Spiritual cataract — Confused between the teacher and his teachings.
“I believe in God, but not as one thing, not as an old man in the sky. I believe that what people call God is something in all of us. I believe that what Jesus and Mohammed and Buddha and all the rest said was right. It’s just that the translations have gone wrong.” — John Lennon
The long years of his life or the genesis of his wealth, this guru, let me call him G, he perhaps does not himself know. If this is an untruth that he presents, then he must have a peculiar taste for mystery. My mind reading of my own kin is pitiful, so G is a mile away from my discernment, just in case if there was even a remote chance of my venturing into discovering more about him. G owns big reserves, confusing but powerful assets! Well, G even owns the large town called Araa with its three peculiar tribes — Cello, Mandolin, and Harp. The names ring music bells, don’t they? True to the name of the tribes, all of the tribesmen exceled in their expert instruments. All three tribes have the same fondness for sunshine, humor, gossips, romance but differ on their tertiary habits. Cellos live and die for set of laws laid down to them by some messenger, these laws are beyond human empathy; the Mandolins fret and worry about the class differences that drown the lesser classes in an inferiority complex; that way the Harps are much nicer, they care the least even about themselves. Meat lovers and obese, with a tyre of fat running in their middle!!!
However, this story is about how G hit a wall with an unbreakably hopeless situation, and demands from the tribes of Cello, Mandolin and Harp an endless gesture of gratitude, in the form of service, rituals and praises, in exchange for the knowledge he shares on how to be masters of one’s own fate.
All three tribes take pride in their music. They owe it to the powerful Apollo. Now, who is Apollo? No one. No one knows him or has seen him. He is an old habit that is sealed in their consciousness as someone as true as the salt in their sea winds. Who will know this better than Guru G, only he knows that it is his own relentless prayers, sacrifices and the magic of his chants that replaced an infertile trench in Aara with the blessed river Aaramai. The rivers invited the charitable fruit trees and through them the songs of the morning birds and even today the breeze that come from Northeast always carry the smell of fruit bursts. Apollo does nothing but live in arrested monoliths of stones or marbles, with a thirty degree smile shaped and then secured. The reason why G never got his due honor is because of his appearance. He looks a farmer, a teacher, a mason, a busy father, nothing of his mannerism gives away his true inner prowess and vitality. The tribesmen simply could not believe when G claimed few chunks of years ago that he is their benefactor, that the waters and the winds literally listen to him. This was many years ago, many many! Aara’s impoverished wealth and fragile relationships within tribes and without, continue trailing and G could exercise no influence because they simply did not listen to him. With war and poverty on the anvil, the risk of losing peace and stability in his kingdom worried G. It’s not becoming of a person of the dignity of G to re-attempt the same course of winning over his people. So, G hatches a plan where at the end of it he will have achieved what he most desires from his people — memorials and gratitude in service or praises; and in exchange he would continue to use his powers for their upkeep and teach them to rule their own lives.
How does he bowl over the tribes? G takes with him one learned, brave hearted, confident man from each of the three tribes, walks the grand bridges and ridges of rough cross roads, braves the dense forests, hops over shit with grit, allowing these three men to acknowledge that life outside their Aara is messier than their women’s handbags (excuse me ); later he takes them to his mansion, shows them his rich tapestries, his frescoes, his chandeliers, the chiseled stones, and rich marbles projecting out of even unseen corners. He ordains them with crowns and calls them his sons. So G is “the Apollo”, the enlightenment is done. Newfound revelation makes these men more confident. Hereafter allow me the freedom to call the chieftain of the tribe with a title and his tribe name — Mr.Cello, Mr.Mandolin, Mr.Harp.
Mr.Cello, Mr.Mandolin and Mr.Harp are given trainings that align with the nature of their tribe. G assigns each tribe — a symbol, a slogan, the book of life, rituals of fasting and prayer; different from each other along with a promised destination. Essentially, the objective is the same — etch into people’s minds that they will have the secret to eternal life by mastering self-leadership thereby helping them to be masters of their fate. G’s book of life has the secret code to achieve this, provided they follow the book to the very T.
Mr.Cello, Mr.Mandolin and Mr.Harp return to Aara with a humungous mission. Aara as always is a life spark of activities, women cook on chopped wood fire, men read their papers with a candlelight at sundown, house smelt smoke or kerosene or an empowering spice, water smelt mud, and petrichor was a normal grateful treat. Before they can begin their newfound lessons they have to crack hard on the basic flaws, Mr.Cello must help his tribe to break free from enslavement by rules and laws that go beyond human empathy and love, not an easy part. For Mr.Mandolin, being a rebel at heart, he wants to break class differences and suggests a uniform dress code that makes the rich and poor, good looking and the not-so-good looking all appear like petals of the same flower. For Mr.Harp, he has to make Greek God bodies of his obese tribe who are meat lovers and walk around with a tyre of fat in the middle, it isn’t easy for him to promote vegetarianism and yoga.
Hell lot of years it takes, but the tribes get shaped in an identity that matches exactly to the vision of Mr.Cello, Mr.Mandolin and Mr.Harp and that of guru G. G’s book of life is their compass. A rebellion sets a wreckage on Apollo’s temples. Apollo is replaced by the artwork mimics of Mr.Cello by the Cellos, Mr.Mandolin by the Mandolins and Mr.Harp by the Harps. G figures in their chants along with the name chants of these new saints (or Gods).
At the end of their mission, the chieftains meet G. Where is my price, demands G. Will Apollo go?
Yes, Apollo is history, they say. They show him white smoke in the far distance beside a torchlight that juts out with the tribe symbols in the backdrop. There are rituals of praise and gratitude preceding those smoky curls, they say and that their tribes will do this forever, they promise.
G still prefers to remain obscure. He takes their gratitude services with love and amusement because I guess that he does converse with the waters and winds for the sake of these tribes. I have no bloody idea how awkward or awesome his power can be! He leashes it with a far sighted, in phonetic emphasis, I can say “ faaaar-sighted” wits and planning. No proud ears of the learned can catch what the hell is in store.
G has an incredible long life! He is still up there in his mansion! Mr.Cello, Mr.Mandolin and Mr.Harp breathed their last some chunks of past years before. After they were gone, the tribesmen dispersed as herds without a shepherd, forgot their teachings, misinterpreted the books like the subject of mathematics (like for most high school students, this is not about you). They forget the teachings, but they remember the appeasement part. So, when someone from their tribes suggest that they increase places of worship for the saints, they easily give in without much reasoning. Fear always casts shadow on all reasonings you see.. The essence of G’s vision or their teacher’s teachings are conveniently forgotten. They have given tethers of their life in the hands of the saints living inside stones or marbles and hearing not a word! However, the rituals, gratitude services and praises for G and the saints continue to this day.
G doesn’t care, he beholds the smoke, the light, the symbols, and he is happy. Relationships sore, strife multiplies, and tribesmen are ailing now with a spiritual cataract that confuses them between the teacher and his teachings. In the end it is the idols of their teachers that enthuse miracles for them and not their teachings. The cataract thickens with every passing year and humanity crumbles!!! There are houses of worship for Mr.Cello, Mr.Mandolin and Mr.Harp, each springing up in aggressive competitions to outnumber each other. The Harps cannot bear the Mandolins, and vice versa. The music goes on, G rests in his mansion, the fools of the tribes are on a highway staking their lives for nothing!! Whatever it may be, not all rivers dried, the birds cease not their songs, and the fruit bursts still continue to seep from the Northeast. G has not fully given up!!
Praise G !!
