Tales of the 60s

RUSSELL’S STORY

By Hiram Strait

From the soon to be published short story collection

HIRAM’S TALES OF THE SIXTYS

In the Haight in the 60s spiritual teachers abounded. Some were locally grown, some brought from India and they preached in the parks and in private homes and in storefront ashrams scattered throughout the city and, spreading their wisdom, gathered adherents who learned their practices and supported them, sometimes lavishly.

One such guru was Subramuniya. He was an American, very tall, an ex ballet dancer and strikingly fem. He ran an outfit called the Himalayan Academy that survives today though the great man himself went of colon cancer at seventy-two. This academy had an ashram in San Francisco, a monastery in Virginia City, Nevada and a center on Kawai. I knew a bunch of members and was one myself for a time. Wags dubbed him “Super Money”.

A time came when this academy organized a trip to India. The idea was to travel out of the way corners not usually seen by tourists, ferret out holy men and seek from them the revelations of “hidden knowledge”. Some sixty signed up for the three-month trek, my old buddy Russell being one.

They went to India by private charter and were scheduled to return the same way after ninety days, essentially marooning them there for the duration. This turned out to be a bad idea.

Initially things went fairly well. Their schedule had been meticulously worked out in advance and began by running smoothly. They met with holy men who demonstrated how they could produce mystic rose petals from the ethers and who caused an abundance of magic ash to pour from seemingly empty containers or empty hands. They strove to adjust to an exotic diet. They penetrated deep into the jungle seeking more reclusive swamis. But the trip proved too long and the repetition of what they soon looked on as parlor tricks became wearing. Many would have left early but they had wended to very remote places. Getting to an airport and buying a ticket out was problematic. The only way was to endure until they could all get to the scheduled charter.

After the first month they began to get sick. Dysentery, near as I can gather, is little fun, and was aggravated by the unfamiliar motion of riding an elephant through sweating jungle. Soon everyone was suffering with no alternative but to hang in till the end of the trip.

So this finds Russell, riding an elephant, swaying back and forth, his intestines churning with liquid begging for escape, made worse by the constantly wet furnace of a deep Indian jungle and the groaning of the more than sixty fellow sufferers, unrelieved by the prospect of enduring yet another audience with another hermit mystic.

They dismounted in a large clearing and shuffled miserably into a long, thatch hut. They waited some time before a low dais before the holy man came in, white robed, wood beads at his chest and wrist, and seated himself with great dignity in a perfect lotus position. He began delivering his homily, translated by one of the English-speaking mahouts, a speech undifferent from the others they had endured since embarking on this trip of ill omen and making no positive impression.

Seeing the lack of effect, he switched to one of his more impressive manifestations and began producing flower petals from the ethers beyond time, causing his American audience to audibly groan. Bewildered, the sage switched to another surefire pleaser. Mystic ash poured from his fingers anointing a bronze statue of Shiva dancing on the skulls of mortals past. By now his audience was growing murderous and the little man might have feared for his safety. Switching tactics, he asked if anyone was feeling sick. Russell raised his hand proclaiming no dog had been sicker. The guru had him come to the front and lie face down on the floor. He straddled Russell, sat down on the small of his back and grabbed him by the shoulders. As Russell tells it, lightning went through his body. He rose as the disgusted Americans filed out to endure another session of elephant riding.

It took a day for Russell to realize how good he felt. His discomfort was gone, his bowels normal, the swaying of the elephant a gentle rhythm. He tried to communicate this to his companions, suggesting a detour back might prove salubrious but no one listened. It was not until weeks later, when everyone still suffered and Russell was in the peak of health that they began paying attention but by then it was much too late to reseek out the hermit.

As Russell tells it, they were on a mission to find hidden knowledge, but these jungle holy men didn’t know what that meant to the Americans. Hidden knowledge? How about the flower petal trick? No? What about the mystic ash? No? How about I heal your sickness? As Russell tells it, he’s never had a sick day since.

*New from Hiram Strait *

THE PEARLS OF AMATUA