Your Cross To Carry

**The writing prompt: All the forests on this planet have been destroyed, a single, old tree that's been here since almost a century or even more, remains.

The sentinel tree narrates everything that it has seen in its life and how it now waits for the end.**

At this very moment, close to the midnight of a nameless day in the countless winter of an unmeasured duration, perhaps I'm a stranger to you. But survival has its own peculiar scent, so it's rather unlikely that you'd stay unaware of me for long ...

This is an awkward introduction ... isn't it?

Let me try again... With some verses from Heer may be?
You know I hold Waris Shah's Heer very dear to my heart.
It is the Heer, that Waris Shah penned in 1766, that has been a part of my identity over the centuries.

Heer aakhdi jogiya ve jhoot bolay

ve kaun ruthaRe yaar manavanda eee

aisa koi na milya ve main dhoond thaki haaa

jehRa gayan nu mohR layavanda eee

sade chamRiyaan jutiyaan kare koi eee

jehRa jeu da rog gavavanda eee

bhala das kha chiree vichania nu

kado rabb sacha ghar leyavanda eee

sada jeuja maan jehRa aan milay

sir sadqa osde naamda ee

bhala moye te vichaRe kaun milay

aevein jiuda log val-lavanda eee

ek jatt de khet nu agg lagi

vekhan aaike kado bhujhavanda eee

ek baaj toh kau ne koonjh khoi haaa

vekhaan chup hai ke kurlavanda eee

devaan chooriyan, gheyo de baal divay

Waris shah je suna main aavanda eee

The bichRa yaar, Heer in these verses has been longing for, is Dheedo Ranjha. The son of my soil, Takht Hazara, where I stand even today.
As the lone tree survivor, a forest within itself.

Like the wailing lament of Heer, the very definition of love within itself.

I'm a Banyan tree. Though, does it matter now which tree I am?
Identification matters for the un-singular. When all you do is to wipe all trees from the earth, what does it matter whom the earth had birthed and raised? What does it matter if Ranjha had ever lived, loved or not? What does survival matter to the one bent on annihilation any way?

I know ... I know ... Don't start shifting uncomfortably just yet. I speak a lot for someone my age. I don't know my age. But I was there when Waris Shah was deemed a majnoon ... I was there when a white person had carved on a side of me some kafka:

"If we value our lives, let us abandon it all… I am forever fettered to myself, that’s what I am, and that’s what I must try to live with", before hanging himself from one of my trunks.

I was there when the Japanese were nuked. I was there when Japanese rebuilt themselves again. Of course, I was far far far away from those happenings, in the quiet blissfulness of Apal Moori, near Takht Hazara, with my branches disappearing into the ground and emerging anew. But you don't think only humans communicate and network, do you?

Shh... let me tell you a secret we, the trees have been silently guarding over the millennia.

We have maintained symbiotic relationships with mycorrhizal fungi that lived on our roots. This mycorrhizal network worked on a much larger scale — sort of like an underground internet that connected entire forests. Entire forests. Forests.

Roll that word over your tongue, would you please? F O R E S T. Could you taste the scent of herbs, the sense of calm descending upon your strained nerves, the moist cold fresh oxygen? Could you?

You couldn't, I know.

You know whenever they bring another dead to bury under my 3 acres wide shade, I wonder if your lot still does not recognize your relationship with earth? If you still not see it as your ultimate home? How do you steal away from it, plunder it if you had recognized it?

Don't tire of me just yet. Please.

I've not spoken in ages. I've no one left to talk to. Do you know the pain of writing poems in a language no one knows the alphabets of?

Today, just for today, stand by me, underneath me, by this maze of graves. Look at my griefs as I lay shade over your sun burnt face. Let me break down under the weight of witnessing centuries, let me sob in the rustle of them leaves while you wonder what could grieve me! What more do you know of the haunted heart of the lone banyan tree than you know of Hell when someone warns you it's hot and dreadful?

I've lent my tenement roof to many a penniless poets. I've seen the wonder of those sculptor apprentices returning from their pilgrimage to the Taj Mahal. I've seen childless women tying threads at my branches urging a dead man settled in my roots to fight their case with their choicest god. I've been fed the blood of warriors that they shed at my feet so they don't have to, during the war...

