27) With Compassion, Serenity and Humility.

As a result of Arthur’s spiritual travails in the variegated, outlandish Baba camps of India he came to the conclusion, and clung to it, that he had the best of all mentors, patrons and guides in his dear, old friend back in Australia, Compassion. Indeed, the Old Fool had told him on his departure for the mystic wonderland of India that he couldn’t find there what he didn’t already have on his front doorstep, possibly meaning his own humble self. No matter what forceful, alluring come-on Arthur was subjected to by the army of ravenous saints he encountered, he held the white-haired image of the Australian yogi shining clearly in his heart, warding off all the intrepid imposters that tried to bewitch him.

He’d gone adventuring in Kashmir and whilst getting embroiled with the Sid Quartz Gang in their houseboat flotilla Arthur received a letter informing him that Compassion had arrived in Shangri-la and was awaiting his attendance. Without much ado he disentangled himself from his fellow freaks’ machinations and split the scene, rushing from the paradise of Srinigar’s lakes to be at his old friend’s side.

He found the Old Fool living naked in a small brick hut deep in the jungle behind Sivananda Ashram. He was shocked to discover the old boy was dying from cancer, he’d lost his voice, could hardly swallow, and his arms hung uselessly at his sides like limp spaghetti. Compassion communicated by tapping his big toe upon an alphabet board and over the months Arthur became quite adept at reading his flashing toe, he could even finish the sentences for him, mental telepathy having taken over.

Alternatively, the old fellow was a little nonplussed at Arthur’s devolution, he’d lost a front tooth, his bald head was peeping through his sun-bleached dreadlocks and his skin was so tanned he looked like a native. With a scraggly beard hanging like moss from his face, Arthur had made himself look extra ugly and it was possibly for this reason he never got seduced by Indian men, most of whom hate hair, ashamed of their own hirsuteness. Also, Gay Lib hadn’t yet made it to the subcontinent and homosexuality was taboo, Arthur keeping this side of himself hidden, even from his old mentor.

Arthur’s nursing skills came in good stead for Compassion required an industrious healing program to stay afloat. This was a man who’d endeavoured, for the latter half of his life, to lead the healthiest of regimes, exercise, fresh air and unprocessed food, and absolutely no drugs. He’d caught some weird viral disease called Kalazar, Black Fever, in India in the 1960’s and it had resurged with a vengeance in his fifties, destroying vital nerve connections in the vertebrae of his neck. The old codger refused all medications, especially pain-killers, and he must have suffered terribly, yet in all their time together he never made a murmur about being in pain.

The old yogi had brought two Australian youths with him as attendants whom he dubbed Serenity and Humility, the former a sweet angel who thought only of the old man’s welfare, the latter a spoiled monster who whinged and bitched and wouldn’t lift a finger to help out. Compassion also dubbed Arthur with a new tag, Ananda or Bliss, perhaps because Arthur had a disposition towards depression or maybe the Old Fool saw himself as Buddha come again with Arthur as his most assiduous disciple. As Compassion was a long-time chela of the great Sivananda and had been ordained with the name Swami Karunanada, Bliss of Compassion, by the saint himself, the Ashram was both honoured and obliged to accommodate him in his last days. They had to take on board his rambunctious, young companions as well, refugees from modernity and standing out from the crowd like a gang of silver space cadets in a saffron convent.

Serenity took care of all Swamiji’s personal needs like spoon-feeding him his mashed baby-food and bathing and toileting his withered old body. Arthur organised their camp in the jungle, procuring the victuals, doing all the washing and cleaning, handling the visitors and attending to the old fellow’s physical deterioration nursing-care wise. Humility became part of their daily burden, always obstreperous and peevish; with outrageous demands and emotional break-downs he made every task more difficult and was simply a nuisance with a personality that would grate on Mother Theresa’s nerves. Humility had a constant lament, that he’d been screwed in the arse in Majorca, Spain, by a black magician, then had gone crazy and had to be repatriated back to Australia and was still searching for his dispossessed soul. No god knows why the Old Fool brought him to India, except he always did have the ability to attract nutcases who would attach themselves like succubi and were near impossible to shake off.

Compassion had been an accomplished artist in his time, working under the moniker of “Latimer” in Adelaide and achieving critical acclaim, his work hanging in the South Australian State Gallery. Even in decrepitude he was as keen and bright for art as a neophyte, and to give him joy Arthur fashioned a drawing implement for him out of an oil-crayon placed in the end of a piece of split bamboo which he held between his toes, like in “My Left Foot”. Upon large sheets of paper, with the set of oil crayons, he drew gorgeous, vibrant images of the Hindu gods and his jungle Ashram surroundings, all to the edification of Arthur who avidly studied his every move like an apprentice at a master sorcerer’s laboratory.

The old seer enjoyed having the great Hindu epics like the Ramayana and the Mahabharata read to him aloud, and they would then discuss the philosophy underpinning the text and the poor dying fellow would swoon over the luminous poetry inherent in all things and bemoaning that few had the sense to see it. The dear old cripple lived poetry, the latter part of his life spent singing out praise of belonging to an awesome universe, conflating it into his version of God, he was unashamedly god-driven and referred to himself as the Old Fool accordingly. Now he had to content himself with having his young companions sing the bhajans for him, especially Tweetie-Pie Arthur, who could out-shriek Bette Midler when it came to drivelling on about the glories of the god’s creation, still trying to find his way through the mythic mystic mists clouding his vision.

