The Mystic & the Boy

The dream begins in the streets of India. The environment is filled with crowds of people, well dressed wealthier tourists intermixed with the over-bustling poorer economy of the locals. The sun is bright and warm, the dirt sand is kicked up with the wind and feet, and along one cool shaded clay building corridor there lives a mystic. This mystic looks to be in his seventies, frail bone and brown, hair in a turban with some white strands straying out from underneath the fabric. He wears no clothes except a cloth around his waist. A mass of bones and wrinkles, the only color that stands out on him is the painted red ash on his forehead surrounded in white powder. His eyes a pale hazel green blended in with the weathering of his skin.

This mystic was well known in the local community. He had been known to make other stoops his home, but for the last fifteen years or so, this particular spot became his place. Often one would see him, sitting quietly with eyes closed in meditation, or talking with the few who would gather around him and ask him questions. Some locals would even make a habit of sitting along the wall with him for a time, just to soak in this man's presence. As for the mystic he paid them no mind. He seemed unattached to it all, completely dedicated to his faith. Never a smile would appear on the mystic's face. Never an emotion at all would line his body. He became as much of the texture of the building and landscape so as to go unnoticed by the tracks of people walking the streets.

The mystic was a discontented man. Nothing in this world ever caught his eye. Never did he long to possess anything or attach to anyone. Nothing attracted him. He spent each day dedicated to transcendence. His pursuit for Nirvana became his whole life and nothing distracted him or event tempted him from this devotion. Yet for all his disciplined attention, a restlessness always remained with him that he strove hard to conquer.

One day a young European boy crossed his path. The boy was about eleven years of age. He wore a large navy blue t-shirt and long baggy denim shorts. He had sandy brown hair and a skip in his step. He had permission from his parents to explore the market square, and in his raptured wonderings he took one of the side streets and came along the mystic. He was intrigued with this man who was mostly unclothed with red paint on his face. Other local men seemed drawn to him as they sat alongside the mystic in the street. The boy decided to talk to him.

“Hello.” The boy greeted the mystic.

The mystic who had been watching the boy just stares at him.

The boy thought maybe the old man didn't hear him, so he sat down in front of him and greeted him again.

The mystic, again, is silent.

So the boy, undeterred, tells him about who he is and where he comes from, how he got to India, and what he was doing in the marketplace that day. The mystic listens to the boy's story with hardly an interest. Finally the boy asks, “What are you?”

The mystic says, “I am an old man. Surely you have seen those before?”

“Oh sure,” says the boy who didn't seem to take notice that this was the first words uttered from the man. “But none that look like you.”

The man didn't respond and the local men gathered around him just watched the conversation as the rest of the marketplace and streets teemed with the coming and going of the day.

After a pause the boy asked, “So what are you doing?”

“I am praying,” said the mystic.

“Oh.” Said the boy in respect. “Are they praying with you?” He asked the mystic of the men gathered around him.

“I am not one to answer the affairs of others.” Responded the mystic. “They choose to do as it concerns them, but my prayers are of mine alone.”

“Are you praying now?” asked the boy.

“I am continually in prayer.” Answered the mystic. “Whether I eat, whether I talk, whether I wash or go to the bathroom, my whole state is a prayer.”

“What must that be like?” asked the boy in wonder.

“It is one of unwavering faith and dedication. It requires one to be unattached to everything around them and to only be devoted to that which cannot be seen.”

“Oh.” Said the boy disappointed. “I'm not sure I could do that. There's way too much that holds my interest.”

The mystic said nothing. He just could not relate to the boy.

“So what is the unseen like?” asked the boy. “Is it as full of wonder as this one is? I mean, you dedicate your whole life to that one, so it must be pretty spectacular. What is it like?”

The mystic internally had to admit, he never really experienced the wonder the boy talked about. He only knew that it was the only answer for him, because everything else he saw and experienced didn't fit him. He never felt like he belonged anywhere in the world of the seen, therefore he was devoted to that place to which he must surely belong, though he never quite felt as if he was allowed in completely.

