Book Excerpts - Jekyll & Highsmith Publishers

Jay L. Latham, author of Galaxy of Fire: Pilgrimage to an Ancient Spiritual Land, 2nd Edition, now available for the Amazon Kindle e-Book device and e-Reader software application for Apple iOS, Kindle, Windows and Android mobile devices.

Excerpts from Jekyll & Highsmith Publications

*****

This narrative is from the author's pilgrimage to Kedarnath, in the Himalaya Mountains of Northern India. (Ed.)

Some walk around naked, except for a loincloth, with four-foot strands of roped, matted locks piled up like a coiled cobra on top of their heads, their bodies completely covered with white-gray ash, taken fresh from the morning's dhuni (a sadhu's fire, which is considered holy) or from the human ash remains of the cremation ground. Some walk around with a trident, Shiva's weapon of choice, with a monkey-drum tied to the top; or with their crude, cast-iron dhuni tongs they use to work the logs in their morning and evening fires.

In 1991, I saw a fabulous Shiva Yogi standing on the front steps of Kedarnath Temple, 12,000 feet up in the Garhwal Himalaya. He was painted bright blue from head to foot, with the exception of his throat, which was painted black-blue, symbolizing Shiva's drinking off the poison from the ocean of nectar at the beginning of time to save the world from harm. Although the temperature at that altitude with the sun setting was only around 35 degrees Farenheit, and dropping fast, the man was naked and barefoot, save for a one-foot wide, yellow-spotted leopard skin tied around his waist.

The leopard skin was beautiful, with white and black spots over brilliant yellow fur. He had secured it with a scarlet silk sash that was wrapped around his waist, hung from a knot about two feet down his left thigh. His body was Himalayan strong, seemingly impervious to the foreboding chill in the air as night approached.

His hair was knotted into floor-length dreadlocks—flowing like snakes down to the stone under his feet. In his right hand, he held a giant silver trident, about eight feet tall with three flat 8-inch wide blades, barbed at the ends. The trident looked to be a very old heirloom imbued with the power of Shiva and ancient India; it was pure silver with ornate hand-working all along the shaft. On his brilliant blue forehead, right above and between his eyes, was a vertically painted red and white ‘third eye’.

Kedarnath, nestled in the Mandakini River valley, 1991

The great yogi stood timeless, still as a statue, as the wind blew his hair around his legs. Can’t you just feel the power of this man, standing on the front landing of the most powerful Himalayan Shiva shrine in the world?

Let me help you.

Kedarnath, with temple and stupa, center, 1991

Kedarnath Mandir is nestled amongst spectacular Himalayan peaks at the end of a long, winding jungle valley that follows the Mandakini River to her source. Looking straight up from the front of the temple you will see, towering above and right behind, a 22,000 foot wall of the Trans-Himalaya range, with Kedarnath Parbat (23,000 feet) right in the middle.

Pink and gold cloud banners blow off her summit in the jet stream. There is snow catching every hue and shade of light imaginable on those peaks, changing in color and intensity with every tick of the sun's transit. It is the most powerful and spectacular place I have ever been. Seeing this magnificent blue Shiva standing there, like a being from another world, stopped my mind still.

Kedarnath Mandir (temple), 1991

He was the hardest yogi I’d ever seen. He looked like he'd wandered to this spot from somewhere out in no-man's land, because there is nothing beyond the temple but passes, glaciers and peaks. Perhaps he descended from some celestial Kaivalya (heaven) to pay homage to the Jyothirlinga.

When I first saw him, I had just completed a long, hard day—trekking the fourteen kilometers from Gaurikund to Kedarnath, 9,000 ft. to 12,000 ft., with a sixty pound pack on my back. I was breathing hard and tripping on the clarity of the air, the climax of the exertion, and the power and beauty of this God-intoxicated place.

Sadhus at Kedarnath Mandir, 1991

Before me stood stone steps leading twelve feet up to the temple's front terrace. I dropped my pack, removed my boots, and walked up. As I crested the top step I happened, quite unawares, to look to my right. There he stood, staring two holes straight through me—blue Shiva!

