I was the only vegetarian in a German beer garden, waiting for my editor, Arjuna. Irony had never been so resonant in what otherwise seemed to be a fairly run-of-the mill October. Here I was, the quintessential vegetarian, waiting for my native German editor with an Indian name, to fight for the cause of non-vegetarianism in a beer garden replete with the sound of Weisswurst being sucked by the local veterans for their second breakfast of the morning. The only reason I could think of why he had chosen this venue for our meeting was that he thought that I was not vegetarian enough, and that the aura of a beer garden at Oktoberfest, would help me to actually get there.

It had taken years of mental acrobatics, but I thought I had finally figured out how to create good karma in my life, when I was asked to author this particular book on Ayurvedic Medicine. The Vedic Sciences were definitely my cause, and writing about them seemed like a reasonable way to affect those who were interested. The readers obviously represented those who mattered. Since I had been told by the Pundit-ji of my childhood, that every ripple I created in the pool of karma would eventually affect someone else, I was delighted at the opportunity to shatter the ludicrous misconceptions out there about Ayurvedic medicine, and the notion that it was a vegetarian philosophy. Being vegetarian myself had nothing to do with the fact that I wanted to be a loudspeaker for the truth about Ayurvedic nutritional principles. This, I had decided, was my own karmic cause.

I stepped into the beer garden and surveyed the scene. Where would Arjuna be? I was looking for what I thought would be the only local eating spinach and sipping on chamomile tea during Oktoberfest. Arjuna — the very thought of his name always sent me into a déjà vu of pre-conceived negative opinions about Indophiles. How, or rather why had he come to be Arjuna? Was Hans or Schmidt not good enough?

“ I was born Hildefuns,” he had told me in our very first conversation, “but this means “Ready for battle”. Something that would wreak quite bad karma, no?”

Arjuna did not come across as an overt battle-axe. Nor did he appear to be the kind of guy that would “wreak” much of anything, at 5 ft 2”, with translucent Caucasian skin, and a physique no thicker than a wisp of wheat grass, although he was firm when it came to his beliefs. I could not tell whether this was a sign of a steadfast mind-body constitution, something that in Ayurvedic medicine we call a “Kapha ” mental state, or whether it was simply a German thing, that a lowly foreigner was not expected to appreciate. But since he was my editor, it was safer not to judge him. It was a good call because very quickly into the process, he asked me to cut out all references to fish and meat.

“Promoting non vegetarianism would be entirely distasteful. Meat is considered a bad food for humans, no? From a karmic point of view. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Right then it became clear why he had changed his name. ‘Arjuna’ meant “lucid, pure, white light”. It was the name of an ancient Indian prince, a representative of the Gods who symbolized the white light of Spiritual Good winning over the darkness of Evil. This particular Arjuna wanted to be a do-gooder too. His “lucid” karmic intention was to be vegetarian, and not kill animals, so he could accede to the old purist method of representing the gods. Why, though, had he never considered Gustave instead of Arjuna? It meant “Staff of the Gods”, it was German and he could have retained his initials. But Arjuna, had preconceived notions of me too. Perhaps, that I was a dark force of evil in the clear light of his day. I never really thought of myself as creating much impact on anyone or anything, so the notion was actually quite flattering.

But karma means “action”, in fact, a series of actions, infused with all that we do and all that we are. More specifically it implies that the cause of each action is affected by previous actions. So, choosing Arjuna would no doubt precipitate an entire slew of Indophilic actions and resulting reactions that could not be brought about by Gustave. But what he did not realize was that I too had my own karmic point of view. By no means was I going to deceive readers into believing that Ayurveda was a vegetarian philosophy, when it fact it was not. A brutal lie would surely condemn me to live in misery in my next life. Given global warming, terrorism and the fact that one has to think consciously these days about where food comes from, I was pretty sure that I did not have a head start on good karma anyway.

I had pointed out to him that a vegetarian “take” on the matter would clearly be his call, but that the ancient medicinal texts described ways and means of preparing, curing and cooking meats. I added that since most of our readers were certain to be non-vegetarian, telling the truth would certainly have wider audience appeal. But Arjuna did not agree.

