Dream in Vang Vien

---

In the tenth year of Samudra Gupta, kingdom of the Oryas.

“Store the heart in a deep pool, to foster its marvellous root. Turning to the summit
for nourishment, he deviates from the path. Pay heed then the provider of what man
seeketh. Weak in spirit, thou cannot provide. Persevere the path solitary taken; it is
He thou seekest in verity.”

ARUN. He is the Encompassor, the all-encircling light.
I am Sidri, the Reciting Priest of the House of the Vasishtas. I am Hothar, the Invoking Priest. From the pit, the gloom profound and bottomless made so that none may ever thence emerge, I stir the Voices at my incantations: to reveal unto me what is hidden, the Mystery. The Mystery means also stillness and isolation. She is known by contemplation. She is what is latent, out of which all acts shall shape themselves. Hold me up, O Arun: that I may be inward preceding my act, ensured to be at balance with the divine river, through which I wade when I invoke.
I am Sidri, the Reciting Priest. Since my father passed I have been bequeathed with the double shawl; I hold both mantles of the rites, for I recite and I invoke the Matarisvan. The Mystery is she who bridges the crevice between the cosmos and the conscience, betwixt the inexpressible and the concrete. Arun is the great Encompassor, and His way is called Arun. The way of Arun is a perfect compass.
Come not in desperation; come willing and desirous to come. And if thou art not at peace, that thou wouldst not follow her guidance, come not at all: lest ye die.
To know is first to ask. He approaches and enquires. He brings his whole forces upon the query: then shall Arun bring the changes that reveal unto him the answer to his query.
Active, the Mystery creates from dearth and favours what is renewed. Quiescent, she depletes what is full and diminishes what is completed. When above, suspended in the highest heavens: when below, submerged in the profound abyss. She manifests what should be, and conceals what truly is.
Whosoever approaches her will find her approaching him. Whosoever distances from her will find her distant and impenetrable. On approaching her, he advances, but hast yet to culminate. He goest forth but hast yet to arrive. Yet, once his advance has culminated, it begins its retreat. Once what is forward ends, it begins its return. Once filled, it begins depletion; this is the distancing from her, the Mystery.
I, Sidri, the Hothar, have long awaited for a youth, one whom I could call my son, to whom I may pass on the burden which I have inherited from my house, one to form unto the priesthood of the Hothri and the Hothar, to learn him the way to Arun, to teach him the recitation of the Rgvda, that he become a Hothar after me. To learn him the subterranean of the Matarisvan, that he become a Hothri after me.
I have found this young man.
This is the tale of Sankar, my son of the spirit, my pupil in our ways imperishable, my brood in the ancient paths of the Aryas.
The Mystery. She that bridges the crevice between the All and my conscience, between the inexpressible and the concrete. She is the way to Him.
The way of Him is a perfect compass. He guides us from the cold regions, the steppes and marshes of the rain lands. A perfect compass describes a complete circle through the places wherein I walk.
Now the Mystery. She is the way of Him. She is the matrix of the fecund and the impetus towards form. She is the vital pulse that shapes all configurations, of an aspect immanent and formative.
In my youth, I queried before her, asking: Is it proper that I should approach You?
And she answered: Fate is My Decree.
Thou art her chosen consort, a tight fit past the gate. Be meritous in drawing close unto her. Conform to Her designs and complete her work herein.
In am Sidri the Hothar, the invoking priest. From Panchir I come, to the mountains I belong.
This is the life of one who followed her, the Mystery. And by her wast led to the borders of the Abyss, wherein he dwelt in my company.
By him I found Her way, and she deigned look upon me, saying: Come thou upon the mountain when he is gone, when he is gone. And I shall there make ye my son.

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When he was a lad of seventeen, Sankar knew nothing but despair. He sat near the pool of his father's house, tossing pebbles into the water to see if they would bounce off of the surface. He tossed pebbles all of his days, silent and morose, wondering what cause had brought him to the world, that he should be this disgusted with everything he saw around him.
He lived in a tiny village by a quiet river leading to the ocean a few leagues away. The country was flat and taken by rice paddies, with the occasional islands of palm trees under which the farmers built their modest huts. The land was fertile and safe. Tigers and leopards had long been chased out of the region by hunters, and brigands too. Except for the violent monsoons, the climate remained blue and intensely hot. The only curse here was the sense of lethargy that one had to struggle against for a lifetime. It was easy to slacken here, and when the people did not work, they sat around and gossiped, or took naps, or struggled under the sun to the little temples for their devotions. The people saw boredom as a noonday demon, with solitude its companion. To avoid drowning in this double curse, work and friendship were almost the only cure. Another one was the appreciation of nature, for wild deer, monkeys, and a wide array of birds dwelt in the region and did not avoid humans.
But Sankar had already turned old. The daily marvels around him left him indifferent. And those lurking dark thoughts. It was one thing that they wandered in; they could not be held at bay. Yet keeping them too long present, that was a show of weakness, and unworthy of any man.
“What is the matter with me??” he would ask himself.

