Indian wisdom says that a mystic who has awakened to the
highest truth is “baalavad, unmattavat, pishaachavad” – like a child, like the
intoxicated, like a ghoul. He is innocent like a child, naïve, open to life’s
varied experiences, has what Zen would call the beginner’s mind or shoshin and
is trusting, accepting and yielding. He is intoxicated because of the joy of
existence that fills his heart – joy that has no reason other than itself, joy
that spontaneously flows out of him like water from a spring, joy that is
unaffected by the different experiences of life such as success and failure,
heat or cold, sorrow or elation, and other dvandvas – dualities that form life.
He is like a ghoul because what is night to all beings is day to him and what
is day to all beings is night to him – yaa nishaa sarvabhootaanaam tasyaam jaagarti
samyami; yasyaam jaagrati bhootani saa nishaa pashyato muneh. Which is to say
that he is awake to that truth about which all beings are ignorant, lives in a
world of which the unawakened has no clue.
Such great masters, whose very presence is a blessing to
humanity, to the whole world, are not a monopoly to India, but have existed in
every culture, though perhaps India has had a larger number of such masters
than any other culture in the world because Indian life was planned towards a
single aim: the awakening of the human mind. And also because India has had a
timeless tradition of such masters to inspire others.
The Japanese tradition, which too has produced hundreds of
such great masters, calls them crazy clouds – crazy for the same reason for
which India called them unmattawad – intoxicated. Clouds because like clouds,
they are wanderers in the vast skies of life, go where life takes them, with no
plans of their own. To borrow an expression again from the Gita, they were anaarambhas
– begin nothing on their own, initiate nothing, but become mere nimittas –
instruments – for life to work through.
One such crazy cloud from ancient India is the man whose
stories I grew up with. My father told me the first story about him when I was
a little child and subsequently I came across others in the great collection of
Kerala legends called Aitihyamala by Kottarathil Shankunni. The great mystic I
am talking about is Naranath Bhrantan [naaraaNat bhraantan] – literally the
Madman of Naranam.
The first half of each day of Naranath was spent in teaching
people. As in the case of the other great masters, his lesson was highly
unconventional and intelligible only to the deserving – to the right patras.
Those who did not have the patrata, found his actions crazy and they gave him
the name by which we know him today – The Madman of Naranam.
Greek mythology tells us the story of Sisyphus – the man who
was condemned by the gods to roll a huge rock up a hill for eternity. Sisyphus
would roll the rock up the hill, sweating and toiling for hours and hours and
as soon as the rock reached the top, it will roll down on its own so that he
will have to roll it up again. Do that day and night, for all eternity. That
was his punishment – given to him by the angry gods for the ‘sin’ of bringing
fire to the earth. Sisyphus’ is one of the most painful stories that Greek
mythology tells us.
The great mystic Naranath did exactly the same thing day
after day. Every morning he would go to a hill and roll up the rock that lay at
the bottom and then when it reached to top, he would let go of it, so that it
came tumbling down at a frightening speed, now rolling down this way and now
that, smashing everything that stood on its path. As the rock came crashing down,
Naranath would stand atop the hill, clip his hands like an excited child and
laugh his madman’s wild, unbridled laughter of irrepressible joy. Laughter so
loud that it could be heard for miles. And then he would climb down the hill,
and, as though nothing had happened, start rolling the rock up again, only to
let go of it again when it reached the top of the hill.
Of course, unlike Sisyphus in whose case it was a curse,
Naranath did it out of his own choice. There were no gods involved, no curse
involved, and he could stop it any time he wanted. But he chose not to.
Instead, he kept doing that day after day.
While the vast majority of the people who gathered to see
the madman and his mad action missed the meaning of what he did, a few
understood. What he was enacting on the hill was the human drama, plain and
simple. What he showed us was our life – everyman’s life.
