Saturday, June 18, 2011

28) Moti Ma Meets the Electrified Baba.





These stories, that have been available on Blogspot for 10 years for free, will now only be available on Amazon at the address above. They are contained in “Vagabon Freak”, the 1st volume of a trilogy titled “The 7 Lives of the Punk Poofy Cats”. I have been the archetypal starving artist in his garret, painting, drawing and writing, writing, writing as if I were some waif crying out in the wilderness. Now I need you, dear reader, to hear my cries and go to Amazon and buy a copy of my book and keep me alive. There you will find my complete tale, from beginning to end, in one place, for you to hold in your hot little hands. When you read it straight through, I assure you, it will blow your mind.

Below are introductory paragraphs and some pictures that I still retain to illustrate this story, hopefully to give you a come-on to get my book. Thanks for giving me a go, TZ. 

 Sample:

It was mid 1974 and the ghastly Indian drought burned on with accompanying food-riots and general disaffection. It might as well have been a dust storm on Mars for all that it affected Arthur contemplating his gonads up in the Himalayas. He lingered on at the Sivananda Jungle University for several months after his beloved mentor’s death, continuing his yoga practices and philosophical studies despite the sexual beast gnawing away at the underbelly of his psyche.
To soak up his energies, Arthur worked as a volunteer nurse in the Sivananda Charity Hospital and he even tended to the ailing lepers in the leprosarium the ashram supported up the river, dressing their wounds and cheering them up with his gracious attention, like some charitable princess.
He received permission from the Jungle University to move down to the river’s edge to a small concrete cave that some smart Sadhu baba had built into the riverbank in seasons past. It had a little concrete veranda with a thatched awning and was just the thing for Arthur to do his yoga and pranayams upon. Its only drawback was that it faced a section of the river much favored as the best swimming spot by the multitudes of local young men.
Daily Arthur had to suffer the sight of their muscular frames, barely concealed by wet cotton sheaths, leaping about boisterously, with smiles that would put the morning sun to shame and innocently giving Arthur the come-on. His saintly resolve to again attempt celibacy was cracking and would possibly tumble like the walls of Jericho at the blast of one young man’s horn if given the chance. He was in paradise and gorgeous angels frolicked all about him and he just had to find something else to distract him.
It was about this time that Moti Ma, (Mother of Pearl), showed up and started hanging around with the Australian gang. She was a twenty-four year-old New Zealand woman who had wandered India for four years and looked the part, draped chastely in a faded sari from head to foot like the goddess Saraswati. She had long blonde dreadlocks massed in a beehive on her head, and bright blue cat’s eyes that fascinated every man she looked upon.
She had managed to travel the wilds of India by keeping the company of fellow international freaks and thus got protection from the constant advances of the multitudes of lustful Indian men. In the end, every one of her male firanghi protectors also put the hard word on her, and she found it very tiresome, everything boiling down to sex and never being left free to practice her yoga like a Hindu nun. Arthur assured her he was as pure and guileless as a newborn brother and she would only find the best of friends in him.
Together they planned a pilgrimage to the sacred site of Badrinath, for the government had recently opened the town to foreign tourists after centuries of isolation and Arthur was determined to complete the quest Compassion had once had his heart set upon.
Arthur was obliged to get permission for the journey from the head of the Ashram, Swami Chidananda. Young women were forbidden in the monastery as anathema to the contemplative’s life, only old crones like the German Countess getting a look in, (having donated plenty of money) and, when the ascetic Swami clapped eyes upon the beautiful Moti Ma, radiant as a goddess, he forbade Arthur and her to travel together.
Arthur didn’t have the courage to tell the old celibate that his sexual inclinations were more at risk with his fellow monks, yet never one to be thwarted from his intentions, he journeyed on alone to the top of the Himalayas and Moti Ma joined him a few days later, without directly disobeying the well-meaning old Hindu Abbot.
Badrinath was a magical place, revered for thousands of years as a sacred site to Lord Vishnu the Preserver and His Avatar, Rama, whose ascension to Heaven occurred somewhere in the vicinity, and rarely had a foreigner ever set foot there. India’s border with Tibet lay only fifteen kilometers away and the main attraction of the town was a clunky wooden temple surmounted atop a granite vault; the building had a Tibetan feel to its architecture and the idol of Vishnu in the inner-sanctum was in reality a Buddha seated in meditation. It had been weathered to its barest outline from having been hidden for centuries in the hot-springs as safeguard against unsympathetic marauders such as the Muslims, then resurrected as a Hindu deity, the confusion of religions lending greater mystique to the idol’s cryptic, minimalist shape.

