Lila and Padma: A King’s Death, a Queen’s Journey

The moon was climbing now over the Sarayu. Rama and Vasistha had returned only a little while before, a lamp in hand whose flame trembled in the wind and yet would not die. From somewhere behind them came the long call of a cricket, and far off an old woman was calling her grandson home.

Rama looked toward the water, then turned to Vasistha. “Gurudeva, when we love someone deeply, do we truly also fear? What I mean is, does a fear always sit inside love, that the one who is so dear to us might one day be gone?”

A depth settled into Vasistha’s eyes, as though something large rested beneath the smile. He asked, “Rama, where has this question come from inside you?”

“This afternoon Mother Kausalya looked at me and wept for no reason. I asked her why, and she said, nothing, I am only looking at you. Then she said, sometimes I am afraid you will go far away from Ayodhya. I laughed and said, Mother, where would I go. But the fear in her eyes was something larger than the fear of my leaving. I have been carrying it inside me ever since.”

Vasistha held his palm near the lamp’s flame and said, “Rama, in every woman who loves someone there comes a night when she watches her love sleeping and feels that if this breath were to stop, she too would stop. That fear is real. And how a person crosses beyond that fear, a certain queen once learned. Her name was Lila, and her husband’s name was Padma.”

Rama sat down. The water’s current was slow.

Vasistha said, “Lila’s story is among the strangest of all stories, Rama. It reaches far past a queen’s love. It is the story of a world within the world, and the story of a question that has no single answer. Listen with patience. Many things will come that will not fit on the first hearing, but by the end they will all settle into their places.”

“I will listen,” Rama said.

Padma and Lila

Padma was a king. The name of his kingdom appears many times in the old tellings, but we will not speak it here. Naming is not the point of this story. This is the story of a kingdom that was bound to no kingdom.

Padma was tall, broad-shouldered, and in his black beard, below the temple, ran a thin white line that made him look a little younger than middle age. His eyes were brown and deep, and his smile came slowly, as though he weighed each smile a moment before sending it. When he listened to someone, the fingers of his right hand would tap lightly on the gold band at his wrist, and this was the sound of his thinking.

Lila was a queen, though many years before she had been no queen but the princess of a small country in the south. When Padma’s proposal came, she thought for three nights and ate nothing for three days. Padma was not on her mind, nor was any man. She feared affairs of state, she feared royal palaces, and most of all she feared that one day she would be called someone’s wife and would not know to whom she had given her heart.

But when she first met Padma, she watched her fear leave her slowly. She was sitting alone on the verandah of a temple, and before he sat down Padma had asked her permission. This small thing Lila never forgot her whole life. Padma sat, and after a while of silence he said, “I have come only to tell you this. Even if you do not wish to come with me, I will still count you my friend. My proposal is no chain.”

Lila looked at him and laughed a laugh that held relief. “I want to come,” she said.

By the time this story begins, fifteen years of their marriage had passed. They had no children, and between them this was a quiet hush to which they had both grown so accustomed that they had set its ache away somewhere inside, and that ache had become a hidden color of their love, without a name.

In fifteen years they had learned each other’s every habit. When Padma was weighing a hard decision, he would turn his pillow twice as he lay down at night, and when Lila was very happy, she would twist one of her bangles, the one that was a little loose. Padma knew which flower Lila liked, and Lila knew that Padma drank water in the last watch of the night. Lila also knew that when Padma stayed silent after hearing a minister, he disagreed. Words were not needed.

Their love was not built of many words; they were quiet most of the time. But in that quiet a home had been made where they both sat at ease.

Lila had a bangle her mother had given her on the day of her wedding. It was old and a little loose, and it slid about on her wrist. Padma had once asked, “Why do you keep it? It is loose. Shall I have a new one made?”

Lila said, “No. My mother gave it to me. It is loose, and that is its beauty. When I move my hand, it chimes, and I remember my mother.”

After that, many times Padma heard the soft sound of that bangle near Lila, and each time he remembered how his wife kept her mother alive within her.

Midnight

One night Lila could not sleep.

More than half the night had passed. Padma lay beside her on his back, his left hand resting on his chest, his breath long and even. Outside, the branch of an old oleander rubbed against the window in a very soft note, like something playing gently.

Lila watched him for a long while.

The moon was half full, and its light slipped through the window onto Padma’s brow. That thin line of age at the center of his forehead showed more clearly in the moonlight. His lips were slightly parted, as if in a dream he wanted to say something and the words would not come, and his chest rose and fell slowly.

And suddenly a hollow fear rose inside Lila.

This fear had come from nowhere. There was no nightmare, no sign of illness, no sound from outside. The fear simply made its place, like a cold that settles somewhere inside the chest.

What if Padma’s breath were to stop tomorrow?

Lila shook her head, wanting to throw the thought off. It was an absurd thought. But it did not go.

If not tomorrow, then the day after? Five years from now? Ten years from now?

Lila held her palm near Padma’s chest, without touching. The faint air of his breath fell on her palm, and it was warm.

One day this warm air would not be here. One day this chest would not rise and fall. One day this sleeping face would be cold.

Lila sat up. Her heart was running very fast. She pressed her hands to her chest and drew a long breath, but her heart did not quiet.

Outside the window the oleander branch was still rubbing.

Lila thought, this happens to everyone. Every wife, every husband, every son, every mother. Every love has its end. This is the truth.

But this thought did not settle inside her. Her body did not like this truth, and her bones were refusing it.

She looked toward Padma. He was sleeping just as before, breathing, alive.

Lila touched her hair-knot, and a bangle chimed softly, the one from her mother. The night was very long.

Lila looked inside herself. She knew this was no ordinary fear. This is the fear that everyone meets at some point in life, and everyone runs from it, ignores it, and takes up one task or another to save themselves.

Lila resolved within herself, I will not run.

When morning came, Lila had reached a decision. But she told no one of it, because it was not a thing to be told.

Padma had sensed something. Three days later he asked, “Lila, are you well?”

“Yes.”

“It feels to me that something is there. Tell me.”

Lila laughed softly and said, “Maharaj, women have certain fears that have no name. You attend to your affairs of state. My fears I will manage on my own.”

There was something in Padma’s eyes that Lila had not seen before. He said, “If you wish to speak, I will listen.”

“I know that.”

“But you are not speaking.”

“No.”

Padma asked no more.

This was a rule of their love, that they gave each other room. This room sometimes turned into solitude, but they both knew that without it the love could not have grown old.

Waiting for Saraswati

That very night Lila began her tapas.

She chose Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, goddess of that inner speech that runs always within, the source of the silence out of which words come. Why Lila chose Saraswati she herself did not know. She only felt that if anyone could answer this fear, it would be the one who lives on the threshold between speech and silence, and not Vishnu, not Shiva, not Brahma.

