I am publishing something I had written almost 5 years back. I knew it was there somewhere hidden in one of those old books I used to carry around while travelling. As I opened the book and turned the pale yellow pages, I found what I had been looking for, since a very long time. The peculiar smell of aging papyrus and the words on it, took me back to that day...when I began writing this in the second class compartment of a local train, sitting on the edge...the fourth seat. This is why I decided to call this
'My Dead Sea Scroll'.
‘Tum hi ho maata; pita tum hi ho
Tum hi ho bandhu; sakha tum hi ho.
Jo khil sakena who phool hum hain…
Tumhare charanon ke dhool hum hain.
Daya ki drishty sada hi rakhna…
Tum hi ho bandhu; sakha tum hi ho.’
I heard an enchanting voice sing these words today. He was no saint or singer. He was a poor old blind man. The place was no shrine or stage…it was the crowded second class compartment of a local train. But his voice was indeed enchanting like that of a saint. His voice made that second class coach seem like a serene peaceful shrine. His voice echoed and made invisible divine bells ring.
It touched me deep in my heart. That voice had not originated from his vocal chords…it originated from the pain that accompanied him always, hiding in the deep trenches of his heart. Drops of tears swelled up in my eyes.
He reminded me of those millions who live a cursed life on this earth…those souls who never break free from the shackles of life. The ugly tentacles of poverty and sorrow clutch them like prisoners of hell. They are like those caged birds, who dream of freedom inspite of their wings being cut.
The irony is that, we who are blessed are not as happy as they are. They find happiness even in the midst of sorrow. They enjoy the little pleasures of life…be it a glass of tea by the roadside or playing in the puddles during monsoon.
We the blessed, do not take a few minutes of life to measure what we have and be thankful. We fail to realize that we are blessed. We always complain about the things that we don’t have. We are never contented. They are the prisoners of life and we are the prisoners of our minds. It is we who are truly blinded by the fog of greed that covers the landscape of our minds.
Today, when I see this man, I thank God for everything that I have. I wanted to help him, but I could do nothing except give him a rupee.
I remain silent. Silence is my prayer to God. The drops of tears in my eyes are my offerings to him. I pray to him to be there for the good. I pray to him to awaken those asleep. I pray to him to give me the strength to contribute whatever I can to make this marvelous world more beautiful.
