Naranath Bhranthan: Sisyphus minus His Curse

 

Indian wisdom says that a mystic who has awakened to the highest truth is “baalavad, unmattavat, pishaachavad” – like a child, like the intoxicated, like a ghoul. He is innocent like a child, naïve, open to life’s varied experiences, has what Zen would call the beginner’s mind or shoshin and is trusting, accepting and yielding. He is intoxicated because of the joy of existence that fills his heart – joy that has no reason other than itself, joy that spontaneously flows out of him like water from a spring, joy that is unaffected by the different experiences of life such as success and failure, heat or cold, sorrow or elation, and other dvandvas – dualities that form life. He is like a ghoul because what is night to all beings is day to him and what is day to all beings is night to him – yaa nishaa sarvabhootaanaam tasyaam jaagarti samyami; yasyaam jaagrati bhootani saa nishaa pashyato muneh. Which is to say that he is awake to that truth about which all beings are ignorant, lives in a world of which the unawakened has no clue.

Such great masters, whose very presence is a blessing to humanity, to the whole world, are not a monopoly to India, but have existed in every culture, though perhaps India has had a larger number of such masters than any other culture in the world because Indian life was planned towards a single aim: the awakening of the human mind. And also because India has had a timeless tradition of such masters to inspire others.

The Japanese tradition, which too has produced hundreds of such great masters, calls them crazy clouds – crazy for the same reason for which India called them unmattawad – intoxicated. Clouds because like clouds, they are wanderers in the vast skies of life, go where life takes them, with no plans of their own. To borrow an expression again from the Gita, they were anaarambhas – begin nothing on their own, initiate nothing, but become mere nimittas – instruments – for life to work through.

One such crazy cloud from ancient India is the man whose stories I grew up with. My father told me the first story about him when I was a little child and subsequently I came across others in the great collection of Kerala legends called Aitihyamala by Kottarathil Shankunni. The great mystic I am talking about is Naranath Bhrantan [naaraaNat bhraantan] – literally the Madman of Naranam.

The first half of each day of Naranath was spent in teaching people. As in the case of the other great masters, his lesson was highly unconventional and intelligible only to the deserving – to the right patras. Those who did not have the patrata, found his actions crazy and they gave him the name by which we know him today – The Madman of Naranam.

Greek mythology tells us the story of Sisyphus – the man who was condemned by the gods to roll a huge rock up a hill for eternity. Sisyphus would roll the rock up the hill, sweating and toiling for hours and hours and as soon as the rock reached the top, it will roll down on its own so that he will have to roll it up again. Do that day and night, for all eternity. That was his punishment – given to him by the angry gods for the ‘sin’ of bringing fire to the earth. Sisyphus’ is one of the most painful stories that Greek mythology tells us.

The great mystic Naranath did exactly the same thing day after day. Every morning he would go to a hill and roll up the rock that lay at the bottom and then when it reached to top, he would let go of it, so that it came tumbling down at a frightening speed, now rolling down this way and now that, smashing everything that stood on its path. As the rock came crashing down, Naranath would stand atop the hill, clip his hands like an excited child and laugh his madman’s wild, unbridled laughter of irrepressible joy. Laughter so loud that it could be heard for miles. And then he would climb down the hill, and, as though nothing had happened, start rolling the rock up again, only to let go of it again when it reached the top of the hill.

Of course, unlike Sisyphus in whose case it was a curse, Naranath did it out of his own choice. There were no gods involved, no curse involved, and he could stop it any time he wanted. But he chose not to. Instead, he kept doing that day after day.

While the vast majority of the people who gathered to see the madman and his mad action missed the meaning of what he did, a few understood. What he was enacting on the hill was the human drama, plain and simple. What he showed us was our life – everyman’s life.

What we do throughout our life, lifetime after lifetime, is to roll a rock up a hill and then let it roll down when it reaches the top. Life should be an utsava, a celebration, a lila, a kreeda, a sport, but instead, we make it an endless toil, running after meaningless pursuits. And then, at the end of each lifetime, all we acquire slip out of our hands and we move on to yet another lifetime in which we begin our toils all over again. We act out the same absurd script again and again, a million lifetimes over. It is as though each of us is living under the curse of Sisyphus – a curse from which there is no escape, a curse that never lets us take a break, or breathe deeply, enjoy a sunrise or a sunset, the opening of a flower, the smile on the face of a child, or relish the touch of the fresh breeze on our skin.

Paul Stiles speaks eloquently of this in his book Is the American Dream Killing You?, where he paints vividly the life of a modern executive, who should be enjoying life in the middle of all the comforts that modern technology has made available but instead is condemned to live a life that drives him to the brink of insanity, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. This is how Stiles puts it, opening the first chapter of the book:

“The alarm is ringing. You jerk awake, tense, aware only of the blare, then fall back in recog­nition. There is a brief moment of peace, as if your consciousness were con­fused about what to do next, and then it hits you, arising from your subconscious, where it has lain all evening: The List. All those things you did not complete yesterday, and all those other things you have to get done today. The List is its own infomercial, in full sound and video, complete with snippets of conversation and shots of the office. And stuck on auto replay. Okay, you think: just put your feet on the floor.