“It is not for the weak.” The mystic replied. “It is a place much larger than your world whose boundaries extend to the eye of the beholder. It is not a place I can take you to nor describe. It is one you must experience for yourself.”

“I see.” Said the boy, though the mystic was sure he did not.

“Well,” said the boy getting up off the ground, “it was nice to meet you. I'll let you get back to your prayer. See you around!” He smiled and waved as he took off down the street. The mystic watched him with a minute's attention, then closed his eyes and went back to his meditation.

The next day the boy returned.

“How are you doing today?” the boy asked.

“I remain.” Said the mystic.

The boy wasn't sure what that meant, but decided to let that be for the moment.

“So I see you are in the same spot? Is this where you live?” the boy asked.

“It matters not where I lay my flesh, for the concerns of the soul are far greater to be attended.” The mystic spoke.

“Yeah.” The boy replied. “That sounds like something our preacher would say,” thinking back to his many Sunday services, standing in the pew alongside his parents. Then after a pause, “So what did you do yesterday while you were praying? See anything interesting?”

“Nothing holds my attention but Nirvana.” Said the mystic.

“That's what my parents told me last night when I told them I met you.” The boy said. “They told me I shouldn't bother you. But I figure me saying hello isn't bothering you.”

“I know,” said the boy, with a sudden idea, “why don't I tell you everything I experienced yesterday and you tell me about what you saw and learned in Nirvana?”

The mystic blinked and tilted his head at this boy's ferocious nature. Before he could reply, or perhaps tilting his head was a sign of consent to the child, the boy proceeds to speak of all the wondrous things he saw. The mystic listened. The boy seemed very captivated by his experiences and story, and the mystic pondered when had he felt so equally caught up in his exploration of transcendence. Was he more driven by zeal or discontentment? Had his zeal been underpinned by his malaise? He knew to his old bones transcendence was the answer, but he could never quite reach the extent of his devotion. When he came out of his contemplation he realized the boy was silent, staring at him, expectant.

The mystic replied, “I do not see the things you do, for this world holds none of the fascination for me that it has for you. Nirvana is a place of unending bliss. The place of my rest. My bones reach for it as surely as my soul. No other thought or adventure holds any interest for me save this one passion. I will gladly lose this life to attain unending life in its presence. Nirvana is ultimate attainment. The all of all that you experience.”

“Wow!” The boy responded, amazed. But then after a minute staring at the mystic he said, “But you do not look happy. I think I would be visiting such a place. Why are you not happy?”

“I am discontented.” The mystic admitted. “I am discontented that my walk has led me only so far through this land. And discontentment is no bliss at all. Therefore, I am humbled that all my search has yet to deliver me to that which I am wholly given to.”

The boy, for once, had nothing to say, but held great respect for this old frail mystical man.

After a few moments of silence and breathing, with the whole world going on around them, the boy said, “Well, sir, I hope you reach Nirvana. And I can see my being here might be bothering you, after all. So, I'll go and leave you to that place you are so dedicated to reach. I hope you don't mind me stopping by and saying hello now and then, for we're supposed to be here for another week or so.” He once again got up off the ground and when he left down the street the mystic watched him. It was the first time something ever caught his attention. A fluttering stirred, but he did not know what it meant.

As the week passed, the mystic would often see the boy from his local spot. The boy liked exploring the different stalls and watching the laundry on the upper terraces sway like flags in the breeze. You could see him skipping down the streets and always when he passed by the mystic he'd wave with a huge smile and go on his way. Sometimes the boy would have a fruit in his hand that he'd be tearing apart. Another day, he’d be focused running errands for his mother. But whenever he was free, the boy loved taking in all the wonder of the place around him. He'd stare up at the sky and skip as if he heard a song only he could hear. He'd interact with the locals completely enthralled. He'd stop and sit on the edge of the center market water fountain and watch the crowd bustle around him. And for a moment everyday, the boy would go up to the mystic and ask him if he was happy? Did he feel any less discontentment today?

