“I wandered away from the movie set and walked to a nearby village. I passed a Hindi temple and saw peacocks flying, men squatting in fields as the sun was setting behind them, a woman making dung patties as she watched an oxen pulling a plow toward the squatting men, all of them turning into shadows against the setting sun; unreal, y’know…holy things. Young boys with sweat- and ash-streaked faces rode past on bicycles with cans of milk rattling in their baskets. I could hear the echo of a lone, powerful, ghostly voice singing the Moslem call to prayer. I closed my eyes and simply followed the echo, breathing in the dust from the road as a pony cart filled with people came by, feeling the warmth of the evening breeze caress my face, and when the singing stopped I opened my eyes and found myself before the iron gates of the cemetery of Bodhgaya.

“I remember how still everything was. It was as if that ragged, lilting voice had guided me into another, secret world.” He fired up the joint once more, took a hit, slowly releasing the smoke. It drifted into the cloud and remained.

“I started walking around the graves until I came to this big-ass statue of Kshetrapala, the Guardian of the Dead.”

For a few moments I thought maybe I was getting a contact high from the smoke, because the room began yawing in front of me, expanding to make room for the smoke from Knight’s joint that hung churning in the air.

“You should have seen him,” whispered Knight. “A demon with blue skin, a yellow face, bristling orange hair, three bulging red eyes, and a four-fanged grin. He was draped in corpse skin and a tiger-skin loincloth and was riding a huge black bear. He carried an axe in one hand and a skullcap of blood in the other.”

I blinked, rubbed my eyes, then blinked again.

I wasn’t imagining things.

While Knight had been describing his encounter with Kshetrapala, the smoke from his joint had churned itself into the shape of the demon.

Another hit, another dragon’s-breath of smoke, and more figures took form around the Guardian of the Dead, acting out Knight’s story as he continued.

“There was a group of people standing around the Guardian’s base, all of them looking down at something. None of them were making a sound. I made my way up to them and worked toward the front for a better look.”

I watched as the Knight smoke-player moved through the other shapes to stand at the base of the statue.

“An old beggar woman in shit-stained rags was kneeling in front of Kshetrapala holding a baby above her head like she was making some kinda offering. Flowers had been carefully placed around the base of the statue, as well as bowls of burning incense, small cakes wrapped in colorful paper, framed photographs, dolls made from dried reeds and string, pieces of candy, a violin with a broken neck...it was fucking unbelievable. I don’t remember what kind of sound I made, only that I did make a noise and it drew the old woman’s attention. Without lowering her arms, she turned her head and looked directly into my eyes.” He shook his head and—it seemed to me—shuddered.