Thanking my son for not taking me away from my mother

My son was born in England, which is because my wife is a British citizen. But he had all his education in India, and that too in schools where children of most others like me ( teachers, average, farymers, govt employees etc.) study. Up to fifth , he studies in a small private school run in a smalll private house ....Later, he managed to get Luckily, he is doing what he always wanted to do: flying a plane. ( I don't know how many here would believe that the people I have always worked with never even knew what my son was doing nor where he is working now. True, I am not a leader. But many people - including some in my own family -- always thought I could have given my son a better education -- perhaps Sanawar if not Doon --and/ or could have ensured that he did not have to remain unemployed for years even after being fully qualified for a job. But I gave him an advantage which only I could have given him: my mother as a role model and my father as a motivation. There were times he would get frustrated or feel low, seriously believing that either his father's political affiliation or his British birth was a handicap...But I kept faith in life and even in the system, and I am grateful he can now fly without needing to borrow his father's weak wings. I know this requires the kind of stubborn-ness that my mother and father gave me - there were times when I thought he might have to work at some reasonable shop or departmental store, or own one of his own, or at best, perhaps, work on the few ancestral acres which I own or may be go to England and try his luck there. But life has really been kind, as it has always been to me. ....and I am grateful as much to life as to my father and mother for not teaching me short-cuts, and also to my son for never asking me to bargain my simple inheritance- for tempting toys of the world. Nor has his mother) Inder Sarai...This is only partly relevant here, but not irrelevant at all...My son was born in England, which is because my wife is a British citizen. But he had all his education in India, and that too in schools where children of most others like me ( teachers, average, farmers, govt. employees etc.) study. Up to fifth , he studies in a small private school run in a smalll private house ....Later, he managed to get Luckily, he is doing what he always wanted to do: flying a plane. ( I don't know how many here would believe that the people I have always worked with never even knew what my son was doing nor where he is working now. True, I am not a leader. But many people - including some in my own family -- always thought I could have given my son a better education -- perhaps Sanawar if not Doon --and/ or could have ensured that he did not have to remain unemployed for years even after being fully qualified for a job. But I gave him an advantage which only I could have given him: my mother as a role model and my father as a motivation. There were times he would get frustrated or feel low, seriously believing that either his father's political affiliation or his British birth was a handicap...But I kept faith in life and even in the system, and I am grateful he can now fly without needing to borrow his father's weak wings. I know this requires the kind of stubborn-ness that my mother and father gave me - there were times when I thought he might have to work at some reasonable shop or departmental store, or own one of his own, or at best, perhaps, work on the few ancestral acres which I own or may be go to England and try his luck there. But life has really been kind, as it has always been to me. ....and I am grateful as much to life as to my father and mother for not teaching me short-cuts, and also to my son for never asking me to exchange my simple inheritance for tempting and impressive toys of the world. ) May 25, 2013 Sunnymindcaves Caves ( Harcharan Bains)

When mother left, so did the firmness of my gaze - Hazel

One of the biggest challenges before a seeker of truth is to avid a confusion between a contradiction and a paradox. For me, this confusion was resolved by my mother as her interpretations and her voice would hover low - like some sparkling vaprous haze after an afternoon shower - over words and strains from Gurbani and their meanings. Its another matter that after she left, so did the firmness of my gaze. I lost track and, with that, the sense of my place in the journey. Only vague memories of the path and direction unveiled to me by her remain - like some half-forgotten dream. Sometimes, the half-remembered outlines of her navigational explorations into the world of the Gurus and scriptures from other religions emerge again, resembling strong invitations from a mother to her son. But the son's feet, strayed too far out and away, and his legs and mind tired with and of petty pursuits, produce only moistened eyes that blur a paradise which was once uncovered by her gentle but unsparing voice.

