That night, Yeshua dreamed about Lord Krishna. The blue-hued prince danced around him on light feet, his eyes bright and beckoning. “Come!” he called. “I’ll show you the way.” And in the dream, Yeshua followed him, enchanted by the melody of Krishna’s flute. “Come!” Krishna kept calling as he disappeared into the horizon. And although Yeshua couldn’t see him any longer, he traced the steps of the blue deity, convinced he had been shown the right direction.
When the Brahmin asked Yeshua to stay longer and study the Bhagavad Gita with him, Yeshua declined. The Gita lessons and the dream about Krishna had reawakened his passion. He knew what to do now, why God had guided him here. He had to continue east to Jagannath, where the White Brahmins, a large community of Krishna’s followers, lived.
“Lord Krishna will escort you, like he brought you to my house,” the Brahmin said, and he handed Yeshua a parcel of food for his journey. “And perhaps one day you will find he has always been with you.”
Although the hilltops obscured his view, a fresh wind scented by surf and seaweed confirmed that Yeshua was closing in on the coastal town of Jagannath. Day after day, he climbed up and down peaks, hoping he would see the ocean at each rise, but every time he was disappointed: only more hills, more fields, more forests. Then one afternoon, as he sat on a cliff’s edge because he couldn’t take another step, his eyes caught the reflection of glittering waves in the distance. His heart surged. Was his long journey coming to an end? He couldn’t wait to bury his feet in the sand and immerse himself in the cleansing water. He yearned to take long swims in the weightlessness only a sea could offer. Perhaps there would also be grilled or salted fish for sale in the village. His mouth watered. Yeshua jumped up and hurried his steps. The horizon appeared and disappeared until, finally, the full spectrum of the ocean opened up before him. His weary legs carried him downhill, past two-story caves inhabited by naked Jains and through emerald fields. He met turbaned merchants riding on fully packed elephants and women balancing vats of gigantic fish on their heads. At last, he saw the settlement of houses perched on the shoreline. Hundreds of simple mud houses with thatched roofs circled a larger complex. Could it be the temple of the White Brahmins? Yeshua’s heart beat faster. Jagannath! The place where his destiny would blossom.
“Namaskāraḥ,” Yeshua said in Sanskrit to a passing adolescent who was towing a reluctant goat with great difficulty. “Is this the way to the temple?”
The boy bowed all the way to his toes and pressed his palms together. “Swāgatam. Welcome, Brahmin. Yes, it’s right there—just down the road. Pass the tannery—you will smell the stench from far away—turn left, then right, and then left again, and there you will see the temple.”
Yeshua tried to remember the directions, but instead he shrugged and said, “Let me help you with the goat. And you can show me the way.”
Together the boys pulled the goat through the outskirts of the village into the town center, where their roads parted at the boy’s house, not far from the temple.
But the temple could wait. Straight ahead, at the horizon, the deep-blue ocean blended with the evening sky. The view connected with something deep inside him, as if the answer to every question lay in the waves that kept coming, one after another, changing the perspective with their every motion. He removed his sandals and let the sand massage the soles of his feet before he stepped into the refreshing sea. He waded until the water reached his waist, and then he dove. He swam under the surface until his lungs wanted to burst. When he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, he shot up into the air and inhaled the pure essence of life. He laughed. He cried. He hadn’t felt this alive since he’d left Ramaa.
Once fulfilled, Yeshua returned to the beach to observe the theater of Jagannath life. Local fishermen in rickety boats returned to the shore before sunset, just like at home in Capernaum. Impatient buyers balanced woven baskets on their heads and walked into the ocean to meet them, striving to get there first and buy the fish that would keep their family fed another day. One man rode his camel out to the farthest boats. The animal kicked and fought, his muzzle barely reaching above the surface, as his master negotiated the price of the merchandise. Women, children, and the elderly waited on the beach. A scrawny boy sold pieces of coconut; others hustled bananas, flatbreads, sandals, and cotton scarves.
