Climbing Chamundi Hill (20 page)

I lost track of where we were—possibly seven hundred steps up the mountain. A small wash ran directly under a thick banyan trunk on the left, exposing the tree's lower innards. Two roots clung to a rock and kept it suspended above the ground in a space that was neither tree nor mountain. The sky above the tree now matched the gray of its trunk, and the silver leaves rippled like water.

The old man broke the silence. “Listen to a story about mind. Mind only.”

THE GIRL IN THE STONE

This is a story I know only because I eavesdropped on a retelling of it by someone I respect, who was telling it to someone else. I can't tell you with certainty that it's true, but as far as my own experience goes, it does have the ring of truth. It feels authentic to me, but you decide. At any rate this is exactly how he told it.

As I'd had enough of the madness into which my life had settled, I decided to renounce the hectic pace and find a quiet place to meditate. The only place I could go where no one would find me was a distant corner in the vast space of emptiness. There, using my imagination, I created a modest hut. Sometimes I meditated inside the hut; at other times I preferred to sit outside. Assuming a lotus posture, I quickly entered a trance state, and in a flash one hundred years went by.

I was awakened from my trance by the voice of a woman. It was a sweet voice, but I thought I heard a strain of agitation in it. She was either singing or calling me. I roused myself and began to search for the woman, who may have been in some distress. I searched for years, wandering through entire worlds
I had created in my mind. However, as I could not find her, I returned to the cabin to meditate. Soon I heard her playing a flute. Then she approached the place where I was sitting.

She was a young woman with flowing black hair and a creamy complexion. Before I could speak, she started to tell me her story. “My name, sir, is Anjali.” Her black eyes shone at me. “I live at the very edge of the universe on a mountain that marks the border between the world and the nonworld. It's a huge mountain with vast numbers of rocks and boulders. I live in one of the atoms inside one of the stones in that mountain—with my husband.

“My husband has lived there for a long time—steadfast in his study of scriptures, disciplined in meditation. One day he realized that he needed a wife, so he created me in his imagination. I don't know why he made me so beautiful—I am the most beautiful woman in our universe—or why he bothered at all. He has remained chaste, and I have never known the joys of domestic life…”

“How is it possible to live in a rock?” I interrupted her. “How can you even move about?”

“We can, sir. It's a fact,” she waved her arms in excitement, showing just how much room there was. “And not just the two of us. There are cities and villages in the stone, and mountains and lakes. It's a whole world in there, you know. But now you must help us,” she said suddenly, ignoring my reactions. “We're facing a major catastrophe. Our world is about to explode into flames—a doomsday fire. We
have no way of escaping. My husband failed to attain sufficiently high spiritual knowledge to free us, so we're trapped in that place. Sir, you are a great man. Would you please come and show us the way out?”

The fragrance of this young woman made me forget my meditation. Thinking about her impotent old husband, I agreed to go immediately. Of course, I had no idea what I could possibly do, but she was overcome with joy. The woman turned out to be a magician who could fly, while I drifted in her wake. In no time we reached the mountain at the end of the world. She took me to an ordinary round stone, but I could see nothing in it—no sky or earth, no lakes or planets or sun. All I could see was a tiny stone.

At first the woman was puzzled by the fact that I could not see her world, but then she remembered something important. “It's an illusionary world; it exists only in maya. That is why you are not seeing it. You are spiritually so superior that your vision passes right through that world. Perhaps,” she suggested, “you should try to remember how such a world might have appeared to you in the past.”

She was right—it worked. I could now see her world, as though in a dream. We entered it together, and she introduced me to her husband—an old man with fiery black eyes.

The couple did not embrace or even exchange a glance. The young woman repeated her request that I teach her husband higher spiritual knowledge so that the two of them might escape the approaching catastrophe, but her husband cut her short. Looking
directly through me, he hissed, “Great sage, I am the one who created this universe. I have even created you—just as you have created me. This woman is caught in her own karma—she is the victim of her own powerful traces from the past. As a result she constructed a world of her own in which I am her husband. Do not believe it for a moment! I am not her husband, and she is not my wife. The only thing you may believe is that today is in fact doomsday and that with it comes the end of my own karma. I urge you, good sir, to leave quickly. Go back to your own universe.”

