Bhagwan sample chapter


Roger was the only barista who did not clatter cups at the Killingsworth Karma Koffee Kompany. He used a towel to muffle the shriek of the espresso machine to a fragrant sigh. To be sure, mornings at the 4K in Northeast Portland remained a cacophony of hipsters. But Rog’s soothing afternoon shift drew a more contemplative crowd, earning a Willamette Week review for “Best Mocha Mood.”

Central to the ambiance was Rog’s blog, a rolling mantra in Arial. Each day after tying on his apron he supplanted the large-screen Food Channel with his own live feed.

forty folks cradling cups

you may walk in my door alone

but here we’re one with java

Until one day a long black Rolls Royce rolled to the curb outside the plate glass window.

silver angel on the hood

who’s coming for coffee now?

Two men in red stepped out. The driver, a bald man with Gandhi spectacles and a crimson Nehru jacket, skeptically compared the address against a paper in his hand. The other man, with a long white beard and a maroon robe, smiled slowly, wrinkling his weathered brown face.

They walked around the bicycles parked on the sidewalk, opened the door, and made their way past couches and tables to the counter.

Roger set aside his keyboard. “And what would you gentlemen like today?”

Roger had large, expressive brown eyes that might have seemed effeminate, but he cut his black hair short, wore no piercing jewelry, and shaved infrequently, shadowing his handsome jaw with stubble.

“Are you Mr. Nash?” the bald man asked. “Mr. Roger Nash?”


“Born in Portland on January 19, 1990, at 9:19 a.m., Greenwich Mean Time?”

Roger blinked. Was this some kind of subpoena presentation? He was two months behind on rent, but these men looked more like monks than bill collectors. “I’m not sure about the exact time. What can I do for you?”

The two men looked at each other a moment. Then the long beard bowed to Roger. “I would be humbled to receive a cup of Darjeeling green tea from your hands.”

“Twelve ounces or sixteen?”

“Any amount would be a blessing.”

“Sixteen, then.” Rog marked a paper cup with a pen. He turned to the Gandhi glasses. “And for you?”

“If ―” The man pressed his palms together, either praying or thinking hard. “If you are the one we believe you are, Mr. Nash, I would be honored to offer you the Rolls Royce that is parked outside.”