Two years before a monk had wandered into town and asked Sankar’s father for a job. Bram, the latter, indulged the stranger and put him to work building an extension for the house, and digging the very pool by which Sankar now sat. The monk was called Nagasen, about twenty five years old, and already a homeless wanderer. Sankar found Nagasen intriguing because of his apparent good health, despite the kind of life he was leading, sleeping on the stone floors of temples, or out in the fields with the mice and the snakes. Eating from handouts and drinking from the streams, when he could not boil his water.
One early evening after a day at work, the monk was about to retire to his lodge near the garden when Sankar approached him, “Are you a sadhu?”
“I am an Arhat. I follow the ways of Siddarta.” The monk replied.
“Shall we stroll?” - “Certainly.”
The two young men headed for a narrow river outside of the village to watch a red sunset. As they walked, Sankar queried, “Being an Arhat, that means you live on the road, and on your own?”
“Oh, not all the time“, the monk explained. “I spend a few weeks on the road by myself. But then if I choose, I can always return to my place of congregation, a Sangha where my brethren live in groups. Occasionally, a solitary journey is necessary for all monks, in case we have something personal we wish to work out in peace.”
Sankar frowned, “Is it not better, for such matters, to try working things out with others, with friends, or relatives?”
“The Arhats work out their troubles on their own.”
“Ah…” brooded Sankar, “the world teaches me that you are always vulnerable when you are alone. Whether against other people, or against private demons.”
“It is a requirement for us. We must learn to struggle alone.”
“I see. What else?” --- “Then, we return to the Sangha, that is all.”
“Where is this place located?” --- “My own? Far away, sir. By the river Ganges.”
“You are indeed far away from home. What drives you to travel such distances?”
“That’s not a requirement.” Nagasen almost laughed, “Most Arhats never stray very far from their home towns. Others go to a Sangha and never stray from there. Yet others will travel all across the continent, at their whims and means. I merely wish to see the world; and so I travel.”
------------------------
The weeks went by. Whenever they could spare some time, Sankar and Nagasen would go out for a walk to the nearby park. It bordered the modest river that brought fishing boats and the occasional barges on their way upstream to the Ganges, of which the river was a detour. Nagasen was curious about Sankar’s Yajurvedic studies, and this was one rare occasion for the lad to discuss a subject that thoroughly bored him already. But generally, Sankar was the questioner. The time of about two hours before the last light was the best for strolls, since then the sun no longer oppressed one, and many villagers would cease their activities to wander around the nearby country and gossip. The two youths were no different. Nagasen would usually expose to his hearer different facets of the teaching he followed, since this was the only topic he knew anything about, and the only one that interested him, besides. All else was merely wanderings, begging, going hungry, and sleeping it rough. What Nagasen knew about the robbers, the perverts, the fraudsters, the drunken soldiers, the whores, all those creatures a traveller usually meets in spades, he kept from his companion.
The more Sankar heard, the more he found guru Siddarta to be extremely radical, and so different from the other known paths. Sankar was a bit familiar with the Upanishads, themselves radical enough. But he found those teachings of Siddarta hard to stomach. He would ask Nagasen, “Either you spend half the year in a Sangha, where you meditate alone, or you go on the road by yourself. You say you do this to work some personal things out on your own. What is it that you are working out this time, unless I am being indiscreet?”
“The question is appreciated. It is indiscreet, but I will tell you anyway, since you seem rather honest.”
“Oh, why not. I’ve a life ahead of me for that other way.”
“And it shall arrive, Sankar. For me, I am working on ridding myself of the feeling of loneliness.”
Sankar puzzled a bit, “But, you travel on your own. What means? Have you taken a vow of celibacy?”
“Not a permanent one, no. They would not allow me that at first. They ask you to make the choice when you are a bit older. I took a vow of five years. This is to see if I am really cut out for celibacy.” --- “And are you?” --- Nagasen winked, “I am two years into the vow and I still don’t know.”
“Is it because you want a wife?”
“No. I feel the solitude because I still have a sense of self.”
“A sense of self? But how can you do otherwise?”
“It is a sense of self that lusts and wants to be satisfied.”
“It sounds like normalcy to me. Why would you want it all to disappear?”
“I am taught that this self…of mine”, Nagasen suddenly stopped walking and turned to Sankar, “that this sense of self is not real. It is a delusion, meant to separate me from the rest of the world, the real one.”
“The real world? What world is there outside your senses?”
“Your senses, which belong to nature, and to you, are the root of the problem. They are, in fact, an error of nature.”
“Wait here. Why an error? We have two arms and not eight for a good reason, and we do fine with that. Two ears may not be enough for most, and yet: who wants to hear too much?”
“Aye, Sankar. We have a skin that protects us a little from the sun, and that’s why you have this mane of black hair on top of your head.”
“Certainly. Then why did you shave yours? Now you have nothing but your skin, against this terrible sphere that feeds us, and also makes us thirst. Babies have no hair, and cannot distinguish themselves from the rest of the world. And this makes them vulnerable to outside dangers. Once they age a bit and become self-aware, is this not a useful tool to sense the danger, and even sense internal illness?”
“You are in the right direction. That self is good for noticing dangers, and mostly from the outside. It is appallingly inept to feel out dangers that come from within. Instead, it fools you a while, it deceives you into believing things are all right. This kind of self-deception I find not very useful.”
“Well, Arhat, I believe you. But that guru of yours, Siddarta, preached that man can travel beyond his own senses. I don’t believe it. The moment you go beyond your senses, you can only speculate. Beyond what you can know for certain, you can only put your own person into all those things you speculate on.”
“Yes. And this too is a delusion. Anyway, since I have been travelling, I have felt more and more alone. This life may not be for me.”
On it would go, almost every evening. Though Sankar generally disagreed with most of what the monk would tell him, he was nonetheless learning an awful lot. It isn’t his father or uncle who would have talked to him like this. Then came the day that Nagasen had to say goodbye and depart. “I have finished the job for your father. I go back to the Ganges. Maybe I’ll pass your way again, some day.”
Nagasen had stayed almost a year as a guest-employee of the house. Then one day, Nagasen said goodbye and went his way. Sankar went on with his studies. Still, a perceptible gloom continued its descent upon him. He could not explain it. Was it due to his contact with the monk? Or did he regret his departure?
----------------------

