Coffee — Siva
By Nora Hoffmann

Ever since the first day I walked down to the Indian coffee house on Simla’s well-known Mall Road, I’d seen a sign on the road advertising for vegetarian South Indian food. Despite the sign bringing up my curiosity — I love dosas!— I felt somehow put off, suspecting that the ruling energy of the establishment was the—fortunately uncustomary in the U.S. and other foreign countries—disturbing Indian “male desire.” My peace is primary. This morning I experienced the absence of such disturbing Indian intent to rape.

So I entered the building and climbed up the narrow wood stairs, a common feature in North Indian commercial structures. Smelling cigarette smoke, together with cleaning agent, I guessed the place was empty. Upstairs on the left a door was open, and I made out several simple, beautifully old-fashioned leather-on-wood benches.

I courageously opened my heart and cautiously looked inside. A man in his sixties sat with his back to the Shimla Mall Road-facing large window, peacefully smoking. He wore a simple dress that was comfortably wrinkled, as if he had recently crawled out of bed. I knew he was a worshiper of Siva. He looked as if life had offered him plenty of suffering while God instructed him in peace.

He impressed me with his authority, as he was softly and strictly demanding of his young employees, two young men—one looking Nepali and one local Himachali—who were charged with thoroughly cleaning his restaurant. Such young men in India are generally referred to as "boys," and treated with care by some and horrible disrespect by others. The two young men were peacefully kneeling on the floor, mopping between the wood-leather benches and old-but-very-clean tables. One stood up and walked over to clean the adjacent kitchen. No angry thoughts emanated from the two boys—an unusual situation which usually infers that the employer is forever trustworthy to his staff. I leaned against the frame of the door, giving space to everyone to finish opening the restaurant.

What do you want?

I want to stay for the peace. I only need hot water.

"What do you want?"

"Hot water. Garam pani."

"Make her some hot water," he demanded strictly in Hindi.

Wait. You will sit next to him at the window. He will tell you to sit where you are standing now. But you should go to the window and sit at the table next to his.

So as told, I did.

Now he called with more intent to the young man in the kitchen: "Prepare the hot water!"

The waiter brought me a steel cup and filled it with hot water. The owner commanded something in Hindi, and the waiter brought a steel cup for him, as well, filling it with hot water.

I heard the owner think to the waiter, Just give it to her.

And to my surprise, a moment later the boy came and set down the whole water he'd heated in a steel jug.

His thoughts were moving as if desiring to see the older man come over and throw me against the wall to kiss me. Asking the boy why, his mind returned an image of the old man's heart being severely broken, that the old man needs a lover.

I asked the man internally, What happened?

The Sivaite sent images back which showed a woman in her thirties. A moment long ago that he was now at peace with. I worried about intruding into his privacy. But he kept his mind open because he wanted an answer to something here. So I kept my attention with his story. He still wondered what he had done. When I asked the woman internally what was her reason for treating him badly, I saw her as a young woman too busy proving her status in Indian society—a nightmare from what I’ve seen—and hurting him in an effort to prove herself worthy. She was ill-intended toward him but entirely unconscious. I relayed this to his understanding. Soon the truth was as I had foreseen. He wanted to keep the remainder to himself. I removed my attention from his sharing.

What about you?

I'm also not the most severely injured. By now I am celibate.

What happened?

I shared as it all came back to me.

I was recovering from an unjust bike accident in February 2018, where the other party's insurance was formulating everything to give me forever trouble. I dated the owner of the bike shop, who gave a healthy damage- repair estimate. He was cute, sweet and liked Germany. He loved strong IPA beer like me, German songs on YouTube, and joints, which I don't use. When we had our one first evening alone together, it was so bad for me that I fell into despairing depression after. Thankfully we, a similarly shamanically trained friend and I, were flying to India to visit the rather famous Tibetan monastic school Menri on the next day.

I took what happened really to heart. On the airplane I could think of nothing but wanting to kill myself. I am very sensitive. The energy of the man was digesting through my physical digestive process and it took three days for his energy to leave my physical body. It was as if I was under under the influence of some ghost infection. I vowed to never, ever come near a man's sexual misbehavior again. Why did I need to, anyway? I already had three inner mates, high spiritual guides with uncompromising heart and compassion. Their lovemaking was pure and left me shinier than before, fulfilled.

For my entire ten day stay at the monastery I struggled with the memory and horror of sex with men. And in addition to all this crap I could see the sexual thoughts of the Tibetan monk who was the manager of the monastery's guest house. He even came on to me with his mind, intruding mentally when I was alone in my room. I was furious. I realised I am so psychic that I can afford to remain entirely abstinent from physical sex and entirely fulfill myself romantically on the inner plane by going alone. So I decided to give up all physical sex to be happy.

The owner of the little restaurant understood. We finished the whole jug of heart.

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