It all began in the corners of my eyes on the drive home from work. Coming to a halt at a traffic light near the Lemon Street junction, I saw a single axle delivery truck speeding towards its destination on the other side of the road. Weaving in and out of traffic, the driver had a cigar clenched tightly in tobacco stained lips; he seemed insensible to all save his next destination, and the grind of making his daily quota was etched on his face. The street was congested with more traffic than usual; it was miserable. All vying for position; everyone seemed preoccupied, especially those driving in their air-conditioned yuppie cocoons. It was stiflingly humid and people shuffled along glumly on the sidewalks; all were seeking relief from the torrid heat.

Across the street, nearer the tracks, I saw pedestrians milling near a lamp post and an empty news stand. Three were passing a liter of coke back and forth. Two were sharing a cigarette, and one was ardently rubbing her temples in an effort, I assumed, to subdue a heat headache. I could hear several complaining that the train was late again; most were glancing down the tracks, and at their watches, as if this ritual would somehow speed the train’s arrival. Heat waves were shimmering off the blacktop in the hundred degree heat, and I could see an old derelict man pouring a bottle of water over his head. Several cars behind me two men had left their vehicles and were out on the street posturing like roosters with one another; the argument was escalating. Another street fight would be ensuing, I imagined, and I shook my head in disdain. On a whim, I checked to see if my 357 magnum was under the seat – it was.

Four young degenerate’s in baggy low slung pants lit cigarettes in unison as half a dozen young girls departed a community school bus on the adjacent corner. All living breathing examples of modern fashion, the girls were dressed scantily; pierced navels, too much breast showing, too much leg showing, haughty expressions, too much of everything showing except good sense and intelligence. Not at all furtive in their actions, the boys began ogling and posturing boldly as the young women swaggered by several feet in front of them. After they had all passed, and were several yards away, one of the girls turned defiantly and flipped the boys off. All their faces clouded at once and the girls began snickering with dark expressions. It seemed they didn’t think the boys were all that “cool” after all. After a series of expletives were exchanged, the agitated young men turned on heel and shuffled towards the gate crossing, while the young women moved away down the platform. I glanced briefly to see if the traffic light had changed — it hadn’t.

In the distance the repetitive clicking of steel wheels on steel tracks was singing and the approaching train’s horn began blaring. Tip lights, and buck lights, began flashing, bells began clanging, and the crossing gate slowly descended to protect the approach. Everyone milling by the snack dispensers, and along the platform, ran to the loading lines and waited for the train to stop so they could board. The last few who hadn’t done so, bought their tickets with frantic expressions. The two men arguing behind me had been approached by a policeman; in an authoritative voice, both were sternly instructed to return to their vehicles immediately. Still red-faced, both re-entered their vehicles and slammed the doors. I could see the officer’s watchful eye and an unwavering hand on his weapon as they moved away.

The next few moments were a blur …

As the train rolled into the station everyone adjusted their clothes and glanced at their watches again in preparation to board. The traffic light was still red to accommodate the train, and some around me had begun revving their motors impatiently. The beat officer had now approached a disheveled man sitting on the sidewalk drinking from a bottle hidden in a brown bag. A frantic woman, pushing a stroller, bolted across the tracks in front of the train so she could board on the correct side. The old man who had earlier poured a bottle of water over his head, was now rubbing his face and had begun stumbling backwards towards the approaching train.

Suddenly I heard many people screaming! As the train moved into the station, the crossing guards rose up and the lights changed. Glancing to the left, as I moved away, my heart sank and I began to weep. I could see the old man had somehow been hit and dragged by the train as it came to a screeching halt. There was nothing left of him but parts.

Richard Lloyd Cederberg

I had proposed to publish here, once a year, texts by Carlos Castañeda, an anthropologist who influenced my generation with his tales of meetings with Mexican sorcerers. For lack of space, I have not done so since 2004. Today I woke up thinking: Castañeda, despite all his critics and all his work that later on seemed so disorderly to me, should not be forgotten. So here we present some of his reflections.

