I was being propelled or hurled through the darkness toward the light of blissful existence here on earth before I was born. I could hear the haunting refrain: "Dancing in the dark, 'til that tune ends we're dancing in the dark, 'til that tune ends we're looking for the light." And then, reverberating in my ears, the rapturous, almost magnetic strains of the song "Laura," followed by "Stardust," until I actually found myself beneath a garden wall looking at the stars above.
It was a very warm summer night, a full moon, and a small silvery stream meandered under hanging willow trees and towering cypresses, the moon so bright it was like day, but with that extra special richness of yellowish-gray, of night shadows and the luscious scent of flowers.
I picked myself up. I was wearing a black tuxedo and black shoes. I floated toward the lights of a mansion overlooking a large lawn and flower gardens, just as the full moon was disappearing under a bank of clouds. I could hear the voices of a party in progress, the tinkling of ice in glasses, sporadic laughter, and the song "Dancing in the Dark" being played on a gramophone. Although I am 51, I felt like I was 20 again.
In a flagstone courtyard I met a servant holding an ornate silver tray of martinis. He slowly approached, but before he could speak, I tittered: "Oh dear no, I don't drink." I said this in such a tone as if to say hardly anyone else in the world drank either. Descending several steps, I passed through a spacious veranda, an open doorway, and entered a living room.
Standing people turned to stare at me, drinks in their hands and expensive watches on their wrists. I saw myself in a tarnished mirror surrounded by voluptuous golden scrolls hanging on the wall. I was immaculate, very handsome. How did they know I was not one of the party? A frail stately woman rushed forward. "May I help you?" she asked breathlessly.
"Oh dear no, I don't need any help." I said this in such a tone as if to say hardly anyone else in the world needed help either.
Looking beyond my left shoulder, she screamed. I turned to see. Pouring into the veranda were literally hundreds of people-beggars, lepers, young boys and girls in soiled tattered clothing. The terrazzo of the veranda was quickly turning into sand and finely powdered dirt. Flimsy shops sheltered by torn, stained khaki-colored tarpaulins supported by beaten bamboo rods were being hastily erected, and a large white cow wandered onto the thick carpet of the living room chewing euonymus leaves.
Bands of desperate women dressed in robes followed, their faces decorated with stripes of red and yellow paint, their wrists and ankles bound by thick bracelets, attacking the hors d'oeuvres, making gestures with their hands and pawing the guests. Squawking crows and chickens and roosters, snorting pigs, goats, horses, camels, and more cows appeared. Young boys with exuberant energy darted about the room crying for joy, and young girls entered the room giggling. Old men with canes entered slowly.
Fires sprang up around the grounds. The smells of the vegetable cooking odors and the open sewers of the world drifted over the party. Faint stirrings of lugubrious Eastern music could be heard in the distance. And then the lights went out, reminding me of the old joke: "What are the lights that come and go in meditation?" Answer: "India's electrical system."
Needless to say, the guests, not to mention the host, were horrified. One of them, a man exuding wealth, propriety, and maddening sanity, was determined, in the dark, to make a dead phone work. I, on the other hand, was elated. I had eluded, if only momentarily, the dreary materialism of a country now fatally sidetracked-the American Dream being exactly what the words say: a DREAM.
But even this kick, this temporary relief on the physical plane from the prevailing nuts-and-bolts mentality of the day, paled when compared to the ongoing bliss of one's meditations. And so, under cover of darkness, I slipped away from the mansion and walked home, almost swimming in the warm summer night.
W. T. Ranney was born in Ithaca in 1940 and has visited India five times for extended stays. He is currently practicing meditation as taught by Sant Rajinder Singh Ji.