“Tomorrow,” Dhiman said with a victorious grin. “We’re leaving at noon.”
The boys spent the night with the slaves and the camels, next to the inn where the merchants were staying, grateful that their new traveling companions had lent them sleeping mats and blankets for cover.
The camels kept Yeshua awake with their throaty grunts and snores. He looked up at the endless skies above and wondered what adventures lay ahead. Tomorrow, their route would turn inland toward Mesopotamia, even farther away from home. For the first time, Yeshua wondered if he had made the right decision to leave. He had no money, no guarantees. He missed his parents. And Yakov—oh, how he wished his brother were here!
Yeshua closed his eyes and recited the evening prayer Ama had taught him:
Hear, O, Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. Blessed be the name of his glorious kingdom forever and ever. I shall love the Lord my God with all my heart and with all my soul and with all my might. And I shall teach of him to my children, and speak of him at home, and think of him when I walk outside, and when I lie down and when I rise…
Chapter Seven
Damascus, Syria, AD 8
The splatter of a camel urinating next to his head jolted him awake. Startled, Yeshua jumped up from the mat, yelping so loud he woke Dhiman.
“He was peeing on you!” Dhiman laughed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You’re the camel’s latrine!”
Yeshua punched him, pretending to be upset, but soon enough his frown turned into a grin and he doubled over laughing. What an adventure this was going to be!
Although the sun wasn’t up yet, some of the inn’s patrons were already stirring. Yeshua and Dhiman rolled up their mats and went to watch the market unfold. The fruit and vegetable vendors were the first to arrive, followed by the meat and egg vendors, along with the bakers selling flatbreads. The foreign traders set up stalls of perfumes, bundles of fine fabrics, ornately woven mats, and golden jewelry right next to the tall Mesopotamia Gate covered with blue mosaic tiles.
Luck remained on Yeshua and Dhiman’s side. Almost every merchant they passed gave them something—a handful of nuts, grapes, bread, or dried strips of beef—enough for them to pack some food away for the next leg of their journey. Yeshua had already learned that no meals were guaranteed, and for the first time in his life, he understood to appreciate everything he received.
In the coming days, the caravan escorted Yeshua and Dhiman through Syria, Mesopotamia, and Bactria. They rested from the midday heat under tall date palms in the oasis town of Palmyra. They paused in the capital city of Seleucia by the river Tigris, where the merchants traded pearls and Eilat stones for yards of Han silk and statues made of bronze. They idled in the city of Rhagae while the men entertained themselves with harlots in the shadows of the Gebri castle. They hurried through Balkh, where Prophet Zarathustra’s followers stalked them in narrow alleys between whitewashed houses, and sighed in relief when they left the town behind.
Between cities, the road led through barren landscapes, over mountains, across rivers, and past fertile oases. They passed tented nomad settlements and tiny villages with clusters of mud huts. They suffered through blinding sandstorms and days of unbearable heat in the deserts, and endured violent snowstorms as they trudged through deep snow at the higher altitudes. Every now and then, bandits on horseback attacked the caravan to steal their merchandise, but the caravan’s swordsmen always reigned superior, and along the way dozens of horses were added to the cargo.
In every commercial center, a few merchants departed and others joined; the caravan expanded and compressed like a school of fish with an ever-changing shape and composition. Prostitutes were bought and abandoned a few miles later. Holy men walked along for short stretches, seeking protection from wild animals and thieves. Youngsters tagged along in search of excitement, only to find that life on the road left them hungry, worn, and covered with dust.
Yeshua and Dhiman grew closer with every step. They bonded as outsiders beside their wealthy comrades and their slaves, and became graceful receivers of any leftovers. Although the caravan leader appeared hostile, he always made sure Yeshua and Dhiman stayed warm during the harsh winter months and found sufficient cover during the storms. And when their sandals wore thin, a new pair magically appeared by their mats as they slept.
