The winds hissed through the air like teeth biting into bone, but the yogi was somewhere much deeper than that. He leaned in closer to feel the warmth of an inner fire and reached his open palms into the heat that radiated from an orb of atomic clouds. In that inner universe, he was not alone. He smiled at peace, his longest companion, and together, within the molecular temple he had come to know so well, he was happy. The crying of his less resilient cells and tissues were like comets zooming in the backdrop of distant unconscious space.
His blood retreated to his core to feed his most vital organs as his body froze. His appendages were being sacrificed for the greater good. His fingers and toes were black, decorated with the glimmer of ice-crystals. As the night continued his body continued to submit to its environment, as all bodies do in the end. His frozen skin hammered on the door of that inner temple, his veins and arteries gasped their dying breaths, and his muscles launched fire into shattering nerves as a final plea to be remembered and protected. There was no turning back and each cell, deep down in its DNA, knew it. That is the reach of a true intention.
This yogi could sacrifice himself because a yogi knows the infinite. They learn to sense the infinite within themselves. They colonize their depths and build temples on that untouched land. These temples are so sacred and so secret that none will ever reach them and because of that, they are pure. The waves of his body’s panic drowned in the sheer distance that separated the yogis dying flesh from the yogi’s vibrant and protected soul.
As the winds sunk their teeth further into cracking skin and the nearly frozen blood was too cold to flow out, the dialogue between the yogi and his peace grew warmer and more intimate. Every word uttered evolved into song. Every moment of shared silence was filled with all the emotions of life, love, and nostalgia. They both shut a thousand eyes and wrapped each other in a thousand arms. They tumbled and rolled, folding into each other like waves and the ocean. They fed on each other’s breath and only wanted more of that ecstasy.
There are few things that last forever; only the great lord Bhraman, the great soul Atman, and Change. Peace and the yogi were neither of those things. Their rendezvous would not last and they both knew that. They have met and left each other countless times. They have forgotten about each other even more times than that. An awareness of the three inevitables softens the sting of goodbye but there is a secret understanding that vaccinates the soul from the disease of separation. All points, all moments, all phenomenons that have a name or a form are only the same point, dismembered by the illusions of surface differences and misperception. There is only the One and all things are of it. The yogi knew this and because of that climbed up to sit with death on his own.
The yogi would have to return to a broken body and his peace would also return to its own path to bless another for a passing moment but they would wait until the heat of the atomic clouds went cold and their nuclei imploded into the other side of oneness.
When his body died the moon was just left of the summit as intended. The equinox was an auspicious day to take last breaths. He was only a broken branch that had fallen from the tree. A new body would be born and grow as the same body was buried in white snow, blue with victory.
-
“Kya galat hai?” Deu asked Sarup.
Deu was Sarup’s oldest friend. He was tall, thin, and quiet. His skin had a red tint and because of it, he liked to announce from time to time that he descended from the Rajput, and was a Kshatriya – the warrior cast – even though he had never been close to a fight let alone battle. The idea of Deu being enraged enough to hurt another living being was unthinkable. He was the kindest person Sarup knew even though his height, square jaw, and mustache made him look much older and more intimidating. Large generous hands passed Sarup a fresh millet chapatti. Deu waited for Sarup’s response.
“Nothing is the matter, brother. I just know more now and the truth of our little lives is heavier than I ever realized.”
The Yogi cleared Sarup’s mind by force as easily as blowing out a candle. When a yogi lifts another’s awareness to their level it is called Shaktipat. As Sarup’s mind inflated to contain every possible horizon and what exits beyond them he saw his village, Kal Ganv, shrink. Smaller and smaller, at first it was an anthill at the edge of the forest. It was fragile, engulfed, and exposed. Then it was a grain of sand on the black shore of the infinite. Then, it was nothing. Everyone in the village went from a friend to a delicate speck to nothing, as well. The Yogi gave Sarup the touch of truth but it meant death for everyone and everything but Sarup who was floating in the dream of expansive knowledge. Sarup’s Mother was right. These yogis are mad with God. They sacrifice what matters most for parlor tricks. Perhaps amongst the life-renouncing yogis, it is a gift to see the world from this far away but to the rest of humanity, to any villager or king, such a vision is only devastation.
Deu continued cooking bread on a bed of burning embers underneath a great Banyan tree, taking shelter from the sweltering afternoon Sun. The tree’s enormous branches were braced by vertical roots and decorated with ribbons and beads. The ribbons and beads were themselves stained with the generational prayers of the village. Sarup now sensed the thorn of fear that existed in each prayer. “Curse that yogi,” he thought to himself. The encounter had just happened days ago and because of it everything that was once sweet was now bitter. Each ribbon and bead was a poor man’s bribe to the Gods to protect them from doom or at the very least to give them the energy to embrace doom when it comes.
Despite that, this was one of Sarup’s and Deu’s favorite places in the village ever since they were free to roam outside the village walls alone. The tree’s wooden columns swerved upwards and formed a sort of labyrinth. Inside the standing root, they could hide from time and duty. The cows and sheep always joined them. All huddled under the tree’s cool wingspan with the world left baking in the afternoon outside.
