Free Children of the New World: Stories by Alexander Weinstein Page A

crown. In the other corner of the room, near the blackened windows, two old men sat on the floor eating chal bhat and smoking cigarettes.
    “Okay, Moksha,” the kid said. “Get in.”
    Abe hesitated. Until now, he’d imagined he’d never find enlightenment. Faced with the beauty salon chair, he wasn’t sure he was ready. What if, like Sandra’s father, he became one of those modern-day sadhus who ate only raw food and talked about kombucha? He asked if he needed to do anything to prepare. Meditate? Breathe properly?
    “No, just sit. We take care of Moksha.”
    Abe nodded and lowered himself into the chair. The kid dropped the blow-dryer cap onto Abe’s head, logged on to the laptop by the side of the chair, and hit Enter.
    The jolt of Moksha was immediate. One moment Abe was sitting in the chair, watching the men eat chicken curry, and wondering what enlightenment would feel like, and the next second their bodies transformed into bands of light. Where Abe had seen a dark cluttered space, it became apparent that the configuration of computer boxes, the pile of plastic water bottles, and the mess of disemboweled laptops formed a sacred geometry whose mandala spread outward past the walls. Abe could see through the bricks to perceive the entire city. Every shop shone brightly with its display of a hundred bronze Buddhas, and the taxis that cut their way through the crowds sent a chorus of honks into the air like birdsong. He saw the kids playing in the bricks, the white kid who had hugged him standing on the corner haggling for a yak blanket, the words leaving the kid’s mouth as illuminated air currents. He saw the light of their hearts beating beneath their skin while above, and around, and inside them was a force so bright that to look at it directly was blinding. He told himself to look away, but it was too late; his limited ego that tried to hang on was of minuscule value in comparison to the illumination of the infinite. Abe turned his inner eyes to the blazing light, and in that moment there was nothing left: no Abe, no Kathmandu, no Buddha; all names burned in the fire, leaving only a vibration that could best be described as love.
    Abe was certain he had died, but then he heard the kid’s voice from far off. “Okay, all done.” He felt the dryer lift from his head and found himself back in the room.
    “Oh my God,” he uttered and grasped the boy’s arm.
    “Yeah, okay, goodbye now. Next customer waiting.”
    Abe was lifted to his feet and he stood wobbly, feeling a great urge to hug the young boy, who was already leading him to the door. On the other side stood a frazzle-haired girl in yoga pants wearing dozens of beaded necklaces. Abe saw the Western pain in her eyes, and his heart blossomed. He threw his arms around her.
    “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’ve already got it. We’ve all got it.” He would have hung on, but he felt her fear, so he released her and made his way down the dark, wet staircase with his palms open to the world and the glorious sunlight of Kathmandu.
    II.
    ENLIGHTENMENT, IT TURNED out, didn’t last long.
    By the next morning, Abe could already feel the hooks of samsara tethering him to the bed. He worried about his return to the States and his menial job brewing lattes at the co-op. He found himself irritated by the noise of Kathmandu, the dust, his dirty clothes, which stank of sweat, and the humidity that already drenched his body. And so he dressed and returned to the small shop to pay his twenty-three thousand rupees. He tasted Moksha again, only to come crashing down later that evening, realizing with deep terror that, at this rate, he wouldn’t have enough money to last him until the end of the month.
    That evening he ended up drinking at a rooftop bar, where he poured his heart out to a Dutch tourist with enlightened eyes and a Ganesha tank top. “You can’t find real enlightenment in the city,” the Dutchman said. “You need to go to the Muktinath temple