Ashes from the Elephant God

By Vijaya Schartz

To scatter her brother's ashes over the Narmada River, Fabienne leaves France for the mysterious India of her childhood dreams. As she awakens to a newfound spirituality, unexpected visions of a former life during the Raj stir ancient yearnings for a long lost passion. Mukunda, the palace architect Fabienne loved a century and a half ago, lives again as an American engineer and works on the local dam project.

As Fabienne falls in love again with India and the man of her destiny, the tapestry of her previous life unfolds. But, in the karmic land of the blue gods, a ruthless foe lies in wait. The Kali worshiper, who murdered the two lovers in a faraway past, has come back through the centuries to thwart their dream once more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Feb 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9780228600862

Vijaya Schartz

Award-winning author Vijaya Schartz never conformed to anything and could never refuse a challenge. She likes action and exotic settings, in life and on the page. She traveled the world and claims she comes from the future. Her books collected many five-star reviews and literary awards. She makes you believe you lived these extraordinary adventures among her characters. So, go ahead, dare to experience the magic, and she will keep you entranced, turning the pages until the last line. Find more about Vijaya and her books at http://www.vijayaschartz.com

Book preview

Ashes For The Elephant God

By Vijaya Schartz

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-0086-2

Kindle 978-0-2286-0088-6

PDF 978-0-2286-0087-9

Amazon Print 978-0-2286-0090-9

Copyright 2010 by Vijaya Schartz

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book

For the reader's benefit, a glossary of Indian words used in this novel is available at the end of the book.

Prologue

Ganeshpur, India, 1849

Mukunda! Mukunda!

The flames devouring the jungle muffled Lakshmi’s desperate call. She squinted through the smoke. The messenger said her beloved would be waiting by the hot springs, so where was he?

Gasping, Lakshmi steadied herself with a bloody hand against the bark of a tall banyan. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, then raised her veil to cover nose and mouth. Black clouds from the blazing jungle dirtied the blue sky of May. Coconut trees, palms, sugarcane, papaya trees and banana stalks steamed and cracked ominously under the assault of the fire.

In the mounting heat, Lakshmi hitched up the red cotton sari to run, but in which direction? Down, toward the river. In her flight, strands of black hair escaped the veil, threatening to ignite at any flying spark.

Lakshmi cried out when she stumbled. Catching herself she paused, hand on her chest. A tiger! She held her breath, while the feline rushed by silently, intent on its own escape. Beneath the girl's bare feet, the jungle ground slithered with cobras, huge rats, and burrowing insects. Overhead, birds and monkeys shrieked frantic warnings as they fled. A dark crocodile shot out of a thicket. Lakshmi gasped, but the ancient beast disappeared into the underbrush. The river should flow near, but where? The pounding roar of blood rushing through her veins covered even the sound of the inferno.

Lord Ganesh, Elephant God, do with me as you please, but keep Mukunda safe!

The stink and loud trumpeting of elephants gave the girl hope. Hunters! They’d know the way out. Relief washed over Lakshmi. I’m so grateful for your help, Lord Ganesh, but please, save the man I love. Panting, the girl labored in the direction of the sound. Thorny branches snagged her sari and scratched the creamy skin of her belly, but she kept running. When she reached the clearing, half naked slaves shouted as they gathered the Rajah's herd, jerking the animals' heavy chains.

Help me! Lakshmi managed to yell between gasps.

Perched atop the largest elephant, the master mahout stared at her from under a turban. A dangerous smile lit up his face. Lakshmi felt her legs dissolve when she recognized the huge garnet on the man's chest. He worshiped Kali The Black with the Rajah's daughter and her murderous priests.

Spurring the big bull forward, the mahout barked an order. The old elephant trumpeted in response, answered by his herd. Within seconds, the ground shook. Saplings shattered under the charge of the pachyderms. Bellows filled the air as the herd stampeded, tearing the burning jungle asunder.

Fear constricting her throat, Lakshmi turned to run. Her foot caught on a banyan root. Mukunda! she called as she fell.

Lakshmi couldn't move. Lying in black mud, she looked up and saw branches crashing down in flames. Suddenly, the wide foot of an elephant blocked the gray light and descended on her face, silencing a scream.

Chapter One

Paris, France,1996

I beg you, God, if you exist, don’t let my brother die!

