There was once a university professor in Tokyo who was known for his knowledge and understanding of practical sciences. He often mocked religion and spirituality. One day he decided to go and challenge the then existing Zen master Nan-in.
Nan-in invited the professor and served him tea. He poured the visitor's cup till it was full and then kept on pouring.
The professor watched the cup overflowing until he could no longer restrain himself. "Its overfull. No more will go in!"
"Like this cup," Nan-in said, "you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?"
Friday, October 19, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Zen and the art of getting your wish
Everybody advised him that she was way out of his league and he'd best stick to his own, not that any of that mattered to him. He just politely heard them and then carried right on. Somewhere deep down even he knew they all may be right, but that too had no effect on what he did. Just like with everybody else, he politely listened to his mind speak and once it had done saying what it had to, he turned around and went straight to the local grocery and paid the checkout girl to get the latest list of the stuff she had bought just a little while back. Another day he struck up a conversation with the librarian to find out what she had been reading recently and then he got all those books issued to himself. He read every word and thought over every word. He did the same with the local music shop, the video parlour, found out what she had ordered at every restaurant she had been to in the last three months. Things weren't always that easy. Sometimes his charms failed him and people didn't give him the information he wanted. Some got angry, others got wary and some even had him thrown out. He took all this in his stride and carried on just the same. He knew the names of each member of her family, her relatives and her friends, and he knew much more about those that he thought mattered to her more than the others.
He did all this for six months and during all this while he never made even the slightest attempt to catch her attention or get her to notice his presence. Then one day, when he was ready, he wrote her a story. The story was about a girl who woke up one day and realised that she had the power to live her life just as she pleased. In the story, he got the girl to express what mattered to her, what she wanted to do in her life, the places she wanted to visit, the things she wanted to eat, wear, do. The things she wanted changed.
As she read the story, she slowly saw herself emerge out of the pages in a way she had never seen herself. He ended the story by getting the girl to express her ultimate fantasy...to meet a man who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.... as she read this, tears flowed down her eyes... for that was her wish too.
Nothing happened for a few days but then one day she picked up the phone and dialed the number that came with the story to speak with this stranger who had written it.
That was the break he was waiting for.
They met and soon she had met the man who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.
Do I really need to tell you what happened thereafter?
He did all this for six months and during all this while he never made even the slightest attempt to catch her attention or get her to notice his presence. Then one day, when he was ready, he wrote her a story. The story was about a girl who woke up one day and realised that she had the power to live her life just as she pleased. In the story, he got the girl to express what mattered to her, what she wanted to do in her life, the places she wanted to visit, the things she wanted to eat, wear, do. The things she wanted changed.
As she read the story, she slowly saw herself emerge out of the pages in a way she had never seen herself. He ended the story by getting the girl to express her ultimate fantasy...to meet a man who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.... as she read this, tears flowed down her eyes... for that was her wish too.
Nothing happened for a few days but then one day she picked up the phone and dialed the number that came with the story to speak with this stranger who had written it.
That was the break he was waiting for.
They met and soon she had met the man who knew her almost as well as she knew herself.
Do I really need to tell you what happened thereafter?
Monday, October 1, 2007
Music of the Soul
A narrow dimly lit lane leads to the hovel where Qasim Miyan stays with his wife and children. Qasim met me at a mushaira and invited me to his home during Ramzan. Qasim was a Sufi Qawaal with a clear leaning towards ‘mausiqui’, the spiritual part of Sufism.
So on the 19th day of Ramzan, come iftar, Qasim and I partook a frugal meal of dates and milk. We later sat and discussed music and as he spoke his face transformed, a glow seemed to wipe away all his wrinkles and his eyes took a faraway look. He spoke of the nuances of shayari, how ashiqui (the ode to the beloved) transcended to mausiqui. How the great shayars through out time had a personal relationship with the almighty and how for them there was no difference between pursuing a consort or communicating with the almighty.
