The Chamber of Khajuraho

By Anitra Crist and Manfred McArthur

Ian McArthur is a charismatic but self-centered man, attracting a group of fascinating people that help him solve the puzzle, he is pulled into. Some, he meets for a single conversation and some join his road trip. Having never considered himself spiritual, he is forced to discover and develop necessary strength, to find the destination he does not believe is there. New companions include a Hindu monk, who gives Ian clues and guidance, through uninvited visions; German, Eva, who encourages Ian with the uncanny gift of anticipating and interpreting his needs; Australian, Herb, an enthusiastic and earnest young man, who restores Ians hope in mankind; and James, from England, who stalks them half-way around the world to India, to steal the treasure at the end of the road.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496932433

Anitra Crist

Father and daughter Manfred McArthur and Anitra Crist, have been writing together for 20 years. This novel is based on one of his trips to India. His family moved from Chicago, Illinois, to Hollywood, California, in 1931. Early on, he had the bug to travel, taking off for Alaska at twenty years old. Anitra Crist began writing stories and to chronicle their experiences.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2014, 2015 Manfred McArthur and Anitra Crist. All rights reserved.

Cover photo of Mt. Ama Dablam taken by Manfred McArthur.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  01/26/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3242-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3241-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-3243-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014914070

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 1

I stepped back into the shade of fountain palms. Bound to the trunks were thick philodendron roots with huge leaves, tangled up with sticky, sweating figs. I ran my finger across fig surfaces and tasted it, wanting to eat the fruit. There was total silence. This is the hottest day I can remember, I thought and then filled my lungs with the complex mixture surrounding me. Eucalyptus stood out, yet there were no eucalyptus trees.

I looked around. Across the way were Asian temples of some kind, ancient and neglected. Had I seen them before? There were the giant eucalyptus trees, growing up through dirt paths, around and between the temples. Their branches swayed, throwing filtered shards of light in circles on the temple walls and grass.

Then all but one temple vanished! It was maybe thirty feet high; the outside was covered with beautiful hand-carved images. Luminous vines of white morning glories crowded their way up and into depressions and holes, all the way up to the spires. Visible patches of walls were covered with rows and rows of the intricate carvings. It was incredible! I struggled to go forward, to touch it, to study the stone carvings, but I couldn’t move.

Then from my left, a man in a burnt-orange robe walked in slow motion across my field of vision, in front of the temple. His head was clean shaven, his hands down at his sides; the robe was tucked up over one shoulder.

I was fascinated! My eyes rushed over everything, needing to see it all. I was captured by the beauty of the scene.

Stumbling out of bed and into the bathroom, I looked into the mirror, bewildered. What the hell was that? That air was so heavy and hot. A film of sweat shone on my face as I shifted my hair back behind my ears. My eyes lost focus. Looks like India. I caught myself assuming it was real. Well, yeah, it felt real, looked real, not to mention smelled real. It was all familiar! Wasn’t it? I sure as hell would have remembered that temple, that masterpiece, so I have not seen it before.

The robed man, a monk, appeared so quiet and calm, stepping slowly, his bare feet leaving deep imprints in the flowing grass. Yet as he moved along, he continued to remain in front of the one temple! Oh, man, the whole thing is so interesting. Yeah, like I visited someone else’s dream. But I want it to be mine!

"It is my dream." I smiled at the mirror.

I tied my hair back with a rubber band and drenched my face with cold water. Then I looked back into the mirror. I actually feel the dream clinging to me. But there wasn’t enough, enough of the temple. I looked at my left hand. I didn’t touch it but wanted to so badly … the rough wall … the carving.

Slowly, the cold water brought me back to the here and now, in my bathroom, in my house. After pacing in a circle, I stood at the window. The snow was light blue, the dawn breaking over the trees. I got dressed to go out. I’ll focus on the melting, crackling ice. Maybe the doe is back this morning. Take a carrot. Well, now that I think of it, India has been on my mind! I grabbed one of the books on my bedside table: Central and North India. Yeah, Ian, those temples are definitely Indian. After flipping through pictures in the book, I took off.

