Kalyani wants to kick them out of the house for a month now as they keep pointing at her breasts and repeating, almost trance-like, “One is where we come from, one is where light comes from.” She wants to know where they come from.

And I’ve completely forgotten.

1995, Bombay

Sahej and Sarab have come out of the closet; mighty brave of them in this age. Kalyani says I need to come out of the closet too. I’ve started doubting the sense memory of my penis. Sex with Kalyani has never been a bugbear. She wants it, I provide it; when she doesn’t want it, I flog it…or play some drums. Basketball is good yoga too.

I forget how old I am.

1981, Delhi

Miss Ismail from across the street came by with Mohini to return Chachi’s pressure cooker. It was a nice Sunday till she showed up with a broken handle. Kalyani told her to wear it like a helmet and get out before she threw a book at her.

“Milarepa, Padmasabhava,” I said. She threw the book at me instead.

1962, Bardez, Goa

Being from Goa has its perks…it’s never a holiday, it’s always a homecoming. And being with good friends and trusted family is that added flavour to the sorpotel.

Lots of the crowd are getting jittery with the change in power; the ham radio operators are on over time after a few fenis. Bob tells me to ignore the leaders and follow parking meters. Maybe it’s an American thing. I tell him to go to Benaras and try and find a parking meter there.

Kalyani kicks me under the table, her eyes saying I shouldn’t be telling people where to go and how to get off. That’s her job. Being a Brahmin is hard work.

1933, Botswana

I’ve been trudging through this muck with the boys for weeks now. We all have leeches on our heels. Except for the phoenix Lakhwinder saw in the marsh three days ago, it’s been a pretty boring war. Surjeet says the ‘phoenix’ was really a peacock on fire. We scoff. He protests, “But the peacock also has the consciousness to transform its self.” Lt. Stephen orders him to wash his mouth out with soap and stop listening to Beethoven so much. Sgt. Francis rolls his eyes.

1965, London

Chachi says my underwear is too shabby. Chacha thinks they’re pretty durable. Mum and Dad don’t care, so long as I wear a belt. He gives me one that he says he got from China. Chachi slaps him. “I got that for you,” she snarls.

Why do we make it so hard on ourselves? It’s only appearances for Chrissakes! Oh well, dance with the girls and wrestle with the boys, like my grand-dad used to say. “We’re all experience in consciousness,” he would boom. And grand-ma would tell him to go wash the curtains.

We’re so bound by meaningless words. It’s just underwear.

Shambala is always possible with fearless mothers who lack nightmares. Maybe Chachi’s seen too much at the front.

There was also that fling she’d had then with the army truck mechanic. Chacha chose to ignore it till he found out the mechanic’s real time profession was dealing in medicinal herbs. Things were cool after that, for quite a while.

1932, Natal, South Africa

Mohandas has some big ideas but I think he’s too much of a dreamer. Like black will ever shine... ass.

“A donkey is a very sensitive animal,” he responds eloquently, “they commit suicide if badly treated.” Kalyani tells him to get off his high horse and have lunch. Politely, he asks not to be yoked to our family’s conundrums. Kalyani grins widely at him and shovels more rice into his plate. It’s always the college friends that are the thickest. Rajneesh is another whacko. Kalyani thinks the four of them – Kurt Baba and Tyagi Baba included – should just get a room and shag each other. Rajneesh seemed excited at the prospects.

1959, Darjeeling

Another hail storm today; Tenzin almost lost his shirt. Thankfully I had Chacha’s Chinese belt. “What is with the memories of trees?” Tenzin asks Tyagi Baba. Tyagi Baba laughs mournfully and shakes his head with sorrowful joy.

“Leaf it,” he says.

“Not knowing …is also knowing,” he adds, passing the chillum to Tenzin.

“Trees don’t take each so seriously,” he adds some more, guffawing madly.

“Everyone wants to be Buddha, but not be themselves,” he says solemnly, winking at me, “Two thousand years have taken its toll.”

“Draupadi ki Shakti you mean?” asks Tenzin exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Tyagi Baba looks distracted. “What are these cavities in space?” he asks a passing spider.

1994, Delhi

Pankaj has been name-dropping again. This time he’s trying to lure Meghna to go see Michael Jackson in Bombay. The world will cry when that man dies.

Kalyani and Chachi were talking about him the other day. “Now that’s how black shines,” says Chachi sagely. “Really?” asks Kalyani.

