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Source : The Hindu
Krishna captures the wide range of human aspirations synoptically in the seventh chapter when He tells Arjuna about how people generally strive to achieve and attain what they think is close to their hearts. All these people have faith in God and seek His help to fulfil their aims. Some seek relief from distress, some seek wealth and worldly possessions and some wish to master empirical knowledge and so on.
But it is very rare that one seeks God for His sake and shelves aside all other desires, says Krishna. A jivatma would do well to fix his goal in life, pointed out Swami Mitrananda in a lecture.
No matter how one has spent his life, if at some point he realises that his goal is to seek God, and henceforth lives his life fixed on this goal, it would make him strong for the rest of his life. Even death, which is often dreaded and feared, becomes acceptable as a matter of fact occurrence; for the most intense thoughts sustained while living will surge at the time of death.
Worldly goals immerse us in a temporary delight and joy. At times, one even feels sad missing out on any of these.
But eventually, one realises that even after successful accomplishment, one is still restless and continues to want something which is difficult to identify. Sincere search for one’s real yearning, will lead one to seek God.
When God becomes the priority in one’s life and entire being, the whole perspective changes; one is filled with a sense of relief because worldly goals are no longer desirable. There is no need to seek anything from God except living life to attain God. Only the experience of meeting the divine is uppermost.
One now begins to feel restless and sad, not for missing worldly enjoyments, but because of missing God. This is the hallmark of a mumukshu.
“All perspectives are partially true but wholly wrong. Only Kevlin (liberated being) is wholly true “
ELEPHANT AND THE BLIND MEN
Once upon a time, there lived six blind men in a village. One day the villagers told them, “Hey, there is an elephant in the village today.”
They had no idea what an elephant is. They decided, “Even though we would not be able to see it, let us go and feel it anyway.” All of them went where the elephant was. Everyone of them touched the elephant.
“Hey, the elephant is a pillar,” said the first man who touched his leg.
“Oh, no! it is like a rope,” said the second man who touched the tail.
“Oh, no! it is like a thick branch of a tree,” said the third man who touched the trunk of the elephant.
“It is like a big hand fan” said the fourth man who touched the ear of the elephant.
“It is like a huge wall,” said the fifth man who touched the belly of the elephant.
“It is like a solid pipe,” Said the sixth man who touched the tusk of the elephant.
They began to argue about the elephant and everyone of them insisted that he was right. It looked like they were getting agitated. A wise man was passing by and he saw this. He stopped and asked them, “What is the matter?” They said, “We cannot agree to what the elephant is like.” Each one of them told what he thought the elephant was like. The wise man calmly explained to them, “All of you are right. The reason every one of you is telling it differently because each one of you touched the different part of the elephant. So, actually the elephant has all those features what you all said.”
“Oh!” everyone said. There was no more fight. They felt happy that they were all right.
The moral of the story is that there may be some truth to what someone says. Sometimes we can see that truth and sometimes not because they may have different perspective which we may not agree too. So, rather than arguing like the blind men, we should say, “Maybe you have your reasons.” This way we don’t get in arguments. In Jainism, it is explained that truth can be stated in seven different ways. So, you can see how broad our religion is. It teaches us to be tolerant towards others for their viewpoints. This allows us to live in harmony with the people of different thinking. This is known as the Syadvada, Anekantvad, or the theory of Manifold Predictions.
Source : https://www.timesofisrael.com/lifting-away-the-weight-of-3-years-why-we-israelis-go-to-india-after-the-army/
It is almost the norm for soldiers, on leaving the IDF, to fly to India to ‘decompress.’ Here, a tank commander who served in the 2014 Gaza war explains the appeal, and details the process of regaining control over his life after ‘3 years of alarms each morning, of always having an assignment, of constant uncertainty as to when I’d be home next’
I wake up to the sound of laughing children, stare out the window at the blanket of clouds covering the valley below, and think of nothing. Finally, nothing.
Like many of those traveling to India, I have just finished my three-year army service. During my time as a soldier I served as a tank commander in various parts of the country. Toward the end of my service, in the summer of 2014, I participated in Operation Protective Edge (against Hamas in Gaza). After being released, when asked about my service, I’d end up summarizing an ocean of images, some of them difficult, with a single, inadequate sentence, “It was good.”
There is a weight that comes with living in this country, a weight that many of us carry, a lost friend or family member, or simply the everyday stress of not living in the safest of places. One of the reasons I traveled to India was to discover what weight I might be carrying with me, and hopefully rid myself of it. Plus, I heard the food was amazing.
When I first arrived in India, I was a sponge. I stood in the middle of a busy market in Old Delhi, took a deep breath, and soaked it all in: the smells, the faces, the colors, the sounds, all so new and strange and intense. An entire road filled with mountains of books. An alleyway too spicy to walk through. A family of six on a single motorbike. A bony old man, with legs of an ox, pulling a massive vegetable-filled cart. A woman with gray tired eyes sitting with her children in the middle of a market.