A lot of curious people found their way into the jungle to visit as Compassion was a fascinating fellow, dispensing yogic wisdom and advice to all comers whilst residing at death’s door. He collected a little gang of fans that included an old American woman, a young Indian Brahmachari, a boy from New Zealand and an old Chinese Swami from Malaysia. Whenever the Old Fool walked naked through the village of Ram Jhula, his white beard in long dreadlocks, his arms hanging like frail ropes and his gang of spiritual misfits in tow, the locals would stand agog and be elated at their passing. He liked to ramble up the long stony path along the Ganges River, to Laxman Jhula where they would have to march past the long line of lepers begging upon the bridge or crouched outside their hovels that crowded the track up to the road. Arthur took in the disfigured faces, the rotting flesh and purulent stumps and he looked over to his Swamiji and asked, “Why are they like that and why am I so lucky?” The Old Fool could only answer with a cryptic, knowing smile, as if to say, “Are you so different?” Then he’d plod on, like everybody else on the planet, with his own hard path to tread, Arthur in tow, somewhat mad, certainly an emotional cripple.

For six months they led an idyllic jungle existence, delighting in the wildlife, beating off tribes of monkeys when the ashram delivered their delicious, unrefined meals, and swimming in the Ganges River at full flood whilst riding the logs that swept down from the deforested heights of the Himalayas. They dressed and acted like characters from Hindu myth and were intrigued whole-heartedly by all the cosmic babble that frothed about their ears. In between looking after the multi-faceted concerns of old, ailing Compassion and enjoying a primordial lifestyle, they frequented the daily satsang lectures at the Sivananda Jungle University. Arthur’s favourite sessions were supervised by the head of the Music College, Narayan Sri Mali Guru, who was a master of all instruments but a supremo at singing. While directing the tabla, harmonium and vena players, he would sing in a quavering manner, holding the notes, tripping through the scales, sending his voice out from his fingertips, his navel, the top of his head, to any corner of the room. Arthur spent many hours imbibing his instruction and example, for singing was one of his seven talents, from childhood on a song had inexorably issued from his heart-springs, he walked every byway singing and, to him, life really was like a science-fiction musical movie.

In his sleep, dreaming, Swami Sivananda in person came to visit Arthur, vivid and luminous, and bestowed upon him the radiance of his smile. The young wannabe yogi settled into the mantra “AUM”, the Primal Sound of the Big Bang made realisable, India’s greatest gift to mankind, concentrating his wayward thoughts and soothing his inflamed soul in the tranquil sea of its infinite repetition. It became the bedrock of his ongoing psycho-emotional life and whenever in distress, turmoil or confusion, he would only have to chant it inwardly and a protective light would envelope him and he could surrender and relax. For the duration of his healthy sojourn in the jungles of Shangri-la Arthur didn’t feel the need for charas smoking or masturbation, his meditation held steady, he was consistently elated and he felt like he walked seven inches above the ground, gliding around like Peter Pan.

There is an ancient myth of India that tells how Lord Siva, in supreme bliss, experienced a sacred river to gush like a fountain from the top of his head. This river was so vital and invigorating it attracted all the great rishis and yogis of the time to live and meditate beside it. Siva was well pleased with their disciplines but wanted to try the true strength of these hardy seers with one final, ball-breaking test and he changed the river into the form of a gorgeous damsel who danced lasciviously before each of the adepts. And every man to the last of them fell flat on his face in love with the goddess, losing his cool and his prowess, wanting to fuck her badly; sex is such a mighty lure and the hardest nut to crack.

Throughout their idyll, Arthur was relentlessly thrown in the company of sweet, beautiful Serenity, a boy two years his junior, turquoise eyed, lustrous black hair and athletic build, twenty-four hours dedicated to the wellbeing of Compassion. Whatever the old boy wanted Serenity rushed to satisfy, he lived and breathed to serve, and he endeared himself to everyone. His nature was as angelic as his looks and Arthur couldn’t help but fall hopelessly in love with him, like one jet crashing into another mid-air. The realisation of this passion hit Arthur slowly and he hid it for a long time, his love becoming obsessive, he doted on Serenity’s every move, the equanimity-shattering clincher being his discovery early on in the game that Serenity had an extremely large penis. It took ages for the poor boy to realise that whenever he opened his legs and revealed the robust bulge of his loin-cloth, Arthur had a fit of lust. Somehow Arthur kept his cool and their monastery life trundled on, harmonious and tranquil, except for the querulous griping of Humility on the sidelines.

Then Brigadier Ghasi Ramji showed up in Shangri-la all the way from Bharatpur, he was an old admirer of the Aussie yogi and insisted they accompany him to Rajasthan and live on his farm where he was positive Compassion’s declining health could be improved. On the farm in Bharatpur they experienced the Indian pastoral life, up at dawn with the birds, chatting with the peasants working the fields, roaming the countryside and sleeping out under the stars. They ate produce freshly picked from the garden and prepared with expert care so that the gang all lived for dinner-time. Waited upon by servants and treated by a team of doctors, Compassion’s welfare was fully catered to, leaving the boys plenty of free time to explore the medieval town and the extensive parklands of the famous Bird Sanctuary nearby. The palace grounds of the Maharaja of Bharatpur backed onto the Brigadier’s farm and Arthur and Serenity loved scaling the walls to wander the palace environs. The old Maharajah himself would chase them out, waving an ebony cane in a fit of temper, for he and Ghasi Ram had a nasty, long-standing feud going between them.

