Gemscentric

Written by Julian Robov


Sixty Three


He was sitting in a lotus position gazing at an ice cube in a glass of water. It’s form, the way it was floating and dissolving as it moved fascinated him. There was beauty and sadness as it disappeared. Meechai hadn’t seen Seri for a few days. He had promised, to take him to a prostitute. He wanted one more experience before becoming a monk for three months. He became restless and angry.

Hours later, he started smashing everything in front of him turning the place into a huge pile of junk. He then sat on it saying something loud, laughing madly. This was not the old Meechai. Gemstones of various qualities especially blue colored gems, stone boxes, plastic bags were all strewn across the room. For him they had no more value. He picked a few blue stones from the pile and began throwing them fiercely against the ceiling. The stones didn’t break. He repeated again. After watching disappointedly, he then put the stones in his mouth in order to crush them. He cried in pain, as the tooth broke into several pieces by the mad force. He became furious, as the blue gems began smiling at him.
“Gemstones, Seri, where are you? Help me!” he said, crying on the floor. There was no response. Instead his own voice began echoing around the room. He could feel the sound waves, and suddenly a bat-like flying object flew into the room from nowhere, and struck his face, felling him into an unconscious state.
Later, he began experiencing the tunnel syndrome transcending him to a desert somewhere in the world. Now he could see the translucent picture. He was a Turkmen playing buzkashi with Rudy and his friends in the Central Asian Republic of Turkmenistan. The team members were on horseback lashing out at their opponents with lead-tipped whips wanting to win the game. But as the game progressed to its high pitch, some of his friends crossed sides, including Rudy, whipping at him violently. He couldn’t understand the analogy. Someone had wanted him killed in the desert. Rudy Smith. Sucked up again, his thoughts drifted to a different region. Burma. He recalled a Buddhist monk reminding of four Ariyan Axioms in a jungle hut.

This, O monks, is the Ariyan truth of dukkha: birth is dukkha; old age is dukkha; sickness is dukkha; death is dukkha; to be united with the unloved one is dukkha; to be separated from our loved ones is dukkha; not to obtain what one desires is dukkha; in short, the five fold clinging to the earth is dukkha.
This, O monks, is the Ariyan truth about the origin of dukkha: it is the will to live (tanha) which leads from birth to birth, together with lust and desire, which finds gratification here and there; the thirst for pleasure, the thirst for being, the thirst for power.
This, O monks, is the Ariyan truth about the cessation of dukkha: the extinction of this thirst by complete annihilation of craving (tanha) letting it go, expelling it, separating oneself from it, giving it no room.
This, O monks, is the Ariyan truth about the path which leads to the cessation of dukkha: it is the holy eight-fold path (madhyama pratipada): to wit, right belief, right aspiration, right speech, right living, right effort, right recollections, right rapture.

NOT AGAIN. He had heard the verses countless times, but deep down in the innermost self of Meechai, a certain birefringent feeling of helplessness and hopelessness began to irresistibly evolve deflecting an unwelcome fact. Now Rudy’s face appeared in front of him, humming a familiar song, while holed-up in Pailin.

Life’s but a walking shadow—a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.


He used to recite the very words of the great bard countless times, singing along with the stubborn mosquitoes, and dancing like the whirling dervishes. It had been an unforgettable tale, depicting a life full of perpetual contest, with the mother of all hardships where even the best had a hard time enjoying the life. Meechai was still conscious stroking his face, feeling the freshly smacked bat fingerprints, lying on the floor perplexed as ever pondering the true meaning behind those previous life flash-backs. He could feel something was going to happen, but hadn’t a clue as to its source. There were several mosquitoes busy congregating on the ceiling. They were making all sorts of sickening noises, a clueless scenario. As he lay watching their activities, two mosquitoes dove at him unexpectedly giving him the mother of all bite. Two big lumps began to pop out of his chest—like a pair of balloons. They began getting larger and larger, as his breathing got heavier. It was hard for him to believe it was real. He was too scared to touch them. They were getting redder and redder taking a cone-like shape, simulating a diamond bearing kimberlite pipe. All the blood in his body began gushing beneath the two pumpkin-sized lumps—waiting to splash the unthinkable. He didn’t know whether to cry or laugh. He knew there was an acute gas build-up in his body releasing strange sounds and a foul smell. He became tense and uncomfortable. There was no one around, as he began crying for help. He looked around for any objects that would help him stop the frightening balloon build up. It’s deep blue hue alarmed him something dreadful was in the offing. An object lying beneath the pile showing metallic luster got his attention.

Inch by inch, he got closer to have a view. It was a stainless steel arrow. Only Seri could have known the need of a stainless steel arrow. Beside the leather cover, there was a paper roll. At first, he tried to ignore it. Later he had a change of heart. He gingerly unwrapped it wanting to know the content. It was a map. Another group of mosquitoes dove at him from a different quarter biting him all over. He cried loudly swearing every word he could remember.

As he lay helpless, one mosquito took a deep plunge into the lump bursting it open. Another mosquito did the same to the second lump. A thick brew of white liquid began flowing from the hot red lumps—like an amorphous lava flow snaking towards the floor. The disgusting smell and the wind, soaked in his own liquids triggered a massive jolt forcing him to vomit. He cried loudly looking scared as ever awaiting helplessly staring at the putrid pool. Suddenly the mosquito congregation was over. They were no where to be seen. Everything looked peaceful and quiet—like a new dawn. The cold breeze followed by a soothing menthol smell calmed him down allaying his fears. The thick white brew from the exploded lump had already solidified looking like a quartz vein on the floor. Strange things were happening, as he lay on the floor confused but relaxed. There was no disgusting smell anymore. He stroked at his face several times making sure he was not dreaming. The lump had already disappeared, leaving a faint round lining on his chest. Slowly he stood up, holding the stainless steel arrow and the paper roll walking towards a traditional wooden chair. Jittery about the event, he sat on the chair pondering the hidden message.