The Paradise Hotel
by Michael Dolan
“Dr. Hawk?” The voice in the clouds was thunderous, but sweet. A woman’s voice. Was God a woman?
“Dr. Hawk?” The sound echoed in his cranium. “You’re going to miss the conference.” Nancy Harding touched the sleeping research scientist gently but firmly.
“I know you’re tired, Dr., but we can’t keep them waiting.”
Hawk opened his eyes. The lobby of the Paradise Hotel hadn’t changed. Efficient uniformed attendants manned the reception desk. Polite Japanese smiles.
A white-gloved hostess in a pressed wool skirt and blazer walking guests to the revolving glass door framed in brass fittings. Plush lobby chairs around a central fountain. Cherry blossoms. Holiday decorations. The Japanese Santa Claus sat on a candy cane throne near the glass elevator dandling a school girl on his knee.
She plucked at his beard as he promised her toys. Hawk squirmed awake in the plush red leather chair.
He ran a hand through his hair and tried to remember where he was. Tokyo. The Paradise Hotel. Quantum Science Conference. He found his glasses on the floor under the chair where he left them and looked up at Nancy.
“What time is it?” He yawned.
Nancy handed him his briefcase. “We’re only five minutes late, Doctor. We can still make it if we hurry.”
“What am I speaking on?”
They stumbled through the lobby past the Japanese Santa Claus. She dragged him to the glass elevator. “The Quantum Leap,” She said, mashing the button. “You’re questioning the the speed limit of the universe, Einstein as time-cop.” She studied her reflection in the shiny stainless steel elevator doors while straightening his tie. A loud ding announced the arrival of the lift.
Hawk choked. “Ah Yes... Einstein’s Folly.”
As the steel cage of the glass elevator swallowed them she handed him a cup of coffee, black. They felt the swoop of the machine. He gulped the coffee; his brain cells revived.
The doors opened.
The conference center. Plush blue carpet with the company seal. Suits and ties milling around. Polls and stanchions. VIPs with name badges: Dr. Finch, Dr. Budge, Dr. Coolidge. Nancy found Art Congo from New York. Congo grinned, showing his teeth.
“Right this way Dr., You’re up next.” Hawk shuffled through the nerds to the podium. He heard himself announced.
“And now, Dr. Hawk.”
Hawk took the podium to polite applause. It was his first time in Tokyo. He looked over the crowd of well-dressed technicians. ExtraCorp was paying for the conference on robotics and metacognition.
A young Japanese scientist caught in the front row caught his eye. She smiled. There was a movement of her hands. Was she signaling to him? No, she was fumbling for her glasses. Fixing them on her nose, she straightened her hair and smiled again now that she could see better, and lowered her glance, folding her hands in her lap.
Hawk began, “Einstein set the speed limit for the universe. Nothing moves faster than the speed of light. Not even radio waves or Wi-Fi Internet signals. News of the last elections are only now reaching Alpha Centauri, some 3.5 light years distant.
But what if we could get there faster? If we could beat the speed of light, you could bet on a horse race knowing the winner before news of the race came. You could know the future before the future happened. That would be true time travel.”
Nancy looked at her watch. She knew what was coming. She had organized the Japanese conference. Hawk droned on.
“Einstein thought that the speed of light was the speed limit for the universe. Countless experiments have borne this out – it is pretty much settled theory that the speed of light is as fast as you can go. But who made Einstein the traffic cop? Who says that constants always remain constant? Is there no room for infidelity in the universe?
“Of course the universe is governed by the laws of nature – but I believe laws are made to be broken! One of the problems faced by modern physics is that there is no good explanation for the rate of deceleration and the expansion of the universe unless…”
A group of Japanese students shifted in their chairs as the girl with the glasses coughed.
“… Unless the speed of light was faster at the very moment of the Big Bang. That would imply flexibility in the speed of light. And if the speed of light is mutable, if it was faster at the creation and has gradually slowed down since the time of the Big Bang it means that if we could understand the singularity which provoked this anomaly in the speed of light, we might be able to control the velocity. We could actually speed past the universal speed limit. If we can travel faster than the speed of light we could send a message to the Mars station and receive an answer even before another message saying TV signals sent at the same time arrived there. That means any news, say the results of a horse race, could be sent to Mars with the winners of all the races before the TV signal sent at the speed of light. The anomaly in the constant, in other words, implies time travel ladies and gentlemen.”
The minute hand reached 12 on the big clock on the wall. Hawk paused for a round of applause. A smattering of hands met in polite Japanese applause. He was always amazed at how fast a crowded room could empty. As he finished his glass of water and glanced up from the podium he saw only empty chairs. The girl with the glasses had stayed behind.
Nancy was talking with Art Congo, from the New York branch. As Hawk gathered his briefcase, the girl with the glasses approached.
