Creation (26 page)

But I do have a vivid memory of that evening in the granary of the old Harappan city. For one thing, the naked Jain suddenly began to speak, and thanks to Caraka for having taught me the wrong language, I was able to understand a speech that not only astonished me at the time but still reverberates in my memory. “When the ninth before the last of the river-crossers was born, he had a brother who was as evil as he was good. Serpents sprang from the shoulders of the dark brother, and he committed every crime. Just as one brother was entirely good, the other was entirely evil. And so they continued until, at last, the light absorbed the dark and the light prevailed. Thus it will be when the last river-crosser has brought us from the dark bank of the river to the sunlit side.”

I did my best to question the holy man. But he could not or would not reason with me. He simply repeated stories, sang songs, prayed. Caraka was not much help either. But I was now eager to find the answer to a question whose solution must exist somewhere on earth.

Was Zoroaster simply revealing the religion that was ours
before
the Aryans conquered Media and Persia? Certainly Zoroaster was not Aryan. As I have said before, I believe that the Spitama family is Chaldean. But that race is now so intermingled with other races that our original religion is quite forgotten or confused. Nevertheless,
if
Zoroaster’s so-called reforms were nothing more than a reassertion of the original true religion of the human race, then that would explain the ferocity with which Zoroaster attacked the gods that the Aryans had brought with them from the north.

“They are not gods, they are devils,” he used to say. And the fact that so many of the common people accepted his message means that, secretly, the original divine vision had never been extinguished in their souls. This would also explain why the Achaemenids have never taken seriously Zoroaster’s teachings. Except for Hystaspes, they only pretend to honor my grandfather because, as Aryan chieftains, they are still loyal to those tribal gods who gave them all the world to the south of the steppes.

I must say that my real religious education began in Gandhai. As the rain clattered on the tile roof, the naked holy man told us, with all sorts of rhetorical flourishes, that mind is in all things, even rocks.

Incidentally, the word that he used for mind is almost identical with the Greek word that Anaxagoras is given credit for coining. He also told us that nothing is true except from a single point of view. From another point of view, the same thing will appear to be quite different; hence, the story of the blind men and the elephant. Yet there is an absolute truth which can be known only to a river-crosser or redeemer. Unfortunately, our holy man was a bit vague as to just how one gets to be a redeemer. He was one, he told us, because he had fulfilled the five vows, which are: don’t kill, lie, steal, be unchaste, seek out pleasure.

This last presented some difficulty, as I remarked to Caraka the next day when we were again on the road. “Suppose that one’s pleasure is to walk around naked lecturing Persian ambassadors? That would be breaking the fifth vow, wouldn’t it?”

“But suppose he hates lecturing Persian ambassadors?”

“No. He enjoyed himself enormously. I feel that he’s not a true river-crosser.”

“Or even a Jain.” Caraka had been disconcerted by the whole adventure. In some way he seemed to feel that I had been exposed to an aspect of the Dravidian culture that he was not entirely easy with. Although he plainly detested the Aryan conquerors, he had lived all his life amongst them both in India and in Persia. As a result, he was neither one thing nor another. A state in which I have often found myself. After all, I am half-Persian or Chaldean and half-Ionian Greek. I serve the Aryan Great King, yet I am Zoroaster’s grandson. I reject the Aryan gods but not their kings. I believe in the way of the Truth but do not know, truly, where it is to be found.

SOME FOUR HUNDRED MILES EAST OF the Indus River is the Yamuna River, and the rich city of Mathura. Here we were received by the governor, a small fat man with a violet-and-yellow chin beard. Whereas our barbers try to re-create youthful tints for aging men, the Indian barber is noted for his fantasy. A beard in four colors is considered highly desirable. As a result, there is no sight quite so strange as a gathering of Indian courtiers, each with his rainbow beard, his perilously thick-soled white leather shoes, his bright parasol.

Although the governor had been appointed by King Pasenadi of Koshala, Caraka assured me that Mathura was practically independent, like most of the cities of Koshala. “No one fears Pasenadi. His kingdom is breaking up. And he does not care.”

