Joe Woke Up.

When Joe awoke each morning the world was still dark and quiet. The cacophony of sounds, the flurry of activity, that all came later. The light would sneak up on him, birds would welcome him back as the trees shook timorously. He appreciated the showing of day, even reveled in it. But he sure didn’t appreciate the buzz-saws when they’d begin their destructive grind or the trucks moving laboriously along the lumber roads.

He‘d moved out onto the island several months earlier. There was nothing, nobody tying him to the city, not anymore. That was just the way it was. He had enough money but not enough peace of mind, felt sure it was out there. And until the machines began saying otherwise it seemed he’d found what he was looking for.

He didn't really wanna leave only felt compelled to. What he wanted was what he’d found and lost. What he wanted was the machinations of civilization to leave him the hell alone. Short of that he seemed left with no alternative, and soon Joe was staring straight into a Mexican sunset.

But although the sunsets were lovely the city was incredibly noisy. It was also crowded smelly and dirty.  But mostly it was noisy, also crowded smelly and dirty. So he got out as quickly as possible, boarded a bus for the town of Xalapa. He’d been told it was a charming peaceful mountain town and perhaps it was. Unfortunately, after nearly ten hours on a rattling old bus Joe arrived smack dab in the midst of carnival time. So he kept on going, to the ocean.

Barre de Navidad was one of those small dusty Mexican beachfront towns where mangy dogs roamed in packs, the roosters were strangely well organized, tourists were mostly young and hotels mostly cheap. Situated an hour north of Manzanillo on the coast highway, five hours south of Puerto Villarta, the little town seemed nice and Joe thought he might stay awhile. But the barking dogs, the crowing roosters and the partying tourists all conspired against him. He packed up his satchel, caught a little fishing boat to cross the bay, walked through a coconut grove to a long white-sanded beach. He climbed up one side of some cliffs and clamored down the other, onto a small private beach, his perfect little spot.

Each day Joe would drink in the soothing isolation. He listened to the surf rolling in. The fish got used to him. The fruit was sweet in the grove. It was a new world for Joe and he liked it, until he saw the sharks. Every morning he’d talk to the falcons in the cliffs. He’d swim around to the grove, pick some fruit before climbing back to his beach. Life was good. Of course he had to swim often. It was hot, really hot. He had to swim. But from the cliffs he saw the ghostly forms and Joe knew then he‘d have to leave.

In Hawaii Joe trekked on down into a dormant volcano called Haleakala. There was the promise of discovering the quietest most peaceful spot on earth, only the flies down there made a constant racket. So he headed to India, the land of mystics, sages, Buddha, Krishna, peace. He got the flu in Belgium, was hauled off the 'Orient Express' in Yugoslavia by rifle-toting border guards just to check him out. He had severe indigestion in Athens, bed-bugs in Istanbul, had his private parts grabbed on a street in Tehran and sent back to Kabul from the frontier for a cholera vaccination he already had.

Joe arrived in Amritsar by train during a stifling heat-wave. The first thing he did was buy a cold-drink at a nearby shop. The proprietor produced a 'campa cola' from out of the refrigerator that was in fact not the least bit cold. He sat against a big tree sipping the warm cola when a bird actually fell off a branch above and landed with a pathetic little thud right beside him.

In Dharmsala he decided to check into the Toshiba retreat centre for a while. The grounds were green, lush, spectacularly private. There were cute little reddish brown monkeys playing in the trees. His small room was in a sprawling white-washed flat-top building and it looked out upon the gardens. What could possibly go wrong? It had a window with shutters and metal bars, no glass, no screens. The door was heavy wood planks hung together with iron hinges that looked like straight outta the middle-ages. There was a friendly old Tibetan who’d feed him, a timeless and pervasive sense of calm all ’round if not within him. And Joe sincerely hoped it would seep in like osmosis as the days passed. But he wasn’t there long enough.

Monkeys, he soon realized, are extremely concerned with three things: feasting, fighting and fornicating. And they're clever. One stole Joe’s favourite shirt off the railing over which he’d draped it, wouldn't return the thing until he forked over some fruit. Almost immediately after, another stole a pair of his undies. Joe told him to keep it but the monkey threw it back anyway. They weren’t nearly so cute as he’d first thought.

There was an overwhelming amount of sexual activity going on all around him. Rather than a calm seeping into his consciousness it was the relentless sights and sounds of the monkeys’ fighting and fornicating getting in. It was terrible. They were rutting in the court-yard, in the trees, on the walls, even in the bath-house. They had no sense of decorum. The memory of their furry bodies slapping together excitedly were images he knew would stay with him.

In Delhi Joe got delhi-belly. In Jaipur the hotels were solidly booked up. There was some sort of international cricket match going on and rooms were all taken. One hotel beside a tire factory finally rented him a rope-cot on the roof at a ridiculous price and after thanking the manager profusely if not sincerely he went on up.

There were hordes of all manner of people up there. Sitting on his cot with his head in his hands Joe watched packs of kids playing wildly while mothers tended pots on kerosene stoves. There was a huge cloud of dark grey smoke wafting up from the market-place below bringing with it the added pungent odours of burning rubber and street-foods. Somewhere someone screamed in horror or pain for whatever reason. The level of noise was deafening, the smells over-powering.