In the palace she chose a chamber for herself that opened toward the garden at the back. In it there was only a mat, a clay pot of water, and a low seat. There was one window through which moonlight came in all night long.

As soon as night fell she would go into the chamber, sit, close her eyes, and begin the mantra.

The first ten nights were hard.

The mind ran off, all sorts of things came. The day’s tasks came back, Padma came back, his eyes came back, and those old days came back when Lila’s parents were alive and had once set her on a swing.

Lila brought the mind back again and again, but the mind was mischievous, like a small child. Each time she returned it to the same place, it ran off to another.

One night she said to the mind, “Run. I will watch.”

And she let the mind go, did not stop its running, only kept watching. The mind ran, and ran hard. Then a time came when the mind grew tired.

On the twentieth night something changed inside her.

The mantra had first come from outside; now it began to come from within. She had not learned this; it settled inside her on its own. The mantra was now a note that sounded within the body.

When she went about affairs of state in the daytime, a faint note still sounded somewhere inside, while she spoke with a minister, while she heard the people, while she sat beside Padma.

Padma had once asked, “Lila, you seem somehow changed.”

Lila said, “Maharaj, it is only age. We all change.” But there was curiosity in Padma’s eyes.

On the fiftieth night she felt a light within her.

Her eyes were closed, and yet there was an inner light, white and soft, that spread slowly. It began as a small point at the center of her chest, then rose to the throat, then to the brow, then through the whole body.

Lila neither stopped it nor tried to hold it. It came, it stayed, it went.

From the outside her body was still, within was a festival. But the festival was calm, with nothing theatrical about it.

On the eightieth night that light steadied.

Lila sat in the chamber with her eyes closed, and the light inside had filled her so fully that now it was spreading beyond the body as well. The air of the chamber had changed.

And on the hundredth night someone called out in her chamber, “Lila.”

Lila opened her eyes. A woman was standing in the chamber.

She was plain. A very simple white sari, a small necklace of moonstone in her hair, and in her hand a vina that rested on her shoulder. Her face was such that even looking at it Lila could not quite see it, because it changed every moment, now that of an old woman, now that of a little girl, now that of a mother, now that of a princess. But in every form the eyes were the same, clear, with no floor to them.

“Devi,” Lila said in a trembling voice.

Saraswati laughed, and it was a laugh that the chest heard, not the ears. She said, “Daughter, you have called me for a hundred nights. I have come. Speak.”

Lila rose from her place, then sat, then rose again, and folded her hands.

“Devi, I want a boon.”

“Which one?”

Lila held her breath a moment and said, “Padma is my husband. I love him deeply. I do not ask that he be immortal, that is not possible, I know. But I ask this. When he goes before me, let his soul not leave this chamber of mine. Let it stay here, near me.”

Saraswati looked at her for a long while, then asked, “Daughter, do you know what it is to ask for this boon?”

“No.”

“To ask this boon carries a risk, and the risk falls on him. When the soul leaves the body, it has its own paths. If you hold it here, it will stay, but without a body. A soul without a body has a world of its own, in which it weaves its own story. You will not see that story, except when you walk into it with me.”

Lila said, “I want this boon.”

“Daughter.”

“Devi.”

Saraswati went on, “One more thing. This boon does not come to you alone. Before you, another woman asked for this very boon. Her name I will tell you later. When that woman’s husband too departed, his being stayed here, and your husband’s being will stay here as well. But you must know that you are not the first. This is no extraordinary boon. It comes to those who ask.”

Lila was silent a while, then said, “Devi, if someone asked before, what became of her?”

Saraswati laughed and said, “That I will tell you further on. For now let me say one thing. Daughter, take the boon, but keep watch. To hold a soul in the world comes with rules of its own. You will have to see much that ordinary eyes do not see. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Saraswati plucked a string of her vina, and a note filled the chamber. She said, “Then take the boon.”

Lila bowed her head, and when she raised it, Saraswati was gone.

Lila never told Padma of this.

She kept her chamber just as it was. She went into it every night, sat a while, then came back. Padma had once asked, “Lila, what is this chamber?” Lila had said, “It is my own chamber. Every queen has a chamber of her own.” Padma asked no more.

The years passed.

Lila’s fear did not go entirely, but now it was small. In its place a quiet peace had come inside. When Padma slept she still watched him the same way, but now she knew that whatever came, she had made her arrangement for it. This knowledge sat inside her, without a name.

The Message

The news of war did not come suddenly.

For many months there had been a quarrel on the border. Padma first sent his commander, then his minister, and then the matter of his going himself arose. The minister refused it, and so did the commander. Lila had asked, “Maharaj, is it necessary that you go?” Padma had said, “Yes. This is no small matter. If I do not go myself, it will grow.”

The night before, Lila had tied Padma’s turban herself, and her fingers stopped many times. Padma watched her a while and said, “Lila, I will return.”

“I know.”

But there was something in Lila’s voice that Padma had not heard before. He took Lila’s hand in his and said, “You have been my wife for fifteen years.”

“Yes.”

“Not once have I told you what you are to me. Today I say it. You are the one without whom I could not have run the kingdom, and without whom this life could not have been. I say it today because tomorrow I go to war, and in the nature of every war nothing is set down.”

Lila pressed Padma’s hand to her cheek and said nothing.

“I will return,” Padma said again.

“Yes.”

Padma went.

The first week was nothing. In the second a message came that all was well, the fighting at the border went on, but they were winning. In the third another message came that there was a slight lull. In the fourth no message came.

One afternoon in the fifth week Lila was sitting on her low seat in her chamber. Outside in the garden a gardener was watering, and the sound of water falling from his pot was steady. Far off a crow was cawing, and the scent of jasmine hung in the air.

Just then came the sound of running feet outside.

Lila opened her eyes.

A messenger stood at the door. There was dust on his face, his turban half undone, his breath heaving. He looked at Lila, and his eyes fell.

Lila rose.

The messenger, his head still lowered, said, “Maharani.”

Lila did not stop him. She moved her hand slightly, as if to say, speak.

“Maharani, the Maharaj…”

The messenger wanted to stop here, but there was nothing to hold him up.

“Maharani, the Maharaj is no more.”

Lila did not move at all.

Outside in the garden the water still fell from the gardener’s pot, the crow still cawed, and the scent of jasmine still hung in the air.

Lila asked, “His body?”

“Maharani, we have brought it. It is outside.”

“Bring him to my chamber. This one. Now.”

The messenger bowed his head and went.

Lila laid her hands in her lap, then opened them, then joined them. She did not weep.

The Closed Room

Padma’s body was laid on the mat.

The army’s most trusted soldiers had wrapped him in clean cloth, but the face was left uncovered. The eyes were closed, the lips slightly parted, as though he had been about to draw his last breath and then that breath had stayed unfinished. On the brow above the eye was a small wound, no longer bleeding, though the mark of it showed.