Yeshua’s olive complexion had darkened and dried from months in the sun, wind, and frost, and by now he looked like any other nomad. Along the way, the boys adopted each other’s phrases and gestures, and soon their accents merged into one. They earned their keep by assisting the cooks with chores like chopping carrots and onions and helping the slaves unload the cargo animals at local markets. At night, they told stories by the bonfire. Yeshua spoke of the heroes of his tradition: Abraham, Noah, Moses, and Elijah. Dhiman recounted tales about the wise Buddha. In time, their epics blended to the point where the boys no longer knew whose story it had been or where it had originated.
As much as Yeshua revered his Yehudi patriarchs, he was intrigued by the Buddha.
“He was born a prince in the mountain kingdom of Sakya,” Dhiman said and closed his eyes, as if visualizing the story before him. “Before his conception, his mother dreamed that a white elephant offered her a lotus flower and entered her womb, which meant she would give birth to the purest of beings.” Dhiman opened one eye to check if Yeshua was listening, then continued. “When the baby was born, all wise men predicted he would grow to be a great master and dedicate his life to serving the needy. But the child’s father, the king, wouldn’t hear of it. In fury, he bolted the castle gates and wed his son to a pretty maiden.”
Yeshua heard himself gasp. The Buddha’s father had acted in the exact same manner as his own.
“The prince grew up in ignorant happiness within the palace walls, enjoying all its luxuries. That is, until the day his parents allowed him to go outside for the first time. The prince was horrified by what he saw: a man sick with the plague, a wrinkled old beggar—even a corpse. No one had told him that health and youth were fleeting. However, the next time he left the palace, he befriended a blissful monk who had given up all his possessions to teach others how to be peaceful and kind. The prince became so deeply impressed that he left his wife and child to embark on a spiritual journey. He escaped at night, donned a robe, shaved his head, and set out in the world carrying only a beggar’s bowl.”
Yeshua stared at his friend. Was he making this up?
“Along the way,” Dhiman continued, now with both eyes open, staring into the fire, “the prince studied with many teachers and learned how to meditate. He practiced every day. Yet it bothered him that despite their immense knowledge and wisdom, no one knew the answer to ending suffering, aging, and death.
“The prince and the five monks who accompanied him concluded that the only way to complete wisdom was absolute austerity. For six years, they fasted, slept on beds of thorns, and let the sun scorch their skin. When this, too, failed to bring enlightenment, the prince gave up. He left his fellow monks and, in despair, sat down under a large fig tree to meditate. He vowed to stay in the same position until truth found him. On a full moon night, the prince had a vision: a demon offered him an abundance of magnificent gifts, including his three beautiful daughters. When the prince politely declined, the demon attacked him with lightning and storms and an army of monsters. The prince struggled to ignore the interruptions and stay in meditation. He sat up straighter and relaxed his mind, and slowly the visions faded. At the light of dawn, the demon finally gave up. Like a poof of smoke, he shrank away and disappeared into nothingness. And when the prince opened his eyes, he had become the Awakened One—the Buddha.”
A shiver ran down Yeshua’s spine. He, too, was on a spiritual quest. He, too, had fled his home at night and had embarked on a journey to become a wise man.
“When the Buddha woke from the dream that had been his life, he understood the causes of suffering,” Dhiman continued. “He knew how to avoid a life
of misery. How to be free.”
Yeshua nodded, urging him to continue.
“The Buddha reviewed the memories of his previous lives and understood how everything in life is subject to cause and effect, and how everything we do—good and bad—always comes back to us.” Dhiman took a deep breath. “He recognized that every living being goes through a cycle of life and death.”
“So we’re born again to amend what we did wrong in another life?” Yeshua asked.
“Not quite. The Buddha said we’re born, decay, and die at every moment of our lives. We change all the time, renewing ourselves, learning and evolving.”
Dhiman reminded Yeshua of his rabbi in Capernaum and wondered why his teacher had never mentioned the Buddha. Perhaps he hadn’t heard about him?