Three months slid by in a delicious, pastoral dream, the Old Fool requesting several of Carlos Castenada’s works read to him, annotating its otherworldly esotericism as they went along. The supernatural witchery of the text mystified Arthur who had not yet awakened to the concept of the Underworld, communication with animals and the “way of the warrior”, the Old Fool trying fable-wise to undermine Arthur’s rigid reality paradigms. Nature continuously called to them to visit other levels of consciousness, Arthur tripped naturally in the wild fields a few times but was too intellectually distracted to hear clearly. He was always busy, reading philosophy, copying mind-blowing text, drawing and writing fantasies while the others took rest and he often found the old boy’s bright, inspired eyes upon him, ready to lend advice and encouragement, for the old Maestro was keenly aware he had an apprentice artist on his hands.

There came a day when the Brigadier was extra-cheerful, for India exploded its first atomic bomb in the deserts of Rajasthan, not that many kilometres from their sanctuary down on the farm. As the winds possibly dumped radioactive particles upon them, the old retired Indian soldier rubbed his hands and chuckled.

“Trust Indira Ghandi to have some trick up her sleeves to win the day.”

“But it’s terrible! India might drop nukes on Pakistan”, bemoaned Arthur, visions of the end of the world ever on the edge of his hysteria.

“We are a responsible nation but Pakistan has to know we’d wipe them out if they continue with their war-mongering.”

“I’m scared your P.M. is becoming a tyrant. Arresting those twenty-thousand rail-workers for striking and throwing them in jail is shocking.”

“Fernandes and his rail union are holding the nation to ransom, we need modern technology and investment, not communist collectives. See this farm, it is part of the Green Revolution Indira has fostered. We’re breeding new strains of wheat that will yield more tonnage per acre and double the nutritional value. That’s the kind of progress we need. Remember, we’ve been in drought for three years, there are riots all over the nation. Food is what we need, and strong leadership. She has ended the subsidies to the big landowners, nationalised the banks and given finance to middle-class entrepreneurs like me. That’s what will defeat this famine, not strikes.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not clued in with hard-nosed politics, I didn’t realise.”

“You are a sweet boy, you should stick with your yoga and looking after old Swamiji, leave the politics to experienced war-horses like me.”

Still, to Arthur the nuclear test was nightmarish and extremely unsettling, and the Brigadier’s farm lost its pastoral innocence. Arthur and Serenity had cared for Compassion unremittingly for so many months that the old fellow encouraged them when he heard them talking about taking a break from the nursing toil, enthusing with them when they decided to go into the wilds of Rajasthan for an adventure. They felt safe leaving him in the capable hands of Ghasi Ram and family, cushioned from the guile of the recalcitrant Humility by an army of servants, and off they ventured, with only a cotton cloth to wear and a blanket to sleep in.

They were determined to walk the entire gritty road to Jaipur, some three hundred kilometres to the south and it took them a month to do so, visiting the most peculiar sites along the way. At one point they wandered off the main thoroughfare down a rutted track into a thorny desert to arrive at day’s end at a Hanuman Temple. They stumbled into the inner sanctum where a crowd of hysterical women sat whirling their heads upon their shoulders in unison, deliriously spun out, wailing devotional chants to their god, like an army of banshees from Venus, and Arthur realised how out of place he and his mate truly were. Yet everywhere the two friends went the locals treated them with great reverence, feeding them and showering them with honours. One dear fellow seemed to think he’d met up with Lord Rama and his brother, Laxman, in person, insisting on placing flowers in their hair and pouring milk on their heads. He begged them to return with him to his home village and, unwilling to insult his hospitality, they trudged the many weary miles through the sand dunes and baked mud to his far-flung abode.

He was a Brahmin and could only drink from certain places miles apart causing them to wither from thirst and envy the camels racing past with their turbaned riders blithely sitting aloft, calm and at home, water flask at their side. At the halfway point they came across a huge congregation of people at a religious mela, thousands of worshippers waxing ecstatic over buckets of water thrown over them from the window of a small, daubed hut. Arthur and Serenity, mystified, were led to the top of a small hill outside the village and sat upon a rope bed and the whole, vast throng made obeisance to them as if they were indeed the Hindu gods come to bless their gathering. They were given handfuls of blessed, sacred candy and their feet touched constantly, till Arthur begged them to resist.

When they finally reached their newfound friend’s village they were feted like Maharajas till Arthur wondered if they’d ever be able to extricate themselves from the villagers’ embrace. In return for their generosity, Arthur sang bhajans and danced in the village-square under the stars, the men fiddling furiously upon their traditional instruments, the women all gathered on the rooftops around and ululating their voices in ecstatic support.

Serenity’s contribution was to teach yoga asanas at the local school and all went well with the lesson, with a room full of children informed about healthy exercise by his agile stances and the teacher smiling benignly. Then Serenity lifted one leg to complete his next posture, the flying stork, his longhi fell open and his long, fat cock flopped out and swung like an elephant’s trunk in full view of the class which erupted with hilarity, the bemused teacher to the side of Serenity missing the whole thing. Serenity stood there oblivious to the sensation he was causing and Arthur had to signal repeatedly, pointing and grimacing, to get his attention and bring the curtain down on his offensive appendage.

They enjoyed the simple village life for three days then begged their leave, striding off under a deluge of tears and entreaties to stay. They ambled on and on, refusing all lifts except for when some Rajashani gypsies piled them into the back of their bullock cart and lurched a few kilometres up the pot-holed road, whipping the animals into a running lather, the lads hanging on for dear life, the wild woman driver standing up with mirror-braided hair flying out behind her. They were dropped under a huge banyan tree and given chapatti and pickle for sustenance which they munched as they trudged on up the highway.

