Gadhi’s Chandala Dream

The Saryu had sunk into night now, and the single lamp of a small temple nearby was burning, its light drawn out in a long line across the dark water.

Rama said, “Gurudev, ever since I heard the story of Lavana, a question has stayed in my mind.”

Vasishtha said, “Tell me, Rama.”

“Lavana lived a hundred years in a single night, and yet his identity stayed one and the same. Only his body changed, his life changed. But what if the identity itself were to change? If I woke tomorrow and felt that I was someone else, and I remembered that other man’s whole life, then who am I?”

Vasishtha looked at Rama and said, “Rama, this is a good question. There was once a brahmin named Gadhi. He asked this very question three times in his life, and each time the answer came to him from Vishnu. Each time the answer was the same, and each time it struck the brahmin as new again. Listen to this story.”

The bath

Gadhi was a brahmin.

His mud hut stood on the bank of a river. The river carried no great name; it was a hill-stream that came down from a distant mountain and ran toward the plains. Its source was snow, so the water stayed cold the year round.

Beside the hut lay a garden where turmeric and ginger grew, and there was a cow, and one old book that had come to him from his father. Beyond these he had no one. His wife had died of illness many years before, and he had no children.

Every morning he bathed in the river, offered water to the sun, recited his mantras, and then returned to his hut. This had been his habit for twenty years.

One day he was bathing in the river.

The water was cold as it always was. His legs stood knee-deep in it, his cupped hands were lifted toward the sun, and the mantras came from his lips in a low voice.

Then he took a dive.

Under the water he kept his eyes closed a while. The water was cold and still.

When he rose, he was not Gadhi.

A chandala life

Now he was a tiny child growing in a woman’s womb.

The woman was a chandala, an outcaste of the lowest rank, and her hut stood at the edge of the forest. Her body was thin and dark, and the marks of the earth stayed on her hands.

Gadhi was in her womb; this he now knew.

Time passed and he was born.

At birth came first the crying, then the warmth of his mother, and then his mother’s milk.

His body was very small and dark.

As he grew, he began to go hunting with his father, quarreled with his sister, and roamed about in the forest.

In this way five years of life went by, then ten, then fifteen, then twenty.

At the age of twenty he made friends with another young chandala man, and the two would go hunting together.

One day a snake bit that friend, and he died.

Gadhi built his friend’s pyre, set the fire, and wept a great deal.

At the age of thirty he married a chandala woman. She had some name or other, which he no longer recalls.

His wife gave him a son and a daughter. The household went on, the hunting went on, and in this way many years passed.

When he was forty, his aged parents died.

When he was fifty, his wife died of illness.

When he was sixty, his children were grown, married off, and settled in homes of their own.

And when he was seventy, he was left alone.

Now he began to wander. He left the forest, crossed the river, and went into another province.

After many days of wandering, one day he came near a city.

The city of Kir

The name of that city was Kir.

At the city gate stood an elephant draped in a covering of gold, and upon it lay a garland. Behind it stood the king’s men, and all the townsfolk had gathered.

Gadhi stopped and asked a man standing nearby, “What is happening?”

The man looked at him. His body was that of a chandala, his clothes were torn, and his hair was matted.

He said, “The king is no more, and now a new king is being chosen. Whomever the elephant garlands, he will become king.”

Gadhi went to the back of the crowd and stood there.

The elephant stood there a while, then swung its trunk and began to step, one pace after another, toward the crowd.

People began to draw back, for to come under an elephant was no safe thing.

The elephant lifted the garland in its trunk and moved straight toward Gadhi.

Gadhi was astonished. He was about to step aside when the elephant reached him first.

The elephant raised the garland and set it around Gadhi’s neck.

A silence fell over the crowd, then a stir rose, and the ministers came forward and cried, “Long live the king!”

Gadhi bent down and looked at his body and his plain chandala clothes. On his body were the old marks of the hunt, and around his wrist was tied that scrap of red cloth his wife had tied there many years before.

The minister came forward, bowed his head, and said, “Your Majesty, your name?”

Gadhi now remembered his chandala name. He gave that name, yet within him some voice was saying, Gadhi, you are Gadhi. But that voice was very faint and soon sank away.

