When his mind returned from wandering
aimlessly like a meandering stream, the concert was over, the auditorium, almost
empty. The singer was getting up, a
smile on her face, hands moving quickly to straighten the shimmering folds of
her sari before coming together in a “
lingered in his mind,
filling it with contentment.
Until now he had never gone anywhere
without proper planning. Now nothing mattered –work, responsibilities, friends,
the family far away, nothing. Let the
rest of his life, six or seven months, be just for himself, alone. Who had told
him the story of Pareekshit, the king who found that he had only seven days
left to live? Seven days to wait for the serpent Thakshaka to sink its
fangs into his flesh?.
“What you have in hand now is a
multi-million dollar project. If this
goes well, you will gain money and recognition that will last your whole life,”
Promilla Mathur had told him in a special meeting. He was going to have the complete
responsibility.
Now, it is clear that all these
calculations are meaningless. Everything
had happened according to plan in his life—until now. He was used to winning one victory after
another. Recognition came to him from everywhere. With the ideal IIT–IIM combination at the
core of his credentials, the jobs he got were always the best. He never stayed in one job for more than
two or three years—he was constantly on the move, his salary and perks getting
heftier with each move. But here, in the
present job, he was finishing up the sixth year. He had actually enjoyed the
frantic pace of work, and the ever-increasing responsibilities and the
financial package and perks accompanied.
Physically, he had never felt better, and
as always, had tried to laugh it off when Dr. Suman made his annual call two
weeks ago asking him to come down for a routine physical. What do I need a
physical for? He was confident no
illness would ever touch him. He was fit and had never even had the bad flu his
entire life. But Dr. Suman insisted. ‘You
are about to hit thirty-five. Just for the
sake of keeping records, we should take some X-rays and do some bloodwork. Just for the record! I don’t understand you guys—and I have one at
home too—no ties, not a care in the world. ‘I like being on my own’ he says. ‘Work
hard, play hard’.
Eventually, he had relented and went in for
the tests Saturday afternoon just because he did not want to say no to the doctor who was his uncle’s college classmate.
Then, this morning, the unexpected phone
call came. “You should come here as soon
as possible. Even if you are very busy, please
show up, Okay?” Dr. Suman sounded tense,
stressed. The high of the past weekend’s concert had not quite left his
system. “Mokshamu- galadaa.”
The doctor had asked him to call off all his
appointments and cut the call short without getting into any details. How could he postpone his meeting with the
clients from Atlanta? Time is
money. What does the doctor know about
IT projects?
“Uncle, I will come in the evening.
When he met the doctor at his home late
that evening, the doctor seemed unusually quiet
“Is everything ok? Are you feeling all right?
“Oh - yes.
Nothing to worry about, but, look, we should test your blood once
again. The sample we took last week was
abnormal. There is no way those results
can be right. Still, we have to rule out
everything.”
“Uncle, tell me, what is wrong?”
After some persuasion, the doctor
said: “It seemed like there was some
abnormality in your blood sample. But we
should test it again—at another lab. I
will give you my report later.
Before leaving, he handed a hundred rupee
bill to the young lad who managed the office for the doctor and got him to
make a quick copy of the main page of the lab report without the doctor’s knowledge.
By the time he got to the car parked in
the lot next door, he had seen the note scribbled at the end of the report “Abnormal.
Six months, or seven at the most.
Re-test to confirm.”
First, it sounded like a mere joke. Labs make mistakes, as the doctor had said. It could be somebody else’s report —he did
not have a copy of the front page anyway.
‘No, let me face it, why should I try to pass a tragedy destined
specifically for this life onto someone else?’
The number seven stuck to his
consciousness. Seven more months!. The seven day reading of scripture, the saptaaham
he attended as a child with his father and forgotten all about, came back to
him in a rush. Three lines, three short
lines, from the seven long days of storytelling kept echoing in his head. “You dishonored a nobleman, and your end
will come on the seventh day from today. Death by snake-bite!. The serpent Thakshaka will execute the
curse.”
Was this perhaps the punishment for
wrapping the snake of arrogance around one’s own neck?.
All of a sudden, everywhere it was as quiet
as a windless ocean. Silence, and as far
as the eyes could see, it was nothingness.
He did not remember getting into the car, or turning the ignition on—when
the noise of tires screeching to a halt startled him, the car was in front of his
apartment building. Today, he reached home real quick. There were no traffic blocks on the way. Or were there?
