PRANA AND PRAYER - II (Bulldy)

A young boy brings home from the farm a bird with a broken wing. A little girl has some chicks at home, and they are growing up into fine hens. One hen breaks a leg. The children have some pet dogs. Their favourite one gets badly hurt in a fight.

Each time, the children pray. They do it secretly, inwardly, desperately. They turn away their eyes, lest an elder sees the supplication in them and thinks it a weakness or brands it as foolish sentiment. Their hearts are aching in desperation.

They do not make a ceremony and pray out aloud. They do not wash hands and feet and cover heads and bow down and fold hands and face towards something. They just live the prayers, they just be the prayers. Their prayers are not directed to any power that can be given a name, just to the hope that their dear ones will get better.

That is Prayer.

The bird with the broken wing dies. Silent, moist eyes. The children give it a small burial. Sadness is gradually replaced with a tender feeling of having done their utmost, and having loved the dying bird.

The hen’s leg has been put in a splint and bandaged. One uncle calls the hen after a chicken delicacy, saying that they would cook it if it didn't get better; at the same time he keenly observes the bandaging. He is making the pain easier to bear if the orthopaedic ministrations fail. The little girl fights with him. On the fourth day, the hen gets up and hobbles around. After a few days the splint is removed. It walks, then runs around, with a pronounced limp. The name stays as long as it lives. The children enjoy many an egg it lays.

The favourite dog gradually succumbs to his injuries. His name is Bulldy. The family sits in prayer together. The parents read prayers aloud, a little service is performed, the young fellow is committed to God. The children take time to get over the loss, but they rejoice in the love. Bulldy remains their hero. After a few days a bitch at the farm delivers a litter of eight, and two of the pups look exactly like Bulldy!

It is an atmosphere of innocence. No put-ons, no affectations of piety, no show of bestowing favours by praying for someone. Just pure feeling, love. And Nature runs its course.

The children’s feelings for the animals are prayers. The elders’ feelings for the children are prayers. Hopes and wishes beyond the realm of words are prayers. The unnamed flow of deeply felt blessings is Prana. The presence of God is Love.

THE LOST PICTURE

Starting out about an hour before the break of dawn. The cold draught hits one like a wall as one steps out of the stove-heated room at the headquarters. Instantly, the eyes turn watery, and within minutes the tip of the nose goes numb. The cold is fresh, refreshing, sweet. It’s fun to be out. One steps out with a spring.

The walk is about 2½ hours. The sentry at the upper end of the hollow that harbours the base is not allowed to let any solitary trekker past at any time, and no one at all before the day lights up. One pulls rank with a disarming smile and friendly banter. Tough chaps tend to make allowances for little shows of strength, and understand a little madness. One walks on, reasonably sure that the early hour and solo walk will not be accurately mentioned in the daily report of movement.

It has been snowing all night, and a strong wind blows huge flakes in swirling gusts. A few yards away from the sentry post, and one is alone. A little tug at leaving some sense of security behind, a greater pull of subdued excitement at venturing out into the vastness. Switching on the flashlight is of no use; it shows the swirling snow in an unreal light and limits one’s perception of one’s surroundings; rather, the visible swirl confuses. One has been over the trail many times, in all kinds of weather. Moreover, the hand that holds the light would rather be snug in the pocket of the knee-length army coat parka.

The path is perceived rather than seen. The fresh snow is soft underfoot, crunching only when the foot bears full weight, if then. The deceitfully slippery rocks are buried deep tonight, and one has to have a care only for sudden softly filled potholes where one sinks in sometimes till halfway up the thigh. It is an easy and immensely satisfying trek.

Soon the breath is laboured. It takes about half an hour to start feeling the icicles hanging on the upper lip from one’s moustache. They are sweet to taste, nectar must be like that.

Large swirling flakes give way to small gently floating ones. The wind has died down. Whether it is the glow of the oncoming day, or the lessening of the snow, or whether one has just melted and fused deeply into oneness, a lightness is sensed.

One is perspiring inside the parka. A pause to catch one’s breath, let the sweat dry and to blow little clouds of vapour at the hills and the heavens. Daybreak has come. It shows the picture of heaven so often seen.  It stopped snowing some time ago. One stands as a black spot in an endless expanse of white; ethereal, untouched, pure, gentle, magical. Jannat. It fills one’s heart. One almost wishes one were not there as a black spot; and raises one’s hands to throw back the hood from one’s head. It is laden with snow, as are one’s shoulders, upper arms eyebrows and beard. With a thrill of satisfaction at being part of the whiteness, the black spot is banished from the picture.

