Hetuka’s City of Magic

Rama asked, “Gurudev, can a magician forget his own magic?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, listen to the story of a magician named Hetuka. He built an entire city, then went to live inside it himself, and after some time he forgot that he had come from somewhere else. At one level, this is the story of all of us.”

Solitude

Hetuka was a magician, and he lived alone on the slope of an old mountain.

That slope was very ordinary.

Rough, broken stone, a little grass here and there, a waterfall, and a cave in which Hetuka lived. For many years he lived like this.

Hetuka held a very old knowledge.

He had learned this knowledge many years earlier from a guru who was no longer alive. With it he could shape things out of his own imagination.

But until now he had never used it, because his guru had forbidden it.

The guru had said, “Hetuka, this knowledge is dangerous. If you begin to create with it, you can become trapped inside your own creation. Many seekers have been trapped this way. I am teaching you this knowledge only so that you know of it. But do not use it.”

Hetuka agreed, and for many years he did not use it.

But one day a thought rose in him. I am so alone, with no one to talk to, no one to look at.

If I build a city with my knowledge, perhaps I will find companions.

He remembered his guru’s words, and set them aside.

He thought, “What Gurudev said was his own affair. I am different. I will not be trapped.”

The City

Hetuka set his maya in motion. He closed his eyes, let his imagination run free, and moved his hands.

First a light appeared before him, then a stirring.

And then a city came into view.

That city was no ordinary one. It had high walls, and guards upon them. Its market held shops where goods of every kind were being sold. There were temples for every god, a great palace at the center, and lanes spreading out in every direction.

Hetuka pushed his imagination further.

A king, ministers, brahmins, merchants, artisans, common folk. Thousands of people filled the city.

Each of them had a face of his own. The king was a large, imposing man, with a long beard and sharp eyes. The ministers were old, white-haired, and slow on their feet. The merchants were stout, an account always in their hands, while the artisans were lean, some task always in theirs. And the rest of the people were ordinary, each absorbed in his own work.

Hetuka poured life into the city. People woke in the morning, worked, returned home in the evening, and slept at night. The market stayed busy, bells rang in the temples, and the court gathered in the palace.

But the city held certain things that do not occur in real cities.

In the middle of the market stood a shop that changed its place every day. Some days in the eastern corner, some days near the west, some days facing the temple. Anyone searching for it walked a new route each day. The shopkeeper was old. He sold every customer the same single thing, yet for each customer that thing was different. For one it was cloth, for another lentils, for another some small idol. But the price was the same for all, one copper coin.

At the center of the royal palace was a chamber no one entered, its door always shut. Inside that chamber, the servants said, stood a small royal palace, a miniature of the palace itself. And inside that small palace was another shut chamber, and inside it another smaller palace, and so on and on.

One temple bell rang out before it was struck. Every priest knew this. They would stand near the bell, hear its echo, then strike it. But if anyone struck the bell without first hearing that echo, no sound came at all.

At one bend of the river the water flowed in two directions, one current to the north and one to the south, both at the same moment. Women drew water in the middle. They had to take a little from each current, because water drawn from only one grew heavy in the pot, and the pot would break.

On the northern wall of the city lived a painter. He would make a painting, finish it whole, then mount it on the wall. But the next day the painting had changed. The people in it had grown older, the trees in it had grown taller, and the clouds in it had grown smaller. The painter had watched this happen thousands of times, and he had no way to stop it. He simply went each morning and watched his paintings change.

The people of the city lived alongside all of these things. To them such things were ordinary, because this was all they had ever known.

When a stranger came into the city he would stop short, and many questions would rise in him. But the people would reassure him, “Brother, this is simply how it is here. You will get used to it.”

(But strangers never truly came into the city at all, because the city lay inside Hetuka’s imagination. How could anyone come from outside? Yet Hetuka had shaped strangers too within his imagination, because a city stayed incomplete without them.)

Hetuka himself took a form within that city.

He became the king of that city. That king’s name was not Hetuka, it was some other name, yet within, he was Hetuka still.

Dwelling

Hetuka began to live in the city as its king.

For the first few days he enjoyed it.

The role of a king, sitting in court, hearing his people, dispensing justice. Many servants attended him, and many ministers sought his counsel.

