All Those Years Ago - Lennison Fan Fiction - Beatles Slash Fan Fiction

Chapter fifteen : 1968 (part one), Not so Transcendental :

John stretched on the bed, scribbling away depressing lyrics on his blank notebook, feeling his legs tingle a little with inactivity. He hadn't moved much that day, starting with a long session of meditation in the garden, followed by a private lesson with the Maharishi, listening attentively to what the man said in his soft, unhurried tone, sitting restlessly in the middle of the bright flowers crowding the room.

He hummed under his breath, chewing on the end of his pen and only looking up briefly when Cynthia went to the bathroom, leaving her own notebook of drawings and poems on the desk. John didn't bother having a look at them, scratching his stubbly chin and glancing at what he'd written so far, lips curving into a self-deprecating smile. They'd barely been in India for a week and all he could write about was death, slow agony and pining away. It wasn't that he was unhappy, not really, but meditating, instead of helping him relax, confronted him to things he usually tried not to think about.

It confronted him to the great meaninglessness of the world, to which the Maharishi had yet to find an answer; and although his creativity was seemingly out the roof, songs just pouring out of him on and on, the material he produced was rather depressing, cynical at best. John had trouble with meditation. He liked it, to a certain extent, but it was gruelling. As he'd told Mia, whenever he tried to meditate, a big brass band popped up in his head, making it nearly impossible. He'd tried though, both for his own sake and because everyone seemed to enjoy it around him. And, if he were a model student, he believed that perhaps the Maharishi would slip him the answer.

"Going for a stroll," he suddenly decided, getting up and making a face when his knees cracked. Cynthia turned around, watching him kindly. "Would you like me to come with you?" John shook his head. "Nah, 'm good." He gave her a smile and stepped out, sighing. Him and Cyn were barely talking these days. Worse, John found her disruptive. She disrupted his meditating, disrupted his creativity. She didn't even have to do anything, just her being there bothered John. He knew it wasn't fair, but that was how it was. Plus, he had to smuggle Yoko's postcards in as well, and he didn't like hiding them like a shameful secret. They weren't filth, they were beautiful.

He sauntered out to the garden, narrowing his eyes behind his round glasses, admiring the Valley of the Saints. Down below he could see the River Ganges, vivid and murky, and just across there was Rishikesh, surrounded by the jungle. Monkeys and crows were hovering at the brim of the forest, the same ones that aggressively trespassed into the garden whenever they took their meals out there, playing a game of hide and seek between the roots. The trees were huge and still, their roots black, claws digging into the damp ground, wiggling like arrested snakes. He spotted Donovan talking with Paul Horn, giving them a nod as he passed them by. Paul was nowhere in sight and Ringo was probably still being sick in his room, as he'd been for most of their stay.

He wondered where George was, easily guessing that he would still be in the meditation room, chanting mantras on and on. George was with no doubt the keenest of them all, the Maharishi's little pet, always out meditating, chanting, playing ragas on his sitar. The way he was going, John reckoned, he'd be flying a magic carpet by the time he was forty. He chuckled to himself and, sure enough, there was George as he walked into the meditation room, sitting quietly between two incense holders. John sat down on the embroidered rug and stared at him for a while. Then, he picked a thread of lint on the floor and leaned in to wriggle it up George's nose.

For the previous couple of hours George had disconnected with the material world surrounding him. His mind was at peace, a feeling of calm wrapping him in its warm embrace and the feeling of his nose being tickled went unnoticed by him. John pursed his lips, somewhat disappointed that he couldn't get any sort of reaction out of his mate with that. He leaned in further, having to resist the urge to kiss him and see whether that took him out of his trance. The meditation room was common and there were about sixty people at the ashram as far as John knew. He was foolish, but not foolish enough to kiss George somewhere anyone could see them.