Climbing Chamundi Hill (6 page)

In some strange way I found the death of the minister saddening. It was a good question too, one that went straight to the heart of the story. But I shrugged. “I don't know. There could be lots of reasons, I suppose.”

“Such as?” He was beaming.

“Before, when the king was not in love, the minister had to do all the ruling for him. Now, that he's found the love of his life things would likely get even harder for the minister.”

The old man clapped his hands and almost squealed in joy. “That's wonderful. What else?”

I studied him closely. There was something disjointed about his reaction: fast and slow, ecstatic and observant, all at once. “Maybe the minister had also fallen in love with the nymph.” I suggested. “After all, wasn't he transfixed by the sight of her?”

“Ah yes, that's much better.” The librarian turned his gaze toward my feet and remained silent. I looked down too, but there was nothing, just my stupid toes taking turns bearing the load of my feet on the hot ground. “Of course, you're wrong on both counts,” he broke the silence. “The minister died because the nymph lost her heavenly home. His own reason for existence thus came to an end. Do you see?”

“In truth, I don't. Sure, she lost her home, but she did end up with the man she had been married to in a previous life. His fate was fulfilled. Isn't that the point?” I had slowly inched my way off the path and was standing in the weeds, smiling sheepishly.

“My friend, if we were sitting on the veranda of the Lalita Mahal sipping on English tea, that would have been the point. Here, on the hill, after the stories I've already told you, the point is different.”

“How can it possibly matter where we are?” I sounded edgy.

The old man laughed in a conciliatory way, like a boy. But he said, “As I start to tell you a story, try to keep in mind what we discussed previously. A sitar note at mid-raga sounds entirely different than it does in isolation, don't you think? In this case, we were talking about karma and the transmigration of the soul from one life to another.”

“I know.” My voice sounded exasperated. “That's precisely what I was saying.”

The old man touched me lightly on my elbow, and I felt a soft breeze ruffle my hair. Then he said soothingly, “Did you feel the sadness of the minister?”

Indeed I had. I was moved by his sadness and his death. I nodded again.

“Good, good. That, precisely, is the sadness of sam
sara—transmigration. The soul journeys from one body to another, from one identity to the next. Do you follow?”

“Are you saying the king is the soul?” The old man was getting ready to chuckle, I could see, so I switched tacks instantly. “No, wait. The nymph…the nymph is the soul!” He relaxed now, so I continued. “But how can that be? Isn't the king the hero of the tale, the character in search of a goal? If the soul takes on many bodies over the course of many lifetimes, it is the active agent, like the king in the tale.”

The old man began to tap his cane on the stone in rhythm with his words. “He's learning, the boy's learning…” Suddenly he stopped and looked at me gravely. “Look, you put your finger precisely on the tragedy of samsara—but in reverse. From where we stand it only seems that the king is the hero. Or, to put it differently, what we regard as our soul—our self, or ultimate identity—that is hardly the soul! In fact the self is the body…It's the body, or what Aristotelian theologians called the embodied soul—a false monarch. Do you understand now?”

I did. I really did start to understand him. “Let me get this straight. My soul or what I think is my soul is actually a part of my body and it does not transmigrate, right?”

“That is more or less correct, for now. Our psychological self perishes at death.”

“But it—I, the self—thinks it is the soul—the real thing—and so it robs the true soul of its celestial home, its divinity!”

“Brilliant, young man. You are wonderful.”

“And that is what makes transmigration sad—this constant falling in love with a false identity…”

I turned away from the old man so he would not see my face. I didn't want him to see my excitement. I spotted a datura flower, brilliant yellow, farther off the path and
meandered in its direction, feigning botanical interest. In truth, I detested the datura.

Years earlier, when I was fifteen or so, I had conducted a small ethnobotanical experiment with the damn thing. That's a fancy way of saying I just ate some. Somewhere I had read that the datura had “spiritual” properties—it was hallucinogenic. I was not interested in drugs or trips—I think it was just curiosity about how a plant can affect the mind. I don't remember much about the experience. My body became detached from my control and the world slowed down to a standstill. Every moment stretched out to a hellish eternity—there was no pain, only interminable stillness. I later came to believe that what made that experience so frightening was the psychotic-like loss of selfhood. The body I occupied and the consciousness centered in it did not gel. At a time when I was greedy to be someone, even the most basic self-identity was snatched away chemically for what seemed like an eternity.

