The Last Story (9 page)

Peter did not occupy a seat proper, his wheelchair hugged a pew near the front. Although I'd forgotten to call Peter to cancel our lunch date, I did phone to let him know I was bringing Roger. Peter hadn't minded. I could only hope Roger played it cool, and didn't try to hold my hand or anything. But cool was one thing Roger seemed to have no difficulty being. I wondered if he would learn of my probing into his past. Garrett had promised me that discretion was his middle name.

I introduced Roger to Peter and Jimmy, both of whom were too excited about the holy man to pay much attention to Roger. For his part, Roger was low key. He had said little on the drive over from Henry's. Peter leaned over and kissed me as I sat down. It was a brief, friendly kiss. Peter was on my left, Roger on my right. Jimmy sat next to Roger, with no Jo to hang on to—not that he would have in public anyway. Jo had wanted to come but also wanted to work on lines, she said. Her interest in the esoteric had waned as she grew older.

"Is he here yet?" I asked Peter.

"You'll know when he gets here. Everyone stands. How are rehearsals going?"

"Great. Andy and Henry think we're ready."

Peter whispered in my ear. "Is that guy your new star?" he asked.

"Yes. He's playing Daniel."

"He looks like an actor."

"Are you saying he looks handsome?" I asked.

Peter thought a moment. "Has he been in something we've seen?"

"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"

"He looks familiar."

Interesting, I thought. I'd had the same reaction.

The yogi entered a few minutes later and, as Peter said, everyone stood up out of respect.

He looked much like his picture, with his long flowing black hair and black beard. Yet his youth surprised me—he couldn't have been thirty-five. Also, he was much smaller than I'd expected, slighter. He moved with incredible grace, carrying flowers in his hands. He wore a simple white dhoti, a strand of beads around his neck. He entered slowly, allowing everyone a chance to greet him as he moved up the center aisle. His accent, though distinct, was not heavy. He spoke the King's English, and had obviously been educated in the language by someone from Britain. He smiled as he walked, sometimes chuckling softly. There was no doubt, he was a happy man.

Nevertheless, I found myself disappointed. He didn't exude the power of the Rishi, and I sensed his kindness but not any divine energy. I know it was ridiculous of me to want to be hit over the head, to experience instant nirvana. Perhaps I'd heard too many things about the man—my expectations were so high. As he swept by, our eyes momentarily locked and a smile broke over my own face. Yet I did not feel I was in the presence of a Master. I watched as he made his way to the sheet-draped chair at the front and sat down crosslegged.

He nodded to an assistant and the lights were dimmed. Peter leaned over and spoke in my ear.

"He always starts with a few minutes of silence."

"What do we do during this few minutes?" I asked.

"Just sit with the eyes closed and relax and enjoy the good vibes."

I glanced at Roger. "We're going to meditate for a few minutes."

"I don't know how to meditate," Roger said.

"You're not the only one," I said.

As a group we closed our eyes and sat quietly.

Honestly, I tried to relax and enjoy whatever was supposed to be happening, but I felt nothing,

absolutely nothing, except a growing head pain.

That afternoon, after seeing Garrett, I had swallowed one Tylenol-3 pill. Since this was supposed to be a holy man, I didn't want to take another and act drugged in his presence. At the same time I wondered if I would be able to make it through the night without taking something more. It seemed that lately I had a headache more often than I didn't.

The minutes passed slowly. Several times I opened my eyes to peek at the holy man, who was only twenty feet away. He sat so silently, so still, he could have been a statue. He didn't even appear to breathe. Feeling silly, I tried to see his aura, figuring it must be real bright if he was so enlightened and all. Yet the only colorful things I saw were the flowers arranged around his seat.

Finally, after twenty minutes, he stirred and the lights were turned back on. As the saint opened his eyes, he smiled and played with his long beads, twirling them in front of him. He nodded to his assistant, a young man in a blue suit, who briefly introduced the yogi.

