Mushroom
You would have spotted us if you were an angel. We wouldn’t have been very visible, I admit. You would have seen two sad yellow lights streaming ghostly yellow dying beams on the darkness below- on that bottomless blackness of a sullen unforgiving sea.
You would have spotted, this way, my boat, alone, leaving a trail reminiscent of the undead. You would have wondered for a second or more on what a boat might be doing alone, so far away from land, in such dull darkness and then you would have gone on. We would have continued with our existence below, undisturbed.

There were three of us. He, I and the almost dead remains of the man whose name I do not remember. I would find out his name, remember it all over again, when all this is over. Perhaps, you would know it, if you find this piece that I am writing now, ahead of the time I intended it for you. Because that would indicate that circumstances and fate lead me nowhere, despite everything else. That would be unfair. I do not wish such an end on myself.
I cannot remember well how we made our way into this glorious tale. I remember its origin can be traced to a myth that predates our civilization.

It was in those times that there lived the followers of Dionysus. They traversed the earth with him all the way to India and back. He had evil women with him, that God, who called themselves the Maenads. I imagine them as these ladies of fabulously well endowed upper halves, unashamed to let them be seen and admired, if anyone dared to that is, with whip like strands of dark hair, wet with lust and such exercise. Their eyes were red, teeth a little yellow and lips too red, with the foul breath of the continuously drunk. They ran with terrific purposeless energy draped in loose streaming strands of cloth tearing apart Greek children found wandering the streets en route. Women who did not pretend similar liberated insanity would also meet the same fate. Such was the following that Dionysus had and they roamed the earth and conquered everything in their path.
I am raving here myself, distracted from the story I set out to put down, but such is the power of the God, I describe. Bear with me. Tales of wondrous feats keep my mind away from the despair and depression that stare at it unblinking eye to wavering gaze.
Dionysus conquered India with this insatiable squadron and returned home after many an exploit, rape, pillage and squalor. They had imbibed of the essence of a mushroom, the God and the devotees, which gave them such powerful lunacy and the complete loss of self and reality. Many believe that the potion was but wine, but I know that it was not so. It was a humble mushroom – a dung mushroom to be precise- that imparted such unspeakable prowess over the mind, setting it free of limitations and filling it with the most enjoyable hallucinations. But the cursed product had an after effect. It enervated the body and soul, making the men, who had feted its magic so recently, feel as impotent as the dead, when its effect faded. So it happened that the Great Dionysus and his hoards were annihilated in battle the moment they returned to their homeland, unable to will their bodies to move –a will suddenly sapped of all energy.

I sought this mushroom. I had read of these tales so often, from so many sources. Legends of its magic had passed through many generations and its genus and origin had long been identified. For decades I quested after this piece of magic. It took over my soul. I abandoned all sense of purpose and ambition. I know not what happened to those that I loved before, before my mind was invaded by this divine herb. Why would I be so infatuated with something so obviously a creation of barbaric minds- a footnote in mythology’s obvious lies? I do not know; maybe because I have read accounts from trusted intellectuals and experts of the existence of such a species. It granted me deliverance from my own obsessions: the single object for my life that made everything else that I undertook a shadow-ephemeral and insubstantial. So I hid myself away from them who loved me. I deserted my vocation, my tribe and my country. I roamed the streets of Greece as a fruit seller and at night continued my obsessive search. I found sources. A few cultivated it and traded in it discreetly, with only those whose wealth and power could afford the responsibility. They were unreachable. Their footsteps led to labyrinths that ended in vortices of pain and hazardous poisons. However, there will always be vice to find a profit motive and break any circle of discretion. In this case, there were two. One was Him.

