Sweat Lodge

there was a time, in the 90s, when Laura had been deeply, yes deeply, she recalled: connected, truly connected, to the Native American Movements...these "Movements" had been over human rights issues and land issues and so on. young people, especially, had felt some 'call' to help tribal people get their Rghts: Now, so to speak, and it all had been a hot and Now thing to be involved in, for sure. there were 'in' groups and dysfunctional groups and 'wanna bees', and Laura had, luckily for her, been peripheral: but "involved" with a real 'in' group of folks. now, just past the first decade of the 2000s, all that intense desire to be part of something, anything, outside of her own middle-class, secure culture, seemed so innocent, really. she was, is, of course, "white", and the AIM Movement is "red", or indigenous, or whatever they want to label it at the time... it's their right to call their culture and their work and lands and tribes and so on: whatever they want! but, back in the day, she was involved, though way on the edges, of something big, or, it seemed "big"....it was all a matter of italics, and of vague alliances, really....

this was her friend Tonia's trip, finally, after all. Tonia was, (and she is, in fact, a "was", cuz she's dead for over seven years now): the in-between, the human rights advocate, the friend, the ally, of dozens of families of Navajo folk, the Dine', who were still living on Hopi tribal lands in the Southwest...her story was a long, incredible story all by itself...Laura was her friend, and she was helping Tonia to write her "Book" about all the work she and these families, who were all connected to Navajo weaving women, were doing to resist being 'removed' from the Hopi reservation (the "res") by the feds and the Hopis and all...well, that was the connection: another story....so, back to 'the Sweat Lodge' that this tale is all about....

a number of whites who were getting closer to these Native families were starting to get more involved in the cultural thinking and rites and traditions of these real people they were working with: there was lots of talk about respect and unity and listening to what the 'people' really wanted, and not what the 'liberals' wanted and so on. Laura had totally bought the respectful-distance part. she felt very white and somewhat ignorant about Native American customs in modern times, much less how to behave as an outsider around their rituals and all. Tonia was much more assertive, well, agressive really, about pushing past the Wanna-Be-Indian-Tribe self consciousness right into a sort of "We're all folks in this together and aren't we strong and rightous together" brand of cheerful position, which was very appealing to listen to! besides, she had a track record of selling the weaver's traditional rugs for way, way more than they were making at Trading Posts, in 'shows' around the country. so,she had super-viable credentials to back up her intrusions onto cultural waters that other whites couldn't navigate... or, were not invited to even explore....

one of these 'cultural events' Tonia needed and wanted was the Sweat Lodge. to note, a Sweat Lodge is not, and was not then, a new-age hippy deal. it's serious stuff to many, many Indian folks - especially the youth and folks into alcohol or drugs too-deep and what not:
The REAL Sweat Lodge is an entirely, entirely dark dome with a fire pit and dirt to sit on all around it inside. A 'Fire Man' has been up for hours firing big rocks right outside of it to an almost white glow of intense heat. The dome is made out of any old cloth or hides or plastics, and it's all outside, usually some place nice, and quiet and protected. a Leader is predermined, and he has eveyone go through a flap and sit inside. then he closes the flap of cloth or hide that opens to or out of the dome and it is very, very, very dark. finally he says some sound, and the flap opens a bit. The Fire Man hoists a firey stone into the pit and shuts the flap. The Leader starts to pray and chant and calls on every body to respond in some way. by now the dark and the heat are either freaking out new folks, or feeling great. but, the Fire Man keeps adding stones, and stones, and stones. everyone is sweating and boiling in their very brains and some people start to cry, and others are feeling great, although terrified, and others are just stoic or capable or whatever. it depends. eventually the flap is opened for a little for folks to breathe, or leave. then it's closed again for a second round and so on. it is very, very intense, and not for weak hearts or weak minds, and certainly not for weak spirits. people are in for it full steam, or not. they are going to work and pray their bodies and souls out. that's what it's about in there.

the 'Sweat' Laura was first sort-of invited to attend was up high on a ridge over-looking the Pacific in northern California. the only reason she was accepted at all, really, was that she was doing "The Book" with Tonia. she had been very excited, but knew better then to look it. she maintained her respectful look even around Tonia, who was also into her serious personna for this one. The Lodge had been built by a famous AIM guy, so this was a really special invitation, no light matter. except for Tonia, Laura knew no one at all. she made it through the children's session by focussing on a pinpoint of light in the dome covers that no one seemed to have spotted. The Leader let the kids out after awhile, and then he told the Fire Man to cover the little hole of light that he had noticed. Laura felt an icy hand in her chest, and tensed. somehow, this just wasn't feeling so good....