Mohinder Amarnath: Punjabi symphony for chin music

"A miracle of rare delight:" Punjabi Beethovan who sent chin-rappers on a Punjabi Bhangra to his tune

October 22, 2013 at 8:02pm

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After the rap, the jazz, the calypso and the Punjabi, it is chin-beat. Also known in cricketing jargon as "chin music", the genere is to jaw what Bhangra s to feet. And India have produced not very many who can really handle the baton with finesse while playing or directing this strain, a legacy of the first half of the  20th century when the Captain of "the great and heroic sporting nation - England - Douglas Jardine unleahsed a fast-motion rapper Harold Larwood to blast the ears of the greatest connoiseurs of cricket's semi-classical music, Sir Donal Bradman.Now, Bradman was not exactly the Don of Dodgers, and his hooking had not yet been tested against the persistent and deliberate hostility of the rising and boucning menace.He deicded that while "heard melodies are sweet, those unheard are sweeter still." He was not heard for much longer after this body-line (dis)concert.In India, the practitioners of this thrilling and killing variety of rap have been few and far between. But wherever an except has emerged, it has got the nation and the world hooked to it. There have been the likes of Kapil Dev who knew that if something was thrown at their rib cage or their chin, it had to eb given wings so it could fly safely out of sight into the stands.     Our Sunny Gavaskar, the man who batted 60 overs in World Cup match to score an unbeaten 30 odd, was never afraid of the short-pitched bowlers, but neither were they shverig in their pants at the sight of the diminutive demolitioner.But there was one man, famous for his jog-trot to the crease as a bowler and his massive shuffle out of it to hit fours and sixes as a batsman, who became "a miracle of rare delight," asmuch for what he achieved in muting chin-music as for making the musicians look ridicuous when they saw they missiles eaten up  without a sip of clean water by a number 8 !

In the world of chinytham, Mohinder Amarnath's dance numbers are a quite a unique case, a collector's dream.

Viv called him the "nicest gem ever to have played cricket; Sunny Gavaskar said  Imran said he is quite simple the greatest batsman agaisnt fast bowling. And Imran would simply call him "the greatest player of fast bowling." But I doff my hat at Simpson who said that Amarnath was good to tame Lillee and Thompson even " he had a fractured arm in plaster." And this man - Amarnath - about Imran said that he should not have been kept out of the Indian team for a single day since his debut in 1969 till the time he retired in the later eighties, was made to sepnd all his time listening to his favourite singler, the Great Mukesh.

After Mukesh, chin music  had to be  Naushadic soft and soothing. But wait. Ask what the bowlers ahve to say. We will elave that for a while.

But such is the joke called "cricket selectors"  master was keptout of the Indian team for six of his prime years. And when he was brought backk, it was not primarily as a batsman but as " bits and pieces all rounder." ALmost on com- "passionate", such was the national outcry against his long and seemingly never ending exile.
Amarnath had a an expression to describe the marvellous entertainment value of the selectors.

The courageous Mohinder Amarnath's  career was almost "bounced" out as he was consistently found wanting against short-pitched stuff.  He was felled on a featehr bed of a wicket in Karachi, not by the stinging pace of Imran Khan but by the just above military medium bouncers from Sarfraz Nawaz. Reduced almost to a laughing stock, Amarnath, originally a medium pacer himself and content to bat at number 8 or even 9,  worked hard on his technique against the short-pitched missiles. In one of the greatest turn-arounds in the history of all sports,Amarnath rose from the dead to emerge as perhaps the greatest player against pace bowling that India has ever produced - above Sunil Gavaskar and Sachin Tendulkar -- I know I am about to be lynched for such sacrilegious arrogance against our gods, but Truth is Higher than the Highest, said Nanak. . Promoted from number 8 to number 6 and then suddenly to number 3 - virtually the opener if you remember that against that menacing pace of Holding, Garner, Croft and Roberts, India would usually be one down for practically nothing - Mohinder produced gem after a gem , masterpieces of sheer skill, staying power, stamina and above all stoic courage. The West Indians were tamed. India went to Australia under Bishan Bedi. (1977 ??) Aussies themselves were struggling to put their broken bones together in the wake of the Packer body blow. But led by the legendary Bobby Simpson, they still had one neutron in their arsenal: his name was Thommo - Jefferson Thompson. And Simpson unleashed him at the Indian batsmen in short bursts. The likes of Brijesh Patel - famous for his lethal force against the spinners and the medium pacers, were reduced to just pinch of bones when Thommo lengthened his strides. To be sure, Sunny Gavaskar hit three centuries against on that tour, but the man to be named the greatest player against fast bowling was Mohinder Amarnath. Such was the impression he left on his rivals, especially the opposing skipper Bobby Simpson that when asked by scribes if in his opinion, the expected absence the injured Amarnath fromthe India squad would strengthen India's chances of delivering acoup - coming back from 0-2 in to win a five match series - Simpson had this to say: " Amarnath not playing because of injury?? I bet anything they will keep him in playing eleven even with a fractured arm, so good is he against fast bowlers>" Amarnath led India's historic chase, scoring 86 taking his team to 445 chasing 493. This was till the India's greatest second innings score while chasing. They already held the record fo the biggest fourth innings total (406) to win a Test match ( Versus the West Indies) in which again Amarnath had featured with 85 before being run out with India requiring just 14 to win, which they did in style as Amarnath had kept a long vigil of 440 balls to ensure that India did not lose more than three wickets before sighting the destination within and bat's length. India had lost Chetan Chauhan, Gavaskar and Anshuman Gaekwad with something like 80 runs still required . If another wicket had fallen then, it could have been anything. But his stoicism saw India flash that smile a the end - 406 for 4, only the second time in history that a team had chased down 400 plus in a Test match. Thu Amarnath featured prominently in two of the three historic run chases abroad - against Australia ( lost by just 40 odd while chasing 450 plus; and 406 against West Indies at Port of Spain.)

