Siddhartha stands atop a blue-green boulder at the pinnacle of the tiny offshore islet looking down at the frail man walking across the water from the mainland. He has encountered other men who walk on water so he does not think this unusual.
When the man is halfway to the islet, Siddhartha sees he is not walking on water after all, but sloshing the hundred yards on a knee-deep ridge of sand formed by the waves converging behind the islet. A secret underwater path only a native to the area would know.
It is too far away to see his face clearly, but his slow methodical gait reminds him of another man he had met during one of these meditations. Siddhartha smiles at the memory of the disheveled little man who had passed from illusion to reality right before his eyes.
His illusion had been forced to drink poison because it had explained reality to the young men of his city. He had discovered that sane men are so frightened of reality that they will torture or kill the bodies of those who become enlightened.
Their stories had not been that much different. Siddhartha laments that his efforts at teaching have also been futile. If only he could explain it more clearly. Reality is like torchlight, invisible as it travels through the air in every direction. The light creates illusions. However, the light itself, which cannot be seen, is all that is real.
When the illusion of a man’s body is finally shed, only invisible light remains. Enlightenment is when these invisible lights intersect creating a shared reality. Since enlightenment has no substance, the rules governing illusions do not apply. Notions of geography lack meaning and time does not progress in a single direction.
Siddhartha has learned these encounters during meditation are the only source of wisdom. But try explaining this to the bonehead novices that follow him around like lost orphans. They are drawn to him out of their own emptiness, the haunting suspicion that life is not what it seems. The eager acolytes try hard, even after he tells them it requires the opposite of effort. One must cease to struggle; give oneself over to the nothingness of pure light.
Most never lose their blank stares, become lazy tagalongs on someone else’s professed wisdom. Some become so frustrated they scoff at him as a deceiver. Siddhartha doesn’t blame them. His best effort at explaining reality sounds ridiculous––a contradiction. When younger he also would have been skeptical of someone leading him around in a circle this way.
Maybe enlightenment cannot be taught. Maybe it can only be found, if found at all, at the end of a private journey. His most promising disciples have left him to continue their search on their own with only their own light for guidance. Their lives are arduous, as his has been, with no certainty of success. The most tenacious will reach reality, as he thinks many have. He will never know unless they meet again through enlightenment.
As the gaunt figure wades ashore, Siddhartha climbs down the backside of the cliff to sit on a sliver of beach to wait. The green hills on the mainland across the bay seem familiar. Shielding the sun’s glare with one hand, he studies a white ribbon of beach. It’s too far away to see people, but there are blue roofs over terra-cotta squares of what must be buildings. If this is the same beach, there had been only thatch huts when he last visited.
The tattooed man he had met there had put himself into a trance and crossed over into reality. The berries he had eaten were poisonous and his illusion lay outstretched on the beach at the point of death. Other illusions, all naked and streaked with tattoos also, walked around him without concern. The children would squat briefly to watch his labored breathing and then run off to play.
The man’s reality explained that he was their shaman. It was his job to go into these trances so he could protect his tribe from illusions. His people knew he was not in the body on the beach, so they didn’t bother him. The shaman had asked if Siddhartha was a Wanderer. He said he was.
From behind, Siddhartha hears the heavy breathing of the man climbing down the boulders.
“I thought I told you never to come here again,” the man says.
Siddhartha remains cross-legged facing the ocean, showing no effect of the man’s rudeness. Siddhartha is always astounded that he can understand what is said. Reality must have a universal language.
The man steps in front of him. “Look, I don’t want to sound mean or anything, but…” The man stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open.
The man wears funny clothes Siddhartha has never seen before. He is too tall to be from the tribe of the shaman and there are no tattoos. He also doesn’t know whether the man is from the past or the future, using the terms of illusion. Not that it matters.
“Hey, man, I thought you were someone else.”
“I’m nothing,” Siddhartha explains.
The man looks up and down the short beach that is confined at both ends by heaps of rock. He seems to be debating if he should leave. Finally, he walks into the surf allowing the waves to rush up his legs and dips the water onto his face with his hands. When he turns, his eyes squint as if disappointed. Siddhartha watches placidly as the man settles next to him on the sand.
“Who are you?”
“They call my illusion Siddhartha.”
“You’re not real, are you?”
“Yes, I am––and you are too.” And then after a moment, “I guess neither of us is, except to each other.”
The man is quiet for a long time, looking out to the ocean waves rolling in, occasionally glancing suspiciously at Siddhartha.
“My body is out there––at the bottom of the ocean. I didn’t expect anything after that. So what happens now?”
“I don’t know; I haven’t gotten that far.”
“Well, where should I go?”
“If I were you, I’d stay here as long as I could. I mean, this is a beautiful spot.”
The man stares and Siddhartha can tell he wants more.
“You can’t go back to the old illusion; all that’s behind you. After our enlightenment, you will remain a light beam without any form or substance until there is another enlightenment. Or maybe you will be reborn into another illusion and start the journey anew. Would you like to be born again?”
The man stares harshly into Siddhartha’s eyes. “Do you know how silly that sounds? You’re not sane.”
Siddhartha’s eyes open wide. This man seems to understand. “Are you sane?”
The man laughs out loud. “I guess not if I’m seeing you.”
He does understand. “I’m happy for you.”
They sit for a while longer, quietly looking out to sea, until Siddhartha squirms with agitation. “Look, it’s been fun enlightening you, but I’ve got to go back.” After saying this, however, he continues to sit with his legs crossed. “My illusion is dying,” Siddhartha manages a parting smile, “like yours has.”
Reality fades away. Siddhartha is suddenly slapping at the slick fur of rats as they skitter across his lap. His bottom feels sticky from the pool of blood he sits in. Although the pain is intense, a smile remains for the man on the secluded beach. He wishes their lights could have mingled together longer. Maybe they will illuminate each other again another time.
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