Change
P.S : the following story , epitomes a classic exemplar of “change”, a change which can change your life , a change which can change your thought process for lifetime, a change which can manipulate your psyche to attain a divine intervention. Change can make you plead to crave for another change and it never ends, change is a chain reaction.
I expect all of you to read between the lines to connect on a deeper level!
*****
Looking Back!
With all what happened in India, in that small filthy, yet most auspicious town of India, S.D was back in office after a transcendental experience in the land of Gods. He works for a strategy consulting firm, has a beautiful girl friend and drives a Porsche; why in world he had to meet that sage ?, well some things are just fate, to which, Greeks referred as fatem. The west was blazed by monk’s pictures and the story written by S.D, everybody wanted a bit of his ethereal life. It’s an annoying fact that, how Christ loving social workers react to vagrants, who make it to Times and Readers Digest covers, Monk was none other fella. First it was Time’s Afghan girl cover story, which proved to be a blessing in disguise, but took her away from her home, never to return because she would be killed as soon as she comes back to land where men believed in war, in name of God and violence in name of religion.
S.D was sure monk would never want all of this attention from all sects of life from politicians to social workers to media because S.D knew him if not in person but at ephemeral yet subtle level at soul, a relation above words and a love amidst the souls, the purest form of life. The self-guilt and agony of writing about such a being made it worse for S.D to pursue his normal life, it was eating him from within like a termite nibbling on woods making it hollow within. He wished he would have never written all about him and left him in peace and grief, which were quantum solace for the monk and not the bizarre spot lights. But sadly life waits for none and soon you hop on its moving train.
2 years 4 months and 8 days have passed, the story and monk became history for rest of the world but he, S.D still saw him in his dreams time to time, and pleading eyes still haunted him often. Rumbling under the grief within, he still kept the diary, the broken watch and the bag . The first time, he couldn’t find any answers, he decide to read it again, once again from start page by page, word by word, to find some answers to what is the real reason for such kind of penance to confess for his sins and doings similar to monks of medieval period who used cilice as repentance and atonement for their sins. It was beautiful afternoon on a summer Sunday yet the heat within the heart of S.D was sufficient enough to give me jitters and take him back to the land of gods , the scenes , unedited , unforgotten came to his conscience as if it was yesterday’s happenings and not a yore incident.
It all begin 2 years back with a supposedly relaxing vacation to India , but it turned out to be a journey never to be forgotten about because it was the fable of ………………..The Dancing Monk …………….
The Dancing Monk
“The dawn tears the cloud bladder
On orange tray, the Ash scatters.
The mystic aura, the enigmatic chants,
Feel like Heaven on this holy land.
On the banks of river lied an aged monk,
Draped in saffron cloak, long has he lost his folks.
Grey eyebrows and white bear showed age
Wrinkled face and eyes with dried tears……
*****
The Tea-Bar Riddle
The grey sky bladder splinted apart by dawn rays, it looks as if ash sprayed on saffron tray. The Mystic aura and the enigmatic silence on the banks, where the only possible vibes are those on river Ganga which speaks, the pain of thousands dead bodies submerged in it and on other hand rejoice of millions who take their first bath to purify themselves off all the malice they did. Each day starts, with this twin feeling on the two opposite banks of the river which are like two ends of life, one the birth and death. There are Saints, Kids, Flower vendors, and many homeless souls, for them this is the last piece of land they possess. The steps of the pedestal, which lead them to the gate of heaven, a dream a belief that’s what, keep them alive. Its hermit’s home, their peace, and their sanity from anguish they faced.
On the corner of the platform, there sat a Monk in grey and saffron; they call him the “The Dancing Monk” as his day starts with his dance & it carries on till the time only spirits are left on the banks, way past midnight. He looked like devils from dungeon; his tattooed body makes him a masterpiece of east. I tried speaking to him, trying to ask him why he lived like a monk. ? What is his inspiration, the driving force? , The only language he knows is dance. He danced for everything he wanted to convey. When I wished him “Good Morning” he replied by nodding his head, like they do it in “Kathak”, an ancient Hindu dance form.
I decided to observe him, all day long and tried to converse if possible with him, to go to the deep roots of this. I sat at the tea-bar comfortably, people around told me he came some 15 year ago. He was a professor in an arts school in Banaras. He came here for the cremation of his 25 year old son who passed with a sudden heart attack, the real reason behind death is still unknown although. After that day he never spoke and from last many years he has seldom spoke to anyone. The only way he communicates is by signs and signalling for his daily routine needs, for others he danced.