Blurry-eyed, I held onto the metal bar of the Gurney to keep my balance as the ambulance sped through the narrow streets of the twelfth arrondissement, sirens blaring. I shoved aside the shoulder strap of my purse to take Jean François' clammy hand. In my brother's pale face, the once blue eyes had turned steely gray. Dark bruises marked the deep sockets under the breathing mask, and lesions marred the skin, but the shadow of a smile lingered on the thin lips. With long black curls framing a gentle face, the teenager looked like a dying angel.

Can't you go faster? I urged the driver, unwilling to give up.

On the other side of the Gurney, the medic checked Jean-François' vital signs, adjusted the IV then slumped his shoulders with a frustrated sigh. Through the blur of a December drizzle reflecting my gloom, sidewalk cafés with red awnings, brightly lit bakeries, old fashioned butcher shops and green-crossed pharmacies slid by the window. Baguette in hand, passers-by hurried home after work, paying scant attention to the blaring emergency vehicle. Inside the ambulance, the smell of ether and rubbing alcohol threatened to make me sick.

Jean-François squeezed my hand. Fabienne, he called, his voice muffled by the apparatus.

Yes, little brother, I'm here. Wiping off the sting of mascara tears, I leaned closer and strained to hear him over the sirens.

Jean-François pulled off the breathing mask. The medic tried to set it back on, but my brother shook his head feebly. When the man looked at me, I nodded.

Don't be sad when I cross over. During the last scare, I saw the other side. I know... I saw them.

My throat constricted. Who did you see?

Mom and Dad. They're waiting for me... I'll be fine... He gave my hand another squeeze. I'll give them your love.

Don't talk like that, Jean-François. You have to hang on. My heart went out to him. They'll find a cure any day now. I looked away in shame. Most likely, he would not last the night. You know I don't believe in that spiritual mumbo jumbo anymore.

But you're wrong, Fabienne. He breathed in short gasps. There's something I want you to do for me.

You can ask me anything. I forced a smile, swallowing back a sob.

Go to the meditation center I used to go to... The washed out eyes beseeched me.

What for? My voice cracked.

To pick up something I left it in their care. The labored words reached me through a haze of grief.

Sure! I fished a Kleenex from my purse and dabbed at my eyes and nose. What is it?

My will. Steady eyes held mine, unwavering despite the weakness of the body. I know it's unusual in our country, but I want to be cremated.

I bit my lips. Don't talk like that, Jean-François.

After my death...

Shush. I laid a finger across his lips. You aren't going to die.

He offered me a strained smile. Yes I am, Fabienne, and you know it. After my death, I'll give you a sign before my spirit flies away.

What sign? Defeated, I played his game one last time.

I'll come back to change your life forever. The love in his eyes broke my heart.

You do that, little brother, and I swear I'll change my mind. I could barely dam a deluge of tears when the ambulance pulled into the emergency lane of Saint-Antoine's Hospital.

That night, my seventeen-year-old brother, Jean François, my only relative since our parents' death in a car accident three years earlier, died of AIDS.

* * *

A few of Jean-François’ gay friends, the next door neighbors, and my friend Kristelle attended the simple ceremony at the crematorium. In the days that followed, I immersed myself in my acting career. I used the grief during rehearsals to deepen my understanding of the character, for a new play scheduled to start at the Theatre Edward-VII before Christmas.

Three exhausting weeks passed before I found the courage to open my brother's bedroom door. Followed by Sasha, the Siamese cat, I entered the room with a heavy heart. Through the second floor apartment window, the timid Sunday morning sun played in the naked branches of the plane trees, projecting gray shadows on the white lace curtain. Sasha leapt to the windowsill then sat, looking out. The happy screech of a child's laugh punctuated by a crescendo of church bells filtered through the thin windowpanes.

I jumped at my reflection in the silver framed mirror. Jean-François and I looked so much alike, with startling blue eyes and black curly hair, except that his face had been more delicate. Mine betrayed my tomboy ways. A grown woman of twenty-six, I still scared men with my blunt comments, direct approach, and no nonsense attitude. Despite countless dates, I hadn't yet found a man strong enough to want a meaningful relationship with me.

