The Path of Liberation

45 minutes had gone by, Kalil kept checking his phone, but it’d been 45 minutes and his friend hadn’t shown up, hadn’t texted, hadn’t called to say he was late—and Kalil texted, called, wondered where he was. Mark had been late before, actually, he was usually late; but never this late. And even if he was this late, he wouldn’t be this late without explanation, and Kalil's slight annoyance turned into a slight worry, the kind that’s at once both selfish and selfless; he began to become “afraid” something had happened both in a general sense and to ease his own insecurities and texted “are you alright?” with falsely altruistic anxiety...but it was odd for him to take this long, and something could’ve happened to him…

        Kalil was sitting in a cafe; a vegan cafe—the first he’d heard of, after Mark (a vegan) mentioned it offhand and suggested they grab lunch there. But for lunch there wasn’t much to eat besides baked goods, after all, and they really embellished the absolute masquerade of their specialty dishes, such as the Mockiatto, which Kalil was sipping now, and it tasted identical to a regular Machiatto, and he looked up at the chalkboard menu above the counter and saw a little star next to the item, that, when he gazed down to the legend at the bottom of the board, discovered it meant what he was having was non-vegan. And then he wondered what the difference was, between a vegetarian Macchiato and a regular, Starbucks Macchiato, and then he realized that he’d rather not know. But then he remembered Mark’s tardiness, and sat sipping his drink, scrolling through his phone grudgingly.

        Finally, after much preamble, Mark walked through the door, peered from the left to the right to find his friend, who had already looked up, instinctively, to see who had come in, and their eyes meeting Mark waved and Kalil waved back with a smile, and Mark went to the counter to order something from the artificially peppy Barista, who “gladly” took his order and as he sat down prepared it with the most observable, almost erotic pleasure. Kalil greeted Mark.

“You started jacking off again?” He immediately asked Mark, who had, at one point in the past not too long ago, in a moment of spiritual anguish and torment, fallen in with a group of Yogis and emphatically told Kalil that, along with his commitment to nonviolence and his fasting and acts of austerity and devotion to Isvara, he had also made a commitment to being totally chaste; and at that point Kalil had asked if that included touching himself to which Mark answered yes, and Kalil joked “well, good luck getting to sleep at night.” Because although they never talked about it directly, Kalil and Mark had many sleepovers as youths, and they both knew how monumental a principle Mark was committing too.

But Mark just smiled a deep, warm Yogic smile, and didn’t answer in the affirmative or the negative—in fact, he didn’t answer at all for a time, and then simply said, quite haughtily, that such questions were well behind him, and he trailed off to look over his shoulder, observing the Barista and his drink both nearly about to finish. He got up to get it, and the Barista, breathing hard with softly glowing eyes, set down the drink and called out his name. Mark smiled, again, picked it up, and went back to the table.

“You could at least tell me what the holdup was.” Kalil asked. But in fact, Mark could not, since what had transpired was a “private matter”, and also Mark had dropped his phone in the toilet while taking a shit this morning. Kalil was displeased, but merely shrugged and said whatever, and then took another sip of his drink which was almost cold by now, he’d been nursing it for so long. He set it down and began digging through his backpack, producing a pamphlet all in some script he couldn’t discern, handed to him by a man in town with a smile equally as warm as Mark’s.

“Can you read that?” He said, handing it over.

Mark handled it for a moment, read the words on the top, and mouthed “...mokshagati...” under his breath. “I think it’s Hindi.” He said. “I don’t know Hindi.”

“How were you reading it?”

“Well I know Sanskrit, and there’s a lot of Sanskrit terms used in Hindi, usually in religious contexts...look here.” And he pointed to the front of the Pamphlet:

श्रिशरिवम्गोदपमन्दिरम्।

मोक्षगति॥

“Sri Sharivam Godapa Mandiram; Mokshagati,” he said, “It means ‘The temple of Great Sharivam Godapa.’ Probably some religious order. There are a million different gods and sects of Hinduism, I don’t really know anything about this one. But you don’t even look Indian, how did you get this thing?”

“Well I was grabbing some lunch in Little India, you know up in Iselin, and outside the restaurant a large Indian guy was handing these out and smiling and I grabbed one.” Kalil said, trying to satisfy Mark. “But I was curious,” he continued, “since you’re so interested in this stuff, if you would be able to figure out where it was so we could check it out.”

“That’s easy enough,” Mark said, “the address is right here at the bottom.” And he pointed to a couple lines, in clear Latin script, that listed 86 Cattleprod Dr, Sleepy Mountain, NJ. “Must be up in North Jersey, near the Appalachia.”

“I didn’t even know Indians lived around there...” Kalil said.

“Oh there were plenty of families up on Mt Wawayanda, when I was on the trail over the summer. You should really come out sometime.”

“Maybe,” Kalil said, “maybe.”

        A couple hours later they were well on their way, and Kalil watched as the rolling hills gained in amplitude and formed larger ridges and mountains and valleys, in or on one of which, presumably, was this temple, or maybe a retreat for New York metro area residents. Mark and Kalil’s initial excitement about their adventure had by now become a boredom tempered by the hum of the engine and the gentle rocking and rolling of the car as it cruised through the undulating landscape. But as the GPS squawked before each and every turn, their spirits gradually rose again, until they were nearly there, and looked at every passing dilapidated barn and grain pillar with apprehension as they suspected their destination might be hiding right behind, or even inside it. Though it was obvious when they did arrive at the final turn, since there was a sign with big letters “Sri Sharivam Godapa Temple and Spiritual Education Center, Next Right” preceding it. And it wasn’t some small, craggly old mountain road, the kind usually found off the beaten path in the state, but one which was new, well-paved, and curved through the pass, with rising hills and dense treeline obscuring each end.

