A Strange Wrestling Match

T

HERE was once a wrestler called Vijay Singh. A tall man with

massive shoulders and muscular arms, he towered over

others like a giant. Vijay Singh, people said, was a born

wrestler and could beat all other wrestlers in the world.

This

pahalwan had but one shortcoming which often

landed him in awkward situations. He was fond of boasting.

One day, he was sitting in the market-place surrounded by

several young men. After drinking many glasses of milk, he

suddenly proclaimed, “Why are people afraid of ghosts? I am

not. I wish I met a stout ghost. I’d teach him a lesson.”

There were murmurs of applause as well as apprehension

among the young men. “If you walk alone at night through

the Haunted Desert,” one of them said, “you are sure to meet

ghosts. They roam there freely. Strange shrieks and moans

can be heard all over the place. Travellers have been looted

and killed. Would you really want to go there?” Vijay Singh’s

mighty heart missed a beat or two. Why did he have to boast?

“Yes, I have heard of the Haunted Desert,” he said

nonchalantly. “I think it’s just a fairy tale.”

“Oh no,” said one of his admirers, “it’s true. This place is

ten miles to the west on the road to Jaisalmer. The landmark

is an ugly black rock that looks like the head of a camel.

Beyond that there is nothing but sand and wilderness and,

of course, ghosts.”

Almost the entire

village turned up that

evening to bid farewell to

Vijay Singh, who was

ready to set out west.

Just then an old woman

came forward and thrust

a small packet into his

hands, and Vijay Singh

started walking into the

red sunset of the desert.

As he walked, the night deepened. The moon was bright

and the stars shone clearly in the Rajasthan sky. Still a few

miles short of his destination, Vijay Singh remembered the

old woman’s packet. He opened it and found nothing but a

lump of salt and an egg. The old woman was well-known for

her eccentricities.

As Vijay Singh stepped into the Haunted Desert, he heard

a voice. “Vijay Singh, Vijay Singh! You will get lost in the desert.

Come this way. I am your friend, Natwar.” At once Vijay Singh

realised it was not his friend but a ghost. Trying to sound

brave, he called back, “Where are you, my dear Natwar? It’s

dark and I cannot see you. Come here and show me the way.”

Like all good wrestlers, Vijay Singh wanted to size up his

enemy.

Soon the ghost appeared at his side. Vijay Singh peered

into his face and declared, “You are just a plain, lying ghost.

Anyway, now I don’t have to walk all night. I was longing to

meet you.” Not used to insults, the ghost was taken aback.

People generally started back in horror when they met him.

They often fainted. But here was this unfeeling creature

claiming he wanted to meet a ghost. It didn’t make sense.

“Really, I don’t know why you longed to meet me,” the

ghost said.

“That proves,” said Vijay Singh in a bored voice, “that you

are a stupid ghost. The least a ghost can do is to read a

man’s thoughts. However, a worthless ghost like you is better

than no ghost. The fact is, I am tired of wrestling with men. I

want to fight a ghost.”

The ghost was speechless. Marshalling his ghostly wits,

he made an attempt to look Vijay Singh scornfully in the eye.

“Frankly,” he said, “you don’t appear all that strong to me.”

“Appearances can be deceptive,” Vijay Singh said. “Take

your own case. You claim to be Natwar, though actually you

are a rascal of a ghost. If you doubt my strength, let me give

you a demonstration of it.”

What happend to the reptiles

Y

OU may not believe this story. But I can tell you it is true,

because I have been to Pambupatti, a village on the edge of

the jungle. It is on a cliff, and the vast forest stretches below

like a mossy green carpet. There are many kinds of people in

the village — dark, fair, tall, short. They speak many

languages. Some eat meat, some don’t. Some pray in a small

temple at the edge of the forest. Others pray in a mosque

some miles away.

My name is Prem and I live many hundred miles away

from Pambupatti. I had heard about the village, but I’d never

been there. Then last year, something terrible happened. The

people of my own village went mad. Far, far away in a place

they have never even been to, a temple or mosque had been

burnt down, and they went mad. They started fighting with

one another. Some had to run away in the middle of the night.

And at three in the morning, as I lay in my house, half awake

to the sounds of hate and violence, there was a fire. Many

houses were burnt down in the fire. One of them was mine.

I managed to grab a few clothes, some coins, my little

Ganesh statue, and I ran! I ran for a day and a night, resting

whenever my legs would not carry me any further. I jumped

on to a train, then on a bus. No tickets. Never mind, everyone

seemed to be running. Finally, I found myself in Pambupatti,

and I saw some villagers gathered near a well. I ran to them,

and before I could say a thing, I fainted.

When I opened my eyes, I saw an old man with white hair,

white beard and shining black eyes bending over me. For the

next few days, he looked after me, putting food in my mouth

and bringing me sweet, cool water from the stream. He rubbed

my feet gently and made the pain go away. Neighbours,

strangers — everyone came to visit me.

“Tell me, Grandfather,” I said to him one day. “I have never

seen people like the villagers here! In my village, people fight

with those who pray to another god. But here ... this seems a

very strange place!”

“Prem,” replied the old man, “I will tell you the story of

Pambupatti. You can take this story back to your village.

Maybe it will heal some of its wounds, and dry some of its sores.”

“Oh, Grandfather,” I said anxiously, “don’t say that. What

I have seen in my village makes me burn with shame. I never,

never want to go back there.”

