Fasting for Healing
Most ‘educated’ urban people are either ignorant of this subject, or they have read a little but have rejected the idea as primitive superstition or quackery. People who come from agricultural background would not so easily reject the idea of fasting. They know that cattle, dogs and most other animals stop eating when they are sick and rest in a comfortable lonely spot till they get well again.
There are very few books on the subject of ‘fasting for healing.’ But there are a few doctors who practice the art in many countries. I have seen two books, one written by an American doctor and the other by a German layman practitioner. In my opinion one cannot learn much about the subject of fasting just by reading books. It is best learned by actual practice for the experience usually is unique for each individual as no two bodies are exactly alike. I can assure you fro my own experience that a deeply restful fasting experience is both highly educative and spiritually uplifting.
My first exposure to the idea came 20 years ago at Atheetha Ashram. Swami Sahajananda put me on a 3-day fast to heal my upset stomach. But it stretched to 5 and then to 8 days. My stomach got fully healed quite fast but the extra days brought a priceless gift of a totally scrubbed intestine. The job took a whole month and I could feel its movement starting from my stomach and ending at the anus. I felt rejuvenated and to this day I am reaping the benefit of that gift. In last twenty years I have fasted for about 50 times and from each fast I have benefited. Also, I have not visited any doctor except to quell the anxiety of my well-wishers and I have not needed any pills or injections.
Very simply the whole thing works as follows:
1. Our immune system works best when the body is at full rest and fasting.
2. As soon as we lie down and stop eating the body gets a signal to turn all available energy to the task of healing.
3. Body does just that and the illness or injury is healed. And, no side effects!
4. Body knows what all is wrong with it. It picks what needs most urgent attention and starts working.
5. We quietly watch and listen to what goes on in the body and learn a great deal about disease and health. This knowledge than teaches us about healthy living.
6. Being in touch with the body puts us in touch with the great wisdom that runs the universe. For, indeed, the body obeys not the mind but a higher wisdom. We learn to be free from the constant grip of the mind and slowly learn to observe with our divine third eye.
Of course, one gets in proportion to how much one puts in. I am only a helper and a prompter. I am a seeker like all of us and I do not claim to know very much. I cannot therefore guarantee anything. From my own experience I can say that you will probably start to gain from the very first fast. How much you get depends on yourself.
July 19, 2008
Partap
Brother Abdul Rehman
Brother Abdul Rehman
(Amarlal Hingorani wrote this true story in Sindhi. T.H. Advani translated it into English. For better reading I have slightly modified Advani’s text.)
Abdul Rehman was tall, lean and tan. Some thought him half mad; others considered him a dervish, a wandering fakir, or God intoxicated. He went about wrapped in a thin quilt, locally known as Gudari (light quilt) and visited all manner of places of worship of different religious labels. To him all of them were houses of God. In the city of Sakkhar in Sindh, opposite the railways goods office, some Hindus used to meet and recite Sanskrit verses of a Sindhi poet Sami. Brother Abdul Rehman would join the group and listen with pleasure. Occasionally, he would mutter to himself, “Brother Abdul Rehman, are you following it? When will you begin to see light?”
One day as he stumbled over a stone, he said to himself, ‘how proud and arrogant you are walking with an erect neck. If you had looked down you would not have stumbled.’ He had not gone a few steps when he pulled himself up, how selfish to leave the protruding rock where it was. Some other walker might stumble over it. He went back and flung the rock out of the way.
He was in the habit of talking to himself. He addressed himself as Brother Abdul Rehman and gave advice quite audibly so that others could hear. If someone invited him for a meal, he would turn to himself and ask, “Brother Abdul Rehman, he wants to know if I am hungry and would like to eat.” Then he would answer after a moment of considering and sometimes repeating a line of wisdom, ‘one must eat to live, not live to eat.’ In this manner he would always confer aloud with himself before answering a question. It was a good practice because it prevented him from quick reaction to whatever happened. He heard the others carefully and gave a well thought out reply.
Abdul Rehman was quite an accomplished poet and scholar. He had memorized the Koran, and much of the poetry of Sindhi writers Shah Abdul Latif and Sami. Of Saint Sachal, a famous Sindhi poet, he was a virtual disciple. He knew Urdu also. When letters came in Urdu, from Punjab, Brother Abdul Rehman was sought to read and interpret them. He ate sparingly, needed very little of other material goods, and coveted nothing that others possessed. He was quiet and always gentle. His gudari was always wrapped around him in hot or cold seasons. At night it served as the covering. He never complained of either the scorching heat of summers or the freezing cold of winters. No one knew what secret conversations he held with his Divine Beloved under the cover of his gudari.
One day an innocent man found himself involved in a criminal court case. He was accused of having stolen a gold watch belonging to a wealthy Muslim merchant. The police had searched him and recovered the watch in front of witnesses. The evidence against him being strong and the merchant a man of influence, the poor man seemed not to have any chance of acquittal.
The accused stated that he one day passed by the Seth’s house and the Seth somehow got the idea into his head that I had made a lewd gesture to his womenfolk. As a consequence the Seth’s men beat him up. They would even have killed him had Brother Abdul Rehman not by chance appeared on the scene. The accusation that he had stolen a gold watch was a trumped up just to punish him.
Even after Abdul Rehman’s intercession the Seth was not appeased. He thought the fellow had cast an evil eye on his honor and for this he should be killed.
Abdul Rehman reasoned, ‘The Seth will not desist, for his honor is very dear to him. He has a 35 years old sister for whom he has not found a husband because he would then have to pay a dowry of a size appropriate to his wealth. But Brother Abdul Rehman did not wish to lift the veil from another man’s affairs.’ However, he had mumbled the above loudly so that the Seth and the others could hear. The Seth decided to drop the case and thus the poor man was saved.
But gossip began to spread all over town. Just to save his reputation the Seth filed another case. He denied all wrong doing and bought off 3 of the 4 witnesses who either did not appear in court or pretended ignorance. Abdul Rehman remained as the sole witness. The counsel for defense doubted the sagacity of putting such a man in the witness box. But the accused had implicit faith in him. Being a God fearing man, he thought, he could be relied upon to tell the truth.
Abdul Rehman received a summon to appear as witness in the court. Out of concern to show respect to the court of justice he acquired a pair of shoes. At every hearing he went to the court in his gudari and carrying his shoes in his hands following the custom of the Sindhi villagers. When called to give evidence he put his shoes on with ceremony. His gudari was folded lengthwise and worn like a scarf around the neck. He had hardly stepped in when a liveried peon asked him to leave his shoes outside, as other low status men did. Abdul Rehman told him that he had bought the shoes only to show respect. So he walked in with the shoes on.
On seeing him the magistrate laughed. After he had taken his seat in the witness box he asked him why he was wearing his gudari around his neck. Abdul Rehman answered that as it was a custom among the Hindus to wear a dupatta or a scarf around the neck on important occasions, he was doing likewise.
A subordinate officer called Saristedar turning to Abdul Rehman to administer the usual oath: In the presence of God I swear that I shall speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. Abdul Rehman repeated the oath respectfully.
“What is your name?
“Brother Abdul Rehman.”
There was laughter in the court. The magistrate after enjoying the situation for a while began to show annoyance. A lawyer tried to explain that conversing with his inner self was his normal practice and he always meant well.
“Your religion?”
After long contemplation Abdul Rehman recited Saint Rachal’s following words:
I am neither Hindu
Nor Muslim
I am what I am.
Saristedar was not sure if this answer would do for the record. So he turned to the magistrate for guidance. “Write him down as a Muslim,” the magistrate ordered.
“Your age?”
Brother Abdul Rehman said, “Since the magistrate answered my previous question, let him answer this one also.”
The magistrate was angry and he thundered. “You jat! Make your statements sensibly and properly. Don’t forget you are in a court.”
Abdul Rehman asked, “Who is a jat?” The honorable magistrate shouted, “A jat, you fool is an illiterate person.”
Abdul Rehman answered, “I can read and write Sindhi, Persian, Urdu, Sanskrit and Hindi, i.e. five languages. May I know how many languages does the magistrate know?”
The magistrate brushed him aside and triumphantly said, “A jat is one who does not know English.” He was sure this would crush his queer customer.
There was whispering and tittering in the court. Abdul Rehman smiled and said, “Sir, you say a Jat is one who does not know English. You of course know English and cannot be called a Jat, but does your father Topanmal know English? Did your forefathers know English? If not, would you call them Jats? If yes, what would that make you?”
“None of your presumptions, you insolent rascal,” roared the magistrate. “Will you show cause why you should not be charged with contempt of court? I order you to cease talking and submit a written deposition.
Abdul Rehman stepped out of the witness box, went to a table and wrote as follows:
“Honorable magistrate sahib, Brother Abdul Rehman is not guilty of contempt of court. If anyone is guilty of such an offence, it is you. On this day alone you have abused several witnesses. But your abusive language will not even touch the fringe of my gudari. Though you sit in judgment over people, you are not their lord and master. You are their servant. Witnesses do not come to your court on their own accord, they are summoned to assist you in the administration of justice. Let me give you a bit of advice.
You should treat them with respect, and never ever insult them? Who will bother to come to your court if you shower abuse on them? Will you show cause why you should not be dismissed from service for contempt of court? Brother Abdul Rehman, in accordance with the oath administered to him by the court, has spoken the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
Signed: Brother Abdul Rehman
Partap
June 28, 2008
(Amarlal Hingorani wrote this true story in Sindhi. T.H. Advani translated it into English. For better reading I have slightly modified Advani’s text.)
Abdul Rehman was tall, lean and tan. Some thought him half mad; others considered him a dervish, a wandering fakir, or God intoxicated. He went about wrapped in a thin quilt, locally known as Gudari (light quilt) and visited all manner of places of worship of different religious labels. To him all of them were houses of God. In the city of Sakkhar in Sindh, opposite the railways goods office, some Hindus used to meet and recite Sanskrit verses of a Sindhi poet Sami. Brother Abdul Rehman would join the group and listen with pleasure. Occasionally, he would mutter to himself, “Brother Abdul Rehman, are you following it? When will you begin to see light?”
One day as he stumbled over a stone, he said to himself, ‘how proud and arrogant you are walking with an erect neck. If you had looked down you would not have stumbled.’ He had not gone a few steps when he pulled himself up, how selfish to leave the protruding rock where it was. Some other walker might stumble over it. He went back and flung the rock out of the way.
He was in the habit of talking to himself. He addressed himself as Brother Abdul Rehman and gave advice quite audibly so that others could hear. If someone invited him for a meal, he would turn to himself and ask, “Brother Abdul Rehman, he wants to know if I am hungry and would like to eat.” Then he would answer after a moment of considering and sometimes repeating a line of wisdom, ‘one must eat to live, not live to eat.’ In this manner he would always confer aloud with himself before answering a question. It was a good practice because it prevented him from quick reaction to whatever happened. He heard the others carefully and gave a well thought out reply.
Abdul Rehman was quite an accomplished poet and scholar. He had memorized the Koran, and much of the poetry of Sindhi writers Shah Abdul Latif and Sami. Of Saint Sachal, a famous Sindhi poet, he was a virtual disciple. He knew Urdu also. When letters came in Urdu, from Punjab, Brother Abdul Rehman was sought to read and interpret them. He ate sparingly, needed very little of other material goods, and coveted nothing that others possessed. He was quiet and always gentle. His gudari was always wrapped around him in hot or cold seasons. At night it served as the covering. He never complained of either the scorching heat of summers or the freezing cold of winters. No one knew what secret conversations he held with his Divine Beloved under the cover of his gudari.
