Chapter Two

_{Cowboys, Cows And Footballs - 1980}

I renounced school mentally when I was about 11; which was around the time that my father died. I left school physically the day I turned 16; much to my poor mother’s consternation. Having learnt enough of the 'Three R's' to get by in life, I just couldn’t take school any longer. I was just not interested in the stuff the system was trying to ram down my throat. Influenced by the combination of my father’s love for westerns, school holidays on relative’s farms and my own innate love for the outdoors, I felt an urge to escape city life and took some work on a farm in the far north of New Zealand for a year. I learnt to ride horses, work with stock and generally loved the fresh air, hard work and wide open spaces. And those stars at night... deep breath here people!

A sudden wave of wanderlust and escapism swept me off on a one-way ticket to the "Big Red" - Australia as it is also known - and I eventually settled on a large cattle station near the rugged and beautiful Flinders Ranges. I had caught up with those cowboys again! One particular day I was helping to draft some cows, when one of them let loose with a kick at my head. These were not mild-mannered milking cows but the wilder bush version that took offence at being removed from their natural habitat and forced into small sets of yards for reasons beyond their comprehension. Getting kicked at was part of the job and one learnt to move fast! Fortunately, the disgruntled bovine did not make contact, but flung dirt in my eye; which soon became infected. A week or so later, and practically blind in one eye, I had to go to Adelaide to have the eye cleaned properly but soon happily returned to the outback. In those days, city life was my idea of hell.

_{A Panorama of Vastness...}

As a little aside, I will never forget the beauty of the Australian outback. At once a very delicate and brutally harsh environment, it was a hard place to live in some ways - but enjoyable for it's simplistic lifestyle in others. No pollution, no traffic jams, no phones, plenty of camaraderie and hard work, heaps of open space and silence - these qualities made up for the mundane aspects of our lives as working cowboys. But it is my memory of the beautiful night skies that I will cherish the most. Each night - whilst being quite cold after the sweltering heat of the day, was a revelation of vastness. Lying snug in my swag, with a belly full of simple tucker and billy-tea, I would stare up into the starry vault and marvel at the splendor of it all. This little earth-ant would come face to face with something so much vaster than himself and it was unbelievably humbling and totally awe-inspiring - I never tired of it. In the glow of the camp fire on a still night, even the hardest of men would sometimes soften a little under the stars.

For me, the night sky was a reminder and reflection of something that is within each of us - something vast, spectacular and profound. It was not until I met Sri Chinmoy that I came across these qualities fully embodied and manifest in the eyes and heart of a man. "The heart of a holy man can easily house the universe" - as the saying goes. Through his teachings and loving concern for the spiritual welfare of the world, Sri Chinmoy, like all the great spiritual Masters throughout history, is reminding humankind that we all house tremendous vastness - for it is the blissful vastness of the Supreme that is our source and our goal. Australia is a country that really embodies vastness - and this is reflected in the good hearts of the Australian people. I am very grateful for the experiences that I had while I was living there.

- The Star-Vast Welkin -

_{More Celebrity}

meanwhile back at the story:
Some weeks later, around Christmas time 1979, I was suddenly beset with severe pains in my chest, shoulders, arms and neck. It was crippling, and I was quickly carted of to the nearest hospital. Upon reviewing my X-ray, a rather laconic doctor at the small-town hospital stated, "Your heart’s swollen up as big as a football, mate!" He promptly called for an ambulance to take me to the Royal Adelaide Hospital. Tongue in cheek, I asked him if there was any chance I would meet Prince Charles while I was there; considering it was a Royal Hospital and all. "I doubt it mate," he replied in his classic Aussie drawl, "but you might bump into the Prince of Death if you're not careful." Thanks Doc - great bedside manner!

Having been on farms and in the outback for over three years and often sleeping under the stars for weeks at a time, it was something of a culture shock to find myself ensconced in hospital again. The doctors discovered that I had two infected heart valves; probably as a result of the 'here's mud in your eye' incident, and immediately put me on an intensive course of intravenous antibiotics. Medical methods had improved in the 10 years since my first hospital adventure, so I did not need to consider the famous 'hibernation tactic.'