66644.png

Mammoth Lakes, California, was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen, and I’d been a lot of places. At forty-five, I was doing well in Mammoth, designing and building homes. There were some remodeling jobs, but I loved the houses that were all mine, start to finish, including working out the quirks. There were always challenges unique to hillside construction. I would begin a job with an empty lot and often start with clearing the shrubs and weeds, all the way to the end, the paint job. Most of the time, I built one house at a time, primarily working alone.

In Mammoth, the building season was about eight months long; the rest of the year it was too cold to work outside. That was fine with me. In the winter I divided my time between skiing at Mammoth and political activism, most of which was in Los Angeles, about five hours away.

By the choices I made I had arranged my life to have a lot of freedom. I had freedom in my work and free time to travel. When I wasn’t skiing or building, I was in Los Angeles with a core group of friends, investing time and money to investigate the wrongdoings and mistakes made by large corporations. When I’d discovered politics, I got real focused. Along with some friends, I helped to start the Peace and Freedom Party by gathering two hundred and fifty thousand signatures in our part of Los Angeles County to get our party on the ballot.

Before that, I’d never fit in the way other people did. I was always a little on the outside. I got along great with people but was unintentionally rough around the edges. And politically, I never really accomplished what I had in mind, not fully. I had influence but I wasn’t a leader. Others seemed to have command. It wasn’t a matter of knowledge but that charge that brought the leadership to make big changes, to step up to the plate of guiding our movement better. But I was proud of my successes.

The anti-Vietnam War demonstrations in 1967 changed my life. I had never understood the cruelty of humans toward each other. I was told I didn’t understand the complexity of history, the needs of humans to dominate each other, for land and other basics, and of course organized religions needing to crush the rights of others. Then, the antiwar movement blossomed into groups of like-minded people, in shows of political force, generating a productive solidarity. I joined the wave, which became small organizations working together to show the public the greed behind the war and the greed that manipulated them to support it. It felt really good to take a stand, to find a path that was good. For me and the planet.

66953.png

It was spring 1975, and Mammoth Mountain had a deeper than usual snow pack. My girlfriend Amee and I skied nearly every day while the snow held up under the increasingly warm sun.

One afternoon I was momentarily blinded by glare from the snow. As I fell, I had that sensation of moving in slow motion through space. My mind switched off. A wall appeared before me, covered with incredible carvings. It was the temple! The carvings were erotic: couples in sexual positions. I recognized the style and backed up to see more of the building. Unmistakably Hindu: the beautiful temple. Then the monk appeared from behind me and walked to the temple. I followed him. Then he and I were in a dark room. All I could see was the outline of his robe. I was holding my breath.

The images shot through my mind for a few seconds, and then Amee was asking me, Are you all right? Did you hit your head? She edged her skis down to me and helped me up. I was a little flustered but laughed and told her about my momentary impression. She said, You have a vivid imagination. Which we already knew. After a quick inspection her, concern vanished.

Amee was thirty-eight, petite, with dark copper hair falling to just below her shoulders and a round face, a small, delicate nose, and soft brown eyes.

I wanted to tell her more but she cut me off. I’d like to hear more about this later, she said, zipping up my parka, but let’s finish up. We continued skiing and then went to the lodge for tea. After situating herself in a big chair on the deck, she finally asked about my fall and the strange images. So what did you see? Who was the man?

The temple was Hindu. Incredible—large, similar to the temples that blew my mind in India two years ago. But those were not covered with carvings. This temple—well, it was covered with carvings of sexual scenes, can you believe that? But the monk—I don’t know, he was so quiet. And very strong, all muscle.

How do you know he was all muscle? He had a robe on.

I didn’t know. And I guess I was taking too long to answer.

Amee’s face was impatient when she looked at me, bored, and said, That’s interesting. How is your head? Any bumps?

I feel perfect. But hey, I had a vision or dream the other night too.

Really. What was that about? She had an annoying habit of stirring her tea too long when she wasn’t interested.

