Suraghu: The Kirata King

Rama asked, “Gurudev, can even a king of the forest attain wisdom?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, wisdom does not look at the birth of the one who seeks it. There was a Kirata king, Suraghu, and there was a king of Persia, Parigha. The two arrived at the same place by different roads, and when they met in old age, they shared their experiences with each other.”

Himalaya

Suraghu was the king of a Kirata tribe in the foothills of the Himalaya.

The Kirata were a mountain people. Their bodies were small and strong, their skin dark and hardened by sun and shade, and their hair was black and straight.

Suraghu’s royal seat was a large hut of deodar wood, humble beside any palace of stone. Its roof carried a thick layer of dried leaves, and the floor below was raw packed earth.

At the center, inside, stood a fire pit where a flame burned at all hours. Among Suraghu’s people there was a rule that this fire must never be let to die.

The air inside the hall always held a mingled scent: deodar resin, burning pine branches, and the smell of deer fat burning in the lamps. By evening the roasted smell of barley bread would join it.

Behind Suraghu’s throne hung the skin of a bear that his father had once killed with his own hands. The hide was still thick, though many years of sun had faded its color.

The ministers sat on a mat woven from dried grass. Before them was set a copper platter lined with oak leaves, and on those leaves were placed fruit or roots.

The life of the Kirata was simple. They hunted, gathered roots from the forest, and did a little farming as well.

When a great decision had to be made, Suraghu would sound a hunting horn carved from bone. Its call was singular and very old, and it carried as far as three valleys away.

Their houses were built among the trees, made of earth, roofed over with dried leaves.

Everything a Kirata king could possibly have, Suraghu had: a small kingdom, a small royal hall, his wife, his children, and his ministers. Yet within him there was also a thirst.

Suraghu had kept this thirst within himself for many years and had said nothing of it to anyone. Once, a minister of his had asked, “Maharaj, at times you seem very far away.”

Suraghu turned the matter aside. “Minister, this is your imagination.”

But in truth the minister was right.

Mandavya

One day a rishi arrived whose name was Mandavya. He was very old, his beard entirely white and his eyes keen.

He was on a journey through the Himalaya and was passing through Suraghu’s kingdom. When Suraghu heard of it, he sent for the sage.

When the sage came into the royal hall, Suraghu folded his hands. “Maharaj, not this seat. Please take the higher one.” And the sage sat.

Suraghu asked, “Maharaj, what brings you here?”

The sage said, “Suraghu, I am on a journey. I have seen your kingdom, I have seen your people, and it seemed to me that here is a king who is far more than he appears to be.”

Suraghu asked, “Maharaj, what do you mean by that?”

The sage said, “Suraghu, there is a thirst in your eyes.”

Suraghu was silent for a moment, then said, “Yes. Tell me about it.”

Suraghu poured out everything: his thirst, his questions, his restlessness, all that had welled up over many years.

The sage listened to all of it without a word in between. When Suraghu had finished, the sage spoke.

“Suraghu, this thirst lives within everyone, though not everyone recognizes it. You have recognized it, and that is a very great thing.”

Suraghu asked, “Then what should I do now?”

The sage said, “Suraghu, inquire into the self.”

“How?”

“Sit with your mind and watch it. Watch each thought arrive, watch it leave, but do not take yourself to be the thought. You are behind the thought.”

Suraghu said, “Maharaj, this will be hard to do.”

“Why?”

“Because my mind is always busy: matters of the kingdom, matters of the people.”

The sage said, “Suraghu, this is the real work, to inquire into the self while living in the midst of the kingdom. If you leave the kingdom and go off to the mountain, your mind will be the same there too. There will simply be no matters of state, yet the nature of the mind will remain what it is.

“The real art is to sit within yourself while remaining in the midst of the kingdom. The kingdom then becomes an instrument of your practice, and the throne need never be surrendered.”

Suraghu asked one more thing. “Maharaj, will I always need a guru like you?”

The sage said, “Suraghu, what I have told you now is enough for a beginning. The road ahead you will walk on your own.