“That’s it: the race is on. In the next hour the entire house fires its en­gines and rolls to the starting line. Kids up, dog out, showers all around, paper fetched, breakfast on the table...You pass your wife in the hallway several times, both of you half-dressed, seeking to check off the next item. Mayhem.”

A story told by Tolstoy that I read as a child often comes to my mind. It’s about a poor farmer who approaches the rich feudal lord asking for some land. The generous landlord tells him he can have as much land as he can measure out in a single day. The man begins measuring out land for himself the next morning at sunrise, putting marks with a pickaxe as he proceeds. He has already proceeded straight ahead quite some distance when he sees another piece of tempting, rich land to his right, and then another and then another. He marks them all out taking detour after detour when he sees the sun has fast begun to sink in the west and he is a long way from where he started. He runs, panting, breathless, putting a rare mark here and there on his way. But alas! He is still some distance away from where he started when he collapses and breathes his last. Eventually, Tolstoy tells us, what he gets is six feet of land – enough land to bury him.

If this is a story about land and wealth, it is also a story about name and fame, about power, about sensual pleasures, about all other things in life we run after endlessly.

Our life should be an expression of our joy, which is our essential nature. Each of our actions should emerge from our sense of joy, not seeking it. Children play nor for happiness, but because they are happy. And so should each our actions be. But we roll stones up various hills, toiling day and night, hoping we would find joy at the end of it. It is the absurdity of this toil that Naranath was teaching through his inimitable lesson.

Of course, the truth of what Naranath teaches us is difficult to accept because we see all around us everyone running after these things – and standing by the roadside and not running like them looks stupid. Even when we know the truth of the worthlessness of what we do, it is almost impossible to resist the brainwashing that takes place when we watch millions and millions all around us engaged in this endless pursiit.

I have heard of a beggar. One fine morning he was sitting idle enjoying the sun when it occurred to him that it will be fun if he spread a rumour. He told the beggars around that he had heard that the richest man is celebrating the birthday of his firstborn and he was distributing a hundred rupees to every beggar who came. The beggars got up and started running towards the rich man’s place. When other beggars asked them what they were doing, they told them of the rich man’s charity and they too started running. The story tells us that by and by every beggar in town was running toward the rich man’s house. The beggar who had spread the news saw this and eventually began developing doubts in his heart. Perhaps it was possible that the man was really distributing hundred rupee notes! How else could the whole town be running. And what is there to lose in any case? But if he did not, then…. And the man too got up and began running with the rest of the crowd!

We are hypnotized by the world and that hypnotism is what India calls maya. And it is from this maya that Naranath was trying to wake us up. And when we wake up there comes the stage where we need nothing from the world, but has only to give the world, if anything, as Krishna demonstrates through his life and words.

There are several other stories told about Naranath – like that of his sitting for hours counting ants passing by busily, breathless in their hurry, on their errands as though their very life depended on it. I am sure once in a while he spoke to the ants and they told him, like the White Rabbit of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late! ”

A beautiful story is told about his encounter with Great Mother Goddess Kali.

As usual, Naranath had rolled the stone up the hill the whole morning. And then, having finished that job, he went on his rounds of collecting alms, as he did every day. He had a small copper vessel for collecting alms, in which he received gratefully whatever was given to him: raw rice, green vegetables, whatever. Naranath never accepted cooked food from anyone – he cooked for himself. The evening found him near a cremation ground where a few of dead bodies were still in the last stages of burning. The strong smell of burning bodies was everywhere, smoke still rose from the bodies, and there were wild animals around fighting with vultures and other carrion eating birds.

Naranath went to the stream nearby, gathered some water in the begging bowl with the rice and vegetables already in it and with that, settled down near one of the still burning dead bodies. It was a cold winter evening and the heat rising from the burning fire was pleasant. He collected three stones, which formed his temporary oven and pulling out a few pieces of firewood from over the dead body, put them in the oven and placed his pot there, to cook over the fire. Naranath’s left leg was swollen with elephantiasis. He stretched out this leg closer to the fire thus enjoying its pleasant warmth waited for his one meal of the day to be ready. On his lips was a song of contentment, which he hummed to himself.

When the food was ready, he ate it, and then stretched himself out there waiting for sleep to come. Above him was the vast sky, changing its patterns ever so slowly in a never ending game of pure magic. All around him was the stillness of the deserted place, interrupted only by the sound of the crickets and an occasional cracking of wood made deeper by the hoot of an owl or the cry of a vulture. Now and then a dog barked.