        Soon they were in a clearing, and ahead, standing behind a security booth, was what could only be described as a vast structure, composed of white sandstone and red marble, but in the shape and form of a Big Box store; though, somewhat taller. And just like a big box store, out front in large, red, plastic letters was the name. There was a large lake between the parking lot and the entrance itself, with inventive water fixtures and fountains spraying in various patterns. Kalil was entranced, never in his life had he seen such a place. But Mark looked around strangely.

        “I’ve never been to a Hindu temple with security out front…” he said as the guard waved them through with a smile.

        But the question as to why there was security was quickly answered as they approached, across the ornamental bridge which spanned the lake constructed of pink stone in traditional south-asian style, through the large glass entrance doors they saw a glimmering from inside, a glimmering whose scintillation only grew as they came closer. When they were nearly on it Kalil whispered “open simsim” under his breath and the great glass doors parted to reveal a temple of magnificent opulence, made of pure roman marble, housed in the vast, warehouse-like space of the building. Many groups of people wandered this way and that in and about it.

        How did I not know about this? Kalil, crossing the threshold, asked both Mark and himself; and, as customary, took off their shoes and placed them in the cubby holes provided, before walking through into the Mandir itself. Kalil, in utter awe, respectfully observed the “No Touching” sign outside the short marble staircase leading to the interior and peered closely at all the miniature statues engraved into each pillar, each depicting various figures from Hindu mythology in rows and columns up and down the marble; the intricate inlays beside which stretched down to the floral patterns on the floor and the and web-like caverns of the rounded spires up above. Not to mention the lighting that bathed the whole chamber in a cool, serene glow, yet was married at the edges with the warm hues ensconcing the idols in their golden boxes. Various attendants stood by the stained glass portraits that illustrated various periods of the idols' lives and journeys, and they also wandered around, the devotees, ready to answer questions from any inquiring person.

        While Kalil was dumbfounded that such a place even existed—and in the hills of North Jersey no less!—Mark stood uncomfortably by, watching his friend’s utter elation, patiently waiting while he inspected the magnificence of every crevice. Finally, after a long conversation with one of the devotees about some spiritual topic or another, Kalil sat down with a smile in front of the idols and closed his eyes, presumably to try and emulate those around him, to experience some kind of holiness in his soul that he was previously lacking—although any of those things, to any outside observer, or even anyone who asked him about the experience later, he would vehemently deny. It was obvious to Mark, however, that Kalil was searching for something, and was always disappointed after, when he realized he hadn’t found it. Mark sat down next to him and did the same.

        After sometime, Mark could sense Kalil was getting up and roused himself. Kalil sighed, looked around with a big smile, and they walked out of the Mandir together. Around the back they had a small store that sold fresh food and other goodies, and an outdoor seating area where they proceeded with a tray carrying comestibles. Kalil ate heartily, whereas Mark had something light; he wasn’t very hungry, and it was difficult for him to find food without dairy.

        “It’s just, like, how much do you think it cost to build that thing?” Kalil asked, now sitting behind the wheel as they drove home. Mark looked outside the car in the passenger seat at the shrinking moonlit hills as they passed away, and the growing blanket of stars behind.

        “Yeah.” He replied, absentmindedly.

        “And I guess, with all these wealthy Indian families around Jersey, it wasn’t that hard to put up.”

        “Uh-huh.”

        Kalil frowned, because now he wondered if it was genuine at all, with all the funding and all the presumably vested interests associated with the temple. And certainly, Mark concluded, he would thereafter research this organization, and learn all about its structure and idols and devotees and beliefs and discover something he found slightly disturbing, some detail or another about the group that was at the very least distasteful, some poor labor practice or some atrocity they conveniently ignored or some other issue that anyone who believes must, eventually, contend with. And he knew Kalil would once again be thrown into that abyss of unmeaning, that terrifying darkness of the unbelieving, in the refusal, in the end, to accept anything that disagreed even obliquely with his ethics or principles (which, of course, he vehemently denied having as well). In the refusal to accept a community that, at its core, must exclude someone, must ignore certain things about itself, he found himself without a community. And it was difficult to be alone.

        Dusk was ending and the night was growing when Kalil dropped Mark off at his house. He warned Kalil he’d actually have to come around and knock on his door to talk with him for the time being, and Kalil shrugged like it was no big deal and said goodnight. He then drove a few blocks down the street to his own place, parked, and went inside himself. Mark, as always, went to bed early, reading a book. Kalil at first spent a good hour reading articles and wiki pages and human rights watch reports about Sharivam Godapa, an organization that turned out to be far more horrifying than he, or anyone else would’ve reasonably expected (depending on who you ask), but then got distracted by something about ancient Indian astrology and spent all night aimlessly hunting sources until he grew tired, brushed his teeth, and fell asleep.

        But the dawn struck them both equally. Mark rose, well-rested, whereas Kalil had been restless all night and slept very little, the rays of sun baking his eyes kept him from falling back asleep; but he assuaged his exhaustion with some coffee. Not a few hours later they met each other on the street, quite accidentally; though it wasn’t unsurprising, since they lived so closeby.