The minister bowed and said, “Your Majesty, come. Royal robes, the royal signet ring, and the royal chambers are ready for you.”

Many people walked with Gadhi. They bathed him, dressed him in royal robes, and put fragrance on his body.

When he stood before the mirror, he saw himself in the form of a king. Yet within he was the same as before, a chandala who had spent fifteen years in the forest.

Eight years

Gadhi remained king for eight years.

He dispensed justice, kept the borders secure, and did many good works for his people. A daughter of a royal house became his wife, and royal children were born to him. The kingdom went on prospering.

The ministers around him called him “Your Majesty.” On his body now were royal robes, and his hands stayed clean, for servants bathed him every morning.

No memory of his chandala life stayed in his mind, except for those dreams that came to him now and then at night, in which he was in the forest with his father. At such times he would wake, his head feeling a little heavy, and then he would forget it all.

One thing he had noticed with care.

Whenever a chandala came into the royal court, a strange stirring rose within him and the face seemed familiar. But he kept this feeling to himself.

He never told his wife about his dreams, nor any minister. This matter stayed within him alone.

The old man

It was an afternoon in the eighth year.

An old brahmin came into the royal assembly. He had come from some other province, having heard of the king’s court. He looked at the king, and his face changed.

He said, “Your Majesty.”

Gadhi said, “Speak.”

“Your Majesty, I have come from a village in the north. Many years ago there was a chandala boy there, who had a sister and whose parents lived in the forest. I knew that boy, for my father lived near that village.”

The old man looked toward Gadhi.

“Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but you look like that very boy.”

In the royal assembly all fell silent.

The minister said at once, “Old man, you speak wrongly. His Majesty is of a brahmin lineage.”

The old man bowed and said, “Forgive me, minister. I may be mistaken, but there is one thing.”

The minister said, “What thing?”

“On that boy’s right temple was a scar from a childhood injury.”

The minister said, “His Majesty has a scar on his temple too, but what does that prove? Many people have scars on their temples.”

The old man bowed and said, “My apologies, minister.”

Gadhi looked at the old man, whose eyes were saying something quite different.

Gadhi said, “Old man, was there any other mark by which that boy could be known?”

The old man thought and said, “Your Majesty, on his left elbow was the tattoo of an arrow. The chandala people made such a tattoo on the arms of their children, one that grew fainter as the years passed.”

Gadhi looked at his own left elbow. He knew that the arrow tattoo was there, faded far, yet present.

Gadhi looked toward the minister and said, “Minister, dismiss this assembly now. I must be alone for a while.”

The minister bowed, the court was ended, and the old man went away as well.

Night

At night Gadhi sat in his chamber.

One after another came back to him his chandala name, his mother’s face, his father, his sisters, his first wife, and his children.

All of this was within him still.

For the first time he felt that he was two men, a king and a chandala, and both dwelled in one body.

He touched his elbow, and the tattoo was there.

He wondered whether it was real or something his mind had made. But he could touch it with his finger, so how could it be something merely made?

In the morning he sent for the old man.

Gadhi said, “Old man, were you telling the truth?”

The old man bowed and said, “Your Majesty, my eyes have grown old, but the boy I once knew had on his face that same small scar on the right temple that you have. And the same tattoo. And one thing more.”

Gadhi said, “What?”

“That boy had a particular laugh. He laughed out loud, so his laughter sounded a little harsh. Your Majesty, forgive me, but your laugh is just the same. I saw it yesterday, when you were saying something to the minister.”

The uprising

The word spread.

The ministers, the brahmins, and the royal priest gathered and held an inquiry. Some people from the north said too that this was the same boy who had left many years before.

With one voice they all said that if the king was a chandala, then it was a thing near impossible, and for a chandala to have sat on the throne all these years was a curse upon the kingdom.

Some brahmins were so troubled that they resolved to end their lives in the fire.

They said, “We will not live in a kingdom where a chandala is king. From our birth we have kept dharma. We ask for our last command, the fire.”

The royal priest himself came forward and said, “I too.”

In the center of the city a great pyre was built.

One after another, forty brahmins seated themselves upon it, and the fire was lit.

Gadhi watched all of this, and something within him broke. What broke in him was an old idea, the idea that a man’s identity is made by his caste.