“But that’s exactly why you must go back,” he said, in a

soft voice. I kept quiet. I didn’t want to argue with him, and I

wanted to hear his story.

It happened a long, long time ago, he began. So long ago

that there were no schools and no teachers. Children lived in

caves with their parents and helped them to collect fruit and

berries from the forest. At that time, there were no tigers or

panthers or elephants in

Pambupatti forest. There

were only reptiles, many

kinds of reptiles. Now you

know what reptiles are.

Snakes, crocodiles,

turtles, lizards. And you

know that a reptile has

scales on its body and it

lays eggs. Every month,

the reptiles of Pambupatti

had a big meeting.

Everyone came — the

pretty excited snakes, the

slow thoughtful tortoises,

the clever quick lizards,

and the moody crocodiles, grumpy because they were out of

water. The president of these meetings was Makara, the biggest

crocodile of the forest.

All the animals thought

he was very important.

When someone is strong

and powerful, you

know, it is difficult not

to go along with what he

says or does.

Now, one day, a

strange thing happened.

It was a week before one

of the monthly meetings.

Makara sent a letter to

the tortoises, asking them not to come to the meeting. Ahistay,

the big old star tortoise with black and yellow pictures on his

shell, was very angry.

“What does this mean?” he shouted. “How dare they!” But

not one of the tortoises had the courage to attend the meeting—

they were so few, the others so many!

Before the meeting, the giant Makara polished his teeth

with the red flowers of the tree by the river till they sparkled.

Everyone was waiting for him at the meeting place.

“Brothers and sisters,” he began. All the reptiles, even the

beautiful king cobras, stopped talking. Makara continued

his speech. “I have decided that we don’t need the tortoises! I

have told them not to come today. Brothers and sisters, can

you tell me why we don’t like the tortoises?”

The reptiles looked this way and that. They felt very

uncomfortable. The snakes hissed anxiously, the lizards

wriggled their tails, the crocodiles opened their jaws even

wider.

“But...” said one little lizard.

“No BUTS!” shouted Makara. There was silence.

“I think ...” said a baby crocodile.

“No I THINKS!” screamed Makara, so loudly that the fruit

in the tree above him rained down. After that, no one had the

courage to speak.

Makara cleared his throat and showed a few more teeth.

“Well,” he said, “I will tell you why we don’t like the tortoises.

They are so slow! So stupid! They even carry their houses on

their backs. Whoever heard of such a stupid thing? Now you

lizards, you live in trees. Would you ever carry a TREE on

your back? Would you?”

Small, frightened voices answered together, “No, we

wouldn’t. But...”

“No BUTS! Now, listen. I have told the tortoises that they

will have to move out of Pambupatti. When they go, we will

have more of everything. More food, more water, more space.

I want them out by tomorrow. But because they are such

slowcoaches, I have given them one week. By next Tuesday

we won’t have a single tortoise left in this jungle!”

And by the following Tuesday, they were all gone. At first

the animals were sad, but then they realised that what Makara

had said was true. There was more food, more water, and

more space for them! But soon, a strange smell began to fill

the forest. It was the smell of rot — rotting fruit on the ground,

rotting animals in the river. This was what the tortoises used

to eat. And even Makara had to go about holding his nose

with his big claws.

A month passed by, and then the same thing happened

all over again. But this time, it was the snakes. Makara wrote

them one of his letters. They were to leave the forest and,

since they could move fast, they had to go in a day!

Naga, the head of the snakes, pleaded for more time, but

Makara would not give in. At the meeting, he silenced the

others — the lizards and crocodiles — with even louder shouts

and threats. “Snakes are

slimy,” he said, “and they

make funny noises. Who

wants such weird

creatures around?”

Again, no one dared to

disagree with Makara,

and so the snakes left.

For a while, the

animals of the forest were

happy because they had

been a little afraid of the

snakes. You never knew when one of them might lose his

temper and spit some venom at you! And it took only a little

poison to kill you, after all.

A few weeks passed and the animals of the forest looked

tired and fed up. The RATS! Now that there were no snakes

to eat them, the rats had taken over the forest. And they were

having a wonderful time. They were everywhere, on the trees,

in the grass, in the bushes, on the ground. They ate up the

eggs of the lizards and crocodiles. There would be no babies

that year. Makara’s own nest of eggs had been chewed up.

Then Makara had a great idea. He called a meeting of the

crocodiles and said, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we, the

crocodiles, could have the WHOLE jungle for ourselves? No

one but us? These lizards, now, just look at them! They have

the strangest habits, and some of them even change colour!

How can we trust someone who is green one minute, red the

next? Let’s get rid of them.”

By now, the crocodiles were really scared of Makara. So

they clapped and cheered. Makara was pleased. The lizards

left the forest, some with their babies on their backs.

But now, when life should have been wonderful for the

crocodiles of Pambupatti, all kinds of awful things began to

happen. To begin with, the rats grew bolder by the day. They

became so fearless that they jumped and turned somersaults

on the crocodiles’ backs! And there were too many frogs. They

seemed to be growing larger, and there was no one to eat

them but the crocodiles. These huge frogs began to eat the

baby crocodiles. And the insects! Now that the lizards were

gone, there were millions of them, growing bigger and nastier

by the day.

It was a terrible time for the crocodiles. They couldn’t

understand what had happened to their happy forest home.

Then one day, a squeaky little voice piped up at one of

their meetings, “We know why the forest has gone crazy, don’t

we?”

