FOR THOSE WHO WOULD RIDE (Sidhwan Khurd)

For more than 20 years now, my hero comes back to his village every year from where he now lives with his family in Canada. The poorer ones of the village, and a couple of neighbouring villages, wait for his arrival every year. He does not have too much time for the family, for he must attend to the sickness and deaths and marriages and squabbles of these, his favoured ones. He gives time. He gives companionship. He gives friendly banter. He gives money. The amounts do not matter; the giving matters.

They touch him for it if a crumbling wall needs to be repaired, if a buffalo needs medical attention, if a child needs to be wed, for illness, for celebration, for death; for anything. He does not judge character; he feels their need. Someone in the family once reproached him, “Why do you give them money, do you know that half of them blow it up on country liquor or a fix of poppy husk?”

His answer is a revelation, “You do not know the pain of their craving.”

What he gives them may just be keeping someone from stealing his wife’s modest jewellery, or keeping someone’s daughter in school, or giving a little respite from craving and despair. He is absolutely against substance abuse; he has been there and back in years long gone by. He feels their pain.

Oh, how we like to ride the high horse of morality! How many of us have ever paused to think, where would the supercilious arrogance of the upright be were it not for the grovelling supplication of the sinners?

We sit in judgement over the ‘sinners’, and ours is probably the bigger sin, for have they not been destined by fate to sin, the same fate that seems to have made us 'virtuous'? They probably carry the burden on behalf of the virtuous!

Everything is in balance in the Perfection of Allah’s world. We must gather the courage to bless the sinners, for they may carry our burden of sin. And the sufferers, for god only knows whose burden of suffering they carry.

One who has fallen from grace has the options of realization, of atonement, of making amends. The upright have to choose between forgiveness and incarceration, sensitivity and indifference, warmth and cold, love and hatred, saving and condemning.

The choice they make determines whether they remain 'right', or fall into 'wrong' themselves! Like the hero of the tale, the blessed ones would be empathetic rather than judgemental.

Let us not be not frugal in investing in forgiveness, we do not know when we may have to redeem our investment. Let us desist from feeding the fires of grudge, hate, scorn or contempt. They only kill the warmth inside and make us colder than the object of our disdain. It shows on our countenance. We are here to practise compassion, not pity; to free ourselves from the yoke of hatred, soar with the birds in the heavens by forgiving and letting go!

The sinner has the chance to redeem and rise, the upright can only fall. Be aware!

WHERE THERE IS DARKNESS

An anecdote, again often attributed to that legend of Turkish wit and wisdom, Mullah Nasruddin, goes something like this; the Mullah was found keenly examining the ground in the glow of a street lamp late one night. A passerby asked him what he was looking for. “Oh,” said the Mullah, “I lost a silver coin!”

The friendly man joined in the search. After a while of fruitless effort, he asked the Mullah whether he remembered a little specifically where about he could have dropped the coin.

“In the compound of my hut,” Nasruddin was quick to reply!

Aghast, the friend asked the Mullah incredulously why he was wasting time looking there for something that he had lost elsewhere!

“Because, my friend, my hut is dark, and this place has light.”

Again, I maintain that Mullah Nasruddin was a wise person, and not likely to utter words in vain.
(See post ‘Praise The Moon’, December 2013)

Was the wise man trying to demonstrate so simply the humility required to perceive and accept the darkness inside us, and turn to Him who is the source of all light?

Do we need to stop living in the blind shadows of our egos, and step out to search for the treasures in the Light?

Are we stumbling around in the dark, so full of our own losses and gains that we do not venture out into the light that hides nothing?

May the good Lord give us the courage to free our souls enchained in the miserable abysses of our ambitions, desires and treacherous machinations, and let them soar towards the light that banishes all forms of Darkness!

May we turn our backs upon the dark and dreary, and fly towards Him who shines, Who leads as a kindly light!

May we surrender to the Light rather than cling to the darkness; till the Light and we are one, the darkness is banished, and we glow with His luminescence.

PRESERVATION

There are no coincidences.

Someone comes up and says, "I read your Shivratri post..."

A workshop on art and cultural heritage drilled these words into one's being; preservation, conservation, restoration. (See ‘You Don’t Need Love’, October 2013)

The Creator, The Preserver and The Destroyer work in tandem, and all existence is a continuous process of birth and death and rebirth of mind, body, spirit, intellect, morale, understanding, caring, will, good, evil, and every other idea. The three of them depend upon each other for their being.

Which brings one to thoughts about Preservation.

