The Brahmin's Banquet

I. The Demon Brothers

There were two rakshasas, or demons, who lived in a fertile clearing in a dark wood, along a well-worn but somewhat hidden path, an easily discovered shortcut between two well-known towns. They amused themselves, in the time given to them, by playing a sort of game with travelers who would pass by. 

Their modest hut was situated not terribly far along the path through that wood, but far enough that those who came upon it were often weary with travel, at the end of a long day with yet much travel ahead of them to reach the next town. So these travelers arrived tired, hungry, and in need of some respite and refreshment.

One demon would assume human form, that of a humble forest hunter, and his brother demon would take the form of a goat. We will call the human rakshasa Manju, meaning “sweet,” and the goat-brother, Mayu, meaning “bitter,” for reasons that will become clear.

When an unfortunate traveler would come upon their clearing, weak and weary, Manju would come out from his hut to greet him, and invite him to stay and have some supper, and perhaps get a night’s rest before continuing on his journey. Manju would prepare a humble but delicious feast — some tea to begin, some rice, some vegetables from the garden, and, as the main course, he would make a show of slaughtering Mayu, the goat, and roasting the meat in the tandoor. Of the rest of the meal Manju would partake with the unwary guest, but of the goat meat he would beg off, insisting that the traveler eat his fill. The rakshasa would also offer a clear spirit to accompany the meal, and the traveler, as often as not, was all too happy to partake. 

Then, when the traveler had eaten well and enjoyed a drink or two, and was swimming in the delight of a full belly and a light head, then Manju would grin a wicked grin. He would tell the visitor of his brother, who was away on some business, but who would be returning this very evening. The guest, being agreeable enough in his satisfied state, would invariably say something to the effect of, “I should like to meet this brother of yours!”

“And so you shall,” Manju would reply. Then, cupping one hand to his mouth with perverse ceremony, he would shout: “O brother, come forth!”

Then would Mayu, having reconstituted himself within the hapless victim, burst forth through his belly, and transform back into human form. And the two brothers would feast in delight on their poor quarry, with sharp fangs and such relish as one trembles to describe — all the while chanting a low and rhythmic dirge, the evil hymn of the Nether.

So did these rakshasa “brothers” (for there is no true kinship among the damned) carry on, and who knows for how long? This was in the time after the sons of Manu, the first man, began to till the soil and build their townships, but before the great spires of metal and glass filled the land, and the sons of Manu bled the earth dry. But all things come to an end.

II. The Brahmin

One day a wise brahmin was passing through that darkened wood, and besides being a priest, and wise, he was honorable and good, and made converse with the Most High, for he followed the way of bhakti, devotion, which is the foolish think to be a path distinct from that of jnana, or knowledge. But one cannot know the Most High without loving Him, nor can one truly love anyone at all — with true love — without knowing Him. 

Through his travels, the brahmin — who we shall call Sai Moksha, the Released — had come to know of the rakshasas Manju and Mayu, and of the cruel sport by which they passed the days until the time of their destruction. So when Manju came out to meet him, Sai Moksha returned his greeting with a beaming smile, and presently the two sat down to supper.

The rakshasa went about his game in the usual way, serving the brahmin the rice, the vegetables, and then the goat meat of Mayu. Sai Moksha ate, but in the way of the wise, slowly and thoughtfully. He chewed each bite as a cow ruminates on its cud, as a person of great knowledge considers a complex problem, weighing a complex array of dynamic factors in a delicate balance, determined not to fall prey to any error, however subtle it might be. 

So slowly did the brahmin eat that the demon Manju grew irritated, and his falsely pleasant converse gradually gave way to grunts and sarcastic jibes at his guest’s fastidious conduct. For rakshasas are not known for their patience, or else they would not be rakshasas, but gandharvas, who sing the celestial hymns. 

At long last, Sai Moksha took his last small bite of the goat meat, chewing and swallowing the final morsel. He gently daubed his mouth with the hem of his white robe, belched mildly with contentment, and said to his frazzled host, “Thank you, kindest sir, for an excellent meal!”

