"The infinity was his beginning and his end. The universe his sole and only friend. In deep humility and holy innocence, he saw himself mirrored in the eternal universe, and perceived how himself was its most perfect mirror."
“A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.”
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
'Oh, lord make me an
insrument of thy will,
where there is hatred let me sow your love,
where there is injury your pardon lord
where there is doubt true faith in you.
Oh master grant that I may never seek,
so much to be consoled as to console
to be understood as to understand
to be loved as to love with all my soul ...' - Francis of Assisi.
where there is hatred let me sow your love,
where there is injury your pardon lord
where there is doubt true faith in you.
Oh master grant that I may never seek,
so much to be consoled as to console
to be understood as to understand
to be loved as to love with all my soul ...' - Francis of Assisi.
A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE
A youth she's content to leave behind
A past juicy enough that she's looking forward to
retelling it in her Old Age
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
How to fall in love without losing herself
How to quit a job
Break up with a lover
And confront a friend without
ruining the friendship
When to try harder
And when to walk away.
And when to walk away
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
What she would and wouldn't do for love or more
How to live alone
Even if she doesn't like it
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
Whom she can trust,
Whom she can't,
And why she shouldn't take it personally
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
Where to go
Be it to her best friend's kitchen table
Or a charming inn in the woods
When her soul needs soothing
EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW
What she can and can't accomplish in a day
A month
And a year.
Written by: Pamela Redmond Satran
Tagore -
Incense yearns to disappear in scent,
Scent to cling to incense.
Melody seeks to fetter herself in rhythm,
While the rhythm flows back to melody.
Idea seeks it body in form,
Form its freedom in the idea.
The infinite seeks the touch of the finite,
The finite its release in the infinite.
What drama is this between creation and destruction-
This ceaseless to and fro between idea and form?
Bondage is striving after freedom,
And freedom seeking rest in bondage
Anbe Sivam. Siva is Love.
Munna pinna theriyatha oru payanukkaaga kanneer vidara antha manasu irukke, athu than kadavul.
"To have the heart to shed tears for whom one has not known before ever - that is god"
(Random Harvests - James
Hilton )
She said to him, "The day will come when men will be killed for laughing", and he answered, "That will be the day when men laugh at killing" ...
She said to him, "The day will come when men will be killed for laughing", and he answered, "That will be the day when men laugh at killing" ...
"Anna Cornelia was
a good woman. She saw no evil in
the world, and knew of none. She knew only of weakness, temptations, hardships
and pain. Theodore Van Gogh was also a good man, but he understood evil very
throughly and condemned every last vestige of it." - 'Lust for Life'
"Of course I’ll
hurt you, of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very
condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter.
To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence." —Antoine de
Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince Official
'My big toe is an honest
man
So down to earth and normal
Always true unto himself
And pleasantly informal.
Full of simple energy
Contented with his role
If all of me was mnore like him
I'd me a happy soul'
So down to earth and normal
Always true unto himself
And pleasantly informal.
Full of simple energy
Contented with his role
If all of me was mnore like him
I'd me a happy soul'
Voices in my head
Chanting "Kisses, Bread.
Prove yourself. Push. Shove.
Learn. Earn. look for Love."
Drown a lesser voice
Silent now of choice
"Breathe in peace and be,
Still for once, like me."
Chanting "Kisses, Bread.
Prove yourself. Push. Shove.
Learn. Earn. look for Love."
Drown a lesser voice
Silent now of choice
"Breathe in peace and be,
Still for once, like me."
"I have a smiling
face she said
I have a jest for all I meet
I have a garland for my head
And all its flowers are sweet
And so you call be gay, she said.
Grief taught me this smile she said
And wrong did teach this jesting bold
These flowers were plucked for garden bed
While a death chime was tolled
Now what will you say she said ..."
I have a jest for all I meet
I have a garland for my head
And all its flowers are sweet
And so you call be gay, she said.
Grief taught me this smile she said
And wrong did teach this jesting bold
These flowers were plucked for garden bed
While a death chime was tolled
Now what will you say she said ..."
Rosie, the shopping cart
lady
Rosie pushed her cart along,
While she pushed she hummed her song.
From one end of town to the other she went,
Walking and humming as if she’d been sent
To pick up the glass, the papers and wire.
She even had with her a big ol’ bald tire.
Some people said that she was sure crazy,
Some people said that she was just lazy,
But Rosie, herself, she could not explain
About the day it began to rain...
on her life.
She had some folks whom she called friends,
They said, “Good mornin’, nice to see you again.”
There was old Willie, tried and true,
He worked down on Bleeker Street polishing shoes.
He’d say: “Miz Rosie, take a load off your feet,
Rest here before you go back on the street.”
On many days she passed by Sally
Who sold hotdogs on McNally.
“Howdy, Rosie,” Sally would say.
“Have you had some lunch today?”
Then she’d take out from her cart
A hot dog...
Rosie touched her heart.
Some afternoons she’d look for Pete,
He swept up litter on the street.
Pete was kind, he’d tip his hat
And talk to her ‘bout this and that.
But Rosie knew, when he seemed blue,
That life was hard on ‘ol Pete too.
One afternoon, well before dark,
She slipped and fell near Fuller Park
A crowd of people stopped to stare,
A woman cried, “Oh my! Her hair!”
No one would lend a helping hand
So Rosie tried her best to stand,
alone..
Just then, a young boy came along.
He paused and asked her what was wrong.
Rosie groaned, she grabbed her knee,
“I don’t think I can walk, you see.
It was so kind of you to stop...”
“Hold on,” he said, “I’ll call a cop.”
They loaded Rosie on a stretcher
To take her to the hospital over on Fletcher.
“Don’t worry,” the boy said, “I’ll meet you there.
Your cart will be safe in my care.”
A doctor looked at Rosie’s knee,
(It wasn’t broken, luckily).
An icepack, so it wouldn’t swell,
A kind nurse bandaged her up well:
“Don’t go so soon. Here... rest and mend...”
But Rosie left to find her friend.
The boy recalled, while she was inside,
How the first time he saw her he wanted to hide.
He’d known about Rosie since he was a kid—
That “peculiar cart-lady” down on the skid.
One day his friends threw some rocks at her cart
But the boy felt too sad... No, he couldn’t take part.
He remembered her sitting alongside the curb,
Looking tired and lonely, a little disturbed.
He had stared at those rags that were socks on her feet
He had wondered about her strange life on the street...
How he wanted to help her. But what could he do?
Maybe save up some money to buy her some shoes?
Funny how things had happened today,
How he’d come upon Rosie right there in his way...
Now he was standing and guarding her cart
Somehow it helped that sad place in his heart.
Out on the curb as she spotted the boy
Rosie’s heart filled up with joy.
His word had been true—her cart was all there,
She blinked a tear, she smoothed her hair.
He asked: “Old lady, where’s your home?”
On the streets,” she said, “But I’m fine, alone.”
Old Rosie, she could still remember
Years ago, one cold September
When her life was torn apart.
And when she first packed up her cart.
Somehow it helped to push along
And rock and sing the same old song,
Somehow it helped her not to feel
The pain she could not seem to heal.
Then Rosie said, “I gotta go.
Tonight, I think, it’s gonna snow.
I’d best move on to Bleeker Street,
I know a place to warm my feet.”
Rosie smiled and waved goodbye
And brushed that teardrop from her eye.
“Thank you boy,” he heard her shout,
“Today you really helped me out.”
As the boy went on his way
He thought about this special day—
“Rosie, it’s true that I helped you...
I hope you know you helped me too.”
Chia Martin
Rosie pushed her cart along,
While she pushed she hummed her song.
From one end of town to the other she went,
Walking and humming as if she’d been sent
To pick up the glass, the papers and wire.
She even had with her a big ol’ bald tire.
Some people said that she was sure crazy,
Some people said that she was just lazy,
But Rosie, herself, she could not explain
About the day it began to rain...
on her life.
She had some folks whom she called friends,
They said, “Good mornin’, nice to see you again.”
There was old Willie, tried and true,
He worked down on Bleeker Street polishing shoes.
He’d say: “Miz Rosie, take a load off your feet,
Rest here before you go back on the street.”
On many days she passed by Sally
Who sold hotdogs on McNally.
“Howdy, Rosie,” Sally would say.
“Have you had some lunch today?”
Then she’d take out from her cart
A hot dog...
Rosie touched her heart.
Some afternoons she’d look for Pete,
He swept up litter on the street.
Pete was kind, he’d tip his hat
And talk to her ‘bout this and that.
But Rosie knew, when he seemed blue,
That life was hard on ‘ol Pete too.
One afternoon, well before dark,
She slipped and fell near Fuller Park
A crowd of people stopped to stare,
A woman cried, “Oh my! Her hair!”
No one would lend a helping hand
So Rosie tried her best to stand,
alone..
Just then, a young boy came along.
He paused and asked her what was wrong.
Rosie groaned, she grabbed her knee,
“I don’t think I can walk, you see.
It was so kind of you to stop...”
“Hold on,” he said, “I’ll call a cop.”
They loaded Rosie on a stretcher
To take her to the hospital over on Fletcher.
“Don’t worry,” the boy said, “I’ll meet you there.
Your cart will be safe in my care.”
A doctor looked at Rosie’s knee,
(It wasn’t broken, luckily).
An icepack, so it wouldn’t swell,
A kind nurse bandaged her up well:
“Don’t go so soon. Here... rest and mend...”
But Rosie left to find her friend.
The boy recalled, while she was inside,
How the first time he saw her he wanted to hide.
He’d known about Rosie since he was a kid—
That “peculiar cart-lady” down on the skid.
One day his friends threw some rocks at her cart
But the boy felt too sad... No, he couldn’t take part.
He remembered her sitting alongside the curb,
Looking tired and lonely, a little disturbed.
He had stared at those rags that were socks on her feet
He had wondered about her strange life on the street...
How he wanted to help her. But what could he do?
Maybe save up some money to buy her some shoes?
Funny how things had happened today,
How he’d come upon Rosie right there in his way...
Now he was standing and guarding her cart
Somehow it helped that sad place in his heart.
Out on the curb as she spotted the boy
Rosie’s heart filled up with joy.
His word had been true—her cart was all there,
She blinked a tear, she smoothed her hair.
