The Patron Saint of the Himalayas

By Erica Woods

For as long as he can remember, Dr. Jerry Reidel has heard, listened to and felt comforted by the foreign voice in his head. When he discovers that “the foreigner” is speaking to him in Hindi, he decides to do all he can to figure out why the Hindi voice has chosen him. Jerry believes he's come a long way toward and understanding why the voice is in his head, until he experiences his first "glimpse". He realizes he's in way over his head and seeks the counsel of his colleague, the free-spirited “queen of metaphysics”, Dr. Miranda Madras. Jerry tells Dr. Madras that his only wish is to spend time face-to-face with Drakali-anu, also known as The Patron Saint of the Himalayas.

With her guidance, support and wisdom, Jerry begins to walk the path that will lead him to the Hindi voice of wisdom inside him. However, before he can spend quality time with his inner-Hindi, he must take several journeys - around the globe, into the spirit world and deep into the mountain cave of his own soul. As he journeys, he learns myriad lessons about his personal history, his spiritual beliefs and how and why he walks in the world.

Lies are dispelled, the illusion of control is released and healing is found within the pages of The Patron Saint of the Himalayas.

Enjoy the ride!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Erica Woods
• Release date: Mar 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781370450480

Book preview

Prologue

For as long as Jerry could remember, there had been a voice inside his head, speaking to him in a language he did not think he should understand.

He remembered trying to explain it to his mother when he was a child, after the voice had told him not to take the bus home one snowy afternoon. However, although Mrs. Reidel had a general (albeit twisted) understanding of, and belief in, the metaphysical and followed her own intuition to the letter, she had only looked at him perplexed through her tears when he had said, in his then child’s voice, The foreigner told me to walk home today.

That was the day the gas truck’s driver had had a heart attack in his truck and crashed into the school bus. There were no survivors except for Jerry and his friend, Josh, who always followed Jerry’s lead.

He could remember dozens of occasions when the foreigner had spoken to him, instructing him in one way or another to do (or not do) this or that. He always listened – not because he was an obedient child who liked to avoid trouble. No, that was not the case, as his mother’s many trips to the ER for a broken leg, a sprained wrist, or however many concussions clearly confirmed. He listened because there was something about the voice, some …he hesitated to even think it …some wisdom the voice seemed to convey that seemed to render him helpless to do anything but listen. It was as if the foreign tongue demanded all of his attention and would, on no uncertain terms, take no for an answer.

So he listened – and each time his life was spared where others perished.

He remembered, as if it was happening now, the first time he had heard the foreigner’s language outside his head.

He was applying to colleges, and while his mother had always been contented right there in Moscow and had gone to UI herself (that is where she’d met his father. He loved to travel, mom did not – a simple case of opposites attracting), she insisted that the local university was not nearly good enough for her only son.

That was how he first found himself in Los Angeles, California. He was sure his mother had spent her entire savings on the trip, but she wouldn’t hear a word about it. He was to see all of the big colleges in the big city and pick one to go to, she told him, as if there was no application process, as if it was as simple as saying, I think I’ll go here. Jerry loved his mother in spite of her inability to understand how the world works.

They were walking through Westwood – a college town as big, it seemed to Jerry then, as the entire state of Idaho – when it happened. Four dark-skinned guys about his age, with short, straight black hair and similar features, were walking up the street with an older man and woman. They were dressed very much like Jerry - jeans, t-shirts and tennis shoes with various logos on them - nothing special, right. It was the older couple that had caught Jerry’s eye. They seemed familiar to him in a way that felt totally foreign. The man’s outfit was simple enough. He wore a forest green shirt so long it could have been a dress. The collar, sleeves and cuffs all had the same design, stitched in white for a brilliant contrast. He also wore gold-colored slippers with a slightly curved-up toe. The woman looked like one of those ‘alien queens offa ‘Star Trek’ or something’ Jerry thought. She seemed to be wrapped from head to toe in layer upon layer of soft pale yellow fabric – as if she’d been spun into it at the waist and then had it draped over her shoulder for the finishing touch. The fabric had traces of jewels scattered on it in a simple, consistent pattern that looked, to Jerry, like something worn by royalty. He found himself walking faster to get closer to them so he could see their faces. His mother hung back a bit, clearly overwhelmed by, if not out-and-out afraid of, the strangers in front of and all around her.

