Nemesis

By John Thompson

Is it possible to escape Brindavan?

Gopala, now a young man, flees the Community only to discover that his cloistered upbringing has ill-prepared him for life in the outside world.

Anthony and Sheila, having built a new life far away from Brindavan, suddenly find that Govindas malice is able to reach across the miles endeavouring to harm them.

Meera, however, seeks to ingratiate herself with Brindavan, assuming a new identity, determined to exact revenge for her sisters death.

But will she learn that revenge brings pain and bitterness rather than gratification?

......

John Thompson published The Brindavan Chronicle:Genesis to critical acclaim in 2015. Now Nemesis takes the characters several years forward, to the outcomes - both good and bad - that they have earned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524678685

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© 2017 John Thompson. All rights reserved.

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 03/24/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7869-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7867-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7868-5 (e)

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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

Acknowledgement

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

Epilogue

To my family for their continued support and encouragement.

Acknowledgement

Once again, many thanks to Hannah Spedding for her valuable comments and suggestions.

Also, much gratitude to my son Ganesh for his wonderful cover design.

CHAPTER 1

31st December 1983/1st January 1984

Mordecai Samuels tapped his dessert spoon on his wine glass and called for silence. Those seated around the long dining table, his family and closest friends, ceased their conversation and looked to the head of the table, where Mordecai had risen to his feet. One or two looked at their watches.

‘My dear friends,’ Mordecai began, ‘it is a few minutes to midnight, and I ask you to charge your glasses with champagne in readiness to greet the New Year.’

Two waiters hired for the occasion went around the table filling champagne flutes with vintage Bollinger. Dora Samuels, seated at the other end of the table, rose and switched on the radio. The hushed voice of a BBC reporter, endeavouring to sound excited, filled the room.

‘And here in Trafalgar Square everything has fallen silent as midnight approaches. Even the revellers who have already soaked themselves in the icy waters of the fountains, and who are a little the worse for drink perhaps, are still, almost standing at attention as they await the chimes of Big Ben. And here they come … now!’

In the equally hushed dining room of the Samuels residence the sonorous chimes of the national throughout the text all dashes have no space between the words. If there is a command that can do this to all the words with dashes, that would be great; if none, just retain of what it is now rang out. There was a heart-stopping pause at the end of the carillon, when for an instant one might have thought the mechanism had failed, and then came that first thunderous BONG!! On the radio, Trafalgar Square erupted into a cacophony of cheering and shouting, a blaring of trumpets and horns, a banging of drums, and a million more unidentifiable contributions to the general hullaballoo, the words of the reporter completely lost amidst the bedlam. Around the Samuels dining table, a fainter echo of that noise was enacted as glasses clinked together and greetings were exchanged. Dora joined her husband, who kissed her rapturously, and Ben embraced Meera; all around the table couples hugged and embraced, while the men shook hands. Dora nodded to one of the waiters, who promptly turned off Trafalgar Square, and Mordecai once more tapped his glass. This time, more than a few glanced surreptitiously at their watches.

‘My dear, dear friends, I term all of you my friends, even those who are family members, for you are indeed good friends to Dora and myself. Blood is a tie that binds us together through the accident of birth, and even then often fails to create true love between members of a family, but friendship, true and staunch friendship that has stood the test of time and troubles, that is a prize worth having. I count myself blessed by God that around this table I have more true friends than I can count upon my fingers. That is not the case with too many men.

‘As you all know only too well–and you can stop looking at your watch, David!–I enjoy these New Year dinners with you all very much. It’s a tradition that dates back to those ancient days when Dora and I were first married! There were fewer of us then, and there ought to be more of us here tonight, but some have moved too far away to come, and others have passed on to a better place. I remember each and every one of them, as I’m sure you do too. So firstly, I ask you to stand and drink a toast to absent friends.’

After the toast, solemnly drunk, with more than one glittering eye as missing friends were brought to mind, Mordecai continued. ‘I have to say that this particular dinner is one of the happiest I can remember, it being the first attended by Benjamin and Meera. I think you will all agree that they are a truly handsome couple, and I ask you all to drink to their health and happiness on their first New Year as man and wife. Benjamin and Meera!’

