Musings Of An Idle Philosopher

Alexa new.png

 

End

Advertisements

Swatchha Bharat (Clean India)

Swatchha Bharat

He asked the old man for some advice.

The old man turned to him: ‘Have you ever washed utensils?’

What an odd thing to ask! Mildly irritated he said, ‘Yes, what of it?’

‘What did you learn?’

‘What is there to learn from it? All that one does is to scrub it clean.’

The old man smiled at him: ‘Yes, you’re right…but it’s done harder on the inside than on the outside.’

 

End

 

 

 

Source: Strictly not a word-by-word translation of the original from Pinterest, possibly a zen story.

The Bad And The Good

Sanmargam

good and bad

End

Source: Pinterest

View original post

Words Of Wisdom

Driver

Driver

End

 

Source: Image from auto.bigmir.net

The Wrath Of A Yogi Meets The Wisdom Of A Guru

One evening a guru and his sishya (disciple), on their way to Kashi, reached the village, Peroor.

The village wore a deserted look. Not a living soul in sight save a few stray dogs eyeing them suspiciously. The sishya threw a few pieces of roti at them making themselves welcome.

They saw the shrine at the far end of the main street. None besides the priest at the shrine though it remained open. The priest welcomed them with cordiality that surprised them, gave them water for wash and seated them comfortably on a cot. He further told them they could have dinner with him and spend the night at the shrine and continue with their journey in the morning. Won’t he be discommoded? He assured them he would in fact consider himself blessed to be hosting them for the night.

Meal over, they were relaxing on the cot enjoying the silence broken now and then by a cool breeze whooshing through the leafy trees around. It was then the guru asked the priest:

‘Where’s everybody? Didn’t see a man or a woman or even a child playing. Isn’t it a little early retiring for the night?’

The priest suddenly lost his cheer: ‘Guruji, it’s a long story. If you’re too tired and wanting to go to sleep I won’t bother you with it now. Perhaps in the morning…’

Guru: ‘You got us hooked. Go ahead and tell us all about it. Sleep can wait.’

Priest: ‘Alright…It all happened years ago when I was a kid though I don’t remember any of it first hand. This story – I heard it when I was in teens from my father who was also a priest here before me.’

The priest’s story:

One evening it was just after the sun had dipped below the horizon.

A yogi and his disciple trudged their way to the village, exhausted and hungry.

The village in those days was just a main street lined with houses on either side with a few lanes teeing off and a small shrine and a pond a little away from the street – it’s still much the same as you’ll see. Fertile soil and agriculture worked wonders making the villagers prosperous.

It was the day of the weekly market. The small ground in front of the shrine was bustling with buyers and sellers from this and near-by villages. So it would be at least for an hour more. Vegetables, grains, pots and pans, groceries, clothes, toys, eats…there were even some rides for the children. It was more like a small rural fair.

The visitors were roundly ignored by the villagers busy with themselves, noticed only by a bunch of boisterous boys and their dogs barking and snarling frightfully taking them to be beggars or worse, thieves…

The boys taunted them, gesturing them to go away. One of the boys even threw a log of wood at the disciple hurting him in his leg. And laughing at him as the poor man winced in pain. While the boys ‘amused’ themselves at their expense, no one from the village inquired of them or came to their aid. No time for a couple of irksome mendicants that a market place usually attracted, many of them fake.

yogi1 spiritualsuperpower com

The yogi became furious at this lack of hospitality to the point of utter disregard and even physical assault. The disciple trembled with premonition seeing an angry guru. Pouring out water from his kamandalam and reciting some mantra’s the yogi cursed the village thus:

In the village of Peroor those coming out of their houses later than sun-set tomorrow would break their legs like my disciple here on taking their first steps. And so it’ll be every evening. The curse would lift on the first rays of the morning sun and be so until the sun sets in the evening. If they dare coming out again, they would lose all their fortune. And third time – the house would come down crashing on them unexpectedly. There would be no fourth time. No power on earth may revoke this curse.