We spent months perfecting the art of negotiation by email. Our discussions went nowhere but the submission deadline came upon us with lightning speed. Three days before the manuscript was due, I decided to stand up for my own karmic cause by agreeing to meet Arjuna at Oktoberfest.

“Reenita, is that you?”

An unshaven man with hallowed by an unruly mop of curls grinned at me, waving frantically from a table near the fountain. I could not help thinking then that Wido meaning “Son of the Forest” would have been more appropriate than Gustave even, if Arjuna were to be judged on pure appearance. Waving back in acknowledgment, I made my way over to the table.

“Willkomin. Willkomin. Munich is thrilled to offer you Oktoberfest. Will you have a Helles?”

I found it somewhat peculiar that beer was the drink of choice for my vegetarian editor. But then since no animals were involved, perhaps it classified as a good karma food choice. The Germans obviously thought so. And so did most of America for that matter.

I settled for lemonade, and since time was of the essence, Arjuna got straight to it.

“I spoke to an Ayurvedic doctor friend who lives in Udupi. He told me that there are many streams in Ayurveda – a Vaishnava line, a Jain line, Buddhist line and the like. But that the old original scripture does not condone the eating of meat, as it creates inertia and is karmically bad. He told me that the medical texts were edited by a certain court physician to include non vegetarian diets to favor the king’s appetite”.

It is amazing how in any culture, the truth can always be twisted to favor convenience. We Indians, were masters of this type of operation, as were the Americans and the Germans, I was learning. Which king? When were the changes made? Did Arjuna the Indophile realize for a moment that Udupi was a kind of cuisine, and not a place? Or perhaps, that the historically unstable politics of India made it impossible to determine anything with the remotest accuracy? Ours is the classic nation of the Storyteller – there is no difference between myth and fact, everyone has their own take.

“Arjuna,” I said, sniffing in what I held to be noxious fumes of pork bacon laced with compensating aroma of lemon and parsley. “I have worked with many traditional manuscripts that support animal prescriptions and rituals that are certain to shock us all. One has only to look at the epic literature of India to understand almost all incarnations of Lord Vishnu killed men and animals, that they were heavy meat-eaters and also performed outrageous religious rituals such as the ashvamedha yagya, the notorious horse sacrifice, which I would say is far from Karmic.’

Arjuna leaned back into his chair and stared wistfully off to the side, rubbing his thumb and forefinger at the edge of his mouth as if to twirl his imaginary whiskers.

‘What I understood regarding Vedic rituals and sacrifices like the ashvamedha yagya, is that a powerful mantra was whispered into the horse’s ear, which made it leave its body and ascend to the heavens.”

It struck me then, what a strange and wonderful tool karma was, and like many good Indian concepts, how it could so easily be adapted to suit one’s own point of view. Why had I not been endowed with horse-whisperer antics – the power to mantra-ize horses into leaving their body? Were, these in fact the tools of ancient terrorists?

A rather busty waitress who looked like my great-aunt, Lajjo-rani, the archetype Punjabi matron, wearing a blond wig, brought us a plate filled with a variety of Bavarian sausage and sweet mustard sauce, instead of the lemonade I had ordered.

Like all Indians who subconscious suffer from a post-colonial hangover, my natural assumption is that she understood English perfectly.

“I think you have the wrong table. I had asked for lemonade.”

She unleashed a long string of what sounded like a senior Helga admonishing the kids before she decided to put them through the Hansel and Gretel ritual. I must have morphed to what looked like a helpless puppy, because Arjuna quickly came to my rescue.

“Actually, this is what I had ordered for myself since I arrived before you”.

I looked at him disbelievingly and attempted to laugh a nervous laugh, which came out sounding more like a bovine snort muffled by a series of deliberate coughs. Arjuna was not impressed.

“I hope you do not mind. I mean, I know you are vegetarian, but I figured it was okay since you are quite democratic in your outlook, no?”

Arjuna picked up a piece of sausage and began chomping on its ends with the expression of a playful puppy.

