The saga of silence and darkness
After the evening had long surrendered to stillness, a dark-skinned woman appeared beneath the ancient banyan tree, her young child sleeping gently across her lap. In her hand, she carried an earthen lamp, its trembling flame casting golden circles upon the ground. She placed it beside Anandakirtan and said softly, “Father, take this food. I have cooked for you.”
From the hush of his trance, where his mind wandered along the farthest shores of the universe, Anandakirtan murmured, “Blessed Krishna, may I call you so? This is the third time you have visited me. Today you bring light and nourishment—tending to me as though I were your own son.”
She smiled faintly and urged, “Father, take the food. The villagers are coming behind me; they wish to hear you speak.”
“Let them come,” Anandakirtan replied, his voice floating through the fog like the hum of an unseen bell. “I shall share this food with them.” His words rippled outward, merging with the mist that veiled the horizon.
Soon, the multitude arrived, carrying burning torches that painted wavering shadows upon the banyan roots. They offered fruits at Anandakirtan’s feet and settled around him, wrapped in reverent silence. An old man, his hands joined in prayer, spoke with a trembling tone: “Sir, tell us about silence. The whole day we have worked in the stone-crushing factory; our heads still echo with its noise.”
Anandakirtan urged for the fruits to be gathered together. “Keep them all in one place,” he said gently, “and share among yourselves.”
They obeyed, and as they did, they saw how his eyes gleamed like constellations scattered upon a moonless sky. Then spoke Anandakirtan, his words flowing with the rhythm of wind upon still water:
“Today, you came with light and food; you have dispelled the darkness of Amavashya. You are the children of nature’s boundless grace, the true fruit of creation, apostles of light and goodwill. Look up—see how the stars watch you in their infinite quiet. Observe the trees; their silence roars louder than thunder. Touch the earth beneath you, and feel how it hums with tranquil life.
“It is from silence and blissful darkness that all things arise. Every color, every sound, every movement is born of that womb. Silence is the mother of music; darkness is the cradle of light. The Rishis sought this silence, the countless Buddhas meditated upon it, and the Tirthankars found their liberation within it.
“Buddhas after Buddhas have spoken of darkness as the ultimate serenity. Look at these lamps—they sway like serpents with a thousand whispering tongues. Light itself has a sound, and sound bears within it a hidden light. This silence you ask about is not the absence of speech; it is the watching of words before they are born, the listening to the wind as it passes through the flute, playing its eternal game of hide and seek.
“When the Abadhuts reached the threshold of Nirvana, they entered the Great Silence. They washed their minds in the still waters of that silence and veiled their conscience with the blessed darkness, where all distinctions dissolve, and only being remains”.
“Krishna brought me food today, and I told her I would share it with you. Take a morsel from this plate. It is not the measure that satisfies hunger, but the peace that fills the soul. When you share your food, you share your silence. Only silence is whole; only silence interprets the darkness.
“Do not fear them—silence and darkness. They seem frightening when one lives isolated, but when you share your excess through compassion, they become the song of peace.
The mind, born of light, moves restlessly—it flickers, it sounds, it never settles. Some try to silence it by force; others drown it in intoxication. But you, the humble people of this village, need not struggle so. Share what you have in excess. Smile upon one another. Offer kindness instead of words. This alone will calm your mind, and in that calm, the blissful darkness will bloom within you”.
“The Buddhas cherished this darkness so deeply that they named it Nirvana itself.”
He then looked at the old man with serene compassion, his eyes a quiet blessing, and slowly drew in a deep breath. His final gesture—simple, reassuring—seemed to dissolve the weariness that hung over the gathering.
By now, the torches had burned themselves into silence. Only the small earthen lamp remained, casting a dim yet steadfast glow. Anandakirtan gazed upon it, as though seeing within its fragile light the reflection of his own inner flame. The pale shimmer quivered once, twice—and then he fell into wordless contemplation.
The night deepened, and the silence that followed was not emptiness, but presence—the living breath of the universe itself.
Note: In a tranquil evening, a dark-skinned woman offers food to Anandakirtan, a revered figure entranced in meditation. As villagers gather, he emphasizes the importance of silence and darkness, likening them to the womb of creation. He elaborates on how true serenity arises from shared experiences and compassion, suggesting that silence is not merely the absence of words but a profound understanding that fosters connection and peace. As he speaks of the wisdom of the Buddhas and the essence of Nirvana, the gathering is enveloped in a deep, contemplative silence, affirming the significance of shared kindness and the inner light that each person carries within.