As soon as the man stopped speaking, he withdrew his senses from the world around him. Immediately, the world lost its solidity and form, flames erupted everywhere, and a flood of churning waters covered the entire space. As I stood there watching in awe, the world in the stone was reduced to a perfectly still nothingness.

As I turned my head, thinking of the woman, I noticed that each of the stones around me was its own universe. There were millions of separate universes, each with its own history and geography. It was then that I realized that each universe was created by the mind of a single person.

I decided to return to my cabin back in the corner of the empty space. However, when I got there, I could not see my body anywhere, although I had left it behind in order to fly with the woman. In its place, I saw a magician occupied in deep meditation, having taken over the cabin. He must have looked for a
special place to meditate, just as I had. Furthermore, he must have possessed high discernment in order to perceive the cabin, which I had constructed out of the stuff of my higher reality—mind only. He probably assumed that I would not return, so he disposed of my body, taking it for a corpse no doubt. How dare he do that? What did he do with my body? Will I ever find it again? And my cabin, he's trespassing there! In my anger I came up with an idea for evicting the intruder. I returned to the tumultuous world I had originally left behind and stopped imagining the space in which the cabin stood. As soon as I stopped imagining, the magician who was meditating in my space lost the solidity of his seat. He tumbled down to earth, landing roughly while still sitting in the lotus posture.

He seemed stunned and a bit hurt, for which I felt instantly remorseful. Helping him brush the dirt off his clothes, I introduced myself and asked that he tell me about himself. We decided to return to that empty space together, where I was able to find my body and reconstruct the cabin. I made it large enough for the two of us, and we shared that place of meditation for a long time.

“This is crazier than
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland;
she, at least, didn't make a cabin crash by stopping to imagine it…”

“Yes, I agree. It's all quite nonsensical. I'm afraid that's unavoidable when you stand outside someone else's mind,
looking in. But once you get in, anything is possible. Can the madman be sure he is not a mystic?”

“What do you mean? Usually that question is asked in reverse, you know.”

The guide ignored my comment and said softly, “Would you tell me about that night in Varanasi, about six weeks ago, when your illness was at its worst? I believe that was something of a turning point for you.”

“How could you possibly know about all of that?” I asked the old man.

“I know everything about you.”

I looked to see if he was serious, but it was hard to tell. I told him how absurd I found his statement to be—I wanted to know if he meant it.

“Look at my staff.” The old man showed me the walking stick he had been carrying. It was too long for the small man, about six inches taller than he was. “Here,” he said, “measure it against your height.”

I took the cane and placed it alongside my body. It was precisely my height. “Please keep the staff and value it. It was made especially for you and you've earned it.” He patted my shoulder as though knighting me.

“But how could you know my height? Or about my illness in Varanasi?” I refused to accept the fact that he could see into my thoughts or memory—I had nothing but distaste for the occult. But I did remember the night he mentioned, and the depth of my fever. So I told him what I knew.

The strange thing about all of this was, if Rony had not told me what I had done, I would never have considered that night unusual—at least not in the way the guide was implying. In the middle of that night—it was early in the
course of my illness—I suddenly woke up feeling invigorated and almost euphoric. In the dark I got dressed and walked three blocks to a Durga shrine in order to thank the goddess for my renewed health. Her image was reclining within the inner sanctum, but that did not seem strange to me at that time. I approached and hugged her feet, kissing them with devotion, for I had nothing else to offer—no flowers or fruit. Durga suddenly stood up and rested her hand on my head in blessing, and I felt a deep joy warm my entire body. A loving force surrounded me and literally carried me away. In an instant I woke up in bed—it was late morning. Rony was looking at me from the other end of the room, smiling and shaking his head.

“What a vision I had!” I said weakly. “You won't believe it…”

He laughed at this. “That was no vision, friend, or dream. In fact, you almost got yourself arrested last night.”

“Why? Did it really happen? Did I really touch Durga?”

Rony laughed harder, then doubled over in laughter. Then he came over and hugged me. “That was no Durga, buddy. I can tell you that.” Then he told me something bizarre; if it were not Rony, I would never have believed it. In my delirium I went to the landlord's house and virtually assaulted Mrs. Sharma as she lay in bed next to her husband. Rony had followed me and managed to pull me back in time—it was my illness that prevented them from filing charges.