Manju, whose nerves had been flayed by the brahmin’s display of patience and moderation, had forgotten even to mention his brother, let alone that he was expecting him to return that very evening. Too upset even to savor his own wickedness, he merely bellowed, with no gusto at all, in a voice strained with impotent rage, “Brother, come forth!”

But nothing happened. 

The brahmin did not comment on the oddity of his host’s behavior or acknowledge his agitation, but only patted his belly. And again Manju called out, “Brother, come forth!”

And again nothing happened. 

So one last time, the rakshasa bellowed, with all the thunderous fury he could muster: “Come forth, damn you!”

And still, silence. 

Presently, Sai Moksha smiled, then laughed. And the rakshasa, who had by now dropped every last pretense of joviality, bared his fangs in a rage and glowered at the brahmin. 

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

The brahmin beamed at the demon and again patted his belly. “Only this, my friend: your brother, as you call him, will not be joining us this evening, for I have thoroughly digested him.”

And at that, Manju flew into a wild rage and leapt upon Sai Moksha, intending to tear him to pieces; but the Most High was with the brahmin, and the two grappled until daybreak, until at long last, the brahmin subdued the rakshasa. 

Having thus triumphed and freed that darkened wood from the terror of the rakshasas, the brahmin settled down and took their hut for his home. And all was at peace, for a time.

III. The Hymn of the Nether

Most tellings of this tale end there, with the triumph of Sai Moksha and his settling into his new home. But in truth, there is more to the story. 

For no man can partake of evil and remain pure. And as the brahmin went about his new life, taking water from the well, gathering herbs and vegetables from his modest garden and grain and spices from the nearby towns, and welcoming passing travelers to stay and partake of rest, refreshment, and ennobling conversation, the goat-flesh of the rakshasa Mayu was digesting within him, subtly diffusing its evil poison. 

It began with small lapses, oversights to which a lesser man would have given no thought. Sleeping for a spell instead of rising at dawn. Cutting short the morning’s meditation. Indulging in a bit of exotic food, even now and then a bit of meat (for brahmins do not eat meat, though to destroy the rakshasas, Sai Moksha had made a deliberate exception). Just small whispers, barely audible, to relax the disciplines the brahmin had observed since his youth.

But gradually the whispers grew in volume, until the inner silence that is the brahmin’s treasure and vocation was by degrees replaced with a low and sinister dirge, which, if not for the slow erosion of his devotional faculties, Sai Moksha might have recognized as the evil hymn of the Nether.

The “hymns” of the rakshasas do not merit the word, but then no word exists that inverts and perverts holy songs in the way that the dirges of the demons do. Indeed, the word “dirge” is equally misleading, for a dirge is a sad song, and sad songs are often beautiful. But the songs of the demons are anti-songs, their words twisted mockeries of meaning itself, for the demons have rejected the maker of meaning, He Who Is. So the creeping growth of the rakshasas’ hymn, in the soul of Sai Moksha, was no small thing. Even an earthly song, endlessly repeated, may drive a man mad, but the songs of the demons have no end, no object, but ultimate madness — the rejection of meaning. For in what else does evil consist? The song swelled in the brahmin until it drowned out all but a mere kernel of his devotion — which, remember, was also his wisdom — and only that kernel, animating a soul and body conditioned by a long and disciplined life, kept him from descending into madness. 

But the most terrible aspect of that affliction was that the brahmin, when he entertained travelers, began to hunger for meat that no man should ever taste. And he knew a deeper and more craven hunger still, to feast not merely on the flesh of his guests, but their horror…

And one day, the urge grew so strong that he could no longer ignore or contain it. 

It so happened that on that day a sudra, a craftsman and a builder from the village, was sitting at Sai Moksha’s table. With him was his wife and their young son, no older than two or three years old, who was just beginning to fall asleep as the sun sank into darkness in the western sky. 

The builder had folded his calloused hands, offering a prayer of thanksgiving for their simple meal of rice and vegetables and roti bread. And when he lifted his hands in supplication, the humble piety of the gesture incited an overwhelming surge of the anti-melody within Sai Moksha’s corrupting soul. 

The beleaguered brahmin bolted up from the table as one possessed, his usually placid brown eyes shot through with a fevered madness. He bared his white teeth like a cornered animal and loomed over the family, so that the patriarch rose to defend his family and braced himself for combat. 