I watched skiers bunching together at the chairlift line, looking like bees in line to enter the hive. Why do I bother telling her anything? This feels important, and we’re just not in the same groove. I was sure the temple was the same one that was so beautiful in the other dream. I said, The monk—I couldn’t make him out very well. No, man, no, that’s not it. I saw him very clearly. But he wasn’t the point. The temple was the thing. And there was such a peaceful quality. I can still feel it, just remembering the dreams.

Amee looked at me quizzically and started to say something but changed her mind. I studied her carefully and saw a slight dimple on her chin. It vanished as she shifted. She blushed attractively, mellowing me.

So what are such temples for? Amee tried not to smile back.

They’re like churches. I shrugged.

She waited to see if I was going to add anything and then said, Ian, I told the kids I’d be home early. Then she scooped up her gloves and headed for the door. I followed but really didn’t want to.

Do you really need to leave or do you think I’m nuts?

She managed a smile and said she had a promise to keep. Promise to keep? That was the second time she’d said that lately, when she wanted to be alone.

That’s cool. I patted her Range Rover and watched her drive off.

Driving home alone, Amee felt the need to get things arranged into new priorities. But the first thing was dealing with her daughter Clara, age twelve. Clara wanted to go to a party at a friend’s house, but when Amee had said no, Clara dropped a book loudly on the table and displayed various spoiled expressions. It was difficult with four kids, and Amee blamed Ian for not being the best influence. He seemed to encourage Clara’s increasing rebelliousness. He certainly fit the rebel persona himself, and of course the kids loved that. Especially Clara. They had a bond. Amee was so glad to have a man around for them, but lately she felt she had five children, not four.

Amee’s mind drifted back to her own childhood. She had been an only child, growing up in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles. From age five, Amee’s objective was a happy marriage and lots of kids. She spent much time discussing this with her favorite doll and working out the details of her fantasy. When she was nineteen, she and her longtime friend Jason were married. But Jason couldn’t keep up with the demands of that life.

Amee hadn’t felt so strongly about another man until Ian. They met one day as she and Clara were walking into town through a patch of pines. Ahead on the trail, two men were involved in a tense argument. The one with long hair was going on about police brutality, saying it took a certain kind of power tripper to be a cop. He noticed Amee and flashed a great smile. When she and Clara were close enough, he moved aside for them, but his arm managed to brush against hers. She was completely ruffled and backed away.

He focused on her. And how many good experiences have you had with cops—any? His blue eyes bore into her; he was completely confident that she would agree with him and strengthen his argument. She brushed off her skirt unnecessarily and said, Probably hundreds! I know the officers around here. His face went blank for several seconds before he threw his head back, laughing.

He was about five foot ten, with dark brown hair to his shoulders, the cowlick above his right temple conveniently curling his thick hair away from his face. He was rugged, muscular, and well-tanned, very athletic looking and clearly unpredictable. His easy smile was boyish, with deep laugh creases around his large mouth. Even though she and Clara wore parkas and gloves, he wore only a weathered work shirt over a T-shirt tucked into carpenter’s pants. His sneakers were wet. His blue eyes were like Jason’s, except Ian’s were more direct and off-putting. Very nervy, and very attractive. Amee’s heart was palpitating. She encouraged Clara forward with her fingertips. When she looked back, the blue eyes and smile were still on her. He waved. Against her better judgment she waved back and smiled. It had happened so naturally and quickly. She could still feel his muscled arm against hers.

"Whoa, who was that weirdo," Clara said under her breath.

Now, pulling into her driveway, Amee wondered if she still loved him. Ian could be so exceptionally gentle and willing to help, especially with the kids.

At first she’d loved watching him work. Ian attacked his work confidently, surging with kinetic energy. He was tough, making himself look larger than he was. She knew he forgot she was there, focused only on gaining control of the constant challenges over and over again. Later that energy would wrap around her and pass through barriers no one else had. When he focused on her he swallowed her whole, holding her protected and free to feel passion.

