LITTLE BIG HORSE

 Little Big Horse 

I looked him in the eye to size him up. He rolled his eye and showed me the white. I cocked an eyebrow at him, least realising then that it was his way of shaking hands with me before the bell rang for the bout to begin!

The pony master had led two of them up and asked us if we knew how to ride. The major had shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something incoherent, and I said, "A bit."

So he gave to me the pony better suited to riding alone while he led the major's animal himself. I caught the reins in my left hand, anchored it with a firm grip at the base of a tuft of mane, put my other hand on the saddle, and sprang up landing neatly astride and quite pleased with myself.

The little mountain horse was much shorter than the handsome horses we rode sometimes in Nainital or the rougher versions at our farm. My feet hung low in the long stirrups and would have brushed the tops of the bushes if we were to go through them.

We were to ride down an enchanting trail sloping gently through a valley of lush green forest nestled in majestic mountains. A clear blue sky cradled a bright morning sun, birds sang in the trees, bees worked busily, flies buzzed with lazy drones and butterflies painted moving streaks of colour on the already mesmerising canvas. God was in his heaven, and all was well with the world, and I would not have been surprised if I had broken out in song!**

The young pony stepped out smartly on hooves softly thudding where the ground was soft and brightly clattering  against stones. In a few minutes, our companions were left behind out of sight behind some little bump or bend in the path. Feeling nicely in tune with my little friend, I touched a gentle heel  near the base of his ribs...

He shot forward as if from the barrel of a gun! My body was jolted backward and on reflex I wrapped my legs around his belly, surprised that he was so small that my feet almost touched around his girth and I got a good grip with my legs. 

In a fraction of a moment I felt a rush of exhilaration replacing my sudden panic and frantic pulling of the reins. I stopped yanking and gave a little bit of slack. The bullet seemed to have struck something solid; the young horse suddenly stiffened all four legs in an absolute freeze!

Had I not been still recovering from the previous jolt, I might have gone sailing in the air over his head and landed on the ground in a heap. But with my legs still hysterically gripped around his belly, the reins flew out of my hands and I doubled over and my torso flattened out on his neck! 

Pure instinct made me throw my arms around his neck and hang on for dear life! A lot happened in every fraction of a moment as I fought to stay in the saddle. My right hand grabbed a handful of hair from the mane near his head, while my left slid down to try and reach the reins dangling from the bit in his mouth.

My fingers had just caught the reins when the horse came alive as if with an electric shock and darted off again in a mad sprint. I hung on to his neck with both arms and an awareness only of a need to stay on his back. After about a hundred metres, he stiffened and froze abruptly in his tracks again to try and dislodge me from the saddle, This time I managed to get a grip on the reins and sit upright. When, after a moment, he shot forward again, I was prepared and well ensconced in the saddle. When he braked for the third time, the forward jolt would have been enough to break my teeth on the steering wheel had I been in a car, but I was not in a car; I was astride a smart little horse whom I had, out of pure luck, got the better of! Or so I thought.

I laughed out aloud and jeered at him to try harder!

He seemed to think about it, lifted his head, and shot forward again as if from a cannon! He went like a streak of lightning across an open patch of ground and rushed headlong as the trail entered the dark shade of a dense grove of trees. I felt a surge of relief at the change of scene and the soothingly cool dark shade; and my eyes adjusted just in the nick of time as a thick, low, moss-covered branch loomed across the path hardly two feet above the galloping horse!

The little devil! I was riding a demon! He knew what he was doing, and he would see me dead! It was all I could do to bend over backward till my head hit his rump and the log passed by, inches from my nose!

I snapped upright on the racing phantom in order to be ready for the next challenge. When the next branch came, I ducked forward very low and clung to the side of his neck, much like they did in the old western movies as they fired their pistols or threw burning torches without providing a target to the adversary.

Again a feeling came that I had survived this round, and as we sped through an outcrop of rocks, I waited for his next trick.

It wasn't long in coming. The trail ran along a ditch on the left side and a wall of solid rock on the right. There was room enough for two horses to cross. My spirited little fighter came up with an ingenious idea, running barely an inch away from the wall on the right! Had I not by now known his mettle, had I been in lesser awe of his fighting spirit, had I credited him with any lesser intelligence, I would surely have lost a knee and some sundry bones that beautiful morning.