        Kalil waved and Mark waved back, and he approached him.

        “You know, I was doing some research on those Godapa people last night…” Kalil began.

        “Uh-huh.” Mark said, already knowing where this was going.

        “Yeah I don’t know, not great what they’re doing, apparently, in India.”

        “Right.” Mark said. “Well,” he continued, “I have somewhere to be, but I’m free next weekend if you wanna swing by.” And he began to walk away.

        “You don’t care at all?” Kalil asked. Mark stopped and turned towards him, unoffended.

        “I mean, I don’t know,” he said, “India is like thousands of miles away from here.”

        “Yeah, but, the Sharivam Godapa people are right here, in New Jersey,” Kalil said, growing more emphatic, “and nobody seems to even realize or care, and even if they do know about them, they probably decide it's better not to think about it, or its just something they don’t talk about so nobody around here finds out, because it's definitely stuff that most Americans would find pretty disgusting. I mean a group of devotees literally gang-raped a Muslim girl and they covered that shit up! And I saw on Reddit, someone was defending these people and said she deserved it and it had like hundreds of upvotes. These people, they’ve probably got funding from some of the wealthiest families in the state, and what are you too afraid to do anything about it? Is it too big for just you alone? That’s the mindset that prevents any real change from happening.”

        “No,” Mark said, “I’m not scared to try and make a change, but what do you want to do? Start a movement or make an Instagram post—isn’t it the same thing nowadays…”

        “I want to be able to take a position, and inform others, and if they know it, it’ll change what they do. If people knew, if they knew...”

        “What would they know...that there’s a group of people out there who ignore violence.? Tell me about the people who don’t ignore violence, name me that person who lives knowing that they live a totally nonviolent life; and what justifies you?”

        “What justifies you, Mark? You didn’t even tell me why you were late. You could’ve at least told me when you got there.”

        Mark paused at that, his normally calm disposition sunk low, and he looked down and away. He muttered something about it being a “private matter” and then, “That’s not related. I don’t know why you even brought it up.”

        “Whatever.” Kalil said, and muttered under his breath as he was walking away, “asshole”. Mark pretended not to hear, and walked on himself.

Mark was restless when he got to his study group. A normally jovial affair, his friends noticed how anxious he looked and tried to improve him, but to no avail. They managed to accomplish even less than usual (after all, it’d been at least a year since any of them shared a class, so it's not like there was anything for them to all study together), and Mark departed earlier than normal. When they asked if he might be coming over later he said he might, he wasn’t sure, and he left as troubled. And these people, who he’d been losing touch with for a while now, it didn’t help to become distant all the sudden—but he’d told them the truth about his phone, whereas Kalil, who he’d known for years, who he still considered one of his closest friends, he lied to. Why did he lie; what use was there in lying? Was it because he’d understand a puerile joke before an ethical commitment? Mark dispelled the thought, but it—and what else Kalil had said earlier—still bothered him. It kept coming back while reading before bed so he tried to meditate, but he couldn’t stay focused.

It was late when he finally got to sleep, like Kalil the night before, but he had class in the morning.

It was a couple weeks later, Mark was taking a class in the religion department on lesser known non-Hindu schools of Indian philosophy. (An elective, Mark had been studying Biomedical Engineering well before he became interested in Sanskrit and Yoga, and he still was.) Before class started, the professor said a student had an announcement to make about a trip he was organizing to a local temple. Mark himself had visited many of the area temples already, and mostly tuned out of the presentation; plus, he looked young, probably a Freshman or Sophomore, and he dreaded the thought of spending an entire day hanging around underclassmen. But then he heard the words Sri Sharivam Godapa and his ears perked up, “...Sri Sharivam Godapa is involved with many charities across the state and in India and they operate a community center for teaching youth about Hindi spiritualism. I hope you can join me there this Saturday!” The student concluded. He was about to go back to his seat but the professor said he could stay and answer a couple questions. A few hands went up. Mark looked around him, his heart beat hard in the grip of anxiety. A student asked a question about timing, which was quickly answered. Then Mark timidly raised his hand, but someone else who’d raised their’s first was called on, and Mark put his hand down, feeling relieved, almost. The presenting student said thank you, again, and sat down, and the professor began to get up from the desk she was leaning on to start class.

“Wait.” Mark said, barely loud enough for the class to hear. He was nervous, he’d never done this before.

“Hmm?” Said the professor, and she looked at him.

        “It’s just about the trip, that’s all,” he said, and turning towards the presenter, who by now had sat down, continued, “I heard,” he cleared his throat, “well not heard, I read that this temple, this organization, sort of may have covered up some sexual harassment allegations, in-in the past.”

        The presenter was somewhat taken aback, and there was a new tension in the room. Mark looked over to the Professor, who liked him and already knew him for a couple years now; she was smiling with her arms crossed and had leaned back on the desk; she was going to let this happen. Obviously not prepared for this inquiry, the presenter stammered a bit, said well, um, then audibly swallowed…”it’s not something I’ve heard about before…” he began; Mark was about to add more, talk about how it wasn’t just “sexual harassment” but a widespread coverup by the temple and the local police to prevent the arrest and persecution of many perpetrators in India for not only the case mentioned by Kalil, but many other separate incidents as well—more than Mark could’ve listed anyway—the gang-rape wasn’t the worst of it; though the presenter started speaking before he could start, “...but there have been some incidents of anti-hinduism on campus lately,” he started, growing more confident but still visibly nervous, “and people say stuff because they want to make us feel like Hindus aren’t good people.”

