A Crisis of Self-Examination # 33

33

Sarvabhauma feels his world collapsing around him, the chief priest of the temple of Jagannath Puri. The weight of his long existence bears down on him; a sharp pain tears through his back. He suddenly becomes aware of his dangerous proximity to death. As he reflects, he murmurs to himself:

“Has my hour come at last? If I were to die now, would it not be better for me? For how could I endure the humiliation inflicted on me by this young renunciant? If this encounter had taken place at the beginning, or even in the middle of my career, when I was still strengthening my faith and exploring the various systems of philosophy, it would have been bearable. I could have adjusted and rebuilt my life. But at my age, when I am settled in my salvation and have built my entire existence upon philosophical principles I believed unshakable, here is this young sannyasi—who could be my own disciple—destroying all my prestige and convictions. Worse still, he threatens the eternal rest of my soul.” What a shipwreck!

There is something else as well that troubles him deeply, knotting his insides and wounding his dignity. According to custom, in a philosophical contest the loser accepts his rival as his guru and adopts his theories and principles. For the poor man, this is too much to bear. He rises from his seat, his eyes vacant, and walks toward his quarters, muttering to himself. The assembly, which has risen with him in uncertainty, slowly parts as he advances, their faces grim and somber.

He remains shut away all day in the dimness of his room, the windows closed. For hours he sits there, his head in his hands, unable to gather his thoughts. Brief scenes from his life return like flashes: he sees himself as a child, then as a student, then lecturing before thousands. He relives every stage that contributed to the construction of his respectable position. This bitter defeat torments him; omnipresent, it afflicts every atom of his being and pursues him into the depths of his consciousness. The beardless face of Chaitanya, with eyes both innocent and uncompromising, haunts him. He rises repeatedly to escape the image, but each time he collapses back into his chair and loses himself once more in a tangled web of thoughts.

Later, when his wife comes to see him, he is astonished to learn that night has already fallen, that he has eaten nothing and neglected his evening rituals. He sends her away, assuring her that he will perform his duties and go to bed. But he does nothing of the sort and sinks once again into his torpor. He broods over the events, over his nightmare, and it is in this unfathomable distress that a miraculous transformation takes place within him, as implacable reality finally overcomes his pride. Having completely surrendered himself into the hands of destiny, he begins, through this attitude, to judge the superior qualities of Chaitanya at their true worth:

“In truth,” he admits, “his explanations of the Bhagavatam are extraordinarily perceptive and sublime. Only my vanity refused to acknowledge it.”

From then on, having lost everything, and being by nature—by God’s grace—concerned with self-realization, he no longer sees Chaitanya as an ordinary being, but as the very goal of all spiritual striving. Perhaps he is God, as people keep telling me, he thinks. He recalls the attitude of his brother-in-law and the crowds that followed in Chaitanya’s wake, proclaiming him a divine manifestation. The words of Gopinath, his nephew, now take on new importance. For one reason or another, he had never paid attention to those verses before. Yet, strangely enough, he knows that they exist. He will have to study them more closely.

Preceeding chapter : He Who Thought He Had Won # 32