Many women became his wives. In this way many years passed.

Forgetting

Slowly something began to happen to Hetuka. He forgot that he himself had made this city.

At first it would come back to him now and then, a faint stirring rising as he lay down to sleep at night.

He would feel it. I was someone else, somewhere else, on a mountain, in a cave. But by the time morning came, the affairs of the kingdom made him forget it again.

Then even that stirring grew fainter, and one day it vanished entirely.

Now Hetuka came to feel that this city was real, these people were real, these ministers were real, and that he was the king of this city.

Hetuka ran the kingdom, dispensed justice, spoke with his people. But now he no longer remembered that all of this was his own maya.

The Years

Many years passed.

Hetuka had children, the children grew up, and he arranged their marriages. Hetuka himself grew old.

The kingdom spread far and wide, because Hetuka was a good king, one who dealt justly and thought of his people.

People would say, “We have never seen a king like Maharaj Hetuka.”

Hetuka was pleased to hear it. That old life in the hut was very far away now, and no trace remained of his true identity.

Life in the City

Life flowed on in King Hetuka’s city.

As soon as morning came the markets opened and merchants set out their shops, where vegetables, fruit, cloth, and jewelry were sold.

Women came to the river to fill their pots and talked among themselves. Men went to the fields, and with them the children who were to learn farming. In the temple the priests rang the bells and performed the worship, and the people came for darshan.

At midday the city fell quiet and the people were in their homes.

In the evening the markets opened again, people came and went, and children played.

And as soon as night fell the city went to sleep.

All of this went on for many years.

But there was one small thing.

The people of the city would sometimes feel a strange sensation, as though they were not real, as though someone else were watching them, as though somewhere there was a controller of their lives.

But this feeling was very faint, coming and going, and no one dwelt on it much.

There was only one old woman, who came each day to the river for water. Once she said to her friend, “Sister, I think we are all someone’s dream.”

Her friend laughed and said, “You silly thing. We are real.”

The old woman said only, “Perhaps.” But within, she knew.

She said nothing more to her friend, but deep within she kept thinking.

One day she died. Her eyes were open as she died, and she said to herself, “I was not real, but my love was real.”

And she was gone.

The Arrival

One day an ascetic came into that city.

The ascetic was old, his body thin and his eyes keen. He looked at the city, looked at its people, and heard about the king.

The ascetic reached the gate of the royal palace and called out, “Hetuka.”

The guards came and said, “Sir, our king’s name is not Hetuka.”

The ascetic said, “Call him. I wish to meet him.”

The guards, startled, said, “But sir…”

The ascetic said again, “Call him.”

The guards went inside and told the king, “Your Majesty, an old ascetic has come who wishes to meet you. But he calls you by some other name.”

The king asked, “Some other name? What name?”

The guards said, “Hetuka.”

At this a stirring rose within the king, as if some very old voice had returned from somewhere.

The king said, “Bring him in.”

The ascetic entered the royal palace. The king looked at him, and the ascetic looked at the king.

The ascetic called out, “Hetuka.”

The king said, “My name is not Hetuka. My name is…” and the king spoke his name. But this time, as he said his own name, he felt a strange catch in it.

The ascetic said, “Hetuka, you have forgotten.”

Startled, the king asked, “Forgotten what?”

The ascetic said, “That this city is your maya.”

The king asked, “What do you mean?”

The ascetic spoke.

The ascetic said, “Hetuka, look within yourself. You are a magician. All of this you conjured. The king is a role, and you are the magician beneath it.”

The king looked toward his ministers, who said in bewilderment, “Your Majesty, what is this old man saying?”

The king stopped them. “Wait. Let me listen.”

Then the king turned toward the ascetic. “Old one, say more.”

The ascetic said, “Hetuka, you lived in a cave on the slope of a mountain, and you were very alone. One day you built this city with your maya, then you went to live in this very city, and then you forgot that you were the one who had made it.

“I was your guru, many years ago. I taught you this knowledge, but I forbade you to use it. You did not heed me.

“Now I have come to remind you.”

For a long while the king kept looking at the ascetic.

A stirring was moving within him.

Old memories were returning.

Remembering

The first image surfaced. A small cave, a waterfall nearby, and an old mountain.

