A Cosmic Dance
Photo: Adina Voicua from Pixabay
Fiction: ‘Ganika is, of course, what I chose to call myself. Others in the town called me a woman of the court. Or a woman of the night.’
Make the crooked straight, make the straight flow, gather water, fire, and light, and bring the world to a single point.
I listened enthralled to these chants of the wandering mendicant, who paused outside our modest home—a dwelling made of clay and stone, and covered with dry palm fronds. Dressed in a black robe, the man was dishevelled and wild-eyed.
Barely five years of age, I was drawn to the singsong rhythm of his words, and I absorbed its lines with the sponginess of a child’s mind. I sang along with him in the same tone and tenor, committing his words to memory.
However, my hopeful spirit of enquiry vanished when he looked directly at me with piercing, bloodshot eyes, shaking the unruly long hair that fell over his shoulders. In a voice that rasped like metal being ground, he said, “Child, remember: Your awakenings will be strange encounters that will bring you the unexpected. It will make a lie of everything you believed to be true in your life.”
With vigour, he shook his small, hourglass-shaped drum, and continued to look at me intently. With his voice raised above the thwack of the beads that thumped on the stretched leather drumhead, he said, “You must know awakenings smash the follies of the misguided by tearing down their self-deceptions, and rinse away their false dreams to protect their gods within.”
Stung by his high-pitched words, my perturbed parents—who always carried bewilderment like a banner—rushed me back inside our home, as if the ground had erupted beneath them. They were unable to understand why he directed these comments at me. His words sounded like plain gibberish to me, and, yet, I was just as terrified as my parents. I twisted and trembled for days in blind panic as if in the grip of a curse, and sweated out his utterances in my nightmares.
Just as he had predicted, I had several awakenings in my life that came to me as shocks, with the forcefulness of dissolution and vehemence of growth—quite like a sprout that breaks its casing and forces its way to the surface of the earth, peaking the long and deep accumulation of life force. My life, from its beginning, perhaps, carried within it my destiny that was meant to come to a climax through waves of epiphanies, something the mendicant foresaw.
*
Chitralekha. A radiant picture or painting. I came fully awake to the meaning of my name only as a ganika, a courtesan, in Magadha, the capital of Pataliputra. I lived in the Magadh Empire in the time of Chandragupta Maurya, the first king who unified several large and small empires, and occupied the power vacuum created by the Greek conqueror, Sikander.
My parents and I lived in a village on the city’s outskirts where nothing much happened. My story became piquant, however, from the moment I vaulted over the cul-de-sac of my austere childhood, and then my widowhood to emerge in the fullness of my avatar as a ganika. Momentum coursed through my life when I freed myself from the loneliness that ensued from the estrangement from my parental and marital homes, and from the discarded and decrepitude state that attached itself to me.
So, I stepped onto the path of being a ganika, knowing fully well that this wayfaring would take me to both beautiful and harrowing revelations, and maybe even into captivity of another kind—for a woman living alone cannot be at peace for long.
At 14, I was too young to defy the tyranny of forced marriage by my parents, or the four years of drubbings by my husband that followed, or put an end to the cruelties inflicted by my in-laws. But a lifeline appeared before me at my husband’s unexpected death in a fire at his metal work shed. My in-laws threw me out, and I wandered across the city, looking for shelter. I did not know another way to survive was possible for a young woman, until I sighted a ganika in my wanderings. To me, this woman—this ganika—was remarkable, not so much because of her exquisite clothing, but because she had draped herself in an aura of lissom, spirited, and sparkly effervescence.
At 18, I decided to follow her audacious, disesteemed path, her deliberate and confident way of calling attention to slipstream myself into the flurry of court life.
With my decision came relief. Relief that came with a knowing that I never need to go back to my in-law’s home, to its low-beamed rooms, and its dingy and cluttered interiors, filled with wood smoke, and the stale odours of cooking, that made me sick to my core. I was finished with its bloated boredoms, tied as my life was to toiling in the enervating heat. Finished to the same shik, shik sounds of winnowing, and the brooding noises of the waterwheel, and to wearing unchanging widow clothes, drapes without variety or style.
