Bhasa and Vilasa

Rama asked, “Gurudev, does friendship help on the path of knowledge?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, listen to the story of Bhasa and Vilasa. Two friends grew up in the same ashram, then walked away down separate roads. When they met again after many years, what they found came only out of what the two of them had shared.”

The Ashram

This happened many years ago. There was a rishi named Atri, and in his ashram two boys grew up, Bhasa and Vilasa.

Both were still children when their parents left them at the ashram.

Bhasa’s parents came from a village, and they were very poor. They had left their son at the ashram because they could not even give him food.

Vilasa’s parents came from a royal house, and they were very rich. They had left their son at the ashram because they wanted him to learn wisdom.

Yet inside the ashram the two of them were the same.

One mat, one lesson, one meal.

And so many years went on passing.

The two slept on the same mat, and talked late into the night.

One night Vilasa asked, “Bhasa, what will you do when you grow up?”

Bhasa said, “I don’t know. And you?”

“I don’t know either.” And the two of them would break into laughter.

By day the two studied their lessons together, and here and there they would teach each other too.

Bhasa had a fine memory, and he learned a shloka (verse) quickly. Vilasa had a fine understanding, and he caught the meaning of a shloka quickly. In this way each completed the other.

The two ate the same fruit. Food at the ashram was very plain, roots, leaves, and now and then some fruit. Even so, the two of them stayed happy.

And so the years slipped by.

The two became young men, twenty or twenty-one years old.

The Departure

One day Atri called them to him and said, “Sons, now you may go. Find your own road.”

For a while the two of them said nothing.

Vilasa asked, “Gurudev, but why?”

Atri said, “Son, what there was to learn, you have learned. Now you must live your own story.”

“But it is good here at the ashram.”

“Son, it is good at the ashram, and that is exactly why you must go. If you stay on here, you will remain children.”

The two of them bowed their heads and made their pranam.

Then Bhasa and Vilasa turned and looked at each other.

Bhasa asked, “Brother, shall we go together?”

Vilasa said, “No. Each person’s road is his own. I feel my road lies toward the north.”

“And mine?”

“That you must decide for yourself.”

Bhasa thought for a moment, then said, “I will go toward the south.”

Vilasa said, “Will we meet again someday?”

“We will. On one day or another.”

The two of them made their pranam to each other. Vilasa went toward the north, and Bhasa toward the south.

North

Vilasa went into the mountains of the north. At first he wanted to stop in a village, but a thirst rose inside him, telling him he must go farther still.

He climbed one mountain after another, and at last he reached a high peak. A cave stood there, and Vilasa began to sit inside it.

And the tapas (austerity) began.

In the first year his mind kept running off. Memories of the ashram and of Bhasa returned again and again. Now and then he felt the pull to turn back, but each time he stopped himself and remembered that he had come to do tapas.

In the second year the mind grew a little calmer, and in the third year calmer still.

Vilasa thought this was going well, and he made his tapas harder.

He cut back his food. Now he ate leaves only once a day, and nothing more. His body grew thin.

He cut back his sleep as well. At night he slept only two watches, and passed the rest of the hours in meditation. His eyes sank deep into their sockets.

And so many years passed.

But there was one thing. Nothing opened.

Vilasa thought his tapas was still too little, that he should do more.

He drove his tapas harder. He ate even less, slept even less, and gave still more of himself to meditation.

And still nothing opened.

And so many more years passed.

Vilasa grew old. His body had wasted thin, his hair had turned white, his beard white too. But inside, the same thirst remained.

South

Bhasa went into the forests of the south.

The forests were very dense. Bhasa first cleared a spot and built a hut, and then he began his tapas.

Bhasa’s way was a little different. Vilasa had chosen the mountains because he believed that height would bring him nearer. Bhasa chose the forest because he believed that its thickness would bring him nearer.

Bhasa too did tapas for many years.

But his way was different. He kept his food plain, neither too much nor too little. He slept when sleep came, not by any rule. And he meditated when the mind rose to it from within, never by force.

The way was different from Vilasa’s, and the result was the same.

Nothing opened.

Bhasa grew old too. His body did thin, though not in the way Vilasa’s had. Bhasa’s body was not frail; it carried only the mark of age.

But inside, the same thirst remained.

The Reunion

Many years went by, and both had grown old.

One day Bhasa thought, how far can I walk alone. I should go to Vilasa; perhaps he knows the answer to my question.

Bhasa left his hut and set off toward the north.

