No, not a Zen master, nor an Indian Guru, or a Tibetan monk! None of the likes! A MANGO, a KITE and bunch of COINs! Yes, they were the GREAT three teachers.  They chose different segments of time – Dawn, Noon and Dusk – to deliver three TEACHINGS, separately, to me. It is those teachings that knocked the THING into the type and shape, if you like, that I am today.

The MANGO taught me that a PURE WISH sans SINs is granted no matter what, where, and when! The KITE hammered it into my head that once the seeker’s ATTACHMENT to the sought-after is broken, the fruit of pursuit lands in the hand of the TRASNFORMED seeker. And the silver COINs scattered GREED over my path to test if I could walk off with it or fall for it.

To replay the little character in the story, I need to dig deep into memory to bring back this little boy in his infancy that received teachings from the three GREAT masters.

Let me travel back in time 50 years from now. My small house was around the bullock-cart way that ran through the wild mango groves. Mango groves were thick and large then, dark and deep, stretching off the bullock-cart way far down to the crocodile-infested ocean of a river that gave creeps to a small boy that I was. Little fruits hung in bunch from branches of giants of trees, wild, huge and tall, literally reaching the sky.  June-July would see carpet of ripe little mangoes on the grove floor that fell off trees through the night. These months with baking Sun gave hell to the small world I lived, turned it into an oven. Electricity was a thing heard of but seen by few lucky ones who had been out of the village.

Once the Sun goes down, we’d climb up onto to top of scorching roof and wait there for the balmy wind to blow down from the snowy field of the Northern Himalayas to the tropical plane. It was a therapy to the sweat-soaked body broken into heat rash. An hour or so later, the roof-surface would cool down. We spread sheet of cloth or mattress and lie down on it under the Himalayan wind blowing down from North to South.

An hour before dawn break, I’d climb down, pick a bag crudely woven from jute rope, cross over the bullock-cart way, and sneak into the mango grove under veil of darkness. I’d go only as far as it took to fill my bag with fallen mangoes and get back.

That day, I had only crossed over the bullock-cart way into the grove and a round shiny object hit me in the eyes. I bent low over it to see what it was. It turned out to be a silver coin, size of a medal. I looked around to see if anyone awake! Not a ghost of men around!  I grabbed the coin in a blink of eye, slipped it into trouser pocket. Little way off, two more coins of the same size! Picked them up and moved on. And now, there were 4 of them, and then 8, and 12 and 16 and 24 and the bunch of coins kept multiplying in number over the path as I moved deeper into the grove. My pockets hung down with heavy coins and they knocked into each other giving out clanking noise as I walked. Just as I went down on my knee to grab heaps of coins in two hands, a noise came flying from nowhere into my ear, gave a jolt to my in-satiating greed for the coins. The noise warned me that I was being lured into the path of GREED paved by the devil and that it led to the den where the devil lives. And then, I felt like receiving a stunning blow to my head, my head went spinning, not knowing whether I was coming or going, rooted to the spot. Slowly, I sensed fear creeping into me. I literally shook in my boot.  I plunged hands deep into the pocket, took all coins at once, threw them away without a second thought, and ran home sensing the devil close at my heel. The COINS taught me, at my infancy, that I should walk the path of NEED and not GREED.

A week or so later, I was on the top of scorching roof to cool my sweat-soaked body broken into heat rash and there I heard clamor of a crowd. The sound of their noise wafted off across the pond to the roof my house. On the other side of pond was a vast stretch of paddy-field where there were staging this mad-rush of people with eyes fastened on the sky, yelling, pushing and shoving to go past the other. Just then, my eyes caught the site of a huge kite, size of bamboo tray that the rural women use for winnowing rice, cut-off string line, floating across the sky in a rhythmic glide, bouncing up and down, blown away by gentle wind. The clamor of the crowd rose as young and old, tall and short, big boys and kids gave reckless run vying for trophy, climbing walls, leaping fences, wading into the waters, hurling oneself through anything that came their way. It was a bluish grey trophy kite, great in shape and incredible in size, an artwork of merit, and veering to the west towards the pond at the backyard of my house. Some big boys had already waded into water anticipating its landing there; others were on the bank, yelling at it, perhaps cursing the kite for drifting off over the pond.