“What am I going to do with this kid?” Bram asked his brother. “He is straddling the fence between childhood and the real world. He doesn’t want to study anymore. He’s only pretending. What does he expect the future to hold for him? He thinks his problems are just going to solve themselves?”
“He’s a teenager, Bram.”
“I bet it’s that monk from last year. He poisoned my son’s mind, convinced him that everything is useless.”
Sankar’s uncle took a paternal tone, “Now, now. Were we not young once? Did you not know years of incertitude? We knew not what life wanted from us, and dreaded the idea that maybe it wants nothing. What did we want from ourselves? Too much! And knew we how to get it? Verily, were you as self-assured as you are now?”
“I was like a boat without a rudder.”
“Yes. We understood not the ways of the world. Nothing made sense. Your son is eighteen. It is time he left the house for a while. Give him some responsibility, and he shall right his ways.”
Bram moved backwards, “Leave? What would I have him do, and where? He trains in medicine, but his day of completion is very far away. You are suggesting I get him a job, but away from home?? He doesn’t know how to do anything.”
“I have produce to sell to my agent in Benares. Let Sankar take these items to Benares.”
Bram was appalled, “It’s a hundred and eighty leagues away. You’re insane!”
“I’m sorry I don’t have business any closer. And your son won’t go it alone! Anyway, how is Sankar going to learn anything if you send him to the next village?”

Not far away, Sankar was at his customary post, by his father’s pool, tossing pebbles in the water. He heard the sound of hooves approaching and looked up to see two cavalrymen. They wore red tunics and yellow turbans. Their gear was strapped in large bags behind them on the saddle. Each had a metal helmet and a shield strapped to the sides of their horses, and both carried sheathed, curved sabres. Sankar watched them pass, and said to himself, “This is living.”
As the horsemen passed a short distance from the boy, one of them peered towards Sankar and smiled enigmatically. “What’s on his mind?” wondered Sankar.

At dinner, the whole family had gathered as usual. Sankar, lost in his own world, tried to enjoy the food. Finally, Bram said to him, “I have a job for you. Next week, I send you on a journey to Benares. You will take some wares belonging to your uncle, and deliver them to his agent.”
Sankar merely nodded. But later on that night, he tossed and turned in bed, a prey to a novel excitement. What would the trip bring him? “The first time I leave home on my own. Who will accompany me? Strangers, evidently. All the way to Benares in the company of strangers. And the hazards. That road is probably not safe. None are in the country. And I’m transporting valuables. If father is trying to get rid of me, he’s found an interesting way!”