My situation also came with a peculiar new understanding; a discernment that physical violence is not the only abuse that one can suffer from. My parents’ neglect and indifference after I was widowed hurt me far more than the violence I suffered within my marital home. So, I stepped onto the path of being a ganika, knowing fully well that this wayfaring would take me to both beautiful and harrowing revelations, and maybe even into captivity of another kind—for a woman living alone cannot be at peace for long.
I knew I had few alternatives, and no liberty to indulge my qualms or walk the moral high-ground. After all, life or call it my circumstances had also worked to deny me motherhood. Had I been a mother maybe this choice would have been negated. I surged into my new role with speed, with alacrity, and took on the responsibilities and involvements it came with. Ganika is, of course, what I chose to call myself. Others in the town called me a woman of the court. Or a woman of the night.
*
I paid close attention to my teacher, Avantika, who taught me a great deal there was to know about being a ganika. The rest I improvised, by using my skills of observation. “Now how do I explain the meaning of ganika to you?” Avantika wondered in our first class. Looking at my expectant face, she said with a smile, “It translates into ‘jasmine’, but if you were to close your eyes to language, white-hued jasmines will evoke the smell of ancient calm, they will invade your senses with the cool beauty of the night, into heady intoxication brought about by several rounds of wine, into delicious fleshly arousals… that is who a ganika is. She has to be all loveliness in one place.”
Seeing I was keen for more direction, she added, “To many, being a ganika may look like an easy role. It is not. A ganika is never who she is but who she makes others see her as. Myth and reality are two different creatures. A ganika’s outward existence may affirm men’s expectations of her, it might confirm their idea of her, but her art lies in retaining her inward self as her own, in her being social in her seeking but personal in her journey.”
Over the months, I progressed under her watchful eye, while grasping the meaning of her words. I was told that a selection of teachers would soon help to refine and cultivate me to excel in 64 arts of the ganika, which included dance, music, playing musical instruments, painting, attiring and adorning, reading, fluency of speech, debating, social etiquette, and politics, among others. “You are a woman outside the system, and yet, with access inside it,” she said. “You are meant to measure up to a nobleman in intellectual capabilities and refinement. And, let me tell you, the Mauryan men are doing whatever it takes to establish a kingdom in the northern regions where fair play is entirely optional. So, you must have the native cunning and instinct to survive in the competitive world of the court. Otherwise, ganikas are as dispensable as stale food.”
Under her expert tutelage, with her teaching me to dance, pirouette to intricate footwork, and establish a here-and-now kind of intimacy with the patrons, dance became an affirmation of my existence, of my independence. I could have celebrated the magic of my feet, and the tinkle of my anklets forever.
I began to cultivate the allure of a ganika, her impulsive effulgence, and played the temptress game, learning to beckon men. Subhadra, the woman who shadowed my teacher Avantika closely, was instructed to teach me to dress with intention, and use my body and clothes to make an unmistakable statement. She told me to wear my gossamer muslin uttarias—the long, unstitched fabric for the upper torso—with a flourish. I walked with the nonchalance of someone accustomed to this attire. I learned to choose warm tones of mustard, and burnished orange to dress my skin to perfection. Sometimes, I would sheath myself in a decollate to show off my smooth shoulders, and to allow my breasts to lift and fall gently with each breath. I accentuated the embedded glittering corals, rubies, and sapphires that I’d adorned. I knew I made the male onlookers imagine the feel of the fabric, the texture of my petal-skinned breasts, the fragrance of sandalwood between them, and what their hands would experience if they brushed against me.
To a beholder, my garment seemed weightless, and one that whispered secrets to the floor. I had its glinting agates and crystals positioned in such a manner that they were bound to entice men to ignoble thoughts, into falling into the stories I would tell, just like the diamond twinkling in my belly button.
Subhadra had a stern exterior, yet she was capable of being friendly. She let me into a secret, one she reserved for special pupils. “I will teach you the artistry behind draping your antaria, the loose piece of cloth fastened below the hips. Use an elegant one that you could use as another instrument of storytelling.”
I learnt ably under her. To a beholder, my garment seemed weightless, and one that whispered secrets to the floor. I had its glinting agates and crystals positioned in such a manner that they were bound to entice men to ignoble thoughts, into falling into the stories I would tell, just like the diamond twinkling in my belly button.
I found friendship in Kalyani, another ganika. She taught me to adorn myself. She told me that the dehri earrings, circular discs in the shape of flowers, would suit me best. “Wear it along with two necklaces, a short broad gold kanta, and a long, slender lambanam, and slim bangles and anklets,” Kalyani said. “Plait your hair with flowers, and wear it coiffured on the top for pinned ornaments.”