And although Amarnath was as graceful a "ducker" as a hooker against the bouncer, he never employed the first ploy against selectors, whom he once called " a pack of jokers." Coming from a man as genial and humble as Mohinder Amarnath, this meant tha the selector's bodyline had exceeded even Jardine's.

Amarnath will always be remembered by connoisseurs as "India's greatest player of genuine fast bowling." And he will also be remembered as the one player who was most shabbily treated by this pack of jokers........
Mohinder made his first test century at Perth at the WACA (the fastest and bounciest wicket in the world) batting against Jeff Thomson at his fastest. He followed this test century with another 10 more against top class fast bowling.
Imran Khan respected Amarnath like he respected no other batsman In his book "All Round View", Imran says that Amarnath was  was quite simply the best batsman in the world. Imran said the gutsy right hander  should have played non-stop for India right from his debut in 1969 to the time he retired. ( After his debut series in 1969, he had to wait until 1975 to make it into the team).

And talking about cricket for Amarnath was alway about courage of a warrior facing a thousand guns all at once."In an era replete with fast bowling and unrestricted in use of the bouncer, he never stopped hooking - despite many incentives to do so. He received a hairline fracture of the skull from Richard Hadlee, was knocked unconscious by Imran Khan, had teeth knocked out by Malcolm Marshall and was hit in the jaw so painfully by Jeff Thomson in Perth that he could eat only ice cream for lunch...And yet, he braved it all to make mince meat of the world's fast bowlers and made them like fastish spinners."

Tip-toeing out to surprise the rising sun

Tip-toeing out of my hotel room to surprise the rising sun.

Before starting the day, I feel a sudden urge to meet a long lost friend and sit with him , quietly, peacefully, for long hours and just allow our silence - especially his - to express what has been lost in the noise of my own speech. Today may be yet another good day to take a few steps back towards myself and rediscover the friend I lost some decades ago when I walked away one morning from my mother. All these years, he has stayed close to my mother, even as she was lost to me and to the rest of the world. This one fear has held me from going back to my friend who has always lived in the lap of my mother, a child like Jesus, an infant like Krishna: won't my mother ask me where did I lose the child that was hers before I walked away from her? If she does ask, all I will have to offer her in reply is this unabashed face which does not resemble the child who was born to her. That child - that long lost friend - still lives in the warmth of her lap. I will go out just now and take the first tremulous baby steps towards that lap and rediscover and reclaim the face I either lost or sold away in bazaars that auction faces cheap.

Here I come , mother. Together, we will have the sun for a toy - the same that you gave me once during my childhood - the same sun that would walk down from the eastern hills to touch your feet and wish you 'Good Morning' before it ventured out on its worldly sojourn. In his presence, I first saw my face reflected in you eyes. In his presence, I will again see my face reflected in the lake that lies beyond my hotel room - - that lake whose deep waters have always resembled an odd tear of compassion down your cheek when you saw a suffering child, an orphaned calf or a hungry cow and the like.

I will get up now as I hear the gentle ripple of the lakes' water, stirring perhaps to receive the easterly guest.

Part Two:
(In Badal vilage.) Away from city life, the resplendent sun rise still tip toes towards you up across open fields. Moon and Venus still engage in their little street plays. Away from city life, we still walk right into the wondrous moonrise. Away from city life, I still walk the moon to its Westerly hut.