In his own way the mystic was asking the exact same questions, and his answer was always the same, “I am today as I have been.” He did not doubt his pursuit, but why did his pursuit continually abide in a general restlessness? Of the two, even though the boy was an emotionally young sprout full of impressionable tendencies, the mystic thought, there was a genuine joy in him that seemed to be missing in the mystic's life. At one time he felt that perhaps the locals who came to sit with him all day might have something to soak up by his silent influence, but now he began to realize he was just an old man with a fierce dedication that seemed to have limited results. He shooed the men away and told them to leave him alone. Uncertainly, they left. Some tried to return over the next day or so, but the mystic would have none of it.

Now the mystic sat alone on a side street. Day and night, he sat in deep meditation, pondering the differences between him and the boy. That initial fluttering took root. The mystic could not explain it, but went with it, following its tendrils to climb it as a ladder, to surrender any resistance to reach safely the land that beckoned to him.

At the end of the boy's visit to India, he visited the mystic one last time. The mystic seemed a little different, but perhaps that was because no one crowded around him anymore. He was still a frail old weathered man, whose bones showed through his leather brown skin. The red mark on his brow was always brilliant, but the lines on the man’s face seemed to come more from stress than it did age. The boy began as he had done in days past, “Hello, friend. How are you today? Are you happy? Are you any less discontent?”

The mystic, who grew to appreciate the boy's visits, replied, “I am as I have been and not as I have been.”

“Would you care to explain that?” asked the boy.

“I am drawn to that which I cannot name for I do not know it as I would like, by a drawing that I cannot name for I do not know it.”

“Does this make you happy or sad?” the boy asked.

“It makes me feel old.” The mystic replied. “And it turns my attention in directions that I have not pursued. I am neither happy nor sad. A restlessness I still feel, but only from the awareness that I have not settled within me that which I most love.”

“Why do you think Nirvana is so hard to reach?” The boy inquisitively continued.

“I do not know.” Admitted the mystic. “A life is of little consequence to it, for it is all life, and yet all life is treasured within it.”

“Well, I have a proposal.” Responded the boy. “I've watched you all this time, and you are not happy. You long for a place that you can only visit while being in a land you do not love. I, on the other hand, seem to find joy and wonderment everywhere I go. There's not a day that goes by that I don't see something new and amazing. Your life seems to be filled with dust and heat and thoughts, while mine is green and filled with balloons, colors, and fireflies. Perhaps you would not be so discontented if you just changed the scenery?”

“It is not the scenery that is the difference.” The mystic explained.

“Well, then,” for that was the favorite beginning to every sentence of this young eleven year old. “Why don't you come with me? Spend some time in my world. Let me show you what fills me with such fascination and love. It sounds like to me that I can find bliss right here. Perhaps if you come with me, you can find it for yourself and that will lead you to Nirvana.”

For the first time in his life, the mystic was genuinely moved by something external. His whole countenance softened. His eyes wet with tears, his erect posture relaxed, and he held a different thought in his heart. What if this was the way to Nirvana all along? The mystic nodded his head, speechless, in total surrender to life's offering. He smiled, uncharacteristically, and stood off the ground. The locals stopped in their tracks shocked at what they were seeing. The only time they ever saw the mystic stand was to use the bathroom, and since he ate and drank very little, that wasn't often and usually in the gloom of the night when the streets were quiet.

The little boy smiled so warmly that it spread until it reached from ear to ear. He took the mystic's hand and together they walked down the street. The boy pointed here and there and showed him what he loved about the mystic's land and told him he looked forward to showing him his home and how they were different. With each step the mystic's heart grew lighter, and he felt the gates to Nirvana swing wide open.

The mystic left India never to return.