“Dr. Hawk? I am Tamiko Noguchi. I work with Dr. von Jensen at Tokyo University. You are familiar with von Jensen? “
“Yes of course. Thank you for coming. You can get a signed copy of my book Quantum Boogie in the lobby. Now if you excuse me…”
“Do you really believe in time travel?”
Nancy had finished with Dr. Congo. “We can make the 5 o’clock train for your flight at seven if we hurry.” She touched Hawk’s arm as if he were a doll. Hawk turned to leave.
“But do you really believe in time travel?” She said.
“Well, it’s theoretically possible. It makes a good money quote for the lecture. Also helps hide the fact there is nothing new in physics since the 1950’s. But go ahead and buy the book anyway, it’s a real page turner.”
Tomiko frowned. “But what about the anomaly in the constant?”
A man who looked like a sumo wrestler in a three-piece Armani pinstriped suit and dancing shoes approached gracefully. Security. His walkie-talkie belched. Hawk remembered Topjob from the old Goldfinger movie. All the security guy needed was a bowler hat to complete his look. It was time to clear the room.
Nancy began to walk him out. Tomiko looked forlorn.
“But Professor,” she said. “What about the anomaly?”
“I leave it to you for homework,” said Hawk making for the glass elevator escorted by Nancy.
They walked past the polls and stanchions, students in their uniforms, and wannabe geniuses. Nancy was absorbed in her travel plans. She had already called Uber. The driver could make the airport in 45 minutes. Arriving at the elevator, Hawk noticed the girl, following them.
“What if I told you that we had done this homework,” she said.
The elevator arrived with a ding and the doors slid open.
Hawk laughed.
“ I’d want to know what you’re smoking, and where you buy your stuff.”
Nancy had had enough. “Rick, really,” she sneered. “Young lady, I’m afraid you’re taking up too much of the doctor’s time.” She hustled Hawk into the elevator before the doors closed.
Tomiko ignored her. She jostled her way into the elevator. The doors closed, Nancy pushed the button for the garage. The glass elevator began its descent
Tomiko said, “What if I told you the results of this homework are here in Tokyo?”
Hawk blew into his glasses, fogging them. He polished them with a handkerchief and held them to the light to admire his work. He set them back on his nose. Through the bubble of the glass elevator he saw the skyline of Tokyo, thousands of points of light.
“I’d say you’re either blowing smoke up my ass, or Dr. Yakamoto put you up to this. Tell him I said hello. I’ll buy him a tequila if he ever makes it to Lawrence Livermore again. He sent you didn’t he?”
Nancy sighed as the elevator moved toward the garage. Tomiko was sincere. “Dr. Hawk I assure you I am not wasting your time. We’ve made significant progress on the anomaly. But we need your help. If you can meet us tomorrow at the physics lab in Daigaku University, I’m sure you will be impressed with the work.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The cherry trees at Daigaku University were just beginning to bloom. The delicate pink blossoms painted the sidewalks in pastel colors. Hawk surveyed the scene. Japanese students in uniforms. Neat flagstones led to a gurgling fountain. He paused.
Which way was the physics lab? Nancy was furious at first, but saw the rescheduling as a chance to try some real sushi in Tokyo. Science had its whims. If Tomiko was right, Van Jensen of Daigaku University was sitting on an impossible discovery. If she was wrong, they were out a day’s work and a slight delay. But one didn’t visit Tokyo every day. Livermore would wait. She had dropped him off an hour ago. Uber would pick him up when he finished. Hawk watched a cherry blossom petal carried on the breeze settle on the rippling water of the fountain. A group of determined medical students wore doctor’s uniforms and rushed toward the hospital wing.
Nearing the fountain, Hawk saw the cherry blossom petal swirl in the water’s current. A pair of golden Koi fish lurked in the depths. With a glint of sunlight they flitted to the surface. The big one pecked at the pink petal in curiosity.
Hawk felt a gentle touch, a tap on the shoulder. It was the girl with the glasses, Tomiko.
He turned.
“Tomiko!”
“Dr. Hawk. Sorry for the mystery. I’m sure you appreciate the need for security.”
The large golden Koi fish blinked and submerged.
“This way,” she laughed and ran off down the walkway that led through the cherry blossoms. The garden with the fountain turned into a well-kept courtyard with newly swept bricks. Tomiko led him through a doorway marked “Physics” in Kanji, English, and French. The architecture was 1990s high tech: lots of steel tubes and glass, high ceilings, solar panels. She led him down a corridor with university classrooms. The steel doors were inset with windows for observation. Laboratories held students with safety glasses and white lab coats peering into instruments in teams. Teachers held clipboards and supervised the teams. They passed the lecture hall. A Professor held court with a huge blackboard painted with formulas. A crowd of students glared at their powerbooks with grim faces. Here they solved the problems of the world.
