A young yogi was making his way south from the Himalayas -- where he had been a close working disciple of a famous saint and yogi. He took his time, This was newly post-British, post-partition India -- freedom rippled through the air. He enjoyed the leisurely pace of hoping on the roof of a train -- sometimes even splurging for a seat in 3rd class -- sleeping by rivers, drinking chai in the morning in busy morning ad hoc market places - the ripe bounty of nature in all of its colors and scents like a waterfall over the senses. Life was good. Anything was possible.
A thought arose of the West -- and the suffering there. Could he help the devastating poverty of the soul in that desolate land? Silly thought. More chai. Of course he could in theory -- having gained vast wisdom and insight at the feet of his teacher. But westerners were not interested in pujas, samadhi, caves of silence, the blazing light of the universe shining within. But several days later, a second thought of the west. "These incessant thoughts! What! Did I eat something impure?!" Then his gaze landed on an old copy of a British newspaper. He enjoyed the Brit journalists -- even as he loathed -- in a dis-attached way -- the imperialsts of that little cold, foggy island. They reminded him of college -- prior to his discipleship -- when he had aspired to become an engineer - maybe a physicist - helping to rebuild India to become again the beacon to the world -- the gateway to vast prosperity and the Divine - together. His gaze was caught by some simple sketches. A series of little paintings. A frustrated little boy, clearly with huge doubts overhanging in every direction. A quite clever, self-assured guru-ma little girl -- "no, no, this time will be good" she brazenly declared. "Come on, do it". The little boy charged at this -- what, such an odd shaped soccer ball. HA! the little boy kicks into air as the little yogini snatches the ball away at the last minute. The boy is laid flat prone in the air. HA! I feel the thud of his little back hitting the ground. The wind knocked out of him completely. Nothing is at it seems. Foiled again. HA! Another chai, a bit of paan. And then, the Eureka light of God exploded within. Thats the gateway to the west. And their ticket out of their miserable poverty of the soul. Keep tricking them, until they get IT -- the impermanence of everything. And what is left after that? Vast, unbounded nothingness. Build them up, promise this time its for real -- and always, always snatch the ball away from them. Promise them this, then give them that. With no explanation. Let their little baffled heads explode in confusion until its all emptiness -- and then fullness inside and outside. Yes! That is the message for the west. Promise them their wildest dreams, and more -- then every time the goal is near, snatch that ball from under them. Act surprised when questioned -- "ball -- what ball". Tell them to adore the red ball. When its clearly a black ball. Tell them the ball is 12 feet tall, when it is barely 12 inches tall. Let them scratch their head, dazed and confused. Let them create all of their stories of why the ball really is 12 feet tall and red, or why it really is not going to be pulled away at the last minute. Let them tell their stories, over and over and over and over -- until they run out of stories. About the ball, about themselves and about life. Just emptiness remains. Just a hallow universe. Just fullness. He stood on a large rock at the riverside, began to talk about how he was going to bring the west and the world out of darkness, how the glory of inner and outer life would reign supreme again in India and the World. People listened, people were inspired. The yogi's needs were met. A meal. A train ticket. Finally a plane ticket to the west. He landed in Los Angeles and began to talk of great and grand things. And how people could transform their lives and have everything they ever dreamed of. And on and on. And then suddenly that 12 foot red ball disappeared. "Oh, oh, not to worry, just a small understanding." And then the same grand story again. Then wham -- 100 westerners flat on their backs. Again. It was too hard to keep from laughing. So he did begin to giggle -- to let some of the laughter out. Always giggling. The stories grew grander. The crowds grew larger. The ceremony of getting ready to kick the ball became more elaborate. And always the same. whish -- ball swooped away at the las minute. And the gullable crowd, even larger, always came back for more. And always with more elaborate stories as to where the ball went, why, that the yogi was the best ball placer in the world, even if the ball always disappeared. Stories, stories, stories. You would not believe the detailed, elaborate contorted stories why the ball really was there all along. We just didn't see it right. It was our shortcoming, this way or that. On and on. Until, one day, I kicked nothingness, went prone in the air, fell with an echoing thud on the ground, and the stories stopped. Actually there never was a story.
