Nomad & Nature

Once upon a time, on an island not so far away, there lived a young nomad, Charlie. He loved to travel, garden and live his life close to nature. He had recently stumbled across the marvelous small island and has established his base camp there. Amid woods and chirping birds, clear blue skies and pure water waves, his life was absolutely perfect. Until one day.

While sitting at the coast around a fire, he felt the sharp cold winds. Over time, the winds grew colder and colder. Trees started shedding leaves, mountains began engulfing themselves in white carpets of snow and the warm summer days turned into short winter days.

Caught unprepared, he wasn't quite sure what to do. He went in search of big leaves and wood for fire. He wanted warmth. He didn't know where to and how to protect himself against the sharp cold breeze. One night, curled up, shivering from the cold, his eyes barely open from the weakness, he saw an old man approaching. A glimpse of hope. Of Life.

The old man walked to him, wrapped him in a warm blanket, gave him a bottle of magic potion and a few warm clothes. He told Charlie to protect himself against the winter with the clothes he had given. He then showed him to a small stone hut in the near by cave. Warm and cozy. Perfect for brutal times. The old man said it was his old cave which Charlie could share during winters since the old man did not live on the island anymore.

Charlie started to question how he'd return the favor. The old man smiled and said, "Don't worry. You can keep the warm clothes til the winter lasts. And when I visit the next winter, I'll get you more clothes if you want."

"But how would I ever repay you for all these services?" Charlie asked.

"If you realize want to do me a favor, just make sure you don't drink from the nearby waterfall. In return, this is your land. You inhabit it now. Live the way you want." With that, the old man smiled and walked away on his journey.

The colors returned, winds changed, warm leaves and chirping birds made their way back to the island again marking the arrival of Spring. Charlie lived happily, farming, enjoying and loving his life. Each winter, he would wait for the Old Man, get the warm clothes that'd suffice him through the winter months. The life was good again. Until one summer day.

Charlie was foraging for food when he stopped to reflect on the beauty of the wonderful waterfall. He remembered the Old Man's advice and tried ignoring the temptation of walking towards it. However, his curiosity could not hold me back further. He looked around, reminded himself that the Old Man would not get to know anyway and proceeded to taste the pure beauty of the waterfall.

The water was pure. Tasted like no other potion on planet. Charlie was taken aback. In love, in daze of its taste. He drank more and more of it. The more he drank it, the more he enjoyed and experienced the joy like never before.

Each day, he would walk up to the waterfall, shun away his guilt of disobaying the old man and just drink.

That winter, when the Old Man came, Charlie pretended to be abiding by the Old Man's rule and avoided the waterfall till the Old Man had given him warm clothes and gone.

In the autumn that followed, Charlie grew weak. Each day, he grew weaker. He couldn't gather the energy to farm, garden and forage for food. He could not keep his birds happy. Slowly and gradually, his condition declined. Given his weakness, he began feeling cold. He tried looking for old warm clothes but realized that he had thrown all of them away.

He felt helpless. He wasn't quite sure how to call the Old Man for help. How to tell Him that he needed his help in this unexpected brutal weather and inner condition. He could hardly keep his eyes open. One evening, when he was battling his last moments between Life and Death, he squeezed his eyes and pleaded to somehow make the Old Man appear.

A few moments later, he felt the warm blanket around himself. He tried getting up but the Old Man motioned him to keep resting.

Charlie seemed guilty. He realized he had never bothered sitting and spending time with the Old Man. He didn't even bother remembering the Old Man except for the winter time. Heck, he had even gone against his deal and tasted the forbidden waterfall.

As if reading his mind, the Old Man smiled and said,

"Its okay. I am just an Old Man, but just because I can give you warm clothes during winter times, doesn't mean you can't remember me in your summer days. The waterfall is that which caused you to grow weak. Its taste so sweet yet its consequence so bad. I had stopped you from it, not for my self but for your sake. You'll Heal soon". With that, He stood up.

"Wait, don't walk away." Charlie pleaded.

"Don't worry. I don't go anywhere. I am always here. In summers, in winters." The Old Man smiled.

We all are nomads with One Old Man who has given us this place to inhabit. He stops us from that which might harm us. He comes during our winter times with warm clothes to protect us against the cold sufferings. However, that's how we keep Him. We keep our relationship seasonal. However, He remains. Only we are too busy drinking from the waterfall during the summer days that we don't see Him "

Scoreboard

Once upon a time, in a village not so far away, there lived two best friends. Bahishte and Hardeep. Bahishte was super intelligent, smart and rational. Hardeep was super emotional, beautiful and loving.

