Heart of The Bodhisattva

The subway snakes beneath the city. The lights inside flicker. The passengers become nervous. The power grid is straining to keep commerce rolling, the lights on, and air circulating throughout the metropolis. When the subway shuts down passengers are stranded for hours, as emergency power is diverted to the keep the A.I. grid online. They call it G.A.I.A. The Global Artificial Intelligence Actuator. It is massive system of super computers connected with global satellites that control and monitor every aspect of life. After the reoccurring pandemic and the climate collapse, the Global Elite created a new system to track and connect all people through wristwatch devices. Only essential workers are allowed out of their homes: only to go where they are contracted. This is “The New Normal” and there is nothing normal about it.

The train slithers into the next station and stops abruptly. The doors hiss open, with the sound of air escaping. Three new passengers board: a tall, thin woman, wearing a full-face mask, with a portable oxygen tank in a shoulder purse; a young, bald Asian monk in a worn-out, earth tone frock, with a scarf tied over his face; and an Enforcer in his black armored uniform, full face mask and dark foreboding goggles. No one dares to look up. They never look anybody in the eyes; they keep their heads down, focused on their wrist device. Everybody keeps their distance, six feet apart.

The doors slam shut. The train jolts forward, the Enforcer loses his balance and drops his AR 15 rifle. He stumbles, falling, one knee hits the floor as his gloved hand grasps for the gun. Everybody on the train holds their breath for that moment. It happens so fast yet seems like slow motion. The monk is suddenly beside the Enforcer helping him up, handing him the rifle. The Enforcer stands up, knees shaking, hands shaking on his rifle as he pulls it away from the monk. He shoves the monk so hard causing him to fall backwards bumping into people. They all push him away and he lands on the steel floor face down.

Blood oozes from his scraped hands and knees. The monk stays on the floor, prostrate, for several minutes taking long, slow, deep breaths, in and out through his masked nostrils. He chants something softly and recites to himself some of “The Thirty-Seven Practices of The Bodhisattva:”

Do not condemn those who cause harm, instead pray to end their suffering. Do not retaliate, wish for them to find peace of mind. Do not get angry or defensive, take criticism as a lesson.

The monk rises to his feet, removes his mask, and uses it to wipe the blood dripping from his palms and knees. He smiles, bows, then ties it tightly back around his face. Everybody’s eyes are down, except his.

The train reaches the end of the line. The doors open again, and the passengers hurry out onto the tarmac. The monk waits patiently as others exit. The Enforcer jabs him in the back with the rifle, pushing him out of his way. The monk steps aside, bows to the Enforcer and stares into his dark goggles.

The Enforcer exits, holding his rifle to his face, surveying the area, ready to strike and ready to enforce the martial laws. A few homeless stragglers see him coming and quickly grab their bags, bed rolls, and run up the stairway. The Enforces snorts with satisfaction as people run from him, and he heads down the tunnel looking for trouble.

The Monk drifts towards the stairway. He notices an elderly man, with oxygen tubes running from a padded vest into his nose. The man is struggling to carry several bags up the stairs. The monk pats the man’s shoulder. “I will help you” he says softly, taking the bags. As he bends to help, the elderly man notices a heavy chain around the monk’s neck, with a big, gold, heart locket hanging at his chest.

“What a heavy burden you carry,” says the elderly man.

“It’s no burden at all,” replies the monk. “It is my joy and honor to be of service. I chose to reincarnate at this time, to relieve the suffering of all sentient beings, and to shine the way towards enlightenment for all. This is the Way of The Bodhisattva.”

At the top of the stairs the elderly man and monk stop, gripping the handrail, gasping for breath. The air is thick, heavy, and ugly black clouds block the sunlight. The only light comes from the windows of the skyscrapers that stand defiantly against the changing climate. Thousands of essential workers brave the day, emerging from the subway stairs in lines and rows. At check points Enforcers stop them, scan their wristwatches and wave them on. The monk helps the elder to his bus stop. He then files into a line at the next check point, smiling at all the people. He knows they work for their loved ones, not credits. The guard stops him, the monk stares into the goggled eyes, the guard’s heart quickens, and he begins to sweat beneath his heavy, black armor.

“He has no clearance” the Enforcer shouts, grabbing the monk’s bare wrist.

Everybody stands still. Time stands still for an elongated moment. A small drone buzzes in over the monks head, gets no reading and buzzes away. Another Enforcer runs over, hugging his rifle to his chest, he stops appraising the simple monk.

