THE CALL OF TIME

The gurgling of water soothed my senses. The mild cool breeze was playing with my hair. Sitting on a boat, dressed in a white dhoti kurta, typical of a Bengali babu, I was cruising down a river, when a cacophony caught my attention. There was a gathering of people on the next ghat, and their loud shouts and hurried moves made me strain my eyes. A small hut and the shrubbery around it near the river bank was on fire and as I neared the river bank to take a closer look, my boat was engulfed in flames too. The flames were catching up with the bow, it was lapping up the oars. A harsh discordant mixture of sound seemed to get louder. Some people from the bank were gesticulating towards me to jump into the river. The fire was feeding on the breeze and inching towards me slowly. I could smell its hot breath. Its tongue was tasting my face in light gentle licks. I turned towards the river and jumped into it. The cold water broke my stupor.

Sunlight was pouring in through the window and swathing my torso. I could still feel the heat and smell the burning timber. I gazed up to the monotonous circular movement of the ceiling fan. The intermittent screech that emanated from it, grilled into me that this was reality, that I was actually here. Where else was I supposed to be in? Why did this thought even cross my mind? The past few days I have been sleep deprived. A good night’s deep sleep was something that would heal me and it is something that I am yearning for. But that sleep has been evading me for days now. I am actually dreading my sleep time. Every sleep episode meant a dream episode, where, I was being traumatized. For the past week, I have been plagued every night with nightmares. Nightmares that seemed too real, memories of which crawled under my skin and gave me goosebumps. Vestiges of those larger than life dreams always kept a part of mind occupied. I rubbed off the droplets of perspiration on my forehead, and was lost in contemplation, when my Sneha, my daughter came and nudged me. “Papa aren’t you going for your work today?” I was a senior research fellow at The Archaeological Survey of India and was serving a tenure as a guest lecturer at Jadavpur University.

Hours at the University offered me some respite. It steadied my spirit and inspired me. The excitement associated with youth, youngsters brimming with energy lightened my burdened mind. Hectic schedules, classes took my mind away, temporarily, from the recurrent dreams, which was a breather for me. There was a gap between two classes, and I decided to spend time at the library in order to utilize that time leafing through some reference books and taking down notes for my next class. This was happy space for me and I was deep into notes and books when my focus was diverted by an acrid smell, which seemed to pervade the hall. Curiosity pushed me up and made me walk towards the source of the smell. To my utter consternation, I came upon a bookshelf in flames. The dry pages were on fire and were making a crackling sound. I shouted out at the other people in the library but everybody else excepting myself was engrossed in reading or in undertone conversations and nobody seemed to notice. I reasoned with myself that this must be another of those spells of mine, that I must have dozed off at the reading table and I was experiencing one of those undefinable string of dreams again. I tried to be logical even though I was in a dream. I tried fervently to dismiss it from my thoughts, but the acrid smell kept growing stronger. This was becoming much too weird for my comfort and in order to end the controversy in my mind, I stretched out my fingers to touch the burning books. A sharp cry woke me up from my dormancy. My fingers were red and scalded, and the amazement and bewilderment that I felt was much more than the pain that I experienced. I was living in a half-awake and half- asleep environment. I couldn’t discern between the real and the unreal world. Which was real, my scalded finger or the fact that I had dozed off?

I was scared as I took short steps to the area behind the departmental building which was unkempt with overgrown shrubs, grasses and trees of every variety. Perception battles were being fought in my mind and I needed solitude. I sat down at the corner of a bench, opened my shoes, put my chin on my knees and settled down to think and to collect my thoughts and to try to rationalize.

The strangest thing about this strange journey is that it began with a word. “Pratigachchhati”, somebody whispered in my ears. the word was like the swishing of the leaves. I looked around, startled “Pratigachchhati” this time a little louder. A man in ochre robes, dirty and frayed was peering at me from a bench below a mango tree. His head was clean shaven and he was seated in the lotus posture. “Pratigachchhati” this time he beckoned to me. I was drawn towards him. “you need to go back, son”, he uttered in a very mild voice. “Back?!” I asked perplexed. “Are you asking me to go back home?” I asked. He had the kindest of smiles. “I am asking you to go back to your Mula” he replied. I looked up quizzically at his face. “What exactly do you mean by, mula, baba?” I asked again. He smiled benevolently. “mula…roots” he said. Then without a word more, he slithered down the bench and walked away as suddenly as he had come, into the darkness, where the trees were jostling for space. I needed to go back home, but something was pulling me back.

