A Return Gift From The Birthday Baby

A Return Gift From A Birthday Baby!

Children’s birthday parties in Chennai follow a beautiful tradition. The child’s friends, neighbours and relatives carry gifts for the birthday child.

After cutting the cake and after a proper feast or a high tea and after some games when the friends are about to leave, the child gives them each a return gift.

I love that tradition because it ensures that every child who is part of the celebration goes home with a gift in hand.

There are some ground rules for the return gift. It has to be the same for every child. You can’t discriminate in favour of those who brought in expensive gifts for the child.

No, that is in very bad taste. And it need not be expensive. It could be as simple as a plastic whistle, a tennis ball or gift-wrapped candies.

And to honour my dear GFs who gave me precious gifts, I mean kind wishes and blessings coming from the depths of their hearts, I am giving a return gift, a gift that a mofussil accountant like me can afford, a gift as simple and as mundane as the plastic whistle or a tennis ball, the same gift for all the loving hearts, a poem, once again.

The only deviation I am making from the tradition is that instead of giving the return gift at the end of the party, I am giving it a day later. This deviation is for a valid reason.

A few persons to whom I showed this poem insisted that I should not post it on my birthday. ‘Sridhar, the poem is on death. I am not saying whether it is good or bad. But should you publish it on your birthday?’

I bowed down to thelr love and am posting the poem now.

Please remember, however, that this poem was not inspired by depression. Nor is it a manifestation of pessimism; it can never even be remotely described as a suicide note of a defeated person. It is the expression of the fullest happiness of a person who has lived a full life, a life of joys and sorrows, of pleasures and pains, of blessings and betrayals, of frustration and of fulfillment.

People generally avoid talking about death unless it is absolutely necessary to do so. To avoid the one thing that is most certain to happen, could either be traced to our fear, in-built hypocrisy or a mere psychological defence mechanism. Our ancient scriptures did not want us to do that.

In the Brahminical tradition after the sacred thread ceremony the 10 year old child stands before the setting sun every evening and prays to Death.

Those of you who have sandhyavandhanam books handy can refer to the Yama Vandhanam portion which starts with “Yamaya, Dharmaraajaya….

The child learns to be friends with death and this friendship will give a special vigour and vitality to the life of the child. My posting this poem on this day has a similar purpose.

One of the world’s greatest insights into religion and philosophy, Kathopanishad, is nothing but a dialogue with death.

What is death, Tagore asked, but the short gap when God, our mother, who is breast-feeding us, shifts us from her right breast to her left. Being ignorant children as we are, we shiver at the prospect of being away from our mother’s breast even if it is for a very short while.

Now and only now, you are ready to read the poem. Go ahead. Enjoy the gift and tell me how you liked it.

 

God, Thy Angel Has Come!

A Poem By Varalotti Rengasamy​

My weary eyes spy the unguarded door!
God, Thy Angel has come to do her chore!

I ask her in a trembling voice, “Is it not a journey long?
She smiles and says, “You’ve got it all wrong

“It’s not a journey but the journey’s end.
Nor is it labour; but the final rest from all your labours.”

“I’ve done my duty while it was yet day
It’s night and I’m ready to go your way
But what bothers me is the pain!”

“Pain and pleasure, loss and gain
Will come to you never again

“What is there to feel the pain
How can you ever feel the pleasure?
When your body and your nerves
When your brain and your mind
And your ego are left behind!”

“Can I ever see my wife or my child?
Or my parents who gave me life
Or my teachers who helped me live?
Will I ever meet my friends?
All those people whom I loved
My brothers and sisters, of this world?”

“No you won’t, in their present form
But they, when their time doth come
Will join us up over there!
You will always feel their love
As they always feel yours,
Till the end of Time and further more!
For time has a beginning and an end
But Love was there before time
And will be there after it too.
Time is loveless, you always think
Love is timeless, is the truth”

“When all of us gather there
You and I and all those souls
The young and the old, the sick and the healthy
The dead and the living
The God and the Angels
The Devil and the demons
Will there be room enough
Is that place large enough?”

“Where we go, it’s not a place
Nor is there the idea of ‘space’
Time and space are mental props
To make you grasp this mortal world
The props are only for the forms
Not for the substance; not for the One!
Not for God and not for Love”

I turn towards my sleeping wife
‘You are much more than my life’
I think of her and my child
In my heart is a longing mild
“This is my life, this is my home
How can I ever let them go?”


“This is not your real home
Just a carriage of a train
And these are but your travel-mates

The train will stop here for a while
Get down fast, we need to go.
We are now homeward bound!

They will get down somewhere else
When they hear the ringing bells! ”


“Will you give me just a minute
To talk to my people and tell my love?”

“I sure will, but they won’t hear
Yet their hearts will hear you speak!
They will also know your love
And having known, will let you go!”

“Oh, my relatives, far and near
And my friends, so very dear

“Though I loved you to the core
I did want to love you more
My time has come;bid me adieu
Give me leave and pray for me.”

The stars are shining in the night
As we pass them in our flight
I leave a mark in the Northern Star
Which I am sure, you’ll see
When you do, think of me!
- Varalotti Rengasamy