Joe was tired, deeply deeply tired. He wasn’t so sleepy as he was simply tired. There’s a distinction to be made between sleepy and tired, empty, hollow. Sitting on the cot with one leg up and the other dangling off he closed his eyes. There was a pressure in his chest, a quiet sense of desperation as he thought about his life.

Joe was lost deep within the recesses of his mind as he sat there. At some point he shifted, leaned against a pillar that was beside the cot and still he sat. It may have been an hour. It may have been twenty minutes. And every so often he’d ask himself: ‘How in the world have I ended up here?’ But there was no answer, only the constant awful din and pervasive smells.

Eventually of course Joe opened his eyes and looked around. He slowly shook his head as he stood up and stretched. The light of day faded yielding to the other-worldly effect he’d noticed about Indian sunsets. He had become somewhat awed by Indian sunsets even when he couldn’t actually see it. And as he stood beside his cot appreciating dusk it dawned upon Joe that he actually felt good. He actually felt better than good. And that revelation, for that’s what it was, precipitated Joe to sit right back down again on the edge of his cot to wonder.

Not more than a moment later, however, a mostly deflated soccer ball flew up and hit him smack in the face. Wiping the sting from his eyes Joe saw two little guys and a girl standing not far off with expressions of shock and maybe fear. Which for some reason made him laugh as he grabbed the ball and joined the game.

Later on when the kids were called by their respective families Joe retreated to his cot. One of the boys brought him a plate of food. And the thought occurred to Joe that of all the places he‘d looked for peace, that noisy smelly crowded Jaipur roof-top was somehow the best.

The Message.