As night embraced the shore, the scene died out, and the villagers retired to their homes, leaving behind a pile of discarded fish heads and entrails. Yeshua rolled up his traveling sack under his head and pulled a thin cotton cloth over his body. In the morning, he would visit the temple. And if he was lucky, they would ask him to stay. If not, well, he wasn’t quite sure what he would do. He couldn’t go home—yet. Perhaps he could retrace his steps, fetch Ramaa, and start a new life somewhere as a teacher with her as his wife.
Yeshua’s stomach cramped at the thought. God had sent him into the world to teach, but wherever he went, no one wanted to accept him as their true teacher. To the crowds, he was nothing but a clever young man who could entertain them for a day or two. The only way he could possibly support Ramaa was as a carpenter, and in this part of the world a carpenter would be treated as a third-class citizen without the right to even contemplate the scriptures. Ramaa would never want him. If the White Brahmins rejected him, he would have to keep going. Somewhere, someplace, they would want him to stay.
When the first light tickled his eyes and a soft breeze tousled his hair, Yeshua woke well rested. The sun had already begun its journey into dawn, painting the clouds with downy strokes of soft purple and gold. In the distance, a murmur of prayers approached, a toneless mantra repeated over and over again. Yeshua propped himself up on his elbows and watched a group of men stride into the waves. Their chants grew louder as they scooped water over their heads and lifted their faces to the sky. Yeshua hesitated for a moment before he approached them, stopping a few feet from the group. He closed his eyes and mimicked their movements and Sanskrit words:
Om. Oh God, the Giver of Life,
Remover of pain and sorrow,
The provider of happiness,
Oh! Creator of the universe,
May we receive your supreme light,
May you guide our thoughts in the right direction.
Yeshua’s heart opened wide as he centered on the mantra and absorbed the calming energy of the prayer, becoming one with them all. Through the slits of his eyes, he noticed a group of bearded Brahmins in white robes and turbans nearby. One Brahmin, a young boy, tugged at his turban that kept sliding down over his eyes. Yeshua suppressed a laugh: these men around him were the White Brahmins, the ones he had been searching for. Oblivious of his dreams of belonging, they had fulfilled his ultimate wish. He closed his eyes again and chanted at the top of his voice, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Afterward, he followed a few paces behind the White Brahmins as they returned to their temple, but paused outside the gate. Was he allowed to enter? Did they have rules, like in Jerusalem, where nonbelievers who entered the temple would be punished by death? What was the worst that could happen? Would they throw him out? Kill him? But he had come this far; he had to take his chances. He removed his sandals and entered through the gate. A cluster of fig trees encircled a pool of water in front of the main temple building, a square construction made of red clay with a pointed palm frond roof. Behind the temple stood a couple of long, rectangular mud huts dotted with carved-out windows and doorways.
Yeshua hesitated. How should he approach them? What should he say? His admission to the temples in Sindh and Ujjayini had been relatively easy, but now that he wanted nothing more than to stay, he was terribly nervous. God didn’t appreciate if you wanted something too much, just like the Buddha cautioned against attachment. Yeshua straightened his back and brushed his doubts away. He had to let go of his desire to stay in this temple. He had to trust God to guide him. If he wasn’t supposed to stay here, he would find another place to fulfill his destiny.
He sat do
wn next to the gate, took a deep breath, and sank into a profound meditation, convinced that everything would fall into place.
Chapter Thirteen
Jagannath, AD 10
“Brahmin!” A spry voice jolted him from his trance. “Brahmin!”
Yeshua wriggled his toes and fingers, returning his awareness to his body.
He shaded his eyes with one hand. A boy dressed in a white turban and a loincloth, and a cloth slung over his shoulder, stood before him. With an arched nose that dominated his narrow face, he resembled a determined bird. He squinted at Yeshua with unfriendly eyes.
Yeshua scrambled to his feet and sidled toward the gate.
“Brahmin. Where are you going?”
Yeshua stopped short. What did he mean? Hadn’t the boy just shown him he wasn’t welcome?
“You are hungry? We have breakfast soon. Let’s go.”
Instinctively, Yeshua raised his face and hands to the heavens in gratitude. God was indeed his shepherd. He did not need to worry.
