adamdaniel

Tales from the Punchbowl #4

Mew! Mew!

After an extended sojourn at the teeming Nomads hostel in Saint Kilda, characterised by energetic globetrotters from every continent and an ever thumping disco, including Brazilian nights, I ran out of money.

I proceeded to the Hare Krishna temple in Albert Park in the hope they might have something for me. I arrived just as an ornately decorated wedding was taking place. There were masses of flowers and attendees in bright garb to celebrate the new couple. They had the aspect of confectionery, or a set of highlighters, or a radiant, living kaleidoscope, setting off every light frequency to the eye. A shining sky and bubbling fountain made an apt canvas for this perfect scene.

I took my shoes off, donned my orange tee shirt, then pretended to be part of it. Behold the energetic preparations, the bustling waiters! I will do that. I carried trays of pakoras and chick peas from the kitchen up to the banquet hall set with fine silver and lace, with carefully prepared name cards and finely dressed Indian women as waitresses. Thankyou, they affirmed. Thank you, Prabhu. There are two spare trays of rice, the chef says, was my precious information for their situation as hostesses in chief.

Later, I entered the reception in the magnificent double story building. I mused at the multitudinous devotees and thinkers spending days and nights meditating on friendly and charismatic Krishna, the wisdom and voice at the battle of Kurukshetra, the cheeky babe who steals the butter, much to the amusement of the women. That supreme intelligence from the cow planet that would have you hold the cow in special reverence and respect.

Go up and see the room, Prabhu, the receptionist invited me, ushering to the staircase. First door on the left. I entered in reverence and was struck silent at the precious peace that resonated there. Oh so poignant. Oh so instant. I examined the stalwart Prabhupada reclining on his cushion, the delicate harmonium laced in Sanskrit wisdom, the holographic image of Krishna playing music for Srimati Radharani, and most superbly, the azure chaise lounge, silken and soft, that Prabhupada had sat on in 1925. In the bookcase the eternal Srimad Bhagavatam. Service to the highest is your end, devotee. Happy service and you will know no sorrow.

I returned downstairs. Krishna Priya the matron so to speak instructed me to go upstairs and enjoy the wedding feast with the other staff, the guests having departed. I dined on a veritable smorgasbord of vegan offerings and other culinary delights and had numerous servings of dessert.
I then snuck through the antequated building pushing doors ajar and looking in, peering silently, my mutable consciousness slinking into yesteryear. So old, it looked, so, so old. These dusty things have always been here. These cushions, these rugs, these props for Krishna processions. The electrical wires appeared to be caked in dust from the fin de siecle, so seldom was the cleaning and upkeep.

We don’t have a room for you, we’re booked up, sorry. That’s okay, okay, all good, okay, I ruminated. I walked through the vines and flowers and sat next to the fountain, meditating on the rippling water coursing over the porcelain. The groom’s best friend was there. How do you do? Very good thanks. We put popcorn in the fire. What? I enquired. We put ceremonial popcorn in the fire. You know why? No, why, I responded. Because they melt together. The bits. That’s what a wedding is. The fusing popcorn represents the fusing lives. So we do that in keeping with Indian wedding practices. I never knew, I confessed. I’m a podiatrist, he said. I better go, we have to do photos.

I walked away and lay down on the grass, looking up at the palm tree fronds softly bobbing in up and down gestures. Perfect puppets in the breeze. I better go, I mused.

I wandered 100 meters down the road. A nice leather couch. Roadside collection. I was gorged with Indian food and passionfruit juice. I lay down and shuffled my bags close. I slept till 11pm, aroused by the squarking of girls. I sat up. They were upon me, and very friendly. Want some goon? Of course, I said. I raised a contorted mouth like a feeding chick and awaited the delicious imbibe. One girl squirted the alcoholic elixir into my quavering gullet, another girl took a picture and the third said what’s your name? Adam’s my name. You like our outfits? Naturally. You want dinner, they enthused?

They raced into their Albert Park mansion and returned happily. I’m like your favourite new pet, I offered. We were just thinking that, they giggled. I accepted the donated high end muffin from the best cafe in Albert Park. With this, I said, “I’m going to start purring”. Hahaha, they chuffed. Give us a meow. Mew! Mew! I said in a very small, kitten voice. They just about fell over. Have a good one they declared. I fell asleep again. When I woke up, one of the Krishna monks had left breakfast next to me in a package. A wee hours delivery I never noticed.