     It surprised the heck outta Joe that he was awed by the majesty of Indian sunsets. He wasn’t really the type. But there it was: the large orange sun slowly sinking into the hazy distance, magical, mysterious. He couldn’t imagine any sight ever impressing him more but he was wrong.
     In February 1977 at Allahabad the largest group of people to ever assemble with the same purpose met on the banks of the Ganges. Fifteen million souls gathered at the Maha Kumbh Mela, and Joe was one of them. He arrived at dusk and looked out upon the festival from the edge of the town. He’d been in India nearly a year, had long ago recovered from the proverbial culture shock, but this was different. With both the slowly setting sun and the apparent endless sea of humanity stretched out across the plains he felt overwhelmed. And his very first thought was that he‘d surely never see anything like it again.
            He walked for what felt like hours not knowing where to sit, to rest. Rain had made the grounds muddy and there were people everywhere: with cows, horses, camels, elephants, mules and dogs, lots of dogs. Joe saw a man buried up to his neck apparently for many days. He saw a man with one completely withered arm held up high apparently for many years. He saw a man with grotesquely long finger-nails grown apparently forever. He saw so many remarkable fantastic and often bizarre sights arrayed before him as he walked. Groups of yogis chanted, others sat somehow in silence even as grand processions, gurus with their entourages, meandered regally through the mela.
     He got caught up in one of those. The Guru, with bright orange robes and several Rudraaksh malas, clearly renowned, sat on a huge elephant that was covered in bright Rajasthani red and orange carpets. Less ornamental elephants with devotees were trailing. The light was fading as the procession wound its way through. All around people were trying to touch the tail or even the feet of the great man’s mount hoping for blessings. It was incredibly dangerous. The crowd was frenzied. The elephant was increasingly skittish, wild-eyed, tossing its mammoth head, sidestepping. The mahout was freaked but the guru looked as though he was absolutely delighted, laughing and wagging his finger down at the pilgrims.
     An inexplicable force impelled Joe to run alongside. As he ran he remembered hearing how people regularly died at the melas, sometimes trampled, and he felt a little indignant. He had to admit that the guy up there seemed fearless even while the elephant was barely under control. But as he ran alongside Joe kept thinking that a tragedy would certainly be his fault, this great man who put himself above everyone else. Which is exactly when the great man, whoever he was, turned around in his howdah, looked across straight at Joe with a piercing glance that stopped him in his tracks. "O.K. sure," the glance seemed to say. "But tell these people not me."
    In a moment Joe was swallowed by the crowds. A parade of fierce naked Naga babas, sadhus covered in ash carrying alms-bowls or tridents, an ocean of humanity and all manner of creatures passed as he stood there. Ghee lamps along with camp-fires were being lit and he really didn't know how to take it all in. Each step landed Joe ankle-deep in mud and knee-deep in confusion. He was disoriented, tired and there didn't seem anywhere for him, to rest, to recover. Eventually he simply sat down where he was, in the mud. Then he simply lay down where he was, in the mud, while faces swam around featureless, expressionless. And the last of the day-light finally faded.
     When he next opened his eyes Joe found himself in a circle of Yogis. He was dry, comfortable and there was a small fire dancing in rhythm to their chanting. He seemed to have stumbled into a sublime antiquity. Of course he realized he’d been carried, placed on a straw mat but remembered none of it. There was a bowl of jelaybees and curd beside him on the ground. As he took the first spoonful his head immediately exploded with the exquisite taste of it. The deep-fried sugar was like a powerful medicine. He was instantly healed and in fact he did feel great.
     Seeing Joe sitting up, two of the yogis approached. One was a large heavy-set man in white kurta and lungi, long black uncombed hair, unsmiling but not in an unfriendly way. His eyes were unmistakable, distant and quite present at the same time. There was a deeply masculine beauty and dignity about him. People were pranaming as he passed. A young girl tried to touch his feet but he gently stopped her. He stood near while the other sat down on his ankles at the end of the mat. He was smaller, dressed in faded orange kurta and pajama with lotus-seed malas hanging around his neck. He also had long black uncombed hair but a wide smile and he spoke pretty good english:
“What is your good name sir?”
“Joseph, Joe.”
“Ah then you will surely be a great pitaji, father, isn’t it?”
“You know that do you?,” Joe responded feeling all of a sudden again a little light-headed.
“Not to mind. I am Hari only.”
The larger yogi said something in Hindi which Hari acknowledged by pranaming, half rising as Joe asked: “Is he your guru?”
Smiling brilliantly Hari responded: “He’s not my guru or your guru. He is simply guru. We call him Babaji.”
Babaji again spoke and Hari stood. “We will again talk. You are our guest. Rest. Eat.”
And they then both dissolved into the darkness beyond the circle.
     For those next few days that camp became his camp, that group became his group. As far as Joe knew only Hari spoke english but they all communicated with Joe one way or another at one time or another. They gave food, joked, chanted, meditated with him. They taught him the true meaning of the mela. Joe wandered around drinking in all the sights, sounds but he always returned to his group.
     Babaji was certainly some sort of venerated figurehead. Men and women came to pay their respect but there were no processions, no lavish shows of any sort. He seemed to simply command respect by his very countenance. He didn’t speak a lot. The camp life moved with a natural rhythm of its own. Mornings were soft, evenings magical. There was an aura of profound and pervasive peace.    
     Enigmatic as he was, Babaji seemed to know the exact moment Joe decided to leave. Joe saw him motion to Hari who sat down on the mat and immediately began: “You go to Benares isn’t it?”
“How did you know that?,” Joe responded without really being so surprised.
“Babaji requests you to visit his mataji, mama, with a message of love. He has not seen for long time”
“I can do that,” Joe said. ”You’ve all been incredible to me. But does he never go? Benaris isn’t far.”
“He cannot go but you must go. It is surely your destiny.”
     At that point Babaji clapped his hands once and smiled down at the others. It wasn’t much of a smile but the first Joe had seen and it was warm. Babaji reached down, gently raised Joe up, embraced him for a few moments, wiped his eyes gently with strong hands then strolled away. Joe had no choice. He sat back down on his mat with eyes closed for about half an hour. Something remarkable, un-explainable had happened.
     Hindus say Benares was the first city on earth. They certainly consider it the holiest in India. The city’s religious importance grew through the ages: as the Buddha gave his first sermon in nearby Sarnath at 500 BCE, as Adi Shankara established Shiva during the 8th century as its official sect, even as the Muslims ruled through the Middle Ages. It has remained a major cultural and spiritual centre of devotion, pilgrimage, poetry. It was home for Tulsidas, Guru Nanak, Kabir, Akbar.  
     Joe had long been fascinated by the burning ghats where Hindus believed being cremated would ensure their salvation. He wanted to see the temples and forts too. But mostly he wanted to see the ghats. He arrived at the bus station in the evening, immediately jumped onto a pedal-rickshaw and instructed the rather emaciated driver to take him to the Buddhist Vihar hostel. It was a long circuitous route that made Joe feel sorry he hadn’t taken a motor-rickshaw. The driver wasn’t young, he certainly wasn’t strong. So Joe gave a generous tip above the fare once they finally arrived. In the morning, however, he realized the hostel was hardly two streets from the station. That bastard had taken him for a ride, literally and figuratively.
     The only thing Joe had to do before doing what he really wanted to do was deliver Babaji’s message and he wanted to do it first, get it outta the way. He wandered through an intricate maze of narrow alleys asking people for directions along the way. It was a thick market area. At a certain point he wasn’t so sure he’d ever find his way out, whether he found the right building or not.
      Be that as it may he did eventually find himself in front of the address Hari had written, a terribly ancient stone building with ornate but worn-down wooden latticework. There was a balcony Joe suspected nobody should ever step onto, shutters hanging off of one hinge. Far from the beautiful dignified edifice it had obviously once been, its day had long passed. Because of her age of course the stiff and slightly stooped old lady who answered the door seemed quite right for the building. But she still had beauty and dignity, and she had Babaji’s eyes.  
     Language was their immediate problem. Leaving Joe in the doorway the old lady carefully crossed the lane and tapped on a window. Another lady came out, a younger version who Joe surmised was a daughter. She was undeniably beautiful, but it was in the eyes. They chatted for a minute before crossing over together and leading Joe into the house. The house was terribly dark, almost as if in mourning. It was not at all shabby, just dark. Thick curtains were closed. There was only one bare light-bulb. The floor, paneling and most of the furniture was dark wood. The carpets were burgundy-based persian types. They sat down at a large well-polished table with silk flowers in a vase. The younger woman, Radika, spoke English with a lovely British accent and so Joe relayed Babaji’s message. But suffice it to say he did not receive the response he was expecting.
      For a few long moments Radika said nothing. She seemed incapable. The old woman finally prodded her and after hearing the simple message just stared at Joe with a look that could only be described as one of infinite sadness. The room seemed to have become even darker. Joe looked at Radika.
“I’m sorry. I thought...”
“You clearly have the wrong address,” she said softly but firmly.
“No, this is the address.”
As Joe was producing the paper the old lady simply rose and slowly walked out of the room.
Radika also got up rather curtly. “You must go.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just the messenger.”
“Firstly, my brother’s name was Raam Chandra,” she said somewhat indignantly even as her eyes welled up. “And he died in my arms after saving me from some very bad men, four years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. I’m very sorry,” Joe stammered as he moved to the door, until he spotted a photo on the wall. His eyes had adjusted to the light and he saw clearly. “Just a minute. Who is that!?”
“That’s my brother.”
They looked at each other, kept looking at each other, until finally Radika said: “You better come across and have a cup of tea.”

