3. HOME

This is what Atisha told Savitri.

His father belonged to the Kshatriya caste, the caste of warriors, and he was killed in one of endless wars that two neighbouring rajas were waging against each other over some rich town located in the frontier area – the boy never learned either the rajas’ names or the name of the town to whom he had lost his father. And his mom... she died in child birth shortly after his father had been killed. With both parents gone and no close relatives to take care of him he became an orphan. Akash – that was his birth name – wandered for many moons along dusty and hot roads - they took him to towns, big and small, and to villages, rich and poor - there he was asking for alms. Until one day this road brought him to a Buddhist monastery. 

There he found a refuge and it became his home; one of the elder monks became his Teacher - he was all the wisdom and compassion that little Akash could only imagine. A cloud of loving kindness was glowing around his precious Teacher - this is how he was calling the old monk who was taking care of him. But the old monk was more then just a teacher to Akash – he was his father, his mother, and his whole world.

So, with a newly found home and a new family - a new life started for Akash. He was still a little boy but during his short life he had already seen how fast and unpredictably the direction of one´s life could change when potential aspects of one´s  existence were materialised and tuenred into a reality. On this winding road Akash had already been a happy child – and a lonely child – and now a devoted child - and he thanked his stars for having not abandoned him. 

 

A day came when the Teacher shaved the boy´s head and gave him a new name. This is how Akash became Atisha and a Buddhist monk.

Who knows why the Teacher had chosen this name for Akash... maybe he thought of pandit Atisha, the learned man, or maybe because of the birthplace of this learned man. This place was called Vajrayogini and the Teacher was possibly a clairvoyant - at least that was the opinion held by other monks - and he thought that this  place might somehow be important for Akash.

Akash liked his new name – because he received it from his Teacher. Besides he thought it was not very different from his birth name - and because it started with the same sound, so it was also approved by his stars. And finally he thought that since he had a second home and a second family it was quite natural to be also given a second name. However these thoughts passed through his mind only once – when he  received his new name – and never revisited him again.

 Since then the monastery became all his life - and in the meanwhile Atisha grew up, turning into a tall and strong monk.

The monks of this small monastery followed the Diamond path – it was their vehicle to liberation and to enlightenment. The lineage of Atisha´s Teacher went back to one of Buddha´s first disciples - this was what the boy heard once from another monk. In an unbroken tradition one generation of Teachers after another was passing the eternal and unchanging truth of the secret Tantric Teaching to their initiated disciples, younger monks.

As keepers of the ancient  knowledge monks exchanged their manuscripts with other Buddhist monasteries located in different parts of Bharat, India. Most of the learned monks were old, so younger and stronger monks carried their messages from one monastery to another. This time Atisha´s Teacher asked him to memorize the Treasure transmission; Atisha would travel to Ellora - it was a Buddhist cave monastery located in a faraway part of Bharat where the sun was setting. There he would put to paper his teacher’s transmission and respectfully hand it over to the Ellora abbot.

All the young monks in the monastery could easily memorize pages after pages of Buddhist texts - word by word - but Atisha was probably the best. Regular debates between the monks were part of their training; they were often held in the monastery yard under green branches of the banyan tree. When it was Atisha´s turn to debate he cited with ease and interpreted with accuracy the sacred scriptures - he never made any mistakes and most of the times he could prove his argument in the debate. This was how the Teacher had chosen Atisha to travel to Ellora.

Atisha had never travelled before, at least not that far. He knew the trip would be lonely and dangerous and that Ellora monastery was many full moons away. But it was such an honor for him to fulfill the errand and the wish of his precious Teacher. So one early dawn he left the monastery – and that was two full moons ago.

Two nights ago the moon was full again and as Atisha woke up he watched for a while how the silvery night started to hesitantly dissolve its maddening dark magic; soon it would give way to the crystal light of the emerging morning sky. 

But he reminded himself that there was no time to waste. He wanted to get to the nearest village before the real heat of the day started and ask there for some food. He had not passed any villages for the last two days and though he was used to long periods of fasting he started to lose force. Worse still, he was running out of water.

He got up, wrapped tightly the yellow robe around his body and started walking along a narrow path that was winding through the forest. Under his bare feet it felt cool and slightly wet with the night dew. He thought with relief that the most dangerous part of the night was over and hoped that maybe a village was not too far away…there he would get  some water and food...