He asked: “Old lady, where’s your home?”
On the streets,” she said, “But I’m fine, alone.”
Old Rosie, she could still remember
Years ago, one cold September
When her life was torn apart.
And when she first packed up her cart.
Somehow it helped to push along
And rock and sing the same old song,
Somehow it helped her not to feel
The pain she could not seem to heal.
Then Rosie said, “I gotta go.
Tonight, I think, it’s gonna snow.
I’d best move on to Bleeker Street,
I know a place to warm my feet.”
Rosie smiled and waved goodbye
And brushed that teardrop from her eye.
“Thank you boy,” he heard her shout,
“Today you really helped me out.”
As the boy went on his way
He thought about this special day—
“Rosie, it’s true that I helped you...
I hope you know you helped me too.”
Chia Martin
"Sundays too my
father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blue black cold,
and then with cracked hands that ached
from labour in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
and put his clothes on in the blue black cold,
and then with cracked hands that ached
from labour in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the
cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call.
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of the house.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call.
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of the house.
Speaking indifferently
to him,
who had driven out the cold,
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices ?"
who had driven out the cold,
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices ?"
I WAS STILL A thief when
I met Arun and though I was only fifteen I was an experienced and fairly
successful hand.
Arun was watching the
wrestlers when I approached him. He was about twenty, a tall, lean fellow, and
he looked kind and simple enough for my purpose. I had n’t had much luck
of late and thought I might be able to get into this young person’s confidence.
He seemed quite fascinated by the wrestling. Two well-oiled men slid about in
the soft mud, grunting and slapping their thighs. When I drew Arun into
conversation he didn’t seem to realize I was a stranger.
‘You look like a wrestler yourself I said.
‘So do you,’ he replied, which put me out of my stride for a moment because at the time I was rather thin and bony and not very impressive physically.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I wrestle sometimes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Deepak,’ I lied.
Deepak was about my fifth name. I had earlier called myself Ranbir, Sudhir, Trilok and Surinder. After this preliminary exchange Arun confined himself to comments on the match, and I didn’t have much to say. After a while he walked away from the crowd of spectators. I followed him.
‘Hallo’ he said. ‘Enjoying yourself?’
I gave him my most appealing smile. ‘I want to work for you” I said.
He didn’t stop walking. ‘And what makes you think I want someone to work for me?’
‘Well” I said, ‘I’ve been wandering about all day looking for the best person to work for. When I saw you I knew that no one else had a chance.’
‘You flatter me” he said.
‘That’s all right.’
‘But you can’t work for me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I can’t pay you.’
I thought that over for a minute. Perhaps I had misjudged my man.
‘Can you feed me?’ I asked.
‘Can you cook?’ he countered.
“I can cook” I lied.
‘If you can cook” he said, Til feed you.’
He took me to his room and told me I could sleep in the verandah. But I was nearly back on the street that night. The meal I cooked must have been pretty awful because Arun gave it to the neighbour’s cat and told me to be off. But I just hung around smiling in my most appealing way and then he couldn’t help laughing. He sat down on the bed and laughed for a full five minutes and later patted me on the head and said, never mind, he’d teach me to cook in the morning. Not only did he teach me to cook but he taught me to write my name and his and said he would soon teach me to write whole sentences and add money on paper when you didn’t have any in your pocket!
It was quite pleasant working for Arun. I made the tea in the morning and later went out shopping. I would take my time buying the day’s supplies and make a profit of about twenty-five paise a day. I would tell Arun that rice was fifty-six paise a pound (it generally was), but I would get it at fifty paise a pound. I think he knew I made a little this way but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t giving me a regular wage.
I was really grateful to Arun for teaching me to write. I knew that once I could write like an educated man there would be no limit to what I could achieve. It might even be an incentive to be honest.
Arun made money by fits and starts. He would be borrowing one week, lending the next. He would keep worrying about his next cheque but as soon as it arrived he would go out and celebrate lavishly.
One evening he came home with a wad of notes and at night I saw him tuck the bundles under his mattress at the head of the bed.I had been working for Arun for nearly a fortnight and, apart from the shopping hadn’t done much to exploit him. I had every opportunity for doing so. I had a key to the front door which meant I had access to the room whenever Arun was out. He was the most trusting person I had ever met. And that was why I couldn’t make up my mind to rob him. It’s easy to rob a greedy man because he deserves to be robbed. It’s easy to rob a rich man because he can afford to be robbed. But it’s difficult to rob a poor man, even one who really doesn’t care if he’s robbed. A rich man or a greedy man or a careful man wouldn’t keep his money under a pillow or mattress. He’d lock it up in a safe place. Arun had put his money where it would be child’s play for me to remove it without his knowledge.
It’s time I did some real work, I told myself. I’m getting out of practice …. If I don’t take the money, he’ll only waste it on his friends …. He doesn’t even pay me ….
Arun was asleep. Moonlight came in from the veranda and fell across the bed. I sat up on the floor, my blanket wrapped round me, considering the situation. There was quite a lot of money in that wad and if I took it I would have to leave town—I might make the 10.30 express to Amritsar ….
Slipping out of the blanket, I crept on all four through the door and up to the bed and peeped at Arun. He was sleeping peacefully with a soft and easy breathing. His face was clear and unlined. Even I had more markings on my face, though mine were mostly scars.
My hand took on an identity of its own as it slid around under the mattress,the fingers searching for the notes. They found them and I drew them out without a crackle.
Arun sighed in his sleep and turned on his side, towards me. My free hand was resting on the bed and his hair touched my fingers. I was frightened when his hair touched my fingers, and crawled quickly and quietly out of the room. When I was in the street I began to run. I ran down the bazaar road to the station. The shops were all closed but a few lights were on in the upper windows. I had the notes at my waist, held there by the string of my pyjamas. I felt I had to stop and count the notes though I knew it might make me late for the train. It was already 10.20 by the clock tower. I slowed down to a walk and my fingers flicked through the notes. There were about a hundred rupees in fives. A good haul. I could live like a prince for a month or two.
When I reached the station I did not stop at the ticket office (I had neverbought a ticket in my life) but dashed straight onto the platform. The Amritsar Express was just moving out. It was moving slowly enough for me to be able to jump on the footboard of one of the carriages but I hesitated for some urgent, unexplainable reason.
I hesitated long enough for the train to leave without me.
When it had gone and the noise and busy confusion of the platform had subsided, I found myself standing alone on the deserted platform. The knowledge that I had a hundred stolen rupees in my pyjamas only increased my feeling of isolation and loneliness. I had no idea where to spend the night. I had never kept any friends because sometimes friends can be one’s undoing. I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous by staying at a hotel. And the only person I knew really well in town was the person I had robbed!
Leaving the station, I walked slowly through the bazaar keeping to dark, deserted alleys. I kept thinking of Arun. He would still be asleep, blissfully unaware of his loss.
I have made a study of men’s faces when they have lost something of material value. The greedy man shows panic, the rich man shows anger, the poor man shows fear. But I knew that neither panic nor anger nor fear would show on Arun’s face when he discovered the theft; only a terrible sadness not for the loss of he money but for my having betrayed his trust. I found myself on the maidan and sat down on a bench with my feet tucked up under my haunches. The night was a little cold and I regretted not having brought Arun’s blanket along. A light drizzle added to my discomfort. Soon it was raining heavily. My shirt and pyjamas stuck to my skin and a cold wind brought the rain whipping across my face. I told myself that sleeping on a bench was something I should have been used to by now but the veranda had softened me.
I walked back to the bazaar and sat down on the steps of a closed shop. A few vagrants lay beside me, rolled up tight in thin blankets. The clock showed midnight. I felt for the notes. They were still with me but had lost their crispness and were damp with rainwater. Arun’s money. In the morning he would probably have given me a rupee to go to the pictures but now I had it all. No more cooking his meals, running to the bazaar, or learning to write whole sentences. Whole sentences ….
They were something I had forgotten in the excitement of a hundred rupees. Whole sentences, I knew, could one day bring me more than a hundred rupees. It was a simple matter to steal (and sometimes just as simple to be caught) but to be a really big man, a wise and successful man, that was something. I should go back to Arun, I told myself, if only to learn how to write.
Perhaps it was also concern for Arun that drew me back. A sense of sympathy is one of my weaknesses, and through hesitation over a theft I had often been 0caught. A successful thief must be pitiless. I was fond of Arun. My affection for him, my sense of sympathy, but most of all my desire to write whole sentences, drew me back to the room.
I hurried back to the room extremely nervous, for it is easier to steal something than to return it undetected. If I was caught beside the bed now, with the money in my hand, or with my hand under the mattress, there could be only one explanation: that I was actually stealing. If Arun woke up I would be lost.
I opened the door clumsily and stood in the doorway in clouded moonlight. Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the room. Arun was still asleep. I went on all fours again and crept noiselessly to the head of the bed. My hand came up with the notes. I felt his breath on my fingers. I was fascinated by his tranquil features and easy breathing and remained motionless for a minute. Then my hand explored the mattress, found the edge, slipped under it with the notes.
I awoke late next morning to find that Arun had already made the tea. I found it difficult to face him in the harsh light of day. His hand was stretched out towards me. There was a five-rupee note between his fingers. My heart sank. T made some money yesterday” he said. ‘Now you’ll get paid regularly.’ My spirit rose as rapidly as it had fallen. I congratulated myself on having returned the money.
But when I took the note, I realized that he knew everything. The note was still wet from last night’s rain.
‘Today I’ll teach you to write a little more than your name” he said.
He knew but neither his lips nor his eyes said anything about their knowing.
I smiled at Arun in my most appealing way. And the smile came by itself, without my knowing it.
"
RUSKIN BOND
‘You look like a wrestler yourself I said.
‘So do you,’ he replied, which put me out of my stride for a moment because at the time I was rather thin and bony and not very impressive physically.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I wrestle sometimes.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Deepak,’ I lied.
Deepak was about my fifth name. I had earlier called myself Ranbir, Sudhir, Trilok and Surinder. After this preliminary exchange Arun confined himself to comments on the match, and I didn’t have much to say. After a while he walked away from the crowd of spectators. I followed him.
‘Hallo’ he said. ‘Enjoying yourself?’
I gave him my most appealing smile. ‘I want to work for you” I said.
He didn’t stop walking. ‘And what makes you think I want someone to work for me?’