The Jamindars.

The Jamindars.

As I sat in my room at the Buddhist Vihar in Bodh Gaya on a June night I kinda just wanted to be alone. But that wasn’t happening. A tall old man appeared at the door. I didn’t know him, didn’t really want to. He didn’t look good, seemed to carry a lot upon his rounded shoulders. It looked like trouble. His face was deeply lined, his lean frame somewhat unsteady. He had bare feet, obviously tough and hard, almost not like feet at all. His hair was long, beard short, eyes sad or maybe just tired. And I couldn’t help wondering why he was so scared.

The man produced a rather worn-out scrap of paper, a greenish corner torn from some sort of lined school pad. It was a note from Radika: ‘Joe my love, please help this man, Mr. Param Kumar; Radika.‘ That was all I needed, although I still didn’t know what Mr. Kumar needed. Nevertheless merely reading the words ‘my love’ by Radika made me wanna help the old guy. Hell, I woulda given him all my money except there wasn’t much left by then. His english wasn’t so bad. He just kind of mumbled through but I got the gist. Looking down into his hands, every so often looking out the window furtively, expectantly, the man began.

Mr. Kumar told me there’d once been an immensely wealthy patriarch in the area with two very different sons. And that all the trouble started upon the father’s death. Apparently when dad died the more worldly and elder of the two sons ended up with everything: all the wealth, the land, a fabulous house. The other only got one lousy gold finger-ring and a tiny cabin on a tiny tract of land. Also apparently he was perfectly ok with that. Go figger.

As time passed, or so the story went, the brother with the whole estate wasn’t as fortunate with his estate of mind. He argued with his wife, didn’t get along with neighbors. He worried about losing his fortune and never did produce the son he dearly wanted. In fact he became depressed and increasingly envious of his brother who always seemed fine, had a happy wife, and he had a son.

They both grew old and eventually it seemed the poor brother was not long for this world. So the rich one paid him a visit. He wanted to know the secret. He wanted to know how his brother stayed content even up to then. The dying man looked up with a small smile of sorts and said the secret’s not a secret. There was no secret, just a mantra engraved in ancient Pali inside his lousy gold ring. He always wore the lousy ring. In fact he loved it, and he embraced the mantra: 'Annica'. Loosely translated that means ‘this will also change.’
           
Sitting by what turned out to be his brother's death-bed that day and hearing the secret that wasn’t a secret, the poor rich guy made a big decision. He changed his ways. He understood the mantra’s deepest meaning and he changed. Then before his own death, not so very long afterward, he called for his nephew Prakash, to tell him a secret, a real and important secret. He whispered the location of three large metal trunks filled with gold, silver and jewels that he‘d buried on his land. But, and it was a big but, he made Prakash promise to use all the treasure to free their neighbours from the clutches of the greedy dastardly Jamindaars.

That was an easy promise for young Prakash. It coincided with the long-held desire of his pure heart. In fact he and his dad had often pleaded with uncle to use his vast fortune to help the people.

It's an old story of course. The small landowners fall into hard times. The monsoons, drought or infestations ruin the crops. They need a buffalo, a cow, a dowry, whatever, and they borrow. The land is collateral, interest rates are formidable and they effectively spend the rest of their lives under the control of the Jamindaars. Even the children have to pay upon the death of the parents. Their homes are lost. Their lands are effectively lost. They become slave laborers on their own properties, working hard to feed their families and the voracious appetites of their over-lords.

Sometimes the Jamindaars even 'arrange' to have crops sabotaged. People work each day in fields of hard fortune, watching a crimson sun set as they also watch their lives set under the weight of oppressive debt. And all of this, by the way, predated more or less the agrochemical and agricultural biotechnology Jamindars of today. This more corporate-based though similarly cynical and greedy Jamindar, Monsanto, has been accused of not only causing farmers’ widespread debt but widespread suicide.

Meanwhile, it’s easy to fathom the depth of Prakash’s happiness as he left uncle that day. And he wasn’t foolish enough to tell anyone. But uncle must’ve, because Prakash fell deathly ill within a couple of days, poisoned. At first it seemed Prakaash would carry his secret to the funeral pyre. Friends, relations and villagers chanted and prayed.

It may have been the prayers, or the doctors, but Prakash began to rally, a bit. At least he didn’t die. At that point Mr. Kumar stopped his mumbling, looked up and spoke rather more clearly: "Tonight he is alive, though not talking, not eyes open, doctors not hopeful isn’t it? He needs a very particular serum, a drug is needed, from the clinic, one in Delhi only. And we knew not who to trust to collect that. I was sent you. Radika is a friend of the people. Babaji is a friend of the people."