It was around midnight that he heard other sounds. Wild hoots, shouts, screams, yells, roars. Laughter that would send terror shooting through any man. Shrieks, howls, yowls, wails. The clamour of a thousand drums being played all at a time. Tumultuous clanguor, clatter, bellowing.  And as they came near, other sounds: sacred mantras…kreem kreem, hreem hreem, kleem kleem…the sound of anklets, the sound of a girdle. And then the roar of Kali as she came near.

It was the goddess Kali on her rounds of the cremation grounds, accompanied by her countless, monstrous ghouls. All creatures fled at the arrival of the goddess who struck terror in every living heart.

Naranath sat near the still smoldering cremation fire as though he was not aware of any of these. His breathing was calm and even, the serenity in his eyes unaffected.

Soon Mother Kali was standing near him, a thousand grotesque ghouls accompanying her. Her eyes were spitting fire, her tongue lolling out. Her open hair formed a thick dark cloud behind her. From the piercings in her ears hung down two blood-dripping heads. Around her neck was a garland of skulls that reached right down to her knees. One of her hands held a freshly chopped off head, another her sword. With two other hands she offered boons and protection.

Mother Kali was clothed in the skies, as they say – stark naked. And thunder-like hoonkaras emanated from her, shaking the whole earth, it appeared.

Naranath did not even look up at her.

Kali’s feet moved in the most terrifying dance imaginable. And the thousand ghouls went into bloodcurdling capering and cavorting, skipping and romping insanely – their smashana-nritya. They screamed and thundered, raged and ranted. It was as though the earth itself shook in awe. The cremation ground animals that had already withdrawn in terror now slunk back further, watching what was happening from the safety of distance with eyes frozen in sheer dread. 

Kali was calm now, seeing that none of these had any effect on the man who sat enjoying the last bits of warmth arising from the fire that had began to die out.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” asked the Mother. “There is none living that does not fear me.”

“Do you see me afraid of you?” asked Naranath calmly, as though he was having a light conversation with a passerby.

“Hmmm…. That’s interesting. Who are you? The first man I have come across that is not afraid of me or my ghouls?”

Naranth Bhranthan burst out laughing. “Who am I? You are asking me? I am you. And you are me. There I am, in the form of the terrifying Mother Kali. And here you are, in the form Naranath, with elephantiasis on one leg.”

A smile appeared on the face of the goddess – a smile so beautiful it can bewitch even the greatest of all ascetics, Shiva himself. “Leave the place, so that my ghouls and I can dance, Naranath.”

“Show me a place where I am not and I’ll go there,” said Naranath.

This time it was the turn of the Goddess to burst out laughing. “All right,” she said. “Let me and my ghouls go then, in search of another cremation ground. But ask me for a boon – since I cannot go away without either cursing or giving a boon to any human being I encounter.”

“I need nothing,” said Naranath. “There is nothing you can give me.”

“True,” said the goddess. “What can anyone give to one who has seen that which lies beyond all seeing, touched that which lies beyond all touching, heard that which lies beyond all hearing and tasted that which is beyond all tasting. But still….no one should say Kali met Naranath and went away without giving him anything. Ask for something.”

Naranath looked at Kali, with a loving smile on his face. It was at the same time the smile of a grown man smiling at a child and a child smiling at his mother. He then looked around, as though thinking. And then, finally, he looked at his own left leg swollen with elephantiasis. His smile broadened.

“Mother Goddess,” he said. “I ask for a boon. Change the elephantiasis on my left leg to my right leg.”

Mountains shook as Kali laughed from the depths of her heart. Clouds scattered away in the distant sky. Waves rose up into the skies in the ocean that was not far from where the conversation was taking place. Kali’s laughter! The laughter of existence! The laughter of life, of death! The laughter of pure consciousness! Laughter the soul of which was the most hauntingly beautiful silence! Laughter arising from silence that was Kali’s truest nature, her very being!

And Naranath heard Kali speaking for the last time: “Tathastu”, she said. “Let it be so.” And then there was only laughter left where Kali and the ghouls had stood. Pure laughter. The laughter of ecstasy. Rapturous laughter. Laughter in which the mountains and the sea joined. Laughter in which the night and the sky joined. Laughter in which the cremation ground and dying fires joined.

Laughter in which Naranath joined.     

