Читать книгу: «Kashi», страница 5

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Karen did not wait for Paul Madden. He would come when he was willing to do the first step on the spiritual path. She sensed he still hesitated, something held him back. Karen possessed the wisdom and the patience to allow him to proceed at his own pace. Three weeks had passed since they had met at his hotel in Berlin. In her morning meditation, a flickering image of the composer appeared on the inner canvas of Karen´s mind. He looked tanned and much more relaxed than in her previous visions. He was close, not in Europe anymore, but on his way to Varanasi.

She spoke with Rahmanji about her vision. He smiled. “Tomorrow, my dear. Tomorrow he will come!”

Her meditation that night started with a prayer for wisdom, selflessness and spiritual guidance for the special and delicate relationship that was about to manifest in her life. She had to be aware of the Higher Self any minute she would spend with Paul. She needed to forget her personal will completely and become a messenger of the Self only. All else would happen of its own accord. Karen felt like a sailor, who prepared for a long and unpredictable journey that would lead both of them through many different kinds of weather and sea. The mind was the vast ocean that they would have to cross together, and it depended on both of them, their patience, strength, faith, courage and their ability to let go if they would ship through the different states of mind easily. She allowed the feeling of the prayer, the bhava, to envelope her and to cover all of the different levels of her self: the physical, energetic, mental, and subtle sheets that composed her entire being. She became one with the underlying intention of her prayer. Thus, the seed for selfless guidance was sewn. Karen knew with absolute certainty that it would bear fruit as soon as the time for its growth had come.

Her consciousness returned to the states of identity, of mind and the world. Karen witnessed an image of Paul, who looked disturbed. He sat on a bench in a cold, snowy place and shook his head in disbelieve and discomfort. "What do you see, Paul", she asked. And for a nanosecond, Karen saw a faint image of marching soldiers swinging red flags with the swastika symbol. Fear crept up inside of her. The image appeared threatening. It carried darkness and hopelessness, states of mind she had never encountered in her waking life before. "Is that part of what we have to face", she asked herself. "Is Paul´s life somehow still linked to this era of devastation?"

Out of nowhere, she was struck by intense self-doubt. She knew nothing; not about life, not about the human soul, not about herself. The ego was totally blind, she thought. And yet, the knowledge to understand the world and each individual was available somewhere, to seers and spiritual guides. Would she be able to see, what she needed to know?

“Don´t be afraid of darkness, my dear”, Rahmanji had told her seriously a few months ago. "In the light, everyone can see, but when the darkness of the subconscious covers the mind, the spiritual aspirant needs someone to hold the lamp and show him his way towards the eternal light, which is the source of all creation. This light is inside of you. You must find it, connect to it, and identify with it. Then you will be able to guide anyone through anything. We are musicians, Karen, that is true, but music is – like everything else – a creation of the divine and can reveal its hidden nature. The more of the divine light shines through our music the stronger its purifying and transcending effect."

Truly, Paul sat at her doorsteps, when Karen returned from her morning class at Rahmanji´s music school, where she taught groups and individuals in sitar and tanpura, the next day. He looked around, lost in thought. Karen had time to watch him for a few seconds before he saw her. He looked tanned and indeed more relaxed than before. There was a fresh sparkle in his eyes. He appeared more open, even a little curious. He rose as soon as he spotted her, pulling his shirt down and streaking his buttocks to put off the dirt. She waited for him to start the conversation. He seemed timid and shy.

“Well. Here I am. I can hardly believe it. It´s the first time in years that I have traveled alone and for private reasons. I just hope, I did not follow a chimera.”