My male teachers took on the mantle of noblemen, and using pretend play they taught me the art of banter, through relaying a keen grasp of politics and history, and the use of elegant language. They made me read extensively, and befriend spies to keep abreast of the latest political intrigues. They initiated me into the ways of luring men into the unknown, teaching me small gestures of folding a betel leaf, and offering it to them in a special manner, for instance, so that they would be my patrons, spoil me with attention, money, land, and jewels. Yet at the same time, I was given lessons on how to keep everyone at bay—for after all, the chase is about not being too available. And these instructions were given as much to enable me to maintain my self-possession, my sanity, to not allow anyone to define who I was but me.
I learned more of the noblemen who visited us. Many of them lived on the edge, within murky turbulence, churned in their souls, as our kingdom faced many contenders for supremacy, and was littered with multitudes of clandestine spider web-like networks of spies. The Greek invaders had not left our regions completely. The Nanda Empire was decimated, but it hadn’t yet become an entirely spent force. And, Kautilya, the king’s political strategist, was still trying to assimilate the Sungas, who also held sway once, enticing them into the new order through the contrivances and intelligence.
There was still a long way to go before the varying factions could cohere around Chandragupta, and accept him as the single, undisputed monarch.
*
By the end of a year, Avantika told me I was ready to take on the stage at court. “No student of mine has learnt as fast as you have, and no one is as accomplished as you,” she said. “You have come agleam as a common carnelian stone does. One that defies all norms of geology when sliced to shine sunset-red over its ordinary ochre exterior. Like it, you have morphed from stone to gem.”
I delighted in her praise, and was inspired to perfect my art, lend it finesse and panache. I became proficient enough to be chosen at 22 to lead all other ganikas by none other than the king, Chandragupta Maurya. Now I had the liberty of running my stage, making my own rules, being the star of my show, concessions that delighted me no end though I was aware of the dangers involved.
I was awakened yet again, this time in my role as a rajganika, emerging as a fabled being: eternally beautiful, eternally ethereal, eternally alluring, eternally mysterious, transforming myself into anything and everything a Mauryan nobleman with mischief in his mind conjured, like a work of art that could be interpreted in various ways.
I held sway under the delicate patterns of filigree stuccos, hanging in space over slender columns in a theatrical layering of white arches. I entertained, danced, and sang with other ganikas. Choreographed and perfected with practice, our dances were a mix of light-footed movements, nimble pirouettes, altering facial expressions, song and music performed on festivals and occasions that celebrated victory, commemorated a noble, or welcomed a guest.
I saw his face light up when he spoke of conquests, and I heard the animation in his voice. It was then that the wavering began as fear gripped me. I wasn’t sure if our love could bear the weight of his responsibilities to the state and king.
Sometimes, the king attended my soirees, too. His coterie of women, were, however, carefully handpicked for him with bloodlines of royalty. My background prevented me from gaining such favour, something that I was thankful for as withholding would not have been possible in this case.
I had my chance of awakening to involvement, to love, when Bijgupta, a general in the king’s army, visited the court. Though I had heard of him, he never made an appearance at my hall, preferring the burning, dusty plains of the Gangetic belt, and its hardscrabble, to the cool, tree-lined comfort of the palace court. News filtered that the king relied on Bijupta to cohere the shifting mosaic of small clan-based kingdoms that spread from the northern stretch to the central regions. When he did come, my heart raced, my cheeks flushed, and heat spread through my body. I found my attraction hard to understand. It was not unlike an earthquake that heaved things about.
He was handsome, broad-shouldered, with an almost sculpted physique, and a sharply defined nose. When I approached him, I could sense a distinctly masculine scent. As he watched me, I watched him back: he emanated a silent focus, the way he looked at me unwaveringly all through my performance, with an inscrutable seriousness and a mysterious magnetism. He took in every detail of my clothing, my dance, my speech, as if nothing else mattered that made him irresistible to me. I felt him within my being, and it was a feeling unlike anything I have had.
When I spoke to Kalyani about my attraction, she was unimpressed. “But many other noblemen have these attributes,” she said. “Why are you intent on him? I think you are reaching way about your station. I know many women of nobility would give anything to marry him. And, you know your role is not to succumb—but keep the chase alive.”
