Chapter Eleven. Musme Ahreesan!

Alfred Warbling was an unimposing man. I don't think I've ever met anyone who made a less memorable first impression in my life. He was rather small framed, mostly bald and he reminded you of someone who you wish you could remember but couldn't. He spoke in a slow deliberate manner with a nondescript accent, from somewhere, perhaps in a small town, in some region of the ancient USA, which you'd never been in, but think you'd like to visit.



"Musme ahreesan," he greeted me as he shook my hand. I looked first to Ryan, to see if he understood. Then my eyes met Hasan's for clues on this language. Was it a customary greeting for Srinigar? I thought these were American monks, in a secret monastery. "Why do they use another language?," I wondered.



"I'm sorry," I replied. "Is that a sacred expression for Chits?"



Hasan had already explained that Chits was an outsiders name for the secret order who practiced Chi Kung, Hindu and Taoist esoteric philosophy and exercises (CHT's).



"It is our standard greeting. Must be a reason," he returned. This time he clearly enunciated each word and sylable. Then he continued. "We've often reflected and sometimes with a fair share of laughter about the origin of the expression and our unique way of pronouncing it."



This time as he spoke, there was a type of shine in his eyes. All at once he seemed as if he could be an old friend and was someone to trust.



"Ahh," I said happily. "Musme ahreesan. Musme ahreesan. Yes, there must be," and we all had a good laugh.



Srinigar is situated in Kashmir Valley and lies on the banks of the Jhelum River, a tributary of the Indus. It is also a very beautiful setting. When I finally let myself relax at the monastery, the peacefulness seemed too good to be true.



We accompanied Alfred to the main building in the monastery, which was very old. The original architecture retained an exotic flavor which served as a foundation to the additions which were modern, though very simple.



"Everything in the compound," Alfred explained as we were taking the tour, "has been totally rebuilt by the Sangha BD. We've done every bit of work ourselves and none of us are carpenters or builders of any kind. We're monks, after all, not trained craftsmen."



"Excuse me," Ryan asked. "You said built by the Sangha BD. What is that."



"Oh," Alfred laughed in reply. "Naturally you wouldn't know our little inside joke. You know there are thirteen of us, right? And our Sangha is our small congregation. So we think of ourselves as a baker's dozen. Plus part of our routine involves making bread!" As he laughed and guided us further in the corridors, the smell of fresh baked loaves added to the deliciousness of the experience.



Alfred motioned for us to be quiet by touching his raised finger to his lips, as we walked past the monks who were doing their mesmerizing exercise routine. A hybrid Tai Chi-Yoga form they called Dance of the Twelve Emperors. As it happened, there were twelve monks in the group, and I wondered if the practice could have fewer or more, but didn't have a chance to ask the question.



After we were well past the monks, as if he had read my mind, Alfred commented, "The name of the form has nothing to do with how many of us do the routine. The history relates to twelve emperors, going back to a dynasty in China. We cultivate the spirits of ancient warriors and store the energy in our lower dan tien."



After he finished explaining, without the slightest interuption in our march down the hallway, he gracefully swept his hand out in front of him and then in figure eights. Then after he appeared to scoop something from his abdomen, he sprinkled this imaginary substance in the air in front of us. For a moment I thought I saw butterflies flittering, but there was nothing there except a remarkable fragrance of Hyacinth!



Both Ryan and I looked around to see if we could locate the source of the smell, but I noticed Hasan walked calmly ahead, though bearing a delighted expression of contentment.



Soon we came to two large doors with huge steel rings fastened as openers. As Alfred lead us through the entrance to this chamber, a chill of cooler air greeted us. I shivered and was about to use my hands with crossed arms to increase the circulation from my shoulders to my elbows to warm myself when Alfred made another gesture with his mysterious powers, only this time he seemed to fling air from his fingers directly to Ryan and I. When he did this, it was as if we were wrapped in the warmth of a nearby fire.

"What is that smell," I asked with a squint. "Is that ink?"



For indeed there was a strong ink smell. We're not accustomed to the smell of ink as printing was no longer practiced. Printing presses existed only in museums and even personal printers for computers had been outlawed years before. Again, with these thoughts, Alfred seemed ready to give reply to my internal questions.



"You have your tantra texting and we have our newspapers!"



When he said this Ryan and I looked at each other with amazement. "For whatever reason in the world would you want to read a printed newspaper?," was my automatic question I thought to myself, without physically asking him.



"Musme ahreesan," Alfred laughed.



"Musme ahreesan indeed," Hasan replied happily.