I Do Not Belong To Any Religion My Religion Belongs To Me

By Aza Garcia

He appears from nowhere, an unknown forty-six-year-old, clad in jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers and breaks the internet. His name is Satya Sharan.
The author, Aza Garcia, happens to meet him on a flight and is swept into a tumultuous journey through Tel Aviv, New York and Mumbai, bewildered by her growing love for him.
Satya has what it takes to be a religious leader but doesn't wear flowing robes. He answers questions on meditation and enlightenment but claims he is not a teacher. He appears to be able to dispense divinity but does not talk about God. He does not want people to follow him yet wishes they subscribe to his insane idea.
He is what he is. An enigma. A Don Quixote who is trying to slay the religious dragons. A guru who doesn't want to be a guru.
Will he succeed? Will Aza's love for him blossom into something tangible and beautiful?

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Dec 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9789388942942

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

He looked straight into my eyes, and I felt strangely compelled to hold his deeply penetrating gaze that shone through intense brown pools of wisdom. For a while, which might have been only an instant, he just looked at me, but then his face, glowing in a mysterious warmth, broke into a quirky smile. It was the smile, I think, that did it.

I was drawn deep into some expanse within me that was extremely safe and peaceful. I felt an immense sense of relief, as if years of anxiety had been lifted away, and the chatter in my mind faded into a blissful quietude that I had never felt before.

I don’t know how long this lasted and when I had fallen asleep, but the words came through, loud and clear. Madam, please fasten your seat belt. We are about to land. I woke up and saw the attendant smiling at me. I sat upright, fastened the seat belt, swept my hair back, and looked around trying to orient my mind to the present.

I had boarded this three-hour Sunday morning flight in Rome to attend a conference in Tel Aviv. Yesterday had been a packed schedule, and I had worked into the night on the speech I was to deliver the following day at a conference in Tel Aviv. Surprisingly, I felt completely rested and energized.

The amazing experience was still lingering in my consciousness. I was sitting in an economy-class window seat. I looked to my left where, seated with his eyes closed, was a middle-aged light brown man in black jeans, black t-shirt, and black sneakers. His profile was soft and firm at the same time with a straight-edged nose, a strong chin, and, perhaps, a week-old moustache and stubble. His wide forehead swept back from straight thick eyebrows into a mat of short-cropped thick black hair with a hint of grey on the edges.

It was his eyes that had made him look more attractive than he probably was. He had a mysterious quality about him that would appeal to women. I found myself admitting that he was curiously attractive. He didn’t appear to be very tall, perhaps five-nine, but was well built.

I hadn’t noticed him while boarding, as I had been engrossed in a book on the Middle East. I recalled accidently dropping the book onto his lap and him picking it up, looking at me and smiling. A flurry of questions came flooding to my mind.

Who was he? Did he have anything to do with what had happened to me? Was he a mystic or a hypnotist? Was he Indian, Pakistani, or Arabian? I remembered his smiling eyes and felt an irresistible urge to talk to him. I needed to find out what I had experienced.

Before I could, the plane shuddered as the wheels hit the ground and, because the lights were dimmed, I decided to try and talk to him after we had landed. Maybe, I thought, strike a conversation while collecting our bags and perhaps give my phone number, if he asked.

Had I known at that time that we wouldn’t be collecting our bags on that day, I probably would have made more of an attempt to try and talk to him during the flight.

CHAPTER 2

Pulling my overhead bag with one hand and clutching my handbag in the other, I found myself walking fast trying to keep up with him. He had helped me with the bag in the plane, but had appeared oblivious of what I had experienced.

He didn’t notice me even now, walking right behind him. His wide sloping shoulders and long legs lent a purpose to his gait. He was moving swiftly, as if in anticipation of meeting someone. Not having any bags, I guess, gave him an advantage, and the distance between us was slowly widening.

I was beginning to think that my tryst with the deeper levels of my consciousness had been an illusion. I’m thirty-five and was a contributor to the New Yorker for four years. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to people in my part of the world, I thought. Not to sceptics, and particularly not to women focused on their careers. Besides, living in New York and surviving a bitter divorce had turned me into a confirmed non-believer.

Why then, was I feeling so elated and full of exuberant anticipation? What I had experienced was so real and tangible, yet unfamiliar, that I somehow had to find out more about this man. I wasn’t even sure if he had anything to do with it, but the least I could do, I thought, was ask him his name.

