He sat on the hard wooden floor in that posture Westerners called Indian-style and which he knew as padmāsana, the Lotus. With his feet pressed soundlessly into his thighs he emptied his mind, preparing for his ritual.
A few moments spent studying his chakra-board and he was ready. The elastic went above the left bicep just so; the tablespoon of diacetylmorphine burbled above the candle-flame.
Strange that the cow was considered sacred by his people, he thought, when it was the horse that could carry one to Nirvana.
The needle plunged home as Deepak Chopmeat practiced his daily Transcendental Medication.