Chapter 1
“Let us assume that the book you are holding, as consciously experienced by you at this very moment, is a dynamic, low dimensional shadow of the actual physical object in your actual physical hands, a dancing shadow in your central nervous system. Then we can ask: What is the fire that causes the projection of flickering shadows of consciousness, dancing as activation patterns on the walls of your neural cave?”
THOMAS METZINGER, The Ego Tunnel
“True love says ’I must stay with you, for I am eternal.”
MEISTER ECKHART, Sermon 37
1.
The plane’s captain informed his passengers that the descent was about to begin. Wes buckled up, raised the back of his seat and turned off the monitor. He hadn’t finished watching Sometimes Happiness, Sometimes Sorrow. He had seen the movie before and didn’t like the maudlin style and exaggerated manner of Shar Rukh Khan’s acting, though he liked some of the songs. He’d thought its simple, upbeat soundtrack would help him forget, but it didn’t work. Nothing was likely to make him forget. Not even the view of Delhi outside the airplane window. And landing in Delhi at night was like encountering an alien planet. Flying out of Annapolis late at night two days ago he’d seen plenty of lights outside the window too, but those had been bright, multicolored and orderly, arranging themselves into the outlines of familiar skyscrapers and streets. The lights of Delhi looked so, so different. They had a yellowish tint and were much less bright, forming patches of light, nebulae of stars that foreshadowed the chaos of the city and the jumble of noisy streets to come.
Wes looked at the mysterious, starry space beneath the plane’s wings, and thought again only of what was stuck in his head. Quite literally. Astroblastoma. Growing in his left frontal lobe, devouring healthy neurons and constantly expanding in girth. It was impossible to negotiate with it. It could not be pushed out of consciousness, and Wes again recalled the doctor’s office he had gone to after his first incapacitating headache attack...
Dr. Rosswell’s face had been very focused and Wes immediately realized that he was not going to be given any good news.
“I already have the results of the CT scan. Unfortunately, they confirmed my suspicions,” Doctor Whiteman said and showed him the photo on the screen. “That bright shape you see on the left is a tumor.”
“Is it malignant?” Wes stared at the dollar coin sized spot and still couldn’t believe it resided inside his head. However, he asked the right questions so as not to put Dr. Roswell in an awkward position. “What are the treatment options?”
“I can’t be 100 percent sure, but it’s probably an astrocytoma. Anaplastic astrocytoma,” the doctor added with haste, as if it mattered at all to Wes. “It is a little-known and quite rare form of cancer. Studies show that in fifty percent of cases it maligns and metastasizes to other parts of the brain and other organs. The good news is that in the early stages the success rate of surgery is very high, at about eighty percent.”
“And the bad news?”
“It does not respond to chemotherapy, so surgery is our only option.”
“How much time do I have to decide?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. It’s best to do it within a month.”
“And what can I expect in the near future? What kind of symptoms?”
“Well... Recurring headaches. Problems with vision. Fainting spells. Hallucinations.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad.” Wes still didn’t quite realize they were talking about his life. “Fainting and hallucinations are even pretty exciting prospects, but this pain is...”
“Please do not worry about pain. This is something modern medicine can handle very well. I will write you a prescription for several meds, including a natural remedy. I think you will start the treatment with it.” Roswell smiled like a junior high school student at the thought of his first twist and winked at Wes.
Back at home, he called Anna. She said she would come by, but Wes forbade her firmly and said he needed to be alone for a while. And that everything was ok. Anna didn’t believe him, of course, but she knew insisting wouldn’t get her anywhere. He only promised her lunch together the next day. Then he sat on the couch with a bottle of Miller and started looking through his childhood photographs. He had a whole pile of traditional prints on photographic paper at home. He had already tried several times to sort through and put them in the thick album his mother had given him for his twenty-fifth birthday, but somehow never got around to it. Now, looking at himself at the age of twelve and thirteen, he suddenly realized that he might never get the chance again. He burst into tears, then sobbed for a good hour until, completely exhausted, he curled up in a ball, covered himself with a blanket and fell asleep.
Turbulence interrupted the video he was replaying in his head for the thousandth time. The captain informed the passengers of bad weather conditions over Delhi, but assured them that they would land without delay. The plane had indeed begun to shake a bit, and Wes noted with satisfaction that the forty-year-old man sitting next to him had begun to sweat with fear. He, on the contrary, breathed a full breath. Despite a few more jerks and violent jumps, the smile did not disappear from his face until the plane touched the ground.
Indira Gandhi Airport had a new terminal. As he’d found out before his departure, one of the four largest terminals in the world. It was very modern, decorated with original bas-reliefs and huge photographs of exotic faces. In the passport control hall, huge brass hands arranged in mudras, secret gestures meant to help yoga adepts achieve moksha, liberation from the cycle of birth and death, protruded from the walls. Oh, yes, he had heard a lot about it. Anna was a regular visitor to India. She practiced yoga, meditated regularly and even had her own guru, Swami Vidyananda. It was because of her that he found himself here now, at three in the morning, unconscious from insomnia, with a lot of expectations and skeptical thoughts racing through his tortured head. She was the one who’d infected him with curiosity. She was the one who’d told him about the strange and fascinating world of yogis, beggars, sacred cows and holy sages. And it was her who’d suggested the idea of body and mind therapy at her guru’s yoga center. Ayurveda, she said, is a medicine that cures the most hopeless cases and has no side effects. A three-week stay at Vidyananda’s ashram would certainly not worsen his condition, and perhaps, by some miracle, save him from risky surgery.
The prospect of having his skull split, even if in sterile and controlled conditions, didn’t tempt him one bit. In fact, he was panicky and almost as afraid of the surgery as he was of the tumor itself, so Anna didn’t have to persuade him for long. An additional reason was the chance to go on an exotic adventure, a journey, an escape. Perhaps the last one in his life. He made his decision the same day after lunch. He informed his boss, who, although he badly needed Wes for a new promotional campaign, understood the gravity of the situation and gave him a holiday without any second thoughts. Wes booked his ticket online, called his mother and told her some rough-hewn lie about training in India, then packed his bags, got on the plane, and lo and behold, was handing his passport to an Indian man wearing a black turban on his head and filling out a customs declaration. He was in India. Irrevocably.