Walking took them right into the native’s heartland, the picturesque sights were up close and personal, and they rarely wanted for anything, such was the prevalence of the cult of guest-reverence. For every person who was kind to them, the boys gave a small token from their kitbags, a pocket-knife, a ballpoint pen, an empty wallet, and the peasants carried on as if they’d been given the Crown jewels.

During an idyllic sunset beside a buffalo pond Arthur observed a luxury bus speed by on the highway, its occupants vague shadows in the tinted windows. He pondered the mystery of these tourists paying a fortune to be whizzed through the scenery whilst he actually got to live it in three dimensions, for free, in abandoned exhilaration with the natives and their buffalos. (Many years later he swapped places and he was the comfortable tourist in the bus rushing by, gazing out the window, wondering how on earth the young neo-hippies could put up with lying about in the dirt.) It was at this tranquil moment Arthur broke down and made his first play for Serenity’s abundant affections. In the afternoon they’d been swimming in a pond with the peasant boys, riding the water-buffalos’ backs, and they were drying off in the dying sunlight, stretched out upon the grass. Serenity lay relaxed in only his loincloth, his flesh glistening and his cock a long tubular hump perfectly outlined by the wet cotton sheath. Arthur fell towards him like a magnetised robot, reaching out to clasp the enticing bulge, hoping to stroke it into engorgement, only Serenity pushed his hand away, firmly.

“Please, let me play with it, just for a few minutes, I’m crazy abut you. I’m so horny I could die.”

“No way! I’m sorry, it’s not going to happen. I’m not into guys, not in the least. You’re my friend, I like you a lot but it’s never gonna be physical.”

“Don’t be like that, lie back and relax, you’ll enjoy it, I promise.”

“I said No, forget it! All I care about is the old man and if he’s OK I’m OK. I’m worried about him, left alone with Humility who I bet is giving him hell. I don’t mean to hurt you but having sex with you is the last thing on my mind.”

“The old fool’s got Ghasi Ram to look after him, don’t worry. Here we are in paradise, enjoy it, be here now, with me.”

“Let’s just be friends, OK? Best friends, forever, without the sex. Come on, you know it’ll only fuck things up?”

“Yeah, I suppose so. It’s hard being homo and hanging out with you, you’re the best. Don’t worry, I’ll be cool.”

Poor Arthur had yet again chosen the unattainable to lose his equilibrium over, and resigned but not defeated, he convinced his beloved friend to continue their desert odyssey, even though his guts were wrenched and his heart was aflutter.

They arrived on the outskirts of Jaipur on the auspicious night of a big festival, at the same time when millions were taking a karma-cleansing dip in the Ganges River at the Kumbhla Mela in Haridwar. From the top of a small mountain range that rings the city of Jaipur there issues forth a spring that the locals swear is in reality an offshoot of the goddess Ganges Herself. On this night, considering themselves as blessed as anyone up in the Himalayas, the people gathered in throngs to bathe in the seven sacred tanks built into the side of the mountain, filled by the run-off from the magic spring. They welcomed Arthur and Serenity with much feasting, ganja smoking and the festival specialty, bhang, made of crushed marijuana with nuts and honey in milk, of which Arthur drank his fill late into the night. On a veranda on the mountaintop a gang of old mystic masters deftly plied musical instruments to create a symphony for the stars and an intoxicated Arthur danced around them like Sheherazade, as if his life depended on it.

They stayed for several days swimming in the tanks, feasting at the continuing celebrations, doing yoga and saluting the sun from the balcony of a Sun Temple built near the celestial spring and looking down upon the city of Jaipur. Throughout their sojourn at the seven sacred tanks Serenity fretted about frail, old Compassion, worrying about his condition and anxious to get back to him. Arthur could only make goo-goo eyes at his tolerant friend and acquiesce to his wishes to return to the farm, though he could have dallied for another thousand and one nights in the wilds of Rajasthan with his handsome prince.

They hitchhiked back to Bharatpur and arrived to find Compassion well but in a dither, Humility having driven him to despair with his nutty intrusions, and they set to and gave the old convalescent the loving company he deserved, keeping cranky Humility at bay. Arthur’s lustful sweats over Serenity did not let up and after some weeks of melodrama down on the farm he was crawling up the wall with frustration. He took his leave of Compassion, explaining that he needed another break, and fled to the city of Delhi for a weekend, seeking relief. He went to the movies and got his celluloid fix with “Siddartha” dazzling him as it was set in the very Bird Sanctuary they all lived next to in Bharatpur. In a back-alley of the Connaught-Circle shopping arcade, sleeping on the pavement, he got a signal from a hairy Sikh wallah sleeping nearby who lifted his blanket for Arthur to get under with him and there, on a squeaky rope bed, he blew the guy. But it was all quite hurried and sordid, no affection, only tugging and slurping, so far from Buddha’s detachment that Arthur felt like a scarlet whore, unclean and unsatisfied.

He rushed back to Bharatpur in a tizzy, arriving late at night and hiding under a table to lick his wounds. The old boy came out of his room at the sound of Arthur whimpering and under his compassionate gaze Arthur burst into tears and confessed his city misdeeds, owning up to the devastating condition of his homosexuality. The frail old man swung one of his spaghetti thin arms up to make it lie across Arthur’s shoulders in a comforting caress and he tapped upon his board a consoling message.