Gentle drizzle of melodies

Above the "Aam Aadmi Khaas Aadmi" debate hangs a divine mist that caresses a haggard spirit with a gentle drizzle of melodies half remembered, and remembered only in a feebly twinkling moment.....And yet, far away, or may be too near, ..Saanval chhabi jhalke .....

Reflections : from countryside peace to deafening Delhi

From serene and sublime conversations with sunrise and sunsets in Punjab countryside to the mad and maddening crowds of Delhi - a journey at which spirit murmurs its silent protests before smiling back in a gesture of reassurance that allsettings are divine and can be made to look and feel like that if only we undertake a little stroll in the vast and seemingly endless landscapes deep within us .....For a start, says the spirit, here is the 'rich recompense'. It comes in the form of a thought that less than three kilometers from where I converse with my soul is a place whence rang the deep and resonant voices of Zauk and Ghalib, among many other sparkling kaleidoscopic patterns of human journey on this little planet. Why, even the chowk that stands as a testimony to a hero's courtship of martyrdom to protect the freedom of thought and worship for fellow countrymen is less than four kilometers from where I sit, awaiting another sunrise. What a pilgrimage it must have been from Anandpur Sahib to Chandani Chowk - each particle on the wide road sparkling with unspeakable incandescence.

But Delhi or Mahilpur or Badal or Bathinda or London or elsewhere, its the same incandescence that lights up the landscape, the same light that sets particles aglow. Does it matter where I am - locked in the prison four walls or set free in the vast unending stretches of forests unknown or in the plains or on the peaks that so invite us day and night? But the Greatest pilgrimage is the one we undertake when we turn our gaze inside, deep inside our own skeleton that houses the glow.

"Bahar bheetar eko jaano, eh Gur gian batayee
Kaho Nanak bin aapa cheene, mitte na bharam ki kaayee
Kaahe re ban khojam jaayee?"

And Eureka !!!

What a morning it already is! And what a reward it brings for spending the night sleepless over work alngside sojourns of the soul !!
You, dear friend, might recall that I had been requesting everyone with an interest in music and Gurbani and secure me a Guru Dutt's rendition of a Shabad from the Sikh Gurbani.
And now, even as I was talking about "the rich recompense", it fell into my outstretched open palm - a divine benediction, a blessing that I could only have dreamed of. Here is the Shabad I had been searching desperately for over decades but was unable to find. It landed softly , quietly, in the lap of my spirit just as I finished writing the status and turned to close it with another shabad to go with the text. Here, I chanced upon this cherished and matchless divine rendition by Geeta Dutta: You be blessed too; let it wake your day up, and stir your morning to a wakefulness that will reveal luminous zones!

What is gained through aggression will be taken away through greater aggression: Hazel

'Always remember this: what is gained through aggression or through plans or even through victories of body and mind can always be taken away through greater aggression, superior plans and bigger victories of body and mind. What is gained through love and humility and surrender can never be taken away from you, except through and as an act of love and humility: and you never mind giving anything away as an act of love and humility . In fact, the more you lose on this path, the happier you are. Love is always happy to give; desire, always happy to snatch, to grab. That is why the objects that desire brings you are so temporary and so insecure. Fear of losing and of defeat always accompanies victories of desire; Fruits that love brings have no fears of loss accompanying them; Strangely, in fact, you are always keen to share, to give away the fruits that love brings you: you are searching for people to share love with. And here is another paradox. Everyone wants to possess things that make one happy , and to leave pain for others. Strangely however,it is in the nature of pain that it can not be shared; it is in the nature of happiness that everyone wants to and can and does share it. And here is the key to the difference between love and desire. No one wants to share objects of desire and joy; everyone wants to share love and happiness. "

Hazel:HAZEL'S SON AMID COLTS

Nothing to add, my son, to what I have already written to you, except perhaps pass on to you the voices that I have been hearing since the day I last stayed under this vast canopy.- a canopy of parchment made from raiment secured through skinning my self off. But for one whose pockets complain of no coins, this was just and minor shedding off load. 

Instead of coins and paper, I bring you voices, son, voices that fill empty corners in the valley with fragrant air. In special, there is a voice which resembles my mother's - is it hers? May you and I be happy only in the happiness of others and make their happiness my own !

