It has been three years when the dance of death by covid-19 started in the in New York City at the beginning of 2020. Covid-19 had arrived in the continental United States a few months before reaching NYC. During those days, I had come across the following poem, which quite neatly described our relationship with the mask:
Great Facial Mask
Now is the Time to Tell You That I love you
My Dearest
My Little Prison
Take Custody of My Mouth
 By: Yu Jian
(Translated from Mandarin)

The airways and TV Channels were filled with news of people getting morbidly sick and dying. Cremation of dead bodies in USA had become a norm regardless of religious belief of the deceased. The onslaught of the Covid-19 virus, a ball with thorns which could only be seen with a microscope, had completely altered the rituals for the dead and rhythms of the living.

The distraught families of the dead could not bid farewell in person. Eulogies were being delivered on networks like Zoom. The Post Office had become the main conduit for transporting ashes in a specially designed box with the bright orange label code 139: Cremated Remains. The boxes could arrive in damaged condition, delivering more grief to the families of the deceased.  Even after a period of more than a year, very little was known about the virus. Any misstep and we would have run the risk of turning into molecular dust. The prison of mask was sweet freedom from the primordial fear of death.

By June 2020, the unceasing attack of virus had given rise to pandemic fatigue everywhere.  It was further complicated by rumors and misinformation. We were told to sanitize our groceries. President Trump would share his own suggestions of using bleach as medical advice.  A diffused fog of sentimental disquiet had settled over the masses.  To escape from the melancholy, I would sit so many times to write, the words would appear everywhere around me, but before I could capture and taste their flavor, they would float away.

Also in the summer, WhatsApp, the news, and other forms of communication had fallen prey to sharing misinformation and hate, and unfortunately the public easily attached to this. It would hurt me to hear how people would blame and hurt other ethnic groups for the unfortunate circumstances we were seeing. This was an unfortunate ubiquitous pool of hate.

By early 2021, vaccines produced by Pfizer and Moderna had become available. The citizens with compromised immune system and seniors were the first one to get the vaccine. There was a lot of resistance against the vaccine especially among conservatives. By this time, hundreds of thousands had fallen by Covid-19. Senior citizens made up a big percentage of victims. Italy, UK, Canada, and Russia also lost a lot of lives due to the Covid-19.

In 2020, India relatively speaking escaped the scrouge during the early part of the year. The cases started emerging in the last quarter of 2020, despite people in India having made all kind of boastful statements about Indians having higher level of immunity. By March 2021, the situation in India changed and the disease spread like a wildfire. Our ego was busted like pricked balloon. The Indian system was not prepared, and thousands of people died waiting for the treatment. There was shortage of oxygen and vaccines in hospitals and nursing homes. There were lines of dead bodies waiting for cremation on cremation grounds. People in cities like Delhi were abandoning the bodies of the dead.
It was sad and unfortunate to see the abandonment of migrant labor in the big cities of India. The projects they were working on in the cities were halted, and there were no arrangements made for them. They were made to walk hundreds of miles back to their villages. Collecting their tortured lives, the crowds kept growing like nails and hair of dead people. They were sleeping on the railroad tracks and by the roadside. Hungry and often beaten by cops, their cries were stuck in their skulls.

By late 2021, with focusing all the available energies to control the disease, the Indian government brought the pandemic under substantial control. Most of the countries containing the virus had enforced strict curfews and isolation. Human beings worldwide were dictated to maintain social distancing and avoid touching each other.  By late 2021, due to isolation generated acute stress incidences of psychological illnesses became very common worldwide. Touch is the most beautiful and important wordless expression of love and affection which became a taboo.

The evolution of the virus and the resulting pandemic has shown us that there is a simmering discord between human action and nature. We have unleashed the wrath of virus on us by our own cynical treatment of nature and have exposed our frailties. The accumulated result of our actions brought on the wrath of the virus, which emptied our schedules. We were reminded that the” future” resists the timeline.

Like fish in the water, our being is in time. Carrying the burden of the enigma of the memory and anxiety of future, we seek deliverance from suffering while swimming in the sea of time. Unfortunately, the universe exists according to the order of time, and suffering is an integral part of it. In Hindu mythology, the dance of Shiva symbolizes flowing of time. Shiva himself is time, and his dance incorporates moves of joy and pain beautifully.

In cosmic dance, things evolve in their own time, and their “times” evolve relative to each other. The world is interwoven with dances made to different rhythms of things. It is like millions of Shiva’s dancing on different rhythms giving rise to events and their accumulated effect. The virus evolved according to the order of time and gave rise to events leading to millions of deaths.

We know that the universe is moving on irreversibly. No event can or will be replicated, even Shiva will not repeat old dance. He is time but still bound by its nature. We came into this form around 70,000 years ago. Like previous species, our time is limited.  According to Kafka, the purpose of life is that it ends. Therefore, the hope of immortality is hollow.  Before it ends, contrary to Kafkesque thought, I believe a meaning can be created. I would like to live my remaining years by principles of Buddhism of Non- Judgement, bearing witness, and compassion.  We are joined in the bond of impermanence and death will come. Death does not know a good death from bad, so wishing for one kind over other is fog of mind. I wish to carry my life with dedicated heart like souls in Dante’s Purgatory carrying loads of dead and living souls not to simply suffer but to take burden of life lightly. This is the path of love where one spreads joy like shimmering sun rays on rapidly moving water towards the sea.

Wherever you go, whatever you do, be in love.
-Rumi

According to Aristotle, the later stage of life should be devoted to leisure and deep contemplation. I thought this was a perfect advice by the Great Greek for a vacation. Vacationing offered an opportunity for paying heed to sage’s advice to cultivate a state of internal joy and freedom from drudgery of fear about new variants of Covid-19. 
We formed a group of 10 people. Most of them old friends of college days of 45+ years back at Penn State. We decided to go for 15 days to Italy (Lake Como, Tuscany, and Venice) in late September 2022, a few months before I was to reach the age of 71. The thought of vacationing with old friends had started invigorating my weathered  body with joy and excitement sweeter than gelato. We called our vacation “Roman Holiday.”

The thoughts expressed in this blog were rising like flames in my head during vacationing. My memories of days spent at Penn State were initiating rituals of metamorphosis in me.

Long years apart can make no breach, the seconds cannot fill
The absence of the witch does not invalidate the spell
The ambers of thousand years uncovered by the hand,
That fondled them when they were fire, will stir and understand.
- Emily Dickinson

During vacation, our group was immersed in care of each other with laughter and perfect understanding. I think that this was possible only because we had spent a considerable time with each other during our college days as good friends. Researchers in human behavior psychology have concluded that a minimum of 200 hours of quality time spent in each other’s company is a prerequisite for a good understanding to develop among friends, and lovers. We were together for over four years and undoubtedly had spent this much time with each other.  In Mahabharata, all relationships disintegrated except the one between Lord Krishna and Arjuna, which was based on friendship which they built by investing considerable time with each other. Good friends are the nectar of life.

