Waghora Valley

Telugu: Adavi Bapiraju

***

Like a female serpent determined to taking revenge, I rushed through the valley.

The scenic beauty of nature at every turn matched the effervescent elation of going through the pages of a great epic.

There were four turns in all …each of about twelve-hundred cubits resembling one of the braces, each seeming it was the last turn at every turn, bulwarked by forty-fathom-high black stone walls carved by the river on either side, and cliffs densely populated with trees, and the magnificent blue firmament capping them all. Between those bison and rhino-looking blocks of black stone, the hundred-cubit-plus wide Waghora flows singing a succession of eternal lays.

Groves of Coral trees, Wild Jasmines, Butter trees, Indian Mulberry, Jujube, and a wealth of other flora covered the landscape over these hills.

Echoes of bells and chanting of mantras by the Bhiks^[1] ​w​ere heard from afar blending seamlessly with the buzzing of the honeybees and the chirping of the birds.

Like a pleasure-seeking doe I sauntered deep into the woods. My retinue followed me from behind. “Girlie! Don’t go too fast alone!” my mother’s caution reverberated from a distance. Another turn passed. And lo! In front of me I saw an extraordinarily divine spectacle!!!

At the crescent where Waghora changed its course to north-south, as if a magical show was unfolding before your eyes, at about a height of eighty cubits, on either side of the river, there rainbowed … Buddhist caves, temples, convents, sanctuaries, and an expansive array of exquisite sculptures. O God! What a magnificent sculpting of the pillars! What an accomplishment on stone!! How shapely and proportionate are the figures in every limb and emotion!!! Wow! How can I describe the floral hues of cashmere silks of the Bhiks, the pristine whiteness of the dhotis worn by students, and the wide chromatic spectrum of the attire of the citizenry and country folk!!!  They all melded into a single enormous canvas.

I closed my eyes for a moment and prayed Lord Buddha paying my humble tributes within, to the Waghora Ashrama Maha Parishad and to the Waghora Buddhist Society.

People stepping into the river waters, people climbing the steps carrying water in colourful pots over their shoulders, men and women, young girls and Bhiks; the range of emotions reflected on their faces… had all filled my heart and for a second I stood stunned devoid of any emotion. I did not notice that the students and the ascetics were watching me from above. That first encounter was very auspicious and momentous.

An unnerving fear, that I might have committed a sacrilege with my presence here, suddenly seized me and I blushed with shame.

My aspiring Guru is a peerless sculptor. His face reflects Himalayan serenity and tranquility. He is taciturn. On the few  he spoke, his words would be like simple crisp and pithy, like hymns and precepts.

Painting and other arts had been my only playmates since childhood. Sri Ananda Vasuvu, my father and devout prime minister of Malava kingdom, had decided that I should also be versed in this glorious art and commissioned me to learn at this Ashram choosing an auspicious hour. My family had already been ordered to decorate the cave sanctuary built at his behest. It was my father’s intention to dedicate the cave sanctuary to the Head of Monastery with due festivities once the embellishments were over.

Construction of the front portico to the cave sanctuary was over. The pillars, the graven images, the idols, the inner sanctuary – a residence for the Bhiks ,  the stone beds, figurine embellishments for the gateways, carvings for the sanctum sanctorum, the magnificent image of enlightened Buddha in stone, his lotus seat, the ornate umbrella, festoons of mango leaves, and the Twenty-four-leaved Dharma Chakra were all in readiness. Workers and students of art and sculpture, coming from different countries were giving finishing touches to the paintings.

Master Architect and adroit craftsman of palatial royal structures, My Guru, was personally supervising and also personally involved with a cohort of students, in painting Jataka Tales and other enrichments round the grand inner hall.

At one place, a student would submit his fresh painting to our Guru for his scrutiny and he would suggest the refinements needed in the colours before moving forward; another student would complete the color contrasts suggested by my Guru earlier and resubmit them for his fresh scrutiny and our Guru would dip his brush in the color palettes and correct the figures dexterously in easy flowing strokes; and at another place, our Guru himself would draw the figure and bid four of his students to fill the colours.  Elsewhere, my Guru would display his supreme craftsmanship from ideation to culmination of a painting in its creativity, form, and color choice elevating it from the realm of mundane to the sublime. As a witness to this strange and enticing spectacle every day, my heart yearns to leap up in dance forgetting everything else. My eyes would half-close involuntarily. And my youth would brim to the limits of all directions. The tips of my fingers, bidding to appropriate the creative abilities of Lord Brahma, are readying to take the vow of Yoga.