We have been talking about our problems,my son, and I know you have those aplenty. But we have talked enough. It is time perhaps to turn inwards and discover the secret fountainhead of love and joy and spread it around. It is time to get up and bathe in sunrise of a new, boundless love - beyond definitions, beyond bounds and beyond even the imaginary horses which you and I keep riding through the streets of rows upon rows of dream-like, wall-less houses, riding into this city of love beyond the need for acknowledgement,and much less reciprocity . Thank you, horses, for you have taken me and my son past many a rough and ragged terrain, negotiating the scary turns and precipices with the ease of a musician. Thanks.

Thanks too for more - a wealth that it would never be possible for me to own, except through kindness, understanding and compassion of this Valley of Graces - the wealth of that belongs to my son, and the greater wealth of love in his heart that belongs to his mother - a love that he knows how to keep within his bosom. He therefor keeps busy distributing it among leaves and branches and petals of flowers and colts and nightingales and scorpions and snakes and rabbits and redbreasts in this amazing vale.

And horses ! horses!! - you who have taken people in hundreds and thousands of millions, as children of this valley, across milestones across this valley and its stretches to their final mission.

And honestly in a hush, horses, between you and me as friends, tell me, horses, do you ever expect thanks for all your wearisome and selfless efforts?

Oh no, stop neighing and don't be angry - deflate those fuming nostrils, and bring those hooves down on the ground. . Okay, I will never talk about expecting gratitude and thanks , but please , silence now. Yes, like that ! Good children. Our Father is here.

And now, let that colt, your colt - let him and my son play together here. And okay, I will tell my colt never to seek those pointless answers through questions which echo neither this valley, nor horses, nor you nor me, nor my colt nor your sons - these questions roam the valley of innocence like molesters. You and I shall defeat their intent, for you and I know that in their worst avatars, the goal of questions is never answers; it is just molestation.

And please, you dear horse, please allow my son to learn from yours how to carry the wealth of innocence and love on his back and bound across mountains and hills like the bard's daughter. And let him learn from the colts that backs were created for legs and legs for valleys and mountains, as hearts were created for love and love for humility and compassion. My son too will learn how to carry the wealth of gratitude and not mix it with the wealth of love, but keep it as pearls of a different hue and different make. Teach him how to carry big loads of valley's never-ending wealth.

And teach him to know and respect the difference between wealth and loads, and between loads and burden.

Part 2:

'Always remember this: what is gained through aggression or through plans or even through victories of body and mind can always be taken away through greater aggression, superior plans and bigger victories of body and mind. What is gained through love and humility and surrender can never be taken away from you, except through and as an act of love and humility: and you never mind giving anything away as an act of love and humility . In fact, the more you lose on this path, the happier you are. Love is always happy to give; desire, always happy to snatch, to grab. That is why the objects that desire brings you are so temporary and so insecure. Fear of losing and of defeat always accompanies victories of desire; Fruits that love brings have no fears of loss accompanying them; Strangely, in fact, you are always keen to share, to give away the fruits that love brings you: you are searching for people to share love with. And here is another paradox. Everyone wants to possess things that make one happy , and to leave pain for others. Strangely however,it is in the nature of pain that it can not be shared; it is in the nature of happiness that everyone wants to and can and does share it. And here is the key to the difference between love and desire. No one wants to share objects of desire and joy; everyone wants to share love and happiness. "

Won't pity if you didn't notice; won't notice if u focused hard enough: Don't pity: Love

D J: As you come closer to your goal things become tougher thn before.
Not because you now need to put extra effort (no! that has been done),
but because people around you, who did everything to stop, go blindly
crazy watching it!!

SMC If you really had meant to follow your goals with honesty, trust
me you won't even have had the time to notice what others were going
through. If you are still noticing anything except your goal and your
own efforts to get there, then you can be sure you are not focusing
hard enough on your goals.C_O_N_C_E_N_T_R_A_T_E ...HARDER

D J True.. it actually made me feel pity 4 thm.. bt nw ignored cmpletely..

SMC Would not need to pity if you hadn't noticed. Wouldn't have
noticed had you just focused hard enough. Don't do it out of spite. Do
it because work demands it. As for others, everyone deserves your
love, and if you are full of it, you wouldn't find their presence a
distraction. Just more work to do, more responsibility - a sacred and
lovable responsibility. But even that won't take your mind away from
your goal. As I always say, work like a pregnant mother-to-be: her
mind is always focused on the child within her, but that doesn't stop
her from attending to her far less significant duties. Learn from a
pregnant woman how to focus on just one thing without making an
effort, even without putting other things away, even without refusing
to attend to other work, even while serving meals to her husband's
mother with love. But her mind? Her mind is always, every minute,
every second, focused only on the life that's growing within
her......even when she is lost in the arms of her beloved husband, her
eyes closed in love, her bosom aching with love for him. But her mind
just would not stray away from her child......And never forget, if you
say you are pitying someone, generally you mean you don't give a dman.
Quite often our pity is the way we give expression to our arrogance.
Avoid it. Don't pity: love.