But God was in his heaven, and things in the world were happening just as they were supposed to. This time, I had seen it coming; I dare say that the idea had struck us both at the same time; and I rode across two such knee-scraping attempts with my right leg stretched over the saddle and along the length of the devil's back, while I rested my weight on the left stirrup, praying that the straps would not break, and hung on for dear life; my face downwards, my arms around the horse's neck and the seat of my pants waving in the air!

The imbalance of my weight in the saddle slowed him down. He walked forward staidly for some time, and I relaxed enough to gather my wits, straighten my form, run a wondering hand over the turban still on my head. As we stepped over a patch of green grass with the morning dew still shimmering in the sun, I felt an overwhelming surge of respect for my brave-hearted pony. I was suddenly getting an entirely fresh view of the clear sky, the trees and rocks and air and all of Creation. I leaned forward and patted his neck. I thanked him with soft endearments. I had a lump in my throat the size of a football as I told him that he had won; that he had had me leaning on the ropes in every round of the match.

We rounded a corner and came upon an expanse of meadow with tents pitched on the near side. We rode up to them as kindred spirits, a young man and a young horse, both a bit stronger for having tested our strength, both exhilarated at the experience, both eager to step out and take on life. I did not tell my soldiers or his keeper a word about what had transpired, and he kept quiet about it, too.

(**These words are not my own. They were written by P. G. Wodehouse. But they have lived and danced in soul for more than 40 years, and I just had to use them! Please take it as my humble tribute to the master of keeping hearts light.)

***************

Happy birthday, my lovely Jashan, may your horses challenge you well, and may you ride them strong!

THE COST OF LIVING

 The Cost of Living or God is a Matter of Opinion 

I judge others only in order to validate myself. Only.

Others are wrong to prove that I am right.

And no one is bothered, because they stand on a different little hillock to look down at a world that's all wrong. Other than themselves.

I can choose to be happy; as is, where is; as am where am. 

Now. 

It's the only way.

Investing in sadness today on the pretext of reaping happiness tomorrow only takes away the chance of spending a joyful day today.

I do not have the selflessness of perspective to understand that if I am not wrong, then no one else can be.

So I nurse and propagate various beliefs and 'truths'. One of them is known as God.

This God is the easiest pin-cushion to blame my troubles on, and say to that It owes me Something. 

No one can say that to Me; that I owe them something.

And I spin a web of right and wrong. I sometimes repeat borrowed thoughts to buttress my own. Because countless millions before me have trod the same path. 

Treadmill. Over and over. Without getting anywhere. Trod the mill.

My only validation lies in judging others. In poorer light.

Judgement is just a matter of opinion.

As God is.

And I propound a final Day of Judgement, when Someone in Authority will tell all and sundry that I was right. That I had reason to be what I was; to do what I did, as I did.

God.

A matter of opinion.

A convenience.

More than the bed I sleep on, the food that sustains me, the air I breathe, the earth I inhabit.

My only hope for salvation.

Defined as it suits me. So that I am right where others are not. 

Sometimes others are so un-right that they are left. Left behind, left out, just left. Escaped from.

Right and wrong. Fully subjective.

A matter of opinion. 

God.

The cost of living.

Unless.

Unless I start recognising myself as a part of, a reflection of, a sameness of, that One Selfless All Knowing Idea that is separated from humans only by being All Encompassing, All Understanding, All Accepting, All Salvate-ing!

Responsible for all acts of commission and omission in all of Creation.

And thus The Giver of Freedom to all beings to be themselves, without fear of being judged.

For.. I... am... only... a matter of opinion. Sometimes mine, sometimes others'.

What else could I be; my coming, my being, my going? 

Not even a whisper in this vast Nothingness.

FOOD FOR THE SAADHU (Nawab Nagar)

Magical times. Sweat of the brow, strain of the sinews, matter of fact courage.

Fathers planned, toiled, worried, dared, protected, provided and built. Mothers cooked, cleaned, spun, wove, sewed, washed, swept, talked, sang, complained, cuddled, cared, fed, raised children and made homes. Children ate, played, read, went out to the fields, laughed, made, broke, dirtied, quarrelled, cried, slept, grew stronger and aspired to follow in their parents’ footsteps.