Kedarnath Temple, on a subsequent pilgrimage, where the author had seen

the ‘Blue Shiva’ sadhu, 1991.

Everything stopped. He was Lord Shiva.

The very sight of the being twisted my heart and wrung it like a wet towel. My brain could not register what I was seeing. His eyes held infinity; they held the Unmoving.

This was a real Shiva Yogi, who had captured the essence of Lord Shiva through a life of identification, isolation, meditation and wandering in the mountain wilderness. Looking at him was like looking at the bottom line of the Universe.

Kedarnath Mandir, view of the stupa from the rear, 1991

*****

This narrative is from the author's time in Basic Training in the Marine Corps at Parris Island, SC during the late 1960s. The language is graphic, and reflects a set of sensibilities dating from that time period during the Vietnam War. Readers who are sensitive to graphic language, as well as children, should leave this page or skip this excerpt. (Ed.)

Part of our training involved learning bayonet skills at the pugil stick range. This was conducted with simulated metal frame rifles with attached bayonet-like points that we used on straw dummies to slash, jab, parry and butt stroke. We didn't use our real rifles for fear of bending the barrels before the big shooting competition. A much more realistic method of bayonet training, however, employed the use of the pugil stick. That's where the real “fun and games” began.

Author, front and left, as Outstanding Marine for his platoon, Parris Island, 1967.

"I want to see blood! I haven't seen blood in three days and that just gurgitates the hell out of me, ladies! Do you maggots realize that we haven't had one broken arm or one broken leg out here in three solid months? THREE FUCKING MONTHS! That pisses me off, Goddamit! You worms are supposed to be grunts and I do expect you to prove that to me today. I WANT TO SEE BLOOD! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, LADIES?"

"SIR, YES, SIR!" all one hundred and sixty of us recruits cried in unison.

Two platoons, ours and platoon 171, were tightly packed around First Sergeant Surtees, Senior Drill Instructor of the pugil stick range. Sgt. Avery had already warned us to do well that morning with the following warning.

"First Shirt Surtees is one hard ass Marine who's seen combat in Korea. He fought at the 'Frozen Chosin' Reservoir with the First Marine Regiment under Chesty Puller and he was a grunt platoon sergeant in 'Nam. You aren't worth the dirt under his boots. So do everything he tells you to do AND DON'T EMBARRASS ME OUT THERE TODAY UNLESS YOU WANT FUN AND GAMES WHEN WE GET BACK TO THE BARN!"

Surtees was lean and tough with cold blue eyes, killer's eyes, that were hard as steel. He looked like a coiled rattler ready to strike.

Surtees lifted a thick, three-and-a-half-foot wooden pole over his head, the ends of which were thickly padded and wrapped in canvas.

"This pugil stick weighs exactly sixteen pounds and you will give it the love and respect that it deserves. That is because this pugil stick is not an ordinary stick but your rifle with a bayonet attached to the barrel. As grunts you'll need your rifle more than anyone or anything else in the world. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?"

"SIR, YES SIR!"

"I WILL TEACH YOU HOW TO LIVE. DO YOU WANT TO LIVE, LADIES?"

"SIR, YES SIR!"

"THEN YOU MUST LEARN HOW TO KILL! I will teach you how to jab, how to thrust, how to parry, how to slash, and how to butt stroke, and you will perform these acts of violence on each other and produce blood for me today. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, LADIES?"

"SIR, YES SIR!"

We all jumped to attention. The D.I.'s arranged the two platoons in two long lines of men standing side-by-side, each platoon facing each other with about twenty-five feet of distance in between. Our D.I.'s started running up and down the line threatening us and exhorting us to "kick ass" or else. Surtees stood in the field alone between the two facing platoons with a whistle in his hand.

Private Hostetter, or "Hostile" as we called him, was standing to my right. He was my bunk mate and my best boot camp friend and, although he was one of the shorter men in the platoon, he was far stronger and more aggressive than any of our other smaller men. He'd told me of fights he'd won against much bigger guys in high school, which I believed, and how he and his buddies used to hunt "gators" in the Everglades of Florida south of his home in Gainesville.