Karen laughed aloud. Her strength once again intimidated him. Paul had forgotten how self-conscious she was, how direct and how strong-willed. Unconsciously, he backed away from her, while Karen noticed any reaction of his. She walked towards the entrance, unlocked the green wooden door and entered her house, which was nicely shaded and cool at this warm midday hour. She did not ask Paul to come in, just left the door open. It was totally up to him if he wanted to follow her. "How rude", he thought angrily. But not for a second it occurred to him that he could turn around and leave. He only hesitated briefly, before he entered the house and closed the door behind him. Paul could hardly see in the darkness. His eyes were still blinded by the bright sunlight outside. But he heard sounds in the kitchen. Water flowing in a pot, a gas oven being ignited, a tea or coffee pot being opened. His eyes began to adjust to the dim light slowly. Karen Garin came out of the kitchen, walked through a large living room and opened a door to a balcony facing the majestic river. A soft and fragrant breeze swept through the living room. Paul kept walking toward the balcony door. Suddenly felt a little dizzy. His legs began to shake. Somehow he reached the door and saw the vast river Ganges for the first time in his life. Paul stood speechless for a moment, stunned by the beauty of this mocha-colored water vein that Hindus revered as much as they misused it for their daily needs. Paul caught sight of the sandbank on the other side, and his dizziness increased. He grasped for the door case to catch a hold.

“I have seen this before”, he stammered looking at his host with widely opened eyes. While he was tossed and torn by the winds of his uncontrollable emotions, she stayed absolutely calm and fully grounded, completely unaffected and yet fully aware of his inner reaction. Paul´s hands clung to the door.

“I have seen this in a dream...”

She moved slowly towards one of the armchairs and sat down, still watching Paul closely and calmly. Now, she turned her face towards the river focusing on the other shore. She nodded almost invisibly. He tried to find the physical balance and walk towards the chairs. Somehow he managed to sit down slowly. His eyes followed hers to the other side of the river and they sat in mutual silence. Paul quickly recovered, feeling much more relaxed, less disturbed, even calm now. He was very well aware of the fact that this coolness was not his own, but hers.

The water began to boil in the kitchen, but Karen did not get up before she was sure that Paul had calmed down. Paul heard her brew some tea, but his attention was drawn back towards the Ganges river, the sandbank and the vivid images he remembered from his dream.

Very soon Karen Garin returned with the tea that spread its full spicy smell in all directions. "This is the Orient", Paul thought, feeling like a tourist, who shortly dipped into the experience of this country ready to take back home vivid memories of Indian places, people, smells and sounds. Not for a second, it occurred to him that he would stay longer than the two weeks he had given himself to find out what this mysterious woman had truly offered him. Karen gave him a cup of tea, looking at him piercingly. Then, for the first time since they had met on the street, she spoke. "I have expected you a week ago." Her words were spoken curiously, without blame or accusation.

“I went to Delhi first. There was so much to see, the red fort, the mosque, the emperors tombs, the markets, the people... I have not traveled on my own for years and – I have to admit – that I did not feel ready to come here.”

She smiled kindly and sympathetically.

“I have decided to come only yesterday. Before, I was not even sure, if I would return to New York without seeing you.”

“Do you think you will loose or gain something here?”

He was stunned, how clearly she made out his ambivalent feelings. He blushed, feeling ashamed of his thoughts. “I, I am not sure...”

Her smile became even warmer and somehow, Paul found the courage to admit what he truly felt. “Yes. I am afraid I might loose something. I do not like change.”

She held the tea mug in both of her hands, the elbows firmly set on the armrest gazing into the nowhere. All of a sudden she got up, put the cup on the table and left him. Paul felt faint again and fought against a strong fatigue.

Karen Garin returned with her sitar, sat on a small carpet on the floor, crossed her legs and began to tune her instrument. She started to play a soft, comforting piece in a major. Paul felt uplifted and more positive, almost encouraged and filled with a kind of hope, that he had never felt before. Karen Garin closed her eyes and fully concentrated on the sounds and the movement of her fingers on the twenty cords of her beautiful instrument. Paul felt the strong vibration emanating from the Indian lute. His fatigue grew. When Karen changed the main theme of her play, Paul totally lost concentration, his head sank back softly and he fell asleep. Karen Garin continued to play for a while, got up silently, carried her sitar back into the house and returned with a warm blanket. Paul did not wake up. Karen smiled and left him to himself and the healing sleep.

Paul did not know where he was. The air was cool and damp. Paul felt the soft texture of a blanket on his arms and let his eyes wonder. He heard dogs barking in the distance and a soft flute music inside of the apartment. Now he remembered. He was at Karen Garin's house. Slowly he rose to look for her inside. He found her on the living room floor, studying a bunch of papers spread in front of her. She heard Paul at the door and looked up.