0o0

Naranath Bhrantan is part legend and part historical. The legend part belongs to a much bigger legend – the greatest and the most popular legend of Kerala. The larger legend, which I first heard from my father in my childhood, is known by the brief name “parayi pettu pantirukulam’, which roughly translates as the twelve castes born of a pariah woman.  The legend is in part one of the power of destiny. Vararuchi, the great Brahmin scholar of the court of Vikramaditya learns through astrological calculations that he is destined to marry a pariah woman. Vararuchi does all he can, including attempting to murder the newborn baby, to avoid that destiny but through a series of miracles ends up marrying the pariah woman, by now a woman more than his match in intelligence and wit. The marriage is a few months old when Vararuchi discovers that the brilliant girl of breathtaking beauty he had married is the pariah woman he was destined to marry and whom he had tried to kill in her infancy. It is one of those strange stories in which what happens happens because you try to prevent it. Eventually twelve children are born to the couple who had by then taken to a life of pilgrimage and each child is abandoned at birth. These twelve abandoned children are taken up by men belonging to different castes and raised as their children, each ending up as a legend in his or her own right. One of them is our Naranath Bhranthan.

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Zen and the Red Dakini

Paulo Coelho, the author of The Alchemist and twenty-five other books, needs no introduction. His books have sold more than one hundred million copies in 150 countries across the world and have been translated into as many as sixty-seven languages. I recently read his The Manual of the Warrior of Light. The book begins with the following story: ‘Just off the beach to the west of the village lies an island, and on it is a vast temple with many bells,’ said the woman. The boy noticed that she was dressed strangely and had a veil covering her head. He had never seen her before. ‘Have you ever visited that temple?’ she asked. ‘Go there and tell me what you think of it?’ Seduced by the woman’s beauty, the boy went to the place she had indicated. He sat down on the beach and stared out at the horizon, but he saw only what he always saw: blue sky and ocean. Disappointed, he walked to a nearby fishing village and asked if anyone there knew about an island and a temple. ‘Oh, that was many years ago, when my great-grandparents were alive,’ said an old fisherman. ‘There was an earthquake, and the island was swallowed up by the sea. But although we can no longer see the island, we can still hear the temple bells when the ocean sets them swinging down below.’ The boy went back to the beach and tried to hear the bells. He spent the whole afternoon there, but all he heard was the noise of the waves and the cries of the seagulls. When night fell, his parents came looking for him. The following morning, he went back to the beach; he could not believe that such a beautiful woman would have lied to him. If she ever returned, he could tell her that, although he had not seen the island, he had heard the temple bells set ringing by the motion of the waves. Many months passed; the woman did not return and the boy forgot all about her; now he was convinced that he needed to discover the riches and treasures in the submerged temple. If he could hear the bells, he would be able to locate it and salvage the treasure hidden below. He lost interest in school and even in his friends. He became the butt of all the other children’s jokes. They used to say: ‘He’s not like us. He prefers to sit looking at the sea because he’s afraid of being beaten in our games.’ And they all laughed to see the boy sitting on the shore. Although he still could not hear the old temple bells ringing, the boy nevertheless learned about other things. He began to realize that he had grown so used to the sound of the waves that he was no longer distracted by them. Soon after that, he became used to the cries of the seagulls, the buzzing of the bees and the wind blowing amongst the palm trees. Six months after his first conversation with the woman, the boy could sit there oblivious to all other noises, but he still could not hear the bells from the drowned temple. Fishermen came and talked to him, insisting that they had heard the bells. But the boy never did. Sometime later, however, the fishermen changed their tune: ‘You spend far too much time thinking about the bells beneath the sea. Forget about them and go back to playing with your friends. Perhaps it’s only fishermen who can hear them.’ After almost a year, the boy thought: ‘Perhaps they’re right. I would do better to grow up and become a fisherman and come down to this beach every morning, because I’ve come to love it here.’ And he thought too: ‘Perhaps it’s just another legend and the bells were all shattered during the earthquake and have never rung out since.’ That afternoon, he decided to go back home. He walked down to the ocean to say goodbye. He looked once more at the natural world around him and because he was no longer concerned about the bells, he could again smile at the beauty of the seagulls’ cries, the roar of the sea and the wind blowing in the palm trees. Far off, he heard the sound of his friends playing and he felt glad to think that he would soon resume his childhood games. The boy was happy and – as only a child can – he felt grateful for being alive. He was sure that he had not wasted his time, for he had learned to contemplate Nature and to respect it. Then, because he was listening to the sea, the seagulls, the wind in the palm trees and the voices of his friends playing, he also heard the first bell. And then another. And another, until, to his great joy, all the bells in the drowned temple were ringing. 0o0 It is a beautiful story that tells us many things about spiritual life and about learning to see and hear, and about learning to live. It is said that the Buddha underwent every spiritual practice known on his day and still he did not reach Buddhahood. It is not that the Buddha was not sincere in his efforts. He was totally sincere. He failed to reach the goal because it is not through struggles that you awaken to the Truth. It is when you give up all struggles and relax in the giving up, in the letting go, relax deeply, that you awaken to the Truth. Struggles never take you to the truth. Relaxation does. In fact, our struggles are the greatest obstacle to our awakening to the Truth. The more you struggle, the more your mind becomes strong. And the mind can never awaken to the Truth, however strong it is. As the Upanishads say, the Truth is “yan manasa na manute” – that which the mind cannot contemplate, comprehend. A very beautiful statement in the Upanishads says: yato vacho nivartante, aprapya manasa saha. The Truth is that “from which words return, along with the mind, unattained.” The only way to comprehend the Truth is through the cessation of the mind. When the mind ceases to be, you awaken to the Truth. The mind is the obstacle. That is why Patanjali defines yoga as chittavritti nirodha – the cessation of the vrittis in the mind. The vrittis – changing ‘thought waves’ – are the mind. When they cease to be, the mind ceases to be. And you comprehend the Truth, you awaken to the Truth. And struggles make the mind stronger. So the way to reach the Truth, hear the temple bells the boy was struggling to hear, is to give up all struggle. And that is what the boy in Polo Coelho’s story does. In Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha, the boy Siddhartha leaves his home in search of the Truth and practices all kinds of sadhanas just as the other Siddhartha – the Buddha – does. Years pass but he does not reach his goal. He meets the Buddha and then moves on, realizing no Buddha can give him his Truth, he has to attain it by himself. And then one day he gives up all the sadhanas he has been practicing so far. And then it happens. He has his first powerful mystic experience. Here is how Hesse describes Siddhartha’s first experience: “He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colourful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. All of this, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, entered Siddhartha for the first time through the eyes, was no longer a spell of Mara, was no longer the veil of Maya, was no longer a pointless and coincidental diversity of mere appearances, despicable to the deeply thinking Brahmin, who scorns diversity, who seeks unity. Blue was blue, river was river, and if also in the blue and the river, in Siddhartha, the singular and divine lived hidden, so it was still that very divinity's way and purpose, to be here yellow, here blue, there sky, there forest, and here Siddhartha. The purpose and the essential properties were not somewhere behind the things, they were in them, in everything.” Siddhartha gives up and it happens. That is exactly what happens to the boy in Paulo Coelho’s story too. The beautiful young woman he meets, the strange woman with a veil over her head, tells him about the temple and the temple bells on the island. And he starts out on a journey to discover what the woman had told him about. “Seduced by the woman’s beauty” – says the story. That is beautiful too. The Tibetans have a name for that woman. In the esoteric writings of Tibet she is called the Red Dakini. Dakini is a Tibetan yogini. The Red Dakini is the one who initiates man into the higher mysteries of life. And she is incredibly beautiful. The desire for the Truth is the most beautiful thing in the world. It is what makes life beautiful. Minus that, life is plain and monotonous. The Red Dakini gives you the key to the mysteries of life. And she is so beautiful that her beauty will haunt you day and night. Once touched by her, you never escape her. You surrender to her seductive charms completely, you are infatuated by her hopelessly. And that is the most beautiful thing to happen in life. This introduction is something that happens to the rare fortunate individual, say the Upanishads. Something that happens to one in a million individuals. She chooses the individual and reveals herself to him. And once you are chosen there is no escaping her. 0o0 The boy goes to the place she has indicated. He sits down on the beach and stares out at the horizon, but he sees only what he has always seen: blue sky and ocean. Continued …2