So there it was. He invoked both the names of Radike and Babaji, whoever the heck that is or was. As far as I know nobody’s ever seen him outside of the Kumbh Mela, but I still swear he was Ram Chandra, Radika’s dead brother. Whatever was the reality, the legend clearly continued and I really had no choice. I would have to head to Delhi, and quickly. The old man scribbled some information on the back of Radika’s note with his pencil and while getting up simply said: “You are the only hope isn’t it Mr. Joe?”

Once alone again I lay down on the bed and thought about how much I didn’t wanna go to Delhi. Last time I was there I got Delhi-belly so bad. In my-heart I also didn’t wanna get involved. But that’s not the heart that counts, and then it occurred to me there was rather a lot of noise outside. I opened my eyes when I heard the shouts and realized something was definitely not right. When I ran out into the dark street I saw a crowd and a woman told me an old man was hurt.

For some reason I immediately knew. I was filled with a withering sense of foreboding that compelled me to press in through the tumultuous group until I was in the midst of the chaos. A large man turned wildly away from in front of me shouting and I saw the old man, Param Kumar, lying on the bloodstained road. He wasn’t hurt. He was dead, brutally stabbed to death.

Dazed and confused, maybe a little scared or maybe a lot scared, I ran back up to my room and shut the door. I sat in the darkness on the end of the bed motionless for what must‘ve been at least half an hour. Finally I got up, lit a candle and packed up my satchel. I left rupees on the table and skulked out into the courtyard and over the low back wall. The plan which was not a plan, not really, was to basically get to Delhi and back before the murderous bastards, whomever they may be, knew what the heck was happening.

I walked endlessly along a dark empty road from Bodh Gaya to Gaya. When a car approached I’d run off and hide in the bushes. I did catch a ride in a Tonga for the last stretch that clattered along well into first light. In Gaya I hired a car and I was off for Delhi by mid-morning. I felt pretty good, pretty safe at that point, until the driver pulled off into a petrol station. At first that was normal, but I saw him come out of the office with a couple of fierce-looking sadarjis and that just didn’t seem nearly as normal.

They began to run as I jumped into the front seat and started the car. I slammed it into reverse, then took off in drive outta the station. There wasn’t the slightest doubt about what I‘d done, what I was doing and I was spectacularly clear about what I had to do. I may have been completely wrong about those guys back at the petrol station. All I knew for sure was that an old guy had been stabbed to death. And it dawned on me then that I was driving in India for the first time. In India. It also dawned on me then that I was driving in India for the first time in a stolen car. That was not good.

Well I drove for a while and it was tough on the nerves alright. But I pulled off as soon as I saw a bus station outside of Meghalaya. I nonchalantly parked behind a market and bought a white curta-pajama set. The sun was hot, really hot. The market was typically crowded, chaotic, noisy, and I liked it. I liked being in a crowded, chaotic, noisy place. I changed out of my western stuff back at the car but I figured my long hair could still easily give me away. However, no way was I gonna cut my hair. I was fiercely attached to my long curly hair. Radika liked my hair. I bought a hat instead. I left the keys in the car and was walking toward the station when I spotted a Jeep full of fierce-looking sadarjis rushing by that spooked me. Actually I had no real reason to get so spooked. They might not have even been the same fierce-looking sadarjis. Anyway I got spooked and immediately jumped into a barber-shop and told the barber to cut my hair short.

The problem with Indian barbers, aside from the fact that they tend to actually cut your hair, is they like to make an occasion out of it: even moreso when you’re a tall white guy with hair cascading down your back and you jump into the shop asking for it to be cut short. Following the buzzing, clipping, snipping, all done with a dramatic flourish, there will be a neck and shoulder massage that shakes you to your core. And when you think maybe it’s all done the guy’ll begin to bang on your head like he’s in a Reggae band. Or it’s like he’s playing the spoons to Appalachian music. In any event, by the end you’re not sure if you‘ve paid 50rs or 500rs but, in my case at least, the end result was the desired result. I hardly recognized myself.

I had soon boarded a bus to Delhi and tried to relax as the contraption clamoured along. Even though I had no choice but to listen to the engine’s roar, even though a chilly wind blew continuously through windows that couldn’t close, I had a few minutes’ sleep somewhere after Kanpur. But I was awake as we approached a rise above Delhi where I saw the city lights.

Once we arrived I made my way by scooter to my usual Delhi hotel, ‘The Ghandi Guest House,’ just off Janpath. I chatted with the manager Jyoti, took a shower, then fell asleep within minutes. And I was awoken again within minutes. I heard yelling in the lobby and upon peeking out my door, sure enough, there were a couple of fierce-looking sadarjis arguing with the desk clerk.

My natural ‘fight or flight’ instincts kicked in and not surprisingly I chose ‘flight.’ I’ve frankly always been better at flight than fight. But the men saw me trying to slither down the hall. One wearing an old white turban came at me with what I imagined was unrighteous rage. The other called out something I supposed I was fortunate not to understand. Then a gunshot rang out in the room and everyone froze. Jyoti stood in the doorway. There was no mistaking the determination in his eyes as he motioned to the two Sadarjis to back up to the wall. One tried to say something only Jyoti was not interested and anyway didn’t understand Urdu. He told the clerk to fetch the police.