When they arrived at the stoplight, the elder woman spoke a quick, lyrical sounding sentence in a deep, soothing voice. Jerry looked at her round brown face as if he had just seen his own ghost. He felt overwhelmed by the sensation of hearing her speak – he felt excited and afraid in the same instant, and confused in a way that he didn’t even believe was possible. Marsha Reidel arrived at the corner in time to watch her only child’s eyes turn up into his head. For the first time in his young life, Jerry had fainted.

He awoke 15 or 20 minutes later in UCLA’s Emergency Room. He couldn’t remember what had happened or figure out why he was there. He was afraid he’d open his eyes and find that some mad scientist was turning him into one of those alien/human hybrids, like those guys did on The X-Files (his mother didn’t know he watched – had called it ‘devil’s work’, in fact, and forbade it – so he and Josh taped every episode and watched while their mothers did their weekly church service on Tuesday nights). What Jerry saw when he opened his eyes was actually much more disturbing.

It seemed he had brought the entire street corner to the hospital with him. There, in a chair beside the bed, his mother sat crying so hard her make-up looked like it had been done up by Alice Cooper. Kneeling beside her, offering water and caressing her knee, was the woman from the corner – the Queen. On the other side of the chair stood one of the boys, looking one part worried and two parts annoyed. Scattered around the small room were the rest of the dark people – the family – that had interested him so thoroughly only moments before.

The memory flooded into him with a quickness that made him gasp. He had time to wonder if one could drown in one’s memories before he felt light-headed again.

His gasp caught everyone’s attention and the Queen spoke simultaneously with Mrs. Reidel. They seemed to say the same thing with and in different tongues, Thank God he’s awake. (Although had Jerry been listening closely, he would have heard that the Queen had actually said, Thank the Gods, he’s awake.).

Jerry’s mouth dropped open again. One of the boys spoke in the same completely foreign-familiar language that Jerry had, until half an hour ago, believed existed only in his head. The entire family smiled and nodded agreement. Jerry tried to speak, to agree and disagree, for what the boy had said was true but not altogether accurate, First time away from home, he’s scared of foreigners. I think he believes we mean to eat him. Jerry understood him, had heard all these words before in his head. He bit his lip to try to keep the gray from overtaking him again.

His mother took his trembling hand in hers and asked, Are you all right, son?

In response, Jerry looked at the guy nearest his bed and asked, in a voice that was barely more than a feather, What language is that? Where are you from and what language is that you speak?

Taken only slightly aback, the young man responded in heavily accented English, Hindi. We came from Himachal Pradesh, near the Himalayan Mountains in India. We speak Hindi.

Before anyone could think to say anything else, Jerry had fainted anew.

*******

That was 15 years ago.

Jerry’s mother decided she had made a terrible mistake and that Jerry would be better off attending a university in Idaho. In fact, Mrs. Marsha Reidel was so effected by her time in California that she never left Moscow, Idaho again (except for those occasional trips into Boise for something special and to attend both of Jerry’s graduation ceremonies – one close by at LCSC and the other – have mercy – in Malibu, California, where Jerry had gone to get his Masters in Psychology at Pepperdine. Because she’d been such a wreck that entire trip, Jerry sent her a video of the Ph.D. ceremony a couple of years later).

Jerry, however, had become fascinated not only with India and her many cultures, but with concepts in life, the after-life and reincarnation. He became determined to understand why he had been hearing and understanding the Hindi voice that had been speaking to him his entire life.