My father later said I had been running amok, that my body shook and twitched like a broken windup toy. I woke up in the hospital with tubes running in and out of my body. My parents were arguing, as usual, but I could barely hear my mother. She always whispered when she was angry, which made her more frightening. Mother thought I should be grounded for a year; my father told her to take it easier on me. “Look, honey, he's not a druggie. He's just a budding mystic. Don't be too hard on the boy.”

But she was hard. “Mystic, my foot.” My mother had curly black hair and savage, brilliant eyes. Her father had been a Jesuit priest who married one of his graduate students at Cal-Tech. Mother, who was a devout Catholic, wielded harsh judgments about religion or about humanity's
failures apropos of God. I was grounded for six months. During that time I switched interest from botany to zoology. I loved my father for calling me a mystic.

“You recognize the datura?” The old man was right behind me, looking at the yellow flower. I shrugged. “It is Shiva's plant you know. Better not touch, though, without a guru. Like Shiva, it can be dangerous.”

I turned back to the path, avoiding his eyes, and spit out quietly, “Damn right.”

Suddenly I remembered a question. “What is the minister then? If the girl is the true soul and the king is the psychological self—the body/mind, I guess—what then is the minister?”

The old man smiled in delight at my question; he seemed positively happy. “Why, my friend, that should be obvious!” he said. “Viveka is wisdom—discriminating intuition. And, of course, he dies over and over again, until we are ready to see the truth.”

THE BOY'S SACRIFICE

Not far from here, in the hills to the northwest, is a city called Chitrakuta. It is a jewel of a city, matched in beauty only by the righteousness of its king and the harmony among its many castes. In one of the outlying neighborhoods, a seven-year-old Brahmin boy lived with his parents. The three lived modestly, but the couple felt rich with the joy of having such a
special child. The boy, whose name was Thammu, was not only sweet-looking; he was also as mild as a bel tree sapling and indispensable around the house. Above all, he was wise far beyond his years. His parents felt assured that their elder years and their future life would be blessed with security and happiness because of their son's virtues.

One day, as the boy was carrying some firewood to the house, he noticed crowds lining up along the road where a noisy procession of chariots and soldiers was making its way slowly. At the head of the procession rode a dignitary in a high chariot, calling out to the excited crowds. The boy put down the wood and waited for the chariot to come nearer. Finally he was able to hear the strange announcement of that important-looking man: “The king is looking for a seven-year-old Brahmin boy who would agree to offer his life to a Brahmin demon for the sake of the king and the community! The boy's parents will have to hold the boy down, as the king will slay the boy. Anyone who agrees will receive this statue made of gold and gems, along with one hundred villages!” Behind the lead chariot was another in which a brilliant gem-laden golden statue was displayed. It was the size of Thammu and must have been priceless. The crowds were transfixed by the glittering image, but no one seemed to take the words seriously.

The boy had no interest in gold, but, unlike the other merry bystanders, he sensed immediately how desperate the king had to be. With little thought, he
stepped forward and waved to the man in the chariot, the king's chief minister. The official, climbing down stiffly from the chariot, approached the boy guardedly. “Yes, my child,” he said. “What is it?”

“I want to give my life for the king—I'm seven, you know,” the Brahmin boy said proudly to the stunned man. “But first, I don't understand why a boy has to die.” The minister, deeply impressed by the boy's dignified demeanor, agreed to tell him about the entire affair. The two found a shady spot under a tree, and the minister told the strange account of how the king came to need such desperate help.

“King Chandravaloka was the worthy ruler of the renowned city of Chitrakuta. It was he who kept the castes in peaceful harmony, he who assured the prosperity of all citizens. But unlike his subjects, the king remained unhappy because he was unable to find a woman who would move his heart to love. And so, the king took out his sorrow on the helpless animals of the forest, which he hunted with great ferocity.

“One day as he was rampaging in the woods, scattering arrows and tearing through a thicket, the king felt that none of this was filling the void in his heart. He was overcome with a sudden urge to penetrate the forest to its very core. Striking his horse with his heel, he sent it flying like a storm through the green sea and directly into another, hidden jungle. His companions could not keep up with that bolt of his horse, and the king was alone. In the dark new forest his horse slowed down, and
Chandravaloka soon realized that he was lost. He wandered about, more amazed than worried, until he saw a large lake, white with lotus flowers and surrounded with reeds that bent in the gentle breeze, beckoning him to approach and bathe. The king dismounted and cooled down his horse before refreshing himself.