The vacation was filled with flavorful food experiences, discussions on both meaningful and not very meaningful topics, reminiscing about good old days, and joyous moments. 
Just as leopards who cannot change their spots, two of my friends in the group had flickering personalities laced with funny bones and in this vacation, they showed that nothing had changed. To demonstrate it, at one point they spotted a young, good-looking girl walking towards us with one of her friends. Their waving and smiling to attract her attention resulted in the girl smiling and coming to talk to us. For hours they were in a flurry of excitement, recounting the story and admiring the pictures, all in jest. 
 
One afternoon, I was sitting by myself at a cafeteria drinking fourth or fifth cup of cappuccino. The sun was shining like a newly sharpened sword. My cardiovascular system was in trance under the influence of the melodic beauty of Tuscany and I was relishing the restorative effects of leisure. Happy thoughts and memories were crawling all over my skin creating a feedback loop. I didn’t know where the guys had gone, but the ladies were completely immersed in mythology of modern consumerism hopping from one store to another. 

After some time of sitting there, I saw one of the couples of our group coming towards me. The couple was always very attentive towards each other. Simone Weil, a French Philosopher, had written that “Attention is rarest and purest form of generosity”. Attention creates desire to fulfil the needs of each other. To me they were straight out of mythological world, and I was awed by their devotion to each other.

 Eating had always put us in the labyrinth of indescribable experiences. American food being highly processed has a dampening effect on brain activity. In Italy some people call American food “sad” while Italian food is called “glad”.   All the restaurants we visited had various varieties of pastas adorning their menu. We practiced the dictum that if anything is worth eating, it is worth overeating.

We visited ta few churches. Most of the churches we saw were built in sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and were a beautiful expression of art and engineering combined. One church I remember visiting was very small and simple, but one could feel spirit of holy men and women vibrating in every inch of it.  A few people were sitting on old benches. I noticed an elderly lady looking at the Jesus on the cross in a deep meditative state. My gaze kept on going in her direction. Then something snapped in her, and she started crying. It may have been due to the rising of painful memory, or a deep uncontrollable emotion. I have seen this happening in Sikh Temples quite often, even I have cried on hymns sung on melancholic melodies. Sometimes, a conversation between me and myself ensues in Gurudwara giving rise to intense longing for meaning. 

During our last three days in Italy, we were in Venice. We did a lot of walking around the city. I have a very poor eyesight and carry a cane, but in almost every case most of the women lent their shoulders for me to put my hand while walking. Mostly this help was provided by my wife. During long walks her shoulder would start hurting due to me putting pressure, but her slim body refused to give up. I am thankful for this boon of her as my life partner.

As age progresses, we tend to get more and more shrouded in our own mythology. This shroud became more and more transparent during vacation among us. Nobody was holding on to his/her thoughts for fear of offending someone.

On the last day in Venice, we attended String Quartet Orchestra in the evening. The orchestra was going to play Antonio Vivaldi’s compositions. The cello player who was conducting was a renowned world musician. While playing, he closed his eyes and went into a state of trance.  Certain pieces were in a minor key.It is said that minor key is the voice of soul, and the joy enters through the door of melancholy. His music gathered scattered pieces of my wandering thoughts and brought it to a stage of pure listening. I have attended several concerts, but only few have left such a strong memory of the blessed sound emanating from his cello:
​
I thank you for the smallest sound,
For the way my ears open
Even before my eyes 
As if to remember before everything began,
With an original vibrant note,
And I thank you for this original everyday music
Always being remember, always being played,
As being remembered as something new
- Poem: Blessing for Sound, by David Whyte
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Jis Khet Se Dehkaan ko Mayaasar Nahin Rozi
Us Khet Ke Har Khosha-E-Gandum Ko Jala Do
 - Allama Iqbal ( Written in 1907)

​The meaning of the above couplet is that if a farm does not provide meal and sustenance to the farmer, (then) that wheat harvest of that farm should be burnt.
 
In the year of 1907, there was a mass agitation in Punjab against the three ordinances passed by the British Rulers of India. These were: Doab Bari Act, Punjab Land Colonization Act, and Punjab Land Alienation Act. These acts would have resulted in changing land holdings and farming on those lands by Punjabi Farmers. There were massive protests by the Punjabi farming community against these laws with a good degree of support from left leaning intelligentsia. Layallpur (now Faisalabad in Pakistan) was epicenter of it. Shaheed Bhagat Singh and his Uncle Ajeet Singh were active participants in this revolt. On March 3, 1907, a big protest was held in Layallpur and the editor of Daily Jhang, Lala Banke Dayal,  recited his poem “Pagri Sambhal Jatta, Pagri Sambhal Oye (Take Care of your pride peasant, take care of your pride o’ peasant). The British withdrew the ordinances after 9 months given non- stop agitation by the farmers.
It is said that Past is Prelude. There is a big protest currently going on in India against three new laws passed by the Indian Government. Punjab once again is spearheading the agitation. There is an eerie similarity between 1907 and 2020. Once again, the anthem of the protesters is “Pagri Sambhal Jatta.” The farmers are concerned that these new laws will put them at the mercy of big corporations, and they fear losing their land and livelihood. The worst part is that under the new laws, the aggrieved farmer cannot go to courts for redressal. Farmers were not consulted before these laws were passed.

Thousands of farmers mainly from Punjab and Haryana with good numbers from other states are agitating against new farm laws. Sikh farmers have walked hundreds of miles and on the way faced (to name a few) -  baton charges, water cannons, deep trenches (8x8 ft) dug to stop them, and barbed wire barriers.  Now they are sitting in peaceful protest on the highways outside Delhi. The current Government thinks that honest negotiations are sign of weakness. To divide communities the Government is using bought and pliable media to defame the protest by calling the farmers terrorists, agents of foreign powers, and secessionists.

The farmers – men, women, and young children - have brought with them rations for many months and are prepared to fight on as long as it takes. They in the true Sikh tradition are cooking Langar, food for everyone, in makeshift community kitchens. They are even serving tea, snacks, and dinner to police who have beaten them. As of Dec 16th, 31 agitating farmers have died, and one holy man has committed suicide in sympathy of the farmers. The Sikh doctors have established care centers by the roadside to tend to sick and old. To counter Government’s maligning narrative, Sikh boys and girls are using social media to tell the story of their side. Listening to the stories of sacrifice and seeing the pictures of farmers busy serving everybody around them including their tormentors, and tending to sick, my faith burns with pride and passion.

