Black Light

Posted in Infinite City, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2012 by javedbabar

The city had got too hot for Shama. Things seemed hopeless, like a blackout blind pulled over his life.  The landlord would keep his damage deposit, but he hadn’t paid last month’s rent anyway, so all’s fair-square. Not that he had any wish to please that asshole, but it was the easiest way out. He threw what he had into his backpack, took the bus to the edge of town, and stood beside the Sea to Sky Highway.

It wasn’t long before he caught a ride to Strattus, and on to Lucerne. Shama didn’t want to go way into the bush, what would he do there? He could barely manage urban survival; forget wilderness survival. Being in the bush may also attract attention. Fewer people but more bears.

He pitched his tent at the base of a mountain near a natural spring. The one thing he couldn’t do without was water. The river was nearby, good for washing. He walked into Lucerne Village daily, which took an hour each way. A few people started saying hello to him. He wasn’t rude, just unresponsive. He said hello back and moved on.

A weird-looking old guy became familiar, over six feet tall, unshrunken with age. His beard was a strange golden white. He walked around in monk-like black robes, and was clearly ethnic, though from where was hard to say. People seemed to treat him as special, but he remained always alone. His only activity seemed to be walking along the Lucerne Valley Road, at a steady speed, to God knows where. Shama had only been here two weeks, but couldn’t recall an occasion when he hadn’t passed him on the road when going in or out of the village.

One day at dusk, Shama spied the old man ahead. He gritted his teeth and prepared to speed past him. A car went by and the old man’s robes caught its headlights; it seemed as if their black glowed.

Shama wondered if the man had any money. If he robbed, or even killed him, who would know? He could wash his knife in the river. This was the thought going through his head as he approached the old man.

“Don’t even think about it.” Shama heard a soft voice inside his head. “Your weapon is useless against me. My mind is greater than your weapon.” He looked at the old man, but he couldn’t have spoken these words; he was too far away. Shama stopped and turned around, and then started walking again, faster. The voice continued, “One truth we know is that you can’t get away from yourself. Wherever you go, there you are.”

“Who’s saying that?” Shama shouted. “Who are you?”

“I am Guru Baba,” said the old man. “Walk with me awhile. Let’s talk.”

“But you’re talking to me inside my head already! Get out! Get out!” Shama moved threateningly towards the old man but knew that it was a useless gesture. From his days of street crime, you know when someone’s untouchable.

“I have a proposal for you. You see me walking every day. Despite the power of my soul, my mind is deteriorating. So many people still need so much from me. I need an assistant. Will you help me?”

Shama was surprised. “Me, help you? How?”

“We’d be helping each other. You can help me with administrative tasks, and I will gift you my lifetime’s knowledge and experience. I will help you imagine better, and become your best self.”

Only at that moment did Shama know that this was the goal he had sought in this and many previous lifetimes. To find his true master and fulfil his true potential. To turn internal conflict into external co-operation, and become part of the cosmic dance.

The next driver on the Lucerne Valley Road was surprised to see a scruffy vagrant and one of the world greatest holy men dancing together. The holy man’s robes gleamed black, showing the truth of illuminated darkness.

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Carrier Bird System

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , on May 24, 2012 by javedbabar

Sharon watched Pinku rise into the sky. She always felt a pang of sadness when a bird left her hand, knowing there was a chance that it would not return. They were trained to return, the same or next day, but you couldn’t be sure. Birds were a blessing to the humans remaining.

It was hard to believe that people had once eaten pigeons – beings whose brave adventures now kept us connected in far-flung territories. The flatlands were all taken; humans who had not escaped were captured and killed.

Communities remained only on the mountains at each end of the Lucerne Valley – the larger one in the meadows atop Mt Alba, and smaller one in Mt Negra’s caves. They were in regular communication by CBS – the Carrier Bird System built upon an aviary bequeathed to the village. The tropical birds were beautiful but not sustainable, and were a luxury in difficult times. Their flesh was eaten and their feathers used for decoration. But the pigeons, hawks, and eagles proved useful. They were nourished and trained.

