The Transmigrant

by Kristi Saare Duarte

  When Yeshua placed him back on the stairs above the river, the cripple gleamed, his face twisted in a smile. And when Yeshua left him there, he knew he had done enough. Kindness was free, and it was something he had in abundance.

  They settled into temporary lodgings on the roof of a local temple. The next morning, Arcahia asked each Brahmin to walk around town and bring back a recommendation on the best way to preach in this city. In smaller villages, people hungered for news and welcomed entertainment, but Benares teemed with competition; it was possibly the only place in the world where holy men outnumbered common people.

  Yeshua made his way toward the outskirts of town. He sat on a fallen tree trunk to watch a farmer and his family plow a field. They pointed at him and gossiped, perhaps wondering what a holy man could want with a family of peasants. He waved.

  One of the sons put down his digger and walked over with his sister. “Namaste, Brahmin,” he said, and bowed. “My papa invites you for a meal, if you please.”

  Yeshua’s stomach growled with anticipation, and he realized he hadn’t eaten that day. Besides, turning down an offer of food would be an immense insult.

  “That’s very kind,” he said, and he followed the young man and the girl across the field to their home. A roughly made mud-brick wall stuffed with hay enclosed a courtyard kitchen with three small huts: one for drying and storing crops and two sleeping quarters with worn blankets for doors. A cow seemed to be their only livestock.

  “What brings you here, Your Holiness?” the boy asked as they sat down in the shade of the house, their backs against the wall. Yeshua told him how he had traveled all the way from Palestine, crossed Sindh, and made his way east to Jagannath, where he had lived with the Brahmins for many years. Now he had come to Benares on a teaching pilgrimage.

  “Tell me something, then, will you?”

  Yeshua hesitated. He could be punished for teaching peasants. But in all honesty, as a carpenter, he also belonged to the Shudra caste. What harm would it do?

  “Very well, let me tell you a story. And please, come sit with us.” Yeshua gestured to the girl who peeked at them from the doorway. He was already committing an offense by mingling with peasants; there was no reason to exclude her. And he liked the idea of resting his eyes on an attractive woman for a change. He scanned her voluptuous body as she squatted beside them. Her delicate bare feet were covered with gray mud, and her long hair was unkempt. The plump breasts that burst against her threadbare sari made him tremble. He had to think of something else—fast. He closed his eyes, tugged at his beard, and breathed deeply to quiet his pounding heart. Think of God, he told himself. Think of Krishna, of Buddha. Physical desires merely separate us from God. When a glowing light warmed his heart chakra, he knew the most difficult moment had passed.

  Yeshua opened his eyes and centered his attention on the boy to avoid the girl’s entrancing black eyes.

  “Once there was a man who owned a large property of a thousand acres,” he said. “The man had three competent sons, but only one could inherit his fortune. To test them, he gave each son a piece of land to manage in any way he pleased. The only condition was that each had to give the father a share of the profits. The oldest son, a greedy man, immediately confiscated his brothers’ lands. He employed one brother as a foreman, and made the youngest a slave who would provide the labor. Thus, the oldest brother enjoyed life as a wealthy man and visited the property only once in a while to take his earnings. The middle brother earned a fair salary, while the youngest brother toiled from early morning until sunset under the unforgiving sun and earned nothing.

  “When the father came to check on his sons, he was shocked to find that the oldest had made himself king while the middle son happily exploited the youngest brother. He threw the oldest son into prison. He stripped the middle son of all belongings and sent him away. Then he released his youngest son from the chains and told him to walk away in peace as a free man and never let anyone take advantage of him again.

  “After a couple of years had passed, the father called his three sons to him. They all admitted their mistakes and vowed that they had learned their lessons. Thus, their father forgave them. Again, he divided his land into three equal shares and begged them to follow the laws, respect one another, and live in peace.”

  Yeshua paused. The young man gawked, his eyes wide. The girl gasped behind her head scarf.

  “What does it mean?” the boy asked. “Why are you telling us this story?”