Of course, as an American male in Idaho, Jerry felt it best to keep all of this to himself. He had mentioned it to Josh once after watching their weekly dose of the X-Files. Josh had laughed, telling him it was probably the ‘black ooze’ taking over and that he would call Mulder and Scully immediately.

Malibu, California however, was a whole ‘nother story. While Jerry worked on his degrees at Pepperdine University, he underwent past-life regression therapy, studied four different types of yoga in an attempt to quiet his mind enough to really tap into his inner-Hindi, read everything he could get his hands on about India, reincarnation, people who heard voices, and past-life experiences (in Moscow, Idaho, that had equaled three books). He even tried sleeping in one of those sensory-deprivation tanks for a month (and still has a shriveled toe to prove it) and exclusively dating Indian women for a few years. This last caused him much heartache because, although he is certainly possessed of an inner-Hindi, it is trapped deeply inside of Jerry’s outer-white-boy. A very nice-looking, tall-light-and-handsome outer-white-boy one ex-girlfriend had described as a young Harrison Ford meets a younger Chris Cornell. When Jerry looked perplexed, she went on to say, you’ve got a bit of that really sweet, misunderstood, rebel nice guy thing, like Hans Solo, but also a touch of that high-cheek-boned, short haired ‘watch out I’mma rock star’ thing that’s totally Cornell. Really easy on the eyes, but not just your average small town cutie, ya know. That said, he was still too white, and too American, for any respectable Indian woman to take home to her parents.

Of course, all of his attempts were to no avail. He continued to hear the Hindi voice, more now it seemed, but somehow the foreigner managed to elude the therapist and refused to spend even a moment in the sensory-deprivation tank. The foreigner refused to share with anyone other than Jerry. He gave up on everything except yoga, much to his mother’s chagrin, it’s devil’s work, Jerry, I tell you, she said every time they spoke. Jerry enjoyed yoga – especially Hatha yoga – he felt it brought him inner-peace and outer strength. It felt right. He practiced yoga at least three times a week and rarely missed Danny’s Sunday morning class at Yoga Dreams in Santa Monica. He claimed the class helped him to clear out last week’s junk.

ONE

…or today, Sunday, March 12, 2006

Chapter 1

Jerry wasn’t surprised to find that the first time he caught a ‘glimpse’ was during savasana – the few moments of complete release and stillness at the end of each yoga class. In fact, he was comforted. There was no safer place for Jerry than on his mat in the asana room of the local yoga studio.

It happened just as the teacher – an incredibly cool, completely egoless, super tuned-in east-coaster called Danny – said in his ultra-soothing voice, Take this moment to completely let go … that was all Jerry heard.

He was standing at the edge of a small village, looking down into it from the top of a hill. He worried that he might be too late, but felt he must press forward anyway. He walked down a dirt road, not quite briskly but certainly with purpose, toward a tree in the center of the town. The tree was like nothing Jerry had ever seen but somehow he knew it was called a Bodhi tree and that she was in it. He arrived just in time to catch a beautiful young girl, no more than 8-years-old, as she fell out of the tree into his arms. Jerry gasped and sat up, arms outstretched and eyes wide open. He found himself in the asana room once again, being smiled at knowingly by the teacher. Jerry smiled back sheepishly and laid down, pretending a calm he most certainly did not feel.

After class, he took a quick shower and practically ran to his car. He sat in the yoga studio parking lot frantically writing the entire account in his journal, making sure to include every detail – every color, every smell. He even remembered to write that he’d not been wearing shoes on his dark feet and that his thoughts had been in Hindi, but in a different voice from the one he usually heard in his head.

He placed his journal on the passengers’ seat of his Silver BMW Z4 and raced down Pacific Coast Highway toward Pepperdine hoping to find Miranda.

He found her sipping tea in a chair near an ocean-facing window at the Starbuck’s just off campus reading a book called – and Jerry had to look twice to believe the title – Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas. He wondered what that could possibly be about for about half a second before he pulled it out of Miranda’s hands and thrust his journal in its place.

