The Rozabal Line (Chapter Five)

By Ashwin Sanghi 

New York City, USA, 1969 

  On 20 July, the first television transmission from the moon was viewed by 600 million people around the world. Matthew Sinclair sat riveted on a well-worn sofa and watched Neil Armstrong become the first man to walk on the moon. Also watching the incredible spectacle was his wife Julia, along with their three-week-old baby boy, Vincent Matthew Sinclair.

  Another important event had taken place a year before Neil Armstrong’s arrival on the moon and little Vincent’s arrival on earth. Terence Cardinal Cooke had become the archbishop of New York. On the day of Cooke’s installation, Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated, leading to bloody riots in many American cities.16

  Cooke’s tenure as archbishop would be difficult. Between 1967 and 1983 the number of diocesan priests in New York would decline by around 30 per cent, infant baptisms would fall by around 40 per cent, and church weddings would decline by around 50 per cent. It seemed that Catholicism was quickly going out of fashion in New York.

  In the midst of this turmoil within the archdiocese of New York, the Sinclairs, who were extremely religious, hoped that their son would eventually make them proud by entering Saint Joseph’s Seminary.

  Vincent’s demeanour, even as a child, was one of piety, and the priesthood seemed preordained.

  Thus it was preordained by God and ordained by his parents that Vincent would become one of the rapidly shrinking minority groups—that of diocesan priests.

  New York City, USA, 1979 

  Vincent Sinclair at the age of ten was just another kid. He was playing with Kate, the neighbour’s daughter, in the backyard. They were on a swing that his father, Matthew, had rigged to a sturdy branch of a strong tree in the yard. Vincent had already had a go at sitting on the swing and being pushed by Kate; it was now her turn to sit and be pushed.

  Boys will be boys. A mischievous glow was on Vincent’s face as he began pushing the swing for Kate. As the momentum increased, he found that he could send her higher and higher into the air with less and less effort. The resultant effect was a look of panic on Kate’s innocent face.

  Pushing was certainly more fun than being pushed.

  Then the inevitable happened. The final push was too strong and Kate lost her balance. Poor little Kate fell to the ground and grazed her knee. Vincent’s mother, Julia, and his aunt, Martha, ran out to apply an anti-bacterial ointment on the little girl, who was lying on the ground with tears streaming down her rosy cheeks.

  Vincent was standing next to her, feeling apologetic and offering his hand to help her up.

  While holding out his hand, he was repeating the words, ‘Talitha koum. Talitha koum. Talitha koum.’

  The Biblical passage of Mark 5:41 reads as follows:

  He came to the synagogue ruler’s house, and he saw an uproar, weeping, and great wailing. When he had entered in, he said to them, ‘Why do you make an uproar and weep? The child is not dead, but is asleep.’ They ridiculed him. But he, having put them all out, took the father of the child, her mother, and those who were with him, and went in where the child was lying. Taking the child by the hand, he said to her, ‘Talitha koum!’ which means, ‘Girl, I tell you, get up!’ Immediately, the girl rose and walked, for she was twelve years old.17

  New York City, USA , 1989 

  Four years of high school, four years of college and four years of theology later, Vincent Matthew Sinclair would be called to ordination by the archbishop at St Patrick’s Cathedral.

  Construction of St Patrick’s Cathedral, located on 50th Street and 5th Avenue in the heart of Manhattan, had been completed in 1879. However, it was only in 1989 that the cathedral received a new amplification system as well as modernised lighting. Due to this technology upgrade, Father Vincent Sinclair’s ordination to the Roman Catholic priesthood was seen and heard clearly by all who were present.

  Present among the crowd were two very proud parents, Julia and Matthew Sinclair, as well as a bored but dutifully present aunt, Martha Sinclair.

  His Eminence John Cardinal O’Connor, the Archbishop, had imposed his hands on Vincent’s head and had repeated the words from Psalm 110:4: ‘Thou art a priest forever after the order of Melchizedek!’

  This marked the beginning of Vincent’s new life as a diocesan priest in the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows in White Plains, New York. His duties included celebrating Mass on Sundays and other days, hearing confessions, anointing the sick, baptising newborns, marrying the marriageable and burying the dead.

  Besides his church duties, Vincent also began teaching history to a class of Catholic boys at the nearby Archbishop Stepinac High School.

  White Plains, New York, USA, 1990 

  The school’s oldest fixture was a grizzly old janitor, Ted Callaghan. On Vincent’s first day at school, Ted had cornered him in the schoolyard. ‘Father, can I ask you a few questions regarding some serious matters that have been bothering me?’ asked Ted slyly.

