Chudala: The Queen Who Became a Guru

Dawn had come to the Sarayu. The water still held the dark color of night, and above it the sky had begun to lighten to a pale blue. Somewhere on the far hills the first line of the sun was breaking open. On the bank a woman was washing her husband’s bathing clothes, and the sound of the cloth striking stone folded into the slow rhythm of the river.

Rama had been sitting on the same stone for a long time. He looked toward the water, then turned to Vasishtha. “Gurudev, can a woman teach a man?”

Vasishtha looked at Rama. A light surprise came into his eyes first, then a smile; he had not thought Rama would ask this question.

“Why do you ask?”

Rama spoke while looking at the water. “Yesterday Mother Kausalya was saying something to Father, and I overheard it without meaning to. Mother was saying, Maharaj, what we are doing is wrong. Father laughed and said, Kausalya, you do not understand statecraft. Mother said nothing. But there was a weariness in her eyes that I had not seen before, as though this was not the first time it had happened.

“I lay awake all night. Mother knows a great deal, but she knows that if she speaks, Father will not listen, so for many years she has stayed quiet. It unsettles me. Has it always been this way? Does a man ever truly learn from his wife?”

Vasishtha rested his palm on the water; the water was cold.

“Rama, the one who has asked this question is himself its answer. You are asking, so you will also listen. But many men never ask this question at all, and for the ones who never ask, a woman’s mind stays a closed book.

“Let me tell you a story. There was a queen named Chudala, and her husband was named Shikhidhvaja. For fifteen years the two had loved each other, and both walked the path of knowledge. Then one day the queen found what she had been searching for, and the husband did not. And it took the queen eighteen years to teach her husband. The path she chose appears nowhere else in the shastras. Listen.”

Rama settled in, his back against a stone.

Both Together

Chudala was beautiful, though beauty was the least of what set her apart. What people remembered was her eyes; there was a keenness in them that forced anyone watching to stop where they stood. Her forehead stayed uncovered, her hair gathered behind in a knot, two small gold flowers in her ears. Her walk was slow, but every step was decided. When she spoke with someone, her eyes would soften a little, as though while listening she were setting something aside within herself.

Shikhidhvaja was handsome too; tall, firmly built, his beard trimmed close. He had a habit, while talking, of touching with the fingers of his right hand the band that sat on his left wrist. It was the sound of his thinking. He spoke slowly, yet a sharp impatience lived inside him that he hid even from himself. Once, at night, Chudala had watched him close his fist in his sleep and then open it; it was the language of his body that never reached his mouth.

The two were king and queen. The kingdom was in good order, the people content, no great crisis anywhere. Yet inside them both was one and the same thirst.

This is about a night fifteen years into their marriage.

The two of them sat on the roof of the palace at midnight. Below, thousands of the city’s lamps were burning, and above, the stars outnumbered them. The air was light, and it carried the cool of night. Chudala drew a wrap over her shoulders. For a long while neither spoke; the silence between them was a comfortable one.

Then Chudala spoke. “Maharaj, I feel that what we are is not this.”

Shikhidhvaja looked at her, then touched the band on his wrist. “What do you mean, Chudala?”

“I mean, we are king and queen, husband and wife; we have our kingdom, we have our work. But all of this is our outer identity. Inside there is someone else, someone we do not know.”

Shikhidhvaja touched her hand; her palm was cold beneath the seam of the wrap.

“What are you trying to say?”

“I am saying that the two of us should search together for the one within. Read books, go to teachers, meditate. Perhaps we will find the thing our thirst is for.”

Shikhidhvaja’s fist closed, then opened, then closed again.

“When did this come to you?”

“It has been there many years, but only today did it come out.”

“Why today?”

Chudala turned her head to one side. “Maharaj, this afternoon I met a woman of the people. She had come to the royal physician about her son’s illness. I watched her face. Her son could have been saved, but partway through, the woman understood that he would not live. Her face changed, yet she did not weep. She straightened herself, bowed her head to the physician, and left.

“I saw that face all night. There was something steady in it, perhaps defeat, perhaps something else. But whatever it was, it was larger than everything we own.

“And it struck me: if we keep seeking our identity in being king and queen, and tomorrow that is taken from us, what will remain to us? Will we too bow our heads and walk away, or will we come apart? I want us to have something that cannot be taken away.”

Shikhidhvaja took her hand in both of his. “You are right, Chudala.”

After that night the two began a new life.

Statecraft by day, study by evening. They called brahmins in, sent word to the old rishis, and drew out everything the library held. First they read the teachings of Vedanta, then the Yoga Sutras, then the old Upanishads, then commentaries on the Bhagavad Gita.

Every night they sat in a small chamber; two lamps, a mat, and a book between them. Sometimes Chudala read and Shikhidhvaja listened, sometimes Shikhidhvaja read and Chudala listened. Whatever idea came, the two of them talked it over.

One night they read the Isha Upanishad.

“तेन त्यक्तेन भुञ्जीथाः।”

Shikhidhvaja paused as he read. “Enjoy through renunciation. What does that mean?” Then he began to reason it out for himself. “Perhaps it means that whatever we gain by holding does not stay; whatever we take by letting go is the real thing.”

Chudala said, “Maharaj, that is good, but I think there is something more to it.”

“What?”

“Perhaps it means that the one who enjoys and the thing enjoyed are not separate. When we step away from ‘I am enjoying,’ the true form of enjoyment shows itself.”

Shikhidhvaja looked at her. “Chudala, you speak of very deep things.”

“Maharaj, the thought is not mine, it is in the shloka. I only opened it a little.”

Three years passed, then five, then eight. The two kept walking together; when Chudala read something she would tell Shikhidhvaja, and when Shikhidhvaja read something he would tell Chudala.