The room echoed with heartfelt greetings as Mordecai beamed at his son and daughter-in-law. ‘And now,’ he resumed, ‘to the surprise of most of you, I dare say, I am going to sit down. Surrounded by my friends and my family, what more need a man say.’

Mordecai was never sure on these occasions whether the applause that followed his speech signified approval of his sentiments or relief that he had sat down, and perhaps it was a mixture of the two.

An hour or so later when those who were not staying had departed, and those who were had retired to their rooms, Mordecai sat in his study enjoying a large cigar. It was the only place that Dora permitted him to indulge his evil habit. ‘I meant every word I said this evening,’ he said to Ben.

Ben nodded. He knew that his father never said anything he did not mean.

‘This is the happiest New Year since I married your mother.’

‘I’m glad you’re happy, Dad.’

‘There’s only one thing could make me happier.’

‘And what’s that?’ Ben asked, although he knew full well what was coming.

‘To see my grand-children graduate from university.’

‘I’m sure you will, Dad.’

‘Benjamin! You’ve been married nearly six months and there’s nothing on the way! You’re my only child: the future of my line depends upon you. What are you waiting for?’

‘We do have a baby to bring up, you know. We thought we’d let her grow up a bit before having one of our own.’

‘I appreciate that, but I’m getting old, remember. I’ll be fifty-eight this year, which means I need to live to my eighties to see your kids into university. I’ve had a good life, no complaints; made a lot of money, and remained happy in spite of it. But money can’t buy me grand-children, Benjamin, so don’t wait too long. Make it this year, okay? Then maybe your mother will stop nagging me about it!’

‘That’s okay by me, but I’ll have to convince Meera first, remember.’

‘That girl! She’s a natural mother. Look at the way she handles little Sita, wonderful! She may be a modern woman, but she’s just dying to have her very own baby, believe me! And such good child-bearing hips too! And don’t look at me like that, boy! I’m not so old that I don’t notice such things!’

‘Okay, Dad, I’ll tell Meera we’ve got to have a kid to get Momma off your back!’

2

‘May I be the first to wish you all a very happy New Year!’ Govinda said to the assembled crowd in the darkened temple. ‘This pooja that you have attended is the perfect way for you to begin 1984, and one reason for that is that the pooja itself was conducted perfectly. On the Lord’s own instructions, we began the pooja shortly before midnight, so that when I began to pour the first libation of milk over the moorthy of Lord Krishna, our old friend Big Ben was chiming the first of his twelve strokes. This is the sort of discipline that the Lord demands of us in everything that we do.

‘This year will see the beginning of many changes at Brindavan. The numbers of devotees coming here from all over the country are swelling with each passing week, and so we shall have to grow too in order to accommodate them. We already have plans in hand to extend the temple so that more people can attend the poojas, but we shall also need to extend our parking area and build more accommodation for those who wish to stay. We shall have to provide more toilet and bathing facilities too.

‘All this will require money, and as you know, we do not charge anyone a penny for staying here. With the help of the Lord I run this ashram on a shoe-string budget, and I am confident that He will provide the funds we require to bring about these improvements. Rest assured, however, that I will never raise money by levying charges for anything that we do here. During this coming week I shall be conducting another spiritual retreat and meditation course for those who wish to follow a godly path, and I make no charge for this. It is quite wrong to put a price on spirituality, and to pick the pockets of devotees, as so many ordinary temples do. Anything that a devotee at Brindavan wishes to contribute is entirely voluntary.

‘Let me conclude on a more sombre note. As the ashram continues to grow, to the extent that it will soon be thronging with people the whole year through, I shall gradually become less accessible. This is not only for practical reasons, which will in any event make it more difficult, if not impossible, to see and speak to everybody, but also because the Lord has directed me to spend more time in prayer and meditation. He has told me that it is time to pass the reins of administration to Swami Krishnananda, and to other Swamis who will be ordained from time to time. They will keep things ticking over until our dear Gopala comes of age and is able to assume the role of spiritual leader. Lord Krishna tells me that the best way I can serve you all henceforth, and indeed the entire world, is by constant prayer, fasting and meditation. So make the most of me in the time that is left!

