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PART
I - First he gets murdered, then his adventure begins
CHAPTER
1: Terror Express
‘KLING. Oh my God! The bell! Round One, New Mexico State Golden
Gloves, welterweight division. OK, let’s go and box this guy.
But jeez! I'm only fifteen, and he’s a grown man…gulp!
‘Anyway, boxing? Forget it! This dude comes out like a friggen
windmill - like a jackhammer married the chainsaw from hell –
whoosh, whoosh, zing, POW! I see stars. With a thud I'm on my hands
and knees staring at blood dripping on the canvas. He broke my nose!
Damn! Major bummer! Anyway, it was over. And that's the last time
I ever stepped into a ring.’
Bhu’s driving. ‘Sh*t, Hrisikesh, why did you ever start
boxing?’ Good question. I just laugh. We’re cruising along
a curvy canyon road on our way to meet a ‘UCLA Certified’
lady psychic, Jo Ann Dunn. Originally from England she’s long
since living in Southern California out in the sticks near Lake Ellsinore,
about 30 miles inland from Laguna Beach.
I recently snuck back into America across the Mexico border at TJ.
Bhu picked me up in a car and we drove across. Yeah, it was plenty
scary! I was sweating bullets when the border guard asked me to state
my nationality.
You see, I’ve been a stateless fugitive from the Vietnam War
draft for the last 12 years, a protester from a senseless and lost
war. I'm still a fugitive and it's now 1979. The case isn't settled
till tomorrow. So I'm laying low with Bhu until my hotshot charity-case
lawyer, Laurie Belger, works it out with Uncle Sam.
Jeez! Uncle Sam. The Vietnam War's evil-looking poster boy with his
message, ‘Got my bell I'm gonna take you to hell, Hell’s
Bells, I’m coming for you!’ Ironically his is the Liberty
Bell, the one with the crack in it. That about says it all for my
liberty so far.
Anyway, tomorrow morning is “D Day” for me. ‘Gulp!’
By the way, I'm Rick Brown, lead singer of international psychedelic
Rock Band, The Misunderstood: Greatest Lost Rock Band of the 1960s.
Believe it!
‘Bhu, this curvy road is making me feel sick when’ll we
get there?’ I complain.
‘Just hang on, Hrisikesh, we're almost to the lake. Then it's
straight road to her place.’
‘Her place’ is a trailer home.
We pull into the front and knock on the door. The door opens and,
like wow! She’s awesome! No, actually she looks, like, totally
ordinary, but I know her reputation from Bhu and that’s already
inspiring. I've come to find out from her about my legal case. What's
going to happen in my future?
After some small talk Bhu goes into her study with his little cassette
recorder. I just wait in her living room and try to imagine what I’ll
ask her. Bhu takes about 45 minutes. Then he comes out with tears
in his eyes. Wow! I never saw him cry before! ‘It's your turn,
Hrisikesh!’ Bhu chokes out.
OK, here goes.
As I enter her room she seems very peaceful or maybe she’s tired.
I don't know, maybe. God, she already drove Bhu over the brink.
I also have a small tape recorder with a one-hour cassette. Jo Ann
has me sit opposite her and tells me to start the tape. OK…click!
Running.
I guess she'll do something radical to get into a trance. I remember
those Kris dancers in Bali coughing and spitting before leaping up
in a fierce trance, attacking Rangda, and trying to stab themselves
with their snake-like curvy Kris knives. Their bodies were like iron.
The blade would not pierce the skin and would even bend from the force.
That was exciting.
But all Jo Ann does is close her eyes, take a few slow breaths, and
suddenly sit up straight with closed eyes and in a slightly different
voice, ‘Greetings, traveler!’
What can I say? ‘Uh, hi!’
During the course of one hour I ask her about my late gurus in India,
and about my legal case. In an amazing display she describes both
my teachers and says they are ‘well pleased’ with me. She
also explained that my legal karma was coming to an end: tomorrow.
