emerged from the hot white cloud. He was the yoga instructor at the spa and by this time the only one who had been there longer than Martin. Teaching yoga was his chosen profession so, unlike the other employees, he manifested a certain professionalism which Martin appreciated. The two men had developed that kind of intimate anonymity which acts as social currency in most work situations. Over a period of time they had accumulated a great deal of feeling for the texture of one another’s lives and had learned to read each other’s moods with almost complete accuracy. Yet, neither knew the other’s exact address. Their central conversation revolved around a discussion of the various virtues of yogic versus calisthenic approaches to fitness. And whenever they finished talking about the matter on the level of physiology, Robert would add, “But the yoga that you see, the actual postures and movements, is only the vehicle for something else. It isn’t an end in itself.” He had steadfastly refused to discuss that aspect of it further, saying that it would reveal itself when Martin was ready.
Aside from this, what he considered a tone of surperiority in Robert’s attitude, Martin liked the man well enough, and even felt drawn to him. His involvement with his relationship to Julia, however, absorbing to the point of obsession, had kept him from fuller contacts with anyone else, including Robert.
“You do the corpse pose better than anyone I’ve ever seen,” Robert said, referring to Martin’s posture on the slab, lying on his back, legs apart, arms at his sides. “Sometimes I’m afraid you’ll get into it so deeply that I’ll come in here and find only your body remaining.” He sat down on the lower tier just below where Martin lay.
“That’s happened, you know,” he went on. “A few Masters have done it just to show off. Lie down in the middle of the morning in front of a room full of students, tell them that he was going to leave the body permanently, and then, in the prime of health, just close his eyes, reduce his breathing, and die.”
Martin involuntarily pulled himself up to a half-sitting position. Robert’s laconic description had acted like a puppeteer’s string pulling him to a state of vacant attention. Death was something he thought about only in terms of the effect it would have on other people. The concept, unexamined, was encrusted with images of funerals, grieving family, friends who quickly forgot, and the choking smell of too many flowers kept in a small room for several days. Its metaphysical implications never grazed him for he had always been too healthy to truly feel its immediate presence. The idea, just implanted by Robert’s offhand report, that one might choose simply to cease to exist, and to do it as a sort of object-lesson for students, to do it whimsically and consciously, assaulted him with all the force of an outrage.
“That’s just another one of those extravagant tales, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Oh no,” Robert replied, “there have been several well-documented accounts. One as recently as four years ago.”
“But that’s just a form of suicide!” Robert protested, swinging himself up to a sitting position, his legs dangling down over the edge of the platform.
“Only if you make a distinction between life and death,” Robert said. “To one who has understood the true nature of reality, there is no difference between the two.”
A peculiar thing took place in Martin’s mind. On one level he responded with his usual cantankerous refusal to accept anything which fell outside of Aristotelian logic. A was A, had always been A, would always be A, and could never be B. Yet, on another level, some tension in him relaxed and a delicious vision stole through him. He saw himself sitting in the steam room and yet, somehow, disappearing. The thing he called himself was, miraculously, not operating. Yet nothing changed. His body continued to function, Robert continued