This isn't real. You may think. But what is the frame of reference of the real in the existence you lead? You shrug at the power of notes of Ranjha's bamboo flute to be a myth, and in your empty heart's begging bowl karma grants you belief in some Harry Potter's magic wand. Ironic, isn't it?

When you kill enchantment, disenchantment is your cross to carry.

Don't be mad at me. I'm not mad at you. I'm just the lone Banyan tree. I could be your Kahlil Gibran's Dancer.

Have you read the parable?

Once there came to the court of the Prince of Birkasha a dancer with her musicians. And she was admitted to the court, and she danced before the prince to the music the lute and the flute and the zither.
She danced the dance of flames, and the dance of swords and spears; she danced the dance of stars and the dance of space. And then she danced the dance of flowers in the wind.
After this she stood before the throne of the prince and bowed her body before him. And the prince bade her to come nearer, and he said unto her, "Beautiful woman, daughter of grace and delight, whence comes your art? And how is it that you command all the elements in your rhythms and your rhymes?"
And the dancer bowed again before the prince, and she answered, "Mighty and gracious Majesty, I know not the answer to your questionings. Only this I know: The philosopher's soul dwells in his head, the poet's soul is in the heart; the singer's soul lingers about his throat, but the soul of the dancer abides in all her body."

Look at my breadth. You can not even know the beginning of me, how do you plan to see the end of me? 

My roots under the surface of earth carry the very floor you stand on. It is my structure that is over and under you. Call me a senile lone Banyan tree ... but here you are ... within me.

At this very moment, close to the midnight of a nameless day in the countless winter of an unmeasured duration, perhaps I'm the sky over you and the earth earth under you.

For this reason alone, you may want to stand reverently before me. As you would, before the entrance to Hell.

Image credits: Unknown, acquired through web of the actual tree referenced in the text above.

God and Many Gods of Pakistan

In his book "The Wanderer" Kahlil Gibran writes of a city named Kilafis:

"

In the city of Kilafis a sophist stood on the steps of the Temple and preached many gods. And the people said in their hearts, "We know all this. Do they not live with us and follow us wherever we go?"

Not long after, another man stood in the market place and spoke unto the people and said, "There is no god." And many who heard him were glad of his tidings, for they were afraid of gods.

And upon another day there came a man of great eloquence, an he said, "There is but one God." And now the people were dismayed for in their hearts they feared the judgment of one God more than that of many gods.

That same season there came yet another man, and he said to the people, "There are three gods, and they dwell upon the wind as one, and they have a vast and gracious mother who is also their mate and their sister."

Then everyone was comforted, for they said in their secret, "three gods in one must needs disagree over our failings, and besides, their gracious mother will surely be an advocate for us poor weaklings."

Yet even to this day there are those in the city of Kilafis who wrangle and argue with each other about many gods and no god, and one god and three gods in one, and a gracious mother of gods.

"

In our Kilafis, that we know by the name of Pakistan, we wrangle and argue with each other about the good Taliban and the bad Taliban, and Army's shaheeds and Taliban's shaheeds and the real shaheeds.

While the wrath of them all befalls us equally.

Voice Of The Moon

“Music is the language of the spirit. It opens the secret of life bringing peace, abolishing strife.” 

― Khalil Gibran

"Abolishing strife", I vouch for it!

This Is It! :)

You ask me how I became a madman.

It happened thus:

One day, long before many gods were born,

I woke from a deep sleep

and found all my masks were stolen, -

the seven masks I have fashioned

and worn in seven lives, -

I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting,

” Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.”

Men and women laughed at me

and some ran to their homes

in fear of me.

And when I reached the market place,

a youth standing on a house-top cried,

“He is a madman.”

I looked up to behold him;

the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time.

For the first time the sun kissed

my own naked face

and my soul was inflamed

with love for the sun,

and I wanted my masks no more.

And as if in a trance I cried,

“Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks.”

Thus I became a madman.

And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness;

the freedom of lonliness and the safety

from being understood,

for those who understand us enslave something in us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety.

Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

~Kahlil Gibran

Too Beautiful To Put Into Words

If you need something badly enough, it finds you. They say.

Look, what I found just now... Both things simultaneously flowed into my domain, as if on their own, just when I needed them the most... We all need assurances, don't we?  

"In the right light, at the right time, everything is extraordinary." Said Aaron Rose.

If they make sense to you, be sure your need got addressed! :) 

1. "No one believes the sincere except the honest." - Kahlil Gibran
2. 
   

Revisiting Khalil Gibran

YOUR THOUGHT AND MINE

Your thought is a tree rooted deep in the soil of tradition and whose branches grow in the power of continuity. My thought is a cloud moving in the space. It turns into drops which, as they fall, form a brook that sings its way into the sea. Then it rises as vapour into the sky. Your thought is a fortress that neither gale nor the lightning can shake. My thought is a tender leaf that sways in every direction and finds pleasure in its swaying. Your thought is an ancient dogma that cannot change you nor can you change it. My thought is new, and it tests me and I test it morn and eve.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought allows you to believe in the unequal contest of the strong against the weak, and in the tricking of the simple by the subtle ones. My thought creates in me the desire to till the earth with my hoe, and harvest the crops with my sickle, and build my home with stones and mortar, and weave my raiment with woollen and linen threads. Your thought urges you to marry wealth and notability. Mine commends self-reliance. Your thought advocates fame and show. Mine counsels me and implores me to cast aside notoriety and treat it like a grain of sand cast upon the shore of eternity. Your thought instils in your heart arrogance and superiority. Mine plants within me love for peace and the desire for independence. Your thought begets dreams of palaces with furniture of sandalwood studded with jewels, and beds made of twisted silk threads. My thought speaks softly in my ears, “Be clean in body and spirit even if you have nowhere to lay your head.” Your thought makes you aspire to titles and offices. Mine exhorts me to humble service.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought is social science, a religious and political dictionary. Mine is simple axiom. Your thought speaks of the beautiful woman, the ugly, the virtuous, the prostitute, the intelligent, and the stupid. Mine sees in every woman a mother, a sister, or a daughter of every man. The subjects of your thought are thieves, criminals, and assassins. Mine declares that thieves are the creatures of monopoly, criminals are the offspring of tyrants, and assassins are akin to the slain. Your thought describes laws, courts, judges, punishments. Mine explains that when man makes a law, he either violates it or obeys it. If there is a basic law, we are all one before it. He who disdains the mean is himself mean. He who vaunts his scorn of the sinful vaunts his disdain of all humanity. Your thought concerns the skilled, the artist, the intellectual, the philosopher, the priest. Mine speaks of the loving and the affectionate, the sincere, the honest, the forthright, the kindly, and the martyr. Your thought advocates Judaism, Brahmanism, Buddhism, Christianity, and Islam. In my thought there is only one universal religion, whose varied paths are but the fingers of the loving hand of the Supreme Being. In your thought there are the rich, the poor, and the beggared. My thought holds that there are no riches but life; that we are all beggars, and no benefactor exists save life herself.

You have your thought and I have mine.

According to your thought, the greatness of nations lies in their politics, their parties, their conferences, their alliances and treaties. But mine proclaims that the importance of nations lies in work – work in the field, work in the vineyards, work with the loom, work in the tannery, work in the quarry, work in the timberyard, work in the office and in the press. Your thought holds that the glory of the nations is in their heroes. It sings the praises of Rameses, Alexander, Caesar, Hannibal, and Napoleon. But mine claims that the real heroes are Confucius, Lao-Tse, Socrates, Plato, Abi Taleb, El Gazali, Jalal Ed-din-el Roumy, Copernicus, and Pasteur. Your thought sees power in armies, cannons, battleships, submarines, aeroplanes, and poison gas. But mine asserts that power lies in reason, resolution, and truth. No matter how long the tyrant endures, he will be the loser at the end. Your thought differentiates between pragmatist and idealist, between the part and the whole, between the mystic and materialist. Mine realizes that life is one and its weights, measures and tables do not coincide with your weights, measures and tables. He whom you suppose an idealist may be a practical man.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought is interested in ruins and museums, mummies and petrified objects. But mine hovers in the ever-renewed haze and clouds. Your thought is enthroned on skulls. Since you take pride in it, you glorify it too. My thought wanders in the obscure and distant valleys. Your thought trumpets while you dance. Mine prefers the anguish of death to your music and dancing. Your thought is the thought of gossip and false pleasure. Mine is the thought of him who is lost in his own country, of the alien in his own nation, of the solitary among his kinfolk and friends.