What we do throughout our life, lifetime after lifetime, is to
roll a rock up a hill and then let it roll down when it reaches the top. Life
should be an utsava, a celebration, a lila, a kreeda, a sport, but instead, we
make it an endless toil, running after meaningless pursuits. And then, at the
end of each lifetime, all we acquire slip out of our hands and we move on to
yet another lifetime in which we begin our toils all over again. We act out the
same absurd script again and again, a million lifetimes over. It is as though
each of us is living under the curse of Sisyphus – a curse from which there is
no escape, a curse that never lets us take a break, or breathe deeply, enjoy a
sunrise or a sunset, the opening of a flower, the smile on the face of a child,
or relish the touch of the fresh breeze on our skin.
Paul Stiles speaks eloquently of this in his book Is the American Dream Killing You?,
where he paints vividly the life of a modern executive, who should be enjoying
life in the middle of all the comforts that modern technology has made
available but instead is condemned to live a life that drives him to the brink
of insanity, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year.
This is how Stiles puts it, opening the first chapter of the book:
“The alarm is ringing. You jerk awake, tense, aware only of
the blare, then fall back in recognition. There is a brief moment of peace, as
if your consciousness were confused about what to do next, and then it hits
you, arising from your subconscious, where it has lain all evening: The List.
All those things you did not complete yesterday, and all those other things you
have to get done today. The List is its own infomercial, in full sound and
video, complete with snippets of conversation and shots of the office. And
stuck on auto replay. Okay, you think: just put your feet on the floor.
“That’s it: the race is on. In the next hour the entire house
fires its engines and rolls to the starting line. Kids up, dog out, showers
all around, paper fetched, breakfast on the table...You pass your wife in the
hallway several times, both of you half-dressed, seeking to check off the next
item. Mayhem.”
A story told by Tolstoy that I read as a child often comes
to my mind. It’s about a poor farmer who approaches the rich feudal lord asking
for some land. The generous landlord tells him he can have as much land as he
can measure out in a single day. The man begins measuring out land for himself
the next morning at sunrise, putting marks with a pickaxe as he proceeds. He
has already proceeded straight ahead quite some distance when he sees another piece
of tempting, rich land to his right, and then another and then another. He
marks them all out taking detour after detour when he sees the sun has fast
begun to sink in the west and he is a long way from where he started. He runs,
panting, breathless, putting a rare mark here and there on his way. But alas!
He is still some distance away from where he started when he collapses and
breathes his last. Eventually, Tolstoy tells us, what he gets is six feet of
land – enough land to bury him.
If this is a story about land and wealth, it is also a story
about name and fame, about power, about sensual pleasures, about all other
things in life we run after endlessly.
Our life should be an expression of our joy, which is our
essential nature. Each of our actions should emerge from our sense of joy, not
seeking it. Children play nor for happiness, but because they are happy. And so
should each our actions be. But we roll stones up various hills, toiling day
and night, hoping we would find joy at the end of it. It is the absurdity of
this toil that Naranath was teaching through his inimitable lesson.
Of course, the truth of what Naranath teaches us is
difficult to accept because we see all around us everyone running after these
things – and standing by the roadside and not running like them looks stupid.
Even when we know the truth of the worthlessness of what we do, it is almost
impossible to resist the brainwashing that takes place when we watch millions
and millions all around us engaged in this endless pursiit.
I have heard of a beggar. One fine morning he was sitting
idle enjoying the sun when it occurred to him that it will be fun if he spread
a rumour. He told the beggars around that he had heard that the richest man is
celebrating the birthday of his firstborn and he was distributing a hundred
rupees to every beggar who came. The beggars got up and started running towards
the rich man’s place. When other beggars asked them what they were doing, they
told them of the rich man’s charity and they too started running. The story
tells us that by and by every beggar in town was running toward the rich man’s
house. The beggar who had spread the news saw this and eventually began
developing doubts in his heart. Perhaps it was possible that the man was really
distributing hundred rupee notes! How else could the whole town be running. And
what is there to lose in any case? But if he did not, then…. And the man too
got up and began running with the rest of the crowd!