But in the blink of an eye Ian was ready to fight for what he believed, which she hardly agreed with, and she hated fighting. Also, he would take off on foot without a word, stomping through the snow or brush, sometimes gone for hours with no explanation, as if that were normal. Amee realized she wasn’t going to sufficiently communicate with him or understand him. He saw her attempts and turned away, jumping into projects with the kids or alone. She felt tears coming and put her head down on the steering wheel.

Chapter 2

When I was a kid I wanted adventure. Doesn’t every kid? I wanted to be traveling about the world, making friends, being in incredibly impossible situations, needing to devise tools or puzzle-like thought patterns to outwit the enemy or elements. In Hollywood there just wasn’t enough excitement, at least not what I had in mind.

But Hollywood was a pretty town. The Hollywood Hills were covered with shrubs, vines, and trees, not houses. The few narrow winding streets north of Franklin Avenue rose up to isolated homes dotting the hills. Up there I could be away from the city in a few minutes.

When I graduated from Hollywood High School, Dad and Mom insisted I go to college, so I gave up another two years, waiting for my other life to begin.

Then I was ready to learn from experiences elsewhere. My friend Luke and I, friends since we were eleven, took off to work in Kodiak, Alaska. We worked hard with a construction crew for a year and a half, in mud and on rough frozen ground. Our boss used to say it was too cold not to be drunk, but he taught us how to swing a hammer.

I liked construction. The whole process turned me on, and my confidence grew as I got better at the details. My dream of becoming a building contractor took shape in Kodiak, but my fantasies about being a free agent and world traveler never really left me.

66959.png

Now I was in Mammoth Village, dreaming of India. I didn’t go back to Amee’s that night. It just felt like with her attitude I wasn’t going to be comfortable talking or even thinking of the hypnotic images I’d experienced. And I couldn’t think of anything else. I went to the bookshelf in my house to see what I had on India. My hand fell on a large picture book, The Temples of Khajuraho. As soon as I saw the first picture I yelled, Hey, these are my temples! That was way too easy now—come on. I turned the pages. Well, this book is where I saw these temples before. In this book! Those visions came out of memory, not the twilight zone. I felt better, like I wasn’t crazy. That’s good, man, but the quality of the place, the heavy stillness. I got that from these pictures? And who is the monk?

Khajuraho is a city in central India relatively famous for this group of temples. Although some of these temples are covered with intricate carvings, this book, The Temples of Khajuraho, focused on the elevations and floor plans of the beautiful structures. Each temple had its own name. The Gobinda Temple was most like my vision. In fact, I thought it was the beautiful temple. The interior was different from the other temples in that it had or seemed to have an underground storage room or basement. There was a rough, unfinished drawing of the little room. Small and square, it had one, maybe more than one, stairway going up to the temple floor. The description under the picture of the little basement was odd: Special chamber used very rarely.

I was perturbed that there was so little information and felt driven to keep looking through the book, but there was nothing more about the room and nothing else like it. This chamber was out of place compared with the other temples, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I woke up on the couch with the book on my chest and the table lamp illuminating my forehead. The book was open to the drawing of the chamber. Staring at it again, I couldn’t figure it out. There was no door at the top of the stairway leading into the temple above or any visible entry door from the outside. There must have been another floor between the ground floor and the chamber the book didn’t include. I went to bed thinking the chamber, if it was even real, would have been a great place to keep something secret: ancient scrolls maybe, or artifacts or other treasures.

The next day Amee and I skied the same area. I sought out the mogul I had fallen on, but encountered no further revelation.

Later, in the lodge, she pointed out how preoccupied I was. I laughed at myself and told her I was disappointed I hadn’t had another accident. I tried to forget the chamber drawing while we were talking, but it hung on, and I felt restless. As a floor plan, it didn’t make sense. No way in or out. Yet there were stairs. Mentally, I drew in changes, adding a middle floor. It was still a puzzle. A very interesting puzzle. I wanted to copy it on paper, play with it. Make it make sense.

