Towards feeling better

Holy days are definitely a time to leach out the bad thoughts and consciously think clean, so that we renew our pacts with our selves, wit...

Holy days are definitely a time to leach out the bad thoughts and consciously think clean, so that we renew our pacts with our selves, with the people around and with God-in-us. But around the winter solstice, there seems to be such a natural cluster of holy days, it8217;s as if some exquisite formation of calendar jewels has occurred through the mystical movements of Time itself, some deep cosmic pattern that we dimly sense but don8217;t fully understand. We who live in the bleak grey of northern winter think of these festival days as diyas laid out by a kindly Deity to lighten the seasonal gloom. It8217;s another matter that a fine winter8217;s day for some lucky souls is full of flowers, peanuts, oranges and the smell of sun-warmed grass. We had barely had Christmas and it was Guru Gobind Singh Saheb8217;s birth anniversary on New Year8217;s Day and just last week it was Pongal/Lohri.

Apropos which I have this nutsy theory that deep cultural diagonals seem to run across the subcontinent. Just as Kerala has so much in common with Bengal, I8217;ve noticed strange affinities between Tamil Nadu and the Punjab, partly in the down-to-earth, pragmatic nature of the people, in the fact that both are champion survivors and, strangely, in their approach to spirituality and God. There is of course a similar pattern linking all Indian languages, but I found it outstanding in the case of these two.

For instance, the Sufi mysticism of the Wadali brothers, who sang on Lohri at our largest such venue in Delhi, echoes Tamil love-plaints to God. If Bulle Shah sang 8220;Atilde;sup2;f40Atilde;sup3;Tere ishq nachaya8221; in Punjabi-Urdu, then Gopalkrishna Bharati sends up a paean to Shiva at Chidambaram, in 8220;Atilde;sup2;f40Atilde;sup3;Idhudaano Thillai sthalam?8221; 8220;I wandered madly everywhere, and You lured me to sanctuary with your upraised hand,8221; he exults.

All the good stuff we suspect about underlying spirituality and the One-ness of God is vindicated again and again, if we but listen to our saint-soldiers and poets. In the end, the gift of Time can only be love, valued in each other. There are many tender songs, poems and stories to teach us, and one of my favourites is an old French tale.

It seems around Christmas, in some medieval year, a marvellous Nativity scene was set up by the friars of a great cathedral. The doll of the Holy Child in its wicker crib, swathed in soft wool, looked so lifelike that everyone exclaimed in wonder. The local lord, the nobility, the important priests and merchants, the crafts people, the farmers, just about everybody streamed in with little and big gifts. An orphaned young juggler8217;s apprentice watched it all in wide-eyed wonder. He longed with all his heart to give the Christ Child a gift. But he didn8217;t have even a single copper. And if he asked his master, he would certainly be clouted on the ear.

Late at night, when the last prayer had been said, the caretaker moved softly down the aisles, for one last check. Suddenly he clucked in anger. The juggler8217;s boy knelt before the crib. About to stride forward and cuff the intruder, he felt the abbot8217;s hand restrain him. 8220;Let us watch,8221; whispered the older man. They saw the little boy carefully take out three balls from his ragged pocket. He bowed to the Holy Child and carefully began his act, complete with all the fairground patter. His face was set in concentration and it was clear that he was determined to put on the best show he could. 8220;Sacrilege!8221; hissed the lesser man. 8220;No, homage. The gift of skill, given with love,8221; murmured the old abbot, eyes misting.

The moral? Why, surely it must be that love is the best gift we can give each other, no matter how empty our pockets! So many Holy Days around the solstice can only mean that we too should come out of the cold and begin our personal Uttarayan towards warmth and light.