BEYOND THE HORIZON

This one is for Ayush T K Hamal, Captain forever, beloved son.

I publish this today, a year after Jashan's classmate and friend, The Cherub, left us, and almost a year after it was written.

BD

BD walks his rounds at night. The kids are all in bed. They recognize his step, and those who are still noisily chatting away pipe down as he approaches and pull their blankets over their faces. It is so easy to spot the chirpy ones, and it is part of BD’s daily dose of amusement to stand quietly for a few moments. The youngest ones never fail to warm him way deep down inside to the very core of his being as first one then some more pipe up in timid voices that get braver as others join in. “Get to bed, you Kaddoos!”, they imitate him.

It is the most rewarding part of the day for BD, who is known for being strict. The children have adopted him. Pandemonium! Suddenly everyone seems to be awake and shouting, “Good night, sir!”, “Go to sleep, you kaddoos!”

BD has to come up with something new, they wait for it, “Awright, go to sleep, you nincompoops!”

The old wooden floors speak to him. The lights in the passage, dimmed now to smother some of their energy, speak to him. He tries to take the same route on each of his rounds, so that they can predict his coming and settle down in time without harsher words. He really doesn’t want to surprise them and spoil the little games they play or catch them at the mischief that children must make. There are times when he must startle and ‘raid’, but they are out of the routine.

The beam of the torch is aimed just above the level of their beds, not to hurt their eyes, and enough to seek out the ones who would stir again as soon as he leaves. The light pauses on some of these.

Up a flight of wooden stairs, bigger kids, rowdier, BD stricter, jokes lesser. Along a long lonely passage with lockers on both sides; even after forty years of this, he sometimes glances back over his shoulder, half expecting to see the resident ghost.

Down a steep flight of wooden stairs. Half his life ago, he would rattle and slide down these stairs so very fast… Here, BD’s wisecracks are laden with sarcasm, sometimes bordering on wickedness; the boys are bigger and he has a reputation to maintain. Some of them take his cue and join in to laugh at the hapless targets. They wish him “Good night!” and inwardly he feels a glow of satisfaction; he’s handling it right – strict enough to stop any nonsense and friendly enough to get them to volunteer a ‘Good night’. They don’t resent him, mostly.

More passages, more stairs. Wet smells. A ‘sentry’ scurries off at the end of the corridor to warn his cronies that BD is on the prowl. Some bloke is singing as he takes a wash before retiring. A couple of them are doing pull-ups on a water pipe that has never been known to complain. BD mocks them and eggs them on to do more, and ropes in a few bystanders, too! There is mutual respect for the good things between the boys and the older man.

Concrete floor, a row of beds on both sides as he walks down to the other end. Ninth graders. They settle into bed as he passes through on his way to the senior boys at the far end who always welcome him. That is one place where he feels especially blessed; it is usually a clash of egos with the senior-most ones, but these ones welcome him as a benign elder and a friend. Captain stays there.

Back through the ninth graders. A low clear voice, “Good night, sir!” Sweetness drips. This is The Cherub. The naughtiness is bubbling just under that angelic voice. Even if he breathes there’s got to be some element of fun or mischief involved in it! A couple of years ago he looked at BD’s untied beard and asked, “Sir, may I touch it?” Who could say no to such appealing innocence! Next question, “Is it real?” BD quickly pulled away before The Cherub could start tugging to find the answer!

Now BD smiles in the darkness, “Good night, buddy!”

A whole lot of others take the cue. One likes to think that if they say it, they mean it.

One night BD sits down on the bed next to him, “You feeling okay, buddy?”

“Yes sir!”

“Then how come you’re being so good, wishing me every night?” Giggles all around.

“Good night, sir!” This time there seems to be no naughtiness, only sweetness, blessed sweetness. BD can’t help patting his head and ruffling his hair.

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Coach

Coach has been unwell this season. He has lost a lot of strength, from outside and inside.

In three months, he lost twelve kilos off his already lean frame. Then some virus found him an easy target. By the time they broke for summer, he was almost bedridden.