D J That's the magic of those words.. I transform!! Thanks..

SMC  You are honest therefore you are great. You do not transform
because of the magic of these words. You transform because you knew it
already and just needed a reminder...You are quite simply so beautiful
in mind and soul.

DJ:   Sir ji.. itni tareef ke kabil nahin hain hum.. jab hum ho jaenge
tab apko kabhi rokenge nahin..

SMC:  I don not flatter, you know it. I know there are others who
flatter because you are so beautiful. To me that is only one part of
you and that will never stop me from telling you where you go wrong.
But if I admire you, every word comes from the core of my heart. ..
Now, be a good girl and accept the taareef because it is honest and u
deserve it. and you deser e it because u are honest.

D J:  Yes everythg is true n i accept. aftr 26yrs of my life hv
realised it through hard lessons. Ohhhh n i knw U r true to ur evry
word.

 SMC:  Which dishonest girl would have accepted with such grace and
humility that she has been transformed. Thats your courage, and
courage comes from honesty and honesty comes from inner confidence,
because something within u tells you that there is no need for you to
be dishonest. And ll of this makes you so beautiful...ab samajh aya
ji,

D J: Bt ur experience n seniority must teach me even more abt d realities..

SMC: My experience ! I am sure you don’t mean serniority etc…
Experience is neither years nor events that one goes through in life.
Experience is what your mind does to what it sees. For that you don’t
need more years. You need more feeling. Budhha had when he was so
young: you will have it if you open your heart’s window and cast your
opinions away and try to love this world as your own child. We will
talk some time later.

SMC: Above all, never be afraid of opinions, except your own. They are
the only ones that inflict damage. Opinions of others are just a
reflection of who they are, not who we are. Be careful not to be
opinionated. Always keep your heart open. Live with your heart. As
Castenada said, what your heart says can not be wrong. If your path
has a heart, its the right path. If it doesn't have, its of no use

A teacher is nothing if not a lover....

THOUGHTS ON THE TEACHERS' DAY ( OR ARE THESE SENTIMENTS?)

All I can say on the Teacher's Day is that making me a teacher was one of two greatest gifts life ever gave me. It was a romance, a life-long love affair of the dizziest kind. it was never about imparting instruction,information, knowledge or stuff like that: that was always secondary to my understanding of my principle task. Awakening my students to the glorious and priceless wealth of love was the primary task, a key to everything else that was and is of any value in education. Igniting a passion for life, a zest for joy, a guiltless pursuit of happiness of the highest kind - this to me defined my job.

And I deem myself perhaps the most fortunate person on the planet for how many are rewarded for their honest work as handsomely, spontaneously and unhesitatingly as I have always been! For me, rewards came rich and thick and fast. Every moment of my life as a teacher was packed with these rewards: the smiles on the joyous faces of students when they looked at flowers and at one another in the college, the glow on their cheeks when they blushed for being too right, the shine in their eyes when they discovered that they were in love with just about everyone around them, even though a little more at one or two particular places or with person or persons or the other in their lives, and my own shy blushes every time I discovered that a student was in love with me too -- all this to me was always far, far more important than anything that I was supposed to "teach" them, or to receive as my remuneration for my "job". I received pay checks by the hundreds every morning as students would chance to pass by me in a corridor, through a colonnade, in a verandah, in playground, in front of class rooms - anywhere any morning , in fact any time of the day. My days and nights were packed with students and their love. I was with them during the day: they were with me during the night, in my loneliest hours even.
I was convinced I would be able to teach them nothing if I was not able to learn from them. And neither of the two was possible without my first falling in love with any student who came across to me with innocent queries or with just that look in his or her eyes which sang , "Won't you help me, sir?"

