THE STORY OF THE OCEAN AND THE RIVER REVISITED

A friend sent me this poem recently.

 

"Fear

By Kahlil Gibran

 

It is said that before entering the sea

a river trembles with fear.

 

She looks back at the path she has traveled,

from the peaks of the mountains,

the long winding road crossing forests and villages.

 

But there is no other way.

The river can not go back.

 

Nobody can go back.

To go back is impossible in existence.

 

The river needs to take the risk

of entering the ocean

because only then will fear disappear,

because that’s where the river will know

it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,

but of becoming the ocean."

 ---

It got me thinking and, in due course of time, I came up with this.

 

The poet’s river has travelled a fantastic journey of fun and frolic and thrill and adventure and enthusiasm and exhilaration and danger and burden and toxin and weariness. The river has built in its consciousness a great identity of its own being – fabricated on its perceived achievements, strengths, weaknesses, wisdom, piousness, humility. With pictures drawn using these pastels, the river has an image of itself and, over time, the image has grown larger than the self. The imminent loss of this image in the vastness of the ocean is something that the poet’s river is not yet ready to understand and accept. It is so used to existing as the river, that it cannot fathom being the ocean.

The poet understands the anxiety, and assures every river who reads the poem that the end of fear is becoming one with the ocean.

The beauty of great teaching, writing, speaking and other forms of expression is that it leaves the reader or audience filled with awe and awakens in them unbidden thoughts of more possibilities and explanations. That is what Kahlil Gibran (I say his name in hushed tone) has done for me.  I am grateful to the master for this opportunity.

"FEARLESS

  By me

All her blessed life, the river has been yearning for the ocean, for this meeting, this dissolution.

Without consciously knowing what or who The Ocean is, she has rushed towards it from birth; falling, rising, dashing into rocks and trees, not caring to stop for anything in its path. In her passage, she has carried the weight of the world on her shoulders; of life and sustenance, of disease and death.

It is not coincidence, this yearning to join The Ocean and dissolve forever.

The river may not know it in her ‘I-dentity’ as The River, but every speck of its being, every drop of its water, knows where it once rose from - the broad chest of The Father, the lingering caress of The Mother - and every molecule yearns to be one with The Ocean again. This knowledge of the parts, without the conscious understanding of the whole, is what we term ‘instinct’.

The conquest of fear lies in the knowledge of being one with The Ocean - always having been, always to be – and that The Ocean draws every river unto itself, over the entire  winding and tortuous or bubbly and merry path of its existence.

Maybe The Father, The Mother, The Ocean – whatever – has just sent The Children out to play, to yell and scream and jump and dive and fly and swim and fall and run and get scratched and bruised and break a bone or two -  and to experience and understand. And The Ocean waits, with infinite patience, knowing that The Children will be back, and the broth will be warm."

 ---

Some more time went by, and this happened.

 

THE STORY OF THE OCEAN AND THE RIVER REVISITED

 

THE OCEAN

An endless body of water, infinite warmth of sun, timeless shoulders of wind to carry great loads, a vast earth to provide every sort of exposure and experience.

 

THE RIVER

Vapour from the unending surfaces, rising away from the source molecule by molecule, carried up by combinations of warmth and breeze, particles attracting each other again to form clouds, carried any which way by winds and pressures, precipitating and falling as dew or rain or snow, starting a journey from land to reach once again the sea.

 

THE JOURNEY

The source and the destination of the river are the same. The journey is the destination.

 

 

My dear Rivulets, we left The Ocean to run a gauntlet of actions, emotions, experiences and inferences. We take these from everyone and everything around us.

Children of The Ocean, we do not need to wait with trepidation for the day when we will be called back to perforce become one with The Ocean! If only we plunge inwards, we are The Ocean! Constantly merging and emerging from sea to air to sky to ground and back to sea again!

Let us identify ourselves with the whole! Who ever said that I am not my father’s child, or my mother’s! They live in me!

Let us feel the surge of currents, our currents! Let us feel the orderly flow of waves on a calm sea, and the turmoil of the storm! Let the rains and storms lash us as they will. Remember, we are The Ocean – deep, tranquil, undisturbed! Sun, rain, lightning and storm come to play upon our broad chest; do they know how deep we are, how tranquil and vast we are, below the visible surface?

