It is never easy to say what history will remember. Sometimes, people of no significance are remembered simply because of the circumstances that they lived in. And sometimes, some truly remarkable people are completely forgotten. Though they are forgotten by men, they leave their mark on life in subtle ways. Their stories are remembered by the earth and the sky. These stories are for those who know how to listen. One such story is the story of the poet Vishwakarma.
Vishwakarma lived thousands of years ago in a small kingdom at the foothills of the Himalayas. Though history has chosen not to remember him, during his lifetime, he was considered to be one of the greatest poets of all time. His skill with words was such that some believed his poems to be imbued with mystical power. His imagination was such that some believed he could see into other worlds. His songs lit up the lives of common men and women. They thrilled scholars. They even threw the mystics into raptures.
He lived in a small hut on a hill, on the outskirts of the capital city. Every now and then, he would enter the city and wander through the streets, singing his songs. The people loved him and would gladly give him the few things he needed to stay alive. But Vishwakarma was no beggar. He simply sang for the joy of singing. He would wander through the city all day and then finally depart in the evening for his little hut. Then, after about a month, he would return again with new songs.
One day the King announced a poetry competition. The one who would write the finest poem would be appointed as the court poet. As Vishwakarma drifted along the streets, lost in his own world, singing his songs, someone told him about the competition.
"The finest poem?" Vishwakarma wondered. It had never occured to him that there was such a thing. It was still just noon and he still had many songs left to sing. But without another word, he turned and left for his little hut outside the city.
A month passed, but Vishwakarma did not return to the city. A few of his admirers decided to visit him. They found him on the hill, sitting on a huge rock outside his hut. They asked him why he had not come to the city to sing his songs.
"The finest poem," he said. "I have been busy. But it is not ready yet."
"Sing us a few of your songs," they said. "We have missed you."
He smiled softly and nodded. A few songs had come his way as he waited for the finest poem to descend upon him. He began to sing. These men were already his admirers. They had grown used to, and had fallen in love with, the music of his soul. But they could not help feeling that these songs were something different. The sound went deeper into their hearts than ever before.
"Sing these songs in the King's court, Vishwakarma!" they said. "You will surely win!"
Vishwakarma smiled and shook his head. The finest poem was yet to come. His friends thanked him and went back to the city. The next day they walked the streets, singing Vishwakarma's new songs. The songs spread through the city and were soon heard in the palace as well. The King too was deeply moved. He had heard Vishwakarma's songs before, but he had never heard anything like these. He was delighted to hear that Vishwakarma was composing something special, something even better for the competition. He decided to postpone the competition until the great poet was ready.
Another month passed by, and Vishwakarma did not return to the city. This time, the King himself arrived at his little hut.
"My court needs you," said the King. "You are indeed the finest poet in my kingdom. Let us forget about the competition. I will make you my court poet right now if you agree."
Vishwakarma shook his head. His finest creation was still not done. But since the king had come all this way to see him, he closed his eyes and began to sing softly. Something strange happened. It seemed to the listeners as if he was no longer contained within his body. His presence had spilled out and had permeated the rocks, the trees, the hills and the sky. The birds fell silent. Even the wind seemed to fall under his spell. It danced with the gestures of his hands and rose and fell with his voice. It was as if the whole of creation was singing. When his song was complete, a deep silence fell around him.
Full of awe, the king bowed before him and left.
Since then, Vishwakarma never came to the city. Every day he would sit upon the huge rock outside his hut and he would wait. His friends brought the few things he needed from the city. Once a month, the King would arrive, accompanied by men and women from all walks of life. Vishwakarma would yield to their love and sing to them. They would drink from his soul and leave fulfilled. But the songs that he sang for them did not satisfy him. He remained unfulfilled. He continued to wait.
The longer he waited, the more his songs seemed to grow in power and beauty. His fame continued to spread and people began to come from distant kingdoms to listen to this strange mystic-poet. Other poets and artists wondered at the potency of his creations. Filled with both awe and jealousy, they began to believe that the source of his art was not human, that it was inspired by supernatural beings. Some said that Vishwakarma would visit realm of the gods and that the songs he sang were composed by the gods themselves. Others said that evil spirits visited him in the night and infused his poetry with their seductive power. Some of them decided to discover Vishwakarma's secret and sent a spy to watch him.
The spy arrived at Vishwakarma's hut in the middle of the night. He found Vishwakarma sitting on the rock as usual. There were no gods and no evil spirits. He hid behind the trees and began to keep watch from a distance. But there was nothing to see. There was just the frail form of Vishwakarma, sitting motionless in the moonlight. Finally, his curiosity overwhelmed him. He stepped out into the open and approached the rock. As he drew closer, what he saw filled him with amazement.
Vishwakarma's eyes were open and fixed upon the moon. He was looking at it intently, almost as if he were in a trance. Only his lips were moving, whispering strange and beautiful songs. Hours passed and Vishwakarma remained on the rock, locked in his trance. It soon became apparent to the spy that he was not entirely still, he was moving slowly, shifting his position on the spot so as to keep his eyes on the moon. Finally, when the moon set, he closed his eyes and became motionless. Filled with fear and awe, the spy ran back to the city.
Within a few days, everyone in the city knew - Vishwakarma got his inspiration from the moon! So they had been right - his songs came from a supernatural source. Soon, hundreds of poets began to spend their nights on terraces, staring at the moon. But no songs came forth for them. Some of them consulted the scholars and priests about this strange practice, but no one had any explanations. Finally, a few young poets decided to ask Vishwakarma himself.
"We have tried to do what you do," they said. "We too have stared at the moon for hours, but the moon does not speak to us."
Vishwakarma laughed heartily.
"Don't stare at the moon," he said. "
Follow the moon!"
Puzzled by his reply, they questioned him further about it. But they soon realized that while he was not trying to hide anything from them, he simply had nothing more to say.
Many years passed.
It was a full moon night. A man arrived at the palace gates carrying a message for the King. It was a message from Vishwakarma. He had finished composing his poem - the finest poem. The messenger wanted to deliver the message to the King himself. But the King's attendants did not wish to disturb the King at such a late hour. After all, this message could wait until the next morning.
The next day, early in the morning, the King arrived at Vishwakarma's hut, accompanied by a crowd. Vishwakarma was seated on the rock as usual. His eyes were open and his face turned upwards. As they approached him, they realized that it was too late. He was dead. The King laughed and shook his head. Somehow, he was not surprised.
Thousands of years have passed since then. Somehow, none of Vishwakarma's songs have survived. Even his name has been forgotten by the masses. The hut where he lived has turned to dust. But the hill still exists somewhere, as does the rock upon which he sat. And there are some strange legends about Vishwakarma's hill that are whispered among a few mad poets of this land.
It is said that if one having the soul of a poet visits Vishwakarma's hill even by accident, strange and beautiful songs begin to pour out of him. No one seems to know where the hill is, and yet, it is said that poets with enough madness in their souls are sometimes drawn to it by an invisible force. And when they find it, they know. On full moon nights, one can hear Vishwakarma's final poem - the finest poem. Those who hear it never write again because they realize that there is nothing left to write.
Among the few who know have heard of such things, some choose not to believe. Some believe with all their hearts. Some even claim to know the location of that hill, but they absolutely refuse to reveal it. They have only one thing to say as a clue - "
Follow the moon!"