Man, she seems to know everything about me, so I take her seriously.
Finally she asks me if I have any final question. ‘Yes,’
I prompt. ‘What was I in my last life, and, like, how did I die?’
After a pause and with a slightly disturbed look on her face she tells
me I’m East Indian in my last life and die during Indo-Pakistan
partition riots. Hey, let’s see. That was 1947. The same year
I was born.
As she spoke of my past life I could imagine the whole scene like
a flashback. She was really jogging my memory to the core of my being.
Like I could see down a long road into the past. I lose track of her
speaking. I’m transported.
Rioting. Shouting. Noise. Bloody hell! I'm an orange-robed sadhu or
hermit about 80 years old when I bite the bullet. The British partition
India's West Punjab and East Bengal into West and East Pakistan. Millions
are displaced, forced by religion to switch countries leaving everything
behind or else. It’s just too much emotion and the whole country
snaps. While Gandhi is fasting amidst rioting in Calcutta, the whole
of North India and Punjab turns into a blood bath. So much for the
Mahatma’s non-violence movement.
Sitting on top of a train heading for the temple town of Rishikesh,
I watch as the train moves on. Parched North Indian landscape. A broken-down
temple in the foreground, several areas with smoke rising in the background,
Sun beating down. ‘Ugh!’
The roof of the train is crowded with people squatting, their backs
facing toward the steady stream of black smoke pouring from the engine.
It’s overflowing with terrified passengers trying to flee the
slaughter. Elsewhere, almost everywhere, the Muslims are killing the
Hindus; the Hindus are killing the Muslims. Millions are up in arms.
Crowded amongst other squatters I sit on my thin bedroll and hold
a silver trisula (trident). I have long white matted hair and beard.
My old face is covered in ashes.
Jo Ann recalls my previous name was like, whoa! Get this, ‘Hrisikesh.’
Oh brother! How could she know that was my nickname? I asked Bhu and
he didn't tell her anything about me. But she knew exactly. And the
same name. Bizarro!
Late afternoon and the old train puffs and clacks through sparse landscape
and crosses over a river on a wooden bridge. ‘Oh gross!’
In the river are dead bodies, some headless, that are floating in
the current. Among the corpses are dead bodies of women and children.
Dead animals, too. Would a Muslim cow kill a Hindu cow? It's sickening
but I'm too weak to vomit. Besides I've seen too much already. It's
just a blur anymore.
The train begins to slow for the next station stop. Great! But wait!
Looking ahead I see smoke. There is a riot at the next station. It's
in flames and swords and crude hatchets are swinging. Bodies, some
limbless, are hacked and strewn about the area up ahead. A bullock
cart is placed on the tracks by the mob to stop the train. The mob
sets fire to the blockade...Whoa!
With a jerking sensation and sound the train gradually picks up speed
again. There is no alternative but to keep going and crash through
the barrier. Hang on!
With a violent crash the train charges into the blockade throwing
fire everywhere. We're all jolted on the roof. Some passengers fall
off. I see fellow travelers impaled by crude spears and hacked with
blades by the raging mob. I got to hold on here. HOLD ON! - ‘Unnh!’
The train is too strong. The engine knocks aside the burning bullock
carts and keeps on going, faster, towards the Holy Land of Rishikesh
at the foot of the Himalayas.
I pick myself up after being thrown on my back by the loud crash.
Many of my fellow squatters are gone, fallen into the madness. The
roof is half empty. Oh, thank God! He saved me again.
Looking back I see the burning station growing smaller as the train
moves on... I cling to the roof of the train, the engine smoke choking,
catching in my throat. I cough… ‘Akh Akh!’
‘Hey Bhagavan, meri raksha koro!’ - Oh God, protect me!
The Sun is setting quickly as the train continues chugging along the
open landscape and darkness overtakes the sinking daylight. God, it's
getting cold!