Mark stammered, “But...I...Well! There are news stories, and other things, and it's not very good, none of it!”

        “News stories?” The presenter asked, “you mean written by white people like you?” The class laughed—Mark looked around, they were glaring at him—and he continued, “we Hindus have been oppressed for hundreds of years, Aurangzeb killed millions of us, destroyed dozens of temples, worse than Hitler, and they don’t talk about him at all! Of course we don’t necessarily feel safe on campus, and saying stuff like that doesn’t help.” The student crossed his arms and looked away; his eyes were almost teary.

        Mark could tell he wasn’t very popular all the sudden, and looked over to the professor, as had all the other students for a resolution. Though she was short and slight, she commanded a great presence and respect in the classroom. But she just said well, that was fun, and began the class, like almost nothing had happened. Though, now it was Mark who didn’t feel safe, and he got his stuff and left a few minutes later, muttering something about how he “did his Puja everyday” and such, but nobody heard. He would check the lecture notes later anyway.

        That night, before walking home, Mark stopped by Kalil’s house. He was in, though he was just about to go out, and Mark was lucky to catch him. Kalil asked why he hadn’t gotten a new phone yet, but Mark said he just hadn’t gotten around to it. Then Kalil asked what was up and Mark started talking about what’d happened in class with the argument and he told the whole story and then Kalil said something weird, “That’s good, really great stuff actually. You should come to our meeting tonight, actually; come with me, that’s what I was on the way too. We’ve been doing a lot of research on the Godapa people, it’d probably help you out a lot to come.”

        Mark didn’t know what else to say so he said sure, and the conversation moved onto other things and Kalil made himself a little food before they left.

About 10 minutes later they found themselves in Grop Hall, a lecture hall that, by day was a space of education, but by night was filled with every unofficial club on campus that needed a spot to meet—for some reason the rooms were unlocked, unreservable after 7pm, and never checked. And most of the “clubs'' had their doors opened with their scant membership sitting around on a few loosely arranged desks, eager for new blood; but at the end of the corridor, in Grop Hall 103 (there was no 101 or 102—or atleast, there may have been in the past, before the school tried to be fancy and added a “writer’s lounge” that nobody uses), was a door guarded by two bulky men wearing brown berets with sunglasses, and navy blue jean jackets, with a pin on the left lapel. The door was shut and had some sort of black paper taped over the window from the inside. When they got closer, Mark could see the pins had the letters “YNBA”, which were imposed over a red flag with a brown background. He didn’t realize basketball was so serious.

        When they entered, the room was mostly full (with half of them wearing the same uniform as the guards, sans sunglasses) and someone was already speaking at the podium. They seemed to be late; they both quietly sat down and found a spot.

        “...and most of what we’re dealing with here is procedural. Protests aren’t power stations, we aren’t going to succeed no matter how many of us are in the streets if they can just roll in the tanks. You know this is a media circus; Tony is doing the paperwork for the permits before we get out there next week. Kal?” She said, looking over to Kalil. He pulled a folder out of his backpack, grabbed a stack of papers from it and headed for the podium; the speaker stepped aside to let him up.

        “Yes I have here (in carbon copy) the forms for the permits that the local police, the city, and the county requires.” He held them up as they were listed. “Essentially, legally speaking we’re holding a block party. Now of course mayor Sandozi is amenable to our cause but much of the school administration isn’t, and they will probably condemn us and send out emails about how the school ‘won’t support any practice that doesn’t make students feel safe on campus etc. etc.’ But that’s why we’re holding onto the worst stuff. On the one hand, the administration might already be aware of what’s happening and will be ready to shunt them off campus the moment anyone causes a stir. On the other, if they stick to their guns and actively denounce us, then we can release the most damaging reports, especially regarding their ties to the Board of Governors. Now my friend Mark over here, he told me today he has an in with one of their organizers,” the entire room turned to Mark, “and he’ll be going on a trip with them this Saturday to the temple. We’ll have Sneha over here accompany him for security, and also to get some extra eyes on the scene. She’ll put you in touch after the meeting.”

        Mark looked over at her. She sat up straight, wearing the full regalia. She looked over at him and nodded—that must’ve been her equivalent of a handshake. Aside from any physical characteristics, the one word he would use to describe her was austere. But not like the Yoginis, who would smile with full satisfaction and warmth, knowing they already had all they needed. From her eyes you could tell she had a direction for her tapas, she had a vision of where her physical and mental endurance—her strength of will—would lead her, and she seemed entirely dedicated to reaching the end of that path. All of this to say Mark felt a little intimidated, but also in him, sitting at the bottom of his soul ready to boil up was a feeling of deep respect—even if he wasn’t entirely ethically aligned.

        The meeting continued with various students getting up to present on efforts in and around the school and city that they and their subcommittees were currently working on. Something about a local middle school being sold off, food drives and free meals being organized for this weekend, free haircuts for black youth being offered by a member who worked part time at a barbershop, a “teach-in” about what one member referred to as the “Che-Guevaraing” by the school of a famous actor blacklisted by the CIA for being a communist; there were a few other items on the agenda, but none that Mark remembered as each was more technical and procedural than the last. It was around 8:30 when the meeting ended; Mark went up to talk to Kalil, who’d convened with a smaller group, hashing out details about the Godapa protest. Mark tapped him on the shoulder. Kalil turned his head and then looked back at the group and excused himself.