Lila sent the minister, the commander, the messenger, everyone outside. She said only this, “I need one night, alone. Let no one come in.”

The minister had asked, “Maharani, the last rites?”

“Tomorrow. For now I need one night.”

“Maharani, this…”

“Tomorrow.”

There was something in Lila’s voice that made the minister bow his head and leave. The door closed.

Lila looked at Padma.

She was alone in the chamber. Outside it was night now. A lamp burned in the corner, its flame swaying faintly in the air, but not so much that it would go out.

Lila set a bar against the door from the inside, then came to Padma and knelt down.

She took Padma’s hand in hers. The hand was cold.

Lila closed her eyes.

For a long while she did nothing, only kept that hand in hers. Her own breath grew slow, and so did the beating of her heart.

Far outside a bird called. On the chamber wall a lizard moved toward an insect. Outside, a watchman struck his staff on the ground a little hard, perhaps a signal to a guard, and though the sound came from far off it was clear inside the chamber.

Lila was not noticing any of this.

She touched a very old place inside herself, the place where she had met Saraswati. That hundredth night of many years before, Saraswati’s appearing, that laugh of hers the chest heard and not the ears.

Lila brought the air of that night fully inside herself. She joined her breath to the breath of that night. Her body was now in the chamber, but her awareness was in that night, many years back.

Then she did one thing more. She merged the awareness of that night with the awareness of now, and the two became one. The distance of many years closed, and the curtain of time grew thin.

Padma’s hand was still cold, but Lila was now somewhere else.

“Devi,” she said softly.

Nothing happened in the chamber.

“Devi.”

The lamp’s flame stirred a little.

“Devi.”

And the air of the chamber changed.

It could not be seen, could not be heard, but it could be felt. The weight of the air changed, the color of the walls changed, and the lamp’s flame no longer swayed. It had turned into a steady white light.

Saraswati was in the chamber.

Lila opened her eyes.

Saraswati sat on the other side of the mat. The same white sari, the same moonstone necklace, the vina beside her, her left hand on the mat. Her face was no longer changing now. It was a steady woman’s form, of an age one could not tell, but with a great oldness in it.

“Daughter.”

“Devi.”

“Today?”

“Today.”

Saraswati looked at Padma and said, “He is right here.”

Lila asked, “How am I to see him?”

Saraswati smiled faintly and said, “Daughter, this is exactly what I have come for.”

Lila asked a question. “Devi, one thing I do not understand. Padma is here, but if he is here, why is his body cold?”

Saraswati laid her hand on Padma’s brow, and on her own brow as well, and said, “Daughter, Padma’s soul is right here, but the body has been let go. The soul is now in this chamber, yet it has begun its new form. He is now in the Chitra-loka, the world of images. We will go there, and you will see.”

“And this body?”

“It will stay here. It will wait for you. When we return you will find it just as it is.”

Lila was silent a while, then said, “Devi, let us go.”

The Chitra-loka

Saraswati held out her palm. “Take it.”

Lila took the palm, and the chamber was gone.

At first Lila felt she was falling, then she felt she was rising, then she understood that she was neither falling nor rising, but somewhere else.

But that “somewhere else” did not arrive all at once. It came slowly, layer by layer, like a very long curtain being drawn to one side.

First the light changed.

This was not the chamber’s lamp, and not sunlight. It was something else, a light that carried its own glow, coming from within things rather than from any source. The trees gave their own light, the ground its own, the air its own.

And the color of the light was different too, at first like the yellow of sunlight, then a little paler, then almost without color, and then a color Lila had never seen before, a color that had no name.

Then the air changed.

Its weight was somewhat lighter, and when she breathed it went inside in a different way, as if no effort was needed to draw the breath in. The air came in on its own and went out on its own. Lila tried for a moment to hold her breath, and still the air moved gently in and out, apart from her wish.

In the air was the very faint scent of some unknown flower Lila had never smelled before. This scent was not that of jasmine, not of bela, not of rose. It was something else, something that perhaps grew nowhere but here.

Then a faint sweet taste came into Lila’s mouth though she had eaten nothing, not the taste of any sweet, perhaps the taste of the air, because the air here had tastes of its own.

And strangest of all, the sounds did not climb over one another. Each sound was heard separately, clearly, in its own place. Far off a bird was calling, and its call was as clear as the rustle of a nearby leaf. Nothing here was far; every thing was near in its own place.

Lila looked at the ground beneath her. The ground was solid, but of a different kind, not sand, not earth, something else. She pressed her foot a little into the ground, and the ground gave a slight response, as though it too knew who she was.

Lila touched her body, but there was no body. That is, there was a shadow of a body, but no weight, no cold, no warmth.

“Devi, where is my body?”

“Daughter, your body is in that chamber. Here is your awareness, which has taken on a shadow-body. This shadow-body will seem real to you, though it is not real. It is a form of your awareness.”

Lila and Saraswati stood on a road. Behind them was a forest, ahead a city.

The city was very large. High walls, guards upon them, palaces behind the walls, and more palaces behind those. The city spread so far that its borders ran off behind distant mountains.

“Where is this, Devi?” Lila asked.

“This is the Chitra-loka, daughter. This is the world where Padma’s soul is composing its next story.”

Lila looked at the city and asked, “He is here?”

“Yes.”

“Take me to him.”

The two of them walked.

There were many people in the city. There were markets, with shops open within them. A woman with her child on her shoulder was selling something, an old man was selling flowers, a barber was pouring water over his blade, and a small dog slept outside a shop.

No one was looking at Lila and Saraswati.

“They cannot see us?” Lila asked.

“No, daughter. We are inside their story, though not a part of their story.”

Lila heard this, but did not fully understand.

They walked on, crossed the market, then a bridge under which ran a river of clear water, then a square, and then the palace gate.

“Inside?” Lila asked.

“Inside.”

They passed through the walls as though the wall were not there at all, and the guards stayed standing where they were.

They came into a large courtyard of the palace. There were fountains in the courtyard, and nearby an open hall in which ministers, the commander, and some officials of state sat.

And on the throne sat a king.

Lila stopped.

The king was very young, perhaps twenty or twenty-one years old. His beard had not yet fully come in, a thin line of mustache above the lips, broad shoulders, brown eyes.

And he had a habit, that when he listened, the fingers of his right hand tapped lightly on the gold band at his wrist.

Lila’s breath stopped. She said softly, “Devi, this is Padma.”

“Yes. But his name is no longer Padma now.”

“Then what?”

“Viduratha.”

Viduratha was listening to a minister who was speaking about some border. Viduratha gave a reply, and his voice was unlike Padma’s, a little heavier yet higher and young.

Lila watched him for a long while.