We are hypnotized by the world and that hypnotism is what India
calls maya. And it is from this maya that Naranath was trying to wake us up. And
when we wake up there comes the stage where we need nothing from the world, but
has only to give the world, if anything, as Krishna demonstrates through his
life and words.
There are several other stories told about Naranath – like
that of his sitting for hours counting ants passing by busily, breathless in
their hurry, on their errands as though their very life depended on it. I am
sure once in a while he spoke to the ants and they told him, like the White
Rabbit of Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late! ”
A beautiful story is told about his encounter with Great
Mother Goddess Kali.
As usual, Naranath had rolled the stone up the hill the
whole morning. And then, having finished that job, he went on his rounds of
collecting alms, as he did every day. He had a small copper vessel for
collecting alms, in which he received gratefully whatever was given to him: raw
rice, green vegetables, whatever. Naranath never accepted cooked food from
anyone – he cooked for himself. The evening found him near a cremation ground
where a few of dead bodies were still in the last stages of burning. The strong
smell of burning bodies was everywhere, smoke still rose from the bodies, and
there were wild animals around fighting with vultures and other carrion eating
birds.
Naranath went to the stream nearby, gathered some water in the
begging bowl with the rice and vegetables already in it and with that, settled
down near one of the still burning dead bodies. It was a cold winter evening
and the heat rising from the burning fire was pleasant. He collected three
stones, which formed his temporary oven and pulling out a few pieces of
firewood from over the dead body, put them in the oven and placed his pot
there, to cook over the fire. Naranath’s left leg was swollen with
elephantiasis. He stretched out this leg closer to the fire thus enjoying its
pleasant warmth waited for his one meal of the day to be ready. On his lips was
a song of contentment, which he hummed to himself.
When the food was ready, he ate it, and then stretched
himself out there waiting for sleep to come. Above him was the vast sky,
changing its patterns ever so slowly in a never ending game of pure magic. All
around him was the stillness of the deserted place, interrupted only by the
sound of the crickets and an occasional cracking of wood made deeper by the hoot
of an owl or the cry of a vulture. Now and then a dog barked.
It was around midnight that he heard other sounds. Wild hoots,
shouts, screams, yells, roars. Laughter that would send terror shooting through
any man. Shrieks, howls, yowls, wails. The clamour of a thousand drums being
played all at a time. Tumultuous clanguor, clatter, bellowing. And as they came near, other sounds: sacred
mantras…kreem kreem, hreem hreem, kleem kleem…the sound of anklets, the sound
of a girdle. And then the roar of Kali as she came near.
It was the goddess Kali on her rounds of the cremation
grounds, accompanied by her countless, monstrous ghouls. All creatures fled at
the arrival of the goddess who struck terror in every living heart.
Naranath sat near the still smoldering cremation fire as
though he was not aware of any of these. His breathing was calm and even, the
serenity in his eyes unaffected.
Soon Mother Kali was standing near him, a thousand grotesque
ghouls accompanying her. Her eyes were spitting fire, her tongue lolling out.
Her open hair formed a thick dark cloud behind her. From the piercings in her
ears hung down two blood-dripping heads. Around her neck was a garland of
skulls that reached right down to her knees. One of her hands held a freshly
chopped off head, another her sword. With two other hands she offered boons and
protection.
Mother Kali was clothed in the skies, as they say – stark
naked. And thunder-like hoonkaras emanated from her, shaking the whole earth,
it appeared.
Naranath did not even look up at her.
Kali’s feet moved in the most terrifying dance imaginable. And
the thousand ghouls went into bloodcurdling capering and cavorting, skipping
and romping insanely – their smashana-nritya. They screamed and thundered, raged
and ranted. It was as though the earth itself shook in awe. The cremation
ground animals that had already withdrawn in terror now slunk back further,
watching what was happening from the safety of distance with eyes frozen in
sheer dread.
