The Beggar: Part II 

Mr. Sharma arrived shortly after me at the camp. “I have been running,” he said. “I knew you would be here, and I did not want to keep you waiting.”

I said, “I met an incredible man just a few minutes ago.”

“How did you find him?” he asked.

“Absolute serendipity,” I said. “I ran into him among the lepers.”

“What did he say?” Sharma asked, without looking at me. 

“I hardly remember anything he said,” I told him. “I cried most of the time. Besides, what he said was not of much importance. His presence was what affected me.”

Sharma reached over and held my hands. “Friend, I would certainly like to meet him.” His eyes reflected the greed of a gambler, and his touch expressed urgency.

“Then let’s go,” I said with enthusiasm. “It’s only a 10-minute walk from here.”

“Wait. Tell me once again how you felt when you were with him.” Sharma’s eyes were piercing. He was deadly serious. 

I reflected for a moment to get in tune with my feelings and to be able to tell him exactly as it was. “My heart was tender, and I felt like crying most of the time,” I finally said.

“Then let us go immediately. But he will not be there.” Sharma sounded dejected.

“Why do you say that? I met him only a few minutes ago,” I replied.

“Let’s see,” Sharma said dryly.

As we raced along the banks of the Ganges to find the mysterious person I had just encountered, Sharma was holding on to his dhoti, breathlessly relating this story:

“Some 100 years ago, the King of Gaya, a small kingdom in Bihar, in north India, came to the Kumbh Mela. Though he was well known as a good king, few knew that he was an accomplished yogi with tremendous spiritual powers. The king met a sadhu at the Kumbh Mela, who gave him some spiritual guidance.”

In Indian tradition, Sharma related the story in a colorful and elaborate way. He told details of the king’s life so I could almost picture it. But to me it seemed mundane. There had to be more to the story. Most people who come to the Kumbh Mela meet some sort of sadhu. Several hundred thousand sadhus attend. A few are genuine, while most are suspect. What was the big deal about this King of Gaya meeting a sadhu at the Kumbh Mela? What was the point of the story? I wondered this to myself but did not ask as we raced along the river’s edge. I was out of breath and in no mood to encourage any talk.

“Where is he?” Sharma kept asking as we rushed along. Bridge No. 4 turned out to be farther away than I remembered. It was more than a mile from Sharma’s camp. Somehow, it had seemed just around the corner.

Confusion was written all over my face when we reached the bridge. There was no such man there. Neither was there a long row of lepers. The bridge was there, just as I had left it a very short time ago. So was the police watchtower with the Trees for Life banner. The same policeman was on duty.

“It cannot be,” I exclaimed, in a whispering voice.

Sharma did not ask me for an explanation and did not seem to need one. 

The whole scene had changed. The riverbank did not have a six-foot clay drop as I had remembered. It was a gradual, sandy slope all the way into the river. It was a beach on which there were dozens of wooden platforms where pilgrims were changing clothes before and after their dip. The whole shore was teeming with men, women, and children. There were no lepers anywhere. I could not believe my eyes.

“It’s not possible, but let’s see if I am mistaken about the bridge number.” My face was red with embarrassment.

Sharma and I started running again, crossing all the bridges up to bridge No. 1, which seemed like a very long distance, but to no avail. Nowhere was there anything like the scene I had experienced just a short while ago. It was baffling.

“It had to be bridge No. 4,” I said to Sharma.

We went back. This time we were not rushing. We walked slowly. We were merely trying to confirm what we already knew. I was hoping for a miracle; but it was not to be. 

“The scene has totally changed,” I finally admitted to Sharma. “It’s as if I were not at the same Kumbh Mela.” 

Sharma nodded in agreement, as if he knew. 

“You were pretty sure he would not be there. What made you so sure?” I inquired.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you the reason for the story about the King of Gaya and the sadhu he met.” Sharma’s eyes were lit up and he was animated. For a moment, the dejection left him. “The king had an almost identical experience to yours. I knew who you had met,” Sharma said.

“How did you know?” I inquired. “I shared very little with you. In fact, there was very little to be said.”