He was one of those short, stocky wrestler types who could do endless pushups and pullups with no sweat. Surtees must have picked up on this because he pointed him out and told him to put on his protective gear. Then he looked over to the other platoon and picked the biggest, tallest recruit, who stood about 6 feet, 3 inches, and weighed 220 pounds, and told him to get his gear on. Surtees was obviously doing a ’David and Goliath‘ thing.

I helped Hostetter get his gear together, and while he put it on I noticed that, rather than being concerned, he was in high spirits. He winked at me with a mischievous look on his face and said,

"Watch this, Jay."

He obviously had something in mind. Surtees then called them out to the center of the field and squared them off against each other, then blew the whistle shrilly.

Without warning, Hostile threw his pugil stick on the ground and jumped straight up into the big man's chest turning sideways. He latched his left arm around the big man's neck and held it like a vise, his biceps bulging; with his right fist he began to pummel the man's face like a pile driver.

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam.

The sight was unbelievable! It looked as if the big man had a crab-like alien attached to his face, devouring him, and now couldn't see or even retaliate because Hostile was in too close.

The big man's arms flailed ineffectively while Hostile pounded the man with incredible force. The man staggered with Hostile's added weight, then fell on the ground, where he screamed and flailed, attempting to shake the mad hornet off of him. Nothing worked. Hostile rolled and flailed along with the man and his fist never stopped. It looked like he was trying to beat the face mask permanently into the guy's skull when the thing flew off. Hostile now pounded naked flesh.

Armstrong, Avery and Carver went totally berserk and ran right up to the two fighting men, dancing a victory dance around them.

"PAYBACK IS A MOTHERFUCKER,” Armstrong yelled as loud as he could.

He then put his face about two feet from the thrashing bodies and screamed orgasmically,

"YES!

YES! YOU ARE BORN AGAIN HARD! KILL THE MOTHERFUCKER!

And Avery joined in.

"YOU ARE MY HARD CHARGER! YOU ARE MY HARD CHARGER!"

Now everybody in our platoon screamed in ecstasy, jumping and leaping all over each other.

I screamed, "KILL, HOSTILE, KILL!" until I was hoarse.

Hostile continued to thrash the man; I began to feel sorry for the guy. He was no match for Hostile.

Finally Surtees blew the whistle, but our drill instructors had to physically pry Hostile off the man; he'd become oblivious to everything. The big man lay on his back, blood trickling from his nose. Surtees had gotten blood.

Our fear melted away in the raucous joy of Hostile's victory and everyone slapped him on the back as he rejoined our ranks. Our D.I.'s could barely conceal their pride. They knew we'd lose the three-on-one because the cards had been stacked against us. And the odds had been against us this time too, but the smaller man had unexpectedly prevailed in an incredible show of speed and strength. For the next five or six bouts the fighting was wild and furious, now that the gauntlet had been thrown. Surtees arranged all sorts of combinations to feed his need for blood. He even arranged a five-on-one which turned out to be a massacre.

Finally my turn came. The two platoon's D.I.'s were instructed by Surtees that they could select only one man from their own platoon. The other drill instructors picked a black man that I'd seen before. His name was Fletcher and he'd grown up in a ghetto in some large northeastern city. I knew he hated whites. I secretly wished that they'd picked another opponent for me, as I knew something of the man already.

I'd seen Fletcher fight another, bigger black recruit from his own unit, and he'd looked formidable. He was like a double-armed windmill, charging straight ahead, hitting the big man all over his face and upper body. He never even aimed a punch, just wound his hundred and eighty-five pound body into two vertical windmills gone berserk, and attacked. I'd never seen any fighting technique like it before. The bigger recruit, a Private Mickey, had ended up with four or five painful looking lumps on his head, and a bloody mouth.

Now I was standing directly across from this super-mean recruit about to go into battle. Surtees had us stand about fifteen feet apart. He moved between us and lay one pugil stick on the ground. As we finished donning our protective gear, Surtees spoke.

"When I blow the whistle, you will both run to the pugil stick and the first one to pick it up will commence to severely beat the other man about the head and shoulders. Is that clear?"

"SIR, YES SIR!” We both yelled.

