THE GUITAR MAN

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.

“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

SEVEN POINT SIX TWO (Army)

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.

                                                              ***                                  

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…

                                                              ***                                    

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….

                                                               ***                                   

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.

                                                               ***                                  

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.

                                                                ***                                   

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.

                                                              ***                                  

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?”

                                                             ***                                  

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.

THREE TREES (Nawab Nagar)

With axe and saw, rope and strength, apprehension, desperation; our elders came to settle the land. They came to raise families. They came to provide. They came with love and caring. They came with courage and conviction. They came with prayer and hope.

After the blitzkrieg; years of sweat and toil, only three trees of note remained standing from those native to the almost 500 acres of marsh and jungle. They were too noble to fall.

The rest were replaced by crops of every description and orchards of guava and mango. Of course, there were still a lot of date palms and others bordering the water canals and waysides, but they are not of consequence to this tale.

A ‘peepal’ stood about a hundred yards east of the homestead, a ‘neem’ even closer to the south, and a ‘pakhar’ out in the fields to the west.

(Now, I can surf the net and write the English names, but I’ll ask you to do it yourself if you really need to)

The Peepal gave us the first sounds of leaves rattling in the heat of the summer afternoon even before we felt the stir of the breeze. It gave us our first idea of ‘gigantic’. It gave us the taste of deep shade, really deep, so deep that it could take away the discomfort of the heat if one only looked into its depth even when not in the shade.

The Peepal gave us knots and hollows that harboured cobras and bats and bees and witches and ghosts and scorpions and a whole lot of creepy-crawlies. It gave us colonies of owls perched silently observant by day and swooshing by at night. It gave us flocks of storks balancing precariously on the highest twigs.

The Peepal gave us a feeling of an elder, a parent, a guardian watching over us, its leaves speaking soothingly at night while we looked up at the stars as we lay to sleep on the roof. Deep. Mysterious. Mystical.

It died when we were still children, falling to the axe because… because… well, because the elders decided that it had to go. We can still picture its silhouette with the mind’s eye. We can still feel its Presence if we try...

**                         **                         **                           **

The Pakhar was the companion of our youth. We spent hours up in its branches. We did pull-ups hanging from its sinews, we slept and dreamed and talked and droned on in its shade, we pitted our strength against it in chopping off its branches when they hung too low over the path on one side or the field on the other. One of our fathers had died right under it. Our children learned to climb it, then to jump off from where it hung just about two metres above the ground.

A cemented platform was built under it long ago, and thousands rested in its cool shade year after year. We left the work in the fields to have a snack or a cool 'sharbat' while our children played under the tree, with the tree, in its protection. Our wives sat on the platform, so sweetly cold to the touch, and spun dreams of fairy lands that lay in the future just beyond our reach. They seemed so tenderly beautiful in its shade... or was it the light diffused by the leaves...

The Pakhar personified Contentment.

Caring. Shelter. Rejuvenation. Calm. Patience. Sagacity. Life.

It fell to fear.

As generations progressed in time, the mood of the land changed. The Pakhar became a sort of gathering place for evening hooch drinkers and sometimes possible pedlars. And we were scared that some day a government department would lay claim to the land that it stood on, or we would somehow be drawn into something bad due to the undesirable goings-on. After years of worrying, we decided to let it go.

Axe and saw.

It wrenched our hearts. Our children fought with us, demanding to have it back. They cried when they saw the fallen giant and the finality of it all sunk into their hearts. I think they lost a bit of faith in us then... The world became a bit more dry, sort of sharper at the edges. Nothing inspired fairy tales any more.

**                         **                         **                           **

The Neem. It was the youngest and smallest of the three. Unassuming. It never had airs about being very huge or very shady. Its leaves were bitter to taste. It always seemed to be shedding leaves and little fruit that would rot and attract swarms of flies. The crows that made it their favourite perch always aimed well at those who sat in its shade.

A hollow in the trunk of the Neem was always home to huge swarms of bees. We tried to seal it off so many times, but the little bees would find a way to get in and out. In time, we learned to live with it.

The Neem was like us.

Or was it?

We spent long afternoons shooting cane arrows into its branches from bows we had made ourselves. Our first swings, and our children's too, hung from its branches. We learned to climb. Youth made us hang ropes on the Neem to build muscle. Harpal hung a cricket ball from it on a string to practise his batting without a bowler.

Hundreds have cleaned their teeth with its twig 'datoons'. Hundreds have applied poultices of its leaves and bark to wounds and sores. Many have eaten its leaves to purify their blood. Some have even spread the leaves under their mattresses to keep bedbugs out!