Intention is the important thing: for the old sorcerers of Mexico, intention (intento) is a force that intervenes in all aspects of time and space. To be able to use and manipulate this force calls for impeccable behavior. A warrior’s final goal is to be able to lift his head above the rut where he is confined, look around him, and change what he wants. To do so he needs to have discipline and pay attention all the time.

Nothing is easy: nothing in this world is given as a present: everything has to be learned with a great deal of effort. A man who seeks knowledge must have the same behavior as a soldier going to war: absolutely attentive, afraid, respectful and utterly confident. If he follows these recommendations, he may lose the odd battle but he will never cry over his fate.

Fear is natural: fear of the freedom that knowledge brings us is absolutely natural; however, no matter how terrible the apprenticeship may be, it is worse to live without wisdom.

Irritation is unnecessary: becoming irritated with others means giving them the power to interfere in our lives. It is imperative to overcome this feeling. By no means should the acts of others distract us from our only alternative in life: coming in touch with the infinite.

The end is an ally: when things begin to get confused, a warrior thinks about his death and immediately his spirit returns to him. Death is everywhere. Think of the headlights of a car following us along a winding road; sometimes we lose sight of it, sometimes it appears to be too close, sometimes the headlights go out. But this imaginary car never stops (and one day catches up with us). The very idea of death gives men the necessary detachment to go ahead despite all their tribulations. A man who knows that death is approaching every day tries everything, but without feeling anxiety.

The present is unique: a warrior knows how to wait, because he knows what he is waiting for. And while he waits, he wants nothing, and in this way anything he receives — however small — is a blessing. The common man worries too much about loving others, or being loved by them. A warrior knows what he wants – that is all in his life and that is where he concentrates all his energy. The common man spends the present acting as winner or loser, and depending on the results he becomes persecutor or victim. The warrior, on the other hand, worries only about his acts, which will lead him to the objective he has traced for himself.

Intention is transparent: intention (intento) is not a thought, nor an object, nor a desire. It is what makes a man triumph in his objectives and lifts him up from the ground even when he has delivered himself up to defeat. Intention is stronger than man.

It is always the last battle: the warrior’s spirit does not complain about anything, because he was not born to win or lose. He was born to fight, and each battle is the last that he is waging on the face of the Earth. That is why the warrior always leaves his spirit free, and when he gives himself to combat, knowing that his intention is transparent, he laughs and enjoys himself.

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/warrioroflight/

http://www.warriorofthelight.com/engl/index.html

As her car turned the corner, Vimala saw the girl sitting alone on the park bench, brooding, and her eyes brightened in pleasure. Not a soul around. The girl was beautiful, subtly–fair, flimsy, and slender. Wearing a light blue churidar embossed with golden flowers, she had so crouched on the bench that her straight black hairs partly hid her face. Vimala understood, her quota was to be met.

Mumbai’s Red Street is one of flesh trade. It is the meeting place of shifty, crafty pimps, bloodthirsty love seekers, and cheated nubile girls, traded like chickens for big money. The losers are always these innocent girls, who, despised by the blue-blooded and the pimps alike, are forced to die by HIV or resort eventually to suicide.

It is to that contaminated, disgusting corner of the world, that Vimala and her boss traded unsuspecting girls. Her boss was a short dark man, who wore a pair of dark spectacles, always! He was a sadistic monster in the cassock of a calm priest.

Vimala pulled the car over and quickly made a call from her cell phone. She got off the car, nudged the door shut, and approached the girl with a break-the-ice smile.

She was generally fat and fair in her traditional-looking saree. But scarlet rouge on the lips, rich facial, and a sleeveless blouse made her a queer fish in this part of the world. It was obvious to anybody how she struggled to look younger.

Though Vimala got very near her, the girl, still immersed in her speculation, didn’t seem to notice. Vimala checked her out with a sly smile in that moment. What a pretty thing! I am lucky, she thought. She leaned on the girl and said, “Honey, what are you doing here alone?” With a start, the girl looked up. Her expressive eyes were light blue, with some emotion as deep as the ocean.

The conversation ensued in Malayalam, the local tongue.

“N-nothing,” the girl replied. Bewilderment on her lean face and uneasiness in body language articulated her gullible nature. As she recovered from her reverie, she pressed closer a college bag, awkwardly. Vimala smiled amicably as she sat beside her.