The Leader reminded everybody that they needed to leave now, or they'd just have to stay through the whole next round. no one moved...the Flap closed. it was way, way dark, beyond dark. the red glows of the few stones in the pit were all anyone could see...at all....Laura felt a sense of real doom. it wasn't a joke or a thought. it was in her body: a sense of rest-in-peace...but, that she would suffer first....the flap opened, and the FireMan shoveled in two stones. the heat grew and grew. some folks were groaning. Laura sat quiet and waited to see what demon was inside the tent with them, because that's what it felt like to her: that hell was coming close to her and would take her without a song...more stones were shoveled in, one by one. chanting and praying were going on all around her, but Laura sat silent as the stones were silent. time was going on and on and on forever...

but then, suddenly, softly, and steadily, and clearly, out of her own mouth, came these words: "I must leave the Lodge." The voice was not her voice at all. she felt it was in her body, but not hers. The Leader looked at her gravely in the suddenly silent dome. "Why?" he asked her, so softly, as clearly. she looked in his direction into his very eyes, into the glow of his eyes. "I am going to die." it was a pure report, handed over from bud to bloom. The Leader lifted the flap himself without a word. and she left the Lodge.

on the other side, the Fire Man was tending the fire. he did not even glance at her, but he put a blanket over her shoulders and sat her down on a large stone right outside of the flap. "Open the door whenever they call.", he told her, and went back to the fire. it was gloomy although it was still daylight, and the dome glowed inside and out from the stones and the moisture and the dryness all around them. when the Leader shouted, she opened the flap. stones were placed in and some were removed and put into the fire pit outside to garner more heat. she sat and opened the flap many, many times without a word. chants and moans and prayers were muffled and, somehow, great comfort. the Fire Man seemed very kind towards her, but he never smiled or talked at all. she felt the kindness all the same. all around her and in her insides too....

she waited and waited outside for a long, long time... then, all at once, everyone came out, suddenly: thirsty and sweating and hungry and eager for cigs and very quiet. she and Tonia ate with everybody and drank water. Laura didn't even see where the food was coming from. people just handed her the food and all, not smiling, but, somehow, very kind. Laura was aware of something unusual inside and outside of herself. but it had no name at all, except a deep sense of belonging somewhere, somewhere safe, because of kindness all around.

people began to get ready to go to their cars. the stones were being carefully doused with water. someone would stay with them all night, to thank them for their contribution to the 'Sweat'. and to be sure they didn't somehow start a fire in the dry ridges. Tonia had not yet said a word to Laura. she had not yet even looked in Laura's direction. Laura wondered, naturally, if her friend was ashamed of her, or embarrassed by her, for having left the Lodge at a 'wrong' time. she had left during second round, sure, but the Leader had shown her the way out, hadn't he? she sat quietly on her side of the front seat.

Tonia took off in a real huff down the dirt road, rattling the car and their bodies angrily with the speed. Laura was alarmed enough to shout, "What's going on? Was it something I did? Slow down, Tonia! I'm gonna get sick or we'll have an accident or something. Tonia stopped the car abruptly. "Do you know", she asked, not looking at Laura. "Do you know what we had to do back there?" "Where? What are you talking about?" Laura was truly confused and so tired! "Back in the 'Sweat' of course! We had to pray for YOU, the whole damn time in there, we had to pray for YOU!"

Laura felt dry and tired. "What are you saying? I don't get it, Tonia..."
"I'm saying, the second you left the Lodge...god, Laura, NO ONE EVER LEAVES THE LODGE!...we had to start praying for THE DOOR WOMAN."
"Who is the Door Woman? Please, Tonia, tell me what I did wrong!"
"Apparently, NOTHING. It was all us. We had to suffer for YOU. YOU got to get cleansed and healed by OUR suffering and OUR prayers. The Leader NEVER let up on us! It was just all you, you, YOU!"
"But Tonia, I'm not the Door Woman, whoever that is? And, Tonia, I was going to DIE, I just know I was going to DIE in there! I HAD to leave!"
"Yeah, whatever. See, that was the part he thought was so great. He said you took ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD TO LEAVE AND WALKED DOWN DEATH. He said you were A TRUE WARRIOR IN THE FACE OF DEATH."

Laura was shocked and quiet and very, very tired. "I see.", she said, although she didn't think she 'saw' at all..."So, I guess that's the last time I get to go to a 'Sweat'? I'm sorry I behaved, well, however I behaved. I'm not so sure what happend in there, Tonia. It may be like he said. But, I don't feel it that way...I don't feel anything right now, Tonia..."
Tonia sighed, "Alright, alright. I guess I'm being a little hard on a Warrior Lady who doesn't even know that she did anything special..." . she paused. "Laura, I suppose I have to admit that you ARE something special...I see that now. You don't even know what you're doing, but you cross over hell if you have to do it...That's worth praying for, for someone who can show us how to do that. I see it now...". Tonia started up the car again.

"And," she grinned wryly, "You're not getting off that easily. He wants you to come back the next time we have a 'Sweat'...you have a job you have to do."
"Door Woman.", Laura spoke quietly.
"Yeah. Door Woman."
so that's how it was. that's what happened.

well, it was years and years later. Tonia had died in a car accident on the 'Res'...the infamous "Book" had died with her, it turned out....

sometimes, when she is sitting around a hearth or a campfire or a wood stove, even, Laura will look at the flames and think about the many times she has truly escaped her own death, while facing it, somehow, in her own way...it has never seemed that "special" to her, not at all...
she wouldn't call herself a 'Warrior'...but she can hear the chants and the burning woods hissing and clicking and smell the smoke...there are wars to fight and hot, hot stones to cross over...
she would be, she could be, the 'Door Woman': she would be happy to open the flap whenever called...to allow the cool air to freshen the warriors within the dome...those who pray for her...

to them, for them, she sends her own kind and solemn prayers, up in to the dark and smokey sky....