“Such Masters do not tell people about themselves,” Sharma said. “Most of them go to great lengths to hide their identity. But there is one telltale sign: when one is in the presence of such Masters, the heart becomes tender and one feels like crying.” Sharma’s two hands were squeezing some imaginary heart as if it were a sponge.

We stood in silence for several minutes. I was surveying the scene in disbelief, trying to understand what I had experienced or, in my ignorance, what I had missed. Where had I been during those two hours? I had not hallucinated. There was no question in my mind about that. Besides, it had happened only a short while ago. Bridge No. 4 was just as I had left it, yet everything else was different. Suddenly, the very sense of surety seemed to have left me. The whole thing could have happened a century or a millennium ago. I was not sure of anything.

“I do not understand,” I said. “Thousands of people must have passed by the Master today. Did all of them have such an experience?”

Sharma shook his head, trying to figure out a way to explain this to me. “Yes and no. Each one would have felt the tenderness in his heart, but only a few would have recognized it.”

“Who would recognize the Master and why?” I asked.

“It is a matter of the Master’s grace,” Sharma said. “Only when the Master wishes his identity to be known can he be recognized. We do know one thing: this phenomenon generally happens when the heart has been purified to a large degree.”

Sharma smiled benignly at me. “Our Rishis (seers) have maintained that 26 thoughts flow through our mind every minute. The mind tends to attach itself to each thought. As a result, many times each day our mind makes different resolutions but is not able to keep any of them. The mind is fickle.

“By the grace of Mother Ganges, you made a sanklap (pledge) to plant trees. You have been able to focus on that single mission. That is a very remarkable feat. Seers tell us that focusing on one idea for a great length of time is one of the ways to still our mind. You have been practicing.” Sharma’s eyes were dancing with mischief. Knowing his powers, I was pretty sure that he knew of the conversation I’d had with the Master.

“Who did I meet?” I inquired.

“No one knows. Only you will come to know. This is a very sacred place and a sacred time. We believe that at this time all the Devtas come to the Sangam, even Brahma, Vishnu, and Mahesh. The cumulative power of the devotees creates miracles here. God responds to the call of the devotee. A Master responded to our call.”

“What does it signify?” I asked.

“In one way, it was a reward for your work,” Sharma said. Then he shook his head vigorously and said, “That is not a good statement. There are no rewards on this path. It was a prasad (communion).”

Sharma continued. “This happening occurred to indicate to you the stage of your development. It was like a signpost, telling you where you are on your journey. What you do or do not do with it will depend upon you.”

There was a brief pause. Sharma was collecting his thoughts. “It was as if you met a lawyer who could have interceded on your behalf. He would have arranged a darshan (beholding of a deity) for you. But you did not recognize him, and you became tongue-tied.” He lowered his head and shook it side to side, expressing his disappointment.

“How did you know I had met such an eminence? You were pretty sure from the first moment I told you about him,” I pleaded in earnestness.

“An unmistakable glow in your eyes told me,” Sharma said, with the same confidence I had seen in him when, 12 years ago, he had told me I was a member of the same circle to which he belonged.

“How were you so sure that I belonged to the same circle as you, when we met at the last Kumbh Mela?” I asked.

“I did not know,” Sharma said honestly. “Swami Murkhanandji told me. After you left the tent, he told me who you were and to get hold of you. That is why, if you remember, I came running after you.”

“What did Swamiji say?” I was curious.

“Swamiji did not have to say anything. He nodded at me and that confirmed what I had already suspected.”

After another period of silence, Sharma put his hands on my shoulder. His touch indicated it was time to go.

“Mitra (dear friend),” he said, “only one or two such Masters ever come to the Kumbh Mela, and…” Sharma repeated his disappointing head motion. However, this time, his jaw muscles were tight and his nostrils were spread wide, making his eyes a narrow slit. He did not finish the sentence. He did not have to. It was evident that, in his opinion, I had missed my chance.

I found myself looking straight into Sharma’s eyes. His eyes were red and had a peculiar look. It was a mixture of love, admiration and cold anger.