Morning, was on the wooden bench at Murari Yadav Dairy Farm, waiting for tea boiling on the Primus stove.'Do minute ji,' said Muari adding to the wait. Two squirrels came up to the wooden bench for chana dals spread on the cement floor; watched as they sat on their hind legs, held the dal in their forelegs and got to nibbling. Lost in a Zen moment, stirred out by a 'chai, ji', got to sipping the chai with a bidi smoke kindly offered by Murari; me and Murari were at our tea cups, the squirrels at dals; 'aathe, jaathe rahte hain', Murari said of the squirrels. Beached in peace on the wooden bench. Patil walked up, unloaded fresh copies of Mint, The Indian Express and Mathrubhoomi. Saturday Mint can be interesting and this morning it was with eyes dropping on an essay: The death of a gravedigger: The passing away of a graveyard caretaker marks the end of an era in this city of tombs; by Mayank Austen Soofi. A contemplation on death it is and when Mayank Austen Soofi writes, me reads; a new writing generation of Mint. Soofi me guess is a Sufi with all that Sufism brings to humans; like Bhakti poets offers to humans; a quality of quiet. 'He was always seen in a green kurta, this lean man with deep-set eyes and a long beard. Allah Hu was a gravedigger at the Batla House Qabristan in south Delhi. Over the last 40 years, he had dug or supervised the final resting place for thousands in this sprawling Muslim cemetry....' Hung around the Soofi strand of thought and desired being buried at Batla House Qabristan after the final whistle. It has been a wish with me having been at many crematoriums. When ago, poetess Kamla Das said bye, she was buried under a flowering, gul mohur tree; in the film Dr. Zhivago, there are early shots and sounds of earth being dropped on a grave at a Christian burial; me favours a burial as the body is at least feed for worms. Reading Soofi, the Biblical lines rumbled: To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and pluck that which is planted. Wandering the Qabristan, Soofi would surely have thought of death, its grammar and verse. Allah Hu planted neem trees, said prayers and dug the resting places for Muslims. That's what Allah Hu did all his life till his turn under at the Qabristan on April 25 after a heart attack. Some lines from Tukaram:Says Tuka, a Dlip Chitre translation: 'We go back to our native place./ Good-bye, God bless you./ This was our only meeting./ We wont be born again.....' Soofi does not reveal the gravedigger who buried Allah Hu. Brings me to Tuka lines Am a regular reader of Soofi pieces and today's could be somewhere at the top. The piece goes into my collection.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Allah Hu
Morning, was on the wooden bench at Murari Yadav Dairy Farm, waiting for tea boiling on the Primus stove.'Do minute ji,' said Muari adding to the wait. Two squirrels came up to the wooden bench for chana dals spread on the cement floor; watched as they sat on their hind legs, held the dal in their forelegs and got to nibbling. Lost in a Zen moment, stirred out by a 'chai, ji', got to sipping the chai with a bidi smoke kindly offered by Murari; me and Murari were at our tea cups, the squirrels at dals; 'aathe, jaathe rahte hain', Murari said of the squirrels. Beached in peace on the wooden bench. Patil walked up, unloaded fresh copies of Mint, The Indian Express and Mathrubhoomi. Saturday Mint can be interesting and this morning it was with eyes dropping on an essay: The death of a gravedigger: The passing away of a graveyard caretaker marks the end of an era in this city of tombs; by Mayank Austen Soofi. A contemplation on death it is and when Mayank Austen Soofi writes, me reads; a new writing generation of Mint. Soofi me guess is a Sufi with all that Sufism brings to humans; like Bhakti poets offers to humans; a quality of quiet. 'He was always seen in a green kurta, this lean man with deep-set eyes and a long beard. Allah Hu was a gravedigger at the Batla House Qabristan in south Delhi. Over the last 40 years, he had dug or supervised the final resting place for thousands in this sprawling Muslim cemetry....' Hung around the Soofi strand of thought and desired being buried at Batla House Qabristan after the final whistle. It has been a wish with me having been at many crematoriums. When ago, poetess Kamla Das said bye, she was buried under a flowering, gul mohur tree; in the film Dr. Zhivago, there are early shots and sounds of earth being dropped on a grave at a Christian burial; me favours a burial as the body is at least feed for worms. Reading Soofi, the Biblical lines rumbled: To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and pluck that which is planted. Wandering the Qabristan, Soofi would surely have thought of death, its grammar and verse. Allah Hu planted neem trees, said prayers and dug the resting places for Muslims. That's what Allah Hu did all his life till his turn under at the Qabristan on April 25 after a heart attack. Some lines from Tukaram:Says Tuka, a Dlip Chitre translation: 'We go back to our native place./ Good-bye, God bless you./ This was our only meeting./ We wont be born again.....' Soofi does not reveal the gravedigger who buried Allah Hu. Brings me to Tuka lines Am a regular reader of Soofi pieces and today's could be somewhere at the top. The piece goes into my collection.
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