Sharon wondered if a hawk would have been better for this mission. The message had seemed important to her, and she had alerted her commander upon its arrival. The Signal Corps were meant to relay “but not absorb” messages’ contents, so if they were captured no secrets would be betrayed. Her commander had said to send a pigeon.

Her brother had built the coop himself. Its design was ingenious. When a CBS courier arrived, wires sounded a bell, alerting the guard. Then he or she would remove the steel canister from the bird’s neck or back, decode the message, and relay it upward.

She’d heard that carrier pigeons had flown only one way originally, towards home; hence the common term for them, homing pigeons. But the Signal Corps had trained them to fly both ways, by making them feel that Mt Negra was home and Mt Alba was their feeding station. Hence they flew happily between them, managing the 160 km round trip in a day.

Pinku hadn’t returned by dusk. She began to worry, and again wondered if she should have selected a hawk. She had seen some hawks during her surveillance of the valley; even eagles back early from their winter sojourn in the Gulf. Could a hawk or eagle have got the better of Pinku? It was unlikely. He was a smart bird, always flying close to the tree line, not leaving himself exposed. She had a worse thought – were they cultural, rather than natural, predators? Maybe enemy forces had trained their own birds.

She’d better send a hawk. She prepared another coded message and selected Bubbly to deliver it. As she saw him rise into the dusk sky, she saw an eagle rise with him. Hawks were faster, but eagles were smarter and stronger, and generally got the better of any fight. She knew right then that Bubbly was gone.

Sharon prepared a third coded message, and called forth Azeem. You couldn’t treat eagles like other birds. You had to treat them like people.

She said, “Azeem, my beautiful bird, my powerful companion, I have a request for you. Would you please deliver this message to Mt Alba by daybreak, and then return safely home?” Azeem stood still as she affixed the steel canister, and then was gone. She saw his back shine silver in the half-moon.

The next morning she saw glittering air in the valley. At first it seemed a flock of birds reflecting sunshine, but then she realized that it wasn’t birds. They moved too deliberately, taking no advantage of winds and thermals. If anything, they were pushing against them.

But one shape among them moved differently, and dodged from side to side, dropping down suddenly and swirling. It was Azeem.

When he dropped heavily beside her, she saw he was injured. His breast and wings were bloody, and his feathers tattered rags. “What happened to you, brave bird?” she said as she opened his canister. As she unrolled the hand written message, she had a brief recollection of digital technologies. They were now of no use to humans; 100% too dangerous to use.

The message when decoded read, “Urgent. The machines have adapted. They are no longer confined to land and water. They can fly now. Evacuate immediately.” Sharon looked up and saw a swarm of small aircraft, all remotely controlled like toys, but deadly ones, seeking out humans.

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Potanical Garden

Posted in Lucerne Village, Organic Farming, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 23, 2012 by javedbabar

The Zoological Society of Lucerne had done a great job developing the Botanical Garden. Danny took a leisurely stroll there most days, which cheered him up, especially in winter. He was healthy generally but became sad without sunshine. The blooms in the garden, especially the huge crimson flowers of Silva Sanguinara,were a vital tonic. The creator of this haven was known as The Gardener. As well as a grower, it seemed that he was also a healer.

Danny walked along the main path and stopped to admire a collection of funnel spider’s nests. They were marvels of construction, their weight close to zero, and their strength unbelievable; if only human beings could live so lightly and strongly. Beyond them were swallows’ nests; again, masterful engineering. High above, crowning a cedar was an eagles’ nest, providing the ultimate vantage point for this forest kingdom.

The Gardener practised permaculture. Everything grew among everything else, as it should do. There were no cleared patches for single species cultivation.

