PARIJAT-16

The vast garden tells its own story. Definitely it is groomed with care and love. The church leans and overlooks to the garden in blissful eyes. Flowers in the garden are swinging in divine praise under the morning sky. The cool breeze carries the aroma of fresh soil. It is soil of village; innocent, energetic and aromatic. It narrates truth and emits simplicity. It speaks of virtues and values which are almost in extinct. But those values live here, dwell here and flourish here. Untouched by complexity, unpolluted and uncompromised.

John has strolled inside the garden surrounding the church. In front of the church, two artificial hummocks have been created by locally available granite boulders. Each hummock is again encompassed by oval shape crazy flooring made out of flat stone pieces brought from different part of India. It has yellow lime stone from Gujurat, Hassan green granite from Orissa, Paradise waves from Tamil nadu and Quartzite from north eastern Indian border state of Arunachal Pradesh. The list is exhaustive. The flooring resembles the diversity and multiplicity of India. Individually brilliant and collectively better. Reciprocating and complementing.

Divine image of the Lord Jesus stands in front of left hummock and on right side stands Mother Mary with infant Lord on her chest. The Lord has stretched his arms apart as if to embrace all, to encompass all, to liberate all from sorrows and grieves while Mother Mary looks from other side with that smiling charm of mother, with that reassuring look of forgiveness, after all we all are ignorant infants, yet to understand right and wrong, yet to differentiate between evil and angle.

Come forward my child and surrender yourself! Come and confess! Come and embrace! Forget! Your worries are mine! Your sorrows are mine! Your pains are mine! Your losses are mine! Those setbacks are temporary! Those shall vanish! You will win! You will flourish! You will prosper! But do not deviate from the path of righteousness.

It is crowded inside the church. The attendance is certainly impressive. All eyes are glued to the Holy cross symbolizing the sign of supreme sacrifice. A holy feeling of beatitude is slowly emerging inside John. He looked to the small board announcing the agenda:

GENESIS 1:1-5, 26-31

REVELATION 21:1-7

JOHN 1:1-13

PSALM 29

The priest is certainly in the fag end of the agenda. He reads PSALM-29:11

“THE LORD WILL GIVE STRENGTH UNTO HIS PEOPLE; THE LORD WILL BLESS HIS PEOPLE WITH PEACE.”

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John does not know how many times he has recited that in his mind. Eye half closed in that mesmerizing, captivating and transcendental sight of that Holy cross, he has almost gone into a trance. It is peace. It is tranquility. It is euphony. It is psalm of life. John did not wish to come back from that trance. Let it flow. Let it sing. Let it hum. The truth. The sacrifice. Oh Lord, help me. Help this mundane soul. Let it be useful. Useful for others. Let it ignite a smile. Let it inspire a smile. Even I become a drop in the ocean, give me the feeling of ocean. Give me the feeling of vastness. Give me the soul to cry for others, smile for others and live for others.

In the closed eyes of divinity John saw that tall figure of Mustafa talking of amalgamation and collectiveness. Amalgamation of lands. The narration of Mustafa continues. He has convinced others the value and effectiveness of sharing. It is not my land for cultivation. It is not your land for cultivation. It is our lands for cultivation. Everything is shared according to strength and convenience. Somebody will contribute physically. Somebody will contribute monetarily. Somebody will help technically. Duty and responsibility are defined and distributed. The harvest is shared accordingly in a pre-defined a manner. The production has gone up in this collective farming. The village has become a family for a while. It is amalgamation of lands that has lead to amalgamation of minds. Everything is shared. Shared minds. Shared grieves. Shared happiness.

Where do I fit in? John started wondering eyes still closed. He slowly opened his eyes. He looked the Holy Cross. His mind is rushing. He knelt before the Cross in deep reverence and remained in that position for a moment. -------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was the last person to leave the church. He stepped out lazily towards his house. He did not wish to cross those cultivable lands on his way back to the house. Rather he moved on the ring road. Both sides of the ring road have geared up. Everything looks busy and purposeful. It does not bear a holiday look. The village maintains a consistency. Everyday is a day of enjoyment here. Everyday is a busy day here. Everyday is purposeful and at the same time enjoyable. Agony or ecstasy, defeat or success, birth or death, nothing matters much. Life moves on. Life needs to move on. Nothing is forever. Nothing is permanent. It is only role play in a defined moment, about a defined theme and for a defined span. That is the philosophy. That moves in soothing breeze, that swings with blooming flowers and that resounds in cuckoos’ coo.

