The Transmigrant

by Kristi Saare Duarte

  But Harikesh seemed to have anticipated his departure and made no fuss about it.

  “I always knew this was not your final destination, my brother. But always remember, Issa,” he said in parting. “The sense of your importance is only an appreciation of your self by yourself.”

  Chapter Ten

  Satavahana, AD 10

  That night, Yeshua slept in a shallow cave on a hillside. The road from Ujjayini had petered out into a field, and he had not come across a single person who might offer him accommodation. Although it was a blessing to sleep alone, away from the stirring of others, the familiar human noises were replaced with the frightening sounds of the jungle. Crickets and frogs competed in a dissonant choir. Tigers growled in the distance. Somewhere, an animal screamed. Flying squirrels swooshed by and occasionally brushed against the branches he had used to close off the cave. Yeshua shivered, anxious about what the night held. What did a young man like him know about surviving in the forest? He stared at the cave entrance and prayed that God would keep him safe.

  When he dozed off, his sleep was deep, and he didn’t hear a panther slink in between the foliage covering the cave entrance. The giant feline walked up to him, sniffed his face, and left as quietly as it had entered. But in the morning, he did notice something strange: a breach between the branches. A flying squirrel must have crashed into the foliage with enough force to leave an opening, he thought. He promised himself to be more careful in the future.

  Yeshua pushed his way through the dense forest where the sun filtered through the treetops just enough to cast shimmering specks of gold on the ground. The jungle was alive with buzzing insects, distant growls, croaks, and squeaking branches. All around him, monkeys chattered and birds tweeted in a hundred different languages. Animals drifted close but remained out of sight. Only the mosquitoes kept him company until Yeshua smeared his skin and hair with crushed lemongrass to repel them.

  To still his doubts, he focused his thoughts on God. He couldn’t give up now. God wouldn’t have led him this far only to be bitten by a venomous snake or eaten by a tiger. He convinced himself that no spider in the world could poison him, no snake would attack him, and no leopard would eat him. Surely with God’s protection he was safer here than he had ever been at home. He brushed the fear from his mind and trudged on.

  When a drop of water hit the tip of his nose, he didn’t react. He had grown used to condensation splattering around him. But when a second drop and a third and a fourth struck his head, he looked up. Was he being attacked by a flock of birds? Above him, the sky had turned as dark as night. His heart stopped—surely it couldn’t be rain. He had ignored the stories about monsoons, the violent seasonal rains, assuming it never rained in the humid south. But the increasing frequency of heavy drops proved him wrong. And before he could find cover, a deafening crack of thunder shook the ground and the rain gushed down like a waterfall. The sky blazed with lightning. Yeshua crouched under a teak tree and pulled a wide leaf over his head.

  He no longer felt safe.

  Within minutes, Yeshua was as soaked as if he had been swimming in Lake Kinneret. Why had no one warned him about rainstorms? Or maybe they had and he hadn’t listened? Yeshua weighed his options. He could stay under the tree and hope the storm would abate in time. Or perhaps he should turn back. But no, he had been walking for more days than he could count. How far ahead was the next village? Which way should he go?

  A blanket of dark clouds had turned the forest into a pitch-black tunnel.

  What if the rain didn’t stop for days?

  He was hungry and wet and miserable. He had survived on berries for the last few days, but if the rain continued like this, he might get stuck in the mud and starve. What if he died here? Would they find his body and make up stories about him, saying he had died in a quest for salvation? Or turn him into a god like Mahavira after he died of starvation? Perhaps they would place his statue in temples and make offerings of flowers and incense. Maybe even ask him for protection. Yeshua laughed out loud, despite his misery. He chuckled as he forced his way forward, pushing branches and leaves out of his way, shaking with giggles and chills until his chuckles drowned in sobs. He didn’t want to become a deity that people prayed to. And he wasn’t ready for salvation. He was too young; he had so much to do and to learn, so much to see. He had to survive this. He had to survive.