The following day was no different. In fact my preoccupation began to take shape. I wanted to go to Khajuraho and find the temple and the chamber. But a special trip to India? Well, I knew I wouldn’t come up with a good enough argument against it. The whole idea was so far out, but it came over me fast, like I was being taken over. It felt important and mysterious—it certainly triggered off the hunger for adventure! One of my mother’s expressions was in the land of hesitation are the remains of inaction. That felt confirming once again.

Amee’s kids were out ice skating for the afternoon with friends from school. She and I sat in front of her fireplace. Outside, snow was falling lightly, and two woodpeckers were pounding on a tree close to the window, too loudly for me to think straight, until I got into the rhythm and lost in the sound. Then I looked at Amee. Of course she thought my taking off was outrageous. We had been agreeing less and less in general, in spite of our warm feelings. When we discussed my going away, we decided it would be best to break up our romance and stay good friends if we could. We both knew staying friends was a great idea that never worked out, but somehow you always have to say it. I guess we meant it. Amee had been upset all day. I watched her reading, her fingers hugging the edge of her book. I realized how fortunate I was, able to work in such wonderful surroundings, have a home here, and ski as much as I wanted. I wish my friends could come up here and ski more often.

Amee looked up with familiar impatience. I know how you think, Ian. You would like to bring all of Los Angeles up here and ruin Mammoth, turn it into a tourist attraction. Her face turned toward the fire.

"It is a tourist attraction. You say you know how I think— I tried to keep my voice calm—but I don’t think you do. You only know how you think. That’s cool, I can see that now. Look, you’re mad. Part of it is that you don’t understand my taking off. Neither do I, completely, but you know I love to travel. The kids know it too. I could see she was trying to understand. I’ll miss you."

"I am mad at you, she blurted. What do I tell the kids? You’re chasing a dream you had? That’s great leadership."

I see your point. I smiled and took her hand. We watched the fire. But she didn’t see my point. How could she? I felt compelled by the dreams, very drawn to the temple in a way that felt out of control. The temple and the little room were electric. I had to go. Anyway, the kids would be excited for me. I had become attached to Amee’s kids. We had spent time together skiing, playing the piano, talking, and poring over travel books. They especially loved my stories about India, Nepal, and Tibet.

Now that I had this compulsion to go I became more and more restless. The next morning it was crystal clear in my mind. I faced Amee, not expecting understanding. I’m going. I have to go.

Amee got out of bed and sat in her stuffed chair, tucking her robe around her feet. It doesn’t make sense, Ian. Are you going far away just because of a dream? We all have dreams, but then we come back to reality when we wake up. I don’t know anyone who has taken action because of a crazy dream.

Her not wanting to support me, or even listen to me, gave me resolve. I sat up and told her, It was not just a dream, it was two dreams, and the way they happened was weird and important. But sure, I see how you might think this is an excuse for me to go.

Well, I think you don’t know what you’re getting into, as usual.

Yeah, I reflected. I pushed my hair back, tying it with a rubber band, and then thought, Do I ever really know what I’m doing? Does anyone, no matter how well they make plans, know what they’re getting into? I was sore from my fall on the slope, and I sat on the edge of the bed rotating and massaging my right shoulder. Many greats go into the unknown based on their dreams. Where do you think ideas come from?

Amee was shaking her head. What are you thinking about? Where the hell are you? She stomped out of the room.

That Friday, Amee and I had dinner with our friends Rita and Mike Jeffers, who lived high up in Mammoth Vista. The view of the setting sun highlighted the mountain peaks so wonderfully. While they chatted up a storm, I watched until the sun was a soft glow.

Mike was a local, and Rita had come from Amsterdam, Holland. I told them about my visions and my fruitless search for more on the Gobinda Temple and the chamber. The chamber is special, I know it is. A treasure itself, if not a room to contain one, I said, sipping my beer, trying to inspire interest.

A treasure? Amee mouthed cynically.

At least Rita and Mike were interested. I was sorry I hadn’t brought The Temples of Khajuraho to show them. Amee turned her head toward the window; she seemed embarrassed about the whole thing. That didn’t stop me. It’s going to be very cool. I will go to Europe and then India.