When forty brahmins stood ready to die on account of a chandala king, Gadhi came to know how deep the notion of caste runs, and how hard it is to rise above it.

He thought that all of this was happening because of him. His identity, whatever it was, was so unbearable to these people that they would sooner die. Now it was not right for him to remain here.

His wife looked at him and said, “Your Majesty…”

Gadhi said, “I cannot bear this.”

“Your Majesty, all of this is a lie. You are of a brahmin lineage. Throw that old man out.”

Gadhi said, “No. The old man speaks the truth.”

His wife went still and said, “You?”

“Yes.”

“But…”

“Wife, for many years I kept this within me, and today it has come open. I am a chandala. This kingdom of mine was a wonder, but now it is at its end.”

Gadhi himself moved toward the pyre.

The minister stopped him and said, “Your Majesty, no.”

Gadhi said, “Do not stop me.”

Gadhi seated himself upon the pyre, and the fire touched him.

Waking

And at that very moment he rose up out of the dive.

It was the same river and the same cold water.

Gadhi opened his eyes and saw that he was standing in the middle of the river. His body was his own brahmin body, and the sun was still in the very place where it had been before the dive.

His breath was still rising and falling.

He looked at his palm; it was a brahmin’s palm, with no marks of the hunt on it and no burns from the fire.

He touched his temple. The small childhood scar was there still.

Then he looked at his left elbow, where there was no tattoo.

Gadhi came out of the river, returned to his hut, and sat down.

For a long while he could make no sense of it. Then he rose and said, “I must go.”

The first journey

Gadhi left his hut and set off toward the north.

He walked for many days, crossed mountains, crossed rivers, and at last came into a forest.

That forest seemed familiar.

As he went on he came upon a hut, its walls of mud and its roof laid with dry grass. Outside sat an old woman.

Gadhi looked at her. The old woman raised her eyes and said, “Son?”

There was recognition in her eyes, and a faint light came over her face.

She said, “Son, where were you?”

Gadhi stepped back and said, “Forgive me, Mother. I did not come here for anyone.”

The old woman said, “Forgive me, son. You look like my son, but he went away many years ago. A soothsayer had said that he was to become king of the city of Kir. After that no news of him ever reached us.”

For a moment Gadhi’s feet were fixed to the ground.

The old woman went on, “My son. He had a sister, who was married off. His father died, and I was left alone. Had my son stayed here, he would have been beside me, but he went off to Kir, and we never once heard what happened there.”

Gadhi opened his mouth, but no words came. Then he said, “Mother.”

The old woman said, “Speak, son.”

“How far is Kir?”

“Two days’ distance.”

“I will go there.”

“Why, son?”

“Only to see.”

The old woman asked, “Son, are you some relative of my son’s?”

Gadhi said, “Mother, I do not know.”

The old woman said, “Then go. Whatever you come to know, tell me of it.”

Gadhi reached Kir.

The city was just as he had seen it. The same gate, the same place of the elephant, and in the middle the same square.

He asked a citizen, “Brother, some years ago there was a king here, who…”

The citizen said, “The chandala one?”

Gadhi said, “Yes.”

“There was, yes. He ruled for eight years. Then it came out that he was a chandala. Many brahmins gave themselves to the fire, and the king too seated himself upon the pyre. After that our city was in mourning for a long time. Now there is a new king.”

Gadhi asked, “And the king’s family?”

“The queen and the children are with the royal house. They are cared for, but they no longer live in the palace.”

Gadhi turned back.

On the way back he thought that what he had seen in the dive was not only a dream. The mother is real, and she recognizes him. The city of Kir is real, and its history is the very one he had lived in that life of his.

So who was he, Gadhi the brahmin, or that chandala boy who became king of Kir? If he was Gadhi, then what was that life, and if he was the chandala, then what is this life?

He kept thinking, and just then a name came to him, Vishnu.

Before Vishnu

Gadhi began his tapas, a very hard austerity that would run for many years.

One day Vishnu appeared, four arms, yellow pitambara robes, and the discus in his hand.

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, speak.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, tell me one thing. In a single dive I lived a whole life. I became a chandala, became a king, then sat upon the pyre, then woke. Then I went to the place where I had seen my mother, and she was truly there. I saw the city, and it was there too. Everything is just as I saw it in the dream. So was that real, or is this real?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, all of that was of your mind.”