"Not a problem… natural… part of the human condition… relax… do yoga… meditate on Aum in your heart…”

“But I sucked that guys’ cock, it brought me down, it didn’t satisfy my lust in the least. I’m scared, it’ll make for a terrible life, nobody likes homosexuals, not here in India either.”

“It’s your nature… sex is life… look at animals… happy... homo part of evolution... necessary for humans... artists...shamans... healers.”

“I feel I’m a freak of nature, how can I purify my tainted soul?”

“Not tainted… Light-filled… sex is love… I confess… I was homo when young… even in army… enjoyed it… after war I married… expected to… still homo… life hard… went to India in late forties… did yoga… meditation… met Sivananda… took sanyas… became yogi… found more than sex… found God… live your life with courage…”

“There’s a complication… I’ve fallen in love with Serenity, I’ve asked him for sex but he’s knocked me back, it’s driving me crazy, he’s so beautiful, I can’t help myself.”

“Difficult… Seren straight… you work it out… all will be OK… try to stay friends… sex not last… am tired… end of my days… you young… go with flow… Seren good soul… be friends... bed now…”

Pondering the ramifications of these revelations, Arthur took the old man into his bed. All this time he’d thought the white haired fellow was a saint, oblivious to their nakedness, and Arthur had let it all hang out accordingly. Was all this yoga stuff an unconscious scam and the old dick was secretly getting his jollies eyeballing his naked young followers? Sex was a slave-driver, the Mind was a trickster and the universe loved to play games with its denizens, everyone play-acting at being holier than thou but sex, money and power ruled.

The next day, while Arthur was giving him his full-body massage, as if to make a joke, the guru’s “lila”, the emaciated yogi cracked an erection. His bedraggled little penis peeped up from his lap and a cryptic grin lingered on his face, Arthur pretending not to notice the mottled mushroom as he rubbed and rubbed the withered flesh of his back. He spun into an emotional maelstrom thinking of the old boy’s tale, wondering about the hidden agenda behind the Swami’s big fuss over him all those years ago when they first met at the Theosophical Society. The big honour wasn’t because of his spiritual precociousness or yogic adeptness, not even his nursing skills; it was his beautiful blue-green eyes and athletic build that had been favoured.

He grew resentful of the old man’s patronising insights and he got his nose out of joint when Compassion made comments to him like,

“You best with people… Serenity good with nature… compliment each other…” Arthur felt he was as in touch with nature as anyone.

One day he tapped urgently on his alphabet board, “People will only like your art if they like you”. Arthur believed he could overcome all obstacles with sheer talent no matter who disliked him and the Old Fool shouldn’t limit his potential, (Arthur learned later, with great difficulty, art was all about the selling of personality and background.) He acted quite the temperamental brat, worse than Humility, refusing to do his chores, storming off into the fields to watch the birds flying in synchronous flocks, not speaking to his old mentor for days on end. For all that, farm life carried on and they continued to bliss out on its natural rhythms, reading to Compassion, pursuing hobbies, eating delicious Indian food together, at times quibbling over any and every non-issue.

Out of the blue, one day Compassion announced that their departure for the Himalayas was imminent, he must hurry there at all cost and no entreaties from the Brigadier Ghasi Ram would divert him from his firm decision, as if he knew his day of reckoning was coming soon. Piled into the Brigadier’s white Ambassador car, they were delivered poste haste to the Sivananda Ashram in Shangri-la where Swamiji again secluded himself in his concrete box deep in the jungle. None of the long stream of doctors and specialists supplied by the Brigadier and the Ashram had cured Compassion of his illness and he grew daily more feeble, his body going to rack and ruin. Arthur despaired as he assiduously treated cancerous sores on his legs that he managed to reduce in severity but never entirely healed.

The Hindu monastery routine took over their lives again and they tried to be mellow, with Arthur struggling to maintain his yogic cool in the face of his sexual maelstrom. All was steady as she goes until the hot, sweaty night he slept down on the bathing ghats beside the river. He was about to doze off into sleep when a group of young men came down to fool around at the water’s edge. A couple of them pried their penises from their pants and set to masturbating each other. Arthur watched surreptitiously from under his blanket, excited, and one of the guys noticed him watching and crept under the blanket with him, letting him suck his gorgeous big cock, all vows of celibacy instantly forgotten as they blew together in intense, mindless pleasure. The fellow then informed all of his mates and they all lined up with their dicks hanging out, demanding to be sucked off also, creating a ruckus down on the sacred ghats, Arthur refusing their attentions and made to run and hide in the jungle to quell the riot. The next morning he nervously informed his old mentor about his outrageous, sleazy behaviour. Compassion’s face fell and he gave a curt nod, as if this communication of sexual ribaldry knocking down their door was the signal he was waiting for.

The next thing, the decrepit old devil wanted to go on a march to the top of the Himalaya Mountains to the most revered site in Hinduism, a place called Badrinath where exists an ancient temple to the god Vishnu the Preserver. He desired to walk naked and bare-foot, with few provisions, along a three hundred kilometre goat track across the top of the mountains that used to be the old Hindu pilgrim trail before the tarmac road was built for cars on the other side of the river. Nothing could sway him from this obsession though his declining health prohibited the arduous journey. Unbeknownst to his gang of empathetic followers, the old fellow must have felt his demise drawing nearer with every breath. He was long intimate with the workings of his body through his mastery of yoga and he had the romantic notion that he wanted to die at a sacred spot high amongst the glaciers, his karma cleansed, the devil take the consequences. Arthur, as a nurse, had an inkling of his condition but loved the old man so much he blindly refused to take note of all the signs of death rattling at the windows, wishing for his friend to be immortal, or at least resilient in the face of deep suffering.

