Dhumavati. A Voice in the Smoke

“So some of that was you?”

Some.

“And the rest?”

You.

“How do I tell which is which?”

Learn.

Dmitry sighed.

“Do you ever have an answer without the word ‘learn’ in it?”

I do.

“For example?”

No.

He laughed.

“Ma, it’s impossible to argue with you.”

So I have heard.

“I know.”

* * *

Around that time something else new began to appear in the flat.

People.

Until then Dmitry had been used to his home belonging to him, his books and the silence. Acquaintances dropped in now and then, sometimes someone came about matters of practice, but there was no regular circle. Now, more and more often, people turned up who wanted not simply to get some kind of help from him but to understand what exactly he was doing.

At first the questions irritated him.

“But why is it like this here?”

“Because that’s how it works.”

“But why?”

“Because…”

And Dmitry would suddenly discover that explaining an action was considerably harder than performing it himself. It is one thing to know something with your hands. It is quite another to take that knowledge apart into words so that another person understands and does not repeat half your mistakes.

After one such conversation he closed the door behind the woman who had come to see him and said at once:

“I’m not going to teach anyone.”

Ma answered:

You will.

“No.”

You will.

“I’m not an educator.”

That is obvious.

“Thanks.”

You are welcome.

Dmitry went through to the kitchen.

“I get tired of people quickly.”

I know.

“I haven’t got the patience to explain the same thing five times.”

I know.

“Then why would I want students?”

To learn to explain five times.

He stopped.

“No.”

Yes.

“I’m serious.”

So am I.

“Ma, I don’t want to become any kind of guru.”

Then do not become one.

“Then how am I supposed to teach?”

Teacher and guru are not the same word.

“For the person on the other side of the table the difference is sometimes small.”

It is your task to make it clear.

Dmitry poured himself some tea.

“I have a feeling someone is about to ruin my quiet life again.”

Have you ever had a quiet life?

He thought about it.

“Sometimes.”

When?

“I don’t remember.”

Exactly.

* * *

The first girl to stay longer than the rest appeared a few months later.

At first she came with an ordinary question. Then with another one. Then she brought a notebook.

Dmitry disliked this at once: people with notebooks seldom meant to ask just one question.

She sat down opposite him and opened it at the first page.

“I wrote down what you said last time.”

Dmitry looked at the notebook. Then at her.

“Why?”

“So as not to forget.”

“Sensible.”

“And I’ve got some questions.”

“That’s less sensible.”

She smiled.

“Many?” Dmitry asked.

“Questions? Yes.”

She turned the page. There was a list. A long one.

Dmitry closed his eyes and said in his head:

“Ma.”

I am here.

“Is this you?”

Is what me?

“This.”

She came of her own accord.

“But you knew.”

Of course.

“And said nothing.”

You would have refused.

He looked at the girl. She was waiting.

“All right,” said Dmitry. “Let’s take them in order.”

Ma said quietly:

Well then. Learn.

Dmitry answered in his head:

“Don’t start.”

But he already understood that it was not Ma who had started. Something else was starting.

And for the first time since he had begun to hear Ma, her voice was not the strangest part of what was happening. By then Dmitry had grown used to her hearing him.

Now he had to find out whether he himself could hear another person.

Chapter Seven

The Student

After the first long list of questions the girl came again a week later.

Dmitry had not invited her. But nor had he told her not to come again.

At seven in the evening the doorbell rang. He had only just got back from work, had managed to change and was about to have a proper supper. He looked at the clock.

“Don’t tell me it’s her.”

Ma answered at once:

It is her.

“Are you taking the mickey?”

No.

The bell rang again. Dmitry opened the door.

The same girl was standing on the threshold. In her hands, a notebook.

Dmitry looked first at her. Then at the notebook.

“Have you brought that with you again?”

The girl lowered her eyes to the notebook.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Last time there were a lot of questions in it.”

“There are fewer now.”

“How many fewer?”

She thought for a moment.

“Twelve, probably.”

Dmitry stepped back from the door without a word.

“Come in.”

Ma remarked quietly:

You could have refused.

“I could.”

But you did not.

“Ma.”

I am saying nothing.

* * *

This time the conversation lasted almost three hours. Several times Dmitry tried to bring it to an end, and each time there came:

“And one last question.”

By the third hour he had stopped believing in the word “last”.

The questions, however, were not stupid, and that saved the situation. She did not ask how to gain power in three days. She was not interested in ways of making another person do what she needed. She did not ask to be shown anything spectacular.

What interested her was something else. Why does one and the same practice feel different to different people? Can a strong experience be taken as a sign of results? Why does a person sometimes feel nothing at all after several weeks of work? What matters more – the precision of the action or the state? Can you practise when you are not in the mood? And why does Dmitry say every time that mood has nothing whatever to do with discipline?

