Twenty-eight

 

‘There is something you should know about music. When you play music, put aside all your thoughts,’ said The Master to the little girl. ‘Cluttered minds distort the pristine purity of music. When that happens, all that flows through the flute is our angst and our rage, our envy, our loss and our longing.’

He seemed to be talking to himself for his eyes were closed and his mind seemed to be far, far away. ‘Music can give you strength but only when you learn to talk to your flute, and to listen to it. When you are able to do that, you will speak through your flute. It will become your voice.’

‘How do I learn to do that,’ asked the little girl.

‘Free your mind, even from your most innermost thoughts. Learn to speak to God but without the chains of memory. Think that just you and God are together, quiet and alone, and that God wants to listen only to you. Only then will you speak through your flute. You and your flute will become one, and when you do, so will you and God.’

He turned towards her and said with an impish smile, ‘And from what you have just played, young lady, I can clearly hear the sound of clinging thoughts,’ said The Master.

He looked deep into her eyes and softly said, ‘Your father and your mother are dead. Let them go, my child.’

‘But I love them so much!’ she cried in anguish. ‘My life is so empty without them!’

‘You do not deny them,’ The Master whispered, ‘when you let them go. Did you not know that?’

She closed her eyes and remembered how every waking moment she had thought about her parents, and how dearly she missed them.

‘Why did they have to die? Why did they have to die?’ she had wept and asked herself over and over again. She had talked to them in her dreams, she had laughed and joked with them, she had told them how lonely and sad she was, and how after they had died, she was spurned by everyone, other than the old balloon-maker and his wife.

Her silent tears flowed freely as she watched the river. It seemed as if time had no meaning in this strange land. The river flowed fast and furiously, tripping over polished stones and carrying branches across to God alone knew where, while never once stopping in its endless journey. What stories, she wondered, this mighty river must know.

She put her hand into the water and looked once again at her reflection. Startled, she took a step back. Her reflection looked strange and completely different! She was astonished. Who was she looking at? It seemed as if she were staring at a total stranger, and yet she could see there was something familiar. As she stared at the flowing river, her hair started growing thicker and longer and then, changed colour till it became white. Her face seemed to lose its child-like appearance, as it took on the beauty of youth, and then the weariness of middle age, till she was covered with wrinkles. In a matter of seconds, she had aged before her own eyes!

Horrified, she turned to look at The Master. ‘What is happening?’ she cried in fear and anguish. ‘And who is it that I see in the reflection?’

‘The river has spoken,’ he said with what looked like a smile of relief, ‘for you were looking into the future. It is a good sign that you grew old in the reflection, for that means that you will live long.’ He paused and hoped that the words had sunk in. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘it does not tell us whether you can feel the breath of The Serpent and will not be tempted. Or if, like so many others, you too will live in the world of the un-dead and crave for the scent of the jasmine.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked the little girl.

‘Listen carefully then,’ said The Master, ‘to what I tell you about death and about letting go, for there is one who will try to help you unlearn all that your dear parents tried to teach you. He is known by many names but, for our purposes, let us call him The Serpent.’

He got up and plucked a bunch of jasmine flowers.

She held the flowers, inhaling deeply, as she closed her eyes. ‘They remind me so much of my mother,’ she said, looking towards him, her voice choking with tears. ‘She would wear them around her wrists like bangles. She would leave them beside my pillow. And yet, these flowers have no scent.’

‘Do you trust me?’ asked The Master.

She nodded in assent.

‘Then, smell these same flowers once more and tell me if you feel they are different.’ He raised her hands that held the flowers, and as she inhaled, a heady jasmine scent seemed to overwhelm her. ‘It happens, and can happen again. This is no magic,’ said The Master, ‘this is the power of giving, of love, of trust, of the goodness and generosity of life. You can bring the scent of the jasmine back!’

The little girl was puzzled. How could this happen, she wondered. The jasmine that had lost its scent seemed suddenly to be filled with it! The Master turned his eyes towards her hand. She felt a gentle unseen presence open her palm. He looked deep into her eyes, and she felt her hands guided as she slowly lowered the flowers into the river. She asked no questions. They watched the swiftly running waters take the flowers away.

‘From where we stand,’ he said, ‘the journey of the flowers is like death. They are taken away to another place. They are gone from our sight. But, they have left behind their scent and the softness of their touch, so that you may never forget. We, who have experienced them, know how beautiful they are, and what happiness they have brought. We will always remember that. To us, they are never lost, even though we have let the flowers go. Just as you learnt to let go of the flowers, so indeed, you need to learn to let go of those whom you dearly love. Remember always that to let go is not to deny them or to forget them.’

‘And what happens if we do not let go?’ asked Little Girl.

‘Alas,’ said The Master, ‘then we simply condemn those we love to the land of the un-dead. They wander like the pitiful neither-here-nor-there people, and live a life lost in space and suspended in time. Trapped, forever, in the lair of The Serpent.’

He knew that she had not understood. ‘Think of the flowers in your hands,’ he said, pointing to the river. ‘They died when we plucked them from the tree. If you hung on to them, they would have grown limp and withered away, crumbling in your hands. And yet, when you let them go, their fragrance stayed in your heart. And so it is, with other things in life.’

‘But I was so young,’ she said to him, hurt and sad. ‘It was so unfair, so cruel and heartless that my father and my mother should have been taken away from me so soon.’

The Master sighed and said gently, ‘I cannot answer that, my child, but once, when you had asked about death, your parents had told you that it comes to us all but for some, sadly, it comes earlier.’

She looked at his face, confused and distraught. ‘How could you possibly know,’ she asked in an anguished whisper, ‘what my parents and I had talked about?’

He slipped his flute into the deep pocket of his cloak. ‘Come my child,’ he said, ‘reality and magic have grown fuzzy! Let us walk through the jasmine meadows, for there is much to be said.’

‘I felt a presence,’ she said, ‘as you spoke to me when the flowers were in my hand. It was as if you were controlling my mind.’

‘Ah,’ chuckled The Master, ‘we’ll talk about that too. Just a little trick I learnt. Comes in handy now and then.’ He gave her a smile. ‘Do you miss the old balloon-maker and his wife?’ he asked her.

‘Did you know them?’ Little Girl asked excitedly.

‘I came to them,’ he said, ‘in their dream. I needed to find good human beings,’ he sighed, ‘and they are so rare these days.’

He stopped and turned to look at her. ‘What will you do, child, when you meet your uncle?’

‘I will kill him,’ she replied without hesitation.

‘That is good,’ he said. ‘But, can you destroy him?’ he asked.

She looked puzzled.

‘To utterly and truly destroy him, you must recall something your father once taught you.’

‘Can you not tell me what it is that I must look for?’ asked Little Girl in anguish. ‘He taught me so much!’

‘That child,’ replied The Master, ‘is the mystery. Something you must solve yourself, but if you think hard enough, you will remember what your father had once told you.’

In the castle atop the hill, The Serpent looked at the images on his magic window. ‘The old man is a fool. He talks too much,’ he hissed as he nervously fidgeted with the beads of his bracelet, ‘the girl will never remember when I come to her!’