I prostrated at the feet of my Guru waiting for his acceptance as his student.

2

Some girl prostrated before me.

Perceiving a feminine figure was approaching me, I closed my eyes.

‘Who is this girl?’ I thought within

An old woman accompanying the girl explained: “Swamin! This girl is the only daughter of Sri Ananda Vasuvu,  His Highness’ cousin and Prime Minister. She developed great skill for painting since childhood. But it did not flourish as we could not find a proper teacher. Your reputation gleams across the world like Lord Buddha’s teachings, and this girl has come to improve her skills under your tutelage. Sri Ananda Vasuvu instructed me to convey his prayers on his behalf and to bless his child to seek Nirvana through painting, taking her as your student.”

“Who is there? Who allowed these imps near me? Who is that student betraying his Guru?” I shouted at the height of my voice.

“Young girl, please get up!” bid the lady attendant. Before she could complete her sentence, I leaped over the girl, mumbling my displeasure. I went directly to Satya Seela Bhiksha Acharya, Head of the Waghora Buddhist Ashram. He was a centenarian well-versed in all Sastras. That great man, humble despite his power and wisdom, seated me beside a grass mat and enquired gently, “My Child! What is the matter? Why do you look so agitated?”

I bowed down at his feet, and said, “I need to bring a serious issue to your kind attention. When I set foot here, as you are aware, I presented to you my vows and my ideals of life… which are my second life in fact … before joining this community. And with your kind benediction I decided to dedicate the little skills that Lord Buddha had blessed me with, to the service of the society.”

“That’s true. What is it that comes in the way of your ideals now?”

“Swamin! Someone seeks that I should teach his daughter painting?”

“My boy! Sri Ananda Vasuvu, the Prime Minister of Malava Kingdom, desires his daughter should be taught painting by you and submits himself at the feet of Lord Buddha!”

“Mahan Acharya! You know it is against my vow.”

“I never tried to know why you took up such a serious vow, my child! Never did I ever ask you. Boy, what serious offense a woman could possibly do to a man to deserve to be his bitter enemy? A woman is there to awaken the inner strengths of man to surface, and there is man to encourage a woman’s creative energy in all its splendor. Our Revered Guru Nagarjuna’s message is also the same in its essence. And so is Lord Buddha’s holy instruction.”

“If it be so, why there should be hermitage vows separately for men and women, Mahan Acharya?”

“Innocent child! Without taking a vow how could you seek the path of salvation? By abstaining from the attractions of this mundane world, you should search for the eternal truth. In upholding that vow, in that penitent quest, the man and the woman should not be hurdles to one another. Man’s desire for woman and a woman’s desire for man should cease. Till that moment, they must surrender themselves to Lord Buddha, follow the righteous path, and at the end of their lives, become eligible for salvation.”

“Swamin! The Buddhist society where our venerable Guru Nagarjuna taught, was at Sri Parvata, on the shores of river Krishna.”

“I know. It’s on the upper reaches of Dhanyakataka.”

“A young Andhra Brahmin sculptor, of Sankhyayana Gotra, used to live there. He was the Court Architect of Ikshvaku Kingdom.”

“Did he dedicate his life to Lord Buddha?”

“He strongly believed that Lord Buddha is the ninth incarnation of Vishnu. He wanted to attain nirvana following the path of sculpture and painting. He was an ardent worshipper of beauty and pulchritude.”

“Buddha is the ultimate truth. Vishnu was one of his earlier incarnations.”

“Fragrances of spring inflorescence, the expansive blue firmament, the ebony frills of white cottony clouds, the fine reflections of the moonshine floating over gentle breeze, the mist of dusty droplets surrounding the cataracts, the bourns of spectral bows, the muzzles of deers, and the variety of emotive looks a woman could present on her face gave him goosebumps …and ultimately drove him to the feet of Sweta Tara Devi.”

“Did he worship such ephemeral beauty?”

“Mahan Acharya! The statues, the paintings he and his students sculpted and painted in the sanctuary and at the king’s palace, and the monumental structures he designed in some of the cities were hailed as the most exquisite ever.”

“Then he must be a great devotee of Lord Buddha!”

“Yes. He loved one of the princesses of Ikshvaku dynasty and she in turn mock loved him.”

