Punyamita: The Loss That Was His Teacher

Rama asked, “Gurudev, when we lose someone, does our bond with them leave too?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, do you remember the story of Punya and Pavan? Pavan was the one who broke when his mother and father died, and whom Punya steadied. Listen now to something from many years after that story. Pavan was then past sixty, and Punya had long since gone. All his life Pavan carried his brother’s teaching, and made it his own.

“In time he began to call himself Punyamita, meaning the friend of Punya. The name held little of his own identity and much of his reverence for his brother.”

Two Friends

Punyamita lived in a village. His life was very plain: a Brahmin’s hut and a small garden beside it.

Punya had gone long ago, and their mother and father even before him. Punyamita had lived alone in this village for many years.

When he sat in his practice, Punya’s voice would often rise within him, that same old voice and that same old teaching: “Pavan, the form that leaves was only ever a form. What remains is the real thing.”

Now Punyamita lived that lesson himself.

He had a friend from childhood. His name was Vasudhara.

Vasudhara had a habit he had kept since boyhood. When he listened to someone, he would tilt his head gently to the left. That was simply how he listened. Punyamita first noticed it when he was six years old, when the two of them had only just arrived at the gurukul.

Vasudhara was a little tall, and there was a mark above his left eyebrow, from a fall off some ledge in his boyhood. When he laughed, he would lace the fingers of his hands together.

The two of them grew up in the same village, studied at the same gurukul, and bathed in the same river.

There were many stories from their boyhood.

Once, the two of them slipped away from their teacher and climbed a mango tree. The mangoes were near ripe. Punyamita held a branch, Vasudhara reached out and plucked one, but the mango turned out to be unripe, and both of them screwed up their faces. Later, when they told their teacher about it, he said, “Sons, the fruit of theft is sour. That is the lesson.”

Another time, the two of them went alone to the river on a moonlit night. They had meant to catch a fish, and they kept their hands in the water for a long while, but not a single fish came to hand.

On the way back, Vasudhara tilted his head to the left toward Punyamita and said, “Punyamita, we are useless.”

Punyamita said, “Perhaps. But at least we are together.”

“Yes, that is the whole point.”

There was a third thing too. Once, beneath a nearby peepal tree, the two of them made a secret vow: “We will be friends all our lives.” And with one voice they repeated that they would.

Even many years later, Punyamita remembered that vow.

The parents of both boys had watched this friendship between them, and had never stood in its way. Childhood friendships often drift apart with time. This one did not.

When the two of them became young men, their paths went their separate ways. Punyamita chose to stay in his village, built himself a hut, and started a small school where he taught the children their lessons.

Vasudhara chose a different path. He loved to travel, so he went to other lands and became a merchant.

Their conversations grew fewer, because Vasudhara was far away and Punyamita stayed at home.

Now and then messages would arrive, sometimes a letter, sometimes a story, sometimes a gift.

Punyamita would miss his friend, but he accepted that this was simply life.

Sometimes at night, when everyone had gone to sleep, Punyamita would come out in front of his hut and look at the sky, and his friend would come to mind.

He would say within himself, “Dear friend, where are you? In some far land? Are you looking at the sky too? Do you miss me as well?”

But no answer came, only the sky, and only the stars.

Punyamita would smile and say to himself, “Perhaps he is watching just like this. And perhaps not.”

Then he would go back inside.

In this way many years passed.

The News

One day Punyamita received word that his friend was gone.

The news came in a short letter, sent by his friend’s son: “Punyamita uncle, my father Vasudhara has passed away from an illness. In his last days he spoke of you and said, Punyamita is my oldest friend, let him know. So I am sending you this letter.”

Punyamita read the letter and held it in his hands for a long time.

Then he went and sat outside his hut, and for a long time could do nothing at all.

Grief

Punyamita was deeply grieved.

He thought within himself, “My friend is gone. I had not seen him for many years, and now I will never see him.”

For many days he did not open the school.

The children would come, find the door shut, and turn back.

Punyamita simply sat outside his hut. He did not eat well, and he did not sleep well.

His wife saw all this and asked, “Husband, you are not well. Is it because of your friend?”

Punyamita said, “Yes, because of him.”

His wife reached out and took Punyamita’s hand in hers and said, “Husband, this grief is natural, but do not drown in it.”

Punyamita asked, “Then what should I do?”

“I do not know. But perhaps you should speak with a rishi.”

Punyamita agreed to this.

A Night of Grief

One night Punyamita sat in his hut. The night was very long.

He took out an old letter from Vasudhara, one from years before. Punyamita read: “Friend, I am far away, but I have not forgotten you. Every night I think of you. One day we will surely meet.”

Punyamita held that letter against his chest for a long time.

He said softly, “Friend, we never did meet.”

A single drop spilled from Punyamita’s eyes and fell onto the letter.

After a long while Punyamita set the letter down and rose to his feet. Outside it was night, but one star shone very clearly.