But one thing Chudala had begun to say to herself: my understanding is different, not slow; perhaps some things are coming to me faster. She did not tell this to Shikhidhvaja, because she felt that if she said it, he would take it for a show of pride.

She Who Awoke

One night Chudala sat alone in her chamber. Shikhidhvaja was in another room, speaking with some minister. An old book lay open before Chudala, and that day she had read a shloka: the one who sees cannot see itself; and the one that cannot see itself can never destroy itself either.

She held this within her and closed her eyes. The one who sees is me; but how am I to see myself? She tried to turn inward. There was mind, there were thoughts; she could watch the mind, but who was the watcher? If the watcher and the mind were one, how would the watcher watch? The watcher and the mind are not one; the watcher stands apart.

And in that instant something happened. Inside Chudala was a light that had stayed hidden until now; now it opened. That light was there before every thought, before every feeling, before every sensation of the body. That light was Chudala herself. Not the body, not the mind, not the feeling, only that light.

And a strange thing happened. The light that was within her was also outside her: behind the walls, behind the stars, behind that minister’s voice carrying from the other room, everywhere. And everywhere it was one and the same.

For a while Chudala could not move. Her breath had grown very slow and a light warmth filled her body, a pleasant warmth, not the warmth of sickness. When she opened her eyes, she was not the same Chudala. On the outside all was the same, the sari, the hair, the walk; but within was a heavy lightness, a stillness she had not known before.

She closed the book, put out the lamp, and lay down. Sleep would not come, yet there was no restlessness at its absence; she was simply awake, and there was a rasa (a savor) in being awake. She thought, I must tell this to Shikhidhvaja.

He Who Stayed Behind

In the morning the two came out of their chambers, on their way to breakfast. Chudala caught his wrist. “Maharaj, last night I found something.”

Shikhidhvaja stopped for a moment, curiosity in his eyes. “What?”

“The one within, the one we were searching for.”

Shikhidhvaja’s hand went of its own accord to the band on his wrist. “Is that so? Tell me.”

Chudala told him the whole of it: the shloka, the turning inward, the light, and that the light was one and the same within and without. Shikhidhvaja listened to all of it; the breakfast went cold. Outside, the sun’s light filtered through the lattice and lay as a faint flush on their faces.

When Chudala finished, Shikhidhvaja asked, “Why do you say that you have found something?”

Chudala looked at him. “Because I have, Maharaj.”

Now something else was hidden in Shikhidhvaja’s smile, something set apart from friendship. “Listen, Chudala, this comes from the tapas of men, from many years of austerity. The greatest rishis give their whole lives to it and even then, many times, it does not come to them. For fifteen years we have only been reading books; we have done no great austerity, and neither have I. So how could it have come to you?”

Chudala turned her head to one side. “Maharaj, I do not understand. What are you trying to say?”

“I am saying that perhaps you have taken some effect of the reading into your imagination. This is not what we are searching for.”

Chudala was quiet a while. The light outside had left her face now; a cloud had passed close by.

“Maharaj, are you saying this because I am a woman?”

Shikhidhvaja was startled for a moment, his hand going still on his wrist. “No, Chudala. I am saying it because the matter is large. Both of us will have to give it more time. You should not rush this just now.”

Chudala nodded, very slowly.

That day she said nothing more. But something had shifted within her; for the first time she felt that she and Shikhidhvaja were not standing in the same place, and perhaps that place would never be one.

At night, as they lay down to sleep, Shikhidhvaja drew her hand toward him. “Chudala, are you upset? I did not say anything wrong, did I?”

Chudala thought for a moment, then said, “Maharaj, what you said was right according to you; according to me it was not. That is all, for now.”

Shikhidhvaja turned onto his other side and his breath slowly became the breath of a sleeping man. Chudala lay awake a long time.

Chudala never raised the matter again. Many days passed and she stayed as she was; she went on with her study, sat with her husband, managed the affairs of state. But within her was a quiet peace whose cause lay nowhere outside her.

Shikhidhvaja felt it. At first he had paid it no attention, but one night he asked. The two of them were walking in the garden after the evening meal; the garden held the thick scent of jasmine.

“Chudala, you have changed somehow.”

“I have?”

“Yes. There used to be a thirst in your eyes; now it is gone.”

Chudala stopped. She looked at Shikhidhvaja; the moon was full now, and in its light his beard looked whiter.

“Maharaj, this is the very thing I told you. You were not ready to accept it.”

Shikhidhvaja was quiet a while, then said, “Chudala, if you truly have found something, I am glad. But perhaps this is a woman’s way; a man’s way is different. I will have to do more austerity yet.”

Chudala nodded and said nothing. But a light ache rose in her, for every woman who stands beside a man whose husband will not hear her; and a compassion for Shikhidhvaja, who was honest within his limits, yet could not see the limits themselves.

That night in her chamber Chudala made a new decision for the first time: I will teach him, but I will not hurry now. I will wait; when the time comes, the way will show itself.

Austerity Alone

Shikhidhvaja began his austerity alone. First he chose a small room that held a mat, a pot of water, and a lamp. Every morning he sat there: eyes closed, mantra, pranayama. Then he cut his food down to one meal, then to a single watch of the day; and he cut his sleep too, from three watches to two. His body began to thin and a weariness settled over his face.

Chudala watched this. She neither stopped him nor said anything; but within she knew that Shikhidhvaja was going in the wrong direction. One night she touched his hands; they were cold.

“Maharaj, eat something.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Food strengthens the body, but for austerity the body must grow weak. Then the strength of the mind rises.”

Chudala was quiet a moment, then said, “Maharaj, do you think food strengthens the body?”

“Yes.”

“And the body’s strength is an obstacle to austerity?”

“Yes.”

“Then when a rishi performs austerity for many years, how does he stay alive through the hunger?”