But he had planned and arranged a trek for the children. The kids were so eager, and their friends were gathering. It was not in Coach to back out now and spoil everyone’s holiday.

That trek to Pindari Glacier took away more strength from his body, but his flagging spirits rose as they saw glimpses of paradise. The joy on the children’s faces gave him something to be happy about.

Swimming has started in earnest after the summer break. There is a madness upon Coach. He seems to be trying to prove something. He is getting into the water almost every evening, steadily increasing the number of lengths he swims. He is demonstrating dives. He is deliberately defying the cold. Only Captain is privy to his inner world. Captain knows that Coach is fighting for fitness the only way he knows, “Get in there and do it!” Captain respects the spirit.

The girls always play in the water; ninth graders. They come more for fun than for any serious training. Coach likes it that way. If they play with the water, it shall always be their friend. Today, they’ve seen a metal bracelet lying at the bottom in the deep end. They dive in and out in an effort to bring it up. Now they see it, now they don’t. They merrily invite Coach to join them and help find the bracelet. He declines; it’s a long evening ahead, and he doesn’t want to get wet and cold this early.

When the girls go, the boys come on, and Coach soon joins them in the pool. He gets a couple of them to start looking for the bracelet. He wants to show it off to his daughter and her friends who could not get it.

The boys don’t see it. Coach takes a dive himself. He comes up before touching the bottom.

Again.

Just last year, he swam the length of the pool without surfacing even once. He goes in fast. A few strokes along the bottom. Up again. A few feet have been covered, but he’s not staying down long enough to sweep the area.

Perplexed, he thinks for a moment, plans, and goes down again. No luck. Two kids are going in and out with him.

Fourth plunge. Coach goes straight for the bottom of the pool.

The next thing, he finds himself gagging and sputtering at the surface. It takes a moment to remember how he got here. Even as he tries to stay afloat, there is a deep sense of peace and well-being upon him, almost luring him into giving up the effort and just lying back, receding into the place he has just visited.

The previous moment is alive in him. He remembers the rush of water by his ears as he dives in. Then, nothing.

A sort of gentle floating fall backwards into a darkness which envelops very lightly. A bright darkness. Not a darkness that smothers, stifles or suffocates. A very pleasing darkness. Not an absence of light; an absence of harshness. A light darkness.

Soundless music. No notes or tunes playing anywhere, but an absence of noise so sweet that the silence is musical. The ultimate melody; felt, not heard.

A feeling of immense, complete goodness. Peace; absolute peace. Contentment. A profound knowledge of having found the destination. Knowing absolutely that this is it. This is what makes life worth the while. This is where one belongs, where one has always been headed.

No anxiety or apprehension of meeting some greater power or being, just oneness, completeness, peace, harmony. No life. No death.

An insurmountable happiness. A very pure happiness.

The water seems so gentle, the brightness of the evening so soft. Coach is tempted to just relax and sink back. Small thoughts of what that would do his favourite sport, how it would affect these children who swim around him oblivious of his predicament, what it would do to his daughter who wanted to get the bracelet out.

Coach reluctantly tries to get control over his breathing and signals to the two fellows nearest to him. They don’t react. A little distance away Captain senses something amiss. He and PK rush in. Coach puts a hand each on their shoulders and they swim to safety. Coach laughs weakly. They sense his mood and smile with him. They love him, these blighters. The younger ones say they thought he was demonstrating some of the lifesaving stuff he often talks about!

After a few minutes, Coach gets back into the water and swims a length. He won’t let fear come close. He can’t. Captain and PK are at his flanks.

Coach has been beyond the horizon. He knows what lies there.

A few days later, his doctor runs every necessary test on him. All parameters are healthy. A second opinion confirms. Still, they prescribe some medicines. Coach takes them for three or four days, and then stops.

The all clear from the doctors gives him a new confidence. The return from beyond tells him that there is more to be lived. He adds nuts, dry fruits, garlic and honey to his diet. He swims with a vengeance. Ever so slowly, the needle turns and moves upwards. He has now regained four of the lost kilos. The swimming season ended two months ago, and he is now running three kilometres easily. Captain shares his secret and gives him the love of a son.

