Bull-man-Cart

THE COOL BREEZE FROM HIND by Jaihoon

Ch1. Bull-Man-Cart I stood watching the rain. The fresh and noisy rain. The Sand Dunes are blessed with Silence, but the Paddy Fields are filled with Noise. I stood watching the rain. Within about four clock-hours, I had traveled from the Sand Dunes to the Paddy Fields. The sand was reddish and everything around was greenish. It Cooled my Eyes. This is the truth, to capture your soul, your friend is not telling lies. The Swadeshi relatives gathered around to embarrass my curiosity. 'What is so special about the rain that spoiled their plans? What is so fresh about the marshy land?' They wondered at my wonder!  But my wonder coupled with a fiery egoism, never felt threatened by their comments. I kept watching the rain. The Malanadan Rain! The scene after rain is as refreshing as the rain itself. New life forms develop. The existing ones are blessed with a brand new endeavor to Live and Re-live. In some, new life forms come from no-where.  In others, life continues from a Shattered Self. From the dead wood, sprouts a new life. Resurrection after all may not be that impossible.  Or is it? Every moment in nature leaves its trace for the observer to embrace. Gem-like tiny droplets are seen balancing themselves on the Chemb leaves. And the little child would run up to the plant to fondle those droplets shining in the sunlight. In the Dotcom world, to create a masterpiece as this, will not be a task for the designer to be at ease. Precious moments are for precious hearts to foster. In Affinity, Fear-filled pearls are for Mercy-filled shells to shelter. But a Destructive Child would rather take a stick in hand, and begin his Creative Act of destroying all the plants in the land.  This was outside the house, but inside the fence. But there runs a bull cart outside the home, outside the fence. The bull in the front. The cart at the back. And the gray haired driver in between.  Thus the Bull-Man-Cart was, for me, three forms of life - the bull with the animal soul, and cart with no soul at all. But the 'life-form' of the middle one was most interesting. He had the 'God-given' soul raising him higher than angels. The Bull-Man-Cart was his invention.  It is he who coordinates the movement of the two diametrically opposite geometric shapes: the round-wheel and the rectangular animal legs. Man becomes the Link between wheel and cart, and thus arises the Bull-Man-Cart. The v-signed horns said how determined the bulls were: whatever the distance, they were ready to bear. In modern terminology, the Bull-Man-Cart was doing a door-to-door service - delivering huge and heavy foodstuff from shops to homes at a very reasonable fee (or else he wouldn't survive in the competitive market). But in the Nightingale's eye, what is there as visible as the Rose?  A Bee is in search of the sweet nectar; the thorns and leaves are to it utterly bitter. My eyes passed by the bull. I had a glimpse of the cart. But I began to see the wheel. The moving wheel. Round and round, it was moving like a reel. Mobility in thought, I was beginning to feel. Mobility in style, mobility in thought; far and wide when the ships sail, ocean's mysteries are sought. Mobility is a noble passion. Rest and stillness blinds my eye with Illusion. I have picked the pearls while on the course of journeys, moving across the Watan brought to my mind so many stories.  Mobility makes every mystery as visible as glass. Life is just another name for 'parvaaz'. And to have a book in hand written with the 'Ink of Affinity' is perhaps the best companion while on the flight. What is the fault (even) if it strains the sight, for the heart it renders full of light.  I began to see the wheel more and more. This invention of man had changed much in this world. He could travel much faster without halting to avoid the heat and cold. The wheel evolved from wooden to iron to rubber to plastic to hard to soft...wheel made man proud and a little rude. But here I was seeing something else: The bulls pulled the cart's wheel: Nature pulled Technology. Enough said. My story of bull and cart has taken us elsewhere.  Empty thought leads nowhere. My Friend! You are a Tasbih granted after years of prayer. In the east and west, you are a pearl so rare.  By then, the rain and its traces came to end. The sun and his army were at the front end. The dark clouds disappeared giving way to the white ones. And then it was time to make a choice. I had to begin soon so that later I could rejoice. I had to begin quick, or else the Accursed One would start performing his trick. Beware! Beware! My dear! That devil is trying to make our hearts go sick. A storm was brewing in me to pass over from 'Idea' to the 'Deed'.  