Shikhidhvaja paused a moment. “He has some inner strength.”

“And where does that inner strength come from?”

“From his austerity.”

“And what does austerity require?”

Shikhidhvaja thought. “The having of a body.”

Chudala said, “Maharaj, then whatever weakens the body weakens the austerity too. It is a circle.”

Shikhidhvaja would not accept it. “Chudala, these are things the rishis have taught.”

“Maharaj, the rishis have taught many other things as well. Which of them is right you will have to choose for yourself.”

Shikhidhvaja said nothing, but he did not take the food.

Many days passed. Shikhidhvaja grew weaker, but no inner opening came to him. One night he said to Chudala, “Chudala, I am giving up the kingdom.”

Chudala stopped, her palm going still on the end of her sari. “Maharaj?”

“I will go to the forest, alone, for austerity. Until I find it, I will not return.”

Chudala reached out and touched Shikhidhvaja’s wrist; the wrist was thin.

“Maharaj, what you want, you will not find in the forest.”

“Why?”

“Because it is found within, not without. You will go to the forest, but the mind will stay the same. And it is the mind that does the searching. The mind is what must change, not the place.”

Shikhidhvaja said, “Chudala, you do not understand. I need solitude. In the affairs of state the mind stays busy; in the forest it will grow quiet.”

Chudala was quiet a while. “Maharaj, if this is your decision, then so be it.”

“Will you hold the kingdom?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Chudala said softly, “Maharaj, one thing. Come back. I will wait.”

Shikhidhvaja looked at her; for the first time there was something in his eyes that was not knowledge, only love. “I will come back.”

The next morning he left. He left his turban behind, left the royal signet; he took only a small pouch of seeds, a kamandalu, and a plain wrap. Chudala came with him as far as the gate. In the royal court the ministers, the commander, all had gathered, and all were stunned.

Shikhidhvaja said to one minister, “The kingdom now belongs to the queen. Every decision is hers. Do not wait for me; when I return, we will speak.”

The minister bowed his head.

Then Shikhidhvaja turned toward Chudala. For a moment he took her hand in his. “Chudala, are you angry with me?”

“No, Maharaj. I am only worried for you.”

Shikhidhvaja laughed. “Do not worry about me. I will be fine.”

Chudala looked at him a long time. “Maharaj, remember one thing. When you grow tired, when it seems to you that nothing is happening, let go of the mind’s effort. Just sit; do nothing. Perhaps then something will open.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded, but it was plain in his eyes that he was not hearing this. Then he left.

Chudala stood at the gate a long time. Then she looked back toward the minister. “Minister, call the council. From today the work of the kingdom rests with me.”

The minister bowed his head.

Ruling Alone

Chudala took up the kingdom. For the first few days there was a slight hesitation among the ministers; the queen had governed before, but from behind, and now she stood in front. But soon they took notice.

The queen took no decision in haste. She heard every matter to the end, then thought, then spoke; and in what she spoke there was something that could not be heard from anyone else.

One day a woman of the people came to the court; her husband was missing. She said, my husband went outside the kingdom on trade; five months have passed and he has not returned. I think something has happened to him. Can you do anything for me?

The minister said, “Maharani, this is a matter beyond the kingdom. What can we do?”

Chudala said, “Minister, we can send our envoys beyond the kingdom, ask the neighboring realms. This woman is our subject, her husband is a man of our kingdom. We will try.”

The minister bowed his head, and so did the woman.

The woman said, “Maharani, thank you.”

“I cannot make you any large promise, but we will try. If he is alive, we will find him; if not, we will bring you word, and the kingdom will see to your support.”

The woman was quiet a moment, then said, “Maharani, had the king been here, perhaps he too would have said this. But he would not have said it in this way.”

Chudala said, “The king is not in the kingdom just now.”

“I know.”

The woman left.

Other decisions came in the same way. The people soon learned that the queen was of a different sort. Her firmness was not the ministers’ firmness; her firmness was the firmness of justice, and in her justice there was compassion. So the years passed.

After the work of the kingdom was done, at night Chudala would sit alone in that same old chamber. There she meditated, though meditation was no longer a task for her; she simply returned to that light of hers.

One night a thought came to her: I want to see him, but he is far away, in the forest; how am I to see him? She looked within, and one thing became clear: for the one who is steady in the inner light, distance is no obstacle.

The Sky-Journey

Chudala sat on her seat. She knew that consciousness can be separated from the body; she had read it in books, though there was a difference between reading and doing. She closed her eyes and watched the breath: breath in, breath out, and between them, silence. In that silence she stayed a long while.

Then she drew her consciousness upward. The body stayed seated, but she was above it.

First she was at the ceiling of the chamber. Below, she saw her own body: the color of the sari, the knot of the hair, a bangle on the wrist. To see her own body from the outside was a strange sight. Then she rose higher: past the ceiling of the chamber, past the roof of the palace, and out above the city. It was night, the city’s lamps were burning, and Chudala was looking down. A laughter rose within her.

Then she moved north, toward the forest: very far, very fast. She crossed mountains, crossed rivers, and at last reached a forest.

In the forest was a great tree, and beneath it a man sat.

Chudala descended, but her feet did not touch the ground, because her body was not there. She went closer.

Shikhidhvaja sat beneath a tree. His body had grown very thin, his beard long and tangled, his hair matted too, his eyes sunk deep, and his clothes in tatters.

Chudala looked at him a long time. A love rose within her, and a pain as well: her husband was doing so hard an austerity, and the thing he searched for was already within him.

Chudala reached out her hands, but she could not touch. She looked closely at Shikhidhvaja’s face; his eyelids were shut, but beneath them the eyes were moving, his lips slightly parted, and his breath shallow.

He was in meditation, but the meditation was not calm; there was a turmoil within him.

Chudala rose and returned.