It was during my first week of taking it all in that I met Chacha, Delhi’s most popular chai shop/laundry service owner. He had a contagious, toothless smile and kind brown eyes, his curiosity resembling that of a child and his wisdom that of a guru. Walking with Chacha through the markets was like accompanying the pope through the Vatican. Everyone knew Chacha, and he knew everyone. Chacha was proof that money has little to do with happiness, seeing as he was probably the happiest man I’d ever met and his salary was a tenth of what I made as a soldier. On my last day in Delhi, Chacha told me the story of how he once used masala spices instead of laundry detergent. I laughed, and he suddenly gripped my shoulder and said, ”I see pain in you, my friend, you laugh with sadness. The next time I see you, I want you happy, yeah?” I nodded my head. “Okay, Chacha.”
On my way to the northern town of Rishikesh, my bus was delayed by a train that had broken down in the middle of the intersection. Instead of arguing with the driver, or getting upset, the passengers made their way off the bus, sat on the side of the road, prepared chai, and waited. It took hours, and what could have been a bitter day turned into something sweet. As the sun began to set, families, friends, and strangers alike sat, eating, talking, and most importantly, head-nodding. I remember thinking how people might react to such a thing back home, how much we dread the thought of wasting time. Yet somehow in a place where time is given such little value, it becomes so special. We reached Rishikesh by early morning, the birds and the street dogs beginning to rise, and I felt lighter somehow, even though I’d just eaten my entire body weight in rice and curry.
Weeks later, wandering along a river, I came across a group of boys skipping rocks. I joined them for a while, and when it came time to leave I handed each a small bar of chocolate. As the youngest of the boys opened the wrapper I remembered how my father used to bring us chocolate from his trips abroad, how so much happiness was found in the smallest of gifts. The boy took the first bite. His eyes lit up, and he ran off to join the others. Midway through his run he stopped, turned to me, and shouted, “Dhanyavaad” (thank you), then continued running.
And so it went, every location a new face, a new story. I sat on a street corner with Rajaswa the shoe cobbler as he sang songs his mother had taught him. I went to a Hindu movie theater and witnessed two hundred locals scream and cheer as a father and daughter reunited in the film. I became immune to hot food and hot weather. And I rediscovered a thirst for life I’d been missing for some time.
I’d had three years of alarms each morning, of always having an assignment, of constant uncertainty as to when I’d be home next. Three years of my days not really belonging to me. Now that they did, once again, I was going to fill them with flute lessons, mantra-humming monks, and as much India as possible.
Angita, Raju, and their two kids, Akansu and Likitha, lived in a small mountain village located a few kilometers north of the Himalayas. I spent a week living in a small guestroom Raju had built. Immediately, my heart was touched by this young family, by the way they all slept in the same bed, wrapped in each other’s dreams. The way Angita and Raju spoke each evening with hushed voices and listening faces. The way Angita stared at the sky as she collected large stones and logs. The dark red ties and stained white shirts Akansu and Likitha wore to school. The worn out flipflops Raju walked in as he went to help his neighbor build an extension for his home.
The first time I played cricket with Akansu, the boys laughed mockingly as I came up to bat. They were unaware, of course, that I’d been on the Israeli national baseball team. My first swing, and all laughter ceased. The kids fell silent and stared in disbelief as a small orange tennis ball soared through the air like an eagle, disappearing into the sun. That night over dinner, Akansu described my hit to the family with giant, enthusiastic motions. “Baseball!” he kept shouting. “He plays baseball.”
The next few days I spent mostly on my own, hiking and exploring the area. During one of my hikes I had stopped to eat on a grassy mountaintop when it began to drizzle, then rain, and finally pour. And suddenly it hit me, all of it. The weight I’d been gathering and carrying, that ocean of images, the pain in my laughter came flooding out and lifted, and I could see everything clearly: a giant soldier, who was really just a boy in a uniform, sitting beside me with tears in his eyes; a city in flames; the worried faces of summer camp children waiting in a bomb shelter; four men blessing the Sabbath in a small packed tank; a mother’s shaking voice on the phone. I saw, and accepted it, as part of who I was. And the rain gently washed away my burning.
The next morning I woke to the sound of laughing children. I stared out the window at the valley below, and thought of nothing. Finally, nothing.
A few days before leaving India I went back to visit Chacha. It had been months since I’d seen him last, and it felt like years. Chacha was sitting at the exact same spot where I’d left him, chewing red tobacco, making someone laugh. When he saw me he nodded his head and smiled, “You came back, my friend.”
“I have,” I replied.
“And what a wonderful smile you’ve brought with you.”
When I finally came home resembling Tom Hanks from “Castaway,” a giant family hug awaited. Once again I was asked what it was all like, only this time an ocean of images, of warmth, friendship, beauty, kindness, laughter, and love flooded my mind.
I smiled like Chacha, nodded my head, and said, “It was good.”