Miss Buddha (59 page)

“Dangerous?”

“That’s the question, yes.”

“No, Phil. Engaging, yes. Spellbinding, yes.
Dangerous? No. No, I don’t see it.”

“Some see it that way.”

“Who?”

“At this point I’m not at liberty to say.
Need-to-know thing.”

Roth nodded, yeah, the need-to-know thing.
Said, “What precisely is the danger? What precisely are we looking
for?”

Anderson seemed to pull himself even
straighter, if that were even possible, a clear sign to Roth that
he had hit some nerve or other.

“She is going viral, George.”

“I know. She has for some time.”

“Three hundred twenty million YouTube views
since her first lecture, and additional tens of millions on other
services. Millions, George.”

Then, just in case Agent Roth was not yet
sufficiently impressed, “Topping five hundred million, George. A
billion soon at this rate.”

“I know.”

“How viral is that?” asked his boss. “By
viral standards.”

“It’s pretty viral.”

“Dangerously viral?”

“Define dangerously, Phil. I can’t do my job
if I don’t know what you’re looking for.”

Phil Anderson looked at his wunderkind agent
for a long silent moment, then looked out the window, then finally
sat down and motioned for Roth to do the same. Regarded Roth again
for some silent time. Arrived at a decision.

“Okay, but this stays between us for now.
Does not leave this room.”

Anderson had a way of saying most things
twice. “Of course.”

“Eli Lilly, Merck, Abbott, you name them,
are silently screaming bloody murder.”

“You’re talking Big Pharma?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why are they screaming?”

“Sales.”

“For heaven’s sake, Phil, spell it out.”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

Roth sighed. “Yes, Phil. You have to spell
it out.”

“It seems these boys are monitoring sales
very closely these days, and sales of both prescription and
over-the-counter anti-depressants are noticeably down.”

“And?”

“And they blame the girl.”

“Ruth Marten? The blame her?”

“That’s the one we’re talking about, George.
Yes, Ruth Marten.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Our chain of command begs to differ.”

“It’s been what? Four weeks, five?”

“Since when?”

“Since her first lecture.”

“And?”

“That’s not long enough to establish any
sort of cause and effect.”

Again, “Our chain of command begs to
differ.”

“The Pharma lobby?” Roth shook his head.

“The pharma boys are hurting,
apparently.”

“And how has Marten caused this sinister
drop in sales?” began Roth, doing his best to keep the sarcasm out
of his voice.

Phil Anderson leaned forward as if about to
impart sensitive state secrets. “Viral, George. She’s going viral.
Seductive, George. That’s the word they’re using. The girl is
seductive. Promises.”

“Promises? What promises?”

Anderson sat back again, almost in a recoil.
“Not sure. But whatever it is she promises them, they don’t seem to
need or buy their meds anymore. Not the way they’re supposed
to.”

Roth shook his head again. Either this whole
notion was totally insane, or he was missing something. “I’m
telling you, Phil. If their sales are down, and I can’t argue that
one way or another, because I don’t know, it’s too soon to
establish a valid cause.”

Phil drew breath to speak.

“Yes,” interrupted Roth. “I know. Our chain
of command begs to differ.”

“Precisely.”

“What do you want me to do, Phil?”

“Keep a very close eye on her, George. Very.
As in under a microscope.”

“I already am.”

“Well, keep a closer eye on her, then. Full
background. All movements. Plans. Record all her lectures.”

“They’re already doing this for us,” meaning
the students with their viral videos. Phil continued as if he
hadn’t heard.

“Anything she does. Anywhere she goes.”

“How many men can I have?”

“How many do you need?”

“A dozen perhaps.”

“Done,” said his boss.

“Cars.”

“Whatever you need.”

Again, Roth shook his head at the folly of
his “chain of command,” but rose to comply.

“Anything you need,” repeated Phil
Anderson.

Then Roth decided to take one last stab at
reason. “You know that my specialty is patterns. I’m not sure I am
the right man for this.”

“You’re the one they want.”

