ROMANCING THE WINDS

Once every year, my little girl has a birthday. And I have to tell her stories, forever.

Let me spin you a tale, my dear.

(Jannat Singh's first pen and ink sketch, still my favourite. God bless the artist the young boy took the theme from.)

ROMANCING THE WINDS

The desert sun was hot, the sand on the wind made travellers screw up their eyes in permanent wrinkles. Arms and faces were tanned to a deep leather, and robe-covered bodies to sensuous hues of lives lived with the elements.

The caravans could range from  a few laden animals to hundreds of camels carrying merchandise, tentage, food and supplies, and horses flitting to and fro like convoy dispatch riders and scouts.

There was music and dancing in the desert nights, and ballads of bravery and romance. Conspiracies too were born and hatched, as were violence and looting.

Merchants, plying their trade across continents - working in air conditioned by the breath of the gods, their tools the strength of their sinews, their acumen the daring in their hearts. Their merchandise; silks, spices, rugs, paper, artefacts, daggers, swords, jewels; and customs, tales, songs, lilting tunes, throbbing beats and other unnamed treasures.

Birds sang, cattle lowed, squirrels darted up and down the shady trees. Children screamed in play, men ploughed fields and there was a hum of enterprise in the villages. Maidens ventured abroad to fill water from wells or rivers and carry it back for home and hearth.

Water; the most precious resource, the soothing elixir, the blessed nectar – they had wells full of it and rivers swollen with it. Drawing it from the source and carrying it home was a daily chore. And the young people were not beyond soaking themselves now and then; confident that they would be dry by the time they got back to the watchful eyes of the elder women. But the older ones could discern anyway; they had done the same thing in their turn, and some spirits retained the memories of the refreshing coolness, while others were embittered at the passing away of those days.

Sometimes, the travellers would venture near the villages to sell their wares or replenish supplies, or have harness repaired, or simply to go out. At other times, the villagers would approach their camps to soak in the mystery and the magic.

Sometimes, one would stop by at a well to ask for a drink of water, and many a time he would leave with a thirst that burned more fiercely than any other he had known. Sometimes, a poor maiden would forget where she was and her world would suddenly swirl in a dance of rainbow colours and bells would ring that only she could hear.

One would find excuse to drink water every day, the other to be there. Only their dearest friends would perceive the bolt that had struck.

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When love transcends the ordinary, its telling becomes the domain of saints and fakirs.

Every land in the world has its Laila-Majnu, Shireen-Farhad, Mirza-Sahiba, Sassi-Punnu, Sohni-Mahiwal.

Some lands have ballads like ‘Heer’, told by fakirs like Waris Shah.

These legends engulf entire cultures and tell much more than tales of young romance. They reflect and influence the ethos of a people. Songs are born, singers vie with each other to worship the words with soulful renditions, and the spirits of entire lands dissolve in wonder with each retelling. Lyrics surpass the realm of poetry and dialogues approach divinity. And the relationship with the beloved is transposed into the relationship with the divine.

The lovers ask questions that devotees cannot, and provide answers that worshipers seek.

The slave-girl asks the prince,

“Kahaan Salim ka rutba kahaan Anarkali, ye aisi shokh-e-tamanna hai jo kabhi na phali;

Huzoor ek na ek din ye baat ayegi, ke takht-o-taaz bhala hai ke ik kaneez bhali.”

The enamoured prince replies,

“Main takht-o-taaz ko thukra ke tujhko le loonga,

Ke takht-o-taaz se teri gali ki khaak bhali!”

( Anarkali:

“Where the status and pomp of Salim, and where Anarkali,

This is such an unreasonable desire that will never bear fruit!

Sire, one day the question will surely arise,

Whether crown and throne are better

Or a slave-girl is better”

Salim:

“I will forego crown and throne,

Better than crown and throne is the mud of your alley.”)

Every time I hear this lovely song from the movie 'Hamraaz', it takes me to the mirror of my relationship with the One True Lord. Do I worship my God only to fulfil my wants? Am I only a beggar at His door? Or can I actually forego all that I think I own or desire, and adopt the muddy path that leads to His house? Do I wish to retain my own identity and master a slave girl, or am I willing to lose myself in the Absolute without judging and moulding it to my liking?

Waris Shah's Heer tells her young companions hoe she has lost her identity and become one with her beloved Ranjha,

“Ranjha-Ranjha kardi ni main aappe Ranjha hoi,

Hun kudiyo mainu Ranjha aakho, Heer na aakho koi.”

(“Constantly chanting Ranjha-Ranjha, I have myself become Ranjha,

Now girls, call me Ranjha, no one say Heer any more.”)

That is it, that is simply it. The essence. The path. The way. When He pervades everything, my entire being and soul and consciousness, I cease to exist. I sit in my airconditioned office, but the scent of His travels fills my senses, and I sing in the crystal air of the cold desert night, and I am not, and He is not, only One Is.

Allah Allah, Ram Ram, Vaheguru Vaheguru…

…as Radha and Krishan are one; their life, their soul, their existence, their being, is one…

...I am not. He Is. One.

TOUCHING BASE

Now and then, the tortoise needs to retreat into its shell. The word ‘retreat’ is used by human beings to describe the going home of the tortoise. Humans think that it is out of fear, but the tortoise can teach them a thing or two, or four.

Sometimes a body wants to stop running with the pack and just lay by. The traffic on the congested highway, where it was so important to stay in sync with the flow, is suddenly a distant vision of colourful cars passing by; music wafting out of some, children shrieking in others. Standing aside, even the horns blowing in the distance are not irritants. The driver who has been chasing in his car for so many miles, or the one who has not been letting him pass on ahead, no longer matters.

After some time it is a pleasure, rather than a burden, to go on.

Tortoises have shells gifted to them by The Manufacturer. They sometimes come in handy to let passing sandstorms, electric storms, heat and cold and other such things go their way. At other times, they are good to stay away from foxes, jackals, money, bosses, governments, and other predators; or even just some urchins carrying pointed sticks.

The tortoise doesn’t have too far to go, and it has all its life to get there. Unlike humans. Humans are really going! Nobody ever said anything about reaching.

There are times in childhood when a doting father picks up shells from a riverbed, splits the two halves, and places the hollows against the ears of his children. And they hear the expansive, embracing hum of the ocean to which the river stretches to reach.

The shell is where the tortoise goes to be one with the sounds of the ocean, the hum of the universe. The shell is where he catches the strains of The Flute of The Cowherd. The shell is where he treads the desert and mountain, sand and snow, in the Footsteps of The Baba - oblivious to the heat, chill, thorn, stone and snake. Sometimes he breaks into inward song, and sometimes he dances to a celestial tune.

Outside the shell, volcanoes erupt, the earth quakes, great floods cover the lands, a hundred battles rage; death, destruction and fear are sold in the name of progress.…towards what? People die and are born again, to run the gauntlet yet one more time.

Inside shell, the sun rises to his bidding, the moonlight falls gently where he wishes, rivers flow, children play, flowers bloom, birds sing. Gently floating.

Once in a while, humans need to retreat into the freedom of The Shell.