There was no way I could fight off the temptation of winning the largest ever kite cut-off string line, a trophy kite for the winner whoever could lay their hands on it. And it wasn’t beyond me to do that. I was a daredevil type, anyway. I could slug it out. As I climbed down the roof in no time, and quickly waded into the water of pond in a mad rush, a sudden gust of nasty wind blew the kite off the air above pond back into the paddies. A crowd of three dozen old and young boys hitherto yelling from the bank of the pond gave a maddening chase to the kite on their naked feet, the kite swinging this way and that way, going where the wind took it, still hanging on the air, moving in a rhythmic glide in a poor haste. I was way behind the crowd coz the merciless wind had abruptly changed the course of kite, and I had to wrestle my way out of water. Soon I was out of pond and gave a lung-bursting run with eyes fastened on the kite rapidly drifting past me. I didn’t notice that the paddy mice hunters had dug a hole in the field, unwittingly got a foot caught in it, and came crashing down into the paddy. I fell on my stomach, lay spread-eagled, licking dust. My slim chance of getting hold of the kite was gone. I had suffered a cut in the knee, a layer of skin peeled off. I lifted my eyes to see the kite, like a wounded soldier in the battlefield. The trophy kite was still on the air, flying low, though, unwilling to come down. The mad crowd was running after it, vying for it, yelling, pushing and shoving, stumbling and falling and picking up, and putting up a last ditch fight for it. I serenely watched the boys vying for the kite as my DESIRE for the KITE slowly melted away with the streaks of blood and sweat snaking down my knee. I watched the kite in complete DETACHMENT as though every drop of desire for it had drained away. I was bereft of DESIRE. I was not in the fray. I was reduced to a type of spectator, one who is not affected by win or loss, just enjoying the game without an attachment to any side. I observed the whole thing in empty head giving it a colorless look. I watched it without a trace of worry, or a pang of jealousy, or a tinge of excitement, or a shade of envy, nothing!

As I watched totally resigned to the whole episode, I felt soft rustling of a thing over my ear. My hand gave a reflex response and there was this string attached to the kite sweeping my ear as it drifted along. I grabbed the string and the dead kite came back to life. It rose up. I scrambled to my knee and sat down on my heel. The crowd gaped at the kite as it soared up in the air in complete dismay with their mouth wide open. A neighbor of mine came running to me and helped bring the kite down. It was my trophy. I didn’t believe it. But it was true. I had won it. I won a game that I had quit.

There the KITE taught me that a sincere EFFORT devoid of ATTCHMENT brings the SOUGHT-AFTER to the SEEKER. They become one.

Then came the September, the month when mango trees shed their fruits and run out of it. With slingshot in hand, I chased the doves deep down into mango grove. I had the matchbox in pocket to make fire and cook the game I downed. The birds’ cooing drew me farther and farther deep into the grove. I didn’t realize that I had reached near the river. I don’t know if the cooing of doves was real or was it my head making the sound! I didn’t see a ghost of a bird no matter how closely I peered or skinned my eyes for it. The grove was uncannily quiet, kind of eerie silence. Not a leaf fluttered! No rustle of wind! I thought I was chasing my shadow, turned, and headed my way back home. Soon, I felt my stomach rumbling with pangs of hunger. I knew it that there was no way I could get a thing to eat in the wild mango grove. I had to drag myself out of the jungle of mango trees, by any means.

I set off in a quickened pace. Soon, thirst gripped me. I was under attack of both hunger and thirst in tandem.  This time I had to fight the pure NEED and defeat them, get out of the grove, and find my way home. I fought the NEED, albeit unsuccessfully. There was no way I could register a victory over the bodily NEED. I couldn’t make it to my home, my feet gave up, and I slumped under a tree, hungry, thirsty and exhausted.

I looked around to see if I could get a thing to eat by any chance. Nothing came to my sight. Once again, I went blank in head, lost orientation, didn’t know where I was coming from and going. I felt drowsy. My eyes began to close. I went thoughtlessly quiet in head.

Don’t know what happened until a fairly large MANGO fell off from nowhere and hit my shoulder.  It was a miracle of sort. You don’t get mango at this time around. But again, exceptions can’t be ruled out. I was jolted awake by it. I walked on my four, picked the ripe, old mango, and dug into it. Soon, I picked myself up, walked home.  The MANGO from nowhere taught me that a PURE WISH free of SINs is granted no matter what, where and when.

The three GREAT TEACHERS taught me WONDERFUL lessons.