So many times, one stands face to face with situations where one would rather shut it all out and close one’s eyes, if it were so simple to just stop breathing. At other times, one would willingly shed every drop of blood or smother every thought that penetrates just to overcome that which threatens.

Man has problems because he thinks he has the answer to all his problems. A problem exists because it presupposes the existence of a solution, like life exists because it presupposes death.

This is not about the meandering paths of math and logic and science which reach a destination that already exists. This is about webs that entangle soul and spirit, where the solution lies in giving in to the problem; where the experience of and immersion in the problem is itself the solution; where problems come not with solutions but with lessons; where mine is not mine, and you are not you. Behold! The beauty of the web!

Preservation. The Destroyer demonstrates how fragile is the creation of the Creator, and the Preserver shows how strong it is. Now one understands why all the chanters repeat the names given to The Preserver in different incarnations. The creator does his job; and who would pray for destruction? Therefore, the most prayed-to god is The Preserver.

Yet they are all one; One; incomplete without each other, the only purpose of their existence being to give meaning to the being of the others. Together, they give meaning to the world.

Torture, rape, oppression and greed will always co-exist with god and truth and beauty and laughter. Good and evil will always depend upon each other for their identity. People will always pay more heed to what they think is more important.

Some will float above and away from the ill feelings asking not, “Why me?”, but being prepared to face it with “Why not me!”

Every parent wants utopia for their child; the utopia is here and now, if one can smile and accept the perfection of this world.

For a few seconds one is in awe of the beauty of a flower; expand that moment to encompass life.

Someone went to the Golden Temple, paid obeisance, and dissolved when his forehead touched the marble floor. Think of the whole world as that temple of gold, and dissolve wherever you are.

Each one has closets full of anger, fear, dislike, distrust, grudges and ill-feelings stored oh-so-carefully, complete with naphthalene balls and fresh newspaper laid out. Good things like holding hands or feeling the need for each other are consigned to the dust. Let us invert this; throw out the muck we have collected over the years and tilt the scales in favour of the things that make us glow from inside.

Glow, from deep within.

DEMOLITION

He Destroys!!

So much of life is a buildup of one’s Identity; as a father, as a child, as a boss, as an employee, athlete, achiever, soldier, administrator, owner, giver, negotiator, arbitrator, professional, preacher, spouse, lover and millions of other buttons that define one’s identity.

Lifetimes are spent in collecting, displaying and believing hordes of documents and learning degrees and riches and wealth and property and information that support the buildup of this great I-dentity; all trying to give definition to a soap bubble in the air, whose only identity actually is oneness with It All.

The Bubble wears garbs of religion, riches, wisdom, intellect, strength and skill. Could that possibly be why someone coined the word ‘garbage’?

The built-up apparition is visible mostly to the Bubble itself. It usually fills the Bubble with a degree of arrogance; the arrogance of the achiever, of the wealthy, of the knowledgeable, of the strong, of the powerful, of the pious, of the charitable, of the preachers and practitioners of love and giving and care, of the self-estimation of superiority in any such sphere and the resultant contempt for other bubbles.

Ah, the constant need to be doing and making and collecting and achieving! The derision towards one who would stand idle and wonder!

Indeed, wondrous are the ways of God! The breeze of arrogance carries the Bubble farther and farther away from mother earth, terra firma, reality, life and death, God himself.

Then?

A little prick, a gentle swish, one of the countless small obstacles that the most grandiose plans always overlook - health, timing, age, secrets, mood, nature, anything - and the Bubble bursts. Whither the trappings of wealth, power, piety, and strength? Where the wisdom, skill or achievements? One ‘wrong’ circumstance, and the I-I-dentity stands naked before the world, open to ridicule and contempt.

The end?

No! The Builder demolishes, only to build anew! The Bubble loses identity, and is faced with a chance to build afresh; with arrogance or without, with deception or without, with contempt or without, with the One or without. Witnesses to the Demolition also face the same choices; to sympathize or to hold in contempt, to forgive or to condemn, to look back in despair or to look forward with hope.

Fear not, little bubble! This time round, we will leave the external trappings alone. We shall fill ourselves from the inside with love and god and thanks and wonder and caring and tolerance and forgiveness and remembrance and serenity and delight. The Surgeon wielded the knife with great love and care, only the malignant tissue was removed; in time, what remains will be restored to good health and the fading scars will remind one not of the cancer that was inside but of the Master who operated.

When the bubble bursts this time, it may exude a fragrance that enchants.

Demolition; it brings us face to face with the illusion of reality. Must we die to see the truth? Can we not die before Death finally takes us away, and greet each new day as a rebirth, a second chance, a wondrous gift? Can we get so used to this death in life that we welcome it as surrender and dissolution? One.