At that very same time Vilasa too thought, how far can I walk alone. I should go to Bhasa; perhaps he knows the answer to my question.

Vilasa left his cave and set off toward the south.

In the end, halfway along the road, the two came face to face in a forest.

Both had grown so old that for a while neither could place the other. Then Bhasa narrowed his eyes and asked, “Vilasa?”

“Bhasa?” And the two of them broke into laughter.

The two of them sat down beneath a tree.

For a while at first the two stayed silent and only looked at each other. Vilasa’s hair was fully white, his beard white too, and his eyes had sunk deep. Bhasa’s hair was white as well, though not so much, his beard less white, and his eyes just as they had been, only a little older.

Vilasa said, “Brother, many years have gone by.”

Bhasa said, “Yes.”

Then Vilasa said, “Brother, I did not find the knowledge.”

Bhasa said, “Nor did I.”

The two looked at each other. Vilasa asked, “Did we do something wrong?”

Bhasa said, “I don’t know.”

The Conversation

For a while the two said nothing. Then Bhasa asked, “Brother, what were you searching for?”

Vilasa said, “I wanted to know who I am.”

“That is what I was searching for too. And did you find it?”

“No.”

“Nor did I.”

Then Bhasa asked, “What did you do?”

Vilasa told his whole story, and there was a bitterness in his voice that Bhasa heard too.

Vilasa said, “Brother, I spent fifty-five years in that cave. The bones of my chest show through now. My eyes sank so deep that at times I feared I would no longer be able to see. Frost fell on my feet many times, and two of my toes I lost altogether.

“In the thirty-fifth year I felt it would open now, and it did not open.

“In the forty-fifth year I felt that surely now it would open, and no.

“And in the fifty-fifth year I felt nothing at all, only a weariness that stayed, and with it a bitterness too.

“What mistake I made in my tapas, I have never understood to this day. I did everything the shastras (scriptures) set down, and still I found nothing.”

Bhasa listened in silence.

Then Vilasa asked, “And you, brother?”

Vilasa looked closely at Bhasa and said, “Brother, seeing you, one thing strikes me.”

“What is it?”

“Your body is not broken the way mine is.”

Bhasa said, “Brother, my way was different.”

Vilasa was quiet for a while, then asked, “Brother, so was your way the better one?”

“I too found nothing.”

“But you are not broken.”

Bhasa said, “Vilasa, I did not break, and yet I too am tired. My weariness lies within, while yours shows in the body.”

Vilasa thought for a while, then said, “Brother, tell me one thing.”

“Go on.”

“Did anger ever come to you?”

Bhasa was silent for a while, then said, “Brother, yes. Many times.”

“At what?”

“First at my failure, then at my effort, and then at myself.”

“And now?”

Bhasa said, “Brother, by now even the anger has grown tired. Now only one question remains.”

“Which question?”

“Whether I spent my whole life searching in the wrong place.”

Vilasa looked at Bhasa for a long time.

Then he said, “Brother, the same question lives inside me too.”

For a while the two said nothing.

Then Vilasa said, “Brother, I carry a bitterness about my life. But seeing you, that bitterness has eased a little.”

“Why?”

“Because you are not like me, and still you stand where I stand. It means that even separate roads lead to the same place. And perhaps that place is somewhere else entirely.”

Bhasa slowly nodded yes.

For a while the two said nothing.

Then Vilasa drew a deep breath and said, “Brother, perhaps we were searching in the wrong place.”

“How so?”

“We kept moving outward, tapas, solitude, eating less. But inside we stayed just as we had been at the ashram.”

Bhasa listened in silence.

Vilasa paused a while, then let out a very faint laugh, one that held pain in it.

“Brother, for many years I punished my body, and my consciousness stayed exactly where it had always been.”

Bhasa took Vilasa’s hand into his own. Vilasa’s hands were very light, the bones standing out, and Bhasa held them tight.

Bhasa said, “Brother, let it go now.”

Vilasa’s eyes grew wet, and he did not weep.

Bhasa said, “Brother, let us just sit here now, you and I, with each other. No outward hardship, nothing else. Let us simply sit.”

Sitting

The two of them closed their eyes and fell silent. Only the breath went on.

For a long time the two sat just like that. No tapas, no effort, no desire. Only being.

Above them a leaf fell from a branch of the tree. Vilasa heard it, and he did not open his eyes.

A bird came, settled on a nearby tree, then flew off. Bhasa felt it, and he did not open his eyes.

The wind blew soft and slow. Time went on passing, though time was no longer for them what it had once been.

