THE GUITAR MAN (Sherwood)

I am attending a concert by a country singer. I won’t name him. He sings from way down deep in his heart. It is actually more of a friendly performance than a show. And he is effervescently enthusiastic. Anyone can see that he just loves to sing, and that his guitar is one with him.

But the acoustics are bad; as in real bad. It seems that the organizers were not sensitive to the requirements of the sound systems for a solo singer in a big hall. Or did they not care enough to make the necessary adjustments? Either way, the echoes are an insult to his effort, to his art, to his love for music.

He’s alone on stage with his guitar and I can’t help thinking that he’s a brave man.

He likes to talk to the audience between songs. The echo is such that most of the audience cannot understand a word he says, but his spirit is infectious; they clap their hands for him gamely. His guitar plays magic on the strings of one’s heart, but the sound rolls over itself and is lost in the reverberations.

I am a weathered old cynic. The audience are mainly teenaged; enthusiastic, fresh, less easily perturbed than I, more ready to absorb. My frustration at the sound arrangements evaporates as I feel his enthusiasm and see the children soaking it up.

He gets a standing ovation, and then again.

His words of thanks are not understood by most of us, but he has touched our hearts. We feel the music in the man.

Ha ha! He sang some of the old favourites, with such feeling! ‘Seasons in the Sun’, ‘I Love you More Than I Can Say’, ‘Honky Tonk Man’, ‘Country Roads’, ‘El Paso’, ‘Oh Carol’, ‘Theme for a Dream’, ‘Que Sera Sera’, ‘Summer Wine’, ‘Jamaican Farewell’….

I am suddenly young again, and I want to thank him. For the thousandth time I resolve to lose myself more readily to whatever life has to offer, be less demanding, be one with it all, merge, dissolve, enjoy the passage. It’s not going to come back, this moment, unless it is gratefully savoured and allowed to become a part of my being.

I want to dive deeper. And somewhere deep within, I feel His Presence, in the form of joy, and thanks, and beauty, and love.

And He smiles.

SEVEN POINT SIX TWO (Belgaum)

It was more than a weapon. It was something that lived with you, that grew on you. The 7.62 mm SLR was almost human. If this ‘self-loading rifle’ was nursed and cherished and oiled and spoiled, it would stand by you as a dear friend. If you could feel the required setting of the blow back of chamber gases, the self-loading action would be perfect and the recoil just a comradely nudge in the hollow of your shoulder. If you made the effort to sometimes check the zeroing and make small adjustments respectfully, you could actually wait for a couple of ducks swimming in a lake to line up and snick both their necks with one bullet.

Fully loaded, the 7.62 mm SLR weighed about five and a half kilos. If one were running 40 kilometres with 22 kg on one’s back, the 5 kg rifle weighed about a tonne. But she was your friend.

So was Sidhu.

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A month after the course was over, an army ambulance was rushed in in an emergency to get me off my feet and into hospital pronto because I had clocked 54% Eosinophils in a blood test and was not supposed to be breathing much any longer.

But we didn’t know it then…

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Forty kilometres was not really what either of us relished. It had been more than a month of extreme training and about three hours of sleep out of every twenty four. We were ‘buddies’, responsible for each other; and we had shouldered our responsibility well, for we were also best pals from before.

At about the 8^th kilometre we stopped a night trucker and piled into his cabin. Our grimy faces and rough demeanour must have been quite a sight, not to mention the 7.62s. We rode for about three kilometres without being detected by the exercise umpires patrolling the road. Then we dropped off and crossed the check-post on foot, feeling quite the heroes of ‘The Dirty Dozen’ for having outsmarted the Army!

Another ten-twelve km on, we ‘hitched’ another ride. The driver was probably terrified, and we dozed off…

….and we rode right through the next check-post where we had to log in!

Getting off far on the other side, leaving the road and sneaking back through thorny bushes and rough ground to come behind the post and check through again was hilarious and also cost us more effort than we had saved!

The remaining twenty or so kilometres had to be covered at a fast pace, because the fiasco at the last check-post had cost us more than an hour and we were too close to the rear of the troop. It was wretched, that latter half of the run. The increased pace, the frustration of having messed up our last manoeuvre and a rising sense of haste served to sap our strength and spirit. With about eight kilometres to go, we were moving only on desperation, the 7.62s were crutches, and it was just a matter of who would succumb sooner.

Sidhu, went down first, so robbing me of the chance.

For maybe half an hour, I dragged him and coaxed him and pushed him and cajoled him; and he me. With barely three km to go, he just gave up. We both tried, but he finally shooed me off, saying that there was no use of both of us failing the test, and the course.

I went on numbly, driven by oblivion….

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Dhillon was a tough one! He was a great pal. He knew what Sidhu and I were all about, and he cared.

He met me at the 38^th km, having finished his run and coming back to fetch us!