Vasanta, the bird-boy, served him a spicy vegetable stew on top of a folded sal leaf. Around them, hundreds of bald, white-clad men of different ages ate in silence. Some were bearded, others bare faced, but all had smears of white paste across their foreheads and chests. The air vibrated with tranquility. Yeshua absorbed every moment. Despite his long, tangled locks and sand-colored tunic, nobody paid him any attention. This place was exactly what he had been looking for, where God, Krishna, the Buddha, and Mahavira had guided him. If only they would ask him to stay.
After the meal, Vasanta showed Yeshua around the grounds. Each Brahmin was given a tiny cell in the long mud huts for praying and sleeping, a space so tight that a grown man could not possibly stretch to full length. A devotional life was not supposed to be comfortable.
“Brahmin Issa,” Vasanta asked as they took a seat on a low wall, “where do you keep your Upanayana threads?”
Yeshua cocked his head. What was Upanayana?
Vasanta held out the thin string of interwoven threads that hung over his shoulder and diagonally across his chest. Yeshua had noticed the strings on others before but had assumed they were nothing more than adornment.
Yeshua shook his head.
Vasanta’s mouth fell open. He lifted Yeshua’s tunic to look. When he didn’t find any threads, he slapped his hands against his cheeks. “But you are a Brahmin—how can this be?”
“It’s not a tradition in my land.” Yeshua smoothed out his tunic and brushed back his hair. “What’s it about, anyway?”
“Initiation to education.” The boy stared at Yeshua, his black eyes wide with disbelief.
“You see,” Yeshua said, “I’m from very far away, from beyond Mesopotamia and Bactria. And our Brahmins don’t initiate us with sacred threads. But please, tell me more about this tradition.”
“The most important day in a boy’s life is the Upanayana. And only after the ceremony may we study mantras with our guru. It’s not allowed before.” Vasanta stopped as if he had been struck. “You at least have a guru?”
Yeshua shook his head.
“And you’re so old! Hai Ram, you should have had your Upanayana when you were little. Uh-uh.” Vasanta pulled on the corners of his eyes like he was going to cry. “You cannot stay here if you have not been initiated. It is a big problem.” He dug his nail into Yeshua’s shoulders. “What shall we do?”
Yeshua wasn’t sure why initiation would be so important. It hadn’t mattered anywhere else. Surely Vasanta was exaggerating.
“Maybe we could say I lost my threads on the journey. After all, I’ve come all the way from behind the River Indus.”
Vasanta poked his finger into Yeshua’s chest. “They will know. The teachers, they will see right through you. You cannot stay here. Impossible.” He chewed on his finger. He clearly wanted Yeshua to stay but couldn’t figure out how.
Then, as if struck by a brilliant idea, Vasanta jumped off the wall. “Wait here. I will talk to High Brahmin.”
Overcome by worry, Yeshua leaned against the fig tree that grew beside the wall and watched his friend hurry back to the temple building. If only the High Brahmin would say yes.
That evening, the High Brahmin introduced Yeshua to Kahanji, a scraggy guru with soft walnut eyes that held a universe of wisdom and made him resemble an owl. Yeshua trembled with anticipation when he understood that Kahanji was one of the most revered teachers of the temple; all the other Brahmins bowed low as he passed. But before Yeshua could begin his lessons, he must first be initiated in the sacred thread ceremony.
Kahanji waited in the pool in front of the temple, his white robe flowing on the surface of the water. The ghee lamps emitted a buttery smell and tinted the surrounding Brahmins with a golden hue. Elated, Yeshua stepped into the water to meet his guru.
Kahanji welcomed him to the order and tapped Yeshua’s forehead to release any evil spirits. Yeshua bowed his head and shivered when the cold steel of the guru’s sharp blade scraped his head and released his locks into the water. Around the pool, hundreds of Brahmins chanted as Kahanji removed Yeshua’s robe, unfastened his loincloth, and swabbed his body with a soft white cotton cloth. A fresh breeze caressed Yeshua’s naked body, and he inhaled the aromatic scent of burning incense. His heart filled with love. He was in Jagannath at last, in the temple of the White Brahmins, and he had met his very own guru.