“The Buddha meditated for weeks and weeks until he had absorbed all the knowledge of the world. Then he set out to teach anyone who wanted to listen that we all can become enlightened. He traveled the world for years to share this knowledge with both men and women, rich and poor, the ignorant and learned—”
“Like you?”
Dhiman blushed. “But I’m not the Buddha. I know nothing. I want to learn, but…maybe I’m still too young. The Buddha,” he continued, “taught for forty-five years. He handed out alms, healed the sick, performed miracles, and showed people how to achieve enlightenment.”
“How did he heal them? With oils?”
“With hands, I think.”
“My grandmother does that, heals with her hands. But she also uses herbs and potions.”
“When the Buddha died, the trees burst into full bloom and flowers rained all over his body, for he was the greatest soul that ever lived.”
Every night, no matter how exhausted they were after a day of walking, Yeshua begged Dhiman for more stories. There was so much to learn.
His friend embodied everything Yeshua admired: compassion, humility, and awareness. Yeshua was still caught in the material world: he envied the merchants who could purchase a whole grilled lamb for dinner. He angered when someone took his sleeping spot. And despite Dhiman’s warnings about pride, Yeshua still yearned to be the wisest leader the world had ever known. And, once in a while, he still cried himself to sleep because he missed his family. Detachment seemed impossible.
From their first days together, Dhiman and Yeshua cared for each other like brothers. On the hottest nights, they slept almost naked under the stars, and they huddled by the side of a camel on nights so bitterly cold they weren’t sure they would survive until morning. They laughed together, prayed together, sang together, and told each other countless stories. They learned each other’s languages and any other language they came across. They shared their thoughts, dreams, hopes, and fears, and even touched on forbidden topics, like girls and sex. When Yeshua woke from his first wet dream, Dhiman calmed him and explained how the male body works. When Yeshua fantasized about prostitutes in the markets or when they spied on merchants copulating with fallen women, Dhiman assured him arousal was natural and that with mind training and practice, he would be able to control his lusts.
But it wasn’t until they were somewhere between the fertile slopes of the Hindu Kush mountains and the valley of Kabul, after more than ten months together, that Yeshua asked Dhiman to share his meditation technique.
“Breathe in and out,” he said. “Feel your breath and follow it from your nose into your lungs and down to your stomach. Notice how your belly sinks in as the breath leaves it completely empty. Touch each breath and experience its energy. Really feel it.”
“What’s so special about breathing? I want to know how you practice, not how you breathe.”
“I sit, I walk, and I eat.”
“Everyone does that. That’s not meditating.”
“But when I sit, I know I’m sitting. When I walk, I know I’m walking. And when I eat, I know I’m eating. It begins with breathing.”
“How?”
“I’m always present in what I’m doing. When I eat, I chew each bite mindfully. I think of the wheat that made the bread. I think of the sun, rain, and soil that nourished the wheat. I think of the water from the stream that was added to the dough. I think of the woman who kneaded the bread and the fire that baked it.”
“You think a lot then?”
“Being conscious of what I’m doing stops my mind from drifting. It calms me.”
“We also eat in silence. In Palestine,” Yeshua added as his mind traveled to his family meals. “Do you also thank God for your food?”
Dhiman laughed. “We’re grateful for what we have received, but no, we don’t thank God. How many times must I tell you? We don’t believe in a god.”
Yeshua opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. There was no convincing his friend.
“Come, try the Om, why don’t you?” Dhiman said. “It’s powerful.”
Dhiman crossed his legs and put his hands on his knees, palms up. He took a deep breath and on the exhale let out a monotone “Oooooommm.”
Yeshua crinkled his nose. His friend was odd sometimes. But there was no harm in trying.
“Oooooommm,” Yeshua copied Dhiman. He chanted the word over and over until the sound vibrated through his entire body. A warm light filled his chest, and a channel expanded at the crown of his head.
“Dear Moses, what was that?” he asked, startled.
Dhiman explained that a long time ago, a man from Sindh discovered the sacred mantra and found that chanting the word helped expand the mind.