About once on an average day, a mother would be heard shouting to whoever was within earshot, "Jaa rayy, saadh nu rotti de de!" 

(Go, give food to the saadhu!)

The saadhus came seeking food and alms, mostly just a meal to eat and a little flour to take away. The flour was from grain that had been grown by the fathers and ground by the mothers, the food was warm, and it was what the family ate.

One of the saadhus was an old dacoit, now bent over with age. His clothes were old and ragged, gnarled toes in leather sandals that seemed as old as time, knotted fingers holding a stick whose grip shone with years of use; eyes cast down behind bushy, white eyebrows; white beard and ancient moustache drooping from the bent frame; a length of old cloth wrapped around his head.

He would sit on the ground in the shade of a wall in the courtyard near the steps coming down from the veranda and wait quietly. Mother would call out when the meal was ready, "Jaa rayy, saadh nu rotti de de!"

Whichever child happened to be close by would take the three or four big rotis, some vegetable piled on them; given by hand, placed on hand; eaten in silence, slowly.

He seldom spoke a word. To a little boy, he looked like Baba Nanak. 

Another saadhu was a middle-aged fakir who cared for a mazhaar under a nearby banyan tree. His robe was black, his little turban green, sometimes a black cap, and there was a string of colourful stones around his neck. His eyes shone brightly and there was kohl around them. There was a tangle of cloth bags at his side in which he would take home the few handfuls of flour or grains that he would receive. 

At the entrance to the courtyard he would shout one word in a sharp voice, "Haq!"

Then he would sit and wait patiently in the same spot as the old man, till mother readied the same meal and called to anyone who was close at hand , "Jaa re, saadh nu rotti de de!"

His single-word command inspired awe in the little boy who was a bit intimidated by his mysterious apparel and piercing eyes.

Never another word, year after year, except, "Haq!"

And those who went by his 'jaarat' under the banyan tree would get a drink of water, a frugal meal, some drags at a hukkah, or a place to rest awhile if they wanted.

Then there were 'bhikshus' from a 'matth' somewhere not very near. They came by quite often, always in pairs; young lads with shaven heads, clad in saffron, full of playful energy and chatter. It was part of their training to go around asking for alms. They enjoyed their food, talked cheerfully, accepted whatever they got, and spent an extra hour roaming around without a care, watching the farm labour at work or the children at play.

The age of the 'children' spanned a period of almost 20 years. In their own turn, they all went to school and out into different experiences and exposures in the world. They learned a lot about money and belongings, about saving and coveting and hoarding, about stealing and grabbing and bullying, about selfishness and impatience, about appearances and luxury, about bragging and boastfulness.

They learned that saadhus do not exist in the real world, that those who came in expectation of a simple meal and a handful of grain were useless beggars who were too lazy to work for a living, they learned that wealth was best accumulated by taking away from the hapless and the meek.

They learned that contentment was a sin, sound health was a lie, charity was a fashionable thing to be paraded and used as building material for big bubbles of ego.

They learned that saadhus, jogies, snake charmers, raoming acrobats, even simple passers by who stopped for a drink of water at a hand-pump or an afternoon in the shade of a tree were to be chased away as loafers and prospective thieves. 

The right of one man to share the food of another, the right of one being to share the earth with another, the right to be happy, the commitment to co-exist, were relegated to trash and replaced by a greed that, in turn, bred suspicion and insecurity.

Mankind lost faith in the natural order of things, in the irrefutable occurrences of birth, death, illness, wellness, prosperity, adversity, coming and going.

The clock kept ticking.

x x x x x x x x x x

She sat in a corner of the porch outside the huge Real Canadian Superstore, a young girl, maybe in her early twenties. A roughly torn piece of cardboard in front of her bore the scrawled words, "Any help will be appreciated."

One of the children, almost 60 now, stopped before her, "Can I get you anything from inside?"

"Uh, yeah! Something to eat?

"Anything in particular?"

"Ye-yes; a box of cereal? Any cereal?"

All other sounds around them seemed to fade away, and his voice was even gentler, “Anything else? Can I get you anything else?"

" Uh..a..a sandwich, maybe?"

"Sure. Why don't you just come into the store with me? Pick up whatever you want and I'll pay for it; I'll be happy to."