One trudges on. The changing light brings more detail to the panorama, the beauty has flooded, overwhelmed and benumbed one’s senses. One is part of it, not a separate being at all.

Water drips under an overhang of rock. Directions forbid drinking without boiling it. Who cares? One has tasted it on almost every passing.  It is full of the force that drives life.

The trail runs along just below the crest of the mountain. It has merged with the expanse today. In order not to slip down the steep slope, one looks out keenly for the wooden stakes holding the field telephone cable that runs along the trail. The stakes stand almost man-height out of the ground, but today only a few inches are visible, that too topped with snow; the black cable is buried.

Another hundred yards of almost level walking parallel to the crest, then a steep climb where one must pull oneself up with the help of guide ropes. Half an hour on the outside.

Just before the climb starts, on the upper side of the path stands a huge boulder, maybe six times man-height, and about the same width, curiously flat on the nearer side. Usually, one feels dwarfed in its shadow. Today one glances up as one approaches, and stops dead in one’s tracks! The jaw drops, the breath stops!

No words!

It has been snowing heavily all night, and a fierce wind has been blowing the snow against the rock face. The Rock is covered on the path side with a jungle of protrusions of snow ranging from a few inches to almost arm-length, something like the scenes of skyscrapers of New York or Gotham or wherever it is that Supe and The Bat and Spidey fly around, only jutting out from a vertical plain and inhabiting the earth horizontally, and made not of sombre concrete but the stuff that angels seem to wear.

It is a sight I know I’ll never see again! It is a sight to die for! I must capture it!

My Pentax with a lovely wide angle, fully manual, always loaded with film roll, is lying in my bunker atop the remaining climb. If I pull myself up by the ropes fast enough, I’ll probably make it up in 20 minutes, if I don’t kill myself breathing hard in the high altitude, and slip and slide back in 10. I dash forward, leaving my heart at the base of The Rock.

The rays of the morning sun are piercing, my clothes are stifling. I tear off the muffler from around my neck. The arms pulling at the guide ropes are suddenly laden, the breath comes in short gasps; and the sun shines brighter.

I panic.

In a daze, I stagger up to the piquet camp. The morning soldiers think that something is gravely wrong; I wave at them weakly and rush into my bunker, and out almost immediately slinging the camera around my neck. They relax.

I slip and slide and bruise my bare hands on the rope. My throat is parched. Why is the sun so hot today?

I fall on my knees in the snow as I get into camera range. I look up.

A moan rises from my soul. My soldiers’ eyes moisten. Vision swims. I brush off a tear of frustration.

The sun has conquered the kingdom-of-those-perpendicular-to-the-vertical. Nothing juts out more than two or three inches. Water drips. Ice falls. I mourn.

***********************************************************************

Twenty five years have passed. That picture lives fresh in my mind. We spent the rest of the day digging up and repairing telephone cable damaged by the weight of the snow.

Most of the pictures that Pentax captured are lying in albums buried somewhere at the fringes of memory. A number of fellow soldiers have moved on, many have died. The Pentax has died. Youth is a fond memory.

But that picture lives! The Rock lives! At its most astonishingly beautiful moment, The Rock lives in my heart and soul and my innermost being, captured as I looked up in a moment of awe!

And I ask you, all my sons and daughters, my glowing ones, my ‘Mitthre Mayvay’, to live life fully. Fear not, think not that you will lose what has gone by, brood not. Love! For what you have loved, what you have dissolved in, what you have melted into, is yours! Forgotten old albums and moth eaten suitcases can never hold these pictures. The best pictures are in the heart, and no one can take them away!

THEY ARE YOURS! The magnificence stays. What you have loved once is yours forever.

For having loved them, for having been overwhelmed by Wonder, they are YOU.

They are the inner glow.

One of the earlier snows in paradise, just a few inches deep and not yet covering the rocks. Ahh..., but look at God's kingdom in the background!

PAIN

Pain is given to many of us; pain ranging from the unbearable or indescribable to the unimaginable. Words cannot even touch the depths of helplessness and despair…

I will not dwell upon it. I will speak of it from a respectful distance. It is one of the colours of my lord. Pardon me for the literal translation of ‘Prabhu ke rang hain’, or ‘Prabhu ki leela hai’. But it’s the only truth. Each one knows his own pain; nobody else really knows what you’re going through. No one else knows your pain, but you do not know theirs either.