The yogi decided not spend anytime in the village. As he was going away seething in unabated anger, the village headman and my father ran to him, hearing about it from the boys and somehow feeling in their guts this was for real. They prostrated before him grabbing his feet seeking a thousand apologies for the negligence and the offence.

The yogi could not be mollified easily.

The headman and my father kept up with the yogi in his long and brisk strides, going all the way to the outskirts of the village, pleading for release from the harsh curse.

The yogi finally relented only so far as to let people go out in the night to seek medical help if needed for the sick. Nothing more.

My father continued to press on the yogi, yes, respectfully, for mitigation. Even gods allowed for a release when they cursed anyone.

Thereupon the yogi said there would be a wise guru coming at the same time of the day to our village. No telling when, though it wouldn’t be anytime soon. If he is happy with our hospitality, he may choose to be our savior.

That’s as best it got.

The yogi advised the headman and my father to return to the village. And in future to attend to holy men with greater care.

So he walked away with his disciple into the night never looking back once.

The priest ended this story: ‘So here we’re waiting and waiting for our savior to appear. Meanwhile years have rolled by with no relief. We had learnt our lessons the hard way, never giving holy men visiting us thereafter any cause to be unhappy. In fact everyone of them is welcomed with genuine warmth and, of course, us looking to him expectantly if he would be the man we’re waiting for.’

Guru: ‘Didn’t the yogi tell you how you would recognize him?’

Priest: ‘We did ask him. What he said sounded like a riddle. He said to take the holy men visiting us to the market place. The wise among them, he meant our savior, would know all by himself if he could and would save us. Since then we did take every visitor to the market place to no avail. They were clueless, all expressing their impotency in face of the yogi’s curse.’

Guru: ‘Yes, it sounds like a riddle. I wonder…why the market place?’

Priest: ‘Perhaps because that’s where everyone was making merry that evening unfortunately ignoring the yogi and the harassment he suffered.’

Guru: ‘Could be like you said, the yogi was rubbing his point in.’

Priest: ‘Needless to add, in the days following the incident Peroor did see a few of its men lose their legs. A couple of them saw their fertile fields turn barren for no reason. And at least there was one house crash, my father told me.’

Priest: ‘I must also tell you this: On the following morning after the yogi left, a stone tablet appeared mysteriously at the market place with the curse etched verbatim. To this day, it stands there. We can see it in the morning if you wish.’

Guru: ‘Interesting. Let’s go over in the morning as you say.’

The priest fetched a couple of spare cots he had stowed away. Tired from the journey, the guru and his sishya readily fell asleep. The priest was awake for quite a while with thoughts swirling in his head before he yielded to the charms of nidra devi (Morpheus).

Early morning completing his ablutions and nithya karma, the guru was ready to leave the village intending to cover a good distance before the sun got hot overhead; of course with a brief halt at the market place as he had promised the priest, to be done after the sun peeked out with his first rays. Who knew if visitors were exempted? The guru did not want to take chances with the yogi.

At the market place they stood before the stone tablet eyeing the etched curse.

Guru: ‘I had meant to ask you this yesterday…If this village is cursed thus, why did you all not move away? That would be the easiest thing to do.’

Priest: ‘No, Guruji. This is the ancestral place for everyone here with their houses, fields, orchards, pond, this shrine of the kuldeva’s…tended for generations. The soil here is very fertile, much better than places around. Agriculture has rewarded the villagers bountifully. Affluence screams from roof-tops. No strife, no sickness…all in all a great place to live but for the curse.’

The guru’s attention was divided between listening to what the priest said and what he read on the tablet.

In the meantime the village headman and a few early-risers who had work to do in the fields joined them.

The guru then sat down on the floor in front of the tablet; he withdrew from the present eyes closed losing himself in deep meditation.

cartoon-yogi-meditating fasab wordpress com

A little later, he got up dusting himself.