I knew all this only too well. Yet the heart wants what it wants. “You will argue that other men are beguiled with me as well,” I told her. “But I feel nothing for them, and a deep connection with him.”
Kalyani sighed helplessly. She shook her head in despair as if to say I was doomed. I assumed Bijgupta would not could not return after his first visit. A week later, however, I saw him again. He was dressed with care, his clothes were even more stylish, and his skin shone.
Then as his visits increased, I dared to hope. I hoped for reciprocity of feelings. It happened with the speed of summer lightning. We spent days and nights together, sunsets and sunrises meshed into one another. Days spilled into weeks, weeks into months. He was arduous and attentive. He called me his ‘reason for being’ with a lopsided, crooked smile. It melted my heart.
We discussed politics, his exploits, his relationship to the king, his passion for hunting, and warfare. I saw his face light up when he spoke of conquests, and I heard the animation in his voice. It was then that the wavering began as fear gripped me. I wasn’t sure if our love could bear the weight of his responsibilities to the state and king.
I ignored these warnings, however, and continued to run recklessly with him down the precipice of desire, delighting in his gifts of land, jewellery, and expensive silks. After a while, I intuited that our hedonistic trail had a limited repertoire: marriage, separation, or mutual annihilation. I demanded the first, only to discover that he was already engaged to Princess Yashodhara, the daughter of another general Mritunjay, whose favours the king needed to fortify his empire.
“It is a marriage of convenience,” he explained to me in a calm voice.
“You mean you will marry her, and visit me as always. That you can’t marry me?”
He nodded.
My voice turned indignant. “How can you say such a thing? I won’t accept it.”
Bijgupta shrugged, and offered no more explanation. Perhaps, he was right, I wondered. As a courtesan, I had little bargaining power in the game of matrimony.
What followed were disturbed days and nights, where Bijgupta’s visits became erratic. He came, and left as he pleased. It turned me from a poised woman to an enraged one, plagued with hatred for him, and Yashodhara—his betrothed. My clashes with him were intemperate, and I exploded like a hot, flawed brick at a kiln. Fearing the finality of loss, I threatened separation.
Finally, he grovelled back. “I am not going anywhere,” he said. “Chitralekha, you are my world, and my fiancé means nothing to me. Can’t you tell by the time I spend with you? If you want us to be together, I will sever all my ties with Yashodhara—and the king, if need be—and we will go away someplace else.”
On the surface, I seemed reconciled to the situation. When I met Kalyani later in the day, I told her of my fears of being cheated, of being plagued with nightmares of being responsible of ruining another woman’s life. I told her I felt arrogant for believing that I could know and conquer the unknown in men, and how bad I felt for disregarding the principles taught to me by my teachers, to retain my self-possession. I also confided in her that I understood that much of what lies within me was a mystery too. There was hatred, jealousy, grief, and anger, all falling one upon another. And, there was a tremendous confusion in the wilderness of my unconscious—in the dark parts of myself—which I had repressed.
I needed to be rescued, as I suffered like a wounded animal who does not know how to heal itself. That night, I wept with my teachers, and they offered me comfort by holding me tight.
Over the following months, Bijgupta began withdrawing into himself, withholding himself from me, coming to see me less often. “I am busy these days, I have no time for frivolities,” he said once. His tone was terse, his face sullen, and he seemed to me like my dead husband, who had been quick to bristle under the slightest provocation.
Through a network of court spies, it soon came to my knowledge that Yashodhara’s father, Mrityunjay, had complained to the king about me being ‘unsuitable’ company for Bijgupta. The irony was not lost on me. The king himself had uncertain origins: While in public discourse, he was hailed as a Kshatriya, as belonging to the elite class of warriors, there were whispers that his family belonged to a clan of peacock tamers. But now, Bijgupta stood in real danger of not only losing royal favour, but also the connections and wealth that would have come to him through marriage.
I set Bijgupta free, as he did me. It was an anti-climax with no theatrics. We had the briefest of farewells. I had summoned him, and Bijgupta probably came prepared for a showdown. In an unruffled voice, I said, “Let’s end this as your priorities are different.” He said nothing, and looked downcast yet relieved. He left after a while wordlessly as if he was accepting the inevitable.
