Down near the touristy end of Duval Street there are many attractions. One is the Indian swami in his booth. He sits in his white alcove, dressed in layers of floaty white things. His dark eyes are serene and his narrow face ends in a pointy white beard. I’ve never seen him smile, I’ve never seen him laugh, I’ve never seen him angered. But I always see him, seated at his table in his alcove and invariably he has a customer and then another one or two waiting their turn.

I have never ventured too close, only glimpsed in passing, but his method of channeling is he reads the lines in people’s palms. As I cruise past I try but cannot decipher the whispers as he engages with clients, presumably explaining the meaning of life, maybe even counseling them on having chosen Key West, assuring them it was indeed a good choice for a holiday.

I noticed recently his booth is empty, not just of him, but also his signage of graceful palms with deep dark lines, the roadmap of life. But he is never there and time goes on and still he does not appear. I have to ask a local where is the swami?

‘Don’t you know? It’s been all over the local papers!’
I write for the local papers but I don’t read any of them. 
‘Where is the swami gone?’

The story I heard was that after a quarter century of diligent work the swami decided he had earned the time and money for a vacation. With his wife and children they had all excitedly flown to Jamaica. In a matter of days they had all been mugged and slaughtered.

I have heard soothsayers are not able to read the future for themselves, the sharper edge of the double edge sword of the medium of being a medium.

Image by talented Serb MARKO NIKOLIĆ

For more CHRISTINA OXENBERG

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Christina Oxenberg aka Kristina Karađorđević

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