"Jyoti please", I said. "I can't be detained by the police. I haven't the time. You gotta trust me on this. It's terribly important, honestly it’s life or death." He looked at me hard, then back at the two against the wall. "You'll explain some time. Go." "I'll thank you properly at the same time," I said sincerely.

Leaving hotels in the middle of the night was becoming a bit of a habit. I walked over to the ‘Imperial Hotel’ where I could hang out for a couple of hours by the deserted pool. I even slept for a while. At first light I grabbed a scooter and made my way to Old Delhi. The clinic was right on Chandni Chowk only I had the driver leave me in front of the Jasmid Masjid, The Friday Mosque. I wandered around in amongst the early morning worshippers, the crowds on Silver Street, some back-alleys and timed my arrival at the clinic just before it opened for the day.

I watched from across the street for some time, until I felt it was safe. I went in, asked for the medicine and watched as the clerk searched the shelves. Placing two bottles of the good stuff on the counter the pharmacist peered over at me through incredibly thick glasses. And he asked to see my prescription. For a moment I felt tremendous frustration choking me. Then I simply felt pissed off. Before the man knew what was happening I’d grabbed both bottles and run out. I ran like a bounding cheetah.

Behind me there was shouting, ahead of me people stopped to see what was happening. I blew past like the hunted animal I was. One or two tried to grab me as I ran deeper into the market. I turned down one lane after another. At one point I ran into a blind alley. There was nowhere to go, a dead end: an old lady sweeping, kids playing and the shouts getting louder. Then a remarkable thing happened.

Inexplicably, the old lady gestured to me, to get behind a pile of old tires. The kids threw dirty jute bags on top of where I crouched and continued playing just as a few men charged through and the old lady pointed on. I could hardly believe it. Then she had the children show me where to climb a wall that set me into an adjoining street. From there I calmly walked over to the ‘Red Fort’ and lost myself in the crowds. I’m not sure why that old lady and those kids did what they did and I never even thanked them.

Having made my way to the bus station I eventually settled down into the back corner seat of a local bus headed to Agra.  Only then did I allow myself the luxury of considering what I’d just done. I also considered how completely my life had changed since leaving the quiet solitude of my gulf island house. I was no longer that guy. Periodically I’d feel for the bottles in my pocket, and savoured the thought of delivering them.

My body ached with a soreness that may have been more stress-related than actual physical in nature. In retrospect I may have been tremendously over-wrought. For all my anxiety, however, the journey proved uneventful. I transferred to a second bus in Agra and reached Gaya by late evening. In Bodh Gaya I was finished running. Whatever might happen would at least happen in the open and in full view of at least some of the villagers. But nothing actually happened.

As I walked through town people turned to look. It seemed as though business halted as I passed. Past the Buddhist Vihar and famous Bodhi tree, the Thai temple and the Zen center I continued with a hot sun upon my face. When I reached the end of the road I saw Prakash’s modest mud and stone house standing alone across the field. Some folks followed behind me. There were lots of folks in front of the house. Radika turned and instantly ran to me. And she did something Indian ladies don’t generally do in public. She put her arms around my neck and gave me a great big kiss that made everything right. We kissed again and with a big smile she said: “My love, my great gift from Babaji.”

From out of my pocket I produced the two bottles of the life-saving medicine and proudly handed them over. “Oh we don’t need that,” she said matter-of-factly. “what!?,” I blurted involuntarily. “Prakash is fine. Look.” Moving aside, sure enough, there was a young lad sitting half-up on a cot. Beside him were three large white-metal trunks, one empty, one half empty, one closed and presumably full. A man and woman kneeled in front while a man scribbled in a ledger at a desk beside. I also couldn’t help but notice two fierce-looking sadarjis standing on either side of Prakash’s cot.

By then I was thoroughly confused. “Who are those two?,” I asked incredulously. “Yes, our cousin-brothers, sent to accompany you after we heard what happened to Param Kumar. Only why you didn’t want them?” I didn’t actually answer. Instead I just kind of laughed as our noses nearly touched and I exclaimed: “So the whole thing was an unecessary waste of time.” “Not at all,” Radika said rubbing my head. “You got a lovely haircut.”

The Closet.

As a sixty-six-year-old guy with a prostate issue Jean-Marc couldn’t understand why his seventy-five-year-old friend Jules decided it was time to come out of the closet. The only thought he had upon hearing the news was ‘why?’ And putting down his fork, looking around the restaurant with a bemused expression Jean-Marc actually asked: “Why?”

“Why am I Bisexual?”
“No. You’re seventy-five-friggin-years-old. Why come out now?”
“Well I just wanna be honest and open with my dearest friends and family.”
“Now? Jules you’re an old man. Nobody’s interested. You should stay in the closet, put up a poster of Marilyn Manson or David Bowie.”
“Look, you don’t need to worry. You’re not my type.”
Jean-Marc hadn’t had a relationship in years. Hell, he’d hardly had an erection in years. But upon hearing that, he lifted his arms up in the air and exclaimed: “So this is what it’s come down to. I’m not even attractive to a seventy-five-year-old bisexual man.”