“But the mother?”

“She too was of your mind.”

“But I went there.”

“Your mind carried you there.”

“Then what I saw?”

“All of it your mind made.”

Gadhi did not understand, and said, “Lord, if all of it was of my mind, then that city?”

Vishnu said, “The city too was of your mind.”

“But there are other people there.”

“They too.”

Gadhi grew still more astonished and said, “Lord, how can this be?”

“Gadhi, it can be so because this is the very nature of consciousness. You will not understand it yet. Go, look again, and then come to me.”

Saying this, Vishnu vanished.

Gadhi returned, but the question stayed within him.

One thing about that darshan of Vishnu kept nagging at Gadhi. Vishnu’s laugh had not seemed real to him.

He felt that Vishnu had told him nothing great, only that “all of it is of your mind.” This he had known already and had heard many times before.

All night Gadhi sat thinking that Vishnu had put him off and had not given the full answer.

But after a while another thought came to him, that perhaps the answer had been whole after all, and only he had failed to understand it.

Sitting in his hut, Gadhi kept thinking this over for many days.

One night a dream came to him.

In the dream he was before Vishnu once again.

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, you have come back.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, but I am asleep.”

“Yes, and yet you have come back.”

Gadhi folded his hands and said, “Lord, tell me more.”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, listen. Earlier I said that all of it is of your mind. This is true, but it is incomplete. The whole truth is this: now tell me, where does your mind come from?”

Gadhi said, “Lord, I do not know.”

Vishnu said, “Think.”

Gadhi thought.

Gadhi said, “Lord, my mind comes from my consciousness.”

Vishnu said, “And consciousness?”

“It…”

Vishnu said, “Does it come from something else?”

Gadhi said, “No.”

“Then?”

“It is its own source.”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, now you are drawing near.”

Vishnu vanished, and Gadhi woke.

The dream had ended.

But Gadhi’s understanding had changed.

Now one thing was beginning to be clear to him, that his mind came from his consciousness, and his consciousness was its own source. So what he saw also came, on one level, from his own consciousness.

The second journey

Gadhi set out again, this time toward the south. Years went by.

He saw many villages and cities, and spoke with many people.

He met a woman who said, “Once I slept, and I felt that I was a bird. I lived a whole life as a bird, twenty years of it, and had young. Then I woke, and I was a woman still.”

He met a man who said, “One day I felt that I was a fish at the bottom of the sea. I was a fish for a thousand years, then a fisherman’s net caught me and I thrashed. Then I woke, and I was on my own mat, and morning had come.”

He met an old man who said, “Once I dreamed that I was king of some very great realm. A war came, I was defeated, and I was killed. Then I woke, and my wife was beside me. She asked why I had been crying out, and I said, nothing. But that defeat sat within me for many days.”

Gadhi heard all of this, and one thing began to make sense to him, though not fully.

He went to Vishnu again.

Vishnu said, “Speak, Gadhi.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, I have now heard the experiences of other people as well. They too have had experiences like mine.”

Vishnu said, “And?”

“And it seems to me that this truly happened. My chandala life, her life as a bird, his life as a fish, all of it truly happened, out there, in this world.”

Vishnu laughed and said, “Gadhi, all of it truly happened. But the difference you draw between ‘outside’ and ‘inside’ is itself a difference of your own mind. Your mind says that what is inside is a dream and what is outside is real. In truth the outside too is within. For consciousness there is no outside at all.”

Gadhi said, “But Lord…”

“Gadhi, hear more yet, then you will understand. Go.”

Gadhi returned, but there was no resolution within him yet.

Before Vishnu, a second time

On his second journey Gadhi saw a great deal and met many people. After many years he returned to Vishnu once more.

This time Vishnu was in a different form. The first time he had been four-armed, in yellow pitambara, the discus in his hand. This time he was in the form of a small brahmin, in plain clothes, holding only a staff.

Gadhi looked at him, but did not recognize him.

The brahmin said, “Gadhi.”

Gadhi said with a start, “You know me?”

“Yes. I am Vishnu.”

Gadhi folded his hands and said, “Lord, this form?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, I come in every form, a new form each time. The first time you saw me four-armed, now a small brahmin, and next time something else.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, I have one more question to ask.”