Villagers spoke of their good manners and team work. Wherever they went, they spread smiles and love. Their perfection of pot-making was evident from the great demand for their pots.

One day, Hardeep was walking back to his house when he saw a boy trying to rescue his sheep from the well. Hardeep ran towards the boy and helped him recover the sheep. The boy, Yazdaan seemed obliged and they became good friends.

The next day, Hardeep invited Yazdaan to join him and Bahishte for lunch. The three soon connected and began hanging out. However, Yazdaan seemed more comfortable hanging out with Bahishte alone.

It was Yazdaan who made Bahishte realize the importance of his brains, intellect and rationality. He complimented and praised Bahishte's brains almost daily. Yazdaan always spotted and acknowledged Bahishte's sound judgment. Soon, Bahishte acquired a new sense of intelligence and self worth. He began noticing and seeing things in a clearer way; rather in a more distinct way. He started spending more time thinking and analyzing. More time reviewing. He started picking issues with how other people did their business. What annoyed him the most was now Hardeep's sensitivity towards things. He started complaining of Hardeep's slow process and extra sensitive attitude.

Hardeep was astounded. Rather, estranged. He didn't get what was happening. He tried explaining, sitting and talking to Bahishte. But Bahishte it seemed was living on some other planet now.

Feeling challenged and down right broken, he decided to confront Bahishte one final time. This time, it resulted in a grave fight. Both started accusing each other of cheating in the pot making business. Bahishte scorned at Hardeep and pointed out that they could not attain maximum profit potential because of Hardeep's lack of intelligence and over sensitivity.

Yazdaan was sitting there, listening to the two fighting. After a few minutes, he intervened and proposed a solution. 'Why don't you two separately make a pot on your own in a day. Whoever completes first with the best design shall win. That'll prove who's is more capable?' Yazdaan proposed.

'That's wonderful. Done! Brilliant idea!' Said Bahishte.

Hardeep started protesting, 'But! That's not fair..'

Even before he could complete, Yazdaan sprang forward, set up a chalkboard and drew a score card and wrote:

Potmaking Match scheduled for right after sunrise tomorrow.

The next day, the whole village gathered to witness. Hardeep and Bahishte sat forth their tools to create the best pot they could.

Both worked rigorously till sunset. Finally, around sunset, the villagers began inspecting the work of art. Both had produced excellent pots, however Bahishte's seemed more perfect with less cracks; he had apparently used his material wisely.
While Hardeep's was pretty, elegant yet he had used almost all of his best material.

Nevertheless, Yazdaan stood up, took the chalk and scribbled the final score.

Hardeep: 0
Bahishte: 1.

Disheartened and astounded at his friend's behavior, Hardeep picked up his stuff and silently walked away. Their union broke the next day and Bahishte decided to continue the pot making business in joint partnership with Yazdaan now. Confident in his rational powers.

Few days later, he came to his shop, only to find out that Yazdaan had sold all of his belongings, removed his name from the board and had taken over the shop. Confused, he looked at Yazdaan and asked him what was wrong. Yazdaan smirked, 'you fool' and pointed towards his chalk board:

Hardeep and Bahishte: 0.
Yazdaan: 1.

'What's that?' Bahishte asked totally lost.

'Its a result of when the Brain over analyzes, and in his over confidence parts away with his essential half-his heart. It is only then that you let clever forces like me take charge.'

Hardeep is the Heart while Bahishte is our brain. We can't function with just one of the two. Heart's compassion ensures the humility of the Brain while protecting the two together. The brain functions as the rational counterpart for the Heart.

We lose only when the brain in its intelligence, stops listening to the Heart, proving to be the ultimate fool.

Camp

I fail you each day, yet you're there.
Like a wanderer in the desert, I walk toward your camp.
I seek help, I besiege. You give me the shelter I need.

I continue my journey early morning.
With the trades of the day, I earn jewels for my life.
You guide me. You route my ways. My destiny.

I ask you to show me your love.
I ask you to help me feel you.
I ask you to let me come near you.

I take a step, you fly me to the destination.
I raise my hands, you hear my silence.
I don't ask, you answer me like that.

It becomes a habit. You're there.
Until, I walk away. Silently and gradually.
Pulled into the whirlpool. Whirlpool stronger than any.

Its dark shadows engulfing me
Its bright light blinding me into darkness
Its fame causing the pain unknown.

