A Lingering illness or permanent health disorder is usually demoralising. So is a financial or circumstantial mishap that takes ages to get through. Each of these — and who knows how many more ‘conditions’— can seem like an interminable jail sentence. Usually, it is the afflicted one who is the focus of good advice, prayers and practical concern. But often, their fate depends on the mood and strength of their caregivers who must always keep a bright face, not grumble or curse (audibly, at least) and stretch their own resources of money, cheer and patience to the limit. Money and cheer are still manageable somehow, it would seem. What of patience? It is the hardest thing to summon and sustain, even for two minutes’ delay in a lift or a queue. The saddest instance is of good intentions that wear out before the course is run. All the effort already put in is wasted, no merit is earned and our good name and self-esteem are squandered pointlessly. The old cautionary tale that was told to us as children still holds good, if we think of it. A man once vowed to perform an abhishek of a thousand kalashas of water on a Shivling. Rising early, he chose an auspicious hour, announced his plans grandly to all at home and set off freshly bathed, in a state of ritual purity, to keep his promise. At the shivala, he bowed to Ganesha, prostrated before the granite Shivling set in copper with a huge brass snake curled at its base. The temple tap was in a convenient corner — he didn’t even have to draw water from the well like in the bad old days. Muttering “Namas Shivaya, Namas Shivaya” under his breath, he filled the pot with water and went around the Shivling. With each round, he poured the water out completely, refilled the kalasha and repeated his round. To the amazement and admiration of all worshippers, he kept resolutely at it, until several tiring hours later, limbs drenched with sweat, head spinning and knees trembling, he reached 999. At that critical point, alas, he “lost it” as we’d say today. Clang, went the kalasha as he threw it down. Bang, went the priest’s khadau (wooden slippers) that he kicked on the way out. Clatter, went the hapless panchapatra (ritual copper vessel from which tulsi water is dispensed with a ritual spoon, the ugrani), knocked flying from the hands of the priest. In the shocked silence he left behind, a dry rustle that could have been a hiss, sounded discreetly. Was it an amused Nagraj? We’ll never know. But elders love to point out that the true test of faith is patience, of finishing a task, of hanging in there until our hands are cut off. And nicer than ‘duty’ is the Hindi word for this: ‘nibhao’.