“But if ever the road seems lost, you may call me. There is only one condition: first you must try for yourself.”

Suraghu bowed his head and accepted this.

After this the sage departed.

The practice

Suraghu began the practice. Every night he would sit in his chamber, close his eyes, and watch his mind.

Each day the mind brought something new. On the first night a small problem of the kingdom returned: in one village two farmers had been quarreling, and Suraghu had given his judgment, yet the mind kept circling back to the question of whether that judgment had been right.

Suraghu watched the mind. He did not stop it. He only kept watching.

On the second night an old memory from childhood surfaced, of a time his father had scolded him harshly, and the mind returned to that old scolding. This too Suraghu simply watched.

On the third night a fear of the future rose up. What if his kingdom grew weak? What if a neighboring kingdom attacked? This fear too Suraghu watched.

In this way many nights passed.

Every game of the mind Suraghu watched. He neither stopped it nor embraced it. He only kept watching.

Slowly the mind began to grow quiet. Not entirely, yet a small clearing opened within him, and in that clearing Suraghu saw a steady kind of awareness.

The revelation

One night Suraghu recognized it. The mind exists, and I am not the mind. I am the one who is watching this mind.

The thought may sound ordinary to the ear, yet when experienced from within, in stillness, it went very deep.

Suraghu opened his eyes. Outside it was night, and a single lamp was burning, and within him a faint peace had descended.

The next day he ran the kingdom exactly as he did every day, yet now a difference had entered his decisions. Before, he had made every decision from his mind; now he began to make every decision from the witness within him. The stirring of the mind was still there, and it had fallen behind him.

The minister noticed the change and said, “Maharaj, you seem somewhat changed.”

“Your decisions seem very steady now.”

Suraghu said, “Minister, I have not changed. It is only that I now speak from my awareness, and the mind no longer speaks in my place.”

The minister did not grasp all of it, but he bowed his head with respect.

In this way many years passed.

Suraghu went on giving justice to his people, and his decisions had grown very steady now.

The people noticed this too and began to say, “Our king is different now than he was before.”

Parigha

Far away in Persia there was a king whose name was Parigha.

Parigha was the king of a great realm. His army was large, and his palace was large as well.

Parigha’s palace was of stone, set with slender columns of Uzbek marble. The floor was laid in the blue of lapis lazuli, and here and there stars worked in threads of gold were set into it.

At the center of the palace was a large courtyard, and at the center of the courtyard a small fountain. Its water came from beneath the ground through a qanat: clear, cold, and flowing the whole year round.

Cypress trees stood around the fountain, casting shadows long and thin.

The air of the palace always carried the scent of attar: of rose, of jasmine, of kewda. Every morning the servants would sprinkle this attar on the walls.

There was one particular thing in Parigha’s court. In a corner sat an instrument like a tanpura, which the Persians called the setar, and a musician sat there the whole day playing it in very soft tones. Behind the talk of the court a faint thread of music always flowed.

The ministers sat on cushions of silk. Before them was set a silver platter arranged with dates and roasted pistachios, and rose sherbet to drink.

Parigha’s story was a simple one. For many years he ruled his kingdom; he had a queen and he had children. But one year a drought fell upon his realm.

The drought was severe. First the rains failed, then the rivers dried, and then the wells as well. No grain grew in the fields, and the people had nothing left to eat.

Parigha did everything in his power. He threw open the grain stores, sold the diamonds of his palace to buy more grain, but the drought was so vast that none of it was enough, and thousands of people died.

Parigha saw all of this with his own eyes.

His people were dying before his eyes, and there was nothing in his hands to give.

One night he thought: I am a king, my work is to protect my people, and I cannot protect them. My kingly power is a lie.

And Parigha made a decision.

The next morning he summoned his ministers and said, “I am leaving the kingdom.”

The ministers were startled. “Maharaj, but why?”

Parigha said, “Because even as king I can do nothing. Then what is the use of being king?”

The ministers were silent for a moment, then asked, “Maharaj, who will hold the kingdom?”

“My son.”

“But he is still young.”