The fever and the detoxification accounted for that vivid hallucination, so the doctor told me. But my visit with Durga still remains a true memory, while Rony's account of my adventure was just hearsay. The very next day Rony announced that we were going south to Mysore for a dose of reality.

The old man was laughing. “So perhaps you understand a little bit what I mean when I say that you are the product of my mind. I know it sounds like gibberish to you, but if you talk about it in the future, people will understand. Of course, in my world there's a perfectly simple explanation for all of this.”

“Can you please explain what you mean? I'm not enjoying this.”

“Here, let me tell you another story. It may help you,” he said.

RULER OF THE WORLD

North of the renowned city of Mathura was a dense forest of nim, teak, and many other fruit-bearing trees as well. It was a lush place where a man could live with no fear of hunger or the threat of predators. Two hours' walking distance into the forest one could find the small town known as Salim, next to which was a peaceful forest retreat named after Shiva's wife—Gauri. In a modest but comfortable estate in the heart of the Gauri Retreat lived an elderly couple with their eight sons and daughters-in-law. There was nothing unusual about this extended family, which survived on small-scale farming and a bit of trading, except for one thing. The eight boys, though different in age and appearance, were psychically connected. Their mental bond was so strong that
when one of them hurt, the others would cry. When another had a strange dream, all arose the next morning in a daze.

One of the boys, the youngest, one day saw the king pass by with his entourage of assistants and beautiful courtesans. He decided on the spot that he too should be a king or, better yet, ruler of the whole earth. Immediately, all eight brothers became inflamed with the same ambition. They all wanted to be ruler, each one the only lord of the entire world! Due to their modest station in life they realized that the only way to obtain such a lofty goal was through the power of spiritual austerities. All of them as one resolved to abandon their home and their wives in order to pursue a rigorous course of penances.

That very same day the young men kissed their wives and hugged their parents. They left the women and elderly couple crying at the door, waved good-bye to each other, and then turned to eight separate directions. Feeling that their shared consciousness was an obstacle to the desired goal—sole mastery of the world—the brothers resolved to achieve as much separation as they possibly could. And so they marched vigorously for seven weeks.

The youngest of the eight, whose name was Kundadanta, walked in a northwesterly direction for those forty-nine days. He finally stopped when he saw a majestic fig tree, as big as the mythical kalpa tree, set off from a cluster of ordinary looking beuls and ashoks. The trunk of the ancient ashvattha was twisted and braided like the sinewy limbs of an old
yogi. Its branches spread high above, forming a shady canopy that covered a full acre. Kundadanta stared at this magnificent sight, smiling in delight. He spent the rest of the day preparing a rope out of the plentiful darbha grass that grew there. The next morning he slung the rope over an east-facing branch, tied the other end to his ankles, and hoisted himself off the ground. Hanging with his feet in the air and arms dangling below, he entered a deep meditative trance.

In the meantime, the eight wives at home sank into inconsolable grief. They removed their jewelry, shaved their hair off, and refused to eat cooked food. The goddess Parvati, who roamed that forest retreat like a kindly spirit, saw the young women acting in the manner of widows. Deeply moved by their devotion, she appeared before them. “I am very pleased with your loyalty and modesty. Tell me what you would like as a reward.”

The wives answered in a single voice, “Please grant immortality for our husbands.”

But Parvati shook her head. “I can't do that. It runs against the natural order of things. Ask for something else.”

Again in unison, the wives responded, “If not immortality, then please grant that when our husbands die, their spirits may remain at home.”

Parvati readily agreed to this and even added another boon. “Your husbands' efforts to rule the earth shall be successful.”

The wives were so thrilled with their good fortune that they immediately vowed to undertake a
pilgrimage. They chose Kalapagrama because it was a holy place for worshipers of Shiva, the lord and husband of Parvati. Wasting no time, they gathered a few belongings, remembering, of course, to invite their elderly parents-in-law. Although the trip took several long days of dusty walking, a happy mood prevailed, and they all found the discomforts of the road easy to bear. One morning they arrived at the Godavari River, where all the pilgrims had to board a ferry. The women took their place in the long line, supporting the old couple as they waited patiently. Directly in front of them quietly stood a short, stout man, whose long messy hair was flaming red and whose skin was filthy with white ashes. The young women had never seen anything so odd—they eyed the man with suspicion. As soon as the ferry arrived, they pressed their parents-in-law forward, nudging the stranger aside.

