“You’re not just a man, Issa,” Udraka said. “You’re a Brahmin.”
“Of course.”
There was no point in arguing. Next time, he would use a parable and everyone would be happy. But in his heart he knew he had shown how White Brahmins were different from other gurus and had awoken their interest. Tomorrow, the crowd would likely be bigger; that was all that mattered for now.
He was right. The Brahmins’ following grew so fast, they had to move their lessons to the banks of the river to not interfere with local business and trade. Arcahia and Udraka remained the principal teachers, but every so often Yeshua and Vasanta were given an opportunity to teach. Although Vasanta still struggled with fluency, he appealed to the youngest listeners. Yeshua was more confident, but found himself increasingly constrained by his teachers’ interruptions. As long as they were with him, he couldn’t truly speak his mind.
The solution appeared one day when Yeshua came upon a crying toddler who was carrying firewood to one of the cremation ghats. The little boy had fallen and was bleeding from an open gash in his knee. When no other adults reached out to help, Yeshua picked the boy up and cradled him in his arms. The child wriggled like a trapped rat, trying to free himself.
“Where are you going, son?” The boy wailed and squirmed, his blood smearing Yeshua’s white robe. Yeshua tried to calm him, holding him closer to his chest. He closed his eyes to connect with Brahman, and placed a hand over the boy’s knee to halt the bleeding.
Everyone who passed them stared and shook their heads in disapproval.
One man attempted to pry Yeshua’s arms open. “Let him go. Now!”
Another blocked Yeshua’s way. “Brahmin, are you out of your mind, carrying an untouchable?”
Yeshua pushed them away. What kind of world was this, where grown-ups were expected to ignore an injured child? And where were the parents? The boy was far too young to carry such a heavy load. Yeshua took the boy to the river and washed his wound. The cut was deep and wouldn’t stop bleeding.
Yeshua removed his head scarf, ripped it into strips, and dressed the wound. He placed his hands over the knee and recited healing mantras to relieve the pain, and soon the child’s cries softened to whimpers.
When Yeshua arrived at the funeral pyre where the toddler’s father worked, he found the family gathered for a meal.
“Mai, please, here’s your boy.” He handed the child to his mother. “Don’t worry: it’s a frightful wound, but he will be fine.”
The father watched Yeshua with suspicion. “You not come from here?”
“No, but—”
“Then you not know—about us.”
“Yes, I do. You are children of God, like me.” He touched the father’s shoulder. “I also know something else: Brahman loves you.”
The father frowned, staring at the bowl of thin soup in front of him. “That is a lie.”
“No, it’s true. He loves me. And he loves you.”
“Why do you say that? Who are you? What do you want from us?”
“I’m a simple man, nothing more. But my destiny is to deliver God’s word. To everyone.”
“You are mistaken.” He pushed Yeshua away. “Just go.”
But Yeshua didn’t leave. Instead, he sat on the mat next to the cremator’s wife, tore a piece from the large flatbread, and put it in his mouth to show he wasn’t afraid to be soiled.
“God watches our actions,” Yeshua said. “He doesn’t judge us on what we do for a living. He doesn’t care if you handle corpses. He looks into your heart and sees your kindness. To him, your soul is as precious as that of any priest or warrior.”
Yeshua sensed their unease but continued.
“Listen, once there was a farmer who owned a field of ripening sorghum. One day he noticed that some of the plants had broken leaves, and he ordered his workers to cut and burn the damaged plants and to preserve only the perfect ones. When the time of harvest arrived, the farmer found his field completely empty. Furious, he confronted his workers, demanding an explanation. They replied that they had followed his orders: they had cut and burned all the flawed sorghum plants. But once they were done, not a single stalk was left.”
The cremator’s face was blank.
“You see, no one is perfect,” Yeshua said. “Brahmin, warrior, or slave. We all have flaws. But God loves us all nonetheless.”
“But we are untouchables.”
“You may have a broken leaf or two, but so does everyone else.” Yeshua delivered the same lesson as on his first day in Benares. He showed the man and his wife how to connect with God in their hearts, and taught them how loving the people who mistreated them could only bring them joy.