It was mid 1974 and the ghastly Indian drought burned on with accompanying food-riots and general disaffection. It might as well have been a dust storm on Mars for all that it affected Arthur contemplating his gonads up in the Himalayas. He lingered on at the Sivananda Jungle University for several months after his beloved mentor’s death, continuing his yoga practices and philosophical studies despite the sexual beast gnawing away at the underbelly of his psyche.
To soak up his energies, Arthur worked as a volunteer nurse in the Sivananda Charity Hospital and he even tended to the ailing lepers in the leprosarium the ashram supported up the river, dressing their wounds and cheering them up with his gracious attention, like some charitable princess.
He received permission from the Jungle University to move down to the river’s edge to a small concrete cave that some smart Sadhu baba had built into the riverbank in seasons past. It had a little concrete veranda with a thatched awning and was just the thing for Arthur to do his yoga and pranayams upon. Its only drawback was that it faced a section of the river much favored as the best swimming spot by the multitudes of local young men.
Daily Arthur had to suffer the sight of their muscular frames, barely concealed by wet cotton sheaths, leaping about boisterously, with smiles that would put the morning sun to shame and innocently giving Arthur the come-on. His saintly resolve to again attempt celibacy was cracking and would possibly tumble like the walls of Jericho at the blast of one young man’s horn if given the chance. He was in paradise and gorgeous angels frolicked all about him and he just had to find something else to distract him.
It was about this time that Moti Ma, (Mother of Pearl), showed up and started hanging around with the Australian gang. She was a twenty-four year-old New Zealand woman who had wandered India for four years and looked the part, draped chastely in a faded sari from head to foot like the goddess Saraswati. She had long blonde dreadlocks massed in a beehive on her head, and bright blue cat’s eyes that fascinated every man she looked upon.
She had managed to travel the wilds of India by keeping the company of fellow international freaks and thus got protection from the constant advances of the multitudes of lustful Indian men. In the end, every one of her male firanghi protectors also put the hard word on her, and she found it very tiresome, everything boiling down to sex and never being left free to practice her yoga like a Hindu nun. Arthur assured her he was as pure and guileless as a newborn brother and she would only find the best of friends in him.
Together they planned a pilgrimage to the sacred site of Badrinath, for the government had recently opened the town to foreign tourists after centuries of isolation and Arthur was determined to complete the quest Compassion had once had his heart set upon.
Arthur was obliged to get permission for the journey from the head of the Ashram, Swami Chidananda. Young women were forbidden in the monastery as anathema to the contemplative’s life, only old crones like the German Countess getting a look in, (having donated plenty of money) and, when the ascetic Swami clapped eyes upon the beautiful Moti Ma, radiant as a goddess, he forbade Arthur and her to travel together.
Arthur didn’t have the courage to tell the old celibate that his sexual inclinations were more at risk with his fellow monks, yet never one to be thwarted from his intentions, he journeyed on alone to the top of the Himalayas and Moti Ma joined him a few days later, without directly disobeying the well-meaning old Hindu Abbot.
Badrinath was a magical place, revered for thousands of years as a sacred site to Lord Vishnu the Preserver and His Avatar, Rama, whose ascension to Heaven occurred somewhere in the vicinity, and rarely had a foreigner ever set foot there. India’s border with Tibet lay only fifteen kilometers away and the main attraction of the town was a clunky wooden temple surmounted atop a granite vault; the building had a Tibetan feel to its architecture and the idol of Vishnu in the inner-sanctum was in reality a Buddha seated in meditation. It had been weathered to its barest outline from having been hidden for centuries in the hot-springs as safeguard against unsympathetic marauders such as the Muslims, then resurrected as a Hindu deity, the confusion of religions lending greater mystique to the idol’s cryptic, minimalist shape.


(If your curiosity is piqued please go to the WEB address above and buy the book to read further.)


Laxmi Ma.
Swami Chidananda





Laxmi Ma.


Durga.

Vishnu.