At a party a man from the country that he came from, accosts him. He could see it coming, the forced chumminess of expatriates, with the implicit nude and wink, that we are both alike, even if there is nothing he can discuss deeply with this man. Someone else had once accused him of becoming un-country like. Is this because of his aloofness, his unwillingness to discuss matters expatriates harp about whenever they meet – how things are better back in that other country etc, while at the same time unwilling to return to these supposedly better things.

The man begins to ask him if he knows of a certain organization that deals with certain kind of spiritual instruction. Yes, he had heard of it, he had even participated in some those activities himself, in that other country, many years ago, when he was young, and hungry to experience different things. He also knew people who were then, and perhaps even now, deeply involved with this organization. The man begins to tell him how the organization has a local branch in this city, and if he has time he should come around and take another course dealing with some kind of meditation.

He nods politely and ignores the subject. His doubts are larger than the faith he could espouse in that very business like organization, where spiritual knowledge is packaged into courses and is dispensed, in exchange for a certain fixed ‘donation’, even when he was involved with it, superficially, looking for the Master. Nothing had happened. He went through the motions and just as soon fell out of the habit, drifted away into his old battlefield of existential existence. He still doesn’t know which is better – staying on this battlefield or taking refuge in some ‘spiritual’ fort, all the while harboring disbelief inside like a Trojan horse. Also at some point he had also given up on the concepts of God, proof or disproof of God(s)’ existence and availability etc putting an end, perhaps temporarily, to what he used to refer to, aware of the self irony, as his spiritual touring.

Later in the course of the evening, he falls into conversation with a girl, who is obviously high on something. Marijuana perhaps. She tells him of her experiences with another outfit from that other country – how she had fallen in with some people who were a part of it back in college, how in that rebellious era when people were seeking refer from the stiff upper lip of Calvinism, how attractive all of that free form singing and chanting seemed. But now she no longer cared for it anymore, nor did she practice any of those rituals and exercises she had picked up. Then she points to him certain kind of rosary that she is wearing around her neck, and says this for just in case, this is her backup plan.

We are on the tricky slope Of talk, as you urge me to Say what I am feeling right Now.

Right now, my darling, We are making love, right

Now, we are feeding our hunger For certainty against dust, right

Now, my hands are pouring Musk into your hair, right

Now, our bodies are conversing in A language they both know, right

Now, your right eyelash is fluttering against My right shoulder like a raven’s wing, right

Now, this black cab is driving Into London’s thin rain, right

Now eternity is flashing by me, and is Falling over your cheeks as tears, right Now.

Notes: As I was reading a volume on the subject of Photojournalism late last night, I came upon an article on how photo spreads are organized, featuring some stunning photographs of Brian Brake on Indian monsoons that were published in the Life Magazine. Among all these photographs, there was that of woman with her face turned to the rain in ecstatic and peaceful relief.