Krishna Blue

Jebadiah effortlessly found his way to the lake. It is hard to get lost when all the roads lead to the same place. As he walked he noticed a selfless warmth in the eyes and smiles of the men in this town, Pushkar. It was conspicuously different than the stares and approaches of people in other cities in the state of Rajastan. Here, there seemed to be an un-intrusiven intent coming from the inhabitants of the street: simple human interaction. The food vendors, garments salesmen and musicians spoke the language of kindness rather than the slang of greed.

The musicians played sitar, flutes, and drums all around the lake. They never approached the water; they stayed mingling on the landing above the steps that fall-down into water. Jeb sat between the music and the water and observed. The Holy Lake of Pushkar lay awake before him.

Shrines had been built encompassing the Holy Lake, the animals are fed generously in presence of the Holy Lake, and the people ritually bath to feel the Holy Lake. Jebadiah remembered many lakes he had enjoyed in his past, each hosted a different style of enjoyment and ritual. Some lakes were for cliff jumping, some for fishing, some for canoeing and some for skipping stones. The body in front of him and all lakes in is memory reflect a certain type of serene image off their waters. In wonder he thought, why is this lake the Holy Lake?

It had been hot as Jeb walked down the dusty roads, but suddenly as he sat the angle of the sun fell below the threshold of heat. It is the distinct moment that the afternoon recedes and the trademarks of the evening begin to step forward. Now, just warmth fell from the sky and the musicians recognized this as a sign to begin their accompaniment to the sunset.

Captured by the Grace of Sara

The blazing glow slowly nears the horizon and the intensity of music and prayer increases. The attraction between the sun and the earth fuels the energies of the moment. The rituals of the lake thump, like the heart of the earth as its celestial lover approaches.

Again Jebadiah thought, why this lake, what makes it Holy? He let his observation tighten into contemplation, searching for the answer. He noticed the rhythm of the drums echoing off the water. The music leaving ripples on the shimmering surface. He witnessed the vibrations of sound running through all the images being reflected off the lake.

The flight of the crane reflects back as a spirit gliding through the lake. The cow drinks in its own wavering reflection, uniting god and form. The distorted sun spills across the lake not as mere light, but the manifested soul of the water. On solid land the sunlight ends where the cow stands, and the crane's flight must avoid the human, but in the mystery of the Lake all can reflect on top of one another. All can occupy the same space.

A Hindu in India dreams of making the pilgrimage to the Holy Lake of Pushkar at least once in his life. Here now, Jebadiah was beginning to understand the experience of the religious seeker, or at least Jeb was dreaming of an understanding. He imagined that the pilgrim sees a heaven on earth when he looks in the lake. In the moment and space that the light from the external becomes the internal reflection of the lake the pilgrim sees souls beyond the earthly forms. Jeb imagines.

Jeb Imagines and the pilgrim crouches his body closer to the lake to offer a holy flower. He sees not his face, not a body on earth, but an angel resonating in a different dimension. With his mind and intellect focused on the one-point of his body holding the stem, he places the flower into the lake. Becoming wet at his fingertips.

For the smallest moment, the slightest part of the pilgrim is submerged in the holy lake. He enters the reflection and part of it disappears. The refection has a void, but the pilgrim feels the completeness of a spiritual triumph. Jebadiah continued to think. The missing portion of the reflection creates no emptiness in the pilgrim. Instead it enters him dismissing incompleteness, unrest, and unhappiness.

A bead of sweat rested patiently on Jeb's brow from before the heat surrendered. Now it rolled into the corner of his eye. He removed the drop with a twist of a finger. Looking at sweat on the hand holding a small rose blossom, Jebadiah wonders why not this piece of water too? Closing his fist loosely around the flower, the sweat absorbs into the vein-red petals. He raises his palm to his nose and inhales fully. The familiar floral sent enters his body and glides just beneath his skin, filling his chest, circling around the length of his arm and seems to reenter its source at the end of his body. The sensation of the scent stayed as a subtle vibration spreading all around him.

Jebadiah continues to breath. The pilgrim walks away and dries his hand on his pants. A resident of Pushkar skims the flocks of flowers out of the lake to sell to the next day's spiritual arrivals.
Finally, the sun completely enters into the earth's horizon, and the music stops.