Inside her was a strange mixed feeling. On one side recognition, because every expression, every gesture, every turn was Padma’s. On the other side strangeness, because this face was different, this age was different, this voice was different. As if a song were played on a different instrument, the melody the same, the notes the same, and only the instrument different.

“Devi, but Padma so young?” Lila asked.

“Daughter, the Chitra-loka has rules of its own. Here someone is twenty or twenty-one, and yet within that same Viduratha all the years are present. This is a matter of the Chitra-loka; we will understand it later.”

Just then there was a stir, and through one door of the hall a woman came in.

Lila looked, and stopped.

The woman was Lila.

That is, this woman was the very one who was Lila, exactly. The hair bound in the same knot, the sari of the same fine cloth, in the knot the same small moonstone flower that Lila had worn since her wedding day, the same walk, and on the wrist the same slightly loose bangle.

Lila looked at the bangle on her own wrist, then at that woman’s bangle, both the same.

Viduratha saw her and smiled.

The woman sat on a small seat near Viduratha, said something softly, and Viduratha gave her a reply.

Lila could not move from where she stood. She asked softly, “Devi, who is this?”

Saraswati thought a moment and said, “Daughter, this too is Lila.”

Lila turned toward Saraswati and asked, “Meaning?”

“Meaning, in this world she is Viduratha’s wife, and her name too is Lila, and she looks like you. This is because Padma’s awareness has made its queen just as it had seen you.”

Lila was silent a while, then said, “So is she real, or am I real?”

Saraswati smiled and said, “Daughter, not this question today. Today only watch.”

Lila watched.

The second Lila and Viduratha were talking, small things. The second Lila said something, and Viduratha laughed softly. The second Lila twisted one of her bangles, the one that was a little loose.

Inside Lila a small, very faint sting rose, and right behind it a heavy compassion. She looked at that flicker within herself, then let it go.

Who is this? She is the one who I am. She is the one who I was fifteen years ago. She is the one who might have been, had everything been different.

Viduratha rose from the hall, the second Lila rose too, and the two of them went out through an inner door. Lila and Saraswati were left outside.

“Devi, I want to see more.”

“We will, daughter. But first one more thing. Do you know who Padma was before?”

“No.”

Saraswati touched her vina with one hand and said, “Sit. This story is a little long.”

The Brahmin and Arundhati

Lila sat down on a small stone near Saraswati.

Saraswati said, “Daughter, many years ago there was a small village, very small, on the bank of a river. The river’s name too was small, and it was not very large, just wide enough that a small bridge could cross it. In that village there was a hut with mud walls, very plain.”

“Was it large?” Lila asked.

“Daughter, ten hands long, twelve hands wide. Only that much.”

“So small a hut?”

“Yes. Now listen.”

Saraswati said, “In that hut lived a brahmin whose name was Vasistha.”

Lila looked at Saraswati and asked, “Devi, that Vasistha?”

Saraswati said, “No, daughter. In that age there were many named Vasistha. This was an ordinary brahmin, not the Vasistha who is Rama’s guru, nor the one who is among the seven seers. He was a small brahmin of a small village, whose name too was Vasistha. Names come round again, daughter. Listen to this story. His wife’s name was Arundhati.”

“Arundhati and Vasistha lived in the hut. They had nothing, one cow, one hearth, one mat, and a small garden in which they grew turmeric and ginger. The two of them loved each other as much as you and Padma.”

Lila’s eyes began to fill.

“Their days were simple. In the morning Vasistha bathed at the river, performed the yajna (fire-rite), recited his mantras, then worked in the garden and fed the cow, at noon he ate with Arundhati, then read a while, and in the evening the two of them sat together outside the house and talked of the day.

“They had no children, but they had shared this sorrow with each other, and this sorrow had become a soft bond between them.”

Lila said, “Devi, this is my story.”

Saraswati smiled. “Yes, daughter. This is your story. But before that it was theirs.

“One day a royal procession passed before the hut.”

Lila raised her head.

“The king with his army. There were elephants, there were horses, there were parasols, there were banners, a great throng. The king sat in the middle upon an elephant, a royal scepter in his hand, and on all sides attendants waved fly-whisks over him. Beneath the elephant’s feet the ground shook faintly, and the drums were playing.

“Vasistha stood outside the hut and watched, because he had never seen such splendor. Arundhati stood beside him too.

“The procession passed, the dust settled, the sound of the drums grew distant.

“Vasistha stood a while, then went inside. He said nothing to Arundhati, but a seed had already been sown within him.”

“That night Vasistha ate nothing. Arundhati asked what had happened, and Vasistha said, nothing. But he did not sleep the whole night.

“For the first time a desire had risen in him. He thought, I am nothing at all, this hut of mine is nothing, my life is nothing. If only I too were a king, life would be different. If only I could sit once upon that elephant, if only that parasol were held over me even once.

“This desire he did not tell Arundhati, but within him it lived on.”

Lila brought a hand near her mouth and asked, “And then, Devi?”

“Time passed, the brahmin grew older, but that desire stayed within, without a name, without an answer. Sometimes at night Vasistha would have dreams in which he was a king, but waking in the morning he would be in his hut, beside Arundhati, and would laugh softly at his own dreams.

“But within, the desire was there.

“One day Vasistha fell ill. Arundhati nursed him, but the illness did not mend. At last one night Vasistha departed, and Arundhati sat beside his body for a long while.”

“That same night Arundhati called to me.”

Lila looked at Saraswati and asked, “She too called to you?”

“Yes, daughter. And the very boon you asked, Arundhati asked as well, in that same hut, on that same night. I gave her the same boon too.”

Lila was silent for a long while.

“Devi, then Vasistha’s soul?”

“It stayed in that hut, near Arundhati.”

“And then?”

“Daughter, now listen. This is the deepest part of the story.”

Saraswati plucked a string of her vina, and the note spread through the air.

“Vasistha’s soul composed its desire, the desire it had held within after seeing the royal procession. Without a body, the soul makes a world out of its very desire. Vasistha’s soul composed a great kingdom, a capital, a throne, a queen, and the life of a king. A life of fifteen years, a life of twenty-five years, a life of fifty years.”

“Where is that kingdom, Devi?”

“Daughter.”

“Tell me.”

Saraswati said, “That kingdom is inside that same hut.”

Lila asked, “Meaning?”

“Meaning, in the ten-or-twelve-hand space of that hut Vasistha’s awareness has composed a whole kingdom of thousands of miles. In that kingdom there are cities, rivers, mountains, thousands of people, all within that same hut, without ever stepping outside the hut.”

Lila could not move for a while, then said, “Devi, how can this be?”

“Daughter, this is the very nature of awareness. You say thousands of miles? For awareness a mile has no meaning; the mile is for the body. Awareness composes as much as it wishes; for it space is no barrier.”