My fingers brushed the silver locket on my throat. It contained Jean François' picture. My brother’s needs had filled my emotional life. Now I felt empty, spent. Life had lost its meaning. Even the acting I so loved could not fill the void. How could I go on without him? He had been there for me all his life. Even in sickness he’d given me solace.

I straightened the white comforter to sit on the brass bed, contemplating my late brother's universe. A small picture frame on the nightstand showed both of us as kids on the beach of Sete, in front of Grandma's house. He looked small, fragile, delicate, even then. How I missed him...

The ceiling chime tinkled softly as a cold draft blew through the room. From where? All the windows were closed. I shivered, and snugged the bathrobe around my shoulders against the prickling of hair on my neck. Eerie sensations made my head swim while a soft golden light pervaded the room. I could swear I heard music, a high pitched whine that pierced the air and held me in its grip.

Suddenly, Jean-François stood in front of me, smiling. Gone were the signs of long illness. Instead, a happy glow colored his cheeks, and my brother's eyes shone bluer than ever. I froze, unwilling to break the enchantment, and melted at the sight of him. Was I hallucinating in my grief?

I was right, Fabienne, Jean-François said, although I did not see his lips move. My spirit lives on.

I tried to speak but no sound came out. The high-pitched whine now filled my ears, amplifying to a barely tolerable level. Forceful images rumbled through me, shaking my body and soul. Relentlessly, vibrant colors and shapes burst into my mind from a point between the eyes. Fragmented drawings of naked blue people with wide dark eyes, full red lips, and harmoniously rounded shapes, assailed me. They looked foreign yet familiar, set into contorted poses. When the images slowed then stopped, the turbulence in my head abated, the high-pitched whine ceased, and I could breathe again.

What was that? I saw blue silhouettes! Alarmed, I stared at my brother’s ghost in the stillness that followed.

A tranquil smile played on Jean-François' lips. That's where you belong, Fabienne, where you'll feel whole again and understand who you are.

And where is that? Although I loved to travel, I feared the answer.

A village called Ganeshpur, in the Maharashtra province. As I still stared, not understanding, he added, In India. Jean François pointed at a booklet on the bed and smiled. It's all there. You promised me to go to the meditation center and ask for my will. Remember?

INDIA! Are you leaving? Wait! Will I see you again?

I read some amusement in the deep blue eyes. You will.

I love you, little brother. The words sounded futile.

I know, Fabienne. He smiled tenderly. I've always known. Don't forget to read my will as you promised.

He was gone. From the windowsill, the cat stared at the empty spot at the foot of the bed. Had Jean-François been there at all? Did I make up the encounter? I had never hallucinated before... What I had just witnessed couldn't be. Logic forbade me to believe it. Just as I thought of dismissing the experience as a product of my grieving imagination, my gaze fell on the booklet on the bed. Was this proof, or had the brochure been there before and escaped my notice? No. I couldn't help thinking that Jean-François had come to me, as promised.

Realization struck. If I had not hallucinated, was there more to life than this existence? Should I worry about my spirit and discover my destiny? The very words felt strange. Maybe I would find answers in church... No. Jean-François didn't go to church. He found his serenity in meditation. There must be more to spirituality than going to church.

With trembling fingers, I took the booklet from the bed. It felt warm, almost alive under the white and red cover. The title read The Secrets Of Spiritual Life. Inside, under a rainbow, joined hands and Sanskrit characters, a simple address, Shree Gurudev Ashram, Ganeshpur, Maharashtra, India. Suddenly, I wanted to go there.

Who was I kidding? Travel required money, which as a fledgling actress I didn't have. Besides, I could hardly walk away from the theater, especially when I had sacrificed so much. Pierre, the casting director, had offered his couch to secure the part. The deed made my skin crawl, but I lived in the harsh world of stage actors. In order to support my ailing brother, no sacrifice had been too great. And if it furthered my career, more power to me. We lived in a material world, or so I thought...

The phone rang, pulling me back to reality. I picked up the receiver on the nightstand.

Hi, Fabienne darling, it's Pierre.

Talking of casting directors! The lecherous toad couldn't leave me alone even on my day off. I controlled my aversion and answered as sweetly as I could. Pierre, to what do I owe the pleasure?

It's bad news, I'm afraid. The play has been canceled.

No! It couldn't be. My heart sank. It's impossible! So late into rehearsal?