"No, they don’t like us going in."

A lump in my throat, vision blurring. Deja vu. I had heard the same words from a poor girl with handicapped legs outside a place of worship and much-touted charitable food back home.

“Will you get me a jar of Nutella?"

Oh my child, my child, my beautiful forgotten child - flashback to all those children in school who would smuggle up rottis from the dining hall and have them with Nutella or sandwich spreads late in the night when the hostel warden made his rounds.

The old warden's eyes swim with tears. “It's getting late,” he says slowly, intensely, as if it is desperately important to him, “They take a lot of time in there; wait for me. Please don't go away."

So many years after the saadhus started going elsewhere, the child understood what the fakir was reiterating in one syllable - the right of one human being to share the food of another!

No more, no less; without fear or favour; no begging, no piety.

Just a right to eat, to live, to be!

The right of one human being to share the food of another, honourably.

The privilege. 

Haq!

x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Sant Kabir:

साईं इतना दीजिए जा में कुटुंब समाए।

मैं भी भूखा ना रहूं साधू ना भूखा जाए।

(Lord, give me this much that my family is fed,

I do not stay hungry, and a saadhu does not go hungry)

           - Sant Kabir

x x x x x x x x x x x x 

Even as I write this as a gift to all my children on Tiffy’s 28th birthday, the last of the parents of the Nawab Nagar children, my Chachaji Nasib Singh, has passed on. We’re all going through a few days of calm and contemplation on the seeming end of an era. Those ‘children’ of Nawab Nagar are now old, and a whole brood of blessed young men and women have taken their place.

The wheel of time will keep turning, and, in their own ways, they will feed the saadhus.

WALK OF LIFE

(Happy birthday my lovelies! As always, I write this little song for you!)

If you're not singing, you're not walking.

If there's no spring in your step, you're not walking.

If you're not dancing, you're not walking.

If there's no song in your heart, you're not walking.

If there's no tune on your lips, you're not walking.

If there's no smell in your nose, 

If you don't see the butterflies,

You're not walking.

If you don't look up at the mountains,

If you don't lift your eyes to look across the plain, 

You're not walking.

If you don't touch the fresh water flowing by, you're not walking.

If you don't greet the trees in your path, you're not walking.

If you don't feel the breeze on your cheeks, you're not walking. 

If you don't listen to the birds, you're not walking. 

Some days you just trudge along with your head down, shoulders hunched, your heart leaden, your mind full of thoughts that are not really headed anywhere good. 

Other days, you walk the walk of life.

One leads to the other, and both are to be cherished.

Like night and day. 

BASKING IN IT

 I Be, timeless. The world Happens, timeless.

I Be. The world Happens.

In an eternity called Forever.

I Am nothing. I Have nothing. I Do nothing. I Make nothing. I Own nothing. I Bring nothing. I Take nothing. I Give nothing.

At different spaces in what is named Time - I Seem love. I seem body. I seem strength. I seem youth. I seem age. I seem clinging. I seem begging. I seem giving. I seem kindness. I seem anger. I seem greed. I seem frustration. I seem hunger. I seem fulfilment.

No Body, no Thing, no Event, is taking away from me, or giving to me. 

I Am. By so many names - mother, child, daughter, son, father, tree, stone, dust, air, heat, love, grass, butterfly, god, sun, wind, fire, sweat, fear, love, justice, friend, brother - ad infinitum - by so many names, that I have even been called Name; all encompassing, Name.

I Be, timeless. The world Happens, timeless.

BUOYANCY - LESSONS TO MYSELF

Happy birthday, Justoo, my love.

Buoyancy - Lessons To Myself

Coach had a peculiar way of teaching children how to swim. A few very basic lessons to build confidence, a few very basic lessons in safety and helping out others in trouble; and once they understood that the water was their friend, they were on their own. They could perform whatever antics and acrobatics they liked, and he laughed with them.

He wasn't a swimming coach by profession or by design. He just happened to be there. He didn't know much about perfecting swimming strokes and building speed, and was as happy as the students to experiment and learn from wherever he could. 

He did know how to master fear and smother panic, and this he taught them well. He did know how to encourage, and how to make them go from the swimming pool every day with a sense of achievement, and this he did.