  Yeshua took off his sandals. His bare feet felt steadier on the ground, allowing him to walk faster. Well trained by the Jains, he placed his feet down with care to avoid stepping on the copulating frogs that had appeared from nowhere. At least in this torrential rain, the insects and serpents had disappeared into hiding. Even larger animals would be sheltering somewhere. Only toads and inexperienced Galileans would venture out in a storm where Indra, god of thunder and master of skies, ruled.

  The rain seemed endless. Yeshua moved ahead, guided by the moss that grew on the north side of the trees. He drank fresh water that accumulated in hollow leaves, chewed on bamboo shoots, and sucked on tiny sour white berries. And when his legs buckled beneath him, he curled up and slept in fits under the leaking canopy of cascading ashoka tree leaves.

  Several days rolled into nights before he finally noticed a light flickering in the distance. Could it be a house—with people? The wet cloth of his tunic clung to his legs, making every step an effort, but the hope of shelter propelled him forward. How he longed to be inside a dry room with a cup of hot water and perhaps a bowl of rice.

  His heart beat faster.

  The light came from a window of an isolated hermitage enclosed by a high brick wall. Yeshua drew his wet mantle closer as he knocked on the gate. In a few moments, he would be inside, warm and dry. He would have something to eat, and then rest. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He heard no footsteps. No one spoke. In a spiritual refuge, a monk usually stayed close to the gate in case someone needed help. But this place was so far away from anywhere, what guests could they expect?

  Yeshua knocked again.

  No response.

  He banged on the wood.

  Nothing. Not a sound from inside. Perhaps the monastery had been abandoned. But no, he had seen light from inside. Someone was in there. He walked around the wall to see if there might be another opening or a lower section he could climb over, but they had built the wall high and smooth to keep out unwelcome visitors.

  He returned to the gate and resumed banging.

  “Namaste!” he shouted. “Please let me in. I come in peace.”

  At last, he heard footsteps. Thank heavens!

  “Who is there?” A child’s voice.

  Could this be one of those ashrams where people left their children to be educated in the sacred scriptures?

  “My name is Issa,” he called. “I’m a pilgrim. Please, please let me in. I am tired and cold and hungry. Please, I need a place to sleep tonight.”

  “Are you a man?”

  Yeshua frowned. What kind of question was that? Would they let him in only if he were a child? “Yes. I’m a man. Please let me in. I promise to leave at dawn, before anyone awakes.”

  “I can’t let you in.”

  Was this child out of his mind? It was pouring. No one had ever turned him away before. Wherever he had gone, he had been invited in, whether the people were poor or wealthy. And in this horrible weather, what kind of person would leave him to suffer?

  “You don’t understand,” he tried. “I’m a pilgrim. I’m on a yatra. I’m a monk.”

  “I can’t let you in, Baba.”

  “Please! I’m soaked and I’m hungry. I need a place to sleep. I beg you!”

  Not a peep from the other side. Was the child still there?

  “Please!” He choked back a sob. “Can you bring an elder or a monk? May I speak to a grown-up?”

  Silence.

  Was he talking to a wall, or was the child still there? He collapsed to the ground and surrendered to his tears. He would die out here tonight. He had
used his last bit of energy to reach this place; he couldn’t move another inch. He was exhausted and frightened. He pulled his mantle over his head and sniveled.

  Screech.

  The gate opened beside him.

  Yeshua peered up at a tiny creature completely wrapped in a white sheet with only her face showing. A woman. That explained everything: this wasn’t a monastery—it was a nunnery.

  “Come this way.” She gestured for him to follow.

  Yeshua rose on shaking knees and bowed as deeply as he could without falling over. “Thank you, Sister,” he said between clattering teeth. “Thank you so very much.”

  Without a word, the delicate nun led him to a hut at the back of the yard and pulled its curtained door aside. Yeshua flinched at the stench of mold and feces. A chicken coop. He pinched his nose and entered. At least the hut was dry, and the birds kept the space warm. He smiled gratefully at the nun and thanked God for guiding him here. Then he settled into the hay to sleep.