Kali was calm now, seeing that none of these had any effect
on the man who sat enjoying the last bits of warmth arising from the fire that
had began to die out.
“Aren’t you afraid of me?” asked the Mother. “There is none
living that does not fear me.”
“Do you see me afraid of you?” asked Naranath calmly, as
though he was having a light conversation with a passerby.
“Hmmm…. That’s interesting. Who are you? The first man I
have come across that is not afraid of me or my ghouls?”
Naranth Bhranthan burst out laughing. “Who am I? You are
asking me? I am you. And you are me. There I am, in the form of the terrifying
Mother Kali. And here you are, in the form Naranath, with elephantiasis on one
leg.”
A smile appeared on the face of the goddess – a smile so
beautiful it can bewitch even the greatest of all ascetics, Shiva himself. “Leave
the place, so that my ghouls and I can dance, Naranath.”
“Show me a place where I am not and I’ll go there,” said
Naranath.
This time it was the turn of the Goddess to burst out
laughing. “All right,” she said. “Let me and my ghouls go then, in search of
another cremation ground. But ask me for a boon – since I cannot go away
without either cursing or giving a boon to any human being I encounter.”
“I need nothing,” said Naranath. “There is nothing you can
give me.”
“True,” said the goddess. “What can anyone give to one who
has seen that which lies beyond all seeing, touched that which lies beyond all
touching, heard that which lies beyond all hearing and tasted that which is
beyond all tasting. But still….no one should say Kali met Naranath and went
away without giving him anything. Ask for something.”
Naranath looked at Kali, with a loving smile on his face. It
was at the same time the smile of a grown man smiling at a child and a child
smiling at his mother. He then looked around, as though thinking. And then,
finally, he looked at his own left leg swollen with elephantiasis. His smile
broadened.
“Mother Goddess,” he said. “I ask for a boon. Change the
elephantiasis on my left leg to my right leg.”
Mountains shook as Kali laughed from the depths of her
heart. Clouds scattered away in the distant sky. Waves rose up into the skies
in the ocean that was not far from where the conversation was taking place.
Kali’s laughter! The laughter of existence! The laughter of life, of death! The
laughter of pure consciousness! Laughter the soul of which was the most
hauntingly beautiful silence! Laughter arising from silence that was Kali’s
truest nature, her very being!
And Naranath heard Kali speaking for the last time:
“Tathastu”, she said. “Let it be so.” And then there was only laughter left
where Kali and the ghouls had stood. Pure laughter. The laughter of ecstasy.
Rapturous laughter. Laughter in which the mountains and the sea joined.
Laughter in which the night and the sky joined. Laughter in which the cremation
ground and dying fires joined.
Laughter in which Naranath joined.
0o0
Naranath Bhrantan is part legend and part historical. The
legend part belongs to a much bigger legend – the greatest and the most popular
legend of Kerala. The larger legend, which I first heard from my father in my
childhood, is known by the brief name “parayi pettu pantirukulam’, which
roughly translates as the twelve castes born of a pariah woman. The legend is in part one of the power of
destiny. Vararuchi, the great Brahmin scholar of the court of Vikramaditya
learns through astrological calculations that he is destined to marry a pariah
woman. Vararuchi does all he can, including attempting to murder the newborn
baby, to avoid that destiny but through a series of miracles ends up marrying
the pariah woman, by now a woman more than his match in intelligence and wit.
The marriage is a few months old when Vararuchi discovers that the brilliant
girl of breathtaking beauty he had married is the pariah woman he was destined
to marry and whom he had tried to kill in her infancy. It is one of those
strange stories in which what happens happens because you try to prevent it.
Eventually twelve children are born to the couple who had by then taken to a
life of pilgrimage and each child is abandoned at birth. These twelve abandoned
children are taken up by men belonging to different castes and raised as their
children, each ending up as a legend in his or her own right. One of them is
our Naranath Bhranthan.
0o0