Service to mankind without discriminating because of color, religion, caste, gender is one of the main articles of Sikh faith. Serving food to any and everyone is done with humility as a service to mankind. During this pandemic, Sikh communities all over the world have been serving and delivering food to people. Serving Langar is a tradition of over 500 years in Sikhism. It has become part of our genetic memory. The tradition was started by Guru Nanak at the age of eighteen. He was given 20 rupees by his father to go and do a true bargain thus fetching a handsome profit. He, instead, bought clothes and food for the poor and needy, some among them low caste discards of the society and called it a True Bargain. It is said that while Baba Nanak started langar with 20 rupees, it has lasted over 500 years and continues to grow.
​
 In Sikh faith, every Ardas ( Prayer ) ends with the following lines:
Nanak Naam Chardi Kalan, Tere Bhane Sarbat Da Bhala
Sarbat da Bhala is one of the driving principles behind the Seva (Service) ethos in Sikh Faith. This Shabad defies a simple one line translation. For me translating it was a difficult task. The way I interpret it is that Baba Nanak is saying is that by incorporating Naam (which is the respectful devotion to the fact that every sentient and non-sentient being is manifestation of one light), the “Can Do” spirit keeps rising resulting in a positive attitude towards life. That rising spirit always endeavors and wishes that everyone in your (lord’s) wisdom live a blessed life. To me, this also reflect Guru Nanak's foundation of a "social contract" in Sikhism.

The Gurus who came after Baba Nanak strengthen the ethos of Service by engaging masses in acts of selfless service. To keep the flame of service burning eternally, they wrote Shabads like Seva Tey Sada Sukh Paya ( Through Selfless Service Eternal Peace is Obtained), and Seva Karat Hoi Nehkami, Tis Ko Hot Parapat Swami (One Who Does Service Without a Thought of Reward, Shall Find The Master).
 
The community’s development trajectory changed due to execution of fifth and ninth Gurus by the ruling class of that time. Active military resistance to tyranny became part of our faith’s Ethos. It gave rise to active resistance against autocrats with the believe in Universal Brotherhood (Manas Ki Jaat Sabhe Ekay Pehchanbo- Recognize whole Human Race as of one caste). Fearlessness became the shield of justice seekers (Bhae Kaho Ko Daet Neh, Neh Bhae Manath Aan : One does not frighten anyone, and does not get frightened by anyone either ).
 
True to their faith, The Sikhs through out their history have fought against injustice, tyranny, and autocrats (to name a few - Mugal King Aurangzeb, Invader Abdali. British Rulers, Indira Gandhi, and now fighting Modi). They have come out of the comfort zone of their homes, into fields in open cold of 2-3 degree Celsius to fight for their livelihood. Sikhs know that the path of passionate goal seeking  requires sacrifice of lives.

Ishq to Sir Hi Maangta Hai Mian, Ishq Par Karbala Ka Saaya Hai
The Love Demands Head, Mr.,The Love is Under the Spell of ( its) Goal)
-Jaun Elia

My mother always use to say that every few decades the Land of Punjab demands sacrifice of blood and life by Sikhs and in our struggles we have come out of our comfort zones and raised a new dawn under a new sky.

Nahin Tera Nasheman, Qasr-e-Sultani Ke Gumbad Par
Tu Shaheen Hai, Basera Kar Paharon Ki Chatanon Mein
(The dome of palace is not your place, you are an eagle who belongs to the mountains)
Tu Shahin Hai Parvaz Hai Kaam Tera
Tere Samne Aasman Aur Bhi Hain
(You are a high Flying Eagle, Your have more skies in front of you)
- Allama Iqbal
 
 

The sky was flaming rose that morning of November 19, 1990. I closely hold the vivid memory sitting in a boat with my brother holding your remains in a sack on the Ganges River in Kanpur. Two days earlier on November 17th, your soul had left the world of mortals and the day after you were cremated on open wood pyre on the banks of Ganges. Now, we were there to immerse the ashes in the river at a place where it was almost 80 feet deep. I was sitting in the boat like a cold stone at the bottom of the river.

I don’t know why, but I feel that with each passing day, my bond with you and our memories is getting stronger and stronger. It is often said that once a person is gone, he is reincarnated in a world of memories and stories. Reflecting on your life and the way you lived gives me guidance and shines light when the pain of the path starts tormenting.

I am guilty of never thanking you for your undying love and care. While growing up, thank you and please were not part of my vocabulary. As a family ritual, I parroted thanks to Waheguru (God) without assigning any special emotion to the gesture.

I used to look forward to Sunday visits to Kanhaiya Lal Butcher’s shop with you to buy goat meat. I still see an 8 year-old kid walking while holding your hand, your freshly washed loose hair is flowing with a day old turban sitting on it unceremoniously. The butcher’s shop was in an area known as Gumti Number 5. This area was a new home to refugees from west Punjab (now Pakistan), and I would marvel at the sparkle in your eyes upon meeting an acquaintance. After buying meat, I remember sometimes going to Pahalwan’s shop to buy poori chole (fried flat bread and chick peas).

Every Sunday afternoon without exception, you would read jokes from the Urdu newspaper Daily Milap to me and my younger sister while we all sat on the bed. I remember your laugh when in all her innocence she would tell you that you have 3 navels. These were marks under your naval left by a hernia surgery.

I am now sixty-eight years old and everybody says that I look like you. I do not know anybody with a bigger heart than yours. You were ordained a sacred duty of taking care of every one on your side of the family by some divine order, and you executed your mission flawlessly. I remember that on the day of final prayer for peace of your soul, Gurudwara Kirtan Garh in Kanpur was packed with people of all religious persuasions with stories of how you had come to their rescue during financial needs. In a ritualistic sense, you were not religious, but each act of yours was pious. You know your story, but it is important for me to tell you that at every step, your story is walking with and me. I remember your visits to me when I was studying in college studying sat Banaras Hindu University. You used to come to Hindalco Aluminum factory to supply timber, and would travel extra 80 miles to see me for half an hour. The money given by you at those occasions would turn my rhyming life into symphony.

I still hear in the scenery of past, the stories of your business acumen and fighting spirit. Somehow, in social circles, you always felt awkward. I often saw you coming from a party earlier than everyone else and eat simple Dal, Roti, and a fried egg accompanied by Patiala Peg of XXX Rum from Sikkim.

Genes flower in inexplicable ways. Like you after getting up in the morning, I always sit on the edge of the bed for a few minutes and when thinking, I, like you, automatically tilt my head and rest it on my hand. My daughter - your grand daughter - is blessed with your pinkish eyes. You are going to laugh at it, your grandson like you loves to walk around in the house only with underwear on. Narinder, your middle son, left us to join you almost two years ago. We hope that he is under your good care and supervision. Between us remaining four siblings, we’ve all carved our own paths and are blessed in different ways.

