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    Yama's Visitor
    Yama's Visitor
    Yama's Visitor
    Ebook317 pages11 hours

    Yama's Visitor

    By Ulf Wolf

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    About this ebook

    Arthur Thelonious Sherry of 46 Rexford Circle, Birchdale, Maine, was doing tax battle again. That is to say, not he personally but by way of Waynemore Bland, his accountant of many years: a 43-year-old man who still lived at home with his mother, and who had lost none of his hair and made a point of wearing it long to prove it.

    Arthur Sherry, who was losing his (no doubt about that) and wore it cropped to hide, or at best obscure, that fact, now sat in Bland's deep visitor's armchair and chewed his bottom lip, which made him look a bit like smiling, which he was not.

    Not at all. Arthur was not happy. Not happy to be sitting in Bland's office, for one. Bland should have had the foresight to arrange to come to him—even if the filing deadline was tomorrow, and Bland's schedule was full. Instead he had gotten a lame "Sorry Art, can't get away."

    And not at all happy that he still showed a profit. Too damn much of it. He looked across a yellow sea of lined paper at his accountant looking back at him. Way too much.

    And lastly, not at all happy that he had had to bring Sebastian. So, unhappy all around, pretty much.

    He stopped chewing his lip long enough to say, "So, it's either the IRS or the charity of my choice. Is that what you're saying, Wayne?"

    "In a nutshell, yes."

    "And you didn't see this coming?"

    "I did see it coming. You saw it coming. We discussed it more than once."

    Arthur Sherry chose to ignore that.

    "What is the damage, precisely?"

    Bland ruffled through a sheaf of his lined yellow sheets, all covered with penciled calculations, rows and rows of them. He found what he was looking for. "Not less than half a million. Five fourteen, give or take the odd dollar."

    Arthur Sherry, on the pudgy side—liked food, hated exercise—shifted in his chair, which protested a little in return. Then he sighed, more for effect perhaps than from despair, leaned back and looked the accountant square in the face. "Half a million," he repeated, not so much a question as an accusation. "Five hundred fourteen thousand dollars? That's what you're telling me?"

    "Yes," said Bland.

    "Give or take the odd dollar?"

    "The odd one, yes."

    "To charity?"

    "Yes."

    "Or the IRS gets it?"

    "Yes."

    "Well, I'll be damned."

    "Yes."

    "The penalty of success," he said, and shot a glance along with an unhappy smile his son's way. "Take heed son, a valuable lesson: no success shall go unpunished."

    Sebastian looked at his father, but said nothing.

    "Looks that way," said Bland, and Sherry swung his head back in his direction.

    Any recommendations?"

    "Well," said Bland. "All things considered, including the Public Relations angle, the world being what it is, I would suggest the Red Cross."

    "Or Green Peace," said Sherry.

    "Green Peace?" Bland looked slightly horrified.

    "Joke, Wayne. That was a joke."

    "Ah." Bland looked at his desk. Found a couple of pencils out of position. Moved them around to some other out of position.

    "Remind me," said Sherry. "How did we get around this problem last year?"

    "We channeled the excess profits into a research trust." Bland plucked the name from memory with ease, "The Sherry Geological Exploration Society."

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUlf Wolf
    Release dateJan 17, 2017
    ISBN9781370184958
    Yama's Visitor
    Author

    Ulf Wolf

    Ulf is a Swedish name that once meant Wolf. So, yes, Wolf Wolf, that's me. I was born Ulf Ronnquist one snowy night in late October, in one of those northern Swedish towns that are little more than a clearing in the forest. Fast forward through twenty Swedish years, ten or so English ones, and another twenty-four in the US and you'll find me in front of an immigrations officer conducting the final citizenship interview, at the end of which he asks me, "What name would you like on your passport?" And here I recall what a friend had told me, that you can pick just about any name you want at this point, and I heard me say "Ulf Wolf." That's how it happened. Scout's honor. Of course, I had been using Ulf Wolf as a pen name for some time before this interview, but I hadn't really planned to adopt that as my official U.S. name. But I did. I have written stories all my life. Initially in Swedish, but for the last twenty or so years in English. To date I have written six novels, four novellas and two scores of stories; along with many songs and poems. My writing focus these days is on life's important questions (in my view): Who are we? What are we doing here? And how do we break out of this prison?