One day an innocent man found himself involved in a criminal court case. He was accused of having stolen a gold watch belonging to a wealthy Muslim merchant. The police had searched him and recovered the watch in front of witnesses. The evidence against him being strong and the merchant a man of influence, the poor man seemed not to have any chance of acquittal.
The accused stated that he one day passed by the Seth’s house and the Seth somehow got the idea into his head that I had made a lewd gesture to his womenfolk. As a consequence the Seth’s men beat him up. They would even have killed him had Brother Abdul Rehman not by chance appeared on the scene. The accusation that he had stolen a gold watch was a trumped up just to punish him.
Even after Abdul Rehman’s intercession the Seth was not appeased. He thought the fellow had cast an evil eye on his honor and for this he should be killed.
Abdul Rehman reasoned, ‘The Seth will not desist, for his honor is very dear to him. He has a 35 years old sister for whom he has not found a husband because he would then have to pay a dowry of a size appropriate to his wealth. But Brother Abdul Rehman did not wish to lift the veil from another man’s affairs.’ However, he had mumbled the above loudly so that the Seth and the others could hear. The Seth decided to drop the case and thus the poor man was saved.
But gossip began to spread all over town. Just to save his reputation the Seth filed another case. He denied all wrong doing and bought off 3 of the 4 witnesses who either did not appear in court or pretended ignorance. Abdul Rehman remained as the sole witness. The counsel for defense doubted the sagacity of putting such a man in the witness box. But the accused had implicit faith in him. Being a God fearing man, he thought, he could be relied upon to tell the truth.
Abdul Rehman received a summon to appear as witness in the court. Out of concern to show respect to the court of justice he acquired a pair of shoes. At every hearing he went to the court in his gudari and carrying his shoes in his hands following the custom of the Sindhi villagers. When called to give evidence he put his shoes on with ceremony. His gudari was folded lengthwise and worn like a scarf around the neck. He had hardly stepped in when a liveried peon asked him to leave his shoes outside, as other low status men did. Abdul Rehman told him that he had bought the shoes only to show respect. So he walked in with the shoes on.
On seeing him the magistrate laughed. After he had taken his seat in the witness box he asked him why he was wearing his gudari around his neck. Abdul Rehman answered that as it was a custom among the Hindus to wear a dupatta or a scarf around the neck on important occasions, he was doing likewise.
A subordinate officer called Saristedar turning to Abdul Rehman to administer the usual oath: In the presence of God I swear that I shall speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. Abdul Rehman repeated the oath respectfully.
“What is your name?
“Brother Abdul Rehman.”
There was laughter in the court. The magistrate after enjoying the situation for a while began to show annoyance. A lawyer tried to explain that conversing with his inner self was his normal practice and he always meant well.
“Your religion?”
After long contemplation Abdul Rehman recited Saint Rachal’s following words:
I am neither Hindu
Nor Muslim
I am what I am.
Saristedar was not sure if this answer would do for the record. So he turned to the magistrate for guidance. “Write him down as a Muslim,” the magistrate ordered.
“Your age?”
Brother Abdul Rehman said, “Since the magistrate answered my previous question, let him answer this one also.”
The magistrate was angry and he thundered. “You jat! Make your statements sensibly and properly. Don’t forget you are in a court.”
Abdul Rehman asked, “Who is a jat?” The honorable magistrate shouted, “A jat, you fool is an illiterate person.”
Abdul Rehman answered, “I can read and write Sindhi, Persian, Urdu, Sanskrit and Hindi, i.e. five languages. May I know how many languages does the magistrate know?”
The magistrate brushed him aside and triumphantly said, “A jat is one who does not know English.” He was sure this would crush his queer customer.
There was whispering and tittering in the court. Abdul Rehman smiled and said, “Sir, you say a Jat is one who does not know English. You of course know English and cannot be called a Jat, but does your father Topanmal know English? Did your forefathers know English? If not, would you call them Jats? If yes, what would that make you?”
“None of your presumptions, you insolent rascal,” roared the magistrate. “Will you show cause why you should not be charged with contempt of court? I order you to cease talking and submit a written deposition.
Abdul Rehman stepped out of the witness box, went to a table and wrote as follows:
“Honorable magistrate sahib, Brother Abdul Rehman is not guilty of contempt of court. If anyone is guilty of such an offence, it is you. On this day alone you have abused several witnesses. But your abusive language will not even touch the fringe of my gudari. Though you sit in judgment over people, you are not their lord and master. You are their servant. Witnesses do not come to your court on their own accord, they are summoned to assist you in the administration of justice. Let me give you a bit of advice.
You should treat them with respect, and never ever insult them? Who will bother to come to your court if you shower abuse on them? Will you show cause why you should not be dismissed from service for contempt of court? Brother Abdul Rehman, in accordance with the oath administered to him by the court, has spoken the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
Signed: Brother Abdul Rehman
Partap
June 28, 2008
Praise and Criticism
Praise and Criticism
Mohan Singh had a small grocery shop in a village. He was by no means rich, but quite generous. Whenever he noticed something that needed to be done for the convenience of village people, he provided what was needed. Knowing that he liked to invest in such philanthropy he always kept putting some money aside.
He noticed that the travelers who used the road near his village often had to walk an extra half-mile to come into the village for a drink of water if they were thirsty. He thought it would be good if there were a well by the roadside. It took Mohan Singh a whole year to save enough, but he succeeded and got a well built.
Travelers found it very useful. The village people too were benefited. The cowherds and workers in the nearby fields now were able to quench their own and their animals’ thirst without having to trudge half a mile. At the busy planting and harvesting time they specially appreciated the well. Almost all the people of the village praised Mohan Singh for this noble deed. Some came to his house to tell him how useful the well was and how much they were benefited by it. All this pleased Mohan Singh, but he was used to this because of his many such projects.
One late evening a traveler fell in the well and drowned. No one could hear his cries for help and he did not know how to swim. As soon as the village people heard they visited the well and saw the body. The person might have been drunk, blind, weak eyed, or wanting to commit suicide. No one knew for sure. Every one was naturally sad and they all expressed sympathy for the deceased.
This much was natural and expected, but something else that was not so natural began to be heard. Some people began to criticize Mohan Singh for being careless. ‘He shouldn’t have built the well so near the road and so far from the village. Why did he not consult the village council? He built it to win praise. He did not give enough thought to accidents such as this one,’ so on and so forth.
Mohan Singh too felt sad over the death of a stranger, but the villagers’ comments made him sadder. He withdrew into seclusion and pondered deeply over the whole thing. He kept thinking of the lesson he was being taught by this tragedy. After much deep thinking thought came to his mind that the masses neither see with a clear focus, nor think with one mind. They therefore oscillate very widely like the pendulum. Accidents too, are a part of life and they will occur even if you take all the possible precautions.
Mohan Singh learned that wise men take both praise and criticism in their stride. He also remembered one of Guru Nanak’s bhajans in which he says, “sukh dukh donon sam kari jane aur maan apmana, harsh shok te rahe atita, tin jag tatwa pichhana.”
Partap
June 21, 2008
Mohan Singh had a small grocery shop in a village. He was by no means rich, but quite generous. Whenever he noticed something that needed to be done for the convenience of village people, he provided what was needed. Knowing that he liked to invest in such philanthropy he always kept putting some money aside.
He noticed that the travelers who used the road near his village often had to walk an extra half-mile to come into the village for a drink of water if they were thirsty. He thought it would be good if there were a well by the roadside. It took Mohan Singh a whole year to save enough, but he succeeded and got a well built.
Travelers found it very useful. The village people too were benefited. The cowherds and workers in the nearby fields now were able to quench their own and their animals’ thirst without having to trudge half a mile. At the busy planting and harvesting time they specially appreciated the well. Almost all the people of the village praised Mohan Singh for this noble deed. Some came to his house to tell him how useful the well was and how much they were benefited by it. All this pleased Mohan Singh, but he was used to this because of his many such projects.
One late evening a traveler fell in the well and drowned. No one could hear his cries for help and he did not know how to swim. As soon as the village people heard they visited the well and saw the body. The person might have been drunk, blind, weak eyed, or wanting to commit suicide. No one knew for sure. Every one was naturally sad and they all expressed sympathy for the deceased.
This much was natural and expected, but something else that was not so natural began to be heard. Some people began to criticize Mohan Singh for being careless. ‘He shouldn’t have built the well so near the road and so far from the village. Why did he not consult the village council? He built it to win praise. He did not give enough thought to accidents such as this one,’ so on and so forth.
Mohan Singh too felt sad over the death of a stranger, but the villagers’ comments made him sadder. He withdrew into seclusion and pondered deeply over the whole thing. He kept thinking of the lesson he was being taught by this tragedy. After much deep thinking thought came to his mind that the masses neither see with a clear focus, nor think with one mind. They therefore oscillate very widely like the pendulum. Accidents too, are a part of life and they will occur even if you take all the possible precautions.
Mohan Singh learned that wise men take both praise and criticism in their stride. He also remembered one of Guru Nanak’s bhajans in which he says, “sukh dukh donon sam kari jane aur maan apmana, harsh shok te rahe atita, tin jag tatwa pichhana.”
Partap
June 21, 2008
Eyewitness Account of Violence at the time of Partition of India, June 07, 2008
Eyewitness Account of Violence at the Time of Partition of India in 1947
In July 1947 my father’s elder brother’s second son was to be married. His part of our family lived in a town in the Punjab called Jaranwala in Llyalpur district. That happens also to be my birthplace. The bride to be was from Jammu. The couple had been engaged for more than six months, but the date for their wedding had kept getting postponed for various reasons. One of the minor reasons was the political turmoil feared during impending quitting of the British from India. I say “minor” because no real violence was expected. Finally, when it became clear that the country was definitely going to be divided and a new state of Pakistan to be formed there seemed no point in postponing the marriage. We knew that Jaranwala and two other places where we had family and property were going to become part of Pakistan. This much was quite clear. In fact this clarity made people less apprehensive, for they thought they would become Pakistani citizens. That was not much of a problem. In fact fixing of the date for marriage less than a month before partition indicates that people were feeling quite secure.
Yet, there was small lurking fear that some violence may occur for a few days after partition. My father, however, decided that he would go to attend the wedding. Mainly for the fun of it, my younger sister 13 and I 16, wanted also to accompany him. My mother had died a year earlier. Our father agreed to take us. As I recall now, he thought it might be better if we were together at that troubled time. So all of us went, attended the wedding and had a lot of fun. The political situation had remained more or less the same. My father wanted quickly to return to Karachi to attend to his business, but we wanted to visit our sisters for two or three weeks. A plan was made that my sister and I would go first to my elder sister in a nearby town Tandlianwala and after that I alone should visit my second sister who lived about 200 kilometers away to the west in a small village near Sialkot. My sister was to stay on in Tandlianwala for an extended period.
The opportunity to travel alone by train, bus and horse cart was for me like a God send. I had a good idea of the route I needed to take, but my older cousins explained everything to me in detail. I still have vivid images of this journey etched in my mind. First part of the trip was in a train. It was so crowded there was no chance of my getting to sit on a bench. I put my little rolled up holdall on the floor and sat on it. Cheap paperback books had just become available. I had seen them in the hands of American soldiers in Karachi. Some of them soon began to appear in second hand bookstalls. I used to buy and read them. On this journey I had one and it helped to pass time. I was conscious of some fellow passengers noticing with awe a small boy reading an English book!
