A small sleepy town in southern Karnataka that lays atop a 300+ ft thick granite bed, awakens every morning to the hustle and bustle of being a transportation hub, whose yawns exhale black diesel smoke belching dilapidated colorful buses ferrying passengers to Mangalore, Udupi and other points of commerce and interest on the map.

The majority of townsfolk here belong to the Gauda Saraswat Brahmin (GSB) community, whose lives circumambulate in some form or the other around the Padutirupati Temple, fondly referred to as Aumgul Devasthana (our temple). The other peoples; different, typical, yet comingling in everyday life are the usually wealthy landowners called Bunts whose brood includes the clans of Shetty, Alva, Hegde, Rai, Punja etc., a healthy number of Jains, whose pride is the massive 42 ft. deity of Gomateshwara carved out of a single rock crowning a black hillock as well as the eighteen basadis scattered around, the Christians, known colloquially as Porbu, and a sizeable number of Muslims called Saibaer. Each community distinct in its dress and customs yet bonded by the fluency possessed in their own, as well as the language of the others. The locals stand at ease with many tongues – Konkani of the GSBs, Tulu speaking Bunts, Hindi and Urdu of the Saibaers, English (& a slight variation on Konkani) of the Porbus, and the official state language Kannada. A town full of multi-linguists leaves no room for any communication gaps. People here understand and are understood and as such live in easy harmony with each other.

Car Street in Karkala is the carotid artery connected to the heart of the town, its bus stand. It is a narrow road generously stretched to afford barely enough room for two buses to cross each other. To add to the disorder of large moving bodies in cramped spaces; rickshaws, cyclists, motorbikes, pedestrians, occasional motor cars and animals ply, and so pile on this roadway. Yet, accidents are few and far in between simply because everybody follows the simple rule – accommodate the other and have patience. Car Street is decked with small shops, tiffin joints and ancestral homes on either side with knee deep torso wide gutters separating their domains from the public thoroughfare. At times, a vehicle may tilt a wheel or two into these gutters that inescapably draws passersby, passengers and others idling around to congregate with solutions, blame and comments. Synchronizing with the swelling cacophony, the blaring of horns and curses cajoles all vehicular movement to come to a standstill.

However the by-lanes of Car Street are of a different setting – quietly winding its path to not so important destinations, they are almost devoid of motorized traffic, partially tarred and proudly displaying mementos of wear-tear and apathy to disrepair, the quintessential pot-holes. The predominant structure flanking these by-lanes are residential dwellings with the fabled Mangalore-tiled roofs and boasting metal art adorning their grilled gates such as kissing swans, the rising sun, a lotus flower etc. and with headers like Sri Devi Krupa or Shanti Nivas or Happy Home. As one leaves Car Street further behind, expansive fields show off many coconut and arrack nut trees sticking out like candles decorating a birthday cake. The sweet and incessant call of birds, the rustling of small animals scampering in the undergrowth, the thick wet sound of clothes being slap-washed against stone, the call-outs of loin-cloth draped farmers shining with sweat prodding their beasts of burden to till the land, the trilling of a bicycle bell harmonizing with the high sing song voices of ladies gossiping across compound walls and stray dogs wagging their tails and barking greetings to known folks or snarling at strangers is commonplace here.

But one such lane is desolate and quite subdued. The quietude in other circumstances would have had a meditative quality to it if not for the actuality that it is a silence arising out of mother nature and her offspring alike ceasing all sounds in respect (or fear) of the dead. The pathway ends at the entrance of a crematorium. The crematorium is a wide open nondescript place whose surrounding would be utterly soulless but for the interruption of a small hut at one side and at some distance near the center, a large structure of four tall steel poles capped with a sloping rusted corrugated metal roof. The concrete flooring of this structure has equidistanced bays that at any given time can accommodate a maximum of three funeral pyres. Each bay has six iron rods embedded on either side to hold the fire logs in place and on the far side is a waist high brick wall with a row of congruent water taps for mourners to wash their limbs after completion of the final rites. In close proximity is a shed filled with firewood – chopped, dried and sold by weight. The residual heaps of ashes and bones left behind in the bay bear testimony to the scripture’s …for dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return.