        “Oh hey, what’s up?” He asked, taking him aside. Mark looked at him funny. “What do you mean ‘what’s up,’” he said, “I never said I was going on the trip. And how am I supposed to go if this guy hates me?”

        “Hates you?” Kalil said. “What is it, a few weeks into the semester? He barely knows you, come on! Just go up to him and start spouting some bullshit about how ‘he was right, you did some more research and you’re sorry for being so racist’ really white guilt it up to convince this asshole. And look, if you really don’t want to go it's fine, I’ll just tell the other members that something fell through; I don’t want to drag you into anything. But it seems like you want to help.”

        Kalil was right. Mark did want to help, but still something was bugging him in the back of his mind, though the social pressures eased it and he momentarily forgot any grievances he’d had, especially after what’d transpired that afternoon, and he nodded. By then Sneha had approached.

        “Oh here she is,” Kalil said, “Mark meet Sneha, Sneha meet Mark. She’ll help you with research.” Sneha extended her hand and smiled; she was short and slim, with dark skin and black hair. Mark shook it, “Nice to meet you.” He said, “Same.” She replied.

        “I’ll let you two get acquainted.” Kalil said, and he turned back to his group. Mark stood awkwardly for a moment, but then he remembered about his phone and mentioned he couldn’t give her any contact info or anything because he didn’t have a phone or computer at home.

        “That’s actually pretty smart,” she said, “wish I could do that. But that’s fine, we haven’t used smartphones for comms in a while now, too many security problems. Give me a sec.” She wrote down a phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to him. “Text this once you pick up a burner, it’s a good number for me.”

Mark took it and put it in his pocket. He began to worry if he was committing to too much all at once; but before voicing any concerns there, he just smiled, thanked her, and said he had to go: he had an early class.

Now Mark wasn’t really sure what he was doing either. If he went to class next time, and said nothing and just took notes, nobody would bother him. If he didn’t buy the burner phone and didn’t text Sneha it's not like she would have a way to find him. And if he never came through it's not as if Kalil would come knocking down his door with a couple of goons. This was all on him, to keep going with this, to continue, see where it went.

There was a time in his life, some years ago in his youth, when Mark was lost and in anguish, and had turned to all sorts of pursuits as distractions. He thought, at first, that love would save him, that those precious moments of intimacy would give him complete satisfaction; if only, of course, he could find the perfect love, and not a love of glorious summits that stood between vast, dark valleys of anxiety, insecurity and loneliness. But such a love was only in fiction.

Then Mark sought out the perfect role for himself, as an individual. He tried on all sorts of hats, entered so many trends, watched the shows his friends watched, ate at the places they went to, sung the songs they sang and dreamed the same dreams—and he found that he couldn’t ever be himself, because he was always himself in terms of others, and there was no “Mark” beyond the collection of things Mark used to identify himself—which were all, all vapid and material. And Mark realized such a role did not exist.

Then Mark, at the cusp of complete despair, began to seek out the highest Truth. And he spent some years yearning after it, climbing the mountain of perfect knowledge and ultimate reality, determined to reach the top from which, he presumed, all that should be known could be. But he learned more and more about the Truth, whose attainment had become so dear to him, and the further he went the more and more people he met who had taken some perch on a ridge, claiming to know, all of whom he had to abandon. And the mountain grew steeper, and more treacherous, and the summit had become dark and misty and inscrutable; and though it always seemed just in reach, it was also always a bit out of sight, and each push as he climbed only drew it further and further away. But then all at once, Mark realized there was no mountain at all, it was merely a strange dream, and he had been like a sleeping dog, his outstretched arms pawing in the air at nothing but the workings of his own mind.

And so Mark set out on what he thought would be his final journey, he set out to attain the perfect Wisdom. But even after great meditation, and great learning and studying of the sutras, and many discussions with the Yogis, Mark still could not accept that they had the perfect wisdom. And though he continued the practice, still conversed with them over items large and small, he realized that for a people who believed in principles of nonviolence, they would look the other way when snacking on paneer. They would look the other way when their Guru took women. Though they would never harm a fly, they seemed to understand at some level, even if they never admitted it to themselves, that their piety and devotion stood atop a mountain of blood, the blood of all those killed to maintain the peaceful lives they pursued. And Mark could not fully accept the teachings of their perfect wisdom.

And Mark was lost, but now he had something else, again, something else to do with himself; after all, Mark was a restless soul.

He’d purchased the burner, he’d talked to Sneha, who shared with him all of what she’d found on various facebook groups and Hindu nationalist websites. And when he saw the presenter next in class, he did apologize to him; and he really tried to ingratiate himself, really white-guilted it up, as Kalil said, to appeal to his sensibilities. Armed with a large body of research compiled by Sneha and company, as well as his own knowledge of Hinduism, he cleared up the previous “misunderstanding” and told him all about how much Modi had done for the country, how silly those commies in the south were, and how he hadn’t realized how many of these allegations were falsely made to delegitimize the Hindutva movement in our “SJW-era”. A word that Sneha had taught him. When he asked her exactly what that meant she said it was a “Social-Justice Warrior”; it was a little dated but still packed a punch, and made you look the perfect amount of out of touch. And he learned the presenter’s name was Sam, and he said he’d do his best to join him Saturday. They continued talking after class, though it happened they “bumped into” Mark’s girlfriend on the way out, and after the pleasantries, the introductions, and a short discussion, it became apparent that she, too, should come along.