Sam Cullison's Fine Mind

Chapter 1: India Is Where No One Is Sam

Varanasi was not where Sam had planned to be. he wasn't much of a tourist. the tour down and up the Ganges was not going well. the shallow waters had brought them to a standstill. it was very hot. and then it was dry and still. because the monsoon was late. it wasn't good to be here. the cremation fires were sending their thick sweet smokes into clouds over their heads on the barge. then they would rain down soft as feathers. sticking to his hair. his shoulders. he left the deck. he wasn't happy. not that 'happy' was what he had expected.

June had left him just a month before. she was far away. so far away. he wasn't happy. not even in the States. where she wasn't anyway. Padma had told him to go to India. she was June's friend. not his. why he had paid any mind to her was beyond him... he was so suggestible. he felt the distance between reality and himself suddenly. acutely. he did such strange things. lose a girlfriend. go running off to the Ganges. expect to bathe in the water and feel fine again. instead of slimy. and nauseous with the turds sometimes going by. and feeling the turtles - he hoped they were turtles - nipping at his ankles. his calves. he went up the stairs. he was careful not to slip on the green slime of the algae on the truly ancient marbles of the steps. that's when he met Prem...

he ran into this thin-chested old man self. knocked him over actually: he had appeared on the steps so suddenly. he felt jolted into the space of the old man. who really appeared ageless. as they say. of no age:

Welcome to Benaras. I am Prem Shankar. you are an American. yes you are. I knew at once. you are so unhappy. no need. it is a bad day. but you have a good life. of course you do. we'll have some tea. I don't know your name of course. you must tell me.

Sam was very startled. and not a little put out. more unhappy suddenly: the old man smelled old and like spice and dirt. he was dark with the shadows of dirt. dark with black hair and gray hair all mixed with ashes. thick with ashes. he smelled of the ashes too. not of sweat tho. or of excrement. Sam just felt repelled somehow anyway. he felt hotter and sticky with the air. too many people. this old man was in the way of getting out of India. Sam saw all at once that was true. he had to get out of this air. these people. the shit in the streets. the ashes. the Ganga. Mother Ganga: the river was starting to make him feel like death was too close. too much life in the streets. too much death in the Ganga. the old man in between the alternatives.

Benaras is about the truth. the old man searched Sam's face and said this very soberly. the truth always is hovering between alternatives.

Now Sam was frightened. the old man was reading his mind maybe. this was all too much. mainly that was it. India was too much. simply enough: too much...

I'm Sam. I guess I can go with you for some tea. I'll check with the tour guide.

He'll say yes. OK. you will be in these shallows for some time. the tug is trying to pull another off the mud just a mile from here. he will be there for some time. Prem nodded his head up and down with each couple of words. he was smiling all the time. with his mouth. but his eyes were watching Sam closely. in a way Sam liked this piercing look. it was so India. in a way he didn't like it at all. it was a private look. too intimate for a stranger. yet too polite to call it out. he was feeling trapped.

Prem smiled benignly. you are worried that I may be too strange. but I was a professor here. at the Hindu University. right here in the city. I taught English Literature there. for almost thirty years. so I am not such an alien you know! I am not such a stranger. I am simply on my last journey home. I am away from family. I sold my books. gave up my office. such is life when you are an old man in this place. you give up the suit and the tie and the shower stall. you go to the Mother Ganga. she takes you in. slowly and surely. you have a great amount of tea before that happens though! he laughed. sometimes you want to have tea with someone else.

Sam relaxed. Sorry. I am spooked here. I am alone here. my woman left me just a little bit ago. I'm alone everywhere. I came to India because. well then. the truth is: I don't know why I'm here in India.

This isn't unusual. you are a pilgrim. I am a pilgrim. we are much in the same place. tho you are younger. I am eighty-five. you are in your fifties. you could be my son. Prem nodded toward the shore. let us go have some tea. while the light is still in the sky for us to see by.

Sam found himself moving one sorry foot after the other...right into the water on the ancient steps. past the white saris and the acrid smells and sickly skins and the brown young skins and the blissed-out young blond lovelies and their boyfriends all bathing in the Ganga and the kids pushing the turtles and laughing as they ate the detritus of all the bodies in the river. right behind the old man he went. unafraid. not happy. but resigned now. it didn't matter. it never had mattered. nothing mattered anyway. that's how he was feeling now. not having any reality to hold on to at all. he was giving up. he was going to have tea with someone who was trying to tell him that he was a normal old guy. just waiting in poverty and grime to meet his end in this holy and terrible river.

he found himself following Prem into the old city. Prem called it Godaulia. there were so many people pressing on him. Prem told him to hold tight to his wallet. and so he did. they were carried on the river of people. then Prem steered him into an eatery by the railway station.

he pressed sweet black tea on Sam. Paapri Chaat. which played in his mouth all sweet and tangy with its ginger and tamarind...with the cool and soothing yogurt...they chewed on paan tinted with rose water. ate mango. didn't say a word for awhile. then Prem told him to come with him. there was something Sam was supposed to see. and hear. something important. Prem said that Sam was supposed to see all this in this one day. so he followed Prem into a little alley. tho normally he wouldn't have. on account of thieves.

