The Transmigrant

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The Transmigrant Page 11

by Kristi Saare Duarte


  Kahanji showed him how to calm his mind, slow his breath, and center his attention on the third eye chakra until he could visualize its pulsating indigo light. But as much as Yeshua loved his guru’s lessons, he hated his technique. As soon as Yeshua relaxed and let his body hunch, Kahanji hit him with his stick.

  “Keep your spine straight! How can the Kundalini move through a crooked path? Sit up!”

  Yeshua raised his head and relaxed his shoulders. He pressed his hands down on his thighs to straighten the curve of his spine and focused his mind on the energy center between his eyebrows until a warm flow of white light filled him up.

  One day, after his lesson, he saw flashes of gold and indigo sparkle in the nothingness around him and asked Kahanji what they were.

  His teacher didn’t want to hear it.

  “Why are you rushing? What is the hurry? Bah! Be grateful you can sense the light. Much too advanced for your age.”

  When Yeshua blushed at the praise, Kahanji hit him again. “No, no, no, no, no! Poisonous pride has no place here.”

  Vasanta was right: the teachers could see right through him.

  Kahanji waited until the flush had faded from Yeshua’s cheeks before he continued.

  “You see, the blue light belongs to the most highly evolved saints and deities. And the golden light, young Issa, is the vibration of enlightenment. But as Krishna teaches us, we must think of the work, not the outcome. Never strive to reach higher levels; aim to solidify your connection with Brahman. That, my friend, is all that matters. If you have ears, hear me.”

  Yeshua assented, although he didn’t agree.

  “Forget about enlightenment; it may take many lifetimes. It’s hard work. Look around. Most Brahmins here are far older than you, and they still haven’t accomplished what you aspire to. What makes you think you’re unique?”

  “What about the Buddha?” Yeshua asked, his nostrils flaring with indignation. “He reached enlightenment in one lifetime, didn’t he?”

  Kahanji’s lips twisted into a grin. He chuckled to himself, turning to stare at the blazing sun outside the high window.

  Yeshua bit his tongue. When was he going to learn to keep his mouth shut? He heard his guru draw a deep breath before he returned his piercing gaze to Yeshua.

  “You think you are like the Buddha, do you, Issa? Has it never occurred to you that the Buddha was born an enlightened soul? He was a reincarnation of Brahman, like Krishna.”

  Yeshua clenched his jaw. He knew the story well. The Buddha didn’t start seeking enlightenment until he left his palace later in life. It took him years to find the way. But he found it. And so would he. Yeshua swore he would find the right path.

  Despite his disagreements with Kahanji, Yeshua loved his life at the temple. The White Brahmins were more devoted than anyone he had ever met. Their day started with a bathing ritual at dawn, they meditated until noon, and they studied the sacred scriptures in the afternoon. In the evening, they earned a living by healing people from outlying villages with herbs, prayers, and the laying on of hands. Kahanji claimed that once someone was initiated to receive the pure healing energy of Brahman, their mere touch could cure. A true healer could even restore someone to perfect health just by looking at them.

  The Brahmins committed every waking moment to devotion, leaving no time for idle chats. During the first weeks, Yeshua had sneaked into Vasanta’s cell at night to share his thoughts about everything he had learned, but as the weeks went on, the urge for trivial gossip abated. His connection with God filled all his needs. All his questions were answered in meditation.

  Every afternoon, all young Brahmins assembled for their daily lesson. With a voice like honey and an aura of peace, their teacher Arcahia could open the hearts of the toughest men and fill their souls with eternal light. Yeshua soaked up his every word and imagined the Buddha must have been just like him—incredibly friendly and infinitely wise.

  He treasured the days when they discussed the meaning of the Bhagavad Gita and how its lessons could be implemented into the Brahmins’ lives.

  “Never fear what’s not real, never was, and never will be,” Arcahia said. “What is real always was and cannot be destroyed. What do you think this means?”

  Several young Brahmins offered their opinions.

  “We shouldn’t be afraid of anything because nothing exists?”

  “Master, I’m afraid of snakes. Are you saying they don’t exist?”