‘Well” I said, ‘I’ve been wandering about all day looking for the best person to work for. When I saw you I knew that no one else had a chance.’
‘You flatter me” he said.
‘That’s all right.’
‘But you can’t work for me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I can’t pay you.’
I thought that over for a minute. Perhaps I had misjudged my man.
‘Can you feed me?’ I asked.
‘Can you cook?’ he countered.
“I can cook” I lied.
‘If you can cook” he said, Til feed you.’
He took me to his room and told me I could sleep in the verandah. But I was nearly back on the street that night. The meal I cooked must have been pretty awful because Arun gave it to the neighbour’s cat and told me to be off. But I just hung around smiling in my most appealing way and then he couldn’t help laughing. He sat down on the bed and laughed for a full five minutes and later patted me on the head and said, never mind, he’d teach me to cook in the morning. Not only did he teach me to cook but he taught me to write my name and his and said he would soon teach me to write whole sentences and add money on paper when you didn’t have any in your pocket!
It was quite pleasant working for Arun. I made the tea in the morning and later went out shopping. I would take my time buying the day’s supplies and make a profit of about twenty-five paise a day. I would tell Arun that rice was fifty-six paise a pound (it generally was), but I would get it at fifty paise a pound. I think he knew I made a little this way but he didn’t mind. He wasn’t giving me a regular wage.
I was really grateful to Arun for teaching me to write. I knew that once I could write like an educated man there would be no limit to what I could achieve. It might even be an incentive to be honest.
Arun made money by fits and starts. He would be borrowing one week, lending the next. He would keep worrying about his next cheque but as soon as it arrived he would go out and celebrate lavishly.
One evening he came home with a wad of notes and at night I saw him tuck the bundles under his mattress at the head of the bed.I had been working for Arun for nearly a fortnight and, apart from the shopping hadn’t done much to exploit him. I had every opportunity for doing so. I had a key to the front door which meant I had access to the room whenever Arun was out. He was the most trusting person I had ever met. And that was why I couldn’t make up my mind to rob him. It’s easy to rob a greedy man because he deserves to be robbed. It’s easy to rob a rich man because he can afford to be robbed. But it’s difficult to rob a poor man, even one who really doesn’t care if he’s robbed. A rich man or a greedy man or a careful man wouldn’t keep his money under a pillow or mattress. He’d lock it up in a safe place. Arun had put his money where it would be child’s play for me to remove it without his knowledge.
It’s time I did some real work, I told myself. I’m getting out of practice …. If I don’t take the money, he’ll only waste it on his friends …. He doesn’t even pay me ….
Arun was asleep. Moonlight came in from the veranda and fell across the bed. I sat up on the floor, my blanket wrapped round me, considering the situation. There was quite a lot of money in that wad and if I took it I would have to leave town—I might make the 10.30 express to Amritsar ….
Slipping out of the blanket, I crept on all four through the door and up to the bed and peeped at Arun. He was sleeping peacefully with a soft and easy breathing. His face was clear and unlined. Even I had more markings on my face, though mine were mostly scars.
My hand took on an identity of its own as it slid around under the mattress,the fingers searching for the notes. They found them and I drew them out without a crackle.
Arun sighed in his sleep and turned on his side, towards me. My free hand was resting on the bed and his hair touched my fingers. I was frightened when his hair touched my fingers, and crawled quickly and quietly out of the room. When I was in the street I began to run. I ran down the bazaar road to the station. The shops were all closed but a few lights were on in the upper windows. I had the notes at my waist, held there by the string of my pyjamas. I felt I had to stop and count the notes though I knew it might make me late for the train. It was already 10.20 by the clock tower. I slowed down to a walk and my fingers flicked through the notes. There were about a hundred rupees in fives. A good haul. I could live like a prince for a month or two.
When I reached the station I did not stop at the ticket office (I had neverbought a ticket in my life) but dashed straight onto the platform. The Amritsar Express was just moving out. It was moving slowly enough for me to be able to jump on the footboard of one of the carriages but I hesitated for some urgent, unexplainable reason.
I hesitated long enough for the train to leave without me.
When it had gone and the noise and busy confusion of the platform had subsided, I found myself standing alone on the deserted platform. The knowledge that I had a hundred stolen rupees in my pyjamas only increased my feeling of isolation and loneliness. I had no idea where to spend the night. I had never kept any friends because sometimes friends can be one’s undoing. I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous by staying at a hotel. And the only person I knew really well in town was the person I had robbed!
Leaving the station, I walked slowly through the bazaar keeping to dark, deserted alleys. I kept thinking of Arun. He would still be asleep, blissfully unaware of his loss.
I have made a study of men’s faces when they have lost something of material value. The greedy man shows panic, the rich man shows anger, the poor man shows fear. But I knew that neither panic nor anger nor fear would show on Arun’s face when he discovered the theft; only a terrible sadness not for the loss of he money but for my having betrayed his trust. I found myself on the maidan and sat down on a bench with my feet tucked up under my haunches. The night was a little cold and I regretted not having brought Arun’s blanket along. A light drizzle added to my discomfort. Soon it was raining heavily. My shirt and pyjamas stuck to my skin and a cold wind brought the rain whipping across my face. I told myself that sleeping on a bench was something I should have been used to by now but the veranda had softened me.
I walked back to the bazaar and sat down on the steps of a closed shop. A few vagrants lay beside me, rolled up tight in thin blankets. The clock showed midnight. I felt for the notes. They were still with me but had lost their crispness and were damp with rainwater. Arun’s money. In the morning he would probably have given me a rupee to go to the pictures but now I had it all. No more cooking his meals, running to the bazaar, or learning to write whole sentences. Whole sentences ….
They were something I had forgotten in the excitement of a hundred rupees. Whole sentences, I knew, could one day bring me more than a hundred rupees. It was a simple matter to steal (and sometimes just as simple to be caught) but to be a really big man, a wise and successful man, that was something. I should go back to Arun, I told myself, if only to learn how to write.
Perhaps it was also concern for Arun that drew me back. A sense of sympathy is one of my weaknesses, and through hesitation over a theft I had often been 0caught. A successful thief must be pitiless. I was fond of Arun. My affection for him, my sense of sympathy, but most of all my desire to write whole sentences, drew me back to the room.
I hurried back to the room extremely nervous, for it is easier to steal something than to return it undetected. If I was caught beside the bed now, with the money in my hand, or with my hand under the mattress, there could be only one explanation: that I was actually stealing. If Arun woke up I would be lost.
I opened the door clumsily and stood in the doorway in clouded moonlight. Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the room. Arun was still asleep. I went on all fours again and crept noiselessly to the head of the bed. My hand came up with the notes. I felt his breath on my fingers. I was fascinated by his tranquil features and easy breathing and remained motionless for a minute. Then my hand explored the mattress, found the edge, slipped under it with the notes.
I awoke late next morning to find that Arun had already made the tea. I found it difficult to face him in the harsh light of day. His hand was stretched out towards me. There was a five-rupee note between his fingers. My heart sank. T made some money yesterday” he said. ‘Now you’ll get paid regularly.’ My spirit rose as rapidly as it had fallen. I congratulated myself on having returned the money.
But when I took the note, I realized that he knew everything. The note was still wet from last night’s rain.
‘Today I’ll teach you to write a little more than your name” he said.
He knew but neither his lips nor his eyes said anything about their knowing.
I smiled at Arun in my most appealing way. And the smile came by itself, without my knowing it.
"
RUSKIN BOND
I loo...ooove Ruskin Bond.
If mice could roar
And elephant soar
And trees grow up in the sky,
If tigers could dine
On biscuits and wine,
And the fattest of folk could fly!
If pebbles could sing
And bells never ring
And teachers were lost in the post;
If tortoise could run
And losses be won
And bullies be buttered on toast,
If a song brought a shower
And a gun grew a flower,
This world would be better than most.
Like the wind, I run;
Like the rain, I sing;
Like the leaves, I dance;
Like the earth, I'm still;
And in this, Lord, I do thy will.
Ruskin Bond.
The Love Of Two Stars (Ruskin Bond)
Two stars fell in Love. Between them came sky
And ten moons and two suns riding high,
Before them the nebulous star-crusted Way,
The Silence of Night, the silver of Day.
A million years passed , the lovers still glowed
With the brilliance and fire and passion of old,
But one star grew restless and set off at night
With a wonderful shower of hot whilte light.
He sped to his love, with his hopes and his fears,
But missed her, alas, by a thousand light-years.
As she stood in front of
her 5th grade class on the very first
day of school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked
at her students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was
impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little
boy named Teddy Stoddard.
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant.
It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big "F" at the top of his papers.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.
Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners... he is a joy to be around.."
His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."
His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class."
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper That he got from a grocery bag Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume.. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to." After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets.."
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling* her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer.... The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.
The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for* believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."
(For you that don't know, Teddy Stoddard is the Dr. at Iowa Methodist Hospital in Des Moines that has the Stoddard Cancer Wing.)
Warm someone's heart today. . . pass this along. I love this story so very much, I cry every time I read it. Just try to make a difference in someone's life today? tomorrow? Just "do it".
Random acts of kindness, I think they call it?
"Believe in Angels, then return the favor."
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant.
It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big "F" at the top of his papers.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.
Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners... he is a joy to be around.."
His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."
His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class."
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper That he got from a grocery bag Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume.. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to." After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets.."
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling* her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer.... The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.
The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for* believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."
(For you that don't know, Teddy Stoddard is the Dr. at Iowa Methodist Hospital in Des Moines that has the Stoddard Cancer Wing.)
Warm someone's heart today. . . pass this along. I love this story so very much, I cry every time I read it. Just try to make a difference in someone's life today? tomorrow? Just "do it".
Random acts of kindness, I think they call it?
"Believe in Angels, then return the favor."
During WWII, Irena, got
permission to work in the Warsaw ghetto, as a Plumbing/Sewer specialist. She
had an ulterior motive.
Irena smuggled Jewish infants out in the bottom of the tool box she carried. She also carried a burlap sack in the back of her truck, for larger kids.
Irena kept a dog in the back that she trained to bark when the Nazi soldiers let her in and out of the ghetto. The soldiers, of course, wanted nothing to do with the dog and the barking covered the kids/infants noises.