Suddenly everyone was silent. They looked at Makara

fearfully, but to their surprise, he looked nervous. He shook

a rat off his tail and asked the small crocodile. “Why, little fellow?”

“It all began with the tort—”

“Okay, okay”, said Makara. “There’s no need to talk so

much.” Makara didn’t want to admit he was wrong, but it

didn’t matter. All the crocodiles knew now that he was not all

that strong or powerful. Or always right. They sent urgent

messages all over the place for the tortoises, snakes and

lizards to come back to Pambupatti. And what a great day it

was when these creatures came back, family after family, with

their little ones on their backs or straggling behind, shouting

at their parents to wait for them!

In two months, the forest was back to normal. The rats

disappeared, and the insects, and the smell, and the world

finally went back to its familiar old self.

“Well, Prem,” said the old man, “have you fallen asleep?

Did my story send you off to dreamland?”

I shook my head. “No, Grandfather, I was just thinking.

Maybe it’s time I went back to my own village, because I have

a story to tell them. But what if they don’t listen to me?”

“We can only keep at it, my son — tell these stories again

and again, to more and more people. Some of them may laugh

at you or say your stories are not true. But they may remember

them one day, and understand that each of us has a place in

this strange, funny world of ours.”

ZAI WHITAKER

A Pact with Sun

S

AEEDA’S mother had been ailing for a long time—fever, cough,

body-ache, painful joints and what not. Treated by a variety

of physicians for weeks, she often showed signs of

improvement but soon relapsed into her old, sick self, one

complaint substituted by another. Though weak and

colourless, she was forbidden normal food and was under

strict orders to remain perpetually confined to her small,

dingy room with doors and windows fastened, deprived of

sunshine and fresh air.

When she became critical, her relatives and neighbours

persuaded her to consult a specialist even though his fee

was likely to be high. Life is more precious than money, they

said. Saeeda’s mother was poor but she heeded their advice

and sold a few trinkets to pay the doctor’s fee and the

cost of medicine.

The doctor came in a few days and examined her and

prescribed effective but costly medicine. To the question as

to what she should eat he said, “Anything you wish to eat —

chapati, vegetables, milk, fruits, etc. In addition to all this,”

he added emphatically, “leave this dark hovel and occupy a

bigger room with doors and windows open. Sit in the sun

every morning from eight to nine. Sunshine and fresh air,” he

concluded, “are more important than medicine.”

The doctor and his advice became a subject of noisy

commentary among all present. Some favoured while others

opposed it. Exposure to sun and air for someone afflicted with

chronic cough was dangerous, an experienced lady declared. A

younger neighbour nearly quarrelled with her over this. Too

exhausted to participate in the debate, Saeeda’s mother

remained quiet but determined to follow the doctor’s advice.

“Forget the consequences,” she said at last. “I’ll carry out his

instructions to the letter. Move my bed into the next room and

let me sit in the sun on my charpoy for an hour daily.”

It so happened that the sky remained overcast next

morning. The same was the case the following day. Saeeda’s

mother was dejected. She muttered, “O Lord of mine, why

have you ordered the sun to remain hidden? How will I

ever be cured?”

Saeeda was playing with her doll nearby and she heard

her mother’s lament but kept calm. Later in the afternoon,

when she stumbled on a spot of pale sunshine in the

courtyard, she ran to her mother to say the sun was there.

“No, no”, said everybody present. “It’s too late and chilly. Your

mother can’t sit out there.” Disheartened, Saeeda returned

to her doll. There was no sun really except for its last remnant

entangled in the top branches of the family mango tree.

Now, children have at their command a secret language,

foreign to grown-ups altogether, in which they fluently

communicate with trees, flowers, animals, the sun and the

moon, perhaps even with the Almighty. Using that special

language, Saeeda addressed her remark to the last departing

ray of the sun. “Dearest sister, do come tomorrow with lots of

warmth and brightness. You see, my mother is ill and needs

your help.”

“Surely,” answered the light,

“don’t look unhappy. We’ll be here

at the fixed hour.”

Next day, early in the morning,

when the sprightly sunrays

embellished themselves for their

journey down to earth, the sun said,

“It’s our day off again. We’re staying

up here. The road to earth is

blocked by an army of thick, mucky

clouds.” The little rays so much

wanted to go down for a lark but

they remained quiet. One of them,

though, who had made a pact with

little Saeeda said, “Sir, I can’t stay back. I’ve given my word

to Saeeda whose mother is ill and needs our help. I’ll pierce

through the clouds to reach Saeeda’s courtyard. How else

will her mother be cured?” Hearing this, all the rays nearly

staged a revolt against their father, the sun. “Fancy staying

back again,” they said in a single voice. “What will the people

of the earth say about us? That we of the heavens have

turned liars?”

The sun relented. “Please yourselves,” he said. “Mind your

clothes, though. The clouds are mucky.”

“Never mind our clothes. We can always change. But go

we must.” And the rays rushed towards the earth. The clouds

stood guard between them and Saeeda’s courtyard. The little

rays focussed their heat — and they had enough of it — on a

battalion of clouds, which had to flee from its post. The rays

got through, shooting past the bewildered clouds. They were

already late.

