A
Theosophical Short Story
About
Guidance Beyond Delusion
John Garrigues
Imri, following the path, entered the fog of bewilderment. This is always a
place where two roads meet. One road seemed the most inviting. It stretched
away, smooth and fair, mounting evenly to brilliant skies, and at the summit
line he could vision, glorified, Imri jeweled with light, beacon of guidance
for the multitudes of men.
This was the reflection of the
Imri of dreams cast upon the screen of time, and was caused by the light of the
Soul being broken and scattered by the myriads of desires in the heart. Imri
did not know this. Full of zeal to be of service to all souls his gaze was
turned outward, thinking other souls separate from himself. The traitors of
delusion that ensnare the steps of men were known to him. He had watched them
snare others and was constantly warning against them, pointing all men to the
path of the One Self. But since there is no separateness at all, these traitors
of delusion were also in the heart of Imri, making merry in the fire of Imri’s
devotion. This Imri did not know. Only those who are awake in the Self know
this. To those who dream, the dream path is the real. Fair and full to them is
the dream path, while the path of the real seems like a troubled dream.
Imri spoke to his preceptor,
whose steps were moderated to his own: “This is the path.” And Imri turned to
the left.
When Imri had so chosen and
entered the path, the Guru walked behind him. After a time this was observed by
Imri.
“Master, how is this? In the
beginning, when first I found you, it was you who walked before. Then, I
remember, for a time we walked side by side. Now, though the way is fair and
broad, your steps lag and it is I who lead.”
“This path is of thy choosing,
not mine. I but go with thee a little way.”
“Is not this the path of the
Self?”
“All paths are the Path of the
Self”, replied the preceptor. “The Self in each chooses its own path. There is
no other way”.
Imri was troubled, and
reproved his preceptor. “I do not understand you. These are dark sayings. You,
who are my preceptor, should enlighten me. I desire only to learn.”
“This is the path of learning”,
answered the Guru, not answering Imri’s reproach.
Imri was vexed in his heart,
thinking the Guru was devoid of sympathy, or weary of journeying, or perhaps
had misunderstood him. He said to himself that those who are devoid of sympathy
grow weary, and that weariness and lack of sympathy make one misunderstand. He
felt forgiveness for the preceptor. Vexation left his heart and he turned
sympathetically to the Guru to speak kindly words.
But the preceptor seemed a
great way off. So Imri waited till his preceptor should draw, near again. But
though he waited a space the Guru seemed no nearer. Vexation again rose in the
heart of Imri, calling attention to the delay in the journey, and suggesting
that it would be better to proceed, so as to prepare shelter at the day’s end
for the preceptor. Imri felt a glow of satisfaction in this thought, and resumed
his march.
When night came, Imri looked
once more at the summit of the dream self. It stood crowned and radiant, but
higher in the heavens than at starting, and while he gazed, farther than ever
away. He had marched all day with full vigor and this seemed strange, for the
way had been level and fair.
He made haste to prepare
shelter for the night, thinking extenuations for his preceptor, and pondering
the questions to be asked in the evening’s repose. But when the darkness spread
the curtains of the night, the preceptor was not yet come.
Then Imri feared that
misfortune had come upon his preceptor. Instant anxiety for his welfare opened
the gate of memory. Imri searched in thought over the day’s path; then sped him
over their past wanderings to the time of his first meeting with the Guru. His
heart warmed in the immediate memorial presence of benefaction received. From
the fire of his gratitude the traitors of delusion fled in haste.
Imri rose and retraced his
steps out of gratitude to the preceptor, to find him and aid him to shelter. In
all this Imri had no thought other than gratitude. Though desire still lay hid
in his heart, Imri did not know this, and therefore did not dream that he had
strayed from the Path through wrong choosing. In dreams the path of the dream
is the true path. The real is the path of waking. Nevertheless the path of
waking lies through dream. How could it be other than this, if the life of men
is a dream? Imri did not know that the ladder to waking from dreams lies in
gratitude. He felt only gratitude, not knowing where it leads and not thinking.
Shukra, the star of evening,
lighted his path. Before this star set, Imri found the preceptor. Imri thought
that the Guru had hastened his steps finding him quickly. This was not true,
for the preceptor had not moved. Only Imri had marched long and returned.
Without moving is the journey on the path for those who have found the Path.
Long is the journey of those who search for the Path. Desire had taken Imri on
the day’s march. Gratitude had cut with a sword the return. Imri found the guru
again through gratitude.
“I thought I had lost you, my
Master. Where have you been in the day? We must hasten our steps to the shelter
I have prepared for you and for me. Let me help you the rest of the way.”
“Look”, said the preceptor,
smiling tenderly.
Imri felt a great lassitude,
from relief at finding the preceptor, and from his long march. He looked where
the guru was looking, over the path he had followed and from which he had
returned. Beneath the gaze of the preceptor all things were clear in the
darkness of the night, and clear in the languor of Imri.
Imri saw that the path he had
followed was the myriad path of the desires hid in the heart, made golden by
the light of the soul. The far summit of his dreams was the egotism of the
head, desiring eminence. The multitudes for whom he had seemed as a beacon of
guidance were other men following dreams like himself. Each one of the
multitude saw himself as Imri had seen himself. Each aspired to the path, and
each saw himself leader of men.
Then humility was in the heart
of Imri, and the sorrow of all souls was his, for he saw that the path he had
followed led ever downward and that most men walk that way, following their
dreams, thinking their dreams the path.
“Look further”, said the Guru,
speaking kindly.
Imri saw a strange thing.
Constantly, at each step that
they took, there sprang up before each man of the multitude two paths, one
broad and full and fair seeming, pointing straight ahead in the line of their
desire; the other, mounting steep and abrupt, seemed to end, or be swallowed in
darkness. Few gave even one glance at the steep path. Most entered at once the
fair way, which seemed straight, but which turned to the left.
“Master, teach me the meaning
of this symbol. Why do all choose the smooth road, and none try the rugged
path.”
“Dreams are born of the
desires which are hid in the heart. All seek to enter the path, but they follow
the voice of desire which is golden and sweet and enticing, luring men on. The
path is the service of soul. When men aspire to enter the path, desire dreams
an easy path.”
“Why do not the Masters and
Gurus restrain them, and show them the path of duty?”
“It is the Master in the heart
of each, which offers at each step that men take, the steep path you have
seen.”
“Can not men see the true
path?”
“They see, but they do not
consider because of the desires hid in the heart.”
“Why do not the Masters speak,
showing the true path?”
“In their dreams, desire, clothed
in the light of their souls seems to them the Master, and the voice of the Guru
seems but a dream hard and unfeeling.”
“Can nothing be done to awaken
these souls wrapped in the images of desire?”
“In their dreams they choose
always the road that seems fair and smooth. But the myriad desires bruise their
feet. Then they consider and listen.”
“Ah”, said Imri, “even as I
was bruised and came to thee, my Preceptor in the beginning.”
“I was with you always”,
answered the Guru, “for whatever the path taken by mankind, that path is mine.”
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“The Maya of Imri” was published in the associated websites on 13 September 2019. It is part
of the volume “From the Book of Images”, by Dhan Gargya, The Cunningham
Press, Los Angeles, California, 1947, 192 pp., see pp. 29-33. Dhan Gargya is a
pseudonym used by John Garrigues.
The same story can be found, with no indication as to the name of the
author, in the April 1917 edition of “Theosophy” magazine, Los
Angeles.
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