During her time of doing this, she managed to smuggle out and save 2500 kids/infants. Ultimately, she was caught, however, and the Nazi's broke both of her legs and arms and beat her severely.
Irena kept a record of the names of all the kids she had smuggled out, In a glass jar that she buried under a tree in her back yard. After the war, she tried to locate any parents that may have survived and tried to reunite the family. Most had been gassed. Those kids she helped got placed into foster family homes or adopted.
In 2007 Irena was up for the Nobel Peace Prize. She was not selected. Al Gore won, for a slide show on Global Warming.
Irena smuggled Jewish infants out in the bottom of the tool box she carried. She also carried a burlap sack in the back of her truck, for larger kids.
Irena kept a dog in the back that she trained to bark when the Nazi soldiers let her in and out of the ghetto. The soldiers, of course, wanted nothing to do with the dog and the barking covered the kids/infants noises.
During her time of doing this, she managed to smuggle out and save 2500 kids/infants. Ultimately, she was caught, however, and the Nazi's broke both of her legs and arms and beat her severely.
Irena kept a record of the names of all the kids she had smuggled out, In a glass jar that she buried under a tree in her back yard. After the war, she tried to locate any parents that may have survived and tried to reunite the family. Most had been gassed. Those kids she helped got placed into foster family homes or adopted.
In 2007 Irena was up for the Nobel Peace Prize. She was not selected. Al Gore won, for a slide show on Global Warming.
What Remains
By Lisa A. McCrohan
By Lisa A. McCrohan
I
see now how this life is fleeting.
Every
breath,
every
time my little ones
wrap
their tiny arms around my neck
and
shout, “Mama!,” every gleeful plea for
“one
more story” at bedtime
is
holy
ripe
and ready in this moment to savor,
then
it is gone.
Like
a breeze that flutters the curtains in my room,
kisses
my skin on a warm summer night,
then
returns to where it came
and
only stillness remains -
I
see how fleeting my life is.
Suddenly
from darkness I am born,
I
caress this world with my gentle presence
for
only a short while,
then
I return to where I came
and
I am no more in this form.
What
remains?
I
want it to be my thousand gentle kisses on
my
children’s forehead before going to school,
my
slow caress on their backs they’ve felt
a
million times as they drift off to sleep,
my
voice of steadfast encouragement
at
decisive moments to leap and
follow
their hearts,
their
inner prompting to notice suffering
and
respond with compassion
as
they’ve seen my hands
and
heard my soothing words
hundreds
of times on ordinary days,
the
everyday moments of me returning to
my
holy stillness that slowly filled them –
like
sweet, sacred drops of holy water -
with
an inner quiet that sustains them
when
life shakes them,
the
words I’ve whispered into their being
a
million times a million times,
“you
are my delight.”
Lisa
A. McCrohan, © 2014
I PLAYED with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Through groves and meads, o'er grass and
heather,
With little playmates, to and fro,
We wandered hand in hand together;
But that was sixty years ago.
You grow a lovely roseate maiden,
And still our early love was strong;
Still with no care our days were laden,
They glided joyously along;
And I did love you, very dearly,
How dearly words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly;
But that was fifty years ago.
Then other lovers came around you,
Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you
The centre of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
Oh, then I thought my heart was breaking, --
But that was forty years ago.
And I lived on, to wed another:
No cause she gave me to repine;
And when I heard you were a mother,
I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,
Made up a pleasant Christmas row:
My joy in them was past expression; --
But that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron plump and comely,
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze;
My earthly lot was far more homely;
But I too had my festal days.
No merrier eyes have ever glistened
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christened: --
But that was twenty years ago.
Time passed. My eldest girl was married,
And I am now a grandsire grey;
One pet of four years old I've carried
Among the wild-flowered meads to play.
In our old fields of childish pleasure,
Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure, --
And that is not ten years ago.
But though first love's impassioned blindness
Has passed away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever-rolling silent hours
Will bring a time we shall not know,
When our young days of gathering flowers
Will be an hundred years ago.
- Thomas Love Peacock
- Thomas Love Peacock
Elizabeth Barrett
Browning, 1806 - 1861
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love’s sake only.
Do not say,
“I love her for her smile—her look—her
way
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of
thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a
day”—
For these things in themselves, Belovèd,
may
Be changed, or change for thee—and love, so
wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me
for
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry:
A creature might forget to weep, who
bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love
thereby!
But love me for love’s sake, that
evermore
Thou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.
There will always be a 'lie' in believe
an 'over' in lover
an 'end' in friend
an 'us' in trust
and an 'if' in life...
The words not spoken
Goes not quite unheard
It lingers in the eye
In the semi-arch of the bow.
A gesture of hand
Speaks pages more than words
Echoes rest in the heart
As driftwood does in the sand
To be rubbed by time
Until it rots or shines.
The word not spoken
Touches us as the music
Does the mind.
Samih al-Qasim समीह अल-क़ासिम سميح
القاسم
Palestinian poet (11 May 1939 - 19 August 2014)
TRAVEL TICKETS
The day I’m killed,
my killer, rifling through my pockets,
will find travel tickets:
One to peace,
one to the fields and the rain,
and one to the conscience of humankind.
Dear killer of mine, I beg you:
Do not stay and waste them.
Take them, use them.
I beg you to travel.
THE WALL CLOCK
My city collapsed
The wall clock remained
Our neighbourhood collapsed
The wall clock remained
The street collapsed
The wall clock remained
The square collapsed
The wall clock remained
My home collapsed
The wall clock remained
The wall collapsed
On went
The clock
They seemed to those who saw them meet
The casual friends of everydayHer smile was
undisturbed and free
His courtesy was free and gay
And yet if one the other's name
In an unguarded moment heard
The heart you thought so calm and tame
Would flutter like a captured bird
And letters of mere formal phrase
Were blistered with repeated tears
And this was not the work of days
But had gone on for years and years
Alas that love was not too striong
For maiden shame or manly pride
Alas that they delayed too long
The goal of mutual bliss beside.
But what no chance could then reveal
And neither would be first to own
Let fate and courage now conceal
When truth could bring remorse alone.
Derek Walcott.
"The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs,
the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life."
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life."
"Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to
understand
that this, too, was a
gift.”
...
~ Mary Oliver, Thirst
Dipti Naval -
" Sharing a moment with Smita . . . at Band Stand on a monsoon day
. . . "
Always on the run
Chasing our dreams
We met each time -...
At baggage claims
VIP lounges
Check- in counters
Stood a while together
Among gaping crowds
Spoke, unspoken words
Yearning to share
Yet afraid, afraid
Of ourselves
All around us
People cheering, leering
And we, like spectacles
Amidst all the madness
Trying to live a moment
Of truth
A glance, a touch
A feeling to hold on to
And move on…
The last time we sat together
Waiting for a flight
I remember I’d said,
‘There must be another way
Of living this life!’
For a long time
You remained silent
Then,
Without blinking
Without turning
Said,
‘There isn’t’
Today
You are gone, and
I’m still running…
Still trying
To prove you wrong . . .
Always on the run
Chasing our dreams
We met each time -...
At baggage claims
VIP lounges
Check- in counters
Stood a while together
Among gaping crowds
Spoke, unspoken words
Yearning to share
Yet afraid, afraid
Of ourselves
All around us
People cheering, leering
And we, like spectacles
Amidst all the madness
Trying to live a moment
Of truth
A glance, a touch
A feeling to hold on to
And move on…
The last time we sat together
Waiting for a flight
I remember I’d said,
‘There must be another way
Of living this life!’
For a long time
You remained silent
Then,
Without blinking
Without turning
Said,
‘There isn’t’
Today
You are gone, and
I’m still running…
Still trying
To prove you wrong . . .
"
THE WELL OF GRIEF
Those who will not slip
beneath
the still surface on the well of grief,
the still surface on the well of grief,
...
turning down through its
black water
to the place we cannot breathe,
to the place we cannot breathe,
will never know the
source from which we drink,
the secret water, cold and clear,
the secret water, cold and clear,
nor find in the darkness
glimmering,
the small round coins,
thrown by those who wished for something else."
the small round coins,
thrown by those who wished for something else."
David Whyte
“The Laurel and Hardy Love Affair” by Ray Bradbury
He called her Stanley, she called him Ollie.
That was the beginning,
that was the end, of what we will call the Laurel and Hardy love affair.
She was twenty-five, he
was thirty-two when they met at one of those dumb cocktail parties where
everyone wonders what they are doing there. But no one goes home, so everyone
drinks too much and lies about how grand a late afternoon it all was.
They did not, as often
happens, see each other across a crowded room, and if there was romantic music
to background their collision, it couldn’t be heard. For everyone was talking
at one person and staring at someone else.
They were, in fact,
ricocheting through a forest of people, but finding no shade trees. He was on
his way for a needed drink, she was eluding a love-sick stranger, when they
locked paths in the exact center of the fruitless mob. They dodged left and
right a few times, then laughed and he on impulse, seized his tie and twiddled
it at her, wiggling his fingers. Instantly, smiling, she lifted her hand to
pull the top of her hair into a frowzy tassel, blinking and looking as if she
had been struck on the head.
“Stan!” he cried, in
recognition.
“Ollie!” She exclaimed.
“Where have you been?”
“Why don’t you do
something to help me!” he exclaimed, making wide fat gestures.
They grabbed each others
arms, laughing again.
“I-” She said, and her
face brightened even more. “I-I know the exact place, not two miles from here,
where Laurel and Hardy, in nineteen thirty, carried that piano crate up and
down one hundred and fifty steps!”
“Well,” he cried, “let’s
get out of here!”
His car door slammed,
his car engine roared.
Los Angeles raced by in
late afternoon sunlight.
He braked the car where
she told him to park. “Here!”
“I can’t believe it,” he
murmured, not moving. He peered around at the sunset sky. Lights were coming on
all across Los Angeles, down the hill. He nodded. “Are those the
steps?”
“All one hundred fifty
of them.” She climbed out of the open topped car. “Come on, Ollie.”
“Very well,” he said,
“Stan.”
They walked over to the
bottom of yet another hill and gazed up along the steep incline of concrete
steps toward the sky. The faintest touch of wetness rimmed his eyes. She was
quick to pretend not to notice, but she took his elbow. Her voice was wonderfully
quiet.