Prem turned suddenly to face him. Sam saw that the old man's eyes were blue...a deep blue...the blue he remembered in his grandfather's eyes from long ago. he felt the hair rise on his forearms. Prem was blind. the old eyes saw. but did not see. Sam felt queasy. Prem nodded his head. there are so many ghats. Ganga has thousands of steps into and out of her embrace. I asked myself why? why is this American on the steps of the dead? why is he drawn to the ghat of Manikarnika? he is so alive! yet he chooses the steps to the final oblivion of each poor body. the release of each soul, but come on with me. there is something I want you to see. as I said...

the streets were so dirty. so narrow. the smells were pretty bad. Sam felt light-headed. afraid. he could see little figures darting in and out of the alleyways. Prem laughed lightly at his skittery flinches. they are only monkeys! they are always near every holy place...this is not Durga Temple. mind you. here is maybe more holy even than Durga. the monkeys come here of their own free will. they are not fed here. perhaps they live here as I do. to meet death of their own free will. to be alive at last in a holy place. Prem laughed. without the tourists besides!

Prem knocked at the door of a tiny almost-hut-like building wedged in-between two old wooden store fronts. Closed for the day? forever? it was hard to tell. Sam felt slippery with sweat and his shoes were slipping in monkey shit. he felt dirty. but somehow light. as if everything around him was not real at all. even his own self. he was held by something in the shadows around him. the monkeys darting in and out of the windows and doors around him. the door opened to a small brown old woman. another ageless little person. a sweet and spicy smell came from out of the door. she smiled a sweet and toothless smile. her clothing was all ajumble with dusty colors and cords and pins and knots. a thin black cloth covered her gray and black strands of hair. hair like Prem's. ashes and hair. come in! it has been a long time. my friend! your friend is my friend! she drew them inside...



Chapter 2: Shadow Walk

whenever Sam thought about India - which he did. and often - he was angry and also very sad. Prem had died the very next day. Sam could not find his way back into the old city. not that he had any reason to. he stood on the ghats here and there and wondered which stream of gray ashes was Prem's. the tugboat captain had told him. he had come to say hello. and Prem's landlady was there cleaning out his few simple possessions. the 'captain' gave Sam Prem's medal he had worn. there was no inscription on the medal at all. it wasn't silver. it was some dull metal. Sam didn't know what... and the old woman had said nothing at all of importance. she had simply served the three of them some tea that was strong and bitter. and some cookies in a tin. with cardamom heavy in them. she had called them digestive biscuits. had been very fond of them. there had been no enlightenment. no hocus pocus either tho. he would have been even more angry if he had been subjected to more falsehoods. more than June had dished out to him. about her affairs. her love for him. all b.s. - of course.

he had left her little rooms in the old city maze wondering what the hell Prem had been so inviting. so secretive about. all Prem had said was that there was nothing new under the sun. or some such drivel. Sam was confused. that's what he told himself. confused. all muddled up. needed to clear his head. fat tower of pain in India! instead he had a roaring headache every day he was there. and a roaring heartache to match. enlightenment was not going to come to him. he was going to have to leave India. he booked his flight. the day he left a beggar came up and said that he - Sam - would look and look and never find. he held out his hand. Sam snarled at him to get out of his face. the beggar looked a lot like Prem. Sam was booked to go to Cardiff...back home to Wales - to Swansea. to be specific. it didn't make him happy to be going home. his dad was still angry with him for not working at the cottage hospital. his dad had administered those little wards all Sam's life. he had always wanted Sam to be a doctor. his mother played the harp and sang through all their troubles. so many of the women did. it was a land of song. songs to cover up for all the gaping wounds in the green grass. the gaps that exposed the coal fields for what they were. the slashing of the earth for greed. Sam had never loved his homeland much. he saw his life as a Welshman as being deadening. all coal smoke and industry. shallow Irish sea miles that proved that the ancestors walked here to this chilly place. Swansea. a port to nowhere. from nowhere. that's how Sam saw it.

they had about hit the tarmac in Cardiff. except they couldn't land. because the fog was thick as pea soup. so they went on to their next stop. next to Galway Bay. because it would take the big planes. to sit the fog out. Limerick. way off. industrial. shabby. the layover was going to be a long one. new construction going up everywhere once. now sitting under water. Ireland was going down to disaster. the housing boom all bust. Sam suddenly made a decision. he was going to go Irish for awhile before going back home. where he didn't want to go... he was going down Dingle Peninsula. do the pubs with the locals. steer clear of the tourists on the Rim of Kerry. see the green. avoid the gray of his parent's home and their faces all grey with unknown sorrows. Welsh grays. he put his ticket into limbo. got on the bus. headed south. into the beginning of the sun. of the rain. all one thing. south.