To accomplish my dream into reality, there was none else to lead. I alone had to make the move or else laziness around me would breed.  Hundreds and thousands of Moths were eager for this Flame to burn. The truth they wanted to learn, the myth they wanted to unlearn.  This assignment if I adjourn, in embarrassment would I return. In whose hearts I was held a dear one, (so far), would look down on me with queer scorn. The wood and fuel was within me. I didn't have to fetch these from the market of fate. My fate lies within me. To make it or break it was my own right, whether others like it or hate it. I cared not what the Oracle had in his mind. Mixed with myth, he speaks the 'truth' whispered to him by the Intruding Beasts. But in my mind sounds the words of Poet of Tomorrow, "The destiny of a thing then is not an unrelenting fate working from without like a task master; it is the inward reach of a thing, its realizable possibilities which lie within the depths of its nature and serially actualize themselves without any feeling of external compulsion.  Thus the organic wholeness of duration does not mean that full fledged events are lying, as it were, in the womb of reality, and drop one by one like the grains of sand from the hour glass" Let me not confuse further the story. By Lord! I fear my Tasbih will become rather weary. That 'Unlettered One' was sent to make things simple for the simple mind. He explained the mysteries in a way so sweet and short. All that I wanted was a starting point, for, the Most Merciful had blessed me with forte so abundant. As such, the Paddy Fields had many venues of ancient and modern to start. But my pursuit was for 'Today', which with the 'Yesterday' did not part. A venue that was equally charming to my 'Traditional Soul' and 'Modern Mind'. An aspiration for my DotHeart thought and Dotcom act. A strong wind so that in times of trial, my little mind wouldn't sink. Who could be the one to be blessed with the Marunadan Silence and Malanadan Tolerance?  MeraWatan had to start from such a place, or else for the rest of the journey there would be no pace. Questions came like piercing arrows from far and near. For a moment, I felt as if I was a helpless deer. The next moment, I smiled. When I got the hint, joy over joy piled.  The venue was all set. The pearl was in my net. I had found the exact place to make the start. And what was next? Would the fledgling keep relaxing in the nest? 'Vasu!' My driver was summoned. And the car moved northwards.  Town and cities, cars and buses, manual-rickshaws, children and adults, boys and girls, men and beasts- the Malanadan roads had everything for this Marunadan visitor to see. And nothing escaped my attention- neither dust nor the rocks.  The sun was optimally bright and the wind was cool and light. I was moving closer to my Starting Point. Because it was our first visit, we had to ask so that we wouldn't get lost. Whomever we asked, the reply was spontaneous- go straight, left and right. To show that path to that venue, the young and old alike were glad. I knew for sure that the coming moments were going to be better than what I had. With my head and heart I wished to get there: Trust me, my dear, this was no fad. Pay a little more attention dear one, or else your friend will get sad. The car was moving to spiritual capital of my naad…the Panakkad. 'The towns are not much different from what it was years ago' said my driver, equally excited as me to be at the hometown of that 'Sage of Malabar'. The monsoon had brought with it a special coolness for the reddish soil and greenish plants. The final road that we traveled was a little narrow. There was an extraordinary calmness that I felt. I was cherishing a dream, which wouldn't shatter even with stones if it were pelt. The cool wind seemed pleasing to my fellow travelers. But the Cool Breeze was kindling every inch of my heart. I was beginning to grasp the relationship between man and nature, as I was getting closer to the residence of 'Children of Fatimah'. Round and round and round, Vasu steered the car. And finally the house reached. At the doorstep we arrived. And there it was - the Virtual Hospital, the Guest House, the asylum, the court, the Abode of Strategic Political decisions that changed the equations of Rulers and Ruled.  