Today, I’m recollecting an incident from my childhood. I was in kindergarten, must have been four years old – perhaps one of my earliest memories that is still vivid to me, even today. And, I share that with you…
I would go on many evenings to the bazaar with my father. He would take me along for grocery shopping. Not that I was of any help, in fact, I must have impeded his process of buying and picking grocery, but nevertheless he still took me along with him on most occasions.
On one such visit, I was walking through an old part of the town, and there was a warehouse for the grains. Trucks were lined up and there were a few men who would climb up the truck on an inclined plank attached to the truck’s back, and then come back down with a gunny bag full of rice on their backs. The bags must be half a quintal in weight, I suppose. I was mesmerised by the sight of it. I distinctly remember watching them for a few minutes as my father was buying oil and chatting with the owner of the shop. I asked my father, “Baba, what is that man doing climbing up and down the back of the truck”. He replied, “He’s an Ozewala (a porter), he carries the bags of rice and other grains and lentils that have come from the farm into the storehouse.” The term ‘Ozewala’ stuck with me.
On one of the following Saturday afternoon – Saturday because my parents were home that day, not sure if actually it was one – but that afternoon I decided to draw and paint. I drew a few squiggly lines and started to paint. I just took one colour – orange. And made a blob. The blob, in my head at least, looked like the Ozewala climbing down a slanting plane with a gunny bag on his back. I clearly remember even today that I drew on a foolscap paper of a dot matrix printer. The paper warped as the blob got bigger, and the blob looked to me as the side profile of this porter I had seen a few evenings ago.
I drew a few squiggly lines and started to paint. I just took one colour – orange. And made a blob. The blob, in my head at least, looked like the Ozewala climbing down a slanting plane with a gunny bag on his back.
My mother from the back called me, with a slightly louder tone than her usual, and said, “come have the milk, and I’m not going to repeat again”. I asked her, “what do you mean by repeat again?”, and she told me that she had been calling me, and each time I would say “yes, coming…” and not show up. I was surprised because I had not said that. It was probably that I was so engrossed into the painting that my instinctive response was there without me realising. I was lost with my Ozewala.
Most children, like in my story, would not have even heard the term “meditation” and yet they’re being in one. And, we all grow up, and then we try and define it and then we try to achieve it. Perhaps, the state of meditativeness cannot be achieved by trying, it simply and most certainly can be achieved by being. It’s that simple!
Perhaps, the state of meditativeness cannot be achieved by trying, it simply and most certainly can be achieved by being.
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