It was getting dark and Qasim called one of his sons to get a few lamps. In the flickering light of the lamps I saw Qasim sit in a corner, faintly clicking his fingers and nodding to some tune that was playing in his head. He signaled his sons, a mere flick of a finger, and with perfect understanding they trooped in with a set of tablas and a harmonium. They handed Qasim a sarangi and soon all three were busy tapping and tuning their instruments. I just sat back, waiting for the music to begin. As he sat tuning his sarangi, Qasim looked up and said;
“bhaijaan, hum sub toh thaireh qawaal, humare ehsaas hi hamare ruh ki jabaan hain, aur yeh ruh hi hamari sachayi hain (brother, we are just qawaals, feelings are the language of our soul and our soul is our truth). You see poverty all around me but do you not see my feelings that are overflowing straight from my soul, do you not see how my feelings are reaching out and speaking with the almighty and how that truth is the real essence of my existence, my soul…”
With these whispered words he began to sing a couplet by Khusrau. In the flickering light of the lamps his face was lit up, the tiny beads of sweat glittered like some shining jewels. His fingers flew over the strings of his sarangi and every once in a while his hands would abandon the sarangi and reach out towards the sky entreating the almighty to accept some offering, his fingers weaving in the air, sometimes beseeching, sometimes urging. His voice reverberated through out the tiny room, his words swirled around, strangely echoing as they hit the walls and returned to envelope me again and again. The flames danced as if swinging to the words…. Rumi followed Khusrau, then came Niaz, Hafiz, Hasraf Mohani, Zaheen Shah…. All words straight from the very soul, all words of absolute truth… they talked of submission, of bewilderment, of the almighty’s power and his grace, his beauty and his mercy. The tiny room seemed to expand and grow, the little flames danced till they seemed to light up the whole world, the music became a conversation between galaxies…. And I sat, unblinking and mute.
When I finally left Qasim Miyan’s little hovel I saw that hours had passed. Quite surprising really, I swear I felt I was in there for just a few moments….
So on the 19th day of Ramzan, come iftar, Qasim and I partook a frugal meal of dates and milk. We later sat and discussed music and as he spoke his face transformed, a glow seemed to wipe away all his wrinkles and his eyes took a faraway look. He spoke of the nuances of shayari, how ashiqui (the ode to the beloved) transcended to mausiqui. How the great shayars through out time had a personal relationship with the almighty and how for them there was no difference between pursuing a consort or communicating with the almighty.
It was getting dark and Qasim called one of his sons to get a few lamps. In the flickering light of the lamps I saw Qasim sit in a corner, faintly clicking his fingers and nodding to some tune that was playing in his head. He signaled his sons, a mere flick of a finger, and with perfect understanding they trooped in with a set of tablas and a harmonium. They handed Qasim a sarangi and soon all three were busy tapping and tuning their instruments. I just sat back, waiting for the music to begin. As he sat tuning his sarangi, Qasim looked up and said;
“bhaijaan, hum sub toh thaireh qawaal, humare ehsaas hi hamare ruh ki jabaan hain, aur yeh ruh hi hamari sachayi hain (brother, we are just qawaals, feelings are the language of our soul and our soul is our truth). You see poverty all around me but do you not see my feelings that are overflowing straight from my soul, do you not see how my feelings are reaching out and speaking with the almighty and how that truth is the real essence of my existence, my soul…”
With these whispered words he began to sing a couplet by Khusrau. In the flickering light of the lamps his face was lit up, the tiny beads of sweat glittered like some shining jewels. His fingers flew over the strings of his sarangi and every once in a while his hands would abandon the sarangi and reach out towards the sky entreating the almighty to accept some offering, his fingers weaving in the air, sometimes beseeching, sometimes urging. His voice reverberated through out the tiny room, his words swirled around, strangely echoing as they hit the walls and returned to envelope me again and again. The flames danced as if swinging to the words…. Rumi followed Khusrau, then came Niaz, Hafiz, Hasraf Mohani, Zaheen Shah…. All words straight from the very soul, all words of absolute truth… they talked of submission, of bewilderment, of the almighty’s power and his grace, his beauty and his mercy. The tiny room seemed to expand and grow, the little flames danced till they seemed to light up the whole world, the music became a conversation between galaxies…. And I sat, unblinking and mute.
When I finally left Qasim Miyan’s little hovel I saw that hours had passed. Quite surprising really, I swear I felt I was in there for just a few moments….
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