My life blotted into nothingness. My role of a ganika lost its appeal. Now, I recognized that the nobles’ understood that the game we played would never culminate in sizzling encounters, yet, they played along as licentiousness and caprice were their second nature. They probably viewed their visits to my court as a round of chess, whose patterns were limited, but the craft remained intriguing.
I needed to be rescued, as I suffered like a wounded animal who does not know how to heal itself. That night, I wept with my teachers, and they offered me comfort by holding me tight.
To me, however, these games of beckoning had become increasingly tiring and tasteless. And, my interest in material acquisitions waned.
*
It was around this time that Kumargiri, an impassive, saffron-robed ascetic, came into my life. I knew he would visit me even before he arrived. The court spies told me that he was an ascetic who had pursued his spiritual discipline for over twenty years, and had been sent by Mrityunjay and the king to contain my sins.
The feel of Kumargiri’s words, direct and without hesitation, was hateful at first. Not because they were in any way unkind or lacking in civility, but because I did not want to hear them. He talked at length of the sins of the flesh, the need to live by moral values. “Coveting is a selfish, ignorant desire,” he told me, “as it gains at another’s expense.”
In response, I called him an escapist, a timid man who had wandered into forests as he could not earn his livelihood.
I dismissed him, but his leaving left me restless.
I fell into an abyss. I drowned in my mind. I had left one kind of life behind, yet again but did not know how and where to begin another. I needed clarity and purpose, and somehow, I knew he could help. The fact that he did not respond in anger to my insults was a sign of a person at peace with the world, in balance with himself, and I yearned for that kind of symmetry and equipoise. Maybe, the universe cannot and does not satisfy our desire for understanding the meaning of life, and maybe in essence it is chaotic and unreasonable. And, I was seeing him as something he was not. I wanted to know more—to hope that there was an inherent value to my life.
I knew it was inexplicable, and even absurd to seek help from a stranger but desperation made me. I summoned him urgently back to my court.
Five days later, he returned. I offered him a seat, water, and food. He accepted only the seat and water. He looked around at the opulence, the shining stone floors, the silk drapes, the tassels, silk-cushioned seats, wine holders, the array of goblets, and the burning incense with childlike curiosity.
“Tell me about your journey to equanimity,” I pleaded. He seemed to understand what I wanted to know even without my saying it in so many words.
“Transformation of any kind, particularly the one I have chosen to make, is hard to understand,” he softly said. “You believe my renunciation is an act of rejecting duties and relationships, and even the bounty of life that humans like us are fortunate to enjoy. It is not so much that as it is about disentangling from the unsatisfactory, from mental confusions, and self-afflicted afflictions, and moving to what matters most: which is opening up, and accepting the teachings that the present moment holds.”
The fact that he did not respond in anger to my insults was a sign of a person at peace with the world, in balance with himself, and I yearned for that kind of symmetry and equipoise.
I nodded, urging him to continue.
“The ground of my renunciation is that I already have what I need,” he said. “That every moment has tremendous energy, and I should connect with that as it will lead me to the real nature of reality, the truth behind the veil of appearances. You talk of the world being real, but when you really understand how ephemeral and fragile it really is, and how vast your potential is for experiencing the other world, the real world, you will understand renunciation.”
“What is this other world you talk about?” I asked with suspicion.
“Every time I meditate, thoughts crowd into my head, and I say to myself, ‘This is thinking.’ But when I let my thoughts meet my edge, and then go beyond it, I enter a non-physical, intangible world, where time, space, joys, sorrows, love, hate, life, death have no meaning. This is not a place I go to, but a state of being I enter, where the world as I once knew collapses.
He paused to look around my chambers.
“This celestial space that we inhabit…” he said “… It’s endless. And the cosmic rearrangement that appears before me in its entirety is frightening because it is unfamiliar and unpredictable. But I know it is the ultimate and only reality. In its nothingness it is everything as creation leaps from this very void to complete fullness, to complete oneness of all existence. It is really a cosmic dance of creation and destruction, of creation and destruction, of creation and destruction. It goes on and on.”
Here was an awakening of another kind, a spiral to freedom I did not know existed.