There was a wooshing near a side-trail, and Danny set off to investigate. It was amazing that five acres could be so diverse; you never knew what was happening anywhere elsewhere within it. It was probably the boys he saw playing hide and seek and fighting.

As he walked down the side trail, he saw something moving ahead, high up in the trees. He wondered if The Gardener had introduced monkeys, or maybe flying squirrels. The movement continued back and forth across the trail. The canopy made it hard to identify, but something was swinging quickly, whooshing, and sometimes stopping.

As Danny drew closer, the motions and sounds stopped. He too stopped instinctively, but was intrigued and went to investigate further. At first he saw nothing but then eyes and heads appeared. Boys were peering at him from both sides of the trail, hiding and whispering, trying to be invisible, but not doing a good job.

“Hey guys!” he said. “Why are you hiding? I’ve seen you. You may as well come out.” They didn’t move, so he said, “Sorry if I’ve ruined your game.”

Danny stepped off the trail towards the left and was met by five boys advancing, and was suddenly surrounded. He became scared and said, “What’s going on boys? I already said that I’m sorry for ruining your game.”

He wanted to say something more but didn’t know what to. He’d never imagined feeling threatened by young teens – thirteen, fourteen tops. All physically smaller than him, but together they were menacing.

One jumped at him suddenly, and two more followed with fists flailing. When he was on the ground, those standing kicked him. Danny shouted, but his voice seemed to die off in the forest. He renewed his fight back, till kicked in the head too hard to recover. One of the boys put his face close to Danny’s and said, “Shut up or we’ll kill you.”

Danny was terrified and stopped resisting. The boys lashed him with vines to a coconut tree, which he fertilized inadvertently. He thought of calling out again, but decided to remain quiet. He was never left alone for a moment, and the imminent threat of violence was a disincentive to fuss.

They left him there, and brought him food and drink; usually stuff they’d foraged in the forest. Over a week he lost a few kilos but was basically okay. He discovered the reason for their aggression. There were pot-growing patches on both sides of the trail, with gangs of boys competing for this lucrative trade. They swung in the trees for reconnaissance and to intimidate rivals. If they found plants unattended, they stole and replanted them in their own patch.

Danny was a problem for them now. Would they kill him if they lost patience?

One day he saw The Gardener walking on a path nearby. It may be his only chance to escape, so shouted out “Help!” The Gardener ran over immediately. Thank God, thought Danny, he can protect and free me with his machete. The boy guarding Danny backed away as The Gardener raised the glinting weapon. Like every good business man, he must protect his source of income. He brought it down on Danny’s neck.

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Unseen Graffiti

Posted in Conceptual Art, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , , , , on May 22, 2012 by javedbabar

The Authority was tough on graffiti, which was seen was an early sign of degeneration of civil society. Fine arts were encouraged as ways to develop the soul: landscape paintings celebrating the sacred earth, and portraits honouring noble individuals. Conceptual art too had its place. Graffiti however was a stain on the community. It was made by those without formal art training, and usually in lurid colours. It was appreciated by youngsters and a worrying number of aesthetically illiterate adults.

The Authority came down hard. In this last year they had imposed many fines, issued Anti-Social Behaviour Orders, expelled students from high school, and relocated families to D-rated socio-demographic zones in the City where poor behaviour was tolerated. They could do what they liked there, but not in Lucerne.

Ali and his friends hung around the car park beneath the Transparent Temple. It was the only dry place to go. Water rushed down the ramp when it rained hard, but was channelled away, never causing a flood. It was a good place for them to ride their skateboards and BMX bikes, and play baseball and football. Ali’s father had a cricket bat, which was also put to good use. It was a popular game for a week or so before everyone got bored. They also jumped into the access ditch in the corner when it filled with water. So cool.

Some days they stood around talking shit. On one of those days Ben produced a spray can. Ali said, “What are you doing, man? Are you crazy?” Before long however he was adding his tag too, a crescent moon to acknowledge his Islamic heritage. It couldn’t really be traced to him. It could be any of the three hundred Muslims in the Village.

