JaRen :: Ian Salkin, Amy Wang & Owen Salkin

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Samskara Sam Archive

MARch 1995 to August 1996

The Sams Go Underground
by Atmadeva

Esteemed readers will recall that in the last episode, our cult-busting duo successfully infiltrated the sect’s ‘master unit’ as they sought recovery of J.R. Rasagoullafella Jnr. treasured son of Incense magnate J.R. Rasagoullafella Snr. Whilst taking field walk they gained the acquaintance of the Kamamaya Kid and quite by chance they literally tripped over a vital clue: a man hole cover entitled ‘TRG’. Would this pathetic hole in the ground lead them to their cherished goal? Our humble narrator takes up the story:

The beeping of our hi-tech glasses had alerted our klumbsy kosas to the quinquelemental clue. But would the beeps be our downfall? Certainly they sounded louder than a dose of ‘Grunge Keartan’ as we fumbled frantically for the mute buttons under our armpits. Fortunately the Kamamaya Kid was fully distracted by the sight of the open man hole. It was as though a giant carob cookie had appeared before his young and impulsive sensory organs. The chance of delicious spiritual adventure wafted in the air. He scratched himself several times and did an acrobatic back-flip, diving blind through the narrow aperture. There was a long and eyrie silence followed by a cavernous SPLASH!

We peeked tentatively over the edge.

‘C’mon Bro and Sis!’ he yelled, spitting out a mouthful of water ‘check it out!’

Not wishing to betray the mission brief, or be outdone by an eight year old, we followed suit in a somewhat more cautious manner, descending by means of an existing ladder. Operative Samskara Samantha pulled shut the cover above us and we made our way down, activating the night sights on our glasses which gave the whole experience a decidedly psychedelic tilt. Reaching the bottom a very wet Kamamaya Kid was already off exploring the banks of what appeared to be an underground river flowing gently with very deep and pure water. The air too, was remarkably fresh. We made our way upstream, following the drip-trail of the Kid.

Then as we rounded a bend in the river, the darkness gave way to a mystical white light. Closing the distance, we recognised it’s source as His Holiness, the (Sentient) Coca Cola vending machine. Sweating profusely with devotion, we rock-hopped the final steps to it’s homely hearth and rummaged in our pockets for some offerings. Slotting $1.95 each, the three unit entities took refreshment, whilst bathing themselves in the ethereal milk of divine illumination. The Kamamaya Kid garnished our refreshment with mock octopus juice and a short one hour discourse entitled ‘Coca Cola, Samskara and Liberation in a Numbskull’.

Presently, we heard someone coming and the frightened youngster hid us quickly behind a pile of empty cans. (To be caught here by his seniors could mean fasting on dishwater for a week). The visitor appeared to be a wandering subterranean sadhu: barefoot with trident, tattered knapsack, walkman, skulls, beehive hat with miner’s lamp and orange overalls emblazoned with the words ‘Cakra Balance Technician No. 6398’.

We observed carefully, collecting video evidence with a cam-recorder no bigger than an ant (...until the Kid squashed it with his forearm). For at least half an hour the sadhu chanted mantras at the glowing temple and then mentally offered his unit self.

He must have done it pretty well because Prasad was not long in coming... we gasped in surprise as a flurry of cans poured from the machine: no cash, no credit card - nothing... unconditionally he had been showered with grace. Without further ado, he stuffed the product of his spiritual endeavour into the knapsack and set off, upstream. The three of us followed at a safe distance, this orange mystery man and his miner’s lamp illuminating the way.

After several hours of careful pursuit, our (unknowing) guide led us through a brightly lit exhibition space. A large floodlit sign arched overhead: ‘Margii Hall of Fame’. The sadhu did not slow down or give a sideways glance. He just continued steadfastly on his journey, turning green with envy (obviously jealous that his feats had yet to be recognised).

Sneaking from showcase to showcase the three of us were able to learn a little from each of the exhibits. They were mainly photographs and CD-ROMs, with captions like: ‘First Chimpanzee to become Fully Active Margii’, ‘First Non-Margii Initiated over the Internet’ ‘First Bhukti Pradhan to do Asanas Under Water ’, ‘First Acharya to Initiate a Whale’, ‘First LFT to do Tandava on the Moon’, ‘First Chartered Accountant to get Liberation’, ‘Enterprising Pizza chef Invents 7th Lesson’, ‘Margii Tests Negative Microvita Bomb at Muroroa Atoll’... and finally there was the Keartan Top 40 with a ghastly garage band taking the honours again... dreadful really.