Somewhere in the background, I heard the muted tinkle of a ganika’s anklets, the soft strains of the court’s songstress, and the buzz of instruments played to perfection by a team of percussionists. But I knew what Kumargiri was saying was that the mind is hemmed in by limitations, and what he was talking about could not be grasped by the brain, by the powers of reasoning. That to understand what he was pointing to I would need to shift my way of thinking, seeing and being. It is only then I would be able to grasp eternity that underlies all physical existence. To me, it sounded impossible, ridiculous even for a mortal to aspire to. It was better left to the gods.
How could mortals, I wondered, especially sensual beings, indulgent to each of their senses like me, shift planes and abandon the world they know? The world they love? Sensuality, appreciating and accepting everything the world has to offer, had helped me explore the depths of my being. And if this other world that exists is filled with nothingness, then this emptiness didn’t sound like something to aspire to.
“The abstraction that you call utter peace seems dull,” I said to him, “if not implausible. I would not abandon my present, however broken, for this. In fact, this formless void you speak of is frightening, despairing, defeatist, a destination to be avoided at all costs as it seems to have no love or joy. I seek answers, an acceptance to another world, not dissolution. I think I am better off in my bad world.”
Recognizing my agitation, he used the prana mudra, a hand gesture, to calm me. I was familiar with it as a dancer. It was one that balanced his energy within his hand in a triangle, one that symbolised an expanding awareness into all parts of the body.
That to understand what he was pointing to I would need to shift my way of thinking, seeing and being. It is only then I would be able to grasp eternity that underlies all physical existence. To me, it sounded impossible, ridiculous even for a mortal to aspire to. It was better left to the gods.
Then in a reassuring voice, he said, “Believe me when I say the other world, is not a destruction of your current world but a shift in your understanding of it. I see it as a divine gift. It shows that this other world, in its nothingness, controls space, time and energy that rules our physical world, and we return to it upon death. This truth goes back billions and billions of years, and will continue for billions more. Contrary to your belief, this limitless expanse is joyful, and full of love as the struggles with time, relationships and the body comes to an end.”
“Will I not grieve for the self I have left behind?” I persisted, unable to comprehend the enormity of what he said. “Will I not yearn for my joys and sorrows, for the people of my world, my possessions? Were you able to give up worldly pursuits and wants easily?”
“Our scriptures say ‘Those who seek eternal truth enter blind darkness, and those who study material existence live in greater darkness’,” he said. “One needs courage and perseverance to explore this state of awareness, this consciousness, and this alignment with your higher self. When a person enters this realm, the physical world and its illusions fall away almost at once, and one is fine tuned to see the unseen, and hear the unheard. To answer your question: Yes, I too, felt afraid, and alone, and wished to withdraw. But I persevered, and showed generosity and compassion to myself when I was scared.”
I was both riveted and terrified by the prospects he outlined. After he left, I was in ferment. I did not know if I had the grit to leave behind my life, my beliefs. Suddenly, the words of the mendicant who visited me in my childhood catapulted back to me. “Child, remember: Your awakenings will be strange encounters that will bring to you the unexpected. It will make a lie of everything you believed to be true in your life. You must know awakenings smash the follies of the misguided by tearing down their self-deceptions, and rinse away their false-dreams to protect their gods within.”
I understood Kumargiri’s route, one that would dispossess me of my selfhood, would be arduous, harder than anything I had known before, and would not yield clear and definitive answers with the speed I was used to. But my guru—as I was ready to acknowledge him as one—had a lit a fire in me, that would not burn out. He had me entranced by what he called this cosmic dance as my dance at court seemed absurd and futile, my material possessions seemed redundant.
Call it blind fatalism, but I was convinced that my path was renunciation, and it is that which held my nirvana or release. I felt compelled to follow my fate, and see where it led me. Like my earlier decision to become a ganika, I knew this decision, too, would have to be mine alone.
*
I was 24 when I followed Kumargiri to his hermitage within the forest, and lived in monastic isolation, giving up all my material possession and my title as rajya ganika. I was given a hut to myself a little away from the main hermitage that housed only male monks. As I arrived here in a palanquin, I escaped the rigours of the journey. They began when I began living in the forest in earnest with just trees—sal, teak, neem and rosewood—for company; the loneliness I felt was intimidating.
My mud-floored quarters had nothing except for a pot of water and a palm-frond mattress. It was the most uncomfortable thing I had lain on in my life. I did not sleep well at all for months on end, and was full of ill-grace and humour. My drab monk robes, worn to cut through illusions and afflictions, and taste service and simplicity, made the situation even more desolate. There was so much silence in the forest interiors during the day that an accidental chirp of a bird sounded deafening. In the night, there were calls of owls, tigers, and elephants. I could not decide which was more daunting.