Brandon Head was the end of the line for the bus he had randomly hopped on. he was nowhere. stark. old rolling Mount Brandon...he started walking upon the 'Way'. away from the small buildings and the quiet. into the quiet of the low plants and the cliffs running on under the rolling shadows of Mount Brandon. the quiet of the sea. in spite of the usual windy ways of the Peninsula. he was so alone. that was oppressing somehow. after the push and smells of hundreds of humans and their lives and deaths in India. no one was here. everyone was there. that was his only thought. the clouds over the Atlantic and the clouds in his mind were exactly the same. dirty gray churning into the blue. the windsurfers out on the Bay were the only invitations to life. the little stone ruins of houses here and there. all about death a long time ago. the creek led into - where? Sam didn't know where he was. on what creek. even old St. Brandon had known where he was. and he had gone to and back from all the way across the world himself. Sam was suddenly so tired. so tired. if he just had a wee small curraugh. he's just head straight across to Canada. he'd go all the way. St. Brandon would guide him. he thought St. Brandon was a lot like Prem. he was so tired. he hit his cell phone. to find out where to catch the bus again. when he got aboard he would ask the way to peace. he asked. the driver thought he wanted the Peace Guest House. so he told him where to get off. Sam signed the register: Sam a'Seeker. he fought sleep and lost a second later. he sunk into down. went down into dreams...

next day he woke to the sound of his own silence again. he decided to head to the Ring of Kerry. the Ring was a mere less than an hour away or something like that. the redheaded cheery little waitress told him about the Blue Pool. near to the stone rings of ancient writings and mosses and - well - stone. free as stone. it was just a bit of a nature preserve south of Killarney. he got a drive there. the pool was really blue. Sam could see the sky in it. clear with fluffs of white clouds. less gray. lots of blue. streams fluttering over stones. lots of green. Sam's head cleared a bit. the driver came back to take him to the Ring. to the Seven Sisters standing stones - to be exact. he stood at them for a long time. a very long time. the little Musician Stones around them sang in the wind. a small rain came upon. Sam just stood and got fresh and wet. listened to the singing of the stones. caught the bus to Dublin. didn't look to the right or to the left about him. went to the airport. looked at the planes departing. arriving. decided where to go. for he was going to go. 'going' is what he would be doing. for a long time. a very long time.


Chapter 3: Into Some Light

There was nowhere on earth Sam could go. the world seemed very small to him. he was unhappy everywhere. everywhere: he was nowhere for a fact. the sun was harsh in his face. well he would go to the sun then. the sun would master his weak will. his gray Welsh soul. he really thought that way. it was silly. he had savings tho. enough. he called his Dad and Mother. told them he was going. to South America. somewhere. his Ma cried of course. when was he going to find his way? never. that was probably the complete truth. but it was not the truth he wanted. it was the adventure of the truth. pretending to look for truth. when the drama got tough: the pretending that he had a reason for anything he did. the travel agent lady suggested Chile. you will love the lakes. that's what she said. the volcanoes. you can picnic on the tops of them when you take a private plane to the tops... so why not. he booked. he ran. into some light...

she had been the one true love of his life. that's what he had told himself. but it was not to be. he felt very dramatic about it all. she had left him. because he was taciturn. that's what she had said. he was not that sure what taciturn actually really meant. he was quiet. sure. but he was friendly enough. Padma thought so. Padma was June's friend in the States. where June had been in law school in the San Francisco Bay Area until a couple of months ago. Padma had been her only friend there really. June had been distressed there. that's what she said: distressed. he remembered her hair best. her hair smelled like flowers right after rain when the sun comes out and it's all heat and flowers. Padma laughed when he smelled June's hair: no one smelled her hair ever. that's what Padma said. my hair just smells of India. maybe even of curry. he had laughed. that all seemed a long time ago he knew where Padma was. Thought: not where June was. Padma wouldn't tell him. June told her not to tell him. he had no idea what had happened. something about his work being wrong for him. but he wouldn't leave it. that was probably. certainly. true. but not a good reason for leaving him. he wanted her to call him and say she had made a mistake. because she had. he wanted to tape the whole separation together. hold it back together for awhile. and if it turned out OK? well then they'd get married. glue the whole thing together. call that a life. and then there was the music...

they both sang together. not well. but lovingly. he wished they could sing in Chile. where he was going. only neither of them spoke a whit of Spanish.
Padma spoke Spanish pretty well. she had been an international kid. lived lots of places besides India. once in Spain. for a few years. lots of Barcelona lisp-like Spanish came out here and there. he called Padma.
Hello. I'm going to Chile now.
how was India? what do you mean about Chile? you're not going back home? June's in Cardiff. she said I could tell you. only she's living with a housemate. he's a guy. just a friend tho. I think. what do you mean about Chile? or is it June? or Claire… or where she is right now. not right now anyway... do you want to go to Chile with me? are you working lately? do you want to go?
o now. now you want me to go to Chile with you. do you know what you want? Sam Cullison: you are a jerk. want me to lose June as a friend? what's got into you? who is Claire? what’s wrong with you?...I am truly concerned. Sam?....
Padma: you speak Spanish well enough. I don't speak Spanish at all. I need a friend besides. I'm losing it. I'm not a jerk. I'm just traveling. I didn't find myself or anything like that. not in India. I think I want to be near water. in a lot of places. in a lot of countries maybe. but not to find myself. to lose myself. maybe. but I don't know. not really. but it's too lonely. being in a country where I don't speak the language. I need someone to help me. so I won't feel so cut off. from everybody. from everything. think about it. call me when you decide. soon tho. I'm leaving soon. Padma. Please consider coming along...

