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Archive for January, 2011

A thin tapestry of memories spread across her mind, covering the outside world from the inside vision. A face somewhat long and tender carried over lifetimes, outline like a dotted imagery, you might see, in a faded picture taken many years ago, yellow like a moth ball. The face she loved so much, the face of Milarepa.

“Why, she wrote in her diary, why must I see the world? I fear that if I do, then the impressions which will form in my mind from interacting with the world will overwrite in indelible ink over the face of him I have loved over ages. The delicate face I preserve in the depth of my heart is now so fragile that it stands the threat of being lost even to me, if I do not hold on to these impressions dearly. Therefore, forgive me world, in this life time, I can only look inside.”

It is not possible to count the number of years which had passed by since she had been waiting to see Mila. In her heart, she knew that one day, in some life time Milarepa would surface and erase the impression from past lives to replace with new ones from the present one. Was this not what he had done the last time too?

It was the eleventh hour. He was going on a long journey into the forests surrounding their monastery. They had sat close to each other, their eyes looking away at the far distant hills. Then suddenly he had turned to her. For one brief moment their eyes met, and that was the eternity.

The loud noise of beating drums split the air into a thousand pieces breaking into fragments their minds and bodies, as if they were made of fine porcelain. Their eyes had united to become one, washing away all distinctions and differences between their separateness. She had absorbed his face so deeply that her own was forgotten. On his part, hers replaced all memories of the monastery. He could not have carried all the memories. He was now on his own, he could choose from umpteen choices only one. He chose hers, because, in that was the whole experience of the stay at the monastery.

Was it not what he had carried with him, in his last birth too, which propelled him to search for her in this one too? He came as a novice to learn the art of transcending birth and death, the two finite points which held between them, the experience of life. The moment she saw him, she remembered him from their past lives together. Over lifetimes they had been following each other, sometimes he as Master and at others she as his Master.

This time, she knew he was ripe and she knew in his salvation lay hers as well.

The learning had been assisted by growing intense love for each other, a love that could burn the mid-night oil and precipitate into next day’s sermon and practices. The pages had filled up with the words of songs sung out of unblemished love whose layers of burning passion intermingled and intercourse with intense words of innumerable songs. From the very gut of their mutual existence sprouted volcanic eruptions of words that ached for freedom from the dense darkness of raw passions.

It was the last day they would see each other. If devotion could free them from the cycle of birth and death, then, love had done a fine job too. He was released, although still tied to her love, she was thrown into the ocean of waves that came and went forever.

Yet, nothing remained with her, except the fine texture of a memory of a face, long and quiet, subdued and liberated.

She had sat long hours at the gates of the monastery, having released him. She had watched him go further and further into the woods until, he only remained in her memory. She had not turned back from the gate that day; rather she had sat there long hours, even after darkness had enveloped her in her arms.

She had slept with him in her mind over eons, his soft but well defined features, forever, drawing a picture of him, her Milarepa, in the crevices of her mind – a thin tapestry of memories spread across her mind, covering the outside world from the inside vision.

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