  He would have slept all day, but the rooster had other plans. At the first light of dawn, he started crowing, as if yelling, “Wake up, you lazy people! Can’t you see it’s a new day?”

  Yeshua stuck his fingers in his ears, but they barely muted the sound. Finally, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up. Only a few feet away, the rooster pranced back and forth among the hens, shaking his colorful tail feathers. In one quick swoop, he grabbed a hen by the neck and gave her all his love. Of course, Yeshua had seen sheep, camels, horses, and many other animals mate before, but this was different. For the first time, no one saw him watching. He couldn’t take his eyes off them. In a way, he was like the rooster—the only male in a hermitage of women. But the nuns didn’t care about his tail feathers; they had sworn to celibacy. Still, he couldn’t help wondering: what if he pranced around like a rooster and grabbed any woman he wanted? He felt a stir between his legs and stroked his groin as he watched the rooster grab another hen by her neck. The act was over in a few heartbeats. Afterward, the hen ruffled her feathers and walked away, content.

  What would it feel like to touch a woman? Yeshua thought of the harlots along the caravan route with their painted faces and perfumed hair. They grunted and squealed with delight while making love, but sometimes after the act was over, they spat at the man who had just had them. Dhiman said all women were like that, hot and cold, but Yeshua never believed him. He had heard his parents make love under thick blankets when they thought the children were asleep. He had heard Ama giggle and whisper to Abba that she loved him. He had hated hearing them moaning like animals. What an innocent boy he had been! Yeshua’s thoughts returned to the girl from last night. Would she like him to touch her? He lay back in the hay, closed his eyes, and fantasized about her naked body until he dozed off into deep sleep.

  “Baba, I’ve brought you some food.”

  Yeshua woke with a start. Where was he? The sound of the rain and the odor of the henhouse brought him back to the present. When he opened the curtain, the girl was gone, but she had left a bowl of vegetable stew and a cup of hot water under a cover outside. Yeshua gulped the bland stew down, too hungry to eat mindfully. He licked the bowl clean and peeked out through a crack in the wall. How many nuns lived here? Were they all young? But he couldn’t see anyone outside. And now the rain had slowed to a drizzle.

  It was time to leave.

  He stuffed his belongings into his traveling sack and left the dishes outside the hut. The muddy courtyard was deserted. Not a soul in sight. No one to thank for their kindness. He contemplated leaving them the ring as a token of gratitude, but decided he might need it later. Besides, they already had a place to live and vegetable gardens to feed them. Better keep it for insurance.

  He had almost reached the gate when rumbling shook the ground. Before he could blink, the sky turned black and released a new torrent of rain. As fast as he could, Yeshua ran back to the chicken coop and dove into the warm hay. He would have to stay put until the storm abated. The nuns would have to forgive him.

  But the rain didn’t stop. Yeshua meditated throughout the day and slept through the night. The next morning, the rooster woke him again at dawn and started his flirting rounds, but this time Yeshua didn’t find it amusing. He was bored with no one to talk to and nothing to do. He stared through the crack in the wall, hoping one of the nuns would walk by or at least bring him food, but for hours no one moved anywhere. Yeshua crossed his legs to meditate again, knowing there was nowhere else to go. He entered a quiet place of detachment from everything and lingered in a state of bliss in the presence of God.

  When he drifted back into consciousness and blinked his eyes open, he found a girl sitting by his side in the hay. The young woman had let down her veil to bare her shaven head. She stared at him, frail and innocent like a baby antelope with enormous brown eyes. Despite her baldness, Yeshua had never seen a prettier girl in his entire life. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She had a perfectly oval face and a mouth that begged to be kissed. But her skin was dull, and the bones protruded through her skin. Her nipples… Yeshua gasped when he noticed the pointy dark circles under her thin white robe.

  She looked down at her lap with a demure smile.

  “I’m Issa.” He forced his gaze away from her chest. “I’m a pilgrim.”