Coach carries the experience with him, and knows the bliss that lies beyond.

........................................................................................................................................

Almost four in the morning, BD opens his door to find The Cherub there, not feeling well.

The next day, The Cherub departs, into realms unknown.

Mayhem. It seems as if only BD takes time to pray. But that is presumptuous; surely there must have been many others.

Only Coach has been beyond the horizon. And BD knows.

It’s alright to miss him. It’s fine for those he has left behind to be sad.

But Coach has been beyond the horizon. And BD is Coach. The Cherub has reached The Destination.

WE DO NOT OWN THE MOUNTAIN

Another anniversary of sorts; I left the Indian Army on this day 25 years ago! Fourth battalion, The Grenadiers Regiment. And proud to have been there!

A whole lot of love and caring still flows from my army friends to me. They have stood by me in times of want and distress, and I am lucky to share the family lives of many till today.

Also, the first post on Zeina Glo appeared on this day two years ago.

A good story is in order! Please give me a day or two...

......................................................................................

08 April 2016

The 'day or two' has gone on to be 6 months! But here's a story close to my heart, please read it. And there is a dedication somewhere in there...

Chumapu Calls

We came down to headquarters one day and heard how Timmy had looked up at Chumapu, the towering mountain that loomed large towards the north, and asked for his rifle. After that day we would often stare long at the sheer cliff face and wait till the eye would discern some movement of grey upon grey. Once we spotted as many as 16 mountain goats clung to the steep wall!

Tim, they said, had aimed the 7.62 mm SLR at the slate grey mountain, held his breath for a few seconds, and squeezed off a shot that reverberated in the valley for some time before the echoes were drowned in the rush and gurgle of the stream that tumbled down a few metres behind him.

After what seemed an eternity, something was seen to detach itself from the mountain and sail through the air. The team that went to recover it returned in a couple of hours, and that evening the aroma of fresh meat pervaded the small settlement in the mountains.

I would put the range at over a thousand yards, but I would be wrong; Timmy was said to have set the sights at eight hundred, shooting upwards at almost forty five degrees. Respect!

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I don’t know when the idea took germ, but a mountain that’s there needs climbing!

Arun started it. He was tougher than an army mule and could beat the mountain ponies at their own game. He mentioned it over a glass of the amber liquid he liked to drink in the officers’ mess. His head was grey, earning him the sobriquet of ‘Dhaulia’, but he said it was the daily dipping in rum that kept his moustache jet black. Short legs, long lean torso, eyes that laughed all the time, master of deadpan wit.

It was so irresistible, I couldn’t help saying, “I’ll go with you.”

The colonel, Kuldeep Singh Gahlaut, had already taught us the biggest lesson of our lives; whenever we asked his permission for anything the reply always was, “Why not! Of course, you must!”

One had to be careful what one asked for, for one was likely to get it; almost like it is with God.

We decided to take two men along. Arun chose Kashmir Chand; hair light brown, eyes the grey of monsoon clouds mingled with the green of freshly sprouting leaves on the apple trees of his homeland, features better cut than most of the young lieutenants in the Hollywood war movies; lithe, silent, tough; a man for all seasons.

I chose Niyamat Ali; pint-sized wrestler, tanned dark by generations in the scorching sun and stinging sand of the Thar desert, always full of mischief and bravado, never quiet for more than a couple of breaths; as tough as they come.

Both soldiers could go through hell and come out the other side laughing and slapping each other’s backs.

...............................................................................................

Four in the morning was a good time to start. The eastern face of Chumapu was the sheer wall looming three thousand feet over Tamze. Going around from the west of south west seemed to be most feasible. Within a few minutes, the cluster of silent buildings was left behind. We climbed out of the basin onto long a level stretch. The path skirted a shallow lake whose water reflected the moon. Small clouds of vapour blew from our nostrils and mouths as we strode on at a fast clip. The lake ended after a hundred yards or so and the path wound steadily upwards.