Let us identify further with The Whole - Children of The Earth, of The Sky, of The Wind, of The Ocean – we are the rain, the lightning, the wind, the storm, the volcano! Fear of dissolution is for those who refuse to wet their toes! We play in the water, we swim and dive, WE ARE THE OCEAN!

We are The, we are It, we are Is, we are Him! We are One!

We are here to go through a passage of play, experience, work, participation, doing, being! Let us touch, feel, lift, drop, pull, push, dig, break, build. Let us smell, hear, hum, sing, shout, dance. Let us taste, experiment, see, admire, wonder, think. Let us laugh and cry. If we have been sent out to play, let us play! Let us experience, let us absorb, assimilate, infer, revise, change, learn, unlearn. Let us go through the gamut, knowing that we have been sent here for this, and that when we have run our course, we shall return home happily.

The merger does not await a day, date, time and place; the merger is present in every moment! The merger is not death; the merger is Life!

Death? Oh, that’s just the end of this stroll in the wilderness - a homecoming - and the beginning of a new trip. Don’t worry about that, enjoy the trip!

 

 

 

(Credits: Thank you Mery dear, for sending me Kahlil Gibran’s poem. I know he’s long gone, but I wish you could send him a glimpse of what he inspired, too.)

 

 

 

DUST IN MY EYES

इक पल के लिए
ऐ ज़िन्दगी
तू मेरी हो जा।

बर्फीली हवाओ
दिल से निकलके आओ।
सुन्न गालों पर तीर सी चुभन,
ऑन्खों में उछलता पानी;
छलक गया तो आंसू,
पी लिया तो प्यार।

उंगलियों के बीच से बहता हुआ गरम रेत,
पैरों तले रुई सा नरम रेत।
आंख में पड़ जाए
तो सिर्फ आंसुओं संग निकले।

पत्ते, पौधे, गीली राहें,
सांप, कुत्ते और राहगीर।
भीगे तन और मन।
सर से, बालों से, कांधों से,
आत्मा तक
बरसता पानी।
हंसते हुए गालों से मुंह में रिसता हुआ पानी,
कभी नमकीन।

पीठ पर उतरती हुई पसीने की नन्ही नदियां,
एक-एक करके उठते हुए कदम।
तपते आसमान में सुस्त मंडराती हुई गिद्द,
धरती पर पंछी की उछलती दौड़ती परछाई,
चेहरे पर चिपकती धूल।
बाहर बूढ़े पेड़ की ज़िंदा छांव,
भीतर ठंडी फुहार।

इक पल के लिए
ऐ ज़िन्दगी
तू मेरी हो जा।



Ek pal ke liye
Ai zindagi
Tu meri ho ja.

Barfeeli havao
Dil se nikal ke aao.
Sunn hue gaalon par teer si chubhan,
Aankhon mein uchhalta paani;
Chhallak gaya to aansoo,
Pee liya to pyaar.

Ungliyon ke beech se behta hua garam rait,
Pairon taley rui sa naram rait.
Aankh mein parh jaye
To sirf aansuon sung nikle.

Patte, paudhe, geeli rahein,
Saanp, kutte aur rahgeer.
Bheegey tan aur man.
Sir se, baalon se, kaandhon se,
Aatma tak barastaa paani.
Hanste hue gaalon se munh mein rista hua paani,
Kabhi namkeen.

Peeth par utarti hui paseene ki nanhi nadiyan,
Ek ek karke uthte hue kadam.
Tapte asmaan mein sust mandraati hui gidd,
Dharti par panchhi ki uchhalti daudti parchhai,
Chehre par chipakti dhool.
Baahar boodhey ped ki zinda chhaanv,
Bheetar tthandi phuhaar.

Ek pal ke liye
Ai zindagi
Tu meri ho ja.

ERNST AND I

Books were my friends from the time I could read, and they have stayed with me ever since.

It was somewhere in my teen years that I met 'The Old Man and the Sea'. Maybe forty-odd summers have passed, and I don't remember what impressions it left upon me then. But leave it surely did, because this was one book I recommended to many others, and this was a friend I always wanted to meet again.

It is said that the great books are best read once when the canvas of a young mind is spread out vast and open and the wise ones can spin dreams and show the paths of hope and grace, and once again when mind and body have taken their fair share of buffeting and battering and faith has been shaken and reaffirmed a million times.

This August, I met 'The Old Man and the Sea' again.