“Please release me,” I warble. Kalyani gives me a kick. “Wrong singer, fool,” she says. I’ve forgotten how old I am.

1965, Bombay

Past life therapy is so regressive. Chachi’s brother, Samrat Uncle, is a big practioner. His biggest client, Randolph often pimps gullible customers for him. “It’s all about shade,” says Samrat Uncle cryptically. Randolph nods sagely. “Removing the asshole is the hardest part,” he says passing me a beer, “criticism is ingrained.”

“What’s wrong with shit?” asks Samrat Uncle

“I finally found my purpose in life,” I say.

What’s that?” they ask.

“Clean up,” I say.

“Yeah, right,” they laugh.

“Wash your arse with your right hand no…” I plead.

“Ambidextrousness is inborn,” says the sense memory of our genetic monkey.

“Oh God!” says Samrat Uncle.

“Jah!” says Randolph, “That bitch is still on our backs.”

“Addicted to tradition, are we?” I ask

“It’s not like nothing happened,” says Samrat Uncle.

1926, Darjeeling

It’s all magic now... a penny for your thoughts and a trunk of gold for your dreams. London has come to Bombay and Calcutta has invaded England.

The fine dance of consciousness has begun. Praise be to HPB and the Church of Mary.

Finally maybe soon people will see why. Finally soon people will remember the land before their countries.

Maybe we’re done with the imposed sacrifices and wisdom will reign in the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Everything is just blowing in the wind.

The eternal footprints of the star signs have begun to fructify. Take that and chew your cereal with it. What is up, anyway?

And when we learn that ‘bastard’ is really anupadaka – the parentless energy which births worlds, we will forget abuse and stop cursing each other.

1987, Munich

Lionel says it’s not possible. Tyagi Baba doesn’t care and Kalyani would rather get a pedicure. A generation is being destroyed and everyone’s forgotten that trees also dream. Vladimir wants his bomb, Moammar can’t get enough of the boobs and Indira is still alive. Everyone wants to be the lead character without understanding the story of everyone else’s lives.

1975, Darjeeling

Rani Ghose chose to be where the wind is. But the Gobi is where there’s too much of it. Searching for the soul of Genghis is hard work with not a drop of gin to drink. But then she’s never been an alcoholic; her flow is different.

1986, Delhi

The last thing I remember was Baldev howling at the picket. Cops have never had it so hard. And we’re making it harder for everyone in uniform to clear their perspective. From ‘convent’ schools to clergymen to cops… the damage is certain, but then like Tyagi Baba says, “Every disease has its cure.” Dad tells him to suck on an amla.

1924, Paris

“When the atom asks itself, ‘who was the photon?’ what will happen?” asks Kurt Baba blearily.

“What’s wrong with your body?” asks Kalyani wearily.

“I want magic... real jadoo,” he says

Chachi tells him to sweep the terrace.

“Kalki’s cavalry is all in our heads,” he responds, picking up the broom.

Kalyani shakes her head and dances out to her yoga class.

1988, Bombay

Mukul and Imaad tell Tyagi Baba to chill. He can’t stand the silence they create.

Mum tells them all to listen to Chachi.

“Be relentlessly fearless,” says Chachi, “Like a bumblebee in a windshield wiper.”

The lucid chain of reason is being brought to its conclusion.

1936, Istanbul

Mowgli will never look at Kaa the same way again. Now that he knows that being brought up with wolves has destroyed his affinity to tigers. One day he will swallow Orwell too.

The ship to Timbuktoo left without being booked and the jaundiced European doesn’t know what hit him. When Hitler saw stars, he was in the ghetto. Andre tells me to wash my mouth with soap.

2012, Delhi

Abhay says laughing is all it is.

Mayank can’t care less

Dad says to join his business

Enough with the rivers of fire already

We have forgotten the baolis.

Norah says to come away with her

Anup couldn’t agree more

Chachi couldn’t care less

Tyagi Baba wants to know where

I can’t wait

Vladimir says to go for it

And then the deluge walked in the door

Even the banyans bowed their mighty heads.

Tshering walks in to see what’s up; he thinks I should go to Kalimpong. Amitabha wants me to go to Somnath. Maybe I should clone myself

Barack says if I stop calling him a chicken, he might actually do something about it. But I can’t help myself, ‘barack’’ is what a chicken says. “Wrong,” he says, “that’s a frog’s call.

