The Call to Adventure

I awoke on that fateful day to the sound of children. As usual, I could hear them in the playground of the school that was just around the corner from my house. I could hear the chants of the girls and the shouts of the boys. Nothing unusual.

I pulled myself from my bed. It was 9 am, a later time than most people to wake but I never did like getting up earlier than noon. I sat on the bed, eyes still suffering from the effects of a dream that seemed pleasant but which I could not remember. My wife of 6 months lay beside me, still fast asleep. My movements never seemed to bother her heavy sleep. I stared at the clock on the wall, wondering whether or not I should get myself moving or quit my job and stay in bed for another day or two.

Of course, I knew I couldn’t quit that easily, so after a minute I stood up and began to prepare for the day. I stumbled towards the kitchen, where I made myself some coffee and poured a bowl of cereal with milk. These two things I carried to the computer where I checked my e-mail. A friend had forwarded a story, one of those e-mails of warning, complete with an amusing anecdote and some very real-looking pictures. Another urban legend being perpetuated by fools who can’t be bothered to check the facts. Today’s story was a warning against a certain insect bite that could easily infect my bloodstream and cause me to lose an arm or leg or even die. The author of this particular story has an amusing sense of humor, for the three photographs displaying the progress of the so-called “infection” were obviously pulled from a medical website. The first and second pictures appeared to be extreme cases of eczema, the third, a type of cancer. I could’ve done a better job of at least photo-shopping the pictures to look like the same person’s arm.

I finished my coffee and quickly washed, shaved, and finished my morning ritual before getting dressed and leaving my house. On the way out the door, I picked up the newspaper and walked to the bus stop. There, as always, I bumped into Joe. I lit a cigarette, knowing this would bother him. He always commented on how he had smoked for twenty years before quitting. The way he tells me, it seems as if he has recently overcome a great trial. But I know he quit smoking when he was thirty-five. And that was a long time ago now. I usually only smoke one or two cigarettes a day. I don’t feel addicted but I do enjoy the feeling of holding fire and taking the smoke into my body.

As usual, when the bus finally arrived, his story ended and I sat near the front of the bus and he near the back. He really didn’t like the smell of cigarette-smoke. I know this because a few months ago, I was late and missed my morning smoke. He sat beside me on the bus that day and bored me to tears with stories of his wretched life. His insane ex-wife. His devil-spawn children that never call him. His unappreciated office-drone job.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the guy. He reminds me of my father. His past is a lot like my present. He’s a constant reminder of what I try to avoid in my life. I should appreciate my wife and care for her. If I ever have children, I should spend time with them. And in my work, I should be good, but never a workaholic. No company will ever give you satisfaction. And it certainly can’t replace a good family.

These thoughts I recounted as I sat with my psychiatrist in the evening. I enjoyed these sessions. It helped me to remember the life I had before today. I thought perhaps that by reliving my past in detail, I could more easily trace the steps I must make in the future. My doctor, as always, listened. I’m sure he has heard these thoughts many times, but it is his job to listen with patience. I always admired how he seemed to do this. I was never much of a good listener. I enjoyed speaking too much. I went home and slept as the dead, as always after my Thursday appointment.

The next day was a day like any other. Cereal. The morning newspaper. A cigarette. Joe. The bus trip to the office. The meeting with my colleagues to discuss business affairs. The monotonous sound of office work. Keyboards and mice clicking. Photocopiers humming somewhere in the building. The sound of a few radios quietly playing whatever easy-listening junk station the owner preferred. And in the distance, somewhere, the sound of another mental breakdown.

I worked in one of those multinational corporations, whose many-storied office-buildings dot the earth like a civilized disease. I had a name-badge, identifying me by my employee number, rank, and status in the company. I had a monotone suit, with a brightly-colored tie, like everyone else. I felt like an officer, a soldier in the ranks of a great army. But I also felt like my ten-digit number was a kind of code identifying my weaknesses.

And on that day that seemed like any other, one of my colleagues — not from my section but I knew him well enough to know his badge — stood up from his desk and began walking calmly from cubicle to cubicle, shooting his co-workers with an automatic assault rifle.

His rampage started about twenty meters from me and ended in his supervisor’s office, where he jumped from the window and landed on a vice-president’s Porsche.

What really happened and why, I’m not sure. The last moments before I lost consciousness, I remember well enough. During the mad moments of his random shooting, the employees fled like rats in whatever direction they could. Someone’s hand pushed me and I stumbled to the ground. A woman tripped over me and landed nearby. I saw her head explode in a shower of blood and bone and...

I guess a fragment from a bullet must have ricocheted and lodged itself in my brain. Or at least that’s what might have what happened. I think most people would recall their emotions more clearly than exact events on a day like that.