The way through pain would be easier if lined by compassion, respect, making allowance for the private hell that each one suffers. It is no individual’s fault. We need not be drawn into the blame game. Each one who suffers, takes on someone else’s burden of grief, too. Some spread their wings to encompass all humanity, through innumerable centuries.

All praise be to those who suffered inconceivable pain to alleviate the suffering of generations to come. On a cross some 2000 years ago at Judea, and the benevolence still reigns; Jesus. After indescribable torture, an execution on November 24, 1675, in Delhi, and the love still spreads - today is an anniversary of sorts. Guru Tegh Bahadur. A few clicks on the internet can tell us the chain of events, eyes closed in reverence can show us the suffering and the love. Compassion and respect, can give us faith in Him whose sons and saints suffer the most, and by that suffering take millions across the abyss.

Did I say no else knows your pain? No, He knows. And in His knowing, the pain is also His, because only feeling is knowing. Nothing belongs till it is not felt. And what is felt is undeniably owned.

You are not alone. He knows. He feels. He cares. He shares.

We can each one go out and share someone else’s pain, and watch our own pale and fade. We all have unfathomable depths of compassion in us; go, plumb! Smile at someone, hold a hand, visit a hospital, cuddle a child, caress a cheek. It quietens your breath, melts you inside, brings inner peace, and spreads a glow through your entire being.

Cry if you have to.

THE CONQUERORS - I

Vast frontiers fall. Achievements in ‘sport’ proclaim one to be a champion or a star. Degrees in ‘education’ declare that one is a ‘master’ of this or ‘doctor’ of that. A thousand tongues say how good one is looking or how lovely one’s choice of clothes is. They are friendly people, trying to encourage and be nice; and they sometimes end up putting one in a narcissistic race with oneself, a race that leads nowhere but back into one’s private hell. The enemy lies within.

Praise is received best when it is received from a perspective that shows how the giver is trying to gift a pleasantry. One does not really have to start believing that one is a genius or a rock star. One just has to realise that the giver has been an instrument of bringing a little flush of joy in one’s life, and be thankful. The reply to praise is grace, humility and gratitude - towards nature, towards god, towards all the powers that be, and towards love.

If someone smiles at us or is pleasant to us, it does not necessarily mean that the person is very happy or content, it implies more that the person wants to communicate a pleasing feeling to us, wants us to be happy. A typical case is a visit to a patient in hospital or a child in pain. Most of humanity, in the magnanimity inherited from the Father, goes through life with the same attitude, trying to communicate love and goodness, even when not feeling much of it oneself. It starts with a brave feeling of drawing upon hidden strengths and ‘giving’, dispensing something that one sorely needs oneself. But there lies the catch; in the giving lies the receiving! It reflects, it echoes, it bounces back.

Sure indeed, what we are getting is what we deserve, what we need. That irksome partner or neighbour or boil on the back IS WHAT I NEED TODAY! And god has granted my need! All Praise!

Who am I that the world or my children or humanity or nature or god in any form should bestow favours upon me? What is so special about me that I should receive more favours than I already have? I eat well, I sleep well, I have a roof over my head, I am in good health, my children go to school or university; why should I hanker for more? How much of what I have am I willing to give up for someone else, without making a show of Being a Giver? Why should I not share my bounty with the next five needy people I meet and all six of us exist at the same level of comfort or health?

The grace and magnanimity of Life, by any name, are to be realized, appreciated and lauded. We have enough to be thankful for, let us open our eyes to see and our hearts to rejoice.

THE I-I-I-I OF THE BEHOLDER!

The secret of beauty! There are so many people out there whose complexion or height or weight or girth or hair or gait or so-many-other-things do not fit the commonly defined notion of beauty. And there are so many common definitions of beauty.

That is the secret, we try to go by definitions; definitions of that which is all-encompassing, omnipresent, indefinable, eternal, absolute… perfect.

We hear and read so very often, that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. That does not mean that the object of observation is at the mercy of the beholder and therefore must endlessly endeavour to please. Rather, it implies that if the beholder cannot discern the beauty lavishly spread around by god or nature or any name that is responsible for shaping this world, then the beholder is sorely missing out on something!

All plants and animals and objects of creation other than mankind have their place in the scheme of things taken for granted, coming and going, thriving and dying, in eternal passages of time and making best of their surroundings as they are. Only man is able to think and scheme and plan to the extent of detachment from nature and use of manufactured tools and devices.