The garden of Gethsemane is growing again and the kibbutz is coming home, as the crow flies, as the grace descends.

Tyagi Baba disagrees. “Grace has always been with us. Television’s sped us up too fast; we haven’t been able to allow it in.”

Chachi’s trash is about to become the world’s treasure.

1945, Darjeeling

The train to Asansol is chugging out of Siliguri and none of the Japs are getting off. The flames of wrath are being stoked by powers that wannabe. Hitler thought he was a vehicle when really he was a puppet.

The world will have to live with this wretched war propaganda. When will we learn to cool it? I hope the next maha-kumbh throws up the next crop of bodhisattvas.

Already women are being lured to don cosmetics tested on fearful animals. I don’t know that will affect their heads. Two thousand years have taken its toll.

1974, Delhi

The madmen have decided they want to harvest our genitals. This is taking ball-grabbing to a whole other level. Don’t they know their own families will have to pay for this wanton destruction? The world is theirs too. Shame on you Sanjay, Jagdish and Kamal…

I’ve drunk my wine and listened to many a whine; still it is not yet time to cross the Rhine. Hitler saw stars in the ghetto. Kapil Dev says I should stop writing.

The microwave war is hotting up and there’s an electric sword growing out of my right fist. Maybe it’s the force from Star Wars, but the again it’s probably my erupting Achilles’ heel coming out finally …now that fearless mothers are being eroded by cosmetics and beauty magazines.

2016, Buenos Aires

We’ve forgotten the music of flies and the sound of the Holy Whun. But then again, meeting born-again buddhas is a quite a relief; maybe they will remember the old songs; because the fearless mothers are forgetting their knuckle blessings.

The world is home when we go with our stars and allow others to as well. We’ve forgotten how to read each others’ stories and have strayed from oneness.

Vladimir says we’re good to go, and Barack has reined in his frogs.

Burn my voodoo doll please. When did we become grammar Nazis?

I forget how old I am.

2021, San Palermo

When the horses of fire race around the vast mountain of cool, they will forget their manes, names and all turn lame.

Our generation is seven years old and we still have not reined in slavery. When did work become ‘naukri’? Who told us we are born servants?

When Tyagi Baba said to eat his body and drink his blood, he really meant he wanted us to chew his mind not turn into cannibals.

The Sound of Music has jailed us to only think in scales

1901, London

The destruction of nature is steaming along and we are clueless. Garth Brooks says country music is three chords and the truth. Ruth Powell disagrees: “Music can’t be so ruthless,” she says. The automatic vision of the unborn will lead the way when we allow the mountain to be captain and commander. The tragedies of partitions will transform into time’s tumescent lingam.

The death of Kalimpong will bring the rise of Vishnu because the end is only a bend in the river of karma when Shakti comes back to life.

1922, Moscow

When the architects of the lost worlds return their protractors to the ladies, reality will trump destruction. Dad has always been a silly boy. I raise my toast to destruction and ask it thanks. Red means listen not stop or relax and definitely not rage.

And now Indira will sing her heart out beyond full stops. The repository of story does not belong to one person or chemical, however much banks will try and convince us.

Feelings in space are always disrupted by kittens because in the stream of consciousness we often forget we are boatmen on Saraswati.

Vladimir says to look to the Aegean instead.

The candidacy of millions to the job of one has been consigned to the dustbin.

2013, Darjeeling

Pickles is the cosmos, Odie is a volcano, Chikori is the harsh desert while her daughter, Goofy is the bulging ocean. Lucky is happy being spring time. They guard my parents’ door. Bambooli chooses to be with the wind instead; maybe she knows Rani Ghosh from a previous life.

I burn the bridges, they slam the doors; even the windows are just two-way mirrors. Vandalising futures lead us nowhere and the Kwai remembers that. The war of the roads leads us to the knights of the crosses because what you say to cats bounces back at you nine-fold.

2015, Buenos Aires

The heart and bad food tell you not to go that way again.  Vladimir says you can kill him but never consume him. Tyagi Baba agrees whole-heartedly.

When Betsy became a car and mankind began loving its fake horses, one scratch in rush hour leads to dented and painted wives.

Property destroys propriety; even the sphinx wears a hoodie.

We’ve soaked up Meru because conversations are unbound circles; just like karma.