The second image. An ascetic, the very ascetic who now stood before him, but from long ago. He was saying, “Hetuka, this knowledge is dangerous.”

The third image. A night when he had thought, “I am alone. I will build a city.”

The king closed his eyes.

Slowly it all began to come back. The mountain slope, that solitude, that magic, the making of the city, the becoming of a king, the coming of children, and the running of a kingdom.

The king opened his eyes and was silent for a while. Then he said, “Ascetic, thank you.”

The ascetic said, “What need is there for thanks? You were remembering on your own. I only gave a push.”

The Decision

The king turned toward his ministers. “Ministers, I have something to tell you.”

The ministers, startled, said, “Speak, Your Majesty.”

The king said, “This city is my own creation. All of this, all of you, are my imagination.”

The ministers laughed and said, “Your Majesty, what jest is this?”

The king said, “This is no jest.”

The ministers said, “But Your Majesty, we are real. We think, we work, we live.”

The king said, “Yes, and all of it lies within my imagination. I made this city many years ago, then I forgot, and now it is coming back to me.”

The ministers looked at one another.

The king said, “I will now return to my true body.”

The ministers said, “Your Majesty, but what of us?”

The king thought for a while.

Then he said, “Ministers, you will not fully understand this, but I will try. You are of my imagination, and at one level you are also your own. You have formed your own experiences, you have stories of your own.

“When I return to my true body, this city will linger on for some time of its own, perhaps for many years.

“But one day it too will fade, because without my imagination it cannot last.

“Until then, live your stories. Forgive me that I made all of this, and now leave it half-finished.”

The ministers bowed their heads. That bewilderment was gone from their faces now; an understanding had taken its place. Perhaps they too, at some level, had known that they were of someone else’s imagination.

The king looked out beyond his body.

The Return

The city was still there, but now he knew it was maya. The king moved his hands.

The city began to grow faint.

The wandering shop of the market was the first to grow faint. Its old shopkeeper returned the last coin to his customer and grew faint himself. The customer paused a moment, then he too grew faint.

The shut chamber at the center of the royal palace opened. The small palace inside it grew faint, and the smaller chamber within that as well. One after another, each inner palace grew faint and drew the next along with it. And the last palace, so small that perhaps no one could ever have measured it, grew faint too.

The temple bell rang out one last time. But this time the echo came after the striking. For all its years the echo had come before; now it came after. The priests froze, because they had never heard this bell’s after-echo. But that was its final echo.

At the bend of the river the two currents stopped. In the middle the water held still for a moment, then grew faint, then dissolved into the air.

The painter stood beside his last painting. Before his eyes the people in it grew older, then died, then grew faint. The painter said softly, “Many years of work, gone in a single moment.” Then he too grew faint.

The walls turned transparent and the people began to blur.

Hetuka’s consciousness returned toward his true body.

When he opened his eyes, he was in his cave on the mountain slope, alone.

His body had grown very old. His hair was all white and his face lined with wrinkles, yet the body was still alive.

Outside stood the ascetic.

Hetuka said, “Gurudev.”

The ascetic asked, “You have come back? What did you learn?”

Hetuka said, “Gurudev, I learned the greatest danger of maya. That it shows us falsehood, everyone knows. Its greatest danger lies elsewhere: once we have made it, we forget ourselves within it.”

The ascetic said, “Hetuka, this is the very thing I wanted to tell you many years ago, but you did not understand it then.”

Hetuka said, “Gurudev, now I understand.”

The ascetic said, “Hetuka, you are very fortunate. Many seekers become trapped in their imaginings and die there. You came back.”

Hetuka said, “Gurudev, you were my fortune. Had you not come, I would have died inside the city.”

The ascetic asked, “Hetuka, what now?”

Hetuka thought and said, “Gurudev, I will stay here now, and I will not shape maya. I will simply dwell in my own consciousness.”

The ascetic asked, “Alone?”

Hetuka said, “Alone. But I no longer fear solitude. I have come to know what solitude is. It is only a notion I hold. If I dwell in my own consciousness, I am never alone.”

The ascetic agreed.

Then the ascetic said, “Hetuka, one more thing. Your city is still somewhere, perhaps in a weakened form. But there are people there whom you made, and they have stories of their own.”