Laughing, he says, “Oh, he’s worthless. Let him roam. He has no job, no home. He has no value to society, no bank credits or money.”

The monk faces him, removes his mask for a minute, smiling.

The Enforcers shove the monk through the turn style.

“Go, go away” they shout at him with shaky voices. As they watch the barefooted monk glide down the street, tears well up in their goggles because of how peaceful, compassionate, and free the monk is.

Thunder rumbles and multiple lightning bolts strike the rooftops. Derbies and trash begin to swirl as a vortex opens with a horrendous roar. People clenching their mask run into the nearest building. The monk stands still, places his hand on the gold heart and hums softly.

The twister rumbles down the street, tossing cars and tipping busses full of people. Sirens began to wail, units of Enforcers run up and down the streets shouting orders above the screams and buzz of drones. The monk sees a man, one-hundred-yards away, with his leg pinned under some rubble. He runs to the man’s side and lifts the heavy pile of stones off the man’s leg and carries him to the sidewalk.

Laying the man down gently, he says “You will be fine, you’re safe now.” He rips the hem of his robe and carefully wraps the man’s bleeding leg.

“Oh, thank you, thank you” the man cries” The monk pats the injured man on the shoulder, bows and runs back into the chaos.

He follows the cries, through a smoke-filled hallway of a burning building and finds a red hair, woman and a boy cowering under a stairway. He extends his hand to the woman; she sees the golden heart. She weeps, as he pulls her and the boy out to the street. Suddenly, they are surrounded by Enforcers.

“Get your hands up” a short, stout, black armored figure commands. “Show me your wristwatch.”

“See, see, here, I’m Mary and this is my son”, the red hair woman whimpers. “This gentleman saved us from that fire”.

Another Enforcer scans the woman and boy’s wristwatches and reports “Section 24, Code 3, Sir.”

“Take them to transport,” the stout Enforcer commands.

“And you,” he says turning, raising his rifle at the monk, “I don’t much like your kind, freeloaders.”

Shaking the point of his gun, he grumbles “Get lost, don’t let me see you, ever again!”

The monk bows and smiles, gazing into the dirty goggles. The Enforcer’s hands tremble and he lowers his firearm and walks away. The monk sees the army of Enforcers helping the injured. The situation is under military control, so he heads down an alley, wandering through a maze of side streets, away from the center of the metropolis.

A small, scruffy black dog runs behind a dumpster. The monk stands silently, holding out his hand with a small piece of bread, pulled from his pocket. The frightened dog creeps up and snatches it. The monk laughs, walking on. The dog follows him at a distance. The dark sky grows blacker, the day is ending.

When the streetlights come on the people of the night arise. They are non-conformists, rebels and those who refuse to wear the wristwatch and follow the rules. The night air is cooler, a little easier to breathe. Night People do not wear masks and they are not afraid to look each other in the eyes.

“You got to have a good hustle, or be part of the system,” a vivacious drag queen says to her brightly painted partner, as they strut down the street. The monk passes them.

“Oh, honey, wait! Who are you?” the queen says, brushing her long, blond hair back.

“Aww, he’s lovely” the other sighs, “can we entertain you sweetie?”

The monk blushes, smiles, shaking his head. “No, no thank you.”

“Oh, I bet he’s a virgin”, the night ladies giggle.

The monk, hands in prayer, bows. The ladies see the gold heart and place their hand on their chest, panting. They bow in return.

Several others gather around the monk, murmuring to each other, touching his robe. They smile and look into his tranquil eyes. Two small girls laugh and raise their arms, to be hugged. The monk bends and hugs the girls. The gold heart pendant hangs out from his robe and a flash of lightening causes it to glimmer. The three strong armed, tattooed, men lay down their guns. The monk pulls the last of his bread from his pocket, rips it in half, giving it to the children. The dog begins barking as the wind and thunder roar.

The monk opens his arms wide, huddling everybody. Another screaming vortex opens.

Shattered glass, bricks and dirt fill the sky. Everybody prays. The monk chants louder than the storm; in unknown words, in an unknown language.

The vortex closes and the dirt settles. The Night People rub their eyes, brush themselves off, and catch their breath. They look around for the monk. He is gone. On the ground, beside the crying, scruffy, black dog lays the gold heart of the Bodhisattva.