A bearded royalty was groaning in pain. The setting was that of a palace. Brass lamps and chandeliers illuminated the room and the light of the lamps reflected from the golden walls. Vulgar opulence was present all around. Intermittently he was cursing his wazirs and shouting out for his Hekim, who was trying to help him. Here I was again, in a dream-like reality, where I was able to see, understand and realize so many things, but was unable to interfere in any way. “Devdutta” somebody called out and I walked towards him. I was walking the corridors of an enormous building which seemed like a University. Countless students were crisscrossing each other’s paths. The Dharmaganja, the central library of the university towered over all the other buildings, sparkling in the golden hour. A gong sounded in the distance and the students and monks in orange robes quickened their steps towards it.

“His Holiness Acharya Rahul Sribhadraji wants to meet you at Ratnasagar of Dharmaganja, Devdutta” a shraman, bowed before me before delivering this message. Ratnasagar was one of the three famed libraries which constituted the Dharmaganja, the other two being the Ratnodadhi and the Ratnaranjaka. It was all coming back to me. I was a Bhikkhu at the famed University of Nalanda. This was where the individual and collective history of mankind was made. The University breathed life into the knowledge compilations accumulated over time immemorial from across the world. Subjects ranged from Ayurveda, Hetuvidya or logic to Samkhya, Atharvaveda to Philosophy Law, Architecture and City Planning.

Acharya Rahul was seated at the feet of the Siddhartha Gautama. A brass lamp was burning in front of him. The atmosphere was distractingly beautiful as Gautama’s kind and benevolent gaze wiped out all uncertainties that I suffered from. The air was heavy with incense, and the smell of Champa drifted in through the window. Acharya’s face was peaceful like always. His Citta followed the ekayana magga or the direct path to moksha. Moha or delusion had failed to divert his stride towards nibidda or disenchantment. “I shall entrust you with a very crucial task, Devdutta” he pronounced, while looking straight into my eyes. “I need you to lace the pages of Quran that the Tehsildar, Bakhtiyar Khalji reads five times every day, with this powder”. “I need you to enter his jenana and to carry out this confidential task” he added as he handed out a glass jar half-filled with of white powder to me.

News was all around that the tehsildar Bakhtiyar Khalji was on his death bed and his hekim had failed with all the medicines in his armory. Acharya Rahul Sri Bhadra had been summoned to the court of the tehsildar and had been ordered that the Acharya needed to cure the tehsildar without administering any medicines. To this outrageous order, The Acharya had simply asked the tehsildar to read his Quran regularly. As the tehsildar thumbed through the pages, and touched his lips with his fingers, he took in the medicines inadvertently, which the pages of the Quran had been laced with. The tehsildar was cured. Instead of being pleased, the Tehsildar was infuriated with the fact that the medicinal knowledge of Buddhists were superior to that of the knowledge of the Hekims in his court. To add oil to fire, I was soon discovered and dragged out from the jenana and with the excuse that he had been cheated.

On the pretext that he has been cheated, Bakhtiyar Khilji, the tehsildar of Mirzapur torched Nalanda. As the inferno roared and engulfed in its flames, it withdrew from the history of mankind, every bit of knowledge, skill, philosophy and wisdom, that man had acquired and accumulated tenaciously, through many sacrifices over hundreds of years, so as to make it available for the future generations. The bhikkus, sramans and acharyas were made to kneel in front of the main building and they were beheaded by quick swishing of swords. The roar and the glee of the mass murderers after each murder was curdling my blood. It was as if my blood was flowing in form of my tears as as I watched haplessly.

Nalanda burned for days and for months. The corner of each of the pages of the books curled itself up in the fire and turned into black soot, and took away with them ancient and valuable knowledge that would take many more years to reach again. My world was being pulled apart, as I stood like a ghost in midst of the glow of the orange burning embers. I was born into this world and will be born into another and will always be at the cusp of unavoidable disaster. I was walking the beaten path to another world where my realization and my experiences would always haunt me.

I woke up from my untimely slumber, and from that moment on wards, as I realized the reason behind my painful dreams, the dreams kept recurring lesser and lesser, till they stopped haunting me forever. I was forever relieved of my past burdens. I was back from my journey, a spectacular one. One which had taken me to the deepest corners of my subconscious, forwarding me to my mundane existence.