‘Sadly I have to inform you that when those of you who are leaving after lunch tomorrow–or rather, later today!–come to the temple for a blessing from me, it will be the last time I shall be able to do this. Already the number of devotees is so great that many are delayed in their homeward journey by having to wait merely for me to place a hand on their head. It is not necessary for me to do this to give you protection for your journey home: that comes simply from your being here and attending the pooja with devotion.

‘Enough talking! You are all hungry and thirsty, so let us perform arati and then have a party!’

‘This is all very well,’ Brother Wayne grumbled, ‘but are we still going to have to get up at five-thirty?’

‘I don’t know,’ Brother William replied, taking another thick slice of fruit cake from the tray on the table. ‘What I do know is that we don’t get cake very often, so I’m taking as much as I can while it’s there, and I’d advise you to do the same.’

‘That’s all you think about, your stomach! What about sleep? If I don’t get a good night’s sleep, I feel terrible for days, and it’s already one-thirty.’

‘Why don’t you ask Swami if there’s a pooja in the morning?’ Brother William mumbled through a mouthful of cake.

‘No thanks. You ask him.’

‘Not likely. You’re the one who wanted to know …. hey! I’d like another slice if you don’t mind!’

Brother Ronan, who had purloined the cake plate, gave Brother William a sharp look. ‘You’re beginning to look like a slice of cake, so you are!’ he retorted, taking the plate to another table, where some of the older Brothers were sitting.

The party was being held in the dining rooms, the Brothers supping with the men, and the Sisters with the women. Govinda and Simon were in the ladies’ dining room, where the former’s voice could be heard clearly by the somewhat subdued men, most of whom looked glumly towards the ladies’ room at each gust of laughter.

Brother Dennis came in from the kitchen and joined Ronan and Lionel. ‘Sounds as if the ladies are enjoying themselves,’ he muttered.

‘Swamiji likes to keep the ladies happy,’ said Lionel. ‘They did bake the cakes, after all.’

‘Well,’ Ronan ventured, ‘I suppose they’re a prettier bunch in there than us here, and that’s the truth.’

‘Still have your thing about Sister Magda then?’ Lionel quipped.

‘The saints preserve us!’

‘Cheer up, you lot!’ Govinda suddenly cried from the doorway. ‘You look like a load of wet rags!’

‘That’s because we haven’t been blessed and enlivened by your presence, like the women have,’ Ronan said.

Govinda shut the door and leaned back against it. ‘What a load of clucking hens!’ he said. ‘Cluck! Cluck! Cluck! Finally I could stand it no longer and ran away. Not one of them can talk any sense at all!’

The men grinned conspiratorially, for they all knew what Govinda meant: women were not as spiritually advanced as men. They all accepted the premise, though not one would have been bold enough to assert it in female company.

‘Move over, Brother Ronan!’ Govinda cried, playfully elbowing his follower in the ribs. ‘You’re getting fat. You must have eaten too much cake.’

‘Brother William’s the one who’s been shovelling down the cake!’ Ronan retorted.

All eyes turned towards Brother William, just as he was putting another piece of cake into his mouth. He blushed furiously, tried to speak through the cake, and began to choke.

‘Slap him on the back, Brother Wayne!’ roared Govinda. ‘No! I said slap, not tickle!’ he added, as Brother Wayne half-heartedly tapped his companion’s shoulders. ‘Why are you looking so glum? Has Brother William just eaten your last slice of cake?’

‘I was just wondering, Swamiji,’ the monk replied mournfully, ‘whether there’s going to be pooja as usual in the morning, given how late it is now.’