    Read more from Ulf Wolf

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      Book preview

      Yama's Visitor - Ulf Wolf

      Yama’s Visitor

      a Novel

      Ulf Wolf

      Smashwords Edition

      October 2019

      Copyright

      Yama’s Visitor

      Copyright © 2019 by Wolfstuff

      http://wolfstuff.com

      All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      Smashwords License Notes

      This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      ::

      Contents

      Yama’s Visitor

      Contribution

      About the Author

      Introduction

      The Upanishads

      The Upanishads are a collection of texts that contain some of the central philosophical concepts of Hinduism, some of which are shared with Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism. The Upanishads are considered by Hindus to contain utterances concerning the nature of ultimate reality (Brahman) and describing the character of and path to human salvation.

      The Upanishads are commonly referred to as Vedanta, variously interpreted to mean either the last chapters, parts of the Veda or the object, the highest purpose of the Veda. The concepts of Brahman (Ultimate Reality) and Atman (Soul, Self) are central ideas in all the Upanishads, and Know your Atman their thematic focus.

      The Upanishads are the foundation of Hindu philosophical thought and its diverse traditions. Of the Vedic corpus, they alone are widely known, and the central ideas of the Upanishads are at the spiritual core of Hindus.

      More than 200 Upanishads are known, of which the first dozen or so are the oldest and most important and are referred to as the principal or main Upanishads. The mukhya Upanishads are found mostly in the concluding part of the Brahmanas and Aranyakas and were, for centuries, memorized by each generation and passed down orally. The early Upanishads all predate the Common Era, five of them in all likelihood pre-Buddhist (6th century BCE), down to the Maurya period. Of the remainder, some 95 Upanishads are part of the Muktika canon, composed from about the last centuries of 1st-millennium BCE through about 15th-century CE. New Upanishads, beyond the 108 in the Muktika canon, continued to be composed through the early modern and modern era, though often dealing with subjects which are unconnected to the Vedas.

      Along with the Bhagavad Gita and the Brahmasutra, the mukhya Upanishads (known collectively as the Prasthanatrayi) provide a foundation for the several later schools of Vedanta.

      With the translation of the Upanishads in the early 19th century they also started to attract attention from a western audience. Arthur Schopenhauer was deeply impressed by the Upanishads and called them the production of the highest human wisdom. Modern era Indologists have discussed the similarities between the fundamental concepts in the Upanishads and major western philosophers.

      (Source: Wikipedia)

      The Katha Upanishad

      The Katha Upanishad is one of the mukhya (primary) Upanishads, embedded in the last short eight sections of the Kaṭha school of the Yajurveda. It is also known as Kathaka Upanishad, and is listed as number 3 in the Muktika canon of 108 Upanishads.

      The Katha Upanishad consists of two chapters, each divided into three sections. The first chapter is considered to be of older origin than the second. The Upanishad is the legendary story of a little boy, Nachiketa— the son of sage Vajasravasa, who meets Yama (the Indian deity of death). Their conversation evolves to a discussion of the nature of man, knowledge, Atman (Soul, Self) and moksha (liberation).

      The chronology of Katha Upanishad is unclear and contested, with Buddhism scholars stating it was likely composed after the early Buddhist texts (fifth century BCE), and Hinduism scholars stating it was likely composed before the early Buddhist texts in the first part of the 1st millennium BCE.

      The Katha Upanishad is among the most well-known and widely studied.