“How do you feel?” Her looked serious and sincere.

“Pooh, relaxed, well-rested. Different...”

She got up easily. "It´s late, Paul. I will call you a rickshaw. The driver is a nice guy, who will take you anywhere you want, even to heaven and hell". She laughed when she saw his incomprehension.

She talked to someone on her cell phone in Hindi. “He will be here in a few minutes.”

Paul nodded, feeling totally overrun by anything she did. It was like he lost his will completely as soon as he was with her. That scared him, made him feel like a foolish child, too stupid to understand what she said, too dumb to grasp what she intended.

The rickshaw driver had arrived within minutes and knocked on the door now. Karen Garin led Paul towards the entrance and bowed in the Indian manner of greeting. “Pranam, Paul. Aparoksh will take you to your hotel safely. He is the best rickshaw wala in town. Tikay, Aparoksh?”

The guy smiled broadly and nodded wildly. Paul noticed his simple clothes and bare feet. Karen pulled a banknote out of her sleeve and gave it to the dirty youngster. He smiled, bowed down and touched her feet gratefully. Paul watched the scene half amazed, half touched by the unusual geniality in the encounter of these unequal people.

“This is Paul”, Karen said in English. Paul doubted that the boy understood.

“Paul! Mera nam Aparoksh hai.” He pointed to his chest wildly.

“He says, his name is Aparoksh. He will pick you up tomorrow afternoon at four and bring you back here. Till then, have a good sleep, and do what you feel like. See you then, Paul.“

She put her hands once more together in front of her chest and bowed slightly. He felt the inner urge to copy this fine and respectful gesture.

“And don´t forget to bring your cello, Paul.”

She turned around and he was left alone with the rickshaw boy, who pushed him onto the wooden vehicle, pulled it up with his skinny arms and began to run into the labyrinth of alleys and streets called Varanasi. Paul sat tensely on the red artificial leather seat, hypnotized by the ringing of tiny bells that the boy had tied to the carrier. The nightly traffic was moderate, but the rickshaw had only cat´s eyes on its rear side. The streets were scarcely lighted. Cars drove aggressively and chaotically. The boy pulled the vehicle through narrow alleys full of dirt and cow dung as fast and attentively as through the broader avenues with countless potholes. Paul began to relax physically after a while, but immediately his mind tensed up when he started to think of the slave-like work the boy did at this young age. Of course, Paul had to think of his own son, Sean, who enjoyed the waves of the grand Pacific right now, who was able to grow up protected and free from the pressuring responsibility of self-preservation. But Paul also felt more self-aware than usual and realized that his reaction to the situation was stereotype. The pity hidden in his response covered an attitude of arrogance and self-righteousness. Karen Garin knew this boy and probably his story, but she did not pity him. Paul tried to get rid of the emotion, but it kept returning like a boomerang. Paul fought with himself valiantly until Aparoksh trotted up the hotel driveway. Cheerfully the boy greeted the doorman and stopped right in front of him. The boy helped Paul to climb down and refused the tip that Paul wanted to give him.

“No thank you, Sir. Miss Karen paid me good price."

Paul felt ashamed. The boys English was more than decent.

“Meet here tomorrow at four, Mister Paul. Same way back to Miss Karen.”

Paul smiled for the first time since he had met the boy. “Tomorrow, Aparoksh.” He had difficulty pronouncing the Indian name.

“A-pa-roksh meaning visible, not hidden, Mister Paul. Very nice Hindu name.”

The boy talked to Paul naturally and not at all timid. Paul began to like him.

“Very nice. Paul means little, little one”, he said, and they fell into a mutual laughter. Even the doorman had to grin.