The renovated home was also there - where his worthy successor continued to serve the masses. Visitors came flocking in and out. An old man, who seemed to have much familiarity with the Kodappanekkal System, stood there to answer questions of the visitors. Towards him I moved a step closer.  He came a little nearer. I asked. He answered: the master of the house was not at home. But this was no blow to my aspiration. My starting point was still in the neighborhood. I proceeded ahead. On reaching the Masjid, I had my voluntary prayers said. Delving deeper into this, we find joy in the words of the Sweetest of All, "The whole of earth has been made a mosque for me". The whole planet, that is conveniently divided into nations and nation-states, is one grand prayer hall, where the post-prayer mantra goes on the worshipper's lips: "Allah! You are peace. From you is peace. To you we return in peace. Make us live in peace. Admit us into abode of peace…" My dear Friend! It seems to my eye that the first and last task of a believer is of a 'Peace-Keeper'. His duty is to create Peace in this world, not riots and bloodshed. He intends to return to Lord with peace, not weapons. And Paradise to us is an abode of Greater Peace.  I swear by the God-given Affinity of yours: the purpose of my song is not to create disturbance for my Rose or others who hear my voice. For the Hind and Hijaz pricked by alien thorns, from the kingdom of heart this is a sincere Rose. Tasbih! I am the fisher, not the bait. I am the calendar, how can I become the date? Let me continue the tale without having you to wait.  It was 9 or 10 in the morning. Not much of clamor was there in the vicinity of hearing. All around the Masjid silence was bearing.  Except for the little birds that with each other were chirping. And below was the silent river flowing as relaxed as a heart of a child listening to lullaby of his mother. So calm. So silent. As if to disturb was none around. In traditional Malabar, the lullaby was blend of His Fear and Mercy. Subhanallah. Al Hamdu Lillah. The infant first hears it from the Umma, long before from the Mulla. Tasbih dear! Are we to hold the Older Generation, responsible for the molding of Present? Can we attribute Today's showers to the clouds of Yesterday's? Easy it is for a man to fight the forces outside home. But hard it is for a lady to safeguard the toddlers from the media worm. As stern as a thunder, as patient as the earth- how can she surrender her child to what hampers his ego's growth? New forces of 'Ego-Dissolution' calls for new ways of Ego-Preservation. The devil has let loose his army of toons made from the Clay of West. Fed with myths of aliens and UFO's, these fledglings do not see beyond this rotten hay of nest.  Even the smile and tears are genetically engineered to fit the Unfit Times. Motherhood is lost in the preaching of Screen Apostles and Oracles. My heart is not in tune with these Traditionists. I see no modernity in these Oracles who polish the shoes of this Worn-Out System. In its mirror, it shows nothing but itself.  The lullaby of today is without any melody. The young heart is fondled with products of Noise-Recycling Factories: it makes no distinction between the rice and paddy. Poison is fed into the heart, while nectar is fed into the mouth. How imminent then, is ego's death? O my dear and near one! Spin a new yarn for this mischievous one: the old ones are beaten and thrown (away). Let me see myself in the mirror of your own: God-Willing, it is possible that out of His fear (in you), my stains will not be shown. While on the moon, I was thinking of the Earth! Standing in the mosque, I was thinking of the river beneath! My attention shifted to the mosque from the river of little depth. And old styled mosque it was, but conscious of architectural design. Nothing extra-ordinary nor anything in vain. Very simple. But Old is always Gold, though I have always wondered why. The 'gold-ness' perhaps arose from sincerity- their aim was never to make quick money. What is there as 'golden' as a golden heart?  The glitter of your heart outshines the entire collection of gold mart.  Every now and then you are practicing His Fear as an art. From the moment our Affinity did start, this thought has come to heart: Tasbih from my hand will not part. I stepped closer towards the religio-political sage: 'this little one, a Malanadan but Marunadan grown, is greeting you at this morn.  