The ego and guilt of previous existences are hangers-on in the living room of our memories. Tango on a tangent instead through the everlasting sale of toughness. When Rani Ghose said she knew the wind, she wasn’t breaking it.

The murderous rampage of illicit ideas will uproot the mushrooms of love. The space between is for story tellers to dictate, even though Hitler also was one.

Friends are separate entities that we trust because they own our memories when substance abuse destroys our ability to see through the purple tales.

I am strapped into a place I don’t understand. Or maybe it’s just the space and this endless circle of rebirth and re-questioning. When will the answer to Godot’s mysteries manifest? Or are we trapped in this continuous chaotic existence in the quest for nothingness?

With feet stretched out on open ledges, toes dangling into the void, Padmasambhava laughs at his selves.

2013, Delhi

Expiry dates of rape cases are pending inquiry still. A five year old girl was raped with a candle and a bottle of oil for four days by her neighbour today. The savagery of destroyed animals has finally entered the human psyche. Jai ho to the British Raj and schizophrenic maharajas now that Mowgli has been unleashed.

Being deliciously half deaf means I get to savour every word I think you said.

While the voices in my head keep up the running commentary of bored spectators. As far as I can tell its two guys and a girl who keep up the same bored awed banter of whatever I think.

The second I ascribe them to people I know, they get stronger; my equation with those people loses or gains strength by this association when I change the person I ascribe each voice too. It can get quite entertaining in the quiet times.

 But then they are the clowns in my head who make me believe I’m the ringmaster of my life. Did the first Egyptians have the same hallucination?

2010, Darjeeling

My prehistoric war club is the gear-stick to parallel universes when not masquerading as a door-stop. The ghosts have departed but the animals remain. My head has never been clearer; but still shiny floors remind me of upskirt shots.

Dubstep is sound saying ‘stay humble and dance’ while radio jockeys think they are all Kalki.

What is difference between fame and remembrance? Padmasambhava has outlived his 15 minutes now that Arnab has taken over. People so want things to be ‘over’; as if life was a war or a Ram Gopal Varma movie.

Hitler saw stars in the ghetto and Mitterrand said “folie à deux” to that.

Rafting is not an option on Saraswati when she is in spate; you need your own yacht with Shakti TM navigation. Of the 641 unwritten stories I have in my head, maybe this one will fart its way out as the metaphysical electric shield on my left arm envelops my memories.

1999, Varanasi

The strength of Varanasi is untold; the staccato stories of yesteryear, of places, spaces and lost races. The captured wheels of time’s DNA will unwind through the water.

“Blue begets blue with me and you,” whispers the Ganga gratefully.

Kurt Baba says its time to play the drums, twirling his shiny moustache. I whistle at the birds instead.

Once it is all out, the raven will knock back a cold beer

Tyagi Baba says to wink at Sharad and remember where my mother came from.

Tickets on loan are never cheap; democracy failed the republic when the rule of the home was corrupted. The rage of the jalopies continues unabated. India should quit the pits and enter the fruit because without seeds, where will we find shade?

Mowgli, please meet Milarepa.

Banish Kipling to the dark side of the moon; he can sulk with Syd and allow Kalidas to warble again. The poverty of ignorance sends shivers down my spine.

“When in doubt, dance,” says Milarepa.

Nalanda agrees, Tagore giggles to himself in the reeds, masturbating his mind away.

The errand boys of justice and dharma are realising they’re the berserkers to the way to the Krita.

I forget how old I am.

Atal whispers, “Atoot!”

Manali is never far from my heart. Now even Nicholas is chuckling quietly to himself.

2001, Manali

Driftwood sounds like rushing water or maybe that’s the air-conditioner; engineering conditions for nowness is never easy. “Yuh, wuh, jah,” says Chacha.

Trees are mansions to lost souls but Vikramaditya says to chill, all they do is nag,in between the guiding.

I’ve exorcised the sword in my fist thanks to some other vibrational sentience. Now to free Kunti from British cursing because looking at books is hardly worth the effort without burning them all.

Sita and Draupadi are better off stringing the bows; and not just on wedding gowns and curtains of the mind. They also know a stitch in time can save some dignity.

Press your fingers to your chin and take a good shit because words are dumping grounds for experience but almost never wisdom. The value of education has been lost, much thanks and grace to Macaulay.

