Book of Shiva
Author
Ravi Shankar
Author Bio
I work as the Executive Editor of The New Indian Express group. I’ve been published before—three novels namely ‘The Tiger by the River’ and ‘The Village of the Widows’ by Doubleday, which were translated into other languages as well and The Gold of Their Regrets by Penguin. A collection of paranormal short stories The Scream of the Dragonflies was published by Harper Collins in 1997. I live in New Delhi with my valet Ram Singh and the ghost of my dead dog Bosky.
Description
Book of Shiva, the monk Asananda meets ordinary people with extraordinary stories of freedom, hope, loss, pain and serenity. He realizes every loss can be understood and that every man is driven by the strength to hope, without which all endeavors are doomed. Among the people he meets are monist tantrik gurus and Vedic teachers; a storyteller who tells his version of Pandora’s box; mothers who seek salvation for their afflicted children; a wandering ascetic who teaches him the sound of one hand clapping; a sadhu who walks backwards to discover his future; a boatman who seeks payment in songs; a barber who changes people and unravels the garden of mirages. The narrative is interspersed with retold fables. In the troubled time that we live in, this book seeks to play a healing role with the message that hope is the ultimate strength within us. And that the search for god is a journey by many names.
Book excerpt
On the day that the monk named Asananda was to travel to the Himalayas to find the Book of Siva, he overslept as usual. His guru Jnanananda allowed him to wake after dawn, unlike the other monks who had to rise before the brahmamuhurtham at four o’clock—the best time for meditation and worship. He had asked his master why he was allowed this indulgence. “O Asananda, you woke up a long time ago,” the guru answered. “Only, you don’t know it.”
Asananda was tall and lean, with a deeply lined face. His eyes were small, but long with thick lashes, and reflected, simultaneously, the wariness and calm of an old soldier’s gaze. His skull was shaven close, giving his head a blue sheen with an undershade of gray. His chin was covered with salt and pepper stubble.
Years ago—he couldn’t remember when—the monk had come to the ancient, holy town of Rishikesh after meditating in a Himalayan cave, outside which time fell like snow. But he remembered that the journey had taken him two months. Asananda had made his way through fickle, ice-bound trails, treacherous glaciers and frozen streams to arrive at Kullu valley. From there, he had hitched a jeep ride to Mandi, a small town with colourful markets where men in embroidered caps sat on shop verandahs and smoked hookahs. A few days later, he crossed Paonta Sahib, where, centuries ago, the great Sikh guru Gobind Singh had meditated in the forest before ascending to heaven on his beloved horse Dilbagh.
It was noon when Asananda reached Rishikesh. He ambled through the sun-spotted shade of ancient trees, his shadow scraping the shadows of the old walls along the eastern riverbank. He carried a wooden staff to negotiate the narrow, steep hill roads. Over his shoulder was slung a cloth satchel that contained his meagre possessions. Rishikesh’s two-kilometre length of temples, ashrams, ceremonial bathing ghats and shops that sold everything from religious artefacts to vegetables is situated on the banks of the Ganga. The area is called Swargashram.
Asananda was hungry. Following the scent of food cooking, he reached an ashram whose gates were guarded by a gigantic blue statue of Lord Siva wearing a leopard skin and holding a trident. The monk stepped inside, on to a sandy yard, cooled by the shade of trees. There, on a verandah sat Guru Jnanananda, eating rice and vegetables off a copper plate. A large crowd of birds surrounded him, twittering and gurgling. Some of them sat on his shoulders, heads cocked, gazing in concentration at the food on the plate. A brown mynah perched precariously on the matted topknot of his thick, brown hair, while a crow hopped up close, looking at him sideways and cawing. Asananda watched the guru as he ate. Cccasionally Jnananada stopped to scatter grains of rice on the ground over which the birds quarreled noisily among themselves.
“Well?” the guru looked up.
“I was hoping for some food,” the monk replied.
Jnanananda’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Really? Next, you’ll be telling me you are hoping for shelter.”
The monk thought for a while. “Perhaps,” he answered. “I have come a long way, and I’m always hopeful when I set out in the morning.”
“Hopeful of what?”
“I don’t hope for anything in particular, only that everything will turn out well. Like a lost child would be found by its parents or a speeding car wouldn’t knock down an old woman crossing the road. Things like that.”
“Then I shall name you Asananda, the one who finds joy in hope” the guru said. “And you shall live here as long as you wish.”
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