The Court Wakes
For a facilitator reading to a group, or for one person reading aloud alone; twenty-five to thirty minutes. Leave a breath between lines.
Before you begin. This practice follows the tale's two endings: Vālmīki's induction, the court's shared stillness, and the return. It is safe for most healthy adults. Do not use it, alone or in a group, with anyone who has a psychotic illness, a dissociative disorder, episodes of depersonalisation or derealisation, severe depression or current suicidal thoughts, uncontrolled epilepsy, or trauma that still produces flashbacks; if you have been recently bereaved, leave out the section on the elements and simply rest with the breath. The breath is slowed, never held by force. Sit; do not lie down. Never practise while driving or operating anything.
For facilitators: agree before you start that no one will be touched. If someone does not respond to the count at the end, do not raise your voice and do not touch them. Do what the text did: give a reason and permission ("People are waiting for you; this stillness will be here when you come back"), then speak only to the breath ("Let the breath come fuller… into the chest… into the hands"), say their name, and wait. Before anyone leaves, ask each person individually how they are.
How to return at any moment. Say inwardly, "I am here," take one full breath, press your feet into the floor and open your eyes. Nothing in this practice requires you to stay.
Sit as the princes sat. Feet on the floor, or legs crossed. Let the hands rest together. Let the eyes rest on one point in front of you, the face of whoever is speaking, or a spot on the floor.
You do not have to do anything well. You only have to be here.
Now one word, said slowly on each out-breath. Om, if that is yours, or a word of your own. Om. Let it come and go. Om. Keep it going until the mind is a little clearer than it was. You will know.
Let the word fall away.
Let the breath slow by itself. A little longer out than in.
Let the senses come in, one at a time. Sound first: the room, the far sounds, then let them be far. Touch: the seat, the hands, then let them be quiet. Sight: let the eyes close, and the light behind the lids be enough.
Now lend, for a while, what is yours.
Lend the weight of the body to the earth. Let the floor hold it.
Lend the moisture of the body to water: the mouth, the eyes, the slow tide in the veins.
Lend its warmth to fire. Feel where you are warm.
Lend the breath to the air. It goes out and comes back by itself.
Lend the eyes to the sun, the mind to the moon. Let them rest where they came from.
And now fold each into the next. Earth into water. Water into warmth. Warmth into air. Air into open space.
Only a wide, quiet space remains. Rest there.
If you are with others, notice that the room is quiet together. Like bees over lotuses, a soft murmur, each one in the same flower. You do not have to feel anything in particular. The quiet is shared whether you feel it or not.
From here, look at your life as a spectator looks at a play. Its comedy and its tragedy. The people coming and going on the stage. Watch without shrinking. Watch without shuddering. Nothing on that stage can reach this seat.
(Silence: two to four minutes.)
Perhaps a sound comes from outside: a car, a voice, a door. Let it come. The stillness does not break. Once, a great noise rose outside the hall where the court was sitting, and the court stayed where it was. So can you.
Now ask yourself, quietly, the question the teacher asked his pupil the next morning: In what state do I find myself now?
Let one sentence come in your own words. Only one. Hold it.
(Silence: one minute.)
Now the return.
Think of one person, or one task, that is waiting for you today. Someone who will be glad you came back. You are needed there.
And know that this stillness does not end. You can come back to it tonight, tomorrow, whenever you need it. Serve first. Then return. It will be here.
Now let the world be made again, in the order it was made.
Out of open space, the air: let the breath grow fuller, into the chest, into the shoulders.
Out of air, warmth: feel the warmth in the hands and the face.
Out of warmth, water: swallow once; feel the mouth, the eyes.
Out of water, earth: feel your weight come back. Press the feet down. Feel the seat under you.
Take back the eyes from the sun, the mind from the moon. They are yours again.
I will count from one to five. On five the eyes open, clear and rested.
One. The breath is full and ordinary.
Two. Hands and feet are warm and your own. Move the fingers.
Three. The sounds of the room come close. Lift the head a little.
Four. One deep breath in, and let the shoulders roll.
Five. Eyes open. Here. Now. Awake.
Look around slowly. If you are with others, see their faces. If you are alone, name three things you can see.
Say inwardly your name, today's date, and where you are. If anything still feels distant or slow, count again from one to five, stand up, walk a few steps and drink some water. Do not drive for ten minutes.
If you are in a group, stand without hurry. Greet the people near you. If you brush against someone, ask their pardon with a gesture, as the court did.
Take your one sentence home. Think about it tonight.
And now, as the sage said when the sun stood at noon: rise to your duties. Go and wash, and eat, and do the next thing.