In the distance I see small and large fires burning like fireflies
in the blackness of night. I sigh and try to sleep on the roof but
my old body is so skinny. Lying on my back, I look up at the night
sky - flaming with stars, full of evil omens.
As the terror express gradually starts to climb up the foothills of
the Himalayas, the engine works harder trying to thwart gravity and
the rapid pace of the train slows to about 25 KM hour. The sounds
of puffing and clacking fill the air.
I can't sleep. What a bummer! Every bone in my old body aches. The
train clacks and clanks up the hills - clouds billowing from the engine's
smokestack… Jeez! Eventually I conk out. ‘Zzzzzzz.’
As the Sun rises in the East my eyes flutter open. Oh God, I feel
cold and stiff. ‘Ugh!’ I grunt as I roll onto my side. With
the dawn glowing brighter the train nears its destination. Eventually,
finally, we start to slow down. I squint at the old train sign, RISHIKESH.
We're here. YEAH!
I thank God by folding my hands and bowing my head. I'm safe!
CHAPTER 2: Blown Away!
As I struggle to climb down from the roof I hear religious chants
and Indian music and loud running river sounds. The GANGA! ‘Jai
Ganga Mata ki jai!’
With difficulty I fall over as I reach the ground. ‘Ram teyree
maya!’ - Oh Rama, this is all Your illusion!
I struggle to get up. As I approach the river I look up at the majestic
temple towering above me. ‘Om namo Narayana!’ - I utter
in deep respect.
Finally I reach the river and climb down the stone steps to the bathing
ghats on the bank. With difficulty I strip down to my kaupin (loincloth)
and wade my rickety old body into the freezing waters. I take three
quick dips in the current. It's ice cold and my heart begins to tighten.
As fast as possible I emerge from the river’s edge and wipe the
freezing water off my bare body. I'm racked with shivering. ‘Aah
aah Hhhhhhh!’
Shaking like mad I struggle to sit cross-legged on the red stone ghat
and then I count my gayatri mantra silently meditating. Sitting with
a straight back, my sacred thread wrapped around my right thumb, I
count the mantras on my fingertips. So peaceful; the running water.
‘Ommm! namo bhagavate vasudevaya Ommm!’
‘Ahhh!’ God has brought me here safely. I recall a verse
from the ancient Purana, revealed in Sanskrit thousands of years ago,
and handed down, from generation to generation. Sanskrit, my dear
language, so elegant, noble and precise. The Sloka flows from my tongue
like honey…
‘viditam ananta samastam tava jagad-atmano janair ichacaritam
/
vignapyam parama-guroh kiyad iva savitur iva khadyotaih //’
- as I meditate on the mystical sense of it:
Oh supreme unlimited God, whatever a soul does in this world is all
known to You because You are the Over-soul. In the Sun’s presence
there is nothing to be revealed by a glow-worm. Because of Your being
all-knowing, there is nothing which I can make known to You. Ommmm…
‘HUH?’ All of a sudden I hear truck and bus engines roar
and screech. And what the hell? I'm startled by the sounds of shouting,
gunfire and breaking glass. People are screaming. Hey!
Just above the ghat two or three truckloads of hooligans have invaded
this pilgrimage town and the local people are screaming and running
down the steps to the river where I'm sitting. Are the hooligans Muslim?
Man, what's the difference between hooligans?
Bricks and big rocks begin to rain down onto the ghats. Some of the
Indian women jump into the river. My God, they’re going to die!
Some of the people are hit by the bricks. ‘Yikes!’ There
is pushing and some of the crowd falls into the river. Others are
trampled under foot as the evil bastards invade this sanctuary striking
at anyone they can kill.
I look up and see some of the hooligans running down the steps. How
can I stop them? Oh God, am I ready for this? I stand up holding my
trident and beg the rioters to stop killing, ‘Nahi nahi!’
Suddenly a certain shot is fired into the crowd. It's like all sound
stops except the echo gun blast: BLAM! I hear nothing but a zinging
sound and see a bullet coming, spinning toward me.