  “But everything can be destroyed, can’t it? Maybe Krishna meant to say, ‘Fear not what cannot be destroyed.’ Am I right?”

  Arcahia encouraged them to dig deeper. Yeshua knew the answer, but his Sanskrit was still weak, and he had never before spoken up in class. He waited until everyone else had run out of ideas before he gathered his courage and cleared his throat.

  “What we see isn’t real,” he tried, at first stumbling to find the words. “It’s a product of our imagination—what we have learned to see.” He paused. “What we want to see. The only thing that’s real is God, and only God. That’s why there’s no point in being afraid, because nothing real can be destroyed. I mean, God can’t be killed. And if nothing else exists but God, we don’t have to be afraid of anything—because nothing unreal exists.”

  Yeshua looked down at his lap to avoid the stares from his fellow Brahmins. The words had flown from his mouth, and they made sense. At least to him. But what if he had been wrong?

  “Yes, yes, that’s it,” Aracahia said. “Nothing unreal exists, and therein lies the peace of Brahman.”

  A few of the other Brahmins shifted in their seats. They still didn’t understand. “Master, what do you mean only Brahman exists? What about me? What about my brother here? And you? And this room?”

  “Yes, we do exist. But we are all part of God, of Brahman. We have nothing to fear, because only our bodies can perish; we cannot. We are real, but our bodies—they are illusions.”

  “My body exists. Look: it hurts when I pinch my arm!” The boy squirmed with pain, and the whole class laughed.

  Arcahia laughed, too. “You believe it hurts only because you have been taught that pinching your arm will hurt. Now, if you go into a deep meditation where you are connected to Brahman and pinch yourself again, you won’t feel any pain, because you are no longer connected to this body that is not real.”

  The students understood this point. In meditation, of course, they all knew they became one with God.

  Another boy, quoting a passage from the Bhagavad Gita they had discussed earlier, said, “People will find numerous ways to separate God from the world. And although everything in the world is perishable—including your body—you should remember that everything is pervaded by the Imperishable Supreme Divine, which is Me.”

  “Quite so. Quite so, my dear Angada.”

  Yeshua exhaled with relief when the attention turned to someone else, but his cheeks still betrayed his pride. Arcahia observed him with kindness. Krishna said pride and arrogance belonged to those of demoniacal nature, and Yeshua wanted nothing to do with demons. But he had learned that the first step in becoming enlightened was to be conscious of the mistakes you made—and to learn from them.

  In the late evenings, Yeshua studied Ayurvedic medicine with his guru. Kahanji taught him that everything in the universe consisted of five elements: earth, water, fire, air, and space. All diseases were caused by an imbalance of those elements or by suppressing natural urges, like yawning, sneezing, farting, or even ejaculating. Kahanji claimed that those who lived according to natural laws would never fall sick.

  At first, it seemed impossible to remember how different foods affected health: vata foods caused gas, pitta foods generated bile, and kapha foods produced phlegm. “The body is like a lute, Issa,” Kahanji said in his raspy voice. “When the strings are too loose or too tight, the instrument is out of tune, and the man becomes sick.”

  He insisted that Yeshua participate in yogic exercises to strengthen his body and release stagnant e
nergies. He showed Yeshua how to use a small twig to clean his teeth and taught him why eating meat is harmful to spiritual development—because a man’s soul absorbs the fear and suffering of the animal that was slaughtered.

  “Perfect health comes from balancing the mind, body, and spirit,” he said.

  During visits to the village, Yeshua practiced healing under Kahanji’s watchful eye. They treated fever with a potion made of cumin seed and ginger, cough with honey and ground lotus seeds, and diarrhea with a porridge of buttermilk and whole grains.

  Some ailments were more severe, even horrifying. The first time Yeshua saw a man with seizures, he thought a demon had possessed him. The man’s body shook so violently that his torso rose from the bed, his eyes bulged, and white froth gathered at the corners of his mouth. Yeshua was terrified, but Kahanji ordered him to hold the patient down while he slit open a vein in the patient’s temple to release the poisons. Together, they chanted a mantra and massaged a paste of herbs onto the patient’s scalp, hands, and chest. As the spasms eased, Yeshua smeared the ointment into the nose and onto the eyelids. Their chants silenced to whispers as the man changed from a raging monster into a dozing, perfectly sane human being.

