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%%Author : Krishna Padmasola
%%Written: May 1993
%%e-mail:
[email protected]
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\centerline{\Large The Wanderer}
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Once upon a time, I was travelling in the remote regions of
the mountainous Garhwal\footnote{a region of great natural beauty}
district in northern Uttar Pradesh\footnote{a state in northern
India}, when an interesting incident occurred. My plans were to
witness the Dussehra\footnote{a hindu festival celebrated in autumn}
fair annually held in a northern village. My friends were already
there, having proceeded directly to that place as opposed to the
circuitous route that I took. The simple habitations of the
mountainfolk have always held a certain charm for me, which is why I
chose to visit some out of the way villages before proceeding to our
rendezvous.
This particular village comprised of not more than sixty
dwellings, most of them with mud walls and straw roofs. After the
recent harvest, the wheat stalks were left to dry on the roofs,
golden-yellow in the autumn sun. Terraced fields stretched on the
gentler slopes of the mountain, their edges blurring into the
dark-green of the surrounding deodar\footnote{a himalayan tree}
forest. Some cows and goats could be seen in the distance, grazing in
the fields. There was but one main street in the village, with small
gulleys intersecting it at odd angles now and then. Most of the
villagers were farmers who also tended cattle, while there were some
who pursued the grocer's trade. The school stood at the edge of the
village, and a Shiva\footnote{the god of destruction in hindu
mythology} temple was close to it.
After entering the village, I stopped at the local
chai\footnote{tea} shop and chatted with some of the patrons. There
were only a few of them, as most of the men, women and children were
out working in their fields. They were happy to know that I was going
to the fair, and informed me that most of the villagers would be there
too, as it was a good time to meet their relatives. It was a big event
in their lives and they were looking forward to it, making plans, and
getting things ready. This was evident in the spring in their step and
the smile with which they greeted strangers.
I was told that I could put up at the school for as long as I
wished, so after getting directions and thanking them, I set off for
it. Soon I could see the temple in the distance and the school
adjacent to it. As I neared the school building, I noticed that it
was well maintained, and that someone took care to keep it that way.
The front yard was brushed clean of leaves, yet not so completely as
to leave an impression of sterile bareness. The school had two rooms,
one was the schoolmaster's living quarters and the other served as a
classroom, although I suspect that most of the time the classes were
held out in the open. There were no classes now because of the
Dussehra vacations. The classroom was well-aired, with some flower
plants growing at the windows. There was a single chair in the room,
with a blackboard near one wall, and a map of India hanging on the
opposite wall. The students probably sat on mats spread out on the
floor. I tried to imagine the teacher giving a geography lesson to the
students. Perhaps he was able to transport them to exotic places by
firing their imagination, even as they were seated in this prosaic
calssroom, having a discussion about the locations marked on the map.
Through the door, I could see the Shiva temple, a trident atop
the shikhara\footnote{pinnacle of the dome} and the statue of a seated
bull\footnote{according to hindu mythology, the bull is Shiva's
vehicle} facing the temple entrance. A venerable man came out of the
temple, and walked towards the school. I stepped outside and called
out a greeting, to which he smiled in reply and raised his right hand
in a gesture of goodwill. He welcomed me to the place, and showed me
where I could stay. Then he invited me to share supper with him, an
invitation I gratefully accepted. He was warmly courteous, friendly
and accessible, and strangely I felt that we knew each other, but it
was a memory buried beyond the reach of recall. We had been
travellers on the same journey, a journey in quest of truth. Although
we had embarked on the journey at different times and places, there
was a constancy of purpose that was common to us and somehow we had
known each other all along.
We had supper by the light of an oil lamp, since there was no
electricity in the village. It was a simple meal of
rotis\footnote{wheat pancakes} and dal\footnote{a kind of lentil soup}
with some raw onions on the side for taste. The mountain air was
bracing, and I had a good appetite. He asked me where I came from and
where I was going. I told him, but suspected that he meant something
else. There was not much conversation, but the warmth of companionship
made up for it. The sounds of the forest were pervading the night.
After the supper, we went and sat outside. The moon was half full,
peering at us through the latticework of deodar branches. He said that
it was time for meditation and asked me if I would like to join him. I
am not a religious person, and am more interested in spirits(of the
alcoholic kind) rather than spirituality, but I wanted to try it and
said yes. So he brought out two mats, and we sat down facing east, he
in Padmasana\footnote{a yogic posture}, I in a cross-legged pose.
