The Pipal is dying. Every
strong dust-storm exacts its toll, taking away a branch, a formerly sturdy
bough, never to be replaced again. The Pipal is dying; of thirst. Standing tall
atop a creek-side mound, its verdant opulence was once visible from a mile
away. Ever since the river ran dry, its roots now struggle to drink from the
water beneath the earth. The sharp, soulless instruments of human machination
have cut down on its lofty stature. And for the better, because it would have dried
up altogether had it been allowed to keep its regal size. Though it still hosts
life in variegated form, its denizens are not as numerous as they used to be –
land around it is parched, and sustenance, in short supply. The Pipal is now a
broken shield against the excesses of summer. Where its shade was once impenetrable
for the pitiless summer sun, beams of hot, bright light now break through to
the ground. Those who seek refuge underneath it must now shift their positions
with the shifting time of day. Unconditional sanctuary, the Pipal does not
afford now to give. But still, it is a symbol of stubborn hope; the weathered mast
of an ancient galleon not yet sunk.
The old man is now a
memory, an echo across time. But he is not a memory that fades, or an echo that
dies away after reverberating a few times. His memory is a light that guides,
the echo of his words still ringing deep in the minds of men, his image
occupying a place reserved for majesty in their hearts. He remains the arbiter
of right and wrong, the touchstone for all strategy, a source of clarity in all
times of confusion. For many he remains that same rich voice that struck fear
in their hearts when thundering in anger, and inspired awe in them when speaking
softly. He remains the balancer of things, the reconciler of irreconcilably
inimical forces, the keeper of order in the midst of chaos. He lives on not as a
bent & broken old man, but as a tall prince, spine straight like an arrow,
walking with majestic dignity, his sons following at a respectful distance,
each step falling heavy on the spirits of his enemies, bringing joy to the
hearts of his friends. Even in death, his stature continues to dwarf friend &
foe alike, jealousy getting even more pronounced with the latter. For in
life, they found solace in reviling a person, while in death, he is a hero of
legend that none of their malicious words & deeds can harm.
Famed 13th
century Sufi poet, Amir Khusrau, when writing about love, spiritual and
temporal, presents an idea that mirrors the relationship between the old man
and the Pipal: a fusion of souls. Khusrau writes, “I have become you, and you
me; I am the body, you are the soul; No one can say hereafter, that I am
someone, and you, someone else.” It may be said, therefore, that if the Pipal
continues to live despite all odds, dutifully doing what it is expected to do,
it seeks its nourishment not from the increasingly stingy earth in which it is
planted, but from the immortal heart of a mortal man. The cool wind in its
leaves is an echo of the old man’s wisdom, its shade, an embodiment of the old
man’s essence itself.
Read the first post, here.
