Ashwin Sanghi - The Rozabal Line

Martha Sinclair had remained a spinster. At the age of thirty-two, she had given up a career in interior design so she could pursue her study of Iyengar Yoga in India. Her travels in India and Nepal had lasted for three whole years and she had grown fond of the subcontinent. This had been followed by a few years in England, where she had become a practitioner of past-life healing, working in the Spiritualist Association of Great Britain.

After spending another year back in India, she had returned rather reluctantly to New York to set up her own yoga academy. Her tryst with India had opened up her mind to philosophy, religion, meditation and spirituality; this fact made her seem eccentric to most men.

She now stood next to Vincent, trying to be the best comfort possible in his grief.

Vincent stood silently in prayer with folded hands, ignoring the rain pouring down his face as his friend and colleague, Father Thomas Manning, read from Psalm 23:4, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me.’

Vincent’s eyes were closed in prayer-induced stupor. Everyone was holding umbrellas and trying as best as possible to stay dry. The light showers were becoming ugly and there were occasional flashes of lightning in the skies above the cemetery. The coffins were being lowered into the ground. Vincent’s eyes were tightly shut. He was merely following the words being recited by Father Thomas.

‘Daughters of Jerusalem, stop weeping for me! On the contrary, weep for yourselves and for your children!’ Vincent snapped out of his trance and opened his eyes wide. These words were totally out of place for a funeral.

The words were not from Father Thomas. His Bible was closed and his lips were not moving. The prayer was already over. Who had said that?

Flash! He felt a camera flash bulb go off inside his head. ‘ Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani? ’ Vincent was in a daze. Was he hearing things? Was he going mad?

Flash! Jerusalem. Why was he holding a wooden cross? Flash! Wailing women. ‘Impale him! Impale him!’ Flash! Blood. ‘Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani? ’ The scenes were flashing through Vincent’s head at a dizzying pace, much like a silent movie reel.

Vincent stood pale and frozen. He then bent over while standing and drew both his arms close to his right shoulder. He resembled a man carrying a heavy wooden object on his right shoulder. Simon! Alexander! Rufus! What were these names? Vincent fell awkwardly to the ground.

Sympathetic friends assumed that grief had overtaken the young man and attempted to help him up and comfort him.

Vincent had passed out.

The Biblical passage of Mark 15:34 of the New Testament reads as follows:

And at the ninth hour, Jesus shouted in a loud voice, ‘ Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani? ’ which is translated as ‘My God, my God, for what have you forsaken me?’

Vincent woke up in a brightly lit room of Queens Hospital Center. He first saw the anxious face of Father Thomas Manning. He then saw a nurse standing with his Aunt Martha. Next he saw the white light fixture on the ceiling.

An intravenous line was attached to his arm. Patches were attached to his torso to monitor his heart rate, blood pressure and lung function.

Vincent was mumbling incoherently. Father Thomas put his ear close to Vincent’s face to understand what he was trying to say. He was uttering a few words sporadically. ‘…impressed… service… passer-by… Simon… Cyrene… country… the father… Alexander… Rufus… lift… torture… stake…’

Father Thomas immediately recognised the Biblical passage that spoke of Jesus’s journey through the streets of Jerusalem on his way to Golgotha to be crucified. Since Jesus had become physically too weak after the trauma that he had endured, the Romans had ordered a man called Simon to help him bear the burden of the cross.

The passage that Vincent seemed to be muttering was: ‘Also, they impressed into service a passer-by, a certain Simon of Cyrene, coming from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, that he should lift up his torture stake.’

Why was Vincent sputtering these words? ‘Relax, Vincent. You have been subjected to trauma, shock and exhaustion. You need rest. You collapsed at the cemetery and we had to bring you here to recuperate,’ began Father Thomas.

Vincent couldn’t care less. His shoulder was hurting. His arms were aching. He could hear screams and jeers. He was sweating. He was walking on blood! He was carrying a cross!

Aunt Martha was lying down on the sofa in the hospital room when Vincent stirred. The doctor had prescribed Dalmane shots to ensure that he slept calmly. It was around eleven in the morning.

‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ said Aunt Martha as she sat up on the sofa. Even though she had been up all night, Martha still looked fresh. The years of yoga and meditation had obviously helped her; she certainly did not look to be in her mid-forties. Her youthful skin, auburn hair, pert nose and her well-toned 34-24-34 figure ensured that she did not look a day over thirty-five.

Vincent responded. ‘Hi, Nana. What’s happened to me? Am I sick?’ Martha was relieved to hear Vincent calling her by the name that Matthew’s entire family had for her-Nana. It obviously meant that Vincent was recovering. Martha got up from the sofa and walked to the side of the bed.

‘You had a shock during the funeral, Vincent. You passed out. Poor baby, you’ve been in and out of consciousness for the past two days. We couldn’t feed you through your mouth so we had to nourish you intravenously.’

Vincent thought back to the funeral and said, ‘Nana, where’s Father Thomas? I need to speak to him.’

Martha replied, ‘He was here last night, baby. He left rather late. I think he’ll come back to see you around lunchtime. What did you need to ask him?’

‘Nana, I think I’m going crazy. At the funeral, before I fainted, I thought I saw visions. They were so real it was scary. I was even more scared because I thought I saw myself in some of the pictures that flashed before my eyes,’ said Vincent.

Martha held Vincent’s hand as she said, ‘Vincent, sometimes when we confront shocks in our lives, they tend to electrify portions of our brain that we normally don’t use. This can sometimes bring older memories to the forefront, memories that have been long suppressed.’

‘This wasn’t an older memory, Nana. I have never been to Jerusalem, yet I could see it in vivid detail. This wasn’t a memory. It was something else… I just can’t explain it. The scary bit is that I saw myself carrying the cross of Jesus!’

Martha looked straight into Vincent’s eyes and asked, ‘It could be your imagination… As a priest you have read virtually everything there is to learn about Jesus. Some of those stored facts could trigger visualisations. Possible, isn’t it?’

‘You’re absolutely right, Nana. It’s the shock that’s causing hallucinations. It’s nothing for us to really worry about,’ said Vincent, just about convincing himself.

Martha rang the bell at Vincent’s side so the nurse could sponge him and arrange for some breakfast. Though she didn’t comment any further, she couldn’t but help remember Vincent as a small boy standing next to the sweet little Kate, mumbling something in another language that only she had been able to understand.

‘Talitha koum. Talitha koum. Talitha koum.’

It had now been six years since his parents’ death. Martha Sinclair and Vincent Sinclair were sitting together in the trendy York Avenue studio of Martha’s yoga academy. Since Vincent had been discharged from hospital six years ago, Martha had succeeded in convincing him that he needed to recharge himself by practising Pranayama, the ancient yogic science of breathing. [21]