“Neat idea,” said Ben, and added his Star of David. Mary sprayed a cross. Other kids added an OM, Dharmic Wheel, Khanda, Taijitu, Water sign, Torii gate, Pagan star, Bahai star, and mystical Black Spot.

Mary said, “Wow! It looks like a painted chapel in here. I saw some churches like that in Ethiopia. They’re a thousand years old, carved out of rock underground.”

“When did you see those?” said Ali.

“I lived there as a kid. My parents were missionaries in Africa for three years. It’s an amazing place. I want to go back there one day.” Ali and Ben curled their lips out as a form of recognition, and nodded.

They returned the next day to find their symbols all gone. They had been blasted off with a pressure washer and painted over. Every few days they repainted the signs and the next day they were gone.

This situation continued till July, the start of the Village’s financial year. Budgets were slashed by The Authority, and maintenance cut back severely. The Village couldn’t afford security so closed the car park, however this decision caused parking chaos on the main road, and was reversed immediately. Ali and his friends returned to their grotto nightly and played games and sprayed graffiti.

Samira, a blind girl, was new in town. She had been born that way. She had been teased horribly when young, but here, she was acknowledged as the coolest one among them. How she managed to look so good without seeing herself in a mirror was a mystery. All the boys tried to hit on her when she came along. Samira was nice to the nice ones but never fell for the charms of the rogues.

“I love the energy of the car park,” she said, and spent her nights hanging around with them there. She couldn’t skateboard, BMX, play baseball or football. She had a go at cricket, and sometimes took a dip. But she mainly felt her way around the walls, touching the graffiti that had built up there. She felt the truth of the holy signs. The symbols acquired extra dimensions as she felt their many unseen layers.

One day she called Ali over and asked him to touch the Black Spot. “What do you feel?” she said. Ali said nothing but shook uncontrollably. In that moment he saw everything. The painted chapel showed him the layers of his life, and the points at which they joined. The Black Spot connected Ali to Samira in ways unknown. They were joined within its darkness forever.

The next day the new village budget was approved. The graffiti was pressure-washed and pointed over.

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Cosmic Whee!

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2012 by javedbabar

Terry wondered whether to join the queue. It was always like this at Lucerne’s Halloween Fair, with lines so long that they put you off the rides; they were up to an hour sometimes – what for? Were some rides really so much better than others?

The annoying thing was that the rides he took were never that good. His friends waiting longer seemed to have a better time. They whirled, jerked, spun, and flipped in ways they couldn’t describe. His best friend tried, saying, “It’s like being in a blender, drunk, on the ice crush setting,” and then putting on a Sean Connery voice, “Schaken not schtirred.” Terry’s ride had been lame, just an irregular creeping that made him feel disgusted. You were meant to feel scared.

This year, he decided, he would be patient and wait. He joined the line for the newest machine, called Cosmic Whee!, which was shaped like a neon tree about the size of a mature fir. When operational, its arms extended more like an oak tree, and they flashed through every colour. It seemed to ascend and expand, and sparked, and shot flames. Terry wondered how safe its electrics were, not to mention the gas lines fuelling the flames.

People waiting were enthralled. Imagine what it must be like for people enjoying the ride! He could see why it had the longest queue.

Then Terry noticed something strange, that there weren’t any people enjoying the ride. Nobody was sitting on the arms. Where were they? What were people queuing for?

He tapped the shoulder of the boy in front of him, and said, “Excuse me, what are we queuing for?”

The boy was annoyed at having his viewing disrupted, but then gave a quick smile. “It makes you disappear, you know.” He saw the troubled look on Terry’s face and added, “The Cosmic Whee! makes you disappear. That’s what they say.”

Terry said, “Who says? The fairground people?”

