The evening approaches. I watch him go uphill. I am told that he looks for a clean rock outcrop to do his evening pratikraman. Wishing to observe him today in the wondrous posture of pratikraman, I follow him for a while, but stop short of the rock outcrop, so that the awareness of my presence does not occasion any disturbance. There is an all pervasive tranquility. A tranquility so profound that even from a distance, I can sense the rhythmic concord between his breathing and the soft notes of pratikraman.
In those moments, the expression on his face is one of extreme humility. He seems eager to surrender himself to the Lord. Bowing low, he is instantly filled with a pathos born of a deep empathy with all living beings. The very next moment, overflowing with forgiveness towards all, he descends to the core of his being, only to lose himself in kayotsarga to such an extent that he seems to merge in the great void beyond bodily attachments.
For the first time today, the evening reminds me that it is the hour of home- coming. As the cows come home, the sun, weary of his day-long journey, returns to his resting place. The birds also head for their nests. True seekers, tiring of the ceaseless wanderings in the external world, embark upon an inward voyage. Everyone is returning. If only we could all return to ourselves before it is too late.
As he climbs down the hill, the expression on his face tells of a deep detachment and the joy of home-coming.
Time and again, have I seen the sun smile from behind a hill before it sets, but today, I am blessed to behold a great muni and yogi bidding a smiling adieu to everyone before he becomes one with his true-self. The ache of parting from such a yogi is so gentle that one is impelled to dwell within. I return. Alone, in his wake.
Kundalpur (1976)