The man, however, was a powerful and ferociously temperamental ascetic named Durvasa. Instantly, he exploded in rage and glowered at the old couple. Then he spit out this curse: “Your sons have set out to rule the world. They have recently obtained boons from the goddess. Whatever boon they received will produce an opposite effect.”

Before the women or the old couple could open their mouths to apologize, the man vanished. They searched frantically among the crowds, behind the stalls and kiosks, and pleaded with the dhobi women who were beating clothes against stones at the river's edge, but he was gone. The family members
boarded the ferry and continued on their pilgrimage, anxious to win reassurance from the god that all would turn out well. The joyful mood was now replaced by a dark foreboding. How could the eight brothers possibly rule the world now? And how could their spirits remain at home even after they died? It all seemed lost. The pilgrimage ran its full course—the divine couple was duly worshiped—but tragically, both Shiva and Parvati remained silent.

Back at the huge fig tree Kundadanta was hanging by his feet. Time stood still for him as he journeyed into unknown spiritual realms. But time also flew by as the tree bore fruit twelve times in what seemed like one summer. After twelve years a brilliant being, bright as the sun, appeared to him and declared soundlessly, “You may stop your penance now, Kundadanta. Success is yours. Go now and rule the earth.” At that very instant the ascetic felt a tug, then another. He blinked his eyes open.

A pleasant man with lotuslike palms, four arms, and a mace was gently tugging on his arms. “Holy man, are you well? I thought you looked like a corpse, but from close range I can see that your skin looks almost healthy. Why are you engaged in this torturous penance?”

“Leave him alone,” came a voice from another man—this one was a fierce dark man with two arms and three eyes. In his hand was a trident. “Let him hang there. What is it to you?”

The two began to argue, promptly forgetting the hanging ascetic. “Help me down,” Kundadanta
interrupted the noisy quarrel. “Please, can you cut the rope?” The pleasant man helped him down gently and brought him some water. Then he began to massage the ascetic's feet while his companion was visibly trying to interrupt these acts of devotion by getting in the way.

“Sir,” said the first, “you are clearly a great ascetic. May I serve you?”

Before Kundadanta could respond, the other jumped in, “Why do you want to serve him, you fool? Can't you see he's nothing but a corpse? Come on, let's go and let him rot.”

Kundadanta saw another argument about to erupt, so he got up stiffly and began to walk away. “Thank you for cutting me down, friends. I am now going back home.”

This seemed to upset the first one, who began to plead, “But sir, may I join you on your journey? It would be my great pleasure to serve you.” He shook off his companion, who was just then pulling on his shirt, and joined Kundadanta. The two walked in a southeasterly direction, back home to the Gauri forest retreat. The fierce companion shook his head in anger, but followed the others.

The journey back was difficult. Kundadanta walked with great difficulty, and his two companions kept quarreling. As one served him with a cheerful demeanor, the other tried to sabotage his friend's efforts and kept hurling a steady stream of invectives at both his traveling companions. The ascetic often felt his anger starting to flare at the wild
man, but it was quickly doused by the good cheer of his new friend. As they walked, Kundadanta told the two about his spiritual experiences, explaining why he took on such a harsh penance. He said that having obtained his wish, he was now going back to see his brothers and reclaim his wife.

The pleasant companion was awed by the description of the solar being and by his message. “Undoubtedly, sir, that has come true. I am sure that you are in fact the ruler of the entire world.” He had no reason to think so, of course, but his support was sincere.

Meanwhile, the other man howled with hysterical laughter. “Ruler of the world. Ha! Ha! Look at him, he can barely walk!” He began to chant obscene meters about Kundadanta's “royalty” and only interrupted himself to pass wind at the king. The two companions broke again into one of their many fights, while Kundadanta tried to ignore them.

Eventually they arrived at the old forest retreat. Kundadanta was sure this was the place, but it was hard to tell. The trees had all turned into boulders, and the fruit into rocks. The lush Gauri ashram was now a desert. Kundadanta's vicious companion began to laugh. “So this is the lush ashram you told us about? And these rocks, I suppose, are your brothers?”