‘Who wants to sit up and talk and eat cake, and who wants to go for pooja in the morning?’ Govinda cried enthusiastically. He was met with a battery of assents to staying up, only one or two of the older and wiser Brothers nay-saying. ‘Well,’ Govinda shouted above the hubbub, ‘that just goes to show what a lot of rotten monks you are! Pooja will be at six as usual, so all of you get off to bed! Swami? Where on earth is Swami? Good God! I left him with the women. He’s probably been talked to death by now!’ He stood up, opened the door, and went out, making shooing motions at the men with his hands.

As the Brothers drifted away to their beds, they chuckled to themselves as they heard Govinda castigating Simon in ringing tones for his preference for the fair sex.

‘Come on ladies! The men were in bed ages ago! Pooja is at the usual time, so you’ve about four hours sleep ahead of you. Sister Magda, you look exhausted, so get off to bed. No! No protests. Sister Fiona can clear up here, and I’ll help her.’

The women went out in ones and twos, led by Sister Magda, who could be heard urging those who didn’t have their own torch to go with her. The chattering voices drifted away into the night.

Govinda sat down while Sister Fiona busied herself clearing away plates and cups, acutely conscious that her guru and Swami Krishnananda were watching her intently. She was a small girl, almost elfin in appearance, an impression enhanced by her pale skin and cropped red hair. She had freckles on her nose, and across her cheekbones.

‘Swami, you’d better get to bed too,’ Govinda said. ‘You have the pooja to do. I may come, but you take it anyway. Tell Brother Paul to lock the gates, then just to give the dog a run and then shut her up again, and get to his bed. It’s New Year’s Day, after all, and nothing untoward is going to happen now.’

He watched Simon leave, then turned his attention to Sister Fiona, who was now wiping down the tables. ‘Sister, you may leave that until breakfast.’

‘Thank you, Swamiji.’ The girl hesitated, uncertain whether she had been dismissed or not.

‘In fact, I’d like to talk to you about your progress here. I’ve been observing you, and I’m very pleased with what I’ve seen.’

‘Oh, thank you, Swamiji.’

‘I think it’s time to consider your future position here.’

Sister Fiona nodded.

‘Let’s go upstairs, where it’s more comfortable. I can let you out of the back way when we’ve had a little chat.’ He moved to the door. ‘Come.’ He switched off the lights and crossed the passage into the men’s dining room.

After a moment’s hesitation, the young novice followed.

3

After Meera and Ben had left, Dr. Chaudhury insisted that his wife went to bed early while he put all the dirty plates, pots and pans into the new dishwasher he had bought. She protested vigorously, but he was firm; firm but loving. It was a side of him she had never seen in all the years of their married life, and she marvelled that it had taken tragedy to bring out his softer side. After the passions of the first few years, when as naïve innocents both they had groped hand-in-hand along the dark and mysterious path of sexual pleasure, they had gradually come to take each other for granted. Not that the sexual side of their marriage had died; Narain, after all, had been born seven years after Geeta. But the task of establishing himself in a foreign, and sometimes hostile country, and her busy life bringing up the children and looking after the home, had become their main priorities.

Since her close encounter with Yama, the God of Death, her husband had been as attentive, considerate and loving as he had been all those years ago when they were first married. More so, in fact, for his love now was entirely unselfish, prompted by concern for her welfare rather than motivated by thoughts of lust. She was touched by it, but thought it as well not to let him see that she was so affected, for she did not want him to think that she believed him soft and sentimental to an unmanly degree. There was, after all, his male pride to consider.

How I scolded him when the dishwasher arrived! she chuckled to herself as she lay in bed waiting for him to come up. Am I bedridden yet? I said. Am I a cripple in a wheelchair? Am I so useless that you think me incapable of carrying out the simplest household tasks? The threat to employ a house-keeper had shut her up.

Dr. Chaudhury had known it was his trump card, for no self-respecting Indian matron would allow another woman into her home to run things in her place. It was true that they had had servants back in India, but things in England were not the same: there were no poor relatives willing to cook and clean for a roof over their head, no people so poor that they would tend gardens for a pittance. The very thought of an English charlady running amok in her house, touching her things, defiling her pooja room, was enough to give Mrs. Chaudhury palpitations, as her husband knew very well. They had reached a compromise: she would use the dishwasher when they had guests.

