“Just as in the embrace of his beloved, a man forgets the entire world, all that exists within himself and without, so in union with the Being of knowledge, he no longer knows anything, either within or without” (Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, 4.3.21).
The riverbank
A campfire on the riverbank. The night is mild and the travellers do not need the flames for comfort, unless it is the comfort of security against imagined wolves. More likely they gather to share those things most sought on long journeys: the company of one’s fellows and the stories they can tell.
These travellers have arrived at the ferry too late to cross, and must wait on this bank until morning. They have the courtesy and caution of strangers thrust together. An unlikely family: the middle aged, portly, well dressed man; the woman, a little older, with a careworn look and well patched clothes; and the ragged starved looking urchin. They turn together as a fourth figure joins them. It is a holy man, or perhaps woman, with dark skin, dreadlocks, and the brightly coloured silk pants of an entertainer.
The man is suspicious and stands to face the newcomer, but the woman stops him.
We are all strangers here. Be welcome at our fire, Sadhu.
The holy one sits down.
“I’m a temple dancer, sister. I’ll dance for you tonight but you must tell me your stories as payment.”
The dancer leapt and twirled, pounding the hard earth with brown feet, leaping and slapping silk swathed thighs. The rhythm made a counterpoint and a pattern to speech, wove around it and directed or compelled it. In between times, in between places, the fire burned and stories were told.
The businessman
I love to get the deal,
said the man. I love to win, to find the weakness of my enemy and drag him through the mud.
My first job was delivering papers. I could keep some and sell them to the street vendors. When the customers complained my boss believed me, so I saved money to buy his contract as his customers went elsewhere.
Do you remember his face?
No! I have forgotten it long ago.
How about the crisp bright dawns in those deserted streets?
Ha. I knew I would not have to work like that for long. Once I bought that contract I never went back. I worked the delivery boys hard, too, for I knew all their tricks!
Tell me about victory, then.
I went to his funeral you know. His wife was there – I helped her! She’d never get a better deal on furniture. I was moving up in the world, and my household needed to look the part.
Was it sweet?
Ah! It thrilled me! It’s a dog eat dog world and I was the fiercest dog of them all! I never felt so alive!
It’s joyous! The first of many conquests!
Yes. I bought and sold, I could see what people would buy and how to make them. I could see where my competitors were strong and how to make them weak! I used lawyers and bought officials. Nothing could stop me!
You had plenty of money.
I didn’t care for clothes or food or wealth. I needed these things to show the others that I had won!
You enjoyed their envy?
They hated me. I wanted them to hate me because it proved my strength.
And your wife?
She was a famous beauty. They envied me for that! I used to see their faces at official dinners – oh! They smiled but they looked sick with wanting to be me.
Was she good to you, this beauty?
Why would I need her to be good to me? I have servants for that!
What is it that you want, then?
Peace. Oh I want it all to stop. I don’t care to fight another battle, it’s begun to bore me. I’ve won! There’s no more to life than this, but I dream of quiet. I want to rest.
Already there’s so much you don’t remember, and so much you never wanted to see! But my feet pound all to dust. You’ll have your peace. Look to your sister, she has seen me!
The householder
Oh, Lord Shiva!
the woman said. She leant her face down to the earth and stretched her arms out wide.
The gaps between the notes are what create the rhythm, sister! An ending and a forgetting are each person’s lot. How could you face the dance without it?
I’ve seen endings, Lord. I cannot forget!
What do you remember, sister?
I remember cutting firewood, Lord. Each day we burned for charcoal. I remember the smoke rising grey-blue in the green forest. I remember the sounds of my children’s laughter.
Beauty, sister, and joy?
That, Lord, and sadness and pain too. I remember the hacking cough that killed my youngest. I remember the cold in my bones each rain-chilled day we stacked the wood-piles. The desperation when the carter wouldn’t pay us and when the corn-store was spoilt.
You remember a lot, sister. Do you remember love?
Yes Lord. He was beautiful and strong and good to me. We worked together and he was my comfort and my friend. But he died hard, Lord! I cannot think of it!
Would you give it up? So full a life, of so many hard and wonderful things?
Not the memory of my loves.
Rest, then. We will listen to the smallest.
The urchin
It’s not fair!
the child said. They’ve had choices  all I’ve had is pain!
No, there’s nothing fair about it replied Shiva. Tell me what you’ve seen.
Suffering
said the child and cruelty. Beatings and abuse.
Love?
So little love. And what I got I clung to and returned a hundredfold. I wanted to be good!
You were wonderful! Did you hide?
It never worked. I did my best. I saw and wanted. I cared. I was terribly frightened. I had no one!
It’s true. Your struggle gained you something though  you have won from me a choice.
The dancer had been twirling, clapping his hands in a quiet pattern. Now he leapt over the flames and landed beside the urchin, to whisper, softly Sweet love, you can choose peace, or you can choose to return to the dance. Will you suffer, love, lose, live? Will you find more cruelty, more beauty, more that is real? You can do that: you are not broken. Or you can rest, and stop, and be at peace.
Shiva bowed and stamped, and sparks flew up. The ground shook and the wind joined in the dance.
And in the morning two went down to meet the ferry.