Zen and the Red Dakini 3

One of the most fascinating stories of enlightenment comes from Japan – that of Zen master Chiyono. Incidentally Chiyono, it is said, is the first Japanese woman to be enlightened through Zen.

Chiyono, also known less commonly as Mugai Nyodai, was an incredibly beautiful woman when she decided to devote her life to Zen and became a bhikshuni. A story tells us that she was so beautiful that monasteries one after the other refused to admit her. The chief monks of the monasteries were afraid that if Chiyono became a bhikshuni, the monks in the ashram would be tempted by her beauty and would forget all about Zen and instead fall in love with her.

When Chiyono realized that no master would take her as an inmate of his monastery because of her beauty, she did an amazing thing. In her eagerness for Zen, to be accepted as a disciple and allowed to live in the monastery to practice Zen, she burned her face with fire. She got so badly scarred that now it was difficult to make out she was a woman.

Chiyono has been the subject of many paintings and statues, portraying her either as extremely beautiful or as extremely ugly. We can see her face in one of the statues made in the thirteenth century, while she was in all probability still alive [she died in 1298], and looking at it, it is really difficult to believe she is a woman.

After scarring her face, she approached the great Chinese Zen master Wuxue Zuyuan, who had in his later years come to Japan and was popularly known in Japan as Bukko Kokushi, or Bukko Engarku, or simply as Bukko. He accepted her as his disciple.

Her guru was a couple of years younger to her.

It is said that Chiyono studied Zen under Bukko for several years but was still unable to attain the fruits of meditation, even as the boy in Paulo Coelho’s story was unable to hear temple bells ringing under the sea.