Rita, especially, found the idea of treasure exciting. What does your room look like? What kind of treasure would be there? she asked, and she pushed a pad and pencil across the table to me.

Well, the floor plan of the temple is a complete professional drawing, but the little room drawing is a draft, a sketch. I sketched it on the pad. Also, the picture caption says the chamber was used for something special. I laughed enthusiastically. Maybe something is still there. Rita was tense and leaning in over the pad. We stared at each other for a moment before she quickly sat back.

My sister and I studied anthropology; but not in school, she said. It was my hobby! I carried a hand shovel and my father’s old shaving brush in my rucksack. Of course I found many items. In Greece, I dug up a marble foot two inches long. That is my prize! Even Amee was interested at that point. If you go to Europe before India, will you visit my sister in Amsterdam?

That would be terrific! I love making new contacts in Europe! And I understand that Amsterdam is the place to buy a used van.

You are absolutely right. If you have the time and patience, the bargains are there, she answered. But don’t rush. In front of the American Express office you’ll find many people selling their used cars. Just be careful that you don’t buy a lemon.

It was May, and I was finishing a three-bedroom cabin for John Angleman in Mammoth.

There was still a lot of snow, but most would be melted before a month passed. At my job site I sat on the scaffolding overlooking miles of pines stretching down the mountain. I kept an eye on my dog, Veni, patrolling the lot. After a morning of making a racket with my power tools and hammer, it was quiet, and I waited for animals to emerge during my lunch: deer, voles, sparrows, owls, woodpeckers, big long-eared jackrabbits, and a hawk scanning all of us. I memorized the closest trails, some crossing, others going around. Even though the job was pretty close to the main street in Mammoth, I was free and isolated enough to experience my communion with the natural world. And even though I intrude into their world, robbing it of the space I built on, the animals don’t hold grudges.

One day I needed help to set a large beam in the living room, so I called Jerry, a nineteen-year-old kid who helped me out now and then. We were securing the beam to the living room ceiling when a man walked by. He waved and asked how it was going and admired the sixteen-foot-high ceiling. I recognized him as one of Mammoth’s residents. His car had stalled, he explained, so he was walking back to his loft. I offered him a ride, and he was grateful. Hey, I’m Matt. So you’re Ian the builder! I’ve heard about you.

Here it comes, I thought, and I grumbled, So what are you? Attorney? Law enforcement?

He cleared his throat. Naw. Hey, I’m a builder too. So it’s true—you don’t hesitate to speak your mind. And by the way, the folks around here do not agree with your liberal politics.

Yeah, I see you are informed. There are lots of nice people around here, even if they are living a little in the Dark Ages. I smiled. I hope that doesn’t include you.

He didn’t smile back and slowly said, That was nasty, but you didn’t hesitate to offer me a ride. I have a feeling you’re all right. You know, you have guts, going against the tide.

I grinned back, appreciating his partially open mind. Well, you are all right too.

When we arrived at his house, he got out and leaned into the open side window. Well, you have passion; I have to hand that to you. Hey, watch your back. We both laughed.

In midsummer I prepared for my farewell to Amee and the kids. With my finger on the map, I showed the kids my planned journey across half the world. They could send letters to me anytime, to American Express offices, I explained. How many times, I wondered silently, have I fantasized about driving from Amsterdam to India? I pointed to Amsterdam, tapping the surface of the page. I’m starting here.

Amee stood in the doorway with her arms crossed.

Why don’t you just fly to India? Billy asked, scratching his chin. Why go all over the place first?

I’m in the mood for a long trip, I answered. And it’s not really all over the place, see? I circled countries, rivers, mountains. It’s a lot of very cool places. Billy grinned. They were shocked when I told them I was setting aside a whole year for my trip.

Constance, four years old, appeared from behind Amee, completing a half circle of kids in front of me. She reached up, and I lifted her in my arms.

You’re going to have a nice trip, but Mommy said you’re crazy. Her face was close and very serious. Sadness filled my heart, missing them already. I looked around her into Amee’s eyes. She was expressionless. Then barely a smile. "You are crazy, you know."

