THE ASHOKA CHRONICLES BOOK ONE

THE BUDDHA CONSPIRACY

A Novel

By

Alan Bassett

For Meerananda

Published by Alan Bassett at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 by Alan A. Bassett

Second Edition

United States of America

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Author's Preface

PROLOGUE: 2002 A.D.

PART ONE - A CABAL OF MYSTICS

CHAPTER I - JOURNEY TO THE EAST

CHAPTER II - DEVANANDA'S TALE

CHAPTER III - THE KINGDOM OF THE BLIND

CHAPTER IV - JASON'S JOURNAL

CHAPTER V - WAR AGAINST NATURE

CHAPTER VI - MYSTERIES, MYTHS, AND MALAS

CHAPTER VII - A FINGER POINTING TO THE MOON

CHAPTER VIII - A CROSSROADS OF PAST AND PRESENT

PART TWO - THE DARK RIDER

CHAPTER IX - REFLECTIONS OF DARKNESS AND LIGHT

CHAPTER X - RETURN TO MYANMAR

CHAPTER XI - THE TALE OF THE DARK RIDER

CHAPTER XII - THE GATHERING STORM

CHAPTER XIII - DEPARTURES OF A LOVER AND A FRIEND

PART THREE - ILLUMINATION

CHAPTER XIV - LIGHT FROM THE END OF THE TUNNEL

CHAPTER XV - DARK PASSAGES

CHAPTER XVI - A MAD MONK AND A MALA

CHAPTER XVII - THE WAY TO MOUNT MERU

CHAPTER XVIII - THE FIRST AND THE LAST ADEPT

CHAPTER XIX - STOPPING THE WHEEL

CHAPTER XX - A KEYHOLE THROUGH TIME

EPILOGUE - CLOUD HIDDEN, WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN

Acknowledgements

I extend my heartfelt gratitude and appreciation to those friends and loved ones who contributed their time, energy, and enthusiasm toward making The Ashoka Chronicles come to life:

Yolanda Gonzalez Ponce for her unwavering love and devotion to this project.

Jorge Arroyo Gonzalez for his generous technical support and enthusiastic reading of the texts.

Chaitanya Hanspeter Kindler for his insightful and constructive critique of the text.

Wanda Arroyo Gonzalez for contributing her amazing artistic talents in the creation of the cover designs.

Amir Jahanmast for his wizardry in graphic art production and web page design.

And my eternal gratefulness to Osho, who pulled this frog out of the well and showed him the Ocean.

Author's Preface

With mournful heart and anguished soul, I have fulfilled the promise I once made to my deceased friend Jason Hargreave by completing the writing of this book. For a time during its progress, I nourished the vain hope that I could alert the people of this planet to the coming catastrophe and thus inspire them to take the necessary measures to prevent the annihilation of our species. Now that the time of the Debacle is already upon us, I realize I have written not a prophecy but a history of the fateful demise of human existence.

I dedicate this work to the service of those courageous conspirators who have devoted their lives to raising the Phoenix from the ashes.

Arthur Asquith-Doyle

The Great Debacle

Dorset, England

December 19, 2012

PROLOGUE: 2002 A.D.

The helicopter landed on the desert plateau at 0400 hours. The five Blackwater mercenaries disembarked and scouted the rocky terrain of the hillside. They descended the slope until they had an unobstructed view of the solitary road that traversed an otherwise desolate landscape. The pale light of a setting quarter moon exposed a shadowy indentation along the rock face of the ridge. Colonel Dobbs led his men into the shallow cave, signaled them to set down their weapons, and gathered them into a close-knit circle. He slung the leather satchel off his shoulder and switched on his flashlight.

Looking around at the blackened faces, Dobbs observed the taut expressions of battle-hardened veterans accustomed to carrying out commands with absolute obedience and ruthless efficiency. You have been hand-picked for this assignment because you are the most highly trained and experienced men in our business, but be aware that this is not a routine search and destroy mission. The stakes are extremely high.

He paused to pass out the envelopes to each of the men. Your first installment of fifty one-thousand dollar bills. When our mission is accomplished, you will receive double that amount at the previously designated time and place. All of us have worked for Old Man Hargreave before, so we know he's good for fulfilling his end of the contract.

