All was quiet. Faded in communion. Not a stray bird, not a cricket spoke, and his eyes automatically shut their lids in response to the silence. They absorbed the emptiness.

That’s when he heard the whisper. Of the air that gently rose and fell with his breath. It went on and on, entering him and leaving him; pouring in and out; no strings attached. Who was it, what was it, and why? He lay there watching it breathe through him, without fail, without doubt. It was just there. His face was drenched in the moonlight.

Dawn saw him rise in peace. The shower cubicle slid gently as he entered it. The first spark of water fell on his face sending a shiver through him. The warm water sprayed down his chest and his head tilted back in anticipation of sheer pleasure. Warmth on his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his spine. He caressed his head as the water hit his upturned face and slowly rocked on his feet, to keep the trance alive.

The large mirror opposite the shower cubicle watched through misty eyes as he surrendered his flesh to the caress of water. He felt a gentleness ride his body and felt grateful towards the many blurred faces that had begun to emerge and merge in the steam. Images of his friends- friends because they never saw his heaviness, his angry and insecure being. And foes- foes because they never saw his lightness. Rare few faces that didn’t subscribe to both, glimmered in the foggy light, but as always, left too soon. Still, their silent presence made him feel kindly even towards the resident spider watching him from its wet perch. They opened higher perches for him to watch from, and from there he saw. Slicing through the water curtain that bathed his eyes, he saw the previous night’s sky and its thin breath, quietly but surely, weaving in him the day’s stories- of friends and foes. Strife and achievements, pain and pleasure.

He moved his head towards the left, as though seated on a prayer mat, towards the day and its stories- the world and its concerns. There, in the frosted glass to his left he saw his teachers. Those who taught him his rituals, those who taught him his mantras, the tinkle of bells, the smell of camphor, the sacred Tulsi leaf, and the red flowers; all encompassed in the mesmeric glow of a tiny lit wick. Many such manifested forms stood to be counted. Human, animal, bird, plant, stone…all there; alive, breathing, to his left.

Then he turned his head towards the right, towards the unmanifested world. Those mind boggling symbolic beings; gods. Those potential manifestations of the human mind and its vaporous thoughts. The muffled laughter of the joyful shower water filled his ears. The gods appeared in front of him, one by one, but rapidly morphed into the laughter and the mockery in the eyes of his friends and foes who could not understand him. He didn’t blame them, he himself could easily get lost in that magical weave of the gods. But his friends, have they never penetrated beyond the flesh and skin? Do they only see the body and its shell? The water shut his eyelids.

Now he looked straight, his head towards the waterfall. Hands raised, palms cupped beseechingly, he remembered the nights emptiness; its breath moving in and out, in and out. He must remember again and again. The moon, the silhouetted trees, the black night. Remember to remember its breath, moving in and out. A moan escaped his lips, a tear mingled with water. He gathered the vast dark stillness in his leaky palms and bathed his face again and again in its light. Grace showered on a small man embedded in an impartial and incessant breath. He felt blessed by the dark skinned god. By the one smeared in pale ash, blessed by the benevolent feminine. By the tiger and the lion; the cow and the bull; the elephant, the rat, the monkey, the peacock. The mountains, rivers and wind and sun and moon and endless stars. The splashing waters etched them all on to his wet skin. They seared through his blood, claiming him.

He slowly moved his feet, circling around and catching the water on his bowed head. Nothing remained in him but the pounding of rain that washed away memories. Nothing but the watchful eyes of the misty shroud across the shower cubicle. He knew he was being watched, followed like a mute shadow since he was a child. Its presence seemed ordinary, only natural as a child. But as he grew, as the learning grew, it had reduced to a tug here and there; a flash, a flicker, a faint call, a murmur. He stepped out of the cubicle.

A smile lit his face as he walked towards the shroud. Towards the king of compassion and his kingdom. Towards the thin veil that embraced both him and his master. Love thy neighbor, his master had said. He had tried and failed. He saw himself sneaking into the church as a child, when the sermons and the ceremonies were done with; when he could walk into the lords kingdom with his head raised and kneel at the altar, not the pew, just a bit closer to the lord. He kept his eyes open so that he may not miss the rare sight of pain and compassion, both woven into a human face. He asked for forgiveness and was forgiven. The cherubs and the clouds watched as the colored stained glass poured light from the heavens. What a beautiful world! White stone steps, engraved wooden tables, embroidered silk, stained glass. He couldn’t shut his eyes. He crossed his heart, embedded the savior in him and walked towards the granite pedestal in which dwelt the holy water. He anointed his forehead with it and looked ahead.

He hesitated for a moment before the shroud. He looked at the ever watchful eyes. At the eye behind the eye. That one eye that accompanied him everywhere; and right now here, behind the shroud, behind the mist, the mirror, the veil. In his bathroom. His hands rose to clear the mist, unveil; but hung hesitantly for a moment, his breath held in his heart. This was the moment he had always waited for. When he could touch, feel and know.

He cleared the mirror. He peered and peered in disbelief at the face in the mirror.

Anuradha Nalapat 2015