People, tourist mainly, found it entertaining; donated him with a few pennies each day. People say, the locals here call him to dance on the birth celebration or the “Ganeu* ritual” in Brahmans*, at the Vishnu ghat, two blocks from here. Although he is mostly seen on the kaal ghat which is right opposite Vishnu ghat dancing endlessly, engrossed in the music of the chants from temple, the drums of thunderstorms in monsoon as percussionist, the bells of temple being the keyboard.
Time for me stopped, as if, it’s asking questions to me, why is he like this? What made him stop speaking? Taking all these riddles in my mind I ordered for a rusk and masala tea while I saw him cleaning self in the river and tying his long serpentine hairs.
The Dancing Monk
With his folks long gone
He is left soul torn,
Mystery for all is what he is,
He deserves some peace and god’s eternal bliss!
*****
The Kaal Ghat
It was 7:00 O’ Clock in morning and I saw the first cremation ceremony at the Kaal Ghat. Few bald men got the body of a young girl who committed suicide in the village, a few miles from here. The monk saw them coming and started his dance, it seemed he danced in a pattern which signifies the pain he felt for each person who leave this earth. He cried, screamed and danced opening his hair, it looked as if lord Shiva in his “Natraja” form dancing in pain and antagonism to end this mortal earth. His eyes could speak a million emotions, his hands moved as if asking for help he needed from so many years, a shoulder where he could lie down and cry for the loss he had. Each note of his dance depicted, as if he is praying to lord requesting peace for the soul. It seemed he can connect directly to the souls and convey them to reside in peace and not wander around this mortal land.
As the time passed by, it started raining and the men left cremation throwing few pennies at him but he didn’t stopped dancing. He came close to the ash of the burning body, which was still hot, he cried like a mother who has lost his child. He touched the ashes, as he would caress his own son; the memories of cremation were still burning in his heart. He danced in the rain like asking god, why he takes those who are loved so much? Each note, was so clear and specific that even the proficient dancers would fail to attain such emotional backbone of expressions to the movements which are meaning less if there are no sentiments attached to them.
I could see the red eyes blowing like burnt charcoal, the agony on the forehead, the tattoos which describe the seven stages of human life and mythical quotes; from Bhagwad Geeta*, The Hindu bible. The quotes meant: - “whatever happens, happens for a reason and one must not repent or be joyful over it” and “what is important is the karma you do”. The dance was “Abhinaya” (mime acting), drenched me in sweat and cold feats. I have never seen someone dancing with such vigour over a funeral ceremony.
I finished my tea and ordered for a water. I was almost in tears and wanted badly to talk to him. I asked the vendor why anyone hasn’t talked to him or helped him? He said in local dialect: - everyone in this earth is a materialistic fool and no one is emotional enough to help such pleading souls. The municipality corporation people take them as beggars and thrash them, for them beggars are burden on this earth.
The Dancing Monk
He pays penance for self, penance for others
I can’t find one who care or bothers
When I lay him hand, and showed some care
He ran away from me in agony and fear!
*****
The Vishnu Avatar
Paying the vendor, I followed the Monk closely, he knew someone is following but didn’t stop. He danced as if showing me I am a fool to follow and there is no use. He made faces like they do it in “Kolam dance” (devil dance: performed by masked men). I was bit frightened, he had beaten a man to death when he tried to mimic him a few years ago. I followed quietly; he stopped, looked at me, & suddenly came close to me and offered me a hand shake. I was terrified for a second but somehow felt good. When I touched his palm, the warmth was blissful. I started a conversation, but to no good, doesn’t lasted for a second as he again started dancing this time in “Odissi” (Odissi features the “Tribhang” or “Three bended” body position, accentuating the natural female curvature - and is considered to be a softer style). I couldn’t interfere and following him was the only option left for me to know him.
