On a clear winter night, the rishi Vamadeva sat with three students on
a flat rock above the river. The sky was scattered with stars, and not a
single lamp burned for miles.
"Teacher," said the youngest, "you tell us to meditate on God. But what
do I picture? Is He big or small? Near or far?"
Vamadeva picked up a grain of sand from a crack in the rock and held it
on his fingertip. "Look at this grain," he said. "Now imagine something
smaller. A speck of dust. Smaller — the tiny pieces the dust is made of,
too small to see. Smaller still, beyond anything your eyes could ever
find." He paused. "The One we meditate on is subtler even than that.
Smaller than the smallest. He lives inside the very heart of everything,
closer to you than your own breath."
The student frowned. "Then He is tiny?"
"Now look up," said Vamadeva. The boys tilted their heads back. The
river of stars poured across the whole dome of the sky. "All of that —
every star, every world, the space between them, all of it rests on Him,
is held up by Him, like a cloth held in a hand. Tinier than the tiniest,
and yet holding up the largest. Both at once."
"But it is dark," said the second student. "If He shines, why is the
night so black?"
Vamadeva smiled. "The night is dark to your eyes. But He is the light
that has no night. Think of the sun — even now, on the far side of the
earth, it is blazing, and our darkness is only the shadow of the world
turning. His light is like that, but with no earth to cast a shadow. He
is the colour of the sun, beyond all darkness, forever. The ancient
Seer, older than the first morning, the quiet ruler of all that is."
The youngest student closed his eyes. He tried to hold both pictures at
once — smaller than a grain of sand, vaster than all the stars; hidden
in his own heartbeat, and shining beyond every shadow. He could not
quite think it. And Vamadeva, watching, nodded — because that was
exactly right. "His form is unthinkable," the rishi said softly. "You do
not picture Him. You simply remember Him, and grow still."