“Up the stairs.” Tomiko hurried along. They turned a corner, up the stairs. Administrative offices. The boiler room. Secretaries played solitaire on their computer screens or chatted with nephews on facebook, trying to look busy. Upstairs meant another flight, another long corridor. Older installations painted high school green; through the bulletproof windows of the locked doors expensive machines were being wrapped in yards of green plastic by technicians in blue space suits. The heart of the physics lab. Here, the dirty work of smashing atoms, colliding particles, laser crunchers. Tomiko raced on.
At the end of the corridor another flight of stairs. Through the windows Hawk saw the gardens below, the students like ants rushing to class. Another corridor. This one, almost abandoned, held one long machine in a huge room. It looked like a Atlas missile on its side. a wayward Death Star from an old science fiction movie.
Finally they arrived at a heavy steel door. They felt the hum of the machine through the door. Tomiko produced a set of keys and nervously fiddled with the lock. She cracked the door to let Hawk pass.
He squeezed through the door before it was shut automatically by a mechanism. As he moved through, Tomiko said, “I can come no further.”
The door closed. Hawk could feel the hum of the machine more powerfully now as it coursed through his body. It was not an unpleasant vibration. His toes tickled a bit. The twilight room was struck with lightning as a million volts from the Tesla coil sparked and flashed. Haw was blinded. He rubbed his eyes.
“You’ll need these,” a voice said in accented English. A pair of goggles was pressed into his hand. Donning them, he saw a goggled madman with wild hair grinning through broken teeth.
“Welcome, Dr. Hawk,” he said. “I am Van Jensen.”
Hawk blinked through the goggles as the room came into focus. He had heard of Van Jensen. A brilliant scientist at prestigious Institut für Physik of Humboldt University in Berlin, he had disappeared after the fall of the Berlin wall. It was assumed he had been absorbed into the Russian system, but he had effectively gone missing. He had been working in advanced particle physics and string theory with research into military particle beams.
He shook hands while searching his mind for a clue. "Van Jensen, yes, I've heard the name."
Dr. Erich Van Jensen had written a series of papers in the 1980s on wormholes in the fabric of the time-space continuum. Many considered him fringe, a lunatic. But what was he doing in Japan?
With a sweep of his hand Van Jensen waved at the device that filled the entire upper floor of the Physics building. “All very top-secret, I’m afraid,” he said, as the Tesla coil zapped another 10 million volts of lightning into the air. Hawk felt the chill through his jawbone. Through the halo of light, Van Jensen’s grin gleamed in triumph: “So, the great professor Hawk. Finally. Excuse me a moment.” He led Hawk down the machine to a long stainless steel table with electrical outlets and a control panel. Pushing a button on a cable-switch there was a loud whir and the Tesla coil crackled and wound down. Lights flickered. The machine cut off. The overhead lights came up.
“You must forgive my impertinence and the invitation with Tomiko. But something told me you might be interested in my little experiment. Come. I want to show you something.”
Van Jensen found a clearing amid the clutter of tables stacked with equipment. Lounge chairs formed a square with a coffee table in the center. Mismatched cups, a half-empty box of graham crackers and a pot of Kyoto Snow Blossom tea showed Van Jensen’s hospitality. He signaled Hawk to sit.
“Coffee? I’m afraid I only have instant. Or tea? I have some of the best green tea. It’s fresh.”
“Why all the intrigue?” Hawk slid the goggles off and looked around. “What is this? Frankenstein’s laboratory? Where’s the monster?”
“Tea it is, then,” said Van Jensen and began to pour two cups. “Sit.”
Hawk found a chair. “Look, I don’t have much time. We were supposed to fly back this evening.”
“The Japanese have a most acute sense of time,” said Van Jensen. “But the question is not whether you have time, but whether time has you.”
Hawk sat in one of the lounge chairs. He looked at Van Jensen. Without the goggles he looked even crazier. But the best engineers and scientists have the worst hair, he thought. Look at Einstein. The stranger the outfit the more advanced the scientist. He picked up his tea. The blue and white porcelain was Royal Stafford with a willow pattern, sparrows kissing in the air above a teahouse by the river.
“Japanese time runs backwards,” said Van Jensen, sipping his tea. “In Japan, time has traditionally been counted with incense sticks. As the incense burns down, your time burns up. The old Shinto priests used to count down from sunrise to sunset. So at sunrise they began the clock at 12 and counted down to sunset; when they reached the zero hour it was time for tea.”
Hawk looked at the mad professor. “I always thought the Japanese were sticklers for punctuality. But, seriously, Van Jensen, what’s this all about?”
“But I thought you knew. Haven’t you read my blog?”
“You disappeared from the scientific community years ago. I can hardly believe you have a blog. I thought you were in hiding.”
Hawk began to see tiny points of light dancing around the space between him and the madman who poured the tea.
“The speed of light is a relative constant,” he began. “It has not always been the same. At the beginning of creation, for example, when a massive singularity exploded into the known universe, light moved at a faster speed than it does now. Flexibility in the constant implies...”