  “You understand now, Issa? A healer is someone who can inspire faith. That is all it is,” Kahanji said as they walked back to the temple. “The mouth may speak to human ears, but souls are reached by souls communicating with other souls.”

  The seasons changed from summer to monsoon season to winter and back to summer. As younger initiates joined the temple, Yeshua was no longer the new boy; he spoke Sanskrit with a mere hint of an accent, recited the Vedas by heart, and flexed his body in challenging yoga postures like any native Brahmin.

  With increased enlightenment, time seemed to stretch at will, and he always found an hour or two to spend with Vasanta discussing Brahman, the scriptures, and sometimes even women, because the memory of Ramaa had never left him. After going through stages of hating her, blaming himself for her indifference, and crying himself to sleep with longing, he had come to accept what had happened. Although he still missed her, he knew their romance had been doomed from the beginning. Their relationship would have impeded his spiritual development and stalled his journey toward becoming a guru. As the Gita taught, “The senses have been conditioned by attraction to the pleasant and aversion to the unpleasant: a man should not be ruled by them; they are obstacles in his path.”

  The only cloud in the otherwise clear sky was Kahanji. The old guru was never content with anything Yeshua did.

  “Issa, keep your mind on the now,” he said, and banged his stick so hard on the clay floor that it cracked. “Stop living in your dreams. Forget about enlightenment; it will never happen.”

  Some nights Yeshua tossed and turned on his thin mat, worried he would grow old and die before learning enough. All he wanted was to go out into the world and teach, fulfill his promise to God, and with Kahanji, that day might never come.

  He studied the gurus around him and wondered how they had succeeded. It couldn’t be just that they were older and had studied longer. If there was no death and everything around them was an illusion, wasn’t age an illusion too?

  What was he doing wrong?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jagannath, AD 14

  One evening, in the middle of supper, Kahanji staggered up from his seat. He swayed like a drunk man, his eyes rolled up in his head, and before anyone could react, he collapsed to the floor. The other Brahmins rushed to help him, but Yeshua couldn’t move. He watched in a daze as the others left their meal and helped carry their esteemed guru to the infirmary while he just stood there. Empty of feeling. What was going on? Why was he crying?

  With a jolt, Yeshua shot up from his seat. Without thinking, he ran out of the deserted canteen, through the courtyard, and to the infirmary. He pushed his way through the other Brahmins and fell to his knees next to Kahanji, who lay on a bed of mats. Yeshua stroked his teacher’s wrinkled hand, barely noticing the others, who chanted sacred mantras to guide the guru’s spirit to the other dimension.

  “Don’t leave me yet, Master,” Yeshua whispered. “I’m not ready. There’s so much more to learn.” But his guru lay unconscious, oblivious of his words. Yeshua’s tears spilled through his long beard and onto his lap as he wept in silence. Kahanji had taught him so much.

  One by one, the other Brahmins left, leaving Yeshua alone with his guru.

  “Go to sleep, Issa,” said a Brahmin who had come to prepare Kahanji’s body for his passing. “There’s nothing more you can do.”

  But Yeshua didn’t want to go. He leaned against the wall and watched the Brahmin smear Kahanji’s limbs with herbal ointments, smudge holy ash on his forehead, and trickle holy water into his mouth.

  Yeshua’s eyelids grew heavier, and when he no longer could keep his eyes open, he dozed off into restless sleep.

  “Tell Issa not to worry about enlightenment.” His master’s voice was raspy and thin. “Tell him Krishna’s soul is alive within him.” Yeshua sat up straight. Was he dreaming? He leapt forward to embrace his teacher, but Kahanji was already gone.

  A desperate wail surged from the bottom of Yeshua’s throat as he shrank back and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, shivering. Kahanji had been like a father to him. Strict but fair. And Yeshua had loved him. He had loved him so much.

