Indian Meditation
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It’s like I used to ask my Swami during my period of monastic meditative retreat in the hills of Uttar Pradesh.
“Swami?”, I would ask. “If you build a beautiful girl out of toothpicks, but when you try to hump her she collapses into a pile of wood, then was she really there?”
“Ah, DB1.” He would respond, laughing quietly while taking a pinch of snuff into his wrinkled hands. “We perceive the hotness whether toothpick, flesh, or tattooed bar slut. The projection of the construction embodies the real.”
Then he would instruct me to self flagellate my back with strings of goose feathers and yak hooves while chanting my mantra and tilling the wool jenny. I remained under Swami’s instructions until Punjabi police inquired my status and sent me home. I hitched a ride with a spice merchant named Ace, who told me tales of living under grape leaves during the unrest in Sanawar before stealing away under cover of the rainy season.
We reached port in February in South Carolina, where I apprenticed as a shoemaker before a windfall at craps allowed me to purchase a ticket home on a coal train. I traveled for three days and nights with only the poems of the Vedic Seers to soothe my cracked heel fissures.