He reached into the satchel and pulled out a large photograph. "These two people are our targets. Their names are Jason and Jennifer Hargreave... that's right, the son of Sir Edward himself and his 'half-breed whore,' as the Old Man described her. Some time ago they were identified as members of a terrorist group operating here in northern India, a religious cult that possesses a weapon of incalculable destructive capabilities. We don't know the nature of this weapon; it may be a biocidal agent or a catalyst for spontaneous nuclear fission. What we do know is that it is a highly condensed, volatile substance contained in a silver and ivory box not much bigger than the size of your hand. Old Man Hargreave referred to it as Pandora's Box. According to him, if its contents are released into the atmosphere, it can have catastrophic consequences for the whole planet.

"Sir Edward commanded a British expedition that narrowly missed capturing the weapon in Kashmir thirty years ago, but it disappeared without a trace soon thereafter. The container resurfaced only recently, and the Old Man has good reason to believe that his son is now the carrier and is in all likelihood transporting it on his person. His trail was picked up when one of Hargreave's agents spotted the couple and their driver at a petrol pump in Delhi. At their next stop, one of our Indian operatives made contact with the driver, an Armenian by the name of Milo. He took the bribe and disclosed the route they were taking across the desert on their way to the mountains. They will be passing down the road below us within the next forty-five minutes.

"Here are your orders. Any deviation from the plan will cause you to forfeit your reward and perhaps your lives. You will take up your firing positions along the rocks adjacent to the road. You are to disable the car. Start by blowing out the tires. Under no circumstances are you to hit the cab or its occupants. When the car comes to a halt, dispatch the driver and grab the woman first. Her partner will be more pliable when he sees her in our custody. Do not make any attempt to seize Hargreave's son. The Old Man didn't know if he was crazy enough to be a suicide bomber, but he did say the woman is his weakness. Order him out of the car with his hands up. If he makes any move like he is going for the weapon, kill him.

Captain Benson spoke up. Do I understand correctly, Colonel, that we are under no obligation to take them alive? After all, we are talking about Sir Edward's son.

I asked the Old Man for clarification on that point. He confirmed that we are to take no prisoners. In his own words, he said, 'Your only objective is to capture the weapon. And for your information, Colonel, I have no son.'

After a moment of stony silence, Dobbs continued. I will order him to surrender the box. If he doesn't comply immediately, Benson, you and MacElroy will put a gun to the woman's head, strip off her clothes, and start having your way with her. If he's the possessive type, he may be willing to trade the weapon for the woman's life. If that fails, shoot them both in the head.

Almost as an afterthought, he added, By the way, the Old Man wants proof of the kill. We take photos of the dead bodies, and remove the right index finger from each corpse.

* * * * *

The pastel colors of dawn's first light unveiled a hazy skyline of Himalayan peaks by the time the distant headlamps appeared on the highway. Faint clicks interrupted the silence as the soldiers released the safeties on their rifles and took aim on the rapidly approaching vehicle. Firing in unison, they perforated the tires and hood of the car with hundreds of projectiles. The automobile screamed and lurched like a wounded animal, then flipped and rolled side over side until coming to a halt upside-down.

The driver jumped out of the passenger side door. At first shielded from the spray of bullets by the metal carcass of the vehicle, he darted behind a boulder, dove into a shallow ravine, and disappeared into the night. Forget the driver! shouted Dobbs. Approach and surround the car!

A rear door opened. The woman crawled out, attempted to rise, staggered, and fell. Benson grabbed her by the arms and forced her to stand. A man's voice called out, Colonel, the other target's not moving. I think he's dead. There was a pause. He's not breathing. He has no pulse. Shall I remove the body from the car, Sir?

The sound of a violent explosion ripped through the night, accompanied by a fireball of light and smoke on the ridge above them. It's the fucking helicopter! Dobbs shouted.

The woman twisted and broke free. Before Benson could react, she spun around, threw a fistful of sand in his eyes, and kicked him hard in the crotch. MacElroy throttled her from behind.

We don't need her anymore, growled Benson. Break her neck!

She felt her head jerk back, but she felt no pain. Blood was spurting down her chest. The soldier's grip loosened, then released. She whirled around to face her attackers. MacElroy's body was rigid, his face quivering, eyes bulging. The shaft of an arrow was lodged in his throat. He collapsed to his knees, the blood still spewing from his neck. She saw the other soldier aiming his pistol at her forehead. Another arrow struck, piercing Benson’s eye and splitting his skull. The gunshot whistled past her ear. A searing pain blurred her vision.