When Yeshua left, his heart brimmed with excitement. He had found a way to fulfill his life’s purpose, how to serve God by teaching the needy about salvation while still adhering to his teachers’ rules. Every afternoon, instead of meditating, he would seek out those who hungered for the words of God: the merchants, the peasants, and the untouchables. He would be their guru.
A few months later, Arcahia stopped him as Yeshua was leaving for his “midday meditation.”
“Issa, come here.”
Udraka and Vasanta looked up from their mats where they lay resting.
“Have you heard anything about a Brahmin who preaches to the Shudras?” Arcahia paused.
Yeshua wanted to shake his head, but couldn’t move.
“They say he wears white, like us. He has a shaved head and a long brown beard.” Arcahia paused. “And light skin.”
A chill ran up Yeshua’s spine. “Master,” he said softly, twisting the strands of his beard, hoping to forestall Arcahia’s anger, “tell me again, how should we view the different castes? Wouldn’t you say that in the eyes of Brahman, we are all equal?”
Arcahia clenched his jaw. “Stop the foolishness, Issa. You haven’t heard, then? The local Brahmins are furious. They are threatening to kill this White Brahmin.”
Yeshua had heard the rumors, but people always talked, and it was mostly idle chatter. “Master, what do you honestly think? Doesn’t God love everyone the same?”
“We have been over this before. We are all part of him, but just as your head is wiser than your toes, we are not all equal.”
Udraka rose from his mat to side with Arcahia, his face blotchy with anger. He raised his hand to slap Yeshua, but Arcahia pulled it down. “Vasanta, come here,” he said. “Tell your friend—again—why all castes cannot be equal.”
Vasanta’s eyes darted between Arcahia and Yeshua, trapped between his teachers and his friend. He drew a deep breath and looked at Yeshua. “In the beginning of the world, Lord Brahma created four men. The first came out of his mouth; he was white and tall and wise. The Creator called him Brahmin and made him a priest.”
Arcahia nodded with approval: Vasanta hadn’t stuttered once.
“The second man was created from Lord Brahma’s arms, the Kshatriya,” Vasanta continued. “He was big and strong, so Lord Brahma made him a ruler and warrior and the defender of God’s word.”
Yeshua knew the story well. What he wanted to know was how it was consistent with the Holy Scriptures.
“Lord Brahma made the third man, the Vaishya, from his thighs, to have someone who could grow and sell food to the priests and rulers and warriors. But legs don’t have ears, and therefore they cannot understand the word of God. Thus, it’s useless to teach them.”
Udraka had sat back down. He clasped his hands in front of his big belly, proud of his apprentice.
“At last, Lord Brahma looked down at his feet. They were cracked and soiled from walking barefoot in the mud, and he saw that someone had to serve the others. So he created the dark-skinned Shudra, who may not even look at a Brahmin. But they can work hard and perhaps in the next life return as Vaishya.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Yeshua scratched the floor with his big toe, noticing that his toenails needed cleaning. “Do you love your arms more than your
feet? Cut them off, then. Live like a cripple by the river and depend on others to feed you.”
Arcahia rubbed his forehead with both hands.
“And”—Yeshua couldn’t stop himself—“isn’t it written in the Brihadaranyaka that there is no diversity in Brahman? That whoever sees discrepancies in God will go from death to death?”
“You interpret it wrong,” Udraka said.
“Do I? What about ‘as long as there’s duality, one sees the other, hears the other, smells the other, knows the other, but for the illumined soul all are dissolved in God’?”
Yeshua didn’t want to argue. He loved these men more than anyone else in the world, but they were mistaken. The God he knew would never cause anyone to suffer.
“And what about the untouchables?” Yeshua’s hand flew to his mouth.
Arcahia turned away, resigned. But Udraka stood up and put his face so close to Yeshua that he could see every pore on his nose. “The untouchables do dirty work. They’re scum. And if you speak to one, their filth will rub off and you will become one of them.” Udraka’s eyes narrowed.
“Then your Brahman is not a god of justice,” Yeshua said.