  Moments later, the Brahmins laid Kahanji’s body on a cot in front of the temple gate, placed ghee lamps near his head, and lit incense around him. The High Brahmin tied a scarf around Kahanji’s head, and bound his thumbs and then his toes together. The Brahmins believed grieving could hinder a soul’s transition into heaven, but Yeshua couldn’t help the tears running down his cheeks. He had just discovered how much he loved his guru, and with Kahanji’s last breath, learned that his guru had loved him, too. At last, Yeshua understood why he had been so hard on him: he wanted Yeshua to learn all there was to know before he passed away. Perhaps it was true after all: when the student is ready, the right teacher will appear. Only sometimes the student is too arrogant to realize it.

  Could it be true, though, that Krishna’s soul lived within him? Yeshua covered his mouth with his hand before anyone noticed his smile. He had to overcome this ridiculous sense of self-importance.

  The Brahmins washed Kahanji’s body, removed his clothes, and draped him in a white cloth. Yeshua picked up a handful of rice from a bowl and walked around the corpse three times before stuffing the rice in his guru’s mouth to nourish him for his journey. The cold skin of his departed master made the back of his neck prickle. Only the shell remained. Then he recalled the words from the Gita: “The soul is a spirit a sword can’t pierce, fire can’t burn, water can’t melt, and air can’t dry.”

  Together, the Brahmins placed the corpse onto the funeral pyre and walked around it three times in a long line. The High Brahmin passed a ghee lamp over the corpse.

  “Oh Agni, god of fire who knows all our deeds, lead us to bliss and protect us from the deceitful attraction of sin. We offer you our devotion again and yet again.” He scattered orange flowers on Kahanji’s head and torso.

  Yeshua wiped the tears from his eyes when they lit the pyre. He sat in silence with the others and watched his master’s remains disappear in the flames. The fire consumed the cloth in moments; it took much longer for the skin and bones to burn to an unrecognizable pile of ashes and bones.

  Someone grabbed his hand. Vasanta.

  “Come,” he said. “It’s time to wash away our sorrows.”

  They bathed in the ritual pool, where Yeshua’s tears blended with the tepid water. In a daze, he helped clean up Kahanji’s hut and dispose of his belongings, preferring to keep busy over letting sorrow overwhelm him.

  Vasanta placed something in Yeshua’s palm and closed his fingers around it. The cold metal burned his hand. He didn’t have to look to know what it was: the golden ring Yeshua had presented to Kahanji on the day of his Upanayana.

  �
��Keep it, Issa. It will remind you of everything he taught you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jagannath, AD 14

  Kahanji’s passing changed the rhythm of Yeshua’s life. When he no longer had to study Ayurveda or visit sick villagers, his afternoons and evenings allowed for independent study. But the freedom made him restless, and he found himself yearning for someone to tell him what to do.

  On the tenth day after Kahanji’s passing, the day his soul would join the gods of his ancestors, Yeshua and Vasanta sneaked out of the compound to explore the town of Jagannath. The boys walked in silence until they reached the market with its stalls of mangoes and palm fruits, cotton fabrics in all colors, hot lentil curries, and chai. Yeshua tingled with excitement. How he had missed the sounds of shouting, laughing, bargaining, and swearing in the four years since he had left the real world!

  But the poor people ducked away from them. The women hid behind their veils to avoid polluting the passing Brahmins. Vasanta clutched Yeshua’s arm. “Krishna teaches that we’re all equal, doesn’t he? That we shouldn’t discriminate between saints and sinners, the good and bad, or friends and enemies.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why do these women fear us? Don’t they know we’re good fellows?”

  Yeshua put his arm around him. “Perhaps they can’t see through the veil of illusion. They judge us based on our work, the color of our skin, and our education, because that’s what they’ve always been told to do. Only those who live every moment in Brahman understand this. Like you.”

  An idea was born in his mind, a faint echo of a dream he had suppressed.

  That night, after their evening meal, Yeshua knocked on the door of guru Arcahia’s cell.

  “Master, forgive the interruption.” Yeshua bowed as low as he could before he entered the cell. “I’m well aware that there’s a lot more to learn, and of course I’m a mere beginner of Vedic studies. But can’t we perhaps go and speak among the villagers? Teach them what we know?”

 

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