My sole regret - if any - would be that it wasn't humanly possible always to be equal to or worthy of the love that my students always gave me - even those few who thought they did not like me. But as Robert Browning says, "God above is great to grant, as Mighty to make/ And creates love to reward love." Sooner or later , at some point, somewhere, some day, nature brought all my students back into my heart's lap, where I had always kept, nursed, caressed and indulged them, each one of them - individually and together. How I loved and still love their little concerns, their little worries, fears, suspicions, unreal hatred, superficial dislikes and genuine and very genuine love ! So unashamed was I in my pursuit of love with my students that some girls in the Basic Sciences College had nicknamed me "Professor Love". ( Incidentally, Professor Love - Professor Paul L. Love - was an American teacher, a truly Christian missionary, at Baring Union Christian College, Batala, and he will always remain an icon to me for some of the things I followed in my life as a teacher)

I sincerely believe that its perhaps the highest honour for man to be chosen by life for a career in teaching. There is only one phase of my life which I might put above my years in love as a teacher: my years as a student in love with my teachers.)

I was one of the luckiest few who received and gave limitless love both as a teacher and as a student. In the final balance, I guess I perhaps received far more love than I can ever adequately acknowledge, far less return. In humble and sincerest apology to my students, all I can say is: " I do not love my son the less, but my students more."

And to my teachers: "I do not love my mother the less, but my teachers more." I was lucky that I had teachers who made me aware of all that beats in my bosom resembling what others would call "romance" - for want of a word still better than this. And I was even luckier that I found students who resonated to all that my teachers had put in my loving heart. 

Miracles zones and eyes too weak

I am seeing the wondrous miracle zones I have always wanted to see in my life, and they seem just a few steps away. But now my legs refuse to carry me across those few steps, too weak , too tired, too unwilling. Has someone else been so close to what he wanted so badly in life, and yet not able to reach his hand out to touch it just when it seems so much within reach ? Let thy experience be my guide - and the energy in my legs.

Thoughts on life in a civilisation free from death

One of the characters in my never-to-be-written (( so it seems) book is wondering these days how humans would have shaped their civilisation had one of man's oldest wishes been granted: immortality, or , in simple words, a world in which everyone is born but  no one dies. All kinds of  possibilities, none of them complimentary to the character of mankind,  cross my character's mind. Some of these are truly frightening ; others  even blood curdling,  What would the young members of such a civilisation do with their old: would they - would they be able to - keep them with their children in joint families? The old would always heavily outnumber the young, for generations upon generations of them would heaped together in each succeeding generation. Or - Heavens be merciful !- would the young, who would obviously be in control of the civilisation,  - in order to preserve the race against inevitable food shortages -  evolve laws,  practices and conventions under which everyone who crosses a certain age , say 80 to 100 years, would be offered the option of either voluntary exit - poison or something - or face merciful execution? In the event of the second, woould the execution be described as "sacrifice" to the God of Survival. My character seems convinced that human would have invented religious or spiritual justifications for the inevitable cruelty through all kinds of esoteric or occultist stretches of imagination.

When I talked to my character last night, I was horrified at how coollly he considered all these -- and many other such possibilities. Frankly, I had no answer to his questions as to what place would virtues like mercy, pity, love, compassion hold in a civilisation created thus by nature.

I stopped writing , and thought I would toss the question to friends on Facebook, to see how the story - or the line of my character's thought processes - be guided from hereon. I am confronted with terrible possibilities, all of whom make nonsense of beliefs I have always held dearer than life ( Ah! here may be the answer! But wait !)

I throw the idea before you. Personally, I am horror struck at the questions the character in my book is posing with ghastly grin. 

Sunnycaves: "There are no final goals in life. There are only steps you take towards them. Every step defines a goal,"..from Hazel

Sunnycaves: "There are no final goals in life. "..from Hazel

"There are no final goals in life. There are only steps you take towards them. Every step defines a goal,"..from Hazel

"You have run one fourth of your race well, are well on course for what you set out to do, and then suddenly get distracted towards something more immediately promising, alluring and rewarding , and achieve half of that too. And then , suddenly you look back to the exact point where you lost focus, got distracted. And you find that time has run our - almost - and you have gone in a direction that has taken you farther away from what you originally set out to reach......" In fact he had lost focus again. He had forgotten why he was saying what he was saying.