In the morning, Bram again summoned his son to the doorsteps of the house, saying, “You go this day with three horses: two for the wares and one for thyself. And the lad saw that the two horsemen from yesterday sat mounted on their horses nearby. "Who are these men?" Asked the lad.
"Rajputs," Answered Bram. "-- hired by thy uncle as escort.

"By the waters of my house, I sat tossing pebbles. And my soul disintegrated at each pebble I tossed. Today, I ride in the company of heroes. Men of war whose lives are brief but filled to the utmost. How I envy such men!"

"Say, lad,” asked one of the guards as the three rode under the sun. "Art thou wed?"
"Nay, I am celibate."
"Say, lad," the guard asked again. "Fanciest thou strong beverage?"
"Nay, I have not yet tasted such things."
"I am Shivan, thy captain and humble servant on this journey. My companion here is Rajesh. He never says anything so do not speak with him. When day is at an end, we shall enjoy ourselves."
They had covered eighteen leagues that first day, and turned in for the night near a small village.
By the campfire, Shivan handed the boy strong brew, strong exceedingly. The three drank through the night, making merry. And the lad's tongue was loosened. He told of his miseries and boredoms. Of his contempt for his mother and his hatred for his father. Of his fear of the future and his puzzlement at the world. Then, the men fell asleep but Sankar stayed up, for he began to feel ill. He vomited until dawn and felt as if his very soul had been expelled from the bowels.
Sankar was pale and ill all the next day as they rode on. The three had risen before daybreak and noticed a strange light rising from the south. But they paid it no heed and mounted their horses.
All day they rode along the narrow path, under a blistering sun, with Sankar sweating profusely and the sweat pouring from his forehead and sliding down to his eyes, burning them. He thought he would surely collapse from his horse. He said nothing to his guides, not wishing to be heard as a complainer.

But he began to feel better at the approaching dusk. They came upon a town and settled for the night. Shivan said to the boy, “I take thee to a place for bathing." And they went.
Whence they went was a pleasant house with an inner court where steaming baths were taken. Now, Sankar was given a hostess for the evening. As the lad sat in the warm bath, she rubbed her hands with saffron soap and washed him, pressing gently his body with her hands. She then removed the boy from the bath and laid him on his belly. She then rubbed oils on his arms and legs with force, on his back and neck with firmness, on his palms and feet with gentleness.
A pervasive feeling that he had not known before troubled Sankar. "Who are you?" He asked her. "I am Parvati,” said she.
"The legendary mistress of god Krsna?"
"I know this not. But I am costly, and a learned mistress."
Now, Parvati was a woman of twenty, splendid to behold, with a thin nose and piercing eyes, tall and shapely, with brownish skin that glistened exceedingly, for she took baths of milk. She undid her long sari and removed the satin from her head. She undid her locks so that her hair fell below her shoulders. And her mane was glistening black.
She removed her sari and bared herself, save at the waist, wherein was wrapped a turban. When Sankar noticed this, she said to him with mischief, “this turban once belonged to a man I loved."
Parvati then rubbed her palms with a sweet spice and applied the spice upon her belly. Sankar turned upon himself to lie on his back, and she mounted him at the hips. The boy was utterly astonished by her beauty, for her breasts were erect and strong. And she rubbed perfumes and ointments on the shoulders of Sankar. Her hands were soft as a cat's pelt and deadly as the tiger's claw.
The lad could not contain himself and said, “Is it Shivan my escort who payeth thee?"
"Aye, I am too costly for a lad. Do nothing, young lion. Soon, I shall remove thy final garment." The moon was at its peak above the lad who layeth on his back, transfigured and transported. He could see Parvati above him, mounted atop and holding his shoulders. Her eyes glistened in the darkness like the she-wolf of the forest.

Sankar was not ill the following day, as they rode on to Benares. He was calm and poised; no thoughts troubled his spirit. And Shivan said to him, mockingly, “Take ye this wink from off thy face, lad! Lest it freezes upon you for the remainder of thy years!"
"Would God that it did,” replied Sankar.