When she came back into her body and opened her eyes, her forehead was damp. Outside, dawn was breaking now.

This went on for many nights. Every night Chudala went in her consciousness to see Shikhidhvaja, and every time she found him the same: seated, in meditation, but knowledge still far off. One night she noticed that Shikhidhvaja had smeared clay over his body, a strange practice, one he had perhaps read of in some old book.

Chudala said, “Maharaj, all of this is useless. None of it will bring the thing about.” But Shikhidhvaja could not hear.

One night Chudala thought: I will have to do something. My husband is dying here alone, without knowledge; I cannot leave him like this. But if I go in my own form, he will not listen; he will see me as a woman, as a wife. He did not hear me once before, and he will not hear me now. So I will have to take another form.

Chudala returned to her body and sat. She thought for a long time, then made a decision: I will take the form of a man, of a young brahmin. I will go to him in that form. This husband of mine, who will not hear a woman, may perhaps hear a young brahmin.

Kumbha

With her consciousness Chudala fashioned a form. This was a new experience; she had never done such a thing before, but her understanding was now deep enough that she could shape a body out of her imagination. A young man, a brahmin, lean and tall; the beard not yet fully in, only a faint line; the eyes keen; the voice light, but with a steadiness in it. The name, Kumbha.

Chudala closed her eyes, set her own body to one side, and made Kumbha’s body out of her consciousness. For a few moments she was both: on one side Chudala’s body, as if asleep; on the other Kumbha’s body, standing. Then Chudala’s consciousness descended into Kumbha’s body.

Kumbha looked at his palm, a man’s palm, the fingers thin but strong. Then he ran a hand over his body, a man’s body; at first it felt strange. Then a laughter rose: this is only a form, within it I am the same.

Kumbha came out of his chamber, carrying in a small pouch some seeds, a kamandalu, and a plain wrap. He left the palace, walking first in the direction of the mountains, then toward the forest.

Kumbha reached the forest. Shikhidhvaja was there, seated beneath the same tree.

Kumbha stopped a little way off, straightened his body, cleared his voice, then called out, “Namaskar, revered one.”

Shikhidhvaja opened his eyes. He saw a young man: a brahmin, in ordinary clothes, but with something particular in the eyes.

“Namaskar.”

“May I come?”

“Come.”

Kumbha came near and sat, keeping his distance.

“Your name?”

“Kumbha.”

“And my name?”

“Maharaj Shikhidhvaja. It is you, is it not?”

Hearing his own name after many years, Shikhidhvaja gave a faint smile. “No longer a king, only an ascetic now.”

“Forgive me.”

“No, it is quite all right. Tell me, how have you come?”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, I have heard of your renown. Many years ago you left your kingdom, and you have been in the forest ever since. I am myself a small ascetic; I thought I might learn something from one as great as you.”

Shikhidhvaja looked at him. “Kumbha, I have no renown. I am only performing austerity.”

“But Maharaj, have you found anything?”

Shikhidhvaja was quiet a moment, then said, “No. Not yet.”

“How many years has it been?”

“I do not know. Eighteen, twenty, perhaps more.”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, forgive me, but may I ask a question?”

“Ask.”

“If twenty years of austerity have brought you nothing, do you think another twenty will bring it?”

Shikhidhvaja stopped for a moment. He looked at Kumbha a long time. “Kumbha, this question…”

“Maharaj, I have only come to learn. Your experience is great; this was a small one’s question.”

Shikhidhvaja drew a light breath. “Kumbha, this question comes to me too, it comes many times, but I stop it.”

“Why?”

“Because if I accept it, my whole austerity becomes worthless.”

“Maharaj, if it is in the wrong direction, it is worthless already. Refusing to admit it will not make it worthwhile.”

Shikhidhvaja was quiet a long time, then said, “Kumbha, tell me something. You say the austerity is in the wrong direction. Then what is the right direction?”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, sit. May I sit too?”

“Sit.”

Kumbha sat, and the talk began.

The Slow Teaching

On the first day Kumbha did not speak much. He asked Shikhidhvaja about his day: what he ate, when he woke, when he meditated. Shikhidhvaja told him, and Kumbha listened. Then Kumbha said one thing. “Maharaj, the mind is a very cunning thing; it takes on every form. You want to quiet it, so it takes on the form of being quiet, but inside it goes on just the same. You want to stop it, so it takes on the form of stopping. Yet the mind you cannot stop.”

“Then what should one do?”

“Only watch it. Watch every thought arrive, watch it leave. Do not take yourself for the thought; you stand behind the thought.”

This was the first teaching. Shikhidhvaja heard it, but did not fully accept it.

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, I will come again. Look at this for yourself, and then we will speak.” He rose and turned to look back; Shikhidhvaja sat where he was, but there was now something in his eyes that had not been there before.

Kumbha turned back. Coming out of the forest, he paused a while behind a tree. Then Chudala’s consciousness left his body and Chudala returned to her own. She sat in her chamber and opened her eyes; outside it was night and a lamp was burning.

She thought: my husband must now learn from me, though not as from a woman; that is his limit. My love, to be true, has to do more than show him what he needs. It has to give him the very form in which he can learn.

Kumbha came again and again. Each time he spoke with Shikhidhvaja about something: small matters first, then larger ones.

One day Kumbha asked, “Maharaj, why did you have to leave your kingdom?”

“Because there the mind stayed busy.”

“And here?”

“Here there is quiet.”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, forgive me, but I notice one thing. You have not left your body. You still eat, though little; still sleep, though little; still wake. Only your eating and your sleeping have changed, but the root has not. You are still the body, and your mind is still thinking about the body, only in a different way.”

“So?”

“So as long as you take the body itself for ‘I,’ the true austerity has not happened. You gave up one thing, the kingdom; but many things you have not given up.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded. “What should I give up?”