"Guruji" was traveling around the world teaching meditation and something called kriya.

His organization was nonprofit and educational. He had centers on every continent and a large orphanage in India. That weekend—beginning the next day—Guruji would personally teach his techniques of meditation and kriya. Those who wanted to take the course could sign up after the lecture. The

introduction was brief. The assistant sat down and the audience was left staring at the yogi. But for his part Guruji seemed to be reveling in an inner joke.

He kept smiling, twirling his beads, and looking around.

"Now I'm going to play the role of the teacher,''

he said finally in a soft but clear voice. "And you're going to play the role of the students.

It is like that, nothing more than a play. But it would be nice if the teacher would speak of something of interest to the students. If there are any questions on your mind, you can ask them now."

Many people's arms went up. A bombardment of questions.

"Could you speak on reincarnation?"

"Was Jesus an enlightened Master or the son of God?"

"Were you Buddha in a past life?"

"Is your form of meditation more powerful than TM?"

"Is kriya the fastest way to get enlightened?"

"If there is a God, why does he allow so much suffering?"

"Are you enlightened?"

"Are there angels?"

"How much money do you make a year?"

"Can a person gain enlightenment through sex?"

The questions went on and on. The yogi took them for half an hour, simply nodding at each one.

I wondered how he could possibly keep track of them all, and how he would have time to answer

half of them. Finally, however, the arms came down and he sat silently for a minute or two, smiling and staring off into space. Then he burst out laughing.

"I don't know the answers to any of these questions,"

he said. "What are we going to do now?"

The audience exploded with laughter; it was such a perfect response. Peter leaned over and spoke in my ear. "See what I mean?" he asked.

I nodded. "He's funny." Of course, I had wanted to hear his opinion on several of the topics. The Rishi had answered many of my questions in a straightforward manner.

"Why do you want my opinion on these things?"

the yogi asked. "If I say something that agrees with your point of view, you'll be happy.

You'll go home and say he is a wise man. If my opinion is the opposite of yours, you will leave here and say I'm a fool. In either case what I say doesn't affect what is.

The reality is not affected by our opinions. It is what it is. For that reason I have no opinions."

An old woman stood up. "But are you enlightened?"

The yogi considered. "If I say I'm enlightened, then you will want me to prove it in some way. I will have to give a wonderful talk or else strike you with divine energy. Or I might even have to heal someone. People expect this sort of proof from someone who says he's enlightened."

He paused to chuckle. "For that reason I always say, 'No, I'm not enlightened.' It's much easier that way for me."

The audience chuckled again. To my surprise, my hand went up. He nodded in my direction and I stood, feeling weak in the knees. "I would like to learn to meditate. Could you tell us a little about the technique you teach?"

His gaze lingered on me for a moment before he spoke. "Meditation is very valuable. It allows us to fathom our inner being, and gives meaning to our life. The time we spend in meditation is the most important time of all. The technique I teach is very simple, very natural, completely effortless. Correct meditation never involves effort. You see in life we do things with our body and we do things with our minds. When you want to accomplish something physical, there is always some effort. You want to climb the stairs, you have to move your legs up and down. You sweat and get out of breath. You cannot shine your car perfectly without putting a hundred percent into it. On the other hand, when it comes to mental things, if you try too hard you accomplish nothing. When it is time to sleep, if you try to nod off, you'll be up all night. You go to a movie or play and want to enjoy it because you have heard so many good things about it.

But if you sit there trying to enjoy it, you get frustrated. The only way to enjoy is to let go."

"I write for a living and that is a purely mental activity," I said. "But when I write it is hard work. I have to concentrate on what I'm doing or I get nowhere."

He shook his head. "That is not so."

I forced a smile. "But it's true. It's hard work.

There is effort."

"No. Thinking is an effortless process. It happens automatically. The creator designed the human brain that way. The human brain is the greatest creation of the creator. You write best when you let go, and let it flow. It is only when you settle down that you experience true inspiration. Isn't it?"