Hawk removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead. “I see,” he said, clearing his head. He was obviously dealing with a madman. Tomiko had wasted his time. “Look, this all sounds like a lot of unsubstantiated parascience, like cold fusion in a pressure cooker. What proof do you have for any of your findings? You have a blog? Why haven’t I seen it? Do you have any proof? Can you reproduce your findings?”
“I was hoping you would ask. In facy, that’s why I brought you here.”
Hawk’s head was throbbing. The jet lag had played with his sense of time. He wasn’t sure if it was day or night. No more ten hour flights across the Pacific, I don’t care what the book deal is. The room began to dance. It was probably 4 O’clock in the morning back in San Francisco. Maybe he could still make the red-eye to Los Angeles.
“Look, I’m short on time. I delayed my flight until tomorrow morning, but I can only give you a couple of hours. I have to get back to the hotel, but if you have proof...”
“I’m sorry?” Van Jensen’s face was out of focus.
“I don’t have time.”
“Precisely, Dr. You don’t have time. Time has you.”
“I’m not sure, I understand,” said Hawk, sipping his tea. “What do you need me here for?”
“Quantum leaps. You’re the only one who gets it. Don’t worry, I won’t take more than an hour of your time. I can see you want proof. I have a little demonstration that might interest you. Come with me.”
Hawk set down the tea and stood. He had had enough. He was about to head for the door when Tomiko entered the room, smiling, with a pair of goggles on a tray. She bowed.
“You’ll need these,” said Jensen, picking up the goggles and offering them.
Hawk felt his head swim. Was it really jet lag or...the tea?
................................................................................................................................................
He remembered everything very clearly. Or did he? It had been about 15 minutes. As Tomiko strapped on his helmet over the goggles Hawk wondered if Van Jensen was truly mad or on the verge of a serious breakthrough. Einstein had found that time travel was indeed possible; could Van Jensen had discovered a wormhole in the fabric of time? After all, gravity waves had recently been detected flowing from a black hole: were time waves possible?
He sat in what looked like a dentist’s chair. The brain electrodes piercing the helmet barely tickled his scalp. What was in that tea? The tiny acupuncture needles tingled with a slight electric charge. The foam-padded headphones covered his ears almost entirely. He was listening to Bob Dylan’s Visions of Johanna from the Blonde on Blonde album.
Inside the museums infinity goes up on trial
Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while.
Through the bulletproof glass observation window he could see Van Jensen’s distorted face. Over the intercom he heard, “Dr. Hawk, can you hear me? Wiggle your left index finger if you can hear me.”
He wiggled a finger. “Wiggle again if you are comfortable.”
He wiggled again.
“The procedure will begin in only a few seconds. You’re probably wondering how a dentist chair firmly bolted to the ground can travel faster than the speed of light. The shaft above you opens to admit a carefully curated collection of time wormholes, anomalies we discovered with positron beam analysis. I can’t get too technical here, for time considerations, but if it works, we’ll blast off shortly. Wiggle again if you understand.”
He was firmly strapped to the chair, but he managed to wiggle his index finger.
The door to the capsule opened. It was Tomiko in a silver Haz-mat suit. She looked like a beekeeper with huge white gloves.
“Dr. Hawk? I hope you’re comfortable.”
Tomiko seemed much larger through the goggles. She smiled.
Hawk gritted my teeth and wiggled again. The sacrifices I have made for science. She flipped the visor up on his helmet.
“Open.”
He gritted my teeth wider. She inserted a straw. She held a strawberry-colored smoothie in a styrofoam cup with a plastic lid.
“The Triptamine compound is synthesized from a Japanese Hibiscus mushroom. It’s a local psilocybin analog. It will calm your nerves and prevent dehydration during the experiment.”
Triptamine? Psilocybin... Isn’t that?
Hawk slurped away. When I had finished, she strapped his wrists more tightly to the armrests, adjusted his goggles and flipped the visor back down.
“I think we’re ready,” she said on the intercom.
To Hawk, “Bon Voyage.”
Tomiko smiled and turned to leave.
As Hawks eyelids began to nod shut, he heard a twangy Midwestern Dylan singing into his brain, “And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn.”
The lights dimmed. He felt the room vibrate and buzz as if a rocket ship was leaving earth. The hum of the Tesla coil released a shock of electricity in to the air. He bit down on the plastic mouthpiece and clenched his hands. WHOOSH.
The room went dark. The electricity pulsed through Hawk’s body. Another flash of lightning from the Tesla coil. The building pulsed. The milkshake had kicked in. In spite of the violent flashes of light and noise, he felt serene, distant. He was slipping down the rabbit hole. In the dark, he thought he saw the girl watching him through the porthole. He tried to stay conscious by counting prime numbers ...53, 57, 59... no 59 wasn’t prime. It was 3 times 19. Dylan’s voice droned on...”And these Visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn.”