I faintly remember spending the night with a relative in Lahore and then being put on a bus for the next lap. From the bus station I took a Tonga (horse cart) and reached my destination called Judhala, a tiny village where my mother had grown up and an aunt and a cousin lived with their husbands and children. I had never been in a village so small, but I liked it immensely. Few houses, mostly owned by the moneylenders, were built with burnt bricks. The rest were built with mud and covered with mud and animal dung plaster. They looked clean and fresh, and, to my eye very impressive.
My sister and brother-in-law were in Jammu at that time. It was a large city and the capital of the Kashmir State. My sister’s family received me with warm affection. The food tasted delicious and walks through the fields were great. The family owned a small handloom cloth factory where they made interesting, colorful fabrics that I was told had a good market in Jammu. I spent several hours each day in the factory and watched workers doing various tasks required in producing the finished product. There were three boys in the family, two of them about my age. They treated me as a friend and took me around to show me their favorite haunts. I remember visiting some mango orchards where we tasted some of the best that I ever had.
Several days passed. We were approaching the fateful Independence Day, and the day when Judhala would become part of a new country, Pakistan. People talked about it and were curious what the future would bring, but they did not appear apprehensive. However, on August 14, my sister’s father-in-law said that he would feel better if I cut my stay and go over to Jammu, better avoid traveling on the day of the big change. So I got on a train from Sialkot and was in Jammu in a couple of hours.
The Big Day of August 15, 1947
We heard Nehru’s ‘Tryst with Destiny’ speech in Parliament over the radio. I did not understand even half of it but the spirit of the day washed over all of us whether or not we understood the words of our leaders. There were meetings all over the city of Jammu and processions of happy citizens shouting slogans. Some people were dressed in new clothes like on a festival. I remember attending a meeting near our home. It was a huge gathering of people.
Life continued in its familiar routine the next day. But a pall seemed to be hanging over us and the apparent calm seemed unreal. There was movement of the army on the roads on both sides of the new border. Normal public buses had gone off the road and we felt temporarily closed in. After about a week of this my brother–in-law began to suspect that the unrest might continue for a long time. To keep me occupied he enrolled me in the local high school. I remember the school very well. It was in an old but well maintained big building. Our teachers were good and we settled down quite fast. After about 3 months the local situation began to deteriorate rapidly and the school was closed.
There was no news about my father in Karachi, my oldest sister, or my cousins in Jaranwala. Even from nearby Judhala there was no news. After about 4 months some refugees began to come to Jammu from the neighboring Sialkot district. They told gory tales. Muslims of the area had turned against all non-Muslims, particularly Hindus and Sikhs. The government machinery had collapsed, the police had turned biased in favor of Muslims and the army was not fully able to restrain the violence. Hindus and Sikhs were forced to leave their villages and walk to Indian Punjab to the south. Old people, small children, mothers with newborn babies, the sick; everyone had to leave.
We later heard that initially the Muslims of Judhala promised full support to the Hindus. They even said that they would protect them with their lives. But as violence spread in the surrounding villages they felt helpless and withdrew support.
The Hindus and Sikhs of Judhala then made up their mind to leave. They joined neighboring villages to form a small group. As they moved, other groups merged with them seeking safety in numbers. Some of them contained more than ten thousand individuals. Muslim fanatics attacked them. Many were killed. Some women were snatched from the group and dragged away. The refugees were totally unarmed. The local Muslims had crude weapons such as swords, sickles, choppers, knives, or sticks. A few had old muzzle loading guns. With this crude assortment they managed to massacre a large number of frightened, unarmed, and uprooted persons. Their only protection was army units consisting of Hindu and Sikh soldiers. Time and time again whole groups were saved by just a handful of them. These soldiers had orders to shoot and kill, but often their mere presence was enough to scare the attackers away. According to official figures (always lower than actual) half a million were killed.
Most refugees that came to Jammu had lost some members of their families. Some had lost all. Most were injured, some quite badly. All were angry and seething to avenge the harm done to them. They began to crowd around Muslim areas in the city and make threatening gestures. Unfortunately, the Muslims too turned hostile. They tried to turn their streets into fortified camps. The hotheads among them fired gunshots to show off their strength. The refugees were itching for a fight anyway. Riots broke out. Refugees and local Hindu hoodlums attacked Muslims. One of the main streets, in the center of town was overrun and almost everyone (all Muslims) killed in all night mayhem. Even without waiting for the area to be cleaned the refugees began to move into the vacant houses.
The strain of these sudden developments flustered the city administration. They quickly moved all Muslims out of the city and attempted to transport them to the Pakistan border. To witness the scene I went to the big camp and bus station organized outside the city. It was not a sight of efficient organization. In some sections buses were loading and leaving regularly, but elsewhere Hindu and Sikh refugees from Pakistan were attacking the refuges with impunity. Hundreds were killed or wounded. I saw a woman being dragged out of a bus by two strong men and tried to intervene. The people nearby were in the grip of such terrible frenzy they turned on me and drove me away.
The city reeked with the stink of rotting dead bodies. Volunteers were called to transport them to a river about 15 kilometers away. I offered my help and witnessed scenes whose memory even to this day makes my hair stand.
Pakistani Invasion of Kashmir
As unrest spread in the state of Jammu and Kashmir, the Maharaja decided to cede to the Indian Union. Almost within a week Pakistan army attacked Kashmir. In order to augment their strength they brought a large number of armed Afghan tribesmen. To repulse this the Indian army needed to airlift men and supplies. Jammu airstrip was in poor condition. Volunteers were called to repair it quickly. I volunteered. Being only a young teenager I was asked to join the team responsible for collecting food from homes in the city and bringing it in trucks to the airport. People were generous and kind. We were able to supply lunch to a thousand volunteers for nearly a week. I vividly remember the experience to this day.
Nearly six months had passed. We learned that all our relatives, except my father, were somewhere on the road in Pakistan trying to reach the border and cross over to the Indian Punjab. We heard that my father was in Karachi where peace still prevailed. We had no idea of the condition in which our other relatives were. The worst case among our closest relatives was of a sister of my brother-in-law. She had come to Judhala from Amritsar for delivery. She gave birth to a baby boy just about ten days before they had to leave home and take to the road. It was hard for her, but she made it safely. My brother-in-law and I left Jammu and tried to work our way to Amritsar where we thought our relatives will try to go if they safely crossed the border.
There were no buses on the road. Part of the way we hitched rides on military vehicles. Rest of the way we walked. We safely reached Pathankot after completing the more difficult half of our journey. The road surface at that time was soft and there were no bridges over several streams that flowed across it in the rainy season. If it rained one had to stop and wait sometimes for several days. The road from Pathankot to Amritsar goes parallel to the Pakistan border only 2 to 4 kilometers to the south. It was a hard surface all weather road, but there were no public buses on this road either. So we had to take rides on military or private trucks. In several places we saw dead bodies on both sides of the road. These were of Muslims who came from the Indian Punjab and were trying to go to Pakistan. Violence in Pakistan inflamed anger on the Indian side and vice versa.
Just a short distance from Amritsar we saw two large groups coming from the opposite directions. The Hindus and Sikhs were coming from Pakistan and the Muslims were going from the Indian Punjab northward. They were 15 to 20 meters apart, well within shouting distance. A few people shouted insults from one side and there was an equally strong response from the other. The altercation became louder and some people left their group and ran toward the other. There was a prolonged hand-to-hand fighting. But soon, somehow, the fight stopped and the groups started walking. Such fights were not uncommon and in spite of the fact that people did not have any weapons, a lot of injuries were inflicted.
All told ½ to 3/4th of a million people lost their lives. Probably three times as many got injured, and a total of nearly ten million were displaced from their homes of several centuries. The question in my mind still arises, why did all this happened? Yes, there was a lot of political excitement. Some leaders, particularly of the Muslim League threatened violence. Of course there were hot heads among the Hindus and Sikhs also. But the Muslim League had only recently become strong and their demand for a separate Pakistan was by no means granted. It was in doubt until just a few months before the day fixed for freedom. Their utterances did create panic. But it was by no means very serious. For as I have mentioned above, even to the Independence Day, August 15, Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan were calm. So were the Muslims in the Indian Punjab. People had been living together in villages and cities together for centuries. They were neighbors, friends and business partners. Their trust in each other’s sense of decency was strong. Even the fiery speeches of the political leaders were not very effective. People thought that things would cool down after the division of the country was finally completed. What happened?
Lure of Land, Buildings and Valuables
Some Mullahs had been talking about a purely Islamic state in Pakistan, but Mr. Jinnah and other Muslim League leaders had stressed the coexistence of different religious minorities.
Some common people in villages of West Punjab too, were threatening violence, but no one believed that Hindus and Sikhs could be forced out and then kept out for good. But when the local government machinery, the police, and the military turned communal more people began to believe that what they thought was impossible could happen. More and more of the people set their sights on their neighbors’ property. That was the turning point. People saw profit in forcing their neighbors to migrate to India. The Hindus and Sikhs happened to be wealthier than the Muslims. This worsened the situation.
Why did people try to chase and kill fleeing refugees? The reason seems to be the desire to keep the loot without fear of ever having to return it.
Greed motivated the Muslims in Pakistan to throw out the Hindus, and vice versa in the Indian Punjab. Soon the refugee property in both countries was allotted to new comers by the government.
My Family
Luckily all my close family members survived. Some had close brush with death, but they were lucky. My brother-in-law and I met all of them in Amritsar. From there they slowly scattered to various parts of the country. Only person we did not meet was my father. But he was quite safe in Karachi. But as Muslim refugees began to trickle into the city, unrest began there as well. My father then got on a boat and landed safely in Bombay. Few months later he came to Punjab and we were reunited.
Partap
June 7, 2008
In July 1947 my father’s elder brother’s second son was to be married. His part of our family lived in a town in the Punjab called Jaranwala in Llyalpur district. That happens also to be my birthplace. The bride to be was from Jammu. The couple had been engaged for more than six months, but the date for their wedding had kept getting postponed for various reasons. One of the minor reasons was the political turmoil feared during impending quitting of the British from India. I say “minor” because no real violence was expected. Finally, when it became clear that the country was definitely going to be divided and a new state of Pakistan to be formed there seemed no point in postponing the marriage. We knew that Jaranwala and two other places where we had family and property were going to become part of Pakistan. This much was quite clear. In fact this clarity made people less apprehensive, for they thought they would become Pakistani citizens. That was not much of a problem. In fact fixing of the date for marriage less than a month before partition indicates that people were feeling quite secure.
Yet, there was small lurking fear that some violence may occur for a few days after partition. My father, however, decided that he would go to attend the wedding. Mainly for the fun of it, my younger sister 13 and I 16, wanted also to accompany him. My mother had died a year earlier. Our father agreed to take us. As I recall now, he thought it might be better if we were together at that troubled time. So all of us went, attended the wedding and had a lot of fun. The political situation had remained more or less the same. My father wanted quickly to return to Karachi to attend to his business, but we wanted to visit our sisters for two or three weeks. A plan was made that my sister and I would go first to my elder sister in a nearby town Tandlianwala and after that I alone should visit my second sister who lived about 200 kilometers away to the west in a small village near Sialkot. My sister was to stay on in Tandlianwala for an extended period.