Saeeda saw the whole host of them approaching and her

heart leapt with joy. She shouted, “

Amma, Amma! The sun is

here. Come out.” The old lady’s eyes welled up with tears of

gratitude. Her c

harpoy was placed in the courtyard and she sat

on it for an hour reclining against bolsters. It had been months

since she had felt the sun on her hands and face and breathed

in fresh air. She thought she was in a new world. Though pale,

her face glowed and her eyes shone bright. She saw her child

too bathed in sunlight and kissed her. The morning air brought

in a new fragrance from nearby flowers. The birds chanted a

new tune. Saeeda’s mother felt better already.

She is fully recovered now, but she still follows the doctor’s

advice — an hour of sunlight and lungfuls of fresh air every day.

Z

AKIR HUSAIN

[translated from the Urdu and

slightly modified]

The Wonder Called Sleep

W

E know enough about what sleep is, though we don’t know

what exactly causes sleep. Sleep is a state of rest — an

unconscious rest. When we sleep, our body recovers from

fatigue caused by the day’s activities. After a good sleep and

the rest that it gives, we

become alert and active

again, ready for the normal

activities of the day.

When we wake up in

the morning, it is not

always possible for us to

remember what happened

when we were

asleep. We may remember

a dream but the rest of

our sleep was a kind of

darkness in which

nothing seems to have

taken place.

Several things happen to our body while we are sleeping.

As we sink deeper into sleep, our muscles relax more and

more. Our heartbeat becomes slower. Our temperature and

blood pressure go down. The ever-active brain also slows

down so that we can’t think or act consciously. But we dream.

When we wake up, our temperature and blood pressure

rise to normal. Our heartbeat and breathing also become

normal and we are fully awake, and have forgotten most, if

not all, the dreams that we had while sleeping.

What is a dream? It is an activity of the mind that takes

place when we are asleep. Some dreams are probable

while others are not. That only means that many of the

things that happen in dreams could happen when we are

awake. Others could not. Dreams seem to be important

for several reasons. One is that a dream can help us to

sleep through noise or other disturbances. For example,

the alarm clock rings, but our mind causes us to dream

that the telephone or doorbell is ringing, and that we are

awake and answering it.

Certain doctors have found that one’s dreams often reveal a

great deal about one’s problems and that, if understood correctly,

they can provide a key to the solution of those problems. But

we must remember one thing. Dreams cannot be used as a way

to tell the future. They simply can never tell the future.

Sleep is the most common experience, but how many of

us really think about the wonder and power of sleep? Many

poets have written beautiful poems about sleep. Here is one

in which the poet is describing the experience of falling asleep.

Read it aloud.

I have come to the borders of sleep,

The unfathomable deep

Forest where all must lose

Their way, however straight,

Or winding, soon or late;

They cannot choose.

There is not any book

Or face of dearest look

That I would not turn from now

To go into the unknown

I must enter and leave alone

I know not how.

EDWARD THOMAS

The Monkey and Crocodile

O

NCE, on the bank of a river, a monkey made a home for

himself in a tree laden with fruit. He lived in it happily eating

to his heart’s content the fruit of his choice.

The monkey was happy but lonely and wanted a

companion to talk to and share the fruits with. But there

was no one around, not even another monkey, till one day a

crocodile appeared on the riverside.

“Hello, there,” said the monkey. “Do you live in this river?

Would you like to eat some fruit?”

“Good morning,” replied the crocodile politely. “I did come

here in search of food for myself and my wife. Nice of you to

offer me fruit.”

The monkey plucked some from the nearest branch and

threw them down. The crocodile found them delicious.

“Thanks,” he said. “May I have some on my next visit?”

“Certainly, as many as you like and some for your wife

too,” said the monkey. “Do come again. I’m rather lonely here.”

The crocodile visited the monkey regularly and ate the

fruits which his host threw down. He took some home for his

wife. The monkey and the crocodile were now the best of

friends. They talked and were never tired of talking. They

talked about birds and animals, about the villages nearby

and the difficulties villagers faced in raising good crops

for lack of rain.

One day, the crocodile stayed with the monkey longer than

usual. His wife was annoyed waiting and waiting managing

the little crocodiles that had just been hatched. She said,

“Who is this friend of yours you are so fond of?”

“Oh, he is a very nice monkey,” he replied. “He lives on a

fruit-tree. He sends fruits for you everyday. You don’t expect

me to climb trees, do you?”

“A nice monkey, I’m sure,” replied the wife with obvious

sarcasm. “If you ask me, this monkey should be my food. I

want to eat his heart so much.”

“What a foolish thing to say!” shouted the crocodile. “I

can’t kill a friend, though I won’t mind a monkey occasionally

for a change of taste.”

“You bring him here,” ordered the wife. “I want to see him.”

“So you can eat him. Never!” declared her husband.

His wife was furious and she dived in to hide herself at the

bottom of the river leaving the little ones to pester their father.

The crocodile was in a serious dilemma. He loved his wife

and was very fond of his friend too. Finally, he decided to be

on the side of his wife. She was his life-partner after all. ‘I

know it’s a sin to betray a friend, but I have no choice,’ he

said to himself. ‘I’ll invite the monkey home and hope

for the best.’

“My wife wants you over for a meal, dear friend,” said the

crocodile when he visited the monkey next. “You must come

home with me today.”

“With pleasure,” said the monkey. “I’m no swimmer, but

can ride on your back.” And they set out.

In the middle of the river, where the current was the

strongest, the crocodile could no longer hide his intention.

“Sorry, my friend,” he said hesitatingly, “but I have to go

under water now. I’ve brought you here to kill you. My wife

cannot survive without eating your heart. Good bye.”