...........................................................................................................................................................
“One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small...and the ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all....”
The psychedelic sounds of the Jefferson Airplane blasted through his head. He blinked. A grassy field. The sky was cerulean blue. Magical colors welcomed his eyes. He lifted the visor on his helmet.
“Where am I?”
The sound of drums over the loud rock music. People in saffron robes dancing. The women wore silken saris. He could smell strawberries in the smoke. Incense. They danced closer.
“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare...”
He had heard the melody before. The dancers swept him up as they moved forward. Were these the hippies of San Francisco? Where was Dr. Van Jensen? What time was it? Had the experiment worked?
He was in a park. He could see the Golden Gate bridge, children playing in green fields, brightly decorated kites floating on the wind. A fresh breeze cleared the incense smoke.
“Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.
The dancers moved toward a clearing where a platform had been raised. The rock musicians were breaking down their instruments. Tie-dyed cloth decorated the stage. There were a huge pair of eyes with an exotic smile, some kind of massive Hindu doll or idol. The Juggernaut? A man sat on a giant throne.
The man was shining, a strange effulgence lit him as the sun began to set behind him. He reached down for a stainless steel tumbler of water. Raising it above his face, he let the water fall into his mouth without touching his lips to the rim of the steel. He set the tumbler down gracefully and surveyed the crowd of dancers as they approached. He grinned broadly.
Shaven-headed acolytes adjusted the speakers and equipment used by the rock band. Clad in saffron, they set the microphone before the man. Was he a guru? He smiled again as an assistant tapped the microphone. “1,2,3.”
Hawk was confused. Einstein had shown some theoretical evidence for time travel. But only into the future. Was this the future or the past? And how was he back in San Francisco? Had he passed out and suffered an attack? If Nancy had brought him home on the plane, perhaps he was having some sort of dissociative episode?
“Where am I?” he said to one of the hippies next to him.
“This is the material world, man. You’re lost in the material world. It’s a long strange trip, man. Let’s hear what the swami says.”
He focused on the guru on the stage. He had produced a pair of finger cymbals and sang a mystical song, perhaps a Hindu hymn of some kind. Jaya Radha Madhava... As the sun sank lower on the horizon the crowd fell silent. The Swami spoke:
“The transcendental vibration established by the chanting of Hare Krsna, Hare Krsna, Krsna Krsna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare is the sublime method of reviving our Krsna consciousness. As living spiritual souls we are all originally Krsna conscious entities, but due to our association with matter from time immemorial, our consciousness is now polluted by the material atmosphere. The material atmosphere, in which we are now living, is called Maya, or illusion. Maya means ‘that which is not.’ And what is this illusion? The illusion is that we are all trying to be lords of material nature, while actually we are under the grip of her stringent laws. When a servant artificially tries to imitate the all-powerful master, this is called illusion. In this polluted concept of life, we are all trying to exploit the resources of material nature, but actually we are becoming more and more entangled in her complexities. Therefore, although we are engaged in a hard struggle to conquer nature, we are ever more dependent on her. This illusory struggle against material nature can be stopped at once by the revival of our Krsna consciousness. Krsna consciousness is not an artificial imposition of the mind; this consciousness is the original energy of the living entity. When we hear the transcendental vibration, this consciousness is revived. And this is the process recommended for this age by authorities. By practical experience also, one can perceive that by chanting this maha-mantra or the Great Chanting for Deliverance, one can at once feel a transcendental ecstasy coming through from the spiritual stratum. And when one is factually on the plane of spiritual understanding-surpassing the stages of the senses, mind, and intelligence-one is situated on the transcendental plane.
This chanting of Hare Krsna, Hare Krsna, Krsna Krsna, Hare Hare/Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare is directly enacted from the spiritual platform, and thus this sound vibration surpasses all lower strata of consciousness-namely sensual, mental, and intellectual. There is no need, therefore, to understand the language of the mantra, nor is there any need for mental speculation or any intellectual adjustment for chanting this maha-mantra. It springs automatically from the spiritual platform, and as such, anyone can take part in the chanting without any previous qualification, and dance in ecstasy.
We have seen this practically. Even a child can take part in the chanting, or even a dog can take part in it. Of course, for one who is too entangled in material life, it takes a little more time to come to the standard point, but even such a materially engrossed man is raised to the spiritual platform very quickly. When the mantra is chanted by a pure devotee of the Lord in love, it has the greatest efficacy on the hearers, and as such, this chanting should be heard from the lips of a pure devotee of the Lord, so that immediate effects can be achieved. As far as possible, chanting from the lips of non-devotees should be avoided. Milk touched by the lips of a serpent has poisonous effects.
The word Hara is the form of addressing the energy of the Lord, and the words Krsna and Rama are addressing the Lord Himself. Both Krsna and Rama mean "the supreme pleasure" and Hara is the supreme pleasure energy of the Lord, changed to hare in the vocative. The supreme pleasure energy of the Lord helps us to reach the Lord.
