III.

​

He bought a bag of fruit from the farmer’s market, only to watch it rot and turn into a sappy puddle within hours. His rescue cat that he had taken in when it was just a kitten suddenly grew old, became frail, and died of “old age,” according to the vet. Sections of his car rusted and just fell off.

​

Confining himself mostly to his home, he noticed the paint on his house beginning to peel, and he had to replace several deteriorating wooden beams that kept his roof together. The cement walkways around his home all began to crack and fall away. His lawn, roses, and rhododendrons died and grew back several times within the same week.

​

Everything took on a very ephemeral and cyclical quality. The seasons took on a whole new meaning as days seemingly flew by like minutes, and trees full of green foliage turned vibrant colors and then dropped their leaves within hours, only to sprout new ones the next day.

​

Even his own body aged at a more rapid rate and reminded him daily of his limited time on Earth. He no longer took anything for granted, knowing that it would all soon be gone, reclaimed by nature and remade into something else. He saw his body not as “David,” but as a sort of organic automaton with its own mechanics, intricate plumbing and electrical circuitry propelled by some mysterious life force. Eating, digesting his food, and defecating became strangely fascinating for him as he watched the food travel through his own body—in one end and out the other.

 

He studied his hands throughout the day, marveling at the intricate collaboration of tendons, bones, and muscles required to pick up something as simple as a spoon or a toothpick.

Looking in the mirror became an almost scientific exercise—each facial expression a complex interplay of hidden muscles and fibers beneath the skin, every blink, every twitch, no longer automatic but a deliberate action executed by his organic machinery.

 

He was also learning new things about his mind. He could now see that thoughts are subtle physical objects that bubble up from some unknown depths. He now understood the impersonal nature of them and was saddened by how, as individuals, we claim ownership of and identify with something we hardly have control of. Not only did he see his own thoughts as objects rising and falling, but he could see the thoughts of others too, which disturbed him. He vowed to no longer ride on crowded subway cars, where the greatest concentration of negative, hateful and suicidal thoughts are to be found.

​

Like his girlfriend, the whole world became transparent for David. He would become intimately familiar with the brief lifespan of all things, as well as their vacant quality. He could see that all objects are just composites made up of other parts. Something as ordinary as a shirt was no longer just a shirt. It was intelligence made up of fabric, which was made up of thread, which was made up of cotton, which was made up of fibers, which was made up of micro-constituents—all the way down to the atomic level.

​

All objects lost their substantiality and now appeared as just swarms of atoms, which in the end, he learned, are mostly made up of empty space!

​

This realization profoundly upset David. He now understood what Swami Mayananda meant when he would say this world is a dream.

It’s like a dream, David thought, because nothing lasts, and nothing is what it seems—that is, the permanency and solidity of all objects is just an illusion.

​

Having lost his job and his house, he spent all his time at the nearby public library, reading books on science, philosophy, and great literature. He wondered if indeed, Shakespeare had been onto something when he wrote:

​

These our actors, as I foretold you, were all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air; and, like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, and, like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

​

He doubted his own identity and even who or what “David” was. To him, it was all empty, his body, mind, and sense of self included. He feared he was losing his mind, both figuratively and literally.

He began approaching complete strangers, his eyes wild with urgency, gripping their hands or shoulders as if trying to anchor them to the fleeting moment. Their confused, sometimes frightened family members would watch as he leaned in, his voice trembling with conviction: “Enjoy your life while you still can—because it will all be over soon! It’s all just a dream!”

​

Some recoiled, startled by his intensity, while others exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether to humor him or call for help. But David didn’t care. He had to make them see, to wake them up from the illusion they were blindly sleepwalking through. He wasn’t trying to frighten them—he was trying to save them.

​

Couldn’t they see it? Didn’t they feel it? The world wasn’t real in the way they thought it was. It was all shifting, dissolving, unraveling before his very eyes. And soon—sooner than they could possibly imagine—it would be gone.

​

Mumbling to himself, David wandered the streets, his gaze unfocused, his mind trapped in an endless loop of decay and dissolution. He tried—desperately—not to see the world as he now knew it to be: fleeting, impermanent, devoid of any real substance. But no matter how hard he fought against it, the illusion refused to return. Everything around him—people, buildings, even the very ground beneath his feet—seemed to waver, shift, and erode like sand slipping through an unseen hourglass.