Padma thought about things. June wouldn't mind probably. she had said she was happy she was rid of Sam - some of the time. maybe that was true. maybe not. but it was what she said. Padma thought about how she could use a change. about how she didn't really have a good full time employment at present. about how Sam was nice enough. about practicing her Spanish is some place useful. Chile could be useful. Sam could be useful for her besides: companionship was not to be treated so lightly. Padma was not beautiful. she had a few boyfriends in her time. but none lately. no one special. her friends were as restless as she was. they wouldn't miss her much. they’d understand all too well: getting into her thirties. with nothing much to show for her time. she was like a lot of young women ex-pats from India that way. with no arranged marriage to agree to. too much money to worry about a job. not enough money to do anything special with her time. no ambitions at all. it wasn't that she was proud of herself in any way. not a bit. but she was starting to panic. a trip might calm her fears. might open some door to some future better than this present. better than no future at all...she decided to go. she packed one backpack. a big one. called Sam. and went out to get her airline ticket. for Santiago. into some light....


Chapter 4: Fire/Ice/Sunlight/Snow

Chile was not what I had imagined. This is me: Padma: I'd think to myself. trying to speak to people. translating from Hindi or from English. to Spanish. speaking Spanish so badly it make me want to scream. I feel claustrophobic with Sam as well. he never even touches me. not that I wanted any sex with him. well: maybe. but even a little friendship would have been nice. but was not there... and there was that feeling of superiority that bilingual people have. can be very annoying. very. for people like Sam: he depended on me to think in Spanish for him. not just speak it for him. to understand Chile for him... in this case: it could be very isolating. very off-putting...every time. that's what I thought. traveling with him was a big mistake... Santiago was huge. big city. international and cosmo. way cosmo. too much for me. I found some kind of solace: dwelling moodily on Victor Jara in the stadium named for him. about his poems. all the lefty politics. getting killed for how he thought about the poor and all...I was depressed all right. thought about Pinochet and all that. this was not what I had expected. Sam took us to Valparaiso too. by motor scooter. there was lots of street theater to see and color everywhere all over the buildings. it was old and worn and full of color..even a tremor happened. right under the stairs under our feet. I thought about how I could die here. where it is warm and all the colors are Spanish and muted and weathered. where they chant Pan! Trabajo! while they march on stilts in costumes up and down our hotel street. Sam sprung for the single engine plane ride up into the volcanic peaks - Villarrica - one of the most dramatic and romantic things I've ever done. we had a picnic in the snow there. ridges for miles and miles. madonna-skies. we never even talked. then he said he wanted to take the highway all the way to Patagonia. see the near end of the earth. maybe go over to the Antarctic Peninsula. be at the tail end: the very tip of the tail of land. the land we know. we humans. I told him he was getting off on being all psychotic. then he got mad. would not talk with me. gibbered about there being no place on this planet that he could relate to anymore... so we went to the grand capital. to fly from there to Iguassu Falls. so we did...must admit they were awesome - really. it was good Sam was paying for every little thing. wouldn't allow me to touch my cards and pesos. not one. that part was great... but it was like traveling with a ghost. he just didn't seem real. when he decided to cross the border - work his way down Argentina to reach Patagonia eventually...sometime...it was then that I thought: I have a life: I had to keep reminding myself about that. I have a life separate from Sam. paying for everything and all...it was getting not to be worth it. I insisted on going back...well, going to my parent's place back in Jaipur...the desert of Rahjasthan. I wanted the desert I knew. If I was going to be alone: then I wanted to be alone in a place I knew well...the beautiful and a whole-lot-less-humid desert city with panache. I didn't want the Atacama Desert - that 600 or so miles of lava and geysers and hardly any humans around. Sam kept saying "you want desert: I'll give you desert right here. you want snow: I'll give you snow right here."...but I wanted real crowds of real people. in real places... not this weird travel agenda Sam had planned for himself. so I took a plane right back to India. to my 'home away from home"... packed up stuff. then to Jaipur. end of my part of the story. well: of Sam's story. I married a guy my parents had picked for me long ago. before I had to go wild for a time. I have been tamed by Sam's craziness: he would not learn from me. not anything I had to offer. I would not learn from him. I had to settle down sometime. so I did. our baby will be born in the wet monsoon. which is short: where we live: it is dry. We're going to name him Sam. my husband doesn't know why. frankly: neither do I. I just hope Sam has some peace in his life. My husband wants to call him Prem. as his Indian name. So we will: Samuel Prem. sounds good. I hope he has peace in his baby life too. I have lots of hopes now...the future belongs to realists like I am. I am sure: the future is mine....


