A Bhakt's Dilemma...

The bhakt is in a dilemma. Which is the most lucrative/auspicious venue to invest in, in order to reap benefits in this life, and gain mileage in the next. The options are growing by leaps and bounds, as the planetary alignment is just right and the magnitude of interplay between the cosmic forces  and  us earthlings is at its fairest. 

Should one make a donation to the forthcoming Ram temple, which according to Mr Shah, the home minister, "is going to touch the sky", facilitating the communication between man and God?  Or to the "winter jackets for cows in Ayodhya"  drive, for haven't the Shastras stated that all the gods reside inside the generic cow, Kamdhenu? So, swathing a jacket (no leather, please!) around a cow, would imply saving all those thousands of gods from the cold winters of Ayodhya. Or, should the donations be directed to promote Swami Nithyananda's scientific research on how lions, cows, and monkeys, the three holiest creatures from the Indian Pantheon, can be taught Sanskrit and Tamil? Or, perhaps one can offer some much-needed dough in the coffers of Archeological Survey of India, which, nearly two years on, is still trying to crack the mystery behind the disappearance of thousands of gallons of milk poured over the giant statue of Lord Bahubali Gommateshwsra during the Mahamastakabhisheka in Vindhyagiri. Or, some die-hard devotees might like to make an offering to the Modi temple in Rajkot, or towards the construction of another one in U.P., also dedicated  to the prime minister. And, for the never-say-die followers of the Congress, there is always the famous Sonia Gandhi temple in Telangana, to contribute to. 

With such an array of exciting 'investment' choices at the bhakt's disposal, whereby, one may not only pave the way for a smoother ride, but also   receive tax reductions, a dip in the Ganga may no longer be the only means to find salvation. And, in case, the ride in this lifetime proves to be a little bumpy and uncomfortable because of pot-holed, puddle-infested roads, the promise  of cruising down the highway at full-throttle  in the next, seems more and more feasible. 

Once upon a time in Alaska...

I have always been fond of reading newspapers, a habit, I alone, from a brood of seven, inherited from my father. Yet, curiously, it was after leafing through my mother-in-law's collection of clippings of news items, neatly cut and glued onto scrapbooks, and chronologically marked as Vol-1, Vol-2 etc., that I too began to create my own potpourri of news stories which caught my interest. Since carrying tomes of journals was not conducive to our gypsy-like lifestyle, I used to cut the interesting bits and insert them inside a simple folder. Yet, everytime we moved, I culled out those I had outgrown, in order to feel just a bit lighter, and yes, uncluttered.

Over the years, and across many travels, only a few clippings have survived the tides of time, and upheavals of moving.

The other day, I chanced upon an  article from the Daily miner, the newspaper with the highest circulation in Fairbanks, Alaska. Dated Nov. 18, 2009 (exactly a decade ago, to date!), the headlines read, "Death of a raven".The article, with a boxed-in coloured photograph of  ravens, poised on  a cluster of black spruce, shed light on the curious mourning ceremony these legendary birds observe on the death of a fellow brethren. Not surprisingly, the crows in Pondicherry too, have been seen to mourn the death of their kins and kith, similar to the one described in the write-up. However, I must hasten to add that crows are crows, smart and efficient, while ravens are fabled creatures,  surrounded by myths and mystery... And the twain shall never meet. 

On flipping over, I found the weather report: sunrise: 9:36 a.m., sunset: 3:34p.m., maximum temperature: -20 F, minimum: -30 F. For my mom, who is always dwelling on the health and spiritual benefits of waking up  with the sun, and going to bed at sunset, that would translate into nearly six hours of waking hours. As for the bears on the north slope, it literally  means retiring to bed in late September, and crawling out of their den, sometimes between March and May! Ha, ha, ha! 

Now, ten years hence, living so close to the tropics, with endless sunlight and warmth, it is natural that I should want to ponder over the twilight period of  those six hours, when the lazy sun hovered just a few degrees above the horizon. And, mind you, this is dated Nov.18, implying we still had just over a month remaining for  December 21st, the shortest day of the year. Therefore, with a consistent decrease in the crepuscular interval, and dawn and dusk entertwined in a lovers' embrace, the winter solstice presented itself to us, wrapped in a tiny package of  three twilight hours!!! Yet, celebrate, we did. For, it also implied that from the following day, the sun would start climbing a few degrees higher every day! It would be the second week of February by the time the first dappled, amorphous patch of slithering sunshine would adorn the panelled walls of our cabin, and our hopeful heart would flutter,  knowing  that the end was in sight. "Not so soon," my friend Sharon, born and brought up in Alaska warned me during my first winter at the last frontier, squashing the beam of hope almost as soon as it had flashed upon my face. "Those things are deceiving. We still have three and a half months to go before the thaw, and the temperatures can still plummet to dangerous lows in the month of February and March". Of course, Sharon, an optimist to the core, said this with her usual laugh, and with the best of intentions. She wanted to protect my family and I, from sowing illusory seeds of hope in the first place, and then falling into the trap of disappointment, and maybe, depression. 

"Wait without hope"...It was a valuable piece of advice from my dear friend. Thence, we took each day as it came, not pausing to wonder how and when the warmth of a summer sun would light up the cabin, and rejuvenate our hearts. Instead, in the hallowed cavern of unending  winters, we set out to build our own sacred space to inspire creative incubation. We painted, played music, wrote long letters home, made extensive collages, using up boxful of old photographs, played board games...the kettle whistled softly, and the aroma of brewed tea mingled effortlessly with the earthy mellowness of crackling wood in the stove. And, it was thus that the temporal walls dissolved to make way for the immutable artistry of long winters and reveal unto us, the secrets of the stars woven within the streaming ribbons of aurora borealis.