Sikhidhvaja’s Solitary Journey

Rama asked, “Gurudev, if a king renounces everything, does he become free?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, you have already heard Sikhidhvaja’s story once, alongside Chudala’s. But now listen to his solitary journey on its own. He was alone in the forest, and what he was searching for was not there for him to find. This story is a warning: when the road itself is wrong, no amount of effort will serve.”

The Decision

Sikhidhvaja made up his mind to leave his kingdom.

For many years he and Chudala had studied side by side, yet Chudala had come to wisdom and Sikhidhvaja had not.

Sikhidhvaja thought, “My mind is busy every hour of the day. The kingdom is full of interruptions. I need solitude.”

When he said this to Chudala, she tried to stop him. “Maharaj, what you want will not be found in the forest.”

But Sikhidhvaja would not listen.

He gave up the kingdom and handed it over to the queen.

And he went off into the forest, alone.

The Forest

Sikhidhvaja reached the forest.

The forest was vast, the trees were tall, and the foliage was thick.

He chose a great tree whose shade was deep.

There he sat down.

The tree’s roots were thick, the earth beneath was cool, and the leaves overhead were so dense that when the wind stirred them a low sound rose from the branches.

Somewhere far off a bird was calling, and its voice came through very clearly.

Sikhidhvaja liked this place. “Enough. I will stay right here now.”

On the first day there was peace within him.

I am alone. No affairs of state here, no minister, no messenger, no visitor. No child to call me father, no wife to call me Maharaj. Only me.

The thought pleased him.

He thought, “Now my tapas will come to completion. That is all.”

But this was his first mistake. He had turned peace into a thought and never once lived it.

On the second day the worry of food came to him. He searched the forest for roots, leaves, and fruit, and ate.

On the third day he began his tapas, sitting down with his eyes closed.

The Mind

From the very first day the mind was not still.

A great many things came surging up inside him, things of the kingdom, of Chudala, and of the old days.

First came a memory from childhood. A hunt with his father, a deer. Sikhidhvaja had loosed an arrow, the deer had run and kept running for a long time, then fell.

Sikhidhvaja opened his eyes. “Why has this come to me here?”

Then a second memory came. The first night with Chudala, her soft smile, her eyes.

Then a third. The death of a messenger many years earlier. He had sent the man on an errand, and the man never came back.

Many such memories kept coming, one after another.

Sikhidhvaja tried to stop his mind. “Mind, stop.” But the mind did not stop.

He said it louder. “Mind, stop.” But the mind kept laughing and began to run all the faster.

The second day the same thing happened; the mind raced hard.

On the third day anger rose in Sikhidhvaja. “Mind, why will you not stop?” But the mind gave no answer.

On the fourth day Sikhidhvaja thought, “Perhaps I need a mantra.”

He began a very old mantra, one his guru had given him long ago.

On the first day he recited it a hundred times, on the second day five hundred, and on the third day a thousand.

The mantra ran on, but the crowd behind his mind stayed exactly as it was.

In this way many days passed.

The Daily Round

Sikhidhvaja’s daily round was simple.

He rose very early, before the sun was up, went to the river to bathe, and on returning sat beneath the tree and meditated for a long while.

At midday he went into the forest, searched for roots, leaves, and whatever fruit he could find, and came back to a plain meal.

In the evening he meditated again, and at night he slept.

This round went on unchanged for many years.

But there was one more thing.

Sikhidhvaja began to make his practice harsher.

At first he ate twice a day, then once, then only now and then. At first he slept the whole night, then half of it, then only a couple of watches. At first he had a mat; he threw it away and took to sleeping on the bare ground. At first he had a cloth; he threw that away too and kept only a loincloth.

With each new hardship he thought, “Now my tapas is set firm.” But nothing opened within him.

In this way many years passed.

His body grew very weak, his eyes sank into their sockets, and there were scratches here and there across his skin. But within, he remained exactly as he had been.

Now and then someone passed through the forest, a wanderer, a hunter, a traveler. Seeing him, the passerby would say, “Baba, Ram.”

Sikhidhvaja would nod, and that was all.

Sometimes one would ask, “Baba, who are you?” But Sikhidhvaja said nothing.

(Inwardly he thought. Who am I? The question is a real one, and I have no answer to it.)

The traveler would move on, and Sikhidhvaja would stay sitting where he was.

Sometimes a deer would come very close, sniff at Sikhidhvaja, and then wander off.