The boy drew up to him closely. “No, the people. My friends told me. That’s what they say. You’ll see for yourself. Don’t say I didn’t say so.”

Terry was confused. How could this ride make you disappear? He watched the next customer walk up to the contraption. A small round door slid open and he climbed inside. Then the door shut. It was only one person at a time – no wonder the queue was so long! Again the ride’s arms extended, flashed, ascended, expanded, and sparked, and flamed. Three minutes later, the round door opened, and was empty. Where had the rider gone? Had he disappeared?

The boy in front turned and raised his eyebrows, and said, “See?”

Terry noticed a figure at the back of the ride. Was it the rider? No, it was a young girl, much too young for this ride.

Terry waited in line for an hour and a half. He thought there must be some trick being played, with people exiting elsewhere. Maybe there was a tunnel to another part of the fairground, where they popped up and went home. He looked around at the other rides – traditional ones like dodgems, carousels and rollercoasters, and modern ones like Booster, Freak Out and Top Spin. There were also games of strength, skill and luck. But there was nothing as dramatic as Cosmic Whee! and nothing with a longer line.

Terry reached the front at last, and was greeted by a man in neon blue tailcoat and orange trousers and hat, who said, “Come on in! This is the real show!” He directed Terry towards the round door, which slid shut behind him. He felt claustrophobic at first but soon was comfortable on this bridge of darkness.

Twisting light rings appeared around him and then slid downwards with increasing speed, as if he were in a giant elevator with a crazy barber’s pole spiralling down around him. It was disorienting initially but became habitual. It seemed quite normal; a part of life. He was alive and part of life, at the heart of life, a twisting strand of DNA. He lost track of time. He could be here forever.

He didn’t disappear, just appeared in a different place, almost like this one. A parallel universe within the multiverse. And a being from a fairground there came to the fairground here. In ancient times there were shamanic flights and ecstatic rituals. Now there was technology and leisure. The goal was the same as ever – to cross-fertilize universes. A diverse cosmos is healthy.

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Mobility Mafia

Posted in Lucerne Village with tags , , , , , , on May 19, 2012 by javedbabar

The Local Mobility Laws were radical. They were the biggest shake up of municipal transport policy in fifty years. In fact the biggest change ever.

Lucerne Transport Committee represented all stakeholders. Carefully selected people acted as ambassadors for different ages, income brackets, races, genders, sexual orientations, and those with physical and mental disabilities. There were bad-tempered oldies and noisy children; the rich, poor, and those on welfare; black, brown, red, white, and yellow people; male, female, neither, and both; gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and even straight people; folk without limbs, paraplegics, quadriplegics, deaf, dumb, blind, slow, dyslexic, and otherwise challenged persons.

Each person was given charge of a particular area. This policy was inspired by native totems. For example if you were of the Red Lizard folk, then you looked out for red lizards; you protected them as best you could and never hurt or ate one. If each person in the tribe looked out for one species of lizard, then all lizards would be protected. This philosophy was supported by the Chinese adage of every person sweeping outside their doorstep making the whole world clean.

The danger is that rather than a seamless plan, it becomes a hodge-podge. Less a Dracula, with a clear philosophy of life and a long term approach to survival, and more a Frankenstein’s monster, patched together from ill fitting scraps, with no motivation to live but hatred of his maker. As with any voting system, some people are louder and scarier than others and push their agendas hard. The Greens, Seniors, and Religious did well in Lucerne. They ruled the roost and what they said went for all.

Helene hated going out on the roads. The Local Mobility Laws had made it a nightmare. There were gangs of old men on street corners, drinking and singing. Mean cyclists ran wheelchair users off the road, claiming moral superiority for their self-powered two-wheeled vehicles. Only walkers could use raised paths, with lower forms of transport staying beneath, honouring this most green and ancient form of motion.