When farm machinery was repaired on home ground, the Neem supported a block-and-tackle for years, and it was common to see a tractor engine or some such thing suspended from it!

As our children grew, we were eager to share with them the world we had so happily inhabited. A little boy was too small to climb such a big tree, so the father took an axe and carved out footsteps in the trunk. The boy was excited, he climbed up and down so many times! The following day the tree bled, and father and son were both sad and quiet, downcast with guilt and remorse. After a few weeks we were overjoyed to see fresh strong wood growing and converging back onto the wounds we had created. Hope. It took some years to heal completely, as good as new. It taught us something about hurt and forbearance, and about magnanimity.

Squirrels raced up and down. A pine standing close by fell in a storm, and was caught in mid-fall by the Neem, there to lean and remain for some years, alive and well in the embrace of a caring companion. 

Some superstitious mumbo-jumbo in the desperation to get 'rich' led one of us to believe that the Neem was spoiling the 'vaastu' of the homestead. Efforts were made to 'get rid of it'. Most of its branches were pruned off. It was a sad sight.

Bad health in the family led to some counter-superstitious talk that it had struck due the tampering with the tree, and it was again left alone. It did not take much time to regain its former glory, and the swings were up again.

The children loved it. It was part of 'home'.

It fell one night in summer, gently lying down on one side....

The elders are in different dimensions. We are getting on into years where it often seems better to let go than to chase. The 'children' are young men and women, some with kids of their own, being sucked in and spun dizzily in the vortex of education, career, money, power, health, family, failure, success, hope, faith, love, future, good, bad.... Life.

It left a hollow in the ground, its roots hanging up in the air.

It filled some empty spaces in our hearts.

A few days later, we buried Bulldy where the old tree had stood, just a few feet off into its shade.

**                         **                         **                           **

Love, respect, awe, comfort, faith, trust, hope, beauty, strength, steadfastness, courage, tolerance, forgiveness, magnanimity, resilience; all these and much more were what these three giants inspired and demonstrated. Without running around, without planning and scheming and cheating and quarrelling and envying and stealing. Without fear or distrust or cunning or connivance. Without vengeance. Without ambition, without pride.

Just by being there.

Just by giving, and resenting not the takers, but being there to give more and give again.

They left us richer.

                                                              The fallen Neem.




(See also ‘FILL YOUR THOUGHTS’ for more about the Pakhar)


(If you wish to know about Bulldy, the most awesome little fellow we were ever blessed with, please read 'PRANA AND PRAYER - II (Bulldy)' )

ALL IS WELL

My mind is full of thoughts; actually, literally, an infinite number of thoughts in infinite layers of the mind. How, why, when, past, future, his, hers, mine, theirs, ages ago, worlds hence, thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, jumble upon jumble, how to get it, how to get out of it, why me, why not me, how me, how will I get this, how will I keep that, will ‘my’ children be mine, why did this happen to me, how shall I keep ‘my' beloved husband, wife, son, daughter, father, lover and so on till infinity.

Were they ever mine?

And how about that ‘Karuna ka saagar’, Ocean of Compassion, who suffers with each of His sons and daughters and saints and disciples, His children, His own, parts of Him, Him Himself? Does he cry and suffer when we suffer? Does he have no feeling for us, his own?

Do I remember the time when my little girl or boy had to take their cruel injections or break a bone or suffer illness and pain? Did I not suffer? Did I not agree that the doctors had to inject or operate or encase or anything else? Did I not suffer in every breath with my child, yet had to put him/her through the pain and suffering and fear and accept it as best as I could? Did I not hope for the best, work for the best, manipulate for the best, pray for the best?

Doesn’t He, who is the Father of all fathers, the Mother of all mothers?

Has not the past gone by, is not the future out of reach?

Did They not suffer who hung on the cross, did They not suffer who died in unimaginable torture? Did they not suffer who fell to sword, bullet, disease, hunger, fear, oppression? Who am I that I must not suffer?

Only one person is free from suffering.

Did they suffer who gave their lives smilingly for a cause, who were roasted and burnt alive, who were chopped into pieces, who wore laurels of thorns.…. and forgave the oppressors? All of them forgave. Did they despair?

Only one who knows that it is for a cause greater than the self, only one who knows that this is not the end, only one knows that there are answers to all the questions, but they are yet out of reach, out of the syllabus of this school, and will come in their own time, only one who has Faith on the One whose parts we are, only one who knows that there is method in this madness, that that method will be revealed in some other dimension, that The Master who orchestrates it all is a benign master who suffers with His children; only that one is free from suffering.