The dead and living arrive here not by choice but out of necessity. The ones still breathing gather in numbers and shuffle in slowly with the dearly departed laying inert on a bier amassed with fresh flowers and garlands and carried on the shoulders of able bodied men. The chanting of Jai Raam Sri Raam Jai Jai Raam accompanies the procession and gets louder as it gets closer to the final resting place; the deceased brought in is decidedly indifferent and unmoved by the event. As fire consumes the body laid to rest, relatives look forlorn whilst others gather around, fidget, get philosophical, talk in hushed tones, nod somberly, look embarrassed, and then all hastily depart when the job’s done. The only witness who doesn’t leave is a Chandala – the person who disposes of the dead for a living. The Chandala visits the home of the departed, makes the bier to carry the corpse; at the crematorium he arranges the firewood and oversees the complete consumption of the body by the flames. The following day, he sifts thru the ashes to collect the bones for relatives to immerse these in some sacred river.

In Karkala, the Chandala is called Pundi.

Pundi is a man of indeterminate age because he doesn’t age. Time has had no effect on his short wiry dark body. Bald and with a perpetual twinkle in his piercing eyes, he is swift of gait, sharp of tongue, and has a cheerful disposition. His worldly possessions are a towel which also serves as a body covering, a torn bed-bug infested blanket, a few utensils and most importantly the insight borne out of having ones’ own self as ones’ only companion over long periods of time.  Being an outcast drifting away from mainstream society, Pundi is the sole resident and caretaker of the crematorium. The meager money he gets for his services is spent on beedis, ganja, and food (in that order of priority). When not in the crematorium, Pundi wanders around Karkala, muttering to himself or greeting all and sundry. But people do not cross his path, or acknowledge him, they scurry away – Pundi personifies death and is considered unclean, the bearer of ill luck – may Pundi be a frequent visitor to your home –  is a curse heard often during quarrels in Karkala.

At times Pundi will play traffic cop in Car Street arbitrarily stopping vehicles or letting them proceed or sometimes he’ll stand outside some person’s doorstep and loudly describe that person’s secret trysts in the fields with some maiden. Pundi see a lot, knows a lot and talks a lot. Fortunately for the locals, Pundi is crazy and no one pays much attention to his ramblings, except to have it nag in some recess of the mind – aiyaiyyo what if what he says is true? People are at once amused and frightened by him. Pundi has absolutely no expectations of anybody, he is content with what he has and thus he cannot be controlled. And because he cannot be controlled, Pundi is his own master and consequently he is fearless, always sure of himself. Though, one can never be sure of him. Pundi is unpredictable.

Personally, I was neither amused nor afraid of Pundi. He intrigued and fascinated me. I had relocated to Karkala from my hometown in Bombay to pursue engineering sciences and as a young student; I had not yet accumulated my share of sins that I was guilty or ashamed of. This freed my mind to be perpetually inquisitive and challenge the status-quo. A non-conformist, I was a rebel adept at finding lost causes.

One early morning on my way to the bus stand Pundi greets me and I greet him back.  He is taken aback

“Do you know who I am” he asks walking up to me

“Yes” I reply “You are the guy who works at the Smashaan”

“No” Pundi counters “I am a Yumdootha – I am where death is”

I shrug “So what, every person alive carries death like a monkey on his back with him”

Pundi blinks, sizing me over and then laughs loudly “Do you have a beedi” he asks between guffaws.

I was smoking my last cigarette and offer it to him. Pundi puffs on it for a while and returns it to me. I gesture with my palm for him to keep it and continue walking. Pundi puts his arm around my shoulders expressing gratitude and I let it remain there simply to see the reaction of the townsfolk. Pundi too is noticing this and starts shouting in glee

“Here is the King of Bombay who walks with his friend the monkey of Karkala or is it the other way around – which is which we will not tell, the secret lies buried in the Smashaan grounds”

I couldn’t put my arm around Pundi and so stick my palms in my jeans. We made quite a sight, something Car Street had never witnessed before. Pundi would do all sorts of crazy things but this was the first time he had an accomplice, me! When we reach the bus stand, there is a small crowd following us eager to see where this circus will go. To their disappointment it ends with me boarding a bus and Pundi executing a crisp salute. I take a window seat and see Pundi there looking up at me with a huge grin.

“OK monkey king when you die I’ll give you the best send off ever” he tells me in a conspiratorial tone

“OK Pundi, when you die, I will cry” I retort as the bus jerks to a start. As it slowly gains momentum, Pundi runs alongside

“Really?” he asks

“Really what?”

“Will you really cry when I am gone?”

“Yes, I promise I will”

“But why will you cry for Pundi?” he pants getting out of breath

“Why not? You are my friend aren’t you?” and I wink at him.

And as the bus moves faster than his short legs can run, I stick an arm out and wave goodbye to Pundi. In college, my classmates find my encounter with Pundi crazy at best and doomed at worst.

