Friday Dec 25, 2009
Tarun Vijay
Joseph was his name. We got to know that after two days when a diary was found in his wooden cycle box we had to open to find his belongings. He lay unconscious but stable in Doon Hospital's general ward, on a drip. We saw him first lying in a lane, almost next to my home in Dehradun and were afraid to touch him. He looked almost a dead man, hardly breathing. Flies were clustering on his nostril which perhaps made him to move his hand a little, that too with great effort. I came rushing to Amma and told her that someone was lying there unconscious and that the people in the bazaar were either watching him or carrying on with their usual business. She asked us to take him to the hospital immediately and we did with the help of my school friends. We were already involved in local social activism and the help was not too difficult to organize. We had to wash him and change his clothes as he was having a severe diarrhea and was stinking as his pants were all soaked. Doctors knew us for our Sunday services to the destitute in the general ward and they readily admitted the poor man. He was too frail, merely bones hanging on a skeleton. He was obviously riding a bicycle and had a removable wooden box fixed with the rear stand of the cycle, painted with hand brush in blue with a small tinplate hanging at the front handle announcing "All India cycle tour for world peace". His cycle was kept in my house and the man was taken to the hospital in a three-wheeler autorickshaw.
We got naturally interested in him, as roamers we were, more interested in out-of-school activities than in studies. And prayed fervently for his recovery. He has to live and continue his yatra. Second day, while trying to locate his address to inform his relatives, we opened his box and an old, worn-out diary with a blue plastic cover gave us his name: Joseph. He had a number of pages scribbled in his handwriting we supposed, but there was nothing that would give us any idea about his family or address. The various strange types of balls, silken scarves, wooden eggs, were also found and through a paper sheet we came to know "oh my god, he was a magician!"
A small printed card, stapled in a transparent plastic sheet announced – International Magician Joseph from Panjim, Goa. I could still feel the thrill and the curiosity making waves in my heart. We couldn't sleep that night. We all wanted to see him speaking to us and of course teaching us some magic. It would be great fun. He had to live for us.
It was on the morning of the third day morning when he opened his eyes. His cheekbones were almost visible with some skin unwillingly enveloping it. He eyes were dreary and he gave a blank look and shut his eyes immediately. "He is too weak. Will take another three-four days to regain some strength," Dr Nautiyal assured us. Thanks, we said. The doctor and God had helped us. Already winter vacations were beginning from the next day, that was December 20 and in three more days we shall be able to learn some magic; we couldn't have waited long.
He had a family, as he would tell us while sipping tomato soup Amma had prepared. But destiny had been cruel to him. He had lost his young son, and his wife too had died a year later. He was a professional magician and that was the source of his livelihood. Dejected and finding nothing that would hold him back in a one-room house, he began his shows to entertain children and make them giggle with joy with his magical tricks. Seeing children laugh and clap with cries of surprises made him yearn to live and he saw the face of his son in every child. He wept. Tears flowed from his eyes, when he described his story to us. He looked too noble, like a saint, a father figure. We were moved but found no words to console him except to keep on saying, "Koi baat nahin, sab theek ho jayega (Don't worry everything will be all right)."
We all fell in love with him. He had a strange charm and warmth that I can still feel. When he came home it was a celebration. We had a special Christmas tree made for him, it was looking really beautiful, our first one indeed. Had laddoos and mithai like we did on Diwali and he would go on talking and talking till we fell hungry or asleep. His magic tricks were charming, simple and enjoyable. We tried our hands, changing scarves, hiding eggs in sleeves, playing card ricks, but the magic remained with him and we had just the fun. The Christmas was just there and we all felt excited going to a local church with him. Will she let us in? I asked? And he heartily laughed, "Why not, it's for you, my dear son." But ask your Amma, if I convert you in the church, will she allow us to enter the house? I asked what that meant. With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "I will ask Jesus, you are my second son, and that's it. Converting to be my son, dear?" I did not know how to reply but said, "OK, let's go." We, four of us — he, I and two of my friends — went to a local church near Doon Hospital. It a small Church we might have seen a hundred times but never felt that we should also visit it and see what was inside. Inside, at the altar was an old image of Jesus and benches in the hall, as we had seen in some movies. We prayed with folded hands, eyes shut and I felt I am in a temple before Rama's image. He introduced me to the pastor and he was too nice and gentle; he spoke some sweet words and we returned.
So you are converted? he said on our way back. Was that all? Yes, now you are like my son, Vijay, I asked Jesus and he approved. He was serious. I felt good, and replied: "Thanks, Uncle. I am really happy today." It was like visiting a temple. Yes, he said, when I am in your home I feel like a Hindu who visits Mangesh Dev, so I am converted too. And he hugged me tightly.
My mother was amused when she heard about it and said: "If it makes him happy, nothing wrong. All gods lead to one path. He is an elder to us all. That was what Vivekananda had said, I replied. I was a regular visitor to the local Ramakrishna Ashram and our family had been very close to Swami Ranganathanandaji, who was in Secundrabad those days and would stay with my brother whenever he went on a US tour. He had come to Dehradun especially for us to address a students' convention. He had told us that Vivekananda began celebrating Christmas — officially in all Ramakrishna Missions, a tradition being observed till today. My father and RSS workers had a smile listening to all this later. They were all deeply impressed with the simplicity and affectionate behavior of Joseph and helped him organize some shows, collected a little money before he left for Saharanpur on way to Ambala, Kashmir being his final destination.