“Nothing is the matter? What on earth are you talking about? I see snakes in your eyes. I have not seen your heart so heavy in many years. Has the yogi’s blessing lifted?”
Sarup didn’t tell anyone of the second encounter. It was too soon. He was still confused. The first encounter with the yogi lifted Sarup’s soul but the second had emptied it. The clash of the village’s expectations, the fear and anger of his parents, and the reality of what had actually happened would only weigh Sarup down more.
“Life is too delicate. In a moment it can all be taken away.” He ate the final morsel of his chapatti and rubbed his empty hands together as if continuing the point.
Deu squinted skeptically and immediately prepared the next chapatti.
“It will be taken away,” he said and handed Sarup his second flatbread.
When the yogi told Sarup that even the Gods were bound to duty and that their duty is to protect existence, he realized life only seems unbreakable because of our infinitesimal stature. Because we can’t perceive the whole picture our concepts of how the world works are by design inevitably incomplete. Like children who never think of how their meals come every day, humans never think to wonder what effort might be involved in maintaining the world.
The world is fragile, time and space are chaotic, and the structure of the great wheel is always an accident away from collapse. Sarup could accept death as imminent but he wouldn’t tolerate unnecessary grief at the hands of chance. In fear that he though was courage, he pledged to build and protect his village and family, his modest sliver of the wheel, at the expense of all other hopes, most of all his own happiness.
The yogi was right. The seed of something sprouted that night Sarup howled in his dreams. It was the seed of duty but it was encased in the husk of fear. Sarup had seen too much too quickly and now mistrusted a world that was much bigger than he ever knew. Happiness was not enough for Sarup because now he knew how easily and quickly happiness and life itself could be lost in the great void of reality.
They cooked the remaining dough into a massive thick chapatti and broke it off for the animals. There wasn’t enough.
The walk back to the village was short. The family closest to the eastern edge of the village were musicians. They would always flood the village with song, lifting the spirits of Kal Ganv. If you listened closely you could hear the echoes of their home on the opposite side of the village. They were well respected and very much appreciated, although very poor. Both Sarup and Deu’s parents often left fruits and flowers at the entrance of their home and they were not the only ones.
The father took it upon himself to greet the Sun almost every morning with his Veena as his father and grandfather had done. The Veena was the family’s prized possession and had been with them for many generations. The father, Badal, loved to say his ancestors received the Veena from the goddess Saraswati herself. It was a gift for a first-born son who was born deaf and mute. When Saraswati bestowed the gift she shared a legend that the human being was a Veena made by the gods and the instrument was man’s attempt of recreating themselves.
The first Veena was built by a Nadarishi, a sound mystic. This mystic was called by an inner voice to the salt flats of the North where even the sound was said to dry out. Following the inner whisper, the mystic went into deep meditation and learned to hear the secret orchestra within his own body. He vowed to never speak again because his voice overpowered the enchanting harmonies of these inner songs. He then built the first Veena and learned to replicate the heavenly songs.
The two gourds represented the skull and the hip-bones. The neck and strings represented the spine and the nerves. Before he played, Badal would always try and hear the inner sounds, honor Saraswati, and remember the Nadarishi.
Clear puddles would always build in Deu’s eyes if he stood to close to Badal as he played. If he was really part of the warrior cast his tears were testimony that it was many lifetimes ago. He has more heart than sword, now, and it was because of that heart that Sarup respected him.
The family had an entire assortment of other instruments; many drums, flutes, and hand cymbals. Monsoon or drought, they would always be outside in their courtyard enjoying their gift, dancing to their talent, and singing through every emotion. Today was no different.
Badal’s fingers flew through the vibrations of the strings, pouncing on the next perfect fret. His eyes were shut to better hear the rebirth of the human soul’s true voice. His three sons drummed and gave that voice the strength of three beating hearts while the uplifting spark of the Taalas clanged in the tiny hands of the family’s youngest toddler daughter, Hansini. She was their little swan, and even though she was only two years old, she played her hand cymbals in perfect rhythm on the lap of her mother. Music, after all, was in their blood.
As Sarup and Deu entered the village they were greeted by the wide eyes of Badal’s family. The son’s stopped playing to wave hello. Badal, of course, only greeted them through his performance. Sarup glanced at Deu and sure enough, he saw the clear pools of every emotion leak through the armor he claimed he wore.
Sarup’s spirits were not lifted. All he saw was yet another treasure he needed to protect against calamity. All he heard was the thump of Lord Shiva, the Dancing God of Destruction. As Badal treasures his Veena, Shiva treasures his drum, the Damaru. He plays it as he recreates the universe by burning away its current incarnation. While Deu wiped the tears from his cheeks, Sarup thought, treacherously, that Badal’s sons were unwittingly calling the lord of ends with their drums and Deu wasn’t crying because he was moved by their song but because some part of him knew Shiva was coming.
“You are thinking too much, Sarup. The music is beautiful. That is as far as your mind has to travel.”
Sarup snapped out of his trance and smiled at his friend.
The sky was blue, the color of Shiva, and everything underneath it was destined to end.
