“Sriman—wait!”
A grandmotherly woman bundled in layers of yellowing fabric waved him back to the gate.
Yeshua hesitated. He prayed she wouldn’t ask about Ramaa. He would rather cut off his tongue than get the girl in trouble.
“Yes?” he asked, fidgeting, trying to avoid her eyes. Please don’t ask about Ramaa.
“More rain is coming.” The old woman’s voice scratched like a rusty chisel against a dry whetstone. “The closest village is five days away. You might not make it there alive.”
He shook his head. “I really should go.”
“We do have room. Stay a week…two. The monsoon will have passed by then.”
Yeshua looked from her to the darkening sky and back again. A warm hut or a wet jungle?
The nun showed him to a proper room in a building by the gate with an actual hay mattress and a bowl of water for washing. And no animals. “It’s not much, but it’s all we have.”
Yeshua wanted to weep with gratitude.
“We’ll bring you some food and milk; you must be starving.”
She ducked to leave through the low doorway, but paused and turned back with a grin. “Perhaps later, you will tell us a story?” She lowered her scarf, revealing layers of wrinkles, and licked the lips of her toothless mouth.
“Yes, of course. I would like that. Very much.”
He smiled. To think that perhaps the women were glad he had come. The monsoon almost guaranteed no one would ever find out he had stayed here. He might be their only chance for male company, perhaps for the rest of their lives.
Compared with the chicken coop, this room resembled a palace. And soon he discovered that the food improved also: stew with large chunks of vegetables, freshly baked naan, and warm milk. The only thing missing was Ramaa.
Later in the day, a middle-aged nun brought him to a hall where women of all ages sat cross-legged, facing a stone murti. Some were so old they had to be carried in; others were mere children. With their bald heads, sunken eyes, and malnourished bodies, they all resembled monks more than women.
Yeshua took a seat beside the offerings of flowers, vegetables, and fruits. Morose faces observed him with listless interest. They had no reason to trust him. After all, men were the reason they were forced to live in this miserable place.
“You’re a Brahmin from the far west, isn’t it so, Lord Issa?” The speaker was plumper than the others with healthy red cheeks and clean nails. “I’m assured you can tell wonderful stories.”
“Mai, please,” Yeshua said, using the proper address for an older woman. “I’m not a lord, just Issa. And I’m not a Brahmin. Well, not by birth, but in my heart, yes.”
A murmur of surprise went through the hall. Sparks of interest lit their eyes and, here and there, hints of smiles.
“I come from a land far away,” he continued. “It’s called Palestine. We have no tigers or elephants. We have cheetahs and donkeys and lambs. And we eat fish every day because we live by the lake. We don’t pray to deities like Vishnu, Shiva, Krishna, or Soma; we have only one God, and he is the almighty one, the creator of the world and everything in it.”
“Like Brahman?” a child asked. An older nun elbowed her to shush her.
Yeshua shrugged. “Not quite, but similar, I guess. God is all-powerful and protective, whereas your Brahman exists in everything but leaves all the action to the deities.” He looked around and noticed Ramaa in the back among the younger nuns. She smiled, and his heart jumped. She looked like a goddess. He bowed to the murti to collect himself before he continued.
“In my land, instead of telling stories about gods, we talk about our ancestors and the prophets who came before us. Like the Buddha. Do you know the Buddha?”
The women nodded. They had all heard about Lord Buddha.
“My people, the Yehudim, are the sons of the very first man on earth, Adam. We’re descendants of Abraham, the man who first knew there’s only one God and made a covenant with him. Before Abraham, my people were like you: they prayed to murtis and worshipped the sun and the wind.” Yeshua picked up a pink lily from the offerings and twirled it between his fingers. “Many years ago, my ancestors lived in exile in Egypt, a country far from Palestine. The king of Egypt—he was called the Pharaoh—was a horrible man. He hated the Yehudim and enslaved them. But then a Yehudi child called Moses was born, and everyone believed he would be the next powerful prophet. When the Pharaoh heard about this child, he became frightened that Moses one day would call all his slaves to revolt. And he ordered that all Yehudi baby boys be killed.”