“Go on up,” she said.
“Go on. Go.”
She gave him a tender
push.
He started up the steps,
counting, and with each half-whispered count, his voice took on an extra
decibel of joy. By the time he reached fifty-seven he was a boy playing a
wondrous old-new game, and he was lost in time, and whether he was carrying the
piano up the hill or whether it was chasing him down, he could not say.
“Hold it!” he heard her
call, far away, “right there!”
He held still, swaying
on step fifty-eight, smiling wildly, as if accompanied by proper ghosts, and
turned.
“Okay,” she called,
“come back down.”
He started down, color
in his cheeks and a peculiar suffering of happiness in his chest. He could hear
the piano following now.
“Hold it right there!”
She had a camera in her
hands. Seeing it, his right hand flew instinctively to his tie to flutter it on
the evening air.
“Now me!”
She shouted, and raced up to hand him the camera. And he marched down and
looked up and there she was, doing the thin shrug and the puzzled and hopeless
face of Stan baffled by life but loving it all. He clicked the shutter, wanting
to stay here forever.
She came slowly down the
steps and peered into his face.
“Why,” she said, “you’re crying.”
She placed her thumbs
under his eyes to press the tears away. She tasted the result. “Yep,” she said.
“Real tears.”
He looked at her eyes,
which were almost as wet as his.
“Another fine mess
you’ve got us in,” he said.
“Oh, Ollie,” she said.
“Oh, Stan,” he said.
He kissed her, gently.
And then he said:
“Are we going to know
each other forever?”
“Forever,” she said.
*And that was how the
long love affair began.
They had real names, of
course, but those don’t matter, for Laurel and Hardy always seemed the best
thing to call themselves.
For the simple fact was
that she was fifteen pounds underweight and he was always trying to get her to
add a few pounds. And he was twenty pounds overweight and she was always trying
to get him to take off more than his shoes. But it never worked and was finally
a joke, the best kind, which wound up being:
“You’re Stan, no two
ways about it, and I’m Ollie, let’s face it. And oh God, dear young woman,
let’s enjoy the mess, the wonderful mess, all the while we’re in!”
It was, then, while it
lasted, and it lasted some while, a French parfait, an American perfection, a
wilderness from which they would never recover to the end of their lives.
From that twilight hour
on the piano stairs on, their days were long, heedless, and full of that
amazing laughter that paces the beginning and the run-along rush of any great
love affair. They only stopped laughing long enough to kiss and only stopped kissing
long enough to laugh at how odd and miraculous it was to find themselves with
no clothes to wear in the middle of a bed as vast as life and as beautiful as
morning.
And sitting there in the
middle of warm whiteness, he shut his eyes and shook his head and declared,
pompously:
“I have nothing to
say!”
“Yes, you do!” she
cried. “Say it!”
And he said it and they
fell off the edge of the earth.
*Their first year was
pure myth and fable, which would grow outsize when remembered thirty years on.
They went to see new films and old films, but mainly Stan and Ollie. They
memorized all the best scenes and shouted them back and forth as they
drove around midnight Los Angeles. He spoiled her by treating her childhood
growing up in Hollywood as very special, and she spoiled him by pretending that
his yesteryear on roller skates out front of the studios was not in the past
but right now.
She proved it one night.
On a whim she asked where he had roller-skated as a boy and collided with W.C.
Fields. Where he asked Fields for his autograph, and where was it that Fields
signed the book, and handed it back, and cried, “There you are, you little
son-of-a-bitch!”
“Drive me there,” she
said.
And at ten o’clock that
night they got out of the car in front of Paramount Studio and he pointed to
the pavement near the gate and said, “He stood there,” and she gathered him in
her arms and kissed him and said gently, “Now where was it you had your picture
taken with Marlene Dietrich?”
He walked her fifty feet
across the street from the studio. “In the late afternoon sun,” he said,
“Marlene stood here.” And she kissed him again, longer this time, and the moon
rising like an obvious magic trick, filling the street in front of the empty
studio. She let her soul flow over into him like a tipped fountain, and he
received it and gave it back and was glad.
“Now,” she said,
quietly, “where was it you saw Fred Astaire in nineteen thirty-five and Ronald
Colman in nineteen thirty-seven and Jean Harlow in nineteen thirty-six?”
And he drove her to those
three different places all around Hollywood until midnight and they stood and
she kissed him as if it would never end.
And that was the first
year. And during that year they went up and down those long piano steps at
least once a month and had champagne picnics halfway up, and discovered an
incredible thing:
“I think it’s our
mouths,” he said, “Until I met you, I never knew I had a mouth. Yours is the
most amazing in the world, and it makes me feel as if mine were amazing, too.
Were you ever really kissed before I kissed you?”
“Never!”
“Nor was I. To have
lived this long and not known mouths.”
“Dear mouth,” she said,
“shut up and kiss.”
But then at the end of
the first year they discovered an even more incredible thing. He worked at an
advertising agency and was nailed in one place. She worked at a travel agency
and would soon be flying everywhere. Both were astonished they had never
noticed before. But now that Vesuvius had erupted and the fiery dust was
beginning to settle, they sat and looked at each other one night and she said,
faintly:
“Good-bye…”
“What?” he asked.
“I can see good-bye
coming,” she said.
He looked at her face
and it was not sad like Stan in the films, but just sad like herself.
“I feel like the ending
of that Hemingway novel where two people ride along in the late day and say how
it would be if they could go on forever but they know now they won’t,” she
said.
“Stan,” he said, “this
is no Hemingway novel and this can’t be the end of the world. You’ll never
leave me.”
But it was a question,
not a declaration and suddenly she moved and he blinked at her and said:
“What are you doing down
there?”
“Nut,” she said, “I’m
kneeling on the floor and I’m asking your hand. Marry me, Ollie. Come away with
me to France. I’ve got a new job in Paris. No, don’t say anything. Shut up. No
one has to know I’ve got money this year and will support you while you write
the great American novel–“
“But–” he said.
“You’ve got your
portable type-writer, and a ream of paper, and me. Say it, Ollie, will you
come? Hell, don’t marry me, we’ll live in sin, but fly with me, yes?”
“And watch us go to hell
in a year and bury us forever?”
“Are you that afraid,
Ollie? Don’t you believe in me or you or anything? God, why are men such
cowards, and why the hell do you have such thin skins and are afraid of a woman
like a ladder to lean on. Listen. I’ve got things to do and you’re coming with
me. I can’t leave you here, you’ll fall tomorrow. That means you, Paris, and my
job. Your novel will take time but you’ll do it. Now, do you do it here and
feel sorry for yourself, or do we live in a cold-water walk-up flat in the
Latin Quarter a long way off from here? This is my one and only offer, Ollie.
I’ve never proposed before, I won’t ever propose again, it’s hard on my
knees. Well?”
“Have we had this
conversation before?” he said.
“A dozen times in the
last year, but you never listened, you were hopeless.”
“No, in love and
helpless.”
“You’ve got one minute
to make up your mind. Sixty seconds.” She was staring at her wristwatch.
“Get up off the floor,”
he said, embarrassed.
“If I do, it’s out the
door and gone,” she said. “Forty-nine seconds to go, Ollie.”
“Stan,” he groaned.
“Thirty,” she read her
watch. “Twenty. I’ve got one knee off the floor. Ten. I’m beginning to get the
other knee up. Five. One.”
And she was standing on
her feet.
“What brought this on?”
he asked.
“Now,” she said, “I am
heading for the door. I don’t know. Maybe I’ve thought about it more than I
dared even notice. We are very special wondrous people, Ollie, and I don’t
think our like will ever come again in the world, at least not to us, or I’m
lying to myself and I probably am. But I must go and you are free to come along,
but can’t face it or don’t know it. And now-” she reached out. “My hand is on
the door and-“
“And?” he said, quietly.
“I’m crying,” she said.
He started to get up but
she shook her head.
“No, don’t. If you touch
me I’ll cave in, and to hell with that. I’m going. But once a year will be
forbearance day, or forgiveness day or whatever in hell you want to call it.
Once a year I’ll show up at our flight of steps, no piano, same hour, same time
as that night when we first went there and if you’re there to meet me I’ll
kidnap you or you me, but don’t bring along, and show me your damn bank balance
or give me any of your lip.”
“Stan,” he said.
“My God,” she mourned.
“What?”
“This door is heavy. I
can’t move it.” She wept. “There. It’s moving. There.” She wept more. “I’m
gone.”
The door shut.
“Stan!” He ran to the
door and grabbed the knob. It was wet. He raised his fingers to his mouth and
tasted the salt, then opened the door.
The hall was already
empty. The air where she had passed was just coming back together. Thunder
threatened when the two halves met. There was a promise of rain.
*He went back to the
steps on October 4 every year for three years, but she wasn’t there. And then
he forgot for two years but in the autumn of the sixth year, he remembered and went
back in the late sunlight and walked up the stairs because he saw something
halfway up and it was a bottle of good champagne with a ribbon and a note on
it, delivered by someone, and the note read:
“Ollie, dear Ollie. Date
remembered. But in Paris. Mouth’s not the same but happily married. Love Stan.”
And after that, every
October he simply did not go to visit the stairs. The sound of that piano
rushing down that hillside, he knew, would catch him and take him along to
where he did not know.”
And that was the end, or
almost the end, of the Laurel and Hardy love affair.
There was, by amiable
accident, a final meeting.
Traveling through France
fifteen years later, he was walking on the Champs Elysees at twilight one
afternoon with his wife and two daughters, when he saw this handsome woman
coming the other way, escorted by a very sober-looking older man and a very
handsome dark-haired boy of twelve, obviously her son.
As they passed, the same
smile lit both their faces in the same instant.
He twiddled his necktie
at her.
She tousled her hair at
him.
They did not stop. They
kept going. But he heard her call back along the Champs Elysees, the last words
he would ever hear her say:
“Another fine mess
you’ve got us in!” And then she added the old, the familiar name by which he
had gone in the years of their love.
And she was gone and his
daughters and wife looked at him and one daughter said, “Did that lady call you
Ollie?”
“What lady?” he said.
“Dad,” said the other
daughter leaning in to peer at his face. “You’re crying.”
“No.”
“Yes, you are. Isn’t he,
Mom?”
“Your papa,” said his
wife, “as you well know, cries at telephone books.”
