Giridhar

          The floor was hard and cold, the fire too distant to stave off the cold that creeped through valley from the mountains. The aged mind of Giridhar was abruptly pulled into immediate consciousness by a tumultuous wailing, the likes of which he had only heard in his youth when he had come across a trapped and hanging, albeit very much alive chital. The old man pushed himself up from where he was slumbering and steadied himself on his walking stick, seemingly unfazed by the bedlam occurring just beyond his cabin. As his wrinkled hand applied his weight onto the door, a lifetime of gracefulness materialized as a smile on his face as his slender form swept back to the place he had been lying. The koonj bird continued it's crying as Giridhar cleared his mind, and slipped back into a deep sleep. So knowledgeable was Giridhar, that he was even able to determine the cry was of a female koonj, and figured the distressed bird was hungry and had in herself a knowledge great enough to lead her to his door, as was often the case resulting from his extraordinary generosity when it came to the other beings of the forest. In this case, he had no food to give, as it was not yet dawn and the villagers had not yet climbed the mountainous trails to offer him alms. If the bird was still at his door by the time they lay their filled sacks and jars on his step, she would certainly have the first peck at his bread and vegetables. With a final shrill wail from the koonj, Giridhar's chest began to rhythmically rise and fall, and his restful mind empty itself.
     To an observer, it would be impossible to resist being swayed out of objectivity and to not appreciate how time seemingly stood still at the approaching sound of softly sung bhajans and mantras. Giridhar sat on the sizable rock outside his small home, watching the saffron sun rise over the mist-filled valley. He himself had been singing to the gods, but ceased his beautiful song, and instead joined the villagers' chant as they drew near.
     
     "Oṃ bhūr bhuvaḥ svaḥ
     tát savitúr váreṇyaṃ
     bhárgo devásya dhīmahi
     dhíyo yó naḥ prachodáyāt"
     
     The sun climbed the red sky as they all sang to Savitr. The old sage felt hunger, but he had long learned to cast away want. Giridhar was only expecting sustenance from the villagers, whom knew not to offer more than he needed. Giridhar bore witness to the wondrous display of colours that had greeted him for decades in the form of dyed saris worn by the women, contrasted by white dhotis worn by the men, as the villagers drew near. One villager, a beaming woman wearing one of the bright saris, carried a clay jug, sealed by a piece of cloth and string. Adjacent to the beauty was a man, holding a sack in one arm and his infant daughter in the other. The rest, a conceivable band of fifteen, clasped their hands together and set their gaze to the ground before them as they arrived at the feet of the old Giridhar. The chanting was continued by both the villagers and the grey one as the man and woman lay the alms at his feet, bowed, and turned back into the congregation. Numerous children approached respectfully (in that manner of respect, never making eye contact) and laid lotus flowers by him, then likewise returned to the arms of their loving mothers and fathers. Then, at once, the villagers turned and started back down the mountainous trail. Giridhar's heart sang with them as he leaped from the rock and made a couple trips in the door, as he could only manage to carry one thing at a time due to his gaining in years.
     He unraveled the string from the neck of the jar, removed the cloth, and peered inside curiously. As the jar proved far too dim for clear sight, Giridhar stuck his boney finger into its contents, discovering fresh butter as he withdrew. Opening the sack revealed two more, smaller sacks; one containing cooked lentils and the other turmeric leaves. As he ate, Giridhar recalled the koonj that had briefly interrupted his repose. He scooped a handful of lentils and stepped from his dark cabin into the Indian air (now quite warm) in search of the bird. As he rounded the exterior of his abode, he came across what appeared to be the corpse of a koonj. The sage decided that it must have perished in the night, the cause simply being old age. However, with further inspection, he determined that the koonj was male whereas the crying last night was most certainly of a female. He laid the lentils beside the corpse, as it had been meant for a koonj, bundled up the lotus flowers, and made his way to a silent forest pond, an hour's walk from where he stood.
     Giridhar gazed at the lotus flowers drifting away, their petals catching the warm breeze like a sail. As he placed the flowers into the water, he thought of the  koonj. He couldn't help but feel as though it brought to him a message.
     "There had to have been two birds," he thought to himself, "a male and a female..." As suddenly as a hunted deer takes to running, the old man's mind fell on the meaning of the two birds. The nocturnal koonj was not crying out of hunger, but mourning the death of her love! Was the sage not in the last stage of his life, just like the male koonj had been? Did his disciples not love him, even if their love was not in the same manner as that shared between the birds? Small, circular ripples formed in several places on the surface of the water. Giridhar's suspicions regarding the impending weather were confirmed when he felt a few drops of rain strike his bare torso and catch in his long, white beard. He felt the mystery unravel. The old man stood and stiffly began walking to the village to begin spreading open invitations to an impromptu teaching. He determined that it should be held in the place of his realization, overlooking the utterly silent pond.
      The next day, at least one hundred of Giridhar's most devoted disciples crowded by the pond as the early morning sun dyed the clouds yellow and orange. As Giridhar emerged into sight, the entire crowd was hushed by a wave of awe at the sight of the old man. They all followed his example as he sat, and listened intently to the words he had to say.
     "Among you are my most beloved disciples. Only my truest followers would answer such a sudden call to the forests. I have lived a long life, my friends, and I am sure of the fact that the oil in my lamp is running low, as already I see my flame flickering." At once, a sullen air washed over the scene. "Already you cry? My friends, how can one see the truth when they see through tears? Please, dry your eyes and listen well. My words are not sorrowful." Giridhar continued as the villagers wiped the tears from their eyes. "We are the water of the sea. The part that matters to us eventually joins the heavens, leaving the salt behind, only to fall back to the Earth in an endless cycle. Likewise, our soul leaves our body behind, only to return again. Why does one weep for nothing? Don't you know I will return?" At this, he ended his teaching, as short as it was. This was simply all he had to say. One by one the men and women of the village bowed to the old man and left in peace. Soon enough, the guru sat alone. He noticed the thunder roll across the darkening skies, but did not hear it. He noticed the drops of rain  falling on his bare skin, but he did not feel it. He simply gazed into the pond, noticing nothing but the lotus flowers, still floating on the surface.
     He understood that he had lived for as long as he did because his disciples needed him to. With his final teaching, they were free from those chains, as was he. A sudden river of peace rushed through his entire body as he lay on the forest floor, looking up at the sky as Indra bestowed the earth his gifts. The old man closed his eyes, and smiled for the last time.