The Yoga of Max's Discontent by Karan Bajaj Page A

the day after next. He was overcome by dread. The beats of the background music deepened, tugging at his heart again. Max closed his eyes. A sudden chill went through his body. He was falling into a deep,bottomless void. Blackness. A blinding flash of light. Max opened his eyes with a start. Goose bumps covered his forearms. He gripped the chair tighter.
    â€œThis music, what is it?” said Max.
    â€œHare Krishna chants,” said Anand.
    â€œI think I’ve heard them before,” said Max.
    â€œHeard them or felt them?” said Anand.
    Max didn’t know if he was more surprised at the question or that Anand had asked one. He paused, considering. “Felt them, I guess. I haven’t heard any Hindi song before,” he said.
    The dimples returned. “I thought so,” said Anand.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThese songs express deep love for the divine, an urge to break free from the cycle of birth and death, this trap of nature, and become one with Him,” said Anand.
    Again, something pulled at Max’s heart. “But why would I feel them?”
    â€œYou’ve heard this sound before, if not the song,” said Anand. “Your past lives led you here.”
    Max’s stomach turned. “I don’t believe in reincarnation,” he said.
    Yet he’d seen himself in the faces that roused him from his near-fatal sleep in the mountains—the same mountains that seemed to be calling him back.
    â€œBut reincarnation is pure science, isn’t it?” said Anand. “Thought is energy, desire is energy. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it just changes form. So our thoughts and desires just find a new physical body when this one wastes away.”
    He leaned back in the chair, seemingly exhausted by the long explanation.
    â€œShouldn’t there be more hard evidence for it, then?” said Max.
    Anand shrugged. Believe what you want to, I couldn’t care less, his expression said. He closed his eyes again and nodded to the chants. Max thought he had offended him. He changed the subject.
    â€œHow did you meet the doctor?” said Max.
    Anand opened his eyes. “I have to go to the temple now,” he said softly. “Please make yourself comfortable here if you want to rest from your travels. My wife will be back anytime, and the kids a little later.”
    â€œNo, I must go . . .” Max stopped. The chants tingled in his spine. “Can I come with you to the temple?” he said, surprising himself. Usually he steered as far as he could from organized religion, with its elaborate rituals and demands for belief.
    â€œYes.”
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    THEY WALKED DOWN the narrow street past the haphazardly arranged houses—some made of wood, some concrete; some one floor high, some five or six floors high. Rickshaws, motorcycles, and cars zoomed past them. Anand seemed blissfully unaware of the traffic and noise.
    They reached the ramshackle hotel at the end of the street where the cabdriver was parked. Max paid him and let him go. They walked two more blocks and stepped into a small brown oval-shaped temple. Up a flight of stairs they went, entering a large room with a white marble floor surrounded by statues of gods and goddesses. One muscular goddess had four snakes sculpted around her thick neck. Another blue-colored god had a contemptuous smile on his face, another a lion under her feet;yet another had a bow and arrow in his hands, with his tongue hanging out. None looked calm or inspired peace.
    On chairs in front of the statues sat a corpulent man with a sitar and a gaunt, disheveled woman playing a musical instrument that had a flap and piano-like keys; they were belting out loud, toneless songs. The twenty people sitting cross-legged in front of them bobbed their heads to the melody. Or the lack of it.
    Anand joined the group on the floor. After a moment’s hesitation, Max accompanied him.