Expert - The Story of the Soul of Sorrow

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I honestly don't know where to begin with my story.

Should I say that I am over seventy? My hair is covered with white flakes of snow. My skin is covered with fine lines like the clouds of the midsummer moon. My face is lined with wrinkles, my eyes are sunken with the burden of experience and burden, and I have seen a long history clearly. On the uneven road of that history, my memory, which is being tortured by age, has difficulty running, walking steadily, and even walking slowly. I am struggling to move my memory forward. I remember some information. Some information seems like a thin picture of a painting. If I could not grasp these images with my waking, living fingers of experience, it would not be easy to understand what kind of images they were, or even whose images they were.

Do I remember everything that has happened in my life? It is impossible to remember everything that has happened in my life. How many times has lightning flashed in the sky? Does the earth remember every flash of lightning that has ever struck? But every flash of lightning that came in the form of a thunderbolt left something written on the face of the earth.

Many such lightnings have flashed in the sky of my life. I am not in a position to present all of them in detail and in detail to you, one by one. However, I will try my best.

It's about my childhood and teenage life.

My father, the ascetic Bharadwaja, lived on the banks of the Ganges. The monastery, surrounded by gardens, was very beautiful and pleasant. I spent the whole day playing with the young deer. Nature itself nurtured me. I learned how to smile from the flowers, how to sing from the birds, and how to jump from the young deer.

A wild old woman used to come to my father's monastery every morning and evening. She looked after me. Besides her, there were some brahmin companions. I was playing happily, singing and playing like a little bird.

It's a spring day.

The sun set and evening came. I ran with a young deer to Myaing Rong, where the deer grazed. With me were one or two brahmasaris from the monastery. One of the brahmasaris was quite old. Even his beard was quite long.

“Hey...look over there. Who is it?” the bearded Brahma Sari said to me.

I looked around. “Not here, look over there, over there.” Brahmasari pointed to the banyan tree. Under the banyan tree, my father was sitting with a woman.

I had never seen that woman before. Her dark, shiny hair fell on the bench under the banyan tree. With eyes as wide and restless as those of a doe, she gazed at her father's face with awe.

I was really interested in that woman. Although I was far from them, I couldn't help but look at them. In the meantime, my fawn had run away. But I didn't care. I stood there motionless. It was like watching a play.

“Do you know him?” a brahma sari asked.

"Who?" The words suddenly came out of my mouth.

"That woman"

I shook my head, "I don't know."

At that moment, my father seemed to see me. He called me. I went to the base of the banyan tree as if under a spell. The brahmasaris who had accompanied me smiled and remained there.

"Son, touch her feet, this is your mother."

As soon as they walked near him, the father urinated.

I was sobbing. I had never seen her before, had I not? But she was my sister. The thought suddenly flashed through my mind. It was as if I had forgotten my father's orders for a moment.

"How would he know that I am his wife? He has never met me," the woman said.

The father laughed and said again. "Yes, son, this is your mother. Touch her feet."

I laid my head on his feet, which were lying on the floor. He lifted me up with such tenderness and love and placed me in his arms. It was the first time I had felt the warmth of a mother's embrace. How can I describe to you how much motherly love he had?

I clung to him for a long time, like a baby monkey to a mother monkey.

“Look how beautiful the child is,” my mother said. “You are not beautiful, you son of a bitch,” my father replied.

"Isn't that your son?"

"Yes, my son, yes, my son."

The father laughed and said.

"Beauty comes from sorrow"

"Being smart is your heritage, isn't it?" my mother said.

"The future will tell whether I will inherit my brilliance or the fortune of another person."

Father and mother laughed for a long time.

I learned later that my mother was a ghost. I never saw her at the monastery. She would never stop coming to the monastery. But she would probably come quietly and secretly, so that people wouldn't see her.

My mother loved my father very much. My father was very attached to my mother. I understood this from the first time I saw it with my own eyes as a child.

However, the story I heard about how I was born is both strange and wonderful. It's also very surprising.

According to legend, my father was a young, white-haired brahmin who had become a brahmin at a young age. The virtuous and pure brahmin's virtues were the envy of others. The brahmin's virtues, which were not subject to change even by sensual pleasures and senses, were turned upside down when an environment created a situation.

This auspicious or auspicious occasion also occurred only in the spring.

The whole world was in a state of bliss. Early in the morning, after bathing at the Ganges, the great father was sitting on the bank of the river, meditating. The morning sun had sprinkled red powder all over the eastern world. The fine, powdery light spread throughout the surrounding area.

That day, the Buddha also came to bathe in the Ganges. He came alone. The Buddha looked around. A young hermit was facing east, meditating. His bright, radiant form was as radiant as the sun. Even at that moment, the Buddha felt a strong attraction towards the young hermit, or in other words, towards his father.

The darshan of the Ganges River was like a graceful fish, swimming in the water, his limbs moving freely. He was also making sounds from his mouth. However, the darshan of the river had no effect on his father.

Finally, the dragon emerged from the water. His thin robe was clinging to his body. His eyes were filled with darkness. His limbs were moving wildly. But the father was just a fool without any sense.