He closed his eyes immediately, and one would have thought
that he was asleep were it not for his upright posture. His eyes were
slightly open, and his breathing was slow and regular. I saw the limbs
of the trees swaying in the occasional breeze, and listened to the
intermittent hoots of an owl as they floated by. I closed my eyes and
watched my thoughts dying, the senses withdrawing into the mind,
ceasing their incessant activity. It was then that I began to see the
visions. I do not know if I was dreaming, but these images were so
vivid, I doubt that I could have manufactured them. Interestingly
enough, all through these dreams, I was conciously aware of my
identity, and was present there only as an observer. Here I shall try
to describe what I saw and felt in those dreams.
It was desert with a fiercely blazing sun overhead. The two
travellers were clearly tired from a long journey but the power of
resolution kept them going. At dusk they reached a pyramid in the
desert. Then they waited for the moon to rise. It was a full moon and
the night was clear. Still they kept watching the eastern horizon for
something. Ah, yes, it was Sirius! At this time the moon was halfway
up in the sky, and threw the sharp shadow of the pyramid on the sand.
They rose with quiet excitement, and gathering some implements, made
way to the tip of the pyramid's shadow. For over an hour, they kept
digging, till one of them brought out an object with a smothered
exclamation. It was a box whose locks were easily broken to reveal an
ancient parchment inside. They pored over the heiroglyphics in the
document with intense concentration, and to my surprise, I found that
I knew what they were reading. It was about specific ways of achieving
absolute concentration of the mind and each of the ways was
painstakingly detailed. Suffice it to say that they tried it out right
away and were successful. The last I saw them was when after three
days and three nights, they were still sitting there in deep
concentration, a sandstorm of great violence blew and buried them
under huge dunes.
In the next scene, snow capped mountains stretched all the way
to the horizon in every direction. The sunlight reflected from the ice
was blindingly bright, and the air was crisp. The wind was a sharp
knife carving its way through any obstacles in its way. A stone hut
could be seen in the distance, a haven of refuge against the hostile
environment. Here I saw two people clothed in the maroon robes
characteristic of Tibetan monks. They chanted the
sutras\footnote{buddhist scriptures} in the morning, and used the
afternoon for yoga and meditation. They used the usual techniques and
after mastering one they moved on to the next. For example, they
meditated on the human cadaver and realised the source of the desire
for life. Now they were trying to sift through the layers of memory,
step by step. In this technique, one goes back and tries to recollect
in detail the events of yesterday, the day before yesterday, and so on
until one day one will recollect everything from the day one was born.
But what if one goes beyond that? The scriptures say that one could
capture the experiences of ones past lives this way. I could see the
images in the minds of the monks. They saw two travellers in a hot
desert; saw them find a parchment and practice the secret techniques.
When they saw the sandstorm, there was an avalanche and the
mountainside came slipping down into the valley, carrying the stone
hut with it. The deafening sound of the fall echoed in the valleys
for a long time afterwards.
This was a dense forest on the Vindhya\footnote{a mountain
range in central India} mountains, where the Narmada\footnote{a river
originating in the Vindhya range} ran through a narrow gorge. In
monsoon, the river would be a torrent clashing with the rocks, but now
it was just a frayed ribbon of multitudinous rivulets finding its
convoluted way downstream. A man came out of a cave hidden in the
shoulder of the mountain and approached the crag overhanging the
river. He took his seat there and for a moment, surveyed the
surroundings. His slim, athletic body was attired in a scanty
loincloth, and clearly he belonged to an ascetic order of yogis.
Evidently, he had been living here for a long time, perfecting his
practices. Achieving mastery over the physical postures, he was now
venturing into those aspects of yoga that dealt with the mind. The
posture he chose was as immovable as a rock, and he could hardly be
distinguished from his surroundings. After several hours, he opened
his eyes again and stepped down from the rock and was immediately
greeted with a hiss. Inadvertently, he had stepped on a cobra which
now prepared to strike him, spitting with fury. The dull reptilian
eyes conveyed an impression of darkness and death. The leathery
scales of the cobra glistened in the sunlight as it struck in a swirl
of liquid lightning. However, it froze at the last moment, its attempt
thwarted by an unseen force. As it slithered away into the underbrush,
he noticed a man on the opposite bank vanish into the forest as
silently as he had materialized from it. He owed his life to his
invisible saviour, and as he walked back to his cave, faint wisps of
memories came back to him, images of a fierce desert and snow-capped
mountains and a lost companion.
When I opened my eyes, I was alone and my friend had gone. I
was perplexed and yet in a way consoled, for I realized that this was
the way it would be. The villagers kindly allowed me to accompany them
to the fair, and all along the way I mused over the incident of the
previous night. I was grateful to my friend for reminding me of those
days, and even now, whenever I go to places far from human habitation,
I look without seeing, waiting for something to happen, I know not
what.
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