He was in the mood for daydreams. Besides, the journey went on without end across a flat land of rice paddies with the occasional islands of palms. A few peasants work the fields in the distance. Otherwise, the journeyers never met anyone.
Sankar thought about this crazy Nagasen who tramped these roads and roasted under the sun six months a year. What drove him to do that?
In those days, people took for granted the reality of inner life and the invisible world. In fact, the inner life was considered so legitimate that the sages of the day doubted that the outer life was itself real; and they declared the outside world to be a complete illusion. This was the rising trend among the rishiis, a belief that the visible world was in fact a dream, an illusion created by some demon to confuse men and make them do wicked things. The demon had a popular name: Mara. He was not some fanged monster out of our nightmares. Rather, he was a deceiver, a tester of men. He was the inventor of our lusts, our ambitions, and our duplicity. “Another fine excuse!” Nagasen would have quipped.
Sankar’s father, like most Brahmins, was conventional in attitude and in awe of the rishiis, who he regularly visited in their nearby haunts deep within the forest. He would go and stay with the rishiis for several days, and come back to his son with tales of how this ‘world is just a phantom, and the only thing real is one’s soul’, a soul incapable of individual existence, a soul that could have only one identity - within that Great Universal Soul. To understand this insight fully gave one the only salvation possible. “Salvation from what?” Sankar would ask. “From the ordure of existence.” He would be told.
“Very poetic”, Nagasen would have added.
One way to arrive at this insight consisted of adopting a cross-legged posture, and then spend hours perfectly still, concentrating the whole of the mind on one single thing: one’s breathing, without which the body suffocates. Bram took to this practice every morning after he awoke, and every evening before he retired. He never compelled his son to do it, nor did he even advise it.
“Self-hypnosis”, believed Sankar, who had no interest in the matter. “And while this may have more value than the fools who strive for perfection by imposing it on others, what my father does stands on very shaky ground. What if all this babble, this obsession everyone around here has, about ‘soul’, your ‘soul’, my ‘soul’, was only just that: babble, an obsession? ‘Soul’? Just talk. A word. What if ‘soul’ is nothing but a word? Believing something makes you feel good, or ill, or scared. Good. It doesn’t make it real, or true. On whose say-so? What if ‘soul’ is nothing but a word, and it only exists whenever somebody’s mouth takes an odd shape and forms the sound of that word? One and all, those who obsess about sin and virtue, and their place in the afterlife, and those like my father who spend hours every day staring at the tip of their noses: those people rail with one voice against the evil inherent in any desire. Yet, are they not, too, pursuing after something? Then what is it that tickles them so about my ordinary desires: to stuff my face with cakes, to drink a barrel of coconut wine, to grab the Rajput’s daughter, to go for a long walk and see the world, to find a treasure and buy me an elephant, or a horse. What’s wrong with those desires? Are theirs any less vulgar?
“They too are chasing after something. Life eternal or union with the Universal Soul: fear of death or of solitude drives them. Does a craving not move them? Are they not chasing after an object of desire?
“I tell you what they’re doing”, Nagasen once said, “They’re not looking for anything. They just want to make sure you aren’t either.”
Sankar reared up at that, “Alas, Nagasen, it does not end there! Do we not see the society divided into castes, with the lower one being the most numerous, and always at the beckon call of the higher ones? The Brahmin keeps the magic a secret, only because the Dalits believe in it.”
“Yes: in the outer world, life is this way: but look into the inner one. Because you are self-aware, do you not ceaselessly pursue after the things you want?”
“Barring a pursuit, at least I wish for them, ceaselessly…”
“Sure, and there are those things you need, food and shelter. But most of the things you want, you don’t really need. And this is how all those desires end up generating suffering. The sensations are not the self, Sankar. And it is the desire for things not belonging to the self that causes suffering. Needless to add, all these things are perishable, like us. We have them, we’ll lose them, and we know it.”
“Well….just like our life. Is it really cause to suffer over that?”
“But so many people do, Sankar.” ---
“That’s true. I wonder if that’s really what makes them suffer. At my age, I already encounter too many people who seem dissatisfied. But when you ask them over what? You always get vague answers. The answers themselves are unsatisfactory!”
“We want things; it’s normal. And most of what we want, we don’t need. But we see others who possess them, and they seem attractive. And so we want them.”
“What makes you so sure these things….that we desire…are perishable? You’re not talking about immortality. That’s just a word, not a state anyone is around to tell us about!”
“Indeed, no one is around to tell us how great that is. Imagine that you are a flame, one that can burn fifty or sixty years. Then, suddenly a wind puts out the flame. Where has the flame gone?”
“It’s become air, a lot of hot one!”
“Exactly. It was composed of particles held together by the heat, and now these particles have come undone and gone in all directions. Nothing holds them together anymore. Likewise, you are a collection of many different particles, held together by a thing represented by your breath.”
“Yes, the Etman.”
“By whatever or whoever you want to call it. But your flame shall go out some day, as mine. We all know this will happen, and it shall be as if we never existed. We know: and that is another consequence of being self-aware. The first is that we crave after things just like us, transitory things, to satisfy transitory urges. The second is that we believe ourselves separate and superior from every other being. And the third is that we know dissolution awaits us eventually.”
“No wonder ignorance is bliss.” ---
“And power, too. The impermanence and our knowledge of it occasions all sorts of worry and disillusionment. To him who desires, and that is most of us, the tendency to identify self with what is material - why, to make the self-identical with those objects of pursuit - that is the chief cause of dissatisfaction. And it so happens that the ignoramus tends to have more objects of desire that he cannot attain.”
“Yea. The ignorant, come to think of it, don’t seem especially content. Why is that?”
“Because they are abused by those who control them. They are fed all sorts myths about everything; the sole purpose is to keep them afraid and obedient. There is no way out through ignorance. Someone always catches on to you.”
“Well, Arhat, I only suffer because of those things I want but cannot manage to get, for whatever reason. Take the daughter of the local Rajputs. I will never have her because she is my own age, and she must marry someone older. It’s the custom. It is not desire of her that makes me suffer. It’s the damn fact that I can’t satisfy my desire!”
“Yet, Sankar, both the desire and its frustration are so closely tied. One can’t exist without the other. They seem indistinguishable; isn’t it because they are one and the same?”