“No,” he said, “just one
hundred and fifty steps and a piano. Remind me to show you girls, someday.”
They walked on and he
turned and looked back a final time. The woman with her husband and son turned
at that very moment. Maybe he saw her mouth pantomime the words, So long,
Ollie. Maybe he didn’t. He felt his own mouth move, in silence: So long, Stan.
And they walked in
opposite directions along the Champs Elysees in the late night of an October
sun.
Ask the questions that
have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest....
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest....
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the
two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion – put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not
go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?
Go with your love to the
fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
~ Wendell Berry
from "Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” (excerpt)
from "Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” (excerpt)
"All that is gold
does not glitter,
Not all those who wander
are lost;
The old that is strong
does not wither,
Deep roots are not
reached by the frost."
—J.R.R. Tolkien, The
Fellowship of the Ring
To Sir With Love
"A friend who
taught me right from wrong, And weak from strong -- that's a lot to learn
What -- what can I give you in return?...
If you wanted the moon,
I would try to make a start... But I
Would rather you let me give my heart
To Sir, With Love" !!!
What -- what can I give you in return?...
If you wanted the moon,
I would try to make a start... But I
Would rather you let me give my heart
To Sir, With Love" !!!
(The whole song -
"Those schoolgirl days
Of telling tales, and biting nails, are gone
But in my mind,
I know they will still live on and on
But how do you thank someone
Who has taken you from crayons to perfume?
It isn't easy, but I'll try
If you wanted the sky,
I would write across the sky in letters,
That would soar a thousand feet high:
"To Sir, With Love"
"Those schoolgirl days
Of telling tales, and biting nails, are gone
But in my mind,
I know they will still live on and on
But how do you thank someone
Who has taken you from crayons to perfume?
It isn't easy, but I'll try
If you wanted the sky,
I would write across the sky in letters,
That would soar a thousand feet high:
"To Sir, With Love"
Those awkward years
Have hurried by. Why did they fly away?
Why is it, Sir,
Children grow up to be people one day?
What takes the place of climbing trees,
And dirty knees in the world outside?
What is there for you I can buy?
If you wanted the world,
I'd surround it with walls. I'd scrawl
In letters ten feet tall:
"To Sir, With Love"
Have hurried by. Why did they fly away?
Why is it, Sir,
Children grow up to be people one day?
What takes the place of climbing trees,
And dirty knees in the world outside?
What is there for you I can buy?
If you wanted the world,
I'd surround it with walls. I'd scrawl
In letters ten feet tall:
"To Sir, With Love"
The time has come
For closing books; and long last looks must end
And as I leave,
I know that I am leaving my best friend
A friend who taught me right from wrong,
And weak from strong -- that's a lot to learn
What -- what can I give you in return?
If you wanted the moon,
I would try to make a start... But I
Would rather you let me give my heart
To Sir, With Love")
For closing books; and long last looks must end
And as I leave,
I know that I am leaving my best friend
A friend who taught me right from wrong,
And weak from strong -- that's a lot to learn
What -- what can I give you in return?
If you wanted the moon,
I would try to make a start... But I
Would rather you let me give my heart
To Sir, With Love")
For what shall I wield a
dagger , o lord
What can I pluck it out of
Or plunge it into
When you are all the world.
What can I pluck it out of
Or plunge it into
When you are all the world.
...
- devara dasimayya (10th
century indian poet-saint)
न जातु कामः कामानामुपभोगेन शामति ।
हविषा कृष्णवर्त्मेव भुय एवाभिवर्धते ॥
हविषा कृष्णवर्त्मेव भुय एवाभिवर्धते ॥
No desire ever gets fulfilled even though it may be temporarily or partially satisfied.Like the fire consuming ghee offered in oblation increases as a result, desire increases with some satisfaction.
To all the girls, all our daughters ... Beautiful.
"For the ground beneath will hold you, dear --
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be."
Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes --
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.
Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women --
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.
Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.
Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.
Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress --
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.
Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear --
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our Light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to Be?
You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.
There’s nothing Enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.
We were born to make and manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
~Marianne Williamson
To weep because a glorious sun has set
Which the next morn shall gild the east again;
To mourn that mighty strengths must yield to fate
Which by that force a double strength attain;
To shrink from pain without whose friendly strife
Joy could not be, to make a terror of death
Who smiling beckons us to farther life,
And is a bridge for the persistent breath;
Despair and anguish and the tragic grief
Of dry set eyes, or such disastrous tears
As rend the heart, though meant for its relief,
And all man's ghastly company of fears
Are born of folly that believes the span
Of life the limit of immortal man.
Which the next morn shall gild the east again;
To mourn that mighty strengths must yield to fate
Which by that force a double strength attain;
To shrink from pain without whose friendly strife
Joy could not be, to make a terror of death
Who smiling beckons us to farther life,
And is a bridge for the persistent breath;
Despair and anguish and the tragic grief
Of dry set eyes, or such disastrous tears
As rend the heart, though meant for its relief,
And all man's ghastly company of fears
Are born of folly that believes the span
Of life the limit of immortal man.
Sri Aurobindo
(via Ajay Shyam)
#Art_of_Gratitude
तरुवर फल नहिं खात है, सरवर पियहि न पान।
कहि रहीम पर काज हित, संपति सँचहि सुजान॥
Trees do not eat their own fruits, rivers don't drink their own water.
Rahim says, good people accumulate wealth to do good to others.
#Art_of_Gratitude
तरुवर फल नहिं खात है, सरवर पियहि न पान।
कहि रहीम पर काज हित, संपति सँचहि सुजान॥
Trees do not eat their own fruits, rivers don't drink their own water.
Rahim says, good people accumulate wealth to do good to others.
Abdul Rahim Khan-e-Khan was one of the nine prominent ministers, the Navaratnas, or nine gems in Akbar’s court, Although a Muslim by birth, Rahim was a devotee of Lord Krishna and wrote poetry dedicated to him.
He is well known for his strange manner of giving alms to the poor. He never looked at the person he was giving alms to, keeping his gaze downwards in all humility. When Rambhakt and author of the Ramcharitmanas Goswami Tulsidas heard about Rahim's strange method of giving alms, he promptly wrote a couplet and sent it to Rahim:
"ऐसी देनी देंन ज्यूँ, कित सीखे हो सैन
ज्यों ज्यों कर ऊंच्यो करो, त्यों त्यों निचे नैन"
Where did you learn this wonderful art of giving, kind sir?
As you raise your hands to give, you lower your eyes!
"ऐसी देनी देंन ज्यूँ, कित सीखे हो सैन
ज्यों ज्यों कर ऊंच्यो करो, त्यों त्यों निचे नैन"
Where did you learn this wonderful art of giving, kind sir?
As you raise your hands to give, you lower your eyes!
Realizing that Tulsidas was well 'Aware' of the 'Truth' behind creation, and was merely giving him an opportunity to say a few lines in reply, he wrote to Tulsidas in all humility:
"देनहार कोई और है, भेजत जो दिन रैन
लोग भरम हम पर करे, तासो निचे नैन"
The true giver is someone else God, who gives day and night
People mistake me as the giver, I therefore lower my eyes in humility
"देनहार कोई और है, भेजत जो दिन रैन
लोग भरम हम पर करे, तासो निचे नैन"
The true giver is someone else God, who gives day and night
People mistake me as the giver, I therefore lower my eyes in humility
Thanks Aparna Krishnan for the two wonderful lessons.
Once
Krishna and Arjuna were walking towards a village. Arjuna was pestering
Krishna, asking him why कर्ण should
be considered an unparallelled Donor & not me.?
Krishna, turned two mountains into gold.
Then said "Arjuna, distribute these two Gold mountains among villagers, but you must donate every bit of it ".
Arjuna went into the village, and proclaimed he was going to donate gold to every villager, and asked them to gather near the mountain. The villagers sang his praises and Arjuna walked towards the mountain with a huffed up chest.
For two days and two nights Arjuna shovelled gold from the mountain and donated to each villager. The mountains did not diminish in their slightest.
Most villagers came back and stood in queue within minutes. Now Arjuna was exhausted, but not ready to let go of Ego, told Krishna he couldn't go on any longer without rest.
Here Krishna called कर्ण and told him to donate every bit of two Gold mountains.
कर्ण called two villagers, and said "Those two Gold mountains are yours " and walked away.
Arjuna sat dumbfounded. Why hadn't this thought occurred to him?
Krishna smiled mischievously and told him "Arjuna, subconsciously, you were attracted to the gold, you regretfully gave it away to each villager, giving them what you thought was a generous amount. Thus the size of your donation to each villager depended only on your imagination.
कर्ण holds no such reservations. Look at him walking away after giving away a fortune, he doesn't expect people to sing his praises, he doesn't even care if people talk good or bad about him behind his back. That is the sign of a man already on the path of enlightenment".
Krishna, turned two mountains into gold.
Then said "Arjuna, distribute these two Gold mountains among villagers, but you must donate every bit of it ".
Arjuna went into the village, and proclaimed he was going to donate gold to every villager, and asked them to gather near the mountain. The villagers sang his praises and Arjuna walked towards the mountain with a huffed up chest.
For two days and two nights Arjuna shovelled gold from the mountain and donated to each villager. The mountains did not diminish in their slightest.
Most villagers came back and stood in queue within minutes. Now Arjuna was exhausted, but not ready to let go of Ego, told Krishna he couldn't go on any longer without rest.
Here Krishna called कर्ण and told him to donate every bit of two Gold mountains.
कर्ण called two villagers, and said "Those two Gold mountains are yours " and walked away.
Arjuna sat dumbfounded. Why hadn't this thought occurred to him?
Krishna smiled mischievously and told him "Arjuna, subconsciously, you were attracted to the gold, you regretfully gave it away to each villager, giving them what you thought was a generous amount. Thus the size of your donation to each villager depended only on your imagination.
कर्ण holds no such reservations. Look at him walking away after giving away a fortune, he doesn't expect people to sing his praises, he doesn't even care if people talk good or bad about him behind his back. That is the sign of a man already on the path of enlightenment".
Ananda Kentish Coomaraswamy, writes in The Dance of Shiva,
“It is hard to realize, how completely the continuity of Indian life has been severed. A single generation of English education suffices to break the threads of tradition and to create a nondescript and superficial being deprived of all roots—a sort of intellectual pariah who does not belong to the East or the West.”