As he grabbed at my load, I told him that I’d make it, and he’d better go back and get Sidhu. He ran off, I plodded on. I reached the end, and sent back a couple of other friends before I drowned myself in the hot cocoa being dispensed.

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It was a sensitive issue; we had been weak, we had lacked endurance and the spirit to last, we were buddies who had separated when it came to the crunch.

At the same time, we had been picked up by friends whose hearts were larger than our muscles, who cared enough to go back for us after a gruelling night themselves.

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I quit the army before the 7.62 mm SLR was phased out, and was replaced by lighter AK 56 rifles with lesser range and intimacy - or so I imagine.

We met again a few times, the 7.62 and I, when I visited my friends in the army. She always felt snug in my hands.

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Almost 25 years passed.

We kept in touch, Sidhu and I.

Things came to a pass that I asked his help. After dithering for some time, he asked, “Where were you when we ran 40 km?”

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We shatter one another so easily, we are so quick to hurt, we feed the fires of expectations and disappointments for so long....

...lifetimes go by and we forget to forgive....

...and love suffers...

...and happiness is held at bay.

I must try to delve deeper into the inner recesses of my heart; I must try to find those who I think have wronged me. My friend has taught me that I must forgive, for forgiving means letting go of hurt and ill-will. Forgiveness means freedom from feeling the need to get even.

Forgiveness is not about being the one on the right, it is about being free from the clutches of the past. It is about not sacrificing today’s happiness to demons that could have been long buried.

Forgive, it needs to be done!

MENDING SOULS

KINTSUGI

It is something the Japanese do to broken pottery and vases made of metal or ceramic. When an article that holds importance for an individual or a household or a family is damaged or broken, it is repaired; joined together or partially rebuilt with a mixture of resin and gold dust. Utensils used in the tea ceremony, family heirlooms, regal legacies, and even simple household pottery articles are infused with new life and utility.

The seams of repair are clearly visible. And they serve to make the object of a slightly different character than before, more sturdy, more rugged, more comely, more beautiful, stronger… The damage and subsequent revival are exhibited and celebrated rather than camouflaged or hidden away in shame and rejection.

Kintsugi seems to be the strongest statement of hope, of revival, of acceptance, of another chance, of the rigours of life making one more beautiful than before, of open–armed welcome to a ‘damaged’ one, of seeing the beauty in going through whatever Fate metes out.

Human bodies are often subjected to repair work; but where is the facelift for the soul, the rejuvenation for the dejected spirit, the balm of forgiveness and acceptance, the help and blessings to restore and revive, the magnanimity that allows one to move on, to emerge stronger and more beautiful than before, having gained experience and judgement from ‘mistakes’?

Why must humans be ashamed of wrongdoings and hide them as eternal skeletons in proverbial cupboards? Would it not be much easier to get over blame and anger and vengefulness and condemnation and make a deliberate choice to repair the cracks? And fill the seams with gold!

When shall we learn the lessons of love and acceptance and forgiveness and regeneration and recognition of the Will and the Love of Him-Who-Plans-It-All?

When shall we uncover and lay bare the beauty of the soul and bask in the inner glow?

A GREEN HILL AND A FLUTE (Sherwood)

The hill rises from the western edge of the games field. Just six yards beyond the football goalpost starts the kingdom of the oaks. The little boys on the school campus would often crane their necks and look up at the endless expanse of green. Green of so many hues! With every subtle change in the weather, with the passage of each day, the green would change.

The school term started in spring. Those who were here just about a week earlier had seen the branches laden with fresh snow, sometimes cracking under the weight. Some hardy ones would always go walking on such days; a silence - no, a quietness - felt only after the snow; small hoof prints at the waterhole in Python Valley. Slithering down the slope back to school through a glade of tall pines, the football field was a little patch of grey in the vast spread of green hills, and the shouts of those playing were dimly heard echoes.

When the children came in, the darker green of the winter oaks would daily change towards freshness. Oh so fresh, oh so new, oh so different in the many moods of sunlight from early morning P.T. to getting shut for prep in the evening! One morning a teacher would be seen drinking in a sunrise with a new boy. Another day a small group would be staring at the towering slope intensely and suddenly burst into excited expressions of discovery. Someone would have recognized a patch of deep red in the sea of fresh green in the morning sunlight. Like the little Kodak photography booklet so many years ago had said it would, the little patch of red would stand out in contrast to the expanse of green and the visual effect would be enhanced. The rhododendron tree was not lost among the oaks.

A strong breeze would send waves of silver over the sea of green as thousands of leaves turned over to show their other side.

Maturing like hope in the brief summer, majestic dripping wetness in the fierce monsoon rains, ghostly sentinels in the mist as the weather grew colder; that hill of green grew upon all who beheld its splendour, never to be forgotten.

One more thing that lived forever in hundreds of minds were the sounds of a flute floating down the hill.