Mitti.

DRINK IT IN

Our problems will always grow bigger. If we think that we’ve had it up to here, rest assured that worse will come, without warning or planning. We may plan about and cater for a thousand things, but the next test will come in a completely unimagined form. Smooth sailing is a dream.

So where does that lead us? Are we here just for the torture planned by some sadistic power? Is that the aim, the be-all and the end-all of this world? Whither lies redemption?

Till the time I think that I have solutions and plans that will protect me from the adversities, I am going astray; simply because the focus is on myself, I, I, I and I. Did I plan on every day of health and fun and smiles that came my way? No, I just took them on without heed, without thanks, without questioning their being or happening.

We are blessed with senses to pick up external stimuli. How are we reacting to the information they send us? If my senses tell me mountain, do I immediately feel climb, or exhaustion, or landslide? If I am told water, do I feel flood, drowning, danger? If it says tree, do I react obstruction, or plywood? If it says breeze, do I react cold, sick, indoors? If I see flame, do I jump to fire, destruction, scorching, burning? If I am told desert, do I feel thirst, exhaustion, death, buzzards?

If I see buzzard, do I see clawing and scavenging or do I see graceful flight over uplifting thermals!

Am I open to the awesome beauty of the mountain? The power, the strength, the majesty? Can I look up in awe at the Maker’s creation, The Composition of the Lord, Hari ki kirat, Harkirat? Do I have any idea of my relative size strength and importance?

Do I see the force of life in water? Do I feel its heavenly coolness? Do I appreciate the capacity of water alone to douse the inferno inside me, the gifts of fun and force and adventure and rejuvenation that it is all about? Do I see how just the promise of water pours life into any living being, and gentleness into the stones that we think don’t live?

Have I ever gazed into the green and near-green of the trees, and actually drunk it in? It is a life force! It calms it soothes it unruffles. It unfetters, it relaxes, it enlivens. It holds the promise of heaven, of the Garden of Eden (Jannat).

Have I ever let the breeze play with my hair as no lover can, have I ever felt its touch in the unknown reaches of my soul as it plays over my mind and body? Have I allowed it to pull and push me against my will? Oh, it is Divine!

When was the last time I faced the sun and drank it in with closed eyelids and felt the life flow all through me and smiled at the warmth of its touch as it filled my inner being?

I can teach myself languages and maths and tricks and discipline. I can school my mind to explore, analyze, learn and accept. Let me now guide it to appreciate and wonder and rejoice. Let my mind discern and appreciate and compose love, truth and beauty, and all the wonders of God’s world will be mine. Man ki Kirat, Mankirat.

If my comprehension of the forces of life, love and beauty grows, then my problems pale into insignificance. When I am in tune with all the forces that sustain my life and energy, then I do not wilt in anticipation of imminent problems. I draw strength from these friends who are always willing to replenish and rejuvenate. I live, I bloom. I celebrate the love and beauty and oneness and care and energy and prana. I live to celebrate life. Jashan. My problems come, but I know that they too will pass, either by retreating physically, or by leading me towards different perspectives.

The life forces are God’s arms reaching out to me to help me, to support me, to hold me up. They are nectar; I need to drink them in.

PROSPER AND BLOOM - 2

This post is a supplement to the previous post, ‘Prosper and Bloom – 1’. It comprises thoughts triggered by Anand Dua’s comment at the end of the previous post.

ANAND DUA wrote:

“Dear blogger,
what if unfortunate conditions and situations have affected the person's perspective towards money being the basic necessity of life. Then wouldn't the person teach his offspring what he learnt from life? Would you still say it is the generation gap?”

I have nothing against the basic necessities of life. And every generation passes through similar motions of living, learning and teaching.

We are all children, sheep, cows, disciples, parts of a Benevolence called God. This ‘God’ is the Is in every grain of sand, every drop of water, every breath of air, every ray of light, every leaf and bud and insect and thought; Existence itself.

For one, a few morsels of simply cooked food may satisfy ‘basic need’. For another, the most exotic and expensive may not suffice. One may be thrilled to be able to afford a bus or train ride, another may be unhappy in a private luxury flight.

One may be a veritable Adonis, another a deformed decrepit cripple. Remember the line that is quoted in every school, ‘I cried when I had no shoes till I saw a man who had no feet’?

Money, wealth, influence, power are all means. Sometimes we get so involved with acquiring the means, that we forget the end.

The end, in its basest sense, is comfort. Comfort in the thought that we have enough provision for food, shelter, security and health, first for ourselves, then for those we ‘care’ for.