“Honey, are you all right? As I was passing by, I saw you sitting here, apparently sad. So, I felt I should check on you. You know people, especially when they find a beautiful girl alone around here. Anything can happen!” Vimala’s ability to convey the most natural act was accentuated by her supporting posture and caring countenance. She was better than pros!

“No eh–” The girl still felt awkward near Vimala.

“Call me auntie. My name is Puja. I am a doctor and mother to a kid of almost your age. That’s my car over there.” She pointed to her Hyundai Santro.

“Oh! Good to meet you, auntie. My name is Sita. Doing my graduation from the Women’s College,” said the girl pleasantly. But her eyes retained a stagnant dampness.

“No college today?” Vimala asked.

“The principal wouldn’t let me in without my fee. And I have no money.”

“Oh! Your principal is a bad fellow.”

“No. It’s my mistake. He had no choice.”

During their conversation, a black Forester minivan pulled over behind Vimala’s car, and its side windowpane gradually came down revealing the short dark boss man, with his perpetual black specs on. His eyes scanned the girl with Vimala. After a minute long ominous brooding, his hand gestured to his driver. The minivan drove past the Santro, out of view. Vimala’s peripheral vision caught all this, without any change of manners.

“Dear, what do your parents do? Why don’t you have enough money?” She continued the conversation.

“My father owns a little shop in our village that sells things like pan, cigarettes, and banana. The income is rather low. Mostly, our family lives at 2000 rupees a month. But the fee is far above that.”

“Uh-oh! That’s very unfortunate.” Vimala touched on the girl’s shoulder, as if to console her.

“Yes, auntie. My father paid it last year with borrowed money. But not every time, right?” Sita looked away to suppress her pain. Despite her corrupt intents, Vimala felt slight compassion in the deepest corner of her heart for the girl. She saw her own childhood for a moment, looking down, but soon returned to the task at hand. But throughout the talk, Vimala felt something hidden in the girl. She was a lot different from other girls of her age. Not a normal girl, something weird about her.

As their conversation continued and their acquaintance grew thicker, Sita’s face gained back her usual cheerfulness, and that dampness in her eyes faded. Many state transport buses roared past them, and one of them suddenly caught her attention. “There comes my bus.” Sita stood up and strapped her bag over her shoulder. “Bye, auntie, it’s good to talk to you,” she said.

“No, wait my dear. Don’t go so quickly; we are friends now. I would like you to come to my little cottage off the city, and have a drink with me. I will drop you off to your home by the evening.” Vimala said quickly.

“No, auntie. Next time, please; my bus has come. I need to go.”

“Hold, honey. You are just like my own child. We are good friends now. Won’t you agree? So, you should not disappoint me like that.”

Vimala gripped the girl’s hand and pulled her back to the sitting position. Right then her cell phone rang from her vanity bag. She excused Sita and walked a little away to attend the call. She spoke in a more hushed voice, holding the cell closer to her mouth. Sitting waiting, Sita could have run to the bus, which was almost full by now and was about to move. But Sita felt it wrong to run away abruptly like that, and she sat there watching the bus, which was presently starting up with dust flying behind.

After the call, Vimala smiled at Sita and said, “My husband, from the US. Oh, the bus is gone? Come dear, you will enjoy in my cottage.”

“No, thanks, auntie. I must get back home. I will wait the next bus.”

Vimala was only a passing acquaintance to Sita, who would rather dodge her with some excuse. But Vimala could never allow it to happen. It was her concern–to meet her quota and get no blow from her boss. He was a powerful man, who could exterminate the God, just as he did from the lives of hundreds of poor girls.

“My dear, we are friends now. Treat me exactly as you would your mom. We will let your parents know where you are, okay? Give me your home telephone number.” Sita showed her lame protest looking around as if trying to find some excuse, but it was obvious that Vimala’s tactics had succeeded.

“383388, I don’t have a phone back home. This number belongs to my neighbor,” said the girl. Vimala snatched out a cell phone–a different model this time–and dialed the number enthusiastically. She pressed the call button and handed the phone to the girl.

“Sita, tell them that you are with a friend, and may be a little late to reach home.”