Salaam to you. O abode of Mumin!' There were no any festivities around. Thank God. Nor any Administrative Committees to surround. Praised be the Lord. Here rests a great soul with a mandate of millions, respected by friends and opponents alike. But he never encouraged the practice of personality cult although there were plenty to do if he did like. Many were eager to serve him to whom he never showed a sign of a grin. He never lost heart, when any trouble would start. At times of crisis when the community was hurt, he would ask his people to remain calm and quiet, and not vainly give orders to go and fight. When the communalists plotted to destroy a sanctified spot, it was his vision that rescued his lot that was about to jolt. It is the absence of such vision that caused a black fate on a December date.  Had there been another Pookoya in the North of Hind, Masjids and Mandirs none could offend. There is an interesting tale of one Nambiar and his master Bapu Kurikkal. The death of Kurikkal, caused severe pain on Nambiar, which he could not tackle, sleepless and restless, his state was no better than rotten pickle. Doctors tried to treat him, medicines could not cure him: the deceased Kurrikkal was to his heart focal. At last, he found the remedy on the doorstep of Kodapankkal. "Nambiar dear! Can a man remain alive forever? Saara Milla! Go back home and in peace lay on the pillow'. That was the end of his grief. Once again his heart was full of relief. Subhanallah! When comes on your lips, drop by drop, His Fear into my heart dips. The patient is not cured by the dozes of medicine. Rather due to the trust that resides in his heart's basin. The trust that Pookoya enjoyed in the heart of people is what facilitated the easy flow of his magnetic personality. A true leader is not one who is content with the present under the same sky with the prevailing Heavenly Stars and Earthen Jars. He is a Transformational Expert, not a Transactional Object. At times, he takes a 'day off', to cherish a dream to see his people better off. And this Sage rightly identified the true platform for change: the Womenfolk. He insisted on their education, because at their hands was the Next Generation. Whether it was religious meetings or political conventions, Pookoya spoke for female education and its importance. His bespectacled face hung clear in my mind. His enchanting smile and iron-willed decisions were the God-given remedies for conflict. The problem-solving capacity of this asylum perhaps require a separate treatment from a falcon greater than this fledgling.  Sufficient it is in our little tale to say that he was a solution provider for many a pain. The first step in the problem-solving algorithm was to seek his counsel. He was a true mediator for cases relating to family's wealth and individual's health. Tasbih! So far I have spoken about Pookoya's status in mere follower's hearts. But what have I said about his influence on other leader's heads? Joining hands with Bafaqi, he firmly established the position of the Crescent in the political skies of Paddy Fields. In Affinity with Bafaqi, Pookoya was indeed lucky. Bafaqi, the architect of UDF, 'preached only what he practiced and practiced all that he preached'. The unfortunate division of the nation had created many factions: in Human Hearts and on Political Flags. Everywhere was confusion, when the Indian Crescent declared its decision: we are here to stay. 'There maybe thorns and pests at Hindustan. But we the Hijazi Gul shall remain at Gulistan.' Embracing his counterpart of the newly formed nation, the Indian Sahib told his fellow Khan Sahib, "We are parting as foreigners. We have become citizens of two separate nations, loyal to our own nations. You shall never interfere in the matters of Indian Musalman. We are aware of our rights and fulfilling our duties. No matter what happens to us, you shall deal justly with the minorities of your land. That is your foremost duty." Pookoya was thus a leading champion of that dual challenge, 'Winning the Rights and Fulfilling Duties'. The community had rights to gain but also duties to learn. Trouble erupts when rights are sought and duties are left out. I had found my starting point. To solve the mysteries around, I got some hint. Like the Kadalundippuzha River flowing around, Jaihoon too had a story to narrate aloud. And with a God-fearing Tasbih at hand, in what trouble could I possibly land?  For the little while as I sat in your presence, my Oyster-Head lost to your Pearl-like Heart. Now wait to listen the miracles I unearthed, you too would wish in the same ship with me you had sailed. No tale like this has been told before, for, it is a product of years' tears shed on the floor.

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