  Without waiting for an answer, Ted plodded on, ‘You see, the Bible’s Leviticus 15:19-24 tells me that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness. Problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offence!’

  Vincent chuckled.

  Ted, blowing an ugly puff of acrid smoke from a cheap cigar, continued with his ‘serious’ issues. ‘Also, Father, Exodus 21:7 allows me to sell my daughter into slavery. What do you think would be a fair price?’

  Vincent was getting the idea.

  Pretty much oblivious to Vincent’s reactions, Ted went on, ‘Leviticus 25:44 also says that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided that they’re from neighbouring countries. Do you think this applies to both Mexicans and Canadians?’

  By now Vincent was laughing uncontrollably. Ted paused for effect and then continued, ‘I have a neighbour who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states that he should be put to death. Am I morally obliged to kill him?’ 18

  Ted had reached the climax of his joke and guffawed loudly as he delivered his punch line while dramatically brandishing the now dead cigar stub in his hand. Vincent couldn’t help doubling up with laughter. From that day onwards, Ted and Vincent were firm friends.

  White Plains, New York, USA, 2006 

  They would remain friends for the next sixteen years that Vincent remained ensconced in his uneventful little world. However, things were about to change.

  ‘So when we think of Abraham Lincoln as the sixteenth President of the United States, we often forget that he worked on a riverboat, ran a store, thought about becoming a blacksmith and studied law. We tend to forget that he was unsuccessful in many of his pursuits. He lost several law

cases, failed in his effort to become the Republican Party’s vice-presidential nominee, and lost again when he ran against Stephen Douglas for the US Senate. The important thing to remember is that he didn’t let these defeats stop him. He ran for President in 1860 and won,’ concluded Vincent. 19

  The boys were impatiently waiting to get up. The bell announcing lunch break had sounded a full thirty seconds earlier, but Vincent’s concluding remarks had overrun. He hastily picked up his books and headed to the staff lounge, where stale coffee awaited him.

  The lousy coffee was a small price to pay for a job that he now loved. There was nothing more refreshing than opening up young minds. Moreover, he was passionate about his subject. This passion allowed him to transport his young audience into times bygone with flair. It was no wonder that Vincent had become one of the most admired teachers at Stepinac High.

  Vincent had been able to settle down in Westchester quite easily. His parishioners at the church were decent people and his flock continued to grow along with his own stature within the diocese. His casual and comfortable style had immediately put people at ease within the first months of his arrival.

  After one of his Sunday sermons, one of the middle-aged male attendees  had come up to him and had congratulated him for a ‘short and sweet sermon, so unlike the long and boring ones’ delivered by his predecessor. Vincent had quickly retorted that a sermon was meant to be like a woman’s skirt, long enough to cover the essentials and short enough to keep one interested! The word had soon got around that the new boy was actually quite a lot of fun, in spite of being celibate!

  The coffee that greeted him was stale but hot. He had just settled down in one of the armchairs in the lounge and opened his newspaper, when janitor-of-the-year Ted Callaghan walked in.

  ‘Phone for you, Vincent,’ he said.

  Vincent looked up and asked, ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Dunno. Probably some chick that you blessed with holy water,’ chuckled Ted.

  Vincent ignored the sarcasm and got up to take the call at the phone located near the lounge entrance. He picked up the receiver and spoke, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Mr Vincent Sinclair?’ asked the female voice at the other end.

  ‘Yes, it is. Who’s calling?’

  ‘I’m Dr Joan Silver from Lenox Hill Hospital. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’

  Vincent was immediately alert. He knew that something was seriously wrong. He pressed on, ‘Please do go on.’

  ‘Mr Sinclair, this morning at around 8 am, a car accident took place. Your father died on the spot, I’m afraid. Your mother suffered head wounds but by the time she arrived here, it was too late. She was dead, too.’

  Father Vincent Matthew Sinclair let go of the receiver and knelt down to pray, but he was unable to; all he could do was weep.

  Queens, New York, USA, 2006 

  In 1852, a city law forbade burials within Manhattan. Manhattanites could be born in Manhattan, could study or work in Manhattan, could get married in Manhattan, could die in Manhattan, but could not be buried in Manhattan. 20

  The rain made the burial a rather messy affair. Both Matthew and Julia Sinclair were to be buried in St John Cemetery in Queens County, where they would join Vincent’s paternal grandparents, who had also been buried there.

  The presence of Vincent’s aunt, Martha, was of great comfort to him. Martha was the significantly younger sister of Vincent’s father, Matthew, and had been more of a friend than an aunt to Vincent.