Sometimes your own eagerness to attain enlightenment becomes an obstacle in the way of attaining it. When your eagerness for enlightenment becomes like a restless, all-consuming fire, that restlessness itself can become your obstacle.

Because enlightenment happens to you on its own, and it is not something that you can make happen.

In a way enlightenment is like sleep. So long as you are struggling to fall asleep, you cannot sleep. And when you give up, sleep happens on its own.

There is no way we can make sleep happen. It has to happen on its own.

There is no way we can make enlightenment happen. It has to happen on its own.

Years went by, the story tells us, and then one night it happened. One beautiful moonlit night, when Chiyono least expected it. In a way Chiyono never expected it to happen. In a way nobody expected it to happen.

Each experience of enlightenment is unique. Because each one of us unique.

That night Chiyono was carrying water in an old pail bound with bamboo. All on a sudden, the bamboo broke and the bottom fell out of the pail, and at that moment Chiyono was enlightened!

It is a Japanese custom to write a poem in commemoration of your awakening. Here is the poem that Chiyono wrote:

“In this way and that I tried to save the old pail
Since the bamboo strip was weakening and about to break
Until at last the bottom fell out.

No more water in the Pail!
No more moon in the water!”

It is one of the most beautiful poems ever written by an enlightened master, one of the most beautiful poems ever written about enlightenment.

The reflection of the moon in the water is there only so long as there is water in the pail. When there is no water in the pail, there is no moon in the pail.

For Chiyono, the world disappeared. And there was only the reality left.

When the mind disappears, the world disappears. The world that is perceived as the other, as the object of perception. Leaving only the perceiver behind.

The triputi of the subject, the object and the process of perception – all become one. The experience, the experienced and the experiencing become one.

This is the state Vedanta calls advaita – non-duality.

Adi Shankara says in his classic Vivekachoodamani:

“There is no Ignorance other than the mind. Mind itself is Ignorance, which is the cause of bondage. When it is lost, everything is lost; and when it is manifest, everything comes into being. In a dream, which is without true substance, it is the mind alone using its own power that brings into existence the entire universe of the dreamer. It is no different when we are awake. Everything that we see around us is nothing but a projection of the mind.”

So long as the mind is, everything is. And when the mind has ceased to be, everything disappears, leaving behind only the reality that is beyond the mind.

When the pail is broken, the reflection of the moon disappears. What is left is the original moon alone.

Chiyono realized this when the pail broke and the reflection in water disappeared.

It was a spontaneous experience to her. Something that happened when she least expected it.

Which is to say if we break a pail and watch the reflection disappearing, there is no chance it will happen to us. Because then it will be a contrived trick.

Had it been otherwise, it all would have been so easy. All you need is a pail of water and a moonlit night!

Tricks do not awaken us into reality.

Our mind has to be ready.

Chiyono has been preparing her mind, just as the boy in the Manual of the Warrior of Light had been waiting for a long, long time.

And then it happened.

The Kathopanishad puts it beautifully when it says:

nayamatma pravacanena labhyo
na medhaya na bahuna shrutena |
yamevaisha vrinute tena labhyah
tasyaisha atma vivrinute tanum svam ||


“This Self cannot be attained through lectures on it,
Nor can it be reached through intelligence or by great learning;
It is attained by him whom It chooses,
To him, this Self reveals its body.”


The Self reveals itself only to him whom it chooses.


Truth is like a coy bride who reveals her body only to the one she chooses for herself.


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There are several other stories of sudden enlightenment from Zen. One of them is of the master Kyogen. Here is Osho speaking about his enlightenment.


“Kyogen was a scholar of great learning, and for some time, this stood in the way of his enlightenment. One day Isan asked Kyogen,”When you were with our teacher, Hyakujo, you were clever enough to give ten answers to a single question, and hundreds of answers to ten questions. Tell me this: what is your real self – the self that existed before you came out of your mother’s womb, before you knew east from west?”


At this question, Kyogen was stupefied and did not know what to say. He racked his brains and offered all sorts of answers, but Isan brushed them aside.


At last Kyogen said, ”I beg you, please explain it to me.”


Isan replied, ”what I say belongs to my own understanding. How can that benefit your mind’s eye?”


Kyogen went through all his books and the notes he had made on authorities of every school, but could find no words to use as an answer to Isan’s question. Sighing to himself, he said, ”You cannot fill an empty stomach with paintings of rice cakes.” He then burned all his books and papers, saying, ”I will give up the study of Buddhism. I will remain a rice-gruel monk for the rest of my life and avoid torturing my mind.”


He left Isan sadly and took on the self-appointed job of grave-keeper. One day, when he was sweeping the ground, a stone struck a bamboo. Kyogen stood speechless, forgetting himself for a while. Then, suddenly, bursting into loud laughter, he became enlightened.