Sometimes a parrot would settle near him, never touching Sikhidhvaja, only watching.

The forest had no complaint against Sikhidhvaja, yet the forest had nothing to give him either. What he was searching for was simply not there in the forest.

But for many years this was something Sikhidhvaja simply could not understand.

The Effort

Sikhidhvaja practiced still harsher tapas. He thought, “My tapas is falling short, and that is why the mind will not stop.”

He cut his food down further, twice a day at first, then once, then not even now and then. His body grew thin, but the mind stayed the same.

He cut down on sleep and sat through the night with his eyes closed. But for want of sleep the mind ran all the more.

He kept his body in the sun by day and in the cold by night. The body reacted, but the mind stayed the same.

In this way many years passed.

The Many Forms of Effort

Over these years Sikhidhvaja tried many forms of tapas.

Once he took to standing on one leg, the other lifted, for long stretches. Two gharis the first day (a ghari is a short measure of time), four the second, and the whole morning by the third.

The body ached, the leg swelled, but the mind ran on the same as ever.

Then he gave it up.

Once he raised both arms overhead and held them there for a very long time. His arms went stiff, and even lowering them became hard.

But within, everything stayed the same.

Then he gave this up too.

Once he lit sacred fires in five directions and sat down in their midst.

The sun blazed overhead and the fires burned on every side. His body scorched, sweat poured off him, but the mind stayed the same.

Then he gave this up too.

Once he took to standing waist-deep in the cold river, for hours on end.

The body shivered, but the mind stayed the same.

Then he gave this up too.

After every effort the same thought came to him. “Perhaps this tapas is too little. I will make the next one harsher.”

But the next, harsher tapas gave the same result.

One day he thought, “Perhaps my body cannot bear all of this. Perhaps I should live longer, a gentler tapas but a longer one.”

So he set aside all the harsh austerities and simply sat with his eyes closed.

But even in sitting the mind raced just as much.

Sikhidhvaja said, “In harsh tapas the mind raced, and in rest the mind raced too. So the mind has nothing to do with tapas at all.”

This was one insight, though it was not the whole of it.

Defeat

Sikhidhvaja’s body grew very weak, his eyes sank inward, and his beard grew matted. But nothing within him opened.

One day he was sitting on the bank of a river.

He saw his reflection in the water.

An old man, tired and sorrowful.

Sikhidhvaja spoke in a very low voice. “I gave up everything, and still I found nothing. I left the kingdom, left my wife, left my wealth, left my fame. But I could not give up my own effort. This effort of mine is my bondage.”

This settled deep inside him, yet its full meaning he still did not grasp.

Rest

Sikhidhvaja eased off his effort a little and sat as he was, without tapas, without meditation, without mantra.

But not entirely, because a little effort still lingered in his mind.

One night a tiny peace came down within him, very small, but there without a doubt.

Sikhidhvaja thought, “What is this?”

But the very next moment that peace was gone, because he had tried to hold on to it.

Sikhidhvaja said, “Every time I make an effort, peace slips away.”

But this was something he could not bring into his own life.

The Standstill

For many years Sikhidhvaja stayed where he was.

But within, nothing opened fully.

Now and then a little peace would come and then leave. Now and then a stirring would rise inside him, and then the same old state returned.

Now Sikhidhvaja began to feel, “Perhaps I need someone else.”

But whom could he call? Where was the guru who would tell him where he had gone wrong?

At night he often lay watching the countless stars in the sky.

He thought, “Behind these stars there is someone, someone who knows everything. But his voice does not reach me.”

Sometimes a star would break loose and fall, and watching it Sikhidhvaja would think, “My efforts are just like this. A flash, and then down.”

Sometimes Chudala came back to his mind. “What were all the things she used to say to me?”

Much came back to him, but one thing returned again and again.

“Sikhidhvaja, real wisdom is within. If you search for it outside, you will not find it.”

He had laughed then. “Rani ji, everyone says that.”

Now that laugh of his own tasted bitter to him.

He thought, “I laughed then, but she was speaking the truth.”

But what could be done now? Chudala was far away in the kingdom, and he himself was here in the forest.

Sikhidhvaja bowed his head. “My pride, this is my real bondage.”

This was one more insight, though it was not the whole of it.

The Seasons

In the forest the seasons kept turning.

Summer came, the tree’s leaves dried and fell, the river ran thin, and Sikhidhvaja’s body grew drier still.