Guru: ‘The yogi feels contrite over his harsh action and that the curse has endured for so long. But what’s done cannot be undone. He’s very eager to see the village released from his curse. I’ve his blessings to work on it.’

Expressing regret over his inability to stay back until the matter is resolved satisfactorily, he instructed the headman what needed to be done. And assured them this would take them off the hook.

The headman and the priest saw no harm in carrying it out. At worst it meant some wasted effort and disappointment ensuing. But for some reason they felt it would work out this time.

They gave a fond farewell to the guru and his sishya, accompanying them to the outskirts of the village, tears of gratitude clouding their eyes and choking their words.

The news quickly spread causing a lot of excitement all around.

But there was work to do, cut out for them by the guru, before the day ran out.

A small knee-high wall was built fully and closely encircling the tablet. A pole was planted inside the structure carrying a signage reading ‘Peroor’. Another similar pole was erected in the market place at a distance from the structure.

It was almost sun-set when the job was completed.

Everyone scrambled to get behind shuttered doors of their houses.

Now only the orange glow filled the horizon.

A little later somewhere a door opened noisily.

A figure was seen making it to the shrine. No limp there.

As the headman clanged the bell at the shrine without let up, doors opened one by one. Steps were taken tentatively.

In a minute, the entire village emptied itself onto the main street…

The jubilation and revelry continued well past midnight in Siroor and well, why not?

Yes, the village was born again that night as Siroor as the signage on the second pole at the market place proudly proclaimed.

The village of Peroor, still bearing the curse with no prospect of release as decreed by the yogi, was now simply a small enclave enclosed by a wall with its own signage and no inhabitants.

End
Source: Images from spiritualsuperpower.com and fasab.wordpress.com

Across The Waters Sans Boat Or Bridge – A Children’s Story Of Tenali Raman’s Wit And Wisdom

Tenali-Raman-1024x691

The pehalwan from the north was an instant hit. People dropped their jaws watching his amazing acts of physical prowess – he would have a couple of heavy-built locals stand on his out-stretched arm, pull a tree clean off the ground with bare hands or bend iron bars.

It was only a matter of time before he drew the attention of Krishna Deva Raya’s court where he was invited for a display of his strengths before the royalty, senior officials of the court and special invitees. A part of the beautiful palace garden was set up for the show. As a standard courtesy extended to all artistes, on arrival important dignitaries ere personally introduced by Raya to the pehalwan with a few words on who they were. When it was Tenali Raman’s turn Raya went overboard waxing eloquently about his wit. Not given to sharing the stage with anyone else, the pehalwan looked at Raman’s unremarkable presence in a traditional attire, his body language making no secret of where he stood on brawn vis-a-vis brain.  Raya noticed it right away and made light of it cautioning  the pehalwan not to get on the wrong side of Raman.

Introductions concluded, Raya went back to his seat and the pehalwan to his position for commencement of the show. In his opening act he came out cradling a baby, a little large-sized, in his arms; his audience amused at this light-hearted start – a L or XL bear mad with buzzing wasps held in an embrace would have been a more satisfying sight! Soon he was handling the baby like it was a soft-toy, tossing it from here to there, standing it up on his little finger in a ‘Krishna’s Govardhana’ pose, tossing it up overhead and catching it quite nonchalantly. It was in fact a toy for all to see setting everyone at ease – there was no danger to any life. Just when people began to wonder where it was going a wooden table was brought in; and a few of his people joining from the sidelines climbed atop and jumped up and down like they were standing on hot bricks, no one knew why. Were they trying hard to crash the table and failing? The pehalwan holding the baby effortlessly in one hand walked up casually gesturing them to get off. Once the table was clear, he dusted the top with his towel and showing great care and concern laid the baby on its back on the table, seemingly ending the frivolous miming act that no one really understood or even cared.