It’s a trap! Colonel Dobbs grabbed the two soldiers at his side and pulled them behind the car. Cover me! he ordered. The men commenced firing across the road but they saw no enemy movement on the hillside. Dobbs forced the rear door open and frantically rummaged through the dead man's clothes. He felt a solid rectangular object in the waist belt. He ripped it off the corpse and pulled the silver box out of the pouch. Got it! he shouted.

Within seconds his elation converted into fear. The rifles of his comrades had fallen silent. Gripping the box with both hands, Dobbs backed out of the car. Sensing someone behind him, he turned to defend himself, but too late as the swath of the sword cleaved through his wrists. Reeling in shock, he staggered forward, searching for his hands. A deep moaning cry erupted into a wailing scream. His shrieks of agony ceased when the second slash of the blade severed Dobbs' head from his torso.

A horseman wearing a black turban swept the woman off her feet. She struggled to free herself from his grasp, flailing her arms to no avail as the horse and rider circled the overturned vehicle. Looming out of the shadows, a band of twenty or more Arabs approached, some on horseback, others on foot. Her captor dropped her to the ground. Two of the warriors were taking a man's lifeless body from the car and laying it on the sand.

Leave him alone! Don't you dare touch him! she screamed. She ran, stumbled, then crawled to his side. Cradling his head in her arms and stroking his hair, she looked up at the men, her voice pleading in desperation. You don't understand! He's not dead! He's only unconscious! Jason, wake up! Show them you’re not... dead... Her voice trailed off into muffled sobs.

The chieftain spoke to his warriors in Arabic, then called out in English, Milo, come out and show yourself, you son of a sow!

Milo emerged from his hiding place. I am here, Master Ibrahim, but I have an account to settle! This woman has not yet paid me my taxi fare.

You will be paid in Hell unless you fetch me my prize at once. I've been reserving this honor for you as recompense for a job well done. Few are privileged to hold such magnificent power in the palms of their hands. The silver box is right over there.

Milo walked to the place indicated, halted, doubled over, and vomited. But Master, he protested, the box is in the clutches of a man's hands... just hands! Ah, my God, his body is here, his head is there, but the hands...

Ibrahim laughed, the growing light of dawn illuminating white teeth set in a broad face nearly as black as his turban. Yes, the man was a greedy bastard even in death. It is said that we all die with empty hands, and I can see no reason to make an exception in his case. Just pry the fingers off and do as I command.

Suddenly the woman sprang up and jumped on the little man's back. Clawing at his face, she cried, You betrayed us, you coward! Give me the buddha box or I'll tear your eyes out!

Ibrahim laughed even harder while two of his warriors pulled the woman off Milo and held her firmly in check. Shamed by the spectacle, Milo hung his head and brought the silver and ivory box to his leader, who wiped it clean of blood while admiring its intricate design. 'How strange that the fate of humanity should hinge on the contents of one small container,' he reflected as he tucked the box into the pocket of his robe.

Turning his attention to the captive, Ibrahim addressed the woman in a stern tone of voice. I admire your courage, Jennifer Hargreave, but I will brook no more trouble from you.

How do you know my name? she demanded. And who are you? Al Queda thieves and assassins? Well, I'm not afraid of you!

Fearless or not, I am afraid you are in much more dangerous company than any band of Al Queda fools. We are the Abraca-bin. My instructions are to deliver you and your husband, alive or dead, along with your treasure box, to the prophet Ali al Fatah Jazir. He will decide your fate and determine if it be short or long.

Her head swirling in a sea of words and images, Jennifer struggled to recall where she had heard these names before but failed to sort out the information and place it in any meaningful context. The throbbing in her temples was threatening to drown out her mental processes.

Ibrahim motioned for Apsara, the woman at his side, to step forward. Because we are not in the habit of taking prisoners, please consider yourself our guest. Allow me to present my second-in-command who will attend to you and your less troublesome husband. Don't let her feminine grace deceive you. She is a master of the martial arts with whom few men can compete, much less defeat. You and your man will ride with her in the wagon, if you don't mind following the south end of a north-bound camel. Kindly let her know how we can make your journey comfortable, just in case it be your last.