The rains came, water everywhere, the earth under his tree turned wet, and he let himself simply get soaked.

Autumn came, the leaves turned brown, a light wind began to blow, and Sikhidhvaja found a little relief.

Early winter came, the cold deepened, Sikhidhvaja’s body kept shivering, but he sat on just the same.

Late winter came, frost began to fall, dew would freeze on his beard and his eyes would fill with water, but only from the cold, and for no other reason.

Spring came, new leaves and fresh shoots burst open. But within Sikhidhvaja no new shoot broke forth.

This cycle repeated many times over.

Now and then Sikhidhvaja would think, “The tree grows new every time. Why do I not?”

But no answer came.

The Arrival

One day a young man came to him.

The young man’s hair was black, his beard light and not yet fully grown, and his eyes were bright.

(In truth the young man was Chudala herself, come in the form of Kumbha. That part is told in the Chudala story ahead.)

The young man’s name was Kumbha.

Kumbha said to Sikhidhvaja, “Maharaj, I will stay with you.” Sikhidhvaja nodded.

There was something in Kumbha’s eyes, something Sikhidhvaja had not seen in many years, perhaps had never seen at all.

Sikhidhvaja thought, “Perhaps I will get something from him.”

It was only this much openness, yet even this much was a great deal.

(Because into what is shut, nothing can enter. Into what is open even a little, a great deal can enter.)

(The rest of the story is told in the Chudala katha. Here we have been watching only Sikhidhvaja’s solitary journey, and that failure of his.)

Looking Back

Many years later, when Sikhidhvaja had already become free, he once asked Kumbha, “Those years in the forest, were they all wasted?”

Kumbha said, “No, Maharaj, not wasted. Those years were necessary. They are what wore you out, and only a worn-out man is ready to learn. A fresh man stays full of his own pride.”

Sikhidhvaja nodded and asked, “But tell me one thing. If someone had told me at the very start that going alone was not enough, would I have listened?”

Kumbha said, “No, Maharaj, you would not have. Some things are not understood by hearing them. They have to be lived.”

Sikhidhvaja bowed his head and asked, “So is every failure a lesson?”

“Every failure is a lesson. But a lesson serves only when we recognize it. The man who takes his failure to be no more than failure never gets the lesson. The man who looks for learning inside his failure is the one who finds it.”

Sikhidhvaja gathered this up and kept it within, and many years later it was still there.

Rama asked, “Gurudev, so leaving everything and going off alone is not enough?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, going off alone is a beginning. But if you get caught in the effort itself, that too becomes a bondage. The real thing is to give up the effort as well. And sometimes a hand is needed, someone who will tell us where we have gone wrong.”

Rama asked, “So did Sikhidhvaja do wrong by going alone?”

Vasistha said, “Not wrong, Rama. Perhaps this was the very road he needed. By going alone he saw the limit of his own effort, and it took him many years. Had he not gone, he would never have come to know it. Then, when Chudala arrived in the form of Kumbha, Sikhidhvaja was ready, because he had grown tired of his own efforts. Only then did learning become possible for him. Had he been fresh, he would not even have heard what Kumbha said. That is why Sikhidhvaja’s solitary journey was not wasted; it was necessary.”

Rama asked, “So can failure itself be necessary?”

“Yes, very often. Failure shows us our limit, and only after seeing the limit can we go past it.”

Rama gazed at the water for a while, then said, “Gurudev, will such a failure come into my life as well?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, it comes into every life. Though even to call it failure is not quite right; better to call it a lesson. And a lesson serves only when you recognize it. Sikhidhvaja did not recognize it at first, and it cost him many years.”

Rama asked, “But to recognize failure something is needed too. What is it?”

Vasistha looked at Rama and said, “Rama, that is a very good question. To recognize failure you need exhaustion. Only a tired man can see the truth; a fresh man stays caught in his own net. Sikhidhvaja had to grow tired before he saw.”

Rama asked, “And Gurudev, can that exhaustion not come without going to the forest?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, for some it does not, for others it can. Each person’s road is different. Sikhidhvaja needed the forest; Chudala found it at home. It depends on the person.”

Rama said, “But one thing is certain.”

“Go on.”

“Whatever the road may be, the pride has to grow tired. Without the pride wearing out, wisdom does not come down.”

Rama said in a very low voice, “Gurudev, my pride is not yet tired.”

Vasistha said, “Rama, to know even this is the beginning of a kind of exhaustion.”