At first Lila understood nothing, then a glimpse came to her.

“Devi, then this kingdom of mine?”

“That too belongs to your awareness, daughter.”

“But my body is outside, outside that hut.”

“Daughter, your body is inside your awareness, not outside it. What you take to be outside is an outside that lies within awareness. Beyond awareness there is nothing.”

Lila was silent for a long while.

Lila looked at Saraswati and asked, “Then Arundhati?”

“Arundhati is in that same hut, sitting right there. Her husband’s body is there, and she is waiting for him.”

“And that kingdom?”

“In that kingdom Vasistha has made himself a king. His name is Padma.”

Lila was silent for a long while.

“Gurudeva,” Rama broke in here. “Is this truly possible? A small hut, only ten hands by twelve, and inside it a whole kingdom?”

Vasistha looked at Rama and said, “Rama, it seems impossible to you because you take space to be something external. But think. In a dream you see a whole city, you walk in it, you go to the market, you meet people, and all of this is happening inside your head. And how large is the head? A little larger than your fist. Yet a whole city fits inside it. This happens every day. The space of awareness is not measured by the space of the body; its measure is different.”

Rama slowly nodded and said, “I understand.”

“No, not yet. But you are moving toward understanding. Listen on.”

At last Lila raised her head and asked, “Devi, then what of me?”

“You are the queen that Vasistha’s awareness composed. You are Padma’s queen, and you are also Arundhati, Vasistha’s wife. You yourself are composed of Arundhati’s awareness, because Arundhati too asked for that same boon. You two are not separate, and you two are not one.”

Lila could not move for a while, then said, “Devi, which am I, the real one?”

Saraswati’s eyes held the same depth Lila had seen earlier in the chamber. She said, “Daughter, not this question today. Today only watch, there is much to see. The answers will come later. Answers come from seeing; hearing does not bring them.”

Lila asked, “And the second Lila?”

“The second Lila is composed of Viduratha’s awareness, and she too is your shadow. In every world, in every story, a Lila lives. Your form is spread through all of it.”

“Devi, take me to Arundhati.”

“We will see her later, daughter. First see something more of this place, of the Chitra-loka, because something very large is about to happen here.”

“What?”

Saraswati gave no answer, only plucked another string of the vina.

The War

On the border of Viduratha’s kingdom lay another kingdom, whose king was named Sindhu.

Sindhu was old, his beard entirely white, but his eyes were sharp as a young man’s. He had a large army, and he wanted Viduratha’s kingdom.

Why? That story was very old. Many years before, there had been a quarrel between Sindhu’s father and Viduratha’s father, over a matter of the border, over whose was the right to a river. Both fathers died, but the quarrel remained.

Sindhu had grown old now, and he wanted to settle that quarrel within his own lifetime, by his own hand. His army was gathering at the border.

Viduratha heard of this. He sat all night in his council with his ministers, and the second Lila was beside him.

“Maharaj,” the minister said. “We should avoid war.”

“How?”

“We can make a treaty with Sindhu. We can give him some land, give him some wealth.”

Viduratha said, “There will be a treaty, if Sindhu agrees. But I do not think he will. Sindhu has carried this quarrel for many years. What he wants now is victory.”

The minister fell silent.

“We will try,” Viduratha said at last. “We will send an envoy. If Sindhu agrees, well and good, and if not, I will go to the war myself.”

The second Lila looked at him and asked, “Maharaj, you will go?”

Viduratha smiled and said, “Why, do you wish to say that I should not go?”

The second Lila said, “No. Go. But return.”

“I will return.”

The envoy went, Sindhu refused the treaty, the envoy returned empty-handed. Viduratha prepared for war.

The war began at the border.

Lila and Saraswati stood on a hill and watched it all from afar. Below was a wide plain, on one side Viduratha’s army, on the other Sindhu’s, and between them an empty strip of dry ground where, in a little while, everything would change.

First Lila heard the drums from both sides. The drums of the two differed from each other, the drums of Viduratha’s army high and fast, the drums of Sindhu’s army heavy and slow.

Then the conches sounded, one after another, first from one side, then from the other, then both together. The sound of the conches tore through the air.

First the elephants came forward.

The elephants of Viduratha’s army wore trappings of gold, those of Sindhu’s army were draped in black. Soldiers sat on their backs, long spears in hand. Beneath the elephants’ feet the ground shook so hard that Lila felt a faint tremor even on her hill. The elephants’ trunks were raised, and their eyes were red, because they had been given some intoxicant for the battle.

The elephants met, and there was a great sound, like many trees breaking at once. The elephants gripped each other with their trunks, and the soldiers on them drove their spears. One elephant fell to the ground with a great crash, the soldier on it coming down and being crushed beneath the elephant. Another elephant fell.

Lila turned her face away.

Then horsemen came rushing from both armies. Their horses’ legs moved very fast, and so much dust rose that for a while nothing could be seen.

When the dust settled, the field had changed. Many horses had fallen, many soldiers had fallen.

Then the foot soldiers came, sword against sword, shield against shield.

The smell of blood was in the air, blood was mixing into the earth, and screams, the sounds of weeping, the sounds of horses all rose together.

Lila pressed her palm to her chest. She had never seen any of this before. Padma had spoken of war, but he had never shown her this.

Viduratha was in the middle on a chariot. He swung his sword again and again. There was a wound on his arm, blood was flowing, but he would not stop.

Lila had never seen her husband like this. Padma had never wielded a sword, but Viduratha was wielding one, and it was the very same face, only the age different.

Sindhu too was upon his own elephant. He pointed straight toward Viduratha’s chariot and shouted, “Seize that chariot.”

Sindhu’s soldiers ran toward it.

Viduratha saw them coming and raised his sword.

The first soldier came, Viduratha struck him down. The second, Viduratha struck him down. The third, Viduratha struck him down.

But a fourth soldier came from behind.

He was very young, perhaps younger even than Viduratha. But he had a spear, and on his face was that fire found in young soldiers who have not yet felt the fear of dying.

He raised his spear. Viduratha had not seen him. The spear flew through the air very fast, and struck Viduratha in the chest.

Viduratha stopped.

Viduratha’s sword came down slowly. He reached one hand toward the spear that was in his chest, the other hand still on the sword. He looked toward the sky, then fell from the chariot.

Lila brought her hands near her mouth. “Devi.”

Saraswati took her hand.

Viduratha lay on the ground beside the chariot, one hand on the spear, and the sword had slipped from the other hand. His eyes were open, but he was not seeing.

Sindhu saw this from afar, paused a moment, then said, “Halt the army.”

The war slowly came to a stop.

Sindhu came forward to Viduratha’s body. He laid a cloth over him and said, “Maharaj Viduratha.”

The body gave no answer.