I bought it from an old friend in an old bookshop in our little old town of Nainital. I bought it for our children who are growing up the way they should. I was curious to know why I wanted them to read it so, so I read it myself before I packed it in Jashan's bag as she went off to university again.

It is a book of life. Mr Hemingway has left the world of readers a priceless gift. Reading it again after two score years was like meeting a dear companion who had grown with me and understood every hope, disappointment, hazard and victory that I had ever seen. Like he would understand the hollow feeling in my stomach.

In the Old Man we have a being who has experienced life and understood existence. He is one with the sea, with its every eddy and current, with the breezes and the winds and all the moods and forces of the weather, with the sun and the stars, with all the creatures who live in the water or fly over it. He understands their need, he appreciates their efforts, he heeds their warnings. He understands his own needs.

There is not a word of frustration, rancour, or clinging, in the whole story; only a profound understanding. There is empathy with the water, the wind, the boat, the fish. There is respect and love for the very fish that has been hooked. There is wonder and admiration for its strength and gracefulness.

It is a story of living the moment. Living life in the moment. Not chafing against what it throws at one, not complaining or rebelling or finding excuses to be weak.

It is a book of wisdom and strength, of calloused hands and aching back. It is a book of resilience and endurance. It is a book of belief, of faith, of knowing, of being.

It is a tale that carries one beyond victory and defeat, away from guilt and blame, far from the road to worry and despair.

As night falls,  it is a ballad of knowing that the sharks will come again, and again, and there is no way that the Old Man can beat them all, and yet knowing that he will fight them with his last  bit of strength, and then more. For it is the lot of sharks to  bully and grab, and the destiny of the Old Man to fight them when he must and then carry on much farther, to where they cannot yet even think of.

It is the story of life and of actually living it. It is a tale of love and strength and hope for those who toil.

It is a superb fishing tale, and I am reminded of One who told His followers, 'I will make you fishers of men.'

When the Old Man drops into deep slumber in his shack after his travails, he has already left it all behind, and is soon immersed in his favourite dream of lions on a beach.

And the boy who loves him so decides to be with him always, because there is so much yet to be learnt.

I understand that many a shark must die before the old men reach the harbour, many an oar must break. I understand that many a breeze is yet to be smelled, and many a sea to be sailed.

Yes, there is much remaining to be learnt. And I know that when the time comes, the lions shall play on the beaches. Ernst has told me so.

BISHKABRAAAAA!!! (Nawab Nagar)

There was an old 'bishkabra' who lived in a hollow at the base of the 'bil' tree. He had been around for ages, and the children, when they were children, knew that they had to be wary of the poisonous lizard whose bite could kill. He was a careful chap who maintained a rather low profile, unobtrusive in his comings and goings, and rarely seen.

The Bil tree is another unassuming fellow. It's hard-shelled fruit is much sought after throughout the summer months for being the best thing to ward off the heat of the westerly 'looh' and any complications of the stomach. The humble old tree keeps dropping its lifesaving fruits night and day, asking nothing in return. It's leaves are tasty, and we would often hand a slender branch to a child who wanted to feed the cows or goats.

I don't really know what we call these reptiles in any other language; they are smooth-skinned shiny fellows with forked tongues flicking in and out of their mouths, maybe three to four feet long, very agile. They are feared throughout our part of the country by the workers who toil in the fields. Small versions of the great monitor lizards? The Indian monitor?

A few months ago I had shown the opening at the base of the Bil to little Ayaana. Its walls were smooth, and the two-year old understood that here lived the Bishkabra, and that she had to be careful of it. Grandchildren do bring life around full circle in the nicest way.

Now, this fellow had been around for years, and had survived only because he had been smart enough to stay out of human sight. But with age comes a sense of belonging, a certain feeling of comfort, and it lulls the senses into complacency, into being not so suspicious of all the nice people around. So this winter he took to sunning himself atop a log lying outside the cow shed. He was often seen roaming around in the courtyard and lawns, not in any great hurry to get anywhere.

And human beings, we invariably overdo our show of concern for each other's safety, and we create fear where there is no cause for any.

Old Bishkabra was beaten to death, and displayed as a trophy by brave men with long sticks.

In a few days, the walls of the hole at the base of the tree lost their sheen, grass started growing at the entrance, the home was empty, just an empty hollow in an old tree.
...

There was some renovation going on at the homestead. One old wall was coming down to make way for a new kitchen. Twelve feet above the ground, as the bricks were removed, they came upon a litter of small Bishkabras. They were duly disposed of.

