Somewhere amidst
the chaos of beliefs and supreme powers, in the dark alleys of madmen
brainwashed by the greedy politics of man, within the small joy of the known
and the mysteries of the unknown, India sits at the roots of a tree, its back
rested on the bark. It has no permanent address, no unique identity of its own,
its eyes observing the affairs of the day, but weeping at its own helplessness.
It walks with the cane of hope, its eyes hungry for a pacifying horizon. India
lies in the alleys of Lahore, where a Hindu boy, plays hide and seek with a
Muslim boy, India lies in the chaos of Chandni Chowk where the shopkeeper runs
behind the customer with a worried smile of being able to give him what he
forgot at the shop. India runs through its vast network of railway tracks
encompassing the changing features of the land and the varied beauties of the
faces of women walking back home after filling water at the well. India lies in
the calmness of the temple courtyards, it lies in the homecoming of the eldest
daughter in law, it lies in the eyes of a wife awaiting her husband as the sun
sets.
As I stroll along the shores of this country, I often wonder how many
shades has this portrait collected? How many colours fill this vastness with
joy? On a rainy evening in Kerala, I long for a temple, where I could sleep to
the music of the gods, I look out for a farmer, he alone could walk with me I
suppose. I have nothing to offer him, and he has but only an embrace to offer
me, and that is all I need, I suppose.
Caught up in the petty worries of our daily lives, in the mysteries of belief
and belonging, in search of our own beloveds and clear
identities, we are so blinded to the very hints that make us human, that make
us boil down to one thing, that which is universal. Why do I feel a certain
supremacy when I sit in a car and I see a farmer struggling with his cart, why
do I long for a genuine smile when I'm so used to receiving that which looks
beautiful, but really isn’t. Why does a tear roll down my eye when I sit at the
dargah with all ears to the mysticism of Sufism, that which is not my own? Is
it the language of love that I long to hear or is it the beloved that I'm searching for. Well, I found it. I found it here, in the lively alleys of this
country, I found it in the dancing of children to hymns sung in praise of the
one who knows it all, I found it in the peaceful silence of the night at a
farmers hut, a place which did not exist for me. I found at the shores, where
every wave re-inforced the rythms of my travels. I don’t know why im here, and
I surely don’t where I would be, all I know is that I'm here, and the more I
look, the more I smile and the more I embrace, I begin to wander into a world,
the real world which is a sheer master piece. I believe India is a great
country, a country with great powers to heal humanity of its wrath, to spread
joy and above all to help one find himself, in the unheard stories of the
invisible novels. Incredible India it is after all. That is where I rest, come
along if you want to. It’s magical.
By Raunak Deo