Sindhu said again, “Maharaj Viduratha, the quarrel between my father and yours is settled, but at this price. This matter was worth no price at all.”

There was something in Sindhu’s eyes that his army had not seen before, a faint weariness, perhaps a faint regret.

Lila and Saraswati were no longer watching the battle; they had come close to Viduratha.

Lila knelt beside him and took his hand in hers.

The hand was cold, exactly as cold as Padma’s hand had been a few hours before.

“Devi, this had already happened, it had happened once before.”

“Yes.”

“Then why did I come here?”

Saraswati looked at her and said, “Daughter, because now there is something for you to see. The second Lila.”

Lila raised her head.

Two Lilas

The second Lila was in Viduratha’s palace.

The news had not yet reached her. She sat in her chamber, mixing turmeric water in a small pot. The night before she had thought about Viduratha’s wound, that when he returned she would put this turmeric water on his arm. This had been her habit for fifteen years.

Lila and Saraswati came into the chamber.

Lila watched the second Lila for a long while. The woman sat alone mixing turmeric, and she did not yet know that Viduratha was no more.

A strange pain rose inside Lila.

This was her own pain, because five hours before she herself had lost her Padma in just this way. But it was also the second Lila’s pain, which was still to come. And it was a third pain as well, one that at some distant time would belong to some other Lila.

“Devi, may I touch her?”

“Daughter, now yes. This is the moment.”

Lila stepped forward and laid a hand on the second Lila’s shoulder.

The second Lila paused, her turmeric-mixing finger stopped, and she raised her head and looked at Lila.

The second Lila was silent a while, then asked, “Who are you?”

Lila looked at herself, at her sari, at the moonstone in her hair-knot, at her bangle that was a little loose. Then she looked at the second Lila.

The eyes of the two were at the same height, the lips of the two of the same kind, on the wrists of the two the same kind of bangle.

“My name too is Lila,” Lila said.

The second Lila asked, “How did you come here?”

“I came with Saraswati.”

The second Lila turned and looked at Saraswati and folded her hands. “Devi, who is she?”

“She too is Lila, but of another world, apart from your world.”

The second Lila heard this, but there was no confusion on her face. Perhaps she too knew at some level that her identity was not bound only to this chamber.

“And the Maharaj?” the second Lila asked.

Lila took her hand and said, “Sister, I have come to tell you.”

The second Lila asked very softly, “He is no more?”

“Yes.”

The second Lila could not move for a while. The turmeric in her hand fell into the pot, the water splashed a little, and the yellow of the turmeric spread through the water.

She brought her hands near her mouth and closed her eyes.

Lila laid her hand on her shoulder and said, “I know. My Maharaj too departed only today.”

The second Lila opened her eyes. “Yours?”

“Yes.”

“But he was…”

“Yes, the same. The one who is Viduratha was Padma in my world. A different name, a different body, and yet the same.”

The two of them looked at each other and were silent a while.

Then the second Lila asked, “So what are you to me?”

Lila thought and said, “I am your sister. More than a sister. I am you, and you too are me. We did not know each other, and today we have come to know.”

And Lila embraced her.

The two of them held each other a while.

Lila rested her head on the second Lila’s shoulder, and the second Lila touched her hair.

This was a strange moment, an embrace of the self, yet external too, the touching of one’s own reflection, and that reflection was living its own separate life story.

Lila felt that the second Lila’s breath was a little different from her own, slightly faster, perhaps because the age was different, but the rhythm was the same. And when Lila laid her palm on the second Lila’s wrist, she found the same bangle, loose, sliding a little.

“Sister, this bangle.”

“Yes?”

“My mother gave it to me.”

The second Lila said, “Mine too.”

“But our mother is not one and the same.”

“Perhaps she is. If we are one, then our mother too would be one.”

Lila laughed softly. “Perhaps.”

The second Lila asked something. “Sister, were you ever angry with Padma?”

Lila thought a moment and said, “Yes, sometimes.”

“About what?”

“About many things. When he ignored something I said. When he set his affairs of state above me. When he left me alone one night, because he was talking with some minister.”

“But?”

“But I did not stay angry. I felt that within his limits he too was good, and to ask for more than that was not for me to do.”

The second Lila said, “It was the same with me.”

“All of us Lilas are alike.”

“Perhaps this is who we are.”

“Sister,” the second Lila said softly. “I am afraid.”

“So am I.”

“But you are here.”

“Yes.”

“And Saraswati.”

“Yes.”

The two of them closed their eyes.

Saraswati plucked a string of the vina and said, “Both daughters, now listen. There is more work still to do.”

Saraswati held out her palm, and each of the two took her palm from one side.

Saraswati said, “Both daughters, there is something you must understand. This story has not yet ended.”

Lila looked at her and said, “Devi, Viduratha is gone.”

“Viduratha’s body is gone, but his soul is here, in the Chitra-loka, within the awareness of Arundhati’s hut. And the soul will decide which story it will enter next.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Viduratha, Padma, can take on a body again, if you wish it.”

Lila looked at the second Lila, the second Lila at Lila. The same question was inside them both.

Lila said at last, “Devi, what should we wish?”

Saraswati smiled. “Daughter, this you must decide. My task was to show you, and I have shown you. Now the decision is yours.”

Lila took the second Lila’s hand in hers and said, “Sister, may I say something?”

“Yes.”

“You want Viduratha.”

The second Lila said, “Yes, I want him.”

“And this life of yours, this kingdom, these people of yours, you want all of it.”

“Yes.”

Lila said, “Then Viduratha will return, to you.”

The second Lila looked at her and asked, “But your Padma?”

Lila was silent a while, then said, “My Padma no longer wishes to return.”

“How do you know?”

Lila said with a very faint smile, “Because I too no longer wish to return. After what I have seen here, that old life is no longer necessary for me. My story will go elsewhere, and Padma’s story too will go elsewhere. But your Viduratha will stay with you.”

The second Lila’s eyes grew wet. “Sister, thank you.”

Lila pressed her forehead to hers.

Saraswati plucked another string of the vina.

Viduratha’s body, which lay far off at the border, suddenly stirred. Then breath came, then a full breath, then the eyes opened.

Viduratha sat up.

The wound on his arm was still there, the wound on his chest was still there, but he was alive.

The soldiers all around him were astonished. Sindhu, who was nearby, saw this, and for a moment could say nothing.

Viduratha stood, looked at Sindhu, and said, “Maharaj, shall we make a treaty?”

Sindhu, who was himself frightened by this miracle, bowed his head and said, “Yes, we will make a treaty.”

Lila and the second Lila watched all this from afar.

Lila said to the second Lila, “Go, meet him.”

The second Lila embraced Lila and asked, “Sister, will we meet again?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

Lila laughed. “I do not know. But we are one, wherever we may be, so we are always together.”

The second Lila went, and Lila was left alone with Saraswati.

