Dasura: The Ascetic in the Tree

Rama asked, “Master, what is the mind?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, there was an ascetic named Dasura. He sat in a kadamba tree. He once told a story that lives in me even now. The mind is a king, yet it has no city of its own. Listen to his story.”

The Ascetic

Dasura was an ascetic, and the thing that set him apart was simple: he never sat on the ground.

He sat on a branch of a kadamba tree. His posture, his austerity, his meditation, all of it happened up there.

The tree was enormous. Its branches spread in every direction, and a deep shade pooled beneath it.

The branch Dasura had chosen sat some way above the ground, though not very high.

For many years he stayed there. People looked up from below and saw an ascetic overhead, his feet resting on a branch, his back pressed against the trunk.

Some came and offered him something to eat, a piece of fruit, a little water. Dasura took it, thanked them, and returned to his meditation.

In this way many years passed.

The Goddess

One day a goddess appeared.

The goddess stood at the base of the tree. She looked up and called out, “Ascetic.”

Dasura opened his eyes. “Goddess, speak.”

“I want a son. Grant me this boon.”

Dasura said, “Goddess, I am an ascetic, yet I can grant a boon.” He raised his hand. “You will have a son.”

The goddess bowed her head. “Thank you, ascetic.”

Then the goddess asked, “Ascetic, may I ask one more thing?”

“Ask.”

“What should I teach my son?”

Dasura said, “Goddess, I will tell you a story. Tell it to your son. It is the story of a king. His name was Khottha. His city was vast, and yet that city was nowhere at all.”

The goddess said, “Tell it.”

Khottha

And Dasura told the story.

“Khottha was born from air.

“It is a strange thing. How can air give birth to anyone? Yet so it was. Khottha was a son of the air.

“Both his parents were air, and his body too was made of air. He had only a shape, and that shape gave him a form.

“Khottha grew, and he built a kingdom. But that kingdom too was made of air. His throne was air, his ministers were air.

“And his subjects too were made of air.

“Khottha’s days passed the way any other king’s days pass.

“He held court, he dispensed justice, he spoke with his people. But everything was made of air. And a viewer made of air, looking upon a world made of air, feels certain that all of it is real.

“One day a rishi came there. The rishi was real, which is to say not of air, but of flesh. He looked at Khottha’s kingdom, and to his eyes there was nothing there at all, only air.

“The rishi laughed and asked Khottha, ‘King, what is this?’

“Khottha answered, ‘My kingdom.’

“The rishi said, ‘King, where is your kingdom? I see nothing here, only air.’

“Khottha was astonished. ‘Why do you say such a thing? All of this is here.’

“The rishi said, ‘King, your eye sees, but your eye itself is made of air. A viewer made of air, looking upon a world made of air, feels certain that all of it is real. My eye is different. To me all of this looks like air.’”

The Goddess Understands

The goddess heard this and stayed a while in thought.

Then she said, “Dasura, what does this story mean?”

Dasura said, “Goddess, the mind is a king. Its city is the mind’s own creation. The mind’s thoughts, the mind’s feelings, the mind’s dreams, all of these are its subjects. Yet none of it is anywhere. It is only inside the mind.

“When we step apart from the mind, we arrive like that rishi. We look at the mind’s city and say, what is this? This is nothing at all.

“But the mind says, all of this is here.

“And both are right. For the mind, the mind’s city is real. For the one above the mind, the mind’s city is made of air.”

The goddess said, “I understand.”

Then she put another question. “Dasura, one more thing. Is this true only of the mind, or is the world itself like this too?”

Dasura said, “Goddess, the world too.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that what we call the world is also built from a kind of air. From consciousness. Consciousness fashions a creation of its own, we live inside it, and we take it to be real.

“But if someone were to come from outside and look, he would say, all of this is air.”

The goddess heard this and stayed silent for a while.

Then she said, “Dasura, then what is real?”

“Goddess, the real is the one who watches, the one who stands behind every creation.”

The goddess bowed to him. “Thank you.” And then she left.

The Son

Time passed and the goddess bore a son. For many years she told him this story.

“Son, the mind is a king. Its city is nowhere. Do not become a subject of the mind. Become the one who watches.”

The son grew, and he kept this teaching within himself.