“He was drying off in the reeds when his eyes caught a glimpse of a moving figure. It was a young woman, a hermit's daughter no doubt, for she was dressed in the rough bark of the ashoka tree, with a garland of marigold flowers around her neck. Even the coarse dress and modest adornment could not cover her glowing beauty, the king thought, just as he was struck with the arrows of Kama, the love god. The young woman was accompanied by an older companion—an attendant apparently—who tried to shield her from the stranger's eyes.

“‘This must be the lustrous goddess Gauri herself, or perhaps Savitri, the Creator's wife, who came to bathe in the lake,' the king ruminated. ‘Perhaps I should ask her attendant.'

“The young woman was too shy to come out from behind her broad companion, but made up for this demureness with thoughts that burned through her mind. “Who is this perfect man who has appeared in this remote forest like the divine King Indra himself? Is he a holy man? He must surely be the most handsome man in the world.”

“The attendant, a gifted scholar in the ways of the heart, did not fail to perceive the mutual infatuation,
and she boldly approached the king when he nodded in her direction. He introduced himself as the king of the land. The attendant in turn, acting on behalf of her mistress, responded obligingly, ‘The young lady I am shielding behind my back is Vykunta, sir. She is the daughter of the great sage Kanva, who lives nearby in a retreat. She has come to bathe in the lake with her father's permission.'

“The king was thrilled with that information and immediately mounted his horse and rode to the retreat, a mere arrow shot away. He dismounted before entering the compound and approached the great sage with deference. Touching his head to Kanva's knees, he introduced himself.

“‘I know who you are, King Chandravaloka,' said the sage, who was a tiny man with an enormous white mane. ‘We all do.' He motioned around him at the other renouncers who shared the hermitage. Then he added, ‘You are that king who has been terrorizing all the inhabitants of these forests. You are a fine and righteous king, and you have the best of everything. Why not enjoy these things and leave the forest animals in peace?'

“The king bowed low and said, ‘Sir, I don't understand my own impulse to shoot animals. I don't really enjoy watching them die, but the chase fills a void in my heart. I have heard your words and will abide by them. From this day on there will be no hunting in these woods.'

“Kanva spread his arms in delight and hugged the young king. ‘I did not expect you to accept this
feeble request so readily,' he beamed. Then he added, ‘Because you have shown such grace, choose a boon and I shall grant it.' The king did not hesitate for a second and asked for Vykunta's hand.

“That very same night, the sacred retreat saw its first marriage, a riotous celebration in which even elderly men of God danced drunk with the joy of the young couple's love. Sadly, the very next morning the couple departed, accompanied to the edge of the hermitage by all the renouncers. From there the two proceeded alone, riding double on the king's horse until dusk. As night drew its lovely curtain of darkness, the king and his wife found themselves on the banks of a deep lake. Nearby grew a dense ashvattha tree, its leafy branches hanging over the soft grass. It was a perfect place to spend the night. The couple lay down on a bed of flowers and held each other as the rising moon dispelled the dark shadows lurking in the creepers of the thick tree. They fell asleep languidly, neglecting to offer the tree any of their curds, sesame, or even water.

“The sun came up fiery and angry. It burned away the last wisps of moon rays and hissed the arrival of a deadly threat. Suddenly, a huge Brahmin demon, named Jvalamukha, hulked above the couple. His hair was flaming like the sun and bright as lightning. Around his neck was a garland of intestines, and he was gnawing on a man's head and drinking the blood from the skull. His protruding tusks were dripping with the blood, and he howled with a frightening laughter. ‘Foolish man, even the gods fear this
place. Don't you know that this ashvattha tree is my home? I shall tear out your heart and devour it in front of your new wife.'

“The king, who was a fearless warrior, knew he stood no chance against this demon. He looked at his terror-stricken wife and addressed the monster with humility. ‘Sir, I beg your forgiveness for this horrible indiscretion. How can I make it up to you? Tell me what you need and I shall provide it, even if it be a human sacrifice.'

“The demon laughed viciously with pleasure and answered, ‘Yes, I will forgive you. But only if you obey my instructions in every detail. You must find a seven-year-old Brahmin boy who is of such noble character that he will volunteer to give up his life for you. His parents must hold him down by the arms and feet, and you must slaughter him with your own sword. All of this is to be done in exactly one week. If you fail, I shall devour your entire court. Now go!'

“The king returned to the palace with his young wife feeling worse than he did the day he had left. Everywhere he looked he saw nothing but bloody, demonic death. It was my idea, then, to go around the city in a chariot and make the proclamation you heard and to offer the gold and wealth to the family of the boy who volunteered.”