The kind companion hushed him forcefully. “Quiet, man! Can't you see this is a tragedy?” Then turning to Kundadanta, he added, “I'm so sorry, sir.”

In the place where the family house had been only a single nim remained, intertwined with a
mango tree. Under these was now sitting a wispy holy man, bowed by the desert wind, deep in meditation. The yelling woke him from his trance, and he smiled at the three traveling companions as though expecting them. “Hello, my dear Kundadanta. Come here, son.” The young man approached the holy sage, touched his feet, and sat before him.

“You are wondering what happened here, why your home is gone and where your family has disappeared to. That is understandable. You must have patience, my boy. I will tell you everything.” And so he did. As Kundadanta's two companions sat down not far away, the holy man talked about the sorrow of the eight wives, about Gauri's promises, and about the curse of the powerful Durvasa.

The three-eyed companion interrupted loudly, “Ah, Durvasa. There's a true holy man. A great man. He's as powerful as Shiva himself.” He turned to Kundadanta, “Forget your boons, friend, you are certainly doomed. As you were whiling away the years on the tree, bigger things happened in the world. Nothing will erase the curse of Shiva's holy man!”

The other companion quickly responded, “Don't mind him, sir. He's completely deluded. Your boon from the Sun is more powerful. You cannot compare the curse of a man, however powerful, to the boon of the Sun.”

“Ha!” yelled the wild man. “Durvasa prevails!”

“No, he does not—the Sun does!”

Kundadanta was confused and alarmed. He bowed before the holy man and begged him to settle the dis
pute. The man smiled and answered briefly, “Consider which one of the two possesses inner truth. They can tell you that, right gentlemen?”

The pleasant companion nodded vigorously. “Yes, that is completely true. The boons depend on a pure and virtuous consciousness while the curse does not. When someone gets a boon from a god or a man, both parties—giver and receiver—are conscious of the fact. The giver is conscious of the receiver, and the receiver is conscious of the giver. The boon is the very essence of virtue—it does not require a body and can exist in the soul of a man. But when one is cursed, the curse has no such subtle existence, because the receiver denies it. It is not part of his essence.” He looked at his companion triumphantly, while the latter lowered his eyes.

Kundadanta looked at the holy man and asked, “Does that mean that my boons will overcome the curses? Am I saved?”

The old man looked at him sadly for a few moments and responded, “Your boon may be satisfied, but trust me, you will not be. Look,” he added after another pause, “it's rarely easy to tell the difference anyway. The boons and the curses usually coexist, and you end up with mixed results. You prefer the boon over the curse, but the result is that you see things as in a dream. Even being a ruler of the world is just the appearance of a boon.”

“I don't follow you, sir. Do you mean to say that I will be ruler of the world, or not?”

The holy man smiled. “Can you not see the truth? It is right there in front of you. Have you never wondered how eight men can each be ruler of the entire world? Or how you can rule the world and still remain in your own house? You have done severe penance for twelve years, but you do not see through these paradoxes?”

Kundadanta merely shook his head silently.

“Listen, young man,” the saint continued. “The boon seems superior to you and more real only because you want it. But it is inseparable from the curse, which you hate. The two must always travel together. Now look at your friends.” The holy man picked up a stone and threw it at the vicious companion. The stone sailed through him as though he were made of smoke. Another stone then went flying and sliced through the foglike substance of the pleasant companion. “You see, they do not really exist. You made them up. They are figments of your limited consciousness.”

“But where did they come from? They came to me, after all, when I was hanging in the tree…And why are they so odd-looking?” asked Kundadanta.

The holy man was calm. “They are your boon and your curse. They came to you as soon as you died.”

“Died? What do you mean died?” Kundadanta was patting his chest and pinching his shoulders. He felt normal.

“Look at this,” answered the holy man, picking up another rock. He threw it, and Kundadanta felt a soft swoosh as it sailed through his midsection. “The
only way for you to obtain both your boon and your curse was to die. The moment you died on the tree both arrived.”

These words were followed by a long silence. Kundadanta sat there, contemplating everything that had happened, and everything he knew. He did not feel as he had always believed death would feel. Mostly, he was confused and lonely. Then he asked, “So the answer to the paradoxes—how I can rule when my brothers rule and how I can rule from home—the answer is that I must die?”