The story is written on their faces, all of their faces.
The young ones seemed to mature overnight. The older ones acquired a lightness of being that belied their years. The nervous people released; the prideful seemed humbled. I was sucked in. I could not resist; I did not want to resist.
The atmosphere was purified in ways that nearly defy the senses. Seems to have gone beyond the senses actually. It is simply not possible to stop smiling.
Where does this feeling come from? What has happened really? Six days of purification fires and mantras and tapas or disciplines by the practitioners. Intense, yes, but hardly the stuff from which one would imagine such transformation would manifest.
Then again, one might surmise similar thoughts about daily sunrise/sunset Agnihotra fire performed by untold thousands twice daily around the planet. The results so greatly outweigh the effort that attempting to figure it out rationally goes only so far. Quantum mechanics (quantum physics) might help explain it, but then again, sometimes perhaps explanations aren’t all that necessary.
The woman who arrived with a shyness and tentativeness over the six days melded into a visage of acceptance and comfort. Those originally uncomfortable being together appeared harmonious. The fifty-somethings danced into the night, oblivious to time and space.
And Hari Apte, the Yajamana, or main practitioner of the Somayag, and his wife seem to have come back to earth, at least for awhile– or had they?
And we all felt as one. It was unmistakable, undeniable and as real as the noses on our faces. The bonding between mothers and sons was unfolding before us. The ages didn’t seem to matter.
And the synchronicity, oh the synchronicity. Everyone seemed to sense it; everyone knew it, but appeared to hardly believe it.
We had tasted “heaven on earth.” We had been told of the possibility; now it seemed to be staring right at us. And I was sure no one who was there would ever be quite the same. And each one seemed to know it.
The Indians seemed to not believe what they were seeing, westerners acting as Indian as they. We all danced together, so many races, so many creeds. Indian women got up and danced with men. They didn’t touch but danced nonetheless, a highly unusual occurrence, we were told. This was the musical celebration following the six days of fire. The drummers were intoxicating, the beat went on endlessly. The old souls had returned to the Narmada. One could not stop smiling; you just sensed that time as we knew it had somehow stopped or been transformed somehow.
And the faces, all the faces; But now the babies’ faces reflecting the generator induced lights. Then the young Indians came and danced and danced and danced with an energy that belied the lateness of hour and the weather and the material limitations of a country less “advanced,” say some than the West.
It took the dancing and the music to dilute the sting of the removal of what had a few short hours earlier been the site of the Somayag. The practitioners now sat with us in their “street clothes.” “Was it really over?” we wondered.
And all the young people. You could taste and see the future in them.
You wanted to leave the celebration and go to bed. But you couldn’t. The spell of the Somayag and its aftermath had been cast.