Sorry, Fabienne, it was a shock for all of us.

What happened?

A surprise safety inspection closed the theater. We won't reopen for at least a year. The building needs massive renovations to bring it up to code.

But... A lump grew in my throat, preventing further speech.

I know, it's hard... By then, who knows what play the Board will decide upon for the grand opening. I'm awfully sorry to bring bad news.

Not as sorry as I. My world was collapsing.

The good news is, you get paid right away for total rehearsal time plus half the season's wages for breach of contract. A generous sum to get in one lump. Of course, you'll also get priority audition if there's a fitting part in the next production. If you are available at that time, of course. I'll make sure you get a notice.

Thanks, Pierre, I appreciate that. I still couldn't believe it.

Stop by the theater anytime tomorrow. I'll have your check ready. Sorry to be so short, Fabienne, but I have lots of calls to make. Ciao, Darling.

See you tomorrow, Pierre.

After he hung up, I almost heard the sigh of relief he must have breathed. I didn't envy his job.

The shock didn't last very long. After the initial disappointment, tiny wheels started turning in my brain. No acting job for the season and too late to find another, money dropping in my lap… Did destiny await in India, or was I fooling myself? Did I read meaning into pure coincidences?

I reached for the booklet left by the phone, then dropped into the overstuffed armchair and folded my legs under in my favorite position. I started reading.

* * *

I shifted in the chair, unable to believe what I read, yet it made perfect sense. The theory of reincarnation could explain the apparent unfairness of life, as the spirit journeyed through various experiences to complete its evolution. In the light of recent scientific discoveries, many people questioned established religions, favoring spiritual consciousness based on personal experiences.

Closing the booklet, I looked at Jean François' bed where Sasha, the Siamese cat, regarded me with sleepy blue eyes. Something my friend Kristelle told me a while back came to mind...something about regression through past lives under hypnosis. What if it all were true? If Jean-François' spirit lived, the possibilities were endless.

To think that a traumatic event, near-death experience, Yoga, drugs, or the simple touch of an enlightened being, could awaken someone's spiritual energy boggled the mind. According to the brochure, any of these could start a series of irreversible life altering changes. On the back of the booklet, a stamp gave the address and phone number of a local Yoga center where Jean-François used to meditate. I picked up the phone and dialed.

Spiritual Yoga Center, Paris. Bonjour! The cheery warmth of the woman's voice melted any awkwardness away. In the background I heard soft chanting.

Hi! My name is Fabienne Beranger. My brother, Jean François, recently passed away. He left a will in your care... I'd like to pick it up. My voice sounded cold compared to hers.

I'm glad you called, Fabienne. I'm sorry about Jean-François. We all loved him very much. Why don't you come to our meditation session tonight and meet our members? We start at six. A few devotees who just returned from India will share their experience. You're welcome to join us. We'll have vegetarian treats and soft drinks.

Behind the friendly voice giving directions, an exotic chant accompanied by drums and stringed instruments evoked a faraway land, a mellow place I almost longed to see. I could smell fragrant incense and wondered whether Jean-François kept any in his room. I'll see you tonight, then.

I'm looking forward to meeting you, Fabienne. My name is Chandra. Oh, and wear casual clothes, we sit on the floor. Even over the phone, I could tell she was smiling.

After hanging up, charged with incredible energy, I wanted to jump up and down. To my surprise, I did. What was happening to me? I felt great for the first time since my brother's demise. I couldn't wait to talk to the people just back from India. Somehow, I sensed that it would make Jean François happy.

The day passed slowly. Came five o'clock, I couldn't stand the waiting anymore. I donned a pair of baggy jeans, a pink sweater and a jeans jacket, slung a denim sack over my shoulder then slammed the door of my apartment on Rue Pasteur. Rushing down two flights of stairs, I hurried toward the Metro.

Once on the macadam of wide sidewalks lined with tall plane-trees, I slowed the pace. What would the meditation center be like? A bunch of Hare Krishna with shaved heads and Indian clothes, out of touch with reality? No. Despite my skeptical nature, I did not believe that. Besides, Jean-François liked them. They couldn't be that bad. Walking through the lazy Sunday afternoon traffic on Boulevard Voltaire, I filled my lungs with crisp air. The chill made me feel alive.

