Friday, 14 October 2011

Freewheelin’ in India - Day 14: Dark dreams and the Devil in disguise

Sometime shortly after drifting off I experienced another unnerving happening, not too dissimilar to the twisted trials that I’ve endured since being a child, but which happen less frequently these days, thankfully. I came to my senses within my unconscious state to realise that I was laying, looking upwards, under a foreign bed which was not the one that I’d fallen asleep in. My dream demon must have gathered that I’d clocked onto the fact that I was within another unwanted unreality, and tried to trick me into thinking otherwise, instantly warping me a level higher within a flicker of thought, so that I was now on top of that bed. This was no good now, as I knew I was being fucked with, and ever since my torturous three year plague of dark dreams from the ages of eighteen to twenty-one I’ve been well trained in escaping such occurrences, so my conscious mind fought back, trying to escape. Sometimes it’s easy and instant, other times extremely difficult and tiring, this time was in-between, but I knew I had to escape before things got bad. In these instances I usually know when to go with the flow, like when I have the ability to fly (my greatest ambition in life), am continuing a recent night out or conversation with friends, or about to fuck some magically manifested madame, there’s no pulling out of those ones. Literally. I fought the imposing control of my consciousness, but it wouldn’t release its’ grip, dragging me, limbs flailing across the bed where Sarah lay silently sleeping. With an almighty roar and one final whack, I was out. I immediately turned to Sarah, first in my role as protector, worried that I’d thumped her, but she was sound asleep, then secondly with the sadness of a scared child, saying “I just had another nightmare” and cuddling her back like a big baby.

I went back to dreamland, once again ‘seeing’ my old pal Shawn Grout, whom I haven’t actually seen for the best part of ten years, except for when I recently wrestled him on a bowling alley whilst reciting a poem of mine, in front of a baying crowd. This time we were staring down at a steep stairwell, trying to escape something or other, and I was trying to convince him to jump first, which he did. Before I could, I woke up and realised we’d slept in until 1pm. I was shattered. I decided to get out of bed so that I could finally get some rest, and we grabbed some lunch on the roof before meeting a slick looking rickshaw driver named Sam outside our disguised dive, who agreed to take us around all day for £4.
First stop on our fantastic voyage was the Hawa Mahal, a five-storey honeycombed sandstone structure within the walls of the pink city, which Maharaja Sawaj Pratap Singh built in 1799 so ladies of the royal household could witness the life and processions of the city. We climbed all the way to the peak, staring out of tiny shuttered windows, at the goings on all around us. There was a secret space where lovers’ names were scribed into an alcove, and I pulled out my trusty pen in order to add Sarah and I to the list.
Next on our route was the Water Palace, a magnificent lake with an enormous yellow brick palace sitting in the middle, only accessible by boat. We didn’t have a boat, just legs, so we jumped back on-board with our man Sam, who told us of a famous local guru who survives without food and drink, is psychic, and can read auras. I thought he was talking about a guru I had read about in the news, who claims he hasn’t eaten in over ten years, and when tested by doctors for thirty days proved that he could actually sustain himself with his mind power alone. I was adamant that we meet this guy, and since he was en-route it seemed our luck was in. Sam told us how he often has people queuing for his readings, and that he doesn’t charge, but is supported by his family’s jewellery store.

We arrived at a plush, richly fitted store, full of various jewels enclosed in glass cabinets. Taken into a side room we were introduced to a well fed looking fellow, wearing a smart, black and purple striped shirt, with thick black hair and deep dark eyes. I could tell upon instantly reading him (he ain’t the only one in-tune with their sixth sense) that he did indeed have some power, but also a negative side that I didn’t trust at all. He took Sarah in first giving her the spiel as I sat outside, then she came out, instantly breaking his rules by talking to me about what he’d said, before inviting me in.
I sat and removed my watch, then he placed a crystal in my hand which looked like a two ounce rock of MDMA, I was about to pull out my oyster card to shave a couple of lines off, when he told me to close my eyes and free my mind. After a few minutes he started to ‘read’ me, he said my aura was 90% yellow, which represents power (Power by name, power by nature) and 10 % black, I’d have probably guessed 60/40, so this was good news, although he said three of my chakras were blocked and that I needed to open them to make my life flow better. Asking if I have heart problems in my family, I replied ‘yes’ and he said that it will be passed to me. I quietly laughed, as it is my step-mother’s side of the family with those tragic problems, so unless she secretly gave birth to me I’m pretty sure we have different genes. He also spoke knowingly about how I’m always questioning myself and wondering who I am, which I also found laughable as I’ve never been more certain about those things as I have been since returning from America. I am Dion Power, I am The Freewheelin’ Troubadour, I am happy.