The opportunity to travel alone by train, bus and horse cart was for me like a God send. I had a good idea of the route I needed to take, but my older cousins explained everything to me in detail. I still have vivid images of this journey etched in my mind. First part of the trip was in a train. It was so crowded there was no chance of my getting to sit on a bench. I put my little rolled up holdall on the floor and sat on it. Cheap paperback books had just become available. I had seen them in the hands of American soldiers in Karachi. Some of them soon began to appear in second hand bookstalls. I used to buy and read them. On this journey I had one and it helped to pass time. I was conscious of some fellow passengers noticing with awe a small boy reading an English book!
I faintly remember spending the night with a relative in Lahore and then being put on a bus for the next lap. From the bus station I took a Tonga (horse cart) and reached my destination called Judhala, a tiny village where my mother had grown up and an aunt and a cousin lived with their husbands and children. I had never been in a village so small, but I liked it immensely. Few houses, mostly owned by the moneylenders, were built with burnt bricks. The rest were built with mud and covered with mud and animal dung plaster. They looked clean and fresh, and, to my eye very impressive.
My sister and brother-in-law were in Jammu at that time. It was a large city and the capital of the Kashmir State. My sister’s family received me with warm affection. The food tasted delicious and walks through the fields were great. The family owned a small handloom cloth factory where they made interesting, colorful fabrics that I was told had a good market in Jammu. I spent several hours each day in the factory and watched workers doing various tasks required in producing the finished product. There were three boys in the family, two of them about my age. They treated me as a friend and took me around to show me their favorite haunts. I remember visiting some mango orchards where we tasted some of the best that I ever had.
Several days passed. We were approaching the fateful Independence Day, and the day when Judhala would become part of a new country, Pakistan. People talked about it and were curious what the future would bring, but they did not appear apprehensive. However, on August 14, my sister’s father-in-law said that he would feel better if I cut my stay and go over to Jammu, better avoid traveling on the day of the big change. So I got on a train from Sialkot and was in Jammu in a couple of hours.
The Big Day of August 15, 1947
We heard Nehru’s ‘Tryst with Destiny’ speech in Parliament over the radio. I did not understand even half of it but the spirit of the day washed over all of us whether or not we understood the words of our leaders. There were meetings all over the city of Jammu and processions of happy citizens shouting slogans. Some people were dressed in new clothes like on a festival. I remember attending a meeting near our home. It was a huge gathering of people.
Life continued in its familiar routine the next day. But a pall seemed to be hanging over us and the apparent calm seemed unreal. There was movement of the army on the roads on both sides of the new border. Normal public buses had gone off the road and we felt temporarily closed in. After about a week of this my brother–in-law began to suspect that the unrest might continue for a long time. To keep me occupied he enrolled me in the local high school. I remember the school very well. It was in an old but well maintained big building. Our teachers were good and we settled down quite fast. After about 3 months the local situation began to deteriorate rapidly and the school was closed.
There was no news about my father in Karachi, my oldest sister, or my cousins in Jaranwala. Even from nearby Judhala there was no news. After about 4 months some refugees began to come to Jammu from the neighboring Sialkot district. They told gory tales. Muslims of the area had turned against all non-Muslims, particularly Hindus and Sikhs. The government machinery had collapsed, the police had turned biased in favor of Muslims and the army was not fully able to restrain the violence. Hindus and Sikhs were forced to leave their villages and walk to Indian Punjab to the south. Old people, small children, mothers with newborn babies, the sick; everyone had to leave.
We later heard that initially the Muslims of Judhala promised full support to the Hindus. They even said that they would protect them with their lives. But as violence spread in the surrounding villages they felt helpless and withdrew support.
The Hindus and Sikhs of Judhala then made up their mind to leave. They joined neighboring villages to form a small group. As they moved, other groups merged with them seeking safety in numbers. Some of them contained more than ten thousand individuals. Muslim fanatics attacked them. Many were killed. Some women were snatched from the group and dragged away. The refugees were totally unarmed. The local Muslims had crude weapons such as swords, sickles, choppers, knives, or sticks. A few had old muzzle loading guns. With this crude assortment they managed to massacre a large number of frightened, unarmed, and uprooted persons. Their only protection was army units consisting of Hindu and Sikh soldiers. Time and time again whole groups were saved by just a handful of them. These soldiers had orders to shoot and kill, but often their mere presence was enough to scare the attackers away. According to official figures (always lower than actual) half a million were killed.
Most refugees that came to Jammu had lost some members of their families. Some had lost all. Most were injured, some quite badly. All were angry and seething to avenge the harm done to them. They began to crowd around Muslim areas in the city and make threatening gestures. Unfortunately, the Muslims too turned hostile. They tried to turn their streets into fortified camps. The hotheads among them fired gunshots to show off their strength. The refugees were itching for a fight anyway. Riots broke out. Refugees and local Hindu hoodlums attacked Muslims. One of the main streets, in the center of town was overrun and almost everyone (all Muslims) killed in all night mayhem. Even without waiting for the area to be cleaned the refugees began to move into the vacant houses.
The strain of these sudden developments flustered the city administration. They quickly moved all Muslims out of the city and attempted to transport them to the Pakistan border. To witness the scene I went to the big camp and bus station organized outside the city. It was not a sight of efficient organization. In some sections buses were loading and leaving regularly, but elsewhere Hindu and Sikh refugees from Pakistan were attacking the refuges with impunity. Hundreds were killed or wounded. I saw a woman being dragged out of a bus by two strong men and tried to intervene. The people nearby were in the grip of such terrible frenzy they turned on me and drove me away.
The city reeked with the stink of rotting dead bodies. Volunteers were called to transport them to a river about 15 kilometers away. I offered my help and witnessed scenes whose memory even to this day makes my hair stand.
Pakistani Invasion of Kashmir
As unrest spread in the state of Jammu and Kashmir, the Maharaja decided to cede to the Indian Union. Almost within a week Pakistan army attacked Kashmir. In order to augment their strength they brought a large number of armed Afghan tribesmen. To repulse this the Indian army needed to airlift men and supplies. Jammu airstrip was in poor condition. Volunteers were called to repair it quickly. I volunteered. Being only a young teenager I was asked to join the team responsible for collecting food from homes in the city and bringing it in trucks to the airport. People were generous and kind. We were able to supply lunch to a thousand volunteers for nearly a week. I vividly remember the experience to this day.
Nearly six months had passed. We learned that all our relatives, except my father, were somewhere on the road in Pakistan trying to reach the border and cross over to the Indian Punjab. We heard that my father was in Karachi where peace still prevailed. We had no idea of the condition in which our other relatives were. The worst case among our closest relatives was of a sister of my brother-in-law. She had come to Judhala from Amritsar for delivery. She gave birth to a baby boy just about ten days before they had to leave home and take to the road. It was hard for her, but she made it safely. My brother-in-law and I left Jammu and tried to work our way to Amritsar where we thought our relatives will try to go if they safely crossed the border.
There were no buses on the road. Part of the way we hitched rides on military vehicles. Rest of the way we walked. We safely reached Pathankot after completing the more difficult half of our journey. The road surface at that time was soft and there were no bridges over several streams that flowed across it in the rainy season. If it rained one had to stop and wait sometimes for several days. The road from Pathankot to Amritsar goes parallel to the Pakistan border only 2 to 4 kilometers to the south. It was a hard surface all weather road, but there were no public buses on this road either. So we had to take rides on military or private trucks. In several places we saw dead bodies on both sides of the road. These were of Muslims who came from the Indian Punjab and were trying to go to Pakistan. Violence in Pakistan inflamed anger on the Indian side and vice versa.
Just a short distance from Amritsar we saw two large groups coming from the opposite directions. The Hindus and Sikhs were coming from Pakistan and the Muslims were going from the Indian Punjab northward. They were 15 to 20 meters apart, well within shouting distance. A few people shouted insults from one side and there was an equally strong response from the other. The altercation became louder and some people left their group and ran toward the other. There was a prolonged hand-to-hand fighting. But soon, somehow, the fight stopped and the groups started walking. Such fights were not uncommon and in spite of the fact that people did not have any weapons, a lot of injuries were inflicted.
All told ½ to 3/4th of a million people lost their lives. Probably three times as many got injured, and a total of nearly ten million were displaced from their homes of several centuries. The question in my mind still arises, why did all this happened? Yes, there was a lot of political excitement. Some leaders, particularly of the Muslim League threatened violence. Of course there were hot heads among the Hindus and Sikhs also. But the Muslim League had only recently become strong and their demand for a separate Pakistan was by no means granted. It was in doubt until just a few months before the day fixed for freedom. Their utterances did create panic. But it was by no means very serious. For as I have mentioned above, even to the Independence Day, August 15, Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan were calm. So were the Muslims in the Indian Punjab. People had been living together in villages and cities together for centuries. They were neighbors, friends and business partners. Their trust in each other’s sense of decency was strong. Even the fiery speeches of the political leaders were not very effective. People thought that things would cool down after the division of the country was finally completed. What happened?
Lure of Land, Buildings and Valuables
Some Mullahs had been talking about a purely Islamic state in Pakistan, but Mr. Jinnah and other Muslim League leaders had stressed the coexistence of different religious minorities.
Some common people in villages of West Punjab too, were threatening violence, but no one believed that Hindus and Sikhs could be forced out and then kept out for good. But when the local government machinery, the police, and the military turned communal more people began to believe that what they thought was impossible could happen. More and more of the people set their sights on their neighbors’ property. That was the turning point. People saw profit in forcing their neighbors to migrate to India. The Hindus and Sikhs happened to be wealthier than the Muslims. This worsened the situation.
Why did people try to chase and kill fleeing refugees? The reason seems to be the desire to keep the loot without fear of ever having to return it.
Greed motivated the Muslims in Pakistan to throw out the Hindus, and vice versa in the Indian Punjab. Soon the refugee property in both countries was allotted to new comers by the government.
My Family
Luckily all my close family members survived. Some had close brush with death, but they were lucky. My brother-in-law and I met all of them in Amritsar. From there they slowly scattered to various parts of the country. Only person we did not meet was my father. But he was quite safe in Karachi. But as Muslim refugees began to trickle into the city, unrest began there as well. My father then got on a boat and landed safely in Bombay. Few months later he came to Punjab and we were reunited.
Partap
June 7, 2008
We Have Keys to Both Heaven and Hell
We Have Keys Both to Hell and Heaven
This story is from Japan and it dates back to the time when a soldier’s deadliest weapon was a sword. It has been told in many forms and in many countries. I know you have heard it for in India we have this story in many versions. But I think it is worth retelling.
A young man went to a Zen teacher and said, “Sir, I wish to learn about the nature of hell and heaven. And I must learn fast for I very little time to spare.”
The teacher looked at him from head to foot and offered him a seat close to himself. He then asked, “Young man what do you do for a living?”
“ I am a Samurai, a soldier.”
“ But you look like a beggar. What kind of a fool has given you a soldier’s job?”
The young man felt offended. He turned red in the face and fumed. His hand went to the handle of his sword. He pulls it out of its scabbard.
“Oh, so you want to chop my head off. But as I can see this sword of yours will not cut even a pencil.”
He was about to swing his weapon when he heard the teacher say, “Brave man, you have just opened the gate of hell with a key you were given at birth.”
The young man was smart enough to know that his first lecture had been delivered. He admitted his mistake and returned the sword into its container.