I looked across at Fletcher. His eyes were full of fire and hatred and his nostrils flared like those of a wild horse. He was psyching himself up. My mindset went something like, "Don't give him a chance to wind those fists up; overpower him and don't let up...ever! Otherwise he'll kill me." My mind turned to steel.

Surtees blew the whistle and we both bolted like lightening. We were perfectly matched for speed and, in an instant, got to within a few feet of the stick. Our eyes locked as our bodies hurdled through the air. In that split second, each of our mental computers went into hyperspeed to make the crucial decision: go for the stick or go for the man? And in that nanosecond, I saw a visible cloud of doubt pass over Fletcher's eyes as to which to do. Then he looked down to pick up the stick. All two hundred pounds of me flew into the man as he bent over to grab it, and as I hurtled into him, I added to the force of my momentum a powerful right upper-cut to the center of his face mask.

The blow knocked his head straight up as my trunk rammed his body backwards. We both went airborne and I landed on top of him, actually sitting on his chest with my knees pinning his arms to his sides as we slid in the dust two or three feet. His eyes looked into mine as I beat his face in a frenzied orgy of passion, slamming him as fast and hard as I could with both fists. There was no way he was going to do to me what he'd done to Private Mickey. I let go with everything I had, beating his face like a jack hammer. Victory coursed through my veins as I pummeled the man mercilessly, my fists combusting like pistons fueled by the nitro of my own raw fear.

Somewhere, way out on the periphery of my awareness, Surtees, Avery and Armstrong were going into multiple orgasms yelling, "BLOOD!" and "KILL!" and other madnesses. Through it all, a silence remained, and as a deeper part of myself looked on from an untouched, separate place above it all, I saw Fletcher glaring back at me, grimacing with pain, completely fearless. A whistle kept blowing, like some sort of tertiary irritant, but there was no way I would stop and let this wild animal up. My plan was to beat him until the job was finished, which meant as long as I could keep hitting.

Finally Avery and Armstrong pulled me off and I stood up. They were unable to conceal their feelings of pride and respect. The whole platoon was yelling, but I hadn't heard them until now. Surtees was in ecstasy, too. No broken bones, but enough blood to give him an adequate fix. Hostile greeted me warmly as I merged back into the platoon; our friendship was better than ever now.

*****

This narrative is from the author's first trip to Delhi, while attending one of Maharishi's courses on Vedic Science in 1980. It was at this time that the author was introduced to the practice of using the Shiva Linga, with unusual results . (Ed.)

Over the years, I've greatly enjoyed the common man's worship of the shivalinga and received wonderful results from it, mainly feelings of softness, well-being and peace. On a few occasions the results were magical.

My friend Roy and I were sharing a small room in Mr. Kapoor's Guest house out in the section of Delhi known as Nizamuddin East. I had my beautiful dark and white shivalingas set up on the bed stand and would give nightly lectures on their power to Roy and any of the other guys living in the adjacent rooms after we had returned from our evening meetings.

One of the author's Shiva Lingam stones, used to heighten his spiritual practice, 1980.

These fellows had been subject to my ravings for years, and I now had a small, albeit somewhat skeptical, following that got off on my "fiery" evangelical sermons on the power of Lord Shiva. I had always been fascinated by the secret "Shaiva Cult" I'd read about in the Shiva Purana and Linga Purana, and formed my own "cult within the cult within the cult" known as the "Third Eye Fellowship."^{^[1]}

To be a member all one had to do was be of the male gender, join with me in front of the shivalinga, candles and incense aglow in an otherwise darkened room, and ride with me deep into the night while I raved on about the secret, magical powers of the linga and how lucky we were to have even discovered its existence—being white people and all. I knew most of the guys were simply there for the show, but it didn't matter to me because my sermons had the effect of transporting me to another world. The more I praised the shivalinga, the more it glowed and grew in power.

In regards to this, Maharishi once said, "The teacher (in teaching) learns more than the student."

Late one night after the gathering ended and Roy and I were left alone, I noticed the dark linga "looking at me. I actually felt that a cosmic being (or was it Maharishi?) was using the shivalinga as a portal through which to look into the room; but it was also a two-way portal through which I could look back.

I said, "Roy, don't do anything weird. I think Maharishi is looking at us through the linga."

