The village was in the hinterlands and its inhabitants were simple-minded. They tilled their land, waited for the rains, and nature was their god.
The village had been ravaged many times by dacoits. Even its own chief was not known to be kind or generous. But the village-folks accepted their good and bad times with patience and prayer.
Their life was one of need and survival, and only a few experienced any comfort or luxury. The rains were infrequent, and good rains led to a good harvest. Even if the villagers had excess grain, they stored it for a year or two of famine which might befall them in future.
The village priest, like the villagers themselves, was a simple man, given to prayer and simple rituals. He lived on alms. He was never in fear of starvation, and he lived in a simple hut with his holy book. Adjoining his hut was a temple, if it could be called that. The temple had an ancient and beautiful, but spartan, statue of a mythical God with a few flowers always placed on its feet.
Life continued for the village at a languorous pace. Nothing had really changed for decades and centuries. The villagers were mostly content, and their view of the world was limited to their families and their farms.
Presently, it was the season of rains and so far that year the rainfall had been fitful and patchy. The village-folk were worried and kept awake at night, watching for any sign of the clouds.
One morning during that season, they watched with glee as a fierce storm formed itself and the easterly winds brought a dense cover of thick, black clouds. They had prayed for rains, and the gods had answered.
The clouds gathered above them, there was a deafening roar of thunder and the lightening almost blinded them with its intensity, and they danced as thick dusty raindrops started hitting the parched soil.
It was raining heavily now, but strangely - the villagers watched with some anxiety - the raindrops were purple in color. It was water, from appearance, but the wet soil did not smell familiar. There was a weird stench, and they wondered if the "water" was indeed water. One of them, a man braver than others, gathered some drops in his palm and fearfully licked them. He started dancing, as if drunk. The sweetness was beyond what they thought was possible in this world. They got out all their pitchers and pots, and collected as much of this sweet purple rain as they could.
They had a good harvest that year. But strangely, as they fed on that harvest, their skin turned purple. Unknown maladies afflicted some of them. They became lazy, indolent, and fond of that purple drink that now filled their wells and flowed in their rivers. The skin of many turned itchy, and all the time of those itchy men and women was spent in tending to their skin.
Afraid and uncertain of what was going on, they decided to seek the counsel and blessing of the village priest. After all, he was known to understand the mysteries of nature and had more experience and wisdom than any of them.
But the rain had fallen on the priest's hut and the temple too. The priest had taken to drinking that purple sweet soma, and the statue of the God now had at its feet, instead of those simple flowers, a pitcher of soma and some pieces of gold. The priest too was itchy, and as he prayed and read his scripture, he could not help but constantly scratch his belly and thighs.
Crestfallen, the villagers cursed him as a fallen man and destroyed his hut.
...
Spiritual teachers are not immune to the cultural winds, the parabolic nature of technology and consumerism, and the clouds of gratification. A Buddha of today would have to be on social media. Ramakrishna would travel in a Mercedes, and a Krishna would have many models as his consorts.
What we are, what our world is, so will be our teachers. They may say what is old, but their innards are drenched and flooded with the new. The rare one who will continue to be old will remain unknown and unheard.
Their sickness is not a rare one, but is part of the epidemic.
The village had been ravaged many times by dacoits. Even its own chief was not known to be kind or generous. But the village-folks accepted their good and bad times with patience and prayer.
Their life was one of need and survival, and only a few experienced any comfort or luxury. The rains were infrequent, and good rains led to a good harvest. Even if the villagers had excess grain, they stored it for a year or two of famine which might befall them in future.
The village priest, like the villagers themselves, was a simple man, given to prayer and simple rituals. He lived on alms. He was never in fear of starvation, and he lived in a simple hut with his holy book. Adjoining his hut was a temple, if it could be called that. The temple had an ancient and beautiful, but spartan, statue of a mythical God with a few flowers always placed on its feet.
Life continued for the village at a languorous pace. Nothing had really changed for decades and centuries. The villagers were mostly content, and their view of the world was limited to their families and their farms.
Presently, it was the season of rains and so far that year the rainfall had been fitful and patchy. The village-folk were worried and kept awake at night, watching for any sign of the clouds.
One morning during that season, they watched with glee as a fierce storm formed itself and the easterly winds brought a dense cover of thick, black clouds. They had prayed for rains, and the gods had answered.
The clouds gathered above them, there was a deafening roar of thunder and the lightening almost blinded them with its intensity, and they danced as thick dusty raindrops started hitting the parched soil.
It was raining heavily now, but strangely - the villagers watched with some anxiety - the raindrops were purple in color. It was water, from appearance, but the wet soil did not smell familiar. There was a weird stench, and they wondered if the "water" was indeed water. One of them, a man braver than others, gathered some drops in his palm and fearfully licked them. He started dancing, as if drunk. The sweetness was beyond what they thought was possible in this world. They got out all their pitchers and pots, and collected as much of this sweet purple rain as they could.
They had a good harvest that year. But strangely, as they fed on that harvest, their skin turned purple. Unknown maladies afflicted some of them. They became lazy, indolent, and fond of that purple drink that now filled their wells and flowed in their rivers. The skin of many turned itchy, and all the time of those itchy men and women was spent in tending to their skin.
Afraid and uncertain of what was going on, they decided to seek the counsel and blessing of the village priest. After all, he was known to understand the mysteries of nature and had more experience and wisdom than any of them.
But the rain had fallen on the priest's hut and the temple too. The priest had taken to drinking that purple sweet soma, and the statue of the God now had at its feet, instead of those simple flowers, a pitcher of soma and some pieces of gold. The priest too was itchy, and as he prayed and read his scripture, he could not help but constantly scratch his belly and thighs.
Crestfallen, the villagers cursed him as a fallen man and destroyed his hut.
...
Spiritual teachers are not immune to the cultural winds, the parabolic nature of technology and consumerism, and the clouds of gratification. A Buddha of today would have to be on social media. Ramakrishna would travel in a Mercedes, and a Krishna would have many models as his consorts.
What we are, what our world is, so will be our teachers. They may say what is old, but their innards are drenched and flooded with the new. The rare one who will continue to be old will remain unknown and unheard.
Their sickness is not a rare one, but is part of the epidemic.
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