He knew who
they
were: the chain of
command. “But you’re talking surveillance, here. Potential threat
drill.”

“She is a potential threat.”

“My specialty is patterns,” he tried
again.

“I know.”

There was no talking his way out of this. “A
potential threat to what? Pharma sales?”

“National security.”

“National security?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, Phil. That’s ridiculous.”

“Nonetheless.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Well, take a closer look then, George.”

“Okay, Phil. I will.”

“Everything,” said Phil.

“I know the drill,” said Roth. Then turned
to go.

“Everything,” repeated Phil to his back.

“Everything,” said Roth, tossing the word
back over his shoulder.

::
110 :: (UCLA)

Ruth Marten’s first guest
lecture was held at UCLA on the 2
^nd
of February, a Saturday. At
one point the university administration had wanted to sell tickets
to the Royce Hall event, but Ruth vetoed that idea. This was not
entertainment, she said, this was a lecture, part of the
curriculum. Their tuition fees covered the students’ right to
attend, she said.

The administration eventually saw the wisdom
of that, but not before Ruth threatened to cancel the lecture.

Student interest in the lecture was
overwhelming. So much, in fact, that remote feeds were arranged for
the expected attendance overflow. Part of the reason for this
interest was Ruth herself, of course, and her viral video lectures
which still garnered millions of viewers each day. Another reason
for this interest—and what gathered the media and other seekers of
scandal and thrill—was the now reputed FBI interest in Ruth
Marten.

It was a classic leak. Sources had spoken on
the condition of anonymity. Yes, the FBI was conducting an
investigation. Yes, strong interest from the very top, apparently.
Yes, the FBI considered Ruth Marten a potential risk. These sources
could not specify, and would not speculate, what kind of risk,
precisely, but risk enough to warrant interest.

Officially, the FBI would not even dignify
the rumor with a comment.

This, of course, ensured wall-to-wall media
coverage, and when they arrived at UCLA campus, Ruth, Melissa,
Ananda, and Abbot White—who had been invited to join them—had to be
escorted by a small band of security personnel to shield them from
a barely short of frenzied media onslaught.

Safely delivered backstage, Ananda was the
first to speak. To no one in particular.

“That was a little more than we bargained
for.”

“I’d say,” said Melissa, sitting down.

“Is there any substance to the FBI rumor, do
you think?” asked Abbot White.

“I believe there is,” said Ananda. “Clare
Downes swore that they were in attendance at one of Ruth’s recent
USC lectures.”

“Whatever is going on, you certainly have
their attention,” said the Abbot. “Surely, that should be a good
thing. Fitting nicely with your plans.”

“A little too nicely,” said Ananda.

“Attention is good,” said Ruth. “As long as
it’s on the message and not on the peripherals.”

“The circus,” said Melissa.

“Circus, indeed,” said Ananda. Then he asked
Ruth, “Are you going to take questions this time?”

“No,” said Ruth. “The hall is too large. And
you’re right about the circus. I don’t want to invite circus
questions.”

“Good decision,” said Ananda.

“What will you talk about,” asked the
Abbot.

“Stillness. I want to revisit stillness.
With all this noise, it makes for a very clear contrast.”

“I thought you meant to address parallels
between science and religion,” said Ananda.

“Stillness is better,” said Ruth. “I’ve
changed my mind.”

Ananda nodded at this. Yes, he agreed.

Melissa and the Abbot saw the wisdom of
that, too.

A young girl appeared at the door. “Five
minutes, Miss Marten. Should I seat your guests?”

“Yes,” said Ruth. “Please.”

As they rose to follow their guide, Melissa
hugged her daughter and said, “Break a leg, Sweetheart.”

“Of course,” said Ruth.

With three minutes to go, there was only
Ruth Marten in the backstage room, listening and trying to plum the
mood of the nearly two thousand people expecting her only a few
steps away.

After a few long breaths, the door opened
again. The young girl was back. “It’s time, Miss Marten.”

:

I remember addressing such multitudes in the
past. The difference between then and now is almost frightening. In
long-ago India I spoke to a still lake, a collective calm you could
almost touch.