At the last question he looked at her.

“Because it hasn’t.”

“But if a person’s in a bad state?”

“Then they’re in a bad state.”

“And they still have to practise?”

“Depends on the practice.”

“And if they don’t feel like it?”

“That’s a different question.”

“What’s the difference?”

Dmitry leant back in his chair.

“The difference is that ‘I feel awful’ and ‘I can’t be bothered’ are not the same thing.”

She wrote it down.

“Do you write everything down?”

“Nearly everything.”

“Why?”

“I reread it afterwards.”

“And does it help?”

“Sometimes I see that I understood it wrongly at first.”

Dmitry nodded.

“That’s useful.”

The girl raised her eyes.

“And do you write things down?”

He glanced at the cupboard where the old notebooks from India were kept.

“Far too much.”

“May I see?”

“No.”

The answer came so quickly that she dropped the subject at once. Dmitry liked that. Not because she showed no curiosity – there was curiosity. But she had heard where the boundary lay the first time round, and to him that meant more than long speeches about reverence for one’s teacher.

* * *

After she had gone Dmitry cleared away the cups. A sheet of paper with several diagrams he had drawn while explaining was left lying on the table. He crumpled it up and threw it away.

“Well?”

Ma did not answer.

“I know you’re here.”

You do.

“Then – well?”

What do you want to hear?

“What you think of her.”

Why?

“Because she’s come a second time.”

You noticed that without my help.

“Ma.”

Observe.

Dmitry opened the fridge.

“Your favourite answer again.”

You want a ready-made opinion so that you do not have to form your own later.

“No.”

A pause.

“Possibly.”

There.

He took out his supper.

“But you understand why she comes?”

Yes.

“And?”

She wants to learn.

“That’s obvious.”

Then why ask about the obvious?

Dmitry put the plate on the table.

“All right. Will she manage?”

The answer did not come at once.

We shall see.

“Does that mean you don’t know?”

No.

“Then why ‘we shall see’?”

Because knowing what a person is capable of becoming and seeing what they actually choose are different things.

Dmitry fell silent.

He did not like that phrase. Not because it was hard to understand – on the contrary, because it was too easy to understand.

“So the potential is there.”

It is.

“And the rest depends on her?”

Not only on her.

“Who else?”

On you as well.

He gave a wry smile.

“That’s just what I was afraid of.”

No. You were not afraid yet.

“Very reassuring.”

* * *

The third time she came not with questions. With a book.

She put it on the table.

“I tried to read it.”

Dmitry looked at the cover. He knew the book: a popular edition he had once bought himself, back when his interest in the subject was just beginning.

“And?”

“I can’t tell which parts are sound and which the author is making up.”

“Good question.”

“That’s why I brought it.”

Dmitry opened the book and leafed through it. Several pages were marked with slips of paper.

“Did you finish it?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“And how much did you understand?”

She thought about it.

“About thirty per cent.”

“That’s already better than if you’d said ninety.”

The girl laughed.

“Why?”

“Because then I’d have had to start by explaining that you’d understood nothing.”

He found one of the bookmarks.

“What raised a question here?”

She pointed to a paragraph. Dmitry read it and winced.

“Forget this altogether.”

“Why?”

“Because the author has mixed up three different things and made out he’s ended up with a single system.”

“So what’s the right way?”

Dmitry took a sheet of paper and began to explain. Twenty minutes later there were two diagrams on the table. After forty minutes, four. After an hour he stopped.

“Now I understand why teachers sometimes tell their students simply to be quiet and listen.”

She smiled.

“Do I ask a lot?”

“A great deal.”

“You don’t like it?”

He was about to answer automatically. But he stopped himself.

“Sometimes it’s irritating.”

“Then I can ask less.”

“Don’t.”

She was surprised.

“Why?”

“If you stop asking because I can’t be bothered to answer, what’s the point of studying at all?”

She looked at him for a few seconds.

“All right.”

Dmitry suddenly realised that he liked her seriousness. Not the seriousness with which a person tries to look initiated into the secrets of the universe – another kind, an ordinary kind. She could be laughing at his irritation one minute and pull herself together instantly the next, if the talk turned to something important.

He had noticed this quality almost at once. And made a mental note of it.

* * *

Gradually a routine emerged. Not set up on purpose – it simply took shape. Once or twice a week she came in the evening, sometimes at the weekend.

For the first months almost everything took place at an ordinary table. Books, notebooks, tea, explanations. No beautiful ceremonies, no promises of secret power. Dmitry generally tried, for as long as possible, not to give her anything that might make too strong an impression.

“Why are we always going over theory?”

“Because you don’t know it.”

“But surely we need to practise too.”

“We do.”

“Then when?”

“When you’re ready.”

“And how will I know?”