The teacher then taught: “Now if you wish to go to heaven you can do that also right now, for all of us are born not with one but two keys one to hell and the other to the gate of heaven. Anger, lust, greed, injustice, senseless violence, denying other beings their birth right to equal respect make up the key to hell. The key with which we can open the gate of heaven every moment is made up of love, kindness, peace, contentment with the daily bread, willingness to share, and to respect others as our equals.”
The young Samurai was satisfied with the crash course given by the learned teacher. He bowed low to thank the Guru and left quietly as he had come.
Partap
May 17, 2008
This story is from Japan and it dates back to the time when a soldier’s deadliest weapon was a sword. It has been told in many forms and in many countries. I know you have heard it for in India we have this story in many versions. But I think it is worth retelling.
A young man went to a Zen teacher and said, “Sir, I wish to learn about the nature of hell and heaven. And I must learn fast for I very little time to spare.”
The teacher looked at him from head to foot and offered him a seat close to himself. He then asked, “Young man what do you do for a living?”
“ I am a Samurai, a soldier.”
“ But you look like a beggar. What kind of a fool has given you a soldier’s job?”
The young man felt offended. He turned red in the face and fumed. His hand went to the handle of his sword. He pulls it out of its scabbard.
“Oh, so you want to chop my head off. But as I can see this sword of yours will not cut even a pencil.”
He was about to swing his weapon when he heard the teacher say, “Brave man, you have just opened the gate of hell with a key you were given at birth.”
The young man was smart enough to know that his first lecture had been delivered. He admitted his mistake and returned the sword into its container.
The teacher then taught: “Now if you wish to go to heaven you can do that also right now, for all of us are born not with one but two keys one to hell and the other to the gate of heaven. Anger, lust, greed, injustice, senseless violence, denying other beings their birth right to equal respect make up the key to hell. The key with which we can open the gate of heaven every moment is made up of love, kindness, peace, contentment with the daily bread, willingness to share, and to respect others as our equals.”
The young Samurai was satisfied with the crash course given by the learned teacher. He bowed low to thank the Guru and left quietly as he had come.
Partap
May 17, 2008
Mirror For the Guru
A Mirror for the Guru
[This story is believed to be true. It is more than 300 years old. I heard it last month from an 80-year-old Sikh blacksmith who still earns his daily bread by using his ‘ten nails’, i.e. his own old and worn fingers. Ironically nails from most of them have been worn off. But he is always cheerful and has a story for me every time I visit him. He lives in a town called Taran Taran in Punjab. I go there once in two years to visit my cousins.]
Guru Gobind Singh was organizing an army to fight the Afghan rulers of Punjab whose oppression against the Hindu native population had become unbearable. To seek popular support in the form of money and men he traveled from town to town and personally explained his mission. He asked that each family give their eldest son. People had such faith in him that they gave both quite generously.
One day the Guru was camping in a small town called Haripur. People came from villages all around the town for the Guru’s darshan and blessings. All of them brought big or small gifts. There were tiny individual gifts as well as large expensive offerings made by communities and villages. Every evening the gifts were examined by a committee of prominent disciples and stored according to their value and use.
One day the committee found among the gifts a cheap small pocket mirror. They wondered who might have brought such a gift and for what reason. Some suspected a prank at its back.
On making enquiries they found that it was a gift given on behalf of a village named Talwandi Sabo and its leaders were still in Haripur. A report was sent to Guru Gobind Singh complaining that people of a village had tried to insult him and the entire Sikh community. Guruji called a meeting and summoned the accused to explain their behavior.
The leader of the village humbly explained: “Guruji, we hold you in highest reverence. We would never even dream of insulting you or anyone in the Sikh community. We are very poor, but we wanted to bring a gift as we came. Since it was difficult for us to decide what to bring we asked a saadh (a hermit) who lives in our village. He suggested that a mirror would be a good gift.”
The saadh was summoned and asked to give an explanation. He said, “Sir, these people had so little money to spare that I did not have much choice. I thought that on using the mirror to tie your turban every morning you would think of these villagers and bless them. I am sure that with this their luck would improve.”
Everyone, including Guru Gobind Singh, was impressed. The humble gift was gracefully accepted. Both the villagers and the saadh benefited immensely in their separate pursuits, for the Guru did indeed bless them every morning.
Partap
May 10, 2008
Bhamra ji
I have seen this mirror in Talwandi Sabo Sikh Grudwara in Punjab and Gurusahib gave blessings by saying that this mirror will cure the paralytics whose face gets twisted due to disease and I saw people getting cured after sitting in front of the mirror and chewing chana, parched chick peas. Regards. Uday
Captive Brave, a translation of Bandi Bir by Rabindranath Tagore
On the banks of the Five Rivers,
Braided hair upon their heads,
Day by day awakes the Sikh nation,
Inspired by their Guru's words-
Relentless and unafraid.
"Victory to Guruji" resounds far and near
Proclaimed by a thousand voices.
Newly arisen Sikhs gaze
At the sun of the new dawn
Unblinking.
" Alakh Niranjan" – their great cry arises
All bonds broken,
All fear dispelled.
Swords ring out in high exultation
Held next their hearts
Punjab today cries out
" Impeccable Invisible God".
Such a day comes-
Their hearts without care
Hundred thousands know no fear
Neither know burdens of debt
Life and death are alike
Servants at their feet.
Such a day has come
Around the ten banks of the Five Rivers.
At the pinnacle of his Delhi citadel,
What interrupts the slumber
Of the great Emperor-
Whose voices are churning the heavens
Severing the deepest darkness?
Whose torches are lighting the fire
Upon the firmament's brow?
On the banks of the Five Rivers
A hundred thousand breasts torn
The waves of blood run free at last
From the mass of the faithful.
Scores of souls like birds
Fly toward their nests.
With their blood do the bravehearts draw
The sacred sign upon their Mother's brow.
Best wishes and much love,
[This story is believed to be true. It is more than 300 years old. I heard it last month from an 80-year-old Sikh blacksmith who still earns his daily bread by using his ‘ten nails’, i.e. his own old and worn fingers. Ironically nails from most of them have been worn off. But he is always cheerful and has a story for me every time I visit him. He lives in a town called Taran Taran in Punjab. I go there once in two years to visit my cousins.]
Guru Gobind Singh was organizing an army to fight the Afghan rulers of Punjab whose oppression against the Hindu native population had become unbearable. To seek popular support in the form of money and men he traveled from town to town and personally explained his mission. He asked that each family give their eldest son. People had such faith in him that they gave both quite generously.
One day the Guru was camping in a small town called Haripur. People came from villages all around the town for the Guru’s darshan and blessings. All of them brought big or small gifts. There were tiny individual gifts as well as large expensive offerings made by communities and villages. Every evening the gifts were examined by a committee of prominent disciples and stored according to their value and use.
One day the committee found among the gifts a cheap small pocket mirror. They wondered who might have brought such a gift and for what reason. Some suspected a prank at its back.
On making enquiries they found that it was a gift given on behalf of a village named Talwandi Sabo and its leaders were still in Haripur. A report was sent to Guru Gobind Singh complaining that people of a village had tried to insult him and the entire Sikh community. Guruji called a meeting and summoned the accused to explain their behavior.
The leader of the village humbly explained: “Guruji, we hold you in highest reverence. We would never even dream of insulting you or anyone in the Sikh community. We are very poor, but we wanted to bring a gift as we came. Since it was difficult for us to decide what to bring we asked a saadh (a hermit) who lives in our village. He suggested that a mirror would be a good gift.”
The saadh was summoned and asked to give an explanation. He said, “Sir, these people had so little money to spare that I did not have much choice. I thought that on using the mirror to tie your turban every morning you would think of these villagers and bless them. I am sure that with this their luck would improve.”
Everyone, including Guru Gobind Singh, was impressed. The humble gift was gracefully accepted. Both the villagers and the saadh benefited immensely in their separate pursuits, for the Guru did indeed bless them every morning.
Partap
May 10, 2008
Bhamra ji
I have seen this mirror in Talwandi Sabo Sikh Grudwara in Punjab and Gurusahib gave blessings by saying that this mirror will cure the paralytics whose face gets twisted due to disease and I saw people getting cured after sitting in front of the mirror and chewing chana, parched chick peas. Regards. Uday
Captive Brave, a translation of Bandi Bir by Rabindranath Tagore
On the banks of the Five Rivers,
Braided hair upon their heads,
Day by day awakes the Sikh nation,
Inspired by their Guru's words-
Relentless and unafraid.
"Victory to Guruji" resounds far and near
Proclaimed by a thousand voices.
Newly arisen Sikhs gaze
At the sun of the new dawn
Unblinking.
" Alakh Niranjan" – their great cry arises
All bonds broken,
All fear dispelled.
Swords ring out in high exultation
Held next their hearts
Punjab today cries out
" Impeccable Invisible God".
Such a day comes-
Their hearts without care
Hundred thousands know no fear
Neither know burdens of debt
Life and death are alike
Servants at their feet.
Such a day has come
Around the ten banks of the Five Rivers.
At the pinnacle of his Delhi citadel,
What interrupts the slumber
Of the great Emperor-
Whose voices are churning the heavens
Severing the deepest darkness?
Whose torches are lighting the fire
Upon the firmament's brow?
On the banks of the Five Rivers
A hundred thousand breasts torn
The waves of blood run free at last
From the mass of the faithful.
Scores of souls like birds
Fly toward their nests.
With their blood do the bravehearts draw
The sacred sign upon their Mother's brow.
Best wishes and much love,
Cartoonist Shankar Learns from Two Great Men
Cartoonist Shankar Learns from Two Great Men
Once Shankar, India’s top cartoonist of the time went to Wardha to observe a Congress Working Committee meeting. Gandhi, Nehru, Patel, Rajaji and many other national leaders were participating.
Jamnalal Bajaj was the host. Shankar happened to come to lunch a couple of minutes ahead of the others. He sat down in one of the rooms not knowing that it was reserved for the big leaders. Jamnalal Bajaj came and told Shankar and requested him to move to another room. Shankar was embarrassed and he felt insulted.
Rajaji heard this and went to console Shankar. He said you know these Marwaris have no culture. They only know how to make money.
Gandhiji also heard of the incident. He looked out for Shankar and said to him. Rascal, you deserve it. You have been making fun of all of us for years. Now you get it in your own coin.
Gandhi did really possess the wit, didn’t he?
Partap
May 24, 2008
Once Shankar, India’s top cartoonist of the time went to Wardha to observe a Congress Working Committee meeting. Gandhi, Nehru, Patel, Rajaji and many other national leaders were participating.
Jamnalal Bajaj was the host. Shankar happened to come to lunch a couple of minutes ahead of the others. He sat down in one of the rooms not knowing that it was reserved for the big leaders. Jamnalal Bajaj came and told Shankar and requested him to move to another room. Shankar was embarrassed and he felt insulted.
Rajaji heard this and went to console Shankar. He said you know these Marwaris have no culture. They only know how to make money.
Gandhiji also heard of the incident. He looked out for Shankar and said to him. Rascal, you deserve it. You have been making fun of all of us for years. Now you get it in your own coin.
Gandhi did really possess the wit, didn’t he?
Partap
May 24, 2008
My One Year in Wardha
My One Year at Wardha
Towards the end of my last year of college at Batala (1951) I had firmly made up my mind that after finishing my degree I would go and work in a village. This was in response to Gandhiji’s call to all young men and women to work for the reconstruction of the time tested Indian decentralized rural culture. I knew I was city born and raised. So the first thing I needed to do was to live and work at a farm to gain experience of agriculture and animal husbandry. I knew very clearly that it could not be at a university or a government farm, for their commitment would not be the revival of the self-reliant traditional Indian village. The suitable place for me would have to be a Gandhian institution or some other place run by people of a similar orientation.