Then the forest spoke again:

" One fifth of the track is still ahead of you, inviting you to take it and try to re-route and finish as much of the race you originally started as you can because that was the race you were born to run. You may not reach the goal but you would be nearer it. Make sure that your goals are right. If you are running in the wrong direction, re-route - no matter how far you are gone. Once you do that, remember this, and only this: the important thing in life is not to reach your goals but to keep running and enjoy the distance covered. Every yard you cover towards the right goal - the goal after your heart -and every stride you take towards it, every step you put forward is a goal in itself, as enjoyable and as much worth reaching as what you thought was the final goal. There are no final goals in life. There are only steps you take towards them. Every step defines a goal, is a goal. If you do not enjoy the steps, you will not enjoy any goal you achieve. The important thing in life is not to breast the finishing tape;the important thing is running towards it. The goal in life is not the finishing line, but the track that takes you towards it. If you don't love the race, then the goal is not worth your reaching. Those who remember the goal and forget the race lose both."

Punjabi Poem: ਜੇ ਗੱਲ ਕੋਈ ਇਸ਼ਕ਼ ਦੀ ਆਖੇ, ਤੇ ਫਿਰ ਸਰਬੰਸ ਵਾਰ ਆਖੇ / .

On Facebook on July 30, 2013

ਜੇ ਗੱਲ ਕੋਈ ਇਸ਼ਕ਼ ਦੀ ਆਖੇ, ਤੇ ਫਿਰ ਸਰਬੰਸ ਵਾਰ ਆਖੇ / .....

ਮੈਂ ਹਾਂ ਖੰਡਰ , ਪਰ ਜੁਗਨੂੰ ਇਸ 'ਚ ਲਖਾਂ ਟਿਮ ਟਿਮੋੰਦੇ ਨੇ 

ਕੋਈ ਆਖੇ ਹੈ "ਸੜਿਆ ਘਰ", ਕੋਈ ਚਾਨਣ-ਮੀਨਾਰ ਆਖੇ /



ਹਾਂ ਠੰਡੀ ਰਾਖ , ਹਰ ਜ਼ਰੇ ਤੇ ਲਖ ਸੂਰਜ ਬ-ਸਜਦਾ ਨੇ 


ਰਬਾਬੀ ਧੁਨ ਕੋਈ ਏਹਨੂੰ ਆਸ਼ਕੀ ਦਾ ਆਬਸ਼ਾਰ ਆਖੇ /


ਨਹੀਂ ਸਿਵਿਆਂ ਦੀ ਚੁੱਪ ਮੈਂ, ਇਕ ਸ਼ਹੀਦੀ ਜੋੜ ਮੇਲਾ ਹਾਂ ,


ਕੋਈ ਮੇਨੂੰ ਆਖਰੀ ਅਰਦਾਸ , ਕੋਈ ਆਸਾ ਦੀ ਵਾਰ ਆਖੇ /



ਮੈਂ ਆਖਾਂ ਜੋ ਪਿਆ ਆਖਾਂ , ਇਲਾਹੀ ਹੁਕਮਨਾਮਾ ਹੈ ,


ਜੇ ਗੱਲ ਕੋਈ ਇਸ਼ਕ਼ ਦੀ ਆਖੇ, ਤੇ ਫਿਰ ਸਰਬੰਸ ਵਾਰ ਆਖੇ /

Beware the innocence of hyacinths, beware!!

"Sane voices are often soft and subdue" ..  cri de coeur from Pakistan through Fozia Hafiz ( Please do not despair, the warriors of love and sanity)  HB 

BEWARE THE INNOCENCE OF HYACINTHS , BEWARE !! --

By  Harcharan Bains 

"Soft and subdued is  the music of spheres,

Soft and subdued is the whisper of spring

Soft and subdued the rustle of leaves with dewy tears

And soft and subtle  the wounded nightingales sing..

Soft and subtle is the pregnant breeze

Soft and subtle the drizzle-drops, her off-springs;

And the cuckoo and the breeze beneath her wings.

Soft too was the hour that presaged violence

When  Creation found voice in the big bang

Subtle the message that through the skies rang

Of billion suns ‘n stars and their radiance.

Beware the silence of lambs, beware !

Beware the innocence of hyacinths, beware!!

Hiding in gossamer clouds is the thundery vault

Wrapped in  pitch dark silence is  the lightning bolt.

Hiding in mother’s helpless stagger is the tigress’ leap

And an ever wakeful energy beneath her languid sleep.

In the enveloping gloomy dark

Sleeps the incendiary spark

That, once woken,  will wreak  vengeance

On Kings’  and  their kins’ arrogance;

And   spread through the skies such  gentle radiance

As drown out  hatred  which is a bliss of  ignorance.