Arthur unconsciously knew that the game of life was up with Compassion and he refused to go along with the jolly trekking plans, throwing temper tantrums at any request for help, pretending he would see them go to Hell rather than join their foolhardy trip to the heights of nowhere. Still the Old Fool was adamant about the journey and only as the party set off up the jungle trail did Arthur hurriedly pack and, barefoot, run after them. Humility had gone off somewhere on his own business and they would not be encumbered by his cantankerous participation and Arthur was thankful for small mercies. They were a party of five, with little money, heading off into the unknown and far away from civilisation, one of them was dying and none of them could speak the language.

The old invalid strode ahead of them in a loincloth, his dead arms swinging like inexorable clock-pendulums, the rest following in single file. Serenity, always at the old man’s elbow, carried all of Compassion’s personal needs, followed by the sweet, old Chinese-Malaysian Swami who’d come along for the stride. Next in the line was a big lug from Adelaide named Robert who’d appeared from nowhere and agreed to carry all their foodstuffs in a hefty backpack. Arthur brought up the rear lugging their expedition’s camping gear and he suffered at every footstep for he’d left his sandals behind in the rush and the mountain path was littered with sharp stones that sorely cut into his tender, bare feet.

They followed the Ganges River heading for her source, trudging up a winding track that led over mountaintops, along ridges, through valleys, skirting towns and villages, rarely a local was met with and the vistas of Himalayan nature opened grandly before them.

In 1974 Badrinath was taboo for non-Hindus, nary a foreigner ever having made it there, and Compassion hoped to avoid the highway patrols and check-posts along the tarmac road by travelling the ancient footpath camouflaged on the opposite side of the river. All might have gone blissfully for the old fellow if it wasn’t for Arthur griping like a petulant child from the sidelines. They were heading away from human habitation, their food was depleting rapidly, Robert, the South Australian giant, ate like a crocodile, and Compassion was getting weaker, though he still out-walked the lot of them. Arthur’s feet were cut to shreds and he moaned and carried on, arguing for crossing the river at the next foot-bridge to transfer to the asphalt highway where he could buy decent footwear and nutritional food for them all. He was afraid the old Swami was going to drop dead on them at any moment and he would be unable to cope.

They camped in the most gorgeous of natural surroundings, visiting areas that would disappear under a hydro-dam in the future, and the old man thrilled at nature’s magnificence spread like a feast around him. The old Chinese Swami was a wonderful travelling companion, a wise humorist who kept them all laughing even when emotions were fraught from the tussle between the opposing wills of the Old Fool and Arthur, romance versus pragmatism. His temper tantrums were compounded by Arthur’s belief that he played second fiddle to Serenity in the old man’s affections, a hangover from a childhood fear of abandonment. Whenever they camped, Arthur would deduce the amounts of attention given to each of them by their old wizard, and he was often outshone by the innocent Serenity. As Arthur cooked their meals and scrubbed their dishes, he would pout sullenly and snipe peevishly at them all, spoiling the blissful ambience of Compassion’s last days on earth. It didn’t help Arthur’s repose that he caught sight of Serenity’s mammoth shlong hanging like a third leg whenever the boy’s dhoti swung open. The last vestiges of his sexual continence came crashing down upon his head like a fortress made of spun sugar, he felt compelled to sneak off and masturbate in the bushes whenever he could and his psycho-emotional turmoil waxed pathetic.

After many days they came to the one and only bridge over the Ganges River, civilisation, comfort and the army patrol on one side, the wilderness, solitude and deprivation on the other. Arthur had a showdown with the Old Fool by the bridge, he refused to go any further on the goat path and Robert with the supplies and the good humoured Chinese Swami were persuaded to support him in his revolt. Compassion was an obstinate old dick and he carried on up the rocky track provision-less, Serenity following faithfully on his heels, while Arthur’s gang of rebels crossed the river and feasted at a chai stall on the highway. Arthur knew he only had to bide his time and wait, for the old boy had no hope of carrying on over the mountains with only Serenity’s goodwill to sustain him. Sure enough, an hour later, the Old Fool tottered up to them, defeated and acquiescent, and it was Arthur who now led the way, new thongs on his feet, up the comfy tarmac of the highway to Badrinath.

Though trucks and buses harassed them with loud horns and foul exhaust, they still enjoyed many splendiferous natural wonders and they also ate heartily at the many rest stops along the way. It was at one ideal location beside a waterfall that Chidananda, number one Swami of the Sivananda Ashram, showed up in the ubiquitous white Ambassador to assure himself that Compassion was still alive and kicking, and with many blessings, wished the party good luck in its venture. Compassion had been withdrawn and sullen since the coup d’etat, then he cheered up after Chidananada’s visit to their campsite and Arthur didn’t feel such a total party-pooper.

But the Old Fool had good reason for his machinations because their expedition did indeed get halted at an army check-post just beyond the mountain town of Srinigar, only half the distance to Badrinath. They were refused permission to continue their journey and were turned back, loaded onto a bus that dumped them lower down the mountains in Deva Prayag.