And perhaps readying himself for his second act, the pehalwan stood a little to the front of the table, taking time to wipe copious sweat streaming off his body. For the first time a few of the onlookers were intrigued – all that sweat in playing with a toy?

Suddenly there was sound like something was crumbling. Next moment they all saw the table crashing down and the baby landing with a thud bringing in a rush the people  who had earlier stomped on the table. They struggled to lift the baby out of the pile of splintered wood. They could not. They devised a rope around its waist and tried to pull with more men joining in to help. The baby wouldn’t budge. All this while the pehalwan stood unperturbed, his face slowly breaking into a hint of a smile.  Finally he stepped forward and shoving aside his men grabbed the baby by its crown and held it aloft on his palm for all to see like it was no more than a soft-toy.

When the penny dropped – this was no ordinary baby to defy the utmost exertions of many and neither was the pehalwan’s feat – he earned a generous round of applause.
And so followed many acts of sheer physical strength that left his audience awe-struck. Like carrying a human pyramid on his shoulders, holding back Raya’s chariot pulled by his prized horses…More than once Raya was seen to be enjoying himself visibly conveying his appreciation. And, so were his guests.

A great show-man he was, the pehalwan played out his acts knowing well how to ratchet up the tempo to a crescendo in a cycle only to be followed by another cycle more challenging, and another, keeping his audience right through on the edge of their seats.
In a final act, he lifted a massive cannon ball of iron and heaved it straight off the palace gardens (of course, landing safely).

As the ovation died down, it was time for Raya to honor the performer suitably and reward the pehalwan with gifts.

Just then, Tenali Raman got up from his seat.

‘My lord, I’ve a small request to make of our esteemed guest. I’m sure it would be easily accomplished compared to the awesome display we saw today.’

The pehalwan confusedly looked at Raya.

Raya gave his nod.

‘Thank you, my lord, for your kind indulgence,’ Raman bowed.

‘It’s like this. Here it is, no cannon ball, only a small piece of cloth. I would like to see it thrown across this stream only a few feet wide. That’s all,’ Raman offered it to the pehalwan with insincere deference.

It was an artificial stream arranged to flow through the garden, fed from the fountains.

Too full of himself with the adulation showered on him, the pehalwan, seemingly exasperated  at the ridiculousness of the exercise, snatched the piece of cloth without a thought from Raman’s hand, made a mock show of bending down under its weight and then, crushing it in his hand, threw it across the stream with all his might as it were. He felt it was quite beneath him to even turn around to check on the outcome. Alas, for him, the piece of cloth, as it would, sailed through the air no further than a couple of feet  before being blown adrift by the mild breeze and dropping down in a crazy swirl into the stream.

Raman was at hand giving the stunned pehalwan another piece of cloth. Again, the result was no different. It was then the pehalwan realized the impossibility of the situation and his own folly in making the attempts.

When a third piece was offered, he shoved it back into Raman’s hands with a gesture that said: ‘All right, Smarty, I got suckered in.  It’s now your turn; try getting out of it, eh?’

Raman was clumsy dropping  the piece of cloth to the ground. He then picked it up, rolled it into a ball, muttered some mantra’s and sent it across the stream. And lo, there it sailed all the way like a cannon ball landing on the far side almost going out of sight.

How did he do it? When and from whom did he learn mantra’s? Raya was dazed as everyone was. The pehalwan fared the worst looking like someone punched him hard in his gut knocking him out of breath.

But first things first. A large-hearted and wise Raya did not allow Raman’s side-show to take the shine off the pehalwan’s hitherto awesome display of muscle power, bestowing on him the honors, words of praise and gifts rightly due to him. A mortified pehalwan made his peace with Raman – no use crossing swords with a guy who pulls potent mantra’s from his scabbard.

It was then Raman leaked out the secret of his mantra’s – there was no mantra’s, no secret. The ball of cloth that he threw across the stream had a pebble inside making the flight perfectly possible. He had picked it up along with the cloth that he had dropped on purpose.