One day Robby came and announced that she had seen 'a different sort of lizard' among the house lizards that keep hunting insects in our home. It was shiny and more smooth in its movements....

A few days later Judda announced that he had killed a little Bishkabra in the bathroom upstairs. Then I knocked one off the wire mesh in the verandah and chased it out - I didn't kill it, out of deference to Robby and Tiffy; Jashan is usually kind enough to see reason in all that daddy does. Then Judda got another one in the kitchen....

Little Ayaana came home today, three now.

And Bhimsain found a little Bishkabra curled up in a vase in the drawing room. And Bhagwan Das saw a big one in the lawn. And Ayaana went prancing around trying to scare everyone "Hooo, Bishkabraaaa!"


POST SCRIPT 14 October 2019

There's a spritely young fellow who's occupied the hollow under the Bil tree. Bishkabraaas reign!

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.

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *         

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.

YOUR NAME

Thoughts change, circumstances change, expressions change, beliefs change, stimuli change, reactions change, capabilities change, efforts change, relations change, reasons change, days change, age changes, interpretations change, perceptions change, nature changes, people change, climate changes.

The past changes.

Man’s need to rule changes, man’s need to control changes, man’s need to delve changes, man’s need to understand changes. The arrogance of knowing changes. The hesitation in accepting ‘maybe’ changes.

The importance of oneself changes. The size of the ego changes.

The scheme of things…the world…whatever else…

It was. It is. It will be.

Don’t mind me, people, I just happened by.

Of course, it was no coincidence, this coming of mine; or yours, for that matter. But do not get carried away by it, you and I had no part in it – we started ‘living’ after it happened. We are not to be held answerable for the times we were born in, or the conditions; these are decisions of Someone or Something that we do not know as yet.

Loyalties, fights, judgements, right and wrong, good and bad, love and hate, falsehoods and truths, honesty and deceit, courage and cowardice, madness and prudence – I’m sure they all have some meaning, some purpose…

…but then again, everything changes. And every idea, every emotion, every reaction, every problem, every solution; each one comes to our lives just when the time is right.

Anyone can conjure a hundred reasons why he should have been ‘wealthier’ or better placed or more sought after than he is, but these are just imaginings; illusions; bits of straw in the wind.

One line of the Song Divine of ‘Aarti’ from Guru Granth Sahib…

ਹਰਿ ਕੇ ਨਾਮ ਬਿਨੁ ਝੂਠੇ ਸਗਲ ਪਾਸਾਰੇ ॥

Har Kay Naam Bin Jhoothay Sagal Paasaaray ||

हरि के नाम बिनु झूठे सगल पासारे ॥

Without the Name of the Lord, all arrays of enterprise are false.

Happy birthday Jashan.

RAINDROPS IN HELL

The stench is very powerful - sickening, overwhelming, all-pervading, unimaginably terrible. It is not the smell of burning flesh and bones and bodies and hair….

…it is a ghastly reek of wretched souls set ablaze for eternity.

Through eons of human existence, we had been warned of the fires; tales of horrendous heat, of boiling oil, of tortured flesh, of wailing minds…

…they were inaccurate warnings. The flesh, bodies and minds do not matter here. The hearts no longer exist. Nothing. Hell is just nothing, nothing but formless realms of Suffering; tortured souls who now Know, but cannot go back with their Knowledge to the time when it would have served better to know. It is the chosen place for those miserable ones who refused to learn through millions of lives and deaths. The lessons of each passing were not enough to teach them, till the end of the very last passage, they held on to that which would not let them rise; and finally they were drawn down into the Inferno.

It is not a place for repentance, for repentance carries hope. It is not a place for realization, for realization defines self.

It is about despair.

We hear of Truth, Beauty, Love – absolutes; definitions, aims, conclusions of Life.

Hell is ruled by Despair, the definite conclusion of absolute hopelessness. All the miseries on earth had a sweetness underlying the bitter, here it is only flame and heat, and suffocation of hope.

The Evil One holds sway over the proceedings here.

When he has subjected a wretch to eternities of despair, choked the last vestiges of hope out of any who would not understand otherwise, this same Evil One conspires with God and commandeers a drop of rain!