On the almost empty subway, while stations slid by the window, my mind returned to the morning vision. The metro ticket in my hand was turquoise...the color of the silhouettes contorted in Yoga postures, with black lined eyes and bright red lips. What did they mean?

I emerged from the Metro at Jussieu and easily found the address on Rue Monge. As soon as I pushed the glass door of the street entrance, the smell of incense and the sound of chanting transported me into another realm. My spirits lifted. Childhood memories flooded my mind.

As a little girl, in the old Roman church, Gregorian chant resounded under the arches. I would float toward the vaulted ceiling, observing Sunday mass from above. It was a wonderful feeling, as if the spirit freed itself from the body to fly. In those days of trusting innocence, I wanted to become a nun, just to be around the chants that brought me such experiences.

Welcome to our Meditation Center. I'm Chandra. You must be Fabienne. The cheery greeting brought me back to the present.

I nodded confirmation and returned the warm smile. The Indian name belonged to a Frenchwoman in a long navy dress, about forty five, with straight chestnut hair. Not pretty, rather thin, but vibrantly alive, with wide liquid eyes.

You are a little early, but make yourself comfortable and feel free to look around and ask questions. Brown eyes studied me over the thin nose. We have books on the table over there, Chandra said with a graceful hand motion. The meditation hall is this way, bathroom and lounge that way. Also, we take off our shoes before entering the meditation hall. I'll tell Swamiji you're here.

After thanking her, I peeked into the empty hall from which the chanting originated. No cultist pictures or garish frescoes on the wall, just a large rectangular room, sparkling clean, with white painted walls and sky-blue carpet. I didn't see any furniture, only the white boom box in a corner: the source of the recorded chant.

I browsed through the books, then made my way to the lounge where a few members mingled.

Welcome. How did you hear about us? A young woman asked with a smile.

My brother used to come here... He just passed away.

Sorry to hear that. She looked at me more closely. No wonder you looked familiar. We all knew Jean-François. God bless his sweet soul.

Fabienne? The young voice belonged to a newcomer straight out of an oriental fairy tale. Glad to meet you, although I would have preferred happier circumstances. He sounded like a French native but had a shaved head and wore an orange cotton shirt over a long, wrapped skirt of the same hue. A red dot adorned his forehead.

Good evening Swamiji, the others called cheerfully.

After returning the greeting, Swamiji looked at me with a clear smile and handed me a white envelope with my name on it. I opened it immediately. A tide of tears blurred the familiar black cursive filling the single page. I read it, then read it again, unable to believe what my brother asked of me.

Finally I looked at Swamiji. He wants me to go to India and personally scatter his ashes on the grounds of the ashram of Ganeshpur, by the Narmada River.

Swamiji smiled. Jean-François loved you very much. There are no coincidences. If you are destined to go, things will fall into place. Only those ready for the awakening come in contact with Spiritual Yoga.

I don't think I'm ready for this. Wedging myself on the couch, I folded my legs.

Swamiji watched with amused eyes. You have practiced Yoga before.

No, I never did. There, the shaved head had guessed wrong.

Swamiji only smiled.

Another devotee, a boy of about sixteen with a small diamond in the left ear, volunteered to explain. You don't understand. The teenager smiled with indulgence. Swamiji is not asking IF you practiced Yoga before, he's TELLING you that you did.

But I never...

Not in this incarnation, the boy insisted patiently. Before...

Before? I balked at the theory these people accepted so readily.

There is a great aura about you, Swamiji explained. You have so far denied your spirituality in this life, but you can't anymore. Great loss and grief brought you back to the path. The time has come for you to explore that part of yourself.

How do you know? I asked, astounded by his insightful arrogance.

You are here. Swamiji's smile turned enigmatic. No one comes to the center by mistake. This place attracts highly evolved souls, old souls with a particular past, and it repels all others. Did you feel the energy when you entered?

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

When a loud gong resounded in the lobby, Swamiji rose. Come chant and meditate with us. We'll talk more later.

Swamiji led the way to the meditation hall. Imitating my hosts, I left my sneakers at the door and entered the blue-carpeted hall. Soft chanting still oozed from the boom box.

The rectangular room had filled with people sitting quietly, cross-legged, on the carpet or on individual mats. Chandra took me to the first row where I sat, like everyone else. Swamiji said a few