The women gasped. Content that he had caught their interest, Yeshua continued.
“Moses’ mother, of course, was terrified. To save her son, she took him to a big river, placed him in a basket made of reeds, and watched him float down the stream. But Moses’ sister, afraid the baby would fall into the water and drown, hid in the tall grass and followed his journey down the river. The basket washed ashore close to where the Pharaoh’s daughter was taking a bath with her maids.”
Another gasp. Some of the nuns cried, remembering the children they had lost.
“No, please don’t be sad.” Yeshua scrambled up from his seat. “It’s a happy story. Listen!” And so the nuns learned how the glorious prophet Moses survived and grew up to save Issa’s people from slavery and led them to the Promised Land.
The women wanted to know everything about Moses. What did he look like? Did he marry? How did he know the voice speaking through the bush was God? Was it perhaps Agni, the god of fire? How could God tell the difference between the Yehudim and the Egyptians? Did they wear different colored clothes? And how exactly did God divide the waters of the sea? Did all the Egyptians drown, or did some of them swim away? Why did Moses and his tribe kill almost all his fellow Yehudim after God gave him the Ten Commandments? Wasn’t Moses forbidden to kill? Why did they have to wander in the desert for forty years? And so on.
Yeshua was dizzy with fatigue and glee when he sauntered off to his room to sleep. He had laughed more than he had for months and ended the night by thanking them all for saving him from the storm.
He fell asleep with peace in his heart.
The rain would not stop. Every morning, Yeshua joined in the nuns’ songs devoted to the supreme spirit Brahman. It was the only way, they said, to free themselves from their karma. They wailed with heartache and desperation, and Yeshua hummed along to relieve himself of the anguish he had caused his parents.
After their one daily meal, which he now shared with the women, he spent the remainder of the afternoon telling stories from the Torah. The ladies especially enjoyed the story of David and Goliath. They reciprocated with stories of how they had been cast out of their homes and what they would have done if they had had a slingshot. The nuns howled with laughter and slapped their knees at the images they created, each of them telling a better story than the previous one.
Soon enough, the women forgot that Yeshua shouldn’t be there. The elders spoiled him with tamarind fruits meant for the Vishnu murti. The young girls spread petals of fragrant ylang-ylang flowers on his bed. The adolescents peeked at him when they didn’t think he was looking and stole past his hut in pairs, giggling. And yet, Yeshua couldn’t embrace them. Or kiss them. He struggled to sleep at night, fantasizing about them all, but especially about Ramaa. They hadn’t spoken since that first time, but she always caught his eye and, whenever she passed, let her body brush against his. Yeshua yearned to meet her alone somewhere, but always found her surrounded by others. He tried to silently beckon her, hoping she might read his mind. It seemed an impossible dream, and soon his chance would be gone. After the monsoon season ended, he would have to leave.
One night, a peculiar scratching sound jolted Yeshua awake. Mice? Or was someone in his room? He fumbled to cover his naked body and blinked to adjust his eyes to the darkness.
“Who is there?”
No reply. He could barely make out the shape of a person standing in
the corner. White eyes. White teeth. White robe.
“It’s all right. Come talk to me.” His voice sounded hoarse with sleep and desire. Oh, how he hoped it was Ramaa. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t touch you.”
He meant it. He wouldn’t touch her. Unless she wanted him to, of course. “Please, sit.” He patted the mattress beside him.
The girl sat down and uncovered her face. Yeshua squinted in the dark and looked into two perfectly shaped brown eyes. Ramaa. His heart almost stopped.
“I shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m so happy you’re here.” His voice trembled.
“I should go.” She didn’t move.
Yeshua could hardly breathe. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said, caressing her hand with his little finger.
“I know.”
He placed his hand behind her neck and guided her face toward his. He hesitated for a moment, feeling her hot breath close to his mouth. But he couldn’t wait; he pressed his lips against hers. At last. Her lips were soft and wet against his, with a sweet taste of vanilla.