The two had known each other for over twenty years. Both painters of note, both represented by Ron Bryce, they’d met during one of Jean-Marc’s legendary parties at his place in the Gatineaus. They’d even exhibited together though their styles were terribly different or perhaps because of it. Jean-Marc was more of an impressionist. Jules painted abstracts, sometimes collages using a wild assemblage of products from candy-wrappers to condoms. Jean-Marc had been initially aghast, increasingly enthralled and eventually somewhat envious of Jules’ sense of freedom.

They spent the rest of that dinner discussing or arguing the dubious merits of Jules’ news. Basically Jean-Marc wanted him to keep the revelation of his sexual preferences to himself. Jules had a wife, two grown boys and a grand-daughter after all and Jean-Marc for the life of him could not understand the ‘why’. “And what’s so great about coming out of a bisexual closet anyway?,” he asked. “It’s not a real closet, kind of a large walk-in affair, so to speak.” Jean-Marc thought he was being quite clever but was also quite serious. He really thought Jules was making a big mistake.

They were at ‘The Green Door,’ a well-known buffet-style vegetarian eatery of mostly non vegetarians who anyway felt vegetarian while there. It’s across from St. Paul’s university on Main Street, been there for over forty years near the Rideau canal, near the Glebe, near Centre Town. It’s the type of restaurant where a reasonable discussion about ones sexual orientation might occur even if not entirely appreciated.

“Maybe you‘re just afraid to be associated with someone like me.” That stopped Jean-Marc. He was quiet for a long moment. The arrow hit its target pretty much right on. He stopped masticating food to chew on that a while. “Maybe I don’t,” he finally said. “I gotta think about it.” Jules smiled. “You do that.” In the end, excuse the expression, as they were about to leave, Jean-Marc couldn’t quite help himself: “So I guess a fast blow-job’s outta the question?” He figured that was hillarious but Jules shot him a glance that was both reproachful and slightly hurt. And later on that night he got a call from Ron saying Jules had apparently attempted suicide.

In 1989 Alain Brusseau was strolling through Majors Hill Park in Ottawa when he was attacked by a gang. Even though he wasn’t gay they thought he was. Maybe he was too small to be straight. Maybe he was too smartly dressed. Anyway, they beat him, dragged him to the Alexander Bridge and threw him off.

Jean-Marc walked hesitantly into the Civic shaking in his boots. How could he face his old buddy? He’d practically put Jules there by giving him such a ridiculously hard time. He realized he’d been spectacularly insensitive. The hospital hallway was full to overflowing with all manner of people. There were people on crutches, in wheel-chairs, using canes or walkers. There were people leading people or just being there in case. At the ‘Tim Hortons’ booth there were people behind people patiently waiting their turn. Jean-Marc thought: ‘how odd to have a donut shop in a hospital,’ but there it was, the busiest corner in the building. A gurney was being wheeled along and a man lying prone on top, tubes in his nose, turned his head slightly to look whistfully over while passing by.

Jean-Marc made his way down past the other shops, the cafeteria, the flower stand to the elevators. When the doors opened a couple of attendants wheeled a gurney out on which lay an old lady, expressionless, accepting of her fate. On the seventh floor Jean-Marc asked directions at the nurses’ station, took a breath before pushing open the door. Jules’ wife Genevieve seemed happy and even relieved to see him. They hugged and she somewhat off-handedly announced “He’s all yours for a bit,” as she grabbed her bag and walked out.

Jean-Marc sat in the chair beside the bed that Genevieve vacated. He could barely look up until Jules asked: “How you doin?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you?”
“Oh hell,” Jules responded. “They just kept me overnight for observation. Genevieve couldn’t wait for someone else to get here. She’s been sitting there all night, refused to leave me.” They’d been married since their thirties. Jules liked to say it was her charming accent that hooked him but that later on it was just irritating. He’d say it anywhere and Genevieve’d roll her eyes. In reality they always seemed inseparable.

“I’m so sorry,” Jean-Marc spoke into his hands.
“You’re sorry? What’re you sorry for?”
At that point Jean-Marc broke down, actually began to cry. Totally shocked Jules belted out: “What the hell’s the matter with you?!”
“It’s my fault.”
“What’s your fault?!”
“The suicide attempt.”
“What the fuck are you talking about!?”
Jean-Marc looked up at his friend for the first time still sobbing: “It’s my fault you tried to kill yourself.”
Wide-eyed Jules half sat up, let out a loud guffaw. “I didn’t try to kill myself you idiot! I double-dosed my heart medication by accident, Genevieve freaked out and called 911.”
“You didn’t try to kill yourself?”

Jules began to laugh. He stopped to look at Jean-Marc for a moment then laughed again. Jean-Marc was confused but maybe relieved. “I thought because I gave you a hard time about your being, you know, bisexual.”
“Who’s bisexual?” Now Jules was simply looking at Jean-Marc incredulously.
“You.”
“I’m not bisexual.”
“But you told me over dinner yesterday!”
Jules’ voice became lower, softer as he said: “Jean I’m not bisexual, never told you I was. I’m a seventy-five-year-old straight guy with a wife, two sons, a granddaughter, a bad heart condition and now suddenly quite concerned about my friend Jean-Marc.”