He made it a point to take promising swimmers out for whatever competitions he could. He made it a point that each one sitting on the sides almost yelled his lungs out cheering for those who were in the water. He made them all feel like heroes for the smallest victories his rag-tag teams got. Every time someone won a medal, or just missed, they all went out to dinner in town. And every time they came back without anything to show in prizes, they went out to a finer dinner in town, and money to spend, too!

The medals were few, and dearly prized. But in his six terms as the school swimming teacher, the number of children who knew how to swim burgeoned from about 70 to more than 400, and swimming stood second only to football in popularity among the sports played in school. Down to 12 degrees Celsius in the water notwithstanding, his children often told him that the swimming pool was the most fun place in school.

Coach had a favourite First Lesson for little ones who came to learn. He would throw them a challenge to sit down touching their bottoms to the floor of the pool in just 3 feet of water and count 10 seconds.

They would barely be able to touch down, and, of course, it was not possible to stay down. After much shrieking, screaming and jumping up and down, he'd tell them to stand still and announce in the voice of one who is making a profound revelation, "See? You cannot drown! The water will not let you drown. It is your friend; it will always lift you up!"

----------x------------

Only a privileged few actually get to experience an absence of hope. Only a privileged few get to feel a realization that there's no getting out of this without going through it. Only a privileged few get to shed dependence on so many suffocating values and emotional crutches we have been conditioned to lean upon. Only a privileged few get to be reduced to ashes.

And then? Their bottoms touch the floor, and they try to wave their arms and cry out to Coach for attention to tell him that they are at the lowest place! But he shakes his head and raises his hands to show them ten fingers - show me if you can stay down for 10 seconds! 

Down they go again, and again! But the Water is their friend, it will not let them remain below; it will always raise them up. The Water wants to drive out their fears. The Water invites them to play and be happy. 

Before the little ones went down for the first time, they were afraid, but when the water lifted them up again and again, they knew that they would float upon it if they did not panic. After that First Lesson, lives changed - fear was put aside. The way forward was not so dreadsome any longer. They knew that the property of the water was not to drown them, but to lift them up.

Every time we hit rock bottom, we think we've done it, that this time we're actually down!

But 10 fingers say something else. The heart still pumping says something else.. The legs still able to move say something else. The eyes still see; only the light is a bit different now. Much that defined one to oneself has proved futile, no longer of any worth. A lot of baggage one was carrying has suddenly lost its utility, and things are kept aside to be thrown out, removed forever. 

Dust rises, mould flies, the eyes smart, the nose twitches, the throat chokes; a few sneezes here and there - and then it's suddenly a cleaner house, with space for new stuff, and some old treasures shining anew. It's called spring cleaning. It happens every time a winter passes.

From the ashes of that which has been relegated to the past, The Bird rises again, ever stronger.

The Water invites fun and frolic, strength and skill.

Coach taught me that. He didn't know much about perfecting the strokes of swimming, or of life. But he did know how to make his swimming pool the happiest place in the school.

WE CAN EVEN SING

 It's birthday time for Tiffy, so I write him a tale...

WE CAN EVEN SING

I lie prone on the sand.

A gentle morning breeze blows from the west. It was faster at night, and will pick up again by mid-morning.  At this speed, it makes no sound; not even a whisper. Back in the mountains or at the farm, it would have caused leaves to rustle on the trees, grass to murmur, clothes to flap on the lines. A bit faster and it would have started whistling and moaning softly as it struck obstacles, went through narrow places or rounded corners. Here, in the open space where nothing protrudes above the sand, the breeze does not even sigh.

I am propped up on my elbows, a rifle in my hands, butt fitting ever so snugly in the hollow of my right shoulder. The lines of the rifle and that of my body are at an angle. The two axes meet at my shoulder to create a hollow space padded with muscle where the butt is placed without any danger of hurting the collar bone, and my cheek can be pressed against the butt without ending up with a bruised face.

I wish I could keep telling you about the rifle, but I cannot; this is not a rifle story, this is a sand story. After a few minutes I can see a thin film of very fine sand on the barrel. I bring the rifle down. My finger gathers dust as I run it along the stock. I get up and dust myself off.  My body has left a discernible impression on the ground, there are little pits where my elbows rested and a bit of sand piled up where I dug in my left foot.