The monkey was scared and distressed. But he was sensible

and clever like all monkeys. He kept a cool head. Calmly he

said, “I’d do anything for you and your family. You are my only

friend. After all, what is a monkey’s heart compared with the life

of a crocodile’s wife? But how foolish could you be? Why didn’t

you tell me before? I’d have brought my heart along.”

“But where is your heart?” asked the crocodile innocently.

“I thought you carried it all the time.”

“Of course not. It’s there on the tree. Let’s swim back at

once and get it. Your wife must be waiting,” replied the monkey

gaining confidence.

“Oh dear! What a mistake!” hissed the crocodile. They laughed

loudly as the crocodile took a full turn to reach the tree.

On the river-bank, the monkey

jumped on to the tree and heaved a

deep sigh of relief. He plucked a fruit

or two from the nearest branch and

throwing them down said, “Let your

wife have some fruit rather than my

heart. Fresh fruits are good for mind

and body. Good bye, friend, and if you

don’t mind, we won’t meet again.”

The crocodile, sadder and wiser, shed

a few tears which were genuine and

turned back to go home. He was in a

hurry to tell his wife a thing or two.

(a story from The Panchatantra)

Tansen

Y

OU may have heard the name of Tansen — the greatest

musician our country has produced.

A singer called Mukandan Misra and his wife lived in

Behat near Gwalior. Tansen was their only child. It is said

that he was a naughty child. Often, he ran away to play in

the forest, and soon learnt to imitate perfectly the calls of

birds and animals.

A famous singer named Swami Haridas was once travelling

through the forest with his disciples. Tired,

the group settled down to rest in a shady grove. Tansen

saw them.

‘Strangers in the forest!’ he said to himself. ‘It will be fun to

frighten them’. He hid behind a tree and roared like a tiger.

The little group of travellers scattered in fear but Swami

Haridas called them together. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Tigers

are not always dangerous. Let us look for this one.”

Suddenly, one of his men saw a small boy hiding behind

a tree. “There are no tigers here, master,” he said. “Only this

naughty boy.”

Swami Haridas did not punish him. He went to Tansen’s

father and said, “Your son is very naughty. He is also very

talented. I think I can make him a good singer.”

Tansen was ten years old when he went away with Swami

Haridas. He lived with him for eleven years, learning music,

and became a great singer. At about this time, his parents

died. Mukandan Misra’s dying wish was that Tansen should

visit Mohammad Ghaus of Gwalior. Mohammad Ghaus was a

holy man. Mukandan Misra had long been devoted to him,

and often visited him. While living in Gwalior with Mohammed

Ghaus, Tansen was often taken to the court of Rani Mrignaini,

who was a great musician herself. There he met and married

one of the ladies of the court. Her name was Hussaini.

Hussaini also became Swami Haridas’s disciple. Tansen

and Hussaini had five children who were all very musical. 

Tansen had, by this time, become very famous. Sometimes

he sang before Emperor Akbar, who was so impressed by

him that he insisted Tansen should join his court.

Tansen went to Akbar’s court in 1556, and soon became

a great favourite of the Emperor. Akbar would call upon

Tansen to sing at any time during the day or night. Quite

often he would just walk into Tansen’s house to hear him

practise. He also gave him many presents. Some of the

courtiers became jealous of Tansen. “We shall never be able

to rest till Tansen is ruined,” they declared. One of the

courtiers, Shaukat Mian, had a bright idea.

“Let us make him sing Raga Deepak,” he said.

“How will that help us?” asked another man.

“If Raga Deepak is properly sung, it makes the air so hot

that the singer is burnt to ashes. Tansen is a very good singer.

If he sings Raga Deepak, he will die, and we will be rid of him.”

Shaukat Mian went to Akbar and said, “We don’t think

Tansen is a great singer. Let us test him. Tell him to sing

Raga Deepak. Only the greatest singers can sing it properly.”

“Of course he can sing it. Tansen can sing anything.”

Akbar said. Tansen was afraid, but could not disobey the

king. “Very well, my lord,” he said, “but give me time to prepare

myself.” Tansen went home. He had never been more

downcast and unhappy. “I can sing the Raga,” he told his

wife, “but the heat it gives off will not only set the lamps alight,

it will also burn me to ashes.”

Then he had an idea. “If someone sings Raga Megh at the

same time, and sings it properly, it will bring rain. Perhaps

our daughter, Saraswati, and her friend, Rupvati, could do

it,” he said.

He taught the two girls to sing Raga Megh. They practised

night and day for two weeks. Tansen told them, “You must

wait till the lamps start burning, and then you start singing.”

The legend goes that on the appointed day the whole town

assembled to hear Tansen sing Raga Deepak. When he began

to sing, the air became warm. Soon people in the audience

were bathed in perspiration. The leaves on the trees dried

up and fell to the ground. As the music continued, birds fell

dead because of the heat and the water in the rivers began

to boil. People cried out in terror as flames shot up out of

nowhere and lighted the lamps.

At once Saraswati and Rupvati began to sing Raga Megh.

The sky clouded over and the rain came down. Tansen was

saved. The story goes that he was very ill after this, and

Akbar was sorry that he had caused him so much suffering.

He punished Tansen’s enemies. When Tansen got well, the

entire city rejoiced. Tansen remained Akbar’s court singer

till 1585 when he died. He composed several new ragas.

Tansen’s tomb is in Gwalior. It is a place of pilgrimage for

musicians.