This capability to think and plan and discern and act separates mankind from all other beings. At the very base of a pyramid of thought, this is the reason why human population grows to cover entire continents; planning leads to survival. A little higher, measured by the capability to survive, lies the thirst for strength or power, physical or financial; an instinct that seems to insure survival. The race for power and security leads to the situation where everyone all the time, is in a psychological condition of clinging, grabbing, envying and guarding one’s acquisitions or achievements.

Hankering for a better house, a better partner, a better car, a better dress, a better life…. And one does not stop to see the flower by the roadside…. or the gleam in a child’s eyes…. or the natural scent of someone who just brushed by. So more perfumes are put on to invade the deadened sense, faces are painted to highlight ‘beauty’ like the dazzling schizophrenia of the disco lights, powders are pumped in to swell sinewy muscle, and ‘accessories’ are added to complete the garish picture.

The attention of the eye of the beholder is diverted from the object of beauty towards a whole lot of equipment that does not accompany one to bed, fill one’s stomach, or comfort a crying child.

Someone makes a tidy profit, and we wear shaded glasses against the ‘glare’ of sun, water, snow and sand, but we are afraid to screw up our eyes and LOOK, and behold the beauty!

If this person or that place or certain animal or plant or situation or the world in general does not hold its share of beauty, the inadequacy lies in the eye of the beholder, not in the object of appraisal.

There is latent beauty all around, inside each one, apparent to the discerning eye. Maybe we need to make a little effort to let go, to soak in, to stop and bask, and experience the top of the pyramid, where truth, beauty, love and god are all one.

REALMS BEYOND WORDS

Observe the silence, listen to the empty spaces, feel the darkness, smell the nectar and taste the fragrance.

Do not be limited by words in their meanings given, accepted or imagined. We do not need to live within the boundaries of words and explanation. There are worlds out there beyond the realm of words. Try them out. Explore. Do not endeavour to capture all your thoughts in vocabulary. There is no need to put all feelings into words. Feel your thoughts. Feel the meaning hidden deep in the bosom of every word. Experience the world of wordless feelings. Soak it up. Delve into it deeply. Surrender, drown, float, swim, dive again.

Realms beyond words. Yes, do not be inhibited by understood concepts of within and without. Refuse to define. Just feel. Go out into the worlds that lie within you. In wordlessness.

In vocabulary, it is called meditation.

Yes. Meditation does not imply freedom from feelings or emotions. It does not imply bottling up. It implies freedom from definition. It implies getting away from one’s definition of oneself. It implies erasing the boundaries, even the idea of inward or outward. Meditation is not part of any journey; it is a denial of journeying; it is just being, merging, where the path, the traveller, the beginning and the end are all one.  Freedom from words, from thoughts bound by definition.

‘Life’ is another word. Give it up. Surrender to feeling of the undefined, swoon with wonder, ‘die’ in awe!

Do not be afraid to die. Die every minute, die every day. Cling not. Let go now, and the next moment shall hold no worries, because it will be a bonus, extra time, a second chance, and another, and another. And then, rejoice! In each day, each hour, each moment; in the gift of the ‘present’; rejoice! If it gives pain, savour it like a heady, bitter wine; and then rejoice in its passing. For as in the wine, the real taste is in the aftertaste. If it gives thrill or joy, rejoice then, and rejoice again in remembrance!

Do not be carried away by the need to communicate only in words. Very often, words smother feelings. The best moments with our children were when they spoke no words, and yet conveyed every emotion, clear and pure, and radiated so much of the inner glow that even we imbibed some.

Zeina Glo. The inner glow. Let it loose. Let it surface. Let it increase. Let it show.

RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

It is not about crime and punishment. My Lord is ever benign. He is a father above all fathers. He keeps giving me chances to redeem myself. Every step of the way, many times a day, I have the chance to take the path of goodness. I can choose NOW!

The marketing men talk of opportunities to be grabbed; they are in a hurry to sell their wares, and afraid of failing. My lord lays out lessons to be understood; and the learning keeps changing with time. The same incident can be interpreted differently in many dimensions of time and exposure. The Learner goes through sequences of victory, despair, vengeance, elation, jealousy, hate, rancour, conciliation, enlightenment, forgiveness, begging, mercy, acceptance, surrender, understanding, awe, faith, Love… Oh what a lesson! What a course! What a classroom!

My lord feels no anger, no annoyance. The lessons are planned by Him, the reactions are known to Him. The bit of His soul in me must go through the gamut and finally dissolve in Love and be one again with my lord.