Those caught trespassing on high paths were punished severely. Forfeits were set at one toe removal per offence, though there was leniency for children, and harshness for repeat offenders bearing inadequate remorse. For them a second offence could lead to the loss of two toes, a third, three toes, and if no more toes were available, the count was completed on fingers.

Old women on motor scooters – who were somehow allowed to use the high paths – had the run of town. These mean spirited hags even rode walkers like Helene off the road. Helene had complained about them once, and their yobbish children and grandchildren had harassed her for weeks after. There was no recourse to these Mobility Mafiosi.

Helene walked around the corner late one night, straight into the KK – Krinkle-Kut – Gang. She was wearing headphones so hadn’t heard their singing. She’d also been rushing, and not paid attention to scattered bottle and butts.

The Greens and Religious were often vocal, but respect for Elders had been taken to extremes, with those over sixty expecting to be obeyed immediately. Talk back and you were likely to get bruised. Social media, video games, reality TV, game shows, and predictive texting had made youngsters vulnerable, which the consumer advertising, food processing, allergen drugs, pornography, and religious industries had exploited. Youngsters were useless at best. Power had truly returned to the Old.

Most of the old men stepped aside for Helene. One, however, whom she later referred to as “Mr Viagra”, called out “Hey darling! You’re looking fine-fine. How about some old man action?”

She ignored him and walked on. When he threw a peanut at her head, she turned around and let him have it. “Why don’t you take your teeth out and take care of yourself?”

The rest of the KK laughed so hard that Mr Viagra withered. Lights came on in surrounding condos to see what the fuss was about. The KK became embarrassed and went home, where their families told them off. “Shame on you grandpa,” they said. The old men no longer hung around that corner. The resurrection of the young had begun.

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Baby Split

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 18, 2012 by javedbabar

Baby was very active. He kicked his legs like a little martial artist, threw punches in the air, and cried continuously. Despite this pointless show of ferocity, no one minded and rather than shout, kick or punch him back, they looked on adoringly.

Mother cuddled him more closely, and said, “There, darling. You’re back with mummy now. There, there. Welcome to our crazy world. You’re the best thing that’s appeared in it ever. My angel. My love…”

Father’s smile grew bigger as he pointed to his newborn son and said, “That’s my boy! He’s going to be a fighter, this one. Look how he’s throwing out hooks already, and he can sure scream. Scare his enemies to death. The warrior…”

Naomi was allowed into the room right after the birth. She was crazy about her baby brother from the moment she saw him. She wondered if his arrival would stop her parents from arguing now. Many of her friends’ parents had split.

Uncle Bobby was there, proud to have a nephew. He’d known the birth process may go on for a while, like it had when Naomi was born, so he’d bought biscuits to share. He was down to his last one, snapped it in two, and offered half each to his sister and brother-in-law.

Baby’s mind was filled with energy rebounding. There were crazy bright patterns, wilding and assembling. He was suddenly cut off from his source of sustenance but still growing at a phenomenal rate. He would grow infinitely.

Where had these patterns come from? How had the growth originated?

He sensed two forces, far apart, but destined to come together. Black and white; yin and yang; masculine and feminine. A faceless horde of long-tailed warriors pouring into a dark valley, fearless, thoughtless, with only the urge to enter the round citadel. The palace of wonders. The hidden treasure. The Grail.

Very few survived the journey. A few brave lucky ones charged ahead and reached their destination, and threw themselves at the final barrier but only the first one made it in. His magical charms gained him entry and the gates closed after him immediately.

The warrior was welcomed. The princess had awaited him forever, for she knew that he had treasures of his own to give. They shared their riches, and realized that together they could grow. But growth also meant change.

The doctor came into the delivery room. He was mainly concerned with practicalities – the execution of his tasks – but he remained aware of the wonder of the matter. That two beings had merged and created a being that was the same as them yet different. Through mitosis, cells had separated their shared chromosomes into two identical sets, which became sibling cells that multiplied, and continued the growth process further. The point of conception was the vortex around which life spun.

