He used to go to the temple three
times per week. Mantras were read on the sixth day at a certain evening hour.
He would stay for the mantras and pray for the salvation of his close ones and
his own soul and being.
He went to the temple for
trainings. Young and old, children and elder would gather early every morning
with the first bird songs, and later in the evening, when the yellow moon was
above the horizon. They were exercising, stretching their muscles, pulling
their limbs, bending their waists, placing their joints at most incredible
places. It was serious and arduous physical exercise. It took concentration and
devotion beyond his abilities to concentrate and devote himself to one thing
only. But he kept on going.
He wanted change in his life and
when he heard about the mysterious temple he did not have a second doubt. He
saw the place as a parallel world where only one thing mattered – to
concentrate. It had nothing in common with the world outside, behind the walls
and the high columns. It was an atmosphere of its own. It did not matter who he
was, what his occupation was, how old he was, what his desires,
disappointments, sins or virtues were, it did not matter what his appearance,
height, status or name were. Nor of any of the other visitors.
A man at his forties in front of
him, beard grey, palms of a giant, exhaled slowly and strongly. Moving
gracefully from one leg to the other, one hand upright, pointing vehemently
towards the open roof of the temple, towards the stars, neck in sweat and
water, breasts strongly breathing patches of air, looked like a god of a myth,
ready to cast his lightning. A woman beside him, a young priestess, or a
river-nymph, elegant and powerful, was stretching her thin hands at opposite
directions, and then above the head and then shifting her whole body back,
leading his thoughts to paths that conquer all men at the sight of beauty. At
an oversight the round stone floor had sheltered a tribe of lunatic men and
women, who breathed in and out in a crazy dance of motions. And somehow the dance
looked coordinated and as if following an enchanting melody, inaccessible to
the human senses, it flowed into a perfect composition. Blue veins tightening,
white cheeks becoming red, ebony muscles sliding, ivory knees crunching. And a
hot watery white steam was evaporating from their bodies and mixing in the
space above. All into one.
And those moments he used to try
to concentrate. The temple was an escape, a salvation, a mirage. But he needed
it to keep him fit. Not only physically. He would imagine a stream of clean
water. He would see himself swimming in a pool, alone. Under the water his
hands would swiftly keep him moving, opening carves for his body into the body
of the water. Swimming towards something, something clean and pure, purifying
his being and leaving him well washed and cool.
Then his own body would move, and
his right leg would change his left leg into a new position, his stomach swelling
and shrinking periodically, his shoulder trembling at the pressure, his palm
colouring in pink. And with these movements and within this pain he would feel
much human. And at times he would feel like a godly creature. But at all times,
in the pinkness of his palm, and in the blue of his veins, he saw a promise.
And the promise was death. He did not want to go, but he knew one day he would
have had to. He wanted to live, but he was too often concerned with the dead.
And the evening mantras, on the
sixth days of each week, he repeated a hundred and eighty times the words of a
prayer. And the prayer was in a language, dead and long forgotten. And the
prayer was asking for meaningful life. And the prayer was asking for easy and
harmonious death. And it was repeated from generation to generation, from
thousands of people and the thousands were dead. And the mass, encircling the
round stone floor of the temple was chanting it as well. And he was in the
mass.