“Did she not love him back really?”

“Swamin! She was barren at heart. More like a weird hollow-sounding, empty waterless cloud. While his love overwhelmed the worlds, she pretended to whelm him even more in her eternal love.”

“Why is the girl so eccentric?”

“Swamin! Who is so skilled to comprehend a woman’s heart? The sculptor sought her hand from her father, a royal descendent, and he readily agreed. But that stone-hearted hypocrite laughed derisively, and said, “What am I and what is his position? How could he dream of marrying me?” That’s it. Violent storms raged in the heart of the sculptor. Dark clouds overcast his mind. Like the smoke that emanates from great forest fires, his life was engulfed in suffocating darkness! He had no God, no Buddha, no righteousness, and no love.”

“Poor crazy boy!”

“Swamin! Not only crazy, but he also became mad like one who lost all his senses. It appeared that a deadly venom sprang out of his life to consume all worlds. Roaming around the countries aimlessly for long, he reached at last this Ashram.”

“Poor child! You have such a tragic story behind you? Is it for this reason you hold grudge against all womanhood?”

“Swamin! It’s not a grudge, but my fright. Only after reaching the shelter of your feet, I was reassured. You are another incarnation of Buddha, the universal teacher. Surrendering my skills at your feet, I took the vow to abstain from mundane pleasures to be worthy of salvation. Only after informing my vow to you, I devoted myself to the path of sculpting. I humbly submit that insisting this ill-fated me to teach a girl would only be depriving me the path to salvation.”

“Child! I am blessed with a rare opportunity to serve the mankind due to boundless compassion of Lord Buddha. Determined to set this world straight, I have complete understanding of the human mind. By the very nature of you being a sculptor, love lies dormant in the deep recesses of your heart without being annihilated. As a seeker of salvation, you need to let off your fears for all womanhood. Woman is another incarnation of Maya… an unbounded brilliance. A Sweta Tara Devi. Bring your penance to its culmination by teaching painting to this girl. Ensure that the devil of fear won’t break your heart to pieces anymore.”

For a few seconds till the evening twilight spread its nimble luminescent rays to all corners, we sat motionless in that great forest sanctuary renowned as Bamboo Grove like the milk-white marble statues of Buddha at Dhanyakataka. My heart acquired inertia within. All my thoughts were shattered… like a wave coming to life at a far-off place and travelling endlessly seeking a shore breaks to surf in disappointment finding the shore.

3

When my Guru, Jyotsna Priya, hurried abruptly that way, I could not stand my disappointment and I too, ran quickly from that place. Like an earthen pot, my heart was shattered to pieces. While my entourage was bewildered, and my mother was aghast, I ran dejectedly towards the camping cave of the Maharaja of Malava. Like the garland at the hands of Uma Devi rejected by her husband, I hit the hay unconscious.

When I got to my senses, the whole sanctuary looked dark. Two small lamps of ghee twinkled like fireflies a long distance away. In that immense darkness, the faint canopy of men and women visible on the ceiling and walls seemed to look at me with compassionate smiles. Adjacent to my bed, I noticed the presence of Parama Guru Satya Seela Bhiksha Acharya. His ageless form, his looks spreading moonlight and compassion, was turned towards me. A blessed smile flashed on his lips.

As my drowsiness slowly ceased and commonsense restored, I got up hurriedly from bed blushing. My old attendant caught me hurriedly from slipping. She asked, “Child! Pay your respects to Parama Guru!”

I fell at his feet with all reverence.

“Girlie! I am delighted at your devotion. But tell me, why are you so obsessed with painting?”

“Swamin!” my voice choked with emotion.

“Child! There is no hurry. Take your time. Recoup yourself before you answer.”

Parama Guru, serenity incarnate, was sitting on the honored seat brought by our servants. I sat at his feet with my head bowed down.

Some audibly inaudible sounds escaped from my gullet.

“Swamin! My life is barren when I cannot learn painting. All my prayers come to nought. Neither could I put up with this burning desire, nor nip it forever.”

“Poor girl! Can’t you find another teacher who could teach you better?”

I sat up straight. “Swamin! I have closely observed the capabilities of every teacher. Won’t learning with the unskilled amount to annihilating whatever little skills you possess in the first place?”