“I’ll tell you.”

She looked at him.

“And if I feel it myself?”

“Doesn’t count.”

“Why?”

“Because a beginner feels their own readiness most keenly precisely when it isn’t there.”

She frowned.

“How do you mean?”

“The less a person knows, the less they see of what they don’t know.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards it gets worse.”

“Why worse?”

“They begin to grasp the scale of it.”

She wrote it down. Dmitry looked.

“You needn’t write that down.”

“Why?”

“It’s a joke.”

“A good one.”

“Thank you.”

She wrote it down anyway.

* * *

Ma hardly ever interfered, and this surprised Dmitry. He had expected comments, warnings, at least the usual “not like that”. But more often she simply kept silent.

Only once, after the girl had gone, did she say:

You explained too much.

Dmitry stopped by the door.

“Where?”

In the last conversation.

“What exactly?”

You gave her the answer before she had reached the question herself.

He frowned.

“I was just explaining.”

Exactly.

“And what should I have done?”

Asked.

“Asked what?”

Something that would have made her think.

Dmitry took a cup off the table.

“I don’t know how to teach.”

Learn.

“I’ve heard that one before.”

Then repetition is useful.

“Very funny.”

At their next meeting Dmitry tried it. The girl asked a question – he did not answer.

“What do you think?”

She was taken aback.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

“I understand.”

“Then why don’t you answer?”

“I want to find out what you already know.”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”

Dmitry unexpectedly recognised himself in that phrase and gave a wry smile.

“That’s roughly how I talk to my own teacher.”

“And what does he say?”

Dmitry looked straight ahead.

Ma said:

Do not even think about it.

He barely held back a smile.

“Usually something that irritates me.”

“Does it help?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

* * *

The first real practice he gave her came a good deal later than she had counted on. A very simple one: no complicated actions, no dangerous methods. The task was almost boring – discipline of attention, counting, steadiness, precision and a daily record of the result.

She was disappointed. Dmitry noticed at once.

“Were you expecting something different?”

“A little.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excellent.”

“Why excellent?”

“Because if a person knows in advance what a mystical experience is supposed to be like, they very quickly start manufacturing it for themselves.”

“And is this a mystical practice at all?”

“Not yet.”

“Then what is it?”

“A test of whether you can do a simple thing the same way every day.”

“And that’s important?”

“Far more important than it seems.”

She nodded.

“For how long?”

“Two weeks, for now.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

“And if I miss one?”

“You write down that you missed it.”

“And that’s all?”

“What would you like me to do?”

“I don’t know. Tell me off.”

“You’re not at school.”

“Then why do you need to know?”

“To know whether you can be trusted with anything further.”

She stopped smiling.

“I see.”

“Now you really do see.”

* * *

Two weeks later the notebook lay in front of him. Fourteen entries. One day missed.

Dmitry looked.

“Why?”

“I got back late. I was very tired. I decided I’d do it twice in the morning.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make up for the missed day.”

“But the amount’s the same.”

“Practice isn’t bookkeeping.”

She frowned.

“What difference does it make, if the quantity’s the same?”

“A big one.”

He turned the notebook round towards her.

“The condition was every day.”

“Yes.”

“Not a certain amount over two weeks.”

“All right.”

“Have you just agreed, or do you simply want to end the argument?”

She looked at him.

“For now I just want to end the argument.”

Dmitry laughed.

“Excellent.”

“Why?”

“Because at least it’s honest.”

She smiled too.

“All right. What is the difference?”

Dmitry explained. Not about punishment, not some ritual bogeyman – about steadiness. If a person promises themselves to perform a small action every day and at once begins changing the condition to suit their own convenience, it is too early to give them complicated commitments.

She was silent for a long time. Then she said:

“So – start again?”

“Yes.”

“Another two weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

“No.”

“Looks like it.”

“You needn’t do it.”

She raised her head.

“I’ll do it.”

And she did. All fourteen days, without missing one.

On the fifteenth she brought the notebook and put it on the table.

“Now?”

Dmitry looked through it.

“Now we move on.”

She smiled as though she had been given a prize. He noticed it.

So did Ma.

Do not encourage a dependence on your approval.

“I didn’t say anything.”

You looked.

“So what am I supposed to do now, shut my eyes?”

Do not play the fool.

Dmitry lowered his gaze to the notebook, hiding a smile.

“What?” the girl asked.

“Nothing.”

* * *

In time the formality between them began to get in the way. Not on purpose – it simply sounded stranger and stranger.

They could spend several hours going through a text, arguing, laughing, drinking tea, and then she would suddenly say:

“And do you consider…”

And the distance would fall back into place.

One day Dmitry interrupted:

“Let’s drop the formalities, shall we?”

She fell silent.

“May I?”

“I thought that’s what I’d just suggested.”