  “It’s about the castes. The father is Brahman. And please, call me Issa.”

  They nodded, deep in thought.

  “Issa,” the girl finally asked, “will God also break women’s chains one day?”

  “Enough already!” Her brother laughed. “Go and cook for us like a proper girl.”

  But the question intrigued Yeshua. He had never heard a woman speak of being in chains before.

  “Wait!” he called as she turned to leave. “You’re right. Brahman says all his children shall be free, even the servants, untouchables, and women. We’re all children of God. Our souls are part of Brahman. So, yes, you may rise up and God will break your chains.”

  When the rest of the family returned home, they sat together on a blanket in the courtyard to eat. Yeshua talked and laughed and listened to the family’s stories, making sure to include everyone in the conversation.

  But his thoughts kept returning to the girl. He had been living with men for so long, he had forgotten how charming women could be, how enticing the swell of their breasts, and how they could communicate by a subtle raising of an eyebrow or the faintest wink. Yeshua wondered if she would allow him to touch her. He wouldn’t, of course. She was the only daughter in a respectable family. Her virginity was reserved for whomever she married. And a Brahmin could never marry a peasant girl. They had no future together, unless he brought her home to Palestine. Yeshua shook his head. But he couldn’t help fantasizing.

  “We should preach to the Vaishyas,” Yeshua suggested that night when he returned to the temple roof.

  Udraka and Arcahia pretended they hadn’t heard him.

  “Farmers?” Vasanta asked, and crinkled his nose in disapproval.

  Yeshua nodded.

  “Exactly. Listen, they’re starved for knowledge,” Yeshua continued. “I know we’ve never taught them before, but—Benares is different. Hundreds of Brahmins congregate here. They’re established and trusted, and we’re not. Who’s going to listen to us here?”

  Yeshua paused. He had never dared to speak freely to his teachers before. It must have been the energy carried over from meeting with the farmer family. He meant it, though. The whole idea of castes was nothing more than a system created by some men as a means of controlling others.

  “How can you even think like that?” Udraka spat out the words. “You’ve reached such a high level of awareness, and you still don’t understand?”

  Yeshua took a deep breath to calm his heartbeat. He was using the wrong approach. “I’m sorry, Master Udraka, Master Arcahia.” He bowed his head to show them he didn’t want to argue. “I don’t mean any disrespect. It’s just that as I was walking around town all day, looking at people, it hit me: the peasants. They could offer a new, a different path to deliver our message. But you’re right, I was mistaken.”

  The teachers accepted his apology and continued eating. They had collected quite a feast: sautéed chickpeas, vegetable curry, bread, fruit—and a boy who refilled their mugs of chai after every sip. Yeshua sat back to listen as the other Brahmins spoke about their day.

  Vasanta had spent the entire day by the river observing other Brahmins. They simply sat down next to people and told them stories about Brahman. Arcahia said he liked the approach but it would take too long to spread their message if they had to teach one man at a time.

  Udraka had walked among the many temples to study how the locals prayed and how their teachers taught. Most temples, built of mud or stone, were dedicated to Shiva, Mitra,
Surya, or Indra, but he hadn’t seen any dedicated to Krishna. If they built a temple in his name, it would attract the curious. Arcahia seemed to contemplate the idea but finally said it was an impossible endeavor because they had no money. Maybe sometime in the future.

  When it was Yeshua’s turn to describe his day, he hesitated. He couldn’t tell the truth, but lying was not an option. Arcahia would see through him like water. He had to make something up while staying as close to the truth as possible. Yeshua sent a silent prayer to God to help him sound believable.

  “At first, I just walked along the streets. Oh, mighty Krishna, what a city! Such a magical energy, like an ethereal spirit.” He was blathering, trying to collect his thoughts. “I stood in the shadows and observed the street life. How can they live in such destitution and stay absolutely clean? Such a miracle.”