This kind of idle banter can fill an entire life. It’s the heat. What else to do in the day, especially outside of monsoon? This sun crushes everyone and forces them to the shade. They must sit for hours and wait for dusk, when it is tolerable to go someplace. That is what most of the people do; they sit in the shade and wait for dusk. And so they think and think. Thinking, the curse of life.

Sankar and his guides rode on for several hours in complete silence.
They came upon a river. Because it was the middle of the year, the flow was low and the fording easy. They began crossing.
Then, behold, when they were at midpoint betwixt the shores with the horses knee-deep in water, a scraggly band of armed men appeared opposite of them. Guided by his experience, Shivan turned and looked back, seeing that other men at arms had assembled on the bank whence they had begun the crossing.
"Who are they?" Sankar asked.
"Dakoits. Bandits!" replied Shivan. "They seek to rob us. Boy, stay in the midst of the river and ride away with the wares. We will deal with the brigands!"
And Shivan sallied forward his horse and charged the far bank, whilst Rajesh his companion charged ahead at the opposite bank. Now, Sankar kicked the horse and rode immediately forward, staying amidst the river. But he had difficulty manoeuvring the horses in the knee-deep waters.
And it came to pass that, although only bandits on foot had first been seen, two mounted ones suddenly appeared from the brush, one each from the opposing banks. And they surged forward and made straight for the lad and his wares. Sankar rode hard but was not well experienced with the horse, so that the animal panicked and threw him off into the shallow waters. The boy landed face first, and when he was about to rise, he saw one of the mounted brigands almost above him with his spear raised. Sankar gave a loud cry, “AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
At the instant, an arrow whizzed from behind and struck the man, who toppled from his horse and crashed into the river. The other brigand, having neared, swung round to see Shivan charge him from a distance with his sabre raised. The brigand had not time to raise his spear that Shivan struck him swiftly about the neck, sending a long spurt of blood high in the air. The bandit collapsed from his mount, unable to utter because his throat was cut.
The other bandits fled, because Shivan had killed their chieftains. Sankar sat in the water, stupefied and unable to draw breath. He stared at the reddened, moving waters. Then, he saw Shivan galloping his horse towards the shore to give chase to the bandits who disappeared in the forest. Soon, screams could be heard in the distance.