“What does he care about?”

“Eel-wrigglers and hair splitters.”

“What are they?”

“Wanderers. Wise men, or so they say.” As you can see, the India of fifty years ago was very like the Athens of today where such eel-wrigglers and hair-splitters as Protagoras and Socrates hold forth, and nothing is true or false.

In my old age, I am at last beginning to understand what our world has been passing through. For some time, the original populations of Greece and Persia and India have been trying to overthrow the gods—or devils—of the Aryans. In every country Zeus-Varuna-Brahma is being denied. Since the Athenian mob is still Aryan in its superstitions, few dare question openly the gods of the state. But, privately, they are either turning to pre-Aryan mystery cults or to such radical prophets as Pythagoras—or to atheism. Things are more open in India. On every side, the Aryan gods are being challenged. Such ancient beliefs as the transmigration of souls are once again popular, and the countryside is filled with holy men and ascetics who have exchanged the Aryan gods for the old beliefs. Even Aryan kings have been known to give up their thrones in order to live in jungles, where they meditate and mortify the flesh.

I give full credit to Zoroaster for showing mankind not only the oneness of deity but that simultaneous duality which is a necessary condition of true deity. Truth cannot be true without the Lie, and the Lie cannot be refuted without the True. In consequence, each human life is a battleground between the two.

Democritus sees a contradiction where I see perfect light. But he spends his days with sophists.

At Mathura we were housed in a small, comfortable wooden house, rather like a miniature version of the Median palace at Ecbatana. Unfortunately, in the monsoon season the odor of wet wood is curiously oppressive, and no matter how much incense is burned, the smell of rot persists in every room.

We stayed two weeks at Mathura. During this time, messengers arrived from the kings of Koshala and Magadha. Each wanted me to visit his kingdom first. As we were already in Koshala, Caraka thought that I should present myself to Pasenadi. But since it was Bimbisara who had written Darius, I felt that I was obliged to do him the honor of waiting upon him at Rajagriha. Besides, Bimbisara owned the iron mines that so intrigued Darius.

I sent a messenger up to Susa, reporting on my embassy thus far. I then made arrangements for the next stage of the journey: the crossing of the Yamuna River and the descent of the Ganges River to Varanasi. I had been worried that if the Ganges were in flood we would have to go overland, or even wait in Mathura until the end of the rainy season. As it turned out, both the Yamuna and Ganges rivers were in flood, and we were obliged to wait. Relentlessly, the rains continued to fall, and I grew more and more depressed. On the other hand, Caraka positively bloomed in the rain. Rain is life for these people.

It was at Mathura that I met the most hated—yet often venerated—religious figure in all India.

I had asked the governor to show me about the various temples and religious establishments of the city. He had been most obliging. He had even pretended to know who Zoroaster was. Thanks to his efforts, I spent several days hurrying from one temple to another. I don’t know why I bothered. The Aryan gods are always the same, no matter what their names. There is Agni the fire god and Indra the storm god. There are the highly popular mother-goddesses, whose idolatrous sanctuaries would have seemed most congenial to Atossa. And so on.

Early one morning, armed with parasols against the rain, Caraka and I took a stroll through the bazaars. In front of a booth containing snakes in wicker baskets, an old man suddenly stopped me. He carried not a parasol but a wooden staff. Although he was soaked from the rain, he did not notice the water that filled his dark eyes, dripped from his long nose. For a moment we stared at each other. I noticed that his beard was white, unpainted. Finally I asked, “Do you want alms?”

The old man shook his head. “Come with me,” he said. The accent was that of an Aryan of the highest caste. As he crossed the marketplace, he did not look back. Obviously he assumed that we would obey him. We did. And, for once, people stared not at us but at him. Some made the sign to ward off the evil eye while others kissed the hem of his wet shawl. He ignored everyone.

“A holy man,” said Caraka with his usual sagacity.

We followed the old man through narrow crowded streets to a large square house built around a courtyard whose wooden verandah sheltered a series of large holes. These holes were the entrances to the cells of the monks. Incidentally, this was the first of the many monasteries that I was to see in India.