Returning to his hut, Kyogen performed the ceremony of purification, offered incense, paid homage to his teacher, Isan, and with the deepest sense of gratitude said, ”Great master, thank you! Your kindness to me is greater even then that of my parents. If you had explained the profound cause to me when I begged you to give me an answer to, I should never have reached where I stand today.”

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Zen and the Red Dakini 2

But of course, he does not give up. He cannot give up. She has initiated him into the path. She has held his hands and led him to the path. Now there is no walking back.

When he does not find the island and the temple, he walks to the nearby fishing village and asks the fishermen about it. Of course, they know about it, they have heard about it. But the temple is no more. It used to be there in the days of their great-grandparents, but has been destroyed by an earthquake and swallowed up by the sea.

They tell him: ‘But although we can no longer see the island, we can still hear the temple bells when the ocean sets them swinging down below.'

The boy cannot hear the temple bells, but they can.

The ordinary fisher folk can hear the temple bells that the boy is not able to hear.

The boy goes back to the beach and tries to hear the bells. He spends the whole afternoon there, but all he hears is the noise of the waves and the cries of the seagulls.

This is something tremendously beautiful. What the boy cannot hear with all his efforts, the fishermen are able to hear without any effort.

But of course, they are not obsessed with it. The temple bells mean nothing to them. Their chimes are mere sounds to them, like the crashing of the waves, the chirping of the birds and the shrieks of the winds.

They hear the bells, but are not initiated into their meaning. They have not met the Red Dakini.

They hear them not consciously, but unconsciously, absent mindedly. And attach no significance to them.

They have not been initiated. The Red Dakini has not visited them.

The boy cannot hear them now. But when he hears them, they would mean something very different to him. They would have great significance to him. Because he would be hearing them consciously, wide awake, with an awakened mind. The fishermen hear them as though in their sleep. He would hear them awake.

But that would be later. At the moment he cannot hear them at all.

He goes back to the beach and sits listening again.

At night his mother and father come looking for him and take him back home. But the next day he is again at the beach.

He cannot hear the sounds but he trusts the beautiful woman. She could not have lied to him – she is so beautiful.

A long time passes and yet he has not been able to hear the bells. Not once.

“Many months passed; the woman did not return and the boy forgot all about her; now he was convinced that he needed to discover the riches and treasures in the submerged temple,” says Paulo Coelho.

Of course it is Paulo Coelho’s story, and he can tell it the way he wants, but I disagree with Paulo Coelho here. One never forgets the Red Dakini. The boy cannot forget the beautiful woman who initiated him into the path. She has to be there in his mind. One does not forget one’s initiatrix. He might forget her after he has heard the bells. But not so long as he has not heard them.

At this stage it is for her that he wants to hear the bells, more than for himself. What Coelho said earlier is more true – he wants to hear them and tell her that he has heard them. If hearing them is a need, telling her that he has heard them too is a need. An equally powerful need, if not more.

A time might come in his spiritual journey when he would possibly forget her and the search will become meaningful in itself, the search will gain other purposes than hearing the temple bells. But for that he will have to become an old man, past boyhood, past youth. In our story, our boy does not reach that tage. He is still a boy of school-going age. So he has to be still enchanted with the Red Dakini.

His school friends taunt him. He becomes the butt of their jokes. 'He's not like us,’ they say. ‘He prefers to sit looking at the sea because he's afraid of being beaten in our games.'

The world never understands people who are not like themselves. The world never understands people who have other calls, people who are on other journeys, people who are not interested in what they are interested in.

In this story, they just taunt him. But worse things could have happened to him. They could have attacked him. They could have pelted stones at him, calling him mad.

Even his parents could have misunderstood him.

I used to know a young boy some years back. He became interested in what other people were not interested in. His parents consulted doctors and, unknown to him, they fed him sedatives mixed with his food. For years. With every meal. Until he became so dull, his eyes lost all brightness, and when he spoke you could hardly make out what he was saying.

The boy in Coelho’s story was more fortunate.

He continues to sit there, oblivious to the ridicule of his schoolmates, oblivious to their laughter.

Now even the fishermen are scared by his commitment. They tell him that perhaps only fishermen can hear the bells, no one else.

At last he decides to give up. Who knows if it is all not a myth?

One afternoon he decides to give up and go back home.

He walks down to the ocean to say goodbye. He looks once more at the natural world around him and because he is no longer concerned about the bells, he can again smile at the beauty of the seagulls' cries, the roar of the sea and the wind blowing in the palm trees. Far off, he hears the sound of his friends playing and he feels glad to think that he will soon resume his childhood games.

And then, at that moment, he hears the bells. He hears them for the first time.

He was not trying to listen to bells any more. And at that moment, he hears them.

It happens by itself. When you are least expecting it.

This is how Coelho puts it: “Then, because he was listening to the sea, the seagulls, the wind in the palm trees and the voices of his friends playing, he also heard the first bell. And then another. And another, until, to his great joy, all the bells in the drowned temple were ringing.”