The sand is so fine that the gentle breeze lifts up its smallest powdery grains and blows them about a bit. In less than half an hour there will be no remaining impression of man or rifle. The sand would settle in the dents and obscure their form.

I have not done it myself, but I’m sure there are people who study the movement of the dunes. I can see that they are sloping gently up from the windward side where, as it rises, the wind deposits some of its load. It is pushed up and the slope is built inch by inch as day and night, the wind shifts more of it. From the top of the slope, the dune suddenly falls away steeply leewards. One day we had desert driving practice, and it was so much fun to race our jeeps up the windward slope and cut off the engines just as the front wheels topped the crest! The sudden silence of the engine gave an eerie feeling; crossing the crest was like being at the top of a roller coaster. Our hearts would be in our throats, breaths would catch, and the vehicle would sink down the steep side of the dune, waddling its rear as it seemed to settle deeper. The trick was to kick off again just before it reached a standstill!

I wish I could go on about driving jeeps and trucks in the desert, but this is not a driving story; this is a sand story. Even as we look back at where we floated our vehicles down from, there are no tracks left behind that say, “Jeep”. Yes, the sand is definitely disturbed; the crest of the dune has been damaged for some of its length, and an undefined depression runs down the slope; but not even marked wheel ruts are left behind - the sand has flowed back almost like water.

As the sun rises higher, the sea of sand gleams almost white. The morning was a soft brown, much like the hair of a camel. Towards evening it will change to gold and then to the rust of autumn leaves falling beside a lake in the far-off mountains.  The brief dusk will be an aging grey. The night will be an effervescence of stars low in the sky and all around. There’s a lot of clear night sky to be seen even when one is up in the mountains, but here in the desert, there are no looming structures for reference, and the bouquet of stars seems to grow from where one stands, reach up into the sky, and fall back in an immense shower of petals.

The emptiness of the day is not so at night. The night abounds with creatures that were not to be seen anywhere during the day. There are snakes, and hyenas, and one must dust one’s boots for dark red scorpions every time one puts them on. There are bound to be many more creatures, including little insects and birds, and of course, mosquitoes. The beam of the headlights will often catch delicate little deer with mascara encircling their wide eyes and running in a band down each flank. They sometimes end up in one’s stomach, but one must thank them for providing sustenance and hope to absorb some of their gracefulness, agility and innocence from the food. To think of the hunt as a conquest would be barbaric.

And then there are the spirits of the night. Whether they are in the air or in the mind, they are quite real. Sometimes they keep one company and make one laugh self consciously, as if one knows they are there; at other times they make one uneasy, because being scared seems stupid.

All the time, the gentle breeze lifts the powdery grains of sand and lets them fall again, brushes them up in minute swirls and releases them. The sands shift; yesterdays dunes look a bit different today.  

Every few months, the wind will change direction. Within a few weeks of the change, the dunes that now slope up from the west and fall sharply to the east will be turned around and everything will seem to flow in a different direction. The breeze won’t be gentle all the time. Sand will rise higher in the air and sting like small darts. The sun will burn overhead in the sky. Winds will roar.

After some more time, calm will be restored.

The sand will keep shifting, yesterday's impressions will not disturb its graceful flow today, and today's carcasses will be buried and gone tomorrow. Sometimes a freak wind will uncover something long gone by, but it will only be a skeleton with none of the energy of its living form.

Every reality is an illusion. Every illusion is a reality.

We choose our lives. We choose the base our minds return to when at rest. We choose the havens we take refuge in when troubled. When we are surrounded by seas of sand or snow or water or flowers, we can still choose to wallow inwardly in sorrows and not see the heaven around us. When we are engulfed by seas of misery and sadness, we can still choose to fill the inner spaces with fragrance and beauty and starry skies.

Each time we close our eyes and open them again, the sands have shifted. Each time, some old hollows have been filled, and some new spaces are empty.

Emptiness can be a very fulfilling experience. What defines us today will not be there tomorrow, and we can choose to fill the vacuum as we like. We can soar in inner skies of gratitude, hope and eagerness. We can be in a race to keep filling empty spaces as they become apparent, or we can take time to shout into the hollows and hear our voices echoing back at us.

We can even sing.

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.)