PARIJAT-11

It is drizzling outside. It is mild. It does not have the ferocity of a shower. It is an isolated low level cloud of hill side. The winter wind is mild enough to drag it. But it is soothing enough to send the sensation to trigger that laughter. It is laughing in sensation, the sensation pleasurably pleasant. The entire body is quivering as it is shedding the tears in form of big drops. John looked to that dark cloud, it looks sensual. It is beautiful. It is look of a nubile about to engross herself in the first sensual touch of her lover. It is look of semi closed dropping eyes in anticipation of an unknown pleasure. It is difficult to describe. It has no language. It is beyond description. It beggars description.

John stretched his look. It is a new day about to tell the story of new challenges. Look to it the way you want to look. It is mixture of all ingredients of life love, hate, fear, pleasure, and anger, every emotion you can think of. The drizzling is slowing down. It has almost stopped. A beam of sunrays has entered into the room uninvited through the semi closed window. It is bright and crimson. Tiny dust particles are floating around, in random movements. No aim, no purpose: it is mere existence. Have we all come to this world with no purpose, with no aim? How many times we have introspected that? How many moments of this life we have lived with a purpose? How many moments we have spent for a cause? Have we not engrossed ourselves in routine resembling the purposeless movements of tiny dusts?

John came out. It is feeling of missing something. It is about to express itself, but yet it is concealed. John tried to read that. He failed to comprehend. It is around him. It is encircling him. He could feel it. It is like cold winter breeze, all around him, but he can not see that. It is like cry of a child. It cries and cries. But it never says why. The adult inside him has taken a back seat. The adult is loosing the grip; he is growing tiny, increasingly tiny. He wants to wail, wail aloud. But why? Oh mother, will you comfort me? Will you cajole me? I miss you. I want to cry. Are you listening? You must be listening. I can sense you. I can feel you. I can listen the song of your heart, rhythmically beating for welfare of me in this auspicious day of 25^th December. John is crying, the cry of a child. In the morning sun of construction site, isolated, he is crying.

The loveable Papaji is taking measurements. He is taking measurements of steel reinforcement to be used for concrete. He is a towering and elderly Sikh with his favorite saffron turban. He cracks jokes while he works. Mostly he jokes on himself. It requires a big heart to laugh on yourself. Certainly Papaji possess that big heart. He is from the land of five rivers the Punjab. It carries history. It carries stories of great warriors of history: the stories of braveries and supreme sacrifices. The Punjab has bled in each outsider onslaught. It has become two pieces between two neighbuoring and yet rivaling countries. Yet it smiles, yet it laughs. It is the land of Sikh Guru holy Nanak, the founder of SIKHISIM that narrates the story of supreme brotherhood.

Papaji is the head of steel reinforcement fabricators at construction site. He carries the years of experiences. He has his own style of working. He is a mere fabricator. But he studies engineering drawings with the accuracy of an experienced and accomplished engineer. He does not require complex trigonometry formulae to calculate the length of a particular reinforcement shown in the drawing. All that he needs a big and smooth cemented platform. He breaks the drawing to pieces and draws that to full scale on the cemented platform. He draws the concrete member first and then the shape of the reinforcement on it as shown in the drawing. Bingo, the shape of reinforcement is now all apparent in full scale to take measurement and fabricate it. It is ingenious, quite ingenious.

Papaji is with John from the day, John joined as apprentice at the construction site. In the beginning he had the usual difficulty of an inexperienced engineer fresh out of college. It looks new, everything new. John feels utterly helpless when he sees those big blue prints at construction site. Those never look familiar to him. Asking seniors means risking his job. John can not afford to do that. He must find a way out. Perturbed to core, John one day discovered the cemented platform of Papaji. His enthusiasm grew further when he saw the friendly smile and calmness of father figure Papaji’s face. John remembered the old saying of his childhood teacher. Sack your ego, if you wish to learn. Bear the inquisitiveness of child, if we wish to learn. Knowledge is teacher. Learn to recognize that, learn to respect that. Surrender to that. A teacher teaches; he is always respected; he can be anybody. John vividly remembers those days, the teaching of Papaji, his ingenious method of simplifying the drawing, a whole to parts and again reassembled to whole.

Papaji is reading John. He recognizes each movements of John. He could sense the emptiness in John’s face. Face is reflection of mind. It reflects your inner core. You can not hide that even if you wish to hide. Papaji is scanning John’s face. His eyes riveted on John. He could read him, whole to parts and again reassembled to whole. It is no difficult for him.

Evening is drawing nearer. Workers are returning to camp after the day of hard works. Today is “BADA DIN” (the Big Day), December, 25th. The pang of morning again resurfaced. John felt miserable. He stretched himself in that arm chair and looked to the wall. The second hand of the old wall clock moving, moving fast. Outside is outrageously calm. The night is descending fast. It is also moving fast like the second hand of wall clock. He could only hear the sound of second hand, monotonous and rude. Time moves. It does not care who is lost, who is lost forever. Who wins? Who loses? Past will write that. Time has no time to wait. It moves. Run along if you can. John could feel he is gathering weight, the weight loneliness. He closed his eyes. From the nearby temple the sound of bells started singing the praise of the Lord. It will continue for sometimes, the priest is offering the last prayer of the day.

Somebody is knocking the door. The door is not locked from inside. Papaji did not wait for John to open the door. He came inside and extended his hand to lift John from the arm chair. John accepted that knowing very well Papaji is twice of his age. Sometimes the extended hand of old and experienced is very comforting. John needs that today.

It is dark, pitch dark outside. There is no power cut. But why it is dark? Who has switched off the lights of construction site and labour camp? Papaji is almost dragging him. From a distance he could see something red, the sign is apparent and familiar. It is a red star light. As Papaji guided John towards that red star, suddenly the labour colony sprang back to life. John could see bright fluorescent lights everywhere. The darkness has hidden its face in shame. Then came the sound, the sound John was so eager to listen, it is like an enchanting chant, so familiar, so soothing. Hundred flutes will hide their faces in shame. They can not match that sweetness; they can not match the divinity of that crescendo. It is a song, song from the souls, it sings in unison “MERRY CHRISTMAS, JOHN”.

It is one of the rooms of labour camp. The occupant has vacated it temporarily. There in the middle of room stands a nicely decorated Christmas Tree telling the story of worship of the evergreen tree as a symbol of the everlasting life. Behind it, John sees photo of Mother Mary with infant Lord. Tears rolled down; it is uncontrolled. John did not want to control it. It is tears of morning, tears of wailing John. Let it flow. It is tears of love. Suddenly he started realizing the pangs of the morning. Papaji could read that, it is easy –whole to parts and again reassembled to whole.

With tear brimmed eyes john knelt before the Mother Mary with infant LORD. His eyes closed in love and gratitude. He could hear a carol in praise of the Lord. Who sings that? It is secular India, led by Papaji, the Sikh. Tears are in spate. It is tears of love, love for Mother and Mother Land.

Where are you Parijats? Smile. I love that smile.