Jennifer was too weak and exhausted to resist. Every joint and muscle in her body ached, and her head was throbbing with pain. The adrenaline now spent, waves of grief and anguish swept through her while her heart made a silent plea to her lover. 'Jason, come back. I need you! You've come back from death before, a lifetime ago. You can do it again, I know you can. You promised never to leave me!'

Removing the shawl from her head and allowing the hair to fall to her shoulders, Apsara took her by the arm and led her toward the covered wagon hitched to a camel. Through the tears, Jennifer was surprised to see such a beautiful woman in the company of this band of cutthroats. Wondering why the ground was moving beneath her feet, she made a concentrated effort to keep her balance but her legs were not cooperating, and like a whirling child she swooned and toppled over.

Apsara caught her and eased her to the ground. Thirsty, so thirsty, Jennifer murmured. Eyes closed, she felt the canteen at her lips and drank deeply. While the world turned around her, a vague remembrance stirred in her fading consciousness. Her eyes lifted to gaze upon the woman's face again.

I know you, don't I? she whispered.

Apsara's countenance radiated a warm glow. Yes, sister. We are the most ancient of kin. Rest now. Jennifer responded with a weak smile before drifting into unconsciousness.

The arm supporting Jennifer's head grew slick with blood. Apsara pulled back her hair to examine the scalp. Ibrahim! She has a head wound. Not deep, but she has lost a lot of blood. Quickly, bring me the medical supplies and get her into the wagon. There’s no time to spare.

With practiced expertise, Apsara stemmed the bleeding, cleaned the wound with antiseptic, and wrapped a tight bandage around her head. She looked at Ibrahim with despair. She's burning up with fever. If we lose either one of them now, the Design may be doomed to failure.

Ibrahim cast a doleful glance at the two inert bodies in the cart. Use your healing arts as best you can, Apsara, and trust in a miracle. He is the Last Adept and there cannot be another. Although he shows no vital life signs, his body refuses to grow cold. I doubt you can revive him from the dead, but take special care for her, as a tribute to the memory of her mother. Bodhidharma's Retreat is twenty-four hours away. If they can survive that long, the prophet Ali-khan and Doctor Naroda will know what must be done.

Mounting his horse, he called to his warriors, Come, Abraca-bin! Turn the car upright and put the dead inside before lighting the funeral pyre. We leave no evidence of any conflict. We must depart at once if we are to reach Mount Nanda Devi by morrow's sunrise.

PART ONE

A CABAL OF MYSTICS

1985 – 2001

The entire planet will be plunged once again into the Dark Ages. The history of the coming years will inflict itself as an ugly mimicry of all that was before: crusaders and infidels, inquisitors and heretics, gods and devils, witches and priests. The only difference will lie in the scale of this enormous inferno of suffering and persecution, death and destruction.

Master Cheogh-tse

CHAPTER ONE

JOURNEY TO THE EAST

Why, I'd like nothing better than to achieve some bold adventure, worthy of our trip.

Aristophanes

A WEDDING OF FATED FORTUNES

As I watched the champagne bubbles rise and spill over the top of yet another glass, I became aware of a warm feeling arising and coursing through my veins. No doubt the alcohol was an influence, but there was an undeniable sense of rightness and well-being inherent in this particular event, a sentiment notably lacking in the same social milieu at all other times. It seemed to infuse the whole atmosphere of the celebration, lifting and lighting everyone up in a mysterious way. Taking place on the last day of the year 1996, this festive occasion in Bangkok appeared to be an auspicious introduction to the New Year.

This was a rather extraordinary couple who had taken their vows today and were now dancing into the night. Jason and Jennifer were radiant with a love in full flower, providing a glimmer of hope that this couple might attain to marital bliss where most other mortals had failed. He was the brilliant foreign correspondent and premier international news analyst, and she the diplomatic aide and translator for the powers that be in the whole of Southeast Asia. Not wishing to darken the ambiance of the celebration, I conveniently put aside the portents of doom regarding their destiny that I had envisioned nearly twelve years before.

Jason Hargreave was born a Canadian, the son of a British diplomat; he was a Rhodes scholar and the recipient of the most prestigious awards in the field of international journalism. Jennifer Sung was the exotic and alluring daughter of the former French ambassador to Thailand and his Thai courtesan. Her parents had for some years been the grist for the rumor mill at the embassy parties in Bangkok, especially following the scandal which precipitated her father's removal from office and her mother's retreat to a remote Buddhist monastery. But if you directly asked their closest associates what they really knew about Jason or Jennifer, they would find themselves at a loss to describe anything other than their career talents and work related assignments.

