Baby You're a Rich Man

Three

Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles, their songs, or their lyrics. This is a work of fiction, the events portrayed in this story do not reflect reality. I do not own Twenty Flight Rock, or its lyrics. I do not own the Fender brand.

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The seemingly deserted archway was deceptive, as past the gate, there was a large clearing bustling with activities. The four newcomers and the dog stood a ways apart where there were people in rows behind a raised platform made of inexpertly sanded wood, on top of which sat a small figure dressed in a pale yellow tunic, bended over in what seemed like prayer.

            John smiled as attendants in similar tunics, this time a pale blue, took their luggage. “Cabin 15,” a male attendant told Ringo and Paul once they showed their tickets. He repeated the same to John, and Paul looked at him nervously, realizing they would be living in the same cabin during the trip.

            Cynthia’s numerous trunks were taken away by several attendants, and Paul moved towards the group that sat cross-legged on the sparse grass, the rows of people all facing the crouched figure on the raised stage. Paul sat at the back where there was room, and told Martha to sit. She complied and Paul was mumbling something about what a good girl she was while John and Cynthia looked at the grass warily, one thing on their minds: staining their clothes. Eventually John kneeled down, and swiped at the grass, in vain trying to clean it, and sat down. Cynthia also sat, thinking that she could buy new dresses if this one was ruined.

            Ringo looked around nervously. They’d obviously been late, and no one else seemed to be arriving in the camp. He stared at the person on the stage, bended over while sitting in a position, Ringo supposed, of prayer. His small, dark hair was cut into what seemed like a messy bowl cut with a long fringe, and his hands were on the stage, palm down.

            A murmur was beginning to settle over the crowd. Paul craned his neck; trying to see these famous people they were told were coming, but he saw nothing more than the backs of people, which couldn’t tell him much.

            Suddenly, the small man on the stage straightened up all the way, and raised his arms as if to invoke some kind energy. At the sight of him, Ringo snorted, and accusing glares turned his way.

            The name of Maharishi Harrison, the Great Seer, had called up images of a wizened old man, full of wisdom and spiritualism. Instead, he was struck by a skinny little bloke who couldn’t be older than him with heavy eyebrows atop an intense stare. His hair, now that he was straightened up and could be seen better, was what they called a “mop top” back at home, a popular hairstyle for those who wanted to imitate their favorite boy bands.

            This was the Great Seer, the Maharishi with whom they would be meditating with. He stood up, very slowly, and it was clear he was about to make a great speech. “Without going out of my door,” he began, “I can know all things on Earth.”

            He paced towards the end of the stage and stopped again. Ringo seemed to be having a fit, getting red as he suppressed uproarious laughter at this young, scrawny thing trying to explain to him the secrets of the universe. “Without looking out of my window, I could know the ways of heaven.”