Udraka slapped him so hard that Yeshua lost his balance and fell to his knees. He picked himself up and stepped close to Udraka. Smiling, he closed his eyes, and from his heart projected a sphere of infinite love that engulfed Udraka, Arcahia, and Vasanta.
Udraka raised his hand again, paused, and then slapped Yeshua’s other cheek. Yeshua staggered but kept his balance. His smile remained.
“My God, the one I listen to,” Yeshua continued, “loves all men without distinction: the white, the brown, the black—even the untouchables.”
Arcahia looked at him, his eyes clouded in thought.
“Why do you always think you know God better than anyone else?” Vasanta asked. He grabbed Udraka’s hand, as if to keep him from hitting Yeshua again.
Yeshua looked at his friend, suddenly aware of how much he loved him, afraid of leaving him behind like he had once left Yakov and Dhiman. “Ha!” he said without joy. “You know me so well.”
He wanted to explain how wrong Vasanta was, how he didn’t think he knew God better, but what could he say at this stage to change his friend’s mind?
“Man invented the castes,” Yeshua continued, centering his gaze at Udraka. “Man filled his temples with dead images of stone and wood, not Brahman. I know—and you know—that God is love. Only love.”
Udraka charged at Yeshua one more time, but Vasanta held him back. Yeshua backed toward the edge of the roof, to the stairs that led down to the street. He had said what he needed to say. Yet he hesitated.
“Be careful, Udraka,” Arcahia said, following Yeshua with his eyes. “Nothing you say can change his mind. If he is wrong, his words mean nothing. Let him go in peace.”
Arcahia’s dismissal stung more than Udraka’s blows. Yeshua took one last look at the three White Brahmins, in awe of how much he loved them. Maybe Abba was right after all, perhaps priests did come from a different breed and he was never meant to teach. He bowed lightly before he descended the stairs.
Where would he go now? What did God want from him?
Chapter Eighteen
Northeast Kushan Empire, AD 16
Yeshua walked aimlessly along a road that led north through Isipatana where the Buddha had given his first sermon, but he could not find the peace of mind to linger there and meditate. His tears flowed freely as he agonized over his fate. What if his message of a God inside each and every person made no difference in the lives of the poor? What if they viewed him simply as temporary entertainment, a mere respite from their daily woes? Had he embarked on a pointless quest?
Intuitively, he followed the pilgrimage path toward the mountainous region of the Himalayas, the kingdom of Sakya and Lumbini, where Lord Buddha had been born. At the Ghaghara River, Yeshua took a knife to his beard and let the hairs feed the stream. With a clean-shaven face, he trudged forward in Lord Buddha’s footsteps. The fresh midday air allowed him to walk farther and well past sunset. During the frigid nights, he sought warmth under leafy branches propped against tree trunks. But as the days passed, his hunger and loneliness intensified, and his energy dwindled.
One morning, as he was about to give up and welcome death by starvation, he came upon a tiny forest hamlet of half a dozen wooden huts nestled under tall Bhutan pines. Overwhelmed with relief, he banged on the door of the first hut. No one answered. He peeked through the divides in the walls, where the moss between the logs had loosened, but saw only darkness. The same happened with the next one, and then the next. His throat clenched. Had all the huts been abandoned? He tried one after another until one single hut remained. Some of the wood in its walls had rotted, leaving gaps as large as a woman’s arm, and a soiled carpet covered the entrance. It seemed pointless to even knock. But then he noticed the fresh scraps and buzzing flies on the garbage pile beside the hut.
Yeshua pushed the carpet slightly to the side and called through the opening. “I come in peace.”
An animal grunted inside. And then, the sound of shuffling feet. A man, hefty as a bear, peered at him through the doorway.
“Namaste, sir.” Yeshua bowed, aware of his disheveled appearance. “I’m Issa. I’m a pilgrim from Palestine.”
The man scratched his graying beard. “Pali?”
“No, Pa-le-stine.” Yeshua pointed west. “Over there, about five seasons’ walk.”
The man pulled back. “You walk year—and half?” He grabbed the carpet-door, ready to yank it shut.