There was one characteristic Jason and Jennifer shared in common which was recognizable by nearly everyone. They had the peculiar ability to be highly visible and involved in their professional roles and yet remain socially aloof and protective of their personal privacy. This undoubtedly contributed to their mystique and charisma; and true to form, their matrimonial announcement came as a surprise to all. There were some who chose not to attend the fest; conspicuously absent were the closest relatives of the newlyweds. Not all of those who were present came to celebrate, some preferring instead to skulk about in the shadows of suspicion that surrounded the bride and groom.

While scanning the faces of those in the crowd, I detected a few vultures in their midst, the ambassadors from Myanmar, the People's Republic of China, and Iran to name only a few. Only slightly less obvious were those birds of prey from some of the European countries and the USA. They seemed to focus their radar on Jennifer more than Jason; but perhaps I was only imagining the malevolent vibrations emanating from those dignitaries, and so adjusted my perceptions of their intentions to a more mundane form of intrigue.

Like most social circles, the diplomatic scene depended upon at least a shred of fact upon which to weave the world of gossip that created and destroyed its own idols. The future would provide the crows and the crones with a few more bread crumbs of such facts, but even these would prove ephemeral as the story of this couple became more and more obscure, enshrouded in layer upon layer of mystery and subterfuge.

There were only two people present at the celebration who shared close personal ties with the newlyweds. Concerning Jason's best and most intimate friend Ramsay Kerrigan, much more will be told as the story unfolds. Suffice it to say he was not only a witness to but an integral player in the baffling series of events which were to provoke consequences of such epic proportions around the globe. That reduces the count to one.

Shall I presume to introduce myself at this point? I suppose it is an unavoidable necessity. My name is Sir Arthur Asquith-Doyle. Where and how do I come by such an aristocratic hyphenated name? I blame it on my forebears, who were rewarded by the Crown for their ruthless subjugation of Ireland with great estates and hereditary titles of nobility. Eschewing both the realms of the military and the political life that my ancestry required of me, I chose the only viable and respectable alternative: the refuge of the ivory tower of academia.

My status in the Department of Anthropological Studies at Oxford University was dubious and often called into question by some of my fossilized superiors. Many from my own department as well as other university bailiwicks protested against my iconoclastic research concerning the British colonial imposition of Christian ideology and morality into the Hindu and Buddhist cultures of Asia. They vociferously objected that I was overstepping the scholastic boundaries of cultural anthropology and recklessly gallivanting into the fields of political history and comparative religion where I had no right to dabble.

Few of them could find fault with my impeccable research, however, which cheerfully gave me the opportunity to make full use of my sabbatical leave to spend nearly half of each year living in South and Southeast Asia. As long as I converted my travels into professional publications of erudite scholarship, how could they possibly protest? My books received favorable reviews despite the controversy and debate they inevitably sparked among the latter day Victorians, who still reveled in the glory days of the British Empire and its antiquated system of values.

It was from my lecturer's podium at Oxford where I first made my acquaintance with Jason, who attracted my attention with a peculiar type of brilliance arising from a fire in the belly. Perhaps I recognized a younger version of myself in the lad, though what it was that induced him to choose me as his mentor, I cannot say. If I had then known where our association was to lead, I might have fled my esteemed chair at the university and taken sanctuary in the nearest monastery.

In the early autumn of 1985, just prior to leaving for my next excursion to the East, I received an unexpected visit from young Jason. He put forth a proposal I could never have anticipated: he wished to accompany me on my journey so as to receive a first-hand exposure to the cultures and religions of India and Southeast Asia. He informed me he had already obtained the reluctant approval of the Chancellor, who granted him permission to complete his final semester and examinations upon his return.

This was not an easy decision for me to make, for I was accustomed to traveling alone, unimpeded by the whims and desires of others, and I was resistant to compromising my freedom of action in the slightest degree or circumstance. I paused, allowing myself some moments to study Jason's features and take stock of his merits and motivations. My impressions of him were limited to the confines of the classroom and the lecture hall, so I had to rely on my intuition to fill in the gaps of what I didn't know about him.

