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Ashtosh Singh calmly continued speaking.

“You grow your hair. For religious reasons, out of devotion to God. But that woman did not. She grew her hair even though she did not believe in the same religion as us. Why? For the sake of devotion.”

“…”

“She probably never wished to become one with God, or even thought about it. Her life must have been too strenuous and difficult to think of God. I could clearly see it. Her face was devoid of any makeup, marked by wrinkles from hard labor. I could assure you that her face appeared older than her actual age.”

“…”

“Nails filled with dust. Old accessories that must have been passed down through three generations. Just seeing the clothes, which have lost much of their original form from being mended countless times, I could understand her plight. And all the lions listening to my story could probably think of something similar.”

Many nodded in agreement.

It must have resonated with them.

“Even in such circumstances, her hair had a certain luster. It wasn’t because she was well-fed. It was because she did not neglect her hair even amidst hardships. Even when covered in dust and sweat, she must have washed her hair properly, using something inexpensive yet easy to obtain for grooming.”

“And that grooming wasn’t for adornment, nor for romance. It wasn’t a hobby, nor was it growing out her hair for the meaning of ‘devotion to God’ like a Sikh would.”

“It was to sell her hair. Just like taking good care of an item intended for sale at the market, she grew her hair with effort amidst a tough life, and came to sell it. With the money from selling that hair, she would buy food or necessary items before returning home.

Consider this.

Imagine the sight of that woman, neatly cutting her well-kept hair and returning with a bob.

Instead of long hair, gaining money from it and returning with an armful of food.

Children running towards her with bright smiles and tiny feet as they see the short-haired woman coming from afar, and her parents looking at her both apologetically and with pride.

That is the image of a happy family, the warmth created by one person’s dedication.”

Snap.

The sound of sparks flying accompanied Ashtosh Singh’s words.

As if responding in agreement.

“That is sacrifice and dedication. What greater honor could there be than to show the meaning of devotion by dedicating one’s own body? Can you belittle the dedication of this woman, lion? Can you diminish its value just because it’s not a devotion to God?”

“No.”

“Devote your body and mind. Even at the moment when you feel like you can barely breathe, when the annoyance rises in your throat to the point where you don’t want to do anything, you must act. Just as this woman did, amidst hard labor and a strenuous life, growing and maintaining her hair for her family’s sake. Such dedication is woven into our daily lives, something we can recognize at any moment, something that feels trivial, yet ultimately, it is rewarded.

Just like how that woman received money by selling her hair.”

Snap.

Snap.

Sparks fly.

The flames wavering in the campfires scattered around.

“I once heard such words from a Sikh. That growing and maintaining hair is merely a bothersome task, and that devotion can manifest in countless ways. How can devotion to God be tied solely to hair care?”

Ashtosh Singh paused for a moment and pointed to one person.

“You there, lion. What do you think of this statement?”

“It’s a blasphemous remark. It seems like someone who doesn’t even understand the meaning of keshi.”

“And you next to him?”

“I think the same. Isn’t that a terribly lazy person?”

“And you beside him!”

“How could one undermine the devotion to God like that? I agree as well.”

Ashtosh Singh nodded as he listened to their responses.

As if agreeing with their words.

“Right. You think that way.”

“Yes!”

“I do not.”

“Yes?”

Ashtosh Singh stood at the podium, gazing at them.

With eyes as intense as if they contained flames.

“Our growing hair indeed signifies devotion to God. However, it is clear that it can be formalistic, and if there exists a better way, a more fitting manner of devotion, it would be right to pursue that.”

“I saw someone dying of hunger on the road. You have nothing — no food, no money, but you have hair. If you cut and sell your hair, you have the chance to buy food for that person. Would you just leave him be? Would you turn a blind eye to a dying person just for a single hair?”

“…”

“Your family is struggling and you need money. If you cut and sell your hair, you could manage to restore your household, yet you would instead grow your hair and spend time grooming it, all in the name of showing your devotion to God while ignoring your family’s difficulties?

That is not dedication.

Our God would not be pleased to see such a sight.”

Silence prevails.

All eyes turn to Ashtosh Singh.

“How can someone who longs to become one with God hesitate to do good deeds? While professing devotion to God, how can one hesitate to perform the kind of dedication God would do for people? Have you ever seen a right hand hesitating while doing the command of the head? Have you ever seen the left hand, startled, grabbing hold of the wrist to prevent the right hand from acting?”

“If you truly long to become one with God, then you must understand that meaning properly.”

The old man speaks.

“We long for the truth. We wish to become one with Him who created the universe. To throw away arrogance, to guard against desire, to abandon greed, to master anger, and to refrain from obsession. We do not wish to hate but earnestly wish to become one with He who is the source of life and death.

And within that longing, we meditate, serve, and do good deeds. Thus we begin to feel His presence, encounter Him, and know that He is close to us. That He resides within us.

We are always together with Him.

We draw near to Him through service and goodness.

And to truly follow His will, we must also be able to give up honor.”

“…”

“What is honor?

It is your hair.

Your hair, which plainly shows your dedication.

Your hair, grown long despite being bothersome and difficult to maintain, a badge of how much devotion you have shown to God.

But a badge is merely a badge, and honor is just honor.

What folly is it to cling to that and refuse to do charity for others, to show no consideration?”

“…”

“Do not be obsessed. Do not flaunt your dedication.

Serve and give. Warm up the surroundings, act kindly.

What matters is the essence, and when facing God, there should be no shame.

If you wish to become one with Him, you must strive to resemble Him.”

Strength radiates.

Despite looking like an unassuming old man, it is impossible to look away.

An intense aura.

It feels as though he is emanating warm energy.

“This is exactly what I wanted to convey today.”

“…”

“This is what I wished to say about your appearance.”

“…”

“And this is a story about dedication.”

Ashtosh Singh gazes at them.

As if looking at a gathering of people illuminated by glowing flames.

“That is all.”

Now, at this moment.

This old man was a flame, a torch.

The flames burn, cutting through the darkness, freeing people from fear.

They bring comfort in the terror of darkness, helping one escape the chill enveloping the body to rest warmly.

Ashtosh Singh is something.

A torch?

A candle?

Or a campfire?

The flames emit light and draw people together.

And in the grace of that flame, people express gratitude and receive something in return.

It may be the heat to cook food, light to penetrate the darkness, or protection from the assault of wild beasts. It could be a blanket for those about to sleep or a mirror that reminds them of the past.

The grace of the flame.

As powerful and devoted as the flame that burns bright, those who receive such grace cannot forget it.

Thus, Ashtosh Singh has countless connections.

It is not merely an affiliation formed due to religion, nor because of being a shaman.

Those who have received grace from the flame named Ashtosh Singh.

Those positively influenced whom wish to connect with him, inspired by his flame.

And among them are those who would burn their own bodies to create a flame that makes the world a better place.

They are the firewood.

“They will prevent the advance of the flames and stop it from consuming people…”

On the podium.

Even after the people had vanished, Ashtosh Singh remained there.

The traces of extinguished campfires scattered about.

As he watched the remnants turned to ash and charcoal, he recalled those he had reached out to.

Firewood.

Those who wished to help stop the shaman named Park Jinseong, like a flame.

Who readily accepted his words about saving people.

Those who deemed it natural to perform good deeds in saving people, regardless of race or nationality.

They would become the walls to stop Park Jinseong.

They will become the fire line.

 

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