The visit to the temple wasn’t too eventful, they were only there to ingratiate themselves further, observe hierarchies, see who Sam knew and what their roles were. But Sneha had been very successful at “ingratiating” herself with Sam; as they were going home Mark spotted them go together to the back of the bus, where—clearly—something must have happened. But when Mark got a chance to peek back, all he saw between the rows of seats was Mark smiling with his eyes closed, his head in her lap as she rolled her hands through his hair. And it was true what Sneha told him about her male targets, all guys were secretly big softies. The women, however, were all cold-hearted bitches like her ex. She said it was the special privilege of an ex to call their former partner a bitch, that the world would stop turning if we couldn’t publicly acknowledge our romantic grievances in the most visceral language. Humanities majors...you can’t stop them from trying to make everything poetic, Mark thought. The world was simpler than all that; at least it could be. He hoped it was.

In this contrived scenario Mark and Sneha had thought up together a few days prior over lunch, Mark was the “jealous boyfriend” who knew his girlfriend was cheating, was envious and dismayed but secretly got off on it; Sneha played a very sexually active girl who wasn’t satisfied by just one partner, making Sam feel highly confident; yet a confidence tainted by insecurity, since she could pull-away at any moment. This dynamic, Sneha said, was essential to getting guys to leak sensitive intel, and she could pinpoint from a guy's texts the exact moment of desperation when she could step in, reassure him, and strengthen his attachment. Abusive? yes. Completely against Mark’s ethics? also yes. Useful for getting inside operations of target orgs? not necessarily. Mark wasn’t entirely sure how much of Sneha’s “character” was just an excuse for terrible behavior, but when Kalil got updates about it he was more afraid of her cover being blown than the emotional wellbeing of opposing factions. And after telling him all of this, she even asked, offhand, as they were getting ready to go, if he maybe wanted to hang out in her dorm before class. Mark declined.

Everything was on schedule for the protest. Kalil told Mark he couldn’t attend because, now that he’d “infiltrated” the organization, he couldn’t be seen publicly associating with a group protesting against them. Mark couldn’t argue with that, and left them alone.

On the Monday after, he was early on his way to class and absentmindedly grabbed a student paper from the stack sitting in the Grop Hall vestibule. He sat down in his usual spot and read the headline, “Nazi’s March on R------ Campus.” He unfolded the paper, and inside was a picture of a large group of students on G----- street standing in a crowd waving red and brown flags and wearing brown berets and sunglasses and jean jackets with a pin on the left lapel and Mark was horrified.

        “How did you not know Sam wrote for the school paper?” The Professor, Parvati, asked Mark after everyone had already left class. Mark shrugged his shoulders. “All your ‘research’, and something that important slipped by? Are you two doing this for fun, because this is serious stuff! I’m not going to be able to teach classes like this if they get closer to the administration.” She said.

        “What do you mean ‘you two’?” Mark asked. Professor Parvati looked at him funny, but then, realizing what was going on, laughed and said, “you think I don’t know what my daughter gets up to?” And then Mark looked at her and realized she bore a remarkable resemblance to Sneha, especially in physical stature, and suddenly felt very ashamed. Professor Parvati found his reaction amusing, and laughed some more. “But listen,” she said, trying and failing to contort her face away from a smile, “serious talk now. It’s not likely that the Young National Bolsheviks will be able to continue to operate on campus. They know they’re just kids, that they’re not really Nazis—but the organization itself is definitely kaput.”

        “They’re not Nazis, of course not.” Mark said, not able to believe the headline himself. “No they’re not,” she said, “they’re just leftists who like the aesthetic, and hate the ‘liberal bullshit’ that comes with most campus activist groups. But it's not great.” She sighed, “They used to call themselves the R------ Oprichnicha before, but that was too obscure and not provocative enough. At least then they didn’t get into trouble.” And by “they”, Mark could tell, she meant her daughter.

        Mark stopped by Kalil’s house on his way home that evening. He knocked on the door and Kalil yelled “come in, come in” from inside. He sounded tipsy. When Mark entered, he saw him splayed out on the living room couch with a drink in one hand and the remote in the other, watching some old anime they used to like as kids. Mark sat down on the couch catercorner and watched it with him.

“What, so you think I’m a Nazi now, huh?” Kalil slurred. “No I—” Mark began.

“Well I am!” He shouted. “That’s what National Bolshevik means. And Mark you know what the funniest thing is?” He asked. “What’s that?” Mark said.

“I’m Jewish too!” He replied. And Mark looked at him, stunned for a moment, guffawed. “Just kidding,” he said, settling down, “but many of the members are, no joke.” Mark thought for a moment.

“So you mean you actually believe in it, National Bolshevism, as like a real ideology. I looked more into it after I read the article. It’s just a stupid joke; it wasn’t even serious when it was serious, and that was the entire point.” Kalil looked at him, smiling, and took another sip of his drink. “Believe? Do I believe in it? Mark, I say this as honestly as possible, but I don’t believe in anything. I’m not like you, I don’t need some ‘thing’ that makes sense. I don’t need some bullshit story to help me sleep at night. But…” And Kalil trailed off and looked back at the TV as the main character blew a massive hole through the head of a demon with his bow and arrow. Mark silently watched along with him.