Did Oktoberfest bring out hallucinatory experiences in tourists? Or was Arjuna actually the opposite of vegetarian? To my horror, it hit me very quickly that this was all….in the flesh, so to speak.

“Arjuna! Are you for real? All this time, I thought that you were vegetarian, and this is why you had were so insistent about your views. But this!”

Arjuna’s eyes twinkled with a mischief that must have carried through from a previous incarnation. I could see now that he had planned this meeting way before I had.

“Why on earth did you ever think that I was vegetarian?”

I stared at Arjuna like a dumbfounded child who had lost the ability to comprehend a basic question, let alone come up with an answer.

“Didn’t you say that meat being bad for karma?”

“You do recall that I am merely the editor on this project. It is the publisher who is a Vaishnavite and wants us strictly to promote a vegetarian philosophy.”

I was engulfed in the lucidity of Arjuna’s infinite wisdom. Why had I not considered before I got onto the plane to Germany, that in publishing, the powers that be lie with those who sell the book, and not those who write it or embellish it with their profound editorial skill. And my publisher was after all based in Marin – my very own backyard, renowned for in George W.Bush’s words “hot tubs” and in Arjuna’s words – “organic food types”. A reasonable abode for wealthy Vaishnavites – Vishnu followers.

“Oh those Vaishnavites with hot tubs,” chuckled Arjuna, reading my mind. “Different, I assume to those who live in San Francisco? In fact all along, I admired your ability to support your readers’ choices even in spite of your own personal vegetarian preference.”

Life is not an easy thing to figure out, karma less so, but discovering the truth about Arjuna threw me for a complete loop. That night in my hotel room, I stared up at the wall, listening to the carousing of Oktoberfesters outside my window. Freedom of thought was absolutely killing me. What I wanted more than anything was to be a child and have somebody else tell me what to do. As good Indian children, we are trained to pay heed to the words of elders. Not because they know more, but apparently because they know better. We never question these rules. Not because we do not like putting undue stress upon our elders, but because some other authoritative elder told us not to do so. And if ever we deviate, we are told not to be so Western. It is the Oriental Way to and of Wisdom. So we endure years of heeding elders’ advice, only to be told that as adults we might now know more, but that it will take many lifetimes to know better. And so once again, we are pointed to more elders. This, we are told, is our karma.

In my childhood community, Pundit-ji was the quintessential elder. He was everything from a priest and counselor to the guy who showed up every so often to quell the chaos of our household with mantras. His hair, oozing the fragrance of Dabur Amla hair oil, was combed back from his forehead in neat tufts that harmonized with the impeccable folds of his white cotton dhoti. As a child I longed to pull at the dhoti folds and unravel it into the yards of cloth that it was, but some elder had told me not to think that like that, especially with regard to Pundit-ji. So when he told us that our names signify our karma, there was absolutely no question of distrust.

That he frequently interrupted our family prayer rituals to answer a cell phone ringing to the tune of a popular Hindi film song, or that he abused his priestly status by eating all of the sweet food items that were usually prepared for the children, or even that he gossiped ad-nauseum about the goings on of other households in the community, obviously had no karmic interplay on his own course of action. His words could not be questioned. He was the authoritative elder, even beyond our parents. And ironically, he initiated me into my own understanding of karma.

Where was Pundit-ji now when I needed him? What would he say about the pure white light of Arjuna, eating meat but then promoting vegetarianism, under the supervision of his “organic type” employer? And what did any of this mean for my own karmic positioning? Or, my entire reason for writing this book? I could not fathom how to deal with it.

I decided to take a walk. The city was still alight with, the aroma of Bavarian bitters. Rambunctious travelers, there for the experience, apprenticed under intoxicated locals that were more than happy to adopt them into the ways and means of festivity. My hotel was centrally located, so it was not long before I found my way to the Hofbräuhaus am Platzl. A group of locals huddled under a street lamp near the front of the brewery, were chatting and applauding at some central object, before bursting into occasional peals of laughter. I could not gauge the object of their enthusiasm, but it seemed to be directed at the floor. Moments later, the figures parted to reveal what appeared to be a child standing in the midst of the clearing, dressed in a monk’s robe, clutching a mug of beer. Unmistakably the child was a mascot taken from the Munich coat-of-arms, but why in heavens name did adults need to serve it alcohol? Oktoberfest was no excuse to raze a poor child of decent values.