They made camp in some caves at the confluence of two mighty rivers that crash together to form the Ganges proper and it was here that Humility rejoined them, to provide the cherry on the sour cake. The old boy was quite peeved at having been thwarted in his grand plan and Arthur was smarting from his fall from grace. When the party decided to move on down to Sivananda Ashram, Arthur elected to stay behind at the Meeting-place of the Angels, to have some time to himself and contemplate his precarious existence. For three days he sat by the roaring rivers dwelling on his stupidity, letting all his worries wash over and off him by clinging to a chain deep in the river’s embrace and body-surfing the rapid white water till he was cleansed of his disgruntlement. His third night in Deva Prayag happened to be the full moon of July, a special night traditionally dedicated to the Guru, and Arthur missed his old friend sorely. He seemed to envisage the old man’s wizened face, with its nimbus of white hair, smiling down at him from the giant white orb of the moon. With this vision he received a strong impulse to hurry on down to Shangri-la, he felt the Universe shifting and he was duty-bound to be by his old friend’s side to help out with the rough ride.

He arrived on the scene to find Compassion dying in one of the Ashram’s cool rooms, fever had set in and the old boy’s eyes had glazed over. He acknowledged Arthur’s presence with a wan smile, lifting and placing his foot on Arthur’s thigh in welcome, and with a sigh of relief, he gave himself up to his illness.

Having looked into his eyes, Arthur knew for certain he was dying, he could smell Death arriving, while the rest of the gang were oblivious to the harsh reality. They didn’t want to know, including Serenity, and for the duration of the old boy’s ordeal they all hid out in the back room and lolled about in a panic, smoking charas and pretending nothing was amiss. For the next three days and nights Compassion suffered a devastating fever, sweating his guts out, deliriously raving in tongues, thrashing about upon his wooden bed and Arthur nursed him throughout, cooling his body down by sponging him all over, cleaning up his wastes, making him as comfortable as possible. The Ashram doctors had put a plastic tube up his nose and down into his stomach allowing him to be fed plenty of fluids. Arthur realised that this was extremely irritating to the old yogi so on the second night he slowly slid the tube out and gave him his fluids via a large, plastic syringe squirted slowly into his mouth and down his parched throat. By the third night Arthur was exhausted but still he kept vigil for his mates remained obstinate in their refusal to recognise the severity of their old master’s illness. Death was a new and terrifying experience for them whereas to nurse Arthur it was an old acquaintance, an irrevocable part of life’s cycle.

Throughout that last night, his fever somewhat reduced but still virulent, the old yogi tried desperately to sit up in the Lotus position to meditate for the last few hours he had left on the planet. But Arthur didn’t want him to die and thinking the old fellow’s struggles were further debilitating him, tried to get him to lie back down in the prone position like all good patients should. All night they wrestled with each other, Compassion trying to go into Samadhi sitting spine straight, legs folded in the Lotus, Arthur relentlessly tussling with him to get him to lie back on the bed, his every attempt to straighten his unco-operative body futile. Towards dawn Arthur’s lack of sleep got the better of him and he fell unconscious in the hallway and at last the dear old fellow was able to sit in his favourite yogic posture and meditate his way through death’s pearly gates.

The next thing Arthur knew he was launched into a new morning by Humility running around screaming, “He’s dead! He’s dead!” Arthur rushed into the room to find Compassion had been flung backwards from his sitting position by his death-throe and cracked his head open on the concrete floor. Arthur could tell at a glance the old man was dead, his legs still folded in Lotus, and as he and his fellow Aussies shifted the body over to the bed Swami Chidananda came in to pay his last respects, Arthur clinging to Compassion’s cold hand in disbelief. To Arthur’s surprise, the rest of the Sivananda Swamis rushed in and placed the stiffened corpse, still seated in lotus position, upon a chair and, draped with necklaces of marigolds, he was carried through the marketplace of Ram Jhula, radiating Samadhi, the Australian youths trailing behind, mystified as to the weird Hindu funereal rites.

Tradition has it that yoga masters must have their skull cracked with a hammer by their chief disciple so the soul could be freed and take flight. Compassion had provided for this contingency by cracking open his head himself when he fell backwards to the floor and thus not embroiling any of his young, squeamish friends in such icky dramatics. The locals all danced behind the funeral procession as if it were a festival occasion, cheering and throwing golden flower-petals in a rain upon the corpse, and he was trundled back and forth like a sacred relic at a carnival with Arthur dancing along in a tearful daze. They finally plopped him down by the Ganges and put flowers in his hair and poured milk upon his head as all the Swamis chanted their prayers to the Final Curtain. They then put the body in a hessian bag, loaded it down with a few white Ganges rocks and heaved it aboard a waiting motor boat. Arthur, Serenity, Humility and Robert hopped on board with a few other Swamis and the motor-launch sped up the heaving river till they reached the Laxman Jhula Bridge where they threw Compassion’s body into the deep, rushing water praying the sacred fish would eat him quickly. This was a great honour for the Australian yogi as only India’s most respected saints and Babas have their corpses disposed of in this manner, everyone else getting a funeral pyre beside a river if they’re lucky.

Arthur was determined not to bawl his eyes out at the loss of his trusted guide and friend, instead viewing the incident as one of joyful release from pain and freedom from the arduous, long trek down life’s road. He sang his song of fond recall and danced gaily with the peasants, celebrating Compassion’s feat of attaining Moksha. Yet his heart was sad and weary for he knew his life would now have to take another turn, in the direction of the unknown, and without his dependable old friend to guide him. Years later, he wondered if it wasn’t for the best that Compassion died early in Arthur’s life. He might have outgrown the old idealist and held him in contempt, as the Punks did the Hippies, instead of holding him dear and luminous like a warm beacon in the dark night of his soul for the rest of his long life.