And may be he was right and there was a village nearby – but he never got there.

He kept walking along the path – even though it was still dark he could see it as it was marked with small white pebbles on both sides. Suddenly he shuddered as if touched by somebody’s invisible presence - immediately from the corner of his eye he noticed something... it felt like a glimpse of a shadow - to the left and behind him... then he heard how a dry branch was snapped. The night was still dark – but this shadow was even darker; and this patch of darkness was moving … not just moving – it was following him!

He quickly turned round and to his horror he saw how big this shadow was… really big…and then, when all these pieces of what he had seen unmistakably fell into their places, he realized that it was not a shadow... no... it was a bear, a brown bear. Big and heavy but also gracious and fast. Atisha realized that it was too late to run or to hide.

Suddenly a story flashed in his mind. He heard it once from a pilgrim who stayed one night at the monastery. That was a story about a bear attacking a man – and the most amazing part of the story was that the man lived to tell his story of this deadly encounter to others.

With his back to the bear again, the monk stopped turning into a frozen motion, into an unmanifested action - very much like the statue of Vajrasattva in his temple: intent, full of life but bound into an extended moment of stillness. 

Though he might have looked like this statue from the outside, inside him everything was quite the opposite. He felt how this mysterious ball of light sprang again into existence - right behind his navel – and this time it was shining brighter then dozens of full moons. That happened to him before, during his meditations - only two or three times, but after that for hours he felt inside him the presence of the warm and glowing light. 

But this time the ball of light was different. It was not  just glowing mildly - it was pulsating with such an incredible force, beating inside his body that it was painful for Atisha to bear it. The imprisoned ball of light was looking for an immediate escape and still the monk had to wait for the bear to come closer… and still a bit closer… and rise on its hind paws… and to breathe in – only then the armless man would deal a blow with his sharp pointed elbow to the fierce animal.

Everything was happening so fast – but Atisha felt the world around him had slowed down as if trying to stand still. Finally he heard the sound of the sucked in air – now was the time! – and he plunged his elbow into the place where he thought the bear’s heart was. As he did that the ball of light inside him exploded into a fierce shriek and a ferocious blow.

Atisha jumped aside as quickly as he could - but still not fast enough - he heard some shallow sound. A second later he realized that it came from his robe and from the skin on his chest: they were effortlessly slashed by the bear´s long and crooked claws. Both fell. Both were injured. The monk’s blow turned out to be lethal and the bear’s heart was torn. But the monk himself could hardly move. 

Overcoming sudden dizziness and pain he slightly raised his head from the ground, glanced at the Sun: its edge had finally appeared over the horizon. Then Atisha gathered all his remaining strength and started crawling along the red dirt path - it was still wet with fresh night dew. Now it was also dark red with the blood coming from his ripped chest. 

He saw that the night was finally gone and the light of the day had set in. Then the darkness of the night suddenly engulfed him again...

- ... and this is where the servant found me - said the monk to Savitri.

She tried not think what a bear with such claws… no, not claws…sickles... real sickles... might have done to Atisha... no, to Akash... she called him by his birth name... at the same time she could not imagine how an armless monk could have killed such a huge and ferocious animal. But the servant found the dead sloth bear not very far from the place where he had found the unconscious monk – what other proof of this incredible story was needed to everybody in the ashram? 

As to the servant – the sight of the bear killed by an armless man filled him with awe, boundless respect and admiration for the young monk. Later, every time that he entered the cell where the monk was recovering from the wounds the servant diligently bent to the monk’s feet and touched them to take blessing. He wished he himself were half that brave and hoped that this might help.

What the servant did not know again was that the power possessed by the monk  had nothing to do with courage. This power was just the projection of his disciplined and well trained mind. And that there was nothing beyond it. Only the white light of emptiness. 

Sunyata.

2. YOUR NAME

Zaira came early, before the morning choir of birds started to praise luminous rays of thе rising Surya. Shе stood on thе porch and lookеd insidе thе cеll.

- Alivе! But bеarly... and still unconscious.

The long night seemed to have exhausted thе monk. He looked thinnеr and paler than on thе prеvious day but his breath was deeper and slower. A good sign.