"Our real concern is with the fallacy involved in the attachment of an absolute value to literacy, and the very dangerous consequences that are involved in the setting up of “literacy” as a standard by which to measure the cultures of unlettered peoples.
Our blind faith in literacy not only obscures for us the significance of other skills, so that we care not under what subhuman conditions a man may have to learn his living, if only he can read, no matter what, in his hours of leisure.
it is also one of the fundamental grounds of inter-racial prejudice and becomes a prime factor in the spiritual impoverishment of all the “backward” people whom we propose to “civilise.”
- Ananda Coomaraswamy, The Bugbear of Literacy
The way of gods ... detachment.
UGK has this perfect way of declaring copyright - My teaching, if that is the word you want to use, has no copyright. You are free to reproduce, distribute, interpret, misinterpret, distort, garble, do what you like, even claim authorship, without my consent or the permission of anybody.
"Ya Ma Sa Maya
- That which does not exist is Maya.
But, please do appreciate the utilitarian value of the material world. That is, one's hunger will not go away by thinking, 'ya ma sa hunger'. It has to be met with another maya called food.
Just the same way, how one has to eat food in one's dream to overcome the hunger one feels in the same dream.
In short, Adwaitha is for one's understanding; not for one's activities. Dwaitham has to be removed from the mind only; after that is can peacefully exist in all of one's physical involvement with the material world." - Gokul Kenath
"Gandhi chucked his education and traveled around the country and LEARNT from the subaltern, from the masses. That's why he created the narratives he did."
#Jallikattu
"Marxism come to have an enormous influence on a large section of Indian intelligentsia. It is not surprising that they internalised this disdain for everything ancient in Indian history, society, philosophy, faith and ways of life and religion. This sense of self-deprecation was so strongly embedded in their minds that everything ancient in this ancient civilization was denounced as 'reactionary' and everyone who indulged in this denunciation was considered 'progressive'. The convergence of the attitudes of christian missionaries, british colonialists and marxist revolutionaries towards India is a most fascinating subject of study."
"Marxism come to have an enormous influence on a large section of Indian intelligentsia. It is not surprising that they internalised this disdain for everything ancient in Indian history, society, philosophy, faith and ways of life and religion. This sense of self-deprecation was so strongly embedded in their minds that everything ancient in this ancient civilization was denounced as 'reactionary' and everyone who indulged in this denunciation was considered 'progressive'. The convergence of the attitudes of christian missionaries, british colonialists and marxist revolutionaries towards India is a most fascinating subject of study."
" Manimekhalai is a rare treasure. Tamil is fortunate to have it as her own.
சலாகை நுழைந்த மணித்துளை அகவையின்
உலாநீர்ப் பெருங்கடல் ஓடா தாயினும்
ஆங்குஅத் துளைவழி உகுநீர் போல
ஈங்கு நல்அறம் எய்தலும் உண்டுஎனச்
சொல்லலும் உண்டுயான் சொல்லுதல் தேற்றார்
மல்லல்மா ஞாலத்து மக்களே ஆதலின்"
It is not possible to make all the water of the sea pass through a hole pierced in a pearl to make a necklace. Nevertheless, a few drops may filter through the orifice. I have no hope at all of drawing the mass of human beings in the vast and prosperous world to the way of Dharma, since they are incapable of doing so. However the advice I give may influence some of them - Aravana Adigal.
"Draupadi realizes she is going to lose all her children, and is furious.
And Krishna says: Did I ever tell you that you would get happiness and prosperity after this war? This war is to re-establish dharma—that’s all. Fighting for dharma is not forced on you—it is a choice you make. And you take all the consequences that come with it.”
Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, India's first Vice President and the second President, and a great Hindu philosopher and statesman, has said that the implications of the word dharma are so profound that there is no single word in the English language that can be used to translate it. So he left it untranslated in his writings and simply tried to explain what it meant.
Tapah shaucam daya satyam iti paadaah krute krutaahaa l
Adharamaanshaihas trayo bhagnaah smayasanga madais tava ll 1.7.24 ll SB
King Parikshit spoke with Dharma (which appeared in the body of a cow, which was being abused severely) and addresses her as stated above. He says, "O Dharma, in kruta yuga (the first of the four yugas called the Chaturyuga, with 1000 Chaturyugas, or Mahayugas, constituting one day of Brahma) you appeared with four legs - tapas (penance or austerities), shaucam (purity), daya (compassion) and satyam (truthfulness). With progressive onset of adharma, I see you now standing on just one leg with three of those four legs having been chopped off." In the next verse Parikshit says that clearly that dharma now stands on just one leg - truthfulness.
I saw many humans on whom there were no clothes.
I saw many clothes in which there were no humans.
Rumi
A monk decided to meditate alone, away from his monastery. He took his boat out to the middle of the lake, moored it there, closed his eyes and began meditating. After a few hours of undisturbed silence, he suddenly felt the bump of another boat colliding with his own.
With his eyes still closed, he felt his anger rising, and by the time he opened his eyes, he was ready to scream at the boatman who had so carelessly disturbed his meditation. But when he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find that it was an empty boat that had struck his own. It had probably gotten untethered and floated to the middle of the lake.
At that moment, the monk had a great realization. He understood that the anger was within him; it merely needed the bump of an external object to provoke it out of him. From then on, whenever he came across someone who irritated him or provoked him to anger, he would remind himself, that the other person was merely an empty boat, the anger was within him.
Thousands of years ago, human beings lived with instincts only- just like birds and animals. Now, human beings live mostly with intellect. The intellect has made our life more comfortable physically. Now we do not have to work so hard for our basic necessities like food, clothes and shelter
But the intellect has created many problems in human relationship. With the help of cunning intellect, one can prove the right as wrong and the wrong as right- as lawyers do in court cases. Human beings use intellect in their daily life to justify what they like and condemn what they do not like. With the help of cunning intelligence, human beings fight with each other and create unhappiness for themselves and others.
The intellect is limited or partial. It exists only at the surface layers of the total mind. In the deepest layers of the mind, there exists intelligence which can see things as they are without any effort. To feel this intelligence, one has to dive deep into oneself and be peaceful. This intelligence can use intellect to communicate with people without any conflicts in relationship. The intellect by itself cannot understand or accept the existence of such intelligence because it is limited.
“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what." ( Atticus Finch)
“Atticus, you must be wrong."
"How's that?"
"Well, most folks seem to think they're right and you're wrong. . ."
"They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions," said Atticus, "but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience.”
― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
"A person who is worried about the outcome of his work does not see his goal; he sees only his opposition and the obstacles before him. Feeling unequal to the difficulties of his situation, he becomes resigned or resorts to violence out of frustration and despair.
"But the man who is detached from results and tries only to do his best without thought of profit or power or prestige does not waver when difficulties come. He sees his way clearly through every trial, for his eyes are always on the goal."
- Eknath Easwaran, from "Gandhi the Man: How One Man Changed Himself to Change the World"
"But the man who is detached from results and tries only to do his best without thought of profit or power or prestige does not waver when difficulties come. He sees his way clearly through every trial, for his eyes are always on the goal."
- Eknath Easwaran, from "Gandhi the Man: How One Man Changed Himself to Change the World"
AN OLD FARMER"S ADVICE
1. Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong.
2. Keep skunks and bankers at a distance.
3. Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.
4. A bumble bee is considerably faster than a John Deere tractor.
5. Words that soak into your ears are whispered...not yelled.
6. Meanness don't jes' happen overnight.
7. Forgive your enemies. It messes up their heads.
8. Do not corner something that you know is meaner than you.
9. It don't take a very big person to carry a grudge.
10. You cannot unsay a cruel word.
11. Every path has a few puddles.
12. When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.
13. The best sermons are lived, not preached.
14. Most of the stuff people worry about ain't never gonna happen anyway.
15. Don't judge folks by their relatives.
16. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
17. Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you'll enjoy it a second time.
18. Don't interfere with somethin' that ain't botherin' you none.
19. Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.
20. If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin'.
21. Sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got.
22. The biggest troublemaker you'll probably ever have to deal with, watches you from the mirror every mornin'.
23. Always drink upstream from the herd.
24. Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.
25. Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin' it back in.
26. If you get to thinkin' you're a person of some influence, try orderin' somebody else's dog around.
27. Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly.
Krishna tells Duryodhana " You have been entertaining very sinful thoughts . But they do not attract any sin by themselves if they are not translated into action. You can even now give up acting upon them and still be totally free. Give the kingdom back and free yourself from any sin".
"I just realized that while children are dogs—loyal and affectionate—teenagers are cats.
It’s so easy to be a dog owner. You feed it, train it, boss it around. It puts its head on your knee and gazes at you as if you were a Rembrandt painting. It bounds indoors with enthusiasm when you call it.
Then, around age 13, your adoring puppy turns into a big old cat. When you tell it to come inside, it looks amazed, as if wondering who died and made you emperor.
Instead of dogging your footsteps, it disappears. You won’t see it again until it gets hungry…then it pauses on its sprint through the kitchen long enough to turn up its nose at whatever you’re serving, swishing its tail and giving you an aggrieved look until you break out the tuna again.
When you reach out to ruffle its head in that old affectionate gesture, it twists away from you, then gives you a blank stare as if it is trying to remember where it has seen you before.
You, not realizing your dog is now a cat, think something must be desperately wrong with it. It seems so antisocial, so distant, sort of depressed. It won’t go on family outings. Since you’re the one who raised it, taught it to fetch, stay and sit on command, you assume you did something wrong. Flooded with guilt and fear, you redouble your efforts to make your pet behave.
Only now you’re dealing with a cat, so everything that worked before now has the opposite result. Call it, and it runs away. Tell it to sit, and it jumps on the counter. The more you go toward it, wringing your hands, the more it moves away.
Instead of continuing to act like a dog owner, you must learn to behave like a cat owner. Put a dish of food near the door and let it come to you. But remember that a cat needs your help and affection too. Sit still and it will come, seeking that warm, comforting lap it has not entirely forgotten. Be there to open the door for it.
One day your grown up child will walk into the kitchen, give you a big kiss and say,
“You’ve been on your feet all day. Let me get those dishes for you.” Then, you’ll realize your cat is a dog again.”