He sits now in one corner of the boat, hearing me debate with myself if human sacrifice would be forgiven in a court of law, given the circumstances. He sits there, absorbed in thought, although his tall athletic body with musculature resembling that of a God’s, misleads one into judging him as a man less of thought and more of beauty. He is fearful to look at and his countenance, though handsome, has a hint of anger. He is weakened of course now, but it does not show. I would love to stand close to him and feel the fear rush through my blood, pondering on the next possibility of him raging, frothing and attacking me. I would fall at his feet and pray to him, like I would to a God.
He had never used it on himself. He did not need it. His life, He told me, on one occasion when He deemed to speak to me in a tone that could hint at friendliness, was stuffed with enough excitement as it was. I met him alone, near an abandoned railway station, on a hot dusty afternoon. It was not difficult to recognize Him although I knew him only as instructional replies to my sweaty, devious wanderings through the squalid side alleys of the internet. He had been curt, professional and promptly responsive to my amateur queries and lurid doubts. He was patient with my ignorance and forgiving of my lack of the same virtue. He seemed to see only one motive in a dealing-profit. Such is His impious sense of mischief. He pointed a gun at me and made me walk into a foul smelling asbestos shed near by. He wanted to be sure that I was the one I pretended to be. He patted my bag, found the wallet and relieved it of the money I carried for Him. He flung a small plastic packet with five dark dried mushrooms at me and cocked the gun. He acted as if we were being followed. He made to move out, leaving me behind with my stash. I opened the packet with unseeming haste and nibbled gently at one mushroom. He ran back into the shed and closed the door tight, immersing the hell hole into darkness. Footsteps and loud male voices ran around us. A shot was fired. I swallowed.
I sank to the ground, my body gripped by unspeakable pain. I was drenched in sweat. My eyes shut by themselves and my teeth bit my tongue as if to severe it. Tremors seized by body. A lizard fell on my right foot and writhed its way up my leg. Its cold slithering feet made me want to scream out loud. I did. He kicked me in the abdomen. The pain was in my head. The lizard moved up and rested on my forehead. I could see the tip of its tail on my eyebrow. It made a clicking sound that seemed to speak of death. The footsteps quickened as men spoke in an unknown tongue laced with menace. They were now pounding the door with their hands. They laughed. I thought there were worms in my brain- small, purple wretched creatures that curved their bodies through the blood stream into my thoughts. I spat one out. It came out as white foam.
The door opened streaming bright light in and I rolled out. I had never realized that it stood on four immense wooden pillars. I was falling head down, facing these scratched, mud brown, somber structures. My brain shut down to meet the inevitable. The wind rocked my free falling corpse. I realized I was on a boat, wet with lashing sea water, in the middle of nowhere. He was standing over me. He cursed me for being so old and useless. I protested. He smiled at my confusion. I realized it was His divine humor. My eyes saw him for what He really was, at that moment, as his well crafted frame towered over my supine useless one. I had been blessed. It was Him, not a dark, shifty, dangerous, and unknown denizen of the internet, with no glory or divinity. My mind was overcome by a clarity that I can never put in words. To me, this old man of no consequence, had been revealed the Answer; and by none other than the God I had sought all my life. I felt exhausted, yet exalted. His omnipotence filled me with an energy that would have made me lift a planet on my shoulders, if He wished it to be so. I was connected to everything and to Him, in ways I never understood before. I ran towards Him. He stepped away in playful disgust. Behind Him, stood another, uninterested in what was going on. I seized him by the shoulders and tried to tell him to see the Light. He was bleeding from the right shoulder and seemed too much in pain. He was singing out loud. He told me, in his thunderous deep voice, not to touch him, unless I wanted myself framed for murder. I danced ecstatically around the dying man, to release his Soul to the God. He slapped me hard on the back of the head and I collapsed from the blow. I hit the hard wood of the boat and slipped into darkness.
We’ve been on this boat for three days now. So He tells me. He tells me we have been left here to die, by the men who wanted the secret, the Truth, to disappear with us. They had set us afloat in the middle of nowhere. It would take us thirty more days, if we were lucky, to spot a glimpse of land. He told me I had been through a seizure and was now a raving lunatic. He said this with no sympathy or anger; as plain fact. Who was the third? A man, He had wounded in the quick pointless battle. He had been left adrift with us to add excitement to our lives by those treacherous souls.
My mind is tortured by the clash of voices within me. I know Him to be the God I seek. And yet, there He sits in silent contemplation, impotent. I anoint his feet with my tears, but he kicks my face away, when I try to kiss them, calling me an old fool. I catch him staring at me, now and then, as I write this on these currency notes, I found on the dying man. His stare tells me nothing. Is this a trial, I wonder? How do I succeed? And if I do, what do I gain? I have already been given a glimpse of the knowledge that I sought, the sweet poison that opened my mind and revealed Him to me. What more could this soul need?
There is the heat: the unforgiving sun blinding me and scalding my skin. The water grates the throat and smells of effluents. The stomach churns up acid and burns holes through the linings. What more should I do? Should I stand on one leg in a yogic pose, arms stretched above my head and pray for waters from above. I tried but I collapsed week and feeble, in a minute. He saw me in my futile effort at a penance and laughed scornfully.
The dying man has started singing again. He has been singing for ever it seems now. Death does not visit him in a hurry. So he sings paeans to his Gods. He has a deep voice that seems to originate from the depths of his body. Gurgles of blood in the throat and rasps of an injured lung impede the flow, giving the songs a ghastly turn. His songs turn my empty stomach, reminding me of my thirst, the merciless heat and the death that awaits us. I do not understand what he sings of, but they seem to be invocations of not mercy but vengeance on us. His eyes stare at me in mockery and hate, fixed upon me. He goes silent, every time He makes a move. His moves though are no longer the graceful dance of masculine ability. This emboldens the Demon. He sees me writing these words and spits out his venomous prayers.
His voice reminds me of my dark sins, worms, defecation and lust. I scream vengeance.
A hundred female forms seek to invade my thought and pillage my body. They are crones, hags, lustful dirty whores and pestilent diseased. They moan in pain and covetousness. I feel them within as the song and its wretched words invade me. Their fingers claw at parts of my body that a woman has not touched for decades now. Were these the Maenads? Or were these the Furies unleashed? They take shapes most repellant-reptiles, amphibians and arthropods, kissing and caressing my body with cold long tongues and hairy limbs. Their faces scarred and scaled by a thousand wrinkles pressed against mine, watery dull eyes filled with bad intent. I begged them to stop. I grew despite my shame and repulsion. He was watching it, distant. I cried for mercy, for help, for release.
I stopped the singing. I killed it forever. Where lies such rage and power in these old limbs, I do not know. I tore him apart and fed him to the sea. He stopped me from throwing it all away, asking me if I would rather take his place. He has placed his head on top of the boat, spiked, for good luck. He looks at me with eyes that tell me nothing He says He is glad I did the dirty work.The day has ended and the full moon rises. The night is dark and lonely yellow blackness surrounds us again. I am ecstatic. He has promised to throw me out with my precious scribbles into the sea, for I looked too sick to keep Him alive. I tell Him that it is of His glory that I write. He makes to grab this humble offering. I give it willingly.