After that day, Yeshua practiced meditating every chance he got—before breakfast, during the midday break, and before going to sleep. Several days passed before he was consistently able to quiet his thoughts and relax his mind, but gradually, the flashes of calm extended and his sense of awareness increased. He also practiced what Dhiman called a walking meditation by focusing on a point in the distance, like a snow-covered peak or a waterfall, while he walked, filling his body with a sense of perfect bliss.
“God talks to me,” Yeshua told Dhiman early one morning, shivering, as they awoke on top of a slab of stone with only a thread-worn blanket for cover. They had crossed the narrowest part of the Khyber Pass in the Hindu Kush mountains the previous evening.
Dhiman laughed, as he always did when Yeshua confessed his innermost thoughts. “That’s splendid, but what does your god say?” he asked.
“It’s not my God. It’s our God: our Father and Creator. The source.”
“Calm down, Issa. Just tell me what ‘God’ says to you.”
The caravan leader had renamed him Issa after a harlot in Rhagae had mocked him and said that Yeshua was a woman’s name. Issa was a solid name. It would do for now.
“God tells me all sorts of things,” he said. “When I agonize about the shame I brought on my family, God tells me not to worry. And when I grow angry because someone grabbed a bigger share of the meal, leaving less for everyone else, God asks me to forgive them. He says anger and worry only hurt me; they don’t change anything.”
Dhiman laughed. “That’s not God speaking; that’s your inner voice.”
But Yeshua knew the thoughts weren’t his; God was teaching him how to become a better and happier person.
Chapter Eight
Sindh, AD 9
The weather grew warmer as the caravan descended into the Indus Valley. Lush meadows and pine forests replaced arid mountains and dusty plains. In Rawalpindi, an important trading center, Yeshua and Dhiman bathed in the river and scrubbed the dust off their bodies. They laundered their robes that had turned a dirty brown. From here on, the two would travel south while the caravan continued east. Teary eyed, Yeshua and Dhiman thanked the merchants for their protection over the past year and for the food, woolen blankets, and water they had shared.
As they descended the first hill out of the town, they heard the smatter of hoofs galloping behind them. “Hold it!” someone called. Yeshua spun around to see the caravan leader on horseback emerge through a cloud of sand.
His heart stopped. What had they done?
With a crooked grin, the leader tossed a bundle at Yeshua. His teeth glistened through his black beard. “This belongs to you.”
Then he turned his horse, his saber held high, and disappeared back into the dust.
“What is it?” Dhiman nudged Yeshua to open the parcel.
Inside was the golden ring they had offered as payment for the journey. Yeshua clutched it close to his heart. “Thank you,” he said, addressing the man who had left—and God. Once again, he had something of value that might help pay for his return home someday.
On the southern road, Yeshua and Dhiman trailed the fertile riverside and nourished their bodies with juicy melons, ripe bananas, and fresh fish. They made friends with the local men, who wore their hair and beards long and wrapped colorful scarves around their heads, and who shared fanciful epics about the local gods. They spoke about Shiva, a four-armed god who always destroyed the universe only to re-create it. And Varuna, a god of the sky and earth, who ruled the ocean and night demons, and Vayu, a god of the restless wind, who delivered the sweetest perfumes. At first, Yeshua thought they were teasing him with silly stories only to fool him, but the more he listened, the more it made sense. Why shouldn’t God show more than one face?
The Sindhi people prayed to murtis, oval rocks that were placed in simple roadside shrines and represented their gods. They rang a bell to announce their arrival and smeared the murti with red paste as a mark of honor. Then they offered the murti food and flowers, recited a few mantras, and bowed to the rock with their palms pressed together.
“This way, Shiva knows to look after me,” one of them said.
Yeshua couldn’t resist. He picked a flower from the side of the road and offered it to the murti.
“Have you gone mad?” Dhiman snickered. “You think a stone will protect you?”
“But why can’t God be in everything?”
The Transmigrant Page 5