The Seven Aerial Sages

Night lay over the Saryu.

Rama and Vasishtha had been sitting together a long while. On one level, for many years, because for years Vasishtha had been telling Rama stories. Today, perhaps, was the last of them.

The clouds had drawn back, and overhead the stars of the Saptarshi were showing, those seven stars that stay in one place all night and turn gently with the sky.

Rama looked toward the stars, then toward Vasishtha.

Rama said, “Gurudev, now the last story.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, the last story is my own. You have heard many stories from me, and today you must hear a story of mine. Once I saw seven sages in the sky. Hear their story.”

The thought

Many years ago, when I was young, a thought came to me once.

This thought was unlike the questions you ask, Rama. It had lain inside me for years, and until then it had never come out. I often wondered: if I left my body and rose up into the sky, what would happen?

The thought was strange. I was a rishi. My work was to give knowledge, to teach kings, to write books, to keep the fire-rites of yajna.

But inside there was a thirst, to live in the sky once, to step outside, to go beyond all stories.

So I took up tapas, the long austerity, for years.

One day my wife Arundhati asked, “Vasishtha, are you happy right now?”

“Yes.”

“Then why so much tapas?”

I said, “Arundhati, there is one thing I must see. I must see what lies outside the stories.”

Arundhati said, “Vasishtha, if you go outside the stories, you will not be here with me, because I am a story.”

I paused and looked at her. “Then should I stay?”

“No, go. But come back. And whatever you see, tell me.”

I gave myself to the tapas.

Upward

One day my consciousness left my body, and I flew upward, very high.

Below me lay the earth, small, and ahead of me the open sky.

I kept rising.

A place came where there was no air. I noticed that I was there even without air, because my consciousness had no need of air.

Then came the place where there was nothing at all. Truly nothing: no stars, no planets, no light, only an emptiness.

I stopped in that emptiness. My consciousness stirred a little at first, then grew still.

There was nothing there, and yet I was there.

I thought how strange this was: nothing here, and still I am, so I depend on nothing, I simply am. For the first time this became that clear to me.

I stayed there a long while, though the word “long” had no meaning, because there was no time there.

Seven

Then far away something appeared, a faint glow.

I moved toward it.

When I drew near, inside that glow sat seven rishis, very old.

Their faces were like stone polished by centuries of sun. Their eyes were open, and they took in everything at once, resting on no single thing.

Their bodies were small, and their shadow was vast, because a light surrounded them that was far larger than they were.

I came up to them, joined my palms, and said, “Brothers.”

The rishi in the very middle said, “Vasishtha.”

I was startled. “You know me?”

“Child, we know everyone.”

The conversation

I sat down right there in the sky. There was no posture to the sitting, only my consciousness coming to rest in that place.

I asked, “Brothers, why have I come here?”

All seven rishis laughed together. “Child, ask that of yourself.”

I looked inside myself, at my thirst. I had wanted to reach that highest place where no story remained.

I asked, “Brothers, is this that place?”

The rishi in the middle said, “Child, this is that place.”

“Then what is here?”

“Child, here every story returns to its own ground.”

“Meaning?”

The rishi said, “Child, this is the source of all stories. Everything issues from here, and everything returns here. Whatever story you hear comes from this place, and when it ends, it comes back here. We seven rishis are the witnesses of those stories. We tell no story. We only watch.”

“And the stories that are running right now?”

“They are running before our eyes, and we are not inside them.”

“You mean you are watching the stories and taking no part in them?”

“Yes.”

“But how can that be? To watch a story is itself a way of taking part.”

The rishi said, “Child, we watch, and in the watching we are nowhere. We are the witness, and the witness is no part of the story.”

I asked, “Brothers, one more question. My own story?”

“Child, your story too came from here. You are Vasishtha, son of Brahma, one of the Saptarshi. Whenever you tell a story, it comes from this place. And you yourself are a story as well, and when you finish your story, you too will return here.”

I looked at those seven ancient rishis and felt that one day I too would be there. Yet even this thought was strange, because I was already there, at that very moment, and at the same time my story was still running below on the earth.

More questions

I asked, “Brothers, tell me one thing. Who is Rama?”

“Rama?”

“Yes. I feel that one of my stories is bound up with a Rama, the son of Dasharatha. He is not yet born, and even so I know of him.”

The rishi said, “Child, Rama is the one who is born every time, in every creation, in every story. His form changes; his consciousness does not.

“You know Rama because you have been his guru before, many times. Each time Rama comes, you come as well, and each time there is the bond of Vasishtha and Rama. This time he is the son of Dasharatha, last time he was someone else, and before that, someone else again.”