The marketeers play on our need to feel secure to gather money, power, territory, armies and followings. They are in turn cursed with the craving for more and more themselves, again a need to feel secure and fulfilled.

The obsession with comfort or security becomes so intense that gathering wealth and its attendant ‘power’ becomes an end in itself.

All religions and spiritual teachings guide us towards satisfaction. None denies our right to basic needs. But all advocate sharing, caring and feeling for others. My great big Ego convinces me of the need to overdo it, to grab, to cheat, to be blind to another’s need or discomfort. My mind with its logical thinking is convinced that if I have enough ‘means’, the end shall be mine.

But God has other plans. Nature is His tool. Time is His arena. The minuscule speck that the Great Big I actually is, lives and breathes to His command. We go through the motions till the day of realization that He is the provider, that The Plan is bigger than this fleeting lifetime, that this time round we are here just to let a few lessons sink in, and move to the next level of learning.

We are taught, with infinite patience, the value, the power, the wonder, the joy, the thrill of satisfaction. When we step out of the blinding glare of craving for more, our eyes gradually get used to the world outside that little spot of dazzling light that illuminates Me. The pupils dilate, the heart blossoms, the taut nerves of the mind relax, and we start appreciating the beauty of this panorama called Creation. We learn that even if one has lesser than us, we have more than we need, and sharing fulfils more than grabbing.

The course runs till we realize Truth, Beauty, Love. Absolutes. Till the day we stop holding on, and give away everything. The I.

Where the I is, He is not. Where the I is not, He is.

Till I am, He is not. When I am not, He is.

PROSPER AND BLOOM - 1

One sometimes wonders at the time spent on yearning, reaching, craving for the illusory wealth of money. Lifetimes go by in the chase. An elusive prize, indeed; one that makes superhuman demands of time and effort. And appears and vanishes at will.

Why has this money benumbed our senses? Why do we direct our children into an ‘education’ with the lure that it will earn them more and more money? If a child paints well, he is encouraged by spinning dreams of how well his pictures will sell and how rich they will make him. Doesn't the richness of his passion, the satisfaction of the picture he creates make him wealthy already in a way no amount of money can? 

If a child talks about studying to be a doctor, we talk to her about how much money doctors earn, not about how many ailments they cure and how much succour they bring. Is it not a misconception that all work is aimed at monetary gain, and that after having earned 'enough', one may sometimes take some ‘quality time’ out for what one enjoys being or doing?

If I profess confidence that a benevolent God looks out for me, then why do I go overboard in trying to 'provide' for ‘my’ children?

Were my elders crazy when they let me ride a horse or row a boat or swim in a river or climb a mountain or study what I wished as I liked and follow any profession that came my way? No! They were all heart. Their faith did not need to rest on me or my abilities. They knew that God would take care of me.

Money is happenstance. So is passion. Why do I let one be clouded over by the other?

The time spent on brooding on money, on ways to get it, save it, hold it, spend it; can I spend those innumerable hours on life and living and playing and laughing and loving and reaching out and touching and breathing and walking and jumping and smiling and feeling? Could I forego the feel of owning thousands, for the feeling of giving or having hours and days? Could I spend the same time and effort on prayers, thanks, gratitude, love, cheerfulness and sympathy? 

So many centuries of humans have lived by toil and courage, prayer and fortitude. Toil gave them strength, forbearance, endurance. Now we hear that toil gives fatigue. Cleaning the rug was fun, but now the rug remains dirty till a paid cleaner does it. Painting a door or wall. Feeding the cow. The sly and sharp demeanour that was reserved for bankers, card sharps and loan sharks seems to have become the wise and wanted look. ‘Ferret faced’, one old writer used to call them.

Is that what the generation gap is, that we are children of a benevolent god and they are children of anxious parents!

This unthinking and blind race for money preys so heavily on ties of family and friendship, of love and camaraderie. Everything is measured in money. It brings families and governments and nations to their knees.

Love and caring and services and blessings and time and effort and prayers, can they ever have an equivalent in money? Let us work to go forward, or backwards, to days when 'payments' are made in prayers and blessings, 'dua' and 'ashirvaad'! 

There is so much Barkat in that; so much thriving and flourishing, blooming and prospering, blossoming and fragrance. And Love.

Let us live in Love, and its inner glow.

WHILE THE MUSIC STILL GOES ON

Everyone dances. Toddlers in elders’ arms. Grandmothers who can barely walk. The father’s friends who have left behind home and hearth and place of work to be here today. Brothers, sisters, cousins, relations by marriage, relations by business, relations by family ties deep rooted, often ignored, alive again in the joy of being together. Friends. Friends of friends. Their acquaintances. Young men chasing skirt. Girls basking in the attention.