My condition was not common and caused quite a stir at the Royal Adelaide. I was constantly being visited by young and often nervous first and second year trainee doctors who all seemed to want to ask the same meaningless questions about my symptoms. After a while, I began to invent wild answers just to keep the game interesting and can probably claim credit for slowing the careers of several medical students while they spent time sorting the real from the unreal. Once I was dragged off as "Exhibit A" to a lecture for these young Einstein's; my case being the theme of the lecture. To cover my embarrassment I cut jokes whenever I was asked a question and the whole afternoon took on a jovial party atmosphere. The lecturing professor took a rather paternal attitude towards me and we parted as good buddies. I doubt anyone learned anything though - medically speaking.

_{"Crash" – Ahh Ahhhh - Saviour of the Universe}

After a few weeks, it became obvious that the antibiotics were not helping. Profuse and constant fevers, and deteriorating health meant that open-heart surgery was necessary to remove the infected valves. In order to remain on earth, I went with that option. I was a little freaked out by the prospect of having my chest opened up, but put on a brave face and tried to take it as another of life's big adventures. My surgeon’s name was Mr. Craddock; a big bear of a man with hands the size of dinner plates. His gentle demeanor defied his nickname - which a nurse told me was "Crash Craddock." I was about to enquire how he had earned that tag when she hastily added, "But don't worry young man, Mr. Craddock has many heart operations to his credit." She would not be pressed into releasing statistics on how many of his patients had survived, so I consoled myself with the fact that he had such a nice nature. He was your archetypal gentle giant.

_{Operation #10,001}

On the day of the operation, I was wheeled into the operating theatre; which to me was like how you would imagine the inside of a spaceship to be. Weird looking equipment, flashing lights and beeping things everywhere! My tongue became very loose with the help of the pre-med drugs that are supposed to make you drowsy and calm. I chatted with all and sundry, cutting jokes, wishing them good luck and generally encouraging them to "do a good job." Crash came in to see me and I had the nerve to ask the poor man if he would mind "checking to see that everything else was in good working order while you are in there" - in my chest that is! "I’ll have a look around," he calmly replied. Nice guy - a real 'check the oil and water' type.

Soon, and probably to everyone's relief, the anaesthetist arrived to do his work. Our Aussie cousins have such a wonderful dry turn of phrase. The anaesthetist explained how he was going to "...help me sleep lika a lion with a full belly." A lovely image. As he administered the knock-out drugs, he asked that I count to ten. Being young, proud and full of vigour, I was determined to foil his efforts and resist the deep sleep. I think I succumbed at around the lucky number seven! Mine was the second open-heart operation of the day, bringing the Royal Adelaide's tally for heart surgeries to 10,001 - quite a milestone for the hospital. Fortunately or unfortunately, the soul of the older gentleman before me decided that the surgery caper was just too much to bear; and it left the body during his "life-saving procedure." For whatever reason, his time was up and this handed me the coveted "10,000th Heart Operation" crown and all that came with it - which was nothing. The nurses told me about all this well after the fact and I asked if we could celebrate with a bottle of red wine. "We will see what can be done," they smiled indulgently. I am still waiting.

A celebrity again - albeit by somewhat ghoulish default - and therefore public property, Mr. Craddock came to my recovery room the next day with a small posse of medical personages and some bug-eyed members of the press in his large wake. I was still quite dopey and really not with it at all. The press began firing questions at me, which sounded like gibberish, and I am sure that whatever I said sounded like gibberish to them. Realising the futility of the situation, they politely retreated to regroup in a distant corner and proceeded to pummel the gentle giant with endless and probably irrelevant questions. Looking relieved when they finally left, he sauntered over to my bedside, graciously apologised and inquire after my health. "I'm fine," I said. "Thanks for fixing my heart. How did everything else look in there?" Drugs make you say the strangest things! "Everything looked fine," he assured me. "You're good for a few years yet."