The moon faded away as dawn broke, and the sun had just risen when we reached the base of the mountain where we would leave the trail and climb straight up. It had taken us two hours to get here, and there was sweat inside our high altitude clothing. A bite of food, hot tea, a thought of leaving behind our heavy parka jackets quickly overruled, and we marched on. We entered a sea of boulders mostly man-high or more; weaving our way through them, joking and laughing, Arun and I taking the lead turn by turn. As we climbed higher, the gradient became steeper and the size of the boulders reduced to rocks that we could step on and jump on from one to the other. More than an hour would have gone by since we left the path till the time the boulders gave way to smaller rocks and they in turn reduced in size to a scree like a river of stones that had flowed down the mountain and stopped in mid-flow. By the end of another hour of clambering up the steep scree, sometimes slipping back more than we climbed, sometimes criss-crossing to tackle the steep gradient, we were nicely warmed up and ready to take on whatever came our way.

Vertical walls of rock rose from the top of the gully of loose stones. We worked our way ever upward through whatever spaces were available between the maze of rocky walls, negotiating some steep slopes, skirting around others to come out above them, and keeping a general direction towards where we estimated the top of the mountain to be.

All of a sudden we found ourselves at the base of a rock face that rose sheer more than sixty feet high. We looked up, Arun and I, and shook our heads; Niyamat had something sardonic to say, and Kashmira took off his balaclava and ran his fingers through his hair.

We decided to move along its base till we could find a way up. We edged southwards along the narrow verge bordering the bottom of the gigantic rock for about half an hour.  The end of the rock face gave us a chance to find our way upwards winding through narrow spaces in a labyrinth of boulders. These were mostly higher than us, columns standing upright with just enough space in between for us to pass through, sometimes having to turn sideways. Curiously, many of these stone pillars looked so much like the menhirs that Obelix used to carry!

Skirting one of these boulders, I pulled myself into a space further up, and stepped out with confidence. I held the stones on both sides and lunged upwards…. and I froze!! The breath caught in my throat, and one foot dangled in the air behind me! Ahead of me was sky! Just sky, above and below and almost to right angles on both sides! I was at the end of the world.

The petrified moment lasted for maybe a second or two, maybe a gasping breath or two of paradise. Then I had to warn those behind me to hold still and not nudge me forward. To my left the edge of the cut-away mountain rose higher and higher. To my right and front, range upon range of snow-covered mountain rolled into forever. One more step and I could fly a thousand feet down into a deep saddle between Chumapu and the mountain that rose to Point 5056. I peered down into the saddle; southwards it fell into a barren, rocky mass of jumbled boulders reaching eventually down to Tamze; northwards it descended into perpetual shade and a mass of snow looking deceptively soft and smooth. Half a kilometre down this snowy slope I could make out the solitary shepherd’s hut that I had seen once before when I stood in the saddle with the mountains towering up on both sides of me. Now I looked down on it from high up the slopes of Chumapu.

Without a word, I drank it all in, and then I stepped back and made way for each of the others to savour the scene.

The most noticeable effect was awed silence. We were too small to speak, to say anything. Niyamat offered some witticism, but even his voice was subdued and the wonder could be felt.

There was no way we could negotiate our way further towards the top. We turned back, having experienced something far beyond our imaginations. Back the way we had come, at the base of the rock face that had made us turn to a side, we held council.

The afternoon shadows were lengthening, the rock loomed large, and we would barely make it to the trail at the base of the mountain before darkness fell. We so wanted to make it to the top, but there was no way we were going to climb the rock face without equipment and training. We would just have to come another day and use a different way.

A quiet bite of the food we carried, and we started down the slope the way we had come. The loose stones of the scree carried us two steps down for every step we took, and soon we were shouting in excitement as we happily slithered down in giant sliding strides. Soon the stones grew bigger, and we stepped from one to the other.

