Vaishali... Ah, Vaishali! That glorious land of the ancient republic, where the art, culture, and governance of the Licchavis illuminated an era. It is said that those same art-loving, self-respecting Licchavis later climbed the hills to escape the constant pressure from neighboring kingdoms and laid the foundation of a new civilization in the Kathmandu Valley. That was around the 6th century BCE, a matter fading in the pages of history, but the seed-idea of that republic continued to influence the surrounding regions for ages.

 

Our story begins in a small but independent state, considered religiously and culturally prosperous at one time, located north of that same Vaishali. A little beyond the state's capital, in the solitude of a dense forest, an ashram was slowly taking shape. Its operator was Singh Ji. People knew him by this name. He had initiated a strange sect, which seemed original at first glance, but those in the know said it was merely a process of follower-creation, twisting the philosophical chain of thought of a famous Indian saint-philosopher and interpreting it for his own convenience. Singh Ji had no original philosophy of his own, but his skill in oratory and displaying erudition was marvelous. He was adept at presenting even others' knowledge as if it were the product of his own contemplation. Well, perhaps copyright wasn't so strictly enforced back then! But according to the sant who told me the story, the original guru's mantras and methods were indeed copyrighted, which Singh Ji had shamelessly appropriated.

The ashram itself was a mystery. The meditation techniques practiced there were strange and peculiar. Some even joked, "It seems Singh Ji pacifies the devotees' minds using some invisible electromagnetic wave!" Indeed, crowds of people carrying unrest in their minds, oppressed by life's sorrows and pains, or unsuccessful in married life or love relationships, were thick there. The ashram's atmosphere was strange – an outer shell of peace, inside an upheaval of emotions. People there fell in love with each other; some even entered into 'spiritual marriages'. Their argument was, "Why be bound by the rigid rules and norms of society? When a soul accepts another soul, that is the real marriage."

As high-ranking government officials, ministers, and generals began visiting his hermitage for audiences, Singh Ji quickly established himself as a 'branded yogi'. That sacred (?) place, untouched by the state's rules and laws, had become, in a way, a center for practicing high-level freedom, where the boundaries of social decorum were blurred.

But Singh Ji? He was more of a businessman than a sant, more of a technician than a yogi. He was married, had children already. Claiming to sow peace in others' minds, his own mind remained perpetually restless and unsatisfied. He incited one of his own devoted female followers to surrender completely to him, bestowed upon her the title of 'Guruama' (Respected Mother/Female Guru figure), and publicly announced their 'spiritual marriage'. This further enhanced his glory.

Now, the devotees' surrender to him turned into a kind of competition. Female devotees, especially, became eager for his service. Some would massage his body with fragrant oils; others would await his every gesture. A race began among the young women to dedicate themselves to the guru. One guru, many wishing to surrender! Whom could Singh Ji give time to? The situation reached a point where those wishing to surrender had to wait their turn.

This 'special surrender' was given a symbolic name – 'Guruprasad' (Guru's Blessing/Offering). It was such a 'prasad' that only selected, especially beautiful and young women, received. Inside the hermitage, Singh Ji had an entirely private, secret chamber where this 'prasad' was distributed. The young women who received this prasad considered themselves extremely fortunate. A special radiance appeared on their faces; their walk and talk displayed a unique swagger and confidence. Their influence within the ashram was distinctly different.

But those who did not receive the guru's 'love prasad' or 'Guruprasad' became truly sad and resentful. They would say amongst themselves, or sometimes with sarcasm mixed with anger, "What times have come! For some, even sperm is considered prasad!"

Meanwhile, the winds of Vaishali's republic had slowly reached that northern state too. There too, the monarchy fell, and a republic was established. But along with the republic, corruption, disorder, and immorality also began to take root. The country was becoming afflicted. Its shadow was clearly visible in Singh Ji's ashram – there was extreme inequality in the distribution of 'Guruprasad'. Whoever was beautiful, received it; others could only watch. This subtle corruption and discrimination within the ashram seemed like a small but ugly reflection of the larger disorder spreading in the society outside.

In this sequence of events, an extremely beautiful and talented female artist of her time also arrived at the ashram in search of peace. Her beauty, like her art, was ethereal. It is said that a 'special' relationship developed between her and Singh Ji. Her innocent hope and surrender got entangled in Singh Ji's clever charm. She stayed there for a long time. She too gained a distinct place in the ashram. Rumors began to circulate – she too had received the 'Guruprasad'.

But the end was not happy. After some time, that same radiant artist descended into a state of mental distraction. Her ethereal beauty had withered; fear and pain had replaced the hope in her eyes. One day, without telling anyone, her eyes full of tears, she left the ashram – saying she was going for treatment for mental illness. What happened to her after that, nobody knows for sure. But the insiders at the ashram whispered, "She too had received the 'Guruprasad'; perhaps she couldn't digest it."

This story ends here. What is the truth, who knows? There is no proof. But the sant who tells the story says – such Singh Jis and their game of 'prasad' continue in some form or another in every era, in every society. The lesson of equality and justice taught by Vaishali's republic was thus torn to shreds by this ashram to its north. History repeats itself, sometimes as glory, sometimes as such irony.