The washing machine had been an entirely different matter. She had scorned such appliances in the past, and done the family washing in the bath, which was as close to the traditional Indian method as she could get. She had scoffed at her daughters when they told her the bath was for bathing. How ridiculous! As if people would sit in water surrounded by the dirt from their own bodies! She had continued to bathe in the traditional way, pouring water over herself and letting the grime and sweat run away. She had been astonished when her husband told her that their daughters were right, and that the old scullery he had had converted into an Indian-style bathroom was not a typical feature of English houses. Nevertheless, she had continued to use the bath for washing clothes; what else was it fit for?

Dr. Chaudhury came upstairs, bringing as usual a pot of herbal tea, which they now drank each night to promote restful sleep.

‘Meera was looking very tired,’ Mrs. Chaudhury remarked. ‘Do you think she might be pregnant?’

‘My dear Gauri, firstly they were all up very late celebrating last night, and secondly, when and if she becomes pregnant I’m sure you will be the first person to be told after Ben. Since she hasn’t said anything, my professional opinion is that she is not pregnant.’

‘Why these English people have to stay up so late, I don’t know! It’s not healthy.’

‘You are quite right, my dear, but perhaps next year we shall be in a position to accept an invitation from Ben’s father, assuming we receive one. He is a good man, and I respect him a lot. It would be churlish to refuse.’

‘You only like him because you are both so old-fashioned. You have more in common with him than with our modern Indian people.’

‘Perhaps so. But it was good of Ben to bring Meera and Sita to see us on New Year’s Day after being up so late.’

‘Indeed!’ Mrs. Chaudhury’s face softened as she thought of her grand-daughter. ‘And how Sita has grown! Soon she will be one year old. We must have a party, husband.’

‘I expect the Samuels family will want to hold a party too.’

‘But she is our grand-child, not theirs. We should take priority.’ Mrs. Chaudhury folded her arms to signify that she would not be gainsaid.

‘Very well, wife,’ Dr. Chaudhury said, concealing his smile, ‘we will have a party.’

As it turned out, Mrs. Chaudhury was to be disappointed, for Meera had already decided that Sita’s first birthday party would be held in their new home, and she had inherited her mother’s determination.

4

Anthony and Sheila celebrated the arrival of the new year on their own: in truth, not entirely alone, for the child whose birth was only weeks away made its presence felt in a variety of ways, mostly uncomfortable for Sheila. The couple had moved into a flat further from the centre of town, and Tony had found Anthony a job with a friend who had a restaurant in the area. Financially things were tough, for they were living on his earnings alone, but despite this they were happy, after a fashion.

Sheila felt that she could never be entirely happy again after the traumatic events of the previous year: there would always be a hole in her heart which Gopala ought to have filled, and she would never recover entirely from the guilt she felt in respect of Jazz’s death. Mr. Willcocks had visited them before Christmas bearing gifts, but had told them that all his inquiries had drawn a blank.

As for Anthony, his dream of a yoga and meditation centre seemed even further away than ever now that he had to work all the hours he could just to make ends meet, and if he felt a tinge of regret that marriage and impending fatherhood had postponed his dream, perhaps indefinitely, he kept such feelings well hidden from his wife, and was usually able to feel up to counting his blessings.

Pregnancy had done untold wonders for Sheila’s figure, filling her out in ways Anthony found delightful. As he lay beside her in bed, gazing with wonder at breasts fuller than they had ever been before, he sighed contentedly. ‘If this is the effect of pregnancy,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll have to keep you in the family way permanently!’

‘Like hell you will, you pervert!’ Sheila grabbed a pillow and began to beat him with it, her ability to dispense telling blows hampered somewhat by her distended abdomen.

‘Unfair!’ Anthony cried. ‘I’m a gentleman, and cannot strike a woman with child!’ Cackling hysterically, he then fell off the bed. Sheila tossed the pillow after him, and lay back giggling helplessly. When their laughter had subsided, Anthony crawled back into bed, took Sheila in his arms, and kissed her hungrily. ‘On second thoughts,’ he murmured, ‘we’d better not have too many. This enforced celibacy is fraying my nerves.’