The old man led us into a long empty room. As he squatted on the packed-earth floor, he motioned for us to do the same. The ground was unpleasantly damp—as is all India in that terrible season.

“I am Gosala,” said the old man. “You are from Persia. I am told that your Great King wishes to learn wisdom from us. That is good. But I must warn you that in this land there are many eel-wrigglers who pretend to be conquerors, enlightened ones, river-crossers. You must be on your guard, and you must report to the Great King only what is true.”

“And what is true, Gosala?” Tactfully, I refrained from telling
him
.

“I can tell you what is not true.” I realized then that I was in the presence of an accomplished teacher. Needless to say, I had no idea who Gosala was. If I had, I might have learned more than I did from our one and only meeting.

“It is believed by the Jains that one can become holy or closer to holiness by not killing any creature, by not telling a lie, by not pursuing pleasure.” We were given the usual list of what not to do. This list is common to all religions that wish to purify the soul—or, simply, man. The two are
not
the same, by the way, thanks to the essential duality of creation. The soul comes straight from the Wise Lord. The flesh is matter. Although the first pervades the second, they are not the same. The first is eternal; the second transitory.

“But you, Gosala, are a Jain.” Caraka knew exactly who Gosala was.

“I am a Jain. But I have parted company with the one who calls himself Mahavira. He is thought to be the twenty-fourth crossing-maker. He is not.”

“Are you?” Caraka was genuinely interested.

“I don’t know. I don’t care. I loved Mahavira. We were like brothers. We were as one. We observed all the vows together. We reaffirmed the old wisdom. But then I began to study those things that men have forgotten, and we were obliged to part. Because I now know exactly what is true, and I am obliged to tell the truth to anyone who will listen.”

“But you just said that you would only tell us what is
not
true.” I was quick to remind him of his opening gambit.

“Affirmation evolves from the negative.” Gosala was patient. “It is
not
true that any living creature can grow closer to holiness or to nirvana through the conduct of a good life or through the complete observance of all our vows. What
is
true ...” Gosala gave me a stern look that I found unnerving; he was both serene and relentless. “What is true is that each of us begins as an atom or a life monad. And each life monad is obliged to undergo a series of eighty-four thousand rebirths, starting with the original living atom and proceeding then through each of the elements of air, fire, water, earth and then into such complex cycles as rocks, plants, living creatures of every kind. Once the series of eighty-four thousand rebirths has been completed, the life monad is released, blown out.”

I must have looked uncommonly stupid, for, suddenly, as if to please a child, Gosala got to his feet. He pulled from his belt a ball of thread, which he held in his hand. “Think of this thread as the entire course of a life monad. Now—watch it rise.”

Gosala threw the ball of thread toward the rafters. Once the thread had unwound to its full length in the air, it fell to the floor. “Now it is at an end. And that,” said Gosala, “is the story of our existence. We change from atom to air to fire to earth to rock to grass to insect to reptile to man to god to—nothing. At the end, all of those masks that we have been obliged to put on and take off are irrelevant, for there is nothing left to mask. That is the truth of our condition. But my former brother Mahavira will tell you that this process can be speeded up by leading a virtuous life, by obeying the five vows. He lies.
Each of us must endure the entire cycle from beginning to end
.
There is no way out
.”

“But how, Gosala, do you know this to be true?”

“I have spent my life, studying our holy wisdom. It has all been revealed to us over the centuries. The process is as plain as that thread on the floor. No one may hasten or alter his destiny.”

“But Mahavira teaches righteousness. Is that not a good thing?” Caraka was as mystified as I by Gosala’s uncompromising bleakness.

“Mahavira is at that state in his development.” Gosala was mild. “He is obviously coming to the end of his own thread. After all, some men are closer to nirvana than others. But whether they do good or ill makes no difference at all. They simply are. They do what they are meant to do, and endure what they must endure, and they come to an end when it is time—and no sooner.”

“Why then—” I pulled toward me the near end of the thread, for comfort?—“do you teach? Why do you want to tell me what is not true and what is true?”