In a still green pond behind the ashram of the sage Aruni grew a single
broad lotus, and on its long stalk floated one perfect round leaf.
A young student named Ketu came to Aruni troubled. "Master," he said, "you
tell me the Self lives inside this body. But the body gets hungry and angry
and tired and sick. If the Self lives in such a place, surely all that
trouble must rub off on it? Surely it gets dirty, living so close to all
our mess?"
Aruni did not answer with words. He led the boy to the edge of the pond and
pointed to the floating lotus leaf.
"Watch," he said.
All morning they sat by the water. The monsoon clouds rolled in, and the
rain came down in sheets, drumming on the pond, splashing the leaf. Drops
gathered on its broad green surface — and then, one by one, they rolled
together into shining silver beads and slid right off, leaving the leaf
perfectly dry. A buffalo waded in upstream and stirred up clouds of brown
mud; the muddy water lapped at the leaf, but when it drew back, not a
speck clung to the green.
By afternoon a heron landed on the leaf, then flapped away. The leaf dipped
and rose, dipped and rose, and lay flat and clean again.
"All day," said Aruni softly, "this leaf has rested on the water. Rain has
fallen on it. Mud has touched it. A bird has stood on it. And look — it is
as dry and clean as it was at dawn. The water cannot wet it. Nothing
sticks."
Ketu reached out and touched the leaf. It was true. His finger came away
dry.
"The supreme Self," Aruni said, "is like this leaf. It has no beginning and
no ending. It is made of nothing that nature can grip. So even though it
rests inside the body all your life — through every hunger and anger and
sickness — it does no work and nothing ever stains it. The body does the
getting hungry. The body does the getting tired. The Self only rests upon
it all, clean and untouched, like this leaf upon the pond."
Ketu looked from the dry leaf to his own hands and felt, for the first time,
that there was something in him that no bad day could ever spoil.