The Old-Clock Shop

C

HRISTMAS Eve had arrived. As last-minute shoppers were

going home, a thick, white sheet of snow lay over Salt Lake

City, USA. Yet the lights were still burning in the old-clock

shop, as Ray, its old, deaf owner, worked on a clock he had

sold that day.

Having finished his work, Ray stood up and was on his

way to the back room when a cold rush of air from the front

door hit the back of his neck.

He turned to meet a last-minute shopper, but his old, wise

eyes told him that this was not a shopper. He saw two men,

one in his twenties, the other closer to fifty. The younger man

remained at the door. The older man approached the counter

with no sign of friendliness in his eyes. Ray was able to hide

his growing fear as he slowly pushed a notepad and a pencil

across the counter.

He smiled at the unfriendly face, then pointed to his ears

and shook his head from side to side. A quick look of surprise

changed the man’s face as he studied the notepad, then

turned and said something to his friend.

Ray used the chance to look closely at the man, paying

attention to the shape of a gun and a restless hand in the

man’s right coat-pocket. Anger boiled within him, but it was

kept down by an inner voice that said, “Be still.” He wrote on

the notepad, “May I help you?” For the first time the older

man looked directly at Ray and smiled. A cruel, mocking smile.

They both understood why he was there, why his friend

remained at the door. They looked like men who were down

on their luck, and were now ready to try something they would

later be sorry about.

The clocks ticked on. Ray calmly wrote another message.

“Have you come to pick up a clock or watch?” Then he

pointed to the ‘loan’ board filled with hanging clocks and

pocket watches. He was not a pawnbroker, but at the same

time couldn’t say ‘No’ to the needy people who placed their

old watches or clocks before him for anything they could get.

He loaned more than he should. They would be there when

the owners wanted them back ... at the same price he had

paid, with no interest.

Then the older man seemed to feel a little easier, took out

his hand from his pocket and quickly looked at the watch on

his wrist. “How much will you give me for this?” the

man wrote.

Ray noticed a little shame in the grey eyes looking at him.

The watch was nothing special and yet had great powers. It

was something to exchange, a way out of a bad situation.

Knowing that great need had brought the man to his shop in

the first place, Ray asked, “How much do you need for it?”

The reply came back on the notepad: “Whatever it’s worth.”

Ray reached into his cash-box, pulled out a fifty-dollar

note and passed it into the man’s hand. As they shook hands,

Ray looked into the man’s eyes; they seemed to say, “Thank

you!” They both knew the watch wasn’t worth that much.

Before turning to leave, the man wrote, “I will be back to pick

it up as soon as I can. Merry Christmas!”

The little story ended on the half hour with the clocks

striking all together. The timepieces, which had been looking

on silently all the while, rang out the time with such feeling

that even Ray thought he could hear them. Their sweet,

musical message was filled with hope. The timeless message

of ‘Peace on earth, goodwill towards all’ was felt by the three

men who stood in the old-clock shop.

The Shepherd’s Treasure

I

N a village in Iran there once lived a shepherd. He was very

poor. He did not have even a small cottage of his own. He

had never been to school or learnt to read and write, for

there were very few schools in those days.

Though poor and uneducated, this shepherd was very

wise. He understood people’s sorrows and troubles, and

helped them face their

problems with courage and

common sense. Many

people came to him for

advice. Soon he became

famous for his wisdom and

friendly nature. The king of

that country heard about

him, and thought of

meeting him.

Disguised as a shepherd

and riding on a mule, one

day the king came to

the cave where the wise

shepherd lived. As soon as the shepherd saw the traveller coming

towards the cave, he rose to welcome him. He took the tired

traveller inside the cave, gave him water to drink and a share of

his own meagre meal. The king rested for the night in the cave

and was greatly impressed by the shepherd’s hospitality and

wise conversation.

Though still tired, the king decided to depart the next

morning. He said, “Many thanks for your kindness to a poor

traveller. I have a long way to go. Permit me to leave.”

Looking straight into the eyes of his guest, the shepherd

replied, “Thank you, Your Majesty, for paying me the

compliment of a visit.”

The king was astonished as well as pleased. ‘He is indeed

very wise,’ he thought to himself. ‘I need people like him to

work for me.’ And the king appointed this humble shepherd

the governor of a small district.

Although he rose to power and dignity, the shepherd

remained as humble as ever. People loved and honoured

him for his wisdom, sympathy and goodness. He was kind

and just to one and all. His fame as a fair and wise governor

soon spread throughout the country.

Now the governors of other provinces grew terribly jealous

of him and began to talk to the king against him. They said,

“He is very dishonest, and keeps for himself part of the money

that he collects as tax from the people.” Why did he always

carry with him, they added, an iron chest? Perhaps he carried

in it the treasure that he had secretly collected. After all,

they said mockingly, he was an ordinary shepherd and

could behave no better.

At first the king did not pay attention to these reports,

but how long could he ignore these governors and their

endless stories about the shepherd? One thing was certain,

the king discovered. The new governor did carry an iron

chest with him all the time.

So, one day, the new governor was summoned to the

palace. He came riding on his camel, and to everyone’s

delight, the famous iron chest was there fastened securely

behind him on the camel’s back.

Now the king was angry. He thundered, “Why do you

always carry that iron chest with you? What does it contain?”

The governor smiled.