Over the Vishnu ghat as always there was a ceremony going on where the infant baby is brought to the bank for his first bath, Hindu ritual, which expresses that river Ganga will bless the child and would always keep him safe from hazards and problems in life. The monk offered a prayer to the goddess and started performing another dance this time it was different and there were a lot of happy notations, his actions clearly defining the joy. There was one thing which I didn’t notice before, he carries a bag with him and keeps it very close, and within seconds I thought this would give me all the answers to my questions. He danced for nearly five continuous hours without a drop of water or food and then as the people left he collapsed in a corner of the platform. I rushed towards him but he was subconscious. I could see the tear drops over his eyes and the wrinkled face showing the marks of pains clearly, as he regained, he was shocked and frightened, I told him I offer no harm and gave him water to drink. He refused and ran so fast that I couldn’t follow him. I was surprised as why he didn’t accept my offerings.
I left for the hotel with a sad mood after a holy dip in the river hoping to meet him next morning.
The Dancing Monk
He offers his prayers,
Baptising
The new born child
Yet destiny has defied, it took his only child.
He still shows his love to all human beings.
No sage can offer the same, after what he has seen.
His world tumbled like a cards castle
Left him loner like an empty vessel.
*****
The Bag with Answers
I followed him for six days up-to that platform on Vishnu ghat , I saw him dance till midnight a few time, saw him laughing with tears in his eyes, watched him washing his body in the river, people pelting stones at him, in return he just smiled and danced in the most illustrious way I have ever seen. Each day I offered him water but he did not accept.
On the last day of my journey I offered him the water bottle again and turned back to move on, to my utter revelation I heard the crackling of the bottle seal. I turned back, he saw me with emotionless eyes but I could still make out he want to cry, cry for what has happened to him, cry for his salvation. I sat nearby, after gulping a few sips, He just leaned over my shoulder silently but yet not spoken a single word. He slept over my shoulder for 1 hour and then realizing that I may be getting late, stood up and offered his bag, I couldn’t say anything; He forced me to take it. When I tried opening it he stopped me, as if telling me not to open it now. I just nodded my headed in assurance.
I started leaving the Ghats as I had a train to catch, but I was stopped by him, he screamed looking towards sky as if pleading god to take him on his lap, and then started dancing. I couldn’t move a feet as It was something I have never seen before, I was confused, is it a dance? Or a prayer? Or a plea to someone for help?. His emotions were so myriad to count, one couldn’t make which mood he is in; there was joy, anger, mercy, sympathy, love, care. But I need to move, his eyes were telling me he wants to meet me next morning but truth was bitter as its always is, slowing the hymns in my ears died out, I went to my hotel. While in my taxi, I thought he’ll speak something, but he just thanked me by “Namaskara Mudras”. It’s a notation in Hindu rituals to express Good will.
I took my train to New Delhi, & I opened his bag, Inside were a diary, a pen, a broken watch, a photograph and a blood stained scarf. The diary was tattered, the pen wasn’t working, the watch was broken as if time has finished for him and he is being left here out of mercy to live his life with no colours or joy. The only thing which kept him going was DANCE: the eternal way to connect to the one who made this world.
He was a Professor of Arts and Dramatics. The only way I could describe how I knew all the dance forms was because he had mentioned each one in his diary. He also talked about those happy days when he used to come to the Ghats with his family and kid; but there were few pages where the writings didn’t made sense, it was in some sort of hieroglyphics with a lot of scribbling, cuttings. Nothing one can understood at one glimpse , something he wanted to hide from rest of the world , something he didn’t want to share at all even after his death. I tried reading it but failed.
After few months I called a local friend, back in Kashi: to ask what happened to him? they said its being months they haven’t seen him. I hope he rested in peace, he deserved so badly. Life is like that, it makes you really plead for what you deserve most, for few who are born with the silver spoon it may be a cake walk but for rest of us it’s a daily workout to maintain the fit body.
The visit to that place and meeting the Dancing Monk was one of the most agonising eclipses of my life.
Diary spoke a lot about his glorious life and awards he won and how a sudden change in the life can devastate one’s complete mortal life but it didn’t say anything about those tattered pages with scrawling and symbols, nothing! No key to questions, as if it was intentionally taken out of diary.
I hoped I meet him over some juncture of my life, talk to him about all what he lived through. But for that moment, I just wanted amity for The Dancing Monk, The clandestine Sage, the legend.
The saga continues.
The Dancing Monk
He was great men in his hay days
A lot about him did the bag say.
Yet there were few pages tattered and charred
He wanted the secrets to be always behind the bars
They say he became a legend in the Wild West,
His story just ends here, or did it just start,
He left his scar on my heart, reminding me to come back for him
With this promise within, S.D left the place with a heavy heart.
An apologue of a living Legend
By