Yeshua thought fast. He had to appeal to the man’s generosity, an integral part of his culture.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’m famished.”
The giant glared at Yeshua’s stomach, muttering under his breath. He peered back into the hut for a moment, but then he shrugged and held the carpet-door open, allowing Yeshua to enter. In the darkness, two huge long-haired black cows with curled horns snorted and scuffed. Behind them, a woman lay dozing on a bed of hay, covered by woolen blankets.
The man filled a small bowl with burned clotted milk and handed it to Yeshua. “Not much food for share.” He motioned to the woman. “My wife, very ill.”
Yeshua savored every sip and thanked God for his good fortune.
“Your wife—what’s wrong with her?”
“She dying.” The man sighed. Sadness furrowed his face. “Not long live.”
Yeshua touched his hand. “What happened?”
“Baby die inside.” The giant covered his face with his hands and sobbed.
Yeshua knelt by the woman’s side. Her bones jutted through her skin like the boards of a wrecked ship. Her face was ashen. Blue veins protruded from her neck, and only a faint rise and fall of her chest confirmed she was still alive.
He cupped one hand behind the woman’s neck, placed another on her forehead, and chanted a mantra to attract the Kundalini. He let his hands hover above her head, neck, torso, and pelvis to connect the chakras and to allow the energy to travel through her. Her life force was frail. Yeshua prayed harder. Sweat trickled down his face. He asked God and Krishna for guidance. Deep in meditation, he felt the spirit of his guru Kahanji appear beside him, directing his movements. The woman’s body trembled lightly and a pinch of color appeared in her cheeks, but she needed more of the healing energy, and he couldn’t let her go until she was safe. Yeshua extended his hands above her belly and held them still, channeling the energy through his hands and into her until his arms ached with exhaustion. When he couldn’t hold his hands up any longer, he lowered them to rest right below her chest.
She wheezed.
Yeshua drew his hands away.
“Will she live?” the man asked.
“I don’t know. We have got to get the child out. It’s poisoning her.”
The big man wailed. He knelt by his wife and rubbed her belly as if he could push the baby out.
“Is there a shaman around here?”
Yeshua asked.
The man shook his head.
“A midwife? Someone who collects herbs?”
“Everyone gone. Last year, many, many water. Only we here.”
It seemed hopeless. With the dead baby inside her, she would surely die. Yeshua might be able to help restore some of her strength, but without herbs…
Kahanji would have insisted she be healed through prayer, but there was no time. She would be gone before nightfall if she didn’t improve. He had to find some herbs.
“I’ll be back.”
Yeshua left his host kneeling by her bedside. He thought he remembered having passed a tuft of herbs in the woods not far from the hamlet. With a little bit of luck, he would recognize some of them. He ran in the direction he had come from, squatting here and there to inspect plants. He tried to remember what Kahanji had taught him about the herbs and their healing properties.
Frustrated and vexed, Yeshua slumped against a tree, shaking his head and trying to free his mind. Parsley. He had seen parsley only moments ago. What else? Pansy. He remembered seeing the yellow flowers somewhere. With renewed vigor, he retraced his steps and found pansies and parsley growing close together. How strange. Yeshua drew a breath of relief and raised his palms to the skies in gratitude.
Returning to the hut, Yeshua steeped the herbs in warm water and then dipped a clean rag in the brew. While the woman’s husband slowly squeezed the liquid into her mouth, Yeshua held his hands above her throat to ease its passage. She coughed and whimpered, but she swallowed the bitter liquid little by little until it was all gone.
“Now let her sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll do it again. And the day after. And the day after that.”
On the evening of the fifth day, the woman pushed herself halfway up and bellowed with pain. A foul smell filled the hut and a bloody mass stained the hay. The bearlike man picked up his wife and carried her to a nearby stream, where they let all the blood wash out into the clear water. Once the bleeding stopped, they wrapped her in a clean blanket, brought her back to the hut, and covered her with yak skins. Yeshua rolled the soiled hay into a bundle, took it outside, and burned it to send the child’s soul to the other side.
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