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After a dreamless night, Paul needed to relax at the pool in the marvelous hotel garden. The temperature was comfortable, neither too hot nor too cold; definitely much better than in New York at this time of the year. Paul found a nice sunbed in the shade of a huge dark red parasol next to a coconut palm tree. But as soon as he lay there, a feeling of guilt crept up into his conscious mind and disturbed the inner peace and well-being that had filled him since last night. An increasing amount of thoughts began to attack his serene mood. He went swimming to fight the thoughts with action, but they did not accept this leisure activity and tried to force him back into his room to work on the Shakespeare composition. After half an hour of fighting with himself, he gave up and went inside. He was still agitated, somehow worn out, and he doubted, that he would be able to concentrate on his working project. He took a shower and ordered a sandwich and a tea from the room-service before he dared to sit down for work. Then, he took his music jottings and waited for the first idea to initiate the flow of creativity.

Shakespeare and the England of his times were so far away, so faint and unimportant, that Paul could hardly tune into its mood. He imagined the writer in his room writing with a scratching ink pen on a rough, yellowish paper. The genius of this man became quickly the main theme that Paul perceived, the need to write, to express and to enact the dramas of life. Paul began to hear a melody that portrayed this idea of drama perfectly: the countless, limitless stories that life plays on the stage of the presence and the myriads of stories that have already been lived and will be lived in the future. For a moment he drifted into a sense of eternalness when his pencil began to draw several themes that mixed and intertwined like lifelines that became equally visible from a point of view that overlooked not only hours, days and years, but ages. The dramas he perceived, first as overlapping images, then as sound, all followed a certain pattern, the play of desire and fear, of love and hatred, joy and pain, Paul realized with another part of his mind, while he was still fully enveloped in the process of seeing, listening and recording. For a moment he became a witness of the blueprint of human drama itself, enacted through timeless ages by each and every human being. Paul was sure, that Shakespeare must have seen something similar when he had sat on his desk with his ink pen in his hand and the gross yellow paper in front of him more than four hundred years ago. Vaguely Paul saw that this common blueprint ruled all experiences of his life until today, and he wondered, why he did not see this before. His life from this point of view became less obscure, less heavy and less important. Its pains were put into a different perspective and its joys. His goals and cravings hardly seemed to matter, because the craving and the longing were part of this pattern that he had to go through like anyone else without willingly choosing it. Was there a way out of this blueprint, this common drama, he asked himself. And what would a life be like that was not governed by desire and fear, love and hatred, joy and pain; a life that was freed from the blueprint of this eternal drama, from identification with the personal life story?

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Aparoksh leaned on his cart when Paul left the hotel lobby with a smile towards the doorman. It was the guy, who had worked last night. He nodded back and watched Paul climb into the rickshaw with his cello awkwardly.

“Very big instrument you have, Mister Paul!” Aparoksh commented his stiff climb looking very impressed.

“It´s a cello.”

“Never heard. Only know sitar Miss Karen plays and Rahmanji, her teacher. Very good players. Famous all over the world.”

“Yes, I have met Miss Karen in Berlin.”

“Germany? Wow, Mister Paul. You see the world.”

Paul laughed. The boy, who constantly surprised him, lifted the two bars of his rickshaw to pull him and his cello down the gateway into the dense afternoon traffic. The sun was stronger than this morning. Paul tried to hide from its rays. He did not know how the boy managed to run barefoot on the hot concrete. When Aparoksh stopped on a red light, Paul asked him to close the roof for him. He felt much safer and less cooked for the rest of his journey. Twenty minutes later they entered the mud asphalted lane that led towards the Ganges and Karen Garin´s house. Her door was open and the same subtle music, that Karen had heard last night, blew through the corridor onto the street. Aparoksh stood still and listened in amazed silence. Paul had to climb down from the rickshaw without help. He clasped to the cello tightly and tried not to fall. The boy seemed so moved by the music Paul did not dare to ask for his help.

Karen Garin appeared on the door dressed in a casual shirt and wide bloomers. She wore flat sandals and her cheeks glowed from the heat of the afternoon.

“Dhanyavad, Aparoksh. Pyaasa? Danke, Aparoksh.Thirsty?”

Aparoksh nodded excitedly. “Best lemonade in town, Miss Karen´s”, he told Paul.

“Come in you two.”

Paul again watched the boy closely, when he entered Karen Garin's house without hesitation, fear or bashfulness. Paul himself still felt stiff and intimidated by his host. He wished he would find the boy´s ease and naturalness in her company.

Aparoksh emptied his glass quickly, looking at Paul apologetically.

