We Are Together

 

We Are Together

Nidhu Bhusan Das

I live with my mother. I have been with her for 69 years now. She is 29. Sounds puzzling! Right, it’s so. I believe you think I am crazy. Every sane person will do so. Am I, then, insane? Let me check.

I was born in 1953, on second October, Thursday, before dawn, at the village of Ghagra near Dhaka, now the capital of Bangladesh, two hours by train. Now my native village is gobbled up by the big name Ghorasal which has become famous as an industrial hub with the first industry, a jute mill occupying the major chunk of the village. The village is on Sitalakshya, a great river of water like the juice of pomegranate. The river is still there despite pollution and stagnation caused by the dumping of industrial waste.  Industry brought pollution and prosperity, changed demography; the serenity and love that formed the core of the village life were gone long ago when I was in my early teens. Now far away from my village though, I can tell you the story of my sweet birthplace in minute details.

My father and uncle were teachers in our   Ghorasal High School, a wonderful academy. In the ambience of it, everyone learns to go beyond the immediate, have a wide perspective and a vision that helps see the universe in a grain of sand or a vast ocean in a drop of water. My teachers were great and I have regular touch and interaction with those great souls. I still learn from them. Everything and everybody I saw in joy at birth and in my formative years are alive in their pristine glory. They include my college, university, the teachers and classmates- Oh My God! - A lot. The elderly villagers who were affectionate guardians of children are present with me in my wonderful and unique world, smiling, praying, exuberant and innocent. You may not see it; the opacity of mundane thought comes in the way.

Everyone in the glorious world, where I am, is clad in white – as white as the snow capped Himalayan peaks. A gentle breeze blows, flowers send out fragrance and beauty, streams and rivers flow gently. They abound with aquatic life. Trees, plants, grass and herbs cradle myriad birds and insects. A total harmony reigns here. Serenity and purity are the hallmarks of the place coveted by many, accessed by a few.

Mom calls; Will come back to you.

 Mom sits at the foot of a banyan. Elder uncle sits under the canopy of the great tree. Grandma, aunts, other uncles, teachers and village elders are all there. It is time for Morning Prayer, Sun Worship. They are in a state of innocence and are blessed. They wear silver locks. The men have flowing silver beards. A benign smile lights their faces.

“Love you, son,” mom says hugging me. “Take care, Covid pandemic plagues you. We are concerned.”

“Don’t worry, mom. Have been vaccinated,” I sought to assure her. She smiled, sadly, perhaps, at my credulity and dependence on the supposed preponderance of science over Nature. Mom fondled me as usual repeating again and over again, “I felt lonely, son in your absence all the repose hours.

“I missed you, terribly, mom.”

The prayer and worship over, we had breakfast of fruit juice.   Then we helped ourselves to Manna.

I see you are bewildered and cannot believe. Yes, it is common among humans. Very few can go beyond the commonality. You are happy in the virtual world of meetings, webinars, classroom teaching and tuition. How can you believe in a world of enlightenment accessible without electronic gadgets?

It is an absolute Truth, unlike the ephemeral physical world. It is the Mind, not the Eye that helps the attainment of the Absolute Truth. The Abstract is the reality, not the physical realization of the abstract, asserts my mom, while others present nod.

I know my physical surroundings; I can present that graphically and metaphorically. I understand I am not insane. I can transcend the immediate physical reality without the mediation of electronic gadgets. I can go back to the past and look forward to the days ahead. I can think in presentia and in absentia, as you and every other sane person can without any mediation. And here is the point to ponder, said Swapon, my friend who is a professor of philosophy and metaphysics.

My mother and others under the shade of the great banyan are not illusions generated by phantasmagoria, as you may tend to think. Not at all. They are the souls in the higher order of the infinitude. My mother left me 29 years ago and journeyed back to where she had come from 54 years earlier. Other souls are there in the same way. They allow me and I have the desire to be in touch with them, to be in the benign presence of the great souls forever. I am 69 now, my friend avers.

He remembers the night his mother died in the M.J.N. Hospital, Cooch-Behar.She looked at his face, smiled, took his hands into hers and slowly closed her eyes, as tears rolled down. An angelic glow emanated from her face and melted into the Infinite. He heard a voice : “ Son, we shall meet  under the banyan I told you about many a night  to put you to sleep.”