He was a curious combination of opposites. From his physical attributes, he looked like a fine artist who often took leave of his studio to delight in the rigors of football competition. His facial features were strong yet finely sculpted, highlighted by blue-green eyes exhibiting the intensity of a man searching for something indefinable and confident of finding it. His auburn hair was long by current standards, giving the impression of a nonconformist who was disdainful of popular styles and modes of thought. The young ladies seemed to find him quite attractive and charming, and the more so for his fierce sense of independence tempered by a youthful shyness.

I had long observed that this young man had an itch that could not be scratched, and I suspected what might be at the bottom of it. His father's reputation in the diplomatic world cast a shadow over his future, and he carried the burden of paternal expectations that he don the already tailor-made suit. I accepted Jason's proposal despite my reservations. There was a mysterious, oddly familiar something about him hovering in the back of my mind, and I had the uncanny sensation that our destinies were inescapably intertwined.

I had been introduced to his father, the Right Honorable Edward Hargreave, near about ten years earlier at a London dinner party for notables of different stripes. He was an imposing figure of medium height and stocky, muscular build. The thick handlebar moustache was complemented by bushy eyebrows shading his penetrating black eyes. My first impression, which I have unfailingly found to be far less fallible than any Pope, was that I was observing a ruthless predator whose only satisfaction derived from being a power broker in the arena of international politics.

As I watched him weave among clusters of various personages and blend into their conversations, he appeared to shift roles and personalities with a practiced ease that was almost frightening. Clearly this man was not one to be trifled with or crossed, and I wondered if there was a single sincere or authentic bone beneath his chameleon-like skin.

My curiosity was piqued to the point where I did an inquiry into Sir Hargreave's background. Born in Cornwall, England, his family emigrated to Vancouver, Canada when he was four years old. After graduating with honors from the University of Toronto, he distinguished himself in combat as a pilot in the Royal Air Force during the Korean conflict and then went on to study international relations at Cambridge.

His rise in the ranks of the British diplomatic corps was nothing short of meteoric, and his career was marked by his instinct for always being involved at the flash points of international conflict. He became an ex-officio advisor of Cabinet members, and he often exerted a powerful influence on Britain's policies in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia. The Queen named him a knight of the realm for his services in negotiating a peace settlement in the war-torn Middle East.

Sir Edward's hawkish position on the far right wing of British politics began to lose him favor with friends in high places in the aftermath of Margaret Thatcher's war in the Falkland Islands. Some attributed the decline of his career to Hargreave's curious obsession with a preposterous theory claiming that a Buddhist cult in India possessed a secret weapon of unimaginable power and destructive capabilities.

After suffering a near fatal heart attack in 1983, he retired to the task of publishing vitriolic books accosting various governments for being soft on the Soviet Union. Hargreave's later publications took on overtones of religious and racial bigotry, warning the Christian world to prepare for war against the demons of Islam and the Chinese empire of atheism. In his view of international politics, another global war was inevitable and the victor would determine the next one thousand years of world civilization.

The most glaring inconsistency in Sir Edward's political ideology was his unrelenting attack on France, accusing that country of colluding with the enemies of the Western alliance. His Francophobia was baffling because his wife belonged to a prominent family in French politics, although she was born and raised in Montreal. Her untimely and tragic death when Jason was eighteen years old was rumored to be suicide, perhaps the result of her husband's scandalous series of affairs that centered on the wives and daughters of government ministers.

I never presumed to inquire into Jason's own experience of his family history and relationships. I sensed that it was a dark subject he preferred to keep buried in his innermost sanctum. It was clear to me that father and son were polar opposites, and that Jason must have inherited his sensitive and idealistic nature from his mother. I completely understood what it was like to be the only son of a dominating father, and I took up his cause for independence as I had once done for myself. I also regarded his idealism concerning humanitarian causes as a good antidote for my own skepticism regarding the fate of humanity in a world that I perceived as terminally deteriorating.

This particular journey would take us first to India and then to the north of Burma (now Myanmar) to explore the cultures of the numerous hill tribes that had migrated from Tibet, China, and Laos centuries ago. Under the pressure and persecution of the government, these thousands of years old ethnic groups appeared to be destined for extinction.