I feel the devoid. I feel the sense.
I feel the gap. I feel the pain.
In Silence, I feel.

I am still. And numb.
I walk slowly. To the camp of yours.
Guilty and afraid

I ask you. I complain.
Why send me to the whirlpool
When I had only asked for you.

Why show me what won't last.
Why give me what's to vanish.
Why make me feel what's not there.

Each time, I asked me for you,
I got more of your absence in return.
For every Real light was met with an illusion of light.

Each devoid, each whirlpool vanishes.
Sending me back to you broken.

The sun is setting, it feels like I am back home.
Back to your camp. Like a tired traveller.
whose journey is yet to end.

Sitting outside the camp today. 

I write and I wait. 

Dam

The water gushes, in full force, with all its might and power down the hill, cutting stones, shaping rocks. It violently and fearlessly makes its way, only to be brutally barred with a barrier. A heavy wall that sustains it. The same gushing water is muted, stilled, silenced and impounded by the awe of just one big wall against it. It wants to continue with all its power, but doesn't because it can't. The wall silences it. 

Just like when we're learning with full force, experiencing what we might not have ever before, the wall of our patience stops us from gushing out our learnings. It sustains till the learnings are well accumulated, its dirt settled at the base, the knowledge surfacing on ground of it. Emotions filtered from learning, inferences well drawn. Till all this, the might of patience keeps standing. Firm and Strong in the way of expression. While just like water, each moment seems the king, the optimum of learning, of insight, of answers, the might of patience keeps holding. It then, releases the learnings, slowly and gradually. to the audience unknown. Like a beautiful pattern of streams and rivers, it reflects the purity of wisdom.

Patience turns those moments of learning to the lifetime rivers of wisdom. Each time you ask Him, He thrashes you with answers powerful like gushing water. It not only tests the power of your patience but also your ability to shape the learnings into wisdom and understanding. Slowly, Gradually and Silently. 

The more you ask Him for Him, the more He gives you of His human's; with a devoid which, if felt, is the answer to feeling Him. Perhaps, that's it. In it, somewhere, you experience Him. The real joy. 

Of tradesmen and their secrets

Once upon a time, in a distant land and time, not so far away from ours, lived a small community of tradesmen. 

They traded in gems, jewellery, spices and vegetables. They were the master traders. It was their art. Their living. Their practices. It is what they had been doing since centuries. 

There was one little shop of a young merchant called Ali who was not doing too well. Since he was a simple he lacked the glitz of selling, hence, nobody purchased from him. The irony was, his vegetables were of top quality.

One day, an old bearded man came to the market. He wore a plain piece of cloth and had no fancy things on him. His appearance loudly screamed of him being a stranger. A tourist from some other continent perhaps. 

He stopped at Ali's stall and asked the price of each vegetable. 

The next day, the old man came again. This time too, he stopped at Ali's stall. The old man purchased a few vegetables from him and walked away. The routine repeated every single day. Every single day, the old man would come, purchase a few vegetables from Ali and go away. 

It sort of boggled Ali. "Why would anyone come and purchase from my stall so repeatedly?" He wondered. 

"Perhaps, the old man is up to something. Maybe he is buying from me and selling at a higher rate somewhere else. Or maybe, he is just buying from me to gain my sympathies, and one day, he'd ask for something big in return. How selfish and typical." Ali bitterly thought. Despite what he thought, the old man persistently came each day buying vegetables from him. 

Then one day, Ali decided to confront his concern of the old man's selfishness. When the old man came in the morning, Ali held his hand and stopped him from picking the vegetables. He looked into the old man's eyes and asked, "Where is your stall? How much profit are you making through my vegetables? Or do you want something from me? I can't give you anything! I am a poor man!"

The old man smiled weakly and looked at Ali. His stare was worth a million words. His silence worth words which Ali could not comprehend. He let go of his hand, the old man did not say anything and walked away. Having not been seen again ever in the village. 

The next day, a bunch of enthusiastic women came to Ali's stall and asked for vegetables. The day after, another lot of people stopped by his stall. Day after day, people started pouring in, buying his vegetables at whichever rates Ali quoted. 

He was amazed and confused at the same time. He once asked a lady, "How come you're buying from my stall suddenly?" 

She replied brightly, "Oh I would have never realized how fresh and tasty these heavenly vegetables are if it wasn't for that old man who visited our homes for lunch daily!" 

"Which old man?" inquired Ali. 