The sound came from somewhere near the base of this resplendent green hill, a little to the north-west, where families of the school workers lived. It cascaded down the hill, floated among the trees, and pierced our hearts when we were in class, or playing games, or sitting for prep in the early evening. Sometimes it would crop up at a very odd time of deep silence in the morning prayer assembly or in the middle of an English essay and send one’s thoughts into a reverie.

It started out as an almost awful screeching rasping grating whine, sometimes a low moan that did not agree at all with our senses when we were eight or nine years old. We had to bear the cacophony every day, and we gradually got used to it. It took us a few months to stop noticing it altogether.

Of course, we were not deaf, and it would penetrate our hardened senses every now and then, but we did not find it offensive any longer.

After a year or so, the tunes became softer, clearer and more likeable. Something seemed to be missing if the late afternoons did not bring the music of the flute rolling down the hill.

By the time we were twelve, the music enchanted.

In all the years that followed, our ears were never closed to the sound of the flute held to a master’s lips. The clear sweet melody floated all over the surrounding hills, one with the trees and the green and the songs of the birds and the children at play. Sometimes the teacher conducting prayers in the chapel would pause for a moment when a particularly haunting note swirled in with the breeze through the open windows.

That solitary player of the pipe of bamboo inspired music in a thousand hearts. He gave a taste of the magic of music, of lilting notes cascading down the mountain slopes, of blissful tones silencing the birds and animals in some sort of intimate devotion, of heartrending tunes that quietened down even the rowdiest of teenaged boys, of melody that made our spirits soar and roam freely with the wind and the clouds.

The years flitted by; none of us ever knew the one who held the flute to his lips; but somehow, some of the magic rubbed off on us, and the music still lives in the recesses of our inner beings.

One often wonders at the Hand that touched the musician in such a way, and one is overwhelmed.

KARMA (Dua Special)

Anand Dua asked, on ‘RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL’…

“…You say that it is never about crime and punishment. but then what about karma. when people say do good deeds or you will have to suffer. isnt suffering the punishment to your crimes you have committed?”

It is in the nature of the human race to explore, search, experiment, find reason, define, and explain. A tree or a rock stands immobile for decades or centuries and causes more benefit to the world than a hundred humans flitting around can. No plant or river or mountain has ever caused any 'harm' to nature; changes to the topography, yes, but harm, no; putting a spanner in the works of puny humans, yes, causing harm to nature, no.

A pet dog does not feel the need to question or explain its loyalty or love for its 'owner'. The human animal is one big question mark. We accept nothing, we believe nothing, we are Doubt incarnate. We need to prove, and we believe what has been proved only till the day it is disproved or 're-proved'.

A little child gets scalded or injured; is it punishment for some crime he/she has committed? A man-eating scoundrel dictates over and oppresses an entire country, yet lives a life of opulence and luxury; where is his share of punishment? One culture allows multiple marriages, another says it is sinful to have sex; who is to be believed?

No, it is not about crime and punishment; we are just suckers for guilt! It is a feeling that has been deeply ingrained in us from countless generations.
(Read one of the old posts, 'KILLING THE LIGHT INSIDE')

Yes, life is all about 'karma'; karma not as in 'deeds', but karma meaning 'fate'. Not as in question and answer, crime and punishment; but as in need and fulfilment. Fulfilment of every urge, desire, passion, craving, need of the soul, through aeons of existence in various dimensions of time, place and conditions, through a maze of relationships that constantly alternate between giving pain and succour till one cannot decide which one is sweeter.

Have you ever seen an old man who in his earlier life had ruled over family or business or sport or intellect, and for whom now it is the biggest achievement to put a morsel of food into his own mouth, or to stand up and walk one tottering step? That was his need in youth, and this is his need now. If he did not need this, he would have died young.

And the beauty of the whole thing is that fulfilment finally lies only in surrender. No amount of riches can fulfil one's craving for wealth, no amount of authority or control can fulfil the desire for power. The craving ends only when one leaves the desire behind, 'grows out of it', needs it no more.

Till the day, after millions of incarnations, possibly running parallel in numerous dimensions of time, place, relationship and situation, this little bit of the eternal and omnipresent soul called God, is free from all desires and needs. Then it merges back into the parent soul of Truth, Beauty and Love.

Just as a doctor would chart out a year long course of medicine, surgery, exercise, nutrition and perseverance to get a patient out of a certain ailment, so the Master Physician prescribes births and deaths and cravings and deeds, and the process of surrender.

That is karma. Destiny. Fate.

Comfort lies only in the realization that He investigates, He diagnoses, He prescribes, He administers, He heals; and in the faith that He is benign, He is Truth, He is Beauty, He is Love.

It is in the nature of the human race to question, doubt and explain.

Belief immune to questioning and doubt is faith.

Wonder, awe, respect for the Master Plan is happiness. The inner glow that radiates throughout one's being is its manifestation.