“But you need something.” Mark said, conclusively.

“No, no,” Kalil replied angrily, “no not at all! That was never the ‘point’. But look at what happened in India? You see what happened in India, right Mark. Oh yeah, it started out as a bunch of non-violent pacifists, who believed, whole-heartedly, in karmic retribution, in the endless cycle of violence that must be broken through passive resistance. And they ‘passively resisted’ themselves right into a goddamn technofascist empire!

“You see how it is, Mark, you see what happens all over the goddamn world? People get scared, they need their fucking stories, they can’t live without their stories, without their stupid identities, they’re addicted to them. And they say to themselves, they say there’s nothing without my culture, without my history, without my people and my community, Mark, their community and their family. So guess who they turn to? Who do you think huh, they go to the foofie academic who won’t shutup about gender and oppression and sublation, the guys who spend their whole lives locked up in an ivory tower, feverishly inbreeding to stuff their sweaty chambers with more stupid intellectuals?

“No they turn to their leader, the charismatic figure who promises to end these internal hierarchies, to finally crush and flatten the caste or class or aristocratic chain into a single level plane of communal harmony. And they say that this is necessary, and why? Because they need to unify, to come together, to fight the external threat, the external internal threat, who threatens the existence of everyone in the identity.” Kalil said, exasperated.

“So you really do believe in all that? Jesus Kalil.” Mark asked.

“Don’t use the lord's name in vain,” Kalil said, with a hoarse laugh, “you didn’t let me finish, you needed to let me finish!” And he took another drink. “Isn’t this a beautiful country, Mark?” He asked, but he didn’t let him answer. “Indeed, America is a great country, one of the greatest, perhaps the greatest. But let’s not go too far. You know me, you know I can’t live without my halal platters. You know I love to visit the temples and shrines and cathedrals and talk with the Muftis and Priests and Rabbis and Yogis. And you know I’ve been with all the races, all the genders, all the identities have been filled in, if you catch my drift.” Kalil laughed a sick laugh. “And I ask you, where else in the whole world is that possible?

“Where else can I talk to the Tibetan monk living right next to the Chinese officer who deported him? That’s the strength of our nation!” Mark said, standing up. “Diversity is our Strength! And what a strong nation we are! We dispel with weakness—we take in only the greatest, the fastest, the sharpest, the hardest; we only regard strength, strength above all else! I would love to live in a world where an ICE officer can rub shoulders with a vegan hippy, where Bernie Sanders policies are endorsed by Ann Coulter, where the only resistance to Chinese Communism is our own brand of radical anarchic socialism, unified by the National Spirit against the external enemy, the internal enemy—to flatten all hierarchies, to achieve a Triumph of the Will! And thank God, such a strong nation, such a rugged people! The great American eagle soars over the authoritarians of China, the ethnonationalism of India, her wings guard those pissy Europeans—but who knows, not for long! She must come back to the nest to feed the Great American People! And God bless! God Bless America!” And Kalil collapsed on the sofa with his drink, laughing; madly laughing, at the top of his lungs until he was totally out of breath and coughed and laughed and coughed and laughed until he lay there, enervated and truly content, sighed, and completely passed out with the widest grin sitting on his face, his drink slipping out of his hand and spilling onto the floor.

Mark was just so entirely baffled, he had no idea what he was supposed to do, but he grabbed some paper towels to clean up the spill, then put the glass in the sink and washed it out. He went up to Kalil’s room to get some pillows and a blanket, came back downstairs, lifted his head, and slotted the pillows under it. Once he’d laid the blanket over him, Kalil gripped it tightly and rolled over, burying his face in the cushions. Mark stayed and watched another couple episodes of Lama and Rakushamon, before—being certain that Kalil had really fallen asleep (he was snoring)—turning off the TV and leaving, locking the door on his way out.

For some odd reason, he kept going to the meetings of the Young National Bolsheviks of America, something bizarrely compelled him to continue attending. After that incident, and all the bad press, and the condemnations, the membership had seriously thinned out; they abandoned their uniforms and insignias and flags and pins and met only at Kalil’s house. The once thriving engine of an effective political organization became nothing more than a glorified drinking club. And drink they did, and party, and have fun, and generally enjoyed their own company in the way college students should; even Mark might’ve had a sip or two of beer, when he really got into it; it could get quite rowdy at their “meetings”. Kalil considered installing a ratio, but of course ethically he couldn't bring himself to, so there were never too many women around. Sneha was always disappointed; though she almost never failed to find a guy to go home with.

And it was amazing, it was everything you could’ve wanted or expected from a “college experience”, and even Mark, a normally diligent student, his grades started to slip, he began losing his professors’ respect when he might miss a class or an assignment. Though in every other regard, he was finally happy, and he didn’t need anything else to make it so. And not a few weeks later the world ended. Everything was shut down, there were whispers in the lectures halls about how other universities nearby had already closed; serendipitously in the middle of class students got an email, an email that said they had 48 hours to clear out or declare a very good reason for staying on campus, that they were starting spring break early and classes would be moved online and remotely until further notice. And Mark just completely fell apart, he was already becoming a mediocre student but this destroyed him, he couldn’t keep it together, and he pass/failed all his classes. And in this chaos, and turmoil, and despair, he and Sneha even got together for a few months, but that relationship went as well as could be expected; they had a nasty breakup when the summer rolled around and things eased up.

