Swami Shyam, head of Nepal’s greatest Hindu temple, sat in the main hall in front of the assembled  monks. They were waiting for him to die, but death came slowly.

The huge doors at the end of the hall were open, revealing a magnificent view of the Himalayas. Mountain after snow-capped mountain stretched into the purple distance, brilliant against a crystal-blue sky.

A few of the novitiates shivered in the cold, to be frowned on by their superiors. The Swami felt no cold. He had long ago relinquished attachment to all desires, including the desire for bodily comfort.

He sat, without moving, his legs folded in a lotus position. His hands rested palm-upwards on his knees, his fingers forming the ‘O’, which symbolised the cycle of life. As his body processes slowed, his mind drifted.

The throng of saffron-robed monks before him seemed to be like the floor of a forest, from which the pillars of the hall rose like trees. The dark shadows of the hall were darkening, creeping towards him…. Suddenly his meditation was broken.

“My lord Swami, soon your earthly sufferings will cease.”

Swami Shyam looked round to see the earnest, rather stupid face of Mahesh, his second in command. He felt a flash of irritation. He wanted to remind Mahesh that only those who had failed to relinquish desire felt suffering, but his mouth would not form the words. He bore the insult in silence.

“Soon it will be someone else’s turn to wear the golden symbol of Aum.”

Was it the Swami’s imagination or was there a look of avarice in Mahesh’s cow-like eyes? The Swami fumbled in his robes and drew out the Aum, gently he stoked the familiar surface, deriving comfort from the curves and points of the holy symbol. The gold felt warm and rich under his fingers. Mahesh was talking again. The Swami forced his mind back to what his subordinate was saying.

“Soon my lord, you will achieve moksha, soon you will become one with Brahman.”

The stupid man seemed determined he should not die in peace. Mahesh had always been one for stating the obvious. The Swami’s previous irritation with Mahesh had died down but now the embers flared into a flame. He wanted to tell him to go away but all he could do was smile his beatific smile and pretend he had not heard him.

“Soon the cycle of life will be ended. There will be no more need for reincarnation, your karma has achieved eternal peace.”

Mahesh’s words triggered a memory deep within the Swami’s brain. This was not what he wanted. He refused to die. Long ago, in another incarnation, he had vowed to live the cycle of life forever. I WILL NOT DIE. The words rang in his brain stoking the fire within him until it became a raging furnace.

Mahesh sensed his struggle and leant over him solicitously. With one mighty effort the Swami swung his hand up and stabbed him in the throat with the golden Aum.

The audience of horrified monks looked on as their Swami slumped back dead upon the dais, while Mahesh, spouting blood like two scarlet fountains from his neck, stood clutching his wounds. For a few long moments Mahesh’s horrified face mirrored their own then he slumped dead over the blood-soaked body of the Swami.

****

Swami Shyam was reincarnated as a bug, high in the branches of an ancient sequoia tree.

“Hello,” said the tree, “You back again?”

“Yeth,” said the bug. “It wath a narrow thqueak thith time though.”

“You must have done something pretty bad to go all the way back to a bug,” said the tree.

“Yeth,” said the bug proudly, “It wath murder.”

“Hmm. It will take a lot of reincarnations before you are allowed to get back to being a human again.”

“The longer the better,” said the bug airily. “I don’t care what I am, ath long ath I avoid eternal peathe.”

A foraging bird grabbed the bug.

“Here we go,” said the bug. “Next life coming up. Wheeee.”

And he was gone.

end