She pushed his face away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Yeshua’s cheeks burned.
“Don’t apologize.” She sounded like a little girl.
His lips ached with the hunger to kiss her.
Then she leaned in and let her mouth meet his. Yeshua had to grab the mattress with both hands to keep from tearing her robe off. He kissed her over and over, sucking her, savoring her very being.
“Oh, darling, my princess, my love…”
Ramaa shushed him and pushed him down on his back. She let the white robe fall from her shoulders and straddled him, rubbing her naked body against his. Her small breasts heaved and sank with every movement. He groaned and let her take control.
She guided him into her warmth, her wetness, and moved her body back and forth, first slowly, and then faster and faster. Yeshua grunted, every inch of him tingling with ecstasy. She swung her body, thrust her pelvis forward, and threw her head back with pleasure. And right when Yeshua would have climaxed, Ramaa rolled off and lay down beside him, panting.
“Not yet,” she whispered, and ran her hand through his sweaty hair. “Hold on a little longer.”
Yeshua breathed heavily, wild with lust and confusion. What was he supposed to do now? He looked into her innocent but oh-so-mature eyes, his heart almost bursting with love.
Ramaa kissed him again. Then she grabbed his thighs, turned him over and pulled him on top of her. She guided him with a steady grip until he understood how to move in an even rhythm. Bodies glued together, they rocked and swayed faster and faster until Yeshua groaned and exploded into her. Unexpectedly, he started laughing.
“Shh, someone might hear you!” Her teeth glistened in the dark.
But Yeshua had just made love to the most wonderful woman in the world, and he wanted everyone to know. He held Ramaa, his angel, in his arms and kissed her forehead, her eyes, her lips.
“I love you.” Yeshua held her even tighter.
Ramaa closed her eyes and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
“For what?”
“Loving me. And giving me faith. I think I can survive here now.”
“Are you out of your mind? I can’t leave you here.” Yeshua pushed himself up on his elbow. “I’ll marry you. I could never live without you.”
Ramaa shook her head. “I can’t marry you, Issa. I’m a widow. I’m marked.”
“Don’t talk like that. I will marry you. I’ll bring you back to Galilee, and we can live there happily, without worries. I’ll work as a carpenter again, and you…you can take care of the house with my mother and sisters.”
“You don’t understand. We won’t even make it three days from here. With my shaved head, everyone will know what I am. I’ll shame you.”
“I don’t care!”
“I do. They’ll kill me, and probably you too.” She shrank away from him. “I won’t let that happen.”
Yeshua took her face into his hands and forced her to look at him. She was crying freely now. “Ramaa, I love you. I’ll protect you.”
“No, Issa. I’m sorry. I can’t. I’ve got to stay here.”
Yeshua stormed up from the bed. “But I can’t leave you! I’ll take care of you, I promise.”
Ramaa looked at him. She had made up her mind.
“Please come with me.”
She picked up her robe and wrapped it around her. “I’m sorry, Issa.”
Yeshua looked away. He held the curtain open as she ducked under the low doorway and stepped out into the pouring rain. And then he crumpled up and cried. He wept for the loneliness in his heart and for the sorrow he had caused his family. He cried for his mother’s embrace, for Yakov’s laughter, and for knowing he would never kiss Ramaa again. He buried his face in the hay and let the tears flow until they had all dried out.
On the other side of the courtyard, the rooster announced the dawn of another day. Yeshua picked up his belongings and let the curtain fall behind him. This time no one asked him to stay when he walked out the gate.
The rain had weakened to a drizzle. Soon the skies would clear and the sun would come out.
Chapter Twelve
Satavahana, AD 10
Yeshua trudged through the soggy jungle, up slippery hills and through flooded valleys. The rain had submerged entire villages, leaving only rooftops protruding above the water, like islands. Young men and boys dressed in nothing but loincloths paddled around in hollowed-out tree trunks to help move families onto drier land.