Sita held the cell phone awkwardly close to her mouth with both hands and spoke, “Is it Mary auntie speaking? I am Sita here… Could you give it to mom …Thanks.”

It was not her mother, but Gita, her sister that attended the call. “Hello, Chechi. Where are you calling from?” A sense of urgency echoed in Gita’s words. “Something wrong happened here. Father’s in hospital. Will you come home now?”

“Gitu, what you mean? Father in hospital? What happened?”

“Zamindar Vasu Pillai had sent two thugs in the morning. As the due dates of the debt had passed, they were violent and beat father up badly. He fell down with a severe chest pain, and lost consciousness. Mom took him to the General Hospital, Chechi. Mary auntie and George uncle helped her. There is no cash left. How will we pay for his treatment?” Gita’s voice stuttered, and she was near tears.

The words shattered Sita. For a moment, she stared in shock, and tears trickled down her cheeks. “M-my father!” She mumbled and buried her face in palms.

The sudden change in Sita’s manners surprised Vimala. “What happened, dear? What’s wrong with your dad?” She touched her shoulder and leaned closer.

“My poor father,” said the girl wiping her tears, “They beat him up and he is admitted to the hospital. He had a heart failure. Back home, there is no money left for his treatment.” Her voice wavered.

“My goodness! Who did it? What really happened,” Vimala acted her confusion to perfection. Good idea! Now she had a surefire way to lure the girl away. And after a moment’s pause, she said as amicably as possible, “Not to worry, my dear. I am fortunately very rich, and I will pay for your father’s treatment.”

Sita’s face lit up in hope after a moment of embarrassment. Her eyes flashed. “Auntie, maybe god sent you to me. I will definitely repay your debt.”

“Of course we can talk of the repayment terms later, Sita. I am doing this to a friend. Come with me now. Let’s get to my cottage and bring enough money for the hospital. Which hospital is he admitted by the way?”

“Here, in the General Hospital.”

“Come, Sita, we should not waste time.”

“Yes, auntie.” Sita stood up and wiped her tears.

Those words produced a sly smile on Vimala’s lips. She had won. As they approached her little car, she saw the Forester minivan in the distance; her boss’s black-spectacled eyes were scanning them through the windshield. She lowered her pace and as she got behind Sita, put her thumb up at the minivan. As Sita hesitated at the door, Vimala opened it for her.

A slow fifteen-minute drive took them to Vimala’s beautiful lakefront cottage. She had chosen to come here to have her ‘new find’ freshen up and be ready for her long trip to the Red Street. As soon as the girl was ready, Vimala would telephone her boss and get his men to take her.

Everyday, a bunch of new girls were required and some lovers were prepared to pay even a million rupees for slim, sexy virgins. The only difficulty was abduction. And for that, the big boss employed charming, well-dressed, blue-blooded-looking vixen-pimps like Vimala allover the southern state of Kerala, his hunting ground.

“You go, get fresh, dear,” Vimala told Sita when they reached the cottage. “There on the table, you will find everything you need. Let me also take a bath. Afterwards, we will move to the hospital.” She secured her soap, towel, and certain cosmetics and walked away with a smile.

Thrown-out assortment of items on the table included some nifty autograph books, all sorts of cosmetics, one or two old books full of dust, condoms, a knife, and a leather-bound erotica album with thick green cover and a frightening photograph on it. The album, labeled ‘Ente Swargam’ (My heaven) had Vimala’s picture with a black-spectacled short dark fellow, a beast who took the pose of Adonis. Sita recognized him as the same fellow to whom Vimala had waved as she was about to get into the car. That incident had seeded doubts in her mind at that time.

After exploring the cottage a little and making sure was Vimala was indeed bathing, she secured the knife and the album and went into her bathroom. After closing the door carefully and locking it from inside, she sat down on a corner and opened the album to her horror.

Sita closed her eyes shut and faced away for a full minute. There were so many pictures inside of people engaged in terrible hanky-panky. After regaining her courage, she found Vimala herself in some of them, naked. In some others, there were photographs of girls of her age, coerced to sexual intercourse with middle-aged Neanderthals. One of the pictures shocked Sita; it was of a notorious politician she knew, naked on bed with a girl of her age. The girl was sandwiched in between his abundant love handles and the wood cot, her face forming contours of disgust as the douche bag wriggled in carnal ecstasy. The picture also showed a camera hidden on the wall, which she couldn’t recognize.