Jean-Marc stared at Jules. Jules stared at Jean-Marc. Genevieve stared at both of them after walking back in. “What’s going on?,” she asked.
Jules smiled over at his wife. “Jean seems to think I’m bisexual and therefore tried to kill myself.”
Genevieve put her hand on his shoulder from the far side of the bed. “Are you bisexual my dear? How lovely. No wonder your heart’s been so badly abused.”
“Would you like me to swing both ways dear?”
“Well it might’ve taken some pressure off me through the years but at this point who would care?” They both chuckled as Jean-Marc got up.
“I’m confused,” he said. “I don’t know what to think.”

In the privacy of the empty oversized elevator Jean-Marc put his hands on his head. He rolled them around and made slightly audible plaintive noises before reaching the main level. He walked down the hall to the Tim Hortons, ordered a medium coffee double double, a glazed sour-cream donut and sat on an empty bench in the lobby. He took out his phone and called Ron. “You told me he tried to commit suicide.”
“Yeah apparently he overdosed his heart meds by accident, Gen panicked and called the emergency line.” Jean-Marc ate the donut, drank the coffee and left the building. But three days lster he was back.

On September 30, 2012, in New Westminister, British Columbia, twenty-six-year-old January Marie Lapuz was found in her home suffering from stab wounds. She died the next morning at Royal Columbian Hospital. Twenty-two-year-old Charles Jameson Neel pleaded guilty to manslaughter in June for her stabbing death and was sentenced to eight years in prison. Lapuz was the first transgender person on the executive of Sher Vancouver, an organization supporting gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender South Asians.

Jean-Marc might’ve had many suspicions, maybe made some different conclusions if not for the other symptoms. It’s not just that he’d bung the milk into the cupboard, put shoes on before pants or forget laundry in the machine for days. There were times he was disoriented. There were times he got lost in familiar places. And there were times he was emotional, easy-going, empathetic. That was bad. That was the clincher. It just wasn’t him. He saw no harm in checking with Doctor Lamelin who immediately scheduled a series of tests.

Normally the tests would be done at the Hull or Gatineau hospitals on the Quebec side only there was a specialist in early onset Alzheimers at the Civic. Doctor Lamelin never used the word but it’s obviously what she was considering. The hospital hallway was full to overflowing with all manner of people. There were people on crutches, in wheel-chairs, using canes or walkers. There were people leading people or just being there in case. At the ‘Tim Hortons’ booth there were people behind people patiently waiting their turn. And Jean-Marc took his place in line. He was concerned he might be late for the appointment, moreso as the lineup snaked along so slowly. But he’d been so looking forward to Tims, had arrived early just for that.

After quickly inhaling his coffee and donut however he positively scurried up to where he was supposed to be, a large open room on the fourth floor. He checked in with a pleasant plus-size lady sitting at a counter behind plexiglass, passed his medical card through the slot and received it back along with a white hospital card. Then he took a seat and waited, and waited, and waited. He got a call from Jules, another from Ron’s partner Durga. And still he waited.

Finally a girl called out ‘Mr. Simard’ and he was ushered into the office of a Doctor Fujiwara. Doctor Fujiwara was a short man who took a long time interviewing Jean-Marc, taking copious notes regarding medical history, giving him what he called a mental fitness examination, periodically saying: “ah” or “oh” or the tremendously enigmatic “hmmm.” He was sent for blood tests and then an MRI. Following the MRI Jean-Marc asked the technician how it all looked. But in a rather ominous-sounding germanic accent the lady would only say: “Your doctor vill contact you.” He’d spent most of the day there, was glad to sit down over a coffee and donut before leaving the building. But three days later he was back.

By that time he was alarmed. Doctor Fujiwara wanted further testing done and Jean-Marc would need to be checked in for a day or two. Frankly, by that time he was freaked out. Only in the middle of all the worry and while making arrangments the night before one very nice thing happened: he received a call from his daughter. Jean-Marc had not heard from Liette in over a year, maybe two, when she’d cut off all communication. Ron had taken a chance to let her know what her old dad was going through.

The hospital hallway was full to overflowing with all manner of people. There were people on crutches, in wheel-chairs, using canes or walkers. There were people leading people or just being there in case. At the ‘Tim Hortons’ booth there were people behind people patiently waiting their turn. But Jean-Marc couldn’t possibly think about donuts.

On February 23, 2018, the Toronto police announced that Mr. Bruce McArthur had been charged with five counts of first-degree murder related to men who had gone missing from the city's gay village. The remains of at least three victims had been found in large planters at homes where Mr. McArthur worked as a landscaper.

As Jean-Marc languished in his hospital bed listening to the laboured breathing of his room-mate the door opened. Jules and Genevieve entered with a bouquet of flowers. Jules sat in the chair, his wife behind with a hand on his shoulder. They chatted for a while although Jean-Marc was hardly listening. Genevieve said something about it being good to know. Jules said something about how it’d all be alright. But Jean-Marc kept looking at his watch.

Eventually Jules asked: “Jean why must you keep looking at your watch?”
“Liette’s coming to see me.”
“Oh.”
“But that’s so wonderful,” Genevieve said as she finished with the flowers. She’d found a large plastic glass to use as a vase.
“Actually she’ll be here any minute.”
Genevieve grabbed Jules’ arm to lead him out. But as they neared the door, Jules turned half-back to say: “So I guess a fast blow-job‘s outta the question.”