“You have reduced your life span” some say

“You are as crazy as Pundi is” others jeer

I respond to all comments with the raising of eyebrows and an insipid smile. In the late afternoon on my way back from college, I see Pundi waiting for me at the bus stand.

“Namaskara Dhanikule” he greets cheerfully “Please come to my place for Tiffin”

Since curiosity trumps any apprehensions I may have, I agree and walk behind Pundi who hastens away towards the crematorium. Pundi’s hut is made of stone, mud and wood and has a thatched roof where in places some errant strand of sunshine pierces thru. It is devoid of furniture. In one corner is a raised platform where he cooks with his dented dull utensils. Strangely, I find a contemporary novel in one corner. As I leaf thru it, Pundi goes out and returns with an arm load of bricks. He makes a couple of more trips before making a seat of sorts out of bricks.

“Come, sit on your throne” he mocks

I take note of his gesture of hospitality hiding behind the mockery and sit on the bricks with my back resting against a slightly damp wall. I remark my being surprised to find a novel in his possession.

“Oh, so you too think I am illiterate?” he asks squatting on his haunches near my feet

“It seems so, considering what you do for a living”

Pundi reflects on my statement for a while and sighs “So if I was educated, I wouldn’t be doing this, is it?”

“I guess so” I reply

“But what about the scores of the educated – with big graduate degrees still unemployed -rotting away doing nothing, am I not better than they are – I have a job at least”

Pundi’s simple argument tells me that he is not simple minded.

I respond “Well it is only temporary for them…eventually they will land a good job…they will…”

Pundi interrupts me “Well my job is permanent, it was mine in the past, it is here today and will be there for me tomorrow – no one can shut down the business of death, can they? I will be employed for the rest of my life. You graduates may find a job but for how long? Do you know that in future, you engineers will have such advanced machines to do all your work for you that your machines will put you out of your jobs? You dumb-ass educated fellows, all that your education does is teach you how to be more greedy, more wealthy. Bernard Shaw was right when he said ‘wealth accumulates and men decay’. So tell me am I better off or are you – of what use is your education?”

I am flummoxed with Pundi even knowing about George Bernard Shaw, let alone him quoting from the playwright’s works. I think to myself that there is a lot of truth in what Pundi says, instead I say “So how come you know how to read”

“Oh that” Pundi smiles “Many years ago a retired army Major settled in Karkala. I used to clean his toilet and do odd jobs for him and over the years he taught me to read and write in English. Since then I have read all the books in the town library many times over. Last winter a new librarian was appointed but she doesn’t allow me in. I wanted to return that novel but she just shooed me away when I walked into the library. Silly woman, it’s her loss. But she can’t stop me from reading – I read anything and everything. I read all that is printed on movie posters pasted on the walls, even the fine print – do you know that all these posters are printed by Kala Printers in Mangalore. Every so often I gather all the newspapers and magazines people discard as trash, bring it home and read it over and over again. When I am done, I use the paper as fuel for cooking – so reading feeds my mind and also helps feed my body!”

“Don’t you get bored reading stuff over and over again – do you have a favorite book Pundi” I ask

“Huh” he looks perplexed “how can you favor one book over another – there is so much to learn in every book – every time I read something I find something new – even in what I’ve read before – only a fool will shut the doors to knowledge – that is because they have lazy minds – and people with lazy minds are boring people because there is not much they know or want to know – if you get bored you are a fool – I am a mad man you see but I am not a fool ” And then he starts chuckling hard. His entire body jiggles and tears and spittle trickles down his face

As Pundi recovers from the throes of humor, I am amazed at the depth of Pundi’s realizations and at that instant know that there is more to him than the crazy Chandala of Karkala.

“Where’s my Tiffin” I remind him

“Oh damn” Pundi slaps his forehead and jumps on to his cooking platform – he pulls out a plate with two idlis dressed with some chutney and puts it on my lap

“Eat” he smiles ”I hope you like it” and squats in front of me, moving his palm back and forth to drive the flies buzzing around my plate. I take a bite and ask him to join me

“No, no I can’t. You are my Devata” he says earnestly

“What!!!” I am unsure how to react. “ How can I be a Devata – yours or anybody’s – how do you even know if your Gods exist for real and are not just stories made up by the priests” I ask incredulously.