Kahanji pushed his head under the water and held it steady under the surface. Yeshua steeled his body and fought the instinct to push his guru’s hands away. They wouldn’t let him drown, would they? His lungs pounded against his chest. He couldn’t move, shouldn’t move. But like bubbles, his life was slipping away into numbness, darkness. When Kahanji finally released his grip and raised him by the chin, Yeshua coughed, spluttered, and gasped for air. Another moment under the water and he would have panicked. He would have embarrassed himself in front of all these Brahmins he wanted so desperately to join.
Kahanji’s grin proved that it had been a test and he had passed. Once out of the pool, still naked, Yeshua hesitated a moment before he fell to his knees and touched his guru’s feet with his hands to signify his devotion, as Vasanta had instructed. He could almost hear his father’s voice, warning him that a Yehudi should never bow down to others. But Yeshua no longer cared. He needed to do this.
The chanting grew louder as the Brahmins dressed Yeshua in a fresh white robe and tied a head scarf around his head to free him from any negative karma. Yeshua glowed, as if he had been born anew.
At the ceremonial fire that night, Kahanji lifted a jar of ghee over the flames and dripped a few drops into the fire, where they sizzled and burned. Yeshua took the jar from Kahanji and recited the sacred Gayatri mantra, contemplating the meaning of each word.
O, Master of the Universe, our protector and giver of life,
Self-existent, free from all pains, who frees the soul from all troubles and fills us with happiness.
O, Creator and Energizer of the whole universe, who glows with divine illumination,
Cleanser of all imperfections and
Giver of divine virtues and strengths,
I meditate upon you to activate and enlighten me.
Kahanji twisted a long piece of white thread between his hands, doubled and tripled the length of the threads into a long string, and tied it with knots. He placed the sacred threads over Yeshua’s left shoulder, pulled one end under his right arm, and tied them around Yeshua’s right thumb. The Brahmins chanted faster and faster until Yeshua could no longer distinguish the words. Kahanji placed his palm on Yeshua’s chest. Once again, Yeshua knelt and touched his guru’s feet, then stood to face him. A Brahmin covered both their heads with a shawl, and together Kahanji and Yeshua repeated the mantra until they were united in the same rhythm. In halting Sanskrit, Yeshua vowed to recite the Gayatri mantra every day at dawn, noon, and dusk, to study the Vedas, and to serve his guru. When the shawl was removed, all the Brahmins showered Yeshua with rice and blessings.
Yeshua grinned with pride and presented Kahanji with his golden ring—an appropriate gift for the invaluable knowledge he would receive—and then his guru smeared Yeshua’s forehead with red powder. The ritual had come to an end. At last Yeshua was a White Brahmin of Jagannath, a worthy student of Krishna’s teachings.
In the following days, Kahanji and Yeshua went for long walks along the shore where Kahanji taught Yeshua how to focus on his breathing and how to chant the Vedic mantras to release their divine power. The chants strengthened the connection with Brahman and freed his mind from negativity. When one recited them with genuine devotion, one could control emotions like fear and anger, and—according to Kahanji—cure any illness.
They studied Kundalini, the life force that runs from the base of the back all the way to the brain.
“When awakened,” Kahanji explained—and with his stick he drew an image of a body in the sand—“Kundalini activates the seven chakras, centers of divine consciousness along the spine that serve as passages into the soul and regulate primal needs.” He ran his stick along Yeshua’s spine. “The chakras control expression and passion. They influence the digestive process and intuition. At the base of the neck, quite logically, is the chakra of communication.” Kahanji put his thumbs on Yeshua’s neck and covered his ears and throat with his fingers to demonstrate the connection. “And the third eye”—he knocked at the spot between Yeshua’s eyebrows—“helps us see everything as sacred and holy. Finally, at the top of the head, right outside of the body, is the crown chakra that connects to the highest state of enlightenment.”
The Transmigrant Page 10