“He will grow up.”

Parigha called his son and told him everything.

The boy began to weep. “Father, do not go.”

“My son, I must go.”

“But I will be left alone.”

“My son, my heart will no longer settle here, and without my heart in it, even if I stayed beside you I could not truly be with you.”

A faint difficulty settled into the boy, and with it came a certain understanding, and he said, “Father, go.”

The forest

Parigha left the kingdom and set out toward the north, toward the Himalaya.

His journey stretched over many days. Along the way people would look at him: an old man, in plain clothes, walking on foot. No one recognized that this had once been the king of Persia.

At last he reached the Himalaya.

On a slope of the mountain he found a small cave, and there he began to sit.

For food he would gather roots and leaves from the forest, and now and then a small fruit came his way. From this his name too changed, to Parnada, which means one who eats leaves.

For many years he lived in the forest, and in that time he practiced tapas and inquired into the self.

For Parnada this did not come easily. Once he had ruled a great kingdom; now he was alone in the forest. Once he had everything; now he had nothing. Once he had talked all day long; now he was silent all day.

In the beginning it was very hard. The mind kept pulling him back toward the kingdom: memories of his son, memories of the queen, memories of the old days. Parnada only watched the mind. He did not stop it.

Slowly the mind began to grow quiet.

After many years the same steady awareness opened within Parnada: the mind exists, and I am not the mind.

Parnada had come to know this, yet one thing kept nagging at him deep within.

I found this by leaving the kingdom, but was that necessary? Was leaving the kingdom truly required for tapas?

Parnada lived with this question for many years, but he found no answer to it.

Meanwhile

Meanwhile, Suraghu’s minister said to him one day, “Maharaj, there is something I must ask.”

“Ask.”

“Maharaj, many times you go out alone at night, without telling anyone.”

Suraghu said, “Yes.”

“But why?”

“Minister, being a king is heavy work. Sometimes I need a holiday from the king.”

The minister asked further, “Maharaj, one more thing. People say you have become different than before. Different how?”

Suraghu thought for a moment, then said, “Minister, before, I was the king. Now I am the one who happens to be king.”

“Meaning?”

“It means that before, my identity was being the king; now my identity comes from somewhere else. Being king is now only one of my tasks, and it is no longer who I am.”

The minister said, “Maharaj, I understand.”

“Do you truly understand?”

“Not fully, but a faint understanding has certainly formed.”

Suraghu said, “That is enough. The rest of the understanding will come later.”

And the minister went away.

The meeting

Then one day, after many years, the two of them met.

Suraghu had by now set out from his kingdom like a rishi. He had grown very old, his hair white and his body thin, but his eyes were as keen as ever.

He was wandering the Himalaya with no particular purpose, simply drifting from place to place.

In a small forest he came upon another ascetic.

Suraghu looked at him: he too was very old, his hair and beard white, his body thin, but his eyes were keen.

The two greeted each other. “Brother.” “Brother.”

Suraghu asked, “Who are you?”

The ascetic said, “My old name was Parigha, king of Persia. Now I am Parnada.”

Suraghu said, “My old name was Suraghu, the Kirata king. Now I belong to no name at all.”

Both of them laughed, and Suraghu said, “Sit.”

The two sat down beneath a tree.

The conversation

Then they talked. Parnada asked, “Brother, how did you come to this awakening?”

Suraghu said, “I found it while remaining in my kingdom. I never left the throne. I am a king even now.”

“I found it too, and my road was the other one. I saw the sorrow of my kingdom, and then I gave everything up.”

“So the two of us reached the same place?”

“Yes, the roads were only different.”

And the two laughed again.

Parnada asked, “Brother, tell me one thing. Living in the midst of a kingdom, how do you practice your sadhana?”

Suraghu said, “Parnada, my brother, my kingdom is like my body. The body exists, and I am not the body. The kingdom exists, and I am not the kingdom. I am behind them both. When this settles within you, even ruling a kingdom becomes a form of tapas.”

“And in your decisions?”