Arundhati

“Devi, take me to Arundhati.”

“Why, daughter?”

“She too should know, and I want to see her.”

Saraswati nodded.

The two of them passed through the air again. The light changed again, the air changed again.

When they stopped, they were in a small village, on the bank of a river. There stood a small hut with mud walls, ten hands long, twelve hands wide, only that much.

Lila paused a moment and kept looking at the hut. It was very small.

Outside the hut sat an old woman. Her hair was entirely white, her face was in wrinkles, and before her lay her husband’s body wrapped in a plain cloth.

Lila looked at her, and stopped.

This woman was Lila.

That is, her face was the same as Lila’s, only grown very old. That line on her forehead was there, that slight lift of one eyebrow was there, and on her wrist that bangle, a little loose, was there.

“Devi, this…”

“Yes, this is Arundhati, your recurrence, but the earlier one in this world. She is the one whose story began your story.”

Lila stepped forward.

Arundhati raised her head and looked at Lila. Her eyes were first startled, then calm, then they smiled.

“Sister,” Arundhati said.

Lila said too, “Sister.”

Arundhati held out her hand, Lila held out hers, and the two took each other’s hand.

The aged bones of Arundhati’s hand showed clearly, but her grip was strong.

“You have come,” Arundhati said.

“Yes.”

“I have been waiting for you for many years.”

Lila nodded.

Arundhati asked, “Did the Devi give you a boon?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do once you had that boon?”

Lila told Arundhati everything, the story of Padma, the story of the Chitra-loka, the story of Viduratha, the story of the second Lila.

Arundhati heard it all, said nothing in between, only nodded now and then. When Lila had finished, Arundhati nodded.

“Daughter, do you know who you are?”

Lila looked at Saraswati, then at Arundhati, and said, “I have to ask myself.”

Arundhati laughed. Her laugh was very old, and in it was something that was also like weeping. She said, “Daughter, you are me, and I am you. And the one who was Vasistha was Padma, and the one who was Padma was Viduratha. And in all of them is one and the same awareness, which goes on composing its stories. New names in each story, but within, one single breath of life.”

Lila looked at Arundhati and asked, “And what is the end of this, sister?”

Arundhati looked a moment at Saraswati, then at Lila, and said, “The end is where the story recognizes its own author.”

Lila looked into Arundhati and asked, “Sister, have you recognized it?”

Arundhati said, “Daughter, I am recognizing it now. This is no work of a single day, it is slow. But yes, I am recognizing it.”

“And outside this hut?”

“Daughter, outside there is nothing; this hut is all there is. But within this hut is everything. This kingdom of Padma’s is also within it, and so are you.”

“And us?”

“We too are within it, all of us, every story.”

Lila embraced Arundhati, and held her for a long while.

When they parted, Arundhati said, “Now go. Your Padma is waiting for you.”

“Devi?”

Saraswati nodded and said, “Daughter, let us go.”

Lila looked once more toward Arundhati. Arundhati laughed, waved her hand, and Lila waved hers too.

The Journey Between

Holding Saraswati’s palm, Lila passed through the air again.

This time the light was more intense.

Lila looked inside herself.

Inside her were many things, Arundhati’s words, the second Lila’s face, Viduratha’s fall, Padma’s death, all of this. But behind all of it was a steady sort of thing.

“Devi, one thing is becoming clear to me.”

“What?”

“Devi, I had thought that Padma was gone. Then I made this journey, and saw that he was somewhere else, in the form of Viduratha. Then I saw Arundhati, who is my own recurrence.

“But now it seems to me that all these stories are not separate. Padma, Viduratha, the brahmin Vasistha, all are different forms of one awareness. Lila, the second Lila, Arundhati, all are different forms of one awareness. And all of us are within one and the same great awareness.”

Saraswati said, “Daughter, yes.”

“And?”

“And you too are a form of that same great awareness.”

Lila was silent a while, then said, “Devi, then my grief?”

“That too is a form.”

“My love?”

“That too.”

“My desire?”

“That too.”

Lila laughed softly. “Devi, all of this is becoming very light.”

“Yes, daughter.”

Saraswati said, “Daughter, now you are about to return. But one thing.”

“What?”

“When you return, your grief will still remain at one level. Your body will know it, but your awareness will watch it, and will not drown. Both of these will be at once. This is the state of the jivan-mukta, freed while living.”

“Devi, one more question. Will I be able to come on this journey again?”

Saraswati said, “Daughter, there is no need. What you have seen is now inside you at all times; you need not go anywhere. But if you wish, then yes, you may call me any time.”

Returning

The light changed again, the air changed again.

When Lila opened her eyes, she was in her chamber. Outside it was still night, the lamp was still burning, and Padma lay on the mat.

Lila knelt beside Padma.

She laid her hand on Padma’s brow. The brow was cold. Lila did not take her hand away.

“Padma.”

No answer.

“Maharaj.”

No answer.

Lila laughed softly and said, “I have just seen a great deal, come to know a great deal. But one thing I have learned is this, that you have gone nowhere. You are right here, inside me. And I am nowhere either, I too am inside you. We were never apart, and today too we are not apart.”

She kissed Padma’s brow and said, “Maharaj, now compose your story elsewhere. My story will run apart now, but we are not far.”

She rose.

In the morning she opened the door. Outside were the minister, the commander, and the messenger.

“Maharani?”

“Prepare the last rites,” Lila said. “This very day.”

“Maharani, are you well?”

“Yes.”

The minister bowed his head.

The last rites were performed. Padma’s body was burned on the riverbank. Lila stood there, watched the whole ceremony, and did not weep.

People thought the Maharani was hard. But after what Lila had seen, her weeping could no longer come in that old way. Her pain was no longer hers alone; it was now a part of that great Chitra-loka she had seen.

Lila took charge of the kingdom.

Padma had no children, so Lila took up the work of the kingdom herself. The council of ministers was the old one, and she kept it, but she made some new rules.

A rule to bring help to those in the kingdom who were weak. For the widows of the kingdom, a home. For the small children of the kingdom who were without parents, a school.

For twenty years she ran the kingdom.

The first five years were the hardest.

People were not used to it. In the council were some who thought that the Maharani could not run the kingdom alone, and many times they kept their thoughts hidden. But Lila understood everything. She replaced three ministers without anger, saying only that they should now return to their former work. A fourth minister saw this, and fell silent.

In the first ten years three small troubles came upon the kingdom, a drought, a small border quarrel, and a famine among the people. Lila handled all three by different paths. In the drought she opened the grain stores, in the border quarrel she sent an envoy and made a treaty and did not go to war, and in the famine she sold many diamonds from her palace and brought in grain.

The people took notice.

After ten years some peace came.

The reins of the kingdom were now firm in Lila’s hands. The council no longer took any large step without her command.