  Martha Sinclair had remained a spinster. At the age of thirty-two, she had given up a career in interior design so she could pursue her study of Iyengar Yoga in India. Her travels in India and Nepal had lasted for three whole years and she had grown fond of the subcontinent. This had been followed by a few years in England, where she had become a practitioner of past-life healing, working in the Spiritualist Association of Great Britain.

  After spending another year back in India, she had returned rather reluctantly to New York to set up her own yoga academy. Her tryst with India had opened up her mind to philosophy, religion, meditation and spirituality; this fact made her seem eccentric to most men.

  She now stood next to Vincent, trying to be the best comfort possible in his grief.

  Vincent stood silently in prayer with folded hands, ignoring the rain pouring down his face as his friend and colleague, Father Thomas Manning, read from Psalm 23:4, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me.’

  Vincent’s eyes were closed in prayer-induced stupor. Everyone was holding umbrellas and trying as best as possible to stay dry. The light showers were becoming ugly and there were occasional flashes of lightning in the skies above the cemetery. The coffins were being lowered into the ground. Vincent’s eyes were tightly shut. He was merely following the words being recited by Father Thomas.

  ‘Daughters of Jerusalem, stop weeping for me! On the contrary, weep for yourselves and for your children!’ Vincent snapped out of his trance and opened his eyes wide. These words were totally out of place for a funeral.

  The words were not from Father Thomas. His Bible was closed and his lips were not moving. The prayer was already over. Who had said that?

Flash! He felt a camera flash bulb go off inside his head. ‘Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?’ Vincent was in a daze. Was he hearing things? Was he going mad?

  Flash! Jerusalem. Why was he holding a wooden cross? Flash! Wailing women. ‘Impale him! Impale him!’ Flash! Blood.‘Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?’ The scenes were flashing through Vincent’s head at a dizzying pace, much like a silent movie reel.

  Vincent stood pale and frozen. He then bent over while standing and drew both his arms close to his right shoulder. He resembled a man carrying a heavy wooden object on his right shoulder. Simon! Alexander! Rufus! What were these names? Vincent fell awkwardly to the ground.

  Sympathetic friends assumed that grief had overtaken the young man and attempted to help him up and comfort him.

  Vincent had passed out.

  The Biblical passage of Mark 15:34 of the New Testament reads as follows:

  And at the ninth hour, Jesus shouted in a loud voice, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?’ which is translated as ‘My God, my God, for what have you forsaken me?’

  Vincent woke up in a brightly lit room of Queens Hospital Center. He first saw the anxious face of Father Thomas Manning. He then saw a nurse standing with his Aunt Martha. Next he saw the white light fixture on the ceiling.

  An intravenous line was attached to his arm. Patches were attached to his torso to monitor his heart rate, blood pressure and lung function.

  Vincent was mumbling incoherently. Father Thomas put his ear close to Vincent’s face to understand what he was trying to say. He was uttering a few words sporadically. ‘. . .impressed . . . service . . . passer-by . . . Simon . . . Cyrene . . . country . . . the father . . . Alexander . . . Rufus . . . lift . . . torture . . . stake . . .’

  Father Thomas immediately recognised the Biblical passage that spoke of Jesus’s journey through the streets of Jerusalem on his way to Golgotha to be crucified. Since Jesus had become physically too weak after the trauma that he had endured, the Romans had ordered a man called Simon to help him bear the burden of the cross.

  The passage that Vincent seemed to be muttering was: ‘Also, they impressed into service a passer-by, a certain Simon of Cyrene, coming from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, that he should lift up his torture stake.’

  Why was Vincent sputtering these words? ‘Relax, Vincent. You have been subjected to trauma, shock and exhaustion. You need rest. You collapsed at the cemetery and we had to bring you here to recuperate,’ began Father Thomas.

  Vincent couldn’t care less. His shoulder was hurting. His arms were aching. He could hear screams and jeers. He was sweating. He was walking on blood! He was carrying a cross!

  Aunt Martha was lying down on the sofa in the hospital room when Vincent stirred. The doctor had prescribed Dalmane shots to ensure that he slept calmly. It was around eleven in the morning.

  ‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ said Aunt Martha as she sat up on the sofa. Even though she had been up all night, Martha still looked fresh. The years of yoga and meditation had obviously helped her; she certainly did not look to be in her mid-forties. Her youthful skin, auburn hair, pert nose and her well-toned 34-24-34 figure ensured that she did not look a day over thirty-five.

  Vincent responded. ‘Hi, Nana. What’s happened to me? Am I sick?’ Martha was relieved to hear Vincent calling her by the name that Matthew’s entire family had for her—Nana. It obviously meant that Vincent was recovering. Martha got up from the sofa and walked to the side of the bed.