Why did Raman let the cat out of the bag?

If it were not debunked at the earlies, he feared, people including Raya would want him on occasions to invoke those and other mantra’s for causes right or wrong. He would be held up to ridicule for failures, much worse, his loyalty questioned, despite his protestations of innocence and ignorance.

At this the pehalwan could not help laughing over his own imbecility and Raman’s wit. Preparing to leave the town, he gifted his emblematic silver bracelet to Raman and invited him to his home-land to learn from him some real mantra’s.

End 

Source: www, animationxpress.com

When Vidakandan Meets Kodakandan…A Story For Children

Kodakandan was known for not giving away while Vidakandan, his perfect foil, for not giving up.

A number of tales hang around the two just as with Akbar and Birbal, Tenali Raman and Krishnadeva Raya….

This one is about one of their earliest encounters before they teamed up in activities that never did their mothers proud:

The annual fair attracted large number of visitors as always, mainly farmers, from neighboring villages.

The business was brisk for the traders in stalls peddling their wares – clothes, toys, utensils, appliances, groceries…And there were other attractions too – fancy photo-shoots, games and rides and eateries.

Like dog attracts fleas, so these fairs pulled both the Kandan’s prospecting for easy meal.

This time, Kodakandan set himself up like a vaidya (medical practitioner) offering rare herbs and medicines to cure a variety of ailments from common cold to terminal cancer.  He put up a sign outside that said: “Baba from the Himalaya’s: Get your treatment for Rs 50, and if not cured, get back Rs 100!” The lure was risk-free for him  simply because he usually prescribed a treatment that would run for several months to show while the fare wound up within ten days; whence he would ostensibly ‘return’ to his habitat in the Himalaya’s to continue with his research and meditation.

On the second day of the fair, by a quirk of fate, Vidakandan found himself standing in front of Kodakandan’s table and tent, reading the sign. This was god-sent it seemed after an unusually prolonged dry spell of no ‘fish’.

He went in seizing the chance with two hands: ‘Anna, I’ve lost all taste in my mouth. Can you please help me?’

‘Not after you’ve come to me, Thambi (little brother). Kutta, please bring medicine from the green bottle and put three drops in his mouth.’

‘Aaagh!! — This is kerosene!’

‘Congratulations!  I told you – you’ve got your taste back. That will be fifty rupees.’

An annoyed Vidakandan went back the next day after a sleepless night figuring to recover his money.

‘I’ve lost my memory, Anna. I can’t remember much.’

‘Kutta, please bring medicine from the blue bottle and put three drops in the patient’s mouth.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t, that’s kerosene!’

‘Congratulations! You’ve got your memory back! That will be fifty rupees.’

Vidakandan left angrily and came back after a couple of days, more determined than ever to settle scores with Kodakandan.

‘Anna, your medicines are a miracle. My eyesight has become weak – I can hardly see anything! I’m sure I can get it back with your help.’

‘As long as you have a fifty on you, Thambi, there isn’t much this Anna cannot handle. Kutta, bring medicine from the red bottle and put three drops in his eyes.’

‘I still can’t see anything, Anna, Please do something.’

‘Just hold. Kutta, bring medicine from the yellow bottle and put three drops into his eyes.’

‘Anna, it’s no better…’

This went on for two more rounds apparently doing little to improve Vidakandan’s eye sight.

A crest fallen Kodakandan finally admitted: ‘Well, I don’t seem to have the right medicine for your eyes presently. As promised, here are your hundred rupees.’

‘But this is only a fiver…’

‘I knew the medicine was right. Only you were getting a little impatient. Congratulations! You can see now.  That will be fifty rupees.’

Vidakandan knew he was licked. He would rather wait for his day.

End

 

 

 

 

 

 

Source: Inspired by Jerry Lambert