Looking at that star, Punyamita said, “Friend, this star! Are you there?”

The star kept shining, and it seemed to Punyamita as if the star were smiling faintly.

The Sage

In a nearby village lived an old rishi.

Punyamita went to him and said, “Revered rishi, my friend is gone. I weep every day, but my weeping simply will not end.”

The rishi said, “Punyamita, where is your friend?”

Punyamita said, “He is no longer here.”

“No longer here?”

“No, not at all.”

The rishi thought for a moment and said, “Punyamita, your friend’s body is no more, but within you he still remains.”

Punyamita asked, “What does that mean?”

“Your memories, that laughter you shared with him, and an image of him you carry. That image is within you.”

Punyamita said softly, “But this is only an image. It is not the man himself.”

The rishi said, “Punyamita, the one you call yourself is also only an image. We are all images. Our body is an image, our mind is an image, and our identity too is an image. Behind these images there is a consciousness, and that consciousness is one and the same for everyone. Your friend and you, both of you are two forms of that single consciousness. Your friend’s body is no more, but that consciousness is within you still. Do you miss your friend? Look within yourself. He is right there.”

Hearing this, Punyamita went still.

In the midst of the rishi’s voice another voice arose, a very old one, his elder brother Punya’s, one he had heard many years ago when their parents passed.

Punya had once said this very thing. The words were different, the truth the same: “Pavan, the form that leaves was only an image. Behind it is consciousness, and consciousness does not leave.”

A faint smile came to Punyamita’s face.

Seeing it, the rishi asked, “What is it, Punyamita?”

Punyamita said, “Revered rishi, I have known this for many years.”

“And then?”

“Even so, I had draped myself in it, and yet I was not living it. My brother Punya gave me this teaching when our parents passed. I did learn it, but only halfway, perhaps. Today, when my friend has gone, I have needed that same lesson again.”

The rishi said, “Punyamita, this is very common. A lesson is not complete in a single learning. Each time life asks for it, that same lesson opens again.”

Hearing this, Punyamita stayed silent for a long while.

The Experience

Then Punyamita asked, “Revered rishi, and my grief?”

The rishi said, “Grief will stay a little while, then it too will go. The friendship will not go, because friendship stands above form.”

Punyamita said, “Revered rishi, I do not yet fully understand this.”

The rishi said, “Punyamita, listen. Tonight go home, sit in your hut, and close your eyes. Then remember your friend, but this time in a particular way. His laughter, his voice, and some one distinct thing about his face. Then look within yourself, and you will find that your friend is right there, within you, and always has been. You simply did not know it.”

Punyamita agreed.

He returned home and at night sat in his hut and closed his eyes.

He remembered Vasudhara. That laughter of Vasudhara’s from their childhood, and that voice of Vasudhara’s that ran a little high and always held a hidden laugh within it.

One distinct thing about Vasudhara also came back to him: when he listened to someone, he would tilt his head gently to the left. That was his habit from boyhood.

Punyamita saw all of this within himself.

And for a moment it seemed to him that his friend was near. There was no body, yet something was there, a faint stirring and a faint laugh.

Punyamita said softly, “Vasudhara, you are right here.”

From within came a faint voice: “Yes.”

A smile spread across Punyamita’s face.

Afterward

Punyamita opened his eyes. Outside it was night, the lamp was burning, and his wife slept close by.

Within him the heavy grief was gone now. In its place were a calm and a gentle love.

The next day he opened the school again, and the children came.

Punyamita taught them their lessons, but now his teaching was somewhat different.

One child began to cry in the middle of it. Punyamita asked, “Tell me, child.”

The child said, “Master, my grandmother passed away yesterday.”

Punyamita called the crying child close.

Punyamita drew the child’s head to his chest and said, “Cry, child. Cry as much as you need to. Then I will tell you something.”

The child cried for a long time, then stopped.

The child asked, “Master, was there something you wanted to tell me?”

Punyamita said, “Yes, child. Your grandmother has not gone anywhere. Only her body is no more, and she is within you.”

“Within me?”

“Yes, within you. Tonight go home and remember your grandmother. Her laughter, her voice, some distinct thing about her. Then look within yourself, and you will find her.”

The child agreed and went home. At night he tried.

The next day he came back and said, “Master, I found my grandmother.”

Punyamita asked, “How?”

“By the very way you told me.”

Hearing this, Punyamita smiled.

The Second Night

The next night Punyamita did the same again, closed his eyes and remembered his friend.

This time the experience was deeper. One of his friend’s habits came back to him: when he ate, he would smile faintly before each mouthful. It was a very ordinary thing, and a very dear one.

Punyamita laughed and said, “Dear friend, you are just as you were.”

From within came a faint yes.

On the third night an old story with Vasudhara came back to him.