I went back to my house for my backpack. It felt light, so I made sure the chamber book was in it. I kept thinking that if I just looked hard enough through the book, there would be more information, some hint about it, some clue to the Gobinda and its chamber.

66965.png

Driving toward Los Angeles, I remembered shopping for dinner with Clara a few days before. As we entered the store I said I would look at the produce. She leaned into my parka and whispered conspiratorially, Watch out for any waxed apples.

You’re a funny kid, I had whispered back.

Now I was leaving. At that moment I did feel silly. Doesn’t take much to get me going somewhere. Of course it wasn’t just somewhere; it was India. Where I wanted to return. And Khajuraho, new territory.

I loved the five-hour drive from Mammoth to L.A. and went into that peaceful mode of miles rolling past. My dog, Veni, sat on the passenger seat with her chin on the window sill.

I flashed on a party several months before at my friends Emily and Jer’s house in the Hollywood Hills. The rooms were loud and dark and crowded, cloudy from a lot of smoking. Outside, the yard was lit a sickish blue and green by the Christmas lights they had mounted on the gutters all the way around the house. The lights had been there for years. Inside, the only light came from long black-light tubes in the living room, a small lamp with a red bulb on the kitchen counter, and candles in the bathroom. Emily handed me a cup of tea and a beer and then left me in the kitchen. People were shouting and waving to me through the music. The tea was bitter and cold so I set it down.

A beautiful woman in her twenties came up to me. My name is Millie, she yelled through the loud music, and I am psychic. She had been watching me, she said, and wanted to talk. You have a face of soft features, even though you have been in a war. Her long wavy hair reached down over her full multilayered gauze dress. Below, her feet were bare. Her dark eyes penetrated me, encouraging me to reply.

I was never in combat, I told her.

She smiled. Not Vietnam. The war you have been in all your life. A struggle, a black-and-white struggle. Someone changed the music and lowered the volume. Ravi Shankar’s beautiful sitar filled the room, and we were able to speak without shouting.

I don’t know what you mean. I leaned in with inquisitive eyes.

She looked at me kindly. The point is not whether you understand your life, but what choices you make now.

Now? I have a lot of work to finish up.

She shook her head, interrupting me, and thought for a minute. The whole world is in transition. You are in transition. Your next decision is very important.

Important, yeah. I gulped my beer. I do all I can all the time. Everybody thinks everything is cool now that the war is over. But things are not okay.

Millie was examining me, waiting. Then she said, I don’t know what your trip is, maybe it’s about politics, but something is coming. You will have to decide.

Now I was getting ready to take off, away from being involved with a life I understood. The setting sun was reflecting in my rearview mirror as I drove into the L.A. basin, and a new thought popped into my mind.

Maybe Millie was picking up on my decision to go to Khajuraho? I laughed. I didn’t believe in psychic stuff, but when I got home I got out the book and looked at the chamber. What does this have to do with anything—anything important? It’s just a picture of a room, which I am curious about. Well, very curious. And there are the dreams of the temple. It is a decision, a big one. To go, or follow, from my gut. Nevertheless, the decision has been made, as if I didn’t have much to do with it. There’s an energy about getting to Khajuraho. Driving across Europe and the Middle East will be a blast, but that’s a blur right now.

Chapter 3

It was great to be back in L.A. I felt the need to concentrate on what was immediately before me. My daughter Sarah was very interested in the temple and chamber. We sat at my kitchen table and poured through the chamber book while I told her my story of the visions, the ease in finishing Angleman’s house, breaking up with Amee and how I would miss the kids.

Sarah’s small frame stood out, her great dark brown hair, going prematurely gray and a little frizzy, falling to her midback. She was a total natural, a no-nonsense kind of person I was very proud of. Sarah pushed her glasses up off her nose and jumped right on it. She thought we might find more information about Khajuraho at the downtown library.

We went first thing in the morning and looked through books on northern India and architecture, but we couldn’t find one thing on Khajuraho except in maps. No drawings or pictures that even resembled the chamber.