He came out with some other standard observations for example ‘Back problems?’ Yes, I’m tall. Breathe air? Eat food? You sometimes walk? You have a tendency to blink? Blah blah blah. I asked him how I can improve on my ninety-ten split, becoming 100% yellow like the Golden Sun God that I’m training to be, and he said that I had to spend at least £65 on some special healing stones, and that if I didn’t the bad things could develop up to 50% quicker now that I’d seen him, notable doctors, spiritualists and physicians all agreeing the stones are the only thing that works, and how I’d end up in the hospital. ‘No shit, fat man, that’s where everyone goes. Will there be sick people and doctors in said hospital, oh wise guru?’ I thanked him for his time, and said I’d rather get stoned than buy stones.
Sam our driver claimed to have spent more than 25,000 rupees on his stones, saying it helped him go from the street to owning his own rickshaw and two cars, but the fact he wasn’t wearing any didn’t really inspire belief in the commission collecting con these guys had going. I didn’t dig how he’d used his gift as a ‘prophet for profit’, instilling doubt into the lost instead of strength and love, and pitied weaker minded people that end up leaving his store with a bunch of rubbish stones and a new religion. He told me that I couldn’t share the information with anyone except family, and I told him that I’m a writer and that was a physical impossibility, the proof of which lies in this tasty pudding you’re chomping down on.

Sarah and I broke his ‘family only’ rules of discussion by exchanging notes on his reading, he’d told her she is 80% blue, which represents energy, and 20% white due to blockages, but she didn’t even enquire on the cost of rectifying her whiteness. Positive thought is what fixes problems, his jewels inspire that positive thought in his followers, but ours comes from the good people we know and meet, not those led by money and greed. He did mention arthritis in the family, which her mother suffers from, but she is a slim little chick-a-dee, so that would be a better guess than hereditary obesity. The thing is, when they hit a few things right it makes you question the unknown claims. She was slightly perturbed how he said that ‘No one man will ever be enough for you’ which, even though she’d never even considered in her previous relationships, still made her question ‘what if?’ I should have pulled down my pants and asked if he still thought the same. Haha.

We got to the Monkey Temple at Galtar, which I’d been really looking forward to, a fifteen minute climb up a mountain filled with wild, roaming monkeys, and flew a kite with a local kid, which ended up getting caught in a tree, dragged across the floor and torn due to his over-zealous retrieval attempts. He didn’t seem too bothered, but I stuck a drumstick lolly in his little gob and he ran off smiling. There were hundreds of mad little monkeys rolling around, fighting, feeding their young and screaming at us as we passed by peacefully, finally reaching the Surya Mandir (Temple of the Sun God) which overlooked Jaipur. I paid my respects at the shrine, leaving a few rupees. All Gods love money, dontchaknow. We watched the Sun set over the smog of the polluted city, then set down for a spliff at a secret spot on the mountain top, interrupted only by a rogue pig who was obviously after a few tokes.

On the way back Sam took us to meet Handsome, who ran a co-operative in Jaipur, producing a large number of handicrafts with over four-hundred and fifty workers whom he houses, feeds and pays. He was a really fun, good guy, and we knew within minutes that we’d be buying something from him, he was worth it just for his personality, let alone the work they were doing for their community. He brought us drinks and we sat and chatted a while about our similar philosophies on happiness and love for others. He was really happy in our company, and said that I have a powerful, glowing presence, which was probably amplified by having just watched the Sun set with a big jazz cigarette and my lover beside me. He said I was like a coconut, which I loved, as I always used to ask my barber to give me “the Beatles’ mop-top, crossed with a coconut” look, but he said it wasn’t my hair, it was because I was tough on the outside, but soft and sweet inside. I loved his definition even more. Sarah spent a while choosing some amazing patchwork bed covers before leaving Handsome happy with more money for his co-op, and us with more fine findings to lumber back to Britain.

I’d seen a Pizza Hut earlier, and was dying for some relatively risk free food after two weeks of dicing with death, so I first convinced Sarah, then Sam to drop us there for supper. I was happier than a pig in shit, eating that shit food like a pig, and it was our most expensive meal to date, but you can’t put a price on not having to worry about getting a stomach infection, because the chef didn’t wash his hands after wiping his arse with them, for once.

Satisfied, tired and feeling fat, we rolled home to end up where we had started. Bedlove.

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