I walked into the village. It was a small one in rural India that consisted of maybe a dozen blocks. I suspected there were a few hundred people living here. Although, to be honest, I couldn't really tell where one village ended and another began. There seemed something of a no man's land between villages that belong to, well, I'm not sure. The borders were invisible.
I would suggest to someone that they lived in one village but they would look at me, do the famous Indian head bob, and tell me no, they lived in the other village.
Life in the villages had a rhythm, or so it seemed to me. As I travelled along the tar road between villages, I could count on certain people being in certain places. The transient images were such things as the goat herder moving her charges along. Even the cows had a pattern. I would anticipate meeting them at certain spots depending upon the time of day.
In the village, the lady who sold me gas in a water bottled attended her duties, while the chai merchant across the street waited for my arrival. I no longer placed an order, he just made it. He would bring me the chai along with raw sugar called jaggery.
Elsewhere would be the lady who sold fish, although I never did learn where the fish came from as she seemed to lack any form of transport and we were a few kilometres from the ocean. No matter, as each day she was there with a small collection of fresh fish.
As part of the daily landscape were the dogs, mostly strays. Many suffered meagre existences and were infected with mange, which is a parasitic skin disorder. It is highly treatable but often is not as the dogs really belong to nobody in many cases. During one of my trips to India, a veterinarian was staying at the guest house. He quietly treated a few dogs but there are so many.
The dogs were mostly friendly. There were several that would join me on my morning walks for specific parts of the journey. One would reach the end of his territory and another would take up the pace.
There are very few cats, although I did make friends with one who would share a piece of pizza with me.
To be in India seems to demand that you reflect on big ideas - the meaning of life, the role of spirit, your place in the universe - those kinds of questions. I think it must be a requirement of the visa needed to enter the country. Or so it seems.
So I was in that mindset when I was forced to look at fragility and compassion. On this day, I was in the chai shop when a dog was run over. There was no hope really as there was no veterinary care to be had. As the dog scampered away the owner of the chai stall got a bucket and washed away the blood. I looked across the street where the dog had gone to see one of the disabled ladies who hung around the street. There, I saw the dog collapsed beside her. She was gently stroking the dying dog. He would die there.
The pace of the village did not change. Only that truly gentle exchange between the lady and the dog but it was a one act play mostly unobserved. It was the women comforting an old friend in the solitude of her own private moment on the side of the road. I wondered who would show her that compassion. Indeed, who can any of us count on? Have you asked?
This story came back to me when I was listening to a podcast where Eli Wiesel was being interviewed. He was speaking of forgiveness. I heard him indicate that forgiveness belongs to the aggrieved. They must decide to offer it. So it is with compassion. Both compassion and forgiveness belong to the giver. They are gifts to be given.
I would suggest to someone that they lived in one village but they would look at me, do the famous Indian head bob, and tell me no, they lived in the other village.
Life in the villages had a rhythm, or so it seemed to me. As I travelled along the tar road between villages, I could count on certain people being in certain places. The transient images were such things as the goat herder moving her charges along. Even the cows had a pattern. I would anticipate meeting them at certain spots depending upon the time of day.
In the village, the lady who sold me gas in a water bottled attended her duties, while the chai merchant across the street waited for my arrival. I no longer placed an order, he just made it. He would bring me the chai along with raw sugar called jaggery.
Elsewhere would be the lady who sold fish, although I never did learn where the fish came from as she seemed to lack any form of transport and we were a few kilometres from the ocean. No matter, as each day she was there with a small collection of fresh fish.
As part of the daily landscape were the dogs, mostly strays. Many suffered meagre existences and were infected with mange, which is a parasitic skin disorder. It is highly treatable but often is not as the dogs really belong to nobody in many cases. During one of my trips to India, a veterinarian was staying at the guest house. He quietly treated a few dogs but there are so many.
The dogs were mostly friendly. There were several that would join me on my morning walks for specific parts of the journey. One would reach the end of his territory and another would take up the pace.
There are very few cats, although I did make friends with one who would share a piece of pizza with me.
To be in India seems to demand that you reflect on big ideas - the meaning of life, the role of spirit, your place in the universe - those kinds of questions. I think it must be a requirement of the visa needed to enter the country. Or so it seems.
So I was in that mindset when I was forced to look at fragility and compassion. On this day, I was in the chai shop when a dog was run over. There was no hope really as there was no veterinary care to be had. As the dog scampered away the owner of the chai stall got a bucket and washed away the blood. I looked across the street where the dog had gone to see one of the disabled ladies who hung around the street. There, I saw the dog collapsed beside her. She was gently stroking the dying dog. He would die there.
The pace of the village did not change. Only that truly gentle exchange between the lady and the dog but it was a one act play mostly unobserved. It was the women comforting an old friend in the solitude of her own private moment on the side of the road. I wondered who would show her that compassion. Indeed, who can any of us count on? Have you asked?
This story came back to me when I was listening to a podcast where Eli Wiesel was being interviewed. He was speaking of forgiveness. I heard him indicate that forgiveness belongs to the aggrieved. They must decide to offer it. So it is with compassion. Both compassion and forgiveness belong to the giver. They are gifts to be given.
Can we offer compassion to those who have caused us
pain? Even if forgiveness is not to be offered can we do compassion? Can we
give understanding from within our own pain? To do so is about the love we are
able to offer ourselves. We step away from the toxicity of anger soothing the
internal voice with compassion for the perpetrator of our harm.
I look into my pain
You caused it
It was you who thrust the sword
Pierced me
It was you who shattered
My self, My Ego, My being
I so wanted relatliation
To have you feel the pain
That I had felt
I so wanted revenge
I pondered it, I planned it, I imagined it
But then I looked into your eyes
And saw your soul
Laid bare in your vulnerability
So empty, So betrayed, So barren, So
desperate
I could no longer feel the anger
For I saw your hurt
From ravages long ago in a childhood
So hurtful, so absent of love, so lonely
I then saw your fragility
How your violence covered your emptiness
And kept hidden your fear of
Being found, Being known, Being your true self
All that was left was compassion
For you had never known love
How could there be anger when you sat
Bloodied, forlorn and ignored
© Peter Choate, 2016
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