I breezed through passport control and reached the baggage claim area. There he was, near the designated belt waiting for the bags to arrive. People were moving in, and those who had already arrived were patiently gathered around the belt. This, I thought, would be the right time.

I walked right next to him and said, Excuse me. Could I talk to you for a second?

He looked directly at me, his face strangely frozen, as if I had interrupted his flow of thought. Don’t worry. He was talking quickly. Everyone will be safe. Stay right here.

He didn’t wait for my response and started walking hurriedly away. I looked around, perplexed. Everything was normal. People were milling around, waiting for the bags to arrive, kids were playing with trolleys, and moms were shouting them down.

I thought, almost aloud, this man must be mad. Or worse, a terrorist. He did say everyone will be safe, didn’t he? Strangely however, and I don’t know why, I believed him. Maybe it was the curious reporter in me or maybe, in wake of what I experienced earlier, it was the notion that nothing could go wrong, but I began to follow him.

The gunshot was so loud that the entire foyer kept reverberating for what seemed like a long time. The short silence that followed was shattered by screams and shouts and the sound of people running. I stood still, petrified, and looked in the direction where I thought the gun was fired.

A man, not far from me, was standing with his hands spread out, waving a gun in one hand and what appeared to be a detonator in the other. He was distinctly short, and his white face seemed contorted in a mixture of anxiety and fear. His jacket was thrown open, and one could see his entire torso was wrapped in tapes, wires, and small devices.

Policemen brandishing what looked like automatic guns had come running in from different directions, and I could hear one of them shouting fiercely in Hebrew, which I later learnt was Don’t shoot. He has a suicide vest! Hold your fire!

On hindsight, everyone would question why the suicide bomber waited and why he needed to warn everybody with a gunshot before triggering the detonator. Maybe he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it. Maybe he didn’t want to die. Whatever the reason, I’m certain he didn’t know what was to follow immediately.

It had only been a few seconds since the gunshot when I saw my mysterious madman who had promised me that everyone would be safe, stride up to the terrorist with the gun. The suicide bomber looked at the madman approaching and raised his gun to point at him. Suddenly his eyes widened and he froze staring at the madman, who reached him, looked into his eyes, spoke a few words to him, gently pried the detonator from his hand and walked away, all in one continuous motion.

The bomber slumped to the floor, put his hands on his head and started sobbing. The policemen, witnessing this entire charade, closed in on him with their weapons ready to fire. I then saw the madman carefully pass the detonator, keeping the trigger pressed, to a policeman who took it and ran toward the exit.

I was so mesmerized by what I had witnessed in the past few seconds that I almost missed seeing the madman walk purposefully toward the exit. No one seemed to be interested in him. The policemen were focusing on the would-be bomber. I vaguely heard a siren blaring in the background. An urgent male voice was relaying instructions over the PA system in different languages, asking everyone to exit the building, leaving their bags where they were. They were shutting down the airport, I thought. I located my overhead bag, which was a few feet behind me, grabbed the handle, and ran outside with the crowd past the exit gates.

I spotted him a few yards away. He was walking, not hurriedly, along a side street. He seemed to know where he was going. I ran past the other people who were moving in the same direction, my overhead bag adding to the cacophony of shouts and grating sounds of rolled bags.

I slowed down when I caught up with him and slipped into a matching stride beside him. He didn’t appear to mind. He was several inches taller than I. His gait was steady, and I couldn’t help noticing his long slender fingers had no rings. He was completely absorbed in his thoughts, and I wasn’t sure if he even noticed that I was walking alongside.

My mind was racing, trying to process what had just happened. What a great story this would make, I thought. Who’s this guy? Madman or superman? How did he know what was about to happen? How could he do what he just did? Should I talk to him? Should I ask him who he was?

I didn’t even know his name, and somehow that didn’t seem to matter for now. I was convinced he wasn’t a terrorist as he had just saved hundreds of lives.

The rhythm of the walk slowed my mind and I felt a sense of calm elation beginning to slowly replace the adrenaline rush. It was the middle of September, quite warm in Tel Aviv, and the slight breeze helped. I had never felt this alive before. I was now certain his presence had something to do with that.

We walked in silence for several minutes. He then approached a parked taxi, spoke to the driver in what sounded like Hebrew, turned toward me, and asked, Which hotel? I told him it was the Sheraton. He spoke to the driver, who got out and stowed my bag in the trunk. We got into the taxi, and I wondered when I might get my checked-in luggage back.