Vishnu said, “Ask.”

“Lord, if all of it is of my mind, then are you also?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, this is a very good question.”

Gadhi said, “Tell me.”

“Yes. On one level I too am of your mind. You are making me out of your own imagining.”

Gadhi paused and said, “Lord, how so?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, I exist, but how I appear to you is decided by your mind. If you thought of me as four-armed, I would look so, and if as a brahmin, then so. My true form lies beyond your imagining, yet for your eyes I am shaped by your own mind.”

Gadhi said, “And one more thing, Lord.”

Vishnu said, “What?”

“Lord, on my first journey I saw the chandala life, then went there in truth, and the two turned out to be one and the same. On my second journey I saw still more experiences, each person’s own. Now I am beginning to understand that experience and the outside are not separate.”

Vishnu said, “And?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, you are further along now than before, but one thing yet remains.”

Gadhi said, “What?”

“You had thought that experience comes from outside. Now you understand that experience is within as well. But there is a level too where no experience remains, only consciousness remains.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, how am I to know this?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, look at the emptiness between experiences. After every experience comes a small moment in which there is no experience. In that moment there is only you, you alone.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, one more question.”

Vishnu said, “Ask.”

“Are my chandala life and this life of mine of one and the same consciousness?”

Vishnu said, “Yes.”

“And the ministers of my life as king?”

“They too.”

“And my wife?”

“She too.”

“And my children?”

“They too.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, then how many are we?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, one.”

“But we appear separate.”

“The appearing is separate. The being is one.”

Saying this much, Vishnu vanished.

One more word from the chandala mother

Returning to his real hut, Gadhi did one thing.

After many years he went again to that chandala village in the north.

The old woman was no longer alive, as Gadhi had already known. But there he found a small girl, the old woman’s great-granddaughter.

Gadhi said, “Child, I knew your great-grandmother.”

The girl said, “Many years ago?”

Gadhi said, “Yes.”

The girl looked at Gadhi and said, “Baba, before she died my great-grandmother said one thing.”

Gadhi said, “What?”

“She said, tell my son, if he ever comes, that his mother has forgiven him.”

Gadhi stood still for a long while.

Then he said, “Child, I was that son.”

The girl said, “I know.”

Gadhi said, “How?”

“Baba, my great-grandmother described your face, a small scar on the right temple. Your face has that scar.”

Gadhi touched his temple.

He stayed silent a long while.

Then he said, “Child, what answer am I to give your great-grandmother?”

The girl thought and said, “Baba, my great-grandmother is gone now. But if she is somewhere, tell her within your own heart.”

Gadhi closed his eyes.

Gadhi said, “Mother.”

From within came the answer, “Son.” But it was a faint sound, and there was no knowing whether it was real or imagined.

Gadhi said, “Mother, forgiveness?”

“There was never any need for forgiveness, son.”

For the first time in many years, Gadhi’s tears flowed.

When he opened his eyes, the girl was watching him.

The girl said, “Baba, did you hear?”

Gadhi said, “Yes.”

The girl said, “Baba, this is a good thing.”

Gadhi took some grain from what he carried and gave it to the girl, and said, “Child, this is for you.”

The girl said, “Baba, thank you.”

Gadhi turned back.

On the way back, after many years, a peace settled within him.

The third journey

Gadhi made a third journey.

This time he went everywhere and listened to every story. Each person’s consciousness had a story of its own, each one had their own experiences, and each experience was true in its own way.

One day he sat on the bank of a river and saw his reflection, a tired old brahmin, yet carrying within him that same old question.

He asked his reflection, “Who am I?”

The reflection gave no answer.

Gadhi looked within himself.

Am I Gadhi? But Gadhi is a name, and a name cannot be me.

Am I a brahmin? But a brahmin is a caste, and a caste cannot be me.

Am I the body? But the body keeps changing. Once it was a chandala body, now it is a brahmin body. So what changes cannot be me.

Am I the mind? But the mind too keeps changing, happy one moment, sad the next. So what changes cannot be me.

One after another Gadhi let go of everything, and at last he reached a place where nothing changed, a still consciousness, the witness of every change.

He came to rest there and knew that this is what I am.

Now a new question rose within Gadhi, that if each person’s experience is true and everyone’s experiences are different, then is the truth one or many?