To parents of teenagers
By Corrie Lynne Player
"Who will give the world light? Sacrifice in the past has been the Law, it will be, alas, for ages to come. The earth's bravest and best will have to sacrifice themselves for the good of many, for the welfare of all."
Vivekananada
Many years ago Rudyard Kipling gave an address at McGill University in Montreal. He said one striking thing which deserves to be remembered. Warning the students against an over-concern for money,or position, or glory, he said:
"Some day you will meet a man who cares for none of these things. Then you will know how poor you are."
The comfort of the rich depends on an abundant supply of the poor - Voltaire
-A man, of course.
Yes, but what does he do?
-He lives and is a man.
Oh quite! But he must work. He must have a job of some sort
-Why?
Because obviously he’s not one of the leisured classes.
-I don’t know. He has lots of leisure. And he makes quite beautiful chairs.
There you are then! He’s a cabinet maker.
-No, no
Anyhow a carpenter and a joiner.
-Not at all.
But you said so
-What did I say?
That he made chairs and was a joiner and carpenter
-I said he made chairs, but I did not say he was a carpenter.
All right then he is just an amateur?
-Perhaps! would you say a thrush was a professional flautist, or just an amateur?
I’d say it was just a bird
-And I say he is just a man.
All right! You always did quibble.
Charles Dickens to his son.
My dearest Plorn,
I write this note to-day because your going away is much upon my mind, and because I want you to have a few parting words from me to think of now and then at quiet times. I need not tell you that I love you dearly, and am very, very sorry in my heart to part with you. But this life is half made up of partings, and these pains must be borne. It is my comfort and my sincere conviction that you are going to try the life for which you are best fitted. I think its freedom and wildness more suited to you than any experiment in a study or office would ever have been; and without that training, you could have followed no other suitable occupation.
What you have already wanted until now has been a set, steady, constant purpose. I therefore exhort you to persevere in a thorough determination to do whatever you have to do as well as you can do it. I was not so old as you are now when I first had to win my food, and do this out of this determination, and I have never slackened in it since.
Never take a mean advantage of anyone in any transaction, and never be hard upon people who are in your power. Try to do to others, as you would have them do to you, and do not be discouraged if they fail sometimes. It is much better for you that they should fail in obeying the greatest rule laid down by our Saviour, than that you should.
I put a New Testament among your books, for the very same reasons, and with the very same hopes that made me write an easy account of it for you, when you were a little child; because it is the best book that ever was or will be known in the world, and because it teaches you the best lessons by which any human creature who tries to be truthful and faithful to duty can possibly be guided. As your brothers have gone away, one by one, I have written to each such words as I am now writing to you, and have entreated them all to guide themselves by this book, putting aside the interpretations and inventions of men.
You will remember that you have never at home been wearied about religious observances or mere formalities. I have always been anxious not to weary my children with such things before they are old enough to form opinions respecting them. You will therefore understand the better that I now most solemnly impress upon you the truth and beauty of the Christian religion, as it came from Christ Himself, and the impossibility of your going far wrong if you humbly but heartily respect it.
Only one thing more on this head. The more we are in earnest as to feeling it, the less we are disposed to hold forth about it. Never abandon the wholesome practice of saying your own private prayers, night and morning. I have never abandoned it myself, and I know the comfort of it.
I hope you will always be able to say in after life, that you had a kind father. You cannot show your affection for him so well, or make him so happy, as by doing your duty.
Your affectionate Father.
ty.
“I am in this same river. I can't much help it. I admit it: I'm racist. The other night I saw a group (or maybe a pack?) or white teenagers standing in a vacant lot, clustered around a 4x4, and I crossed the street to avoid them; had they been black, I probably would have taken another street entirely. And I'm misogynistic. I admit that, too. I'm a shitty cook, and a worse house cleaner, probably in great measure because I've internalized the notion that these are woman's work. Of course, I never admit that's why I don't do them: I always say I just don't much enjoy those activities (which is true enough; and it's true enough also that many women don't enjoy them either), and in any case, I've got better things to do, like write books and teach classes where I feel morally superior to pimps. And naturally I value money over life. Why else would I own a computer with a hard drive put together in Thailand by women dying of job-induced cancer? Why else would I own shirts mad in a sweatshop in Bangladesh, and shoes put together in Mexico? The truth is that, although many of my best friends are people of color (as the cliche goes), and other of my best friends are women, I am part of this river: I benefit from the exploitation of others, and I do not much want to sacrifice this privilege. I am, after all, civilized, and have gained a taste for "comforts and elegancies" which can be gained only through the coercion of slavery. The truth is that like most others who benefit from this deep and broad river, I would probably rather die (and maybe even kill, or better, have someone kill for me) than trade places with the men, women, and children who made my computer, my shirt, my shoes.”
― Derrick Jensen, The Culture of Make Believe
“To pretend that civilization can exist without destroying its own landbase and the landbases and cultures of others is to be entirely ignorant of history, biology, thermodynamics, morality, and self-preservation.”
― Derrick Jensen, Endgame, Vol. 1: The Problem of Civilization
“For us to maintain our way of living, we must tell lies to each other and especially to ourselves. The lies are necessary because, without them, many deplorable acts would become impossibilities.”
― Derrick Jensen, The Culture of Make Believe
“Within this culture wealth is measured by one's ability to consume and destroy.”
― Derrick Jensen, Endgame, Vol. 1: The Problem of Civilization
"Ramanuja then proceeded to Thirukottiyur to take initiation from Nambi for Japa of the sacred Mantra of eight letters Om Namo Narayanaya. Somehow, Nambi was not willing to initiate Ramanuja easily. He made Ramanuja travel all the way from Srirangam to Madurai nearly eighteen times before he made up his mind to initiate him, and that too, only after exacting solemn promises of secrecy. Then Nambi duly initiated Ramanuja and said: "Ramanuja! Keep this Mantra a secret. This Mantra is a powerful one. Those who repeat this Mantra will attain salvation. Give it only to a worthy disciple previously tried". But Ramanuja had a very large heart. He was extremely compassionate and his love for humanity was unbounded. He wanted that every man should enjoy the eternal bliss of Lord Narayana.
He realised that the Mantra was very powerful. He immediately called all people, irrespective of caste and creed, to assemble before the temple. He stood on top of the tower above the front gate of the temple, and shouted out the sacred Mantra to all of them at the top of his voice. Nambi, his Guru, came to know of this. He became furious.
Ramanuja said: "O my beloved Guru! Please prescribe a suitable punishment for my wrong action". Ramanuja said: "I will gladly suffer the tortures of hell myself if millions of people could get salvation by hearing the Mantra through me". Nambi was very much pleased with Ramanuja and found out that he had a very large heart full of compassion. He embraced Ramanuja and blessed him. Having thus equipped himself with the necessary qualifications, Ramanuja succeeded Yamuna.
Ramanuja then visited all the Vaishnavite shrines in South India and finally reached Srirangam. Here he settled himself permanently and continued his labours of preaching the Visishtadvaita philosophy and writing books. Thousands of people flocked to him everyday to hear his lectures. He cleansed the temples, settled the rituals to be observed in them, and rectified many social evils which had crept into the community. He had a congregation of 700 Sannyasins, 74 dignitaries who held special offices of ministry, and thousands of holy men and women, who revered him as God. He converted lakhs of people to the path of Bhakti. He gave initiation even to washermen. He was now seventy years old, but was destined to live many more years, establish more Mutts, construct more temples and convert many more thousands of people."
In 1902, a professor asked his student whether it was God who created everything that exists in the universe?
Student replied: Yes
He again asked: What about evil? Has God created evil also?
The student got silent...
Then the student requested that may he ask a question from him?
Student asked: Does cold exist?
Professor said: Yes! Don't you feel the cold dear?
Student said: I'm sorry but you are wrong sir. Cold is a complete absence of heat... There is no cold, it is only an absence of heat.
Student asked again: Does darkness exist?
Professor Said: Yes!
Student replied: you are again wrong sir. There is no such thing like darkness. It’s actually the absence of light.
Sir! We always study light & heat, but not cold & darkness.
Similarly, the evil does not exist. Actually it is the absence of Love, Faith & True belief in God.
The name of the student was Vivekananda...
“True generosity consists precisely in fighting to destroy the causes which nourish false charity”
Paulo Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed
"Did India ever stand in want of reformers? Do you read the history of India? Who was Ramanuja? Who was Shankara? Who was Nânak? Who was Chaitanya? Who was Kabir? Who was Dâdu? Who were all these great preachers, one following the other, a galaxy of stars of the first magnitude? Did not Ramanuja feel for the lower classes? Did he not try all his life to admit even the Pariah to his community? Did not Nanak confer with Hindus and Mohammedans, and try to bring about a new state of things? They all tried, and their work is still going on.
The difference is this. They had not the fanfaronade of the reformers of today; they had no curses on their lips as modern reformers have; their lips pronounced only blessings. They never condemned. They said to the people that the race must always grow. They looked back and they said, "O Hindus, what you have done is good, but, my brothers, let us do better." They did not say, "You have been wicked, now let us be good." They said, "You have been good, but let us now be better." That makes a whole world of difference.
We must grow according to our nature. Vain is it to attempt the lines of action that foreign societies have engrafted upon us; it is impossible. Glory unto God, that it is impossible, that we cannot be twisted and tortured into the shape of other nations. I do not condemn the institutions of other races; they are good for them, but not for us. What is meat for them may be poison for us. This is the first lesson to learn. With other sciences, other institutions, and other traditions behind them, they have got their present system. We, with our traditions, with thousands of years of Karma behind us, naturally can only follow our own bent, run in our own grooves; and that we shall have to do."
- Swami Vivekananda (Complete Works / Vol 3 / Lectures from Colombo to Almora / My plan of campaign)
"மொழி அழிந்தால் இனம் அழியும்... விவசாயம் அழிந்தால் உலகமே அழியும்"
via
Sanjaya Ganesh
The biggest entertainment in history has been in successfully maintaining 99% wealth with 1% people and feeling sorry for the 99% - so that charity can bring enough ego satisfaction and fulfillment.There are two truths.
When a person went to meet Tagore, while waiting he took an autograph from his secretary, who wrote, "Know Thyself.".
When Tagore saw this, he smiled, and jotted under it, "Forget thyself."
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