Regarding me, like you I have gone through a lot of ups and downs. You always rose like phoenix, and the story of your journey is a depthless reservoir of encouragement for me. I was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer in July of 2014. The cancer had migrated to my brain. It is nothing but blessings of elders and Waheguru’s grace that supported by faith I am moving on. You had taught us that falling down is a lesson in how to get up.

After Indira Gandhi’s assassination 31st October 1984, the little empire you had built along with my brothers laid in ruins. All the factories were destroyed by the rioters using phosphorous bombs. In early 1985, after the physical and emotional stress of the riots and its impact, you suffered a heart attack and I had gone to see you. I cannot forget that when I entered your bedroom, you were laying down and the moment you saw me, you held my hand and tears rolled down from your eyes. I knew you were experiencing an intense trauma for the second time in your life. After the partition, where you resided in West Punjab became Pakistan, and you and your family lost everything. You had come to Kanpur pennyless. Now, I saw this new trauma had penetrated a deep forest of resilience. Now in your studied silence, there was a form of heartache. The mere visualization of that scene fills my heart and the banks of eyes get submerged with tears.
​
On this Fathers day, I want to lift the lid on my silence and say I Love You, and a child in some corner of my heart misses you. I feel your presence, Darji.

I feel the fragility of things in time.
From the bottom of my heart, I feel
We should cling to nothing.
Everything skips through our fingers.
All that we seek to hold on to dissolves.
Everything vanishes like mist and dreams,
Time is a strange thing.
When we don’t need it is nothing.
Then suddenly there is nothing else
 - Hoffmannsthal

To me, reading the above verse brings the image of thousands of dancing Shivas with their eye movements symbolizing unfolding events in the realm of time. The current unfolding is causing untold misery to mankind. Vladimir Lenin once said,”There are decades where nothing happens; and there are weeks where decades happen." True to his words, it seems that decades worth of misery and death have been packed in a few weeks.

This misery is a pandemic caused by a Novel Corona Virus, less than one thousandth part of the thickness of the human hair. Covid-19 (Corona Virus Disease- year 2019) is an unceasing requiem causing an unsettling global crisis.   

Since this virus is highly infectious, we have been asked to stay home. There is unpalatable anxiety and fear in our hearts. Our fear and anxiety about what has become and what life will be is the result of our karma. It is a result of the accumulation of our ruthless and criminal exploitation of earth and its resources during the last hundred years. Thich Nhat Hanh, a Buddhist Monk, said “Walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet.“  Instead our violent pounding has put the earth on a ventilator. As the result of ruthless plundering of earth, we now live uncomfortably close to wild animals, and as a result we are exposed to new set of viruses. Our actions have produced four Zoonotic (originated in animals) diseases in this century including Covid-19.

We know how to measure time, but have no idea about how it will unfold. Therefore, the forces of apocalypse gathering elsewhere elude us and show up as a virus. The destructive power of this virus has brought us on our knees, deflowered our ego and undone our threads. The scare of it is so high that we fear touching our own faces.

Past is prelude. Our civilization has gone through such catastrophes in the past - such as Spanish flu in 1920’s in US and Western Europe or the plague in Mumbai in late 1800. In each incident, we were saved by combination of magic and miracles – the magic of science and miracle of empathy. No doubt that the science in near future will do its magic by finding an effective vaccine against it. I also see the miracle being performed by people with empathy. While washing hands we are realizing that one hand washes the other and in our aloneness, we are sharing each other’s loneliness. The collective activities such as making masks, serving free food, etc show that we are perfecting the art of making Mandala ( Buddhist multicolored art  depicting that the whole universe is connected by Karuna, the compassionate action).It gives me optimism that this darkness may lead us towards a gently shimmering future.

What if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb,
But the darkness of the womb? 
Remember the wisdom of midwife:
“Breath,” she says. Then: “push”
-Valerie Kaur

It is my hopeful prayer that we will work towards restoring the harm done by us for future generations. We will not forget that while we were locked up, animals came out exhibiting their playful nature without fear of us humans. New Delhi’s air became cleaner by 70 percent, and the birds came back with full force. Dolphins and turtles have started coming close to the beaches in California. In the dark liquid of the night with the help of binoculars, one can see migrating birds. Maya Angelou must have imagined a phenomena like this before penning,”This is a wonderful day, I have never seen this one before.” My prayer wants us not go to our old ways once we come out of “Spiritual Lock Up”, so that the earth will continue to heal. It is my hopeful prayer that we will once again drink joy from the restored beauty of mother nature. The poet Kitty O’Meara, a retired schoolteacher, wrote a poem a few weeks ago. The poem went viral. It expresses the sentiments of healing beautifully. I am sharing the poem for your reflection:
And the people stayed home.
And read books, and listened, and rested,
and exercised, and made art, and played games,
and learned new ways of being, and were still.
And listened more deeply.
Some meditated, some prayed, soe danced.
Some met their shadows.
And people began to think differently.
And the people healed.
And in absence of people living in ignorant,
Dangerous mindless and headless ways,
The earth began to heal.
And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again,
They grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images,
And created new ways to live and heal the earth fully,
As they have been healed.

Come out of circle of time,
And come into circle of love
- Rumi

This month, the Punjabi’s of India and Pakistan celebrate Lohri. Lohri is a celebration of joy of life and fertility. It has a special significance for the family which is blessed with a newly born. It is observed on 13th of January every year. On this day, the Sun starts moving northwards and days get warmer. On this festival the Punjabi love for food and dance is on full display.

Traditionally, a bonfire is lit as the dusk is uncoiling at the newly born’s house. Friends and extended family members come wearing traditional cloths. The guests and the family members dance around the fire and while dancing the puffed rice, sesame seed, corn is thrown into the fire (I believe that during ancient times these were symbolic offerings to fire god Agni). This year we are celebrate the arrival of Chetan (my son) and Megan’s daughter Ahana.

I am taking the liberty of conveying some of my thoughts to Chetan and Megan through this blog on this special occasion...

Chetan, in my 68 years of being, I have learned that time is not made of things but events. In one of those events on March 31st, 2019, you and your dear wife Megan were born as parents. I still see your joyfully shimmering face when you came to us delicately holding her. I saw how the newly born had created a tender loving space in your heart and that space was already transforming you into a doting father. When we saw her for the first time, we the grandparents felt exulted like the little bird lark who in happiness fly’s vertically at tremendous speed while singing in melodious voice. For me in the deepening silence of thirsty life, she has come as a new water.