We can all exercise jugaad when ganja is legalised for responsible entrepreneurs. “BRIC by BRIC ooh babay, we’re gonna go solarrr…,” sings Meghna. “Where did this word ‘god’ come from, papa?” she asks.

The emancipation of gud or the sweetness of humility and creation will only occur when the British acknowledge they’ve been complete twats by losing everything in translation;

And all of this over pepper, bloody pepper…

Bholenath’s sense of humour is intact. “When everyone is a storyteller, the space between is gud,” he whispers.

“Keep distance and use dipper at night,” says Tyagi Baba.

Mohandasda and the King just did a back touch handshake alleyoop and flipped the world. Cassius stung the Caucasians and called them ‘brother’ but Bob insists on Desolation Row because of Madurai and Murphy.

And then three billion Robin Hoods rained an arrowstorm into Murphy’s Laws.

The parrots of doom say, “Its only mood baby, go back into the marsh with your assorted monsters.”

Alcohol beggars self-belief when the over-dynamics of time begin to make nonsense.

‘Rascal!” says Tagore and Icarus changes to fibre instead, because the exit is the elixir.

“Meru is Kashmir,” states Tyagi Baba, “If the Buddha were alive today, he’d be begging for film funding.” When there are so many of them, why do we make the same mistake twice?

1979, Delhi

Great minds don’t think alike if they’re on the same page, because they read different books.

When the Sphinx lost its nose, the Jews were none too pleased.

When we remember the intelligence of gamma rays, the lint from our navel will disappear.

Voice boxes are not the only radiation of the heart, because we are still feelings in space.

The British must pay for binding us in their schizophrenic stories; and then Mowgli will know Sher Khan is really Shakti; and rebel panthers have lost causes; and lazy bears belong in private forests.

Swallowing antidotes of cod liver oil to alleviate the roadways of acidity through the system of perpendicular holocausts will always bring about strong reactions.

I forget how old I am.

The silence of the deeps still calls those who flow with their own time.

The illiterate are not ignorant of spaces, places and faces;

The young are not ignorant of races, cases and fracases.

The fresco of Padmasambhava continues to paint itself;

Michelangelo was also a dolphin whose brushes surged through the colours of infra-red, gamma, microwave, x-ray, ultraviolet and mustard prawns.

The last ride of the Valkyries will be fuelled by great food; but where are the chefs, the green-grocers and clean butchers?

The last lobotomy of wannabe powers has begun and Dick Cheney will also fly out with the flame-haired warrior queens when they ride out to meet the Annunaki.

When the electric giants return, only fearless mothers will be able to serve them tea.

Keeping it in the family for generations has warped the way we read stories; we’ve forgotten we are the twelve tribes of the zodiac, lost under a haze of our own pollution.

“Yuh, wuh, yah,” says Chachi.

“Finally you agree with me,” says Chacha, “But we’re still not on the same page.”

“I’m all over your book,” says Chachi, “And you’re worried about a page?”

Chacha digs his nose and looks at Tagore who walks out in a huff.

2002, Delhi

Cavities in space

Gaps in nothing

Falling through rising

Still floating

Might as well

Walk down this road

It’s not so swell

But it takes the load

Might as well

Climb that tree

There’s no fee

To ring the bell

Fist full of beggars

Shake change

In your heart

Grab your soul

Instead

First you

Simplify

Then we

Amplify

I see you

Look through you

As do you

Me

You know

I know

Any day

My racing cheetah chariot

Derails your roaring lion

Any day

1980, Delhi

Pankaj is insisting that this story needs a beginning, middle and an end.

Tyagi Baba gives him a banana;

Kurt Baba gives him an orange;

Chachi gives him a tight slap;

Meghna kisses his cheek. “How’s that for an ending?” she asks.

“Ends are only bends in the river of life,” says Chachi.

“Please don’t repeat yourself,” says Chacha.

“What’s the difference between lying and using your imagination?” I ask.

“What’s the difference between ambition and farsightedness?” I ask again.

When Chachi unleashes her imagination, we know what kind of water we live in because there is no pride in accomplishment if it is not part of the river of dreams.

“Even trees dream,” says Tyagi Baba.

“But they don’t write,” says Anup.

Meghna dances into the way.

The burping of incessant ways of rhyme firms up my head to derived conclusions.

But the callousness of confusion has left it all untold.

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