At the time, Maharishi was living at the Indian Express Building, about ten or fifteen kilometers from our guest house.

Roy gave a mildly irritated reply, "Come on man, its time for bed."

"No really, Roy, Maharishi's looking at us right now. Come over here and be respectful, like you would if he was here in the flesh."

After a few more entreaties, Roy came over and knelt down beside me.

I said, "I know you don't believe me about the power of this shivalinga, but I'll prove it to you."

He got slightly interested at this point and said, "Okay, I'll go along with you."

I then looked into the lingam and prayed exactly as if I were talking to Maharishi in person.

"Maharishi, I know you can see and hear me. Prove that this is real. Please come up to me tomorrow in the flesh, and speak personally to me."

The author, meditating in Delhi, 1980.

That may not sound like much of a request, but anyone in the TM movement will tell you that it is quite a feat to get a personal audience with Maharishi if you are outside his inner circle of administrators, personal secretaries, and guards. These people have been given, by Maharishi, the authority to select who sees him and who doesn't, based on the importance of one's visit, position in society, or relationship with Maharishi or those within his inner circle.

Roy knew well that what I had requested in front of the shivalinga, given that I was out-of-favor with possibly the most influential person in Maharishi's immediate retinue, would truly be a test of the Almighty.

The next morning, our bus picked us up and took us to the Indian Express Building. We joined the other 3500 Sidhas for our group meditation practice, which lasted a few hours. We then took our lunch, then worked on projects throughout the afternoon. Generally, we didn't see Maharishi until around 10:00 p.m., when he would come and lecture until midnight or 1:00 a.m. I usually sat somewhere in the middle of the huge audience, never closer than ten or fifteen rows back, because I didn't enjoy the social politics inherent in battling to get a seat near the front.^{^[2]}

At 3:30 p.m., Roy and I were sitting in the lecture hall, working on a project together, when a friend named Carl Jensen came up to me.

"Hey Jay, can we enlist your construction skills for a project downstairs?"

"What is it?"

"The room Maharishi uses for giving private audiences has no air duct, and it's too stuffy. It'll only take us a couple of hours to put one in. He's out of the building today and needs it ready by tomorrow."

I looked at Roy and said, "This is it!"

Roy's eyebrows went up and I could see a ray of belief creeping into his skeptical mind. Of course, he was only skeptical of me, but I wanted to prove that the shivalinga had acted as a cosmic transmitter.

I went downstairs with Carl, and we worked for a few hours. At around 5:30, we cleaned up the tools and got ready to join the afternoon group meditation. I was standing alone in the middle of the room, gazing at a huge picture of Guru Dev.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and Maharishi burst in with a small entourage in tow, and made a beeline straight to me, stopping only inches away. The sheer force of the man practically knocked me down. He stood there, looking directly into my eyes and laughed—even his eyes were laughing.

Loudly, he said, as a question, "Jai Guru Dev?"

The way he said it gave me the distinct feeling that he was really saying,

"You rang?"

I somehow managed to say a shaky "Jai Guru Dev" in return.

He then turned around and, just as briskly, walked out of the room. Even Roy, the balanced skeptic, was impressed when I told him about it later.

[1] When I use the word "cult" here, I use it in the light-hearted sense of a group of people who share a common interest that gives a positive spiritual experience, as opposed to cultish groups who share negative interests, such as the subversion, killing, or overpowering of other people and cultures.

[2] Some of those battles were quite interesting to watch, because of the incredible egos and competition involved. The game was to figure out which person was the purest, most devoted, most loved by Maharishi, or just plain wealthiest. It was like watching two gunslingers facing each other down when someone of questionable caste had sat in the unmarked, unsaved seat of one who was, for lack of a better description, "puffed up with pride" (as the Hindu scriptures often say of a god gone wrong).

Galaxy of Fire: Journey to an Ancient Spiritual World, 2nd. Edition, and Galaxy of Fire, 2nd. Edition are (C) 2012 Jekyll & Highsmith Publishers, All Rights Reserved. Galaxy of Fire, Volume 2: Selected Writings is (C) 2015 Jekyll & Highsmith Publishers, All Rights Reserved.

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