“I agree. I could convince Jyotsna Priya Acharya to teach you painting. But he put forward a few conditions: that as he draws the pictures, you should learn by standing behind him; you should never appear before him. You should paint on the walls only in his absence. He shall correct them later. Whatever paintings you make on the plates, you may send them to him through your male servants. He will correct them…”

“Swamin! I comply with any condition he might put. Enough if he takes me for his student. I am really blessed. I found my salvation.”

Even at such a timeless age, the brightness in the eyes of Parama Guru Satya Seela Acharya did not fade. He left, smiling with his eyes.

Why has this boon been granted only to me? What an extraordinary event! Just as a flower venerates and harbors its nectar, I would also covetously worship this blessing. Like a note melding into the string, like fragrances seasoning the Spring, may this art sink to my heart!!!

4

Choosing an auspicious hour, and acceding to my conditions, the girl took the vow of studentship under me. What was her name? Kalhara Mala… a chaplet of lotuses. What crazy names do men give to women, the sharp weapons of devil cupid, who bear venom at their heart! Why did Lord Buddha stain these worlds with womanhood? How many years shall I have to penance, what Lord Buddha performed in just forty days!

There is skill in the lines drawn by that girl. She had a good sense of the colors and shades. Strange! How could woman acquire such fine sense of the lines easily? This girlie displays a plethora of beautiful curves and strokes. Of course, there was an occasional error. Some of these students, despite their long years of studentship, are not able to acquire proper sense and weight of a line. They say she makes her own brushes. Surprise! How could those delicate hands garner enough strength? May be her fingers are manly! Or, does she look a man herself? When she descended like a lightning from behind the other day, I had a faint idea of her form. No doubt, she must be beautiful! Fee! Why do my thoughts hover around that womanish fiend?

To correct her pictures these days seems a mean exercise. The pictures I wanted to draw, or the images I wanted to sculpt, died within me. I went through the corrections mechanically. Like a man afflicted with jungle fever, I got weakened, they complain. I am afraid my hands started shaking prematurely. I am only thirty-five, but I fear my strength and youth are receding from me. I made it a point to teach students every day for some time without fail. Rest of the time, I am just reclining on the hard stone-bed in the inner sanctuary of the cave. I stopped going on an outing into the deep forests these days.

One day, I went to the private sanctuary of the Prime Minister of Malava Kingdom to correct the pictures drawn by Kalhara Mala. Next to the Picture of Bodhisattva I had drawn​, I saw the picture of a young girl. Who painted that picture? Who was the fool who dared to do it without my permission? That picture was staring at me with bewildered looks. It looked as if it was breathing too. Its form was somewhat against tradition. To juxtapose a two-dimensional figure with a three-dimensional figure was nothing short of sacrilege.

Suddenly the image moved aside, brought two hands together and bowed its head.

Oh, it was not a creation, but a girl teeming with life. My heart shriveled. Twanged and trembled. Started sounding kettledrums violently. I stood there startled and stupefied.

Oh, what a beauty! Just divine! Serenity, sagacity, tranquility, primeval grandeur, and a cryptic truth exuded her face. My vow not to look at a woman in her face was washed away at that very moment.

“Are you a divine damsel?” I asked her quickly walking up to her.

“Master! … I… I am Kalhara Mala… Daughter … of… Prime Minister of Malava Kingdom…”

“Oh, you are my student? Ha! Ha! Ha!”  I left the place, turning suddenly back and walked briskly into the woods. Deep within my heart, there was limitless emptiness… an emptiness that was neither gloomy nor bright. I started shivering. A strange pleasure, which I could no longer endure, overwhelmed me, sucking deep into its abysses.

Forgetting for the time that wild animals roam freely in the forest, I roved like a wild tiger myself under the shades of the trees. All through the night, I did not even notice the snarls of the wolves and growls of tigers in the distance.

I did not see any ghosts. Nor heard the hissing of snakes. No matter how attractive a tender leaf of a poisonous tree looks, it is still poisonous. So are they all, all female incarnations of beauty. By the grace of Lord Buddha, I came out unscathed despite tasting a dose of that poison once. For what grave reason, this poison has once again touched me now! My coveted vow, so carefully guarded up till now, had been shattered to fragments, like an earthen toy on a hard floor. I joined this society as it lay far removed from the civil society. But it looks the world is chasing me, like the sin of killing a brahmin chased Indra. How long should I have to endure the fruits of my earlier sin?