And then it’d been over a year, more than a whole year had passed by, a year of loneliness, despair, and suffering, and Mark had somehow gotten his shit together, and through a combination of intense course loads, summer and winter classes, he was able to graduate on time, all without ever setting foot back on campus. And he didn’t even bother to attend the shitty online graduation ceremony, which was probably as shitty as the one the year before. And he didn’t know if he should get work, which by now, in his field, would be easy; or, keep going to school and get a Masters. But he didn’t want to spend another two years in online classes, and decided to put off graduate school until things went “totally back to normal”; that may’ve meant never, but he couldn’t know.

It was the middle of the summer, Mark had no idea what to do with himself. He’d lost everything, everything, all his friends, his clubs, his hobbies, he hadn’t touched a Sanskrit text in over a year, he hadn’t spoken with the yogis, he even started eating meat again on occasion, though it guilted him so. He had nothing and he was nothing. And then, in the middle of the night, a night full of idleness, on a whim Mark looked up how hard it would be to get to the Appalachian trail from his house, and he saw there was a path, a way. There was a bus that stopped off in a small town right north of the NJ/NY border that had a half a mile spur leading to the trail. It was the middle of the night, sometime past 2am, even. He was packing his pack, he was getting everything ready he needed to get ready, and figured he could buy the food he needed in town.

The next morning, he told his parents where he was going; he could stay another night if they wanted to say goodbye—but they both knew Mark was a restless soul, and it wouldn’t make a difference either way. So he took up his pack, and walked to the stop for the bus that took him to the station, and took a train in that station, and got off and took another bus, and got off that bus, and put one foot in front of the other and started walking, and he didn’t look back.

---

It was January 18th, 2020, the Saturday before classes began. Mark was on his way to meet his friend Kalil, who he hadn’t seen since the end of the last semester. He’d called him up a few days before, and suggested they go to a local cafe that, though it’d branded itself “vegan”, was surprisingly affordable. Kalil’s disbelief translated easily over the phone, but he said alright. “We could also get Indian.” Mark suggested as well, but Kalil said the cafe was fine and he wanted to eat a lighter lunch anyway.

On his way there, Mark witnessed a man get run over by a speeding car on C------ Avenue as he was crossing the street. He ran over to help, but he was bleeding—a lot. But Mark did his best to comfort the poor kid, in his final moments. Bleeding and covered in blood he said, looking down at himself, “Jesus…” and he coughed, weak and shivering, “Jesus it's cold.”

“Hey, I’m here, I’m here.” Mark said.

“My girlfriend…” He told Mark, gravely. “Yes, your girlfriend, what about her?” Mark asked.

“Her name is Alexa...Alexa Vishmrti. Tell her...tell her...that I saw the texts and she’s a fucking cheating whore!” and with the last of his strength he yelled, wrung his hand in the air, and died. By then, other students nearby had already called the police. The ambulance came, the cop cars came. Mark made his statement and left to see Kalil. He was about 45 minutes late.

The next day, after leaving his study group, Mark went to try and find this Alexa. He asked everywhere—anyone who worked anywhere, anyone he could bug for info, he tried but for a whole week it went nowhere, until he got lucky and met one of her sorority sisters working in a local Pizzeria.

He found her in bed—she was inconsolable, the only thing she’d gotten up for was the funeral, and even that was difficult. The sisters told Mark she hadn’t taken off her hoody in a week since, apparently he gave it to her the last time they were together.

“Hi.” she said, despondently, her face buried in the pillows. “Hey.” Mark replied, and sat down. “Friend of Jon?” She asked.

“Not really, no. I was with him when he died.” Mark said. He was looking down at his feet, but heard some shuffling in the bed and saw Alexa sitting up now, staring at him intently. She was still wearing the hoodie.

“What,” she began, it was difficult for her to speak,”what did he say?”

“He said.” Mark paused, conflicted, looking into her eyes, barely visible through her messy hair; it was as if they radiated light, and the entire room grew dark, becoming suffused totally with darkness. As if there was a storm and her face was the sun shining through, as if her forehead was the full moon in the night sky. “He said he loved you.”

She burst into tears and fell back into bed, crying into her pillow. After a few minutes, Mark got up to leave but as he opened the door she cried out, “Wait!”

“What is it?” He asked. “He didn’t mention anything at all about the cheating? He seemed really mad about it at the time…” she said.

“No, not at all.” Mark asserted. “Really?” She asked. “Of course not.” Mark said.

“Wow,” she said, taking the hoodie off, not seeming to care that she was completely nude underneath, “what a little bitch.” And she threw it on the floor, near the trash can. “Tiff!” She yelled down.

“What’s up, Alex?”

“Did Kali come in? He was supposed to be here an hour ago!”

“He’s been here for 10 minutes.” She said. “Kali!!!” She yelled.

“Yes, Alex?” Kalil (yes, that Kalil,) yelled back.

“Bring that dick up here!”

Mark started to go out, already thoroughly disturbed, when he crossed paths with Kalil who nodded to him, grinning, as he walked up. And as they came abreast of each other, Kalil stopped Mark and whispered in his ear, “Gorilla grip, am I right?” Mark descended further, looked back up at him, and Kalil, looking back at Mark, winked.

—July, 25th, 2021

   New Brunswick, NJ