I was assailed by hunger all the time, and yearned for the delectable fares of the court, all I got instead was a frugal meal of rice and lentil and vegetable in the morning, and fruits in the evening. The days of fasting felt life-threatening to me, and I began losing weight drastically. My initial months in the forest did not bring the wisdom I expected but fever, nausea, dizziness, diarrhoea, and depletion. Melancholy seized me. I was certain I could not continue, and was convinced I has romanticized the idea of renunciation.
Meditation was just as hard. My mind would not still. I was restless in my body, and could not hold my posture for over an hour. The sight of the other monks sitting with their eyes closed in calm detachment discouraged even me more. I felt inadequate and ill-equipped for this practice. I attempted visual mediation trying to envision images of tranquillity like running water, the gentle swishes of trees, sunlight falling on swaying stalks of rice but what came to mind were visons of the court, images of wars, my dance recitals, and even bizarre animals I had never encountered. Often, images of my tasting wine invaded my mind. I missed its taste and the intoxication it brought. The urge to abandon my path was most intense at this time.
But my guru—as I was ready to acknowledge him as one—had a lit a fire in me, that would not burn out. He had me entranced by what he called this cosmic dance as my dance at court seemed absurd and futile, my material possessions seemed redundant.
It was only at the end of my second year that I learned the key to meditation. It came to me that I had to stop resisting the images that appeared and let them come and go. If the emotion was strong, I followed it, and let it take over till it declined in force. I then let go of the emotion that it brought.
It was around this time I learnt through Kumargiri that Bijgupta had married Yashodhara a year ago. The news gladdened my heart; though our separation happened two years ago, it now seemed like a lifetime.
In my sixth year at the forest, like gentle rain addressing a dry, angry earth, something came upon me: a peace within, something I never experienced before. It began with a warmth that suffused me followed by tenderness and love. I was full of wonder and awe, filled with a sense carefree light-heartedness. This emotion was accompanied by a deep sense of awareness, too. The trees I had found menacing earlier turned a shade of brilliant green, and came alive with the humming of a thousand insects. I was one with them. I understood in these moments that all things have no separate self.
How does one handle suffering? I had chosen this path to get an answer to this question. My answer came just as silently without any clamour in the eighth year of my renunciation. I inferred that the only way to handle suffering was through a cultivated, calm detachment, an indifference to thoughts, feelings, and physical sensations as they are impermanent. Any attachment to them would result in pain. The death of a grey dove who I fed rice grains off my plate showed me this. I understood detachment does not detract from showing compassion and empathy or helping people. In fact, it ensures that we do. It was plain to me that we cause our own suffering, yet we have the potential to climb out of it and embrace an unending bliss.
By the end of my tenth year, I came to an awareness that I had to let go of my mind, and my worldview at every step. I had to learn to change my identity each day. I learned to sit in silence, and to let go, to acknowledge that all viewpoints are valid, and every insight is a moment of freedom.
Kumargiri had stood by me the whole time, helping me cultivate understanding and compassion, but I finally felt the need to break free and move away into another forest. My journey had just started and there was a long way to go while Kumargiri’s journey was his own.
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In my journey, it has come to me that my moments of introspection were not for me alone, but meant as a beacon for everyone striving to be on this path. As Kumargiri helped me dive deeper into my life-purpose, I realized must be a lighthouse for those seeking direction while finding their true essence.
I broke my vow of silence. I took on the task of helping women who were keen on a monastic life to find the roots of their freedom and joy.
Thirty years past my renunciation, I continue to pursue life greatest awakening: happiness, the enduring inner fulfilment, the elevated state where is nothing to hope for or expect. As I do not know how many years I have left and have no energy to write, I intend to spent the rest of my life doing this for it takes time, and labour to learn how to change oneself, one’s way of being.
I think it may need several lifetimes to get to where I need.
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Chitra Gopalakrishnan, a New Delhi-based writer, uses her ardour for writing, wing to wing, to break firewalls between nonfiction and fiction, narratology and psychoanalysis, marginalia and manuscript and tree-ism and capitalism. Her website is: www.chitragopalakrishnan.com.