The stones grew to rocks, and the rocks to boulders, and still we bounced and jumped over their tops, throwing all caution to the winds; we had, after all, been much higher up in the bosom of the noble giant and these lower reaches were just playthings. It was a lot like flying through the air just as the monks from Shaolin later did in a movie that won the first Oscars for a Chinese martial arts film, what was it called… ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’?

The euphoria prevailed through the evening in the Officers’ Mess where Arun and I were heroes, and surely Kashmira and Niyamat would have had a hundred tales to tell in the soldiers’ lines.

 (...at the base of the rock...we held council...)
Niyamat, Kashmira and Arun; a narrow ledge to rest upon.

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The second attempt to scale Chumapu started on the very next day. It could not be put off further because winter was fast approaching and already the frost of the previous night was frozen till late in the day, making the stone surfaces dangerously slippery.

This time we set out after our afternoon meal for ‘Eight-Five’, one of our manned encampments nearest to the base of Chumapu, at a level higher than the place where we left the trail to start climbing. The plan was to spend the night at Eight Five and start early the next morning, having to climb down for just half an hour till the starting point rather than climb up for two hours from Tamze.

Having enjoyed Timmy’s hospitality at Eight Five, after a quick breakfast and hot cups of tea, we were off. We hit the planned spot before dawn broke, and wove through the lower patch of boulders with the help of flashlights. The sky was lighter by the time we reached the scree.

We cut across diagonally to our left, planning to skirt the huge rock face from further north than the previous time.

The rock was still there, but where we hit its base it had petered down to about 30 feet of sheer climb. Any chance of skirting further north was blocked on the left extremity by a rock wall protruding towards us almost at right angles to the face. This time we just shrugged our shoulders and decided to climb.

We roped ourselves together at a comfortable distance. Arun took the lead, eyes searching for the smallest hold for finger or toe. It was a major task to always try to have three points secure and search for some little purchase for the fourth limb. Arun kept up a steady commentary laced with colourful expletives as he inched upwards. When I thought it was safe to follow, I too clung to the cliff and started up. I had gone but four feet when Arun’s left foo slipped and a small cascade of stones came bouncing down. He was about 20 feet above me, and a sharp yell from him made me duck my head. I got hit on the top of my forehead with a fist-sized stone that would otherwise have hit me square in the face. A few stars swam on my horizon; I hung on for a moment or two, and then we all laughed. Arun was profuse in his apologies, Niyamat was sharp in his comments, Kashmira was quietly caring, and we were all very relieved that nothing more grievous had happened.

That climb took us an hour and a half. Most of the effort was Arun’s, and as soon as he was over the top, we were all pulled up much faster with firm hands on rope.

We pulled ourselves up the rim and flopped onto a virgin patch of five months old snow, dazzling and untouched as if it had just fallen yesterday! To the south and west our patch of snow fell off down the cliff we had just climbed, towards south east and east was a steep rise of jagged rocks with barely any space in between. Beyond these lay the deep chasm that fell into the saddle we had viewed from nearby the other day. A dauntingly steep climb northwards seemed to head straight up to the top of the mountain.  Kashmira poured out a quick cup of tea from the flask he was carrying and we all chewed upon the dry ‘khurmullas’ we carried. A few photos were clicked with my loyal Pentax, and we were ready to start again.

(...a virgin patch of snow...dazzling and untouched...) Arun and I take stock...

It happened 27 years ago, and I seem to have forgotten the fresh snow as seen on the ridge in the background, and borne out by the clouds.

A gruelling climb. Very steep. Jagged rocks, with space barely for one person to squeeze through. All of us roped together much closer now, for fear of slithering and falling. Silence in the ranks, except for heavy breathing in the rarefied air at 16000 feet. Hands scraping and scuffing against harsh rock. Pushing ahead doggedly. This was serious business, and we made good time.

We must be nearing the top now, it could not go on like this for much longer; Chumapu seemed so gently rounded at the top when see from far below in Tamze or from the ridges across the valley.

Almost on cue with our thoughts, the stiff climb and jagged rocks gave way to a gentle mountain sloping up into the distance, something like the top of a rising column of cumulus cloud; rounded boulders, gentle slopes rising into the distance till a crest some four hundred yards away.