  Vasanta and Udraka shifted in their seating positions. They had no idea where this was going. Arcahia watched him, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

  “You see, purity—that’s what matters to the people of Benares. Purity of body and mind. And that’s what we should preach.” Yeshua clapped his hands to drive in his point.

  Udraka frowned.

  Arcahia stepped in. “I believe his morning bath in the Ganges washed away Issa’s mind.” He laughed. “What he wants to say, I think, is that the people of Benares consider cleanliness of utmost importance. I, too, walked along the shores of the river, and I saw how they wash their clothes and beat them clean: even the beggars try to keep their rags unsoiled. Issa’s point is”—Arcahia looked straight at Yeshua to show who held higher rank—“we have to make sure we are always thoroughly clean when we go out to teach.”

  Yeshua sighed with relief. His teacher had saved him from embarrassment. No matter how much Arcahia knew, he would never judge.

  “This town is overrun with preachers.” Arcahia looked from one to the other of them. “We are fortunate to have this temple roof for ourselves. Not everyone will find free lodging.”

  Udraka had finished his meal, and he lay down on his side to rest and half closed his sleepy eyes. Yeshua peeled a mango and sucked on the sweet flesh.

  “What makes us different from the others here is our experience,” Arcahia continued. “We’ve spent almost a year walking from village to village. We have met all sorts of people and have answered every kind of question. We know how to tell a good story. Because of this, we can pick any place in town. Anywhere. And if we go back to the same location every day, people will come. What do you think?”

  No one else had considered an answer that simple. Of course they could just preach. Soon enough, someone would stop and listen. Then someone else. And eventually there would be an entire crowd.

  “Wonderful,” Yeshua said, happy to be off the hook.

  “Splendid, Issa.” Arcahia licked the crumbs from his mouth. “Because you will be the first to teach here. Tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Benares, AD 15

  Sweat trickled down Yeshua’s armpits, staining his robe. He knew how to speak and he knew people would listen, but he had never been appraised before. He must impress his teachers, show them he was worthy. His head spun and he could barely breathe. Teaching was what God had called him to do; it was the reason he had left Palestine and had brought such disgrace upon his family.

  On a plateau above the river, among screaming children and bleating goats, Yeshua sat down to meditate and ask for guidance. He drew in the energies of everyone around him to get a sense of what they needed to hear. By nightfall, he was ready. God would guide him, and there was no reason to worry. He floated on clouds of anticipation all the way back to the temple roof, ready for a good night’s sleep.

  But Benares never slept. All night long, the sounds of people chanting, cows bellowing, and dogs fighting over scraps of meat lingered over the city and kept him awake. Despite a night of interrupted sleep, Yeshua woke with a grin before sunrise. This was his day. Today his destiny would come to fruition.

  By the river, Yeshua waved at his friend, the cripple who lay on the stone steps at this most spiritual hour and listened to the cascade of prayers around him. The peacefulness he emanated warmed Yeshua’s heart.

  When the bells from nearby temples chimed to announce the arrival of a new day, Yeshua and the other White Brahmins from Jagannath immersed themselves in the water to chant their temple mantra.

  Om, let us meditate on the deity whose belly was tied by a rope. O, Universal Spirit, give me higher intellect and peace, and let Lord Krishna illuminate my mind.

  Yeshua was more than ready: safe and guided, aware nothing could go wrong. He couldn’t wait for the crowd’s reaction, to see their faces transformed by the light he shared. He loved nothing more in the entire world than seeing God’s grace reflected in others.

  The White Brahmins set up their altar at a corner where two streets crossed. While Yeshua gathered his thoughts, Arcahia lit the clumps of incense and Udraka and Vasanta spread marigold petals on the white blanket where he would speak. They chanted to alert passersby that prayer was about to start. Yeshua sat cross-legged on the blanket to prepare. His chant emerged from deep within his soul, and, focusing on each word of the mantra, he connected with God. He opened his chakras, allowing the Kundalini to rise like a coiled serpent through the energy centers along his spine and fill him with love.