Thaaap! ‘Ulp!’ I feel choked as something hot rips through
my neck. ’Akh ghh!’ The force of the bullet knocks me backward
off the bathing ghat into the swirling current with a splash. All
is BLACK. Am I blind? ‘Huh? Kya hum mar chuke hai?’ - What,
am I dead?
I can make out a shaking light and hear the approach of suction noises.
Like howling wind. I feel racked with a chill. ‘Ah-huh?’
I hear my rapid fearful breathing, fast thumping heartbeats, growing
fainter.
I grasp out. Where am, ‘huh?’ I feel like I'm hanging onto
a cliff made of ice. Cold. I helplessly slip off with a sickening
falling sensation.
Then the noises. Oh man! Talk about scary! Howling wind and suction
sounds. I see the blackness form into a glowing orange-pinkish winding
tunnel and I'm helplessly swept through the twisting flow. Past old
memories – hazy, flashes: orange robed sadhus, forests, family
members, baby stuff, the kind face of a mother turns into ice.
I'm dragged, rushing through the glowing tunnel…
On the left side I'm beckoned by devilish beings to come into the
infernal regions. I see flashes of hell. Demons laugh and call me
to enter. Gross! Not only NO! But HELL NO!
I hear fearsome howling winds as I'm swept past hell down the glowing
tunnel…
On the right I see a glowing angelic doorway welcome me to enter paradise.
Angels call. I reach out to enter heaven but I can't see myself. I'm
helplessly carried away down the winding tunnel.
‘Whoa! Huh?’ I feel so sleepy all of a sudden. What the?
‘Bahut durbaal! Aab sow-jaigaa! Sow jaigaa! sow....’ (So
weak, so sleepy, so..). That was IT!
PART II - Inland Empire Blues Brothers
CHAPTER 3: Born in the USA
Two hearts beat in the darkness. I don't know zilch. Nada. I'm being
squeezed out, pressed so hard. I feel choking. The pressure is unbearable,
‘Unnh! Ahnnnuh!’
A hospital delivery room. I fall into the hands of a doctor. The light
is intense. ‘Ohhh!’ I'm blinded with bright light. I hear
and feel a striking sensation. Baby crying… is that me? Man,
I don't know!
Slowly my vision begins to accommodate the light. Over me I see the
misty faces of a man and woman looking down so concerned! The women
speaks to the man, ‘Dick! He looks so helpless!’ Yeah, better
believe it!
Eighteen years later I'm surfing with my band mates at Swami's reef
near San Diego. The tides getting too low. That reef is gnarly.
Anyway, here goes. ‘My wave!’ I paddle into the peak, drop
in fading left on my 9.6 Surfboard's Hawaii, then crank a bottom turn,
hard right, take two cross-steps forward to line up the wall. Sh*t!
It's closing out! Too late! Tons of turbulent water takes my board
and me over the falls on top of the reef just six feet deep. I’m
pulled every-which-way, ‘Whoaaaa! Ummph!’ I’m caught
in an explosive under water struggle. I barely miss the sharp rocks.
Shooting up out the top I'm gasping for breath. ‘Ahhhhhh. Gaaaah.
Ahhhhh!’
From the surface of the ocean behind the broken wave there’s
the grinning face of my friend 18 year old GREG, who is lying on top
of his board. He's our guitar player. Great guy!
‘Man! You got hammered!’ he laughs.
‘Tide’s too low. I lost my board. I'm goin’ in!’
I shout over the thunderous waves breaking around us. We surf and
swim to shore. I get my board, then Greg and I run up the beach to
join our 17-year-old drummer MOE. Moe tosses me a towel, ‘Hurry
up, man! We got a Battle of the Bands to win tonight!’
‘No sweat!’ I assure him. ‘Us against whose army?’
The three of us walk up the steps, all carrying long boards, and wearing
baggy surfer shorts and striped T-shirts. We're cool!