Hetuka asked, “What should I do?”

The ascetic said, “Let them go. Without your imagination they will slowly fade. But you cannot wipe them out by force, because this is their story.”

Hetuka agreed.

The ascetic went away.

Hetuka lived in his cave for many years, without making anything.

Sometimes at night the old kingdom came back to him, his people, his ministers, his wives, his children. But now the memory no longer pulled at him; it simply remained a memory.

Many years later, Hetuka left his body in peace.

His hut stood there for many years, then it too vanished. But the story remained. People would say, “There was a magician, Hetuka. He built a city, then became trapped inside it, then came back.

“This is the story of all of us. We all live inside our own imaginings, we only do not know it.”

Rama asked, “Gurudev, have I too forgotten my own maya?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, we have all forgotten. We have become trapped in our own story. This tapas is for exactly this, to bring the memory back.”

Rama looked toward the water and asked, “Gurudev, will an ascetic come for me too?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, for you I have come. I am your Hetuka’s guru. Only, you are a king, where Hetuka was a magician, and your story runs a different course.

“But the essential point is the same. The world you are in is a form of your own consciousness. Once this settles inside you, your world will remain as it is, and yet within it you will become different.”

Rama agreed.

Rama then said, “Gurudev, there is one more thing in Hetuka’s story.”

Vasishtha asked, “What?”

Rama said, “Hetuka fathered many children by a queen in his city. What became of those children?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, a good question. When Hetuka’s consciousness returned from the city, those children too grew faint. They arose from Hetuka’s imagination alone, from no other consciousness. Once Hetuka’s imagination was gone, they were gone too.”

Rama thought for a while and said, “Gurudev, this is strange, because those children were conscious in themselves, and yet they came to an end.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, this matter runs deep, and many seekers ponder it. But understand one thing. The consciousness of those children went nowhere. Only their forms departed. Consciousness is one and the same for everyone. The children’s consciousness was Hetuka’s own consciousness, and Hetuka’s consciousness exists even now.”

Rama said, “Gurudev, I do not fully grasp this.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, this comes to be understood only after many years.”

Rama was silent for a while.

Then Rama asked, “Gurudev, one more question. The people of Hetuka’s city who grew faint, did they know?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, some of them knew.”

Rama asked, “Which ones?”

Vasishtha said, “The ones whose eyes were open.”

Rama asked, “Meaning?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, that old woman who understood before she died, I told you her story. She had come to know that she was of someone’s imagination, and she departed with that very knowledge. Perhaps because of this her consciousness was lightened. But the rest of the people did not know.”

Rama said, “Gurudev, there is a lesson in this for me. If I too am of someone’s imagination, then I should come to know it soon.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, you are on the road to knowing.”

Rama looked toward the water.

Then Rama asked, “Gurudev, when I become king, the people of my kingdom, will they too be of my imagination?”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, here the matter is a little different. The people of your kingdom will not be of anyone else’s imagination. They will have consciousnesses of their own. But the shape of your kingdom, its structure, its moral order, these will be formed by your thinking. Whatever you think, that is what will come to be.”

Rama said, “Gurudev, this is a very great responsibility.”

Vasishtha said, “Yes.”

The two of them were silent for a while.

Then Rama said, “Gurudev, I feel afraid.”

Vasishtha asked, “Why?”

Rama said, “Because it is my thinking that will shape the lives of my people.”

Vasishtha said, “Rama, this fear is good, it will keep you careful. But not too much fear, because fear weakens decisions. Only enough fear that you make your decisions with thought and understanding.”

Rama then asked, “Gurudev, what should my thinking be like?”

Vasishtha thought for a while and said, “Rama, let there be compassion in your thinking, justice, and truth. If these three are present, your kingdom will be a good one.”

Rama said, “I will hold all three.”

Vasishtha said, “Very good, Rama.”

Outside, night had come on, and a light yawn came to Rama.

The two of them rose and started toward home.

On the way Rama said, “Gurudev, Hetuka’s story is a warning for me.”

Vasishtha asked, “What warning?”

Rama said, “Do not become trapped in your own city.”

Vasishtha said, “A very fine understanding.”

Until they reached home, the two of them stayed silent.