A Spiritual Spring
By C. Naseer Ahmad
Washington, DC
Phir bahar aaee phir Khuda ki baat puri hueei
Again came the spring and again His word came true
With every step forward during the early morning walks, somehow the words of the holy man my great grandfather followed come silently to the lips. Each stride forward and breath of the oxygen-rich air into the lungs takes me back to the village that now exists only in my imagination. For one, Kharian is not a village anymore – in Pakistan - because it has absorbed surrounding rural communities into a mini metropolis. Plus, my parents who told the beautiful stories at nighttime have long departed.
As spring stars again this year, seeing small buds making their appearance visible on tree branches and on rose bushes lifts the spirit. It brings relief from melancholic mood triggered by the sight of bare tree branches during the long cold autumn and winter months.
The memories of loving parents, sisters, uncles, cousins and friends who have passed on to the next world come alive during the solitude of early morning walks. Something in the neighbors’ yards, trees and flower beds triggers those memories with each step. The mind recalls every little tender moment spent with the loved ones in seasons that come and go like the breeze which gently sways the branches.
The blossoming of the flowers reflects the radiant smiles when they are physically in front of you. These images enliven the morning walks as they bring back sweet voices of the loved ones in my ears: my parents, my sisters, my uncles, my cousins and friends like Irfan, Jim, Naeem and Sunil who have passed away. Moreover, efflorescence in the springtime morning walks nurtures positive energy for friends and family who are here and who sustain life.
The remembrance of loved ones inspired the fledgling gardener in me to plant some roses around the house. With paternal care, I circled around the house religiously to check on the new babies.
One day I discovered a bunch of them mercilessly uprooted and thrown a few feet away as if they were garbage. What could one do? Pick them and put them gently back in their spots, said a voice in the gardener’s head.
A few weeks later brought a raging battle of the cherry tree – gifted by my gardening teachers. A mysterious creature ripped the baby cherry tree plant and threw it on the driveway. The next morning when I went to pick the newspaper, I put it back where I hoped it would blossom into a happy and healthy tree. The following morning, this devil would pluck it out and again I found it on the driveway. Once again, I picked it up and put it back to where the little cherry tree plant was supposed to belong. On the third morning, the poor baby cherry tree plant was near the newspaper again.
Anger has a way to get the best of human beings. Before rage seized me - though I neither own a gun nor an axe - I just happened to remember an incident narrated by earlier generations. It was about my great grandfather when he was put in a trying situation by a thief stealing from his farm. As my elders narrated the family folklore, my great grandfather might even have helped the miserable soul put the loot on his horse. It was only after he had bragged about his actions that the villagers down the road admonished him about the noble man he made victim of. Out of shame, the thief came back and returned the stolen goods. And, whenever the memory of my great grandfather comes to me, I am reminded about my own inadequacies.
Of all the new rose branches planted last fall, only one seems to have survived and another one was just on life support until this spring; the rest are dried out that could have added to the beauty of this spring. Initially it was certainly disappointing because I was diligent in my efforts. But then I viewed it from another angle. If one out of ten plants survived then there is hope for this gardener: at least there is a 10-15% chance of success, which is better than zero.
Those gardeners who have experienced paltry results initially might be able to relate to this experience.
Thinking again about great grandfather, the words of another Sufi poet Mian Muhammad Bakhsh – author of Saif-ul-Muluk - come to mind. He was also my great grandfather’s contemporary and lived his remarkable life in a village across the river Jhelum in Pakistan:
Maali da kam paani deyna, bhar bhar mashkaan pawey
Malik dam kam phal phul laana, laway ya na lawey
In other words:
The gardener must keep on toiling: water, weeding and all
The Creator might make it fruitful, if He wishes at all
Summer will follow spring soon and then come fall and winter. It is said that for everything there is a season, a time to sow and a time to reap. In spring, it is the time to plant, watering with zeal and weeding.