He gives up the struggle to listen to the bells, and the moment he gives up the struggle, he hears them. Along with the sounds of the sea, of the seagulls, of the wind in the palm trees and the voice of his friends playing.

Because he is no longer concerned.

It is not that he is still interested in it and gives it up. No, he gives it up altogether. His mind is free from his need to hear it. And at that moment it happens.

The Buddha gives up all sadhanas and sits under the Bodhi tree and he attains enlightenment.

It is not in struggle that enlightenment happens. For enlightenment to happen you need relaxation. Stillness born of relaxation.

Struggles make your mind noisy. When struggles cease, when all noises end, when your mind is free, still, then you hear. Then you see. For the first time.

And this seeing is different from the seeing of the common man. This hearing is different from the hearing of the fishermen.

This is conscious hearing. Awakened hearing. As though you are hearing for the first time.

Does it mean that all struggles are useless, all sadhanas are useless?

Does it mean that dhyana is useless, yoga is useless?

Absolutely not.

Sadhanas are required for creating that relaxation. Dhyana is required to create that stillness. Yoga is needed to create that stillness. The struggles are needed so that you can go beyond them and be still.

Without them, you do not reach stillness.

What is required for enlightenment is relaxation and stillness. The sadhanas are for creating this relaxation and stillness. That is the purpose of all yogas – jnana yoga, dhyana yoga, bhakti yoga, karma yoga. They create relaxation and stillness and the moment you reach this relaxed, still state, and give up all struggles, it happens.

The bells start ringing.

And you realize the bells have always been ringing. They have been ringing even when the sea was roaring, even when the seagulls were crying, the wind was whistling and your friends were playing noisily.

The bells are ringing even now. When you are busy in your office, in the market, or wherever you are.

Once you hear them, you realize you can hear them everywhere. You can hear them in the middle of your conferences, in the middle of your negotiations, in the middle of your presentations, in the middle of working to meet your deadlines, in the middle of whatever you are doing.

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Polo Coelho tells us that years later the boy comes back to the beach as an adult and there he meets the beautiful woman again. He notices that, despite the passing of years, the woman looks exactly the same; the veil hiding her hair has not faded with time.

The Red Dakini does not change.

She is beyond time and beyond space.

Eternally waiting to tell all who are ready to hear about the temple bells.

Here is a song of the Red Dakini from the Tibetan tradition:

“I am the Vajra Dakini
of light the color of crimson roses and flowing blood
I transmute the life energies into their spiritual origin
By filtering out gross elements, and giving them form
By changing weak currents into strong ones,
Dribbling energy into pounding waves
Opening blocks and barriers.”


“I am the guide and introducer of men to the spiritual path
I strengthen and purify them
That they may encounter the great Buddhas of Light
I prepare them for the Great Awakening
I harmonize the spiritual striving of all beings
I call them forth, into the realms of the enlightened ones
That they may pass through the dangerous waters
To watch the rising of the sun upon the other shore.”


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Continued …3

Living on the Edge

Look at Bodhidharma’s fierce scowl. Strong as an ox, he won’t take any bull. He’s a radical, a rebel, a revolutionary. He knows that it’s society’s job to tame the individual and the individual’s job to get free.

Society’s propaganda will tell you that you are inadequate, that it’s your fate to live in fear and beg for the approval of others, that things are just the way they are, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You must resign yourself to a gray existence; you must go along to get along.

But there is Bodhidharma, fiery eyes, teeth showing, intent and determined, a free spirit who will not buy the propaganda of mediocrity. He challenges you to be free enough of society to actually help transform it for the better.

It’s about being personally free and socially active. It is not for wimps. It takes the courage to say no to every attempt to fit you into a category and make you a carbon copy of your next door neighbor. It takes the courage to say no to every attempt to turn you into a beggar, pleading for the approval of others. It takes courage to say no to the needless suffering of your fellow man. No to becoming hypnotized and tranquilized. No to becoming greedy and indifferent. No to becoming clay in somebody else’s hand.

Things were no different in Bodhidharma’s day. Society has always been the free man’s greatest enemy. And the free man has always been society’s greatest friend. How did society treat Jesus or Socrates, Galileo or Martin Luther King? Yet look what they have left mankind.

Bodhidharma, if we could get him to talk, would tell us that it’s our wanting to be somebody special that turns us into slaves of approval. He is a nobody who works for everybody, who kow-tows to none, condemns none, loves all in his rascal way. I’m not your leader, he might say. Don’t follow me. Be your own leader.

What is in you, let it out. What you really want to do, do it. Don’t yield to doubt. Love is the greatest religion, the greatest philosophy, the guiding light of the free man. Love is what it’s all about.

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Courtesy: Zen and the Art of Making a Living, by Lawrence G Boldt