Together, They aim the raindrop at the one-who-burns. It travels deep into the fire whose heat is beyond understanding, it falls gently upon the innermost reaches of the tormented soul; and for a fleeting moment, almost illusory, the fire is doused and the pain forgotten!

The Evil One is, perhaps, the most misunderstood and most maligned one in the Scheme of Things. They are brothers-in-arms, these two; the ‘Evil One’ and the ‘Embodiment of All That is Good’!

Nay, they are One! They, are He. Administering together the toughest lesson of them all.

Another drop falls, and another. Are they really raindrops, or are they teardrops from the eye of a loving father who feels the suffering of his child?

And with every cooling drop from on high, the soul learns, at last, to understand blessings; to see them where they were never visible before; to feel the abundance that it chose to question or ignore on earth. As it begins to perceive, the blessings begin to pour…

…a gentle breeze blows, a thousand flowers bloom, their fragrance permeates all… The only way out of hell is a door leading to heaven, from one eternity to the other.

The raindrops are buoys that keep one afloat in the ocean of despair; His reminders of heaven in hell, His promise of the only reality…

…One. 

INNER CORE

It’s Tiffy’s (Jannat’s) birthday today.

He draws pictures, so I’ll draw one for him, some day…

INNER CORE

Someday, I’m going to draw a picture; nothing very complex – just a diagram with a few circles, probably concentric.

The innermost circle needs to be deep. I really do not know how a circle can be deep; maybe I’m mixing up my dimensions, maybe I’m imagining spheres in cross-section; maybe I mean ‘intense’.

Anyway, I think I’ll colour it blue. Blue not really as in water or ocean or rain; blue not really as in sky; blue maybe a bit like the far-off mountains, but not exactly…

…deep inner-core blue.

An inner core that is not a fiery red full of vigour and verve, and the need to go out and do or achieve! An inner core that is not an orange of ambitions yet unfulfilled, that is not a dusty brown of endless toil; nor even a light green of fresh leaves sprouting wisp-like in the spring of young hearts, only to turn darker and one day fall to a chill autumn breeze.

Maybe I’ll paint it the blue of the eyes of a baby who’s been through millions of lives and has now been born to this, the last; eyes that have seen it all, and know that there is no more to see – or to seek; eyes that look up at the mother who nurses and know the depths of her soul; eyes that this time around are going to absorb, whose images are going to blur and fade and mix and smoothen out on the canvas to, at last, See.

An inner core of deep tranquillity.

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The inner core will be surrounded by a second circle.

I cannot imagine its colour. It has to be soft. It has to be gentle. It has to pulse with life! Yet it cannot be all consuming. It must merge smoothly and effortlessly into the blue of the inner core, losing its own entity and subtly ripening into deep tranquillity.

This sphere will be of love, and whatever it touches shall be drawn into it, coloured with its own hue. Where tranquillity lies imperturbable, love shall beat in a deep rhythm of heart and encompass all it encounters. Love shall sometimes seem to lose, but in every ending, it shall emerge victorious.

In fact, it shall be the strongest armour and the deadliest weapon; and the only victories ever, will be those of love.

Like the inner sphere, this one too shall be deep; it’s depth unfathomable, unimaginable, indefinable.

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A third circle; or sphere; or cross section of life.

Its outer edges will show turbulence, controlled as it grows inwards; like stirring a thick liquid that hardens gradually into something that cannot be stirred any longer; maybe like what happens to good honey as the weather turns colder.

The outer edge of turbulence will signify resistance, non-acceptance, rebellion. Antipathy.

Progressing inwards will show the gift of willingness to understand the other point of view – not adopt, but understand; every other point of view, or even just the need for the existence of every other point of view…or the right. Empathy.

It will also be the recognition of the possibility that opinions can change, people can change; ideas, situations, circumstances, perceptions, aims – everything can change, and does - even oneself. There is nothing to get worked up about, really; one only needs to stop judging. The journey inward through this circle will see a blurring of the image of oneself, and an emergence of an image of a great design that can only be felt, only be wondered at, only be appreciated; not explained.

And everyone and everything will have a purpose, and one’s own reaction will define oneself; and compassion shall be born.

Yes, this great, magical step inward shall be compassion. The sphere of compassion needs to be vast, universal, infinite, knowing no bounds.

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Outside the sphere of compassion, on the crust will be the surface that we sometimes think denotes Life; an array of protrusions and intrusions and heights and depths and euphoria and gloom and despair and hope and explosions as we used to see in the pictures of the sun in long-ago school atlases. All these will be stimuli, conditions, circumstances, reactions, emotions.