​

He cursed this new awareness, resenting the burden it placed upon him. What good was seeing the truth if it only left him alienated, unable to engage with life the way he once had? His despair deepened, and with it, his body began to fail him. He ate little, slept less, and carried himself like a man twice his age. His skin grew pallid, his limbs weak, his once-strong frame reduced to something frail and ghostly.

​

At the peak of his destitution, slumped at a grimy bus stop, David caught sight of something unusual—a sleek white limousine gliding past, its polished surface reflecting the city’s flickering lights. His weary mind barely registered it until, through the haze of his exhaustion, he saw it roll to a stop at a nearby traffic light.

​

Something in him reacted before thought could catch up. Instinct took hold. He sprang to his feet, his frail body propelled forward by an urgency he couldn’t explain. He had to reach that limo before the light turned green.

​

As he neared, even before he could see who was inside, one of the passenger doors swung open.

​

A hand shot out, gripping his arm with startling force.

Before he could resist—before he could even cry out—he was yanked inside. The sudden motion sent a shock through his weakened body, and the last thing he felt was the violent pull before everything went black.

​

“Had enough?” was the first thing David heard when he regained consciousness.

​

One moment, he was taking refuge at a covered bus stop, trying to figure out where his next meal would come from, and the next moment, he was sitting in a limo across from his old guru, Swami Mayananda.

​

“Ready to go back to the way it was before?” asked the swami.

David was still trying to get his bearings.

​

“You samsaris are all the same,” the swami joked. “You guys always want to see the truth—until you don’t anymore! You’re like Arjuna in the Gita, who asked Krishna to only show God’s many glories, not his ugly, destructive side.”

​

The swami then recited the following verse from the Bhagavad Gita, acting out the part of Arjuna:

​

O Lord! I rejoice in having the privilege to see what has never been seen before, and yet, my mind is afflicted with fear. Please show me only that original form of Yours, O Lord of the Gods! The one in whom the entire world exists!

​

The swami then began to laugh hysterically, having seen this same thing play out thousands of times before, always with the same results and the same reaction.

​

“So, it was you who put me under this spell!” cried David, not seeing the humor in any of it.

​

“Well, of course. Except it’s not a spell, it’s the truth! I didn’t put you under a spell, I simply removed it!

​

“And was it you who set me up with that mysterious woman too?” asked David, who was still trying to make sense of past events.

​

“Yes. Yes, of course. I was your girlfriend, the lovely Taijasa.” He smiled. “I was also the robin and even the rotting fruit. In fact, it was and is all me! I am your body and your mind, and all bodies and minds.

​

“I am the universe!

​

“I am everything that has existed, exists now, and will exist in the future.

​

“For I am that Creative Power that only the Lord wields!

​

“I am also the great illusionist and seducer that binds man and confines him to this samsara you now experience.”

​

And then, raising his voice and pointing his finger in the air for dramatic effect, he said:

​

“I am mulavidya—beginningless, inexplicable, primordial ignorance! Know me as MAYA!”

​

Like Arjuna, David trembled in fear and wondered how he had gotten into such a predicament. After all, he just wanted to see and know the truth, not be lectured by the very power that created the universe. He thought he might wet his pants at any moment, but instead… he just began to weep.

​

“Swami-ji, I made a grave mistake,” he sobbed, trying to hide his tears. “Have compassion. I had no idea. I don’t want to see the truth anymore.”

​

And then, suddenly, as if a light bulb went off in his head, a moment of clarity came to him, and he regained a little composure. Wiping his eyes with the collar of his shirt, he asked, sniffling, “Anyhow, isn’t it enough to know the truth without having to see it?”

​

“And so, you appear to have learned something, young grasshopper,” responded Maya.

​

David thought it strange that Maya was using a reference from an old TV series. On the other hand, he had observed that Maya had an unusual sense of humor. He reminded him of one of those crazy wisdom gurus of lore.

​

“Many learn of the truth through interaction with wise individuals. But you… You.” He shook his finger at David. “You had to learn the hard way—breaking into my room like that and sitting on the very pillow where I rest my head each night,” the swami scolded him. Mocking David, he recited, “Your Holiness, I am like a man with his hair on fire, and only you have the means to extinguish it. What nerve! You took it to a whole new level, grasshopper.”

​

“Would you please stop calling me that!” requested David.

​

“Grass—”

​

“Please!”

​

“—hop—”…“Did you know I also do a pretty good Yoda impersonation?” Now altering his voice, “Patience you must have, young Jedi.”

​

“Please just stop. Enough!”

​

“It’s better when I actually get into form. Just doing the voice doesn’t do it justice.”