But somewhere inside Lila there was a loneliness.

Every night she went into that same chamber of hers. Padma was no longer there; his body had been burned many years before. But Lila went into that chamber, because there she remembered that night, the night of the Chitra-loka, the journey with Saraswati.

One night she closed her eyes and called to Saraswati.

The Devi came, just as before.

“Daughter.”

“Devi, what is this loneliness of mine?”

Saraswati said, “Daughter, this loneliness belongs to your body. Your body was used to Padma’s body, and now Padma’s body is not here, so there is an empty place in the body. But your awareness is not alone; it has never been alone.”

“But why do I see this emptiness?”

“Because you are still joined to the body. You need not give up this attachment. Only watch it, understand it, and then it will change on its own.”

Lila nodded.

In twenty years her body grew old, her hair went white, her walk grew slow. But on her face was a peace that people had not seen before.

A minister had once asked, “Maharani, how are you so calm?”

Lila said, “Minister, I have learned one thing. Everything is in its place, every story in its place, and all of us within it. So the peace comes on its own.”

The minister did not understand, but he gave his respect.

One evening in the fifteenth year a little girl came into the royal court with her mother. The girl was perhaps eight years old, her hair short, her eyes large, and her clothes plain.

The mother said to Lila, “Maharani, my daughter has wanted to see you for many years. Today I have brought her.”

Lila called the girl close and said, “Child.”

The girl stepped forward and, bowing her head, said, “Maharani.”

“What is your name?”

“Lila.”

Lila stopped.

The girl looked up and said, “Maharani, my mother gave me your name, my name is the same as yours.”

Lila was silent a while, then laughed softly and said, “Child, that is a very good thing.”

Lila took from her wrist that bangle, the one her mother had given her, a little loose. She slid the bangle onto the girl’s wrist and said, “Child, my mother gave this to me, and now I am giving it to you. It is loose, but when you move your hand it will chime, and then someone will come to your memory, perhaps.”

The girl nodded and said, “Thank you, Maharani.”

The girl and her mother went.

Lila watched them go. Her eyes did not grow wet, but something inside her opened.

My story has reached the child, my bangle is with her now. This story will go on now, without me.

One day she was sitting in that same old chamber of hers. She called her minister and said, “Minister, my time has come.”

“Maharani, why do you say such a thing?”

“Because I know. By tonight.”

The minister bowed his head.

“The Maharani’s last word.”

“Speak.”

“After I am gone, keep this chamber empty, change nothing in it. Only keep this small lamp burning.”

The minister bowed his head.

Night came.

Lila sat in her chamber and closed her eyes.

She did not call to Saraswati, there was no need to call. She did not call to Padma, there was no need to call. She only looked inside herself.

Within was a light.

She sank into that same light.

In the morning when the minister opened the door, Lila was sitting. Her eyes were open, her face was calm, and her lips faintly smiling.

But there was no breath.

The minister bowed his head. The lamp was still burning.

Rama was silent for a long while.

The Sarayu was now almost entirely black. The moon was high above, and in its light a silver line was forming on the water, trembling faintly with the waves. Behind them the cricket’s call was still there.

“Gurudeva.”

“Speak, Rama.”

“Are we too composing a Chitra-loka?”

In Vasistha’s eyes was that laugh which was very old. He said, “Rama, this question itself is the first step. The day you have no doubt within this question, that day you will become the author of the story. But for now hold the question, sit with it for some years, and one day the question itself will give its answer.”

Rama nodded.

“And Lila?”

“Where is Lila?”

“She too is now in the light, with Padma. But in that light now there is no Padma, no Lila, only light. What we call images, all of these are veils over that light. Lift the veil, and only the light remains.”

Rama looked toward the water.

“Gurudeva, the fear that was in Mother Kausalya’s eyes today, I understand it now.”

“And?”

“And I know that the fear is real, that fear is inside every love. But Lila’s story says that the way across that fear runs through love itself, going so far into love that within it the fear dissolves on its own. Fleeing from love is no road at all.”

Vasistha said, “Very well said, Rama.”

After a while Rama asked again, “Gurudeva, did Lila truly save Padma?”

Vasistha thought and said, “Rama, this is a very good question.”

“Tell me.”

“Lila did not save Padma. Padma departed, his body was burned, this did not change.

“But Lila saved her love, and that love went elsewhere, into the Chitra-loka, where Viduratha lived on. Viduratha went forward in his life, with the second Lila, had children, many years. At one level Padma continued there.”

Rama said softly, “So Lila’s love was in two forms. One with her, in this world, where Padma departed, the other there, in the Chitra-loka, where Viduratha lived.”

“Yes.”

“And the two forms were not separate.”

“Exactly.”

After a while Rama asked, “Gurudeva, can my love too be like this? If I love someone deeply?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, every love is like this at one level, we simply do not see it. We imagine that love runs only from body to body. Love runs from awareness to awareness, and for awareness death is no barrier. When one day your wife is far from you, for whatever reason, even then your love will go nowhere. It will remain within you both.”

Rama nodded.

“Gurudeva, my salutation to Lila.”

“Why?”

“Because she showed me this form of love.”

Vasistha said, “Rama, Lila will hear your salutation. She too is an awareness, like every awareness.”

Rama reached his hand toward the water and made a soft salutation.

Rama touched the water. The water was cold.

Far off a boat was swaying gently, and within it a small lamp was burning.

Rama looked at that lamp and asked, “Gurudeva, that lamp in the boat far off, is it Lila’s lamp?”

Vasistha laughed and said, “Rama, it may be. Every lamp is Lila’s, every lamp is Arundhati’s, every lamp is ours.”

Rama saw a faint glimmer on the water. Far off that lamp was very small now, but it was still burning.

“Gurudeva, something feels true to me.”

“What?”

“When I sleep tonight, I will dream of Lila.”

Vasistha said, “Perhaps. But if the dream comes, do not be afraid.”

“Why would I be afraid?”

“Because in the dream Lila will say something to you. This story is inside you now, and some night it will open again.”

Rama was quiet a while, then said, “Gurudeva, thank you.”

Vasistha said, “Rama, what need is there for thanks. At one level this story was your own; I only drew it out.”

On the water that distant lamp was smaller still now, but it was not going out.

A light wind blew.

Rama laid his palm on his chest, a small salutation. For many years, for many women, for many Lilas.

Vasistha saw this, and laughed a very old laugh, the same laugh he had brought back from Bhushunda.

The night was very deep now. Neither wished to rise; they stayed sitting. The Sarayu flowed on.

Far off a mother was calling her child, “Son, come home.”

The child was perhaps playing late.

Rama heard this, and a faint smile came to his lips.

“Gurudeva, that mother too is a Lila.”

“Yes.”

Rama nodded.

The lamp swayed far off, but it was not going out.