My lord does not know impatience, because such would need a reference of time, and my lord is timeless, eternal, infinite, or Time Itself.

Krishna is the cowherd when I am finally His cow.

Jesus is the shepherd when I am His sheep.

Nanak is the guru when I am His disciple.

Till the time I am not, they wait, in fathomless dimensions of time and space called eternity, for the return of the prodigal.

This is the story of every soul.

TOUCH !

MORE ON PRANA

Emotions do not only express feelings; they infuse energy.

Energy gotten from greed, lust, envy and anger is extraordinary; but it is insensitive, inconsiderate, short-sighted and destructive. It is self-centred, but also self-defeating; something malignant which will destroy the very object or person it feeds off or grows upon. It is like gorging oneself by depriving someone else of a meal, stepping on unsuspecting shoulders in order to rise, and being left with no one to catch us when we fall, no one to feed us when we are hungry.

Energy motivated by nature, love, beauty, wonder and awe is positive, benign and healing. It comes from smiles, blessings, caring, caresses, prayer and love. Love not of anyone separate from oneself, but love with the recognition that everyone and everything combines to make a Whole that is One.

That is ‘Prana’.

It is sweet, pleasing, rejuvenating, strengthening, uplifting and intoxicating. It is caring. It is tender. It is definite. It is purposeful.

Prana is blessings. Prana is prayers. Prana is good wishes. Prana is Love, transmitted.

It is not just transmitted from person to person. In fact, that may usually be one of the weaker sources of Prana, which involves purity of purpose and virtuousness in action. Much greater sources of Prana are to be found in nature, where purity and innocence are inherent; the soft morning sunlight on closed eyes, the cool earth on bare feet, raindrops on a rejoicing heart, chill breezes that draw teardrops from the corner of the eye, falling leaves,  the myriad sounds of birds and animals, fragrances – smells of existence.

Meditation endeavours to bring about the hypnotic state of thoughtlessness that is inherent in flowing water, rain and fire. Nature does not require endeavour. Nature transmits, nature is the source, and we imbibe through all our senses, known and unknown. Awaken those senses, arouse receptivity to those sensations, surrender to the harmony of nature, and we have the best form of meditation.

Senses. Use them. Respect them. Nurture them. Rejoice in them.

Feel. Touch.

Touch, better than all the others, communicates caring, comfort, strength, courage, love, Prana!

The solid comfort of leaning against the rugged bark of an old tree, the ‘coming home’ feel of mud on your cheek, the memory of knees bruised on grass, a stone held lightly ready to be thrown, the back of your fingers brushing a baby’s skin, the throb of machinery running along one’s body through one’s hands, snuggling animal pets….. Oh God, it is endless!

Touch… the innermost reaches of the soul!

STOCKHOLM REVISITED

A gang of bank robbers in Stockholm locked up a number of people in a vault in a typical hostage situation in the early nineteen seventies. After some days of brutality and utter despair, the hostages tended to show sympathy towards their captors when the latter’s behaviour became a little bit less vicious. At the end of an ordeal that lasted for about a week, the hostages turned almost in favour of the criminals and even spoke up for them when released, their motives and methods notwithstanding. The behaviour of people in high-stress situations losing their rational judgement at the smallest sign of respite was later termed the ‘Stockholm Syndrome’. It may be respite from despair, from pain, from fear, or from any other situation of hopelessness.

Hope is the key. Comforts and securities are all relative.

Sometimes we pamper ourselves with the luxury of feelings like self-pity, stress, fatigue, helplessness, panic, hate and hysteria. We blame God (or Nature or Destiny or just the world at large) for being unfair to us.

The situation may, of course, actually seem bad; crime, oppression, torture, a child’s illness, one’s own pain or insufficiency or handicap, hell on earth itself. And our subconscious belief in destiny prompts us to question, “Why me? What have I done to deserve this?”

For the answer, consider “Why not?”

If there has to be a measure of suffering in the world, why should it be meted out to someone else and not me? Why should that poor wretch be sleeping by the roadside and eating out of rubbish dumps while I drive past complaining of the heat or the traffic?

CONCEIT! Is that what makes me better than him!  I have convinced myself that I deserve better than him!

We take all the blessings and bounty for granted, and hanker for more. Have we ever thought that if we do get more, we could use it to ease someone else’s lot. It’s the same spirit as leaving one’s seat in the bus for someone older or weaker or more in need!