You and Megan have named her Ahana, meaning Mother Goddess Durga as well as the first ray of the Sun. It is a beautiful name for a child. She is a beaming light in our lives. Parents fervently wish to see their grown-up children reflect some glory of the virtues hidden behind their given name. I have no doubt you both wish to see Ahana grow up as epitome of the glory behind the name, and that you and Megan will walk in lock steps and provide an environment of a blessed place for her so that she can grow into her name.

In our lives, we are always behind the curve in our understanding of parenthood and perfect parenthood remains elusive. Despite doing everything right in your view, there will be heartbreaks for all involved. This is natural and expected. Fortunately, these heartbreaks will open new landscapes of understanding in your heart and transformations to new understanding.

Raising strong, intellectual, family-oriented, and worldly-wise girls is a tough job. Society does not make it easy. There will be times she will feel vulnerable. Your upbringing will teach her that vulnerability comes with courage and without courage the life does not reveal its hidden beauty.

• Give her a gift of asking beautiful questions and seek beautiful answers. An ever-present effervescent feeling of wonder and awe should be there in her life. It is “THE” source of strength and will be her guiding companion. This strength grows as flowering beauty in one’s heart with time spent in nature, playing music, painting, dancing, reading books etc.
• Live a life of “Contested Generosity”. Living with this concept will make you and Megan strive to outdo each other in loving, forgiving, and understanding with a foundation of active listening. The kids are rarely listening but always watch what you do. Just think, how many times you have told me what you saw me doing as opposed remembering what I was saying. In short, your life on steroid of contested generosity will osmotically transform Ahana.
• When she is at an understanding age, teach and show her that it is not written anywhere that all the people including her must be happy all the time. Light and darkness are woven in the fabric of the day.  It is natural to feel defeated sometimes. Wisdom requires one to move gracefully with grit towards life’s goals. It’s also important that she understands that despite her best efforts, she may not always get what she wants. Her expectations from the society and the society’s response to her will not be same all the time. Life will always be somewhere in the middle.
• When she can walk a couple of miles without getting tired, take her on the trail behind the house especially, if possible, in the mornings. Talk about the amazing fragrance coming from the wet grass. Listen to chirping of birds, especially how they follow each other in their calls. Teach her how to listen to the stream. There is blessing in appreciating the rested beauty of nature including sky, clouds. The experience of spending conscious time in the nature increases the sense of wonder which is a true source of knowledge and strength.
• It is important that she is engaged and committed to her schooling, but it is equally important that this is not her only focus. While focusing on her mind development, also give equal attention to soul development by engaging her in charity work, service in Gurdwaras and Temples. Give praise when she helps someone in any which way.
• Engage her in the simple pleasures of life like going to a neighborhood diner, farmer's markets, flea markets etc. Happiness is feeling blessed. Expensive tastes do not increase the intensity of blessed feelings.
• Cultivate the arts. Teach her piano; piano enhances neural connections between both hemispheres of brain like no other. Ahana is already showing signs of a prodigal learner. I think she has come prepared. She just needs some prodding. This art is going to stay with her for rest of her life. 
• If possible, at an early age introduce her to good literature especially poetry. One’s world is limited by the words known to them. More she absorbs more her vision will expand. The limit of one’s vision is the limit of the universe. As grand father, I want her to know as much as the universe, but I know it is not possible, but I do know a quick way to explore the mystery of universe is to read poetry. Reading a good poem under the warm gaze of night is more spiritual than any number of prayers.
• I hope that she is taught to know her roots. Pride in culture and age-old traditions is an unbreakable shield which will make her bounce back into light from dark swamp of failure and depression.  Traditional religious and cultural rituals give order and make us appreciate the rhythm of life. More importantly, we are genetic shadows of our ancestors. The traditional rituals make us feel their existence. Every time I recite a Shabad (Holy Hymn) in the prayer room, I feel connected with my mother. Create reasons for being festive.  “Life without festivities is a long road without an inn”, these words by Democritus have ring of truth.

There may be times which may test you emotionally and financially. Use your pain to transform yourself otherwise you will transmit it to people around you including Ahana. Worrying about future does not help because future always happens. In hard times she will reflect on your fortitude, will learn, and move on.

She does not know her destiny. It will reveal itself slowly due to combination of her actions and outer influences. In antiquity while throwing offerings into fire, people would say “ Aadar Aawe, Te Dalidari Jaavey “. It means may the honor come, and the ignorance, laziness, and poverty depart. Nobody knows what the destiny has in cards for her, your job is to prepare her to make any destiny blissful. A change of season is a prelude to that journey.

A change in weather is sufficient to recreate the world and ourselves
-Proust

There is a goddess of memory, Mnemosyne;
But none of forgetting.
Yet there should be, as they are twin sisters,
Twin powers, and walk,
On either side of us, disputing for sovereignty,
Over us and who we are,
All the way until death.
-Richard Holmes
A meander through memory and forgetting
   
It was twilight on our second day at the park. The crimson sun’s rays were slicing through the dust raised by migrating animals. On the park radio, our guide heard that a couple of lions had surrounded a blue wildebeest (an animal the size of an adult cow) and were attacking it with their natural ferocity. Our guide quickly turned his land cruiser in the direction of the hunt. By rushing through the maze of dirt roads which snake through Serengeti, we reached where the wildebeest was on its last leg of battle, and within a few seconds it fell on the ground, its body ripped apart and the force of life leaving it forever. The attacking lionesses - one older and one around three years old - now exhausted from battle sat down stoically next to the dead beast. Their silent expressions were giving the illusion that they were coming to terms with raw grief of taking a life. It is said that sorrow has a voice: it is a scream turned inward and silenced. I suppose the lionesses, if in grief, had turned their roar inward. It has been shared that lions carry no memory of previous kills, so each act to them likely feels like innocence lost.
The vultures perched on leafless trees looked like monks contemplating on the nature of death. For their meal, they would have to wait. The lions were going to guard their hunt overnight.
The above episode has left a deep impact on my memory. It dawned to me that our lives are so separated from the natural actions and cycles of animals. While for me and others, this was a powerful experience, for the lions and wildebeest, it’s the natural way of the world. The poet John Fletcher said:
Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan
 Sorrow calls no time that’s gone

As the title suggests, this blog post is not about the size of the park and various animals in it - Wikipedia and internet are loaded with the such information. This writing is about my memories, reflections, and the changes the visit brought in me.  