“Maharaj, give it all up. Whatever there is beneath this tree, give it all up. Give up the seat, give up the mala, give up the clothes. Give up every single thing that is your identity.”

Shikhidhvaja thought a moment. “I give it up.”

The Burning

Shikhidhvaja gathered all he had: a kamandalu, a mala many years old, a blanket, and a small book he read from now and then. He laid it all in a small heap.

Then he lit a fire.

The fire caught the blanket first, then the mala, then the book, then the kamandalu. Shikhidhvaja stood watching, and Kumbha stood beside him.

When the fire died down, Shikhidhvaja looked at the ash and looked within himself. Something had lightened, but the thirst was the same as before.

“Kumbha, I have burned it all, and nothing has changed.”

“Maharaj, because you burned the outer things. Within, those things are still there.”

“What do you mean?”

“The mala was in your hand, and you burned it; but the attachment you had to the mala is still in your mind. The book was with you, and you burned it; but the bond you had to the book is still in your mind. Real renunciation is the giving up of attachment. Burning the object touches only its surface.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded. “Then how do I burn what is within?”

“Maharaj, this is hard, but there is a beginning. Sit. Look at every thing that is in your mind, one by one; and to each one say, you are not mine, you are in me, but you are not me.”

Shikhidhvaja began to do this, for many days. First his turban came into his mind; he looked at it and said, you are not mine. Then the throne came; he said, you are not mine. Then the army; he said, you are not mine. Then the kingdom; he said, you are not mine. Then came Chudala.

Shikhidhvaja stopped. Chudala’s face was very clear within him: her laughter, their fifteen years of talk, the keenness of her eyes. Am I to say it of this too?

He asked Kumbha, “Kumbha, must I give up my wife as well?”

Kumbha was quiet a moment, then said, “Maharaj, this is a matter of recognizing, more than of giving up. Your wife belongs to herself. For many years you took her as yours; now let her be her own.”

Shikhidhvaja was quiet a long time, then within himself he said, “Chudala, you are not mine, you are your own.” And the moment he said it, something opened within him.

Kumbha saw this; a smile came to the corner of his lips, then left. “Maharaj, now further.”

Shikhidhvaja went on: he looked at every identity, looked at every attachment, and said to each, you are not mine. At the end came, “I. Is even the I not mine?”

Shikhidhvaja stopped for a moment. “Kumbha, am I to give up my own self too?”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, this is the last of it. This ‘I’ that you take yourself to be, this too is not you. You stand behind this ‘I.’ Look at it, and then you will know who you are.”

Shikhidhvaja closed his eyes and looked at the ‘I’ within him. Who am I? The body? No. The mind? No. Thought? No. Then?

And in that instant something opened. Within Shikhidhvaja was a light that was there before every ‘I’; that light was he himself. A laughter rose within him and he opened his eyes and looked at Kumbha.

“Kumbha, I…”

“You have found it?”

“Yes.”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, now sit a while. Let this settle within you.”

Shikhidhvaja sat. Many years of effort, and in the end only this: I am the one who stands behind every ‘I.’

Many days, many conversations. Through Kumbha, Chudala gave Shikhidhvaja all the experience of her fifteen years of study and of her own inner opening, and Shikhidhvaja went on learning.

Between the Lessons

I say “many days” and “many conversations,” Rama, but it was not as easy as it sounds.

One day Kumbha saw Shikhidhvaja sitting beneath the tree. His eyes were open, but he was somewhere else. Kumbha asked, “Maharaj, what is it?”

“Kumbha, I was thinking.”

“About what?”

Shikhidhvaja said, “I have given up my turban, my royal signet, my throne, my people, my name. But one thing I have not yet given up.”

“What?”

“My learning.”

Kumbha asked, “Maharaj, what do you mean by that?”

“Kumbha, I am learning every day. But learning too is a form of holding. I have caught hold of the idea that I must learn, and I am bound by that grip.”

Kumbha gave a light smile. “Maharaj, you are seeing this early.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, many seekers see this much later, and some never see it at all; they stay caught in the bondage of learning. You have seen it already.”

Shikhidhvaja asked, “Then what now?”

“Maharaj, give up learning.”

“But Kumbha, you are teaching me.”

“Yes, I teach and you learn. But do not grip the learning, just let it be. When I say something, listen; if it settles within you, let it settle, and if it does not, let it go. There is no hurry.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded. “Understood.”

“Not yet, but you will understand.”

Many days passed.

One night Shikhidhvaja noticed one more thing. He was sitting in meditation, as always, when Chudala’s face came into his mind.

At first Shikhidhvaja tried to push it away. “I gave this up; I do not need it now.” But the face stayed. Shikhidhvaja thought, why am I seeing this? I had said it within.

The next day Kumbha came and Shikhidhvaja told him this. Kumbha was quiet a while, then said, “Maharaj, one thing. When you gave up your wife, what did you do?”

“Within I said, Chudala, you are not mine.”

“And?”

“And I felt that something opened.”

“But?”

“But now her face is coming back.”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, this is natural.”

“Why?”

“Because letting go and erasing are two different things.”

Shikhidhvaja said, “Explain.”

Kumbha sat down. “Maharaj, letting go means, I am no longer bound by this; it does not mean the thing is gone from me. Your wife is in your mind and always will be. You spent fifteen years with her, she is a part of you. But now she does not bind you. Before, if you thought of her, a turmoil would rise within you; now you think of her, and no turmoil comes. That is the difference.”

Shikhidhvaja asked, “So I may still think of her?”

“Yes.”

“And that is all right?”

“Entirely.”

Shikhidhvaja said, “Kumbha, a relief has come to me.”

“What?”

“I had been feeling that I did wrong in giving up my wife. But now I understand. What I gave up was only the bondage; her I never gave up at all.”