Pundi has tears in his eyes “Well, only God would befriend a person like me, come to my home and eat of my offerings – do you think a mere mortal is capable of doing as such. And even if God is a figment of the priest’s imagination, for me that story is as real as you are here sitting in front of me”

I eat the rest of the idlis in silence as Pundi looks over me with infinite calm and contentment. When I am done, Pundi takes the plate out to the water taps. I follow him and see him wash it with a handful of ash he grabs from one of the bays.

“Damn” I feel anger rising at my folly for having accepted a crazy person’s invitation but it subsides immediately when he turns and smiles at me

“So monkey king” Pundi’s smile widens into a grin “will you really cry when I am gone”

“Do Devatas cry?” I ask him

“Oh yes, how can they be Devatas if they are not capable of tears” he replies

I light up two cigarettes and hand him one. “So how come you do this job Pundi, haven’t you ever thought of leaving it and doing something else”

Pundi stares off into the distance and softly mutters “If I go then who will do this job my dear Devata what will become of my town-folk”

“But that is not your concern is it” I reason with him “Especially considering the way they treat you – like an outcast, an untouchable”

“That’s OK” Pundi explains “they may forsake me, but how can I. I am a Chandala – it is my duty”

“But don’t you owe it to yourself to be happy” I argue

Pundi flashes a brilliant smile “But I am happy – I do not fear anyone or anything and so I am happy – my needs are so little that they get satisfied every time and so I am happy – I don’t need things to make me happy and so I am happy with whatever I have – there is nothing in this world that makes me sad and so I am always happy – I am not in pursuit of anything, even happiness or nirvana or liberation, why should I be when I find joy in everything I see, hear or do – you see a pothole on the road and feel irritation – you see an inconvenience to your comfort, but isn’t your very existence an inconvenience to something else – you walk on the street and trample thousands of insects under your feet without even knowing it – you are worse than potholes for those little critters – but when I come upon the very same pothole I stop, I get down on my knees to feel the texture with my fingers and marvel at the pattern the smooth and jagged edges makes – did you know that no two potholes are identical – did you know that potholes are shelter for many insects – hiding from heavy feet like yours – but then I am a mad man, yet why is it that so many of you sane folks are unhappy – is misery the price you pay for such sanity – you know my Major used to listen to a cassette of Janis Joplin and in one song she said freedom’s just another word when you’ve got nothing to lose – you know my dear Devata, nothing that I have is really mine – I am simply its user, caretaker – so I am completely freed – it is only the free who know how to be happy – how can you be happy when you are chained to your never ending unfulfilled desires?”

It seems to me as though an ancient intelligence beyond the reaches of time is speaking to me thru Pundi. Yet, I cannot let go of judging his lot. Especially after realizing that Pundi is the wisest person I have ever met. I want to improve his status-quo but feel frustrated. He is genuinely happy and it angers me.

“Well then stay warm and fuzzy in the filth they dump on you – you are truly the asshole of Karkala” I shout at him

Pundi runs out of the compound towards Car Street laughing all the way “Well, even the brain cannot function if the asshole stops working”

That gets me laughing as well. Over the remainder of my years in Karkala, Pundi treated me as he would behave with any other person – He seemed to have forgotten my visit to his place. I put his behavior away as another one of his eccentricities and let things be as-is. In a couple of years I passed out of college, returned to my hometown and in a few years migrated abroad to pursue my dreams.

Several years have passed since then. Pundi’s prophecy of machines replacing humans comes true in form of automated processes resulting in improved efficiencies to cost cutting measures to global recession to lay-offs. Dumb-ass educated fellows!

2011. Karkala.

I return to find a mini metropolis, modernized with internet cafes and Wi-Fi hotspots. Car Street is of the same dimensions however the vehicles plying on it are shiny and are of the latest models. Many homes and stores alongside are broken down and have given way to multi-storied Malls and posh bungalows.

“Ah progress” I think with a twinge of nostalgia pinching the heart. “Hey what about Pundi” I ask my friend Shivananda, a local resident whom I am visiting.

“Oh after you left Pundi would go around town telling all that you visited his home and ate his idlis. He called you his monkey king, his Devata.”

I couldn’t understand this. For all the years I stayed there, it was almost like Pundi had snubbed me, yet; after I leave, he tom-toms our single encounter. I tell my friend that I indeed visited Pundi’s place and had eaten his idlis.

“Really?” my friend is amazed “we used to tease Pundi as to why he didn’t leave with his Devata to which he’d reply… you bastards, my Devata too suggested I leave, but if I left what would happen to you – I left my Devata for you sons of widows, if I remained friends with him I would have definitely left you.”