He made no attempts to find out a reason to
discuss it with someone. He had some cash
stashed away in the apartment- money meant for buying a house by the river in
his village. He made his way to the bank—the
bank was closed for the day, and the building seemed deserted. Before the regular guard could finish his
“hello” and “how are you,” he gave him a hundred rupee note and walked over to
the ATM.
Once back home, it didn’t take him long to
pack. He left the key as usual with the security guard of the building and walked
straight to the train station.
There is no use worrying, he knew. No need to tell anyone. Live life to the fullest.
He wanted to enjoy the life that he had not known until then. Seven months to live; no work; no
responsibilities. Enjoy it to the maximum.
That was the way to go.
When did the mind get so much
strength? Or had he aspired for this
kind of an escape in the past without being aware of it?
As soon as the train left Mumbai City,
sleep took over him for some reason. When
he woke up, it was past five in the morning.
The train had stopped in a village in Tamil Nadu. He got off.
An unknown place!. No one would recognize him.
The young tour guide he met at the station,
Manivannan, knew every nook and cranny of the village well and found him a
tiny house to stay. When he found out it was up for sale, and the owner was
letting it out till he found a buyer, he bought it, paying more than the asking. In the beginning, he kept the neighbors at a
distance. Although he knew that the
bottles that Manivannan bought him were overpriced, he paid him what he asked
for. The women Manivannan brought over had the Tamil vivacity. But all that lost their appeal in a short
time. Days passed by, with no Internet
or newspaper to bother him; he had left his phone at the apartmen
No, there were no signs of fatigue in the
body, he thought.
Somehow, gradually, he started becoming a
member of the village. The villagers got
used to his Malayali-Tamil that murdered their language. Folk began to consider him as a “man who
knows things.” Under his initiative,
arrangements were made to start a computer center for the village youth, and the
night before it opened, he left the village.
While setting up the web page for the new center, he had come across a
web feature that mentioned his disappearance. “It is being suspected that the
IT manager who disappeared suddenly might have been kidnapped by
extremists.”
Four out of the seven months that the
doctor had granted were over. There was another trip to take. And there was a limit to the allotted time.
When he reached the shores of Godavari River
in Andhra, he bought a sacred thread and slipped it over his head. He felt no
remorse about the charade. He didn’t want any rejections anywhere just because
he was not a biological Brahmin! Inside the inner sanctum of temples, in the temple
kitchens and dining halls, nobody stopped him.
He felt a thrill at becoming a character in a cartoon. While performing the yoga and breathing
exercises along with some of the pilgrims, he chuckled inside. What for does he need good health? At this stage, of what use is it for the body
to develop good habits such as exercise and yoga? Only days, a few weeks…
It had been days since he checked how much money
he had left. When the small cloth bag he
carried felt weightless, he discarded that also.
Later, in the courtyard of a temple on the
shores of the river, a bearded sanyasi, who had just finished his
discourse looked intently into his eyes and asked, “Do you want to come with
us?”
Is it time for him to leave yet? The sanyasi’s beard had only just begun to
become gray. Is this swaamiji capable
of guiding him? Even if he was led
astray by the monk, who is really going astray, and for how long?
He followed the monk on to the train,
ordinary class, to Haridwar. Those in
ochre robes needed no tickets to travel in Northern India. A dip in the river Ganga gave him the kind of
solace and contentment a vivacious woman or an array of fancy food could never
give. Every day, he joined the sanyasi
and other seekers in the ritual sun salutations. Again, training in Pranayama, Uddiyaanam, and Shavaasanaa, The corpse
posture. (The American follower of the
Swami often says: Shavaasanaa! That is my favorite yoga!”)
Managing the mind was not on the IIM’s curriculum,
he thought, and it was unchartered territory for him. When the swaamiji spoke about it, it
was not mere advice. During a chance
that came almost like a predestined event, he mentioned the infinite
possibility of human consciousness.
While listening to those words, he felt
like these are the same thoughts he had had throughout his life. Among mental phenomena, the most important is
emotion. Then comes Buddhi, the guidance of
the intellect. After that comes the
sense of “I” which wonders what use do emotions and a sharp intelligence serve. Only after that would the sun of
discriminating intelligence, VivEkam would rise. This gives the
seeker the gift of development of the soul. It is a stage that one comes to through
observation and control. None of these
are created anew. All these are stages
of evolution denoting a step by step progress and these do pre-exist in our consciousness.
Days were passing by. Of the seven months, only
seven days remained. He made an attempt
to arrest the mind in an invocation mode using the mantras known to him.
“What are you thinking about? Do you feel like you want to end journeys of
all kinds?” swaamiji was asking. As
if reading his mind, the swami continued:
“Fear (bheethi)
has no place in consciousness.