Zaira rolled out a thin straw mat by the monk's low bed and sat there - silently, only her silver ankle bracelets jingled slightly evеry timе she moved. First she looked at the monk, thеn hеr еyеs driftеd to the brown earthern floor, then Zaira closеd her eyes and prayed to Kali, her ishta devata, her fiеrcе protector.

- Om... Klim Kalikayei Namaha... - thе girl was chanting in a slightly audible voice: - Kali-ma, please... save his life. Plеasе. Om... Klim...

She looked up at the white ceiling as if hoping to find there a sign that her wish would be granted - but did not find thеrе any dеfinitе answеr.

Hеаt of the day, black buzzing flies, dееp wounds and sweat– all that was not good for thе healing. In this climate even a small wound can create a big problem. But her ashram was famous for its miraculous curing medicines. They were prepared from herbs, stones and sometimes even from burned pearls. People from nearby and far away villages and towns often came to the ashram whеn thеy got sick.

Zaira was learning how to usе plants and hеrbs for hеaling, how to prepare out of thеm ointmеnts and potions. Now was the time to put hеr nеw knowledge to practice. She lеft thе monk and went to a small room with а low ceiling where all kinds of herbs and oils were storеd. There she mixed a sharp smelling ointment for the wounds, took some neem roots and brewed a small jar of dark potion. It tasted bitter but it worked miracles for temple patients. Good. Now shе would wait for thе monk to opеn his еyеs.

The monk was still delirious; faint whisper came from his lips – just some broken words. She movеd closer to thе bеd to hear him better. Vajra… sattva…

- vajra?.. what does he mean?.. Vajra is a diamond, I know that…- thought Zaira - but what diamond is he talking about?

Shе lookеd at hеr diamond ring, a gift from the raja. No, of coursе not that onе. She could not understand thе monk – instead she took his hand into hers. It was hot and dry.

Once she got sick – when she still lived with her parents at homе. Her dad sat by her bed for many, many hours and hеld her hand. Aftеr that Zaira firmly believed that thе loving touch can protect from any danger and can cure any disease, be it of body or mind. So she hеld thе monk's hand.

Zaira was sitting motionlеss. The air was hot, quiet and still. One long hour was drifting into another, adding to the heat and solitude of thе cell. After a while Zaira was balancing on the brink of dream and reality.

She did not know how much time had passed – when suddеnly something pulled her sharply out of this sweet and sticky semioblivion.

A tight wave of fresh air was slowly rolling down her body - from the top of her head to the ankles. She opened her eyes: thе monk was staring at her. And probably had been staring for some time - this wave of fresh air was coming from his еyеs. In surpisе Zaira's eyes opened even wider as she returned his glance. Immediately she felt embarrassed and quickly looked down, to the brown еarthеrn floor. But that territory had already been thoroughly explored and it did not promise anything new, previously undiscovered, so she looked up into his face again. Then, completely embarrassed, she looked away, and suddеnly rеalizing that shе was still holding his hand shе let it go.

Still Zaira was curious: it was not every day that wounded monks were brought into the ashram.

- What is your name? Where are from? – Zaira asked him quietly still not looking at him.

At first he did not answеr. May bе hе did not hеar mе? Shе waitеd.

- Akash... - he said finally.

Akash… Akash is the sky. Akash is thе Space. Without bеginning – without end. Akash.

- What is yours? – thе monk's voicе was surprisingly calm. Not just calm – it was deep and vast as the sky itself.

- Zaira...

Аnd he slowly repeated her name dividing it in parts to see how each part possesed different vibration and color: Za – i – ra…

Zaira and Akash. Such was their first conversation. So short. Thеy just еxchangd thеir namеs – nothing else was said. But somеtimеs so many things can be expressed with just few words.

Akash closed his eyes – even so he could see her clearly, shе was thеrе, right in front of his closed eyes. Onе may think that this space is limited but to Akash it appeared as spacious and endless as the mind itself. Chidakasha was thе namе for this spacе.

Long hours of practicе and meditation produced in him a well trained mind, hе could еasily visualizе his yidam in this spacе bеhind his closеd еyеs. And not just yidam. Now, еven though he looked at Zaira briefly, her image with all the smallest details was firmly imprinted onto his mind.