  Elated and completely relaxed, Yeshua opened his eyes and looked out across the square. Only two men had stopped to listen. He cleared his throat, ran his fingers through his beard, and smiled. “Welcome, my honored friends. They call me Issa. I’m a White Brahmin of Jagannath. I have come here this wondrous morning to tell you about God—Brahman—and how you can find him.”

  The men waited expectantly. Yeshua drew a deep breath and continued. “You may know that God cannot be found in one place; he exists everywhere. But did you know that God’s meeting place with you is right here”—he patted his chest—“within your heart? If you stay still and listen, you will hear his voice like a whisper. That voice is God.”

  The men stared at him in silence, but Yeshua noticed a spark of interest in their eyes. Three passing adolescents stopped to listen.

  “Do you ever wonder how to tell whether the voice within you is God? This is how; once you open the ears of your soul to connect with God, you’ll notice the voice within you is completely different from your own thoughts: it’s kind and calm and loving. All you have to do is be still, open your heart, and listen. God is waiting to speak to you.”

  “What does he say, then?” one of the young men wanted to know. “What does Brahman tell you?”

  Yeshua blushed with delight, excited that someone had interacted with him. “He speaks of love. He asks us to serve our fellow men, to offer strangers a helping hand. Give to those who wish you harm or have nothing to offer you in return. Assist the poor and the weak. Treat others as you would treat yourself. Why? Because we are all one. If you help someone without expecting anything in return, you have served God and also helped yourself. Brahman is the sublime presence in all beings.”

  Yeshua paused to let his words sink in. He nodded invitingly at a few newcomers who had stopped to see why a gathering had formed at this busy junction.

  “God doesn’t want us to harm others. He expects kindness. He wants us to unite with him in our thoughts and actions. And when you do, he will dry your tears, quiet your fears, and fill your heart with peace.”

  A withered man in his last years of life asked, “But if God is everywhere, tell me—to which temple should I bring gifts? Where should I make offerings?”

  “Brahman has no use for gifts. He doesn’t want us to waste plants or grains in his name. The food you offer your murtis belongs in the hungry mouths of the poor, and the flowers belong in the hands of your beloved. You see, when you help someone who is truly in need, a heavenly scent of incense rises up and alerts God that a good deed has been done. It will return to you as a blessing.”


  Yeshua rose to walk among the onlookers. “The murtis, your holy statues,” he said, “they can neither see you nor feel you. They cannot eat the food or appreciate your prayers. They are nothing but objects. God, on the other hand, is alive within you. Make your human heart your altar and offer him alms with the fire of love. This is how you may truly worship Brahman.”

  Yeshua looked from one stunned face to the next, assured that he had planted a seed of wisdom in their hearts.

  “Master, I want to follow you.” A gray-bearded man, tall and noble, in a worn Brahmin’s robe approached him. “Baba, how can I become your apprentice?”

  Yeshua shook his head. “I’m your brother, not a master. Listen, I’m neither higher nor lower than you.” Yeshua stood on his toes and reached up to pat the man’s shoulder. Then he looked out at his audience. “ Love your fellow man, but praise and follow only God. He’s the One.”

  With that, Yeshua bowed his head and sat down next to Vasanta. Arcahia stood to let the listeners know they would return the next day.

  Yeshua’s heart raced with pride. At least a dozen people had come to listen, and perhaps one or two had truly heard his message. He might have made a difference in someone’s life. God had filled him with the sweetest nectar and had spoken through him.

  “Quite sufficient,” Udraka said, and patted his back. “But next time, try to incorporate a story, as you have heard us do.”

  Arcahia was more encouraging. “Well done! You have a way with words and you connected rather well with the listeners.” He paused, and Yeshua waited for the but he was sure must follow. “But when somebody asks to become your apprentice, the answer is always yes.”

  “I was speaking about forming a direct relationship with God. I asked them to abandon their shrines and shift their adoration from deities straight to Brahman. How then can I tell someone to follow a man?”