Serenity was lost, cast adrift and heartbroken, not knowing what to do with himself, he felt his purpose in India had been fulfilled. He and Arthur got on famously except for Arthur’s insufferable lust ruining the ambience of their adventures, and Serenity finally had to disassociate himself to wander off to the south and on home to Australia. There he became a heroin addict for seven years, a long flight into the Void from which he eventually emerged to make another attempt at the serene life, carrying on to a jolly old age, much loved by everyone who knew him. And he and Arthur did go on to have a caring, life-long friendship, all the demons of lust and resentment swept away like the water under Laxman’s Bridge.

Humility became even more neurotically annoying in response to the Old Fool’s demise, running around trumpeting the delusion that he had been Compassion’s chief disciple and deserved to wear the old sorcerer’s mantle. At some stage Arthur found himself back in Deva Prayag with the dickhead, sitting at the river’s confluence and smoking charas. A gang of sadhus joined them, their leader a heavily built, powerful dude with the required pile of dread-locks and innumerable rudraksha beads strung about his robust body. They passed a chillum around and Arthur toked down with the best of them, taking no notice of Humility’s carrying-on, seeing nothing especial in the ash-smeared ascetics sitting placidly in a circle.

Hours drifted by and Humility had disappeared when suddenly a crotchety old sadhu approached Arthur and asked if he could be given Humility’s gear. Arthur refused but still he kept on demanding the goods, stating that Humility was finished and wouldn’t need them any more. Arthur clung to his countryman’s bag of crap and queried the old creature’s tale, deciphering all the gobbledy-gook to be informed that Humility had thrown himself into the raging rivers. This is where they usually threw dead bodies, and Humility was done for, as no one had ever returned from that kind of a swim. Arthur could not believe his ears, and intuited with his sharp inner eye that Humility was still in existence, somewhere, and he absolutely refused to hand over Humility’s kitbag though several sadhus whined on and on about their right of claim.

Hours dragged by, midnight loomed, and out of the dark crept a wet, bedraggled Humility. He raved hysterically, claiming the big sadhu baba they’d smoked chillums with in the afternoon was a devil, able to mutate his face to a skull’s death mask and had thus hypnotised him, compelling him to leap into the rivers to his destruction. He’d been swept down and under and twice he surfaced only to go under again, and when he was almost drowned he’d had a vision of Compassion smiling from above the water. On his third surfacing he’d grabbed a log floating by and was miraculously saved, only he’d been swept many miles down river and it had taken him hours to walk back. He blubbered on, claiming he still felt the Death Baba’s willpower honing in on him and he was compelled to jump into the raging waters again. Arthur had to hustle the gibbering idiot up to the Ram temple on top of the hill and sing jolly songs with him till dawn to ward off the evil spirits. They survived that devilish night of threatening shadows to flee Deva Prayag, the Meeting Place of the Angels, and to continue a shaky friendship down in Shangri-la

In the end, the guy wasn’t worth all the effort. They shared accommodation for awhile after Compassion’s death and they argued over any and everything, Humility’s hubris and stupidity shredding Arthur’s good humour. In a furious bitch session one day Humility stood over and threatened Arthur where he sat on the floor telling him some home truths about himself,

“You weren’t Compassion’s main disciple, you were his number one pain in the ass!”

“And what were you, nothing, just an interfering little guttersnipe. I’ve a good mind to kick the shit out of you!”

“It would be typical of a rat like you to hit a man while he’s sitting down. Arsehole! All you were good for was making Compassion’s life miserable!”

To this Humility gave Arthur a swift hard kick in the chest, bowling him over, and then the bastard ran out the door. His slack attitude dictated that a few days later he should get a piece of glass in the same foot that he dared kick Arthur with, and an infected blister swelled up to the size of a baseball on his sole. When he had the poisons cut out, it left a hole you could put your fist in, and it definitely slowed down the irascible Humility(Not) so that he had to keep his malicious schemes to a minimum. He’d gotten his karmic payback and he fled to Australia without much ado, as his temper did not suit the Indian climate. It seems that for many years he earned his living as a quack psychologist then he married a nice British woman who seems to have straightened him out, they settled in England and he outgrew his impish ways, lightening up and proving Dame Fortune to be blind.

Arthur remained on in India, to have many more adventures and escapades with the likes of Moti Ma and the Sid Quartz Gang, and all the while he felt forlorn, incomplete and somewhat guilty, scared of being as big a brat as Humility. He figured it was meant to be that his Swamiji died in a reasonable manner at the ashram: the coincidence of Chidananda finding them on a far-flung highway and then the expedition being so resolutely turned back from their quest for Badrinath smacked of contrived kismet; he wasn’t meant to die in the middle of nowhere. And besides, what did the old fellow think the naive Aussie lads would do with his dead body high in the Himalayas? Perhaps he counted on Arthur’s Indianised know-how to just dump him in the river?

The high Himalayas are stupendously magnificent, making for an awesome site to die in: who wouldn’t want to die in such glorious surroundings? And it is incumbent on Hindus to make pilgrimage to Badrinath, on foot, if they truly want to be absolved of their bad karma. Compassion had high hopes for all the mumbo-jumbo and had walked himself to death accordingly. Whatever, what happened was what happened, and in the end, things were made easier for everyone as all the formalities of death were taken care of by the Ashram and Arthur was free to be the irresponsible lad he had studied so hard to become.