Above the cliff I marvel at the mysterious and grand Indian-style
temple, the Self Realization Fellowship, surrounded by its neatly
attended lawns and flower gardens. The surf spot is named Swami’s
because it's below this temple
I stop to wait for JIM, our 18 year-old lead guitarist. He's been
in a bad mood lately. ‘What's the deal with that place?’
I ask as he catches up.
‘Full of weirdo’s, man! Just kooks!’ he mutters.
‘Man, you’re on such a bummer these days! What gives?’
He remains silent and brushes past me. ‘Jeez!’
We’re driving home in Greg's woodie on the Interstate. In the
car Greg turns on the radio and it's the Beach Boys ‘Surfin'
USA’. ‘F**k! Turn that surf sh*t off!’ I snap.
Greg turns it off and everyone laughs at the unintended irony of my
statement. Greg changes the radio to a cool Yardbirds song, “Heart
Full of Soul”. Bitchen! Rock ‘n’ Roll!
The back of the van is stuffed with small amps, guitar cases and drums,
including a bass drum with the logo: Treadway & Company. That’s
the name of our band.
‘How come they don't play Slim Harpo on the radio?’ Greg
wonders out loud.
‘Because normal people are too square to know who Slim Harpo
is!’ I reply. ‘Look around!’
We all look out at the other cars on the freeway and their all-American
crew cut passengers. ‘Yeah! No kidding!’
Moe speaks up. ‘Sh*t, we're lucky if they even play the Animals
or the Kinks on the radio! Like this Yardbirds song is tits! But they
hardly ever play it.’
‘What station is this?’ I inquire.
‘K-MEN! In Berdoo, they even got an English DJ!’
‘Yeah?’ I'm impressed!
‘Maybe we shoulda just stuck to playing surf music!’ Greg
says glumly. There's a short silence while everyone ponders this statement.
Then Greg cracks a smile and says, ‘NAH! Surfing is bitchen,
but…’
We all join in loudly, ‘SURF MUSIC SUCKS!’ Ha! We all die
laughing. Except Jim.
We've got the surfboards conspicuously strapped on top. I can see
the freeway sign, RIVERSIDE.
‘Come on, step on it, Greg.’ Moe says. ‘We gotta pick
up Steve and get to the gig.’
‘Moe, are you suggesting that I should break he speed limit?’
Greg shoots back. Yeah, right ON!
Our van pulls up outside the YMCA on a downtown Riverside street.
It’s now late afternoon. God, look how straight the rest of the
world is. The people walking down the sidewalk outside are strictly
suits and ties and big summer dresses – it could almost be the
1950s.
Moe and I tumble out the back of the woodie looking cool and longhaired.
We're loose and happy and completely different to the stiff, stern-faced
figures walking by.
We run up the steps of the building and a few moments later emerge
with STEVE. I’m carrying his amp and Moe is hauling the bass
cabinet, while Steve himself just carries his bass guitar.
Steve is tall, rugged and handsome in a classic square-jawed American
way. At 19 he looks like a grown man next to us. We're still in high
school. He carries himself with confidence and we kind of look up
to him in many ways. As we struggle to load in his amp Steve pauses
to coolly light a cigarette further accentuating his grown-up demeanor.
We're finally all in the van on way to the gig. ‘So how's life
at the Y?’ Greg asks Steve.
‘It's OK,’ Steve replies. ‘I got lots of time to practice
my bass.’
‘I still can't believe your dad kicked you out of the house!’
says Moe, shaking his head.
‘Well he didn't so much kick me out as force me to leave at gunpoint,’
sneers Steve.
At this even Jim is surprised. ‘At gunpoint? Man, what a bummer!’
We all start shouting in disbelief as the van continues down the road.
‘And I thought my dad was mean!’ I quip.
580 Pages, beautiful hard-bound. - US$18. plus airmail book post (one
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