My father and sisters knew this but none of them approved my plan. My elder sister advised me not to make any move till my younger sister was married. In the meantime she said I should go and live in Bombay with my father. I hated to live in Bombay, but in deference to the family need I agreed to go and, those 15 months were my worst anywhere. We lived in a one-room tenement in a typical Mumbai chawl. One queued to use the toilet in the morning and spent the day either in that 8X10 foot room or in the hardware market 4 kilometers away doing what did not fit the definition of work in my dictionary. Anyway I made some young friends in the hardware market, helped organize a housing society, and did some running around for it.
My sister’s marriage was arranged in the middle of 1952 in Delhi. I went there and provided whatever help I was capable of. A couple of months after the wedding I packed my bag and left home to chase my cherished but rather vague dream. I was 21 and a college graduate. I had a lot of life’s hard experience gained during the turbulent years of partition of India in 1947. But I had never lived on my own, nor had any work experience. I had barely enough money to buy rail tickets to Wardha and no contacts to help me in my quest.
My first stop was at Allahabad in UP. The newly started Community Development Program had just begun and they had set up a large training program for village workers with American assistance. I arrived at this place, met a couple of people, and told them what I was looking for. Luckily one of them took me seriously and arranged for me to stay in a hostel for a week and learn what that organization was trying to do. He even obtained some food coupons that I could use to exchange for food at their American style cafeteria. The experience I gained at this vibrant new initiative was highly educative. I got an impression of what was being thought for the development of the villages. It did not quite fit what I thought Gandhi had said. I decided to go on and see what other alternatives were available.
I next went to a newly established Quaker project in Barpalli, in the state of Orissa. It was a small set up with about 8 American and British expatriates who had recruited a batch of 10 young local workers whom they were in the process of training. Their objective was quite clear. A new large Dam was being built in the area (Hirakud). The dam would make available water for irrigation and a huge amount of electricity. The government would build roads and establish motorized vehicular transport network for movement of goods and people. The Quakers were to prepare the villagers to make use of these new resources to their optimum advantage and smoothly move into the industrial lifestyle. They kindly let me stay for a few days to learn about their work. They too tried to assess my abilities and thought of what advise to give me. After about a week they said that in their opinion I should work in an area where I could speak the local language. This meant Punjab or a Hindi speaking state.
My next port of call was Wardha where Gandhi had lived for many decades and where a variety of institutions had sprouted to promote different aspects of the village self-rule idea Gandhi ji had been promoting. This place appealed to me instantly. I stayed in a guest room in Maganwari in Wardha town, met several people and explained what I was looking for. Several of them advised me to go and check the Goseva Sangh farm in Pipri 8 kilometers away. I went there and found that they had a 30-acre farm to produce food for their community and fodder for a herd of 200 heads of cattle. Their major objective was to upgrade the local Gaolau cattle. It was a good sturdy breed that gave the farmer hefty work animals but their milk yield was poor. So they were trying to make it a dual-purpose animal.
At the helm of this endeavor was a very competent scientist named Prabhu (not his real name). He had studied molecular biology at Bombay University but through practical experience acquired considerable expertise in Animal breeding. His zeal for the work at Pipri was transparent and contagious. He already had two very able and enthusiastic assistants. Luckily for me he thought there was room for a raw youth on his team. Seeing that I was well built and strong he made me part of a team of workers who cleaned the cattle shed every morning. It involved getting up at 4:00am and being on the job a half hour later. With a team of 5 regular employees and 3 or 4 volunteers out of the current resident trainees we collected the droppings of 200 animals and transported the excreta to a compost making station in a bullock cart. Then the cowshed was swept and washed. Prabhu gave me a couple of books on the subject of compost making. With his help I studied these books meticulously and soon became enthusiastic. I was given longer hours in the compost making work after about a couple of weeks. Prabhu himself came regularly to the compost shed to give personal guidance.
It was hard work of the kind I had never done before, so I was sore from foot to shoulders every evening. But I began soon to enjoy it. One morning my father came from Bombay to visit me unannounced. It was about 11:00am. Someone led him to where I was working. Needless to say he was mortally disappointed. The impression he formed of me that day stayed with him almost all his life. Even my becoming a university professor later did not fully erase it!
During my stay at Pipri I learned a lot about the microbiology of compost making, genetics of cattle upgrading, agriculture, and simple living an the land. I was able to eat the peasants’ food, work hard like the average of them, and a lot more. Prabhu took me with him on his visits to many cattle breeding farms, agricultural establishments, and places where they worked on compost making, processing of milk, fruit orchards and places where they processed and preserved fruit. We visited several renowned places in Bangalore, Barielly in UP, Karnal in Haryana, Pusa in Delhi, and many more. I am sure my mentor was organizing these visits partly for my benefit.
After I had been at Pipri for about six months Prabhu invited me to shift to a large room in his house and eat my meals with him and his wife Janaki (not her real name). My hostel room was not good and the food too had been unsatisfactory. I shifted.
Both Prabhu and Janaki were very generous and kind to me. But I noticed that their behavior was a bit strange. I slowly learned that between them they were carrying a weight of an unfortunate incident that had driven Janaki to the point of losing mental balance. Prabhu had a close friend. Soon after marriage he had a bad fall from which he recovered but found that he had lost his fecundity. Both he and his wife wanted a couple of children. Prabhu obliged the couple. Janaki found out and was unable to forgive her husband.
Now, Prabhu ‘imagined’ that Janaki had a crush on me although she was nearly old enough to be my mother. He thought that an affair with me might give her a sense of breaking even with him. This, he reasoned, might cure her. I felt very uncomfortable and made up my mind to quit Pipri. But I had to find another job and leave without offending my mentor. So I began to visit various institutions around Wardha where I had friends. I spent time at Vinoba’s Paunar, Gopuri, Maganwari and Sevagram. During this time I got an invitation to attend a fortnight long reunion of Quaker seminar alumni at Rasulia. I went and luckily found a good job there. So, to my great relief, I was able to resign at Pipri and leave.
Partap
March 8, 2008
Towards the end of my last year of college at Batala (1951) I had firmly made up my mind that after finishing my degree I would go and work in a village. This was in response to Gandhiji’s call to all young men and women to work for the reconstruction of the time tested Indian decentralized rural culture. I knew I was city born and raised. So the first thing I needed to do was to live and work at a farm to gain experience of agriculture and animal husbandry. I knew very clearly that it could not be at a university or a government farm, for their commitment would not be the revival of the self-reliant traditional Indian village. The suitable place for me would have to be a Gandhian institution or some other place run by people of a similar orientation.
My father and sisters knew this but none of them approved my plan. My elder sister advised me not to make any move till my younger sister was married. In the meantime she said I should go and live in Bombay with my father. I hated to live in Bombay, but in deference to the family need I agreed to go and, those 15 months were my worst anywhere. We lived in a one-room tenement in a typical Mumbai chawl. One queued to use the toilet in the morning and spent the day either in that 8X10 foot room or in the hardware market 4 kilometers away doing what did not fit the definition of work in my dictionary. Anyway I made some young friends in the hardware market, helped organize a housing society, and did some running around for it.
My sister’s marriage was arranged in the middle of 1952 in Delhi. I went there and provided whatever help I was capable of. A couple of months after the wedding I packed my bag and left home to chase my cherished but rather vague dream. I was 21 and a college graduate. I had a lot of life’s hard experience gained during the turbulent years of partition of India in 1947. But I had never lived on my own, nor had any work experience. I had barely enough money to buy rail tickets to Wardha and no contacts to help me in my quest.
My first stop was at Allahabad in UP. The newly started Community Development Program had just begun and they had set up a large training program for village workers with American assistance. I arrived at this place, met a couple of people, and told them what I was looking for. Luckily one of them took me seriously and arranged for me to stay in a hostel for a week and learn what that organization was trying to do. He even obtained some food coupons that I could use to exchange for food at their American style cafeteria. The experience I gained at this vibrant new initiative was highly educative. I got an impression of what was being thought for the development of the villages. It did not quite fit what I thought Gandhi had said. I decided to go on and see what other alternatives were available.
I next went to a newly established Quaker project in Barpalli, in the state of Orissa. It was a small set up with about 8 American and British expatriates who had recruited a batch of 10 young local workers whom they were in the process of training. Their objective was quite clear. A new large Dam was being built in the area (Hirakud). The dam would make available water for irrigation and a huge amount of electricity. The government would build roads and establish motorized vehicular transport network for movement of goods and people. The Quakers were to prepare the villagers to make use of these new resources to their optimum advantage and smoothly move into the industrial lifestyle. They kindly let me stay for a few days to learn about their work. They too tried to assess my abilities and thought of what advise to give me. After about a week they said that in their opinion I should work in an area where I could speak the local language. This meant Punjab or a Hindi speaking state.
My next port of call was Wardha where Gandhi had lived for many decades and where a variety of institutions had sprouted to promote different aspects of the village self-rule idea Gandhi ji had been promoting. This place appealed to me instantly. I stayed in a guest room in Maganwari in Wardha town, met several people and explained what I was looking for. Several of them advised me to go and check the Goseva Sangh farm in Pipri 8 kilometers away. I went there and found that they had a 30-acre farm to produce food for their community and fodder for a herd of 200 heads of cattle. Their major objective was to upgrade the local Gaolau cattle. It was a good sturdy breed that gave the farmer hefty work animals but their milk yield was poor. So they were trying to make it a dual-purpose animal.
At the helm of this endeavor was a very competent scientist named Prabhu (not his real name). He had studied molecular biology at Bombay University but through practical experience acquired considerable expertise in Animal breeding. His zeal for the work at Pipri was transparent and contagious. He already had two very able and enthusiastic assistants. Luckily for me he thought there was room for a raw youth on his team. Seeing that I was well built and strong he made me part of a team of workers who cleaned the cattle shed every morning. It involved getting up at 4:00am and being on the job a half hour later. With a team of 5 regular employees and 3 or 4 volunteers out of the current resident trainees we collected the droppings of 200 animals and transported the excreta to a compost making station in a bullock cart. Then the cowshed was swept and washed. Prabhu gave me a couple of books on the subject of compost making. With his help I studied these books meticulously and soon became enthusiastic. I was given longer hours in the compost making work after about a couple of weeks. Prabhu himself came regularly to the compost shed to give personal guidance.
It was hard work of the kind I had never done before, so I was sore from foot to shoulders every evening. But I began soon to enjoy it. One morning my father came from Bombay to visit me unannounced. It was about 11:00am. Someone led him to where I was working. Needless to say he was mortally disappointed. The impression he formed of me that day stayed with him almost all his life. Even my becoming a university professor later did not fully erase it!
During my stay at Pipri I learned a lot about the microbiology of compost making, genetics of cattle upgrading, agriculture, and simple living an the land. I was able to eat the peasants’ food, work hard like the average of them, and a lot more. Prabhu took me with him on his visits to many cattle breeding farms, agricultural establishments, and places where they worked on compost making, processing of milk, fruit orchards and places where they processed and preserved fruit. We visited several renowned places in Bangalore, Barielly in UP, Karnal in Haryana, Pusa in Delhi, and many more. I am sure my mentor was organizing these visits partly for my benefit.
