Chapter 30
Artabhaga had never wished to be back in Videha. He had seen to it that his mendicant, vagrant life followed uncharted paths. But Videha acted like a vortex to his impulsion. He was getting drawn to it in spite of himself. At the centre of that vortex was a death which intrigued him: the death of Shakalya. He felt the loss all the more poignantly because he felt he owed something to Shakalya's old father, although he did not know why. The old man had fled from Artabhaga, refusing to share his grief.
Artabhaga had never wasted time in finding a rationale for his feelings. They had an impelling power of some divine music which persuades, but does not compel you to act. A mendicant perhaps comes easily under its power as he wanders from place to place, responding to its call. Some such music had brought Artabhaga back.
It was evening when he came back to Videha. He wandered through its busy market-place, trying to catch the rhythm of its mundane life. He had long since ceased to relate with such life. Yet he loved to take a dip in it. He loved its smells, its colours. He loved to feel its dust in his nostrils and its noise in the innermost pores of his heart.
Soon the streets got deserted, the noises ceased one by one. The bargains stopped. The buyers and sellers collected their belongings and started for home. The market-place was emptied of its contents like a vessel from which water has leaked out. A silence, like that which follows after a vibrating chord is stilled, pervaded everywhere. When an intensely animated and vibrant instrument is silenced, the listener is plunged into a gloom which penetrates deep.
It was in such moments of silence that Artabhaga would often re-enact the mysteries that would not open up.
Artabhaga wandered through the streets of the deserted market-place, its intricate mazes, the narrow lanes and alleys, where none knew him. He sat under a tree, pulled a shawl around his shoulders, and a hood to cover his head. Hardly recognizable now, he sat there, watching the flux of life.
The houses all around, were quietly huddled up like solid masses of rocks carved from inside, revealing their interiors filled with quivering light.
A rudiment of some vague emotion formed in Artabhaga's heart as he absently watched the figure of a man emerging from the shadows of the tree. It was not very long ago that on an evening like this a man had crossed his path, livid with anger and fury, hurtling towards his own destruction like a boulder loosened from its origin.
There was something in the demeanor of this man before him that reminded Artabhaga of Shakalya. He wondered whether he could have altered the course of events on that fateful
evening if he had divined the fatality of the passions raging inside that doomed soul.
Artabhaga leaned against the trunk of the tree and watched the man. He seemed to exude the exaggerated confidence of a gambler. He quickened his pace as he came in the vicinity of a small cottage dimly lit from the inside. The place seemed to be a gambler’s den. The sound of the lusty laughter of its inmates, raucous and rapacious, gave the place an atmosphere of unsavory intimacy. The man looked excited as he came within an easy range of its seductive charm. As his face came to light, Artabhaga saw a trace of wounded vanity in it. He was struck by the resemblance between him and Shakalya as he had seen him in the twilight of that fateful evening, and he wondered what kind of destiny this man was working out for himself at that moment. Artabhaga felt, perhaps with a little effort of the mind he would be able to lift the veil and look beyond, into the man's destiny. But he did not want to. Why should he? But why then, did Yajnyawalkya tear the veil? Was it a prediction, or a warning?
Artabhaga felt a nerve throbbing in his temple. He could not make up his mind about Yajnyawalkya, who seemed determined to remain an enigma to those who wanted to know his mind.
Artabhaga found himself drawn to Yajnyawalkya with an irrational kind of compassion. He felt aghast at this discovery of a bond between them, because he could see now Yajnyawalkya's destiny unveiled before his mind's eye. He could see with certainty the mode of choices Yajnyawalkya was destined to make.
Was this, after all, the supreme illusion which the seers saw as Maya: the one who allured the primordial man with her dazzling beauty? There she stood, the enchantress who casts a magic! She was inside one; and before one could realize, she was out there! At that moment for Artabhaga, she was out there, embodied in Yajnyawalkya who could not see her as Artabhaga could. Perhaps at that fateful moment in the past, Yajnyawalkya saw her taking possession of Shakalya. She was out there for Yajnyawalkya, clearly delineated in the shape of the things to come: Artabhaga shuddered as he saw in a vision the same enchantress incarnating herself in Yajnyawalkya. Artabhaga could see her; maybe, Yajnyawalkya could not. And would Artabhaga be able to see her if her eye caught him?
Sounds seemed to be drifting away from him into a distance. Suddenly he was awakened by the cry of a weeping infant. How disconsolate a child's cry can be, coming from afar and harmonizing with one's mute anguish!
Artabhaga could not forgo the memory of Shakalya, emerging out of the shadows, tragically out of tune with himself and the world, a perversely willing prey to the fires of damnation. Artabhaga recalled with bewilderment and amazement that moment in Janaka's assembly when Yajnyawalkya suddenly lifted the veil which hides from the mortal eye the hidden side of life. Artabhaga was aghast at the knowledge of that unseen world which is always so near us. Each act and the word spoken by us has its consequences in that world. These unseen results bring that world suddenly within our perception. Shakalya carried that unseen world within him already. Perhaps his wise father had perceived it long ago. It only needed Yajnyawalkya's barbed arrow to pierce the veil.
