Can we become ‘good’ by associating with what is good? Can we learn something about the true, ephemeral nature of life? Sri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa (1836–1886), the great savant, thought so. His parables or teaching stories are a precious legacy. Some are very brief but contain profound meaning.
A parable that I particularly like is about an old sadhu. He lived above the naubat khana or music room at the Dakshineshwar Kali temple in Calcutta, as it was then called. He didn’t speak a word to a soul
but spent all his time in silent meditation and prayer.
One day, a big, black cloud darkened the sky. But after a little while, a sudden, strong wind blew the cloud away. The sadhu came out of the room and began to sing and dance on the verandah. When asked about this unusual merriment, the sadhu laughed and said, “Such is Maya, the illusion that covers life. First there is a clear sky, then there is a dark cloud and then it’s a clear sky again, just as before.”
In terms of everyday life, the message in this story seems to be that our misfortunes too might blow away if we put in the strong wind of effort. I don’t discount the element of luck, which is what prayer is for.
A related parable is about the ant that discovered a heap of sugar. One grain was enough to fill its stomach. It set off towards its anthill carrying another grain. It thought triumphantly, “Next time I will take the whole sugar hill.” This story seems directed at our ignorance if we covet everything we see. Greed makes us weak, not strong, and vulnerable to disappointment and frustration as the cautionary tales in every creed inform us.
Another telling parable is about the steward of a landlord’s country estate. He took to fantasizing that he was its lord and master. He told everybody he met that the house and the property were all his. One terrible day, however, the landlord caught him out in the deceit. He thrashed the steward soundly and threw him out of the grounds. The steward could not even take his old, dented pans with him, the only things he owned. I cannot help feeling rather sorry for the delusional steward although I know he did wrong. Our karma has the nasty tendency of catching up with us, and we are left repenting our misdeeds.
A parable I love retelling is that of a bohuroopi or folk artiste. Let’s call him Jogen. A bohuroopi, meaning ‘many forms’, was a professional impersonator who dressed up as a god or goddess. He was a one-man show enacting tales from theology and was once in great demand in rural Bengal, constantly travelling from place to place and to religious fairs.
Jogen’s patron saint was Sri Chaitanya Mahaprabhu (1486–1534) who had rekindled Krishna-love in thousands of hearts and rediscovered all the lost holy sites of Sri Krishna’s childhood in Vrindavan. Chaitanya had preached equality and brotherhood and thrown himself into religious ecstasy, singing and dancing with his followers on the streets of Nabadwip in Bengal. It was he who had added new lustre to the ‘Jatra’, the old travelling theatre form. One memorable evening, he had played the role of Princess Rukmini so perfectly that nobody could tell it was he. This was the beautiful ideal of investing yourself so deeply in the character that a profound sense of ‘vesha’ or attire, meaning the character’s inner spirit, descended on you.
Jogen took the preparation for his roles very seriously. With each layer of clothes and make-up, he took on the character’s smallest likely mannerisms. Last of all, before he placed the character’s wig or crown on his head, he shut his eyes and prayed deeply that the character should live in him during his enactment.
When he’d started out with a troupe, he had worked his way up from playing an attendant and a junior demon to the biggest role of all–Lord Shiva. He had then gone solo. He trained with village wrestlers to build his body. He found himself greatly drawn to the damaru or hand-drum of Lord Shiva, and carefully chose his trishul, tiger-patterned cloth around the waist, wig of matted hair, and a metal snake to wear on his neck. He developed an artistic hand in decorating his body with lines of ash and in painting a third eye on his forehead.
The more he learned about Lord Shiva, the more Jogen loved him. Was there ever such an unselfish god, who had drunk poison to save the world and did not care for the treasures churned from the Ocean of Milk? Jogen felt his eyes smart with tears thinking of it.
One evening, Jogen was invited to perform for a rich landlord on his estate. Oil lamps were lit and tall, flaring fire-torches were planted at the four corners of his performing space. The villagers assembled excitedly, chattering and laughing as they took their places.
As he sang his opening invocation, Jogen felt something stir deep in his heart. He played Lord Shiva with every ounce of feeling that he had. The crowd was enchanted and roared in applause at the end. Deeply moved, the landlord took off his pearl necklace and offered it to Jogen. But what was this? Jogen raised his arms above his head and declined. The landlord shrugged and went home.
The next morning, he was surprised to see Jogen at the door, politely asking for the necklace. “But why didn’t you take it last evening?” he asked. “How could I, sir? I was playing Lord Shiva and the Great God does not accept money or valuables,” said Jogen. “What if I refuse now?” said the landlord, intrigued. “That is a chance I had to take, sir,” said Jogen humbly. “But I could not let down Lord Shiva.”
Such, said Sri Ramakrishna, is the influence of associating with something holy.
Renuka Narayanan
(shebaba09@gmail.com)