“Come” I tell Shivananda “Let’s go see Pundi”

“Oh you can’t, he died many years ago”

And I cried, keeping my promise to Pundi. Besides, how could I be Pundi’s Devata if I wasn’t capable of tears?

And these tears I also hoped would repay Karkala’ debt to a Chandala called Pundi.

Light a candle

Light more candles

They say

Light a candle

Light a candle

And express

Your outrage

When terror comes

With bullets and bombs

And burns

My city down

Light a candle

Light a candle

And spread

Solidarity around

They come to kill

My many brothers

And decimate

Numerous others

When the dust settles

I’ll show my mettle

By lighting candles

That glow yellow I’ll Light a candle

I’ll Light a candle

Terror

Understands

Why timid people

In numbers stand

With candles

In their hands

When present is the future’s past

In the lull between attacks

They are planning to come

Again they’ll come

O they’ll come so fast

I am kind of worried

But I am ready

My candles are neatly stacked

12.02.2008

]]> http://wind63.wordpress.com/2011/10/05/light-a-candle/feed/ 0 wind63 http://wind63.wordpress.com/2011/09/25/174/ http://wind63.wordpress.com/2011/09/25/174/#comments Mon, 26 Sep 2011 02:29:15 +0000 wind63 http://wind63.wordpress.com/?p=174 ]]> Why do you mourn for your loss,
When nothing ever was yours
Why don’t you learn, every story continues
Isn’t Death a gateway where Life renews 

Yet how sweet you find that that’s yours
When sweetness time curdles and sours
Your present and future you hope will last
With memories you have hoarded of the past

September25, 2011
Edison, NJ

But the Holy ones, I couldn’t fit their mold

So travel I alone, with my promises and sins

To keep me company, as I am look for Him

Edison, NJ

9/23/2011

My clothes cover me

In a shroud of decency

Forced by civility

This hypocrisy

Because our minds lusty

Have no boundary

So it’s much easy

Though unnaturally

To hide the body

In all its glory

And simplicity

And so the absurdity

That we all bury

The splendor of our nudity

And let the guilty

Go scot-free

And the victim only

Has to carry

A burden heavy

And suffer the brutality

Of censored individuality

And pretend personality

With no originality

Like the dichotomy

Of an original copy

But will not flee

The tyranny

For he wants to be

In the company

Of society

Where respectability

Doesn’t let me

Commit the felony

Of breaking free

Of all that covers me

-Edison, NJ

June 11, 2011

The heretic responds “O no not I O learned one for I only seek the truth – so be not I of heaven seeking flocks their herd-mentality caroled by dogs of blind belief”

The preacher is astonished and taken aback: “but with thinking minds many questions they ask and answers from scriptures I speak”

The heretic smiles as he interrupts “but curious my mind questions all of everything that for you and yours is reality”

The preacher is flustered and can only splutter “But God is truth – - what say He is true – - to question Him is really amiss”

The heretic devoid of malice laughs “but chained is your truth to rigid bars of belief – - outside boundaries of faith even you do not know if God exists”

The preacher in anger curses and shouts “You are lost and evil and will suffer for all eternity”

The heretic sighs and with a sign of peace retreats “Unruly I may be and to you forever lost but if I can’t find God, maybe God will find me”

4/13/2011

The paradox continues…

The one, who they proclaim to be the ocean of love and magnanimity, yet many who profess to be the recipients of His favors and generosity somehow turn out to be close minded bigots and hate-mongers.  He cherishes life for sake of all, yet in His calling many lives are forsaken. The one, whom they say kneeling in front of will help you stand up to anything, yet those who don’t, stand up anyway – even up to Him. He is considered a leader with the largest following ever, yet He serves even the most insignificant.

Simple, and simply enigmatic!

Many claim to know who He is but isn’t such understanding based on dogmas that are like hand-me-downs inherited from the culture that fosters it? Every hand-off wearing it thin, patching it up a bit. Is there anyone who has had an up close and personal encounter with Him that can be verified and understood in layman terms, with lay senses? Or is it all circumstantial and word of mouth events that occur only in the realm of the esoteric; and that too to those select few with special qualifications (maybe extra-ordinary sensory capabilities?)

And they say the truth shall set you free…

One may consider Him to be the absolute truth but then what is the truth? Why are there so many versions of the truth? And every edition, strident in its claim of being the only truth, and nothing but the whole truth. Isn’t truth supposed to be complete in, and of itself to remain as it is? Doesn’t some aspect of truth get watered down in adapting it to a given set of conditions? Even if one finds all that is true in the diluted versions, it still is not the whole truth is it? And the incomplete truth is truth no more. True and false two sides of a coin our mind flips up, then grasps and then accepts whatever side is facing up.