“Time is money, Mister Paul. Raam Raam! Goodbye.” He bowed in front of Miss Karen and touched her feet like the night before. When he wanted to do the same with Paul´s, Paul held his arm and pulled him up instinctively. Disappointment spread on the boys face. Paul did not understand his reaction, but nobody said a word and the rickshaw wala ran back cheerfully to pursue business.

“Did I do something wrong?” Paul inquired as soon as the boy was gone.

“Don´t worry, Paul. These are different rules of conduct. Any elder person of respect is revered like this. Aparoksh is a very polite boy. And he likes you.”

“It´s funny, but I like him too.”

“Why is that funny?” Karen asked directly and Paul was too surprised to hold back his thoughts.

“He could be my son, but his life is so different from my son's life, so hard and poor. Children should not have to work!"

Karen Garin´s laughter hit him strongly. “Only one generation back the European and American culture were just the same. My grandparents left school at fourteen.”

Not in Paul´s family. His grandparent's generation was well educated. "But this boy has no childhood", he tried to defend his prejudiced thoughts.

“You think he is not happy?! Far wrong, Paul, far wrong. He is happier than you!”

The words struck his stomach like an unexpected fist punch. The pain was so strong that Paul could neither think nor speak, protect nor defend himself. His face turned white. He tried to fight the pain and the inner void it had opened. But he kept falling into a deep dark hole of pain that threatened to swallow him completely. Paul could not generate the forces of reason he normally fought emotional pain with. Nothing he tried to console himself worked. Karen Garin´s attention had long moved on, while Paul still wrestled with the devastating effect of her words. She sat on the terrace floor and tuned her sitar.

“Are you coming, Paul?” She called him artlessly.

He tried to brace himself and walked out on the balcony.

“Let´s play a little”, she said.

Paul was not sure if she ridiculed him.

“Sit, Paul and tell me: what are you currently working on?”

Paul perched on a stool, she had positioned for him opposite to her carpet. He opened the cover of his cello slowly, still fighting his way back out of the emotional into the rational.

“Shakespeare. A soundtrack.”

She turned to him mindfully, giving him time to find words.

“I have started with a few sketches. It´s coming along." He paused, recalling this morning's thoughts and experience.

“How do you approach your work?” she wanted to know.

“Usually I sit down and concentrate. I start hearing different sounds, melodies, rhythms. But this morning something was different. It was more difficult for me to tune into the atmosphere of Shakespeare´s s time. The Indian impressions are so vivid, colorful and dominant right now. But then he appeared in front of my mind's eye, and I suddenly realized, what his work was about. It exaggerated the blueprint of human experience, of any life story, in the form of drama and comedy. Not only Shakespeare´s language skills but rather his understanding of this universal pattern is the timeless genius of his work.”

“What does that sound like? Can you show me?”

He looked astonished, not prepared and a little shy. “Now? Here?”

“If you don´t mind.”

He tuned the cords and concentrated for a while. Then he started to play the main theme that he had recorded yesterday, followed by two of the minor themes that intertwined with the main lifeline portrayed by his composition. Karen Garin closed her eyes and listened with full awareness. Paul noticed that she was absolutely present, physically, emotionally and mentally. She immediately picked up her instrument and began to imitate his sound perfectly, after he was done. She hit each note exactly the way he had intended and played it before, giving it the special character of the sitar play at the same time. Amazing, Paul thought, absolutely stunned by her accurate ear and her musicality.

She started to improvise around the main theme, allowing the minor themes to show and fade and also a few new lifelines to appear. Her single instrument created the sound of an entire string orchestra. Karen had directly grasped Paul´s intention, and she was able to further spin the thread of sound he had initially woven and tied. An uplifting feeling of bliss ran through Paul´s spine. The prior emotional pain was totally forgotten. He took the cello up again and tried to find into her play, echoing the main theme in a lower key. They easily found their mutual way into the flow of the music, where none of them lead, but both of them followed the inner impulses that perfectly fit together like countless threads that were woven into one thick cord. None of them was the doer in this moment of free flowing creativity, both of them were instruments, fully dedicated to the music, the sound, and the whole piece. Individuality completely rendered to wholeness. This was the moment Paul had been speaking of to Phil, the moment of oneness that was also possible with the entire audience. It felt magical, larger than life and somehow holy and the happiness it rendered was far greater than anything Paul had ever experienced. This was a moment of fulfillment, of not lacking anything, of sharing and uniting; an experience almost impossible to find in everyday lives, encounters, and happenings. And this was the reason why Paul wanted to compose and make music, to be part of this uplifting experience and share it with others as often as possible. The flow slowly faded, but not the relief and the happiness. "

