The ashram still had its Beatles graffiti. A shrine now. No incense burned beneath it but they grilled and gated it behind an iron fence and placed a straw basket beside a watchful cross-legged yogi whose piercing gaze was enough to disgorge a “donation” from the harassed tourists taking selfies.
(This is the second of a two-part story. For the first, click here.)
It seems a blur and to this day Norbit is hard put to explain exactly what transpired in the moments after his foot’s encounter with a figure in a shimmering suit and hat of purple riding what appeared to be a bicycle, playing what looked to be a miniature keyboard.