Acceptance, Hope, Faith. I do not need to Know in black and white print or in just so many words! My words and the thoughts they define are not even a minuscule proportion of what IS? Oh I cannot even formulate my questions properly, how do I expect to understand the answers?! The answers lie in FAITH. Faith that He Knows, He is Right, and it is all under control.

If we can take the plunge on a bungee rope just on the faith that all is under control, can we not grant to god, our lord, our father, our saviour, our shelter, the sum total of all the good wishes and blessings we ever had, the collective soul of all our ancestors and predecessors gone by and all our children born and yet unborn, can we not have faith on Him that ALL IS WELL?

Can I just constantly remember that my Father is there and is very much in control? Get rid of all other thoughts? Did my children not take their first bitter medicines and injections and going away from homes just that way? Did they not have faith that mom and dad were actually waiting just outside the school gates, or would be there to take them home when the time came?

Can I just glow in the secure knowledge of His infinite love, forgiveness and compassion?

FILL YOUR THOUGHTS

There was a patch of quicksand at the farm. It was not much as quicksand goes, hardly more than a couple of yards across at any place. And I seem to remember that we hit hard ground at about thigh-deep even when we were this high ourselves.

We never called it ‘the farm’ then. It was ‘home’. Much later, when colleges and professions started claiming our children, it started becoming an economic alternative called ‘the farm’. A whole lot of hearts still beat to the desire of spending our evening years there.

Sinking in a couple of feet took more than a minute. The loss of control, the futility of struggling against the cloying mush that threatened to suck one in against one’s will; oh our little hearts knew panic! But after the first few times we learned to enjoy it. Our mothers would be angry, but we had more faith in life then than they had. We had not yet experienced flood and drought and disease and danger, and fear, real fear that probably clutches at the one who once again holds her eight – year old dying with some unknown ailment.

When official documents ask for a ‘permanent home’, almost all of us still write the farm address.

It was common to see someone sitting by a patch of crop gazing aimlessly into the depths of green and brown. It now brings to the imagination a body sitting in a Japanese garden empty of all thought, just feeling, just being, one with the garden, one with His will, one with the hum of Nature, getting up at length to place a small stone under the falling water just to change its tone a little bit to make the melody softer, then sitting down again; without plans, without blueprints, without design, just being.

Ever so often, we would spend a hot sultry afternoon dozing in the deep shade of the old 'pakhar' tree. The drone of the insects, the breeze cooled by the depth of the shade, the chirrups and caws of birds as they played within the immense canopy, the little ants that would crawl over us and often bite for want of anything better to do, the soft snore of our own breath as we bordered on the verge of consciousness…..

…..always, contentment seemed to lie at the verge bordering consciousness and oblivion.

The race for consciousness, the belief in one’s own power to achieve, the stress of planning and providing, the stuffing of one’s existence with self-reliance and self-importance, the glare of ego and conceit, all blind us to the need to surrender to inter-dependence, to love, to powers beyond one’s imagination, to the forces of nature, to harmony, to the hand of god.

We are too conscious of ourselves, of our appearance, of our age, of our knowledge, wisdom, strength, education, office, rank, status, relationships, health, thoughts, plans, targets, achievements; self-importance.

Contentment lies on the far side of conscious thought.

Which day in our lives has gone exactly as we planned and given us exactly what we desired? Has the waywardness of life deprived us or enriched us? Do we believe that we have control over sufficient external and internal factors to plan out every moment of our lives? Does that mean that we even control the thought, word and deeds of each individual or entity that has any effect on our lives? Can we actually fathom how small and insignificant are our plans and conquests in the vast vistas of time, space and energy? Can we understand that the only reason for our ‘existence’ is that we are a speck in the Perfection of a much larger canvas?

Must we die to learn that we have not lived?

The secret is to lose consciousness of the self, the ego, and merge with the larger picture, to acknowledge the Hand of the Painter and not try to take over the canvas, to wonder at His work and admire all parts of the picture that make it whole and beautiful.

We constantly fill our thoughts with plans and worries. We often feel guilty to leave our conscious thoughts blank. Can we, then, deliberately fill our heart and soul and consciousness with His name, crowd out and smother all other conscious thoughts? And rely on Him to take care?

Can we fill our being with His presence and let Him guide our actions?

Can we just remember constantly that He Is, and we are not!

FOR THOSE WHO WOULD RIDE

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.

No, 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.

Zeina Glo will always advocate floating 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 his 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.