In the evening, the journeyers pitched camp a long, safe distance away from the scene of battle. Sankar could not stop shaking, though he assured his escort that it was not out of fear anymore. But Rajesh, who had been drinking since the end of the fight, mocked the lad for his trembling, and exulted at the day's exploits, boasting, “I killed four men with the sabre this day! The first one drew his spear on me, but I hacked the spear and took the man's head clean off! You should have seen how high that head flew in the air!"
Unable to swallow his spit, Sankar began to feel sick. But Rajesh rebuked him all the more. "This boy is trembling like a young fawn! And me? Behold! I am erect full most!"
And indeed, Shivan, seated at a distance could see that his companion was aroused as if with woman.
"The heat of battle still boileth in my blood!" shouted the drunken lout. Then, he advanced on Sankar who could only stare at him with disbelieving eyes.
"Come my frightened fawn. Be my mistress this night!"
And Rajesh grabbed the lad by the tunic, shouting, "I will show thee the brotherly love of soldiering!"
But Sankar had no need of brotherly soldier-love, so that he tried to escape. Rajesh wrestled him to the ground and could not be stopped. Shivan watched them from his seat with amused indifference.
"Shivan, have mercy! Remove this beast!"
Shivan let out a long sigh and got up. He rushed to Rajesh and threw him off of the lad. Rajesh stood up and furiously raged at his friend, saying, “Is it not rather that thou wouldst be in my place? Why defend the boy? He would be so ashamed that he would never tell a soul!"
And Rajesh lunged at Shivan. The two men wrestled on the ground, but Shivan was not with drink, so that he bound his friend by the hands and feet. Then he gagged the man and snarled at him, "Whosoever showest no restraint winds up bound. Have fitful sleep, my lusty friend!"

"What means this? First I am made utterly drunk and sick. Then I am taken a-whoring to a goddess named Parvati. Then I am pursued and almost slain by bandits. And now almost violated by one of my saviours because killing hath made him virile! What world is this? How I envy now the stupor of my former days!"
Sankar slept deeply that night, only to awake to find himself shackled with horse-harness to an orchard tree near the camp. "Who doest this to me?"
Shivan came and stood over him.
"Why?" Sankar bellowed.
"I have several reasons. Last night, I almost lost my friendship with my companion in arms, a man whose life I have oft saved, and who has oft saved mine. We have ridden together nine years, sharing many travails, privations, and joys, too. And we almost parted because of you. Rajesh became lustful because of thy feebleness, Sankar. Thou art a spoilt idler, and effeminate to boot. A good for nothing who shakest like a leaf at the first wind. You suffer not as we, Sankar. For we know to not moan until we hurt. Therefore, when I compare thee to my companion, what are you to me?"
And Shivan took all the horses with the wares. Rajesh was already riding away. And Sankar was left there tied to the orchard tree with nothing but the tunic on his skin.
"That I be attacked by robbers on such a journey is nothing out of the usual. And yet, my father knew that it could happen. Why, he might have even sent me to Benares without caring that it could happen. Was he secretly, in his heart, yearning to be rid of his burdensome son? Me, his only son, and now his only nightmare! Me, spoilt and idle, useless to my house and a dishonour in my father's eyes.
And that wretched Shivan! What betrayal! The first man I have ever admired. And one who has saved my life; he now betrays me after rescuing me from his perverse friend. I am robbed and left tied to a tree, to starve or be preyed upon by wild beasts! What horror! What a betrayal! Am I so evil that I deserve this?"
It rained throughout the day, first the ropes swelled and pressed hard upon his wrists, but then they loosened somewhat. Still, the knots were too tight.

By dusk, he was free, but not free as he had fancied to be! He only knew that home was now much further than Benares, and that his only chance was to reach that city. He walked to a village and there traded his tunic for some rice and fowl. After a night spent on the hay in a barn, he resumed his journey north--to Benares, on to Benares.
"It is as if I run from death--my village, and towards the uncertainties of life. Fine options I have! Why do I find myself so determined to reach the city, and live? Did I not care about a thing only weeks before? Am I merely shielding myself from oncoming panic?"