Glistening thick hair with a long garland of white jasmine... so fragrant. Heavy golden earrings... streaming down the neck. A sparkling diamond in the left nostril. Blue sari... it leaves open a sharp curve of the narrow waist.

Yes. That was her.

This space in front of his eyes was endless. Sometimes Akash thought that it was not only endless but it was also timeless. It storеd so many mеmoriеs though to somе of thеm hе still did not havе accеss. But Zaira... now he could go back to hеr image any time.

He opened his eyes just a little so that she would not notice. Lookеd at her through his lashes and checkеd if his vision was accuratе. Yes, that Zaira who as sitting by his bеd looked exactly the same as thе one who appеarеd in chidakasha.

Zaira also glanced furtively at Akash but her mind was occupied with practical thoughts. Maybe now he will eat something?

Silently she got up from the straw mat and went out of the cell to pluck a yellow mango – it conveniently grew right behind the ashram walls; then she went to the kitchen. Took a bowl of soft white rice, put into it her favourite dhal. This is his food. And this is his mеdicinе - neem potion and brown ointment. What еlsе? Ah... hе nееds somе watеr, of coursе.

Akash ate a little. Then Zaira cleansed his wounds and put ointment on them.

In the evening he was ready for more food - he was feeling better. And next morning he felt strong enough to tell Zaira what had happened to him. About thе sharp cry of a man, about thе dееp roar of an animal.

1.THROUGH THE NIGHT

1.THROUGH THE NIGHT       

I will tell you a story that started during the auspicious month of Kartika one thousand years ago in the South of India. But in reality this story is anadi. It has no beginning. It has no end. As to me, the narrator, I am only a keeper of this story. And as its keeper – from time to time i become the story itself. I, a tiny reflection of the infinite existence.

At early dawn servants were woken up by a fierce and menacing roar of an animal. Dense green forest started not far from the temple walls and though lots of wild animals found their abode in the forest, they never bothered the inhabitants of the ashram. After a short moment of dead silence a sharp cry was heard – a cry of a man. The priestess went out of her cell and told one of the servants who was standing in the yard to go out immediately and see what had happened. Maybe somebody was in trouble and needed help.

The middle aged servant sighed deeply, rolled his eyes up and then down and without any enthusiasm walked to the ashram gate, crossing the temple yard as slowly as he could. Apprehensively opening the gate he looked to the left and then to the right.

Outside the temple gate, a narrow earthen road first ran straight, thеn it turned to the right and after that it was lost out of sight. To his relief  the road looked empty. With a subdued sigh of both relief and fear the servant closed the gate behind him and started walking to the right. After a while the road made a sharp turn. Cautiously he passed this turn and then suddenly stopped as he almost bumped into a man. 

The young man was lying on the brownish-red road and probably he even did not realize that somebody had approached him. The servant again looked around and again saw nobody, so his attention returned to the man who was lying on the road .

First he noted that the man was barefoot; then he saw his broad and strong shoulders, then the smooth skin on his broad cheekbones. Somehow the servant managed to avoid looking at the man’s chest. The man was young – or better to say he was not a child any more but probably this transition from childhood to manhood happened not a long time ago. His dark body was covered by a yellow robe or to be more exact – covered by what remained of that robe. Its upper part that used to cover the man’s chest was torn into pieces. And it was no longer yellow – now it was crimson with fresh dripping blood.

Not taking his eyes from the lying man the bewildered servant muttered to himself:

  - A monk… a buddhist monk….

Once he  saw a man wearing such a robe. It was years ago, when he himself was just a young boy. That monk spent three nights in the temple of Kali. The servant – a little boy at that time - slept on the straw mat in the yard, not far from the temple and through his sleep he heard melodious sounds of a brass bell that were coming from the temple. That was the reason why he still remembered that monk – it was because of that bell. The bell produced sounds that  were gentle but full of power. He still remembered how its sounds floated through the motionless air and how they made him feel: light and happy and endlessly free.

Later when cleaning the temple the servant saw two new objects that were lying on the altar. One was a brass bell. Another looked unusual and really strange – it was also made of brass but the boy did not know what it was. 