At last the big rains stopped. In a matter of days, the earth would absorb the water, and the nature would begin another cycle of life. He passed villages where silly little girls played berry catch on the riverbanks and men’s voices rang with irritating merriment as they tilled the moist earth and prepared the fields for sowing.
Yeshua paused a few days here and there to help with the farmwork, but he couldn’t rejoice over the clear skies and new beginnings with the others. Heartache had made him somber: his smile had faded, his posture sagged, and the stories he told on his journey had become serious. He despised the sound of people’s laughter, the hope that shone in their eyes. How could God be so cruel? How could people flaunt their happiness when he crouched in pain? He turned down meals because he wasn’t hungry, and only pretended to meditate while his mind was crying out in chaos. He had left a part of himself behind with Ramaa. Only half of him continued.
Behind the veil of depression, Yeshua carried on like the benevolent pilgrim he had once been. He faked a smile and continued to share goodwill, blessings, and stories about Abraham’s people. During sleepless nights, he wondered whether this journey had been a mistake. Life as a simple carpenter in Capernaum no longer seemed so bad. He could have married, had children, and worked beside the rabbi in the synagogue as his parents had advised. But as soon as morning broke, he was convinced once again that he was exactly where God had led him. He had gathered more stories for teaching others, tales about the Buddha and the Hindu deities, his travels, and people he had met. Like Ramaa.
Yeshua’s heart twinged at her memory: the scent of her flesh, the taste of her skin, the sound of her voice, the loving look in those antelope eyes. He should never have left her. They could have been close to Ujjayini by now. They could have stayed in the peaceful town until her hair grew out; no one would have known she was a widow. A hollow, lonely sigh escaped his chest. Deep inside, he knew Ramaa had stayed because she had not wanted to come. Her place—her fate, as she called it—was to repent for her karmic debt in that god-awful hermitage. Yeshua shook his head, tears burning his eyes. She was so wrong. One day he would go back to save her. He would pretend he was her husband’s brother or something, and the old widows would have to let her leave. One day, they would be together again.
“When your senses touch certain things, you experience cold or heat and pleasure or pain, but you will soon learn that these sensations are always fleeting.”
Yeshua woke from his daydream and looked up at a gangly Brahmin with a moss-like long beard who had sat next to him in the shade of a mango tree. His amber eyes radiated with kindness.
“Feelings come and go, my son. You will have to bear them with patience.”
Yeshua frowned. How had he known?
“It’s from the Bhagavad Gita: Lord Krishna’s advice to Arjuna.”
Yeshua’s face lit up. He had heard of Krishna.
“Only those who are not affected by feelings, who remain untouched by pleasure and pain, are ready for immortality.”
“Is that also from the Baga…? Baga-what?”
“Bhagavad Gita. The story speaks of yoga, philosophy, rebirth, liberation—a moral code for life.” The Brahmin slipped his hand into the folds of his dhoti robe and produced a piece of cheese wrapped in cotton. He offered it to Yeshua. “From the Mahabharata. You’ve heard of it?”
Yeshua nodded. Of course; the Sindhi villagers had mentioned the holy scripture of the Hindus.
“The Gita, as we call it, recounts the discussion between Lord Krishna and the warrior prince Arjuna before they entered into battle. Arjuna at first refused to go to war because he would have to fight his own cousins. Thus, Lord Krishna taught him about the nature of God and explained to Arjuna his duties as a man, warrior, and prince. I can recite you the verses, if you’d care to listen.”
A kernel of excitement sprouted within Yeshua’s dulled heart. This was why he had crossed the Satavahana Empire: to learn and discover.
“I’ve got all the time in the world,” Yeshua said, and bit into the creamy cheese. It melted on his tongue.
Despite the many strange names, Yeshua lost himself in the story, watching the powerful drama unfold before his mind’s eye. He devoured every word, oblivious of twilight turning into night and the moon rising to greet them. A cool gust of air and the shriek of waking bats brought him back from his trance. Limping on legs stiff from sitting too long, they walked to the Brahmin’s house, where the narrative about Krishna and Arjuna played out until the early hours of the morning.
The Transmigrant Page 9