We were sweating inside our high altitude clothes, and the sun was still bright. Still bright! Still!! Oh God! It struck us together that we had just a couple of hours of sunlight left.

We put our heads down and clambered up the slope as fast as we could. It was steeper than it had seemed, but we made it to the crest in minutes, and looked over to see another in the distance, and one more far beyond it….

The little group stopped, humbled.

The sunlight was taking on a deeper yellow tinge.

All eyes turned to me. The question was unspoken. The answer was obvious to all. The top of The Mountain lay within our reach, maybe two hours away. The sun was leaning down as if to pick up something from where Eight Five lay; less than two hours of sunlight, then a quick slip from dusk to darkness. Suddenly the chill sent a collective shiver up our spines.

The question was unspoken. The answer was obvious to all. Ten hours of climbing had brought us where we were, we would make it to the top of Chumapu before the sun went down, maybe. But then? We would not even be able to make it back to this spot before darkness fell.

A night out on the mountain, climbing slowly down with our little flashlights, making our way over steep mountain known only to sheep? And the temperature would go down to minus eight, unless a breeze picked up to make it colder.

I was in my 26^th year, but I outranked my friends, and when a sad decision has to be taken, rank matters. No one wanted to turn back, and each one knew that we had to, so someone had to order the abortion of the quest.

I did it.

“Now we know that we have climbed Chumapu! What remains is this easy walk to the top. The next time we will approach from even further north, so that we skirt that rock face completely, and we will start out at 2 a.m. We need to compliment ourselves for having made it over the most difficult parts.

Now we shall not stop even for a minute before we reach the base of the mountain. Let’s go!”

And we went! Sliding, slithering, rushing down, still tethered together but going down fast. We skirted the rock face. We cut our hands on the sharp rocks. We went! We went! We untied the ropes when we reached the scree of loose stones. A thousand rocks flowed down with us as we strode, jumped and slid down. The sun was down before we started our wild dance on the boulders, jumping from one to another, throwing all caution to the winds, unmindful of danger, racing against the oncoming darkness…and knowing that we would never be coming here again…

The mass of huge boulders near the bottom was negotiated only by the afterglow of the evening sky still radiating from the stone in a dull gleam. But we did not put on our torches before we reached the little path running to Tamze.

Soon a gentle moon came up to shower beams of understanding and sympathy as we trudged along silently. The moonlight sparkled off the shallow lake and filtered the landscape to an even grey. And we were together, having been there.

We did not grudge The Mountain its victory; we were overwhelmed at having been one with it. At having played upon the wide expanse of its bosom. At having measured our strength till the end of strength, endurance till the end of endurance, will till the point of numbness, and having reached the point of Grace. Where all else is left behind, it is Grace that carries us, lifts us, protects us; we had experienced Grace.

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In terms of measured time, twenty seven years have passed.

Niyamat has taken a sniper’s bullet and gone forever into the rolling desert sands he so missed. Kashmira is probably whistling a tune amongst the apricot and pear blossoms and watching children herd the goats homeward. Timmy is loving growing older with Manu and their girls.

Arun, the strongest one, has been taken home by a little virus that nagged him and refused to go away. I write this story today as a gift to his children, Mickey and Minnie; Anuj and Nimisha; and to Sima who gives them his share of love and caring, too.

Chumapu stands. Its mysteries open to any who may wish to come and play upon its bosom, to ride upon its chest, to learn and grow in its heart. We have not made it into any elite group of back-slapping achievers. We are not conquerors with flags waving at the peak. We have been adopted as its own by a mountain of grace. Its breezes flow in our souls.

We do not own the mountain. The Mountain owns us, forever.

(...what remains is the easy walk to the top...)

Captain Arun Krishen Singh, leader and inspiration.

The picture was sent to me by Mini, Nimisha, apple of her father's eye.

THE GIRL AT THE FUNERAL

Today is Jashan's 16th birthday. Zeina Glo was conceived on this day two years ago.

Jashan and I have been occupied for some days in funeral proceedings at home, and I have been unable to write her birthday post.