I started to disagree, but paused. It was true; I wrote best when the words flowed effortlessly. The trouble was it didn't always do that. I said as much to him and he nodded.

"That is why you will enjoy meditation. After you meditate, your writing will be inspired.

What do you write? Books?"

"Yes. Scary books."

He made a scared face. "Ohhh. You must be a scary person."

I had to laugh. "It depends what time of the day it is."

He laughed with me. "Scary books are good.

Contrast in life is good. If everything was the same every day, it would be no fun. You cannot have great heroes without evil villains."

I sat down. Roger raised his hand but didn't stand. The yogi nodded in his direction. "I have read that certain yogis develop amazing powers through meditation," Roger said. "They can levitate and move objects without touching them and even read people's minds. I was wondering if the meditation you teach develops these abilities?"

The yogi played with a rose. "Why do you want these things?"

"Everyone wants more personal power."

The yogi acted surprised. "Really?"

Roger spoke firmly. "Yes, which raises a concern of mine. Your followers look up to you. As you walked in, I saw many of them handing you flowers, greeting you as if you were some kind of guru.

What do you have to say about that?"

The yogi was a picture of innocence. "If people want to give me flowers, I can't very well throw them back at them." He waved his hand. "It doesn't matter to me what they do. I never ask for flowers."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Which question was that?"

"Don't you think it's a mistake for people to give up their personal power? To you or any other guru?"

The yogi was serious for once. "What power do you have? You have no power. The only power is in the divine consciousness. You don't even know how to breathe, how to keep your heart pumping. If the divine stopped doing that for you, you would be dead in a moment. We do not lose strength by surrendering our life to God, to a genuine Master.

We gain real strength. And then these abilities you crave—if they come, good and fine.

You will know how to use them for good. But we do not meditate to gain powers. They are an obstacle to divine realization, not a boon."

"You equate God and a genuine Master," Roger persisted. "How can we know a genuine Master when we meet him?"

"You can only know him or her in your heart.

There is no other way."

"I'm sure the followers of Jim Jones and David Koresh would have said the same thing,"

Roger said.

"Who are they?" the yogi asked.

Roger snorted softly. "Can't you tune into that information?"

The yogi paused. "They were cult leaders. Their followers followed them to their deaths."

"That's correct," Roger said. "I'm sure you read about them in the papers. Anyway, such people are a menace to society. They delude the weak-willed, take their money, their possessions. They take over their whole lives. How do we know you're not planning to do the same with people here tonight?"

"A genuine Master is like the sun, complete in himself. He needs nothing, asks for nothing. But for those who wish to stand and walk to the window and pull aside the curtains, he is there. He warms their path. He guides them, nothing more. He does not steal their lives from them. The opposite—he shows them how to live to their full potential."

"But shouldn't we rely upon ourselves for guidance?"

Roger asked. "What do we need you for?"

The yogi was amused. "I don't know."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"It's all up to you. Just relax and enjoy."

Roger crossed his arms over his chest impa

tiently. He started to speak again but then thought better of it. I leaned over and whispered in his ear.

"Those were good questions," I said.

Roger shook his head. "You notice he didn't answer any of them."

"He answered them in his own way," I said uncertainly.

Someone behind us raised her arm. "Could you please tell us about the kriya you teach?

What it is?

How it works?"

"Kriya and meditation go together. Kriya brings spontaneous meditation. You don't have to do anything. The mind dives deep inside after Kriya.

We see our emotions, our thoughts, they flow in rhythms. We are happy at certain times of the day, not so happy at other times. A person says I am a morning person. I can only do my best work before lunch. Other people say they are night people.

Their lives have that rhythm.

"Likewise, our emotions and thoughts are tied to the rhythm of our breath. When we are upset, our breath is rapid. We may even pant. When we're sad, our breath is heavy. We sigh.