The material energy, called Maya, is also one of the multi energies of the Lord. And we, the living entities, are also the energy-marginal energy-of the Lord. The living entities are described as superior to material energy. When the superior energy is in contact with the inferior energy, an incompatible situation arises; but when the superior marginal energy is in contact with the superior energy, called Hara, the living entity is established in his happy, normal condition.
These three words, namely Hare, Krsna, and Rama, are transcendental seeds of the maha-mantra. The chanting is a spiritual call for the Lord and His internal energy, Hara, to give protection to the conditioned soul. This chanting is exactly like the genuine cry of a child for its mother. Mother Hara helps the devotee achieve the grace of the supreme Father, Hari, or Krsna, and the Lord reveals Himself to the devotee who chants this mantra sincerely.
No other means of spiritual realization, therefore, is as effective in this age as chanting the maha-mantra:
Hare Krsna, Hare Krsna, Krsna Krsna, Hare Hare
Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare
As he intoned these words, the guru once again picked up his finger cymbals and began to ring them together. He began humming the words of the mantra in a call and response sing-song. The dancers picked up the tune and started pounded on the drums and dancing. They looked at Hawk. Hawk smiled. He began to chant: Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare...
Time faded away. He had left the temporal world behind. He had discovered a place beyond time.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Dr. Hawk?”
“Dr. Hawk?” The voice in the clouds was thunderous, but sweet. A woman’s voice. Was this truly the realm beyond time and space? Was God a woman?
“Dr. Hawk?” The sound echoed in his cranium. “You’re going to miss the conference.” Nancy hiding touched the sleeping research scientist gently but firmly.
“I know you’re tired, Dr., but we can’t keep them waiting.”
To be continued...
“Dr. Hawk?” The sound echoed in his cranium. “You’re going to miss the lecture.” Nancy Harding touched the sleeping research scientist gently but firmly.
“I know you’re tired, Dr., but we can’t keep them waiting.”
He was becoming conscious. Some one was standing over him. She was looking at his wallet.
“Are you Dr. Hawk?”
She said.
“Yes, but you’re not Nancy. Where’s Nancy?”
“Who? My name is Yashoda. Look, sir, I... we’re late for the lecture. You were sleeping.”
Hawk looked around. He was on the floor in some kind of makeshift concert hall.
“The Conference?”
“Yes, the Swami will speak any minute. Get up.”
She handed him back his wallet.
“I’m sorry, but we didn’t know who you were. You followed us home from the Hari-nam. You had some tea and prasadam and passed out. It happens. We covered you with a blanket, but now you have to go. Unless you want to stay for the conference.
“But where’s Nancy?” Looking down, he noticed he was barefoot. “Where’s my shoes?”
“Just a moment.” The young women was exasperated. She caught the eye of a tall man sweeping up in the back. “Ram Das?” Looking back at the disoriented Dr.: “He’ll take care of you. I’ve got to go.”
Ram Das was tall and powerfully built. He leaned the broom against the wall and came over to where Hawk was still slumped in a heap. Grabbing him under the arm he pulled him to a standing position. “Let’s go.”
“Where’s my shoes?”
Hawk was on his feet. He was being led to the door.
“Shoes are outside, son. This is holy ground.”
“Wait a second. Is the Swami going to speak?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I stay for the talk? I think I’d like to hear that.”
“As long as you don’t make any trouble. Are you on drugs?”
“No, of course not. But this is Eastern Philosophy, right?”
“That’s right,” said Ram Das.
“I think I’d like to stay for the conference. How much are the tickets.”
Ram Das smiled, “It’s free. But you can help clean up after the feast.”
“Where are the chairs?”
“We sit on the floor. It’s like yoga.”
“I see. Well, at least let me help you. Have you another broom?”
“Sure. Stay here.”
Ram Das returned with an extra broom and they began sweeping the large hall.
“What is this place?” said Hawk.
“We call it the Radha Krishna Temple,” said Ram Das, proudly. “You take that corner over there,” he said, “indicating where to sweep.
They worked hard, getting up all the dust, until it was time to mop. When they were satisfied with their work, Ram Das told him where to put the brooms and mops.
The room was odd. There was a giant chair off to one side, a kind of throne. And in the front of the room was a kind of stage where pillared arches held huge curtains. Perhaps it was an altar of some sort. Hawk was disoriented. Nothing made any sense to him since the time he had sat in the chair at Daigaku University. Perhaps he had time traveled. But how? He felt woozy. People started coming in for the program. There was a tall black guy with a big afro dressed in a colorful dashiki. He kicked his sandals off at the front door and said, “Hari bol.”
“I’m going to get some air,” Hawk said to no one in particular. He needed to clear his head.