After seeing the hunt, we headed back to our tent house. The night was falling and very soon the sky turned a dreamy velvet black. Every night, the sky brought the same color. The nightly bonfires at the tent had gold, red, and purple flames dancing on the embers. In the park, the animals were roaming free and we were caged in a secured tent during nights. Every night you could hear hyenas calling each other with a full range of musical tones including legatos and staccatos.
Our guide suggested that if we wanted to see lions feasting on the dead wildebeest, then we should start by 6 am. It was still dark, but the sky was changing its color from black to indigo. The shadow of yesterday’s moon was still lingering in the sky. It had rained in the wee hours of the morning, and the vast cathedral of Serengeti was being swept off its feet by the moisture laden breeze. On the way, we saw guinea fowls (I would describe them as cuter versions of chickens) doing their sputter walk on the side of the dirt road amidst line of blue monkeys. We reached the place of the kill at around 6:45 am.  It was an unbelievable scene. There were at least 4 lions sitting cheering on two other lions, one eating the face, and the second, a child, like any curious child, struggling with the tail.  From here, we moved on to other parts of park.

The sky by now had moved from indigo to a blue which can only be experienced and not described. According to the author Earl Shoris in The Last Word ’ the Mayan language had nine different words for blue”. The loss of language has made the blue I was witnessing beyond description.
By noon the sky had turned pale blue. In the open grassland, the animals were sunbathing, and the atmosphere was like a picnic. Lions, elephants, zebras, giraffes, a few foxes at distance, gazelles, all were in proximity of a few hundred yards of each other without any fear.  I saw carcasses of dead animals in the same mix. I saw a mother elephant breastfeeding her baby, a male and female Ostridge couple taking a leisurely walk during their picnic, and lions sleeping on the trees. A few miles from this place, we saw a lioness sleeping on a big lava rock like a beautiful lady in a portrait session of sleeping beauty. Her 5 cubs were playing around and occasionally sucking on her breasts. The littlest among them was constantly hitting on her face and periodically stopping to gaze at her face possibly to ensure that her spirit was still a float in this world. The beauty of this Eden like place brought the memory of the following verse from Gregory Orr:
To be alive; not just the carcass,
But the spark
That’s crudely put, but……
If we are not supposed to dance,
Why all this music?

The story of circular migration of animals following the rains and rejuvenated vegetation is nothing less than magical.  Science tells us that the animals for navigation shave several tools like spatial memory (some genetic and some learned), earth’s geomagnetic field, and seasons. I am not as well-endowed with spatial memory as these animals. The goddess of forgetfulness is always encroaching on the memory land. I am always trying to remember as much as I can the landscapes experienced with their wind patterns and sky.  
Serengeti was a gift to us from our children - Chetan, Megan, Ashim, and Pooja. Their gift brought an experience which we will cherish for as long as the goddess of forgetfulness does not turn her eyes towards us.

Visiting Serengeti and listening to what this land was saying, a new understanding and appreciation  of life and nature developed. In conversation with the land, we create spaces in our life where wisdom arises like morning sun and our spiritual landscape expands. The forgotten experiences come back as stories to be reflected upon as something new and novel. We realized that this season of our lives is more important than any other season to cherish lived moments and stories. Most importantly, a realization that the eternal call of time is beckoning us to cherish the internal seasons of life together with the knowledge of our partner's heart's wants.
I carry your heart with me ( I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it (Anywhere I go you go, my dear)
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root, bud of the bud and sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grown higher than soul can hope, or mind can hide)
And this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart.
-E. E. Cummings   

Reflections on my Visit to Gurudwara Sacha Sauda in Pakistan

Charity for God’s Sake has a hundred signs-within the heart
The good deed, a hundred tokens though in Charity Riches are Consumed
A Hundred Lives come to Heart in Return
A Sowing of Good Deeds in God’s Earth and Then no Income Impossible
- Rumi

In Pakistan, we spent our first night in Lahore. The persons traveling without a companion were assigned a roommate. My roommate was a short and stout Sikh gentleman from Indiana, USA. In the morning at around 3:30 am, the whole air space in the room started reverberating with the sound of beautiful recitation of morning compositions of Gurbani (Guru’s Words). Sitting on his bed, the gentleman was reciting in hypnotic trance. Like the pied piper, he had taken me into the wordless world of elevated state of mind. Over the next nine days, we would end up developing an enigmatic warmth for each other.

After having breakfast, our group of 37 or so people headed out to Gurudwara Sacha Sauda. According to the legend, Guru Nanak’s father was not happy with his ways and wanted him to be productive and earn money. One day, he gave him 80 rupees and asked him to strike a true bargain with the money and earn a very handsome profit. He sent his friend Mardana with him. Instead of doing what his father wanted, Guru Nanak bought food, and cloths for beggars, persons discarded by society, lowest among the low casts, and sick to no end. Both him and Mardana distributed the food and clothes with sheer joy. The Gurdwara is built on the very site where Baba Nanak showed us the path of giving to needy.

I found the Gurdwara to be beautifully maintained with manicured lawns and clean buildings. We all sat in the prayer hall and listened to the Kirtan (sacred hymns) by the priest as well as some members of our group. We were served Langar (food from the community kitchen) after the end of singing and prayer. To my surprise, two of the servers were Muslims and while serving they were reciting Sikh chants. There were also two little kids age around 6 or 7 distributing food.

There was a big berry tree on the right side of the main hall’s entrance. The tree is believed to be over 600 years old, and it is believed that Baba Nanak used to sit under the tree and muse about the nature of God. The locals believe in the healing power of its leaves. Almost all of us took some leaves.

Reflecting on this episode, I realize that even at the young age of 18, Guru Sahib had a compassionate heart. Reading about the episodes of his earlier life, I (we) know that he had mind of his own. He objected to wearing of sacred thread, did not want to perform in rituals, questioned rationality of society’s beliefs and actions and did not want to indulge in any activity which did not allow him to grow spiritually. In short, he was a non-conformist. He was like a boat which in order to navigate stays in contact with the water (society/community) for travel, but in order to keep itself moving, does not allow societal ills to seep in.

In discovering his true nature, he did not follow his father and mother’s aspirations. Baba Nanak throughout his life taught that the true human bliss is in service of living beings. One shall choose the path based ion his/her calling. Baba Nanak was not an arm chair teacher but walked the path.

He made giving and service (Daan) as one of the three pillars of the Sikh path. The other two he shared were Meditation (Naam), and living a virtuous life (Isnaan). Jesus who lived centuries before him emphasized service of mankind as one of his principle teachings. Jesus spent most of his time with lepers, persons discarded by the society and prostitutes. Baba Nanak also like him spent his time helping poor, needy and sick. In Sikh teachings, while one is encouraged to help the needy and sick, the healthy and capable persons are scolded for begging. The following lines clearly show Guru’s thinking:
Is Pekhe Thavuh Girhe Bhala Jithoh Ko Varsae
(Instead of wearing the beggar’s robes, it is better to be a householder, and give to others)

The teachings remind us that service is gratitude which brings grace into the life. Service is humility and any giving of items of no use to the giver is not a true act of charity, but more an ego filled feel good activity. In the old Hindu scripture Katopanishad, Nachiketa tells his father that giving up old useless cows to Brahmins with fanfare was self-aggrandizing and an act frowned upon by Gods.
He emphasized that service should not only be a duty but should become a habit. In Guru Nanak life time, inspired by his teachings, there was spread of community kitchens far and wide. The care of needy and sick was done by his followers and showing the path to the existence to move onto more enlightened path. When I think about it, the following words ring through my ear:
Sage does nothing but nothing is left undone
-Lao Tsu

I was writing these last lines around the time of sunset. The orange sky and green lawn together had created a picture evoking nostalgia for the place and mind was being ambushed by the memories of my visit.