This experience is true and it is not outrageous to strive for it”, he thought self-assuringly, remembering his frustrating discussion with Phil in November.

Karen Garin looked at him. "We see music as a path to discover divine consciousness within. Music is not for pleasure, it is not for name and fame, for wealth and acknowledgment. It is a sadhana, a spiritual practice, that leads to God-realization.”

Paul listened to her words exceptionally aware, yet somehow indifferent, unattached.

„In the sacred Hindu teachings, God is described as the sound of sounds, shabda brahman. Through music, we learn to purify our individual consciousness and our callous hearts and elevate our awareness and love to this subtlest of truths. We allow the creation of ahat nada, struck sound, a sound created by any instrument or human being on the material level of existence, to lead to the experience of the subtler anahat nada, unstruck sound, whose nature is divine vibration. And we can only reach this state of consciousness if we ourselves become the instrument and allow God to play."

Paul was not sure if he understood her words. Did she want to insinuate that they had just experienced an encounter with divinity?

„You mean we have just met God?“, he asked clumsily, not knowing how to talk about things like that. The minute he had said it, he regretted his ignorant words and feared that she would once again laugh her intimidating laughter.

But her reaction was soft, understanding and patient. „No Paul, this was just a faint foretaste of the sound of God. It was more a tuning into each others way of speaking through music, trying to understand each others way of expressing emotions and states of mind."

„Yes, this is exactly what I felt – listened to, recognized and understood.“

She nodded. „Me too. And this is what our encounter is about. Any relation should lead to unexpressed, unspoken understanding. We should recognize each other without having to explain ourselves just by listening mindfully.“

Her deliberately chosen words did not fail to fulfill their purpose as an emotional trigger. His mind was flooded with thoughts, images, emotions all revolving around this main theme: his feeling of not being seen by his audience, but also by the people that were close to him – his ex-wife, Phil, even his brother... Of course, Karen Garin was aware of his inner reaction, but she did not comment it. Instead, she began to play another theme that he could not figure out right away. It started fast and disharmonious. Paul had to concentrate to tune into her play. Only when she began to improvise around the theme, he thought, that she was trying to express compassion, empathy. When he felt quite sure, that he got the message, he tried to answer with a new variation of her theme, less rhythmic and more melodic. Her broad smile told him that his interpretation mirrored her intention, and he dared to move into the new sentiment that arose within him: appreciation, thankfulness. He wished he would be able to teach that approach to music to any of his students; the need to listen and to feel, to connect and to let go. But he knew that he was not capable of imparting this secret, that separated an artist from a technician.

Karen put the sitar down. „If you are willing and able to surrender, Paul, music will turn your inner being into a radiant crystal.“

He swallowed hard.

„But first you will have to tune into a new world. I am not only talking about the world of everyday India, which for some people is hard enough to cope with. I am referring to the inner world of sacred sound, which will be slowly revealed to you, as you move forward on the ladder of inner evolution.”

For a moment Paul felt overburdened, the mentioned task seemed too big for him, too high to achieve and too abstract to even to imagine.

„I am just a music professor. I can´t see, what you are offering me.“ He tried to speak as honestly as he could.

„This is not a matter of imagination or personal will, Paul. It will happen of its own accord.”

Some strange fear began to arise in him. „Do I have to decide now?“, he asked, afraid he could miss an extraordinary opportunity if he hesitated.

Karen laughed in a relaxed way and without any derision. Paul felt a little better.

„Like I said, Paul. No imagination, no personal effort and no decision.“

He tried to figure out what she was trying to tell him, but he had never heard of anything like that.

„I´ll try“, he said, without knowing how to keep this promise.