lads, let’s go to the beach

As we near the river, yogis appear, lining the path and doing tricks. “What! Malati, d’you see that?”  There’s a boy-man lying on a wooden plank with a dozen foot-long spikes penetrating his torso, his eyes focused on eternity. The wounds are long-healed – must be something he’s done most of his life. There’re more of them – it’s a gathering of men on spikes. Their handlers stare at us and we stare back at them, trying to unravel in our minds this testament to sacrifice and the power that’s supposed to come from it. Is it worth it? Do these guys get anything more than a meager living for the incredible pain they’ve undergone? This yogi stuff is no longer a fairytale, son…We see other yogis buried in the sand with only an arm showing, their fingernails a foot long and curling around their wrists. There are levitators, a row of cross-legged men seated above the ground. One guy’s almost two feet up! Wait a minute. We glance at Prabhupada. He marches past, looking the other way, like, “Come on, lads, let’s go to the beach.”