What a sacred and unsullied character that damsel feigns? She beguiles to possess a heart as pure as a crystal lake. But that angelic bearing belies its temporal frame and prompts one to delineate it into a celestial depiction observing no norms of time, otherwise prescribed for such endeavors. Could such elegance harbor venom within? Why not? Wasn’t that girl of Ikshvaku descent? No. No. I must arrest this capriciousness of my mind and sanctify it with penance.

Meanwhile, the orient was washed with streaks of crimson. Somehow, I managed to reach the Ashram. I could not help instructing this girl. The directive of Satya Seela Acharya is inviolable. He made some strange …  cryptic remarks while convincing me to accept this girl as my student. His words did not go in vain. Veritable truths! I have decided that it’s my duty to first apprise him of what had happened, seek his instruction, and conduct myself accordingly.

The moment I saw him, Parama Guru Satya Seela Acharya received me with a pleasant smile, and signaled me to sit near him.

He said, “Child! The right hour of metamorphic change in your life … a change for the better … has arrived. Now, your service to the society should reach its culmination.”

“Swamin! Is my pocketing insults culmination of my service to society? Never did a ridicule escape your lips. Why do you do it today with a smile? I must reconcile only to my fate!”

“O worshipper of pulchritude! Let me tell you something. With all your unparalleled skill, you never noticed the blemish in your own art: Your pictures are devoid of compassion. True! Your pictures and sculpts are traditional. But no matter how impeccable your images might be in their concept, design, and execution, they fail to evince love and compassion. Child! Your sterile art has reduced to a dry skill because it ignored the fundamental dictum of nature that “Compassion is the lone Rasa… rest are its subordinate manifestations.”  There is harshness in the eyes of your Buddha. There is only Yogic posture. Dear child! Buddha is an incarnation of compassion. A physical form that manifests nonviolence in all its aspects. In the hand mudras, Adavus, and in their varied looks your pictures won’t depict the supreme truth of divinity. Compassion is but a mundane manifestation of divinity. Don’t take offence for my saying so. Don’t you think that your worship should reach its unblemished conclusion?”

I was even more agitated than before and somehow reached our inner sanctuary and fell at the feet of the divine statue of Buddha and begged for a ray of light. Hours rolled by. My path had slowly unfolded before my eyes upon His blessing. “Prabhu! Is there harshness in my pictures? Like lunar eclipse, has my art been under the umbra of imperfection for all these years?”

“Surrendering all vows at the feet of God, and with unflinching faith in human virtue, my child, pursue your worship of art to its culmination!” The words of Parama Guru resonated in my ears.

5

“Are you a divine damsel?”

When my Guru asked me that question as if I were not myself, I was shaken with inexplicable delight. Seeming so common, he glows with an uncommon aura around him and appears extraordinarily handsome. The ideal proportions of a perfect statue may be absent in his person, but they are not too apparent. Coming to me and holding me by my shoulders and shaking them, had he charged me, “Why did you do it?”  I would have reconciled that my life had been blessed. At that moment I saw divinity in him. Some strange force was attracting me towards him. And soon he disappeared. Do I have salvation for my sin? Am I that sinner born only to infringe with his vows? I violated his instruction. Consequently, he lifted all his restrictions and announced that everybody could come to him to learn.

From the next day onwards, he invited me to his presence and started preaching the esoterica of painting like Maha Gandharva^[2]. There was a noticeable change in his mien. He seemed to acquire some exotic powers. A taciturn who cleared the doubts of students in select few words till then, he became an eloquent speaker of sweet voice and words flowed from his mouth like an eternal stream. I don’t know why, but he always flooded me with some strange questions occasionally. I cannot adequately express my feelings at such moments. I feel like staying in his presence forever. I yearn to touch his toes, like I touch the buds, to my eyes. And I go to raptures occasionally with that very thought.

“Kalhara Mala! What do you want to do after completion of your education?”

“I long to find salvation to this life depicting the life tales of Bhagavan Buddha in pictures. Beyond that vow I cannot imagine.”

“I agree that the divinity in mankind manifests itself in some form of art. But how could you continue your vow to art after marriage, damsel?”

“Master, I don’t want to marry.”

“That’s impossible. Your father shall give your hand to some prince. When you are destined to become a queen, how could you resist and swim against the current?”

“I shall spend the rest of my life serving at your feet learning this art.”

“Crazy girl! You use the same artful expression that comes so natural to women”

I was shattered when my Guru said I was not honest in my words. Am I not prepared to surrender my whole being at the feet of my Guru?