Sai Moksha snarled and convulsed — and with his last ounce of discipline, he fled from the hut and disappeared into the dark forest.

He ran headlong into the depths of that dark wood, driven into a frenzy by the subtle malevolence of the rakshasa hymn, which now threatened to split his head like a coconut. That dark energy compelled him to bolt heedlessly across thorn and bramble, taking neither food nor water, losing all sense of time, hunger, thirst, heat, or cold. Scratched and bleeding, he found himself in a clearing, two sunsets hence. In the clearing was a modest hut, and a small garden where there grew herbs and vegetables…

Sai Moksha was stunned, then amused, then shocked to hear the hoarse and wheezing bark that issued from his weak and emaciated form at realizing that his maddened flight had brought him back here. Back home. 

He stretched out his hands to the heavens, then collapsed on his face, arms splayed in front of him.

IV. The Man in White

The third day dawned, and the brahmin awoke. His body ached and stung with sores and scratches, and he felt dirty, caked in dirt and sweat and dried blood. 

As his vision resolved, he saw the family he had been hosting when the demonic madness seized him — the laborer, the mother and the boy. The man was tending to the garden and explaining things to the young boy as he went. The boy, for his part, seemed to listen with rapt attention, and the brahmin had the unmistakable sense that the child possessed more intelligence than was to be expected at his age. The mother beamed at her husband and her son, her hands folded in prayer; the brahmin was struck by her beauty, and by some other quality that he could not easily name, one that partook of wisdom and virtue. His eyelids became heavy, and he dozed. 

When he opened his eyes again, the family was gone, and in the garden was a snow-white lamb, grazing on the herbs that grew there. He blinked his eyes in disbelief, and when he opened them again, there was a man in the garden, clad in a white garment, writing in the dirt with one finger. 

The brahmin felt a great love radiate from the man and directly into his heart, and that love compelled him to rise. All his pain was forgotten; all he wanted was to speak to that man, face to face.

As he approached the garden, the man rose and looked Sai Moksha in the eye and smiled, and the brahmin thought his heart would burst, so powerfully did his love swell in his heart. Without a word, the man entered the hut.

Sai Moksha followed, but he paused at the garden, to see what the man had been writing in the dirt. What he saw was for his eyes alone; I cannot reveal it here. But upon seeing it the brahmin beamed and sighed a great sigh, as one sighs when relieved of a great burden.

V. The Banquet

When Sai Moksha entered his hut, he found it almost unrecognizable. It was not that it had been changed in any way — indeed, all was exactly as he remembered it. But in a way it had not been before, the wise man’s home was illuminated. 

The dinner table was set with a rich feast such as the brahmin had never beheld. There was every kind of delicacy: sweet cakes and rich stews, delectable savories, and all manner of dainties. And at the center of the table was a platter of tender sliced meat, a carafe of crystal-clear water, and a golden chalice. 

The brahmin thought of the lamb he had seen in the garden, and gazing upon the meat and the chalice, it struck him that the man was nowhere to be seen; but somehow his very absence, Sai Moksha felt, was his presence. 

A voice spoke in the brahmin’s heart: “Take and eat, Sai Moksha.”

“But Lord,” the brahmin said, though he did not entirely comprehend to whom he spoke, “how can I eat? This is meat, and I am consecrated to avoid all meat.”

“Once you ate meat to destroy evil. Now I bid you take and eat, that you might be strengthened to do good.”

In that very moment Sai Moksha realized that the demonic whispers were gone, and all in his heart was sweet and blessed silence. The rakshasa’s hymn was no more.

The brahmin stepped forward and, out of some instinct born of a life steeped in virtue, bowed at the table, then sat and ate. The meat was wholesome and good; the chalice contained sweetest wine; the water was cool and refreshing. Sai Moksha ate, and was glad.

So the brahmin lived out the rest of his days in that hut, in pureness of heart. And he ate that meal often, and shared it often with those travelers fortunate enough to cross his path. And Sai Moksha conversed with the Most High as often as he drew breath, until he was no more, because the Most High took him.