Therefore always bet on perceptions – they habitually trump reality.

There are scores who reason that He exists and is an actual being, with a personality – the supreme personality – and multitudes are convinced that He is just a concept, a sentiment, a convenience to justify the inexplicable, an opiate to control the masses. And there are many like pendulums swinging between belief and skepticism with momentary rest-stops at agnosticism in the middle.  But if one shuffle over to those who believe in His existence; then who better to meet than God Himself?

10.10 a.m. meeting God outside temple walls

Meeting God – what an experience that would be! I’d be very interested in knowing what goes on in His mind, what does He think about? He who is said to own, control and enjoy everything, is there anything that He longs for? He knows all there is to know so does He lose out on the excitement of discovering, learning something new. He is said to be simultaneously and perpetually everywhere so can He really walk away from a situation? And since He is everywhere is it possible to turn your back on Him? There would be so much to know; after all He is infinite, isn’t He? Our meeting would have no end. But then He is capable of anything (otherwise how else can He be God), so wouldn’t it be easy for Him to telescope the expanding reaches of the infinite into say a time span manageable by a mortal like myself? Is it possible to meet God? Who knows? God alone knows. Till such time, I occasionally think about Him and wonder.

What about you God? Are you there? Hello… just smile if you can hear me…. but wait,  I can’t see You so how would I know. They tell me to clean my eyes and anoint it with love for You, to every day call out a minimum quota of Your names, to do this, give up that, to get qualified and then some day in the future I’ll be able to see You. So I try it all with vigor but it hasn’t worked as yet, I remain ‘unqualified’. But then what qualification does a child need to see his father? After all You our Father who art in Heaven – aren’t You?

Some people talk to themselves, I write.

In praising Him much glory you seek

And as you cluster bomb ears with lofty words

Your audience He leaves to hear the sinner speak

To love Him you preach forgiveness to all

And worship Him in the sanctum inner

And as you condemn the offenders who fall

He is lending His hand to the sinner

You have sorted measured and labeled devotion

And packaged it in philosophy high

And as you sell your brand of religion

Profits He from the sinner who won’t buy

He is you say omnipresent

And offer prayers with a ringing bell

And as you prepare to go back to heaven

Remains He with the sinner in hell

Blessed are they who are full of sin

With no virtue or pious fervor

How far can they be away from Him

For its the sins that bring Him back for the sinners

His nostalgia sidesteps the blaring commercials like ragged beggars in 30 second rows they sit. Clawing their greedy hands for some pieces of fruit, they are hoping to get from his pocket. So I turn off the radio, off the turnpike, off the ramp and make my way to buildings high. Where many like I in monkey suits and ties are busy gathering fruits falling from the corporate skies.

But during the day a voice mail he gets from conscience he hasn’t called on in a while. It says hello, how are you – it’s been long since he met up with the child. So take a moment to spend a moment, with a child to be in the moment. I almost erase the voice message but then pencil in the appointment.

I open my spread-sheets with figures and facts of what happened and what will happen. He reviews the numbers, the growing numbers and it totals up to all he has forsaken. He gets a shock that it’s such a lot and checks to find some errors. The columns and rows are accurate his panic is now close to terror.

O Lord what have I done – what I have done is done. Many a places he can hide but nowhere can he run. And as he waits for his future to bring his past to catch up with him, I pick up the phone and dial the number of the child who is waiting within.

“please tell me where am I”

the master winks, a smile prudent

“in a place full of life yet everyone dies”

the student confused to his master pleads

“your words i do not follow”

the master continues on the path he treads

“in happiness are seeds of sorrow”

the student stands still then tries to catch up

“i know now what you mean”

the master runs swift then stops abrupt

“so tell me what you have seen”

the student content has a grin wide

“i can see i can see i can see”

the master comes closer to his student’s side

“then you should my master be”

now the master keeps quite & lets his silence speak

“will your knowledge like rivers overflow”

the student falls down to his master’s feet

“in knowing much, there’s not much I know”

then the student snivels & he sniffles

“o master to truth take me”

the master sighs a yawn he stifles

“but truth is just a journey”

the student then a final question pose

“so how travel should I this ride”

the master sneezes and wipes his nose

“with a heart emptied of pride”

the master & student cover distance great

as each the truth explores

in the current of life like leaves in its wake

together for a while, then ways separate they’ll go