  ‘You had a shock during the funeral, Vincent. You passed out. Poor baby, you’ve been in and out of consciousness for the past two days. We couldn’t feed you through your mouth so we had to nourish you intravenously.’

  Vincent thought back to the funeral and said, ‘Nana, where’s Father Thomas? I need to speak to him.’

  Martha replied, ‘He was here last night, baby. He left rather late. I think he’ll come back to see you around lunchtime. What did you need to ask him?’

  ‘Nana, I think I’m going crazy. At the funeral, before I fainted, I thought I saw visions. They were so real it was scary. I was even more scared because I thought I saw myself in some of the pictures that flashed before my eyes,’ said Vincent.

  Martha held Vincent’s hand as she said, ‘Vincent, sometimes when we confront shocks in our lives, they tend to electrify portions of our brain that we normally don’t use. This can sometimes bring older memories to the forefront, memories that have been long suppressed.’

  ‘This wasn’t an older memory, Nana. I have never been to Jerusalem, yet I could see it in vivid detail. This wasn’t a memory. It was something else . . . I just can’t explain it. The scary bit is that I saw myself carrying the cross of Jesus!’

  Martha looked straight into Vincent’s eyes and asked, ‘It could be your imagination . . . As a priest you have read virtually everything there is to learn about Jesus. Some of those stored facts could trigger visualisations. Possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Nana. It’s the shock that’s causing hallucinations. It’s nothing for us to really worry about,’ said Vincent, just about convincing himself.

  Martha rang the bell at Vincent’s side so the nurse could sponge him and arrange for some breakfast. Though she didn’t comment any further, she couldn’t but help remember Vincent as a small boy standing next to the sweet little Kate, mumbling something in another language that only she had been able to understand.

  ‘Talitha koum. Talitha koum. Talitha koum.’

  New York City, USA, 2012 

  It had now been six years since his parents’ death. Martha Sinclair and Vincent Sinclair were sitting together in the trendy York Avenue studio of Martha’s yoga academy. Since Vincent had been discharged from hospital six years ago, Martha had succeeded in convincing him that he needed to recharge himself by practising Pranayama, the ancient yogic science of breathing. 21

  Since the passing of his parents, Vincent had made it a point to visit Aunt Martha each week. He looked forward to these visits because she was a lot of fun. Moreover, she was the only real family he had left.

  Aunt and nephew were sitting with legs crossed facing one another. The classic yogic position called Padmasan was not as easy as Nana had made it out to be. The right foot had to be under the left knee, and the left foot was to be kept under the right knee. Easier said than done!

  ‘Breathing is life. But how much do we notice it? For example, do you observe or notice that you use only one nostril at a time to breathe?’ said Martha to her student. Vincent was sceptical.

  Martha quickly continued, ‘At any given moment, only the right or left nostril will be breathing for you. Did you know that the active nostril changes approximately every ninety minutes during the twenty-four-hour day? It’s only for a short period that both nostrils breathe together. The ancient Indian yogis knew all this and much more. They discovered and explored the intimate relationship between one’s breath and one’s mind. They knew that when the mind is agitated, breathing almost certainly gets disturbed. They also knew that if one’s breath were held too long, the mind would have a tendency to get disturbed. Since the yogis were fundamentally attempting to control the mind, they figured that controlling the breath could possibly regulate the mind,’ she concluded.

  She had succeeded in holding his interest. Slowly but surely, Vincent Sinclair began to learn how to breathe and relax.

  Not for long.

  Central Park covers 843 acres or around 6 per cent of Manhattan. The park stretches from 59th Street in the south, to 110th Street at the northern end, and from 5th Avenue on the east side, to 8th Avenue on the west.

  As a child, Vincent had loved visiting the Central Park Zoo. In later adult years, he had enjoyed attending performances at the park’s Delacorte Theatre and indulging in the occasional culinary treat at the park’s most famous restaurant, Tavern on the Green.

  Martha’s regimen of yoga and meditation was working wonders for him and he was feeling energetic as he headed for a quiet spot in the park’s Reservoir. The Reservoir, located in the heart of Central Park, was quite a distance away from any of the bordering streets and was one of the most tranquil areas within the park. It was here that Vincent found a bench to try out the Vipassana techniques that Martha had been teaching him for the past few months.22

  In Pali, the original language of Buddhism, Vipassana meant ‘insight’. It was also more commonly used to describe one of India’s most ancient meditation techniques, which had been rediscovered by the Buddha.