  The girl raised her eyes to peek at him, and then lifted her veil to cover her face. “My name is Ramaa.”

  Yeshua tasted the name between his lips. “Ramaa. What a lovely name.”

  They sat in silence for a while, not sure how to continue.

  “Are you a nun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you lived here long?”

  “No.”

  “Who do you worship here?”

  “I should go.” Ramaa got up.

  Yeshua grabbed her hand. “Please don’t.”

  She hesitated for a moment, and then sat down again. “If the elders find me here, they will kill me.”

  “They won’t kill you.”

  “You don’t understand. They will kill me. I’m a widow, don’t you see?”

  Yeshua sat back and studied her. How could such a young woman already be a widow? And why was she here?

  “I know you mean well”—Ramaa’s eyes filled with tears—“but you don’t understand.”

  “Then tell me!”

  Ramaa tried to get up again, but Yeshua was quicker. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shifted her to face him. The veil fell from her face. His eyes wouldn’t leave hers. “Please. Tell me.”

  She shook her head.

  “No one will find you here.”

  Ramaa hesitated for a moment. And then she told Yeshua her story. She had been born into a Brahmin family, the youngest of five daughters. Her father, distraught over having another girl, never spoke to her. At the age of ten, she was married to the oldest and wealthiest Brahmin in town. Before her wedding, Ramaa had not known what men and women did behind closed doors, and her husband had made her perform all kinds of erotic acts that she was still too embarrassed to even think about.

  One morning, after four years of marriage, her husband didn’t wake up. She shook him and slapped him as hard as she could, but his eyes remained closed. She wasn’t sure why he had died, but it meant her life had come to an end. Becoming a widow was a great sin in the Satavahana Empire. Her family disowned her, and her in-laws beat her up and threw her out of their house. They blamed her for her husband’s death, calling her a witch. She was given the choice of dying on her husband’s funeral pyre or joining a nunnery. And that’s why she had come here.

  “All the nuns here are widows—everyone?”

  “Yes. All of them.”

  “I’m happy you’re here,” Yeshua said. He yearned to reach out and caress her cheek.

  “I’m not. I wish I were dead.”

  Ramaa told him the mother nuns who ran the hermitage were traditional widows who made sure everyone suffered in their grief. They wailed from morning to night over their dead husb
ands, but it was all an act. Some of the husbands had been dead for over thirty years and their wives had never even loved them. But they believed that making others suffer would bring them good karma.

  “They refuse to let us eat well. We grow enough vegetables to feed ourselves and a small village, but they insist that all food must be watered down. Did you not notice? ”

  Yeshua nodded. Yes, the food had been horrible.

  “They’re all waiting to die. They cry and pray and sing those dreadful devotional songs all day long, and they force the rest of us to join them.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. This is my fate. I only pray that in my next life I will be born as a man.”

  Ramaa stared at the ceiling, blinking her tears away. Yeshua wanted to take her into his arms, but after months of living among men, he no longer knew how to treat girls.

  “I really must go now.” She darted out before Yeshua had the chance to stop her or ask her to return later.

  Heavy clouds still shadowed the courtyard, but the rain had ceased for a moment. Yeshua gathered his things and threw his sack over his shoulder, pausing for a moment at the doorway. Where had Ramaa gone? How he wished she could come with him. They could pretend she was his wife. But a married man would not go on a pilgrimage with his wife. And a nun would not travel with a man, even if he were a monk. Perhaps she was right: she had to stay here and atone for sins committed in previous lives to ensure her next life would be better.

  Yeshua shook his head. There was no point in staying.

  Chapter Eleven

  Satavahana, AD 10

  Yeshua shut the gate behind him and took one last look at the impenetrable walls of the nunnery. His tunic smelled faintly of mold and feces, but at least his clothes had dried in the warmth of the coop. And the clouds had scattered—somewhat. He checked the position of the sun and examined the moss on the nearest trees to determine the direction he had to go. The jungle to the east looked even thicker and gloomier than the forest he had come through.