a hybrid of narrative, dialogue, and free-form poetry…

MY JOURNEY ACROSS AN OUTLANDISH LAND, ATOP A REEKING DROMEDARY, IN SEARCH OF FRESH WATER, FIGS, AND WHAT THE SADHU REFERRED TO AS ‘SWEET NECTARS’…


He’d been fired in a wave of cut-backs, his woman had disowned him, his creative enthusiasm for life was at an all time low, and in the last year (or so) arthritis had begun availing itself to several of his joints. He was disillusioned, now, most of the time, and his yearning for something different, something that would reenergize and redirect his energies in a more positive way, was at an all time high. Following a time of whining, kicking cans, and half-hearted supplication, Providence lovingly intervened in his life and a new path was given. After cashing out his investments, freeing himself from stuff, paying off his debts, and tithing to a local charity, he boarded an inter-continental flight, and after two days of white-knuckled expeiences arrived in Kathmandu where an adventurous reinterpretation of midlife miseries would commence…
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On this pilgrimage
He sought no austerity
Or earthly riches
No pleasures
No power
Or enlightenment
His imagination would be wings
Elevating him to a far & faithful star
Where a flame - that after being kindled -
Would burn brightly within his hearts earthen lamp
And in so doing allow the ashes of a quondam life
To be sprinkled upon a river of newness…

My first encounter with the Sadhu was arranged by a friend who’d met the Nepalean on a vacation he’d taken several years previous. I was informed that the man was special, and that I shouldn’t be taken by his colorfully gonzo appearance. In spite of this I was shocked speechless when I first laid eyes on him. He began laughing when he saw me staring.

Around him was a danda, (walking stick) a brass kamandalu, (water pot) a newspaper, a blanket, an incense burner, a pack of Marlboro’s, and an iPhone I assumed was used for transacting business with people like me. Following a short introduction I briefly explained the course of action I was considering. Staring at me queerly he said nothing. To lessen the uneasiness I mentioned the friend who had referred me. Nodding methodically, his eyes suddenly livened and he began laughing hoarsely.

“A most jocular soul,” he smiled as he reached for his pipe.

“Yah … he’s a funny guy alright,” I agreed.

“For your sacred pilgrimage you must ride upon these,” the old Sadhu motioned towards two camels under a crude shelter.

“Those? Come on!” My eyes widened. “No way man!”

“Call me Baba, Samsa.” Grinning he filled his pipe with fragrant hashish.

“How much Baba?” I asked.

“A deal for you at five hundred rupees, Samsa…”

“Hmmm… not bad; how long can I have them for?”

Baba exhaled a thick cloud of pungent smoke and coughed.

“Two months,” Baba sputtered after a second toke.

“Sounds fair,” I nodded.

“Despite what trials you may encounter, Samsa, carry on in all joy, persevering in faith. Bring scotch; the camels like scotch at night. Don’t sleep close; they drop much; no warning; very smelly. Somewhere in that distant desert, Samsa, you will surely find the inspiration you are seeking, and, perhaps, even the sweet nectars of Chandra’s nipples…”

“HUH … what’s that?” My interest ignited.

Baba didn’t respond.

So I handed 500 rupees
to an inner sanctum holy man, or perhaps
just a wily stoned ascetic seeking
bliss in cannabis clouds,
given to rigorous self-discipline and a
perpetual war of overly cerebrated selfness-
another wordless ascetic - with twined dreadlocks &
designs of red ochre and white adorning
a leathery tegument - perched
cross-legged
on granite steps
in ritualized deportment,
enjoying an American Marlboro;
puffing away in clouds of blue smoke
as he sought his fanciful bodiless someone
somewhere for enlightenment,
a philosophic renunciate,
REEKING
of sandalwood paste and body odor
with glazed holy red eyes (agaze) after smoking an
outstandingly potent chillum of hashish…

Two months later…

How honest the quest,
and knotty my grim endeavors,
bouncing each day wearily on a barren land,
beneath a relentless sun, upon a pair of
reeking scotch loving dromedaries -
whose explosive ca-ca could
be used as a weapon -
in search of
some unspecified
thing (eye) felt certain (eye)
would recognize
if ever (eye)
encountered it,
grieving, frightfully, too,
at the abundance of (eye’s) having
found their way into my holy thoughts
on a sacred pilgrimage intended purely to
re-discover SELFLESSNESS and to ignite anew
the cold embers of a flameless heart…


Alas…was (eye) once again doomed to failure?



richard lloyd cederberg