After I had been at Pipri for about six months Prabhu invited me to shift to a large room in his house and eat my meals with him and his wife Janaki (not her real name). My hostel room was not good and the food too had been unsatisfactory. I shifted.
Both Prabhu and Janaki were very generous and kind to me. But I noticed that their behavior was a bit strange. I slowly learned that between them they were carrying a weight of an unfortunate incident that had driven Janaki to the point of losing mental balance. Prabhu had a close friend. Soon after marriage he had a bad fall from which he recovered but found that he had lost his fecundity. Both he and his wife wanted a couple of children. Prabhu obliged the couple. Janaki found out and was unable to forgive her husband.
Now, Prabhu ‘imagined’ that Janaki had a crush on me although she was nearly old enough to be my mother. He thought that an affair with me might give her a sense of breaking even with him. This, he reasoned, might cure her. I felt very uncomfortable and made up my mind to quit Pipri. But I had to find another job and leave without offending my mentor. So I began to visit various institutions around Wardha where I had friends. I spent time at Vinoba’s Paunar, Gopuri, Maganwari and Sevagram. During this time I got an invitation to attend a fortnight long reunion of Quaker seminar alumni at Rasulia. I went and luckily found a good job there. So, to my great relief, I was able to resign at Pipri and leave.
Partap
March 8, 2008
Unbelievable Fasting Experience
Unbelievable Fasting Experience
About the middle of January 2008 I began to feel some pain in my right hip and part of the leg. It became noticeable in the morning when I went to our local park for my daily morning walk and exercise. I tried to reduce the length of my walk, but my walking buddy egged me on to continue with him for our usual six laps of the circle. I did so for two days and the pain increased. Then I started going a little late and did just three rounds with my friend. But the pain now localized in the middle of my hip and became severe. After another two days when I just could not walk at all, I stopped going altogether.
My leg hurt badly when I was in the supine posture, but it was worse when I turned sides. Sitting too was quite painful on bed, in chair or sofa. I just lay in bed most of the time without much turning for it was very painful. Walking was worst, so going to toilet was slow and very tedious. I avoided these visits as much as possible, but even the bare minimum was difficult.
I decided to go to our Ayurvedic Clinic where our doctor examined me quite thoroughly and told me “it looks as if you have lifted some weight with a jerk, or twisted your foot in such a way that the impact got transferred to the hip. A muscle deep inside your right hip is badly sprained. It must loosen and relax before your pain can go. He gave me some pills to swallow and a bottle of concoction made from herbs of some kind. He also gave me specially prepared oil prepared in their pharmacy in Kerala. With this he asked me to massage the right leg, and the affected area of the hip with extra special attention. The watchman in our compound agreed to do this for me.
Once or twice I thought to try fasting (my normal remedy for last 20 years), but for various reasons I did not do it.
A friend and neighbor heard about my pain and came to enquire. After hearing the details he thought I should go with him to a new diagnostic center and meet a general practitioner whom he knew and thought very highly of. In fact he very kindly drove me to her in his car. So this young lady also examined me and thought the same as the Ayurvedic doctor. She prescribed some other kind of pills to relax the muscles, kill pain and put me to sleep at night. I was wary but mainly in deference to my friend and this kind doctor I agreed to take the medicine. The pain was less for a couple of days but it came back. I visited this doctor a second time and again she said, next time I will have you meet a bone doctor.
Again I thought of fasting but there was a lot of movement of visitors in our house and it was not feasible.
Finally, as the stream of visitors diminished I went on a fast Saturday evening Feb 6. On Sunday I kept complete fast. I was not very comfortable and tossed in bed most of the night and the whole day. I slept better the second night, but during Monday my thoughts were not cheerful. I kept thinking of abandoning the fast, also imagining that my injury was quite deep and bad and I might be in bed for months. Other such frightening thoughts kept coming. But I remained steadfast. I slept most of Monday night and it passed quite easily.
Tuesday morning brought a bright lining to the dark clouds floating in my mind. There is no gain without pain, I thought, and this might be my pain with a lot of gain wrapped inside it. I determined to cock all my attention to seeing and listening. What had been sent for me with this pain? Hints began to form before my mind’s eye. They grew clearer. Then a very familiar simple word appeared. That was my gift. In our culture one’s guru gives such a gift. It is called a mantra, or The Name. It is simple and brief. One is supposed to imbibe it into oneself and live by it for the rest of ones’ life. It becomes the individual’s most precious, very personal possession. It must not be revealed or shared, for then it gets cheapened and loses its power. If one remains faithful the effect of The Name begins to show in one’s body and behavior. In this quiet way it gets shared widely. The person carrying the sacred word remembers her role as a mere carrier. Avoidance of undue pride is made easier.
About noon I felt some sort of a movement in my injured hip. Something good was happening. In the afternoon I decided to break the fast with a piece of steamed turai, ridge gourd. It did not sit well in the stomach for a long time. The body seemed to be busy in doing the work it had begun. This went on for several hours. I drank a cup of thin vegetable soup late in the evening and lay down to rest. My body seemed unconcerned and kept right on working. At about 11:00pm I felt as if my pain had gone. I got up and walked to our study. I walked much better than in more than a month. There was almost no pain. To test the change, I again got up two hours later and strolled about. I noticed much improvement. At 7am the pain was almost completely gone. I walked downstairs and at a light snack in a joyful mood.
My friend the General Physician whom I had met twice had fixed an appointment for me with an orthopedic consultant Wednesday afternoon. I went and got thoroughly checked. He gave me a clean chit and said at my age my bones were exceptionally strong and healthy. When I mentioned the fast he kept quiet for a long moment and said, “after five weeks the body would heal an injury on its own.” He prescribed some aspirin and let me go.
He is right. My body did the healing. But I am sure fasting helped. When body is spared the heavy work of digesting food, a lot of extra energy is released for healing. Also one does not have to swallow pills that have their own toxins.
My biggest gain, however, was the gift of The Name.
I agree. My gift was already in me. In fact it is also written everywhere around me. But I was asleep and had to wake up to it. The pain woke me up.
Partap
February 23, 2008
About the middle of January 2008 I began to feel some pain in my right hip and part of the leg. It became noticeable in the morning when I went to our local park for my daily morning walk and exercise. I tried to reduce the length of my walk, but my walking buddy egged me on to continue with him for our usual six laps of the circle. I did so for two days and the pain increased. Then I started going a little late and did just three rounds with my friend. But the pain now localized in the middle of my hip and became severe. After another two days when I just could not walk at all, I stopped going altogether.
My leg hurt badly when I was in the supine posture, but it was worse when I turned sides. Sitting too was quite painful on bed, in chair or sofa. I just lay in bed most of the time without much turning for it was very painful. Walking was worst, so going to toilet was slow and very tedious. I avoided these visits as much as possible, but even the bare minimum was difficult.
I decided to go to our Ayurvedic Clinic where our doctor examined me quite thoroughly and told me “it looks as if you have lifted some weight with a jerk, or twisted your foot in such a way that the impact got transferred to the hip. A muscle deep inside your right hip is badly sprained. It must loosen and relax before your pain can go. He gave me some pills to swallow and a bottle of concoction made from herbs of some kind. He also gave me specially prepared oil prepared in their pharmacy in Kerala. With this he asked me to massage the right leg, and the affected area of the hip with extra special attention. The watchman in our compound agreed to do this for me.
Once or twice I thought to try fasting (my normal remedy for last 20 years), but for various reasons I did not do it.
A friend and neighbor heard about my pain and came to enquire. After hearing the details he thought I should go with him to a new diagnostic center and meet a general practitioner whom he knew and thought very highly of. In fact he very kindly drove me to her in his car. So this young lady also examined me and thought the same as the Ayurvedic doctor. She prescribed some other kind of pills to relax the muscles, kill pain and put me to sleep at night. I was wary but mainly in deference to my friend and this kind doctor I agreed to take the medicine. The pain was less for a couple of days but it came back. I visited this doctor a second time and again she said, next time I will have you meet a bone doctor.
Again I thought of fasting but there was a lot of movement of visitors in our house and it was not feasible.
Finally, as the stream of visitors diminished I went on a fast Saturday evening Feb 6. On Sunday I kept complete fast. I was not very comfortable and tossed in bed most of the night and the whole day. I slept better the second night, but during Monday my thoughts were not cheerful. I kept thinking of abandoning the fast, also imagining that my injury was quite deep and bad and I might be in bed for months. Other such frightening thoughts kept coming. But I remained steadfast. I slept most of Monday night and it passed quite easily.
Tuesday morning brought a bright lining to the dark clouds floating in my mind. There is no gain without pain, I thought, and this might be my pain with a lot of gain wrapped inside it. I determined to cock all my attention to seeing and listening. What had been sent for me with this pain? Hints began to form before my mind’s eye. They grew clearer. Then a very familiar simple word appeared. That was my gift. In our culture one’s guru gives such a gift. It is called a mantra, or The Name. It is simple and brief. One is supposed to imbibe it into oneself and live by it for the rest of ones’ life. It becomes the individual’s most precious, very personal possession. It must not be revealed or shared, for then it gets cheapened and loses its power. If one remains faithful the effect of The Name begins to show in one’s body and behavior. In this quiet way it gets shared widely. The person carrying the sacred word remembers her role as a mere carrier. Avoidance of undue pride is made easier.
About noon I felt some sort of a movement in my injured hip. Something good was happening. In the afternoon I decided to break the fast with a piece of steamed turai, ridge gourd. It did not sit well in the stomach for a long time. The body seemed to be busy in doing the work it had begun. This went on for several hours. I drank a cup of thin vegetable soup late in the evening and lay down to rest. My body seemed unconcerned and kept right on working. At about 11:00pm I felt as if my pain had gone. I got up and walked to our study. I walked much better than in more than a month. There was almost no pain. To test the change, I again got up two hours later and strolled about. I noticed much improvement. At 7am the pain was almost completely gone. I walked downstairs and at a light snack in a joyful mood.
My friend the General Physician whom I had met twice had fixed an appointment for me with an orthopedic consultant Wednesday afternoon. I went and got thoroughly checked. He gave me a clean chit and said at my age my bones were exceptionally strong and healthy. When I mentioned the fast he kept quiet for a long moment and said, “after five weeks the body would heal an injury on its own.” He prescribed some aspirin and let me go.
He is right. My body did the healing. But I am sure fasting helped. When body is spared the heavy work of digesting food, a lot of extra energy is released for healing. Also one does not have to swallow pills that have their own toxins.
My biggest gain, however, was the gift of The Name.
I agree. My gift was already in me. In fact it is also written everywhere around me. But I was asleep and had to wake up to it. The pain woke me up.
Partap
February 23, 2008
My Tow Years in Daska-part 2
My Two Years in Daska- Part II
The lane in which we lived was about 5 feet wide and part of a network of lanes. Yet buffalos, donkeys with big bags of wheat on their backs, occasionally a loaded camel, and other traffic came and went. I do not remember feeling cloistered. Our house was at one of the dead end of one of the lanes in the labyrinth. Our neighbors were so near we could hand things out to them through our windows. Also we could hear conversations, especially when the pitch of the voice was high. I vividly remember hearing voices out of one of neighbors. They were middle aged and had only one 8 or 9 year old son named Rishi. The wife shouted orders at her husband in loud shrill voice asking him to fetch something, go buy vegetables, bring a bucket of water, clean the front porch, etc. The local custom was that a wife would not call husband by his name. So our neighbor used to call him ‘Oh, father of Rishi.’ People overhearing derived a lot of mirth. The strong dominating woman and the meek husband provided a lot of juicy gossip in the neighbors.