      (Source: Wikipedia)

      Yama

      Yama, also called Imra, is a god of death, the south direction and the underworld, belonging to an early stratum of Rigvedic Hindu deities. In Sanskrit, his name can be interpreted to mean twin. In the Zend-Avesta of Zoroastrianism, he is called Yima. According to the Vishnu Purana, his parents are the sun-god Surya and Sanjna, the daughter of Vishvakarman.

      Yama is the brother of Sraddhadeva Manu and of his older sister Yami, which Horace Hayman Wilson indicates to mean the Yamuna. According to Harivamsa Purana her name is Daya.

      In the Vedas, Yama is said to have been the first mortal who died. By virtue of precedence, he became the ruler of the departed, and is called Lord of ancestral spirits.

      (Source: Wikipedia)

      Yama’s Visitor

      Naturally, the Katha Upanishad is set in ancient India. But what if it were set in today’s America? That is the premise of this novel.

      The structure of the story novel follows the progression of the Katha Upanishad itself (as translated by Eknath Easwaran), beginning by quoting the first stanza of the Upanishad (italics), then proceeding to explore and interpret that quote in a current, American setting. Followed, then, by the next quote from the Upanishad and its current interpretation and dramatization—and so on, through the entire Katha Upanishad.

      And this, for better or for worse, is the result.

      ::

      Once, long ago, Vajasravasa gave away his possessions to gain religious merit.

      Arthur Thelonious Sherry of 46 Rexford Circle, Birchdale, Maine, was doing tax battle again. That is to say, not he personally but by way of Waynemore Bland, his accountant of many years: a 43-year-old man who still lived at home with his mother, and who had lost none of his hair and made a point of wearing it long to prove it.

      Arthur Sherry, who was losing his (no doubt about that) and wore it cropped to hide, or at best obscure, that fact, now sat in Bland’s deep visitor’s armchair and chewed his bottom lip, which made him look a bit like smiling, which he was not.

      Not at all. Arthur was not happy. Not happy to be sitting in Bland’s office, for one. Bland should have had the foresight to arrange to come to him—even if the filing deadline was tomorrow, and Bland’s schedule was full. Instead he had gotten a lame Sorry Art, can’t get away.

      And not at all happy that he still showed a profit. Too damn much of it. He looked across a yellow sea of lined paper at his accountant looking back at him. Way too much.

      And lastly, not at all happy that he had had to bring Sebastian. So, unhappy all around, pretty much.

      He stopped chewing his lip long enough to say, So, it’s either the IRS or the charity of my choice. Is that what you’re saying, Wayne?

      In a nutshell, yes.

      And you didn’t see this coming?

      I did see it coming. You saw it coming. We discussed it more than once.

      Arthur Sherry chose to ignore that.

      What is the damage, precisely?

      Bland ruffled through a sheaf of his lined yellow sheets, all covered with penciled calculations, rows and rows of them. He found what he was looking for. Not less than half a million. Five fourteen, give or take the odd dollar.

      Arthur Sherry, on the pudgy side—liked food, hated exercise—shifted in his chair, which protested a little in return. Then he sighed, more for effect perhaps than from despair, leaned back and looked the accountant square in the face. Half a million, he repeated, not so much a question as an accusation. Five hundred fourteen thousand dollars? That’s what you’re telling me?

      Yes, said Bland.

      Give or take the odd dollar?

      The odd one, yes.

      To charity?

      Yes.

      Or the IRS gets it?

      Yes.

      Well, I’ll be damned.

      Yes.

      The penalty of success, he said, and shot a glance along with an unhappy smile his son’s way. Take heed son, a valuable lesson: no success shall go unpunished.

      Sebastian looked at his father, but said nothing.

      Looks that way, said Bland, and Sherry swung his head back in his direction.

      Any recommendations?"

      Well, said Bland. All things considered, including the Public Relations angle, the world being what it is, I would suggest the Red Cross.

      Or Green Peace, said Sherry.