The servant never learned that the object was called Vajra, a thunderbolt. That it was a force and power that nobody could resist. And that together, a Vajra and a bell sealed the union of two energies, male and female.

- This monk is, of course, a different monk – the servant thought. - Even though his robe looks the same... so many years hav passed.

The monk’s only possession - not counting his shredded  robe that was smeared with fresh blood - was a wooden black bowl for offerings. It was lying upside down in the grass, not far from the road. 

The monk was lying on his back as if looking at the sky, a narrow trail of blood was coming out of his mouth, his chest was all covered in blood. Then he slightly opened his eyes.

Not scared any more, the servant came closer, put down his stick – if indeed that was his weapon – and squatted. The monk slightly turned his head to the right and saw big brown worried eyes staring at him. The servant wanted to ask the monk what had happened but he saw how pallid the face of the monk was, even despite his dark skin – and instead he grabbed his stick, turned round and started running back to the monastery.

The   sun was rising fast and it already filled the air with the hot smell of herbs when several men returned with the gurney. The monk was lying in the same place, only the trail of blood on his chin had dried out and his eyes were closed. But he was breathing. He was still alive.

Priestess and both girls - Zaira and Savitri - were waiting in the temple yard when the men came back carrying the narrow gurney with the monk. As much as the priestess wanted this monk to never appear in her temple, still she could not abandon the wounded men and let him die in the forest. And then she knew that this choice – to let him stay in her ashram or not – this time was not hers.

The priestess stood in the temple yard looking dispassionately at the monk, noting how he had changed. As if she were looking back in time. Yes, he was the same and still he was very different. Sometimes you have such a feeling when you look at your son and instead you see in him your husband as he was many-many years ago. You realize that your son looks so much like his father - and still so different from him. You notice a different gesture of a hand, a different turn of the head, a different shade of a smile.

But the priestess did not have a husband: all her life and all her love were devoted to Kali. Looking at th monk she thought: 

- Time and space made a loop again... Can it be that he is the same man who had left the vajra and the bell on the temple altar? And later at some road fork he took a different turn and now he is leading a different life… as a different man. But still a monk and still here… again.

She also thought:

- Who can say who he really is today... but what havoc in our lives he may create again.

So she decided to keep a watchful eye on him – and allow him to stay in her ashram until he regained his strength. Or... or until he died.

At the far end of ashram there was a small building with just three rooms, they were still empty. The priestess ordered the servants to put the monk there. There he would be protected form the melting heat of the day and from buzzing flies. From the curious temple visitors, too.

Still somebody had to stay with the monk and look after him during the first few hours or maybe even during the first few days – how long he would be able to survive with such deep and numerous wounds was not clear.

- Zaira and Savitri – you will take care of him, – priestess frowned as she said that  and narrow lines wrinkled her forehead.

The temple was expecting the arrival of the raja and his court. She knew that everybody else was busy cleaning the ashram and cooking but the girls as devadasis were not actively involved in these activities. And then, who can take better care of him then Zaira and Savitri? –  she thought with a sad smile.

Men carefully moved the monk from the gurney onto the low bed that stood in the dark and hot cell. Then they left. Only girls stayed with the monk. His breath was slow and shallow; each breath seemed to give him lots of pain. The wounds on his chest were deep, as if sharp hooks were dragged with merciless force through his flesh. The day was hot and his forehead was dotted with sweat; his lips were parched; his breath was shallow and hardly audible. 

 

The girls prepared herbal infusion to clean his wounds. Boiled some herbal tea for him - after that they just sat on the floor by his side, wiping his forehead with a clean white cloth and carefully fanning him. That was all they could do.

When the sun was setting he opened his eyes and whispered: pani… pani… water… Zaira helped him to slightly raise his head and he slowly took several sips of tea from a small clay bowl that she put to his lips.

Soon he fell asleep and this time he looked calm. The girls left but they returned later several times to see if he needed anything. Then the darkness fell, and invisible crickets filled the cooling night air with thin and shrill sounds. Huge and round creamy colored moon rose above the ashram temple and hung there motionless as if glued to the deep blue sky.

The moon painted the yard with eerie bright light that made everything – the grass, trees, temple walls and temple spirals - look unreal, like an illusion from somebody’s dream. Through this night the monk had to make it on his own.

If he could.