Chapter 14
The sage* Shakala had begun to think of late that he had lived in this place, in this cottage long enough. He must move before he got attached to it. A cat and a dog had already begun to stay with him and regard him as one of their own. (Refer to the note at the bottom of the page for Shakala.)
There was a chill and a fog in the air. The fire Shakala had lit in the courtyard burnt brightly and was the only welcome sign of a dwelling place for strangers in that part of the forest. A path went winding down from the cottage to the foot of the hill. From the point where it merged in the undergrowth, could be heard the sound of footsteps treading on the overgrown grass. A few stones tumbled down the slope before a man appeared in sight. Shakala stared at him as he came closer. Something within him said, 'This was what you were waiting for. This was the moment you have spent your life waiting for, in dread, in anticipation. It has come now.'
The man came up, paused awhile, and looked around. His eyes rested on Shakala and he advanced forward. But his voice lost all substance under Shakala’s steadfast gaze. He was stunned to see a dark look of recognition in the old man's eyes. For a moment he thought that the old man was all eyes, without a tongue. The frozen look in the old man's eyes made Artabhaga break into a cold sweat. The wood was crackling in the fire and its crisp smell filled the air. There was no other sound except the rustle of the leaves and the screeching of a crow somewhere near in the branches of a tree.
Artabhaga wanted to say something but forgot what it was. The old man was sitting crouched near the fire, still looking at him with unspeakable dread. When Artabhaga's speechless avowal confirmed the old man's misgivings, he got up, his frail body trembling with the knowledge he received through all the pores of his body.
Long he stood, looking at the fire as if he saw in its evanescent light the whole of a lifetime coming to an end. Artabhaga knew it was useless to recount the 'what, and when and how’ of the event. That would have been a vulgar travesty of this suffering which needed no alleviation. The dark reign of corrosive suffering was being consumed slowly by the blazing fire in front of the old man. Artabhaga remained a silent witness to this final sacrifice that life demanded out of this old man. The man had lived with the knowledge of the shape things to come, and lived only to pay his final debt to life.
Artabhaga moved and clasped the old sage by his shoulders and led him inside the cottage. A few utensils washed and dried, a mat-seat, and a kamandalu attracted Artabhaga's attention. They proclaimed the old man's weariness of the world. True, he had severed all ties with the world. And the last one was severed with Artabhaga's arrival today.
Artabhaga poured some water into a vessel and held it to Shakala. Shakala looked at him as he took it from his hand. That was the first sign of acknowledgment and communication from him. .
A few moments elapsed in this silent communion.Shakala gained composure and leaned against the wall.
“You may be wondering why I did not ask you any questions, and yet you seem to understand what I have understood,” he said. “Life had decided to teach me the hard way. No amount of rituals, sacrifice and penance can banish pain and suffering. I had realized it long ago and at the hands of the most perverse and retrograde teacher one can ever have! It was my son. He taught me long back that he could not be taught. Perhaps one can
25
hope to learn, but one cannot teach what one has learnt. This was the lesson life taught me.I persistently refused to learn it. Given another life, perhaps I will still refuse to learn it. Perhaps in that refusal is my salvation”.
Shakala was exhausted by the effort to talk. But he went on like one who had suddenly seen a ray of light penetrating the dark caverns of mind. He went on, even though the effort seemed to wring him dry. He had kept his tryst with destiny and hereafter he was free.
Artabhaga listened to him with rapt attention although it did not matter to the old man whether he listened or not. The words did not matter either to the speaker or to the listener. What mattered was the miracle of transformation: the transformation of pain and suffering into knowledge, and knowledge into strength!
Artabhaga spent the night in the cottage. The quality of the silence at night in the cottage told him that the crisis was over. He got up in the middle of the night and bent over to look at Shakala. He found him enveloped in a profound, and perhaps a dreamless sleep. The wrinkles of old age were hardly visible; so profound was the peace that had descended on him in sleep! Artabhaga was amazed to see a striking resemblance between the old man and his dead son. 'This is how Shakalya would have looked like, had he lived to be as old as this man', thought Artabhaga.
Artabhaga lay down and tried to go back to sleep. It was a troubled, tormented stupor with faces in disarray, continually flowing, one into the other, one taking on something of the other, the other adding to another; and he was in all of them.
.
Note: Shakala is the father of Shakalya who was Yajnyawalkya's adversary in the debate at Janaka's court and who died subsequently in a drunken brawl.