      Green Peace? Bland looked slightly horrified.

      Joke, Wayne. That was a joke.

      Ah. Bland looked at his desk. Found a couple of pencils out of position. Moved them around to some other out of position.

      Remind me, said Sherry. How did we get around this problem last year?

      We channeled the excess profits into a research trust. Bland plucked the name from memory with ease, The Sherry Geological Exploration Society.

      "Oh, yes. The Geological Exploration Society. The Sherry Geological Exploration Society." He shot his son another glance, and another thin smile, inviting admiration. Hoping, at least on some level, that Sebastian was impressed. Then what the hell, he was only a kid, for crying out loud. He looked beyond Sebastian and out the window at a gray sky. Low handing clouds, would rain soon. Shifted again in his chair, could not get quite comfortable in his a little too tight suit and one size too small a shirt. The chair creaked another muffled protest.

      His attention returned to the accountant. So, let’s do the same this year.

      Well, Bland flipped back through his pages and pages. Then chose another pile, flipped through them. Found what he was looking for. We’ve already done that. And began reading from his notes, Six hundred fifty thousand to the Sherry Geological, four hundred thousand to Inland Historical, and two hundred eighty-six thousand five hundred twelve, to be exact, to Southern Biological Survey.

      And?

      And we have exhausted existing tax law.

      And we still?

      And yes, we still. Bland smiled, then sighed. Also for show, perhaps. It is as you said, no success shall go unpunished. A well-manicured accountant’s hand patted the many piles of paper on his desk. And this proves it. His patting disturbed one of his rogue No. 2 pencils which took to rolling then dived off the desk and onto the floor to his left. It did not make a sound as it hit the thick carpet.

      Bland stopped patting and neatly bent over to pick it up. He put it back among its mates. Then ran this right hand through his long hair to coax it back into well-gelled place.

      Ah, what the hell, said Sherry. You’re right. Let’s go with the Red Cross. A good deed. And, as you said, PR mileage as well. And who knows, he added, not quite as an afterthought, if indeed there is a Heaven, it should be plenty enough to cover the admission-fee.

      He said this last in jest. Well, it was certainly meant to appear so, but his words brought a little more meaning along than he had intended. Once the words were said and on their way he realized they were in fact quite true, he meant them. And meant them not only as insurance, but as, as—he could not find, could not admit, perhaps, the feeling—as hope.

      If the accountant noticed this, he did not let on. Instead he smiled at the quip. A quick polite smile while he again swept his hair back with his hand, a comforting if somewhat greasy reminder that he did not look like Sherry—wouldn’t ever, no signs of any, all still in place, none in his comb in the mornings—or he would have to wear his hair cropped as well.

      Then he picked up one of his No. 2s, checked the tip for sharpness, made a note, looked up at Sherry and said, Shall I make out a check then? To the Red Cross?

      Yes, said Sherry, and shifted again, getting ready to rise. You do that.

      He heaved himself onto his feet. The chair sighed a muffled relief.

      He had a son named Nachiketa who, though only a boy, was full of faith in the scriptures. Nachiketa thought when the offerings were made: What merit can one obtain by giving away cows that are too old to give milk?

      It was not by choice that Arthur Sherry had brought his son Sebastian along to his meeting with the accountant. No, far from it. Business was business and any business was serious business, and since Sebastian was not yet old enough to partake, he would therefore, by definition, be in the way. Extraneous was as good word for it. Besides, and this did irk him, it would not even have been an issue, should not have been an issue, had Bland been able to come to his office, as he normally did. Accountants, he muttered, not quite audibly, at least those who plan their schedules properly, come to the Mountain, not the other way around.

      And while we’re on the subject of accountants, why does he not just drop his other clients, can’t be that many, and move into the Sherry Building, where he belongs. Well, don’t get him started.