Chapter 5: Coming Into The Cold Nowhere

Tierra del Fuego. Patagonia. Sam had shuttled back and forth: Argentina. Chile. glaciers. waterfalls. mountain vistas (as the guide said). ranges. grasslands. icebergs even. he couldn't even get himself to decide. from Tierra del Fuego: the Argentine claims to Antarctica. all he had to do was to get on the ship. it wouldn't be long. cross Magellan's Strait. be alert to the possibilities. in Antarctica. on those peninsular lands...maybe he would be where he belonged. nowhere at all...
he sat in the bars at Punta Arena. drinking Pisco. glass after glass. couldn't even get past the cold, cold, cold: drank it away. then it would come back. all around his heart. like ice. he was forgetting everything that mattered. or to be exact: if anything had mattered. what anything-that-mattered even meant...the kids outside were doing their 'investigations': checking out with their 'crew' who would be best to 'date'. checking out each other's sex appeal. it was funny. there was nothing to do in Punta Arena but drink and wait. wait for something to happen at the end of the earth. the real end of the earth - almost. one day he went out to see the penguins. out to the pinguineros. the colonies of efficient little tuxed birds. their careful fat selves. their bravery all simple and clear and just part of being penguin. it all depressed him. and the sheep. the lamb was good to eat. he was tired of lamb...
it would not matter where he went: the Falklands. to this outland full of bored kids and petty crooks and a few rich families from the old baron days and all the expats like him: all of them waiting. he didn't want to ask them: for what? didn't matter...
he was forgetting June. couldn't recall her face. couldn't remember whether she was Claire or June...didn't know why he always confused her name...didn't matter. she hadn't loved him. whatever her name had been... sometimes she had been like a mother. sometimes she had seemed like some nurse. she had made sure he took his pills. he couldn't recall what the pills had been for. he seemed to be doing fine without them...that Pisco was better than any pills any way. made him forget...whatever he wanted to forget...could briefly recall Padma to mind. she had always wanted him to see 'reality'. whatever that meant! and that old man...Prem? where was he now? maybe dead. he had been old. wasn't he dead?... Sam's parents. needed to write them. they always were so sad about him. probably expected him to do something useful or something. there wasn't much he could do anymore tho....
there was centolla to eat anyway. king crab. he was only eating centolla and drinking Pisco lately. it was enough to live on. delicious. and the forgetting. worth it all....the salad of the end-of-the-earth: which was just tomatoes and onions. and that corn cake stuff...Pastel de Choclo....potatoes....a man could eat like a king here....still: he was eating less and less. drinking more and more....he was listening to the radio constantly. they had good radio this far down the planet. people needed a lot of noise here... there was plenty to see. really was... but the quiet was deafening.
it was time to cross into the seas. the winds could take down the gods. the cold white continent ahead: Sam belonged in white and cold. he just knew it.
the little ship that ferried him over to the deep north of this cold Southern continent before him scurried through Iceberg Alley into Hope Bay...it had been gray in the Falklands...now it was all brilliant blue and brilliant white. It was not until the Lemaire Channel tho: wedged between the Peninsula and Booth Island...the towers of ice all around. in beauty of ice and sky: here was where Sam decided that he was Home. it was clear to him. the whale he saw had told him. the seals told him. the empty sky told him: he belonged in this place. maybe one of the research stations would take him in. give him a job. give him a chance to show what he could do. he knew he could do something. the British station took him in for a day. because he was acting strangely. that's what they said. well then. that might be true... he could see the ice crystals in his own eyes when he looked into a mirror. and he wasn't eating well. he knew that. but he felt OK about it. he wasn't talking with people. he'd have to change that. he could see that. but he didn't know where to start. the Brits were calling people about him. his parents? he didn't know. everyone was kind. but very serious.
so he walked out onto the ice. at night. and he sat down. he sat down and stopped worrying at all. in any way at all...about...well...everything...he was spotted somehow. by one of the 'zodiacs' doing a night cruise around the islands and the flows. maybe it was his dark clothes against the white. white. white. his face white. his heart icy with no feeling at all. there was nothing in Sam but the white. all that Sam had been was gone. all that he was that very day... a day when the albedo had jutted hard on the ice. had shone in his eyes. had taken him away from all the restless travels. the steady withdrawals from touch. from any people at all. from even food. lately: from thirst. no thirst. there was no Sam left to be with. to hear. to see....
they 'rescued' him. but he was not saved. he was gone.
Sam was gone. and he was gone for real.
he was finally real. and finally:
gone.

