two men reached a clearing. Before him was a sight that even the
worldly wise and rarely surprised Julian Mantle could never have
imagined—a small village made solely out of what appeared to be
roses. At the center of the village was a tiny temple, the kind
Julian had seen on his trips to Thailand and Nepal, but this temple
was made of red, white and pink flowers, held together with long
strands of multi-colored string and twigs. The little huts which
dotted the remaining space appeared to be the austere homes of
the sages. These were also made of roses. Julian was speechless.
As for the monks who inhabited the village, those he could see
looked like Julian's travelling companion, who now revealed that
his name was Yogi Raman. He explained that he was the eldest
sage of Sivana and the leader of this group. The citizens of this
dreamlike colony looked astonishingly youthful and moved with
poise and purpose. None of them spoke, choosing instead to
respect the tranquility of this place by performing their tasks in
silence.
The men, who appeared to number only about ten, wore the
same red-robed uniform as Yogi Raman and smiled serenely at
Julian as he entered their village. Each of them looked calm,
healthy and deeply contented. It was as if the tensions which
plague so many of us in our modern world had sensed that they
were not welcome at this summit of serenity and moved on to
more inviting prospects. Though it had been many years since
there had been a new face amongst them, these men were
controlled in their reception, offering a simple bow as their
greeting to this visitor who had travelled so far to find them.
The women were equally impressive. In their flowing pink silk
saris and with white lotuses adorning their jet black hair, they
moved busily through the village with exceptional agility.