​

But Maya suddenly wished to change the subject.

​

“So, what else have you learned?”

​

“Um, that all objects are impermanent and insubstantial,” David began, “and that it’s only our inability to perceive time at a faster rate or realize that all objects are made up of parts that makes us believe them to be otherwise. That sex is awful unless you ignore all the gross and disgusting aspects of the body—which is actually a wonder, if you take the time to really appreciate it. That the objects we desire don’t really emanate joy, even though we think they are the source of happiness. That people think they are their thoughts, when thoughts are really just more objects perceived by them. That life is like a dream due to its ephemeral quality, and nothing is what it seems. And that people rarely like to talk about any of these things because, well, it makes them uncomfortable.”

​

“I have to agree with you. Truth is a hard sell; always has been. It’s a bit ironic, don’t you think? …that man chooses to embrace ignorance, but runs away from the very thing that sets him free? Just goes to show that I must be doing my job.”

​

“And what job would that be?” David inquired.

​

“You know—keeping everyone in the dark, so the world doesn’t just, um, comes to an abrupt end. I mean, can you imagine a world where everyone knows the truth?”

​

“But why not?” David challenged. “Why do we all have to be born into the world ignorant of the truth of reality? Why the spell?”

​

“Oh, I don’t know,” the swami remarked sarcastically. “Maybe because nobody would want to accumulate extreme wealth, attempt to colonize far-off lands and distant planets, procreate like little bunnies, start wars for no other reason than to show the other side who their daddy is, or scour the earth chasing bright, shiny objects that provide only temporary happiness.

​

“What each of these has in common and is motivated by, my friend, is a profound dissatisfaction. Ultimately, it’s that dissatisfaction that keeps the world going. And in order to have dissatisfaction, you need ignorance. You need everyone to feel like they have a hole inside of them the size of Jupiter that they can never fill.”

​

“You mean, you need them to want. You need insatiable desire,” said David, disappointed by yet another hard realization.

​

“And fear. But they’re really two sides of the same coin. And besides,” he continued, “where’s the fun in just hanging around contemplating the truth all day? People say they want peace, but what they really want is the feeling of being alive and being someone! Of course, none of this is possible without ignorance,” Maya continued. “The world depends on it for the drama to play out!” He smiled gleefully before adding, “The world is the way it is both because of ignorance and despite it. What I mean by that is, there are certain universal laws that can’t be thwarted. So, it’s all under control, really—from a cosmic point of view, that is. Also, as Arjuna learned, nobody actually gets hurt, so just sit back and enjoy the show! Fear not, young Padawan,” adding back his Yoda voice. “Take none to be real. Play your role in the cosmic tragicomedy, and do not despair!”

​

“What role?”

​

“The role you’ve been given, silly.”

​

“And what role might that be?”

​

“I don’t know—whatever it is you’re currently doing!”

​

“And that’s it? Just ‘play your role’? That’s your advice? That’s enlightenment???”

​

“Well, there might be something more to it, but I can’t recall at the moment. …And really, it’s not that important. I mean, the rest is just details. Be satisfied with what you already know, and carry on,” he said, waving his hand.

​

“I sense you’re not giving me the full picture, Swami-ji.”

​

And then, as if suddenly distracted by something outside the limousine, the swami said, “Whoa, was that a taco truck we just passed?!”

​

Now pointing at David with childish excitement, “Hey, do you like tacos?”

​

“I’d like for you to tell me the whole truth,” demanded David.

​

“I can’t do that,” the swami told him with an exaggerated frown.

​

“Why?” David asked.

​

“Because that’s not my role. My role is to conceal and project. I’m MAYA, THE GREAT ILLUSIONIST!” he thundered once again. “Don’t you remember?”

​

“But you revealed the truth to me before!”

​

“Only the truth about the nature of the world.”

​

“What more is there?”

​

“It’s not in my job description to reveal any more than what I’ve already shown you.”

​

“But how will I learn?”

​

But the swami just shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window as the limo made a u-turn for the taco truck.

​

In the months and years after his encounter with Maya, David would take long walks in the mountains, thinking about his experience and what he learned. One day, as he crossed a high mountain bridge, he stopped to look at the great depths below and wondered what else it was that the swami hadn’t shared with him. As he was standing there with his thoughts, a child rode by on a bicycle and abruptly stopped to examine something up close on one of the bridge beams.

“Hey,” the child called out, looking up at David with eager eyes, “Did you see the robin’s egg?”

​

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