San Francisco, 1969. Hawk hadn’t been dreaming. It was as if he had entered a time machine. Outside the Frederick Street temple there was an endless parade of circus freaks, hippies, and love children with their earth mothers. Hawk heard thunder. He turned and saw a parade of choppers with the dreaded leather jackets of muscular Hells Angels riding double file in the long line of Harley-Davidson motorcycles, accompanied by Gypsy Queen Madonna motorcycle mamas. Across the street,tourists in Hawaiian shirts snapped photos of the hippies. A bearded Jesus figure wearing a long white blanket slapped his Bible and quoted from the book of John chapter 14 verse 6 ""I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.," And as Hawk watched, dazed and amazed, he saw the saffron robed, shaven headed Hare Krishna devotees performing nam-sankitan pounding their drums and chanting in ecstasy. They smiled at him as they entered the temple.
As they entered the temple, he got his bearings. North Beach in San Francisco. He wasn’t far from Chinatown. In the future, Hawk had lived not far from these very streets. But this was different from the 2017 version of San Francisco. On a given friday morning you would see chinese practicing tai chi, and cafe bars where lesbians wearing berets write poetry.
But the neighborhood had a different feel. The 1960s. The summer of love. Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights Bookstore, where poets would howl their dope fiend mantras and growl against the coming storm of industrial military madness and macho fascist bullshit.
The Jefferson Airplane lived over on Fulton Street and the Grateful Dead were crashing over on Ashbury Street. Hawk felt a transcendental energy wash over him. There was an amazing energy of exploration of human consciousness, spritual energy, cosmic vibrations.
Hawk was still barefoot. He looked for his shoes in front of the temple. There were dozens of shoes, sandals, and various kinds of footwear deposited there. He thought of going back in. Just as he was about the cross the threshold, he saw a couple of hippie girls in granny dresses. They looked like they might be into yoga.
“Excuse me,” he said, “But, what kind of place is this?”
The older of the two girls said, “What? Oh. You should check it out, it's really fun."
"Yeah, like how?"
The blond chimed in, "Well, it's the Hare Krishna temple and they're all peace and love and free vegetarian food. The food is really good. You have to do some chanting"
“Yeah,” said the older one. “The chanting is kind of corny. But the food is authentic Indian curry. Besides, the Swami’s here today. He’s pretty groovy.”
"Any way,” said the blond, “you have to sing their songs too and listen to their rap, but it's not all boring like the Anchor Mission."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, it's really cool and they have stuff from India like that oriental philosophy, like from Siddhartha or something.”
“Yeah and they have and incense and stuff. Anyway, I’m going in. If you’re coming you should bring a flower.”
Hawk paused. “A flower?”
The older girl said, "OK, well, Krishna says in the Bhagavad-gita you have to bring him a leaf or a fruit or a flower."
"That's it?"
"Yeah seriously they're really mellow about it."
Hawk went down the street to find some flowers.
Paradise Hotel Continued
 |
| Swami Bhaktivedanta, San Francisco, 1960s |
It wasn’t so easy finding a flower. Haight Asbury in 1967 wasn’t exactly Norman Rockwell’s America. During the Summer of Love in San Francisco, the Radha Krishna Temple of the Hare Krishna movement was at 518 Frederick Street. It was close to the Pandhandle, the Haight Ashbury free clinic and the I-Thou coffee shop, next door to a place run by the Digger's, "Free Frame," and around the corner from the house where the Grateful Dead were staying.
Exploring sidewalks and storefronts near the temple, Hawk found himself lost in the summer of love. But where to find a flower? As the sun started dipping below the hills and the misty evening fog crept in, Hawk almost didn’t notice the park. He had walked only a few blocks, but through an alley where a drunken hippy lay clutching a bottle of Mendocino, Hawk stumbled on a trail leading to Buena Vista Park, an oasis of greenery in the midst of the city.
A light rain began to fall. The trail wound through live oaks where woodpeckers tapped out a beat. A falcon soared overhead. Through tall eucalyptus Hawk saw the city of San Francisco shining through the mist. A gopher popped up from below a root, and raced back into his hole. Squirrels chased each other up the oak trees. Hawk found wild roses growing in the shelter of a ponderosa pine and carefully picked a few. As he wound back up the path, he found fresh wildflowers.
As the rain continued, the park took on a mystic quality. Time was lost here. Returning with his roses, Hawk found the steps outside the main hall crowded with cast off shoes and sandals. As he entered he saw the main hall of the Radha Krishna temple packed with saffron-clad devotees, their shaved heads shining. Long-haired hippies and street people filled the room. Sweating bodies were rocking out to the Hare Krishna mantra, their musty aroma mixed with the heavy smell of the incense.
The strange music, Hawk later learned was called kirtan; the Krishna people played a kind of earthen hand drum, Indian style. With the patter of rain on the roof and the roaring kirtan inside, Hawk felt absorbed into the sound:
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare
Bells chimed. A conch blew. The mantra penetrated his being. Hawk looked at the magical figures on the colorful altar. He knew the central figures were of Radha, the Divine Feminine and Krishna, the playful flute-playing God of the Dance. Had he really traveled through time? But how? Was he losing his mind?