I recently had the privilege of traveling to Pakistan to honor and learn more about the birthplace of the Sikh religion.

It was 4 am on November 17th, and the Turkish Airlines flight (where I was joined with my sister and brother-in-law, among others) was slowly gliding down on its approach to Lahore Airport. The lights of Lahore had started to come out from oblivion. Fear and excitement were running through my veins. I was enchanted by memories of the stories my mother told me about her childhood in Jhelum and those my father told me about his undergraduate days in Lahore at Khalsa College, but that was clouded with the horror of 1947. Leading up and through the partition, the violence and fleeing caused unforgettable pain to people who built their lives together for the past 5000 years. While leaving west Punjab (now Pakistan), the people of my parents’ generation and older would have never imagined they would forever leave the only place they knew of as home.

I thought of my mother walking miles with torn chappals (sandals) holding the hand of her three-year son (my eldest brother) and carrying another six months old son (my other brother) in her arms. Her caravan of 100 people walked over 50 miles to reach the safety of Amritsar in India.

In 1947, on both sides of Punjab, there was no oxygen, but only blood in the air. It seemed as though a hapless God had escaped to deep dungeons of Earth amid war cries of Allah ho Akbar, Bole So Nihal, and Har Har Mahadev. Fundamentalists were looking at heaven for redemption from their violent acts while creating hell on earth. It seemed as if Satan, the sorcerer, had made the sun emit black light under which disarray and malice conquered all.

The haunting memories created by the stories of partition were coming to me like a ceaseless vertigo of pain. I was born after partition, but I realized that the stories of partition had become a legacy of suffering and an important part of our family history.
I was lost in my own world when the plane landed. The immigration was a hassle-free process. After clearance, we were greeted by friends of the pilgrimage organizers. They took us to a hotel in an area called Liberty Market.

The morning was filled with a lucid stillness in the air, and the tangerine sun had started smiling from the east. Voices sharing the Punjabi hospitality greeting Jee Ayaan Noon (heartiest welcome) and sounds of Punjabi accents similar to my parents (Punjabi spoken in Pakistan sounds different than the one spoken in Indian Punjab) were everywhere. Even though my parent’s generation suffered during partition, they didn’t let their good memories of the land and the people be stained by the memory of bloodshed. I was beginning to breathe a sweet mist of my parents’ nostalgia of good times and as a result slowly my cocooned self was beginning to grow wings.

At around noon, we went to Liberty market. The sounds, smells, and hawkers looked very familiar.  The overwhelming feelings generated by the familiarity of things made me question the senseless bloodshed of 1947. The welcoming tenderness in the corner of everybody’s eyes was beautiful. It is said that if one finds peace in the air, water, and land of a new place, then it is because the person’s hereditary consciousness dwells in that area. I didn’t have to convince myself about the validity of this belief.

By the afternoon, most of our group of 38 had arrived to Lahore. We assembled in the hotel lobby and then got onto organized buses for a visit to Gurudwara Dehra Sahib – the place of our fifth Guru’s, Guru Arjan Dev Ji’s, martyrdom. His martyrdom took place in May of 1606 (according to the Gregorian calendar).

According to 17th century sources, including contemporary poet and theologian Bhai Gurdas Bhalla (a Jesuit priest who was in Lahore at that time) and the Mughal Emperor Jahangir’s own biography, the Guru Ji was martyred due to fear of his rising popularity among masses. Jahangir felt threatened by other religions gaining power. He asked Guru Ji to convert to Islam and change a few verses of Adi Granth Sahib – a religious compilation of Gurus’ teachings. The order was refused. Guru Ji was tortured, and it is believed that he disappeared in the Raavi River after torture. There are fictionalized stories that came about in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries involving other characters and ideas behind his martyrdom, but these stories hold no historical truth.

The place where Guru Arjan Dev Ji is believed to have disappeared is now dry land where the devotees have built his Samadhi (a structure commemorating the union of soul with God). A weak person like me cannot comprehend the moral strength of Guru Ji and his unwavering faith; at the age of 43, he gave up his life, refusing conversion to Islam. Looking at the Samadhi, I imagine the scene when Raavi was full of water and Guru Ji entered it with hundreds of onlooking devotees. Heavens cry through human eyes. Flowing tears of devotees must have made Raavi’s waters salty for a good amount of time. I remember a couple of lines from a poet requesting the waters of Raavi not to push around, because my lord has countless wounds (burns from the torture):
                Raavi deya pania thokraan na maar, mahi dey shareer ute chale beshumar

Guru Arjan infused the core of Sikhism – morality and ethics - with warriorship. He was the first martyr in the religion. The path shown by him led to a line of thousands of Sikh Martyrs.

I was marveling at his accomplishments. At a young age of 17, he became our 5th Guru. In the short span of 26 years, he completed the construction of Harmandir Sahib (the Golden Temple), wrote the highest number of hymns of any Guru, compiled the Adi Granth Sahib, organized Sikh sangats (congregations) and langar (free, community kitchen) at broader scale, etc.

​In the evening, my mind was entrenched in a web of thoughts as I reflected on his execution, the sacrifice of martyrs, and the rich history of Lahore (including contribution of Sikhs). In the Gurdwara, I saw a Muslim, Pathan couple from Peshawar eating langar (as shown in the picture below). There were many Muslims serving and eating langar. I could not escape the lingering thought that had Jahangir not ordered the execution of Guru Ji, our relationship with Islam would have been at a much different plane of understanding. I also believe that our historians did a very poor job of presenting facts, which complicates things and creates mind myths.

Lahore’s history is a labyrinth of blood shed, invasions, court intrigue, Sufism, etc. It would be easy for me to get lost in deep, tangled thoughts, but my Guru Ji lifts me out of this and reminds me I may never get the answer I’m seeking. Live this moment and relish the time here. The past is nothing but how you imagine it. Rotate the kaleidoscope and the picture will change. His beautiful composition of Sukhmani Sahib came to my mind, and I reflected on the following excerpt:

           Sukhmani Sukh Amrit Prabh Naam, Bhagat Jana Key Man Bisram (Rahao)
           (The name of God is Peace ( Jewel) of mind,  (By Contemplation)
           The mind of devotees abides in restful state, Pause and Contemplate 

I Declare with Perfect faith, That Prayer Preceded God
God Created Human Beings, Human Beings Created Prayer
That Created the God, That Created the Human Being
- Yehuda Amichai

The above poem on initial reading may appear very acentric, but on close pondering, it is a beautiful expression sharing how we experience God through prayer.