These people, this age, makes for a very
stormy surface.

It’s a windy room. The rustle of a million
leaves, bending in my direction. Many of them are here for the
message, and that pleases me. But not a few are here for other
reasons, something that rarely, if ever, happened in India.

Values. The emphasis has shifted so darkly,
so deeply. These poor people struggle to find a true footing,
overwhelmed by the need to own, the urge to consume. Their bodies
playing into the hands of the profiteers.

Of course this happened in India too, man
has not changed much when it comes to his fundamental greed, but
never, never on this scale, with this force, with this volume. Wave
upon wave of the commercial, of the demand that you open your mouth
wide, wide, wider and do nothing but swallow, that you do nothing
but consume. It makes for a very rough surface to first still then
enter.

I see Ananda in the front row. He, more than
anything, brings to mind those long ago days when he was the live
recorder, when he tasked himself with remembering every word I
spoke that he may ensure the Dhamma lived on. These digital days
this remembering, of course, is no longer needed. I can see a dozen
or more video cameras, all trained on me. Within minutes after I
finish the lecture, my entire talk will be available to the world
online. That, if anything, is a boon of the day, is the one
edge—despite all darkness—that technology has brought to the world.
The one blessing.

The lights flicker a warning that they are
about to dim and the rustle grows quieter. I can feel the
expectation rise like some living thing with many arms. It reaches
for me.

:

Ananda, seated in-between Abbot White and
Melissa, took in the Buddha where she stood, herself taking in the
packed hall in turn. And like Ruth, he also thought about that
long-ago India when his task was a crucial three-fold: to hear
every word of the Buddha, to understand every word of the Buddha—he
had a carte blanche to ask about anything he did not fully
understand, and the Buddha had promised that he would explain until
it was fully clear to him—and to remember every understood word so
that it could be passed on as living Dhamma.

And like Ruth he also took in the many video
cameras trained on the stage, doing his job for him, and so much
more efficiently—but without understanding, of course.

The lights dimmed now, and a single wide,
soft beam fell upon the shimmeringly black hair of his friend.

And for a third time, she began her lecture
with that one word, spoken into itself:

“Silence.”

It was palpable, and into it she
continued:

“Many considered Sai Baba of Shirdi an
incarnation of Lord Krishna. Whether he was, I don’t know. But I do
know that many Hindus, and many Muslims, consider him a saint. And
saintly he was.

“And the saintliest thing he ever said—and
he said many saintly things—was, ‘Before you speak ask yourself: Is
it kind, is it necessary, is it true, does it improve upon the
silence?’

“Brilliant advice in its own right—something
we all both can and should take to heart, and so improve upon both
personal and political relations.

“We should all ask ourselves, is what we are
about to say kind? Will it help our friend—or our enemy? Do we
speak out of compassion?

“Do we in fact have to say it? Is it
necessary? Is it needed? Will it in fact help the situation? Or are
we speaking just to hear ourselves talk, because we are so enamored
of our own sageness that we simply have to impart it to others?

“Is what we are about to say true? Really
true? Not just truish, but in every aspect not a lie?

“How often do we let things leave our lips
that are in fact unkind, that—were you really to observe—make our
friends, or parents, or our children, wince a little at hearing?
Things that leave little scars, seen were you to finely tune your
sight.

“How often do we speak not from need or
necessity, but from the wish to be heard? And how often do we not
embellish, or twist, or simply make up out of whole cloth what we
say? How often does truth not serve as the touchstone for speaking
or not?

“And most importantly, and this is where I
believe Sai Baba of Shirdi reveals his sainthood: Does what you are
about to say improve upon the silence?”

As if to underline the last question, Ruth
said nothing for nearly a full minute.

“Silence, at its core, is not a dead thing.
It is not merely the absence of sound. Of course, there are
degrees. There is the pleasant absence of noise. The wonderful
stillness of the baby, now fed again, returning to contented sleep
and no longer crying in her cot. That is silence, of course, but a
silence spreading from the absence of hungry lungs thanking you for
the meal.