I arrived in the hospital, half-dead but not yet severely brain-damaged. I needed to undergo an operation to remove some of the pressure in my skull, to relieve the swelling of the wound. The fragment could not possibly be removed without killing me, I was told. But they did need to assist my body’s natural reaction against the wound by opening my skull. Otherwise my brain would expand too much and I would die. All they could do was try to save my life and hope that the damage was not completely irreversible.

The last thing I remembered was bright lights and doctors above me, blood clouding my eyes, and my mind slipping into a dreamworld.

§

It was a terrible thing to banish one’s own son. But it was King Dasaratha’s word, the fulfillment of a promise he had made many years ago. The beautiful Kaikeyi, his third wife, had saved his life when he had been near to death and he had granted her two favors. And now, stricken with fear of being pushed aside, she had requested the inconceivable. With no mind for her family or kingdom, she demanded that her son Bharata be placed ahead of his three brothers, and named the crown prince of Ayodhya. And to make the injury more grievous, she asked that Rama, his eldest son, be banished so that he could not challenge his youngest brother’s throne.

Dasaratha’s heart broke when it came time to announce the decree. He could not bear to speak the words, so Kaikeyi declared it herself. The king listened in grief as his once-favorite wife spoke. Rama was banished like a criminal, exiled for fourteen years. Bharata would take his place as crown prince of Ayodhya. The unbelieving court was in confusion. They could not believe what they heard and some began to question the king. Rama himself spoke up and said that no one should second-guess his father’s royal declaration. Then he approached King Dasaratha and with no malice in his heart whatsoever, promised to leave Ayodhya for fourteen years. He blessed his father and mothers and left so that he could prepare for his journey.

While he prepared, his beautiful wife Sita came to him and kissed him gently. He embraced her and begged her to find happiness while he was away. She laughed at him and simply answered that where he would go, she would go also. It mattered nothing to her whether or not her husband was a prince or a beggar, that he was king of her heart and she was queen of his. She said she could not bear to live without him. He attempted to argue and begged her to stay and take care of his family. She told him that she loved him and he was her family and that her mind could not be swayed. Then, as she was about to prepare herself for the journey, they were intruded on by Lakshmana, who demanded that his brother and sister-in-law be protected by none but the best. And since his fighting skills were only bested by Rama himself, he was the only natural choice for a bodyguard. Rama praised his brother’s faithfulness before attempting to persuade him to stay behind to take care of their family’s kingdom. He answered that he loved his kingdom but Ayodhya was nothing without Rama.

When it came time for them to bid farewell, Dasaratha blessed his son and begged his forgiveness. Rama knelt before his father and answered that no forgiveness was required. Queen Kausalya, Rama’s mother, extolled Sita’s dedication and blessed her as a daughter. She took off her jewelry and gave it to Sita, saying it was of no use to her now. Queen Sumitra took her son Lakshmana’s head and kissed it as if he were a boy and begged him to take care of himself as well as his older brother. And as the sun began to set, the three were joined by Sumantra, the best charioteer in Ayodhya. Rama commanded him to drive quickly, for a long goodbye meant extending the worst kind of pain he could imagine. They drove on for many hours until the moon had set and the sun had risen again. As day broke, the three stepped out of the chariot. Rama commanded Sumantra to return to Ayodhya. It was a new day and they would begin their lives anew as well. They discarded their royal garments for simple clothes and began their wandering. They traveled in silence, not knowing what the future held.

Their first day was rough for they had never before been away from their royal comforts. While in the palace, they had eaten many delicious and exotic foods. In the forest, they had to hunt and cook their own food. Lakshmana had already proven himself when he caught and killed dinner. Rama told his wife that her cooking was unparalleled in the whole Earth. And, indeed, there was something wonderful in the joy that they could survive like this. As Rama and Sita went to sleep in their simple tent, Lakshmana kept watch against enemies and wild animals. Little did he know that his own wife Urmila had begun a long slumber, so that her energy might become her husband’s and his need for rest would vanish.

All this time, Bharata and Lakshmana’s twin brother, Shatrughna, had been away, acting as emissaries for their father. When they returned to Ayodhya, they found a city in anguish. King Dasaratha had died of a broken heart and his three wives mourned his absence. Bharata was ashamed that his mother could cause the kingdom so much distress. So, he immediately set out to find Rama and bring him home. When he did find his eldest brother and told him of his father’s death, Rama was saddened but he explained that he had made an oath. He could not break a solemn promise to his father. Nothing could not persuade Rama to return home and claim the throne. He had a new destiny now and he was determined to discover it.