Baby’s body wasn’t the only thing splitting and growing. His mind was also breaking off from his mother. There was a time within her when her mind was his mind, and his thoughts were variations of hers. But now he had a second mind, his own. This was his nature, beyond her nurture.

Every act of creation is cosmic, as if a nuclear reaction at the heart of a star; binary fission creates charged fragments; exothermic reactions release electromagnetic energy and kinetic energy, causing both charge and motion. The total binding energy of the elements resulting is greater than that of the element starting. A nuclear transmutation creates fragments that are no longer the same; free energy released is millions times greater than before.

As Baby kicked and punched and cried, he released this energy into the world. He could change this world. He could start or end it.

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Guru Baby

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , , , , , on May 17, 2012 by javedbabar

The visitor waited in line, and when his turn came said, “Excuse me, is Guru Baba here today? We’re visiting from the East Coast and would love to see him.”

Sami said, “I’m sorry Sir, but he is busy with official business today.”

The visitor turned to look at her husband, who curled his lips. She turned back to Sami and said, “But the flag is up at the Transparent Temple.” This was the popular name for their fancy community centre. “Doesn’t that mean he is here?”

Sami hated disappointing people. They came so far to glimpse Guru Baba, one of the world’s leading holy men, who had made his home in Lucerne. He’d wanted to retire to “that nice village with the white mountain above it,” and since then there had been a procession of world leaders coming to see him, and behind them came the masses.

Sami said to the visitor, “Yes, he is here, but I’m afraid he’s tied up with official duties. Will you still be here next Wednesday when he has his monthly audience?”

“Didn’t there used to be a weekly audience?” Sami nodded. “Well, that’s what we came for, and then found out it had been changed.”

The end of weekly audiences had been a disaster. Donations had fallen by three-quarters but Guru Baba’s expenses continued to rise. His charitable projects, especially Free Giving, had proved very popular and taken on lives of their own. Sami had heard of Peak Oil – the notion that the world’s oil supply was diminishing, but population, and thus demand for oil, rising exponentially. This was Peak Toil; he had to work harder and harder in Guru Baba’s gift shop to meet his sales targets. Visitor numbers were decreasing but project costs were rising. It was entirely unsustainable.

“I’m very sorry,” Sami said to the visitor. “We have some new items that you may like though. How about these I Am Here For You Too dice, with one word on each side? It is Guru Baba’s most popular saying. And we have these I Love Change T-shirts. The logo of the eye in the heart in the triangle was designed by his good friend Mr Giorgio Armani. Yes, he was here at Easter. Did you see the photos? Guru Baba loved the holy robes he bought. We’re thinking of adding them to the product range. Would you be interested in those when available? You can leave us your email address.”

Sami tried his best to cheer up visitors but there was only so much he could do.

The visitor said, “If we can’t meet Guru Baba, can we at least get a signed photo?”

“Let me see,” said Sami. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Sami found Guru Baba in his chambers. For the past few months he had spent much of his time sitting silently or walking around ranting. Today he was walking around ranting. “You were not there for me, why should I be here for you?” he shouted, and, “I hate change!”

Poor guy, thought Sami. One of the world’s wisest, kindest men, reduced to this. Old age was a curse, particularly its gift of dementia.

Sami wondered who would be hurt by his signing the photo instead of Guru Baba. The visitor would be happy and donations would increase. He pulled out the black pen he used for checking off deliveries, and scrawled the world famous initials GB.

The visitor was thrilled. So were people who came the next day, and the day after that. There was a boom in visitors and donations. The charitable projects thrived.

Sami went to Guru Baba every day with photos, and returned with them all signed. One day the old man asked him, “Who signs all my photographs?”

Sami dropped his pen. Guru Baba smiled and said, “I think you understand Karma. It means action.”

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Near East

Posted in Global Travel, Mystical Experience, Unknown, World Myths with tags , , , , , on May 16, 2012 by javedbabar

“Can we go this way?” said Isis.

