Daniela Jodorf - Kashi

KASHI

City of Love and Light

Daniela Jodorf

Text

© Daniela Jodorf 2018

All rights reserved

Cover

© Daniela Jodorf

Photo top

Daniela Jodorf

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Valentino Funghi on Unsplash

Editing

Monika Winterstein

Publisher

Daniela Jodorf

Leonhard-Kraus-Str. 23

53604 Bad Honnef

www.daniela.jodorf.de

distributed by

epubli – a service of neopubli GmbH, Berlin

The mind veils consciousness,

and desires color the mind.

◊◊◊

There is no danger of forgetting.

The pain of the past is still alive within us.

Its voice is constantly calling for our recognition,

but not always heard.

The Pursuit of Happiness

1 Prologue

Varanasi

The mist of the cold November fog touched her face softly and cooled the tip of her nose. The fire of the cremation grounds were eternally burning, sending their strange sweet smell with the morning air around the entire city. She heard the ringing of countless bells of the morning aartis, prayers conducted in homes, temples and on the banks of the Ganga at sunrise; crystal clear sounds, that touched her heart more than anything she perceived at this early hour. She allowed the sound to pierce into her heart, to resonate in its own subtle and secret frequency. Joy rose within her, the bliss of pure existence. She surrendered to this bliss that swept over her consciousness like a tidal wave and witnessed its rise and its fading when it opened the door to an even deeper realm of being: the silence of the universal soul. Pure consciousness and pure energy appeared as one in this vibrant nothingness, void of identity, of time and space. No object was able to manifest in this dimension of pre-existence, no I, no you and no that. And yet she knew that she was completely alive there, in this inner place that was no place. Beyond identification of any kind, she experienced a state of pure being, of pure subjectivity; a state beyond the mind and the senses, beyond perception and recognition. Divine consciousness embraced her and her heart was filled with love, the infinite love of life. Still, after so many years of living in the presence of the divine, a sense of gratefulness flushed through her and pulled her awareness back into the manifest world.

First, she saw her body sitting on the terrace, wrapped in a thick Kashmiri shawl. The body sat in a meditative posture facing the river. The water was calm and appeared like a crystal clear mirror. But it did not reflect her, an image of her own physical body she still witnessed with the inner eye. The mirror of the serene morning Ganga reflected the face of a pale man, looking at her with empty eyes. He was so close to her, that she was about to stretch out her hand to touch and console him. She felt his sorrow deeply, almost as if it was her own. His eyes spoke to her in the silent language of unexpressed emotions. He was confused; he did not know, where to go, what to do. He had lost his path, lost touch with divinity. Why, she asked herself. What had happened? But her thoughts disturbed the inner image and it vanished instantaneously leaving behind the memory of the face and the expression in its eyes.

In the heat of the afternoon, she walked through the crowded alleys of the old town. It was not far to her teacher´s house, only a few blocks. People looked at her with a recognizing smile, greeting her with a kind “Hello”. She passed the burning ghat and much to her surprise, she noticed that she always thought the same thought and felt the same emotion every single time she walked by this place. “This site is surreal”, she thought.” It seems to be neither heaven nor hell and yet both at the same time. It is so terrible and yet so peaceful.” A cold shiver swept over her skin when she felt the grief of the people saying their last goodbye to the dead bodies chanting the ritualistic mantras and watching the flames work of transforming to ashes what used to be a living, moving sentient being.

The door of her teacher´s house stood open, and she entered silently. He awaited her on the floor of his terrace with a kind smile. She sat down in the shade on her asana, a small carpet, in front of him and started to unpack her sitar. He held his instrument on his lap and began to tune it. The first sounds were disharmonious and perfectly mirrored her emotional state. Ever since the vision of this morning meditation, she felt oddly disturbed. And her teacher knew it. He stopped and looked at her seriously.

“You don´t have to worry about him. You know that. He is safe and he will be guided!”

1 Chapter One

New York

The tiny moment of silence before the audience started to applause was hard to catch, but Paul had never missed it in his entire career. Then, one or two people began to clap and only a second later the rest followed. He was tired tonight. Concentration had cost him a strong effort. Now he looked at the people in the filled Hall over critically. Yes, they appeared to be enthusiastic and the applause still grew stronger. He bowed down, playing his role perfectly. When his eyes went another round through the audience, he thought that he finally knew what had disturbed him for such a long time. They had come to see Paul Madden, the composer, the conductor, the cellist. They had come to see a name, but none of these people had come to hear his music, to listen to his language, to follow the subtle story, he had tried to tell with his orchestra. He felt empty, almost dead. A dear friend embraced him, they had worked together for many years, and the applause swelled again, not comforting Paul´s sadness, but worsening it.

He almost fled when it was over. He grabbed his cello and his coat and ran off. He lived far from Carnegie Hall in Downtown Manhattan, but he did not call a cab. He had to walk down Broadway to be alone with the cold of this November night. “Why do I do this”, he thought with a strong need to blame himself for his perceptions, his thoughts and his unwanted feelings. In this moment, he hated himself. He thought he had failed. If the people did not feel his music, there had to be something wrong with it. Maybe it was not deep enough, not true enough, not universal enough to be touching. He pulled the gray scarf closer around his neck to protect himself from the icy northern wind and walked faster down south without looking left or right. His cell phone rang. It was Phil, the friend who had hugged him on stage. But Paul did not answer the call. Countless thoughts entered his mind and he had to prevent to drown in their negativity. Never had he doubted his passion and his talent like this. Music had always been the driving force of his life. It had given him energy and inspiration even in difficult times. But now was no difficult time. The difficulties were past. Now was a time of ease. But suddenly, when least expected, the source of his creative energy seemed to turn against him. He passed his apartment and walked around the next block, then another and another without a destination. His hands were frozen when he recognized a bar across the street. Blind to the outer setting he opened the door, sat on the next table and mechanically ordered an espresso. The coffee came quickly and he tried to warm his hands on the small cup when somebody approached him calmly. He looked up curiously, expecting one of his friends or colleagues, but he did not know the tall woman, who looked at him kindly. There was something very serious and urgent about her.

“Can I help you, Madame?” Paul asked politely and the woman sat next to him without being invited.

“I have to talk to you!” she said with a self-confident voice.

“Have you heard the concert?”

“The concert?” She smiled with a hint of amusement. “No!”