After a time, something still opened inside them both, a light, with no source at all.

It opened inside Vilasa, and inside Bhasa too, inside them both at once.

Each of them saw himself. I am.

The Night Between

This is about one night. The two of them sat with their eyes closed.

For a moment Bhasa opened his eyes and looked at Vilasa. Vilasa’s body had grown very old, and his chest rose and fell gently.

Bhasa thought, my friend, after all these years.

Bhasa closed his eyes again.

Vilasa too, for a moment, opened his eyes and looked at Bhasa.

Vilasa thought, my friend, after all these years.

Vilasa too closed his eyes again.

Neither ever told the other that he had seen this moment. But inside them both, that moment stayed.

Much later, when their liberation opened, the two of them were remembering that moment together, without a word.

Laughter

When the two of them opened their eyes, they were laughing.

Vilasa said, “Brother, it took many years.”

Bhasa said, “Yes.”

“And what we found, the two of us found together.”

“Yes.”

Vilasa thought for a while, then asked, “Brother, was everything we did wasted?”

Bhasa said, “No, brother. Not wasted. This came out of exactly that.”

“How?”

“Because we spent every last effort. Each of us looked in his own way, each did tapas in his own way, and every way wore itself out. Only then did we meet, and when we met, we set our efforts down. Only then did this open.

“Had we not made the effort beforehand, this meeting would have counted for nothing either.

“The effort was needed first, and the letting go of effort came after.”

Vilasa nodded yes and said, “Brother, you speak the truth.”

Onward

The two of them lived together for some years.

Vilasa’s body had grown very old, worn by many years of harsh tapas. One night he said to Bhasa, “Brother, I feel my time is coming.”

Bhasa said, “Brother, mine as well.”

The two looked at each other and laughed. Vilasa asked, “Together?”

Bhasa said, “Together.”

The two of them sat down close to each other and closed their eyes.

In one watch of the night, the two of them passed on together.

People heard that two ascetics had passed on together. No one knew who they were, that they were two students from long years before.

Even so, the people built a small temple in their memory.

In the temple they set two stone figures, both seated, eyes closed, faces at peace. People would say, “Here were two friends. For many years they lived apart, then they met, and their liberation too they found together.”

Rama nodded and asked, “Gurudev, so does tapas done alone sometimes fall short?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, whether tapas is done alone or in company, that does not change the matter. The matter is which way the tapas faces. If the tapas turns outward, it will give nothing. If the tapas turns inward, it will give from every side. The tapas of Bhasa and Vilasa turned outward. When they sat together, asking for nothing, then it opened within them.

“And one thing more. Friendship has a worth of its own. Friendship gives you a second eye. We can stay caught in our own efforts, and a friend gives us the courage to set that effort down.”

Rama nodded and asked, “Gurudev, will I too have a friend like that?”

Vasistha was silent for a while, then smiled faintly and said, “Rama, you will. Many of them, in fact. Yet one among them will be special, and his name you will come to know later.”

Rama thought for a while, then asked again, “Gurudev, there is one more thing in the story of Bhasa and Vilasa.”

Vasistha said, “What is it?”

Rama said, “For many years the two did tapas alone, and found nothing.”

“Yes.”

“But when they met, they found it.”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, because sadhana (spiritual practice) is done alone, and yet liberation never comes alone.”

“Why?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, solitude is a form, and within it an ego takes shape: I am the lone seeker, I am learning it all by myself. That thought is itself a bondage. But when two people meet, and each admits his failure before the other, then that ego grows small, and only then does the road to liberation open.”

Rama said, “Gurudev, this is a very deep truth.”

Vasistha said, “Yes.”

Rama asked again, “Gurudev, when did Bhasa and Vilasa first see each other?”

Vasistha thought for a while, then said, “Rama, they were very small then, perhaps three or four years old.”

“And they knew each other at once?”

“Yes, at once.”

“But how?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, some bonds are very old, carried perhaps from a former birth. When such people meet in this birth, they know each other at once.”

Outside, the night was deepening, and a faint yawn came over Rama.

Rama asked, “Gurudev, may I go now?”

Vasistha said, “Go.”

The two of them rose.

On the way, Rama looked up toward the sky. The Seven Sages were shining.

Those seven rishis of long ago, who by now had grown familiar to Rama.

Rama asked, “Gurudev, will Bhasa and Vilasa be near the Seven Sages as well?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, perhaps. Good friends always stay together, wherever they may go.”

Rama nodded yes.

Outside, the night had grown thick.