      I cannot bring him, it’s a tax conference, surely you understand, honey, he tried. But Mrs. Sherry didn’t understand, had a tennis game, would not give it up—you know I play every Tuesday morning—and would not, absolutely not bring him to the game. Tennis was serious business and since Sebastian was too young to play, at least play well enough, and did not want to be a ball boy, and would never sit still (which was not true, he usually did) he would therefore, by definition, be in the way. Also, with Sebastian around, some important things that needed saying to one’s doubles partner and two opponents could not be said, little pitchers, long ears and all that.

      And of course, on this day of all days, the maid had to be out sick. Off nursing some ailment or other, probably fictitious. And to cap it, there was the rule: Ever since the almost pool accident, Mr. and Mrs. Sherry would never, never, ever leave Sebastian home alone.

      So, since he could not postpone, the filing deadline was the following day, he was—in a word—had. Cornered. Had to bring him. So he did. Had.

      Sebastian, as if to prove his mother wrong, sat silently and mostly unmoving on a high, straight-backed chair against the wall. His jeansed legs and sneakered feet did not reach all the way to the floor, so instead they dangled slowly from the edge of the chair, falling asleep and tingling a little after a while. He shifted on the hard seat, tried to get comfortable. Tried again. He watched and listened, and shifted again. All this as quietly as he could.

      He was not really bored, just uncomfortable. And shifted again. He watched his father make different and strange faces and talk and shift as well in Mr. Bland’s light-blue visitor’s armchair. He watched his father’s stomach strain against the tight shirt. He watched Mr. Bland fuss with his long, blond, gelled hair which really should be pulled back into some sort of tail, instead of greased like that, thought Sebastian. He watched his father chew his bottom lip, which made him look like he was smiling a sort of sad, thin smile.

      And he watched his father’s thoughts.

      For Sebastian had a gift. When he wanted to, and consciously decided to, Sebastian could see and hear other people’s thoughts. You would think that thoughts are invisible, but they are not. Not to the person who thinks them. Nor to the person who, like Sebastian, knows how to look and listen.

      No, to those who can see and hear them, thoughts are more like three-dimensional movies that appear like landscapes around the thinker: scenes, small or not so small, with the thinker dead center like the invisible conductor of a thousand, thousand instrument orchestra—constantly changing, fading, rising, shifting, moving, telling.

      Three-dimensional movies with sound and smell and feelings sprinkled in. Sometimes Sebastian saw and heard people’s thoughts better than the people who were thinking them.

      At first, he didn’t think much of this, assuming, naturally, that this was normal—an everybody does. He discovered differently one day when he—and his was more like an involuntary knee-jerk answer than anything—denied having taken the last two pieces of chocolate out of the kitchen glass bowl, and his mother did not notice him lying. Instead, she simply looked at him hard, at his as-blank-and-as-innocent-as-possible face, and then smiled and said, all right then. Must have been Daddy. Or the maid.

      She had not seen his thoughts, he realized.

      He tried it again on another occasion, as a test this time. Twice with his father. And then once with the maid. Nope. They could not. That is when it finally came to him that he was indeed unique. Gifted. Raised. Blessed. Cursed. Aware. One or all of these things.

      So, it was clear to Sebastian that although his father said it in jest, or attempted to, he did in fact think of heaven as he joked about the admission fee. And he thought of Saint Peter, old beyond age in a white tunic, standing guard at the Pearly Gates with a bearded and perpetual frown. His saintly frown, at least in his father’s thoughts, was either from mistrust—all kinds would probably try to sneak through—or perhaps from constantly scrutinizing admission tickets. Right now he was squinting and looking closely at his father’s slip of paper, upon which was clearly printed $514,000.

      Saint Peter, who could probably do with glasses by the looks of it, held the ticket first closer then farther away from his face, then finally made out the amount, and looked impressed. Almost whistled. My, my. He looked from the ticket up at his father’s somewhat anxious face and smiled white and welcoming teeth. Waved the ticket: Not bad. Then he pressed a gilded button to his right which opened the gates of pearl to let his father enter.

