A Small Stone by Burt Rashbaum

He’d done two years of college then hit the road. He thought he’d travel in Europe,
making it back for fall term. He went from country to country, nights in youth hostels,
one time camping with other vagabonds under the stars, once staying with an orthodox
Jewish family in Venice. He knew he wouldn’t be home in time. So he took the semester
off, letting his parents know he needed to keep going.

He heard his father yelling behind his mother as she held the phone. He said he loved
them and he’d send a postcard from every new city he got to.

Sitting in cafes writing, meeting other travelers, fellow students, folks on vacation, some
doing an inner journey that got them from place to place, he kept hearing: if you want to
get real about the Truth, go to India.

He’d never seen cows walking in streets before. He’d never seen such poverty. And
music was everywhere. The cars were music. The crowds were music. One day he was on a street,

his eyes closed, just listening to the sounds of this city. He saw monkeys as
comfortable as he was, he saw elephants, he saw birds he couldn’t name.

He was invited to an ashram where a teacher gave lectures. He stayed for a week, learned
chants, and new kinds of meditation. One morning a ceremony of some kind was
happening. The people he’d seen the past few days lined up before the teacher, so he got
in line too. When he approached, the old man looked at him with sparkling eyes,
motioned him to lean over, touched his forehead and said a name. He almost fell down
when he was touched.

So he had a new name, which he liked, but it didn’t fit. The next day he packed his stuff,
threw the pack over his shoulder, and headed out again.

No matter where he was, he never felt out of place. Even though he didn’t speak the
languages he heard, he could still communicate, with shopkeepers, hoteliers, restaurant
people, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a few fractured words. He liked that he
didn’t hear much English. He could go for days and only understand the thoughts in his
own head. He filled his journal and bought another. He wondered if he’d ever go home.

Since traveling in India he’d slept better than he had his whole life. His dreams were rich
with imagery, color, sound. Sometimes upon waking he thought, this is still the dream.

He kept hearing about a small town where a guru lived in an ashram. The guy was
supposed to be a powerful teacher, lecturing in three languages, with followers from all
over the world. He had to check it out.

Heading to the train, he saw a group of old men sitting in front of a tea shop. They looked
ancient, some with long grey beards, a couple with turbans. A huge hookah sat on the
table, and they quietly smoked, blowing bluish smoke into the air, sipping tea. Walking
by, one of them motioned to him. He looked over his shoulder. Me? You mean me? He
pointed to himself. The man nodded, smiled a toothless smile, and beckoned him near.

They pulled a chair over, and he sat. The man who’d signaled him spoke to a waiter, who
brought a cup of tea. He sipped. The man gave him a tube and he watched as the other
men sucked on their mouthpieces, taking in smoke, exhaling. One small man coughed
every time he inhaled.

He didn’t smoke tobacco. He took a small puff and immediately coughed. They all
laughed. One of them held open his palm: little tiny balls of hashish. He crumbled up a
few and sprinkled it on the tobacco, then held up the tube and nodded as if to say, okay,
now.

He thought, I can get into this. He inhaled, tasting the sweet hash, better and fresher than
anything he ever got at home.

He sat with these old men, and they quietly smoked. He had the most beautiful buzz, a
subtle mix of nicotine and hashish. He didn’t need much, so he mostly held his tube and
sipped his tea.

One of the men put down his hookah tube and pointed to the teacup before him.

“Ram,” the old man said, pronouncing it to rhyme with ‘mom.’

He knew that ‘ram’ meant God. Was he saying that the teacup was God? He smoked,
nodding.

The man shook his head. He pointed to the table.

“Ram,” he said.

He didn’t get it.

Another man looked at him and pointed at the sky.

“Ram,” he said.

Then he pointed across the table at his chest.

“Ram,” he said. Then he pointed at each of them men sitting at the table and each time he
pointed he said, “Ram.”

Ram. Ram. Ram.

The men all nodded.

A bird landed near them and started pecking at the ground.

“Ram,” he said, pointing to the bird. The men all nodded, smiling, encouraging him. He
picked up a small stone, put it on the table. “Ram.”

The first man, the one who’d invited him over, nodded, closed his eyes for a second, then
looked at him, gave him a brief nod, like, okay, now you got it. That’s all you need to
know.

He smoked. He sipped his tea. When he finally stood to board his train, he put his hands
together and bowed to each man. They nodded, waving him away, like, go, go. Go learn,
go meditate, go get your name changed again. But remember.

Ram.

Burt Rashbaum’s fiction has appeared in Meet Cute Press, Caesura, Typeslash Review, Collateral, American Writers Review: The End or the Beginning (San Fedele Press, 2022), The Jewish Literary Journal, Spank the Carp, Epic Echoes Magazine (inaugural issue), and The Main Street Rag. He can be reached at Burt.Rashbaum@colorado.edu