And what was he doing here?
The conch blew again and again. The curtains closed. What was next?
All at once, the Swami appeared from a side door and took his throne. He beamed a great smile at the Krishna people. Everyone stepped back in respect and bowed down. Was this some kind of strange cult?
Guests took their seats in the lotus position. The Swami spoke:
“My dear boys and girls,” he said, looking at the young people of San Francisco: “This Kṛṣṇa consciousness movement is not a religious type; it is a great culture for spiritual emancipation. Try to understand that in this world we find a combination of matter and spirit. Just like your body, this body is matter; but within this body, you, the spirit soul, is encaged or embodied. There are so many species of life; every species, every individual living entity is combination of spirit and matter. When the spirit is out of this body, then the body is matter only. Just like in your Bible also it is said, "Dust thou art, dust thou be-est." That dust is this body but not this spirit soul.”
As the Swami spoke on, he described the spiritual truths of the Vedas and asked everyone to go on chanting the mantra. Lulled by the his words, Hawk found himself in a trance. Nothing about him made any sense: Tokyo, 1970s San Francisco, time travel and quantum physics; but somehow the Swami’s words made perfect sense. He felt he was almost in a dream. As he came to, he looked up and the Swami had gone. A Krishna person was solemnly announcing something. Some people were leaving. Others formed rows, sitting in the lotus posture on the floor. All at once he was hungry. Hawk had never been so hungry in his life. He had time traveled nearly 50 years into the past. How long had it been since he had eaten? And in this strange environment, how would he eat?
The man droned on:
“O Lord, this material body is a lump of ignorance, and the senses are a network of paths to death.”
Hawk thought, “Death! Am I dead?” Hunger had overtaken him. He could barely concentrate on the man’s words. He sat in the lotus position as did the rest of the people there, wondering what would happen next. Would the Krishna people involve themselves in some strange ritual? Where would he find food? But, he could smell spices and hot soup. He listened as the Krishna man in saffron cloth spoke. The man said:
“Somehow, we have fallen into this ocean of material sense enjoyment, and of all the senses the tongue is most voracious and uncontrollable; it is very difficult to conquer the tongue in this world...”
As Hawk watched, servants appeared carrying large pots and began going down the rows with ladles. A paper plate was placed before him. As he looked around he noticed the tall girl and her blond friend, the hippy girls who had told him to bring the flower. He remembered he had offered the bouquet of wild roses at the Swami’s feet for good luck as he was told.
The man said, “But You, dear Krishna, are very kind to us and have given us such nice prasadam, just to control the tongue. Now we take thisprasadam to our full satisfaction and glorify Their Lordships Sri Sri Radha-Krishna, and in love call for the help of Lord Chaitanya and Lord Nityananda.”
A boy dressed in a saffron robe with a shaved head ladled orange rice onto his plate. The girl in the granny dress smiled. Hawk could feel his belly rumble. His hunger was explosive. Another Krishna person appeared and ladled soup into a paper cup. It was fragrant with curry from Bengal.
As Hawk watched, his plate filled up. There were pakoras, a kind of spicy tempura, samosas, like piroshkis or empanadas, flaky pastries fried in ghee, spiced and stuffed with curried peas and caulifower with a tamarind sauce. There were hot chappatis, Indian flat-bread, eggplant subji, and puris, hot puffy bread so light it floated in the air. There were sweet balls made of butter and sugar, called “simply wonderfuls” and tamarind tea and sweet rice with cardamon. There was a milk fudge called “burfee.” The food was sublime, it had a special perfume to it.
The whole temple smelled of Sandalwood incense mixed with jasmine incense mixed with strawberry incense. As Hawk looked around, he could see everyone savoring a special kind of deep spiritual satisfaction. Those who were not laughing and smiling outwardly were dancing in their hearts and smiling internally.
This was not some satanic cult: The Krishna people were joyful. They were mostly young people, but old souls. He felt perfectly safe. These people were kind truth-seekers with friendly, shining faces. While they had a philosophy, they weren't trying to jam a message down his throat.
Hawk felt permeated with transcendental spirituality. A sublime sense of divine wonder was in the fragrant air of the incense, the music of the kirtan, the rice, dahl and chipatties made by hand and prepared with love.
Hawk asked the Krishna person sitting next to him, “What is this?” and held up a paper cup of something sweet.
The boy smiled, “Oh, that’s preparation #39: Gentle--Honey in Saffron and Cream." Pointing to another, he said, that’s “Brahmananda's Midnight Dream.”
The light rain otuside had turned into a downpour. Most guests had finished eating and had left before the storm hit. There were only a few people left behind cleaning their plates. The devotees had stopped serving. Two women in saris began mopping the back of the hall.