The H-shaped single storied building is nearing to the sight. It was where his future was built. It was where the first aspiration of his life took shape. It was where the bluntness of childhood was reshaped and remolded as he grew up with the time. It was his school, the first temple of learning. The end of two long wings almost touches the ring road. Those two long wings house different classes starting from first Standard. The connecting wing in the middle accommodates the administrative block of the school. Adjacent to far of compound wall of the school, there stand a two roomed accommodation built in unburnt brick. Beyond that it is bamboo, bushes of bamboo stretching nearly few hundred of yards separating the school from the crowd and the routine of the village. It is rustling and whistling sound of bushes of bamboo calling John to that two roomed house. He is moving towards it as if to hear something new; see something new; think something new; dream something new.

Hari uncle has grown old and so is Radha aunty. They were caretakers of small children in the school. Only time has kept a count how many children have been cared and groomed by them. They were the real parent for those tiny toddlers and new comers to the school. Days after days, months after months, years after years they have heard only toddlers calling them Hari uncle and Radha aunty. They have wished and prayed. They have dreamt and pleaded. Please, someday, somebody will call them DAD and MOM. No, that has never happened. Destiny has never heard them; was never kind to them. No regret. Every new child to the school was a child to them. They submerged themselves in the love of those tiny toddlers. And in the end of day, they look to each other face and smile. Radha aunty takes out SHRIMAD BHAGAVAD-GITA, the holy scripture of Hindu and reads aloud till both of them doze off.

John is meeting them after many years. Radha aunty has brought ‘manda pitha’ for him while he gossips with Hari uncle. The typical eastern Indian home made sweet of ‘manda pitha’ is really mouth watering. A steamed sweet made out of rice dough is round in shape. The filling inside is smashed panner, grated coconut cooked in slow flame with jaggery. John wiped his lips as he had a bite of ‘manda pitha’. The sweet syrup of filling inside is flowing out.

Hari uncle continues as if for years he has not talked. He needs a listner, an ardent listener who will breathe all his narrations; who will smell all his emotion; who will draw all his imagination. Who will do that? Who has time to listen to an old? Who will bear that oft-repeated story? There is no charm, no newness. Old story of an old man. The old man is halting in his talk. He is perspiring. He has lost the habit to talk in length. He is breathing, breathing hard. John needs to stop him. It is a strange physical exhaustion laced with emotion. Hari uncle is choking and coughing. He is struggling, struggling for breathe, struggling for air. Tiny muscles of lungs are squeezing, squeezing him hard.

John got up and held the hands of Hari uncle. The old man was waiting for this moment. He was waiting for it since long. Somebody will listen to him. Somebody will hold him. Somebody will console him while he will cry the cry of his life. John did not know how long he was standing there. He still holds the hand of Hari uncle. The old man has stopped sobbing.

The rustling sound of bushes of bamboo is slowly turning into rhythmic. Somebody has added lyrics to it. John could hear Radha aunty is reading out that familiar stanza from BHAGAVAD-GITA.

“YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO PERFORM YOUR PRESCRIBED DUTY, BUT YOU ARE NOT ENTITLED TO THE FRUITS OF ACTION. NEVER CONSIDER YOURSELF THE CAUSE OF THE RESULTS OF YOUR ACTIVITIES, AND NEVER BE ATTACHED TO NOT DOING YOUR DUTY.”

The mundane mind of John is rushing fast. He wished to hear after that stanza. But Radha aunty is repeating that. She is not moving ahead. But thought of John is crossing all boundaries. It is flowing ahead. It is marching ahead. It is moving towards unison and amalgamation. It is feeling of that surge in that dream before he was lifted by that divine’s hand. Slowly he tried to utter with humble obeisance, still holding the hands old man.

“You have a right to perform your prescribed duty, but you are not entitled to the fruits of action. Never consider yourself the cause of the results of your activites, and never be attached to not doing your duty. The LORD will give strength unto his people; the LORD will bless his people with peace.”

Parijats, I know, you love India, the champion of amalgamation.