He asked his servant to

bring in the chest. How

eagerly the people standing

around waited for

the shepherd to be found

out! But how great was

their astonishment, and

even of the king himself,

when the chest was

opened! No gold or silver

or jewels but an old

blanket was all that

came out. Holding it up

proudly, the shepherd said, “This, my dear master, is my

only treasure. I always carry it with me.”

“But why do you carry such an ordinary blanket with you?

Surely, you are the governor of a district?” the king asked.

To which the shepherd replied with quiet dignity, “This

blanket is my oldest friend. It will still protect me if, at any

time, Your Majesty should wish to take away my new cloaks.”

How pleased the king was, and how embarrassed the

jealous governors became to hear the wise man’s reply! Now

they knew that the shepherd was indeed the humblest and

the wisest man in the land. The king made him the governor

of a much bigger district that very day.

A Friendly Mongoose

O

NCE a farmer and his wife lived in a village with their small

son. They loved him very much. “We must have a pet,” the

farmer said to his wife one day. “When our son grows up, he

will need a companion. This pet will be our son’s companion.”

His wife liked the idea.

One evening, the farmer brought with him a tiny

mongoose. “It’s a baby mongoose,” said his wife, “but will

soon be fully grown. He will be a friend to our son.”

Both the baby and the mongoose grew. In five or six

months the mongoose had grown to its full size — a lovely

animal with two shining black eyes and a bushy tail. The

farmer’s son was still a baby in the cradle, sleeping and

crying alternately.

One day, the farmer’s wife wanted to go to the market. She

fed the baby and rocked him to sleep in his little

cradle. Picking up the basket, she said to her husband, “I’m

off to the bazar. The baby is sleeping. Keep an eye on him.

Frankly, I don’t like to leave the child alone with the mongoose.”

“You needn’t be afraid,” said the farmer. “The mongoose

is a friendly animal. It’s as sweet as our baby and they are

the best of friends, you know.”

The wife went away, and the farmer, having nothing to

do in the house, decided to go out and take a look at his

fields not far away. He ran into some friends on the way

back and didn’t return for quite some time.

The farmer’s wife finished her shopping and came back

home with a basketful of groceries. She saw the mongoose

sitting outside as if waiting for her. On seeing her he ran to

welcome her, as was customary. The farmer’s wife took one

look at the mongoose and screamed. “Blood!” she cried. The

face and paws of the mongoose were smeared with blood.

“You wicked animal! You have killed my baby,” she

screamed hysterically. She was blind with rage and with all

her strength brought down the heavy basket full of groceries

on the blood-smeared

mongoose and ran inside

to the child’s cradle.

The baby was fast

asleep. But on the floor

lay a black snake torn

and bleeding. In a flash

she realised what had

happened. She ran out

looking for the mongoose.

“Oh! You saved my

child! You killed the snake! What have I done?” she cried

touching the mongoose, who lay dead and still, unaware of

her sobbing. The farmer’s wife, who had acted hastily and

rashly, stared long at the dead mongoose. Then she heard

the baby crying. Wiping her tears, she went in to feed him.

(a story from The Panchatantra)

A Tale of Two Birds

T

HERE once lived a bird and her two new-born babies in a

forest. They had a nest in a tall, shady tree and there the

mother bird took care of her little ones day and night.

One day, there was a big storm. There was thunder,

lightning and rain, and the wind blew down many trees. The

tall tree in which the birds lived also came down. A big, heavy

branch hit the nest and killed the bird. Fortunately for the

baby birds, the strong wind blew them away to the other side

of the forest. One of them came down near a cave where a

gang of robbers lived. The other landed outside a

rishi’s

ashram a little distance away.

Days passed and the baby birds became big birds. One

day, the king of the country came to the forest to hunt. He

saw a deer and rode after it. It ran deep into the forest

followed by the king. Soon the king lost his way and didn’t

know where he was.

He rode on for a long time till he came to the other side of

the forest. Very tired by now, he got off his horse and sat

down under a tree that stood near a cave. Suddenly he heard

a voice cry out, “Quick! Hurry up! There’s someone under the

tree. Come and take his jewels and his horse. Hurry, or else

he’ll slip away.” The king was amazed. He looked up and saw

a big, brown bird on the tree under which he was sitting. He

also heard faint noises issuing from the cave. He quickly got

on to his horse and rode away as fast as he could.

Soon, he came to a clearing which looked like an ashram.

It was the

rishi’s ashram. The king tied his horse to a tree

and sat down in its shade. Suddenly he heard a gentle voice

announce, “Welcome to the ashram, Sir. Please go inside and

rest. The

rishi will be back soon. There’s some cold water in

the pot. Please make yourself comfortable.” The king looked

up and saw a big, brown bird in the tree. He was amazed.

‘This one looks like the other bird outside the cave,’ he said

to himself aloud.

“You are right, Sir,” answered the bird. “He is my brother

but he has made friends with robbers. He now talks as they

do. He doesn’t talk to me any more.” Just then the

rishi enteredthe ashram.

“Welcome, Sir,” he said

to the king. “Please come

inside and make yourself

at home. You look tired.

Rest for a while. Then you

can share my food.”

The king told the

rishi

the story of the two birds

and how each had behaved

so differently though they

looked so alike. “The forest

is full of surprises,” he said.

The holy man smiled

and said, “After all, one is known by the company one keeps.

That bird has always heard the talk of robbers. He imitates

them and talks about robbing people. This one has repeated

what

he has always heard. He welcomes people to the ashram.

Now, come inside and rest. I’ll tell you more about this place

and these birds.”