The expedition to Myanmar promised to open a new chapter in the life of my young companion. Jason's fateful return to this troubled land many years later was also to mark his closing chapter, which entailed his tragic decline and ultimate exit from this life. In retrospect, I have often taken pause to wonder if the fates might have been kinder to him had I rejected his offer to accompany me on this journey.

GATEWAY TO INDIA

It must be so for every Westerner, upon first entering the Asian world, that the immediate and indelible impression is a feeling of horrified fascination. The sights, sounds, and smells batter the senses with alien life forms and customs, threatening any preconceived notions of normality. Nothing can prepare one for the culture shock, despite all the television documentaries and books which have attempted to describe the East to the West. Our first stop was Bombay and our British Airways flight deposited us in this alternate reality at two-thirty in the morning.

Groggy with jet lag, we stepped out of the airport and were immediately assaulted by the unforgettable smell. A heady aroma of sewage, decay, and putrefaction intermingled with the fragrance of incense and flowers. Twenty porters competed and fought for our luggage, while an equal number of taxi drivers nearly created a riot to determine who would claim our business.

In the midst of this cacophony and chaos, I saw Jason raise his eyes toward the opposite side of the arrivals causeway. A fair representation of the teeming masses of the Indian population stood behind a cordon, staring at us as though we were extraterrestrials. Their faces and general demeanor reflected the extreme poverty, disease, malnutrition, and despair of a people who accepted these things as their given lot in life.

We took refuge in a taxi and sped off toward our hotel. I neglected to tell Jason to keep his window rolled up. When the cab came to a halt at a red light in downtown Bombay, gaunt, emaciated figures loomed out of the darkness. Bony arms, hands, and fingers thrust their way into the back seat of the cab, grasping and clutching for rupees with frenzied desperation. At the first opportunity, our driver accelerated, practically dragging some of the bodies in the wake of the car. Predictably, Jason was frozen in the corner of the back seat, struggling to regain some semblance of composure. Welcome to how the other half lives, I said, not finding any other appropriate response to the situation.

When we arrived at the Taj Hotel, we were tired but not at all sleepy. We decided to take an early breakfast at 4:30, after which I ventured to invite my companion for a tour of the city at sunrise. Jason was game for more shocks and jolts that would initiate him into the wonders and horrors of Asian life. I opted for the total immersion experience and arranged for a motorbike rental. Jason exited the hotel to the rhythmic 'wub,wub,wub' sound of the 1000cc Enfield engine. This was Britain's greatest contribution to Indian culture, I explained, and the only machine comparable to it in the West is the Harley-Davidson, which is many times the price, of course.

Jason was stupefied. I had no idea you drove motorcycles! he exclaimed.

There are many things about me which you are only beginning to discover, my good man. Let me make it clear to you from the very beginning that my real life happens in the Orient. The remainder of my life in England I have come to describe as the Occidental accident, although I suppose the one hand must feed the other. If I had to remain in the British Isles all year around, I would die of boredom, claustrophobia, and constipation. I do confess, however, that I miss the scotch and the brandy at times. Take my word for it, old chap: if you truly want to experience life fully and freely, you must first transcend the circumstances of your birth and escape the collective prison of your native culture. I was shouting now as the motor chariot picked up speed and transported us into the awakening energy of the Bombay streets.

It is impossible to understand the true meaning of the words slum, poverty, starvation, disfigurement, disease, overpopulation, pollution, and decay until one undertakes an unadulterated tour of India's largest urban centers. The devastating impact on the Western mind usually provokes an urgent desire to escape at all costs. One must pass through the preliminary stages of revulsion and dare to linger for a while, lest the mystifying beauty and grace emanating from the spiritual heart of the world's oldest civilization be missed.

I claim the absolute authority to make such a statement, because my only religion has ever and always been an unabashed dedication to hedonism and materialism. Even the most ardent agnostic, however, must acknowledge something sublime in the midst of such monstrously horrendous human conditions. The Great Wheel of Life and Death grinds inexorably onward right before one's very eyes, ruthlessly disclosing all facets of human and animal existence and shamelessly hiding nothing; and yet, everywhere there is an ineluctable fragrance of a divine presence gracing this land, hinting at a mysterious cosmos underlying the convincing illusion of chaos.

I swerved my mechanical steed to one side to avoid colliding with a cow that was wandering aimlessly in the middle of the congested street. So how do you like Bombay so far? I loudly