      His father, relieved now by the looks of it—very, actually—slid up to the gates and waited for them to open wide enough to slink through. Which he did, as soon as he could, just in case Saint Peter would have some sort of change of heart, and as soon as he was through he bolted down the golden road to yonder palace, clearly marked with a blinking neon sign the size of cloud, Heaven.

      Then Sebastian saw what his father, still busy rushing for the safety of Hotel Heaven, did not: Saint Peter sadly shaking his head and tearing up the ticket he had taken from his father. Bits of heavenly ticket paper fluttering in the air before they simply vanished into sun dust. Then he set out for the real Pearly Gates, those that didn’t accept admission fees and printed tickets with amounts on them, but not before carefully locking the shiny fake ones behind his father’s vanishing figure.

      To help his father understand this, Nachiketa said: To whom will you offer me? He asked this again and again. To death I give you! said his father in anger.

      They did not speak in the elevator down from Bland’s tenth floor office. Sebastian was inspecting the ceiling mirror and wood paneling of the carpeted elevator while Arthur Sherry, blind to these surrounding details, continued to ponder five hundred fourteen thousand dollars that surely could be better spent, but then again, then again, it was a good deed, wasn’t it? A good, charitable, heaven-admissible deed, wasn’t it? He felt, tried to feel, drummed up the feeling of, piety. Strange feeling, but good in a way. Expensive though.

      The elevator eased into a smooth stop and doors slid open onto the underground garage. Sherry looked through three pockets and one wallet before he found the parking ticket and offered it to the young man, boy really, who suddenly materialized nearby. The attendant, alert, took it, found the keys, found the car, backed it out, drove it up—way too fast. These monkeys should not be allowed to drive cars like his. He did not tip him, and the attendant retaliated by looking not a little snubbed, offended. Sebastian observing this, slipped him a dollar behind his father’s back. The attendant smiled very white teeth and winked at Sebastian.

      In the car now. The rain has begun. In earnest. Arthur Sherry is weaving in and out of lanes to get past sluggards, as he calls them, shouldn’t be allowed to drive, should be kept off the road, sent back to wherever, he mutters. Sebastian doesn’t notice though, is not really bothered by the impulsive driving—as he normally would be, a little anyway—for he still ponders what he saw his father think back in Bland’s office, and what Saint Peter had thought of his father’s $514,000 bribe.

      Sherry cuts across two lanes and cuts off a trucker (who blasts his fog horn as a thanks) and slides off the freeway at the familiar exit.

      Sebastian looks over at his dad, it’s a concerned look. Sherry does not look back, but mutters something about truck drivers. Sebastian’s thoughts return to his father’s encounter with Saint Peter. And in the end—for he really loved his father, and in some matters, despite his age, he was the more mature of the two—he could not help but say, I think you’d better come up with something better to sneak by Saint Peter.

      What? His father, intent now on making out the wet streets through the back and forth of the windshield wipers, quickly looks over at Sebastian, then back out into the rain. He grimaces and does not understand. That’s what his silence tells Sebastian, a silence that lasts for ten or so back and forths of the wipers.

      I don’t think he cared much for the $514,000 bribe, Sebastian explains.

      Who are you talking about?

      Saint Peter.

      Oh, for heaven’s sake.

      No, I don’t think he’ll let you in. You’re going to need a better sacrifice than that.

      This time his father doesn’t answer for so long that Sebastian thinks that maybe the conversation is over, when they suddenly veer right and into a largely empty parking lot. Sebastian moves his face closer to the window and peeks out and up into the rain at the large sign by the entrance. Billions served. McDonalds. Many, many cows. His dad chooses a spot, stops, pulls the emergency brake tight, with a loud, rapid series of angry clicks, looks straight ahead for a few seconds and then turns to face his son. His eyes holds something close to fear, a first cousin perhaps.

      "What made you say

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