The minister looked at the little boy sitting before him. “I am deeply ashamed for making this request. I never expected a boy to come forward. But now that you have, you must know that the future of our
entire kingdom is in your hands.” Looking at his hands, the minister fell silent.

The little Brahmin boy was moved by the minister's account. He felt sad for the king, but gave no thought to the gold. With his high and little voice he instructed the minister to reassure the king that everything would turn out well. Then he gathered up the kindling and went to see his parents, who lived in a modest house shaded by gular trees. He told the elderly couple about the king's tragedy and his own intention to sacrifice himself. His parents, of course, refused to hear of it. So he told them about the great wealth they stood to gain from his death, but this only enraged them, and he had to endure a lecture on family values.

When that ended, the seven-year-old spoke the following words: “This body we live in is useless. It is a source of pain and suffering, and it is vile and despicable. In no time it perishes and we die. The only thing that truly matters is the merit that follows us after death, and what better way is there to gain merit than by sacrificing one's life for the sake of others?”

His parents were amazed. “You sound like Lord Krishna, son,” said the father. “Where did you get such wisdom?”

“Father, I may be seven now, but my current life is only one in a long chain. My soul is ancient; it has accumulated the lessons of many previous births.” The fact that the boy finally talked his parents into consenting was not a testament to their uncaring attitude or their greed. It was a reflection of the little
boy's great will and sharp intellect. But finally they did, in fact, agree to let the boy sacrifice himself.

On the assigned day King Chandravaloka took the boy with his parents to the demon's ashvattha tree, where before long the monster appeared, shouting gleefully in true amazement as he beheld the boy. The little boy showed no sign of fear, even when his parents leaned over to hold him down, and even when the king pulled out his sword. In fact, he began to laugh! At first he laughed softly; then his laughter grew uproarious. The king froze in mid-swing at the very instant that the demon reached out to stop the descent of the sword. The boy's parents stepped back in bewilderment.

“Why are you laughing?” roared the demon. “What can be so funny at a moment like this?”

The boy stopped his laughter and explained. “I can't help thinking how silly this situation must look. Everything is exactly the opposite of how it ought to be. Normally, when a weak person finds himself in a dangerous predicament, he first turns to his mother and father for help. They go to the king, and the king appeals to the presiding deity. Here, all of these persons are present, but they are the very cause of my troubles. The reason I find this funny is that although I'm only seven years old, I can see through the delusions of the body and its desires, while you, who should be wiser, are acting out of complete delusion. You are all slaves to your own body. I think that's funny.” And with that the boy continued to laugh.

The old man looked at me with a mischievous grin. “So what do you think—are they going to kill the little boy?”

Frankly I had hoped for some clever twist that would get the boy out of this situation—some of these stories were starting to flatten my expectations. The old man, on the other hand, was another story—the real puzzle. So I shrugged. “Sure, why not? It's up to the demon and he's not going to be moved by the boy's little sermon…By the way, can you explain this concept of a demon who is also a Brahmin? I thought Brahmins were always people, and usually virtuous or holy—isn't that the idea?”

“No, not quite. Some Brahmins are people, but some are demons and others are gods. Some are good while others are good by other standards. There are many moralities, you know, just as there are many types of beings and classes of men.”

We were standing, and the sun was behind me and to the left. My feet began to burn on the slab step, but I did not want to shift my weight too much. The entire situation suddenly struck me as ridiculous, irritating. This little guy with a happy smile was talking about moral relativism while I was listening like a college student on a field trip, and my feet were turning into sizzling bacon on a hot stove. I tightened my jaw and told him I did not understand.

“Don't be alarmed by that, my friend. In truth, I'm not sure I do either.” He looked at my legs and, pausing thoughtfully at my feet, asked, “Tell me, what are your thoughts about the boy?”

The boy? Who cares about the boy! I need to get off this rock! Come on, man…“I liked him well enough,” I said. “A precocious little thing. Couldn't you make him thirteen though?”

“I suppose I could have, but then he'd be married already and unfit for ritual sacrifice…It would be redundant, don't you think?” The guide laughed loudly, but showed no sign of moving.

I was beginning to fume and tried to take it out on the story. “I found the argument with his parents too much of a stretch, even if you suspend disbelief. That would never happen with parents who are basically decent, as those folks obviously were. It seems to me that the story is so busy getting out some message that it loses track of common sense.”