53
Artabhaga had never wished to be back in Videha. He had seen to it that his mendicant, vagrant life followed uncharted paths. But Videha acted like a vortex to his impulsion. He was getting drawn to it in spite of himself. At the centre of that vortex was a death which intrigued him: the death of Shakalya. He felt the loss all the more poignantly because he felt he owed something to Shakalya's old father, although he did not know why. The old man had fled from Artabhaga, refusing to share his grief.
Artabhaga had never wasted time in finding a rationale for his feelings. They had an impelling power of some divine music which persuades, but does not compel you to act. A mendicant perhaps comes easily under its power as he wanders from place to place, responding to its call. Some such music had brought Artabhaga back.
It was evening when he came back to Videha. He wandered through its busy market-place, trying to catch the rhythm of its mundane life. He had long since ceased to relate with such life. Yet he loved to take a dip in it. He loved its smells, its colours. He loved to feel its dust in his nostrils and its noise in the innermost pores of his heart.
Soon the streets got deserted, the noises ceased one by one. The bargains stopped. The buyers and sellers collected their belongings and started for home. The market-place was emptied of its contents like a vessel from which water has leaked out. A silence, like that which follows after a vibrating chord is stilled, pervaded everywhere. When an intensely animated and vibrant instrument is silenced, the listener is plunged into a gloom which penetrates deep.
It was in such moments of silence that Artabhaga would often re-enact the mysteries that would not open up.
Artabhaga wandered through the streets of the deserted market-place, its intricate mazes, the narrow lanes and alleys, where none knew him. He sat under a tree, pulled a shawl around his shoulders, and a hood to cover his head. Hardly recognizable now, he sat there, watching the flux of life.
The houses all around, were quietly huddled up like solid masses of rocks carved from inside, revealing their interiors filled with quivering light.
A rudiment of some vague emotion formed in Artabhaga's heart as he absently watched the figure of a man emerging from the shadows of the tree. It was not very long ago that on an evening like this a man had crossed his path, livid with anger and fury, hurtling towards his own destruction like a boulder loosened from its origin.
There was something in the demeanor of this man before him that reminded Artabhaga of Shakalya. He wondered whether he could have altered the course of events on that fateful
evening if he had divined the fatality of the passions raging inside that doomed soul.
Artabhaga leaned against the trunk of the tree and watched the man. He seemed to exude the exaggerated confidence of a gambler. He quickened his pace as he came in the vicinity of a small cottage dimly lit from the inside. The place seemed to be a gambler’s den. The sound of the lusty laughter of its inmates, raucous and rapacious, gave the place an atmosphere of unsavory intimacy. The man looked excited as he came within an easy range of its seductive charm. As his face came to light, Artabhaga saw a trace of wounded vanity in it. He was struck by the resemblance between him and Shakalya as he had seen him in the twilight of that fateful evening, and he wondered what kind of destiny this man was working out for himself at that moment. Artabhaga felt, perhaps with a little effort of the mind he would be able to lift the veil and look beyond, into the man's destiny. But he did not want to. Why should he? But why then, did Yajnyawalkya tear the veil? Was it a prediction, or a warning?
Artabhaga felt a nerve throbbing in his temple. He could not make up his mind about Yajnyawalkya, who seemed determined to remain an enigma to those who wanted to know his mind.
Artabhaga found himself drawn to Yajnyawalkya with an irrational kind of compassion. He felt aghast at this discovery of a bond between them, because he could see now Yajnyawalkya's destiny unveiled before his mind's eye. He could see with certainty the mode of choices Yajnyawalkya was destined to make.
Was this, after all, the supreme illusion which the seers saw as Maya: the one who allured the primordial man with her dazzling beauty? There she stood, the enchantress who casts a magic! She was inside one; and before one could realize, she was out there! At that moment for Artabhaga, she was out there, embodied in Yajnyawalkya who could not see her as Artabhaga could. Perhaps at that fateful moment in the past, Yajnyawalkya saw her taking possession of Shakalya. She was out there for Yajnyawalkya, clearly delineated in the shape of the things to come: Artabhaga shuddered as he saw in a vision the same enchantress incarnating herself in Yajnyawalkya. Artabhaga could see her; maybe, Yajnyawalkya could not. And would Artabhaga be able to see her if her eye caught him?
Sounds seemed to be drifting away from him into a distance. Suddenly he was awakened by the cry of a weeping infant. How disconsolate a child's cry can be, coming from afar and harmonizing with one's mute anguish!
Artabhaga could not forgo the memory of Shakalya, emerging out of the shadows, tragically out of tune with himself and the world, a perversely willing prey to the fires of damnation. Artabhaga recalled with bewilderment and amazement that moment in Janaka's assembly when Yajnyawalkya suddenly lifted the veil which hides from the mortal eye the hidden side of life. Artabhaga was aghast at the knowledge of that unseen world which is always so near us. Each act and the word spoken by us has its consequences in that world. These unseen results bring that world suddenly within our perception. Shakalya carried that unseen world within him already. Perhaps his wise father had perceived it long ago. It only needed Yajnyawalkya's barbed arrow to pierce the veil.
53
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