Lightness of Being…

Once upon a time there was a small idyllic village that existed right on the edge of so called “modern” civilization. The village was made up mostly of fishermen, basket weavers, house builders, craftsmen, story tellers and an assortment of other vocations geared towards making life-before-the-advent-of-microwaves-TV-multi billion dollar entertainment industry etc a bit more palatable.

This village was graced with gorgeous scenery, huge mountainous heights on one side sloped protectively to usher a resplendent valley lush with greenery, lakes, rivers and fruits of all kinds, bordering a dense menacing forest that marked the end of their universe.It was perhaps due to the sheer magnitude of the beauty and bounty surrounding them that inspired faith in the people who devoutly worshipped God and held communal events around sacred rites and rituals.

They built a simple open courtyard in the middle of their village and met several times a day to pray. In the evenings they gathered around their Teacher in quiet awe to be exhorted, reminded, and challenged to become better people.This Teacher requires some special attention for he was the center of life in that small and beautiful place. No wedding was conducted without his presence, no fight was settled without his counsel, no feast was complete without his blessings and no baby could be born without his due supplications. He was big in stature (both of height and breadth) and thus naturally elicited a lot of respect. He grew a long, full and thick beard that glistened in silver shadows, matching the tufts of gloss decorating the sides of his head. He only had two or three garments and all were riding his ankles, ample proof to the villagers of the depth of his piety and ascetic virtues.

At the end of a hard day of labor, siesta, dinner and right before the nightly gatherings of entertainment and story telling; the evening lectures became a hallmark of religiosity for the small community. They came in small camps, chattering away and immediately become subdued at the entry to the courtyard. The Teacher would be seated in his normal center seat, a little elevated from everyone else, with one of his big old manuscripts sitting on his lap. Somehow the sight of him always elicited an awe-inspired silence.It wasn’t that he was aloof or cold, he was very warm and jovial, which greatly gratified his followers. He had a couple of close students (his devoted pets) whom he accorded the privilege of fetching his water, fluffing up his pillows, turning the pages of his great ancient books and other small ways to gain extra blessings. The students vied with each other to get closer to him, and whenever one of them was picked he (no shes were allowed in that elite circle) would have to fight really hard to stifle the triumphant smile that would immediately rise to his fortunate lips. He  would carry the task at hand with exaggerated care and humility to prove his worthiness, which in turn greatly pleased the Teacher (for true learning only seeped with proper abasement of the self).

Now on to the lessons themselves, due to the very age and gravity of the books, which the Teacher took the necessary role of translating, half the teachings tended to be incomprehensible while the other half impractical for their particular setting. Did this type of message turn off the villagers, you may ask? No, on the contrary, it only inspired in them a kind of quiet awe and remonstrance (for their wayward souls). For they knew that the half of the message they did not understand was a direct result of their ignorance (which they accepted as a given). The other half that was impractical was always good to listen to, for it allowed them to get into heated arguments (behind the Teacher’s back of course, he would never approve of useless argumentations). The endless debates they engaged in, never contained original content and had little application value to their day to day lives, but that is precisely why they loved to engage in it. It was really an escape valve for them, a way to feel important (not as important as their venerable Teacher of course) but sufficiently intelligent and relevant in matters of religion.

Life was pretty uneventful in this village. It was not perfect mind you, they had their share of issues- actually a myriad of deep seated structural problems that they never acknowledged or talked about (because self respecting people did not air their dirty laundry of course and they have tradition which dictates most of these issues are categorically taboo). The most important thing is that they were content with their lot in life and they appreciated and revered even the status quo. Yes, despite their (gnawing) problems, they awoke everyday to attend to their daily businesses and at night they slept the sleep of the dead; that is until their ways were forever disrupted by a calamitous presence. Later when the villagers remembered that fateful day, they recalled the portending signs that had they paid attention to; would have saved them a lot of heart ache and trouble. As usual, they turned back in sorrow and reflected in vain on what could have been.

It was a sunny morning like any other that a man was seen traveling on foot from the edges of the forest (which should have been the first sign for them, for what mere mortal could have survived the lurking dangers that lay yonder?) The man was not too old or young, was comely to look at, with hair that hung on his shoulders (much too long for a self respecting man), a straggling beard, and was dressed relatively well. He carried a myriad of bags in an impossible heap on his back, and a guitar was carelessly slung on his shoulder. Although the people were much insulated and did not take too kindly to strangers, the customs of hospitality and generosity was too ingrained for them to ignore the needs of a guest. The most prosperous man of the village (unofficial chief) was brought forward to welcome the man, inquire of his travels and invite him to his home. A hot bath was drawn for him, a feast was prepared and everyone came around to see what this stranger was about.

He disappointed everyone by speaking very little about his past and how he made it through the forest and where he was from. They probed some more and found out his name was simply “Yusuf” and he was a descendant of one émigré villager (his great grandfather). Later, the elders amongst them pointed out that should have been the second sign (or third if they counted his reticence) for that great grandfather in question was a rebel rouser and was actually forced out of their village. The oblivious villagers were quite happy to learn of his roots however and welcomed him back heartily. Whatever unanswered questions or nagging doubts they had were thus put to rest.

The second day, everyone watched with tacit approval, as Yusuf-the-stranger made his way to the simple courtyard for Dawn prayer. They grew more impressed as they saw him make his way back for each prayer and even attend the circle (although he did sit at the very end and did not participate at all-the fourth sign). When he started helping the fishermen, fetching water for the women, and playing with their children they soon forgave his idiosyncrasies and welcomed him into their lives. Each sunrise however, unveiled many more quirks that were never understood but at least tolerated by the villagers (due to their magnanimous natures and his harmless and likeable personality). For who had ever heard of a person who scaled the mountains and sat up there for days all by himself? What kind of person avoided story telling time and their communal festivities? And does any “normal” person actually choose to be alone rather than engage in the men’s debates? Sometimes in the middle of the night a soul wrenching ballad would be heard strumming from his guitar and other times he would be seen working quietly and muttering unintelligible phrases under his breath. And who on God’s earth, the elders pointed out later, had so much to read and scribble about in his notebooks day and night? (sign number five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten!)

The moon waxed and waned several times, before Yusuf-the-stranger became fluent in the local dialect and inflections of their tongue. They soon forgot that he was relatively new to their society, for he had become a steady and indispensable part of their small community. Always ready with a bright open smile, helping the downtrodden and rich alike and making himself useful with his generous hands (although still on the bizarre side).

One day as the people went into the courtyard, they noticed Yusuf-the-stranger standing by the door handing out little neatly handwritten and bound books. “What are these books for?” They asked.“They are copies of our Holy book”

“We have better copies at home! Why do we need extra ones?” They were affronted.“So that you can read them”

“But we are busy!”“Besides we come to learn at the circle everyday!”“How are we supposed to understand the depth of those verses?”“We are not equipped!”“We don’t have adequate knowledge to process that kind of information! It is for our Teacher to elucidate!”“Besides it’s not even written in our language!”