He went to Vishnu again.

Vishnu looked at him and said, “Here again, Gadhi.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, now tell me this, is the truth one or many?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, now listen closely, and this time understand.

“The truth is one, consciousness, only one. Yet this one consciousness can take countless forms, and each form is true in itself. You were a chandala, true. You were a king, true. You are Gadhi, true. These are all separate stories, but the root of them all is one.

“What you are searching for is a fixed truth that stands outside your experiences. There is no such truth. Your experiences themselves are the truth. But your consciousness lies behind all those experiences, and it is one.

“People say that this is true and that is false. But in truth every experience is a picture drawn by consciousness. A picture holds nothing real in itself. The one who paints it is real. Do not get caught on the picture; look at the painter.

“That painter is you. You are in every picture, you are in every story, you are in every life. Yet you are not bound in any one picture, any one story, or any one life.

“Until you recognize this truth, you will stay bound somewhere or other. The day you recognize it, all the stories will seem to you like play.”

This time Gadhi understood.

Gadhi said, “Lord, one question. Is my chandala mother still there in the forest?”

Vishnu said, “Yes, she is there. Your chandala wife’s grave is there too, and your children are in the kingdom.”

Gadhi said, “Then should I do something for them?”

“Gadhi, meet them and give them support; this is your duty. But do not bind yourself to them. You have come to know who you are.”

Gadhi bowed his head, and Vishnu vanished.

Gadhi sat for a long while. Within him, with every breath, a revelation was slowly opening.

I am the painter. The chandala was a picture of mine, the king was a picture of mine, and Gadhi too is a picture of mine. All three are mine, yet no one of the three is me. I am the light behind them all.

Before Vishnu, a third time

Gadhi’s third meeting with Vishnu came.

This time Vishnu was in the form of a woman, very beautiful, whose age could not be told and in whose eyes lay a steady depth.

Gadhi, astonished, said, “Lord?”

Vishnu said, “Yes, Gadhi. It is I.”

Gadhi said, “But…”

“Gadhi, a new form each time; this I had already told you.”

Gadhi folded his hands and said, “Lord, this time my question is different.”

Vishnu said, “Speak.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, I have understood that all is consciousness. But there is a small question, my death?”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, this is a very good question.”

Gadhi said, “Tell me.”

“Gadhi, death is the end of a form. Consciousness has no end. You are consciousness, and so you do not die.

“But your body dies, this form of yours dies. Then for a while you remain without a body, and then you pass into a new body.

“And you do not remember any of this. In the new body there is a new identity.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, can anything of my old body be remembered?”

Vishnu said, “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It depends on the learning you have gathered.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, I wish that in my next body something might be remembered.”

Vishnu said, “Why?”

“Because in this life I have learned a great deal. I do not wish to have to learn it all over again.”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, this is a good wish. But what truly carries over is a faint tendency, something quieter than words.

“In your next body you will not remember the words of this life, yet a tendency will remain.

“That tendency will be this: that truth lies within. That same tendency will carry you onward.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, this is enough.”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, one more thing.”

Gadhi said, “Speak.”

“Now return to your kingdom. But that kingdom is no longer yours. You are only an ascetic who lives within a kingdom.”

Gadhi said, “Lord, I have no kingdom. I am a brahmin.”

Vishnu said, “Gadhi, you still have a kingdom. Your hut, your books, your old habits, that too is a kingdom.”

Gadhi bowed his head.

Vishnu vanished.

One more meeting

Many years later Gadhi had grown very old.

One day a young man came to his hut and said, “Baba, I have heard a great deal about you.”

Gadhi said, “What have you heard?”

The young man said, “Baba, I have heard that you lived three lives, a whole life in a single dive.”

Gadhi said, “Son, that is a very old matter.”

The young man said, “Baba, tell me one thing.”

Gadhi said, “What?”

The young man said, “Baba, is life truly a dream?”

Gadhi said, “Son, this question was the greatest question of my life.”

The young man said, “And the answer?”

Gadhi said, “Son, the answer is not a single one.”

Gadhi gestured to the young man to sit.

The young man sat down.

Gadhi said, “Son, if I said that life is a dream, what would you do?”

The young man said, “Perhaps I would not take it seriously.”