Osiris stopped on the edge of the bridge, where a path ran along the river. He remembered when he was a kid. Lucerne was just a clutch of farms and stores, and there was no bridge over this road, at least not one you could drive across. It was just a sham wooden structure that a farmer had nailed together so he could hop into town. The bridge was a short cut to their community centre – the modern glass structure known as the Transparent Temple.

Osiris wondered why she wanted to take the long way around. It was funny that so many people in Lucerne had ancient names, particularly Egyptian ones. Their parents must have been hippies, fascinated by Pharaonic lore. He recalled a book near his mother’s bed called Pyramid Power.

He said, “Sure love. Are you in the mood for a longer walk?” The past three months had been the best of his life. Meeting Isis had rocked his world. She was everything he’d wanted – pretty, funny, smart, cultured and spiritual.

“I prefer the scenic route,” she said. “Let’s walk along the river, then through the fields. We can go through those new houses and enter the back of the Temple.”

“Okay love, let’s do that.” Osiris was so used to doing things his way that whenever Isis expressed a differing preference, his instinctive response was to reject it, but this was followed by curiosity so intense that he agreed to her request immediately. And he found that most of the time her way proved better. If he had to pin a number on it he’d say that she was right seventy-five percent of the time. When he’d explained this to his best friend, the friend had been incredulous. “What? You reckon she’s right seventy-five percent of the time? That can’t be possible!”

“Why not?” Osiris had said. “She’s a clever woman.”

“But you are more clever, my friend. If you are right twenty-five percent of the time, and you accept that she is right seventy-five percent of the time, then that makes you right one hundred percent of the time!”

Osiris and Isis held hands and followed the river east. Its flow was higher than usual. This must be because of early warm weather melting snowpack, whose waters poured into rivers running through the Lucerne Valley. The snow levels on both Mt Alba, rising above the village, and Mt Negra, one hundred kilometres away at the source of the valley, were rising up their respective slopes. Imagine being the last snowflake, he thought, disappearing.

It was a pretty crazy route for such a small river. It twisted and turned, looping back on itself at one point, plunging into pools, and braving small waterfalls. It was said that the first man to find Lucerne had floated along this river. He had fought and escaped his enemies, and been aided by crocodiles and buffaloes. He had climbed out when he had seen the White Mountain and made this his home.

The river continued through green fields. When this first man became old and feeble, he was killed by his descendants and buried in these fields, and from his head sprouted potatoes, his slim arms became carrots, his plump thighs produced beets, his brains made garlics, his lungs produced hemp, and from his manhood grew the first banana.

They came to new houses. The original houses had been built by the first man’s descendants, who became a prosperous tribe. Their wealth had attracted roving bands of hunters, who looted them annually, just after harvest, raping and pillaging and leaving their mark – mixed-blood children, who became present day Lucerne’s inhabitants.

Beyond the village was wilderness, like the original chaos before the first man.

Isis clutched Osiris’s hand harder as they neared the Transparent Temple. It was the heart of the village. Government officials met in Room One to set village strategy. Business leaders met in Room Two to discuss the local economy. Village councillors met in Room Three to promote political agendas. Artists met in the bar to discuss cultural grants and collaborative works. Holy men and women met on Saturdays to promote the memory of the divine founder of their settlement, the first man, called Osiris.

On Saturdays they served falafels, which legend said were first made by Coptic Christians. Pha la phel means “of many beans”, as the Church was formed of many souls, all rolled into one Great Soul. People united by The Authority.

Osiris and Isis were greeted by the Supreme Guardian of the Transparent Temple. He was a crippled, olive-skinned man called Seth. He cast a mean look at Osiris, but winked at Isis. Seth knew it would soon be time for him to regenerate and to leave this chamber, chase out Osiris, marry Isis, and begin the creation cycle anew.

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