There’s a certain mastery of mind that can give us the ability to transform desire into a fleeting thought, a simple vision that can be joyously taken or left, and where you can find a balanced bliss in both loss and in achievement. But how do you release what your monkey mind insists you want and need, and find that place where you can sit comfortably content, holding on to nothing? Do you shave your head and try to be a monk? Or do you live atop a mountain like a lonely old goat? Maybe you could ignore the ongoing squawking and shrieking chatter by smiling stoned at a bowl of rice pudding. 

Ricky Morales witnessed that luminous, composed joy in a nearly empty, dusty garage space under the bar and hostel where he stayed for a week in Manali, Himachal Pradesh, India. He was nineteen and had been traveling through the country for over a month when he reached the small Himalayan hippie town. The air had a clean, icy bite and the traffic was non-existent compared to Delhi and Mumbai. At over six thousand feet, mammoth clouds floated on the roads below him, while the Indrasan and Deo Tibba Peaks sat high like deities in the near distance. 

The most heavenly detail of this town, however, wasn’t in the low population or the high altitude, but in what Ricky noticed growing between the cracks of the sidewalk as he made his way to his hostel. The unmistakable seven-leafed emblem that he’d seen on hats and shirts and CD artwork decorated the streets, taking on the common, low-level moniker ascribed to it in the late twenties. Weed actually grew out of the broken cement like weeds. He’d only witnessed the plant in its cured, nugged-up, bagged-up, and ready-to-smoke form. He picked a leaf with a stringy bud attached to it and rubbed its sticky trichome crystals on his fingers. It smelled like pine oil. He looked around, trying to be inconspicuous as he put it in his pocket. 

During his second night in town, after running out of the little Delhi hash he had left, after leering at the twenty-by-twenty foot patch of head-high cheeba trees cultivating behind his rented room, after drinking a mango weed lassi, which simply had ground up dirt weed in it, leading to zero euphoric or mental effect, and after wondering if he should just stay in Manali for the next two weeks and forget about the rest of the places he was planning on seeing, one of the six, dark, dusty-skinned ascetics living in the space under his hostel waved at Ricky like he was an old friend and invited him into their home. 

Each man had long facial hair and wore bright orange and red turbans. Some of them pulled off the beards better than others. A vermillion bindi streaked over each of their third eyes. They sat on blankets on the floor, around a five-gallon cauldron that sat over a smoldering, neatly maintained fire pit. A German couple sat in the circle with them, speaking broken English and smoking strong hashish.

The oldest of the group, Shantanu, offered Ricky a blanket to sit on, passed him a chillum and lit it for him before introducing him to the others. He was impressively fluent in English, with a clear, elegant British accent. He also spoke French and German, spouting out short, seemingly well pronounced examples to prove it. He asked Ricky if he liked rice pudding. He fuckin’ loved rice pudding, a special treat that his grandmother made every time he visited Mexico. The old man gave his new friend a list of ingredients and the name of the closest store where he could gather them. If he bought everything, he could eat as much as he wanted. The sack of rice, pound of sugar, dozen eggs, and gallon of milk cost Ricky two-hundred and fifty rupees, which was less than three bucks. Although that was almost as much as a night’s stay in his hostel, it seemed more than fair. Plus they were sharing their smoke with him. 

When he returned, Shantanu had his spot in the circle saved. The young traveler sat down and watched as a younger man began to prepare the rice.

Ricky found the local guys to be an unexpectedly kindred bunch of stoner souls. They consumed more weed than any other group of people he’d ever met before, including his high school and college buddies who seemed to always be high or thinking about the next time they’d get there. One of the men showed him and a German couple how to make hash by rubbing fresh, uncured bud plants rapidly between his hands for a few seconds. Cannabinoids stuck to his palms and formed a light resin that he’d scrape off into small, soft chunks of instant kief. They smoked the freshies through the rudimentary chillum that was being passed around. Each of the guys had a cloth that they held between their mouth and the piece like a filter. Whenever they took a hit, they held in the smoke, placed the pipe up to their foreheads, then offered up the cloud as they lifted their hands in a short, silent prayer of appreciation. Ricky was quite sure that the good herb had helped each of these men significantly on their path to bliss. In his short year as a smoker, it certainly seemed to be helping him.

They smoked the chillum as the rice cooked, told stories, and laughed uncontrollably as the youngest, smiliest guy in the group danced in his seat to the high pitched bollywood coming out of his tiny, battery operated radio. Ricky looked around the circle at the happiest, stoniest people he’d ever met in his life, and they owned almost nothing other than the blankets they slept under, the clothes they wore, a cauldron, and a few dishes. They held on to nothing. All they seemed to want was to get high, spread their joy, and hopefully eat some rice. Ricky couldn’t help but envy their flavor of freedom.

He sat next to Shantanu as the weed reddened his eyes, lightened his head, and sent any of his worries back into the distance. The old man asked him about himself and what he’d been doing in India, with a focus and attention that Ricky was not used to. Most people he’d met and talked to in his life seemed to be thinking of when it was their turn to speak, finding ways to interject their experiences into whatever was being said. In India, he normally had the suspicion that anyone who was being friendly was waiting to see what they could get out of him. Not Shantanu. He was focused and intent on knowing more about the young man, holding kind, sincere eye contact as he spoke, with no one else’s chatter interrupting his attention. 