Well good day to you too, Dr. Reidel. Miranda said dryly thinking, ‘YUCK! Why does he always believe his shit is more important than everybody else’s?’ she answered herself silently, ‘privilege, I suppose.’ She glanced at Jerry’s journal, then back at her book.

She was clearly more interested in her book so Jerry spoke up, Please Miranda! I know it’s Sunday and that you don’t like to be bothered with anything that remotely resembles work on Sundays, but please! Something just happened to me at yoga and I need your help to figure it out. I’ll buy you a piece of your favorite lemon cake. Please.

She shook her head smiling, "You’re always trying to buy somebody, Jerry. No thanks on the cake, dude. I can buy my own. It never ceases to amaze me that you can, in the same breath, tell me you know I don’t like to work on Sundays, and then tell me you don’t care because you need help. It’s as if I should feel honored to be giving up my Sunday and my hysterically funny fiction for you. I’m starting to wish I’d never turned you on to yoga anyway."

She paused to look at her book once more and took a sip of her tea. Jerry knew Miranda well enough to know that the next few words out of his mouth had better be sweet and, moreover, had better be convincing, or he’d be catching Miranda during her office hours on Tuesday. Miranda come on, you know better. You’re the smartest person I know and you get this metaphysics stuff in a way that’s simply uncanny, really. I’m the one who’s honored – not the other way around. I come pleading for your wisdom, Dr. Madras, please say you’ll help me.

Jerry suppressed an exclamatory YES! as Miranda smiled out of the corner of her mouth and picked up his journal, shaking her head all the while, OK stop begging, angel, it really doesn’t become you. Go get yourself a salad or something, you’re looking a little malnourished.

While Jerry stood in the line behind four or five java junkies and tea hippies, a young man walked up behind him and asked, Is that your girlfriend?

Jerry hadn’t realized he was watching Miranda read his journal, Um, no. We work together. He said as he focused in on the guy, who couldn’t have been more than 18 or 20.

She’s hot. He said.

She could be your mother. Jerry responded with a stern look on his face. ‘Although,’ he thought, ‘looking at her you’d never know it.’ At 41, Miranda looked no older than 28. And the kid was right, she was quite beautiful – high cheekbones, hazel eyes and full lips all framed in a caramel colored, oval-shaped face that was complimented further by her shapely little yoga chick body.

She’s still hot. The young man said defiantly.

Yeah, OK. Jerry nodded and then thought, ‘yeah, but she’s so much more than just hot –doctor, teacher, yogi, mother…and somehow she still finds time to relax, sip tea and read fiction on a Sunday afternoon’. Looking at her again, he realized she was also the most open, humble, easy-going woman he had ever met. Jerry knew about a dozen men who had crushes on her – one professor even called her his Nubian Queen …and yeah, Jerry guessed she was that too. Rumor had it she was very much involved with some famous actor. She never talked about him, but everyone had seen them on television, arm-in-arm at various movie openings and award shows.

Add to all of that that she seemed to have a seventh sense with regard to all things related to the psyche, metaphysics and spirituality, and Dr. Miranda Madras truly became what her students were wont to call her – The Bomb. She would humbly smile at all of the accolades thrown her way and keep moving, insisting when asked, that she simply is and not letting any of it go to her head.

Jerry had to admit, as he ordered, a chicken salad and a water, please, at a coffee house, that he felt safer and more comfortable with Miranda than he did with anyone else. He even felt safer with her than he did on his yoga mat …and that was something.

When he returned to the table, Miranda was again reading the Pajamas book, smiling from ear-to-ear and shaking her head. When Jerry sat down across from her she marked the book and set it down laughing, "I just love Tom Robbins – he’s a laugh riot. I read this in my mid 20’s and laughed aloud, but now that I’m a little older I’m seeing all the subtleties, his twisted nuances and silly life-lessons