Tuesday
It was a day for missed flights. He was at the air station- suitcase in hand. He was told that the flight had left an hour back and he could have his money back please minus the cancellation fee of course. He had felt that something like this would happen the moment he had woken up that morning; the newspaper was not folded right when he had opened the hotel room’s door. The news print was too dark- facing up and the picture side was down, pictures kissing the dark grey carpet floor. He often did this- attributing portentous reasons to every day coincidences- like a Hero- living a myth in his own universal microcosm.
Now he was here at the crowded unwelcoming stark whiteness and steel of the airport, with not much to do. What happened now, now that he was stuck in point A and not B? Had life moved on while he waited behind? How much further? Had his incompetence changed the world and turned it in a new direction-an unplanned unintended direction-by a couple of hours? A day? Forever?
Images rushed through his head, as he darted from the counter to the next to get himself on to another flight: mother waiting for him at the airport, long clean white legs of cabin girls, bland sandwiches in cold plastic wrap, Penelope Cruz.
Penelope Cruz? Why on earth would he think of her now? What relevance did she have with anything that could be related to his current situation or the sagely contemplation he was indulging himself in- in the midst of the anxious pursuit of a ticket?
This was not the first time that this had happened. She popped up like this once too often, unconnected to trains of thoughts or fruits of actions.
This time though, the way she made her appearance-as if wading through a coalesced glue of uncalled for memories-made him pause a bit. There were certain physical repercussions to this mental appearance that were now not extremely appropriate or impossible to manifest, being as he was in between flights and ticket counters. He would need to make his way to the nearest washroom. It was late enough for the washrooms to be empty. There in one washroom, he looked at himself in the clean mirrors that projected his image against white walls, plastic paper holders and antiseptic smells. Unshaved, unwashed, with his thinning hair out of place, he did not like what he saw. He splashed water on his face and found that the paper left forty two white specks in its path to self destruction, against his stubble. He wiped them off with the sleeves of his shirt and ruffled his hair with some dry paper. Having done this he felt more confident of facing a world outside that was uninterested in him. Then, he saw her there.
The sight of a woman passing him by, nonchalantly, within the confines of a men’s washroom did not strike him as extraordinary at first. When the incongruity struck him, he realized it was her, Ms Cruz. His mind raced on. He stared at the passing female image, with that impotent stare, often mistaken for lechery, but what was actually a feeble admiring gesture that was also despairing at the inability to act. He wondered what he could tell her. Should he walk up to her and tell her how much he liked her in that movie where she sang and cooked food for film crews, low plunging neck lines revealing her sweet beauty? Would that be effrontery? Should he ask her how it felt to make out with that callipygian actress in the Woody Allen film? Trivia. She had dated Tom Cruise and played whatshername to his Dylan memory like the album cover of Free Wheelin’. She was a vague definition of beauty for him, startling yet at first look, ordinary.
When he decided that he would approach her like a gushing fan and make a fool of himself, saying something like “Big Fan”, she had disappeared.
She had never been there, he thought. Of course, he knew that all along. It was the lack of sleep, he told himself- the result of early morning cold taxi rides to missed flights with the promise of fitful sleep, strapped to a chair, a thousand feet above sea level. He tried ruffling his hair into a better pattern, once more, and walked out of the washroom.
The best thing to do now was to get a ticket for the next day and go back home. He could if he hopped counters some more, get himself a ticket on a flight some five hours later. But that would involve hanging around in the airport, in its cool aseptic afternoon quiet, trying to read a book and longing for company. Or sight Penelope again.
The best the woman behind counter number five could give him was a flight at nineteen hundred hours which would cost him fifty nine five hundred. He would land the next day.
Eight hours at the airport then, and reaching Point B twenty four hours late. He made three quick phone calls to salvage the situation a bit and made his way to a recliner facing the landing bay.
“Who knows what tomorrow brings”, he sang, a little too loud, loud enough to wake up the snoring obese gentleman on the seat next to him.
Pretending to read a book, he started counting the seconds, the minutes and the hours till he finally closed his eyes to sleep.