"That old bearded tourist, he used to cook fresh vegetables daily and visit each of our homes with it every day. We asked him from where he had gotten these vegetables from and he told us about you. He seemed quite fond of you. Spoke really well of you" She excitedly exclaimed. 

Ali was at loss of words. He wasn't quite sure who to label as selfish. His emotion of selfishly doubting an old man's generosity or that old man's selfless understanding and help. 

Over the centuries, we have become tradesmen. We started by trading commodities. We failed to draw lines of trade. Today, we trade emotions. We buy and sell happiness. We assume price tags to unconditional love and giving. And when in this market of humans, somebody comes along, giving for free, we don't know how to welcome it. Because we were taught the secrets of trade, but never the power of Love. 

With his shoulders heavy with guilt, Ali's eyes fell upon a small paper hidden between his stack of onions and potatoes, the paper said, "If only you trusted the quality of your vegetables, you wouldn't have doubted my purchase. For we were taught to assess the utility of trade, but never the worth of ourselves."

Intellectual Romanticism

Disclaimer: What follows is a seemingly less focused post. More like a revelation from within after a happy companionship (still reading) with a recently discovered brilliant book (Psychoanalysis in Tehran). The last such book was perhaps 40 Rules of Love. 

Intellectual Romanticism - what a pretty beautiful phrase. Or rather a heavy one. Either way, I love it, just like how few years back, I fell in love with the phrase "Plethora of Serendipity". The sound of it, the way its written, the way its said, I just absolutely, truly, deeply, madly fell for it. I used it, reused it, overused it. Like some confused kid, I was obsessed with it. Interestingly, I still am. However, the love now seems shared with the phrase "Intellectual Romanticism". 

I believe they are two of the most beautiful phrases in the world. We often love and attach ourselves to things/interests/people/places that seem to radiate our frequency. Something that answers the subtle yearning within us or perhaps something that reflects who we are or who we think we are. 

How boldly we express and declare our love then swings on the pendulum of possibilities to impossibilities.

Humans, it seems, have an inherent need to get addicted, to get attached and to feel. On the scale of similarity and intensity, there are often books and ideas that you instantly fall in love with. 

Yes, perhaps, Love at First Sight with A book or with an Idea. 

There are books you pick up and like. You judge them by their covers or the reviews and you fall prey. You spend sometime trying to read them but then you give up. You shut it and hide it somewhere deep down. Each day, you avoid glancing at it, guilty of not reading it. If the book's title comes up in some discussion, you avoid it or ignore it or master your guilt to act and pretend that you had finished the book. 

Then there are the kind of books which you pick up and proudly carry with yourself. Because the title seems so impressive. You feel proud of carrying it in public. You flaunt it around like your expensive new car. But then again, you hardly read it properly. You try because you so want to read it, because you feel that it is the kind of book, the type of book that you feel you should be. But Alas, you fail. However, given your love for it, you don't shun it away, You don't hide it behind all those books. You google its review, you google its synopsis. And then, when the time comes in the public, you put your expert opinion on the book out there. And you fall in love with yourself when you see yourself discussing the book so confidently. 

There is also the kind of book which truly matches your interest. However, it may not be what people like. It may even be less of wise in terms of fiction. You try avoiding this love. But ultimately give up at the hands of your interest and pick up what truly interests you. You read and you read and you read. You feel addicted to it. Its more like a timely affair. 

And finally, there are The Books. The Books are the kind that defines True Love. You don't go around looking for such books, you don't go around shopping for them specifically, you don't google them. They often just come to you. They stumble upon your path like a destined lover. You fall. You fall so subtly yet so strongly that even you're unable to realize. You don't become addicted to such books. But you start loving them. You become attached to them. They nurture you. They groom you. It is as if, they converse with you. The only way to describe this relationship with these kinds of book is to say, You feel you're in Love with them. And just like any True Love, it is impossible to express it in words. 

Strangely, our relationship with ourselves is so much like our relationship with the books. 

There is a part of us which we don't like. We'd rather live in denial than face this part of us. We happily cook up busy schedules; intricately weave beautiful reasoning to justify the non existence of this part. We feel guilty of this part of us. We hence ignore it. Just like that half read book which we couldn't finish. 

Then there is a part of us which we think we should be. A part of us which we want to flaunt around to others. A part of us that would attract everything we want back to us. A part of us that we know will earn us worldly satisfaction of many sorts. We try becoming that. We try becoming a part of us which is not us. We try accepting illusions and incorporating them as reality into our lives. We pretend to be who we are not. Just like we go pick up books that we wish we could really like reading. 