Throughout the day, Sankar walked on a road increasingly crowded with pilgrims heading for the city. There were also beggars lining the roadside--charlatans who posed as holy men and preyed on the generosity that religious fervour tends to bring. Sankar feared them; for they were thieves and cutthroats who would just as soon cut his own if they learned of his true predicament. Sankar walked on, sleeping near the campfires of the pilgrims. Within three days, his food ran out.
He was stranded--sixty league from Benares with but the garment covering his loins. Yet, the lad had not quite reached his bottom.
He sat by the roadside and watched the passing pilgrims. The very thought of what he was about to do horrified him. And yet, he struggled with himself for about an hour and finally raised his arm, hand outstretched, and became for the first time in his life--a beggar.
One passer-by muttered to the lad, “Young fool! Now is not the time to beg. It is on our return journey that you must solicit us, since we do not yet know how long our food shall last us."
Whenever someone handed him some rice, Sankar ate and resumed his march north, until the pains of hunger forced him to sit again and resume his begging. The days grew long, without end, and Benares seemed more and more like a receding mirage. At each dusk, Sankar would collapse anywhere and sleep a troubled sleep. He dreamt of his father mocking him, and of his mother smothering him with a blanket. Each dawn, a voice would stir in him, saying, “Lift thyself, man. Lift thyself and walk."
He continued on, staggering and not knowing what was hastening his demise the more--his hunger or his humiliation.
A widow walked by him one afternoon--she could be recognized because she wore the purple of mourning. And Sankar beseeched her, saying, “How far to Benares, good lady?"
"Fifty leagues."
"Pray give some alms to a lost youth. I was robbed of all I own on my way to the city."
The widow replied, “Young and old, they all spin the same yarn. Yet, because I fear the God of Mercy far more than the Lord of wickedness, take ye this sac of rice and millet." As she walked away, the lad plunged his face unto the sac of victuals.
Sankar managed twenty more leagues in five days before his sac was emptied. He managed another day of march, but at dusk he could stand no more. He lay down and closed his eyes. As his hand lowered to the ground, he felt the dull gloom of death enveloping him.
When he awoke, he was surrounded by darkness and silence. Yet he could see his own hands. He heard faint voices in the distance. He then saw a form darker than darkness coming towards him, standing above him.
"Be this death?" asked the lad.
"Are you afraid?" replied the shadow.
"Aye, I am. Because I have done naught with myself. I am still unfulfilled when I should be spent and readied to depart with thee."
"Well said," the Dark Prince replied. "I shall come again one evening."
****
The lad awoke again, this time by the side of a campfire. A group of yogis huddled near.
"Am I dead?"
"You will be if you do not eat this bowl of lentils,” replied one of the yogis, who handed him the bowl.
"Yogi, I was conversing with a shadow."
"Aye, it appears he has given you a reprieve."
And Sankar reached Benares in company of the yogis. As they neared the river Ganges, the boy noticed a familiar face and walked up to her. "Parvati? Is it really you?" She turned and looked at him. She wore a simple sarong, and though she was unadorned and wore no facial paint or apparel, she seemed to Sankar even more beautiful.
"Lad, what on earth has happened to you. You look like a ghost!"
"I was robbed and left to starve by my escort."
"That figures. I should have warned you that night. Immortals for hire tend to be very unreliable. Poor lad, they are far away now."
"It no longer matters to me. But what about you? What brings you here?"
Parvati looked away. A long moment passed before she answered. She seemed not sad or happy, only thoughtful. She then looked again at the lad. "Well, I have given up whoring. The money was not worth the price I paid. I became very ill in the privates. Surely I believed that I would die. A doctor saved me.
I had come so close to dying that I took fear. Now, I am in Benares to purge myself and to see if God will accept me back."
She looked away again, “One does not abandon wickedness so easily. I need the counsel of true yogis. Only they are able to assist me, for I am so corrupted and disgusted with myself."
"What you have done is your salvation, beautiful lady. You became ill just in time. Had it happened later, you would have been too weakened to resist, and surely would have succumbed."
"How do you know this?"
"I study medicine, or at least I intend now to resume."
"Good. You are come to Benares to find God. Learn a science first, and then you can learn a religion. The city is filled with good doctors and good yogis."
"Yes, I am not returning home. Not for a long while, at least. I shall find a Brahmin for my studies and a Guru for my ignorance."
Beautiful Parvati smiled wistfully, “And a Yogi for your wickedness--"
She and Sankar laughed merrily.

"I was not smart enough to learn from other people's errors. I had to learn from my own. So be it. At least, I have learned. I was too tightly wrapped in my vanity--I could not be reached. How could I ever know anything when all I possessed was not my own?

“Years I have spent wishing for death, until it stared me in the face. What was worth salvaging that I should parlay death into going away? Is it not written in Scripture: "We are not our own, for we belong to the Atman. The Atman, was it this voice that urged me on as I staggered on the road to Benares? Perhaps. I was betrayed and abandoned by men. And I, even I, had abandoned all things. Yet, the Atman did not abandon me. The Atman, a distant voice from the past and from the future, an abode wherein there is no time."
In the morning, Sankar and Parvati approached the river to a place called The Altar of Fire, because it was custom there to cremate all pilgrims who died in Benares. They saw the first lit pyre of the day and stood watching. A boy of seven, appointed for the ritual, circled the pyre, torch in hand, seven times before setting the wood afire.
"Sankar, I am so alone." The lad turned and saw that Parvati was weeping gently. He put one hand on her shoulder, the other hand on her temple. She calmed down.
Sankar turned to watch the body being cremated. It was a young man. His face was uncovered, and Amazed, Sankar could see that the face was his own.
"My God. O Arun, supreme God of the universe. I am free--I am free."

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