Sharing the Love

 

Sitting in the Geography class in school, I remember how fascinated I was when we were being taught all about the Dead Sea . As you probably recall, the Dead Sea is really a Lake , not a sea (and as my Geography teacher pointed out, if you understood that, it would guarantee 4 marks in the term paper!)  Its so high in salt content that the human body can float easily. You can almost lie down and read a book! The salt in the Dead Sea is as high as 35% - almost 10 times the normal ocean water. And all that saltiness has meant that there is no life at all in the Dead Sea . No fish. No vegetation. No sea animals. Nothing lives in the Dead sea . And hence the name: Dead Sea.     While the Dead Sea has remained etched in my memory, I don't seem to recall learning about the Sea of Galilee in my school Geography lesson. So when I heard about the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea and the tale of the two seas - I was intrigued. Turns out that the Sea of Galilee is just north of the Dead Sea . Both the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea receive their water from river Jordan . And yet, they are very, very different. Unlike the Dead Sea, the Sea of Galilee is pretty, resplendent with rich, colorful marine life. There are lots of plants. And lots of fish too. In fact, the sea of Galilee is home to over twenty different types of fishes. Same region, same source of water, and yet while one sea is full of life, the other is dead. How come? Here apparently is why. The River Jordan flows into the Sea of Galilee and then flows out. The water simply passes through the Sea of Galilee in and then out - and that keeps the Sea healthy and vibrant, teeming with marine life. But the Dead Sea is so far below the mean sea level, that it has no outlet. The water flows in from the river Jordan , but does not flow out. There are no outlet streams. It is estimated that over a million tons of water evaporate from the Dead Sea every day. Leaving it salty. Too full of minerals. And unfit for any marine life. The Dead Sea takes water from the River Jordan , and holds it. It does not give. Result? No life at all.   Think about it.   Life is not just about getting. Its about giving. We all need to be a bit like the Sea of Galilee.   We are fortunate to get wealth, knowledge, love and respect. But if we don't learn to give, we could all end up like the Dead Sea . The love and the respect, the wealth and the knowledge could all evaporate. Like the water in the Dead Sea . If we get the Dead Sea mentality of merely taking in more water, more money, more everything the results can be disastrous. Good idea to make sure that in the sea of your own life, you have outlets. Many outlets. For love and wealth - and everything else that you get in your life. Make sure you don't just get, you give too. Open the taps. And you'll open the floodgates to happiness. Make that a habit. To share. To give. And experience life. Experience the magic!

 

 

Have problems?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Learn from your grandfather

 

*It's an old story that we read in Class 3 but with a new ending. I trust
you will like it:

A haryanavi jaat hat-seller who was passing by a forest decided to take a
nap under one of the trees, so he left his whole basket of hats by the side.
*

**
*A few hours later, he woke up and realized that all his hats were gone.

He looked up and to his surprise, the tree was full of monkeys and they had
taken all his hats. The jaat sits down and thinks of how he can get the hats
down.

While thinking he started to scratch his head. The next moment, the monkeys
were doing the same. *
*Next, he took down his own hat, the monkeys did exactly the same. *
*An idea came to him... he took his hat and threw it on the floor and the
monkeys did that too. *
*So he finally managed to get all his hats back.

Fifty years later, his grandson, Sukhwinder, also became a hat-seller and
had heard this monkey story from his grandfather. *
*One day, just like his grandfather, he passed by the same forest. It was
very hot, and he took a nap under the same tree and left the hats on the
floor.

He woke up and realized that all his hats were taken by the monkeys on the
tree. *
*He remembered his grand father's words, started scratching his head... the
monkeys followed. *
*He took down his hat and fanned himself and again the monkeys followed. *
**
*Now, very convinced of his grandfather's idea, Sukhwinder threw his hat on
the floor,.........*
**
*but to his surprise, the monkeys still held on to all the hats.*

*
Then one monkey climbed down the tree..... grabbed the hat on the floor....
gave him a slap and said........
*
*..

..

..
*
*..
*
..
*
..

..

*
*
*

*

"You think only you have a grandfather?"
*

--

 

We Must Keep Walking

Keep Walking..... The Organs of your body have their sensory touches at the bottom of your foot, If you massage these points you will find relief from aches and pains As you can see the heart is on the left foot. Typically they are shown as points and arrows to show which organ it connects to. It is indeed correct since the nerves connected to these organs terminate here. This is covered in great details in Acupressure studies God created our body so well. He made us walk so that we will always be pressing these pressure points and thus Keeping these organs activated at all times. So, keep walking..

 

God .. At Work(Story)

Morning Story - God is at work in our lives ! The only survivor of a shipwreck was washed up on a small, uninhabited island. He prayed feverishly for God to rescue him, and every day he scanned the horizon for help, but none seemed forthcoming. Exhausted, he eventually managed to build a little hut out of driftwood to protect himself from the elements, and to store his few possessions. But then one day, after scavenging for food, he arrived home to find his little hut in flames, the smoke rolling up to the sky. The worst had happened - everything was lost. He was stunned with grief and anger. "God, how could you do this to me?" he cried. Early the next day, however, he was awakened by the sound of a ship that was approaching the island. It had come to rescue him. "How did you know I was here?" asked the weary man of his rescuers. "We saw your smoke signal", they replied. It's easy to get discouraged sometimes when things appear to be going badly. But we shouldn't lose heart, because God is at work in our lives, even in the midst of pain and suffering.

 

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