Reader - a few weeks ago, I went on a bike ride in Fairmont Park of Philadelphia. It was a misty morning and softly penetrating the mist was the morning moon, which was looking bigger than usual. The pines in the park were sacrificing their fragrance in honor of this beautiful late September morning. It was indeed a perfect day for biking. The freshly pressurized tires of the bike were kissing the trail with exquisite vivacity. I have always loved the ride on the gravel path in the park, which is sandwiched between tall trees on both sides, and on its northeastern side is also flanked by the sparkling Wissahickon Creek. The playful water provides the magical sensation of a soothing balm. The creek would have been more enchanting had man not interfered with its meandering path. On and off, I kept on thinking about various type of prayers, why we pray, and whether prayer works. Reader, I’d like to share my collection of thoughts with you.

Rumi’s words of wisdom often allow me to stretch my thinking. I recalled this poem:
Today, like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened
 Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.
Take down a musical instrument. Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground

It is liberating to learn that prayer does not have to follow a structure. Actually, prayer should have the mark of originality, like our fingerprints. This originality brings us into our being and allows us to become one with our true self.  A prayer with active listening leads to equanimity; otherwise, it is a collection of words which escape without their footprint.

Prayers can take so many forms.

• There are some traditions where prayers happen in a very specific rhythm for a specific purpose. In Islamic Salat, five times daily prayer is performed at specific prescribed times of the day.  The tradition believes that the practice leads one to dissolving of the self (fa’na) and finding the divine within (ba’qa) thus leading to divine unity (tawhid).
• Sometimes, there are prayers that, while albeit a routine, are often individualized. The Hindu Praise of River Ganges and Aarti (a prayer with lit lamps expressing highest love toward gods) in temples are choreographed with improvisation. Each temple and person performing has some freedom. In my teen years, I with my friends used to go to a Hanuman Temple. Hanuman helped Lord Rama (a Hindu deity) recover his wife Sita from demon king Ravana, thus restoring Shakti (power) to Lord Rama. Hanuman is a very inspiring symbol of service and devotion. In the evenings during Aarti time, I recall that each priest performed aarti in his own distinct style. The captivating ambiance enhanced by cresting and ebbing rhythm of bells created during the ceremony hypnotized us.
• We might invoke prayer in times of suffering, pain, loss of dear ones.  Any amount of prayer does not change the realty - it is cosmic law. However, prayer does provide therapeutic balm of healing and emotional reconfiguration. It helps us change things by changing our perspective. It gives us hope so that we do not live in fear. There are beautiful words written on this aspect by Christian Theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. It is called Serenity Prayer:

                                          God, grant me the serenity
                                          To accept the things, I cannot change
                                          Courage to change the things I can
                                          And wisdom to know the difference.

• Meditation and meditative prayers are in vogue these days. There are meditation retreats. While I have never been to one, I believe long-term benefits of such retreats can only be achieved if the attendee makes mediation a daily part of his/her life. But, it can often happen that, as with many practices, we lose interest or give up within a few weeks. I admire the discipline of those few who go on to a true and deep meditative path.

In prayers, we strive to have freedom from fear of heaven and hell, and free from fear of life. Religious texts talk in detail about this fear and how to get rid of it. Guru Nanak, the first Sikh Guru, gives directions in his prayerful writing, Japjee Sahib (Pauri 38), on how to develop God Consciousness in your total self – mind and body - thus releasing yourself from fear:
 Jat Pahara Dheeraj Suniyar, Ahran Mat Ved Hathiyar
Bhau Khala Agan Taptau, Bhanda Bhau Amrit Tit Dhal
Karihye Sabad Sachee Taksaal, Jin Kaur Nadar Karam Tin Kar
Nanak Nadri Nadar Nihal.            
(Free flowing translation: In order to find eternal bliss one needs to make himself/herself worthy of almighty’s grace. For that one needs to mint coins of “The Word.“ Such minting can be attained by strident effort which is coupled by patience, anvil like intellect, hammer like wisdom, fearful caution, firesome discipline, and with this effort you pour gold coins of virtuous teachings with love in your mind.)

Often, we invite the higher spirit into our life by performing special prayers at home, at places of worship, and at satsangs (holy gatherings), But, we may forget that God is always present in our hearts. It is we who are missing from our hearts.  Therefore, a big chasm remains between our true nature and imagined self.

For me, spending time in nature and listening to its beautiful sounds is nothing short of prayer. While I have deep appreciation for ancient hymns, I find the need to ground myself in the simplicity of nature as well. The following poem resonates with me:
Every day, the priests minutely examine the law
And endlessly chant complicated Sutras
Before doing that, though, they should learn
How to read the love letters sent by the wind
And rain, the snow, and the moon
-Haiku By Ikkayu ( A Japanese Poet)

Reader, I remember when I was a child in India, we used to sleep on the roof and since the future sky of light pollution had not arrived, we could see thousands of stars. We used to name the stars. I recently came across a prayer like poem written by Lin Manual Miranda (of Hamilton fame) for the animation film, Moana - about a voyage of a child across the Pacific.
At night we name every star
We know where we are, we know who we are.
Through nature, we learn that we are whole only if we consider that surroundings are a part of us. Seeing the lifeless leaves on the ground during on my fall biking trip, I am reminded that we are all connected in death. It is said that the second law of thermodynamics is the first law of life - literally meaning that everything in this universe is moving towards a higher degree of disorder (entropy) and destruction. I was thinking that I am also slowly coming apart at the seams, with death slowly percolating through my body.  I was somehow finding comfort in those dead leaves; they were my therapeutic allies.                 

I looked up and saw a few large birds gliding up and down with oceanic rhythm in the sky. Lost in wonder of their play with the sky, the mystery of existence was deepening. From this depth a deep sense of prayful gratitude was emerging. Around the same time, one of the birds with a big whistle like sound started soaring higher and higher. Reader, the bird’s whistle reminded me of the following poem by David Whyte titled “The Bell and the Blackbird”. It came to me like a message nothing short of a prayer.
The sound of a bell still reverberating
Or a blackbird calling from a corner of a field
Asking you to wake into this life,
Or inviting you deeper to one that waits
Either way takes courage, Either way wants you to be nothing,
but that self that is no self at all
Wants you to walk to the place
Where you already know, how to give every last thing away