Happiness (preethi) is what
deserves a position in the mind – that is one’s own happiness. There is no need to impart that to
others. If the others want it, then we
should give them a chance to part take in it, with no reservation. That is all”.
The swaamiji did not ask anything
about the beginning of his journey. And
he did not want to initiate his story either.
All of a sudden, the swaamiji
said: “Do you know the story of King Pareekshit’s
laying the dead snake on the shoulders of Sage Sameeka? That is a projection of “inertness” – jadata
– on chaitanyam ,
the living consciousness”. That is a
fallacy of the mind. That is all. The seven day limit to life!”Without taking the story anywhere, the swaamiji
dived into Ganga waters and was gone.
Expert swimmer? Or an expert
diver that runs away from situations?
When had he begun to pray? He had never prayed for a change in fate—this
sudden realization hit him then. He did
not desire to prolong his life either.
On the shores of Ganga, there are a
few pristine locations, known only to some advanced sanyasis. At those Ghats, the crystal clear
Ganga obeys no human restraints, and the chains typically anchored at the
sloping steps to help pilgrims are absent.
His head and nerves were swimming playfully
in the waves of cold Ganga. The
mind was awakening with more power than ever. He felt like new sources and springs
of energy were suddenly forming inside.
Is this the celebratory exuberance of the life particle that was about
to take off from this hollow nest like a bird?
One more day till the seven-month deadline
of this ‘project’! For the farewell,
waves of the river– the Mother Nature, Ganga will be more than enough. For some reason, he thought about Mani Krishnaswaami
singing the elaborate aalaapana of the raga Saramathi. Her face resembled that of his
mother’s. He was still the three-year-old boy who used to push his one-year-old sister from his mother’s lap to sit
there as she recited “Agrey pashyaami,”
so he could touch the veins on her neck. He would finger those veins one by one
until she went through the Keshaadipaadam
as the finale. He could
still feel the vibrations of her throat and the sad monotone was very much
alive in his heart.
When he climbed up to the riverbank, he saw
the familiar sight of a burning funeral pyre in the distance. The crowd gathered around the pyre seemed quite
affluent—this pyre is destined to burn to the end. He thought. Weren’t the half-burnt corpses thrown
off into the river those of the poor? The
disparity in life seems to follow through in death. The faces of the wealthy are full, round, and colorful
while those of the poor are always black and white as in a Satyajit Ray movie
that would go for national awards.
For today’s meal, he did not have to go
anywhere else—funeral rites of the wealthy always involved a feast for the
poor. And for tomorrow—there may be no need for a meal at all. Tomorrow, what is left will be the empty shell,
ready to be offered to the sacred Agni - the eternal fire that is ever
ready to burn up even the intestinal fire inside the living body.
Along with the other alms-seekers, he went up
to the group near the pyre and extended his palm for the food. The hands that served the rice wrapped in
banana leaf seemed familiar. He held
himself back. He should not let the past, the familiar thoughts and faces stain
his mind.
Yes, that was Dr. Suman. Suddenly he turned around and walked away as
fast as he could. He felt that he would not
be able to tolerate the doctor’s advice, scolding, and words of sympathy any
longer. He did not need them anymore
either. For the last journey, the most
pleasant place to rest would be the lap of the Cosmic Mother than the clinical
security of a hospital. Then, the doctor
ran toward him after throwing away everything in his hands and stopped him.
“I was in doubt right from the
beginning. The lab result was a
mistake. I was wrong. You have no illness. It was my son who was sick. I came here with his body. The corpse burning in that pyre is his.”
He was surprised that the doctor was so
calm as he uttered these words. He was also surprised that this news did not shock
him either. He wasn’t elated or sad. His mind felt only the lightness of the
feeling of listening to a story, although familiar, that was slowly opening as
if it was a flower with its petals one by one, like that of a blossoming flower
“The names got mixed up for your blood
sample. The error was committed by the
clerk in the lab. In fact my son had
only a limited time left to live! We
took a long time to find out that about him.
He left one day before the seven months I had predicted in the report. We discovered the identity error in blood
sample only this past week. As you know,
we all have been in a rush all the time.
And he was just like you, busy, winning everything that he put his hands
on. I feel now that he lived fully well
only during the last seven days of his life.
Till then he had been running around all over to establish his own
empires. But at the end we opened up. I did not know that there were so many things
to be said between us. Neither did he.”
The body has been made strong through yoga,
with
a matching mind made perfect through meditation. Is this what they call Moksha ? Who
promised moksha in seven months? Am I the owner of this life force that has
been projected onto the eternal consciousness?