In time that son too became an ascetic. He told this story to many people, and within each of them a light woke.

The End of Khottha

One day the goddess’s son asked, “Mother, what became of Khottha afterward?”

The goddess said, “Son, this is the second part of the story. Dasura told me this later. Listen.

“When the rishi told Khottha that his kingdom was made of air, Khottha did not believe him at first. So the rishi ran an experiment.”

“What experiment?”

“The rishi told Khottha, ‘King, close your eyes.’ Khottha closed his eyes. Then the rishi said, ‘Now stop imagining your kingdom.’

“Khottha tried, and at first he could not. The moment he did release the image of his kingdom, the kingdom vanished.

“Khottha opened his eyes, and the kingdom was there. He closed them again and released the image, and the kingdom went away.”

“Mother, this is very strange.”

“Yes, son, and it is real. Khottha came to know that his kingdom was made of his own imagining. He had fashioned himself, fashioned his kingdom, fashioned his subjects. And when he knew this, a weight lifted from him.”

“And then?”

“Then Khottha slowly withdrew his imagining. The kingdom grew lighter and lighter, and in the end only air remained.”

“But Khottha?”

“Khottha too was air. Yet one thing of Khottha’s remained.”

“What?”

“His consciousness, the thing that had been imagining all of it.”

“Where did that consciousness go?”

“It remained. It always remains. Consciousness has no end.”

The child asked, “Mother, so behind our own imagining there is a consciousness too?”

“Yes.”

“And that consciousness?”

“That is us.”

Hearing this, a faint smile came to the child’s face.

Vasishtha

Many years later, Rama, I too went to that kadamba tree.

Let me tell you this: I met Dasura myself.

His body had grown very old by then, yet he was still in that same tree.

I bowed to him and said, “Dasura.”

“Vasishtha.”

“You know me?”

“Yes.”

I sat down beneath him.

I said, “Dasura, I have heard your story of Khottha, but I have not understood it fully.”

“What have you not understood?”

“Dasura, if everything is made of air, why should we do any work? Why dispense any justice?”

Dasura said, “Vasishtha, it is a good question, and its answer is a plain one.

“A world made of air is still a world. The people who live in it, air though they are, have experiences that are real. Their sorrow is real, their joy is real.

“So we dispense justice, we do our work, we bring comfort to our people. We simply do not forget that all of it is made of air.

“That is to say, we perform our karma, and we are not bound by it.”

I said, “Dasura, this is something I have needed to think through for many years.”

“Vasishtha, now you know it.”

I bowed to Dasura again. “Dasura, one more question. Why do you sit in the tree? Why not on the ground?”

Dasura said, “Vasishtha, it is a small matter, but I will tell you.

“Sitting in the tree does one thing for me. I stay a little apart from the ground. I look at the ground, but my looking comes from above.

“This matters to me, because it keeps my sense of who I am from being tied to the ground.

“But this is only my way, and everyone has a way of his own. If you live on the ground, that is fine too. Only do not bind your sense of self to the ground. That is enough.”

Hearing this, the teaching settled deep inside me.

Many years later Dasura too passed on.

But his tree is still there. Some new ascetic sits in that tree, perhaps of his lineage.

To those who come, he tells the story of Khottha.

Rama asked, “Master, is the mind too made of air?”

“Rama, the mind is a king. It has a city, it has subjects. But all of it is made from its own consciousness. When consciousness rises above the mind, it sees that the mind’s city lies only within itself.

“There is no need to kill the mind. You need only go behind it and watch.”

Rama looked toward the water and asked, “Master, will I too one day sit in a kadamba tree?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, you have no need to sit in a tree. Your throne itself will be your tree. You will sit there, and you will watch, and you will hold a stillness within.

“Dasura’s tree was outside him. Your tree will be within you.”

Rama set this teaching firmly in his mind.

Outside, night had come down. Rama gave a yawn and asked, “Master, may I go?”

“Go.”

The two of them rose to their feet.

On the way Rama saw a kadamba tree, an enormous one.

Rama stopped for a moment to look at it and asked, “Master, is this Dasura’s tree?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, this is not his tree. But every kadamba now is a shadow of his tree.”

Rama bowed to the tree.

And the two of them walked on.