‘You ought to take up meditation,’ Sheila retorted loftily, ‘and learn how to control your senses!’

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

17 YEARS LATER

CHAPTER 2

31st December 2000/1st January 2001

‘Divine friends, as we usher in the second year of this new millennium, I have great news to impart to you. This is the last New Year pooja that will be held in this temple as it now is, for within a few short weeks the entire building will be gutted, the roof removed, and then work will begin on the construction of a great new temple. The time has come to move on, and it is no longer possible for us simply to make do with the premises we have. In the last twenty years we have extended the temple twice, and still at the great festivals it is not possible to accommodate everyone who wishes to attend.

‘We have already had plans approved for a traditional Hindu temple, which I can promise you will be more beautiful than any other temple in the Western hemisphere, and which will become a spiritual powerhouse not only for this country and Europe, but for the entire world. Artists and sculptors are coming from India to create in this remote valley so many thousands of miles from their homes, a temple to rival any other temple in the world. Very shortly we will be setting up a display of the plans, complete with an artist’s impressions of the finished structure, in a special unit in the main car park.

‘My friends, I have never asked you for money, for it is not our policy to do so. Spirituality is free to everyone. However, to enable everyone who comes to Brindavan to acquire merit that will serve them well in future births, we shall be opening a building fund. It is not compulsory for anyone to contribute, but the name of every person who does will be inscribed on a brick used in the construction, so that their name will remain part of the fabric of the temple for ever.

‘We will also shortly be publishing a schedule of the important poojas that will be taking place over the next twelve months. That is the time it will take for the new temple to be built with all proper attention to detail, and for the performing of the various poojas that will need to be carried out to establish the solid spiritual foundation that will power the temple for millennia to come. We will hold the first full pooja in the completed temple exactly one year from today, or rather, yesterday.

‘But before that auspicious day, a whole succession of important poojas will be held here, and I hope that as many of you as possible will attend them and acquire the merit and blessings that accompany them. The first will be in a few months, once the sanctuary foundations have been dug, when we inter in the ground beneath the very spot upon which the main shrine to Lord Krishna will be constructed sacred texts and mantras, objects of religious significance, and offerings of gold, silver, jewels and so on. These objects will remain in the ground forever, creating a storehouse of spiritual devotion which will be the true foundation of the temple. If you wish to make an offering, you should give your donation to one of the Swamis clearly marked with your name, for during the pooja the names of all donors will be chanted by the priests coming from India to conduct the ceremonies.

‘Returning to the present, a building will be erected shortly in the adjoining field to serve as a temporary temple. All the poojas will be conducted in the same way and at the same times, but regrettably space will be even more limited than now, so if you want to attend a pooja, make sure you come early!

‘We shall also be setting up temporary kitchen and dining facilities, and I hope that you will bear with us during this period of privation, which we must all endure while the great work for which the name of Brindavan will always be remembered is completed.

‘In the midst of these great changes, I want you all to come here as often as possible to recharge your spiritual batteries, which can run down very low when you are obliged to cope with the problems presented by the material world. Come and attend the meditation courses which the Swamis conduct every month, and experience the Divine at first hand. My friends! If you could only experience the joy I feel when I meditate upon the infinite glories of God! As I concentrate my attention upon the chakra commonly called the third eye, I see all the colours of the rainbow swirling around, faster and faster, until they merge into one brilliant white light. That light is so dazzling that it would destroy my mere earthly eyes if they were able to perceive it. It is, my friends, the light of God.’

Govinda paused for a moment to let the effect of his words sink in. ‘As I gaze at that light with my spiritual vision, a great yearning comes over me to become one with it, and just when I think my heart will burst with desire, the light opens and I am summoned through it, along a dark tunnel. The walls of my room, the temple itself, all of Brindavan have gone, and my body has been disintegrated into the billions of atoms of which it is composed–for it is not possible, my friends, to accomplish the journey to Vishnu Loka, the abode of Krishna,