In my own heart I accepted this.

“And my death?”

The rishi said, “Child, the death of your body will come one day, and your story will not die. You are Vasishtha, and you will remain Vasishtha through countless stories. But a day will come as well when the story of Vasishtha returns to its own ground. Then you will come here, to us, and part from the story.”

“When?”

The rishi said, “Child, the question of when belongs to time, and here there is no time. I can say only this much: that day, you will know of yourself.”

The siddha guru

I sat there a long while. The rishis said other things to me as well, and those I will not tell you, Rama, because they are the kind of thing each person must come upon alone.

After a while one of the rishis rose and said, “Child, your story is running below, and you must go back.”

“But I feel good here.”

“Child, that is true enough, and you still have stories to tell Rama, forty of them. This last story too will happen only when you tell Rama about us.”

Just then a second perfected form appeared before me, a guru, who said, “Vasishtha, I have come to show you the way. Go back. You have much work to do.”

I rose.

I bowed to the seven rishis and asked, “Brothers, will I come again?”

“Child, you may come whenever you wish. But once you come, the returning will take many years, because your story needs time.”

The return

I came down, very fast, and it felt to me very slow.

When I returned to my body and opened my eyes, I was in my ashram, and Arundhati was sitting beside me.

“Vasishtha.”

“Arundhati.”

“You came back? What did you see?”

I said, “Arundhati, I saw seven rishis, at the very top of the sky. They have sat there forever, the witnesses of all stories. And one day we too will be there.”

Arundhati asked, “I too?”

“Yes.”

“But I am a story, you were saying.”

“Yes, and every story one day becomes a storyteller. That I learned up there.”

Arundhati asked again, “Vasishtha, tell me one thing. There, will the two of us be one, or separate?”

I said, “Arundhati, there the two of us will be, and there the word ‘two’ has no meaning, and ‘one’ has none either. Such things do not exist there.”

Arundhati said, “Vasishtha, this I cannot grasp.”

“I did not fully grasp it either.”

“But you saw it.”

“Yes, I saw. The understanding will come later.”

After this many years passed. I found Rama and began to tell him stories.

Rama’s growth

Rama, I have told you forty stories.

When we met, you were very young, your questions were simple, and you thought the answers lay somewhere outside. While hearing the first story you asked about a dream, your mother’s dream. I remember your eyes; there was a small shape of fear in them.

Then we went on. In the story of Lila you asked whether there is fear inside love. There you understood that this fear lives inside every love, and that the way past it is to deepen the love further, never to leave it behind.

While hearing the story of Karkati you turned your attention to your own hunger and understood that hunger can be turned into a question.

In the story of Chudala you thought about your mother, the mother who knows and yet goes unheard, and then you decided that you would listen to your own wife.

There were many such stories, and each one changed a small thing in you.

Now there is something in your eyes that was not there before: a steadiness, a light laughter, and an inner understanding.

I taught you something, and the real learning was your own.

My stories were only mirrors, in which you saw yourself.

Forty stories

The story of Lavana. Of Lila. Of Karkati. Of Punya and Pavana. Of Gadhi. Of Chudala. Of Bhushunda. Of Janaka. Of Prahlada. Of Shukra. Of the ten sons of Indu. Of Bali. Of Vitahavya. Of Uddalaka. Of Vipashchit. Of Dasura. Of Indra and Ahalya. Of Suraghu. Of Kaca. Of the hunter. Of Hemachuda. Of Dama, Vyala, and Kata. Of the world inside the stone. Of Akashaja. Of Bhasa and Vilasa. Of the wish-stone. Of the three princes. Of the foolish elephant. Of Manki. Of Suka. Of Viduratha. Of the hundred Rudras. Of the bilva fruit. Of Hetuka. Of Kundadanta. Of Sikhidhvaja. Of Vasudeva. Of Punyamita. Of a single half-verse.

And now this last one.

The seven aerial sages, where all stories return to their own ground.

Rama stayed silent a long while.

Then Rama said, “Gurudev, so all these stories, all of them, came from that one place?”

“Yes.”

“And all of them will return there?”

“Yes.”

“And I?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, you too came from there, and you too will return there. But much of your story still remains. You have a kingdom to run, much to do. And now you know where everything comes from, and where it returns.”

Rama asked, “Gurudev, how long will my story be?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, very long. You will become a father, become a king, go into exile in the forest, fight a war, and return. You will rule for many years, bear much pain, and give shelter to many. And in the end, one day, you will walk into the Saryu.”

