She was standing outside her class X classroom, waiting. She peeped in to see if the class was over. He was sitting there, in the teacher’s chair, with his bright orange robe like the Sun in the solar system, and his streaming long hair. He turned his head around to look at her. The class was over. She ran in with His slippers, holding them in her hands. She kneeled down and waited for Him to stand up and wear His slippers. The slippers were made of wood, old fashioned style. His leg was hurting. She stood there for support. He put his arm around her shoulder, and leaned on her, walking forward slowly. She readjusted her posture to let Him put His weight on her shoulders, so He could walk without pain, and tried to walk in sync with his pace.
They were in an open space now, in the open courtyard. He stopped walking after a few steps, looking up, at the clear sky. She was right next to him, from where she could gaze at his upturned face, looking at the sky, with His soft eyes forever reflecting the vastness of the sky. Melting in the ethereal quality of his eyes she forgot who she was, where she was, why she was. She just knew that she was right next to Him, with His arm around her, trying to help Him walk. His gaze gently travelled down, from the sky to her eyes, which were fixated on his gaze. She was much smaller, much lower than His shoulders, and He looked down, His eyes shining into hers. He smiled His loving, fulfilling smile. In that one smile, she knew she had gained everything she needed to live her life.
“Write your book,” He said.
She was confounded. Book? What book was He talking about? How did He know about her book?
They then started walking towards a staircase, this time at a faster pace. She was trying hard to keep up pace with him. He was speeding ahead. They were now near the end of an open staircase at the corner of a building. She removed her slippers in a hurry and said to Him, “Swamiji, I’m coming,” while He removed his slippers and was racing up the staircase. By the time she removed her slippers and reached the foot of the staircase, He was at the top of the staircase, almost disappearing into a door. She was dumbfounded. He entered the door as she stood there, her jaw slightly fallen. Just as he was about to disappear from sight, His head peeped out of the door, while the rest of Him remained inside. A child-like, mischievous, loving smile rested on His face as His eyes fell on her; a smile that could break into a laugh any time. He lingered there for a few seconds, then He was gone.
She stood there, aghast. Everything was spinning. How could this happen? She was to help Him walk, right? Wasn’t that what she was there for? Or was it?
What a fool she was. She thought she could help Him walk! She thought He needed her to walk. He was the One. He was the One who danced in her breath. This was a mere skit, for her to receive what she sought all her life, for many lives: the love of the One.
This story is based on an actual dream I had several years ago, which moved me to pick up writing once again. “Swamiji” is H. H. Bhagwan Paramahamsa Nithyananda, my Guru.