Chapter 6: No Where To Go No One To Be

June felt rushed. Claire was not the kind of boss who made you feel rushed. but still: it was true: she could maneuver June into way too many duties. looking after her charges was enough. they were all so. well: passive. you had to watch them all every minute. they could pick up a pin and do so much damage to things. to themselves. the work was hard. but they were all used to it...it was safe and good work. June had enjoyed it all these years. Psychiatric Aide. it was a good job. safe....
now the conference this afternoon. they were all going to present. because this case was important. the entire staff had been so very involved. Padma had written up this case for a journal of Social Work of some kind. with the Head's permission. naturally. but still. it had all been that complicated. that interesting. that personal: to everybody....
Padma ran her fingers through her thinning black grayness. it always startled her. coming on to the ward and seeing him. she had become way too involved. way too silly about him. really 'mad': her therapist had helped her to see it: these sorts were so manipulative. so charismatic. they drew you in with their clever and strange selves. handsome as well. so normal. in so many ways. it took you a while to see: that there was nothing there. where a personality should be. nothing at all. well. it would soon be over anyway. the transfer was planned. it was the right decision of course. everyone knew that. the real world was real all along. it always won. thank god for the real world. whatever that may be here in India.
Padma could see the streets where she was raised. she knew the difference between these streets and where education and time had taken her. and June. and even Claire. they all knew that: among the millions and millions: that they were the ones who had saved themselves: from the poverty. the deep delusional dangers that are the lives of the very poor. the twisted streets where survival was near to impossible... they now lived like safe people. the unsafe parts were buried deep in them: all three. but their respectable clothes and jobs and cars and homes told them that they were safe. the three friends were all safe. that's why they could work among the ‘mad’ so confidently. Padma felt confident. she patted her professional lab coat. white as crisp as the ice snow of the Antarctic lands. confident and cold. but alive. and safe...
Claire had such a love/hate relationship with June. June was so undemonstrative. as passive as her charges. one never knew what she was thinking or feeling. Claire had to shake it out of her. she admitted feeling fondness for this patient. well then: they were all fond of him... he was so charming. in his own mad way of course. they had all been used by him really. he had been able to do that. but it was lovely - in a way. you had to be so careful around the ones who sounded so sane. the worlds they created were so real. your place in them could feel so real. one could be sucked into their delusions defiantly almost. one found oneself defending them. ridiculous really. but the group meetings used to get so out of control. well then: it was almost over: the transfer was necessary of course. he was too silent to stay on such an active ward. an acute-care milieu was inappropriate for him now. anyone could see that. a student nurse could see that... she was Head Nurse. it would not do: 'feelings' about an appropriate transfer. but here was the thing: it would be boring on the unit without him there. there. she had said it. to herself... but no one else would know. she knew how to keep her business safe...
The Head conducted the conference with his usual grace and brilliance: every question asked had an answer which he had composed and orchestrated with an intelligence so massive: no one could complete with his logic. This had been a most interesting case: of course. he only took on the most interesting cases. this one had involved a delusional world that involved the entire staff. it had been so intriguing. every staff person had a real role in the created world of this young and personable patient. he had such a fine ability to stitch together such disparate scenes and events and persons: it was almost real. but it was not real of course. he had made it so somehow real tho. they had all been enthralled with each story. because each story had one or more of them in it. flattered one. somehow... silly really. but most delusional lives were so pedestrian. so boring really. his had been interesting: markedly disconnected in sharp and shattering ways of course. but his world had been so imaginative in so many ways. he was a consummate story teller. if he had not been so schizophrenic. so isolated in his grandiosity. then maybe. maybe: he may have been a fine writer. of a film-maker. perhaps a really creative person. but it was not to be. he was 'off' now: into a place where he could no longer speak. or even move effectively. where they could not follow. did not want to follow. half alive. almost completely unresponsive. occasionally he would answer a yes or a no. it was hard to tell if the simple question had even been comprehended correctly. he was not among them anymore....
Sam blinked in the sharp white light. his pupils sluggishly closed to shut out the irritation. his medicines kept his thoughts more still. he could see white all the time. it was cold all the time. he couldn't die. he couldn't live either. he could breathe. the breath was frozen. they sometimes fed him with a tube. sometimes he drank. but chewing was cruel in all this cold. he would not chew. there was nothing to do. they were all around him... he could not recall their names. he had loved them once. he could not remember if they had loved him. they had all been kind. there was no reason to be anybody now. no reason to go home. no home. just ice. it was OK here. it would be OK anywhere. no tickets and planes to worry about. now where to go. no one to be....
Dr. Prem Shankar took Sam gently by his elbow and steered him through the door. Padma was on the other side steadying his weak gait. they sat him in the wheel chair. June gave his hand a quick squeeze. Goodbye Sam. be good now. you will like your new ward. it is quiet there. no groups anymore. be safe. Claire nodded to him. be safe Sam. Goodbye.
yes. it would be all right now. in this new nowhere. all white. all safe. all Goodbye....
The old woman on the unit was a volunteer. she took a shine to the new patient at once. he was so young. so unable. his face was so gentle...she loved working on the ‘chronics’ unit. these people had no judgments of her. she was their saint. she was kind to them and kept them company. without fuss. didn't expect them to say anything... she always brought them a little something. something she had baked. or bought for a little bit of her pension money. she had so much for them: in kindness...
she sat by Sam and offered what she had that day: they are cardamom cookies. they are good for the digestion... she smiled winningly at him. do you like cardamom cookies? Sam?
to her wonderment: Sam smiled back.
Yes he said: without a word...
yes.
I do....