“My decisions no longer come from me. They come from that awareness which stands behind me. I only speak them, only carry them out into the open.”

Parnada thought for a while, then said, “Brother, I feel now that leaving the kingdom was not necessary.”

Suraghu said, “Parnada, my brother, what is necessary differs for each person. You chose the road that was right for you, I chose the road that was right for me. Both were right.

“You had seen the drought, and the pain of being a king weighed very heavily in your heart. Had you stayed, perhaps something within you would have broken. What you did was a way of protecting what was inside you.

“I had seen no drought, my kingdom is small, and my mind was of a different make. For me it was possible to remain in the midst of the kingdom.

“And so both roads are right.”

Parnada asked again, “Brother, and my son? Would he have been all right?”

Suraghu was silent for a moment, then said, “Parnada, my brother, that I do not know. But one thing I can say: children grow even without their parents. Your son too will have made his own road, good or bad, but his own.”

After this the two sat silent for a long time. Above them the branches of the tree stirred faintly.

Onward

Then Parnada asked, “Brother, where will you go now?”

Suraghu said, “Parnada, my brother, I am simply wandering with no purpose. My son is in my kingdom now, and he is the one who rules it. I am no longer needed there.”

“And so?”

“And so I keep walking. Wherever a place feels good to me, I stop there, and then I move on.”

Parnada said, “Brother, could you stay with me for a few days?”

Suraghu said, “A few days, why not.”

The two built a small hut near Parnada’s old cave.

For many days they lived together.

They would sit together and talk, recite the texts, meditate, and now and then fall silent for long stretches.

One night Parnada said to Suraghu, “Brother, I feel my time is coming.”

Suraghu was silent for a moment, then asked, “Brother, what do you wish?”

“I wish to lay down this body here, beside you.”

Suraghu gave his silent assent to this.

A few days later Parnada’s body slipped away in peace.

Suraghu buried him in that same forest.

Suraghu lived on in that place for some years more, and then he too departed.

Long afterward, some ascetics came to that forest and saw two graves there. They could not tell who these had been, but they built a small temple beside the graves. People used to say, “Here two seekers departed together. One was a king, one was an ascetic, and the two of them were not separate.”

Rama asked, “Gurudev, two different roads, and one destination. So what is my road?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, your road is your own life. You will become a king, you will rule a kingdom, and within you will keep that steady awareness that stands behind every decision. You will follow the way of Suraghu. Parnada’s road of renunciation is not the one you are meant to walk.”

Rama asked further, “Gurudev, and Parnada’s son? Would he have been all right?”

Vasistha was silent for a moment, then said, “Rama, I believe he was. The son made his own road. Perhaps he remembered his father from time to time, and still he went on forward.

“A father’s love never leaves a child alone, however far away the father may be.”

Rama asked again, “Gurudev, Suraghu and Parigha were from lands far apart, and still they understood each other. How was this possible?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, because above country and language there is one awareness. Those who reach that awareness within themselves cross beyond every country and every language.”

Rama said, “Gurudev, there must be such people beyond my kingdom too.”

“Yes, there will be many.”

“Then should I go to meet them?”

Vasistha said, “Rama, once you are caught up in ruling a kingdom, you may not find the time to go to distant people yourself. But there is this: you will have envoys who travel far and wide. Teach them to keep their awareness open in every land.

“If some faraway king carries a measure of wisdom, let the envoys bring you word of him.”

Rama said one more thing. “Gurudev, Suraghu did not hide his longing. He had told his minister that he sometimes seemed far away. Had he hidden it, perhaps Mandavya would never have found him.”

Vasistha said, “Well said, Rama. Many kings hide their seeking; they feel a king ought to know everything. But the truly wise king accepts his own ignorance, and it is through this that wisdom comes to him.”

Rama looked toward the water flowing before him and said, “Gurudev, I will never hide my seeking.”

Vasistha said, “Rama, you are already doing this. You ask me so many questions.”

Rama smiled and said, “Gurudev, yes.”

Then the two were silent for a long time. Outside, the wind moved gently, and somewhere far off a bird called.