V.J.Sam- writer




  • Chapter 68, from Like Two Rivers
    Babaji was sitting at a distance, cross-legged and erect on a smooth, flat rock that the sun had dried of the night dew and warmed. Around him, a couple of dark khaki, woollen shawls and thin, white cotton loincloths had been laid out to dry. He had washed them in the warm holy spring, Kheerganga. When Gabriel came closer, he could see that the sadhu was engaged in polishing the copper snake bracelet with ruby eyes. The strings of prayer beads, too, whose gnarly wooden beads were dark and damp, he had cleansed in the holy water. He had stretched them out, side by side, on top of the shawls. This was everything he owned.
  • Have we misunderstood what happiness is? Har vi misforstået hvad lykke er?
    Vi søger noget, som vi kan føje til vores liv. Noget der kan give os følelsen af at være i sikkerhed, at være værdifulde, elskede og fredfyldte, og alle har en, måske ubevidst, forestilling om hvordan det vil føles eller se ud når målet er nået eller ønsket er opfyldt. Når alt falder i hak – er på plads. Vi søger noget, som vi kan føje til vores liv. Noget der kan give os følelsen af at være i sikkerhed, at være værdifulde, elskede og fredfyldte, og alle har en, måske ubevidst, forestilling om hvordan det vil føles eller se ud når målet er nået eller ønsket er opfyldt. Når alt falder i hak – er på plads.
  • Seeking Sage
    “So… he is a character in your novel?” she asks as we walk up towards his tiny house. A familiar anticipatory silence unfurls itself softly along the mountain path. “He is the inspiration” I say quietly and think about the enormous and old Himalaya cedar that shades his slate roof. I often think that when one day he is no more, he will exist as this majestic tree and I will continue these visits, but now to rest by back against the sturdy and immortal trunk, inhale its fragrance and close my eyes. “For the more than thirty years I lost contact with him, he was by my side, but I only knew this when I found him again” I explain but am unable to really explain. Grazing cows, holding juicy green clover in their soft mouths, pause to look at us with curiosity in their large melancholic eyes. People smile at us from beautiful old wooden porches. I imagine I see a knowing light shine gently in their eyes; as if they know why we are here. We walk slowly, winding up through green terraced fields dotted with small well-maintained houses surrounded by flowering gardens. The picturesque idyll is almost unreal and feels like an effect of our anticipation or the presence of the person whose wisdom we are seeking. “You know the 13th century sufi poet Rumi?”, my friend asks rhetorically; she knows my love for him and continues, “His teacher, Shams, walked around the Islamic world like a vagabond for most of his life, looking for just one person, one soul who would be able to understand him. Only when he met Rumi did his life as a teacher begin, and Rumi, who was already a renowned authority of law, philosophy, and language, became again a student. They transformed each other and Rumi shed his learning to become the timeless poet we know. What a magic time to have lived in…” my friend sighs.