Kumbha gave a light smile.

Many days passed.

One day Kumbha said something new. “Maharaj, tell me one thing. What is the greatest thing for you now?”

Shikhidhvaja thought a long while.

“Kumbha, the greatest thing now is that nothing is the greatest thing.”

Kumbha laughed. “Maharaj, you are ready.”

“For what?”

Kumbha said, “First a small journey.”

“A journey?”

“Yes. Come with me.”

The Forest

Kumbha lifted Shikhidhvaja from beneath the tree and led him away. For the first time in many years Shikhidhvaja went away from the tree. At first his body trembled and his feet were not willing to leave the tree; the habit was of many years.

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, leave the tree.”

“I have grown used to the tree.”

“Yes. But if you are bound to the tree, then you gave up your turban, gave up the throne, and took hold of a tree. A tree too can become an identity.”

Shikhidhvaja touched the tree once. “Thank you, friend.” Then he walked on.

The two walked into the forest.

For the first time in many years Shikhidhvaja truly saw the forest. Before, he had taken the forest for merely the place around him: trees, leaves, air. Now he saw each tree as distinct, each tree with its own story.

Kumbha pointed toward a tree. “Maharaj, look at this tree.”

Shikhidhvaja looked. The tree was very old, its bark cracked, its branches some dry and some green.

“What of this tree?”

“Maharaj, this tree has stood here many years. It was born, it grew, it aged, but it never asked for an identity. It is simply a tree. It has neither complaint nor pride. This is the purest form of austerity.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded, and they walked on.

Farther on was a small river. Kumbha pointed toward it. “Maharaj, look at the river.”

Shikhidhvaja looked. The river was flowing with a light sound.

“Maharaj, the river does not stop, yet it does not hurry either; it simply flows, every day, every moment, without tiring. And when a stone comes, it flows around the stone; it does not fight the stone. This is the purest form of karma.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded.

The two sat on a rock by the riverbank.

“Maharaj, what do you see now?”

Shikhidhvaja said, “Kumbha, I see that I am the tree, I am the river, I am the rock, I am every thing that is here.”

Kumbha asked, “Maharaj, and?”

“And I am the one who is watching all of them.”

“Both at once?”

“Yes.”

“Without contradiction?”

“Without contradiction.”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, now you are truly ready.”

“For what?”

“For the next test. And then for one thing that I have not yet told you.”

Shikhidhvaja looked at Kumbha; there was something in Kumbha’s eyes that he had not seen before. But he did not ask, only nodded.

The two sat there a while. The river flowed on, the trees swayed lightly.

Then Kumbha rose. “Maharaj, let us return now.”

The two returned to beneath the tree.

Shikhidhvaja looked at the tree a moment, then said with a light smile, “Friend, I have come back, but now you are only a tree to me, and not my identity.”

The tree gave no answer, but its leaves stirred for a moment.

Shikhidhvaja took his seat, and so did Kumbha.

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, now the test.” Shikhidhvaja nodded.

More Teaching

Many days passed. One by one Kumbha taught Shikhidhvaja many things; each seemed small at first, then behind it a larger understanding opened.

One day Kumbha asked, “Maharaj, what moves in your mind now?”

Shikhidhvaja thought a moment. “Kumbha, not much. But one thing remains, the memory of my wife.”

Kumbha asked, “Maharaj, what is this?”

“A light absence.”

“And?”

“And a small regret, that I did not hear her when she first told me she had found it.”

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, let go of this regret.”

“How?”

“Watch the regret, the way you watch other thoughts. Do not stop it, only watch it.”

Shikhidhvaja closed his eyes and watched the regret.

The regret was a light stir in his chest, of many years. Shikhidhvaja watched it and did not stop it. Slowly it grew smaller; it did not go entirely, but now it lay behind him.

Kumbha said, “Maharaj, now you are ready.”

“For what?”

“For one more test.”

The Test

Many years passed. Shikhidhvaja had changed a great deal now. His body was no longer so thin, because now he ate naturally; the beard was still there, but the old tangle had gone from it, and the old intensity had gone from his face. Now there was a stillness in his eyes.

Kumbha came less often now; Shikhidhvaja no longer needed to learn much, only a few things. One day Kumbha thought: I must give him a test. I have given him knowledge, but knowledge can be merely something heard; to know whether it has settled within him, a test is necessary.

That day Kumbha did not come.

Shikhidhvaja rose in the morning and took his seat beneath the tree, as always; but Kumbha was not there. He thought, perhaps he will come late today.

Noon came, Kumbha did not come. Evening came, Kumbha did not come. Night came, and still he did not.

Shikhidhvaja let go of the thought. “Whether Kumbha comes or not is not up to me. I will do my own practice.” And he began to meditate.

Just then a fragrance came on the air, very sweet, but not of the earth. Shikhidhvaja opened his eyes.

In place of Kumbha a woman stood.

The woman was young, very beautiful; a radiance rose from her body and there was a mischief in her eyes.

(She was a shadow shaped by Chudala, the form of a celestial woman. But Shikhidhvaja did not know this.)

The woman said, “Maharaj.”

“Devi, why are you here?”

“I am the wife of Indra. I have come for you.”

Shikhidhvaja looked within himself. At first he expected some turmoil, some desire to rise; but within there was nothing, only a stillness.

This surprised him himself. Shikhidhvaja asked, “Devi, forgive me, but for whom have you come?”

“For you. You are an ascetic, you have done a very great austerity. The fruit of austerity ought to come. I have come for you.”

Shikhidhvaja was quiet a moment, then said, “Devi, thank you, but I want no fruit.”

The woman took a step forward. “Maharaj, I am the wife of Indra. No man has ever come after me; I have come to you myself. Will you refuse me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Shikhidhvaja looked at the woman a long time. No desire came to him; that stillness within him held.

