Student Teacher

I had the most incredible sense of wellbeing when I awoke the next morning--feeling alive and refreshed--and it made no sense because I had, for all practical purposes, just recommitted myself to the life of a fugitive.  But the delicate butterfly lying next to me in bed had rejuvenated me, instilling a sense of hope and purpose in this tired, jaded individual.  As I cautiously slid out from under the sheet, careful not to wake her, I stood gazing down at this perfect creature, reveling in the words she had spoken to me last evening:  "If you want me I'm yours--not just for tonight, but forever."

Peering through a window at the new morning I heard her rustle the covers, and when I turned to see I noticed she had rolled onto her back.  And that's when the snoring started.  At first it was like one of those old internal-combustion chainsaws biting into a concrete knot in the center of a tree limb, but it soon crescendoed into a sound that could only be likened to the racket emanating from a TurboSaw, the weapon of destruction used by the Last Lumberjacks as they went about the business of deforesting huge swaths of the North American continent.  The adenoidal noise emanating from her nose and throat was so loud, so unpleasant, I had to step outside to get away.

I found myself in a beautiful open space between the guesthut and the main residence, a meticulously laid out garden with supple pine trees bending in a slight wind, separate beds of Star Jasmine flowers, and a pond replete with blooming red lotus blossoms.  At the far end of the pond was a Banyan tree, and beneath it a statue of a woman meditating in the Seiza Position.  At least I thought it was a statue until I began circling around the pond toward it.  Then I beheld the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, her skin a polished, light mahogany, her half-closed green-olive eyes suggesting oneness with her surroundings.  Her third eye was the brightest dot in the environment, like a ripe Maraschino cherry that had marinated for years in Red Dye #40. 

Her thin white sari, almost gauze-like in nature, made me sorry I couldn't see enough of the most well-proportioned upper torso I'd ever laid eyes on.  And even though this was the finest metaphysical creature I had ever come in contact with, I couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to cup those magnificent orbs in my hands.

"At last we meet," she said, never looking up to meet my gaze.

I turned around, trying to figure out who she was talking to.

"To whom she was talking," she said.

Turning back, I said, "Pardon?"

"When the teacher is ready the student will come, Mr. Rowe," she said.  "We were destined to meet."

"You're Indira?"

"Indira Hedlites, at your service."

"You seem an accomplished yogi."

"I studied under Maharishi Marrakesh Hashish Yogi," she said.  "Directly under him."

We were interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone, which she extracted from beneath the waistband of her sari.  Standing to reveal an unrippled expanse of mahogany midriff, she said to me, "One moment, please."  Then she said into the phone, "Thisis Monica, auwmay I elpbyu?"

She listened for at least thirty seconds before saying, "Andar uat yir compudr nauw, sr?"

It was as if the crisp, fluent English she had spoken only a minute before had immediately transmogrified into a mumbled pidgin.  Even though I was able, with difficulty, to discern what she was saying, I could only imagine that the man on the other end of the line was struggling to comprehend her.

She said, "Gotostard, clickcondrolbanl, clickuninstalchangebrogrm, findmysurgedilebrogrmndclickonit, clickuninstal.  Nauw ugoto manidjsurdjenginlistaddonsmanidjurndremoovmysurgediletoolbr."

After listening for another thirty seconds or so, she said, "Uarveriwelcumsir."

While she slipped the cell phone beneath her sari waistband she examined the perplexed look on my face.  "That?" she said.  "I provide technical support for Enness A Computer Systems, Incorporated."

"I see."

"Let's stop beating around the bush, shall we?  You are here because you have reached another impasse in your fictional journey and you seek guidance.  Up until now it has all been very entertaining, but it has no philosophical or spiritual underpinning.  It's like a bag of skin walking around with no skeleton underneath.  And all the energy you've expended on sexual matters seriously detracts from the substance of the book.  It's as if you've been studying booty-ism rather than Buddhism, so to speak."

"What do you suggest?"

"I suggest you come to my hut in the village tonight, after Zen and his daughter have gone to sleep."

"Is that wise?"

"It's the only way to enlightenment," she said, reaching again beneath the waistband of her sari.  Extracting a different cell than the one she had just talked on--a pearl-colored zPhone--she handed it to me, saying, "I will text you directions to my place."

"I'm a little leery."

"Don't be," she said.  "And--oh--before you come do a little Uninet research on Tantric Yoga."

"Tantric Yoga?"

"You've heard of it?"

"No."

"Good.  We should have mutually-satisfying intercourse then."