Minutes crept slowly. Almost half an hour later, a frowning Vimala was standing outside her bathroom, about to knock. Absolutely no sound of shower, or anything. Should I knock? Did the girl do anything unwise? Vimala pounded on the door. “Sita, what happened? Are you in there?”

One full minute was needed for Sita to open the door. With no sign of her bathing, Sita stood sweating in her churidar. But the album held awkwardly in her hand clarified everything to Vimala. Sita backed off and stared at Vimala’s face. Her eyes were red, and face was burning.

“So, you saw it?” Vimala said.

“Fortunately. But I had suspicion at the time you waved at that minivan. I saw this man sitting inside.” She tapped on the thick-spectacled man on the cover of the album. “Now I think I know everything.”

“You cannot escape,” Vimala said simply. “I’m gonna call my boss right away. They’ll be here in ten minutes.” With a sly smile, Vimala began dialing from her cell phone. “And until then, I can retain you.”

“They will trade only my corpse.” Sita placed the knife’s sharp edge on her wrist, pressing it down. “I’m gonna die right here.”

“Hey, no. No, Sita, don’t do that.” Vimala felt as if all wits deserted her, as if someone hit her in the darkness. Where the hell did this girl get that knife?

“Auntie, how much can you make from trading girls like me? You are thriving by our blood. Don’t you realize how terrible a sinner you are?”

“Don’t play Savitri, Sita. It’s not gonna work.” Vimala said a bit defensively.

“I am not. But I have something to tell you. You must listen to it. If you help me, I will help you. Otherwise, I will die here right now.”

“What is it?”

“You had promised me something. You said you would pay for my father’s treatment. Will you do it?”

Vimala laughed aloud. “Oh dear, did you really believe me? How unfortunate; how naïve are you!”

“I may be naïve, but I want you to pay for my father’s treatment, and finance my kid sister in her studies. Otherwise you can’t trade me alive from here. My father and mother tried extra hard to give my kid sister and I, good education. My sister, Gita has already got her selection for professional studies, but I am too bad in studies to get any such selection. I am a pathetic student, and I have already driven my family to big debts. It is due to my fees that my father is lying in the hospital today. He never wanted to show injustice to us, and paid every installment in time. But all the money was borrowed. There is a rich Zamindar in our place, Vasu Pillai, who lent him enough money for paying my yearly fee last time. That was almost 5000 rupees. Though my father tried his best, he couldn’t pay the money back. That’s why the Zamindar’s goondas beat my father up today. And I am the reason behind all this. I sinned to my father, mother, and sister. Had I not born at all, they could have given Gita good education.

“My sister is very good in studies. She scored double as I could, and easily fetched a free seat for medical studies. And she holds a scholarship. So, father needs less money to teach her. She will soon get a good job and will strengthen our financial status. I am the other half, the useless person, black sheep of family.” Sita wept and stooped to sitting with face buried in her palms. The album fell off her lap and the knife clattered. After a moment, she raised her face and said, “So, I need your help. Though you promised me you would pay all my father’s expenses, I don’t trust you. If you will pay me all the money I need now, I will go with your boss gladly. Otherwise, it’s better that I die here, better for my family and better for me.”

The girl’s decision shocked Vimala. She felt for the first time ever in her business, pity for someone. When she looked at the crouched figure of the girl, her heart ached. She felt burning tears in her eyes. All those innocent, unsuspecting girls she tricked stared at her from every corner. Remorse and love were overpowering her.

Vimala ran toward Sita and squatted beside her. She kissed on her forehead and said, “My dear, you opened my eyes. No, I will not present you to that devil. You have to live, a wonderful life. I am done with this business. I want to run away from that man anyway. I am coming with you. I will pay for your father’s treatment, and will finance your studies.” Then, turning to the ceiling, she cried, “Oh, God, why did you make me do all this sin? I am beyond any hope for pardon. Forgive me, forgive me…”

—The End—

Here is the story of how I wrote this story, with the glossary embedded.