Rama looked toward the Saryu.

“And then I will come to those seven rishis?”

“Yes.”

“And I will recognize them?”

“Yes, you will recognize them, because you have been there before. Right now you have only forgotten.”

Rama looked toward the sky, where overhead the stars of the Saptarshi stood, very still and very calm.

“Gurudev, are those very stars the seven rishis?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, these stars are a shadow of those seven. What we see from the earth is not their true form. And on one level, yes, they are there.”

Rama asked, “Gurudev, do one thing for me. When my time comes, will you be there too?”

Vasishtha looked at Rama a long while, then said, “Rama, I will be there. Perhaps not my body, and in one form or another I will surely be there, because the bond of Vasishtha and Rama is very old, and it will run very far ahead.”

Rama’s eyes did not fill, and yet something inside him opened, softly.

The two of them stayed silent a long while. Night was thickening over the Saryu, and on the water the reflection of the Saptarshi lay very still.

Vasishtha placed his palm on Rama’s head, and Rama closed his eyes.

Far off on the water a boat swayed gently, and in it a small lamp was burning, one that would go on swaying like this for years.

Rama asked, “Gurudev, I have a question.”

“Ask.”

“Will I too ever be able to go to the seven rishis?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, yes, but not yet.”

“When?”

“Rama, that depends on your story. When your story is complete, then you too will go up. But one thing.”

“What?”

“Rama, to go up you will have to let go of your story. It will take many years, much pain, much love, much losing, much gaining. After all of this, one day you will be ready.”

Rama said, “Gurudev, this is hard.”

“Yes.”

“But I will do it.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, do not make that promise yet.”

“Why?”

“Because you are still young. Right now you have your story to begin. Promises later.”

Rama asked again, “Gurudev, one more question. Those seven rishis, what will happen when I go to them?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, very little will happen when you go to them. You will simply sit with them. They do not speak much either; they only watch, and you will watch as well.”

“And I will have nothing to do?”

“Rama, at that level there is nothing to do, only to be.”

“I understand.”

Rama looked toward the water and said, “Gurudev, I should go now.”

“Yes.”

Rama rose. “Gurudev, was that the last story?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, my stories numbered forty, and now your own story will begin.”

Rama asked, “Gurudev, what will my story be?”

“Rama, you will live, bear pain, love, run a kingdom, and one day you too will become a story. People will listen to you as well, for many years.”

Rama said, “Gurudev, who will tell my story?”

“I do not know. Some rishi. Perhaps Valmiki.”

Rama made a request. “Gurudev, I have a small request.”

“What?”

“That the rishi write me truthfully: the good in me, and my weaknesses as well.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, that is a very large request.”

“Why?”

“Because most people want their story to be only good. You are the first king to want the whole truth of yourself.”

Rama bowed to Vasishtha for a long while.

Vasishtha placed his hand on Rama’s head and said, “Rama, go now. Your story begins.”

Rama set off toward home.

On the way Rama looked up. The Saptarshi were there.

In his own heart Rama bowed to them. “Seven revered sages, my story is beginning. Give me your blessing.”

The Saptarshi stars went on shining, and Rama felt that they had heard.

Smiling, Rama walked on toward home.

Far away that small lamp was still burning, and the boat swayed a little more gently.

Rama paused a moment and kept watching that lamp, then moved on.

A story of many years was now beginning.

When he reached home his mother looked at him. “Son, you look much changed.”

Rama said, “Mother, Gurudev told a final story today.”

“What story?”

“Of the seven aerial sages.”

His mother said, “Son, I do not understand it, and yet there is something in your eyes that was not there before.”

Rama embraced his mother and said, “Mother, thank you.”

“Son, for what?”

“Mother, for bringing me this far.”

His mother said, “Son, this is the work of all of us.”

The night had grown deeper now, and Rama fell asleep.

In his dream he saw the seven rishis; they were laughing.

The one in the middle waved his hand, and Rama waved back. In the dream the air was light and the light was somehow different.

When he woke in the morning, he remembered the dream. He smiled and said, “We will meet again.”

Many years later, when Rama had completed his story, when he laid down his body in the Saryu, he arrived above at the seven rishis.

The rishis looked at him, and the one in the middle said, “Rama.”

“Revered sages.”

“A long journey.”

“Yes.”

Rama sat down with the rishis, simply to be, and stayed silent a long while.

Inside Rama there was a stillness.

In this way many years went by.

Then one day Vasishtha came as well, and Rama said, “Gurudev.”

“Rama.”

The two of them sat on, simply to be.