The Lama and the Hidden Truth
Tarashis Gangopadhyay
(Sometimes, truth hides behind silence.
High in a Tibetan monastery, I asked the question that had haunted me: “What truly happened to the saint who vanished into legend?”
The lama smiled, as if he had heard it many times.
“Some truths,” he said, “are not lost… they are only waiting for hearts brave enough to carry them.”
And in that moment, I understood: mystery is not always to be solved — sometimes, it is to be honored.)
The monastery lay cradled in the shadow of ancient mountains. Its whitewashed walls glint under a sky washed clean by the high-altitude wind. Colorful prayer flags fluttered against the silence of stone courtyards.
I had traveled far to reach this place, driven by a question that refused to leave my mind—a question I scarcely dared to ask anyone back home.
In a quiet chamber scented with incense, I finally found myself sitting before him, an old Tibetan lama, his maroon robes faded by years of sun and wind, his gaze calm as still water. Outside, a bronze bell tolled softly in the breeze, as though counting the slow rhythm of a mountain dusk.
I hesitated, then spoke.
“Venerable Lama, there is something I wish to know, though it may sound strange.”
His face revealed no surprise, only a gentle curiosity.
“It is said,” I continued, “that Chaitanya Mahaprabhu of our Bengal was not lost in divine ecstasy as we were taught—but murdered in the temple. Can an enlightened being so divine be bound by prarabdha karma?”
For a moment, silence hung between us, as if the walls themselves were waiting. Then the lama smiled faintly, the lines on his face deepening like old riverbeds.
“Ah,” he began, “people often misunderstand the word prarabdha. They speak of it only when sorrow comes, forgetting that joy too is born of it. Success that arrives without effort, unexpected grace, even fame—these too are prarabdha. For most of us, life is a tapestry woven from the threads of deeds done long before.”
His eyes grew distant, as though peering into a space beyond the room.
“But for the great ones,” he said softly, “there is no question of prarabdha in the way we know it. They do not ascend through birth; they descend by will of the divine. That is why they are called avatars—those who come down. They do not act from personal wish. They accept the script that sages, seers, and cosmic necessity write for them. Joy, suffering, even death—they embrace it all with equal grace.
“We, trapped in desire and fear, see suffering as misfortune, death as defeat. But to them, all is part of the same dance.”
I felt the chill of the stone floor beneath me.
"But why is it," I asked quietly, "that so many saints meet cruel ends? Jesus was crucified, Socrates was forced to drink poison, and even the saints of our own country were poisoned or betrayed."The monastery lay cradled in the shadow of ancient mountains. Its whitewashed walls glint under a sky washed clean by the high-altitude wind. Colorful prayer flags fluttered against the silence of stone courtyards.
I had traveled far to reach this place, driven by a question that refused to leave my mind—a question I scarcely dared to ask anyone back home.
In a quiet chamber scented with incense, I finally found myself sitting before him, an old Tibetan lama, his maroon robes faded by years of sun and wind, his gaze calm as still water. Outside, a bronze bell tolled softly in the breeze, as though counting the slow rhythm of a mountain dusk.
I hesitated, then spoke.
“Venerable Lama, there is something I wish to know, though it may sound strange.”
His face revealed no surprise, only a gentle curiosity.
“It is said,” I continued, “that Chaitanya Mahaprabhu of our Bengal was not lost in divine ecstasy as we were taught—but murdered in the temple. Can an enlightened being so divine be bound by prarabdha karma?”
For a moment, silence hung between us, as if the walls themselves were waiting. Then the lama smiled faintly, the lines on his face deepening like old riverbeds.
“Ah,” he began, “people often misunderstand the word prarabdha. They speak of it only when sorrow comes, forgetting that joy too is born of it. The success that arrives without effort, unexpected grace, even fame—these too are prarabdha. For most of us, life is a tapestry woven from the threads of deeds done long before.”
The lama nodded, as though he too had asked this question many times in his youth.
“When light appears,” he said, “it casts a shadow. Darkness is drawn to it, sometimes to extinguish it, sometimes unknowingly to reveal its brightness. Yet the ones who live in light do not complain. Their suffering awakens others; their silence teaches more than words ever could.”
Outside, a gust of wind rattled the prayer flags, sending their colors dancing against the fading sky.
I leaned closer, voice low.
“And what about Chaitanya Mahaprabhu? What truly happened to him?”
The lama’s gaze met mine, deep and unhurried.
“In Puri,” he began, “politics and fear gathered around him like thunderclouds. Before his coming, many lower-caste Hindus were drifting toward Islam. Through his love, thousands returned.They were given land, cows, and even the name Goswami. Even Muslims admired him. His influence spread far from Bengal to the southern kingdoms. Muslim rulers, especially the Sultan of Bengal, were afraid of this new power.
When Mahaprabhu became close to the king of Odisha, Sultan Hussain Shah of Bengal sought to break this bond. He worked through Puri’s ministers, who in turn had ties to the temple priests—the pandas. It is whispered that within the temple walls, when Mahaprabhu passed into samadhi, they entombed him secretly.”
A candle beside us flickered, casting shifting shadows on the stone wall.
“But,” the lama continued, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, “recent whispers suggest something even stranger. That Mahaprabhu saw the plot forming and staged his own death. Just as your Subhas Chandra Bose is said to have vanished behind stories of death, Mahaprabhu may have walked into obscurity under another name. The papers, the notes—they exist, but remain hidden, guarded by those who fear what truth might awaken.”
I sat in silence, the weight of the story was enveloping me like mountain mist.
“So we don't know?” I asked finally.
The lama smiled—a smile not of certainty, but of acceptance. “Not yet,” he said. “But perhaps, in time, the truth will come forth. And those who seek it must be ready to bear its burden, for knowledge can be as heavy as it is precious.”
Outside, the last light of the sun slipped behind the mountains. The prayer bell tolled once more, its note hanging in the cold air like a question that had found no final answer.
And somewhere in that silence, I felt the presence of a truth far larger than history, hidden yet alive—waiting, as the lama had said, for hearts ready to know.
SpiritualJourney #MysticTales
#SoulStory
#InnerPeace
#LifeQuotes #DailyInspiration #ViralReels
#ExplorePage #FYP
#ContentCreator #MindfulLiving #AwakeningSoul #UniverseHasYourBack