Funnels of lust, anger, greed, cloying attachment and arrogant untamed ego, will seep through fissures and try to pierce as deep into the picture as they can. They will make inroads sometimes into the sphere of thick, viscous compassion; disturb sometime the soothing layer of love; and make the inner core of tranquillity retire deeper.

And sometimes seams of tranquillity will also flow unbidden from the inner core.

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A deep inner core of tranquillity; of oneness, of being; the abode of That Which they call God.

Someday, I’m going to draw a picture. And I’ll live it from the outside inwards, leave behind the memories of the surface turmoil as I travel deep…

…and who knows, someday the picture may only be one circle of deep inner core blue.

LOTUS FEET

It’s birthday time for Jashan.
It’s birthday time for Anhad.
It’s birthday time for Ritali.
It’s birthday time for Christina.

It’s birthday time for Zeina Glo.

It is time to feel.

Our coherent thoughts are limited by words. The depths of the ocean seem to express themselves in the rush over rocks, the endless journey of the waves crashes against the cliff bank and makes roaring sounds; but the feelings are inside, in the silent hum of the deep, in the surge and ebb and the rolling on, in the endless expanse of noiseless feeling.

It is time feel the beauty; to break the bounds of vision created by the distractions of wealth and comfort and colour and light; to perceive the beauty of the darkness which allows us to see beyond the limits of our sight.

It is time to feel the gifts; not just the ones that we think we have, but the ones we miss or the ones we disregard - the gift of poverty which throws up helping hands and compassion, the gift of illness that gently eases out many an idea of infallibility from our minds, the gift of death where we are thankful for a loved one being spared suffering, the gift of uncertainty where we know that we are lost and can come to terms with the surrender of being led.

It is time to feel the wonder, to hold in awe; not just to stop at analysing.

It is time to open our hearts to the footfalls of the Lotus Feet.

LOTUS FEET

They walked the sands before me; as travellers, soldiers, farmers, shepherds, cowherds, weavers, tailors, carpenters, cobblers, thieves, dacoits, princes, kings, dancers, consorts; as children. Rolling plain, icy mountain, endless desert, deep woods; they touched. They blessed. Trees and forests still stand in whose glades They rested, tethered Their steeds; lay bleeding. Streams flow where They bathed Their wounds, springs where They quenched Their thirst.

Baba, Guru, Lama, Shah, Fakir, Peer, Paigamber, Paatshah, Parvardigaar, Messiah, Saviour, Gopal, Shepherd.

They walked. They sang. They walked more. Sand, sun, thicket, thorn, river, sea, snow, wind, rain – all felt Their passing. They breathed the air; and consecrated it with The Song Divine; as dusk darkened to night, and as dawn lightened to day; as sun, moon and stars traversed their passages. The fragrance of the air They perfumed lingers on till eternity.

They grazed cattle. They watered fields, They drank the water from wells and tanks, They bathed in the streams. Rivers still flow that They forded.

The water They sanctified is eternal in its cycle of snow-rain-mountain-field-river-ocean-air-cloud-snow-rain…

Charan sparsh, kar sparsh, shwaas sparsh, vaani sparsh, nigaah sparsh, khayal sparsh, karam sparsh.

I cannot sully the land They trod. I cannot poison the soil that caressed Their Lotus Feet. I cannot contaminate the waters They drank. I cannot befoul the air They breathed. I cannot spread disease where They spread healing. I cannot sow hatred where They spread love.

Dare I contaminate the waves that carry the sounds of Their Song Divine? Dare I defile the forest glades where They swayed and sprang in The Dance Celestial? Dare I dishonour the trees in whose shady canopy They sat in contemplation and banished ignorance forever?

Ahh! I had better give up the delusions of Me and Mine! I must learn respect for the sanctity of Their legacy, for the blessing of Their being. I must understand the value of the gifts They have bequeathed to me – blessed land, consecrated water, untainted air, divine sound, pure thoughts.

Unclean thought, unkind word, unworthy deed would be a direct assault; a desecration of the mercies bestowed.

I must walk in respect. I must drink in awe. I must live in overwhelming gratefulness.  

It is time to bask in Their radiance, to delight in Their cool shade. It is time to dance, to rejoice, to celebrate the opportunity of walking the path They enlightened.