In their boyhood the two of them had gone to see a fair. Vasudhara bought a sweet, but Punyamita had no money. So Vasudhara broke his sweet in half and gave a piece to Punyamita.

At the time Punyamita had thought that Vasudhara was very kind.

Now the same memory returned, with a difference. Now it seemed to Punyamita that the halving had been of more than the sweet. It had been of Vasudhara himself. Vasudhara had halved his own self and given it away.

Punyamita wept, and this time the tears were tears of gratitude.

His Wife

Punyamita told his wife about this.

He said, “My dear, my friend is within me.”

His wife asked, “How?”

Punyamita told her the whole of it: about the rishi, about closing the eyes, and about remembering.

His wife listened to all of this very carefully.

Then she smiled and said, “Husband, this is a good thing. But I have one thing to ask.”

Punyamita said, “Ask.”

His wife said, “My mother and father went long ago. I was small then, so I have very few memories of them. Can I do this too?”

Punyamita took her hand in his and said, “My dear, of course. Even if the memories are few. Simply sink into whatever you do remember, then look within yourself.”

His wife agreed.

That night his wife tried. She took a small memory of her mother, a lullaby of hers, of which she remembered only one line; the rest she had forgotten.

She repeated that line over within herself.

And for a moment it seemed to her that her mother was near.

His wife’s eyes filled, but she stayed calm.

In the morning she said to Punyamita, “Husband, I found her.”

Punyamita said, “That is good.”

Then Punyamita smiled and said, “My dear, our home is full now, full of many people.”

Hearing this, his wife laughed.

The Rest

After this many years passed.

Punyamita taught this to many people.

Those who had lost someone dear would come to him, and Punyamita would tell them the same thing: “Look within yourself. They are right there.”

Some people accepted this, some did not. Those who accepted it found their own people again, and those who did not stayed in their sorrow.

Once a woman came whose son had gone to war many years before and had not returned. She said, “Punyamita, I want my son.”

Punyamita said, “Sister, come, sit.”

The woman sat down.

Punyamita said, “Sister, tell me one small memory of your son.”

The woman thought for a long while, then said, “He was small. One day he hid his face in the pallu of my saree, because there was a dog outside and he was frightened. But he kept telling me that he was not frightened. That day I laughed softly to myself.”

Within Punyamita there was a faint stirring, of Punya’s voice: “Pavan, this is the lesson. It is learned once, and it is given many times.”

Punyamita said, “Sister, this is a good memory. Now close your eyes and see this memory within you. His little fist, his face, that faint fear of his, all of it.”

The woman closed her eyes and stayed sunk in that memory for a long time.

Then a faint smile came to her face; there were tears too, but with them a smile as well.

She said, “Punyamita, he is, he is right here.”

Punyamita said, “Sister, he was, he is, and he will remain.”

The woman moved to touch Punyamita’s feet, but Punyamita stopped her and said, “Sister, not me. Touch your son. He is within you.”

The woman laughed and returned home.

Many years later, when she too left her body, her last words were these: “Son, I am coming.”

Punyamita slowly grew old. His eyes saw less now, his body had bent, and his voice had grown faint. But the school still ran, and the children still came.

The children now listened to his stories, and Punyamita would tell them about his friend: “Children, I had a friend. He went away many years ago, but he is with me still.”

The children would ask in wonder, “Master, how is that?”

Punyamita would smile and say, “Within yourself, children. When you grow up, you too will learn this. For now, just remember this much: those you love, you never leave alone, neither in your lifetime nor in theirs.”

The children would settle this into their hearts.

One day his body fell away.

His wife said to the children, “Father has gone, but now we know what to do.”

His wife closed her eyes and remembered Punyamita, his laughter, his voice, and one distinct thing about him.

His wife found him.

And so did the children.

The story of Punyamita spread from home to home. People would say, “Punyamita taught us that those we love never go. Only their body goes; everything else stays within us.”

Hearing this, Rama said, “Gurudev, so those we lose do not go in the way we imagine?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, their body goes, their form goes. But that consciousness which was in them was a form of our very own consciousness. And so they are always near us. The bond belonged to consciousness. It was never a bond of form, and consciousness does not leave.”

Rama looked for a while at the water flowing before him, then asked, “Gurudev, so when my father one day departs…”

Vasistha said, “Rama, on that day remember Punyamita. You will find your father within yourself. Each time you have need of it, simply close your eyes, and he will be right there.”

Rama stayed silent for a while, then said in a low voice, “Gurudev, but I have one thing to ask. Is this only a memory, perhaps some imagining?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, that is a good question. The difference between memory and imagination is very subtle, but listen. When a memory grows very deep, it no longer stays a memory. It becomes a presence. For what we call presence is in truth also only an image in our mind. Our eye sees, our mind makes an image, and then we say this is present. So a memory too is an image, and presence too is an image. The only difference is this: one came from the body, the other from remembrance. Behind both of them is one and the same consciousness.”

Rama settled this into his heart.