Gadhi said, “And if I said that life is real, then?”

“Perhaps I would take it very seriously.”

Gadhi said, “Son, both are wrong.”

The young man said, “Then?”

Gadhi said, “Son, life is a dream and it is also real, both at once.”

The young man said, “Baba, this is hard.”

Gadhi said, “Yes.”

The young man said, “Baba, may I ask something?”

Gadhi said, “Speak.”

“Is there a path for me?”

Gadhi said, “Son, yes, there is a path.”

The young man said, “What?”

Gadhi said, “Son, when you are doing something, sink into it fully, as though it were real. But when you are doing nothing, look at it as though it were a dream. Both at once.”

The young man said, “Baba, give me an example.”

Gadhi said, “Son, if you are in a battle, wield your sword with all your strength, as though it were real and your enemy were real.

“But after the battle look at your body, your wounds, your fear, your weariness, and see these as though they were a dream. Once a night has passed, they will go.”

The young man said, “And in love?”

Gadhi said, “Son, in love, love your beloved fully, as though the love were real and would last forever.

“But when you sit alone, look at your love, its limits, its intensity, and see these as though they were a dream. They keep changing.”

The young man said, “Baba, this is settling in me.”

Gadhi said, “Son, it takes many years for this to settle. But you have made a beginning.”

The young man bowed low and said, “Baba, thank you.”

Gadhi said, “No, son. You asked me; that is your courage.”

The young man went away, and Gadhi sat silent a while.

Outside, the sun was setting.

Gadhi thought, “My life too is a story. And who is the one listening to this story?”

Gadhi looked within himself, where there was a steady presence.

“You.”

The return

Gadhi rose and walked toward the north. This time he made no haste.

After many days he reached that same hut.

The old woman had grown older still. She looked at Gadhi and said, “Son.”

Gadhi bowed his head and said, “Mother.”

The old woman said, “What are you telling me now?”

Gadhi said, “Mother, I was your son. But now I am something more than that as well.”

The old woman said, “Son, I do not understand. But you are here beside me, and that is enough.”

Gadhi stayed there some days and served the old woman. He cooked for her, brought water, and talked with her.

Then one day the old woman died peacefully in Gadhi’s lap.

Gadhi buried her on the bank of the river.

Then he went to Kir and met his children. He told his children nothing very great, but the children came to know that their father was no longer the one he had been before.

The children were with the royal house and were being cared for.

Gadhi gave them support, but did not stay to live with them.

Then Gadhi returned to his hut and spent the rest of his life in tapasya.

But now his tapasya rose from the answer he had found. The answer had come, and the tapasya was only the practice of recognizing that answer again and again.

Rama said, “Gurudev, so when something like this happens to me, will I also…”

Vasishtha said, “No, Rama. What happened to Gadhi may never happen to you. Your story is different. But you too will one day know that you are the painter. That day comes for everyone; only the story of it differs.”

Rama looked toward the water, where the temple lamp was still burning.

Rama said, “Gurudev, am I in someone else’s dream?”

Vasishtha laughed and said, “Rama, keep this question with you. The answer will come in its own time.”

Rama said, “Gurudev, the matter of Gadhi’s chandala mother touched me very deeply within.”

Vasishtha said, “Why?”

Rama said, “She remembered her son for many years, and at her death she left behind a small message, one of forgiveness. And yet that son had no real experience of her. For the son that mother was only the story of a single dive, but for the mother the son was real.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, understand this. Every relationship is on one level real and on one level a dream. For the son the chandala mother was the experience of a dive, and for the mother the chandala son was a life of many years. Both are true, both at once.”

Rama looked toward the water a long while.

Then he said, “Gurudev, many people will come into my life, and for each one I will be different. A son to my mother, a husband to my wife, a king to my people. Yet within I am one and the same.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, you speak truly.”

Rama said, “And like Gadhi, I can enter each role fully, yet within I will remain the same.”

Vasishtha said, “Exactly.”

The temple lamp was still burning, and Rama looked at it.

Rama said, “Gurudev, that lamp too must exist in many forms. Someone takes it for a spiritual practice, someone for mere light. But the lamp is one.”

Vasishtha laughed and said, “Exactly, Rama. Keep this question with you. The answer will come in its own time.”