“I thought students weren’t allowed to.”

“Who said so?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then nobody did.”

“All right.”

A pause.

“So you reckon…”

She stopped and laughed.

“What?”

“It feels strange.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“Will you?”

“I already have.”

That was not true. For several more meetings Dmitry would sometimes slip back into formality without thinking, and each time she noticed.

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Being formal.”

“Habit.”

“You’re getting old.”

He looked at her.

“Getting bold, aren’t you?”

“You said I could.”

“I said you could drop the formalities. I don’t remember saying you could be cheeky.”

She laughed.

Ma said:

You have only yourself to blame.

“Thanks.”

* * *

It was then that Dmitry first noticed that he had begun to look forward to her coming. He did not like this discovery.

Until then the student had been part of the work. Interesting, sometimes irritating, capable – but a student all the same. Now, on the day she usually came, Dmitry caught himself clearing the table in advance, brewing more tea, looking at the clock. If she was ten minutes late, he noticed. Twenty – and he began to get irritated.

Once she was almost an hour late. She had not warned him.

When she finally arrived, Dmitry opened the door and said:

“There’s such a thing as a phone.”

She understood at once.

“Sorry.”

“If you’re going to be late, text me.”

“All right.”

“I’m not going to sit for an hour wondering whether you’re coming or not.”

She took off her jacket.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“We had an arrangement.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Dmitry looked at her.

“Don’t push your luck.”

She smiled.

“So you were waiting.”

“Get your notebook out.”

She went through to the table.

Ma was silent – and that was precisely why Dmitry knew the conversation was not over yet.

After she had gone he asked:

“Well?”

What?

“Go on.”

You have already understood everything.

“What exactly?”

Do not pretend.

He sat down.

“I like her.”

Ma did not answer.

“I said: I like her.”

I heard.

“And?”

It is your life.

“Very convenient.”

Were you expecting a prohibition?

Dmitry thought about it.

“I don’t know.”

Or permission?

“Not that either.”

Then why are you asking?

He looked at the empty chair opposite.

“Because she’s my student.”

And?

“There’s a boundary.”

There is.

“There you are.”

But you are not talking about a boundary now. You are talking about feelings.

“They could destroy it.”

They could.

“Or the teaching.”

They could.

“Once again you’re no help whatsoever.”

I am helping you not to shift the decision on to me.

Dmitry was silent for a while.

“Do nothing?”

That is also a decision.

“Ma.”

What?

“Could it be simpler, just occasionally?”

It can. Do not hurry.

He nodded. That, at least, was clear.

Not hurrying, admittedly, was the thing he was worst at.

* * *

For several months nothing changed on the surface. She learnt, Dmitry taught – and at the same time learnt himself.

More and more often Ma made him hold back from answering at once. Leave a person room to make a mistake. Not prompt every next step. Not turn help into a constant steering of someone else’s decisions.

For Dmitry this proved harder than he had expected: whenever he saw a mistake coming, he wanted to stop it before it happened.

Ma stopped him.

Do not interfere.

“She’ll get it wrong.”

Let her.

“I could tell her.”

You could. But then it would be your decision, not hers.

“What’s a teacher for, if he keeps quiet?”

To know when to keep quiet.

This idea infuriated Dmitry almost physically. And yet gradually it began to make sense.

One day the girl came and said, unprompted:

“You were right.”

“That’s a rare and pleasant start to a conversation.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.”

She put down her notebook.

“Remember you asked why I do it exactly that way?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were nitpicking.”

“That’s the usual theory.”

“And then I understood.”

“What?”

She explained. Dmitry listened and felt two things at once. First – she really had understood. Second – if he had given her a ready-made answer back then, she would simply have written it down and moved on.

After she had gone Ma said:

That is why.

“I’ve got it.”

Really?

“Don’t spoil the moment.”

* * *

The relationship between them changed slowly. So slowly that afterwards it was impossible to pin down the exact point.

When did the student become someone Dmitry wanted to see not only for the sake of lessons? When did the talks after practice grow longer than the practice itself? When did she first stay not because there was a question, but simply because neither of them wanted the evening to end? When did Dmitry begin telling her about his life in India no longer as a teacher giving an example, but simply because he wanted to share it? When did she stop sitting squarely opposite him and start curling up to one side with her legs tucked under her? When did her cup get a permanent place in the cupboard?

Not one moment looked like an event.

But one day Dmitry opened the cupboard, saw two cups side by side and realised that he had long thought of the second one as hers.

He closed the cupboard door.

“Ma.”

Yes.

“Nothing.”

I know.

“Then keep quiet.”

I am keeping quiet.

* * *

The first time they quarrelled it was over something completely trivial. She had not kept an arrangement – not to do with practice, an ordinary one. She had promised to ring and had not rung.