  Vincent sat down on the bench and then drew up his legs so that he could assume the Padmasan position that Nana had taught him. He then closed his eyes and began to focus on his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. As he settled into a relaxed state of mind there was a familiar flash! The same damn flash from the funeral six years ago!

  Damn! Vincent thought. I thought that the craziness was over and done with!

  Blood. Flash! Wounded soldiers . . . bandages. Flash! A blood-red cross with equal arms. Flash! A Bassano portrait . . . an elegant lady. Flash! A stately house . . . reception rooms on the ground and first floors. Flash! Number 18. Flash! London streets. Flash! Iron fencing . . . an ‘S’ logo. Flash! Indian antiques. Flash! Parties, food, musicians, soldiers. Flash! An old LaSalle ambulance. Flash! Buckingham Palace. Flash! Bell . . . Grave . . . so soon?

  What was that? Vincent opened his eyes in mortal fear. Why was this happening to him? Bell . . . Grave . . . so soon? What in heaven’s name did that mean? Was he to die? Was this a premonition? And why was he seeing images of London streets and stately homes? Vincent Sinclair was convinced more than ever that he was going mad.

  He got up and started running wildly. Luckily he was on the periphery of the reservoir of Central Park, which was mainly used by joggers.

  No one found it odd to see him running. They thought he was running to exercise himself. How could they possibly know that he was running from himself?

  ‘Help me, Nana. I’m going stark, raving mad. Either that, or I’m possessed. Do you think I should call Father Thomas Manning for an exorcism? What is wrong with me? Why am I seeing strange things and hearing strange words?’ Vincent was on the verge of hysteria.

  Nana realised she needed to calm him down. ‘Relax, sweetheart. It isn’t uncommon to have recollections of events, things, people or places that are hidden in our brains. In fact, it isn’t strange to remember past lives either. Unfortunately, you’re a Catholic priest . . . how on earth can I possibly discuss past life issues with you when you have closed your mind to such possibilities?’

  Vincent’s eyes widened. ‘You think I could be having past-life recollections? But surely that’s nonsense, Nana. The Bible says it is appointed unto men to die once, and after death comes judgement.’

  ‘Listen, Vincent, I know I will always be the eccentric, esoteric, Eastern philosophy-espousing crazy aunt to you, but isn’t it possible that what you have learnt so far is not the whole truth? Isn’t it possible that there are things that you are yet to learn?’ asked Martha rather innocently.

  ‘Sure, Nana, but I can’t question my faith. My faith is all that I have.’

  Martha said, ‘Okay. Let me try to help you see things my way. We all know the bit from the Bible about the blind man . . . you know, the bit when Jesus’s disciples asked him: “Rabbi, who has

sinned, this man or his parents, that he should be born blind?” Tell me, Vincent, why would the disciples have asked this question if there was no belief in a past life? Huh?’

  Vincent remained silent in thought.

  Martha continued, ‘You probably remember the passage where Jesus says: “I tell you the truth, no one can see the kingdom of God unless he is born again.” Tell me, sweetheart, how is it possible to be born again unless you have more than one life?’

  Vincent was ready with arguments of his own.

  ‘Nana, the fact that the disciples asked Jesus about the reasons for the blind man’s condition only means that reincar-nation as a concept was alive in his era. It does not mean that Jesus believed in it. Also, when Jesus talked about being born again he was referring to spiritual awakening, not birth in the literal sense.’ 23

  Martha was just as determined to have her way. She countered defiantly, ‘So what else do you think can explain your strange visions and flashes?’

  Vincent was quiet. He really didn’t have a logical answer.

  ‘May I suggest something? Sometimes, a past-life memory can be triggered by a place or an object. Is there something that you can recall from your recent flashes?’

  ‘The only thing I can recall seeing in today’s visions is Buckingham Palace. I’ve never been there . . . but I’ve seen it on postcards. Let me think . . . what else? At Mom and Dad’s funeral, I remember seeing flashes of Jerusalem—at least I think it was Jerusalem. The rest of the stuff that I saw can’t really be pinned down to a definite place.’

  Martha quickly cut in. ‘I think it’s time you and your aunt had a vacation in London. What do you say, Vincent?’ She winked at him, a widegrin on her face.

  ‘I thought I was the crazy one! Are you out of your mind, Nana? I don’t believe in this past life nonsense. In any case, I can’t afford it; I’m a priest, remember? We don’t really earn all that much!’

  ‘Oh shut up, Vincent! Your Nana has made some serious money from her Eastern mumbo- jumbo. I’m paying. So you damn well get your holy ass on that blessed flight, Father Vincent Sinclair!’ 

Click to read chapter four, six