Most houses had dry latrines, but only for emergency purpose. Open fields were very near. All men and women went out to relieve themselves in the fields. Their allotted sections were clearly demarcated by tradition and everyone knew where they were supposed to go. The farmers appreciated the manure their soil received. The effect was easy to see from the healthy and heavy crops in the fields adjoining the town. Some people went out both morning and evening. Women usually went out in groups partly for company and also for safety.
For men toilet was not the only reason for going out in the morning. They went out far distances for the exercise and also to enjoy company of friends. They discussed politics, gossiped, and exchanged jokes and stories.
Young men usually went very early in the morning to small gymnasia where they wrestled and/or did a variety of other physical exercises. There was always an open well with a hand operated Persian wheel where men took a bath before returning home. I remember I went to one of them. Thirty to thirty-five people came every morning. Most of them were very strong and healthy. I of course was one of the youngest, but we were noticed, praised and encouraged to come regularly. The men belonged to different religions and occupations. I can still recall farmers and laborers were the strongest. We ‘city slickers’ and traders’ sons were not so strong, except of course there were some exceptions.
There was a lot of art and poetry in this little town. Art objects were put out to show occasionally especially in seasonal fairs or festivals. In the evening gatherings were organized for entertainment. Sometimes the performers such as storytellers, singers, puppeteers, and others came from nearby towns or villages. Often local artists joined the occasion and performed.
Daska was famous for such activities. We were very proud that Muhammad Iqbal one of India’s ablest poet-philosophers was a native of Daska.
We children were not allowed to go to evening meets of poets because of their late hours. But the next day the grape wine brought us some of the good poems from the people who had been there. I can still recall lines of a fiery anti-British poem in which the poet urged Hitler to drop an extra bomb on Buckingham palace in his name when he next sent his bomber planes to raid Britain.
The love I acquired for small town and village life, interest in plants and animals I imbibed, good healthy habits of early rising and daily exercise that I learned have thankfully stayed with me throughout my life. They have in fact guided me in making many important decisions.
In our family my mother enjoyed the Daska experience the most. These were in fact the best two years of her life. She had many good friends in the neighborhood and other parts of town. There were relatives everywhere and on social occasions and festivals people exchanged gifts and visited each other. A marriage would entail ceremonies, feasts, or distribution of food or other gifts for two weeks or more. Similarly births and deaths brought people together for sharing of grief or happiness. In all these, women took more active part.
They had plenty of time for social activities. My mother for example had organized her daily housework very efficiently. My sisters and I helped as much as we could. Mother woke up at about 4:30am and started house work soon after. She would take out some wheat or other grain from the store and grind it on a hand flourmill. After that she churned the curd to make butter and buttermilk. At about daybreak she would go to the field with some neighbors. We children would wake up while mother was gone out and start the morning chores of folding and putting away the beddings, cleaning teeth and washing.
Breakfast was standard, consisting of chapattis left over from the previous evening, some butter, salt, and buttermilk. On weekends and festivals mother cooked special foods. All of us would go to our schools. Mother swept the house, bathed, set some vegetable or lentils to cook on our simple homemade slow cooker. For lunch mother would bake chapattis in a mud oven (tandoor). My mother had joined a pool with three or four other neighboring families. They would heat their tandoor by turn and all would bring their dough to bake the bread. The children returned home for lunch. The school was over by 3:00pm and mother would give us a homemade hot or cold drink according to season and something to munch. Often it was some grain like corn, chickpea, or rice freshly parched or puffed. We children took the grain to the parching lady nearby home. Often we ate raw seasonal vegetables like carrots, radishes, cucumber, and may others. Sometimes we had homemade or bazaar bought sweets. For dinner mother made tandoor chapattis in summer and pan rotis in winter that we ate in the warm kitchen sitting near the stove. I vividly remember how satisfying this whole daily routine was. The food was always delicious, nutritious, and totally satisfying. We knew that all rich and poor people in town ate more or less this food. Some of the helpers like the sweeper, the priest, and one or two others came every morning to take their share of the food my mother cooked. It was given happily and with respect. My mother also fed birds and street dogs and cats, and often a cow.
Mother had the whole afternoon free. She used to join a group of women who spun cotton yarn. They enjoyed this because it was also their time to tell jokes, gossip, exchange ideas. They often set up a speed contest to see who spun the fastest. Each would take an equal number of slivers and count the remaining when the spinning session was over. My mother was quite a skilled spinner of very good quality yearn. She spun enough during our stay in Daska to have sheets, blankets, and shirting material woven at the local weaver to last us for many years. She took some of it with her to Karachi when we returned there after the war.
The relationships we established in Daska were so close and friendly that we visited with these people over the years after all of us were spread out, especially after the partition of India in 1947. Uncle Darbarilal and his wife my aunt Roop Kaur settled in a town called Batala in Punjab. We always visited them when we went to that area. This uncle remained one of my wisest councils right till he died at a ripe old age of 86.
It has been nearly 64 years but I have always remembered our stay in Daska with very warm nostalgia. The sense of security, deep friendliness, a sense of belonging and warmth that I experienced is unique in my experience. We met and befriended very kind and loving people everywhere in India and America, but the close community life of Daska continues to stand out as unique.
Partap
January 16, 2008
The lane in which we lived was about 5 feet wide and part of a network of lanes. Yet buffalos, donkeys with big bags of wheat on their backs, occasionally a loaded camel, and other traffic came and went. I do not remember feeling cloistered. Our house was at one of the dead end of one of the lanes in the labyrinth. Our neighbors were so near we could hand things out to them through our windows. Also we could hear conversations, especially when the pitch of the voice was high. I vividly remember hearing voices out of one of neighbors. They were middle aged and had only one 8 or 9 year old son named Rishi. The wife shouted orders at her husband in loud shrill voice asking him to fetch something, go buy vegetables, bring a bucket of water, clean the front porch, etc. The local custom was that a wife would not call husband by his name. So our neighbor used to call him ‘Oh, father of Rishi.’ People overhearing derived a lot of mirth. The strong dominating woman and the meek husband provided a lot of juicy gossip in the neighbors.
Most houses had dry latrines, but only for emergency purpose. Open fields were very near. All men and women went out to relieve themselves in the fields. Their allotted sections were clearly demarcated by tradition and everyone knew where they were supposed to go. The farmers appreciated the manure their soil received. The effect was easy to see from the healthy and heavy crops in the fields adjoining the town. Some people went out both morning and evening. Women usually went out in groups partly for company and also for safety.
For men toilet was not the only reason for going out in the morning. They went out far distances for the exercise and also to enjoy company of friends. They discussed politics, gossiped, and exchanged jokes and stories.
Young men usually went very early in the morning to small gymnasia where they wrestled and/or did a variety of other physical exercises. There was always an open well with a hand operated Persian wheel where men took a bath before returning home. I remember I went to one of them. Thirty to thirty-five people came every morning. Most of them were very strong and healthy. I of course was one of the youngest, but we were noticed, praised and encouraged to come regularly. The men belonged to different religions and occupations. I can still recall farmers and laborers were the strongest. We ‘city slickers’ and traders’ sons were not so strong, except of course there were some exceptions.
There was a lot of art and poetry in this little town. Art objects were put out to show occasionally especially in seasonal fairs or festivals. In the evening gatherings were organized for entertainment. Sometimes the performers such as storytellers, singers, puppeteers, and others came from nearby towns or villages. Often local artists joined the occasion and performed.
Daska was famous for such activities. We were very proud that Muhammad Iqbal one of India’s ablest poet-philosophers was a native of Daska.
We children were not allowed to go to evening meets of poets because of their late hours. But the next day the grape wine brought us some of the good poems from the people who had been there. I can still recall lines of a fiery anti-British poem in which the poet urged Hitler to drop an extra bomb on Buckingham palace in his name when he next sent his bomber planes to raid Britain.
The love I acquired for small town and village life, interest in plants and animals I imbibed, good healthy habits of early rising and daily exercise that I learned have thankfully stayed with me throughout my life. They have in fact guided me in making many important decisions.
In our family my mother enjoyed the Daska experience the most. These were in fact the best two years of her life. She had many good friends in the neighborhood and other parts of town. There were relatives everywhere and on social occasions and festivals people exchanged gifts and visited each other. A marriage would entail ceremonies, feasts, or distribution of food or other gifts for two weeks or more. Similarly births and deaths brought people together for sharing of grief or happiness. In all these, women took more active part.
They had plenty of time for social activities. My mother for example had organized her daily housework very efficiently. My sisters and I helped as much as we could. Mother woke up at about 4:30am and started house work soon after. She would take out some wheat or other grain from the store and grind it on a hand flourmill. After that she churned the curd to make butter and buttermilk. At about daybreak she would go to the field with some neighbors. We children would wake up while mother was gone out and start the morning chores of folding and putting away the beddings, cleaning teeth and washing.
Breakfast was standard, consisting of chapattis left over from the previous evening, some butter, salt, and buttermilk. On weekends and festivals mother cooked special foods. All of us would go to our schools. Mother swept the house, bathed, set some vegetable or lentils to cook on our simple homemade slow cooker. For lunch mother would bake chapattis in a mud oven (tandoor). My mother had joined a pool with three or four other neighboring families. They would heat their tandoor by turn and all would bring their dough to bake the bread. The children returned home for lunch. The school was over by 3:00pm and mother would give us a homemade hot or cold drink according to season and something to munch. Often it was some grain like corn, chickpea, or rice freshly parched or puffed. We children took the grain to the parching lady nearby home. Often we ate raw seasonal vegetables like carrots, radishes, cucumber, and may others. Sometimes we had homemade or bazaar bought sweets. For dinner mother made tandoor chapattis in summer and pan rotis in winter that we ate in the warm kitchen sitting near the stove. I vividly remember how satisfying this whole daily routine was. The food was always delicious, nutritious, and totally satisfying. We knew that all rich and poor people in town ate more or less this food. Some of the helpers like the sweeper, the priest, and one or two others came every morning to take their share of the food my mother cooked. It was given happily and with respect. My mother also fed birds and street dogs and cats, and often a cow.
Mother had the whole afternoon free. She used to join a group of women who spun cotton yarn. They enjoyed this because it was also their time to tell jokes, gossip, exchange ideas. They often set up a speed contest to see who spun the fastest. Each would take an equal number of slivers and count the remaining when the spinning session was over. My mother was quite a skilled spinner of very good quality yearn. She spun enough during our stay in Daska to have sheets, blankets, and shirting material woven at the local weaver to last us for many years. She took some of it with her to Karachi when we returned there after the war.
The relationships we established in Daska were so close and friendly that we visited with these people over the years after all of us were spread out, especially after the partition of India in 1947. Uncle Darbarilal and his wife my aunt Roop Kaur settled in a town called Batala in Punjab. We always visited them when we went to that area. This uncle remained one of my wisest councils right till he died at a ripe old age of 86.
It has been nearly 64 years but I have always remembered our stay in Daska with very warm nostalgia. The sense of security, deep friendliness, a sense of belonging and warmth that I experienced is unique in my experience. We met and befriended very kind and loving people everywhere in India and America, but the close community life of Daska continues to stand out as unique.
Partap
January 16, 2008
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