With renewed determination, I wanted to paint the cohort of Lord Buddha, next to Bodhisattva my Guru had drawn earlier in our cave. After its completion, when my Guru, fellow students and other connoisseurs acknowledged its profundity and acclaimed it as a jewel in the crown of art, I blushed.

I could not leave my Guru’s presence for a moment. He is a veritable Jyotsna Priya! It always made me happy to go to his cave, to set his bed and to attend to his comforts.

How many times did I perceive the glow of moonlight in his eyes! At times, his looks waned like a crescent moon overshadowed by clouds. If by any chance his fingers brushed me while teaching, my whole being used to melt and vortex in pleasure… imaging nothing but two of us in this world.

6

I could not make out the nature of this girl’s mind. Her life seems strange to me. Is she different from other folk? The beauty of that Ikshvaku descendant was the beauty of a Tigress. But this girl is a streak of moonlight. A woolly flower under full moon. A crest of milky wave. Could anyone find a blemish in her beauty? No doubt, She is pure at heart! Oh! Is she really a chaplet of lotuses?

This girl doesn’t leave me for a moment. She prepares a motley of victuals herself to serve me. When she came forward to touch my feet, a flood of current passed through my spine. How could I refrain from taking her into my embrace? By any chance, am I not falling into depravity?

Her lips are like the tenderest iridescent leaves of a young shoot. What divine essence her eyes have assumed! They are but reflections of stars on a spotless sheet of still water.

Her charm is the flight of silvery birds on the blue expansive cloudless sky. Her beauty is its chirping song rippling in that blue. Her beauty is the scent of the green hidden in the ripened grain. Her beauty has that sweet slippery touch of moonshine. Oh! My life is hollow until that beauty melts into my person, my heart, and my spirit.

When she was usually alone and seriously at work in her cave, I went to meet Kalhara Mala. God! Am I not lurking like a chameleon ready to pounce upon a lovely butterfly moving amongst a bed of flowers? The girl was like a paradigm of virtue … lost in her work.

“May I know what is it that you are painting today?” I asked.

“The tale of that poor woman who parts with her last robe in the service of Bhagavan Buddha!”

“Is it? Let me see! Oh! Magnificent creation! Girlie! You no longer need to serve me. Your education is complete.”

She fluttered like a bird shot with an arrow. “Master! Don’t you love me? Setting all your restrictions aside, you graced me with your teaching. I felt I am more blessed than Amrapali. Will you discard me suddenly now like a withered flower?”

“What do you know about love?”

“What more anyone need to know about it when that divine blessing was conferred?”

“Innocent girl! You asked me suddenly ‘Don’t you love me?’​  I ask you. ‘Do you love me?’”

“Does a lotus take fancy to moonlight? Will a sunflower thirsts for the Sun? Or a flower pine for nectar? Master! Appropriate me. This mendicant without alms of your love, is but a residue in a holy firepit!”

“I am thirty-five years old. You are just eighteen and in the spring of your youth.”

“Can age be a barrier for love, my master!”

“Suppose I ask for corporal pleasure from you at this moment. Can you sacrifice your virtue to meet my desire?”

“Master! I yearn for your fond love and divine friendship. I don’t care if I perish in the bargain. To offer me as an oblation to you is the ultimate salvation to my life. Come! Here is my person! Take me to your heart! All my studies are yours. All my dreams are yours. Why? My whole spirit is yours.”

My body shook up to its roots. Oh, such a spotless life stream! I hugged her dearly to my heart with all my passion.

“Kalhara Malika! Can you marry me? My heart throb! Is it for this blissful moment God has rescued me the other day? Have you been waiting for me all these years? Is this divine being mine own? This wonderful face, this cascading hair, these angelic eyes, these lotuses, and sublime sparkle of your person … are they all mine? Are you mine really? Lord Buddha! Is it all your benevolence? Come! My darling! Let’s pray together! That Supreme monk shall give his benediction.”

“And I, the servant of that Supreme being, extend by blessings to this divine couple,” said Parama Guru Satya Seela Acharya from behind.

We fell at his feet.

***

[Original: Bhogeera Loya, first Published in Andhra Patrika, Bahudhanya, New Year Number 1- 4-1938]

^[1] Buddhist monks

^[2] A fairy wedding, a wedding without the consent of parents, where the boy and girl marry with mutual consent.