The sage* Shakala had begun to think of late that he had lived in this place, in this cottage long enough. He must move before he got attached to it. A cat and a dog had already begun to stay with him and regard him as one of their own. (Refer to the note at the bottom of the page for Shakala.)
There was a chill and a fog in the air. The fire Shakala had lit in the courtyard burnt brightly and was the only welcome sign of a dwelling place for strangers in that part of the forest. A path went winding down from the cottage to the foot of the hill. From the point where it merged in the undergrowth, could be heard the sound of footsteps treading on the overgrown grass. A few stones tumbled down the slope before a man appeared in sight. Shakala stared at him as he came closer. Something within him said, 'This was what you were waiting for. This was the moment you have spent your life waiting for, in dread, in anticipation. It has come now.'
The man came up, paused awhile, and looked around. His eyes rested on Shakala and he advanced forward. But his voice lost all substance under Shakala’s steadfast gaze. He was stunned to see a dark look of recognition in the old man's eyes. For a moment he thought that the old man was all eyes, without a tongue. The frozen look in the old man's eyes made Artabhaga break into a cold sweat. The wood was crackling in the fire and its crisp smell filled the air. There was no other sound except the rustle of the leaves and the screeching of a crow somewhere near in the branches of a tree.
Artabhaga wanted to say something but forgot what it was. The old man was sitting crouched near the fire, still looking at him with unspeakable dread. When Artabhaga's speechless avowal confirmed the old man's misgivings, he got up, his frail body trembling with the knowledge he received through all the pores of his body.
Long he stood, looking at the fire as if he saw in its evanescent light the whole of a lifetime coming to an end. Artabhaga knew it was useless to recount the 'what, and when and how’ of the event. That would have been a vulgar travesty of this suffering which needed no alleviation. The dark reign of corrosive suffering was being consumed slowly by the blazing fire in front of the old man. Artabhaga remained a silent witness to this final sacrifice that life demanded out of this old man. The man had lived with the knowledge of the shape things to come, and lived only to pay his final debt to life.
Artabhaga moved and clasped the old sage by his shoulders and led him inside the cottage. A few utensils washed and dried, a mat-seat, and a kamandalu attracted Artabhaga's attention. They proclaimed the old man's weariness of the world. True, he had severed all ties with the world. And the last one was severed with Artabhaga's arrival today.
Artabhaga poured some water into a vessel and held it to Shakala. Shakala looked at him as he took it from his hand. That was the first sign of acknowledgment and communication from him. .
A few moments elapsed in this silent communion.Shakala gained composure and leaned against the wall.
“You may be wondering why I did not ask you any questions, and yet you seem to understand what I have understood,” he said. “Life had decided to teach me the hard way. No amount of rituals, sacrifice and penance can banish pain and suffering. I had realized it long ago and at the hands of the most perverse and retrograde teacher one can ever have! It was my son. He taught me long back that he could not be taught. Perhaps one can
25
hope to learn, but one cannot teach what one has learnt. This was the lesson life taught me.I persistently refused to learn it. Given another life, perhaps I will still refuse to learn it. Perhaps in that refusal is my salvation”.
Shakala was exhausted by the effort to talk. But he went on like one who had suddenly seen a ray of light penetrating the dark caverns of mind. He went on, even though the effort seemed to wring him dry. He had kept his tryst with destiny and hereafter he was free.
Artabhaga listened to him with rapt attention although it did not matter to the old man whether he listened or not. The words did not matter either to the speaker or to the listener. What mattered was the miracle of transformation: the transformation of pain and suffering into knowledge, and knowledge into strength!
Artabhaga spent the night in the cottage. The quality of the silence at night in the cottage told him that the crisis was over. He got up in the middle of the night and bent over to look at Shakala. He found him enveloped in a profound, and perhaps a dreamless sleep. The wrinkles of old age were hardly visible; so profound was the peace that had descended on him in sleep! Artabhaga was amazed to see a striking resemblance between the old man and his dead son. 'This is how Shakalya would have looked like, had he lived to be as old as this man', thought Artabhaga.
Artabhaga lay down and tried to go back to sleep. It was a troubled, tormented stupor with faces in disarray, continually flowing, one into the other, one taking on something of the other, the other adding to another; and he was in all of them.
.
Note: Shakala is the father of Shakalya who was Yajnyawalkya's adversary in the debate at Janaka's court and who died subsequently in a drunken brawl.
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