He kept us posted about his new experiences, sweet and sour, and a year later, he wrote a beautiful letter describing his entire journey, from his home in Panaji. Soon I moved to Mumbai, in search of a job and lost touch with him. It was only a couple of years later that I came to know from my friends in Goa that one fine morning he was found in deep sleep, never to wake up again.
Every Christmas, we remember him with deep love, adore Jesus that he had Joseph in his heart and of course with a regret too for having lost touch with him in his last days. But it also reminds us about the futility and meaninglessness of boundaries we create around us.
We got naturally interested in him, as roamers we were, more interested in out-of-school activities than in studies. And prayed fervently for his recovery. He has to live and continue his yatra. Second day, while trying to locate his address to inform his relatives, we opened his box and an old, worn-out diary with a blue plastic cover gave us his name: Joseph. He had a number of pages scribbled in his handwriting we supposed, but there was nothing that would give us any idea about his family or address. The various strange types of balls, silken scarves, wooden eggs, were also found and through a paper sheet we came to know "oh my god, he was a magician!"
A small printed card, stapled in a transparent plastic sheet announced – International Magician Joseph from Panjim, Goa. I could still feel the thrill and the curiosity making waves in my heart. We couldn't sleep that night. We all wanted to see him speaking to us and of course teaching us some magic. It would be great fun. He had to live for us.
It was on the morning of the third day morning when he opened his eyes. His cheekbones were almost visible with some skin unwillingly enveloping it. He eyes were dreary and he gave a blank look and shut his eyes immediately. "He is too weak. Will take another three-four days to regain some strength," Dr Nautiyal assured us. Thanks, we said. The doctor and God had helped us. Already winter vacations were beginning from the next day, that was December 20 and in three more days we shall be able to learn some magic; we couldn't have waited long.
He had a family, as he would tell us while sipping tomato soup Amma had prepared. But destiny had been cruel to him. He had lost his young son, and his wife too had died a year later. He was a professional magician and that was the source of his livelihood. Dejected and finding nothing that would hold him back in a one-room house, he began his shows to entertain children and make them giggle with joy with his magical tricks. Seeing children laugh and clap with cries of surprises made him yearn to live and he saw the face of his son in every child. He wept. Tears flowed from his eyes, when he described his story to us. He looked too noble, like a saint, a father figure. We were moved but found no words to console him except to keep on saying, "Koi baat nahin, sab theek ho jayega (Don't worry everything will be all right)."
We all fell in love with him. He had a strange charm and warmth that I can still feel. When he came home it was a celebration. We had a special Christmas tree made for him, it was looking really beautiful, our first one indeed. Had laddoos and mithai like we did on Diwali and he would go on talking and talking till we fell hungry or asleep. His magic tricks were charming, simple and enjoyable. We tried our hands, changing scarves, hiding eggs in sleeves, playing card ricks, but the magic remained with him and we had just the fun. The Christmas was just there and we all felt excited going to a local church with him. Will she let us in? I asked? And he heartily laughed, "Why not, it's for you, my dear son." But ask your Amma, if I convert you in the church, will she allow us to enter the house? I asked what that meant. With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "I will ask Jesus, you are my second son, and that's it. Converting to be my son, dear?" I did not know how to reply but said, "OK, let's go." We, four of us — he, I and two of my friends — went to a local church near Doon Hospital. It a small Church we might have seen a hundred times but never felt that we should also visit it and see what was inside. Inside, at the altar was an old image of Jesus and benches in the hall, as we had seen in some movies. We prayed with folded hands, eyes shut and I felt I am in a temple before Rama's image. He introduced me to the pastor and he was too nice and gentle; he spoke some sweet words and we returned.
So you are converted? he said on our way back. Was that all? Yes, now you are like my son, Vijay, I asked Jesus and he approved. He was serious. I felt good, and replied: "Thanks, Uncle. I am really happy today." It was like visiting a temple. Yes, he said, when I am in your home I feel like a Hindu who visits Mangesh Dev, so I am converted too. And he hugged me tightly.
My mother was amused when she heard about it and said: "If it makes him happy, nothing wrong. All gods lead to one path. He is an elder to us all. That was what Vivekananda had said, I replied. I was a regular visitor to the local Ramakrishna Ashram and our family had been very close to Swami Ranganathanandaji, who was in Secundrabad those days and would stay with my brother whenever he went on a US tour. He had come to Dehradun especially for us to address a students' convention. He had told us that Vivekananda began celebrating Christmas — officially in all Ramakrishna Missions, a tradition being observed till today. My father and RSS workers had a smile listening to all this later. They were all deeply impressed with the simplicity and affectionate behavior of Joseph and helped him organize some shows, collected a little money before he left for Saharanpur on way to Ambala, Kashmir being his final destination.
He kept us posted about his new experiences, sweet and sour, and a year later, he wrote a beautiful letter describing his entire journey, from his home in Panaji. Soon I moved to Mumbai, in search of a job and lost touch with him. It was only a couple of years later that I came to know from my friends in Goa that one fine morning he was found in deep sleep, never to wake up again.
Every Christmas, we remember him with deep love, adore Jesus that he had Joseph in his heart and of course with a regret too for having lost touch with him in his last days. But it also reminds us about the futility and meaninglessness of boundaries we create around us.
2 comments:
Yes, Vivekananda accepted Christ completely but rejected the Church and their proselytizeing ways.
Wow!! Vijay, I read it late after being recommended by my friend. The true christian spirit is captured in your article. This article is a good christmas and new year present. Thank you.
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