College goers stare agape at an uncle who knows the moves for every song played, and performs with controlled elan. “He’s awesome!” they say, as they break into cheers and clap their hands to his moves. They seem surprised at the revelation that the older ones also lived a life like they do now.

Everyone dances. Including the bride and the groom. It is the togetherness, the crowd, the occasion, the ambience.

Raunaq.

It is Blessings. It is Hope. It is Love. And the Prana flows. In thanks to God for this moment. For the young couple who brought it about. For the stars in their eyes. For the innocent purity of their love. May it ever be so. May they have their share of sadness and challenges, and rise above them stronger and deeper in understanding and tolerance, and Thanks. May someone translate to them the words that are sung out in the place of worship as they walk around the presence of the guru.

The dance is a prayer.

Everyone lives in one’s own world of children, parents, friends, heartache, tragedy, wants, needs, problems. Everyone has reason to give in to the elation of the moment, and dance.

The deep throb of the Punjabi beats. Interspersed with the bawdy lilt of ‘hot’ Bollywood numbers.  No other music in one’s experience can produce such effect, except maybe the throb of the old Enfield motorcycle held by the knees….. and the tune of an Aarti rising from the heart.

Everyone dances. For what could have been. For what has been. For what is now. For what seems possible in this moment. In this coming together. In this start of a new life with the morning rays of hope, love, warmth, innocence, faith.

The father who lost a young son dances the hardest, from deep inside. He celebrates all other sons. He has been touched. He knows God. The grandma losing the battle to age and health dances the hardest. She celebrates having been there and seen it all. The uncle who is overwhelmed by the presence of the nephews and nieces from far away dances hardest. The father who is celebrating being with his daughter and wants to transmit joy to the son across the globe dances the hardest. The son who feels the blessings of so many gone by dances the hardest. The mother who hopes to marry her son off soon dances the hardest.

Dancing brings hope. Marriages-gone-sour dance, living again the moments of truth that are far sweeter than their meaningless squabbles. Celebrating a new beginning. Today, they ponder over giving it another shot. Marriages-looking-sweet dance. On hope. What-has-been dances for what-could-have-been, what-can-still-be.

Still-deeply-in-love dances.

When love comes on, everything pales in comparison. It is very powerful, this love that encompasses hope and faith and celebrates what is. We often cling to the ill-will and the ‘problems’, yet, whenever it gets a chance, this love creeps in, unseen, unheard, and takes us unawares.

Prana flows. Dance is never about alcohol. Joy makes one dance. Hope makes one dance. And then dance itself intoxicates. Dance begets dance, and everyone dances.

PRAISE THE MOON

An old joke that is often attributed to Mullah Nasruddin, the legend of Turkish wit and wisdom, goes like this; he is said to have been asked by a teacher as to which was more important, the sun or the moon, “The moon, of course!” The reason he gave was that the sun came only during the day when there was already enough light, while the moon shone at night and lit up the darkness!

The anecdote ends there, but it provides food for thought. The Mullah was a wise person, and not likely to utter words without a lesson, message or comment.

Come December, and one is infused with the Yuletide spirit or the Christmas spirit. The first half of the month sees a vast majority of students all over the world neck-deep in examinations, a whole lot of financial institutions, businesses and governments busy with their financial year coming to an end, and a world full of other such deadlines.

Christmas and New Year are, however, around the corner. The marketeers have already started bombarding one’s senses with what to buy to show how ‘giving’ we are, and how loving we are and how much we care. Toys, joys, gifts, visits hugs and love in all forms abound.…..

……for about two weeks in a year.

The same spirit is seen during different festival days in different cultures or different parts of the world. Would one be wrong in praying that God give us so many religions and cultures that every day of the year is Diwali or Ramazan or Christmas or some other ‘reason’ for being kind and caring and joyful and giving and loving?

Mullah Nasruddin was right.

Praise All! The moon that shines when the night is dark! 

Praise All! Those who love and care even when the ‘season’ does not demand it or the advertisers don’t push it down their throats! 

Praise All! Whose celebration of the Being of the Lord, or the Victory of Good over Evil, or The Revelation of His Word, is not dependent upon calendar dates! 

Praise All! For whom each day is a day gifted by God by any name to be good and to love and rejoice in His Name!

Praise the Moon!

Praise the inner glow, born out of inner peace, inner health, inner beauty, inner rejoicing, inner thanks! Praise the Inner World that holds the answer to all the questions outside.

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 (Tamze)

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!