Jaswant Bir died on the 28th of September.

I intend to write soon, and it may be about a girl at the funeral.

Jashan had come and gone back to school for five days, Raunaq was there, Meher was there, Laddi, Kanwal, Kannu, Bantu, Avneet. And, of course, Laddu and Meet, Sonu and Meetu. And a whole lot of others spanning four generations of Nawab Nagar and the extensions of the family. All the others prayed from wherever they were.

THE GIRL AT THE FUNERAL

That is her father who lies there, gone now where all fathers must one day go. There is a crowd of relatives and well-wishers. She has come a long way for this moment, this meeting before he is gone forever, consigned to flames and ceremonies that slowly and gently pull him away from the realm of the tangible into the retreats of memory.

A collective wail goes up amongst the women as she comes out to where he lays and kneels down at the head. Some border on hysteria as they push her to “Touch him”, “Look at him”. The sombreness of the situation suffers a little as one or two seem to overdo it. Some of the elder men gently calm them down, and solemn dignity prevails.

Of course it is heart-rending. But she is composed. He has been unwell now and then, down the years. It is three days since he breathed his last. She has flown halfway across the world to be here. The initial pain has settled down to a dull ache. The agony of his being snatched away has partly turned into a throbbing, pulsating vacuum that invites her to lose herself in it.

The onlookers do not see when the young man comes and stands next to her. The change in her demeanour is visible. They are together, and she is strong. She derives strength from the young man. The young man is an epitome of calmness, and she is calm. The young man exudes compassion, and dependability, and strength, and being there. It is so pleasing, this effect that they have on each other. Those who notice feel an involuntary gentleness of the heart.

Soon the body has been bathed and dressed and carried to the gurudwara and thence to the cremation site. Four of his fathers and mothers have been consigned to flame here in the three-score years gone by, and a younger brother. It is a reunion of sorts.

Modern English gave us the words ‘cousin’, ‘uncle’ and ‘aunt’. We don’t care for them. They do not express the bond.

Wood, ghee, incense, samagri, prayers, torch…

The bodily remains of her father…

…He was a strong man. His body was long challenged by disease, but his spirit was undaunted. He was fearless!

…smoke…

…he was a doting father. He was so caring and patient with children, his own or anybody else’s…

…fire…

…it was not in him to sit idle. He was always ready to meet people. Whenever he travelled, he found time to stop and meet so many old friends and relatives on the way…

…a vacuum so poignant that it threatens to engulf. The flames reach high, hearts melt, eyes swim…

And again, the crowd is brought back to reality by a sight that describes heaven. The young man stands tall close to her, she is snug in his light embrace, and they gently bid adieu to their father. They stand closest to the pyre, the others have fallen back. They are travelling some of the way with him, seeing him off with tenderness and care.

They look into each other’s eyes. Her brother notices, and feels much lighter. The elders notice, the well-wishers notice. And a collective prayer of thanks rises heaven-wards. God bless the young man who keeps their daughter safe, God bless the girl who makes her man a man. God bless their love. Their togetherness. Their oneness.

The girl at the funeral flies back to Canada today to join the young man and their adorable children. Their love lightens our hearts. May it ever remain so.

Thanks, God.

Written and posted on 14 October 2015.

IT’S A GREAT CHASE

All human activity is driven by fear; fear of pain. From ever and ever, pain has been a constant and irrefutable attribute of human existence. Whether it is born out of physical conditions, intellectual fretting, or emotional cravings, the fear of pain is the driving force behind all human endeavour.

All enterprise - all training, all education, all need for advancement, all commercial effort, all learning, all education, all health training, all technological advancement - arises from a deep-seated insecurity bred by centuries of pain. 

The pain of bodily hurt or damage, the pain of hunger, the pain of old age, the pain of being attacked by other forms of nature – animals, humans, water, fire, heat, cold, and calamities of countless kinds – the pain of disease.

The pain of emotional distress, the pain of dependence, the pain of loneliness, the pain of rejection, the pain of childbirth, the pain of growing up, the pain of physical labour, the pain of death, the pain of waiting for pain.