A mountain climber’s account many years ago said that when clinging to the rock-face halfway up, it was more encouraging to look back in awe at the climb already accomplished than to look upwards and despair at what remained still. In the same vein, it is better to give thanks for what we have than to complain about what we don’t.

Hope is the key. Hope elevated to the power of belief is faith. Faith, unquestioning in its gracefulness, is Love. Love is God.

Faith and love. People have endured cancers, cauldrons and crosses on the strength of Faith and Love, faith in love.

Love (verb).

Recommended reading: 

"The Story of the Four Candles" - J's Magic Galleries

jsmagic.net/xmashope/

WAKING THOUGHTS

Tell me if this happens to you, too. One wakes up in the morning, and on the threshold of sleep and wakefulness some little snatch of a tune or a long forgotten melody creeps into one’s consciousness. One does not even pay heed to it, usually.

The whole day passes, as days are wont to pass. Sometimes the little wisp of song comes back to the surface; at other times it retreats to unknown depths. As night falls and bed time approaches again, one suddenly finds oneself humming the same tune again, mostly without realizing it, and often quite clearly audible atleast to oneself!

I have nothing to say about it; it happens - the first waking thought somehow springs back to the fore again before retiring.

But one thing has gradually become apparent; that with a little deliberate schooling of one’s mind, a little prayer for help, if the first thoughts can be infused with an element of Grace, Wonder, Gratitude or Love; if one can deliberately smile in those waking moments which are one’s own, the same thought or smile or lightness or glow tends to resurface at odd times during the day, and quite definitely pays a visit, albeit fleeting, before sleep descends upon closed eyes at night.

I encourage you to try it, as one of the most basic forms of what is dubbed as meditation, for want of a more eloquent word. Worship… surrender … gracefulness… oneness… harmony… contentment. Try it. Practise it. Let it become a matter of routine; to wake up in a spirit of graceful serenity, find yourself glowing for no reason at odd times in the day, and have a pleasant thought bouncing up at you as you close your eyes at night.

If you need a reason to smile, picture anything pleasant; the way the small hair curl at the nape of her neck, the smell of him drawn in in a deep breath at his cheek, the grasp of a child’s hand, the smile of a grandparent’s love, the feel of cold grass on your shoulders as your puppy plays over your chest, or simply wonder at this amazing world.

Routine, followed often enough, becomes habit. Smile.

A HERO'S WELCOME

EMBRACE THE DARKNESS

During the week that has just gone by, many people around the world celebrated Diwali, a festival of light. Its origins lie in India in some ancient dimension where history has long given way to mythology. The cause for the celebration is usually attributed to the return of one victorious king and his armies to home base after travelling for about 20 days from the scene of the war. The entire city was lit up with lamps of welcome, and the tradition continues.

The ‘victor’ was a king who still symbolizes piety, justice and propriety. The situations and sacrifices arising out of his defence of these values are awesome. The ancient tale carries so much wisdom and anguish that it easily qualifies to be sacred, and Raam or Rama is synonymous with so many other names given to God and is, as such, worshipped by a sizeable part of the world’s population.

The 'vanquished' was an opponent who was a worthy match. One of the most intriguing and satisfying twists in the holy tale is that the anti-hero, himself a very learned and accomplished entity, had a boon of near immortality. No ordinary mortal being could get at the reservoir of nectar harboured inside him. As events built up, he recognized the Divinity of his adversary. Being aware that here was someone who could kill him, and would do so for the sake of righteousness, propriety and love, he chose to be drawn into battle and die at the hands of the Holy One. In the choosing, he secured a place for himself in the Life Eternal, variously known as heaven or moksha or nirvana or One.

So much for good and evil! So much for destiny and pre-orchestrated choices! So much for Darkness and Light! So much for gods and demons!

Maybe it is not about banishing Darkness after all! Maybe it is rather about celebrating it, a celestial darkness that harbours in its womb the glow of hope.

Maybe it was the love of the villain that drew the protagonist to him, and maybe it was the love of the hero that gave the antagonist a place in heaven.

So much for the Glow Within! So much for Love!

So much for Celebration; jashan!

Celebrating darkness along with light. Sorrow along with joy. Sickness along with health. Poverty along with wealth. Paucity along with abundance. Greed along with contentment. Hate along with love. Evil along with good. Death along with life. Because they complement each other in this perfect world, and the one would not be able to exist without the other.

Celebrating the Whole, celebrating the One, celebrating God by all names.