_Ticker

Spiritual Masters often offer their students "souls names". These are names that embody the predominant qualities of the individual's soul; qualities that the soul wants to manifest during the lifetime of that individual. Each soul has made a divine promise to God that it will try to offer something unique during it's incarnation and the spiritual Master's role is to help the seeker-student to feel and manifest the propensities of the divine in-dweller. Therein lies the students spiritual progress and ultimate fulfilment. A God-realised Master; being spiritually very advanced, can see the reality of the soul as easily as we can see our physical makeup and human personality. Spiritual Masters exist to offer assistance to the souls that are aspiring and seeking a higher light - and in doing so, usher in a new spiritual direction and focus for humanity as a whole. In Sri Chinmoy's case, the names that he gives his students are in the Bengali language; which is his mother-toungue.

Before Sri Chinmoy kindly offered me the name Shardul (which means: "The God-Lover who with confidence-heart most powerfully attempts to and succeeds in manifesting the Lord Beloved Supreme in His own Way.") I was known as Richard. My family called me Rick. When my sister was learning to talk, the best she could do with my name was "Ticker." At the time, we all laughed about it because my father was a watchmaker and I called him a "Tick Doc." But my sister’s name for me turned out to be quite prophetic. During the operation, the surgeons replaced the two infected heart valves with artificial ones, one of which made a distinct ticking sound. This made me quite self-conscious, especially in small enclosed areas like doctor's waiting rooms, lifts, cars or meditation rooms. As time went by I would take great delight in pretending to look for the ticking sound, especially if I had noticed that someone else was aware of it. I would say things like, "Is that your watch?" or "Have you left your indicator on?" if traveling in a car.

Once I was in a dentist's waiting room and noticed that the lady sitting next to me was trying to locate the source of the ticking. I said to her, "Excuse me, can you hear a ticking noise?" With furrowed brow she nodded in the affirmative. "Maybe it's a bomb." I stated bluntly. I stood up and walked hurriedly from the room; taking the 'bomb' with me of course. She followed me saying, "Do you really think so?" with great consternation. When I told her what it really was, she laughed and laughed. Fortunately, my victim had a sense of humour. "That’s the most fun I've ever had at the dentist!" she told me. You could not pull a prank like that these days. For sure you would end up sitting in another kind of waiting room; one with bars! Kids - please don't try this at home!

_{Laughing Gas Is No Joke}

Another thing that happened during the operation was that I got a lung infection from the heart-lung machine. The down side is that you end up coughing a lot. Painful, considering that your chest has just been cleaved open. There is no up side! I was suffering from a heavy bout of coughing and in order to avoid dependance or side-effects from the prolonged use of pain drugs like morphine, the doctors decided to try using laughing-gas to relieve the pain and coughing. Placing a large mask over my mouth and nose, the nurse told me to breathe deeply for a few moments. After a minute or so, I stopped and waited to gauge the effect. Nothing seemed to have happened, so I fitted the mask and tried again. Still nothing, so I abandoned the project. My nurse left the room to attend to another patient. Curiosity and boredom got the better of me, so I gave the gas another try. And another. And several more 'anothers'. Still nothing! "So much for what you see in the movies," I told myself. Images of people laughing themselves speechless and floating on the ceiling suddenly became objects of a creeping skepticism that had entered my mind.

Just as the nurse returned to take the gas bottle away, a visitor arrived at the door of my room and simply said "Hello." For some reason, this was to me the funniest thing I had ever heard. I started to laugh and could not stop. Desperately clutching a pillow to my chest, I was screaming laughing, tears pouring from my eyes. As this continued, my visitor worked his way through a whole raft of emotions ranging from embarrassment, nervousness and concern through to humiliation, resentment and murderous anger. He eventually stormed out of the room, never to return and failed a simple test of friendship. The nurses were medically concerned yet humanly bemused by the whole incident and the ward ended up being infected by my drug-induced hilarity. Everyone was laughing and smiling. I ended up in more pain than when I started and also had very sore abdominal muscles from all the laughing. I do not think that I laughed for about a month after that episode. If laughter is the best medicine, I had taken an overdose.

I hope God The Supreme Humourist enjoyed the joke!

A true hospital
Gladly welcomes the suffering world.
A true doctor
Immediately heals the suffering world.
A true nurse
Inseparably becomes one with the suffering world.

- Sri Chinmoy.

by Shardul - a memeber of the Sri Chinmoy Centre of New Zealand.