Compelled by the need to jot down this reference to child abuse at Oktoberfest, I began searching my pockets for my notebook. At which point, I realized that my cell phone was missing. I had probably dropped it somewhere while walking over. So I re-traced my steps through the shadows, cursing myself for not changing the ring-tone to something conspicuous like Pundit-ji’s Hindi film song. This way, it would have been relatively easier to find on the streets of Munich had I tried to call myself from someone else’s phone.

Twenty minutes later, after several circles around the plaza, I gave up hope of ever finding the phone, and realized that the prospect of finding my hotel was not looking good either. I sank down on the curb in frustration, convinced that my trip to Munich had been a complete disaster, that I had not achieved anything. And that karmically speaking, confusion and chaos was clearly the order of my day. I envisioned all that I was doomed to be from hereon. An author of a book about the deception of Ayurvedic medicine, I would have to spend future lifetimes redeeming myself by wandering the planet in the guise of a janitor cleaning the mansions and offices of my prior life companions who had been elevated to presidents and sheikhs. Karmic angels would float about me saying, “There goes someone who had a really good chance, but blew it.” I could feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into the black pit of my own inner devils.

Then, a dainty hand tapped my shoulder from behind.

“Perhaps you left it at home?”

I turned around to face the child in the monk outfit from the lamplight scene, only to discover that she was not actually a child, but an extremely short lady. She clutched her beer mug intently in one hand, and a bible in the other.

“Excuse me?” I asked feebly.

“Are you sure you have not left it at home? You know, whatever it is that you are looking for.”

She released a high-pitched giggle into the October night, alarmingly resembling the sound of the original munchkins from the Wizard of Oz.

“Yes, well I was headed home to look, but now I cannot remember where the hotel is.”

My irritated state of mind did not do much to hold me from vocalizing my usual judgment.

“Excuse me for being abrupt, but isn’t it a little contrary to have a bible in one hand and beer in another?”

“Ahh, yes foreigners might get a little confused. But what is the harm in having a spiritual side to revelry? Munich is named for the Munichen monks – and what is Oktoberfest without beer? It is what we were all born to do!”

I wondered if the munchkin had ever had any kind of transcendental communication with Pundit-ji. Or whether karma had anything to do with our meeting here this October evening, outside Munich’s most famous brewery. What was Munich, the land of the monks without Oktoberfest? Or Oktoberfest without beer? Or munchkins for that matter?. And what was Ayurveda without meat? Or publishing without any double standards? Or karma without intention. Or my intention, without Arjuna, the Indophile, to help me understand it? I juggled all the permutations in my head as the munchkin pointed out my hotel -lit up with festive lights like a carousel in an amusement park

I turned around to thank her and ask her name. But it was not in my karma to find out. She had disappeared into the October night.

When I walked into my room, I saw that the phone had indeed been sitting on the dresser all the time. There were five missed calls- all from Felicia my agent. I listened to the voice mail.

“Sorry to be a pest, but I had to talk to you. India is being featured as the main point of literary interest at the Frankfurt book fair. A really topnotch publisher wants to sign you on for an Ayurvedic cookbook. The only caveat is that it has to include non veg recipes – and I didn’t know whether you were up for that. Can you meet them in Frankfurt tomorrow? Before you get back to San Francisco?”

How often is it that we plan intently for something only to have it backfire and take us to an entirely different course? And though we do not realize it, the people we meet everyday, become tools in our own very unique karmic journey. And thanks to them, we end up at a different place that where we set out to go, with a different perspective on each aspect of the journey. It will probably take an entire lifetime, if that, to figure out how or why karma exactly works. But I can just see Pundit-ji jumping excitedly at the prospect of my meetings with the lucid Arjuna, and the mysterious munchkin, both of whom had obviously shown me the light in Munich.