I was a little glad, though, thinking this might be a good time to get his name. He had just finished a conversation with the taxi driver. A brown man speaking fluently in Hebrew got my guard up.

I turned to him and asked, Do you live here?

He shook his head and said, I have a reservation at the Sheraton too. The coincidence was startling, but somehow, I wasn’t scared. There was something about this man that told me he could be trusted.

I decided to stay silent and looked out of the window.

CHAPTER 3

Yes, madam, we do have a reservation in the name of Aza Garcia. The man behind the reception desk was polite.

Yup. That’s me, I confirmed. I’m here for the conference.

And the gentleman? Is he with you? Before I could answer, the man who was with me, and I still had no idea why, began speaking in Hebrew.

The receptionist asked him a few questions and, after a little back and forth, he looked at us and said. May I have your credit cards and passports, please?

While I was rummaging through my bag, I saw my phone and it dawned on me that I had left it in the airplane mode. It was as if my life before I met this man was completely pushed into some nebulous corner of my handbag. We handed our passports and cards.

The hotel seemed classy. Lots of marble and glass, a big foyer, and people everywhere. Quite busy. Through the wide glass windows, I could see the beachfront and the fading light of the evening sky over the blue Mediterranean waters. The large digital clock behind the reception desk showed the time, four forty-seven. In a far corner on the right I noticed a small crowd had gathered around a muted TV. Normal, I thought. Pretty normal.

After a while the receptionist was ready. Sea View Rooms 604 and 605. Here are the key cards, Wi-Fi passwords, and your passports. Barukh haba. Welcome to Israel.

Can we sit for a while? I asked. The madman nodded. We headed toward some invitingly comfortable sofas near the elevator.

I parked my overhead bag next to a sofa, sank in, took a deep breath, turned to him sitting next to me, and said, Okay. I have to ask. Who are you? He smiled and handed me his passport, which was still in his hand.

The moment of truth. His name was Satya Sharan, an Indian citizen. I worked out his age, which was about forty-six. This tells me nothing, I said. Just who are you?

He was silent for a while, then said, in a slight but noticeable Indian accent, We don’t have much time. You need to rest a bit. The police are looking for us and will be here soon. And then the press will hound us. It’s going to be a busy weekend.

And why should the police be looking for me? I asked, alarmed.

We were sitting together in the plane. Eyewitnesses will confirm that we arrived here in the same taxi. The Mossad may suspect that we’re involved with the terrorists. They’ll want answers.

Are we? I was beginning to panic. I mean, are you involved in anything? And we’re certainly not together.

He ignored my question and said, The conference tomorrow? Is it important to you?

I nodded, and he responded, Okay. I’ll make sure you attend. I wanted to believe him.

It seemed as if he could sense the fear building up in me. He continued. You’ve nothing to worry. I’m not in any way linked to terrorists. And no harm will come to you. I’m sorry that you were sitting next to me in the airplane.

He got up, reached over, put his hand on my head, and smiled. Go to your room and sit in meditation. I saw him walking toward the elevator and getting in. The doors closed, and I wanted to scream, but I just sat there numb-struck and completely disoriented.

What meditation? How does one even meditate? What’s going to happen? And Mossad? God, what had I gotten myself into? This wasn’t normal; I wanted normal. I needed a shower. I got up with a jerk and walked swiftly to the elevators, clutching my bag in one hand, and dragging the overhead bag with the other.

I got into my room and locked the door. Then I cried for one full minute. This wasn’t happening to me. I reached into my bag. That was where normal was hidden. As soon as I switched off the airplane mode on my phone, a flood of messages pinged in. From my boss, friends, and colleagues. Apparently, they had all watched the YouTube video and were concerned. They wanted to know where and how I was.

I pushed the YouTube thing out of my mind and spent several minutes replying to each message. Am completely okay. Reached hotel safely. Stop worrying.

YouTube? Not yet. I headed for the shower. The warm water reminded my body that all was well and normal. My face in the mirror looked the same. Thank God for that. I still looked, I’d like to think, attractive but not as much as my Chechen mother who worked as a model after she arrived to the US and before she met my American father of Spanish descent.

She had died when I was fifteen but had left me her long straight black hair, clear skin, high cheekbones, and a decent well-endowed figure with a narrow waist.