Ricky was taking a semester off after his first year in college. He’d be volunteering at a rural school in Rajasthan the following month. He went on to talk about college and the nagging doubts that he’d been carrying with him, like he was in a psychotropic therapy session with the wise old shaman. What the hell was he going to do with a writing degree if he didn’t get into film school? Who reads books of poetry? Was he supposed to become a teacher? Maybe he could start another rock band.

He stopped talking as he noticed how high he was getting and started to feel his whiny rant heading off the rails. Looking around at the dirt-floored room, he realized that he really had nothing to complain about, and so much to be grateful for. Shantanu picked up his pipe and took a toke, as if searching for the inspiration to organize his response. He blew out the hit with his eyes closed and raised his hands before turning to Ricky.

“Have you heard of a man named Jean-Pierre Garnier Malet?” he asked in his flawless French pronunciation before handing over the chillum and matches.

“I have not.” 

“He talks about a doubling time theory, in which every particle on earth has an identical pair. So we, as humans, as a collection of particles,” he brought his hands together and separated them like they were mirrors of each other, “also have a double of ourselves. And time, whether it is made up of yet undiscovered matter, or if it is just in our minds, also has a double. Because of this, and the fact that we are energy centers made up of particles, he suggests that we have the ability to use our energy to travel through time, using our consciousness and unconsciousness as we manifest our realities. There are infinite possibilities between any two moments, and all of that information is available to each of us if we can recognize how to see it. The Vedanta taught me this many years ago, and it has revealed itself in the teachings and beliefs of a vast ocean of individuals that I have encountered.”

Ricky was still holding the pipe. He hadn’t hit it, transfixed by Shantanu’s words, even though he was getting baked and didn’t quite understand everything that was being described. He had so many questions. Time travel? Unconsciousness? Energy centers? Before he could think of what to ask, the old man continued.

“So, how do we use this power? Where did it go? Well, that’s where dreams are vital. Do you dream?” He asked me.

“Sometimes.”

“Write down your dreams when you wake up. You’re a writer.”

“Sort of.”

“No. You are. I can see it in your eyes. Never forget that.” The hairs on Ricky’s arms stood up and tingled for one intense moment. “Malet believes that you can slowly unlock your subconscious in a dream state, and lead entire lives in a single night of deep, meditative sleep. Our minds are constantly receiving messages from our double, telling us where to step and what to say, but man has forgotten the value and lost the power of this tool. It has created a dark room where our fears and joys reside, and we spend a lifetime looking for the light switch, without realizing that our eyes can adjust, if we just allow them to. Do you ever pray?”

He’d quit prayer cold turkey since the summer that he decided to play in a punk band in high school instead of taking confirmation classes at his church. At the end of months of relearning the mythologies of the Roman Catholics, he was supposed to pledge and commit his life to Jesus Christ for eternity? Fuck everything about that. He chose to learn Nirvana covers instead.

“Not really.” Ricky gave the shorter answer.

“When I was your age, I was fortunate to travel quite a bit, and after seeing so many devout people in the world seemingly praying to different Gods, I thought it must all be nonsense, and I refused to pray. I refused to participate in a system that created division and misunderstanding amongst my brothers. However, I was unaware of one simple fact. That is, every thought we have, and every emotion we allow to settle within us is a prayer. And it will be answered in one way or another.” He paused and shifted his gaze to the pot of rice and milk. The sweet aromas from the cauldron smelled like grandma’s kitchen in Mexico City. “And speaking of prayers, my prayer to share delicious pudding with a great new friend has been answered.” He poured a bowl and handed it to Ricky along with a small wooden spoon, more closely resembling a tongue depressor than an eating utensil. He served the German couple before passing the serving spoon around.

As he cooled his first bite, Shantanu said calmly, “your mind has amazing powers. Never forget that. Even our words, once we speak them, we release them, they have an incredible power. Like this plant we smoke and the fire under the pot, like you and me, it all has a soul, and therefore has power. Stories have an incredible ability to help others. Always remember that.” Ricky nodded through his confusion and mild skepticism as he took a bite. 

“If you act from a good place, good things will come back to you. Whether you write a poem or sing a song, or you tell someone that you love them, never forget the power in your thoughts,” he touched his forehead, “your words,” he pointed at his throat, “and your actions.” He finished by holding three fingers on the left side of Ricky’s chest and beaming a peaceful smile at him. The light pulse of his fingertips matched his heartbeat. He wanted to weep, but instead looked down at his bowl before smiling back.

“Thank you Shanatu.”

“Shantanu,” he corrected him and laughed.

“I am so sorry,” his laugh was contagious. “I’m really high.”

“We all are, my brother,” he celebrated with his hand on Ricky’s shoulder. 

Someone had taken out a chocolate bar and started passing pieces around. The man on the other side of Shantanu handed him a square. He cut his piece in half and handed it to Ricky. 

“Whatever we have, we give half to our brother,” he taught, gleefully red eyed. Ricky looked at the guy next to him. He was still holding his radio and losing himself in his bobbing head dance. He cut my portion in half, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him half of what he’d just been given. 

“Very good!” Shantanu congratulated him on a quick lesson learned. 

They smoked until the drug had little to no effect on him other than coughing, sleepiness, and a dry mouth. The rice pudding was excellent. He enjoyed three bowls. It was a little different from what his grandma made, but warm and comforting, and absolutely seasoned with the love of an old family member.