You have your thought and I have mine. 

Before The Throne Of Beauty

One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamor of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and the musical sounds of the birds until I reached a lonely spot where the flowing branches of the trees prevented the sun from the touching the earth.

I stood there, and it was entertaining to my soul - my thirsty soul who had seen naught but the mirage of life instead of its sweetness.

I was engrossed deeply in thought and my spirits were sailing the firmament when a hour, wearing a sprig of grapevine that covered part of her naked body, and a wreath of poppies about her golden hair, suddenly appeared to me. As she she realized my astonishment, she greeted me saying, "Fear me not; I am the Nymph of the Jungle."

"How can beauty like yours be committed to live in this place? Please tell me who your are, and whence you come?" I asked. She sat gracefully on the green grass and responded, "I am the symbol of nature! I am the ever virgin your forefathers worshipped, and to my honor they erected shrines and temples at Baalbek and Jbeil." And I dared say, "But those temples and shrines were laid waste and the bones of my adoring ancestors became a part of the earth; nothing was left to commemorate their goddess save a pitiful few and the forgotten pages in the book of history."

She replied, "Some goddesses live in the lives of their worshippers and die in their deaths, while some live an eternal and infinite life. My life is sustained by the world of beauty which you will see where ever you rest your eyes, and this beauty is nature itself; it is the beginning of the shepherds joy among the hills, and a villagers happiness in the fields, and the pleasure of the awe filled tribes between the mountains and the plains. This Beauty promotes the wise into the throne the truth."

Then I said, "Beauty is a terrible power!" And she retorted, "Human beings fear all things, even yourselves. You fear heaven, the source of spiritual peace; you fear nature, the haven of rest and tranquility; you fear the God of goodness and accuse him of anger, while he is full of love and mercy."

After a deep silence, mingled with sweet dreams, I asked, "Speak to me of that beauty which the people interpret and define, each one according to his own conception; I have seen her honored and worshipped in different ways and manners."

She answered, "Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive. When you meet Beauty, you feel that the hands deep within your inner self are stretched forth to bring her into the domain of your heart. It is the magnificence combined of sorrow and joy; it is the Unseen which you see, and the Vague which you understand, and the Mute which you hear - it is the Holy of Holies that begins in yourself and ends vastly beyond your earthly imagination."

Then the Nymph of the Jungle approached me and laid her scented hands upon my eyes. And as she withdrew, I found me alone in the valley. When I returned to the city, whose turbulence no longer vexed me, I repeated her words:

"Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive."

Khalil Gibran,

"Before The Throne Of Beauty"

in, A Tear And A Smile.

Image Courtesy: "Divine World" by Khalil Gibran

A Songful Night

When the hand of Life is heavy and the night songless, it is the time for love and trust. And how light the hand of life becomes and how songful the night, when one is loving and trusting all.

(Extracts from one of Khalil Gibran's letter dated 19th December 1916.)

Love ...

... as painted by Khalil Gibran in 'The Prophet'.

When love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you yield to him,

Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you believe in him,

Though his voice may shatter your dreams

as the north wind lays waste the garden. 

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. 

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.

He threshes you to make you naked.

He sifts you to free you from your husks.

He grinds you to whiteness.

He kneads you until you are pliant;

And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. 

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. 

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,

Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,

Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.

Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;

For love is sufficient unto love. 

When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, "I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. 

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.

But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:

To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.

To know the pain of too much tenderness.

To be wounded by your own understanding of love;

And to bleed willingly and joyfully.

To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;

To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;

To return home at eventide with gratitude;

And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.