Detached … non-attached … uncaring?

A dear friend and I recently exchanged messages about a Sufi parable.  A Sufi fakir, Junaid was very attached to his son and lost him suddenly in an accident.  Everyone thought he would be devastated.  So, when his wife and others wondered why he was not grieving and asked Junaid, he responded, “For a moment I was indeed shocked, but then I remembered that I had existed and was quite happy before the birth of my son. Now when the son is not present, I have become as I was before, so what is the reason for sorrow? In between, the son came and went. When I was not unhappy before his birth, why should I be unhappy now to be without a son? What is the difference? In between was only a dream that is now over.”

My friend appreciated that the Sufi fakir displayed an astounding degree of detachment, but wondered if that is a goal to strive for.  She believes all the loved ones we have lost in our lives had been a part of our lives and like Junaid’s son, were a gift from the Creator.  An integral part of our own story.  To be cherished when we had them and mourned on their passing.  She posits that is remembering not a way of giving thanks for all that they brought into our lives?  While appreciating that the Sufi fakir was not proposing forgetting loved ones, but behaving as though they were never there, comes close enough!   

I respect my friend’s intellect and have always valued our interaction.  Her insights have prompted me to revisit my beliefs and mores.  This blog reflects my internal deliberations. It does not answer her queries.

Two incidents have cultivated my thinking.

I was 37 years old when I had my first heart attack in 1990 and was flown to Delhi from Bahrain for medical procedures.  Semi-conscious under anaesthesia, I was surrounded by loved ones – my wife, mother and others who were holding my hands, patting and reassuring me just before I was to be wheeled into the Operation Theatre. 

“We are right here with you.”

“Everything will be fine, don’t worry.”

“We will be waiting for you.  We love you very much.”  Etc.

It was when the steel doors to the operating room shut behind me with a clang that I was startled out of my drugged stupor. I frantically looked for a familiar, loving visage, seeking to clasp a comforting hand.  Not one familiar face was there!  It was a revelation as I half sat up on the stretcher trolley, “Sabh kidhar gaye?  Koi nahin aayaa saath?”  [Where is everyone?  Has no one accompanied me?]  I went through a similar, serious medical situation again in 2015 which reinforced that while friends and family love you dearly, one travels alone.  The journey becomes easier unencumbered by baggage.

We landed in Canada in early 1996 and primarily because of financial constraints, could not travel back to India for 9 years.  My mother lived alone in Delhi and would often visit my brother in Bombay.  WhatsApp and internet based telephony was not available.  We would talk occasionally as long-distance calls were expensive.  I cannot recall my mother ever berating me for “abandoning” her, being uncaring or inattentive to her needs.  Much later, she confided that while most mothers sever the umbilical cord once; she willingly did it twice – unburdening and setting me free!  Her prescient act of non-attachment had prepared me and this helped when I had to deal with her sudden, brutal death.

A favourite poet and lyricist, Sahir Ludhianvi penned this profoundly philosophical song. I have deliberately used a video clip to highlight its almost dismissive, flamboyant and carefree characterization by the protagonist living under shadow of death on a battlefront, in the 1961 movie Hum Dono:

Mein zindagi ka saath nibhata chalaa gayaa	I (continue to) adapt to life as it moves along
Har fikr ko dhuen mein uddaataa chalaa gayaa	… blowing worries away in/with wisps of smoke
Barbaadiyon ka sog manana fazool tha	It was futile to bemoan losses
Barbaadiyon ka jashn manataa chalaa gayaa	(so) I chose to celebrate adversities
Jo mil gayaa ussi ko mukaddar samajh liya	Whatever came my way, I considered it my destiny
Jo kho gayaa mein ussko bhulaataa chalaa gayaa	And put out of my mind whatever (or whomever) was lost
Gham aur khushi mein fark na mehsoos ho jahan	The state where the feeling of happiness and sorrow is indistinguishable
Mein dil ko uss maqaam pe laataa chalaa gayaa	That is the status to which I continue to push my heart

Interestingly, in one of his letters (khutoot) to friends, the legendary poet Mirza Ghalib wrote,

“Ek murshad-o-kamil ne ye nasiihat di hai ki … piyo, khaao, mazey udaao magar yeh yaad rahe ke misari ki makhhi bano, shehad ki makhhi na bano.  

… Kissi ke marne ka woh gham kare jo aap na marey.” 

[“An accomplished Master had this to say … drink, eat, enjoy life but remember, be the fly that is attracted to the sugar crystals but don’t be the fly attracted to honey.

… Only the one who will not die should lament the dead.”]

Finally, I quote this line by a character from the TV Series Westworld, “You only live for as long as someone remembers you.”