“Devi, I have a wife; her name is Chudala. I am hers, and no one else’s.”

“But she is back in your kingdom, apart from you. You have not seen her for many years.”

“I did not leave her. I left my old identity.”

“Maharaj, let these matters be. I am a devi; I can carry you to heaven this instant. Stay there with me, and then you will want no one else.”

Shikhidhvaja said, “Devi, you have come to the wrong man.”

“Why?”

“Because I have no need even of heaven. What I wanted, I have already found; and I found it within me, never in any heaven.”

The woman looked at him. “Maharaj, this last time, accept me.”

“Devi, forgive me. No.”

On the woman’s face there was no more of that mischief now, only a satisfaction.

“Maharaj, I had come to give you a test. You have passed.”

Shikhidhvaja asked, “Will you vanish now?”

“Yes.”

And the woman vanished.

Shikhidhvaja sat as he was. Within him no turmoil, no pride, no regret. He simply sat.

A while later Kumbha came. “Maharaj, there is one thing I must tell you today.”

“Speak.”

Kumbha paused a moment, then let go of his form.

The Veil Lifts

Where Kumbha had been, Chudala now stood. The same Chudala: the sari, the hair, the walk, all of it the same; on her wrist the same bangle, a little loose; and on her forehead the same small mark that Shikhidhvaja had seen on that first night.

For a moment Shikhidhvaja understood nothing. Then he looked a long time.

“Chudala.”

“Maharaj.”

“You?”

“I was Kumbha all along.”

Shikhidhvaja brought both his hands near his mouth. His eyes grew wet, but no tears fell.

“Chudala, for all these years I was learning from you?”

“Yes.”

“And I did not recognize you?”

“No.”

“Because you took a man’s form?”

Chudala said, “Because you would learn only from a man.”

Shikhidhvaja was quiet a long time. Outside the breeze was light and somewhere high up a bird was calling.

Then Shikhidhvaja sank to the ground, his knees on the earth. “Chudala, I did you a very great injustice.”

Chudala sat down beside him; in the way she sat there was no anger, no pride either, only a stillness.

“No, Maharaj. You did your dharma, you were as you were; I did my dharma, I gave you what I could give, in the form in which you could receive it.”

“But you are a woman.”

“Yes.”

“And you reached knowledge before me.”

“Yes.”

“And I would not accept it. Forgive me.”

Chudala said, “Maharaj, what need is there of forgiveness? What you did was your limit showing itself. Every man has his limit, and every woman too. My limit was this, that I went on loving you even after seeing that limit. Your limit was this, that even seeing that love, you never once thought a woman could teach.”

“But now?”

“Now the two of us are in the same place. Now nothing more is needed.”

Shikhidhvaja held Chudala’s hand a long time. On her wrist was now the same bangle he had seen on that first day, a little loose; Shikhidhvaja touched it with one finger.

“Chudala, how much you did for me.”

“Maharaj, this was for us both, as much as for you. You were doing austerity alone, I was running the kingdom alone. Had I not become Kumbha, the two of us would have stayed apart. I became Kumbha for the sake of our love.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded.

The two were quiet a long time. Then Shikhidhvaja tried to rise and Chudala gave him her support.

“Maharaj, shall we return now?”

“Yes, to the kingdom.”

“The kingdom?”

“Why, is there anything else?”

Chudala laughed. “No, Maharaj, the kingdom will do. Only now the two of us will run it together.”

What Passed Between

But before leaving, the two sat a while, beneath the same tree where Kumbha had sat for many years.

Chudala drew a breath. “Maharaj, there is something I must tell you.”

“Speak.”

“Maharaj, when I first took the form of Kumbha, I was afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

Chudala was quiet a moment, then said, “Maharaj, I was afraid that I would not be able to come back to my own form. Learning to become Kumbha was hard, but once I had become him, one more thing became clear to me. Kumbha had a mind of his own, his own desires, his own thoughts; I had made them, yet now they stood apart.

“And on one level I began to like being Kumbha. His life was simple, an ascetic’s life; I did not carry so many responsibilities. As Kumbha, on one level, I was free. I was afraid that if I stayed too long in Kumbha, I would forget Chudala.”

Shikhidhvaja listened and was quiet a long time.

“Chudala, you kept all this hidden from me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if I had told you, my becoming Kumbha would have been of no use; you would have kept seeing me as Chudala, as your wife. I had to appear to you as a new person, a man; only then could you listen.”

Shikhidhvaja said, “Chudala, this is heavy for me.”

“Why?”

“Because I am beginning to understand. To teach me, you put your own identity at risk. Had you become trapped in Kumbha, what would have become of us?”

Chudala said, “Maharaj, I took that risk because you mattered to me more than my own safety.”

Shikhidhvaja took Chudala’s hand in both of his. “Chudala, forgive me.”

“Maharaj, forgiveness for what?”

“I did you a very great injustice. And the injustice went beyond my not hearing you; I also forced you to take so great a risk for my sake. Had I accepted your word earlier, you would not have had to become Kumbha.”

Chudala said, “Maharaj, this is a large thing to say, and that you are saying it is the real progress. But one thing. Had you listened earlier, you would not have reached the knowledge you have now reached; the knowledge might have stayed on the surface. Many years of solitary austerity, and then the learning through Kumbha, this built a depth within you. Learning directly, the way I did, was not possible for you. So your path was what it was, and mine was what it was. Each of us came through by our own road.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded. “Chudala, one more thing. Will you miss Kumbha now?”

Chudala was quiet a while.

“Maharaj, yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Kumbha’s life was simple. Mine will be complicated again now: queen, wife, mother-to-be (yes, I have thought about it), counselor, all of it. But this complexity is my dharma. I have chosen it.”