There is of course a part of us which is truly ourselves. Our natural selves. We often are very clear about this part. Because this is the existing Reality of us. However, out of the fear of potentially being judged stereotyped or abundant  by the world, we don't pay much attention to it, just fulfil its existence once in a while. Just like picking up the book that really interests us but never being proud to carry it around. 

Most importantly, there is a part of us which grooms us. Nurtures us. Teaches us to Love, to Feel, to Live. We don't seek it intentionally. It comes to us from within ourselves. There are times when outside world (other people/ideas) might help us Realize this part of us within ourselves. And such a feeling is perhaps called Love. Not because I know what Love is, but because I can't exactly find any other way to describe it. Just like a book which doesn't feel like addiction, obsession or affair. But like a book that nurtures you.

A small gap in the broken floor tile

It was a lazy afternoon. I sat in my veranda comfortably settled, lost in a book after a perfect summer meal and a couple of mangoes. The little one seemed to be busy playing with her toys in front of me. 

After a while, I noticed her running into the kitchen. Too lazy to get up, I asked her what she wanted and went back to reading my book, forgetting about it. Few minutes later, I sensed her excitedly coming back to her toys. 

I lowered my book, smiled satisfactorily and continued reading. A little later, I sensed her again making rounds to the kitchen. I wondered what she was doing. Taken a little by curiosity, but still too tired to get up, I just sat there, now observing what she was doing. 

She appeared from the kitchen with a cup full of water and sat on the floor. There was a gap, a hole, a small space in one of the floor tiles. She poured the water into the gap carefully. After it had levelled with the floor, she picked up her toys and went along playing in the garden. 

The next afternoon, the routine repeated. This time, I watched as she came, gave a dismissive look to the small gap which was now back to being empty, she looked around as if wondering where the water had gone. And then, ran into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she reappeared from the kitchen with a handful of flour. Spreading the flour excitedly near her toys, she knelt down on the floor, added a few drops of water and moulded it into soft dough. She then took small pieces of the dough filling the small gap on the broken tile with it. After levelling it again, she went back to playing with her toys while I went back to reading. 

The third afternoon, I sat there reading while she enthusiastically came to check the broken tile. This time, I sensed her frustration. She sighed heavily looking at how the white levelled dough in the gap had turned black with dirt and filth. There were ants and insects sniffing it. 

She strayed into the garden and came back with her hands full of messy wet mud. She scratched off the dirty dough from the gap and replaced it with the wet mud. Levelling it to the floor, she got up and  resumed her playtime with the toys. 

The fourth day, I waited. I waited for the afternoon, wondering what she'd do now. I settled myself in the same sofa, lazily skimming through the book, trying to keep my eyes open. And then, she came. This time, to her dismay, the gap was half empty. Somebody's rubbing of the shoes on the tile had caused the mud to come off before even being properly settled. 

She looked around wondering what to use next to fill the gap. After a few minutes, she returned from the garden with her tiny hands full of small pebbles, rocks and stones. Patiently, throughout the afternoon, she tried fitting each stone, each pebble into the gap. She didn't give up. She tried and tried and tried. Each time, with great hope, picking up the stone and trying to fit it in. Failing, she'd keep it down smilingly while moving on to the next pebble and repeating. 

Finally, she collected all her stones/pebbles, wrapped up her toys and started to walk away. 

Confused and feeling disappointed for her, I called her. "Would you like to share what's happening here? What have you been trying to do?". 

"I was trying to fill this gap here on the broken floor tile. But nothing seems to be fitting! Just now I realized how stupid of me to even trying!" She replied. 

"Why stupid? You've been trying to fix it, isn't that good?" I inquired reassuringly. 

"Because its already filled! I was trying to fill a gap not knowing that its already filled!" She responded. 

"Filled? Filled with what?" I was confused. 

"I don't know. Maybe with something I can't see. But I can feel it. Its so filled that the gap is just unable to accept anything else. It is not letting mud or water or flour or pebbles to level it. It seems its already happy as it is! So it must be filled already with something right!"

And that's when I realized. Perhaps, the devoid does not need to be filled. It needs to be felt with the sense of nothing that already fills it. The devoid is perfect as it is. It needs no fixing. If there is anything that can make it feel complete, it is the acknowledgement of the emptiness. Only then, can you and I feel the power of what fills it.