The pain of not knowing what lies ahead. The pain of trying to anticipate and pre-empt pain.

Ten years of apprenticeship or growing up in one’s accepted hereditary occupation has been replaced by twenty years of study in order to define an occupation. The driving force is an attempt to insure security, to beat fear, to overcome the certainty of pain. The building of strength and muscle, the honing of talent, the amassing of wealth and power, are all efforts to be on the winning side. The thrill of victory is momentary, the need for victory is eternal.  

All of us tread the path of life trying to dodge, run away from, fend off, or pre-empt pain.

We probably only manage to create a bigger number and variety of pains! Something like those mobs of robots in the movies who keep multiplying and mutating and coming at the humans…

And Time? She mocks us!

By the time one seems to have the answers to the fears of childhood, it’s a thing of the past and adolescence brings more armloads full. When one is grown up enough to handle teenage, the count has crossed the tens... All middle aged people know the answers to the problems of youth.

The curse of apprehension does not stop at oneself. The mass of parents have all suffered their fair share of pain, and the fear is now transferred. The supremely egoistic beings that we are, we are convinced that we were specially equipped or capable to have shouldered our share of pain, responsibilities, and the travails of life. But now we are afraid for our children! We would like to spare them what we’ve been through!  We are now afraid that they may not be able to handle what we have been through!

Are we somehow assuming that they are weaker than us? That they are less blessed? That they are children of a lesser god?  

The wisdom of the elders is revealed only to the elders, when life has gone by in the effort to ward off the day that is now imminent. Only they that stare death in the face, knowing that it cannot be warded off much longer, can live a life not given away to hysterical effort and enterprise! Only they who have understood that the only cure for pain is its passage through time, and it is not to be feared, know that they cannot grudge the younger ones their trials.

Only they that see it all slipping away can appreciate that the younger ones need to live! To see it, to experience it, to absorb it, to be one with it all!

My forays into the desert sands or the eternal snows cannot be transferred to my children. My passage through the forest that took away my terror of snakes cannot be handed over in words. My experiences in love and hate are not enough to teach them their lessons. My lessons and experiences, my victories, me tragedies, my roses and my thorns have made me what I am; can I deny them that which will make them the wonderful beings that they are destined to be?

My fears have not been overcome because I was a hero who could take what life had to offer and my children are not. What fears I had have fallen prey to the passage of Time and died their natural death, that and only that! And new ones have taken their place.

I wish today to protect my child from use and abuse, from rejection, from heartbreak... 

...just more fears that I must shake off...

Do I wish to let her grow, or would I rather keep her as she is, maybe 17 forever? What I am today is the sum total of my experiences; would I wish any less upon my children?

Go, my dear ones, face your world! Grow with God in all His manifestations!

I rejoice in all your ‘mistakes’, in your ‘uncertainties’, in your ‘wrongs’, in your ‘faults’.

I bless you with your fair share of sadness, of hurt, of death, and of rising again and again from the depths you fall to!

I bless you with learning! Learning from turmoil the value of peace; learning from hatred the meaning of love; learning from despair the need for hope; learning from yesterday the bounty of today; learning from clinging the joy of letting go!

Go, my lifeblood, and live out your lives to the hilt! I grudge you not your fears and your pitfalls, for they make you the superheroes that you will all become!

“Zeina Glo brings you the radiant glow of inner peace, good health and attendant beauty.

Zeina Glo helps you strip off layers of inhibitions, hesitation, and cynicism, allowing your thoughts and emotions to flow freely.

Zeina Glo helps to douse the flames of insecurity and guilt, to open the windows of mind and body to the cool fresh breeze of love.

Zeina Glo encourages you to spread inner peace, good health, radiance, exuberance, warmth, joy and the glow from your inner being.

Zeina Glo brings the beauty of your own thoughts back to you!!”

For, questions, criticism or advice, please post comments here, or write to zeinaglo@rediffmail.com or zeinaglow@gmail.com