Onwards, and into the dark again, our spiritual journey continued. The Kamamaya Kid became ravenous. Samantha Sam skilfully down loaded three King Size Pizza’s on her mobile phone and fed the youngster on the go.

Then more enlightenment was at hand: a floodlit billboard was advertising collector’s item T-shirts with slogans such as ‘I met GOD/January 14th 1988’ or ‘I met GOD/ Franklins Big Fresh/ October 6th 1995’ or ‘GOD World Tour/ 1979/ Caracas/ Kingston/ Fiesch/ Timmern/ Reykjavik/// Wagga Wagga (cancelled)

The Yogi Cave

Just as we were getting foot-weary and losing contact with the sadhu more light beckoned from around a corner. What could it be this time? We approached cautiously as the tunnel and river got much wider. The trio of imposters waded to the opposite bank and made our way forward, running from boulder to boulder. Across the way was the most extraordinary sight: an enormous subterranean space the size of the MCG (Melbourne Cricket ground). This was a hi-tech yogi-cave, floodlit from four massive pylons. Again our glasses started beeping and as well they might: exhibited before our very eyes were three banners at least thirty metres in length. Together they spelt out the dreaded triad of letters, ‘T-R-G’.

In desperation we smashed our beeping glasses on the rocks in order to stifle the unwanted sound. By the grace of Coca Cola, the Kamamaya Kid again did not notice our predicament. The eight year old was awe-struck by the very grandeur before us. The un-initiated youngster had stumbled on secrets that his elders had been keeping from him until he came of age and took initiation. ‘Well, stuff them’ he thought... he’d have a DIY (do it yourself), self service initiation.

Then the Kid whispered some valuable information:

‘TRG... that’s Taraka Brahma Rapid Reaction Goondas... no... ‘Group’, sorry the last bit’s ‘Group’’.

Four silver cylinders towered up through the rocky ceiling of the cave. The cylinders, being of large circumference, were actually lift wells, in constant use, as clad ‘Cakra Balance Technicians’ came and went, to and from the surface (reality).

Around the periphery of the cave, twenty foot freight containers were stacked three high... possibly numbering two hundred in total, and were serviced by an overhead gantry crane. They appeared to be storing bulk items (possibly rice, dhal and subjee)... some were refrigerated and one had ‘ICECREAM’ written on the side. A few orange figures could be seen sitting deep in meditation on top of this particular container.

Burrowed into the walls of the cave were ‘cave-lets’, six stories of little alcove apartments, linked by fragile bamboo walkways that hugged the circular periphery of the cave. Most of these living quarters emanated blue light... probably watching the footie. At one end of the cave was an a giant electronic scoreboard with the home team showing something of a deficit: ‘POLE SHIFT 565 DAYS TO GO’.

‘Not looking too good for the human race unless these guys can come up with a few quick Try’s!’ Samskara Samantha whispered to me, desperately trying to suppress hilarious laughter.

In the centre of the cave, bordered by the lift wells, was a raised platform, about the size of a football field. Fully carpeted, the space was decked out with PA’s and mixing gear that would have been the envy of the Rolling Stones.

‘Well, perhaps all is not lost’. I whispered back, ‘Such high-voltage Keartan would surely blast the socks off any blob of negative microvita unfortunate enough to reside this side of the macrocosmic nucleus’.

She was silent for a while.

‘What do we do now... do you suppose they are keeping J.R. Rasagoullafella Jnr. in one of those freight containers?’ She whispered, glancing at the Kamamaya Kid to ensure he was out of earshot.

‘What do we do?’ I said feeling like a bit of a wise guy, ‘sit tight and S-S-S-Surrender’ (It was hard to say that word, but I said it). ‘... just leave it up to the grace of Coca Cola’.

I surprised myself with these words. I was beginning to sound like a margii.

Working undercover, out of range of Cult Bust Inc.’s collective mental wavelength (the garlic and all that)... did this mean I was falling victim to the more subtle and powerful vibrations of the cult? Or was there some sense in their ideology after all? Could observing the cult’s way of life have awakened something deep inside of me?

Will our A-dharmic duo, our B-grade Tantric Trio uncover the secret of the mega yogi cave? Is J.R. Rasagoullafella Jnr. shivering in a container load of icecream or is he ‘HOT’ property, leading Keartan like a psycho-spiritual Mick Jagger? Will the wavering Samskara Sam fall for it and take initiation? And what of the Kamamaya Kid... that aspiring self-made, ‘Do It Yourself’ minimitus of a yogi, will he achieve liberation single-handedly after shopping at ‘Bunnings’?

Have these spiritual questions and more answered in the next mystical episode of the ‘Adventures of Samskara Sam’.

Episode 3