Shikhidhvaja asked, “Mother?”

Chudala laughed. “Maharaj, we are not so old yet. But yes, I have been thinking about a child.”

Shikhidhvaja laughed. “Chudala, you always have something new.”

“Yes.”

The two were quiet a while, then rose.

As he was leaving, Shikhidhvaja looked at the tree once more. “Friend, thank you.”

The tree stirred lightly.

The Return

The two returned, walking together. Shikhidhvaja’s body was still thin, but he could walk now. Along the way the two talked a great deal: old things, new things.

One night the two stopped by a riverbank, lit a fire, and sat. Shikhidhvaja asked, “Chudala, how did the kingdom fare?”

“Well.”

“The ministers?”

“The same ones.”

“The people?”

“They had no very great trouble.”

“And you? How were you all these years?”

Chudala was quiet a moment, then said, “Maharaj, I was all right, but I was alone. I missed you. But I knew where you were and what you were doing, because I saw you every day.”

“Every day? How?”

“I had learned the sky-journey. Every night I came, only watched, then went back.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded. “And I never once saw you.”

“No, because my body was not there, only consciousness.”

Shikhidhvaja took her hand in his. “Chudala, you endured so much for me.”

Chudala said, “Maharaj, what I did was wait. Waiting is a different thing from suffering.”

They talked through the night, and in the morning walked on.

They reached the kingdom. The minister saw them; the minister had grown old and his hair was nearly all white.

The minister said, “Maharaj, you have returned.”

“Yes.”

“May I say something to the queen?”

“Speak.”

The minister turned toward Chudala. “Maharani, you ran this kingdom alone, for many years. What you did was no less than any king would have done, perhaps more.”

Chudala said, “Minister, thank you. But the king has returned now; now the two of us will run it together.”

The minister bowed his head.

The two reached their royal chamber. The chamber was the same, and yet something in it had changed too. Over so many years Chudala had learned to live in it alone, and now Shikhidhvaja had returned; they had to make the chamber theirs again, for the two of them.

Shikhidhvaja looked at his old clothes and his old turban and gave a light smile. “Chudala, all of this looks different now.”

“Yes.”

“But it is still recognizable.”

“Yes.”

For many years the two remained king and queen. The kingdom ran, and ran very well, and the people stayed content. But now there was something between them that had not been there before; now they saw each other as equals, equal in knowledge, equal in love.

At night the two would sit in their chamber, sometimes reading, sometimes simply staying quiet. One night Shikhidhvaja asked Chudala, “Chudala, tell me something. When you taught me in the form of Kumbha, did anger at me ever come to you?”

Chudala thought. “Maharaj, many times, especially at the start. You would not accept what I said, even though I was saying the very thing I had said to you fifteen years before. From a woman’s mouth you could not take it, and from a man’s mouth you were taking it. That grieved me deeply.”

“But you did not stop.”

“No, because my love was larger than my limits. It mattered to me that you gain knowledge, by whatever road.”

Shikhidhvaja nodded. “Chudala, I will do one thing for you.”

“What?”

“Whatever men I meet who are like me, I will tell them this story. To the men who do not listen to their wives, I will tell how much they are losing.”

Chudala laughed. “Maharaj, very good. But one thing. Do not bring my name into it, not my identity; only the fact that a man’s wife taught him.”

“Why?”

“Because the point is what matters; my identity has no importance.”

Many years passed. One night Shikhidhvaja asked Chudala, “Chudala, do you still sometimes become Kumbha?”

Chudala laughed. “No, Maharaj. Kumbha’s work is done.”

“But does he live on somewhere, within you?”

Chudala thought a moment. “Maharaj, Kumbha was a form of my own consciousness. He is within me, yes; but that he will go anywhere else now, I do not think.”

One day the two of them slept side by side, like any other day. In the morning their attendant came to wake them. The two lay asleep close to each other: eyes closed, faces calm. But there was no breath.

People said, what a strange thing this is, the two gone in a single night. But those who knew would smile and say: when two consciousnesses become one, their bodies too are left at the same time. There is nothing strange in it; it is the natural way.

Rama was quiet a long time. The sun was high over the Sarayu now and a bright light lay on the water.

“Gurudev, I am beginning to understand my mother’s situation now.”

“What?”

“Mother knows a great deal. She wants to tell Father, but Father does not hear. Even so, Mother is not giving up; she is searching for her own way. Perhaps she is not searching for it consciously, but somewhere within she knows that one day the way will come.”

Vasishtha smiled. “Rama, tell this to your father. Perhaps he will listen.”

“I will tell him, but perhaps he too will not listen. Then?”

“Then remember the story of Chudala. Its real teaching goes deeper than Shikhidhvaja’s learning in the end. It is this: Chudala never surrendered her power to learn and to teach; she gave that power a new form. Your mother too will find her own way, whether your father listens or not.”

Rama asked, “And I?”

“You, Rama, do one thing. When one day your wife says something to you, and it seems to you that it is beyond your understanding, then pause. Do not refuse it at once; give it room. Her understanding is different, and it may be that her understanding is ahead of yours.”

Rama thought a moment. “Gurudev, I will keep it in mind.”

Then Rama said, “Gurudev, one more thing. Chudala taught Shikhidhvaja by becoming Kumbha; that was a very great sacrifice.”

“Yes.”

“But on one level it is also an irony.”

“Why?”

“Because Chudala had to change her identity so that her husband could hear her. This is strange. Men do not listen to their wives, yet if the very same thing comes from some unknown young man, they take it in. What kind of thinking is this?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, this is very old thinking, a weakness of men. Everything that has come to him through what he already knows, he counts as small, and the unknown he counts as great. His wife is always near him, so he takes her for ordinary; but a new young man seems to him something more. This weakness leaves after many years, and in many men it never leaves at all.”